Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1)

by Sandra Dengler

  She frowned. “As laborers? Or slaves?”

  “Eh, them who opposed it—the stickybeaks and stirrers—said slaves. Sort of in between. The planters were as cruel as any slaver in the American colonies, and they bought and sold Kanakas, don’t think they didn’t.” He smiled a sad sort of inside-joke smile. “No real difference between the sugar fields of Queensland and the cotton fields of America.”

  “You seem to have made something of a study of the matter. As I recall, slavery caused a war of secession in America. Not here, though.”

  “Almost. At first the north end of Queensland here wasn’t going to federate with the others; talked of breaking off from the rest of Queensland, all because they wanted to keep their colored field workers. At least, that’s what they say. I got a different theory.”

  “What’s that?”

  He grinned. “Football. Queensland plays rugby rules. All the other states, they play Australian rules. Now, how you gonna get two places together when they got a rift like that?”

  “Impossible, of course, if Australia cares for her football as Ireland does for her horseracing.”

  “More, even.”

  “Can’t be. So ye grew up in the sugar fields.”

  “No, my father did. Then the machines took over. Donkey engines and clanking doovers handle everything about cane now except the cutting. That’s the only job left to do by hand. Nothing for me in the sugar fields anymore so I took up hauling.”

  “For which I be grateful, being very weary and quite sore. Ye speak as one well educated.”

  “Reading. Ciphering. Then on my own I’ve been reading history. Kanakas, we’re smarter than a lot of folks give us credit for. You said you have a job here.”

  “Aye, housekeeper and cook at Sugarlea.”

  He turned and stared at her. “One of Sloan’s harem. I should’ve guessed; fresh from Ireland.” His voice dropped. “So you work for Sloan.”

  “Ye sound as though ye regret offering me conveyance.”

  “Regret? Naw. Don’t hold anything against you. In fact, got some goods here for the man himself—tea from England.”

  She twisted in the seat to look at the crates in his wagon bed. “Fortnum and Mason! Splendid! But ye do, however, hold something against Mr. Sloan. Your voice betrays ye.”

  “Back in the seventies his father planted some of the biggest fields around here.”

  “I see. Which made him one of the biggest slavers, so to speak.” Samantha frowned. “I thought the present Mr. Sloan came from Sydney. A city boy turned planter.”

  “Aye, he comes from Sydney. His mother didn’t want him growing up out here in the wild hinterland. Not good enough here for a high-class white boy. Bit snobbish, the Sloans.”

  “Why is he here now?”

  “You said I made a study of these things. You’re right. History interests me. There’s a lot of complex reasons for it, but basically, after a land boom when prices got all inflated, Australia went through a bust. About fifteen years ago—falling land values, labor strife, and strikes. Panic. Sorry mess. One of them who panicked was elder Mr. Sloan. Thought he’d lost everything and committed suicide by defenestration.”

  “Defenes—” Samantha pondered it. “‘Fenestra’ be ‘window’ in Latin. Ye mean he jumped out a window?”

  The young man chuckled. “The only good long word I know. And you’d be amazed how hard it is to work into a conversation. Two of his sons ran away to dig gold in Kalgoorlie. Still there, so far as I know. And the other decided to save the plantation. Re-financed through the Queensland National Bank Limited, played sticky-wicket with what capital he had left, and presto.”

  “I admire his courage and determination.”

  “Courage and determination maybe. Not his methods. He was the last planter in the state to go mechanical, because he’d managed to arrange things so that his colored field hands worked for nothing, or just about. Ignored the Imperial acts that protect Kanakas. Talk about a slaver—he really was one.” The man shrugged. “Saved his plantation, though.”

  “At a high cost of others’ sweat, so to speak.”

  “So to speak. Sweat—and lives. He must be sitting pretty now, though—putting in new fields, raking in the cash from his old ones. Went mechanical finally, and that takes money.”

  Samantha sat silent.

  “All that’s past now, though. Australia’s bound herself together into a new nation. Civilized. Organized.” The young man shifted in his seat and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “Four years ago, aye?”

  “Yep. In 1901. Lot of similarity, our Australia and that America. Started as colonies. Devoted to freedom. America lived through her war, and Australia, she’s about done with her bleeding, too.” He smiled. “Freedom.”

  Ye care naething for freedom. Edan’s words echoed in Samantha’s mind.

  “Sad plight, aye? Australia be not much more’n a hundred years old and me Ireland lay in the mists before time was. Yet after all her centuries, I fear, Erin’s bleeding has just begun.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Butting Heads Together

  They were not called chickens in this country; they were chooks. No matter. By either name they tasted quite as good, and jumped around just as wildly when you decapitated them. Mr. Sloan would be home by dinner time and roast chicken would greet him.

  Samantha tied the second rooster’s feet together, suspending him from the clothesline. Never in her life, until she came here, had she ever prepared chicken from absolute scratch, so to speak, but she was getting pretty good at it. Both roosters hung upside down eye to eye with her. She knew to keep her face out of pecking range. She grabbed both heads in a grand swoop, applied the knife and jumped away. She turned her back on their floppy death throes and returned to the kitchen.

  When the cat’s away the mouse will play, and when the master of the house is gone the kitchen descends to chaos. Samantha looked around in dismay. Dirty pans and dishes, dried, caked-on food, not a piece of flatware left clean … a fly-blown heap of parings … stinking fish heads in a bucket on the sink …

  “Meg? Meg!” In a sudden fit of pique Samantha stormed from room to room, her poor stiff muscles complaining at every step. She pounded on the door to Meg’s little room. “Open up!”

  “The door’s not locked. I’ve naething to hide.”

  Samantha pushed the door open. Meg was slipping into her silk blouse, the one with all the ruffles and the white-on-white silk embroidery.

  She glanced at Samantha and turned her back. “Button me up; there’s a good girl. I use the term loosely.”

  “What’ve ye been doing for two days? The kitchen’s an unholy mess!”

  “So’s your face. Good thing Grandmum isn’t around to see it; ye’d be up to your hairline in goose grease. Button me blouse, eh?”

  “Not unless ye’re planning to clean up the kitchen in yer best clothes. I didn’t make that mess, and ye’ll not stick me with it.”

  “I didn’t either. Linnet did the cooking.” Meg turned around and twisted her arms behind to button her blouse herself.

  “Yerself was in charge in me absence. Ye’re responsible, and ye’ll have the place in order before Mr. Sloan gets back.”

  Meg stepped in close and her eyes crackled. “Whatever makes ye think ye can order me about? Ye’ve nae the authority and heaven knows ye haven’t the respect.” She snatched up the black velvetta hat with the aigrettes and pushed past Samantha out the door.

  Samantha bolted after her; she had to run to catch up. She grabbed an arm and dragged Meg to a halt. “And where do ye think ye’re going?”

  “To visit a gentleman—who is a gentleman. Dinnae fret; I’ll be back before yer lover returns.”

  “Me lo—” Samantha stepped back. “So that’s how the wind lies.”

  “May yer dear parents go to their graves never knowing any better. Ye make a grand show of being so darlin’ good, but give ye the chance and ye’re right out ther
e in the bog with the other frogs a-spawning.”

  Blind rage had always been but a catch phrase to Samantha until this moment. She literally could not see. In her wild fury she swung at that haughty face, but Meg was too quick. Meg ducked away and through the parlor and ran out the door, clamping her fancy hat against her head.

  Samantha followed—almost bumped into that hideous stone statue of a face in the parlor, she was so angry—but she stopped at the front door. Her stiff, sore body would never carry her far enough or fast enough to catch the snippet. And what good would it do? Meg was beyond her control or anyone else’s.

  She wheeled. Linnet stood beyond the stoop, staring at her. The girl’s hands were chocolate brown with dirt, her hair disheveled.

  With great difficulty Samantha brought her voice into obeyance. “Meg says yerself has been cooking. ’Tis time the piper be paid. Get to the kitchen and start cleaning up.”

  “Mr. Sloan’s last orders to me were to weed the garden. He said naething about the kitchen.”

  “For two days ye been weeding the garden?!”

  “That and other things, aye.” Linnet cocked her head and her smoky gray-green eyes danced. “And what has yerself been doing?”

  Samantha drew a deep, deep breath. “Me honor’s intact, as had yer own better be. Ye’ve more than the name Linnet to protect; ye’ve the name Connolly. I’ve not sullied it and neither shall yerself. Mr. Sloan might’ve said naething about the kitchen but I am. Get to it, and without delay.” She turned on her heel and hastened back inside lest Linnet decide to challenge her as well.

  She should have expected this, particularly from Miss High and Mighty Margaret. After all, appearances—

  But what now? If she remained here she would end up in the kitchen scouring pans. Linnet was extraordinarily good at wangling that sort of thing. Trail-weary as she was, it would never do for her to merely sit about twiddling thumbs.

  Luke Vinson. He was the official who married Vickers and Amena. Vickers was friendly enough to refer to him on a first name basis. Samantha entertained no doubt that the words Vickers spoke regarding indenture and slavery had come first from Vinson’s mouth. That man was the key. He might even know where the Vickers newlyweds had fled to.

  Meg was going calling, eh? Instead of attending her duties, eh? Samantha would go calling as well, but for different purposes. She hurried to her room, glanced at her hair (and this poor scratched face!) in the mirror and snatched up her little black beaded hat. She had no money but she took her matching beaded reticule anyway.

  Vivid sunlight dappled the path down to the road, intense bright spots in intense dark shadow. She must remind Doobie to pass through here with his machete soon. Branches brushed her on both sides. She marched smartly down the road toward the little chapel half a mile from the house. She almost hoped Mr. Sloan would appear early along the road here and either join her in this confrontation or send her home. Trouble came on its own frequently enough that one ought not buy into it, and here she was, eagerly purchasing grief by the handful.

  The little chapel-church was nothing like the solidly built churches of Ireland. No ornate Celtic cross graced its dooryard. No leaded glass beautified its windows. Indeed, it looked no different from all the other light, ramshackle buildings that perched along the road. Only a skeletal little spire on the roof invited the passer-by to lift his thoughts heavenward.

  Samantha almost forgot one need not knock to enter a church. She stepped inside the main sanctuary, if this could be called that, from brilliance into shade. And yet, it was a soft and gentle shade, a bright gloom of filtered light from floor to ceiling. More amazing was how stark the room appeared to her who was so accustomed to draped pictures and icons and the fourteen stations. There hung a cross but not a crucifix.

  She should be horribly uncomfortable in this travesty of a proper church, but somehow she was not. Perhaps, what with her frenetic adventures these last few days, she was simply ready for some serenity. This whole building radiated peace.

  It was also quite devoid of life. She crossed the room to a far door and stepped out back into a little fenced-in garden. Or perhaps it was a goat pasture. Yes; in fact, there was the goat, a gentle-looking brown nanny with floppy ears.

  On the far side of the goat enclosure stood the manse, a tiny hovel every bit as informal as the chapel. It did, however, sport a verandah full length along its front. And on the verandah sipping tea sat the lovebirds. Samantha certainly would not like to have caught them in flagrante delicto, but she had secretly hoped for something a bit more compromising than teatime.

  Luke Vinson saw her instantly and came down off the porch to greet her. He extended his hand. “Miss Connolly. Join us.”

  Samantha accepted the squeeze of his hand; it was somewhat less than a full handshake. “Thank ye, but I cannae stay. Me sister’s glare be withering enough from this distance. Ye married Amena O’Casey to Byron Vickers, is that correct?”

  “I did.”

  “And they be yer close acquaintances.”

  “Close. Yes.”

  “Then ye might know where they plan to take up housekeeping. Where they’re headed for, having left here.”

  “Of all the despicable tricks!” Meg leaped to her feet. “To do Mr. Sloan’s spying for him!”

  “Hardly. Amena decamped owing her employer a sum of money. He is just now returning from Cairns in vain pursuit of that sum and I’m testing other waters. ’Tis a financial matter.”

  “All slavery is.” The Reverend folded his arms loosely in front of him. “Financial expedience, exploitation, whatever you wish to call it. Ah, but here.” The long arms undraped. One waved toward the verandah as the other wrapped around Samantha’s shoulders. “Do join us for a spot of tea. You needn’t consider it a social obligation.” He piloted her toward the porch. “Frankly, I want to see you get out of the sun. Your nose looks burnt.”

  If angry looks were hammers, Samantha would have been pounded into the ground paper-thin. Meg fumed in silence as the minister brought another chair and teacup.

  He sat and poured. “Close acquaintances. Well put. Byron and Amena are recent converts; I led them to the Lord.”

  Samantha frowned. “I would’ve thought Amena was born into the church. Never spoke of it, but I assumed—”

  The minister paused. “I’ll rephrase. No, I’ll do better than that; I’ll explain. I knew Byron socially for over a year. He’s been a long-term employee here. We talked of spiritual things, and one conversation led to another until he committed himself to Jesus Christ. That is, he declared Jesus to be the ultimate ruler of his life. When Amena arrived, he was instantly drawn to her, and she to him. He told her about his renewed life in Jesus and shortly thereafter she, too, gave her heart to God.”

  “And to Byron Vickers.”

  “And to Byron.” He nodded. “When the cutters were dismissed, he wanted to stay around, but there was no work. He appealed to Cole Sloan and was rebuffed. He asked to buy Amena back and was again rebuffed. It was not their preferred choice of action, but they decided to elope. They couldn’t see any other way to be together, what with neither of them earning any money.”

  “And of course yerself had nae part in all this.”

  He shrugged. “I married them. That’s my job. I helped them grow in the faith as best I could with teaching sessions—classes in discipleship—and gave them a Bible. That’s also my job. So I suppose that’s some part in it.”

  Samantha toyed with her teacup a moment, assembling and rearranging thoughts. They weren’t coming together well at all. “The words he spoke to me—Byron Vickers—sounded as though—”

  “Ye talked to him?! Just now?” Meg stared at her.

  “Aye. He fled and I found him. But he got away clean, he and his bride, if that’s yer worry.” Samantha turned her face back to the Reverend. “The words he used would’ve come from yer own mouth, Mr. Vinson. Calling—”

  “Call me Luke. Please.”

  “As y
e wish. Calling indenture slavery. Words from a man who can see only one side of the thing.”

  “We discussed it frequently after he met Amena. He knows that I feel very strongly about labor injustice in this region. But I didn’t counsel him. I didn’t suggest he take one action or another.”

  “I cannae believe that.” Samantha waved a hand and very nearly bumped her teacup over. “’Tis all so very one-sided, and very much a man’s opinion. The views of a do-gooder who wants to revise the human race along lines more to his own liking. Make the whole world perfect.”

  The minister should have been angry with her. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a delighted, happy laugh, too, with no derision in it. “You got all that out of some speech Byron gave? Please explain.”

  “That be hard to do. I see—he said—” She stopped and started over. “He makes out indenture as an illegal sort of slavery, with Mr. Sloan taking unfair gain from poor Amena. He could see nae atall the other side of it—the good side.”

  “You mean there’s a good side to exploitation?”

  At last the brambles of her thoughts were clearing away. Her mouth was running off with itself again, and she didn’t care. “Mr. Vinson—”

  “Luke.”

  “Mr. Vinson. The auld sod’s fallen on hard times, with scant opportunity and very little luck left, for a man, and for a woman even more so. There be more girls in Ireland who’ll die an old maid than there are girls who’ll marry. And none of them facing aught but a dreary life of hard work. I saw the pattern of me life and I dreaded it, yet I had nae means to change it. Then Mr. Sloan’s notice appeared out front the butcher shop.”

  “An offer of indenture.”

  “Aye. He pays me way here and I return his kindness with three years’ labor.”

  “You can pay back the cost of the passage in less than a year of very low wages. He’s cheating you of two years. More. He’s extracting two years’ free labor from you, and that’s slavery, illegal and immoral.”