by Darci Hannah
I pushed a piece of dry gristly beef around my plate with my fork, navigating cautiously through the hard peas and mushy boiled potatoes. I had not the stomach to eat, not because the food was bland, which it was, but because the fate of my Roman god was a mystery to me. His image hung in my mind. His voice, which I never had the honor to hear, called to me, talking to me, whispering things in my ear only a lover had the right to say. Yet he continued to plague me, and he was more delightful than Mr. Graham by far. Who was he, I wondered? Why had he come to our home? What was the outcome of his private interview with my father? And then I could bear it no longer. “Papa,” I blurted, causing all four gentlemen to stop discussing the famous astronomer Herschel and the proper method of lens grinding long enough to stare at me. Apparently they had all forgotten I existed.
“Yes, Sara?”
“I was just wondering, sir, if you’ve found a skipper for the yacht yet?”
He leaned toward me, a kind smile on his lean face, and replied, “Indeed I did. And I believe you already know him.”
“I … I do?” I replied with a like smile, thinking of my young man.
“Aye, Captain MacCrea.”
“Captain MacCrea?” I parroted, trying to hide the disparagement in my voice. “But isn’t he a bit old for such a voyage? I mean no disrespect, sir, but sailing such a coast requires the utmost vigor, I should think.”
“MacCrea’s only forty, Sara, and forty’s not so old at all. Why, I’d give my left arm tae see forty again!” A resounding “hear, hear” followed. “MacCrea’s a good captain, and you’ll be safe aboard with him at the wheel.”
“I’m certain I shall, Papa. ’Tis just that he looks so much older,” I mused aloud while looking pointedly at Mr. Graham. I then commenced stabbing at the crinkly peas with my fork.
“Well, ’tis true he’s no young buck any longer, and the sea does take a toll on a man. Perhaps you’ll be happy to know I hired another man to assist him.”
I looked up. “Another man? What … what other man?” I questioned, trying to sound merely interested and not hopeful.
He thought for a moment, brows drawn together in deep concentration, before coming to some conclusion. “Crichton, I believe the lad said, a Thomas Crichton.”
“A new man, Robert?” Mr. Graham politely questioned.
“Aye. Every now and again, John, I make it a practice to give a leg up to an honest fellow of humble station and low birth who might not ordinarily get the chance to better himself. The lad came all the way from the docks of Leith, humbly asked for an interview, conducted himself well, appeared a good Scotch Calvin and was able to recite scripture when asked. And so, being in a benevolent mood, I gave the lad a job on the yacht.”
My mother looked admiringly at my father, a good Christian; a friend to humanity. I, however, believed that a man like young Mr. Crichton would do well in the world of his own accord. “Papa.” I broke the silence of suspended adulation. “Pray tell, what scripture did Mr. Crichton recite?”
“I believe it was Psalm 107, God the savior of men in distress. He recited it rather prettily too: ‘He hushed the storm to a gentle breeze and the billows of the sea were stilled; they rejoiced that they were calmed and he brought them to their desired haven,’” my father mimicked in a deep, resounding voice. “And then he added a passage from Revelation, the one where the sea shall give up her dead and every man shall be judged according to his conduct recorded on the scrolls. It was prettily done, I should say. The man was also well versed in the plight of Jonah.”
“Indeed, Papa,” I concurred with the general mood of the table, “Mr. Crichton seems a lucky man to have landed such employment.” And then I smiled to myself, recalling that every sailor worth his salt, good Calvin or no, would certainly know the codices of the sea—the maxims of the mariner, as it were. Mr. Crichton was not only handsome; he knew the right words to impress the right men.
• • •
The next time I saw Mr. Crichton was dockside. The very moment my foot crossed the threshold between the boarding ramp and the deck of the yacht, he appeared, like a hero’s timely entrance in a play, his hand reaching out to take hold of mine. I was shocked at the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his grip. The mere sensation caused a delightful tingle, starting in my hand and racing all the way to my heart. To the casual observer, his was a gesture of deference for a lady traveler, polite and chivalrous. However, those with a sharper, more discerning eye might have picked up on something else, something covert and hidden; something very like animal desire.
It was the second time that our eyes had met. The luminous blue orbs nearly burned into mine, his gaze was so intense, yet I would not look away. I was not in my garden any longer. There was no blossoming cherry tree to shade my modesty; there was no great house to which I could run for shelter. I was a grown woman in the bloom of her youth and beauty, and I would not shy away from the rush of life that I felt. I tightened my grip on his hand as my foot hit the deck and said, “Thank you, Mr. Crichton.”
At this mention of his name his eyes widened with shock, and then smoldered with wonder. I couldn’t help from smiling at my advantage.
“’Tis my pleasure, Miss Sara Stevenson,” he replied softly, letting me know that he too had inquired after my name, before bowing his head. “If there is anything I can do, any way I might serve ye on this voyage, all ye need do is but ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crichton. I will certainly keep that in mind.”
It was my father’s authoritative voice that finally broke the spell that had settled over us, pulling both Mr. Crichton and myself back to the present. “Ah, Mr. Crichton,” he said, stepping aboard while assisting one of his dignified guests, Mr. Walter Scott, who was not only a member of the Faculty of Advocates in Edinburgh and Sheriff-Deputy of the County of Selkirk, but also a celebrated writer and poet. “I see you’ve met my daughter, Sara. Be so good as to take Mr. Scott’s dunnage below and stow it in the guest cabin next to mine. Take care with the writing desk, lad,” he cautioned as a porter handed the cumbrous mahogany piece over. “Mr. Scott will be needing that, as he’s told me he’s gathering notes on a new novel he’s writing.”
“A novel, sir?” Mr. Crichton asked, looking upon the man with wonder. For although my father did not read much in the way of poetry or literature, and did not regard those who dabbled in such endeavors very highly at all, apparently the young man did. I too had read some of Mr. Scott’s poems, unbeknownst to my parents, and found that I liked them very well.
“Do ye read much, Mr. Crichton?” the author inquired, walking over to the young man. I noticed Mr. Scott had a slight limp, a lameness in his right leg, yet it seemed not to impede him at all. He was a tall, broad man, nearly as tall as the young sailor, and he looked at him not with superiority or condescension, as a man of education often regards the working class, but with real interest twinkling in his intelligent blue eyes.
“Whenever time allows, sir.”
“And what is it ye like tae read, lad?”
“Why, sir, I find I like …” and words began to form on his lips as his eyes shone with the interest of one who devours books. But then he must have felt my father’s eyes upon him and humbly replied, “Why, sir, only the Bible or the Book of Common Prayer.”
“Good man. You could scarce do better than that!” replied the writer, smiling kindly. “But Mr. Crichton, if I might be so bold, may I press ye to take a keek at some pieces I have by me—rough sketches and fragmented thoughts, though they might be? I find it helpful to an author tae have a reader’s opinion.”
“I’d be honored, sir, truly,” he replied shyly, and then turned to attend his duty.
“Mr. Scott, may I be of service as well?” I asked, much to my father’s chagrin. At my inquiry I heard Mr. Crichton’s footfalls slow to a halt on the hard deck. I looked past Mr. Scott and saw that the golden sailor had paused briefly and then, without turning, he continued on again. Shifting my attention back to the
writer, I listened as Mr. Crichton went to the gangway and then took the steps going down, down to the deck below, only to disappear somewhere aft. “I may not possess a vast knowledge of literature, sir,” I said, smiling sweetly at my father. “But I am always willing to offer my opinion.”
• • •
It turned out that the writer was new to sea-travel, as was I, and took great interest in everything around him. I often sat with him while the other gentlemen were busy with their charts, designs and making great plans for the coast. Whenever Mr. Scott had questions about the curious doings of the sailors, the handling of the sails, the steering of the yacht and so on, Captain MacCrea often obliged him. But when the captain was not available he sent his first mate to be of service. It was in this way that Mr. Crichton and I had cause to be together. Mr. Scott took a genuine liking to the young man, who was always amiable and willing to share his knowledge of his trade. I, for my part, never tired of watching Mr. Crichton go about his duties. Early on in the voyage Mr. Scott picked up on this, and though he was never so crass as to comment on my covert glances at the young mariner, he did contrive to leave us alone. In fact, it was on the second day of the voyage that Mr. Scott called Mr. Crichton over to explain the curious terms of the rigging on the ship.
“Well, sir, Miss Stevenson,” he added with a lingering smile, “we happen to be sailing on a small barky, which is a three-masted, square-rigged ship, one of the most complex of all the seagoing vessels.” And then, smiling broadly to reveal his startling white teeth and mesmerizing blue eyes, he launched into a diatribe of the ship’s virtues, in the manner only a man with intimate knowledge and passion for his craft can. “Those long lines are part of what we call the standing rigging, meaning they don’t move about like the running rigging, or at least in theory they shouldn’t—unless they get sprung, which is not supposed to happen—and each line, or rope, has a specific name. For example, that long line running from the mast here—what we call the mizzen, as it’s the farthest aft—we call that, sir, a mizzen backstay, as it keeps the mizzen from toppling forward, and is counterbalanced by the mizzen stay, over there,” he pointed to the line in question. I looked in the direction he indicated, pretending interest, when really I was just watching him, marveling at his classical looks, thinking him the model for every magnificent Roman statue and sculpture I had ever seen. “Like I said, every piece of rigging has a specific name,” he continued, “depending on the part of the mast she’s supporting …” And he then proceeded educating us quite thoroughly and with great enthusiasm as he rattled off the names and functions of every tedious little rope and piece of canvas hanging from the massive wooden structure overhead. Mr. Scott seemed perfectly enchanted by Mr. Crichton’s descriptions; my interest, rapt and utterly focused, was in reality focused purely on him, not the ship he so beautifully sailed.
“The next one up is called the mizzen topmast shroud. D’ye see?” he said to Mr. Scott and pointed to the sail in question. We were nearing the end, having reached the last mast on the ship already. Although I had no idea what he was saying, I did know that I didn’t want him to stop talking. Mr. Crichton gave a brief description of the sail and its purpose, which to me sounded exactly like every other sail, and was about to continue when Mr. Scott kindly broke in, interrupting the young man.
“Mr. Crichton, ye are a wellspring of knowledge, forbye, but I find my landsman’s memory will never grasp such a concept without I don’t get some paper and a pen to help me. Will ye please keep Miss Stevenson company while I go to my cabin to fetch them?”
“Forgive me, sir,” replied Mr. Crichton, blushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to run off like that … I’m certain ye could have done without the great windy lecture … especially you, Miss Stevenson.” He looked at me and his fine tanned face turned even darker.
“Nonsense, Mr. Crichton!” proclaimed Mr. Scott. “I’m a man devoted to details. But I’ll never remember a word without putting it down. Will ye be kind enough to sit with Miss Stevenson until I return?”
His answer was a heartbreaking smile and the words: “’Twould be an honor.”
It was the first time the two of us were left alone, face-to-face. Certainly there were others about, sailors mostly, attending to some duty or another while a man, not the captain, was at the wheel. Captain MacCrea was belowdeck going over charts in his cabin with the men of the Northern Lighthouse Board, my father included.
Thomas, after so lengthy a lecture—and one delivered with obvious passion—seemed at a loss for words. It was unsettling, yet I too didn’t know how to begin, for he was after all a complete stranger. But I would not sit beside him in silence when so many questions—and a real desire to know him better—burned inside of me. In retrospect, I should have given a bit of thought before blurting the first bubbling utterance that came to my lips, but then again, I was never much of one to think before I jumped. “So, you only read the Bible, do you?”
This caused him to start. But then, when he saw the look in my eye, he realized I was calling him out. “Sure if I didn’t learn to read from the Bible. My father saw to that. But alas, I soon learned that man cannot live on bread alone.”
I smiled at that. “No. I suppose that’s very true. But if man needs more than bread for his sustenance, what else might strike his fancy?”
“What else, Miss Stevenson?” he retorted with a teasing grin. “Why, Burns of course.”
“Burns!” I exclaimed. “But Burns is so … so blasphemous!” I chided, feigning indignation, though knowing full well that I too devoured him.
“Oh aye, he can be. But he was also brilliant.”
“So he was,” I concurred, and then in a softer voice I prodded, “And what else, what else does a man need, Mr. Crichton?”
He leaned in closer, his magnetic gaze locking with mine. “Well, I find a man also needs Fergusson,” he said, indicating another questionable Scottish poet. “And sometimes Pope. Sometimes he seeks out Ramsay, Sheridan, Fielding and Smollett. But he can never go amiss with poems from Mr. Scott, like ‘Marmion’ and ‘Lady of the Lake.’”
“No, he certainly cannot,” I concurred. “So, you are a reader, Mr. Crichton, though you hide it well enough. But I too must hide what I choose to read.”
“Oh, really? So I take it ye were not reading the Bible the other day in the garden?” I grew hot at his question and the mention of that day not so very long ago. “Might I inquire after what ye were reading?”
“I’m not really certain myself what it was, Mr. Crichton, or who wrote it.” He raised his eyebrows at this. I dropped my gaze. “Oh, very well. It was a treatise on the importance of good soil and the proper rotation of crops.” This admission caused a hearty chuckle to escape his rather full and wonderful lips.
“Why, that was very scandalous of ye. I now see why ye must hide such things from your father. Do ye, Miss Stevenson, have a hankering to till the soil?”
“Good heavens no!” I replied, and gave a small shiver of disgust. This caused him to smile.
“I see you’re passionately against playing in dirt. I find that reassuring in a strange way. But if ye have no interest in soil and crop rotation, why were ye reading it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I wasn’t reading it,” I stated honestly. “I only grabbed it because it would have taken too long to search for the one I wanted.”
This truthful admission caused a thoughtful look to cross his handsome face. “I find it fascinating that ye sit in your father’s wee garden pretending to read a book ye have no interest in reading at all. Tell me, what was it ye wanted?” Although he asked this rather innocently, his eyes were mischievous, belying his gentle question.
“I wanted peace and quiet,” I replied, which was not exactly a lie. “If I had found something more to my liking, and my father took a hard look at it, he might have gotten upset. Once he found me reading The Mysteries of Udolpho, and he took it from my hands and said that a lady should never fill her head with such d
rivel—that it was improper, and that it filled the mind with all manner of unsavory thoughts.” This caused Mr. Crichton to crack a conspiratorial smile.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, my father’s cut of the same mold. Once he found me with Burns. I was but ten-and-four, and we were fishing … way out to sea. I had bought the little octavo with my own money, saved up for months just to get it, and he took it from me, read the cover and, without so much as a word, tossed it into the sea. He said the only thing Burns was good for was to fuel the fire or feed the fishes. I never forgave him that.”
“It sounds like our fathers are very similar men.”
At this remark his brows drew together in consternation and his whole face seemed to darken. “My da is nothing like yours!” he averred. “He’s but a lowly fisherman; a man who works his hands raw harvesting whatever the sea chooses to give over. Your da is one of Scotland’s greatest engineers. He’s a great man, Miss Stevenson. And men like him make men like me.”
“I think, perhaps, you overestimate my father,” I said softly, looking at my gloved hands in my lap.
“Did he no’ put the lighthouse on the Bell?” he stated. We had just visited the Bell, took a tour of it the day before. I looked into his face—a face that was better suited to a prince than a lowly fisherman’s son—and saw there a desire that I seldom saw on any man. It was raw determination. It was the desire to rise above one’s station in life. “The Bell’s saved many a mariner, Miss Stevenson. Your father is to thank for that. And ye, Miss Sara Stevenson,” he whispered, captivating me by using my Christian name. “Ye, lass, are not only beautiful, but very lucky indeed.”
