by Darci Hannah
“I should be going now” was all I said, and shrugged off his tight grip, nearly running to the slippery gangway, where I raced a torrent of water to the lower deck.
I burst into my tiny cabin and shut the door, leaning against it as the ship rocked violently beneath me. It took everything I had to maintain my balance. My heart was beating wildly and I fought to bring it under control, but I was scared. I wasn’t afraid for the ship, because Thomas was on deck. I knew enough about the young man to know that if there were a chance of escaping being torn to pieces on the rocks, he would manage it. No, I was not afraid for the ship or for my life, I was afraid for my happiness with Thomas Crichton, because for the first time since the voyage began, my father was looking upon his new employee with suspicion. He hadn’t seen us together before, but for the few times we were with Mr. Scott talking of literature, yet he’d never made a remark about it. But I feared that was all about to change. Although Thomas and I were utterly discreet, carrying on our clandestine, and rather chaste, courtship under the stars, I was scheming in my head about what to do—what lies to conjure—when a soft knock came upon my door. I took a deep breath and opened it, ready to face the man who so dominated my life. Yet to my surprise it was Thomas.
“Whatever are you doing here?” I gasped, stupefied, and then thinking more clearly I pulled his rain-soaked body inside my room before he could answer, and shut the door.
My cabin aboard the yacht was the width of my little bunk, with barely three feet to spare between the bed and the door. I owned an armoire at home that was bigger. Yet at that moment the tiny cell was a godsend, for Thomas and I were pressed close together, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body radiating through his cold, wet clothes. The feel of him, the contrast of the cold and heat, both thrilled and terrified me, yet I didn’t push him away. There was no room. “Dear God, Thomas!” I chided his audacity. “If my father found you in here he’d be none too pleased!”
“Well, I wager he won’t. He’s still on deck with the captain. Hush now, love; I’ve not much time,” he whispered, bringing his finger to my lips. “I just came to tell ye not to worry. All the glories of heaven will not make me give up my treasure without a fight, and I’m a man who knows how to fight Old Poseidon.”
“Treasure?” I repeated, thinking he was referring to the ship, or perhaps alluding to some mysterious valuable in his sea chest.
“Aye, my treasure.” He must have seen the blank look on my face, for he then elaborated on what he meant by treasure, stating that I was his treasure. “I have never asked the Almighty for riches or glory,” he said plainly, looking into my eyes. “I’m not a man who chases such things. And though the Lord kens I’ve been plenty wicked, He’s still managed to bestow on me something glorious. He’s given me ye, Sara. Deny it if ye will, but as long as I shall live, I will let no harm come to ye. Now, listen, lass, I’ve no’ much time. Kiss me.” And with that said he took me in his arms and convinced me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I was indeed his treasure.
I had never before kissed a man. I had dreamed of it many a time, to be sure, especially where Thomas was concerned, and I had always imagined it to be quite wondrous. Yet even I was not prepared for the searing force of such a kiss. Although the storm raged around us, and the ship rocked violently with every successive wave, I had never felt safer or more loved. He enveloped me in his steamy cocoon of ice water and searing passion, with lips coming over mine that were both soft and fierce at once. And though it lasted only a moment—out of necessity—it was a moment that changed my life, for I no longer could deny that I loved him. He felt this, knew it to be true, and with reluctance pushed himself away, breathing as heavily as I. And then he smiled. It was a sublime grin that lit his face, a face that radiated pure joy, to match my own. “God, but I dinna want to leave!” he uttered, still grinning and still fighting to catch his breath. “But I’m afraid I must. However, I believe ye now know I’ll be back.” There came a shout on deck. His eyes flashed to the low beams of the ceiling, where hurried footfalls scampered overhead. And then, with the hint of apology in his eyes, he left with the same abruptness he had entered my room.
When my father came by a while later to tell me of the remarkable maneuver performed by the captain at the behest of Mr. Crichton that saved the ship, I was just beginning to recover from my surging emotions, as well as the raging sea. My father, seeming in awe of what he had just witnessed on deck (he being the only man allowed to stay there), relayed to me a risky maneuver called clubhauling, where one anchor is sacrificed to drastically change the direction of the ship. Thankfully the excitement on deck and the near destruction of the Lighthouse Board’s precious yacht had pushed his earlier suspicions about myself and the young sailor far from his mind, nor did he comment on the state of my deeply flushed cheeks. He simply told me that the ship was in the clear; I had no more need to worry. Captain MacCrea had shifted her direction just enough to avoid destruction. We were now heading out to sea to ride out the storm.
The storm blew over within twenty-four hours, yet there was another storm brewing, building silently within the confines of the little brig. It wasn’t obvious to the casual observer, but the tension was there nonetheless. Ever since the incident on deck where my concern for Mr. Crichton had been so plainly written on my face, my father harbored a suspicion that my dealings with the young man were anything but casual. Much to my chagrin, he kept me close, involving me in many of his boring affairs, with ever an eye on the young mariner. For four days I humbly complied, being as charming as circumstances dictated, with never a direct look at the man who possessed my every thought. I stayed in my cabin at night, prayed for sleep, and when it would not come, I took to dosing myself from a bottle of Captain MacCrea’s heady port wine. For all my discreetness, Captain MacCrea seemed to know very well what demons plagued me. He handed me two bottles of wine from his private stores, declaring with a conspiratorial wink that my secret was safe with him. Whether he thought I was a closet lush or merely a young woman who couldn’t sleep knowing her lover was on deck, I was not entirely certain, and I was not about to correct him if he happened to have the wrong impression.
Thomas, at first, did not understand my odd behavior—my blatant shunning of his kindness—thinking it a result of his bold kiss that day in my cabin. This he indicated in a note entrusted to Mr. Scott. When I was handed the note by the writer, and read it, I felt sickened by his assumption. Without another thought I borrowed the writer’s pen, ink and a scrap of paper and scribbled my own hasty reply, assuring Thomas that my avoidance of him was to divert my father’s suspicion, and in no part due to his visit to my cabin, which, I underscored, had been the pinnacle of my trip thus far! This he was relieved to read, and although he did not agree with my drastic measures, he understood my motive and refrained from talking to me on deck, contacting me only by notes passed along through Mr. Scott.
It was childish and perhaps wrong of us to implicate the great man so, but Mr. Scott seemed tickled to be the mediator of our clandestine courtship. “Good day to ye, Miss Stevenson,” he greeted me on the fourth day of my little charade. “Ye appear a wee peaked this morning. I hope you are not unwell?”
“No. I’m well, sir, very fine, thank you,” I affirmed, stifling a yawn from yet another sleepless night. Mr. Scott smiled at my transparent statement.
“Och, there’s naethin’ sae grand as young love, forbye! ’Tis a pity yours need be shoved down a mine shaft, concealed in a subterranean warren for only the creatures of the night to see, and not allowed to shine forth like one of your father’s great lights. Perhaps we’d all benefit from such a glow as the one hidden beneath the wan skin o’ your face.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You obviously don’t know my father, or you’d understand why the glow you seem to think I possess need be hidden.”
He replied with a hearty chuckle. “Ye are no’ the first fair maiden to be stricken with Cupid’s arrow, nor, I pray, will ye be t
he last.”
“You sound very familiar with love, Mr. Scott. If it’s not too impertinent of me, may I ask if you speak from experience?”
“I will tell ye a wee something about young love, Miss Stevenson. The very day I first laid eyes on my Maggie was the day it struck me daft. Changed my life forever.” He looked at me with his kind, sharp eyes. “Clouds a man’s mind, it does. Makes him foolish, bold and daring! But alas it also gives a man purpose; gives his life direction, which is no’ such a bad thing for the young chiels, I find.”
“And did Mrs. Scott give you direction?”
“Why, as to that, sure she did—and still yet does. For ye see, I’m still findin’ my way in the world. But the journey’s been all the smoother with dear Margaret by my side.”
“And if,” I began searching his twinkling eyes, “if Mrs. Scott was forbidden to marry you, what would you have done then?”
“Weel, being daft, and on account of young love, I’d likely have done what many a good Scot has done before me.” I leaned forward, anxious for his answer. “I would have swept her off tae Gretna Green or gone across the border.”
I liked Mr. Scott’s answer. It was bold, daring and daft, yet ever so romantic! I then scanned the deck and found what I was looking for. But before he saw me I dropped my gaze to my lap, aware of my father’s eyes upon me.
“Is something amiss?” Mr. Scott inquired.
“My eyes are just tired, sir. The men were discussing the Isle of Iona at breakfast this morning, thinking of making a stop there to see the ruins of St. Columba’s monastery and the burial place of some ancient Scottish kings. A map was then fetched, the tiny island spotted and some calculations were made. Tides were discussed and then Captain MacCrea was consulted as to the approach the ship should take. I was quite perplexed by it all. I’m certain I shall never understand nautical navigation!”
“Nor should ye, my dear. What a pity you were made to suffer through it. Your head should be filled with a’ the sights and sounds of the sea, a marvel of God’s handiwork forbye, as well as take in a little poetry every now and again. And speaking of poetry, it just so happens I have with me an interesting little piece from what I would call a budding young poet, an honest man, a workingman, perhaps reminiscent of Rabbie Burns.” Here he paused to look above and beyond me, where I caught him wink. I turned and saw said young poet, perched halfway up the ratlines, propped in the rigging like a giant, golden-haired monkey. He appeared to be advising a topman to shake out a reef in the great sail, but in reality he was watching me. I shifted my attention down the deck to where my father seemed to be engaged in conversation with the captain. I looked back up at Thomas and took the note from Mr. Scott’s hand, then proceeded to read the words Mr. Crichton had so painstakingly written. “To the Young Lady of my Dreams,” it was titled, and thus began the first of many love poems to come that Thomas Crichton had penned specially for me.
Leave me not alone tonight
To stand the wrath of dawn’s first light,
Beneath the stars that shine so bright,
All alone.
Without your smile and warm embrace,
The beauty of your angelic face,
A body sae full of artful grace,
A’ the night’s sae lang
O’ Sara, I beg, torment me nay longer,
My will is weak, my passion stronger,
’Tis for your lively spirit I hunger,
Come satiate me!
While Orion awaits all through the night
For Diana’s arrow true in flight,
His heart she pierced with blinded sight,
O’ still he loves her!
So be not afraid to come, my love,
From questioning eyes we’ll stand above
Then scatter in the morn’ like the winged dove,
Above suspicion!
My love for ye’s without condition.
T.C.
“Oh my,” I uttered, nearly breathless, a hand over my heart, so touched by his words. The poem was so intimate, the sentiment so bold, and yet it was so wrong of me to even consider endangering him by frolicking beneath the stars! And yet … and yet I could not deny that I felt the same as he did. I looked again to the ratlines where Thomas was perched and saw that he was staring intently at me—as if he was afraid of how I would react. With his gaze still on me, I took the little piece of paper and carefully folded it. I then placed it gently in the top of my bodice and snuggled it against my bosom, where it would remain close to my heart. I knew he would understand this small gesture, and my reward was a glorious smile solely focused on me; a smile that radiated through every fiber of my being. Damn me, but I was indeed under Thomas Crichton’s heady spell!
With my father placated as much as could be, and through my ambivalence toward Mr. Crichton whenever in public, doubt was beginning to spread over his previous suspicions. He slowly began to relinquish my tether. This was a blessing. For I had been given a taste of love by a man who thrilled me beyond reason, and I was not about to let so precious a gift slip by unopened. I would continue to meet Thomas Crichton beneath the stars.
It was a glorious time. And because Thomas had a job to do, and because I would have been mortified if my presence distracted him from his duty, I only visited him for an hour or so, weather permitting. But it was enough. We spent our stolen moments with heads bent together, talking of family, of our lives, of our dreams, while holding hands under the cover of our boat-cloaks. We carried on like a pair of moonstruck children, grinning and giggling over nothing much at all, while attempting to be as discreet as possible. It was under the stars that I learned Thomas’ mother had died shortly after giving birth to him. He was raised by his father, a poor, honest fisherman who had struggled to give him as decent an education as he could afford. But by the age of eight his formal education had ended, and Thomas went to sea with his father. Yet from the start he hadn’t been satisfied with the life, always wanting more. And when he had turned sixteen, the two Crichton men had a falling out—over literature, no less!—and Thomas left home, never to look back. His life on the streets of Edinburgh had been hard, he confided, but he managed well enough. He worked the docks, worked the shipyards and eventually found employment on the seas. And though he had steady work, he never felt truly blessed, had never felt the presence of God—the God his father had incessantly preached to him—until that day in the garden of my home. I smiled at this, thinking it was just stuff, but Thomas insisted it was true. And, of course, because he was Thomas Crichton, I believed his every word.
After we had shared an hour together, holding hands and talking softly, Thomas would pull me to him, wrap me in his arms and kiss me. It was the only time—just once a night—and it was all I would allow; it was what I lived for. When he was done and at last we parted, I knew I would sleep like a baby: for I’d be dreaming of Thomas Crichton.
• • •
As all good books draw to an end, so too, I learned, do voyages. And just like a story that sweeps you away, one becomes ever conscious of the dwindling pages, feeling a bit sad that the end is drawing near and praying that it would go on well after the last page is turned. But such is not the case with books or voyages. Nothing so perfect was made to last forever, and so, the closer we came to the Firth of Forth, the deeper our silent melancholy grew. I thought it an emotion palpable only to us, but my father sensed it as well and began studying me in his cold, disjointed way, as if my feminine sentiments were a problem to be solved by mathematic equations and astute calculations. And on the second to the last day of our voyage he called me out, questioning my blatant lack of joie de vivre, as he had termed it, stating that it was something I had possessed in such great quantities all along. To my horror and disbelief he chose the very public forum of the dining table, addressing me for all to hear with his demand, and wishing to know the cause of this drastic shift in my temperament.
“I’m just tired, Papa. It’s been a long voyage,” I replied, ho
ping this explanation would be enough.
“Tired?” he questioned. “’Tis no wonder you’re tired when ye leave your cabin in the dead of night to wander the ship!” he countered in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
“Leave my cabin, Papa?” I could feel the heat of shame rise in my face as all eyes settled on me, and prayed that I could think of some way to explain my scandalous behavior.
“Aye,” he said slowly, piercing me with his parental eye. “I’ve noticed on several occasions that ye’ve left your cabin after midnight. Tell me, child, where is it ye go so late?” His voice was stern, his eyes accusatory.
“I … I …” I stammered, trying hard to think of a viable answer, yet knowing that any answer I could give would not please him. “I sometimes cannot sleep,” I uttered meekly.
“Really? And where is it ye go, may I ask, when ye cannot sleep?”
“Ah, Mr. Stevenson, sir,” Captain MacCrea broke in, noting my extreme discomfort. “If I may be sae bold, I’ve noticed Miss Stevenson sometimes suffers from the insomnia—not all landsmen take to sleeping aboard a rollicking ship sae easy as ye, sir, and when Miss Stevenson cannot sleep, I often give her a wee dram o’ port from my ain locker. Nothing lulls the mind and soothes the body, I find, like a good dosing o’ the Frenchies’ water!” he added, and punctuated his sentiments with a disarming grin.
