A Watery Grave (21 page)

The barrel was half-full of seawater, George speculated, because it floated well down, reminding him of that tedious business with the kegs and the log line when he'd had the job of measuring currents. Because it was weighted, this barrel stayed more or less in the same spot, instead of lightly dancing off on the breast of the rippling sea. Then the boat rowed away, leaving every man on board the
Vincennes
to stare in speculation at the slowly bobbing object.

Captain Wilkes was at the ready with his speaking trumpet again, hollering for silence. As they listened, George's gun crew looked at each other with broad grins, understanding that the cannon were going to be exercised in reality, with the barrel as a target—and that it would take the form of a competition, to see which gang would smash it first. The powder boy was bright red with excitement. Even George felt energized, for the first time distracted from dragging worry about the dear
Swallow,
which had been lost to sight for seven long days and had cost him a great deal of sleep.

“Sir,” said the gun captain, looking extremely animated.

“Yes?”

“I'd choose grape, this time, sir.”

“Grape?”

“Aye, sir! Let's blast that barrel to smithereens, sir!”

“Make it so,” said Rochester, catching the spirit, and swiftly the gun was sponged, charged, loaded, rammed, and run up to the rail. His crew, George determined as he held his cocked hat in one hand to shade his eyes against the glitter of the sea, was definitely going to be the one that reduced that barrel to a shower of splinters. It was far too small and too low in the water to make an easy target, but he knew from past experience that he had a very accurate eye.

During the exercises, the ninepounder had been well elevated. “Down,” he said, “down”—and flapped his right palm. He could hear the captain of the gun knocking out wedges, and when he looked around the sturdy fellow had laid his cheek along the barrel and was squinting down to the end. “What do you think?” George asked, as he backed up to join him.

“A little more, sir,” that worthy said, and George returned to the rail for another look at the target.

“You're so right, dear fellow,” he said, and the adjustment was made. Finally the snout was pointed the way they both wanted, and the gun captain hammered in a quoin to hold it in place. Now came the even more fiddly and laborious task of wrenching the cannon about on a horizontal axis, while all the time the
Vincennes
was slowly bringing around her stern.

To George's irritation, and his gun crew's disgust, the other chaser had the first shot. He heard Captain Wilkes's shout, “Number six!”—followed almost instantly by a great boom and then a thud as the gun bounced back against its breeching. To the gun crew's satisfaction, however, the cannonball bounced along the water like a gigantic stone, skipping five times before it sank, missing the barrel by yards and sending it dancing up and down.

“Number four!”—and with another huge noise a carronade hurled its mighty ball—which soared high in the air and splashed down far, far beyond the target. A derisive cheer went around the decks.

“Number seven!” roared Captain Wilkes's speaking trumpet.

George's crew spat on their palms and braced their shoulders. “Take your time, my lads,” he warned. The
Vincennes
was still bringing around her stern, and the heavy carriage had to be heaved some more to match the movement. While the gun crew fidgeted with impatience, and the whole ship watched and waited, the gun captain and George peered down the barrel by turns.

Then both ship and target were steady, and the cannon was aimed. “Cock your lock,” George said calmly, back at his station at the rail.

The gun captain poured priming powder over the vent with the aid of a goose quill, pulled back the hammer, and turned his head to stare at George raptly, the string of the firing lanyard in his hand.

“Blow your match,” said George, just as deliberately, and watched the slow fuse smolder red as the loader blew gently, just in case the flintlock did not catch.

“Watch for the weather roll—wait, wait for it—” His eyes slitted against the glare, George paused as the ship wallowed. “Stand by … stand by—FIRE!”

The hammer snapped, the flash ran through the breech to the cartridge, and the powder exploded with a mighty bang. The bag of grape shot out with the velocity of lightning, while the entire gun leapt backward with shocking force, jumping clear of the deck, and slamming up against the breeching. The air was filled with thick, stinging smoke.

“Stop vent and sponge your gun!” George roared, determined to reload and have another shot if the first had not demolished the target—but it wasn't necessary. The target had burst. All that was left was debris that briefly whirled and then disappeared down a vortex. Within seconds every last vestige of the butt had disappeared.

The noise, however, was going on and on. At first George thought his ears were ringing with the aftermath of the terrible explosion, but then he backed away from the gunport and looked around at his men. And all of them were pushing their fists in the air, their blackened faces split wide with huge grins, and cheering at the tops of their voices.

All he needed to crown his day, George decided, grinning like a fool himself while he and the gun captain shook hands, was for some masthead lookout to raise the dear
Swallow.

And when supper was done, this ambition was satisfied, too. Signals jerked up on the main peak of the distant
Porpoise.
A sail had been spied, their lookout reported, silhouetted against a streak of silver on the westward horizon. Above the streak of light, the sky was darkening; but before nightfall enough of the shape could be seen to identify the vessel. More signals fluttered from the
Porpoise
lanyard, relaying the glad message that the brig
Swallow
had rejoined the fleet.

Eighteen

The crew of the
Swallow
was not nearly so jubilant, being too tired for much emotion at all. When the echoes of the cannon firing had registered, Forsythe had ordered a boat put down. Then they had towed the brig mile after mile, following the sound of the guns for hour upon hour. There had not been a breath of wind, and the sun had been white hot. It was early evening before the masthead lookout finally raised the
Porpoise,
and not until dark that Forsythe finally consented for the boat to be brought in again. After that, supper was at long last served.

When the steward tapped at his stateroom door, Wiki was lying on his bunk with his feet propped up against the back of that confounded locker, wishing fervently he could straighten out his limbs. He had gone down in the boat and taken one of the oars for two two-hour spells—not because Forsythe had ordered it but out of loyalty to his old forecastle mates—and now the broad muscles of his shoulders were stiff and sore. However, because of the way his berth had been shortened by that accursed locker, he could not stretch his bones to ease them.

He had investigated its contents long before, opening the outside door, set in the break of the quarterdeck, to find that it merely held shelves of folded signals. Now he stared at its back panel balefully, wondering if he could undo the screws that held it, and put his feet inside. The flags would serve as an excellent footrest, he mused. Someone else had had the same idea, he saw, because there were little glints where the brass heads of the screws had been scratched. Then the thought was interrupted by the tap at the door.

Though supper was ready, the steward was delivering a message. A boat from the
Porpoise
had arrived, asking the favor of the urgent attendance of the expedition linguister. As he passed through the saloon, Wiki grabbed up his coffee mug and took a couple of long, scorching, luxurious gulps. Then, after casting a regretful eye at the tasty-smelling dish of stewed salt meat, crumbled ship's biscuits, onions, and potatoes—lobscouse—on the table, he padded up the stairs to deck.

To his surprise, when he dropped down into the boat, it was to find that Midshipman Erskine was there. Instead of announcing his presence and coming on board, Erskine had sent one of the oarsmen with the summons, which seemed rather odd. Wiki did not know Rochester's erstwhile second-in-command very well, partly because he had spent so much time in the forecastle and partly because Erskine had been in charge of the deck the times Wiki had eaten meals in the saloon. What he had seen of Erskine he had liked, though. Rather prim and quiet in demeanor, Ernest Erskine had seemed older than his actual years, but he was hardworking, responsible, and patient, and had got along very well with the men.

As they pulled away, Erskine said rather wistfully, “How goes it with the brig?”

Wiki paused, thinking of Forsythe's temper, which veered about the compass like the wind. He was certainly a tyrant, quite merciless and often cruel, but when one expected him to fly into one of his vicious rages he was just as likely to act as if he couldn't give a damn. Added to that, he drank. Several times, he had terrified the crew by lurching onto the deck with his rifle in his hand, to carry out some target practice on the gulls that flew about the brig. Luckily, the midshipmen had been right—his aim was absolutely unerring, even when he was too intoxicated for coherent speech. Wiki still wondered if he was a murderer and was quite convinced that in other circumstances Lieutenant Forsythe would have been a pirate. Because of his strange attitude, the
Swallow
could have foundered—but, as he had demonstrated during the storm, there was plenty of crude courage, too.

So Wiki shrugged in the darkness and said dryly, “Interesting.”

“I see.” And Erskine sounded as if he did, indeed, understand quite a lot.

“And the
Porpoise?
”

“A smart ship. Captain Ringgold is a good man. But—”

It was Erskine's turn to pause. Wiki had already heard favorable reports of Lieutenant Ringgold, the master of the
Porpoise,
who had distinguished himself in the so-called “Mosquito Fleet,” which had put down piracy in the West Indies. Cadwallader Ringgold sprang from a distinguished Maryland family but nevertheless was considered by the seamen to be a thoroughgoing fellow and one of themselves. However, it was obvious that Erskine greatly regretted leaving the
Swallow
—another indication, in Wiki's opinion, that Captain Wilkes was heading for trouble with his policy of shifting men willy-nilly about the fleet.

Wiki said next, “How did you fare in the storm?”

“Tore along with the lee rail buried in the foam.” Then Ernest Erskine added, “The
Flying Fish
fared worse—flew through the darkness under just a fore staysail and a goose-winged trysail, but still she buried her hatches under water. The carpenter and the bo'sun were stationed each one by a mast, at the ready to cut away the weather shrouds and backstays and send the masts over the side to save the hull, if necessary. But in the end she come through with just the loss of the foresail and a boat, along with its davits. There's some alarm about the
Sea Gull
and the
Peacock,
though—we lost track of them entirely and haven't seen sight or sign of them since. But,” he said bracingly, “the dear
Swallow
rejoined us, so we must hold hard to hope. Tell me, how did she weather it?”

“The first big squall could have easily caught us aback, but we were snugged down and ready,” said Wiki, thinking it was best not to gossip, as the seamen would do enough of that when they got the chance. He looked about, thinking of the difference from the night of the storm. There was not a breath of wind to disturb the shimmering black surface on which they floated, and the atmosphere was close and warm. The sea was more like molten metal than liquid water.

The six oars of the gig dipped and rose rhythmically, the drops that spilled from their blades glowing with the cold fire of phosphorescence. There was a sudden swift flurry of the same eerie light as something cut through the water a few yards off, but then it disappeared so fast that it was possible to believe he'd imagined it. The lights of the
Porpoise
were bobbing closer, and all at once the hull was looming out of the night.

The boat touched the side, and an oarsman grabbed the dangling falls. When the boat stilled, Wiki reached up and gripped the rope that hung down from the gangway. Then he turned to look at Erskine, saying, “Do you know why Lieutenant Ringgold wants to see me?”

“One of our Kanaka seamen is acting strangely, and we're anxious to learn if there is anything wrong—he seems very distressed.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Joe Rotuma.”

His old friend, Wiki guessed with his eyebrows high, and clambered stiffly up the side to the deck. As he was technically a civilian, there was no shrilling of the boatswain's call as he arrived at the head of the gangway; and because he was a lowly seaman, he didn't head for the quarterdeck, either. Instead, he walked quietly to the forepeak, where the Rotuman was standing between the knightheads staring out at the shimmering, moonlit sea. It felt for all the world as if the gentle Kanaka had not moved an inch from the moment Wiki had first clapped eyes upon him.

This time the Rotuman did not turn as Wiki arrived. Instead, he seemed to be deeply lost in a trance, chanting softly and monotonously,
“Hitua, Hi—Hitua, Hi—Hitua Hi—”

Ernest Erskine had followed Wiki. He whispered, “What does it mean?”

Wiki was frowning. “I don't know. I don't think it means anything. I've only heard it twice before—once at a funeral, and a second time when a Rotuman village was preparing for the arrival of a dignitary. I won't know till I hear the words that are recited at the end whether it signifies life or death. How long has he been like this?”