by Beth Camp
“A kind of barley. They make a grainy flour out of it for bannocks or biscuits. You can use it to make malt for beer or whiskey, though I don’t think that’s done here.” Perkins rocked on his feet and stared at the oak beams above him as he recited what he knew. “They feed it to their cattle, sir. They use the straw for thatching. It grows fast with little work, even in the thinnest soils, though harvests are generally poor.”
“Much room for improvement, then. You’ve brought the map? Good. Here, look with me.” Gordon spread out the map of his island on the desk.
The map showed Foulksay Island at the very northern tip of Scotland, in that unexpected clump of islands called the Orkneys, so named by the Norse for seal islands.
Lord Gordon studied the map, imagining how the hills rose to a crest at the center of the island, how grasses grew in the upper valleys, and how crofters farmed narrow fields separated with small dikes of tilled soil and stone. “Are you having problems finding workers, Perkins?”
“I’ve got a small crew now, but the fishermen will leave in May when they chase the herring.”
“Does that bring me an income?” Gordon replied, smoothing the creases on the map.
“It comes back to you in rents, sir.”
“How long will they be gone?”
“Some four to six weeks, sir, at the most, if they just go for the first season. Most come back before Lammas in August, and the rest in September. If the herring run well, a fisherman makes eight times what a crofter will make raising cattle and sowing fields.”
“The market’s good for herring in England and in Russia. We could raise their rents.”
“Yes, sir. But sometimes they come back with close to nothing.” Perkins pointed to the map. “Here, sir, I’ve marked where the fishermen live, a smattering around Selkirk, close on the beach. Some here up along the coast. A few hold their own land. Others rent just enough land to get by. There’s some ten or so families that don’t pay rent.”
“Why not?”
“Perhaps your uncle’s charity, sir. In the storms of ’39, twenty-seven men and ten boats were lost. ”
“What about these?” asked Gordon, pointing to the map.
“The crofters are pretty much scattered haphazardly, all inland. Most pay rents, but not here and here.” Perkins tapped the map.
“More who don’t pay rent?” Gordon rubbed his leg.
“Perhaps at one time, they did. When the harvests are poor, the men go south to work on the canal or the railroads, or in the new textile mills. Or they’ll take to the sea on a whaler. A few sign on with Hudson’s Bay. If the men don’t return, the families grow what they can, barter for the rest, and hope their men send money home.”
Perkins pointed to a line of hills that cut through the middle of Foulksay. “The crofters let their cattle loose in the high grasslands here during the summer.” Perkins moved his finger down the map. “They cut their peat here in the bogs near Barr Auch. Below, in these run-rigs, the crofters plant their oats, potatoes, and bere in the early spring, just about now, sir.”
At Gordon’s nod, Perkins continued. “Most years the planting is done before the herring begin to run. The harvests could be better, but without proper fencing, when they drive the cattle back in the fall, the cattle trample the crops, leaving barely enough for subsistence. The spring is the hardest time, between Beltane and Lammas. They call it the hungry time.”
“Why ever don’t they fence the land? Silly not to.” Gordon remembered the country estate in the south he’d loved as a boy. Neat fences there. All that belonged to Alexander now.
“Not enough trees on the island. And it’s not been done in the past, sir. Some have built stone and dirt walls, really a kind of dike, to enclose the cattle here and there, but there’s no incentive for them to do so.”
Gordon’s finger traced the outline of the island. “They’ll have to pay the rent. That will make incentives.”
“Yes, sir. We have ample grasslands for sheep, should you choose to go with the Cheviots. The land could be cleared and leased to herders from the south as Lord Alexander did.”
“My brother wrote me of this. It’s a better income than rents.” His finger stopped at Selkirk. “Maybe. But we need a pier. The cove is deep enough. I want the ferry to stop here at least once a week. We could set a fee for using the pier.”
“They won’t pay, sir.”
“Then we’ll charge them for using the beach.”
“Yes, sir. But these people don’t have ready money. You saw when you landed. The whole family cleans and dries the fish close to the beach. A few families use a smokehouse; most use the wind. Then, the fishermen take the dried fish out to the ferry, every few weeks or so from spring to early fall.”
“That’s not very efficient. And in the winter?”
“The island’s pretty much cut off then, from what I hear,” Perkins replied.
“Storms?”
“Unpredictable, sir,” replied Perkins. “They come in suddenly, winter storms. Those from the North Sea are fierce, but the worst storms come in from the southwest, off the Atlantic. I’ve heard them talk of howling winds that near bend you in half when you walk outside. Even the cold air freezes white. Few fishermen venture out in winter, lest need drives them.”
For a long moment, Gordon closed his eyes. “It’s a long way from India.”
“Yes, sir,” Perkins said.
“The boats are old-fashioned. They need to be retrofitted.” Lord Gordon pointed again to the map. “Tell me about Selkirk. What have we there?”
“This line of cottages close to the beach is protected by the Bottle Bay,” Perkins replied, pointing to the map. “Mostly fishermen here, sir. In the town, about fifty stone houses, close up together, and about 200 people. You have rents coming from about half of the households in Selkirk proper, with the rest being independent landholders. St. Ninian’s is staffed by Pastor McPherson. He lives in the manse behind the church and directs the school.” Perkins rocked forward on his toes. “The Grammar School’s open a full day from late September to early May, which means most can read and calculate. Once the children are twelve, they can attend half-days, but few do so. They work with their families or are apprenticed out.”
“I saw the church. It’s still Presbyterian, I trust?”
“Aye. McPherson serves at your pleasure.”
Gordon grunted. “What about commerce in the town?”
“Not much, sir. There’s no market. William Scott has owned the Mercantile for the last twelve years. Your uncle brought him in from Wick. Scott sells fishing supplies, house wares, and staples through the year. He’s the center for any trade or barter.”
“They barter? You said that before. Barter for what?”
“The crofters are as self-sufficient as they can be, but they’ll barter fresh produce or grains for cloth, salt, medicines. Things they can’t grow for themselves.” Perkins shrugged. “Scott delivers the mail and helps Hargraves collect rents and taxes. They both earn a bit from that. Then there’s Gibson and his brother Henry; they run a smithy. They also have one of the larger land holdings on the island. The MacLean widow bakes; she's open five days a week, and a few women weave. A one room tavern, the Pig’s Head, is right close to the cove.”
“I'll tour Selkirk this afternoon.”
“Sir, the weather looks nasty.”
“No matter. I’ve been out in the wet before. Have Lady Alice come in.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have the horses readied.” Perkins tucked the estate books under his arm and closed the door as he left.
Lord Gordon thumbed through his letters, picking out one from Gray. He read Gray’s report and quickly calculated he would need nearly 1,000 pounds to cover his part in outfitting three ships to India. But if the returns were anything close to what Gray had suggested, he could pay Alexander off completely.
Gordon studied the report again. Alexander will want to know we’ve arrived safely, and he’ll want an accounting. H
e doesn’t understand it’s another world here. Gordon leaned down to rub a cramp out of his left leg.
He thought of the weeks spent sitting in the gardens at Laurel House near St. James Park when he first returned from India, still shaken by fevers at night, echoes of long ago summer days around him. How he, Alexander, and Peter had once hunted imaginary elephants in those quiet gardens. But a second son had few prospects. At fifteen, he enlisted in the East India Company and left London for a decade.
On a home visit, in a swirl of parties, he and Alexander had fallen in love with Judith, but Alexander was first born, the heir. Gordon frowned. Finally retired from the Company. Dratted leg. Laurel House again. Several stilted conversations with Alexander over his future had led to one loan and then another. Gordon glanced around his library without seeing it. Their uncle’s death had been a blessing. Alexander had given him the island.
Gordon had traveled north immediately, to see the Edinburgh lawyers and to find a wife. He wanted sons. He wanted to make Westness equal to Laurel House. His eyes focused on the statue of Wellington. No more India. No more intrigue. No more loans from Alexander. He rubbed his leg and returned to his letters.
CHAPTER 4: A CROFTER'S COTTAGE
Catriona heard her father, as he poked the fire up in the main room of their cottage. I should be up as well. She eased from the pallet she shared with her younger sister, slipped a thick skirt over her pantaloons and tucked her hair back into a semblance of order, covering it with her kerchief.
“Morning, Da,” she said, coming from behind the screen that hid her bed.
“Ah, good you’re up, Cat. Dish the porridge, will you. I’ll rouse the boys.” Jacob Brodie, a tall thin man with wiry muscles, called to his sons in the loft built up close to the roof. “Up, boyos. Breakfast is near ready. We’ve a lot of work ahead.”
“Yes, sir.” Suddenly the main room was full of noise as three boys spilled down from the loft into the main room, pulling their coats on over their shirts. They stood close to the central fire, eating their porridge, with little jabs to each other, angling to stand closer to the fire.
“Elspeth,” called Catriona. “Come to breakfast. I need you to help with the eggs this morning. Mother’s abed still.” The little girl wiggled from behind the screen, pulling her skirt and smoothing her hair.
“Boys, boys,” said Jacob. “Save some of that porridge for your sisters.”
Matthew, the oldest at seventeen, looked at his father. “I’m to go to Westness, Da, to work on the new wall.”
“Aye, son.” Jacob nodded at his other two sons. “We’ll take the rest of the potatoes down to Scott’s this morning. Luke, let the cows out after milking. Mark, come with me to load the barrows.”
Catriona pulled Matthew aside. “Say hello to Dougal if you see him, will you, Mattie?” She could see little flecks of sleep sand still in Matthew’s eyes, and she wished she could go with him into town.
“No daydreaming now, Catriona,” Jacob said. “I dinna want you running off when your ma needs you.”
“Yes, Da,” Catriona replied. Matthew held her hand for a moment and then was gone. Catriona shook her head. The smoke from the peat fire burned in her eyes as the cold air from outside blew into the cottage.
“See to your mother and the baby.”
Catriona filled a cup with hot tea. “Elspeth, clean up here. We’ll help Da and the boys in a few minutes.” She entered the small closet-sized room Da had added on last summer. “Ma, are you awake?”
Freya moved restively. “I should be up. ‘Tis late.”
“Have some tea, Mother. No need to be up. I’m here.” Catriona handed the cup to her mother and bent over the straw mattress on the floor to take the baby. “He’s very cold, mum.” The baby lay unmoving in her arms.
“He didn’t wake in the night. He didn’t wake this morning.”
Catriona held the baby close. “He’s not going to wake now, Mother.”
Outside the cottage, the sky had lightened, but a cold mist settled over the land. Matthew, his cap low over his eyes, walked along the ditch to the path that led to Selkirk, six miles away.
Jacob pulled his jacket close as he glanced over his holding. The farthest fields had been left to a mix of bere and grass. The nearest rows would be replanted in potatoes in the spring. Close to the cottage, Catriona and the girls had pulled turnips and onions from the kitchen garden, now layered with straw. Jacob nodded. The once neat stacks of peat were depleted and would need replacing.
A trio of black and white barn swallows dipped behind the cottage, as Mark hurried out, pulling his cap on. “Da, will we take them all?”
“Aye, whether rain or no, son.”
They entered the shed, their hands in their pockets to hold off the cold, their breath showing in little white puffs. They had dug the potatoes from the field and piled them here, ready for Scott’s Mercantile. Jacob inspected some of the tubers, holding them up in the dim light. A few seemed soft and rotten. He threw them to the side. His heart fell as one after the other turned soft in his hands. He worked with Mark to load the barrow as the cold morning mist turned to rain.
CHAPTER 5: WESTNESS
Gordon rifled through his papers as shifting afternoon light filled his office at Westness. He picked up his pen, dabbled the point in the inkwell, and set it down again. Alexander will not be pleased. He began the letter to his brother.
Dear Alexander, Thank you for your many kindnesses during our visit.
Gordon snorted to himself. We were lucky to have been given a suite of rooms at Laurel House. Judith had been more than formal. He hadn’t been able to speak to her alone, yet he found himself watching for her. Even Alice had noticed, new bride that she was.
We arrived safely after a grueling trip by coach to Edinburgh and a visit to Alice’s family there. We took a ferry across the Pentland Firth in rough seas to find Westness and Foulksay Island desolate and perpetually cold.
I might as well tell him the conditions as close to the truth as possible, though I doubt he’ll believe me. Gordon looked at his study once again as if the very walls would change before his eyes.
The people live in hovels; the land itself remains unimproved. Uncle Henry was not well for several years before his demise, leaving Westness House in need of much repair. In short, the estate has changed little from what we remember so long ago.
Perhaps that will alert him to how it is to live here. We will not winter here. That I can promise. Gordon rubbed his leg again and continued.
Despite my initial reservations, your man Perkins has been invaluable, especially in assessing potential income. I’ve read your instructions on planting wheat, hay, potatoes and turnips with interest. I fear I have an unreliable workforce, mostly fishermen and crofters with little training and primitive tools. I estimate it will take more than one season to produce a good revenue.
That should suggest I’m not a grubbing farmer. But that is the rub. If I can make this land self-sufficient, we can live permanently in Edinburgh and pay off Alexander. I want nothing of his money. He glanced again at the Gray's letter inviting investment in the India trade. One thousand pounds. Alexander didn’t need to know everything.
I’m considering investing in Cheviot sheep, much as you, the Sutherlands, and others have done so successfully. The funds you advanced are sufficient and have been deposited in Edinburgh, truly the city of lawyers. I shall write you a full report of our expenditures on the estate.
Gordon rubbed his hands, his knuckles swollen slightly from the damp. If it weren’t for the monsoons, I would wish I were back in India and out of this blasted cold. He continued writing:
The winds here blow unceasingly. We will most likely winter in Edinburgh, though I miss the warmth of India. My health improves somewhat but would do better in a Mediterranean climate. Please give my regards to mother. I shall look forward to your packet of London papers and remain your devoted brother, Gordon.
He laid the pen aside and looked up to
find Alice sitting quietly before him. “There you are. I didn’t hear you enter.”
“You were busy.”
“I’ve been writing to Alexander.”
Alice brightened. “Please thank him for his hospitality. It was good to meet your family at last. I enjoyed parts of London very much.”
“Yes, the stay at Laurel House was pleasant.” He stared at her. “I pray mother’s health continues well. But, to matters here, I want you to complete an inventory of Westness. Put all in order. You may give Perkins a list of any repairs.”
“I will do so, Gordon. Could I could ask a favor?”
“Yes, yes, go ahead.”
“I would like to invite my sister, Diana, for a visit. It's a little more isolated here than I anticipated.”
Gordon shook his head. “I have much to do on the estate. I want peace and quiet for my work. You'll be seeing Diana soon enough. We’ll go to in Edinburgh for the winter. Otherwise, madam, we keep the schedule I set in London. You are settling in well, I presume?”
“Yes. The front rooms are quite sufficient; my books have arrived safely. Your rooms are satisfactory?”
“The house remains as I remember from many years ago.”
“The staff seem competent. I would like to add a few more servants to help with the cleaning.”
Gordon looked at Alice as if his glance could penetrate her clothing. “Do what is needed. And your health, madam?”
“I am a little tired but well, thank you.”
“No change? That is, are you with child?”
Alice flinched, but she looked steadily at Gordon. “No change, my lord.”
“Yes, well, have Perkins hire additional staff. Let him know where repairs are needed as soon as possible.” A flush crept up Lord Gordon’s cheeks. “Additionally, I want you to meet with Pastor McPherson and inspect the grammar school. Report any needed improvements to me. Note that he serves at our pleasure. Should he not prove satisfactory, he can be replaced. I want you to keep an eye out for the character of the people.”