Shark Island (28 page)

Otherwise, all Wiki had learned was that Festin loathed everyone on the
Annawan,
Jack Winter in particular, and was absolutely delighted to be on board the
Swallow.
The only place he would have preferred to be was in the camp the cutter's men had set up in the cove on the other side of the headland. “Forsythe bloody good skipper,” he said, nodding toward the
Annawan,
where the southerner could be heard roaring at someone who had got in his way. Though Forsythe would have shot him out of hand if he'd even begun to guess it, Robert Festin had fallen madly in love with the big Virginian.

“What about Captain Reed?” Wiki asked, amused.

“Bad skipper, drunk-all-the-time skipper,” was the reply. As Festin went on to convey, whoever had murdered Reed should be heartily congratulated.

“If that's the case,” Wiki said dryly, “it's a pity you didn't see the murderer from the galley so you could pat him on the back yourself.”

“Hein?”
said Festin. “Galley, not the bloody pantry, galley yes, pantry no.” Then he spat over the rail, which—as Wiki knew very well, indeed—was his way of telling him that the conversation was over. Wiki loped to the foremast, and clambered aloft to have a look at what was happening on the
Annawan
and the beach.

Over the past days the scene had greatly changed. The raft had been built, complete with heaving post, blocks, belaying points, and a simple capstan, and had been towed around the headland. From where Wiki perched in the topgallant crosstrees, he could see the
Annawan
men anchoring her up to the schooner's larboard side. Above their laboring forms, the
Annawan
was floating high. She'd been completely discharged all the way from the salt in the holds to the sea chests in the forecastle—though not, unfortunately, with any sign of Reed's bullion. The freshwater tank had been pumped out, and a framework had been set up in the hold so that the loose copper dross ballast could be easily shoveled from one side to the other, and a gang was now at work on that.

According to what Rochester had told him at breakfast, this early afternoon they would begin to heave the schooner down, and there was every sign for optimism that the job would go well. Perhaps the repair would be so simple and straightforward that the schooner would be floating and seaworthy again within four more days—which, for Wiki, was a matter for concern as well as celebration. While it would be a great relief to sail off on the
Swallow,
he was no wiser about what had happened to the silver, or any closer to the solution to the murders. Confined to the brig, he had not had a chance to investigate, he thought moodily.

Looking on the bright side, the parrot was very much better. Stoker had been delighted when George had carried the birdcage on board, announcing as he popped the parrot inside that recovery was now a virtual certainty. Now the cage hung from a hook in a corner of the saloon, its occupant almost perky, turning its head from side to side as if it were trying to see out of its poor blind eyes. As soon as the bird was well enough Wiki intended to give it to Annabelle so she could release it herself, and rid herself of superstitious fears. Even though it was blind, poor creature, surely it would manage to survive in the island scrub—and Stoker, that scion of higlers and henwives, was confident that with time the scales would fall off its eyes and it would see as well as ever.

Then the sleepy progress of Wiki's thoughts was rudely interrupted by a yell from Sua, who was poised precariously in the highest truck of the mainmast rigging, while the entire mast trembled under his weight as he waved. He was pointing toward the open sea, while Tana, farther down the same mast, was gesturing at the cutter, which was hurrying to the brig.

A sail could just be discerned beyond the big headland that barred the way to the open sea. Despite the distance Wiki recognized the craft instantly—the little 96-ton schooner
Flying Fish,
the smallest vessel of the United States Exploring Expedition. George should be pleased, he thought, because he had a lot in common with Samuel Knox, the commander of the
Flying Fish.
The son and grandson of Boston pilots and a ten-year navy veteran who had seen service in both the Pacific and the Mediterranean, Knox, like George, had been given the command even though he was just a passed midshipman.

The schooner hove to and fired a gun for a pilot. Simultaneously, the cutter arrived at the side of the brig, Forsythe, who was steering, looking extremely irritated at being sent away when the excitement of finally heaving the schooner over onto her good side was almost nigh. Rochester, he informed Wiki, was busy overseeing a cable rove from the masthead, and sent a message begging Wiki to do him the favor of going out in the cutter to greet Knox in his place, while one of the cutter's men looked after the
Swallow.

The New Bedforder came on board, and after giving him some advice and a few instructions, Wiki took a flying leap into the boat—in the nick of time, for Forsythe, being in a temper and in a hurry, had got under way already. Not unexpectedly, in view of this, the run out to the
Flying Fish
was an exciting one. Beneath their keel multicolored outcrops of coral fled away at a perilous rate, and the cutter leaned far over under a full press of sail. Then they came round the headland and the
Flying Fish
lay directly ahead.

Wiki studied her with interest as they raced toward her. About seventy feet long, as lean and low as a greyhound and with an abundance of fore-and-aft sail, the
Flying Fish
was a pretty sight. In her earlier life she had been a dashing New York pilot boat, and she looked every inch the part. She was flying a number of signals as well as the Stars and Stripes.

“What the hell is he trying to tell us?” Forsythe asked.

“I haven't a notion,” said Wiki. “Could it be some kind of emergency?”

“Beats me,” said Forsythe as they sheered up to the vessel. “It ain't like Knox to carry on like this.”

The mystery was solved when Lawrence J. Smith, the pompous, self-righteous, prating little lieutenant who had made both their lives miserable when he was second-in-command of the
Swallow,
hove up to the rail with a complacent smirk.

Forsythe muttered, “What the devil have we done to deserve this?”

Wiki grimaced but said nothing. There was no hope of mistaken identification—not only was the
Flying Fish
just a fraction higher out of the water than the cutter, but the little schooner had hardly any bulwarks.

Forsythe said with a pleasant smile, “What the bloody hell are
you
doing here, Lieutenant?”

“You may call me ‘captain,'” Smith said smugly. “And welcome aboard my ship.”

“What happened to Sam Knox?”

“Captain Wilkes transferred him to the
Porpoise
and gave me the
Flying Fish.
”

“I wonder what sin that poor bastard Knox has committed,” said Forsythe sotto voce, and stepped up and over the side, Wiki behind him. A boatswain piped in proper navy style, but, while Forsythe returned the salutes of the two seamen standing at attention, he didn't bother to do Smith the same favor.

“Well, sir?” he said intimidatingly.

“I was given the mission of bringing the
Flying Fish
here,” Smith sniffed. “On account of Wiki Coffin's failure to report back in good season.”

Recognizing Wiki's presence, he enunciated, “Wiremu,” and nodded. Wiki, blank-faced, nodded back. He'd almost forgotten Lieutenant Smith's irritating insistence on calling him by the Maori version of his English name as if he had some proprietary right to do so.

“Where
is
Passed Midshipman Rochester?” the self-important little man demanded now. “Alive? Well?”

“
Captain
Rochester is alive, well, and busy,” said Wiki, emphasizing the first word only a little.

“That he'd suffered a severe accident was the very least we expected when so much time passed by with no sign of him,” Smith sniffed. It sounded, Wiki thought, as if he'd been hoping for the worst.

Forsythe interrupted, “You got some kind of emergency on board?” He jerked his chin at the assortment of flags.

“Just infamous bad luck, sir!”

Knowing Lieutenant Smith the way they both did, they did not feel any great surprise to learn that his bad luck was due to his own mismanagement. Instead of following the course that Rochester had laid down before he'd left the fleet, Smith had called onto the coast to rewater, and there lost two men—one of them the ship's cook—from fever; then four more when they'd run away; then another when he'd fallen overboard and drowned.

Thus, under his guiding hand, the schooner's original complement of fifteen had been reduced to eight. Not only was it an emergency, according to Lawrence J. Smith, but it had greatly retarded the schooner's progress. Wiki wondered why he hadn't returned to the fleet to report this dismal sequence of events, but then realized that Smith was reluctant to confess his failure to Captain Wilkes.

The recital finally over, Smith demanded that two of the cutter's crew come on board to help him get the schooner into the cove. Forsythe flatly refused, but—without consulting Wiki first—offered Wiki's services to take the helm while he, in the cutter, led the way. Then he sailed with his characteristic dash and flair through the myriad obstacles, with no consideration whatsoever for whatever difficulties Wiki might be experiencing. Luckily the
Flying Fish
was swift and agile, particularly when close to the wind.

Coming around the headland, Wiki found a view that was very different from when he had left the cove. Now the great bulk of the
Annawan
's hull rose high, so she looked very much like a half-beached whale—the
Annawan,
he realized with a surge of triumph, had been successfully hove down! A flimsy platform of planks and barrels was being floated out beneath the exposed side of the hove-down schooner, and by the time the anchor of the
Flying Fish
was dropped, a line was being thrown over the rail with the carpenter dangling from the end to examine the damage.

Unsurprisingly, George Rochester came on board the
Flying Fish
in a highly celebratory mood. Over she'd gone without the slightest hitch, he blithely reported after the briefest of salutes—a steady haul on the cable and over she'd rolled, as gentle as a little lamb. And, he went on, she would certainly have overset without the securely anchored raft. The holes in her hull were high and dry, and perfectly accessible. The carpenter confirmed Wiki's feeling that only one strake needed to be replaced, as the others could be easily mended in situ.

Lawrence J. Smith was less than impressed. Indeed, he was not even particularly interested, instead taking great pleasure in informing Rochester that Captain Wilkes could well find his unaccountable delay quite unforgivable. Told about the murder of Captain Reed, he expressed the opinion that the authorities in Rio should have handled the case. Notified that Passed Midshipman Kingman had been knifed as well, he became even more contemptuous, declaring that the failure to promptly report the sad loss of an officer—a man of importance to the expedition!—was a particularly grave lapse on Rochester's part.

Rochester listened attentively, blandly, and in silence. Then, having invited Smith to supper on the
Swallow,
he quit the
Flying Fish,
taking the much relieved Wiki with him. “And I hope Festin can rise to the challenge,” he said as the boat pulled away. “Much as I'd love to poison the pompous little prawn, it wouldn't look good on my record.”

Thirty-one

Next morning when Wiki came out of his stateroom, Rochester was sitting at the saloon table already, even though it was not yet dawn. Pouring a mug of coffee, Wiki said, “How did it go?” He had been on watch at suppertime, so had not been one of the party.

“The meal was delicious—Festin excelled himself!”

“I know,” said Wiki. He'd watched with interest as Festin made a thick pie crust out of flour, shortening, and the gravy from the meat he'd been stewing. Then, after filling the crust with chunks of tender meat and baking it, the cook had cut it into squares which he steamed before serving so that the pastry puffed up. He had given a square to Wiki to taste, and very good it had been, too.

After it had slid delectably down to his stomach, Wiki had hung around, partly in the hope of another sample, and also because the squat little man was having one of his lucid spells. It had proved worthwhile: not only had he enjoyed a second helping, but they'd had quite an interesting little conversation.

It had started off in unpromising style, with Festin chanting, “Galley, pantry, galley, pantry, galley, pantry,” as if it were some weird nursery rhyme; but then the cook had demanded, “What
te reo Maori
call ‘pantry'?”

Wiki had hesitated, wondering why he'd asked. Then he'd said, “The word for ‘pantry' is
pataka,
only it's not a pantry the way you
pakeha
know it. It's a storehouse for provisions.” Using a mixture of English, Maori, and Festin's dialect, he'd tried to portray in words the elaborately carved
pataka
that were built on stilts to preserve their contents from rats, thieves, and damp, and which ranged in size from small boxes to storehouses many feet in length, according to the wealth of the village.

Festin had seemed to find this fascinating, listening raptly with his liquid brown gaze fixed on Wiki's face, and had said with great satisfaction when Wiki had run to a stop, “That is it exactly.”

“What?”

“Exactly pantry, aye.”