The oil lamp swayed from its hook on the ceiling, casting a flickering light over a row of glinting instruments. Henry Otter raised a hand to steady it until it glowed, an Arctic sun above the white expanse of the charts. He bent down to peer more closely. How he loved the swell of the Hebridean names on his tongue: Tianavaig Bay, Suisnish, Flodigarry. What was in a name? These ones were an incantation to the wild places on the edge of the world. A prayer to the Hesperides, the daughters of the Evening Star. Names to some men meant fame. The explorers tramping over unknown continents gained immortality by christening newly discovered rivers and mountains. To others names on a map gave power. After sending surveyors to map the Highlands, King James IV learned enough of the topography to dispatch an army to tame the people there.
But it wasn’t immortality or power that mattered to Henry. What inspired him was creating accurate charts that enabled seafarers to sail their way safely. Over the centuries, anonymous sailors had named coastal features so that those following them would recognize the landmarks. Henry’s eye landed on the settlement of Staffin, north of Portree. It was named by the Vikings and meant “Place of Pillars.” He imagined the Viking captain standing at the prow of his longboat as it lunged through spray-spitting seas. What relief he would feel when he recognized the strange contorted mounds and stacks of the Quirang near Staffin and knew that he was heading northward. Henry saw himself and his crew as heirs to that tradition of naming and mapping. They recorded those ancient names and added details about the configuration of the coast, the nature of the seabed, and the depth of the channels. As he ran his finger along the black line of the Skye coastline, he thought about how charts, as well as being useful, had a modest beauty with their neat rows of figures guiding the helmsman along his way. How much labor those soundings represented. Sailors in small boats, often huddled against the lashing of wind and rain had endlessly cast a lead weight on the end of a marked line to record them.
He straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction. The surveys of North Skye were complete. They had made good use of the light summer nights. Tomorrow HMS Comet would leave Portree to begin work on charting the herds of smaller islands. A quick stretch of the legs, he decided, and then to bed. As he plodded along the deck he breathed in the night air.
What was that? Something flashed out to sea. A dim star? No, it was much too low in the sky and there was too much cloud for stars. But something was shining, making a tear in the darkness. As he reached into his pocket for his spyglass, he realized that he wasn’t alone on deck. “Ah, Lieutenant Masters, you’ve younger eyes than me. Where’s that light coming from?”
“It looks as if it’s from Raasay, sir.”
“No. It’s too far north. It must be on Rona.”
“You’re right. Is it coming from a building? Well, there’s a mystery to uncover. Go and find out tomorrow.”
Later as he lay in his bunk, Henry visualized the two smaller islands that stretched along the flank of Skye. Skye reached out over five peninsulas, like the outstretched wing of a sea eagle. Raasay was a thin sliver to the east. It crumbled away northward into scattered skerries, steppingstones to its smaller neighbor. Rona was a rocky outpost with two deep bays on its western side, chewed out by the sea. So the light must come from one of those harbors, but which one and why? Surely there were only a few poor fishermen living there?
Well, he would have to see what Tom Masters could find out. The fellow’s fair curls and boyish smile made him very successful in getting information from local people, especially ladies, even when they knew little English.
Tom reported on his mission the next day, “Sir, the light comes from a house on the beach at Big Harbour. A widow called Janet MacKenzie lives there. I don’t know why she keeps a lamp lighted in the window. My interpreting skills ran out, I’m afraid.”
“Never mind. We’ll pay a visit to this widow before we embark on the next stage of the survey.”
So an hour later, at the top of the tide, they steamed across to Rona on a strong swell, nosing the Comet into the outer rim of Big Harbour. Tom had hired a local fisherman as a pilot, a spare man, his cheeks reddened and his blue eyes watery after years of scouring by the elements.
“Treacherous rocks there,” Henry said, “They must have wrecked a few boats in their time.”
“Aye,” the pilot replied. “But I know their ways.” He seemed disinclined to say more. Henry didn’t know whether it was because he had little English or if he was taciturn by nature. So he left the man in peace to gesture to the helmsman what line the ship should take. Henry always felt tense when he wasn’t in command. He only breathed more easily once the ship was anchored well clear of the rocks that stoppered the inner entrance. A boat was lowered over the side and coxswain Richard Williams rowed the captain and the lieutenant to the beach.
“Brush yourself down,” Henry ordered Tom as they jumped on to the shingle. The captain knew that the younger officers were irked by his insistence on immaculate uniforms. But it was too easy to let discipline slide on a survey vessel in remote locations. He rubbed wet sand from his own trousers and smoothed down the lapels of his jacket before looking about him.
“That must be the house,” he said, pointing at a building roosting by itself on the beach among the rocks, “Quite substantial too, two floors. Not the usual black house.”
As he rapped on the heavy front door, he could hear scuffling noises from inside. It was opened by a mouselike young girl. “I’m Captain Otter of the Royal Navy. Is your mistress in?”
The girl’s eyes opened wide and her nose started to twitch as if she was about to burst into tears. There was a rustling behind her and a tall, slender figure in a black gown appeared. Henry saw a face as weathered as a wooden carving and felt the gaze of her eyes, gray as wintry seas, “I’m Mistress MacKenzie. Would you gentlemen like to step inside?” Her voice was cool and deliberate.
They followed her stiff back into a parlour at the front of the house. She gestured for them to sit on a well-polished settle while she perched on a hard chair. The room was spare but snug. A woolen rug lay in front of the fireplace and a tall press stood in one corner. What drew Henry’s eye though stood in front of the small window overlooking the sea. The glass was almost completely obscured by an elaborate lamp wedged onto the stone sill. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Edinburgh drawing room. It had a wide brass base and a tall chimney topped by a glass globe that reminded him of a fortune-teller’s crystal ball. He had to clench his hands together to curb his eagerness while they waited for the flustered maid. She scampered in eventually with a tray of tea things, clattering the cups as she served them. The widow remained silent and composed.
“Madam, I instructed Lieutenant Masters here to discover who owned the light we could see from Portree Harbor.”
She nodded. Her eyes beneath the stiff widow’s cap had the unblinking stare of a ship’s figurehead.
“You are performing an invaluable service for seafarers.”
Again the fixed look and the eventual nod. Henry was beginning to feel uneasy and wishing he had left Tom Masters to make the visit on his own. He knew that his height and his burly form could make people apprehensive. But he didn’t sense any fear in this lady. He tried again. “May I ask you what prompted you to provide this service for passing ships?”
This time the silence was even longer, “I’ve put the lamp in my window for many a year but not in the summer when the light is good.”
Henry hesitated, confused by her answer. “And how do you obtain the oil for the lamp?”
This time she replied more readily. “It comes from my sons when they’re after catching fish, but if there’s not enough I buy more or use candles.”
“Well, I shall write to the commissioners of Northern Lighthouses and ask that you be recompensed.”
“Recompensed?” She repeated with a frown.
“Yes, indeed. Many vessels owe their safety to your light. It’s not right that you should have to pay for your philanthropic actions.”
“Payment? I don’t want to be paid,” she hissed, rising to her feet.
“Madam, I meant no offence … I—”
“No, but I should like you to leave now.” Her eyes glittered, harsh as an eagle’s.
The two men took a hurried leave. “What a pity I offended Mistress MacKenzie by suggesting payment. These Highlanders are a proud race,” Henry said, as they walked down to the boat.
“She’s a formidable lady, sir. She would make a terrifying admiral of the Fleet.”
Henry smiled. “Well, I’m a sailor, thank goodness, not an ambassador. At least we can make her philanthropic efforts known. I shall write to Alan Stevenson at the commissioners, whatever Mistress MacKenzie might think about it.” He marched to where Williams waited. The sailor hastened to steady the boat for the captain to climb aboard. When it was Tom Masters’s turn his doleful face lit up in a smile.