A Watery Grave (10 page)

Wiki hesitated, but then turned, clambered out onto the bowsprit, and dived into the sea. Then he surfaced and looked about, lifting his head above the choppy little waves. The
Swallow,
being less than half the size of the bigger gun brig, looked miles farther away than the
Porpoise
had on the outward leg; and the swim seemed much longer, too. When Wiki finally arrived alongside the
Swallow,
it was only thoughts of the Rotuman's shark
'aitu
that gave him the strength to clamber up the side of the brig, and even then he might not have made it if a helping hand had not been stretched down.

It was George Rochester, his long face unnaturally white in the reflection of the lantern. “Burroughs was on the
Vincennes.
” he said urgently, as Wiki arrived dripping on the deck. “But I got there too late!”

Wiki, cold, wet, and panting for breath, shook his head in numb confusion.

“We had to break into his stateroom,” Rochester jerkily went on. “The door was locked, and no one had a key. Then all we found was his dangling corpse—still warm, but too late! We cut him down and the surgeon did his best, but his neck had been broken—by the fall we supposed. There was a chair on the floor where he'd kicked it over.”

“Burroughs is
dead?
”

“Aye,” said George solemnly. “Burroughs hanged himself.”

*   *   *

Next morning the expedition ships were still laying aback around the great half-submerged log, and the boats with the scientifics were busily rowing back and forth. The day was beautiful, the sea smooth, and the wind light; and Captain Wilkes, it was very apparent, felt in no rush at all to get to the south. Accordingly, he was in a mood to be tolerant of the scientifics' hankering after specimens. Wiki, in the maintop, could see men putting out lines and seines and hauling in a great mess of fish. Somewhat to his relief, they were not bringing up any sharks.

“They'd be better getting their ships underway,” remarked Rochester, joining him on the platform aloft that was still their informal meeting place, Wiki having been too weary the night before to even think of shifting out of the forecastle. “The
Relief
sails like a drover's nag, just the way I told you, and detained the progress of the fleet more than somewhat before Wilkes got tired of the constant hindrance and sent her on to Rio.”

“And yet he was critical of the time we took to rendezvous?”

“He was, he was indeed,” said Rochester, and sighed very deeply. He gazed about the sparkling scene from under the speckled shade of his battered straw hat, his long face gloomy.

Wiki paused and then said reluctantly, “I would like to see the room where Burroughs hanged himself.”

Rochester glanced at him and said, “Well, you can't.”

“I thought you might want to pay another visit to the
Vincennes?
”

“Not bloody likely. But even if you went there with me, it would be no good. Tristram Stanton has taken up residence in that room.”

In the same place where Burroughs's spirit had so recently been sundered from his body? The sparse black hairs on Wiki's brown forearms stood on end as gooseflesh crept over his skin. It would have been difficult enough for him to study the room, even. Though his American side understood that shipboard space should not be wasted; the idea of sleeping where the lost
kehua
still prowled was utterly abhorrent.

After a moment he managed to comment, “The door was broken down.”

“I don't think Stanton cares about that. He was all anxiety to get established on the ship. He scarcely waited for the corpse to be removed before shifting in.”

“Did anyone find the key?”

“The surgeon and I looked in Burroughs's pockets after we'd given up all hope of reviving him but couldn't find it. Someone—Stanton, I think—remarked that he'd probably tossed it out the sidelight before putting his head in the noose.”

“So you had no chance to talk to Burroughs at all?”

“I told you, I was too late! Captain Wilkes,” said George moodily, “detained me for an hour or more. He went through the brig's logbook with a fine-tooth comb, nitpicking his way through the entries. Every blessed decision I made, he would've made a different one. Then, when I finally got out and along to Burroughs's stateroom, it was to find quite a crowd there. Tristram Stanton had set to a-hollering that the door was locked and he could get no answer; that he was certain Burroughs was there inside and something was very wrong. We hammered on the door and yelled awhile, and finally Stanton put his shoulder to it.”

Remembering the astronomer's hefty build, Wiki had no doubt that the lock had given way in short order. He observed, “You said the body was still warm.”

“Aye. That's why we sent for the surgeon. He said that Burroughs had been dead for twenty minutes at the most.”

“So there was a chance that he was still alive when Stanton started yelling?”

“Well, he sure didn't bother to reply,” said George morbidly. “I guess he had his mind on what he was doing. Mind you, he could've been confused because the surgeon said he'd given himself a nasty knock on the head some time before putting that noose about his neck. On a low beam, I suppose.” George went on with distaste, “Tristram Stanton's a cold-blooded swab if I ever met one. I know they were enemies, but they was family, too. You'd think he'd observe the decencies afore rushing to claim Burroughs's cabin and his assistant.”

Wiki frowned. “The expedition supplied Burroughs with an assistant?”

“Nope, Burroughs carried along the man who's been assisting him for years. Aye, I know it—a scandal, no less. The quarters reduced, a big deckhouse added to the
Vin,
a fo'c'sle built on the deck of the
Porpoise,
officers bunking together instead of enjoying staterooms of their own—and all to make room for the blessed scientifics. Yet Astronomer Burroughs insisted on having his own personal servant and paid a hefty sum for him to come, it seems. Invaluable chap, must be. Not only worked in the scientific assisting way, but was a kind of valet as well. Name of Grimes,” Rochester added.

“And Tristram Stanton has taken him over, this man Grimes?”

“Aye—typical family arrogance, don't you think?”

Wiki agreed with him but didn't bother to say so. Instead, he said slowly, “I think it's probably a good idea for me to present myself to Captain Wilkes. After all, I am the expedition's linguister.”

“Well, you'd better dress up a little, old man,” said George moodily. “And then maybe he won't realize that you was at the helm when we made that infamous circuit of his ship. I'll lend you a shirt and vest.”

Eight

Unexpectedly, Captain Wilkes made the first move. While Wiki was debating how to go about introducing himself to the commander of the expedition, a message arrived from the
Vincennes
requesting the attendance of Mr. William Coffin, linguister, at the earliest opportunity. Wiki, arrayed in his best bib and tucker, arrived at the gangway of the flagship in short order, to be met by a chubby-cheeked junior midshipman, who kept on glancing at him with awe as he escorted him aft.

Wiki, for his part, was looking about at the hectic scene on the main deck. The
Vincennes
was only a second-class sloop of war; but at 780 tons, she was more than twice the size of any ship he had ever sailed in. Looking down the nearest hatchway, he could see a long line of ladders zigzagging through tiers of decks, with darkness at the bottom. Overhead, the towering masts seemed lost in the sky, connected by a maze of rigging. Her huge topsails hung loose, braced at different angles to keep the ship still, but the lower sails were all brailed up so that he had a clear view. Two launches the size of small schooners were set in struts amidships; the boats in which the scientifics were rowing about would be stowed inside these when the
Vincennes
was on passage.

About three dozen men were sitting and standing about the foredeck passing away off-duty hours in reading, sleeping, sewing, or spinning yarns. Other sailors were running hither and about, more or less arranged into a gang for each mast, kept at work by boatswains and their mates, their pipes shrilling, while the officer of the deck watched them, speaking trumpet in hand. To Wiki's discomfort, it was Lieutenant Forsythe, the bulky, foul-mouthed southerner he'd made the blunder of challenging to a duel. They exchanged brooding looks but said nothing. Wiki kept on striding along, following the midshipman, who was pressing obliviously onward to the house that had been built at the stern to accommodate Captain Wilkes, the scientifics, and their gear.

It was a large affair, nearly forty feet long and over fifteen feet wide, not ornate, but nicely painted. At the forward end, a door at the break of the deck led to a paneled corridor lit by a skylight let into the poop deck above. Varnished wooden doors punctuated one wall of this passage, all shut, but evidently belonging to staterooms, though a notice on one door indicated it was a pantry. A long dining saloon was separated from the corridor by a credenza topped with a decorative partition of turned wooden spindles, through which Wiki could glimpse a polished mahogany table that was big enough to seat twenty. Revolving armchairs were screwed to the floor all about it, and in the skylight hung castors filled with crystal glasses and decanters that tinkled slightly as the ship rolled a little and threw glittering reflections interspersed with rainbows.

The rest of the house was taken up with a big room that ran across the stern. At the doorway to this, the young mid left Wiki with an awkward little bow as he went. Wiki stood in the opening, unnoticed for a moment, looking around. Because the
Vincennes
was a very plain ship, there were no quarter galleries but the skylight let in plenty of illumation—which was lucky, he thought, because the room was full of drafting tables and chart desks. Chronometers ticked in serried rows, and rolled charts filled big pigeonholes in the bulkheads. This, obviously, was the center of operations.

There were four men in the room. One was Tristram Stanton, seated at one of the desks making calculations on a sheet and referring to an ephemeris. Wiki, who had seen him seldom on the
Swallow,
was surprised once again by his hefty size—more fitted to a drover, he thought, than a high-bred southern planter. However, the brown hair that flopped over his meaty forehead, the ears that protruded from behind his thick sideburns, and the small, alert, simian eyes were all familiar. A tall, thin man hovered near the astronomer, his back bent, a large timepiece in one hand. When this fellow looked up Wiki was shocked by the drawn pallor of his face. His eyes were reddened and pouched, as if he had not slept. Then the other two men, who were standing deep in conversation, finished what they were saying and looked around. The taller of the pair came forward, and Wiki forgot the astronomers.

So this, he realized, was Captain Wilkes. Though Wiki had heard a great deal about him, he had never seen him before. To his surprise and hidden amusement there was a distinct resemblance to his friend, George Rochester. Like George, Wilkes was long nosed and long faced; and while the commander of the Expedition was dark haired and did not follow the fashion for sideburns, he had the same benign expression, partly because his full-lipped mouth was tipped into a constant small smile. Knowing Wilkes's reputation as a tartar, Wiki was certain the fixed smile was deceptive, but nonetheless an impression of benevolence was there.

The man with him was a tubby, barrel-chested fellow, so short he only came up to Captain Wilkes's shoulder. He was red haired, with the florid complexion that so often went with that coloring, but his sideburns were flecked with gray. His voice had been loud as Wiki had come into the drafting room, his tone very jocular.

Before Captain Wilkes could say anything, this fellow exclaimed, “Young William Coffin! Don't say you don't know me, dear boy!”

“Sir?” said Wiki, vainly trying to chase down any sense of familiarity.

“Smith's the name—Lieutenant Lawrence J. Smith.”

Wiki bowed his head, smiling neutrally. The name meant nothing.

“I shipped with your father as a lad of fifteen.”

“Ah,” said Wiki, feeling no wiser. Lieutenant Smith was over forty years of age, he estimated. When this man had shipped with his father, he, Wiki, had not even been born.

“I had applied for a midshipman's warrant in the U.S. Navy but was advised to get experience in the merchant service first. Captain Wilkes here got the same recommendation—don't you remember it well, Charles? You didn't find as good a berth as I did, I'll wager!”

“
Hibernia
to France as a ship's boy—and no, it was
not
pleasant,” said Captain Wilkes in his well-educated New York accent. “However, every sailor must learn to take the rough with the smooth, and so it can be considered a salutary experience. I,” he added precisely, “benefited to the extent that I emerged from the experience with the rank of second mate.” Then his permanent smile shut tight again.

The tubby lieutenant rattled on, “It must have been 1826 when I became reacquainted with your father—I'd removed to Salem, Massachusetts, and so of course took great interest in the affairs of the East India Marine Society, great interest! You were twelve—had been in the Land of the Free for just a few weeks at the time. But a marvel you were, a wonder to behold! Born a cannibal New Zealander and yet able to speak English as freely as if you had spent all your days in Salem. Your father assured me that you were conversant with sailor talk before you even arrived in Boston, having picked it up most wonderfully on the voyage home, but since then had flown—yes, flown!—ahead in your adaptation to American ways. Charles,” he said to Captain Wilkes, “just listen to him talk, I beg you!—and see if you're as amazed as I was.”