A Watery Grave (15 page)

Five, six, rigging to fix

Seven, eight, don't be late

One, two, join the crew

Three, four, take up your oars!

And knives and forks were wielded with a will.

“Do you enjoy sea-pie, sir?” Wiki's neighbor politely asked.

“Of course,” said Wiki. “But it must be well-baked,” he added gravely.

“We collected together a thousand dollars to spend on extras for our mess, and Keith spent six hundred of his own in the bargain. After all, three years is a long time to be away from the amenities of home, don't you think, sir?”

Wiki's eyebrows were higher than ever. A three-year voyage about the world was certainly quite a proposition, but nonetheless he was very impressed by the amount of money these lads had at their disposal. He knew from George Rochester that the custom in the navy was for officers to make their own eating arrangements, only staples like flour being provided by the ship, but for the first time he realized that the families of these young gentlemen were rich.

“And Keith furnished this cabin, sir. Don't you admire it?”

“I do indeed,” said Wiki solemnly.

“What age are you, sir?” another boy asked him. “Do you know it? Do your people keep count of the years?”

“I'm twenty-four,” said Wiki. Up until this afternoon he had felt quite young, but these boys made him feel old.

“Sir, I couldn't help but notice that you're not tattooed,” said another. “Don't New Zealanders tattoo themselves like other savages?”

“Warriors have a
moko,
a tattooed face,” said Wiki, and then added by way of explanation, “I was taken to America when I was twelve years old.”

“Do you ever think you will get one?”

Wiki had often thought of it. He said, “It's not really my choice.”

“Why, who chooses?”

“The father, the grandfathers—it's
taumaha,
a serious matter that demands a lot of deep discussion.”

It wryly amused him to imagine what his father would say if approached with such a proposition. Captain Coffin was still sailing the Pacific, trundling from one lagoon to another after sea slugs—
bêche-de-mer
—and pearl shell, to trade for tea in Canton. They met up occasionally, usually in some foreign place, and Wiki invariably enjoyed his father's company. Not only did they have a lot in common, both being seafarers, but Captain Coffin was so unstintingly and flatteringly proud of his only son.

“If you got your face tattooed, sir, do you think they would put you on display in America?”

“Perhaps,” said Wiki. It was one of the reasons for not getting a
moko.

“What was your mother's name?”

What strange questions they asked. “Te Rau o te Rangi,” Wiki said. His people often changed their names at a whim, but that was the name he had known her by. She had been a celebrated beauty—Captain Coffin had certainly been bowled over by her looks, and there were songs likening her to the planet Venus. “She was a famous swimmer,” said Wiki. “Many men challenged her,
pakeha
sailors among them, but she beat them all.”

“And your father, sir?”

Wiki smiled, understanding now that the question about his mother had been asked to tactfully lead the way to this one, and said mildly, “Captain Coffin of Salem, Massachusetts.” Then he watched their faces. Most of them knew that part of his history already, he saw; he did not feel surprised about it, knowing that scuttlebutt—shipboard gossip—was both fast and accurate. However, a couple of his hosts lifted their brows as if suddenly realizing why their guest had been carted off to America at the tender age of twelve.

“What were your feelings when you left your home?” one asked.

“Excited. Sad.” Wiki shrugged. Several men of his tribe had gone off on American ships before; and while some had not come back, others had returned to amaze the
iwi
with their exciting yarns and become people of importance, and so following in their wake had not taken a great deal of courage.

“It was an adventure,” he said.

“What were your first impressions when you landed in America?”

Wiki meditated. When he was a child his grandmother had repeated to him the famous prediction of the prophet Te Toiroa of Nukutaurua—that in times ahead their land would be chattering with
te reo kihikihi,
the cicada language, which was how his people came to describe the incomprehensible twittering talk of the
pakeha.
And while twelve-year-old Wiki had thought he understood English well enough by the time he arrived in Boston, his first overwhelming impression had been of being deafened by the meaningless clamor of cicadas—that these busy Americans rushed about battering each other with a constant rush of words. And they interrupted each other all the time! In his home village interrupting a speaker had been the height of discourtesy, but in America, or so it had seemed to him, it was meant to be a sign of great interest in what was being said.

From past experience, however, Wiki knew that it was not a good idea to let on that his first impression had been that Americans were rather less refined than the people at home. “I was greatly impressed by the immense buildings and the wonderful bustle of business,” he answered solemnly instead.

“And you're a true-blue American now, sir—ain't that marvelous? They tell me you're a sheriff's deputy in Virginia, Mr. Coffin—is that true?”

Wiki asked sharply, “How did you hear that?”

Keith waved a casual arm. “Scuttlebutt, sir,” he said. “Everyone knows it. Are you investigating that astronomer what killed himself?”

Wiki narrowed his eyes. “Why, is there something to investigate?”

“We all wonder why he did it, sir.”

“You were surprised when you learned about it?”

“Astounded, sir! He spent all his time fussing about with his instruments and seemed perfectly happy with life. He just didn't seem to have any reason to put an end to himself.”

“Did any of you work with him?”

The boys all glanced at each other. “Not really,” one said. “We have orders to assist the astronomers with their observations—it's meant to be good practice for us, but Mr. Burroughs's assistant didn't like us to hang around and watch even, let alone try to help.”

“He was jealous, perhaps?” Wiki suggested, remembering Grimes's obvious devotion to Burroughs.

“They were as close as cats, sir,” Dicken agreed. “Didn't have much to do with the rest of the ship at all. Privately closeted together day and night with their instruments and observations. I feel sorry for the assistant, now—he must heartily wish he had been present to put a stop to the desperate act. Does he have no idea why Mr. Burroughs should do such a thing, sir?”

They were all looking at Wiki expectantly. He was frowning, thinking that that was the question he'd forgotten to ask Grimes—what had he been doing and where had he been at the time Burroughs hanged himself.

He evaded the question, saying wisely, “My people have a saying,
Ko nga take whawhai, he whenua, he wahine
—for the source of trouble, look for land and women.”

“You wonder if Astronomer Burroughs put an end to himself on account of a petticoat?” someone demanded, and all six laughed heartily. “You'd be better to look to Lieutenant Forsythe for quarrels over the nancy girls, Mr. Coffin!” another exclaimed, and they all giggled again.

For a nasty moment Wiki thought they were referring to his failed attempt to call Forsythe out after the foul-mouthed southerner had made his gross advances to Janey. Then, however, it became evident that Lieutenant Forsythe was unpopular with these boys—“Commander Wilkes gave old Forsythe a proper dressing down for bullyragging me unmercifully,” piped up one midshipman. “Three cheers for our gentleman commander!” chorused the others, with some sloshing of wine.

“Forsythe's a famous sharpshooter, though,” said Keith, when the hubbub had died down. “He brought his own rifle on board—his granpappy gave it to him when he was ten years old, he says, which must mean that it is awful ancient, but I've never yet seen him miss his mark.”

Keith's voice was wistful, betraying a youthful passion for firearms and marksmanship. Wiki mused that being a crack shot was a new side to Lieutenant Forsythe's character, but not particularly unexpected.

“It hangs from a famous large rack of antlers in his cabin,” the chubby-cheeked Dicken volunteered. “Would you like to see it, sir?” he said brightly. “I'm convinced Lieutenant Forsythe would be happy for you to view it, it's such an awful fine trophy.”

Wiki shook his head, smiling faintly, certain that Lieutenant Forsythe would not be happy in the slightest, and to his relief they returned to the ghoulish topic of astronomer Burroughs's demise.

“When you talk of land being a bone of contention with your people, sir, do you mean property—like money?” another mid asked. “I heard that Burroughs was a warm man, but he didn't appear very rich. The steward said he brought nothing much at all in the way of extra provisions, and that his clothes were just about rags.”

“Perhaps he was bankrupt,” said one. However another, in a perceptible Virginia accent, assured him that it was universally known that Burroughs hadn't been short of the ready.

Wiki said quietly, “There's also a third cause of conflict—
kanga.
”

They all looked at him. “Curses,” he said. “Slurs on a man's reputation—his
mana.
Something to destroy his honor and his name.”

There was a long silence, and then Keith said hesitantly, “I can understand that.”

“You can?”

“Aye, sir. If there was something in my past that I hoped was forgotten—”

“Or hoped would never be revealed?” said Wiki, after waiting to make sure the sentence was not going to be finished.

“Aye, sir.”

“Particularly when a man was on the verge of achieving his life's ambition?”

“Aye, sir,” said Keith again. He seemed suddenly sobered, saying quietly, “If there was something in my past that would ruin such a glorious prospect, then I would perhaps rather die than face the consequences.”

“The surgeon said Burroughs banged his head,” said Dicken, and they all looked up at the massive beams that held up the deck above. “Would a bang on the head cause anyone to sling up a noose and put his head inside it, Mr. Coffin?”

Wiki shrugged and spread his hands.

“He was so excited to be part of the expedition,” said another midshipman.

“So I heard,” said Wiki, assuming he meant Burroughs.

“It would be a dreadful shame if he was sent home, don't you think? Do you know if he'll continue to assist Mr. Stanton, sir?”

Wiki blinked, realizing that the boy was talking about Grimes. Then he frowned, struck by a sudden thought. Had Grimes been as excited as Burroughs was at the chance to join the expedition? He had said something that suggested that, he remembered.

Then Dicken said brightly, “Would you like to see the room where Astronomer Burroughs hanged himself, Mr. Coffin?”

The budding idea dissolved. Wiki looked sharply at the smiling boy and said, “Is that possible? I thought that Astronomer Stanton had taken over the room.”

“Oh, he has, sir—but Mr. Stanton has gone to the
Porpoise
with Grimes to fetch some equipment that was left behind when Mr. Burroughs shifted from the
Porpoise
to the
Vin.
”

“But surely the room is locked?”

“Oh, the door is still broken, sir,” said Dicken, waving a careless hand. “They take forever to fix things on this ship.”

Wiki's fist clenched hard on his thigh with abrupt irritation with himself. He had assumed that the stateroom where Burroughs had committed suicide was one of those opening off the passageway in the deckhouse—
but none of those doors had been damaged.

He said as calmly as he could, “Aye, I do think I would like to see it.”

Thirteen

They clambered up a ladder to the gun deck, one tier above the orlop deck where the junior midshipmen berthed. Then Dicken led the way with his supple adolescent knees bent outward, so that the top hat with a cockade he'd popped on his head would not be knocked off by the beams. Wiki's back was bent uncomfortably as he followed, his eyes flickering all around. Shadows led off fore and aft. Apart from themselves, the deck seemed empty of men.

Tautly lashed-down carronades squatted along the side of the ship, shiny black paint glimmering in the stray rays of sun that leaked through the red-painted rims of shut gunports. Between them Wiki could see hammock hooks and the faint glint of tin numbers that were nailed onto the bulkheads. He briefly wondered what the figures were for, but then decided that each gun must have its own number, which seemed logical. More light fell down dimly in dusty squares from scuttles in the main deck above, randomly delineating neatly stowed sponges and rammers, and racks symmetrically piled with shot. It seemed evident, though, that the Department of the Navy had taken a bet that the
Vincennes
wouldn't need to fire a broadside on this expedition because cabins and storage rooms interrupted the measured lines of cannon. However, Wiki saw that their walls had been constructed of canvas stretched tautly on light wooden frames, mounted parallel to the sides of the ship. If the
Vincennes
did have to prepare herself for a major battle, he deduced, these could be swiftly and easily removed.

Dicken kept on going all the way to the stern, where cathedral-like shafts of dusty light wafted down from scuttles to streak the walls of more substantial and permanent cabins. These, Wiki deduced, were originally paint and sail lockers, now converted into staterooms and workshops. Then the midshipman came to an abrupt stop, waving an arm at a door that was cracked and splintered but had been wedged shut from the outside.