The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  The storm that had threatened to break all afternoon passed. The cloud filled with lightning, God’s blazing swords, had moved inland, leaving the scene drenched in silver moonlight. The tide was almost full, waves breaking against the creaking hull of the Sophia, showering everyone with spray. An irradiated pathway crossed the Forth, shimmering and inviting.

  Unable to get onto the pier as the way was blocked, Sorcha joined those along the harbour wall and stared helplessly as Janet was pulled closer and closer to the water’s edge. Her hair was matted with a dark, wet substance. The shawl she’d fetched from her house had disappeared and her shirt and skirt had ridden up to expose torn and bloody arms and legs.

  As Sorcha looked around in despair, she caught sight of Peter Morton. He stood back, away from others, observing the scene, a frown of disbelief on his features. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes as well. Blood spattered one cheek. Was it his? Or Janet’s? Did he understand he was responsible for this? He and the reverend. Unable to look at him any longer lest the anger roiling inside her burst forth, Sorcha turned away.

  She shut herself off to the noise around her, the excited cries and shouts of encouragement, and watched.

  One end of a rope was affixed to the top of the Sophia’s mast, the other was flung over the derelict rails, towards the shoreline. The men standing over Janet caught hold of it. Uncaring that she barely moved, they tied it around her waist. Sorcha could see she was clearly dazed, but still alive. Picking Janet up as if she were a sack of grain, the men signalled to those on board, who began to heave on the rope. Sea-spray rained upon them as they stood knee-deep in the shallows, waiting for the rope to grow taut. One of the men slipped, almost dropping her.

  Sorcha became completely still, utterly calm. Someone had to be. Someone had to bear witness. Apprehension tramped inside her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  A great shout exploded as Janet was released, hauled through the water and towards the side of the ship. The men raised her into the air until she was level with the deck, then paused and, with a great shout, released the rope. Like a rag doll, Janet struck the side of the ship before the swirling sea swallowed her.

  The folk lining the harbour erupted, slapping each other’s backs, roaring approval, their eyes wild, their mouths wide in ecstasy.

  Once more men began to heave on the rope tied to the Sophia’s mast and, in moments, the ocean spat Janet back out. Yanked from the water, Janet coughed, spluttered and then opened her mouth in a pitiful scream. Laughing, the men tugged and pulled until she was suspended above the waves, then let her go again.

  With a cry that echoed in Sorcha’s ears, Janet plummeted back into the water. Her scream cut off when she smacked the surface and sank.

  ‘Witch! Witch!’ The incantation was taken up. Folk shouted at the top of their lungs, raising fists, pitchforks, knives, bottles of half-drunk whisky. Words punctuated the night, dark stars that echoed along the street. Sorcha turned to look at Peter, hold him to account. There was no sign of him. Not near the houses, not on the wall or the shore. He was gone.

  Some of the men jumped from the harbour wall onto the sands, running towards the edge of the sea with sticks and picking up pebbles and rocks. Seeing what they were doing, others bolted to the cottages along the foreshore and searched among the fishermen’s gear, snatching hooks, nets, weights, anything they might use. It was like a wicked spell had been cast, transforming ordinary people into something evil. Sorcha couldn’t credit what it was she was seeing. What she could feel all around her.

  When Janet was pulled out of the sea again, they were ready. Running as close to the water as they dared, the men flung whatever they’d found at her. Some missiles struck their target, hitting with sharp cracks, causing Janet to wail and those watching to crow in delight. Others struck with dull thuds, tearing brittle skin, causing fresh blood to flow.

  Bile rose in Sorcha’s throat. She looked in disbelief at the faces around her, lit by the combination of the moon’s radiance and the torches. Who were these people? They were demonic strangers, twisted, hardened, possessed.

  Janet was dragged out of the water again and again, the men tugging on the rope handing the chore to others when they grew weary. Those willing to take their place lined up along the pier, climbed onto the ship. With each ducking there were calls to keep her submerged longer.

  Sorcha had seen enough. Despondent and heart-weary, she withdrew and waited. When this… brutality stopped, when this wickedness had run its course, she would go to Janet, no matter what.

  One by one, others turned away and joined her. Silent, with tears streaming down their faces, they prayed, shaking their heads in disbelief at the cruelty they were observing. There were friends of Janet’s, a cousin, a nephew, a brother-in-law as well. But there were also those who bore no relation. Sorcha was relieved to see many felt as she did. It was then she caught sight of Beatrix.

  ‘Dear God, Sorcha, what has happened to us?’ asked Beatrix, her eyes swollen from weeping. ‘When Sergeant Thatcher came to the door, I couldn’t believe what he was telling me.’

  Sorcha wasn’t sure how to reply until, as she gazed at those beside her, she saw past them to a familiar form standing alone at the end of the harbour wall. Reverend Cowper. His eyes were fixed on what was happening aboard the Sophia. A scene he’d orchestrated as if he’d cast the actors and given them their lines.

  Do whatever you please with her. I care not.

  ‘Him, that’s what happened,’ whispered Sorcha, but Beatrix didn’t hear.

  A short time later, Nettie appeared.

  ‘What did the bailies say?’ asked Sorcha.

  Nettie pressed her lips together. ‘I don’t know. Angus and Gerard convinced me they’d speak to them; that it was better I wasn’t seen.’

  Casting a wary glance at the Sophia, Sorcha knew the lads were right.

  ‘They promised they’d make sure the bailies acted. I want to believe them; they were as shocked by the crowd’s reaction as we were. But then, they didn’t see this.’ Nettie’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

  Together, Sorcha and Nettie stood and beheld Janet’s torment, unable to speak, just holding hands.

  For two hours, Janet endured. Sorcha didn’t move. Nettie, Beatrix, Therese Larnarch, Jean Durkie and Nicolas, who’d eventually found them, kept a silent vigil to their friend’s suffering. When it was evident the men were in no hurry to stop, Nicolas eased herself into a position beside Sorcha and whispered in her ear. Sorcha started then gave a nod of understanding. Leaning over, she shared what Nicolas had told her with Nettie, her eyes never once leaving the scene upon the water.

  When the men finally tired, they heaved Janet out of the dark seas one last time and, while she was still attached to the mast by the rope, flung her onto the sands. She was barely conscious. That didn’t stop those lingering on the shoreline attacking her with sticks and more rocks.

  Sorcha was crying openly now. Nettie too. Uncaring of the hands that tried to prevent them, the whispers of warning that urged caution even as folk, afraid of where the men might turn their attention next, fled back to their homes, they made their way down to the shore, standing where the rough wall met the water.

  There, on the edge, they shouted at the men prodding Janet, trying to goad her to rise. Dear God.

  ‘Haven’t you done enough? What’s wrong with you?’ Sorcha screamed.

  ‘She be an auld woman, you bastards. Leave her alone!’ screeched Nettie.

  The men, some mere lads and a few incomers with no right to dispense so-called justice, let alone be free with a Weem woman, ignored them and continued, spurred on by their challenge. This time, they used their boots as well.

  Uncaring of the danger, Sorcha clambered onto the sands. Lifting her skirts, she ran across the pebbles and along the shore, over the exposed rocks and through the incoming tide, stopping just short of the mob. This time, others joined her — Nettie, Nicolas and her husband, Beatrix and Mr Brown, Is
obel Adam’s father and a few more. Much to Sorcha’s relief, Sergeant Thatcher appeared. He was carrying a fresh musket.

  ‘Allow me, Mrs McIntyre,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘This should never have started in the first place.’ Levelling his weapon, Sergeant Thatcher stood with his feet apart. The soldiers with him also aimed their guns at the gang. ‘Didn’t you hear the lasses? Enough!’ he boomed.

  The men attacking Janet froze and turned to see who was interrupting their sport. What they saw was the sergeant, his dark eyes like steel. They slowly lowered their fists and sticks. Their chests heaved. Blood spattered their faces, ran in rivulets down their necks, streaked their clothes. Janet’s blood.

  ‘Get to your homes,’ snarled Sergeant Thatcher, ‘before I arrest you all.’

  Much to Sorcha’s astonishment, the bunch of sodden rags in the sand stirred. Janet lifted her head and groaned. She looked about, coughing wetly. Blood ran into her eyes, down her cheeks. When she saw Sorcha and Nettie, she gave a defiant grin.

  ‘Take more than a wee dunkin’ to finish me off.’ Her mouth was red, her gums seeping.

  Before anyone could act, before Sergeant Thatcher could render aid, and with what must have been the last of her strength, Janet lumbered to her feet, loosening the rope that, like an umbilicus, attached her to the ship. She stood swaying, her hands out to her sides to keep her balance. Then, with a great moan, slapping away Sorcha’s arm, she stepped free of the rope’s coils and staggered through her attackers and towards the town.

  FIFTY

  That the officer went to the other two bailies… but they concerned themselves no further…

  — The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 1526–1793

  Sorcha, Nettie and Sergeant Thatcher watched with open mouths as Janet disappeared up the wynd. Sorcha’s heart sang then, as she looked at the shocked and furious faces around her, she registered what Janet’s audacious survival meant to those trying to kill her.

  There was a beat before the attackers streamed after Janet with cries of outrage tinged with dreadful anticipation.

  ‘The witch has escaped! Get her! Kill her!’

  Not even Sergeant Thatcher’s threats or the primed weapons of the soldiers gave them pause.

  ‘You’ve got to help, sergeant,’ gasped Sorcha, clutching the man’s sleeve. ‘They’ll tear her apart given half a chance.’

  ‘Aye. They will at that.’ Sergeant Thatcher barked orders at his men. Knowing he was defying strict instructions by interfering, risking punishment for himself and his men or worse, Sorcha couldn’t have been more grateful.

  The soldiers dashed back across the sand, leaping onto the road and running towards the centre of town.

  ‘I’ve told them to try and cut them off,’ explained the sergeant as his men veered in a different direction to Janet’s pursuers. Mr Adam, Mr Brown, Mr Lawson and some brave others trailed after them. The sergeant looked towards where the rope still swung from the mast. ‘I ken we’re not supposed to meddle in Weem business. Arresting an escaped woman’s one thing, but this, this continued barbarism can’t be ignored.’

  There were a series of shrill screams accompanied by yells.

  ‘Nae. It cannot,’ agreed Nettie.

  ‘Not by anyone,’ said Sorcha. ‘And that includes us.’ Taking a deep breath, she faced her friends. ‘Go to the Tolbooth and see if Janet’s there. Either way, convince Camron to let you in.’

  ‘Let us in?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘Aye,’ said Sorcha. ‘If they can’t find Janet, the mob will look for someone else to satisfy their thirst for blood, for vengeance. And that means you.’ She eyed each of them in turn, trying to convey how serious she was. ‘You’ll be safer in the Tolbooth than anywhere else.’

  ‘What about you, lass?’ asked Beatrix, confused by the exchange.

  ‘I’m not in any danger. McGregor retracted my name, remember?’ As she uttered the words, she thought of Peter Morton.

  ‘If you think for a moment I’m not coming with you, hen —’ began Nettie with a look and a tone Sorcha recognised.

  She curled grateful fingers around Nettie’s. ‘Nettie and I will try and find Janet then join you. At least until this —’ she lifted her chin towards the town, ‘dies down.’

  Before she could put her plan into action, Sergeant Thatcher grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Nae, lass. Your involvement ends now. Here. I promised the captain I’d look after you. Both of you.’ He silenced their objections with a sharp wave of his hand. ‘My men and I will do what we can to try and restore order, but as we’ve seen, it won’t be easy. The mob is of one mind and not even soldiers carrying weapons are a deterrent, let alone pleas from the likes of you lasses.’ His eyes were compassionate, despite his words. ‘I ken you’re brave and Mrs Cornfoot is your friend. But you’re not to go near that unhinged lot. Take the advice you gave these lasses. Go to the Tolbooth, to your cottage, theirs —’ He indicated the older men loitering by the wall. ‘Just don’t go anywhere near Janet Cornfoot be she at the Tolbooth or not.’

  Sorcha knew better than to contradict the sergeant. She pinched Nettie’s inner arm to prevent her from saying anything.

  Assuming he’d be obeyed, Sergeant Thatcher released her into Beatrix’s care. With a thin attempt at a confident expression and a touch of his cap, he strode off, his remaining men falling into step behind him, weapons drawn. It was as if the town had gone to war.

  Once the sergeant was out of sight, the fishwives and Beatrix wasted no time. With pointed looks and guarded smiles, they quietly parted ways. They’d a friend to help and no incomer, certainly no man, well-meaning as he might be, was going to stop them.

  Praying Nicolas was right about where she thought Janet would go, Sorcha and Nettie ran up a nearby wynd. It was dark, the cobbles slick and oily in the patches of moonlight. A cat yowled; a dog growled and a baby coughed piteously. There were raised voices in one cottage, the sound of glass breaking in another; even while madness possessed the Weem, life continued. Rising above it all were the distant shouts of the mob. The women pressed on, chests tight, legs tremulous as they forced themselves to keep moving.

  Sorcha was the first to round the next bend. As she did, she saw a figure darting from shadow to shadow. Patrick Cowper.

  With a finger to her lips, she pointed towards him. Nettie snarled as they held back, only resuming their pace once he had scarpered around the corner. They were just in time to see him go back into Bailie Cook’s house. What was he up to now?

  Not wanting to stop, but understanding they had to if they were to learn what was going on and be of any help to Janet, the women squeezed themselves into the porch of a shop, eyes fixed on the Cooks’ front door. They didn’t have to wait long. Soon the councillors, along with Peter Morton and his father poured out, flinging on coats and hats.

  ‘Listen to them,’ said Bailie Cook grimly. ‘You realise if they find her, they’ll likely kill her. There’ll be consequences.’

  ‘Why do you think I came and fetched you, Robert?’ grunted Cowper. ‘Not even that sergeant and his men could contain them. This has got out of control. If we’re to salvage anything, we need to make it appear as if we expended every effort to stop the townsfolk taking matters into their own hands. The Mortons here will bear witness to our response, won’t you, lads?’

  So, thought Sorcha, that’s where Peter Morton disappeared to — reporting to his allies in this madness.

  Peter and his father nodded.

  ‘What about those who aren’t so obliging and who heard what you said, reverend?’ asked Bailie Bell. ‘There were hundreds outside Robert’s house earlier. No wonder they tried to drown the woman. You gave them the permission they sought.’

  With a swiftness that belied his age, the reverend grabbed the man’s collar. Thrusting his face into Bailie Bell’s, he hissed, ‘I only said what you all knew I would. What you endorsed while we were dining, in case you’ve forgotten.’ He pus
hed the bailie away in disgust. ‘You fucking coocher. You’re all piss and wind, prepared to have others make the hard decisions.’ He looked at the men with righteous fury, daring them to disagree. ‘Well, I did what was needed. Or would you rather the mob turned on us?’

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Bailie Cook with revulsion. ‘The reverend’s right. We have to be seen to be doing something. And now.’ Turning towards the house, he called out. The Stuart brothers appeared, looking worse for their earlier encounter.

  It was all Sorcha could do to stop Nettie flying at them.

  There was a low conversation and then they all left, heading towards the Tolbooth. Once they were out of sight, Sorcha and Nettie emerged from the darkness.

  ‘I was right to doubt those Stuart lads,’ snarled Nettie.

  ‘Save your anger for the reverend,’ said Sorcha. ‘And the bailies, the fucking cowards. The Stuart lads do what they’re told — they’ve no choice. Remember, the crowd didn’t hesitate to attack them either when they thought the lads were protecting Janet. They’ll be worried for their own safety and standing with the bailies as much to protect themselves as to try and quell this… this madness.’ She drew in her breath and, not caring if Mrs Cook or the other wives who remained inside the house saw her, stepped back onto the lane. ‘At least none of them have worked out where she went yet.’

  Nettie managed to find a smile. ‘Aye, there’s that at least.’

  With one last withering look in the men’s direction, they strode down a nearby street towards Nicolas Lawson’s house.

  After all, they didn’t need to hurry. Not any more. Listening to the reverend and the councillors cover their spineless tracks, she knew with certainty Janet was in the last place they’d look. A place where there’d be medick, poultices for her wounds; a place where, Nicolas had whispered, Janet would go in her hour of need.