The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  There were a few with the surname of MacKay, I noted—an older man, Tosh MacKay, Mr. MacKay’s uncle, who was perhaps in his fifties, and his son, Angus, both from a place called Inshore. Next was a ginger-haired young man named Jamie MacKay—another cousin, I assumed—who lived south of Kervaig along the river. There was Liam Ross, a small, rather shy young man whose wide, unblinking dark eyes were focused just below my neck. Next to him stood two other men, in their mid-twenties, Archie and Hector Gilchrist of Archiemore, both brothers smiling with a vigor I seldom saw. And then there was a Danny MacDonald of Durness, another family man, with a wife and children who lived cape-side now, a former-fisherman-turned-ferryman shuttling folks across the Kyle of Durness. Just how he got along with Mr. Campbell, I was uncertain, for I never heard the man spoken of before.

  “Gentlemen, ’tis a pleasure,” I said, acknowledging all the kind wishes by dropping into a courtly curtsey.

  “Miss Stevenson,” began the man named Tosh, a burly creature with deep-set brown eyes and a face reminiscent of a bear. He then pointed accusingly to the cliff where the lighthouse stood. “Are ye the daughter o’ the man that puit that there?”

  “The lighthouse, do you mean? I am, sir, though if truth be told, I was never consulted on the matter, so I’m as innocent in this as are you. Or were you, by chance, one of the masons on the project? I have to admit it’s rather a fine-looking structure; wonderfully sound, and the lantern’s pure genius. What’s more, I was told the buildings are of granite quarried from nearby Clash Carnoch, and a finer granite I’ve never seen.”

  The man, taken aback that a woman could use so many words with nary a breath in between, shyly acknowledged that he wasn’t. “I’m but a shepherd, is all. No mason, ma’am.”

  “A shepherd? You say it as if the responsibility demeans you. Being a shepherd is a fine vocation, Tosh. May I call you Tosh? Was not our beloved Jesus the gentle shepherd himself, tending his flock with brotherly love? I’m pleased to see that you are a man not only concerned with the wee beasties in your care but all who pass under your cautious eye as well.” The rest of the men were speechless, looking rather nervous by this broad assumption. Mr. Campbell, I could see, was fighting a rueful smile. Robbie, wise man that he was, stood motionless, apparently sensing that something unseemly was about to unfold before his eyes.

  “Mr. Campbell, dear sir,” I said, coming beside him and taking his arm as if it were the most natural thing between us, much to his surprise. “I have a letter to post, as you well know, but before I do, tell me, what was this talk of Napoleon just now?”

  He smiled dotingly, wonderfully convincing, and replied, “Why, my dear, Mr. MacKay has informed me the wee emperor escaped his prison in Elba in February and is now marching on Paris. Imagine that! And all of France is coming to his aid. ’Twould appear as if the war is not over yet. Ye should be safe enough, Miss Stevenson, never doubt it for a moment, but our shipping will continue to be harassed by French men-of-war and privateers alike, not to mention the increase in activity. All the more reason to be prepared.”

  “Oh yes, one must always be prepared. And speaking of such, why aren’t the boats in the water yet? I thought you told me that was your task this morning. And you always have so much to do.” I looked at the men. “Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to give the keepers a hand, I would be forever in your debt. I have an appointment to keep, and I do so hate to be late.”

  “Ma’am?” began Mr. MacKay, looking crossly at Mr. Campbell, while Mr. Campbell, in turn, was looking curiously at me. “Hughie was waitin’ for ye with the cart. He’s volunteered tae take ye to our home.”

  “Yes, that was very kind of him, but I already sent him along with Mrs. MacKinnon.” Robbie’s cinnamon brows drew together at the mention of his young wife left solely in the care of the precocious ten-year-old; his deep blue gaze bore into mine unnervingly. “Oh, never worry, Mr. MacKinnon,” I said with a knowing grin. “Young Master MacKay tells me he’s an old hand at driving the cart. I just hope he stays on the parve road; these cliffs are treacherously high. Anyhow, I tell you this because Mr. Campbell, dear man, has already promised to pull me to Kervaig Bay in one of the boats. I was counting on a few of you good men to take a turn at the oars. I probably shouldn’t mention this, but I’ve got a guinea riding on the fact that I’m going to beat young Master MacKay home.” I looked around at the new faces; some regarded me suspiciously while others were watching the performance with open awe. I smiled mischievously. “And I’ll put another guinea to every man of the boat team that can get me there first!”

  Though it was a low, shameless ploy, it worked like a charm. The younger men, men eager and hungry for gold, bolted to the boats first, as if in a hill race, kicking up stones with their boot heels while their coattails flapped in the steady March breeze as they called for the others to help them launch.

  I let go of Mr. Campbell’s arm. “There, my end of the bargain is complete. Now, sir, I suggest you and Robbie each coxswain one of the crafts. I wouldn’t trust shepherds with the task.” And without waiting for him to answer, I escaped his grasp and headed down to the end of the pier, letter in hand, where I intended to place it in the postbox.

  In truth, I had little hope that it would be picked up before Friday, but I felt compelled to give it a chance. The mysterious little package had blindsided me this morning, wounding me beyond words, yet it intrigued me as well. And there was a driving force within me that needed answers. I would not rest until I knew how and why the watch had been returned, and where on earth Thomas Crichton really was. My hand came away from the postbox as I uttered a little prayer for its swift delivery to Mr. Alexander Seawell of Oxford, England. Unconsciously my hand went over my heart. I felt the little John Roger Arnold chronometer ticking away, tucked deep within the confines of my swollen breasts, the steady rhythm giving me a small comfort.

  By the time I headed back to the strand the lighthouse boats were already in the water and the men were taking their places on the benches as if they knew the drill quite well already.

  “Miss Stevenson, come with us!” cried the Gilchrist brothers excitedly as they sat on the first bench in front of Robbie, hands on their oars, with Liam Ross’ and Danny MacDonald’s on the other set. “We’re your men! We’ll get ye there first!” I smiled and was about to take them up on the offer when I looked and saw that Mr. Campbell was about to take his seat in the stern of the first cutter, much to the chagrin of the oarsmen—all of them MacKays. The oars, having already been shipped in the pintles, were standing at the ready. The men fell silent. Hands came away and the oars dropped unceremoniously into the water. My eyes held to Mr. Campbell then, as he sat by the tiller, straight-backed and with stoic calm. If he was disturbed by the behavior of the MacKays he didn’t show it. In fact, I could tell that his focus was not on them; it was glued to the dangerous breakers that rolled just beyond the cove. And in my silent study I saw what the men of Cape Wrath feared. Though the face of the light-keeper was strangely blank as he peered at the open water, there passed just beneath the surface of the blanched skin a dark tremor. It was the shadow of doubt—perhaps fear even—and it made the pale eyes all the more spectacularly wild and chilling.

  Mr. Campbell was revisiting the demons that plagued him.

  The silence in the first cutter was not lost in the exuberant mood of the second boat. They too became quiet, watching and waiting.

  Pity, a feeling somewhat foreign to me, arose. And strangely I felt my heart go out to the lonely recluse. “Gentlemen,” I began, almost reflexively, turning to the men of the first boat. “I thank you kindly for the offer, but I believe I shall have to decline. I promised to go with Mr. Campbell, and in Mr. Campbell’s boat I shall go. Do forgive me.”

  “’Tis an unwise choice if ye do, lassie!” Archibald Gilchrist warned, and I could see by the look on his face he meant it. “Ye’ll be lucky tae get there alive!”

  The mood had so quickly shifted. Gone was my triumph
ant wager and in its place reared the ugly head of Highland superstition. And Mr. Campbell’s sudden recidivism to a darker personality was not helping his cause whatsoever. Without much choice I retorted with, “Well, bless me, but I am a gambling soul. And I will double the wager that I not only arrive safely at Kervaig Bay, but also be in the boat that touches first. I put my faith and my life in Mr. Campbell’s capable hands!” I looked pointedly at the light-keeper. With the slightest of movements he shook his head, his lips pulled into a grimace, silently warning me to rescind the offer. I ignored him and added, purely for the sake of spite, “The first boat to touch the sands will receive two guineas for every man, coxswain included.” And then, without another thought on the matter, I ran to the first boat and climbed aboard. There, I took my place beside Mr. Campbell, with the tiller between us. I looked at him and tried to convey through a smile all the confidence I had mustered for my speech. His eyes, haunting and lucid, only darkened.

  “By God, what kind of fool are ye?” he uttered, a mixture of puzzlement and pain in his words. “Ye should not be here at all, Miss Stevenson. May God have mercy on your stubborn, foolish wee soul! I know what you’re doing, but you obviously do not. I insist that ye leave the boat at once.” His words, thankfully, were inaudible to the others, due to a crashing wave. The surf was picking up.

  “You’ve uttered many such sentiments since I’ve come to Cape Wrath, and you are undoubtedly correct, sir. However, I am not leaving this boat. We made a bargain the other night … remember?”

  “You know very well I never asked for this.”

  “You asked for help … likely the hardest thing you’ve ever done, asking someone like me for help, so I know how important this is to you. And it’s important to me as well. You think me frivolous and weak-willed. Well maybe I am, but once I make a vow I take it seriously. You need me beside you. These men need to see it too. So, if you’re quite done berating me, I’ll thank you to say not another word on the matter and order the boat to shove off. I’ve a lot of money riding on this little venture and I’d be hard-pressed to part with more than I can spare.”

  The look he cast, one of pinched incredulity, was strangely fortifying, likely so because he knew I was right. Without another word, or look in my direction, he gave the order and the boat was pushed off the strand and into the cold waters of the cove. The four rowers pulled on the oars with an energy spawned by captive fear as they fought to clear the growing surf with a pariah at the helm. They knew the next hundred yards would be the hardest won.

  When the boat was coaxed onto a course where her bow was pointed directly into the oncoming waves, Mr. Campbell leaned over and inquired with feigned politeness, just after cold spume hit my face: “Are ye comfortable?”

  “Very,” I replied prettily, wiping my face with the sleeve of my coat.

  “I don’t mean physically, Miss Stevenson.” Although he offered a polite smile, his eyes were hurtfully sardonic. “What I mean is, are ye comfortable gambling away money ye don’t have?” At that moment the tiller lurched, and he paused to correct our course, crying out as he did so, “Angus, lad, pull harder, aye?”

  “What makes you think I don’t have money?” I replied sweetly, unwilling to let him see how his indifference hurt me. “I’m a fallen woman, not a pauper, you know.” My boldness shocked him, as I suspected it would. And, God help me, I liked shocking him. “However,” I continued, smiling not at him but the men at the oars, “I might have overestimated my funds. I’m not quick with numbers. So, I believe it would be best if we arrive first or I’ll have to take a small loan from you, and I should warn you, I might not be able to pay you back.”

  He gave me a sideways glance, uncertain how to respond to this, and then, as if fighting the urge, a glimmer of a smile touched his lips. This weakening of his impenetrable defenses was enough to compel me to continue. “You’ll recall that I’m not exactly in good standing with my family? I’m sure Kate has told you that I was about to run off to Gretna Green with a sailor—the same man I gave the timepiece to. It was convenient for my parents that he didn’t have the nerve to show up and coerce me into a foolishly unsuitable marriage. But they’re still plenty disappointed. And after having been ‘saved’ from one evil, I doubt very much they’d send me money to perpetuate another, like gambling. But you’re a working man, and a pinchbeck spendthrift, at that. You’ll have some gold put by, I’ll wager?”

  “Some,” he said, and although he didn’t smile, I could tell that my frank admission, under the pretext of idle chatter, had touched him a little deeper than he imagined it would. “And I’m not a pinchbeck.” It was said a little defensively. “I prefer the term ‘frugal.’ But all the same, I don’t like losing money in foolish bets.”

  “Well then, you best get these men to pull harder.”

  I was awarded a begrudging smile, and then, as the mesmerizing aquamarine eyes turned with reluctance from me to the men at the oars, Mr. Campbell set his whole being to navigating the rescue boat.

  It was roughly a three-mile pull to Kervaig Bay. The wind, thankfully, was at our backs on this day, one oddly reminiscent of the first time I had sailed along under the shadow of the spectacular Clo Mor Cliffs. The temperature was nearly the same as it had been in early November; the day just as gray but without the cloaking fog. And the seawater, much to my chagrin, was still freezing. Yet it was my mood that was much altered this time. No longer was I afraid of Cape Wrath and isolation. No longer did I detest my sorrowful plight and the presence of Kate. And most unsettling of all was the knowledge that the man sitting next to me was becoming oddly familiar. And I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t now relish having the upper hand on him. Yet an unwavering fact remained, and that was, try as I might, my heart and soul still belonged to Thomas Crichton.

  Once both crafts had safely cleared the breakers, and were beyond the point at which the waves broke in upon themselves, I had time to marvel at the skill of both crews. For if Mr. Campbell was correct, most of these men were shepherds, living on the undulating moorland high above the sea. Yet he must have had some inkling they were familiar with these waters or he never would have induced them to ply the oars. The sea was relatively calm, but in a storm it would be a different matter.

  Cutting through the breakers, the second boat, with Robbie at the tiller, had pulled ahead, the young men having more muscle and vigor than the MacKay men. Their strokes were coming at a quicker cadence, their rowing deep and synchronized, and being caught up in the moment, and knowing I stood to lose fourteen guineas on the bet (not an insubstantial sum), I could not help myself from standing up and cheering my team on with a cry of: “Heave! Heave! Heave hearty, MacKays!”

  This, I immediately realized, was a terrible mistake. For my excitement, imprudent and unchecked as it was, caused the boat to rock dangerously. At the same time a mighty swell hit us on the larboard side, shifting the precarious equilibrium of the boat that much more. My balance, compromised all the more by my burgeoning pregnancy, was not what it once was and I stumbled to starboard, taking the whole boat with me. My legs gave out. My hands flung wide to brace myself for the impact against the gunwale. My hip crashed against the tiller on the way down and my bonnet was thrown from my head. In a wild tangle of clothing and loose hair I toppled sideways toward the frigid water. Yet before I ever reached the sea I was grabbed from behind in a bone-crushing grip. And before I could take another breath I found myself firmly seated in the lap of Mr. Campbell.

  His hold on me was so tight I could barely breathe, but I was grateful for it. And when I turned to look at him—thankful, relieved, yet with a heart still lurching wildly in my chest—I caught a look of fear in his eyes that made mine seem pale by comparison.

  Whether it was from the thought of losing me, or the thought of another unfortunate accident before these suspicious witnesses, I could not tell. The truth was, his fast actions had saved me. I was about to utter my sincere thanks when I realized that as quickly as his
fear had risen, it had turned to white hot anger; and it was only natural that I was the recipient of his wrath. But before so many watching eyes—eyes wide with unholy suspicion—the wily light-keeper chose another punishment for me, and that was the punishment of his forced affections. His grip tightened, preventing me from taking a full breath. “I think,” he began while fighting his raging breath, “that I shall keep ye on my lap so you will not get it into your pretty little head to stand in my boat again.” And then he smiled mischievously for the sake of the men.

  “I think … I’ve learned … my lesson,” I insisted, pushing against his solid chest while fighting for breath, all the while attempting to appear as if I liked the man.

  “Have ye?” Although he was smiling, there lived in his eyes a private warning. “Good. Then ye can think of it as my reward for not letting ye go into the water. It’s deathly cold, and ye gave the men a great fright.”

  “If that is your wish, than I shall let you,” I replied, hoping I sounded convincing enough for the attentive ears pricked in our direction. My fingers were covertly attempting to break his viselike grip on me so I could breathe again. “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to navigate with such a great weight pinning you down. Look,” I said, pointing to the other boat, which was pulling far ahead. All heads turned. “They’re beating us.”

  “Gentlemen,” cried Mr. Campbell with renewed purpose, his mind, no doubt, on his own wallet. “What are ye waiting for? Grab hold of your oars and pull!”

  This, thankfully, the men did, for they too, no doubt, were thinking of their wallets. And once the hearty men of clan MacKay were again on course, Mr. Campbell turned to me and whispered in my ear, “Your impulsivity has managed to widen the gap for the lads nicely. And every attempt you made to ease their minds about embarking on such an endeavor with me nearly went by the boards. I shall pray ye use better judgment in the future, Miss Stevenson.” And then, with one final squeeze to emphasize his words, he released me.