Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (8 page)

A favorite new pastime among the younger men was a competition of balance. Beneath the rigging, they would climb onto the railing and see who could stand the longest without clutching the ropes to steady themselves. It was slightly dangerous and enormously amusing, and those who refused to play were very happy to place wagers on those who did. Lucius was very keen on the sport, and was often among the first to take the challenge.

It seemed as though the present good humor had not escaped a single soul on board. The initial newness of the journey had worn off, and the
Steam Rose
began to feel something like home. Reputations were born out of gossip, as everyone soon learned everyone else’s names. Friendships were forged, histories were told, resources were shared, and those who were disagreeable were quickly singled out as the victims of dastardly pranks. These, also, were activities that Lucius proudly initiated. He was soon known as an outrageously fun sort of fellow who possessed uncanny luck and an endless amount of energy, a quick temperament, and a seemingly bottomless capacity for both alcohol and entertainment. He was also damned fortunate to share a cabin with the only women on board.

            Passengers flooded the decks as the
Steam Rose
advanced upon the coast of Cuba. No one on board had ever seen anything like it. It was the stuff of fantastic illustrations, of story books and plays; but as often as they squinted and squeezed and rubbed their eyes, they were amazed to see the same thing: an exotic green land covered in exotic green vegetation, seemingly adrift upon an exotic blue sea.

As they approached the island, they entered the Bay of Havana, and were greeted by an old Spanish fortress that stood pale and silver in the daylight. Amidst its crumbling walls were twelve rusted cannons, and a new lighthouse that rose proudly before the garrison. The men stood gaping and pointing at the great stone embattlement, which they soon learned was the
Castillo Morro
of Cuba.

            The
Steam Rose
had come to deliver and receive goods and letters, as well as pick up a few straggling gold-seekers. The new arrivals were told there was no room onboard but the free space on deck, where they might sleep if they agreed to rent a mat for the outrageous amount of five dollars. It was a steep price for a bed roll that was, in fact, a flour sack.

            A certain porter did not quite know how to respond when one of the stragglers refused the offer.

            “I got my bed on my back, mate,” the traveler told him. He was a large man, tall with wide-set shoulders and a strong chest. Everything about him was dark; his hair was wavy and black, his eyes hard, his skin thick and leathery from the sun. He was not a young man, but it was difficult to judge just how old he was.

            He was the kind of man who was interested in nobody’s business but his own.

            “But sir-” the porter protested.

            The traveler waved him off.

            “G’day!”

            He walked off in search of a place to set his belongings, while the porter pursued him.

            “You cannot stay on deck for
free
,” the porter insisted. “Sack or not, I must collect the money.”

            The vagabond delivered him a hard look. The porter was a small man, and he seemed to shrink beneath the stare.

            “I paid my passage,” the larger man growled.

            “Then consider it gratuity for the inconvenience.”

            The porter held out the flour sack to make his point.

            “You’re a greedy little bugger, aren’t you?”

            “Just doing my job, sir.”

            The traveler sighed and muttered, “bloody hell”, while reaching deep into his pocket. He dropped a five-dollar coin into the porter’s hand and snatched the flour sack.

            The porter looked confused.

            “But I thought you said-” he began.

            “I said I got my bed,” the traveler interrupted. “Didn’t say I couldn’t use a pillow.”

            He took his things to a portion of the deck laden with cargo, where crates formed a nice area for sitting and he could sleep at night without being tripped over. Nearby, another passenger had formed a makeshift sunshade with his own flour sack, and he was lounging beneath it with a battered flask and an even more battered book.

            “That’s a handy contraption,” the newcomer told him, indicating the sunshade. “How much did the little man swindle from you?”

            “Two dollars. You?”

            “Krikey. I got taken for five.”

            “Bastard’s getting smart.”

            “I reckon we’re about to encounter more like him.”

            “I reckon.”

            “Name’s Brock,” the newcomer introduced himself.

            “Simon.”

            “Pleasure.”

            Simon nodded and returned to his book.

            “You going to California?” he asked, eyes still on the page.

            “Sure as hell.”

            Simon nodded again.

            “That’s the place to be, I hear tell,” he said.

            “You a Southerner?”

            “Home is Mississippi. You Australian?”

            “Was once.”

            “Your ship sink or something? What were you doing in Cuba?”

Brock smirked.

            “I was on holiday.”

            Brock settled against a barrel and gazed around the deck, studying his shipmates. He considered himself a student of physiognomy, and after some time, he figured there were two classes of men aboard this ship: ruffians and well-to-dos, men who would rob you blind and men who were just waiting to be robbed, either by the ruffians or by California itself. Most greenhorns were between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five, with fairy-tale expectations of discovering the goose who laid golden eggs, and careless as to how much money they spent to find her. The truth was the golden goose did not exist. Instead, there was a rugged, uncivilized land with smoldering summer days and frigid winter nights, territorial natives and fearsome wildlife, venomous snakes and debilitating diseases.

            Brock had spent his first twenty-six years on a ranch outside Sydney. He knew a thing or two about the rugged and uncivilized. He almost felt sorry for these other blokes, whose fingernails were still clean.

            His interest was piqued when he saw not one, but
two
women round the opposite side of the deck, and he wondered what in the world females were doing on an expedition to a man’s world. And they were not robust, hard-looking women, but soft, fragile things of beauty.

This was not an unpleasant surprise. Not unpleasant at all.

The taller of the two was lovely, with hair that was nearly black, a thin, oval face, and an ample bosom that hinted of motherhood. The other possessed a slightly more girlish figure, with barely any bosom to speak of; and yet as Brock’s eyes traveled to her face, he was enthralled. She was stunning, and by her confident gait he could see she was tremendously aware of her many beguiling effects.

            Brock noticed that Simon’s eyes were no longer trained on his book.

            “I’ll venture to guess that every man on board knows their names and who they belong to,” Brock said.

            Simon nodded.

            “The tall one is here with her preacher husband, and they got a baby. They’re English, and Protestant, I think. Here to save our souls from greed and eternal damnation.”

            “Any luck?”

            “I get saved every time I see her.”

            “And the other?”

            “Sends me right back to the fiery torment of hell.”

            Both men laughed in agreement.

            “Who is she?” Brock asked.

            “She’s an Irish princess or duchess or something of the like; or at least she makes you believe she is. She don’t belong to no one but herself, and she likes it that way. Won’t let no man talk to her.”

            “She’s here alone?”

            “Got a guardian, but he ain’t ever around. He’s the drinkin’, gamblin’ kind. She spends all her time with that English woman.”

            “And her name?”

            “Evelyn Brennan. And that angel woman is Adele Whitfield.”

            “And Miss Brennan’s guardian is…?”

            “Lucius Flynn.”

            “First class, I presume?”

            “Luck o’ the Irish.”

            Brock thought of the potato blight and cocked his head.

“They haven’t been so lucky as of late,” he replied.

Simon shrugged. “Leastways, if he ain’t making mischief on deck, you can find him in the drawing room. Word is his luck hasn’t run out just yet.”

Brock was pleased to hear of Lucius’ good fortune, for if by befriending this gambler he was able to gain access to that tantalizing female, his own luck would be in better standing than any he had possessed in Cuba. There were plenty of voluptuous beauties in Havana who were ready to throw themselves at his feet, but Brock Donnigan had an affinity for challenges, especially ones with a face like Evelyn Brennan’s.

Later that afternoon, Brock strode into the drawing room and took a look around. The room was full, the air hazy with smoke and sweat. He bumped the man nearest him.

“Flynn?” he asked.

The man nodded towards a table with five players, who were silently hunched over fans of cards. Intensity loomed over them, mingling with the haze.

Brock thanked the man and made his way through the room. A few spectators had gathered at Lucius’ table to see the outcome of the game, and Brock studied the many faces, waiting to discover which one belonged to the Irishman.

Bets were placed, stakes were raised. One man laid his cards on the table and the rest angrily shoved off, leaving the winner alone. They’d had enough of him for the afternoon, but they would be back for retribution in the evening.

Lucius gathered his winnings and buried them in his pockets. A cigar hung from his lips and a dark beer sloshed within arm’s length.

“May I order the victor another?” Brock asked.

Lucius didn’t look up, nor did he question the offer. He was always willing to accept a free drink.

“Absolutely.”

Brock shouted his order to the bartender and took a seat.

“I’ve been told you have a maddening way with luck,” he told Lucius.

“I’d like to think it’s intellect. Intellect is less fickle.”

“Then you must be a businessman as well as a gold digger.”

“Ha!” Lucius plucked the cigar from his mouth and looked at Brock for the first time. Here was a man’s man: big, bold, rugged, and confident. “I like you,” Lucius said, his eyes glittering. “What is your name?”

“Brock Donnigan.”

“Lucius Flynn. I haven’t played with you before.” He was curious now. “To what do I owe my gratitude for the drink?”

“My best mate was Irish. You remind me of him.”

“
Was?
What happened to him?”

Brock smirked.

“He was killed over a hand of poker.”

Lucius laughed and clapped Brock on the back.

“I’m sure he was! Tell me. What kind of a name is Brock?”

“My mother named me after the man she loved.”

“Named for your da, then.”

“No. My mother hated my father.”

Lucius tried to figure this out, as his brain worked slowly on account of the alcohol.

“I see,” he replied presently.

“And what kind of a name is Lucius?” Brock asked.

“My namesake was a saint,” he said proudly. “Lucius is Latin for ‘light’. My mother must have known I would be brilliant.”

“My God, you are quite the pompous champion.”

“My apologies. I am terribly elated. Victories must be celebrated, my friend… and I know just the thing! Supper is in half an hour. You must join us.”

Sometimes even Brock was amazed at how easily things came to him.

“I would be delighted.”

Lucius stood, happy to have made yet another new friend. If this Brock Donnigan had any money, perhaps he might even be influenced to lose a game or two of poker.

“Come!” Lucius demanded. “Let us find the others. I shall introduce you to our party.”

            The clouds were changing from white to gray to marbled pink, and the silver
Castillo
was now washed in gold as Evelyn and Adele stood on deck, gazing out over Havana at dusk.

            “He is such a gentleman,” Evelyn told her friend, dwelling upon the many times she had observed Adele’s husband in the past week. “I am positively green with envy. He always speaks in gentle tones, and whenever he is near, his hands are ever upon some surface of your body, be it your arms, the small of your back, or lightly caressing the tips of your fingers. I would love to find a man like him, if only I believed one existed.” She thought of Lucius and shuddered. “I fear you may have gobbled up the world’s last gentleman, Adele.”

            “He is a wonderful man,” Adele agreed, “but he is not the last of his breed. Perhaps there is another like him, and perhaps he is on this very ship!”

            Together, the women looked over their shoulders at the assembly of men on deck, in search of Stephen Whitfield’s rival. Their eyes passed over many faces before landing on one unshaven specimen with a finger up his nose, and they covered their mouths like schoolgirls and burst into laughter.

            “Grotesque!” Evelyn exclaimed. “My case is hopeless.”

            “My dear Evelyn,” Adele giggled, “the company here is not exactly refined. Let us have another look, just for fun.”

            They turned once more and were greeted with the sight of Brock and Lucius, who had emerged on the opposite side of the deck.

            Evelyn abruptly turned back to the rail, her heart leaping madly, and grabbed Adele by the arm.

            “Quick, Adele! Do not let him know we have seen him!”