No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  “I can’t believe you would tell a lie on my behalf.”

  “I surprised myself, but Rogers was altogether too gleeful about flushing you out,” Henry Otter flashed tobacco-stained teeth. “As I’ve become older I lean more toward the forgiveness of the New Testament rather than the harsh justice of the Prophets. Now tell me about your life since.”

  So Tom did, especially his work for the Indians.

  “That’s why I’m here in New York exhibiting photographs and paintings. I’ve learned that the natives here in America are in an even worse plight than those in Canada.” He took a deep breath. “I found my life’s companion among the Indians. He was a Mi’kmaq from Cape Breton.”

  “Was?”

  “He died last winter,” Tom replied, his voice cracking.

  Captain Otter nodded. “You’ve suffered enough. I shall tell the Admiralty I heard confirmation of your death.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tom felt both his voice and hands shaking.

  “Well, I’m pleased you put your drawing lessons to good use. You always had a neat hand. However, my offer of announcing your death depends on one condition.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “That you tell me why Williams killed himself.”

  “You could always spot evasion. I have found some answers. The story goes back to the island of Rona.”

  “Well, we’ll find somewhere to sit down and you can tell me while we eat.”

  Chapter 48

  New York, 1872

  “It’s hard to know where to begin. It’s as fantastical as those tales you used to tell the midshipmen,” Tom sighed, as they settled down at a table near the open door of a bar. Both men had removed their jackets, but they still oozed sweat into the clammy air.

  “Well. Keep it simple. I can always ask questions.”

  “I’m sure you remember Richard’s funeral service in that grim chapel overlooking the sea? Afterwards I had an encounter that robbed me of my senses. That happened to Richard too, although at the time I didn’t know that.” He paused and cleared his throat, “It seems so incredible now, how I jettisoned everything because of a vision, an apparition. There was a young woman. Do you recall seeing her? She watched us from a distance, her head swathed in a shawl. I became convinced she had the answer to the riddle of Richard’s death. And she was so beautiful, a goddess. All I cared about was tracking her down. I drew a sketch of her and carried it everywhere. I lost count of how many strangers I showed it to in the hope that someone would recognize her. I kept it until it was so creased that you could scarcely make out her features.”

  “I remember her standing like a sentry by the shore, but I was anxious to return to the ship and thought no more about her. You found her in the end?”

  “I did. Many years later, when I had almost given up hope. But the story was more complicated than I realized.”

  “Get to the marrow of it, man. Start with the reason why Williams killed himself.”

  Stung by Otter’s impatience, Tom determined to tell the story at his own pace.

  “What do you know of Richard’s earlier life, sir?”

  “Very little, except that he was better schooled than most sailors. I dare say, like the rest of them, he was running away to sea to escape something on land.”

  “He ran away from the cruel man who adopted him. He knew nothing of his own blood. Richard was a solitary man by nature, hard to fathom. But he loved music, even if it was only old Billy limping along on his squeezebox. So when we anchored at Portree he went to a dance. He joined in a reel and was mesmerized by his partner. A man in a trance. She sped away after the first dance. He strove to find her, to no avail. No one would tell him who she was. They all looked askance at him. In the end a local minister explained. It was after that he took his own life.”

  “And who was this woman?”

  “Màiri MacQueen. The name meant nothing to him, but he recognized her.”

  “You’re talking in riddles.”

  “The minister told him that the woman who bewitched him, this Màiri, was in fact his mother. Many of the people there were struck by his likeness to her and guessed that he was her long-lost son.”

  “Good heavens. And that revelation led to him killing himself?”

  “I believe so. She refused to meet him and he would have taken that hard. I’ve wondered since, maybe this is fanciful but … was he eaten alive by guilt and shame? His adoptive father always told him he was a worthless sinner. If he already felt guilty about his love for me? Rather the love we had for each other, not expressed but deemed unnatural. Then he fell in love with a woman and that would be a relief to him.”

  The captain nodded.

  “But when he found out that she was his mother, might he not be horrified at an incestuous passion?”

  Captain Otter scratched his beard, “So finding his mother left him more wretched than ever?”

  “Yes. He saw a beam of light, thinking it would take him to safety but it was a will o’ the wisp. It lured him on and then snuffed out, leaving him in the darkness.”

  “And his mother, what about her?”

  “She lost her son for the second time. She ran away in a panic. Didn’t know what to do. The minister advised her not to see her son again. I suspect he didn’t want scandal. Immorality must be kept hidden.” Tom’s voice was bitter.

  “So this Màiri MacQueen had borne Richard out of wedlock?”

  “Yes. As a girl she worked in the kitchens of the local laird’s house. She fell in love with the eldest son and he with her. You look disbelieving, sir, but it sounds as if it was a real love match and he planned to marry her. When her condition became obvious the boy confronted his father, declaring that they were betrothed. However, he was below the age of consent and his father packed him off to university in Edinburgh. The young man never saw his son who was handed over to a foundling charity soon after his birth.”

  “A sad tale but not an uncommon one. How did you discover the truth?”

  “I met Màiri herself, not in the Highlands but by chance in Newfoundland when I came across the indomitable Widow MacKenzie again.”

  “Ah, I heard that she had emigrated.”

  “I came across her house when I was a traveling photographer. Her son was still earning his living by fishing. She had taken her lantern across the Atlantic with her, her own one, not the one from the commissioners. It was Màiri who opened the door to me. She looked so like the widow’s son that I presumed she was one of the family. I asked for her to join the rest of them for the photograph. The atmosphere was very strained. She was indeed related to them but she was also their servant. Afterwards I spoke with her and she told me about meeting Richard.” Tom gulped down some beer and wiped his brow.

  “And it was this Màiri that you saw after the funeral?”

  “No, sir. That’s what I mean about it being complicated. Shall I continue?”

  “Very well.”

  “After Richard’s death she couldn’t bear to stay on Skye. She got a berth on an emigrant ship. That’s where she met the widow and her family. They were all shocked to see how she resembled her brother.”

  “This story seems to be full of shocking encounters.”

  “It is. They saw what I saw when I met the family. She and her brother Murdo had the same dark red, wavy hair and blue-green eyes.”

  “This is too difficult for an old salt like me.”

  “They’re brother and sister, well half-brother and sister. Widow MacKenzie’s husband was by all accounts a handsome man with a roving eye. He passed on his features to his children, legitimate and illegitimate alike.”

  “And did Mrs. MacKenzie know of Màiri’s existence before they met on the ship?”

  “No, not at all, although Màiri said that she showed no surprise when she learned her identity. I dare say the Widow MacKenzie had her suspicions about her husband’s nature. Anyway, she offered Màiri a roof over her head.”

  “An act of Christian charit
y, then.”

  Tom shrugged,

  “Albeit a chilly one. She had never known anything but poverty. Brought up grudgingly by her grandparents and treated as a skivvy. She was weary of struggling and took the widow’s charity.

  “Children born out of wedlock have a hard time of it. They suffer for their parents’ sins. Màiri though seems not to have learned from her mother’s mistake. She also bore a child outside marriage.”

  They sat silently, both delving into their own thoughts.

  “I’m clearer now about why Williams was in such a turmoil that he took his own life,” said Captain Otter, eventually, as he pushed his empty glass away from him. Suddenly he reached across the table and seized Tom’s wrist, “But that’s not the whole story is it? Who was it that you met? And why did you desert?

  Chapter 49

  New York, 1872

  Tom ran his fingers through his hair before meeting the captain’s gaze.

  “Richard and I were both bewitched. But not by the same woman. That was the key. Màiri couldn’t tell me where my mystery girl had gone. I felt such a fool that I had thrown everything away for a delusion, a chimera. And I was terrified that Rogers was on my trail. Doomed to be a fugitive forever. But by the time Silent Owl and I traveled to the Rockies, I was finally at peace. Because of him but also as a father to Iain. And grateful to his wife, a young woman wise beyond her years.”

  Tom’s lips curved into a smile as he thought about how Spring Thaw knew that he and her brother would end up forged together, two links of a ship’s cable. Only the hammer blow of Silent Owl’s death had severed them.

  The captain waited while Tom hauled his thoughts back to the present.

  “Silent Owl had been reluctant to go so far westward. He never said why he changed his mind. Since then I’ve wondered if he sensed he didn’t have long to live, even though the consumption had barely shown itself. By that time, I had almost let go of my obsession about the young woman. During our journey we rescued an Indian child who had fallen into a river. I managed to knock myself out, like I did back at Bonawe all those years before. That time I came to and was convinced it was you, sitting by my bed and waiting to call me to account. This time I opened my eyes to see a lean face, swimming before me, a face marked by winter hunger. I was confused by the hair, long plaited tresses like the natives favor but the hair was dark red. I’ve never seen a native with that color hair. The figure stared at me while I rubbed my eyes. ‘I recognize you, now.’ It was a woman’s voice that had the singing lilt of the Highlands. Then I knew it was her. ‘I’ve found you at last.’ I tried to sit up but the throbbing of my head forced me to lie back again. ‘I don’t understand,’ I groaned. ‘They call me Beaver Woman here. You were brave in saving my son. So you may ask me what you wish,’ she said, in the creaking way of someone speaking in a tongue they don’t use much.

  “We only met once but you put a spell on me,” I said.

  “‘That’s because of who I reminded you of,’ she whispered.

  “I had to close my eyes again because I had been hit broadsides on. Once she said the words I saw the truth of it. How had I not understood before? I only had a glimpse of her face, but now I could see how she looked so like him, younger and with more delicate features but the same hair and eyes. How could I not have realized?”

  “Looked like who? Williams?”

  Tom nodded, “Yes, his younger sister, Catriona.”

  Otter frowned. “So Catriona and Richard are brother and sister, full brother and sister?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Then, Màiri MacQueen, whom you met at the Widow MacKenzie’s house, is the mother of both of them? And this Catriona was living with Indians in the wilds? How extraordinary.”

  “Incredible indeed,” Tom agreed. “She must have seen the shock on my face because she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking but listen to my tale before you pass judgement on me. Have you met my mother?’ I nodded.

  She snorted, ‘And did she tell you I’m her daughter?’”

  “Not in so many words.” I showed her the drawing. “She told me that the young woman had carried on farther west on her own,” I explained.

  “Couldn’t you see the resemblance between us?”

  For so long it had been hidden in plain sight. I began to wonder but I didn’t want to press her in case she refused to say more.

  “She wouldn’t tell you who I was because she was ashamed. My mother never learned her lesson. She listened to my father’s lies, gave birth to my brother and had to part with him. After she lost him, she moved away from her home but not far enough away. Gossip followed her but in the end folk found fresher meat to chew over. Ten years later, my father returned home to see his parents. He had done well as a lawyer in Edinburgh. He sniffed my mother out and she, the fool that she was, didn’t send him away with a curse. Listened to his false words a second time and I was the result.”

  “Were you sent away too, like Richard?” I asked her.

  “No. He had promised to marry her, like he did the first time but he forgot to mention that he already had a wealthy wife in Edinburgh. Generous as he was,” she spat out. “He gave her money for my keep. We didn’t starve but everyone knew I was his lordship’s bastard. It’s a useful stick to beat a child with. She never told me about my brother herself but other kindly souls did.” Her laugh was raw.

  “Then Richard appearing and his terrible death turned their lives upside down,” the Captain observed.

  “With a vengeance. Tongues hissed with venom, accusing Màiri of causing Richard’s death. Neither mother nor daughter could bear it any more. So they left on the emigrant ship. Màiri let the MacKenzies take her in, but Catriona despised her mother for accepting their charity. She wanted to go where no one knew about her.”

  “Well, she certainly did that.”

  “She told me that for the first time in her life she felt respected. She has achieved miracles for her adopted people, teaching them how to outwit the fur traders.”

  “Surely the old ways have gone. Their only hope is to become farmers.”

  “That’s what Spring Thaw believes but many Indians, like Silent Owl, cannot endure the loss of their way of life. How much upheaval can people bear? A ship can be refitted a number of times but in the end she’s only fit for the scrapyard. That’s what happened to Silent Owl.”

  “You said he had consumption. Did low spirits hasten his death?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We went back again to see the Blood tribe and by the second trip things were much worse for them. They tried to keep away from the traders but their camp was raided by some of them, along with Crees and mixed bloods. The young men wanted revenge and wouldn’t listen to Beaver Woman urging caution. They galloped off in pursuit. I didn’t realize at first that Silent Owl had ridden with them. They were ambushed in a canyon. Some of them were able to turn their horses back and escape with their lives.” Tom’s voice had shrunk to a whisper.

  “But not Silent Owl?”

  “No, he stayed back to give the others covering fire.”

  “He died bravely, then.”

  “It’s what he chose but I had no chance to say farewell. Only to arrange his funeral. Like most Indians he had a horror of being buried. The Blood, like the other Blackfoot tribes, build a platform in the trees for their dead. They did that in his honor.”

  “Have you gone back since?” the Captain asked, after a long silence.

  “No. I couldn’t bear it. I send money to Beaver Woman. The Mounted Police have restored law and order but the band is no longer free to roam.”

  “And has she stopped haunting you now that you’ve solved the mystery of who she is?”

  “Yes. But I’m still a wanderer.”

  “I’ve heard many tales in my life, but this is one of the strangest.”

  Captain Otter downed the rest of his beer while Tom sat still, relieved that all the fraying ropes had been tarred and knotted together. His life was finally s
hipshape.

  Chapter 50

  Samoa, 1891

  Tom came ashore from the American steamer at the port of Apia, on the island of Opolu. He had watched in admiration as the pilot nudged the vessel through the coral reefs into the narrow neck of the harbor. Captain Otter would have been impressed. It was still hard to believe that the captain, Tom couldn’t get used to thinking of him as an admiral, had died fifteen years ago, his wise and generous spirit gone. Tom still silently thanked him every time he boarded a ship. He had made a number of voyages in the Pacific over the last few years and he always felt relieved not to be looking over his shoulder. What a consolation to be officially deceased with his name struck off Admiralty records.

  Mount Vaea rising up through the tropical jungle had looked enticing on their approach, but as so often disembarking was a disappointment. There was the usual quayside clutter of grubby, rusting bars and warehouses. Among them were the squat white painted houses of the foreign traders, awkward transplants from a staid Europe, ill at ease in this island of waving coconut trees and scarlet bursts of frangipani. He became more cheerful as he noticed the rounded shapes of the native houses and the Samoans themselves, handsome and muscular in their patterned skirt-like lava-lavas, bare chests glistening with oil. Not unlike Indians he thought but more carefree.

  His first task was to arrange transport up the mountain slopes to Vailima. He approached a group of Samoans. With smiles, sign language, and jangling coins he conveyed his message. His guides coaxed the horses up a wavering path above ravines and waterfalls. The stiletto blade of memory slid in under his ribs as he recalled his expeditions with Silent Owl. All that grumbling about the burning heat, the biting insects, and his aching muscles, never thinking that one day he would welcome any discomfort if he could have his companion back.

  As he neared the estate he felt a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. It was months since he had written requesting permission to photograph the Samoan workers. He had half expected to be refused. After all, famous writers looked to be photographed and fawned over, not ignored in favor of their servants. To his surprise Tom had received a warm reply: