Shark Island

by Joan Druett

  “Wa’al, it does look as if that poor bloody schooner is going to sink beneath the waves at any minute.” Forsythe paused, staring in the direction of the courtyard, and then said frankly, “Bloody horrible thought, ain’t it—I have to admit I dislike the notion of those goddamned sealers boarding the brig for the passage; I’ve a bad feeling in my gut about it.”

  Wiki looked at him consideringly. Forsythe had been away from the Swallow when the twelve Annawan men had boarded, bringing an indefinable sense of menace with them, and yet it was evident that he shared his own instinctive uneasiness. He and the Virginian had regarded each other with animosity since the time Forsythe had confronted him in an inn in Norfolk, and picked a quarrel just because Wiki was squiring a fair-haired southern girl. Yet, in the weeks since then, Wiki had been surprised by how often they shared the same thoughts. He supposed it was because they were both seamen, with similar experiences behind them.

  “We could make the Annawan seaworthy,” he suggested.

  “You think we can mend her? Tell me how,” Forsythe said scathingly.

  “Thinking up a way of getting at that leak isn’t easy,” Wiki agreed.

  Then he watched Forsythe surreptitiously through his thick, lowered lashes, wondering if he would take up the implied challenge. Finally, the southerner shifted from one foot to the other, and said, “We could warp her up onto the beach—lay her on her side alongside the sloop, and use timber from the wreck to replace the damaged planking.”

  “Careening her on the beach is a good idea, but I’m not sure it would work,” said Wiki, remembering what George had said. “The Annawan is pretty old, and she’s had a lot of hard usage—her timbers might not take the strain. There’s a big risk that the planking on the grounded side would give way. I’d rather have her hove down close to where she is, away from the channel but with enough water under her to give her buoyancy.”

  “Heave her down to what?” demanded Forsythe.

  This was indeed a problem, which they set to discussing in workmanlike fashion. The job of heaving down the schooner so that she tipped over on her good side, bringing the damaged side up into the air, would call for two mighty blocks, one at the head of the mainmast, and the other securely fastened to a belaying point outside the ship, plus a heavy cable rove between them, and some kind of capstan at the end. This, as it winched the cable up, would haul the schooner over. Normally, the belaying point was a large heaving post on a wharf, where the winch was sited, too—but obviously that was impossible, here.

  “How about a raft?” said Wiki. “We could build one out of those beams, and anchor it up to the good side of the schooner. Fitted out with a post and winch, it would serve as a floating wharf. Maybe we wouldn’t even need a capstan on the raft, but could work out a way of using the schooner’s own windlass.” Once the hole was patched, the schooner could be righted by letting the cable out again—though the ballast would probably have to be shoveled from one side to the other. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible.

  “But hell, a thousand strokes an hour means a bloody big leak. I’ll give it more thought,” Forsythe interrupted impatiently as Wiki opened his mouth to object. “But right now I’m a damn sight more interested in finding Zack. Tell the truth,” he said, his eyes sliding away, “I’m starting to get bloody worried.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “On the beach where they dumped us—up over by the wreck.” Then Forsythe grimaced and said, “I think so, anyways. Maybe I’m wrong. I was pretty drunk, and I guess I just assumed he was with me. But when I come to he wasn’t there, and when I got round to where the cutter is anchored, he wasn’t there, neither, so I figure he’s passed out someplace on this island.” His tone was careless, but his stance betrayed inner tension.

  Wiki, frowning as he remembered that the cutter’s men hadn’t mentioned Kingman at all, went restlessly outside to stare at the cove where the two vessels were anchored. On the Annawan both whaleboats were back in their davits. He looked inland, but the graveyard of the prison was as empty as when he had left it, and the summit of the island was deserted, too.

  “How can you be sure he’s not still on board the schooner?” he asked.

  Forsythe had followed him, but his attention was elsewhere. Instead of replying, he muttered, “Don’t make a sound.” Then he lifted his rifle, squinting down the barrel at a clump of bush midway down the cliff. Wiki saw the goat just as the southerner squeezed the trigger. Again, the shot set up echoes.

  The animal dropped stone dead on the spot, which was nothing less than expected. Forsythe plunged down the path to claim the prize, and then stopped, looking about alertly. As Wiki arrived he dived headfirst into a copse, looking very much like an animal himself, and backed out with a bleating kid in his fist.

  His other hand moved to the empty scabbard at the back of his belt, and groped about a bit while an expression of puzzlement crossed his face. Then he looked at Wiki. “Gotta knife?”

  Silently, Wiki opened his jackknife and handed it to him. The bleating abruptly stopped. “And you reckon I don’t look after my men,” Forsythe snorted derisively.

  Then, heaving the she-goat’s carcass onto his shoulders with a fine disregard for his best shirt, he set off for the beach and the cutter. The men crowded around, highly delighted with the result of their skipper’s little hunting trip, but Forsythe cut the congratulations short by barking at them to get the cutter under way for the schooner.

  “So you think Passed Midshipman Kingman might be there after all?” Wiki queried.

  “Doubt it,” Forsythe said, his tone nonchalant. “Won’t hurt to make certain sure, though.”

  Still his manner was elaborately careless, but his bloodshot eyes avoided Wiki’s as they made their way to the stern of the Annawan. The instant the cutter had sheered to, he stood up and bawled, “Halloa! Ship ahoy, there!”

  Joel Hammond arrived at the taffrail, where he stood surveying them with his fingers hooked into his belt. “You’ve forgotten something,” he observed.

  “Aye,” agreed Forsythe, and waited in obvious expectation of seeing his missing second-in-command lounge up to the rail. Instead, Hammond handed down a long object wrapped in a rag, saying through his strange thin smile, “I assume you still want it.”

  It was the knife, Wiki realized—the murder weapon. He had forgotten Forsythe asking for it.

  Forsythe reached up, took it, and said gruffly, “What about the mat?”

  “The mat?”

  “The one where the corpse was lying.”

  “You didn’t ask about that.”

  “Wa’al, I’m asking now.”

  “It was soaked with blood, and no good any more, so we used it for a winding sheet to save wasting canvas.”

  Forsythe grimaced, and then said, “Seen anything of Zack Kingman?”

  Hammond shrugged. “Ain’t he on the brig?” he said without interest, and terminated the conversation by stepping back from the rail.

  “Let’s get there,” said Forsythe to his men.

  As soon as the cutter was under way again, he handed the tiller to Wiki, and then set to unwrapping the killing knife. Wiki looked away, concentrating on getting the cutter on course, but then the quality of Forsythe’s stunned silence got through to him.

  When he looked at him, the southerner silently handed him the knife, and took over the tiller again. Wiki studied the weapon with growing puzzlement, turning it over and over. Whoever had given it to Joel Hammond hadn’t bothered to clean it—there was a blob of dried blood where the blade met the handle. He touched the clot with a fingertip, and frowned. Under the crust redness gleamed, still moist.

  Then Forsythe said in a hoarse mutter that sounded scared as well as angry, “That’s my goddamned knife. I had it with me right up until the time I went on board the schooner for the wake, I swear—so there’s no way it could’ve been used to kill Reed. If Hammond reckons that’s the murder weapon, he’s telling a deliberate lie—b
ut why?”

  Sixteen

  Once on board the brig, Forsythe went forward in search of news of Kingman, while Wiki headed down the stairs to the saloon, where he found George Rochester seated at the table, a coffeepot in front of him, still going through the box of the Annawan’s papers.

  Wiki said, “Passed Midshipman Kingman’s missing. Forsythe hasn’t seen him since the wake.”

  “He isn’t on the schooner?”

  “I didn’t see him, and when we called by just now, Joel Hammond said he isn’t there.”

  Rochester frowned. “What about the camp?”

  Wiki shook his head. “I’ve talked to the cutter’s men, and they haven’t seen him, either. Forsythe has gone to the fo’c’sle to see if any of the Swallow men have heard any news.”

  “Maybe he’s run away—but that does seem odd.” Then Rochester said, “What have you got there?”

  Wiki handed him the knife, and watched him touch the rust-colored crust where the blade met the handle and then contemplate his red fingertip. He said, “Strange.”

  “Aye,” Wiki agreed. “Joel Hammond reckons it’s the same one that killed Captain Reed. He gave it to us just a few minutes ago, telling us it was the knife that was taken out of his corpse.”

  “That can’t be right! That knife was hauled out of Reed’s chest this time yesterday, so this can’t be the same weapon, because the blood is too fresh.”

  “Worse still,” said Wiki; “this knife is Forsythe’s—he recognized it instantly, and swears yet again that he was not the killer.”

  “Dear God.” There was a long silence and then George said slowly, “What do you reckon about Hammond’s chances of being the murderer?”

  “He was away from the schooner when it happened.”

  “So who was on board at the time?”

  “According to the cutter’s men, there were four of the schooner’s crew there—the steward, the bo’sun’s mate, a South American seaman, and the cook. The steward was with them all the time, but they didn’t keep track of the other three—and Annabelle Reed told me she changed her mind about going into the galley because she glimpsed someone on the quarterdeck, so it does seem that someone went there via the between-decks area.”

  “Did she recognize the man she saw?”

  Wiki said grimly, “She’s almost certain it was Forsythe—or so she says.”

  Again, they both looked at the bloodstained knife. “Oh God,” said Rochester, and shut his eyes. When he opened them he demanded, “Does she have any reason for thinking Forsythe would want to kill her husband?”

  “She said she ran back to the cabin because there’d been enough quarreling already, and she wanted to prevent more unpleasantness.”

  “I suppose Captain Reed might have called him back—Forsythe is the kind to respond to a challenge.”

  “And the murderer was extremely powerful,” Wiki said grimly.

  And with a rumble of hurried boot steps Lieutenant Forsythe arrived down the companionway. His face was flushed, his expression baffled and angry. “Zack ain’t anywhere here—no one’s seen him since we left the brig last evening.”

  Rochester tapped his fingers on the table, frowning. “When did you see him last?”

  “The last time I can remember for sure was on board the Annawan. For a long time I thought they dumped him on the beach the same time as me, but then I wasn’t so certain. But he ain’t on the schooner, and he ain’t here on the brig, so he must be on the goddamned island.”

  The steward came in, placed the steaming coffeepot on the table, and went back into the pantry. Forsythe grabbed it, filled a mug, and drank deeply without seeming to notice that it was scalding hot. His brooding stare was fixed on the knife.

  Wiki looked at it, too, and said, “Tell us again what happened yesterday after Captain Reed threw you and Kingman out of the cabin.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! How many times do I have to repeat it? It’s simple enough for even a half-breed—” Forsythe, catching Rochester’s icy expression, stopped. “Look, he was the one who attacked us, not us who attacked him! He came at us in a drunken fury, whistling his goddamned stick around his head! We got out in a hurry, and neither of us went back in, I swear. When Annabelle came flying out the first time, we was near enough to hear the old man call her all kinds of goddamned bitches, but only just. Then she headed for the galley on one side of the deck, while we headed for the fo’c’sle deck on the other.”

  “How close to the galley did she get?”

  “What?” He scowled. “Pretty close, I think. I wasn’t looking.”

  “Did you hear her say anything to the cook?”

  “For God’s sake—” Then the southerner caught himself. “Now that I think of it, maybe she did,” he said with a frown.

  “Did you hear what she said?”

  Forsythe struggled to remember, but then he shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Did you see anything that might account for her changing her mind and running back to the cabin?”

  “All we wanted was to get the cutter away and get back to the brig, and that was all that was on our minds. We was calling out to the cutter’s men, and they was getting themselves to their feet and calling back to us. We didn’t even think of checking on her until she come bustin’ out yellin’ blue murder. That made us turn around pretty bloody quick, but till then we wasn’t interested. Ask Zack Kingman, if you don’t believe me.”

  “You didn’t see the cook on the quarterdeck?”

  “What? No, I didn’t. What the hell would he be doing there?”

  “What about the seaman who was aloft? Or the bo’sun’s mate?”

  “No, I tell you, no! What the bloody hell is this all about?”

  “Mrs. Reed says she turned back because she glimpsed a man by the after house, and she thinks it could have been you.”

  “What?” Forsythe stared. Then he put down the mug so fast the remaining coffee splattered the table. “My God,” he said numbly. “I really do have to find Zack.”

  And with that he was gone, yelling for the cutter’s men to get under way again.

  Seventeen

  Dusk fell, marking the passing of twenty-four hours since any of the men on the brig had last seen Zachary Kingman. Within minutes of the departure of the cutter, a boat had been lowered in the charge of the brig’s boatswain with five hands to help search the island, and since then everyone had been waiting nervously for their return. The searchers had taken food and drink with them, but because they’d come back as soon as they found Kingman, their absence felt ominous.

  On the quarterdeck George shifted uneasily as he stared at the island. “I keep on thinking he’s fallen somewhere and broken his leg.”

  “Worse, he could be dead,” Wiki said somberly.

  “Aye,” said George, and sighed. “Necks break as easily as legs.”

  George was looking tired and strained, Wiki thought, and said, “Go below. I’ll take the deck till Midshipman Keith’s watch.”

  “You’ll let me know at once if there’s any news?”

  “Of course.”

  It was very quiet after Rochester had gone. After a while, feeling in need of companionship, Wiki was about to head forward to where he’d spied Sua and Tana on lookout, but was interrupted by the arrival of Midshipman Keith.

  “Is it change of watch already?” said Wiki.

  His tone was amiable, because he liked the lad. Until Keith had tapped on the stateroom door the first night, he had felt grave reservations about sharing accommodations with a callow officer cadet, something that the sight of the lad’s white, apprehensive face as he peered around the doorway had done nothing to diminish. But then he’d said, “Come in, I won’t bite you,” and Keith’s expression had been so peculiar that Wiki had demanded an explanation. And he’d got one—Keith had quite candidly described his friend’s dire warnings about sharing accommodations with a notorious cannibal. They had both roared with laughter, and had got along famously eve
r since.

  Too, Wiki liked Constant Keith’s insatiable appetite for maritime learning, plus his determination to advance his naval career by absorbing as much of the technical and theoretical aspects of seafaring as was humanly possible, so that when he finally stood in front of an examining board of senior officers he’d pass the test with flying colors, thus earning the right to call himself a passed midshipman. If all of his dreams came true, he would not only come out as top of his class, like his hero, Captain Rochester, but he would be given the command of a fine small navy vessel, like Captain Rochester, too—and the key to this, he was firmly convinced, was Wiki Coffin. He was positive that Wiki Coffin was the most talented seaman on the breast of the briny wave, and so constantly prodded him for reminiscences and tips—which created a bit of a problem for Wiki. At the beginning of this voyage he had felt that he was really quite young at the age of twenty-four, but ever since he’d started sharing a stateroom with Midshipman Keith, he had felt quite remarkably old. He’d occasionally contemplated asking the seventeen-year-old lad to call him “Wiki,” instead of “sir,” or “Mr. Coffin,” but had then decided that it would make him feel even more like the ancient mariner.

  Now, Wiki said, “I don’t mind taking the deck, if you want a watch below.”

  “There’s no need, sir—I’ll probably stay up all night,” said Constant Keith, and joined Wiki at the rail. He stared out over the black, shimmering water, and said, “I keep on wishing I was out there with the searchers. It’s hardest of all to do nothing.”

  “Aye,” said Wiki. The men on the island had lit torches, and dots of flaring light wound to and fro beneath the deserted, snake-infested fort. A cool wind had sprung up, and gooseflesh rose on Wiki’s bare arms as he watched the little fires pass back and forth across the blackness.

  “I don’t even like him much,” Keith said in his candid way. “But I’d give a great deal to see him right now. Is that unusual, do you think, Mr. Coffin?”

  Wiki shook his head, because he knew exactly how the lad felt. No one—apart from Forsythe—liked Zachary Kingman, but he was a shipmate, one of theirs. Without him, their force was diminished.