Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  Catherine scowled, doubting—and fearing. This foreigner—this stranger who had been observing her, unsuspected—how was she to be trusted? At last Catherine said, “How does it happen that you were in the kitchen of that inn?”

  “I was bringing a special festive dish for my friend Annie, as today is the festival of her birth, her sixteenth year.”

  “Sixteen? She told me she was eighteen.”

  “Indeed, did she, ma’am? But she is sixteen, I think.”

  “I do not understand why you have given yourself so much trouble on my behalf.”

  The slight foreigner looked down. Then she said, “It is not so very much trouble. You were kind to my friend. You presented her a gift on her birthday festival, gloves! And…that is all.”

  “May I know your name at least?” asked Catherine more politely.

  “Oh, excuse me, ma’am, my name is of no importance. But you may be sure that I am wishing well to you, Mrs MacDonald, you and all your relations, too. Good night, then.” The Indian woman bowed slightly to them, with her palms pressed together under her chin, then went out into the dark street. Catherine looked after her, watched her sleek head outlined by the modest shawl drawn close over her hair as she passed under the new gaslight at the corner, then disappeared. The faint foreign spice scent of her still lingered in the hall.

  Catherine did not let herself contemplate how terrifying: this nocturnal visitation by an angel, this warning to flee the city. To save a child.

  “Oh, never to Glasgow! Certainly not,” she declared to Hector, and to Mary, who had come down to the entry hall. “I had never the slightest intention of getting on the Glasgow coach tomorrow morning. I had intended only to lay them a false trail—only to give them a red herring to follow. But my little scheme is ruined already, because they have found it too soon. I had supposed that tomorrow would do, but now I think that Grace and I had better do our flitting right now, tonight. I must get my trunk all the way to Leith. Shall we borrow the footman’s handcart tonight, or hire a wagon tomorrow to bring it, think you? By then they may have set a watch on the house.”

  “And have you been down at Leith all this time? We have been so anxious about you.”

  “To Leith and back, on foot, to my sorrow; and a blister to prove it. But thanks to your amiable Captain Mainwaring, I have comfortable rooms at the inn there. He gave up his own rooms to me, as there are none to be found in the entire city just now, you know. He will go and sleep on his ship. He insists he will be more comfortable there, quite at home. And he has very kindly and discreetly engaged two berths for Grace and me on a little merchantman bound for Inverness, due to sail within a day, or two at the most. He promises to say not a word to anyone—I believe he supposes it is a matter of a debt! But he has been very kind, most generous with his help, and I think his discretion may be relied upon. And all for your sake, I am sure, Hector, as he is most taken with you and your rotary propelling machine.”

  Grace was roused; the footman and his handtruck summoned. Shawls and wraps were found; kisses and promises exchanged. “Yes, my dear, I shall be sure to engage a maid in Inverness, never fear. A nice wholesome country lass,” Catherine assured Mary.

  “Oh, wait!” cried Mary as the trunk was eased down the stone steps. And she ran to fetch the Dundee bannock, cooled now and well shrouded in cheesecloth, inside a good tight tin so it would keep for a long time.

  Despite her fatigue, Catherine lay awake, while Grace slept beside her. The inn was not quiet; the streets of Leith were not quiet; and her mind was least quiet of all. The laying of false trails had come easily to Sandy, but not to her. Any feint of Sandy’s devising would certainly have proven far more successful than this feeble effort of hers had been. She liked plain speaking and plain dealing. It seemed to her that the real shape of her thoughts and intentions must betray themselves—angular, unconvincing shapes under the deceitful bedclothes draped artfully over them.

  She was troubled by the remarkable persistence of that American woman. How was it to be accounted for? It seemed to Catherine that the woman prided herself upon her tenacity; perhaps she believed that tenacity was itself a virtue, a badge of dutiful resolve.

  In her pride, how long might Miss Johnstone carry on her search? How great were the resources at her command? What measures, fair or foul, might she resort to?

  No one could scour every nook and cranny and bolt-hole and croft in all the islands and all the Highlands, Catherine assured herself. Not even the English army had ever succeeded at that. Surely she and Grace would be safe on Skye until Mary could let them know that Miss Johnstone was defeated and gone; then they might come and go as they pleased.

  Meanwhile, Catherine would keep Grace constantly under her own eye. Within arm’s reach.

  To Skye, then; but not by the overland route she had first intended. Instead, they would go to Inverness by sea; then by boat down Loch Ness to Invermoriston; then hire horses and an escort for the short overland journey through the glen to Dornie. From there it was only a dash by boat over the sea to Skye, and to the old house.

  Over the sea to Skye. She had small faith in boats; they seemed such fragile little cockleshells. It was a handicap for an islander, not to believe in boats. Over the sea to India! That was unimaginably distant and strange and dangerous. Sandy had gone; and now Hector. So many people perished there, or on the long dangerous passage—people one knew and loved.

  Not yet drown’d. Not yet drown’d. Not yet drown’d.

  Catherine had once seen a drowned fisherman tangled in his own nets: dreadful. Not to be thought of when lying awake at night. She pushed away that image and summoned a pleasant one in its place: Sandy playing his pipes, that summer when they were both fifteen. Composing that tune of his. He would go up on the hill, way up behind the big house, up to where someone in old times, ancient times, had set up a circle of vast stones—upright sentinels, or monuments. No one knew what they were, but there they still stood—except where two had fallen—in a rough circle crowning the hill. Sandy would stand up close to one of them, one particular broad, lichen-studded stone that loomed twice his height. He would face it and play his pipes. Why stand there, right under it? It was so he could hear himself, he said. The stone flung his sound back to him, like a wave breaking against a cliff and falling back onto itself. Otherwise the sound only dissipated into the universe. He liked to feel the sound of his pipes crashing back down onto himself.

  “Sandy’s Tune.” He had worked out his tune that summer. Catherine could hear him from far away, from down on the shore, working out its variations. He would play that tune, among the many he knew. So many of them were laments! Sometimes he would play a certain old heart-wrenching tune just to tease her: “Cumha Catriona,” “Catherine’s Lament.” It had rolled off her, then, when she was fifteen. But now she knew what it was to lament; to suffer losses, bereavements.

  Oh, the loneliness! Oh, James…

  Grace turned over beside her and nestled deeper into her pillow, sighing.

  And Sandy, gone; and now Hector was going too. India.

  That dark gypsy-like stranger was from India. How mysterious, her sudden apparition, bringing a warning in the night, like a fierce dark angel.

  Angels! Yet more preposterous than boats.

  Below, the tireless fiddler in the inn’s public room launched into a jaunty jig. Judging by the sounds coming up the staircase, few people remained below; but those few survivors were the loudest and the merriest, those whose capacity for drink was greatest.

  By daylight, Catherine was better able to govern her doubts and calm the discursiveness of her mind. The pair of rooms given up to them by Captain Mainwaring were good. Their sitting room had two windows overlooking the street, and the tiny room adjoining contained the bed, draped in a fashionable cotton chintz cover of brilliant mustard and turkey red, and a narrow stand for candle and basin.

  There was a little bustle in the hall outside the door of their sitting room, and then the ma
idservant brought in their breakfast. She was a brisk, tidy girl with straw-coloured hair neatly combed, and the food was plentiful and well prepared. Catherine felt something like well-being return to her as she finished her ham, a well-cured ham nicely marbled with veins of pearly fat. A shaft of brilliant morning sunshine splashed across the table, which was set under the larger of the two windows. Just now, at this present moment, all was well enough. The oatcakes were fresh, and the butter had a country taste.

  She made Grace understand that she must remain indoors—not venturing even so far as the common rooms of the inn—until Captain Buchanan, of the Inverness-bound coastal merchantman Die Vernon, should send for them to come aboard, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps even today.

  If Catherine peered out at just the right angle, she could see down the street to the water, and a slice of the Leith pier, which was thick with people of all estates coming and going. Boats and barges and skiffs and yachts were tied up all along its length, casting off and drawing in. In the deep water were innumerable larger craft in all the stages of coming and going and staying, forests of masts, herds of hulls. Her narrow slice of view did not include any of the royal flotilla, nor Die Vernon, but she knew that Captain Buchanan would send for her and Grace as soon as his cargo was stowed and they could come aboard, as soon as wind, tide, and trade allowed.

  People passed in the street below, and bits of their chat floated up through the open window. Catherine began to feel herself soften and relax. Grace was curled into the only easy chair, playing cat’s cradle with a loop of grubby string and idly whistling a familiar old tune belonging to the MacDonalds.

  “Grace, must you whistle?” said Catherine.

  Grace stopped whistling.

  “You could work on your sampler,” suggested Catherine as a matter of form. Grace only smiled; she never worked on her sampler.

  Safe enough for now.

  That was Wednesday. The day passed fine and fair; Captain Buchanan did not send for them.

  On Thursday morning, there was a message from Captain Buchanan. He now expected to sail on Saturday and would send for them and their trunks in ample time. The wind had backed during the night, and the morning was gray and drizzly. Catherine watched umbrellas passing and repassing on the street below, but opaque mists hid the water, boats and pier at the bottom of the street. As the day drew on, the rain grew heavier. Before dinnertime, it was coming in torrents, drumming in black bursts on the cold weeping windowpanes and seeping under the sill.

  Catherine and Hector had agreed when parting on Tuesday night not to risk sending messengers who might be followed. She had not heard from Hector, nor did she expect to. But she felt isolated from him, and from the entire city and its doings. At dinnertime the little blond maid brought up a day-old newspaper, saying that someone had left it below and she thought the lady might like to have it. Catherine read with interest about the plans for the king’s visit to Edinburgh Castle. This visit was scheduled for Thursday afternoon, for this very hour.

  The rain continued, merciless.

  That evening, just after the tea had been brought up, a dripping young midshipman from Increase came, bearing a damp letter from Captain Mainwaring. Enclosed in the captain’s letter was a note from Hector. Captain Mainwaring begged that Mrs MacDonald would do him the honour of being among his guests tomorrow, when they would view the Royal Review of the Yeomanry on the Portobello Sands from the comfortable privacy of his barge, which would be just offshore. Then they would dine aboard Increase; Hector and Mary had already agreed to be his guests. He would send a closed chair to her inn, and all the arrangements would ensure the most complete discretion. Hector’s enclosed note urged her to come; it would be a good opportunity for them all to say a real farewell.

  Catherine would so very much have liked to go! Even a day on a boat must be pleasanter than another day inside this room. But it would mean leaving Grace alone and unguarded. Catherine thought of arranging for the little blond maid to look in frequently; but in the end she could not bring herself to it. She sent back the damp midshipman with a regretful note explaining that she was unable to leave Grace.

  How very gratifying then, two hours later, to see the same midshipman back again, wetter still and carrying yet another note. This invitation included Grace as well. “Of course you’ll come too,” said Catherine when Grace scowled. “Your Aunt Mary will be there, and Uncle Hector, but no one will expect you to say a word. And I will arrange for you to eat by yourself if you like. We both of us need to get out of this wee room.”

  FRIDAY DAWNED BRILLIANT, and the sun glancing off the wrinkled blue waters of the Forth broke into shards and darts of dazzling light. Leith was crowded already, but Catherine and Grace, both of them bonneted and veiled, were carried quickly down to the pier in the promised closed chair, and bundled discreetly aboard a little skiff belonging to Increase without attracting any notice. The sailors at the oars put a crisp precise snap at the end of each long hard stroke; and the town fell quickly away behind them at the end of their seething wake.

  Catherine was surprised at how the little boat skimmed over the dark water. Amazingly soon the tall Increase loomed over them, and the skiff turned smartly against its high curved hull. A bosun’s chair, like a sling on a scaffold, was rigged ready for the visitors, and Catherine and Grace found themselves hoisted aboard before they had time to feel apprehension. They were welcomed with great cordiality by Captain Mainwaring; and by Hector, Mary, Mr Fleming, Mr Clerk and his sister Miss Bessie Clerk, who had all come aboard earlier.

  Catherine had never been aboard an East Indiaman. She marveled at the neatness of every arrangement; this vessel was quite unlike the slatternly coastal traders and noisome fishing boats she was accustomed to see. The deck shone pale as straw with scrubbing and sun-bleaching; and the thick ropes deployed all about in bewildering multiplicity were arranged in cunning hanks, scrolls, and curlicues according to some arcane custom. The crew wore stiff canvas shirts and trousers of a dazzling white that rivaled Mary’s best table linen. The men appeared well fed, cheerful (in spite of their undoubted sobriety), and respectful in the extreme.

  While Grace went with her Aunt Mary to see the cargo in the deep dark hold, Hector took Catherine to see his own little cabin. They passed through the cuddy cabin, where Catherine admired the polished table, elegant chairs, and bright brass fittings. “So very handsome!” she exclaimed. “I dare not hope that Captain Buchanan’s Die Vernon will be half so pleasant as this, whenever we may be allowed to go aboard. He expects now to sail tomorrow, and we are holding ourselves in readiness to depart upon an instant’s notice. In the meantime, we do not show our faces outside our room.”

  “Prudent,” said Hector, “although that American woman seems to believe that you are still at my house.”

  “Does she? How can you know?”

  “Early on Wednesday morning, a bailiff came to the door with a packet of papers which I suspected of being a writ to be served upon you, my dear. I said you were not there, and of course he did not believe me; but he could do nothing but set a watcher in the street. Blackguardly looking fellows they are, too. One or another of them has been standing about ever since, not troubling to hide himself in the least. There was one when we left this morning, and there he stands now—for all I know—waiting for you to come out.”

  “I hope you were not followed, coming here.”

  “No, they do not follow me in my comings and goings. It is you they want. The sooner you two are away, the better.”

  “You could not be more eager for our departure than we are,” she said; and wondered uneasily at the American woman’s extraordinary persistence.

  Hector ushered her into his own little cabin, which took up one corner of the stern. There was a writing table, a bookcase, a gimbled lamp, a tray-tabletop suspended from the beams low overhead, and a number of cleverly devised lockers for his private stores. “How neat it is!” Catherine cried, trying the mechanism by which the dressing table cl
osed over a washing apparatus. “So ingenious! Every convenience! And then at night, I see, your bed is to be suspended here, to lull you to sleep by the ship’s gentle movement.” A large window with venetian blinds, now drawn up, let brilliant shimmering darts of sunlight reflecting off the water dance upon the varnished walls. “I never imagined such comfort could be found aboard ship. I am quite envious; what a pleasant time you shall have!”

  “Every reasonable comfort, to be sure. As for pleasure, that must depend on the company. Mr Fleming has the cabin opposite mine—just there, you see—so I am sure of at least one congenial companion, and I have heard that several miscellaneous young gentlemen are going out to take up various appointments. But it is not settled who is to occupy this large cabin between Mr Fleming’s and mine. A newly appointed judge and his family were to have had it, but he has just been struck down by an apoplexy. You see it is quite as well fitted out as mine, and rather roomier, with this very handsome window curving across the stern, and two neat sofa beds, and this closet with room enough for two more hammocks as well, for servants I suppose.”

  “Oh, I am seized with the fancy to take it myself, for Grace and me. How long is the passage? Four or five months? Four or five months of sea air, congenial company, novel sights, and no troubles to pursue us, no writs, no Miss Johnstones. Grace and I would be quite set up!”

  “Yes, until you found yourselves disembarking at Calcutta, to encounter its heat and its fevers, its discomforts and dangers.”

  “It is mere fancy, dear Hector, only a charming conceit. You know how I feel about boats, even such solid reassuring ships as this one. I could never bring myself actually to embark on a long ocean voyage. But I have not heard you admit until now that Calcutta might pose any discomforts or dangers. In Mary’s presence, it is all safety and sobriety, trade and profit, porcelain tea sets and coromandel screens.”

  “Oh, aye, porcelain tea sets. I have received some amazingly detailed instructions about porcelain tea sets. But what shall I bring back for you from the Indies, Catherine? You have not yet told me what your heart longs for.”