Deadly Shoals by Joan Druett

sacque.
    He said, “I meant his Maori name.”
    â€œIn the crew list, he is also put down as Tuatti.”
    Te Aute, Wiki thought. Even more warily, he asked, “Do you know the name of his home village in New Zealand?”
    â€œHe said a name that sounded like Maketu, and told me that it is on the east coast of your northern island.”
    Wiki said nothing, but his face had given him away, because Mr. Hale said with disappointment, “You aren’t pleased?”
    That was a gross understatement, but Wiki merely said, “His tribe is different to mine. He is Ngati Porou; I am Ngapuhi.”
    â€œSo he will not be overjoyed to meet you?”
    He’s much more likely to kill me, Wiki thought.
    *   *   *
    They cantered around the next bend to find that the party had stopped in an untidy huddle, because a man was standing in the middle of the path. This time, it was not the courtly customs man, but instead a portly fellow wearing the complete costume of a gaucho. His shirt was red-striped, and there was a red sash about his rotund waist, which held up his calzoncillos —long white drawers. Scarlet chiripá Turkish trousers were draped about the underpants, drawn up between his legs and lashed fore and aft to the sash, which was reinforced by a traditional broad leather belt. One of the huge facóns that the gauchos made by snapping a sword short and then sharpening it to a wicked point was thrust slantwise into the back of his belt. A folded poncho hung over one shoulder.
    The apparition called out heartily, “¡Che!”
    Captain Ringgold turned in his saddle, and beckoned. Wiki cantered to the front of the crowd, summed up the fellow in one comprehensive glance, and said in English, “How do you do?”
    â€œDr. Ducatel, at your service,” replied the other in a broad Yankee accent, not a whit abashed.
    â€œYou’re another American?” exclaimed Captain Ringgold.
    â€œI am indeed—and proud of it, too.”
    â€œMy God, how many of the rascals are there?” muttered Ringgold.
    â€œHe’s a surgeon,” Wiki informed him, seeing Ducatel’s brows shoot up at the news that he was known to this brown stranger.
    Ringgold, however, looked even less impressed. “A doctor ?” he expostulated. “How long have you been living in this hole, for God’s sake?”
    The surgeon transferred his gaze to the sky, evidently counting, because he finally said, “Five years? Perhaps as few as four.”
    â€œDoing what ?”
    â€œA variety of things, sir—a medley of accomplishments! To put it in a nutshell,” Ducatel elaborated freely, “I graduated from the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons in 1832, but while the degree was substantial, my funds were slight. Accordingly, I signed articles as a ship’s surgeon, but then made the unfortunate choice of leaving the ship at Montevideo. I’d heard that médicos were in short supply up the Río Negro, the most southern outpost of civilization in the Americas, and so I journeyed here. And, believe it or not, sir, I actually did quite well for a while! However, the tyrant of Buenos Aires has put an end to that, so you see me making my money any way I can. Is your business urgent?” he inquired. “I’ve good beef to sell, if you need it in a hurry.”
    So this was why he’d lain in wait, Wiki deduced—when the ex-surgeon had heard rumors that the so-called French squadron was really an American fleet, he’d scented profitable trade. When Ringgold said nothing, evidently having lost track sometime during the monologue, Wiki said quickly to Ducatel, “Tell me, when did you last see Caleb Adams?”
    â€œWhy do you ask?” the surgeon said, puzzled. “I’ve been away for the past ten days, upcountry, and didn’t see much of him even before that.”
    â€œWiki,” said Ringgold