by Joan Druett
Three mugs of tea were served, and then the steward disappeared into the pantry. Forsythe put down the war club to help himself. For a while there was nothing but chomping and slurping noises, and then the lieutenant looked at Wiki and observed, “So you got yourself arrested by the sheriff back at Portsmouth, huh?”
Wiki lifted his brows, intrigued by the change of topic. “As you can see,” he said, “he changed his mind.”
“And I wonder why you was lurkin’ on that riverbank when that boat bobbed along.” Forsythe snickered and said, “Been waitin’ a tidy long time, hadn’t you?”
Wiki said sharply, “How do you know that?”
Forsythe’s eyes narrowed. Then he tapped the side of his head and said, “Brainwork. We had a little appointment there, remember.”
“An appointment you didn’t keep,” Wiki observed.
“And you confounded know why—and you’re bloody lucky I didn’t, or you’d be six feet under right now.”
“Yet when I left the tavern you were in deep consultation with Powell.”
“Deep consultation, garbage. I was just givin’ him the message what I’d come into the tavern to pass on—that he was wanted down at the waterfront.”
Wiki frowned. “A message from whom?”
Forsythe shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Exactly what I say, damn it!” Forsythe’s fist landed on the table so the dishes all jumped and clattered. The pantry door opened and the steward’s inquiring face poked through then retreated in a hurry. As the pantry door clicked shut again, Kingman was looking from Forsythe to Wiki and back, his mouth hanging open in a grin.
Then Forsythe said, his tone more controlled, “A junior mid marched up when I arrived on the wharf and said that Powell needed summoning, and when I told him to damn well deliver the message himself he was gone without even listening.”
Wiki snapped, “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you bloody well like, but that’s the way it happened.”
“What I believe,” said Wiki deliberately, “is that you sent Powell to Newport News with orders to come back to the riverbank with a note from Tristram Stanton.”
“What? What note? Why the hell would I want a note from Tristram Stanton?”
“That’s the story as I heard it—from Jim Powell himself.”
“Then he’s lying, the double-dealing little swab. And I was never on the riverbank!”
“So how do you know I kept the appointment?”
Again Forsythe tapped the side of his head and said smugly, “Brainwork. You was arrested there, wasn’t you? And then the sheriff carted you off to the old prison on the waterfront in Portsmouth.”
“I think you were lying in wait,” Wiki reiterated doggedly. “And I think you saw the boat with Mrs. Stanton’s body come floating down the river.”
Forsythe went red. “You bloody well couldn’t be wronger if you tried, so you can put that little idea out to pasture.”
“So where were you?”
“None of your goddamned business.”
Wiki paused, staring at him. Then he said, in a casual tone, “How long have you and Tristram Stanton been cronies?”
Forsythe’s eyes popped and his face went bright red. Then he let out a series of raucous guffaws. His meaty shoulders shook, crumbs spluttered from his open mouth, and tears of mirth ran from his eyes. Kingman giggled too, though uncomprehendingly, and Wiki watched, blank faced.
Finally, Forsythe sobered enough to blow his nose with a loud honking sound. Then he said derisively, “And you reckon you know such a lot, clever Mr. Coffin. Tristram Stanton thinks I’m lower than pig shit—on account of his wife was my cousin, and he was scared pissless I’d take her money.”
Wiki said, stunned, “Tristram Stanton’s wife was your cousin?”
“Second cousin,” Forsythe amended. “Related through our mothers.” Then he warned, “Don’t you get it into your head that there’s anythin’ to deduce from that—she was from the rich side of the family, I from the poor side, and I was never welcome in the Stantons’ house. Not that I didn’t call—when I could be sure that Tristram Stanton was not around so I could talk her into lendin’ me some cash without him buttin’ in. It was our family money, earned by my forefathers, not his! But I sure didn’t hang around for the funeral.”
Instead Forsythe—like Burroughs—had been on the Vincennes, at sea, when the obsequies were held. Thinking deeply, Wiki said slowly, “Tristram Stanton wasn’t at home the day his wife died.”
Forsythe bared his teeth and said, “So I heard.”
“And you were sailing soon—and lieutenants need a tidy sum to contribute to the mess, or so today I learned.”
“Cleverer than ever,” said Forsythe, and helped himself to another huge portion of pie. “Yup,” he said indistinctly, “soon as I heard he was away, I went around to beg Ophelia for some ready—because, by God, I needed it.”
Wiki said blankly, “Did you say Ophelia?”
“Yup, O-phe-lee-ah.” Forsythe drew the word out scornfully. “Somethin’ else you did not know, huh?”
Wiki silently shook his head. The name was like a strange revelation. He remembered that in Shakespeare’s Hamlet the spurned Ophelia had drifted off to suicide by drowning, singing a soft, demented song to herself as she floated through the reeds. For the first time the staging of the dead body in the drifting boat made some kind of sense.
“If you ever have pickaninnies—and God forbid you do—my strong advice is not to name them after anythin’ in Shakespeare. Ophelia was a pathetic whining bitch, not altogether in control of her wits—like her namesake, folk told me. Didn’t surprise me in the slightest to hear she’d ridden off in the dead of night, climbed inside that derelict boat, punted herself off, and taken poison.”
Wiki said, “She didn’t die of poisoning.” Then, remembering his conversations with Rochester, he immediately wondered if he was wrong.
However, Forsythe was not disposed to argue. “I heard that, too,” he admitted. “But hell, suicide was on the cards. She’d threatened to do herself in more times than a camel can fart on a bucket of hay.”
“Nevertheless, she was murdered.”
“And Tristram Stanton was the man what snapped her neck.”
Wiki’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the other’s flat tone. “As much as I would like to agree,” he observed, “the evidence doesn’t point that way. Twenty men from various ships in the fleet have testified that Tristram Stanton was in Newport News at the time.”
“Wa-al, whatever the evidence, the fact remains that he had every good reason to put her out of her misery—which I did not! She didn’t give me money then, damn her wizened heart, and I sure don’t benefit from her death. So don’t look to me for a motive, Mr. Deputy Coffin,” Forsythe said aggressively, and took a slurp from his glass. “At least while she was alive I had prospects. Now I have none.”
Deputy? So Forsythe knew about the sheriff’s letter of authorization, Wiki realized—like everyone else in the fleet, it seemed. But had Ophelia Stanton really refused to give him the money? After all, he was her cousin—and he was off about the world for at least three years. Forsythe must have settled his mess bill somehow, and the money must have come from somewhere.
However, that conclusion did not feel quite right. Wiki remembered the southerner’s glowering look as he had stormed into that Norfolk tavern—he had been looking for trouble, he realized now, simply to vent his frustration, which indicated that he just might be telling the truth.
He asked, “What time did you give up and leave the house?”
“What do you mean?” Forsythe demanded suspiciously.
“I’m sure you didn’t concede defeat easily—I think you needed that money badly.”
The lieutenant scowled in silence a moment, ruminatively picking his teeth with a long fingernail. Then he admitted with a defiant air, “I was prepared to arg
ue my case till kingdom come, but that craw-faced old bastard threw me out.”
“Stanton’s father?” Wiki looked at the lieutenant’s thick, muscular, tattooed arms, remembering the stiff, painful way Tristram Stanton’s father had moved. “You’re exaggerating, surely,” he said, with unconcealed disbelief.
“He got the servants to throw me out,” Forsythe amended. With an irritated movement he shoved back his chair, stood up, grabbed the bottle, jerked his chin at Kingman, and headed for the captain’s cabin. “And it took a dozen of ’em to do it!” he yelled over his shoulder as he opened the door. Kingman followed, and the door slammed shut behind them.
Sixteen
It was a relief, at first, to emerge into the cool darkness of the deck. The brig had orders to keep pace with the Vincennes and was accordingly under easy sail—as the whole fleet knew, Captain Wilkes was not in any particular hurry yet. All should have been serene, but as Wiki looked around he was gradually beset by uneasiness. The moonlit sea was calm, but the brig rolled unhappily, and the hull and rigging creaked more loudly than they should, with a particularly loud wrenching groan from the spanker boom over the helmsman’s head.
And the ocean was emptier than Wiki had expected. He looked about at the black shimmer of the water and then clambered up the main rigging to the crosstrees. From there he could glimpse the masthead lights of the Vincennes—but the flagship was about three miles away, much farther than he had expected. He could see another dot of light from the distant Peacock, but the gun brig Porpoise and the schooners Flying Fish and Sea Gull were nowhere to be seen.
The last thing Wiki wanted was for the Swallow to be separated from the rest of the ships—but instinct told him there was something else the matter as well. He studied the familiar scatter of bright stars and sniffed the air. There was the usual smell of salt from the sea and pitch from the rigging, but there was an oiliness about the atmosphere he did not like.
Slowly, he slid down to deck hand over hand along a backstay, his ankles crossed over the tarry rope. When his feet touched the planks he looked about for the officer on watch, but the quarterdeck was deserted. There was just the man at the helm, who was watching him curiously.
He was Michael, a boy from New Bedford who had gone one voyage on a whaler before joining the navy. They hadn’t sailed together before, but they knew people in common, and Michael was accustomed to seeing Wiki doing seaman’s duties on the Swallow. Wiki arrived alongside him, keeping his manner casual, and looked at the binnacle compass. Their course was more east than he had anticipated, while the bad weather he sensed was coming from the north.
He looked up at the complaining spanker boom and observed lightly, “That spar needs a bucket of water. I’ll take the helm for a spell, if you like, so you can give it a drink.”
Michael looked surprised but readily gave over the wheel. Wiki guessed the lad could do with a drink himself. He saw the boy walk forward through the darkness to the scuttlebutt by the fore hatch, swig down a beaker of water, and after that, relieve himself over the bows. Then he watched Michael drop a bucket into the sea for water to throw over the jaws of the spanker boom.
Meantime, Wiki worked and tested the wheel, finding, as he had suspected, that the brig was crabbing badly. The feel of her was even stiffer than he had expected; in fact, every jerk and quiver that emanated up from the rudder made him feel still more uneasy. Then Michael arrived back on the quarterdeck. Wiki watched him as he clambered onto the rail, stood there poised, braced himself, and tossed the water upward. Miraculously, the boom’s groaning stopped.
Michael jumped down. Wiki gave back the helm, saying, “There’s a big under swell setting her to leeward, rather more east than she should be.” He had already brought the wheel up a couple of points and hoped the lad would follow suit.
Then he walked forward toward the outline of the man on lookout in the bow, who stood poised between the knightheads. The smooth, muscular, bare-chested silhouette had led him to believe it was Sua, the huge Samoan, but as he drew near Wiki realized to his surprise that it was a Polynesian he had never seen before. Another casualty of Captain Wilkes’s trick of reassigning men all over the fleet, he mused.
This Pacific Islander was not as large as Sua but stoutly built just the same. When Wiki arrived alongside him, he was gazing across the glassy black sea to the north horizon, swaying easily on his broad bare feet, but seeming very alert. He was wearing trousers, so Wiki could not see what tattooing he might have on his legs; but when the man turned his head, he greeted Wiki in Samoan.
They introduced themselves quietly and briefly, omitting most of the ritual. Sua’s sailor name was Jack Polo, while this fellow had been dubbed Jack Savvy. Only Wilkes, mused Wiki wryly, understanding the implications of the names—that one came from the island of Upolu and the other from the island of Savai’i—would so blindly put men of the same race, but of differing tribes, in the same forecastle. However, most of his attention was on the lightning that was playing low down on the northern horizon.
Dark shadows were streaming across the stars. Jack Savvy was looking at the veiled sky as well. “Not good,” he said, and hunkered down, placed the flat of his hand on the deck, and seemed to listen to what the hull was saying. After a long moment he straightened. “Not good,” he said again.
Wiki nodded. He wondered what the barometer read but couldn’t check, as it was in the captain’s cabin. Was Forsythe keeping an eye on it? He felt doubtful. The brig abruptly gave a heavier roll, and Wiki felt a fine rain dash across his face. He paused for thought, acutely conscious that he had no right to give orders, but then said in Samoan, “I’ll take a turn around the deck and make sure everything’s snug and secure.”
“I’ll come with thee,” the man from Savai’i said.
“Better not—you’re on lookout duty. It’s not a good idea to leave your post for long. I’ll stand in your place a moment while you rouse up someone from below.”
Wiki saw the Samoan nod. When he came back from the forecastle, Sua, predictably, was the one with him. At home they might be in opposing tribes, but on a Yankee ship they were shipmates with much in common. Together, Wiki and the bigger Samoan went around waking up the men who were supposed to be on watch but had been peacefully asleep in corners instead. Then they set about securing loose gear, including taking down an awning and furling it tight.
The Swallow was rolling still more heavily by the time they had finished. The puffs of wind were coming at shorter intervals, and with each gust the spats of rain were getting thicker. What in the name of all the spirits, Wiki wondered, was Forsythe thinking? Surely, particularly considering that his promotion to the command was so new, he should have displayed more concern for his ship. But there had been no movement from the captain’s quarters. Either Forsythe and Kingman were roistering still, albeit very quietly, or else—more likely—each had retired to his berth.
He said to the big Samoan, “Who is the officer on watch?”
Sua shrugged, looked around, and said, “The bo’sun?”
Wiki said, “Better rouse him up.”
The boatswain, a good man and a crony of Midshipman Erskine’s, was a stickler for the rules. When he came up rubbing bleary eyes, Wiki expected to be roundly reprimanded. However, he seemed to be just as unhappy that Erskine was no longer on the brig as Wiki was at Rochester’s demotion, and just as alarmed that there should be no officer in charge of the watch. He looked about, studied the sails and the sea, and nodded. Then he went and stood by the helm, his left fist clutching the weather shrouds, so much in command of the quarterdeck that it would have been tactless of Wiki to remain.
The saloon at the bottom of the companionway was still empty. The plates and mugs had been taken away, but otherwise it looked just the same as he had left it. Wiki went into his stateroom and went to bed—without removing his clothes. Listening to the gusts of wind whining about the rigging, it seemed prudent to him to turn in all standing.
He didn’t
expect to sleep much, but instead dropped at once into a heavy slumber, to be abruptly woken by shouting in Samoan, accompanied by loud banging on the deck above his head.
Both Samoans were yelling, their shouts panic-stricken. After a confused moment he understood what they were so urgently trying to tell him. Wiki tumbled out of bed and through the door into the saloon, crashing against Forsythe. It was very dark. The single lamp dashed back and forth on its hook, throwing enormous shadows. A clattering came from the pantry, where every dish and spoon was on the move.
The lieutenant seemed abruptly sobered. He snapped, “What the hell is happening? What the devil are those savages bellowing?”
Wiki said briefly, “Man overboard—the bo’sun.” Without waiting for an answer he dashed up the companionway.
When the door slammed open he stopped short involuntarily, pinned in the doorway by a vicious gust of wind. Above, the rigging was thrumming and whistling. The decks were awash, and while he stood there a torrent sloshed past his legs and down the stairs. In the wild blackness of the deck he could glimpse men struggling with wet snapping ropes forward, and other men gathered at the amidships rail.
Wiki felt Forsythe shove on his back at the same time as the gust let go and stumbled headlong out into the storm-wracked night. The brig was flying under just a couple of rags of canvas on the topsail yards, pursued by huge waves that came rolling in from the north. The full moon flickered in and out as clouds scurried across its face, and Wiki could glimpse the frightened expressions of the two men at the helm who were together struggling to hold the brig on her course. Why the hell hadn’t the boatswain sent someone to fetch Captain—Captain, for God’s sake!—Forsythe up to deck before the brig had sailed into such danger? Then Wiki understood that the storm he and the Samoans had sensed lying just over the horizon had come all at once, squalling down upon them.
