Standing Stones

by Beth Camp

  “Will they have work once you land?” asked Gordon.

  “Oh, they’ll work all right.” Ferguson tamped his cigar. “They’ll be assigned to landowners, if they’re lucky. If any are recalcitrant, they’ll be sent to Port Arthur to work in gangs or one of the factories. But women are still in very short number. Once their time is served, most will marry. Better than prison or living on the streets of London.”

  The two men were silent for a moment.

  “I’m thinking of clearing my land for sheep. I’ll see more returns from sheep than from subsistence farmers. But the people have to go somewhere.” Lord Gordon cleared his throat. “I’ve heard of a few landowners who’ve arranged transport to the Americas or New South Wales for their people. How does this work?”

  “It depends.” Captain Ferguson frowned. “Transport costs have to be paid up front for each person. But, before leaving, the immigrants can sign indenture papers for five to seven years. For example, if you paid the transport costs, you could be reimbursed by the ship owner at dock or later, when the indenture papers are bought up by local landowners. This way, your costs are reimbursed. And, after serving their indenture, the immigrants can work for anyone in one of the towns or claim land in one of the newer settlements. So they benefit as well.”

  Lord Gordon leaned back in his chair. “Could I arrange such transport, if needed, for say several hundred people?”

  “Lord Sutherland’s agent has the details. Benefit from Gray’s experience.”

  “I shall think on it. God send you a good voyage.”

  “Thank you. I’m proud to be taking these women to Van Diemen’s Land. Their chance for a better life is great, and Miss Hayter is an exceptional woman.”

  “Yes, she is. And a pretty one, in her own way. Those eyes.”

  “Yes, perhaps. The prisoners respect her already. We should have no trouble on the Rajah. I predict a good journey south, despite this storm. We’ll be in Hobart Town in under three months.”

  “So quickly? I thought the voyage took longer.”

  “Not since we time our voyage to benefit from the southern trade winds. The hard part is getting out of London, going against the tide in the Channel. That’s what drove us north.”

  “And here to Stromness. You’ve given me much to consider, Captain Ferguson.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Later, Lord Gordon thought of his crofters as he watched Captain Ferguson walk out into the night with Miss Hayter on his arm.

  CHAPTER 7: BELTANE

  Moira woke earlier than usual. She took a handkerchief from her basket by the spinning wheel before letting herself quietly out of the stone cottage. She didn’t want anyone with her this cold and foggy morning.

  Moira walked north to the headlands near the great standing stones, and, as Granny Connor had taught her, she swept the handkerchief in circles north, south, east and west, and began to gather the dew.

  She walked to the center of the circle made by the old stones and washed her face with her damp handkerchief. She raised her head and spoke to the sky: “If you’re there, old gods, bless me with love this year.” She felt a little silly. “And we could do with a little more to eat.”

  The heavy morning fog muted the sounds of the ocean below. She picked a few sprigs of blossoming purple heather and turned away from the headlands to home.

  “Up early you are this morning, Moira,” said Mac as he built up the peat fire on the open hearth and set a pot of water on the fire.

  “It's cold out. I’ve brought some moor flowers for Beltane.”

  "Better cold dew than tears," said Mac.

  Moira shrugged and scraped the last of the oats from the meal chest, setting some aside in a small bag for Beltane. She poured the oats into the boiling water to make a porridge and stirred.

  “We’ve the cattle to take up later," Mac stood close to the open hearth. "‘Tis glad I am this day has come.”

  “Mac, I want to go harvesting this year after the herring run. Susan and Jane said they’d take me with them down to the Jameson farm on the mainland, near Dunbeath. I’d earn some money.”

  “You’re old enough.” Mac squatted and pushed another bit of peat onto the fire. “Both Susan and Jane are going?”

  “I talked to them yesterday. We’re to sleep in tents in the fields and travel to farms all along the coast.” Moira stood away from the smoke rising from the peat fire.

  “I know, I know. I’ve been harvesting before.” Mac was silent. “So you’re not stepping out with the MacTavish?”

  “Don’t talk to me about Peter MacTavish. All he wants is a mother for his children. He’s old.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  Moira couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She looked around their cottage. All she could see was work to do. The smell of smoking fish hung in the air. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. “I want to go off island. It’s more than a day trip over to Kirkwall or Stromness. I’d be gone from when the herring run to near Lammas, that is, if you give me permission to go.”

  “And how would I be stopping you?” Mac shrugged. “We'll manage on our own. But remember you’re a McDonnell. No going off with the young men, no matter how handsome they are.”

  Moira laughed. “None could be more handsome than my brothers.” She put her hand on Mac's arm. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be home by Lammas?”

  “I give you my word.”

  They grinned at each other. Moira saw new lines in Mac’s face. She thought he was a man to break hearts, strong and fair, even sitting on his stumpy half-stool this early morn. She spooned up the porridge and passed the salt.

  “Up, boys. Break the fast,” Moira called. “’Tis Beltane today.”

  “Beltane,” shouted Colin. He came down the ladder so rapidly he nearly fell. Jamie followed, half-asleep.

  Moira heard Dougal moving in the loft, pulling rough blankets over the straw pallets. “A few more minutes,” called Dougal. He clambered down for the last of the porridge.

  “You’re near as tall as me, Colin, but your bones are sticking out," said Mac. "Eat up. We've work to do.”

  Moira watched her brothers at their breakfast and wondered what their mother would have thought of them had she lived. The brothers stood around the small fire in the center of the room to eat their oatmeal, warm from the fire.

  “Might as well get started,” Mac began. “Colin and Jamie, see to the cattle. God willing, ‘tis a grand day for us all. Is all else ready?”

  "Aye. In the basket by the door.” Moira had woven sprigs of rosemary and heather into small crown-like garlands. Dougal and Colin had carved animals from bits of driftwood.

  Everyone gathered around the hearth and watched as Moira spread the peat out and extinguished its fire with sea-water. The smoke lingered in the large open room as the cottage quickly cooled. “Earth to fire, water to fire, all to rest,” Moira murmured.

  Mac and Dougal were first out of the house. The morning was raw, with clouds scudding in from the north. They walked the span of their four narrow fields behind the cottage, keeping their hands in their pockets against the cold morning air. They had enough of a holding to grow oats and bere, just around Beltane, marking the turn to spring.

  “Let’s hope weeds don’t overtake us this year,” said Dougal.

  Mac scanned the horizon. “Rain, I think, and a strong wind. Not a good day for fishing or planting.”

  “’Tis time to cut peat, this coming week.”

  “Gibson will tell us when.”

  “I’ll ask him about bringing his mule to plough,” said Dougal, crumbling a bit of earth in his hands. “It would be good to have the planting done before the herring run, if the weather holds.”

  The two men fell silent, looking back down the sloping fields to their cottage, built nearly into the ground, often called a black house for its smoke-stained double walls six feet deep, made of stone and packed with earth and rubble. Its heather-thatched roof was anc
hored here and there with flat sandstones.

  “Ready?” Mac called into the cottage.

  The McDonnells drove their last two cows along the winding path towards Barr Auch, the highest point on Foulksay Island. As they walked up the gradually increasing slope of grassland, they watched crofters come from every part of the island, bringing their cattle to the fires of Beltane.

  Not everyone came. Some said Beltane was silly superstition, an ancient Celtic spring festival. Those who came were silent, each thinking of the hard work to come, worried if there would be enough to eat in the hungry months before the grains flowered and ripened.

  At the top of the hill, smoke poured from two large peat fires tended by Henry Gibson and his brother, Thomas. Granny Connor stood in a place of honor, chanting in Gaelic those prayers that would bless the people and their cattle, keeping them safe and prosperous in the coming season.

  Moira followed the shaggy red cattle through the smoke between the two fires; the smoke stung her eyes. She scattered the very last of the oats from their meal chest into the Beltane fire. It was enough to hope for a good year. Her younger brothers were growing up so fast. The herring would soon run. Who knew how the harvest would be this year? And who knew what the sea would bring or take away? “Blessings on the coming year,” she whispered to herself. “May it be a good year.”

  On the other side of the bonfires, Moira looked over at Dougal who stood close to a dark-haired girl. There's Catriona. She smiled. Dougal's got a girl. She tapped their two cows with a switch to keep them moving forward, their shaggy reddish flanks steaming in the cold morning air.

  Moira and Jamie herded their cows down from Barr Auch to the open grasslands above their holding. Dougal caught up, looking pleased with himself, but he didn’t say a word.

  Here, under the shadow of Barr Auch, their cows would graze freely on the common grasslands over the summer months. Already, cattle from several families mingled and spread out in the green spring grass. Jamie raced about with excitement. Moira swept cobwebs from the inside walls and ceiling of the sheiling, while Dougal and Mac piled flat stones and newly cut grass on the roof. That afternoon, they returned to their cottage.

  Then down from Barr Auch came the young men, Colin among them, bearing brands of fire from the twin fires of Beltane. They ran sun-wise around the stone cottage and the McDonnell fields. They came into the cottage to relight the hearth-fire. Moira handed out gifts from her basket; Dougal played sprightly tunes on his fiddle, and it was warm again.

  In the morning, Mac, Dougal, and Colin took their barrows, creels, and spades, long-handled tuskers, to the upland bogs to cut peat. They spent the next six days with the other men from Selkirk parish, to dig oblong sausages of peat and lay them flat on the moor to dry.

  “We’ll come back after quarter day. But these, we can take now,” said Gibson, pointing with his head to one section of peat, stacked end to end, the long sides exposed to the cold, damp wind. He divided the peat among those who had worked. “Mac, take some over to Granny Connor,” he said. “Tell her to let these dry a bit more.”

  “Aye,” replied Mac. “She'll know.” He piled his wheelbarrow high with the wet peat and headed back down the path, the barrow bumping on the rough ground. Colin ran alongside, steadying the load, both with full creels tied on their backs.

  Dougal stayed behind, stacking the wet peat for their cottage into barrow-sized loads. Once the peat fully dried, they would return here for the rest. Each man would cart his share home, layering the peat again into a neat beehive behind their cottages.

  The men worked steadily as they cut, hauled, stacked, and then carted and carried some of the peat logs away. Mac and Dougal took turns wheeling their barrow down to their cottage and back.

  Gibson blew on his hands to warm them. He took Mac aside. “They say the rents are increasing.”

  “We’ll find out Whitsunday. If not, he has to tell us at Lammas.”

  “We don’t know this new one, him and his wife. Looks as if they’re staying. They say he’s a hard one.”

  “We’ll be finding out. He can’t draw the blood out of our bodies,” Mac said.

  “I hear they need workers at the house.”

  Mac nodded. “I’ll tell Dougal and Colin. Me, I’d rather be out on the water.” He smiled and pulled his cap closer to his head. “And chasing the devil while I’m at it.”

  Gibson laughed and slapped Mac on the back. “See you at the Pig’s Head? It’s a cold moon tonight.”

  “Aye,” Mac replied. “A cold moon.”

  CHAPTER 8: THE HERRING RUN

  “They’re running,” Dougal called. “Come on, Moira.”

  Moira turned to Colin and Jamie. “You’re in charge now, of all that’s here and the cattle above. I’ll be back close to Lammas.” She hugged the two boys and gathered her things, already packed in a small bundle by the door. “Remember to take Granny Connor milk. Be good, boys. We’re depending on you.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Colin. “The old house will be standing when you get back.”

  “We’ll miss you,” said Jamie.

  “Remember who our friends are,” Moira called. She hurried down the hill, trying to keep up with Dougal. Her bundle thumped against her skirts as she ran. Her boots slipped on the cobbled streets, as she dodged people rushing to the boats, for the herring were running at last.

  Moira settled herself near the center of the Star, her bundle tucked under the seat next to several large creels, as Mac and Dougal pushed off. They moved fast to unfurl the sails and raise them to the top of the mast.

  “Watch the sail,” Mac called. “Moira, you’ve got your money set aside?”

  “Yes.” Moira felt her waist. The coins were pinned safe beneath her belt in a cloth bag.

  Dougal dropped a line over as soon as they cleared the island. Moira knew any fish they caught would become their dinner. The line sank down, weighted with fish heads, and trailed out behind the boat, fast moving as the wind pushed them south.

  The Star made its way down Stronsay Firth, past the Mainland. The waters darkened and the spray-filled wind blew in Moira’s face. They skirted the coast along the edge of the North Sea.

  “We’ll pull in at Copinsay for our first stop. Maybe South Ronaldsay by tomorrow night,” called Dougal.

  Moira nodded, too excited to say another word. As their vessel cut through the water, she looked ahead at the sparkling wind-tossed waves and at what seemed like hundreds of other small boats like theirs, all following the herring schools headed south. There was no worrying now about if they’d have enough to eat, or where she’d sleep, or how many fish they would catch. The season had begun.

  Mac and Dougal took the boat out at dusk from Copinsay, but they returned after a few hours “We’re too far behind. I can see the birds following them further out,” said Dougal. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  They sailed on to South Ronaldsay the next morning and spent the afternoon setting up at Needle Point. At dusk, Moira hiked her skirts up and helped to push the boat into the water. Mac and Dougal stood ready at the sails, their drift nets neatly folded at their feet. Moira settled her skirts, cold and wet, and sighed as the Star sailed out on the graying sea until it disappeared in the gloom.

  Around her, some twenty women from the boats built small driftwood fires. Moira could smell fish soup cooking, made from haddock caught earlier, and realized she was hungry. The beach was quiet now the boats and the men were gone. Jane waved to her from their campsite. Susan sat bundled in a blanket, close to the fire.

  “It will be busy tomorrow. I can feel it,” said Jane.

  “You and your feelings.” Susan pushed another piece of driftwood onto the fire. “And how big a catch do you see?”

  “A good one. That’s what we need. I’ve had enough of being hungry.”

  “Me too,” said Moira, even as she filled her tin cup with fish soup and began to drink the hot salty broth.

  The next morning, Moira stayed close to Jan
e and Susan. They waited with the other women on the shore, but it was no longer quiet. Carters and curers came over from St. Margaret’s Hope, the men carrying large empty wooden barrels and bags of salt down as close as possible to the water’s edge. The women from the islands stood in tense circles around the curers. Their voices rose until a price was set for the herring.

  “Here’s where we get to work. Moira. You’ll be a gutter with Susan. I’ll pack. We can trade off later. But expect to work fast.” Jane stamped her feet to keep warm. “Here, bind your fingers up. You don’t want to cut yourself.” Jane handed Moira cotton strips torn from her underskirt and showed her how to twist the rags around her fingers.

  “My fingers feel like fat worms. This won’t work,” Moira said.

  “You’ll see. You'll be fine.”

  “They’re coming in. There’s the Star,” cried Jane.

  The rest of the morning passed in a blur. The men from Orkney had fished all night. They pulled their boats onto the rocky beach, racing to unload their fish and get back out. Mac and Dougal threw their herring in a great pile near the three women, and then they were gone.

  Susan and Moira cleaned the fish as quickly as they could move. With one slash of their knives, they flicked fish entrails onto the rocks by their feet and tossed the cleaned fish into a large bucket filled with sea water. Jane sloshed the fish in the murky water to wash it, then packed the fish in layers of salt. Her hands moved so fast, they looked like they were swimming. As soon as one barrel was filled, the carters wheeled it away and brought another.