Toward the Sea of Freedom (69 page)

Of course, Colin did not see Sullivan’s reasoning. On the contrary, he had foul words for the old man and his business dealings.

Kathleen turned to Jimmy Dunloe for advice, and he suggested she find Colin some work that had nothing to do with horses.

“The boy is quite skillful. He’s just been misled, the way I see it. I can hire him as a courier. He can take a few papers back and forth and take care of orders outside the bank. When he sees how people place trust in him, he’ll behave better.”

Though Kathleen was grateful to Jimmy, she didn’t believe his approach would be successful with Colin. After all, one of Ian’s strategies had been to first gain trust and then abuse it.

“Just don’t put any money in Colin’s hand,” she warned Jimmy. “I’m sorry to say it about my own son, but I don’t trust him.”

A month later, Jimmy Dunloe let Colin go. He told Colin and Kathleen it was because of the boy’s unfriendliness with the clients and because his transactions were often late. However, Jimmy revealed to Claire that small amounts of money had also begun disappearing from the register after he had hired the boy.

“But we don’t need to tell Kathleen, do we? She’s upset enough as it is,” he said.

From that day on, Dunloe stayed out of the matter. To Kathleen’s relief, however, there was still the Catholic parish and the strict but thoroughly active Father Parrish. Over the course of the following year, Kathleen needed the help of the priest again and again in order to find Colin apprenticeships—first in the general store, then with a cobbler, and finally with a builder’s merchant. In exchange for his assistance, she was forced ever deeper into the Catholic community, which neither Claire nor Peter Burton liked.

“Dear God, Kathie, you’re turning into a regular church mouse,” Claire complained as one Sunday evening Kathleen was going to Mass for the second time. “And all these requiems for Ian! How many times have you had it said? Fifty? When was the last time you talked to Peter? You need more Darwin and less Bible.”

“Father Parrish rejects Darwin,” Kathleen retorted, hoping to change the subject. She stood in front of the mirror, struggling to put her gold-blonde hair under a dark, unattractive bonnet. “And Ian, he was doubtless a sinner. Father Parrish says that for his eternal soul . . .”

Claire rolled her eyes. She was preparing to attend a concert with Jimmy Dunloe and wore a dark-green evening dress set with gems. “Kathleen, wake up. That only gives you a guilty conscience. He’s always tried to do that. Think of how he wanted to talk you into going back to Ian, full of remorse!”

Kathleen shrugged her shoulders and threw on a black scarf. It was unintentional, but the mourning colors suited her excellently. “He’s the only one who still intercedes for Colin. No one wants to hire him anymore. Without Father Parrish . . . And how does it look when I meet with an Anglican pastor? It’s bad enough Colin is ruining my reputation.”

Claire shook her head. Father Parrish had taken over Ian’s role in Kathleen’s head. He held her in a fear that grew bigger all the time, and he blamed her for what had become of Colin. In Parrish’s opinion, if she had not abandoned him, Colin would be very different.

Peter Burton was hurt by Kathleen’s behavior. And while she could not completely withdraw from him because Claire was always inviting him for visits, Kathleen was distant, and sometimes even curt, in her responses to him. When the wine he brought and the lively conversation with Jimmy and Claire started to break through her armor, Colin seemed to appear instantly, burning Kathleen and Peter with his sidelong glance.

Colin recognized his mother’s feelings for the reverend, and he did not shy away from using his knowledge as a weapon. He taunted her for it publicly after he had been let go from another apprenticeship. His last master—a friendly old hardware store owner—tried to be diplomatic when he told Kathleen, but he could not get around hinting that Colin had dipped into the cash register.

Kathleen nodded. “My son is a ne’er-do-well. You can come out and say it. I can hardly stand to hear it anymore, but I understand what you’re doing.”

“And my ma does it with a protestant,” said Colin, looking at her hatefully. “Sundays she goes to pray, sure. But on Monday the reverend comes in and out of our place—and they kiss.”

Kathleen’s reaction was instinctive. She stopped the boy and slapped him with lightning speed. Word of the whole thing would spread quickly.

Afterward, Colin slunk off while Kathleen cried to Claire and Jimmy Dunloe. “Just what am I supposed to do with him?” she sobbed. “After this, there really isn’t anyone else who will take him. And what he said about Peter, I’ve never confessed it. What will Father Parrish think of me? I have to . . .”

“You are not really going to run to this priest now and confess that you kissed Peter three or four times on the cheek, are you?” yelled Claire, horrified.

“It wasn’t just on the cheek, though, I—”

“Kathleen, whether and what you want to confess is your business alone,” Jimmy Dunloe said calmly. “But as for the boy, I’d like to give you some advice. Look, every family has its black sheep. Among the lower classes, they become criminals, and Colin is well on his way to that. But in better society there are options—and thanks to your business, you can afford them. Send the boy to England to a good college, or better yet, a military academy. I can inquire about suitable boarding schools.”

“But he doesn’t want to go to school,” Kathleen said.

Jimmy Dunloe shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. And he might prefer a military education to a purely academic one. In any case, it’s his last chance, Kathleen. He’s sliding down here.”

“But we’re Irish,” whispered Kathleen. “I can’t send my son into the British army.”

Jimmy Dunloe shrugged. “Maybe there’s even an Irish military academy, although I doubt it. But I can help you get Colin in. Only if you want me to, of course.”

Kathleen bit her lip and fought back tears. “That, that’s very nice,” she murmured. “But, the British army? He’s still Irish.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Kathleen, you can’t really turn down this offer. Precisely the British army. It has experience with thick-headed Irish.”

Kathleen looked at her angrily. But it could not be denied. If she didn’t follow Dunloe’s suggestion and accept his help, Colin would end up in jail sooner or later. It was only a question of whether that was not more honorable than the Royal Army. Michael would doubtless have thought it was. And Ian? Well, he would surely have used a post in the army as a springboard to foist a lame horse on the queen. Kathleen had to smile at that thought.

“Just sleep on it,” Dunloe advised amicably. “But I’ll tell you now: we’ll not come up with anything better.”

A few weeks later, Colin traveled to Woolwich in London to enter the Royal Military Academy. He had little interest in the education but certainly more in the city of London, and a future career in the military seemed pleasant enough to him. No Irish patriotism stood in his way. True, his father had always cursed the English, but he had also always paid them a certain respect. The English were the victors. They had won, had occupied Ireland. Their queen ruled half the world. Their might attracted Colin. He, too, wanted to rule. And if he had to put on a red uniform to do so, that was fine with him.

Chapter 2

Lizzie spent the loveliest summer of her life at the Maori gold mines with Michael. They had pitched their tent above the waterfall, and in the mornings they took in the intoxicating view over the mountains and little lakes that dotted the Otago countryside. On clear days, they could almost see to Tuapeka. Life in the gold miners’ town, Chris Timlock’s murder, and Lizzie’s revenge on Ian Coltrane now seemed very distant.

They hoarded the gold they panned in a hiding place under the rocks near the waterfall. Since no one other than the reverend and the Ngai Tahu knew their camp, there was no great risk. Besides, they knew that they would have drawn too much attention if Michael took the gold to the bank. Lizzie and Michael’s gold hoard grew with breathtaking speed, although they didn’t work nearly as hard as the gold prospectors in Tuapeka. Mostly they worked for the morning, then used the midday hour to make love and take a nap afterward. Lizzie enjoyed Michael’s caresses and obvious affection. He belonged to her now, and her alone. Kathleen he seemed to have forgotten. Though Lizzie had not made it easy on herself.

A few days after Ian Coltrane’s death, she even asked Michael if he wanted to adopt Colin Coltrane. “I have a guilty conscience because I took his father,” she said, “and he’s your Kathleen’s son anyway.”

“But not mine,” he said firmly. “Ian Coltrane got what he deserved. You don’t need to feel guilty about it. As for Colin: I’m sorry he lost his father and mother, but we need to start anew. And he’s not the son Kathleen and I dreamed of.”

Lizzie was happy about this decision, but she asked Peter Burton what had happened to the boy. The reverend told her no more than that Colin had been taken in by a family in Dunedin. He was of the opinion that Lizzie and Michael shouldn’t be burdened with the memory of Ian Coltrane. Michael seemed to share this opinion. Neither of the men talked about the Coltranes when Peter visited Lizzie and Michael at their prospect, which he did every few weeks. He viewed Lizzie as his parishioner and worried about the state of her soul.

Lizzie, however, now devoted considerably more of her time to the Maori spirits than to Christian prayer. She upheld the tradition of asking the earth for forgiveness before each time she took gold, and she thanked Papa and Rangi for her happiness in Michael’s arms. Michael played along willingly. Since his recollection of St. Wendelin and intercession for the sheep shearing, Michael had gotten used to the Maori ways.

Yet there were other things that clouded his love for Lizzie—especially as their gold reserve grew and Lizzie began to mention leaving the prospect. They now had almost enough gold to afford a grand farm in the plains, as well as a business for Ann Timlock, who would soon be on her way to New Zealand with her children. Chris’s wife would want to at least see his grave. Beyond that, she could find greater opportunities for her children in this new country, perhaps settling in Dunedin and opening a shop.

Michael would have liked to take more gold, but Lizzie reminded him about not being greedy and not breaking their pact with the Maori. He could have given up the mine. What he found difficult, though, was his position in relation to Lizzie. He wanted to marry her; he loved her without a doubt. But had this relationship really been his idea?

He was a man. In Ireland he had been respected, and no doubt people still spoke there about his raid on Trevallion’s grain. Kathleen had worshiped him, and if they had gone to America, he would have made his fortune. But since he had met Lizzie, it seemed to him, he merely danced to her tune.

She had helped him, of course. First on the ship and then with his escape, for which he would be eternally grateful. Then, years later, with the whiskey distillery. It had brought in considerably more money than sheep shearing. And now the prospects. He had worked hard, had worked with Chris like a madman. But without much success—until Lizzie took charge.

Everyone seemed to look at Michael as if he were her accessory. The Maori hardly noticed him, and even the reverend regarded him only peripherally when he and Lizzie talked about the Bible, spirits, and demons. Michael could get over the reverend. It was the matter of the Maori that aggravated him.

Lizzie visited their
marae
often and insisted that Michael accompany her. The tribe had to get to know him and accept him, she claimed, but Michael had the feeling they were mocking him. The men invited him over to their fire and were friendly, but they barely even tried their meager English out on him. In their songs and stories, Michael often thought he recognized parodies of the miners, traders, and lovers among the
pakeha
, and felt himself targeted. The Maori treated him obligingly. It was not like before with Tane’s tribe, where Michael’s knowledge regarding sheep husbandry and dog training were respected. Here, he was simply Lizzie’s companion.

The Maori treated Lizzie with reverence. Michael had no idea whether or how they knew of her involvement in Ian Coltrane’s death, but their
tohunga
, Hainga, did not tire of praising Lizzie’s exertions for the land of the Ngai Tahu.

When Michael once asked about it in broken Maori, they told him that, on that day, Hainga had heard Lizzie’s
karanga
—the cry as a summons to the gods. Michael could not imagine that. The Maori camp was several miles from the waterfall.

In any case, Lizzie had acquired significant
mana
and was treated accordingly. Men and women worked for her favor, they were happy when she played with the tribe’s children, and the gifts she had once brought from Tuapeka—the blankets and cooking utensils—were handled with respect, as if set with gold and diamonds. Even the chieftain addressed Lizzie. He turned to her for advice regarding negotiations with the
pakeha
. Lizzie gathered even more
mana
by passing on his questions to the reverend, who then discussed them with a lawyer in Tuapeka.

For Michael, worst of all was when a friendly
hapu
, another family grouping of the Ngai Tahu, visited the tribe on the Tuapeka River. Then the tribe asked Lizzie—and her man, of course—to come to the festival. Michael felt that they wanted to lead the two
pakeha
around like trained poodles.

This again was such a day.

“Do I really need to come?” Michael asked grumpily as Lizzie told him about the invitation.

With visible pleasure, Lizzie was wrapping herself in Maori festival clothing, which the women of the tribe had given her. In winter,
pakeha
clothing suited the climate better, but for summer dances, the native women wore skirts of hardened flax leaves, which generated a strange rustling when they moved. Along with that went minimal woven upper body coverings in tribal patterns.