Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) Page 11

Mr. Sloan’s hand was clapped over his mouth. He sputtered. He suppressed a laugh. He roared. “Sam, you’re a wonder! And I couldn’t agree with you more.” He led the way downstreet.

  “If we be in such pleasant agreement, perhaps we might be considering lunch soon, eh, sir? ’Tis two hours past midday.”

  “Down to the gaol first, then lunch.”

  She fell in behind him and didn’t really care that her slow, shuffling gait was holding him back. She ached all over, some parts far more than others. The filtered heat from the overcast sky bounced off street and building to press upon her on all sides. Her eyes sagged, so heavy she was quite literally falling asleep on her feet. They arrived eventually at the dressed-stone gaol house and she could not for the life of her remember the way they had just come.

  They stepped from hot tropical breeze under the masked sun into hot tropical stuffiness under a close, dark ceiling. Despite open windows, the stagnant air made Samantha sleepier than ever. Mr. Sloan spoke to the man at the desk as Samantha tried to keep herself alert. Mr. Sloan had brought her for a reason surely, and right now she wasn’t sharp enough to cut pudding.

  Several minutes later chains clanked in some distant hall, and Samantha thought briefly of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. One of Scrooge’s ghosts? Hardly! Byron Vickers, his black eyes blazing behind the beard and eyebrows, emerged from the far door. Chains hung from the manacles on his wrists.

  His deep scowl sent a chill up Samantha’s back. “Ye did me muckle wrong, Sloan. I took nothing of yours.”

  “Amena O’Casey.”

  “Eh! Should’ve guessed. She’s a piece of meat, that I stole her from ye? Perhaps y’d like to tell these gentlemen how ye own her in the first place, that a thief might take her and then be charged with thievery.”

  “She’s under contract to me and you participated in her decision to break that contract.”

  The dark face glowered, black as a tropical storm. “I found me a good job here cutting cane. Wind didn’t topple it here like it did up north. Top pay. Then at your behest these people came to arrest me and I was fired. Like that. No words of explanation would do. I’ve been branded a thief because the high and mighty Mr. Sloan claims I stole from him.”

  “And you did. You—”

  “I served ye every season since ye took over Sugarlea, and when I was a mere lad I served yer father before ye. Served ye well, too. Now ye’ve ruint me. Ruint me! On whim! On the off chance I might lead ye to some woman ye thought ye owned. I tell ye this, Cole Sloan: Every cutter in Australia’s gonna hear how ye wronged me. Next season, when yer cane is tall and oozing sugar, see how many cutters’ll risk ruin to work for ye.”

  “Amena O’Casey signed an agreement to work for me, and now she’s gone. I want her back to complete her contract and you know where she is. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Simple! Even if ye get me my job back, I still carry this black mark. Arrested for theft. Accused of stealing from the employer who fired me because his cane blew down.”

  “Mr. Sloan,” the gaoler interrupted. “Who is this O’Casey woman? What is her legal status specifically?”

  Sloan said “Indenture” even as Vickers burst out with “Free woman in a free country!”

  “Indenture?” The turnkey wrinkled his nose.

  “A formal contract for labor in exchange for boat passage, room and board, and a modest stipend. She owes me two and a half years.”

  “It’s illegal! An anachronism.” Mr. Vickers glowered.

  Sloan stiffened and moved in closer to the chains. “Now where’d a cane-cutter ever learn to use the word ‘anachronism’ in casual conversation?”

  “They did it a hunnert years ago. More. But it ain’t a thing for this modern age we be in—not the twentieth century.”

  “We’re five years into the twentieth century and a contract is still a contract, Vickers. Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Vinson’s lawyer explained how ye can’t enslave a person, and that’s what it be. Him and Luke see alike on it.”

  One moment Mr. Sloan was hot with rage; the next he chilled. Samantha had read of such transformations in novels, but never had she guessed she would see it. “Vinson!” His voice cut, icy sharp. “His lawyer isn’t a real lawyer.”

  “I know that. But the principle’s true, all the same.”

  Mr. Sloan wheeled to look at Samantha and his eyes were gloating. Aha! You were right! He turned to the gaoler. “I’ll be in tomorrow to finish the matter. Some people I have to confer with first.”

  “As you wish. Sure you don’t want to file your charges now? We can only hold him three days.”

  “Tomorrow.” Mr. Sloan turned his back on the man in chains and walked outside into the gray light. A drizzling, indifferent rain had begun. He paused at the curb to study the sky.

  Samantha stepped in beside him. “Sir? Ye’ll not reach Amena through him, I’ll wager. He defended her cause and he accused yerself, but he dinnae at any time so much as admit to knowing her.”

  “He knows where she is.”

  “Aye, but his back’s up now. Meself can’t fancy him being the least bit cooperative with ye. And he’s a strong man.”

  “I’ll break him.”

  She watched rain patters make dents in the street dust because she knew her mouth was speaking out of turn again and she couldn’t stop it. “Mayhap ye already have, sir.” She forced herself to look at him. “Should ye not have him released now? Ye’ve naught to gain from leaving him locked in that cell another night.”

  “Let him rot.” Mr. Sloan stepped off the curb and started across the street.

  Samantha should be following obediently. She stood in place.

  He stopped in mid-street and turned to look at her.

  She lifted her voice enough to carry it over the sound of passing horses. “And when can I expect ye to see some wrong in meself, real or fancied, and cast me off to rot as well?”

  He stared at her the longest time, with no hint in his expression as to what might be going through his mind. He drew a deep breath. “Don’t bother worrying about it until you’ve served out your contract. Come along if you want to eat.” He turned and walked away.

  The clink of Vickers’ chains haunted her memory like the ghost of Scrooge’s past.

  She remembered Edan’s accusing voice: Ye think naething of freedom, do ye?

  I’m sorry, Edan. What can I do? She stepped off the curb and followed Mr. Sloan through the rain.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Thrill of the Chase

  Sheba mashed her thick, velvety nose against Samantha’s bodice and hinted broadly for a chunk of sugar cane.

  “I’ve nae cane with me today, lass, sorry.” Samantha rubbed the hard forehead.

  “There ye go.” The hostler slipped his fingers inside Gypsy’s saddle girth, tugged experimentally, and stepped back. “Your master ought check the girth before he mounts. She blows up some.”

  “I’ll tell him so, thank ye.” Samantha had no idea what that might mean. She took both horses’ reins in hand and led them away from that shabby little stable. Were she a true horsewoman she would ride Sheba and lead Gypsy. Not likely. The painful stiffness where her legs joined her body absolutely forbade her to consider getting into a saddle.

  She led the horses downstreet as instructed and tied them to a rail near the bank. She watched the gaol on the far side of the street, halfway down the block. Here came Mr. Sloan. He walked away up street and disappeared suddenly between two buildings.

  Minutes later, Byron Vickers stepped out into the street and drew his first breaths of freedom. Don’t come this way. Go that way. Let Mr. Sloan be the one to follow you. Don’t come this way. Please don’t come this way … The dark bear glanced this way and that and then, to Samantha’s great relief, walked off upstreet.

  Mr. Sloan was far more bush-wise than Samantha. Sloan could follow a man undetected. Samantha could not. And yet, had the ex-cane-cutter come this way, Samantha woul
d have had to keep him in view at least until Mr. Sloan caught up to her. Her master reappeared from between the buildings and walked upstreet.

  Samantha had little to do now except wait. Mr. Sloan knew where the horses were. He obviously knew where Mr. Vickers was. It was all Mr. Sloan’s game. She might as well have a cup of tea. She would cut through this alley (she was becoming quite knowledgeable about this dinky town on the brink of the sea), cross Severin Street and find that little tea shop in Fearnley Street.

  She paused to admire a bold cotton print in the window of a dry goods shop. She studied the bonnet styles in a milliner’s shop and almost considered a sweet roll in a baker’s window. This is what she most missed in the months of her Australian exile—the fascinating little shops that are the real accouterments of civilization.

  Wait! There was Byron Vickers, walking rapidly this way on the far side of the street. Samantha turned her back quickly, lest he see her and realize he was being followed. She watched his reflection in a shop window as he continued northward. She kept an eye behind him, waiting to spot Mr. Sloan.

  No Mr. Sloan. Mr. Vickers turned a corner and still no Mr. Sloan. Samantha broke into a run, north along the street. Obviously Mr. Sloan had let his quarry get too far ahead somehow. She must keep Vickers in sight until Mr. Sloan could catch up. There was Vickers. She’d better get a little closer.

  She was sweaty and panting heavily when she finally drew to within half a block of their quarry. Vickers glanced about and then stepped out to a sorry-looking bay horse tied near the curb. He was adjusting the saddle girth. He was going to ride away! Samantha would never be able to keep up with him if he were on horseback and she afoot. And yet, no way could she go back for Sheba. She was blocks away by now.

  A young man with a rather vacant smile was polishing one of those new bicycles right across the street here. Samantha had attempted to ride one of those infernal things once. Bicycles do not do well at all on the cobbled streets of Cork. Would they do better on the damp dirt streets of Cairns? She crossed quickly to the far side of the street and tried to keep an eye on Vickers.

  She smiled as charmingly as she could and thickened her accent. “Awr, now there’s something meself has read about. One of them bicycles. Be they as thrilling to ride as I hear?”

  The gangling young man leapt to his feet. “They sure are! Yes, ma’am! Here. Try it out. Oh. My name’s Bob. Bob Wilkins.”

  Samantha dipped her head. “Bob, me pleasure. I’m Samantha.”

  “Nice name,” the boy cooed. “Hop aboard here and take a spin. You’ll see how sweet she is.”

  “Meself’d love to! How kind of ye.” Samantha purred, “Sure’n I’m beholden to ye, Bob.”

  “No worries. Here ye go. Foot here. Aye, that’s it. Now so long as you keep your speed up, you should have no trouble.”

  “How do I stop?”

  “Eh, the brakes are a bit shaky. Just keep turning corners and ride around the block.”

  Vickers was climbing onto his horse.

  Samantha pushed off. She giggled as the front wheel dipped and wavered. “This is glorious!”

  Bob ran eagerly alongside.”Perhaps you’d like to join me for lunch somewhere.”

  “I’d love it.” Samantha pedaled harder.

  There went Vickers around a corner. Samantha headed for the same corner. Bob stopped, winded, and called cheery encouragement from the middle of the street. She was on her way.

  How fortunate she was that this wasn’t one of those bicycles with the huge front wheel on which you rode atop! On this machine the rider’s position was more or less slung between the two wheels and she wasn’t much higher off the ground than if she were walking. Difficult as this was, it was much faster than any gait afoot. Every time she hit a bump, the little saddle reminded her of her recent folly on horseback, and there were ruts and bumps aplenty on this ragged road. No matter. It was far, far better than a horse’s saddle.

  Vickers left town practically at a lope and try as she might Samantha could see no sign of Mr. Sloan. The game had become hers. She rounded a curve just in time to see Vickers turn his horse aside onto a dismal forest track. She barely made the turn herself. One advantage to horses; they more or less self-steer.

  Vickers’ horse was the only animal to take this track recently. She could see his one set of hoofprints. She saw also, in the thick and clinging mud, that his horse had cast its right front shoe. Good! If she lost the trail, Mr. Sloan might perhaps find Aboriginal trackers who could pick up the unique trace.

  The forest closed in, pressed down, shut out the filtered light. It was beginning to rain; she could hear the patter in the treetops even though no water was as yet reaching the ground. She could hear also the steady beat of the horse up ahead.

  Dark forest like this always bothered her. Why was she feeling so elated? She almost giggled aloud as the answer came to her; her bit of charm on the boy named Bob had worked. Amazing! Samantha was not a charming woman. Charm never worked on people who mattered, like prospective employers in Cork. And yet, a smile and a nod had played young Bob right into her hands.

  She would return the bicycle, of course, at the earliest opportunity, and perhaps she could even convince Mr. Sloan to pay some sort of fee for it. It was, after all, a godsend.

  Godsend. Godsend? She could not imagine God being involved in this sort of flummery, assuming there was One such. Was God involved at all with Mr. Sloan? Luke Vinson was the man trained in godly matters, and he was constantly at odds with her master. Did that mean Mr. Sloan was ungodly? Quite probably. She had watched Byron Vickers’ face yesterday, the face of a man dreadfully wronged. Godly people do not ruin others.

  Her legs were getting very tired; muscles she had never known existed began to chide her. They were not the same muscles used for horse riding, either. And the muscles where her shoulders met her neck were tight and aching, too.

  The hoofbeats ahead had stopped. She let her vehicle coast to a halt; it slowed quickly in the clinging mud. Silence, except for the rain patter above. She waited, trying to see everywhere, unable to see anywhere for the dense growth and darkness.

  The hoofbeats began again, moving away. She pushed off and with great difficulty got rolling again. The road was very steep here, and up is not the best direction to take with a bicycle (another advantage of horses!). Shortly she got off the machine and walked rapidly, pushing her bicycle and keeping an eye on the fresh tracks cut in the mud.

  She was tired, oh so tired. Mr. Sloan had provided her with a tiny garret room to herself and she had slept the clock around. But twelve hours’ rest does not make up for a preceding night spent in a saddle. She was hungry, too, although she doubted Bob would be particularly enthusiastic now at the notion of buying her lunch.

  The forest seemed lighter up ahead. The hoofbeats either stopped again or were muffled somehow. She left the bicycle in a clump of ferns and moved forward carefully. The rain was penetrating to the forest floor now. It came not in the usual filter of little raindrops but in the huge clunky blobs that collected on myriad waxy leaves.

  Vickers had ridden out into a grassy sort of clearing. At the far side of the glade, tucked against the rain forest wall, stood a shanty of unpainted boards. Its shake roof was green and hairy with moss, its stovepipe rusty red. Mr. Vickers swung down, tied his horse to a bush and entered the lopsided front door.

  Samantha looked and listened for any sign of a dog. It seemed safe; she stepped cautiously into the clearing and paused. The horse raised its head slightly to watch her from the back of its eye, but it made no noise. She hurried along the edge of the clearing to the shack’s windowless wall and pressed in close.

  “ … Listened a couple times,” Vickers’ voice was saying, “but I didn’t hear no horse. Nobody followed me.”

  “I was so frightened for ye.” Amena O’Casey! “Perhaps Luke was wrong. Perhaps I best go back and finish out at Sugarlea. If Mr. Sloan can get ye thrown in the dungeon for no reason, there’s nae
seeing the end of what he can do.”

  “They couldn’t keep me.”

  “Three days they kept ye. Three days without ye. Ah, Byron, ye cannae imagine what ye mean to me! Me whole life long have I yearned for the man who’d be mine. A strong man and noble, and a gentle lover. Ye be it all and more. Byron, I love ye so.”

  Vickers mumbled something reciprocal and appreciative, but it was Amena’s words that tore at Samantha’s heart. For over a decade she herself had been seeking that very thing, without finding a man who so much as approached those ideals. Nae even a close call, as Grandmum said.

  Amena had found her man. Samantha could tell by the warmth in her voice. What was pure joy, Byron Vickers had found his woman; you could hear it in every word. Now here was Samantha ready to rush back to Mr. Sloan, tattling, wreaking further havoc with their lives! Amena was breaking a vow made Mr. Sloan. But Mr. Sloan had broken Amena’s man, damaging his good name. When did all this horrid breakage end? When did the books close, the sides declare even-steven, the slates sponge clean?

  Amena was giggling. “Byron! None of that now. Should we not be on our way south, making our escape? Byron—”

  “We will, we will. Later. After bride and groom business be taken care of. Three days without ye’s a lifetime, Amena.”

  The past spoke to Samantha. Edan: Ye care naething for freedom, do ye.

  Yea, Edan, I do care for freedom. So far as Samantha was concerned, the books closed now. She stepped back and turned away. She would return to the bicycle, roll down the hill back to Cairns and report … report what?

  The horse stirred and nickered as she moved within its view. Rain whispered all around her.

  “Halt!” Vickers’ voice sent her straight up a foot. She wheeled.

  The dark bear stood shirtless in the doorway, a rifle or shotgun of some sort leveled on Samantha. He took a step forward, out into the drizzling rain. “I shook Sloan, but I wasn’t expecting you. Ye’re good, Miss Connolly, to follow me clear out here without me knowing.”

  Why didn’t that great black gun muzzle gaping at her heart frighten her? Why wasn’t she hysterical? “’Tis appropriate to congratulate the bridegroom, I believe. Me congratulations.”