“Noo we can relax a wee,” she said. “We’ll trawl fer three or so hours afore we haul in the catch. Time t’ give oor attention t’ the galley—I hope ye’re hungry.”
Logan had hardly thought about food until that moment. But with the suggestion of a meal he realized he was starving. At the same time it dawned on him that the undulating sea had in no way affected his insides as it had on the schooner. Mentally he patted himself on the back and began to wonder what fortunes a man of his unique talents might make aboard luxury ocean liners.
Jesse set a fine table, even in the cramped galley, which was located directly under the wheelhouse. Smoked fish, oatcakes, and fresh tea heated over the engine boiler, at that moment tasted as fine to Logan as any meal he had taken in London.
He liked the company too. If Jesse had an occasionally overbearing nature, her warmth and forthrightness softened any other rough edges. Perhaps she was just a coarse version of Molly Ludlowe. No doubt that was why he had in this short time felt such an attachment to her. He found himself talking to her as he would have to Molly or Skittles, and a time or two caught himself just as he was about to reveal too much of who he was and what he was about in Port Strathy.
And when he slipped back into his familiar ruse of hypocrisy, he could not keep back a surge of unfamiliar guilt, as if he were—of all things!—actually lying. The experience was novel to him, and most disconcerting. But he managed to salve these pricks of conscience by telling himself that when he found Digory’s treasure, he’d buy Jesse Cameron a new boat—one with a modern diesel engine and motorized winches and even radio equipment. She had talked about them, and had gone so far as to show him a picture of one she had clipped from a magazine and pinned up in the wheelhouse.
“Dinna ken what I’d do wi’ a radio, though,” she had laughed. “Don’t know who else in the fleet’d be able t’ talk t’ me. Not a single one o’ them has radios neither, except the MacD, an’ he’s never oot when the fish are runnin’, anyway.”
But Logan thought to himself, I’ll get the whole fleet radios!
That morning he hadn’t given the welfare of Port Strathy’s fishing fleet a moment’s thought. But now he felt oddly bound up in their well-being. Shortly, that bond was to grow yet stronger, as the invisible forces working upon the soul of young Logan Macintyre zeroed in on him ever more closely.
It came about two hours after they had eaten.
Buckie had earlier noted that the wind seemed to be picking up, though at the time all had agreed they still had time for another hour or two’s trawl. And the few other boats they could see in the distance seemed to be holding. But by half past two the sky had blackened and the Little Stevie was riding ten-foot swells. There was nothing else to do but haul in the net and head for home. Every hand was needed by this time, as the wind now suddenly whipped up to double its force. The battle of net, fish, and human strength pitted against wind, wave, and rocking boat was a torturous and dangerous one. As Logan lent his inexperienced hands to the task, he noticed for the first time in his life how soft they were.
Halfway through the job the rain began to fall. Now the ropes became twice as difficult to handle, and the decks too slippery to get a strong foothold. To seasoned fishers, such hazards were commonplace enough, and with one’s wits firmly intact, presented no obstacle which could not be dealt with. Logan, however, was hard pressed merely to remain upright, and all the more to shoulder his share of the increasingly heavy and cumbersome load.
The foul weather had one positive point, though. The fishing grounds that day had been especially fertile, and the net was bulging. Logan had taken a position near the starboard rail, holding a rope fast while two of the other men swung the net past the starboard stanchion in order to lift it in—all the while the wind swinging it murderously overhead. At the very moment when the heavy load was at its apex over the deck, the winch gave way from the weight and added tension of movement.
Suddenly the rope gripped in Logan’s hand lurched forward without warning.
“Let go!”
Scarcely hearing the shout, Logan found himself yanked off his feet; even the rubber boots Jesse had fitted him with could offer no traction on the wet deck to prevent him from altogether losing his footing.
In another instant he was flying overboard, then plunged into the icy sea.
As an angry wave engulfed him and pulled him under, his first thought was that now he wouldn’t be able to get Jesse a new boat. His second was the realization that he couldn’t swim. And the third, following almost instantly in succession after the others as his head broke through the surface only to be overwhelmed by another wave, was that he was going to die and never see his mother again.
Again his head bobbed to the surface. Logan gulped for air, but took in little more than a mouthful of the freezing salt water. Frantically he looked around for the Little Stevie, but could see nothing except water and sky. He tried to yell, but only a sputtering gurgle emerged; his panic-stricken lungs were already filling with the salty water. Another huge wave crashed over him, and all went black. Floundering and flailing to reach the surface, the only sensation he could afterward recall was the sense of being pulled upon by an evil force intent upon drawing him down . . . down . . . down.
Gradually the will to fight slackened. He could feel the downward force tightening its grip. He began to relax. It would be so much easier to give in . . . to let it have its way with him. If only he could just go to sleep . . . then he could be warm again . . . then he could wake up and everything would be—
Suddenly a strong pair of arms wrapped themselves around him. These were not the arms of the downward force. These arms, though he barely felt them, were strong and were pulling him up . . . up . . . out of the sea!
Within seconds after he had gone over, Jesse had a life rope around her waist and had plunged over the side after him. And though Logan’s benumbed senses told him he was not being rescued because he was still surrounded by thousands of fish, in fact he now lay on the deck in the midst of the catch of the day.
He must have lost consciousness for only two or three minutes, for Jesse was still pounding his back and pumping sea water from him when he awoke. He rolled over, then coughed and gagged for a few moments, but it was some time before he could speak. When words finally came out, they were little more then a weak wheeze.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped.
“Hoots!” exclaimed Jesse. “’Tis my own fault. I should hae known better than t’ place ye there!”
The incident had given the toughened sea woman a scare as nothing else could. It had been many years since her husband and son were lost to the sea, but she still had occasional nightmares in which she pictured them floundering helplessly in the icy North Sea waters. Her son had been but ten at the time, and he’d now be nearly Logan’s age if he had lived. The thought made her shudder, and also angry with herself for not taking better care of her young guest. Thus her gruff tone contained more hidden meaning than Logan could have guessed. As Jesse looked at Logan lying before her, in her mind’s eye he was her own son. And it would be a sensation she would long remember.
She and Buckie helped Logan below, where Buckie found him some blankets and dry clothes, then poured him a cup of hot tea. After changing out of her own drenched things in the wheelhouse, Jesse poked her head in to see how he was doing. He looked up over his second cup of hot tea with a solemn expression he seldom wore.
“I owe you, Jesse,” he said in a tone to match his look. “I’ll repay you somehow. I won’t forget.”
“There’ll be nae talk o’ repayin’,” she replied crustily. “At sea everyone gives their all—that’s what’s expected o’ us. Couldn’t survive no other way.” But beneath her words, the voice of Jesse Cameron betrayed that she, too, had been touched by the emotion of the incident. To save a fragile human being’s life, for the fragile human animal, may be just as awesome a thing as to see your own snatched from the very door of death. In any case, neit
her would Jesse soon forget this day. Perhaps the heartaches of her own life had prepared her for this moment when she would become a vessel in God’s hands, instigating the purifying work of redemption in the heart of this boy who could almost be her own son.
Logan watched as she poured a cup of tea, recalling what Alec had said about her. He had to agree. A remarkable woman she was, indeed.
21
Allison in New Town
Allison parked the Austin on High Street, the main thoroughfare connecting Port Strathy proper with New Town, right across from one of its two public houses. The second stood at the other end of the street. She remained in the car, hoping that somehow Mr. Macintyre would make an appearance so she would be spared having to get out and go hunting around for him.
She had been shopping in the Mercantile when her mother had called. The tractor had broken down and neither the men, Nat, nor Alec could get it operational again as they usually managed to do. And since they could afford to lose no more time with the spring planting, she asked Allison to inquire about town and try to find Mr. Macintyre. Would he be interested, she was told to ask him, in being of further service to them, at a fair wage this time?
When the call ended, Allison slammed down the receiver and stormed out of the store without a single word of explanation to Miss Sinclair. Now she was a common errand girl! She had her own plans. It was early, her mother said, and there was sufficient time for her to deliver Mr. Macintyre and still meet Sarah Bramford. But the whole thing nevertheless upset her—even if her mother did promise to call the Bramfords to inform them she would be a little late.
The only hope was that this errand might afford her an opportunity to better acquaint herself with the mysterious Logan Macintyre. Though after the revelation of his common heritage the other night, she wondered why she even wanted to bother. The great-nephew of a groom! Really, she had better prospects than that!
But there was something incongruous about him . . . an intriguing side. He was no dolt, however common his heritage. He carried himself with aplomb. If she hadn’t known his background, she would have been rather proud to display him to her friends. And that unique accent, with just a hint of Scots tempered with the genteel London sound—it all came off rather pleasantly.
It was irksome how he all but ignored her. The rest of the family had, of course, monopolized him shamefully. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault. Who could tell but that he had been attracted to her, had even wanted to speak to her, but had been unable to in the awkward surroundings of a family dinner?
Maybe she could turn this inconvenient request of her mother’s to her own advantage after all!
At the Bluster ’N Blow, however, Allison’s inquiries were met with a shake of the head. “Came in last night,” said Cobden, “wi’oot e’en informin’ me he wasna plannin’ t’ be here fer dinner. Came in late, passed the time wi’ the few customers I had at the time, then went t’ his room, an’ a few minutes later was back in new duds, an’ then was gone t’ the New Toon—jist like that. I dinna think he e’en came back fer the night.”
“That was last night, Mr. Cobden,” said Allison impatiently. “What about today?”
“I’ ain’t seen him since.”
“He hasn’t left town?”
“Na, na,” the innkeeper shook his head. “His gear’s all still here.”
Allison waited to hear no more. Without a word of thanks, she bounded from the inn and set out for New Town, where she now sat, growing more irritable with each passing moment. After observing the deserted streets for about as long as she could stand, she was about to get out and head for one of the pubs, when the door she had been watching opened and several figures ambled out.
There could be no doubt that one was the man she sought. That checkered cap of his was pushed well back on his head and his face sported a day or two’s growth of beard. His suit, which might at one time have been a fine one, was wrinkled with a long night of wear. In his mouth he sported a cigar, which he appeared to be enjoying immensely. With him were three or four locals. They were all laughing, but with their eyes squinting against the glare of the sun, looking brashly out of place on a sunny Saturday morning.
Allison stepped out of the Austin and approached waving to him. “Mr. Macintyre,” she called in a tight voice, taking no pains to conceal her contempt.
Logan looked up, removed the cigar, and smiled. Well, at least there was nothing wrong with his smile, thought Allison. Why did everything else about him have to be so entirely wrong?
“Why, Miss MacNeil,” he said, “this is a pleasure. What brings you out on a fine morning like this?”
She could not tell whether his joviality was from being drunk or from simple high spirits. “I was looking for you,” she replied coolly.
“Ah,” he intoned, with a knowing glance and a wink to one of the other men, “can I be of further assistance to your family, or to yourself perhaps?”
Before she could answer, the men with Logan began to wave and call out. At first she thought the commotion was directed at her. But to her even greater chagrin, she then realized they had hardly noticed her at all, and were instead calling to a woman crossing from the other side of the street.
“Mornin’, Liz,” said one of Logan’s cronies.
“Hello, Jimmy . . . boys,” the woman replied. As she approached and greeted them, her eyes strayed to the newcomer as she appraised him with a thoughtful smile.
It took all the self-restraint Allison could muster to keep her snort of disgust to herself. Wasn’t that just like Liz Doohan, Patty’s elder sister? Dressed in a simple cotton frock and maroon cloth coat that clashed dreadfully with her red hair, she looked frumpy but may have been pretty a few years earlier. But working women aged faster than most, and it hardly became her now to flirt with men right out on the street. For all her caustic notions of superiority, Allison would no doubt have been surprised to know that Liz Doohan was but twenty-six.
A lively banter had sprung up between Logan’s small group and Liz, who was now being told by Logan’s shipmates of the previous day and how well their young friend from London had taken to the sea, mercifully omitting his adventure in the water. Allison’s presence had been altogether forgotten.
“Am I the only one who has t’ work t’day?” asked Liz with a mock pout.
“Grounded fer repairs,” answered Jimmy.
“An’ the weather’s so cockeyed,” added Buckie, “that another storm could blow in on us afore noon.”
“Mr. Macintyre,” interrupted Allison, approaching with a huffy gait. “If you don’t mind . . .”
“Oh, Miss MacNeil. What was it you were wanting?”
He may not have intended for his tone to sound condescending, but in her present mood Allison could hardly interpret it as otherwise.
“There is trouble with our tractor,” she answered, rankled even further by the turn of events, “and we would like to employ your services.” She emphasized the word so there could be no possible mistaking her own patronizing attitude.
“Glad to be of assistance,” he replied good-naturedly.
“It is rather pressing. Do you suppose you can tear yourself away?”
He turned to his friends. “Duty calls,” he said. “I’ll give you a chance to get even tonight.”
“Ye deserve the win,” said Buckie with a laugh. “Especially after yer day yesterday.”
“But we willna begrudge ye yer offer,” laughed Jimmy.
“It was nice t’ meet ye, Logan,” purred Liz; “maybe I’ll see ye aroun’ again . . . ?”
“No doubt,” he answered with a noncommittal grin.
Finally, with the fishers all slapping Logan fraternally on the back as if they had known him for years, they parted company.
Allison drove Logan back to the inn for a change of clothes, saying hardly a word. She dropped him off, then returned to the Mercantile for something she had forgotten as a result of her agitated departure from the store after her mother’s
call. Why she was so angry she could not exactly say. Was it because he had tramped about all night in the most disreputable section of town? Or because he persisted in humoring her as if she were nothing but a child? Or was the real reason that she wanted to be noticed like he had noticed Liz Doohan? That she could never admit! Liz was . . . a nobody. How could he pay more attention to her than to an heiress like herself! He must be blind to the way things really were!
And I had entertained ideas of presenting him to my friends. Never! He’ll have to beg first!
At the thought, a sly smile crept across Allison’s lips. Perhaps that was not such a bad idea. In fact, it would be rather splendid to have that arrogant southerner groveling at her feet. Of course, she’d turn him down flat. But what a pleasure it would be!
Returning to the inn, she found Logan outside leaning casually against a post, arms folded across his chest. The manner in which he surveyed the town gave every impression that he thought he owned the place. His face was shaven and one could hardly tell he had been awake all night.
All at once Allison realized that while his self-assured, I-don’t-need-anyone manner irritated her, in an odd sort of way it drew her, too. One could not help being attracted to someone so independent. Wasn’t that the very thing she herself wanted to be?
Considering the matter further, she decided that after she had him begging, she might grant him the privilege of her attentions—for a while, at least. There could be nothing permanent, of course. He didn’t have the blood to match her breeding.
22
The Door Is Opened
An old clunk of a tractor was a far cry from race cars or street automobiles, but Logan determined to put on a convincing show that he knew what he was about. If Skittles had taught him one thing it was that man had been given a tongue to make up for what he lacked in actual skill. Logan had bluffed his way through stickier situations than this. Only this time he had to come up with a working tractor in the end. If he could do it, he knew this would be his ticket into Stonewycke.
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