A Watery Grave (31 page)

Forsythe was standing in the doorway of Wiki's stateroom. He said nothing but surveyed Lieutenant Smith with his lips turned down, his expression sour. Beyond him, Wiki could see the gun case, still open, with both the rifles inside.

Wiki said to him in a rush, “George Rochester went missing in the night, and instead of organizing a decent search they're exercising the cannon.”

“But there has been an intensive search already—and the exercise is more appropriate than you think,” Lieutenant Smith protested before Forsythe had a chance to open his mouth. “It reflects the subject of debate at the feast last night. We thought it an excellent idea to demonstrate that our armament is amply sufficient for our purposes.”

Wiki scowled. “Debate? What debate?”

“The midshipmen and junior lieutenants were discussing the disadvantages and merits of cannons compared with carronades. At the tops of their voices,” Smith added with disapproval, and stopped to seat himself at the saloon table as the coffee and the cake box arrived. Then the steward was sent off again, for a napkin, a table knife, and a fork. As Wiki watched with rage and frustration boiling inside him, the lieutenant concentrated on cutting a generous portion of cake, which he slid onto his plate. Then he used the knife to slice the piece up precisely, before picking up a fork.

“You were saying?” said Wiki dangerously.

“The midshipmen became unduly heated on the topic of the armament of the flagship,” Smith said, after delivering a reproving glance. “And, I am sorry to say, some of the scientifics joined in the general ruckus.” He paused, pouring coffee. “Happily, however,” he finally went on, his voice muffled by the napkin he was dabbing at his mouth to catch up stray crumbs, “the condemnation of the role played by Thomas ap Catesby Jones was universal.”

Wiki was struggling to make sense of this. “Why Thomas ap Catesby Jones?”

“Because he was the one who concluded to reduce the armament of the flagship, of course! To the detriment of our safety if the savages should attack!” said Lieutenant Smith roundly; but then, flushing as he abruptly recollected that Wiki was one of the so-called savages, covered up his lapse by plying the napkin again.

“I must admit there was some general approval of his choice of personal weapons,” he allowed, after this tactful pause was over. “Personally, I do think the Elgin cutlass-pistol is a first-class weapon in such circumstances, and there were several voices raised in defense of the Hall breech-loading rifles that have been issued to the expedition. Though seemingly outdated, they are perfectly suited to the job, according to the experts. And so, in the end, quite a cheer was raised by the midshipmen for Commodore ap Catesby Jones.”

“They cheered for Captain Wilkes's predecessor?” Wiki dryly inquired, thinking that Wilkes would not have been very pleased.

Then he frowned, struck by a sudden thought. Stanton was one of Wilkes's cronies; and yet, at the Newport News banquet, he had been loud in his praise of Thomas ap Catesby Jones—or so Rochester had reported. In view of this, it did not seem like a diplomatic stance. In fact, it was distinctly odd.

Having chosen not to answer, Lieutenant Smith had poured more coffee and was sipping with enjoyment. Then he said, in a reminiscent kind of voice, “That round of cheers for Thomas ap Catesby Jones led to a somewhat farcical moment.”

“It did?”

“Yes. When the cheering had stopped, Astronomer Stanton called out, ‘I have not yet
begun
to fight!'—for a toast.”

And Lieutenant Smith let out a merry little giggle, along with quite a few crumbs.

Wiki froze. Then he said softly, “Astronomer
Stanton
called out the rallying cry of John Paul Jones when the cheer was up for Thomas ap Catesby Jones?”

“I knew you would see the joke,” Lieutenant Smith said, with an approving smile. “There was some little embarrassment at the time, but I am sure it will be remembered in the future with a laugh. After all, he is only an astronomer and can't be expected to know any better.”

Wiki said carefully, “But I was under the impression that Astronomer Stanton was an admirer of Thomas ap Catesby Jones.”

“Oh no,” said Lieutenant Smith, “you are confusing him with Astronomer Burroughs, who, bless his departed but misguided soul, was a devoted admirer of Thomas ap Catesby Jones. In fact, it is a testament to Captain Wilkes's tolerance of other loyalties that Astronomer Burroughs was allowed a place with the expedition.”

Wiki said numbly, “Oh, my God.” It was suddenly so clear.

He swung round to Forsythe, who was still leaning in the doorway, and exclaimed, “I was wrong!”

Forsythe blinked. Then he grinned sardonically and inquired, “Which time?”

“I was wrong when I said that Burroughs posed as Stanton to get into the house and collect Ophelia's corpse! Instead, he posed as Stanton at the
banquet!
”

Forsythe's grin slipped, his mouth hanging loose, his face completely uncomprehending.

Wiki said urgently, “Rochester told me that Stanton was in high spirits at the banquet—as if he had something to celebrate, which Burroughs did! All he had to do was pass as Astronomer Stanton at Newport News, and he would get a place with the expedition. I'm sure he didn't know that it was to give Tristram Stanton an alibi. He probably did not even stop to ask why Stanton wanted him to do it, because the reward was so irresistible!”

Wiki's thoughts were flying on, faster than he could tumble out the words. “And that's why Jim Powell was sent to Newport News!
Stanton
sent him! Powell's orders were to bring back a note from Burroughs—to let Stanton know whether the deception was working or not!”

No doubt just a brief message was all Tristram Stanton wanted—but, because of his ebullient mood, Burroughs had waxed eloquent. “That,” said Wiki with a perfect sense of rightness, “was when Astronomer Burroughs wrote that ode—the same ode that Grimes found discarded in a box of equipment.”

“Wrote an ode?” interrupted Lieutenant Smith sharply. “What ode, pray?”

Wiki merely glanced at him, thinking that the poem had probably irritated Tristram Stanton extremely, because the last line—
All's well, all's well, all's well
—was all that he needed, and without the repetition at that. “All's well” was all the assurance Stanton needed that Burroughs's masquerade was working—that he now had an alibi for the night.

“It was Tristram Stanton,” Wiki reiterated softly, looking at Forsythe, “who took a horse, went to the house, took your cousin to the pool, and set up the scene to look like an elaborate suicide. Not John Burroughs, but Tristram Stanton himself!”

Forsythe's mouth drooped open, but then, to Wiki's intense relief, he saw a spark of understanding in the dull eyes. “
Stanton
was the bastard what carried off her corpse?”

“His father might have been the man who poisoned her, but Tristram Stanton was the man who set it all up and disposed of the body.”

Forsythe pursed his lips but then nodded. “That works,” he said. “I couldn't believe it of that soft swab Burroughs, but Stanton surely has the guts for somethin' so cold-blooded.”

Lieutenant Smith burst in, “I don't know what this is about—but it sounds to me like the disorderly kind of slander that should never occur in navy ships, and I am forced to protest!”

Wiki ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on Forsythe. “It also accounts for why Stanton's clothes were so muddy—and why his boots were wet. He had to wade into the pool to punt the boat off.”

“So why did he snap her bloody neck, if his father had already poisoned her? Just to have a little fun with her corpse?”

Wiki shook his head, remembering the rush of superstitious horror that had engulfed him on the high bank of the stream as he had looked down at where Ophelia had been dumped in the boat—the preternatural knowledge of the violence that had been done there and the shocking abruptness of the release of the woman's spirit.

“I think she regained consciousness while he was getting her off the horse at the top of the cliff overlooking the pool. There was a struggle—or maybe she fell. I'm sure her neck wasn't broken on purpose because Tristram Stanton didn't take any notice of it until some time after the boat had floated away. Then, perhaps remembering the way her head had lolled, he realized what had happened, panicked, and galloped back to the house for his rifle.”

“I am tired of this insolent determination to carry on a conversation without your having the common politeness to explain,” Smith said petulantly.

This time Wiki spared him a glance. He shrugged and said, “The man at the banquet in Newport News was the wrong man, that's all.”

“That's odd,” remarked Smith, suddenly looking quite animated, as if this obscure and slanderous conversation had some meaning after all. “That's exactly what Midshipman Keith reported hearing Passed Midshipman Rochester saying just before he disappeared.”

“What?”

“According to Mr. Keith, Passed Midshipman Rochester muttered to himself, ‘I have to tell Wiki it was the wrong man'—or ‘not the same man,' or something like that. Then he asked Keith to get a boat and boat's crew so he could hasten to the
Swallow;
but when Keith came back, he had vanished. Mr. Keith was the last man to see him,” Smith concluded complacently, leaving the word “alive” unsaid but hanging in the air.

“Oh, my God,” said Wiki softly. His pulse was hammering with a new sense of crisis. “George had realized that the man at Wilkes's feast was a different man from the one at the Newport News banquet—and Tristram Stanton was watching him as he worked it out.”

Knowing George as well as he did, Wiki was certain that his expressive face would have revealed every nuance of thought. Tristram Stanton would have realized at once that it was necessary to get him out of the way before he blurted out his suspicions, that it was just as urgent to get rid of George Rochester as it had been to get rid of … Jim Powell. Before Jim Powell told anyone the whole truth about that note.

Wiki said urgently to Smith, “Have they found Jim Powell's body yet?”

“Who?”

“Jim Powell—the seaman who was nearly strangled by the buntline.”

Smith said petulantly, “Why do you ask at a time like this? Why is it important?”

“Because Tristram Stanton murdered him—just as he murdered Astronomer Burroughs. He broke Burroughs's neck after knocking him out with a blow to the head and then strung up his corpse to make it look as if he'd hanged himself, but he couldn't manage the same trick when he killed Powell. So, Lieutenant,” Wiki said savagely, “I would be obliged if you would tell me if they've found Jim Powell's corpse yet.”

Lieutenant Smith puffed out his chest and said with dignity, “They have not, but the matter is closed. Captain Wilkes's verdict was that Powell went overboard during the storm. There is no evidence of foul play whatsoever.”

“Even if no one saw Jim go over—which I find very hard to believe—why was there no sighting of his body? Bodies float, Lieutenant, and there's a complement of more than two hundred on the
Vincennes!
”

“And there are sharks in the ocean, sir, sharks!”

Sharks.
Wiki stilled utterly, lost in a ghostly memory of phosphorescent trails cruising the expanse of sea between the flagship and the
Porpoise,
his mind reverberating with the long death chant of the Rotuman.

Sharks.
It had been the night of the first live firing, Wiki remembered. Had the school of sharks been drawn by the concussion of cannon—or had there been blood in the water? He thought of the way the great predators had circled, and Rochester's lively description of the way the barrel had exploded into tiny fragments.
As every seaman knows, a handful of chips heaved overboard will float in all directions—in ever-widening circles. If there was blood or flesh in among those chips …

Every muscle was tense, a past conversation with this pompous little red-faced man vividly in mind. Wiki said slowly, “When Captain Wilkes kept back a select few to drink port and madeira, was Astronomer Stanton included?”

“He had an invitation,” Smith replied. His lips were pursed in a way that showed how much he disliked this cross-examination. “However, he rather rudely excused himself on account of the headache. He had drunk rather a lot of wine,” he added, with more than a hint of disapproval.

Wiki took a deep breath. “So was it Astronomer Stanton who suggested today's exercise?”

“Why, yes!” Smith had been busily pouring himself more coffee, but now he looked around, his expression surprised. “How did you guess?”

“Did he also suggest that it should be a live exercise? With a barrel as a target?”

“Yes—just as before! And he offered to find the barrel, too.”

Wiki whispered, “Oh, dear Jehovah,” and sprinted up the stairs.

Far across the water, a boat was putting out from the flagship. As Wiki watched with urgent intensity, screwing his eyes up against the bright sun and the glitter on the sea, the boat pulled slowly but steadily until it was about two hundred yards from the
Vincennes.
His fists gripped the rail so hard the wood bit into them, and he was only vaguely aware of the two lieutenants arriving alongside him. The harsh light stung his eyes so piercingly that tears ran down his cheeks, but through the blur Wiki watched as the oarsmen stilled the boat, stirring the water with their long blades. A couple of others stood up, balanced themselves, and then manhandled a cask over the gunwale. Over it went, with a distant splash, to settle, bobbing, halfway to the surface. The boat's crew took up their oars again and sculled back to the flagship.