The Governor's House

by J. H. Fletcher

  Panicked thoughts were scrambling in her brain. Where were Mungo’s men? His best men, he had called them. Surely they hadn’t joined the mutineers?

  The two Malays watched her, faces still apprehensive, saying nothing. From time to time she smiled pallidly at them but also had no words. What was there to say? The hours passed.

  The cabin had a porthole through which she watched the slow coming of the dawn. It was like returning to life from a nightmare, except the nightmare had spilled over into the day and the first faint glimmer of light was heavy with menace.

  Did Piet and Larssen really intend to carry out their threat? She remembered how they had discussed her as though she were not human but a creature with female attributes, something to be sold, and knew they had meant every word. She had to escape but, looking around the cramped cabin, conscious of the Malays watching her every move, she saw that was impossible. The porthole was too tiny; in any case it was locked. The door was locked. There was no way out.

  There came a soft scratching on the other side of the cabin door.

  Every particle of Cat’s body froze. She was scared to speak but eventually summoned enough courage to do so. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Dirk Giles.’ The whisper was so faint she could only just hear it. ‘These cabins all use the same key. I’ll soon get you out of there.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But be careful.’

  She could have sworn he chuckled: a good man, as Mungo had said. ‘Don’t you worry nothing ’bout that. Careful’s my middle name.’

  Her heart was beating fast. With the door unlocked escape would still be hard but at least it might be possible. The Malays were as much on edge as she. They knew something was up but could not be sure what it was.

  Her heart leapt as she heard the lock click. The door opened a fraction and Dirk slipped in, closing it behind him.

  ‘Thank God!’ Cat had tears in her eyes; she could have kissed him. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The crew’s taken over the ship, that’s what’s happened. They fancy a bit of piracy up in the islands. There’s plenty of villages up there they can raid. Easy pickings, or so that Piet Westhuizen is telling them. Him and Larssen is running things now.’

  ‘And Robinson?’

  ‘Robinson’s with them.’

  ‘I never trusted him,’ Cat said.

  ‘You were right. Me and Nick Carter pretended to go along with them too. No choice. That Piet is right nifty with his knife and o’ course they don’t trust us, either.’

  ‘So how do we get away?’

  ‘Swim. We’re passing close by some islands. We can swim ashore if we can only get off the boat.’

  ‘Swim?’ Cat was doubtful.

  ‘It’s the only way. And as soon as we can.’

  ‘In daylight?’

  ‘Wait til it’s dark and it may be too late. Some of the crew wants to take you north, sell you to some rich merchant, what they call a towkay, but others think that’s too risky and want to get rid of you now. They don’t seem to be keeping proper watches so if we go while it’s still half light we might be able to sneak away and them none the wiser. It’s a risk, mind.’

  ‘It’s a risk whatever we do.’ Suddenly the cabin was too confined, a potential death trap. ‘Let’s do it,’ she said.

  ‘Right.’ He spoke to the Malays.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said they should come with us. Stay and it’s likely Piet or Larssen will kill them.’

  The two men were arguing furiously with each other.

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘I think the younger one – the prince – wants to leave but the other one is saying they can’t. Something about makhota…’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever it is, the older one is saying they mustn’t leave it behind.’

  ‘They’ll have to make up their own minds,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I’ll go and warn Nick. Tell him what we’re doing. You hang on to the key and lock the door behind me. When I come back we’ll leave together.’

  She took it. ‘And the Malays?’

  ‘We’ll have to leave it to them what they do.’

  He opened the door and froze. Standing beside him, Cat saw Larssen standing in the corridor, revolver raised.

  The seaman smiled, baring jagged teeth. ‘I knew I had to keep an eye on you.’

  He pulled the trigger and then again. The sound of the shots was shattering as Cat instinctively flung herself to one side. A round creased her neck. The graze stung like a hornet and she felt blood but Dirk was sprawled unmoving on the deck and behind her she heard a cough and sharp intake of breath from the prince.

  A yell of rage and suddenly the older Malay, wavy blade uplifted, flung himself past Cat. Larssen did not back away but fired once more. Smoke swirled, there was the acrid stink of cordite and the Malay was lying on his face, his sword a yard from his outstretched hand. He too did not move.

  The muzzle of Larssen’s revolver was now pointing directly at Cat.

  ‘Just the two of us,’ he said. ‘I reckon you was born lucky, Princess. Or maybe not so lucky, eh?’

  He pushed her back into the cabin. The Malay prince was lying on the deck, slumped against the side of a bunk. His eyes were closed and blood was running from his mouth.

  ‘Now I suppose you plan to murder me too,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he said. ‘I got much more exciting plans for you.’

  He grinned again and went out. He shut the door and she heard his key turn in the lock. Now she was safe, if only for the moment, she felt giddy. Her stomach heaved and she retched into the bucket that had been provided for their needs, then rinsed her mouth from the water container in the corner of the cabin. Feeling better, her mouth clean, she turned to the wounded Malay.

  The front of his jacket was soaked with blood. His lacklustre eyes were staring into space and she saw that his wound was fatal. She looked at him helplessly.

  He coughed and more blood ran from his mouth. He was trying to say something.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Makhota,’ he said.

  It was so vexing. Why did people have to speak different languages? ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  Wincing, he lifted his hand and pointed at the bulkhead above the bunk. ‘Makhota,’ he said again.

  ‘You want me to look up there?’

  There was no way to know what he meant. She clambered on to the bunk, looking back at him for confirmation. His eyes were closing, his breath coming with more and more difficulty, but he nodded.

  For a moment she could see nothing, then saw that a panel near the top of the cabin bulkhead had shifted. Only by a fraction of an inch, but there was a dark shadow behind. She edged the panel to one side and found concealed behind it a wooden box with a brass clasp. Her fingertips eased it out. It was heavy; she put it on the berth. The clasp was closed but not locked. Again she looked at the dying man. He nodded and even managed what she thought was a faint smile.

  She opened the lid and sat back on her heels. With a feeling close to wonder she reached out to touch what she saw: a gold coronet encrusted with gems, as was the plume rising above it.

  The gypsy woman’s eyes gleamed in the darkness of her booth. ‘I sees a crown. Wi’ diamonds.’

  ‘Makhota,’ the Malay whispered.

  She pointed at the crown, looking at him. ‘This makhota?’

  Again he nodded.

  ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

  He stared, shaking his head: he did not understand.

  She tried to explain with hand gestures, pointing first at the crown, then at herself, a question in her raised eyebrows. And he nodded.

  Next she pointed at the crown, then cradled her hands as though carrying something, then pointed at the door. ‘You want me to take it? For you?’

  He nodded.

  It was his; now, knowing himself near death, h
e had decided to give it to her. Certainly she had no right to it but neither did anyone on Antares. Perhaps he wanted her to keep it safe from the man who had killed him.

  She looked out of the porthole. The light was still faint but getting stronger with every second. If she was going, she must go now. Lucky she could swim; not everybody could. With all her heart she wished she could bring vengeance on the murderer who had killed two men and mortally wounded a third but it was impossible and there was no sense thinking about it. She refastened the lid, took the box in her hands and once again looked questioningly at the young man, who she thought would be dead within the hour. Once again he nodded.

  She did not know the proper way to address a prince but she took his hand and held it momentarily to her forehead before placing it gently on the deck. She looked at him for the last time, nodded, opened the door with the key Dirk had given her – poor Dirk killed trying to protect her – and stepped out into the deserted corridor. Now was the dangerous time. If anyone saw her there would be no escape.

  The bodies were still lying where they had fallen. She checked but both men were dead. It did not seem right to leave Dirk lying there but there was nothing she could do. She left them and hurried down the corridor. Lamps swayed lazily in their mounts and there was no one about. She went on deck. For the moment she was out of sight of the helmsman but would not be the moment she emerged from behind the deckhouse. She looked across the water at an island, visible now in the strengthening light. A lick of white where the waves lulled gently on a beach of yellow sand. It was not far. Sharks? She would not think about sharks or about Nick Carter for whom she could now do nothing. He would have to find his own solution. As for the crown, its weight and size might make swimming harder but she would manage somehow. She took a deep breath. She crossed the deck, box under her arm, and leapt feet first into the sea.

  If the helmsman had seen her would he raise the alarm? If he did, would they come after her or, not knowing of the crown’s existence, write her off? She doubted Piet would come after her. She would be the one who got away. She watched Antares sail on. When she was confident the barque was not going to heave to she turned on her back, clasped the box firmly to her chest and kicked slowly but steadily towards the beach.

  FORTY-FOUR

  When Cat reached dry land she turned and looked behind her. It was full daylight and Antares was already hull down below the northern horizon. No way would they be coming back for her now.

  She was exhausted. She found a patch of grass beneath a tree. She lay down and within seconds was asleep.

  When she woke she was hot and thirsty. Palm trees slatted their broad leaves along the shore. She could see no sign of human activity. She explored and found a rill flowing out of a crevice. She tasted it and found it fresh. She drank her fill before looking about her. From the beach every way was up. She couldn’t tell whether the island was inhabited or not. If there were people what would they be like? In the Cascades the guards had told them the savages would eat anyone who tried to escape but Dr Morgan had said there were none left on the island. That didn’t mean there weren’t some on this one. She was alone on a tropical beach and somehow had to get back to Tasmania. She had no idea how she would do it or how far it was.

  One step at a time, she thought. She couldn’t take the crown with her; she must hide it somewhere until she could come back for it. Hide it where? Obviously not on the beach. It would have to be somewhere in the interior.

  She began to climb up through the trees. It was heavy going, the soil more sand than anything, and with every step forward she slipped half a step back. The box containing the crown was a nuisance too, but she struggled on regardless. The island had four hills, two small, the others much larger. They were of approximately equal size, their pointed summits rising above a level ridge that ran between them. Their shape reminded her of pictures she’d seen in one of Dr Morgan’s books of a throne: she couldn’t remember which one.

  She was climbing the northerly peak, which was the steeper of the two. Higher up the face of the hill was almost sheer and furrowed by gullies. When she reached it she began to climb in earnest. There were many crevices, most of them little more than indentations, but a hundred feet from the top she came across one that was like a cave. She squeezed through the opening and found a narrow chamber running back into the hillside. In the half light she could just make out a ledge across the rear wall. There was a musty, bat-type smell but no sign of humans. It was the ideal place to conceal the crown. She opened the box and had a final look at it. In the dim light its gem-covered plume shone in a splendour of colours – the red of rubies and green of emeralds, the colourless purity of diamonds. It was beautiful and she felt a pang as she closed the box lid, wondering whether she would ever see it again.

  She went out into the violence of the tropical sun and worked her way down the hill face until she regained the shelter of the trees. Half an hour later she came to a beach facing a channel. The channel was a hundred yards wide and divided the island from what she thought must be the mainland. She studied a floating branch. It was drifting very slowly so she doubted there would be any current to worry about. She stepped into the water, swam to the other side and had no trouble at all.

  Before she set out she looked back at the island she had left. Once again she thought how the silhouette of the two highest hills and connecting ridge looked like a throne. A good place to hide a crown, she thought.

  * * *

  Towards evening, having seen no sign of human life, she came across a hut shaded by trees and standing on the edge of a cliff facing the sea. Beyond the promontory a wide sandy beach stretched into the distance. Fishing nets hung from a wooden stand and what looked like a home-made canoe was drawn up on the beach at the foot of the cliff. She walked warily towards the hut, ready to run at the first sign of danger.

  Three naked children saw her coming. They were small and brown-skinned with black hair. They stared at her before racing back to the hut, shrieking with excitement. Seconds later a white man came out from the hut, watching as Cat approached. He looked in his forties. He was wearing only a pair of tattered shorts and his skin was deeply tanned. He neither moved nor spoke as she approached.

  ‘I have been walking all day,’ Cat said. ‘Do you mind if I sit a while?’

  The man examined her for a minute before nodding. He did not speak but turned to re-enter the hut and Cat saw that his back was a mass of scars. A former convict, then, but what was he doing here?

  She sat, head spinning with fatigue. It was good to rest after a hard day slogging through swamps and forest and across beaches of yielding sand. She had discovered what she supposed she had known from the first, that there was no way she could walk to Tasmania, far away to the south.

  She would go as far as she could. When she could go no further she would stop. Or perhaps, she thought, mind disoriented by exhaustion, she would stay here. Become this man’s woman, with whatever other women he might already have. She could fish, she thought, or cook or make babies to add to the ones she had already seen. Maybe the other women would not mind. Maybe they would kill her. For the moment it didn’t seem to matter either way.

  She heard movement behind her. Turning her head she saw three pairs of eyes staring at her around the edge of the hut door. She smiled; the eyes vanished but a minute later came back. This time the children were braver, coming out of the hut and staring at her with huge eyes, the youngest with a finger in her mouth. Again Cat smiled at them. They came closer but were still hesitant, poised on the edge of flight at the first sign of danger. Cat sat still. The oldest child came cautiously forward, the younger two hung back.

  They looked at each other. The girl was about six, with a slender body and aboriginal features, large eyes and coffee-coloured skin. She was as timid as a bird but Cat thought she would grow into a beautiful woman. The child looked at her but did not speak. Emboldened, the two younger children came closer. All three stared at this strange
creature which had appeared seemingly from nowhere and Cat wondered whether they had ever seen a white woman before.

  A woman came out of the hut. She had the long limbs and dark skin of a full-blooded Aboriginal. She was wearing some kind of ragged garment and carried a wooden platter of cooked meat. She offered it to Cat, who took it with both hands.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  She did not know what kind of meat it was nor did she ask. She was ravenous and started to eat at once, picking pieces off the platter and stuffing them into her mouth while the woman and children watched.

  The meat was chewy and had a strong flavour, like the hares that Dr Morgan had enjoyed so much. She had always found hare meat too strongly flavoured but this was fine. This was wonderful.

  ‘It is really good,’ she said.

  The woman returned her smile, strong white teeth in the black face, but said nothing and, when Cat had finished, she took the platter and went back into the hut.

  Later the man came out again. ‘Where you from?’

  English, by his accent.

  ‘I escaped from a ship.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘Where is the ship?’

  ‘It went on.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘I am going to Tasmania.’

  ‘Tasmania?’ He laughed disbelievingly. ‘You got a long walk.’

  ‘I know it won’t be easy.’

  ‘Impossible, that’s what it is. Leastways, it is on foot.’

  ‘What other way is there?’

  ‘Whalers come through now and then. You might get one of them to take you.’

  ‘How safe it that? For a woman, I mean?’

  ‘Safe enough, I reckon. No guarantees, mind, but it’s the only way you’re gunna get there.’

  ‘How often do the whalers come through?’

  ‘This time of year, there’s one or two most weeks.’

  That didn’t sound too bad.

  ‘And will they take me?’

  ‘They know me,’ the man said. ‘We let ’em have fresh meat when we got some to spare, so I’m in with most of the skippers. If I have a word, I reckon they’ll take you right enough.’