“Do what you will with her, if she’ll have you. I’ve done with her.”
“So you say, so you say.” The big seaman prodded Coffin with a knowing elbow. The barkeep discreetly edged away. “Bored with her, eh? I hope you ain’t used her up, though from what I’ve seen of her on the streets there’s still ample land left for plowin’.”
Coffin slowly put his empty tankard aside and turned once more to study the man. Very big, with his hair cut short and his face scarred by some sharp instrument.
“Friend, Mary Kinnegad is no whore. If she were, that would make me a whorer, wouldn’t it?”
The big man’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t follow you, sir. You’ve just confessed to breaking with the wench.”
“Her, yes. Her memory, no.”
The sailor hesitated, then smiled and tried to recapture the jollility of a moment earlier. “It ain’t her memory I aim to make use of.”
“What might you be called, friend?”
“Shaun Connaught. Formerly of Liverpool, lately of New South Wales. I was told there were places down here where an Australian ex-convict could make a life for himself without police to harry him, so I’ve spent these past two years seeing to the cleaning of ship’s bottoms, for I can hold my breath underwater longer than any man.” He drew himself up, continued boastfully, “I’m always in demand, for ’tis a rare ship puts into Kororareka that doesn’t have her bottom fouled.”
“Yes, I can see that you’re someone who’s spent a lot of his time under water. The continual submersion has obviously softened your head. Otherwise you wouldn’t be speaking of Irish Mary Kinnegad as you have.”
Connaught’s expression turned unpleasant. “Here now, Coffin, I don’t care how much money you have or what your position in this port may be, but you can be certain there’s nothing soft about me save my temper. Otherwise I’d have you by the shirt collar this instant and be shaking some manners into you.”
“If it’s manners you wish to discuss, friend Connaught, I’m willing to oblige you.”
The man’s companions retreated, murmuring excitedly. Connaught rolled up his sleeves and took a step back, curling his massive hands into fists.
“It seems I must teach you a lesson, sir, though it pains me to see a man take a beating for nothing. It’s one thing to fight over a woman, but middlin’ strange to do so for one you’ve confessed to giving up.”
Coffin eased off his stool. “Let me be the judge of what I fight for.”
“Hold!”
Both men turned toward the bar. John Fee stood next to his barkeep. The owner of the Crippled Raven faced the room holding a brace of naval pistols. He nodded behind him.
“Three times this year I’ve had to replace this mirror. Do ye know how difficult it be to find a mirror in this part of the world? I’ve no interest in your quarrel but much in its locale. Outside if you please, gentlemen.” He gestured with the pistols.
Coffin swung a hand toward the door. “After you, Mr. Connaught.”
“Nay, sir.” The sailor managed a mocking bow. “Gentlemen first.” Coffin nodded back and preceded his opponent to the exit.
A small crowd began to gather as the word spread. Not that fights were so rare as to draw attention in Kororareka, but there was plenty of novelty in the fact that this one involved a renowned bare-knuckler like Connaught and a reputable businessman like Coffin.
Connaught removed his shirt and handed it to one of his cronies. Betting had already begun. It favored the seaman two-to-one, for while Coffin was as tall he carried nowhere near as much weight as his challenger.
“A pound on Coffin!” shouted someone in the crowd.
“I’ll take that!” came the instant reply. “You’re a fool for betting on the squire. The sailor has a stone on him.”
“I’ll take it anyway.” The wagering surged back and forth among the pushing, shoving onlookers as the combatants readied themselves.
A sailmaker Coffin knew took charge of his shirt and jacket. Both men faced each other and began circling the circumference of an imaginary ring while the crowd cheered them on.
“I’ll try not to break anything vital, sir.” Connaught was grinning widely.
“Have a care it isn’t your hand,” Coffin responded.
“Try to end it afore sundown!” yelled one of the watchers. “I’ve got to be back aboard me ship by dark.”
By dark. Coffin hesitated as he glanced sideways toward the horizon. The sun was already low. How much time had he sipped away in the Crippled Raven?
“Bloody Hell,” he muttered.
Connaught stopped circling. “Now what’s this?”
“I can’t fight you, son of Liverpool.” Coffin’s declaration provoked moans from the crowds. “I’m desperately late for a vital business gathering.”
“Sir, I’ve no wish to harm your business, but I remind you we have important business of our own right here.”
“Another time, Mr. Connaught. I promise you.” Coffin was already redonning his shirt.
The sailor wasn’t mollified. “I’m not one for appointments, sir.”
“My apologies. Business first.” Slipping into his jacket, Coffin prepared to leave.
Connaught reached out and grabbed him. “I’m not one for leaving a discussion half completed.”
“Then we must make an end for it.”
Coffin’s fist moved so fast that several men in the crowd later swore they hadn’t seen it rise. For an instant a couple thought Connaught had been shot instead of struck. Indeed, the big sailor went down like a man who’d caught a bullet, a startled expression on his face. He hit the earth with a thud. Immediately his friends clustered above him.
One looked up. “He’s out cold.”
“Well struck!” shouted several members of the audience, while others yelled “Shame, shame!”
A well-respected merchant name of Briar stepped into the circle. “Nay. A bit of surprise there may have been, but the fellow was looking right at Mr. Coffin when he was hit. He had every chance to block the blow, dodge, or strike back. I declare Coffin a fair winner in the exchange.”
Instantly half a dozen new fights erupted among the crowd as disgruntled bettors began trying to settle their own disagreements as to what had happened. No one paid any further attention to Robert Coffin as he hurried up a side alley. The black mare he borrowed kicked dirt as he swung himself into her saddle.
Then he was flying down the main street, scattering sailors and wide-eyed citizens with fine impartiality.
9
Two hours of daylight left. Coffin cursed himself for a forgetful fool as he urged his mount onward. Goldman had reminded him of the flax sale. Today the Maoris would offer three months’ accumulation of raw flax and rope for purchase by the merchants of Kororareka. If he arrived too late, after everything had been sold, he’d have no rigging to proffer to ships’ pursers.
He forced himself to refrain from taking a whip to the mare. She wasn’t his and he didn’t know her limits. If he ran her down before reaching the trading site he’d be well and truly stranded. So he let her set her own pace and tried to will the setting sun to a halt. Once it fell below treetop level all trading would cease.
The journey seemed as long as the cruise back from South Island, but the sun still cast long shadows as he finally brought the foaming, panting horse to a stop by the hitching rail. Nearby, the ocean lapped at a rocky beach. Other horses stood stolidly where they’d been secured. None glanced up as he sprinted past them. There were a couple of imported buggies and empty wagons awaiting their owners’ purchases. Drovers gathered in small groups paused in their chatter and gambling to stare as he ran up the hill.
A few buyers turned to look at him when he arrived, out of breath and concerned, but the attention of most was focused on the center of the clearing where loud shouting was proof the sale wasn’t over.
Beneath the trees several crudely fashioned tables had been hammered together. Each table displayed hea
vy bundles of cleaned flax and raw rope. There was little remaining. Men were already starting to carry paid-for loads back toward the wagons below.
A few lean-tos stood off to one side of the clearing. They shielded men in business suits from sun and rain. They were trading figures and gossip as the sale wound down. Coffin recognized most of them. Some were principals but most were Elias Goldman’s counterparts, representatives of the leading merchants of Kororareka. Of the latter group only William Langston had elected to appear in person. Though Langston was a competitor, Coffin considered trying to buy some of his stock.
On the far side of the clearing stood a simple Maori meeting house. It was devoid of the elaborate woodwork for which the natives were justly famed. It was suitable as a temporary structure only, though it put the Europeans’ lean-tos to shame.
Chiefs stood outside and conversed quietly. Their own finery was as elegant as anything one might encounter parading the Strand. One cloak in particular caught Coffin’s attention; a full-length robe made entirely of rare kea feathers.
He started toward Langston. At the last instant he swerved instead toward someone clad differently from merchant and Maori, a man whose replies were less likely to be couched in commercial terms.
“Parson Methune?”
The man turned a sunburned face up to him. He was lean as a slab of salt pork and almost as young as Coffin. “Robert Coffin. I’m surprised to see you here so late. You’ve missed most of the business.”
“I know that, Parson,” he said impatiently. “What I need to know now is how that business proceeded, and who gained what?”
Methune smiled. “God deals equally with all men, Robert.”
“All right, I know. A suitable contribution will find its way onto the collection plate. Now tell me: how went the bidding?”
“The heathen quickly disbursed nearly all their wares.”
“Who did the buying?”
Methune didn’t hesitate. “I think you know Tobias Hull.”
Damnation! Hull wouldn’t sell Robert Coffin enough rope to hang himself. He strained to search the crowd of buyers. Hull wasn’t under the lean-tos. That was like him. He didn’t fancy himself a gentleman like Ablemare or John Halworthy. Hull kept to himself except when business demanded otherwise. He was as ruthless as he was clever and he particularly disliked young Robert Coffin, who’d done so well in so short a time. This didn’t disturb Coffin since the antipathy was mutual.
And because of his tardiness, Coffin berated himself, Hull had been able to purchase the bulk of the flax. What an idiot he’d been for neglecting business in favor of arguing uselessly with Irish Mary! Now it was going to cost him dear.
Well, he’d close down Coffin House before he’d beg an ounce of flax from Tobias Hull. Not that Hull would sell to him anyway.
The last of the trading tables were being cleared. No other Maoris stepped forward to submit rope or flax for sale. Despite his frantic ride it looked like he was still too late.
A hand clapped Coffin on the shoulder. As he turned, the hand dropped away and he found himself staring into the grinning face of Tobias Hull. How long his arch-rival had been standing close by Coffin had no way of knowing, but Hull looked quite pleased with himself.
He was older than Coffin by several years, of moderate height and already tending to fat. Hull could even envy the younger man his prematurely gray head of hair, for his own had already disappeared. His face, eyes, ears and nose were all quite round. A thick mustache shaded the thin slit that was his mouth.
“Well if it ain’t my good friend, young Robert Coffin!” he intoned loudly and with false humor. “I don’t recall seeing you earlier, Coffin. Can it be you’ve decided to forgo the business of supplying rigging to ships?”
“I was delayed.” Coffin was cool but correct. “As you may have heard, I had to dispose of a rather large quantity of Kauri transported all the way up from South Island. Totaling the receipts and checking the disbursement is taking more time than I thought.”
Hull’s smirk vanished. Everyone knew of the bulging strongbox Coffin’s men had hauled away from the Kauri auction.
“As I will be counting the profits from this day’s transactions. Spars and masts are useless without rigging to run sails on them. Rigging which I will readily supply. Perhaps you’d like to buy some from me for your own establishment, lest you have nothing to show your regular customers.”
“I think not. I have enough stock to carry Coffin House through to the next quarter’s sale.”
“Oh, to be sure.” Hull smiled. “To be sure you do.”
Conversation was interrupted by a small voice. “Daddy, daddy!”
Both men looked down at the little girl, a charming if solemn-eyed sprite of seven. She was tugging on one leg of Hull’s pants.
“Can we go home now, Daddy? I’m hungry.”
Hull kicked out his leg and sent her sprawling. Parson Methune’s eyes closed and Coffin could see his lips moving in silent prayer, not for the girl but for the soul of Tobias Hull.
“Get away, brat,” Hull growled. “We’ll leave when I’m ready. Contain your appetite that long.”
The girl rose slowly and wiped at her pants. She was dressed in boy’s attire, rough and unfeminine. Nothing so frilly and cheerful as a skirt for her. She shed not a tear at her father’s rough treatment as she slipped out of sight into the crowd.
Rose, her name was. Coffin had never seen her when her father wasn’t berating her for some fault, real or imagined. It was widely known Hull blamed the girl for the death of his wife. Kororareka was not London and it was a long way from Queen’s Hospital and decent medical care. There’d been only other women to try and help Flora Hull through the agony of a difficult birth. That good woman had lived barely long enough to name the infant before death had taken her like a thief in the night. From that day forward Tobias Hull had barely tolerated the unwanted girl-child.
Never known as a cheerful man, the death of his beloved Flora had ripped the last vestiges of decency from his soul. Now Hull barely tolerated the conventions of the law in his dealings with others. He was the most ruthless individual Coffin had ever encountered, and that ruthlessness extended to his treatment of his daughter. None dared interfere, however. Not even Methune. Whatever one might think, Hull was still the child’s father.
Hull looked back at Coffin. “Then we might as well go our separate ways, eh? Say hello to your wife for me—and your mistress as well.”
Snickering laughter could be heard from those merchants assembled nearby. This was silenced by a brief, cold glance from Coffin. The men turned away, as if aware they had trespassed on lethal ground.
Hull likewise realized he might have gone too far. Though he did not fear Coffin, neither did he press the matter.
Surprisingly, Coffin chose to elaborate. “As the Parson will tell you, Hull, my wife is a fine, God-fearing woman. As to the other lady in question I have broken with her utterly. It is hoped none would be so indiscreet as to mention the business to my wife. I’d take a dim view of that. Very dim.”
“Have no fear on that score,” Hull assured him. “I’m a businessman, not a scandal-monger. When I take the measure of an opponent it’s in the books or on the boxing ground. I do not fight as some do with sly words or innuendo.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’d hate to think the latter true of anyone.”
Hull ostentatiously extracted and studied the ornate gold pocket watch he carried with him wherever he went. He made a fetish of punctuality. “I must get back to town. It’ll be dark soon, and as you can see I have a great deal of merchandise to move.” He smiled curtly, nodded once, and turned to leave. Coffin looked after him. The little girl, Rose, was still keeping out of sight. Then Coffin turned and strolled back to Parson Methune.
“I can’t believe I missed the entire sale. That I rode like the wind only to find everything gone.”
“As I told you, my son, I have little interest in matters of commerce. Howe
ver,” he continued in a softer tone after first making certain Hull was well beyond earshot, “I have heard that one chief has been delayed in arriving. The Maori chatter incessantly about such things. For one such as myself, who has acquired some simple understanding of their language.…”
“Never mind that,” an excited Coffin interrupted him. “What chief?” Maybe the day wasn’t lost after all. His comment about having enough stock to carry him through to the next sale was nothing but bluff. He’d known it and so had Hull.
“His name is Te Ohine. An ariki.”
“An important chief, yes. I know him well, Parson. I’ve supped with him.” Coffin’s eyes were already searching the path that disappeared into the trees, heading inland. “I believe I shall double my contribution this Sunday.”
“I would rather see you in church than your money, Robert. Though the latter is, of course, not unwelcome. If you’re to have reason to be grateful, why not come with your family and give thanks in person?”
“I’ll consider it, Parson.”
“God asks no more of you than that. May he be with you.”
“And with you, Parson, as I’ve no doubt he usually is.”
Methune smiled and wandered off into the thinning crowd in search of souls and contributions. The priest had more guts than most of those he ministered to. New Zealand weeded out weak ministers as quickly as it drove off the unfit sailor or tradesman.
10
He passed the time chatting with those merchants and drovers who still remained. As the sun continued to recede behind the mountains he worried that the Parson’s well-intentioned rumor was no more than that. Only the continued presence of several Maori chiefs who’d already disposed of their goods convinced him to hang back. There was no reason for them to remain in the area, yet they continued to do so.
When at last it was certain the time for trading had passed and the only light came from torches and whale-oil lanterns, a line of heavily laden natives materialized from the trees. Slung between them were several huge baskets overflowing with finished rope. As Methune had indicated, the group was led by the massive figure of the redoubtable Te Ohine.
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