The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) (18 page)

30

Sydney Town, 1841

T
hree weeks had passed since Jack had taken up residence at the Todd’s boarding house, and he was no closer to stowing away aboard a ship. He could feel himself slipping into a kind of lethargy. The Cockney realized that every passing day was a day closer to being captured, but he couldn’t help himself: his employer and landlady Joan Todd was like a drug, and he remained addicted to her.

The sexy Welshwoman was addicted to him, too. She’d taken to encouraging her husband to drink just so he was out of the way and she was free to indulge herself with her latest
lover. Just as she satisfied Jack in every way, he satisfied her. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that resulted in them going at it like rabbits at every opportunity.

So taken was she with Jack, the normally discreet Joan had thrown discretion to the wind. After the first week, everyone in the boarding house except Jim Todd knew she and Jack were an item; after the second week, even Jim knew. It was an arrangement that suited him: the henpecking had stopped and he was allowed to drink as much and as often as he liked. All he needed to do was turn a blind eye to his wife’s shenanigans. He was more than happy to do that. It took the pressure off him.

Joan had suspected her young lover was an escaped convict. She’d seen the welts left by the flogger’s whip on his back, and he’d mentioned things that alluded to his recent past, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

As far as
Jack was concerned, his stocks in life had risen. He was being paid well for the little work he did, and he had a job with great perks; he ate like a king and shagged like a horny goat as often as he liked.

He sensed it was too good to last. And as always, his sixth sense was spot on.

It happened on a Sunday – his day off. Jack was drinking with the same laborers who had befriended him when he dined at a local eatery three weeks earlier. Sunday afternoon drinking sessions at the same eatery were fast becoming a regular engagement for the tight group, and it was something Jack looked forward to.

On this particular Sunday, an off duty soldier noticed Jack. There was something about the Cockney that set him apart from his companions. The soldier, who had been stationed in the colony long enough to recognize convicts by the way they looked and carried themselves, suspected Jack was an escapee.

Jack became aware of the other’s interest in him before the soldier could act on his instincts. Just as the soldier had developed an instinct about convicts so, too, had Jack about soldiers. 

The soldier caught Jack’s eye. Their eyes locked and they stared at each other. It was as though time stood still.

Jack was oblivious to the conversation swirling around him even though some of his companions’ comments were directed at him. Beneath his casual exterior, he was tense, like a sprinter at the start line, and ready to flee. Jack was watching the soldier’s right hand. He knew that was the hand that would reach for the pistol he’d spotted tucked into the soldier’s belt.

As soon as the soldier reached for his pistol, Jack sprang to his feet and rushed for the door.

“Stop!” the soldier shouted. He’d already drawn his pistol and was aiming it at Jack. Unfortunately for him, other patrons were in the firing line. Before he had a clear shot, Jack had disappeared out the door. The soldier gave chase. He was joined by several other off duty soldiers.

In the few seconds that elapsed between the time he knew he was under suspicion to the time he fled, Jack had mapped out an escape route in his mind. The route took him away from the boarding house that had served as his refuge these past few weeks and down narrow alleys that ran between shops and factories in Sydney Town’s commercial district.

The circumstances in which he now found himself reminded him of a similar escapade in London four years earlier when Henry Sullivan, his employer at the time, had chased after him with a pistol after he’d stolen some hemp.
That was the start of me troubles
, he reminded himself. The memory of how that escapade turned out lent speed to his feet, which flew across the ground as he sought to distance himself from his pursuers.

Jack’s start was too great for the soldiers to catch him, and they soon gave up the chase. Even so, the escapee waited until after dark before returning to the boarding house and to the loving arms of the lady of the house.

Before Jack stepped inside the front door, he paused on the verandah to re-evaluate his current situation. He realized he hadn’t given his departure from Sydney Town the priority he should have, and he chastised himself for putting his sexual desires ahead of escape.
That’s called thinking with yer cock instead of yer brain you stupid bastard!
There was no denying he’d gotten his priorities wrong. He determined that he’d rectify that.

Joan sensed something w
as wrong as soon as she saw her young lover. “What’s troubling ye?” she asked.

Jack assumed his usual cheerful expression. “Not a thing,” he lied. “All’s well.” He hurried to his room before she had time to further question him. He’d no sooner entered his room
and stretched out on his bed than there was a knock at his door.

“It’s me,” the familiar voice whispered.

Jack hesitated to open the door, but finally relented. He rolled off the bed and opened the door. Joan entered without waiting to be asked and motioned to him to close the door after her. The Cockney obliged, not sure what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Joan was wearing a lightweight house coat she used for when she was on dusting duties. She quickly unbuttoned it to revea
l she wore nothing underneath.

Now Jack
knew what was coming. What he didn’t know was how horny Joan was feeling. It had been two days since she’d had him and she needed him badly.

Jack didn’t get a chance to object. Not that he would have.

Joan pushed him back on the bed and ripped his trousers off. She then adopted her favorite position, mounting him and riding him. Jack enjoyed the experience as always. But it was different this time. This time, he knew it would be their last time together. Tomorrow he’d be leaving Sydney Town one way or the other.

#

Jack was down at the docks at dawn next day. He was pleased to see there wasn’t a Red Coat in sight.
Too early for them lazy bastards
. His gaze rested on
Besieged
, a two-masted schooner berthed nearby. On the wharf, unemployed men of all ages were lining up, hoping to find work loading or unloading her. Jack wandered over to investigate.

A prospective worker suggested he join the queue. Jack did so and within minutes he and his companion were among the thirty or so men hired for the day by the schooner’s first mate. The work was hard
compared to what he’d been doing these past three weeks, but nothing after the rigors of Parramatta. Jack’s job was to help carry boxes of supplies up the gangplank and load them in
Besieged’s
hold. He learned the supplies were needed for the schooner’s voyage to Fiji and she was scheduled to depart that night.

On his first visit to the schooner’s hold,
Jack noticed an open door leading to the storeroom. Peering inside, he saw the unoccupied storeroom offered a myriad of hiding places for a stowaway.

#

Later that morning, after delivering yet another box to the hold, Jack picked his moment and slipped unnoticed into the storeroom. None too soon, he decided, as there were now a few Red Coats arriving at the docks to check workers’ identities.

Making
his way to the rear of the cavernous storeroom, he spied a row of large tea chests. He pushed against each one until he found one that was almost empty. Forcing open its lid, he climbed into it and pulled the lid down tight above him.

Inside the tea chest, the smell of tea was almost overpowering, but the smell of freedom was even stronger. Jack held his nose and closed his eyes. He was keen to catch up on some sleep.
Ahead of him was a two thousand-mile voyage east to Fiji – a three-week journey all going well.

He dozed off like that, still holding his nose, dr
eaming of tropical climes, swaying palm trees and sensual Fijian women.

That night, on schedule,
Besieged
set sail for Fiji. Her master, a tough Welshman by the name of Harold Jones, didn’t realize it but, in addition to his thirty-strong crew, he had a non-paying passenger on board.

31

Makah Nation
, West Coast, North America, 1842

N
athan had almost run himself into the ground when, cresting a rise, he caught a glimpse of Whale Bay. His elation was tempered by the fact he couldn’t see the two-masted schooner he was hoping would be waiting to deliver him back to civilization.
Please let her be there!
He forced himself to keep moving forward.

At least two hours had passed since he’d sighted his pursuers, and he was now running on memory. His lungs felt as though they were on fire and so weary was he, he’d been reduced to a slow jog.

The forest track Nathan followed ended abruptly at the top of a high cliff. If he hadn’t pulled up immediately, he’d have plunged to his death onto the rocks nearly a hundred feet below.

Nathan was too exhausted even to look up. He stood there, bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air. When he did look up, he saw her: the two-masted schooner
that represented his one and only chance for freedom – not to mention his survival. She was so close to shore, he could clearly make out the facial features of the crewmembers on deck. He could even read the vessel’s name plate on her bow. It read:
Spirit of the Sea
.

Nathan’s weariness fell away in that instant. It was replaced by a feeling of elation.
I’ve done it!
Then he remembered he wasn’t home yet.

Some sixth sense made him look back along the cliff-top. He started when he saw two musket-bearing Makah braves running toward him. They were so close he could recognize
them. One was Tatoosh. More braves appeared behind the pair. Tatoosh had already seen Nathan and was now sprinting toward him.

Nathan took off in the opposite direction along the c
liff-top. He discarded his tomahawk as he ran.

The track he followed was leading him away from the
Spirit of the Sea
. Desperate to descend the cliff and swim out to the schooner, he looked frantically for a path he could follow to the water’s edge.

Finally, he spotted a path. It appeared to end some twenty or thirty feet above the sea, but it would have to do. He began
scrambling down it.

Musket shots boomed out behind him. His pursuers were firing
as they ran. The shots were wayward, but Nathan felt the wind of one musket ball as it flew past his ear.

The crewmembers aboard the schooner thought they were under attack. They
began arming themselves and taking up defensive positions on deck.

Nathan could hear his pursuers now. They were shouting to each other as they ran. He thought he recognized Tatoosh’s voice, but couldn’t be sure.

Descending the cliff-face required caution. One slip would mean death. Unfortunately for him, the danger of being shot outweighed the need for a cautious descent, so he was forced to throw caution to the wind and make haste while he still could.

As he’d feared, t
he path he followed ended a good twenty feet from the base of the cliff. Nathan judged he could just clear the rocks at the bottom if he jumped out far enough.
Here goes
. He leapt out as far as he could and safely cleared the rocks.

Underwater, he swam hard
to try to distance himself from the cliff-face and his pursuers. On the surface several feet above him, he could clearly see musket balls striking the water. As the water’s density slowed their progress, the spent balls sank slowly to the seabed. One was so close he could have reached out and grabbed it as it sank.

On the cliff-face, Tatoosh was the only one among the braves not firing his musket. He was waiting for the White-Eye’s head to surface. Finally, he saw Nathan. He raised his musket and took aim.

Nathan was swimming frantically toward the schooner, which was some fifty yards beyond him. However, Tatoosh had him firmly in his sights. He knew at that moment it was over for his blood brother: Nathan Johnson would never make it to the schooner.

On either side of the young chief, his fellow braves were firing their muskets as fast as they could prime their weapons and shoot. The water around Nathan was being whipped up as musket balls narrowly missed their target.

Tatoosh released his breath and increased the pressure on his trigger finger. Just before he squeezed the trigger he hesitated then lowered his musket and held up his hand. “Stop!” he shouted.

The
braves looked at their chief strangely.

Tatoosh avoided looking at his braves. The young chief couldn’t explain to t
hem why he’d ordered them to cease shooting. He couldn’t even explain it to himself.

In the water, Nathan was now only yards from
Spirit of the Sea
. He looked up and saw several crewmembers were leaning over the near rail, their weapons trained on him.

Nathan stopped swimming and began treading water. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted in English. “I’m American!”
The words sounded strange to his ears. They were the first he’d spoken in his own tongue – to anyone other than himself at least – in years.

On board the schooner, the crewmen looked at each other, surprised that the brave they were looking at was in fact a white American. Reacting quickly,
they threw a rope ladder over the side. Nathan grabbed it and began climbing. Half way up, he had to stop to catch his breath. He glanced behind him and saw Tatoosh and the other braves looking straight at him. Even though he was within musket range, they’d inexplicably stopped shooting.

Nathan and Tatoosh locked eyes for several long moments. They nodded res
pectfully to each other. The young chief then said something to his braves and they began climbing back up the cliff.

Using the last of his strength
, Nathan resumed climbing. On reaching the schooner’s rail, willing hands grabbed him and hauled him aboard. Nathan landed in a heap on the deck. He lay there, gasping, as he tried to recover his breath.

Gradually, the realization set in he was free. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
In fact, he was too spent to do either.

Only now did he
take note of his rescuers. They hovered around him, looking down at the strange white man who, apart from his startling blue eyes, resembled a Northwest native.

The schooner’s master, a bearded New Yorker, appeared and barked orders at his men. Two sailors immediately assisted Nathan to his feet.

No-one seemed to know what to say for several drawn out moments. Finally, the captain extended his hand and said, “Captain Dean Anders, master of the Spirit of the Sea.”

Nathan accepted the other’s hand. He was so overcome by the touch of another European, he di
dn’t want to let go. “Ordinary Seaman Nathan Johnson,” he stammered, “crewman aboard the ill-fated vessel Intrepid.”

Nathan could tell by the captain’s reaction he’d heard of
Intrepid
. Only later would he learn the vessel’s wreckage had never been found and there’d been no other survivors. Nathan suddenly felt faint and began swaying on his feet.

“Get Mister Johnson to Doc Sanderson
below deck,” the captain snapped at a black crewman. “And see he gets a change of clothes and a good feed.”

“Yes
sir,” the crewman said. He led Nathan away by the arm.

Just before disappearing below
deck, Nathan took one last look back at the nearby shoreline. There was no sign of the Makah braves. It was almost as if they’d never been there.

#

That night, lying on a hammock a crewman had strung up for him in the schooner’s storeroom, Nathan was so excited he couldn’t get to sleep.
I made it!
Feelings of ecstasy, joy, relief and much more coursed through him. At the same time, he experienced feelings of regret.

Trying to make sense of his feelings, the young Philadelphian realized
he was regretful that he’d never see Tatoosh again.
If only the situation had been different
. He was aware if circumstances and cultural differences hadn’t come between the young chief and himself, they’d have remained friends for life. Of that he had no doubt.

There was much he admired
and liked about Tatoosh, but that’s where his feelings for the Makah and the other natives of the Northwest ended. His firsthand experience of the Northwest peoples – dating back to his enslavement by the Makah four years earlier – had reinforced his growing conviction that European civilization really was superior to theirs.

As the day’
s dramatic events caught up with him, and Nathan succumbed to sleep, his final thought was that European civilization was in fact superior to all others. It was a mantra – a belief – that would determine how he’d relate to people of other races in the years ahead.