In the Land of the Long White Cloud

action, he ran along the river’s edge, seeking cover between the ferns wherever possible. He followed the river upstream for an hour before he thought he’d gone far enough to relax. The skipper would not miss him right away, as the
Pretty Peg
was not set to leave until the following morning. Naturally, Copper would look for him, but not by the river, at least not at first. Later, he might look around the riverbanks, but surely he would limit himself to the area around Westport. Lucas would have liked to head deeper into the jungle right away, but his revulsion at his own filth made him pause. He had to clean himself up. Lucas stripped down, shivering, and hid his dirty things behind a couple of rocks—he gave some brief thought to washing them and taking them with him, but shuddered at the prospect of scrubbing the blood and fat out. So he held on only to his underwear, and would have to abandon his shirt and pants. That was regrettable; if he dared to come into contact with people again, he wouldn’t own anything more than what he wore on his back. But anything was better than the slaughter on board the
Pretty Peg
.
    Lucas finally slid down into the ice-cold waters of the Buller River. The cold pierced him to the bone, but the clear water washed all the dirt from him. Lucas lowered himself deeply into the river and reached for a pebble, which he began to rub on his skin. He scrubbed his body until he was red as a crab and hardly felt the water’s coldanymore. Then he finally left the river, put on his clean clothes, and looked for a path through the jungle. The forest was terrifying—damp and thick and full of massive, unfamiliar plants—but Lucas’s interest in his homeland’s flora and fauna came in handy. He had seen many of the giant ferns, whose leaves sometimes rolled up like caterpillars and seemed almost to come alive, in textbooks and overcame his fear by trying to name them. None of them were poisonous and even the largest tree weta was less likely to attack him than the fleas on board the ship. Even the various animal noises that filled the jungle did not frighten him. There was nothing here but insects and birds, mostly parrots, who filled the forest with their strange calls but were utterly harmless. That evening Lucas made a camp out of ferns and slept not only more easily but also more peacefully than during his weeks on the
Pretty Peg
. Though he had lost everything, he awoke the next morning with refreshed courage—which was surprising given that he had walked out on his employer, broken a contract, and amassed gambling debts that he had not paid back.
Still
, he thought, almost amused,
soon no one will be calling me a “gentleman”!
    Lucas would have liked to remain in the jungle, but despite the abundant fertility of this green hell, nothing could be found to eat. At least not by Lucas—a Maori tribe or a true ranger might have seen things differently. As it was, however, his growling stomach forced him to look for a human settlement. But which one? Westport was out of the question. Everyone there was guaranteed to know by now that the skipper was looking for a sailor who had jumped ship. It was possible that the
Pretty Peg
was even waiting for him.
    Then he recalled that Copper had mentioned Tauranga Bay a few days earlier. Seal banks, twelve miles from Westport. The seal hunters surely knew nothing about the
Pretty Peg
and weren’t likely to care. But the hunting in Tauranga was supposed to be flourishing; doubtless he could find work there. With a light heart, Lucas headed that way. Seal hunting could not be any worse than whaling.

    The men in Tauranga had indeed welcomed him, and the stench of their camp was more bearable. After all, it was in the open air, and the men were not penned together. It must have been evident to the men that something was not quite right about Lucas, but they did not ask any questions about his tattered appearance, his missing equipment, or his lack of money. They dismissed Lucas’s threadbare explanations with a wave.
    “No worries, Luke. We get enough of your type. Just make yourself useful and bag a few pups. On the weekends we take the pelts to Westport. Then you’ll have money again.” Norman, the oldest hunter, sucked good-naturedly on his pipe. Lucas had a sneaking suspicion that he was not the only one here running from something.
    Lucas could even have felt comfortable among these reticent, laid-back Coasters if it weren’t for the