Run Afoul Page 3

  Now the short, square man looked around, and inquired eagerly about his hero, who was nowhere in sight. Wiki reassured him, and then said to Sua, “Why the fish?”

  Sua grinned. “Festin was worried about what kind of rations were available on board this boat, and so we went fishing this morning.” Then, after a surreptitious glance about the decks, he said in English, “What’s the grub like, anyways?”

  “Shocking,” said Wiki. He looked in the basket. There were about a dozen fine flying fish—maroro—inside, their huge eyes gleaming with the luster of only recently departed life. The two Samoans would have caught them Pacific fashion, he thought, by lowering a boat in the dark before dawn, with a lantern set behind the sail. These fish would have come flying in from the night, slapped against the canvas, and crashed into the bottom of the boat.

  They would also be delicious. “Come with me, e hoa ma,” said Wiki, with enthusiasm, and headed for the captain’s galley on the foredeck.

  The cook came out to meet them. He was a battered-looking, one-legged black man, wearing an extremely suspicious expression. An old scar slashed across the top of his forehead, so that he looked like the ill-used relict of some past battle. His eyes slid from Sua to Tana and back to Wiki. Then, completely unintimidated by the three stalwart Polynesians and their strange little companion, he spat in the direction of the rail, and sourly observed, “That’s a damn lot of fish.”

  “It is,” Wiki agreed smugly.

  “You expect me to cook it?”

  “I don’t,” Wiki informed him, and looked around for Lieutenant Smith—who, as usual, was absent when most needed—and wondered why the devil he hadn’t told this man that he was being replaced.

  He waved an arm at Festin. “This gentleman is the new chef.”

  “What the bloody hell?”

  “Lieutenant Smith will give formal notification,” Wiki said firmly. Then he turned to Festin, and said, “E hoa, nadacowaldam—this is now your galley.”

  Festin eyed the cook, and the cook stared at Wiki, with indentically aggressive expressions. The Acadian said, “Awani agema? Who bloody he?”

  “Soon he will go away,” Wiki said optimistically. “Just fix the fish.”

  It took some multilingual argument, but finally Festin set to with his knife, while the man he was supposed to be supplanting watched with a supercilious air. Another few minutes, and fins and tails had been lopped off with satisfying celerity, and the Acadian was cutting slits along the backbone and across each side of the fish. When Wiki looked at the old peg leg again, it was to find that he had retired to a patch of sunlight by the scuttlebutt, and was smoking a pipe with a virtuous air, obviously waiting to reclaim his realm. Smith had still not put in an appearance, so Wiki asked Sua and Tana to keep an eye on Festin, just in case a ruckus broke out, took over his sea chest, and headed for the afterhouse.

  Lieutenant Smith was not there, either. Instead, as Wiki shoved his chest beneath the double berth of his stateroom, he could hear Captain Wilkes and Captain Ringgold in the big drafting room. Both were laughing, Captain Wilkes seeming very amused by Ringgold’s blunder in mistaking the Dutchman for the Vin. Quite a contrast to the way his tardy arrival from Shark Island had been received, Wiki thought wryly, then heard footsteps approaching.

  He turned hopefully, thinking it might be Lieutenant Smith at last, but instead it was a thin, lugubrious man with prematurely gray hair, a desiccated, skull-like face, and badly stooped shoulders. He was holding a large chamber pot in his left hand, which hung forward from his fingers so that Wiki, fascinated, could see that there was a portrait of Napoleon painted in the bottom.

  He had only met the man holding the pot twice before, but recognized him immediately—Astronomer Grimes, who had been a witness in a case of murder early in the voyage. As Wiki remembered vividly, getting testimony out of him had been difficult, as the scientific had been utterly appalled at the very notion of being questioned by a South Seas savage. Now, it seemed not only that Grimes was the man who had come from the Porpoise with Captain Ringgold, but that he was to sleep in the lower bunk, which was not a pleasant prospect at all.

  Obviously, the astronomer felt the same way. He exclaimed, “You!”—and took such a fast backward step that he crashed into Jack Winter, who was carrying a couple of his bags. Then he fell into a furious fit of coughing, which sent tears down his cheeks and stooped his back even more.

  Wiki waited, thinking that this boded badly for the nights ahead. Grimes smelled sour, as if he were prone to cold sweats, and his collar was very dirty. When the wet, hacking noises stopped, he said, “Dr. Olliver told me that an instrumentmaker was moving in here. He said nothing about an astronomer.”

  “I am an instrumentmaker. I was only an astronomer’s assistant,” Grimes said. “If you cast back your mind, you would remember that when I joined the fleet I was Dr. Burroughs’s instrumentmaker and assistant.”

  Wiki also remembered that Grimes had joined the expedition only because Dr. Burroughs, a very rich man whose hobby was astronomy, had paid handsomely for the privilege. Originally, Captain Wilkes had been determined that no civilian surveyors should be shipped, having given himself the role of expedition astronomer, something for which he was well qualified, as everyone knew that he had learned triangulation methods of survey from Ferdinand Hassler, and geomagnetism from James Renwick, a professor at Columbia College. However, he had been persuaded to make an exception in Grimes’s case, as a favor to a friend.

  “So why have you been shifted?”

  “To carry out duties as Captain Wilkes’s instrumentmaker. We’ll be conducting a protracted series of pendulum experiments at Rio de Janeiro, which are part of a series intended to establish the precise force of gravity.”

  Wiki frowned, because this was the first he had heard that they were to stay at Rio for any length of time. Occasionally, though he greatly respected Captain Wilkes’s intelligence, he couldn’t help but wonder about his state of mind. While it was supposed to be a secret, every man in the whole fleet knew that they were supposed to mount a search for the continent of Antarctica before the southern summer ended in February—and it was now November, and time was running out fast. Was Captain Wilkes determined to arrive in Antarctic seas so late in the season he would endanger the lives of all?

  Grimes interrupted his thoughts by saying crossly, “So why are you sharing this cabin with me? I had my own room on the Porpoise, and I don’t wish to live with anyone here, particularly not with a Kanaka.”

  “It’s on Captain Wilkes’s orders,” Wiki said stiffly. “If you have any complaints, then he’s the man you should tackle. In fact, I wish you would.”

  “I certainly will,” Grimes flashed right back—and at that unfortunate moment Festin appeared in the doorway, apparently having tracked down Wiki by the sound of his voice.

  In his mixture of dialect and the profane English he had learned from Forsythe, he said plaintively, “The officer gave orders for Tana and Sua to go back to the brig, and then that old bastard of a cook threw me out of my galley.”

  Oh God, thought Wiki, feeling completely at a loss. Then the Acadian complained, “No one has even told me where I will sleep.”

  Wiki did not have a notion where the afterhouse cook slept. When he asked Jack Winter, the plump steward bridled, and snapped, “Not in my room, I assure you!”

  “Your room?” It was the first Wiki had ever heard of a steward having a room of his own. On the brig Swallow, Stoker, the steward, bunked with the cook, the boatswain, and the sailmaker.

  “I took the liberty of slinging a hammock in the storeroom.”

  With the rats, meditated Wiki, remembering the fat vermin that had run out of the storeroom the night before. He grimaced. The rats were bad enough, but because of his childhood training, he knew without doubt that laying one’s head where food was stored was very wrong.

  He said, “Where the devil is Lieutenant Smith?”

  Jack Winter looked around,
and shrugged. “The officers’ wardroom?”

  “And where, pray, is that?”

  “On the gun deck, aft.”

  Gun deck. For a moment the word made no sense. Infuriatingly, Wiki was aware that Jack Winter, having the advantage of an extra five days on board the Vincennes, was gazing at him loftily, in a most superior fashion. Then he was saved by a memory of being escorted about the three levels of the flagship by the junior midshipmen of the Vincennes, several long weeks ago.

  The deck where the afterhouse stood, he recollected, was called “the spar deck.” Save for the afterhouse and various structures on the foredeck, it was open to the air. Next down came the gun deck, and below that was the berth deck, which was just above the holds. The little Swallow had only two levels—the open deck, where the fifteen-man crew worked, and the deck below, which was divided into after cabin, steerage, and forecastle. Suddenly, the adjustment he was forced to make seemed overwhelming again.

  Then Festin whined in English, “I want sleep here with you.”

  “Here?” exclaimed Mr. Grimes. The instrumentmaker’s voice was high with utter horror. “In this room?”

  “On floor,” elaborated Robert Festin, grinning coaxingly.

  “Impossible!” Grimes shrieked.

  “He can’t sleep in the same room with Mr. Grimes,” said Jack Winter, his tone shocked. “It ain’t bloody nice, if you’ll excuse my biblical language.”

  Wiki agreed. If he had been alone, he would have had no problem with Festin curling up in a blanket on the floor—or on the spare bunk, for that matter—but coping with a hysterical instrumentmaker and an obstinate Acadian cook at one and the same time was unthinkable. Accordingly, he took a firm grip of Festin’s collar and hauled him down the corridor, while the Acadian squirmed, saying, “Please, Wiki, please.”

  Hardening his heart, Wiki carried on to the nearest hatchway ladder, keeping a sharp eye out for Lieutenant Smith. As they descended, darkness rose to surround them. The gun deck was very dim, because the skylight had been taken away when the afterhouse had been built, and so it was lit with scuttles only. Farther forward, Wiki could just see the eight twenty-four-pounder carronades which, with the two nine-pounder chasers on the main deck, was all that was left of the sloop’s original cannonry. They were lashed along the sides amidships, and their shiny black paint gleamed faintly in the light that peeked in about the edges of the shut gunports.

  In the wide space between each pair of guns, chests and lockers were stacked against the side of the ship. A tin number was nailed to the wall above them to tell the number of the mess that gathered to eat their meals here. Wiki wondered how the devil he would manage to find a number for Festin, who was now grumbling constantly in an undertone. There were more metal ciphers fastened above hammock hooks driven into the heavy beams, and he gathered that each seaman had a hammock number, too. The job of getting Festin settled was becoming more daunting by the minute.

  Far forward, Wiki could glimpse occupied hammocks hanging like ripe fruit, swaying gently with the slow roll of the ship, the off-duty seaman inside each one snoring away the last half hour of his watch below. Beyond the sleeping shapes, immediately before the foot of the foremast, implike silhouettes labored in front of a fire—cooks working at the ship’s galley, where the food for the ship’s common company was cooked.

  It was tempting to walk the length of the ship, and take Festin there, but instead Wiki turned toward the stern. At last the Acadian’s stream of plaintive complaints had silenced. Apart from the creak of the hull, a few footsteps from above, and the squeak of ropes, this part of the ship seemed very quiet—unnaturally so. Then Wiki heard a queer, loud pattering.

  Festin whined with superstitious horror. The fine hairs on the nape of Wiki’s neck quivered. Then he glimpsed a gray flow of movement, and swung around, narrowly missing cracking his head on a beam. He saw a dozen rats scuttle from one shadowed partition to another in a quick, ragged procession, swore softly to himself, took a firmer grip on the shivering Festin, and carried on.

  Here, in the after part of the gun deck, cabins lined both sides of the ship. Through some of the open doors he could see the clutter of officers’ gear, and recognized Forsythe’s stateroom by the great rack of antlers that hung on the wall, but the Virginian was nowhere to be seen. From the farthest door aft came such a happy commotion that Wiki realized that it led to the lieutenants’ wardroom—and was right, because as they hove up to the door, he could hear Lawrence J. Smith’s self-satisfied voice as he related some long, boring tale to a long-suffering fellow officer. Thank God, he thought. Even Festin looked relieved.

  Indeed, the Acadian’s expression, as he looked up at Wiki, was surprisingly cheerful—and yet at the same time full of cunning. “I cook something very tasty and nice for Mr. Grimes, and he say yes, I bet,” he announced, going on to confide, “We won’t take no notice of that bloody Jack Winter, not when Mr. Grimes say different.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Wiki. Without putting any thought to what Festin had said, he knocked firmly on the wardroom door.

  Four

  When Wiki arrived back in the saloon, it was to find Dr. Olliver ensconced in his usual chair, holding his filled wineglass high as he contemplated its ruby interior.

  As soon as he heard Wiki’s steps, he turned with alacrity, demanding, “And how is our murderous cook?”

  Wiki said patiently, “As Lieutenant Smith has already assured you, he is not a murderer.”

  “Are you quite certain of that?”

  “He was under suspicion, but was cleared—we found that someone else had carried out that particular crime. And right now,” Wiki added, “he’s fine.”

  As far as he knew, everything in the Acadian’s world was indeed fine. Lieutenant Smith, reluctantly pried away from the officers’ wardroom, had trotted off to the purser’s office with Festin in tow. Now, presumably, Robert Festin had a hammock, a mess, and a number, and had taken over the afterhouse galley, the old black peg leg cook having been sent about his business. There was no reason at all, Wiki thought hopefully, not to look forward to a delicious meal of fish.

  The coffee, when it arrived, was not a good augury, being as black and acrid as ever. When the ship suddenly pitched, though, Wiki caught both pot and mug in dexterous hands, simply out of habit. The Vincennes was under full sail again, scudding fast for Rio de Janeiro, and the sea was getting brisk. There was another hard pitch, so violent that the two rats came tumbling out from under the credenza, followed by three more. Wiki watched them as they flowed in a small gray tide along the skirting and then disappeared beneath the storeroom door.

  “They’re breeding like crazy,” observed Dr. Olliver, who was watching them, too. “The sailors used to catch them, and skin and dress them, and sell them to the junior midshipmen, who grilled and ate them, which helped to keep the numbers down. Now, however, supply has exceeded demand.”

  Wiki heard the click of a door and looked up, to see Captain Wilkes coming out of his cabin, which—as Dr. Olliver had indicated the day before—was sited on the starboard quarter, to the side of the drafting room. The purser was with him. They were both wearing uniform, and looked as if they were about to keep an appointment.

  Before anyone could speak, another door opened, and Captain Couthouy stepped out of his stateroom, along with a reek of decay and a couple of rats, which disappeared under the credenza. Captain Wilkes swerved around and snapped, “Mister Couthouy, did you not receive my note?”

  Captain Couthouy said distantly, “Note, Captain Wilkes?”

  “My note concerning your smell, sir—your stench! You’re lumbering up the ship with unpleasantness, Mr. Couthouy, and the smell is encouraging vermin—the ship is full of goddamned rats! How many times do I have to tell you not to bring your specimens into your room? They should not be inside at all—not here, and not below decks. Keep them out on the spar deck, sir—the spar deck! There are plenty of racks and tubs for the purpose.”
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br />   “On the open deck?” Couthouy’s voice rose in affront.

  “What’s wrong with the open deck, pray?”

  “It’s too bloody crowded, Captain Wilkes! The scientifics don’t have a decent space in which to work, not without the officer of the watch deigns to issue orders to that effect!”

  “Deigns, Mr. Couthouy? This is the U.S. Navy, sir, not your private goddamned yacht! I would remind you of my instructions,” Captain Wilkes said frostily. “The primary object of the expedition is the promotion of commerce and navigation. The Navy Department believes, and quite rightly so, that it is more important to chart the waters than to list their animal and vegetable contents. You will collect no more than one specimen of each variety, and that as small as possible, and you will not bring them into your room. If you don’t know where to stow them, ask the officer of the watch!”

  Then, ignoring Couthouy’s furiously red face, Captain Wilkes turned to the purser and said, “It’s time we made our appearance in the wardroom, Mr. Waldron. Our hosts will be awaiting.”

  And with that, the two officers marched off down the corridor. Wiki heard a distant stamp as the marine on sentry duty saluted, just before the ship executed a tremendous lurch to lee. Again, he caught the coffeepot and his mug, but the other mugs went tumbling to the floor with a multiple crash, echoed by many thuds from the deck outside, plus a fair amount of yelling. Dr. Olliver was calmly holding his decanter and wineglass poised in the air, while Couthouy hung on to the corner of the credenza.