Oatcakes and Courage

by Grant-Smith, Joyce

  “What do we know what a man would do for money?”

  “We should force him to turn around. We’re only a few days out of Scotland.”

  “To go back to what, Alex? I’m for going forward, no matter the risks, rather than go back to that life. There is naught there for me now.”

  The icy hand on Anne’s heart returned, squeezing until she felt she could not breathe. She looked out over the vastness of the ocean. A cold sweat trickled down her spine as she thought of the rotting hulk she stood upon. It was all that separated her from the fathomless depths.

  Her stomach clenched. Her head spun. She sat on the damp deck, put her head on her knees, and wrapped her arms over her head. Her breath came in small hiccuping sobs.

  Ian found her there some time later. He sat next to her and put a warm arm around her shoulders. He did not speak for a long while. At last he said quietly, “I don’t believe the captain would risk us all if he didn’t believe the ship was up to the voyage, lass. What choice do we have but to trust in his judgment?”

  Anne raised her tear-streaked face to gaze into his eyes. “I am so afraid.”

  “I know. I know.” He held her tightly in both arms, giving her something solid and warm to cling to.

  John MacKay listened to the frightened talk for a time. Then he took out his bagpipes. He began with a sad, slow ballad. Then he played a couple of rallying marches. Eventually he switched to some rollicking dance tunes.

  The music stirred the Scots as words could not have done. The pipes raised their spirits, gave them courage, and reminded them why they were on this journey. There were risks, yes, but were they not off to a better life, a life of freedom?

  Lily Sutherland, the large matron, and her wiry little husband, John, were an odd looking couple, so when they got up to lead a few brave souls in dance, there was good-natured kidding and laughter. Others stood around the dancers, clapping their hands. The dour mood was broken.

  As he finished playing for supper, John MacKay glanced up at the captain’s cabin. Captain Spiers stood in his doorway. He nodded to the piper. John returned his nod. Then the captain returned to his cabin.

  Every day following that, once the morning chores were done, John MacKay brought out his pipes and played. The passengers delighted in singing and dancing to his music. Many days, once he put the pipes away, the men would set up an impromptu ring and stage wrestling matches. The women would cluck at this silliness until it was their own husband in the ring. Then they became quite serious supporters.

  The man it seemed impossible to beat was a blacksmith from Beauly, Roderick MacKay. Burly, dark, and with ox-like shoulders, he could not be pinned to the deck.

  One day, after a tough match against young Donald MacDonald, a scrappy sheep farmer from Nairn, Roderick sat and ate his lunch with Ian and Hugh. He finished off his loaf of bread and sat sipping his water, looking out over the endless sea. Idly, he pulled a large iron key from his pocket. Roderick held it in his hand, stroking it, as one might finger a lucky pebble.

  He said quietly, “They threw me in jail for having a still.”

  Ian and Hugh stopped chewing and listened. Roderick rarely spoke, and had never before talked about himself.

  “What Scot does not have whisky, I ask you? In Inverness they locked me up. I thought, Roderick boy, they are not going to leave you to rot in a cell. So I made friends with the jailer, see? One night, I says we should have a cuppa together. Sent him out for a bit of ale and whisky.”

  A small smile played on Roderick’s lips. He had a sip of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his massive hand, then continued.

  “Well, when the jailer come back, I was behind the door. I stepped out and grabbed him from behind. I snatched the key, and was out the door, quick as a cat. Locked the door, jailin’ the jailer. Kept the key.”

  Roderick caressed the key between his huge thumb and index finger, then stuffed it back in his pocket.

  “Hope they had another key to let the poor fool out. He was a decent sort, really. T’was a stout door on that cell, it was.”

  Roderick heaved himself to his feet and stomped off. Ian and Hugh looked at one another with wide eyes for a moment then burst out laughing.

  Chapter 6

  THE HECTOR HAD BEEN plowing through the North Atlantic for over two weeks. Although the weather had been damp much of that time, the winds had been fair. Life aboard the old vessel fell into a kind of loose routine.

  Morning chores were followed by a breakfast of dark bread and water. Then John MacKay pumped up his bagpipes and played for the passengers. Following that, the passengers tended to gather upon the deck, talking, playing games and watching that the children stayed out from under the feet of the crew. Sundays, the captain would lead the settlers in a morning of prayer.

  Lunch consisted of salt meat, oatcakes and water. Each settler was treated to gruel made of salt meat once a week. More chores were attended to and then rest time fell over the ship during the sultry afternoons.

  Supper was often a repeat of lunch. The food was tedious, but sustaining, Anne supposed. At times, it seemed that the salt meat stuck in her throat, it was so dry. The water did little to quench her thirst. It tasted of moldy wood.

  The settlers spent their evenings listening to John MacKay play his pipes or singing the ballads and hymns they loved.

  One chill, starlit evening, as Ian and Anne sat listening to the pipes, Ian said, “By now your father knows.”

  Anne didn’t have to ask what he meant. She had thought about her father and brothers every day. Aunt Sarah would have sent for them as soon as she’d discovered Anne was missing. Her father would know that she had run off as soon as he noticed the food and clothing gone. She wondered again about the tall thin rider.

  Ian reached out and took her hand in his. “Do you think he’ll keep looking for you?”

  “Maybe, in hopes of dragging me back for the wedding.”

  “What do you suppose he’ll do?” Ian asked. He looked out over the black, undulating waves, rather than at Anne.

  Anne thought for a moment. “He won’t want to deal with the shame of me running off. Probably he’ll tell people I’m dead. Fallen in the river or something.” She gave a rueful shrug. “I may drown yet,” she murmured.

  “Would you go back if you could?” Ian asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Anne shook her head. “Nay. I had to leave, Ian.”

  “You know,” Ian faltered, “I had thought… before your father offered you … once I got set up in Pictou…”

  Anne leaned forward to peer into Ian’s face. He glanced at her, then off into the night again. “Never mind,” he murmured.

  Anne regarded him for a long moment, trying to read his thoughts, then sat back and gazed at the stars as well.

  Many passengers slept on deck, not wanting to endure the stale, fetid air below. There were always ill settlers, confined to their bunks. Family members took turns sitting with them. Lily offered what nursing care she could.

  One morning when the wind tossed the waves into whitecaps, several settlers had heaving stomachs. They lay on their bunks, miserable with seasickness. Anne stood forward on deck, letting the chill breeze fan her face as she breathed deeply. As long as she stayed in the fresh air and gazed far out to the horizon, her stomach did not grumble too badly.

  Lily Sutherland came to stand next to her at the rail. She said nothing, but stared out over the waves. She held her cloak closely around her. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed.

  Anne put a questioning hand on Lily’s shoulder. This woman was usually a brick. Nothing perturbed her.

  Lily turned to Anne. A lone tear escaped the corner of her eye and slipped down her cheek. She hastily swept it away with the back of her hand.

  “What is it?” Anne whispered.

  Lily took a steadying breath and replied in a dull, quiet voice, “Isabel Fraser is sick.”

  Anne’s forehead furrowed. “Aye, she’s been
seasick since we left Loch Broom, and it’s rough today. A lot of us are seasick this morning…”

  “Nay,” Lily’s voice was firm but leaden. “She is not seasick.”

  “Not…?” Anne blanched. Not sure she really wanted to know, she asked hesitantly, “Then, what…?”

  “Smallpox.” The word dropped like a stone between them. “She has smallpox.”

  Anne gasped. “Nay! Are you sure?”

  Lily nodded. “Aye.”

  They stood regarding one another in horror.

  Anne finally said, “What do we do?”

  “I have told the captain. He asked that she be kept separate from the rest of the passengers and crew.” Lily snorted. “As if that were possible, in that crowded hold!”

  “Who is caring for her?” Anne asked.

  “Myself. Rebecca. Her husband, of course.”

  “You don’t think… oh, Lily…. You don’t think others will…?”

  Lily gazed at Anne sadly. “In that stinking hold with no fresh air, and with us packed in like herring in a barrel? I don’t see how others cannot get sick.”

  Anne shivered violently and pulled her cloak closer about her.

  “I must go back down. Thomas means well, but he is not much of a nurse. Perhaps you could bring me some bread and water in a while?”

  Anne nodded, and gave Lily a squeeze on her arm before the matron trudged below to her sick charge.

  By noon, everyone on board knew of Isabel’s illness. A panic worse than the fear of the Hector’s rotten timbers spread like a wave. A leaky boat was one thing. Smallpox among them was silent, lurking, deadly.

  A few of the passengers were smallpox survivors or had had cowpox. They volunteered to help care for Isabel and to clean her area of the hold. But many passengers huddled on the deck, refusing to go below for any reason lest they come in contact with the disease.

  By nightfall, it was evident that Jean, Isabel’s teenage daughter, was also taken with the smallpox. She lay on her bunk, burning with fever. Lily sponged her brow with a wet cloth and prayed late into the night.

  Katherine lay huddled on deck, her three girls nestled against her, their blankets and cloaks wrapped around them to shield them from the cold. Her sister-in-law, Elspie, was nearby with her three boys, tucked together like a litter of kittens. Elspie was a stout little woman, with apple cheeks and dark wispy hair.

  Katherine whispered, so the girls would not wake, “Oh Anne, I am so afraid. What if my babies get sick? What if…?”

  Anne reached out in the darkness and found Katherine’s cold hand. She squeezed her fingers.

  Katherine held tightly to Anne, like a drowning person clinging to a proffered rope. “They are all I have, my girls. They are everything to me.”

  “I know.”

  Katherine murmured a prayer and then fell into a fretful sleep, still grasping Anne’s hand.

  A hush, like the quiet of a funeral, fell over the ship. Passengers spoke in whispers when they spoke at all. John MacKay continued to play his pipes each morning, but his music was respectfully quiet and sober. There were no games, and any singing was that of psalms and hymns.

  The captain made rounds of the sick every morning and evening, offering advice, medicines, and comfort where he could.

  Lily Sutherland stayed with Isabel and Jean each night, while Rebecca Patterson and Mary MacLeod nursed them through the days. They bathed the Fraser women’s fevered brows and had them drink what they would. Everyone aboard waited and prayed.

  Finally, on the eighth day, Mary came on deck and quietly told Thomas that Jean’s fever had passed; she seemed to be over the worst. He nodded solemnly, then turned to the rail so others could not see tears of relief spill down his cheeks.

  The following night, Isabel’s fever broke. She had suffered far more than her daughter. Her age and the weeks of seasickness had taken their toll. But it looked like the disease had run its course and with luck, Isabel would survive.

  The passengers heaved a great sigh of relief. The mood on the ship was almost celebratory. Another crisis had come and gone.

  Or so they thought. Two days later during a rosy dawn, the settlers were shocked into wakefulness by a cry of terrible anguish. Anne and Ian were among the passengers who rushed to the hold. They found Mary MacLeod weeping and tearing at her hair. Young George lay limply on his bunk, wracked with fever.

  Like panicked cattle, settlers backed away and escaped up the ladder. A few men and women went to Mary to comfort her and to offer aid to the sick child. Lily Sutherland’s face was lined and grim as she took Mary by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.

  “Don’t fall apart, Mary. He needs you right now.”

  Then Lily ordered James MacLeod to bring her water and clean cloths and she sent the rest of the people away.

  As Anne turned to go back up on deck, she heard Mary declare, “If I had known I was going to make my boy sick, I never would have nursed that woman….”

  Anne tried to stifle her sobs but by the time she reached the deck, she was crying freely. Where would this all lead?

  For once, Ian did not seem to have any encouraging words. He stood beside her, his hand on hers, his eyes on the endless ocean.

  That day, several canvases were stretched in corners upon the deck, making haphazard tents. Some of the settlers swore they would not return to the diseased hold for the remainder of the voyage, no matter what the weather.

  Master Orr bellowed at the settlers to move their messes from the deck. They were in the way of the crew as they were performing their duties, couldn’t they see that? Eventually, a sort of stalemate was reached; the passengers found places where Master Orr wouldn’t be tripping over them. They huddled anxiously in their makeshift shelters.

  The first real storm hit three days later. The Hector trembled as waves smashed into her and crashed over her deck. The crew scrambled to take down sails and secure the rigging.

  The most adamant settler, who had said he’d never set foot in the disease-laden hold again, was forced below. To remain on deck was an invitation to be swept out to sea.

  The crew closed the hatch, to prevent seawater from pouring in, but still, water washed down from above. Crewmen laboured at the bilge pump.

  Children cried, sometimes shrieking in fear when the ship pitched wildly down a colossal wave. Mothers held little ones tightly, openly crying themselves. The men fell into grim silence or took to swearing or praying.

  Anne and Ian wedged themselves together on their bunk, braced against the tossing of the ship. Anne glanced once through the gloom toward the MacLeod family. James had tied George into the bunk with some rope. He and Mary sat on the edge of the bed, holding a dismal vigil. They found it nearly impossible to even keep a cool cloth on George’s fevered forehead. The water bucket had tipped over and rolled away.

  With every creak and groan the vessel made, Anne felt sure it would fall to pieces, cracking open like a smashed egg, spilling them all into the merciless ocean. She had nothing left in her stomach. Her heart was in her throat, choking her. She thought she would die of fright if Ian were not braced against her.

  The terrifying, pounding night seemed to be never-ending. Anne thought that Hell could not be more horrible, more agonizing, than this suffocating black hold as it was torn and tossed. Every muscle in her panicked body ached from gripping the bunk. At times, she imagined she was holding the rotten hull together with her will and her prayers. She was afraid to close her eyes. Her head throbbed.

  Eventually, dawn broke, and with it, the storm abated. The wind died down and the slashing rains eased to a cold drizzle.

  The bruised and exhausted settlers slowly made their way onto the deck. Debris from the rigging littered the deck, and seawater crusted everything. The storm had taken anything the settlers had left on deck – canvas, cups, bedding. Whitecaps danced over the heavy swells. The sea was sapphire blue in the early morning light.

  They were so seasick and battered from the
storm, it was hard to feel joy at having survived. The settlers stumbled to the rails and clung there, breathing in the moist air.

  Master James Orr ordered his crew to finish cleaning up the deck and rig the sails. Some of the young lads looked as frightened and seasick as the passengers. Anne had heard a rumour that none of the crew had ever crossed the Atlantic before. Looking at their pale, stricken faces, she started to believe it.

  The settlers did their very best to stay out of the crew’s way. Archibald Chisholm and John Sutherland offered to help swab the deck.

  Gradually, the morning routine took them back into the hold to search for the buckets, mop the floor, and tidy the beds. Several settlers went to sleep then, too tired and sick to eat breakfast.

  Anne and Ian went back on deck once their morning chores were completed and had their modest meal of stale bread and water. The sails were taut with wind and the ship seemed to be flying atop the waves.

  “Maybe this breeze will hurry us along our voyage,” Ian said.

  Anne just nodded. She sincerely wished that something would hurry them along. She felt she’d been on this ship forever, afraid forever, and there was still no land in sight.

  As they finished their meagre breakfast, they heard the familiar thrum of the bagpipes. Ian turned to face Anne and he gave a lopsided grin. “They still sound sweet, don’t they, lass?”

  Anne nodded but could not return his smile.

  “Do you remember the time we went to Macfarlane’s orchard?”

  Anne blinked up at Ian. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Aye. We were nine then. Maybe ten.”

  Anne’s lips trembled into a weak smile. “We climbed into that tree…”

  “And ate apples and hung upside down by our knees till the blood rushed to our heads…”

  “You filled your pockets and I filled my apron and as we were coming out of the orchard we met old Macfarlane himself…”

  Ian laughed. “Aye, he chased us all the way down to Bloody Creek. Wouldn’t have got us either, except you dropped your apples and just had to stop and pick them up.”