The Mariners E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Skinnbok
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 362

Beschreibung

The twentieth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country made of blood, passion, and dreams.   Jon Fisher and Harry Ryan return to Australia.   At their return, Jon Fisher learns of the problem that his family are facing with the conflict of the wealthy squatters and the so-called 'selectors'. The threat of war and internal fighting looms over the family as we near the turn of the century.

Leseprobe

The Mariners

The Australians 20 – The Mariners

© Vivian Stuart, 1988

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2023

Series: The Australians

Title: The Mariners

Title number: 20

ISBN: 978-9979-64-245-9

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

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CHAPTER I

Misa had quickly readapted to life at the mission. The hardest part of it was the early morning rising. Like her father and the rest of her people, she could never understand why white men felt that the day was wasted if not begun before the sun. But she followed the rules without question, her compliance made easy by the fact that she enjoyed the work with the children. Her job was to teach them to speak English, and when she was immersed in her work, there were times when she could forget her disgrace, could be unaware of the growing life in her. But gradually her girlish shape began to be distorted, so that by the time Tui came to visit her, many weeks after she had left the village, she was protruding quite noticeably.

When she was told that she had a visitor, she half expected to see her father. She ran from the classroom with a great smile on her face, and the smile faded only briefly when she saw Tui. He, too, was smiling broadly, and the smile stayed on his face even as his eyes fell to her bulging stomach.

“Misa,” he said. “You are as beautiful as the sunrise on the sea.”

“You look well, Tui,” she replied, very conscious of her stomach.

“I would have come sooner, but Molo told us that you had eloped with a man from one of the far islands. Only recently did I learn you were here.”

“You see me,” she said. “You know why my father feels that it is necessary to lie.”

“I was there,” he said. “Remember? I left you with the white man, knowing that you intended paying the debt for all of us.”

She said nothing.

“Come, walk with me.” He took her hand and led her away from the mission to an overlook. In the bay below, a full-rigged ship was moving toward the German port.

She felt comfortable with Tui. “Once you said you would go to sea and someday be captain of such a ship as that,” she said.

He laughed. “It took only a few days at home for me to forget such foolishness. I have had enough to do with the white man.” He looked at her searchingly. “I suspect that you may feel the same way.”

“Our life with the white men is just beginning,” Misa said, shaking her head. “The Reverend McDougall, who runs the mission, conducts a class for older students in which he teaches the ways of the white men, and their history. He tells us that we must adapt to the white man’s ways. He says that we cannot continue to live in the way we have always lived.”

“We must don breeches and do manual labour for a few coins?” Tui’s tone was bitter. “Not this one. Not as long as there are fish in the sea and fruit on the trees.”

“Things are changing, Tui,” Misa said. “I have learned from the Reverend McDougall that the white men of three great nations are contesting for our islands.”

“But they are our islands. Your words admit it. What right has the white man to contest for them?”

“We don’t have great ships,” Misa answered. “Nor cannon, nor guns. We do not make things of iron and steel. Our numbers, compared with the people of any one of the great nations who come here, are few.”

“They want only our copra,” Tui said contemptuously. “And they offer tin trays and glass beads in return. I, for one, can do without the white men and their trade goods. I would wear bark cloth, instead of this cotton, if it would make the white man go away.”

“They want more than copra,” Misa said. “I do not fully understand, but the Reverend McDougall says that the real prize in Samoa is our harbours. He says that the English, the Germans, and the Americans are here for that, to control our harbours, and thus to hold dominion over all the seas around.”

“The oceans are open to all who dare to brave them” was Tui’s only answer.

Misa was becoming frustrated at his refusal to understand. “The Reverend McDougall says that there might be war over our islands.”

“Let them fight, then,” Tui said. “We will go into the hills until they have killed one another and all their ships rest on the bottom of the sea.”

She said no more. Even after living with the white missionaries, Misa herself understood little of the ways of the white man, and trying to explain them to Tui was next to impossible.

“No more talk of the white man and his foolishness,” Tui said, as if reading her thoughts. He took her hands in his. “I have come for you, Misa.”

Puzzled, she cocked her head questioningly.

“This,” he said, touching her stomach, “does not matter. When the white man’s child is born, we will leave it with the good missionaries, who seem to like taking care of the white man’s bastards.”

This last word was in English and had no meaning in the Samoan tongue, but Misa nevertheless felt her face flush. Abandon her child? The thought had never occurred to her.

“I have loved you long, Misa, and now, since you are no longer forbidden to me, I want to have you. We will leave Upolu and go to one of the smaller islands, where the white man finds little to attract him. There we will live and love and produce children of our own in the manner of Samoa.”

She pulled her hands from his and turned her back.

“Here, what’s this?” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Will you not have me, even now?”

“Tui, you are so dear to me,” she said in a whisper.

“Then we will go.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“The child. I could never leave my child.”

“Then we will keep the white man’s bastard.”

Again the word pained her. “There is more,” she said.

“Once you said you loved the white man. To continue to do so now, when you will never see him again, is stupid.”

“Then I am stupid,” she suddenly flared, surprised at her own outburst.

His face darkened, but only briefly. “That, too, will change,” he said. “Come with me, Misa. We can leave today—now.”

“I can’t. I have a job to do. I can’t leave them after they’ve been so good to me.”

“Perhaps it would be best, then, if you stayed here until the child was born. Then you might feel differently, and I will come again for you.”

She nodded. “As I told you once before, if I take any man, Tui, it will be you.”

Misa’s son was born in a small room in the mission house. Had she given birth in her native village, she would not have been alone, as she was, with only the Reverend McDougall’s wife, Jane, as midwife. At home all her relatives would have been in the house, eating, laughing, coming to check on the progress of the birth at regular intervals, sitting up all night if the labour happened to be long, as it often was with a woman’s first baby. At the mission there was only Jane, a kindly, red-haired woman who expressed continual amazement at Misa’s ability to withstand the pain of childbirth without writhing or crying out. But to Misa it was not a difficult birth, although the labour was long, and when Jane lifted the little boy and spanked air into his lungs with a lusty whack on his bottom, Misa looked at the damp, bloody, tiny form and knew that she would never, never give him up.

Jane cut the cord with a kitchen knife. She was smiling and cooing as she put the boy next to Misa.

“Mrs. McDougall,” Misa said, as Jane turned to the job of cleaning up, “could you please do something for me?”

“Of course, child.” Jane was immediately at her side again.

“The cord,” Misa said. “Could you please take it and throw it into the sea?”

“Whatever for?”

“So that he will grow up to be a skilled fisherman.”

Jane frowned only briefly, then patted her hand and nodded. Samoans customarily burned the cord from a girl baby under a mulberry tree—from the bark of which cloth could be made—to ensure that the girl would be a good worker. If the cord from a boy was buried under a taro plant, he would be a farmer. Misa was relieved that the missionary’s wife saw no harm in humouring her. “Yes, as soon as I’m finished here I will take it and throw it into the sea.”

By the time Tui came, two days after the child had been baptized, Misa had made up her mind. She told him that she was going to stay at the mission, that it was now her home and would be the home of her son. When Tui left, she knew in her heart that he would not return, that she had refused him for the last time. She knew doubt, then, for life with Tui would have been pleasant. But there was now another element to her thinking. As reluctant as she was to admit it even to herself, she had come to appreciate living with the McDougalls in a real house, with doors and windows. She liked eating off fine porcelain plates instead of a banana leaf. Indeed, under the benevolent tutelage of Kevin and Jane McDougall, Misa was undergoing a transformation that the enforced separation from her village had made possible. As a brown-skinned woman, she could never, truly, be a part of the white society, Misa knew, yet it was equally true that she could never be at home again among her own people.

She had another visitor when her son was two weeks old. Molo came and, with ungrudging affection that brought tears to her eyes, hugged her in his arms as he had when she was a child. Then he looked at her and said, “This life seems to suit you, Daughter.”

She showed him the boy. To Misa’s sorrow, however, he did not touch his grandson and soon turned away. He did not even ask what she had named the boy. After talking with her a while longer he left, having made but one half-hearted effort to let her know that she was welcome to visit the village at any time.

The days blended into the next, and months quickly passed. Storms came, as they do, and repairing the damage they wrought became almost routine work, as it had been back in Misa’s village. By the end of the boy’s first year, it was evident that Jon Fisher’s blood and the beauty of the Samoan girl had blended well. Though his hair was pitch black, he was of lighter skin than most of the half-breeds at the mission, and after he began to run off his baby fat, he quickly shaped into a most handsome little boy. Jane McDougall doted on him. Misa was as indulgent as any Samoan mother, and the older children, also in the Samoan way, tended him and did their best to spoil him. He grew up a happy child, full of love and laughter.

Misa called him Tolo, in a variation of her father’s name, but the McDougalls insisted on addressing him by the name she had agreed upon for his christening, Thomas.

“I christen this child Thomas Fisher,” Kevin McDougall had said at the ceremony of baptism, and the words had since stayed in Misa’s mind and in her heart. But she called him simply Tolo, and never pronounced aloud the child’s last name.

After two years of looking forward to her daughter’s wedding, Magdalen Broome now had only two weeks remaining before her future son-in-law’s ship was ready to sail, and she was harried. When, over dinner with Johnny and Kitty, Jessica announced almost nonchalantly that she was going to be an on-board wife, that she would sail with Sam when the Roamer left Sydney, Magdalen gasped and actually dropped her fork.

“I think, dear, that you should discuss this with your father,” she managed at last to say.

“That would be difficult,” Jessica replied, “since in all likelihood he’s somewhere out on the China Sea. I suspect, though, he’ll be pleased to see me when and if the Roamer makes port in Hong Kong.”

“I just don’t think it’s the right thing for you to do.” Magdalen eyed Sam in mute appeal.

“Mother,” Jessica said, “Claus Van Buren took Mercy with him on his voyages for years.” She drew herself up. “Who knows, I might just become a heroine, like that American woman who took command when her husband fell ill, and brought his ship safely into port after weathering dreadful storms.”

“Oh, dear.” Magdalen did not look in the least assured. “I do wish your father were here.”

“Just think, Mother,” Jessica went on, “I’ll get to visit England and perhaps New York. You should be happy for me.”

In the absence of Red Broome, Red’s brother, Johnny, gave the bride away in a ceremony that, at least to Sam, seemed eternal. Claus and Mercy Van Buren had arrived in Sydney Cove only hours before the wedding and showed up at the church with a handsome and distinguished-looking couple whose dress identified them, in the eyes of the well-travelled, as Dutch. The church was packed, and only a few—Magdalen chief among them—were aware of the notable absences: Red, of course, and Jessica’s brother, Rufus, and Harry Ryan—although Magdalen, for one, was relieved that Harry was not in Australia.

At the reception, Sam began to get a better idea about just what sort of family he was marrying into; many of Sydney’s leading citizens were there—traders, politicians, high-ranking military men.

It was only at the tail end of a hectic afternoon that Sam and Jessica were introduced to Claus and Mercy’s guests. Professor Conrad Berg, half English, half Dutch, had studied at Cambridge. He had inherited his height from his Dutch father, along with a thatch of well-kept blond hair. He was of a pleasant mien, spoke English with a cultivated accent, and was obviously proud of his bride of a year, a lovely Dutch woman named Vanya, who was sunny, buxom, blonder than her husband, and had eyes only for him.

“You’ve come a long way, sir,” Sam said, when Claus Van Buren informed him that the Bergs lived at Anjer, on the northwest coast of Java and the Sunda Strait.

“It was a condition of our marriage that Conrad get away from his bugs for a honeymoon trip,” Vanya said with a charming accent and a little guttural laugh that caused Conrad to look at her fondly. “But it’s taken us more than a year to get around to the honeymoon.”

“Bugs?” Jessica queried, not certain she had heard the woman correctly.

“Horrid mosquitoes,” Vanya said.

“Perhaps I should explain,” Conrad Berg put in. “My field is medicine. Not to bore you with details, but there is some evidence—at least to my mind—that malaria is associated with mosquitoes.”

“I tell him,” Vanya said, “that if malaria and mosquitoes were connected, then there would be malaria all over the world.”

“She keeps me humble,” Conrad said fondly.

“Actually I act as his—how do you say?—his devil’s advocate,” Vanya explained.

“Through the work of Alphonse Lavaran in Algeria, we know that a blood parasite is the cause of the disease,” Conrad went on. “I am in correspondence with researchers in several countries— England, the United States, and of course with Lavaran in Algeria. Patrick Manson in England and Ronald Ross in India agree with me in suspecting the mosquitoes, even if my Vanya doesn’t.”

“It is such an unpleasant subject,” Vanya said, “especially on one’s wedding day. Put away your bugs, Conrad, and I will allow you to kiss the bride—but only softly, on the cheek.”

The Dutchman laughed, bent his big, solid frame to touch Jessica’s cheek with his dry lips.

Vanya hugged Jessica and whispered, “What a splendid couple you make—and how handsome is your man!” Before Jessica could reply, Vanya said “Come,” took her hand, and led her out of the others’ hearing. “Claus tells me that you are to join your husband on his ship.”

“Yes,” Jessica said, puzzled.

“Ships that sail these seas come through the Sunda Strait sooner or later,” Vanya said. “When yours does, both Conrad and I would be greatly disappointed if you did not stop to visit our home. We almost never have visitors, and the setting is quite lovely, really, when one gets accustomed to the easygoing way of the native Javanese and the heat.”

“Why, thank you,” Jessica said, but she was thinking no further ahead than the next few hours, to the time when the house would be empty of guests and she would be going up to her room—not alone, as she’d been doing all her life—but with a man, with her husband. And like the Bergs, they would have to postpone a honeymoon trip. The Roamer would be sailing soon, and the voyage, for all it would be work for Sam, would have to do as her honeymoon.

When, at last, Johnny and Kitty, Kitty with her stomach protruding with child, ushered the Van Burens and the Bergs out, leaving the newlyweds alone with Magdalen, Jessica could not bring herself to look at Sam.

“My, my,” Magdalen said, collapsing into a chair, “What a day this has been.”

Sam smiled at her. “Mrs. Broome, you have done yeoman’s service. I consider myself very fortunate in having such a mother-in-law.”

Magdalen motioned to them. “Sit down, please, both of you.” They sat side by side, not touching, on a sofa. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll not be keeping you. In fact, in just a moment, I’ll be joining Claus and Mercy at their hotel for the night.”

Jessica flushed. The two servants would soon be finished cleaning up the remnants of the reception feast, and when they had gone to their quarters, she and Sam would be alone in the house.

“I just wanted to tell you before I go,” Magdalen said, “that both Red and I highly approve of our daughter’s choice of a husband. I wish you every happiness, it goes without saying. I have to admit, though, Sam—I feel I can call you that now—that I’m not overly pleased with your taking Jessica off, and away from me.” She held up a hand to cut off their protests. “But I think that I’ll be able to weather that storm somehow. Just you take good care of her.”

“I will,” Sam said, “You need have no worries on that account.”

“Good.” Magdalen rose, kissed both Sam and Jessica and went to find her wrap. Jessica accompanied her, clinging to her fiercely in the hallway.

“I’ll be home around midday,” Magdalen said, squeezing her daughter’s hand. “Have a good night, darling.”

Sam was holding two fine-stemmed glasses when Jessica came back into the parlour. He handed her one of them and said, “To my wife, who is the most beautiful woman in Australia and, as far as I can tell, the entire western and eastern worlds to boot. May she forevermore be my lover, my friend, my sailing companion, and my life.”

Jessica’s eyes overflowed as she sipped the wine. Any hint of awkwardness she had felt had been dispelled by those few words. She went to him, took the glass from his hand, and placed herself in his arms for his kiss.

To his everlasting credit, he was not precipitate. He was the soul of tenderness and consideration. When, at last, they were in Jessica’s bed, and the last garment separating them had been cast aside, their union was directed by Sam slowly, carefully, and tenderly, and, as Jessica discovered the full meaning of womanhood, she knew finally and with no trace of doubt that she was right in having vowed never to be separated from this man who was now hers.

During the next several days Magdalen felt almost a stranger in her own house. Sam and Jessica were polite and attentive when she spoke, except that they rarely looked at her for more than a few seconds at a time, having eyes only for each other. Magdalen wrote to Red: “Their love burns as brightly as a falling star, making for—how shall I say it?—a rather fervid atmosphere in the house. I am reminded, my dear, of those first few days I spent with you so long ago.”

There was, for the lovers, much to discuss. A lifetime of memories was to be shared, and Sam drank in and demanded more of Jessica’s childhood, her thoughts regarding a thousand different subjects. She, in her turn, liked to lean on his shoulder in the parlour and hear him speak of his youth in Scotland and his apprenticeship at sea. She was brought almost to tears when he spoke passionately of his days aboard the Cutty Sark. His faithfulness to his former ship could have made her jealous, had she not been aware that she herself was his main reason for leaving the Cutty, Indeed, she had felt almost guilty when Sam explained that he had accepted the captaincy of the Roamer to put himself into a position to marry her.

So engrossed were they in each other that when the Childers Company agents sent a messenger to the house to inform Sam that plans had been changed, he scarcely commented, accepting the new orders in an offhanded manner, then returning quickly to Jessica. She was interested, however, since the Roamer would not, after all, be going to England. One of the company’s fastest clippers would be hauling into Sydney within days, and her greater speed would get the Roamer’s already partly loaded cargo of wool to England weeks earlier.

Roamer consequently would have to assemble a new cargo and would spend some time in the Orient, making relatively short hauls. And Sam would have at least another week on shore.

“That’s splendid news,” Magdalen said. “You won’t be so far away, and we’ll see each other again much sooner, in all likelihood.”

Claus and Mercy Van Buren had been showing the Bergs the sights of Sydney. They spent an afternoon and evening at the Broome house, with Vanya and Mercy noticing, as had Magdalen, that as far as the newlyweds were concerned, the world was empty except for the two of them. When Claus dragged Sam off for a brandy and a cigar in the study, more than likely to exchange sea stories, Mrs. Berg, with her husband’s enthusiastic approval, renewed her earlier invitation for Mr. and Mrs. Gordon to visit the Berg home in Anjer. Jessica, realizing that the likelihood of a visit was now far greater, responded with genuine gratitude—if not eagerness to share Sam’s company with someone else. “If it becomes at all possible, we will surely do so.”

CHAPTER II

For Jon Fisher it was good to be back in Sydney. He liked the feel of the place, the air, the vistas of the bay, the friendliness of the people. The voyages of the Java had brought her home with a load of tea, and although Harry was not satisfied, Jon was pleased. His working capital had grown, not spectacularly but steadily. However, all his efforts to lift Harry’s mood had failed, even when he applied the old saw about one having to crawl before one could walk. To add to Harry’s gloom there was no immediate prospect for a paying cargo for Java and, therefore, no chance for the young partners to speculate on merchandise of their own.

Harry lost himself immediately upon making port. Jon had decided that no longer was he to be his brother’s keeper where Harry was concerned. He would not again put his own life in danger trying to rescue Harry from some dingy sailor’s bar or opium den. Instead, Jon sent a note to the Broome house asking that he might be allowed to call and was issued an invitation, returned by the same messenger, to please join Mrs. Broome and guests for dinner. He was in his cabin trying to brush the sea wrinkles out of his clothing when Harry came aboard. Surprisingly enough, Harry was cold sober and, indeed, in a fine mood. His eyes flashed with interest for the first time in months.

“Well, my boy,” he said, “have yourself a quick fling, because as soon as we can reprovision we’re off.”

Jon was intrigued and only slightly annoyed by Harry’s presumption. “It would interest me to know where we’ll be off to and what we’ll be carrying.”

“Not much on the way out. Some cotton cloth and bric-a-brac for the kanakas of Samoa.”

“Samoa?” Jon’s heart leaped with quickened interest “I didn’t know Van Buren had trading interests there.”

“He doesn’t.” Harry was beaming. “Since Java was to lie idle for God knows how long, I’ve arranged to lease the entire bottom.”

That, Jon knew, was a big order. A few bolts of cotton cloth and trade goods to be exchanged for copra and handicrafts from Samoa wouldn’t make for a profitable voyage.

“I hope you’ll trust me on this, old friend,” Harry went on, “because we’re going to have to dig into that war fund of yours just to give Van Buren the advance fee for the charter.”

“Since I’m to be the chief financier,” Jon said, “maybe it would be a good idea to tell me a bit more about this proposed trip.”

“Simple. There’s only one cargo worth hauling from Samoa.”

Jon’s look turned to sharp frown. “You’re suggesting that we take the Java into the kanaka trade?”

“I’m highly recommending it,” Harry said. “In fact, I’ve committed us to it.”

“I should think,” Jon said, his temper under tight control, “that you might have discussed that with me before speaking on my behalf.”

“Jon, Jon, there’s nothing wrong with transporting Samoans. They come here of their own free will.”

“After being handed a bag of lies by the recruiters,” Jon retorted hotly.

“Well, if you’re going to be holier than thou.” Harry’s tone was surly.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I won’t be a part of this. We’ll just have to scout around and find another paying cargo.”

“Is that your final word?”

“It is.”

Harry held out his hand. “Then good luck to you.”

Jon didn’t take the offered hand for a moment, for he was shocked at the casualness with which Harry was willing to end their partnership. Then he took the hand and shook it.

“I’d imagine that Van Buren can use you as a supercargo on another of his ships,” Harry said.

“Thanks, I’ll make do.”

“If you change your mind, I won’t be sailing for a week or so.” Harry added before ducking out of the door.

At first, as he packed his belongings and left the Java, Jon was puzzled. Not to his surprise there was, beneath his efforts to analyse the situation, a sensation of relief. He felt in full control of his own destiny for the first time since he had left the army. There would be opportunity in plenty; of that he was sure. He left the docks with a swinging, light stride, took a room in a hotel, and it was only later, when he was on his way to the Broome house, that he wondered where Harry was getting the money to charter the Java on his own. The suspicion that came to him was too ugly to entertain.

Dinner at the Broome’s was, as usual, a lively gathering. Johnny and Kitty were there, and the table was filled out by a fresh-faced naval officer and his recent bride, the officer having served with Red Broome in Hong Kong before taking leave to be married. The young officer, a lieutenant, described the battle at the pirate Han-Kuang’s island and reported that other, more major efforts were imminent in the continual skirmishing with the pirates. Throughout dinner no one mentioned Harry. It was only much later, after the lieutenant and his bride had taken their leave and Jon and Johnny Broome were seated on the veranda, feet cocked up, cigars smoking lazily, that the name came up.

“I’m afraid that my budding business partnership with Harry is at an end,” Jon admitted, when Johnny asked about Harry.

“Oh?” Johnny said, the curiosity evident in his tone.

Jon thought about it for a moment. Sooner or later he would be asked about Harry, he was sure. He decided he might as well give his side of it before rumours distorted the facts. “The Java didn’t have an immediate cargo,” he said.

“Things are a bit slow. It’s the season,” Johnny offered understandingly.

“So Harry is going into an enterprise for which I have no stomach.”

“Nothing too illegal, I hope.”

“Legal as any other trading activity,” Jon said. “He’s going to Samoa for a load of kanakas.”

Johnny’s feet fell to the floor with a thud of boot heels. “Claus Van Buren in the kanaka trade?” he asked, in total surprise.

“Not Van Buren, as far as I know,” Jon said. “Harry’s leasing Java outright.”

“By God, if old Claus knew—” Johnny paused. “Well, it’s not my business, I suppose.”

The face of the Samoan girl seemed to swim upward from great distances inside Jon’s memory. “Tell me, Mr. Broome, if the kanaka trade isn’t the business of a man of your position and responsibilities, whose business is it?”

“Ah,” Johnny said, “methinks we have touched upon a sore spot.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound belligerent.”

“Not at all. I can get rather belligerent myself about this illdisguised form of slavery.” Johnny studied the burning tip of his cigar, his expression thoughtful. “Actually, if you care to dig into some back issues of my newspaper, you’ll find some rather stinging editorial stands against the trade. I was thinking of something else when I said that what Harry does with the Java is not my business.”

“I’ve seen the kanaka trade in action,” Jon said. “I saw a man named Jamison beat an old Samoan man to death with a bullwhip.”

“And made yourself somewhat of a legend as a result,” Johnny put in dryly.

“Beg pardon?” Jon asked.

“It’s a small country, Jon. You’re quite famous, in a way. I’d venture that the account of your two set-tos with Jamison have been told and retold thousands of times, growing with each retelling, I might add.”

“I had no idea,” Jon said truthfully. “But that aside, it’s a contemptible thing, this trade in human labour.”

“Agreed. And it will be up to men like you and me to end it.” Johnny again studied his glowing cigar. “How is the problem. At the moment the entire agricultural economy is based on cheap kanaka labour. There’s a fight building over it, and it’ll be part and parcel of the fight for Australian unification. I’m glad to know that you’ll be on the side of the angels.”

“For what its worth,” Jon said without conviction.

“It’s worth much,” Johnny returned with unexpected vigour. “Claus Van Buren will fight against the indenture trade as well, and that’s what’s giving me pause at the moment. I would feel guilty betraying a confidence between friends, but I think Claus should know what Harry plans to do with the Java. It wouldn’t go well, in the future, if opponents pointed out that Van Buren, one of the leaders in the anti-kanaka-trade fight, had a clipper engaged in the trade.”

Jon mused. He did not know Van Buren that well himself, but what he knew he liked. “If you feel that it’s advisable to inform Mr. Van Buren, I’m sure that you would be able to get the same information along the waterfront. Harry, I fear, is not noted for being able to keep his mouth shut. I’m sure that there are others who know.”

“To save myself trouble,” Johnny said, “I’ll pretend that I’ve heard it elsewhere. At any rate, I’ll keep your name out of it.”

Oddly enough, Jon’s guess that others knew of Harry’s plans was confirmed when he met a business acquaintance in the lobby of the hotel that very night as he was returning from the Broomes’.

“I understand that you and young Ryan are off to Samoa for a load of dark meat?” the man said.

“Not I,” Jon said, walking past the man to his room. However, the results of his disclosure of Harry’s plans to Johnny Broome were not long in coming. Jon had slept in until the sinful hour of nine and was having a quiet breakfast in the hotel dining room when he saw Harry approaching, his face dark. Harry stopped across the table, threw down a telegram, and stood wordlessly while Jon put down his fork and, still chewing, picked up the piece of paper.

Claus Van Buren had not resorted to telegraphese to shorten the word count: “How dare you even suggest that a Van Buren ship be used in kanaka trade? Your association with this company is terminated forthwith.”

Jon put the telegram down. “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“You knifed me, my boy,” Harry grated. “I turn my back for a moment and you drive the shiv between me shoulder blades.”

“Harry, last night a man I scarcely know stopped me in the lobby and commented on our—your going to Samoa for indentures.”

“But he didn’t send the word to Van Buren in New Zealand,” Harry said darkly. “It took my old and good friend Jon Fisher to do that bit of dirty work.”

“Harry, we were quits yesterday, aboard the Java” Jon said, rising. “I would prefer it to be a friendly parting, so I’m going to ignore the fact that you’ve called me a sneak and a liar.”

“Have I?” Harry smiled. “Not yet. Nor will I, for I’ve seen your skill with your fists. But this will not be forgotten, my boy. It will not be forgotten.”

Jon felt himself reddening with anger. “I will say this only once. I did not give the information to Van Buren.”

“But you blabbed it at the Broomes last night.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Who was there?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jon said. “Perhaps it’s for the best, Harry. Had you taken the Java out of port, Van Buren would have been your enemy for life.”

“With friends like you,” Harry said, “Who needs enemies?” He wheeled as if to stalk off, then just as abruptly turned back, and this time his smile was the old Harry’s, friendly and sunny. “No matter, mate. All’s for the best, and all that rot. I’ve had a better offer, after all.”

Jon made no attempt to stop Harry. He sat down, toyed with his meal, but he had lost his appetite. Trying as Harry had been at times, he had still been a friend, and Jon would always be in his debt for what had happened so long ago on the plain before Isandhlwana. Jon’s black mood stayed with him until late in the afternoon, when he, too, had a telegram from Claus Van Buren.

“Word is you broke with Ryan over Samoan venture. Would speak with you, New Zealand, your earliest convenience.”

Well, he had nothing else to do, he told himself. He set about arranging passage for New Zealand and found, to his delight, that the Roamer, Captain Samuel Gordon commanding, was coming in from a trip to Wellington and would be making the return run as soon as she could be turned around. He checked with the Childers agents in Sydney, found some spare cargo room in Roamer for the return voyage to New Zealand, and set about trying to figure out a profitable use for it. Oddly enough, he came across some Madras cotton material from India, the same sort of inexpensive merchandise that he and Harry had earlier brought to Australia, and purchased it at a price cheaper than he had paid in India. No enormous sums of money were involved, but he felt that he could at least make the trip to New Zealand pay. He met the Roamer at dockside and received a warm welcome from both Sam and his new wife. Jessica looked radiant, even though a deep-sea tan and a new slimness had transformed her considerably.

The voyage to Wellington was most pleasant. Jon had always liked Sam Gordon, and the contrast between Sam’s solidmindedness and Harry’s impetuosity was striking. It was equally obvious that Sam and Jessica were well suited, and the two of them seemed so happy together that it was, at times, uncomfortable to be with them in the saloon. Jon was almost painfully aware of how he had admired Jessica when he first met her, but had been too preoccupied to press his attentions on her. But it was not envy with which he now observed Sam’s blissful state, for it was all too easy for him to picture himself in a similar position married to another woman—one with brown skin and wide, alluringly dark eyes. Misa.

Jon met Claus Van Buren in the new offices of the company in Wellington. Although Van Buren was small in stature, mildmannered, and unassuming, he had an unmistakable air of confidence and authority—as unlike as could be, Jon felt, to his own stepfather. Van Buren had no necessity to call attention to his wealth and influence, for they spoke loudly through him, through his relaxed stance, his calm, assured voice, and keen eyes that seemed to Jon to be able to guess things about him that others rarely suspected. Of late, Jon knew, the Van Burens had been spending most of their time in New Zealand, expanding on their holdings there that had grown from a small trading post in the Bay of Islands. Once Harry had pointed out to him the Van Buren house on Bridge Street in Sydney, a grand old residence that Jon had always admired whenever he passed it.

He accepted the offer of tea and a chair before a vast, heavy, Dutch-built desk and waited.

“As you know, Mr. Fisher,” Claus said, “Mr. Ryan is no longer associated with this company.”

“I know,” Jon said.

“My inclination, at first, was to terminate any association with you as well.”

Jon had a momentary impulse to defend himself, to point out that he had had no part in planning to take the Java into the kanaka trade, but on second thought he remained silent.

“However,” Claus went on, “men whose opinions I value highly speak well of you. I was told that you warned Mr. Ryan about the inadvisability of transporting indentures on one of my ships.’

“I did,” Jon said.

“And that you broke your partnership with Mr. Ryan over the question?”

“That is true.”

Van Buren rose, walked to a window, and looked out with his hands clasped behind his back. He was silent for a long time before turning to face Jon again. “I was fond of Harry Ryan. I knew that he had a wild streak, but I thought that responsibility and work would drive his recklessness out of him. It was because of him that I allowed you to be associated with the Van Buren company in the first place, because, frankly, I didn’t want to have anything to do with a son of Marcus Fisher.”

“Stepson,” Jon corrected.

“I told myself dozens of times that the simple way was just to say no. Harry vouched for you.” He spread his hands. “Now Harry is gone. What am I to think? What am I to do about you, Mr. Fisher?”

Jon swallowed nervously. He wasn’t sure what was in Van Buren’s mind. Perhaps the man was working up toward telling him that he would no longer be able to work in cooperation with the Van Buren company. However, his nervousness did not show in his voice when he said, “I think the thing for you to do, sir, is to allow me to continue to lease space in Van Buren bottoms. In fact, although I’m still not the most experienced trader, I think it would be in the best interests of both of us if you’d allow me to act as supercargo on one of your ships.”

Claus stared at him searchingly and then broke into a warm smile. “I had come to that conclusion myself, young man.” He sat down behind the desk. “I have been going over the records of your transactions while you were working with Mr. Ryan. You’ve done well.”

Jon made a wry face. “At least I still have my initial capital and some little left over.”

Claus shrugged. “That’s business, is it not? Sow your seed grain wisely and then add to it. That’s something Harry did not understand. He was always after the quick gain, looking to multiply his money extravagantly in one trade. Except in very rare cases, that simply is not wise or possible. If I had approached life as Harry Ryan did when I was a lip-lap servant, I would either be in prison or still poor,” He sighed. “But you did not come here to hear my reminiscences. Now, as you know, we have interests in New South Wales and here in New Zealand. Actually, Mercy likes it here in Wellington, as do my children, and I suspect we’ll be spending most of our time here. New Zealand is booming, and there are opportunities for all. However, there are disadvantages to being so spread out. Although I have good men associated with me, men like Robert and Simon Yates—whom you may or may not have met?”

“No, I have not,” Jon said.

“There is always a shortage of men with the proper motives to look after my interests. In your case, I am hoping that the profit motive for yourself will be the prime factor in your taking over as supercargo of the Java.”

“Thank you, sir. I—”

Claus held up a hand to cut off his expressions of gratitude. “Of course we pay agents to obtain cargoes for us. But every port is full of shipping agents, and often they work for more than one shipping line. There is no substitute for a dedicated man with something to gain or lose himself.” He paused to offer Jon a cigar and light one for himself. “In Hong Kong and in Madras, while Harry was . . . Well, we won’t go into what he was doing. But you were making yourself known to traders and merchants.”