Shark Island (26 page)

As the boat clicked against the side, the singing stopped. Wiki met George at the rail, still carrying his ashwood pole.
“E hoa?”
he said. His grin was just a trifle uncertain.

George stood in silence for a long moment, his hands lightly clasped behind the seat of his white dress trousers, surveying him very thoughtfully, indeed. He treasured being Wiki Coffin's friend—having such an unusual and colorful friend made him feel colorful and exotic himself. Most of the time, however, they weren't even aware of their different backgrounds—because they had shared so many adventures, George supposed. With so many experiences in common, they often knew without trying what the other was thinking; at times they laughed together before other people even saw the joke. Every now and then, though, George was aware of a cultural gulf, and he was experiencing one of those troubling moments now.

Then his glance fell on the ashwood spar, and he realized with professional interest that Wiki had been working on his
taiaha
—what George thought of as a spear. Much had been accomplished in just a short time—the width of the shaft had been trimmed to half of the original diameter, and the two ends, one curved to a teardrop-shaped point and the other flat and paddlelike, had been roughed out.

He exclaimed, “It looks like a weapon already!”

“The shape was already there in the wood,” Wiki said modestly. That was the nature of his people's craft—their carvers looked for the shape that was already there, instead of forcing the wood, bone, or stone to yield to their will. However, as George knew from long association, the singing had helped the work along, too.

Then Wiki held the
taiaha
poised in his hands, turned it swiftly end to end, sighted down the shaft, and whirled it around his shoulders. Looking at Rochester, he challenged, “You have your pretty cut-and-thrust sword. Try to put a dent in my carcass.”

George studied him, vividly aware of what a contrast they made—that right now, the cultural difference between them was a chasm. He, Captain Rochester, commander of the U.S. brig
Swallow,
was a glitteringly formal figure in dress uniform. Wiki, the native linguister, was barefooted and bare-chested, his long black hair trailing over his shoulders, his
taiaha
-in-the-making held vertically before him with the tonguelike point upward, the epitome of a warrior from the far-off Pacific.

Rochester mused that Wiki had also put him in a deucedly difficult position. If he drew his sword, it would be a contest between sharp metal and dull wood, and despite being extremely cross with him right now, he didn't want to wound his best shipmate. If they'd been alone it could have been dismissed as a joke, but the hands on duty were watching, joined by more men who were trickling out of the forecastle. So George grinned evilly, tossed his hat aside, whipped out his fancy sword, and flourished it.

Up came the
taiaha,
held diagonally across Wiki's body. Rochester smoothly lunged and thrust—to find his sword easily parried by a swift push of the wood. He attacked more seriously, but each time his blade was jerked aside. Then Wiki moved in for his first attack, and George found to his surprise that the spear-shaped end of the
taiaha,
which he'd been taking great pains to avoid, was just for jabbing and feinting, while the broad paddle-shaped other end was the business part of the weapon. Indeed, he realized, it wasn't a spear at all, but much more like that greatly feared two-handed traditional weapon of the English peasant, the quarterstaff. George dodged the blow by the skin of his teeth, ran back a couple of paces, and then came forward with a great deal more caution.

The men on deck were starting to urge them on, caught up in the unusual competition. Slowly, they circled each other. After feinting twice, Wiki lunged forward again—and again George only narrowly missed being rapped. However, he noticed that when Wiki was on the verge of a pounce, the toes of his leading foot clenched for a better grip on the deck.

Thinking about it, he lunged and thrust, watched Wiki dance back on the balls of his feet, and then saw those feet flatten as Wiki stepped forward again. The pointed tip of the
taiaha
passed his face in another feint, and then the
taiaha
was reversed with a quick flourish. The toes clenched, George swayed back and ducked forward in one smooth motion, the
taiaha
passed through empty air—and when George straightened his sword was resting on Wiki's shoulder.

The men gave a round of cheers, led lustily by Midshipman Keith. “Well done,” said Wiki. He grinned widely as they shook hands, and George suddenly wondered if he hoped that the duel had settled their differences, and they could return to being comrades again. However, he said nothing. Wiki stowed his
taiaha
-in-the-making in the galley, where he'd screwed hooks on the wall behind the huge iron stove, so that the heat and smoke would harden the wood. Then Rochester led the way to the saloon, where he silently shed his coat.

“Well,
e hoa?
” said Wiki, sitting down.

“They'll be discharging the schooner before breakfast.”

Wiki frowned down at the coffee he was pouring. “Isn't that rather premature?”

“Joel Hammond can't wait to turn Mrs. Reed out of the captain's cabin.”

Wiki's expression became troubled. When he didn't speak, George went on, “Hammond had interesting things to say about the eight old sealers on board—that on that exploring voyage they talked the rest of the seamen into forcing Palmer to turn back home because he searched for scientific discoveries instead of new sealing grounds. Then he went on to tell me that on the next voyage, the 1832 one, the
Annawan
wasn't overcome by convicts—that Palmer was rescuing them.”

“It was
Palmer's
idea to set them free?”

“Aye. It seems that the convicts were Palmer's comrades in arms during Bolívar's campaign—that they were political prisoners and not criminals at all.”

“And he gave up the sealing venture to do it?”

“Aye. I guess there were old loyalties involved.”

“Well, that surely is a new view,” Wiki marveled.

“Hammond also went on at length about the blind greed of sealers, how they have chopped down the tree to get at the fruit and so on and so forth, and that it's the judgment of God that there are no seal rookeries left to find. Now that he has the
Annawan
he has no intention of sealing, he said.”

“But the schooner isn't his!”

“I had a job to stop from pointing that out to him myself, old chap. Jack Winter, who was serving out the food as Hammond was carrying on, didn't like what he was hearing one bit, either. Don't you reckon it's strange that the
steward
should be one of that eight-strong gang? I can see him fomenting rebellion, but camping out on a rock-bound, ice-ridden seal rookery? No.”

Midshipman Keith came out of the stateroom at that moment, having changed into workaday dungarees, and said brightly, “Uncommon tasty grub they gave us, don't you reckon, sir? I do confess I could do justice to another big chunk of that chicken stew pie.”

“After the way you stuffed your stomach, my lad,” said George sternly, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“And that was a capital Madeira too, don't you think, sir?” said Keith, unabashed.

“Madeira?” said Wiki.

“Hammond didn't throw it overboard with the grog,” said George. Then he went on musingly, “Soon it won't be possible for Festin to do any cooking on board the schooner, and it's not feasible to shift the schooner's galley on shore because the stove is too heavy to lower into a whaleboat. So I'm toying with the idea of bringing him aboard the
Swallow
—he could take over our galley and do the cooking for all, freeing up our man for other work. It would be easy enough to carry meals to the men on the beach.”

Keith exclaimed, “What a wonderful idea, sir!”

“I'll discuss it with Hammond first thing in the morning,” George decided, and with his face split wide in a gratified grin, Midshipman Keith headed off up the stairs to take charge of the deck.

“Something odd, though,” George ruminated. “The lady didn't seem partial to it.”

“Partial to what?” said Wiki.

“Festin's chicken stew pie. She took a nibble or two, but otherwise just pushed it around with her fork.”

Wiki grimaced. “That's because she thought it was parrot.”

“Parrot?”

George turned and looked at the burned parrot, which was still perched on the back of his chair. Its innards were back to functioning, he noticed, because there were droppings in amongst the dripped water on the seat.

He looked at Wiki again and urged, “Explain yourself.”

“When Annabelle gave the parrot to Festin she expected him to kill it and add it to the pot. Instead, he gave the parrot to me—but she doesn't know that.”

“I wonder what parrot tastes like?”

“No doubt that's what she was wondering while she pushed her pie about,” said Wiki. “So what plan
does
Hammond have for the schooner after she's fixed?”

“Treasure hunting.”

“You're joking.”

“Ask young Keith, if you don't believe me. Hammond told him a farfetched tale about the merchants of Lima entrusting the contents of the town treasury to a devious skipper who buried it instead of carrying it to Panama the way he'd been instructed. The boy fairly lapped it up. You've been overtaken as the best tale-spinner of his acquaintance, I'm afraid.”

“You mean Joel Hammond told the story of the
Mary Dear?
”

“You've heard it already?”

“
E hoa,
I thought everyone in the world had heard it already.”

“Good God, you never fail to surprise me. But is it true?”

“It could be, I suppose—but Hammond can't be serious, surely. If that bullion from the Lima treasury really was buried, it's bound to have been dug up since. After all, people have been hunting for it for fifteen years now.” Frowning, Wiki went on, “What did Annabelle say about this plan to take the schooner treasure-hunting?”

“Nothing. Not a word.”

“She just sat tamely and allowed him to make these farfetched plans involving the schooner, even though the
Annawan
belongs to her?”

“Aye. She seemed to be under his thumb altogether. When Hammond decided to get down to business and discuss the technicalities of heaving down, he virtually ordered her to leave the table, and she obeyed even though she didn't seem to have anywhere to go.”

Wiki's expression became intensely worried. After a pause during which he was obviously choosing words, he said, “I'd like to be there when the schooner is being unloaded—not just because of the bullion, but to see which of the
Annawan
hands has a stock of blue-striped shirts.”

George shook his head without an instant's hesitation. “No,” he said decisively. “You will stop on board of the brig.”

Twenty-nine

George Rochester went over to the
Annawan
at daybreak, to find the men laboring at the pumps with new enthusiasm, freeing her up for warping out of the deep channel where she was trapped. He sought out Hammond to discuss the matter of the cook, got his agreement, and then headed to the bay where Forsythe and the cutter's men were camped.

To his surprise and pleasure, he found that every last balk of timber had been lowered to the beach, and that the cutter's men had set with gusto to the job of connecting them together to make a sturdy raft. Typically, Forsythe had claimed territory: The largest U.S. flag the
Swallow
possessed was now flying grandly from the tall flagpole on the forecourt of the ruined prison, a signal to all those who passed the island, and privateers in particular, that Americans were in possession.

Rochester headed back to the schooner, to find that a kedge anchor had been lodged in shallower water twenty yards closer to the beach, and the stout hawser that was secured to this had been attached to the windlass. Orders, shouted by Hammond and echoed by Midshipman Keith, rattled back and forth as hands worked manfully at the windlass to winch the hawser in, shortening it so that the schooner was heaved up to the kedge. For some time it didn't seem as if the waterlogged old box would move, but then, inch by inch, the hull groaned and yielded. By noon the
Annawan
was anchored exactly where the carpenter wanted her to be, out of the deep, fast-moving current but still with water under her keel.

Bags and barrels of provisions were coming out of the between-decks area, swayed into boats, and sent over to the
Swallow.
Robert Festin, looking confused and uncomprehending, accompanied the first load, clinging to the side of the boat and looking extremely white-faced. At the same time, there was a great commotion in the after house as massive furniture was heaved around. The big saloon table was manhandled up the companionway with a lot of cursing and shouting, and then dumped over the rail to float upside down, forming a makeshift raft. Buoyed with empty barrels lashed along its sides, it was towed ashore by a line, while a couple of men aboard plied long poles in a vigorous effort to keep it from upsetting.

First to go were the heavy drapes that had covered the bulkheads. Bundled onto the raft, they went off to shore, where a couple of other men were erecting a frame for a tent. No sooner was it covered with one of the curtains than Annabelle Reed, looking flushed and ruffled, was hustled off to the beach. Then the rest of the furniture came up. Most of the great wardrobes and dressers had to be taken apart, but still the pieces were being carried up the companionway at a tremendous pace.