Beyond the Sea (5 page)

WHEN SHE RETURNED
to the cottage, Freya poured herself a glass of wine and sat, drinking it, at the kitchen table. She was tired, her thoughts sluggish and dull, but she knew that she would be unable to sleep if she went back to bed. Her hands played with the pile of letters in front of her, the mail that had accumulated at the cottage in her absence and that she had stacked on the table to be dealt with when she was ready. She picked the letters up now, one by one, scanned them cursorily and then placed them slowly back down on the table. At the bottom of the pile was a thick brown envelope addressed to her. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was heavy and on the back was a stamp indicating that it came from a Dr MacCallister at the National Museum in Edinburgh. She frowned, wondering what it could be. She had no idea who Dr MacCallister was or why he would be writing to her. Curious, she turned the package over one more time and then ripped it open.

Inside were a number of typed A4 pages, held together with a bulldog clip, and on the top of the pile was a letter addressed to her. It was dated three months previously. Intrigued, Freya read it.

Dear Mrs McPherson,

My name is Rory MacCallister, and I am a curator at the National Museum in Edinburgh. I have long been a friend of your father-in-law, Alister McPherson, and as such I hesitated to write to you, knowing as I do the tragic circumstances of the passing of your husband and son, for which I offer my most heartfelt sympathy. I hope that this letter will not prove to be unwelcome as a reminder of that time. Rather I hope that it will serve as a touchstone to a happy time your husband and son shared together. It is with this in mind that I continue.

As you may know, last Easter Jack and Sam discovered a Bellarmine jar sandwiched into a crevice in the Torran Rocks while they were sailing in the area. Your husband sent it on to Alister, who in turn passed it to me. A number of these jars – made in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in the Netherlands – have been recovered from shipwrecks off the Scottish coast, the
Swan
being one of the most famous in the Western Highlands. What was most striking about the jar recovered by your husband was how amazingly well preserved it was, Cardinal Bellarmine's face – on the outer surface of the jar – being clearly visible and whole, the glaze practically unscathed, the neck of the bottle stoppered and still sealed. It really was quite remarkable given the journey the object must have taken.

As many of these jars were used as means of carrying liquids, beer and wine in particular, I passed the find on to a colleague of mine who is a specialist in analysing items recovered from wrecks at sea. He carried out a CT scan of the jar – to determine if there was anything inside it – and this revealed what looked like a roll of paper. Now, while the jar had proved remarkably resilient and watertight, after all the time at sea the contents were in fairly bad shape – decayed and decomposed. But my colleague is exceptionally skilled and managed to remove the paper, dry it out and treat it. And he discovered that it was not just a roll of paper but letters. Quite miraculous.

To cut a technical story short, the letters have been radio-carbon dated for authenticity, treated to preserve them and a lot of the text has been salvaged – although some, as you will see from the pages attached, is missing. The letters have been transcribed into more modern English for ease of reading, but it appears that they were written by a soldier aboard the
Speedwell
, one of the six ships, including the more famous
Swan
which I mentioned above, which were part of a flotilla sent by Cromwell to quash Royalist support in the Highlands. It disappeared in a ferocious storm in 1653, presumed sunken, but the wreck was never found. Few records remain about the expedition or what happened to those who took part in it. So they are a remarkable find.

I wanted to send copies of the letters to you, as without your husband and son they would never have come to light, and I understand Sam, in particular, was fascinated by the jar and what it might contain. Perhaps he would have been as amazed as I am by what was salvaged.

With kindest regards,

J. C. MacCallister

Freya placed MacCallister's letter on the table and closed her eyes. She remembered her conversation with Sam on the phone on the day he and Jack had found the jar. He had been incredibly excited, stumbling over his words, telling her the story of Cardinal Bellarmine. She vaguely recalled him saying he would give the jar to his grandfather, but she had had no idea that he'd ever done so, let alone anything beyond this. She opened her eyes and flicked through the letters once more, breathing in deeply, as if to inhale the scent of salt and sea spray that the originals must once have contained. Letters in a bottle. She smiled. She had to admit her curiosity was aroused. Turning to the first letter she began to read.

6 September 1653

Speedwell

My dearest Josie,

We arrived in Scottish waters yesterday. I do not know whether you care about this now or indeed whether I will ever send this letter even if the means to do so are at my disposal. But I feel the need to write it, to make a connection with you despite the distance between us.

After departing Plymouth three days since, our journey passed largely without event. We made our way around the treacherous Eddystone rocks, around the coast of Cornwall and from there sailed northwards, first with Wales to our starboard side and then Ireland to our port. We were blessed with fine weather almost the whole of the journey and only once did a gale start up, as we approached Chicken Rock, off the southern tip of the Isle of Man. That is a dangerous spot, Josie, the rocks jutting out of a sea which is as black as pitch at night, unlit by fire or lantern, and I feared that, as with many ships, the spot might prove to be our undoing. But while we suffered heavy rain and a turbulent sea, the storm stayed mostly on our tail and so we avoided the worst of it. From there we continued northwesterly, along the coastline of southern Scotland and shortly after emerged into Highland waters.

The first island we skirted was Islay, the southernmost of the Highland islands. It is low lying and marshy, a man named Duncan told me, one of our force and a Scotsman originally from these parts. The population, he claimed, often come to a famous well to drink, turning once sunwise around it – in a circle east to west the way the sun rises and sets – before drawing water. They believe that in doing so it will be blessed. Blessed by who exactly is anyone's guess. It seems nothing but nonsense to me. But Duncan said that such customs are not infrequent in these parts.

Islay's neighbour, the island of Jura, is by comparison mountainous. Along the middle there are four hills of considerable height. As a result of the mountains, Duncan told me, Jura is said to be the wholesomest plot of land in all of Scotland, with fresh breezes and pure air, the population rarely becoming sick and living to be extraordinarily old. One of the natives, he said, died at the age of 180 years, while others have seen at least one hundred Christmases in their homes. The more I hear these tales, Josie, and Duncan speaking with such reverence about the air, the water, the unexplainable miracles of these isles, the more I feel he believes that we have entered a magical kingdom. While his accent has no doubt faded, he clearly still believes the silly superstitions of these parts.

Leaving Jura behind, we skirted its neighbour Scarba, and arrived at the Sound of Mull. At last, the object of our mission came into view – Duart Castle, seated on a peninsular jutting out into the water. Our orders were to take the castle and quell the uprising of the Royalist Macleans. Sadly, for our Lord Protector, Cromwell, things did not go according to plan. Having surveyed the area for some time, we prepared to take Duart, and its inhabitants, by force, according to our instructions. We loaded ourselves with muskets, rifles and ammunition, and then took small sailing boats to the land. But as we approached from behind, readied for battle, it quickly became apparent that the loyalist Macleans had fled. The Castle was deserted and we encountered no resistance whatsoever gaining access. So it was a victory – although a hollow one.

It seems, if the small pieces of information gathered from the locals are to be believed, the Macleans sailed for Tiree some time ago. No doubt, as a result, we will set off for the outer-lying islands, but without more detailed knowledge of exactly where they are to be found, any mission to locate them would doubtless fail.

And so, for the moment, we are taking in the weather and scenery. It is a wild beauty here on Mull, a ragged splendour: crags, moorland and rocks, sea and mountains. One minute we are bathed in sunshine, the next there is cloud and then rain, the elements often following rapidly one after the other. The sunshine casts a candour, a beauty over everything. But when the weather turns sour, the cold mist and drizzle make this place utterly dreary, like quite the end of the earth. ‘Dreich' is the word Duncan uses for it. And it is as perfectly miserable sounding as that which it describes.

But I must not fall into a black state of mind. Although I fear it is too late for that. Before we came below deck to sleep, as we looked out over the deserted darkness of the ocean, Duncan told me of a famous shipwreck in these parts, a wind-battered remnant of the Spanish Armada,
Florencia
, laden with gold and silver coin. When the Spanish double-crossed the Scots who had come to their aid, the
Florencia
mysteriously blew up and its cargo of coin sank into the silt of the sea bed and was never recovered. Neither were the crew. I looked at the impenetrable darkness of the water once more. It was like a veil drawn over the past, the carcasses of ships, coins, and the bodies of countless men strewn about its bed. Is that my destiny, I wondered then, floating here and there on the tide, unbound to any place, fighting and suppressing rebellion? I risk death here for a commander I feel no strong allegiance to and leave behind what has grown to be most dear to me.

I felt a hollowness inside me then. This place stirs it in me, I am sure. It has a wildness being so far north, subject to its own reason, its own remote rhythm. And that is in part due to the sea and its dominance. It is more master here than Cromwell, that is for sure.

I am haunted by what you told me before I left and I am only sorry that I was rough and that I did not speak the words that you longed for and deserved to hear. It pains me to have parted from you in such a way. But I trust now that we will return to England sooner than I had hoped. Then I will see you again and will speak all as I should have done the last time we were together.

Until then

I am your

Edward

AFTER SHE HAD
finished reading, Freya took a large mouthful of wine. She still couldn't quite believe that these letters had survived. And the contents, as MacCallister had suggested, were equally astonishing. A dangerous yet fruitless voyage, into the wind and sea-lashed wilds of the north, in pursuit of a vanished adversary. It was a journey that would have been frustrating at the best of times, but even more so for a soldier battling his own stained soul and an ever-quickening desire for home.

As Freya turned the page to continue, the telephone rang. It was shrill, invasive in the quiet of the night. How appropriate, Freya thought. It wouldn't be Marta (she had already spoken to her that evening), so that left her mother, Joan. For a moment she thought about ignoring it. But it would be better to get it over with and cut the call short. It was late, after all. Freya sighed, feeling tired at the prospect of the conversation. She grabbed the phone and answered it as she wandered back to bed.

‘Hello darling, how
are
you?' Joan always got in the first words of any call, even when she was the one ringing.

‘I'm fine thanks, Mum. Everything's okay.'

As Freya tried and failed, as always, to reassure her mother, she found herself telling her instead about Edward's letters in a bottle, their discovery at the Torran Rocks, and their final journey to Edinburgh.

After all, it gave them something else, besides her mental health, to talk about.

IT WAS LATE
morning two days later.

Freya was still in bed, unable to face the day, when she heard the sound of a horn rising up towards the cottage from the ocean. She closed her eyes, hoping that the boat was not signalling her and would simply pass on. But a few moments later the sound came again. She opened her eyes and waited. When the horn came a third time there was no ignoring it any longer.

She struggled out of bed, her mind as much as her body a dead weight, and dressed as quickly as she could. When she was ready, she left the room, avoiding looking at herself for long in the mirror. Still, she was aware of the dark circles under her eyes.

Outside, the day was cold and blustery, clouds scudding swiftly across the sky. As Freya walked down to the jetty, she felt the rough refreshing blast of the wind in her hair. Turning the corner, she caught a glimpse of Callum's boat, bobbing on the water, about to dock. As she raised her hand to wave to him, she saw that he was not alone in the cabin. She squinted, trying to see who his passenger was. She caught a glimpse of long dark hair, but that was as much as she could make out. By the time Freya reached them, Callum was roping the boat. Then the passenger jumped onto the jetty and began to move towards her. She caught her breath. It was Marta.

Freya felt the simultaneous sting of tears and anger as she walked towards her sister. She tried and failed to summon a smile.

‘What the hell are you doing here?' she said, almost resentfully, as they met. Then Marta wrapped her arms around her and she felt an instant sense of intimacy and comfort.

‘Well, that's nice. Especially after the journey I've had. And, for the record, could you live any further away?'

Freya pulled away from her and smiled. ‘It was kind of the point.'

‘Yeah, yeah.' Marta scrutinised her sister. ‘Christ alive. You look a sight. Big night?'

‘Something like that.' And, in spite of herself, Freya laughed. ‘It's good to see you.'

‘You too,' said Marta, and hugged her again.

Callum came up behind them, and despite the fact that both women were tall, at well over six feet he towered above them. He wasn't wearing his black-and-white hat today and his dirty blond hair stuck up in tufts from his head giving him a youthful, less serious look than when Freya had seen him last. He smiled, and it lit up his face. ‘Can you believe who I found lurking around the harbour this morning?'

‘Not really. But nothing surprises me with this one.'

Callum nodded. ‘Marta tells me it's a spontaneous visit.'

‘Indeed,' said Freya, turning her attention back to her sister. ‘So when did you get here?'

‘Last night. Too late to persuade anyone to bring me out. So I grabbed a room at a B&B. Callum was lucky enough to bump into me this morning.' She grinned at him and headed back to the boat to collect her things.

‘It was kind of you to bring her, Callum.' Freya smiled at him. ‘Will you come up to the cottage? Have a cup of tea?'

‘No, thanks,' he said, shaking his head. ‘I've a tour to take out soon from Iona. Besides, I'm sure you two have plenty to catch up on.' Callum paused for a moment. ‘How are you, Freya?' he asked softly.

‘Oh, I'm okay,' she replied, suddenly conscious of her hair being battered by the wind. She ran her hands over it and wrestled it into a ponytail. ‘Good days and bad.' Good nights and bad, she wanted to add, but didn't. She didn't want to have to explain.

‘Well, that's to be expected, I suppose. But just let me know if you ever need the company and I'll look in on you on my way back from a trip.'

Freya felt the sweetness of his words, their care. ‘Thanks, I will.'

‘Okay I'm all set,' said Marta, rejoining them, a large bag on each shoulder.

‘All right then, catch you later.' And Callum turned and headed back down the jetty.

As the sisters made their way up the hill to the cottage, Marta turned a couple of times to wave at the receding form of Callum's boat. Then she grinned at Freya.

‘What is it?' Freya asked.

‘Oh, nothing,' said Marta, and winked at her.