by Beth Camp
Alice began to shake her head.
Gordon reached out his hand to stop her. “Don't say no. Remember what we have done together, what we talked about when we first met. You helped me, Alice. If we settle here in Edinburgh, you would be close to your family. I can make certain investments now, Alice, investments you would approve of. But I don't want to do it without you. Without you, I lose my will."
Alice moved restively. “My parents don’t understand why I’m here at home instead of with you. Even Diana doesn't understand. Sometimes I don’t understand. You are still my husband.”
“Don’t say anything more. You are still my wife.” His face crumpled. "What do you want, Alice? Tell me."
Alice felt lighter than air. She wasn't sure what she wanted any more. "When we first met, it seemed we could have what my parents have. But you never included me. Gordon, I don't think you've changed. You've been so angry.”
“I was never angry at you.”
“I suppose I knew that.” Alice shook her head. “There were people about always. But you were so withdrawn. I used to wait for you to come to me. Then when you did.” She stopped speaking.
“I'm sorry, Alice.”
“That's not everything. You know I wanted a child. Your child. When I lost the baby, it was a very difficult time.” She remembered her rooms at Westness, the stilted conversations with Mrs. MacNaught and Pastor McPherson, her walks on the hills near Westness. “You wouldn't let Diana come to visit. I needed my sister in a way I don't think you could ever understand.”
“Foulksay Island isn't Edinburgh. Your sister never would have been comfortable there.”
“That's not the point, Gordon. I needed her, and I needed you. Please don't leave me on the outside."
"You are never on the outside.” Gordon reached his hand up to Alice. "I’m so very tired. Please come back to me.”
"I wanted to be a good wife, Gordon."
"Then, come back to me. Let us try again."
“It can't be the same.”
“I know. Stay with me, Alice. I need you.”
Alice remembered every line of his body, every hope he had held for their future. Now he was alone as she had once been. How could she not return to him?
She sat next to him on the settee and leaned on his shoulder. Outside, the sun glinted on her mother's garden. Together they watched the soft rain fall.
CHAPTER 50: THE THAMES
Mac awoke in a sweat in the darkness. His stomach roiled, and he leaned over to vomit in the slops bucket someone had put by his head.
“What are you doing, Mac?” hissed O’Toole. “Ye can’t come like this. You’ll not be able to keep up.”
“Don’t think it. I’ll keep up.” Mac sat up, propping his back against the wall of the common room. He could see just the outlines of O’Toole’s face as he bent down, cradling his manacles so they wouldn’t make a sound, his head barely clearing the low timbers.
O’Toole put his hand on Mac’s forehead. “Ye’ve got it pretty bad.” He looked around. “The guards will be coming round in another few minutes, and then we’re going. But ye can’t come with us.”
“If I get on deck, my head will clear.” The hairs on Mac’s arms stood up as another wave of cramps hit his stomach.
“I’ve seen this before. You’re sick, man. Ye’ll be puking up your guts for three days and barely able to walk, let alone run. Ye’ll be lucky if they leave you alone.”
Mac finally nodded. “Go with Godspeed then.”
“Take this.” O’Toole handed over a small leather pouch. “There’s no safe place really, but you can tie this under your clothes.”
Mac felt the pouch. “There’s two coins here. You were supposed to keep one. Take it back. You’ll need it.”
“I’m sorry, Mac. Truly.” O’Toole palmed one of the coins and grinned. He cradled his chains in his arms and crept back to his corner to wait for the guards to pass.
Mac could barely see O’Toole through the shadows. Mac shut his eyes. He knew he stank of vomit. He wished he were topside and then swimming in the Thames. He would sink, and no one would care. Another wave of cramps hit his stomach. He retched, but there was nothing left. He glanced over at O’Toole’s corner. O’Toole was gone.
“Up, you sons of whores,” cried Hyde, as the guards walked through the commons. He walked over to where Mac lay. “Sommat wrong this morning? Yer not getting up?” He nudged Mac with his boot and then kicked him in the ribs. “Get up, you misbegotten son of a bitch.” He grimaced. “Here’s another one.”
“Lieutenant said we should leave them be if they’re truly sick,” said Simmons.
“I’ll leave him be.” Hyde angled around Mac’s body, getting ready for another kick. “He’s always trying to get sommat for nothing.”
“I know this one,” said Simmons, leaning over Mac. “He’s a good worker. Been here a month. Hasn’t been sick before.”
“What do I care?” Hyde shrugged and walked away.
“Can ye get up, Mac? Up on deck for the count?” Simmons looked around. “Here, you two, help this man on deck.”
Lieutenant Evans looked at the ragged men lined up on deck, bent over, shivering, their arms pressed over their stomachs. He was not pleased. “Simmons,” called Evans.
“Aye, sir.”
“If any men are too sick to send out today, have them pull the bedding and dredge out the sleeping quarters.” Evans paced along the poop deck. “These men are not here to lay about. A bit of work will warm them up.”
“The count’s off by four, sir,” said Simmons.
“Count them again.”
“We did, sir. There’s four missing.”
Lieutenant Evans grimaced, deep lines appearing on each side of his mouth. “Since this morning? Was the count done last night?”
“Aye, sir. All present at midnight, sir.”
“Someone has to know something. Simmons, find out who’s missing. Promise light duty for any information.” Lieutenant Evans called to Villard. “Take four men and search the ship. And count them again.”
Three longboats bobbed up and down in the choppy Thames, close to the Warrior. One of the watermen called, “Are they coming down? It’s bloody cold down here.”
Mac clung to the bulwarks as the guards pulled the prisoners out of the line and questioned them roughly. Some of the prisoners hung over the side, vomiting into the Thames. The count remained four men short.
A shout went up, and Simmons hurried over to the Lieutenant. “One of the prisoners saw them leave, four together. O’Toole, Doherty, Cassidy, and Menzies. He thought they had a boat waiting.”
“Bloody Irish. I want you to take a detail to Woolwich immediately and inform the watch,” Lieutenant Evans commanded. “Even with a boat, someone would have seen them.” Evans paced a moment more on the foredeck and waved his hand. “Release the men for work.”
“What about those who are sick?”
Evans wheeled on Simmons. “I said release the men for work.” His face flushed red, and spittle specked his lips. “All of them. I’ll have a report ready for Lord Penrose within the half-hour requesting a detachment. He will not be pleased, and neither am I.”
The order went down the line. One by one, the prisoners were forced into the waiting longboats, Mac among them, half falling down the rope ladder. He lay on the bottom of the small boat, dizzy but breathing fresh air, knowing somehow he must work today, else he would wind up beaten or dead.
The longboats passed the prison hulks, their rigging hung with bedding and ragged laundry instead of sails, the hulks lining the river like a stinking, floating shantytown. They passed the Justistia, moored on the north side of the Thames near a swamp, farthest from Woolwich, a floating hell for the most incorrigible prisoners, most held in solitary confinement.
Hyde nudged Mac with a boot. “Pitiful scum, aren’t you. You know something, and you’re going to tell me afore the day’s done.”
Just as the sun faded to dusk and fo
g began to rise over the Thames, a squad of red-coated soldiers brought back Jack Doherty, Mel Cassidy and John Menzies, heavily chained, their faces blank with despair. Mel cradled his left hand as if it were broken.
“Tie them to the yardarm. Call the men on deck,” called Lieutenant Evans.
Mac stumbled onto the deck, hoping they hadn't caught O'Toole. He saw Jack, John, and Mel trussed up for flogging. Their bodies slumped next to a pitiful row of laundry hung on the rigging. Hyde shook out the cat o’nine tails. Each whip end tipped with lead clicked on the deck.
Mac made his way to where the prisoners had gathered. “Hang on. I’ll help you later,” he hissed as he passed his friends.
The punishment began – eighty lashes for each and a sentence to the Black Hole. Hyde took his time. He set his feet on the deck before each blow. Mac winced as the screams began. Finally the three men were cut down. They lay on the deck, bloodied and unconscious.
“Give them a salt bath and then take them below to solitary,” commanded Lieutenant Evans. “Five days. Then transfer them to the Justistia.” He swung back to the assembled prisoners. “Your government seeks to rehabilitate you, to prepare you for that awful day you face your Maker. But not to coddle you. Any escape will be punished, in the name of God, Queen, and country.” He turned and left the foredeck.
Mac knew he wouldn’t see Mel or Jack for five days, if then. He didn’t really know Menzies, but he felt sorry for him. Mac took the last sovereign from his leather pouch and sidled over to Simmons.
“Can you do something for those men, sir?” Mac asked.
“What's it to you?” Simmons said, not meeting Mac’s eyes.
“Maybe a bit of food, something to drink and something for their backs?” asked Mac, putting his hand out as if to grasp onto Simmon’s sleeve.
Simmon’s eyes widened. He quickly took the coin and nodded. “Get along with you there. Back to your cell.” He turned away.
Mac stopped to stare at the Thames, crowded with prison hulks on the south and north sides. At the Royal Arsenal to the east, a mess of boats and barges unloaded crates of food and supplies. A slight wind kept the smell of swill from rising up from the river.
Bend, don't break, he thought.
CHAPTER 51: ARDKEEN HOUSE
Moira didn’t like the look Jamie gave her or the way he slumped against the wall. Outside the gatehouse fronting Ardkeen House, rain pelted the cobblestones of Edinburgh Road where few traveled this gray morning.
“It’s not so bad, is it? At the mills?” Moira’s back hurt, and her feet were swollen. The baby was due nearly any day now, and she was tired of the laundry rooms and tired of stirring tubs of hot wash until she was nauseous.
“It’s all right.” Jamie picked at his sleeve. “Some of the kids don’t have shoes. They get them as soon as they can.” He straightened up a little. “I’m already a piecer. I’m not tall enough to be a spinner. They earn more money.”
“I got a letter from Dylan through Mrs. MacKinnon at the Claron School. Deidre sent it from home. He’s in Edinburgh.”
Jamie twisted away from Moira. “I’m hungry.”
“He doesn’t know we're in Inverness.”
“But I’m not with you. I’m over at the mill. Mr. Dunleigh gets paid for taking children from the poorhouse, the younger the better. Some of them are sick. He don’t care. He works us all. Every day except a little bit of today and Sunday.”
“We have to work, Jamie. Both of us.”
“I know. But it’s not like home where I could go all over the island, down to Selkirk and the new pier and over to the farms or out on the boat with Mac and Dougal. I was working then too. Mr. Dunleigh, he locks us in before it’s light. I don’t like the steward. Mr. Bean has a stick he calls his walking stick, but I’ve seen him hit the workers when Mr. Dunleigh isn’t there. It’s not a good place.”
“Has he hit you?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“It’s all we’ve got right now.” Moira pressed her stomach again. She knew that tomorrow she’d be back at work, singing hymns and bending over dirty laundry. She looked at her hands reddened by soapy water, her fingernails soft to the touch. Not so different from cleaning fish. “They feed you, don’t they?”
Jamie snorted. “It’s oatcakes and gruel, oatcakes and gruel. Some of the bigger ones take food from the little ones. I’m going to run away.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. I could go today. Right now. Mr. Bean smiles when he hits us. I would be better off back on Foulksay.”
“We tried that, Jamie. There's no work.”
“Maybe I’ll do better if I go off on my own.”
Moira felt as if the cold stone walls of the gatehouse were closing in on her. Her back ached. “I’m going to write Dylan. I want him to know about the baby. If we don’t hear again, we could try Edinburgh. It can’t be worse there.”
Jamie looked at her with the eyes of an old man. “Did he send any money?”
“Come next Sunday, will you?” replied Moira.
The next Sunday, Moira sat in the gatehouse. In her arms she held her daughter, bundled in the white blanket that Mrs. Harcourt had given her. She was tired, but she couldn’t get over the miracle of this little life.
“She’s awful small,” said Jamie.
“Of course she’s small. She’s four days old.” Moira held her baby close. “They told me they have a family that will take her.”
“You’re going to let her go?”
“I can keep Rose with me if I leave. They said I could go to the poorhouse down the hill.”
“For how long?”
“Until we hear from Dylan again? Until I can find some work and some way to care for Rose? I don’t know, Jamie.”
“I’m going to the docks,” said Jamie. “I’ll find something there. I can’t stay at the mill.”
“Could I get on at the mill?”
“And what would you do with Rose? Anyway, you don’t want to. It’s hard work, Moira.”
“Harder than stirring laundry all day?”
“Maybe Mr. Bean won’t hit you. But he goes after the older girls.”
“We should have stayed on Foulksay.”
“I'm not waiting anymore,” replied Jamie. “I can find a ship that will take me on as a cabin boy. Micah told me.” He reached out to hold the baby.
“Can you wait, Jamie?” Moira watched Jamie rock the baby back and forth. “Dylan will write again as soon as he gets my letter. I know he will. He’ll send money, or he’ll come for us. You don’t have to go now, do you?”
Jamie stood up. His thin legs jutted out from below his pants. He held the baby close. “You wouldn’t want me to stay if you knew how it was at the mill.”
Moira was silent. “Give me another week, Jamie. Come next Sunday."
Jamie nestled his head close to Rose. "All right. Another week. But no more."
Moira sat alone in the gatehouse after Jamie left. The baby lay heavy on her lap. She hummed the lines of an old ballad.
Dae ye see yon high hills a-covered with the snow?
They’ve parted many a true love, an’ soon I’ll have to go.
Bide, bide, me bonnie, an’ I’ll come again one day,
An’ I’ll take ye to our island, dear, home to Foulksay.
She felt so tired. She touched Rose's cheek. The cold from the stones of the gatehouse seeped through her shawl into her bones. Moira wrapped the baby tight in her shawl and turned back to Ardkeen House.
CHAPTER 52: EDINBURGH
Lord Gordon finished the last of his correspondence and rose from his desk, another letter from Perkins in his hand. He glanced around his office, glad he had brought the sculpture of Wellington with him to Edinburgh, for they would not be returning to Foulksay Island, at least not until the spring. Only if Alice is willing, he thought. He reread the letter from Perkins, pacing in front of the coal fire in the fireplace.
Honorable Lord Gordon, sir.
T
he sheep shearing in April went well. We continue enclosing fields with stone walls which bodes a good harvest. Demand is high for woven goods. Pastor McPherson reports no additional men or women admitted to the workhouse. Pier fees have been paid. Rents are enumerated on the enclosed report. Income has been deposited through the Edinburgh bank you noted. Should you wish Westness reopened, please advise. Note that the island population is now at 237 souls, including Selkirk.
Your humble and obedient servant, Geo. Perkins.
Gordon looked over the profit report from the sale of the wool. His breeding program had been successful. The flock had doubled in under a year.
Gordon shook his head. I'll visit Foulksay, perhaps once a year, but I do not have to live on that island again. For a moment he remembered the summers of his youth, scrambling on the cliffs near Westness. He nearly crushed the letter in his hand. I’ll talk with Alice tonight.
Lord Gordon strolled downstairs, amused at the noise as servants prepared the house for tonight’s dinner party. Calling for the cabriolet, he admired the orderly planting of shrubbery at the front of the house. Alice had made a difference. They had a home. “To the club, Charles,” he called as he entered the cabriolet.
Charles, resplendent in green and blue livery, closed the door to the one person carriage and flicked his whip at the horse as they made their way out of New Town and negotiated the crowded streets along Princes Street. Gordon peered out as they passed the partially built Scott Monument. Day laborers gathered at its base, setting up tiers of scaffolding. As the cabriolet turned onto the crowded North Bridge to High Street, Gordon glanced at the works begun for Waverly Station.
“I'll walk from here,” called Gordon.
He passed a long line of women waiting to fill their pails and wooden buckets from the Netherbow wellhead and continued up the hill past St. Giles Cathedral. Finally he was at the door of the East India Club tucked in the Wardrop's Close, just down the hill from the towers of Edinburgh Castle. He sniffed at the open sewage. Auld Reekie. Edinburgh's well deserved nickname.