Run Afoul (9 page)

Wiki had to pause to keep his astonishment out of his face, because there had been plenty of cannon-firing during the voyage already. Not only had Captain Wilkes ordered all his captains to appoint gun crews and exercise the cannon every flat calm, but he had staged gunnery competitions to boost morale after times of stress, such as murders and storms. Never, to Wiki's knowledge, had any fears been expressed on behalf of the chronometers.

He didn't dare meet Forsythe's jaundiced look, but managed to say, “The word
fragilidade
should fit the bill, sir.”

“Excellent. There will be two letters to be written in English, too, each of them bearing the same message. Please attend me in my cabin in an hour.” And Captain Wilkes stalked out and down the corridor.

“The bloody hell he's worried about the chronometers,” Forsythe muttered a few minutes later. He and Wiki were standing in the waist deck watching a gang sway out the cutter from the main yard.

“So what do you reckon is the reason, then?”

“He just don't want 'em to find out how pitiably few cannon he has at his disposal. When you think of it, all he's got is two long toms. Can you imagine the poor bastards of gun crews trying to reload and fire without an embarrassing time lag between each pair of shots? The Brazilians will expect him to fire twenty-one guns to their flag as we pass the fort, and then I hear that the British ship of the line
Thunderer
is likely to be lying here—so that's another twenty-one-gun salute, adding up to forty-two. The flagship of the U.S. Brazil squadron will be there, too—and that means twenty-six more, in honor of Old Glory! Firing a total of sixty-eight guns is asking the impossible of the poor sod, and he don't want to knuckle his forehead to a superior officer, anyways.”

Wiki knew exactly what Forsythe meant, the matter of rank being one of the greatest of Charles Wilkes's grievances. Though the Navy Department had given him the command of a fleet, they had not thought fit to assign him a rank to fit the position. Both Wilkes and the second-in-command of the expedition, William Hudson of the
Peacock,
were still lieutenants, called “captain” only because they were in charge of ships, and it was an injustice that rankled sorely.

Wiki said, “What flagship?”

“USS
Independence.
The commodore is John Nicholson.”

“What's he like?”

“They're all bastards, but he's one of the better ones.”

Then Wiki saw that just about the whole of the ship's complement was gathered at the starboard rail, grinning. Dr. Olliver was bobbing slowly down the side of the ship, the progress of his balloon-like form assisted by at least three men. It took rather a lot of persuasion to get him to make the last jump into the boat, and then the craft bobbed up and down madly, with a great deal of splashing, threatening to capsize for quite a few seconds.

“Good luck with your letters,” said Forsythe, taking his departure.

“And good luck with your passenger,” said Wiki with heartfelt sincerity, because so much was at stake.

“I'll manage. Movable ballast can be bloody useful at times.”

And with that, Forsythe scrambled down the side, landing with a thud of boots in the bottom of the boat. Orders were barked, oars were put out and canvas was set, and then the cutter gathered way. Considering the inconstancy of the breeze, she disappeared from sight surprisingly fast.

*   *   *

Ironically, Forsythe had been gone no more than two hours when a southeast topgallant wind abruptly whisked up. Down in the captain's cabin, filling pages with his neat script, Wiki heard the sudden snap of canvas, a shout of, “Ready about!” and the piping of the boatswain's mates. Planks echoed to the thump of many feet as men hurried to their stations.

“Helm's alee!” came the cry. More shrilling of pipes as the jib-sheets and fore-sheet were let go and overhauled, and then, “Mains'l ha-a-a-ul!” Wiki sensed the thump as the main yard brought up against the backstays, and then the stiffening of the ship as the weather mainbrace was hove taut. The ship leaned into the wind and gathered way. By the time the third letter—the one to Commodore Nicholson—had finally been rewritten to Captain Wilkes's satisfaction, and placed with those to El Capitão do Porto and the commander of the British ship, the
Vincennes
was standing up the bay with all sail set, gliding along at a good three knots through a descending afternoon mist.

Another haul, so they could brace up to the north to enter the harbor, coasting along between the two white sentinel-like forts with a dip of the flag. This was the time when the first salute of cannon should have been fired, but instead they glided through with just the hiss of water to mark their passage. Wiki, clambering onto the poop deck, having left the three letters, all signed, blotted, folded, and sealed, lying ready on Captain Wilkes's desk, looked up to see the boys in the mizzen hamper staring ahead in a silence that was so transparently awestruck, that for the first time he fully realized the general youthfulness of the crew.

Then the vista opened—a sight that caught Wiki's own breath every time he entered Rio, because this abrupt grandeur was like nowhere else in the world. Mountains rose above mountains, peak above peak, all dominated by the strange shape of Sugar Loaf, rearing its stark barrenness up against the sky. Wiki heard the officer of the watch, standing close by, shout orders through his trumpet. Men obeyed readily, to bring the flagship even more to the north.

A long way behind, he saw the two expedition schooners change their triangular shapes as they tacked to pass through the entrance of the great harbor, while the
Porpoise
sailed more demurely beyond them. He could just glimpse the
Swallow
flying along under a flamboyant spread of sail, silhouetted by the bold point of Santa Cruz. There was a brigantine, on the same tack, dashing along under an imprudent amount of canvas, too, so that it looked for all the world as if they were racing each other.

Wiki turned and looked ahead again. Now he could see the city, with Praia Grande opposite, shafts of late light pooling on white colonnades and cupolas, and terra-cotta roofs. Distant aqueducts marched in double rows of arches through the riotous tropical growth. Because there were no wharves, ships lay at anchor everywhere, brilliant flags flying, grouped according to nationality, most the lee of one or another of the little islets that dotted the emerald water. One was a huge frigate, with the Stars and Stripes flying brilliantly from her mizzen peak, and the broad blue swallowtail of a commodore's pennant, with its twenty-six gold stars, fluttering from her main—the USS
Independence.
It should have been the moment for another salute of cannon. Instead, seamen clambered about the rigging of the
Vincennes,
harried by the shouts of boatswains' mates, until the yardarms were lined.

Then, just as the first hip-hip-hurrahs were bawled, cheering being the best alternative to the roar of guns, Wiki heard the lookout in the foremast shriek over the din, “Ahoy the deck!”

The seaman was pointing at the water ahead. Wiki shaded his eyes, and the watch officer trumpeted, “What is it?”

“Our boat, sir!” the lookout hollered, and sure enough, it was the ship's cutter, coming fast toward them on the wind. Within seconds she was close enough for Wiki to see Dr. Olliver's massive shape in the stern sheets, and Forsythe at the tiller.

The watch officer called out more orders, and the
Vincennes
was hauled aback, with just her momentum driving her along. Then, just as he heard the cutter click against the side of the ship, Wiki registered that Captain Wilkes had arrived alongside him. When he turned inquiringly, he saw that Wilkes was holding out one of the letters.

With his habitual meaningless smile, Captain Wilkes said, “After we have taken Dr. Olliver on board, you will oblige me by taking the cutter to the
Independence.
Tender this letter to Commodore Nicholson with my compliments, and inform him I look forward to the privilege of a meeting after we are safely anchored and I have attended to my other business.”

Dear God, thought Wiki, shocked; was Captain Wilkes really determined to exasperate the commodore of the Brazil squadron beyond bearing? The lack of a salute of cannon was crime enough, without this studied insult. However, there was nothing he could say, so he nodded, took the letter, and headed down the poop ladder to the waist deck.

As he arrived at the gangway Dr. Olliver came up, red in the face and with a hand clapped over the pocket where the precious package was presumably stowed.

“Success?” said Wiki.

“Success,” the surgeon confirmed. Thank God, thought Wiki, because the noises he had heard from Grimes's berth while he had been penning the letters had been truly alarming.

Forsythe's reaction, when Wiki arrived in the bottom of the cutter and passed on Captain Wilkes's instructions, was predictably sardonic.

“Wa'al, let's see if we can survive this pretty little mission—and that Robert Festin doesn't get into any more trouble while we're both away from the
Vin,
” he drawled.

And with that, he brought the little craft about with a flourish, while the band on the deck of the great U.S. flagship struck up the welcoming strains of “Hail Columbia.”

Eight

The harbor of Rio de Janeiro was opening up before Captain George Rochester like a great panorama. The waters were hectic with the local felucca-rigged galleys—
fallua
—battling for room with queer fishing rafts—
jangadas
—which were made of logs strung together, and tacked by shifting their single masts from one notch in a log to another. Big ships of all nations maneuvered through the lowering late afternoon mist.

George stood on the foredeck of the
Swallow
with his hands clasped behind the seat of his trousers and his boots braced apart. His expression was benign as he took in the brilliant scene, but behind it he was wishing that it were Wiki Coffin who held the helm, and that his first officer was something better than an unseasoned seventeen-year-old youth. Despite that, he was determined to make a great show. Green water foamed white as it curled about the cutwater below, and then bubbled as it dashed along the brig's steeply leaning side.

As if in tacit encouragement, the brigantine that accompanied them through the harbor entrance was standing under flamboyant canvas, too, a few fathoms off their starboard beam. Like the
Swallow,
she was heeled far over in the freshening breeze. When she straightened up for the anchorage, Captain Rochester heard Midshipman Keith, who was standing importantly in charge of the quarterdeck, call out orders to do the same. In the distance, he could see two great men-of-war lying at anchor off the city, and hear distant strains of “Hail Columbia” from one of them. The other, he deduced, was HMS
Thunderer.

Then, just as George was about to request the old boatswain to pass on a message to bring in the topgallants, the totally unexpected happened. A
jangada
piled deep with a load of fish appeared from nowhere. The whole of Rochester's fifteen-man crew was on deck and in the rigging, but not a single hand had seen her coming.

The unwieldy craft staggered athwart their bows, so close that George could clearly see the faces of her crew gawping up at him. He roared, “Hard to starboard the wheel!”

At the same instant, to do him credit, Midshipman Keith screamed the same order, though with an embarrassingly adolescent squeak of panic. Canvas cracked and booms slammed, and for a tense moment Rochester thought the brig wouldn't respond. Then around she came like a game little terrier, and hissed past the raft with yards to spare. For an instant, George was engulfed in evocative smells of charcoal, rice, fish, and cordage. Then,
thank God,
the fishing boat was gone.

Midshipman Keith screamed, “The brigantine!”

George's neck cracked as he jerked round to stare with horror at the brigantine, which, not having followed the abrupt change of course, was now bearing right down upon them. He lifted his trumpet, and bawled, “Brigantine ahoy!”

“I see you, goddamnit!” shouted the reply.

“Keep your luff, sir!”—and to the man at the helm of the
Swallow,
“Hard up the wheel!” Even as he uttered the order, though, he knew it was far too late. He saw the brigantine's mainyard come round and her canvas flutter, but she was right on his starboard quarter.

The crash as she hit was deafening, followed by a series of pounding thumps that were almost as loud. The brig pitched, rolled, and shuddered under the onslaught. George staggered, and the old boatswain fell down. Then it was as if the other craft were determined to utterly destroy his beautiful ship. With horrible scraping noises she carried on forward, breaking up rail as she went. As the two tangled vessels lost momentum their combined wake caught up with them, and again the brigantine slammed hard against the
Swallow.

The concussion was awful. Again, Rochester stumbled, and several men were thrown to the planks. Looking up in horror as he straightened, he saw the two tall masts of the brigantine, still carrying whole sail, tipping slowly over, casting their slanted shadows over him.
Dear God,
he thought, she was holed! She was sinking! He could hear the rush of water pouring into her, while she became even more intricately tangled with his brig. The terrible commotion of sundering timber was replaced by an ominous creaking.

On both decks, there was a moment of appalled silence, broken by shouts of consternation. On the
Swallow,
seamen grabbed poles to shove the intruder away, terrified that if she sank she would take them down with her. On the other craft sailors were pouring up the hatches with billets of wood in their hands, similarly determined to free themselves of the burden of the other vessel, which they were convinced was taking them down.