Deadly Shoals (2 page)

“Sta-a-a-
tions
!” Keith yelled, and hands clapped on to the weather braces and the spanker sheets. Men tailed onto lines, orders were shouted, and the spanker was hauled in with muscular jerks. Wiki heaved the wheel to leeward, and the
Swallow'
s fine bow turned away from the wind. His broad back suddenly chilled as a splash lifted over the taffrail and wetted his shirt.

“Brace round foresails!”
Down
went the helm as Wiki shoved on the spokes, and
round
the brig came. When he looked over his shoulder the whaleship was firmly in their sights. Crews hauled manfully at train tackles to drag the guns inboard, and powder and shot were rammed home. Then, with the cannon run out again, they were ready for action.

It had been a matter of mere moments. “Let's return the compliment, and fire a shot across
his
bows,” Rochester suggested to the gunner, Dave. “Let's see how
he
likes being brought to,” he added, and received a broad grin.

There was a huge explosion, the gun carriage screeched backward across the planks, and the cannonball whistled across the bows of the whaleman with wonderful precision. The result was both dramatic and effective—to Rochester's immense gratification, the spouter captain came up into the wind and backed his fore and mizzen topsails in a panic-stricken hurry, slowing to a near standstill.

His blood being thoroughly up, however, George Rochester was determined to teach the impudent stranger yet another lesson. In response to his orders the brig luffed up, rounded to with a flourish, hastened up the wind, and bore down on the whaleship with all sails set. Moments rushed by in the creaking of rigging and the swish of water, and then Wiki could see the expressions on the faces of the men who were standing at the rails of the whaler. They were staring paralyzed with horror as the brig tore down upon them.

Just as impact seemed inevitable, “Ready about!” George bellowed, and around the
Swallow
came. Losing speed fast, the brig sheered past the whaleship's stern, while the sailors who could read called out the name on the sternboard—“
Trojan
of New London, Connecticut”—to those who could not. Their voices were incredulous. A fellow national had fired at them—a countryman! Oaths echoed from all about the decks, and the boatswain hollered for quiet.

Like most American whalers, the
Trojan
had a hurricane house built over the stern, which was designed to shelter the helmsman, and contain such amenities as the sail locker. The master was standing on the flat roof of this, his fists propped on his belt, and his wide-brimmed leather hat crammed well down on his head. He was a middle-aged, deeply tanned, extremely wrinkled character, wearing a New Bedford beard—a fringe of short whiskers around the edges of his cheeks and chin—and a deeply wounded expression.

Such had been the precision of Rochester's maneuver, the captains were able to converse without speaking trumpets as the brig slid slowly past the whaleship's stern. According to protocol, this chat should have been an exchange of formal details, such as names of ship, captain, and last port, but instead the spouter skipper inquired in unmistakably aggrieved tones, “Why the hell did you fire a gun at me, sir?”

“I could say the same to you, sir,” Rochester replied.

“Well, ain't you a United States Navy ship?”

“U.S. brig
Swallow
—and I'm uncommon glad you recognized me as such,” Captain Rochester said dryly.

“So why didn't you respond to my flag of distress?” the other demanded. “You carried on without giving me a chance to run down and speak! All you did was send up a bloody big ensign—as if you wished to taunt me! What choice did I have but to fire a gun to make you pay attention?”

There was a moment of utter silence, disturbed only by the swish of the sea. Then George queried gently, “
What
flag of distress?”

The spouter master visibly started, then stared up and about his own rigging. Wiki, still at the helm, saw him push back his hat to scratch his head, and distinctly saw his lips move in the words, “Well, goddamn it.” Someone on board the
Trojan
who had neglected to follow orders was going to be in big trouble, obviously—once the encounter was over.

The gap between the two ships was widening. Rochester lifted his voice, yelling, “Come on board and explain yourself, sir!” and then they had sailed on past.

The
Swallow
stilled a half-mile downwind from the whaleship, her mainyard brought aback so that the sails worked against each other, keeping her in more or less the same spot as she waited for her visitor. Then, everyone on deck watched the whaleboat cross the sparkling stretch of water, a process that evidently took long enough for the master to remember his manners, because when the boat touched the side of the brig, he stood up and hailed, “Ship ahoy!”

George arrived at the rail. “U.S. Exploring Brig
Swallow,
Rochester, five months from Norfolk, Virginia, last port Rio de Janeiro.”

“Whaleship
Trojan
of New London, Stackpole, twenty-five months out, last port Montevideo, eight hundred barrels,” said the other. His expression was dour as he rattled off the information, and Wiki grimaced in understanding. After a two-year voyage eight hundred barrels was a truly miserable report, indicative of long months with no glimpse of whales. No wonder, he thought, the
Trojan
's sails were so clean.

The whaling master went on, “Permission to come aboard?”

George Rochester cast an all-comprehensive look at the boat and the ship beyond. Apart from the usual knives sheathed in their belts, the oarsmen were unarmed. Their ship floated quietly in plain view, the sun shining on her pale canvas. However, he decided to keep his crew at battle stations, so said to the boatswain, “Tell the men to stand fast.” Then he nodded, and stepped back from the rail.

Stackpole reached out, grabbed a dangling rope, and walked his way up the side of the brig. Close up, he didn't appear any less confrontational. Like all seamen, he first cast a comprehensive, professional look at the sails and rigging. Then, after glancing suspiciously about the decks where men waited alertly with their pistols and cutlasses, he challenged, “What do you mean,
exploring
brig?”

George was studying him with his head tipped a little on one side, his hands linked loosely behind the seat of his white trousers, his muscular calves pushing out the legs at the back. He said, “We're part of the United States Exploring Expedition.”

“The—what?” Stackpole's face was quite blank.

“The U.S. Exploring Expedition,” George repeated, eyebrows high. “I'm surprised you haven't heard of it.”

“Well, I haven't,” confirmed the other, as hostile as ever.

“But that's amazing,” said Rochester, obviously wondering where this chap had been all these years. “It took a whole decade of heated discussion in clubs, salons, and conference chambers to get the mission going, and then, when the seven ships finally departed from Norfolk, Virginia, back in August, it was a national sensation.”

“Well, I wasn't there, was I? Seven ships?” Stackpole repeated, and whistled. “That's quite a fleet. Who's the commodore?”

“Lieutenant Charles Wilkes.”

“A
lieutenant
?”

“It's complicated,” said George. Wiki, listening from the helm, thought it was more than that—even though Charles Wilkes was called “captain” out of respect for the position he held, the fleet commander was understandably aggrieved that the Navy Department had not thought fit to endow him with a rank to suit the demanding job. Furthermore, it made the situation devilishly difficult at times, what with having to hand down orders to men who were actually higher than he was on the Navy List, which had a bad effect both on his temper and on general shipboard morale.

“But I do assure you that the mission is a grand one,” Rochester assured his listener. “We have instructions to explore and survey the Atlantic and Pacific, promote the honor and dignity of our nation, forward the interests of science, further American commerce, and protect American whaling adventures.”

Stackpole did not look impressed. Indeed, Wiki thought that his expression had become more suspicious than ever. He repeated, “
Seven
ships?”

“Seven,” repeated George, whose patience was starting to fray. “The flagship is the sloop of war
Vincennes,
and the other six ships are—”

“So how come there's only one of you here?”

George said stiffly, “The others aren't far away, I assure you.”

“But why ain't you sailing as a squadron?”

“There was an unfortunate incident as we were leaving the harbor of Rio de Janeiro, involving both the
Vincennes
and the second-in-command, the sloop
Peacock,
and—”

“You mean they got into a
war,
or something?”

“Absolutely not. They merely ran afoul of a merchant brigantine.”

“What?
Both
of them?”

“The
Vincennes
blundered into the merchantman first. Unfortunately, the
Peacock,
which was following close behind, didn't have time to take evasive action.”

“In full view of the whole of Rio?”

Stackpole snorted rudely, Rochester kept a dignified silence, and Wiki winced. The merchant brigantine had been his father's Salem trader
Osprey,
and it had been not the first, but the
second
time, that she had got into a collision with expedition ships. While Wiki had not been on board the
Vincennes
to see the confrontation with Wilkes that had followed this latest episode, he had been assured by those who had been there that Captain Coffin's fury had been truly awe-inspiring.

The whaling master jibed, “I hope they made a real lubberly job of it, and sent the brigantine to the bottom.”

“On the contrary, it was a trivial matter,” Rochester snapped. “There were a few repairs to be done, and the matter of compensation to be discussed with the master of the merchantman, but that should delay them only a couple of days.”

“So what about the other four vessels? Did they get into collisions, too?”

“The gun brig
Porpoise
was instructed to send a party into the city in search of a few deserters, with squads from the schooners
Flying Fish
and
Sea Gull
to assist. The storeship
Relief
was sent ahead some days before, as she's a slow sailer, and impedes the fleet sadly.”

Wiki concealed a grin at this. He had been on board the
Vincennes
when Captain Wilkes had given the captain of the
Relief
his marching orders, and so he knew better—that Wilkes had sent the storeship off early
not
because of her undeniably slow sailing qualities, but because rumors had been running about the fleet that the captain and officers of the
Relief
had been invited to a merry spree on shore.

Then he heard the whaling master say, “And you were sent ahead, too?”

“
Not
because the
Swallow
is a slow sailer,” George said, very firmly indeed.

“I reckon not,” Stackpole agreed without hesitation, taking another admiring look at the brig's vast sails and taut rigging. “But why were you in such a hurry?”

“Our orders are to get to the mouth of the Río Negro—where the other ships will join us—and commence a survey of the shoals.”

“But what the hell for? They change with every tide!”

Wiki silently agreed. Indeed, he considered the assignment insane. Though it was supposed to be a secret as deep as the grave, every member of the expedition was perfectly aware that Captain Wilkes was determined to embark on a search for the fabled Antarctic continent as soon as the fleet had doubled Cape Horn—but if that was ever to be undertaken, it had to be accomplished before the end of the southern summer, and it was the third week of January already.

“And the taxpayers are
paying
for this useless expedition?”

“Over the past five months we've accomplished a great deal,” George Rochester returned with offended dignity. “Unknown tracts of the ocean have been charted—making the sea safer for people like you! Important gravitational measurements were carried out in Rio—mountains were surveyed, along with an immense lot of jungle. Great loads of specimens will be forwarded to the States. By the time the mission is over, the government will be well rewarded for their investment, I assure you!”

“Well, I most surely do hope so,” said the whaling master, sotto voce, and then, with an abrupt change of topic, inquired, “Do you have any marines on board?”

“Marines? No, we do not. Why do you ask?”

“Because I'm in dire need of a well-armed squad.”

“What the devil for?”

“You said that part of the mission is to protect American whaling adventures, and that's exactly what I need—protection!”

George Rochester cast an all-comprehensive look about the innocently sparkling sea. “Protection from what, pray?”

“I need help to apprehend a thief.”

“A thief? You need a sheriff, Captain, not a squad of marines!”

“Well, there ain't no sheriff about here—and I don't actually care how you do it, sir, just so long as I get my money back.”

“You've been robbed?”

“Of a significant sum—by a man by the name of Adams, who's American, which I reckon makes all the difference. He's an American trader who has a store in the village of El Carmen, up the Río Negro,” Stackpole went on, jabbing a finger at the landward horizon. “I gave him a thousand dollars—and he absconded with it!”