Beyond the Sea by Melissa Bailey Read Free Book Online Page A

jar to his grandfather, but she had had no idea that he’d ever done so, let alone anything beyond this. She opened her eyes and flicked through the letters once more, breathing in deeply, as if to inhale the scent of salt and sea spray that the originals must once have contained. Letters in a bottle. She smiled. She had to admit her curiosity was aroused. Turning to the first letter she began to read.

8
    6 September 1653
    Speedwell
    My dearest Josie,
    We arrived in Scottish waters yesterday. I do not know whether you care about this now or indeed whether I will ever send this letter even if the means to do so are at my disposal. But I feel the need to write it, to make a connection with you despite the distance between us.
    After departing Plymouth three days since, our journey passed largely without event. We made our way around the treacherous Eddystone rocks, around the coast of Cornwall and from there sailed northwards, first with Wales to our starboard side and then Ireland to our port. We were blessed with fine weather almost the whole of the journey and only once did a gale start up, as we approached Chicken Rock, off the southern tip of the Isle of Man. That is a dangerous spot, Josie, the rocks jutting out of a sea which is as black as pitch at night, unlit by fire or lantern, and I feared that, as with many ships, the spot might prove to be our undoing. But while we suffered heavy rain and a turbulent sea, the storm stayed mostly on our tail and so we avoided the worst of it. From there we continued northwesterly, along the coastline of southern Scotland and shortly after emerged into Highland waters.
    The first island we skirted was Islay, the southernmost of the Highland islands. It is low lying and marshy, a man named Duncan told me, one of our force and a Scotsman originally from these parts. The population, he claimed, often come to a famous well to drink, turning once sunwise around it – in a circle east to west the way the sun rises and sets – before drawing water. They believe that in doing so it will be blessed. Blessed by who exactly is anyone’s guess. It seems nothing but nonsense to me. But Duncan said that such customs are not infrequent in these parts.
    Islay’s neighbour, the island of Jura, is by comparison mountainous. Along the middle there are four hills of considerable height. As a result of the mountains, Duncan told me, Jura is said to be the wholesomest plot of land in all of Scotland, with fresh breezes and pure air, the population rarely becoming sick and living to be extraordinarily old. One of the natives, he said, died at the age of 180 years, while others have seen at least one hundred Christmases in their homes. The more I hear these tales, Josie, and Duncan speaking with such reverence about the air, the water, the unexplainable miracles of these isles, the more I feel he believes that we have entered a magical kingdom. While his accent has no doubt faded, he clearly still believes the silly superstitions of these parts.
    Leaving Jura behind, we skirted its neighbour Scarba, and arrived at the Sound of Mull. At last, the object of our mission came into view – Duart Castle, seated on a peninsular jutting out into the water. Our orders were to take the castle and quell the uprising of the Royalist Macleans. Sadly, for our Lord Protector, Cromwell, things did not go according to plan. Having surveyed the area for some time, we prepared to take Duart, and its inhabitants, by force, according to our instructions. We loaded ourselves with muskets, rifles and ammunition, and then took small sailing boats to the land. But as we approached from behind, readied for battle, it quickly became apparent that the loyalist Macleans had fled. The Castle was deserted and we encountered no resistance whatsoever gaining access. So it was a victory – although a hollow one.
    It seems, if the small pieces of information gathered from the locals are to be believed, the