No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  Tom strained to see anything as no natural light trickled down here. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that the space was crammed with people lying on pine boards, stacked from floor to ceiling. They were laid out like corpses but corpses that groaned, spluttered, and sobbed. The child gasped and pulled back, but Tom tightened his grip. He noticed someone sitting upright and looking over at them.

  “Does anyone know this boy?” Tom shouted.

  The figure staggered toward him and Tom steeled himself not to run away.

  “For the love of God, sir, are you a doctor? There’s people here dying of the fever.”

  Tom hesitated, his grip slackened on the boy, and the child wrenched himself free.

  Chapter 27

  The Voyage Continues, 1862

  “I’ll get help,” Tom shouted over his shoulder, as he tore after the boy.

  He noticed that the ship had slowed. The wind must have dropped. A sailor was always suspicious of a sudden calm. He soon caught up with the boy, lunging forward to seize his leg as the child scrambled up the ladder to the next deck.

  “You should be grateful I saved your skin you wretch,” he spat. “Now I can’t even get rid of you.”

  It was no use seeking medical help. In his experience ship’s doctors were failures in their profession on land, often drunkards as well, and what could they do anyway if fever had broken out? It was best if the sufferers stayed isolated. He would just have to keep the child with him for now.

  When he returned to his cabin, the three Irish lads were there, pale but no longer green.

  “Listen, you chaps. This stowaway here was hiding in a boat and I came on two of the crew ill-treating him. I thought he could stay here for the time being.”

  “He stinks to high heavens. Sure we paid more for this cabin, so we could get away from riffraff,” the tallest one said, with a hostile stare.

  “Why’s the Englishman so kind-hearted? What’s in it for him?” His friend sneered.

  “I know it’s inconvenient, but I could see my way to recompensing you …? They nodded.

  Tom went back to his routine of spending as much time as possible out on deck, despite the chill in the air. The boy hovered, silent and watchful. After three days of stillness, the wind changed to the northwest, blowing against the ship rather than with her. All Tom’s instincts made him uneasy. He remembered the story of how the wind had uncoiled itself from a calm sea, swelling into a tempest, and slamming Mr. MacKenzie’s boat onto the rocks. That was a small vessel in a narrow sea, but a large ship on a wide ocean faced the same peril.

  Sure enough, during that night a violent storm swooped down on them. Tom awoke to feel the ship caught in the jaws of the waves. She was hurled from side to side and tossed into the air before plunging downward again. Out of breath, she wallowed, her decks swamped before shaking herself upright again. How long could the ship survive that sort of thrashing? In the cabin, the oil lamp on the ceiling was flinging itself from side to side. All their bags and boxes were skating across the floor. The Irishmen clung to their bunks in terror while the boy sat on the floor, head flung back and howling. Tom knew that he couldn’t endure being trapped helpless belowdecks. He shrugged on his jacket and found the bag he had tied to the leg of his bunk the night before. Taking out his boots he rammed his feet into them and was busy tying a length of rope from the bag around his waist when he realized that the biggest Irishman had gripped his arm.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Outside to help. Stay here until the storm’s over.”

  He prised the man’s fingers from his sleeve. Then he was running to the ladder, scrambling to reach the top deck before the crew battened down the hatches. Stopping at the top of the final rungs he untied his rope, knotting one end to the hatch cover. He looked about him and gasped. The ship’s prow was rearing up, cresting a wall of waves while on all sides the sea rose sheer, molten mountain peaks topped with white foam. He saw a sodden figure in front of him on the tilting deck, crouching low and trying to outrun the waves before they smashed down and swept him overboard. Tom crawled forward clinging onto his rope. His feet were swept from under him, but he was able to seize the man by his legs and pull him back to the hatch cover. As they lay there winded, Tom could hear sounds beneath him as if the ship herself was howling. It was the voices of the passengers, a chorus of praying, screaming, hymn singing, cursing, and wailing. Mixed in with the human cries was the bellowing and trampling of the terrified animals trapped on deck. As he watched the pen splintered apart, destroyed by the storm outside and the flailing hooves within. The deck was swooping and heaving. Everything movable had already been swept over the side and now the goats and pigs were flung off their feet and hurled overboard as they scrabbled desperately to regain their footing. Tom winced at their distress but hoped that they would at least drown quickly. The hens seemed doomed to a longer period of suffering. He could hear them squawking as the wind tossed them into bumbling flight before pitching them into the waves. He looked away as he waited for the ship to right herself before nodding to the sailor. Together they wriggled along the deck, gripping the rope. The helmsman was strapped to the wheel, straining to keep the ship on course in the towering seas. When they reached the main mast, Tom’s companion tied himself to it and joined some other sailors who were battling to haul on the ropes and secure the sails. Tom inched his way along the deck and found some of the crew clinging to a hatchway. They looked like stewards or cooks rather than deckhands, their faces dazed. Tom bullied and cajoled them so that they joined in the struggle to pull in the sails and stop them being torn to shreds.

  Once the masts were stripped winter bare all they could do was wait and ride out the storm. Most of the men went belowdecks for grog and soup, but Tom slipped away to his cabin. He laughed as he saw the three men and the boy crushed together on one bunk, their faces a tableau of despair.

  “The worst’s over now. We’ll live,” he told them, tugging off his soaking clothes and wrapping himself in a blanket as they stared at him, blankly.

  He was right too. The next day the storm slipped away as suddenly as it had emerged. Tom’s exuberance disappeared, too. He felt weighted down by all the dangers and near disasters he had faced during the last year. He never wanted to be at sea again.

  Everyone on board seemed subdued. The steerage passengers came back out, blinking and wandering in aimless circles, like prisoners allowed out for exercise. Even the boys and girls stood, arms hanging limply, unwilling to play.

  It was as if a pall of foreboding hung over the ship and two weeks later as they finally neared Newfoundland, a real pall descended as if their dread had taken on a physical form. They awoke to a deathly silence, to find the ship groping her way in a smothering fog. When it lifted, it revealed an ocean grazed by drifting mountains. The passengers came back to life, exclaiming like excited children at the icebergs that rose high as cathedrals with sheer walls, glistening towers, and swooping buttresses. Tom thought that they resembled an over-exposed image in one of Emma’s photographs. They were hills that had been bleached and looked ghostlike but they used their glittering bulk to stalk ships. Rocks were moored to the seabed. They could be marked on charts and avoided but these floating predators dragged their huge, hidden foundations through the water and bore down on a helpless ship, waiting to ram her hull and tear her open below the waterline. They were so tantalizingly close now to land, to the Cabot Strait that separated Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. The ship breathed in and tucked in her skirts as she edged past the icebergs.

  Then in the night, the wind rose and the marauding ice pack slunk away. The coastline shook itself free of the fog and they could see ahead the Magdalene Islands flung like loose change in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The masts were canopied in full sail once more. Relieved at being so close to the end of the voyage, Tom felt composed enough to start a letter to his sister.

  Dear Emma,

  After a difficult, stormy journey we should so
on be anchoring at Sydney on Cape Breton. The journey has been wearisome and I’m eager to be on dry land once more. We’ve just passed through some icebergs. They towered above the ship like ghostly mountains. I’ve sketched them, although it’s hard to do justice to their scale and grandeur. Would a photograph do better? I doubt it could convey the size and perspective of the scene. You’ll be pleased to hear that before leaving Liverpool I purchased a Rouch Universal camera. Have you seen one? The bellows are tapered so that it will fold almost flat for traveling. Years of living in cramped quarters has made me value devices that don’t take up much room. I can see myself riding out in the Canadian wilderness, an intrepid itinerant photographer.

  He hesitated, wondering how much more to tell her about the events of the journey.

  I helped the crew secure the sails in the worst of the storm as I felt it was my duty to offer assistance. I also took pity on a young stowaway who was being ill-treated by some of the crew. I shall try and find a family to take him in—

  A booming voice sounded behind him, making Tom’s hand shake and splatter ink across the paper, “You’re the one who helped us during the storm.”

  Tom turned and scrambled to his feet,

  “Well, you needed all the help you could get.”

  He put down his papers and stuffed his trembling hands inside his coat pockets.

  “Hmm. You’ve been to sea. An officer? You know how to handle men.” The lean, straight-backed man continued, in a West Country burr, his deep-set gray eyes assessing Tom. “Peter Searle, captain of this vessel.” He extended a hand.

  “Well, that was all a long time ago. I’m off to start a new life now … er, John Robinson’s the name,” Tom said smiling, but he could hear the strain in his voice.

  “I’m in your debt, sir, and if I can repay you in any way …?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The captain continued to stare at him before turning his attention to the boy who was sitting hunched up close by, his head bowed as usual.

  Tom spoke, “Ah, but there is something. I found this boy stowing away in one of the ship’s boats. I fed him and cleaned him up, but I’ve not been able to find out anything about him. He seems to have lost his tongue, but I suspect he might be a Scot, a Highlander. Someone in steerage could maybe adopt him? If I pay them a small consideration?”

  The captain’s lip curled, as he looked at the boy.

  “I’ll see.”

  Tom remained on deck with the boy despite the cold. It was safer than being trapped inside his cabin if there were any awkward questions. The child started to shiver and after a while leaned against Tom’s side and dozed. If only this infernal journey was over.

  After a time Captain Searle returned, accompanied by an elderly minister, a man of spare build but with a lush beard that frothed over his shirt. The captain introduced him as the Reverend MacLaren. Barely acknowledging Tom’s greeting, the minister stared at the boy who flushed and looked away.

  “Yes, it’s Iain MacLean,” he pronounced.

  “He has a family aboard the ship?” Tom asked sharply, as the silence lengthened.

  “No.”

  “Is there anyone who would be willing to adopt the boy?” asked the captain, stiff faced.

  “No,” the minister replied, before clamping his lips together.

  Tom could endure it no longer,

  “Why on earth not? He’s biddable enough and I’ll give them some money for his keep.”

  “Bad blood,” the Reverend MacKay intoned.

  Tom looked at Iain who hung his head, too miserable to wipe away the tears flowing down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. Captain Searle turned to the minister.

  “Well, sir, we need to decide what to do with the lad, but first you must tell us what you know about him.”

  “Very well. My flock is from the Isle of Skye. We couldn’t survive any more bad harvests and the landlord wouldn’t allow us land to build a church. I prayed for God’s guidance and advised the people to leave for Cape Breton.” Again he waited.

  “And what about Iain’s family?” Tom asked, through gritted teeth.

  “They were no part of my congregation,” the minister declared, his lips pursed. “His mother had no husband and … led an immoral life. Shortly before we left, we were led to believe that the woman’s brother who lived with her and the boy was guilty of unnatural … er, practices,” he stumbled to a halt.

  “With other men?” Searle asked.

  The minister looked aghast and shook his head.

  “Incest, then?” Tom asked.

  Reverend MacKay swallowed and nodded. “The rest of the villagers went to burn their house down but the landlord stopped them. Gave the man some money to go away I believe. We thought the boy had disappeared with his mother, but he must have secreted himself on the ship when we left.”

  The other two men looked grim but said nothing.

  “Now you understand why no one will take him in,” the minister continued. “He’s tainted with their sin. There must be an orphanage somewhere?”

  “He’s only a child. How can he be blamed for his family’s sins?” Tom struggled to keep his voice steady.

  “The sins of the fathers are passed down from generation to generation.” Tom ignored him, taking the boy by his shoulders and looked directly in his eyes.

  “Do you want to go with me, Iain?” he asked.

  “He won’t understand you. He’s only got Gaelic.”

  “He knows well enough whether people are kind or cruel,” Tom said, smiling at Iain.

  This time the boy looked up, scanning each face in turn. Finally, he fixed his gaze on Tom and nodded. The Reverend and the captain both looked relieved, but Tom felt pounded by waves of anger, fear, and pity. As if he needed the burden of another life, another outcast.

  The minister scurried off and the captain turned to Tom.

  “We’ll soon arrive at Sydney. That’s where we throw out the ballast.”

  Smiling at Tom’s puzzled expression, he added, “the steerage passengers, especially those damned Scots. The ship will smell sweeter once they’ve gone. Then the short cut up the Strait of Canso to the St. Lawrence.”

  Tom strode back to his cabin, Iain stumbling at his heels. When he stopped suddenly, Iain thudded into him but Tom barely noticed. Should he change his plans? He had booked his passage to Quebec where he could melt away among the throng of travelers, but dare he stay aboard for so long? That felt dangerous now that he had drawn unwelcome attention to himself, first during the storm and now over the business of the boy. There would be nowhere to hide if the captain got suspicious. Yet it would be risky going ashore to an island full of Scots where he would be conspicuous as a stranger. But he knew that he couldn’t bear staying on this vessel any longer. And there was still a flicker of hope that he might yet find the mysterious girl among her countrymen in Cape Breton.

  Chapter 28

  Landfall, May 1862

  The next day they moored at Sydney. The bobbing fishing boats in the harbor reminded Tom of the Scottish ports he had visited. Here, though, the buildings were made of wood rather than stone. He could see timber yards and new buildings being constructed. There was a throbbing life here. It seemed like a place that could swallow up newcomers and not care about where they came from. Tom approached the sailor who was securing the gangplank and asked him to fetch his trunk.

  “Can’t do that, sir. You need to speak to the captain first.”

  “Why?”

  “Quarantine, sir. All those that get off the boat have to wait in sheds on the quay. Get looked over for the fever.”

  No chance of melting away, after all.

  “It’s usually only steerage passengers who leave here,” Captain Searle said, looking hard at Tom. “But you and the boy haven’t been with them. The ship’s doctor can look at you and give you a pass.”

  So Tom was forced to stay on deck, fighting the urge to run while the steerage passengers disembarked. The children
scurried ahead, their parents staggering behind them. Weighted down with bundles, their haggard faces were limp with relief to be ashore. They were scooped up by waiting officials and herded away. The doctor arrived. Tom noticed the drops of sweat on the man’s brow as he peered into his mouth. After doing the same to Iain he pronounced them both to be healthy. Yet another wait while his trunk was brought up from the hold.

  “Have a jar or two for us.”

  Tom turned to see the tall Irishman who had shared his cabin. He laughed but didn’t stop to talk because there at last was his trunk, on the back of a sailor clattering down the gangplank. Anxious about his new camera getting jolted, Tom hurried after him. As he did so he felt a sudden tug on his arm. Iain was pulling him back. “What the devil …” But then he saw that the boy’s face had turned deathly white. As the sailor lowered the trunk to the ground, Tom groaned. It was the deckhand he had caught pulling Iain out of the lifeboat.

  “Stay still.”

  He braced himself and pushed the lad behind him as the sailor turned to look. Surely the ruffian wouldn’t dare to cause any trouble with all these witnesses about? But the crowd was melting away like damp snowflakes. The sailor grinned, exposing rotting stumps of teeth,

  “We’re quits now, ain’t we? You held on to me legs in the storm.”

  “So I did. I didn’t stop at the time to see your face.”

  The man threw his head back and cackled with laughter. Well. That’s one enemy less to worry about. Maybe that’s a good omen for my new life in Canada, Tom thought as he shouldered the trunk. His task now was to find some sort of lodging. He paced along the main street of clapboard houses with Iain trailing behind him.