Oatcakes and Courage (7 page)

Moments later, Master James Orr reappeared, leaving the captain's cabin with haughty dignity, his ears red and his jaw set. He said no more about passengers staying below deck. He worked his crew mercilessly the remainder of the day, barking orders and chastising the lads loudly and venomously.

The passengers tried their best to stay out of the way.

Oatcakes and water made the midday meal. Katherine, her girls, Janet Fraser, and Lily Sutherland joined Anne in the lee of the upturned longboat.

The conversation turned to Janet's pregnancy.

Janet said, “I had hoped to be in the New World by this time. But with the ship being delayed in Greenock and all… Well, it cannot be helped. With fair winds we should be in Pictou before my time.”

“Of course,” Lily assured her with a no-nonsense brusqueness. Lily was a large-bosomed matron with iron gray hair knotted in a tight bun. She had raised a family of seven, and had been a midwife for years.

Anne hoped she was right.

“You have no wee ones yet?” Janet asked Anne.

Anne stared at her, wide-eyed. A red flush rose from her neck into her face. “Oh, nay,” she muttered. “I… we… Ian and I have not been married long.” The words caught in her throat, making her stammer.

Janet smiled. “Ah, newlyweds,” she chuckled.

“How long have you been married?” Katherine asked.

“Oh, ah… only a few weeks.”

“Newlyweds indeed,” Lily said. “This is not an easy way to start out together. But perhaps you will find a good life in the New World.”

Anne nodded. She studied her oatcake, not daring to meet the other ladies' glances.

“Wee ones are a great joy, are they not, Lily?” Katherine said, gazing fondly at her girls.

“Aye, they are a blessing.” Lily paused to take a sip of water. Her expression became rueful. “And a trial,” she amended.

“Oh, aye. Never a moment's peace,” Katherine agreed.

Anne was relieved that the topic had shifted from marriage. She was able to join in the laughter as Katherine told stories of her girls' antics.

A cold rain splashed down upon the
Hector
as dusk settled. Most of the settlers made their way down the ladder to the hold. Anne huddled in the lee of the fo'c'scle as long as she could stand the cold and wet. Finally, the storm drove her below as well.

Anne pressed her way through the many bodies to her bunk. The ever-present stench of sweat and fear and human effluent hung heavily in the cramped space. She took shallow breaths, and made herself busy in the dim light, going through her pack in search of a blanket and a dry robe.

Small children cried out. There were angry words between a couple of the men further forward. Anne could not make out what the argument was about. It would not take much to set off tempers in this crowded atmosphere.

Ian appeared at Anne's side. “It's a downpour out there,” he said, not looking her in the eye. “The deck is awash.”

Anne shivered despite the stuffy closeness.

Ian frowned, and shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Lass, I can't sleep on deck tonight. I'd drown.”

“Oh.” Anne blushed, realizing his discomfiture.

There was no question of putting something between them on the bunk. It was barely wide enough to hold two adults nestled closely together. The bunks were jammed so tightly in the hold, it was not possible to even sit up straight in them. There certainly were no spare bunks – some had husband, wife and child piled in together, like packed herring.

Anne looked helplessly about her, then back at Ian. He was her dear friend. He'd risked his life to bring her on this journey.

She squared her shoulders and attempted a smile. “We will have to make the best of it, Ian. There is no help for it.”

“I would not put you in such a…”

“Ian,” she interrupted. “I put
you
in this terrible position. I made you bring me along on this journey. Now I must deal with the consequences. I know you won't take advantage.”

It was Ian's turn to blush. “All right, Anne. We don't have much choice, do we? Where's the blanket?”

They felt very awkward, curling against one another on the narrow bunk, Ian's arm around Anne's shoulder to prevent her from rolling out onto the deck. They were very aware of each other's warmth, breath and closeness. Neither of them got a lot of sleep.

In the morning, they were aroused by a young boy's voice exclaiming, “Look, Papa! It's that easy.”

The chatter of a hundred voices dropped. Everyone turned to see who had called out.

It was eight-year-old George MacLeod whose voice had risen above the others. He looked a bit abashed at having so many eyes turn on him. He held a piece of dark wood in his fist as if this explained his outburst.

Mary MacLeod, a petite blond woman, regarded her son with surprise and embarrassment. James, his father asked, “What do you mean?”

Young George swallowed loudly and said in a small voice, that nevertheless carried through the quiet hold, “I was… I mean, the wood came free…”

James took the large splinter from his son's hand and held it up to look at it more closely. It was the size of a blacksmith's thumb and darkened with pitch or tar.

“Where did you get this?” James demanded. He looked every inch of his Viking ancestry, his bushy straw-coloured beard bristling.

George pointed at the side of the hull, next to the bunk where he had been sleeping. “It was right easy. I just sort of picked at it, like, and it came right off.”

James peered at the plank that George indicated. Sure enough, the splinter had come from there. And the child was right about the ease with which the wood came free. James scratched at the plank and felt moist rot under his finger. He swore softly. He turned and looked at his fellow passengers.

James was not stupid. He knew announcing his discovery would cause panic to ensue. With his heart thudding heavily in his chest, he said, “So sorry that my son has disturbed you. This is nothing. Please go back to your business.”

Mary pressed close to her husband as the other passengers turned back to their own affairs. “James, what do you…?”

“Quiet, Mary. And you too, George.” James looked to see that no one was listening. Then he said, “I must talk to Master Spiers. This ship is rotten as dirt. No wonder they have to pump the bilge day and night!”

“Dear God!” Mary whispered, clutching the wooden crucifix at her bosom.

“Do not tell another soul, either of you. We don't want everyone to panic. Try to stay calm. Can you do that, George?”

Young George looked up at his father with wide blue eyes and nodded.

James MacLeod went up on deck and sought out the captain. He found Captain Spiers at the bow, surveying the horizon. The rain had stopped through the night and huge billowing clouds scudded over a pale blue sky.

“A word, please, Captain?” James MacLeod asked.

“Yes, Mr. MacLeod?” the captain replied.

James relayed what his son had discovered, and finished by saying, “Is there not a port nearby that we can make for? It is obviously not safe to continue on this voyage.”

Captain Spiers regarded James MacLeod for a long moment. “Mr. MacLeod, it is true that the
Hector
is not a new vessel. However, I believe she is adequate to the task of making this crossing and as the voyage has well begun, we shall continue on our course.”

“But Captain…!”

“Mr. MacLeod, I have an obligation to the Philadelphia Company to transport this cargo and these passengers to Nova Scotia. And I shall fulfill that obligation. Good day, sir.” Captain Spiers turned and strode to his cabin.

James MacLeod took a deep breath. He sincerely hoped the captain knew the measure of his ship. He himself had little faith in its ability to hold together. He slowly made his way back to his family.

George's exclamation had roused curiosity amongst the passengers. Despite the MacLeods' decision to keep quiet about the boy's discovery, it was not long before several others had picked pieces of the hold away and realized that the
Hector
was barely seaworthy.

Several men visited the captain that day with complaints and pleas to turn the ship around or to head for the nearest port. The captain met with each entreaty in the same way – polite but uncompromising refusal.

The mood on the ship became bleak. Some passengers were nearly catatonic with fear. They expected to go to a watery grave at any moment. Others grew mutinously rebellious. A few placed their faith in the captain and God and tried to go on with the routine they had established.

“'Tis naught but a rotting hulk.”

“The company has cheated us. We bought passage to get to the New World. We shall never arrive!”

“We must not think the worst.”

“What could be worse?! The captain says he will not go to the nearest port.”

“He knows his own ship. Perhaps it looks worse than it is.”

“I know rotten wood when I see it!”

“He would not put himself and his crew in danger, now would he?”

“What do we know what a man would do for money?”

“We should force him to turn around. We're only a few days out of Scotland.”

“To go back to what, Alex? I'm for going forward, no matter the risks, rather than go back to that life. There is naught there for me now.”

The icy hand on Anne's heart returned, squeezing until she felt she could not breathe. She looked out over the vastness of the ocean. A cold sweat trickled down her spine as she thought of the rotting hulk she stood upon. It was all that separated her from the fathomless depths.

Her stomach clenched. Her head spun. She sat on the damp deck, put her head on her knees, and wrapped her arms over her head. Her breath came in small hiccuping sobs.

Ian found her there some time later. He sat next to her and put a warm arm around her shoulders. He did not speak for a long while. At last he said quietly, “I don't believe the captain would risk us all if he didn't believe the ship was up to the voyage, lass. What choice do we have but to trust in his judgment?”

Anne raised her tear-streaked face to gaze into his eyes. “I am so afraid.”

“I know. I know.” He held her tightly in both arms, giving her something solid and warm to cling to.

John MacKay listened to the frightened talk for a time. Then he took out his bagpipes. He began with a sad, slow ballad. Then he played a couple of rallying marches. Eventually he switched to some rollicking dance tunes.

The music stirred the Scots as words could not have done. The pipes raised their spirits, gave them courage, and reminded them why they were on this journey. There were risks, yes, but were they not off to a better life, a life of freedom?

Lily Sutherland, the large matron, and her wiry little husband, John, were an odd looking couple, so when they got up to lead a few brave souls in dance, there was good-natured kidding and laughter. Others stood around the dancers, clapping their hands. The dour mood was broken.

As he finished playing for supper, John MacKay glanced up at the captain's cabin. Captain Spiers stood in his doorway.
He nodded to the piper. John returned his nod. Then the captain returned to his cabin.

Every day following that, once the morning chores were done, John MacKay brought out his pipes and played. The passengers delighted in singing and dancing to his music. Many days, once he put the pipes away, the men would set up an impromptu ring and stage wrestling matches. The women would cluck at this silliness until it was their own husband in the ring. Then they became quite serious supporters.

The man it seemed impossible to beat was a blacksmith from Beauly, Roderick MacKay. Burly, dark, and with ox-like shoulders, he could not be pinned to the deck.

One day, after a tough match against young Donald MacDonald, a scrappy sheep farmer from Nairn, Roderick sat and ate his lunch with Ian and Hugh. He finished off his loaf of bread and sat sipping his water, looking out over the endless sea. Idly, he pulled a large iron key from his pocket. Roderick held it in his hand, stroking it, as one might finger a lucky pebble.

He said quietly, “They threw me in jail for having a still.”

Ian and Hugh stopped chewing and listened. Roderick rarely spoke, and had never before talked about himself.

“What Scot does not have whisky, I ask you? In Inverness they locked me up. I thought, Roderick boy, they are not going to leave you to rot in a cell. So I made friends with the jailer, see? One night, I says we should have a cuppa together. Sent him out for a bit of ale and whisky.”

A small smile played on Roderick's lips. He had a sip of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his massive hand, then continued.

“Well, when the jailer come back, I was behind the door. I stepped out and grabbed him from behind. I snatched the key, and was out the door, quick as a cat. Locked the door, jailin' the jailer. Kept the key.”

Roderick caressed the key between his huge thumb and index finger, then stuffed it back in his pocket.

“Hope they had another key to let the poor fool out. He was a decent sort, really. T'was a stout door on that cell, it was.”

Roderick heaved himself to his feet and stomped off. Ian and Hugh looked at one another with wide eyes for a moment then burst out laughing.

Chapter 6

T
HE
H
ECTOR
HAD BEEN
plowing through the North Atlantic for over two weeks. Although the weather had been damp much of that time, the winds had been fair. Life aboard the old vessel fell into a kind of loose routine.

Morning chores were followed by a breakfast of dark bread and water. Then John MacKay pumped up his bagpipes and played for the passengers. Following that, the passengers tended to gather upon the deck, talking, playing games and watching that the children stayed out from under the feet of the crew. Sundays, the captain would lead the settlers in a morning of prayer.