by Lance Morcan
On shore, Nathan quickly went his own way, keen to distance himself from the woman who, it turned out, was as garrulous as she was corpulent. He soon found himself in the village center, some distance from the beach. Everywhere he looked, he saw villagers going about their daily business. Women weaved baskets, mats and other useful items in the shade of the numerous palm and hibiscus trees while their children ran about naked beneath the hot sun.
Those men who weren’t away fishing or hunting sat in small groups beneath the shade of awnings that extended from thatched huts. They were drinking kava, the vile-looking traditional herbal drink made from the kava plant that grows so prevalently throughout the Pacific Islands. It wouldn’t be until he reached Fiji that Nathan would drink kava, and then he’d learn the hard way that the ceremonial drink possessed a strong kick for the unwary.
As one of the few whites around, Nathan attracted stares from the villagers. Invariably, they waved and flashed friendly smiles his way. He returned their waves and smiles even though he wasn’t feeling especially sociable.
While Nathan had no particular empathy for the islanders, or indeed for any native people, he had to admire their resourcefulness. His reading on the voyage out had revealed the forefathers of these islanders had explored and settled much of the vast Pacific since migrating to these shores almost fifteen hundred years earlier. That they’d achieved that aboard flimsy catamarans, guided only by the stars and other signs provided by Mother Nature, made their seafaring feats all the more remarkable.
As he continued through the village, Nathan came across a group of teenage boys playing a rough-and-tumble game on a grassy clearing between the huts. The youths had split into two equal teams of around twelve aside and were fighting – for want of a better word – over possession of a coconut. There appeared to be no rules and, as a consequence, the contestants had an assortment of black eyes, cuts and bruises.
From where Nathan stood, the object of the game appeared to be to get the coconut to one end of the clearing. Which end depended on which team you played for. It reminded Nathan of a game the Makah had played – except they’d used a human skull in stead of a coconut.
Comparing the islanders to the natives of Northwest America, Nathan deduced the former were a sturdier breed. In fact they were some of the biggest people he’d ever seen. At least as big as the Zulus of southern Africa. Athletic and muscular – and aggressive if the games they played were anything to go by – they would, he decided, make fearsome enemies.
The coconut suddenly ended up at Nathan’s feet. It had been jolted out of the grip of a member of the losing team, and had rolled to within a foot of the white spectator. Only now had the youths noticed him. They waited for him to throw it back to them.
On an impulse, Nathan picked up the coconut, tucked it under one arm, and ran headlong at the members of the winning team. The youths of both teams welcomed his involvement with cheers and laughter, and Nathan underwent a baptism of fire as he threw himself into the game.
#
Nathan was regretting his impulsive actions as he walked slowly back to the jetty and the longboat that waited there. He’d only lasted ten minutes playing with the island youths, but that had been long enough to leave him feeling battered and bruised. Weeks of enforced inactivity aboard Rainmaker had left him a bit soft, and he’d just been painfully reminded of that.
At the jetty, his fellow passengers and the longboat’s oarsmen greeted him with strange looks. Little wonder – his shirt was torn and bloodied, he sported a cut above one eye and he was looking most disheveled.
“So you’ve met the locals,” one of the oarsmen observed dryly.
“Yep,” Nathan responded as cheerfully as he could.
The others waited for an explanation. Nathan offered nothing more as he boarded the longboat and sat on the last free bench in the stern. No sooner had he sat down than the corpulent female passenger and her husband appeared on the jetty. They joined him in the stern of the craft. This should be interesting. Nathan hung on tight to the side of the longboat as it threatened to sink beneath the weight of the over-sized woman.
The return journey to Rainmaker proved as hazardous as the journey to shore – possibly even more so as the longboat’s stern just cleared the surface of the water by an inch or so.
The rotund woman seemed as oblivious to the very real danger of sinking as she was to her great size. She passed the time gorging on what was left of a pile of pre-cut sandwiches the schooner’s chef had prepared for her trip ashore.
41
Kororareka, New Zealand, 1848
Susannah felt decidedly nervous as she accompanied her father the short distance from the wharf to the main street of Kororareka, a thriving port settlement on the east coast of New Zealand’s North Island. The town was widely recognized as the hell-hole of the Pacific. Looking around, Susannah could see why: it had, in her opinion, attracted the biggest collection of lowlifes, riffraff and undesirables who had ever walked the earth, and there was no sign of law enforcement of any kind.
As the only white woman in the township at that moment – and as one of the few white women to have ever visited the district – she was attracting considerable attention. The sailors, whalers, sealers and others of their kind openly leered at Susannah as she and her father walked along the dusty street. A symphony of wolf whistles followed them both. More reserved were the local Maoris who congregated in small groups on street corners and who seemed to be minding their own business. They appeared surly and resentful of the presence of pakeha, or whites, on land that was theirs not that long ago.
Shopkeepers appeared to be doing a roaring trade, but the busiest establishments by far were the brothels. Although still only early afternoon, queues of men lined up outside the seedy establishments. Some of those queuing jostled to maintain their position and sporadic fighting broke out.
Susannah caught sight of several prostitutes inside one of the brothels. They were all Maori and appeared to range in age from around fifteen to fifty. The older women wore the moko, or Maori tattoo, on their chins. None of the prostitutes – young or old – seemed remotely attractive. I guess for men who have been at sea for months on end, they look like beauties. Susannah quickly looked the other way. It saddened her to see women selling their bodies to whoever was willing to pay.
“Not far to go now, my dear,” Drake Senior murmured to reassure his daughter. He could sense her unease.
“It can’t come soon enough, papa,” Susannah said.
They were heading for a recommended boarding house whose hoarding could be seen some fifty yards ahead.
The Drakes had just arrived in Kororareka after a three-week voyage from Hobart Town. Drake Senior had secured berths for them aboard another brigantine, Sea Mistress, after they’d learned that Minstrel would be laid up in for three weeks in dry dock for repairs after her run-in with the whale. Rather than wait, the Drakes and several other passengers had decided to take up an offer of berths on Sea Mistress, which was departing for Kororareka just a few days after their arrival in Hobart Town.
Thankfully, the trans-Tasman crossing had been uneventful after the dramas of the previous leg from Cape Town to Hobart Town. The often dangerous Tasman Sea hadn’t lived up to its reputation, and Sea Mistress completed the voyage without incident. Even so, the Drakes hadn’t yet had time to find their sea legs, and the ground beneath their feet seemed to be rising and falling as they walked.
The boarding house they were heading for would be home until Drake Senior could organize a berth for them aboard a vessel leaving for Fiji. They’d been assured Fiji was on a major shipping route and they shouldn’t have long to wait.
“We’re here!” Drake Senior announced, stopping outside the boarding house they’d been heading for. The hoarding above its front door read: Jensen’s Boarding House. Vacancies.
Looking up at the sign, Susannah noticed a smaller sign beneath it. It read: Welcome to Kororareka. The town’s name had been crossed
out by some wag. In its place he’d scrawled the hell-hole of the Pacific, confirming what Susannah had heard earlier.
In no time, the Drakes secured adjoining rooms on the establishment’s first floor.
Susannah had no sooner started to unpack when there was a knock on her door. “Come in, papa,” she called. “It’s not locked.”
Drake Senior opened the door and looked in. “I’m heading back down to the waterfront now,” he announced. “I suggest you keep the door locked while I’m away.”
“Of course, papa.” Susannah needed no encouragement on that score. Apart from her father and Mister Jensen, the boarding house proprietor, she hadn’t seen one trustworthy looking individual since arriving in town.
Drake Senior said his goodbyes and headed off. He was returning to the waterfront to enquire about berths to Fiji.
Susannah locked her door then recovered her diary, quill and ink bottle from her travel bags. She had some writing to catch up on.
Minutes later, she commenced drafting her first diary entry in several days.
August 31st, 1848
It is with some relief I can write that we have arrived safely in New Zealand. Having survived the Roaring Forties, we were nervous about the trans-Tasman crossing for it has doomed many ships and claimed many lives. Our prayers must have been answered for the weather was kind and the seas calm for most of the voyage.
Sailing into Kororareka, on the east coast of New Zealand’s northernmost island, early this afternoon was a sight I shall never forget. I swear it is the prettiest coastline I have seen. Bush-covered hills, horseshoe-shaped bays and inlets, and golden sand beaches. The harbor was filled with craft of every description, and we saw a Maori war canoe being paddled by fierce-looking, tattooed Maoris.
The township itself is something I shall never forget also. It seems a lawless place and I am grateful I am here with my father for it is no place for a single white woman.
Papa and I still miss those traveling companions we parted company with in Hobart Town. Dear Miss Finch and Colonel Kemp and the others we forged lifetime friendships with. We miss them all. I shall write to them of course, but it isn’t the same.
We learned before departing Hobart Town that John Donovan, the Irishman whom we suspected was an escaped felon, drowned trying to save an Aboriginal boy who fell into the Derwent River. Fortunately, the boy survived. The boys’ relatives planned to give Mister Donovan a decent burial. He deserved that much. His bravery has reminded me there is good in everyone. ‘Tis a lesson I must bear in mind for the trials that surely lie ahead in Fiji.
Susannah was suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness. Lengthy voyages had that effect on her. Even though she napped whenever she could, the sea air tired her and she never seemed to be able to get enough sleep. She wasn’t alone. Her father and other passengers had the same complaint.
Yawning, the young Englishwoman pulled the curtains across to block out the sunlight then stripped off and crawled between the sheets of the room’s single bed.
Sleep wouldn’t come immediately. As happened with increasing frequency these days, whenever she tried to sleep she thought about Goldie, the young rigger she’d been so attracted to during the voyage to Cape Town. And then when she finally drifted off to sleep, she would dream about him.
Today was no different. When she closed her eyes, Susannah could see the golden-haired rigger so clearly it was as if he was in her room. He was working bare-chested half way up Minstrel’s mast. His lean torso glistened with sweat and gleamed in the sunlight as he climbed down the mast and joined Susannah on the deck.
At this moment, Susannah didn’t know whether she was asleep and dreaming or awake and fantasizing. She didn’t care. Goldie took her by the hand and led her along the deck to the same raft they’d planned to make love in before Minstrel had almost been sunk by the barque. They climbed into the bottom of the raft and pulled the tarpaulin cover over so they were hidden from prying eyes. Before she knew it, they were both naked. Goldie kissed her and she responded with urgency. Unable to delay the moment, she gave herself to him.
A knock at the door brought Susannah back to the present. She realized she hadn’t fallen asleep and immediately felt guilty that she’d been fantasizing whilst awake.
“Are you there, Susannah?”
The voice that came from the other side of the door was her father’s.
“I was just sleeping, papa,” Susannah replied. “Give me five minutes will you?”
“Certainly, my dear.”
Susannah listened as Drake Senior entered his own room next door. She lay where she was for a minute to two to catch her breath. The fantasy she’d just had was so vivid it was as if she really had made love. She was aware such thoughts and fantasies were sinful – the scriptures told her that – but her sexual desires seemed like an avalanche of inner lust that seemed impossible to stop no matter how often she prayed they’d go away.
Determined not to dwell on her desires, Susannah climbed out of bed, quickly dressed and joined her father in his room. She soon learned Drake Senior had had had mixed fortunes during his waterfront visit. He’d met the master of a trading schooner that was Fiji-bound, but wasn’t departing Kororareka for another three weeks. Subsequent enquiries revealed other vessels were departing for Fiji earlier, but they were whalers or sealers and not suited to fare-paying passengers. So the clergyman had booked berths aboard the trading schooner for Susannah and himself for three weeks hence.
Before returning to the boarding house, he’d visited a Wesleyan mission station on the outskirts of town. It was run by George and Shelly Bristow, a missionary couple from Newcastle, in the north of England. They weren’t surprised to see Drake Senior as the London Missionary Society had previously alerted them of his likely visit.
The Bristows had insisted the Drakes stay with them until their departure. Drake Senior had readily agreed to accept their hospitality, but only on condition they allow Susannah and himself to assist them with their work at the mission station. This they’d readily agreed to for they were understaffed and overworked.
So began a busy but enjoyable stay for the Drakes at the mission station. It provided a dress rehearsal of sorts for what lay ahead. More importantly, it provided them with their first contact with the native people of the Pacific – the local Maoris. An experience they would never forget.
42
Coral Coast, Fiji, 1841
Jack jumped involuntarily when he heard the faint sound of a key in the keyhole of the door to Besieged’s hold. That was followed by the faint sound of footsteps as someone hurried off.
The young Cockney didn’t know how much time had passed since his dinner was delivered. He guessed it was around three hours, which would make it about nine o’clock in the evening. Jack had spent all of that time deep in thought. He’d had to make one of the toughest decisions in his life: whether to risk drowning by trying to swim ashore or accept his punishment and resign himself to being shipped back to Sydney Town.
In the end he’d decided to risk it all. Better to die trying than live like a slave, he’d reasoned. Now that the time had come, he wasn’t so sure.
Jack wasn’t sure he could swim half a mile let alone a mile – especially not at night in shark-infested seas. Worse, he wasn’t even sure the schooner was a mile off shore. He only had Jonty’s word for that. For all he knew, Besieged could be ten miles from the coast. And then there was the reef to worry about. He’d been told a coral reef separated the open sea from the shore right along the length of the Coral Coast and, indeed, around much of Viti Levu. It had been the cause of many a shipwreck and he didn’t fancy being hurled into it by the ocean waves.
Even if he could survive the swim, Jack knew that first he must contend with the bounty hunter. He sensed that Sparrow would be waiting for him on deck – as he’d promised he would be – and wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he had half a chance. While Jack could handle himself, he wasn’t sure he could take Sparrow.
Aware that time was ticking, Jack stumbled through the darkness toward the door. His mind was made up. Fumbling for the handle, his hand closed around it. Here goes. No turning back now. He turned the handle and was relieved to feel the door open.
Now in semi-darkness, Jack walked as quietly as he could toward the steps that would take him topside. Already he could hear the boom of waves that crashed against the offshore reef. The sound filled him with dread and he tried not to think about what lay ahead.
At the first landing, the sound grew louder, like rolling thunder. Then he heard something else. Footsteps! The footsteps came from the deck above him. Someone was pacing up and down. He guessed it was Sparrow.
When Jack reached the open doorway leading out onto the deck, he paused and cautiously looked outside. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of a tall, shadowy figure as it moved toward the stern. Sparrow! There was no doubt it was him.
The steps had fortuitously delivered Jack to the portside rail. Beyond it, through the darkness, he could see the luminescent white of the waves as they broke over the reef, which appeared to be around half a mile away. Jack had always found distance over water hard to judge, so he knew his estimate could be well out. And beyond the reef he could see the flickering lights from native villages and huts along the coast.
How far the shoreline was beyond the reef was anyone’s guess. He just hoped it was closer than the reef was to the schooner.