Logan was restless.
Now that he didn’t need this injured ankle, he was stuck with it. He couldn’t very well hop out of bed and proclaim a miracle. The doctor had said two days off his feet, and that meant he couldn’t get up until tomorrow. Even then, he’d have to remember to limp somewhat for a week or so.
Out of sheer boredom he picked up one of the three books Lady MacNeil had brought up to him. After all, he thought, the last time I started flipping through books, I stumbled onto Digory’s letter. Maybe he’d find a further clue to the location of the treasure here, perhaps even a hint of what the treasure actually was. Who could tell? The events of his life seemed somehow ordered since he had arrived here. He would hardly be surprised at this point if a clue jumped right off the page.
Mrs. MacNeil had offered to have him carried down to the library or a sunlit dayroom where he might see better. But pretending an injury for business was one thing; letting people carry him around was quite another. He would just brave it out right here. He had taken the books, not having the heart to tell her he had no interest in reading.
But interested or not, he was going crazy just lying there. Not knowing his preferences, she said, she had brought a variety. Dickens’ Great Expectations, however apropos the title, he quickly tossed aside. He remembered teachers trying to force it down him. A hasty flipping through the book revealed no notes or letters, and that was that. Next was Scott’s Guy Mannering. Who could possibly plow through the small print, and all those anachronisms? He turned it upside down and let the pages hang as he gave it a shake or two. No clues there either. Of course the whole thing was absurd! What was he thinking, that right under her nose the proprietress of the estate was going to tell him where the treasure was so he could steal it from them?
He laughed aloud. The isolation had already made him come unhinged!
Finally he reached for the third book, a volume of poems by George MacDonald. Although the name sounded vaguely familiar, Logan couldn’t quite place him—a Scot, he thought, perhaps nineteenth century. He wasn’t sure. He had never been much on poetry, but these were short and uncluttered and at least looked more palatable than the other two books. He opened the book to the middle. One of the nice things about books like this was that you didn’t have to start at the beginning and read to the end. And when someone asked you how you liked the book, you could spout off a few things about a poem—maybe the only one you read—and they’d never be the wiser.
Skimming the page, he noticed a reference to boats, and thinking this as good a place as any to start, he sought the beginning of the verse:
Master, thou workest with such common things—
Low souls, weak hearts, I mean—and hast to use,
Therefore, such common means and rescuings,
That hard we find it, as we sit and muse,
To think thou workest in us verily:
Bad sea-boats, we and manned with wretched crews—
That doubt the captain, watch the storm-spray flee.
Thou art hampered in thy natural working then
When beings designed on freedom’s holy plan
Will not be free: with thy poor, foolish men,
Thou therefore hast to work just like a man.
But when, tangling thyself in their sore need,
Thou hast to freedom fashioned them indeed,
Then wilt thou grandly move, and godlike speed.
Logan stopped reading.
These were nothing but religious poems. There was no treasure here—just old-fashioned notions of piety! He should have known!
Actually, Logan had nothing personal against religion. His mother had been religious on and off, and went through bouts of dragging him to church when he hadn’t made his escape fast enough on Sunday mornings. But never in his life had he felt any particular need for religion.
Bad sea-boats, we and manned with wretched crews. . . . Yes, he supposed that described him. At least he had been told as much on those few Sundays when he had ventured into church. “Ye’re a bad apple, Logan Macintyre. Settle doon afore ye wind up in hell!”
No thanks, he thought. He had no use for such fanatical pessimism. If they wanted to be prisoners of that kind of fear, that was their choice. But he didn’t need it. He was free. With the thought, the words came back into his mind, and he looked back onto the page to see exactly what the poet had said. Thou art hampered in thy natural working then when beings designed on freedom’s holy plan will not be free. . . .
What did the man mean? What a strange thing to say?
He was free, wasn’t he? He prided himself on that fact. Footloose and fancy free; he had always taken pleasure in being just that sort of man. Whatever freedom this old-fashioned writer was talking about, he certainly wasn’t referring to someone like himself. Logan Macintyre was free, was on the track of a treasure which was going to put him on easy street, and nothing was going to stop him.
He closed the book just as a sharp knock came at the door, jerking him out of his momentary reverie.
It would be a relief to have some company. He had never been a deep thinker and had no intention of starting now. No old dead poet was going to start filling his mind with foolish fancies. Somehow he was sure it was the kind of thing Lady Margaret would know all about. The poem almost reminded him of that peculiar look in her eyes. It wouldn’t surprise him if she knew the old bloke who wrote it.
The door opened and Allison ushered in an entourage that appeared as out of place within the grand walls of Stonewycke as she had on the streets of New Town. With her were Jesse Cameron, Buckie Buchannan, and Jimmy MacMillan.
“It looks like ye’re na havin’ a run o’ much luck here in Strathy,” said Jesse, taking his hand and shaking it heartily.
“Ha!” laughed Jimmy who had been involved in the poker game at MacFarlane’s. “Dinna be talkin’ t’ this bloke aboot luck. He’s got plenty o’ it!”
“Aye,” added Buckie with a friendly grin. “He’s got enough Port Strathy siller in his pockets t’ stay in bed a month.”
“What a surprise!” said Logan, laughing with the banter.
“Ye dinna think oor best crew member would get laid up an’ rate no visit from his mates?” said Jesse with mock astonishment.
“If you don’t mind,” came Allison’s cool voice, noticeably out of concert with the other congenial tones, “I’ll be leaving you to your . . . visitors, Mr. Macintyre.” Then turning toward Jesse, “I trust you can find your own way out when you are through?”
“Yes, mem,” replied Jesse, with the quiet respect of one who knew her place when she was put in it. “Thank ye, m’leddy.”
Favoring those in the room with one final aloof glance, which left Logan with the impression that she was appraising how they would handle their temptation to carry out the family silver, Allison turned crisply and exited.
“Pull up some chairs,” he said to his guests. When he saw Buckie glancing all about and then giving a soft whistle, he added, “Some digs, huh?”
“Who says the bloke ain’t lucky!” said Jimmy as he straddled a delicate Queen Anne chair.
Jesse and Buckie took two other chairs, launching immediately into a conversation about the weather, fishing prospects, and the latest repairs being undertaken aboard the Little Stevie. A week earlier such topics would have held no meaning whatsoever for Logan, but now he found himself interested in even the most trivial details. From firsthand experience he now knew how vitally important the weather was to the fishermen, and since his “voyage,” he had now and then found his eyes straying toward the sky with a concern he would never have felt before. Would those clouds bring rain? From which direction was the wind coming? Could the Little Stevie take another gale? Thus Logan found himself listening with more attentiveness than he could have thought possible.
Before anyone realized it, an hour had passed. Jesse was the first to rise.
“We didn’t mean t’ take all yer time, an’ we still got plenty t’ do today,” she said.
“My time!” said Logan. “Time’s all I’ve got!”
She laughed. “The soft life’s gettin’ t’ ye already?”
“I’d sooner be out on your deck in a rainstorm than caged up in here,” Logan replied.
A serious look passed over Jesse’s face, one Logan had not seen her wear previously. “The Lord spared ye once, my frien’,” she said, “an’ it’s no wise t’ be temptin’ the likes o’ Him afore ye figure oot what He saved ye fer.”
Logan’s unresponsive stare apparently urged her to explain further.
“When we’re oot on the water an’ a squall breaks oot, sometimes a clap o’ thunder’ll break an’ I’ll swear we’re all goners. Or sometimes a flash o’ lightnin’ll break almost from a clear sky. Weel, sometimes somethin’ happens like that in life, too. Somethin’ terrible will fall wi’oot warnin’. An’ from that time on, everythin’ is changed. Life can no more be what it was afore. Like when my Charlie an’ my boy was lost. An’ the result depen’s on hoo ye respon’ t’ the invadin’ storm o’ trouble. What do ye do after the echo o’ the thunder has died away? Is yer life better than it was . . . or worse? Do ye let Him use the bolt o’ lightnin’ t’ open yer eyes, or do ye keep them shut?”
“I’m afraid I don’t really understand what you’re talking about, Jesse,” said Logan in an apologetic tone.
“Weel, I’ll see if I canna be a mite more plain-spoken, lad,” she replied. After a short pause, she resumed. “I dinna believe in accidents. Everythin’ is t’ a purpose. Jist like yer comin’ here, an’ like yer accident on the boat, an’ maybe like yer accident here, too, fer all I ken. Dinna ye see, lad? The Lord’s tryin’ t’ get yer attention. ’Tis the bolt o’ lightnin’ in yer own life. He’s tryin’ t’ wake ye up. An’ that’s what I said in the beginnin’, that ye’d be wise t’ figure oot what He’s tryin’ t’ save ye fer afore He runs oot o’ patience an’ leaves ye t’ yer own devices.”
Logan was silent, trying to ponder her words, but in truth they barely reached past the surface of his mind.
“We almost forgot,” put in Buckie in a lighter tone; “we got presents.”
“Presents! It’s not my birthday, Buckie!” laughed Logan.
“’Twas Jesse’s idea, but we all agreed ’twas a good one,” replied the first mate, stuffing his hand into his pocket and withdrawing three cigars. “We thought ye might like a fine smoke,” he added, laying them on the bed.
Logan picked one up and sniffed it lingeringly. “Ah,” he said, “that is a good cigar!”
“I brought ye somethin’,” said Jimmy, “but I left it wi’ the cook. We smoked some o’ the catch ye helped wi’.”
“I hardly helped!”
“Ye was there, an’ that’s enough,” said Jesse, and Logan could tell she meant it sincerely. Then she proceeded to take a small package from her pocket. “The lads thought ye might be able t’ fin’ some use fer these.”
It was a deck of cards. Logan slipped them out of the box and fanned them out expertly; his fingers obviously had more than a passing acquaintance with the game. Suddenly he broke into an uproarious laugh. Each card bore a picture of a fish on its back.
He looked up at Jesse and noted a definite twinkle in each eye.
All at once he felt very odd. He bit his lip and looked hastily down, pretending to examine the cards more closely. He didn’t know what this feeling inside him was, nor what he should say. When at last he did speak, his voice felt hollow. He couldn’t say what he felt without saying too much.
“Thanks. You are all . . . you’re good friends,” was all he said, but when he ventured a glance at Jesse, he knew she understood.
Telling him to visit them at the boat again sometime, even though he was now an important man and working for the estate, they left, and again Logan found himself alone.
He lay quietly on the bed, feeling very strange—not a little deceptive, certainly ill at ease, and at the same time, very heavy. He fingered the deck of cards and sniffed at another cigar. Suddenly he knew what felt heavy—it was his blasted left foot, sound and whole as it was.
“So what was I supposed to do?” he half yelled to himself, throwing back the blankets and jumping out of bed.
Pacing back and forth over the Persian carpet, he continued to argue with himself. “They’d understand! They’d do the same in my shoes if they had the chance. These are big stakes! Friends or no friends, I’ve come too far to start getting wishy-washy now!”
Then, as if resolving his temporary ambivalence, he grabbed up one of the cigars, bit off the end, which he spat out on the floor, lit it, and puffed dramatically. It wasn’t that great a cigar, anyway. It certainly wasn’t as if they had spent their last penny on it. He puffed again and tried to blow the smoke into a ring. But despite all his efforts, that was one trick Skittles had not been able to teach him.
Poor old Skittles . . .
Why did things have to change? Why couldn’t he be back in London where he belonged, among people he belonged with? Everything had been simple enough there. He had known what he wanted and how to get it. There were no deeper questions of life back there—at least, not many. Now here was Jesse trying to talk to him about thunderbolts from heaven, and some ancient poet yapping about foolish men who didn’t want to be free! It was all such nonsense!
Suddenly he heard a noise outside the door.
Like a naughty child, he leaped back under the covers, his heart racing. The cigar had lost all its flavor. Never before had he felt so much like a common sneak.