The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) Read online

  THE WORLD DUOLOGY

  Book One: World Odyssey

  Book Two: Fiji: A Novel

  Lance & James

  MORCAN

  THE WORLD DUOLOGY

  Published by:

  Sterling Gate Books

  78 Pacific View Rd,

  Papamoa 3118,

  Bay of Plenty,

  New Zealand

  [email protected]

  Copyright © Lance Morcan & James Morcan 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission by the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or they are used entirely fictitiously.

  Cover Painting: Near coast of Yalta, c.1864

  Artist: Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900)

  National Library of New Zealand publication data:

  Morcan, Lance 1948-

  Morcan, James 1978-

  Title: The World Duology

  Edition: First ed.

  Format: Ebook

  Publisher: Sterling Gate Books

  ISBN: 978-0-473-27284-5

  WORLD ODYSSEY

  (Book One in The World Duology)

  Lance & James

  MORCAN

  “Little do ye know your own blessedness; for to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.”

  -Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850-1894

  Prologue

  Summer, 1832

  Alone in his father’s study, young Philadelphian Nathan Johnson surveyed the lavishly furnished but slightly musty room. His keen eyes rested momentarily on the titles of some of the hundreds of books lining the shelves behind his father’s desk. Many had a nautical theme, alluding to the occupation of the absent Captain Benjamin Johnson.

  The boy never tired of being in his father’s study and often ventured into it even though Johnson Senior had made it clear the study was out of bounds whenever he was away.

  Although physically absent for the moment, his father was present in a sense: a recent portrait painting of the forty-year-old captain hung on the far wall. Dark, curly, shoulder-length hair framed his unsmiling but still youthful face. The ruggedly handsome Johnson Senior had the appearance of someone who didn’t suffer fools. His startlingly blue eyes seemed to bore into Nathan’s as the boy studied the painting.

  Nathan couldn’t know it, but he was looking at a mirror image of himself in later years. Even at the tender age of ten he was already a chip off the old block. Tall for his age, he was more mature than his schoolmates, and more serious, too.

  Sounds of children’s laughter drifted in through an open window. His two older sisters and their friends were making the most of a sunny day after several days of constant rain. From the kitchen downstairs, the clink of crockery could be heard as the maid cleared away the breakfast dishes.

  Nathan switched his attention to a faded world map hanging alongside the painting. A dotted line connecting North America’s west coast and the coast of mainland China showed where his father had journeyed on his latest expedition. Johnson Senior was a successful trader whose latest enterprise had involved trading goods to the Native Americans for their prized sea otter furs. He had transported those same furs to China where they fetched huge prices.

  The thought of sailing to some exotic destination thrilled Nathan to the core. He lived for the day he was old enough to go to sea. Meanwhile, he contented himself studying the world map and dreaming of far-off places.

  So engrossed was he, he didn’t hear his father arrive home from town. It wasn’t until the study door burst open and Johnson Senior strode in that Nathan realized he was in trouble.

  When Johnson Senior saw Nathan, he turned livid. He grabbed his son by the hair and began cuffing him hard about the head.

  Johnson Senior’s mood wasn’t helped by the fact he’d been drinking and gambling since the previous night, and had lost a considerable amount of money. As a man of means, it was money he could afford to lose, but that hadn’t helped dampen his already foul temper.

  Nathan could tell his father had been drinking. He could smell the whisky fumes on his breath, and Johnson Senior was unsteady on his feet and slurring his words as he cursed and beat the son he wished he’d never had.

  Determined to remain staunch, Nathan bit his lip to stop from crying out. This further infuriated his father who removed his belt and began flailing the boy with all his considerable strength. The belt’s buckle cut into Nathan’s bare arm and drew blood.

  As Nathan covered up as best he could to protect himself, he fixed his gaze on a portrait painting of his mother hanging on the near wall. It gave him strength. The painting was the work of one of Philadelphia’s leading artists and it captured pretty Charlotte Johnson as she was in her early twenties. There was a quiet determination in her sparkling brown eyes.

  Charlotte was the mother Nathan had never known for she had died giving birth to him ten years earlier.

  The beating ended as quickly as it had begun when Johnson Senior pushed the boy from the study and slammed the door shut after him.

  Now alone at the top of the first floor landing, Nathan swore he’d run away from home as soon as he was old enough.

  * * *

  At that very moment, across the Atlantic in England, little Susannah Drake was playing with dolls and other girlie things while watching two white swans that had taken up residency in the lily pond behind her Methodist clergyman father’s rectory in the affluent west London district of Kensington.

  The cute, red-headed, six-year-old closed her eyes to protect them from the bright sunlight reflecting off the pond’s surface. When she reopened them, one of the swans had paddled to within an arm’s length of her at the pond’s edge, causing her to jump back in surprise. Swan and child stared at each other for a second or two before the majestic bird paddled off to rejoin his mate.

  On the lawn behind Susannah, her father Reverend Brian Drake was chatting to visiting members of his congregation while her mother, Jeanette, served Devonshire tea. It was a very English scene.

  Jeanette, a pretty but frail woman, called out to Susannah who promptly skipped over to join her parents. Jumping up onto her father’s knee, she licked the strawberry jam off one of her mother’s famous scones as Drake Senior talked to the other adults.

  Susannah amused herself as the conversation turned to the missionary work the Methodist Church was engaged in, in far-off places. Drake Senior expressed a desire to become a missionary one day. Jeanette didn’t seem to share her husband’s enthusiasm for missionary work and quickly changed the subject.

  Finding the adult conversation boring, Susannah jumped off her father’s knee and ran back down to the lily pond. She laughed delightedly when the two swans paddled to the pond’s edge to greet her. Her laughter turned to screams as one of the swans waddled up onto the lawn and proceeded to chase after her, hissing. It seemed the swan was intent on securing the remains of the scone Susannah was still holding.

  Chuckling at his daughter’s predicament, Drake Senior advised Susannah to give the swan what it wanted. Although frightened, Susannah refused to back down. She rammed the remains of the scone into her mouth and shooed her tormentor away. Beaten, the swan gave up and waddled back to the pond.

  The adults laughed and commented how cute Susannah was. Drake Senior and Je
anette observed their daughter with pride. Not for the first time, she had demonstrated that, despite her angelic appearance, she was not easily intimidated.

  * * *

  Several miles away, in southeast London, sixteen-year-old Jack Halliday was traipsing from door to door looking for work in the capital’s busy dockyards. The Cockney’s spirits were uncharacteristically low. Since his mother had kicked him out of the family home two weeks earlier, he’d been job-hunting without success.

  Back in the East End, Jack had a reputation for being a lovable larrikin. Shorter than average and not especially good looking, the curly-haired lad nevertheless had a mischievous face and engaging personality which generally endeared him to others. Generally because his cheeky manner ensured he had his share of enemies too. Any who underestimated him did so at their own risk. He never took a backward step and he compensated for his lack of height by fighting with all the fury of a pitbull.

  The shadows were lengthening when Jack arrived at Sullivan’s Foundry, a large establishment next to the River Thames. Having experienced around twenty rejections from prospective employers that day, he had to force himself to adopt his normally cheerful disposition as he entered the noisy foundry. The fact he hadn’t eaten in two days gave him extra motivation. He desperately needed to earn some money. If he didn’t land a job soon, he knew he’d have to find money via other means.

  Approaching the front office, Jack was suddenly confronted by a big, bad-tempered man who demanded to know what he wanted. The young Cockney guessed, correctly, the man was the foundry owner, Henry Sullivan. When Jack explained he wanted a job, Sullivan advised him he wasn’t in the habit of employing runts and ordered him off the property.

  Jack stood his ground, his perceptive green eyes flashing with anger. The look wasn’t missed by Sullivan who decided to put him to the test. He’d recently laid off an apprentice blacksmith who hadn’t measured up, so Jack’s interest in a job was timely. Pointing to a thirty-foot long steel shaft resting on the floor nearby, Sullivan challenged the young Cockney to lift it up onto a shelf that was just above Jack’s head.

  Without hesitating, Jack bent down to lift the shaft. He suddenly realized every eye in the foundry was on him. Taking a deep breath, he managed to straighten up while holding the shaft, but when he tried to lift it up onto the shelf it fell to the floor with a mighty clang. Several onlookers chuckled at his misfortune.

  Unimpressed, Sullivan turned his back on Jack and returned to his office.

  To the surprise of those still watching, Jack prepared to make another attempt. This time, he put everything into it and, to the resounding cheers of the assembled, managed to hoist the steel shaft up onto the shelf just as Sullivan re-emerged from his office. Suitably impressed, the proprietor immediately hired Jack as an apprentice.

  Mindful of the hunger pangs that were now causing frequent tummy rumbles, Jack tried to negotiate his first week’s pay in advance. Tightwad Sullivan agreed to pay him two days in advance on condition that he put in some extra hours unpaid. Jack reluctantly agreed. At least now he could afford a square meal.

  * * *

  Jack Halliday, Susannah Drake and Nathan Johnson had no way of knowing their paths would cross one day; their destinies were integrally linked. Fate and the unfathomable twists and turns of life would eventually throw them together on the far side of the world in a place some called the Cannibal Isles.

  1

  West Coast, North America, 1838

  Sixteen-year-old Nathan Johnson was standing at the bow of Intrepid, staring down at the sea’s foaming surface as the three-masted ship plowed through the chilly waters off the coast of Oregon Country, the remote Northwest American territory that would one day be known as Washington State.

  True to his word, the young Philadelphian had run away from home and from his violent father as soon as he was old enough. Strictly speaking he didn’t exactly flee his home. Johnson Senior had sent him away to boarding school when he turned twelve. After just three weeks, Nathan had dropped out of school and secured a job as a cabin boy on one of the ships that plied its trade delivering supplies to new settlements up and down America’s east coast, and he’d been at sea ever since. He’d never contacted his father and he never intended to.

  Nathan’s breath was visible in the cool autumn air, prompting him to button up the fur-lined jacket he wore. He looked up hoping to sight the shoreline he knew was only a few miles to starboard, but fog limited visibility to less than one hundred yards. Not even his keen blue eyes could pierce the blanket of gray that surrounded the vessel.

  The young man stifled a yawn. He’d just finished working a double shift and knew he should be catching up on sleep, but he didn’t want to miss out on his first glimpse of Oregon Country.

  “This fog will clear soon,” a gruff voice announced. The voice belonged to Intrepid’s master, Captain Herbert Dawson, who also happened to be Nathan’s uncle.

  Nathan spun around. He hadn’t realized he had company. “Yes Captain…ah…Uncle.”

  The young man’s hesitation amused Dawson. Nathan was never quite sure how to address his late mother’s older brother. The rule was it was Captain in front of the crewmen and Uncle in private. “You’ve completed your duties I take it?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good man.” Dawson had a sudden coughing fit. He was battling a bout of influenza, as were a number of others on board. The coughing passed – for the moment at least – and the two stood in companionable silence staring out into the mist.

  Nathan didn’t know it, but his uncle looked on him as the son he’d never had. He reminded Dawson of his sister Charlotte – not physically so much as he’d inherited Johnson Senior’s rugged good looks – but certainly in temperament. The boy was calm and unflappable, taking whatever life threw at him in his stride. Studying him now, he couldn’t help thinking Charlotte would be proud of her son. Nathan was growing into a fine young man and possessed an assurance that reminded Dawson of himself at that age.

  Uncle and nephew had been together aboard Intrepid since they’d literally bumped into each other in San Francisco two years earlier. Dawson had been recruiting crewmembers for a trading expedition to southern Africa, and Nathan had pleaded with him to sign him on. The captain had agreed, but only on condition that he combined scholastic studies with his on-board duties to make up for his lost schooling. Nathan had readily agreed to that and, true to his word, continued his studies while carrying out his duties on board.

  In the past two years, Nathan had learned the basics of sail-making, rigging, steering and, most recently, navigating. In the process, he’d earned the respect of his uncle and his crewmates alike. There were no two ways about it: he was shaping up to be a fine seaman.

  Another coughing fit saw Dawson excuse himself, leaving Nathan alone once more.

  No sooner had Dawson retired below deck than an excited shout came from the crow’s nest atop the forward mast. “Land to starboard!” the lookout shouted.

  Nathan looked to starboard again. The fog was parting and the snow-flecked mountains of Oregon Country could be seen in the distance. Along the tree-lined shore, the colorful autumn leaves of alder and oak trees contrasted with the evergreen fir trees so prevalent in this region, providing a spectacular display of yellows, reds and greens of all shades.

  The young Philadelphian felt a surge of excitement. This was only his second voyage to the Northwest and his first to Oregon Country. His first experience of the Northwest had come a year earlier when Intrepid visited Nootka Sound, on Vancouver Island. There, they’d traded with the Mowachahts, a warlike native tribe with a history of conflict with visiting whites. On his uncle’s orders, Nathan hadn’t gone ashore at Nootka Sound. Just as well maybe as a crewmember had been killed and another badly wounded during a trade that went wrong. It was only later Nathan learned the violence had been prompted by the rape of an Indian maiden by one of the visiting sailors – a not uncommon occurrence.

>   This time, Intrepid’s crew were here to trade muskets with another tribe, the Makah, for their valuable sea otter fur. Nathan knew from his studies the Makah were every bit as warlike as their Mowachaht cousins on nearby Vancouver Island, but fortunately their violence was usually reserved for other tribes, not for visiting whites.

  #

  Later, as Intrepid entered the dark waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Nathan was joined by other crewmen on deck. For many, it was their first visit to Oregon Country, too, and they studied the mist-shrouded cliffs of Cape Flattery with interest. The cliffs rose straight up out of the sea, reminding Nathan of granite sentinels. And although he couldn’t see it through the mist, he knew Vancouver Island was only fifteen miles to the north.

  The view was clearer to the east where some of Oregon Country's unexplored interior was faintly visible. A vast region of mountain ranges and lush rainforests, it would later be known as Olympic National Park. Mountain peaks and forest-clad hills stretched toward an eastern horizon hidden behind rain clouds.

  As the ship rounded the cape, Nathan noticed signs of life on shore. Two native fishermen were spearing fish from rocks beneath the cliffs. They looked up when they noticed Intrepid. Nathan waved at them, but his wave wasn’t returned. The fishermen returned to their task. Every so often, smoke rose from a hidden village or encampment, and the occasional totem pole poked up through the canopy of fir trees.

  Steady rain began falling as the ship entered Neah Bay, Intrepid’s immediate destination. Through the rain, totem poles and timber lodges of the Makah tribe's village came into view at the southern end of the bay. Nathan thought the timber lodges reminiscent of those he’d once seen on Vancouver Island. He learned later they were the remnants of dwellings erected by Spanish traders who had come and gone over the previous half-century.