An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  None of them had had enough to eat in the last few months. Susanna was the thinnest of them all. Once, she’d bragged about her girlish figure. Today it resembled a skeleton.

  Did Bruce know that the slaves had left? In other years they would have finished sowing cotton seed long before now. Did he know there were only three of them still at Glengarden? She took care of Susanna. Old Betsy, who had been old twenty years ago, still lived where she always had, in the last cabin in the third row. Benny, twenty-­seven now, would always be a child since he’d been struck in the head by a horse’s hoof as a toddler.

  Once she’d heard Bruce complain about the incident. The boy was worthless now and couldn’t fetch enough at market.

  “If he was a damn mule I could put him down.”

  She’d added another prayer that afternoon to be forgiven her hatred.

  The others were gone, off to freedom with Miss Rose’s help. Sometimes one or two. Once, ten of them had left together. They’d been cautioned that although Mr. Lincoln had freed them, they still needed to get to the North before they were safe.

  Anywhere was safer than Glengarden.

  Something else Michael said stuck in her mind. Not a verse from the Bible, but some other place. Another book written by a man with time to think and wonder about life. She couldn’t remember it exactly, but it reminded her of something Old Betsy said. No man is completely evil, even the Devil. Wasn’t he once beloved of God?

  Bruce loved Glengarden. She’d seen him many times standing on the veranda, his eyes cast over the fields and the approach to the plantation. Or sometimes he’d turned to look at the river, lapping at the sloping lawn. His proud smile had left no doubt of his feelings. He loved his friends, those young men who clustered around him like he was a princeling. He loved his horses, although he treated them badly. He loved his mother because she was his mirror in all things. Her son could do no wrong.

  Most of all, he loved himself.

  Did he still love himself with one leg missing?

  They’d soon find out, wouldn’t they? The dread she felt was growing by the day.

  Sighing, she went to the small bureau in the dressing area next to Miss Susanna’s room. There, beside the chest, was the cot on which she’d slept for most of her life. She pulled out the bottom drawer, removed the stockings, and grabbed the pot of rouge she’d hidden.

  The coloring would make Susanna look even worse than she did now. If she were in her right mind, Susanna would know that. But, of course, none of them were in their right minds, were they?

  Bruce was coming home.

  Chapter 10

  Aboard the Raven

  Once they were out to sea, Rose and Duncan shared a lovely dinner with Captain McDougal in the parlor. A collapsible table hinged on the wall beneath the porthole was set up, and they feasted on something the captain called Mediterranean stew with hard crusts of bread and apple tart.

  After dinner the captain taught her several terms she’d never before heard. A wall was evidently called a bulkhead. The floor was a deck and a door a hatch. By the time the evening was over she had a list of at least twenty new words and hoped she remembered them all.

  As the captain left, he glanced at Duncan and then back at her.

  “I’ve a favor to ask you, Mrs. MacIain. I muster the men first thing in the morning. I’ve sailed with some of them. They’re fine men, ma’am, but they’re not used to traveling with ladies.”

  “Would you like me to avoid the deck, Captain?”

  “Not at all, ma’am. Just first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll give you the all clear, Rose,” Duncan said.

  They considered her a lady, but the definition evidently differed greatly between South Carolina and Scotland.

  The two men had no idea what she’d seen at Glengarden. A man was often naked when whipped, the better to humiliate him completely. She’d witnessed slave auctions when traveling to Charleston with Claire. A good piece of merchandise, as Bruce would say, needed to be stripped to ensure the quality of what a buyer was purchasing.

  But she would pretend to be as reserved as they evidently thought her. And as sheltered.

  A few moments later she said good night to Duncan and entered the stateroom. She sat on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed with loneliness. The dinner had been enjoyable. The time in Scotland so different and pleasant. Now she was on her way back to Glengarden and she had to face the future.

  The ocean suddenly rolled beneath her. She had the sensation of being on a child’s hobbyhorse, with the same drop in her stomach and none of the excitement.

  The lantern above the bureau was secured to the wall, but it swung with the increasing movements of the ship, making her think it might go out any moment. Beside the bureau was a cunning wire cage for the basin and pitcher. The cage must have been bolted to the deck. Otherwise, the china would have slid off the top of the chest and crashed to the floor, especially since the sea was getting rougher.

  She wound her arms around her waist and bit her bottom lip. Don’t be ridiculous, Rose. You’re perfectly fine.

  Her stomach rolled a little with the pitch of the ship. She’d had no difficulty with her stomach on the voyage to London. Surely she could tolerate the sea outside Scotland.

  The storm had come up so suddenly. She certainly wasn’t prepared for it. She fervently hoped Captain McDougal was. He was such a genial man, with a close-­cropped beard and flashing brown eyes. He was often smiling, but his voice was somewhat loud, making her wonder if he was used to calling out commands.

  At that moment it felt as though the ship hit a trough and then reemerged on the crest of a wave. The storm and the Raven were engaged in a battle, and she didn’t have any idea which would win. If the Raven did, they would all be saved, but if the storm was triumphant, none of them would ever see their families again. Memorials would be said in their names. Maybe some kind women would toss roses into the surf as if laying wreaths on their graves.

  She had never been so dour before, a word she’d never heard before visiting Scotland. It seemed to have a perfect meaning now. Even in the most difficult days at Glengarden she’d been optimistic. She’d had hope in the future, in the little victories she’d accomplished. Small things, really, that meant nothing to Bruce, but everything to those with no freedom. Being allowed to attend religious ser­vices, have their own gardens, be given enough cloth to make their own garments.

  The problem with Bruce was the same as with the other plantation owners she knew. They thought their slaves were dumb, little more than oxen, while she knew just the opposite.

  Once the announcement was published about the Emancipation Proclamation issued by President Lincoln, she did everything she could to help ­people escape. The proclamation wasn’t legal yet—­that would require an amendment to the Constitution—­but it was incentive enough for those who were desperate for their freedom. They slipped away from the plantation by the twos and threes, armed with what small amount of money she could spare and directions on how to contact organizations who would help them further.

  A low growl of thunder was accompanied by a rolling wave. The hobbyhorse had begun to gallop and she was losing her composure. She tried to think of something else, anything other than the rising storm.

  Susanna’s birthday had been yesterday, and no doubt there was a celebration at Glengarden. There were no raisins or flour left, but perhaps Benny and Maisie had been resourceful again. Whatever came of their efforts, Susanna would never have noticed or cared about the sacrifice.

  A MacIain didn’t barter. How many times had Susanna said that to her, her head at a regal angle, her brown eyes narrowed at the effrontery of a New Yorker giving the matriarch of Glengarden advice?

  “We’ve no money, Susanna. We can’t buy supplies. We have to do something.”

  Evidently, a lady was not to mention that
they were poor, because Susanna’s face became florid, her eyes flashing dislike.

  “That’s as it is. Bruce will solve the difficulty.”

  Bruce wasn’t there. Bruce had pranced off to war on his favorite stallion, his friends outfitted in identical uniforms, less the braid and epaulettes.

  They had a fortune in cotton they weren’t allowed to touch because of Bruce’s orders, but no other usable funds.

  Susanna didn’t bother herself with the day-­to-­day realities of the plantation. She remained, for the most part, isolated in her suite of rooms on the second floor of the main house. Occasionally, she deigned to come down to the parlor for a celebration in which she reigned over the festivities: Bruce’s birthday, the hundred-­year anniversary of the building of Glengarden, or Gloria’s baptism.

  Thunder shook the ship as if the Almighty was annoyed at the idea of her returning to South Carolina. If there were any other way, now was the time for divine intervention, but she didn’t mean dying.

  She was not afraid. Of course she wasn’t. After two years at Glengarden, a storm wasn’t going to terrify her.

  Maybe she was feeling the storm so strongly because the Raven was so large. Perhaps a smaller ship would have skipped over the waves while the Raven was carried along almost like an offering to the gods. Here, Poseidon, here’s a toy for your amusement.

  She needed to undress, get ready to sleep, yet how anyone could sleep through this storm was a mystery. The shouting outside the door wasn’t reassuring, either. Lightning cracked so close that she was blinded for a moment and nearly rendered deaf by the thunder immediately following it.

  Determined, she stood, wavered with the ship’s movement, then grabbed the wardrobe to the left where she’d put her few clothes. She pulled her wrapper and nightgown from the valise, nearly fell when the ship tilted again, and wished she could remember one of the prayers from her childhood.

  All she could recall was something Old Betsy said every day. She closed her eyes and recited it, remembering the old woman as she rocked back and forth in her chair.

  “Jesus, hear us, King, in our sorrow. You know, King Jesus, that we wander in the wilderness, the poorest of the children of Adam. Give us the shelter of the oak tree in the daytime and a roof over our heads at night.”

  She added a postscript: “And keep us safe on the ocean.”

  Her hoop was easily disposed of; it collapsed once it was removed, and could be tucked into the wardrobe, the two petticoats along with it. She could have unfastened her bodice more easily if her fingers weren’t shaking so much. She reached to unpin the cameo, then remembered she’d tossed it into the ocean.

  Evidently, that hadn’t been the wisest choice she could have made. Maybe the stories were right and she should have sacrificed something she’d genuinely loved. Not the cameo Claire had given her, done in such a way she couldn’t help but be insulted and hurt.

  “You’re not the least attractive in black, Rose. The least you could do is wear something pretty.”

  Claire’s gift was further tainted by the fact Bruce had given it to her, but she found herself wearing it on this journey to hide her threadbare collar.

  Claire had never worn mourning for their brothers. Bruce evidently didn’t approve of her grieving for the three of them because they’d been Yankees, even though one of them had once been his best friend. She’d never understood Claire’s refusal to stand up to him on this point. They were her brothers, too, and had grown up with them just as she had. For far longer, in fact.

  Rose hadn’t sought Bruce’s approval, merely asked the laundress if she could help her dye her day dresses. When she’d appeared wearing her mourning, Bruce hadn’t said a word.

  Claire had, though. She’d shaken her head and said, “Oh, Rose.”

  Perhaps she was being unkind and too judgmental. She’d never come out and asked Claire if she mourned them. You didn’t have to wear black to be filled with grief. It was quite possible that Claire wept for their brothers in the solitary confines of her room or in the small chapel on the grounds of Glengarden.

  If the sea demanded something of value, the only things left were her memories. Perhaps she should sacrifice some of those. The day Jeremy presented her with a white and black spotted kitten they’d named Whiskers who’d been her constant companion, especially when she was reading. Or how Montgomery used to tease her about her singing. Robert knew she had a sweet tooth and would sometimes surprise her with a bag of horehound candy.

  Which one of those memories would she give up? Not one of them. Nor would she ever stop remembering them. She didn’t care what army they belonged to or what battle they’d been in when they died. Those facts weren’t important. What was important was who they’d been, what they cared about, and that she’d loved them.

  The thunder was directly above them now. The voice of God was displaying his irritation at them in a language of explosions and arcs of light.

  She couldn’t swim. There’d never been a need to learn in her childhood, and although Glengarden was bordered on three sides by the river, she hadn’t wanted to go near it.

  God, I don’t want to be cowardly, but I am afraid.

  There, the truth as she finally finished unbuttoning her bodice and removed her dress.

  Her soul and her conscience should be clean, but they weren’t. She was guilty of so many sins, and now was not the time to die, not before all those black marks could be removed. She’d lied to the nicest family she’d ever met. She was guilty of hate, so dark and evil an emotion that it felt like a monster curled up in the pit of her stomach.

  Not to mention that she was a virgin and it hardly seemed right to go to her death without knowing what passion was like. She hadn’t wanted a religious life. She hadn’t cared about the purity of her body. Circumstances had simply declared that she was unmarried and unloved.

  The ship punctuated that thought by rising in the air like a horse having a tantrum.

  She hung up her dress in the wardrobe, fell back onto the bed and unfastened the busk of her corset.

  There was nothing she could do about her soul, conscience, or virtue at the moment. All she could do was get below the covers, pull the sheet over her head, and pretend she was going to live until morning.

  Her corset unfastened, she tucked it in the drawer beneath the bed, sparing a moment from her terror to admire the extra storage. Her shift and pantaloons were next, and she folded the garments and put them beside her corset, closed the drawer and donned her nightgown and wrapper.

  She really should wash her face and brush her teeth, but did those things matter when the ship was still rolling and rocking?

  A STORM at sea was a wondrous thing, as awe inspiring as it was soul reducing. The dark storm clouds seemed to be only a curtain to display the fiery fingers of lightning. Or a screen on which a tableau was being performed for his amazement. Instead of shadow puppets or a selection of silhouettes, this was a portrayal of nature’s ferocity.

  During the first few minutes Duncan felt enlivened by the experience. After that he started to worry.

  He’d never considered himself a coward. Granted, his daily routine was such that he didn’t often encounter physical danger, but he’d been in difficult situations. Still, nothing he had experienced had been close to this storm.

  He couldn’t stand without holding onto the furniture as the ship rocked back and forth. He finally made his way to the chair beside the settee and sat.

  All the ships that Cameron and Company built and Lennox designed were seaworthy, but he found himself wondering if they were stormworthy as well. Captain McDougal was shouting at the men, but as inexperienced a sailor as he himself was, he didn’t know what the man was demanding. Were they taking precautionary steps or had something gone wrong? Even worse, had someone fallen overboard as the ship tilted precipitously to one side and back again?

&n
bsp; Since he couldn’t actually do anything to help, all he could do was remain calm, out of the way, and leave the men to do their jobs.

  He wished he were an experienced traveler like Rose. She’d probably experienced a storm at sea before. Had it been one as vicious as this, with the lightning flaring every few seconds and thunder coming down on them like a clenched fist?

  The wind had risen to a gale. The Raven was rolling to one side then the other, the ship’s stability in danger. They were helpless, pitching in the darkness, at the mercy of the rough sea.

  How would they survive if the Raven capsized?

  Their death by drowning seemed entirely possible in the next quarter hour, and he held onto his balance only by gripping the arm of the chair with one hand and the bolted bookcase with the other.

  Rain washed in beneath the doors as if seeking him out. He pitied the men on deck, doing whatever sailors did.

  He had worried about running the blockade. He had been concerned about somehow getting embroiled in the middle of the American Civil War. He had even questioned his eagerness to assist Rose and buy cotton no experienced factor had seen.

  Not once had he confronted the idea that he might not survive crossing the Atlantic.

  He had a general idea of where they were, just past Ireland, heading into the shipping lanes. If they continued on the same latitude, they would hit Nova Scotia, but their course was a more southern one. That is, if they survived the storm.

  He clamped his hands on the end of the chair arms and stared at the door leading to the stateroom. He hadn’t heard anything from Rose since they separated after dinner. He sincerely hoped he hadn’t agreed to take her to Nassau only to have her drown on the voyage there. Perhaps she would have been safer on a commercial vessel, something designed to handle passengers. No doubt they would have stewards running throughout the ship, reassuring passengers that all was well, they weren’t in danger of plunging to the bottom of the ocean.

  He couldn’t reassure anyone right at the moment.