Shark Island

by Joan Druett

  To his relief, George nodded without asking for details. Then, just as he started to follow Rochester and the four seamen down the graveyard path, a distant rattle of stone distracted Wiki’s attention. He stopped, looked around, and saw a man standing on the ramparts of the prison, looking out to sea. It was Forsythe—the burly figure was unmistakable. Wiki wondered if he was looking for a ship from the exploring expedition, but as he watched, the southerner turned round, and made the same long careful survey of the land. Wiki hesitated, on the verge of going to the prison ruins to see what he was about, but by the time he arrived at the top of the track to the beach, Rochester was out of earshot. When he looked back at the bastion, Lieutenant Forsythe had vanished.

  Thirteen

  When Wiki clambered on board the schooner Annawan, the crew was at midday dinner, and so the decks were very quiet. Because it was hot, the off-duty watch was in the forecastle, and those on duty were in the shadiest spots they could find while they took a break from their work at the pumps. No one tried to approach him; instead, he was aware of hostile stares. Wiki looked around for Hammond so he could announce his arrival, but couldn’t see him anywhere, so he headed for the quarterdeck and went down the after house stairs.

  When he arrived at the threshold of the captain’s cabin, he paused. He’d forgotten just how great a contrast the after house was to the brightly sunlit deck—how it was so much more like a Stonington parlor overburdened with furniture than a regular captain’s cabin. Instinctively, he checked the floor where the corpse had lain. The blood-soaked mat was gone, and the deck boards were clean. Then he saw that Annabelle was hunched in a chair in front of the heating stove. Despite the heat of the day, flames flickered. Perhaps because of that, she hadn’t noticed his arrival.

  He cleared his throat, and she whirled around in her seat. With a gasp she said, “Wiki!” When he went up to her, she stood up and gripped his wrist again, dragging him close as she hissed, “What was it you recited at Ezekiel’s burial?”

  It was the very last thing Wiki had expected her to say. He detached his wrist, took a step back, and then said, “Haere e te hoa, ko to tatou kainga nui tena.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Literally, Go, my old friend, to the eternal abode that awaits us all.”

  Annabelle slumped back in her chair, her eyes huge with horror, and he abruptly remembered that Cajun were reputedly superstitious. “You spoke to Ezekiel’s ghost?”

  He grinned reassuringly, and joked, “I didn’t expect him to answer.”

  However, she was not amused. Instead, she glanced wildly around the room—and something rustled in the darkest corner. It was the same stealthy scraping sound Wiki had heard while he was examining Captain Reed’s corpse. Again it reminded him of rats creeping toward the scent of blood. The hairs on the nape of his neck shivered and lifted.

  Another furtive scrape. It came from the big covered birdcage. Cautiously, Wiki crept over to it, and lifted a corner of the cover. A round unblinking eye peered back at him. It belonged to a parrot—a large white parrot that shifted about on its perch. In the sardonic fashion peculiar to parrots, the bird revolved its neck so it could study him coldly, first from one side of its head, and then from the other.

  When Wiki looked back at Annabelle, she had her eyes squeezed shut. Dropping the cage cover, he went back to her, saying more gently, “I quoted that proverb at the burying ground at the top of the cliff. Even if it worked, there’s nothing to be afraid of in here.”

  “Isn’t there?” Her voice shook wildly.

  Wiki said carefully, hoping she was not going to succumb to another fit of hysteria, “According to my people’s beliefs, by now a bird will be carrying your husband’s spirit on his journey to the underworld.”

  “Ezekiel’s spirit is in a bird?”

  She sounded more horrified than ever. Wiki shrugged helplessly, and excused himself by saying, “It’s a common belief in the Pacific, not just in New Zealand.”

  He saw her shudder, and then she shifted about, groping for a handkerchief to dab at her cheeks. When she looked up there were still tears in her eyes, but somehow she managed a shaky smile. “Wiki, dear Wiki, what are you doing here?”

  “I know Lieutenant Forsythe told you I am with the exploring expedition,” he said, standing and surveying her with his hands propped on his hips. “A much better question is what are you doing here?”

  “On this ship?”

  “Aye.” He paused, watching her tilt her head to one side in the way he remembered so well. Despite the passage of eight years and the terrible events of the day before, she was just as young and beautiful as she had been the week before her wedding.

  He said, “Every time I thought of you, I imagined you in pretty gowns, pouring tea from pretty tea sets, prettily entertaining Ezekiel’s friends.”

  “Life was indeed a lot like that,” she admitted, and a dimple flickered in one cheek.

  “So why in the devil’s name did you come on voyage?”

  “Because I was bored.” Her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed, “Have you any idea what it is like to live in Stonington, Wiki? It is very pretty, the village, yes, but those New Englanders! Not only are they as cold in nature as an undertaker’s doorknob, but the womenfolk—they spy, you know. And gossip. All the time, they spied on me.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  “Wiki, you’re teasing me,” she accused. Her superstitious fright and hysteria had vanished; she was as pert and challenging as he remembered. “Can’t you imagine the contrast to my life before?” she demanded.

  “To your life in New Orleans?”

  “You have no idea of what life is like for a New Orleans belle—the flowers, the passion, the poems and the duels! Life for a belle in New Orleans is perfectly dazzling, while life for a Stonington matron is perfectly drear.”

  “Then you should have married one of your New Orleans beaux,” he said callously.

  “Wiki, you are cruel—you were ungallant back then, and I made myself excuses for you because of your youth, but now you are too old to be ungallant.”

  “Not so.” Damn it, he thought, she was flirting with him, and he should have more sense than to allow it; she’d been widowed for less than twenty-four hours. It was indiscreet enough for him to be alone with her, even with the door wide open; it reminded him too much of the week before her wedding.

  She leaned forward and commanded softly, “Sit down.”

  Wiki looked around. There was a big chair close to the lady-chair where she was perched, but he had a strong feeling that it had been Ezekiel Reed’s, so he chose one with an upright back which was farther away. While he sat on it, he was conscious that she was watching his every small movement intently.

  When he was settled, she said, “You have greatly changed since the age of sixteen—you were a man already then, but now you are even more so.” She studied his face with those enormous, rapt eyes. “But very handsome still—and I am so glad you did not tattoo your face as you so often threatened. Your face creases up so beautifully when you smile that I assure you yet again that a tattoo is not necessary. Why do you wear your hair so long?”

  “Right after your wedding I gave up the attempt to look like a Yankee,” he said. “It didn’t make sense any more.”

  She nodded. “It is a great pity Ezekiel did not get to see you again before he—died. He would have greatly approved.”

  He said, astonished, “What in God’s name makes you think that?”

  “He thought it was a huge joke that his great friend William Coffin should have the wonderful effrontery to carry his good-looking half-breed son to Salem, and introduce him to his oh-so-proper Nantucket-born wife and all her neighbors.”

  Wiki said wryly, “It wasn’t such a joke for me.”

  “Or her, no doubt—but Ezekiel greatly disliked your father’s wife, Huldah.” Then she demanded, “So what happened to you right after my wedding?”

  “I went to co
llege.”

  “College? What do you mean?”

  “My father was furious—because of that waltz.” He grinned wryly and said, “You know how Stonington people gossip?”

  She pouted her lips. “You’re teasing me again.”

  “No, I’m not.” His father had been so furious about that sensational last waltz and the gossip it had caused that when he had sailed off to the Pacific he had left Wiki behind. “And the minute his ship was hull-down on the horizon his wife packed me off to a missionary college in New Hampshire, so I could learn how to convert the poor benighted Indians.”

  Wiki grinned reminiscently. “But instead I met George Rochester, who’d been sent there in disgrace as well, and the Abnaki Indians converted us—they told us yarns and taught us how to hunt. After a few months the authorities found out about it and all hell let loose, so we built a birchbark canoe and paddled off down the Connecticut River.”

  “Wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “So why can’t you understand how tedious it was to pour tea from pretty teapots and wear pretty gowns in Stonington, when all the time you were having such adventures?”

  Wiki smiled, but then said soberly, “Was Ezekiel an unkind husband?”

  Her perfect brows flew up. “No, not at all. When he was home he was always generous—but he was too often away. After eight years I was tired of it, so I made up my mind to go on voyage and find romance again.”

  “Romance—in sealing?”

  “Mrs. Palmer went a-sealing in this very same schooner, so why shouldn’t I?” she demanded, and flipped a hand in a very Gallic gesture.

  “Mrs. Palmer sailed on the Annawan?” Wiki exclaimed, astounded.

  “The voyage didn’t go well—but she was proud of it. Everyone praised her valor—including her own husband,” Annabelle said resentfully. “Even that fool—that couyon Joel Hammond was praiseful. Did you know he was on the Annawan at the time?”

  Joel Hammond had sailed on the Annawan with Palmer? Good God, thought Wiki, and said, “What do you mean, the voyage didn’t go well?”

  “The ship was commandeered by a crowd of wicked convicts. They were on a prison island, just like this one, and those horrid desperadoes made Captain Palmer carry them to the mainland.”

  “What? When was this?”

  “They sailed from Stonington in 1832, and came back the following year,” she said, and added serenely, “They said they were lucky to get away with their lives, and Ezekiel was able to buy this schooner very cheap because of it.”

  Wiki deliberated, wondering if there was any documentation of this in the box that still sat on Rochester’s desk, and whether this was the kind of thing she had been hunting for. He said, “Why did you try to burn the ship’s papers?”

  “Why do you ask me that?” she said evasively. “I was just clearing away. The Swallow will carry me to Rio de Janeiro—Lieutenant Forsythe has said so—and I must tidy up and pack my things.”

  “Forsythe told you we’re going to Rio?”

  “Yes—when your ship leaves, I leave with it, so I must make haste to be prepared.”

  “Have you spoken to Captain Rochester about this?”

  “No, but Lieutenant Forsythe offered passage on the Swallow—and he is a lieutenant, while Rochester is just a passed midshipman, no?”

  “But Rochester’s the commander of the ship—he’s Captain Rochester.”

  “Only when he is on board the ship, is that not right? That’s what Lieutenant Forsythe told me.”

  Wiki, feeling hopelessly bogged down, said, “It’s complicated.”

  “Well, when I ask Captain Rochester for passage he can’t possibly refuse because I cannot stay here,” she said pertly, “A married woman without a husband, you know, is in a most peculiar position—especially at sea.”

  Wiki thought that most surely was the truth, and that even if they managed to save the Annawan, George would probably have to offer Annabelle passage to Rio out of sheer gallantry, because it wasn’t decent to leave her alone with these men. Curiously, he said, “Where were you yesterday when Forsythe and Kingman came on board?”

  She frowned. “Wasn’t I in this room?”

  “Not according to Lieutenant Forsythe.”

  “Then I must have been in the galley.”

  Wiki studied her thoughtfully. This helped to explain why she had fled to the galley when her husband had thrown her out of the cabin, but it still seemed an odd place for someone so elevated as the wife of the captain. “Were you alone?”

  She shrugged.

  “Were you chatting with the cook?”

  “No, that is not possible. My husband shipped him in Rio, you know, because our old cook ran away—and there is something wrong with this cook’s brains. Ezekiel said that maybe it is because he has had a big bang on the head not so long ago, but myself, I don’t even think he has our language—not French, not English; perhaps a little Cajun, but not enough to make any sense. When I heard Ezekiel screaming for another bottle of brandy, that fool of a steward was gossiping on the fo’c’sle deck, so I fetched it myself. Then my husband wished me to stay, so I remained to talk with Lieutenant Forsythe and that horrid Kingman—who made such a crude joke that Ezekiel became very angry, and drove them out with his stick.”

  Wiki’s brows shot up at the mental image. “And they went?” he asked.

  “They went,” she said expressionlessly. “Then I, too, went. I started to go back to the galley—but instead I went back into the cabin.” Her voice was beginning to shake again. “And—and I f-found poor dear Ezekiel lying on the floor with a knife in his back, making a terrible, terrible choking noise, ch-choking on his blood. I tried to turn him over, to sit him up … but the b-blood, it made—made him so slippery and heavy. He dropped back and was silent.” She shuddered and said, “I don’t remember much after that.”

  “Can you remember why you went back into the cabin?”

  “I saw someone by the door to this after house. There had been trouble enough, and I wished to stop more, if I could.”

  “What!” Wiki said very quickly, “Did you see who it was?”

  “The man on the quarterdeck? It was Lieutenant Forsythe, I think,” she said, and nodded, her wide gaze earnest on his face. “Yes, of that I am almost sure.”

  Fourteen

  When Wiki came out onto the quarterdeck, Joel Hammond was striding toward him from somewhere forward, his face dark with suspicion and anger. He said, “What the bloody hell were you doing down there?”

  Wiki said quietly, “I’m a family friend; I was passing on my sympathies.”

  “Friend?” Hammond reared back, his expression scandalized. His small eyes looked Wiki up and down. “How can you be? You’re a godless Kanaka!”

  Wiki remembered that according to Ezekiel Reed’s letter Hammond was a Stonington man. However, he had no recollection of meeting him there—but then, he thought, it was highly unlikely that Joel Hammond would have been invited to Ezekiel’s wedding, not being of the right social caste. He said stiffly, “Ask Mrs. Reed, if you don’t believe me.”

  Hammond muttered something about Mrs. Reed that didn’t sound at all complimentary, and then demanded, “How did you get here? I don’t see a boat.”

  “Captain Rochester dropped me here after the burial. Perhaps you would oblige me by lending me a boat to get to the beach?” Wiki gestured to where the cutter was moored.

  For a moment he thought Hammond would refuse, but finally he reluctantly nodded. A boat was lowered and manned, and Wiki jumped down into the stern. It was a relief to see the friendly face of Alphabet Green, who was standing at the steering oar; when Wiki asked jokingly if he could steer, his old acquaintance gave it to him with a mock bow and a grin, taking one of the ordinary pulling oars instead. Accordingly, Wiki was facing forward as they rowed into the cove and was the one who saw the cutter’s men first.

  They had a small fire going in the shade of a tree, and were busily cooking up a mess of fish. However, two o
f them plunged cooperatively into the water to hold the boat steady while Wiki handed the steering oar back. Then he clambered out, and helped the cutter’s men turn it and push it back into the surf.

  The moment the boat had headed off, he said, “Where’s Lieutenant Forsythe?”

  The six seamen looked at each other and shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since the hour after breakfast, when he come around that headland yonder,” said one, and pointed at the rocky outcrop that barricaded the way to the beach where the sloop was wrecked.

  “Why, what was he doing there?” said Wiki, puzzled.

  The men all grinned at each other.

  “Spent the night on the Annawan, he and the passed midshipman did,” said one.

  “A-roistering,” said another. “It was a wake for Cap’n Reed. And they dropped him off at the wrong beach.”

  “Lieutenant Forsythe looked the worst for wear I’ve ever seen ’im,” said a third. “Must’ve got most terrible drunk.”

  Wiki said, “So where did he go?”

  They all jerked their thumbs toward a steep track that straggled up the cliff. “Off a-huntin’, I guess,” said one, and another confirmed this by saying that the lieutenant had been toting his gun when he left.

  Wiki was prepared to guess that Forsythe had taken a bottle, as well. He looked at the fire, a shipshape affair with a wire rack across the top of it, boucanier style. They were roasting some fine fish on this, while an assortment of shellfish sat spitting on the outer edges of the coals, alongside a steaming coffeepot.

  “Smells good,” he observed.

  In truth, it was an aroma fit to lure a bear from its lair, so he readily accepted the men’s invitation to join them in their feast. Not only was it a long time since breakfast, but he wanted to find out if they would confirm Annabelle’s sighting of Forsythe on the quarterdeck just before Ezekiel Reed was murdered. What they told him now, he thought grimly, could condemn Forsythe as a killer—or vindicate him, by backing up his statement that he was hurrying forward at the time.