The Gold Seekers (32 page)

Captain Broome shook his head. “That scare blew over, although the home government took it seriously enough to order Sydney to be put into a state of defense. Skinner had all the long guns taken out of the ships and set up at strategic points onshore—South Head, Middle Head, Bradley’s, Pinchgut, and even Dawes Point. Then he had to remove them back where they belonged.” He shrugged. “That

wasn’t what put Red ashore. He had had the misfortune to be ordered to give passage to an engineer captain named Lucas, who was appointed in my stead as superintendent of the Cockatoo Island dockyard. An awkward gentleman, Benjamin Lucas, and that is no exaggeration, I give you my word. He took exception to the manner in which his wife was treated during the voyage from England—the implication being that Red had alienated her affections toward her husband, you see—and Skinner, of course, jumped in regardless of the consequences. He ordered a court of inquiry and relieved Red of his command, pending the court’s findings. But then Lucas’s wife left him and ran off with young Francis De Lancey, who was one of the Galah’s officers, and—”

Luke stiffened. The name was one he had heard, and heard quite recently, he was sure. He had not taken in more than a few words of what Captain Broome had been saying, but he listened intently now, trying to recall where or when the name had been mentioned or what possible significance it could have.

“George and Rachel’s younger boy?” Rick Tempest exclaimed. “Oh, the damned young fool! The De Lanceys will be heartbroken.”

“Indeed they are,” Justin Broome confirmed gravely. “Luckily the boy had quit the service within twenty-four hours of the Galah’s making port, so at least he’s not posted as a deserter. But the unfortunate husband, Captain Lucas, collapsed with a heart attack when he learned what had happened—at the dockyard, Rick, and in my presence, poor devil! I did not greatly care for him, but even so, I would not have wished that on him, even to spare Red the court of inquiry.”

“But surely Red does not have to face a court now, does he?” Tempest asked, frowning.

Everyone at the table had fallen silent, Luke realized, hanging on Broome’s reply. He gave it wryly.

“Alas, he does. Lucas died without regaining consciousness and without, of course, withdrawing the charges. But he made them in writing, and Commodore Skinner insists that the court must hear them, so Red remains kicking his heels onshore, and the commodore has given temporary command of the Galah to one of his staff! It is a damnably unhappy state of affairs. In the hope of being able to put matters right, Johnny and I decided to come up here in search of the two fugitives—young De Lancey and Dora Lucas. Rumor has it that they are somewhere on the Turon goldfields.” He glanced across the table at his daughter. “We’ll go on tomorrow to start our search, if you will be so kind as to put Jenny up for a week or so.”

The assent to this suggestion was immediate, and it was voiced enthusiastically by Edmund, bringing the color rushing to Jenny Broome’s cheeks, as his mother said, smiling, “Of course—we shall be more than delighted to have you, Jenny my dear.”

Luke found his tongue at last, the memories flooding back. The two fugitives, as Captain Broome had called them, were the two he had encountered on the hill above Tambaroora Creek, the two calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. De Lancey—there could be no doubting that. Had not De Lancey admitted to having served in the navy? And he had called his wife Dora.

“Sir …” He hesitated, reluctant to betray the young couple if his information as to their whereabouts should lead to trouble for them. “I believe I can tell you where to find the two you are searching for. But might I first ask what you would require of them? I do not think that they would wish to return to Sydney Town, sir.”

Edmund turned from his rapt contemplation of Jenny’s pink, embarrassed face to look at him in pleased surprise. “Luke,” he began, “you’ve remembered—you—” and then broke off, as if fearing he had said too much.

Justin Broome looked relieved. “You will save us a long search if you are able to tell us where they are, Luke. And I should not ask them to return to Sydney. That will not be necessary, provided they are willing to give me a written deposition which my son can put before the court of inquiry. I don’t know whether or not you have understood the nature of the charges made against him, but clearly they are false, and they should have been laid against Mr. De Lancey.”

“I understand, sir,” Luke assured him. He hesitated no longer, confident that Captain Justin Broome was a man of

his word, who could be relied upon to keep it. With only minor difficulty in remembering, he succeeded in giving the necessary directions, adding that he had left the two who had called themselves Mr. and Mrs. De Lancey with his own two companions, Simon and Robert Yates, preparing to search for gold in Tambaroora Creek.

“That’s what it is called, to the best of my knowledge, sir. It is between the Turon and the Pyramil, and it runs into the Macquarie about five or six miles below the junction with the Turon.”

Captain Broome thanked him with grateful sincerity. “Mr. Tempest tells me that you have suffered from amnesia since being thrown from your horse. Have I perhaps said anything that jogged your memory?”

Luke exchanged a swift glance with Edmund and then inclined his head. “Yes, you did, sir. The name De Lancey. I —it came back to me, and I remembered where I’d heard it. I’d come from the Tambaroora Creek, you see, sir.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” The gray-haired captain subjected him to a lengthy scrutiny. “Let us endeavor to jog that memory of I yours still further, shall we? Your name is Luke Murphy—is I

that right?” I

“Yes, sir, I believe so.” I

“Good. Then I fancy I can fill in some of the gaps. You worked your passage from San Francisco to Sydney on board the clipper schooner Dolphin, owner and master Claus Van Buren.”

“I—” Luke stared at him. Van Buren, the Dolphin … As before, he realized, everyone at the table was silent, waiting for his reply. And the names had a meaning. They were familiar, as that of De Lancey had been, emerging as if from the mist that had shrouded him. He saw in memory Claus Van Buren’s darkly bearded face, and that of a girl. A girl of Elizabeth’s age, whom he had claimed to be his sister. Mercy, with whom he had made the journey from Thayer’s Bend, on the Feather River, to San Francisco, in order to track down the man who had murdered his brother Dan and the two Australians, Frankie and Tom.

He drew in his breath sharply. Jasper Morgan—Captain Jasper Morgan. That name was etched into his memory. How

could he possibly have forgotten it or lost sight of the purpose that had brought him halfway around the world in search of Jasper Morgan?

“I think you’re starting to remember, are you not, Luke?” Captain Broome prompted quietly. To the others, he said, “Claus Van Buren brought a splendid clipper schooner back from America and, for good measure, a sweet young bride— Luke’s sister Mercy. Their nuptials are shortly to be celebrated. But”—he turned to Luke again, smiling—“they will both be bitterly disappointed if you are not there to give the bride away, Luke.”

Luke sought vainly for words as Edmund rose from his seat to wring his hand. “By all that’s wonderful, Luke my boy!” he exclaimed delightedly. “You remember now, don’t you? Good Lord, you can’t have forgotten that your sister is to wed one of the wealthiest shipowners in the colony—and one of its finest men? Claus Van Buren—you must remember him!”

“Yes,” Luke managed. “I remember Claus Van Buren.” Elizabeth, he became aware, was looking at him, her blue eyes wide, and he instinctively averted his own gaze, bitterly conscious that his time at Pengallon was over, and with it all hope that their brief and tentative friendship might develop into … what had he hoped? He wanted suddenly to go to her, to fall on his knees beside her and plead for her indulgence, if not her understanding. But with all her family present and the Broomes, he knew that he could say nothing, and the fear grew that, even if they had been alone, he would have been unable to find the words he longed to say to her.

He expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh, letting the tension drain out of him, forcing himself to speak calmly. “It’s all coming back, Edmund. But I—it’s something of a shock. I had not realized that the wedding—that Mercy and Captain Van Buren would set any store by my presence at their wedding.”

“But of course they do!” Mrs. Tempest offered kindly. She glanced at her husband, the glance at once questioning and pleading. “We must let him go, Rick. Obviously Luke was on

his way to Sydney when our cattle stampeded, and perhaps, if he leaves at once, he will be in time to give his sister away.” Or, Luke thought dully, in time to pick up Jasper Morgan’s trail again. He was reminded suddenly of the visitor the Tempests had entertained—the major, who had claimed to have served in the British Army. Lewis, the man Dickon had suspected of killing the Tempests’ old aborigine shepherd-dear God, why had he not seen the link, the coincidence? As if from a long way away, he heard Mr. Tempest agree to his wife’s suggestion. “Certainly you must continue your journey, Luke, now that we know your destination, my boy. But you will always be welcome here at Pengallon. There will be a job for you whenever you want it.”

Luke thanked him, ashamed of the deception he must practice. He could not bring himself to look at Elizabeth, even when, the meal over, she followed her mother and Jenny Broome from the room, passing close to him, her hand lightly brushing his.

Dickon never stayed to smoke and drink port with the male members of the household; he rose, as he was wont to do, bowing his lofty head in Rick Tempest’s direction, and on impulse Luke rose, too, mumbling his excuses.

“Dickon,” he said when they were standing in the yard, out of earshot, “the Colt revolver that belonged to Major Lewis—do you still have it?”

Reading his meaning from watching the movement of his lips, Dickon scowled, as if at a memory he did not relish, and nodded.

“May I see it?” Luke asked. The nod was repeated, and Dickon led the way across the yard to the room he occupied on the far side of the main house. His room was in meticulous order, the bed neatly made, his clean clothes for the next day laid out on a chair, and those he had discarded, after the day’s work, rolled into a bundle ready to be washed. A wardrobe and a tallboy completed the sparse furnishing of the room. Dickon went without hesitation to the tallboy, pulled open a drawer, and took out an object, wrapped in an old linen kerchief, which he unrolled to reveal the handgun. Luke eyed the weapon with revulsion, for the pearl-inlaid butt still bore unmistakable signs of dried blood and a few

fragments of skin. He did not touch it, but Dickon, as if sensing his reluctance, closed his own big hand about it and lifted it high in the air, to bring the butt down with simulated savagery on the piled blankets of his bed. “Did Major Lewis do that?” Luke asked. “Was this his

gun?”

Dickon nodded solemnly. “Did you see him kill the blackfellow—what was his name?

Winyara?”

This time a regretful headshake answered his question, and Luke motioned to the gun. “All right, Dickon, you can put it away. Thank you for letting me see it.” He sighed audibly. “Damn it, I wish you could talk! I wish you could tell me what Major Lewis looked like … but you can’t, can you? There’s no way you can tell me. For all that, though, I’m sure it was Jasper Morgan.”

Dickon returned the Colt to its hiding place. He rummaged in another drawer of the tallboy, and to Luke’s surprise he returned to curl up on the bed, a sketch pad and some pieces of what appeared to be charcoal in his hand. Swiftly he started to draw, his big, blunt fingers moving with practiced skill, now blurring a line, now tracing one in sharp relief across the paper, his eyes narrowed and his concentration unwavering.

Luke waited, controlling his impatience and not supposing that, with such crude materials, Dickon would be able to create a recognizable image. He was unable to suppress a cry of mingled astonishment and admiration when, a little later, the sketch was passed to him and he found himself looking at what was unmistakably a portrait of the man he was seeking. Jasper Morgan looked back at him from the sheet of coarse white paper. The supercilious smile, the heavy mustache, the jet-black hair with its powdering of gray at the temples, the cold, dark eyes—all were there, just as he now remembered them. Dickon O’Shea might not be able to talk, but his portrait, acutely observed, talked for him, each and every detail reproduced by those big, seemingly clumsy hands, even— Luke held the paper nearer to the flickering light of the oil lamp. Yes, even the flowing cravat Morgan had affected, with its distinctive gold stickpin.

“Dickon, this is Jasper Morgan to the life!” he exclaimed excitedly. “And you were right not to trust him, because I’d stake any odds that it was he who murdered your old aborigine! He had blood on his hands when he came here—my brother’s blood, God rot him for the foul, murdering devil that he is! Captain Jasper Morgan, that’s who he is.”

Dickon eyed him reproachfully and shook his head. Taking the sketch again, he slowly scrawled beneath it, “Major Lewis.” Luke let that pass. “All right, but where did he go when he left here, Dickon, do you know?”

Dickon attempted to answer him in the odd, grunting sounds that both Rick and Edmund Tempest seemed able to interpret, but realizing that Luke could not, Dickon had to resort to the sketch pad again. In painstaking capitals he wrote “Sydney,” and then, with a few deft strokes, he drew the outline of a ship under sail, with the name Banshee beneath it.

That, Luke decided, was probably the extent of his knowledge of the self-styled major’s movements. The Banshee, if Morgan had not sold her, had almost certainly taken him to Port Phillip and the new goldfields in the state of Victoria. Indeed … Memory stirred sluggishly. The wharf manager he had questioned had said that a Major Lewis had bought the brig and that she had left Sydney—oh, dear heaven!—about the time that the Dolphin had made port, seven or eight weeks ago. His throat tightened. While he had been searching the goldfields in the Ophir and Turon area, Jasper Morgan had been on his way to Port Phillip. As always, his quarry was ahead of him, and all he could do was follow after him in the hope that, one day, they might again come face to face.