Page 8 of A Scot in the Storm
Across the yard, young Jim, the newest of the apprentices, was carrying an armful of dressed stone bigger than his arms. Rory crossed and lifted half of it off him without breaking stride.
“Captain—”
“Take what I’ve left ye, lad. I’m nae interested in carrying ye home along with the stone.”
Jim’s mouth twitched. He was a serious boy and the smile didn’t come easy. Behind them, Ewan let out a small laugh.
At midday Rory retreated to his quarters, a small room in the castle’s upper floor that served as both bedroom and study. The desk was buried under papers. Construction plans, supply inventories, letters from the Commissioners, his own calculations for the lens mechanism. He cleared a space, sat down, and opened the most recent letter from Thomas Smith.
Captain Sinclair —
The Board has reviewed your latest expenditure report and notes with concern the overrun on stone procurement. While we appreciate the challenges of the Kinnaird Head site, we must remind you that the project budget is not without limits…
Rory read the letter twice, set it down, and stared at the wall.
The Commissioners wanted a lighthouse. They wanted it built well, fast, and cheap. Any two of those three were possible. All three were a fantasy, and no amount of polite letters from Edinburgh was going to change the physics of stone and mortar and the North Sea weather.
He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him, dipped his quill, and began his reply.
Sir —
I am in receipt of your letter of the 3rd and have noted the Board’s concerns. I would respectfully observe that the cost of quality stone is not a matter of preference but of necessity. The North Sea does not negotiate, and the lighthouse must be built to withstand forces that will outlast every man presently involved in its construction…
Too blunt. Smith was a reasonable man, but the Board members reading over his shoulder were politicians, and politicians responded better to diplomacy than to being told they were wrong.
He crossed out the last line and tried again.
…I remain confident that the current approach will deliver a structure worthy of the Commissioners’ investment, and I welcome any opportunity to discuss the matter further.
Better. Not honest, but better.
Ewan knocked and came in without waiting. He had a cup of small beer in one hand and a worried expression on his face.
“The lens mechanism. It’s seized again.”
Rory closed his eyes. “Where?”
“Same place. The third bearing in the gear train. Elrick tried to free it. Wouldna budge.”
The lens mechanism was the heart of the lighthouse. A rotating assembly of brass gears and polished glass that would focus the lamp’s light into a beam visible at sea.
Without it, the lighthouse was just a very expensive tower with a very expensive lamp sitting on top of it. The rotation had to be smooth and constant, one revolution every thirty seconds, and for three months Rory had been trying to make the gear train work, and for three months the bearings had been seizing.
The problem was corrosion. The salt air attacked the brass, pitting the bearing surfaces and changing the clearances between inspections. He’d tried different lubricants. Whale oil, tallow, even beeswax. None lasted more than a week.
It was the one problem he couldn’t solve, and it sat in his chest like a stone.
“I’ll look at it after supper,” he said.
“Ye said that yesterday.”
“And I’ll say it again tomorrow if need be.”
Ewan set the beer on the desk and leaned against the doorframe. He was a big man, broad and solid, with hands like shovels and a face that defaulted to cheerful even when delivering bad news.
“When’s the last time ye slept more than four hours?”
“I dinna keep count.”
