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

by Lance Morcan

  A concerned Drake Senior appeared from below deck. “Susannah?” he called to her.

  She waved him away. Realizing she didn’t want him to see her in such a wretched state, Drake Senior returned below.

  Alone in her misery, Susannah vomited once more. Mercifully, after that, she felt considerably better. She breathed in the cool sea air. A movement next to her made her jump. She looked around and saw, by the light of an outside lantern, it was Harry Kemp, the retired colonel who had chartered Minstrel.

  A big man with a kindly face that was partly hidden behind a bushy moustache, Kemp was concerned for the young woman’s welfare. “Sorry, Miss,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Oh, that’s alright, Colonel.”

  “Please, it’s Harry. I’m no longer in the Army, so the rank no longer applies.”

  Susannah smiled shyly. “I am Susannah Drake,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Ah, delighted,” Kemp said, taking her hand briefly. “I assume you are the reverend’s daughter?”

  “Yes. My father tells me it is you we have to thank for this vessel.”

  Kemp waved one hand dismissively. “Only too happy to have the company,” he said. “And the extra passengers helps meet my costs,” he added honestly.

  Susannah felt very at ease in Kemp’s presence. She’d always considered herself a good judge of character. It was her judgement that the former colonel was a true gentleman. “Colonel…ah…Harry,” she asked, “may I enquire as to what business takes you to Equatorial Guinea and other such unusual destinations on this voyage?”

  Kemp proceeded to explain why Minstrel was deviating from the normal sailing routes. Susannah found his explanation fascinating and promised herself she would note it in her next diary entry.

  #

  When Susannah returned to the stateroom, she found her father already asleep behind a curtain he’d drawn. Although she couldn’t see him, she could hear him snoring. The curtain effectively cut the stateroom in half and ensured at least a modicum of privacy for the room’s two occupants.

  Susannah climbed into her bunk, opened her diary and set about completing the entry she’d begun earlier.

  Already I feel better about the future having just met the distinguished Mister Kemp, a former British Army officer who is solely responsible for the charter of this brigantine. A finer gentleman I have never met, aside from my own dear papa.

  Mister Kemp explained the reasons for the route Minstrel follows. It seems he still has ties with the Army which is part-financing his present venture. Although much of what he is doing is confidential, he confided that he is to deliver certain military documents to Army personnel stationed at various outposts en route. One such outpost is Bata, in Equatorial Guinea. I do hope the natives there behave. First stop however, is Santa Cruz de Tenerife, in the Canary Islands, three weeks sailing time from here. I so look forward to that.

  I am missing terra firma already. This sea air is making me tired. Must sleep now. Ship going 6 knots. Course S.W.

  15

  Parramatta, New South Wales, 1840

  Jack, now twenty-four, studied the local Gameraigal Aborigines snaring eels in the Parramatta River as he arrived back at the penal settlement. It was the end of yet another hard day working on the new road to Sydney Town.

  The horse-drawn cart Jack was on rolled to a halt, and he and the other convicts gratefully clambered off it. A guard unshackled their leg irons and all except Jack walked slowly to their quarters where a cold bath and a meal of sorts awaited them.

  Jack lingered by the river, watching the Aborigines snare some of the big freshwater eels that frequented this section of the Parramatta. Even after two years, he never tired of watching the natives fish or hunt.

  As Jack prepared to sit down on the riverbank, he saw a movement in the grass. Closer inspection revealed a deadly king brown snake slithering toward him. “Shit!” he jumped back and allowed the snake to slither past. Then he sat down, his heart racing following the close encounter. Like most Europeans, he couldn’t get used to the snakes and other creepy crawlies that frequented this untamed land. He had good reason to fear snakes. One convict and a settler had already died, and several others had nearly died as a result of snake bites since his arrival at Parramatta.

  By now, the holiday was well and truly over for the young Cockney. After surviving the hellish ocean voyage out from Mother England, Parramatta had seemed like heaven with its brothels, bars and even a weekly wage for its convict residents. It hadn’t taken long for Jack to tire of Parramatta’s delights. He was ready to quit the place after his first half-dozen floggings – and that was only four months into his stay here. Since then, the daily routine of working on a chain gang from dawn till dusk had gotten to him. Even Mary O’Brien’s magnificent, melon-like breasts weren’t enough to hold him here now. He had decided he needed a change of scenery.

  The recent replacement of Captain James Clarke by a sadistic Englishman appropriately named Henry Gallows had been the last straw for Jack. Under Clarke, life at Parramatta had been plain boring; under Gallows, it was brutal. The man, a failed government official in his former life, had a penchant for flogging convicts, or worse, as punishment for even the most minor offence. Sentences of one to two hundred lashes were now commonplace for so much as talking back to a guard. Striking a guard could mean three hundred lashes, which was often a death sentence, and attempting to escape was now punishable by hanging. As a result, morale, even among the soldiers, was at an all-time low at Parramatta.

  Invariably, Jack’s thoughts turned to escape. He knew the odds were against him; he’d seen twenty or more convicts try to escape and each attempt had resulted in death or capture. Those who didn’t succumb to thirst or hunger in the unforgiving countryside – or the Outback as the locals called it – were usually rounded up within a few days by the Gameraigal trackers in the Army’s employ. The few hardy souls who managed to elude the trackers were inevitably killed and, according to rumors, sometimes eaten by other Aborigines who came across them.

  Until now, Jack had been content to bide his time. Now, he was ready to execute a plan he’d been hatching for some months.

  As darkness fell, the Aborigines began smoking their freshly-caught eels over a fire their womenfolk had started. They invited Jack to join them. The Gameraigals had come to know and like the cheeky Cockney who always had a smile and a friendly wave for them. As he had done on several occasions recently, Jack joined them for a meal. The smoked eel they shared with him was delicious, and he indicated as much through a combination of facial expressions, hand signs and the odd Aboriginal word he’d picked up. His frequent misuse of their language prompted smiles among his Gameraigal hosts.

  The Gameraigals ate baked grubs with their smoked eel. Their leader, Murrundi, glanced mischievously at Jack then addressed his companions. “You watch when I offer Whitey Jack a grub,” he chuckled. “He will accept it rather than risk offending us. Then you watch White Jack’s face when he eats it.” Assuming a serious expression, Murrundi speared a large grub on the end of a stick, baked it over a flame then handed it to Jack. “You take,” he said in pigeon English.

  Not wishing to offend his hosts, Jack took the stick from Murrundi and nibbled unenthusiastically at the grub impaled on the end of it. As he finally devoured the last of the grub, Murrundi and the others burst out laughing. Some rolled around on the ground, so great was their mirth. Realizing they’d set him up, Jack smiled good-naturedly.

  When the laughter subsided, Jack turned to Murrundi and engaged him in conversation. “What does Murrundi’s people think of the Red Coats?” he asked.

  Murrundi, a wiry individual whose deep-set eyes gleamed with intelligence, said, “We no like Red Coats.”

  “If I escape, would your people track me?”

  Murrundi gave this some thought then smiled shrewdly. “We track you Whitey Jack, but maybe not find you.”

  Jack nodded to the Aborigine. “Th
ank you, my friend.”

  A short while later, Jack bade his hosts goodnight then began walking toward the settlement. The darkness soon swallowed him up. As he walked, his mind was racing. Murrundi had basically given him the go-ahead to escape. Next week, he promised himself. He suddenly slowed to a halt. Why not right now? Jack looked around. Alone in the dark, he realized he couldn’t be seen by his Gameraigal friends or indeed by anyone in the nearby settlement.

  Feeling a rush of excitement, Jack made up his mind. Now it is! He hurried to the nearby riverbank. There, he scouted along the bank until he found a log that had been washed down in some forgotten flood. Without hesitating, he pushed the log out into the river, hung onto it and floated downstream.

  As the current carried him away from Parramatta, Jack heard the ship’s bell ring out in the settlement, reminding the convict population it would soon be time to retire for the night. Jack smiled to himself at the thought of his fellow convicts turning in. They’d see he was absent and assume he was spending another night with one of his female consorts. They’ll be able to cover for me till morning at least. By then, he hoped, he’d be well on the way to freedom.

  Jack was feeling elated as the current quickly distanced him from his captors. Murrundi had strongly hinted his people would not go out of their way to find him if he escaped from Parramatta, and Jack felt Murrundi’s word was his bond. The young Cockney was also confident he had a superior escape plan. Those convicts who had tried and failed to escape had all fled overland. Not one to Jack’s knowledge had used the river to try to escape – possibly because most couldn’t swim. Jack could. And he was very aware the river meant he’d leave no tracks.

  His plan was to float as far as he could downstream – all the way to the river’s mouth if he could. Then he’d make his way to Sydney Town and from there stow away on a ship bound for New Zealand or perhaps the Pacific Islands.

  #

  Some two hours after entering the river, Jack was feeling more confident than ever. The log he used as a raft was doing its job: it was putting distance between him and Parramatta with little effort on his part other than steering it to ensure it didn’t run aground in the shallows. And I’m leaving no tracks! He chuckled to himself.

  Then he saw flickering lights downstream.

  As the current carried him toward the lights, the young Cockney saw a party of Aborigines spearing fish by the light of flaming torches. Some of the fishermen were in canoes anchored mid-stream; others were on foot, patroling the shallows along both banks.

  Jack identified them as members of the Wiradjuri tribe. Their reputation was less than hospitable toward whites. Realizing there was no way past them, he steered the log to the near bank, climbed out of the river and began heading across country. As he walked, he hoped he was far enough from Parramatta for his tracks to remain undiscovered.

  Less than a hundred paces from the river, volleys of musket-fire shattered the silence. Jack instinctively dropped to the ground. When he realized the shooting was not directed at him, he looked back and saw soldiers on horseback shooting the Wiradjuris in the river. The soldiers’ red coats stood out even in the dim light of the natives’ flaming torches.

  The startled Wiradjuris dropped their torches and tried to flee. Most were cut down where they stood. Within seconds, several lay face-down in the shallows, dead. Others managed to reach the riverbank and tried to flee cross-country. The soldiers’ horses soon ran them down. The Red Coats laughed as they killed indiscriminately. Jack realized this was sport to them.

  One fleet-footed Wiradjuri managed to break through the cordon of soldiers. Jack was alarmed to see he was running straight toward him with two Red Coats on horseback in hot pursuit. Not this way you bloody idiot!

  Standing in the open, the Cockney realized he’d be discovered if he didn’t take evasive action. He started running, trying to distance himself from the Wiradjuri and his pursuers.

  As Jack ran through the darkness, his left foot disappeared into a small rabbit hole in the ground. It held fast while his bodyweight was still moving forward at speed, stopping him dead in his tracks. A shooting pain traveled up the length of his leg. “Arghhh!” His agonizing cry attracted the attention of one of the soldiers.

  The soldier veered off to investigate, leaving the Wiradjuri to his companion to finish off. A musket-shot brought an end to the native’s short-lived freedom.

  Jack initially thought he’d broken his ankle. The fact he was able to remain upright convinced him he’d only sprained it. He tried to run, but was reduced to a painful hobble. As he attempted to flee, he heard the thunder of horses’ hooves bearing down on him. The Red Coat rode his horse over the top of Jack, flattening him. The force of the impact knocked him out cold.

  When he came round, Jack saw he was surrounded by Red Coats. They were laughing and joking, boasting about the number of black fellows they’d just killed. The laughter tapered off when they realized Jack was now conscious.

  The Red Coats’ senior officer dismounted and kneeled down beside the subdued prisoner. “Now what have we here?” he asked in a seemingly affected middle class English accent.

  “Do you think he’s an Abo, sir?” a soldier asked in jest.

  The senior officer grabbed a handful of Jack’s hair and tilted the prisoner’s face up toward his. “I’m not sure,” the senior officer chuckled. “If he is, he’s from a tribe I’m not familiar with.”

  “Perhaps he’s from the Convict Tribe, sir,” another soldier suggested. This prompted more laughter.

  The senior officer tired of the charade. He released Jack’s hair and stood astride him, staring down at him. “What’s your name, felon?”

  Trying to ignore the pain in his ankle and his thumping headache, Jack looked up at the senior officer. “I’m the Governor of New South Wales and I’m going to have you hung, drawn and quartered for treating me like this,” he spat through clenched teeth.

  The senior officer saw red and stomped Jack’s face with the heel of his boot, knocking the Cockney out for the second time that night.

  16

  Makah Nation, West Coast, North America, 1840

  Winter had arrived with a vengeance in Oregon Country. It was turning out to be even harsher than the first winter Nathan had experienced at Neah Bay, and the Makah village was under a rare blanket of snow.

  Now eighteen, the young Philadelphian tossed and turned on the bearskin rug that served as his bed in the lodge of his benefactor, Elswa, the tribe’s chief. He’d lived as a member of Elswa’s extended family ever since he’d distinguished himself during the Mowachaht raid a year earlier.

  After saving the chief’s life, and becoming blood brother to Tatoosh, the chief’s son, Nathan’s fortunes had changed out of sight. He spent his days fishing and hunting with Tatoosh and the other braves, and was able to enjoy the company of the female slaves and village maidens whenever he chose. He’d even been permitted to choose a personal slave for himself, and had selected Baldy, the Mowachaht slave. Nathan treated him well and Baldy reciprocated by ensuring his master was never short of food, clean clothes or the prized wild berries that were so popular in season.

  Elswa treated Nathan as a son, and the Makah braves looked on him as one of them. To all intents and purposes – skin color and blue eyes aside – Nathan was one of them. Tall and athletic, he now cut an imposing figure. He’d filled out somewhat and had packed on some muscle. As fit and strong as any Makah brave, he’d already been on several raiding parties against enemy tribes and had a number of kills to his name.

  During waking hours he was Makah, but his sleep was filled with dreams of his former life – in particular his childhood years in Philadelphia. Until something had woken him minutes earlier, he’d been dreaming he was playing tag with schoolmates.

  Tatoosh appeared out of the darkness. “You awake?” he asked in his native tongue.

  “Yes.”

  “We go now,” Tatoosh said.

  Nathan, who now spoke f
luent Makah, jumped to his feet and began dressing. Although his friend hadn’t elaborated, he knew him well enough to know something was up. The sound of men talking in urgent, hushed tones outside the lodge confirmed that.

  Tucking his leggings into snow boots, Nathan grabbed the musket and tomahawk he kept by his bed mat and followed Tatoosh outside where, beneath a clear, starry sky, a raiding party of some thirty braves were gathering around their chief. Most carried muskets. A few were armed with bows or tomahawks. They stamped their feet to keep warm and the condensation from their breath hung in the cold night air like mist.

  As Nathan joined the others, he was barely distinguishable from them. Outwardly at least he had gone completely native, even down to the hairstyle he wore as a bun atop his head and the two eagle feathers which protruded from it. The one custom he had not adopted was wearing war paint, and so he was the only one among the assembled whose face was not adorned in paint.

  Among the braves was a Makah scout who had delivered some concerning news to Elswa a short time earlier. The scout was still breathing hard after a five-mile run back to Neah Bay.

  “A Quileute hunting party is camped up river,” Elswa announced. “They trespass in the lands of the Makah Nation.”

  The assembled braves nodded gravely. Like the Mowachahts, the Quileutes were traditional enemies of their tribe.

  Elswa continued, “They will not be expecting to be attacked.”

  He’s right about that, Nathan thought. He knew the Northwest tribes rarely went to war in winter, preferring to wait for the warmer summer months when travel was easier and temperatures were kinder.

  As the chief outlined his plan of attack, Nathan glanced around at the Makah braves. They were clearly relishing the thought of action. Their painted faces shone in anticipation of the violence that was coming and they already had the bloodlust in their eyes – none more so than Tatoosh who looked like a hungry dog straining against a leash.