A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘I’m a practical man. What would be the point to risking the ship, and ourselves?’

  ‘My daughter’s life, that would be the point.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am. The wind’s coming up. I’m hoping it will shift some of this cloud and give us a bit more moonlight so we can try later, though it’s a new moon and an unlikely prospect, so I’m not making any promises. Pierre’s prepared you some supper. I suggest you eat, then retire to your berths and get some rest. Our best bet is in the morning. We’ll land then.’

  ‘What do you mean “we”?’ Sarah said. ‘This is our business, not yours. We don’t need your help.’

  The captain said, ‘I’m afraid that Mrs Hislop has commissioned my help. I’m not to allow you to venture ashore alone. And I won’t.’ Jamming his hat back on, he left them staring after him.

  ‘In the morning,’ Harrie said eventually. ‘That’s not good enough. Is it?’

  Everyone agreed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From their berth only feet away, Friday and Aria could hear the crew in the mess room quite clearly, eating their meal, drinking ale and chatting away. It had been a very decent supper, too — a fancy beef and vegetable stew with freshly baked bread and butter. Friday had eaten a large plateful — to hell with seasickness — and had barely thought about gin, which was truly astonishing. Usually, after this many hours without a drink, her head would be pounding, her hands would be shaking so badly she wouldn’t be able to hold a cup of tea, and she’d have vicious stomach cramps and the shits and be a mass of sweaty, vile-tempered nerves. But . . . nothing. Perhaps it was Pierre’s horrible herbs. She’d have to ask him for some more.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Aria asked.

  Friday nodded, hoping Sarah and Harrie in the berth next door were all set.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Leading the way, Aria stepped into the mess room. The men fell silent, staring at her.

  ‘Where are you two going?’ the captain asked.

  ‘The privy,’ Aria replied.

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Friday does not like the dark.’

  There were one or two sniggers.

  Captain Farrell said, ‘Would you like someone to accompany you?’

  ‘No.’

  The captain sighed and went back to his stew.

  On deck, Friday and Aria headed straight for the starboard rowboat. It was suspended at roughly the height of their heads, and swung from side to side as the sea rolled. Or rather it didn’t swing — the ship beneath it was the object moving. The pulley system, illuminated by a storm lantern hanging from the main mast, was arranged so that the boat would be carried out over the ship’s rail, then lowered to the sea.

  Squinting at it, Friday struggled vainly to see how the little wheels and ropes operated. ‘How the fuck does this thing work?’

  ‘I know,’ a voice said.

  Friday nearly shat herself. She gaped in shock at Aria, who stared back, the whites of her eyes huge in the sparse moonlight.

  When she’d found her voice, she hissed, ‘Who’s there?’

  A scruffy head popped up over the side of the boat. ‘It’s me, Walter.’

  ‘And me.’ Robbie appeared beside him.

  ‘Have you been in there since we left?’ Friday demanded in a loud whisper.

  Robbie said, ‘No, we swum up from Sydney after dark and hopped in for a kip.’

  Aria whacked him across the head.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Do not be a smart-mouth, boy.’

  Friday groped for Walter’s hand. ‘Jump out and help us get this thing in the water. And the other one. Come on. We’re going ashore.’

  ‘Where’s the crew?’

  ‘In the cabin.’

  ‘You’re leaving them without a boat?’ Walter climbed nimbly out. ‘What if there’s a fire?’

  ‘Shush! They can swim. It’s close enough. We can’t have them coming after us — they’ll try and stop us.’

  ‘Where’s Harrie?’ Robbie asked.

  Harrie herself appeared then, limping and rubbing her hip. She stopped dead, astounded. ‘Robbie?’

  ‘They stowed away, the little shites,’ Friday explained.

  Suddenly concerned, Robbie asked, ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Yes. No. I got stuck climbing out the porthole thingy. Just you wait till we get home, Robbie Clarke.’

  Walter already had the rowboat halfway out over the rail. ‘Better hurry up. They’ll probably hear the pulleys.’

  Sarah ran lightly across the deck and wedged a boat hook through the handle of the cabin door. The shaft of the boathook was wooden and would no doubt snap, but it would hold the crew inside briefly.

  ‘Hurry up, get in, go!’ Aria said, urging Friday and Harrie over the side as the first rowboat hit the sea with a splash. ‘The monkey man will climb out through the portholes.’

  Friday jumped first, her teeth rattling in her head as she hit the bottom of the boat and thudded to her knees. Then Harrie, her face a mask of terror, landed on top of her like a hundredweight bag of flour, knocking the breath out of her and nearly sending both of them into the water.

  ‘Christ, girl, a few less pies wouldn’t go amiss!’

  Then Robbie dropped down, landing gracefully and silently like the house-breaker he probably was. Grabbing the oars, he settled on the seat nearest the bow.

  ‘Bugger off,’ Friday said, ‘I’ll row.’

  ‘I’m the man.’

  ‘And I flog people for a living. Move your arse.’

  As she dug the oars into the black water, she heard shouting and thumping, and drew around the bow of the Katipo in time to see the other rowboat drop into the sea, followed by Aria (almost crashing through the bottom of it), then Sarah, and finally Walter. As they scrambled to right themselves, Aria hauled mightily on the oars and struck out west for the shimmering gap between two solid black lumps, which, Friday prayed, was the entrance to the river mouth.

  Soon, her leaden arms felt as though they might drop off, even though she was rowing with the incoming tide. It was more gruelling even than servicing Lucian on one of his off days. But she’d tolerated worse than this — far worse — so she put her head down, made minor adjustments to her direction and stroke when Robbie suggested it, wondered how Aria was faring, and thanked God she hadn’t got drunk today.

  Before long she heard Robbie say, ‘I think I can see faint lights. Pull more on your left. No, your other left.’

  The sound of the sea gradually became louder, which meant it was becoming the sound of the sea meeting land, and she hadn’t rowed that far, so it probably was still sea, not yet fresh water.

  They were nearly there.

  Harrie squinted into the darkness, her eyes stinging from the saltwater thrown up by the oars. She had a terrible earache, too, from the wind coming off the water. Thank God the sea was fairly calm: Friday was doing a mighty job of rowing, but she wasn’t a waterman and she’d caught a couple of crabs and gone flat on her back in the bow swearing and cursing, and they surely would have drowned had it been rough.

  They were soaked through as it was, and God only knew where they’d land. Perhaps they should have waited until daylight. But morning was hours away and Charlotte might not have hours and Robbie was right — there were lights not far away. Faint and scattered, but definitely visible.

  Suddenly the clouds tore apart like rotten fabric and by the light of the sickle moon she could see the shoreline, much closer than she’d imagined. Ahead, the others had already landed and were out and dragging the rowboat up onto a strip of sand. Beside her Robbie signalled to Friday, who glanced over her shoulder, then doubled her efforts. Minutes later the keel of the boat struck solid ground, Robbie leapt out into thigh-deep water, grasped the bow and guided them ashore. Friday laid down the oars, hopped out, waded ashore with her skirts up around her backside, and collapsed on the beach. Harrie followed, helping Robbie to drag the boat out of the water.

  Some yards away
, where sand met tussock, lay the shadowed shapes of three or four other rowboats, overturned for safekeeping. On one sat a girl, her long hair silver-white in the watery moonlight.

  She gave a jaunty little wave.

  Her heart suddenly swelling with renewed hope, Harrie smiled and waved back.

  ‘Right, what’s our first move?’ Sarah asked as she tried, without much success, to wring seawater out of her skirt.

  Aria stood with her hands on hips, her breathing already back to normal despite her strenuous row. ‘We go into the town and start asking about Leary.’

  ‘He’s definitely here,’ Harrie said.

  Sarah regarded her with love and sympathy. ‘Look, he probably is, but try not to be too upset if it turns out he isn’t. But we’ll find Charlotte one way or another, don’t worry.’

  ‘No, I know he is,’ Harrie insisted. ‘And so’s Charlotte.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just . . . do.’

  Staring at her intently, Aria said, ‘Have you received a message from . . . how would a Pakeha say it? An emissary of the dead?’

  Disgusted, Sarah said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t get her started!’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Harrie asked warily. Aria could be very perceptive sometimes. It was quite unnerving.

  Aria shrugged. ‘Why not? It is not an unusual thing.’

  Friday said, ‘Harrie, have you seen Rachel?’

  ‘We haven’t got time for this,’ Sarah said, and marched off along the sand.

  Mystified, Robbie asked Walter, ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Trotting to keep up with Sarah, Friday turned to them and snapped, ‘Hurry up if you’re coming. We’re not on a bloody picnic, you know.’

  Oh dear, Harrie thought, Pierre’s special potion must be wearing off. She wondered how close they were to the town: her soaked boots would soon be giving her blisters. On the other hand, she knew she’d happily walk miles over burning coals in bare feet if it meant getting Charlotte back.

  They trudged for nearly ten minutes along the beach, passing more and more squat black buildings to their left, then turned inland at a wharf, expecting at any moment to move from shore onto at least gravel, but the expected transition never eventuated. The town proper seemed tenuously laid out on an expanse of sand, and it was difficult to gain perspective in the dark. Were they walking up the main street or a side street? To their left lay an open area flanked by what Harrie was sure was a tall fence surrounding some sort of largish building. Now they’d come to an establishment that looked like a hotel of sorts. Light shone through the windows and the odd voice came to them on the night air.

  A bearded man stumbled through the doorway fumbling at his flies, then stopped and gaped at them, his mouth hanging open.

  ‘Evening,’ Friday said. ‘What pub is this?’

  ‘The Ship Inn?’ the man said, scrambling to straighten his trousers.

  ‘Any other pubs in town?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know; don’t come from round here. Just stopping for the night on my way upriver. The steamer, you know.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know a cove by the name of Jonah Leary?’

  The man made a show of thinking, scratched his forehead under his hat, then shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do. Ask inside. A lot of them are local. Now, if you’ll ’scuse me.’

  As he lurched off into the shadows, Sarah said, ‘Bugger. If he goes back in, he’ll tell everyone he’s just seen four women outside and word might get back to Leary. We’ll have to split up now and get round the rest of the pubs as fast as we can. Who wants this one?’

  ‘I will take it,’ Aria said.

  ‘Friday and Harrie, you see if there’re any down that street along there, I’ll do any others on this street, and that looks like an intersection up there. You boys can do the street running through it. All right?’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘Back here in forty-five minutes? No wasting time, and no drinking. That means you, Friday and Robbie. And for Christ’s sake keep an eye out for police. And soldiers. Does everyone have a watch?’

  Everyone did. Robbie had three.

  They peeled off, melting into the darkness, their footfalls deadened by the town’s carpet of sand.

  The first pub Friday and Harrie encountered on Hunter Street was called the Australian Inn, according to its shingle.

  ‘What an original name,’ Friday said, pushing open the door.

  Inside it seemed like any other drinking establishment. They had a cautious scout around, just in case Leary himself was sitting in there on a stool eating cheese and pickles and drinking beer — that would be a shock — but he wasn’t. Friday made her way to the back of the room, ignoring both her damp skirts flapping annoyingly around her legs and the interested looks she was attracting, and leant on the bar. A solid, dark-haired woman was serving and, apparently, deliberately overlooking her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Friday said.

  Nothing.

  ‘Excuuuse me!’

  The woman started exaggeratedly. ‘Sorry, dearie. Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Aren’t we all, love?’ The woman opened the tap on a beer barrel and filled a tankard. ‘I don’t allow soliciting on my premises and I’d thank you to leave. And take your little friend with you.’

  Harrie could see Friday struggling to keep her temper in check. She laid a soothing hand on her arm. Why she got on the wrong side of certain people (mostly women) was a mystery, but she did — often without even trying. Though, to be honest, quite frequently she did try. Perhaps women were envious of her attractive looks and confidence.

  ‘I’m not soliciting, actually,’ Friday replied. ‘D’you really think I would be, squelching round looking like a drowned rat? No, thought not. I’m after a cove by the name of Jonah Leary. Do you know of him?’

  The tiniest flicker of distaste lifted the edge of the woman’s upper lip. ‘Why? What do you want with him?’

  Harrie’s heart leapt.

  Friday said, ‘That’s my business.’

  The woman snorted and poured another beer. ‘More fool you. He’s already shacked up with some poor article.’

  ‘So you do know him?’

  ‘Usually drinks in the Ship Inn down by the foreshore but comes in here now and then and lowers the tone. Haven’t seen him for a month or so. Heard he went down to Sydney.’ She frowned, making deep furrows in her forehead. ‘Or was it Port Macquarie? I forget. Good riddance, anyway.’

  ‘You say he has a woman here?’ Harrie asked. She noted Friday eyeing a keg of brandy on the counter and stood on her foot, hard.

  ‘Ow!’

  The woman said, ‘Sorry thing by the name of Iris Kellogg. Don’t know what she sees in him, I really don’t.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’ Friday asked bluntly.

  ‘No, I don’t. Look, who am I talking to?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Harrie said, ‘can we just say that Leary has something of ours, and we’ve come to take it back.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’ The woman stuck out her hand. ‘Ann Binder, publican. You make sure you give him a good hard kick in the stones for me.’

  Harrie and Friday both shook and Friday asked, ‘You don’t know where this Iris Kellogg mot lives, do you?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Ann rubbed her chin. ‘Now that I can’t really tell you. Newcomen Street, maybe? And as I say, I’m not even sure he’s in town. But let me know how you get on.’

  We will if we can, Harrie thought. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Mrs Binder.’

  ‘My pleasure. Anything to drop the slippery bugger in the shite. And if you don’t mind me asking, why are you both sopping wet?’

  Friday said, ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘Is it?’ Mrs Binder glanced towards the nearest window. ‘I hadn’t even noticed. Fancy.’

  ‘He is staying with some woman called Iris Kellogg,’ Aria
said.

  Friday inspected her pipe fixings, but the tobacco was damp. ‘Bugger. We heard, but we couldn’t find out for sure where she lives.’

  Sarah said, ‘A cove in the Crooked Billet said she has a house on Newcomen Street, but when I asked which one he laughed and said, “This ent London, you know,” told me I was barking up the wrong tree and to get myself a good, virile man like him. Tosser. I wonder if she’s a whore.’

  ‘She were,’ Robbie said. ‘Someone told us she’s off the game now. God, I’d hate to live in a town this small.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ Friday asked.

  ‘Dunno, some pub on . . . where?’ Robbie looked at Walter.

  ‘King Street.’

  ‘Yeah, King Street. And we got told off for asking about Leary. ’Parently we should steer clear.’

  Sarah said, ‘What exactly were you told?’

  ‘We went in and said to the bartender we were looking for me uncle, Jonah Leary. And he said the only Leary he knew of was a cove staying in Newcomen Street with a mot called Iris Kellogg who used to be a tart. I said, “That sounds like Uncle Jonah. Whereabouts in Newcomen Street?” and he said, “I dunno that I’d feel right sending lads your age to the house of a woman like that, and I’ve not heard good things about Jonah Leary.” And I said, “That’s too bad, ’cos me mum’s very poorly and she wants to see her brother before it’s too late,” and he said, “Well, it’s a shame you can’t pick your relatives.” But he told us. It’s the little house with the picket fence and the lavender path.’

  ‘Got you, you bastard!’ Friday crowed.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Harrie asked, then pulled out her own watch and squinted at it, astonished. ‘God, it’s not even midnight. I thought we’d been here a lot longer than that.’

  ‘Newcomen Street, then?’ Friday said.

  ‘Wait a minute, let’s not go charging off,’ Sarah cautioned. ‘We need a plan.’

  Friday muttered, ‘You and your plans.’

  Aria stepped forwards. ‘We do need a plan, and I will make it. Trust me. I am the best at this.’

  They all looked at her.

  Sarah parked her hands on her hips. ‘Who says?’

  Aria said, ‘I do. How many raiding parties have you led?’