The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel)

by Lance Morcan

  The Makah villagers paid scant attention to Intrepid or her crew as they went about their everyday activities. They were well used to the sight of sailing ships in their waters.

  Every villager seemed to have something to do: the men fished, carved or mended weapons while the women collected sea shells and firewood or washed clothes in a nearby stream. Frolicking children seemed not to have a care in the world, while on a sandy beach in front of the village teenage boys played their version of tag. The game involved a high degree of athleticism and a lot of bodily contact. Some of the participants ended up bruised and bloodied, but no-one seemed to mind. It was all good fun.

  Nathan noted the villagers wore traditional coverings, including colorful blankets and dog or sealskin capes. Nobles, or those related to the chief, and headmen wore finer garments. The Makah braves wore their long hair piled up in a bun on top of their head; most wore white eagle down, or feathers, in their hair and all appeared to be armed. Some carried tomahawks and clubs, others bows and arrows or spears; a select few were armed with muskets.

  The young Philadelphian knew the white man’s weapons were sought after in these parts, but they came at a high price. His uncle had told him the Makah and the other tribes of Oregon Country weren’t as well off as those of their Vancouver Island neighbors. The valuable sea otter was more plentiful to the north.

  Asked why Intrepid wasn’t returning to Vancouver Island, Captain Dawson had informed Nathan the Mowachahts and other neighboring tribes were currently causing too many problems for traders. The Makah, on the other hand, were more receptive.

  Nathan spotted dozens of bald-headed eagles hovering above something at the far end of the beach. Closer inspection revealed the object of their interest was a whale carcass. The birds of prey were rapidly stripping the carcass of what little blubber remained. Nathan knew the Northwest Indians were accomplished whalers. They’d undoubtedly feasted well on this unfortunate creature before letting the eagles dine on the leftovers.

  As Intrepid dropped anchor, Nathan saw a young Makah brave staring straight at him. He guessed the lad was around his age, a fraction older maybe. As tall as him, he had a noble countenance. Nathan thought he may be related to the chief or to one of the headmen at least. In fact, the youth, Tatoosh, was the chief’s oldest son. Nathan returned the other’s stare. Have you claimed your first scalp yet? Nathan wondered. Then he recalled these people didn’t scalp their enemies. Unlike their east coast and inland cousins, they beheaded their enemies and displayed the heads atop their totem poles.

  At that moment Elswa, the Makahs’ chief, emerged from the largest of the lodges. Resplendent in a fine sea-otter cloak, he also wore two white feathers in his hair. Elswa issued an order and a dozen braves immediately launched one of the canoes that were lined up side by side on the beach.

  A loud sneeze alerted Nathan and the others that Captain Dawson had rejoined them on deck. Addressing the first mate, Dawson said, “Ensure the reception party is armed and ready, Mister Bates. And no more than four savages on board at any time.”

  “Aye, sir!” Bates snapped back. The first mate immediately ordered a dozen crewmen to arm themselves and assemble at the portside rail.

  The crewmen concerned disappeared below deck and emerged armed with muskets or pistols in less than a minute. Observing them, Nathan marveled at how disciplined the men aboard Intrepid were under his uncle’s leadership. As always, he felt proud to be related to Herbert Dawson. And as occasionally happened, his thoughts turned to his father. How he wished Johnson Senior was more like his Uncle Herbert.

  Within minutes the Makah canoe was alongside Intrepid. Looking down over the rail, Nathan noticed Elswa, the chief, sitting in the canoe’s bow. His son, Tatoosh, sat directly behind him.

  Elswa stood up and looked at Dawson. He seemed to sense the captain was in charge. “I am Elswa, chief of the Makah,” he announced in passable English. “Welcome to the Makah Nation!”

  “I am Captain Herbert Dawson,” the captain responded. “You are welcome to board my vessel.”

  A sailor threw a rope ladder over the ship’s side and the Makah prepared to board.

  “Four men only,” first mate Bates shouted.

  Elswa looked up enquiringly.

  “Four only,” Bates repeated, holding up four fingers. “And no weapons.”

  Elswa grunted and issued orders to his braves before scaling the rope ladder. He was followed by Tatoosh and two other braves. All had left their weapons in the canoe as ordered.

  On board, the visitors were greeted personally by Dawson who afforded them the respect with which he always treated Native Americans – especially those he hoped to trade with. Despite his habit of referring to them as savages, he had a grudging respect for them, their resourcefulness and their culture. Elswa seemed to sense this and nodded to the captain.

  “Welcome aboard Intrepid,” Dawson said.

  Elswa got straight down to business. “You trade musket?” he asked, eyeing the weapons the armed crewmembers were holding at the ready.

  “Maybe…tomorrow,” Dawson answered cautiously. He knew all Native Americans lusted after muskets. He also knew when entering into trade negotiations it didn’t pay to look too keen. “You have something to trade?”

  Elswa grunted. He knew full well by something to trade the captain referred to sea otter furs.

  Nathan, who was observing proceedings with interest, took the chief’s grunt to mean he did indeed have the prized furs to trade for muskets. It was then he caught the eye of Tatoosh, Elswa’s son. A fine-looking boy who carried himself with pride, Tatoosh nodded to Nathan in the fashion of the Makah. The young Philadelphian nodded back.

  Trading terms were soon negotiated. It was agreed Dawson would send a trading party ashore with muskets at first light.

  2

  Kensington, England, 1838

  Susannah Drake sat alone with her thoughts on the lawn behind her father’s rectory in Kensington. Lost in her own world for the moment, the pretty twelve-year-old was aware of the drama that was unfolding inside the family home even if she didn’t fully comprehend it.

  Around the other side of the house, a procession of grim adults filed in and out of the front door. They were visiting Susannah’s mother, Jeanette, who was dying of an illness the local doctors had been unable to identify.

  Susannah’s father, Reverend Brian Drake, had done his best to shield his daughter from the severity of his dear wife’s illness, but despite this, Susannah was aware something wasn’t right. The deterioration in Jeanette’s condition in recent weeks had been alarming and that was something that couldn’t be hidden from Susannah. However, it wasn’t in Susannah’s nature to expect the worst, so she was hopeful whatever it was that had reduced her mother to a virtual skeleton would soon pass.

  A red-eyed Drake Senior suddenly appeared at the back door. “Susannah!” he called.

  Susannah dropped the doll she was holding onto the grass and ran to her father. Drake Senior looked at her sadly. Looking down into her bright, hazel eyes, he reached out affectionately and stroked her red hair.

  “What is it, papa?” Susannah asked innocently.

  Unable to answer her, Drake Senior took Susannah by the hand and led her up the stairs.

  The sound of women crying alerted Susannah that something terrible had happened. It was coming from her parents’ bedroom on the first landing. She held tight to her father’s hand as he led her into the room. There, she found her grandparents and other relatives crowded around her parents’ large double bed. The adults immediately made room for Drake Senior and his daughter.

  Susannah stepped forward, wide-eyed, and looked at her mother who seemed to be sleeping. “Mother,” she whispered.

  Grandma Pegden, Susannah’s sweet-natured, maternal grandmother, pulled Susannah to her and held her to her bosom. Crying, she murmured, “Mummy has gone to be with the angels, sweetheart.”

  Susannah felt numb. She tried to make sense of her gra
ndmother’s words. Mummy can’t be with the angels, she told herself. She’s only sleeping. Susannah studied her mother’s lifeless, skeletal features. Slowly, it dawned on her, her mother really was dead. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Intervening, Susannah’s stern, paternal grandmother, Grandma Drake, took Susannah firmly by the hand and led her toward the door. “It’s not good for her to see Jeanette like this,” she announced in a tone that told everyone present she would brook no argument.

  Susannah dutifully allowed her least favorite grandmother to lead her back downstairs to the privacy of a small chapel in the rectory at the rear of the house. There, they sat down on a pew, facing each other.

  Teary-eyed Susannah tried her best not to cry. She knew Grandma Drake disapproved of children who cried. Their way of seeking attention, she always said.

  Susannah noticed her grandmother seemed to be studying her critically. The youngster braced herself. She recalled numerous hellfire and brimstone-style lectures she’d received from Grandma Drake, including a lengthy one only the day before. Phrases like Growing up to be a God-fearing woman and Treading a righteous path as well as The world being full of sin and evil always slid off the zealous old woman’s tongue with effortless ease. Expecting yet another sermon, Susannah hesitantly turned to face her grandmother.

  For once Grandma Drake seemed lost for words. Her glasses kept misting up, prompting her to remove them and polish their lenses with a handkerchief every few minutes. Finally, she said, “Have faith in the knowledge that your mother was a God-fearing woman, my child. Know in your heart that your beautiful mother will be in heaven now with our Heavenly Father and the angels.”

  Surprised, Susannah looked at her grandmother as if seeing her for the first time. For once, Grandma Drake seemed human. Gone was the rigid woman of the Church she’d come to know. Susannah even noticed tears forming in the old woman’s eyes.

  “It is impossible to say why God chooses to take some souls from their loved ones,” Grandma Drake continued. “This world is often one of pain and misery, and the various forms of suffering we all endure scar us forever.”

  Susannah’s surprise grew as her grandmother kissed her forehead then embraced her warmly.

  “Your mother’s passing will also scar you, my dear,” Grandma Drake said, “but you must have faith in the Lord’s grand design of life, death and the afterlife. He always has a purpose. Even if we mortals are unable to see the wisdom of His ways.”

  Susannah hugged her grandmother tightly. As she did, she looked up at a statue of Christ’s crucifixion that rested on a shelf on the rectory’s near wall. Studying the anguished expression on Christ’s face, she began to cry on her grandmother’s shoulder. Nothing, it seemed, could stem the flow of tears. To Susannah, who still studied the statue, it felt as though her tears flowed like a river of Christ’s blood.

  “Let it all out, my child,” Grandma Drake whispered as she held her granddaughter as tight as she could without hurting her.

  When Susannah’s sobbing finally subsided, Grandma Drake grabbed her grand-daughter’s hand and squeezed it firmly. “You must to be strong now Susannah, for your father’s sake. And for yours. After all, you only have each other now.”

  #

  As that awful day drew to a close, Susannah had no tears left. She’d cried an ocean of tears and now just felt empty. The youngster suddenly wanted to be alone. She also felt she needed to be close to nature. Exactly why, she wasn’t sure.

  Quietly slipping out the back door of the family home, Susannah headed for the lily pond in the yard behind her father’s rectory. Fittingly, it was a gloomy day outside as well as inside. Susannah reached out with both hands and touched the leaves and branches of the mature oak and elm trees as she followed the familiar narrow, leafy path to the pond. Their touch was comforting to her.

  On reaching the pond, Susannah sat down on a wooden deckchair near the pond’s edge and stared at the reflections in the water. The white swans for whom the pond was home paddled over to her, hoping she’d feed them the breadcrumbs she usually brought with her, but on this occasion they were out of luck. They paddled off.

  Susannah hadn’t even consciously noticed the swans. She was thinking about her mother, or her mother’s soul, and hoping to receive a sign. But nothing materialized.

  For the first time in her life, Susannah questioned her own faith. Is there really a God or an afterlife? She hoped the answer would somehow miraculously come to her. None did. Again she felt a terrible void inside.

  A squawking bird flying overhead distracted her. Susannah looked up, but couldn’t see the bird, only fluffy white clouds. They covered Kensington like a dome of cotton wool. As the youngster studied them, the tears she thought she’d finished shedding began to flow once more. They stopped almost as soon as they’d started when the late afternoon sun pierced a tiny gap in the clouds. The sun’s brilliant rays bathed Susannah and the nearby pond in light. Their effect was mesmerizing.

  In that moment, Susannah sensed her mother’s presence. It was strong and undeniable; it was as though Susannah was an infant again; it felt like her mother was holding her – and she could feel her unconditional love. Mother, you really are in heaven now with our Father and the angels! A calmness descended on her as her faith in God was instantly restored.

  Susannah thought she heard her father calling from the house, but she couldn’t be sure. She continued looking skyward as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared and dusk descended.

  Some time later – she hadn’t a clue how long for she’d lost track of time – Drake Senior appeared beside her, his hand outstretched. “Dinner is about to be served, my child,” he said. “Will you come and join us?”

  “Yes, Papa,” Susannah nodded. As she stood and put her hand in his, she noticed the grief etched on his face. She’d lost her mother, but he’d lost his wife and one true love, and was obviously a broken man.

  Hand in hand, father and daughter walked slowly back to the house. They walked in silence. The clergyman went to say something, but changed his mind.

  Susannah looked skyward again. The clouds had all but disappeared and in the darkening sky, the faint twinkle of stars could now be seen. The youngster took this as a further sign her mother was communicating with her. She stopped walking and tugged on her father’s hand. “Papa,” she whispered.

  “Yes my dear?”

  Susannah looked up at her father. “I felt mother’s presence just now.” She hesitated as she pondered how to best describe what she’d experienced. “It was like mother, or God, or maybe both, communicated with me through nature.”

  Drake Senior stroked his daughter’s cheek tenderly. He smiled, but Susannah sensed he didn’t draw the same comfort from her experience as she did. They resumed walking.

  3

  Southeast London, England, 1837

  While London may have been the center of the civilized world, for twenty-one-year old Jack Halliday and untold thousands of other working class citizens, it was a place of never-ending hardship and poverty. Not even the approaching coronation of Queen Victoria was enough to lift the black mood that prevailed over the vast majority of the populace.

  Of course, poverty was relative. At least Jack had a job. The young Cockney eked out a living as a blacksmith in Sullivan’s Foundry down in the dockyards by the Thames. Although he worked six days a week, the wage he made barely enabled him to survive even though he’d served his apprenticeship and was a qualified smithy.

  Henry Sullivan, the foundry’s hard, mean-spirited proprietor, had a reputation for paying low wages. That he retained his hardworking staff was a reflection of the scarcity of jobs in London. Unemployment was at an all-time high; anyone lucky enough to have a job, did what they had to, to keep it. This opened them up to abuse from unscrupulous employers like Sullivan.

  Thankfully, this particular working day was nearly over. For Jack and the others, the day had gone like any other day at Sullivan’s. The work was hard, monoton
ous and sometimes dangerous; the foundry was noisy, smelly and always busy. From dawn to dusk, the workshop reverberated to the sounds of loud hammering and the clang of steel against steel. As they toiled, the smithies were constantly aware of the hulking figure of Sullivan who, it seemed, was always looking over their shoulders, critically eyeing their work and productivity.

  The proprietor stopped to inspect Jack's handiwork as the young smithy skillfully shaped a molten horse-shoe with a hammer. Sullivan asked, “Will Mister Featherstone's order be ready by tonight, Halliday?”

  Jack pointed behind his employer to a pile of railings stacked against the wall. “Already done,” he said. He continued hammering while Sullivan inspected the railings.

  The proprietor seemed impressed. He nodded with satisfaction before walking off.

  Jack ceased hammering for a moment to fasten his perceptive green eyes on Sullivan's retreating back. If me work’s that good, how about a raise, or a pat on the back at least? Anyone observing Jack would have seen the contempt he felt for Sullivan written all over his face.

  When the foundry siren sounded, heralding the end of the working day, Jack and the other smithies downed tools. Before leaving, Jack approached the proprietor. He asked, “Mister Sullivan, how about paying me the overtime I'm owed?”

  “I thought I told you, I'd pay you when I could?” Sullivan snarled.

  “That was two months ago, sir.”

  Sullivan became belligerent. He leaned forward so his brutish, granite-hewn face was close to Jack's. “Look Halliday, if you don't like it here there's plenty more men who'd like your job.”

  Jack's right hand closed to form a fist. He was tempted to punch Sullivan then thought better of it. Not now Jack. Get the old git’s quid first. The young smithy turned on his heel and strode out of the foundry. Although his cheeky face didn’t show it, he was inwardly fuming.