Page 48 of A Fire in Their Hearts

K IRKWALL IS DOMINATED BY ITS cathedral, which is the most imposing building I’ve seen outside of Edinburgh.

It’s vast in size and scale, while the red bricks go so high above my head that I’m almost dizzy when I look up and try to understand how the structure has been created.

I wander through the nave in awe of the beauty and the men who designed and built it.

In my leather satchel I carry paper and a piece of graphite held within a brass holder like the one I used to draw sketches of Violet with as she lay amongst the heather, in another life.

The drawing materials belonged to Reverend Sinclair’s late wife, who had been a keen artist of local wildlife.

After our supper yesterday evening, he proudly showed me some of her watercolours of curlew and snipe, otter and vole.

She was extremely gifted. The minister said that his dear Anne would have wanted to help a fellow artist. I wish I’d met her.

As usual, the greatest activity around a port takes place at the harbour and I make my way there out of curiosity.

Two large ships are tied up to moorings and from one a constant line of men unload bags, laying them in neat piles on the quayside, where they are counted off by an official.

The other vessel has men taking items on board and I watch as kegs of rum, barrels of water, food and other supplies, including huge coils of rope are carried across the gangplank. Sailors are busy amongst the rigging.

To paint a ship requires a specific skill and soon after arriving in Amsterdam to begin my training as a minister good fortune brought me together with Willem van de Velde, a Dutch painter famous for creating sea scenes.

He taught me much before having to flee to England with his father.

I’m so caught up in what’s before me that almost without realising I sit on a low wall, remove a sheet of paper and begin to sketch.

Violet used to watch me for ages as I drew.

She would often say afterwards that I was so intense in trying to capture the view before me that I appeared almost to have become part of the scene.

I was no longer ‘there’ in the present, and not aware of anything else around me.

Once, when we were alone and I was drawing a landscape, she stripped off her clothes and sat quietly nearby waiting for me to notice.

I was so shocked when I finally did that she burst out laughing.

I stop drawing, hearing her laugh so clearly in my head that for an instant I almost turn to speak to her.

‘That’s a fair hand you’ve got.’

I’m wrenched back to reality by the comment, unaware how long I’ve been sitting or that there is someone nearby who has been studying my drawing.

The man walks around to face me. His clothes indicate wealth while his speech demonstrates education and the keenness in his eyes, I suspect, intelligence and something else . .?. humour.

‘You’ve a great skill in capturing the detail of ships.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can you paint them as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘How about this one?’ He points to one of the two ships.

‘It would be a big undertaking, but I could do it.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Samuel .?.?. Milligan.’

‘I’m Gilbert Linklater.’ He holds out his hand and I stand to shake it. ‘Are you staying in Kirkwall, Samuel?’

I’m wary of strangers asking questions, particularly about what I’m doing, but I sense no hostility from this man. ‘For a while.’

‘Long enough for a big undertaking?’

‘Perhaps. How long will the ship be anchored?’

‘It sails in four days.’

‘I guess I could produce the sketches I would need during that time and a master drawing from those later on. The painting would take weeks.’

‘Let’s go and have a walk about the deck then.’

‘Do you think we can just go aboard?’

This sets him laughing. ‘I should bloody hope so. I own it.’

*?*?*

I haven’t been on a ship since the Crown of London and when I walk along the gangplank my steps slow down as the firmness of the ground is replaced by movement that’s so slight it could almost go unnoticed, yet it feels as though it shakes the foundations of my life.

I stop, put my hand upon the rope railing and check to reassure myself that the vessel is securely tied to sturdy moorings.

I force my legs to continue the journey, which is so short in distance, yet so long in memory.

I recall the first time I walked on to a ship with Willem in Rotterdam harbour and he laughed at how astonished I was at the complexity of everything, in particular the rigging and sails which appeared to me to be such a huge confusion of canvas and hemp.

However, during the time I studied under him, we visited many different vessels together and I learnt much about the various designs, along with an understanding of common terms and items.

I place my hand upon a rope, which gives off a familiar smell of tar. ‘Every single one has its own purpose,’ I say, running my fingers along a strand that heads up to somewhere far above us. ‘And the strength of each matches the task it is given, like people and their work.’

Gilbert nods his approval. ‘If you placed them end to end there’s almost two miles of rope on this ship and it all has to be replaced every few years because it rots so quickly. We may ride the sea like kings, Samuel, but we are never the master.’

We walk slowly around the deck and I’m introduced to the captain and his officers, who are told that I am to have unhindered access over the next few days. Everyone is courteous and there is no doubting who’s in charge.

‘The ship has just brought back a cargo of tobacco, cotton and indigo,’ says Gilbert. ‘Some has been unloaded here but the main bulk will go to Liverpool. What we need from Orkney are men. Let me show you below.’

He leads the way down the ladder, but I only take three steps when the smell hits me – and I’m on the Crown of London again, boxed in by death and decay, the sounds of men crying, the sounds of men dying, all hope ripped from our souls.

A strong hand lands on my back, holding me firmly against the ladder.

‘Samuel! Are you all right? On deck! On deck I say!’

I’m vaguely aware of two burly sailors hurriedly appearing and hauling me by my arms back into the open air, where I lie helpless, waves of grief and horror making me moan and unable to think clearly or speak with any sense.

‘Violet .?.?. Violet.’

See .?.?. your long black hair falls towards the ground in a certain way .?.?. no matter how often you lie again in that position your hair will never fall exactly the way it just has .?.?.

‘Please .?.?. please .?.?. please.’

‘Samuel! Samuel!’

I’m being shaken and open my eyes to see the concerned face of Gilbert close to mine as he kneels by my side.

‘I’m terribly sorry. The ship took slaves from Africa to Virginia and no matter how much the hold is scrubbed, it’s impossible to get rid of the stench entirely. I didn’t consider that you might have had such a weak stomach. I sincerely apologise for my insensitivity.’

He expresses remorse at not warning me about a smell, yet displays no shame or guilt at transporting hundreds of poor souls into a life of slavery.

‘Come, let’s get you to the captain’s cabin where a tot of rum and perhaps some food will aid your recovery.’

*?*?*

I walk slowly back to the manse through the streets of Kirkwall, my thoughts, feelings and footsteps so uncertain of themselves that any one of them could trip me up.

What am I to make of this ship owner who transports people as slaves yet can show me such kindness?

Once the two sailors had me safely settled into a chair in the captain’s cabin, Gilbert could hardly have been more attentive.

I had to assure him more than once that I could reach the manse without the need of a sailor escorting me.

Physically, I’ve largely recovered, but inside I’m staggering at the memories that so completely overcame me when I experienced just a hint of that smell .

.?. sweat, blood, bodily waste, death .?.

. but that’s not what’s ingrained into those planks of wood in the hold; it’s terror and despair and suicide and hate.

Part of me wants to rush back and grab hold of Gilbert, to shout that no amount of scrubbing will rid the ship of the stain of evil that is now part of it.

He may clean it, change its name and carry a different cargo but what has been done will always taint the ship.

I stop. I’m crying. A couple of people look at me as they pass in the street.

They don’t speak. I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath.

The tears still come. I can’t stop them.

The Reverend Sinclair is sitting at his table when I enter his house and upon seeing me he immediately suggests using some of his precious tea.

We sit in the armchairs either side of the hearth and once I’ve recounted my experience he is silent for quite some while.

‘Over the years I’ve met many good people and bad people,’ he says, ‘but I’ve rarely encountered someone I thought was all one or the other .

.?. We are, each of us, generally somewhere in between.

Those whose actions we consider evil may believe the right of what they do as strongly as others believe it is wrong. Goodness, just look at the king!

‘And now, Samuel, you don’t know what to do about Gilbert Linklater.

He’s an example of what I’m saying .?.?.

a regular donator to the Kirk and good causes, a generous and pleasant host, not someone who has ever displayed violence or unpleasant behaviour.

Gilbert is devoted to his family and treats his wife with unusual respect.

I know him well and would say that these aspects of his character are genuine.

We wouldn’t be enjoying this tea if it wasn’t a gift from him. ’

‘But transporting innocent people to be sold as slaves!’ My eyes well up again. ‘Making a fortune from their misery. How can a man’s soul ever be cleansed of such evil deeds by simply doing good deeds?’

‘Is a man evil when he considers his actions normal, or is he evil when he knows they’re wrong but continues anyway? I’m sure your theology tutors in Holland must have debated such points during your training to be a minister.’

‘How can I possibly paint his ship?’

‘Show me what you’ve drawn today.’

I’m taken aback at the unexpected request. Yet I collect my satchel and hand over the sketches I drew earlier. He studies them with an intense interest.

‘You did these sitting on a wall at the harbour?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come with me.’

He hands back the sheets as he stands and suddenly strides towards the door that leads upstairs. I’m confused but lay down my work and follow. Moments later he unlocks a door I’ve not been through.

‘You need to go in alone, Samuel.’

I hesitate at the strange instruction then step inside.

I’m instantly enveloped by a sense of such peace that I’m reminded of the times I used to sit in Father’s kirk when there was no one around, at least no other person.

I loved the calmness and stillness. That’s what this room gives me.

It’s clearly his late wife’s workshop. The simple fact that such a large space in the house has been left untouched reveals how much he loved her.

With something close to reverence, I walk into the centre, where I detect the faintest of smells .

.?. linseed oil .?.?. one of the scents of a painter.

That’s why he keeps the door closed. He’s preserving his memories of her in as many ways possible.

The first items on the bench are an array of brushes, the bristles made from a variety of animal hairs.

Some are obvious, like the coarse strands of a hog.

I pick up another and gently run my finger through the fine hairs of what I guess might have come from a badger. I replace it carefully.

The rows of glass jars leave me astonished.

Reverend Sinclair must have spent almost his entire minister’s salary obtaining some of the pigments made from minerals.

I can identify a blue pigment made from azurite and a green from malachite.

There are reds and yellows plus an ultramarine blue that looks like it comes from lapis lazuli, but this would be such a huge cost I must be mistaken.

A little further on are more commonly found pigments made from plants and insects, such as indigo from woad and cochineal from insects.

There are jars of carbon ink and iron gall ink, and in a small dish nearby are several of the familiar oak galls included in the ingredients.

The Reverend Sinclair’s wife obviously created her images using a wide variety of different mediums and from what I’ve seen of Orkney very few of these materials came from the island.

An otter watches me from the wide windowsill, its stuffed body skilfully positioned upon a couple of rocks that have no doubt come from a nearby beach.

A little further along is an oystercatcher.

I’ve lost track of time and am standing by the easel when I realise Reverend Sinclair is in the doorway, watching as silently as the otter.

‘You do me a great honour, sir,’ I say.

He enters. ‘When my wife died, I carefully cleaned everything and the room has been left as she would have wanted it, ready for another painter. Sometimes I come in here and remove the lids on a few of the jars, then I just sit quietly, close my eyes, and remember our years together. I feel her so close to me in those moments. Do you think that’s foolish of me as a man of God? ’

‘No, Reverend, I think it’s beautiful.’

‘Samuel, I don’t know what God’s plans are for you, but such talent can only come from Him, and whatever path you may later follow there’s a reason that you and this room have been brought together. You agreed to paint Gilbert’s ship?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, I know you’re a man of your word and regardless of what you paint in the future you should at least fulfil this promise.’