The sharp tang of salt water fills my nose as we reach the edge of the city. “That’s the Irish Sea you smell. Liverpool’s one of the largest ports in England; you’ll see strange things here from all over the world. Mind you keep your wits about you, though,” Tinker warns. “There are plenty here who’d cut your purse or even your throat if they had the chance. People will do all sorts of bad things for a guinea or two.”
Libby squeezes the small bag of coins hidden in her jacket and looks around fearfully, seeing robbers and murderers in every corner. She’s not told Tinker about the money and has ordered me to do the same.
Tinker seems not to notice her discomfort as we travel along the docks until we meet a large, tin-roofed warehouse. “I have to meet me business associate here on the docks,” he says, walking to the open door. “Go for a stroll. I’m sure you’ll find more interesting things on the waterfront than an old peddler replenishing his stock of pots and pans. But don’t forget to keep your eyes open. Like I said, the docks ain’t the safest place in Liverpool.”
Dangerous or not, the waterfront is a remarkable place. The docks are lined with ships, a forest of masts in front of dozens of wooden and brick warehouses. Crates of all sizes litter the piers, and everywhere we look, men of all shapes and colours busily load and unload cargo from ships. One ship in particular catches my attention, and I shudder as massive rolls of cotton cloth disappear into its belly. I saw far too many of those rolls in the mill.
We also see people on the docks who are most definitely not sailors. Men, women and children my age, and younger, lounge against piles of cargo. They seem full of nervous expectation, and when I see the posters stuck onto the walls and pilings I thank my mother that over my father’s objections she’d taught Libby and me to read in the long, wet Highland winters.
“Come to New York,” “Boston” and “Halifax,” the advertisements say, and though I’ve never heard of these places before, the words fill every fibre of my body with exhilaration. Wherever these cities are, they must be very far away from Glasgow and Sir Cecil Hamilton.
I see a boy a few years younger than myself sitting on a crate. “Where are ye going?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Boston,” the boy replies with a Highland lilt. He gestures at the Leopard, a small three-masted ship berthed at the end of the wharf. “Ma says in America there’s land and food fer everybody and that we’re gonna be rich.”
His words hit me like a lightning bolt. “Libby, ’tis our chance! Let’s go with them!”
“A dinnae ken, Duncan,” she replies nervously.
This is not the response I’d been hoping for. “Why not? Would ye rather stay here with the soldiers chasing us?” I say sharply, not willing to let this opportunity slip by.
“Let’s talk to Tinker and see what he has to say. Besides, passage isn’t free. We have some money but I’ve no idea if it’s enough.”
Reluctantly I agree. We’ve wandered a great distance since leaving Tinker, and we take several wrong turns amongst the maze of ships and warehouses before we find our way back. Libby waits outside as I walk into the warehouse. Ahead I see two shadows, one quite large and wearing a hat, the other small and familiar. “Tinker!” I call. “We need to talk to ye.”
Tinker takes several steps towards me while the other man fades into the darkness. “What is it, lad? We ain’t quite done our business yet.”
“I have something very important to ask ye about,” I reply, anxious and excited.
“Wait outside for me by the cart and I’ll join you presently,” says Tinker before I can explain. With no other choice, I rejoin my sister and sit on the cart waiting impatiently as Libby scratches the pony’s ears.
An old sailor sitting under a blanket against the side of the warehouse catches my eye. “Can thee spare a copper for a wounded veteran of His Majesty’s Navy?” he says to Libby. “Name’s John. I was on the Captain with Admiral Nelson at the battle of Cape St. Vincent. We gave the Spaniards a sound thrashing that day but I didn’t escape unscathed.”
John lifts the blanket and Libby gasps when we see both his legs have been amputated below his knees. “His Majesty’s Navy has no use for a cripple, even a war hero, and I’ve been here on the docks ever since, begging kind lasses like thyself for a few coppers to buy bread.”
Libby places a penny into John’s outstretched hand. “Here ye go, ye poor man.”
“Libby! We need all our money to sail to America!”
“A penny won’t buy us passage, Duncan, but it will feed this man fer a day or two,” admonishes my sister.
John places the coin inside his tattered coat. “God bless you, miss. Thy generosity won’t be forgotten. But you, young man, could learn a thing or two about kindness. Someday thine own life might hang in the balance. When it does, I hope you meet people more charitable than thyself.”
The sailor takes his leave and shuffles away on his stumps. “I bet he’s going to spend that coin on drink,” I mutter.
Libby is unperturbed. “And so what if he does? It was the least we could do.” Long experience has taught me there’s no point arguing with my sister, so I ignore her. When the peddler finally steps outside the warehouse, I feel as if I’ll burst.
“So what bee’s gotten into your bonnet?” he asks.
“There’s a ship on the docks taking people to Boston, and we want to sail on it.”
“Boston.” Tinker has a faraway look in his eyes. “Do you even know where Boston is, lad?”
“That way?” I say, pointing to the west.
“It is but you have to survive crossing the ocean to get there. Many ships leave this port and ain’t never seen again. They just disappear, swallowed up whole by the storms. There are waves a hundred feet high out there, you know. Untold thousands have died on the Atlantic. There ain’t nothing wrong with taking great risks, but know what you’re getting yourself in for.”
The old man stares at a seagull diving amongst the ships’ masts. “A part of me would like to go as well. I thought about it once but I was never very brave, and I’m too old for such travels now. Ain’t much use for anything really,” he adds strangely, “not no more.”
“Do ye have any idea how much it would cost to travel to Boston?” I ask.
“How much money do you have?” I look at Libby and she reluctantly shows the old man the sack we took from our old place in Glasgow. He peers inside and shakes his head. “Ain’t enough by far. You’ll both need to work for a year or two, but if you save your wages you can be on your way before you know it.”
“A year?” I cry. “We have to wait a whole year?”
Tinker casts an eye back into the dark warehouse. “Why don’t I go and talk to my friend about a job for you? They’re always looking for strong backs on the waterfront. What do you think?”
“Thank ye, Tinker, that would be appreciated,” says Libby.
“Wait here then,” the peddler instructs. “I’ll have a quick word and I’ll be right back.”
Impatient and upset, I sit on the back of the cart, waiting for the old man to reappear. Suddenly I notice a piece of paper sticking out from underneath Tinker’s large whetstone. Out of curiosity I lift the stone to see what it says, and as I read, my guts churn and my head feels as if it’s spinning like a top.
“Libby.” My tone is quiet but my sister recognizes the terror in my voice and she hurries over. Hand shaking, I hold up the paper. It’s a poster. A poster with the date, my name and a very recognizable drawing of my face.
“Wanted for Attempted Murder,” it reads. “Sixteen-year-old Duncan Scott, Recently of Glasgow. Five-guinea reward if alive, three guineas dead. The fugitive is believed to have entered England in April 1806, likely in the company of his sister Elizabeth Scott.”