A Watery Grave (23 page)

“Messes?” he said.

“Aye. Each mess is made up of twelve men, and they have their own special place to eat, on the deck between two guns—they even issue 'em a bit of canvas to spread on the deck for service as a tablecloth, along with a couple of wooden tubs for carrying the food from the galley. The purser is in charge of it all—another confoundedly rude fellow,” Rochester complained. “He didn't want to divulge Powell's particulars in the slightest. Then, when I finally and at long last found his messmates, the surly fellows would only say they reckoned he had lost the number of his mess—in the storm, most likely.”

Lost the number of his mess? Wiki remembered the tin figures on the bulkheads of the gun deck and presumed that this strange saying meant that Jim had not turned up for meals. “But why did they never report him missing?”

“I don't think they noticed it for quite some time. They thought he was in the sick bay.”

“And when you informed them he'd disappeared from there?”

“They seemed to know it already—had found out about it since, I suppose.”

So someone from his mess had gone to visit him and had found that Jim had vanished—and yet still his messmates had not reported his absence. Why not? Wiki opened his mouth, but Rochester abruptly changed the subject, saying, “What are you going to do about Ringgold's idea?”

“What idea?”

“Haven't you been told? Erskine says that Captain Ringgold would like to request that Wilkes move you onto the
Porpoise.
He was very impressed with your performance last night, he says.”

Wiki smiled wryly, remembering how relieved Ringgold had been that the Rotuman had turned back into a normal man, even though he did not have a shred of understanding as to what had happened.

“Tell him not to bother,” he said. “My place is on the
Swallow.
”

Rochester, predictably, looked relieved. However, he said gallantly, “If it's too dreadful on the brig with Forsythe in charge, old chap—”

“My sea chest is there.” And the letter of authority. “But I must get on board the
Vincennes.
”

“I'm sure there will be opportunities aplenty, old chap,” Rochester assured him. “You're bound to be invited on board for something fancy in the eating way. Why, Wilkes himself has invited me to a feast next Saturday, along with some other passed midshipmen and a passel of scientifics—in hopes, I think, that the
Peacock
and
Sea Gull
will have rejoined us by then and there'll be something to celebrate, some quarterdeck alarm having been expressed about their welfare. I doubt that the wine will be plentiful, but the conversation should be amusing. Why, what do you want to do there?”

“I want to look for Powell—and I need to talk to that man who was Burroughs's assistant—Grimes.”

“But he's right here!”

“What! On the
Porpoise?
”

“I thought you knew. Where the devil did you sleep last night? Surely not the fo'c'sle!” protested George, sounding as scandalized as if he himself had never consigned his comrade to the forecastle of the
Swallow.

“In the house,” said Wiki, meaning the cabin that had been built on the poop. Erskine had found him a small stateroom there. His eyebrows were high—it seemed very strange to think that the fellow he'd heard snoring on the other side of the partition could have been Grimes. Then he thought that it was even stranger that he had not seen him during daylight and wondered if the astronomer were avoiding him.

*   *   *

After George Rochester had headed off back to the
Vincennes,
the notion came to seem more and more likely. Wiki had unobtrusively but exhaustively searched the
Porpoise
for a couple of hours without finding hide or hair of the astronomer. When he finally located him, Grimes was in what Wiki would have considered the most unlikely place possible—the maintop. In fact, he'd only spied the gangly, hunched shape because he'd cast an eye upward to find Midshipman Erskine and ask for advice about where to look next.

When Wiki arrived on the broad platform at the top of the lower mast, the astronomer was perched on a folded sail with a sextant on his knee. He had evidently been taking observations because he was making copious notes, which made his being aloft more comprehensible. The glance he cast at Wiki as he came over the futtock shrouds, however, was not welcoming in the slightest; and, in an obvious attempt to discourage conversation, he busied himself with his note taking again.

Wiki stood watching him in silence a moment, one hand casually holding a lanyard as he swayed lightly with the slight roll of the vessel, wondering about the reason for the hostility. Though Grimes's demeanor was not as fraught with misery as the day he had questioned him, he still seemed hollow eyed and depressed—a sorry-looking man indeed.

Wiki said, “Perhaps you don't remember me, sir—William Coffin Jr.”

“The sheriff's deputy,” said Grimes ungraciously, without even looking up. “Of course I remember you—how could I not?”

“I wasn't aware until just now that you'd removed to the
Porpoise.
”

“Captain Wilkes was kind enough to shift me to our—my old quarters.”

Burroughs had originally been stationed on the
Porpoise,
Wiki remembered. However, he also recollected that Grimes had said that both he and Burroughs had been jubilant at being moved to the flagship, so he asked in puzzled tones, “And you're pleased?”

“That's what I said, sir,” Grimes snapped.

Wiki thought that wasn't what he had said at all and was tempted to snap right back. However, he kept a tight rein on his temper, contenting himself with insinuating, “If it's so pleasant to return on board the
Porpoise,
can I take it that you didn't find Astronomer Stanton an easy man to work with?”

Grimes's mouth tightened. For a moment, just as in that first interview, Wiki had the impression that he was going to break out into some kind of revelation. In the end, however, the astronomer merely said in precise tones, “Captain Wilkes promoted me from the station of assistant to fully rated expedition astronomer—an elevation that I find most agreeable, naturally.”

“Then congratulations are in order, sir.”

Grimes gazed distantly about at the water instead of meeting Wiki's eyes, while Wiki considered the averted head thoughtfully and wondered what Tristram Stanton thought about the promotion. In the distance a boat was putting out from the
Vincennes.
He could just discern a burly figure in the sheets and wondered if Astronomer Stanton was coming over for a consultation with Grimes. In a few moments, however, it became evident that the boat was heading for the
Swallow,
not the
Porpoise.

Wiki said abruptly, seeing no other way of getting the man's complete attention, “There's a question I forgot to ask you back on the
Vincennes.
”

Grimes frowned. For the first time his eyes flickered up to Wiki's face. “What?”

“I forgot to ask where you were when Mr. Burroughs ended his life.”

Grimes stared. His face went red and then white, and he cried, “What the devil are you accusing me of?”

Wiki began to protest, “Nothing!”—but the thin man was gathering up his notebook and sextant with sharp, furious movements, stuffing them into a leather bag that he slung over his shoulder, before standing up and stepping over to the hole in the platform of the maintop that civilians used on the way up and down the shrouds, and which the sailors derisively called “the lubbers' hole.”

His body began disappearing in angry jerks, as he shouted, “I was right here, Mr. Coffin—right here on this gun brig! Don't you realize I would have turned the whole world upside down to stop him if I had been there? And I don't believe it was suicide, neither! If you're so interested, why aren't you finding out the true facts instead of tormenting me?”

Wiki shouted, “Stop!” And to his amazement Grimes did stop, looking queerly like a half man, because he was through the hole as far as his waist.

Wiki took a deep breath and said, “Please tell me why you feel so sure that Mr. Burroughs did not commit suicide.”

“Because he was happy! Because he had no reason for it!” Grimes cried. “Don't you understand? He was fulfilling a dream that he had cherished all the years I worked with him. He was a member of an illustrious scientific corps and on the road to scientific glory! Why should he commit suicide? Tell me that!”

Wiki opened his mouth, but it was as if a floodgate had opened, for the astronomer rushed on: “He hummed and whistled as he worked—he was doing exactly what he wanted most in the world. I tell you, he was happy! He even wrote poems in praise of his happiness!”

Wiki blinked, utterly taken aback by this strange revelation. “Poetry?”

“He was a gifted man, sir—gifted in more ways than science! And I found it—found the note in his very own writing among the equipment on the
Vincennes
only just the other day.”

“What note?” Wiki asked swiftly.

“I told you—don't you ever listen? The poem, the poem!” And then, to Wiki's amazement, Grimes recited:

Wise men come in coveys, Scientifics abroad

And to hills of science, Lo! A royal road!

Some are dropping honey, Others dropping gall

But all is going well with me

All's well—all's well—all's well!

“Would a man who penned something like that put an end to himself, sir?” cried Grimes. “Think about it, think!” And then he was gone, leaving Wiki lost in startled speculation.

Twenty

When Erskine's boat delivered Wiki back to the
Swallow
late that afternoon, Lieutenant Forsythe was standing at the gangway rail and the two Samoans were on the foredeck deep in conversation. They all watched as the boat arrived, Forsythe's expression brooding, and the Samoans frowning fiercely. Some kind of situation had erupted while he'd been away, Wiki deduced with alarm.

Grabbing the gangway rope, he climbed up the side to where Forsythe was waiting. The lieutenant bared his teeth in a mirthless grin, while Wiki stood studying him warily, recognizing the telltale signs of one of Forsythe's vicious moods.

The southerner jibed, “You've come to take away your sea chest, I trust.”

Wiki frowned, wondering if Lieutenant Ringgold had gone ahead and asked for his transfer. “Has Captain Wilkes sent orders that I'm to move to another ship?”

“It's news to me that you need any goddamn orders, Mr. Coffin. Right now I need your room, not your company—so you'll oblige me by removing your worthless half-breed carcass. There're savages enough in the fo'c'sle, without havin' a cannibal at my table. So why don't you put your bone back in your nose and bugger off?”

Wiki's eyes widened and then narrowed into glittering crescents. Quite involuntarily, his shoulders braced and his elbows crooked, his hands shivering at the level of his biceps, on the verge of clamping into fists—but then he saw the flash of pleasure in Forsythe's expression and realized the lieutenant was spoiling for a fight.

It was like the night in Norfolk when he'd been foolish enough to rise to Forsythe's bait. Now, if he retaliated, it would give Forsythe the excuse he wanted to throw him off the brig. Wiki deliberately relaxed his taut muscles. Behind his forced calmness, his mind was racing. It looked as if Forsythe had a compelling reason to get him off the ship—but what could it be? Was he trying to fend off more questions about what he had been doing when Ophelia Stanton was murdered?

Probing for a reaction, Wiki said blandly, “But I don't have any choice—the investigation, remember. There are more questions to be asked.”

Forsythe merely shrugged. “Ask whatever questions you bloody well want, but oblige me by getting it over and done with so you can get the hell off my ship.”

Wiki's next thought was a still more disturbing one—that it involved the Samoans. He said sharply, “Was there some trouble with the crew while I was on board the
Porpoise?
”

“Nothing that I can't handle—and it's none of your goddamn business anyway.”

“But it is, if it's something to do with the Kanakas.”

“And what the devil gives you that strange idea?”

“Ask Captain Ringgold, if you need to check.”

“Ah.” Forsythe closed one eye and adopted a wise look. “So that's why you were sent for, huh? Is friend Cadwallader having some trouble with his Kanakas?” Then, when Wiki's silence had dragged on long enough for him to realize that he was never going to get an answer, he lifted his voice and shouted to the Samoans, “Do you have some kind of complaint to make to Mr. Coffin here? If so, here's your chance.”

Both men looked startled, and then Wiki saw Sua's lips move briefly by Jack Savvy's ear. They both shook their heads and disappeared down the forecastle hatch. If there had been trouble, obviously they were going to handle it themselves—but not on board the ship. On the night of the storm he and Jack Savvy had not had time to introduce themselves at full length, but since then they had exchanged
whakapapa,
and Wiki had found that this warrior from the island of Savai'i was the son of a paramount chief. If the fleet dropped anchor there—which he believed was part of the navy's plan—then it was Lieutenant Forsythe who would find himself in trouble.

“That bein' settled,” drawled Forsythe, “why don't you ask your goddamn questions and get going?”

Wiki said dryly, “Do you really want the whole ship to hear?”

“I've got nothing to hide, damn it!”