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come out. He fell in with her as she started for her home and had her
attention for a quarter of an hour. Her pace, he was always pleased to
note, was intentionally slow, and her answers to his questions were
shy and tardy. Most Sundays they lingered at the hitching post before
her house, saying little, but reluctant to part until her mother called
her in two or three times.
He paused in his march to the edge of the plateau, closed his eyes
and pictured in every detail Isabel s smooth face and her deep brown
eyes. Then he recalled how he managed to lean close to her yellow
hair spilling from the edge of her bonnet and catch its enticing scent.
He opened his eyes and started off again. She would be spoken for
by the time he returned, that is if he ever managed to return. Her
father had probably chosen his son-in-law before this very moment.
If I do not find another berth, Thomas reminded himself, I shall be
no better than a beggar when again I step onto the roads of Stoning-
ton. Even had he not left, his chances with Isabel would have been
slim. Now it was already far too late. Two years had passed. It looked
as if it would take that much longer to earn wages or a lay and find
his way home. She will be firmly urged to marry and have her chil-
MOTOO EETEE 221
dren by another, some old widower with heavy belly and heavy purse.
Near the fall he turned and walked along the bluff to the tiers until
the entire surface of the bay was visible. His last few paces to the look-
out were always hurried in the hope that a ship would be discovered
entering that circle of water or anchored with its sails furled or hang-
ing in the bunts. He searched the western horizon out beyond the spit
where any ship would be silhouetted by the yellowing sunlight. Not
the least speck broke the finely drawn line between sky and water. To
the north it was veiled with a haze. It was possible a ship was there,
within that mist, and on a beam reach to the Indies with all sails set
and white roll showing below her bobstay. If that were the case, then
no one would be looking aft to spy the peaks of their refuge. Beyond
the east rim of the grassland a portion of the dark sea could be made
out. No sail there rising as it approached. Thomas s eyes moved back
slowly to the setting sun. Empty . . . all empty. Every morning and
evening empty, he was thinking. We must look to our own wits and
strength to carry us to Cook Strait. At least that far, if not to the Bay
of Islands.
He brought his hands up before him, curled them into fists and
squeezed them with all his might. He then opened them and stared
at the callused palms. That was the sum of two years of danger and
labor in the heat of the tropics and the continual chill of the rook-
eries. With a last look at the horizon, he turned and walked back to
the hut.
WEEKS LATER, after they had finished their evening meal, Mr. Mor-
gen stood up and pulled a limb from the bundle he had suspended
from the roof supports. Not the best, he said after testing its resilience,
but good enough for now. He started a wedge into its larger end and
split it in two, thus producing two pieces suitable for bows. With a
large chip of glass, he began scraping one stick into the shape he
desired, flattening it to a stave except for the center portion. By the
middle of the following day he had finished the scraping and strung
222 MOTOO EETEE
it with twine twisted of the longest fibers of flax. He twanged the string
and pulled it to its full draw. Smooth, he muttered, smooth. It was
evident that by the manner in which it bent, it was a decent bow about
five and a half feet long. He sent several untipped arrows into a bun-
dle of dried flax leaves he devised as a target. Fletched with feathers
from a sea bird, the shafts flew accurately for forty paces or a little
more. To reach farther, it was necessary to fire higher into the air, with
a loss of accuracy. The wood of the bow lacked some of the springi-
ness the mate desired, yet its range, he declared, was tolerable.
The next day he showed a wide smile as he strode into the work
yard and dropped a dead animal from his shoulder. There, he pointed
to the carcass on the ground and boasted, first shot . . . through the
heart! They ll not escape me while I have these. He held up his right
hand gripping his bow and a few arrows, waggled them at the crew-
men, and continued, Aye, and should any Botany Bay runagates reach
this island, we will not be at their mercy. A few of these arrows shot
from ambush will change their minds and shorten their visit. I would
even welcome the chance.
He was well pleased with his weapon and occupied his evenings
making more. He found ways to improve them and took pride in their
added accuracy, appearance, and the longer flights of the arrows they
shot. In all, he finished five: one for every man and a spare. He rubbed
each bow with a little fat from the fowls and hung it on the wall of
the hut with a bundle of a few arrows.
A calm sea, in addition to a favorable tide, was always required
before the men could search among the rocks of the west coast for
the sea ears. They ate the meat from those gem-like shells fewer times
as the days passed. The surf along that side of the island grew higher,
and now only rarely was a lesser sea running. The air at night and in
the early morning became noticeably colder, and on the shore of the
bay the wind increased and whipped the trees to and fro. Gusts picked
up leaves from the ground and swirled them over the beach and the
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