The Runaway's Gold (10 page)

“I see.” He sighed, looking out at the horizon. “Alas, those in
such a state are already so many, I fear the day we cannot manage them all.” Then he took a deep breath, opening his arms to the sky before turning back to me. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt a man as strong as Mr. Blackbeard to finish the journey on his own.”

I looked at him, stunned. “You mean—we're to move ahead? Without him?”

“Aye, lad,” he replied, stumbling back to the path. And to this day I still do not know why he chose to believe me. “Hoist on the kishie. It's downhill from here. Together we shall repair to Lerwick with all convenient speed!”

IT WAS DUSK WHEN WE STOLE OUR FIRST glimpse of Lerwick. Unlike the narrow voes of the western island, the sparkling water of Bressay Sound was jammed with vessels of every size imaginable, all silhouettes in rapidly fading light. And along the water were clusters of houses—more than I had ever seen—with Bressay Isle across the harbor, peeking above a bank of clouds.

“I have many times dropped to my knees and prayed upon seeing what lies before you,” Reverend Sill explained while continuing down the path at a brisk pace, thrusting his stauf hard into the ground in keeping with his stride. “In my many years of service to our Lord, I have traveled treacherous waters by sloop and schooner. Once a year to Edinburgh, for my duties at the Kirk, and every other year to Fair Isle to celebrate
the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper—the poor heathen there, having no other man of the cloth to see to their salvation! Alas, none of these places grasps my heart as the beauty we now see before us. But it is many a poor soul who discovers this only after flinging himself so far afield that he can't seem to get himself back.”

To me delight, the path gradually transformed into a proper road cut deep into the moss—the first I had ever seen—wide enough, even, for a pony and cart! And the croft houses we passed were set in clusters, so close together there seemed to be no shared scattald or space for arable land.

“Where do they grow their bere and corn?”

“Hoot, lad!” Reverend Sill clicked his tongue. “The men of Lerwick are men of the sea, not crofters! Coopers, chandlers, and fishmongers—all bound to Mr. Marwick's docks.”

“Then where do they get their meal?”

“Why, they buy it, of course—at the market!”

It wasn't another half mile before the road became even wider, and we came upon the first proper house I had ever seen up close. No thatch! No rubble stone! Three stories high, with windows framed with real glass! In the fading light I was able to make out the faint outlines of similar houses we passed, each seeming grander than the last, many with additional structures for windows jutting from the roofline, which I learned were called dormers.

Finally, Reverend Sill stopped short and pointed with his
stauf to a street leading to the height of land above the harbor. “This is Hillhead. Canfield House is near the end. It's where I'll stay the night.”

“Lor'!” I exclaimed when we at last approached the wide stone steps to a dark and intricately carved door. “Where did they get the wood?”

“Ah, but this is Lerwick, lad. Much comes into this port from wealthier lands. And what comes in is often, well,
missed
by the Revenue Man at Her Majesty's Customs House.” He winked at me quickly as he rapped the brass knocker. “Shetlanders honor the Lord before the Queen, and rightly so. We needn't pay Her Majesty
every
duty she asks for.”

I peeled the kishie from me back. “Thank you for your kindness, sir,” I said softly—as the massive door swung open to show a beautifully plump woman in the most elegant dress I had ever seen.

“Ah, Reverend Sill,” she said with a curtsy. “The parish of the west has allowed you once again to wander to our side of the island?”

She was tall. In fact, by the looks of her, I was fairly sure she wouldn't have been able to stand in our croft house without brushing her graying hair against the rafters. And her face—it was full, flesh puffing from each rosy cheek, something I hadn't seen in any person these last years of hunger.

Her dress was of a deep blue silk, the color you saw in the sky only after a gale, with white ruffles clear up to her chin. It
was clean and completely free of tatters, not a single patch or sign of darning or repair.

As I stared at her, the aroma of roasting meat and baking bread wafted through the door, and it was all I could do to keep me knees from giving way.

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Canfield,” Reverend Sill replied with a bow. “And should you have a room and warm meal left this dark night, I would be most grateful.”

“Certainly,” she replied. Her accent betrayed the inflections of another land I couldn't place. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his face. “I see you have injured your chin! Please, come in so I can see to it!” She stood aside and swept her hand toward what looked like a sitting room, with a fire and the finest couch I had ever seen. “Knowin' it was time for the monthly meetin' of the Presbytery, we were expectin' you.”

The old man nodded, touching his chin. “Not a matter for concern, I assure you. I took a few spills along the way, I'm afraid.” Then he turned to me. “Mrs. Canfield, may I present Christopher Robertson. It was an arduous journey, and I'd not have made it without his assistance. For this I am most grateful.”

I flushed as the towering lady nodded in me direction.

“You were kind to share your fish and bread,” I said, handing the reverend the kishie.

“And what, young man, are your plans from here?”

I looked down at me worn rivlins. “To find me brother is
all.” I shivered in the March air, pulling me cold hands up into the sleeves of me gansey, knowing how easily I lose me sense of direction in the dark. “I'll start me search at the docks, I suppose. From there . . . I don't know.”

Mrs. Canfield studied me tattered attire and sighed.

“It's not far, lad. But you'll not be wantin' to go there tonight. The mariners are so mad on gin on account of the news that I fear there'll be rioting.”

As she spoke Reverend Sill's eyes narrowed. “And what is the cause of this great disturbance, Madam? Surely Sheriff Nicolson keeps better order than this?”

“Oh,” she said with a gasp. “Has the word not yet spread to your end of the island?”

The reverend cocked his head.

“Why, it's Mr. Marwick. Hasn't paid his workers in weeks. We think he's near bankrupt.”

“But that can't be!” I blurted. “Me Daa says Mr. Marwick owns nearly all the Lerwick docks: the coal yards, the sailmakers, and cooperages. And at our end of the island there's not a crofter doesn't pay him rent.”

“Aye, Madam,” Reverend Sill added. “Nothing comes into Lerwick or any other part of Shetland that that gentleman doesn't own a piece of. Even the bank.”

“Well, not for long, I'm afraid,” Mrs. Canfield said with a sigh. “The word is that the failed fishin' these past three years has finally caught up with him. He's in Edinburgh this very day tryin' to work something out with the Royal Bank of Scotland.
People doubt he'll be extended the credit to get even a dozen boats out to the cod banks by Whitsunday. The entire harbor is in a state.”

I suddenly remembered the sloops and half-deckers we'd passed waiting empty in Skeld and Weisdale Voes. Without credit from Marwick, there wasn't a crofter in our parish who'd find the coins to pay for the nets and supplies for even a week at sea.

“Aye,” Reverend Sill said, touching his long, knurled fingers to his forehead. “It is just as I feared. The Lord has only so much patience with the blasphemous behavior of our mariners and greed of the merchants. They and they alone have brought this cruel, cruel fate on the people of this island.” He shook his head and for a moment closed his eyes. “I ask you, how will our people, who are already near starvation, endure more suffering?”

“To that I have no answer,” Mrs. Canfield replied. “But they say that without Mr. Marwick and his bank, the wharf will be deserted in a week's time. Coopers, smithies, chandlers—they all depend on him for their survival. Why, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if Lord Cummingsburgh himself was tightenin' his belt.” She sighed and shook her head. “Please, come in before I lose the warmth from the fire. You too, lad. It won't do to have a lad walkin' alone on the wharf on a night like this.”

Her gentle, warm hand lightly touched me shoulder as she ushered me into the most beautiful room I had ever laid eyes on. The walls were magnificently high, at least two times me
height, and light glowed from three brass oil lamps, each with its own tall wick and fluted glass globe.

There were no fish hanging across the ceiling to dry, no spinning wheels, or swine rooting at the floor. Just an exquisite portrait of a stern-looking gentleman hanging on one of the wood-paneled walls, along with a landscape of many green hills and a loch that didn't look at all familiar.

A rug, woven in red, orange, and blue in a most intricate pattern, touched nearly all corners, and unlike the shallow fire that burned on the floor in the center of our croft house, an enormous fireplace framed in sleek gray stone jutted out from the wall—a mantel of golden beveled wood, and andirons the shape of owls, their jeweled eyes sparkling in the firelight.

Two wing chairs of deep green velvet faced the fire on either side of a matching couch, and what I guessed was a clock, though I'd never seen one before, stood in the corner. It was even taller than Reverend Sill, its pendulum clicking back and forth.

On the far wall was another thing I had never seen—a five-shelved glass case filled with books! The house might as well have been a palace in comparison to the handful of croft houses I had entered in me nearly fourteen years of life.

Unable to resist, I reached me hand out to one of the chairs, feeling for the first time the tickle of velvet on me fingertips, both soft and shiny.

“Your hands best be clean,” a lass's voice chided from across the room. I drove me hands into me pockets before looking over.

She was at least a head taller than me, with ringlets of butter-blond hair pulled neatly from her face by a large emerald bow. Until I saw her it hadn't occurred to me that Catherine's and Victoria's hair hadn't seen the attention of a comb since the passing of our Midder.

Her face was long and somewhat angular but perfectly proportioned, except for a nose that seemed to have been formed slightly left of center between wonderfully full cheeks. Her skin was like cream compared to the freckled, ruddy-complexioned lasses of Culswick. She hardly seemed real.

“Mary, don't be rude. Come and greet our guests,” Mrs. Canfield said. “You know, of course, Reverend Sill.”

I could feel me ears growing hot as she strode across the room and curtsied. There was a flicker in her eyes betraying a sense of warmth and confidence I'd never before encountered. Ever.

“And this is,” Mrs. Canfield began. “Forgive me, lad—I've forgotten your name.”

“Christopher Robertson, ma'am,” I muttered, quickly running me fingers through me own tangled mop of hair. I dared not meet her eyes, feeling her study me ill-fitting gansey and worn rivlins.

“Christopher who?” she asked.

“Robertson,” Reverend Sill answered, to me great relief. For if I had tried to speak again I wasn't sure the words would come out. “He hails from a croft in Culswick—on my side of the island.”

“Welcome, Christopher. This is my daughter, Mary,” Mrs. Canfield explained. “She has just turned fourteen.”

“And how many years have you?” the girl asked. “Eleven? Twelve?”

“I'll be fourteen come August,” I blurted, surprising meself by looking at her directly. “I'm bound to grow taller this year. At least me brothers did when they were me age.”

I felt me temples throb, and I wondered what had possessed me to say something so brash.

“I see,” she said with a playful glance.

Mrs. Canfield walked over to the fire and added a fresh brick of peat to the flames.

“Please, Reverend Sill, have a seat and rest your weary bones.” The brogue in her voice sounded even, yet unfamiliar. “We have some Madeira from Captain Canfield's last trip to Bilbao. I'll pour you a glass while you share your news of Mrs. Sill and of the parish. When you have rested, we will eat.”

The elderly gentleman's shoulders slumped as she spoke, as if all of the energy he had mustered for the last leg of the journey evaporated at that very instant.

“Sola Gratia, Madam,” he said, collapsing on the couch. “I am indeed tired and empty to my very soul.”

Mrs. Canfield walked over and gently touched me shoulder. “Aye! You're nothin' but skin and bones! And such a handsome lad, with those stunnin' blue eyes! The color of starling's eggs, they are.”

I felt me cheeks color as she turned me chin to the light.

“And the hair! Remarkable,” she said, as if trying to remember something. “True ginger, it is. Like me brothers' and sister's back home.” She turned to her daughter. “Mary will take you into the kitchen and get you somethin' to fill your belly. And should you choose to stay, there's a pallet in the shed.”

In me heart I knew that if I was ever going to find John, I couldn't spare the time. But me words came spilling out before I could think. The idea of tasting the glorious things I had been smelling since I arrived was far too great. “Thank you, ma'am.”

The kitchen was wider and longer than the entire two rooms of our croft house, with clean, limewashed walls and a deep fireplace in which two steaming black kettles hung above the flames. To the right was a cupboard reaching nearly to the ceiling, filled with plates and platters of blue-and-white china. At the center of the room by the fire was a table with two chairs where three loaves of sweet-smelling bread sat cooling on a rack.