Deadly Shoals (25 page)

“I don't think so, thank you.” The lieutenant sat down, however, and reached for a mug and the coffeepot. Then he called out for the steward and demanded cake, but to no avail, as Stoker expressionlessly denied having any on board, before obdurately heading back into his pantry.

“This is ridiculous,” Smith complained. “According to Captain Wilkes's
strict
instructions, every captain is to extend the
fullest
hospitality to the officers of the other ships of the expedition fleet. He considers it absolutely necessary that every man should feel as much at home on another vessel as he would on his own. The intention is to create and encourage a feeling of harmony in the squadron, as if it were comprised of just a single crew instead of several—but I assure you that on the other ships
no
officer would be offered food that was intended for the common men.”

George paused to make sure the pompous little prawn had finished, and then said, “You have a message?”

“Captain Wilkes asked me to remind Wiremu to arrive on time, and he wants to see you, too.”

Wiremu.
Wiki winced. He had first encountered this pretentious character at the age of twelve, just after his father had carried him to Salem. Lawrence J. Smith had called at the house, as he regarded himself as one of Captain Coffin's friends, and upon being introduced to Wiki, whom he regarded as interestingly exotic, had taken it upon himself to ask many offensively personal questions. Finding out that the Maori version of Wiki's American name, William, was Wiremu, he had insisted on employing it ever since, much to Wiki's irritation.

Now, as usual, Wiki did his best to ignore it. It was Rochester who answered, saying, “Captain Wilkes wants to see me? But why?”

“He wishes to extend felicitations.” Smith didn't offer congratulations himself, Wiki noticed. Instead, after delicately sipping fragrant coffee, he became quite animated, saying, “Isn't it wonderful how we find valuable additions to our complement on the most farflung and desolate shores?”

George blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Those sealers I rescued at Shark Island, for instance.”

“As I remember,” George said coldly, “I was the one who rescued them from their sinking ship, and you were the one who ordered me to carry them to the fleet—and that in spite of my strongest protests, which were confirmed when they gave me a great deal of trouble on passage. I quite honestly did not consider them fit recruits for the expedition.”

“But they are seamen of vast experience! They will be of inestimable benefit when we sail in high southern latitudes,” Smith assured him with a superior air, before lapsing into reflection again. “And then there was that truly outstanding cook, Festin—what a pity he left to get married! And now there is this pilot,” he added.

“You mean Harden?”

“Of course I mean the unfortunate Harden!”

Wiki exclaimed, “I'd like to know why he's been given five of the sealers as his boat's crew! When I saw him last night, he was taking on two more—a total of seven! I thought they were supposed to be spread about the fleet?”

“So they were—but now that the last leg of the passage to Cape Horn is nigh, it is only logical that these experts should be assembled as a group. When I talked this over with Captain Wilkes, we were in perfect agreement. And the unfortunate Harden has been given a boat, so that he can lend his expertise to the survey.”

George interrupted, “Why did you call him unfortunate?”

“Because it is the appropriate word! General de Rosas treated him with infamous barbarity! Not only did the de Rosas army sweep him out of prison, where he had most unjustly been incarcerated for desertion from his ship, but over the next two years they stationed him at every godforsaken post that exists between Buenos Aires and the Río Negro.”

Wiki stared at him, his mug of coffee halted halfway to his lips. Despite what he had said to Forsythe and Keith, he had harbored the hope that what Bernantio had told him about Harden's mutinous and murderous past was mere gossip. At this confirmation that Harden had definitely been in the de Rosas army, he was struck with foreboding again.

“In particular,” Lieutenant Smith gushed on unheedingly, “he was assigned to the Bahía Blanca—a most desolate terrain, where the coast is choked with fetid salt marshes, and plagued with mosquitoes and similar ugly reptiles. According to Harden, the garrison there was squalid indeed, manned almost entirely by a ragged mob of the rascally Argentinian gypsies they call
gauchos
—common desperadoes! He eventually escaped, to eke out a living on the Río Negro—but luckily he has a naturally retentive mind for what he viewed while on patrol.”

“Why, what did he see?” Rochester asked.

“Amazing curiosities! Gigantic bones embedded in a cliff—bones of creatures virtually unknown to modern science! Great claws, an immense skull, a giant carapace turned entirely to stone!”

This, for Wiki, brought back gossip he had heard in South American ports nearly five years before. While H.M.S.
Beagle
had been charting this coast, there had been a lot of talk about Charles Darwin, the ship's young English naturalist; he was said to have hacked monstrous stone bones out of the cliffs of Bahía Blanca with a little geologist's hammer. The locals had thought him quite mad.

Wiki had had no trouble believing the stories of what Darwin had found, because he'd seen huge bird bones in New Zealand, and heard many stories about the giant birds, called
moa,
too. As a child, he had met old men who claimed to have seen
moa
striding through the forest with their heads in the tops of the trees.

“Fossils?” he said now, summoning the word from memory.

“Fossils,” confirmed Smith with an approving little smile. “Tusks, jaws, and skulls, all immense beyond imagination! They are embedded in banks of ancient seashells even though the cliffs are beyond the reach of the sea, so obviously are the remains of animals that were too big to be taken on board Noah's Ark, and accordingly were left to perish in the flood. Imagine, physical proof of a Bible story!”

“Good heavens,” said Wiki without expression. He was amazed that anyone who called himself a scientist could be so blinkered. The giant
moa
had disappeared because of relentless hunting and the loss of their forests through fire, and even the missionaries didn't try to pretend that they'd been destroyed by a biblical flood.

“The scientifics listen to his lively descriptions with great attention, and take many notes. Well—” Smith broke off, and groped around in his vest. After consulting a gold Harland watch that was almost as massive as the fossils he'd been describing, he declared, “Time rushes on, and I must away. Don't be late, Wiremu,” he warned Wiki, and then, to everyone's huge relief, he disappeared up the stairs.

“Noah's Ark?” said Rochester. “In
South America
? What next?” he asked rhetorically as he stood up from the table. Then, with a great sigh, he went into his cabin to get rigged up for the interview with Wilkes.

*   *   *

The sea was still calm, and the air was even colder. Forsythe's fog hadn't put in an appearance, and so the pull to the flagship was straightforward, but they were both quite frozen by the time they had reached the gangway of the
Vincennes
.

The boatswain's mate shrilled his call more urgently than usual, presumably in recognition of George's elevated status, but the new lieutenant's returning salute was quite remarkably stiff, because of the chilled state of his limbs. Both he and Wiki were slapping their hands together to get the circulation going as they arrived at the portico of the big afterhouse.

The corporal on duty looked as cold as they felt, and seemed relieved to lead the way along the passage to the double doors of the chartroom, and enjoy a little transitory warmth. Instead of simply knocking and then standing aside to let them through, as usual, he went inside to announce their arrival, closing the doors behind him, while they waited, puzzled. There was the sound of muttering, and then the doors opened again.

The marine recited in a monotone, “Captain Wilkes's compliments, Mr. Coffin, and would you mind waiting out on deck until he has finished with Captain Rochester.”

“Certainly,” said Wiki, surprised, because he had thought they would make a joint report of Captain Stackpole's complaint of theft and piracy of the schooner he had bought from the brig
Athenian,
along with other events up the Río Negro.

Obviously, George thought this was as ominous as he did, because his friend's shoulders were squared as he went in. However, his voice was as hearty as usual. Wiki heard him say, “Uncommon strange weather we've been having of late, don't you think, sir? Young Keith reckons the odd conditions are caused by a gigantic iceberg lurking somewhere out there. Do you suspect there's a chance he's right, sir, and we ought to keep a sharp lookout when we proceed on our voyage?”

The doors shut, and the reply was unintelligible. Wiki went out on deck to watch seamen being kept hard at work by hectoring boatswain's mates, alternately folding his arms and putting his hands in his pockets to try to keep warm. A moment later, to his surprise, he saw his father come alongside in a boat rowed by his six cadets and steered by Mr. Seward, so headed over to the gangway to meet them.

Captain Coffin led the procession on board, leaving the boat bobbing at the end of a rope. The boys lined up and grinned at Wiki, who winked at them, just as he had the night before. He noticed again that one of them had a black eye and bruised jaw, and remembered Mr. Seward's strong, bony handshake. The first mate looked stern enough as he stood with his thumbs tucked into his wide leather belt and supervised his string of boys, and it was easy to imagine him backing up his orders with his fist. However, the lad didn't look too badly damaged, seeming as enchanted as his comrades at being on board the great seven-hundred-ton ship.

Captain Coffin was dressed in the same kind of broadcloth as Wiki himself, and was sporting a silk top hat. However, this respectable and reticent appearance was rather marred by the gold-embroidered silk brocade vest that glinted rakishly beneath his sober jacket. When he nodded at Wiki, his half-closed eye held a glint of warmth, but his tone was matter-of-fact. “Well, that's a damn sight tidier, if more than a little primitive,” he said, evidently in mixed approval of the topknot.

“I thank you,” said Wiki.

“Granted,” said his father, just as dryly, and strode off for the portico of the afterhouse, where he engaged in some sort of conversation with the corporal on sentry duty. Judging by the echoes Wiki overheard, he was demanding an interview with Captain Wilkes, and was highly annoyed at being informed that Captain Wilkes was busy.

While Wiki was wondering what this was all about, the boatswain of the
Vincennes
swaggered up, a splendid figure in a tailcoat and tall hat, his silver call dangling from the finely braided and intricately knotted lanyard that hung about his neck. This minor god was the terrifying character in charge of the open decks and lofty rigging of this entire great ship, infamous for his stentorian voice and the permanently infuriated color of his face, and the cadets' expressions became even more awed.

He stopped with his feet planted well apart and his rattan cane held in both hands behind his back. “And who, sir, might this be?” he asked Wiki, with a jerk of his chin toward Mr. Seward, whose lean face was as expressionless as ever.

Wiki performed introductions.

“And these young gentlemen?” the boatswain inquired, at the same time surveying the youthful line with the expression of someone who has found something unpleasant on the sole of his boot.

“Captain Coffin's cadets,” Wiki supplied, while Mr. Seward inclined his head.

“Cadets?”

The boys nodded happily.

“And on what kind of Salem street,” the boatswain inquired of Alf Seward, “does one find little laddies like these?”

The mate replied without a quiver, “They're the sons of rich and influential men who want them to become famous seafarers, but don't want them to go into the navy.”

“Good Lord,” said the boatswain, looking greatly taken aback. “Not the navy?”

“Not the navy,” the first mate of the
Osprey
affirmed. “They go to common school and learn navigation and how to keep books, and then at the age of fourteen they head off to do an apprenticeship in some counting house. After a year of that, the most promising lads are sent to sea with a China-trade shipmaster of good reputation to learn seamanship and the ways of trading in foreign ports.”

A shipmaster of good reputation?
Wiki was having a job not to laugh.

The boatswain said with an air of disbelief, “You're trying to tell me, Mr. Seward, that it's a system that actually
works
?”

“Not only does it work, but it turns boys into famous China traders and captains, without the hell and hassle of four years of being a dog's body of a midshipman.” Alf Seward pointed at the lad with the black eye, and said, “It works so well that his grandfather was
secretary
of the navy for a while. And,” he added casually, “his great-uncle carried the first live elephant to America.”

“Elephant?”

“It was a female elephant, and the sailors taught it a taste for porter and how to steal bread out of people's pockets. After being put on exhibition it was sold for ten thousand dollars.”

“Good Lord,” said the boatswain rather faintly, and then rallied, demanding, “How long has this lot been on voyage?”

“Tell him,” commanded Mr. Seward. This time the bony, imperious finger was leveled at a boy who stood at the forward end of the line.