Deadly Shoals Read online

  The cry came back faintly: “Getting ready to fire the countryside!”

  As Wiki was relaying this to Stackpole, they were overtaken from behind by Manuel Bernantio and his gaucho band, traveling at full gallop. They had heard the news of the invasion, and now, filled with bloodlust and the prospect of loot, were off to join the fight. Swinging their ponchos, they thundered by, hollering as they went.

  Gradually the commotion diminished, as the women, children, and cattle disappeared in one direction, and the gauchos in the other. Wiki and Stackpole hurried in the wake of Bernantio’s party, with Wiki worrying about the Swallow, and reassuring himself that the United States was not at war with France. Men at the foot of the sandstone cliffs, which were much closer now, could be seen gathering up brush for fuel, preparing to set fire to the scrub. He could now guess where the salt harvesters had gone.

  They arrived in El Carmen in a clatter of hooves, to find the streets silent and deserted. Adams’s store was firmly locked, with the shutters up over the windows, and there was no answer when they hammered at the door. Wiki remounted his horse and sat in the saddle looking around, and then said, “The fort’s empty, too. The governor will be at the estuary with his troops.”

  Stackpole was looking saddle-sore, and very much the worse for wear. His clothes were smeared with salt and extremely dusty, and his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed.

  He said, “So what next?”

  “I’m heading back to the river mouth to learn what’s happening.” And make sure the Swallow was not under attack. “And then I’ll find the governor and report the murder.”

  “Well, I’m staying.”

  “What about the Trojan? Aren’t you worried about the French squadron?”

  Stackpole snorted. “Why should I worry? My mate will have her well out to sea, cruising for whales the way I told him. It’s a lot more important to find Rowland Hallett and shake my money out of him, the cheating bastard. There’s that closemouthed clerk, too. He won’t get away with silence so easy this time.”

  “But what about the French? What if they take El Carmen?”

  “I’m American, aren’t I? And I ain’t worth robbing, anyway.”

  Wiki hesitated, torn between his sense of responsibility to the victim of Adams’s theft and his fears for the brig Swallow. The weather was deteriorating fast, and the older loyalty won. He wheeled his horse, crying, “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

  If I can, he thought, but still didn’t change his mind. Slapping the reins, he dashed down the shallow steps that led to the river, turned onto the riverside path, and hurried in the direction of the sea, where a great bank of black clouds was forming. Twice, in the distance, he saw the quick flicker of lightning.

  It wasn’t until he was a half mile away that the horrid thought occurred to him—that Hallett might not be just a thief. The man who had cheated Stackpole of his money could also be the man who’d killed Adams.

  * * *

  It was mid-afternoon before Wiki reached the sidetrack that led past the ranch where he had hired the horses and on up to the headland. It looked more treacherous than he remembered, winding steeply upward through scrub and sliding screes of gravel. Most horses would have been too tired after the trek to attempt the climb, but his mare was a hardy gaucho steed, and after a bit of kicking on Wiki’s part she obliged, finally lunging over the top with a snort and a shake that shivered sweat off her shoulders.

  Wiki sat up straight in his saddle to scan the promontory for any sign of soldiers—either the governor’s troops or the invading French. However, the scene was empty, apart from birds and a few scurrying small animals, and he wondered where the gauchos had gone. Encouragingly, however, he could just discern a flagstaff lifting out of what seemed to be thick fog in the distance, and recognized it as the one that stood above the beach and the pilothouse.

  A wind whisked up, sending the fringes of his poncho flying, and heavy spots of rain smacked against his face, forcing him to duck his head. For a while, though he cantered briskly through thickening weather, the flagpole did not seem to come closer. It wasn’t until the sun was low in the sky, penetrating the fog and silvering the edges of the black-bellied clouds, that he abruptly arrived at the edge, to look down on the beach where he and Stackpole had landed the morning before.

  Wiki immediately spied the squadron, because the ships were just a mile off, floating between rolling banks of mist. Seagulls patrolled the sky above the masts, their screeching faint with distance. For a transient moment the vessels were sharply delineated in a column of misty light slanting down to the sea from a hole in the roiling clouds. Wiki could see every detail, and count the ships, too—a couple of large sloops of war, a gun brig, a smaller brig, and two schooners … The so-called enemy French squadron was the United States Exploring Expedition!

  He laughed out loud, because it was so easy to guess what had happened. The fleet had emerged from the fog, and the local populace, being in a state of terrified expectation already, had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  Then Wiki saw that the expedition was accompanied by a flamboyantly overcanvased brigantine. Like the other ships, she was vividly familiar—being none other than Captain William Coffin’s Salem trader Osprey! What the devil, Wiki thought, was his father up to? The last time he had talked with him it had been in Rio, a couple of days before they had all weighed anchor, and the last time he had seen the brigantine Osprey was when the Vincennes and then the Peacock had run afoul of her. The damage had been relatively minor, or so Wiki had been assured, and Captain Coffin should be homeward bound. So what had happened since?

  Just as the fog closed in again, Wiki saw that one of the expedition schooners was beating her way into the mouth of the Río Negro, and recognized the Sea Gull. She was making a pretty mess of it, too, as she was heading unerringly for the shoals. If she kept on the same course she’d be stranded on a bar within an hour, he calculated, easy prey for whatever unseen ambush was lying in wait on the banks of the river. However, he could not see what happened next. Frustratingly, the clouds came down, accompanied by squalls of rain. Surely her captain had ordered a retreat, he thought, and kicked his mare into moving again.

  Scenting grass and water, she readily obliged, cantering down the narrow track that meandered through bushes, and arriving at the open door of the pilothouse just as dark fell. Wiki jumped down, and tied her to the hitching rail. He called out, but got no answer, and when he went inside and lit a lamp, it was to find that the two pilots had absconded, which was not particularly surprising, considering that one of them was French. Otherwise, the cabin looked just as it had the day before. Strangely, the weapons were still hanging on the wall—cutlasses, carbines, and pikes, all burnished and in excellent condition, which made Wiki wonder what arms the pilots were carrying.

  They had abandoned their stores as well, taking the liquor instead, which didn’t worry Wiki a jot, because like most of his people he had no taste for spirits. To his delight, there was a wheaten loaf of the durable kind that was usually sold in pulperías. He split this, daubed it generously with good butter scooped from the cowhide bag in which it had been churned by being towed behind a horse, and then sprinkled it with coarse brown sugar that he found in a little sack, usually kept for sweetening maté. It went down well, because he was very hungry, not having eaten since the night before.

  After finishing off his meal, Wiki filled a basin for his mare from the rainwater cask outside the door. The night was clammy, filled with swirling mist, and the slurping noises as she drank seemed unnaturally loud. Then he frowned as he heard distant shouts echoing over the water. My God, he thought, the schooner Sea Gull had kept on course, blindly heading for the estuary! His sight had adjusted to the dark, so he didn’t go inside for the lamp, instead heading down the path to warn them about the waiting troops.

  When he arrived on the riverbank the sounds were louder, lookouts calling urgently as the bottom became treacherous, but no soldiers rushed
out of the scrub. Wiki heard many thumps and rattles as long sweeps were put out, and swishing sounds as the crew rowed hard, making great efforts to clear the shoals. Inevitably, however, the schooner grounded. The misty night was rent by a great deal of loud American cursing as the crew tried without avail to get her off. Clanking of chains followed, and a couple of splashes as the anchors were dropped.

  Silence—and then with a hiss and a roar a rocket ripped up through the fog and exploded in a blinding blue glare. Wiki stood up in the reflected light and shouted, “Ahoy, a boat, if you please!”

  Instead, a rifle shot slammed out. It was the flat, dull clap of a gun aimed directly at him. Wiki dived headlong into the bushes.

  He hugged the ground, his heart hammering with fright, keeping very still as he listened to the sounds of the schooner lowering a boat, and that boat being rowed to shore. It seemed to take them a long time to make up their minds to jump out and wade to the bank. Even after they finally clambered onto high ground, asking each other where the mysterious voice had come from, he remained in hiding, having no intention of being shot at again, particularly from such close quarters.

  Finally, the boat party gave up looking, and blundered along the path, one of them shouting that he’d seen a light—the lantern Wiki had left on the table. He clambered to his feet and followed at a wary distance. He could hear the men calling out to each other that they had found a horse hitched to the post outside the pilothouse, and after that sounds of rummaging inside the cabin.

  Judging that they were all safely inside, he yelled again, “Ahoy!”

  Silhouettes appeared in the lit rectangle of the doorway. There were at least six men, all aiming guns, and Wiki instantly dropped flat again. “I’m unarmed!” he shouted from the ground.

  “Who goes there?” a panicky voice hollered, and then, without waiting for an answer, “Come out with your hands up!”

  Wiki slowly stood, his spread palms raised. No one moved, but the weapons were still leveled. Very cautiously indeed, his stomach clamped with expectant dread, he took a pace into the shaft of light that fell out of the doorway.

  No one, thankfully, pulled a trigger, but even when the party could see his face, the reception didn’t get any friendlier. Instead, the foremost demanded with his pistol lifted menacingly, “Have you come to parley?”

  “Parley?” echoed Wiki, astonished.

  “You’re one of them suspicious gauchos, ain’t you?”

  Wiki said blankly, “Me?” Then he remembered the poncho and red silk bandanna, and hastily said, “I’m Wiki Coffin.”

  “Who?”

  “I belong to the brig Swallow.”

  “What?”

  Oh, for God’s sake, thought Wiki. Then, to his vast relief, a man at the back of the group said, “Isn’t he Captain Wilkes’s native translator?”

  “That’s me,” said Wiki emphatically. Oddly, however, he didn’t know the speaker, even when he stepped forward into the lamplight. The fellow was distinctive enough, being a middle-aged man with deep-set, intelligent eyes, fluffy russet side-whiskers, and a leonine head of reddish-brown hair, but Wiki couldn’t remember ever having seen him before.

  “Titian Peale,” the other said helpfully.

  The name meant nothing. Wiki said, “You’re one of the artists?”

  He saw the other smile slightly. “Naturalist, based on the Peacock.”

  “I see,” said Wiki, though he was none the wiser. “What are you doing on the Sea Gull?”

  “I’m one of the scientifics chosen to accompany Captain Ringgold on shore.”

  “But Captain Ringgold’s in command of the Porpoise, not the Sea Gull!”

  At this display of privileged knowledge the weapons were lowered, and Wiki was able to drop his hands. He asked, “Why did you shoot at me?”

  A seaman exclaimed, “Because you was one of them devils a-lyin’ in ambush, of course!”

  “You know about the ambush?” Wiki said, astonished.

  “Of course we know about the ambush! We spied a posse of more than thirty gauchos suspiciously reconnoitering us from the flagstaff on the top of the hill. Cap’n Wilkes sent off the Sea Gull to investigate, with Cap’n Ringgold in command, but the chart what he gave Cap’n Ringgold was wrong, and we got into the shoals, and then we got stuck on a sandbar. Night closed in and there we was a sitting duck, but though we fired a rocket for assistance, no one come to help! Then we heard you holler out for a boat, but how were we to guess that you was one of us? And why is the locals a-warring with us, anyways?”

  “They think you’re a French squadron come to rape and pillage,” Wiki told him, wondering what had happened to the gauchos. “And are even more scared than you are,” he added with a private grin.

  The party bridled indignantly at this, but protest was forestalled by the two river pilots, who materialized smelling highly of liquor. At once, Wiki said, “What happened to the troops? And the gauchos?”

  The French pilot executed a Gallic shrug, leaving the English one to say, “The sentries heard these fellows cursing in Yankee, so the gov’nor called ’em all off.”

  “So where is he?” Wiki felt anxious to report the discovery of Adams’s corpse and ask a few questions about the identity of Rowland Hallett, but before he could get a sensible answer Mr. Peale interrupted, saying to the Englishman, “Can you navigate the schooner out of the shoals?”

  “Of course, sir, once we have daylight.”

  “And pilot us up the river?”

  “Of course,” said the pilot promptly, and repeated the word, “Sir,” at the prospect of such a lucrative commission. Then he invited them all to partake of liquid hospitality, but much to the regret of the seamen Mr. Peale firmly but politely turned the offer down, and after making arrangements for the pilot to come on board in the morning, he led the way out of the cabin.

  It was a lot easier for the boat’s crew to find the schooner than it had been for them to locate the landing place, because someone on the Sea Gull had been brave enough to hang lanterns in the rigging. Then, with a hail and a click, the bow of the boat touched the side of the schooner, and with a single jump Wiki arrived on deck. He had never called on the 110-ton craft before, but he had visited her sister ship, the schooner Flying Fish, and stepping on board was just as easy. Not only was the little craft only a fraction higher out of the water than the boat but she had hardly any bulwarks.

  It was even easier to recognize the tall figure of Captain Ringgold, with his flop of fine, fair hair, and patrician, clean-shaven features. One of the older members of the expedition at the age of thirty-seven, he was also one of the most popular, known for running a taut and happy ship. However, he looked irate enough as he bellowed at the boat’s crew, “What the devil do you mean by bringing one of those goddamned desperadoes on board?”

  “It’s Wiki Coffin,” Mr. Peale informed him, arriving on board.

  “Wiki Coffin?” echoed Ringgold, and swung round and had another look. “Wiki, why the hell are you rigged up as a gaucho?” he demanded, losing none of his aggression. “Is it on account of the war? Are you pretending to be some sort of spy?”

  “Not at all,” said Wiki. “And there isn’t any war—it was just a comical mistake. As for me, I was simply investigating a robbery, only it turned out to be a murder. Tell me,” he went on, “did you happen to raise a sealer when you were on the way into the coast?”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  And Wiki proceeded to explain.

  Five

  January 27, 1839

  “Forget this murder,” Captain Ringgold crisply instructed in the morning.

  Wiki frowned. “Just like that?” He and Ringgold were standing on the diminutive deck of the schooner, watching the boat being put overboard ready for a return to shore. The early wind was chilly, and Wiki pulled his poncho closer.

  “Even a blind fool could see what happened. Adams stole the schooner after he bought her from Hallett, sent her uprive
r to load with salt, packed goods from his own store to provision her, and then was murdered by some local ruffian who dumped his corpse in the desert and sailed off with the prize. It’s a matter for the governor’s attention, not ours. Report it to him, and put it out of your mind. Do you hear me?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Wiki, though he wondered what Stackpole would say about it, and wondered, too, if the whaling master had had any luck in tracking down either Hallett—who might not be as innocent as Captain Ringgold suggested—or the clerk. He also thought that if Ringgold had been the one to find the half-buried corpse, he would not be nearly so dismissive of the matter.

  “And you should’ve reported to the governor the moment you arrived in El Carmen,” Ringgold continued, quite unaware of this. “Even a blithering idiot could see that informing him the expedition was on the way would’ve prevented all this panic and confusion. And why the devil did you cut your hair?” he demanded with a disconcerting change of subject. “At least it was tidy when you tied it back, even though it made you look like an out-of-work opera singer, but now it’s a bloody disgrace.”

  “I thought the bandanna would keep it neat,” protested Wiki, who had no intention whatsoever of revealing the romantic reason for cutting his hair.

  “It’s mostly on account of that red rag that you look like a rascal of a gaucho. You’re damned lucky you weren’t shot as a spy during the fright about the French,” opined Ringgold, who appeared to have spies on the brain. “Or hanged,” he went on meditatively. “Did you know that the great Connecticut patriot Nathan Hale, the first American spy of the Glorious Revolution, was hanged by the British?”

  “Good heavens, was he?” murmured Wiki.

  “He was,” Ringgold assured him. “And where the hell is the pilot? Mr. Peale was positive he’d be here by dawn to get us up the river.”