on his horse, such a chestnut beauty, he looked down at me from a great height. Later, when I read about Centaurs, that image came to mind, my father on his horse, looking down at me. I loved the way he said, “Well, Letty, how’s my girl today?” then dismounted and handed me the reins. I loved the way he smelled — of horse, of tobacco, but also of London, the place I longed to be. Frankly, I was glad when he couldn’t keep up the farm; I hated the country even then, and wanted to kiss the cobbles when we returned to civilization.
The next morning George did not come down until nearly noon, so I had a chance to write a few more farewells while Whittington and Hugh took a long walk about the town. I tried to imagine what on earth they would find to talk about, but perhaps they spent the time extolling the virtues of their respective siblings. They seemed quite congenial, at any rate, when they returned.
We ate a cold luncheon and very soon after we were told it was time to go down, the tender was waiting. As we stepped on board the Maclean the guns fired a salute that quite startled me and set my ears ringing. All the sailors were lined up to greet Governor Maclean and his wife. And when we went below and I saw the tidy cabin that was put at my disposal, with every possible little luxury provided — soft towels, French soap, a small looking-glass, a table for my travelling writing-desk, a chair, even a vase of fresh flowers, such a charming gesture. I smiled at George. “You have a touch of the romantic after all.”
He laughed. “I must confess it was Hugh’s idea. I think he has had more to do with ladies than I have.” He waved his arm. “It’s all right then, is it? You’ll be comfortable?”
I nodded and we trooped back up on deck, where, to my surprise, I was introduced to a rather stout woman named Mrs. Bailey. She was the chief steward’s wife and was to be my companion for my first few months at the Castle. Her cabin was next to mine and should I want anything I was to knock three times on the wall. George had a small cabin to himself, next to the captain’s, as he said he would be spending most of his time on deck or with the officers.
Our trunks and boxes had all been sent down early, so once the cabin baggage had been deposited, we had to say goodbye to our brothers; the captain was anxious to catch the tide. As Whittington stood in the tender, looking up, I threw him down my purse. “There,” I called, “look after this for me; I shan’t need it where I’m going.”
Away they went and then away we went. I stood on deck waving a white handkerchief until I could have been no more than a dot to them. I had been across the Channel to Paris, so I was not unfamiliar with the sight of England receding behind me, but this was different, this was adventure of a very high order.
“Africa,” I whispered to myself. “Africa.” I felt as though all the events of my life had been leading up to this moment.
George came to fetch me for tea.
“I am so happy,” I said to him, linking my arm in his. “I am so very, very happy.”
“Come below now, Letty,” he said. “Later on, you will put on your heavy cloak and we’ll look at the stars together. Nowhere are they more beautiful than when seen from the deck of a ship.”
We did that, and then the next day the ship began to roll and my love for the sea disappeared, and with it my determination, as a child, to “marry a pirate and sail the seas.” Not only was I dreadfully seasick, the helpful Mrs. Bailey was even worse — no help at all. The sea became so violent that all the furniture was lashed together, the bed to the table, the table to the chair, and the only way I kept from rolling out of my bunk was by placing bolsters on each side of me. I could eat nothing and could drink only small sips of watered wine. There were days when I felt my old self would turn itself inside-out, like a glove. It is really impossible to describe seasickness unless you have experienced such violent upheavals yourself. George looked in from time to time to make sure I wasn’t dead, sent broth, or whatever he thought I might fancy.
“What I fancy is being thrown overboard.”
“Poor Letty.” And off he went, the picture of robust health. I hated him.
After we stopped at Madeira and took on arrowroot and citrus fruits, I began to feel a little better, but I was very weak and the nausea never completely left me. I did go up on deck a few times, after the Bay of Biscay, but I thought to myself that all the various horrors of Cape Coast must be truly horrific indeed, if they could top weeks at sea in the brig Maclean.
One night, when the sea was relatively calm and I had managed to keep down some ginger beer and a biscuit, George asked if I would enjoy a short stroll on deck. I felt I should make the effort, for his sake, if not for mine, and so I wrapped myself in a shawl (no need for heavy clothing now) and after a few turns stood at the rail with him. We were not too far off Sierra Leone, where George had been secretary to the governor at one time.
“Nothing is so reassuring, after crossing such a broad expanse of water, as the sight of land. It won’t be too long now before those winking lights will be the lights of home.”
“Do you think of it as home, George, the Gold Coast?”
“Ach, Scotland will always have a hold on my heart, but it’s important to put that behind me when I’m out here. Men who don’t, men who can’t accept it or adjust to it, can sicken and even die.”
I waited for him to say something romantic like, “Home is wherever you are, from now on,” but of course he wasn’t that sort of person.
Unwilling to quit the beautiful moonlight, which made everything seem as bright and clear as day, we just stood there, listening to the jingle-jangle of the rigging above us, each wrapped in our own thoughts, until I looked down.
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