Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (18 page)

Nearby, Brock smiled to himself, rose, and returned to where he felt was fast becoming his rightful place.

Chapter Fifteen

Lucius was not present at breakfast, but then again he was never present at breakfast. Instead, Brock Donnigan sat beside Evelyn, and the Whitfields joined them across the table.

Bartholomew’s cries were fierce and choked with anger. Each time his nurse lifted the spoon to his lips, the baby slapped it away, indignant that Josephine should attempt to force such terrible food down his resistant throat. The child had eaten a few interesting meals in his short life, most of which were on this ship, but he would rather pitch into a tantrum than allow this watered-down flour past his tightly clamped lips.

Josephine could sympathize with the wretched child, for she was well accustomed to eating whatever was available to fill her stomach. In London, eating tasteless porridge was highly preferable to digging through the refuse of others, which was the only option besides starving. At sea, one’s choices were what came out of the galley, or else choosing from the rats and roaches that resided in steerage, and one could not be entirely certain that those unsavory specimens were not already utilized for the evening stew. On all accounts, at this point in the journey, it was best not to look too closely at what was served.

Even Stephen and Adele Whitfield, who were well acquainted with wealth and bounty, ate their porridge dutifully, for though they hailed from the high society of England, they were not strangers to poverty. Upon the early days of their courtship, they made a united decision to remove the blinders of privilege and witness the uncomfortable state of need in the world around them. The immediate repercussions of such courage resulted in Adele devoting herself to the starved and coughing children at the orphanage, while her husband sought shelter and sustenance for the rough and ragged boys on the street.

When the cholera epidemic threatened to deprive the orphanage of everything and everyone they loved, the Whitfields prayed in expectation of a miracle. In the end, not only were their lives spared, their establishment grew by a number of new children whose parents had not survived the local terror. Among these new arrivals was Josephine, whose presence marked the beginning of change. Within a year, Adele discovered she was with child.

Bartholomew was healthy and strong, and when news of California reached the Whitfields, both parents felt as though a new path had been laid before them. Many men, young and old, would be in want of direction, as there were no justice systems or laws presiding over the Wild West. Miners lived by their own rules, and in a society built upon ambition and greed, there was a strong need for pillars of purpose.

There were prices to pay for following one’s dreams, and for little Bartholomew Whitfield, the cost was beginning to take its toll.

After half an hour of feeble attempts to feed the youngest Whitfield, Adele turned to her nurse with an apologetic expression.

“My dear, I daresay the child is inconsolable. How unfortunate there is nothing else to offer him! Would you be so kind as to take him back to the stateroom? Or perhaps a walk on deck might assuage his temper. I am afraid these poor fellows are having enough trouble eating their breakfast without a fitful child to rob them of peace.”

Josephine nodded and removed the wailing child from the saloon. Evelyn looked after them, churning her own uneaten breakfast with her spoon in disgust.

“I cannot say I blame the boy,” she grumbled. “For a respectable ocean liner such as the
Steam Rose
to charge an exorbitant rate of passage only to serve this
slop
is nothing short of a crime. Our captain should be reprimanded, or else released from his station entirely. If he should grace us with his presence at supper, I will have a word with him, I assure you.”

As it was not the Whitfields’ habit to complain, Stephen remained silent while his wife offered a smile of consolation.

“Oh, it is not all bad,” she said. “With so many passengers on board, it is a wonder there is any food left at all. We could be forced to gnaw at a piece of wood, or eat a porridge made of weevils instead of water and flour. Can you imagine?”

Evelyn pushed her bowl away.

“I can imagine all too well,” she sighed. “I have had enough weevils to last a lifetime, thank you.”

Beside her, Brock Donnigan was finishing the last of his porridge by scraping his dish with a crust of bread.

“Cheer up, Duchess,” he told her. “If this good weather holds out, we’ll anchor in a couple of days.”

“I have heard the skies over our port of call in Chagres can be quite unpredictable,” Stephen Whitfield said.

Brock nodded. The Port of Chagres was a common subject of discussion among the men, as the
Steam Rose
crew had begun circulating information to give the passengers an idea of what to expect once the ship made berth.

“The weather has been known to cause delays,” Brock agreed. “The port is too shallow and our ship is too large. If the seas are rough, the
Steam Rose
will be forced to bide her time off shore and the lot of us will be trapped on board until things calm down. If the weather is fair, the natives will ferry us to land.” At this, his expression altered. “Now, if what I have been told about Chagres is true, we will have to be quick about our business and get out of there as soon as possible. We must not linger.”

The women tensed visibly.

“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked.

Stephen Whitfield leaned forward.

“In preparation for our journey,” he said, “I was able to secure travelers’ insurance for my family; however, I was told this would not cover our time in Chagres. From what you have learned, Mr. Donnigan, why do you suppose that is?”

“Your agent didn’t want to scare you, did he?” Brock scoffed. “From what I understand, your policy should cover Chagres, but not for more than twenty-four hours. That kind of insurance doesn’t exist. You see, you stay in that town longer than a day, you’re good as dead. Everything in Chagres is out to kill you. You drink the water, you’re dead. You eat the food, you’re dead. You sleep with the women, you’re dead. Not exactly your first choice for a holiday.”

“Indeed!” Adele gasped. “Whatever are we to do once we arrive?”

            “Panama City is where the ships leave for San Francisco. To get there from the Port of Chagres, we have to travel upriver to Gorgona and overland from there. Now, these men know about Chagres,” he nodded towards the others in the saloon, “and they are just as disinclined to spend the night as you and me. It’s gonna be a race. The moment we pull ashore, we secure boats up the Chagres River, and they may only hold three or four of us. There will be a rush, because not everyone will have a seat, and some poor fellas will be forced to take the jungle route. I’ll wager there ain’t no newspaper articles on men who’ve survived that trek, so I suggest we do what we can to avoid it.”

            “Mr. Donnigan, there are more than three or four people to our party,” Adele replied. “It is Stephen’s and my wish that all of us stick together throughout this expedition.”

            Brock shrugged.

            “It is my guess that some of these rumors are only partially true,” he said. “The native people of Chagres might have learned to improvise since the last ship rolled in. Maybe there are other options of transportation that we don’t know about. But we have to be prepared with the information we have, and that information says we get ourselves two boats or else we hitch up our skirts and traipse through the jungle, and I’ll be damned before I agree to that kind of suicide.”

            “You seem confident in our ability to avoid the latter predicament,” Stephen said. “Surely you must have formulated some sort of plan to ensure our success.”

            The Australian smirked.

            “I’d like to think of it as leverage, Mr. Whitfield.”

            “It all sounds like such an adventure!” Adele exclaimed. “A mad dash for California, indeed!”

            “I certainly hope that whatever you’re looking for in California is as valuable to you, Mrs. Whitfield, as gold is of value to those you’re up against.”

            “Mr. Donnigan,” Adele shook her head with a smile, “if the kingdom of God cannot advance past the pursuit of stones, I dare say we are wasting our time.”

            When the Whitfields had dismissed themselves, Brock pulled out a cigar, struck a match, and puffed. The sweet smell of tobacco and wood filled Evelyn’s nose, the fragrance reminiscent of her father. As with each unexpected memory of him, she felt the familiar stab of loss that, after all these years, had not ceased to fill her with longing.

            Brock inhaled and pulled the cigar from his lips, offering it to Evelyn. She had never tasted tobacco before, so she accepted it as a welcome distraction and was careful not to suck in the aromatic air too swiftly. She dragged slowly, keeping the smoke in the cavern of her mouth. She allowed it to sit for a few seconds, then gradually released it into the air in a steady stream. The taste lingered, however, making its way into the bridge of her nose where it remained for some time.

            She returned the cigar to Brock, who puffed it thoughtfully for a moment.

            “Things are about to change, Duchess,” he told her presently.

            Evelyn dropped her eyes.

            “I do not know what I expected,” she muttered, “but everything we have just spoken about leaves me terribly frightened.”

            “Krikey. You, frightened? What has a bit of jungle against a raging disease? If you defeated one, I am confident in your ability to defeat the other.”

            “The two are worlds apart. Sickness is a risk for all of us. We do not choose it. We cannot run from it. This present danger is something Lucius willingly embraced; and not only for himself, but he has dragged me into it as well. How am I, a woman of privilege, to stand up against the frightful mysteries of nature?”

            “You won’t be alone, Miss Brennan. I will not allow any harm to come to you. You have my word.”

            Evelyn met the man’s eyes and it caused her stomach to lurch.

            “I am confident in your ability to protect me,” she told him, “though I do not know why you wish to take on a duty that is not rightfully yours. I am Lucius’ responsibility.”

            “Lucius is a bloody fool,” Brock spat. “The man does not ask questions, nor does he listen to sound advice or words of caution. He knows nothing of the challenges ahead and he will suffer for it. He does not know how to care for you, Evelyn. What right does he have to your company? To your allegiance? He has left you to fend for yourself on a ship full of men who would take advantage of you in an instant. A man, no, a boy like him is not capable of seeing you to safety through any circumstance. He has proven his level of authority, and it is naught more than the Whitfield babe’s. It’s time you found a man who has what it takes to protect and provide for you, Miss Brennan.”

Evelyn twisted her hands together.

“A man like you, Mr. Donnigan?” she asked hesitantly.

Brock paused, gauging Evelyn’s expression for how he should reply. It was obvious which answer both frightened and pleased her.

“Yes,” he responded. “A man like me.”

“And if you should take his place, what will become of Lucius?”

“Despite his unworthy connection to you, love, I am rather fond of the bugger. He can do what he likes. He can stick with us or he can take off on his own. I am impartial to his decision.”

“Lucius will not leave me. We have an agreement. I am to be of use to him in California.”

Brock raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“What kind of use?”

Evelyn blushed.

“Nothing…” she gulped, “indecent. He does not want to be distracted by household work while he prospects, so I suppose I am to do what all women are expected to do. Cook, clean, and serve. In return, once he has his fortune, Lucius will grant me freedom as a woman of independent means. But until then, I have nothing without him.”

Brock looked disgusted.

“What a sloth. He has won you as his servant.”

“I am trapped by law, Mr. Donnigan. There is nothing I can do.”

Brock tightened his jaw and lowered his voice.

“Well, that changes things. But you are my charge now, Duchess. I am sure Lucius and I can reach some sort of agreement.”

Something about Brock’s tone made Evelyn nervous.

“What sort of agreement?” she asked.

“The sort where he releases you to me.”

“Lucius does not know about us, Mr. Donnigan. I am sure I do not hold his affection, but he is a proud man, and perhaps it will be better to wait until-”

“You just leave the details to me, all right? You are my priority now.”

“But you must promise me that no harm will come to him. He has already had a rough go of things, and he is not well.”

Brock was silent.

“Mr. Donnigan,” Evelyn pleaded, “you
must
promise me.”

“I am a rational man, Miss Brennan. I will not resort to extremes unless Mr. Flynn decides to be uncooperative.”

“But he is
always
uncooperative. Brock, you must realize that.”

Brock took Evelyn’s hand beneath the table and squeezed it.

“Look, Duchess. I think you are an amazing woman. You are strong and gorgeous as hell and there is nothing I would like more than to have you as my own. I want what’s best for both of us, and you have to trust that I know what that is. So tell me. Do you trust me, Evelyn?”

Evelyn struggled for an answer, because an immediate “Yes” was not the first that came to mind.

“I don’t know,” she told him. “I want to.”

“Then good on ya,” Brock smirked. “That’s all I can ask for.”

Evelyn did not wait for Brock to offer again, but instead reached out and took the cigar from between his lips. She stuck it in her mouth and puffed the hell out of it.

Over cards, the men could barely concentrate. Rumor had it the
Steam Rose
was to lay anchor off the coast of Central America in the morning. Malnourished and anxious, the prospect of seeing land was almost more than they could bear. They had all heard horror stories of Chagres, but the excitement of putting their feet on solid ground was enough to intoxicate them beyond the point of apprehension. The worst of tales only served to inspire optimistic laughter and incredulous comments.