Isle of Tears (23 page)

‘Christ, Captain!’ the commander swore, stepping quickly out of the way. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘I believe it belongs to the girl,’ Robert said. ‘It’s followed us since we picked her up.’

He watched as the dog crossed to the girl and lay down beside
her, resting a paw on her forearm. He turned away and asked tetchily, ‘Where the hell is your surgeon? She needs attention.’

The commander noticed the angry purple swelling revealed beneath the girl’s trouser leg. ‘Go and find him, Lieutenant Wood,’ he ordered one of his men. To Robert, he said, ‘Is the animal staying or going?’

‘Staying. Sir.’

‘Then it will have to be caged. I’m not having it wandering all over the ship taking bites out of my men.’

Robert agreed, but every time someone attempted to approach the dog, it snarled, barked and bared its vicious-looking teeth. Finally, they threw a net over it and hauled it away to the pens on deck confining the horses.

The girl was taken to the commander’s cabin, where the surgeon, finally located, gave her a cursory examination.

‘Her leg is broken,’ he said when he’d finished.

‘Yes, Mr Radcliffe, I know that,’ Robert replied, trying hard to keep the frustration out of his voice.

‘Who is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, have you not asked her? She must belong to someone. There’s a ring on her wedding finger.’

Robert took off his peaked officer’s cap and sat in the chair at the commander’s desk. Yes, he’d seen the damned ring. He could feel the ship turning beneath him, riding the gentle swell, and knew they would shortly be heading for Auckland. ‘She was firing at us when we first came across her, so the occasion didn’t really
lend itself to conversation, then she passed out and my medic gave her laudanum. So, no, I haven’t asked yet.’

‘That tattoo on her chin also suggests that she’s a Maori sympathizer, you know,’ Mr Radcliffe warned darkly.

‘Yes, that has been brought to my attention. The fact has not, however, been established, and I trust that you will treat her accordingly.’

Commander Leland stepped through the door, swaying easily with the movement of the ship. ‘Well? What’s the verdict?’

‘She has a broken leg, Commander,’ Mr Radcliffe said. ‘And she seems to be a trifle underweight. But other than that I cannot see anything else amiss. Apart from the fact that she is unconscious, but Captain Yale says his medic has been giving her opium.’

‘Do you intend to take her to Auckland?’ the commander asked Robert. He cocked his head and listened. ‘My God, will that dog ever stop barking?’

Robert said, ‘Yes, I do. She may be in a position to provide us with intelligence. She has obviously lived among the natives at some point. She also needs care and I can ensure that she receives that.’

The commander said, ‘And then what?’

Robert looked at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Then what? What will happen to her after her leg has mended and she’s hale again. What will you do with her then? You can’t just go escorting some young Pakeha-Maori girl around the town, you know. You’re an officer of the Queen’s army. It’s not…fitting.’

Robert hadn’t thought that far ahead, although he was starting
to see now that his interest in the girl could cause problems. But he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to know how she had come to be out in the middle of nowhere, and why she had been wearing a dead soldier’s uniform.

But, most of all, he wanted to know who she was.

Isla began to regain consciousness after the ship was well under way, becoming aware of a gentle rocking motion, and a deep, throbbing pain in her leg. She tried to sit up, but couldn’t summon the strength—her head and limbs felt heavier than lead.

She managed to turn her head, and saw that a man was sitting on a chair next to her. Her immediate thought was that it was Tai, and the realization that it wasn’t hit her like a physical blow. This man was Pakeha, older than Tai, and had short, light brown hair and several days’ stubble on his face. He was also wearing the uniform of an imperial army officer.

Somewhere, she could hear a dog barking.

She attempted to lift her arm, but her fingers only twitched, and when she tried to speak little more than a croak came out. But the man still heard it.

He turned to her, put down the papers he was reading, and said, ‘Welcome back.’

Welcome back where? Fighting against panic, Isla struggled again to sit.

The man laid a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t try to move. You’ve had several doses of opiate, for your leg. It’s
probably making you feel strange. Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands.’

Isla began to notice other things: the creak of timbers, the brine of sea air, the acrid smell of stale urine. Mortified, she realized she must have wet herself.

‘Where am I?’ she croaked.

The man leaned closer. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Desperately ashamed because he must surely be able to smell her, Isla turned her face away, then cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Where am I?’

‘Aboard HMS
Stingray
, bound for Auckland.’

She moved her head again and looked at him, too shocked to speak.

‘My name is Robert Yale and I’m a captain of Her Majesty’s Regiment of Foot. We found you yesterday. You’d fallen from your horse and broken your leg. Actually, you…er, you shot at us.’

Isla could remember all of that—what she couldn’t remember was what on earth had happened between then and now.

She licked her lips. ‘Is that ma dog I can hear?’

‘Yes. He’s been barking like that and driving everyone to distraction since we set sail. He seems very dedicated to you.’

Isla managed to raise her head and prop herself on her elbows. The room tilted sickeningly and she struggled not to faint. The pain in her leg was awful. ‘Where’s ma guns and ma knife?’

Robert Yale sat back. ‘Locked in the hold. Including the one you took from Private Jensen. I assume it was you who attacked him?’

Isla lay back down and closed her eyes against the pain. Who was Private Jensen? ‘Ma leg hurts,’ she said after a minute.

‘I know,’ Robert replied. ‘The surgeon has put a splint on it, but he can’t do much else until we get ashore. But I know someone at Auckland Hospital who can help you. He’s very good with bones.’

But Isla had drifted off. An hour later, as the effect of the opiate ebbed further, she woke again. Robert Yale was still there. Isla wanted him to go away.

‘How is your leg now?’ he asked, even though the answer must have been obvious to him because it was all she could do not to weep, and she knew her lip was trembling. She wouldn’t cry, though. And she didn’t respond to his question.

Finally, Robert stood. ‘I’ll get Mr Radcliffe to come and give you something more for it.’

Isla lifted her hand, but closed her eyes against the shame. ‘I stink. Can ye no’ get me something clean tae put on?’

Robert mumbled, ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’ll, ah, see what I can find.’

When he’d gone, Isla opened her eyes. He’d sounded very embarrassed—almost as embarrassed as she was. She sat up, then clutched at her pounding head, feeling nauseous and badly disoriented. Gingerly, she bent forward and inspected her leg. Her breeks on the right had been cut off at mid-thigh. Below that a pair of wooden splints had been tied to her leg with what appeared to be several yards of bandage. She picked at it until she’d made a rip, then painfully unwound it to see what was underneath. The
flesh of her shin was badly swollen and almost black, and her lower leg felt horribly…loose, when she moved it. And extremely sore. She knew she would not get far like this.

Robert Yale returned accompanied by another man in uniform, who took one look at her and burst out, ‘See, I told you! These natives don’t know the first thing about looking after themselves! Look at what she’s done!’

‘She is not Maori, Mr Radcliffe. She is very obviously white. Scottish, I suspect.’

‘Well,
Pakeha
-Maori, then, or whatever these people who go native call themselves!’

Robert draped a folded blanket over the back of the chair. ‘I would be grateful if you would please just administer the laudanum and re-tie the bandages, Mr Radcliffe.’

The surgeon humphed, but opened a small brown bottle and poured a quarter inch of thick liquid into a glass medicine measure. But when he handed it to Isla, she shook her head.

‘I dinnae want it.’

As affronted as if Isla had called his medical qualifications into question, the surgeon glared at her. ‘You have to have it. You won’t be able to stand the pain if you don’t.’

Isla turned away. ‘I said I dinnae want it, and I willnae have it.’ If she hadn’t had it forced down her in the bush she might not be here now, a captive aboard one of the Queen’s ships.

‘You’ll be sorry when I attend to those bandages,’ the surgeon said snippily.

Robert interjected. ‘I really think you should have it, er…’

But Isla said nothing, and deliberately declined to tell him her name.

He looked as though he wanted to sigh. ‘Well, would you like me to hold your hand then?’

‘No.’

The two men exchanged glances, then the surgeon set about tying the bandages. It took ten minutes of jostling her leg about, but Isla didn’t make a sound.

Robert waited until Mr Radcliffe had gone. ‘I brought you a fresh blanket. I thought you could, well, tuck it around yourself. Do you think you can get those trousers off?’

Isla felt her cheeks burn. ‘Aye. I’ll cut them off. Get me a knife, then go away.’

Robert shook his head. ‘I can’t leave you alone with a knife, I’m afraid. Why won’t you tell me your name?’

‘If ye get me a knife and leave me tae get these stinking breeks off, I might.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Could we compromise? If I give you a knife, would you object to me remaining here if I respected your modesty? Which, of course, I would naturally do anyway.’

‘What d’ye mean?’

Robert’s face reddened. ‘It occurs to me that if I were to hold the blanket up between us, that would afford you the privacy you need. Then, when you have removed the trousers, I will drop it over you.’

It sounded like poppycock to Isla. ‘Can ye no’ just trust me?’

He regarded her for what felt like a very long time. Then,
to her surprise, he said, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll trust you’, and went out.

He was back a minute later with a short knife. ‘I’ll wait outside. I’ll give you ten minutes.’

Isla considered thanking him, but he was gone before she could. She opened the fly buttons of the trousers, then slit along the side seams of each leg and pulled them out from beneath her. They really did stink and she wondered how many times she had mimi-ed in them. She dropped them on the floor of the cabin and tucked the blanket securely around her naked lower half.

When Robert reappeared he picked up the ruined trousers by the remaining leg and threw them through the open door. The cabin immediately smelled better.

He sat down again. ‘Now, to your part of the deal. Will you tell me your name?’

Isla thought about lying, but couldn’t really see what good it would do her. ‘Isla McKinnon.’

‘Miss McKinnon?’

‘Mrs.’ An expression Isla couldn’t fathom flickered across the captain’s face. ‘But I wis recently widowed.’

‘Oh.’ He looked contrite, then embarrassed. ‘And your husband, was he a Scotsman?’

‘No, ma husband wis Maori,’ Isla said carefully, not wanting to give anything away by the tone of her voice.

‘May I ask when you were widowed, Mrs McKinnon?’

‘What day is it today?’

‘Today is May the 19th, 1864.’

‘I ken what
year
it
is!’
Isla said. She added quietly, ‘He died eighteen days ago.’

Robert seemed genuinely shocked. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs McKinnon.’

Isla said nothing.

‘He was killed in battle?’

Isla only had to look at him, and saw that he knew.

‘Ah. Your husband was a Kingite.’

But he didn’t ask what she thought was the obvious next question. They sat in silence, which Isla eventually broke.

‘Robert.’

‘Yes?’ he said quickly.

Then he reddened, and Isla realized that he’d thought she was addressing him by his first name. She wasn’t; she was simply thinking out loud.

‘Robert is a verra Scottish name.’

‘Yes. My father was born in Edinburgh, but went to live in London when he was a child. My mother is English.’

Isla rolled the hem of the blanket between her fingers. ‘Are they still alive, your parents?’

‘My mother is. My father was a soldier, a colonel in the British Army.’

Traitor, Isla thought absently.

‘He was killed during the first Opium War with China, twenty-two years ago. My mother has not remarried. And yours?’

‘They were muddered. Four years ago in Taranaki, just before the first war started.’

Robert regarded her with a puzzled expression. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs McKinnon, I don’t understand. If your mother and father were killed by Maori, then why did you…marry one?’

‘They were kilt by an Englishman, no’ by Maori.’ Isla had thought she would enjoy the shocked look on his face, but it only left her feeling mean-spirited. ‘And dinnae call me “Mrs”. I dinnae like it.’

‘What shall I call you, then?’

‘Just Isla. Now, can ye go away? I’d like tae go tae sleep.’

‘Of course.’ Robert stood, then hesitated. ‘May I have the knife, please?’

Reluctantly, Isla gave it back to him.

She lay on her back, staring at the low ceiling. Sunlight was still coming in through the cabin’s small windows, but the quality of it was changing, so the evening must be approaching. She wondered how long it took to sail from the Bay of Plenty to Auckland. They couldn’t be far away now.

She wished now she’d accepted the navy doctor’s medicine when it had been offered: her leg was throbbing horrendously and sending shooting pains all the way up into her buttock. But she was not going to ask for it, and hadn’t done so when the man called Robert had come back, once with food and drink, and another time just to sit and talk with her. But she hadn’t felt like talking back, even though he wasn’t unkind and he seemed genuinely interested in how she was. Nonetheless, he was an imperial soldier,
and he would want something, she knew that.