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

by Lance Morcan

  The blood brothers had become close – as close as any two brothers. Consequently, Nathan found he was being included in tribal activities normally off-limits to any Makah not of noble heritage. It was both a privilege and a curse. At times like this, when he was about to go on a raid, he considered it a curse and for perhaps the hundredth time he asked himself, Why me? He guessed it was something to do with the fact he was now a crack marksman – the best in the tribe beyond any shadow of a doubt.

  Elswa raised his musket above his head. “The heads of our enemies will hang from our totem poles before this day is ended!”

  As one, Nathan and the others raised their weapons above their heads and repeated Elswa’s promise. It was a promise they made before every raid.

  Without another word, Elswa led his braves at a brisk trot through the snow to the nearby riverbank where they launched several canoes. Nathan joined the chief and his son in the lead canoe.

  As they paddled into the darkness, twenty or more women emerged from the lodges to wave their men off. Braving the cold, the women sang a haunting Makah song. The tribe’s shaman, an ancient, wizened character, appeared seemingly from nowhere, chanting and offering up prayers to the war spirits.

  On the river, the singing and chanting faded as the paddlers put distance between themselves and the village.

  Paddling through the night, feeling cold and more than a little fearful, Nathan questioned yet again how he, a white man, had ended up in this predicament. Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d done something wrong in a past life.

  #

  Dawn was approaching when the raiders reached their destination. Paddling quietly and in unison, they closed with the near bank and tied their canoes to the overhanging branches of trees. Makah scouts quickly determined the exact whereabouts of the Quileutes and reported their enemies were sleeping soundly.

  The Makah split into two groups. Elswa led one group along the river bank toward the Quileute encampment while Tatoosh led the other group, whose number included Nathan, in a wide circle that would bring them around behind the encampment. The aim was to attack their enemies from two sides.

  Their first task was to locate any Quileute lookouts who may have been posted. Two were located. The first one was asleep, and a Makah scout ensured he stayed that way by smashing his skull with one mighty blow of his tomahawk. The second was located a short distance away. He was busy urinating against a tree. Two braves snuck up behind him. One covered the lookout’s mouth with one hand and stabbed him in the back with a hunting knife. As the wounded lookout fell to the ground, the other brave clubbed him, finishing him off.

  Tatoosh’s braves, and Elswa’s, were in place before dawn broke. When it did, it was greeted with chilling war cries. The Makah braves attacked as one.

  Nathan quickly found himself in the thick of the action. He shot dead a Quileute warrior on the run. Still running, he reloaded his musket, primed and fired it at another Quileute, killing him, too.

  Although surprised and outnumbered, the Quileutes lived up to their reputation as fierce fighters. They managed to kill three Makah and wound several others before succumbing to the invaders’ superior numbers and firepower.

  Tatoosh was among the Makah wounded. He suffered a nasty head gash when he received a glancing blow from a tomahawk. Nathan half-carried him back to the river while the other braves decapitated their enemies. When the others returned to the river, they unceremoniously tossed the heads of the vanquished into the bottom of the canoes. The valued trophies would be displayed for all to see back at the village.

  Nathan looked down at the severed heads and then at the faces of the Makah braves. Their faces still shone with the excitement of battle, and they still had the bloodlust in their eyes. The young white knew from experience their excitement would take time to pass. Like all the natives of the Northwest, they lived for battle, and the tales of this night’s deeds would be told around many a cooking fire for many years to come.

  For the first time in a while, Nathan remembered he was very different to these people. While he was prepared to kill and do whatever it took to survive, the Makahs’ savagery seemed to know no bounds. This is a game to them. Looking at the braves around him, he realized he’d never felt more unlike them than he did now.

  Nathan became aware Tatoosh was staring at him. The chief’s son, whose head wound still bled profusely, looked at him perceptively. His eyes, which were all-knowing like his father’s, seemed to bore into Nathan’s soul.

  The young white slowly looked away from Tatoosh, and then turned his back on him as well.

  Although only a few feet separated the blood brothers physically, in all other respects it might as well have been a hundred miles.

  #

  As winter turned to spring at Neah Bay and the Makah went about their seasonal tasks of hunting, fishing, growing crops and warring, Nathan’s thoughts turned increasingly to his old life. He missed being with his own kind and conversing in English.

  Just how much he missed his former life was brought home to him when a sailing ship sailed into the bay. Nathan emerged from Elswa’s lodge just as the ship appeared. He couldn’t believe his eyes and started running down toward the beach. A shout from Elswa pulled him up. He turned back to face the chief.

  “Nathan Johnson stay here…out of sight,” Elswa ordered. He obviously didn’t want it known a white was being kept in village as that could attract unwanted attention.

  Nathan reluctantly stayed put. Confined to the village, he could only watch from afar as Elswa and Tatoosh led a trading party out to the ship. He watched, fascinated, when the chief conversed with the white traders. His heart missed a beat when a pretty white woman appeared on deck. She reminded him of his mother. The woman was obviously related to the captain – her husband no doubt. From such a distance, Nathan couldn’t tell for sure. The woman returned below deck as trading began on board.

  #

  Eventually, trading concluded and the Makah paddled back to shore while the ship sailed out of the bay. Nathan could only watch her forlornly as she disappeared from sight. He immediately sought out Elswa and confronted him inside his lodge.

  “Great chief,” Nathan began, summoning up as much respect as possible. “I wish…” He hesitated when Tatoosh suddenly entered the lodge. Nathan continued, “I wish to return to my people.”

  Elswa stiffened as if he’d been insulted. Nathan glanced at Tatoosh. The chief’s son appeared more disappointed than affronted.

  “Nathan Johnson is now Makah,” Elswa said sternly, his gunsight eyes flashing in anger. “Nathan Johnson is a sailmaker, hunter and warrior. Too valuable to release.” The chief turned his back on Nathan, indicating the conversation had ended, and began walking away.

  “I miss my own kind!” Nathan blurted out.

  Elswa pulled up. Furious, he reached beneath his cape, spun around and threw his tomahawk. Its razor-sharp blade lodged deep in the lodge’s wall barely six inches from Nathan’s right ear.

  For several long moments, the chief and the young white stared at each other.

  “I have spoken,” Elswa said at last.

  Shaken, Nathan stomped off. It was now clear the chief would kill him rather than allow him to leave.

  Behind him, Elswa and Tatoosh looked at Nathan’s retreating back then looked at each other. The White-Eye had given them something to think about.

  17

  Atlantic Ocean, 1848

  One day out from England, Minstrel struck a mighty storm which, after one unrelenting week, was showing no signs of waning. All the passengers and most of the crew were continually seasick. Even the captain appeared to be under the weather, although in truth that had more to do with his heavy drinking.

  Like many on board, Susannah had hardly eaten since leaving Plymouth. What little food she had forced herself to eat, she’d quickly lost overboard. Drake Senior was faring a little better, although he, too, was decidedly off color.

  As the storm co
ntinued to rage and Minstrel was tossed about like a cork in the mountainous seas, many of the passengers feared for their lives. Drake Senior led the brigantine’s God-fearing passengers in prayer, praying for a safe journey. Meanwhile, the roast lamb the captain had promised to celebrate his birthday never eventuated as no-one felt like eating or celebrating.

  Fast though Minstrel was, she sat low in the sea and took on water whenever a high sea was running. The stench of bilgewater in her hold was evident from the second day and hadn’t let up since, adding to the feelings of nausea being experienced by those on board. None of the passengers realized they’d be living with that stench for the next six months.

  One day rolled into another. Though Susannah was ill, she still religiously attended to her diary entries. Perched on the edge of her bunk, rolling with the violent motion of the ship to keep her balance, she wrote in her diary.

  April 26th, 1848

  Yesterday was a day to forget…and today is going the same way. The storm seems determined to finish us off. All but the hardiest passengers remain confined to their bunks. Seasickness has spread through Minstrel like some contagious disease. This has not been helped by the ever-present stench of bilgewater.

  Our journey thus far has been miserable. It started out in the worst possible fashion with the Jensens losing their week-old baby. The poor little boy contracted pneumonia and received a burial at sea. It was the first such service funeral papa had conducted, and he hopes the last.

  To make matters worse, Captain Mathers has been drinking steadily since the 22nd. He claims he’s under doctor’s orders to partake of a gram of whisky every hour on the hour. I believe he may be telling the truth for, regrettably, the ship’s doctor is an alcoholic himself and I have yet to see him sober.

  Thank God the first mate, Cornishman Fred Paxton, is a sensible man and a moderate drinker by all accounts. He is constantly at loggerheads with the captain. If we survive this journey, I suspect it will be because of the sensibilities of Mr Paxton.

  The one piece of good news is the wind is coming from the north, so we are hastening toward our first stopover. 8 knots. Bad storm. A curse on this seasickness.

  Susannah closed her diary just as Drake Senior burst into the stateroom. He was drenched to the bone and looked wild-eyed.

  “Papa, what is it?” Susannah asked.

  Drake Senior removed his soaked jacket, hung it over a rail and sat down on his bunk, his head in his hands. “We have just lost a crewman overboard,” he mumbled, shaking.

  “Oh, dear God.”

  “I saw it happen and I was powerless to help him.”

  Susannah climbed off her bunk and staggered unsteadily toward her father as the brigantine lurched over the crest of one wave and down into the trough of another. Drake Senior put out his hand to steady his daughter. She sat down next to him.

  “Who was it?” she asked.

  “It was one of the riggers. He fell from the foremast. The first mate threw a line to him, but he was swept away.”

  They sat in silence for several long moments, thinking about the dangers the storm posed. Their journey had not started at all well.

  “Two deaths and we have only been at sea a week,” Susannah said.

  Drake Senior looked at her and managed a smile. “It can only get better,” he suggested hopefully.

  Susannah managed a smile, too. She knew there was some truth in what her father said. Things can’t get much worse.

  “We should pray,” Drake Senior said.

  Susannah nodded.

  Father and daughter knelt down before Drake Senior’s bunk and bowed their heads. The clergyman prayed aloud for the lost rigger’s soul and for the safety of everyone on board.

  #

  One week later, as Drake Senior had promised, the storm abated; and a week after that, beneath gloriously sunny skies, Minstrel approached Santa Cruz de Tenerife, one of the largest towns in the Canary Islands and one of the most strategically important ports in the entire Atlantic Ocean.

  The Drakes and all the other passengers crowded onto the brigantine’s deck to enjoy the occasion. All were impressed by the island’s beauty – in particular the majestic mountain range known as Macizo de Anaga that dominated the north eastern side of Tenerife.

  To everyone’s surprise, Captain Mathers emerged from below deck in time to take charge of the vessel’s arrival in port. Even more surprisingly, he was sober for once. In a quiet moment, the first mate confided that was typical of Mathers. It seemed the captain had a habit of sobering up long enough to impress the authorities at any new port his ship entered before reverting to his old habits.

  “We’ll be here twenty-four hours,” Mathers announced gruffly. “That’ll be long enough to take on fresh water and stores. Departure time will be fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. Anyone not here by then will be left behind.”

  The passengers suspected the captain wasn’t joking. The crew, or at least those who had sailed with him before, knew he wasn’t joking. Only the previous year, he’d left a passenger marooned on an island stopover en route to India – all because the man hadn’t reported in on time; the irate passenger had been picked up on the return voyage by an unrepentant Mathers. The passenger had complained that he’d only been an hour late, but Mathers had remained unmoved.

  The Drakes and most of the other passengers went ashore to sample the delights of Santa Cruz de Tenerife. Susannah was intrigued by the exotic markets and the bargains on offer – many of them from the African continent whose western edge, she knew, lay over the eastern horizon. She was moved to comment also on the Spanish architecture that was so prominent.

  Drake Senior was most intrigued by the island’s prosperity. Over the centuries, its inhabitants had clearly made the most of its location on the sailing route between the Mediterranean and the Americas.

  #

  That night, after dining in a Berber restaurant, the Drakes returned to Minstrel well satisfied by their time ashore. As they stepped foot onto the brigantine in the company of other returning passengers, they were greeted by a commotion coming from below deck. The sounds of men swearing and shouting reached them.

  Drake Senior turned to Susannah. “You stay here, my dear.” He walked toward the steerage to go below deck to investigate, but found his way barred by the Swedish second mate, Sven Svenson.

  “It would not be wise to go below just now, Reverend,” Svenson said.

  “What is the trouble?” Drake Senior asked.

  “Some of the passengers have been drinking and there has been some fighting,” Svenson explained. “The captain and first mate are trying to sort it out now.”

  “Oh, I see. Unfortunate business.”

  #

  Later, in their stateroom, the Drakes prepared to retire for the night. They were both somewhat shaken after seeing carnage left below deck following the brawl. One passenger had commented it were as though a mighty hurricane had swept through Minstrel’s interior.

  Drake Senior bade Susannah a good night as he pulled the dividing curtain across, effectively splitting the room in half.

  “Goodnight, papa,” Susannah said. Then, as she’d done every night thus far, she entered the day’s main events into her diary.

  May 10th, 1848

  Today, we enjoyed two major milestones: our first sunny day and our first day ashore in three weeks. The sunshine was a treat after so many cold and stormy days.

  The Canary Islands were a sight for sore eyes, and papa and I, and indeed, most of the other passengers enjoyed a delightful time ashore at Santa Cruz de Tenerife.

  Unfortunately, the day was spoiled by an incident aboard ship as we returned. Apparently, the suspected felon, John Donovan, had clashed with a fellow Irishman, young Michael Kelleher.

  Mr Kelleher is a Dublin journalist and, by all accounts, something of a prankster. They had both had too much alcohol and what started as a scuffle developed into an all out brawl as other passengers and even some crewmembers took sides
. The fighting began in the saloon and spilled out into the passageway. It was quite vicious too with bottles and stools being used as weapons. Two men were knocked out and one poor crewman was stabbed in the face with a broken bottle.

  I fear the infirmary will be busy for the next few days. I just hope our good doctor can remain sober long enough to treat his latest patients. Fortunately, there were no children around during the brawl. Those children still on board had wisely been confined to their cabins.

  We heard the captain, first mate and three other crewmen were trying to restore order, but they were heavily outnumbered. Ultimately, they could do nothing but wait for the fighting to run its course, which it eventually did. When Mr Mathers considered it was safe for those of us waiting up top to proceed below deck, he sent word to us. On making our way to our respective quarters, we were alarmed by the carnage we found below deck. There was blood, broken bottles and upturned tables everywhere.

  The main troublemakers, including both Irishmen, were locked in separate parts of the hold to sober up. We learned they will be tried on board when Minstrel sets sail tomorrow. Mr Kemp has threatened to put them ashore if they do not promise to behave for the remainder of our voyage. I hope they are fined heavily at the very least.

  Tomorrow we depart for Bata, in Equatorial Guinea. I welcome the prospect of continuing warm temperatures although our captain warns we may be praying for cold weather before long.

  18

  Parramatta, New South Wales, 1840

  Dawn was breaking when Jack came round. He found he was draped over the back of a horse being ridden by one of two Red Coats who were escorting him back to Parramatta.

  Along the way, they passed groups of convicts heading out for another day’s hard work. Those who recognized Jack offered words of encouragement. The would-be escapee was too battered and bruised to respond.