The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) (29 page)

The young American was well aware of Fiji’s reputation for being a South Sea paradise and a place where a pretty penny could be made. It was now the trading center of the South Pacific. Variously referred to as the Feejee Islands, the Friendly Islands, and the Cannibal Isles, he guessed it was the latter description that was probably the most deserving. He’d been told cannibalism was not only practised by the fierce Fijians, it was rife
—as many a white man and the occasional white woman had found to their cost. It hadn't surprised him to learn that
Fijians were constantly at war, and defeated enemies invariably ended up consigned to the cooking pot or, at best, to a lifetime of slavery.

Understanding the bloody history of Fiji had convinced Nathan his latest trading venture couldn't help but succeed. He knew these natives, like those of North America, lusted after muskets. He’d read that when the musket was introduced, not so long ago, the nature of warfare in Fiji had changed almost overnight, as it had in nearby New Zealand and, indeed, in his homeland. Centuries-old grudges between tribes were being settled once and for all as those who had muskets wreaked vengeance on those who had none; skirmishes in which a few warriors died were being replaced by full-scale battles where hundreds were slaughtered.

On reaching the well-presented, main street boardinghouse that served as his temporary home, Nathan hurried inside, anxious to take a bath and catch up on some much-needed sleep.

2

A
t dusk, Nathan emerged from his boardinghouse feeling somewhat refreshed. He looked dashing in his evening attire, which included a white muslin shirt tucked into cotton breeches. The outfit was complemented by fashionable dress boots he'd purchased in San Francisco.

Pausing outside his lodgings, Nathan surveyed his surroundings. His startling blue eyes
—no longer bloodshot—missed nothing. He noted Levuka was coming alive, as it did every evening. The bars and taverns were already full, and men were starting to queue unashamedly outside the brothels.
Levuka is at its basic best
, he mused.

Setting off along the street, he had to step around a large pig rooting about in a pile of horse manure. Nearby, roosters strutted around raising little puffs of dust as they fought over food scraps that had been tossed into the street from an eating establishment.

Nathan paused briefly to watch a fight between two sailors who were trying to bash the living daylights out of each other. They were being egged on by a small crowd of men baying for blood. There was no sign of any law enforcement. Nathan judged Levuka to rival Kororareka, a port settlement in the far north of New Zealand, as the most lawless town he'd ever visited. As was his habit, he allowed the palm of his right hand to brush the handle of his Bowie knife. The feel of it against his skin, together with the knowledge that he knew how to use it to deadly effect, never failed to bring him comfort.

The young American was heading for Levuka
’s community hall, the venue for a much-talked-about dance. He’d heard the evening would be the social occasion of the year. Never one to shy away from a good shindig, Nathan was looking forward to kicking his heels up one more time before getting down to the serious and often dangerous business of trading muskets.

Although the sun had all but vanished, it was still hot and humid, and Nathan was sweating by the time he reached the hall. Situated on a hillside, it had splendid sea views. Music and laughter came from within and a
Welcome
banner hanging above the front door served notice that Levuka and the island of Ovalau welcomed the European traders, entrepreneurs, and settlers who had begun arriving in droves.

Inside, couples danced as musicians played an Irish jig, while other guests were conversing and drinking at trestle tables set up around the outside of the dance floor. The guests, who were exclusively European, were being waited on by Fijian servants. Lighting was provided by lanterns hanging from the walls and by flickering candles resting in their holders on each tabletop.

Among those seated were Susannah Drake and her father. In her innocence, Susannah wasn’t aware that, as by far the prettiest woman in the hall, she was attracting admiring glances from all the eligible bachelors and from some of the married men as well.

The Reverend Drake, looking as forbidding as ever, was none too impressed by the attention his daughter was attracting from the menfolk. Nor was he impressed by the dancing. He considered that pastime a little too licentious. When a Fijian waitress arrived at his table with a trayful of alcoholic beverages, Drake Senior disdainfully waved her away, leaving her in no doubt
he considered drink an evil. Instead, he leaned over and grabbed two glasses of pineapple juice from an adjoining table, giving one to his daughter.

Susannah did not fully share her father
’s strict attitudes, but she loved and respected him, so tolerated his puritanical ways. She always felt out of place at such events and would have preferred an early night, but had agreed to keep her father company. He’d insisted the outing would do her good. The irony was neither wanted to be here; each was here only to please the other. 

The young Englishwoman was feeling bored. Inevitably, her thoughts strayed
—as they did at times like this—to the golden-haired rigger whose attentions she had, to her eternal regret, discouraged.

Susannah looked up just as Nathan sauntered through the hall’s front door. In spite of herself, she felt her pulse quicken. Nathan looked positively striking in his fashionable outfit. Susannah couldn’t help but observe that the handsome young man's arrival had also been noticed by most of the women in the hall.

For his part, Nathan was pleasantly surprised to find there were a good number of women at the function. He assumed, correctly, that most were wives of the men in attendance.

It took him a few moments to spot Susannah. He could see at a glance she was the most attractive woman in the hall. In fact, he deduced she was the most attractive woman he'd seen in quite some time.

As soon as she realized Nathan was staring at her, Susannah quickly turned her head, pretending she hadn't seen him.

Also observing Nathan was Eric Foley, first mate off the
Rendezvous
, the schooner that would transport the young American and his muskets to his next destination the following day. Foley, a middle-aged, rough-and-ready, bearded Irishman whom Nathan had met the previous day, was at the Drakes’ table and, to their consternation, was noisily chewing beef jerky while simultaneously drinking rum. He was draining his third glass and was already decidedly merry. Foley was in the company of a younger English crewmate whom he affectionately referred to as Lightning Rod, a highly strung simpleton who couldn’t sit still for a second and whose fresh-faced features were marred by an angry scar that ran down the side of his face.

Foley’s craggy face creased into a grin when he
caught Nathan’s eye, his grin revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. He beckoned to the younger man. “Top o’ the evenin’ to ye, Nathan Johnson,” he shouted in the strongest of Irish accents.

Nathan was pleased to observe that Foley was sharing a table with the stunning woman he
’d spotted and immediately walked over to join him. “Good evening, Mr. Foley.”

“Eric’
ll do,” Foley growled. “Glad ye could make it,” he smiled, clasping Nathan’s hand and pumping it firmly.

“Wouldn’
t have missed it for the world,” Nathan said. Although addressing the Irishman, he was looking at Susannah, who was still pretending not to have seen him. Nathan was momentarily distracted by Lightning Rod who was humming tunelessly to himself. The simpleton seemed to be in a world of his own.

Foley was genuinely pleased to have Nathan
’s company. He liked the young American and although they'd not long met, already considered him a friend. The feeling wasn’t mutual: Nathan simply viewed people like Foley as someone to use—to get what he wanted. While he was invariably agreeable, in all his travels and in his numerous business dealings he’d never returned the warmth or friendship others, like Foley, had extended to him. As a consequence, he literally hadn’t a friend in the world – only acquaintances. He recognized this, but it didn’t bother him. His eye was on what he considered a bigger prize: material wealth. Friends could come later.

Right now, Nathan was more interested in others at Foley
’s table—in particular, the beautiful redhead who at that precise moment was still looking the other way and didn’t seem even remotely aware that Nathan existed even though he was standing only a few paces from her.

It was then he noticed Drake Senior. Nathan guessed the older man was the young lady
’s father and, by the way he was glaring at him, could see he was none too happy about the interest being shown in his daughter.

Foley gestured toward the Drakes. “Nathan, these are the missionaries I told
ye about yesterday.”

Drake Senior stood and extended his hand to Nathan.

Foley added, “Reverend Drake, this is Nathan Johnson.”

The two shook hands. The missionary didn't release Nathan’s hand immediately. Nathan thought he seemed to be assessing him. He couldn't help but be impressed by the strength of the older man’s grip and instinctively increased the pressure of his own. The two stared each other down for several drawn-out moments.

Looking into Drake Senior’s piercing eyes, Nathan recalled the conversation he’d had with Foley the previous day. The Irishman had told him the Drakes would be traveling with him aboard the
Rendezvous
to Momi Bay, on the big island of Viti Levu. There, they’d take over the Wesley Methodist Mission Station and continue the mission’s work in bringing the Word of God to the natives.

Nathan considered it ironic that while the Drakes were spreading God
’s Word, he’d be supplying their flock with the white man’s weapons. He wondered if Drake Senior knew about his plans to trade muskets to the residents of Momi Bay. Judging by the disdainful look on his opposite's face, he did.

Sensing tension between the two men, Foley turned toward Susannah. “And this is the good reverend
’s lovely daughter, Susannah.”

Only now did Drake Senior release Nathan
’s hand and only now did Susannah look at the young American.

“How do you do, Mister Johnson,” Susannah said formally, extending her hand.

Taking her hand gently in his, Nathan observed she spoke with the same cultured English accent as her father. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

Susannah smiled coolly then quickly withdrew her hand.

After an awkward silence, Drake Senior asked, “What business do you have in Momi Bay, Mister Johnson?”

Before Nathan could answer, they were interrupted by Lightning Rod, who had clearly had too much to drink. The simpleton lurched over to Susannah and stooped to address her, his face only an inch from hers. Slurring his words, he asked, “Would you like to dance, m
’lady?”

Susannah turned her face away to avoid the whisky fumes Lightning Rod was breathing over her. “No, thank you,” she said politely. “I don’t know how to dance.” She wasn’t lying. Not completely anyway. Because of her strict upbringing, she had attended very few dances so lacked confidence on the dance floor.

“Please, Miss . . . just one dance,” Lightning Rod persisted.

Foley went to intervene, but Drake Senior beat him to it. The missionary leaned over and placed his hand on Lightning Rod’s shoulder, giving him a hard stare. “My daughter said no.”

Lightning Rod got the message and turned away, humming to himself again.

Foley turned to Susannah. “You’ll have to excuse poor old Rodney.” The Irishman pointed to the long, pinkish scar on his companion’s face. “He was struck by lightning and hasn’t been the same since.”

Susannah’s manner softened as she observed the scar. Realizing Lightning Rod was a simpleton and not just a boorish drunk, she smiled understandingly. Susannah suddenly became aware Nathan was staring at her and ceased smiling immediately, determined not to offer him any encouragement.

Drake Senior looked at Foley's crewmate incredulously. “Struck by lightning?
My word.”

Foley shrugged.
“Well, sir, ‘tis actually quite a common occurrence at sea. On almost every voyage, crewmen have close shaves with lightning. However, old Rodney seems to attract lightning somehow,” he chuckled. “That’s why we call him Lightning Rod!” Foley laughed heartily into his beard.

Listening in, Lightning Rod burst out laughing even though he didn’t comprehend the joke was on him. The Drakes failed to see the humor, but nevertheless smiled politely. Sensing the English pair weren
’t amused, Nathan assumed a serious expression.

Warming up to his task,
Foley decided to use his Irish charm to entertain his small audience. He quickly grabbed Lightning Rod by the arm, steered him onto the dance floor and twirled the simpleton around in a comical rendition of the waltz. “Old Rod here’s English and I'm Irish,” he shouted back at the bemused onlookers. “We should be permanently at war with each other, you know, but Rod’n me are different to most other English-Irish collaborations. Truth be known, we keep each other warm at night!” Foley winked at Nathan conspiringly.

The Drakes looked aghast when they caught on to Foley’s meaning. Noting they’d fallen for his blarney, the Irishman quickly waved one hand dismissively. “Only joking!” he assured them.

Standing to one side, Nathan surreptitiously observed Susannah and her father. The thought of traveling to Momi Bay in their company filled him with a degree of trepidation. He’d met their kind before—God’s disciples intent on spreading His Word to the heathens. Never in all his travels had he seen anyone else risk so much for so little, if anything, in return. Although he admired their courage, he viewed the Drakes and other missionaries as fools, or at best, deluded martyrs. He just hoped they wouldn’t oppose his trading plans. Twice in the recent past—once when trading muskets to Maoris in New Zealand and again when trading tomahawks to American Indians back home—missionaries had nearly sabotaged his trading activities. They’d made it very clear they viewed trading weapons as highly immoral and counter to their efforts.

As a nonbeliever, Nathan knew he would have to hold his tongue regarding Christian morals. He decided for the moment he
’d let the Drakes think he was a Christian. Fortunately, pretending to be something he wasn’t to get what he wanted was a skill he’d mastered in his boyhood. He’d long since learned if he could convince others he shared their views, dealings usually went smoothly. While he knew some would consider that deceitful, he preferred to think of it simply as good business. After all, his end goal was the attainment of riches.