The minister gathered himself, saying he was Reverend MacLean, extending his hand and inviting Richard to sit down on a hard chair. He had the almost singing speech of the islands. Turning to the hovering maid, he addressed her in Gaelic. When she failed to respond at once he took her arm, making her shuffle to the door. As he shut it firmly behind her, Richard thought how the whole scene seemed like some sort of play where everyone else except him knew their part. A sick sense of shame rose like bile in his throat. As so often before in his life he felt in the wrong, being blamed yet again for some sin he didn’t even know he had committed.
The minister blinked. “Mistress Nicolson brought you here at my suggestion. I’ll explain why as best I can.”
Richard nodded. There was no going back.
Chapter 14
Several days later. Aboard HMS Porcupine in Portree Harbor
It was well past midnight. Henry Otter was still sitting in his cabin, his unfocused eyes staring into the darkness outside. What a terrible day it had been. The strain of bracing himself against the gales of emotion, far harder to endure than storms at sea. He was exhausted with holding his iron hull intact and keeping his soft-shelled heart down in the hold. The men must not sniff any sign of weakness from him.
He was the fruit of a family tree heavy with its harvest of seafaring men. From his birth, it was taken for granted that he too would become a sailor. Although born in landlocked Derbyshire, as a boy he spent long summers with relatives in a Hampshire village not far from Portsmouth. He went sailing with old George, a fisherman who knew the coastal waters as intimately as a farmer knows the contours of his fields. Henry acted as his pilot, taking charge of the twelve-foot pole that the old man used when he was edging along the sandbanks. Henry learned how to cast out the lead weight on a marked line and call out the readings: “Two fathoms deep,” and “By the mark seven.”
When there was a shrouding mist, George gave him a lump of grease to press down into the hollow at the base of the weight. Henry lowered it into the water, making sure that the weight stuck to the seabed. After jiggling the line and letting the weight scrape along the bottom, he would haul it up again. The old fisherman would suck his teeth and prod the piece of lard to see what had stuck to it. Depending on whether it was pebbles or grains of sand, he could work out their exact position. Henry was amazed how George carried in his head a map of the hidden underwater world. But it was a secret map, trapped inside his mind. Even then, Henry thought how wonderful it would be if that knowledge could be put on a chart for all sailors to use.
When he became a midshipman, some of the old sailors commiserated with him about how the glory days were over. The beauty of a ship in full sail, the thrill of battles against the French and the bold commanders, like Lord Nelson. But the peacetime, more humdrum navy suited him. He discovered an aptitude for navigation and measurement. He enjoyed rowing offshore in a small boat with a few others, armed only with lead, line, and compass. Because he could draw, he was given the task of sketching landmarks, a stand of trees, a church tower, or the sharp angle of a cliff. Rain and squalls didn’t discourage him. If the weather turned dangerous, they could pull the boat up in a deserted bay and wait for the wind to slacken. He had found a berth that suited him. Superior officers noticed his care for detail. He rose through the service until he was entrusted with this major survey of the West Highland coast and its attendant islands. As captain, he sought to give his crew a sense of pride in their labors and to encourage those like Masters and Williams who showed skill at surveying.
So Henry was far from being a battle-hardened warrior. Indeed, he had never before seen the body of a man who had died violently. He couldn’t believe that one man could have poured out such an ocean of blood. The sailor who found the body noticed the legs poking out from behind the coiled ropes. Then he slipped in the sticky morass when he went to investigate. It was the poor fellow’s waxy face that had most startled him. It was bleached whiter than whale bones disgorged by the sea.
Henry chafed his face. His first task in the morning would be to address the crew and try to restore their spirits. Sailors would imagine portents of disaster from any untoward happening, let alone something like this. Meanwhile, there was no prospect of sleep. He sighed and drew quill and paper in front of him.
My Dearest Jemina,
I am truly sorry to burden you with my troubles. My unwilling hand weighs me down as heavily as my heart, but I know that writing to you will afford me some relief. If I were not a rational man but superstitious like my crew, I would believe that my captaincy was cursed. You will recall poor Hugh Cramer. I secured from the Admiralty the increase in pay he was entitled to but he had little opportunity to enjoy it before he died of a swelling in the windpipe. It’s nearly two years now since we buried him in the churchyard in Portree. I never dreamed that I would have to arrange another burial for one of my men in the same place or in such horrifying circumstances. My hand is slowing to a standstill but I must continue. I’ve been unable to make any sense of what has happened. Richard Williams, the coxswain, was a diligent young man. I know you tease me about taking the quiet young sailors under my wing, but this fellow showed exceptional promise. Although a common seaman, he had received the rudiments of an education and had an eager intelligence. Survey work suited his methodical nature. I blame myself. He was always so reliable. When he suddenly started making errors, I should have probed him rather than merely being brusque. How I regret my impatience now. When I sought him out later, he was distant and distracted. He mumbled something about how he now knew that he was as wicked as his father had always said he was. I can only surmise that as a decent young man, he was ashamed of some dalliance ashore. When I tried to reassure him, he battened down his hatches.
I resolved to try again later, but I was much too late. If only I had summoned the persistence you showed last year in helping that St. Kildan woman in her difficult labor. How amused you were by that daunting list of names they gave the poor infant. Mary Jemina Otter Porcupine Gillies, if I remember rightly.
I digress. When Williams failed to report for duty, I dispatched a hand to find him. The man returned white to the gills. Williams’s still warm body was lying sprawled behind one of the funnels, with his throat cut. I feared murder but when I went to investigate I saw the open razor in his hand. When the doctor came on board, he confirmed that Williams had indeed taken his own life. “I cannot record this death as misadventure. Clearly he died by his own hand.”
My imagination conjured up visions of him being buried at a crossroads with a stake through his heart. I didn’t trust myself to speak. If only he had done the deed when we were at sea, we could have quietly committed his body to the deep.
“May I suggest you pay a visit to Reverend Munro at the Beal Chapel at Scorrybreac?” Dr. MacLeod suggested. “He has more of the milk of human kindness than many of his fellows.”
I followed the good doctor’s advice. The reverend’s ruddy complexion and rough hands made him look more like a farmer than a man of God. He remained silent for some time after I had finished speaking. Although desperate to resolve matters, I thought it best not to interrupt his cogitations. I sat listening to the ticking of his clock and the howling of the wind. I could hear sheep bleating on the hillside, only ewes by the sound of it. It would be too early for lambs. February is a hard month. The promise of spring but winter hasn’t yet released its grip. When he finally spoke, I started with surprise. “This man is a miscreant and a sinner. He has broken the laws of man and much worse the laws of God.” My heart sank. Another heavy silence followed. “God will judge him and decide whether to have mercy on his soul.” Then the minister closed his eyes and moved his lips, as if in prayer. Finally, he raised his head and his eyes snapped open. “I shall give him a Christian burial. He’ll be buried outside the churchyard, by the trees.”
“His shipmates will want to erect a stone for him,” I said.
“That can be done,” he replied.
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br /> The funeral was a grim affair. Only the minister, Lieutenant Masters and three other of the ship’s company were there. Afterward, I walked along the shore, reluctant to go back on board were everyone was under a pall. I looked over the bay toward the snow-tipped Cuillin, brooding on the waste of his life. Also I feared the contagious gloom that his death had spread on board. Masters looked strained. He knew Williams better than anyone, but even he had no idea why he took his life. I assured the lieutenant that he was blameless in the matter. That’s the worst part of this tragedy. We all feel a weight of guilt but only Our Father in Heaven can read the young man’s soul.
As always, writing to you has cleared my head and eased my heart. I can now see a way of cheering the men’s spirits. I shall tell you whether or not it is successful.
You are ever in my thoughts. May God keep you safe, dearest wife.
Henry
Chapter 15
Aboard HMS Porcupine, the same day
Captain Otter wasn’t the only man unable to sleep that night. Lieutenant Tom Masters flung himself from side to side on his bunk. One of the officers sharing his cabin half woke and groaned. So Tom forced himself to stay still, but his mind kept heaving and thrashing so much that he wished he was on watch rather than lying there. He was badly shaken by Richard’s death, especially the manner of it. Yet, it was hard to put into words what the dead sailor meant to him. Not exactly a friend but rather a kindred spirit. Richard was a similar age, maybe a little older, but there was a wide gulf between them, in rank and background. Despite this they had been drawn to each other because they both saw themselves as outsiders. Both uncomfortable with the boorish ways and coarse language that broke out like a bad smell when men were crammed close together for long periods at sea. Tom had learnt at school how to hide his unease behind an affable mask and as an officer he had more leeway to be eccentric. But the ordinary sailors sniffed out any alien scent among them straight away and attacked. Was that why Richard had killed himself? Had he been plagued by his fellows? It didn’t seem likely. The men knew him to be a capable sailor and they wouldn’t dare to torment him when the captain valued him so much. Also, Richard had a stoical character that could shrug off irritations. “Calm yourself down and stop rocking the boat,” he would say, in his placid northern accent, if voices were raised.
Now they would all be expected to carry on as usual. Officers had to set an example. Tom knew that if he looked upset there would be asides made just within earshot. Like when he first joined the ship and had sought out Richard’s company too openly.
“New officer’s found someone to warm his bunk for him.”
“An arse … whoops, a bosom pal, you mean.”
Tom still cringed when he remembered how the captain had warned him to keep his distance from the coxswain, “It’s bad for discipline on board if there’s any suspicion of friendship between officer and seaman. Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything untoward going on.” He looked over Tom’s shoulder as he spoke. How ignorant he had been then. The trouble was he didn’t have saltwater in his veins, unlike most of the others on board. His family bred clergyman, not sailors. So when Tom decided to run away to sea, the whole idea was suffused with romance and heroism. How he had loved the story of Admiral Nelson putting his telescope to his blind eye at Copenhagen so that he could honestly declare, “I see no ships.” Leaving harbor in defiance of his superiors and winning the Battle of Copenhagen.
If only he had understood then that the age of naval heroes was over. All he knew from his father was the life of a country clergyman, not much money but other advantages. A place in society, a comfortable house filled with books and the leisure to pursue your interests. As the eldest son, Tom accepted his destiny. Sent away to school he found that studying came easily to him. He looked forward to going to Oxford, followed by taking Holy Orders.
Like many men in his profession, his father had sired a large brood. Five surviving children and one who had died in infancy. During his early years Tom and Emma, his closest sibling in age, had been inseparable. “Like David and Jonathan, your souls are knitted together” their mother had said of them. They spent long afternoons in the vicarage garden, playing hide-and-seek, dabbling in the stream or building hideaways in the sprawling shrubbery. When had the bond between them started to rub and fray? He could remember Emma’s tight-lipped expression, how she turned away without a wave when he left home for his first term at the age of eight. But that was the way of the world, boys leaving home and girls staying behind.
It was later when he reached fourteen that he was finally torn away from his moorings. His sister Lucy at three years of age was the youngest and Tom had imagined that his parents were now much too old to produce any more offspring. All he could think about was his burgeoning, unpredictable body. He was busy either seeking solitude to release his throbbing animal instincts or feeling exhausted by guilt for succumbing to the sin of onanism yet again.
So when he came home for the long vacation that year, he was too preoccupied to take much notice of anyone else until one morning when he was walking downstairs. He saw his mother standing in the hallway, unaware of his presence. She was holding on to the banister with one hand while she leaned backward, grimacing and rubbing the small of her back. Her unguarded face looked haggard, but it was the mound of her belly that drew his horrified attention. She looked up and he managed to croak a greeting. Her creaking smile couldn’t hide the sadness in her gentle hazel eyes. His own smile was a rictus as he was swamped by the red tide sweeping up from his neck to engulf his face.
“Tom, I see you’re old enough to understand that there’ll be a new soul joining us in the autumn. We shall all welcome him or her. Maybe Lucy will feel a little put out at first. I fear we have all spoiled her.”
No words would come to his dry lips.
“It won’t affect you much. You’ll be away at school when I’m brought to bed. But it’ll be lovely to have a new baby with us for Christmas, won’t it?” She stretched out her hand toward him.
“Of course it will,” was all that he could manage to say.
“I know your father and I must seem very old to you but think of Elizabeth. What was it Zacharias said when the angel Gabriel told him that she would conceive? ‘I am an old man and my wife well stricken in years.” She laughed but her eyes stayed haunted.
“You should rest more and let me help you,” he said.
She touched his arm, “I shall but you must apply yourself to your studies. The headmaster wrote very highly about you.”
The next day Tom chanced on Joseph, the farmer’s son, in the lane. They used to play together when they were younger, but now Tom found the other boy uncouth. “Come over to the yard this afternoon and you’ll see something you’ll enjoy,” Joseph said laughing.
“Maybe, if I’ve nothing else to do.” He sat down to read after lunch but all he could think about was the disturbing vision of Mama’s belly. He decided he would go and see Joseph after all but as he headed for the door, his father waylaid him, “Come into my study. I want to talk to you about your confirmation. Make sure you won’t disgrace me in front of the bishop.” He cross-examined Tom for the next hour about the Ten Commandments and the Creed. As Tom stumbled over explaining the nature of the Trinity his father removed his spectacles, tossing them down among his papers.
“Your thoughts seem to be wool gathering today, my boy. I hope you perform better than this for the masters at school or they’ll think you a dull fellow. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Released and resentful, Tom ran up to the farmyard, arriving breathless to find Joseph in the stable where Daisy, his father’s mare was tethered, scuffling her hooves in the straw.
“You’re keen not to miss anything then,” Joseph grinned through snagged teeth. “Here he comes.” He nodded toward his father, Jim, a wiry man holding onto a straining stallion. The beast’s black coat was slathered with sweat, his eyes rolling and his nostrils wide.
“H
e’s keen as mustard.” Joseph nudged Tom in the ribs. “Just look at that.” He pointed at the horse’s engorged penis which throbbed as if it wanted to tear itself free from its owner.
“Get on with the job. Have you tied her back legs?” Jim snarled at his son. The mare struggled against her bonds and danced as if the straw was on fire. Tom didn’t know if it was fear or excitement that affected her as Joseph hobbled her hind legs before tugging her tail to one side. Jim pushed the stallion up behind the mare and grasped the rigid organ, guiding it until it was buried in the mare’s flesh. Tom’s eyes were transfixed on the mating. When it was over, Jim backed the trembling stallion away and Joseph whispered, “That’s how we do it too, didn’t you know? Only you don’t need someone there to hold your cock. It’ll find its own way.”
Despite the distaste he felt at what he had witnessed, Tom could feel his own organ bulging against his breeches. Did his mother who never raised her voice in anger, shake and snort like Daisy? As for his father in the stallion’s role, he refused to let his mind consider that at all.
It was a relief to return to school in the autumn and immerse himself in his studies. Sometimes though fear would ambush him. He knew from overheard conversations that childbirth was dangerous. The only birth he had seen was the arrival of Daisy’s first foal, two years before. He had watched in amazement as the mare’s flanks rippled and pulsed. How could the foal ever make its way out of such a narrow opening without tearing poor Daisy apart? All had ended well as the miniature hooves surfaced. Gangling front legs and a sleek head followed until finally the whole body slid out. He and Joseph had hugged each other and jigged around the stable in delight. Then, they suddenly both felt foolish and sprang apart to cuff each other around the head instead.
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