Baptism of Fire

by Christine Harris

  Hannah smiled back. ‘Thank you.’

  There was a tap at the door. Aunt Constance, her grey skirt swishing the mats, bustled over to the doorway and returned with a large glass of water. It threatened to dribble over the sides with each step she took. ‘Drink this.’ She waited to ensure that Hannah obeyed. ‘I’ll bring a pot of tea with your meal, and I want you to drink all of it. Some extra liquids, a tasty meal, a good night’s sleep and you’ll be as good as new.’

  Her aunt looked younger today, somehow softer. Her hair was braided differently, perhaps because it was shorter: a result of the fire.

  A plump of the cushions, a twitch of a misguided curl and Aunt Constance left Hannah’s bedroom with a final comment. ‘Your uncle wishes to have a few words with you. Shall I ask him to come in now?’

  Hannah barely nodded. There was no escaping retribution. She only hoped the presence of a visitor would curtail her uncle a little. Still, Uncle Henry had carried her all the way back to the mission house without an angry word and his manner had been solicitous. She had been passed into Aunt Constance’s tender care without a sermon.

  Uncle Henry coughed politely to warn of his presence.

  ‘Come in.’ There was no necessity to soften her voice and feign weakness: of its own accord, it came out as little more than a whisper. Her limbs felt as though they were composed of feathers, a lingering giddiness dulled her thinking.

  Uncle Henry seemed uncomfortable. He took a few steps inside the room, hands folded in front of him, and remained standing. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better, thank you.’

  ‘You gave us all rather a shock.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked down and wriggled her toes, watching the sheet quiver.

  ‘I …’ Her uncle seemed to be having difficulty searching for words. It was not one of his usual foibles and Hannah looked up at him. He was staring at the watercolour of her parents on the chest of drawers. Judging by his startled expression, he had failed to notice it during the centipede fiasco. She was intrigued to see a suggestion of hurt cross his features. No matter what he said, she was not hiding the portrait of her parents. She was proud of it, and while she remained in this house, the portrait would stay in full view.

  ‘Hannah …’ His voice was tremulous at first, but he soon recovered. ‘You and I have not made the best start to our relationship. I regret that.’

  She felt tongue-tied.

  ‘I believe there is some fault on both sides,’ he said quietly. ‘I was wrong to blame you for your father’s behaviour.’

  She bridled, incapable of ignoring suggested slights on her parents, even if it did enrage others—Uncle Henry included.

  He held up a hand. ‘Please don’t take umbrage, my dear. I meant no insult. You are also partially to blame. You must learn to control your temper.’ A tiny smile threatened to erupt. ‘Unfortunately, it’s a Stanton trait, I cannot deny it. But, you are young, female and by nature, volatile, and this could lead you into trouble. There is a difference between being courageous and being brazen. It is my duty to see that you are trained in the righteous ways of the Lord, and the proprieties of society.’

  She bit her lip, unwilling to inflame the situation, but she resented his intimating that when he became fired up it was righteous indignation, while on her part, it was insolence.

  He looked at her earnestly. ‘I may have acted a little harshly this morning but when a horse is skittish, a man must tighten the reins. And when a horse has a hard mouth, it’s necessary to pull the reins even tighter. I trust you understand what I am saying?’

  She refused to answer, merely stared at an invisible speck on the white sheet. A feeling of mortification not easily forgotten consumed her. How dare he infer that she could be reined in, trained to perform, forced in a direction she was unwilling to go! And to have that said in the hearing of others was even more humiliating. None of this conversation, be it ever so hushed, would be missed. She longed to snap at him, to say that although she was tall and her nose somewhat generous, she was not a horse. But she didn’t. Her reserves of courage were depleted after the demands of the day, and the more she spoke, the more their conversation would be prolonged. It was better to stay silent and wait for Uncle Henry’s speech to end.

  Any hope of securing an outright apology for his behaviour vanished. She had been expecting too much.

  Uncle Henry cleared his throat. ‘I must go away for a little while with Reverend Flower, the gentleman you saw earlier. We intend to go on a short journey to some of the other islands.’ His eyes blazed. ‘How will they hear without someone to preach? We must save these poor souls from their savage existence. The fire and brimstone of hell await the ignorant and unrepentant. Hannah, if we don’t try to guide them onto the path to life, we will be responsible for their everlasting torment. Reverend Flower and I can help these people.’

  Reverend Flower? A strange name for a minister, but somehow suitable. While he didn’t actually resemble a flower, with his small stature, protruding ears and wispy greying hair, he was rather like a thistle.

  ‘It will take several days for preparation and planning, and I’m not sure how long we will be absent, but I trust you will support your aunt in the appropriate manner.’ He uttered the words as though he didn’t actually believe that she would. ‘It would also be wise to avoid the village for a few days.’

  Hannah nodded. What could she say to him? He was autocratic, he blundered from one faux pas to the next, trampling over her sensitivities—and yet, he had carried her all the way from the village, gently, without complaint. And now he stood in her room like an awkward schoolboy, unspoken appeal in his eyes. But his rigid correctness had built a wall between them. Hannah sat, no words at her command, and another brick was added.

  ‘Oh, and I mustn’t forget …’ He felt in his right pocket, obviously did not find what he sought, then dug in his left. A flash of memory lit his face and he slid a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a creased and besmeared envelope. ‘A ship called at the village on Reverend Flower’s island and brought mail.’ That might explain the unusually happy expression on her aunt’s face. She must have received correspondence from their son in New Zealand.

  Uncle Henry stepped forward, offering the envelope. ‘This is for you.’ He smiled. ‘It doesn’t say who the sender is.’

  How could he have stood there discussing their differences, when all the time he had a letter in his pocket? Hannah forced herself not to snatch it from his hand.

  She turned the envelope over. ‘I don’t recognise the handwriting.’ She didn’t offer to open it in front of him. Very little was private in this place, and she wouldn’t open her letter until she was alone. She waited; he waited. But this time, she was more determined and Uncle Henry gave in first. ‘Excuse me. Your aunt will have your meal ready by now.’

  Hannah’s first impulse had been to rip the letter open immediately and devour the contents. A link with the outside world was wondrous. But on the other hand, she could wait, savouring the delicious anticipation of that square of paper addressed only to her. With a rush of excitement, she slid the envelope under her pillow.

  After her meal, having parried polite hints about her letter and, alone at last, she lit her candle, which had burnt down considerably, drips covering the base of the holder. Tomorrow she would ask her aunt for another but, for now, it was enough.

  Slowly, prolonging the moment of exquisite curiosity and pleasure, she took out the envelope and carefully tore it open with her forefinger.

  It began to rain, drumming on the roof and soaking the ground. Hannah looked over at the barrel of flour in her room. It was fortunate that their foodstores had been strategically tucked into various corners of the house.

  She unfolded the two sheets of paper which lay inside the envelope. The handwriting was messy, and the page splattered with blobs of ink, hastily blotted no doubt, but irretrievably stained. The spelling left a little to be desired, but Hannah was
not bothered. In fact, she scarcely noticed the flaws. Her lips moved silently as she read.

  On board the ‘Minotaur’ 1865

  Dear Mis Stanton

  I am riting this for Jenkins, who is now first mate seein as Henderson is gorn. We was followed by a shark for three days and gettin sic of this, Henderson decided to cach it and bring it on board.

  He cort it all right. Chopped its head clean orf. We ate it with onions and pickles. (The cook’s not that good but we don’t say nuthin, he’s got a shockin temper.) But gettin back to Henderson. After we et this shark, he picks up the head, bein silly, and the jaws snap shut and bites orf three of his fingers.

  But that’s not why he aint on board no more. That happened before. After this, he sed he’d had enough of sea life and jumped ship at Tonga. Thats why Jenkins is first mate. And I got Jenkins place.

  You don’t no me. But you musta worked that out already.

  I hope this letter is all right with you, Miss. Not out of place or nothin. Jenkins ses he’s your friend, and I owe him five shillins so I am writing this so I don’t ave to pay him. Seein as I don’t have five shillins and don’t look like gettin it.

  It’s the curse of me life to be a gamblin man with no luck.

  Jenkins is getting all red in the face and fit to be tied. Ses I gotta tell you only the words he ses. He sor me puttin too many on the page. A bit too late, seein as I already ritt one whole page and I aint rittin it again.

  He ses he’s doing all right. He aint forgot you. The crew reckon the ship aint the same now you got orf on them cannibal ilands. Which is a real compli … co … nice thing to say cos they don’t like havin a woman on board. It’s bad luck. And Miss, if anyone nose abowt bad luck, it’s me. Jenkins ses to keep yer chin up. By now you are probly right at ome there with them nice misshunry peeple.

  Your servant Ma’am.

  D. Thomas

  ritt for Jenkins first mate

  PS. Jenkins told me to put that on the end cos he heard a letter read from a posh gentlmen one time and that’s how the end was rit. Jenkins ses it sounds reall propa for a lady like you.

  Hannah put down the letter and sighed. The rain had not eased. There was a flash of lightning at the window. Nestling back against the pillows, she rubbed at her eyes. Dear Jenkins. Somewhere out there she had a friend, who had remembered her, missed her and wished her well. It bolstered her fragile self-esteem to be referred to as a lady when only a short time ago her uncle had likened her to a obstreperous horse.

  There was no need to call the fowls. The moment they heard the grater in action they raced for the fence, practically throwing themselves against it in their greedy haste. It pleased Hannah that there were two at the mission house who were not neat, polite and well-trained, who bumped each other, squawked rudely and argued over their food with no regard for manners. Hannah scattered the grated coconut evenly so that both fowls would get a fair share. Esmerelda tended to take over. Dubious, at first, about assigning names to potential roasts, Hannah had eventually given in to pressure from Deborah and the two fowls became known as Esmerelda and Virginia.

  Today there was a pleasant atmosphere around the house. Everyone had slowed down. In this climate it was better to pace yourself, otherwise the heat and humidity sapped your energy. You could rush if you chose, but then you would collapse—as Hannah knew only too well. Aunt Constance had been right: she felt much better after a sound sleep.

  She turned her head as a burst of laughter erupted from behind her. Even if she had heard the exchange that prompted it, she would not understand the joke, so she didn’t ask for an interpretation. The men worked slowly, but they were cheerful, willing, and the new cookhouse was taking shape.

  Reverend Flower, a former carpenter like his Lord and Master, had begun by trying to give orders about the construction but everyone ignored him. Being of a complacent nature, he was soon reconciled to having his advice spurned and quietly went about the business of erecting frames to support the thatch.

  Two men were seated, cross-legged, on the ground a little distance from the noisy construction. One man tracked through the other’s hair with his fingers, inspecting his scalp closely. ‘Aaah!’ Between thumb and forefinger, he pinched out a speck which was invisible to onlookers, promptly popped it in his mouth and swallowed.

  Hannah uttered a distinctly unladylike sound, then jumped as a voice at her side simply said, ‘Lice.’

  Joshua didn’t look at his cousin, but stared at the rain gauge in front of him. He whistled as he ran a finger along the waterline. ‘Look how much we had last night!’

  Hannah was not surprised. The downpour had echoed in her ears as she fell asleep and was still beating down when she woke hours later. It had not eased until breakfast time. As a result, there were several damp patches on the calico which lined the thatch in her room, and the air was thick with humidity. Steam rose from the saturated earth as the hot sun took back the moisture. Her job finished, Hannah brushed her hands on her apron to remove clinging shreds of moist coconut.

  Joshua took an extraordinary amount of time to write down two numbers in the book. Sliding a glance at his cousin, he spoke her name, a new look of admiration and a tinge of wistfulness in his eyes. ‘Where did you go yesterday? You were away for hours. All day, almost.’

  It appeared that Uncle Henry had kept his own counsel about the details. Let it remain that way. She shrugged Merelita-style. ‘Here and there,’ was all she said before turning on her heel.

  ‘Wait!’

  Hannah stopped and looked at her cousin with surprise. He frowned, his lips working without sound.

  ‘What is it, Joshua?’ she asked as gently as possible.

  ‘I … I’m to go away.’ His expression of displeasure deepened to a scowl.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Joshua sat abruptly, the recording book clasped to his knees. ‘There was a letter from Matthew, my brother, yesterday. He said that he’s well and learning a lot and the boarding school is good … all the things that my parents would want to hear, not the real things … Mother and Father had a long talk last night. I heard them.’

  Hannah had missed that news. She had read her letter three times, blew out what little remained of the candle, turned onto her right side and did not move until the dawn chorus woke her.

  ‘I wasn’t trying to listen, but I couldn’t sleep and their voices carried. Father wants to send me to New Zealand too, to finish my education.’

  Joshua was a positive imp at times, but life on the island would be bleak without him, and she felt her spirits sink. What could she say to ease his distress? If her uncle and aunt had made up their minds, there was nothing to be done. But Hannah understood the sense of panic that travelling alone to a strange country could produce. She sat beside him. ‘You might like it, Joshua. There will be others your age, not forgetting your own brother. It’s a chance to see different places, and other people. You can’t stay on this island all your life and never see anything else.’

  ‘Why not? The villagers do.’

  ‘But how do you know they don’t long for an opportunity to see what lies over the water?’ She laced her fingers together. ‘Oh, Joshua, I do understand how you feel. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped on board the ketch. As I lifted my foot I knew that I had left the country of my birth behind, maybe forever. It’s only one step from what you know to what you don’t.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘But you might really enjoy it. It could be tremendous fun.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Of course, I do.’ If she had doubts, it would have been cruel to air them. Joshua was anxious enough.

  She found her aunt and uncle at the front of the mission house. At a discreet distance from the baby’s memorial site, Uncle Henry sat in a chair with calico cloth tied around his neck. His wife stood behind him with a large pair of scissors in her right hand. Moving slowly, she snipped at a tuft of hair, then stepped back to check her efforts. Progress was tedious, but
Aunt Constance was determined to accomplish her task thoroughly.

  ‘Where is Luata this morning?’ asked Uncle Henry. ‘She should be here by now.’

  One hand on her hip, the other waving the scissors, Aunt Constance sighed. ‘Please don’t talk, Mr Stanton. When you do, your ears wriggle.’

  Obviously the preservation of both ears was important to him. He obeyed with such alacrity that Hannah wondered whether he had met with misfortune on similar occasions. Snippets of hair dropped onto Uncle Henry’s face, the calico drape, then onto the ground where the breeze danced with them before scudding them across the grass and out of reach.

  Deborah lolled about on the grass, chatting to Charlie doll. Nervously Hannah wondered if there would be any negative reaction from her uncle to the doll’s new features. The one good eye, weathered eyebrows and patchy lips had been replaced by two sea-blue eyes, brown lashes, arched eyebrows and crimson lips. There could be no more doubt over Charlie’s gender. He was definitely a girl with his freshly painted, feminine face. All Hannah had to do now was to remember to say ‘she’ not ‘he’.

  ‘Watch out for Mother’s feet, dear,’ Aunt Constance addressed her daughter in dulcet tones, ‘otherwise, if you knock me, I may cut a hole in Father’s ear.’

  Father did not appear impressed with this piece of wisdom.

  Predictably late, but not so predictably incensed, Merelita stormed into view, gabbling in Fijian. Uncle Henry’s relaxed mood vanished as he sat upright, forgetful of the danger. He, too, spoke in Fijian, but there was no mistaking his reproof. Aunt Constance sighed and lowered her scissors. It was the only time Hannah had seen any suggestion of impatience in her aunt’s manner. Hannah suspected that Uncle Henry, who was active almost to the point of obsession, would not often submit to sitting still, and one side of his hair was still much longer than the other. Aunt Constance had not finished with him.

  Merelita’s words flew around her as she scooped up the escaping strands of Uncle Henry’s hair, the wind carrying much of it beyond reach.