The Gold Seekers (18 page)

He sat for a long time, the letter crushed between his two big hands, trying to control the grief that filled him and regretting, even more bitterly than his father, the fact that he had stayed away for so long. And for what reason? The furtherance of his career? The fulfillment of his own ambitions? He drew a long, unhappy breath and then braced himself as the door opened and Tim came in. The first lieutenant was pale with barely suppressed anger, and he jerked his head in the direction of the improvised ballroom. “Sir, he’s here. De Lancey’s here, with Mrs. Lucas! And he has the infernal nerve to dance with her, if you please!”

Red forced his mind back to the present. “Then we’d best deal with him, hadn’t we? Come with me, Tim, and get hold of one of the mids, just in case he tries to make a scene. He can wait in the longboat, under guard, until we’re able to take our leave.”

Suddenly Red, too, was filled with a cold anger, and his rage increased when, with Tim beside him, he returned to the ballroom and saw with what intimacy the couple were waltzing. Dora Lucas’s arms were about her partner’s neck, and he, his eyes fixed on her face, looked as if he were aware of no one else in the crowded room. He whirled her around, his body pressed against hers, and he seemed more surprised than alarmed when Red grasped him, none too gently, by the shoulder and brought him to a halt.

“You are absent without leave, Mr. De Lancey,” he stated icily. “And we are sailing in the morning. I am placing you under arrest. You will go with the first lieutenant and Mr. Vibart at once and wait, in the charge of the master-at-arms, in the longboat, until I have made my farewells to His Excellency the Governor and can join you. You—”

Dora Lucas cut him short. She objected shrilly, “No—no … you cannot take him away! He is staying here, don’t you understand? He is quitting the navy and your wretched ship! He promised me—didn’t you, Francis?”

Young Francis De Lancey started to echo her protest, his blue eyes bright with defiance. Heads turned, people near at hand stopped dancing in order to listen to what was being said, and, determined at all costs to avoid a scandal for Captain Lucas’s sake, Red ordered in a low voice, “Carry on, Mr. Broome—you know what to do.” He turned to Dora Lucas, and waiting only until he saw that Tim Broome and Midshipman Vibart had ranged themselves purposefully on either side of their prisoner, he suggested politely, “You have not yet been introduced to Their Excellencies, I take it, ma’am?”

The girl reddened resentfully and drew back a white-gloved hand as if to strike him, but anticipating her intention, Red captured the hand and, drawing her into his arms, swiftly danced her across the room to where Mrs. Fitzgerald was seated with some of the older ladies.

“May I present Mrs. Lucas, Your Excellency?” he requested formally. “The wife of Captain Benjamin Lucas, ma’am, who has the misfortune to be confined in hospital as the result of a severe illness.”

With predictable sensitivity, Mrs. Fitzgerald rose to the occasion, motioning Dora to a seat at her side, and the angry girl, compelled to recognize defeat, gave Red a venomous glance and sat down sullenly beside her hostess.

Thankfully, Red took his leave, his last sight of Dora Lucas on the Governor’s arm, being escorted gallantly back to the dance floor, a fixed smile on her flushed and angry face.

The return passage downriver in the longboat was a silent one. The missing seamen had been rounded up, and Francis sat, with his head in his hands, saying nothing. Red, his heart heavy, thought of the letter he had received from his father and was glad enough of the silence, his conscience tormenting him anew.

Back on board his command, however, there were other, practical matters to occupy his time and his thoughts, and he flung himself into the preparations for departure, shutting his mind to all else. Soon after first light, the Galah have up her anchors and, under topsails and main course, ran for the open sea before a brisk offshore breeze that carried her swiftly out of sight of Fremantle and the cluster of small white-painted buildings that marked the settlement.

Red set her course southward and ordered Francis De

Lancey on deck to stand his watch. Only then did he go below and, in the privacy of his day cabin, weep for the mother whom Fate had ordained that he would not see again.

Next day, the Great Australian Bight unleashed its fury in a violent storm, and with the crash of thunder and the screeching wind in his ears, his conscience gave him ease. The storm abated after forty-eight anxious hours, and the Galah once again spread her canvas wings and resumed her easterly course. Red sought his cot and slept the sleep of the physically drained. Waking at last, refreshed, he carefully put his father’s letter away and went on deck to find the sun shining and the sky washed clear of clouds.

The Dolphin swung gently to her anchor in the slight swell, and standing entranced on deck, Mercy Bancroft gazed about her at the calm beauty of New Zealand’s Bay of Islands. During the long, leisurely voyage across the Pacific from San Francisco, the Dolphin, under the seasoned hand of her owner and master, Claus Van Buren, had called at many picturesque island ports: at Hawaii, which had been the destination of three of the missionary families on board, and at others with such romantic names as Phoenix, Pago Pago, and Tongatapu. But here, on New Zealand’s North Island, it seemed to Mercy that she had found paradise.

The last of the missionaries, a young English priest of the Catholic faith, had gone ashore here, accompanied by Claus and escorted by half a score of Maori war canoes, each manned by up to a hundred brown-skinned warriors with hideously tattooed faces. The canoes had surrounded the Dolphin even before she had dropped anchor, but Claus, to Mercy’s great relief, had assured her that their occupants were friendly. There had been wars, he admitted, pitched battles fought against British settlers and the ships of war sent to protect them, but the missionaries had never been harmed, and now, with New Zealand officially declared an imperial colony, and Captain Grey—elevated to knighthood as Sir George Grey by Queen Victoria—appointed Governor, the fierce Maori tribes and the ever-growing number of settlers were at peace.

As, Mercy thought, they should be, in a place of such unsurpassed loveliness as this. Her gaze took in the vista of rolling hills, their peaks snowcapped in the distance, and the great kauri pine trees ringing the shore, their plumed tops dwarfing the squat white-painted dwellings of the little town

of Waitangi—in the Maori language “Weeping Water,” Claus had told her—where some ten years earlier a treaty had been signed by the Governor and the tribal chiefs.

Claus had made many voyages to New Zealand—to other ports and newer settlements in what was known as the Middle Island, as well as to the North Island gulfs and bays. He was a mine of information concerning the colony’s history from its earliest years, and, Mercy reflected regretfully, she would gladly have listened to his tales of great Maori chiefs like Hongi Ika, who had visited England and been received by King George III, but … Luke had cast a damper over her quest for knowledge.

Luke had grown increasingly impatient as the weeks and months passed and the Dolphin’s course took her to yet another island, where Claus bartered axes and ironware for copra, pearl shell, sandalwood, and fresh supplies for his crew.

“The trail will have grown cold,” Luke constantly complained. “Jasper Morgan has had too long a start on us. We’ll hear no word of him when we reach Sydney—if we ever do!”

Mercy smothered a sigh. She had never shared Luke’s vengeful zest for the chase, she realized now. Once they had learned that Jasper Morgan had left San Francisco, she had never believed that it lay within their power to catch and bring him to justice. Luke had believed it, of course, and that had sustained him despite the odds stacked so heavily against them. He had more reason to continue: the murder of his brother and that of his two Australian partners weighed on his mind and fired his stubborn determination to succeed whatever the cost, while she … Mercy repeated her sigh.

Jasper Morgan had wronged her; he had taken cruel advantage of her innocence and her helplessness, but he had harmed only her pride, her self-esteem. And association with the missionary families during the long voyage had restored what he had taken from her. The “men of God,” as Claus always called them, had treated her as a friend and equal; she had aided them in the care of their children, talked and prayed with them, and found spiritual peace in their friendship and liking. Young Father Ignatius—the

priest who had left the ship that morning—had listened to the story of her journey with the wagon train, following her parents’ death. He had been appalled by the hardships she had described to him, the strain of the weary journey across swamps and deserts and through the bleak mountain passes to the promised land of California—a journey of more than two thousand miles, covered for the most part at the rate of fifteen miles a day. At the end of her recital, he had given her absolution and, as the others had done, prayed with and for her. Mercy grasped the rail in front of her.

She fell … A smile of pure wonder and delight curved her lips as she sought the apt word to describe her present feelings. Renewed, reborn; strong once again in her faith, her lost innocence no longer plaguing her conscience or engendering shame.

Claus, too, had played a major part in her regeneration, she realized. From the outset he had treated her with respect, seeking her company, walking with her on deck when the day’s work was done and the ship under reduced sail, and they had talked for hour after hour, as friends talked, of every subject under the sun. She had learned much from Claus Van Buren—about Sydney, about Australia in general, about the islands they had visited and the people who inhabited them, and about the ship, which was his pride and joy.

Luke had benefited from their association also, but— Mercy’s smile faded. Initially, Luke had been ready to learn. With time, he had become a competent seaman and, under tuition from both Claus and the Dolphin’s mate, he had begun to master the intricacies of navigation, displaying an enthusiasm and an intelligence that had delighted his mentors. But his enthusiasm had waned of late; he went about his duties with more than a hint of sullenness and, when they were alone together, talked of little save Jasper Morgan and the time they were losing as a result of the Dolphin’s protracted passage, and the days lost on account of her master’s trading activities.

“Captain Van Buren has friends everywhere,” he asserted resentfully. “But in order to trade with them, he deems it necessary to visit their homes and their villages, to feast with them and organize races with their canoes. I could have

bargained for what he has managed thus to obtain at half the cost and in a quarter of the time!”

But without the goodwill, Mercy thought, recalling the reception the Maoris had accorded the Dolphin’s master the previous day. A venerable chief, his face tattooed with the record of his daring in battle, a coronet “of plumes in his dark hair, and his stocky body wrapped in a feathered cloak, had taken Claus Van Buren.into his embrace and, their noses touching, had hailed the new arrival as his son. Later, when the great high-prowed war canoes had departed, Claus had told her that the old chief’s name was Kawiti and that he was one of the most revered warriors among the islands’ tribes.

“You admire these Maoris, don’t you?” she had asked. “Yet are they not can—” She had hesitated over the word, shocked by its hideous implications. “Cannibals? And one of the crew told me they trade in the shrunken heads of their enemies. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Claus had been forced to concede. “But the missionaries, whom they respect, have converted a great many to Christianity. Such barbaric practices will cease, given time and the influence of the men of God. They are fine, brave people, possessed of great intelligence and a natural nobility of spirit. Their war with the settlers was caused because they were being robbed of their land by unscrupulous white men, who bought great tracts for a few axes and bags of nails. A Maori never sells his land—he only leases it—but the settlers failed to understand this and, of course, claimed ownership in perpetuity, which no Maori could countenance. So they went to war, and they fought on until the British government recognized their just grievances and put them right, insofar as they could be put right. Still, many lives were lost on both sides.”

It was hardly a comforting picture Claus had painted for her, Mercy told herself ruefully as she recalled his words. And her first sight of the Maoris had certainly alarmed her, for all their smiling faces when some of them had boarded the Dolphin the day before, greeting Claus by name and with evident pleasure at the sight of him. Yet … She tensed involuntarily as she watched a procession of war canoes put off from the beach and head toward the anchored ship.

Claus had gone ashore early, and … She leaned forward, watching anxiously.

Luke emerged from the forward hatchway and halted beside her, gesturing to the canoes with a thin brown hand. “The captain’s coming back. And I reckon—” He broke off, shading his eyes against the glare. “Yes, there’s a lady with him, and two young white fellows, can you see? What does that mean, I wonder?”

“Perhaps they are visitors,” Mercy suggested uncertainly. “Friends of his, Luke. Old Saleh said he knew the folk at the mission.”

“Maybe they are passengers,” Luke amended. “There are trunks and some pieces of baggage in two of the canoes. Maybe they’re taking passage with us to Sydney.” His eyes lit with a hopeful gleam. “I hope to God they are! And I hope they’re in a hurry to reach their destination. I couldn’t endure another long delay while Van Buren barters with the natives. Jasper Morgan could be to hell and gone before we ever clap eyes on Sydney Town!”

Mercy had been cherishing the hope of what the seamen called a run ashore—Claus had taken her ashore at most of their other ports of call, and she had greatly enjoyed the experience—but, out of loyalty to Luke and their mission, she did not say so, fearing to anger him. Her face clouded over, however, as she watched the canoes approach.