Finding John Rae by Alice Jane Hamilton

Author:Alice Jane Hamilton [Hamilton, Alice Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ronsdale Press
Published: 2017-05-16T04:00:00+00:00

Stromness and Orphir, Orkney

[NOVEMBER 1854]

I awoke long before daylight and lay in bed for a while, listening to Bessie humming to herself as she lit the fires and brought various kettles to a boil in The Haven’s kitchen. For as long as I could remember, Bessie had been the cheerful anchor around which the Rae household revolved.

I poured water into the washing bowl on the nightstand, rinsed my face, donned my winter breeches and hunting coat, and snuck into Mam’s room. She was lying on her back, still asleep, her form too small and her breathing too shallow for my liking. The nurse was dozing in a chair beside the bed. I adjusted Mam’s blanket so it covered her tiny shoulders, and then slipped quietly down the stairs to the kitchen. Bessie was stirring a steaming pot of oats over the fire, her broad hips keeping time with the rhythm of her arm movements.

“Good morning, Bessie,” I whispered.

Startled, she turned around, her wooden spoon dripping splotches onto the floor. “Johnny! You frightened me! For heaven’s sake, the sun hasn’t even kissed the horizon yet! Where are you going in this cold? You’ll catch your death…” I planted a kiss on her cheek, bent down and wiped up the sticky pools.

“Don’t worry, Bess. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Johnny, you and I both know what happens when you go on one of your wee walks,” she scolded. “We probably won’t see you until next week, for goodness’ sake!”

I solemnly crossed my hands over my heart. “Bess, I will make you two promises. One, I’ll be as warm as toast. Remember, our climate here in Orkney is like the tropics when compared to the Arctic! The second promise is that I’ll be home before supper. Would you please bake some biscuits and a nice fruit pie today? I’ll have my fowling piece and nets with me, so we’ll have ourselves a good feast.”

Her face relaxed. “Just like when you were a young lad.”

As I was collecting my shotgun and bag by the door, she appeared at my side and pressed a cloth bundle into my hand. “Take this bread and cheese, Johnny. You’ll need some victuals after you’ve walked for a while.”

I laced my boots and stepped outside into a cold, cloying Orkney fog, settled a woollen cap onto my head, slung my bag over one shoulder and my gun over the other. I turned north and walked alongside the black waters of Hamnavoe, my stride on the Plainstones gathering speed and lengthening along the darkened route I knew by heart. When I reached the end of the bay, I turned east in the direction of Orphir parish, on the far side of Clestrain Sound. The mud did nothing to slow my pace; I drew in long, deep breaths of the damp earth and salty air, feeling better than I had in recent months.

Once I was out of earshot of the townsfolk, I lifted my head and sang out a song

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