He was bent over his books in the library on a blustery November evening when he was interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing behind him. Irritated, he looked up to see Banks Minor’s wary face. “I’m s-sorry …” he stammered.
Tom rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Spit it out, idiot.”
“You’re to go to the Headm—”
Chapter 16
Aboard HMS Porcupine, the same day
Tom strode across the grass, kicking up the shriveled leaves so that they flurried around him. He pushed the door of the headmaster’s study open before remembering to knock. The room smelled of coal, tobacco, and dusty books. There was Mr. Bartlett sitting at his desk looking as imperious as ever. That was surely a good sign but when the headmaster rose and guided him to a chair, Tom felt his legs buckle.
“Ah, Thomas, it would be best if you read this letter I’ve received from your father.”
Tom’s hand shook as he took it. Why had the headmaster called him “Thomas”? The masters never used first names. The words skidded across the page as his eyes tried to follow them. He had to scan it several times before he could catch the meaning. “Both dead?” He croaked.
Mr. Bartlett nodded and spoke. Although Tom saw his lips moving, he couldn’t hear the words. He stayed numb as he traveled home by coach to his family. He had become both deaf and dumb. He couldn’t look at his father at all. His eyes skittered away. Tom believed that if he held his father’s gaze, his rage would kindle a flame that would set them both alight. Trudging with bowed head across the churchyard on the day of the funeral, all he could see were the leaves turned to a sullen sludge beneath his feet.
How could it be God’s will to take his dearly beloved daughter to Him? What had caused her to die struggling to bring her seventh child into the world? It was his father’s will, not God’s, his father’s heedless lust that condemned her to death. His father who was always proclaiming how man should have dominion over the world and all the beasts within it. What a hypocrite. How was he different from the sweating, rutting stallion?
He kept these questions boiling inside him. When he returned to school, he remained mostly silent. The only person he could speak to was his mathematics master, a retired naval captain who allowed Tom’s distress to splash against him without flinching. A distant speck on the horizon drew closer until it became a plan. He would leave school and become a midshipman. Then he would never have to return to his father’s hearth. Tom found to his surprise that he could stay afloat in the face of his father’s angry opposition. “I’ll save you the expense of the university, Father. You need to pay for a nursemaid and housekeeper now.”
But his father kept up a bombardment of arguments until Tom finally said, “I cannot take Holy Orders when I doubt the existence of God. If you won’t let me join as an officer, I shall go to sea as a common sailor.”
In the end his father stopped roaring. He became listless, stuck in the doldrums. Tom, however, felt no compassion for him and left home without a backward glance. Long voyages created the distance from his family that he craved. His mathematical abilities meant that he found it easy to learn the skills of navigation. He sent money back to help educate his younger siblings, but he didn’t visit them. Now twelve years later, he knew too well that his choice of profession hadn’t lived up to his gold-braided, silver-buttoned dreams. There were few thrills and much tedium. In the early days, he had been forced to coarsen his speech and use his fists against the older men who preyed on boyish flesh. Ashore, his fastidiousness kept him away from the women of the streets. He flirted with young women of his own class but kept them at arm’s length.
There were compensations, though. He enjoyed the exacting task of producing charts under the captain’s benign guidance. But most of all, he relished the flux and flow of the sea, especially in these volatile Hebridean waters where a heat shimmering sky would suddenly darken into a leaden scowl.
He approved of the captain’s insistence on accurate place names: Camus Ban, Loch Eadar Da Bhaile, Eilean Tioram. He was disappointed to find out that they were literal descriptions: “White Beach,” “The Lake Between Two Villages,” and “Dry Island.” As a sailor, he understood the need for accuracy, but as a lover of the Romantic Poets he would have preferred some Celtic mystery. He kept a few slim volumes of poetry hidden among his belongings and he had most of their contents by heart. His favorite was Wordsworth’s elegy for the unknown girl:
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
Maybe he might yet find his own Highland lass? Hearing young women talking in a tongue he couldn’t understand added to their mystique. Since the captain had started sending him out to check place names, he had learned a little Gaelic which he presented with his most winning smile. Sadly, those he approached would smile in return, bob a curtsey and then direct him to some dried-up old husk of a minister to translate further for him.
Since Richard’s death, Tom had felt like a sail being torn from the mast in heavy seas. After the subdued service in the plain little chapel, they walked over beyond the churchyard where Richard’s grave was dug ready for his coffin. Tom wondered if his friend would be lonely buried by himself or whether he would be glad of the solitude. He could feel tears escaping, not just tears for Richard but all the captive tears imprisoned since Mama’s death. He was grateful for the sharp wind that watered everyone’s eyes. The captain stood firm as a mast, except for a tremor in his hands as he clenched them together behind his back.
Why, why, why? was the cry carried on the wind. As the minister reached the words about dust to dust and ashes to ashes, Tom longed to clap his hands over his ears. How could warm flesh chill, decay, and disappear? For a long time, he couldn’t believe that Mama was no more because he had been away when she died. When he returned home, he expected to hear her quickening step as he came through the door. This time he had seen the body. The terrible grinning slash across the throat. But no sense of why he died. What had driven Richard to such despair? Despair that made him hold the blade prickling his skin? Ramming it so that it ripped his flesh open?
Tom flinched from the sound of earth thudding on the coffin lid and turned his gaze down the slope toward the shore. There was someone standing there, watching them. Someone draped in black with the head cowled. Without stopping to think, he found himself running down the path. The figure backed away, stumbling and falling forward. The scarf slipped, revealing a flash of auburn hair and the pale oval of a woman’s face. He seized her arm, “You know him? The sailor who died?”
She stared at him. He dropped his hand, shocked that he had accosted her. He gulped at her beauty. Creamy skin taut over her cheekbones, the full lips and especially the green-blue eyes, flecked with hazel. He whispered, “Why were you watching us?”
She shook her head again and then she was darting away, holding up her long skirts in one hand. Should he follow her? The other mourners were coming toward him. The moment was lost and he waited for them to reach him. The captain raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“That young woman was watching us, sir. I wondered if she knew something about poor Williams but she ran away.”
“We will never find out why Williams took his own life. We must put the sorry affair behind us. Get the men busy again.” Captain Otter strode on with the others following in his wake.
But lying restless in his bunk that night, Tom knew that he couldn’t let things rest. The imprint of her face was everywhere he looked, shadowed on every wave, cloud, and rock. He had to see her again. He mouthed the words he knew so well.
A voice so thrilling n’er was heard,
In Spring time from the cuckoo bird,
Bre
aking the silence of the seas
Among the furthest Hebrides.
Chapter 17
Aboard HMS Porcupine, 1861
HMS Porcupine lay at anchor off Kyleakin. The sudden tides ripped through the narrow crossing to the mainland and needed careful navigation. Rather like dealing with his jittery crew, Captain Otter thought. Once the funeral was over he had been anxious to leave Portree with all its grim associations. So on the pretext of testing the engines, he had ordered full steam ahead southward. He was determined to use the new charts too, the ones that Williams had gathered soundings for. As he looked at the stiff paper, he pictured the coxswain in his small boat. Checking the line as it was hauled back aboard. When he was engrossed in a task, he would tweak his brows together and a sliver of tongue would peep from his mouth. A gush of rage swept through Henry. He wanted to screw up the charts and hurl them out to sea. How could a man who was so measured destroy himself so brutally? Instead, he went out on deck. As he strode up and down, he decided to summon the crew at once and tell them what he planned. They began with a ragged singing of, “For those in peril on the sea,” accompanied by Billy’s gasping squeezebox. His notes slurred and tripped over each other even more than usual. Then Henry waited for the shuffling to cease. He felt the wind ruffling across his face and watched the shards of winter sun piercing the water. He was composing himself to speak when Lieutenant Rogers sidled up. Henry checked a sigh as he leaned down to catch the words.
“Sir, there’s no sign of Lieutenant Masters. He missed his watch and his belongings have gone.”
Henry’s right eyelid twitched. “No cause for alarm, Rogers. He’s undertaking a task ashore. It must have taken longer than expected.”
Rogers nodded, but there was a glint in his eye.
Why did I lie? Henry reproached himself. He smothered his doubts about Masters and spoke, “Where we are anchored today was once the scene of a great gathering. Seven hundred years ago, King Haakon of Norway brought his battle fleet of long ships here before heading south to fight the Scottish king. Haakon lost the battle of Largs. So all these western and northern islands became part of the Scottish kingdom and later part of Great Britain. The name Kyleakin comes from Haakon. It’s also said that a Norwegian princess once owned the harbor here. It’s claimed she put chains across the channel to the mainland so that boats would have to pay her a toll. Of course, it would not be possible to carry out such a feat of engineering in those distant times. It would scarcely be possible even now with our greater knowledge—”
“Yes, young Norton, I can see you kicking the fellow next to you,” he roared at one of the midshipmen. The boy squirmed to avoid a cuff from the bosun standing behind him. Henry continued: “These stories remind us of how important our work is. By charting the seas we make them safer for all shipping. The sea is a treacherous ally to us all, whether we sail in naval vessels, in merchant ships, or in fishing boats. We help all those who go down to the sea and do business in the great waters. We shall never know why our shipmate Richard Williams took his own life. It’s a matter he will need to lay before his Maker. What we do know is that he was a steadfast sailor who did his duty without complaint. When our survey of these islands is over, we shall leave knowing we have completed a vital and historic task. We should also pay tribute to that other great benefactor of the sailor, the Northern Lighthouse Board. Their engineers have battled against the elements to build lighthouses. We shall go to visit one of them, on the island of Rona. Those who have served for a longer time on this vessel will know how a lighthouse came to be built there. Through the courage and determination of an exceptional lady, Mrs. Kenneth MacKenzie from Big Harbour. Over twenty years ago her husband, her son, and other poor souls were drowned in sight of the shore. She turned her grief into philanthropy by obtaining oil to keep a lamp burning in her window. Many vessels owe their safety to that light. I had the honor of meeting this lady. We shall meet her again when we visit the island. First we shall bend our heads in prayer.”
Steaming out on a calm sea with a brisk following wind, the ship turned north to follow the coast of Skye. It traced the line of the outstretched finger of Raasay until they reached Rona, the nail at its tip. When they came to the lighthouse, standing white against the rocks, the captain and Rogers were rowed ashore.
Last time I came over with Masters, Williams was at the oars, Henry thought. To distract himself from doleful memories, he gazed at the lighthouse. It was an odd life being a lighthouse keeper, suspended between land and water. Was a lighthouse a ship that had taken root on land? Or a tower forever wading up to its knees in the sea? He supposed that the lighthouse was like seaweed, part of both worlds. Anchored to rocks on the shore but doused by every tide.
He felt jovial as he lunched with the keepers. He even forgot about Masters’s absence until he caught Rogers eyeing him. He would have to notify the Admiralty if the lieutenant failed to return tomorrow.
Back on the ship, they headed for Big Harbour. Widow MacKenzie’s house looked as sturdy as before. He rapped on the door and after some scrabbling sounds inside, it creaked open.
“Dè? Cò suid?” (“What? Who’s there?”) Thin lips in a wizened face appeared. Then the door was slammed shut and he could hear muttering from inside. The door cracked open again, revealing another gnarled and suspicious face, but this time belonging to a woman. She eased the door partly open.
If only they had Masters and his easy manner. Henry bowed and smiled until the old woman pushed the door fully open. The old man scuttled away, cradling something in his arms. She didn’t invite them inside. Instead, she partnered him in a game of mime as they struggled to understand each other. It was like a strange mating ritual by a cumbersome pair of birds. He gathered from her that Janet MacKenzie had left across the sea. These newcomers had taken over her tenancy. Finally, she conveyed to him that if he wanted more information he should speak to those of Janet’s family who were living at Torran, on Raasay. Being a man who liked to follow things through Henry ordered the ship south again, past the spattering of skerries between the two islands.
He braced himself for more undignified miming but was relieved to find himself talking to Janet’s granddaughter, Jeannie. She spoke English slowly but fluently while keeping an eye on a flotilla of small children cruising around her feet. She hooted at his astonished face.
“My Granny insisted that all the family learn English and I shall teach it to my children so they can make themselves understood if they travel away. Kenneth, my husband, fears that the tides of English will sweep Gaelic aside. But I agree with Granny. You need to understand strangers so that you know what they’re up to.”
“You think the English always mean to trick you?”
She hesitated, politeness and honesty struggling for mastery of her face. “Sometimes but not always. There’s bad Scottish landlords as well as bad English ones.”
“I’m a sailor, a chart maker, not a landlord. I came to see your estimable grandmother but I believe she has emigrated.”
“Aye, to Canada. Did you speak to the MacKinnons, the new tenants at Big Harbour? He’s a mad bodach. You’re lucky he didn’t bring out his old musket he kept from when he was fighting the French.”
“Ah, I believe he did bring it out but his wife made him take it away. She was the one who negotiated peace with the enemy,” he smiled.
She nodded, still wary.
“I truly regret missing your grandmother. I am saddened to see so many Highlanders leaving their native land.”
“Aye. She at least could choose where to go, not like those poor souls Rainey drove out. One of them said to me, ‘It’ll be like death for us sailing away. We’ll never meet those left behind again in this life.’
They were silent for a moment.
“Still, at least Granny can write to us.”
“Will you emigrate, too?”
“No, we won’t be seed blown away on the wind.”
Henry went back on board with a lighter s
tep. Jeannie had her grandmother’s direct way of speaking and the same tilt of the chin. He would tell the men how, undeterred by advancing years, Mrs. MacKenzie had embarked on a new adventure. If only Masters would return quickly, they would be back on an even keel.
Chapter 18
Isle of Raasay, 1861
Jeannie stood watching the HMS Porcupine steam toward the open sea and raised her hand in a half-wave. She turned as she heard Kenneth running up to her and smiled, “Don’t worry. They’ve gone. And they won’t be back. Mama and Granny would be horrified that I didn’t offer them a dish of tea.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t. They would have been here forever.”
They waited until the ship was out of sight before walking arm-in-arm toward the byre, next to their house. Kenneth unlatched the door, breathing in the damp fug of cows’ breath and fetid hay. There was a rustle from the far corner as a tall figure rose, looming over the backs of the beasts. He stood, brushing dirt from his trousers with a grimace of distaste. Kenneth beckoned him over.
“And here I was imagining I would be safe while the ship sailed to the mainland,” he laughed.
“They weren’t looking for you,” Jeannie snapped. “They came to get news of my grandmother.”
“Thank you for not giving me away,” he said in a more contrite tone. “And for the food and clothes.”
“I don’t believe in helping those in charge, whether they’re captains or landowners. You can come back inside the house again.”
“Have you thought any more about who the young woman might be?” he asked as he gulped down soup in front of the fire. “No one on Skye would tell me anything except one woman who said she thought she had left the island.”
No Safe Anchorage Page 9
