Without intending to, Tom dozed fitfully during the hours he waited, sitting propped up against a mast and watched over by a succession of crew members. Each time he awoke it was with a start. How was he going to escape? His only chance would be when they neared land, perhaps while the crew was busy mooring the ship. He tried to remember the chart of Stornoway Harbor. Like Big Harbour on Rona, it had a lurking dragon at its entrance. Here were the rocks known as the Beasts of Holm. The lighthouse had been built at Arnish, ten years ago. It was a white, iron tower, bitterly cold the keepers complained. Alan Stevenson, Thomas’s brother and fellow engineer, had made an ingenious reflecting beacon on the nearby rock shelf. It projected the beam across so that even the local fishermen swore that the light shone from the lighthouse itself.
Sinclair and the crew ignored Tom as they approached Stornoway. They knew an early escape would be too dangerous, even for a strong swimmer. I’ll have to stay alert and seize my chances when we’ve entered the harbor, he thought. Highlanders hate the excise men. So maybe they’ll help me escape.
As the crew coaxed the cutter into the neck of the inner harbour, the youngest hand came and stood over Tom. He was a slight fellow, still in his teens, rather insulting to post him as a guard. But then maybe that could work to his advantage?
Stornoway was a busy port. The flow of water was clotted by fishing boats, so many of them that they formed floating islands. The cutter had to pick her way between them, lifting her skirts like a lady in a muddy farmyard. Tom’s jailer leaned over the side to gawp. Tom took his chance, crashing into the lad so he overbalanced. Leaping over the side and praying that the water below him was deep enough to break his fall. It was! But he was choking and stunned by the impact. He surfaced and headed toward the shore. His flailing arms reached the side of a small boat. He spluttered, “It’s the excise men,” and the astonished rower hauled him aboard. Tom flopped, coughing while the sailor rowed them toward the shore, scurrying between the larger vessels.
Angry roars came from the cutter. Her size impeded her, a man on stilts struggling through a crowded street. The rower reached a flock of small boats moored together close to the shore. He gestured to Tom to jump. Grinning while Tom waved his thanks and clambered aboard the first boat. Leaping from one wobbling vessel to the next, he used them as steppingstones until he was able to wade ashore.
Not safe yet. Glancing behind he saw the cutter’s launch lowered already. Where was he going to hide? There were the usual harbor buildings with their clutter of carts, heaped-up barrels and men unloading cargo. Nowhere there. Farther over, he spotted the gutting tables. There were the fisher girls, their quicksilver fingers darting among the fish. He ducked behind the buildings and using the barrels as cover crept up to the women, finger to lips. One of them looked up, a greasy curl sneaking out from her kerchief. Barely stopping her work she jostled him over toward a huge trough that stank worse than anything he had ever smelled in his life. Shuddering and holding his breath, he lowered himself into the oozing mound of fish entrails. A hand pressed him down and scooped more of the foul mess over his back.
Time stood still while he lay engulfed in the slime. What would my shipmates think if they could see me here? He smiled to himself, then immediately closed his mouth as a rotting fin slithered against his lips. He had always been so particular over his dress, vain almost. Now he was only fit to be a hermit. But he was safe, at least for the moment.
Finally fingers, bloated with strips of bandages, tapped him on the shoulder and strong arms pulled him to his feet. His legs buckled and he was propped against a barrel. The girls laughed, holding their aprons up to their faces. He joined in the joke, lifting his sleeve to his nose and reeling back from the stench. There were two girls. The stocky one with the escaping curl introduced herself as Beathag and her slender, pale friend as Peigi. He saw with relief that the sky was darkening as they urged him to follow them. He tottered along behind their brisk steps through narrow streets behind the harbor. Soon they left behind the shops, businesses, and blacksmith’s forge and walked along a pitted track toward a group of black houses. They took him to a well at the back. Beathag kept a lookout while Peigi started to pour bucket after bucket of icy water over him until he begged her to stop. Close up, he saw that beneath the grime she had the soft skin of a young woman. Shyly she stretched out her hand. “S e lochlannach a th’annad,” she whispered as she touched his dripping pale hair.
He smiled at being called a Viking and wished that he had a Norseman’s ferocity. Then he could have tackled the crew of the cutter, laying about him with a war axe. That would have been better than lying among putrid fish.
She mimed that he should take off his soaking clothes. He removed jacket, gansey and vest but kept a tight hold on his trousers. Later, as he warmed up by the fire, she handed him a bowl of porridge. He wondered if the foul smell from the fish trough would destroy his appetite but to his surprise he felt his mouth watering.
“Manna from Heaven,” he said.
The fisher girls gathered around him, smiling encouragement as if he was an orphan calf they were trying to rear. Tom decided it would be a good moment to bring out his drawing. His pack had been doused in seawater and smeared with fish innards but the paper had survived inside its oilskin wrapping. They scrutinized the drawing but then shook their heads.
Beathag explained to him how the group of girls stayed together in the house for the fishing season. He could sleep in the outhouse. They had found him some clean trousers and drawers. There was much giggling from her companions as she handed them over. She would speak tomorrow to the fishermen about a passage back to the mainland for him. It wouldn’t be difficult. The story of the fair young Englishman who helped the folk on Tiree to fool the excise men had sped across the sea before him. He made a nest with some old blankets on the earth floor of the outhouse and fell into an instant sleep.
Awakening the next morning his heart plunged with fear until he recognized his surroundings. Feeling more cheerful than he had for days, he rushed outside bare-chested and sluiced himself at the well. His hair and beard still seemed greasy. So he found his razor inside the pack, rust splattered but intact. He shivered as he examined it, running his fingers along the side of the blade. He felt a pang of grief for Richard, slicing his neck open like the fisher girls split open the fish. Tom knew he could never do that. He would only use the razor for its intended purpose. He felt cleaner after his shave and hoped that a change in his appearance would make it harder for him to be recognized.
A rumbling stomach drove him into the house. He wondered about asking Beathag if she would cut his hair but the house was empty. He had no idea of the time. Had they already gone to their work? Surely they would have told him before leaving? His heart thudded as he wondered if they had betrayed him. Had they been kind so that they could lure him into a trap? He peered out of the small, bleary window but all was quiet. Tearing around the single room he sent stools flying. He kicked the black pot hanging over the fire so that it listed and spewed out porridge. After swearing and stamping through the ashes he noticed the press in the corner. He flung the doors wide. Crouching down to cram oatmeal and pieces of smoked fish into his pack.