“You take your dog onboard your boat?” asked Logan.
“Ye heard o’ sea-farin’ cats, haena ye? Well, we hae oorsel’s a sea dog. Couldna keep her off, if the truth be known!”
“Weel,” put in Alec, “this storm may be a blessin’ fer Luckie. ’Tis best she stays in fer a day or twa. She lost some blood, so keep her warm. I’ll send doon some powders tomorrow fer ye t’ put on the wound. I sewed it up with some stitches I had in my bag. I think it’ll do fer her. Bring her aroun’ t’ the hoose in aboot a week so I can remove them.”
“Thank ye kindly, Alec. I dinna ken what I’d do wi’oot Luckie.”
She slid her frame off the bench, gathered Luckie into her arms and made ready to leave. She paused at the door. “Will we be seein’ more o’ ye, Logan?” she asked across the room. But then, as was her custom, she waited for no reply, and continued, “If ye’re o’ a mind t’ bide a wee in Strathy, come doon t’ the harbor an’ I’ll show ye hoo a real fishin’ boat is run.”
Logan laughed and said he’d be sure to look her up.
When Jesse Cameron and Luckie had gone, Alec turned to Logan and said. “That is a remarkable woman. Lost her husban’ t’ the sea ten years ago. She refused t’ give up everythin’ they had worked an’ died fer, so she took it o’er. Operates two trawlers noo an’ pulls a man’s weight in a man’s business, so they say of her doon in the New Town. Each an’ every person in Strathy hae nothin’ but respect fer her. But when she first started, none o’ the men fer miles wanted t’ work fer a woman. There was no blamin’ them, I suppose—’tis a dangerous business, fightin’ the sea. But she’s made’t work an’ is noo one o’ the most successful fishers—man or woman—in all o’ this part o’ the coastline.”
“How’d she get on her feet if no one would work for her?”
“She’s tenacious,” answered Alec. “At first she went oot by hersel’, an’ all the others thought she had gone crazy o’er the death o’ her man. But she was determined not t’ lose the business. When they saw what she was doin’, one or two that needed the work took a chance wi’ her. An’ noo, when they’re oot on the sea, they hardly know she’s a woman. One thing she is, she’s the boss! An’ she runs her boats like any tough man’d have t’. She takes nothin’ from no one. Ye ought t’ take her up on her offer—ye’d find it a grand learnin’ experience. I went oot on the sea one night wi’ her. I’ll never forget it as long’s I live.”
Alec drained the tea which Jesse had left behind, and then rose. “Weel, rain or no, I best be gettin’ back t’ my work. Was nice t’ visit wi’ ye, Logan.”
Logan rose and shook his hand.
“An’ dinna ye forget,” said Alec, tossing the words over his shoulder as he exited, “ye’re welcome at the hoose any time!”
Logan leaned back against the hard support of the wooden bench. No, he would hardly forget that invitation. But he’d have to be judicious in his steps so as not to appear over-anxious. He had to contrive some way to make frequent comings and goings to and from Stonewycke seem quite natural. As intimidating as she might be, he had to get close to Lady Margaret. And he was certain he’d be able to handle her once he had his bearings a little more solid. He’d been in tighter jams. Her penetrating eyes were no match for Chase Morgan’s thugs, and he’d outwitted them.
Yes, he thought, the old lady was the key. She had known Digory. If there were clues to where the old boy had hidden whatever treasure he’d been talking about, she would be the one to put him on the right track. Somehow those clues were locked in Lady Margaret’s head, though she might not even realize it—especially if she’d never received any communication from old Uncle Digory. He first had to find out if any other letter had been sent. If not, then the clues he sought might lie in some altogether obscure thing the old boy had said to her, or in a place they may have gone together. Though the treasure may be hidden, he was certain it was still here. He could feel it!
Too bad she wasn’t younger; he could charm the answers from her. As it was he’d have to use some finesse to entice her to open up to him. He had already noticed that there were some areas of her youth at Stonewycke she was reticent to speak of—but those might be the very things he needed to know about.
Well, he did have time. But he would like to find the loot while he was young enough to enjoy it.
20
On the Sea with Jesse Cameron
By Friday it had rained almost solidly for two days. It wasn’t the rain so much as the fact that he had lost all his cash in a card game on the first evening that caused the time to drag slowly for Logan. There was nothing to do, and the rain forbade any casual exploration. The weather notwithstanding, he had toyed with the notion of a walk up the hill to Stonewycke. But he ruled out the idea on the grounds that a man doesn’t brave a severe storm merely to enjoy casual conversation about a virtually unknown relative who has been dead some sixty-odd years.
Around midmorning, however, the clouds began to break up. Logan hurriedly finished his breakfast, grabbed his coat, and headed outdoors. That afternoon, if the weather held, he would walk up to Stonewycke. He’d simply excuse himself on the basis of needing to stretch his legs after the storm had forced him indoors for so long—a perfectly acceptable excuse. And he would time his visit so that he might be able to wheedle a dinner invitation in the process.
Until then, and with his encounter with Jesse Cameron in the back of his mind, he wandered down toward the harbor. Some thirty or forty boats, ranging from six-foot dories to hundred-foot vessels, were tied up to the docks, gently rocking up and down in the decreasing swell. Apparently he had not been the only one to notice the changes overhead, for the whole place was a bustle of activity, the fishing community apparently determined not to let this lull pass them by and go to waste. Shouts from dozens of fishermen, the clatter of gear being hauled aboard the boats, and the purring from some and the sputtering from other engines warming up filled the salty air. A few of the sailors who had been involved in the card game shouted friendly greetings to him. They had every reason to be friendly, thought Logan; they had each profited greatly from his foolishness. He would not underestimate their acumen at cards the next time.
Just then a more feminine call, though by no means softer, rose above the others.
“Weel, Logan!” called out Jesse Cameron. “So ye decided t’ give us a look. Welcome t’ ye!”
“Thank you,” replied Logan. “Trying to squeeze in some fishing between storms?”
“We got t’ make a run when we can,” she replied. “But they say it may hold fer a day or twa.”
Jesse was perched aft near the wheelhouse of a 50-foot double-ended craft called the Little Stevie. She momentarily turned from Logan and shouted to a crewman who was bent forward, with a frustrated scowl on his lined and weathered face, over the winch.
“Hoo’s it goin’, Buckie?” she called. “We dinna want t’ be the last ones oot.”
“I got it,” he drawled uncertainly. “But I dinna ken if it’ll hold wi’ the weight o’ the fish.”
“You’re about to be taking off?” interjected Logan.
“Aye, that we are!” answered Jesse. “We got t’ take advantage o’ e’ery minute possible.” Then swinging back toward Buckie, she said, “I’ll do it. Let’s get underway.”
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity as the crew of three sprang into action. “Hurry up, yoong fella!” Jesse called to Logan.
“What?” replied Logan, puzzled.
“Ye’re comin’ wi’ us, arena ye?”
“I . . . I don’t—”
“’Tis what ye’re here fer, ain’t it?”
“I hadn’t really intended—” began Logan, feeling very uncharacteristically like a tenderfoot whelp.
“Come along!” Jesse interrupted, and reaching out a sturdy arm, hauled Logan aboard the Little Stevie before he had a chance to object. Logan looked about him, feeling altogether useless and out of his element—and not enjoying the sensation. Ev
en Luckie, favoring her injured foot but otherwise appearing none the worse for the wear, was scurrying about as if she were an invaluable member of the crew.
Jesse quickly took up her position in the wheelhouse, Buckie cast off the remaining lines, and Jesse began maneuvering the boat out of the narrow mouth of Port Strathy’s harbor. Logan braced his body against the starboard rail; he hoped he had not let himself in for more than a day at sea; he had heard of these boats spending days, even weeks, on the water before returning. But never one to brood over the lot life might cast him, if he was going to sea, he would enjoy himself.
The sharp, pungent sea air proved invigorating, as if it could scrape clean the cloudy residue of a spotted city life. The sight of the great wave of fishing boats was moving indeed. Within twenty minutes they had broken free of the neck of the harbor and found themselves surrounded only by the white-capped azure sea below, and above, a blue sky, marked heavily with white and gray clouds which still seemed uncertain about their future. With the wind tossing his hair and beating against his face, Logan found that he could appreciate just such an outdoor life, however alien it was to him. There was the same freedom and challenge here that he relished on the streets of London.
He turned and watched Jesse through the window of the wheelhouse. Yes, he could see it in her eyes, that same flash of enthusiasm which he’d seen pass through old Skittles’ eyes as they embarked on their con in Pellam’s. It was a thirst for adventure, the love of the chase, the pursuit of the quarry with nothing to rely on but daring, wit, and skill.
Yes, he and Jesse Cameron could hardly appear more dissimilar on the surface. Yet down inside, they were the same. Her life was spent chasing the fish, and fighting against those who would take her self-respect and personhood from her because she was a woman. He, on the other hand, sought more elusive prey. But they were each driven in the same way, though perhaps toward different ends.
His thoughts were shattered as the mistress of the vessel shouted out several more orders. He could feel the excitement even in her voice. He could almost imagine that she was old Skits, setting up a con to lure the fish into their nets. In another couple of minutes Buckie replaced her at the wheel and she joined Logan where he stood.
“Ye’re a city fella, ain’t ye?” she asked.
Logan nodded.
“Weel, ye look as though ye can take the water. There canna be another life like it!”
“I half believe you,” replied Logan, laughing.
“Ye’ll be a believer by the time we dock this evenin’.”
“We’ll be out only a day?”
“Aye. We’re only rigged fer a short haul. What do ye ken aboot boats?”
“Very little,” said Logan. “I have gathered that this is a fishing vessel, however,” he added with a grin.
Jesse let forth a great, booming laugh, as hearty and invigorating as the crisp air. “Ye’re a good sport, mate!” she said.
“What kind of fish are we after?”
“We’ll take what we can get,” replied Jesse. “After a storm like this, wha knows what’ll blow oor way. The Little Stevie is a drifter, an’ we used t’ gill net the herrin’ wi’ her. But I converted her into a side-trawler so we can fish fer cod or haddock in the spring.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Doon in Aberdeen they’re findin’ trawlin’ t’ be more productive. I’m thinkin’ that after twa centuries or so, the herrin’s gettin’ wise. Some folks’ll keep gill nettin’ till they drop. But I’ve always kept my eyes open t’ new advances.” She paused and rubbed her hands together. “Come on in oot o’ the wind fer a spell, an’ I’ll pour ye a cup o’ hot coffee.”
They went into the wheelhouse where a wooden bench large enough to seat two or three was strung against the aft wall. Jesse found a large thermal flask and poured out three tin cups of steaming brew.
“I drink coffee at sea,” she said, handing one of the cups to Buckie at the wheel and the other to Logan. “These flasks are handy inventions, but they jist dinna do justice t’ tea. I’ll brew ye a proper pot o’ tea after we cast the net, if there be time.” She took a large gulp from her cup, apparently impervious to the burning of the liquid. Logan felt rather dainty by comparison as he cautiously sipped at his.
“I’m curious,” he said at length. “Most boats seem to have feminine names. How did yours come by such an unusual epithet?”
A soft smile enveloped Jesse’s lined mouth as a tender look filled her eyes. Logan would have thought from her expression that they were sailing on a glassy sea under a warm summer’s sun. And perhaps it was just such a day that now filled her memory. “My husband closed the deal on this boat the day after oor son was born. So we, o’ course, named it ‘Little Stevie’ after the boy.”
“And your husband was big Stevie?”
“’Twas the boy’s grandfather . . . my own father, Stevie Mackinaw.” She said the name almost dreamily, and with a touch of sorrow.
“Have you been in fishing all your life?”
“Oh no,” laughed Jesse. “I’m new at it compared t’ most o’ the folks ye find hereaboot. My daddy came from a long line o’ crofters. They were tenants right on the Stonewycke lands fer generations. They herded sheep an’ scratched oot a few bushels o’ oats a year on the poorest piece o’ moorlan’ ye could imagine. Hoo they did I’ll ne’er ken. Finally when my daddy was but a lad an’ orphaned at that, the laird turned him oot.”
“Just like that? After generations?”
“Wasna a crueler, more arrogant man than James Duncan, the laird then. Figured he couldna turn a profit w’ jist a lad workin’ the land—an’ wha kens but maybe he was right. It might hae killed my daddy had he kept workin’ that rocky groun’. As it was he wandered aboot, homeless an’ penniless, an’ near t’ starvin’ ’cause he was too prood t’ take handoots. Finally, na that lang after James Duncan died, the Lady Atlanta found oot what had happened, an’ gave my daddy a small piece o’ land o’erlooking the coast, atween Strathy Summit an’ the toon.”
“These are the same Duncans that inhabit the estate now?” asked Logan innocently.
“Aye. But they’re a different breed, these are.” Jesse refilled the tin cups, then handed the flask to one of the other hands out on deck. Coming back inside she took up the end of the conversation where she had left off. “They love the land as much as the rest o’ us. An’ Lady Margaret always did care. Somethin’ different aboot that lady. Why, my daddy used t’ say that when he was a lad—”
“He knew Lady Margaret back then?” Logan nearly spilled his coffee, but struggled to keep up the nonchalance of his exterior.
“Only as weel’s a crofter could know the daughter o’ the laird. There werena all the mixin’ then like ye see nowadays. But Lady Margaret took a special likin’ t’ my daddy’s mother, an’ the family in general. He always said ’twas ’cause o’ her that he taught me the ways o’ the Lord as he did. T’ tell ye the truth, I always fancied that my daddy was a mite in love wi’ Lady Margaret. I think that’s why he married so late in life. But I guess fate was against him, though I’m sure the Lord’s hand was in’t as weel, ’cause a year after he married, his wife died havin’ me. I brought him sorrow from the day I was born.”
“You must be exaggerating,” said Logan, intrigued.
“I ne’er took t’ the land. I always sat on the cliffs an’ looked oot t’ sea. He shouldna hae been surprised when I married a fisherman. ’Course I was only a bairn, hardly sixteen at the time, an’ it meant me leavin’ home, ’cause Charlie was one o’ them itinerant fishers, hirin’ himsel’ oot fer seasonal work. My daddy was none too happy an’ I left wi’oot very frien’ly feelings atween us.”
“I’m sure he’s very proud of you now.”
“He’s been dead some four years noo,” said Jesse. “Luckily we patched it up when I came back after my Charlie died—that was in 1919, after the war, ye ken. We had some good years t’gether, Daddy an’ me. The Lord used the loss o
’ my husban’ an’ son t’ mellow me oot some—made me learn t’ appreciate all the things a yoong girl used t’ scoff at.”
“You don’t mean you went back to a farming life like your father?”
“Na, na,” replied Jesse. “I meant the things my father used t’ tell me when I was yoong that I had nae use fer then. Things aboot God an’ nature, aboot God’s love fer His children, things we’ve all heard from oor mothers an’ fathers, but which we pay no attention t’. Till we get older an’ wiser, perhaps—an’ then we start rememberin’ an’ seein’ the truth o’ it. Or until some catastrophe smacks us in the face an’ makes us listen. I don’t know why we willna listen till we get oorsel’s int’ trouble. But it took the loss o’ my Charlie an’ my boy t’ wake me up.”
“And even after what happened to them, you stayed in fishing?” asked Logan, trying to change the direction of the conversation off this uncomfortable subject.
Jesse rose and crossed the small open space of floor to the wheel where she stood next to Buckie, looking out on the vast expanse of blue all about them.
“It grows on ye, Logan,” she said wistfully. Her gaze out toward the open sea, and her contented sigh said the rest.
Some time before noon the Little Stevie crept to a stop. Jesse told Logan they were ready to shoot the net over the side.
He found a place well out of the way, then watched as the crew expertly lowered the trawl, by means of rope suspended on gallows hitched to the starboard side of the boat. Jesse and Buckie were giving particular attention to the troublesome winch located amidship. To Logan’s untrained eye everything appeared to be going smoothly, but Buckie looked none too pleased. Once again he attempted some adjustments on the winch, this time with screwdriver in hand.
When the net was finally in place, Jesse disappeared and Logan guessed by the steam emitted from the smokestack that she was firing up the engines. When she rejoined him, the Little Stevie was again underway, this time with one of the other crew members at the wheel.
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 17
