The Luminaries

pounds.’
    Wells advanced on him. ‘Friend, is he?’
    ‘Not in the least,’ said Staines, stepping back again. ‘I found out later that he was a con—that he’d served ten years, with labour—but it was too late by then; I’d signed.’
    ‘Signed what?’
    ‘A sponsorship agreement,’ said Staines.
    ‘And he signed in
my
name.’
    ‘No,’ said Staines, putting up his hands, ‘he only used it—your name, I mean—but I don’t know what for. Look, I’m ever so sorry to distress you—’
    ‘He was the one,’ said Crosbie Wells. ‘He was the one who took my papers. Cheated me out of a pile in pure. Turned my own wife against me. He took my name, and my money, and he tried to take my life—only the job didn’t come off, did it? I got out. I’m still here. Working for a pittance, and living hand to mouth, and keeping my head down, and looking over my shoulder every moment till I’m fairly driven mad.
This
’—he brandished the nugget—‘is all I’ve got left.’
    ‘Why do you not bring the law against him?’ said Staines. ‘All that sounds like evidence enough.’
    Wells did not reply at once. Then he said, ‘Where is he?’
    ‘I believe he’s in Dunedin still.’
    ‘Are you sure about that?’
    ‘As much as I can be,’ said Staines. ‘I’ve his address; I’m to write to him as soon as I make my first venture.’
    ‘You’re his
partner
.’ Wells spat out the word.
    ‘No: I’m obliged to him, that’s all. He stood me eight pounds, and I’m to make him an investment, in return.’
    ‘You’re his partner. You’re his man.’
    ‘Look,’ said Staines, alarmed again, ‘whatever Mr. Carver’s done to you, Mr. Wells—and whatever his reasons—I don’t know anything about it. Truly. Why—if I’d known anything, I’d never have mentioned his name to you just now, would I? I’d have kept my mouth shut.’
    Wells said nothing. They stared at one another, each searching the other’s expression. Then Staines said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll take your nugget to the bank.’

MARS IN CANCER
    In which Carver begins his search for Crosbie Wells; Edgar Clinch offers his services; and Anna Wetherell hardens her resolve.
    Godspeed
crossed the Hokitika bar at the highest point of the tide. It took Captain Carver the better part of an hour to negotiate the traffic in the river mouth, for several crafts were departing, and he was obliged to wait for a signal from Gibson Quay before he could approach the wharf; Anna Wetherell, standing alone on deck, had ample time to take a measure of the view. Hokitika was smaller than she had envisaged, and much more exposed. Compared with the city of Dunedin, which was tucked away down the long arm of the Otago Harbour, and enclosed on all sides by hills, Hokitika’s proximity to the ocean seemed almost fearsome. To Anna the buildings had a grim, forsaken look, made somehow wretched by the strings of red and yellow bunting that crossed back and forth between the rooflines and the awnings of the waterfront hotels.
    A sudden clanging directed her attention to the quay, where a ginger-haired man with a moustache was standing on the wharf, swinging a brass hand-bell, and shouting into the wind. He was plainly advertising something, but his litany of recommendations was quite inaudible beneath the peal of the bell, the mouth of which was big enough to admit a round of bread, and the clapper, as thick and heavy as a bar of bullion. It produced a dolorous, inexorable sound, muffled by the distance, and by the wind.
    The journey from Dunedin had marked
Godspeed
’s inaugural voyage under the command of Francis Carver, who had been so incapacitated by the multiple injuries that he had incurred on the night of the 12th of May that he had failed to make
Godspeed
’s scheduled departure for Melbourne the following afternoon; he had missed, as a consequence, any opportunity to inform Captain Raxworthy that the ship’s ownership had changed. Raxworthy was punctual by nature, and would not suffer the barque’s departure to be delayed on account of a tardy crewman: he had sailed on schedule , his own severe headache notwithstanding, and after
Godspeed
left her anchor at Port Chalmers Carver could do nothing but wait for her return. He passed the next four weeks in convalescence, watched over by an anxious Mrs. Wells, who could not look upon his facial disfigurement without despair. The wound had been stitched, and the stitches since removed: it now formed an