The Great Unknown

by Peg Kingman

  How cutting, this wind! How glum, this sky! Constantia almost turned back for the new cloak, but instead pulled the shawl well up to Livia’s cap and went briskly onward. The knotted shawl was not entirely satisfactory, for she was obliged after all to support Livia within one arm—but only one. It was not far, however, down the hill and across Leith Water to Deanhaugh.

  But the MacDonalds were not at home. The maid who opened the door welcomed Mrs MacAdam kindly; drew her into the hall out of the wind; admired Livia, who (with her twin) had been born upstairs in this very house; but could not say when her mistress might return. She ushered Constantia, however, into the drawing-room, and left her there at a writing table furnished with paper, pen, and ink. Constantia would have liked to dwell upon her letter of thanks and farewell; would have liked to sit quietly and think, and feel, and remember, and put all her grateful heart into it, but Livia, no longer a compliant new-born, prevented anything of the sort. She reached for the pen, the inkwell, and the sand-bottle; and drooled upon the blotter. She was markedly heavier these days; far more alert and attentive; and seldom inclined to daytime naps of any convenient duration. Constantia could only quickly scratch a few affectionate and grateful lines. She folded the notepaper and left it on the writing table.

  The MacDonald henhouse—not a proper doocot at all—was at the bottom of the garden. There Constantia’s last pigeon languished, disconsolate in the company of hens. The pigeon-creel of woven wicker was there too, dirty but still serviceable. Livia had to be set down in the grass, which she began to pluck and taste; Constantia hoped that a little of this was harmless. “Come, my fine fellow,” she said to the pigeon, a sturdy blue one. Its pen was small, and she had no trouble catching it. Constantia stuffed it unprotesting into the creel, and fastened down the lid. Then she noticed something remaining in the corner of the pen: a pretty little egg. “A fine fellow, did I call you? I beg your pardon, madam!” she apologised to the pigeon.

  This was not an egg that might hatch, as the pigeon had been in a state of involuntary celibacy for months. The egg might be eaten, or left to rot. The pigeon would not know or care. Constantia felt that it ought not go to waste; but how was she to carry it? It would be crushed in her pocket. It could not be carried inside her bodice, not with Livia pressed against her. She loosened the ties of her bonnet, and tucked the egg up into the nest of her coiled hair on the back of of her head; then retied the bonnet snugly over it again. She could scarcely feel the egg. Do not forget, she told herself, when you get home and take off your bonnet.

  Then she set out for Doune Terrace once more, Livia on her left arm, and the handle of the big wicker pigeon-creel over her right. What a long climb, back up from the bridge which crossed Leith Water! At length Livia fell asleep against Constantia’s pounding heart, despite the wind and the joggling; or perhaps because of them. How ridiculously large, how excessively heavy, this hamper! How disagreeably it bumped against Constantia’s legs! If the Chambers girls had accompanied her, as they had wished to do, they could have helped, thought Constantia; and she conceived, as she trudged up the slope, an unreasonable grudge against Signor Ricci the dancing master.

  She was much warmed however by the exertion, despite the scouring wind that blustered in from the North Sea. She had been unaware of any weather at all during the past days and weeks of catastrophe and sorrow; such trivialities as season and weather had ceased to matter during the crisis of Charlie. Now it was forcefully borne in upon her that wintry December was well under way; had arrived despite her inattention.

  By the time she gained the top of the slope, she had formed a new resolution. Although it had been her intention to bring this pigeon for future use, she was obliged to conclude that it was too much to carry; she had much better fly this bird now, with a last message.

  She attained Doune Terrace at last, and there, having stowed the pigeon in its creel beside the kitchen stair out of the wind, went upstairs. When she came down again (without Livia, for Hopey had by now returned), she had ready—written, folded, and rolled—a message, in minuscule letters upon a slip of paper as thin as the skin of an onion. She reached into the hamper, and with a red satin ribbon (impossible to go unnoticed when the pigeon should arrive at its destination) she tied the message to the pigeon’s leg.

  The bird, once turned onto its back with wings held lightly, did not struggle, but only stared from a round bright uncomprehending eye. Behind that eye lay neither feeling nor intelligence; but how bright, nevertheless! It would know its way home from anywhere, even from this distant place where it had never been before. Mountains, seas, snowfields, were no obstacles to it. Imagine being blindfolded, thought Constantia; and led—for months, or years—through a labyrinth whose existence you cannot even suspect. Suddenly the blindfold is removed; your captor vanishes; and you are left to find your way home. From here, it might be anywhere.

  Constantia carried the bird to the open ground across the street, and there threw it into the gusty sky. The pigeon circled twice, ascending, wings beating strongly; falling upward like that hot-air balloon in Lucknow, so long ago. Was it strong enough still, this bird which had been confined and unable to fly, for so long; for months? The pigeon circled once more, very high and small now against the clouds; nearly the same colour as the clouds; and finally headed fast and straight toward the southeast, across the wind. The correct heading. Shivering, Constantia watched the speck disappear beyond Edinburgh’s slatey roofs and granite chimneys. Good luck, good luck. Go faithfully home. The message carried by this pigeon was this: “Leaving Edinbr mail-coach Tues 11th; expect us Wed.”

  Later, when Constantia took off her bonnet, the egg she had forgotten fell and smashed on the floor. Small golden yolk, slick clear fluid-of-life, shattered calcium shell: O the pity of it! the sad waste of it!

  During the night, the wind ceased. Then, in silence, snow began to fall.

  By morning, snow lay six inches deep upon the pavements of the city, creaking-dry with cold. Constantia kissed all the Chamberses, dismissing their urgings to remain until the weather should improve. Mr Chambers, who had never before gone to Roxburgh’s Close by cab, found he must have one on such a morning as this—and how very convenient, he said, that their destinations lay so near each other! Though she knew perfectly well that the cab was entirely for her sake, Constantia pretended to believe in this kind fiction, and was grateful for it. Carrying well-wrapped Livia within one arm, her carpet-bag upon the other, and wrapped in the remarkable tartan cloak, she mounted Mr Chambers’s cab, and was in due course put down at the coaching-inn on the Calton Road (which was not near Roxburgh’s Close); there to wait with other passengers in the smoky parlour.

  But as the day wore tediously on, the mail-coaches did not arrive; neither the one from the west, nor the one from the north. The one from the south straggled in six hours late, at three-o’clock dusk, having twice run off the indiscernible road into snowy ditches; and twice been dragged out again. Not until tomorrow then, said the coach-agents to the exasperated passengers who had waited all day. Nothing is going south tonight.

  Carrying Livia and the carpet-bag, Constantia set out on foot across the city toward Doune Terrace, to sleep there once more. It was already quite dark and, though still, very cold; the footing was treacherous. To fall, carrying Livia, would be terrible. Constantia’s progress was dreadfully slow, and she was glad, by the time she arrived at St Andrew Square, to hire a cab to carry her the rest of the way. How would she ever have managed with two babies?

  The Chamberses welcomed her delightedly, tucked her into the best easy chair nearest the drawing-room fire, commiserated with her, gave her the usual hearty supper, and finally sent her upstairs to her bed—which, Constantia discovered, had been stripped already of its sheets. This punctuality, she told herself, was only the sign of a well-run household; it was not to be construed as any gladness about her departure.

  But snow fell again that night—another ten inches or more. When red-nosed Constanti
a, Livia, and carpet-bag returned next morning to the coaching-inn (in another cab ordered by Mr Chambers, just as before), the agents declined even to predict when any coach might be able to get along the coast road to the south. Her fellow passengers—all familiar by now in feature, voice, and character, after the previous full day’s acquaintance under vexing circumstances—were conferring with one another. “The steam packets are sure to be going,” said one, a stout widow in a redoubtable black beaver bonnet, who knitted as fluently as she talked, without looking at her hands. “Steam never minds the cold, and saltwater never cares for snow.”

  “There’s no wind. If only we can get down to Leith, I daresay we can be off by the next ebb-tide,” said a travelling commission agent who traded in worsteds.

  “What is the state of the tide?”

  No one knew, though someone ventured an opinion that the ebb must have begun by now.

  And so someone arranged for a wagon drawn by two sturdy horses, the expense to be split among those going down to the harbour at Leith on the Firth of Forth, just down the long slope north of the city. “But where is the lady with the cloak—and the babby?” cried the industrious knitting widow in the flurry of departure. “Come, hinney, aren’t you going with us? Where is it you’re bound? Where? Amble? Amble! You want the express packet to Newcastle, then, with me. I’m bound to Newcastle myself; and from there you can get yourself back up along the coast to Amble, easily enough. Come along, then! Pray, move over, Mr Elliot; make room for this lady. Up you come! And you, Dickie, put up her bag; what are you waiting for? Come now, no more time to be lost! Time we were off!”

  The big carthorses went mincingly on the icy pavements, and steam issued from their nostrils as though they were dragons, or steam locomotives; but presently the wagon brought its passengers and their baggage safely down the long road to the Leith waterfront. The still-knitting widow knew just where to apply for times and tickets, and by purest good fortune, found the express packet to Newcastle due to get under way within the half-hour. “Not knowing if you wanted first cabin or second, I’ve got you a place in the second by me,” said she, upon returning to Constantia where she waited in the lobby. “This way, now; and that gangplank, there, is where we go aboard. Oh aye, many times before; I know all about it. Now down this passage; and take care, hinney, to duck your head.” Almost before she had time to consider, Constantia was settling herself and Livia into a place in the second cabin of the Leith and Newcastle Steam Packet Company’s iron steam-ship Britannia.

  “There’s some as must have the first cabin, or a private state-room, even, but the second cabin suits me very well,” said the widow, as the little iron vessel throbbed, strained, and then drew away from the dock; the ribbon of iron-grey water widening, widening behind as it vibrated and throbbed and whiffed its way out onto the deep channel. “I like to walk about, and talk with comfortable folk,” she added, her needles clicking steadily, “and eat my own homely provisions—and it’s scarce ten hours to Newcastle. I hope I am not yet so feeble that I cannot sit up among other pleasant folk for ten hours. Look, we’ll be coming alongside of the Bell Rock lighthouse—I do always like to go up and see the waves breaking on it. Oh; not quite well? I’m a seasoned old sailor myself, but if you’re liable to the sea-sickness, hinney, you’d better come up on deck with me. Always better in the open air, sure. Come along and I’ll show you a snug place out of the wind near the boilers, where you and the babby can be just as warm as ever you like. The first cabin is no better—you’d be quite as sick in there, and cost you three shillings more. Fresh air is the thing, plenty of fresh air. That’s a fine thick cloak you’ve got, prodigious handsome, and babby quite snug, too. There now! Better? Aye. You had better stay up here. Look, ’tis clearing; I see blue sky on its way, though none the warmer for it. That snow will lie aground for a good while at this rate, and it will be days, I’ll warrant you, before the mail-coaches can win through. Pretty, though, aren’t they, those snowy hills, from here? Well enough, from this comfortable distance; but not to be struggling along the roads of them, and the drifts five feet high against the stone walls. We are getting along past them smart enough!”

  In the lee of the smokestack, grateful for the remarkable cloak, and warmed by the coal-fired boilers below, Constantia soon felt better. She was not the only one to prefer the deck’s open air and long views; others came and went too, and shreds of their talk were carried to her, on eddying gusts of wind.

  “That is Siccar Point,” she heard one top-hatted first-cabin gentleman tell another, much younger; “where Mr Hutton found his celebrated and most excellent illustration of the junction between the ancient greywacke, all tortured, folded, and tilted—and the much newer Old Red sandstone laid down atop it, eighty millions of years later. ‘A beautiful picture of this junction washed bare by the sea’ were his very words—of this very place. And so it is, although from here it appears quite unparticular; only resembling all the rest of the rocky cliffs and coasts hereabouts. But if we were to go in close—much closer than is safe—we might peer, as he did, into the deep recesses of the past, down the long echoing hallways of time. We might read here—indeed, anywhere along these cliffs—the very pages of the book of the earth’s history; might riffle the edges of the volume wherein are written its long periods of peace, its paxes—and its revolutions, its upheavals and convulsions. Not Infinity, no; there is a beginning, and an end. Unimaginably long; but finite.” They walked off, making the circuit of the deck, perhaps for exercise; or, evidently, several circuits—for they passed in front of Constantia three or four times.

  Some time later, on one of these circuits, they paused once again nearby, and she heard the same poetical gentleman say, to the much younger companion, “See, here, the muddiness of the water; that is solid land washing down into the sea, grain by grain—for here is the outfall of the River Tweed. There, northward, lies fair Scotland. Here, southward, lies merry England. We have crossed. Here, two breeds, two tribes of mankind, rub up against each other; wearing away at each other, like land and sea, water and stone, warily.”

  Pray, do stay here and let me hear you talk! thought Constantia; for this is talk worth hearing! Occasionally, at least; perhaps not continually. The younger gentleman spoke not at all; was he weary of this incessant instruction? Were they tutor and student; bear-leader and bear? It is wearying to be constantly the object of improvement. But they did not stay; and presently she saw them enter the first-class cabin together.

  The kind widow, her needles clicking busily, appeared from time to time to make sure that Constantia and the babby were not cold; to share the provisions she had brought aboard (pork pies, cheese, bread); to hold and play with Livia for a while. Livia was at first a little frightened by the formidable black bonnet, but soon overcame her shyness and let the widow stand her on the deck to bounce and sway upon her own feet, held up by the hands. “She’ll be in leading-strings before you know it!” predicted the widow. Constantia was glad of this opportunity to ease the ache of her back—until Livia tired of this play and had to come back into her arms again.

  “What islands are these?” Constantia heard a lady with a French accent inquire, some time later, of the stout Englishman whose arm steadied her, at the rail. “Is it the Holy Isle?”

  “Oh no, the Holy Isle is well behind us; these are the Fernes,” said the Englishman. “A dangerous bit of shore, too. There, you see—that black pile atop that head—that’s old Bamburgh Castle. And the lighthouse on that island is the very one where Grace Darling lived. Well, Grace Darling, of immortal fame! Can you really not have heard of Grace Darling? The lighthouse-keeper’s daughter? The heroine of the age?”

  At the mention of this name, Constantia listened harder, for she had a particular interest in Grace Darling.

  “Is it possible,” said the French lady, “that the fame of your English heroines may not have penetrated quite every corner of the world? But,” she added, coquettishly, “you may tell me of her, if yo
u like.”

  “So I shall,” said he, evidently enchanted. “It must have been five or six years ago; the Forfarshire—a new steam packet, very like this one, in fact—was making the run between Dundee and Hull, and carrying on that occasion some forty passengers, along with another score or so of crew; about sixty souls, altogether—when, just as a storm blew up, her boiler sprang a leak; and then her pumps failed. They went adrift, with the northeast wind blowing; and though they set the sails to try to keep her off the rocks, it was too late, and she went onto the rocks, just about there, at three o’clock in the morning—”

  “Brrr!” said the lady.

  “—and broke in half almost immediately. Some six or eight got into one of the lifeboats, but the other boat was carried off by a wave, in the confusion. The alarm guns had gone off at the Castle, but it was far too rough for the lifeboats from the Castle to get out to them—though to see it today, it is hard to imagine. But the desperate cries of the survivors attracted the notice of Grace Darling, who was the twenty-two-year-old daughter of the keeper of the Outer Ferne lighthouse; yes, that one. And just at daybreak, having spied living beings still clinging to the wreck, she and her father determined to attempt a rescue, despite the raging of the storm, and the mortal peril to themselves. By greatest courage, determination, and skill, the young heroine and her father rescued nine survivors from the rock, and carried them to the safety of the lighthouse—where the refugees had to remain for three days more, so fiercely did the storm rage on, before they could be brought ashore. Hers was a heart of oak!”