It was well past midnight. Henry Otter was still sitting in his cabin, his unfocused eyes staring into the darkness outside. What a terrible day it had been. The strain of bracing himself against the gales of emotion, far harder to endure than storms at sea. He was exhausted with holding his iron hull intact and keeping his soft-shelled heart down in the hold. The men must not sniff any sign of weakness from him.
He was the fruit of a family tree heavy with its harvest of seafaring men. From his birth, it was taken for granted that he too would become a sailor. Although born in landlocked Derbyshire, as a boy he spent long summers with relatives in a Hampshire village not far from Portsmouth. He went sailing with old George, a fisherman who knew the coastal waters as intimately as a farmer knows the contours of his fields. Henry acted as his pilot, taking charge of the twelve-foot pole that the old man used when he was edging along the sandbanks. Henry learned how to cast out the lead weight on a marked line and call out the readings: “Two fathoms deep,” and “By the mark seven.”
When there was a shrouding mist, George gave him a lump of grease to press down into the hollow at the base of the weight. Henry lowered it into the water, making sure that the weight stuck to the seabed. After jiggling the line and letting the weight scrape along the bottom, he would haul it up again. The old fisherman would suck his teeth and prod the piece of lard to see what had stuck to it. Depending on whether it was pebbles or grains of sand, he could work out their exact position. Henry was amazed how George carried in his head a map of the hidden underwater world. But it was a secret map, trapped inside his mind. Even then, Henry thought how wonderful it would be if that knowledge could be put on a chart for all sailors to use.
When he became a midshipman, some of the old sailors commiserated with him about how the glory days were over. The beauty of a ship in full sail, the thrill of battles against the French and the bold commanders, like Lord Nelson. But the peacetime, more humdrum navy suited him. He discovered an aptitude for navigation and measurement. He enjoyed rowing offshore in a small boat with a few others, armed only with lead, line, and compass. Because he could draw, he was given the task of sketching landmarks, a stand of trees, a church tower, or the sharp angle of a cliff. Rain and squalls didn’t discourage him. If the weather turned dangerous, they could pull the boat up in a deserted bay and wait for the wind to slacken. He had found a berth that suited him. Superior officers noticed his care for detail. He rose through the service until he was entrusted with this major survey of the West Highland coast and its attendant islands. As captain, he sought to give his crew a sense of pride in their labors and to encourage those like Masters and Williams who showed skill at surveying.
So Henry was far from being a battle-hardened warrior. Indeed, he had never before seen the body of a man who had died violently. He couldn’t believe that one man could have poured out such an ocean of blood. The sailor who found the body noticed the legs poking out from behind the coiled ropes. Then he slipped in the sticky morass when he went to investigate. It was the poor fellow’s waxy face that had most startled him. It was bleached whiter than whale bones disgorged by the sea.
Henry chafed his face. His first task in the morning would be to address the crew and try to restore their spirits. Sailors would imagine portents of disaster from any untoward happening, let alone something like this. Meanwhile, there was no prospect of sleep. He sighed and drew quill and paper in front of him.
I am truly sorry to burden you with my troubles. My unwilling hand weighs me down as heavily as my heart, but I know that writing to you will afford me some relief. If I were not a rational man but superstitious like my crew, I would believe that my captaincy was cursed. You will recall poor Hugh Cramer. I secured from the Admiralty the increase in pay he was entitled to but he had little opportunity to enjoy it before he died of a swelling in the windpipe. It’s nearly two years now since we buried him in the churchyard in Portree. I never dreamed that I would have to arrange another burial for one of my men in the same place or in such horrifying circumstances. My hand is slowing to a standstill but I must continue. I’ve been unable to make any sense of what has happened. Richard Williams, the coxswain, was a diligent young man. I know you tease me about taking the quiet young sailors under my wing, but this fellow showed exceptional promise. Although a common seaman, he had received the rudiments of an education and had an eager intelligence. Survey work suited his methodical nature. I blame myself. He was always so reliable. When he suddenly started making errors, I should have probed him rather than merely being brusque. How I regret my impatience now. When I sought him out later, he was distant and distracted. He mumbled something about how he now knew that he was as wicked as his father had always said he was. I can only surmise that as a decent young man, he was ashamed of some dalliance ashore. When I tried to reassure him, he battened down his hatches.
I resolved to try again later, but I was much too late. If only I had summoned the persistence you showed last year in helping that St. Kildan woman in her difficult labor. How amused you were by that daunting list of names they gave the poor infant. Mary Jemina Otter Porcupine Gillies, if I remember rightly.
I digress. When Williams failed to report for duty, I dispatched a hand to find him. The man returned white to the gills. Williams’s still warm body was lying sprawled behind one of the funnels, with his throat cut. I feared murder but when I went to investigate I saw the open razor in his hand. When the doctor came on board, he confirmed that Williams had indeed taken his own life. “I cannot record this death as misadventure. Clearly he died by his own hand.”
My imagination conjured up visions of him being buried at a crossroads with a stake through his heart. I didn’t trust myself to speak. If only he had done the deed when we were at sea, we could have quietly committed his body to the deep.
“May I suggest you pay a visit to Reverend Munro at the Beal Chapel at Scorrybreac?” Dr. MacLeod suggested. “He has more of the milk of human kindness than many of his fellows.”
I followed the good doctor’s advice. The reverend’s ruddy complexion and rough hands made him look more like a farmer than a man of God. He remained silent for some time after I had finished speaking. Although desperate to resolve matters, I thought it best not to interrupt his cogitations. I sat listening to the ticking of his clock and the howling of the wind. I could hear sheep bleating on the hillside, only ewes by the sound of it. It would be too early for lambs. February is a hard month. The promise of spring but winter hasn’t yet released its grip. When he finally spoke, I started with surprise. “This man is a miscreant and a sinner. He has broken the laws of man and much worse the laws of God.” My heart sank. Another heavy silence followed. “God will judge him and decide whether to have mercy on his soul.” Then the minister closed his eyes and moved his lips, as if in prayer. Finally, he raised his head and his eyes snapped open. “I shall give him a Christian burial. He’ll be buried outside the churchyard, by the trees.”
“His shipmates will want to erect a stone for him,” I said.
“That can be done,” he replied.
The funeral was a grim affair. Only the minister, Lieutenant Masters and three other of the ship’s company were there. Afterward, I walked along the shore, reluctant to go back on board were everyone was under a pall. I looked over the bay toward the snow-tipped Cuillin, brooding on the waste of his life. Also I feared the contagious gloom that his death had spread on board. Masters looked strained. He knew Williams better than anyone, but even he had no idea why he took his life. I assured the lieutenant that he was blameless in the matter. That’s the worst part of this tragedy. We all feel a weight of guilt but only Our Father in Heaven can read the young man’s soul.
As always, writing to you has cleared my head and eased my heart. I can now see a way of cheering the men’s spirits. I shall tell you whether or not it is successful.
You are ever in my thoughts. May God keep you safe, dearest wife.
Henry