by Peg Kingman
“I get out and hire that boat for you, missus,” said Annie. “I glad to go and hire the boat.”
“I guess you’d be mighty glad alright, if I was fool enough to hand you my purse. Stupid girl! Where’s the step? That wind! Why, it cuts right through a body! Now hand me that lantern. Never a word of gratitude from anybody.”
The lantern bobbed down the slope toward the dark huts and the black water, then disappeared as Miss Johnstone rounded the corner of the cluster of buildings huddled at the shore. There were distant lights, further down toward the gleaming surface of the water, and the wind carried incomprehensible shreds of men’s voices up to them. Annie watched her mistress disappear, then she studied the dark line of hill, woods and sky on the other side of the carriage, away from the canal and its buildings.
Five minutes passed, and there was no sign of Miss Johnstone; then Annie slid open the hatch and said to the coachman, “The little girl want to relieve herself.”
“There is a convenience under the seat,” he replied.
“Oh, but she won’t. She say she can’t bring herself to use it. She want me to take her up to those trees on the rise, up yonder.”
“Suit yourselves,” said the coachman. “What concern is it of mine?”
“She say she can’t wait another minute.”
“Get her out then!” cried the man.
Annie and the orphan got out, and ran hand in hand up the dark hill to the thicket of trees crowning it, with the wind in their faces, and rain in the wind.
AS Dram Shell drew up alongside the oldest and furthest downstream of the several docks at the Grangemouth terminal, Catherine was alarmed to see a constellation of lanterns gathered at the largest dock, further up the basin. What could attract such a crowd at this hour of the night? She strained to listen. There were many voices: murmuring men’s voices; men’s laughter, and a strident woman’s voice. Was it only Catherine’s imagination which made the voice sound so like Miss Johnstone’s?
Catherine ached to leap ashore and run up to see for herself, but cautious Hector would not permit this. Instead, as soon as Dram Shell was secured at the dock, it was Captain Keith who sauntered off to assess the situation. Of them all, only he could be sure of not being recognised by Miss Johnstone, if indeed that remarkable carrying voice was hers.
Taking what comfort she could from the warm boiler, Catherine waited in the dark, straining to hear. The light rain pattered maddeningly on the water now, but she thought she could make out a few words carried down to her on the erratic gusts: “A watchman!” cried the shrill voice. “Patrollers!…bring the dogs, this minute!”
After a bit, the crowd seemed to dissipate; in twos and threes, men drifted away. Several mechanics passing nearby along the muddy shore met up with others newly arrived on the scene. A few words of their explanations were audible to Catherine: “Ah, no; it is only two servant lasses run away, up the hill in the rain,” she heard one say loudly.
“And we’re all of us to go and fetch them down this very minute! And why? Just because the old woman demands it,” added another.
“’Tis a dirty night for silly women. Let them come down when they please.”
“Let her go and fetch them herself.”
When Annie’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could see the pale oval of the orphan’s face. There must be moonlight somewhere above the black clouds, for there was a kind of luminosity in the scrim of blowing swaddling mist. They huddled in the uncertain shelter of a tree, in the lee of its rough trunk. Annie’s skirt had been torn by pushing through the brambles and bracken. She was trembling, and she could feel the little girl against her side trembling too. A strong gust of wind buffeted the branches overhead, and a flurry of heavy drops plummeted down on them. One struck Annie right in the parting of her hair, a small icy blow on her scalp. If she peered through the tossing bracken and brambles, she could just make out the lights of the buildings below winking in the wind, and beyond them, the black water with boats on it. Then an opaque curtain of mist came down, blotting out the entire scene.
By the time Captain Keith returned to Dram Shell, Catherine had already devised the outline of a plan. It was not much of a plan, but who could have foreseen this? Hector did not admire Catherine’s plan either. “Will you propose something better then?” she demanded, but he could not. So at Catherine’s request, he whistled a certain traditional MacDonald tune for Captain Keith to hear.
“It does seem familiar, to be sure,” Captain Keith said. “No doubt I have heard it before this. But I have not just the world’s best ear for a tune. I hope I will not forget how it goes.”
“I will go with you also, seeking them upon the hill,” proposed the Indian maid suddenly.
“No,” said Hector. “You had best remain here on the boat.”
“But I can help in the seeking,” said the woman. “For I have now that tune in my ear. Like this,” she said, and she whistled it through without a fault.
Had she learned it just now, having heard it once?
“Aye, let her come, Hector,” said Catherine. “The more, the better.”
“Keep up a good head of steam,” Captain Keith ordered his two crewmen, who were to remain with the boat. “No lights. And be ready to cast off at an instant’s notice.” Then he and the two MacDonalds and the Indian maid went ashore.
Annie listened very hard. Was that the distant voice of her mistress? Or was it the baying of dogs, so soon? No, it was neither of these; there was nothing to hear but soughing wind and rain and her own blood coursing in her veins.
So this was running away. People sometimes ran away from Grantsboro Plantation. Sometimes they were caught and brought back. She could row; she could swim; she could walk all night; she could ride; she could run; she could climb a tree and remain motionless for hours. She had no plan; she had no money; she did not know where she was. And clinging to her torn skirt was an orphan who could not speak.
Turning her face to the wind, Annie considered. She wanted to be far away from here before daylight. Taking the orphan’s hand, she whispered, “I take you back to the town, back to your people. Come along.”
They made their way as quickly as the terrain permitted. It was rough ground—a tangle of tree roots, rocks, unexpected deep boggy places, boulders, springs, and thickets of bracken, brambles and nettles. Annie tried to keep a steady course by heading always into the eye of the wind; but how could she be certain that the wind itself did not shift?
Suddenly the orphan’s breath caught. She held it, looking fixedly down the hill where there stood a thicket of coppiced birch saplings. Annie froze and listened too; she heard only wind, rain, and her own pulse. But the child was turned to stone, stock-still like a dog on point. They waited; and waited. Then they both heard it: a little tune, whistled softly; a quiet melodic phrase, a question. The child gulped a great lungful of air and whistled her reply: the plaintive answering phrase of the tune. After just a moment it came again, the first questioning phrase. And they could tell where it came from—just there, just down there beyond the coppiced birches. The child licked her lips and again softly whistled the reply. Then, gripping Annie’s hand, she waded through bracken, skirting the nettles, and plunged down among the pale dense stand of trees.
There the child stopped and listened once again. Where was the hidden friend? Where was the tune? Nothing, only dark stillness. After a long minute, the orphan whistled the first phrase of the tune once more, asking.
Something moved. A dark form stepped out from the densest part of the thicket, a dozen feet away, and drew back her shawl from her head: Sharada.
“It’s you! You!” panted Annie, and she placed her hand over her own pounding heart to quiet it.
“Come away, come!” whispered her friend urgently. “The MacDonalds are here on the hill, the brother and sister, and there is a meeting place—and a boat, a very fast boat! Quick, come away.”
BUT THE VERY fast boat had been noticed. Catherine’s heart
sank, and her hand tightened around Grace’s, when they returned breathless to the old dock and saw that a number of the Grangemouth mechanics had gathered about Dram Shell. Several of them squatted on the dock in the rain, holding up lanterns to peer at her bow, and one or two had actually gone aboard and were examining the housing and the packing of the rotary shaft where it passed through the hull while the two Dram Shell men proudly explained, with arm motions, how the marvelous machine worked.
Captain Keith put his fingers in his mouth and whistled; the Grangemouth mechanics drew back, making way for the passengers to pass along the narrow dock. Catherine felt the weight of their curious gazes, felt how odd the six of them must appear, looming suddenly thus out of the wet night: herself first in the dressy Paisley shawl all drooping and sodden, holding the hand of this dripping red-haired child; next the foreign black-eyed woman like a tinker; then the tall black African girl with her skirt draggled and torn; then Hector with a triumphant glint in his eye; and the captain, looking fierce.
But no one spoke as they got aboard, and Captain Keith gave the command to cast off. Smartly the launch headed downstream into the main current, with the engine throbbing. Looking back, Catherine saw the mechanics on the dock getting smaller; she imagined they were pointing out to one another the turbulent wake boiling behind the boat—the track of its underwater rotary oar. Perhaps, she thought, someone might consider it good sport to go and report what he had seen to the old mistress who had lost her servant lasses.
After a while, aboard Dram Shell, Grace fell asleep in Catherine’s arms. Catherine felt Grace’s thin taut body soften little by little, slackening gradually until at last even her mouth fell slightly open and her breath came easy and light. There was not much flesh on either of them. Catherine felt the fragility of her own bones pressed against Grace’s, lighter still—light as a bird’s, and inexpressibly precious.
About four o’clock in the morning, as the first faint light came up, Catherine noticed the canal steamer, a side-wheeler, in their wake far behind, heading doggedly upwind just as they were. She pointed it out to Hector, who called Captain Keith’s attention to it. Captain Keith changed course; the boat far behind changed course too, now running parallel to them though still a good half mile downwind. When Dram Shell reverted to her original course, the pursuing boat did the same. Dram Shell was running without lights; so was the pursuing side-wheeler. “We can outrun them,” said Captain Keith. “We’re surely the faster. But I would feel happier if we’d had the time to take on a full load of coal. Well, pour it on, lads; let’s lose them, and the sooner the better. A good bank of mist would be a fine thing just now.”
The much-desired mist did blow down on them for a time, obscuring them from the pursuers, but they had no way of knowing whether or not they were leaving them behind. “I could put you ashore on either side if you like,” proposed Captain Keith. “In this mist they would never see us do it. I could have you at Blackness in twenty minutes; or across to Inverkeithing in thirty.”
“No,” said Hector. “We’ll run for it. We need to get down to Increase, down at Leith, before the ebb, and then we’re safe away.” So they ran down the river as fast and straight as they could.
After a time they emerged into open air again, the mist an opaque bank behind them. There was traffic ahead—small craft, and several large boats too. The fishing fleet often went out at this hour, but these were not the fisherfolk. Who were they? The rain began again, so it was harder to make out the lines and flags; but then Hector recognised the odd waterborne procession. “Isn’t that the James Watt?” he said, “towing up the king’s yacht?”
“Ah! so it is,” said Catherine. “Aye, of course. The king was to come up for his departure breakfast at Hopetoun House this very morning; indeed, I met the turkeys destined for his very table. Then he was to sail from here. The crew is bringing up his yacht. How are we to make our way through this melee? I suppose we must stay well clear of them, but we cannot afford to lose even a moment.”
“Stay clear of them?” said Captain Keith, at the tiller. “I think not. Let us make use of them.” He glanced backward again; their pursuer was not yet to be seen. The captain changed course—not away from James Watt and Royal George, under tow in its wake, but toward them, on such a trajectory as to cross very close across James Watt’s bows. Across her bows very close indeed. But James Watt, slow though she seemed, was moving faster than Captain Keith had calculated. A great gust came up and caught Dram Shell on her starboard bow, knocking her off just a little. Captain Keith corrected her heading, gathered his resolve, and held his course. Catherine looked back and saw the pursuing side-wheeler just emerging from the fog bank behind them. The side-wheeler did not seem to have gained on them, but Catherine did not think she had fallen back either.
James Watt’s plume of black smoke blew down upon them. As Dram Shell still did not come about nor fall off from their collision course, James Watt sounded a loud horn. Grace seized Catherine’s hand and squeezed it hard. Captain Keith’s face was grim, the cords standing out at his jaw. There was the high, sharp bow of James Watt, with its thick planks and massive rivets; Catherine could see minute detail, far too much detail as the heavy steamer came plunging at them. Then the pitch of James Watt’s engine changed; and the dripping paddle wheels seemed to stutter for just a moment. Dram Shell skimmed under her bow and crossed safely under her very figurehead with no more than ten feet to spare.
“Ha ha!” cried Captain Keith, and snapped his tiller over to bring up Dram Shell into the wind. The launch was skimming now along James Watt’s windward beam. White faces aboard James Watt gazed upon them astonished, and arms gestured angrily. Then Dram Shell was opposite the dripping towline, as thick as a man’s waist, snapping up out of the water where it had dropped when James Watt had checked and let off the tension. A dangerous moment drew itself out as the weight of Royal George fell hard on the towline. Catherine saw water snap off it, saw it reverberate like a great plucked bass string of the gods, its sound too deep to be heard by mere mortals.
Then here was Royal George—a very close look at the king’s yacht. It was a beauty—a lovely, shining example of the shipwright’s art, a pleasure craft fashioned of polished mahogany and teak and shining brass—a charming toy.
Then the rain swept down once more, a solid gray drenching curtain, like standing under a waterfall. They could not see more than twenty feet, but Captain Keith kept to his heading and, except for once changing course to avoid a mackerel boat on its way out, they encountered little further traffic.
Now they had only to get down to Increase at Leith at the turn of the tide. Shivering, Catherine kept watch behind. The rain continued, sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier; but she did not see the pursuing side-wheeler. Did it still stick to them? Grace and Sharada and Annie were shivering, too, and taking turns wearing the old shrunken sailor’s jacket. Hector made them all swallow some of the remaining whisky. He and Captain Keith drank some too; Captain Keith needed quite a lot.
Then there was a terrible crunch and shudder as Dram Shell ran hard afoul of something solid and heavy submerged just below the surface in the rough gray swell. The steam piston stuttered, then lagged. The engine slowed, laboring just above a stall, while a painful juddering wracked the entire boat, a wrongful vibrating rumble. Hector shouted and threw himself toward the gasket at the bow where the rotating shaft passed through the hull. Captain Keith swore and snapped the tiller hard over. “The valve! Throw it open, there!” he cried to the sailors, meaning that they were to divert the steam pressure from the piston. But Hector was demanding their help at the same moment, to stem the black water pouring in at the badly jarred gasket through the hull. The shuddering grew worse and worse until it seemed that Dram Shell must wrench herself to pieces. Then suddenly it ceased. All ran smoothly once more, and Dram Shell continued to forge strongly ahead into the wind as though nothing had happened.
But what had happened?
They succeed
ed in stemming the leak at the gasket—it was not so bad after all. One of the sailors brought oakum and tar for packing while the other set up the bilge pump.
But Hector was scowling. Minutely he inspected Dram Shell’s mechanism from end to end: from steam engine to piston to crank to crankshaft to gears to the long rotary shaft, which passed through the hull and could not be inspected any further. He found nothing amiss, nothing bent nor wrenched nor twisted, nothing damaged. Still he was not satisfied. Frowning, he said, “I do not think it sounds just as it ought. Does it not seem pitched rather higher than before? The frequency of the strokes has increased; I am sure of it. But there is no more vibration than before—rather less, if anything. Yet we seem to be moving very well.”
“I make it four knots,” said Captain Keith. “Or perhaps a little more, which is as good or better than she has ever done, especially with such a headwind.”
“I should very much like to inspect the rotary oar itself,” said Hector.
“She pulls along as smooth as ever,” said the captain. “The rotary oar must have escaped unscathed. Perhaps we were just snagged for a moment or two there—an old cable, it might have been.”
“Mmm,” said Hector doubtfully. “If only I had made the oar shippable, as I had wished to do! Then it would be a perfectly simple matter to raise and examine it.”
“Not just now,” said Captain Keith.
“No, not just now,” said Hector. But still he was frowning. Something certainly was changed.
Slack tide passed; the ebb began, carrying them a little faster down to the port of Leith. Would Captain Mainwaring wait, Catherine wondered; for how long? Her eyes ached from gazing into the rain looking for recognisable shapes. Then they were coming down to Leith; ships and launches, smacks and sloops loomed up out of the gray mist. Where was Increase? Would Captain Mainwaring have sailed without them?
