John Betancourt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

Down the boat rattled, and down the four oarsmen jumped after it. Wiki settled himself on the amidships thwart, and picked up his oar. Miguel had the bow oar, right in the bows, and Isaac Norton steered, while Captain Smith sat in the stern sheets with a boat cloak around him to protect his best broadcloth. The pull to the shore was easy, but there was a lot of trouble landing. There was nothing much of a slipway, so the oarsmen had to jump out into the knee-deep surf and drag the boat up the shingle beach.

Right ahead were low stone buildings, their facades washed with lime, evidently boatsheds and storehouses. A crowd of fishermen with seamed brown faces turned from their net mending to stare at the boat, while urchins gathered and yelled with excitement. Captain Smith ordered Miguel to chat with the fishermen and try to find out if there was anyone on this island willing to ship for a whaling voyage to the South Pacific, and to tell them that a man with enough experience to wield a sure harpoon could expect a generous lay. Sometimes, he said, it was easier to find hands like that than it was to bargain with the village governor. Then he told Wiki to come with him, leaving Isaac and the other three oarsmen to look after the boat.

A narrow path zigzagged up the steep cliff. High above, Wiki could glimpse the low whitewashed wall of a plaza, and the silhouette of a belfry beyond it. Then, as he followed Captain Smith upward, the plaza and the bell tower were hidden by the bulge of the mountainside. It was growing hot, and dust kicked up from his boots. There was a kind of low furze growing out of the pebbles and stones that rimmed the seaward edge, and from it emanated a stinging camphorlike smell when Wiki brushed against it, which he couldn’t help doing, as the path was so very narrow in parts. There were small burrows pocking the face of the cliff to his left, and though he couldn’t glimpse any life inside them, Wiki imagined scorpions and spiders and sharp bird beaks. He thought that he wouldn’t like to traverse this very steep and narrow part of the path in the dark, when he would be forced to hug the cliff. The rocks and the sea seemed a long way below, and the Paths of Duty looked like a toy as she sailed slowly back and forth a half mile offshore. He could hear the distant yelling of the children as they vied for the strangers’ attention, but the boat, the buildings, and the men were all hidden beneath a precarious-looking overhang.

Then at last they breasted the top, and the sunbaked plaza was spread out before them, paved with irregularly shaped stones, with blindingly white adobe binding them. A number of men were waiting, all in black suits save for one in a black gown who was evidently the village priest. With wonderful dignity, they greeted Captain Smith in both English and Portuguese, then ushered him and Wiki inside the dark coolness of one of the houses that bounded the square and offered hospitality. They sat at the table and Wiki translated while the village dignitaries complimented him gravely on his facility with their tongue.

Otherwise, it was just like Fayal, with people bustling in and out with cabbages, onions, and oranges to sell, all of which Captain Smith bought in great quantity. When Wiki was sent outside at noon — it not being thought proper that a common seaman should dine with his superiors — it was to find that the farmers who had made their bargains with Captain Smith were bringing in great heaps of baskets ready for the Paths of Duty sailors to lug back down to the beach.

Wiki spent the time wandering around and enjoying himself. He liked the strange sights — stone walls covered with grapevines, the plows drawn by heavy cattle, the insect-bitten horses, and the pigs led around by rope harnesses. Women entirely dressed in black, with black scarves over their heads, came out of the doorways of their whitewashed cottages, and offered him hunks of chewy, freshly baked bread — bolo — with tiny hard-boiled eggs to eat, along with deep mugs of warm milk; they pinched his cheeks to see his creased-up grin, admired his olive skin, and told him that they were very relieved that he was going away on the American ship, as otherwise he would seduce their daughters. He asked many questions about Pico, and received many interesting answers.

All too soon he was called back inside. However, Captain Smith was in a good mood because he had found a replacement officer, a local who had risen as high as third mate on his last voyage on a New Bedforder, and who was looking for another berth. No sooner had Wiki witnessed the cross he put on the ship’s articles than an experienced harpooner presented himself at the door. Looking extremely gratified, Captain Smith sent them off, giving Wiki orders to tell Isaac to get the two new men to the ship, and then bring back three boats with their crews, because he needed twelve hands to lug his shopping down to the beach.

Wiki trudged back down the path in the hot mid-afternoon sun behind the new officer and harpooner, listening to them talking with each other, and watching his feet as he carefully pushed between the aromatic furze and the burrowed cliff face. The two local men didn’t seem to notice the dangers of the path at all; it was as if the steep plunge to the sea didn’t exist for them. When they got to the bottom, Isaac and Miguel were sitting on the bottom of the upturned boat, talking with a tall, dark-faced young man. The scene was peaceful enough, but no sooner had Wiki passed on Captain Smith’s orders than all hell broke loose.

Apparently, Miguel had promised the job of harpooner to the tall young man, whose name was Pedro. Not only was Pedro white lipped and furious when he found that the man with Wiki had been given the position already, but he refused to accept defeat. Instead, he demanded that Miguel resign from the ship so he could have his job; it was a matter of honor, he claimed. Then, when Wiki tried to reason with him, both Pedro and Miguel turned round and blamed him for the strange situation.

In the end, much to his relief, Isaac Norton, as the most senior crew member present, took charge. He ordered Wiki to take the boat to the ship with the new officer at the steering oar, while he went up to the plaza with Miguel and Pedro. By the time Wiki came back with the extra two boats, he said, Captain Smith would have sorted it out.

Wiki watched the three of them set off up the track, and then turned to the job of shoving the whaleboat back out into the surf. The other oarsmen, he saw, were eloquently rolling their eyes at the antics of Pedro and Miguel; the fishermen, who were still mending their nets, shook their heads in wonderment too. When they got to the ship, it seemed very peaceful on board, in contrast to events on shore. Mr. Starbuck, the first mate, listened to Wiki’s report, and then ordered two more boats lowered, and off they rowed again.

Not only did Wiki have his back to the beach as he pulled at his oar, but the lowering sun was in his eyes. Before he even turned round to look, however, he became acutely aware of the atmosphere of consternation and panic. As he helped haul the boat onto the shingle, he saw that the fishermen were no longer mending their nets. Instead, they were gathered around a body.

It was Miguel Dalgardo. By the state of his corpse it was not just obvious that he was irretrievably dead, but also that he had been killed by a long fall from the cliff. Wiki, who had come to like him while they were conversing in Portuguese, felt a stab of awful sadness.

Pedro stood at the back of the group, with a couple of fishermen standing close at either side of him like sentries, and his eyes sliding everywhere with shock and fear. It was obvious that the fishermen, having heard all the fuss when Pedro had claimed Miguel’s job, knew exactly who to blame for Miguel’s death — Pedro himself.