Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) (6 page)

“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.

At the far end, men in two boats hollered at once. A loud shotgun went off, both barrels, and one of the aborigines in the farthest boat stood, raised a spear and drove it straight down.

The quiet pool erupted in a wild spray of water. Thrashing, churning mayhem boiled up and tipped one of the boats over. Men screamed, splashing in white froth. Samantha saw a gaping snout thrust high, saw the huge tail whip the water. More spears sliced home; the froth turned red.

The pandemonium changed from fear to jubilation, though the shouting and hooting were quite as noisy as ever. As the upset boat righted itself and its soggy crew clambered back in, the farthest boat began to move this way, poled by eager hunters.

The aborigines among them laughed and sang. Samantha knew that to the aboriginal mind, “louder” meant “better by far,” and this whole boatload seemed in high feather. The rest of the line of beaters paused along the far shore as this boat brought the prize to Mr. Sloan.

Mr. Sloan transferred that hideous rifle to his left hand and gestured toward the butcher block. “Bring the knife.”

Samantha grabbed it and followed her master down to the water’s edge, as caught up in the chase now as anyone.

Four black men jumped out of the boat into the pool to drag their trophy ashore. Two yards of crocodile emerged from the dark water and still they hauled. Ten feet at least, and now twelve. Here were the limp hind legs—stubby, scaly little things for such an enormous monster. And the tail! When the men paused for breath and stood erect, a foot of the tail still lay in the water, its tip flicking absently. Samantha stood not four feet away from it and she couldn’t begin to fathom the horror of the beast.

“Leviathan,” murmured Luke Vinson beside her, his voice filled with awe.

“Oh …” Meg pressed close to the preacher’s arm, her eyes wide.

Mr. Sloan flourished the butcher knife, but Doobie held up a hand. “Wait.” He whipped out a carpenter’s rule and unfolded it rapidly, expertly. The crowd pressed tighter. Samantha was being squeezed between Mr. Sloan and Mr. Vinson and she didn’t care.

Silence reigned while the end of Doobie’s rule splashed against the twitching tail. The handyman stared through the water. “Nineteen feet, seven inches.” He stepped back.

Samantha closed her eyes. She didn’t have to watch to know what Mr. Sloan was doing. Hideous smells boiled up around her face and literally forced her to look.

Mr. Sloan was poking about with the knife blade inside the slashed belly. “Couple small bones, a bird beak. Fish and a goose is all he’s had lately.” He stood up straight. “Fat Dog, give it to your nephews for their clan.”

“Too right, Mr. Sloan!”

And the hunt was on again. The boat took its place in the line. The beaters thumped and drummed and yelled with an enthusiasm worthy of schoolboys on holiday at the beach. Inch by inch the boats moved forward across the tortured pool.

Meg and the men seemed to be drifting off to the left, closer and closer to the action. Samantha felt no desire to be a part of the scene. She had already seen more crocodiles than she cared to, ever again. She wandered off to the right along the shore. She should go back and start the stew, but she certainly wasn’t going to use that knife, and there was no other. She ought to start another pot of coffee, but she had no energy to walk back to the shelter.

The horror of all this and her lack of sleep worked in concert to turn Samantha’s brain to mush. She should be thinking deep, important thoughts just now and she couldn’t apply her mind to anything at all. Poor Kathleen. Jovial, bouncing, hard-working Kathleen.
Young yet; the next best thing to being immortal
. Ah, Kathleen …

The beaters were halfway across the pool now and approaching Samantha foot by noisy foot. There was Mr. Sloan, his rifle ready, striding along the mud nearly at the waterline, coming toward her.

The important thoughts finally surfaced in her weary mind. She should have moved off behind the party, not across the pool from it. She had walked in the wrong direction to get away from the action; the action was coming to her. Quite possibly, in the water between the beaters and herself there lurked a large and lethal reptile and here she stood watching the whole hideous hunting party come this way. And how reliable were those howling, trigger-happy hunters? She might well be right in their line of fire.

A twinge of terror cured her weariness instantly. What exactly might a cornered croc be expected to do? The unfocused shapelessness of the peril, her ignorance about it, multiplied her fear. She must get back away from the water. She turned and started hastily up the bank, slipping in the rain-slick slop.

Then the world exploded. As one the beaters screamed and pounded, Mr. Sloan shouted, his rifle roared—the pond burst high behind her, a great crashing wall of water. She dived forward without thinking into the slime and flung her arms over her head. Her face pressed tight into the mud as all the cannon of the Crimea thundered and volleyed.

Many footbeats came pattering toward her, but she dared not move, much less raise her head. Samantha Connolly, Mum’s little helper, the chief domestic of Sugarlea’s household staff, the woman in sure command of herself at all times, began to weep. She choked on mud and still she couldn’t stop her wild and violent sobbing.

“Sam!” Warm and powerful hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her to sitting. “Are you shot? Did I hit you?”

She shook her head; it was the best she could do for the moment. She tried to say “I’m fine, really,” but all that came out was a coughing fit. Against her better judgment she raised her eyes. The long, pointed nose and pallid gorge lay at her very feet. If crocodiles have eyelids, this monster wasn’t using them; the glassed eye stared unseeing at her shoe.

She forced her eyes higher. Mr. Sloan’s face was tight with concern, his dark eyes studying her anxiously. She tried again to ease his mind but only blithering came out. And then in the aftermath of her terror, he utterly surprised her. The master of Sugarlea wrapped his long arms around and gathered her in firmly against him. She was tear-streaked and muddy; her nose was plugged and slurpy from crying; and he didn’t seem to mind a bit.

Another heavy sob or two and she began picking up the pieces. She sat erect and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank ye, sir. I’m all right now.”

One of the beaters, a black fellow, approached the beast. Mr. Sloan twisted swiftly toward him and snarled, “It’s mine!” The man backed away instantly. The strange little vignette struck Samantha almost exactly like a lion laying claim to its kill—or a dog defending a bone.

She struggled to her feet, her legs all tangled in her skirts, and his strong hands steadied her. He left her then, and straddled the carcass. He rolled it to its side, its back toward her. The stubby little foreleg flopped limp. She couldn’t see the belly as he ripped it open, and just as well.

He stabbed and poked a moment, then stood erect. “The hunt is over.” Almost carelessly he tossed a black handful of something into the mud beside the beast’s snout. He dipped his head toward Gantry nearby. “Go find her.”

The mill foreman stared scowling at the black lump for a moment and turned away. He walked off toward the boats, shouting orders.

Mr. Sloan handed Samantha the knife. “Wash it off in boiling water first.”

“Aye. Of course.” She looked at him and didn’t feel the least ashamed of the hot tears in her eyes. “I dinnae understand, sir. Kathleen’s gone, aye? Ye’re certain?”

He turned toward the rain fly, so she walked beside him. He rubbed his face. “Yes, I’m certain.”

“The black thing?”

“Her shoe. Guess you didn’t recognize it. You see, Sam, a croc’s jaws are murderously strong, but its teeth aren’t really all that sharp. So it seizes its victim and drags it underwater ’til it drowns. If the prey is small enough to swallow, down it goes. If it’s big, the croc will simply hold the body in its mouth until it softens up—decomposes—or stashes it away underwater for a while.”

“And returns to it later when ’tis nice and tender.” Samantha shuddered. She stepped in under the rain fly and glanced at the chopping block. A curtain of noisy black flies had descended upon the beef haunch. She took a deep breath and met Mr. Sloan eye to eye.