by Lance Morcan
The sound of her father snoring through the paper-thin wall separating his bedroom from hers reminded her where she was: in a two-bedroom guest cottage on the spacious grounds of Levuka’s Wesley Methodist Mission Station. The cottage was situated on a rise above the town.
Susannah pulled back the drapes and looked out her bedroom window. She could see the town’s residents were stirring. Merchants were preparing to open their stores in readiness for another day’s trading and revelers from the night before were weaving their way back to their respective lodgings, looking somewhat worse for wear.
The young woman turned away from the window and eased her tired limbs out of bed. Stretching, she walked over to a dressing table, sat down and began brushing her long, red hair. In the soft morning light, her hair shone like gold and framed a face that was angelic yet determined—and undeniably beautiful; the modest night-dress she wore couldn’t hide her shapely figure, but her most amazing feature was her hazel eyes, which were flecked and which sparkled like diamonds.
Looking at her reflection, Susannah marveled at the chain of events that had brought her to this point in her life. She and her father, the Reverend Brian Drake, had come to Fiji as missionaries. They were en route to Momi Bay, an isolated settlement on the west coast of Viti Levu, where they would run a fledgling mission station.
For no apparent reason, as she often did, Susannah suddenly thought of her late mother. Jeanette Drake had passed away when her daughter was twelve, yet it seemed like only yesterday. While her passing had hit Susannah hard, she knew it had affected her father the worst. Drake Senior had been like a lost soul since the death of his dear wife.
When the good Reverend had announced to his parishioners one year ago that he had a calling to spread God’s Word to the natives of Fiji, Susannah hadn’t hesitated to volunteer to accompany him. While she, too, wanted to do her bit for the church, she couldn’t bear the thought of letting her father travel to the other end of the world alone. He’d opposed it at first, but Susannah finally got her way, as she usually did.
Susannah finished brushing her hair then picked up her copy of the King James Bible and flopped back down on the bed. This particular version of the scriptures had been published in 1683. It was dog-eared, having been handed down to Susannah from her deceased mother and from her mother before that.
As she often did, Susannah opened the Bible randomly and began reading from whatever page it opened at. On this occasion, it fell open at the Book of Judges, chapter 16, which described the tumultuous love affair between Samson and Delilah.
Reading about the events surrounding the tale of the doomed lovers, other images soon began invading Susannah’s mind. She thought of the young, golden-haired rigger who had caught her eye aboard the ship on the voyage out from England. Lithe and handsome, he’d tried every trick known to man, to bed her. She’d resisted his advances, being the good Christian girl she was, but now wondered if she’d made the right decision. Try as she may, she couldn’t forget him, or his chiseled body.
Erotic images came to mind as Susannah imagined how Delilah must have felt being ravaged by Samson. The images gradually blurred. When they came back into focus, she was Delilah and the rigger was Samson; he was disrobing her and she wasn’t resisting.
Susannah immediately felt guilty. In an attempt to rationalize her feelings, she came to the conclusion it was the overwhelming masculinity of men like Samson and the golden-haired rigger that excited her. Yet she was frightened by the intensity of her feelings also.
At her father's rectory in London, Susannah had had a few suitors over the years. All were God-fearing men and most would have made faithful husbands and good fathers. The problem was all were predictable and boring. None of the young Christian suitors who had received Drake Senior’s tick of approval had that dangerous persona that most attracted her. As much as she hated to admit it, she was attracted to men who were the antithesis of her father.
As Susannah continued reading, the forbidden thoughts returned. This time they were even more intense and exciting. Her pulse raced and her breathing became labored as she imagined strong hands caressing her body. She shook her head to try to dispel the fantasy, but she was too aroused to quash it.
Feeling more guilty than ever, she prayed to God to expel the sinful thoughts from her mind—to no avail. It was useless. Whatever she tried, failed.
Before she knew it, the fantasy completely took over her mind. Susannah imagined herself lying naked with Samson, or perhaps it was the rigger, and feeling him explore her naked body. The fantasy was so vivid she could almost feel his lips on her breasts and his fingers between her legs.
A sudden knock on the bedroom door snapped Susannah out of her reverie. She dropped her Bible on the floor.
“Are you decent?”
It was her father. Susannah had been so preoccupied she hadn’t realized he’d surfaced. She picked up her Bible from the floor. “Yes, Papa. Come in.”
Drake Senior entered the room. The clergyman-turned missionary was as stern-looking and forbidding as his daughter was fetching. Tall and angular, he bore a closer resemblance to an undertaker than a missionary. His piercing eyes softened at the sight of his daughter and only child reading her Bible. So feminine and radiant was she, Susannah reminded him of his deceased wife who also had an angelic appearance. “Good morning, my dear,” he said affectionately.
Suppressing her sexual self and reverting to the prim and proper young woman she knew her father expected her to be, she responded brightly, “Good morning, Papa.”
The good Reverend took a quick look out the window then turned to his daughter. “We should give thanks to the Lord for this splendid day.”
“Yes, Papa.”
They both knelt down beside the bed and began reciting the Lord's Prayer. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
As she prayed, Susannah’s thoughts began to stray once more. The sexual images that had invaded her mind minutes earlier returned and began waging war against her spiritual self. She feared she was fighting a losing battle.
#
Less than a quarter of a mile away, as Susannah and her father prayed, a young American emerged from one of the numerous brothels on Levuka’s dusty main street.
Adventurer Nathan Johnson was one of the more interesting characters who happened to be passing through Levuka. Recently arrived after a three-month voyage from his home port of San Francisco, the young man was here to trade muskets for the Fijians’ highly prized beche-de-mer, or sea slugs. He then intended shipping the exotic sea slugs to China where they would fetch exorbitant prices, thereby adding to his not inconsiderable wealth.
Nathan was feeling considerably older than his twenty six years. Little wonder, he admonished himself, as he’d just spent the night gambling and drinking before falling asleep in the arms of a prostitute. Now, standing outside the brothel, studying his reflection in a window, he didn’t like what he saw. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him and his long, dark hair framed a face, which, although undeniably handsome, was paradoxically youthful and world-weary at the same time.
The youthfulness, he knew, came from his pretty mother who had died giving birth to him and whose face he’d only ever seen in a portrait painting; his world-weariness came from the life he’d led since fleeing home as a boy to escape a violent father. Since then, in the course of traveling the world, he’d already seen and done more than most men would in two lifetimes.
Shaking his head as if to dispel painful memories, Nathan set off down the street toward the boardinghouse he was staying at. Striding out, he found even this light exertion caused him to sweat profusely, such was the humidity. Tall and athletic, he had the look of someone who knew how to look after himself, and his fine attire, although somewhat crumpled after a night on the town, left no doubt he was a man of means.
His short journey took him past a motley collection of ramshackle buildi
ngs that made up the town center. Many were drinking establishments while others served as brothels. They were quiet now, but Nathan knew as the day progressed they’d all be doing a roaring trade.
Nearing his boardinghouse, he was confronted by two drunken sailors staggering arm in arm toward him. They immediately stepped aside to make way for the imposing, broad-shouldered stranger. There was something about him that told them he wouldn’t hesitate to use the Bowie knife that rested easily in its sheath on his hip. Nathan passed them without breaking stride.
Nathan’s rakish good looks attracted admiring glances from a group of shy Fijian girls sitting in the shade of a cluster of palm trees. They giggled and whispered excitedly among themselves. Ignoring them, Nathan stopped to admire the handiwork of an elderly Fijian man sitting cross-legged, carving an intricate design into a length of Fijian kauri.
The old man smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “Bula,” he said, offering the traditional island greeting.
“Bula,” Nathan responded coldly. The young American had little time for indigenous people and he wasn’t bashful about showing his disdain for them. In his experience, the natives of every land he’d ever visited were ungrateful for the economic prosperity and civilized customs Europeans brought to their shores. It was the same with the Native Americans of his homeland and he was sure the natives of Fiji were no different. Behind their welcoming smiles, he sensed resentment.
Notwithstanding his bias, Nathan was astute enough to recognize the Fijians—like all Pacific Islanders—were extremely resourceful people. Collectively, they’d explored and settled much of the vast Pacific.
Looking into the eyes of the old Fijian, Nathan reminded himself he was looking at the end result of thousands of earlier generations. He wondered what claims to fame the old man’s forebears had.
As he continued on his way, Nathan recalled what he knew about Fiji and its South Sea neighbors. During the voyage out from San Francisco, he’d had plenty of time to study the history of the region. He’d learned that as the pharaohs of ancient Egypt were building their pyramids, and Chinese civilization was developing under the Shang Dynasty, adventurous seafarers from Southeast Asia began settling the far-flung islands of the South Pacific. Then, several centuries later, the archipelago of Fiji had been discovered and settled. Comprised of some three hundred or so islands spanning nearly six thousand square miles of ocean between the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn, Fiji remained hidden from the outside world for centuries. Successive invasions, first by other islanders then more recently by Europeans, had changed all that.
Nathan understood it was Dutch explorer Abel Tasman’s discovery of the archipelago in 1643 that had heralded the beginning of the end for Fiji as Fijians knew it. Traders and missionaries had soon followed and now the settlers were arriving. Everything he’d heard told him that nineteenth-century Fiji was a melting pot of warring tribes, European adventurers, mutineers, escaped convicts, beachcombers and all manner of undesirables.
The young American was well aware of Fiji’s reputation for being a South Sea paradise and a place where a pretty penny could be made. It was now the trading center of the South Pacific. Variously referred to as the Feejee Islands, the Friendly Islands, and the Cannibal Isles, he guessed it was the latter description that was probably the most deserving. He’d been told cannibalism was not only practised by the fierce Fijians, it was rife—as many a white man and the occasional white woman had found to their cost. It hadn't surprised him to learn that Fijians were constantly at war, and defeated enemies invariably ended up consigned to the cooking pot or, at best, to a lifetime of slavery.
Understanding the bloody history of Fiji had convinced Nathan his latest trading venture couldn't help but succeed. He knew these natives, like those of North America, lusted after muskets. He’d read that when the musket was introduced, not so long ago, the nature of warfare in Fiji had changed almost overnight, as it had in nearby New Zealand and, indeed, in his homeland. Centuries-old grudges between tribes were being settled once and for all as those who had muskets wreaked vengeance on those who had none; skirmishes in which a few warriors died were being replaced by full-scale battles where hundreds were slaughtered.
On reaching the well-presented, main street boardinghouse that served as his temporary home, Nathan hurried inside, anxious to take a bath and catch up on some much-needed sleep.
2
At dusk, Nathan emerged from his boardinghouse feeling somewhat refreshed. He looked dashing in his evening attire, which included a white muslin shirt tucked into cotton breeches. The outfit was complemented by fashionable dress boots he'd purchased in San Francisco.
Pausing outside his lodgings, Nathan surveyed his surroundings. His startling blue eyes—no longer bloodshot—missed nothing. He noted Levuka was coming alive, as it did every evening. The bars and taverns were already full, and men were starting to queue unashamedly outside the brothels. Levuka is at its basic best, he mused.
Setting off along the street, he had to step around a large pig rooting about in a pile of horse manure. Nearby, roosters strutted around raising little puffs of dust as they fought over food scraps that had been tossed into the street from an eating establishment.
Nathan paused briefly to watch a fight between two sailors who were trying to bash the living daylights out of each other. They were being egged on by a small crowd of men baying for blood. There was no sign of any law enforcement. Nathan judged Levuka to rival Kororareka, a port settlement in the far north of New Zealand, as the most lawless town he'd ever visited. As was his habit, he allowed the palm of his right hand to brush the handle of his Bowie knife. The feel of it against his skin, together with the knowledge that he knew how to use it to deadly effect, never failed to bring him comfort.
The young American was heading for Levuka’s community hall, the venue for a much-talked-about dance. He’d heard the evening would be the social occasion of the year. Never one to shy away from a good shindig, Nathan was looking forward to kicking his heels up one more time before getting down to the serious and often dangerous business of trading muskets.
Although the sun had all but vanished, it was still hot and humid, and Nathan was sweating by the time he reached the hall. Situated on a hillside, it had splendid sea views. Music and laughter came from within and a Welcome banner hanging above the front door served notice that Levuka and the island of Ovalau welcomed the European traders, entrepreneurs, and settlers who had begun arriving in droves.
Inside, couples danced as musicians played an Irish jig, while other guests were conversing and drinking at trestle tables set up around the outside of the dance floor. The guests, who were exclusively European, were being waited on by Fijian servants. Lighting was provided by lanterns hanging from the walls and by flickering candles resting in their holders on each tabletop.
Among those seated were Susannah Drake and her father. In her innocence, Susannah wasn’t aware that, as by far the prettiest woman in the hall, she was attracting admiring glances from all the eligible bachelors and from some of the married men as well.
The Reverend Drake, looking as forbidding as ever, was none too impressed by the attention his daughter was attracting from the menfolk. Nor was he impressed by the dancing. He considered that pastime a little too licentious. When a Fijian waitress arrived at his table with a trayful of alcoholic beverages, Drake Senior disdainfully waved her away, leaving her in no doubt he considered drink an evil. Instead, he leaned over and grabbed two glasses of pineapple juice from an adjoining table, giving one to his daughter.
Susannah did not fully share her father’s strict attitudes, but she loved and respected him, so tolerated his puritanical ways. She always felt out of place at such events and would have preferred an early night, but had agreed to keep her father company. He’d insisted the outing would do her good. The irony was neither wanted to be here; each was here only to please the other.
The young Englishwoman was feeling bored. Inevi
tably, her thoughts strayed—as they did at times like this—to the golden-haired rigger whose attentions she had, to her eternal regret, discouraged.
Susannah looked up just as Nathan sauntered through the hall’s front door. In spite of herself, she felt her pulse quicken. Nathan looked positively striking in his fashionable outfit. Susannah couldn’t help but observe that the handsome young man's arrival had also been noticed by most of the women in the hall.
For his part, Nathan was pleasantly surprised to find there were a good number of women at the function. He assumed, correctly, that most were wives of the men in attendance.
It took him a few moments to spot Susannah. He could see at a glance she was the most attractive woman in the hall. In fact, he deduced she was the most attractive woman he'd seen in quite some time.
As soon as she realized Nathan was staring at her, Susannah quickly turned her head, pretending she hadn't seen him.
Also observing Nathan was Eric Foley, first mate off the Rendezvous, the schooner that would transport the young American and his muskets to his next destination the following day. Foley, a middle-aged, rough-and-ready, bearded Irishman whom Nathan had met the previous day, was at the Drakes’ table and, to their consternation, was noisily chewing beef jerky while simultaneously drinking rum. He was draining his third glass and was already decidedly merry. Foley was in the company of a younger English crewmate whom he affectionately referred to as Lightning Rod, a highly strung simpleton who couldn’t sit still for a second and whose fresh-faced features were marred by an angry scar that ran down the side of his face.
Foley’s craggy face creased into a grin when he caught Nathan’s eye, his grin revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. He beckoned to the younger man. “Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, Nathan Johnson,” he shouted in the strongest of Irish accents.