by Joan Druett
Now, Wiki gulped coffee, looked at George, and said, “Did Smith enjoy Festin’s grub?”
“Stuffed himself like a trout, and then demanded that we send over the cook to the Flying Fish, his own cook being dead. He changed his mind when I informed him that the cook not only didn’t belong to us, being one of the Annawan crew, but was suspected of murder in the bargain. Indeed, he studied his empty plate so pensively I wondered if he regretted eating so much—and was emphatic that he didn’t want another serving.”
“What about Joel Hammond?” said Wiki, because Hammond had been a guest, as well.
“Looked cynical, as well he might. Smith expressed effusive sympathies on the loss of a captain, just like the hypocritical little twit that he is. Then, as the senior navy officer present, he claimed all honor due for the Annawan’s reprieve, on behalf of the U.S. Navy.”
“What!” Wiki let out a shout of laughter. “How did he manage that?”
“Oh, you know the kind of thing, old chap—how the navy prides itself on being a bastion of support and succor to all its citizens everywhere and in particular those in evil straits on the breast of the stormy wave. Once he’d got all this soft soap off his chest, however,” Rochester went on much more darkly, “he ordered Hammond to release the eight sealers who sailed on that Annawan discovery expedition and hand ’em over to us, because he reckoned that their testimony’s so important they should give it to Wilkes in person.”
Wiki frowned. “What did Hammond have to say about that?”
“He was as happy as Old Scratch. In his own words, he agreed that he could dispense with ’em, since he’s not going a-sealing any more. Then he launched himself into that ridiculous yarn about the Mary Dear and the Lima bullion, but Smith interrupted in his usual style—to order me to take the sealers on board the Swallow and carry them to Wilkes instantum! I could give him six of my men to fill up the gaps in his crew list, and so—or so he reckoned—I would have plenty of room for the eight.”
“What! What the devil did you say to that appalling idea?”
“Hammond forestalled me by barking that it seemed goddamned strange to him that someone who’d just been prating on about the goddamned generosity of the U.S. Navy should turn around and propose that we leave before the goddamned job was finished. Then he informed him that insincerity of purpose is an abomination of the Lord. At that moment,” George confessed, “I almost found it in my heart to like the man.”
“So how did Lieutenant Smith take it?”
“Badly, Wiki, badly. Brushed birdseed off his shoulders and gobbled.”
“Birdseed?”
“Aye. Stoker, the good fellow he is, seated him directly beneath the parrot cage. Never seen him so wooden-faced as when he did it, neither.”
George guffawed, but Wiki’s responsive grin was brief. Feeling very disturbed, he said, “I would have thought Lieutenant Smith would want to take the sealers to Captain Wilkes himself, and make sure of all the credit.”
“Pointed that out to him myself, old chap! However, he didn’t rise to the bait. It’s hard to tell what revolves in that nasty little brain, but I suspect he prefers a crew of solid navy lads to a bunch of unknowns.”
“So what happened next?”
“Smith informed Hammond that he thought a reasonably competent shipmaster should be able to fix his own ship now that the navy has got her hove down for him, and Hammond informed him that with eight hands gone it couldn’t be done. Smith countered that by offering to leave the cutter with Forsythe’s men—and I hate to think what Forsythe will say when he hears about that little idea.” George lifted a wry eyebrow. “Then, when I reminded him that Forsythe doesn’t have a second-in-command any more, he had the temerity to say that you could stay behind in that capacity while I sailed off with the sealers.”
“Dear God,” Wiki prayed. “I hope you put a stop to that.”
“I did.” Rochester grimaced and added gloomily, “In the meantime.”
“What do you mean?”
George sighed. “Hammond made him see sense about the number of men needed to finish the work, but once the Annawan is seaworthy again I’ll have to do as Smith says.”
“What?”
“Technically, he outranks me. I have a command, but so does he, at the moment, and he’s a lieutenant while I’m only a passed midshipman. If he turns it into an argument, Wilkes will back him up. You know what Wilkes is like about niceties of rank, old fellow.”
Wiki silenced, beset by such terrible premonitions that when Forsythe arrived down the companionway in a clatter of urgent boot steps, it didn’t seem unexpected.
The southerner was white-lipped and grim-faced, and smelled of sweat and dirt. The instant he saw Wiki, he shouted, “Some goddamned son of a bitch has stolen my knife! My knife’s been taken again!”
Thirty-two
Wiki said quickly, “Where were you when you saw it last?”
“I was on the schooner getting more lines out. It was yesterday afternoon—late.”
“You’re sure you haven’t just mislaid it?”
“Of course I’m bloody sure!”
“My God,” said Wiki. “It’s our chance to search their chests—and look for a blue and white shirt as well as the knife!” And before Rochester could think to remonstrate, he led the way at a run up to deck.
Ten minutes later the cutter grounded onto the damp, ruffled sand at the edge of the surf. Wiki, Rochester, and Forsythe jumped out and headed for the quartet of tents the Annawan crew had set up. As they arrived Joel Hammond emerged from the smallest. He looked surprised, and glanced at the sky to check the sun. As usual, his small eyes passed quickly and dismissively over Wiki’s face before he nodded at Forsythe and Rochester, saying, “You’re very early.”
Rochester said curtly, “There’s been a theft. We want to inspect all sea chests before the men start work.”
Hammond flushed angrily. Inspecting sea chests was a serious matter, as a seaman’s chest was his only private space, jealously protected and cherished. A sailor kept not just his spare clothes in there, but letters and mementos of home, as well. However, he could say nothing to stop them. Theft was a very serious matter as well, particularly with seamen, who traditionally had very few possessions.
He demanded, “What was stolen?”
“If they don’t know what we’re looking for, we’re more likely to find it.”
“How do you know it wasn’t your own men? Have you searched their chests?”
“Of course,” Rochester lied.
There was some angry muttering when the Annawan hands understood what was happening. Ignoring this, Rochester, with Wiki and Forsythe, headed determinedly into the first tent, which housed the five ordinary seamen of the crew, including Pedro da Silva—who, it immediately became apparent, did not have a sea chest, his tattered finery being bundled up in a shabby striped poncho. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed about it, instead greeting Wiki in a comradely kind of manner, as if they were coconspirators, his chest so puffed out and his manner so self-important that Wiki realized with a sinking heart that what Pedro had witnessed from aloft during the two murders must have been confided to one and all by now.
Keeping his expression noncommittal, he cast an eye over the contents of the poncho, and then passed on to the four American seamen, whose chests were a testament to the high regard in which they were held. A couple were intricatedly carved, while others had been painted inside the lid with lively scenes of ships and seas. The rope becket handles were a credit to the marlinespike craftsmanship of their owners.
Wiki inspected each one carefully, but without touching either chest or contents, getting the owner to turn out the pieces one by one instead. They held all the small necessaries of a shipboard existence—paper, pens and pencils, thread, needles, fishhooks, Bibles, spare clothes. One or two of the men were affluent enough to own a spare pair of shoes. Every seaman had a loaded pistol—for snakes, Joel Hammond snapped when asked. He’d given p
ermission, which was comprehensible, under the circumstances. There was no sign of Forsythe’s knife, nor of a blue-striped shirt. Wiki looked at Rochester and nodded, and the five men were dismissed to head out smartly to the beach.
They moved on to the next tent, which held the eight old sealers, including Jack Winter, Folger, and Bill Boyd. Their chests were more battered, which, considering the arduous circumstances in which they lived and worked, was not particularly surprising. Wiki was startled, however, to see how many of these hard-bitten men carried books with them—one even had a full set of Shakespeare. Up until now he’d assumed that sealers, though some of the bravest and most daring seamen afloat, were mostly uneducated. They, too, carried loaded pistols. Otherwise, their chests were innocent of striped shirts and purloined knives.
Rochester and Forsythe left the tent with Joel Hammond, but Wiki lingered. The last chest to be inspected had belonged to Bill Boyd, who was now hunkered down restowing the contents. Wiki said to his bent back, “We need to look in your tool chest, too.”
“It’s with the other tool chests in the officers’ tent.”
It had not been Boyd who answered, but Folger. The boatswain’s mate, still repacking his chest, had not even looked up. Wiki was silent a long moment, looking from one to the other. Then he said abruptly, “You’re close kin.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Folger went red and blustered, “We don’t even look alike, so how can you say that?”
Wiki shook his head, having known they were kin from the very beginning. That Folger was heavily bearded while Boyd was clean-shaven might have disguised their relationship from their shipmates, but in the Pacific people distinguished each other by attitude, build, mannerism, and movement, not by what they wore or how they were groomed.
But it was hopeless to try to explain that, so instead he remarked, “You do fly to his defense rather readily. He’s not your son, but your nephew, I think.”
“My sister’s son, but I raised him as my son after she died,” Folger reluctantly admitted, but then added aggressively, “And it ain’t no crime, you know.”
“Of course not,” agreed Wiki. “But I do wonder if I should believe him when he says there was no one in the pantry the afternoon that Captain Reed was killed.”
Jack Winter exclaimed, “Mr. Coffin, if that broken-brained Robert Festin told you at any time that he was in the pantry, he was wrong!”
Wiki said quietly, “On the contrary, I think there’s a good possibility that he was there.”
“Then you’re mistaken, Mr. Coffin!”
With the loud sound of the steward’s voice, Bill Boyd had at last looked up. Slowly, sensing something was wrong, he lumbered to his feet and looked questioningly at Folger, his big hands opening and closing at his sides.
Folger said, “It’s all right, lad. He’s not accusing you of anything.” Then he swung round at Wiki and demanded, “You’re not, are you?”
Instead of answering, Wiki said, “He’s deaf, isn’t he?”
“Aye—but it don’t make no difference! He’s a hard worker, my Bill, and he can understand what is said no problem as long as the other speaks clear and he’s watching his face at the time.”
“I know he’s a hard worker. You told me yourself that he got a marvelous amount done in the bo’sun’s locker the afternoon of the murder,” Wiki reminded him. “Which means that he could have been too preoccupied to notice Festin in the pantry, particularly since he couldn’t hear him. And as for you,” he snapped, swinging round at Jack Winter. “You were so busy enjoying yourself with the cutter’s men you wouldn’t have noticed it if a squad of marines marched down into the pantry!”
“That’s a lie! I swear on my mother’s grave he wasn’t there!” Jack Winter squawked, but Wiki left the tent without bothering to reply.
Thirty-three
Once outside the sealers’ tent, Wiki stopped and looked around. One of the Annawan boats was heading out to the brig, crewed by the seamen whose chests had been inspected first. Smoke plumed from the distant galley chimney, and Wiki realized that they had gone to collect their breakfast. The sealers, too, had come out onto the beach, and were talking together in a huddle, their attitudes unmistakably angry and hostile. They, too, were staring at the Swallow.
There were two tents left to search—Annabelle’s, which was closed up tight, and the smallest one, where Joel Hammond and his first mate were housed. When Wiki pulled the flap aside, it was to see Forsythe going through various tool chests as Rochester watched. Joel Hammond and his first officer, their expressions furious, were taking clothes and other possessions out of their own sea chests. Wiki gathered that it had been Forsythe who had demanded that the officers’ chests should be inspected, too, a peremptory request that had almost developed into a fight before Rochester had stepped in and quelled it.
Neither sea chest, Wiki noticed from the deliberate distance he kept as they were turned out, held any books. They didn’t hold anything of interest to the investigation, either, and the toolboxes, though promising to start with because of the sharp implements they held, yielded no evidence, either.
“Well?” demanded Joel Hammond, still red with affront when they’d finished. “Have you found what you wanted?”
Forsythe, without bothering to look apologetic, shook his head.
“So are you going to tell us what you’re searching for now?”
George Rochester said, “Lieutenant Forsythe’s knife was stolen.”
“For God’s sake!” Hammond exploded, and whirled round on Wiki, recognizing his presence at last. “You can’t mean you gave him back the same goddamned knife I hauled out of Captain Reed’s corpse? What kind of goddamned sheriff’s deputy do you think you are? You tamely handed the murder weapon back to the killer!”
Forsythe had gone white, a bleached shade of fury which was almost instantly overtaken by a flood of red. He roared, “That’s a lie!”
“Aye? When the captain’s widow herself swears that she saw you on the quarterdeck? And when it was your goddamned knife I found in her husband’s body?”
“It was not my bloody knife! She’s lying—and so are you, goddamn it!”
“You were there when I handed it over, so you saw the stains of blood.” Hammond’s mouth pursed righteously, and he said, “That’s God’s evidence, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Forsythe exclaimed. His fists were clenched, but to Wiki’s relief, instead of attacking Hammond he barged furiously out of the tent.
He had moved so fast that he was out of sight by the time Wiki and Rochester emerged, so instead of going after him they stopped and looked around. Piles of goods littered the strand in every direction. The knife could be anywhere, Wiki thought, and was washed by a wave of depression.
“In another few days,” he said moodily, “the Annawan will be fixed, and our reprieve will be over. Joel Hammond will insist on sailing away to look for his treasure; you’ll be forced to take that sealing gang on board; and I’ll have got no further in finding the killer.” And it was partly Rochester’s fault, by banning him from leaving the brig, he thought, but did not say it. Instead, he added wryly, “We have to face it, George, I’d make a better horse jockey than a sleuth.”
“Cheer up,” Rochester urged. “We might have to take eight on board—but it’s not nearly so bad as the prospect of being lumbered with the Annawan people all the way to Rio. Seventeen men! Where the devil would we have put them all?” he rhetorically demanded.
Wiki cast him a sideways glance and then returned to his dark study of the beach. People were working on the Annawan already, though the boat with the breakfast was still returning from the brig accompanied by the two boats that belonged to the Swallow, both full of men. In the distance the Flying Fish floated on her dappled reflection, with no sign of life on board. Lieutenant Smith, he noticed, hadn’t offered any of his men to help with the repairs.
He said, “Sixteen.”
“Wh
at?”
“That’s the number of men on the Annawan.”
George shook his head. “Seventeen.”
“You’re counting Annabelle.”
“No I’m not.”
Wiki frowned. He had his notebook in his pocket, and now fetched it out. By sheer coincidence it fell open at the page where he had copied the crew list, and he read it again now, counting down the column. “Hammond, the cook, the steward, the first mate, the bo’sun and the bo’sun’s mate, Folger’s five sealers, and five more seamen add up to a total of sixteen.”
“Have it your own way—but I can count, you know.”
George sounded unusually irritated. Wiki paused, looking at his notebook as uneasiness riffled the short hairs on his neck. He said uncertainly, “But the list—”
“As I said, have it your own way!”
“E hoa, no.” Wiki shook his head, beset by an indefinable sense of oncoming crisis. “You must have a good reason to be so definite—so when did you do this counting?”
“That first day on the Annawan, the afternoon Reed was murdered. I came on board, and counted sixteen hands as Hammond sent them about their duty. It’s something instinctive, in a captain. Then you came on deck with the seventeenth man.”
“What?”
Wiki remembered it vividly. He had been in the hold, and had come out into the bright sunshine to see Rochester on the quarterdeck talking with Joel Hammond. He remembered how glad he had been to see him. He looked down at the list again, not counting this time, but reading the names he had copied there.
One was missing. There was no Xavier York Zimri Green, or even an X.Y.Z. Green. Alphabet Green’s name had not been on the crew list. Alphabet Green was the seventeenth man.
Without a word he swerved on his heel and pushed back into the officers’ tent. Hammond and Hunt had their heads together in a muttered conference. Ignoring this, Wiki snapped, “Where’s seaman Green?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know what you call him. Xavier?”
