Oatcakes and Courage (4 page)

Ian noticed that Anne had become very quiet. He sat up and peered at her in the shadowy gloom.

“Let's have a look at those blisters,” he said simply. He hauled off her boots and tenderly removed her stockings and
petticoat bandages. His lips pursed in dismay when he looked at the raw flesh under the bandages. He went to work, ripping new strips of clean petticoat and gently wrapping Anne's feet. Then he settled her under the tree, tucking clothes from his pack under her and laying a cloak over her to create as comfortable a bed as possible.

Anne murmured sleepily, “But Ian, what about you? How will you keep warm?”

“No worry, lass. I saved myself a nice warm blanket to wrap up in. Good night.”

“G'night,” Anne sighed, nearly asleep already.

Ian propped his back against the old pine's trunk and crossed his arms across his chest. He tipped his hat over his eyes and tried to get some sleep.

He must have dozed off for a while because a cold splash of water on the back of his neck brought him awake in a hurry. His head snapped back, smacking his skull on the pine trunk.

It was raining, as he had predicted. “Could I not have been wrong, just this once?” he thought, rubbing his bruised head. The tree was protecting them somewhat, but it was raining harder by the minute, and pretty soon their sheltered little spot was a soggy, cold place indeed.

Anne rolled over and sat up, wiping water from her forehead. “It's raining,” she muttered needlessly.

“Aye.”

“What should we do now?”

“Maybe if we hang our cloaks on the branches above us, they'll keep the worst of the rain off.”

Anne nodded and started to get up.

“I can do this,” Ian said.

“I'm sleeping in your cloak,” Anne pointed out.

“Oh, aye.”

They struggled in the dark, trying to arrange the cloaks overhead. The rain had become a downpour, and they were thoroughly soaked by the time they had the cloaks in place.

“Seems pointless to keep the rain off us now,” Anne grumbled. “We can't get any more wet.”

“Do you want the rain to keep falling on you all night?” Ian retorted.

Anne shook her head dejectedly, then realized that Ian couldn't see her in the darkness and said, “No.”

“Here,” he persuaded. “Sit next to me. We'll keep each other warm.”

Anne huddled beside Ian. He wrapped his arms around her and they sat dripping and shivering, perfectly miserable.

A soft sound permeated the hammering of the rain. At first, Anne wasn't sure what it was. Then she realized it was someone's quiet, measured step on the wet forest floor.

“Someone's coming,” she whispered to Ian.

“Aye.”

Anne's heart skipped a beat. Could it be the thin rider? Had he found them? Was it dark enough to conceal them? Or should they run? Anne gathered her legs under her.

A voice hailed them from the gloom. “Hello! It's John MacKay.” A feeble light glowed through the trees, bobbing along the trail.

Ian called out, “Over here. We're here, Mr. MacKay.”

Anne let out her breath in a relieved sigh.

The light – a small, smoking torch – wove its way toward them. Presently, they could make out the piper's face, eerily lit by the torch's smoldering flame. He held his cape over the smoky torch to keep the rain from snuffing it out.

“I was told that you two had come this way,” John MacKay said. “Many of the passengers are getting together, sharing shelter and fire. It's a wretched night, isn't it?”

“Oh, aye, it is that,” Ian agreed, coming to his feet, and drawing Anne up.

“Gather your things,” the piper said pleasantly. “And follow me. We'll get you to a warm fire.”

Gratefully, Anne and Ian collected their few belongings and trailed after John MacKay. He led them to a small clearing where several large canvas tarps had been tented around a welcoming fire. Ian and Anne joined other bedraggled-looking folks who huddled near the fire.

The piper smiled at them. “There, now. That's better.”

“Thank you,” Ian said earnestly.

“Aye. Thank you so much,” Anne said.

“'Tis naught at all,” the piper said airily. “Warm yourselves. Once dawn breaks, we'll be off.”

Anne sat close to Ian. The warmth of the fire was such a relief after the wet, numbing cold. She rested her head on Ian's shoulder and dozed off.

Chapter 4

T
HE SOUNDS OF MANY
people moving about, breaking camp, woke Anne. She hunched her stiff shoulders and sat up. Ian had left her; his cloak was spread over her, his pack pillowed her head. She blinked and rubbed her gritty eyes. The air was filled with a hushed anticipation and fear.

Anne yawned and drew herself to her feet. She stretched, grimacing, and looked for Ian among the milling men, women and children. At last she saw him striding toward her.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked as he approached.

“Nay, I just woke. Have you?”

Ian shook his head.

She opened his pack and they sat down to a meagre breakfast of oatcakes. People were leaving the clearing, heading toward the beach.

Ian finished off his oatcake and brushed the crumbs from his shirt. “Well, then, time to be off.”

Those words brought back the worry and panic that had gripped Anne the night before. She felt her stomach clench.

Ian reached out his hand and pulled Anne to her feet. “It's not so bad, lass. You'll see.”

They gathered their packs and followed along in the stream of travellers headed to the beach. Wisps of early morning mist shifted among the trees, floating like wraiths before them. The branches overhead were heavy with last night's rain, sending cold showers on their heads and shoulders as they passed beneath. They stepped out onto the shore.

At the waterline a queue of people stood or sat waiting for longboats to carry them to the
Hector
. The mate, his face red, his hands on his hips, was barking orders to passengers and crew alike.

Anne and Ian joined the end of the line. Anne gazed out over the loch. The waves were sapphire blue, tossing before a morning breeze. The sun, rising behind them, splashed pale gold and peach light over the stones and water. Anne would have found it quite beautiful if she weren't transfixed by how large the loch seemed. As she imagined the vastness of the sea between Scotland and the New World, it filled her with terror.

What had she been thinking!? She couldn't get on a ship and leave Scotland! It was madness. Her heart pounded heavily. Ian's warm hand on her shoulder was all that kept her from bolting up the beach.

Minutes passed and became an hour. The children became fussy. But no one left his place in line. Anne saw her fear mirrored in the faces all around her. All that held them there, facing the ship and the sea, was the bleak knowledge that there was nothing for them if they turned and left the beach.

A longboat scudded to the shore. Several crewmen held it in place in the shallows as husbands helped wives and children wade out and climb aboard. The queue moved forward. Soon another longboat arrived and it was Ian and Anne's turn. They pulled off their boots and stockings and, knotting the bootlaces together, slung them over their shoulders.

Anne turned to Ian, her face contorted with panic. “Ian,” she choked, “I…”

Ian passed one of the packs to a crewman and calmly took Anne's clammy hand in his large, warm one. He looked into her eyes and said softly, “It'll be all right.” Then he stepped into the cold waves, gently tugging her along with him. Her heart drumming in her ears, Anne followed.

The salt stung her blisters and the water was numbingly cold as it lapped over her ankles, then her knees. Anne sucked air between her teeth. She tried to hold her skirt out of the waves, but the hem was splashed and dripping by the time she clambered into the longboat. She sat facing Ian.

Rowing out to the ship was not so bad. Anne enjoyed the salt spray on her face and the motion of the sea. A little girl about five years old, with bright red curls and huge hazel eyes,
was sitting next to her. The girl started to cry. Her mother was occupied with a babe in her arms and a toddler by her side. She gazed helplessly at the wee red-headed girl, not having a hand free to comfort her.

Anne leaned over to the frightened girl and asked, “What's your name? I'm Anne.”

The girl turned to look up at her with brimming eyes. “Christina.”

“Well, Christina, would you mind if I put my arm around you? I think it would make me feel better. I've never been in a big boat before.”

Christina regarded her solemnly for a moment, then nodded. Anne hugged the child close to her. “Oh, look,” Anne exclaimed, pointing, “there's the ship we're going on, the one with three masts. And I think I can see the captain up on the deck. See him? His buttons sparkle in the sunshine. And look at the gulls flying about. I bet they wish the
Hector
were a fishing boat so they could get a meal. Oh, and do you see that cloud up there? It looks like a horse. With its tail streaming out behind.”

As Anne chatted on, drawing the girl's eyes here and there, Christina's tears stopped. The girl's mother gave Anne a grateful little smile. Ian caught Anne's eye and winked.

The longboat drew alongside the
Hector.
Anne craned her neck as she stared open-mouthed at the hull looming over them. The port side of the
Hector
rose up like a cliff jutting from the sea, her masts seeming to touch the sky. Anne felt very small. A ladder was lowered and a hoist was provided to aid women, children and baggage aboard. Men carried packs onto the ship.

Anne stepped onto the
Hector
's deck and was jostled aside by other settlers as they made their way aboard. Passengers milled about, collecting baggage and finding family members. Ian took Anne by the elbow and steered her to a less crowded spot.

A barrage of angry words met them.

“No one sneaks aboard
my
ship. I'll not have stowaways! You are leaving on this longboat!”

“What's this all about?” a broad-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair asked a crewman.

“It's the piper. The MacKay fellow. He didn't have passage spoken for. Tried to get aboard anyway. The captain'll put him off.”

Passengers looked at one another unhappily. John MacKay's bagpipes had stirred their Scottish pride. Here they were, going off to the New World, hoping to enjoy freedoms that had been denied them for so long, and this brave piper could not go.

Some men drew together in a knot. Ian sauntered over to join them. Anne could hear scraps of their conversation.

“It's not right…”

“Poor fellow…”

“Something we could do…”

“Captain's a reasonable fellow…”

“His passage…”

The tall, broad-chested man stepped from the group and approached the captain. The captain was escorting John MacKay, bagpipes and baggage, to the ladder and the longboat.

“Excuse me, Captain,” the man said. He had a voice like an ox, deep and low. “My name is Archibald Chisholm, and I'd like a word with you, if I may.”

Master Spiers regarded Mr. Chisholm coldly. He was obviously very busy, and out of sorts with having to deal with a stowaway. However, he was a man of courtesy, so he said, “If you would be so kind as to be brief, Mr. Chisholm. We have much to do before we sail.”

“Aye, of course. We understand that Mr. MacKay here has not made arrangements for his passage.”

Master Spiers took a deep, steadying breath. “That is quite right, Mr. Chisholm. I was just now sending him back to shore.”

“Well, we would like,” Mr. Chisholm turned and indicated the group huddled behind him on the deck, “to have Mr. MacKay accompany us on this voyage. You see, his piping yesterday was… well… it made us feel…” Mr. Chisholm, a sheep farmer from Loch Ness, was not used to public speaking
nor to expressing his feelings, poetically or otherwise. Words failed him.

Master Spiers straightened his shoulders. His brass buttons glittered. “I will not have a stowaway on my ship.”

“There must be some way we can help,” a wiry little man with bushy eyebrows called out from the midst of the group.

Nods and “Ayes!” showed everyone's agreement.

“No one gets a free passage,” Master Spiers pointed out.

“Could he not pipe for his passage?” Mr. Chisholm asked. “It would do all our hearts good. Keep our spirits up, like, during the trip.”

“Aye, aye,” came the chorus behind him.

The wiry man, John Sutherland, called out again, “I would be willing to share my rations with him, if you would let him stay aboard, Master Spiers. It would mean that much to me.”

There was a moment of silence, then several more voices called out, “And I would give part of my share too. If he would only play the pipes each day, I would share my bread with him.”

Now, Master Spiers was not a stupid man, and he saw this battle was lost. What purpose would it serve to throw John MacKay off his ship? He'd have an angry mob to carry across the ocean. He was out nothing if he let him come. And no doubt, the bagpipe music would help to ease their cares as they made their way across the vast, uncertain miles.

He pretended to weigh the decision carefully, although the scales had been tipped from the beginning. At last he said, “It's your bellies that will be grumbling before the voyage is over. All right. Mr. MacKay shall earn his passage by piping during occasions or ceremonies that are deemed appropriate.” He eyed the piper sternly till he received an assenting nod. “And you passengers will be responsible for seeing that Mr. MacKay is adequately fed during the voyage from your rations.”

“Aye, oh aye,” the crowd assured him.

“Well then, I believe our business here is concluded. If you will excuse me, I have other things to attend to.” The captain turned and strode several paces along the deck. Then he spun
on his heel and commanded, “Mr. MacKay, you shall pipe the passengers aboard, if you please!” before he continued on his way.