A Tattooed Heart (29 page)

She sat for a short while, crying for her lovely gin and lemonade now lying on the ocean floor, but mostly for herself. Then she wiped her face on her skirt and went back out into the mess room, her hand clamped firmly against the cabin's ceiling as the ship rolled unpleasantly.

‘Enjoy your tipple?' Sarah asked.

Friday sat down. ‘Sarah?'

‘What?'

‘Why don't you just shut up for a change?'

Sarah said, ‘You've got a cheek. We all know what you've just done.'

‘You don't.'

‘We do. You've just had a drink.'

‘I have not.'

Sarah leant across the table, grabbed Friday's hair, pulled her close and sniffed her breath. ‘Saving it for later, are you?'

Harrie said, ‘Don't be such a cow, Sarah.'

‘I'm
not
. You know what she's like.'

Fed up with Sarah and her continual harping, already very much regretting her rash dumping of the gin, and feeling sicker by the minute, Friday shouted, ‘Will you shut the fuck up! I threw it out the window.'

Sarah marched off into the little room behind the curtain, barrelling into the doorway as the ship rolled. Aria, Harrie and Friday stared at one another, Friday automatically turning red. After a minute Sarah reappeared, sat down, and grinned hugely. ‘Good girl.'

Aria said, ‘What did I tell you? My woman does not lie. Not when it matters.'

‘You said she only had lemonade,' Sarah shot back.

Aria opened her mouth to respond but, fortunately, was interrupted by Pierre appearing with a platter piled high with scones. Setting them on the table he declared, ‘For the mademoiselles, immediately from the galley fire. I will bring the butter and the tea.'

Keen to divert a clash between Aria and Sarah, Friday said, ‘They look as good as yours, Harrie.'

‘I bet they aren't,' Harrie replied.

The tea came on a tray with a crock of fresh butter, then Pierre took a plate of scones up on deck, presumably for the crew.

‘I feel guilty,' Harrie said. ‘We're sitting at their table while they have to eat their food up there in the wind.'

Sarah snorted. ‘You always feel guilty, but don't. I'm sure Mrs H is paying the captain plenty for the privilege of us using their table.'

‘I know she is,' Friday said, reaching for a scone. Perhaps food would help her bilious guts.

Harrie patted her hand. ‘I'm proud of you. I really am. Thank you. I know you're doing your best for Charlotte.'

Friday felt her face growing warm again. Hardly anyone complimented her any more, except Aria, and even her praise had tapered off lately. She dug a knife into the butter and spread a slab of it across half a scone, where it sat for a moment before melting and running in oily rivulets onto the tin plate. Suddenly feeling quite violently sick, she pushed it away and bit into the unbuttered half instead. It was delicious (and actually better than Harrie's), but as she watched the lantern hanging from the ceiling swing from side to side, she couldn't get the mouthful to go down her throat.

She spat it onto her plate just as Pierre trotted down the steps.

‘She is no good, the scone?'

‘It's very nice, ta,' Friday replied. ‘Just feeling a bit . . .' She blew out her cheeks and made a vomiting face.

‘La mal de mer? Already? Pierre will give you special potion. Secret Cajun herbs steeped in brandy. Never fail.'

‘No!'
Sarah, Harrie and Aria shouted in unison.

‘Friday isn't having drink. Can you make it without the brandy?' Harrie asked. ‘Will it still work?'

‘Mmm.' Pierre cupped an elbow in a hand and tapped his top lip with his fingers. ‘Perhaps with just the petit ale? Let me see.' He scuttled off.

‘Try and eat your scone,' Harrie suggested to Friday. ‘Then if you are sick, you'll have something to bring up.'

‘Other than my arsehole?' Friday said gloomily.

Sarah grinned, but Aria absolutely let rip with her dirty laugh. ‘That is a good one! I have not heard that before!'

‘It's not funny, you know,' Friday muttered. ‘I get really sick at sea.'

‘She does,' Harrie confirmed. ‘We thought she was going to die on the convict ship.'

‘You should go up on deck,' Aria suggested. ‘The fresh air will make you feel better.'

‘No, it won't.' Friday shuddered. ‘The sight of the horizon going up and down all the time . . .'

Aria said, ‘I do not think we are even out of the harbour yet, are we? I will go and look.'

She disappeared up the cabin steps, a buttered scone in one hand, her skirts bunched in the other. A minute or so later there was a lot of rather aggressive-sounding shouting in Maori. Aria reappeared, looking highly annoyed.

‘That Te Kanene needs to be taught a lesson. What a shit.'

Alarmed, Friday asked, ‘Why?'

‘He told me to get below as though I am some sort of . . . commoner! Does he not know who I am? He will be sorry. Rude bloody Ngati Kahungunu.'

‘Where's your scone?' Sarah asked.

‘Stuck to the back of Te Kanene's ugly head.'

‘Are
we out of the harbour?'

‘We have just crossed the Heads and we are heading north.'

‘Oh God,' Friday groaned, setting her arms on the table and laying down her head.

‘Do not despair!' Pierre implored, placing a tumbler of dark, viscous liquid before her. ‘Drink this, you will see.'

Friday sat up and sniffed it. The drink looked, and smelt, like shit. ‘God almighty!'

Pierre shrugged. ‘That is why the brandy. Hold the nose.'

With her thumb and forefinger clamping her beak shut, Friday took a gulp, gagged, retched and coughed the mouthful back up all over the table. ‘For fuck's sake, it's
disgusting.
'

Pierre tutted. ‘Such flowery language. Try again. For Pierre. She will work, I promise. On the count of three: un, deux,
trois.'

Friday drank almost all of it, gagged again, clapped a hand over her mouth, sat very still for about thirty seconds while her eyes watered, then let out a gargantuan burp.

Patting her on the back, Pierre said, ‘Très bon!'

Friday said, ‘It had better bloody work. That was like swallowing someone else's spew.'

‘Charming,' Sarah said.

‘You bloody well try it.' Friday pushed the tumbler across.

‘No, thanks.'

Friday looked at Pierre. ‘How long will it take?'

‘To work? Oh, the potion she works quickly.'

The potion did work quickly. Friday felt better in about half an hour. She stopped feeling sick and, to her absolute shock, even realised at one point that she'd also stopped fretting about the bottles left behind on the seabed. It was a pity that Pierre's disgusting drink couldn't combat boredom, however, because that set in with a vengeance. They ate his admittedly very tasty food, played cards, dominoes and cribbage, made unnecessary trips to the head, and talked about what they would do to Jonah Leary when they caught up with him, but after five hours of being stuck below, they'd had enough. It was like being on the
Isla
again. Nowhere near as unpleasant, of course, but the restrictions on their freedom were the same. And, frankly — and ironically, as Friday, Harrie and Sarah were still all bonded convicts — they'd become very accustomed to their freedom.

At half past five, Sarah went above deck and told Captain Farrell she thought it unreasonable that she and her colleagues were being forced to stay below, and that they would all be coming up for a while for fresh air. Captain Farrell informed Sarah that the
Katipo
was his ship, that they would abide by his rules, and
if they chose not to, he would sail to shore, lower a rowboat and leave them on a beach.

‘What a tosser,' Friday said when Sarah went below again.

Sarah said, ‘We could mutiny.'

‘Shush,' Harrie urged, wincing. ‘Pierre's in the galley again.'

‘We are not the crew,' Aria pointed out. ‘Only a crew can mutiny.'

‘No,' Sarah said. ‘I think anyone can.'

‘Is that so?' Aria looked thoughtful.

Friday made a face. ‘Don't fancy our chances. Did you see the size of that black cove?' Not to mention the Red Indian and the New Zealander. She didn't like the look of the English tar, either. Bloody nasty piece of work.

‘Speak for yourself,' Aria said. ‘Brawn does not always win the battle.'

‘Oh, stop it, all of you. We're not going to mutiny.'

They all turned to stare at Harrie. She looked close to tears.

‘We'll be there in three or so hours. Just grow up and behave. Do you want to ruin everything? Well, do you?'

‘Mademoiselles!' Pierre called from the galley. ‘I have the job for you!' He appeared a moment later with a platter containing about three dozen smooth white cakes the size of small, upside-down tea cups. At least, Friday thought they were cakes. ‘I will teach you the decorating!'

Scowling, she said, ‘What?'

‘I am le chef and le patissier. I will show you how to make the flowers.'

Friday glanced at the others, then back at Pierre. ‘I don't want to decorate bloody cakes.'

‘You are bored, oui?'

Sarah said, ‘Christ, yes.'

‘Then shut up and listen to Pierre.' He disappeared back into the galley, returning with several bowls filled with coloured
paste. ‘On the cakes already I have put the marzipan and then the fondant. Now we make the pastillage flowers, or people, or horses, or whatever is desired.'

‘Horses?'

‘Oui, I like horses. But we must work fast, the pastillage she will dry out very quick.'

He showed them what to do, then left them alone to work while he prepared the evening meal. After some strange initial efforts, everyone made something to go on the cakes, though Friday ate most of her pastillage, a mixture of powdered sugar, gelatine and cornstarch — despite warnings from Pierre that she might not shit for a week. Harrie crafted some very beautiful flowers and a couple of little bats, Sarah made miniature jewellery, and Aria, with unexpected skill, fashioned tiny sets of weapons — taiaha, mere and patu. Friday's effort was six or seven half-moons. She'd never been any good at crafts.

Pierre came to look, and said he'd never seen finer sugar craft anywhere.

‘Will it last, at sea?' Harrie asked.

‘Non, but neither will the cakes. The crew they will eat them up.'

He trotted up the steps and Friday looked at her watch. ‘Bloody hell! It's after eight!'

They all rushed into the little berths and peered out the portholes. Nothing. It was almost totally dark outside, just a faint flicker of moonlight peeping out from heavy cloud cover.

Harrie said, ‘Are we looking the wrong way?'

‘Dunno,' Friday replied. ‘Try the other side.'

Halfway across the mess room, Captain Farrell ordered, ‘Stop thumping about like that. You'll capsize my ship.' He stood on the steps, his head ducked, scowling down at them. ‘Sit down, please. I want to talk to you.'

They sat. He joined them, perching on the end of a bench and taking off his hat.

‘Are we there yet?' Friday asked.

‘We're standing off just out from the mouth of the Hunter River and about to weigh anchor. The channel in is narrow and shallow, and I'd prefer to do it in daylight.'

‘But we need to get there tonight,' Harrie protested.

‘How far can you swim?'

Harrie looked at him. ‘You're not a very nice man, are you?'

‘I'm a practical man. What would be the point to risking the ship, and ourselves?'

‘My daughter's life, that would be the point.'

‘I'm sorry, I really am. The wind's coming up. I'm hoping it will shift some of this cloud and give us a bit more moonlight so we can try later, though it's a new moon and an unlikely prospect, so I'm not making any promises. Pierre's prepared you some supper. I suggest you eat, then retire to your berths and get some rest. Our best bet is in the morning. We'll land then.'

‘What do you mean “we”?' Sarah said. ‘This is our business, not yours. We don't need your help.'

The captain said, ‘I'm afraid that Mrs Hislop has commissioned my help. I'm not to allow you to venture ashore alone. And I won't.' Jamming his hat back on, he left them staring after him.

‘In the morning,' Harrie said eventually. ‘That's not good enough. Is it?'

Everyone agreed.

From their berth only feet away, Friday and Aria could hear the crew in the mess room quite clearly, eating their meal, drinking ale and chatting away. It had been a very decent supper, too — a fancy beef and vegetable stew with freshly baked bread and butter. Friday had eaten a large plateful — to hell with seasickness — and had barely thought about gin, which was truly astonishing. Usually, after this many hours without a drink, her head would be pounding, her hands would be shaking so badly she wouldn't be able to hold a cup of tea, and she'd have vicious stomach cramps and the shits and be a mass of sweaty, vile-tempered nerves. But . . . nothing. Perhaps it was Pierre's horrible herbs. She'd have to ask him for some more.

‘Are you ready?' Aria asked.

Friday nodded, hoping Sarah and Harrie in the berth next door were all set.

‘Come on, then.' Leading the way, Aria stepped into the mess room. The men fell silent, staring at her.

‘Where are you two going?' the captain asked.

‘The privy,' Aria replied.

‘Both of you?'

‘Friday does not like the dark.'

There were one or two sniggers.

Captain Farrell said, ‘Would you like someone to accompany you?'

‘No.'

The captain sighed and went back to his stew.

On deck, Friday and Aria headed straight for the starboard rowboat. It was suspended at roughly the height of their heads, and swung from side to side as the sea rolled. Or rather
it
didn't swing — the ship beneath it was the object moving. The pulley system, illuminated by a storm lantern hanging from the main mast, was arranged so that the boat would be carried out over the ship's rail, then lowered to the sea.

Squinting at it, Friday struggled vainly to see how the little wheels and ropes operated. ‘How the fuck does this thing work?'

‘I know,' a voice said.

Friday nearly shat herself. She gaped in shock at Aria, who stared back, the whites of her eyes huge in the sparse moonlight.

When she'd found her voice, she hissed, ‘Who's there?'

A scruffy head popped up over the side of the boat. ‘It's me, Walter.'

‘And me.' Robbie appeared beside him.

‘Have you been in there since we left?' Friday demanded in a loud whisper.

Robbie said, ‘No, we swum up from Sydney after dark and hopped in for a kip.'

Aria whacked him across the head.

‘Ow!'

‘Do not be a smart-mouth, boy.'

Friday groped for Walter's hand. ‘Jump out and help us get this thing in the water. And the other one. Come on. We're going ashore.'

‘Where's the crew?'

‘In the cabin.'

‘You're leaving them without a boat?' Walter climbed nimbly out. ‘What if there's a fire?'

‘Shush! They can swim. It's close enough. We can't have them coming after us — they'll try and stop us.'

‘Where's Harrie?' Robbie asked.

Harrie herself appeared then, limping and rubbing her hip. She stopped dead, astounded.
‘Robbie?'

‘They stowed away, the little shites,' Friday explained.

Suddenly concerned, Robbie asked, ‘Are you hurt?'

‘Yes. No. I got stuck climbing out the porthole thingy. Just you wait till we get home, Robbie Clarke.'

Walter already had the rowboat halfway out over the rail. ‘Better hurry up. They'll probably hear the pulleys.'

Sarah ran lightly across the deck and wedged a boat hook through the handle of the cabin door. The shaft of the boathook was wooden and would no doubt snap, but it would hold the crew inside briefly.

‘Hurry up, get in, go!' Aria said, urging Friday and Harrie over the side as the first rowboat hit the sea with a splash. ‘The monkey man will climb out through the portholes.'

Friday jumped first, her teeth rattling in her head as she hit the bottom of the boat and thudded to her knees. Then Harrie, her face a mask of terror, landed on top of her like a hundredweight bag of flour, knocking the breath out of her and nearly sending both of them into the water.

‘Christ, girl, a few less pies wouldn't go amiss!'

Then Robbie dropped down, landing gracefully and silently like the house-breaker he probably was. Grabbing the oars, he settled on the seat nearest the bow.

‘Bugger off,' Friday said, ‘I'll row.'

‘I'm the man.'

‘And I flog people for a living. Move your arse.'

As she dug the oars into the black water, she heard shouting and thumping, and drew around the bow of the
Katipo
in time to see the other rowboat drop into the sea, followed by Aria (almost
crashing through the bottom of it), then Sarah, and finally Walter. As they scrambled to right themselves, Aria hauled mightily on the oars and struck out west for the shimmering gap between two solid black lumps, which, Friday prayed, was the entrance to the river mouth.

Soon, her leaden arms felt as though they might drop off, even though she was rowing with the incoming tide. It was more gruelling even than servicing Lucian on one of his off days. But she'd tolerated worse than this —
far
worse — so she put her head down, made minor adjustments to her direction and stroke when Robbie suggested it, wondered how Aria was faring, and thanked God she
hadn't
got drunk today.

Before long she heard Robbie say, ‘I think I can see faint lights. Pull more on your left. No, your other left.'

The sound of the sea gradually became louder, which meant it was becoming the sound of the sea meeting land, and she hadn't rowed
that
far, so it probably was still sea, not yet fresh water.

They were nearly there.

Harrie squinted into the darkness, her eyes stinging from the saltwater thrown up by the oars. She had a terrible earache, too, from the wind coming off the water. Thank God the sea was fairly calm: Friday was doing a mighty job of rowing, but she wasn't a waterman and she'd caught a couple of crabs and gone flat on her back in the bow swearing and cursing, and they surely would have drowned had it been rough.

They were soaked through as it was, and God only knew where they'd land. Perhaps they
should
have waited until daylight. But morning was hours away and Charlotte might not have hours and Robbie was right — there
were
lights not far away. Faint and scattered, but definitely visible.

Suddenly the clouds tore apart like rotten fabric and by the light of the sickle moon she could see the shoreline, much closer than
she'd imagined. Ahead, the others had already landed and were out and dragging the rowboat up onto a strip of sand. Beside her Robbie signalled to Friday, who glanced over her shoulder, then doubled her efforts. Minutes later the keel of the boat struck solid ground, Robbie leapt out into thigh-deep water, grasped the bow and guided them ashore. Friday laid down the oars, hopped out, waded ashore with her skirts up around her backside, and collapsed on the beach. Harrie followed, helping Robbie to drag the boat out of the water.

Some yards away, where sand met tussock, lay the shadowed shapes of three or four other rowboats, overturned for safekeeping. On one sat a girl, her long hair silver-white in the watery moonlight.

She gave a jaunty little wave.

Her heart suddenly swelling with renewed hope, Harrie smiled and waved back.

‘Right, what's our first move?' Sarah asked as she tried, without much success, to wring seawater out of her skirt.

Aria stood with her hands on hips, her breathing already back to normal despite her strenuous row. ‘We go into the town and start asking about Leary.'

‘He's definitely here,' Harrie said.

Sarah regarded her with love and sympathy. ‘Look, he probably is, but try not to be too upset if it turns out he isn't. But we'll find Charlotte one way or another, don't worry.'

‘No, I
know
he is,' Harrie insisted. ‘And so's Charlotte.'

‘How
do you know?'

‘I just . . . do.'

Staring at her intently, Aria said, ‘Have you received a message from . . . how would a Pakeha say it? An emissary of the dead?'

Disgusted, Sarah said, ‘Oh, for God's sake, don't get her started!'

‘What makes you say that?' Harrie asked warily. Aria could be very perceptive sometimes. It was quite unnerving.

Aria shrugged. ‘Why not? It is not an unusual thing.'

Friday said, ‘Harrie, have you seen Rachel?'

‘We haven't got time for this,' Sarah said, and marched off along the sand.

Mystified, Robbie asked Walter, ‘Time for what?'

‘Dunno.'

Trotting to keep up with Sarah, Friday turned to them and snapped, ‘Hurry up if you're coming. We're not on a bloody picnic, you know.'

Oh dear, Harrie thought, Pierre's special potion must be wearing off. She wondered how close they were to the town: her soaked boots would soon be giving her blisters. On the other hand, she knew she'd happily walk miles over burning coals in bare feet if it meant getting Charlotte back.

They trudged for nearly ten minutes along the beach, passing more and more squat black buildings to their left, then turned inland at a wharf, expecting at any moment to move from shore onto at least gravel, but the expected transition never eventuated. The town proper seemed tenuously laid out on an expanse of sand, and it was difficult to gain perspective in the dark. Were they walking up the main street or a side street? To their left lay an open area flanked by what Harrie was sure was a tall fence surrounding some sort of largish building. Now they'd come to an establishment that looked like a hotel of sorts. Light shone through the windows and the odd voice came to them on the night air.

A bearded man stumbled through the doorway fumbling at his flies, then stopped and gaped at them, his mouth hanging open.

‘Evening,' Friday said. ‘What pub is this?'

‘The Ship Inn?' the man said, scrambling to straighten his trousers.

‘Any other pubs in town?'

‘Don't rightly know; don't come from round here. Just stopping for the night on my way upriver. The steamer, you know.'

‘So you wouldn't know a cove by the name of Jonah Leary?'

The man made a show of thinking, scratched his forehead under his hat, then shook his head. ‘Can't say I do. Ask inside. A lot of them are local. Now, if you'll 'scuse me.'

As he lurched off into the shadows, Sarah said, ‘Bugger. If he goes back in, he'll tell everyone he's just seen four women outside and word might get back to Leary. We'll have to split up now and get round the rest of the pubs as fast as we can. Who wants this one?'

‘I will take it,' Aria said.

‘Friday and Harrie, you see if there're any down that street along there, I'll do any others on this street, and that looks like an intersection up there. You boys can do the street running through it. All right?'

Everyone nodded.

‘Back here in forty-five minutes? No wasting time, and no drinking. That means you, Friday and Robbie. And for Christ's sake keep an eye out for police. And soldiers. Does everyone have a watch?'

Everyone did. Robbie had three.

They peeled off, melting into the darkness, their footfalls deadened by the town's carpet of sand.

The first pub Friday and Harrie encountered on Hunter Street was called the Australian Inn, according to its shingle.

‘What an original name,' Friday said, pushing open the door.

Inside it seemed like any other drinking establishment. They had a cautious scout around, just in case Leary himself was sitting in there on a stool eating cheese and pickles and drinking beer — that would be a shock — but he wasn't. Friday made her way to the back of the room, ignoring both her damp skirts flapping annoyingly around her legs and the interested looks she was attracting, and leant on the bar. A solid, dark-haired woman was serving and, apparently, deliberately overlooking her.

‘Excuse me,' Friday said.

Nothing.

‘Excuuuse me!'

The woman started exaggeratedly. ‘Sorry, dearie. Didn't see you there.'

‘I'm looking for someone.'

‘Aren't we all, love?' The woman opened the tap on a beer barrel and filled a tankard. ‘I don't allow soliciting on my premises and I'd thank you to leave. And take your little friend with you.'

Harrie could see Friday struggling to keep her temper in check. She laid a soothing hand on her arm. Why she got on the wrong side of certain people (mostly women) was a mystery, but she did — often without even trying. Though, to be honest, quite frequently she did try. Perhaps women were envious of her attractive looks and confidence.

‘I'm not soliciting,
actually,'
Friday replied. ‘D'you really think I would be, squelching round looking like a drowned rat? No, thought not. I'm after a cove by the name of Jonah Leary. Do you know of him?'

The tiniest flicker of distaste lifted the edge of the woman's upper lip. ‘Why? What do you want with him?'

Harrie's heart leapt.

Friday said, ‘That's my business.'

The woman snorted and poured another beer. ‘More fool you. He's already shacked up with some poor article.'

‘So you do know him?'

‘Usually drinks in the Ship Inn down by the foreshore but comes in here now and then and lowers the tone. Haven't seen him for a month or so. Heard he went down to Sydney.' She frowned, making deep furrows in her forehead. ‘Or was it Port Macquarie? I forget. Good riddance, anyway.'

‘You say he has a woman here?' Harrie asked. She noted Friday eyeing a keg of brandy on the counter and stood on her foot, hard.

‘Ow!'

The woman said, ‘Sorry thing by the name of Iris Kellogg. Don't know what she sees in him, I really don't.'

‘You don't like him?' Friday asked bluntly.