The Pioneers E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 307

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The twelfth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country made of blood, passion, and dreams.   Against overwhelming odds they fought to tame a savage land, now they must fight to keep it.   The struggle continues – a struggle to harness an alien wilderness, to lay the bold foundation for their dreams. But powers outside the Australians' control are threatening to put all they have accomplished in jeopardy. A new generation of Australians comes into its own, more newcomers arrive, and together, they all must battle to forge the glorious destiny that is rightfully theirs.

Leseprobe

The Pioneers

The Australians 12 – The Pioneers

© Vivian Stuart, 1984

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

Series: The Australians

Title: The Pioneers

Title number: 12

ISBN: 978-9979-64-237-4

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

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

CHAPTER I

The funeral service was over, and the last of the considerable crowd of mourners had left the house, with expressions of sympathy and regret mingled with well-intentioned advice as to the future, to which Emily Willoughby had listened with downcast eyes and a swiftly growing resolve.

Her father was dead. After a lengthy illness, Rear Admiral Sir Francis Willoughby had died in his sleep, and the Royal Navy, according to custom, had taken charge of all the funeral arrangements, with naval pallbearers, his flag draped over his coffin, and volleys of musketry fired over his grave.

Emily, worn out by the strain of nursing him, had walked dazedly behind the hearse, her two little sisters holding anxiously to her hands, and her brother Jamie—a tall, slim stranger in his white-patched midshipman’s uniform, grown out of all recognition—walking a few paces in front of her.

It had been touch and go whether Jamie would be given leave to attend the funeral. He had been appointed to His Majesty’s frigate Success, commanded by Captain James Stirling, which was due to sail from Portsmouth to Sydney, Australia, on the twenty-fifth of January. Fortunately, the Success had been ordered to put into Plymouth on her way, and the captain had given Jamie permission to rejoin her there. Emily suppressed a weary sigh and glanced uncertainly at her younger brother. Since being graduated in the top ten cadets from the Royal Naval College, Jamie had spent a year at sea, and this was the first time she had seen him, apart from his brief graduation leave, for over a year.

They had yet had no time to talk, with the bustle of the funeral and the constant coming and going of callers at the house, and now, as they awaited the arrival of their father’s lawyer for the reading of the will, Jamie was oddly silent and withdrawn. In the old days, he had always confided in her and sought her counsel, but now, seemingly overwhelmed by the new responsibilities that would face him as their father’s heir, he appeared anything but eager to resume their childhood intimacy.

Emily braced herself for a rebuff and picked up the teapot that had stood untouched for the past ten minutes on the tray that the butler, Hawkins, had set for them.

“Would you like some tea, Jamie?” she asked diffidently.

Jamie inclined his dark head in assent but did not break his silence until he had drunk his tea thirstily and passed his cup to be refilled. Then he burst out, with unexpected vehemence, “I hated him, Emmy, you know! It’s a—a dreadful admission to make, when Papa is barely cold in his grave. But I can’t pretend to grief I don’t feel, especially to you.”

“I should keep your voice down, though,” Emily cautioned. “We don’t want the servants to hear . . . or Charlotte and Biddy.”

Her brother reddened. “All right, I will. But I want you to understand, Emmy. I respected him, I even admired him until that awful day when he summoned us all to his study—you and Rob and me. That was what made me hate him—the way he treated poor Rob. Cutting him off as he did, forcing him to go out to Australia . . . and giving me Rob’s inheritance. I never wanted it—I don’t want it now.”

“If it is willed to you,” Emily pointed out, “you will have to take it, Jamie.”

“I know I shall. But—” Jamie’s dark eyes were suddenly bright. “I will make sure that the lawyers make adequate provision for you and the two little girls. And whatever’s left—the residue, I think they call it—I shall hand over to Rob when we reach Sydney. In a way, it is a stroke of luck that Papa died when he did, because it means that I can take the money out to him.”

“Did you always mean Rob to have it?” Emily asked.

He nodded. “Oh, yes, of course I did. He’s the elder son. But it would have taken a good deal longer if the Success had sailed before Papa died. When I volunteered to join her, it was in the hope that I might be able to see Rob, perhaps quit the navy and join up with him, if he wanted me to. I’ll be doubly welcome if, when I see him again, I’m in a position to give him back his inheritance, will I not?”

“I imagine you will, Jamie dear,” Emily agreed. The faint dryness of her tone passed unnoticed. Jamie, with a return of his old affectionate attitude to her, put out both hands to grasp hers. “Dearest Emmy, you do understand, don’t you? Whatever Papa wanted, whatever he accused Rob of doing—I could not take what is rightfully his, could I? Now he will inherit the baronetcy and the money, and perhaps, God willing, he’ll come home. And this house will be waiting for him.”

“He may be happily settled in Australia and not wish to leave,” Emily argued.

“He wasn’t keen to go.”

“No. But that was because Papa insisted that he should. By this time he may have a farm and sheep and cattle. In his last letter, he told me he had applied for a land grant in what he called the ‘new lands’ beyond the Blue Mountains.”

“Was that the only letter you received?” Jamie asked. “Apart from the one from the Cape?”

“Yes,” Emily admitted. “He sent it in the care of Mr. Yates—Dr. Simon Yates, old Dr. Vine’s assistant. I . . .” She broke off, with heightening color. She had not told Jamie her news and had hesitated to do so, for he had seemingly held himself aloof from her, offering and inviting no confidences. But it was momentous news, and she said eagerly, “Jamie, I . . . when we knew that poor Papa had not very much longer to live, Simon asked me to—to wed him. He has been accepted by the Missionary Society and is to be stationed in New Zealand after a probationary period in New South Wales.”

Jamie let out a joyous exclamation. “Oh, Emmy, that’s wonderful! You accepted his proposal, I hope?”

Recalling Simon’s proposal of marriage, only a few days ago, Emily’s color deepened and spread.

“I love you!” he had said. “And I cannot bear the thought of leaving you behind. Come with me, my dearest little love, as soon as you are free. I know your father did not approve of me, did not think me worthy of you . . . and I am not. But there’s no one else, is there, Emmy? For you—as there can never be for me, darling, as long as I live!”

She had been so pleased that he had at last found the courage to ask her to become his wife, and pleased also because it would mean for her, as well as for Jamie, a reunion with Robert . . . the whole family together again, for Simon had insisted that they must bring her two little sisters with them.

“I accepted,” she said. “Oh, yes, of course I accepted his proposal. I never dared to tell Papa, Jamie, but Simon Yates and I . . . we have been in love with each other ever since he came to Murton. And when we go, he wants us to take Charlotte and Biddy with us. He’s promised to be a father to them.”

“Emmy, I’m so very happy for you!” Jamie drew her to him, kissing her warmly on the cheek. “It will be a wonderful family reunion, on the other side of the world! All of us together, even the little ones. Do you know when you’re sailing?”

Emily shook her head. “We could not arrange anything while Papa needed me. But the Missionary Society will pay Simon’s passage and mine, I think, and—”

“I will pay Charlotte’s and Biddy’s,” Jamie offered. “It should not take too long for the lawyers to settle Papa’s estate. But even if I have to leave before it is settled, I can surely make provision for you and the girls.” He glanced about him at the shadowed room. “What of this house, Emmy? Ought we to sell it?”

“I suppose we should,” Emily agreed.

“Rob might want it, if he comes home.”

“We don’t know whether or not he will come home.”

“No.” Jamie frowned. “We could ask the lawyers’ advice. But there does not seem very much point in keeping this vast place, does there, if it is to be unoccupied? Except for the servants—Hawkins in particular. He’s been with Papa for over twenty years. Unless we—” His expression relaxed. “Why not bring him with you, Emmy, if he wants to come? And the girls’ nursemaid. You will need servants when you reach Australia.”

“Missionaries do not usually employ servants, Jamie,” Emily reminded him gently. “But if they do want to come—Hawkins and Bella, at least—I think we should offer to pay their passage. Or perhaps, if they prefer to stay, you could arrange for pensions for them.”

“I’ll talk to Papa’s lawyer about it,” Jamie promised. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I wonder how much longer he’ll be?”

As if in answer to his question, old Hawkins knocked on the door to announce the lawyer’s arrival.

“Mr. Augustus Peake, sir,” he said. “I’ve shown the gentleman into the library. I took the liberty of serving him with a glass of sherry.”

Jamie rose, glancing across at her questioningly, but Emily shook her head. “You see him, Jamie. It’s you he’s concerned with, not me. I will go and read the girls a bedtime story while you’re talking to Mr. Peake.”

A year or so earlier, Jamie would have begged her to accompany him, but his time at sea had given him self-confidence; he nodded his agreement and followed Hawkins to the library. Emily went upstairs, to find her small sisters being prepared for bed by their nursemaid, Bella, a buxom country girl to whom they were both much attached.

“They’m right sorely tired, the pair o’ them, Miss Emily,” Bella said. “’Twas a long enough day for them, an’ with all the ’sitement, why I do reckon they’ll fall fast asleep afore you’ve finished their story.”

Her forecast proved accurate. Emily had scarcely read two pages from the book of fairy tales she had given Charlotte for Christmas when the two small, dark heads started to droop, and by the end of the page both little girls were sleeping soundly.

Their father, she knew, had indulged them far more than he had ever indulged his elder children, but despite this, they had not gone in awe of him, and his passing had left them comparatively unaffected, for all the elaborate pomp and ceremony of his funeral. Each night, under her tutelage, they had prayed earnestly that “Dear Papa might be made well again,” but their visits to his sickroom had been made reluctantly and at times even under coercion.

She tucked them in and, dropping a light kiss on each small, flushed cheek, went downstairs and back to the morning room to wait for Jamie.

It was another half hour before he emerged from the library and she heard heavy footsteps crossing the flagged hall as Hawkins escorted Mr. Augustus Peake to the door. Jamie came into the morning room, his young face almost drained of color, to slump down onto the sofa at her side, as if, Emily thought apprehensively, whatever their father’s solicitor had told him had come as a profound shock.

Wisely, she did not press him for an explanation but instead ordered a glass of the cider he was usually partial to and sat in silence while he drank it. Finally her brother set down his empty glass with a far from steady hand and regarded her uncertainly.

“Emmy, I don’t know how to tell you this,” he began, the stammer that affected him when he was nervous or upset making itself apparent. “B-but I—”

“Just tell me simply,” Emily begged. “And try not to distress yourself, Jamie dear. Whatever it is, I won’t be shocked, I promise you.”

But, for all her bravely expressed confidence, Jamie’s next words succeeded in shocking her.

“There’s almost nothing for me to inherit,” he said. “Papa was living on his capital, his prize money, Mr. Peake said—and spending it without regard for the future. He had a naval pension, of course, but that ceases with his death. And there’s this house and the furniture, the carriage and his horses—they will all have to be sold if the girls’ fare to Australia is to be paid, and Hawkins’s and Bella’s. Or pensions provided for them and the other servants. I—I don’t know how I—I shall be a-able to t-tell Rob, Emmy. Or—or what he’ll say when I d-do tell him. D-do you think he’ll be angry?”

Emily recovered herself and managed a smile.

“No, Jamie, of course he won’t. He would not expect you to give him your inheritance, in any case. Even if it had been a vast sum, he would not expect that.”

“He would, Emmy,” her brother asserted wretchedly. “Rob would.”

“Papa provided for him.”

“But not—n-not what he considered adequately.”

Moved by his evident distress on their elder brother’s account, Emily—for the first time in her life—permitted herself to offer an adverse criticism of him. “Rob,” she stated firmly, “got what he deserved.”

“How can you say that?” Jamie challenged indignantly. “That fellow Raven, the innkeeper, brought false charges against him out of malice. And it wasn’t even malice against Rob—it was Papa he wanted to hurt.”

Emily shook her head. “No, Jamie,” she countered pityingly. “The charges weren’t false. Rob told me the whole story. And,” she added, “Simon heard the end of it from an old man called Parson Crickley, who sought him out after—after Papa refused to see him. I was supposed to tell him, but I didn’t.”

“What happened?” Jamie demanded suspiciously. “What did Parson Crickley say happened?”

“The girl that Rob was accused of—of having raped, Rebecca Raven, drowned herself when Rob’s ship sailed without her. She—” Emily took a breath and forced herself to go on. “She was on her way out to join him, and Parson Crickley went in the boat with her and her father, in order that he might wed them on board. Or—” She relented. “That was what he claimed, when he spoke to Simon. It’s possible that Rob didn’t know—Mr. Raven may have made a last attempt to force him to wed the poor girl.”

“I’d swear Rob did not know,” Jamie insisted, but Emily saw he was less convinced of their brother’s innocence than he had been a few moments before. And, please God, she prayed silently, he need no longer feel any qualms concerning his inheritance, for Rob had been provided for. It was Jamie and she and their two small sisters for whom their father had not made adequate provisions. The house was large, its furnishings of some value, and it stood in extensive grounds, but there was still a mortgage on it of some hundreds of pounds, she knew. Even if it were sold immediately and well, she doubted whether the proceeds, when shared between four of them, would amount to as much as the sum Rob had received when their father had peremptorily ordered him to accept exile in New South Wales. Certainly it would not amount to much more.

“I told Mr. Peake that he should put the house on the market,” Jamie volunteered. “I’m afraid that will leave you to—to deal with the sale, Emmy. I’ll have barely a week before I have to report on board the Success. But if I give you a power of attorney, Mr. Peake says that will be all that is required.”

“I can deal with the sale,” Emily assured him. “I just hope that it will not take too long, Jamie, because Simon has to book his passage and—we want to be married. Not an elaborate ceremony, of course—only a quiet ceremony at Saint John’s when the rector can arrange it.”

“I wish it could be arranged before I sail,” Jamie said wistfully. “I should very much like to see you wed and—well, perhaps to give you away, Emmy.”

Their banns had been called, Emily reminded herself guiltily. The old admiral had been hovering close to death for several weeks, and Simon had persuaded her to anticipate her freedom so that, if he should be instructed to sail at an earlier date than he presently expected, they might be secretly married before his departure, and—if she were unable to accompany him—at least she and her little sisters would be able to follow him later on.

She bent her head in an attempt to hide the blush that came into her cheeks and answered quietly, “I think it could be arranged, Jamie—if it’s really what you want. I . . . there’s no reason for delay now. Papa does not need me to nurse him anymore. He—well, he did not approve of Simon, I’m afraid, so I could not tell him of my intentions. But I always intended to marry Simon, you know.”

“Good for you, Emmy!” her brother applauded, his smile returning. “I remember Rob once saying that Papa would never approve of any suitor you might have, so long as he needed you to keep house for him. Well, you’ve done your duty a hundred times over.” His smile widened and he jumped eagerly to his feet. “Shall I go and have a word with the rector and with your intended? I could explain that my time is very short and beg their indulgence, could I not?”

Emily lifted her head, her face aglow. “Oh, Jamie, would you?”

“I’ll be more than happy to,” Jamie asserted. “In fact I’ll go this minute.”

His powers of persuasion were scarcely needed. The old rector agreed willingly to his suggestion, and Simon Yates embraced him gratefully when the wedding day was arranged for three days hence.

The ceremony, as befitted a family in recent mourning, was as simple as Emily had wished, attended only by their immediate family and the household servants, and by Simon’s parents, who journeyed from nearby Walkhampton to be present, accompanied by his two younger brothers.

Emily wore her mother’s wedding gown, taking it carefully from the closet in which it had hung, wrapped in a linen sheet, for over thirty years. To her joy, the lovely gown was perfectly preserved and required little alteration, and she was happily aware that she was looking her best as she walked slowly up the aisle on Jamie’s arm to take her place before the altar at her bridegroom’s side.

Simon Yates, a fair-haired giant of a young man, standing over six foot five in his stockinged feet, turned his adoring blue-eyed gaze on her, and Emily felt her heart pounding like a wild thing in her breast as his big hand closed gently over hers. How, she asked herself, how could her father possibly have imagined that Simon was a fortune hunter, concerned only with what, until now, he had supposed would be her substantial inheritance? She had nothing, but Simon had told her that he was glad of it.

“If we are to take God’s word to the heathen Maoris, my dearest,” he had said, “it is meet and right that we should go among them with no more worldly goods than they possess. God will provide us with food and shelter, and we need no more than that.”

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation,” the old rector intoned, “to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . .”

Emily listened gravely, conscious of the solemnity of the occasion and the all-embracing compass of the vows she would shortly be called upon to make. Her heart’s wild beat subsided; she looked up at the great stained-glass window facing her above the altar and made a vow of her own choosing, coupled with a prayer that came from the very depths of her being.

“I will always be true to this man, whom I am taking as my husband . . . please, dear Jesus, help me to follow him wherever he may go and, of Thy divine mercy, grant me the strength never to fail him.”

Behind her in the dimly lit church, her little sister Biddy asked suddenly, in shrilly penetrating tones, “Oh, Bella, Dr. Yates won’t take our dearest Emmy away from us, will he?”

There were amused titters as Bella hastily denied any such prospect and whispered to the child to be silent. Simon’s fingers tightened about Emily’s hand in quick, understanding sympathy, and she found herself smiling up at him, no longer embarrassed but amused.

He made his vows in a clear, deep voice, and then old Rector Theobald, whom she had known since her childhood, turned to her.

“Emily Margaret Willoughby, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, for as long as ye both shall live?”

Emily made her response with quiet conviction, but her hand trembled a little when Simon placed his ring on it, and she heard him repeating the beautiful, age-old words. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow . . .”

And then the rector announced, “I now declare you man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

Events moved with almost bewildering speed after that. Scarcely had they gone, with the two little girls, to wave Jamie’s ship farewell, when Simon received instructions from the Church Missionary Society to embark, with his wife and family, on board the transport Countess of Harcourt, due to sail from Plymouth in six weeks’ time.

The ship was large and seaworthy, Simon assured his bride, a fast sailer of over five hundred tons burden, commanded by an experienced master, Magnus Johnson, and carrying a surgeon-superintendent, Dr. Charles Linton—to whom he would act as assistant—in charge of her cargo of a hundred and eighty-four male convicts.

Although Emily was eager to begin her new life, there was still much to be done, and six weeks was all too short a time in which to arrange their departure. In Jamie’s absence, she found herself making decisions on his behalf that caused her considerable heart-searching, but her new husband was a tower of strength to her, and Mr. Augustus Peake, the solicitor—although clearly a man disposed to act slowly and cautiously by nature—responded to the urgency of the situation and handled the business of her father’s estate with commendable dispatch.

The horses and carriages were quickly disposed of to willing buyers, providing sufficient funds for such immediate needs as fares to Sydney for Bella and the two little girls, and pensions for the other servants and Hawkins, who had decided to remain in England. Emily bought clothing, laid in a store of material for future use, and selected furniture from the house to take with them, before the remainder was put up for sale by auction. This, too, was easily sold, but the house found no buyer at the price Mr. Peake deemed worthy of its size and position.

“You will have to leave the matter in my hands, Mrs. Yates,” he told her glumly. “If and when I receive a suitable offer for the property, I will deal with it expeditiously and forward the proceeds, less my fee and commission, to your brother in Sydney. Alternatively, of course, you could put it up for auction and let it go to the highest bidder.”

“Which do you advise, Mr. Peake?” Emily inquired anxiously. She had come to trust the white-haired little lawyer implicitly, but even so, for Rob’s and Jamie’s sake, to leave him in sole charge of their one remaining asset was, perhaps, presumptuous.

“The decision must be yours, my dear young lady,” Augustus Peake answered primly. He hesitated, seemingly undecided whether to confide in her, and then, coming to what was evidently a somewhat painful conclusion, added regretfully, “One of the investments your late father, Sir Francis, made on my advice did not turn out profitably. He put a considerable sum of money into a tin mine—the Hensbarrow Mining and Smelting Company, in Cornwall—which, most unhappily, was compelled to declare bankruptcy eighteen months ago. I am bound to tell you, Mrs. Yates, that the shares—which I still hold in your late father’s portfolio—are now worthless. Indeed, that is one reason—apart from the losses Sir Francis himself sustained at the gaming tables—why your poor young brother’s inheritance is so modest. For that reason, I—well, I should like very much to sell Murton Chase well. If you are willing to entrust the sale to me, I will do all in my power to ensure that the proceeds are the highest possible.”

Emily was silent, torn by conflicting thoughts. Her first impulse was to postpone a definite decision until after she had consulted Simon, but he had made the long journey to London for a final meeting with the Missionary Society council and could not be expected back until at least the end of the week. In his absence she must decide, for as Mr. Peake pointed out, if the sale were to be by open auction before her departure, then there was no time to be lost. It would have to be extensively advertised, and that, he told her, would take time . . . She frowned, in an agony of indecision.

“Of course, my dear Mrs. Yates,” the lawyer said, breaking the brief silence that had fallen between them, “it is possible to place a reserve price on the property and to instruct the auctioneers that it cannot be sold below that sum.”

“Suppose the reserve price isn’t reached, Mr. Peake?” Emily questioned. “What then?”

“Why, my dear,” Mr. Peake answered, visibly brightening, “in that event, it would be withdrawn, and you could then leave me to find a suitable buyer, as I initially suggested.”

“And—and no harm would be done?”

“None at all. That is quite frequently the practice when a large property is offered for sale.”

“Yes, I see.” Emily’s frown lifted. It was the realization that Rob—rather than Jamie—might reproach her for failing to bring the proceeds of the house sale with her to Sydney that finally enabled her to make up her mind.

“Then please will you arrange for an auction, Mr. Peake,” she managed composedly, “and settle the amount of the reserve price.”

If the old man’s feelings were hurt, he gave no visible sign of discomfiture and, once again, put matters in hand with celerity. The local press carried advertisements, and the auctioneers printed handbills, which were displayed all over Plymouth and the neighboring towns and villages; and attracted by these, a large crowd—composed more of spectators than of would-be purchasers—gathered in the premises of the auctioneers in Citadel Road, three weeks later.

Emily attended, entering the crowded room nervously on her husband’s strong supporting arm. She had planned to take a seat at the back of the room, but old Mr. Peake, bustling officiously about, saw her and sent his cleric to escort Simon and her to seats he had reserved for them in the front row. Here, conscious that she was the object of a good deal of curiosity and much surreptitious whispering, she clung to Simon’s hand and wished herself many miles away; but when the sale began, the pointing and whispering ceased, and interest became centered on the bidding.

This, beginning slowly, was skillfully orchestrated by the auctioneer, and as the bids grew larger, the rapidity with which each was offered and repeated steadily increased. Finally, when the reserve price was bid and passed, Emily was able to see that there were three main contenders involved.

One, a somberly dressed gentleman in morning coat and top hat, who made his bids by means of a barely perceptible nod of the head, dropped out when the reserve price was exceeded. Of the other two, one was evidently a clerk, bidding on behalf of a client and obviously well known to the auctioneer, who addressed him by the name of his firm. It was the third of the ill-assorted trio who caused Emily most surprise and, for no reason that she could readily have explained, some misgivings.

He was a big, black-bearded man, with a heavy paunch, dressed in homespun jacket and breeches of a shapeless cut, who smoked a foul-smelling briar pipe throughout the proceedings and raised its blunt stem when he wanted to attract the auctioneer’s attention. Despite his appearance, he seemed to be well-off, capping each bid made by the other two, and when the top-hatted gentleman withdrew from contention, he continued to oppose the estate agent’s clerk, his voice loud and challenging, as if in an attempt to browbeat him.

“At eight thousand six hundred and fifty guineas, sir,” the auctioneer announced, addressing him questioningly. “The bid is against you, sir.”

The bearded man’s roar echoed from end to end of the packed auction room. “Nine thousand!” he yelled pugnaciously. “And be damned!”

The estate agent’s clerk was not intimidated. A raised finger set the bidding off again, and Emily saw Mr. Peake rubbing his bony hands together with satisfaction when it rose to ten thousand. Simon, she saw, was looking puzzled, but her whispered question to him was unheard and went unanswered in the excited hubbub of voices.

“Ten thousand two hundred and fifty guineas I am bid,” the auctioneer intoned. “Against Messrs. Petty and Lovell.” There was a sudden silence. “I will take advances of fifty guineas,” the young man offered persuasively, and the cleric’s hand was lifted.

“Ten thousand three hundred—any advance on ten thousand three hundred, sir?”

Again he addressed the bearded stranger, who, after a momentary hesitation, inclined his bullet head. “Aye—and fifty.”

The clerk bowed to his opponent, acknowledging defeat; the auctioneer, his hammer poised, looked round the room. “Have you all done, gentlemen? Going—going—gone! Sold for ten thousand three hundred and fifty guineas to . . . be so good as to give me your name, sir?”

The big man stood up. “Aye, ’tis Daniel Raven o’ the Crown an’ Anchor, North Quay!” he thundered. His dark eyes, in his mottled red face, were bright with the light of triumph, his stance aggressive. His gaze, ranging about the crowd, lit on Emily, and he moved toward her, the crowd parting to permit him to pass. Reaching her seat, he stood towering over her, his lips twisted into a malicious smile.

“The mills o’ God grind slowly,” he informed her. “But they grind exceeding small—just you remember that, Miss Willoughby! An’ you can tell that miserable murdering young swine o’ a brother o’ your’n that he’ll never set foot in his home again, not as long as he lives! Goin’ out to join him, ain’t ’ee, in the penal colony o’ New South Wales, you an’ the sawbones?”

Wordlessly, Emily inclined her head in assent, the sheer venom of his outburst striking chill into her heart. Raven went on, ignoring Simon’s attempts to silence him, “Well, I’d see as he bides there, if I were thee. But you tell him as Dan’l Raven’s bought your pa’s fine mansion—be sure an’ tell ’im that, now, won’t ’ee? An’ you can say as the hush-money your Pa paid, after my poor young Becky drowned herself, say that money helped to pay for it!”

Simon managed, at last, to swing him bodily round and send him on his way, but Emily was shocked and trembling, the bitter, vengeful words ringing in her ears like a death knell.

She could still hear the echo of them when, two weeks later, she boarded the transport Countess of Harcourt for the long voyage to Australia, for Daniel Raven’s parting thrust had been the crudest of all.

“I put God’s curse on thy brother, Miss Willoughby,” he had flung at her across the crowded auction room, “as my Becky lay dying in my arms. He’ll come to a bad end, that’s what’ll befall the sinful young rogue—you mark my words!”

And despite Simon’s repeated assurance that God forgave sinners and did not permit mere humans to invoke his retribution, Emily’s fears could not be laid to rest.

CHAPTER II

Alice crouched alone in the big wooden bed, with its curtains drawn across, listening to the pounding of the surf on the rocks below the house. It was close on midnight, she knew, but Nathan had warned her that he would be late—the newly appointed commandant, Captain Donaldson, had arrived in the Mermaid, and her husband’s attendance had been required, with that of the rest of the Norfolk Island prison staff, to receive their new commander.

She had been on the island for almost four months, Alice reflected, and despite her determination to accept its conditions without complaint, her fortitude had been tried to its limit. Not on her own account—the chaplain’s house, though small, was sturdily built and comfortably furnished; she had two convict servants, adequate rations, and even a tiny garden, in which fruit trees flourished and vegetables grew prolifically. And she had Nathan’s devoted love . . .

Restless, she reached out and drew aside a bed curtain, the solitary candle on the nightstand nearly flickering out. If they had lived anywhere else—in Windsor, perhaps, with the Cartwrights, or even in the isolated country beyond the Blue Mountains or in one of the new settlements springing up in the recently discovered land to the west—anywhere but here, how happy she could have been!

But on Norfolk Island, to permit herself to be happy was . . . akin to betrayal, because on every hand there were human beings, God’s creatures like herself, condemned to expiate, in abject misery and degradation, whatever crimes they had committed.

Captain Turton, the first commandant, who had initially rebuilt the prison settlement, was not an unduly harsh man, and he was not deliberately cruel, but, as Nathan had attempted to explain, he had precise orders as to how the convicts were to be treated and the discipline to which they must be subjected .