by Scott O'Dell
I stepped forward and dutifully felt the edge. As I did so, I remembered a scene from Moby-Dick. In it, Queequeg had recovered from his illness and had no further use for his coffin. Captain Ahab then ordered it sealed tight with pitch and oakum and made into a buoy. Also it was hung round with thirty pieces of rope, three feet long, each piece ending in a Turk’s head knot, for use if the ship went down but the crew survived the killing of the great White Whale.
Troll and the old man did not step forward until my brother summoned them again. They then ran their hands along the edge, back and forth. There were a hundred and more holes from which the nails had been drawn, so they could say that a length of rope with a Turk’s head knot might have hung there and there and there, which they did.
Caleb said no more, except to order the canoe pulled farther up the shore, out of reach of the tide. We rowed back to the ship in silence. It was a bad moment for the old man and me, for we had thought to the last that our work would be rewarded by a glittering horde of Spanish gold. But Caleb’s silence was not ours. He sat in a trance, his eyes wildly staring, as if he had just found the world’s richest treasure.
14
Armed with a brace of pistols that belonged to Captain Troll, we rowed up to the marker at dawn. The Indian chief and his followers were nowhere in sight, so the weapons were hidden away and we made ready for Caleb to dive.
As soon as the pump began to groan and wheeze, the Indians came gliding over the calm water from the direction of Isla Ballena. The little chief climbed out of his canoe and onto the diving platform and smiled, waiting for Caleb to invite him to take over the pump. Instead, Troll pressed a pistol against his chest.
The chief no doubt was surprised, for he made no effort to defend himself. His followers, however, instantly paddled away, beyond range of the pistols (apparently they had seen one before) and brandished their spears.
Troll wished to kill the chief without further ado. “The only good Indian,” he said, “died long ago.”
Caleb made no reply to this suggestion, but took hold of the chief’s hair, which fell to his shoulders, and pulled it back. The ring hung from his ear, held there by a hook fashioned from a piece of seashell. Caleb snatched it away.
The chief looked at the ring and then at Caleb. He seemed more surprised than outraged at what had happened to him, until Caleb put the ring on his own finger and began to make signs. It was not good sign language that Caleb spoke, but at last the chief understood and spoke back.
He jumped in the water, turned over on his back, and closed his eyes, which we understood to be a dead man floating. Then he climbed into the launch and pointed down the bay, in the direction of Isla Ballena.
It was plain from his actions that the little chief meant us to believe that he had found Jeremy’s body floating somewhere in the bay.
“He’s lying,” Troll shouted. “He goes around with a dead man’s ring in his ear and wants us to think he found it.”
Glancing at the little chief and then at Troll, my brother seemed to make up his mind. He fished in his pocket and took out the ring. As he turned it over in the palm of his hand, there came back to me the time long ago when he had brought back to Nantucket, after a year-long voyage, the beautiful green stone and the rough piece of Inca gold. I recalled that he had asked Smith the jeweler to make them into a ring to fit my father’s finger. I suppose, looking at the ring now, he remembered that when Jeremy had sailed off on his first voyage our father had given the ring to him, his favorite son, as a token of good fortune.
Whether or not Caleb believed the little chief’s story, I had no way of telling. Perhaps he had his own idea of who the murderer was. Perhaps he thought, as I did, that it was Captain Troll. Whatever it may have been, suddenly he placed the ring in the chief’s hand and pointed to the pump.
Chief Bonsig beamed, placed the ring carefully in his ear, and grasped the pump handle. As it began to move up and down, the other Indians came back and clustered around the launch.
“There are waters under waters,” Caleb said. “But know ye, there is only one righteous God and He is Lord over the earth.”
Was Caleb saying that at last, after many long years, by the gift of the ring to the little chief he had settled a carking score with his brother Jeremy? I am not certain. For only a moment later, glancing at me, he said:
“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.”
15
I slept little that night, going over in my mind the story Chief Bonsig had acted out for us. There was only a small chance that Jeremy’s body had survived in the unfriendly waters of Magdalena Bay, waters that teemed with all forms of ravenous life. But small as the chance was, I decided to take it.
Before sunrise the old man and I left the ship and rowed off toward Isla Ballena. We were not even sure that the Indians lived on the island, although each morning they paddled in from that direction.
The rising sun shone in our eyes and we were close upon Ballena before I could see it clearly. At first glance, like all the islands of the bay, it seemed barren, little more than a nesting place for birds. But as we approached a spit near its eastern shore, a crescent-shaped beach came into view. A few palms fringed the beach, a narrow, wooded valley lay beyond, and a winding path that ended against a cliff. There were no canoes on the beach or other signs of life, yet it was a likely spot for a village. We rowed toward it.
Without warning, as we came abreast of the spit, our boat was seized by a churning tide that lifted the bow and drove us instantly astern, like a cork blown from the neck of a bottle. We bumped and twisted, scarcely touching the water, for a quarter of a mile or so, until the channel widened into the bay and the raging current lost its force.
“We’ll have to wait for the tide to turn,” I said.
“It may be a long wait,” Judd replied.
“We could go ashore and walk along the shore. We might be able to reach the valley that way.”
“We would have to climb the cliff,” the old man said, pointing to a headland that rose steeply out of the bay. “Let’s wait. The longer we’re here the less time we’ll have to work over there at the wreck. And maybe the Indians will come along. It’s about time.”
We waited more than two hours for slack tide, and when the Indians did not appear, entered the channel and without further trouble made in toward the beach. Wisps of smoke rose from a grove of trees and I heard the sound of voices and the laughter of children at play.
“It’s not a good idea to land before we’re invited,” the old man said, resting on his oars. “Chief Bonsig was happy when he left us yesterday, but the fact that he hasn’t gone back this morning is sort of suspicious.”
“He may remember that Troll wanted to shoot him,” I said.
While we were talking, dogs began to bark and a moment later a swarm of Indians burst from the trees as if we had upset a hive. Behind them trotted Chief Bonsig, who motioned us to land and even waded out to help slide the boat up the beach.
He beamed, smiling his toothless smile, and made a sweeping gesture that took in the channel, the shore, and the wooded valley. He then pointed admiringly at himself. I understood why he felt proud of his island kingdom, for it seemed to possess wood for fire, water to drink, and a plentiful supply of food near at hand. Above all, the fierce tide that ran between the island and the coast, through an opening no more than a hundred yards in width, would make his village very difficult to attack.
Judd and I let him know how much we liked his island. By signs I then told him why we had come. He either didn’t understand me or chose not to. Jabbering away in his harsh dialect, which sounded like rocks rattling around inside a barrel, he waved his warriors a
side and led us into a grove.
We soon came to a cleared space, in front of a deep, wide-mouthed cave. A fire was burning under a big pot and we gathered around it, while the warriors went off among the trees to watch us. Chief Bonsig laid out three bowls of stew, which Judd said was made of dog meat. We both ate little.
As my eyes became used to the darkness of the grove, I saw that the cave I was facing was lined with crude statues cut deeply into the stone. They were fashioned in the shape of men with arms folded upon their chests, shell beads around their necks, and bits of gold, which shone in the firelight, for eyes.
I pointed to the figures and then watched while the little chief made a sign that I took to mean a time long ago, and more signs that could have meant that all the stone men were his ancestors. When he had finished, peering deeper into the cave, I saw that against the walls were three or four different figures. The light was poor, but they looked like the forms of Spanish soldiers, standing upright, clothed in doublets, breastplates, and steel helmets.
As I continued to stare into the dim recesses of the cave, scarcely believing my eyes, the little chief jumped to his feet, called to his warriors, and led us quickly out of the grove to the beach. There I again asked him for the body of my brother. Once more he went through his motions of the previous day, lying on the sand and pointing to the tide that rushed through the channel.
Judd, while the little chief was doing this, spoke to me twice. The second time I glanced at him, struck more by the tone of his voice than by what he had said. His eyes were fixed on a stony shelf not more than a dozen paces from where we stood. A lone tree grew there on the shelf, its thin branches weirdly warped by the wind. Beneath the tree, on a platform of carved wood inlaid with triangles and squares of abalone shell, half hidden among the scanty leaves, lay the body of my brother Jeremy. So real was his appearance, so lifelike, I could not believe that he was dead. He could have climbed to the ledge on a summer day and there fallen asleep.
I had read of Indian tribes who, instead of burying their dead, in some secret manner embalmed them and set them away in trees or caves or upon stone cairns. I also had read of Indians who worshiped as gods men with blond hair, which must have been the custom with this tribe. For when I approached the ledge and grasped one of the handholds cut into its face, Chief Bonsig, flanked by his men, held me back.
I pulled away and confronted him, but a warning from Judd brought me to my senses.
“Act as though you think it’s proper for Jeremy to be lying up there,” he said quietly. “Don’t forget, we’re outnumbered.”
Taking Judd’s advice, I made signs that I was pleased and walked off. We both got in the boat and waited for the tide to slacken. It was a long wait. Chief Bonsig left six of his men to stand guard beside the ledge and with the rest disappeared into the grove. Now and again, as we sat waiting, I saw faces peering out at us from the trees.
What fears we had proved groundless. For when the tide changed, the little chief came bouncing down to the shore and stood waving until we were out of sight. We rowed hard, however, long after we were out of the channel.
“I believe the chief’s story,” Judd said, speaking for the first time since we left the island. “I think he did find Jeremy’s body floating around in the channel.”
“But how did it get there?” I asked.
“On the tide, most likely. He must have gone to the island for some reason.”
“He must have used a boat then. On the morning he disappeared, none of our boats was missing. All of them were moored at the ship’s stern.”
Judd lit his pipe and sucked away at it for a while. “That’s true, I saw them myself. But what if Jeremy went off to the island with Blanton or Troll or one of the other men?”
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know, but let’s say that he did. Say there were two of them in the boat and they got caught in the tide like we did. Say that your brother got thrown out and drowned and the other man, whoever it was, rowed back to the ship. Wouldn’t that explain why none of the boats was missing?”
“Yes it would. But who was the other man? Why didn’t he tell us what happened? It wasn’t his fault if the boat got caught in the tide and Jeremy was drowned. He couldn’t be blamed for an accident.”
Judd picked up his oar and we set on toward the wreck of the Amy Foster.
“Well, whoever it was,” Judd said, “he felt real guilty about something.”
16
It was well past noon as we wearily rowed up to the Amy Foster.
Blacksmith Grimes, who liked to display his strength, was alone at the pump. The rest of the crew sat around in the launches, with their eyes fixed upon the signal line. Captain Troll held it in his hand as if he were waiting for a fish to bite. He knew where we had been, but since he didn’t ask what had happened to us we did not bother to tell him.
About an hour later, he jumped to his feet and shouted, acting exactly like a man who has been fishing all day without luck and then suddenly hooks into a monster. Caleb had signaled for the chain and grapple.
The crew cheered as the grapple descended. In silence they waited for the signal to haul in. When it came they began to count their share of the ambergris and make plans for the future. Grimes said he would leave the sea, and good riddance, get a soft rocking chair, and sit on the porch and watch the ships leave Nantucket harbor. Blanton had a farm in mind where he could raise ducks. Greene did not like ducks, but he did like Toggenburg goats. Everyone had a plan of some sort.
As for myself, I watched the line slowly come in, but I did not expect another cask of ambergris. I knew that the grapple held in its claws something far different. I knew because Caleb had told me after the second cask was found that he was going to search only for the log of the Amy Foster.
The claws held a small iron box, much like the one in which my mother once had stored nutmegs, cloves, and other spices from the Indies. Troll unhooked the box and flung it down upon the platform, with the look of a fisherman who expects a toothsome sole at the end of his line and finds instead a bony skate. The crew stared.
After a short while my brother came to the surface. The first thing he did when we removed his diving suit was to look anxiously around for the iron box, as if he thought it might have taken wings and flown away. It sat at his feet, rusty and streaked with mud. Judd handed him a bar to pry the lid, but he refused it, and, gathering the box in his arms, asked me to row him to the ship.
The big white cat met us at the door of the cabin, pleading for food which for some reason it always needed. Caleb gently brushed it aside, picked his way through the clutter of books, and set the box on the chart table. Though the cabin was not dark, he asked me to light the lantern. I thought then that he was ready to open the box and went off to fetch a hammer.
When I returned he was standing at a porthole, his eyes fixed upon the distant sea. Impatient, I struck the iron box a blow with the hammer and asked if now he wished it opened. He slowly turned, passing a hand across his forehead. He gave me a look of desperation, as if he feared to know what lay inside, as if on that day of approaching storm he might not have written a command, after all.
At last, when he did not speak nor move, I swung open the lid and took out the log of the Amy Foster. It was a small book bound in leather, half the size of the iron box, soaked through by the sea, the edges curled and stuck together. It was more like a lump of dough than a ship’s log.
I held it out to him, but so great was his excitement that the book fell from his grasp.
“Thou canst do what is needed,” he said. “Thou hast steadier hands and eyes that art less fearful than mine.”
I placed the logbook on the table, and without knowing if I were doing the right thing slipped the blade of a penknife lying at hand between the pages of a small section. The paper was of a fine linen make and inch by inch came apart.
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br /> Caleb seized the pages from my hand and searched them for a date. “’Tis the tenth of August I have here. It lies farther along. The twenty-first of September, if I recall.”
While Caleb watched over my shoulder, I started over again. The next pages I pried loose held an entry for September first. At this time Caleb left me to pace the deck. The following entry was for five days later, but so dimmed by water that it scarcely could be read.
I was seized by the thought that the final page, if ever I came to it, the page that Caleb was pacing the deck about, might be damaged beyond reading. Always before, I had secretly hoped that the log would never be found, for if what Caleb had said was true, then my brother Jeremy had lied to the board of inquiry, to everyone, to me.
The logbook lay open on the table, the last pages waiting for the sharp blade of the knife. It would be a simple matter to destroy them. I confess that I stood there, thinking. The ship’s three clocks struck the hour of five. The clocks were not in time with each other and their bells went on ringing for a long while. I heard Caleb’s steps on the deck, moving back and forth, the bump, bump of his good foot, the soft, dragging slide of the other.
Yet it was not from any real concern for Caleb that I unloosened the last page with the greatest of care. Nor was it from pity. It was the knowledge that if I did destroy the writing there before me, I would never know whether or not my brother Jeremy had solemnly lied to the board of inquiry, lied because he had willfully disobeyed a command, lied to save himself.
Setting the page down, I called to Caleb. He hobbled slowly in from the deck, as if now that the moment had come he feared to face it. He lifted the lantern from its hook overhead and held it close. His body was shaking and the light wavered back and forth. I took the lantern from him.
The writing was in his hand, large and with a forward, headlong slant to the words. We read them together, I to myself, Caleb aloud in his quiet, far-off voice.
