by Lance Morcan
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.
With his goal in mind, Nathan turned to Drake Senior. “May I teach your daughter some dance steps, Reverend Drake?”
The older man seemed taken aback at Nathan’s boldness. He looked at Susannah, who surreptitiously shook her head, indicating her disapproval of Nathan. After a moment's hesitation, Drake Senior motioned to his daughter to stand up. “Go on, my dear,” he smiled. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew it was time for Susannah to start mingling with the opposite sex. Even though he didn't like the
look of Nathan one bit, he reasoned that one dance couldn’t hurt.
Susannah glared at her father, but did as he bade. Nathan led her by the arm to the center of the crowded dance floor as the band played a slow waltz. He was suddenly very aware of her closeness and of the warmth that emanated from her body. Placing his arm around her slender waist, he began leading her around the floor.
After a minute or two, Susannah loosened up a little and allowed herself to smile at her dance partner. Their eyes met and she had to look away. She was sure his startling blue eyes could see right into her soul.
Susannah looked back to find his eyes still fixed on her. As before, she felt her pulse quicken. This worldly young man had an effect on her she had no control over. His thigh brushed hers and she felt a delicious warmth spread through her veins. She tried to fight the feeling, but the more she fought it, the less control she had. Susannah felt her cheeks redden.
For his part, Nathan was also trying to fight the feelings of lust he felt for Susannah as he guided her around the floor. Her red hair gave her an underlying air of sexuality and her femininity filled his nostrils as he breathed her in; her hand in his felt cool yet so hot it was almost painful. No stranger to women, he marveled at the effect Susannah was having on him. He desperately wanted to bed her and it took all his control not to pull her tight against him and kiss her. That was all he wanted—nothing more. The truth was he had never actually been in love. Unlike Susannah, he’d had many opportunities to fall in love, but had always opted for short-term, physical relationships ahead of anything more meaningful. One miffed lover had said he couldn’t commit because that would mean loving someone more than he loved himself. He’d laughed it off, but, on reflection, had admitted to his inner self there may have been some truth to that.
Nathan returned his full attention to Susannah. Although certainly beautiful, she was the type of woman he despised. How he would have loved to erase the moral superiority he imagined was written all over her face. If not for the fact that she and her father would be his traveling companions over the next couple of days, or that Drake Senior was close by, he’d have been tempted to rip her pretty, white cotton dress off and have his way with her then and there.
As the band played on, Nathan continued staring at Susannah. The young woman was feeling unnerved by Nathan’s forward manner. But more than that, she was afraid he’d realize the effect he was having on her.
Dear Lord, forgive me for feeling like this.
Susannah avoided Nathan’s eyes for the remainder of the dance.
3
Early next morning, a horse-drawn cart carried the Drakes the short distance from their temporary lodgings at the mission station to the waterfront. The cart was groaning beneath the weight of bags and boxes containing their personal effects.
Gone were the clouds of the previous day; the sun had the sky to itself, forecasting another hot day ahead.
Susannah and her father were both filled with a sense of excitement knowing they were about to embark on the final leg of a journey that had started in England. Out on the harbor, they could see the Rendezvous, the schooner that would deliver them to their final destination, the mission station at Momi Bay. Sailors could be seen clambering over her decks, readying her for the voyage ahead.
Susannah wondered idly if Nathan was already on board. She had no way of knowing that he was, at that very moment, observing her through a telescope he’d borrowed from the Irish first mate, Eric Foley.
Despite the early hour, the track they followed was clogged with hundreds of Fijians who, like them, were heading down to the waterfront. It seemed the entire native population was on the move. The local people were chattering away and seemed excited about something.
“I wonder what the occasion is, Papa?” Susannah asked.
“Perhaps they are coming to wave us off, my dear,” Drake Senior suggested.
“I doubt that,” Susannah smiled.
They arrived at Levuka’s waterfront to find access to the wharf partially blocked by the crowds. The Fijians were singing a traditional song. Their harmonies echoed hauntingly in the still morning air.
“Must be some kind of ceremony,” Drake Senior ventured. He looked to the cart’s Fijian driver for some explanation, but the man seemed strangely noncommittal, mumbling something incoherent.
With difficulty, the cart weaved through the crowd and finally trundled onto the wharf where the Rendezvous’s longboat was waiting to take the Drakes out to the schooner. Willing hands lowered the Drakes and their possessions down into the longboat, and in no time the craft was moving away from the wharf.
As the longboat closed with the Rendezvous, the Drakes observed the Fijians on the sandy foreshore. Behind the assembled throng, they could see a massive drua, or double-hulled sailing craft, resting high and dry on the sand. The drua was all of forty yards long and comprised hundreds of wooden components knitted together to form its deck and hull. A smaller hull was joined to the main hull by a myriad of crossbeams to provide strength and flexibility.
Pointing toward the drua, Drake Senior said, “It appears they may be going to launch that vessel.”
“Why such a fuss about it, I wonder?” Susannah mused aloud.
The oarsmen knew the answer to that question, but remained silent as they bent their backs and concentrated on their rowing. They knew that throughout the islands and waterways of Fiji, the mighty drua—or craft similar to this one—inspired dread and awe. The result of major building programs and human sacrifice, the sacred, double-hulled craft could carry as many as three hundred warriors at close to twenty knots. The oarsmen also suspected, in keeping with tradition, the launching of this particular drua would be accompanied by human sacrifice on a large scale. They just hoped the Rendezvous set sail before the missionary couple could witness such an awful spectacle.
When the longboat nudged up against the schooner’s side, Nathan joined crewmen in assisting the Drakes aboard. “Good morning, Miss Drake,” he smiled, extending a helping hand to Susannah as she reached the deck by way of a ladder attached to the rail.
Taking the hand of a nearby sailor in preference to Nathan’s, an unsmiling Susannah said, “Good morning, Mr. Johnson.”
Nathan noted the young Englishwoman seemed far from pleased to see him—and her father completely ignored him.
Also on deck to greet the Drakes was the ship's master, Captain Billy McTavish, a grizzled old sea dog with the thickest of Scottish burrs. A friendly Scotsman, he made them feel immediately at ease—as did first mate Eric Foley, who was considerably more sober than the last time he saw the missionary couple.
Lightning Rod hovered around behind Foley and looked delighted when Susannah beamed a warm smile his way.
While the Drakes’ personal effects were being lifted aboard, Captain McTavish had a quiet word with one of his crew. The crewman nodded grimly and immediately escorted the missionary couple to their quarters below deck. Negotiating the steerage steps that would take them to their quarters, they had to momentarily brace themselves as the anchor was hastily raised, the sails were hoisted and the Rendezvous began sailing out of Levuka’s harbor.
The Drakes were blissfully unaware that the crewman who accompanied them was under orders to find some excuse to detain them below deck so they would not witness what was already beginning to unfold on shore.
By now, the Fijians’ numbers on Levuka’s foreshore had grown to several thousand. Despite their numbers, they were strangely quiet. There was an air of tension. The ratu, or chief, overseeing proceedings stepped forward to address the assembled. A huge man even by Fijian standards, he raised his hand skyward. Two hundred naked warriors fell to their knees before him. He ordered them to their feet. They stood and the ratu circulated among them, offering words of encouragement.
Like the ratu, many of his warriors sported hairstyles similar to those of the warriors of Momi Bay. Some hairstyles were two feet high or more, while others were almost that wide, and many w
ere brightly colored. Their owners wore them proudly while, to any European looking on, the effect was comical.
The warriors’ faces shone with pride at the great honor they believed awaited them. Their ratu reminded them of the rewards in store for them in the Spirit World. He then raised his hand a second time and the warriors turned and solemnly began walking up to the drua. The crowd parted to make way for them.
All two hundred warriors lay down in two rows that extended from the drua’s bow to the water’s edge. It was evident to Nathan and the others watching aboard the Rendezvous that the warriors were about to be sacrificed as human rollers. Other warriors grabbed hold of ropes dangling from the drua’s deck. The onlookers began singing while those holding the ropes began pulling. The drua held firm in the sand.
As more natives pulled on the ropes, it slowly inched forward. When its hull rolled over the first of the naked warriors, it gathered speed. Screams of agony and grunts of pain rang out as the nearest warriors were crushed to death in this centuries-old tradition.
Now moving at walking pace, the mighty drua rolled inexorably down toward the sea. Beneath her hull, more sacrificial warriors were crushed. Their mangled bodies were left half-buried in the sand behind her. Miraculously, one or two survived, albeit badly injured. They were quickly finished off by club-wielding natives.
As the death toll rose, the singing was replaced by the wailing and chanting of loved ones. Their loss was assuaged slightly by the knowledge their dearly departed were already on their way to a better place.
Now only a few paces from the water’s edge, the drua gathered momentum. One of the last warriors in the sacrificial line-up, a teenage boy, suddenly lost his nerve and rolled out of the way. An armed warrior ready for such incidents clubbed him unconscious and rolled him back into position. The boy disappeared beneath the hull as the drua finally slid into the water.
Behind the vessel, two lines of broken, mangled bodies marked its bloody passage to the sea.
