“Aye, if I can, I will. But ye mustna count on it too much. Ye must keep yourself busy with other things.”
The snow did fly, well before Thanksgiving that year. Between the weather and the big order to fill, the crew was unable to make it down the mountain every Saturday but spent their weekends in camp. To fill the long evenings, they’d ask Callan to play a jig or a reel or a schottische or a polka, the folk tunes of their various homelands. He’d oblige, and they’d dance around the bunkhouse, burning off energy, until the boss called, “Lights out.”
Callan missed Rose with an aching intensity, especially whenever he practiced the violin. But practice he did, determined to play well for her the next time he saw her.
The day before Christmas, the boss called a holiday. Horse-drawn sleds carried all the loggers who wished to go—which was most of them—down the mountain into town. Callan and his mates took their accustomed room at the rooming house. After greeting Mrs. Donovan, he dropped his bag on a cot and raced next door to see Rose.
“She’s out, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Tanner said when she answered the door. “She’s gone to a Christmas concert in Coeur d’Alene.”
“With Miles Godfrey, I’ll bet,” Callan snapped in spite of himself.
Mrs. Tanner got a strange look on her face. “No, with the youth from the church. She and another young lady are acting as chaperones.” She hesitated, then added, “If you must know, my sister hasn’t been spending any time with Mr. Godfrey. Since you’ve been gone, she’s barely seen anyone at all, outside of family and church activities. She has plenty of students now, and they keep her very busy.”
“’Tis good,” Callan said.
Daisy bit her lower lip. “The fact is, Callan MacTavish, Rose is not interested in spending time with anyone else but you. It’s ‘Callan this’ and ‘Callan that.’ She will be thrilled you’ve come home.”
Callan’s heart leaped. “And you, Mrs. Tanner?” he said cautiously. “What do you think of my comin home?”
She studied him for a long moment. Then her face broke into a wide grin. “I think you’d better start calling me Daisy.” She pulled the door open wide “And I think you’d better come in out of the cold.”
In the warm, steamy kitchen, Callan stood at the stove with an apron tied over his white Sunday shirt, stirring a pot of gravy. His stomach growled as he inhaled the delicious scents of roast turkey, onions, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Seated at the kitchen table, Robert sliced radishes for the salad. Daisy flitted between them, giving orders.
“That’s right, Callan. Don’t let the gravy stick to the pan. Slice them thinner, Robert.”
The kitchen door opened and Rose entered, accompanied by a blast of cold air. She tugged off her gloves, her cheeks rosy from the cold.
“I’m back. The concert was wonderful. We—”
Her eyes lighted when she spied Callan. “You’re here!”
Callan crossed the room in two strides. In Daisy and Robert’s presence, he stopped short of sweeping her into his arms but contented himself with pumping both her cold little hands in his.
“Rose,” he breathed. “Merry Christmas.”
They grinned stupidly at each other for a moment before Daisy screeched, “Callan! The gravy!”
He returned to his post at the stove. “Yer sister has pressed me into service,” he said.
“So I see. I’d better get cracking, too.” She unwound her scarf, hung her coat on the parlor coat rack, returned to the kitchen, and grabbed an apron.
After dinner, the family relaxed in the front parlor. The garland-festooned white pine in the corner scented the air.
“’Tis nice to have Christmas in a home again, with a family,” he remarked, lifting his punch cup.
“We’re happy you could join us.” Daisy sounded like she meant it.
Rose played some Christmas tunes on the violin, and they sang along. When she took a break to drink some punch, Daisy said, “Now you play something, Callan.”
“What? Me?” He gaped at her.
“Yes,” she urged. “Show us what you’ve been learning through all those months of lessons.”
The time had come. He’d keep up the charade no longer.
Rose gasped, but he smiled and winked to reassure her.
“You needna worry, lass,” he whispered. “I’ve bin practicin.”
Her brows lifted. “You have?”
He shrugged. “Not much else to keep a man busy at camp of an evenin. Besides, my teacher is a stern taskmaster. I want to impress her with my diligence.”
Rose glanced around uncertainly. “But all I have is my own violin. It’s too small for you.”
“I’ll manage.”
He stood, tucked the violin under his chin, picked up the bow in his injured hand, and pulled it over the strings. He made a show of tuning the instrument, then launched into a sweet, melodic rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”
The assembled company sat speechless. Callan played masterfully. His right hand bowed skillfully in spite of his missing fingers, and his left hand expertly fingered the strings. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daisy lean toward Rose.
“You were able to teach him to do that in just a few months?”
Wide-eyed, Rose shook her head. Catching her eye over the neck of the violin, Callan couldn’t tell whether she verged on laughter—or tears.
Rose sat astonished as rich, splendid music poured forth from the instrument. When had he learned how to do that? Surely not from her.
When he’d finished, stunned silence filled the room. Then Daisy and Robert broke into applause. Rose couldn’t make her hands and arms move.
“That was quite impressive,” Daisy said. “Rose, you’ve done a wonderful job of teaching him.”
“I’ve done nothing.” Rose’s voice was flat. She sounded near tears.
“Shall we take a walk outside, Rose?” Callan suggested gently. “Ye look as if ye could use some fresh air. And I think we have some talkin to do.”
“Don’t stay out too long,” Daisy admonished. “It’s icy out there.”
Bundled in their coats and gloves, they walked in the moonlight, boots crunching on the crisp snow.
“You lied to me,” Rose said.
“How did I lie?”
“You said you didn’t know how to play the violin.”
“I said nothin of the kind.”
“But you asked to take lessons.”
“I took lessons so I could be with ye, Rose. I dinna see any other way.”
“You must think I’m a fool.”
“Yer not a fool, Rose. Far from it. Yer … yer everythin to me.”
They’d reached the edge of the lake. Standing side by side, they looked out over the vast expanse where the moon glittered on the ice.
“Rose, I have somethin to tell ye. Somethin I havena told anyone, these three long years.” The low tremble in his voice signaled he was on the verge of confessing something weighty. Her breath hitched. Some past scandal or legal entanglement? Or worse, another woman back in Scotland, or at some lumber camp? Someone with a prior claim on his heart? She stifled her instinct to flee, not at all sure she was ready to hear whatever he was about to say. “You don’t need to tell me anything.”
“Ye deserve to know.”
But instead of saying anything more, he walked further down the shore where a wooden bench lay forlorn and forgotten. He brushed the snow from it and sat, leaning his elbows on his knees, and stared out over the icy lake shimmering in the moonlight.
Rose followed him, unsure whether he welcomed her company or wanted to be alone. She tentatively sat on the bench next to him, half expecting him to get up and move away, but he barely seemed to notice.
“I was a violinist, back in Scotland,” he said. “Quite good at it, too. As a boy, my da taught me to play. When I grew older, I studied under the finest teachers in Glasgow.”
She blinked and swallowed the sudden impulse to laugh that bubbled in her throat. Was this the dire
confession? That he already knew how to play the violin? That he’d hoodwinked her into thinking he couldn’t play a note? So what? But his grave expression told her there must be more to the story than that.
“So what happened?” she gently prompted.
“My da’s ambition for me was to become a classical concert violinist, perhaps join the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. I’m sorry to say, I disappointed him greatly. I wanted adventure, so I sought it by playin in dance orchestras from Glasgow to Inverness. I loved travelin, bein on the road. ’Twas the life.” His voice lightened and his mouth curved into a melancholy smile.
“I’d have thought your father would’ve been so proud,” Rose said. “You were earning a living with your music.”
His smile faded. “My father thought that sort of playin was beneath me, unworthy of all those years of classical trainin. We had a terrible row about it the last time we were together. But I paid him no heed, for I was too excited, havin just received a welcome bit of news. You see, a bunch of musicians, includin me, had received a great honor—we’d been hired by the White Star Line to be the official orchestra performin on board the greatest ocean liner ever built—the R. M. S. Titanic.”
Chapter 9
ROSE GASPED. “YOU PLAYED aboard the Titanic,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said. “That I did.” He cleared his throat. “Until now, I dinna like to talk about it. Too painful.”
Rose placed her gloved hand on his arm. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But sometimes it’s good to talk about things.”
“Aye. I’ll talk about it now. With ye.”
“All right.” She squared her shoulders. He’d been brave; now she would too. For him.
He sat in silence for a few minutes, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he drew a deep breath. “’Twas over the moon we were. She was the finest steamship afloat. Unsinkable, they said. Aye, she was a beauty. Enormous black steel hull risin higher than the Highland hills. I couldna believe my good fortune in bein allowed to play music on such a vessel. Of course, our accommodations were modest. Four men to a room with two iron bunk beds on a long hallway of identical rooms. But ’twas good enough for me.”
“What a marvelous experience.” Rose sighed. Then her breath hitched. “I mean, the ship. The ship must have been marvelous. Not … not …” She clamped her lips.
He took her hand in his and pressed it gently, “’Twas. ’Twas marvelous. First, we played on the Southampton dock even before the passengers boarded, lively tunes for gettin ’em in a good mood. Then we played near the bottom of the Grand Staircase, greetin them as they came aboard and got settled into their cabins. We played durin dinner, and after for those who cared to dance. The object, we were told, was to keep the passengers constantly entertained, no matter what time of day or what they were doin.”
He looked at the sky. “’Twas a night much like this one. Frosty and clear, stars danglin above our heads like crystals spilled over black velvet. We played for dinner, same as always. At one point durin the evenin, we felt a jolt and a shudder under our feet.
“‘Nothing to be concerned about,’ the steward said. So we picked up our playin, and the passengers picked up their dancin. I remember feelin the floor tilt, and it felt to be vibratin. But I dinna think nothin of it.
“Sometime later the stewards came back and told us to get ourselves up on deck. Nothin to worry about but shake a leg even so. We heard shouts, people bangin on doors, footsteps thunderin.
“Our band leader grabbed the arm of a passin steward. ‘What’s happened?’
“‘Ship’s hit an iceberg,’ he said, real quiet-like so as not to panic anybody. ‘Best you and your boys come up on deck now.’”
Callan paused and looked at Rose. “Am I goin on too long?”
She shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her breath frosted. “Go on.”
“I followed the rest of my bandmates through the ship. The frigid air slapped our faces as we stepped out onto the deck. But ’twasna the cold that stole the breath from our bodies. ’Twas the sight of the great iceberg that done it, risin out of the dark sea like the Loch Ness monster. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Panic had spread throughout the ship, people cryin and screamin, hysterical women bein herded into lifeboats The officers were makin the women and the bairns go first, draggin ’em to the lifeboats even if they dinna want to leave their husbands behind.”
Rose’s throat constricted. “What did you do? Did you try to get in a lifeboat?”
Callan shook his head. “Nay. They dinna let men in the boats, and anyhow, I guess we thought our turn would come. The captain urged us to keep playin, to try to calm everybody down. ‘We must lift their spirits,’ he said. So, at first, we chose lively, cheerful music. Ragtime and upbeat dance tunes, like we played when they were first boardin. None of us sought to get off the ship. Pretty soon we learned there were no more lifeboats, anyway. We knew we were goin to our deaths. Our leader prayed for us, then we sat on deck and continued to play. All I can say is that God must have been with us, for us to be so calm. Toward the end, somebody asked us to play hymns to comfort people, so we did. Some of the crew sang along. Some of the passengers too.”
In his rich baritone voice, Callan sang softly the words of the old hymn.
There in my Father’s home, safe and at rest, There in my Savior’s love, perfectly blest; Age after age to be nearer, my God, to Thee.
His voice cracked on the final note. Then he fell silent and dropped his head as if in grief, or maybe in prayer. Rose waited for him to continue, her heart shattering at the unimaginable horror he’d endured.
“There was no more to be done,” he whispered hoarsely. “The captain said, ‘Well, boys, ye’ve done yer duty, and ye’ve done it well. Ye know the rule of the sea. ’Tis every man for himself now, and God bless ye.’
“All at once, there was a great crunchin sound. The entire ship listed hard. I remember slidin along the deck, chair and all, and fallin, fallin, fallin.
“I hit the icy water full impact, fully clothed. I dinna remember what happened next. I must have gone unconscious for a while, in God’s mercy. When I got my bearings, I was bouncin around amid chunks of ice and thrashin bodies. All around people were cryin, some groanin, some still and silent, but the great ship was gone, all of her. I heard later that she’d broken clean in two and slipped into the sea.”
Rose hugged herself, her throat tight with unshed tears. “I can’t imagine the horror.”
Callan folded his arms as if to quell the shivering. She longed to reach out to him, to wrap him in her arms but didn’t dare. He stood and walked a few steps away, staring out over the icy moonlit expanse of the lake.
“Someone told me later that I’d been dragged underwater, sucked down when the ship went under, only to be blown back to the surface when the ship’s boiler exploded. I’ve no idea, but ’tis as reasonable an explanation as any.
“I managed to hang on to an overturned rubber raft, along with several other men. Somehow, we stayed alive until a rescue boat pulled us from the frigid water, and we wound up on board the Carpathia. Passengers and crew of that ship gave us blankets and dry clothes to wrap ourselves in.” He sat down and put his head in his hands. “Over fifteen hundred people died, Rose. Why not me? Why did I survive?”
Rose put her hand on his shoulder. “Because obviously, God has a purpose in saving you.”
“What purpose? So I can wander around North America like a ghost?” He raised his head, then lifted his right hand. “I was the only member of the orchestra who lived. The only one. All the rest, gone. And I dinna lose my fingers in a loggin accident like I let people think. I lost them to frostbite because of that night.”
Rose nodded silently. No words of comfort or reassuring platitudes seemed adequate.
“We landed in New York, and I’ve been on this continent ever since. After I’d recovered from the ordeal, I wanted to go home to Scotland, but I couldna bring myself to
set foot onto a ship. Each time I tried, I froze, utterly incapable of movin my legs up the gangplank. So you see, I canna get on another boat. Not now, not ever.
“So I wound up joinin a loggin crew in upstate New York, then Nova Scotia. Turns out I had a knack for it. Violinists have strong arms and shoulders. I worked my way from Eastern Canada to northern Idaho. And here I am.”
Rose laid her hand on the sleeve of his coat. “But you can’t ever go back?” she whispered.
He pulled off his glove and laid his bare hand over her gloved one.
“Nay, lass. I’d love to go back and see my homeland again. To fix things with my da. He knows I’m alive. I’ve written to him. But he’s old and too weak to travel, and I still canna bring myself to step foot onto a ship. If I canna even manage a fishin boat on Lake Pend Oreille, how will I ever manage to board a great ship out on the ocean?”
Rose lifted his damaged hand to her lips and kissed it.
“Maybe God’s purpose for saving you was that you be here, now. Maybe He gave you back your music so you can share it for His glory. Not for adventure or fun or seeing the world, but for Him.”
He studied their clasped hands. “Aye, He gave me back my music.” He gazed at her tenderly. “With no small effort on yer part, too.”
She turned to face him directly, her voice gaining strength. “You’re still a violinist, Callan. And a good one. Good enough to play for others, to play concerts all over the world, and to tell people your story. To give them hope that they, too, can face their difficulties with God’s help.”
He shook his head sadly. “Ah, Rose, that’s a bonny little dream, but it canna be. Aye, I can play again. But how can I travel the world givin concerts and tellin my story when I canna even get on a ship?
“The music has come back to you. And so will your ability to sail.”
“How d’ye know?”
“We’ll take it slow, the same way you got your music back. Step by step, with me beside you all the way. You’ll go to Scotland. And when you do,” she said, “I’ll go with you.”
The Highlanders Page 27