Oatcakes and Courage

by Grant-Smith, Joyce

  Oatcakes and Courage

  Oatcakes and Courage

  Joyce Grant-Smith

  Copyright © Joyce Grant-Smith and Quattro Books Inc., 2013

  The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise stored in an electronic retrieval system without the prior consent (as applicable) of the individual author or the designer, is an infringement of the copyright law.

  The publication of Oatcakes and Courage has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

  Author’s photograph: Les Smith

  Cover photo: Les Smith

  Cover design: Sarah Beaudin

  Editor: John Calabro

  Typography: Grey Wolf Typography

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Grant-Smith, Joyce

  Oatcakes and courage / Joyce Grant-Smith.

  Also issued in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-927443-32-3

  ISBN (EPUB) 978-1-927443-33-0

  1. Scots--Nova Scotia--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS8613.R3675O28 2013 C813’.6 C2013-900402-5

  Published by Quattro Books Inc.

  382 College Street

  Toronto, Ontario, M5T 1S8

  www.quattrobooks.ca

  For my father,

  Freeman John Grant

  Chapter 1

  “I CANNOT,” ANNE MURMURED over and over.

  She sat atop a craggy hill overlooking the head of Loch Broom. The loch curved and stretched in a sinuous line toward the western horizon. A stiff westerly breeze whipped slate blue waves into frothy whitecaps. Some of Anne’s auburn curls escaped from under her hood and she let them writhe, unheeded, about her face.

  She asked the wind, “How could Father have promised me to James MacDonald? Even if he’d been deep into his cups, how could he think of such a thing?” The uncaring wind continued on its way.

  MacDonald shared the shape and bearing of the great sour boars that he raised. He’d been married twice before and both his wives had died in childbirth. Rumours had gone about the village that the unfortunate wives had carried bruises on their bellies, backs and legs from his hammy fists, and so it was no wonder they’d bled terribly during birthing. Anne didn’t doubt the rumours for a moment.

  And now, her father had promised her to that brute in marriage! To have to keep house for such a slovenly pig…! She shuddered. She couldn’t bear to think of the other wifely duties he would expect of her.

  If only her mother was still alive, this would never have happened. Mother would not have consented to a betrothal to that horrible MacDonald, regardless of his land or his money or his prize pigs.

  She sat and brooded till the sun hung low over the loch, spilling rays of gold and crimson across the waves.

  “I would rather die,” she declared, her face set and grim.

  However, it was not suicide that she was contemplating. A desperate plan, yes. And perhaps fatal when all was said and done. But one worth the risk.

  She went home and waited her chance, careful not to let her father see any change in her. She kept to her chores, speaking only when spoken to, and so her father and older brothers paid her no heed.

  One summer evening, when Anne’s father returned from the pub smelling of whisky and pipe tobacco, he announced, “I’m going to Inverness.”

  “Oh, aye?” Anne replied.

  “Tomorrow. To do some trading.”

  “Are you going alone?” Anne asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Nay. I’m taking the boys with me.”

  Anne suppressed a smile. With her brothers William and John gone, her plan would be simple. “Will you be gone long?” Anne kept her eyes downcast and her voice even, though her heart was leaping.

  “Fortnight. No more. Your Aunt Sarah will be keeping an eye on you, don’t you worry.”

  “I’ll pack your things, then. And some food for the trip.”

  “Thank you, lass,” her father said, almost kindly. He peered, blurry-eyed, at her for a moment. “You remind me so…” He shook his head, and bent to pull off his boots. His voice had a gruff edge as he continued. “We’ll be having the wedding when I get back.”

  Anne swallowed the panic that welled up in her throat. She hurried to her father’s room to pack his clothes.

  Anne wore a mask of detachment as her father, Will and John bade her farewell the next morning, but her heart pounded.

  George Grant and his sons had no more than left sight of the farm when Anne threw her cloak about her shoulders. She rushed from the cottage, down a muddy track, and into the tiny village. She hurried along the narrow rutted road, past low cottages, an alehouse, and the butcher’s, to the blacksmith’s shop.

  A bed of coals winked in the forge. Seeing no one within the shop, Anne stepped back outside and scanned about, her hand shielding her eyes from the bright morning sunlight. Coming toward her from the village well, a wooden bucket in each hand, was Ian MacLeod. He was a slim, dark young man, wide through the shoulders, and tall.

  “Ian!” she called.

  He looked up, and seeing her, smiled. Then the smile dissolved as quickly as it appeared.

  “‘Morning,” he mumbled as he sidled by her into the shop. He set the buckets down, laid wood on the fire, and turned to the bellows. With a practiced rhythm, he fanned the embers. They danced into a sizzling red glow.

  Anne followed Ian inside and regarded him, her arms crossed about her waist.

  “I guess you heard,” she said.

  “The whole village is talking of it.”

  Anne stepped closer and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Ian, I do not want to.”

  His eyes met hers, wordlessly, sad as a hound’s.

  She repeated, “I do not want to.”

  “But your father…”

  “I know,” she interrupted, her voice bitter. “He must owe MacDonald money. Why else would he do such a thing?” Her hands dropped to her sides, clenched in fists.

  “Well, MacDonald does have land, and those prize hogs…”

  Anne snorted in a most unladylike way.

  “When do…When will you…?” Ian stammered wretchedly.

  “He expects me to marry in a fortnight.”

  Ian paled. “So soon.”

  “I will not marry him, Ian. I’d rather die,” Anne whispered.

  Ian turned and sat heavily on the anvil, his hands clasped between his knees. “You have no choice, lass.”

  Anne took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. She came to stand in front of Ian, so close that her homespun skirt brushed his knees. “Are you still planning to leave, Ian?”

  He looked up at her, startled, confused by her question. “Aye. There’s naught here for me. The third son… I’ll get nothing. John Ross says I can have a better life. I’ll be able to own my own land! I can make something of myself.”

  “Take me with you.”

  Ian sprang to his feet, nearly knocking Anne over backward. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Are you daft? I can’t do that!”

  “Shh! Don’t shout it to the whole village.”

  Ian was shaking his head and her shoulders in silent denial.

  “Just escort me to the ship,” she said calmly, as if it were a reasonable request.

  “I can’t do that. Your father would…”

  “I must leave. You can see that. To stay is unthinkable.”

  “If we get caught, I’ll be a dead goose. And you…”

  “We won’t get caught. We’ll leave right away.” Her voice was a harsh whisper. “Father and the boys are away to Inverness. They won’t know till it’s too
late. You are going soon, are you not?”

  Ian nodded. “On the morrow. I was going to come and say good-bye…”

  “By the time my father returns, we’ll be long gone. He’ll never catch us.”

  “Lass, do you know what you are asking?” Ian exclaimed. He stood motionless, his dark eyes boring into hers, his hands heavy on her shoulders.

  She returned his gaze. “Ian, I cannot stay. I will not stay and become the wife of that … that brute. If you will not take me, then I will leave on my own.”

  Ian saw the fear and the determination in her chestnut eyes. He swallowed loudly.

  “We’ll be on the ship before he gets back from Inverness. Then what could he do? Even if he found out where I’d gone, what could he do?”

  “You’ve got me into a lot of scrapes, Anne Grant. But this time… Do you know what you’re asking?” he repeated.

  She stepped back from him. “Maybe too much.” She regarded him for a long, silent moment, then turned and stepped to the doorway. She paused and said over her shoulder, “I am going to leave, Ian. Tonight. I’ll wait till dark, so no one will see me go. I would feel safer if it was with you. But I am going.” With that, she hurried back up the track.

  Anne started to throw things into a sack as soon as she returned to the cottage. First, warm clothes and a wool blanket. Then oatcakes and cheese. She found a haunch of smoked pork in the larder, and realizing that it came from MacDonald’s farm, refused to touch it.

  She hurried into her father’s room, to the wooden chest that stood in the corner. She threw a blanket from its lid. It hadn’t been opened since they had packed away her mother’s few treasures, after her death.

  As Anne lifted the heavy lid, the smell that had always lingered around her mother – heather and soap and the salt air off the loch – enveloped Anne. She stifled a sob. She took a deep, steadying breath, and reached inside, moving aside garments.

  At last she found what she sought. She pulled out a small emerald-coloured pouch, hand-sewn and embroidered with delicate stitches. She traced a finely crafted thistle with her finger, then parted the drawstring and tipped the pouch. Into her skirt fell three coins.

  Her mother had left the money to Anne. That chill March morning, lying in her bed, buried in quilts and blankets, Mother had pressed them into Anne’s hand, her fingers as frail as a bird’s claw. “If you ever have need,” she had said, “it will be here for you. Even though I cannot be.” It was the last thing her mother had said to her. The fever had taken her soon afterward.

  Anne brushed the back of her hand across her cheeks. She secured the coins back in the pouch and nestled it in her bodice. She carefully closed the lid on the chest and replaced the blanket.

  Anne thought about going to see Aunt Sarah one last time, to say good-bye. Aunt Sarah had been good to her, in her own way, and would fret over her disappearance. Anne couldn’t blame her for being afraid of George Grant and his fits of temper. But Anne dared not risk the visit. Sarah might just send for her father and foil her one chance to flee.

  She ate a supper of cold chicken and black bread and waited for dusk.

  Finally, the Evening Star glimmered above the hills. Anne pulled on the best boots she could find – they had been Mother’s – and she took her warmest wool cloak. She hefted her bag and left the cottage, closing the door firmly behind her. She gazed out over the loch. She had had many happy years here growing up. But when her mother died, everything seemed to change. The laughter in the house had died with her.

  Anne squared her shoulders and started down the path with a determined step. She hoped to reach Ullapool by morning.

  A dark form stepped from the cover of a roadside hedge and loomed before Anne. Every hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Anne uttered a terrified squawk, then swung her bag of belongings from her shoulder and spun on her heel, hammering the bag against the side of the intruder’s head.

  The dark form staggered and collapsed. “Anne!” a voice choked.

  She gasped and dropped her bundle. She fell to her knees in front of the prone man.

  “Ian!” Anne exclaimed, her voice relieved and reproachful. “You gave me a scare. My heart almost stopped.”

  “What do you have in that bag, lass? Stones?” Ian asked, sitting up and rubbing his temple gingerly.

  “I am so sorry, Ian, but you startled me.”

  He waved her away and came slowly to his feet. He flexed his neck and shoulders, then peered at Anne in the dim light of the summer stars. Anne picked up Ian’s hat, dusted it off and passed it back to him. He placed it very gently on his head.

  “So you really mean to leave,” he said.

  “I do.”

  Ian nodded and without another word, took up her bundle and placed it over his shoulder. He stooped to grab another bundle from the roadside.

  “Ian, I…”

  “You have to go, and I can’t very well let you roam around the Highlands by yourself, now can I? Even if you are able to bludgeon poor unsuspecting wayfarers to the ground.”

  Anne’s cheeks grew warm. She grinned sheepishly.

  Ian continued, “Besides, we’re going the same way, seems like. So, there’s naught else to say.”

  Anne reached out and touched his hand. She was so grateful, tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, Ian. I am very glad for your company.”

  Anne turned her back upon the only home she’d ever known and set off with Ian toward Ullapool.

  Chapter 2

  THE FIRST HOUR OR so of their journey was a pleasant walk in the country. Anne might have pretended they were out for a midnight stroll. But as the night wore on, the hills grew steeper, the road more rutted and muddy, the wind more chill. Anne settled her cloak around her shoulders and pulled it close.

  Ian would not let her carry either bundle, and after they had walked for three hours, Anne had to admit that she was glad. She was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. The boots were chafing her feet; she was sure she had blisters on her heels. She gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  “I am not going back,” she thought. “Bleeding heels are a small price to pay for getting out of that marriage.”

  She let the words “I am not going back,” echo in her mind like a chant as she trudged doggedly along the dark road.

  Lake Broom lay on their left as they made their way coastward. The track skirted the shore much of the way, although at times they climbed through passes that took them out of sight of the ribbon of lead-coloured water.

  Inky clouds blew in and snuffed out the stars. It became hard to see the ruts in the track. Anne began to stumble.

  Ian halted when she nearly fell face-first into a puddle. Only his quick, steadying arm prevented a very messy tumble.

  “We need to rest a bit,” Ian said. He peered into the night. “Down there. We could sit under those beech trees for a while and have a bite to eat.”

  Anne was sure he could have travelled on all night without rest, but she was too tired and sore to argue. “Aye, that would be grand.”

  They carefully made their way off the road and down to the grove of trees. To Anne’s delight, there was a narrow stream running beneath the beeches. While Ian unpacked some black bread and cheese from his pack, she peeled off her boots and stockings and slipped her feet into the cold water.

  Ian sat down and passed her a chunk of bread and a slice of cheese. Then he glanced at her feet. “Ach! Anne, why didn’t you say your feet were…?”

  “It’s fine, Ian. I’ll just soak them a bit, and they’ll be all right.”

  Ian took hold of one foot and drew it out of the water. He held it close to his face. “This is not all right. It’s a wonder you can walk at all.”

  “What choice have I got? I have to keep going,” Anne said, her chin lifting.

  Ian sighed. “Well, we’ll have to bandage them before we go on. Otherwise you’ll be crawling before we reach Ullapool.”

  Anne pulled her foot away from Ian’
s grip and slid it back into the numbing chill of the stream.

  They ate in silence. When Ian finished, he brushed the crumbs off his shirt and then dug through the bags. At last, he pulled Anne’s spare petticoat from her bundle.

  “What are you doing?” Anne asked.

  Ian inspected the petticoat a moment, then swiftly tore a strip from the hem.

  Anne squawked, “What are you doing!?”

  “Making you a bandage. For your feet.” Ian ripped a second strip from the undergarment.

  “That’s my best petticoat!” Anne yelped.

  “It was,” Ian said. “Dry off your feet. Then I’ll wrap them for you.”

  Anne lifted her feet from the stream and huffily dried them on her cloak. She sulked as Ian wound the remnants of the petticoat around her heels. Then he eased her stockings and boots over the bandages.

  “How does that feel?” he asked.

  Anne wanted to be cross with him. But her feet were more comfortable. And he looked so concerned, she couldn’t stay annoyed. She sighed. “Better. Thank you.”

  “Ready to go on? We have about four leagues to go, I think, before Ullapool.”

  Anne stood. “Aye, ready.”

  Ian helped Anne to her feet, picked up their packs, and led them back to the road. They climbed a long hill, and as they crested it, the eastern horizon was smudged with a creamy glow.

  “Soon be sunrise,” Ian said. “It may be raining by then.”

  They passed sheepcotes and cottages. The wind picked up and began to snap Anne’s cape around her legs. As Ian had predicted, the dawn was a wet one. At first, it was a heavy mist, driven by the breeze, but soon it changed to a steady rain, hammering at the right side of their faces. Ian drew his cloak over his shoulders. They ducked their heads into their hoods and tramped on.

  Before noon, they came to an inn, The Broom. Its stone walls and creaking wooden sign looked impervious to change or the weather.

  “You’re soaked to the bone,” Ian said. “We’re only about a league outside of Ullapool. Why not stop here and dry off? Maybe get a hot meal.”