Dawn on a Distant Shore

by Sara Donati

  Outside the noise of the crowd rose and fell like an ill wind.

  “How’d you come by these?” He wanted the pistols, but he wouldn’t spend even an hour in the Dumfries tollbooth for thievery.

  The man shrugged. “They’re no’ stolen.” He dropped a sack of powder and another of bullets onto the barrel and swept the coins away into the front pocket of his apron. Then he touched his temple with two fingers, a salute of kinds for Nathaniel or his coin, and turned back to the forge.

  Nathaniel strapped the holster across his chest and wrapped the cloak around himself. It smelled of cheap tobacco and wet sheep, but it was thick and the wide collar stood to the brim of his hat. It would keep him warm, and with any luck it would give him some degree of anonymity.

  He left Dumfries behind at a trot, glad of the night wind in his face. The road was empty and the roan was surefooted and eager. Nathaniel gave her her head, and she skirted mudholes he wouldn’t have seen in the dark.

  By his reckoning Mump’s Hall was six miles south on the road that went down to the sea. He kept an eye out for the markers he had found during the long coach ride: a collapsed stone wall, a wooden footbridge arched like a cat’s back. In the light of the moon crofters’ cottages seemed to spring directly out of the ground: piles of stones stacked together without mortar, more like caves than a home a man would build for himself.

  An acre of wheat, and one of oats. A hill to the west with cows as shaggy as dogs grazing by moonlight. Sheep in a huddle against a fence, hayricks, more oats. A few poor trees marked a stream running noisily into the sea, just to the east now. The smell of it was in his nose: salt and sand and marsh. He went over another bridge and at a turn in the road the tavern, finally, with a lantern burning at the door.

  Nathaniel tied the horse to the hitching post and paused to take his bearings. The building itself smelled of spilled ale and roasting mutton, and with every step the boggy ground gave out a soft belch and the stench of rotting greenery.

  He pushed open the door.

  In the dim light of a smoky fire men bent their heads together over tankards. Some of them looked to be farmers, but most had tarry hands and a sea squint. A few played cards in the farthest corner, but he could make out nothing familiar about any of them.

  A man who sat with his bare feet on the hearthstones let out a long stream of tobacco juice into the flames. “Mump!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Custom for ye, man!”

  The tavernkeeper came sideways through a low door at the back of the room. He was no taller than a boy of ten, but as wide around as a keg—a cork of a man, bobbing along on feet too small to bear his weight. His hair was clubbed but his beard flowed and twisted, black and gray to his waist. Under his arm he carried a bottle.

  He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jerkin. “What’ll it be?”

  Nathaniel raised his voice, although the room was dead quiet. “A word.”

  “Oh-ho,” said the little man, the round cheeks flushed. “Did ye hear, lads? It’s a word he’s wantin’. A word.” He drew himself up to his full height as he came toward Nathaniel. “At Mump’s Ha’ ye’ll get barley-broo, sae lang as ye can pay for it. There’s a subscription library doon the road in Dumfries, gin it’s words ye want.”

  It wouldn’t be wise to flash gold guineas in a room full of men who made their living smuggling, and he had only a few pounds in silver coin that he did not like to throw away. But there was no help for it: Nathaniel knew these men would not talk unless he drank with them.

  “Whisky, then.”

  The little man’s expression softened. “Aye, whisky. There’s nae better road tae start a conversation.”

  He hopped up onto a stool and gestured with an open palm for Nathaniel to take the one next to him. When the long bottle under his arm had been uncorked and the whisky had been poured, Nathaniel tipped it in one blazing stream down his throat. Satisfied, the tavernkeeper climbed back down off his stool and stood there chewing thoughtfully on a twist of beard.

  “Dandie Mump is ma name. And ye are?”

  Nathaniel considered. He could not pass himself off as a Scot for long here, and still he was not foolish enough to forget Moncrieff’s warnings about the Campbells. “I’m American. Came off the Isis this morning,” he said.

  “The Isis!”

  He might have offered to slit their throats for the reaction he got. Stools screeched as men came to their feet.

  Mump narrowed his eyes at him. “Ye came aff yon great merchantman sittin’ there in the firth?”

  Nathaniel did not like the way the room was closing around him, but he kept his expression even. He nodded. “I did.”

  From the back of the crowd a tall man with a lump of tobacco in his cheek said, “Is it true that there’s typhoid on board?”

  Nathaniel jerked in surprise. “It is not. When I left her this morning there wasn’t a sick man on the Isis. Who speaks of typhoid?”

  Mump poured more whisky in Nathaniel’s cup, and then drank it himself. “The captain willna allow the crew on land because o’ the typhoid, so we’ve heard.”

  “Ma Nan’s brither Charlie is on the Isis,” said a man at Nathaniel’s elbow. He was of middle years, wind-burned and gaunt. He smelled of fish and tar and weariness and his hands trembled a little. “She’s aye worrit for him. Do ye ken the lad?”

  “A cabin boy?” Nathaniel asked. “About twelve, fair-haired?”

  “Aye, that’s oor Charlie Grieve. Did ye see him this morn?”

  “I did,” said Nathaniel. “And he was healthy and looking forward to seeing his folks.”

  There was a thick muttering among the men, questions asked that had no answers. And Nathaniel could not help them: on the face of it, it made no sense for Pickering to keep the crew on board. But then there was Moncrieff, who had proved himself capable of worse things. He looked at the sailors gathered round, and they looked back at him with faces closed or curious. All of them waiting for word of sons or brothers or nephews on the Isis, and fearing the worst.

  “Sam Lun, ye’d best get ye hame tae Nancy,” said Mump. “The puir lass could use same guid tidings. Ye’ve lost Mungo, but Charlie will be hame soon.”

  Nathaniel’s head came up with a snap. “What do you know about Mungo?”

  Mump threw back his head to look at Nathaniel down the long slope of his nose. “The Osiris gaed doon near the Grand Banks,” he said gruffly. “Mungo Grieve was amang the crew.”

  But he didn’t die with the rest of them, Nathaniel thought. Why don’t you know that as well?

  “How is it that ye ken Mungo?” asked Sam Lun, suspicion clear on his face.

  “He was brought on board after the French sunk the Osiris,” Nathaniel said, and quickly, before hope could take root in the man’s thin face: “Mungo died of a fever after he came on board. But his brother was with him, and he slipped away quiet.”

  Sam Lun blinked twice, his eyes suddenly red rimmed. “Is that true? It wad be a comfort tae ma Nan, tae ken that the lad died easy.”

  “It’s true,” Nathaniel said. “I swear it.”

  There was a little silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the fire in the hearth. Finally Mump let out a great sigh.

  “Weel, then. And what brings ye tae ma door, besides sad tidings?”

  “I’m looking for Mac Stoker or any man of his crew.”

  The friendly expression on Dandie Mump’s round face melted away. “Mac Stoker, is it? And why do ye think ye’ll find that auld whoremaster here?”

  “Because only somebody who was on the Jackdaw could tell you what happened to the Osiris.” Nathaniel spoke to Mump, but he watched the room. All around him men were exchanging glances he did not like, and did not know how to read.

  “I mean Stoker no harm,” he said.

  One of the cardplayers in the corner spoke up for the first time. “That’s a pity,” he said, pushing himself up from the table. “I masel’ wad like naethin’ better than tae see the man deid.”
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  Mump scowled. “Haud yer tongue, Jock Bleek.”

  “And why should I haud ma tongue, Dandie? Is it no’ true that Stoker left his crew tae the dragoons so he could chase after a woman?”

  Sam Lun shook his head so that his dewlaps trembled. “And his granny, too! Dinna forget his granny, Jock. Carted aff tae gaol like a sack o’ oats.”

  Nathaniel’s breath hitched. “All of them in gaol?”

  “Aye, ever’ one o’ them sittin’ in the Dumfries tollbooth,” said Mump. “I canna understan’ it. Mac Stoker nivver was a mannie tae lose his heid ower a woman.”

  “Did you see this happen?” Nathaniel asked, looking around the room. “Did anyone here see the crew taken away?”

  “Georgie here saw it, did ye no’, Georgie. Come and tell the American what passed.”

  A young man pushed through the crowd to stand near Mump. He had a shock of red hair on his head, more of it growing out of his ears, up his neck, and over the back of his hands. The sight of him made Nathaniel’s own skin itch.

  “Aye, I saw it,” said Georgie. “Yestereen.”

  “Yesterday evening?” Nathaniel frowned. “Just this morning one of the excisemen told me he hadn’t seen the Jackdaw.”

  Mump let out a great laugh, so that his beard danced on his chest. “And ye believed an exciseman? Are aa Americans sae simple?”

  Sam Lun nudged Georgie. “Tell the rest o’ it.”

  Georgie nodded and cleared his throat. “On the road fra Corbelly, it was, at dusk. A whole pack o’ redcoats wi’ baig’nets at the ready, marchin’ the crew o’ the Jackdaw up the road tae Dumfries. One o’ the redcoats was carryin’ Granny Stoker on his back, tied han’ and fit like a calf. A mair crankit auld chuckie ye’ll nivver see, swearin’ and skirlin’ and screechin’. It was a wonder tae behold.”

  “Did you notice two strangers among them?” Nathaniel asked Georgie. “Older men, tall and well built, both of them?”

  The boy’s brow furled itself down low. “I couldna say. Granny Stoker was makin’ such a fuss cursin’ Mac tae the de’il that I hardly looked at the rest o’ them.”

  “And aa for a wallydraigle!” Mump moaned, rocking back and forth on his heels and hugging his bottle to himself.

  “What of the woman? What do you know of her?”

  Jock Bleek snorted. “What does it matter wha she is? Stoker’s run aff tae find her, and he’ll pay dear for it in the end.”

  That he will, Nathaniel thought. But first Giselle will lead him a fine chase.

  He stood and tossed the last of his silver coin on the table. “A drink for every man here,” he said. “And my thanks.”

  “Where are ye aff tae, man? Will ye find Stoker and bring him back here?”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “I’m on my way to Dumfries,” he said. “To pay a visit to the gaol.”

  When the bonfire was nothing more than a few dull embers and Tom Paine’s ashes had floated away on the night breeze, Elizabeth could fight her weariness no longer. She climbed into the great ship of a bed hung about with curtains furled like sails, and for all her misgivings she fell away into a deep sleep without dreams.

  When she woke suddenly the moon was close to setting and Lily was whimpering softly. Nathaniel had not yet returned.

  Elizabeth wrapped a shawl around herself and found her way to the babies’ baskets. Daniel slept soundly, suckling his fist in an easy rhythm, but Lily looked up at her round-eyed and held out her arms to be picked up.

  She was glad of the distraction. Walking up and down the room with Lily’s solid warmth under her shawl was much preferable to lying awake, listening for the sound of Nathaniel’s step while she reckoned out for herself all the things that might have kept him so long: difficult roads, poor directions, lamed horses. Other things she would not put a name to.

  The wind had risen. It whistled down the chimney and rattled the windows. “Like the night you were born,” she whispered against her daughter’s ear. Lily had already drifted off to sleep, but she made a humming sound in response to her mother’s voice.

  From the corner of her eye Elizabeth caught movement in the square below the window, but when she turned to look again, there was nothing but debris from the bonfire skittering aimlessly over the cobblestones. And still she watched, because if she had learned anything from her time in the endless forests, it was to trust her senses.

  And there, a wolf.

  The skin on the back of her neck rose in a shiver even as her rational mind corrected her in a prim tone: There have been no wolves in Scotland for a hundred years or more.

  It trotted out of the shadows and into the middle of the square, silver-gray in the moonlight, long legged, with a tail curled upward. Elizabeth’s breath came to her again. No wolf, but a wolfhound, and now a second one came louping out of the shadows.

  Then a man stepped into the open square, and Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat again.

  Hawkeye. She blinked, and there he was still, walking in a long, steady gait directly toward the inn. His head uncovered, his hair flowing, rising and falling white in the wind. He stopped and raised his face to the night sky and for one second Elizabeth thought that her father-in-law was going to howl at the moon.

  He looked up at her in the window as if he knew exactly where to find her, and touched a hand to his brow.

  Not Hawkeye, but the Earl of Carryck, come to claim his own.

  And what choice did she have but to open the door to him when he knocked?

  He brought in the smell of horses and the night air. Plainly dressed, tall and straight with a deeply lined face and an energy at odds with his age. In the light of a hastily lit candle his eyes were a deep, pure bronze in color, not the hazel that was Hawkeye’s.

  “Madam.” He bowed from the shoulders.

  Elizabeth drew her shawl more tightly around herself. Some part of her mind marveled at her own calm in these strange circumstances. She stood barefoot in her nightdress before Alasdair Scott, the fourth Earl of Carryck. This man had caused her children to be taken from her, and now she faced him while behind her the twins slept, at peace and unaware.

  “Ye ken who I am?” His voice was familiar and strange all at once: deep and melodious and Scots, with a rough edge to it.

  “I do.”

  Elizabeth studied the earl as he studied her. He was perhaps two inches shorter and a little broader in the shoulder than Hawkeye, and the line of his nose was slightly out of kilter, as if it had been broken more than once. Certainly the resemblance was very strong, but she would never mistake this man for her father-in-law again. This realization gave her new calm.

  “My lord Earl. My husband is not in.”

  He inclined his head. “Aye, I can see that.”

  “Then perhaps you would care to call again in the morning.”

  The earl walked to the windows and looked down into the square. “He’s aff lookin’ for his faither, I take it.”

  Elizabeth chose not to reply.

  “How lang has he been awa’?”

  She did not answer.

  Carryck turned. She could no longer make out his face where he stood in shadow.

  “Ye understan’ Scots, d’ye no’?”

  “I understand you well enough, my lord.”

  He made a deep sound in his throat; it might have been amusement, or derision.

  “He willna find his faither, nor MacLachlan. The Jackdaw came intae the firth yestere’en, but they werena on board.”

  And still he studied her, as if he had set her a test and was curious how she would meet the challenge. In the coolest tone she could muster, she said, “The exciseman lied, then. I suppose I should not be surprised. I gather that Mr. Pickering and Mr. Moncrieff knew about the Jackdaw, but chose to keep that information from us.”

  “Aye. He’s owercautious at times, is Angus.”

  She could not help but laugh: a short, sharp sound. “His cautiousness, as you put it, has sent my husband out on a futile sear
ch. Let us hope that Mr. Moncrieff has wasted only his time.”

  If Carryck was worried about Nathaniel’s welfare, he hid it well.

  Elizabeth’s throat was tight with anger. “Do you know where my father-in-law and his friend are, if they are not with Mac Stoker?”

  He nodded. “A navy frigate boarded the Jackdaw ten days syne.”

  She dug her nails into the palm of her hand and forced herself to focus on the candle flame. Pressed into the service of the Royal Navy. When she had control of her voice she said, “The entire crew?”

  The Earl of Carryck glanced out the window again. “Just Bonner and MacLachlan. The rest o’ Stoker’s crew sits in yon tollbooth for smugglin’.”

  Elizabeth’s thoughts raced so frantically that she must turn her face away so that Carryck could not see her distress. Nathaniel had gone out to find word of Stoker and his ship. He had taken enough coin with him to buy that information, and more. If he had learned that the dragoons had arrested the whole crew of the Jackdaw, he might well believe Hawkeye and Robbie to be in gaol. Again.

  In his current state of mind, he would risk everything to free them. A small sound escaped her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

  The earl was watching her. Elizabeth raised her head and swallowed.

  “And the frigate?” Her voice came hoarse.

  “I’ve made inquiries, but there’s nae word o’ her as yet.” Carryck stood with his arms crossed, at his ease.

  If they are dead, it is your doing. She did not speak the words; could not say out loud what she feared most, even to make clear to this man what he must know and acknowledge.

  She drew herself up as tall as she could. “Sir, I will ask you again to leave and return in the morning.”

  “That I canna do, and should ye ask a hundred times. We must awa’ tae Carryckcastle, for ye’re in danger here.”

  “There is nothing new in that,” Elizabeth said. “We have been in one kind of danger or another these many weeks.”