by Joan Druett
“Looks fine to me,” said Wiki after a cursory glance.
“As if I could trust you,” George derided, and then asked, “Enough to make a raft that’s big enough for the job?”
“Aye,” said Wiki, and nodded.
“I’d already gathered that you’re very keen to get the Annawan hove down,” Rochester observed; “but the raft is a new idea.”
Wiki said, “I don’t think the schooner’s timbers would stand her being beached, but with a raft anchored tight up to her side, and fitted out with heaving posts, she could be hove down with water under her bottom. If well anchored, it would prevent her getting overset and sinking. The raft will make it a lot easier to get her righted, too, once the broken plank is replaced and caulked tight—all we’ll have to do is let the cable out again. And we happen to know about twenty tons of loose copper ballast, which could be shoveled from one side to the other to help the process along.”
George picked up his blue dress coat and shook it out. Light from the stern windows twinkled brightly on thirty-two gold buttons—nine down each swooping lapel, one on each side of the stand-up collar, three on each cuff, and three on each of the two pocket flaps in the tails of the coat—and several expensive yards of half-inch gold lace.
Squinting as he inspected the coat for grease spots, he said, “You certainly do seem to have it all worked out—but I have to confess it gives me a problem.”
“How so?” said Wiki with foreboding.
Rochester hollered for Stoker, who came in and held the coat while he shoved his right arm into the sleeve. “Wilkes should be informed as soon as possible that we’ve lost a man—an officer, damn it!” His left arm went into the other sleeve, and the coat was lifted over his shoulders. It was so close-fitting that it took the concerted efforts of both the wearer and the steward to get him into it.
Wiki objected, “But Forsythe is right, you know.”
“You agree with his gloomy prognostications of being hanged from the yardarm?”
“I most certainly do. If Joel Hammond persists in his claim that the knife hauled out of Reed was Forsythe’s, and if Annabelle Reed repeats her assertion that she’d glimpsed Forsythe on the quarterdeck just before she discovered her husband’s murdered body, a court-martial could very easily end up that way.”
“It hasn’t occurred to you that Forsythe might, in fact, be guilty?”
“He’s not,” Wiki said with perfect sureness. “I honestly don’t think he knifed Ezekiel Reed, and I’m damn sure he’s not capable of killing Kingman, drunk or sober. And if you did set sail for the fleet, what would you do about the Annawan crew?”
“If I followed regulations, I’d take all seventeen on board, and carry them to safety. In fact, if I don’t, Wilkes is likely to have my guts for a bandanna.”
Seventeen. It was that indefinably threatening number again. Wiki involuntarily exclaimed, “But at least one of them is a murderer—who would happily stand by and watch as Forsythe was hanged for his crime!”
George paused, first fastening his belt, and then waiting as the steward fussily arranged the gold epaulette on his right shoulder. “In that case,” he said, “we must keep our fingers crossed that you get some useful evidence from questioning the crew, and find the murderer—or murderers—first.”
“And if I can’t?”
George sighed deeply. “Then we’ll stay and get the schooner fixed—if we can.”
Thank God, thought Wiki. Then, he said very soberly, “You have no idea what a relief it is that you’re coming with me to the Annawan.”
“Glad to be of assistance, old chap. Hand me that letter of authority from the sheriff of Portsmouth, and I’ll smooth your path with everything in my power.” And Captain Rochester, his gold-mounted cut-and-thrust sword tied to his belt, picked up his gold-trimmed cocked hat, and headed out of the cabin and up the companionway.
Wiki hesitated a moment, and then went to his stateroom to fetch the letter of authority. Rochester didn’t have to wait very long. Figuring it was hopeless to even try to match George’s brilliant appearance, Wiki didn’t bother to shift out of his workaday dungarees into anything more formal.
Twenty-one
After they arrived on the deck of the schooner, Wiki stopped and looked around, vividly reminded of his precipitate arrival early that morning, though the scene was very different. Joel Hammond was on the waist deck talking to the men on watch, who were huddled in a sullen group about the pumps. He turned and walked up, his small eyes wary.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he demanded.
“It’s an official call, I regret to say,” said Rochester.
Hammond paused, but then demonstrated that he was shrewder than he looked, because he said, “Any sign of your midshipman?”
“There’s been an accident.”
“An accident—to your officer?”
“I’m afraid so. Mr. Coffin needs to ask some questions of your men.”
“What?” For the first time, Joel Hammond looked properly at Wiki, his expression a mixture of puzzlement and disdain. “What right has he got to question my men?” he exclaimed, and George Rochester produced Wiki’s authorization from the sheriff’s department of the town of Portsmouth, Virginia.
It was a grand parchment affair, now much creased, but still highly embellished with the town’s seal, a scarlet ribbon that was beginning to fray, the coat of arms of the port, and a number of impressive signatures. Wiki watched the Stonington man’s face become wooden as he read the flowing script that authorized the bearer, William Coffin, Jr., to act on behalf of the sheriff’s department, and demanded from the reader whatever cooperation and assistance that the said William Coffin, Jr., might request.
Usually, as men read it, their expressions became first astounded, and then impressed, even if unwillingly so. Hammond, however, looked more aggressive than ever. Flicking the heavy sheet back at Captain Rochester, he snapped, “I can tell you all that’s necessary. The last I saw of Midshipman Kingman was when he was passed out in the bottom of one of the boats. Apparently he couldn’t handle his liquor. I don’t allow such offensive sights on board my ships, and so I gave orders for him to be taken to the beach where his men were camped.”
That, thought Wiki, was a change from yesterday afternoon, when Hammond had insinuated that Kingman was back on the Swallow.
Rochester said, “Well, he didn’t get there.”
Hammond shrugged. “I didn’t see him go—I don’t know what it’s like on your smart little navy brig, Captain Rochester, but on this here schooner when I give an order I know damn sure without looking that it’s going to be obeyed. They probably dumped him off by the wreck, and left him to make his own way to the next cove—or get himself back to the brig, if that was what he wanted. Sounds like he went somewhere on the island to sleep it off—and who knows where that might be?” Then he added derisively, “Your sheriff’s deputy here mightn’t know it, but I am sure you can explain to him, Captain, that going off somewhere private to sleep off a debauch is a common story with seamen.”
Rochester snapped, “We know for a fact, sir, that that is not what happened.” He paused, and then said grimly, “Midshipman Kingman’s body was found this morning.”
Hammond’s hands shifted uneasily on his belt. He muttered, “I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die? Did he fall?”
“His throat was cut.”
“What?” Joel Hammond recoiled, and stammered, “Who d-did it?”
“That, sir, is what Mr. Coffin has been deputized to find out. So, I repeat my request for you to allow him to go about his legitimate business of questioning your men.”
Hammond, looking shaken, said, “Show me that paper again.”
This time, he read the parchment more slowly, and folded it carefully before handing it back. He nodded at Wiki, saying curtly, “Do as you will. If any of the men give you trouble, send someone to me, and I’ll make goddamned sure they think twice about being difficult.”
“Minding my own goddamned business in what passes as my stateroom—and the mate, Isaac Hunt, was there, too. It was only decent that some kind of prayerful service should be held for Captain Reed, despite the debased nature of the deceased.” Hammond went on resentfully, “The Bible bids the servant to be faithful unto death—though I guess that you, bein’ nothing but an unbaptized heathen, don’t know such holy truths. But after the service was held I didn’t reckon I was a servant no more, so I chose to stay no longer.”
“You left the men to it?” queried Rochester, still nettled by that comment about his smart navy brig, and disliking the reference to unbaptized heathens, too. “Even though they were making free with the ship’s grog?”
“Who told you that, sir? Because it’s a goddamned lie! The captain’s widow herself supplied grog to be given out after the prayers, that bein’ the custom in her family, and her cousin arranged it with the steward, at her request.”
That was usual enough, Wiki supposed. At home in the Bay of Islands the tangihanga funeral ceremony always included a feast, as well as long speeches and much wailing. However, he also knew the ways of seamen with grog, so was not surprised when Rochester said with a frown, “But you didn’t stay to make sure the spree didn’t get out of hand?”
“I allow neither the grape nor the barley to pass my lips, Captain; nor do I choose to witness the degradation of others. However, we did inspect the deck at regular intervals—which is how I found your officer in my boat.”
“You’re a temperance man?” Wiki exclaimed, stunned.
“I’ve signed the Pledge, and am proud of it, and Isaac Hunt’s with me on that.”
Good God, Wiki thought. Suddenly he knew why Ezekiel Reed had been so delighted to see Forsythe and Kingman when they’d first arrived. It must have been a refreshing change to have some drinking company on board.
“And,” Hammond went on, “that was their last goddamned spree. The ship’s grog’s gone overboard—the whole goddamned lot. As the good book tells those who are wise enough to listen, wine is a mockery, and strong drink is a raging.”
No wonder the watch was looking sullen, Wiki meditated, and with a nod he took himself off to find Boyd and the steward, and ask which of them had hauled the knife out of Captain Reed’s back and what had happened to it after that.
Twenty-two
On his way to the sternward part of the forward house, where he expected to find those two men, Wiki had to circle around the hatch that led to the holds and the between-decks area. To his surprise, a head popped out of it as he passed, and he recognized the cook, Robert Festin. First a beaky nose materialized, then a wide, thick torso, and after that short, spindly legs came into view. Then Festin stepped up onto the deck. He had a small molasses barrel on his shoulder, the spigot turned upward, evidently fetched from the storage area.
He gave Wiki a broad, friendly smile, but Wiki remembered that he was supposed to be too addled in the brains for speech, so instead of pausing to cross-examine him he kept on walking, saying casually, “Kia ora—good day to you.”
“Kuwai,” said the cook brightly in return.
Wiki froze, midstep. He turned and said huskily, “What did you say?”
“Kuwai,” said the cook, his smile becoming uncertain.
“You speak te reo Maori!” Back in the Bay of Islands, kuwai was a word for shark—and who knew where the strange little man had voyaged?
Looking puzzled, Festin shook his head. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again as his eyes focused beyond Wiki’s shoulder, and his expression became guarded. Wiki turned swiftly, but it was only Alphabet, carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder.
“An exciting conversation?” Alphabet inquired.
Instead of answering, Wiki said to Festin, “What did you say back to me after I said kia ora to you?”
The cook’s tortured frown was painful to watch. His mouth opened, shut, opened again, and then he said very awkwardly, “Good-day-to-you.”
“No, you said kuwai.”
“Kway! Kway!” exclaimed Festin, light dawning. “Good-day-to-you.”
Wiki was surprised how disappointed he felt. “Damn it,” he said to Green. “For a wild moment I thought we had a language—my language!—in common, because when he said kway I thought I heard kuwai, which is one of our words for shark.”
Alphabet looked at Festin, shook his head, and said, “He doesn’t talk—doesn’t even understand what we say, most times, so I expect it’s just a meaningless noise.”
“I know,” said Wiki, and sighed. “Festin’s one of the four Annawan hands who was on board when Ezekiel was killed, and could maybe tell me something important—but I’m not even sure where he was. The cutter’s men tell me that he left the galley, but I don’t know where he went, or even whether he returned.”
“Have you tried asking him? Maybe his mind is improving.”
“That’s a point,” said Wiki. He turned to the cook, and said, “Where were you when Captain Reed was killed?”
“Hein?”
Wiki lifted his hands, while Alphabet grinned. Then, just as Wiki was about to walk away, Robert Festin said, “Pantree.”
“Pantry?”
“Aye, aye, pantree.”
Alphabet shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet that he means the pantry. The steward is very jealous of his domain, and there would be hell to pay if Festin invaded it.”
“But the cutter’s men say the steward was with them the whole time, and so the opportunity was there—if for some reason Festin wanted to go to the pantry.”
Alphabet Green looked unconvinced, but he said, “Some of the men reckon they’ve heard him stammer words that sound like Cajun, so I could try him, if you like.”
“Why not,” said Wiki, and the Cajun turned to Festin. “Allons parler,” he said, and when he had the cook’s attention, rapped out, “Where you at avant-hier, hein?”
“Pantree,” said the cook blankly.
Wiki wryly observed, “Your luck is no better than mine.”
“Couyon, that one,” Alphabet agreed.
“Couyon means stupid?” Wiki remembered Annabelle using the word.
“Also damaged in the head,” said Alphabet, and produced a stream of speech that included the sentence “Don’t make the misère with me,” but was otherwise incomprehensible, apart from the one word galley, repeated many times.
When Green finally silenced, Festin blinked warily and said, “Gallee.”
“Dit mon la vérité?”
“Gallee.”
“Fait pas une esquandal, peeshwank,” Green said in a warning tone.
Festin spread his hands wide, and repeated, “Gallee.”
Alphabet shrugged, and turned to Wiki, who had been listening with fascination. “He says he was in the galley.”
It was such an anticlimax that Wiki almost laughed. Then Alphabet Green said, “What was that about a shark?”
Wiki quenched a shiver, and said, “Festin was watching when I was attacked by a shark while swimming this morning, and when he said the word kuwai—which is one of our words for shark—I thought he was asking me about it.”
“A shark?” Alphabet exclaimed. “Where was it?”
Wiki said, “Cruising along the larboard side of the schooner.”
Looking alarmed, Green went round the back of the galley shed to the rail, and looked down into the sea. “Don’t worry, it’s gone,” Wiki said, joining him. Then he looked down at the deck. This was where, according to his theory, Kingman’s throat had been cut. The blood must have spurted out violently. However, there were no stains on the scrubbed boards.
Alphabet said, “You look grim. What’s the problem?”
“Passed Midshipman Kingman is dead. I found his body in the water—down there, right below us—this morning.”
/> Alphabet Green looked over the rail. “There?”
“Aye,” Wiki said grimly.
“So where’s his body now?”
“The shark carried it off.” Wiki’s mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed.
Alphabet said, “Are you all right? You don’t look too good.”
“It was—a shock. It was a very big shark, and I was in the water at the time.”
“But you saw the body?”
“Aye,” Wiki said. He swallowed again and added, “His throat had been cut.”
Alphabet shut his eyes, wincing. “Jesus. You’re sure?”
“I had a good long look at the body before the shark carried it off, and I assure you I did not imagine that his throat had been cut,” Wiki said very evenly. He gripped the warm, dry wood of the rail and stared down at the place in the rippling water where he had blundered into the ghastly corpse. Just beneath the dark surface leathery kelp waved to and fro, and it was impossible to see the bottom.
Then he turned and looked about the foredeck, envisaging the night of the wake, and how crowded the shadows would have seemed as the seamen jostled for their liquor, and the babble of voices as everyone relaxed after Hammond and Hunt left. He looked at Alphabet and said, “His throat was cut with Lieutenant Forsythe’s knife—which was stolen from his belt sometime during the spree. After everyone else had headed off elsewhere, the thief grabbed Zachary Kingman, cut his throat, tied his feet to a grindstone, and tipped him over this rail—right here.”
Alphabet, frowning deeply, was casting rapid glances about the foredeck himself. “The lieutenant’s knife? Are you sure?”
“Aye. Do you remember the names of the men who took part in the spree?”
Without a pause for thought, Alphabet shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t help you—I wasn’t here. But if it was done with Forsythe’s knife, it sure sounds to me as if the lieutenant is the most likely murderer.”
Wiki shifted, feeling most perplexed. Ignoring the last part of what Alphabet had said, he said, “But I was told that you attended the wake.”
