Dunnet Head
Lighthouse, the Highlands of Scotland
April 1860
Gordania Sinclair twisted
vigorously against the cool ground near a patch of heather until fresh grass
slithered between her toes, bathing her feet in clean dew sparkled by the
slanting light of a fresh morning. After gyrating comically for nearly a minute,
she bent down to examine the green blades that now appeared to grow from the
tops of her feet. She scrunched her face to focus her observation. Although a
young lady of thirteen, she had nonetheless failed to lose any of her tomboyish
fascination with the smallest details of nature, including—to her mother’s
unfailing horror—insects and frogs. Especially frogs. Once she kept a frog in a
box beneath her bed—until her mother discovered it and forced her to return it
to the wild land where it belonged. This unfortunate incident had not deterred
her. She still sought the tiny amphibians when away from the house, and often
concealed one or two of the creatures in a secret pocket she had sewed into her
favorite play dress (while feigning interest in sewing to please her mother).
But no longer a child, and growing in wisdom and maturity with each passing
minute, she also released the frogs and insects—and whatever else she had
collected—before returning home.
Duncan Sinclair prompted
his daughter to make haste in a tone both stern and good-natured. “Please keep
up Gordania. I intend to return to the lighthouse before noon to check the
electric arc, and at the pace you are presently keeping there is no chance we
will complete our journey by dinner.”
Gordania looked back to
fully assess the progress they had made since the conclusion of breakfast.
Against a distant glaze of rain-grayed clouds she could still distinguish the
top of the lighthouse above a smoothly-sloping hill: the black-painted dome,
triangle-faceted glass above the orangey-yellow base, corbelled balcony,
trellised railing, and a smidge of the gently tapered white cylinder below.
When she squinted, she could also discern the top of one of the slit windows,
trimmed in the same orangey-yellow as the base, just below the balcony. They
had probably travelled only a thousand feet in ten minutes—a leisurely stroll
at best. Ignoring the tender blades of grass growing between her toes, she
ripped her feet from the ground and accelerated into a gallop. She arrived at
her father’s side before he could speak again. Forgetting the reason for her
sprint across the heathered slopes, she burst out, “Are you going to let me
shoot today, father? You said I could shoot soon. You said it last week when I
asked. Is today soon enough?”
Duncan lifted his
12-gauge side-by-side percussion shotgun to his shoulder and reached down for
his beloved daughter’s dirt-smudged hand. Gordania rubbed her hand clean on the
folds of her dress then raised it to his waiting grasp. She probed his
expression for a positive reaction to her question. A grateful mariner had
purchased the gun from John Dickson & Son in Edinburgh in 1857, and had
presented it to the lighthouse keeper of Dunnet Head as a gift of honest
appreciation. Duncan could not have afforded the finely-crafted gun on his
meager lighthouse keeper’s salary. “I suppose it is soon enough today. You
have, after all, demonstrated a measure of patience beyond your age. But I only
have seven rounds left, and we must return home with a bird for dinner.
Therefore…I think you should fire the shotgun twice, because the first shot will
surprise you, and the second will not.”
Gordania released her father’s hand and
clapped with excitement. “Can I load it too? I want to learn how to load the
gun before I shoot it.”
“What has God given me?
Only two daughters and no sons, but a daughter who wants to handle a man’s
shotgun just like any son. I must be especially blessed.”
Gordania did not
understand the comment. “Can we shoot now?”
“Not yet, my special
blessing. We are still within sight of the top of the lighthouse, and your
mother, should she climb up to the balcony and use the telescope, would not
appreciate seeing her oldest daughter participate in this particular activity.
I think we must walk a half-hour or more, until neither lighthouse nor mother
are within view.”
Gordania brightened.
“Then father, let us please hurry, for you must return to the lighthouse by
noon.” She rushed away from Duncan, glancing back several times to confirm the
briskness of his pace, her final glance to the top of the lighthouse searching
for the glint of the telescope lens.
The sun arced higher
above the eastern rim of the peninsula and warmed patches of the rolling hills
through breeze-scattered clouds. When they had hiked exactly thirty minutes to
the second (Duncan confirmed this with his English pocket watch), he announced,
“Gordania, come back. We have gone far enough and it is time for me to fulfill
my promise. And, if we are lucky enough, a red grouse or ptarmigan will arrive
in time for the shooting lesson and we shall kill two birds with one stone.”
Duncan reached into the ragged canvas bag strapped over his shoulder and
removed two cartridges and percussion caps. When Gordania arrived, he
instructed her to hold out her hand. “Here are percussion caps and cartridges
for your shooting lesson. Take the shotgun in your other hand. Mind the weight
of it.”
Gordania accepted the
shotgun with her left hand, pulling it quickly against her chest. “It is heavy,
father, but not too heavy for me.”
Duncan smiled. “Maybe you
are indeed my son in disguise. Now, since you have no shoes, brace the butt of
the shotgun on the toe of my boot and pull the rod from beneath the barrels.”
Gordania dropped the cartridges and caps into her frog pocket and extracted the
rod. “Good. Place one cartridge in each barrel and ram them all the way in with
the rod.” When she began pushing the rod into the first barrel to set the
cartridge, Duncan helped guide it.
“Father, I can do it
without help.” Gordania completed the task and then shoved the second cartridge
into place.
“Good, my delicate
Gordania. Now take the shotgun in both hands, pull the hammers back until they
click in place, and press a percussion cap onto each side. Mind the triggers so
you do not pinch a finger.” Gordania struggled a bit with the caps, but
completed the work successfully under Duncan’s amused and patient supervision.
“Well done my little tomboy. Take care to aim the gun away from me. Shooting
your father would prove more difficult to explain than a mere shotgun lesson.
Now we are ready to shoot. Should we kill a rock, or wait for a plump grouse to
wander by?”
Gordania’s patience had
ended. “We should shoot a rock, because who knows when a grouse will show up,
and you must return to the lighthouse by noon.”
“An excellent point.”
Duncan pointed toward a grassy outcrop of weathered boulders. “Set your feet
like this. Press the stock firmly against your right shoulder. Lean forward a
bit. Very good. See the small bead at the front of the barrels? Do not aim with
it, but use it to point to the rocks. Now…hold the stock against your
shoulder…set your finger gently on the first trigger…good…now squeeze your
little hand…lean forward…squeeze…squeeze…squeeze….”
The finely-engraved John
Dickson & Son side-by-side percussion cap shotgun recoiled violently
against Gordania’s petite shoulder as pellets spewed from the barrel in an
explosive roar. The blast threw Gordania back against her father. Duncan,
anticipating this very result, caught his precious daughter with one hand and
the shotgun with the other. He quickly stood her up. “Now you know what it
feels like. Do you still want to take the second shot?”
A fresh tear rolled down
Gordania’s cheek as she rubbed her bruised shoulder. She sniffed before
answering, “You said I could have two shots.” She reached out for the shotgun
and Duncan let her take it.
“Yes I did, and you will.
You know what to do. Let’s aim at the patch of heather to the right. Do you see
it?” Gordania prepared for the promised second shot, and to Duncan’s amusement
she set the butt against her left shoulder and placed her left hand on the
triggers. “A splendid idea to try the other side.” Gordania sniffed again and
squeezed the second trigger: this time she did not falter. The blast chewed up
the ground a few feet in front of the heather patch. “A bit low, but still a
splendid shot.”
Gordania trembled after
she lowered the shotgun from her throbbing left shoulder. “I will do better
when you let me shoot again.”
“I have no doubt you
will. But now we truly must make haste to find a succulent bird and kill it for
our dinner. And with only five cartridges left, I must take care not to miss.”
Duncan reloaded the shotgun and slung it over his shoulder. “We should head back
to the lighthouse and hunt along the way. Would you like a bird hunting lesson
as well?”
Gordania nodded. “Yes
father. I would.”
“Is the pain in your
shoulders tolerable?”
“Yes, tolerable.”
“You will probably feel
the soreness more tomorrow morning, but it will toughen you for the next
shooting lesson. But let’s not worry about it now. We have work to do if we
hope to enjoy a grouse dinner tonight—if we are lucky enough to find one.”
Duncan turned in the direction of the lighthouse and began walking with the
measured strides of a hunter.
Gordania ran to her
father’s side and then slowed to match his pace. “I know we will be lucky
today, father.”
♦ ♦ ♦
A few minutes before the
sun reached its noonday zenith, and after several hours of good hunting,
Gordania and Duncan walked along a gravel roadway toward the stone wall that
enclosed the Dunnet Head Lighthouse and grounds. Gordania carried a large
grouse by the neck over her shoulder and played with two frogs in her secret
pocket. Her shoulders still ached, but she didn’t care. The roadway soon
reached an opening in the wall flanked by whitewashed stone pillars, each
topped with pyramids of stone stained by years of salt spray. The wall to the
right turned at the pillar and continued along the side of the road in a
sweeping arc terminating easterly of the lighthouse at a small gable-roofed
building near the 300-foot sandstone cliffs of Dunnet Head. The wall to the
left shot off in a perpendicular angle to the road and traced a gentle curve
until it reached a small stone structure westerly of the lighthouse. Gordania
released the frogs in a grassy puddle, and then touched every third stone on
the top of the wall as she ran ahead of her father.
Whitewhiskered Erskine
Mackay slathered another brushfull of whitewash down the jamb of the only
window at the front of the gable-roofed building near the cliffs. The assistant
lighthouse keeper spotted Gordania’s approach along the curved wall in his
peripheral vision. He addressed her without looking away from his work. “I see,
Miss Gordania, that we are counting stones again in the usual pattern. And I
see as well, although I mustn’t turn my head to look more closely, some sort of
feathered creature carried over your shoulder.”
Gordania counted the last
stone and touched the bucket of whitewash with her toe. “Father shot a fat red
grouse for dinner, and he only used one percussion cap and cartridge. The
second barrel is still loaded.”
Erskine lowered the
dripping brush and admired the bird. “Why yes, it is a fat one, and should make
a wholesome dinner for all. But tell me little Gordania, how you know so much
about the shotgun? I do not recall when sporting guns became of interest to
little girls.”
Gordania scrunched her
face. “I’m not little, Mr. Mackay. I’m thirteen, and father said I’m a young
lady now.”
Erskine plunged the brush
into the bucket and swirled it around to saturate the stiff bristles. “My
deepest pardon, young miss. I can see you are surely a young lady. My remarks
about the shotgun were poorly chosen.”
“Father showed me how to
shoot it. I got to load it and everything. But he said not to tell mother
because it would make her unhappy. I shot both barrels at a rock and a patch of
heather. I almost got the heather.”
Concealing his amusement,
Erskine lifted the brush to the wall and continued his work. “I see. But do not
worry. Your secret is safe with me. I shall take it to my grave. You have my
solemn word.”
Just before Duncan
arrived Gordania said, “Thank you Mr. Mackay.”
Duncan balanced the butt of
the shotgun on his toe. “Thanks for what?”
Erskine answered before
Gordania could say anything. “Why, I was expressing my admiration of the lovely
bird you bagged this morning, and Gordania was thanking me for my observation.
She also told me you got it on the first shot. Quite a feat, if you ask me.”
Erskine winked at Gordania when he had finished his little deception.
“Yes, we had a bit of
luck today. And we shall all enjoy the day’s luck at dinner tonight. Now
Gordania, take the bird to your mother. She will wish to admire it as well.”
“Yes father. I know it
will please her to see it.” Gordania skiphopped past Erskine and the
whitewashed building and ran to the stone wall between the courtyard
northwesterly of the lighthouse and the plunging cliffs above treacherous
Pentland Firth. She continued touching every third stone as she raced along the
wall, counting rhythmically in cadence with each footfall. She found her mother pinning a bed sheet to
the sturdy clothesline Duncan and Erskine had erected last summer. Rose Anne
Sinclair, Gordania’s younger sister by six years, rolled around in the freshly
cut grass beneath the windflapping clothes. Gordania held up the plump red
grouse as high as she could reach. “Look what father shot with the shotgun. It
only took one shot and he’s still got one shot left.”
Fyona Sinclair struggled
against the freshening afternoon breeze as she pinned the last corner. She bent
down to observe the bird more closely. “My, and isn’t this a fine bird. And who
do you suppose will pluck it and cook it for dinner?”
Gordania forced the
grouse up a little higher until she could no longer tolerate the ache in her
shoulder. “Do you think it will make a good dinner? Father said you would
admire it.”
“I do admire it. And
would you and Rose Anne care to help me pluck it?”
Gordania glanced over at
Rose Anne, now attempting to stand on her head while leaning against the
clothesline post. “I would like to help pluck it, but I thought I would play
for a while since I’ve had a long day of hunting.”
“A long day of hunting? I
see. Yes you may play for a while, but first we will have a bit of lunch, and
then you must take Rose Anne with you when you play. Your sister is very fond
of you, and I believe she would enjoy your company.”
Without expressing any
special pleasure in the task, Gordania agreed obliquely. “She will have to keep
up if she wants to play with me. I plan to run fast today.”
Fyona touched Gordania’s
tangled hair. “Of course. But you might slow your pace a bit. Do you want me to
brush your hair before lunch?”
Gordania shrugged. “Not
today. I like my hair the way it is.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Swallowing the last of
her bread and milk, Gordania pushed away from the heavy wood table and jumped
from her chair. She darted to the front door and tugged at the massive wrought
iron lever until the door swung open and afternoon light flooded the room.
Fyona clapped. “Gordania
Sinclair! Do not forget to take Rose Anne with you. Remember our conversation
before lunch.”
Gordania skittered to a comical
pose just as her dirt-smudged toes bumped against the stone threshold beneath
the doorway. She turned slowly, very slowly, until she could barely distinguish
her mother’s form on the opposite side of the table. “I told you I plan to run
fast.”
“Nonetheless, you will
sit patiently, without fidgeting, until Rose Anne finishes her lunch, and then
you shall take her with you.”
Erskine Mackay coughed
and tapped his pipe on the table. “And while you are gallivanting around the
highlands of Dunnet Head this afternoon, you might keep a lookout for Andrew
Sutherland’s missing Border Collie. I ran into him a few days ago, and he told
me the dog had been acting strangely before disappearing altogether.”
Unusual for Duncan, he
betrayed a modicum of anxiety. “Acting strangely? And then disappearing
altogether? Very odd, Erskine. Very odd. Maybe Gordania and Rose Anne should
play near the lighthouse today.”
Erskine sucked the pipe into
his whisker-rimmed mouth and spoke between puffs of bluish smoke. “Don’t think there’s…anything
to worry about, Duncan. The Border Collie is…naturally strange in my view. I’ve
actually seen one spend…an entire morning herding the ocean waves. And with a
couple of sheep watching the whole thing from the hillside.”
“I
see your point, Erskine, but I still think—”
Fyona broke in. “Gordania
knows how to handle herself around dogs. I don’t think there’s a reason to
worry. She just needs to keep a lookout like Erskine suggests.”
Rose Anne had drained her
glass of milk when Erskine first mentioned the troublesome Border Collie. She
had stood by the table during the entire dog conversation, her hands folded
neatly behind her back. “I’m ready to play now. May I leave?”
Gordania jumped across
the stone threshold. “Yes. Let’s go Rose. We have a Border Collie to find, and
not much time to find it.”
Fyona pressed her hand
against her chest. “Oh dear. Maybe we shouldn’t have discussed the dog at all.”
She reached across the table and began collecting plates and cups. “You may go
play Rose Anne, but do not lose sight of your sister. The two of you must stay
together.”
Gordania and Rose Anne
fled the house and the endless slow-eating-tea-sipping-pipe-smoking-dog-conversation
of the adults. They ran along the curved stone wall at such great speed that
Gordania did not have time to touch every third stone. They ran through the
first pair of stone pillars and then the second. They ran out into the grassy
wilds of Dunnet Head far beyond the protective stone walls of the lighthouse
grounds. They ran and ran and ran until they could run no more. Gordania
collapsed into the soft grass near an outcrop of jagged boulders. Rose Anne
arrived a minute later and crumpled next to her older sister with a
melodramatic swoon. Together, as Gordania had promised her mother, they gazed
up to the gauzy clouds and sprinkled blue skies above Pentland Firth. They
listened to sea birds squawk far beyond the rugged cliffs. They felt the salty
breeze flowing in from the crashing ocean waves puff against their cheeks. They
sniffed the fragrance of nearby heather and grasses.
“I know what we should
do.” Gordania sat up and searched the meadows to the west. “We should look for
frogs. I had two nice ones this morning, but I let them go when we came home
from hunting. I need to find some more.”
Rose Anne, eager to
please her older sister, agreed with enthusiasm. “Yeah. We should look for
frogs.”
Their energy restored by
the brief respite in the comforting grass, the girls ran up the gentle slope of
a nearby hill. When they had both arrived at the top they shielded their eyes
from the subdued brightness of the afternoon sky and searched for likely frog
ground. Gordania spotted a small loch about 500 feet from the base of the hill.
“There’s a good spot to look for frogs, especially this time of year.” The
girls bounded down the hill toward the loch, nearly stumbling into each other
twice. When they arrived at the edge of the water, Gordania fell to her knees
and muddied the front of her dress. Rose Anne did the same and both girls
crawled around in expanding circles. Gordania dug around in a thick clump of
wet grass and pulled out a small frog. “I’ve got one. And it’s a nice size too.
He’ll fit perfectly in my secret frog pocket.”
Rose Anne stood, mud
dripping from the hem of her dress, and skipped over to admire the frog. “He’s
a nice one. I hope I find a nice frog. But I don’t have any place to keep it
like you do. I wish I had a frog pocket.”
Gordania held the frog
close to study its thumbs. “Maybe I’ll sew you a frog pocket too. Mother likes it
when I sew. But first we should look for some crickets. They like crickets.
They like grasshoppers too, but I think they like crickets more.”
Rose Anne tilted her head
to observe the frog better. “I can look for crickets. I’ve found them before.”
Gordania slid the frog
into her secret pocket. “Good. Then let’s get started, because I have to help
mother pluck the grouse before dinner and we don’t have much time. She said you
could help pluck the grouse too.”
The girls ambled beside
the southern boundary of the loch, their heads down, searching for crickets and
grasshoppers. They had explored for several minutes, and had found three
crickets and a grasshopper, when the rumbling growl of Andrew Sutherland’s
wayward Border Collie surprised them. Rose Anne froze, but Gordania spoke to
the collie in a soothing voice. “Hello collie. I hear you’re lost and looking
for your home. Maybe we can take you there. We know where Mr. Sutherland
lives.”
The dog inched forward
and woofed ominously.
Gordania grabbed a handful
of Rose Anne’s dress. Rose Anne nearly tripped on Gordania’s feet. “Nice
doggie. You just stay there. We’re going to leave you alone now.”
The collie lurched
forward several steps and snarled.
Gordania pulled Rose Anne
behind. “Rose Anne, I think you should run home now. I’ll follow you in a
minute, but I want you to run and not turn around. Do you understand?” Rose
Anne nodded; tears began flowing down her pinkish cheeks. “Alright then. Run!
Run now!” Rose Anne tripped and stumbled to the ground. Gordania quickly yanked
her back to her feet and pushed her hard in the direction of the lighthouse.
Incited by the sudden
movement, the furious collie charged them both. Gordania turned and the angry
dog bit deeply into her stomach and ripped away a ragged patch of dress and
skin just above the frog pocket. Gordania grabbed the dog around its neck to
allow Rose Anne time to escape. The dog twisted in her grasp and bit into her
neck. Gordania held the animal tightly and the dog tore another chunk of flesh
away. Blood poured from the wound in her neck. Blood oozed from the gash in her
stomach. Gordania waited until Rose Anne had vanished over the top of the hill,
and then kicked the dog as hard as she could. The dog growled one last time
before scampering away.
Gordania rested several
minutes before standing. She felt woozy when she straightened up. Blood
drenched the front of her torn dress and dripped down her legs. She reached
into her secret frog pocket and pulled the frog out. The limp creature had
survived a direct attack by the dog, but had then drowned in Gordania’s blood.
Gordania dropped the dead frog and a few blood-soaked crickets into a puddle
and began walking in a wavering path back to the lighthouse. She wondered if
her mother had begun plucking the plump red grouse when the first rain drops of
an approaching squall dampened the distant hills.
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