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

by Lance Morcan

  The escapee was in no doubt the missing canoe and his absence from the village would be noticed at dawn, or soon after, and the Makah would come looking for him. He reckoned he had, at best, a four-hour start on them.

  When he was satisfied he’d put a safe distance between himself and the spot where he’d clambered ashore, Nathan dropped the branch and began running. Now he made no attempt to cover his tracks. His only concern was reaching his destination in the quickest time possible.

  #

  Unfortunately for Nathan, his disappearance from the village was noticed earlier than he’d hoped. Tatoosh had risen before dawn and had gone to Nathan’s lodge to rouse his friend to accompany him on a pre-dawn hunt for bear. When he didn’t find Nathan either in the lodge or anywhere in the village, he’d wandered down to the beach and immediately noticed one of the canoes was missing.

  Now, after raising the alarm, Tatoosh and eleven of his braves were paddling two canoes toward the open sea. The young chief was in no doubt Nathan was heading for the ship they’d seen the previous day.

  As he paddled, Tatoosh could feel his anger growing toward his blood brother. The Makah had spared the White-Eye’s life and allowed him to live as one of them yet despite this great honor Nathan had shown no gratitude or loyalty. Worse, he’d double-crossed them.

  Tatoosh felt insulted and aggrieved. His heart felt heavy, too, for he knew custom dictated that when they caught the White-Eye, they’d have to kill him.

  Nearing the entrance to the open sea, Tatoosh put himself in Nathan’s place and considered the options open to him. A thought suddenly occurred. He stopped paddling and held up his hand. His fellow paddlers stopped paddling also. Tatoosh waited for the rear canoe to catch up to his. He then addressed the paddlers in the other canoe. “You keep going on the water,” he ordered. “We will go over the land.”

  Without a word, the paddlers in the other canoe resumed paddling. As soon as they reached the open sea, they turned right and headed east along the Makah nation’s northern coastline.

  Meanwhile, Tatoosh and his five companions paddled back the way they’d come. This time, they kept close to shore. Tatoosh suspected Nathan may have tried to throw them off the scent by pretending he’d escaped by canoe.

  Not far from where the young white had scrambled ashore, the paddlers nosed their canoe in amongst the rocks.

  “We look for tracks,” Tatoosh said. Holding up his musket, he added, “One shot if you find his tracks.”

  The braves, who all carried muskets, climbed out of the canoe and ran into the forest. Each followed a different path to the east. In the gray light of dawn they zigzagged as they ran, scanning the forest floor for Nathan’s spoor.

  #

  The sun had not long risen when a member of Tatoosh’s party saw a man’s footprints in a patch of mud half a mile east of Neah Bay. Bending down to inspect the tracks, there was no way of knowing whose they were, but the brave was aware it was very likely they belonged to the White-Eye.

  The brave primed his musket and fired a single shot skyward.

  Within minutes, Tatoosh and the others had rendezvoused at the site of the brave’s discovery. The brave had already established that whoever left the tracks was heading east.

  Tatoosh was in no doubt the tracks were Nathan’s. Without a word he led his braves eastward at a fast trot.

  #

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, Nathan was feeling anxious as he ran ever-eastward. The terrain was steeper and the vegetation more dense than he’d allowed for, and his progress was slower. By mid-day he estimated he wasn’t even half way to Whale Bay. Already, his legs felt like leaden weights and his chest heaved as he gasped for air.

  Despite his weariness, he forced himself to dig deep and maintain the unrelenting pace he’d set. He’d already discarded his backpack and was tempted to discard his tomahawk to lighten the load. After an internal debate, he kept it.

  It was around mid-day when Nathan emerged above the forest’s tree-line and found himself on the grassy knoll of a hill. It stood higher than most of the surrounding hills and it afforded his first glimpse of the Strait of Juan de Fuca away to the northeast. His heart sank when he saw how far away it was. By his reckoning it was still a good ten miles away.

  Nathan looked behind him, searching for a sighting of any pursuers. He sighted nothing unusual and wondered if his ruse had worked and his pursuers were traveling the long way to Whale Bay – by canoe.

  Then he saw something – a faint movement in a forest clearing two miles or so distant. He thought he was seeing things at first. There it is again! A tiny figure, no bigger than an ant, ran across the clearing before being swallowed up by the trees. Then another figure. And another! Although he couldn’t even ascertain at that distance whether the figures he saw were people, his gut told him they were Makah trackers. They were following the exact route he’d taken.

  Adrenalin pumped through his veins and Nathan took flight downhill, seeking to at least maintain the present distance between himself and his pursuers. He knew that was an ambitious goal. Fit and fast though he was, he’d learned from experience there were none more fleet-footed than the Northwest natives. They knew the forest like the back of their hand, and they could run all day long and almost as fast as the wind.

  29

  South Atlantic, 1848

  Ten days after departing Bata, in Equatorial Guinea, Drake Senior was feeling stronger and some color had returned to his cheeks. Five days earlier, he hadn’t been sure he’d made the right decision discharging himself so soon from hospital: his abdominal wound had been causing him pain and he was so weak he couldn’t leave his bunk without assistance.

  Susannah had been terribly concerned for his welfare. Her concern had deepened when her nursing friend, Miss Finch, advised her she was afraid Drake Senior’s wound had become re-infected.

  The tireless attention of the two women combined with Drake Senior’s naturally hardy constitution saw him make another dramatic recovery over the next five days. His improvement had come as a great relief for Susannah who couldn’t bare to think of how she’d cope if she lost her father after having already lost her mother.

  Now, sitting by the rail at Minstrel’s bow, Susannah offered up a prayer of thanks for her father’s recovery then prepared to make an entry in her diary. As she opened the diary, she became aware she was being observed by the handsome young English rigger who had caught her eye. He was at his normal work station, high in the rigging of one of the masts, making running repairs to a sail.

  Susannah hadn’t spoken to the rigger since he’d intervened when Donovan had tried to have his way with her. However, some discreet enquiries had revealed his name was Oscar Archibald and he hailed from Kent. Although she now knew his name, she thought of him as Goldie because of his golden locks.

  The young Englishwoman had also learned Goldie was only traveling as far as Cape Town aboard Minstrel. There, he would be taking up a job he’d arranged before departing England four months earlier – as an assistant to his older brother who had a thriving boat building business in the southern African port settlement.

  Susannah didn’t like the thought of Goldie parting company with Minstrel. For a start, his presence on board had served to discourage Donovan who hadn’t bothered her again. The main reason, however, was she found him very pleasing on the eye and a welcome relief from the daily tedium of shipboard life.

  On these hot summer days – as was the case today – Goldie had taken to working bare-chested, and Susannah had been quite taken with his chiseled physique. She wasn’t the only one: several other women on board had started spending more time above deck than usual so they could catch sight of the young god as he went about his work in the rigging.

  Putting Goldie out of her mind for the moment, Susannah dipped her quill into a bottle of ink and began writing a diary entry.

  June 13th, 1848

  Today is the first day papa has been above deck since we departed Bat
a. The tireless Miss Finch believes the worst is behind him now. Certainly, he looks more his old self.

  Two days out from Bata, we were becalmed once again. The heat was, and remains, as oppressive as ever. Fortunately, the wind soon befriended us and we have been tootling along at a steady 7 knots ever since.

  The first mate told us we are presently off the coast of Angola. I will take his word for no coastline is visible to us. Since our experience in the Gulf of Guinea, everyone is nervous the pirates will return. I must say we view every foreign vessel with suspicion these days. Mr Kemp assures us we have nothing to fear.

  On Thursday, we crossed the Equator. “Crossing the line” the crew called it. Those of us who hadn’t crossed the line before had to subject ourselves to some elaborate rites of passage as part of our initiation into the so-called Ancient Orders of the Deep. A very drunk Captain Mathers officiated and it was all a bit silly really. Any who refused to be initiated, were referred to by the crew as “pollywogs” or “slimy wogs”. Papa was exempt from this of course.

  So many adventures and we are not yet half way to New Zealand. I dread what the remainder of the voyage will bring.

  Cook has rung the dinner gong so I must go now. I am hoping papa can join us for dinner. Praise God, papa is returning to full health and his appetite is returning.

  Minstrel is flying now. 8 knots and a strengthening northerly.

  A shadow fell across the page as Susannah completed her diary entry. She looked up to see it was Goldie, the rigger. He was looking down at her.

  “Hu…hello,” Susannah smiled.

  “Hello, miss.”

  The pair stared at each other for a couple of drawn out seconds. He seemed as taken with her as she was with him.

  Finally, Goldie pointed up at the near mast. “The boys are about to unfurl the mainsail, miss,” he mumbled, “so best you move away or you could get hurt.”

  “Oh, of course.” Susannah went to stand when Goldie extended his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet. “Thank you, Gold…” She blushed when she realized she’d nearly used the nickname she’d bestowed upon the rigger in her dreams. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Oscar,” he said. “Oscar Archibald.” Goldie met her gaze levelly. Only now did he realize he was still holding her hand. It was hot to his touch and he made no attempt to release it. “And you are the clergyman’s daughter?”

  “Yes.” He’s been asking about me! “Susannah Drake.” Only now did she withdraw her hand from his.

  Goldie stooped and picked up Susannah’s diary and ink bottle then escorted her further along the deck out of harm’s way. “You’ll be safe here,” he announced.

  “Yes I’m sure I will. Thank you.” Susannah smiled at him. It was a genuine smile and he responded in kind.

  “I best be getting back,” he said, turning to go.

  “Of course.”

  Goldie hesitated and turned around. “I’m working a double shift today, so I’ll be here after dinner…in case you happen to be on deck at that time.”

  Susannah blushed again. “I may well be.”

  The rigger hurried off. As Susannah watched him, she found her pulse was racing. She couldn’t wait for nightfall.

  #

  Straight after dinner that night, Drake Senior retired to the stateroom he shared with Susannah. The sea air and the events of the day had caught up with him and he needed an early night. Light from a solitary lantern cast a warm glow over the room.

  Before turning in, the clergyman took Susannah’s hands in his and looked at her gravely. “My dear Susannah, I haven’t thanked you enough for the way you have cared for me these past few weeks.”

  Susannah tried to protest, but he shushed her.

  “I am so proud of you,” he continued. “And your mother would be proud of you, too.”

  “Papa, it is Miss Finch you should really thank,” Susannah insisted. “It was she who nursed you back to good health.”

  Drake Senior shook his head. “I know I will forever owe a debt of gratitude to Miss Finch. She provided the necessary nursing expertise, but you provided a daughter’s love and care, and that’s what helped me survive. The clergyman kissed his daughter’s forehead. “Shall we pray?”

  Susannah nodded. Evening prayers with her father had been a daily ritual for as long as she could remember. As they’d done aboard Minstrel every evening up until Drake Senior had been wounded, they knelt before his bunk, their hands clasped in prayer.

  Drake Senior started praying. “Dear Lord, we thank thee for watching over us and delivering us from the recent troubles that have beset Minstrel…”

  As her father prayed, Susannah’s mind strayed to the young rigger she knew, or hoped, was awaiting her above deck. Try as she may, she couldn’t dispel the image of Goldie and his sculpted physique, and for the first time ever she wished Drake Senior would hurry up and finish praying.

  What seemed to Susannah like an age later, the clergyman mercifully concluded, “And finally we ask for forgiveness for our sins, Lord. Banish any impure thoughts and give us the strength to follow the Christian path. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Susannah whispered.

  Drake Senior climbed onto his bunk and pulled a sheet up over himself. It was too hot for blankets.

  It took all Susannah’s control not to rush from the room. “I will get some fresh air on deck before turning in, papa,” Susannah said as casually as she could.

  “Alright, but be careful,” Drake Senior warned. “The Atlantic is a big ocean.”

  “Night papa,” Susannah said as she extinguished the lantern flame and left the stateroom.

  Climbing the steps to the deck, she suddenly had second thoughts. Her father’s words came back to her. Banish any impure thoughts and give us the strength to follow the Christian path. She felt a twinge of guilt and hung back momentarily. Images from her past flashed through her mind: sitting with her mother in church as her father delivered a Sunday sermon; saying grace at the dinner table; attending bible class with her friends.

  Susannah debated whether to return to the stateroom. She had been raised as a Christian in a Christian household, and it had been instilled in her during her teenage years she must save herself for her husband, for in the eyes of God only a union between husband and wife would be blessed.

  The young Englishwoman was in no doubt what her secret assignation with the young man awaiting her above deck would lead to. She desired him and she was in no doubt he desired her. There could only be one outcome.

  Susannah reluctantly turned back and began retracing her steps to the stateroom. Then another image skittered through her mind. This time it was Goldie. In Susannah’s imagination, the young rigger was working half-naked up the mast, his taught muscles moving in perfect unison as he climbed out along a spar high above the deck. His sweaty body gleamed under the hot sun. Forgive me, Lord! Susannah spun around and ran back up the steps.

  30

  Sydney Town, 1841

  Three weeks had passed since Jack had taken up residence at the Todd’s boarding house, and he was no closer to stowing away aboard a ship. He could feel himself slipping into a kind of lethargy. The Cockney realized that every passing day was a day closer to being captured, but he couldn’t help himself: his employer and landlady Joan Todd was like a drug, and he remained addicted to her.

  The sexy Welshwoman was addicted to him, too. She’d taken to encouraging her husband to drink just so he was out of the way and she was free to indulge herself with her latest lover. Just as she satisfied Jack in every way, he satisfied her. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that resulted in them going at it like rabbits at every opportunity.

  So taken was she with Jack, the normally discreet Joan had thrown discretion to the wind. After the first week, everyone in the boarding house except Jim Todd knew she and Jack were an item; after the second week, even Jim knew. It was an arrangement that suited him: the henpecking had stopped and he was allowed to d
rink as much and as often as he liked. All he needed to do was turn a blind eye to his wife’s shenanigans. He was more than happy to do that. It took the pressure off him.

  Joan had suspected her young lover was an escaped convict. She’d seen the welts left by the flogger’s whip on his back, and he’d mentioned things that alluded to his recent past, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

  As far as Jack was concerned, his stocks in life had risen. He was being paid well for the little work he did, and he had a job with great perks; he ate like a king and shagged like a horny goat as often as he liked.

  He sensed it was too good to last. And as always, his sixth sense was spot on.

  It happened on a Sunday – his day off. Jack was drinking with the same laborers who had befriended him when he dined at a local eatery three weeks earlier. Sunday afternoon drinking sessions at the same eatery were fast becoming a regular engagement for the tight group, and it was something Jack looked forward to.

  On this particular Sunday, an off duty soldier noticed Jack. There was something about the Cockney that set him apart from his companions. The soldier, who had been stationed in the colony long enough to recognize convicts by the way they looked and carried themselves, suspected Jack was an escapee.

  Jack became aware of the other’s interest in him before the soldier could act on his instincts. Just as the soldier had developed an instinct about convicts so, too, had Jack about soldiers.

  The soldier caught Jack’s eye. Their eyes locked and they stared at each other. It was as though time stood still.

  Jack was oblivious to the conversation swirling around him even though some of his companions’ comments were directed at him. Beneath his casual exterior, he was tense, like a sprinter at the start line, and ready to flee. Jack was watching the soldier’s right hand. He knew that was the hand that would reach for the pistol he’d spotted tucked into the soldier’s belt.