Cry of the Rain Bird

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The golden shores of Trinity Bay might not be the paradise they dream of... Patricia Shaw's Cry of the Rain Bird is an absorbing romantic saga set in the seemingly blissful Trinity Bay, with dark twists along the way. The perfect read for fans of Fleur McDonald and Elizabeth Haran. Englishman Corby Morgan and his young wife Jessie set sail for the golden shores of Trinity Bay, dreaming of an easy life in paradise. But Providence, the sugar plantation that is to be their home, promises danger as well as prosperity. As obstinate Corby drives his Australian manager Mike Devlin to distraction learning to farm the sugar cane, Devlin becomes attracted to gentle Jessie. Jessie meanwhile becomes involved with running the plantation and befriends the Aborigines and labourers, while her coquettish sister Sylvia pursues her own selfish goals. Facing a shocking introduction to plantation life and battling racial conflict and political upheavals, the planters of Providence are unprepared when nature strikes a fearful blow... What readers are saying about Cry of the Rain Bird : ' Gripped from the very first page' ' Rich in historical detail and provides understanding and insight into the culture of the land's original inhabitants ' ' A fascinating, first class read '

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Dark skies hung glowering over grey streets, watching grimy sleet harass hurrying crowds, boxing ears with stinging cold, sending Londoners racing for shelter.

Corby Morgan scrambled along the slippery pavement wrestling with his umbrella. He was angry that he’d been unable to find a horse-cab, fretting about the time, aware that his father would open the door and say: ‘Late as always, Corby!’

As he lurched round a corner into fiercer winds his umbrella blew out, snapped ribs and black cloth flapping helplessly like a wretched mauled crow. Pinched faces drew some cheer from his predicament as he tried to haul it in, grinning at him as though he were a jester placed there for their entertainment, and Corby flushed with embarrassment. He hurled the useless appendage away from him, grimly satisfied to hear it crunched under carriage wheels in punishment. Cold and miserable, and very wet now, he crossed the road to Luton Street for the most important meeting of his life.

Corby Morgan, they’d said, was just a dreamer, yet another disenchanted young Englishman yearning for Utopia, for the romantic sun-drenched serenity of the South Seas – a madness, they said, common to many of these spoiled Cambridge graduates for whom the grass was always greener, be it in Italy, Spain, or in his case the South Pacific. Specifically a tropical idyll called Trinity Bay.

But they were wrong. He clenched his teeth and forged on. He and Roger McLiver had investigated and planned this move with the utmost care. They had no intention of idling away their lives and funds on a deserted beach; they had sought a place where they could make money and enjoy the leisured existence of gentlemen. And by God they had found it! Corby could still recall their jubilation when Roger had come to him with that clipping from The Times. The very thing! Exactly what they were looking for. They were so excited, they’d drunk two bottles of champagne before penning a reply. Even then they’d been cautious, destroying the first letter and composing a simple expression of interest rather than allowing their enthusiasm to leak on to the page and cause the owner to ask a higher price or attempt to hoodwink them.

Holding to that caution, they had moved to purchase the advertised sugar plantation near Trinity Bay in north Queensland, far away in Australia. Although neither of them had as yet visited the Antipodes, they’d been able to make further enquiries by telegraph to referred bank officers, who had replied that Providence was indeed an established plantation with reputable management and steady export figures, and not just another one of those get-rich-quick schemes so often proffered by scheming johnnies.

Everything had been under control until yesterday. God Almighty, he and Jessie were packed, ready to go, and now this! Roger, his friend, his partner, had reneged! Had let him down.

‘Damn his reasons!’ Corby muttered as he punched his gloved hands together. ‘And damn that bloody wife of his and her interfering family. Damn them all to hell! He’ll be sorry,’ he went on, fuming. ‘Sugar plantations out there are making a mint of money. I’ll be a rich man while he’s still poking about here in London tied to his wife’s apron strings.’

At least Jessie supports me, he sighed. My wife has the sense to know this is a golden opportunity. I won’t let go now.

That was a disquieting thought. He had no choice but to proceed. He had said his farewells, given up the lease on their rooms, paid the agent and signed the contract. Roger’s responsibility in this enterprise had been to match Corby’s investment, thereby taking up a half-share. Since Corby had used up all of his own funds on the purchase price, the balance of the partnership agreement was urgently required now for their fares, transportation of their goods and chattels, and capital for preliminary commercial expenditure. Too many tales had filtered back of gentlemen purchasing various enterprises and failing within months due to lack of capital for unforeseen expenses, so Corby had made certain that this would not happen to him. They owned the plantation outright and he had been relying on Roger’s investment to keep them covered financially until the next harvest.

But now the proprietor of Providence was stony broke! What a comedown for Mr and Mrs Corby Morgan, owners of a vast estate, to have to spend three months or more travelling steerage to Trinity Bay.

‘Blast his hide!’ Corby spluttered, rain wet on his face and a lady coming towards him caught his words. ‘Sir!’ she accused, shocked, jostling him aside.

‘And blast you too!’ he retorted. Damn her! He had more important things to think about than uppity women. He’d been worrying for weeks about Roger’s tardiness in putting up his share, making excuses to his father for his friend. ‘He’ll come through. He’s a reliable fellow, there’s just some delay in the transfer of funds.’

‘More like some delay in making his missus toe the line,’ Colonel Chester Morgan had snorted.

‘She has nothing to do with it.’

‘Oho, my lad! Never underestimate the little woman. You should have had his cash in the bank before you threw yours overboard.’

‘It’s not overboard. I own the estate, and I don’t need your Jeremiahs. I know what I’m doing.’

‘If you knew what you were doing and you are so keen on farming you should have bought that sheep farm in Surrey.’

‘A plantation is not a farm, sir.’

‘Same thing. You till the soil and gamble on the weather and rely on farmhands who don’t know their place these days.’

Exasperated, Corby had tried to explain to his father: ‘That’s the beauty of my plantation. It’s in the tropics so I won’t have a problem with weather, with frost and snow and all that – the weather is always the same in the tropics. And natives work the fields for their keep. White men can’t work in that climate and Australia has a large population of natives, a ready-made work force.’

‘If they don’t shove a spear in you.’

‘Sir, I don’t wish to argue with you,’ Corby had said at length, ‘but might I point out, once again, that Providence is only one of many sugar plantations operating in the state of Queensland, and they all use native labour with excellent results.’

And now . . . Corby was on his way to seek his father’s help. Who else could he turn to? He hoped Jessie had arrived on time. The Colonel liked her, they got along well, so Corby had given her the task of breaking the news to him that Roger had pulled out.

Corby smarted at the forthcoming humiliating backdown. It was easier to have Jessie pave the way for him. In the meantime he’d spent the day trying to entice other friends to join him in the enterprise, not without enthusiastic response, but none of them had the necessary cash. He would never forgive Roger for this betrayal. Never!

As he walked into the parlour his father was standing by a roaring fire, glass of brandy in hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat: ‘Late as always, Corby.’

Jessie fussed about him, taking his coat. ‘Darling, you’re freezing. Do come over by the fire or you’ll catch your death.’

‘Perturbations,’ a voice intoned from a deep armchair. ‘Always perturbations.’

Jessie’s father! Lucas Langley! ‘What’s he doing here?’ he hissed at her. The last person he needed now was her bewhiskered eccentric old parent. Chester couldn’t stand him. A bombastic retired officer with a wealth of rock-solid opinions, he had no time for Professor Langley, who, when he did have something to say, invariably disagreed with him. Corby neither liked nor disliked the old man; he was of no consequence, except for now, when as an irritant he could only hamper Corby’s chances of prising much-needed funds from the Colonel. He nodded a grudging acknowledgement to his father-in-law and turned to Chester for the expected lecture of doom.

And his father didn’t disappoint him. ‘Trouble with you young chaps, you think you know everything.’

Corby ignored the opener and poured himself a brandy to help muster the necessary humility. He’d beg if he must but it would take a few more snorts to reduce himself to that state. At this moment he hated his father. He hated his self-satisfied, cosseted life, thanks to the family fortune and an undistinguished career in the army.

The Colonel never had to worry about money. He lived high on the hog with these rooms in town, a pleasant country estate and his God-awful club. His son had received a small inheritance from an uncle and Providence had taken the last of it. Chester had always made Corby ask for money when he needed it; he’d never volunteered a penny, claiming that his son would eventually inherit the lot. Or what was left, he was wont to chortle. Corby feared his father could live to be a hundred and leave him with only bills and bailiffs.

‘It has been a great blow to me,’ he said sadly. ‘It is hard to believe that a gentleman would renege like this, Roger has all but sabotaged my plans.’

‘Ah yes,’ Chester smirked. ‘You always were a blamer. It’s always the other fellow. Never you. Didn’t I tell you to pin him down? Didn’t I warn you a month ago that he was likely to run for cover, that he couldn’t be relied on at the cannon’s roar? But would you listen? Oh no! And now your pal has left you with a plantation that’s probably not worth a whisker and no cash to run it. Have you got any money left at all or have you sent the lot into the gaping maw of the Antipodes?’

‘I have some money, sir.’

‘Speak up then. How much? To the penny.’

‘We have some money,’ Jessie said quietly. ‘I have a nest egg of two hundred pounds.’

Chester’s monocle gleamed. He was enjoying this. ‘Ah well, let’s see, that will probably get you down around the Cape, over to Tasmania and maybe to Sydney. Then what? Do you intend to walk the rest of the way?’

The Professor poked the air with the stem of his pipe and announced: ‘From the Cape across the Indian Ocean to the Torres Straits and south to Trinity Bay.’

‘What’s that?’ Chester challenged.

‘Their route,’ Lucas muttered. ‘The sugar route.’

‘Well, whatever,’ Chester said, dismissing him. ‘It doesn’t alter the fact that you’ve let yourself be dumped, Corby. You can’t afford this enterprise, so you’d best tell the agent to sell that place fast and count your losses.’

‘No,’ Corby said, trying to keep his temper. ‘I can’t afford to lose this opportunity. You can afford it, Father. Why don’t you come in as my partner? You won’t be sorry, I promise.’ This was the very line he knew his father would pounce on, but there was no alternative.

‘So. Now you need my money for your harebrained scheme. Why would I send my son off to be a South Seas layabout? That’s how they all end up.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Corby cried. ‘This isn’t really the South Seas. It’s a civilised British community.’

‘Civilised? I call it decadent. I know what you’re up to. You were never in love with work.’

‘And you were?’

‘I accepted discipline. I can see you now, lying there in a hammock, wearing a white hat and shouting at your Aborigines.’

The Professor looked up and blinked. ‘There are no Aborigines working on Queensland plantations, gentlemen. None at all.’

Corby and his father exchanged glances. For once they were in agreement. The old gent was practically senile, he didn’t know what he was talking about. It was common knowledge that natives worked plantations.

Jessie came to Lucas’s rescue. ‘It’s late, Father. We’ll take you home shortly. Are you warm enough there?’

Corby took a deep breath. ‘I beg you, Colonel, don’t refuse me. I’m so close now. At the very least I need two thousand pounds. Roger said he was good for three but I can make it with two, I know I can. I’m offering you a partnership at one-third less than Roger was paying, a half-share.’

‘There’s no such thing as cheap money,’ Chester replied, ‘only desperate. And desperates are dangerous investments. No, your mother and I have our lives to live, we can’t be throwing good money after bad.’

‘How can you refuse me?’ Corby shouted. ‘You’re crucifying me! I’ll lose everything!’

‘Then you should have listened to me in the first place. Get yourself out of this mess and I might be able to help you with that sheep farm.’

‘I don’t want a bloody sheep farm!’

The Professor tugged at Jessie’s sleeve. ‘Tell your husband we’ll invest.’

‘We?’ she asked, confused.

‘Yes,’ he smiled, licking his pink lips. ‘We’ll take up the half-share at his bargain price.’

‘But, Father, you can’t afford even that.’

‘I can raise it,’ he whispered.

Jessie was frantic that he’d make a fool of himself and, worse, compound poor Corby’s problems. This could easily be just another example of her father’s spontaneous kindnesses, emanating more from emotion than common sense – he’d been known to give away his boots to a needy fellow and arrive home, unconcerned, in his socks. And then there was the time he’d invited poachers, of all people, to share their Sunday dinner. A botanist, he could not be expected to grasp Corby’s financial dealings, but it was sweet of him to offer. ‘Don’t worry, Father. Corby will work it out.’

His eyes were wistful, sad. ‘I’m not dead yet, Jessie, but since your mother died, everyone seems to have written me off. They put me in chairs facing west to wait for my sunset. Don’t you see that this is my chance too?’

Jessie felt a pang of guilt. She knew that her eighteen-year-old sister, Sylvia, resented having to care for their father on her own since Jessie had left home. Sylvia could be cold and ungracious with him, but as a married woman now, there was little Jessie could do about that – except to give Sylvia a gentle reminder now and again that she ought to be a little more patient with him, comments that were not appreciated and probably made the situation worse.

He was becoming agitated. ‘Tell them!’ he insisted. ‘This is my chance to see the Antipodes. To start a new life.’

‘You want to come too?’ Jessie was astonished.

‘I was hoping you would ask me, but now I can buy my way in. I am needed. I don’t have to be a mathematical wizard to spot this bargain. Tell him we’ll take up the offer.’

Still Jessie hesitated. It was the brandy talking, she was sure. But when the argument between Corby and the Colonel descended into a fuming silence, Lucas intervened. ‘Mr Jess,’ he called, a title that infuriated her husband, ‘would you give me a word?’

Concerned, bewildered, Corby was forced to accept his father-in-law as his partner in the face of the Colonel’s amused derision: here was proof to Chester that his son would grasp at straws to dig a deeper hole for himself into bankruptcy. And Corby was angry too that Lucas, the old villain, had taken advantage of the situation. It was damned bad form to eavesdrop on a private conversation and then claim the same financial terms, and more. Had Corby managed to persuade his father to invest, he would have been a silent partner, remaining behind in England. Now he’d let half of Providence go at a low price to an old dodderer who intended joining them there. If nothing else, he was another mouth to feed, because already Corby made up his mind not to brook any interference from the Professor.

As soon as he could, he put Jessie and her father into a carriage and sent them off so that he’d be free to collect his thoughts.

A warm, cheery tavern offered refuge, so he found a dim corner and after a few drinks his despondency eased. It was possible that Jessie could talk the old boy into doing the right thing. If he could raise two thousand, surely he could find three, and pay the full price as any gentleman would do. Yes, it was possible. But still the other worry niggled. Besides being angry with Roger for backing out, Corby was very nervous of going it alone. He had been relying on the experience of his friend, who presently managed his uncle’s large estate in the north. Corby had never managed so much as a duck pond. It was all very well that Roger had handed over his copious notes and books on the subject of sugar-growing – good reading for the voyage, he’d said – but that wasn’t the point. Deep down, Corby had expected to enjoy his occupation as a gentleman planter while allowing Roger to make the decisions, and now the whole load had fallen on his shoulders like a dump of snow from eaves, and a twist of panic writhed within him.

By the time he staggered away from the King’s Arms, he had adjusted to the fact that instead of two enthusiastic young couples, a trio would sail for Trinity Bay – he, Jessie and that old leech, Lucas Langley. He almost wished he could leave both of them behind, irritated that he’d have another parent looking over his shoulder, having at last, and at least, escaped the Colonel’s sardonic glare.

But Corby had a further mental adjustment to make. He had forgotten Sylvia. Not that she was a willing voyager by any means.

‘I can’t believe you’re telling me this!’ she shouted at Jessie, appalled. ‘You’ve tricked Father into handing over his money just to get your husband out of a scrape!’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ Jessie said. ‘He wants to come with us. It’s important to him.’

‘I see. And what’s going to happen to me? He’s putting every penny he’s got into this madness. Where am I supposed to live now that he’s selling the house?’

Jessie tried to calm her. ‘Sylvia, you mustn’t take on so. Surely you don’t imagine we’d go without you? Think what’s ahead of us . . . a wonderful sea voyage and then our own estate out there in that beautiful climate. You’ll love it.’

That hadn’t occurred to Sylvia. ‘You expect me to go too? To leave London and live in the wilds?’ She burst into tears. ‘I’ve always said you’re the most selfish person in the world and now I know I’m right. You’d do anything to suit your own purposes. Well I won’t go! I won’t!’

‘You haven’t any choice, I’m afraid,’ Jessie said quietly. ‘I’m really sorry that this has upset you, but do try to look on the bright side. You might just enjoy yourself, and Corby says we’ll make a lot of money. You can always come back here to visit, and you never know who you might meet in our travels.’

‘I know what I’ll meet,’ Sylvia wept. ‘Blackfellows and snakes! I won’t let you ruin my life like this. I’ll insist Father comes to his senses. He’s too old for all this!’

In vain Sylvia begged and pleaded but the Professor took little notice beyond telling her to include mosquito nets in their sea chests. He was far too busy sorting his books and making lists for what was, for him, a fascinating botanical expedition.

Thoroughly dejected, Sylvia was left to do the packing, contrarily refusing to allow Jessie to help her, and when the departure day dawned she boarded the brig Caroline with them and went straight to her cabin to sulk. The Professor popped his head in, but misread her attitude: ‘Ah! Good girl. I see you’re nicely settled,’ and rushed away to explore the ship.

For Jessie, however, this was the most exciting event of her life, a day she wanted to remember forever. Sails billowed above them like wild, beautiful wings that would carry them to a new and wonderful life, and the dark green sea raced beneath them. She clung to Corby’s arm and looked up at his handsome face, still in a state of euphoria that this man, whom she loved so dearly, had chosen to marry her. There had been worries in this, the first year of their marriage, as to how they would survive with Corby’s capital diminishing at an alarming rate but she’d had faith in him. Jessie understood his reluctance to go into trade and his refusal to go cap-in-hand job-seeking, and she was eternally grateful that he’d rejected military service. She had known he’d find a way eventually. And when he and Roger, that cad, had come home full of this marvellous idea of purchasing a sugar plantation, Jessie had celebrated with them. Later that same night, with their problems solved, she was able to tell Corby her good news, that she was with child.

He was delighted. ‘See! Everything is falling into place. We’ll have our plantation, a great estate, and a son to carry on the family name.’

‘What if it’s a girl?’

‘No, you must have a son. I am told that if you concentrate you can produce the required gender.’

Jessie had laughed, but realised that he was serious.

Now she drew her heavy cloak about her as the wind rose and the swell deepened.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.

‘Wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘Just wonderful.’

‘That’s a good start. I notice some of our fellow passengers are already green about the gills. By the way, I’ve thought of a name for our son: we shall call him Bronte. Bronte Wilcox Morgan, after my late uncle.’

‘Whatever you say dear.’ She kissed him. She was too happy to bother him now. She supposed that was the way with men, which was fine; it left her free to choose a girl’s name, just in case.

The aquamarine waters of the wide lagoon lapped lazily at the exposed reef and drifted back to its crystal depths, resting mildly, awaiting the tidal rush. Already the great ocean out there had begun to sing, preparing to surge and then thunder high over the reef in a welcome invasion of invigorating surf. The lagoon tingled in the blazing sun under weightless blue skies, diamond peaks blinking across the mile of sea to the long arch of beach. Here the sand dazzled, as pristine as the polished creamy-pink interior of a large conch shell that lay at the edge of the jungle.

Sea birds hovered over the tousled green palms that leaned loftily over the beach. They were waiting too, playing their gliding games in hot airstreams, wafting effortlessly into the blue. Soon the ocean would rouse the silent lagoon, delivering fat silvery fish over the reef, and they would be ready for the catch.

A man emerged from the shade and strode down the beach, his large bare feet squeaking sand as he plunged along. This was Ratasali, the ‘big man’ of the coast-dwellers of this area. He was a big man in size too, a huge, bronze-skinned Melanesian, his body rippling with muscles. In his time Ratasali had been a formidable warrior and that, combined with cunning and foresight, had assisted him in retaining power over lesser mortals for many years. That, and his famed friendship with the gods, who appreciated his advocacy.

Ratasali saw to it that all of his people treated the gods with the utmost respect and in their worshipping tendered the very best of offerings. In this manner they had fended off devastating winds, great sharks were unknown in their lagoon, plentiful rains fed their waterfalls and pools, and, perhaps more importantly, his warriors were blessed with the courage and strength to fight off constant attacks by bushmen, hill people and other islanders. In fact these men of Malaita were known throughout the Solomon Islands, indeed the Pacific, as fearsome warriors and their ‘big man’ to be savage in retribution.

Ratasali stood by the conch shell, which was there for a purpose, exercising his arms and legs after a heavy meal, the palm leaves on his wrists and ankles rustling as he stamped. He wore a headband of shells to hold back his woolly hair, his nose and ears were pierced to accommodate adornments made of human bones, and on this day he was sporting his favourite necklace of human teeth. Even in his everyday regalia, his ceremonial headdresses and ornamentations carefully placed in the long house, Ratasali, with his broad nose, iron jaw and massive white teeth, and those deceptively soft brown eyes, was a man to be reckoned with.

Deciding it was time, he picked up the conch shell and blew into it, trumpeting a signal. A few minutes later the high carved prow of a war canoe shot out into the lagoon, slicing across the languid waters like the sudden chop of a tomahawk.

Ratasali danced with delight, clapping his hands as his new tomaka, his war vessel, on its first practice run sped towards the reef, its forty warriors dipping their paddles in swift precision. It was perfect! Wonderful! He shouted encouragement, thrilled with its speed as it turned towards him, the gruesome carved shark mask above the waterline baring its teeth to strike fear into the heart of the enemy.

He flung out his arm and as the canoe skimmed back across the lagoon, he beamed with satisfaction. This was the best vessel ever, beautifully constructed and carved by craftsmen. Before trusting it to the sea, he had taken the precaution of dedicating it to the gods, with the sacrifice of two women and a fat child, and there was no doubt that the gods approved. This had to be the fastest vessel in the islands.

He patted his stomach. The ceremonies to the gods completed with meticulous care, the sacrifices had made an excellent meal for his people.

Signalling to the men to keep practising, Ratasali replaced the conch shell and disappeared from the beach, making his way through the village to the long house to give thanks to the gods.

The thatched building, lined with skulls, was empty at this afternoon sleep-time so Ratasali squatted cross-legged on his mat to think things over. Now that the new tomaka was launched he had several important matters to explore.

White-men ships were due any day, recruiting men to work on the sugar plantations of Fiji and of Queensland, in the north of the big country, Australia. Ratasali knew all about the canefields. As a young man he had been kidnapped from a nearby bay and taken to work in Fiji. Three of his kin had died of dysentery in the hold of that ship before they even reached land, and of the forty-four men taken from Malaita that day, supposedly indentured for three years to white planters, only seventeen had made it home again. The others, unaccustomed to hard labour and poor rations, had died, exhausted, in the fields, or wasted away of disease, left neglected in their huts.

Ratasali had survived, but more than that, he’d watched and learned. He had learned the white man’s language, and had discovered that the British had laws covering the recruitment and employment of Kanakas, an island word for ‘men’. At first he’d thought this was just a tale. He’d laughed about it, in fact. ‘Imagine,’ he’d said to his friends, ‘having laws in our country for stealing men! Or women, for that matter. Would we have to beg permission of our enemies to grab them for sacrifice? Or even for meat when pigs are in short supply? These people are mad!’

It had been a surprise and a relief to find that the blackbirding ships were only seeking men to labour in the canefields. And it was indeed true that if they survived the three years they were free to return home, for the planters were bound by law to send them back.

Then he’d found out about the ‘passage men’: islanders who were paid two pounds or more for each recruit they delivered to the ships. Money they could use to buy supplies and oddments from the same ships! Some men volunteered to go, for the excitement of it, but most, like himself, were lured aboard and kidnapped.

Blackbirding had become a savage trade on both sides, with white men shooting opponents on the beaches and murdering belligerent natives aboard ship, while the islanders fought back, attacking any white men they could get their hands on . . . even the missionaries who tried to defend the islanders from marauding whites.

At the end of his indenture Ratasali was paid off in tobacco and tea, but the captain of the ship that brought him back to Malaita had refused to wait for canoes to come out to collect him, fearing retaliation, since several ships had been burned to the waterline by natives. Instead he had thrown Ratasali overboard outside the reef, forcing him to swim the rest of the way.

So he had arrived home shamed, knowing that while others had returned with gifts for their families, he had come back with nothing but rage in his heart.

His first move had been to take a knife and kill the passage man who had sold him, one of his own kin; not on his own behalf but for the three who had died when they were first kidnapped. Or so he told the villagers, who accepted that this was atonement to the gods. Then he went into the hills, captured two enemy warriors, and presented them to the families of the dead men. Grateful relations, still mourning their men who would never return, were able to sacrifice the hillmen to the gods as offerings for the loss of their sons.

From that day Ratasali became a passage man for the plantations, the wiliest in the Solomons, demanding payment for his volunteers and inflicting swift punishment on white men who reneged on agreements. Nor would he allow any of his people – because soon Ratasali rose to become head man – to work in Fiji. He knew that conditions were better in Queensland because old hands who came home often volunteered to return, thus adding to Ratasali’s riches. There were still losses, many men still did not survive, but Ratasali, like any general, saw them as acceptable casualties in the business of trade.

He was waiting on the labour schooner Medusa out of Trinity Bay, Queensland, which was due any day, but there were problems. He had promised Captain King fifty men and six women at the agreed price of two pounds