Free Oatcakes and Courage by Joyce Grant-Smith Page B

crew scrambled to take down sails and secure the rigging.
    The most adamant settler, who had said he’d never set foot in the disease-laden hold again, was forced below. To remain on deck was an invitation to be swept out to sea.
    The crew closed the hatch, to prevent seawater from pouring in, but still, water washed down from above. Crewmen laboured at the bilge pump.
    Children cried, sometimes shrieking in fear when the ship pitched wildly down a colossal wave. Mothers held little ones tightly, openly crying themselves. The men fell into grim silence or took to swearing or praying.
    Anne and Ian wedged themselves together on their bunk, braced against the tossing of the ship. Anne glanced once through the gloom toward the MacLeod family. James had tied George into the bunk with some rope. He and Mary sat on the edge of the bed, holding a dismal vigil. They found it nearly impossible to even keep a cool cloth on George’s fevered forehead. The water bucket had tipped over and rolled away.
    With every creak and groan the vessel made, Anne felt sure it would fall to pieces, cracking open like a smashed egg, spilling them all into the merciless ocean. She had nothing left in her stomach. Her heart was in her throat, choking her. She thought she would die of fright if Ian were not braced against her.
    The terrifying, pounding night seemed to be never-ending. Anne thought that Hell could not be more horrible, more agonizing, than this suffocating black hold as it was torn and tossed. Every muscle in her panicked body ached from gripping the bunk. At times, she imagined she was holding the rotten hull together with her will and her prayers. She was afraid to close her eyes. Her head throbbed.
    Eventually, dawn broke, and with it, the storm abated. The wind died down and the slashing rains eased to a cold drizzle.
    The bruised and exhausted settlers slowly made their way onto the deck. Debris from the rigging littered the deck, and seawater crusted everything. The storm had taken anything the settlers had left on deck – canvas, cups, bedding. Whitecaps danced over the heavy swells. The sea was sapphire blue in the early morning light.
    They were so seasick and battered from the storm, it was hard to feel joy at having survived. The settlers stumbled to the rails and clung there, breathing in the moist air.
    Master James Orr ordered his crew to finish cleaning up the deck and rig the sails. Some of the young lads looked as frightened and seasick as the passengers. Anne had heard a rumour that none of the crew had ever crossed the Atlantic before. Looking at their pale, stricken faces, she started to believe it.
    The settlers did their very best to stay out of the crew’s way. Archibald Chisholm and John Sutherland offered to help swab the deck.
    Gradually, the morning routine took them back into the hold to search for the buckets, mop the floor, and tidy the beds. Several settlers went to sleep then, too tired and sick to eat breakfast.
    Anne and Ian went back on deck once their morning chores were completed and had their modest meal of stale bread and water. The sails were taut with wind and the ship seemed to be flying atop the waves.
    â€œMaybe this breeze will hurry us along our voyage,” Ian said.
    Anne just nodded. She sincerely wished that something would hurry them along. She felt she’d been on this ship forever, afraid forever, and there was still no land in sight.
    As they finished their meagre breakfast, they heard the familiar thrum of the bagpipes. Ian turned to face Anne and he gave a lopsided grin. “They still sound sweet, don’t they, lass?”
    Anne nodded but could not return his smile.
    â€œDo you remember the time we went to Macfarlane’s orchard?”
    Anne blinked up at Ian. “That was a long time ago.”
    â€œAye. We were nine then. Maybe ten.”
    Anne’s lips trembled into a weak smile. “We climbed into that tree…”
    â€œAnd ate