Chapter 11
In Savannah, the very air reverberated with sounds, sights and smells. Dark-skinned men glistened with sweat, their backs bent double as they toiled to unload or load the ships. The dockside labourers worked as a team, singing in time to the jobs that broke their bones and scarred their flesh.
Captain Hallet, the fair-haired, thin-faced man who had brought them safely across the ocean and into harbour, was courteous and informative. He took it upon himself to repeat the arrangements that had been made for Lochranza’s onwards transition to Virginia.
‘As explained to you, a British ship would not be welcome in the east coast ports of America. Your fiancé has arranged for you to travel on to your destination on a Dutch ship. The Hollanders are not at war with the Americans. The only thing holding the Dutch ship up is provisioning and the likelihood of squalls. Trust the captain to know when it’s best to leave. Us seamen have a nose for such things.’
Lochranza thanked him for keeping them informed and eyed Jamaica with a mixture of fascination and fear. She should have memories of this place, but nothing came to mind.
Mrs Mackintosh almost fainted away at the thought of enduring the rolling movement and smell of yet another ship.
‘May the good Lord preserve us!’ And crossed herself, even though she was not a Catholic.
‘I don’t see why the wedding couldn’t have taken place in England,’ she declared, her body still thin and her face pale from the sea crossing.
‘We will develop a strong stomach and good sea legs!’ Lochranza declared with what she hoped was enough fervour to reassure her companion.
‘I don’t want sea legs,’ grumbled Mrs Mackintosh. ‘I want dry land.’
Captain Hallet addressed Lochranza. ‘Lady Kildare, I have business ashore which must be attended to. Bills of lading with reference to my return voyage and whilst undertaking that, I will find out when your onward vessel is due to arrive. I trust you will both excuse me. My business will only take a matter of hours. Five at the most.’
* * *
Five hours passed and still the captain did not return.
Nor the next day. On the third day of his absence, they were summoned to make their way to the Dutch ship.
They’d watched it come in, its lines thrown ashore by beefy men to scurrying blacks, the latter’s clothes sticking to their limbs, their torsos bare under the hot sun.
By virtue of her being Lochranza’s companion, Mrs Mackintosh had taken it on herself to act as a gatekeeper between men she regarded as naturally lecherous and a woman she intended to keep pure until her wedding day.
The Dutch captain who came aboard seemed to sense this, and although he bowed to Lochranza, he kept his most reassuring smile for her Scottish companion.
‘Captain Van der Pohl. At your service.’
‘Where is Captain Hallett?’ asked Mrs Mackintosh. ‘He should have been back by now. It is most inconvenient.’
The captain focused on her. ‘Is that a Dundee accent or is that Edinburgh I hear lilting like a song in your voice?’
Just his mentioning her Edinburgh lilt was enough to get Moira on his side.
‘Well… yes…’
It was one of the rare occasions when Lochranza had seen her blush.
‘You’ve given us little time for preparation,’ stated Mrs Mackintosh, her brow furrowing in a tier of deep wrinkles as she momentarily overcame his charm and expressed her disconcertion. ‘Not everything is packed…’
Lochranza couldn’t help harbouring a feeling of unease. First being diverted from Virginia to Savannah, then Captain Hallett not returning when he said he would. She addressed the Dutch captain.
‘Captain Hallett told us it would be another four days before the Dutch ship was in. He should have been back by now. Do you know where he could be?’
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps it’s personal business. Anyway, we cannot let that hold our departure.’ Captain Van der Pohl was adamant. ‘We need to get going. It’s all to do with the wind.’
Lochranza went on. ‘It seems only good manners that we await his return and say goodbye to him before leaving.’
‘Madam,’ said Van der Pohl, sweeping again into a low bow. ‘Wind and tide wait for no man. I’m sorry. Perhaps you could leave him a message?’
‘Yes. I will.’
Why did she feel unnerved as she left the captain on deck and went below? Yes, a fair wind could have brought the ship in early. She could accept that, but it seemed more than a coincidence that Captain Hallet had disappeared. Even his crew had no idea why.
‘Did he say his name was Captain Van der Pohl?’
‘Indeed he did,’ declared Mrs Mackintosh.
The note was swiftly written. Once it was finished, she left it on the small desk in her equally small cabin.
The luggage was transferred from one ship to the other to last them at least two weeks.
* * *
Fifteen miles out from Savannah, a crew member brought them their evening meal plus a reasonable bottle of wine. Lochranza asked if the captain was joining them. The man replied that he would not. His accent sounded more French than Dutch.
After the meal, Mrs Mackintosh stayed below whilst Lochranza went up on deck, which was cooler and more pleasant than in the cramped cabin.
The outline of the island, a mixture of purple and mauve, was still visible, though being rapidly devoured by both the distance and the darkness.
The night air was warm, a light breeze tossing a few stray strands of hair around her face.
The sails cracked, then flapped back into position.
The sky was full of stars. By the time she’d located the North Star, the sails had cracked again.
On the journey across the Atlantic, the captain, an amiable man charged to look after her person, had answered her questions about why the ship sometimes moved sideways, why the sails flapped and cracked, and why they needed to keep the wind behind them.
He’d told her the basics about currents and winds and changing direction and how important it was to get the wind to hit the sails at the right angle.
‘Not that we always go in the right direction. At times, we must follow a zigzag course, but eventually we get there.’
A cracking sound attracted her attention to the stern of the ship, where the Dutch flag had been fluttering when they’d boarded. The sight that met her eyes turned her blood cold. The flag was not Dutch. It was French.
‘What are you doing up here?’
The growled demand startled her, adding to the consternation she was already feeling.
She recognised the voice ringing out along the deck; the man who had paid Moira Mackintosh his undivided attention. His accent had been soft, flattering, veering towards seduction. Captain Van der Pohl. Dutch he might be, but his allegiance was with anyone who could pay the price.
‘Studying!’ Her voice was as loud as his and her eyes blazed.
By the light of his lantern, his angular features had become demonic. A wide mouth, Roman nose, dark eyes and eyebrows, a scarred cheek. His hair blew in light-coloured strands across his face.
‘You’re not Dutch!’
His mouth twisted into something between a smile and a leer.
She forced her most commanding voice. ‘What is the meaning of this? Who are you and where are we going?’
His eyes glittered devilishly in the flickering light of the lantern. ‘To meet your fiancé. Isn’t that what you told me?’
Lochranza frowned whilst drawing on every ounce of courage she could muster.
‘I am supposed to meet him in Virginia, which I believe is in a north-easterly direction. If I am not very much mistaken, this ship is heading north-west.’
‘North. You’ve a little more to learn about navigation.
’ He shook his head slowly, the blackness of his beard blotting out one half of his face, the lantern throwing shadows in the hollows of his eye sockets.
‘There’s been a slight change of plan. You will make your marriage vows in New Orleans.
And now, Lady Kildare, I suggest you go to your cabin. ’
Why would Ethan change his plan and have her meet him in New Orleans?
And why was a Frenchman taking her there and not a Dutch captain?
Fear came upon her, so much so that she dashed from the deck and down the companion steps to her quarters. The captain followed.
On seeing her, Mrs Mackintosh rose from a sitting position. ‘Lady Kildare,’ she gushed on suddenly finding her voice. ‘I told you not to go up there without a shawl.’
‘Your servant is quite right. The night air can be much colder than day. The tropics deceive us.’
‘And not only the tropics,’ said Lochranza, fixing him with an accusing glare.
His smile persisted. ‘We would not wish you to fall overboard. There are sharks in these waters.’
‘And on board this ship!’
‘Bon nuit,’ he said, unsmiling, before the door closed between them.
‘Your name, sir? May I know your true name?’
‘Labaye. Captain Labaye.’
She heard the grating of a key. They were locked in.
Mrs Mackintosh looked suddenly shocked. ‘He spoke French.’
‘That’s because he is French,’ Lochranza informed her.
‘Perhaps he’s from the Channel Islands…’
‘Moira! He is French and we are on a French vessel. Not a Dutch ship. Besides which, we are locked in. Now why would anyone instructed by Ethan MacKinnon do that?’
Moira sprang up to try the door herself. It didn’t budge. ‘We’re locked in,’ she exclaimed. ‘We can’t get out! This can’t be right. He’s made us prisoners!’
Lochranza agreed with her. ‘Yes. He has. We must ask ourselves why.’
They discussed their predicament and what they could do to improve their lot for many hours. Eventually, they talked themselves out, their eyes heavy as they fell into sleep fully dressed.
‘Just in case,’ stated Lochranza to her now nervous companion.
‘In case?’
It was worrying to hear Mrs Mackintosh sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
Lochranza did her best to be reassuring, even though she was quaking inside. ‘In case he unlocks the door in the night. At least then we can go up on deck for some fresh air.’
Her companion reassured, Lochranza turned over on her side and tried to sleep, glad she had not admitted that it might be best to stay dressed in case the ship was attacked and sunk. The Royal Navy were more than likely to fire a cannonball before asking for a passenger list!
In the small moments of sleep, a dream came to her, a woman with a glossy face and wide hips telling her to be careful and reminding her of the book.
The book? What did she know of the book her uncle had given her?
She’d drawn the first drawing and left it on board the Seraphim, the ship that had brought them across the Atlantic.
Just a drawing of Bristol and a lone figure standing on the quay.
It was with relief that she found it tucked deep in her luggage.
* * *
A frail thread of sunrise had pierced the small window to the rear of their cabin.
Sleep had been elusive. Lochranza’s eyes were heavy as she lay there listening to the creaking of the ship, the intermittent crack of the sails, the ringing of a bell, the sound of running feet and shouted orders.
The only real truth she knew about the navies of either Britain or France was that they were presently engaged in conflict and had been for some time.
Admiral Nelson had won a great battle back in 1805 at Cape Trafalgar, and one would think that would have been the end of the war. Unfortunately, it had dragged on.
What was the point of the captain’s deceit? She couldn’t work it out. Perhaps he had some knowledge of her provenance and planned holding her to ransom. Or perhaps there was something more to this? Did he think she knew some of her uncle’s secrets?
The pity was she knew nothing.
Rolling from her side onto her back, she stared up at the dark planks lining the cabin ceiling. Turning over the events of the last twenty-four hours in her mind, she searched for answers. None came. Whatever they had in store for her, she was certain it had nothing to do with Ethan MacKinnon.
‘We have to wait our chance,’ she whispered to Mrs Mackintosh after a breakfast of choice fruit.
She demanded exercise and got it. A length of rope tied around both women’s waists, the ends held by a French sailor.
Moira eyed the turquoise sea and squeaked. ‘I can’t swim,’ she quietly whined.
Lochranza sighed. Moira was going to be more a hindrance than help. The sad fact was that she would indeed jump over the side and swim once they were in sight of land. But she couldn’t leave her behind. She just couldn’t.