Some blame the Spanish, and it was indeed their forces who in those last hours compelled our leaving, watching us depart.
But the land we chose for Caledonia was not owned by Spain. When we arrived, it did belong to no one but the Tule—the natives who did live there—and they’d given us permission to create our fort and town upon the bay.
And the Spanish, while they fought us, weren’t entirely to blame.
Whenever Spanish ships attacked King William’s other colonies, his navy hurried to their aid. With us, no help came. That was not by accident.
King William, while he gave his charter to the company when it was formed, had then done all he could behind the scenes to see it fail. The royal proclamations had been sent, not only to New York, but to all English colonies, forbidding them to trade with, correspond with, or give aid to our Scots colony upon the coast of Darien.
The goods we’d brought to trade were useless, then. We could not buy provisions.
All because the English could not bear to let us be successful—could not bear to have our merchants and our trade outpace their own. Their East India Company must have its sure monopoly, no matter if it meant our nation suffered.
That was why our venture failed—because we could not fight each other and the Spanish and the elements together, while our own king at every turn did stab us from behind.
I said none of this to Turnbull, for I knew well where his loyalties did lie.
He carried on, “The late great King William was a good judge of men and their principles, as he did show us at the happy revolution, and Queen Anne seems to be also, for this Union is our chance to move beyond our disappointment over losing Caledonia, and to build a brighter future without fear of any plots or schemes from Jacobites.”
Helen, seeming to have had enough of this talk, said, “And I had better move beyond our breakfast table if I am to make myself presentable for dinner with Lord Grange.”
Her husband rolled his eyes. “It’s not for hours, yet.”
“It will take me hours.”
As I stood to help her from her chair, she looked up at me with a faintly sad expression. “Can we not persuade you to come, too?”
I said, “I’m not invited.”
“I am sure that was an oversight.” She looked to Turnbull. “Would you not agree he would be welcome?”
Cutting in to spare my friend, I said, “At any rate, my horse is hired. ’Tis all arranged.”
She sighed. “You are determined then to leave us?”
I knew she’d grown genuinely fond of me. I gently said, “You will be going down next week to Standhill, to begin your lying-in. I should have had to leave you sometime.”
“But this is too soon.” She held my hand securely. “Captain Gordon’s very certain of this ship on which you’re sailing?”
“Aye. The skipper is a friend of his. I shall be very safe.”
“I’d feel better if you sailed with Captain Gordon. Such a dashing man. A widower, I’m told.”
“He is.” The gossip mills ground quickly and efficiently.
“Perhaps I could find him a wife, if you won’t have one.” With a smile she said, “See that you write to us.”
I gave her back the smile, but kept my silence, for I could not promise that I would.
Sometimes friendships forged in war were of a different nature, so dependent on the forces and the pressures that created them that, once you did remove them from that time and place, they never could resume their former shape.
When we said our farewells, before they went downstairs to meet their coach, I realized it was probably the last time I’d see either of them.
Turnbull had been my commander. He was yet my friend. He had earned—and I hoped that he never would lose—my respect. But the truth was, we had very little in common, and I’d not be missed in his life any more than he would be in mine.
I had a few hours to fill before the time of my departure.
I’d arrived at Caldow’s Land with little. Most of what I would be leaving with, I had already packed into my knapsack and the leather portmanteau that I had carried with me now for years. One thing I’d sent down yesterday ahead of me, that would be waiting in my cabin on the ship, was the box of books I’d managed to assemble, starting first with the new volumes I had purchased from the Latin master, and then choosing several from a bookseller and printer in the High Street, before adding in the law book and the illustrated French book of the plants of the Americas.
That last I’d held a little longer than the others, leafing through its pages and remembering when I’d loaned it to Lily, but at last I’d put it in the box and nailed the lid shut firmly.