Page 12 of Dauntless

Dammit, I’d wanted to see that!

But I didn’t like my chances of John Coldwell letting that happen.

I glared at a postcard with a goat on it.

Right on cue, John Coldwell appeared from out the back, his hair uncombed and a piece of toast in his hand.I hadn’t thought him particularly tough looking yesterday, but I couldn’t help wondering if he’d smashed my tent to bits last night—and tried to do the same to me.

“Red Joe,” John said with a nod, and then his expression hardened.“Mr.Hawthorne.”

“Bit of trouble last night, John,” Joe said mildly, as though he hadn’t even heard the ice in John’s tone.“Eddie was camping up on the point, and someone stole his laptop.Cracked his head open too.”

John squinted at me, and then blinked rapidly.“What?But who would do that?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to find out,” Joe said.“Yesterday Eddie told you about a diary he had, is that right?”

“A fake!”John flapped his hand dismissively.“Henry Jessup died on the island.”

“He died in Sumatra,” I said.

John snorted.“What piffle!It’s clearly a faked document!”

I bristled.“It’s been authenticated, and, anyway, these aren’t the Hitler diaries we’re talking about.It’s not going to make the front cover ofStern.Who would fake the diary of an obscure nineteenth century sailor?”

John bristled right back at me.“Oh, who indeed?What a surprise!Of course you would want to smear the good name of Josiah Nesmith, wouldn’t you?I would expect nothing less of aHawthorne!”

I almost laughed in disbelief.“It was two hundred years ago!”

“Eddie.”Joe put a hand on my chest.“John, whether the diary is fake or not?—”

“It’s not,” I muttered.

John glared.“Itis!”

“Whether it’s fake or not,” Joe continued firmly, speaking over the both of us, “Eddie was assaulted last night up on the point.He could have been killed.This is a matter for the police, John.It’s not something the community can just ignore.If people on the mainland find out that this is how we treat guests here on Dauntless, what will that do for Short Clarry’s tourism push?”

“I don’t give a damn about Short Clarry’s tourism push,” John said with a snort.“Can you imagine it?Hotels built up along the street?Rental cars?Apub?I don’t care a thing for tourism!I care about thetruth, Red Joe.”He shuddered and glared at me.“You listen to me, young man.There’s no good ever come of a Hawthorne on Dauntless Island, and frankly you’re lucky you just got a knock on the head, and not the treatment we gave your man George back in the day.”

My jaw dropped.

“Josiah Nesmith was a hero,” John continued, his expression pinched with anger.“I don’t care what nonsense your book tells you.It’s nothing but damned lies.And you, Red Joe, ought to remember where you come from instead of siding with a bloody Hawthorne.”

Joe sighed.

I opened my mouth and then closed it.Opened it again.“It was two hundred years ago!”

“Just put the word out that Red Joe Nesmith wants to know who did this, John,” Joe said, and grabbed me by the jacket to steer me back outside.

There was clearly nothing else we could learn from John Coldwell.

* * *

“Ithink,” I said, standing in the sunlight and pinching the bridge of my nose, sending my glasses askew, “that I was just threatened with being hanged.That’s a first.”

Joe nodded and watched Hiccup nosing her way along the edge of the road.“Listen, Eddie, if you want to get anywhere with this, you’ll need to let me do the talking, alright?”

“I mean, theyhateme,” I exclaimed, outraged.“They actually hate me just because I’m descended from George Hawthorne.This is crazy.I’ve come to a crazy place full of crazy people.It was two hundred years ago.Whocares?”

“Well, you do,” Joe pointed out in an unfairly reasonable tone, “or you wouldn’t be writing a thesis about it.”

---