No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  The oil lamp swayed from its hook on the ceiling, casting a flickering light over a row of glinting instruments. Henry Otter raised a hand to steady it until it glowed, an Arctic sun above the white expanse of the charts. He bent down to peer more closely. How he loved the swell of the Hebridean names on his tongue: Tianavaig Bay, Suisnish, Flodigarry. What was in a name? These ones were an incantation to the wild places on the edge of the world. A prayer to the Hesperides, the daughters of the Evening Star. Names to some men meant fame. The explorers tramping over unknown continents gained immortality by christening newly discovered rivers and mountains. To others names on a map gave power. After sending surveyors to map the Highlands, King James IV learned enough of the topography to dispatch an army to tame the people there.

  But it wasn’t immortality or power that mattered to Henry. What inspired him was creating accurate charts that enabled seafarers to sail their way safely. Over the centuries, anonymous sailors had named coastal features so that those following them would recognize the landmarks. Henry’s eye landed on the settlement of Staffin, north of Portree. It was named by the Vikings and meant “Place of Pillars.” He imagined the Viking captain standing at the prow of his longboat as it lunged through spray-spitting seas. What relief he would feel when he recognized the strange contorted mounds and stacks of the Quirang near Staffin and knew that he was heading northward. Henry saw himself and his crew as heirs to that tradition of naming and mapping. They recorded those ancient names and added details about the configuration of the coast, the nature of the seabed, and the depth of the channels. As he ran his finger along the black line of the Skye coastline, he thought about how charts, as well as being useful, had a modest beauty with their neat rows of figures guiding the helmsman along his way. How much labor those soundings represented. Sailors in small boats, often huddled against the lashing of wind and rain had endlessly cast a lead weight on the end of a marked line to record them.

  He straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction. The surveys of North Skye were complete. They had made good use of the light summer nights. Tomorrow HMS Comet would leave Portree to begin work on charting the herds of smaller islands. A quick stretch of the legs, he decided, and then to bed. As he plodded along the deck he breathed in the night air.

  What was that? Something flashed out to sea. A dim star? No, it was much too low in the sky and there was too much cloud for stars. But something was shining, making a tear in the darkness. As he reached into his pocket for his spyglass, he realized that he wasn’t alone on deck. “Ah, Lieutenant Masters, you’ve younger eyes than me. Where’s that light coming from?”

  “It looks as if it’s from Raasay, sir.”

  “No. It’s too far north. It must be on Rona.”

  “You’re right. Is it coming from a building? Well, there’s a mystery to uncover. Go and find out tomorrow.”

  Later as he lay in his bunk, Henry visualized the two smaller islands that stretched along the flank of Skye. Skye reached out over five peninsulas, like the outstretched wing of a sea eagle. Raasay was a thin sliver to the east. It crumbled away northward into scattered skerries, steppingstones to its smaller neighbor. Rona was a rocky outpost with two deep bays on its western side, chewed out by the sea. So the light must come from one of those harbors, but which one and why? Surely there were only a few poor fishermen living there?

  Well, he would have to see what Tom Masters could find out. The fellow’s fair curls and boyish smile made him very successful in getting information from local people, especially ladies, even when they knew little English.

  Tom reported on his mission the next day, “Sir, the light comes from a house on the beach at Big Harbour. A widow called Janet MacKenzie lives there. I don’t know why she keeps a lamp lighted in the window. My interpreting skills ran out, I’m afraid.”

  “Never mind. We’ll pay a visit to this widow before we embark on the next stage of the survey.”

  So an hour later, at the top of the tide, they steamed across to Rona on a strong swell, nosing the Comet into the outer rim of Big Harbour. Tom had hired a local fisherman as a pilot, a spare man, his cheeks reddened and his blue eyes watery after years of scouring by the elements.

  “Treacherous rocks there,” Henry said, “They must have wrecked a few boats in their time.”

  “Aye,” the pilot replied. “But I know their ways.” He seemed disinclined to say more. Henry didn’t know whether it was because he had little English or if he was taciturn by nature. So he left the man in peace to gesture to the helmsman what line the ship should take. Henry always felt tense when he wasn’t in command. He only breathed more easily once the ship was anchored well clear of the rocks that stoppered the inner entrance. A boat was lowered over the side and coxswain Richard Williams rowed the captain and the lieutenant to the beach.

  “Brush yourself down,” Henry ordered Tom as they jumped on to the shingle. The captain knew that the younger officers were irked by his insistence on immaculate uniforms. But it was too easy to let discipline slide on a survey vessel in remote locations. He rubbed wet sand from his own trousers and smoothed down the lapels of his jacket before looking about him.

  “That must be the house,” he said, pointing at a building roosting by itself on the beach among the rocks, “Quite substantial too, two floors. Not the usual black house.”

  As he rapped on the heavy front door, he could hear scuffling noises from inside. It was opened by a mouselike young girl. “I’m Captain Otter of the Royal Navy. Is your mistress in?”

  The girl’s eyes opened wide and her nose started to twitch as if she was about to burst into tears. There was a rustling behind her and a tall, slender figure in a black gown appeared. Henry saw a face as weathered as a wooden carving and felt the gaze of her eyes, gray as wintry seas, “I’m Mistress MacKenzie. Would you gentlemen like to step inside?” Her voice was cool and deliberate.

  They followed her stiff back into a parlour at the front of the house. She gestured for them to sit on a well-polished settle while she perched on a hard chair. The room was spare but snug. A woolen rug lay in front of the fireplace and a tall press stood in one corner. What drew Henry’s eye though stood in front of the small window overlooking the sea. The glass was almost completely obscured by an elaborate lamp wedged onto the stone sill. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Edinburgh drawing room. It had a wide brass base and a tall chimney topped by a glass globe that reminded him of a fortune-teller’s crystal ball. He had to clench his hands together to curb his eagerness while they waited for the flustered maid. She scampered in eventually with a tray of tea things, clattering the cups as she served them. The widow remained silent and composed.

  “Madam, I instructed Lieutenant Masters here to discover who owned the light we could see from Portree Harbor.”

  She nodded. Her eyes beneath the stiff widow’s cap had the unblinking stare of a ship’s figurehead.

  “You are performing an invaluable service for seafarers.”

  Again the fixed look and the eventual nod. Henry was beginning to feel uneasy and wishing he had left Tom Masters to make the visit on his own. He knew that his height and his burly form could make people apprehensive. But he didn’t sense any fear in this lady. He tried again. “May I ask you what prompted you to provide this service for passing ships?”

  This time the silence was even longer, “I’ve put the lamp in my window for many a year but not in the summer when the light is good.”

  Henry hesitated, confused by her answer. “And how do you obtain the oil for the lamp?”

  This time she replied more readily. “It comes from my sons when they’re after catching fish, but if there’s not enough I buy more or use candles.”

  “Well, I shall write to the commissioners of Northern Lighthouses and ask that you be recompensed.”

  “Recompensed?” She repeated with a frown.

  “Yes, indeed. Many vessels owe their safety to your light. It’s not right that you should ha
ve to pay for your philanthropic actions.”

  “Payment? I don’t want to be paid,” she hissed, rising to her feet.

  “Madam, I meant no offence … I—”

  “No, but I should like you to leave now.” Her eyes glittered, harsh as an eagle’s.

  The two men took a hurried leave. “What a pity I offended Mistress MacKenzie by suggesting payment. These Highlanders are a proud race,” Henry said, as they walked down to the boat.

  “She’s a formidable lady, sir. She would make a terrifying admiral of the Fleet.”

  Henry smiled. “Well, I’m a sailor, thank goodness, not an ambassador. At least we can make her philanthropic efforts known. I shall write to Alan Stevenson at the commissioners, whatever Mistress MacKenzie might think about it.” He marched to where Williams waited. The sailor hastened to steady the boat for the captain to climb aboard. When it was Tom Masters’s turn his doleful face lit up in a smile.

  Chapter 3

  Island of Rona, Summer 1857

  Janet was jolted as the cart thudded over the rough ground. It reared over an especially large rock and she was thrown against Hamish who was driving.

  “Forgive me, Mistress MacKenzie,” he said.

  “It’s not your fault but I think I’d better finish the journey on foot. You can wait here for me. I shan’t be long.”

  He jumped down to help her dismount and ended up catching her as her legs suddenly buckled. “Old age is making me clumsy,” she grumbled. As she picked her way over the stones to the shore, she admitted to herself that it wasn’t only stiff bones that made her stumble but an uneasy mind as well. She knew full well that the lighthouse was sprouting ever higher from its rocky bed but she had resisted coming to see it. Everyone hailed it as a bounty and a blessing for sailors. That was true but for her it marked a loss and an ending. While it was growing skyward, imagined but unseen, she could pretend it didn’t exist. This morning though as she sat with her porridge in front of her but no appetite to eat it, she felt her spirit change course and veer into the wind. She would go and look at it for herself. She stopped to catch her breath. There was Hamish still sitting on the cart. He never complained but he was old too now and would be glad of a rest. But who was that coming up behind him? Two people. The one in front was brawny and striding along as fast as if he was on a proper road rather than a rough track. Trailing behind him was a child, a frail sapling buffeted by the wind. Her heart surged up into her throat like a leaping salmon. Surely it couldn’t be? She peered again, screwing up her eyes. The boy was young, maybe six or seven years of age. His head wobbled as if it were too heavy for the sloping shoulders and narrow chest to support. He staggered on uncertain legs like a newborn lamb. She could feel her own legs trembling. She waited, holding her breath, for them to come closer. As they did, she gasped with relief to see that the child was not a ghost after all, only a stranger.

  Now the pair were upon her. The man touched his hat. “Good day to you, madam. Thomas Stevenson at your service.”

  She remained speechless, staring at the boy, resisting her desire to touch him.

  “And this young rascal is my son, Louis. He’s just starting to learn something of the family business.” He ruffled the child’s thick, dark hair that seemed much more vigorous than his slight body.

  Janet tore her eyes away and opened her reluctant lips. “I’m Mistress MacKenzie from Big Harbour.”

  “The famous Mrs. MacKenzie!” Thomas exclaimed. “I’m delighted to meet you at last.”

  The boy had been wriggling under his father’s hand while they were speaking. Now he piped up in a petulant voice, “I’m called Lou at home, not Louis.”

  His father’s face showed a struggle between affection and exasperation.

  “My first name’s Robert, but I don’t use it and I spell Louis the French way.”

  “Do you now?’ Well, we’re very accustomed to using two names in this part of the world. Iain Donald, Angus Niall or Norman Peter. It’s a way of making sure we know who we’re talking about when so many folk have the same surname.”

  Louis smiled triumphantly at his father.

  “We use nicknames, too. Have you one?” Janet asked.

  His father rushed to reply, “He’s not been able to attend school often enough to earn one. ‘The Dreamer’ would suit him.”

  “You would be in excellent company then. That’s what Joseph’s brothers called him. They said it in mockery but his dreams proved very useful,” Janet smiled.

  “I’ve allowed the wee rascal to distract me from what I wanted to say about your philanthropy, Mrs. MacKenzie.”

  She shrugged, “That’s a very big word for lighting a lamp.”

  “You’re too modest.” Seeing she wouldn’t be drawn, he continued. “May I show you how our work is progressing? If you would care to walk a little this way? We’ve been fortunate that the weather has stayed fair.”

  As they got closer Janet gasped at the height of the lighthouse, reaching up like the tapering trunk of a giant tree. A heavy stone section of the tower swung suspended from a block and tackle. A gust of wind nudged it and men stood braced at the top of the thirty-foot tower, arms outstretched to guide it into position. Janet’s eyes widened in amazement. She had seen a new church being built when she was a young woman still living on Skye, watched the scaffolding placed alongside the walls and the dressed stones being hoisted into place. But she had never witnessed the likes of this tower. It was both gigantic and graceful, a landlocked mast without a sail. She had often wondered how such a structure could ever keep out wind and wet. Now she knew the answer for each huge stone was trimmed so that it fitted tightly against its neighbors. How had the engineers worked out the measurements so precisely? It was a marvel beyond compare. Then she remembered a book that her teacher had showed her, filled with illustrations of the Ancient Wonders of the World.

  She became aware that her mouth was hanging open in amazement and that Mr. Stevenson was watching her. Feeling foolish she squared her shoulders. “It’s very fine. It put me in mind of a picture I saw of the Pyramids.”

  “Indeed. I don’t believe anyone now alive knows quite how they were constructed.” Thomas signaled to a man who had been craning his neck to watch the work.

  “Let me introduce you to my foreman, Mr. Menzies. He’s worked for me for more years than I can remember, as have many of the men. They travel with us from one job to the next. Do we have any Rona men with us, John?”

  He sniffed. “One or two maybe. They haven’t the aptitude for hard work.”

  Janet drew herself up to her full height. “You’re very mistaken in that opinion, young man.”

  Thomas scowled at him. “This lady is Mrs. MacKenzie. No doubt you’ve heard about her ceaseless work on behalf of seafarers.”

  “Aye, indeed,” the foreman said, looking abashed. “Of course we haven’t added the light yet, the most important part. I hope you’ll come to see it when it’s in place.”

  Janet decided to be gracious and nodded at him.

  “I hope that Mrs. MacKenzie will be our guest of honor when we light the beacon for the first time.”

  Janet surprised herself by agreeing to Thomas’s offer. It’s amazing how flattery overcomes doubt, she thought as they strolled away from the lighthouse.

  “Stop fidgeting, Louis,” the father scolded the boy who was scuffling stones with his feet. “You’ll ruin your good shoes. Think of the barefoot children living here who would be grateful for a pair of stout boots.” He turned to Janet. “I’m afraid his thoughts are too often away wool gathering. His mother and his nurse indulge him too much.”

  She saw how his father’s words snuffed out the gleam in the boy’s eyes, “Mr. Stevenson, I hope you will find time to visit my home while you are on Rona.”

  “Thank you. I should like to accept your hospitality.”

  “And I’m sure we can amuse you too, young man,” she added, stooping down to look the child in the eye.

  Later
, before going to bed, she read a chapter from her Bible, its black leather cover softened through much use. Then she checked that the lamp had sufficient oil. How many more times would she light it? She thought about Louis with his handmade boots. They might be made of pliable leather but they still pinched his feet. He needed to feel the grass brush his bare soles and to dabble his white toes in the sea.

  Father and son visited her a few days later. “What a pleasure to be in civilized surroundings again,” Thomas Stevenson declared as he looked around her parlour. “Menzies has given us his room to use but it’s cramped. So this is the lamp.” He tapped its gleaming base, “I’ve heard that you can see this light all the way from Portree Harbour.”

  She nodded, swallowing her displeasure. No one else was allowed to touch or tend her lamp. She invited him to sit down. Louis meanwhile found a stool by the window and knelt on it, putting his hands on the windowsill and looking out over the wide harbor to the open sea beyond.

  “Are you building other lighthouses too, Mr. Stevenson?”

  “Aye, indeed, two more on Skye, at Kyleakin and Isle Oronsay. Another in the Sound of Mull. I’m spending my time traveling between them. Thomas Telford left bridges and piers across the Highlands as his memorial. With the Stevensons, it’s lighthouses.” He leaned forward and his heavy features lit up. “There’s still plenty to do in making them more seaworthy and we need to improve the lights themselves. There’ll be more than enough work to keep Louis and his cousins busy.”

  The boy turned around. “Look Papa at those huge rocks poking out of the sea. You can see the waves beating against them. They’re monsters waiting to gobble up ships.” His fluting voice hung in the air.

  His father glanced at Janet but she sat motionless. Only the grasp of her curled fingers on the arm of the settle betrayed her. “That’s why we need engineers to build lighthouses,” he said.

  “Papa, may I go outside?”

  “Are you bored already?” Thomas frowned.

  “Effie, my maid, can take him out if you wish, she’s a sensible lass, while you have another cup of tea.”