Inferno

Chapter 3

It was days on the road by the Glasgow mail, but there was little opportunity to talk because Stirk had taken it upon himself to ride outside. They ate together at the stops but Stirk was still held in some sort of inner thrall that did not admit others: he answered only in monosyllables.

Then it was two days in a cramped, fast packet to the new whisky-distillery town of Oban on the Firth of Lorne in the Hebrides.

Kydd stood on the little quay in the tentative sunshine. The wild beauty of the Western Isles reached out to him, ramparts of blue hills, islets beyond counting and an unutterable sense of remoteness. If he was going to lay the ghosts of the recent past it would be here.

Stirk had left him with the baggage and returned a little later.

‘Thought I’d turn up the little scroat in the Three Bushels,’ he rasped. With him was a wild-eyed youth, who regarded Kydd with suspicion. ‘Mr Paine – this’n is Jeb, m’ younger brother. An’ Jeb, Mr Paine’s a gent who’s come here for a spell o’ resting. Now, you minds y’r manners – he’s an old matey o’ mine and I’ll not have him vexed b’ your rowdy ways.’

Stirk humped their baggage to the end of the quay and dropped it into a half-deck ketch strewn with fishing gear. Without a word he swarmed down a mooring line and landed lightly on the after end. Not hesitating, Kydd did the same.

Jeb looked on with respect. ‘As ye’ve been a sailor, then, Mr Paine,’ he said, as he alighted and went forward to see to the lines.

Before he threw off the tiller beckets, Stirk lifted up a corner of the untidy mass of nets to reveal three small casks. He spluttered an oath. ‘Ye just can’t leave it alone, can ye, y’ clinking fool?’ He let the nets drop and spat pointedly over the side. ‘I see any more an’ you’re out o’ here, cully!’

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.