The Cloud Leopard's Daughter

by Deborah Challinor

  He grinned, revealing several gold teeth. ‘Tea, chérie?’

  ‘Lovely. Thanks, Pierre.’ Kitty’s younger self would have been astonished to think she would one day stand and chat with a man not her husband while half-dressed, but she and Pierre had been firm friends since their first meeting, and she trusted him implicitly, as did Rian. He trusted all his crew. Mind you, he’d trusted Daniel Royce, too . . . No, that was in the past, and Daniel was long gone now.

  The cats slipped in, trotted across the cabin, tails held high like flags, and jumped onto the bed, where they settled themselves comfortably. They were descendants of the famous, somewhat wayward and much missed Boadicea (also known as Bodie), who’d died of old age and bad temper some years earlier.

  Pierre tut-tutted. ‘Your père will not be happy with you, mes petites.’

  Rian didn’t like the cats sleeping on his bed.

  Kitty rolled her eyes: Pierre cosseted Delilah and Samson terribly. ‘Rian is not their father, and well you know it.’

  Rian himself was of the opinion that the cats had been sired by a hyena during a port of call at Mozambique, which was a little unkind. But they were excellent ratters, and that was all they had to do to earn their keep aboard the Katipo.

  Pierre set the tea tray on Rian’s writing desk just as a deep, grinding noise rumbled through the hull from the region of the bow: the anchor journeying up from the depths. ‘The little tugboat must be on her way,’ he remarked.

  As was usual these days in well-established ports, a tug would tow vessels close enough to the wharf to allow them to be warped directly into their berths. It saved ships from having to tack endlessly towards the shore prior to tying up, especially on low-wind days, and risking collision with other ships, and also permitted the harbour master to keep an eye on exactly who was entering and leaving his jurisdiction. Exactly what was entering port, however, was a different story, and the customs and excise officer’s problem, not the harbour master’s.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get changed then?’ Kitty asked.

  Pierre prided himself on his appearance and never went ashore looking less than dapper, though he was hardly a classically handsome man. He was barely five feet three, and wiry, and his features had been compared rather unkindly to those of a monkey even in his younger days. Despite his size and looks he was popular with the ladies: probably, Kitty thought, due to his immense charm and his French accent, a product of his Louisiana heritage.

  ‘This be true,’ Pierre said. He snapped his fingers at the cats. ‘Come on, out you come!’

  Delilah and Samson eyed him lazily, yawned, and snuggled down even further.

  ‘Oh, leave them, they’re all right,’ Kitty said. She’d pick the fur off the comforter later.

  As Pierre closed the door behind him she poured herself a cup of tea, moved to Rian’s desk and opened the mirror, an ingenious contraption that, when closed, afforded a slope on which to write, but when pushed upright and opened out provided a three-sided mirror. She undid her plait and brushed out her hair, then leaned forwards, frowning. God, were those more white strands at her temples? That was the trouble with dark hair – everything showed. She hurriedly replaited it and wound it into a bun at the back of her head, then chose woollen stockings for under her heavy boots and reached into the cupboard above her dresses for headwear, pausing for a moment as she considered her lovely little London pork pie hat in black straw. But was Dunedin really the place to sport something so chic? And would it make up for not wearing a crinoline? No, and probably no. She chose instead a bonnet in mid-grey taffeta with a wide ribbon to tie beneath her chin – very necessary today due to the wind. She recalled with regret a lovely bonnet she’d once owned that had ended up floating in the harbour between Paihia and Kororareka, then finished her tea, popped a handkerchief, a jar of lip balm, a tin of pastilles and her coin purse into her reticule, and put on her bonnet. Where was Rian? Surely he wasn’t going ashore in the awful old coat he wore around the ship?

  Leaving the cats to snooze in peace, she went through the mess room and up on deck.

  Chapter Two

  The port side of the bow hit the wharf with a hell of a thump. Kitty clutched at the ship’s rail for balance. The Katipo III was a magnificent schooner, and very swift under sail, but she was rather large. She was the Katipo II’s replacement, purchased after disaster struck in Java in 1859 during a spice-buying trip, when a massive tidal wave had smashed every vessel anchored in Batavia’s harbour. Fortunately, the crew had been inland and well out of harm’s way, but Rian’s beloved Katipo II had been wrecked and they’d been forced, at great expense, to squeeze aboard a ship owned by the Dutch East India Company and sail to London, where Rian had deliberated for a month over the purchase of a replacement. He’d chosen a four-masted schooner, the largest his crew could manage, excluding Kitty and Amber, though they were both perfectly capable of crewing if required. They’d then waited several months more for the new schooner to be refitted and repainted in Rian’s favoured colours – a black hull with a red stripe below the gunwale – and she’d been relaunched as the Katipo III.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Rian bellowed at crewmen Mick Doyle and Ropata, who were labouring over the capstan and furiously winding in the warping rope. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’

  Mick’s arms went up in an aggrieved gesture. ‘Not much choice, so there isn’t! The gap’s too small!’

  ‘God,’ Rian muttered darkly. Then, ‘Hawk, bring her stern around!’

  A moment later the midsection of the Katipo’s hull drifted lazily to within several feet of the wharf, the gangway crashed down and Hawk and Israel thundered across it. From the stern, Gideon heaved the end of a massive coil of rope towards them: Hawk caught it, looped it around a bollard and threw the end back. Tahi ran to join Gideon and between them they hauled mightily on the rope to artfully tuck the Katipo’s stern into her berth; a deep creaking ensuing as her timbers ground against the wharf.

  ‘Christ!’ Rian shouted. ‘Go easy!’

  Oh, shut up, you bad-tempered Irish sod, Kitty thought. How else are they going to get her in? And do you know something, Rian Farrell? You look every one of your fifty-one years when you behave like this.

  He was still a very handsome man – at least she thought so – even though broad bands of silver swept back from his temples now, mingling with his dark blond hair, and his beard grew in more salt than pepper when he couldn’t be bothered to shave, which was often, and his face was lined from spending much of his time on deck. But his grey eyes were as sharp as ever, and he was as muscled and almost as fit as he’d been as a young man, though he did favour his good leg these days when he was bone tired. Yes, still very handsome, even with a face like a thundercloud.

  Ropata and Mick, dripping sweat despite the cold wind, cranked the capstan, and the Katipo moved forwards a dozen or so feet, her long bowsprit now extending over the stern of the vessel berthed ahead of them.

  ‘That’ll do! Tie her off,’ Rian declared, and marched down the gangway, his coat-tails flapping.

  Kitty glanced at crewman Simon Bullock standing at her elbow, as if he might know what was vexing Rian, but all she got back was a mystified shrug. She sighed heavily: this could turn out to be a very disagreeable visit.

  By the time they had all disembarked – except for Gideon and Israel, who were staying aboard to keep an eye on things – and were gathered on the bustling wharf, Rian had organised a stevedore crew to unload the Katipo.

  ‘Where to first?’ Kitty asked him, her gaze taking in the town. The last time they’d been here, Dunedin had looked quaint, despite the mud. That had been during the spring, when the weather had been reasonably warm, though wet, and the bright wooden stores and cottages lining the shore and dotting the steep hillsides had looked rather picturesque.

  Now she saw a much larger and messier sprawl of shanties, huts and tents spreading up the valleys like mould, with more substantial two- and three-storey brick and wooden
buildings lining the streets near the waterfront. And the smell! It certainly wasn’t any better on dry land, and Kitty could see why. The shore in both directions, the road at the end of the wharf, and indeed the wharf itself, were lined with great heaps of rotting fish heads and entrails, and, spilling across the same road, she could see thick brown effluvia overflowing from several creeks and emptying into the sea. Most towns and cities stank, she knew, but this was really quite extraordinary. What must it be like at the height of summer? She glanced at Amber, who glared back at her, only her eyes visible above an enormous handkerchief folded across her nose and mouth. Pierre also had his handkerchief out, and so did Simon.

  ‘Mercantile broker,’ Rian replied. ‘And then somewhere away from this God-awful stench.’ He ducked as a low-flying gull almost took his hat off. ‘Christ almighty.’

  They were everywhere, the gulls, wheeling and squawking and fighting over the fish guts.

  ‘But Pa, you said before it’s just a smell,’ Amber said.

  ‘What did I say to you?’ Kitty reminded her, worried Rian would explode yet again, but he’d already set off along the wharf, followed by the crew.

  ‘Well, he did,’ Amber grumbled through her handkerchief.

  Kitty’s eyes started to water: Amber reeked as though she really had bathed in lavender cologne. ‘How much of that scent did you put on?’

  ‘Er, actually, I’m starting to think I might have overdone it.’

  Kitty pulled the handkerchief away from Amber’s mouth and gasped as she saw the vivid red rash on her daughter’s nose, cheeks and puffy upper lip. ‘You silly girl!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your face! It’s bright red and swollen.’

  ‘Is it? It does sting a bit.’

  ‘Have you put it anywhere else?’

  Amber lowered her collar to reveal an angry red weal on her throat. ‘And some on my chest and elbows and wrists. And my belly.’

  Kitty spat on the hanky and began to rub beneath Amber’s nose. ‘God. Here, wipe it off.’

  ‘Ow, Ma! That hurts!’

  ‘Well, you can’t leave it there. What if it’s corrosive?’

  Amber batted her hand away. ‘It won’t be corrosive! Pierre wears it all the time.’

  ‘Yes, and look at him.’

  They looked at each other then giggled.

  ‘Hoi!’

  It was Rian, waving at them from across the street.

  ‘Are you coming with us or not?’ he called.

  ‘Coming!’ Kitty called back. To Amber she said, ‘We’ll have to find a chemist and get some balm or something. Keep your hanky over your face or people will stare.’

  ‘So what if they do?’

  ‘They’ll think I’ve slapped you, and I will in a minute. This is all your own fault, you know.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Amber agreed amiably.

  Kitty took her arm and gingerly they crossed the road, mud sucking at their boots and Amber swearing as a passing horse and cart splashed filthy puddle water over their skirts. And now the rain, which had been threatening all afternoon, started – fat, freezing drops that sounded like pebbles hitting the rim of Kitty’s bonnet.

  ‘What’s wrong with your face?’ Rian asked.

  ‘Er, we think it might be Pierre’s cologne,’ Kitty replied.

  Pierre looked mortified. ‘Mon Dieu! Did you apply without the diluting?’

  Amber said, ‘Well, no one said to.’

  ‘Non, chérie, she must be diluted! I said the light hand! Especially for the face. Otherwise . . .’ Pierre did a mime of a person exploding.

  Rian did lose his temper then. ‘For God’s sake, Amber. Why can’t you behave yourself?’

  Tahi took a step forwards but Haunui settled a meaty hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  ‘She does behave, most of the time,’ Kitty snapped. ‘Why don’t you behave yourself? Why are you in such a damned foul mood? What is the matter with you?’ She’d had enough of his bad temper.

  Embarrassed, the crew looked everywhere but at Kitty and Rian. They were accustomed to witnessing the odd disagreement between them (it was difficult not to, living aboard a schooner), but such altercations weren’t usually aired on the street of a busy town.

  Rian stood with his hands on his hips, head down, his hat obscuring his face. Perhaps, Kitty thought, he’s realised he’s gone too far, and he damn well has. At last he let out a sigh, took a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘I’m sorry, mo ghrá. Really, I am. It’s this. Read it.’

  So Kitty did, glancing at the signature first – ooh! It was from Wong Fu, their friend from the Ballarat goldfields.

  3rd April 1863

  My Dear Friend Rian,

  I pray that this letter finds you, Kitty and Amber happy and well. I do not know when you next plan to visit Auckland, Sydney or London, so I have sent identical letters to all of your post boxes in the hope that you take delivery of one sooner rather than later. I have also sent a copy to our good friend Haunui in the Bay of Islands, as perhaps he may have some means of contacting you.

  I have very bad news. Bao has been kidnapped.

  Kitty sucked in her breath and stared at Rian, appalled. ‘Kidnapped!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Amber said, and Kitty didn’t even tell her off.

  ‘Keep reading,’ Rian urged gently.

  At first I had no idea who had taken her, but I have since discovered it was my brother Kai himself. He has sent her away somewhere – I do not know where – as part of a ‘business arrangement’ he has made with another tong master. I have been told that Bao is to marry this man. I am devastated and my heart bleeds for my poor daughter.

  Rian, it seems that yet again I must ask for your help. If you are in a position to come to Otago, I will forever be in your debt. You will find me at the Chinese Camp at Lawrence near the Tuapeka diggings, south-west of Dunedin.

  Your friend,

  Wong Fu

  Amber, her skin tinged with grey under her welts, said, ‘Oh God, poor Bao.’

  ‘Fu’s here?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘I thought he was still at Ballarat. Is that why you wanted to bring the cargo south?’

  Rian nodded.

  Kitty turned to Haunui. ‘And you knew about this and didn’t tell me?’

  Haunui tried to look contrite but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘We didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Worry me!’ Kitty exclaimed. ‘Have you any idea—’

  ‘Never mind that, Ma,’ Amber interrupted. ‘We have to go and see Fu. Now. Today.’

  ‘Where is this Lawrence?’ Hawk asked.

  They all looked at one another, mystified. The last time they’d visited the region, Lawrence might not even have existed.

  Rian glanced at the sky: the rain clouds seemed tethered above the town and the light was going. ‘We can’t go tonight. I need to find buyers for the cargo and get it off the wharf.’

  ‘No, we have to go tonight!’ Amber insisted.

  ‘We don’t,’ Rian said calmly. ‘Fu wrote that letter four months ago. One more night isn’t going to make much difference. It won’t, Amber. We’ll go tomorrow and do the thing properly.’

  ‘Can we sell everything today, do you think?’ Kitty asked.

  Rian made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the busy street. ‘I’d be bloody surprised if we couldn’t.’

  Princes Street was lined with stores and houses, though excavations through a hill had left some buildings stranded atop high banks and accessible only by steep wooden steps. On other stretches of Princes Street the ground was quite flat, and, at intersections, paved with cobbles, albeit currently awash with mud and animal dung. In unpaved areas, however, the street surfaces were pitted with enormous potholes, though there were sections of muddy footpath outside some stores. None of this seemed to deter shoppers, and there were plenty of stores in which to spend money: bakeries, chemists, drapers offering such luxury items as sil
ks, mohairs and crinoline steels, fruiterers, milliners, ironmongers, grocers, general merchants featuring fine and expensive homewares, butchers, saddlers, fishmongers, blacksmiths, timber merchants, gunsmiths, jewellers and watchmakers, ships’ chandlers, furniture emporiums, wine merchants, furriers, vast shops specialising in diggers’ supplies, haberdashers, numerous hotels, dining rooms, tobacconists, liquor stores and newsagents. For those feeling unwell there were doctors, dentists and, if worse came to worst, undertakers. For the commercially minded there were banks, livestock agents, land agents, surveyors, draughtsmen, a notary public, solicitors, architects, a post office, various mercantile brokers, the offices of the Union Steamship Company, Dalgety Rattray and Co, Bright Brothers and Co, and Cobb and Co, general stables, and, for the down and out, pawnbrokers and loan companies.

  Kitty saw his point.

  So off they went, Rian, Kitty, Amber and Simon, to find a broker who would take most of their cargo off their hands in one fell swoop (after a short detour to a chemist for Amber), while Hawk and Mick headed off in search of a timber mill that might be in need of a steam-operated saw. The rest of the crew were to investigate the quality of Dunedin’s various dining rooms in anticipation of the evening’s meal.

  *

  They met up several hours later at the Provincial Hotel on Princes Street. Kitty ignored the curious, and in several cases hostile, stares following them as they made their way through the room. She’d long ago given up worrying about what others thought about her presence in a public bar.

  ‘How did you go?’ Rian asked Hawk as he sat down.

  ‘We approached three mills and received two offers,’ Hawk replied. ‘One was fair and one was an insult.’

  ‘Go back in the morning and close the deal?’

  ‘The proprietor wants to see the goods first.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Rian said. ‘Well, we got rid of everything. Turnbull, Robinson and Co are taking the lot.’

  Pierre rubbed his hands. ‘Très bon. The beer all round, then? And vin de xérès for the ladies?’