In the Land of the Long White Cloud (61 page)

Lucas would have liked to remain in the jungle, but despite the abundant fertility of this green hell, nothing could be found to eat. At least not by Lucas—a Maori tribe or a true ranger might have seen things differently. As it was, however, his growling stomach forced him to look for a human settlement. But which one? Westport was out of the question. Everyone there was guaranteed to know by now that the skipper was looking for a sailor who had jumped ship. It was possible that the
Pretty Peg
was even waiting for him.

Then he recalled that Copper had mentioned Tauranga Bay a few days earlier. Seal banks, twelve miles from Westport. The seal hunters surely knew nothing about the
Pretty Peg
and weren’t likely to care. But the hunting in Tauranga was supposed to be flourishing; doubtless he could find work there. With a light heart, Lucas headed that way. Seal hunting could not be any worse than whaling.

The men in Tauranga had indeed welcomed him, and the stench of their camp was more bearable. After all, it was in the open air, and the men were not penned together. It must have been evident to the men that something was not quite right about Lucas, but they did not ask any questions about his tattered appearance, his missing equipment, or his lack of money. They dismissed Lucas’s threadbare explanations with a wave.

“No worries, Luke. We get enough of your type. Just make yourself useful and bag a few pups. On the weekends we take the pelts to Westport. Then you’ll have money again.” Norman, the oldest hunter, sucked good-naturedly on his pipe. Lucas had a sneaking suspicion that he was not the only one here running from something.

Lucas could even have felt comfortable among these reticent, laid-back Coasters if it weren’t for the hunt itself—if you could even call the slaughtering of helpless pups in front of their horrified mothers’ eyes “hunting.” Doubtfully, he looked at the club in his hand and the animal before him.

“Well, do it, Luke! Take the pelt. Or do you think they’ll give you money in Westport on Saturday because you helped us with the skinning? We all help each other out here, but you only bring in money for your own pelts.”

Lucas saw no way out. He closed his eyes and swung.

B
y the end of the week Lucas had almost thirty seal pelts—and was plagued by even more shame and self-hatred than after his stint on the
Pretty Peg
. He was determined not to return to the seal banks after the weekend in Westport. The town was a burgeoning settlement. There had to be employment there that did not cause such personal torment—even if it meant admitting that he was not a real man.

The fur buyer, a short, wiry man who also ran the general store in Westport, was quite optimistic on his behalf. As Lucas had hoped, he did not connect the new hunter from the seal banks with the whaler who had fled the
Pretty Peg
. Perhaps his thoughts did not carry him that far back—or he simply did not care. In any event, he gave Lucas a few cents for each pelt and then readily answered his questions about other work in Westport. Lucas did not admit, of course, that he found the killing unbearable. Instead, he pretended it was the loneliness and the all-male company on the seal banks that had become too much for him.

“I’d like to live in town for once,” he explained. “Maybe find a wife, start a family…just not see any more dead seals and whales.” Lucas laid the money for the sleeping bag and clothing he had just bought to change into on the table. The trader and Lucas’s new friends bellowed with laughter.

“Well, you’ll find work easy enough. But a girl? The only girls here’re those in Jolanda’s establishment above the pub. They’d be about the right age to marry though.”

The men just took Lucas’s remark for a joke and could hardly stop laughing.

“You can ask ’em yourself right now!” Norman said good-naturedly. “You’re coming to the pub, aren’t you?”

Lucas could not refuse. He would have preferred to save his meager pay, but a whiskey sounded good—a little liquor might help him forget the seals’ eyes and the whale’s desperate thrashing.

The fur trader named a few other opportunities for work in Westport. The blacksmith might be able to use a hand. Had Lucas ever worked with iron? Lucas cursed himself for never having given a thought to how James McKenzie shod the horses on Kiward Station. Those sort of skills could have made him money here, but Lucas had never laid a hand on hammer and nails. He could ride a horse—but nothing more.

The man correctly interpreted Lucas’s silence. “Not a hand worker, eh? Never learned anything except how to beat seals’ brains in. But construction would be a possibility. The carpenters are always looking for help. They can hardly keep up with the contracts, with all the world suddenly wantin’ houses on the Buller. We’re going to be a real city! But they don’t pay much. No comparison with what you earn doing that.” He pointed to the fur.

Lucas nodded. “I know. But I figured I’d ask anyway. I…I’ve always been able to see myself working with wood.”

The pub was small and not particularly clean. But Lucas was just relieved that none of the patrons remembered him. They probably hadn’t given the
Pretty Peg
’s sailors a second look. Only the red-haired girl who was serving again that day seemed to look at him appraisingly as she wiped down the table before putting whiskey glasses in front of Norman and Lucas.

“Sorry it looks like a pigsty in here again,” the girl said. “I told Madame Jolanda the Chinese doesn’t clean right.” The “Chinese” was the rather exotic-looking barman. “But so long as no one complains…just the whiskey or something to eat too?”

Lucas would have liked to eat something. Anything that did not smell of the sea and seaweed and blood and was not quick-roasted over the seal hunters’ fire and gobbled down half raw. The girl seemed to care about cleanliness. So perhaps the kitchen was not as filthy as he might have feared at first glance.

Norman laughed. “Something to munch on, my dear? No, we can eat in camp, but there’s no sweet dessert like you there.” He pinched the girl’s rear.

“You know that’ll cost you a cent, right, dear?” she asked. “If I tell Madame Jolanda, she’ll go and put it on your tab. But I won’t be like that—for that cent, you can have a grab up here too.” The redhead pointed to her breasts. He groped heartily, joined by Johlen, one of the other men. Then the girl skillfully removed his hand. “There’ll be more of that later when you’ve paid.”

The men laughed as she stalked away. She was wearing tantalizingly red high-heeled shoes and a dress in various shades of green. It was old and had been patched more than once, but it was clean, and the sexy lace flounces had been carefully starched and pressed. She reminded Lucas a bit of Gwyneira. Sure, she was a lady, and this half-grown child here a whore, but she also had frizzy red hair, pale skin, and that flash in her eyes that indicated that she was not at all resigned to her fate. This was certainly not the final station for this girl.

“A real sweetheart, right?” remarked Norman, who had perceived Lucas’s gaze but misinterpreted it. “Daphne. The best horse in Madame Jolanda’s stable and, what’s more, her right hand. Without her, nothing would run around here, I tell you. She’s got everything under control. If the old lady was clever, she’d adopt the dear thing. But she only thinks of herself. One of these days that girl’s going to run away and take the best attractions with her. What do you think? You want her first? Or do your tastes run to something wilder?” He looked at the others with a wink.

Lucas did not know what to say.

Fortunately, Daphne returned with a second round of whiskey.

“The girls are ready upstairs,” she said as she passed the glasses around. “Drink up at your leisure—I’d be happy to bring the bottle
too—and then come on up!” She smiled encouragingly. “But don’t make us wait too long. You know, a little liquor provokes the desire but takes away the performance.” Just as quickly as Norman had reached for her rear before, she now seized him between the legs for revenge.

Norman jumped back but then had to laugh.

“Do I get a cent for that too?”

Daphne shook her head, letting her red hair fly as she did so.

“Maybe a kiss?” she twittered and drifted away before Norman could answer. The men whistled after her.

Lucas drank his whiskey and felt dizzy. How would he get out of here without failing miserably once more? Daphne did not arouse him at all. And yet she seemed to have set her eye squarely on him. Even just now, her gaze had lingered a bit longer on his face and slender, but muscular form than on the bodies of the others. Lucas knew that women found him attractive—that was unlikely to be any different with the whores in Westport than with the matrons in Christchurch. What was he supposed to do if Norman really did expect him to join them upstairs?

Lucas contemplated escaping again, but that was out of the question. Without a horse, he had no chance of leaving Westport; he would have to remain in town for the time being. And that would not work if, first thing on the first day, he marked himself for all time by fleeing from a red-haired whore.

Most of the men were already lightly swaying when Daphne finally reappeared and invited the company upstairs. But none of them were drunk enough not to notice Lucas’s absence if doubts were raised about him. And then Daphne kept resting her eyes on him.

The girl led the men into a salon decorated with plush furniture and diminutive tables that would have looked vulgar in any setting. Four girls clad in elaborate negligees were awaiting them there, as well as Madame Jolanda, of course—a short, fat woman with cold eyes who, before anything else, took a dollar from every man. “Then at least no one will run away before he’s paid,” she explained calmly.

Lucas paid his dollar, gnashing his teeth. Soon there would be nothing left of his week’s pay.

Daphne led him to one of the red seats and pushed another glass of whiskey into his hand.

“All right, stranger, how can I make you happy?” she said breathily. She had been the only girl not wearing a negligee, but now undid her bodice as though unintentionally. “Do you like me? But I’ll warn you: I glow red like fire! I’ve already set fire to a few.” As she spoke, she brushed her long strands of hair across his face.

Lucas did not react.

“No?” whispered Daphne. “Afraid? Tsk, tsk. Well, fine, maybe the other elements are more your thing. We have something for everyone. Fire, air, water, earth…” One after the other, she gestured to three of the girls, who were busy at work on the other men at the moment. The first was a pale, almost ethereal-looking creature with straight, pale blonde hair. Her limbs were petite, she was almost skin and bones, but he could detect big breasts beneath her thin shirt. Lucas found that repulsive. He would never be able to overcome his distaste and make love to this girl. A blonde dressed in blue with topaz-colored eyes embodied the element “water.” She appeared quite lively and was joking with the obviously enthusiastic Norman. “Earth” was a brown-skinned girl with black tresses, without a doubt the most exotic creature in Madame Jolanda’s collection, if not exactly pretty. Her facial features made her look tough, and her body was stocky. She nevertheless appeared to be charming the man she was flirting with just then. As he so often did, Lucas marveled at the criteria other men used to select their partners. Daphne was the prettiest of the girls, and Lucas knew he should have felt flattered that she had chosen him. If only she aroused him even a tiny bit, perhaps if she…

“Tell me, don’t you have anything younger to offer?” Lucas asked finally. He did not like the way that came out, but if he wanted to save face tonight, he had the best chance with a slender, boyish girl.

“Even younger than me?” Daphne asked, blown away. She was right; she was a mere child herself. Lucas guessed she was nineteen at most. Before he could answer, though, she looked him over with a careful eye.

“Now I know where I’ve seen you before! You’re the fellow who ran away from the whaler. While the fat queer, that Copper, was ordering a bath for you and him. I could have laughed myself half to death—there’s no way that guy had ever come into contact with soap before! So the love was unrequited, eh…but you do prefer boys, right?”