by Karen Brooks
It couldn’t be a coincidence that all three carried the taint of witchcraft; nor, he was convinced, was it a coincidence they were friends with Sorcha McIntyre. Why even Mrs Lawson, though she was married to a farmer and worked the land during summer and the autumn harvest, still came to the foreshore most days to help with the drave. Raised to do the work, she declared it was in her blood; a calling she’d no choice but to answer. It was what they all said, these women of the sea. Coming from the countryside himself, the reverend couldn’t understand it. Och, he enjoyed the sight of the ocean, the waves and birds that circled endlessly above. He even liked the seals that bobbed in the waters around the harbour. But to claim the sea was a part of you? A calling you couldn’t ignore? It wasn’t natural. Only God could call to a person and expect an answer. God and the Queen. To listen to anything or anyone else was blasphemy, heathen; bewitchment by any other name, surely. All the same, he ensured he at least gave the appearance of abiding by the laws of the sea and encouraged others to do the same. He feared if he didn’t, he’d be treated as the incomer he was. Where would his authority be then? How could he hope to maintain order within the community, let alone among these women, if he didn’t at the very least act as if he believed in the curious ways of the locals?
Just as he was about to make his way back to town, the reverend spied Sorcha. She hadn’t been among those sorting and gutting but had accompanied a group of children collecting bait along the skerries for the next day’s fishing. He watched as she appeared directly below him, walking across the sand, a wide basket pressed against her hip, leaning the opposite way to keep it in place. Her long hair blew in the wind, a mass of tangled curls that teased her swaying hips. The children not old enough to carry buckets danced about her, one walking backwards in front, holding up something to show her.
She could be the child’s mother, someone’s wife, only she wasn’t. Stubborn, the woman refused to contemplate remarrying — even when a perfectly respectable suitor was found — going so far as to leave the village. Good riddance, he’d thought. One less wanton to worry about. But what does the lass do? Returns. Bolder and, he had to admit looking at her now, more tempting than ever. Now she was back, she posed an even greater threat to the village’s peace of mind — to his, too — than when she first became widowed.
No matter what it took, he would bring Sorcha McIntyre to heel. Since she chose to remain, he would see her safely wed. If not to his eldest, then to someone he considered enlightened enough to take his advice on how to handle her. Only with a husband to answer to would she cease to disturb him; to pose a risk to his reputation — to the other menfolk, he corrected himself. Aye, that’s what he must turn his attention to, he thought, as he took the path that ran along the top of the braes, descending towards the High Street. He would put his mind to how to tame Sorcha McIntyre. Her and the rest of the fishwives.
And if he couldn’t fathom how to do it, he knew in his soul God would show him the way.
EIGHT
Garred dress is ill tae grow.
(Trying to force someone against her will is rarely successful.)
Being able to resume her old work, including the running of her boat, meant Sorcha was busy. In consultation with the captain of the Mistral, Cameron McDougall, an experienced seaman from Anster whom she had hired to command the vessel, they decided to send it up to Inverness and then, if the seas allowed, on to Stornoway again. It was dangerous, but when the only option was to starve, they didn’t have much choice but to brave the North Sea. The lease arrangement Robbie had entered into ended when they learned of his capture, so it was Sorcha’s responsibility to pay the crew what she could from the profits, which they in turn gave to their families. The rest she spent on resupplying the boat and repairing the sails, but even then, it wasn’t enough. Captain McDougall would have to use the additional funds she gave him to purchase extra stores en route.
When she wasn’t dealing with matters pertaining to her boat, Sorcha was with the fishwives at the harbour. Working in groups of three, the women would bait the lines, some holding up to fifteen hundred hooks. After these were stored on board the inshore boats and the men were carried out and rowed away to loud farewells and wishes for a good and safe catch, the fishwives would turn their hands to first mending the nets from the previous day’s catch, then fakin’ them — folding them in a to and fro manner so they ran smoothly from the deck once the boats were out in the ocean.
The children were responsible for collecting bait in the shallows and among the rocks, usually mussels, which they either shieled or put in a scaup — a shallow rock pool where they could remain fresh until such time as they were needed. With their buckets they gathered cockles and other sea creatures for their own tables, sharing what they found. If the weather held, the more experienced fishwives, Sorcha among them, would collect salt and place it in barrels, ready for the fish on the men’s return. The cloots, the strips of fabric they wrapped around their fingers, offered some protection from the cuts of the sharp fins, the swift action of the knives, and the sting of the salt. It had taken three nicks of the knife before Sorcha found her old rhythm. Once the fish were prepared and ready for sale, the women would load their creels and head off into town or along the coast or even inland to nearby farms to sell whatever they could. It made for long days, but also a good night’s rest. Something that, until she returned to Pittenweem, had eluded Sorcha ever since Davan died.
As the weeks flew by, the foreboding she had felt the night Isobel Adam bowled into her house came to nothing. In fact, on New Year’s Day there’d been many fisherfolk, shopkeepers and villagers having a good laugh about what happened to the young seamstress, the gossip having spread as it was wont to do. It was dismissed in exactly the manner Nettie and Sorcha had: all due to McGregor being in his cups.
No great doom had befallen Sorcha and, as spring approached and people flooded into town for the twice-weekly markets, buying fish from her as easily as they did from any other vendor, she was able to mock her foolishness. She’d allowed the superstitions and malice of old to affect her. It was what Pittenweem did, cast a spell that made you view the world and those within it in a different way. It was easy to forget what had befallen her when she was with the fishwives, especially those she counted as friends. Doing her best to avoid those who weren’t, it was only on Sundays, when almost all the village went to the kirk, that she was forced to confront them and listen to sermons intended to shame her and any other fishwives who didn’t conform: those who remained single, working hard to earn coin, raise their families — with or without husbands — and contribute to the town. None of that seemed to matter under the self-righteous stares of those who hung on Cowper’s every word — words he claimed over and over were God’s.
‘I think the reverend forgets God always said blessed are the weak, and what are we women if not weak in His and Cowper’s eyes?’ Janet whispered loudly as they stood in the kirkyard one Sunday after a particularly long delivery, rocking from foot to foot to stave off the cold.
‘It’s the meek and Jesus said it,’ corrected Sorcha wryly, sharing a smile with Captain Ross who was standing close enough to overhear.
‘Aye, well, meek and weak, that’s me,’ said Janet. ‘Praise be to God.’
They all burst into laughter, earning wrathful looks from first the Crawfords then the Cooks, Cleilands and Vernours — the families of the town bailies — as well as getting a dire stare from Cowper. The last thing Janet could ever be considered was weak, let alone meek.
Uncaring of the opprobrium they’d attracted, the women went back to Sorcha’s cottage for a meal, joined by Beatrix and Isobel Adam.
And so the days melded into each other like a gentle roiling mist and Sorcha’s nightmares dimmed. The memories the cottage held ceased to scorch her each time they intruded, retreating into a fuzzy warmth that was more akin to basking under the sun in a yellow-flowered field. She could finally touch them without getting burned.
&nbs
p; When poor Margie Strang, the young wife of one of the fishermen, was attacked by a soldier in the streets after dark, it was Sorcha who brought the deed to the attention of Captain Ross and demanded redress.
Though the accused soldier denied Margie’s accusations, the captain upheld her version of events and the man was sent to Edinburgh for trial. Weeks later they learned he’d been transported.
There were many among the fisherfolk who were grateful to Sorcha for what she did, and many said that without her intervention, speaking directly to the captain, justice would never have been served. Most ignored the blether that went around afterwards about the real reason the captain had listened. Sorcha McIntyre might be many things, folk would whisper, but a whore she wasn’t.
Aware of the rumours swirling around about her and the captain, Sorcha reasoned this was why he was foremost in her thoughts most days. Much to her bemusement, rarely did a day go by when she didn’t see Captain Ross. He would oft stir from the house where he was billeted — a large one on the Eastern Shore close to Nettie’s husband’s and owned by the collier, Malcolm Moray — as the fishwives made their way to the pier each morning. Standing on the stoop, he would greet the women and flash a smile. Arms folded, he’d watch them through a cloud of tobacco smoke. After he appeared several days in a row, Nettie whispered to Sorcha, ‘He’s only started doing that since you came back, you ken. More so since the bad business with Margie.’
Sorcha did know. She just didn’t want to think about what it might mean. Yet, she did. In fact, Captain Ross began to occupy the space in her thoughts once taken up by the other men in her life: her da, her brothers, Andy and Kennocht. For all she tried to prevent his intrusion, thinking about the captain, who was neither dead nor an unwelcome memory, wasn’t an unpleasant way to witter away time. She wondered if he missed his home on Skye and what he really thought of the Weem. One day when the chance arose, she might even ask him. The very idea made her blood sing. It wouldn’t be that difficult either. Ever since that day he’d escorted her back into town and then, a few weeks later, helped bring the culprit who hurt Margie to justice, they’d taken to meeting. At first Sorcha thought it was a happy accident that he’d appear just when she was walking back from the harbour after she’d finished sorting the catch, or returning from Anster way with an empty creel. Sometimes she was with another fishwife, but more often she was by herself. They would fall into step and talk as if they’d known each other for years rather than being recent acquaintances.
She learned he’d been stationed in Pittenweem eight months, having arrived not long after she left last summer. He didn’t expect to be there much longer, what with the war escalating, and was merely waiting to be sent to join the Duke of Marlborough’s men. The idea he might be leaving soon affected Sorcha more than she had a right to be. She convinced herself it was because he really did protect the Weem women. How could they be assured the officer who took his place would be so solicitous?
When on two occasions he was riding the back roads as she was returning from the farms over St Monan’s way, she began to think it was more than a coincidence. What reason would he have to be visiting St Monan’s? She didn’t have the courage to ask — not about that — though she did ask about her brother.
‘I hate to bother you, Captain Ross,’ she began one day, ‘but did you get a chance to ask your superiors about my Robbie?’
It was a drackie afternoon and the combination of fog and low clouds made the day dim early. Shivering as a frigid wind snatched at her cloak and bit her exposed skin, she raised her face to his.
‘I wrote the day you asked, Mrs McIntyre. Alas, I’ve heard naught. Not that it means anything,’ he added quickly, seeing her disappointment. ‘It takes a long while for letters, let alone information, to arrive. War disrupts everything. But I ask you not to lose heart.’
Grateful for his efforts, she made a solemn promise she would do her best not to relinquish hope.
Once, when they were walking back from Anster way and the weather closed in, he lifted her onto his horse so they could reach their destination faster. Pressing herself against his back, her hands around his waist, she’d enjoyed the feel and smell of him, conscious of her breasts squashed against his coat, her inner thighs moving against him. She was aware of the way the muscles in his back responded to the movement of his arms, how his legs looked so very fine in their tight breeches where they rubbed against her skirts. That day, the wind blew against them, unravelling Sorcha’s hair so it alternated between whipping and embracing them.
When Captain Ross deposited her at the door to her cottage that day, she was tempted to invite him inside, only she knew she’d never hear the end of it from Nettie or from Reverend Cowper, whom she’d seen lurking in the graveyard as they rode past. Reverend Cowper would ensure the villagers knew and the type of gossip that would attend her would be worse than ever. Instead, she made a show of saying goodbye, being sure to thank him prettily in a voice that carried.
Why she cared, she wasn’t sure, only she did. She didn’t want the captain, or their burgeoning friendship, tarnished.
That night, a pair of jet-black eyes and a dimpled grin disturbed her sleep, as did the memory of a pair of strong thighs and arms and the sensations they aroused.
After that, not only would Captain Ross wait for Sorcha and the fishwives to pass by each morning, sometimes she’d see him atop the western braes observing them at work on the sand or fossicking among the skerries. It was the same place she sometimes saw the reverend, only, unlike Reverend Cowper, who would move away as soon as he was certain he’d been seen, the captain would remain, uncaring, bold as you like. She took comfort from his presence.
She even saw the captain leading his men in a march down the High Street one afternoon. As she hurried out of a shop, he’d doffed his hat.
‘Mrs McIntyre,’ he called above the stomp of boots and clop of his horse’s hooves.
Folk turned at the sound of his voice, noting with great interest who he was hailing.
‘Captain Ross,’ she replied formally, uncaring of the stares and whispers as his men moved in formation towards the sea, their muskets slung over their shoulders, their chins held high. He looked so grand, so in command riding beside his men; a fine figure in his uniform, even if it had seen better days. Aye, it was just as Nettie said, Captain Ross had brought order to the soldiers and to Pittenweem. What Nettie didn’t know was the disorder he’d brought to Sorcha’s mind.
NINE
You’ll get the claw.
(You’ll get punished.)
As she arrived at the shore with Nettie and Janet early one morning in March, Sorcha paused where the harbour wall met the ocean. Salt spray kissed her face, the tang of seaweed made her nose twitch, and the ballet of gulls on the thermals delighted her eyes; the cries of the terns and shearwaters, and the steady sucking of the tides, were a welcome chorale. It was hard to credit that over two months had passed since she’d returned. Behind her, women were busy drying the wives who’d carried the men out to the boats. Wet stockings were held before a fire as they all downed a dram or two before starting work.
Sorcha left her friends to help the other wives and jumped off the harbour wall and wandered along the shore. She headed towards the skerries, kicking the occasional rock, throwing up the coarse sand with the toes of her boots. With the arrival of spring, the snow was gradually ceding to frost and sea-driven fogs, even allowing the sun its brief moment on the stage. Today, the sun had no such impediments and tentative fingers yearned across the heaving Forth to bathe her with their warmth, a warmth that didn’t reach her insides. Damn Captain Ross. Just when she’d started to think he was different to other men, he acted in a manner that turned all her feelings into a maelstrom.
She picked up a pebble, weighing it in her palm, and flung it as far out to sea as she could. She watched the splash it made without satisfaction. Why did she care so much? Why did her chest feel so heavy and her eyes burn? It was because of what
had happened to Bel — Isobel Courie.
Bel was a single woman about whom the reverend had spoken in harsh terms due to her predilection for the soldiers stationed about the town. A week ago, Bel had told Sorcha and Nettie she was pregnant. Worse, it turned out the father of her unborn bairn was a Corporal Robert Varner who, she’d just learned, was already married. Sorcha wasted no time seeking out the captain and encouraged Bel to confess all to him.
Expecting the corporal to be punished for using and abusing Bel, Sorcha discovered that far from disciplining the man, Captain Ross, on the advice of the kirk, sent him away. Robert Varner was rowed out to a man-o’-war late one night, never to be seen again. Furious at what she saw as his lack of accountability, last night Sorcha had marched straight to where Captain Ross was staying. She felt she owed it to Bel to say something. Anyway, hadn’t the captain told her she could ask him anything? In her mind that included telling him things as well — including things he mightn’t be so inclined to hear.
Much to her chagrin, he was more amused by her anger than apologetic.
Invited to step inside, she’d refused to move beyond the entry hall. He waited till she’d spent her fury before he responded.
‘Mrs McIntyre, I assure you, Isobel Courie is much better off without the likes of Corporal Varner in her life.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ snapped Sorcha, ‘being a man. You no more care about a woman without a husband, without a father for her bairn, never mind means of support, than you do where you put your quhillylillie.’ She flicked her hand in the direction of his groin.
Appalled that her tongue had run away with her and she could speak to him using such language, her face coloured. It didn’t help that what she said was true. Kennocht and so many other men of her acquaintance were living proof — men who were ruled by their cocks. Her hands curled into fists by her side.
