Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  “What my heart longs for! What a question.”

  “Oh, by way of tea sets or embroidered silks or ruby eardrops, I mean.”

  “There is something, Hector,” Catherine said, fingering the venetian blinds. “Yes, there is something I want from India. From you.” She turned and looked full in his face, waiting for him to read her meaning. “Sandy,” she whispered at last.

  “Oh, Catherine,” he said sadly. “There is nothing anyone can do. Am I to raise him from the dead for you?”

  “How can you feel so certain? Hector, when you are there, you must find out what really happened. Where he has gone.”

  “He has gone from the land of the living, my dear. Gone—lost to us forever.”

  They stared at each other. It may be so, thought Catherine; but perhaps not. One might hope and wish otherwise; one might succeed even in believing otherwise, from time to time. “But here is Mr Fleming,” she said, mustering a suitable expression as Mr Fleming appeared at the doorway. “Good morning, sir. I am admiring the commodiousness of these arrangements, for I never was aboard an East Indiaman before.”

  “How generous you are, Mrs MacDonald, to call our doughty Increase an East Indiaman!” said Mr Fleming. “We are sadly accustomed to being looked down upon by the East India Company as a mere interloper.”

  “Interloper! That has a disreputable sound. I am sure that Increase, and Crawford and Fleming, do not deserve that. Surely it is only a jealous rivalry on the part of the East India Company, such as an older brother, in complacent possession of the family acres, may feel toward a bold and enterprising younger brother who has made his own name and his own way in the world.”

  “OBLIGE ME, pray do, you two Mrs MacDonalds, and you, too, Miss Clerk,” said Captain Mainwaring when the company had reassembled on the main deck. A steward bearing a tray was offering small glasses of amber whisky. “It is mild as milk and will do you nothing but good. This is the veritable Glen Livet, the pure Glen Livet, sent to me by Lord Murray in the year ’eighteen in return for a favor in which I had been able to oblige his lordship. It was a private little matter of a quantity of Delftware—oddly packed, very oddly packed indeed—inside several barrels of Dutch butter—butter being an article of very little interest to customs agents. Glen Livet! It has been long in the wood, and long in uncorked bottles. There, you see? It has the true contraband goût, has it not?”

  “Aaah!” gasped Catherine, having downed her dram bravely. “Yes, the true contraband goût, irresistible since the days of Adam and Eve.”

  “And then it is such an encouraging thing. Ladies who are unaccustomed to the bosun’s chair sometimes do want a dash of encouragement. Now you must just skip aboard my barge, here. There you go! Neatly done.”

  And thus encouraged, thus inspired and inspirited, they did all succeed in transferring themselves over the gunwale once again, embarking this time in the captain’s barge, a heavily built boat rigged for sail as well as for oars. There were comfortable seats in the stern, and a smart striped awning overhead provided welcome shade. Captain Mainwaring made sure that the three ladies and Grace had the best seats, and lending them his glass, pointed out landmarks on shore as they slipped past.

  They set off under sail to make the best of a fickle breeze, but as the water traffic moving eastward toward Portobello became denser, the crew dropped sail and bent to their oars. They made their way among sleek pleasure yachts, broad ungainly ferries, lighters, little rowboats, and several steamers trailing plumes of black smoke. Among these, Catherine was pleased to recognise the steam launch Dram Shell.

  “How splendid! And such an excellent vantage point!” exclaimed Mary as the barge drew toward the long beach of Portobello. For there, stretched all along the yellow sands for more than a mile, were the backs of the mounted Yeomanry and the shining rumps of their horses: nine thousand mounted men three ranks deep, spaced five feet apart, with the sun glancing bright off their polished swords, buttons, buckles, and spurs. Taking up a position several hundred yards offshore, the heavy barge rode comfortably on the deep blue swell.

  “Do you too find it an impressive sight, Mrs MacDonald?” asked Mr Fleming, leaning forward to speak to Catherine. He had a most direct look—his eyes surprisingly green out here on the water—and a pleasant quiet voice, rich in timbre.

  “It is a handsome uniform,” replied Catherine, “and I suppose I ought to be impressed. But to own the truth, I feel as though I were in the wrong place, viewing the play from backstage instead of from a box.” All those backs! she thought without saying it, all those plump gleaming rumps! Such a very posterior view! Aloud, she added, “But I suppose that from the front they must appear a formidable force.”

  Higher up on the beach beyond the Yeomanry seethed the dense cheerful chattering crowds of spectators, on foot or in carriages, clambering over the shifting dunes, celebrating the holiday weather. Heavy dragoons patrolling the beach repeatedly pressed back the encroaching crowd. More carriages, horsemen and walkers continued streaming down the road from town, over the grassy dunes and along the shore, seeking any remaining vantage points not already occupied by earlier arrivals. Landaus, barouches, barouchettes, curricles, gigs, open chariots, one-horse chaises, farm carts and stagecoaches lined the ridge of the dunes, all overflowing with North Britons in their best clothes. The wheeled horse-drawn parade was as motley, miscellaneous and various in its land-bound way as the ill-assorted watercraft bobbing offshore.

  “I hear pipes,” said Hector. “The Highlanders are coming.” To shouts, cheering and jeering, the companies of tartaned Highlanders came plunging on foot down the shifting dunes to the firm-packed sands of the beach. Sutherlanders, MacGregors, Campbells, and Drummonds, they formed up, wheeled, and moved into the positions assigned to them at the far west end of the beach, some distance past the Yeomanry.

  “Here he is; that’s his carriage, with those eight bays,” said Mr Clerk. The king alighted, to acclaim. A big strongly built gray horse was led up from one direction, and the king, plump and glistening as a peeled egg in a fresh field marshal’s uniform, was led up from the other. But how was the king to mount the horse? How could such a feat of engineering be accomplished, and before a crowd of twenty-five thousand? A circle of aides, equerries and attendants closed about the interesting scene; only their backs were to be seen; and after a tense minute, the king emerged above their heads, now atop the horse. He gathered up his reins and moved the big gray forward as the encircled attendants fell back.

  An appreciative cheer went up from the crowds, and the king waved; then, his mounted aides and standard-bearers drawing in behind him, he commenced his review of the Yeomanry. Eastward he galloped, drew up, pirouetted, saluted the troops with his raised drawn sword. Westward. Eastward again, passing in front of each of the three ranks of horsemen. Three times he cantered the length of the beach, returning their salute.

  On horseback, thought Catherine, he did not cut too ill a figure. King, she repeated to herself. King. King King King. Like any word repeated too often, it lost its sense. What had she expected of a king? Of a king of Scotland? This was a modern king. The big gray charger, tired now, pecked in the heavy sand, but quickly recovered, and the king kept his seat. But that was enough galloping about. After a final salute, the equerries closed in, the royal dismount was accomplished, and the king stalked impressively back to his carriage.

  “There, you see riding at anchor, just past that stern-wheeler? That is Captain Buchanan’s Die Vernon, a nice little old-fashioned brig,” said Captain Mainwaring, pointing it out to Catherine and Hector as they sailed back toward his Increase on a long broad reach, the breeze having come up again from the northeast. “I did expect he’d have sailed for Inverness by now; but your friends here, Mrs MacDonald, are glad to enjoy the pleasure of your company for an additional day or two.”

  Catherine could only murmur her general appreciation for his kindness; but she wished that Captain Mainwaring would not speak so freely about her pri
vate plans, not even here among friends.

  “But what is delaying Captain Buchanan?” asked Hector.

  There was a moment’s blank pause; then Mr Fleming said, “He has been loading a cargo of baled hemp, but at a remarkably sedate pace. I hope he is salting it well, for I have heard it is far from dry. His deliberate speed may have something to do with a certain comfortable widow who lives near Stirling….”

  “So is it to be Mrs Colquhoun after all?” said Captain Mainwaring.

  Mr Fleming raised his eyebrows meaningfully, but said nothing.

  “I daresay that’s likely to turn out as profitable as any amount of hemp,” said Captain Mainwaring. “And didn’t I hear a word or two about some difficulty with his underwriters? I do not think his last survey was just entirely satisfactory, perhaps. And ever since that business with the Regent, and all the scandal about fraudulent surveys and repairs, the underwriters have been more troublesome than usual. Now, worse still, we have Parliament sticking its long nose into the business, though they certainly cannot understand it, special committees or not….”

  Catherine stopped listening. Everyone knew about the loss of the Regent, which had simply fallen apart and sunk off the coast of Mauritius on her way home from India last year despite the warnings of her master, who had disembarked at Ceylon after quarreling with the captain over inadequate repairs. It was not comforting to learn that this Captain Buchanan might be in no hurry to sail; that his cargo was a dangerous one; and his brig perhaps not as sound as she ought to be.

  Once aboard Increase again, their party went down to the cuddy cabin to dine. Catherine could not help being impressed by the dining table and its accoutrements set out by the steward in their absence. She had not supposed that even a successful merchant captain might own such a quantity of plate! Such excellent glass! Nor had she supposed that it could be kept so bright in a sea air; all was rubbed to a surprising brilliance. She was seated next to Mr Fleming; and ship’s boys (rubbed as recently and as vigorously as the spoons, judging by the damp pinkness of their ears and necks) took up their stations behind each chair.

  “Allow me to recommend this excellent dish of collops, Mrs MacDonald, and a bit of the walnut pickle,” said Mr Fleming. “Venison collops are not often to be met with aboard ship, you may be sure, and must be given a warm welcome. And a few spears of asparagus? Of course. Now, I should very much like to know how your brother became so intimate with the principles of dynamics. Was he always thus, born to it? Or is his genius the result of diligent study?”

  “Oh, genius! That is a strong word,” said Catherine (noting the venison—such a distinctive and nostalgic taste). “We never supposed that Hector’s devisings and tinkerings amounted to anything like genius. But he has always made a very great nuisance of himself over it. As a lad, he used to dog the blacksmith’s every step. Indeed, he begged our father at one time to apprentice him, and it was a hard job to make him understand that it would not do.” Catherine glanced at Hector, seated across the table, suspecting that he could hear her; but he betrayed no sign of it, for he was courteously listening to his neighbor Miss Clerk.

  “Your father disapproved this pursuit of your brother’s?” asked Mr Fleming; and had the midshipman standing behind them fill her wine glass, and his own.

  “Oh, it was not disapproval,” said Catherine. “It was only that our father feared Hector might burn down the house. Luckily, he never did, although he used to stay up late at night in his bedroom secretly making castings—strictly forbidden, of course. In his grate, you see, he contrived a sort of furnace—aye, four plates of stout sheet iron lined with firebrick. Then, as a great favor, he’d allow us—my brother Sandy and me—to creep in and operate the bellows for him. We learned to raise a superb heat, a white heat, sufficient to melt brass. That is a thrilling sight, Mr Fleming—molten metal, metal actually glowing—in the little crucible which he had from Dugald the blacksmith in exchange, I suspect, for a bottle of our father’s good whisky.”

  “No, not our father’s,” said Hector, who was listening frankly now; Miss Clerk, too. “It was Sandy who furnished the whisky.”

  “Mmm, aye! Sandy always knew where to lay a hand upon that article,” said Catherine. “But as for Hector, the precious commodity was metal, and never easy to get. Whenever a boat was wrecked, our Hector was there to salvage any brass fittings. I believe that considerable quantities of old harness fittings disappeared in the same way.”

  “Ha ha!” laughed Hector. “Do you remember when old Mrs Scott came to stay?”

  “Do I not?” said Catherine. She explained to Mr Fleming and Miss Clerk: “Hector had made off with all the brass pulls from the drawer fronts of the mahogany chest in the best spare bedroom. But no one had noticed until a visitor inquired politely of my mother how to open the drawers.”

  “I was required to replace them, of course,” said Hector. “I had already melted down the metal, to make I do not remember what—”

  “My bracelets,” said Catherine. “You had made three pretty bangles for me. They were very heavy, and turned my wrist green, but I loved them, and I was loathe to give them back when you wanted, to transform them into drawer pulls again.”

  “Was that it? I am sorry, my dear. I shall bring you some new gold ones from the Indies. But as for replacing the pulls, I made a new design of my own, and cast them myself, in the form of—what do you think?—not the usual neat gadroon-edged oval with a smooth half oval bale, no, no! My back plates were in the shape of a cow’s head, horns and all, with the ring in her nose as a bale! And there they remain still, I suppose—my brass cows, staring out with bulging eyes from what had been a very nice new mahogany chest.”

  “I remember another occasion when a trunk of old military cornets—riches indeed!—came somehow to hand, quite inexplicable,” said Catherine. She raised an eyebrow at Hector in query.

  “Am I to explain now, after all these years of discreet silence?” said Hector.

  “Why not, after all these years?”

  “Well, I will tell you this much: Those, too, came from Sandy. But he never would say how he got them, though I have my suspicions. Those kept me supplied for quite some time.”

  “Now, this other brother of yours,” said Mr Fleming, “has he a talent for engineering as well?”

  “Oh, not Sandy,” said Hector. “But he did have a talent, undoubtedly, for—what would you call it, Catherine?—a talent for the clandestine. He knew the location of every still in our district, I believe.”

  “And recruited you to undertake certain repairs from time to time, when a metallurgical expertise was needed?” asked Catherine.

  “True enough,” Hector admitted. “What else had I to exchange for such desiderata as a trunkful of cornets?”

  “So, a marked talent for the clandestine and an instinct for commerce, it would seem,” observed Mr Fleming. “Such an interesting and valuable combination.”

  “And a very nice touch with the music, too,” said Catherine. “You will grant Sandy that, Hector.”

  “Oh, aye,” agreed Hector, “always on the pipes. While I was dogging the poor old smith for a turn at his forge, Sandy was pestering him about the pipe music. Besides his skill as a metalworker, old Dugald was something of a piper—and our first teacher, Sandy’s and mine, of the great music.”

  “The poor man, plagued by you both!” said Miss Clerk.

  “I am deeply indebted to him for his wide knowledge and his vast patience,” said Hector. “And to his kind old sister, who fed the three of us many and many a dish of porridge over her smoky kitchen fire.”

  “She knew the old pipe tunes, too—to sing. She knew them as well as Dugald did, or better,” said Catherine. “She’d correct him on the cuttings and the graces—do you recall, Hector? Her voice was old, cracked by age and use, just like her porridge bowls, but she remembered every note. I can sing some of them yet, myself, and they still run through my mind, in her voice, whenever I eat a dish of porridge!”
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  Catherine’s plate was empty, even to the wine-dark venison gravy. How delicious! It had been a long time since Catherine had taken any pleasure in a meal. In anything.

  The last dishes were removed and tea was brought in, to be poured at table by Miss Clerk. It was an excellent fragrant tea which lingered on the tongue, served in real china cups not much larger or thicker than eggshells, with Increase written on them in a shield-shaped cartouche. “Best chop! Best chop!” cried Captain Mainwaring, somewhat elevated now by his own hospitality. “A gift from the Hoppo of Canton himself!” To Mary, at his left, he continued, “My supply is getting low, however, and we shall have to sail soon, if only to replenish it.”

  “When do you sail?” asked Mary. “My husband seems unable to give me a definite date.”

  “Oh, a definite date. There is a reasonable request,” said Captain Mainwaring. “My cargo is all but complete, though we have yet to finish loading the hides for the ateliers in Antwerp. And my water and stores are nearly complete as well, except for some random bits of cordage and sailcloth. And then I am awaiting the—ah, a-hemmm!—a particular private consignment. My owners and investors have not quite yet hashed out everything among themselves.” Here he gave a courteous nod to Mr Clerk (who attempted to appear unconcerned, for his investment in this voyage was to have been private). “But as you ask me for a date—well, within the week, I trust. Within a week, Mrs MacDonald, you shall see the last of your husband—for a while, I mean. For a good long while.”

  “But I had not known that you sail first to Antwerp,” Catherine remarked quietly to Mr Fleming.

  “Yes, that is in fact where our voyage begins,” said Mr Fleming. “Antwerp is always our port of origin, as, for all commercial purposes we are a Flemish firm. And so is this ship. Increase is not British; she is Netherlander, and her papers prove it.”