Shark Island

by Joan Druett

  Nineteen

  The saloon of the Swallow was very crowded. Dressed, but still shivering with shock, Wiki sat on the bench at the foot of the saloon table, his hands tightly clasped around his warm mug. Stoker, the steward, was clucking agitatedly as he tenderly applied strips of thin wet cloth to the burned parrot, which was perched miserably on the back of Rochester’s chair. It looked extremely odd, festooned with ribbons of torn fabric which were draped from the top of its head, the whole dripping freely as Stoker gently squeezed more water onto it from a soaked flannel. Every now and then he put a finger under the poor blistered, blackened beak that protruded from the draperies, lifting it to dribble water inside. The saloon was full of the stink of wet, burned feathers.

  The cutter and boat had returned to the brig in response to the signals that had been set to recall the men who had been searching the island all night, and George had called all hands, and briefly broken the news. Now the men were gathered in traumatized huddles about the decks, aghast that their efforts to find Zachary Kingman had been so doomed to failure. While it was officially Constant Keith’s watch on deck, Captain Rochester had decided it would be both unfair and unwise to have him there right now, when the men were so confused and upset, so, after ordering a ration of rum to be given out, he’d put the boatswain, who was a very steady and experienced old fellow, in charge.

  Now, Midshipman Keith was hunkered on the bench on the starboard side of the table, his gangly body crammed into a corner. Rochester was sitting opposite; he had swung a leg over the end of the larboard bench near the stairs, and was ready to go up at an instant’s notice. Forsythe was slumped on the starboard bench next to Midshipman Keith, his bloodshot eyes glazed and unseeing, his weathered face so bleached of its usual color that old fighting scars stood out on his chin and cheeks. Nobody had liked Zachary Kingman, but somehow that made the sight of Forsythe’s grief more terrible, not less.

  He looked bleakly at Wiki, and said hoarsely, “You’re the one who found him?”

  “Aye—when I was swimming.”

  “So he drowned?”

  Wiki swallowed, and then said, “His feet had been tied to a grindstone, and he’d been dropped into the sea.”

  “What? Oh, Jesus, so they murdered him, too.” Forsythe rubbed a broad hand over his cheeks, scrubbing away wetness, and then said shakily, “Do you reckon the poor bastard was alive when they dropped him over?”

  “His throat was cut first.” When Wiki lifted his coffee mug his teeth knocked against the rim. He might have spent the last seven years a-whaling—a hard trade that created hard men—but, as tough as he might have become over those seven years, he knew he was going to be haunted for the rest of his life by the ghastly memory of the wide grin that had opened and closed as Zack Kingman’s head flopped back and forth.

  “Oh, Christ.” Forsythe’s eyes were squeezed tight.

  Wiki said quietly, “I found a knife, too—though I don’t believe it’s the knife that killed him. Evidently it had been used to cut the length of rope that tied him to the grindstone.”

  Without describing where he had found it, he produced the knife he had plucked out of Kingman’s dead thigh. They all stared at it. There were rust spots on the blade, and the handle was rough. Salt water didn’t account for this—it was a long time since this knife had been cleaned, honed, and oiled.

  Wiki looked up at Forsythe and said, “It’s blunt. When I was trying to cut him free from the grindstone I had to saw at the rope. That’s why I don’t think this was the knife that was used to cut his throat.” Then he added deliberately, “It’s not sharp enough—not like your knife.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “When Hammond gave you your knife, he said it was the one that had been pulled out of Captain Reed, and yet it had blood on it that was reasonably fresh. I think your knife was the one that was used to cut Zachary Kingman’s throat.”

  “My knife—my goddamned knife?” Forsythe shouted. His face flooded with red, and then went white again.

  “Aye,” said Wiki, indicating the sealing knife on the table. “And I think that this knife is the one that killed Ezekiel Reed. It mightn’t be sharp enough to cut a man’s throat, but the point’s sturdy enough to stab a man—and I believe this is the handle I saw sticking out of Reed’s back. Also, I’m not sure that your knife is long enough to go right through a man’s chest, while this one is. We can compare them to make sure, but I have a strong feeling that your knife was switched with the one that killed Captain Reed.”

  Rochester got up from the table and fetched Forsythe’s knife, and they laid them side by side. The skinning knife was a good three inches longer than Forsythe’s knife, and slenderer in the blade. While it was not nearly as well maintained as his, it still looked lethal.

  Forsythe said, “You haven’t told me where you found him.”

  “Off the larboard bow of the Annawan, in amongst kelp in a deep part of the channel. Though the grindstone had been tied to his ankles to weigh him down, with time the seaward current would have dragged his body away. However, I got there first.”

  “Where is it?” the southerner demanded. “I want to be the one to sew his shroud.”

  It was traditional for the dead man’s best friend to put the last stitch through his nose, Wiki winced. “A shark—a huge shark came before I could cut him free.”

  “A shark?” Forsythe echoed blankly.

  “Aye. When I hunkered down to cut the rope, a shark charged from behind, grabbed the body, and tore it away. If I hadn’t ducked down at that precise moment,” Wiki said, his voice beginning to shake again, “he’d have got me. Instead, he swam off with Zachary Kingman’s body in his jaws.”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Forsythe. He pushed his hand over his big craggy face again, and then looked at Wiki and demanded, “What the hell were you doing there, anyway?”

  Wiki said, “I was checking the damage in the hull of the Annawan.”

  There was a blank pause as they all stared at him. George said, “What did you find?”

  “There’s a lot of damage. The straking is started and splintered, and there are two holes, not one—but it’s mostly all in one plank. If she was careened, we could fix her.”

  Forsythe exclaimed, “We fix her so the bastard who slit Zack’s throat can sail free?”

  “It’s better than having an unknown killer on board during the passage to Rio.”

  Forsythe nodded grimly. “That’s a very good point.”

  George Rochester suggested, “We could carry the Annawan crew to the expedition fleet, and hand over the problem to Wilkes. He could hold an inquiry.”

  There was another silence while everyone contemplated this unpleasant prospect, and then Midshipman Keith piped up, “Why don’t we try to catch the foul murderer ourselves?”

  They all stared at the lad, and he blushed, but said gamely, “Mr. Coffin could do it.”

  “That’s true,” Forsythe exclaimed, and rounded on Wiki. “You’re supposed to be a goddamned sleuth—you’ve got that paper from the sheriff of Portsmouth deputizing you to be an agent of law and order on the high seas, right?”

  “But I have no authority on board the Annawan—you know what Joel Hammond is like!” Wiki objected. The derisive words godless Kanaka were ringing in his head.

  “You can find murderers; you’ve done it before,” Forsythe urged. “Now find this one—for me, for Zack!”

  When Wiki looked at George Rochester, his friend had his head tilted in deep thought. Then, he nodded encouragingly, so Wiki turned to Forsythe and took a deep breath. Then he managed to say, remarkably steadily, he thought, “So you wouldn’t object if I asked you some questions right now?”

  “Go ahead,” said Forsythe grimly.

  “You were the last of us to see him alive. Can you remember where?”

  “Of course I can bloody well remember!” Then Forsythe’s aggressive stare faltered, and he said, “No, I can’t. That’s a lie, because I was
drunk. I was bloody drunk,” he mourned, staring down at the table. “I was so drunk I thought he was with me when they dumped me on the beach, and for a long time I was quite certain the poor bastard was on the island, too. So,” he said, looking up at Wiki again, “that means the last time I saw Zack was on the foredeck of the schooner.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the boat’s crew that carried you to the beach?”

  “I’m not even sure I was awake.”

  “That doesn’t make it very easy for me,” Wiki pointed out.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be goddamned easy!”

  George Rochester said in placatory tones, “Why don’t you start from the beginning—from the time when you left the Swallow?”

  “Wa’al, as you know, the cutter’s men came and fetched me, and then dropped Zack and me off at the schooner before headin’ back to the beach.”

  “Was the coffin open for viewing?”

  “It was set on the carpenter’s bench, and it didn’t have a lid on yet, so men could take the opportunity to say farewell if they wanted. I can’t say I took more than a glance, just enough to see that the body was all wrapped up in a rug, the way Hammond said. I guess,” Forsythe added on a ghoulish note, “the rug was dark on account of it being the one he’d bled all over. Then I headed to the after house to pay Annabelle—Mrs. Reed—my respects.”

  And to hand her an assurance that the Swallow would carry her to Rio, Wiki thought moodily. “Was Zachary Kingman there?”

  “Nope, Zack was on the forward deck at the time.”

  Biting back jealousy, Wiki said, “Did you escort Annabelle Reed to the wake?”

  “Nope. A dark-looking fellow came and fetched her from the cabin when it was time for the prayers. They seemed to know each other well.”

  Alphabet Green, thought Wiki. “And after the prayers were over?”

  “She went back to the after house. Then the steward started handing out the grog.”

  “Was Joel Hammond there all the time?”

  “He headed off after he’d finished the Bible reading, and I didn’t see him again.”

  “While the men were drinking? Didn’t you think that was odd?”

  “Didn’t bother to think about it at all, tell the truth.”

  “Did all the hands take part in the spree?”

  “Nope. There was some what went into the fo’c’sle instead.”

  “So who stayed?”

  “Look, I don’t know these men—they’re strangers to me. And I got bloody drunk,” Forsythe said again, this time defiantly. “I’ve never in my life got drunk so hard and fast.”

  “What about Zachary Kingman?”

  “Aye, he was in the same condition.” Forsythe paused, then said, “How do you reckon it happened?”

  Wiki hesitated. Then he said, “According to where I found him, he was dropped off the foredeck, probably over the rail behind the galley. If it was there that his throat was cut, the galley would have hidden it from anyone on the open deck.”

  Forsythe’s eyes went flat and dead, and Wiki suddenly felt some sympathy for the murderer if the southerner ever caught up with him. “In God’s name, why?” he demanded. “Why would anyone want to cut the throat of a poor harmless silly bastard like Zack?”

  Wiki paused, and then said very carefully, “It might have been so you wouldn’t have an alibi for the time that Ezekiel Reed was murdered.”

  “What!”

  “Zachary Kingman would have backed you up in everything you said about going forward after Reed had thrown you out of the cabin, and not going back to the quarterdeck until you heard his wife screaming, but now he can’t.” Wiki paused, and then said bleakly, “If Hammond keeps on claiming that Reed was killed with your knife, it’s not going to look good.”

  “You think those bastards are trying to pin Reed’s murder on me?” Forsythe exclaimed. “And that’s why poor Zack was killed?”

  Wiki nodded grimly. The men stared at him in shocked silence. Then George shifted uneasily and said, “What about Mrs. Reed? Is she part of this conspiracy?”

  “Bloody good point!” Forsythe snapped. “When I saw her the night of the wake she said nothin’ at all about glimpsing me goin’ back into the cabin—and yet she tells you about it the next goddamned day, right after the captain is buried. That sounds kinda convenient to me!”

  Wiki said uncomfortably, “That’s true—and if she sticks to that story it’s now your word against hers.”

  “And what do you reckon? Is her word more believable than mine?”

  Wiki chose his words carefully. “Right at the start I did think that you might have pulled a knife after getting into a brawl with Captain Reed. Too, it took muscle to shove a knife all the way through his chest and out the other side—and you have plenty of that. But no, I don’t believe you killed him. It has to be one of those who stayed behind on the schooner when the two boats came over to the Swallow.”

  Said Forsythe sardonically, “Wa’al, that’s a huge relief. Can I ask the reason I’m off the suspect list?”

  “Captain Reed was stabbed in the back—which isn’t your style.”

  “And thankee for the kind compliment,” Forsythe said in the same ironic tone. Then he slammed his fists on the table, and used them to lunge to his feet. “I’m off,” he announced.

  George Rochester blinked, but said mildly, “Can I ask where?”

  “I’m off to build a raft,” said Forsythe grimly. “Because if we take the Annawan men to the expedition fleet, and Hammond and Mrs. Reed repeat their goddamned lies to Wilkes, he’ll have me hanging from the yardarm of the Vincennes before the next sun sets.”

  Twenty

  As the sound of Forsythe’s boot steps retreated on the deck above, George Rochester thoughtfully studied his mug of cold coffee. Finally, he said, “I’ll hand the deck back to you, Constant, if you don’t mind. Wiki, if you would join me in my cabin?”

  Midshipman Keith wriggled out of the cramped space along the bench, and then scampered up the companionway. Rochester transferred his gaze to the steward, who was still fussing over the parrot. Wondering if he would ever get his chair back, he demanded, “Don’t you think the poor wretched creature should be put out of its misery?”

  “Oh no, sir,” Stoker earnestly replied. “A regimen of salt butter admixed with pepper would set him up a treat, and in time even his poor blind eyes will heal.”

  Rochester said, thunderstruck, “Pepper—for birds?”

  “My father was a higler, sir,” the steward informed him, “and my mother a henwife. Pepper, whether cayenne or black, was their strong resource in a crisis of the poultry kind. Strengthens the innards, they used to say. For hen lice flowers of sulfur in lard is the remedy, but I doubt we have that problem, the lice all being scorched to death, as it were.”

  “You consider parrots poultry?”

  “Well, sir, taking into account that he has a beak, sir, and feathers, though sadly damaged, I do reckon this parrot is pretty close to being kin with hens. You have to remember, sir, that though hens are certainly more useful than parrots, they belong to the same kingdom of birds. What would really set this poor fellow up,” said the steward, his tone becoming confidential, “is a gruel of fine cornmeal in milk.”

  “Milk?” exclaimed George. “Where the devil can we get milk? Good God,” he muttered, and then, more loudly, “Do leave your higlering, there’s a good fellow, and brew us a good pot of hot coffee and break out my dress uniform.” After he and Wiki had settled in his cabin, he said in a hushed voice, “What the devil is a higler, do you reckon?”

  Wiki, from his customary seat on the sofa, said, “A man who peddles eggs.”

  “Good God, the things you know, my lad. But how do you reckon the parrot got burned in the first place?”

  Wiki shook his head. The memory of the strange little cook thrusting the horribly damaged bird at him was vivid, along with the stink of burned feathers, but he could think of no explanation. Instead,
he said, “What are you up to, e hoa?”

  “I’m going to rig myself up in the full pomp and glory of an officer of the U.S. Navy, and we’re going together to the Annawan. The sooner you get your questions asked and answered, the better.”

  “You really think wearing uniform will make a difference?” said Wiki dubiously. Fine uniforms had never made any difference to him—but if George was going to go aboard in full formal fig, he supposed he would have to break out his best broadcloth.

  “Absolutely, my dear fellow. Wilkes would be the first to assure you that a few yards of gold lace and a flourish of a cocked hat can work miracles.”

  Wiki rose to go and shift his own clothes, taking this as a hint to do so, but Stoker arrived with a pot of steaming coffee, and Rochester signed to him to stay. The steward set to rattling drawers in and out and slamming locker doors, and like magic George’s dress uniform materialized on his berth, everything already starched and ironed. As George had often observed, Stoker was a gem.

  Then, with the final slam of a door, Stoker was gone. Stepping out of his trousers to reveal a pair of well-muscled, remarkably hairy legs, George pulled on white pantaloons, saying as he buttoned them up, “Now, what’s this about a raft?”

  Wiki, having drunk his coffee, was slumped into his favorite thinking position with his forearms along his thighs and his hands at rest between his knees, scowling at the carpet between his feet. He cast a look up at George, who was smoothing down his shirt and tying his black stock, preparatory to putting on the close-fitting, single-breasted white vest, and said, “When I was looking for Forsythe on the island yesterday, I found him up at the prison—which truly is a ruin—and inside the main building we found a big pile of heavy beams, which would make first-rate material for a raft to careen the schooner against.”

  George was silent a moment, absorbed in the fiddly job of doing up the row of little gold buttons that ran down the front of the vest. Then he said, “How’s my stock?” The one small looking glass the brig boasted was infamously spotted, the result of years at sea.