Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) Page 4

  “‘Scuse me, sir.” Linnet curtsied. “She purposed to take a little walk back the creek, is all. She’s sure to return in good time to prepare dinner.”

  “How far back the creek?”

  “Did nae say, sir. She fancies strolling in the forest, ’tis so unlike back home. Nae so far, I aver.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Straightway she returned with the wagon, sir.” Linnet curtsied again and nibbled her lip.

  The riding crop wagged at her. “Stay here. If she comes in, run to the stable and tell Fat Dog immediately. He’ll send runners to me. Also, I don’t ever want you near the estuary again, understand? That whole lowland is off limits. And clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.” The crop pointed at Samantha. “You come with me.” Mr. Sloan turned away, then turned back again. “And the two of you do your arguing some other place on your own time. I won’t have nattering and squabbling in this house.” He marched out.

  Samantha glared at Linnet but she didn’t have time to really skewer the wayward girl. She hiked her skirts and hurried out the door behind her master.

  What was afoot? And why was Cole Sloan striding along in such a determined way? His long, strong legs swallowed distance yards at a gulp. Samantha fell into a jogging trot behind him, trying to keep up.

  By the time they reached the stable the exertion had left her breathless. Samantha caught up to Mr. Sloan only when he stepped in under the makeshift thatched shelter-roof protecting the temporary horse stalls.

  “Sir?” She dragged less air into her lungs than her body was asking for. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I hope.”

  Fat Dog led Sheba out of her stall. The chunky mare was saddled, ready to go. She stood patiently, resigned, in quiet contrast to Gypsy’s prancing ways.

  Mr. Sloan gathered up her reins, stuffed a foot in a stirrup and swung aboard. “Your nephews back yet?”

  Fat Dog shook his head. “Still out there. Burriwi, he say it rains soon, better run fast, all the tracks gone rained away.”

  “Do we have ’til dark?”

  Fat Dog nodded. “But not ’til morning.”

  Mr. Sloan wrenched the mare’s head around and dug his heels into her ribs. She lurched forward at a decidedly uncollected canter, around the end of the shelter and off up the forest trail to the west.

  Samantha felt absolutely muddled. “If he’s in such a rush, why doesn’t he take Gypsy? She’s much livelier.”

  “Gypsy’s tired; just been out. Sheba fresh. Besides, missy, Sheba’s better forest horse.”

  “What is going on, pray tell? What’s happening?”

  “Missy Cook Kathleen, she go walkabout in the wrong place.” Fat Dog waved an arm approximately westward. “Back valley there, pools of water, some sea, some other; bad place go to walk.”

  “Why?”

  “Crocodile.”

  “But she’s only been gone an hour or two. What can happen in an hour? Surely Mr. Sloan is acting hastily.”

  Fat Dog frowned. Apparently hastily was not in his vocabulary. “Maybe she comes home quick. So, I go tell Mr. Sloan run say it. But rain tonight, it …” He waved a dark hand, seeking to snatch the right word from the air. “Rain it beats away the track. My nephews, they go look, find her track, go to her quick before is rain.”

  “Mr. Sloan is really worried something might have happened to her?”

  “Wrong place she walks. She don’ know. Come too far away; she don’ know where danger be’s. Me, Fat Dog, I worry, too.”

  Samantha’s heart thumped under her breastbone. From what little she knew of the aboriginal mind, worry was not a big part of their outlook on life. If Fat Dog was worried, the danger must be formidable.

  Two young aboriginal men appeared instantly out of the forest gloom—invisible one moment and standing there the next. One of them leaned casually against a shelter pole and tucked up one leg as these people were fond to do. The other scooped up one of three canvas packs and started back the trail Mr. Sloan had taken.

  Fat Dog handed Samantha a pack and shouldered the third himself. He took two steps, paused to adjust his load, and away he went. No word, no instruction. Apparently Samantha was to follow. Easier said than done. She struggled mightily with a bag of what must be lanterns; metal and glass clanked, and she could smell coal oil. No matter how she carried the pack, no matter how carefully she tried to move, angles and hard edges gouged at her, poked at her, rubbed on her.

  Fat Dog was getting farther and farther away. Soon Samantha would be walking alone through this tangle, abandoned by those ahead, too far along to turn back. Linnet was young and sprightly; why didn’t she ever get these sorts of chores?

  The faint trail followed the creek, more or less, and never seemed to climb up and out of the slurpy, swampy shore, nor did it bother to avoid all the low and reedy puddles. Samantha’s feet were soaked, and her black cotton skirt, like a wick, sucked fetid water up as high as her knees. Already she surely looked as muddy and forlorn as had Linnet just minutes ago. Silence closed in on the hot and heavy air. Where was everyone?

  Wrenching fear forced Samantha’s legs to move faster than they wanted, forced her poor back to ignore the drubbing the pack was giving it. Sweat formed salty beads and rivulets on her face. It soaked her underarms. She thought of the delicious green that made this forest appear so pleasant when viewed from the open, from the beach. The dark green, no longer sun bright, closed in around her ears now and reached toward her on every side, even from below. The long cords and buttresses of strangler figs stretched from the top of the world to the earth like prison bars. Myriad leaves blotted out the soft blue sky of waning day.

  Men’s voices ahead—how welcome they were! Or were they? She detected a frightening tone in them, a strange and ominous ring. The forest opened up ahead, and Samantha could see that Mr. Sloan was out of the saddle. He stood silent, grim, as Sheba shuffled nervously beside him—most unlike her. Fat Dog and the young man had abandoned their packs. The bags lay where they had been dropped in the mud beside a dark, quiet forest pool.

  A charming pool it was, perhaps two acres in size. A vertical wall of jungle hemmed it close around, so that its flat surface could reflect only the fading light from directly overhead. Light green bushes hung out over the water here and there as if shoved beyond the shore by the crouching forest. Over on its far side, a jumble of logs and brush like jackstraws lay half in and half out of the water. Black flies buzzed all around its edge, and near Mr. Sloan a great cloud of them swarmed.

  Samantha unceremoniously dropped her burden beside the other two packs. She looked from face to face and approached Mr. Sloan, for it was his tanned face she could read best. What she saw terrified her. He glowered at the pool surface, dark as a winter storm, while Sheba, normally so placid, fretted behind him.

  She stepped in close to his elbow. “Sir?”

  He gestured toward the ground with his quirt, flicked angrily at the buzzy swarm of flies. Roaring, the chaotic cloud lifted into the air. Beneath it the mudbank was slathered in a broad splash of bright cherry red. A yard farther, where the dank waters lapped at the greasy black mud, lay Kathleen Corcoran’s soiled, lace-trimmed cap.

  Chapter Four

  Victor

  Gloom. Tight, nerve-jangling, on-edge gloom. Samantha stood numb and listless in the gray morning half-light, on the shore of that morbid dark pool. She watched the rain dash dimples across its face. Mr. Sloan thought the earthly remains of Kathleen Corcoran lay somewhere beneath these black waters. Samantha didn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to think that. Kathleen was next best to immortal. She herself said so. She had become lost in the mysterious thickness of this forest, that’s all. She’d find her way out any time now.

  The rain had long since soaked Samantha to the skin. She was too distraught to care. Unlike chill Irish rain, this downpour was more like a warm bath. According to literary symbolism, rain cleanses. Rain pounded upon Samantha so earnestly she need never b
athe again. Green symbolizes hope and the renewal of life. She was surrounded by green—bushes, trees, moss, the stinking slime along the shore all abuzz with flies. Life could not have been cut off so viciously, horribly, unfairly. Samantha had no desire to move or speak.

  Speak she needn’t, but move she must. With the cook missing, cooking chores now fell to her. Back at the house she had prepared the household’s breakfast—no big thing, getting up long before dawn; she hadn’t slept a bit last night—and now she was the official camp cook here at poolside.

  Mr. Sloan was riding Sheba the forest horse again today. What was a forest horse? Samantha felt too drained to care, let alone ask. The patient old mare came kaplopping up the muddy trail at her rocking-horse canter and drifted to a lackadaisical halt beside the rain fly. Mr. Sloan didn’t have to hurry dismounting and ducking in under the canvas. His ride out from the house had soaked him thoroughly. Samantha stepped in under the rain fly beside him and poured him a mug of tea unbidden.

  He accepted it absently and stood at the very edge of the shelter, studying the little knots of aborigines standing here and there around the pool. “Anything happen this morning?”

  “Nae, sir. That Wurra Somebody thinks one or two may lie among the reeds on the far side there, but he’s waiting for the beaters, he says. He apparently kept watch here all night.”

  “Boats and beaters are on their way.” He sipped at his tea. The air was warm and muggy, as it always was here, and yet a curl of visible steam rose from the mug. The steam reminded Samantha of the hard-working dray horses back in Cork—how, on cool days, mist would rise from their sweaty backs. She almost expected such a gentle mist to rise from Mr. Sloan himself. His sopping wet shirt stuck to his skin so tightly she could feel his body warmth radiating.

  “Uh, sir? How do ye, uh … If there be more than one, how do ye tell which crocodile, uh, performed the dastardly deed? I mean, sir, if indeed the deed’s been performed.”

  “It has. Kill ’em all and slit bellies until we find trace of her.”

  Samantha’s stomach rebelled for the hundredth time. He said it so nonchalantly. And yet he appeared obviously and visibly shaken. Angry. His face and hands, his carriage—all bespoke anger. Not sorrow, not fear, certainly not hope. Anger.

  He stiffened as his head snapped around toward the trail. “What the bl—?”

  From the dank darkness of the forest stepped, of all people, the Rev. Vinson. His blond hair looked darker in this rain, plastered to his head as it was. With a grim half smile he strode straight to the rain fly and ducked in under the shelter. He nodded to Samantha and extended his hand to Mr. Sloan.

  Mr. Sloan declined. “Like a vulture, Vinson. You smell trouble and come soaring in from thirty miles away.”

  The Reverend shrugged boyishly. “These are state lands back here. Anyone can wander about.”

  “Rotten weather to be sightseeing, isn’t it?”

  “Rotten weather, yes. Both sides of the mountains. We get all this rain, and on the far side of the hills the sheep and cattle are wasting in drought. I received a letter this last week from a pastoralist friend near Charter’s Towers. Martin Frobel. It’d better rain there soon, he says. His cattle can’t take much more. And his brother down by Longreach is even worse off.” He stuck his wet hand out into the rain, palm side up. “And we get all this.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To help, if there’s something I can do. Also, I’m assuming Miss Corcoran was Roman Catholic. There’s no priest or other cleric in the area to perform extreme unction.”

  Samantha found herself smiling in spite of her sorrow. “Why, Reverend, ’tis most gracious of ye.”

  The man looked teen-aged when he smiled, albeit sadly. “I’m not an official cleric of that church, but apparently I’m better than nothing.” With a nod to Mr. Sloan he stepped out into the driving rain and wandered down to the shore.

  “Extreme what?” Mr. Sloan frowned.

  “Last rites for the dead or dying. One of the more important offices of the church. I’m ashamed to say I’d not thought of it ’til he brought it up. Me ties with the church be nae too strong; naething beyond duty, ye might say. I’ve nae idea what his own church thinks of it. ’Tis a blessed comfort, though, I tell ye, to know there’s someone about willing to do such a thing, whether ye belong in one church or another. Very thoughtful of the man.”

  “Right. Not to mention a fine excuse to come snooping and meddling.” Mr. Sloan turned to study her squarely, as if he were looking for an argument.

  Samantha dipped her head noncommittally. She knew better than to rise to the bait. Whatever the friction was between these two, it was none of a housemaid’s concern. “As ye wish, sir.” She turned away.

  The water in the big soup kettle looked hot enough now. She flopped a haunch of raw beef down on a makeshift chopping block/stump and began the mindless task of cutting it up. Just this small bit of blood nearly turned her stomach over again. The chilling memories of yesterday came back as vividly as if it were happening all over again. She tried, but soon her hands began to shake so violently she had to put the knife aside.

  Larger, steadier hands than hers picked up the knife and balanced the haunch on end. Luke Vinson whacked off a thick slice of meat and started chopping. “How big?”

  “That size is good, right there. Ye were once a butcher, aye? Or a cook?”

  “Once upon a time, I was a chemist.”

  “One who dispenses medicines.”

  “So they’re called in England. Over in America, they’re called druggists. I wasn’t a druggist. I was one who studies chemistry. A laboratory scientist. Also dabbled in physics. I’m certain they’re two departments of the same discipline. I looked forward to unraveling the mystery of the molecule, the harmony of the elements, the secret of the sun’s heat … pure research. But then I got redirected, you might say.”

  “Into the pastorate.”

  He nodded and expertly whacked off another chunk. “Born and raised in Canada, educated in the United States. Learned about the risen Christ when I happened onto an evangelistic meeting. A tent meeting.” He spread his hands. “And here I am.”

  “A much more colorful past than simply spending one’s life in County Cork. So now instead of unlocking the secrets of the universe, ye’re filling in for priests, aye?”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “That’s happenstance and a tragic one. No, I have goals. To right wrongs, to preach the gospel. There’s much to be done, and few workers to do it. For example, the plight of the South Sea islanders who—”

  Commotion in the forest stole Samantha’s attention. Here came Doobie and Mr. Gantry with a small army. Samantha recognized some of the faces, both black and white, as mill workers. On their shoulders they carried boats—a dugout canoe, a little punt, a small dory, a strange flatbottom rowboat Samantha could not even guess at identifying.

  Some of these men were not from Sloan’s estate at all. Apparently word of Kathleen Corcoran’s probable demise had spread through Mossman as well; half the town was here. Like vultures, knots of strangers arranged themselves along the shore and peered absently across the water.

  Amena O’Casey, Meg, and Linnet came slipping and sloshing into the camp, as burdened with extraneous parcels as Samantha had been. Samantha cast a quick glance at the minister. He smiled radiantly. Quite obviously, Meg’s infatuation was not unrequited.

  The smile wasn’t lost on Sloan, either. He snarled, “Do your courting on your own time, Vinson. She’s working.”

  Gantry, the mill foreman, came slogging over to the shelter, his craggy face absolutely morbid. He accepted a tin cup of coffee from Samantha without so much as a smile or a nod. “The last thing we need is this.”

  “Did you close down?” Mr. Sloan held his cup out for a refill.

  “Might’s well. The few men we got there now can’t handle it. Nobody can handle it, Mr. Sloan. We can’t salvage a half of what blew down. And that what we’re squeezing’s
poor quality. Poor quality. Y’ll not get a third of your value out of the whole crop.”

  “Chestley come up from Sydney yet?”

  “Aye. Dipped one hand in the soup and left again. Says he’s not interested.”

  “We’ll be done with this by nightfall or I’ll know the reason why. When you get back, shut down completely. Get rid of what’s left and lay the workers off. Cut our losses right now.”

  “That’s a whole lot of cut cane, Mr. Sloan. Get rid of it where?”

  “Dump it in the sea. Dump it in the forest. Get rid of it.”

  Samantha translated mentally. Get rid of what cane? The cane not yet processed, probably. Also, she felt pretty certain she remembered the name Chestley as being a sugar buyer from Sydney. Surely Mr. Sloan was wealthy enough that the loss of one year’s sugar harvest couldn’t scuttle him. And surely Chestley wasn’t the only sugar wholesaler in the world. And surely the situation couldn’t be too serious or Mr. Sloan would appear more bothered by Mr. Gantry’s report. Yet, if all these surelys were true, why did she feel such a tension here, such a heavy cloud?

  The boats were in the water now, and laden so heavily with beaters, black men and white, that only a few scant inches of freeboard kept them afloat. Bearing drums and poles, the men lined their rickety little boats out along the far shore. They beat the drums, they yelled in singsong, they thumped on the boats’ gunwales with sticks, they thrust the poles deep into the water before them.

  All the usual little forest noises disappeared in the din, even the constant rustle of rain in the leaves. Samantha walked down closer to the shore, watching faces more than events. The beaters out in the boats showed an exuberance, a heady thrill of the chase. Amid certain danger they were out to catch a croc. The Rev. Vinson watched from shore with a grim sadness to his boyish features.

  And Mr. Sloan? The plantation potentate stood close beside her, as grim as the preacher, but there was no sadness about him, none at all. Fury tightened every muscle of his face, as if this ancient reptile had personally affronted him. He had picked up his high-powered rifle, the sort of gun with which a hunter would go off in pursuit of elephants. Samantha had never liked guns; her mind flitted to memories of Edan. She abhorred guns now.