“Well that’s likely what’s happened then.”
“Ask him what he’s planning to do now,” Kenneth prompted his wife. “If he’s thinking of going south it would be safer not to head straight for Glasgow. He should go to Argyll where they won’t be looking for him.”
She translated. “That’s sound advice. I could find work there until the hue and cry dies down.”
“You can stay here until early tomorrow. Kenneth will take you over to Knoydart, on the mainland. Then you must fend for yourself.”
Later that night, husband and wife lay in bed while their children slept.
“I can’t help feeling sorry for him. A lost soul,” said Kenneth.
Jeannie snorted. “You’re too soft-hearted. No one forced him to leave his ship.”
“Aye, but I can remember what it’s like being on your own and pining for a girl you’ve fallen in love with,” he said, as he squeezed her hand.
She chuckled in the darkness. “But you didn’t run away like the sasannach. You stood up to Granny. Come on, let’s get to sleep.”
Kenneth stretched his legs out under the blankets. He turned toward his wife. “You think he doesn’t deserve her? That’s why you wouldn’t tell him who the mysterious girl might be?”
She gasped.
“I always know when you’re hiding something.”
“Well, I do have an idea who she is. But I won’t have him toying with her. Let him struggle to win her.”
“You’re a hard taskmaster, as you were with me.”
“Well it did you no harm.”
“No, having to prove myself made my reward all the sweeter.” He reached his arm around her waist. “Who do you think the girl is?”
“I don’t know for sure. So I’ll keep it to myself.” She kissed him to draw out the sting of her refusal.
“You’re no Flora MacDonald helping the fugitive, are you?”
“No, but he’s no prince either. Now, let’s forget about the wretched man.”
Chapter 19
West Highlands, 1861
Tom was a skilled navigator at sea, but on land he was fumble footed. His muscles and sinews creaked with the effort of clambering over rock, moor, and bog for hours on end. Even worse were the tangled woods that snared his legs when he couldn’t see the fall of the land beneath his feet. He stayed near sea or loch side as much as possible so that he could follow the outlines he recognized from charting them earlier. Often though he was forced further inland to avoid boats or buildings on the shore. He woke shivering every morning, his hands shaking after a snatched sleep in an abandoned house or damp bothy. Still Kenneth’s advice about not taking the obvious route was sound. Tom had left the ship with no plan except a wild hope of finding the magical stranger. In his fogged state of mind, he had paid a fisherman to take him over to Raasay. Too late he had realized he was in danger of arrest for jumping ship. But surely he would be safe hiding on the smaller island? The captain would expect him to aim for the mainland? When he saw the Porcupine dropping anchor off the north end he thought it was an apparition, a ghost ship conjured up by his terrified mind. He crashed into the woods where he had startled Kenneth who was setting rabbit traps. Tom felt less worried now about any pursuit, but his small stock of money was dribbling away in payment for food and shelter. When he stopped at isolated houses he was usually given something. The food offered was sparse, a dish of boiled potatoes, with maybe a few shellfish, coarse oatcakes or porridge with a splash of watery milk. At least it filled his belly. He asked for whisky too, uisge beatha, the water of life. One surly old fellow pretended not to understand and gave him a pitcher of brackish water instead.
In six days he had walked through Knoydart, along Loch Morar and Loch Shiel, and was heading down Loch Linne, avoiding the garrison town of Fort William. The last night of his wanderings had been the worst yet. The pinched-faced woman of the house where he stopped brought him a platter of shriveled, pockmarked potatoes. Two children with bare, blue-tinged feet clung to her skirt. All three of them were as scrawny as the puny hens poking around the tumbledown dwelling. Faint with hunger he wrenched the plate from her hands and crammed the food into his mouth. He spun around when he sensed a movement behind him and there were the children watching, famished eyes bulging. The younger one drooled like a hungry dog. He shouted at them until they scurried away.
He woke long before daybreak in the cold byre, in the thick smother of darkness. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle a cry of terror. The damp air reeked like a midden. His groping hand rubbed the coarse hair of a cow. Relief made him whimper. He had dreamt he was back in that stable again. The stallion had approached him, snickering though swollen nostrils. He stroked the muscular neck but then suddenly the beast knocked him backward and straddled him. Breath steaming and teeth bared. Was it about to trample him or, perish the thought, mount him?
As his breathing slowed, he felt a gush of shame as he thought about the evening before. He had eaten at the expense of those starving children. What sort of savage was he turning into? What was he doing anyway, blundering through the wilderness? As the miles unraveled behind him, he berated himself for abandoning ship. He was a fugitive now, a beggar and for what? One glimpse of a vision of beauty that had made him mad with longing. A stranger whose face he recognized? A woman who held the answer to Richard’s death? Those were the gusts that had driven him out from the harbor on this quest. But now he was left stranded by doubts. How could he hope to find her when he didn’t even know her name? He could draw her likeness but it was so difficult trying to talk to people when he couldn’t understand them. If only he had a dram to warm him up and stop the shaking. He hadn’t bothered to ask that wraith of a woman last night. Or a tot of rum would do as well. Tom remembered how Richard used to stand apart when the rest of the crew waited for their daily rum ration. Tom had teased him about his refusal to take his tot. “I won’t let a drop pass my lips. It turns men into devils.”
Tom shrugged. He was responsible for dispensing the rum and he drank Richard’s share rather than letting it go to waste. Then one day the captain gave the task of distribution to that sly Rogers instead. The loathsome fellow smirked. “The captain knows he can trust me.” The events of the last few weeks had tangled themselves together in his mind. Was it before or after that business with Rogers that he received the letter? The harbormaster at Stornoway had given it to him when they anchored there. He had ripped it open with a feeling of dread.
Dearest Brother,
I’m writing to convey the sad news of Papa’s death. I know that you have not seen him for many years but it’s right that you should know the manner of his passing. After Mama died he was weighed down with grief and left most of his parish duties to his curate.
“Serves him right,” Tom thought. The hypocrite caused her death.
He always hoped that he would see you again and make his peace with you. His quick temper hid a kind heart.
Maybe you saw his kindness, but I was always expected to live the life he had mapped out for me.
The rest of the family have missed you. I’m married now with two children and have had time to reflect on the married state. Our parents were a devoted couple, as people say about our Queen and Prince Albert. Motherhood, with its joys and risks, is a natural consequence of marriage. Childbirth is always perilous. That I’m afraid is the way of the world.
I hope I haven’t offended you in writing so plainly. I trust you will reply or even better visit us when next you have leave from your duties.
I speak for all your brothers and sisters when I make this plea. Lucy in particular longs to see you. She can just remember her tall, handsome brother who swung her in his arms and made her laugh when he was home from school. She’s a spirited young lady now of sixteen years and has instructed me to command your presence. She declares that if she had been born a boy she would join the Navy herself and track you down.
Your fond sister, Emma.
Rememberin
g the letter made him groan as if his heart were being squeezed. The idea had rooted in his mind that maybe one day he would see his family again. Now in the dark byre he faced the truth and wept. How could he ever go back to see them? He was a fugitive who would face court martial and disgrace if caught. He couldn’t risk it. Home was a mirage just like the beautiful woman had been. He had run away to sea and then with even less thought, run away back to land.
Chapter 20
West Highlands, 1861
Exhausted, Tom dozed and awoke with the dawn. Finding the woman of the house, he pressed most of his remaining coins into her surprised hand. He stepped out again and toward noon noticed in the distance a cluster of houses ahead on a rise of land. He walked toward them, slowing his pace as he came closer. Blind charred sockets showed where the thatch had been burnt. There were tumbled, sagging walls. The settlement looked as if it had been raided by an army and left to rot. There was no sign of life apart from the scuffling of small creatures in the rank grass sprouting through gaping doorways. He hurried on, trying to outrun the fog of desperation that swirled around the ruins. He felt as bleak and empty as the abandoned settlement, terrified that like Richard he would become entangled in the coils of despair. In his panic he hunted for signs of hope around him. The forest trees—birch, ash, and alder—were stark skeletons but they held the promise of spring sap in their marrow. He vowed that he too would hold on until the spring. If only his mind could outrun the storm to some sort of harbor. What could he remember about this landscape from the stories the captain insisted on telling them? Stories that made them want to roll their eyes and stop up their ears.
“People have lived for hundreds or thousands of years in these remote places. To you they might seem barren and insignificant, but they have been steeped in history and legend. So we must record the place names accurately.” The captain spoke with religious fervour. Tom lay down in a hollow on the forest floor and closed his eyes as he tried to recollect the tales.
There was the tale about the Dog Stone below Dunollie Castle on the edge of Oban Bay. It was said that it was worn away at its base because Finn McCoul’s mighty dog, Bran, had been tethered there. He had pulled and strained, dragging his leash along the rock and rubbing it away in his struggle to escape.
Then there was the Lady Rock on Mull, named after the wife of the Duart chief, the evil Lachlan Cathanach MacLean. His wife failed to produce the desired son and heir. So he planned to rid himself of her. She was rowed over to the rock and left to drown in the incoming tide. However, she was seen by a passing fishing boat, rescued and put ashore on the mainland. She made her way to her family home at Inveraray Castle. Unaware of what had happened, her cruel husband arranged her funeral service and spilled tears of pretended grief. Despite his wickedness he escaped retribution but fate caught up with him in the end. His vigilant brother-in-law, John Campbell, waited his chance and killed the chief when he visited Edinburgh, some years later.
The midshipmen enjoyed that story. Justice of the Old Testament variety was always satisfying. But Tom preferred the tale of An Clach na Leannan about another rock, this time on the west coast of Mull. It was named after young lovers. A hundred and fifty years earlier, a young shepherd called Iain lived on the flat land beneath the high cliffs. He was to be married to Rona, a daughter of the local blacksmith. The wedding celebrations lasted through the night at the farmhouse. With all the jollity inside, no one noticed the fuming waves and the furious storm. No one noticed either when the young couple joined hands and slipped away to their new home, a tiny house nearby, sheltered under the overhanging outcrop. The next morning the guests staggered out from the farmhouse, blinking in the light and clutching their sore heads. As they looked upward they stared in horror at what had happened, unbeknownst to them during the night. The sheltering roof of the rock had been wrenched apart by a barrage of stone that had tumbled down onto it during the fury of the storm. One huge fragment had hurtled down to crush the small dwelling and the young couple within. It was much too heavy to move so their bodies remained entombed beneath it.
“That’s only a story, isn’t it, sir?” one of the bolder midshipmen had piped up.
The captain had glowered at him, “Stories are not to be dismissed. They tell us important truths and as it happens this particular one is true. It occurred recently enough to leave grim evidence behind. The broken ends of the rafters can still be seen jutting out from under the rock.”
Raised like arms in supplication, Tom had thought. Had Richard too met some terrible fate when he went ashore, one that crushed him before he could ask for help? But the tale had other meanings too. You must seize your chance of happiness when you can because it might be snatched away from you. The young woman he met in such odd circumstances was pointing a new, uncharted direction to him. He had raised his anchor, put away his compass, and headed out on a featureless ocean.
Chapter 21
Oban, 1861
Tom awoke with a chilled body but a clear head. He set off again, pressing on through the woods until he stopped by a stream where he squatted down and cupped his hands into the achingly cold water. He drank his fill and then watched it trickle through his fingers. Taking his pack off his shoulders, he felt a soft lump in one corner and found a squashed linen bag of oatmeal. Of course! He had forgotten that it was left over from the supply an old woman had given him a few days ago. He scooped up some more water in his hands and mixed it with the oats. Cramming the gritty paste into his mouth, he licked every crumb from his fingers.
Then he sat down with his back against a mottled birch trunk. Its branches were bare spikes grasped by gloved fingers of green lichen, a ghostly imitation of leaves. He rummaged through his pack again and took out a piece of oilskin. Inside it was a sheet of paper, as creased and crumpled as he was himself after his rough traveling. He had stuffed the paper into his pack when he fled from the ship, wondering if he might use it to write to Emma. That was out of the question now but he could put the paper to a different purpose. He rested the sheet on the pack and balanced it all on his knees. He closed his eyes to conjure up her image. It was a sculpted face with a high forehead and cheekbones, tapering to a delicate chin. Expressive lips, blue eyes flecked around the iris in woodland shades of acorn or hazelnuts. The flash of hair he had glimpsed under her scarf was a glorious reddish chestnut. He couldn’t capture the colors with charcoal, but he could make a likeness to show people. He drew deftly. Holding the paper at arm’s length, he was pleased that he had recovered his sure hand.
After rolling up the sheet and covering it with the oilcloth in his bag, he strode out again toward Oban. He remembered when they had surveyed the wide bay the captain said that the harbor formed almost a complete horseshoe. Tom, however, saw it as a wide mouthful that the greedy sea had bitten from the shore, spitting out a large crumb in the form of the island of Kerrera. He arrived at the village in the dark and found a reeking fishermen’s shed to spend the night. Then at first light, he scouted the shore. He noticed a group of women sitting on the sea wall looking out to the water. As he came closer he could smell them. Their sailcloth aprons and fishermen’s ganseys were spattered and smeared with fish scales. He had his portrait ready in his hand and strolled toward them, fixing his eyes on a bold-looking woman who seemed to be their leader. With a mixture of sign language and a few Gaelic words, he explained his mission. She took the paper in her raw beefy hands while scrutinising him from head to toe, her eyes lingering on the fork of his trousers. He could feel his face reddening and fixed his eyes on the flashing knitting needles of her companions. Their fingers were swollen and scored with cuts. He held his breath, partly in anticipation and partly to stop himself choking on the stench of putrid fish that surrounded them. They passed the picture along the row with much giggling. Eventually a younger woman spoke in hesitant English, “We don’t know her. Is she your love?”
He nodded, feeling foolish.
“If she’s a fisher lass she could be anywher
e the herring are.”
The woman he had first spoken to muttered something in Gaelic that set off hoots of laughter from the rest.
“She’s saying she’ll have you if you’re free,” the younger woman told him.
“Tell her she would be my first choice if I were.” He smiled and made a sweeping bow.
One of the women shouted and pointed out to sea where several fishing boats were coming into shore. The clicking needles stopped and they were off, rolling up sleeves over brawny arms and running to the rows of wooden troughs for gutting the herring. Tom stood watching them and failed to notice the figure darting up behind him. He was lifted off his feet by a heavy grip on the back of his collar. His legs kicked from under him, he was pushed forward until he fell on his face on the shingle. He curled into a ball to protect himself.
“Leave him alone or I’ll have the law on you.”
Tom’s attacker, a wiry fisherman, padded away. His rescuer, a tall, angular man, gripped him under his arms and hauled him upright. “Are you hurt?”
Tom froze. The first glimpse he had of his rescuer was of his polished boots and dark pressed trousers. He was certain the man was wearing a uniform. Slowly he straightened himself and breathed with relief at the sight of an ordinary dark jacket.
“No, just winded. Thank you for coming to my assistance, sir.”
“The fishermen lash out if they think you’re sniffing around their womenfolk. I can’t imagine anyone would want to get near them in those stinking clothes. I’m Alexander Sinclair, an Aberdonian by birth. You’re English by the sound of you?”
Tom took the proffered hand. “I am indeed. Tom Masters at your service.”
“So what brings you here?”
“Oh … a family matter.”
Sinclair’s eyes were probing but his tone was mild. “If you don’t need any further help …?”
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