Standing Stones

by Beth Camp

  “I didn’t know he was alive, and then I saw him. I called him up,” said Deidre. “Was that wrong?”

  The two stood before the captain, still holding hands.

  Mac braced himself. He could feel Deidre’s hand warm in his. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Mac. “I know I’m supposed to be below.”

  “Damn right you’re supposed to be below,” said Banks and darted a look at Deidre. “Excuse me, miss.”

  “A fisherman, you say?” asked Captain Sinclair.

  “The best,” said Deidre.

  “I’ve seen you about. Is he a good man, Banks?” asked Captain Sinclair.

  Banks nodded reluctantly. "Aye, sir. We've used him."

  “Then, put him to work.” Captain Sinclair stared at Mac. “You can run lines aft for the cook. But as for coming up here, you cannot.” He lifted his hands to shush Deidre. “He cannot come up here again, Miss Scott.”

  “Then, I shall go down. There’s nothing to stop me, is there?”

  “No, miss. But I can't have you down among steerage or around the crew.” Captain Sinclair stared at the couple. “Very well. You may walk on the foredeck, but only within strict boundaries, or I shall have you, Miss Scott, locked in your cabin, and, you, McDonnell, back in irons. Trust me. That will not be pleasant for either of you.”

  “Deidre, we can wait until we’re in Van Diemen’s Land. It all changes then anyway.”

  “Listen to your fiancé,” said Captain Sinclair. “He’ll go into quarantine once we land at Hobart Town. No one knows yet where he’ll be assigned.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “And I hope you do,” said Captain Sinclair. “For now, McDonnell, keep to your work. You may walk together in the evening only. Once it's dark, and I mean past seven bells, you are not to meet. McDonnell, are you listening? Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mac.

  Sinclair waved his hand at the couple. “Take a few moments, then. I was young once.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Deidre led Mac to the far corner of the promenade deck.

  Banks grimaced. “’Tis not a good example, sir.”

  Captain Sinclair turned. “Did I hear you say anything, Banks?”

  The Brilliant and the Alexander followed the trade winds southwest across the Atlantic to Rio for provisions. Once they made port, the transportees were locked below. Given the heat and the close quarters, everyone was relieved when the ship stayed in port for a mercifully short week. Once they were underway, the ship’s routine resumed. Captain Sinclair charted their journey southwest to Cape Town, hoping to stay above the violent storms of the “roaring forties”.

  As they sailed back to southern Africa, the wind scorched the ship. Complaints grew, and fights broke out. Mac came on deck one evening to find a sailor manacled and chained to the mainmast, his eyes blackened. The sailor had been found asleep in the women’s quarters. He was to be locked in the forward brig until Cape Town.

  Their ship passed a slaver, far on the horizon, headed to Brazil. Occasionally, the Brilliant sent a longboat over to the Alexander. Whenever they passed a ship sailing north to London, they exchanged letters, including letters from Deidre back home. The hot winds continued.

  The women in steerage put up small scraps of canvas on deck for shade, but the children sickened. It became nearly unbearable to stay on deck, but conditions were worse below. Another child died, some said of starvation.

  Captain Sinclair limited the fresh milk to the youngest children only. Weevils appeared in the bread. The salty meat was a dark mahogany color, impossible to eat, yet eat it they did. In the following week, two children died, and then another infant, with the mother dangerously ill.

  Mac held to his promise to the captain, knowing that he could see Deidre every day. He set lines at dawn, each day pulling in fresh fish, which Musa, a bow-legged Malay, boiled into a kind of stew.

  “You, Mac, get me flour.” Musa tossed Mac a set of keys for the ship’s stores. “Two kegs.”

  Mac grunted assent and ducked down the ladder from the galley into the dank, hot bowels of the ship. He made his way by feel and unlocked the door to the ship’s stores, a small room crammed with barrels of food and water.

  “Get the hell out,” cried Davis, lifting a candle that dazzled Mac’s eyes.

  “Who’s that?” cried another transportee, one Mac barely recognized.

  “You’re not supposed to be down here,” said Mac.

  “Ah, shut up,” said Davis. “I know him. Always sniffing around. Well, Mac, you can join us and have a bit of rum, or you can die, right now.” Davis tossed the candle to his friend, drew a knife from his waistband, and hunched down, slicing the air in front of him.

  Mac felt behind him for the door, the latch cold on his fingers.

  Davis advanced, bracing himself as the ship swayed.

  Mac slipped through the door, slammed it shut and leaned against it. “Help!” he called. “Help!”

  He tried to lock the door, but the two men inside pushed and battered the door. “Let us out, you bastard!”

  First Mate Banks ran up with a sailor behind him. “You again. What's all this?”

  Mac barely held the door closed. “There’s two men inside, sir. I don’t know how. Musa just sent me down with the keys.”

  “Ah, God’s teeth. This is a hell boat,” grumbled Banks. He yanked the door open to find Davis, knife ready, poised to leap.

  “Drop the knife. You want more troubles, do you? What the hell are ye doing down here.” He sniffed. “Guess I already know. Drop the knife.”

  Davis smirked and let the knife fall. “Leave her, Johnny, leave her,” he sang in a high falsetto.

  “None of that now. Take them up and shackle them” He pointed at Davis. “Yer a troublemaker. Meat for the captain’s pleasure.”

  The two men were dragged above board, kicking and shouting all the way, “Leave her, Johnny, leave her.”

  Banks turned to Mac. “I’ll remember this.”

  “Last thing we need is another fire.”

  No one found out how the two men got into the store room. They were whipped for stealing grog and whipped again for having a lighted candle below. Mac stood amid the sailors, wincing as the blows fell and Davis screamed.

  Captain Sinclair ordered the two men chained to the masthead for twenty-four hours. He approved a ration of grog for the gathered crew, who stood muttering in groups of three and four. The men drank their cups quickly, but they were not so quick to jump when the First Mate called them back to work.

  Mac heard the chantey start up as the men pulled the sails up into the rigging. He knew the song. He had heard it on the Mermaid when the sailors had been angry at the captain. The song echoed throughout the ship as they continued south to Cape Town.

  I thought I heard the Old Man say,

  leave her, Johnny, leave her.

  Tomorrow you will get your pay,

  an’ it’s time for us to leave her.

  The work was hard, and the voyage long,

  leave her, Johnny, leave her.

  The seas was high and the gales was strong,

  an’ it’s time for us to leave her.

  The grub was bad and the wages low,

  leave her, Johnny, leave her.

  The wind was foul and the sea ran high,

  leave her, Johnny, leave her.

  We’d be better off in a nice clean gaol,

  leave her, Johnny, leave her.

  With all night in and plenty of ale,

  an’ it’s time for us to leave her.

  Leave her, Johnny,

  ye can leave her like a man.

  Oh, leave her, Johnny,

  oh, leave her while ye can.

  An’ it’s time for us to leave her!

  CHAPTER 58: EDINBURGH

  Alice sat beside Gordon's bed, the curtains pulled back, one candle lit. She didn't want to leave him alone to face what would come. Doctor McKenzie had left long ago, with promises to return
in the morning when he made his rounds in New Town.

  Outside a carriage passed, the horses clattering on the cobble-stoned street. Edinburgh was never really quiet, not even in the middle of the night. Gordon slept now, his hand in hers, his breathing labored. Gordon startled awake and pulled at her hand. “Alice, is that you?”

  “I'm here, Gordon.”

  He shifted his head fretfully. “I need my papers. Bring them, will you?”

  “Darling, rest. Let's worry about the papers in the morning.”

  He stared at her, his pupils contracting, and then his eyes closed.

  Alice hesitated. “Do you want me to send for Alexander?”

  Gordon began to laugh, but it ended with him choking. “All the way from London? He would never arrive in time. Don't coddle me, Alice. I'm dying.”

  Alice was silent. All she could do was hold his hand.

  “I'm not afraid. I've done what I could. It's all written down. Be sure to meet with Gray, but don't trust him.” Gordon's eyes closed for a few moments, and the room was filled with the sound of his harsh breathing. “You'll have to go to Foulksay. See about Perkins.”

  “Don't worry about that now.”

  Gordon sighed. “Just go after I'm gone. Close the house. Tell them what you like. My only regret is that I won't be here when our son is born.”

  “It's not so long to spring. Our child will be born then.”

  “I won't be here.”

  “You can't know that.”

  “I know.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “You have given me heart's ease, my dear,” said Gordon. “I am grateful.”

  Alice couldn't speak. She grasped his hand tightly.

  “Be sure he goes to a good school. Alexander can advise you. Take him to Foulksay in the summers. Let him know our heritage.” He coughed again.

  “I promise.” Alice stared at their hands entwined. As difficult as their marriage had been, here in Edinburgh, Gordon had become the husband she had dreamed of so long ago. What would my life have been without him?

  Gordon closed his eyes. “I would not take any of it back.”

  “Neither would I.” Alice lay her face on his hand.

  CHAPTER 59: CAPE TOWN

  The passengers spilled onto the deck and lined the bulkheads as the Brilliant sailed slowly into Table Bay. Deidre and Amalie squeezed in between Bella Fraser and Mrs. Arbuckle. Just as the anchor splashed down, Reverend Baxter joined them.

  “I never thought to see such a mountain. It's so very beautiful. Beyond my imagination,” said Deidre.

  Table Mountain stretched hundreds of feet above them. Lion’s Head marked one end of the mountain, and Lion’s Rump the other. On the far right, permanently encased in clouds as wispy as smoke, Devil’s Peak rose over the fast growing port city of Cape Town.

  “Oh, it's pretty all right.” Mrs. Arbuckle moved restively. “I can't wait to get ashore.”

  “When can we go?” cried Amalie.

  “Not to worry,” said Reverend Baxter. “They'll take us ashore as soon as the paperwork is filed with the dockmaster. We'll be sleeping on land tonight, at the latest, tomorrow, with fresh meat and drink.” Reverend Baxter smoothed the front of his waistcoat and rocked back on his toes. He was considerably slimmer now than at the start of the journey some eight weeks ago.

  “What about them?” Mrs. Arbuckle pointed to the men and women on the decks below. She glanced at Deidre. “What about the transportees?”

  Reverend Baxter turned red. “They'll let as many ashore from steerage as can afford to go. I heard the transportees will be locked up again.”

  “Not Mac.” Deidre stiffened. “Surely they won't lock him up.”

  “Hush, now.” Bella glared at Reverend Baxter. “We can't be worrying about what we don't know.”

  The small boat of the dockmaster made its way out to the Brilliant. Captain Sinclair stood at attention on the main deck, in full uniform, the feathers on his hat blowing in the wind. First Mate Banks whispered in his ear.

  “At least we'll be able to go ashore for today.” Bella patted Deidre’s arm. “Come, dear. Let's get our things ready.” The two women walked below, not looking back.

  Mac and Menzies, locked in the empty forecastle cabin, peered out of porthole windows, as sailors tied the Brilliant up to the long quayside dock crowded with ships. People swarmed the docks. Vendors, men from other ships, and a few merchantmen and soldiers squawked at each other in a mélange of languages: French, English, Spanish, German, Indian, and African. A few fat seals lay about the dock, hoping for a handout.

  Menzies ran his hand over his freshly cropped head, as if he were not used to its stubble. “They're going to keep us locked up.”

  “It’s enough we’re here and not down in the hold with the rest.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “What are you thinking, man?” asked Mac.

  Menzies looked around. “I want to run. Will you come with me?”

  “Run? Run where? There?”

  They looked at Table Mountain. Menzies shrugged.

  “When?” asked Mac.

  “When we can.”

  Mac peered out the window again. He saw Deidre link arms with Mrs. Fraser, who carried an umbrella against the heat. They skirted around the seals laying on the pier and ignored the vendors. Deidre stumbled as she walked on land for the first time.

  “I’ll think on it.”

  Banks came to the forecastle late. He eyed the hammocks that swung empty around them and shook his head at the close air. “We’re short-handed. A few will straggle back tonight. The patrol will find the rest.” He spat. “You two can work for me, sleep up here, and be locked up each night, or you can go below with the other transportees for the next three weeks. You can stay here if you give me your word that you won’t try to escape.”

  Mac and Menzies looked at each other.

  “I’d rather work than go below,” said Mac. “I give you my word.”

  “My word’s as good as any man’s,” said Menzies.

  Banks nodded. "Get some sleep then. We start early."

  Captain Sinclair ordered the ship's stores of food and water replenished, its sails hauled down and repaired, and the ship itself cleaned rigorously. At dusk, the crew took turns going to town, a portion of their pay in their pockets. Some of them returned to the ship late at night, singing. The wine was cheap. The women were beautiful. Some never returned.

  Every night, Banks locked Mac and Menzies into the hot, airless forecastle cabin. The few sailors assigned to stay on board tied their hammocks on the deck and slept under the stars. Every night, Mac lay in his hammock and worried about Deidre. Seven years of indenture faced him. What future did they have? Yet when Menzies tried to talk, Mac rolled over in his hammock.

  By the end of the first week in port, Menzies was gone. So were six men from the crew.

  Martha Arbuckle also left. Heartily sick of the crowding in the first class cabin, she had found work as a governess on their first day in port. She took her bustle and her baggage to one of the large Dutch colonial mansions that lined Buitenkant Street, near the Castle of Good Hope.

  The women gathered again at the forecastle deck to watch Mrs. Arbuckle leave.

  “I never want to see her again,” said Amalie.

  Deidre and Bella shared a look over Amalie's head.

  Bella tucked the letters from Mrs. Arbuckle to Amalie’s father into her reticule and sniffed. “Never you worry, child. We'll make sure you're safe home to your father.”

  Deidre came to the forecastle cabin that night. Mac could barely see her face in the deepening night as they talked through the bars covering one of the porthole windows. She told Mac the cabin seemed much larger with Mrs. Arbuckle gone, though she worried about Kate Dallow, who spent much of the day sleeping. “I don't know where she goes at night,” Deidre confided. “Her bunk is empty, but no one says anything.”

  Mac didn't want to tell her that he k
new where Miss Dallow slept, up on the deck with the sailors. He didn't tell her he dreamed of the two of them running away to Table Mountain. “Banks says we can't meet anymore,” he said. “Not ‘til we're back at sea.”

  “I know. That’s why I came. We're moving off ship tomorrow, Mac. I will miss you.”

  “But you’ll come back?” Mac knew he couldn’t bear to lose her again.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Mac was put to work loading the ship with provisions, crates of oranges and lemons, and fresh supplies of beef, lamb, and flour. He rolled endless barrels of water up wooden planks from the noisy dock and then down into the hold. He layered salt and fresh yellowtail and Cape salmon into wooden casks. He scattered the salt over the pink and green specked salmon and pressed another layer of fish down into the cask, then added a final thick layer of salt at the top, and tapped the wooden lid tightly into place. The heat was constant, and the salt had worked its way into his hands, stinging tiny cuts there.

  Mac half listened to the stream of words around him. Most he could understand, English mixed with German, Dutch, and Malay. Each day, he hoped for a glimpse of Deidre, but she stayed on shore. Each night, Mac fell into his hammock exhausted, now alone in the forecastle cabin.

  Captain Sinclair requested patrols be sent out from the garrison at Barrack Street. They brought back a few of the crew, who told stories of others who escaped to Table Mountain to live in a honeycomb of caves. They had feasted on dussies, a kind of rock rabbit, and ate walkie-talkies, a fried cake made of birds’ beaks and feet. The sailors spoke of baboons that shrieked and chased the sailors as they climbed up out of Cape Town, and how, a year before, a terrible fire had swept Table Mountain, started by a cave dweller. This was a dangerous time to go up Table Mountain, they said, until the rains began in the spring. Mac worried about Menzies.

  The deserters, their eyes blackened, their limbs slack from drunkenness, were chained to the masthead and lashed. Yet as soon as they had permission, they were ready to go ashore again to sit in the grog shops that dotted wharfside, doxies on their laps. Captain Sinclair let them go. When their money ran out, they came back to the ship and worked next to Mac silently, the grog smell sweating out of their bodies like a broken promise. Menzies never returned.