IN THE LATE 1820s, Lizzie Dawson, only sixteen, was forced to be the child bride of a notorious whaler in the remote Marlborough Sounds of New Zealand. There began a living hell. Until she met Matthew – a young Maori preacher – and with love came defiance.
Flash forward to today. Bel, also sixteen, is sent to a remote farm in the Sounds. Her parents are in the throes of divorce and Bel’s turbulent thoughts attract an uneasy force.
‘At last,’ says a voice in my head. ‘You’re here.’ And I know without a doubt that Lizzie has come for me, and me alone.
Lizzie has an urgent story to tell. Past events drive her to reach across time, across worlds.
This is an extraordinary first novel. Lorraine Orman evokes the nineteenth-century whalers’ lives as vividly as the contemporary story. Cross Tides sweeps you into its double world with eerie, irresistible power.
Dedicated to Tessa, my mentor.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE
Lizzie was woken by a loud bang. She knew what it was — the front door had been slammed open against the wall. The whole cottage shook and dust from the rafters floated down on to her face. Her younger sister, snuggled beside her in the bed, stirred and whimpered. Lizzie reached out and stroked her sister’s hair. ‘Go back to sleep, Sophie,’ she whispered. ‘’Tis only Pa coming home.’ Sodden drunk as usual, she added to herself.
She lay wide awake, her eyes fixed on the cracks of light showing through the rough planks of the bedroom door. She could hear her stepfather grumbling and growling as he usually did, and her mother’s low-voiced replies. Would Mam manage to get him into bed or was he set on drinking all night? Suddenly there was a thud as if he’d banged his fist on the table, and her mother cried out, ‘No! For mercy’s sake, Tom, you can’t do such a heartless thing!’
‘Ain’t got no choice,’ Tom mumbled. ‘The bastard’ll kill me if I go back on me word. It’s ’er or me.’
‘’Tisn’t right, just to hand her over like an animal!’
‘Right don’t come into it,’ Tom retorted.
‘But I need her here,’ Mary said desperately. ‘I can’t see to five children and a new bairn all on my own. Have a thought for your own sons, won’t you?’
‘Try telling it to that bastard Black Jack Dawson. If I don’t give ’er over this night ’e’ll slice me guts open an’ string ’em in the rigging. She goes an’ there ain’t no other way.’
‘For pity’s sake, Tom, she’s not yet sixteen!’ Mary’s voice was shrill.
Lizzie’s skin went cold and clammy under her calico shift as she realised they were talking about her. Go where? Who was Black Jack Dawson?
‘Aye,’ said Tom, ‘an’ by the time she’s sixteen I wager she’ll ’ave opened ’er legs to one of those louts dangling round in the alley ’alf the night. Dogs after a bitch, that lot.’
‘And what’s Jack Dawson likely to do to her? Pat her on the head and buy her sweeties? Don’t you go near her, Tom Reeves!’
‘Stand aside, woman!’ Tom growled. There was the sound of a scuffle. Before Lizzie could spring out of bed and go to her mother’s aid the door was flung open and her stepfather’s large shape loomed against the lantern light. He still had his jacket and cap on. ‘You! Lizzie!’ he barked. ‘Get up. Get your clothes on. An’ pack what you can’t wear. You’re going away.’
Lizzie scrambled out of bed. ‘Mam!’ she called. ‘Mam! Are you all right?’
Tom turned slightly in the doorway and Lizzie glimpsed her mother huddled on the floor in the other room, her head bent and her thin grey hair hanging loose. Her arms were wrapped round her swollen belly. She was weeping quietly. ‘Mam!’ Lizzie cried again and tried to push past her stepfather.
He took hold of her, spun her round, and shoved her towards the bed. ‘Get your clobber on, girl! Else I’ll be dragging you through the streets in your shift.’
Lizzie hurriedly pulled on a petticoat, a thick winter skirt and a padded long-sleeved blouse, wrapped her best ruby-red woollen shawl over her shoulders, and shoved her feet into her boots. She tied a kerchief over her unruly black hair and attempted to tuck in the curls, but her hands were shaking too much so she gave up. She pulled a canvas bag from under the bed and began to throw into it everything else she possessed — her summer skirt and bodice, a comb, two pairs of knitted stockings, a worn old rag doll, a precious red silk ribbon for her hair, the little sewing purse Mam had given her for her fifteenth birthday.
She was being watched by four pairs of frightened eyes from the darkness of the bunks along the walls. Her young step-brothers knew better than to open their mouths when their father was in such a foul mood. Her sister, Sophie, was lying as still as a mouse in the bed, the blanket pulled up over her head. Trying to hide her fear, Lizzie blew a kiss to the boys. ‘You be good for Mam now, you hear? Sophie, you too. Make sure you all do as you’re told, else I’ll give you a real paddling when I get back. None of you’ll be able to sit down for a week!’
‘Move it,’ Tom growled from the doorway.
Lizzie hitched the bag over her shoulder and followed him out of the room. By this time, Mary had heaved herself on to the bench at the table and was leaning towards the glowing embers in the hearth as if trying to draw a little comfort from their warmth. Lizzie could see the red mark of a blow on her cheek. ‘You all right, Mam?’ she asked.
Mary nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve but her eyes wouldn’t meet Lizzie’s. ‘Aye, I’ll be all right. Lizzie, I’m sorry. So sorry … this isn’t what I wanted for you, God knows. But I’ve got to think of the bairns…’
Tom grabbed Lizzie’s arm and pushed her towards the door. ‘Move yourself. They’ll be waiting for us. They’re set to catch the tide.’
With a last despairing look at her mother’s bent head, Lizzie stumbled out the cottage door on to the rutted stony track. For the hundredth time she wondered why her Mam had ever married Tom Reeves. At home in England she’d been a farmer’s daughter who’d gone into service as a lady’s maid for the local squire’s wife. She spoke better and had nicer manners than most of the other convict women living in the Rocks. But somehow things had gone badly wrong for her and she’d ended up being convicted of theft and transported to Australia for seven years. That was all she had ever told Lizzie about her life before she arrived in Sydney Town. ‘The bad luck just kept coming,’ was all she’d say to Lizzie, with a closed look on her face. ‘No point in crying over what’s been and done.’
Once she’d gained her ticket of leave, Mary had married Lizzie’s father, a handsome bright-eyed Irishman who’d come out to the penal colony as a free settler. But then he’d gone and got himself killed in a quarrying accident, leaving Mary to make a miserable living as a seamstress with two small children to care for. A few years later she’d married Tom Reeves and then the babies seemed to come as fast as the drinking bouts and the beatings.
The full autumn moon shone down on the track as Lizzie picked her way through the mud puddles and sharp stones. Her stepfather stumbled and cursed behind her. ‘Where’re we going then
?’ she asked over her shoulder, trying to stop her voice from shaking.
‘The docks,’ came the answer.
Lizzie turned off the narrow path into a dark alley and trotted down a flight of crooked steps cut into the bare rock-face. She had been born and bred in the Rocks so she knew every alley and every shortcut between Darling Harbour and Sydney Cove. ‘And who’s waiting for us there?’ she ventured.
‘You’ll see soon enough. Shut your gob an’ keep moving.’
They came to a row of grog-shops, dark one-roomed hovels jammed with men drinking, shouting, singing. Lizzie pulled her shawl up to her chin and hurried past the open doorways, trying not to breathe the hot stinking air that spilled out. Tom spent most of his money in holes like these instead of giving it to Mary to buy food for the bairns. A drunk staggered out of a doorway next to Lizzie and seized her arm. ‘Whoa! Wot’s the ’urry, dearie?’ he gurgled, breathing foully into her face. ‘’Ow about a wee drinkie ter warm your vitals?’
Tom came up behind the man, grabbed his shoulders and threw him into the gutter. ‘Keep your poxy ’ands off ’er,’ he said with a ferocious glare, ‘else you won’t have any fingers left to ’old your bleeding bottle.’
The drunk leaned on his elbow, belched loudly, and grumbled, ‘Sorry, guv. Didn’t see she was wiv someone, like.’
Lizzie felt like saying she wasn’t with anyone but knew it was better to keep quiet. She glanced down another steep black alleyway as they went past. Could she make a run for it? She knew her way round the Rocks better than Tom ever would. Maybe she could hide till everything had blown over.
‘Don’t even think of scarpering,’ Tom said, reading her mind. ‘If you take off I’ll go back an’ grab young Sophie. That bastard won’t care if ’is winnings are a bit younger than what I told ’im.’
Lizzie felt panic swelling in her chest. No, not Sophie. She was only thirteen. But what was he talking about? Winnings? What winnings? And who was this man that Tom seemed to fear so much? Jack Dawson — was that the name he’d said earlier? Her stomach lurched. Mother of God, what was going to happen to her?
They wended their way across wide empty streets and past large brick buildings, dark and quiet at this time of night, full of bustle and noise during the day. This was the business part of town, very close to the docks. Lizzie could smell the cargoes stored in the warehouses: spices and treacle and raisins, mixed in with the salt and tar smells of the wharves. Sometimes her Da, her real Da, had brought her down to the docks to look at the ships and they’d played a game of guessing all the tasty goods stored in the warehouses. Her Da had made it sound as though the big buildings were jam-packed with treasures from all over the world.
Tom led the way down a narrow pathway between two warehouses and then they were out on the docks. Sydney Cove lay before them, a black expanse dotted with the swinging lamps of ships riding at anchor. A chill breeze was blowing and the brigs and schooners tied up at the wharves were creaking and clinking as they pulled restlessly against their ropes.
A group of men sat around a small fire in a brazier, smoking pipes and swapping jokes and passing round a bottle, but Tom strode past them without a glance. Grabbing Lizzie’s arm, he headed off along a wharf, obviously knowing exactly where he was going. She had to trot to keep up with him.
Near the end of the wharf two figures suddenly emerged out of the dark. ‘Reeves?’ one of them demanded. ‘’Bout bloody time. Tide’s on the turn.’ He turned and peered at Lizzie and in the moonlight she saw an ugly pockmarked face wearing a wide grin. ‘Not bad,’ he chortled. ‘Not bad at all. Captain’ll be right tickled wiv ’is night’s work.’
Lizzie looked away from him towards the other man and shuddered. The moonlight revealed an eerie dark face covered with swirling black patterns, and a dangling bone ear-pendant. The face smiled at her, teeth and eyeballs glinting whitely. He was a New Zealander. She’d seen a few of them walking in the streets and always gave them a wide berth because she’d heard such terrible stories about them. Everyone knew they were cannibals. She swung back towards her stepfather. ‘What’s happening?’ she cried. ‘Where are they taking me?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ To the pockmarked man he said, ‘All square? He won’t be coming after me with a bloody harpoon up me arse?’
‘Aye, all square,’ the man said and spat a mouthful of tobacco juice next to Tom’s boots. ‘An’ mebbe next time you’ll know when to give up the dice an’ go ’ome.’
‘Well, good riddance, that’s what I say,’ Tom said in a blustering tone. ‘Now I won’t ’ave to put up with the little tart flashing ’er bits at me all the time.’
Lizzie gasped in outrage at this barefaced lie. She opened her mouth to deny it but the pock-faced sailor took hold of her arm. ‘Come on, girl. Leave it. ’Tis time to sail, ’fore dawn an’ the taxmen catch us.’
Lizzie was hustled down a flight of greasy wooden steps and pushed into a rowboat. An inch of water splashed round her boots. She huddled on a seat, clasping her canvas bag to her chest, as the sailors climbed in, cast off the rope, and took up an oar each. The last sight she had of her stepfather was a black burly shape staring down at her from the wharf. ‘Jest do as ’e says, Lizzie,’ he said loudly. ‘An’ you’ll be all right.’ He raised a hand as if to wave farewell, then thought the better of it. He turned on his heel and was gone.
‘Good advice, that,’ commented the pockmarked sailor. ‘Tough but fair, that’s wot they say about our Cap’n.’ He dug his oar into the water. ‘Gotta watch ’is temper though. He’s a right bastard when ’e’s crossed.’
The sailors rowed steadily and the boat surged through the oily black water towards the most distant ship’s light. The only noises were the splash of the oars and the eerie cry of a night-flying seabird somewhere overhead. On the other side of the cove, Government House glowed with the warm golden light of a dozen chandeliers, but Lizzie barely glanced at it. Despite her heavy clothes she was shivering violently. What was going to happen to her?
The sailors expertly manoeuvred the rowboat into the lee of a schooner and the New Zealander held the boat steady while the pockmarked man climbed up a rope ladder to the deck. He leaned over the side and called to Lizzie, ‘Come on, lassie. Or d’you need a ’elping ’and from Rewi?’ Lizzie cast a terrified look at the tattooed New Zealander and clambered up the ladder as fast as she could.
Once on deck she barely had time to look round at the confusing array of masts and ropes before the sailor was leading her towards a lighted hatchway. ‘Down ’ere,’ he told her. Glad to escape the eyes she sensed were staring at her from the shadows, she climbed gingerly down the narrow steps and found herself in a cluttered little saloon illuminated by a lantern on the table. It stank of whale oil and rum and stale food. But the sailor still wouldn’t let her stop. ‘Come on,’ he said gruffly and shepherded her into a tiny cabin. It contained a bunk heaped with grey blankets, a big brass-bound sea-chest, two shelves overflowing with rolled charts and navigating equipment, and a row of salt-stained clothes hanging on pegs. ‘Whose cabin is this?’ she whispered.
‘Cap’n Dawson’s,’ the sailor said, holding up the lantern and staring at her in the flickering light. ‘The big man ’imself. My, you’re a bonny lass, aren’t you? An’ what do they call you, eh?’
‘Lizzie. Where … where is this ship sailing to?’
‘The Marianne sails to New Zealand,’ he said, grinning and revealing a gap where a front tooth had been knocked out. ‘We’re off to the Captain’s whalin’ station, Lizzie, me girl. This is me first season but I heard the station’s somewhere near Cook’s Strait.’ He winked at her. ‘Black Jack says the fish swim direct on to your ’arpoon, an’ the native wenches leap direct into your bed. Sounds like a right cosy set-up to me. I can ’ardly wait to get there.’
‘Whaling station?’ Lizzie repeated fearfully.
‘Aye.’ He hung the lantern on a hook, sending shadows swinging wildly round the cabin. ‘You might a
s well lie down an’ get some shut-eye, missy. Cap’n won’t be down to see you till we’re well clear of the ’eads.’
He gave her one last crooked grin and went out, pulling the door closed behind him. Feeling very alone Lizzie sat on the edge of the bunk and listened. Feet were thudding on the deck over her head and men’s voices cursed and ropes creaked. Then there was the graunching of an anchor chain being pulled up and soon she could hear the rushing sound of water slipping past the hull as the schooner moved slowly out of the cove.
She lay down with her bag against her stomach, pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and held it close. But still she could not stop herself shivering. She shut her eyes but a moment later opened them again. She looked at the length of the stained oilskin jacket hanging on the peg and the size of the tall, black sea boots sitting in the corner. Captain Dawson was obviously a big man. Very big. She screwed her eyes tightly shut and waited to hear the approaching footsteps of the man who, in some strange and frightening way that she couldn’t understand, now owned her body and soul.
CHAPTER 1
Even under a shiny blue sky Cook Strait has something menacing about it. Maybe it’s the brown hills looming on the horizon, maybe it’s the silence of the swells as they roll past. Or maybe it’s the sheer force of the wind tearing the breath out of my throat. But as I lean on the railing and stare downwards, I decide it’s the colour of the sea that’s more ominous than wind or hills. Navy blue — the blue of oblivion.
I’m the only person standing near the stern of the Cook Strait ferry. The other passengers are sitting in rows in the lounge with their eyes fixed on the oversize television screen in the corner. Like rows of shop dummies.
I like being different to other people. What’s the point in existing if you’re just the same as everyone else? I’m definitely the only teenage girl on board who’s thinking seriously about jumping into the sea right at this moment.
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