Holly stirred her tea, watching her husband closely. “What have you and young McQuade been up to, Robert? The town’s abuzz with rumor.”
He put his own cup aside. “Remember when you arrived here I told you how one day we might be able to live elsewhere, away from this noise and debauchery? I believe Angus has found such a place. A wonderful harbor nowhere near the Bay of Islands, on the western shore, yet not so far that business would suffer.”
“Won’t the whalers follow to the new port?”
“A few may, but such men are creatures of habit. If the grog shops and gambling dens stay here in Kororareka, so will those who frequent them. We’ll be selective in the businesses we’ll allow in the new community.” He leaned forward over the table, his expression eager.
“Holly, the land through which Angus and I traveled is gentle and rolling, suitable not only for the raising of sheep and cattle but for crops. I believe, I’ve always believed, that the real future of this land lies not in serving as a waystop for nomadic sailors but in providing food for a hungry world. Well, for a hungry New South Wales, anyway. Being on the western shore the new town will reduce sailing time between here and Australia by several days at the least.”
She reached out and took his hands in hers. “It sounds wonderful, Robert. Will we be able to buy land there?”
“Angus insists that we can. I’ll build you a proper home, Holly. A real house, of dressed stone and milled lumber!” In his mind’s eye the grand structure stood finished and shining, ready to greet them. “As fine as anything in England. You’ll have servants and live as a proper lady.”
She rose from her chair, walked around the table and put her arms around him. He leaned back against the softness of her. “I knew I was doing the right thing, coming out from England after you. I knew it.”
“And I—I’m glad you came,” he told her softly. He gently disengaged himself, rising. “Now I must see to business. It’s time to broach the suggestion to the others. Not even gouty old Abelmare will hesitate once he’s set eyes on that harbor! Someday it will be a fine city, Holly. Angus is going to propose we call it Auckland.”
“I’ve got to tell Christopher. He’ll be pleased. He doesn’t like this place.”
Nor do I, really, thought Coffin as he watched her depart. Oh, Kororareka’s been good to me. I’ve the beginnings of a fine business here, something that would have been impossible to accomplish in England.
He walked outside and leaned on the porch railing, gazing down at the town. Sunset was near. There was a fire blazing somewhere, he could see the smoke. Yells and screams filled the air, floating up to him like the howls of the damned on the day before entering Hades. Shots rang out fitfully, punctuating the screams.
The Beach. Wildest street in the whole Pacific basin. Men sinning on the carcassses of dead leviathans. Let it get wild tonight. We have grander plans to implement.
Real money would be a problem at first, he knew. Credit would be required for moving homes and businesses. The Bank of England was far from convinced that the fledgling colony at the end of the world with the notorious reputation had a bankable future. He’d be better off than most, thanks to his wife’s foresight and courage. They’d be able to begin anew without credit.
From then on success would be nothing more than a matter of hard work. He was used to that.
He’d have to keep an eye on Tobias Hull. Despite the man’s crudity and coarseness he among all the other merchants excepting Angus McQuade had an eye for the future. If given half a chance he’d gladly swallow them all, most especially Coffin House.
All this Robert Coffin could foresee and plan for. Only one matter was not so easily considered. He stood there listening to the shouts and laughter welling up out of The Beach, staring out across the sea of masts and the fiery cauldrons that turned the waters of the bay the color of blood. Only one thing he couldn’t plan for.
Mary Kinnegad was still there, haunting his dreams when he let her into his sleep, disturbing his waking thoughts, unsettling his body. Damn the woman! He’d broken with her but still could not squeeze her out of his memory. She clung to his thoughts and dreams, holding his heart in a vise. He could sleep, but he could not keep himself from dreaming.
And why was Tuhoto there so often, expressionless, sorrowful, always staring at him reprovingly?
He rubbed tiredly at his forehead. An exhausting week it had been and he needed rest. Holly would help. She would understand and sympathize and help him to forget. He had to forget.
How the Devil could a man plan his future with ghosts clawing at his back?
BOOK TWO
1845
1
“Come on then, Christopher! Put some back into it. She’s not that heavy.”
The boy strained at the large packing crate, struggling to manhandle it up the boarding ramp. The past six years had seen him grow up but not out. A spindly toothpick of a lad, all gangly arms and legs, topped off by a knot of undisciplined blonde hair. He looked like an ambling cornstalk.
At his father’s, urging he continued the uneven battle until his breath began to come in long, ragged wheezes. Coffin could hear the rasp in the child’s throat.
“All right, son, that’s enough. You gave ’er your best.”
Gratefully the boy let go of the crate, leaning on it for support. Coffin watched him closely until his breathing had stabilized. For an instant he worried he might have pushed too hard and he feared another of the boy’s coughing spells.
At first they’d believed the spells were due to some persistent disease. Whooping cough, or endemic colic, or even worse. The doctors had assured them Christopher wasn’t ill. Merely chronically feeble. They had no pills, no nostrums for that. It was not something they could cure, but there was the possibility the boy might outgrow it. That was why Coffin took every opportunity to expose Christopher to manual labor. He wouldn’t grow stronger sitting home toying with the pianoforte Holly had bought for him.
As for Christopher himself, he didn’t like heavy work, but then what child of twelve did? Coffin walked over to give the boy a hearty well-done clap on the back before lifting the packing crate easily in one hand and carrying it the rest of the way up the loading ramp.
“Mornin’ to you, sor.” Markham had left his duties to join them.
“Good to see you, Captain.” Coffin’s gaze swept approvingly across the deck. Everything in its place: loose ropes properly coiled, teak polished, brass fittings throwing back the sun. The Holly was a fine ship and Silas Markham handled her well.
She was larger and more modern than the sturdy old Resolute, which still plied its trade between North and South Island. The Holly was bound elsewhere. Not for her prosaic interisland shipments of pine and mutton. Already Coffin had sent her across the Tasman Sea to New South Wales. Next year, God willing, Markham would guide her to Shanghai for tea and porcelain. Aye, now that would be a cargo that’d raise some eyebrows along the Auckland quays!
One day he’d have a bigger ship still, one that would make the run all the way round the Cape of England, a vessel fast enough to compete with the clippers themselves. Markham would command her in turn. Already he’d done his former master proud, but that was no surprise. Coffin had always known that his old First Mate would make a fine Captain some day. Markham had repaid him for his confidence as such men always did, with loyalty and hard work.
He gestured with a nod of his head. “You know my son, Christopher?”
“That I do, sor.” He extended a gnarled hand which Christopher Coffin shook as firmly as he could. The boy spent a great deal of time at the docks. He was fascinated by ships and the sea and enjoyed the company of sailors far more than that of boys his own age. The latter taunted and teased him, while the old seamen regaled him with tales of wondrous lands and exotic peoples.
Coffin was all for sending the boy to sea under Markham’s supervision, but Holly wouldn’t hear of it. Take him away from civilization? Away from his doctors? What
if he has one of his spells out in the middle of the ocean? There’d be no one to treat him but clumsy sailors and the ship’s carpenter, who doubled as barber and part-time surgeon.
You couldn’t keep the boy in a cage and expect him to grow, Coffin had argued. Besides, he likes the sea. Yes, she replied, but would the sea like him?
Only one way to find out, he’d snapped back.
“No,” she’d said with finality. “I will not hear of it, Robert. Maybe someday if we make that trip back to England you’re always promising me he can go with us. We can bring along Dr. Flavia to watch over him.”
“A nursemaid!”
“Well then, maybe when he’s a little stronger.”
“Stronger? Holly, the boy’s eleven. When I was eleven I.…”
“I don’t want to hear what you were doing when you were eleven, Robert. You’re different. Christopher isn’t well. Dr. Flavia says.…”
Coffin had turned away in disgust. “Flavia says, Flavia says! That quack!”
“He’s the best physician in Auckland.”
“I know, and that’s not saying much.” He’d turned back to plead with her. “Let the boy go, Holly. He’ll manage. You’ll see. He’ll come back stronger and healthier than when he left. The sea does that to a man.”
“Or he may not come back at all. I’ve seen the sea do that to men too. Besides which he’s not a man. Not yet. He’s still a boy, an unwell one, and it’s too much of a chance.” She’d smiled then and put her arms around his neck. “When he’s older, then we’ll talk of this again.”
“Even Flavia says the sea air might do the boy some good.”
“I know, but he’s also said Christopher might not be able to stand the rigors of an ocean voyage. He wants to stay near the boy so he can be of assistance in any emergency.”
“Aye, and so he can continue to dispense his pills and notions and bills. Christopher supports Flavia, not the other way ’round.”
“Robert! How can you think of money where your only son is concerned?”
“I can always think of money,” he’d replied, but it was a feeble riposte and he knew as much when he voiced it. Holly had retreated in a huff. Later on he’d managed an apology in his shambling, gruff way, but the matter was far from settled.
So every chance he had, which wasn’t often given the press of business that seemed to fall heavier on him day by day, he took the boy down to the harbor. He let him roam the decks of whatever ship was at hand, watching with delight as Christopher studied the rigging and sails and asked question after question of the sailors as they worked. One of these days Holly would weaken and let him put the boy to sea, and when he finally went Christopher wouldn’t be going blind. The child was bright and quick of mind. What he learned on these quayside expeditions would stay with him always.
Not only would the sea be good for him but he’d be good for the ship. No deadweight would Christopher Coffin be. He’d make a fine cabin boy. Markham would watch over him without coddling him. Exceedingly smart, his schoolmaster had called him. While Coffin wasn’t much for books himself, he valued what they contained and respected those who could master their contents.
Take Elias Goldman, for example. Coffin House wouldn’t have done near as well these past years without Goldman there to handle the ledgers, always peering over Coffin’s shoulder, making quiet, unobtrusive suggestions about trades and sales, whispering whenever he thought something overpriced or undervalued. There were many times when it was Goldman who provided the edge over men like John Halworthy or Angus McQuade. Book learning was vital to any business’s continued success.
He scanned the sky with a practiced eye. No rain today. His gaze roved over the busy waterfront. The Holly wasn’t the only new ship tied up at the docks. Men were active everywhere: rolling kegs and vats on and off wagons, shuffling goods in and out of warehouses, checking lists and shouting orders and obscenities. Each week brought new immigrants to the growing city, a city that the old whaling town on the opposite coast could never have imagined. He and McQuade and the others had been right. Provide the proper environment and decent opportunity and people would settle this land in droves, even if it did lie at the end of the Earth.
It still amused him to watch the masters of Auckland’s churches do battle for the right to save Maori souls. Theological argument had penetrated the mountains and countryside, converting the curious natives with ponderous regularity. Weslyan, Anglican and Catholic speakers were much in demand in the various fortified pas. His old debating colleague Father Methune presided over the second largest congregation in the city. Auckland’s population could be counted in the thousands. Everything had happened as he and Angus had hoped.
He chatted awhile longer with Markham before letting the Captain leave to attend to his business. It was time to consider purchasing a third ship. By now shipwrights and carpenters aplenty called Auckland home, but there was nothing like a proper shipyard. He would have to buy in England. Markham couldn’t go: he was too valuable on the Australia run to lose for a year or more. It would have to be someone else. Better all around if Coffin House had a full-time London agent to look after its business there. Some day soon he’d have to find someone to take up the English mantle.
A small voice at his sleeve, an anxious voice in his ear. “Father, Father! What ship is that?”
Coffin turned in the direction his son was pointing and promptly lost his smile. The three-masted square-rigger just coming into view was half again as large as the proud Holly. She was no transpacific clipper, but her mainmast towered above that of any vessel lying at anchor.
“The Kensington.” He snapped it out, a dog bark.
“It’s bigger than our ship.” Christopher was leaning over the railing.
“Aye, but one day soon I’ll have a bigger ship still, and don’t forget that we own two.”
“Yes, that’s right, we do, don’t we?” The boy dropped off the rail, his interest shifting as abruptly and unexpectedly as a compass north of the arctic circle. “Can I go now, Father? I’m tired and I still want to go to the warehouse.” When he smiled he looked younger still, Coffin thought. “Mr. Goldman said he’d let me help him count today.”
“You sure you’re done with this, boy?”
Christopher nodded vigorously. “I’ve seen everything here, Father.”
“All right then. Go ahead. Mind you stay out of Mr. Goldman’s way if he tells you to.”
“I will. Thanks, Father!”
The boy sped down the ramp, vanished into the quayside crowd. Maybe he couldn’t pull his weight, Coffin mused, but he was fleet afoot. He could outrun anyone his own age and many of the older boys, but only over a short distance. Beyond a quarter-mile he broke down in coughing fits, like a fireplace whose flue had been abruptly slammed shut.
His son had been given the wrong set of lungs. Well, they’d damn well change that. Coffin would work it out of the boy no matter what Holly said. Hard work never hurt anyone, and Christopher was willing enough—when Coffin could slip him away from his mother. Bad enough she insisted on having him tutored privately. Public school would have been good for him.
Not for the first time Coffin realized how much he liked his son. If Coffin had insisted, the boy would have fought the packing crate until he’d collapsed. He would have to be brought along carefully, but bring him along Coffin would.
The Kensington’s crew was hastily reefing her sails as she steered for Hull’s dock. Hull had bought her in Sydney, waving too much money beneath her master’s nose for him to sail her all the way back to Portsmouth. She was bigger than necessary for the interisland trade, which indicated that Hull intended her to compete directly with the Holly on the Australia run. No matter. Now there was more than enough business to keep two such vessels gainfully occupied. And if there wasn’t, the Holly would just have to sail faster and bring back better goods. He couldn’t match the Kensington’s capacity but that didn’t mean he couldn’t undersell her, and in Markham he had th
e best Captain in the South Pacific.
None of which marred the tall ship’s stature. She was impressive, and it galled Coffin that she belonged to Tobias Hull. Calm down, he ordered himself. Coffin House couldn’t always be best, biggest, first. Not every time.
Besides, Hull couldn’t seem to sever his emotional attachment to the sea. Inland he wasn’t expanding nearly as fast as Coffin House. Too much of his business was concentrated in shipping.
Coffin immediately felt better. Let Hull boast of the biggest ship, then. There were sheep and cattle to be bred, corn to be raised, Maori trade to develop. Especially Maori trade, for despite strenuous efforts the growing colony was still dependent on the natives for the bulk of its food supplies. It was a tie that cut both ways, for the Maoris had come to look on the settlers as a source of manufactured goods they now regarded as staples instead of luxuries.
Six years of more or less continual peace had enabled that commerce to prosper. There was no reason why it shouldn’t last for six decades. Of all the native peoples Coffin had heard or read about the Maori took the most readily to business. Rational people that they were, they saw that trade with the settlers was far more profitable in the long run than theft or war.
His relationship with the Maori, especially with the ariki Te Ohine, was his greatest advantage over Hull. Like so many in the European community his old enemy still tended to regard the natives as primitive and backward. Coffin knew better.
Te Ohine was much impressed with the white man’s big pa and in particular with Coffin’s new house. Occasionally he would pay a visit with Rui or one of his lesser wives to marvel at the china and silver, the big grandfather clock or the running water in the kitchen. Coffin’s newly rich neighbors wouldn’t think of having a native inside their homes. It pleased Coffin to ignore their muttered comments and whispers while escorting Te Ohine through the many rooms.
Holly’s feelings wavered between those of her husband and those of her neighbors, but she tolerated her husband’s guests, smiling at them while tagging behind like a nervous hen, chiding curious little girls like the frenetic Merita and mischievous Akini as they examined every drawer and utensil in her kitchen.
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