A black mood descended, and Stirk set sullenly about the hoisting of sails and casting off. Kydd took the main-sheet and they leaned to the wind and out into the choppy waters of the firth.
The scenery was dramatic. Caught by the sun the bare Hebridean islands lay with spreading pale beaches and black rocks stretching seaward, throwing up surf in vivid white against the deep green of the sea, the more distant islands scattered in a romantic misty blue-grey. Despite its beauty, the seaman in Kydd knew it could all change within minutes: the dark skerries at the edge of the islets would turn to cruel fangs to tear out the bowels of any vessel lost in the murk.
They made good speed, the red sails board-taut, and the breeding of the plain but stout Scottish fishing boat shone through.
Kydd slid along to Stirk at the tiller. ‘What’s her name?’
He thought the big man hadn’t heard but then came a gruff, ‘Maid o’ Lorne. As belongs t’ my sister’s husband.’
‘Sister?’
‘It’s what I said, didn’t I?’ Stirk caught himself and turned to him, stricken. ‘Sorry, Mr K-Paine. Didn’t mean t’ go ye. Ain’t m’self lately.’ His hand fidgeted on the tiller. ‘Jeb’s to take her out wi’ some island younkers as crew, like. Herring, and long-lining for haddock and whiting, mebbe some cod.’
At the fore Jeb looked obstinately away. He’d given up the helm and authority of the boat without question to Stirk, and Kydd sensed there was much not being said.
‘How far’s your Dunlochry?’ Kydd asked Stirk.
‘This’n is the Sound o’ Mull.’ He gestured at the long sea passage ahead. ‘We’s on the outer coast t’ larb’d.’
They emerged into the open waters and the power of the Atlantic’s vast reaches: a massive swell, wind-driven to surging white-tipped waves. As though born to it, Maid conformed in an easy long lift and fall, effortless in her economic movements.
This was a different realm from the close lochs and firths of the inner isles – more remote, a wildness Kydd had never seen before. He suppressed a smile at the thought of how Renzi would react to them: the sublimity would, without a doubt, have brought on a paean or two, even if his friend was as aware as he himself was of their deadly character to the unwary mariner.
Chapter 4
Dunlochry, Isle of Mull, Scotland
By the time they had reached the sharp foreland pointed out as the entrance to Dunlochry, Kydd had prised most of the story out of Stirk.
His sister, Constance, had married a Scot who held a valuable position as gamekeeper to the laird of the Isle of Mull. They lived in an estate cottage. When Jeb’s difficulties with the Revenue had cropped up, he had thought to come here and lie low with his sister, the understanding being that he would make his way by working the Maid. It had not been a complete success, Stirk’s younger brother being so headstrong and unreliable.
‘And your folks?’ Kydd asked politely.
‘A year or so back, in Kent. Ain’t no more.’
‘And so …’
‘These ’ere are all the kin I got.’
Around the point a deeply indented bay opened up, snugly sheltered between weathered dark cliffs by a twist of topography. Steep tree-stippled slopes converged on a small village with a tiny jetty and a gaggle of boats at moorings in the barely ruffled inlet.
They dropped the mainsail and glided in, the smell of pines, heather and the stink of fish mingled with the smoke of peat-fires coming out to enfold them in a fragrant welcome.
Curious eyes watched them disembark. As Stirk straightened, there was a hail, and a short, stout individual lumbered across. ‘Wha’ hae, m’ fine friend!’ he puffed, clapping Stirk familiarly on the shoulder. ‘Away wi’ ye, but it’s bin a hoora long time.’ Shrewd eyes swept over Kydd. ‘Then who’s this’n?’ The Scottish burr had fallen away to a more understandable English at Kydd’s appearance.
‘It’s … an old navy shipmate. Name o’ Paine.’
‘Aye. Well, pleased t’ take the hand of owt who knows Toby, Mr Paine.’
Stirk introduced him to Kydd. ‘This is Brian McFadden. We calls ’im Laddie. Hails from the south, like we. Owns the fishing boat, Aileen G,’ he added.
Kydd shook hands, taking in the hard, calloused grip. The life of a fisherman would be far from easy in these waters.
‘Mr Paine, I’d be obliged should ye go wi’ Laddie to the White Lion in town while I sees m’ sister, like. Pony an’ trap will be along for ye after.’
Stirk lifted his sea-bag and swung it over his shoulder, then stumped off up the hill out of Dunlochry.
‘I’ll be takin’ your bags an’ all, Mr Paine,’ McFadden said, rapidly sizing Kydd up. ‘Nowt to worry on.’
The diminutive village consisted of a short main street – a church at the higher end and two taphouses by the waterfront, with several shops between in an uneven row of houses. The late-afternoon sun had tempted several patrons to take their beer at the tables outside and they looked up with guarded curiosity.
Inside the White Lion a comfortable stink of sawdust and beer toppings lay thickly on the air, and there was an animated hum of conversation from the men at the tables. A fiddler played to himself in a corner and a tapster idly cleaned the counter.
As they found a table, talk tailed off and faces turned: creased, work-worn features, characterful and wary.
‘What can I get you, Mr McFadden?’ Kydd asked. It fell into a stony silence. The man stared back at him, unblinking. ‘A beer – or is it a whisky you Scots prefer?’ Feeling every eye on him, Kydd started to ask again but then eased into a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Laddie, I didn’t ask properly, did I?’
McFadden’s weathered face split into a grin. ‘Aye, ye dinnae.’ He swivelled around and called loudly to the tapster, ‘A shant o’ gatter, twice, Angus lad.’
The conversations about them resumed.
The beer was dark and strong. Kydd relished it, after so long with fine wines, and eased back in his chair. He allowed McFadden to make the running. It turned out that Stirk had come to his rescue in a street brawl in his youth. Stirk’s family was liked in Dunlochry, even if they kept to themselves most of the time. And if it wasn’t too personal, could he know how Mr Paine, with the cut of the gent about him, had got to know the likes of Toby Stirk?
It was easy enough recounted. In perfect truth he told of his press-ganging into Duke William and Stirk’s inspiration to him as a young seaman. Their ways had parted but they’d met again, and Kydd, being of a mind to seek a spell of peace, had come up here with him.
‘So ye’ve done well out o’ Boney’s war, then, Mr Paine?’
‘Better than some,’ was all Kydd would say, giving a saintly smile.
True to his word, Stirk soon arrived with the pony and trap.
‘Ah, Connie’s fine an’ all, but ’ud be much obliged if you asks accommodation here, seein’ as the cottage ain’t in proper shape t’ have ye stay.’
‘Of course.’
‘An’ begs you’ll sup wi’ us tonight.’
It was a long drive up a rutted road not much better than a sheep run, through glens and around the bare crests of hills to the edge of a wood. The stone cottage was snug and well-kept; a vegetable garden laid out in orderly rows among a bright profusion of foxgloves. A whitewashed kitchen was hung with hams and spotless copper utensils. The neat and colourfully ornamented rooms spoke of tranquillity and contentment.
They sat down at a scrubbed-pine table as an awed maid bustled at the dishes. Kydd was given the place of honour opposite the host, Stirk at his right hand.
Conscious of the quality of Stirk’s gentleman friend they were stiff with reserve, but soon melted at Kydd’s earnest praise of the game pie. Mr McGillie was a dignified, upright Scot, with curiously neat manners. When he spoke, all listened respectfully to his slow-voiced and precise opinions. His two boys sat in awed quiet, fixing Kydd with wide eyes, and Old Widow McGillie pursed her lips in vague disapproval.