Master of Yards (1760)
By 1760, James Flint was a man whose name carried weight on the Clyde.
The shipyards he had once entered as a labourer now bent to his will. Timber from Norway, tar from the Baltic, iron nails from Sheffield — all flowed into his yards and came out as whalers bound for Greenland. The air was thick with tar and smoke, the clang of hammers, the rasp of saws. Men shouted in Scots and English, the din of labour rising like the song of industry itself.
At dawn, Flint walked the yards as he always had. His boots struck the planks with steady rhythm, and men parted before him without command. He needed no flourish. He was tall, broad, and carried himself with the silent authority of one who had killed and survived. His hands were scarred, his gaze sharp. He spoke little, but when he did, men listened.
"Mind your seam there," he said to a caulker whose tar leaked thin.
"Brace that beam tighter," he told another, nodding once when it was done.
No curse, no blow, no waste of words. His approval was rare, and for that, it mattered more.
The ships stood in rows, their hulls tarred black, their frames broad and strong. Each carried his mark, hidden but deliberate: a tiny engraving on the keel, a symbol known only to him — a flint spark. His secret reminder that though his name had been buried, his hand endured.
Merchants came often, men in wigs and fine coats, to inspect their investments. They spoke in florid tones, calculating profit, debating markets, sipping wine even on the docks. Flint tolerated them, but never trusted them. They looked at his ships and saw only coin. He looked and saw survival carved from oak.
When he returned to his townhouse in Aberdeen, it was plain by comparison with theirs. Solid stone, dark wood, little ornament. The parlour was bare but for maps, a writing desk, and shelves of books from Robert Gordon's College — mathematics, navigation, law. In the hearth burned peat, not coal. His meals were simple: oatcakes, broth, smoked fish. He drank whisky neat, never wine.
And yet the city whispered of his wealth. They said Flint was richer than many lairds, that his whalers brought back oil enough to light half of Scotland. They said his fortune would rival nobility within a decade.
Respect came, but so did envy.
He was invited to dinners, to salons, to meetings where merchants toasted the Prince's exile and the Hanoverian king in the same breath. Flint went rarely, and when he did, he sat in silence, listening. His presence unsettled them. He was not polished, not charming, not eager to please. He was something else — a Highland shadow who had learned to wield coin as once he wielded steel.
Some praised him as shrewd. Others called him dour, dangerous, unreadable. A few muttered of his origins. "He's no Lowlander," they said. "Look at his eyes. There's blood in that man's past."
They were right, though they would never know how much.
On the wharf one evening, Flint stood watching a ship prepare for Greenland. The men bustled, ropes creaked, sails were checked. A harpooner spat into the water and crossed himself. The master shouted orders, his voice lost in the roar of gulls.
Flint's manager approached, ledger in hand. "She's sound, sir. Hull's tight, crew's full. God willing, she'll be back by midsummer with holds heavy."
Flint nodded. "See her well-provisioned. Men fight harder with full bellies."
The manager smiled. "Aye. You think of the men, sir, not just the profit. That's why they'll sign for you when they won't for others."
Flint gave no answer. His eyes were on the horizon. He thought of the sea as enemy and ally both — a foe to be beaten, a lifeline to be trusted. He thought of Culloden, of heather soaked with rain and blood, and of how far he had walked to stand here, cloaked in wealth.
The gulls cried overhead, sharp and mocking.
Flint turned away. He had ships enough, coin enough, power enough. Yet the halls of his townhouse echoed with silence. No clan, no kin, no wife, no laughter. Only maps, ledgers, and ghosts.
That night, sitting alone by the peat fire, Flint poured himself a dram. He held it in his hand, the amber catching firelight, and thought of the price he had paid.
Survival. Wealth. Power.
But no name. No family. No love.
The Cailleach's words whispered from memory: He will think himself a ghost.
And in that quiet house, Flint felt the truth of it.
The Marriage
Flint never sought a wife. He had buried kin, clan, and love alike on Drummossie Moor, and since then his heart had been stone. Work was his mistress, coin his child, survival his only companion. Yet in Glasgow, wealth was a chain as much as a shield.
Merchants spoke of alliances, of families bound by coin and contract. Flint could not ignore them forever.
It was at a merchant's dinner that he first saw her.
She entered the room like sunlight through cloud — golden hair swept high, gown of silk the colour of wine, jewels glittering at her throat. She laughed easily, her voice high and bright, drawing eyes to her as if she were a flame and men were moths.
"This is Miss Margaret Sinclair," the host said, ushering her forward. "Daughter of Robert Sinclair, who you surely know. Margaret, this is Mr. James Flint, the great shipbuilder of the Clyde."
Her eyes swept over him quickly, coolly, as one might appraise a horse at market. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
"So this is the famous Flint," she said. "I had expected… taller."
There was a ripple of laughter around the table. Flint inclined his head slightly, neither smiling nor replying. He was taller than most men in the room, but he knew better than to answer jest with pride.
Through the evening she spoke much and listened little. She told tales of Edinburgh salons, of dresses from Paris, of music and dances. Her father, Robert Sinclair, laughed loudly at her wit, though his eyes were sharp, always weighing the company. He asked Flint about his ships, his profits, his investments. Flint answered briefly, guarded.
When the evening ended, Margaret offered her hand. He bowed over it, though her smile seemed already turned toward the next admirer.
The courtship was swift, pressed by Sinclair's eagerness. He was a man deep in debt, though he hid it behind fine coats and easy laughter. Flint's fortune gleamed before him like salvation.
Invitations followed — teas, promenades, concerts. Margaret dazzled in each setting, surrounded by admirers, her laughter ringing, her eyes bright. Flint walked beside her in silence, a shadow at her side.
Once, she asked him, "Do you never smile, Mr. Flint?"
"Not often," he replied.
"And why not?"
"There has been little worth smiling for."
She tilted her head, lips curving faintly. "Then perhaps I shall teach you."
But she never did.
The wedding was held that autumn in Aberdeen, a spectacle of silk and gold. The kirk was crowded with merchants and lairds, their wives glittering with jewels. The pipes played, though muted, for Highland airs were still frowned upon. Flint stood at the altar, broad-shouldered in dark coat and fine linen, yet feeling like a soldier standing to orders.
Margaret entered, radiant in white, her father beaming at her side. Whispers rippled through the kirk — of her beauty, of Flint's fortune, of the strange match between them.
The vows were spoken. Flint's voice was steady, hers light. When the rings were placed, her hand trembled not with passion but with excitement, as though she had won a prize.
The feast that followed was lavish — venison, salmon, sweetmeats, wine flowing freely. Margaret danced until dawn, her laughter bright, her father drinking and boasting beside her. Flint watched from the edge of the hall, glass in hand, his face unreadable.
To the crowd it was a union of fortune and beauty. To Flint it was a pact signed in silence.
That night, alone in their chamber, Margaret looked at him with a half-smile. "You are not what I expected," she said.
"What did you expect?" Flint asked.
"A man who would worship me," she replied. Her smile sharpened. "But perhaps worship is overrated. Wealth will do."
Flint said nothing. He blew out the candle and turned to the window, where the moonlight silvered the stone walls.
And so their marriage began.