A Watery Grave (28 page)

“And no sooner had we boarded the smelly old spouter,” Lieutenant Smith cried, “than the skipper—Israel Starbuck was the fellow's name—calculated to kidnap young Wiremu, on account of the fact that the lad had jumped from his ship in Callao!”

Wilkes frowned. “He kidnapped one of our men?”

“The old rogue sent back our boat without our linguister!”

“You call him Wiremu?” Captain Wilkes queried, looking baffled.

The answer was lost in the hubbub as men called out in amazement at the sheer sauce of the Nantucketer, but George had heard enough to guess what had happened.
Ye gods,
it was Star-buck of the
Mandarin!
Wiki must have been uncommon' embarrassed to find himself on a ship he'd quit without the proper good-byes; and George could imagine, too, that Starbuck would have been glad to recapture him because he was such an outstanding seaman. But to kidnap him against his will! Was Wiki lost to the expedition—was he homeward bound on a whaling ship? The thought was horribly depressing.

Then George was sidetracked by one of the junior midshipman—the fellow named Keith who had been so helpful with the cannonry routine. Midshipman Keith was nudging him with an elbow and jerking his chin at Lieutenant Smith. George blinked, and then saw that Smith, having finished his yarn, was endeavoring to get his attention. He had a packet in his hand, which he was waving. Seemingly, he had something to give him, once the feast was over. Well, Rochester meditated, that would be a while. The feast had only really got going, and would probably go on for hours longer.

It was all rather a lot like the banquet at Newport News. Keith, having got up his courage with his fourth glass of wine, was roaring some midshipmanlike joke in his ear, but George, who was surreptitiously studying Astronomer Stanton's burly form at the far end of the table, paid him scant attention. He'd almost forgotten how ape-like the scientific looked—the small, deep-set, glittering eyes, the meaty forehead mostly hidden by a flop of dark hair, and the round ears that protruded from the bushy sideburns.

Seeing him now brought a strong and unpleasant reminder of the astronomer's unfriendly presence during those days of passage on the
Swallow
—but, George mused in some perplexity, it did not remind him quite so much of the banquet at Newport News. Instead, there was a nagging sense of something different about Tristram Stanton's appearance now from the way he had looked back then.

Again, George was distracted. Midshipman Keith had commenced an earnest discussion of the relative merits of nine-pounder cannon and twenty-four-pounder carronades, and the bottom half of the table had become rowdier than ever, as the argument was swiftly and energetically pursued. George did not have much in the way of comment to offer, but that didn't matter. Despite his youth, Keith was the old-fashioned sort who liked his roar and thunder, and so the cannon were his preference, and the bigger the better—an opinion that was hotly challenged, most of the officers being vociferous in their defense of carronades.

“Smashers are safer!” someone declared.
Smasher,
as George Rochester knew very well, was common cant for the carronade, a much lighter, shorter gun than a Long Tom of the same caliber, mounted on slides instead of wheels, and throwing an enormous ball for its weight.

“Much less unwieldy,” another man agreed. “And not so likely to run amuck.”

“More economical, too,” a passed midshipman pointed out, and then, with a superior air, reminded the junior mids that the gunpowder required to charge a carronade was only one-twelfth the weight of its ball, as opposed to the Long Tom's one-third.

“And much faster to reload!” cried a lieutenant, going on to elucidate that a carronade saved the crew an uncommon lot of hauling on the train tackle, being short enough to be reloaded at the end of the recoil.

“But it's a short-range weapon!” Keith argued. “You have to admit that you can't beat a Long Tom for putting the fear of God into the enemy at a distance!”

“Aye,” said a junior lieutenant, who was nodding energetically in agreement. “You most surely can't use a carronade to put a ball through the enemy at the range of half a mile.”

“Or to fire a shot across his bows, either,” quipped somebody else, and the whole bottom of the table burst into a roar of laughter, accompanied with pounding of fists and the quaffing of much wine. Lieutenant Smith had heard it, it seemed, because he gave a jocular salute with his glass, and Captain Wilkes's perpetual smile widened, on the verge of a grin.

This was followed by a babel of debate, to which Rochester still made little contribution. While he listened distractedly to the two junior mids, he was shooting puzzled little glances at the head of the table, still trying to pin down what was different about Tristram Stanton's appearance. He wondered if there was anyone at this table who had also been at the feast at Newport News, so he could compare notes, but then belatedly remembered that all the other guests had come from the
Relief
and the
Peacock,
and, of course, neither of those ships was with the expedition right now.

When he returned his puzzled gaze to Stanton's heavy, hair-framed face, it was with a little jolt in his stomach, because it was to find that the astronomer was staring at him. The eye contact was very brief because Rochester quickly looked away. Pretending that his scrutiny of Stanton had been very casual, he put on a show of being deeply involved in conversation with Midshipman Keith—but still he wondered about the difference. Was it that Tristram Stanton had been the life and soul of the party in Newport News—as if he had had something to celebrate, George remembered—while this time it was Lieutenant Smith who dominated the head of the table? Perhaps, he thought, but the contrast in mood did not quite explain the nagging doubt in his mind.

Then, all at once, he had it. George almost laughed aloud, because it was such a minor detail, and yet explained so much. It was the way Tristram Stanton dressed his hair! At the banquet, Stanton's hair had been sleeked back with some kind of oil. George remembered how it had reflected the light of the candles, gleaming as Stanton had enthralled the gathering with his account of the trials and tribulations of Thomas ap Catesby Jones in the early days of planning the expedition. Today, Stanton's hair dangled thickly over his forehead and reflected no light at all. George felt almost silly that it had bothered him so much when it had come down to something so trivial as the way a man dressed his hair.

Telling himself not to be such an overimaginative fool in future, he lent a much more attentive ear to young Keith, whose conversation had moved, coincidentally, from the armament of the flagship to the man who had ordered, not only that the guns should be reduced in number, but that most of the cannon should be replaced with carronades—Thomas ap Catesby Jones himself, who, according to Midshipman Keith, had been very badly advised when he managed the armament of the expedition. It was a great tragedy to him that of all the wonderful, weighty, twenty-four-pounder Long Toms the
Vincennes
had originally boasted—twenty-two of the marvelous brutes!—only two remained, the rest having been taken away to be replaced with eight—just eight!—of the despised carronades. And the rifles supplied to the company were old, old, old—manufactured in 1819!

Again, the argument was taken up with a will. Midshipman Keith, having strong feelings on the subject, was prepared to expound on them for as long as people would listen, obviously—and the bottom half of the table was as enthusiastically engaged as ever, Rochester noted. Instead of taking part, Wilkes and his two cronies at the top of the table were sharing a joke, judging by Lieutenant Smith's loud laughter. As Rochester watched, Tristram Stanton drank deeply from his wineglass and replenished it from the decanter.

“But the Hall breechloader was an excellent choice!” a lieutenant four places up the table was declaring. “The Hall was the first rifle made with guaranteed uniformity, with interchangeable parts. It's no wonder at all that the navy chose it as the standard military weapon, and only natural that the expedition should be armed with it, too.”

“But surely vintage weapons are not appropriate for a modern expeditionary force?” exclaimed Midshipman Keith, who evidently harbored images of the exploring ships being stormed by squads of rabid cannibals. “The savages of the Pacific are well armed with muskets—provided as trade by the mariners of our own country! Whaling masters distribute arms freely in exchange for provisions and water!”

This, George saw, had caught Captain Wilkes's attention, because he put a hand on Lieutenant Smith's arm to silence him so he could listen. And rightly so, George thought—this was a topic of importance to the expedition.

“Well, naturally it would be better if the natives accepted tobacco or trinkets—or grog—instead,” a geologist's assistant was commenting. “But they insist on guns, so the American mariner has little choice—unless he's blind and foolish enough to seize the provisions by force and steal the water. And that would auger ill for the next American who drops anchor in that place.”

“Granted,” said someone else, judiciously. “But the midshipman is right. For whatever reason, the savages we'll be dealing with are armed, and so we should be prepared for attack.”

“But they are armed with muskets, not rifles, remember,” the surgeon of the
Flying Fish
objected. Evidently, thought George, he was a sportsman who knew his guns. “And that makes a great deal of difference, I think.”

“Indeed it does,” the knowledgeable lieutenant assured him. “A Hall rifle will outdistance even the best musket—and the savages of the Pacific don't have those, believe me. The American spouter skippers buy their trade muskets in New York by the hundred, at the rate of four dollars each! But quite apart from that, even if their muskets did happen to be prime quality, and were wielded by great marksmen, the Hall carbines will drop them on the beach before any of our men were in musket range. That, sir, is how the Revolutionary War was won—with snipers armed with rifles, who picked off Loyalist officers even though they were surrounded by battalions of soldiers with muskets. It was partly due to the fact that the Revolutionary leaders refused to let their troops march like automatons to meet enemy fire, but mostly because of the rifle's longer reach.”

“So Commodore Jones chose well, you say?” queried Midshipman Keith.

“Assuredly he did.”

“Then three cheers for Commodore Jones!” the midshipman cried, and other midshipmen, as drunk or drunker than he was, joined in the chorus of hip-hip-hip-hurrahs.

Captain Wilkes was shaking his head, not looking at all impressed. Rochester remembered that Wilkes had been an unpopular replacement for the flamboyant Thomas ap Catesby Jones. Lieutenant Smith had his mouth a little open, as if he hadn't quite caught up with the conversation. It was Tristram Stanton who startled them all by thrusting his fist in the air and shouting out, “I have not yet
begun
to fight!”

Then he looked around, as if he expected people to laugh. Instead, there was an awkward little silence. Someone coughed. Then the babel started up again in a hurried kind of way, as Wilkes's guests politely pretended that the tremendous gaffe had not been committed. Tristram Stanton was staring around the table, his jocular expression puzzled at first, and then turning to stone as Lieutenant Smith whispered something in his ear. Slowly, he looked at George Rochester.

George stared back numbly, unable to drag his gaze away. A sick, cold knot had taken hold of his stomach. It was a long moment before he became aware that Midshipman Keith was asking something. He turned his head stiffly, and said, “I beg your—”

“Are you feeling quite fine, sir? You've gone dead white.”

Rochester said numbly, without even knowing what he was saying, “It's not the same man.”

“Aye, sir, it is most remarkable, I agree, that anyone should confuse the great John Paul Jones with Thomas ap Catesby Jones; but, after all, Mr. Stanton is only an astronomer.”

Rochester shook his head, saying to himself, “I must tell Wiki he's not the same man—” Then he abruptly remembered where he was, and stopped.

“Sir?”

“Nothing,” said George very clearly. “Forgive me, I was rambling.”

Regaining self-control had been an effort so huge it felt physical. Afterward he had no memory of getting through the rest of the feast, save that somehow he managed to make conversation and eat and drink like an unworried man. The urge to get up and leave was almost overpowering. If he hadn't been so doubtful that Wiki was still with the expedition, and if he hadn't been so anxious not to make himself conspicuous, he might not have been able to stop himself from standing up without a word of excuse and heading for the deck to find a boat to hurry him over to the
Swallow.

At long, long last the final toast was given, and the last plate cleared away. Wilkes, thank God, did not include him in the invitation given out to a favored few to remain at the table for port, madeira, and nuts. “Sir,” said Midshipman Keith, following closely as Rochester strode swiftly down the passage to the door that led to the night-swathed deck. “May I ask a question?”

Rochester said distractedly, “What?”

“I keep on wondering—about the man.”

“What man?”

“The man—h'm!—who was not the same man. That is, if you were not talking about John Paul Jones.” Keith, obviously, was regretting giving rein to his curiosity.

“I haven't the slightest notion what you're going on about—but I need a boat,” George said curtly. “Can you get me a boat's crew?”

“Of course, sir.” And Midshipman Keith ran off forward, probably glad to get away.