Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) Page 2

  And yet she knew that millions of Irish lads and lasses like her, men and women with no prospects or expectations, had done exactly that. For the last sixty years, ever since the potato famine, more Irish had left the auld sod than had been born on it. There were fewer eligible men now than when she was a child. And the young men were still emigrating, chasing rainbows—and girls—across alien meadows.

  The kitchen finally put in order, Samantha took a light up to her room and dug out her atlas. She hadn’t looked at this old book in years. It hadn’t been the biggest or most accurate of atlases when it was new, and Samantha had not purchased it new; she had no money for that sort of extravagance. But it contained maps, scores of maps, some in color, and it fueled dreams as no other book can. Samantha loved maps. What was the term? Cartophile. She might not be good enough to land a husband or a good job, but she was a grand cartophile.

  The map of Australia was as she remembered it—a huge expanse of blankness. The artist didn’t have the imagination to populate its vast unknown reaches with fantastic monsters the way medieval cartographers filled unknown oceans of yore. And no one had explored most of the continent, apparently. Mossman. The man purchasing indentures wrote from Mossman. But these map-makers had never heard of any Mossman. She tried to picture what this flat white surface must look like for real.

  Here were some scraggly lines where Burke and Wills traversed the land a few scant years before the book was printed. Here was the penal colony, and there was Sydney. The great clippers had sailed from Sydney on the wool runs—Cutty Sark, Thermopylae …

  A wail in the night—someone had cried out! Samantha tried to sit up straight, but a painful crick in her neck kept her S-shaped. Her lamp fizzed and flickered, nearly dry. She was scrunched in her chair like a ball of wadded-up paper. How long had she slept? Several hours, quite probably.

  Her mother moaned. She could tell Papa’s rumbling voice and even upstairs here, through two closed doors, she heard the anguish in it. She bolted downstairs.

  The parlor was filled, but not by Edan. In the middle of the room stood a constable, shuffling from foot to foot, and a crisp young British army officer of some type. Papa stood rigid, his arms wrapped around Mum, and his cheek buried in her hair. Margaret draped across the divan sobbing. Grandmum sat on the ottoman by the clock and simply stared at the rug, rocking mindlessly back and forth.

  Samantha almost missed Ellis. The stripling, devoid of his veneer of manhood, had melted into the corner under the staircase. It was his den, his hiding place, the hole he always curled up in when his world had gone drastically awry.

  Linnet—Linnet’s tender face told Samantha the news; she didn’t need these bumbling talebearers. The shock and grief in Linnet’s face told all.

  “Edan. ’Tis Edan, aye? There was some sort of trouble and Edan was—”

  “Trouble of the worst sort, yes.” The officer’s voice crackled, just as sharp and unyielding as his expertly pressed uniform. “Illegal meeting and public disturbance. Mr. Connolly here—you’re the father, I presume?—called the army to fault. As I pointed out to him, the queen’s army will maintain order, and by whatever means necessary to assure control. Persons fomenting disorder know that before they begin.” He jabbed the constable’s arm. “We’ve done our duty.” They nodded brusquely. “Ladies—” and they were gone into the wet night.

  Samantha stood transfixed, but only for a moment. Edan … ? She needed facts, she needed the truth, and Ellis, poor Ellis, had been there. He knew. She crossed to the boy and put her hands on his shoulders. “Please tell me.”

  Ellis stared numbly at her sleeve. “The meeting was all shouting at each other ’til some soldiers marched in unexpected. Then the yelling was at them. I was in back; couldn’t see; after the shooting, there was …” The frail shoulders shrugged. “There was Edan and Sean Morley and one other fellow on the floor and all the blood …” The fragile voice drifted to silence.

  Samantha wrapped her arms around her brother, and Ellis, flaccid Ellis, did not resist.

  Margaret stirred on the divan. “Sam? I’ll walk along with ye on the morrow when ye apply for that indenture.”

  Samantha shuddered, a wrenching sob-turned-sigh. Tears were coming now, at last, to help ease the pain. “Do ye suppose there’s any place where warriors laugh, and are kind, instead of striking down our brightest and best? Bright light and warm cheer instead of … instead of this?”

  Chapter Two

  With Fear and Trembling

  Did the storm seem to be dying a bit? It didn’t matter. Samantha mourned her lost homeland, the gentle yesterdays of her youth, and nothing the wind could do now would mollify her. She’d return to her Ireland this moment if she could, but she’d not be able to do that for a long time to come. For the moment she had no money, no influence, no luck. She was trapped on an alien continent, in the claws of a typhoon the likes of which she had never ever seen.

  Loose sheets on the galvanized metal roof started banging wildly. That was a good sign; until now they had been held to one stiff and unwavering position by the constant gale. Something in the darkness above her ripped away; rain pelted her face. Another tree went down in the garden.

  Finally, by degrees, the storm was easing; Samantha could tell. The wild wind slowed. Rain by the gallon drenched the world and everything in it. Only here in the tropics did such dense deluges fill earth and sky. She curled tightly in her corner another hour as rain dumped on her through the ripped roof.

  “Sam? Sam! Where are you?” The thick baritone came booming across from somewhere near the dining room.

  Samantha’s heart leaped. His plantation was ruined, his house broken, and yet it was she he thought of first! “Here, Mr. Sloan! I’m coming!” She squirmed to untangle her legs from her skirts, to stand erect. “I’m here.”

  “Hiding! Like the rest of this worthless help. I expected better of you. Come along.”

  “I can’t see—”

  “I sent Doobie to jury-rig a line from the power station. We should have lights in another hour.”

  Samantha stumbled across the ravaged room, following her master’s voice through the blackness. She barely avoided colliding with the face. A stone cylinder nearly seven feet high stood in the middle of the parlor floor, more or less marking the end of the foyer and the beginning of the room proper. On one side of it was chiseled a hawk-nosed face. Granite eyes gazed unseeing out the many little panes of the big parlor window.

  Mr. Sloan’s voice rolled on. He was already entering the kitchen, headed for the back door. “The stable collapsed. I want you up there helping dig out the horses. Soon as they’re all freed, run down to the mill and help Gantry. I want that mill operating tomorrow morning. We’re going to have a blooming lot of downed cane to run through it in a hurry.”

  “Please, sir, me sisters? Meg and Linnet?”

  “Meg’s down at the mill. I’ve no idea where Linnet’s hiding.” Impatience. Harsh, bitter impatience robbed his voice of its pleasant lilt.

  The kitchen appeared pretty well intact. Kathleen Corcoran, the big, bulky cook, had lighted kerosene lamps here and there. She bustled about now preparing hearty snacks to sustain the workers who would be struggling through the night. She seemed so efficient, so smooth. Even her white dust cap still looked crisp and clean. Sudden shame warmed Samantha’s wet cheeks. While she cringed in fear, Kathleen had been working! Samantha didn’t even have the excuse that Kathleen was accustomed to this sort of thing, for Kathleen had arrived with Samantha and her sisters; such a short time ago, and it seemed so long.

  Cole Sloan paused at the back door and turned. The ruddy lamplight made his tanned skin glow. Samantha’s very first impression of him, two months ago, multiplied itself now. Here was a marvelous-looking fellow, tall and dark and well proportioned. He had shed the tropical white jacket he usually wore and had rolled his sleeves to his elbows. His shirt, dirty and sopping wet, gaped open now practically to his waist. There wasn’t an ounce of fat
on the man anywhere.

  “Look for your sister in the morning, Sam. The horses come first.” He wheeled and disappeared into the roaring darkness.

  Obedience and shame mastered her fear. She plunged out the back door bravely. Rain like steel beat against her shoulders and stung her face. She followed the crashing footsteps ahead of her and hoped Mr. Sloan was returning to the stable area. She’d been a fool to think he’d worry about her. He had greater things to worry about than an indentured housemaid.

  Filtered lights beyond the thrashing jungle foliage told her where the stable lay. Doobie the fix-it-all handyman had already set up electric lamps here. The horses come first.

  Mr. Sloan, a hundred feet ahead of Samantha, stepped out into the circle of light. Instantly Fat Dog, the stable foreman, was at his elbow, pointing wildly, gesturing toward the smashed roof that lay all a-shambles across the collapsed walls. Fat Dog’s shiny black face glistened in the yellow light. His eyes, sunk deep beyond the beetling aboriginal brows, caught the glint now and then as he turned.

  “Here’s Sheba!” called a cane-cutter. In the midst of the wreckage the chubby little bay mare staggered to her feet. The cutter gripped her nostrils with one hand and an ear with the other, holding the terrified horse in place.

  “Clear this!” roared Mr. Sloan with a sweep of the arm, and many hands leaped to the work, Samantha’s included. Two men with wrecking bars wrenched at this pile of splinters and that. Mr. Sloan himself helped heave and push shattered lumber until Sheba could step, shaking, to safety.

  Samantha was up to her knees in wreckage now, pulling at broken joists. A splinter gouged into the palm of her hand, but she ignored the flash of pain and the oozing blood. She’d attend it later. The horses come first.

  “Here’s Glowworm, sir. Back’s broke, I think.”

  A long gray head with rolling eyes appeared from between two timbers. The gelding struggled; the head disappeared.

  Mr. Sloan pulled a pistol from his belt at the small of his back; Samantha had not noticed it before. “Stand on his neck, Vickers. Keep his head still.”

  She pinched her eyes shut and steeled herself; still the gunshot exploded like a cannon on her frazzled nerves. Her eyes grew hot; Glowworm’s soft lips had nibbled crushed bits of cane off her opened hand a million times, and now …

  If Mr. Sloan cared at all, he didn’t show it. Instantly he was scrabbling again through the sorry wreckage. “Fat Dog, who’s under here? Gypsy?”

  “Yuh, Boss. Not much hope, eh?”

  “Bring that light.” The handsome face, wet with slathering rain, tilted and strained to see through the jumbled lumber. Samantha moved in right beside him. Gypsy was Linnet’s special favorite. What would sweet and sensitive little Linnet do if Gypsy were a casualty of this hideous night?

  Mr. Sloan shook his head. “All I see is blood.” He reached behind him again for that pistol.

  “Please, sir!” Impulsively, Samantha grabbed his arm. “She’s Linnet’s favorite, and nae such a bad horse. Please don’t.”

  He glared at the hand on his arm.

  She held steady. “Please, sir?”

  He scowled. “She’s too high strung; she’d never heal well, especially in this climate. I can’t afford the time and cost of her, even if her bones be sound. Get back.”

  The master had spoken. With a sense of loss she would not have expected in herself, Samantha stepped back.

  From the wreck, from nowhere, came a thin and flutey voice. “Nae! Dinnae hurt her, Mr. Sloan, please! Dinnae kill her!”

  “Linnet!” shrieked Samantha. “Where are ye?!”

  “With Gypsy here. Please, Mr. Sloan. I’ll take care of her, I promise!”

  A seldom-heard expletive burst from Mr. Sloan’s lips. “Dig ’em out!” He jammed his pistol back into his belt.

  Dig Samantha did, and frantically, though she had not the slightest idea what she was doing. These modern electric lamps put out hardly more light than any kerosene lamp. She could find no place to put her feet solidly; slippery palm-frond thatching and smashed lumber covered the ground. The roof had been thatch, the walls no more than a few poles to hold up the roof. How could so flimsy a building create such a frightening, hideous mess?

  Samantha took one corner as black workers and white lifted most of what remained of the roof framing away in one grand chunk. That helped. Much of the stall divider came up in one piece. Samantha struggled with her share and nearly fell.

  A shoulder far stronger than hers braced against her, supporting her, and arms far stronger than hers took over lifting the divider. She glanced aside to see who this was as Mr. Sloan’s voice barked.

  “Vinson! She’s not here, so get out of here. Go preach to somebody else’s horses.”

  The stall divider tipped aside and fell away. Other hands dragged it off into the darkness.

  The man beside her stood his ground. “You can use me for a few hours yet, Sloan, and I’m happy to help. I saw your lights up here, knew it was the stable area and figured you must have a problem. No other reason to pour light on a stable in this storm.”

  Samantha knew Luke Vinson only as the preacher in the little church at the crossroads a half mile away, and as Meg’s newest love interest. He was almost as good-looking as Mr. Sloan, and almost as tall—but not quite. He lacked, though, the rich darkness of her employer’s coloring. He was light-haired, and so fair that no amount of tropical sun would ever darken him up.

  No thanks, no appreciation for what was obviously a quite thoughtful gesture—Mr. Sloan glared at him up and down and then, without another word, again bent his back to the task of freeing Linnet and Gypsy.

  And the Rev. Vinson (it was Reverend, wasn’t it? Not Father. She was pretty sure of that) worked just as eagerly and earnestly. The little horse squealed when a timber broke loose and fell. Linnet’s soft soprano purred in the darkness. Samantha could hear the horse thrashing.

  “Linnet!” Mr. Sloan called. “Keep the horse quiet. Sit on her neck or something.”

  “I cannae.” The small voice sounded even weaker than usual. “I’m stuck. I cannae move.”

  Samantha’s heart thumped. She was afraid, now, and it wasn’t a fear to be ashamed of. She was afraid for Linnet, for her gentle, fragile little sister buried in this dark chaos.

  Mr. Sloan let fly another expletive, Reverend present or not, and put two strong backs to the wrecking bars. With a crack and the groans of spikes in wet wood, they tore aside the shattered manger. Gypsy convulsed and lurched to her feet. Mr. Sloan and Fat Dog grabbed her head to hold her in place. Two cutters joined Samantha and Rev. Vinson, and together they freed up a path to safety. Rev. Vinson pulled his belt from his waist and looped it around Gypsy’s head and nose. Fat Dog led her carefully out of her splintered home to open ground.

  Instantly Mr. Sloan dived into the wreckage until only his back showed. Here came Linnet, pallid in the sallow lamplight, and Mr. Sloan was holding her steady. Blood and tears streaked her face. She twisted around to face her master.

  “I was so afraid ye’d shoot her. I heard them say ‘here’s Glowworm’ and the gun went off, and then ye were working yer way toward us and I knew … I was afraid ye’d …” She sucked in air, a dry and shuddering sob.

  “What in blazes were you doing here?”

  She shrugged and studied her hands. “Sure’n ye know how nervous Gypsy can be. When the storm got bad I was afraid she’d panic and perhaps hurt herself, so I came up to try and keep her calm.” The liquid gray-green eyes rose to meet Mr. Sloan’s. “I dinnae finish stretching the strings for the peas like ye told me to, but the surf was coming up into the garden, so I dinnae think ’twas mattering too much anymore.”

  Mr. Sloan stood there in the seething, thundering rain, his face tight with rage, for a long tense moment. “Sam, take her down to the house, then return immediately. We still have three horses buried in this mess.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sloan.” Samantha wrapped an arm around Linnet’s shoulde
rs and led her out the same cleared path Gypsy had followed. As they left the circle of light, Samantha glanced behind her. Rev. Vinson and Mr. Sloan were pulling at a thick roof beam.

  Linnet snuffled. “Is Meg all right?”

  “Mr. Sloan says she’s working down at the mill. Linnet, that was so stupid!”

  “Stupid? Nae. Gypsy was half out of her mind until I got there. She would’ve destroyed herself.”

  Wet leaves and branches slapped Samantha’s face. Without Mr. Sloan to follow, Samantha had trouble keeping to the path. Then suddenly white light flared to life up ahead. Doobie had jury-rigged his line to the house.

  Samantha pushed the kitchen door open and half dragged her sister through it. She pulled a chair up beside the stove. Linnet collapsed onto it with a plop.

  Samantha started stripping wet clothes off the girl. “Is this blood yer own or Gypsy’s?”

  “Gypsy’s, I think. Except for that piece of wood that was pinning me arm down, I was under her. She protected me.”

  Kathleen Corcoran stood herself squarely in front of Linnet, with arms akimbo. “I’ve seen mice in better shape after they’ve been carried in by the cat. Ye can go back up, Sam; I’ll take care of this frail little bird.”

  Samantha stood erect. “Yerself has duties, too.”

  “Got a pile of sandwiches made, the coffee’s on and the soup will be ready soon. I’ve time enough for this.”

  “Very well.” Samantha watched Linnet a moment. The girl did not seem to be in pain or difficulty, and a bit of color was starting to return to her cheeks. Samantha looked at bold, hulking Kathleen. “Weren’t ye frightened during the worst of it?”

  “Eh, nae.” The cheery face grinned, and its round red cheeks bunched up into apples. She pointed to a wet spot in the ceiling. “Lose some roof? Nae matter; didn’t even drip on me head to soil me cap. Besides, Sam, meself is young and that’s next best to immortal. Naething’s gonna kill me for a long time yet.”