MacFarlane's Ridge

by Patti Wigington

  July 4th was a momentous day for the rest of our nation as well – yes, I said Nation, not Colonies!! A Declaration of Independence was penned by Angus’ friend Mr. Jefferson of Staunton, and signed by men from all thirteen colonies – no, we are now known as states – and then sent to King George himself! Angus was rather peeved at not being present at the signing of this letter, but tells me that this is the first step to our nation’s newfound liberty.

  I mentioned above that Angus has taken a bride. He brought her home to the Ridge with him, and I have not yet decided whether I like her or not but I shall attempt to be Charitable. Her name is Winnie and she has hair in a shade of red that I have never seen on a decent woman before. She has eyes like a cat and sometimes I feel as though she can see right into my Soul. I know little about her, although Ian did tell me she is from near Big Lick. They also bring with them your young cabin boy, Jamie, who they intend to raise as their son. He is coarse and foul-mouthed – what boy wouldn’t be, having been raised by sailors? No disrespect intended to you or your company, Robert -- but I think, despite his rough ways, that he is a good child, and I shall try to see that he is raised properly.

  On to Betsy Kerr – a most Awful and Scandalous Thing has happened and Tom is up in arms about the entire matter. It would seem that dear Betsy is with child, and of course she is not married and Tom has put her out. Sally came to me and told me the news, and so I have offered Betsy refuge in my former house, since I am now moved into Ian’s. Betsy is having a terrible time of it, and I fear for her well-being and the babe’s. She will not discuss the matter with me at all, but I am reluctant to press her for information as it is obvious she does not want to talk about it. Tom believes the Culprit may be one of the Murray or MacGregor boys, but Betsy refuses to name the father of her child. I am afraid that all I can do is offer her sanctuary, and hope that it shall be enough.

  I wish you love, and hope that this letter finds you well.

  Your sister-in-law at last,

  Mollie Duncan MacFarlane

  August 23, 1776

  Dear Rob,

  I do not know where you are, and The Lady Meg seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. Robert, I know you were wounded gravely – in more ways than one – but please let us know that you are alive. I could not bear it were I to lose another person I loved, especially the one who told me once that “without fear, there is no courage.”

  Great and wonderful news – I am fairly certain that Ian and I are expecting a child in the Spring. We have not yet told anyone because it is too soon, but Ian believes the child is a boy. I am secretly hoping for a girl. Winnie looks at me strangely, with her mysterious smile, and although I have told no one this, I believe she is aware of my condition. She is what my grandmother would call a White Lady, one who knows the unknown, and sees the unseen.

  Betsy Kerr is still in my house, and is frail and despondent. Sally brings her things when Tom is not about, and sneaks up to visit with her. Tom is angry with me for protecting her, as she has still not named the father and he has publicly decried her as a Whore. I am saddened by the whole sordid affair, and hope Tom will come to his senses and allow Betsy and his Grandchild back into their home some day.

  October 5, 1776

  Dear Mistress Duncan –

  It is with great sadness and a heavy heart that I write this letter. Your brother-in-law, Robert MacFarlane, and I were great friends for many years, and today is a day of loss for all of us.

  You may or may not be aware of an incident which took place aboard my ship on the afternoon that we sailed out of Richmond. A man, whose name I shall not mention, as it is no longer relevant, shot Robert in the leg during a disagreement over a woman, after which Robert fell and hit his head on a statue I keep in my cabin. The perpetrator of this misdeed fled the ship as we pulled out of the port, and I later put your brother Angus off on a skiff so that he could return home to you and your family. In retrospect, perhaps I should have done the same with Robert. His wound was not fatal – should not have been fatal, but festered for several weeks. I offered to have my surgeon cut off his leg but he threatened to kill me if we so much as laid a hand upon him, and in truth I believe he would have done so without a second thought. In the end, there was nothing our ship’s physician could do to save him, as the poisoning had spread too far.

  The Lady Meg shall depart Charleston this afternoon, at which point we shall be en route to the New England Colonies, where we have been contracted to search out British merchants, board them, take their cargo and capture their crews and passengers. I have enclosed for you in this packet some of his personal belongings. There is also a document deeding his portion of the Lady Meg to his nephew Hamish and our former cabin boy, Jamie Fleming. I shall send the boys their profits in your care, Mistress Duncan, as Robert always told me of the high regard in which he holds – held – you. The profits from this ship are not large, but they should dramatically increase once I begin engaging the cargo ships of the Enemy, and shall certainly make Jamie and Hamish comfortable should they ever find themselves in need of means of support.

  I shall miss Robert a great deal.

  Yours in sorrow,

  Dominic Thibodeaux, Captain

  The Lady Meg

  Port of Charleston, South Carolina

  Cam looked at Troy, her face pale, as she stared at the letter. “So there it is. He really died.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “So he did. Their letters must have crossed at some point. It would have taken weeks for her to receive the one from Thibodeaux.”

  “Okay. Okay, so that’s it, then.” Cam stared at the curly letters on the creamy parchment, willing herself not to burst into tears. “Winnie. Angus is married to a redheaded woman named Winnie.”

  He nodded slowly. “Wanda. She must have gone back to Richmond to find him.”

  Cam motioned to the letters. “I think,” she said slowly, “that you were right. There is only going to be one way to find out for sure what happened to Mollie and Ian and everyone else.”

  He nodded. “The journals.”

  “The journals,” Cam said with finality. “We have to find them.”

  For the next three days, she sorted through boxes in Emily’s bedroom, but found nothing. On the fourth day, she climbed the steep steps to the attic.

  The attic ran the entire length of the house, and a small round window at each end provided some sunlight, in addition to the three bare bulbs that dangled from the central rafters. As a child, when she first came to live with Granny Emily, Cam was afraid of the attic. There were a hundred years’ worth of dust and decay in there, and the corners under the eaves were shadowy and terrifying to a lonely child of nine.

  Trunks and chests were stacked along the walls, along with remnants of the lives of so many of the house’s previous occupants. A dressmaker’s mannequin here, a tricycle there. Cam shivered and hoped there were no spiders.

  She selected a trunk, and began to explore.

  The next morning, Troy Adams let himself in to the old Victorian with the key Cam had given him. There was no sign of her in the shop, and the “closed” sign was up.

  “Cam?” he called, leaning up the stairs to the second floor. There was still no answer. The house was quiet. The young deputy began to worry, and climbed the stairs, panting a little. What if something had happened to Cam? She was so depressed lately. “Cam, are you okay?” he yelled.

  There was a creak above him, and footsteps, and then he saw her descending the steps from the attic.

  “Hey, is everything alright?” he asked.

  She shook her head mutely.

  “Did you find them? The journals?”

  Cam sat on the bottom step. “Yeah.”

  “Well, have you read them?” he asked impatiently. “What did they say?”

  She looked up. “I think you’d better come see.”

  He followed her to the attic wordlessly.

  November 1, 1776

  I have recei
ved word from Captain Thibodeaux of Robert’s death. Reading his letter was a great blow, as I had held onto the hope that Rob might have survived the wound inflicted upon him by Mr. Sinclair. Ian blames Angus for not bringing Robert to safety, but he is hurting and angry, and I do not think Angus should be held accountable for this Tragedy. The Captain also advised me that Rob left his share of the ship to Hamish and Jamie. Thibodeaux apparently is intent upon Privateering, and now that it is lawfully authorized by Congress, he expects to turn a handsome profit. I have not told young Jamie of this yet, and think I shall speak to Angus privately about it, as he and Winnie are the ones raising the boy and I do not wish to interfere with the progress they have made with him. Winnie has taught him to read and do figures, and I believe there may be hope for him yet, if he can learn not to use such awful language. Just a few days ago little Hamish dropped his cup and then shouted out “Damn it all to hell” I strongly suspect Jamie is the source of this newfound vocabulary.

  Winnie herself does not seem as Distraught by news of Rob’s death as the rest of us, but perhaps this is because she did not know him as well. I understand now that she was with Cameron and Mr. Sinclair in Richmond. She tells me that she sent Cameron home but will elaborate no further. Without Robert, there would be no reason for Cameron to return to the Ridge in any case, I suppose, although I wish that I could have said goodbye to her.

  Of Mr. Sinclair himself, there has been no word, and I think we will not see him again. I believe Winnie knows something about him but she has remained silent on the subject. Sometimes she is so quiet that I would like to slap her, if only to force some sort of a reaction from her. May God forgive me for such thoughts.

  November 3, 1776

  A schoolmaster from Connecticut has been hanged by the British as a traitor. The gentleman’s name is Nathan Hale. He had been collecting information on the enemy troops for months, but, fool that he was, consistently wrote down what he learned on a paper he kept in his waistcoat. Of course when he was captured, the Evidence was upon him. He was not given a trial, but merely sentenced to hang. He did say a valiant thing before his death, however. Master Hale said to the mob before him, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

  Angus and Winnie will be leaving soon to go to New Jersey of all places. Why anyone would go there I do not know, but Winnie says she has information that may be of use to General Washington in future campaigns, and Angus refuses to let his new wife travel alone. I do not know what it is she thinks is so important, but I have learned not to question her. She says they need to be there by Christmas, so it is unlikely that I will see them again for a few months. Jamie will stay with Ian and me in their absence. He is a hard worker and a good boy.

  I miss Robert terribly.

  January 29, 1777

  I have received a rather odd and somewhat distressing letter from a Lieutenant William Clarendon. He is evidently a British officer of some sort, stationed at Fort Wyndham near Philadelphia.

  Dear Madame,

  I am writing to advise you of an event that I believe will have some impact upon the financial futures of two young children in your care. A Pirate Ship, the Lady Meg, owned in part by your husband’s uncle, Andrew MacFarlane of Jamaica and in part by Hamish MacFarlane and Jamie Fleming Duncan, has been boarded, and commandeered by His Majesty’s Royal Navy. All hands aboard were captured and allowed the opportunity to swear an Oath of Allegiance to His Majesty King George. A good many of the junior crewmembers took the opportunity wisely, but some of the more Senior men did not. The Free Negro Captain of the ship, a Dominic Thibodeaux, resisted completely and was shot and killed for his efforts. His mate, an Alexander McFarland, has been imprisoned as a traitor and will be facing trial accordingly.

  Because of the youthful age of Hamish MacFarlane and Jamie Fleming Duncan, they will not be prosecuted for any part of their ownership of the Lady Meg. You may, however, rest assured that they will not be receiving any profit in the future from any of her treasonous endeavors.

  Respectfully,

  Lt. Wm. Clarendon

  His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons

  I am more than a bit confused about this. I do not have any idea who Alexander McFarland may be, but assume he must be a deckhand who was promoted to the position of mate after Robert’s demise. Now, sadly, I must inform Ian that in addition to losing his brother, we have lost Hamish and Jamie’s financial upkeep as well.

  February 20, 1777 –

  Poor Betsy Kerr is dead. As her time of confinement drew near, rather than glow with the joy of motherhood, she became wan and pale and thin, so much that I was afraid her child would not survive. As it happens, she went into labor four days ago, and was delivered of a small but healthy son. After the birth, she did not speak, merely stared at the wall. We could not even get her to nurse the child, and Ian fashioned a nipple of sorts that he filled with goat’s milk, and we fed the babe in that manner. Sally was in attendance, and in the middle of the night after she dozed off, Betsy slipped away into the darkness.

  Ian and Tom went hunting for her when daylight came, after we discovered her absence. They were unable to find a single trace of her until this morning, when Charlie sniffed out her frail and broken body. It appears that she flung herself into a gorge, and died a most horrible death. Poor Sally is beside herself, and blames Tom because he turned her out, but Tom himself blames the cad that got Betsy with child.

  This sweet nameless infant will return home with Sally, and she shall raise him with her own children – her youngest, Maggie, is the same age as Hamish. While I am devastated at the loss of Betsy, at least her son lives. We have had entirely too much sadness on the Ridge of late, and it is good to know that one small life has managed to endure while those around have gone.

  I myself am big and fat, but Ian tolerates my Whims and Moods. It seems as though I am far too big to wait two more months, but I have checked the dates and am quite sure my child will be born in April. Whether it be boy or girl, it must be enormous.

  If it is a boy, I shall name him Robert. If a girl, her name will be Sarah Cameron MacFarlane.

  Cam blinked back tears, and resisted the impulse to flip ahead in the journal to read about the birth of Mollie’s baby. She sniffled a little bit, and looked over at Troy. They had moved all of the boxes and chests downstairs to the parlor, where the light was better.

  The phone rang in the shop, and Troy trotted in to answer it. Cam rooted gently around in yet another chest, which she had found tucked in a corner under the eaves. There were eight journals in all, including the first, the one Cam had in the display case in the shop. Troy poked his head back in the room.

  “Cam? That was Diana Basham, from the historical society. She stumbled across another letter in her collection that she thought might interest you, and she’s going to fax it over. She thinks it might have something to do with Mollie or the MacFarlanes.”

  Troy heard her sudden intake of breath and looked over.

  Her hands were shaking, and she was focused on the box in front of her. There was a tangle of dried wool, and some dark material at the bottom under a pair of boots. Cam began to pick at it cautiously.

  The phone rang again, and Troy could hear the fax machine making its noises as it received the transmission. “I’ll go get that for you.”

  When he came back in, papers in hand, Cam still said nothing, and he saw that she was very pale. She was staring into the box, a dazed expression on her face.

  “Cam? What is it?” He leaned over, and looked over her shoulder into the chest. Peering into the bottom, he saw the tangled scraps of wool. “Is that a rat? If it is, I’m pretty sure it’s dead. Cam?”

  “That scrap of material in the bottom,” she whispered.

  “What, this?” He held up a filthy, faded green and red piece of fabric. “It’s an old scrap of plaid.”

  “It’s Robbie’s tartan,” she said, staring at the scrap. Chills were running down her spine. “It’s his plaid
, that his father wore at Culloden.”

  Troy stared at her. “Cam, you’re imagining things. I’ll bet there were plenty of guys around who wore a MacFarlane plaid. There were thousands of Scottish immigrants in Virginia and North Carolina in the 1700s.”

  “It’s his,” Cam said defiantly.

  “You don’t know that.”

  She stood back up. “I do know it,” she said softly. She reached into the box and pulled out the tangles of wool.

  “What is that? Old socks?”

  “Sort of,” she said sadly, as the tears began to fall. “It was stockings. I couldn’t fix them because there were too many holes. I made Hamish a dog for Christmas. It was a sock doggy.” Then the flood really began, and she couldn’t stop.

  Troy was more concerned for Cam’s well-being than ever. “You need to go lay down. I think things are finally catching up to you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sick, Troy, and I’m not losing my mind. This was the sock dog I made for Hamish, and that scrap… that was Rob’s.” She took it from him, gingerly, afraid the fibers would crumble at her touch. It was surprisingly thick, and she buried her face in the rough material. It smelled like campfires and whiskey and Robert.

  She glanced back over to Troy, who was staring at the fax intently. “What is it?” she asked.