Toward the Sea of Freedom

by Sarah Lark

  Kathleen declined. “So she hit him with this club. And then she . . . then she threw him off the cliff?”

  “With my help,” admitted the reverend. “It was self-defense, Kathleen, I swear. I’d not conceal a murderer. There’s a lot resting on keeping the location of the act a secret. And the woman . . .”

  “Has suffered enough,” said Kathleen tiredly. “I understand. Maybe you’d tell her she has my sympathies?”

  Peter rubbed his forehead. “She doesn’t know that he still has family—aside from Colin, that is. And I think it’s better that way. Otherwise, it would just make her think about it more. Besides, she’s not here. She’s panning for gold in the mountains.”

  Kathleen nodded. “Yes. Now I’m free?” she said flatly.

  Peter nodded. “You have nothing more to fear. And I, Kathleen . . .” Peter stopped briefly, wondering if he should dare say what he wanted. There was no reason to delay, and it might comfort and soothe her. “I never asked you, Kathleen, because I did not want to press you. I knew it was a secret. But now, since there’s nothing more keeping us apart, Kathleen, I love you. Would you marry me?” Peter Burton looked at her expectantly.

  Kathleen’s head was spinning. This was all too much for one day. And how could he rush her so? She fell back like a shying horse. “Peter, not now,” she whispered. “It’s, it’s too soon. I, I like you very much, Peter. But you’re a pastor, an Anglican, and I’m Catholic. And I have three children. Oh God, I have three children again.” Kathleen braced herself. “Peter, I need to see to Colin. This is all difficult enough anyway. Give me time, Peter. I’ll need time.”

  Peter Burton scolded himself for his haste. Of course she would not throw herself in his arms immediately. She would again need a friend, a confidant, a father for her children—but not yet.

  “Come,” he said, “let’s look for Colin. He’s been holed up in his tent since his father was found. I haven’t told him anything about you so far. I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic.”

  Kathleen followed him, but she doubted Peter was right about Colin. He would mourn for his father—and even more for the freedom he had had with Ian. He probably would not be overjoyed about returning to her.

  Over the next few days, Kathleen took over Ian’s personal effects, which consisted of an ounce of gold, two horses—worth a small fortune according to Colin, but Peter quickly placed them in the “slaughter house or charity” category—and her son. As she had anticipated, Colin proved difficult. He had no interest in returning to Dunedin with his mother, wanting instead to dig for gold and run his father’s business. Of course, he was only fourteen and could not be left to do any of this alone.

  So Kathleen exchanged the gold and sold Ian’s covered wagon, turning over the proceeds to Peter Burton for her husband’s burial and the care of the horses, which could perhaps still make themselves useful around the church. After the funeral, Peter drove Kathleen and Colin to Dunedin.

  It was a mournful journey; Colin was doggedly silent, and Kathleen was lost in her own thoughts. To make matters worse, Colin gave Peter an evil glance when he kissed Kathleen good-bye. The reverend worried as he directed his horse back to Tuapeka. Kathleen was free of Ian Coltrane, but it seemed that Colin was merely biding his time to take the man’s place—not in her heart, but as the source of her fear.

  Only that did not prove so easy, largely because Sean had no intention of permitting his returned brother any impertinence. He clearly played the man of the house, which amused Kathleen and Claire and which at first made it easier to live with Colin. But Colin was used to doing as he pleased, and soon, he was disobeying Kathleen and earning his teachers’ complaints: Colin was disruptive, arrogant, and sometimes absent entirely.

  The teachers occasionally asked Sean, who remained a star pupil, to talk to his brother, but any attempt he made at this resulted in fights. Colin won effortlessly; he was far more practiced in fistfighting than Sean.

  Even Peter Burton, who visited as often as he could and who tried to foster a relationship not only with Sean and Heather but also with Colin, got nowhere. Colin Coltrane did not like to be bossed around—not by teachers, not by the Anglican pastor or the Catholic priest, and least of all by his mother and brother. Kathleen knew that it was futile to keep Colin in school.

  With Peter Burton’s help, she turned to Donny Sullivan, the Irish stable owner, for an apprenticeship for Colin. Short, fat Sullivan—once a zealous congregant of Peter Burton’s but now a member of the newly founded Catholic parish—was willing to give Colin a chance. He could sleep in the stables and assist with the horses, and most importantly, ride them.

  At first, Kathleen was skeptical, since Sullivan traded horses on the side as well, but both Peter Burton and Father Parrish, the Catholic priest, reassured her. Donny Sullivan was as honest as anyone in his profession could be. Occasionally, he took a higher price from a rich city boy than the horse he sold was worth, or he shaved two years off when he gave a mule’s age, but he did no outright swindling, and he never foisted a horse on anyone if it wasn’t a good match. Sullivan had thoroughly satisfied customers, and he was proud of that.

  That is, until he hired Colin Coltrane. After three months, Sullivan told Kathleen he needed to let Colin go.

  “It’s not that he doesn’t know about horses, Mrs. Coltrane,” said Donny. “On the contrary—the boy knows more than I do. But I always have to stop him from working on the teeth of the horses I plan to sell, to make them look younger, and from fiddling with their shoes to make them walk more elegantly. He knows all of a swindler’s tricks but doesn’t understand why I don’t use them. I can’t leave him alone with the customers. He hardly opens his mouth but he makes them think their horse’s no good. Most of them want to trade their horses in right away, and usually for some half-wild young stallion that looks sharp. But I’ll have to deal with it when some Sunday rider breaks his neck. I’m sorry, Mrs. Coltrane, but the boy lies like he’s breathing air. Yesterday, he sold old Monty Robs—you know, that prospector who’s trying his hand at farming in Waikouaiti—that little horse I had set aside for Mrs. Edmunds’s daughter.”

  Kathleen nodded. Chloe was supposed to get a pony for her birthday, and Claire had been looking for the right horse for weeks. She thought she’d found it in Donny’s little chestnut horse.

  “He told Monty he could plow his whole farm with the little thing and that it’d barely eat anything.”

  Kathleen burst into bitter laughter. She was reminded of Matt Edmunds’s donkey. Donny Sullivan smiled. He could not resist a beautiful woman, and Kathleen was captivating, but he would not keep her good-for-nothing son on just for that.

  “Sure, it’s a bit funny, but the man was relying on our advice, and he got cheated. If he spreads the word, my good reputation will soon be ruined. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find him another apprenticeship.”

  Of course, Colin did not see Sullivan’s reasoning. On the contrary, he had foul words for the old man and his business dealings.

  Kathleen turned to Jimmy Dunloe for advice, and he suggested she find Colin some work that had nothing to do with horses.

  “The boy is quite skillful. He’s just been misled, the way I see it. I can hire him as a courier. He can take a few papers back and forth and take care of orders outside the bank. When he sees how people place trust in him, he’ll behave better.”

  Though Kathleen was grateful to Jimmy, she didn’t believe his approach would be successful with Colin. After all, one of Ian’s strategies had been to first gain trust and then abuse it.

  “Just don’t put any money in Colin’s hand,” she warned Jimmy. “I’m sorry to say it about my own son, but I don’t trust him.”

  A month later, Jimmy Dunloe let Colin go. He told Colin and Kathleen it was because of the boy’s unfriendliness with the clients and because his transactions were often late. However, Jimmy revealed to Claire that small amounts of money had also begun disappearing from the register after he had hired the bo
y.

  “But we don’t need to tell Kathleen, do we? She’s upset enough as it is,” he said.

  From that day on, Dunloe stayed out of the matter. To Kathleen’s relief, however, there was still the Catholic parish and the strict but thoroughly active Father Parrish. Over the course of the following year, Kathleen needed the help of the priest again and again in order to find Colin apprenticeships—first in the general store, then with a cobbler, and finally with a builder’s merchant. In exchange for his assistance, she was forced ever deeper into the Catholic community, which neither Claire nor Peter Burton liked.

  “Dear God, Kathie, you’re turning into a regular church mouse,” Claire complained as one Sunday evening Kathleen was going to Mass for the second time. “And all these requiems for Ian! How many times have you had it said? Fifty? When was the last time you talked to Peter? You need more Darwin and less Bible.”

  “Father Parrish rejects Darwin,” Kathleen retorted, hoping to change the subject. She stood in front of the mirror, struggling to put her gold-blonde hair under a dark, unattractive bonnet. “And Ian, he was doubtless a sinner. Father Parrish says that for his eternal soul . . .”

  Claire rolled her eyes. She was preparing to attend a concert with Jimmy Dunloe and wore a dark-green evening dress set with gems. “Kathleen, wake up. That only gives you a guilty conscience. He’s always tried to do that. Think of how he wanted to talk you into going back to Ian, full of remorse!”

  Kathleen shrugged her shoulders and threw on a black scarf. It was unintentional, but the mourning colors suited her excellently. “He’s the only one who still intercedes for Colin. No one wants to hire him anymore. Without Father Parrish . . . And how does it look when I meet with an Anglican pastor? It’s bad enough Colin is ruining my reputation.”

  Claire shook her head. Father Parrish had taken over Ian’s role in Kathleen’s head. He held her in a fear that grew bigger all the time, and he blamed her for what had become of Colin. In Parrish’s opinion, if she had not abandoned him, Colin would be very different.

  Peter Burton was hurt by Kathleen’s behavior. And while she could not completely withdraw from him because Claire was always inviting him for visits, Kathleen was distant, and sometimes even curt, in her responses to him. When the wine he brought and the lively conversation with Jimmy and Claire started to break through her armor, Colin seemed to appear instantly, burning Kathleen and Peter with his sidelong glance.

  Colin recognized his mother’s feelings for the reverend, and he did not shy away from using his knowledge as a weapon. He taunted her for it publicly after he had been let go from another apprenticeship. His last master—a friendly old hardware store owner—tried to be diplomatic when he told Kathleen, but he could not get around hinting that Colin had dipped into the cash register.

  Kathleen nodded. “My son is a ne’er-do-well. You can come out and say it. I can hardly stand to hear it anymore, but I understand what you’re doing.”

  “And my ma does it with a protestant,” said Colin, looking at her hatefully. “Sundays she goes to pray, sure. But on Monday the reverend comes in and out of our place—and they kiss.”

  Kathleen’s reaction was instinctive. She stopped the boy and slapped him with lightning speed. Word of the whole thing would spread quickly.

  Afterward, Colin slunk off while Kathleen cried to Claire and Jimmy Dunloe. “Just what am I supposed to do with him?” she sobbed. “After this, there really isn’t anyone else who will take him. And what he said about Peter, I’ve never confessed it. What will Father Parrish think of me? I have to . . .”

  “You are not really going to run to this priest now and confess that you kissed Peter three or four times on the cheek, are you?” yelled Claire, horrified.

  “It wasn’t just on the cheek, though, I—”

  “Kathleen, whether and what you want to confess is your business alone,” Jimmy Dunloe said calmly. “But as for the boy, I’d like to give you some advice. Look, every family has its black sheep. Among the lower classes, they become criminals, and Colin is well on his way to that. But in better society there are options—and thanks to your business, you can afford them. Send the boy to England to a good college, or better yet, a military academy. I can inquire about suitable boarding schools.”

  “But he doesn’t want to go to school,” Kathleen said.

  Jimmy Dunloe shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. And he might prefer a military education to a purely academic one. In any case, it’s his last chance, Kathleen. He’s sliding down here.”

  “But we’re Irish,” whispered Kathleen. “I can’t send my son into the British army.”

  Jimmy Dunloe shrugged. “Maybe there’s even an Irish military academy, although I doubt it. But I can help you get Colin in. Only if you want me to, of course.”

  Kathleen bit her lip and fought back tears. “That, that’s very nice,” she murmured. “But, the British army? He’s still Irish.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Kathleen, you can’t really turn down this offer. Precisely the British army. It has experience with thick-headed Irish.”

  Kathleen looked at her angrily. But it could not be denied. If she didn’t follow Dunloe’s suggestion and accept his help, Colin would end up in jail sooner or later. It was only a question of whether that was not more honorable than the Royal Army. Michael would doubtless have thought it was. And Ian? Well, he would surely have used a post in the army as a springboard to foist a lame horse on the queen. Kathleen had to smile at that thought.

  “Just sleep on it,” Dunloe advised amicably. “But I’ll tell you now: we’ll not come up with anything better.”

  A few weeks later, Colin traveled to Woolwich in London to enter the Royal Military Academy. He had little interest in the education but certainly more in the city of London, and a future career in the military seemed pleasant enough to him. No Irish patriotism stood in his way. True, his father had always cursed the English, but he had also always paid them a certain respect. The English were the victors. They had won, had occupied Ireland. Their queen ruled half the world. Their might attracted Colin. He, too, wanted to rule. And if he had to put on a red uniform to do so, that was fine with him.

  Chapter 2

  Lizzie spent the loveliest summer of her life at the Maori gold mines with Michael. They had pitched their tent above the waterfall, and in the mornings they took in the intoxicating view over the mountains and little lakes that dotted the Otago countryside. On clear days, they could almost see to Tuapeka. Life in the gold miners’ town, Chris Timlock’s murder, and Lizzie’s revenge on Ian Coltrane now seemed very distant.

  They hoarded the gold they panned in a hiding place under the rocks near the waterfall. Since no one other than the reverend and the Ngai Tahu knew their camp, there was no great risk. Besides, they knew that they would have drawn too much attention if Michael took the gold to the bank. Lizzie and Michael’s gold hoard grew with breathtaking speed, although they didn’t work nearly as hard as the gold prospectors in Tuapeka. Mostly they worked for the morning, then used the midday hour to make love and take a nap afterward. Lizzie enjoyed Michael’s caresses and obvious affection. He belonged to her now, and her alone. Kathleen he seemed to have forgotten. Though Lizzie had not made it easy on herself.

  A few days after Ian Coltrane’s death, she even asked Michael if he wanted to adopt Colin Coltrane. “I have a guilty conscience because I took his father,” she said, “and he’s your Kathleen’s son anyway.”

  “But not mine,” he said firmly. “Ian Coltrane got what he deserved. You don’t need to feel guilty about it. As for Colin: I’m sorry he lost his father and mother, but we need to start anew. And he’s not the son Kathleen and I dreamed of.”

  Lizzie was happy about this decision, but she asked Peter Burton what had happened to the boy. The reverend told her no more than that Colin had been taken in by a family in Dunedin. He was of the opinion that Lizzie and Michael shouldn’t be burdened with the memory of
Ian Coltrane. Michael seemed to share this opinion. Neither of the men talked about the Coltranes when Peter visited Lizzie and Michael at their prospect, which he did every few weeks. He viewed Lizzie as his parishioner and worried about the state of her soul.

  Lizzie, however, now devoted considerably more of her time to the Maori spirits than to Christian prayer. She upheld the tradition of asking the earth for forgiveness before each time she took gold, and she thanked Papa and Rangi for her happiness in Michael’s arms. Michael played along willingly. Since his recollection of St. Wendelin and intercession for the sheep shearing, Michael had gotten used to the Maori ways.

  Yet there were other things that clouded his love for Lizzie—especially as their gold reserve grew and Lizzie began to mention leaving the prospect. They now had almost enough gold to afford a grand farm in the plains, as well as a business for Ann Timlock, who would soon be on her way to New Zealand with her children. Chris’s wife would want to at least see his grave. Beyond that, she could find greater opportunities for her children in this new country, perhaps settling in Dunedin and opening a shop.

  Michael would have liked to take more gold, but Lizzie reminded him about not being greedy and not breaking their pact with the Maori. He could have given up the mine. What he found difficult, though, was his position in relation to Lizzie. He wanted to marry her; he loved her without a doubt. But had this relationship really been his idea?

  He was a man. In Ireland he had been respected, and no doubt people still spoke there about his raid on Trevallion’s grain. Kathleen had worshiped him, and if they had gone to America, he would have made his fortune. But since he had met Lizzie, it seemed to him, he merely danced to her tune.

  She had helped him, of course. First on the ship and then with his escape, for which he would be eternally grateful. Then, years later, with the whiskey distillery. It had brought in considerably more money than sheep shearing. And now the prospects. He had worked hard, had worked with Chris like a madman. But without much success—until Lizzie took charge.