Free A Watery Grave by Joan Druett Page B

his mind, he would’ve been blamed for the murder and hanged for it, too!”
    There was dead silence while they looked at each other in speculation. Around them the rigging creaked comfortably and canvas billowed out in a series of great white wings. Sixty feet below their perch, the deck of the brig plunged and rose. The man at the helm was steering full and by, but without paying proper attention to the weather clew of the main topgallant sail, so that every now and then water spatted over the rail and along the deck. However, Captain Rochester was too lost in thought to pay heed.
    â€œPut that way, it looks as if the murderer planned to use Tristram Stanton as a scapegoat,” he said at last. “So who hated him enough?”
    â€œThe sheriff told me about a cousin, John Burroughs; that they are deadly enemies,” said Wiki. “It seems that though Burroughs has pots of money he refused to help out the Stantons when they needed it, and some kind of feud has built up since.”
    â€œThat doesn’t look like a good motive for killing Stanton’s wife, not to me,” Rochester objected. “If there really is a feud, it seems more likely that Tristram Stanton would kill him! And anyway,” he went on, “don’t the astronomics fellows have to work together in some kind of amicable fashion?”
    Wiki frowned, shook his head, and said, “ E hoa, what are you talking about?”
    â€œJohn Burroughs—he’s with the expedition.”
    â€œHe’s … what? He can’t be!”
    â€œHe’s assistant astronomer, stationed on the Porpoise, ” said George with dignity. “I’ll show you the crew list if you don’t believe me.”
    â€œDear God,” cried Wiki, struck by a sudden appalling thought. “We have to join the fleet before it’s too late!”

Six
    Even if he could not comprehend the need for speed, Rochester gallantly responded to the challenge. The elements, however, were not nearly so cooperative. The moderate gale that had been blowing fair and steady hauled to the northeast in the middle watch of the night, which was not only unfavorable but worked up a nasty cross sea as well. For days the waves ran in rows like jackknives, with dark valleys between them, and the brig bounced and banged like a carriage on a rutted road. To Rochester’s mind, the only satisfactory aspect of the weather was that Astronomer Stanton was seasick—laid so low, in fact, that George was spared his silent and surly presence.
    Then even that contrary wind failed utterly, leaving the brig to lurch about unhappily on a sea that looked like a rippling sheet of glass but still held a sadistic swell, effectively keeping Stanton pinned to his berth. Every now and then a puff would come scudding in cat’s-paws across the water, and the sails would billow briefly as they met it, flapping against the masts. Every time, though, they flopped again as the little breeze died, lifeless as wet laundry on a line. Then again the wind would gently gust, but from another quarter, and around the yards would go, while all the time the smell of hot tar rose in the air as the deck boards heated and flexed and tempers on board became short.
    By taking advantage of every breath, they gained five miles; but then they lost it all in a squall. Trying to guess the position of the fleet was equally heartbreaking—had Wilkes been delayed by the same fit of doldrums? It was impossible to tell; all they could do was steer for Madeira and hope to find the ships there. When at long last the wind finally swung back to favorable, the brig was sailing in an ocean that was apparently quite empty. Worse still, Astronomer Stanton was back to making his surly presence felt at the table.
    â€œâ€˜Mackerel skies and mares’ tales,’” Rochester recited, scanning the cloud-flecked, oyster-colored sky after taking their position at noon;