Far Horizons (24 page)

All of a sudden the brisk, efficient movements of the crew were interrupted as a rope jerked around a sailor's foot, yanking him off the ground, his leg twisted at a horribly awkward angle. Ian's stomach lurched as he watched the man writhe in agony before his mates cut him down and laid him out on the deck.

Someone shouted for the ship surgeon, and he could hear the low, urgent murmurs of the sailors around the wounded man. Ian shivered. He must have broken his leg... it would have to be set on this rocking ship, and the thought horrified him. What if he had an accident, and was forced to lie under the surgeon's bloody knife?

He didn't realise that the murmurs had turned angry and accusing, or that the sailors were casting dark looks at the little group of ship's boys. Suddenly a voice rang out, the American twang of one of the more belligerent sailors.

“I tell you, that rope was coiled the wrong way. That's what caught Mahoney up, and it's the fault of one of those scamps there!”

The first mate, Mr. Tisbury, whom Ian suspected disliked him anyway, turned his cold, blue gaze on the ship's boys. “Which one of you was responsible for coiling the ropes on that sail?”

Fear ran like ice in his veins as Ian realised whose rope it was... whose responsibility it was. Jacky, another ship's boy, lost no time in pointing the finger.

“It was 'im, I'm sure of it,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards Ian. “'Alf the time he don't know what he does.”

Mr. Tisbury turned to Ian. “Is that so, Mr. Douglas?”

Ian's mouth was dry. “I think... I might've...” he began, but trailed off at the look of furious contempt in the older sailor's eyes.

“Take him to the brig,” Mr. Tisbury ordered. “He can spend the rest of the day there. The master can decide what to do with him.”

The brig was a small, cheerless room on the lower deck of the ship. There was only one small porthole, high up, for light, and the air was stale and dank.

Ian sat on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest. He knew what the punishment for careless conduct was. Flogging for sailors, possibly a whipping for a ship's boy. So far he'd managed to avoid the whip, but now he feared there would be no respite. It was his fault that Mahoney had broken a leg, and his fault alone.

The hours crept past, and he watched as the little light from the porthole faded to inky darkness. The brig was so dark he could not even see his fingers in front of his face, and Ian found it was easier to close his eyes. He tried to forget how hungry and thirsty he was, or the punishment that awaited him.

Finally the sound of a key rattling in the lock awoke him from his stupor, and he blinked at the sudden light of a lantern thrust near his face. A sailor he didn't recognise stood there, smirking.

“Well, now. Maybe a spell in here has put paid to your uppity ways, eh? The master wants to see you. And if I were you, I wouldn't be looking forward to that little visit.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

It had been six months since Archie had gone soldiering, and he was due back for his furlough tomorrow. Allan had watched as his parents looked forward eagerly to Archie's return. He'd been stationed in Three Rivers, and would arrive in Pictou tomorrow afternoon. Allan offered to meet him there, and together they would take the mail packet back to the island.

Allan was looking forward to going. He'd not been to the mainland since last autumn, when he’d sent his letter to Harriet, asking her to come. He hoped a reply had come with the first ship into Pictou.

The transport of letters from the old world was unreliable, despite people's best intentions. A letter from Betty's sister Ann had come via a ship from Aberdeen, then languished for six months in New Brunswick until a traveller coming the island way had brought it. A letter, Allan knew, could take well over a year to reach its recipient. It was a surprisingly comforting thought when he considered Harriet's long silence. Perhaps her letters simply had not reached him.

“So your brother's coming back, then.” Roddy Campbell, Elizabeth's brother, said on the boat journey to Pictou, the sea flat and shining before them. “The hero, isn't he?” This was said with a bit of a grimace, which Allan chose to ignore. That was how Archie affected people... they either loved or hated him. Allan didn't even know how he felt at times.

“Aye, he is. We've all missed him.”

“Have you, now?”

“Aye.” Allan spoke firmly. It was true, he'd missed Archie more than he expected to. The long, frozen winter months had seemed even harder to bear without Archie's cheerful patter and jokes.

Now that the spring planting would be soon upon them, Allan planned to start his cabin, begin laying the plans for Harriet to join him... if the desire still seized her own heart as it did his. He prayed a letter waited for him in Pictou.

“There it is,” Roddy said in satisfaction. Pictou harbour came into view, and it always gave Allan a fierce sense of pride to see how the town was growing, stone replacing wood, the buildings seeming to stand proudly against the darkness of the endless forest that was both threat and promise. Pictou was holding its own against the elements, Allan thought, if only just.

Once on land, Allan stopped at the merchant's where most of the letters from ships ended up, till someone could take it on to its final destination.

The shop was full of people, including many islanders who had taken the fine weather to cross on the ferry and do business. There were fur traders as well, coming in by canoe from the far West and North, and soldiers on furlough. A few native Indians, the Mi'kmaq, stood silently by the door. Allan knew they traded furs and other items in town, but he was still surprised and intrigued by their strange garb and stoic faces.

He spent a few moments examining new tools and listening to the local gossip.

“Ship's coming in, I hear. Full of settlers for a new colony out west. All Scots, every last one of 'em, and been kicked off their land.”

“That's that Selkirk fellow's idea, isn't it?” another farmer said, and spat. “Bought up a big parcel of land from the Hudson's Bay Company to give to all those people. There's plenty who ain't happy about it, though.”

“And why should they be? That land don't belong to no Scots. There's already people there, and you've got the fur, as well.”

“Well, the Company shouldn't have sold it, should they? It's a big parcel out by Red River. Good land, I hear.”

Allan had never heard of Red River. His interest sharpened, and he wondered just where it was, and if any other settlers could join in forming the new colony.

“The Company's finally joined with Northwest,” another man, a fur trader, commented. “Not that it should make any difference to me, but at least there's less competition.”

Allan knew vaguely of the two trading companies which had dominated the fur trade for the last one hundred and fifty years. Hudson's Bay Company, founded in England, was the larger and older of the two, and had only that year finally swallowed its competition, the smaller Northwest Company based out of Montreal.

“The Company's getting too big for its britches,” a farmer groused. “It controls all the land from Upper Canada to the Pacific, I hear. That's too much power for anybody.”

“George Simpson is travelling round, organising the trading posts and even recruiting some new men,” someone else volunteered. “Now that the companies have joined, he's going to close many of the outposts.”

“And put good men out of jobs.”

Allan had heard enough. He didn't care about the politics of the Hudson's Bay Company. They had no holding on the island. He approached John Douglas, the shopkeeper.

“Any letters for Mingarry Farm, on island?” he asked hopefully. “The name's MacDougall.”

“I remember you.” John Douglas nodded. “Your brother came across the ice last year when your boat was trapped. We still talk about that over here.”

“He was a hero,” Allan agreed with a small smile. “I would've died without him.”

“There's a letter for Mingarry, I think. Been here since autumn, if I remember correctly. It came over on the last ship from Scotland before winter.”

He rifled through a packet of letters, and Allan's heart lurched when he saw the neat, familiar writing. Harriet! He knew if the letter came in autumn, it could not be a reply to his own, yet his heart still swelled with hope. She’d written at last.

He tortured himself, waiting till he was settled at the public house with a pint of ale and a cold game pie before he opened it.

Dear Allan, Although I have observed a long silence on your part, and can only wonder at its cause, I remain assured in the memory of your promise, and the knowledge of your faithfulness...

Allan breathed a sigh of relief. She trusted him. She would not change.

Therefore it grieves me all the more to relate to you the circumstances of the last year which have led my family to dire straits, and myself to a union which in time I hope will come to love.

In disbelief, Allan read of the loss of Achlic, and even worse, Harriet's betrothal to the nephew of Sir James Riddell.

We will marry in the spring, God willing, and I hope that some happiness may befall you, as well as me, even though we are no longer to be together. Dear Allan, know that I will always care for you, and should we not meet again, you will remain in my thoughts, if not my heart, as I will be wed to another.In Fond Memory, Harriet.

The letter fell from Allan's lifeless fingers as he stared blindly ahead, unable to believe the gross trick Fate had played on them all. That Harriet should be forced to marry another, and a Riddell at that!

Yet, Allan realised bitterly, she hadn't been truly forced, had she? After all, she could've appealed to his father for help, or even himself. The MacDougalls were relations, albeit distant, of the Campbells, and Allan knew Sandy would've willingly come to David Campbell's aid.

Perhaps she loved this fellow, and was trying to be kind to him. A kindness, Allan thought, he could do without. A voice in his head mocked pitilessly,
you were the one who set her free. You returned her letters. You let her go.

And now she would have read his own letter, asking her to come to him. What a fool he was, cherishing hopes long fallen to ash.

Head in hands, Allan let the tide of regret wash over him. If only he had insisted on the betrothal, even asked that she come with him to Scotia! If only David Campbell had agreed. If only... if only...

Instead, he had given Harriet her freedom... and she had taken it with both hands.

It had been a damp and depressing spring on Mull. Harriet stood at the window of the music room in Lanymoor House and shivered. She drew her shawl more tightly around her, as if it could ward off something more than the cold.

The cold, Harriet knew, was inside her, and had been there ever since she'd accepted Andrew Reid's proposal.

Sir James had been, to her surprise, delighted by their engagement. Shrewdly Harriet realised he was relieved to have his nephew occupied with honourable labour, and also to not have the enmity of the Campbells, and therefore many of the islanders, because of his clever trick.

No one liked Riddell, Harriet knew. The clearances, of course, accounted for that, although there had been fewer clearances here than in other parts of the Highlands.

And now she was to become a Riddell, or nearly. Harriet knew she wasn't imagining the looks of contempt from some of the villagers who knew of her betrothal. She'd heard one sly whisper that Harriet Campbell was selling herself for a bit of gold. The cruel remark had made Harriet burn with shame. Was that what she was doing? Selling her body as well as her soul for merely a livelihood, a way of life?

“Nonsense,” Margaret had told her when Harriet had quietly confessed her fears. “If it were just for you, then I'd wonder. But you're not doing this for yourself, Harriet! That's plain to see, if anyone takes a look at you. You're as pale and thin as a ghost. There's barely anything left of you.”

Andrew had remarked the same, teasingly, before his eyes grew serious. “If you don't want to go ahead, Harriet...”

“I keep my promises,” Harriet replied stiffly. Then, in a softer voice, she added, “please just give me time, Andrew.”

Yet how much time did she need to get used to her situation? Time was running out... the wedding was a mere three weeks away. Harriet shivered again.

“Mistress Campbell?”

Harriet turned to Caroline, who sat hesitantly at the pianoforte, and realised the girl had stopped playing several minutes ago. “I'm sorry, Caroline. I'm having trouble concentrating today. Play that piece again, please?”

Caroline lifted her hands to the keys, then dropped them again. Harriet tried to stifle her impatience. The girl had matured a great deal in the last year, and rarely had tantrums anymore. Yet there was still a streak of stubborn impishness there, and Harriet continually came up against it. “Caroline?”

“I think I know something,” Caroline blurted. “And I think I should tell you.” She bit her lip, sudden indecision and even fear crossing her childish features.

“Know something?” Harriet frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I found something. I didn't mean to snoop... well, only a wee bit!” Caroline bit at her fingernails before she dropped her hands in her lap and gazed at Harriet anxiously. “Promise you won't tell, Miss Campbell? I don't want to get into trouble, not with Andrew!”

“Why should you get in trouble?” Harriet sat next to Caroline on the pianoforte bench. “Have you done something naughty?”

“I was only looking for a pack of cards,” Caroline confessed. “I know James has some in his room, and one of the stable lads promised to show me a card trick. He's a card sharp, he is, even better than Andrew!”

“A young lady should not be concerning herself with cards,” Harriet said with what she hoped was an appropriate amount of severity. Her father did not even allow cards in his house, but she wasn’t really surprised that Andrew possessed some. The Riddells were not God-fearing Presbyterians as they were. “And you shouldn't have gone in Andrew’s chamber without permission.”