“I’ll bring ye the linen we need laundered the morn, if that’s all right. I’m no’ sure how much there’ll be.”
“An’ ye’ll pay the goin’ rate, I’m sure,” said Bessie. “Noo suppose ye tell me the real reason for yer call.”
“Real reason?”
“Aye, weel, it’s no’ a social call, an’ it’s plain tae me ye had nae thocht o’ employin’ me when ye ca’d my name,” said Bessie shrewdly.
“Well,” Alison hesitated. “I saw ye in the kirk . . .”
“So did a wheen o’ ither folk,” said Bessie bitterly. “I’m surprised ye’d gi’e me wark efter seein’ my disgrace.”
“I thocht ye were very brave, listenin’ tae a’ the minister had tae say.”
Bessie grinned suddenly. “Ye’ll need tae tell me what he said. I wasnae listenin’.”
“I was disgusted,” said Alison frankly. “Why does the Kirk Session aye punish the lassie an’ the bairn’s faither gangs free?”
“You tell me,” said Bessie grimly.
“Maybe,” said Alison slowly, “because the bairn’s faither is a fine, upstanding citizen. Maybe he’s a member o’ the Session.”
Bessie stopped tramping. “What dae ye ken?” she demanded.
“I think I can guess wha the faither is. Thon’s a bonnie black-haired wee lassie,” she continued, indicating the child playing by the water. “That’ll be yer dochter, I suppose.”
Bessie shot her a furious look.
“Ye’ll no mak’ me say a name,” she warned. “He sees me an’ the weans provided for.”
“What if I tellt ye the same fine gentleman had attacked me?”
“An’ what o’ it? Ye’ll no’ be the last,” said Bessie bitterly.
“An’ he’ll carry on if he’s no’ stopped. Dae ye want that? How mony mair puir lassies will he defile if he can get awa’ wi’ it?”
Bessie heaved herself out of the tub and came to stand close to Alison. A smell of coarse soap and lye came with her.
“Listen, if ye want tae gang tae the Session an’ denounce him I cannae stop ye. You’ll no be hurt by it; ye’ve got a guid livin’ an’ a faither tae provide for ye, but me an’ the ither lassies in my position hae nothin’. I’ve already lost customers an’ if James Cunningham didnae provide for me, my weans an’ I would starve.”
Not seeming to realise she that she’d just named her children’s father, Bessie seized a washing bat and a shirt and began to beat it furiously. “Guid day tae ye, Mistress Fleming,” she flung over her shoulder.
Well, at least she’d had her suspicions confirmed, thought Alison as she walked away. In truth she had expected no other reaction from Bessie, but she hoped still that she could bring the girl round.
CHAPTER 13
Wednesday August 29th
“Mind hoo ye go. This gangplank’s gey slippy.” Mungo turned to grin at Tom. It was Wednesday afternoon and they were about to board the Demoiselle, a French brig tied up at the quayside, to check Cunningham’s section of the cargo before she set sail for Dublin. Richard Cunningham had told Mungo to show Tom this part of the job, saying he would soon get the hang of it; it was just a matter of checking the bill of lading against the goods in the hold.
Tom had been gradually feeling more relaxed since the weekend. He and Mungo made sure they stayed together during the working day and went straight home afterwards. Tom usually accompanied Mungo as far as Mill Street before mounting Sadie for the ride home. They had little contact with Kennedy and the McSkimmings, who usually kept to the warehouse or the yard.
If he had been thinking less of the smugglers it was because he found his thoughts turning increasingly to Alison. He wondered if she had recovered from James Cunningham’s unwanted attentions. Natural diffidence and a reluctance to remind her of her ordeal had so far prevented him from going to see her, but now he thought she might conclude that he didn’t care. He decided he would go round to the shop after work; he could always pretend he was on an errand from his aunts.
Following Mungo, he negotiated the steep gangplank safely and crossed the deck to the trapdoor leading down to the smaller of the two holds. The rickety ladder down into the darkness was steep, and he had to place his feet carefully. Once below, Mungo lit a lantern which hung from the rafters and they looked around. The ship’s main cargo, linen, was stored in bales in the main hold. Cunningham’s wines and spirits, bound for the tables of the Dublin gentry, were stored in this second one, whose walls were lined with crates and kegs bearing the firm’s distinctive stamp.
Mungo read out the items from the lists while Tom checked the goods. He was a meticulous worker, so the process lasted longer than usual. He could sense Mungo’s impatience, but he was determined to do the job properly. The dim interior of the hold did not help; the lantern’s beam did not reach into the corners, and the only other light came from the open trapdoor and from one dirty porthole in the ship’s side.
They were just finishing the last section of cargo when there came a shout from above. “Are youse in there, Boyd, McGillivray?” and looking up, they saw the leering face of Adam Kennedy framed in the opening.
“Aye,” said Tom, trying to keep fear out of his voice.
“Twa rats in a trap,” sneered Kennedy. Tom felt his legs turn to jelly. He had noticed when they came aboard that there was no-one else on the ship. The crew had not yet come aboard. Beside him, Mungo gave a soft moan of fear.
“An’ twa ship’s rats ye’ll remain. She sails on the evening tide an’ I doot the crew’ll find ye afore Dublin. Bon voyage an’ gi’e my love tae the colleens!” and with a mocking laugh Kennedy slammed the trapdoor shut and rammed home the two stout bolts. They heard his heavy footsteps cross the deck above their heads, then there was silence.
“What the de’il . . .?” spluttered Mungo.
Tom stumbled up the ladder and pushed at the trapdoor, to no avail.
“Save yer breath,” said Mungo gloomily. “We’re trapped. Just like rats, richt enough.”
“Can we no’ alert the crew?”
“Ye heard what he said. They’re no aboard yet. They aye get a’ ready, then go for a last wee dram afore they sail.”
Tom cursed, then seized the lantern from its hook and began to examine the dark corners of the hold.
“What are ye daein’ noo?” asked Mungo wearily. “We’re stuck till Dublin, an’ then they’ll put us in jail, if we dinnae starve first.” He slumped down on a keg of whisky and closed his eyes.
“There must be anither way oot,” said Tom, prowling with the lantern around the edges of the hold.
“Aye, mebbe in a cheap chapbook story, or The Ballad of Thomas Boyd. Leave it, Tom, there’s nothin’ tae be done.”
Tom had arrived next to the porthole. Raising the lantern, he examined the edges of the grimy glass. He scratched at the wooden frame. “Maybe we could loosen the glass here, and if we can open it we can ca’ tae folk on the quay.”
“What, an’ hae Kennedy come runnin’ back?”
“He’d no’ dare dae onything in daylight.” Tom felt in his pockets. “I’ve nothin’ I could use. Hae ye got a knife or ocht sharp?”
Mungo reluctantly produced a rather rusty penknife, and Tom set to work scraping at the wooden frame of the porthole. Mungo curled up on the floor and went to sleep.
Half an hour later, Tom had made little progress. The putty holding the glass had been applied well and Tom’s efforts were slow, but he was sure that he would eventually be able to remove the glass. Just then he heard footsteps up above which signalled the return of the crew. He ran to the trapdoor and began pounding on it as hard as he could. To no avail; he soon realised that the muffled sounds he produced would not be heard. Shortly afterwards there came the sounds of shouted commands and running feet as the sails were raised. He could hear them cracking in the stiff breeze as the ship rocked at anchor then settled again.
Tom paused, realising that they were about to set sail.
He did
not allow himself to panic. He roused Mungo and the two of them began to shout at the top of their lungs, while Tom hammered with all his might on the trapdoor.
All their efforts were in vain, and shortly afterwards the ship’s timbers shuddered and creaked as she cast off from the quay. Mungo slumped in despair.
Tom nearly did likewise, but told himself if he could get the porthole loose there was still a chance. He set to work again with the penknife. Beyond the grimy glass he could see the warehouses on the quay slide past, then the bulk of Cromwell’s fort in the gathering gloom. The ship lurched alarmingly as they reached the river mouth and swung to starboard, out into the Firth, heading south. As the following wind filled the sails she began to move faster.
Tom had given up all hope of attracting the crew’s attention. Their only hope was to get off the ship and swim for land but he realised that if he could not open the porthole soon they would be too far out. Just then he felt the framework give way and the glass fell out. Tom felt the salty taste of spray on his face and breathed in the cold night air. He could just make out the dark outline of the shore, about two hundred yards away. He pulled a keg over to the side, and climbing up, gauged the width of the opening. It would be a tight squeeze but he reckoned he could just about wriggle through the narrow gap. It would be easier for Mungo, who was shorter and slighter. Fortunately, the porthole was not far above the waterline, so they would not have far to fall.
“What are ye daein’?” asked Mungo, joining him by the porthole.
“I think we can just aboot get through here an’ swim ashore. We’ll need tae dae it noo, or it’ll be ower late.”
“We cannae.”
“Why? It’s oor only chance, or we’ll be too far out tae get tae the shore.”
“But... Mungo hung his head, “I cannae swim.”
Tom hadn’t foreseen this. He did his best to reassure the other man. “It’s all right. I’ll haud ye up. It’s no’ that far, but we’ll hae tae gang noo.”
Mungo swallowed. Tom could see he was caught between his fear of the water and his fear of the unknown. Finally, “I’ll try,” he whispered.
Tom clasped his shoulder briefly. “Guid man. Trust me, I’ll no’ let ye doon. I dinnae think the tide has quite turned yet, so that’ll push us towards the shore. Noo tak’ aff yer boots,” he added, bending to remove his own.
“They’re my only pair,” protested Mungo.
“I’ll bring ye some mair frae hame. A jacket an’ a’, for we’ll need tae tak’ them aff tae.”
Mungo grumbled a bit, but then did as he was asked. They stripped quickly to shirt and hose.
“Noo dae just as I dae, an’ ye’ll be fine.”
Holding on to a beam above the porthole, Tom swung himself up from the keg and pushed his legs out of the gap. The angle was not good and he had to wriggle his shoulders quite a bit but soon he was through the opening and falling into the sea below. He gasped as he hit the water; the sea was colder than he had thought. He hoped he would have the strength to make it to the shore with the added burden of Mungo.
He treaded water and looked up towards the porthole. The ship was moving away fast and Tom knew it would soon be too late to catch his friend. “Come on, Mungo,” he yelled. “Ye’ll need tae come noo.”
“Mebbe I’ll tak’ my chance in Dublin,” called Mungo.
“Like hell ye will. Noo, or it’s too late!”
Mungo’s head disappeared from sight, and Tom was about to swim for shore alone, but then he glimpsed a pair of legs in the opening and moments later there was a splash and Mungo disappeared under water. He seemed to spend a long time under, and Tom cursed himself for leading him into danger, but just then the waters parted and Mungo’s head appeared, coughing and spluttering. Cursing beneath his breath, Tom struck out towards him. It was heavy going through the swell in the wake of the ship and he could hardly see the other man.
“Mungo!” he yelled. “Move yer arms and legs. Try tae stay afloat, I’m comin’!”
Mungo began flailing about but Tom was still about fifteen yards away when he panicked again and his head disappeared below the waves. Tom treaded water and waited apprehensively. The next few seconds seemed like an eternity before Mungo surfaced again. Tom covered the distance between them as fast as he could, terrified that Mungo’s panic had caused him to lose what little strength he had left.
A final desperate lunge brought him close just as Mungo’s head was about to disappear for the last time.
“Weel done,” he gasped as he turned on his back and hooked his arms under Mungo’s shoulders. The other man continued to struggle until Tom hissed in his ear, “I’ve got ye, ye daft gowk. Lie still noo.” With that, he struck out with the strongest strokes he could manage towards the shore, and Mungo gradually relaxed. Tom had guessed right about the tide; the waves carried them shorewards, but the water was freezing cold and Tom felt his strength failing. He doubted they would make it.
“Mungo,” he gasped to the dead weight in his arms, “try tae kick wi’ yer legs. That’ll help us.” Sure enough Mungo, more relaxed and confident now, began to kick out too, increasing their momentum.
Before too long they were stumbling up through the shingle to collapse on the shore, where they lay gasping and spluttering. As they regained their breath they began laughing with relief as they watched the stern lantern on the Demoiselle as it sailed on towards the Irish Sea.
“Sorry, Dublin,” said Mungo. “Maybe I’ll see ye one day.”
Tom, already on his feet was looking at their surroundings. There were lights in nearby windows, so he guessed they were not too far out of town.
“We’ll need tae get hame,” he said. “We dinnae want tae catch the cauld, or worse.” They were suddenly both aware of their soaked clothes and lack of footwear.
“Aye,” said Mungo, “but it was rare, richt enough.” He gave a hoot of laughter. “I cannae wait tae see Adam Kennedy’s face the morn.”
*
Tom arrived early at the warehouse the next day. He had woken not long after dawn, surprised to find that he was none the worse for wear after the previous evening’s exertions. He had made it on foot to Barnessie and the walk had warded off the chill from his bones. Finding the house in darkness he had left a note for his parents and gone straight to bed, where he slept the sleep of the just. In the morning he had breakfasted before the family was up, fetched some boots and a jacket for Mungo, and set off on foot for Ayr. He knew this feeling of elation would not last, and was determined to enjoy it while he could.
He looked in on Sadie, whom he had left overnight in Cunningham’s stables. He fed her some oats and changed her straw, then made for the offices. As he crossed the yard he saw Mungo enter through the big doors to the quay. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Adam Kennedy coming out of the warehouse. He called to Mungo.
“Morning, Mungo. Hoo are ye the day?”
“Guid morning, Tom. Guid day tae ye, Mister Kennedy. I’m fine. It’s true what they say, swimming’s guid for the constitution. Is it no’, Tom?”
“It is that. I can really recommend it, Mr Kennedy. You should try it sometime.”
“Soon,” added Mungo, with a meaningful glance at Kennedy. Laughing, the two young men crossed the yard and mounted the stairs to the office, leaving Kennedy open-mouthed.
CHAPTER 14
Friday August 31st
By Friday, Mungo’s mood had changed again . . . “I cannae thole much mair o’ this.” It was early morning. Tom had found Mungo in the office, shaking with nerves.
“I havenae slept,” he moaned. “I’m aye feart they’re comin’ after me.”
Tom shared his fear, but tried to reassure him. “They’ll no’ try onything in daylight, or here at work, after Wednesday. Just try tae relax. We’ll stick thegither a’ day an’ get stuck intae the books. That’ll tak’ oor minds off them.”
“Aye, but what aboot after? I tell ye, I hardly made it in here for lookin’ ower my shoother in the
street. I see shapes in a’ the shadows an’ hear footsteps when there’s naebody there.”
Tom hesitated. That morning David had arranged to meet him after work at The Plough, the large coaching inn in the High Street. “There’s somebody I’d like ye tae meet,” he’d said. Tom was intrigued and glad of the distraction. He’d stabled Sadie at The Plough that morning, intending to collect her there before going home. He did not know how David and his friend would react; would they mind if he brought Mungo along?
On an impulse he said, “I’m meeting my brither in The Plough at six. Come wi’ me if ye like. A wee dram’ll dae ye guid.”
“Aye, maybe.” Mungo’s troubled face relaxed. “Thank ye, Tom.”
Just then Mr Cunningham appeared from the inner office. “Come awa’ ben, lads,” he said. “We’ve a wheen o’ ledgers tae get through the day.”
They worked hard all day, checking the year’s accounts, only stopping briefly when Mr Cunningham sent out for pies and ale at midday. Through the window, Tom could see Kennedy and the warehousemen going about their work in the yard, never looking in the direction of the offices. Everything seemed normal.
Just after three o’clock they heard a heavy tread on the creaking stairs and Adam Kennedy put his head round the door. He greeted the two clerks civilly, made some remark about the cold, windy weather and laid the latest delivery notes on Mungo’s desk before knocking on the door of the inner office. They could hear him talking and laughing with Mr Cunningham, though they couldn’t make out what was being said. Five minutes later he was back. “See ye around, lads,” he said with a grin as he stomped off down the stairs, leaving Tom and Mungo wondering what threat lay behind this cheerful farewell.
At six o’clock they closed the ledgers and stood up. “We’re awa’ noo, Mr Cunningham,” called Mungo. Their employer came out of his office, wiping ink stains from his fingers.
“Aye, lads, ye’ve worked weel the day.” He fished some coins from his pocket. “Awa’ an’ hae a drink on me.”
On Carrick Shore Page 8