Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1)

by Sandra Dengler

  “Your mother?”

  “Eh, she relished the time to herself, she said. Sent us out with a basket of lunch and a heigh-ho. Then she’d shoo Grandmum off to the park with the wee ones and put her feet up a bit.” Samantha sighed. “The hills of Ireland be nowise like these, of course. Wild and misty, and cool always. Nae trees, though they say Ireland once had her forests. And windy. But ye knew that close at hand be Dagda’s hill palaces, with the mirth and the brightness—somewhere. Ye might even be standing upon one. Ye never knew. And that was the charm of it, ye see.”

  “Hill palaces?”

  “Myth. Naething but myth.”

  “I read somewhere that myth is what binds a people together. And no one’s bound closer together than the Irish.”

  “When they be not a-slaying one another, aye.”

  “You mentioned a brother who died for honor and freedom.”

  “Ye’ve a fine memory.”

  “When?”

  “A fortnight—no, nigh onto three weeks—before we sailed.”

  He stirred. She looked up to see him watching her, and his arms weren’t folded now. He dipped his head toward the pool. “And now this.”

  “And now this. Recently meself has come to doubt there be a God in heaven—or anywhere else. Isn’t that a dreadful thing to say? And raised in the church I was, too.”

  “If there is a God, I’ve never met Him.”

  “Meg’s Rev. Vinson claims he has. Got God and Jesus right at his elbow, so to speak. He preaches it to Meg. She’s commented upon it.”

  “Preaches God and sends threatening notes. Bible bashers—never met one I liked. The missionaries were the ones who’d squawk loudest when my father hired Kanakas. Howled from Cairns clear down to Melbourne. People up here knew the truth, but the farther away you got, the more others would pick up the howl. Like dingoes. To stay competitive on the world market, we had to bring in colored labor. Not enough whites willing to do it. Oh, they liked seeing the export figures, but they yelped blue about colored feet walking Australian soil.”

  “Ye mentioned having labor problems like yer father’s.”

  “All the work you see done by machines used to be done by hands. They earned a few shillings a year where they came from. Or nothing atall. Most of them didn’t make a brass razoo back home. But bring them here and the missionaries claim they need pay like a factory worker. Already getting more money than they ever saw in their life, but to the missionaries and the church people it was never enough.”

  “Perhaps ye’d like Mr. Vinson better were he in another line of work.”

  “An ocker’s an ocker whatever his trade.”

  “Ocker?”

  “Opinionated mule who wants to run everybody’s life according to his own rules.”

  “Eh, on the other hand, wouldn’t it be lovely if God were truly as the fellow preaches Him? But I cannae see that being so, nor can I see meself believing in such a one, more’s the pity.” She sighed. A confused, scurrying column of little black ants pittered in the duff at her feet. “Time to commence dinner. I must be getting back.” She stood up, and the ants paid her no mind.

  She raised her head and turned to leave, but he was standing squarely in front of her.

  “Why did you come to Australia, Sam?”

  “To get away.” Her lips had just spoken without consulting her mind, and she was shocked at what they said. “But it did nae work.” That surprised her, too.

  His warm dark eyes like melted chocolate penetrated to the very heart of her. “I’d love to just send you back to Ireland and let you heal, or settle whatever seems to need settling, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I need you here. I need competent, dependable workers and you’re good. Very good.”

  She meant to mumble something appreciative, like “That’s very nice of you” or whatever, but it came out garbled. Her eyes were hot; they spilled over into scalding tears. Heal. Settle. Yes. And escape. Escape this hideous wilderness that had gobbled up, most literally, the bright and lively Kathleen.

  He wrapped his warm, strong arms around her and pulled her in close, pressing her head against his shoulder. Even as a part of her was trying to control this embarrassing outburst, another was trying to apologize for it. Neither part succeeded. By bits and pieces she brought herself back together.

  She blew into her hanky and stepped back.

  He was smiling. “If God is up there, He’ll take you when it’s time. The good go to heaven.”

  “I, uh … thank ye. I must go now. ’Tis past time to start dinner, ye know.”

  He studied her intently for a moment. She wanted so badly to read his thoughts, his intents, and she could not. Not a glimmer. Then his arms fell away and he stepped aside. She forced a false, fleeting smile, and she stepped aside. When she made her legs begin walking, he followed at a respectful distance, as if he were the rear guard.

  What did this mean? Surely Mr. Sloan had far better things to do than to follow an errant servant out into the bush. More than once had Samantha encountered some lout with immorality in mind, and she could see that sort of thing coming from afar off. That was clearly not Mr. Sloan’s intention here. Or was it? Did he really care? Or was he simply and shrewdly practicing some direct diplomacy to assuage the hired help’s emotional problems, lest he lose another worker? She was so confused, and the more she sorted thoughts, the worse her confusion tangled them.

  Questions. At a time when most she needed answers, she kept getting more unanswered questions.

  The sun hung very low by the time she entered the back door into the kitchen, and the forest had turned dark with shadows. Her legs had been tired at noonday. They ached now. She lighted a lamp and paused to consider a menu. She would cook the potatoes by boiling them skins and all. Quicker that way. She dug the imported potatoes out of their bin.

  Meg parked in the doorway with a maddening smirk on her pretty lips. “Have a good time with Mr. Sloan?”

  Samantha stood erect, the better to face her snide little sister. “The man may have a caring heart, or else, perhaps he is a very shrewd and cynical employer, but he be nae a lout.”

  “Of course.” She giggled. “Well, now, if he’s going to go romancing, he’d best use his charms on Amena O’Casey, and stop wasting them on you. Keep all his pretty mares in his stable.”

  Samantha took a deep breath and counted ten. She must not let Meg do what Meg did best: get under her skin. “Ye think Amena may be leaving?”

  “Might be gone already. When ye packed up Kathleen’s belongings and sent them home, and Amena moved into the room, she bothered nae to move in proper. And now most of her things be gone and herself has nae been about all day, and that cane cutter’s disappeared.”

  “All the cane cutters are gone. Mr. Sloan dismissed them days ago.”

  “Eh, but this one hung about ’til now.”

  “I hear the door, Meg.”

  Meg pushed herself erect and ambled off, though not nearly as quickly as Samantha thought she ought go. Samantha started a tea kettle. Mr. Sloan would likely want tea, with guests appearing like this, and quite possibly extra mouths at the table. She tossed a couple more potatoes into the pot.

  She walked out through the house in Meg’s wake, to receive Mr. Sloan’s instructions firsthand. Meg tended to be lax in her transferral of information.

  The Rev. Vinson and a tall, gaunt stranger were being ushered back to the office. A moment ago Meg had slouched lackadaisically. She was all starch now, smart and snappy as an Oxford dean. Samantha reversed herself and returned to the kitchen. This was one order Meg would get exactly right. She had the tray set and was bringing the water off as Meg came hustling in.

  “Three for tea, Sam, and that raisin bread. Oh. Ye’ve got it. Here. I’ll take the tray out.”

  Samantha slapped her hand. “At the risk of running yer fine romance through the sheep dip, this is one tray meself shall serve. Ye can hold the door.”

  Meg swung the door wide and let it swing shut
on its own as she followed at Samantha’s heels. “Ye know who’s here?”

  “Yer Reverend and what looks for all the world like a solicitor.”

  “Aye, representing a law firm, he said. How’d ye know?”

  “Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look.”

  “Ye’re such a frustration with the airs ye put on!” But Meg had to lower the rest of her crabbing to an inaudible whisper, for they were coming too near the office door.

  Meg shoved the door open onto a war. Mr. Sloan stood rigid in absolute rage. The Rev. Vinson looked grim and determined, which he usually looked, and the lawyer appeared indifferent to it all.

  The lawyer was rifling through papers in a briefcase or portfolio of some sort. “And this, Mr. Sloan, is the cease and desist order over Judge Bothner’s signature. You are herewith forbidden to make any overture regarding ownership of the property in question until such time as the courts have completed a judicial review.”

  Those eyes that had once reminded Samantha of melted chocolate were crackling anthracite now. “Butts signed of his free will. Miss Connolly, you were present. Was there any duress, any misrepresentation?”

  “Nae, sir. He seemed quite comfortable with the arrangement, even eager to take part in it.”

  “A simple Irish peasant in your employ is hardly corroboration, Mr. Sloan. I shall be by in a few days with the writ of tort. Be advised that legally, in essence, your hands are tied. Good evening, Mr. Sloan, Mr. Vinson.”

  And the lean and hungry gentleman left. Meg disappeared with him, showing him out.

  Mr. Sloan took a deep breath. “Vinson, I warned you before about your interferences.”

  “I can’t stand by and watch you ruin Butts, and that’s exactly what it will be. If legal recourse is the quickest way to stop you, that’s the way we go. The man’s a fine Christian who sees only the good in everybody. I won’t let you take advantage of him.”

  “Out.”

  The Reverend nodded. “Good evening, Mr. Sloan, Miss Connolly.” He turned on his heel and strode out, not the least cowed.

  Mr. Sloan sank into his chair. “Seen Amena?”

  “I hear rumors she may have eloped with the cane cutter.”

  He rubbed his face. “Your sister’s privy to Vinson’s coming and going. Pump her. I want to know everything she can come up with. Plans, people he’s meeting, women he’s been cozy with, everything.”

  “Ye run a risk in that, ye know, sir. If Meg be encouraged to associate with him, she might become so entangled she’ll go the way Amena O’Casey may well have gone. I cannae control her; never could.” Samantha hacked a thick slice of raisin bread. “Here ye go, sir, to tide ye ’til dinner. Jam or marmalade?”

  “I’m not hungry.” As he cast more than a few aspersions on the Reverend’s cleanliness and ancestry, Samantha spread the bread with marmalade and poured tea. “ … That he has the nerve to bring a lawyer in on this.”

  “Did ye see credentials, sir?”

  “What?”

  “I steeped the Fortnum and Mason, sir; thought ye might could use it.” She passed him his cup. “The lawyer’s credentials? Did they seem sound?”

  “Why would you question him?”

  “I be nae certain, but I believe an injured party must bring his own suit, and the Reverend is not injured. Mr. Butts must be the plaintiff. Since he is not, perhaps he is still amenable to yer agreement more so than the Reverend would like. Also, I don’t believe that torts come in writs, nor would they apply here.”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Me brother clerked for Gleason’s law offices in Cork. The vernacular rubbed off a bit, ye might say.”

  Whatever could Samantha be thinking of? Heart and soul she had been on poor Mr. Butts’s side. And now here she was trying to help out Mr. Sloan. Why couldn’t she keep her overactive mouth in check? She was painting a minister of God in black and whitewashing this callous and greedy schemer.

  The broadest, wickedest grin spread across the man’s face. “Good on you! Sam, my dear, you’re a beaut!” He scooped up his raisin bread with marmalade and took a giant bite. “Delicious. You’re a good cook. And a good woman.”

  Good. She was good and she was helping him oppose Rev. Vinson, which made the minister bad and the ideals of justice and fair play she shared with him not good.

  No, Mr. Sloan, she was not good. Not inside. Fortunate, that the existence of God was in question. She’d never pass muster if He could really see inside her as some claimed.

  “When’s dinner?”

  “The potatoes will nae be ready for a while yet. I just put them on.”

  “Then cut yourself a slab of this. It’s good stuff.”

  She did so, and her breastbone tickled just a bit. Samantha Connolly might not be the paragon of goodness others claimed she was. But Mr. Sloan was right in this regard: the not-at-all-good Samantha could bake a good loaf of bread.

  Chapter Eight

  Coral Reef

  “Is that it?” Luke Vinson pointed at a distant green blob on the line between sea and sky.

  “Mebbe so.” Burriwi shrugged and grinned with what looked like four dozen huge teeth. Luke often wondered if the aboriginal mouth contained the normal complement of thirty-two. Sometime, when the moment was right, he’d ask one of these people if he could please count his teeth. It probably wouldn’t harm his relationship with them; they all thought he was nineteen and six to the quid anyway. One more crazy request wouldn’t matter.

  This was not the moment, however. Their little one-master thunked along from swell to swell, hitting the wind chop exactly wrong for a smooth sail. Keeping one hand draped over the tiller, Burriwi slackened the boom guy the slightest bit and studied the results aloft with a critical eye. He let it out a mite more. The trim looked perfect already to Luke, but then Lucas Vinson, native of Manitoba’s Red River country, was hopelessly a landlubber, painfully at sea when on the sea.

  Burriwi’s blue-black potbelly burgeoned up over his loincloth. When he worked for Sloan, Luke noticed, he wore pants, unless it was a difficult tracking job. If his forest skills were the talents needed, he reverted to the forest ways, became at one with the dark and moody jungle. Today his equally prodigious skills as a seaman were on call, and he was as casual, as bright, as lighthearted as the coral sea over which they bounded.

  The other sailors on this cruise, introduced to Luke as Burriwi’s nephew and two grandsons, giggled and yabbered like school chums, and indeed this was something of a school outing. What these youths learned today they would one day show their children and perhaps their children’s children—if the race survived that long.

  And the race’s survival was number two on Luke’s list of priorities, a very close second place to the gospel itself.

  Luke nodded toward the three up front. “Do you ever let the boys sail?”

  “Sure.” Somewhere behind the beetling brows, dark eyes twinkled. “Day like today, perfect. Wind’s right, sea’s easy, everything’s apples. Anybody can sail today. You can sail today. Me, I’m gonna enjoy this easy sailing. Have a good time. Now rough days, when you’re tacking against the wind and everything’s going rats, that’s when I give them the tiller. They learn how to sail best then y’see, eh? Wouldn’ learn nothing today.”

  Luke smiled. “Don’t you suppose they might enjoy this fine sailing once?”

  “Let ’em take the boat out then. Today’s mine.” And indeed the man looked consummately content, a sailor attuned to the sea. Luke felt a sudden stab of envy, not at all a Christian attitude. Luke had never felt at ease in a place the way this man so obviously did, not even back home in Manitoba. And Burriwi was equally at comfort in the forest. Could it be that this unlettered aborigine would have fit in just as easily in Manitoba or Princeton or wherever else the Lord’s inscrutable hand happened to drop him? Was his unity with his world a phenomenon of the so-called primitive mind, generalized, or of the man himself?

  Social philosophy was push
ed to the wings of Luke’s thoughts, for the sea itself had just taken center stage. They were in very shallow water here. The blue sea color had altered itself to a random patchwork of blues, greens and grays. The shining surface ripples prevented a clear view, but Luke could make out a fantasy below of yard-wide coral blobs and ridges.

  “Dibbie, which way’s the tide going?” Burriwi called.

  One of the youngsters studied the water. “That way.”

  Burriwi’s nephew scrambled in beside him. “Naw, that’s the way the wind is rippling the top, Dib. Look under at the way the stuff on the bottom is bending.”

  “That way!” Dibbie corrected himself.

  “That’s good!” Burriwi chuckled. He glanced at Luke and the smile faded a bit. “You don’ think so, mebbe?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare. It just occurred to me that you and your boys there speak English just as well as any white man. And yet, when you talk to whites and they talk to you, you use that broken English, that blackfeller jibberish. Why?”

  Burriwi shrugged. “Whitefellers, they expect it. They use it on me, don’ make me no difference. Makes ’em feel above me better mebbe. Who knows?”

  “That doesn’t bother you? That they feel and act so very superior to you?”

  The toothy grin burst forth again. “Superior. Tha’s the word I couldn’t think of.” The easygoing grin hardened just a little. “When Mrs. Perkins’ boy, four years old, wandered off, they called me. Getting dark, not much time, no good light no more, and I found him. Gave him back to Mrs. Perkins safe. When the cook wandered off, they call me. I tracked her to the pool. Couple places she coulda gone, but I found where she went.”

  “And as I recall, with the rain coming, you had to do that one quickly, too.”

  Burriwi nodded. “Eight years ago—longer—a ship got off the way and broke up, couple miles down south here. They call me. Nobody can get out to the reef with a boat, pick off the men hanging there; too much wind, rain. I did it. I got there. Got ’em back safe. Y’see, Lucas? They act superior, sling off at me, talk silly talk. Big-note themselves and mebbe even believe it. But when the land is too much for them. When they can’ make it. Who they call? Who’s the real superior, eh? I know who. If they don’ know, tha’s their problem.”