_A STRANGE TERROR CREEPS OVER SANDIE’S HEART_
Young Sandie M‘Crae was a powerful swimmer, and as he reaches the
surface of the water he stares wildly round him; but he finds that alone
by his side floats John himself, and instinctively he seizes the little
man. He is very light, and Sandie can swim almost as well with him as
without him.
He is being carried outward some distance to sea, however, and it takes
him a terrible struggle to once more regain the mouth of the harbour.
But he succeeds at last, and ere he reaches the steps a rope is thrown
to him, which with feeble hands he catches, and is towed onwards. He
stands on the pier at last. Safe! But strange lights scintillate now
across his eyes, there comes a roaring in his ears, then all is
darkness, oblivion, and he sinks to the ground insensible.
When he recovers himself he is warm and in bed.
For a time he can remember nothing, but soon it all comes back, the
storm, the squall, the wreck.
And just at that moment sounds of wailing and of woe fall upon his ear
from the other room. Some one is weeping and moaning in sadness and
sorrow. A strange terror creeps over Sandie’s heart, a kind of nameless
fear. He sits up and listens intently. Some one is talking too. It is
Eppie. But her voice is strangely altered.
“My ain wee man! my ain wee man!” she is crying. “O dool (grief) on the
day I e’er let you leave me! O John, John, John, you’ll never speak to
your Eppie again! O my heart will break, my heart will break!”
Then once more she broke off into a fit of sobbing and crying.
A cold hand seemed to clutch at Sandie’s heart. He knew only too well
what it all meant. John Menzies, the blithesome and merry little
fisherman, was gone. It was but the lifeless body he had succeeded in
bringing on shore--the soul had fled.
Sandie rose now, although he felt a little giddy. He slowly dressed
himself in dry clothes, that had thoughtfully been placed handy for him.
“Poor Eppie!” Sandie said half aloud, “even in her own great grief she
did not forget me.” The very kindness of the woman’s act brought the
tears to his eyes.
He opened his door at last and went softly into the kitchen.
Eppie was swaying back and fore beside the corpse, which lay on the bed;
swaying backwards and forwards, her wet apron to her face and in an
agony of grief.
She did not perceive Sandie, nor hear his footstep, until he touched her
lightly on the shoulder.
Then she looked up, startled.
“Can I be of any use or comfort to you, dear Mrs. Menzies?”
“Oh! na, na, na,” she wailed. “There is naething on earth can comfort me
mair, now my ain wee man is ta’en (taken) awa’. Like unto Rachael am I,
this day, like Rachael weeping for her children, and will not be
comforted, because they are not.”
“What use is it,” thought Sandie, “to air my platitudes before such
grief as this?”
And yet he tried.
“Dear Mrs. Menzies,” he said, “we have all to die.”
“Ay, ay, my bonnie bairn, an’ my day will no be lang. I dinna want to
live. I dinna want to live.”
“All may be for the best, Mrs. Menzies. Better perhaps that poor John
should have died as he did, quickly and speedily, and, I am sure,
painlessly, than if he had lingered in suffering for weeks or months in
bed.”
Eppie, it was evident, was not listening.
“And the poor wee body,” she said, speaking more to herself than Sandie,
“must come toddlin’ back last nicht after the boat was afloat. ‘O
Eppie!’ he said, ‘I maun say good-nicht again.’ Eh, sirs, sirs! little
did I think that would be the last time I should haud (hold) him in my
arms alive. Oh, wurra! wurra! wurra!”
Sandie’s attempt at giving mental comfort having failed, he addressed
himself to the purely physical.
He went and made up the fire, and got the kettle to boil. He even fried
some fish and boiled eggs. Then he made strong tea, and laid the
breakfast.
“Come, Mrs. Menzies, and eat a little, and drink a cup of tea; it will
do you good.”
“Na, na, my bairn; every mouthfu’ would choke me, when he is no here to
share it.”
“Mrs. Menzies, you must sit down here and take something, for two
reasons--the first is, that you have a deal to do, a deal before you,
duties that you will not be able to perform without some bodily
strength. Secondly, because I am weak and not over-well, and I can
neither eat nor drink unless you do.”
It showed the kindness of this poor woman’s nature, that the last
argument was quite convincing, and without a word, she got up and seated
herself at the table, and tried to eat and drink, though all the time
her tears were silently coursing down her cheeks.
She did not speak much, and Sandie, respecting her grief, made no
attempt to force her to do so.
Sandie felt pleased when the door opened, and “a neighbouring woman”
came quietly in, to keep Eppie company.
He himself, knowing now that the widow would be well looked after--for
those poor fisher-folks are marvellously kind to each other--left the
house, and went on down towards the pier. Oh, the sadness of that scene.
Oh, the grief and the misery of it. The people, male and female, young
and old, formed one dense crowd. The men were silent and sad, the women
were weeping and wailing, but the poor children, many of them were
simply frantic with grief, and leapt and jumped and danced upon the
stones, not knowing what they were doing.
And it went to Sandie’s inmost heart to hear them wail, “O my daddie! O
my daddie! I’ll never never see my daddie mair.”
A kindly, old white-haired man met Sandie and shook him by the hand.
“Ye did your duty nobly, lad,” he said, “and the Lord will reward you.”
“But oh,” he continued, “it was an awfu’ nicht. Black Tuesday, Black
Tuesday, and by that name it will go down to posterity.”
“I hardly like to ask,” said Sandie, “how many boats have been lost.”
“The loss is appallin’, young sir. Boat after boat was seen to founder,
some o’ them within sicht o’ land, some o’ them near the harbour mouth.
Fifty-and-five bonnie boats in all set sail the’streen (last night),
three-and-twenty have gone down wi’ every soul on board. A black
Tuesday--a terrible Tuesday! And,” he added, with a pathos that was
touching, “I hae lost a bonnie son!”
His eyes were turned for just a moment meekly heavenwards.
“Heaven help me,” he said; “Thy will be done, but oh! it is hard, hard.
It is our duty to submit to His will. The Lord gave, and the Lord has
taken away, blessed be His name.”
Every now and then all that day swollen corpses came floating in, and
were speedily dragged on shore, and identified amid such wild
manifestations of grief as Sandie had never seen or heard before, and
prayed Heaven he never might see or hear again.
* * * * *
Two days passed by--two woesome weary days.
Then the dead were buried. All save John. It seemed that Eppie could not
bear to part with the mortal remains of the little man she had loved so
well in life.
But the wee bit coffin was screwed down at last, and next day it would
be consigned to its long home in the mould.
Willie had come down, and both he and Sandie were living at the cosy
little inn, whose landlady, though kind and good-natured, was such a
gossip.
That night Sandie had just paid his last visit to poor John’s cottage,
and said good-night to Eppie. Willie and he had gone for a walk along
the shore.
It was about eleven o’clock, and a most beautiful night. A gentle breeze
was blowing from the west. The gladsome moon made a great triangular
silvery wake upon the waters, and the wavelets laughed and lisped as
they broke upon the soft golden sands.
“Look! look!” cried Willie, clutching Sandie’s arm and pointing almost
fearfully seawards.
It was certainly something to marvel at. First one broad-sailed boat,
then another, and then a third glided slowly into the silvery wake of
the moon, looking as black as death against the shimmer of the moonlit
sea.
“Sandie!” gasped Willie, “do our eyes deceive us? Or are they phantom
boats?”
“No, no,” cried Sandie, recovering his self-possession, “they are part
of the fleet that, being driven out to sea, have succeeded in weathering
the gale. Come, let us bring the joyful tidings to those honest
fisher-folks.”
In less than fifteen minutes almost every soul in the village was down
at the pier-head, on each side of which a roaring fire had been lit,
that the skippers of the boats might make no mistake in steering in.
On and on, nearer and nearer, slowly came the great black boats.
The anxiety in the crowd was painful to witness. There were many there
over whose drowned relatives the grave had that day closed. Neither hope
nor anxiety could trouble them. But there were many others who had yet
received no certain account of the fate of their friends. In their
hearts burned the anxiety, the hope, the doubt. This boat coming slowly
in might contain a missing husband or father for them.
Well, those boats landed at last, and joyful recognition was the result,
while grief once more took the place of hope in those who had now
suffered disappointment.
* * * * *
It was but a short walk to the graveyard that surrounded the wee
steepleless church of Blackhive. Had it been miles, Eppie would have
trudged it all the same, behind the little coffin--it was but a size
larger than a boy’s--of her wee man.
Meanwhile the chiming of the bell sounded mournful in the extreme.
Everybody noticed how altered Eppie was, and how strange she looked.
Her hair, which was grey before, appeared to have turned white under the
influence of her terrible affliction. She was sadly bent, too, and
needed the support of a stick to aid her in tottering along.
Around the grave, spades in hand, and with heads bare, stood the friends
and chief mourners, for in Scotland it is their duty to fill in the
clods, to add the earth to earth, the dust to dust.
The coffin is lowered, the ropes are pulled up. The mourners, among whom
are Sandie M‘Crae, wait for a moment, each silently breathing a prayer.
Then they look towards Eppie.
She has to throw in the first handful of earth, and she knows it.
But there is a mist before her eyes that is not caused by tears, and a
cold feeling at her heart that grief alone cannot account for; she
stoops--she lifts a handful of earth. Now she staggers forward to the
open grave and drops it in. She turns as if to go. But in turn reels for
a moment, then sinks upon the long green sward.
The mourners hurry forward to raise her. Among them is the young village
doctor.
Poor Eppie is laid on her back on the grass, a half-sunken baby’s grave
forming a kind of pillow. Then the doctor bends over her and takes her
wrist. He lifts an eyelid and speedily recloses it. Then he slowly
rises.
“Dead?” says an old white-haired man. His name is Grant, and he is the
same who advanced and spoke to Sandie on the pier.
“Dead?”
“Ay, dead, Mr. Grant. Her sorrows are all over, and it is perhaps as
well.”
There were a few moments of silence. It is a terrible thing to stand
thus in the presence of Death.
Then old Grant cleared his throat to speak.
“My friends,” he said sadly and solemnly, “it is but meet that this
worthy couple should sleep together in one grave. ’Twere better, I
think, they should be buried on the same day. Let us raise once more the
little coffin, and convey it to the watch-house yonder. Peradventure,
there are those among you who will watch by it day and night, till the
poor corpse now lying yonder can bear it company. They loved each other
in life, in death let them not be divided.”
So this was done.
Sandie and Willie constituted themselves two of the principal watchers.
The grave was enlarged, and upon a Monday morning, only a week since
both Eppie and John had been alive and happy together, their remains
were lowered in solemn silence into the same grave.
This time it was Sandie who threw in the first handful of holy earth.
And then back from the little green graveyard, feeling somewhat lonesome
and sad, went Willie and Sandie.
END OF BOOK II.
BOOK III
_FAR, FAR AT SEA_
CHAPTER I
_“NAE POSSIBLE!” SAID TIBBIE_
Sorrow does not hold the young heart long enthralled. It is as well it
should be so. It is for the old to feel sad, unless they can see in
imagination the bright and gladsome light that shines behind the pall of
Death. But the young--no, sorrow ought to be neither kith nor kin to
them.
Back again, then, at the dear old farm of Kilbuie, with Willie as his
constant companion, for the lad had come to spend a long holiday, with
frequent visits to the house of his best of friends, Mackenzie the
minister, with many a little fishing excursion, in company with little
Maggie May and happy-go-lucky Tyro the collie--excursions that somehow
always ended in a kind of picnic--Sandie began to forget the sad and
gloomsome ending to his fishing experiences.
But the corn was now changing in patches from green to yellow. Soon it
would be all ablaze, and then there would be but little time to spend in
picnics or in fishing.
Willie had declared himself determined to assist at harvest work. He
could bind the sheaves if he could do nothing else, and he could carry
and stook them, that is, set them up together, that they might get dry
and more thoroughly ripe in the sunshine.
He had provided himself with a wonderful canvas apron, that quite
enveloped all his person in front, from chin to ankles.
“I daresay,” said Willie, as he saw Jeannie--Mrs. Duncan, we ought now
to call her--smiling, “I daresay I look a bit of a guy, but I don’t
mind, because it will save my clothes. Do you see, Mrs. Jeannie?”
“I see,” said Jeannie, “you’re a thrifty lad.”
* * * * *
In another week harvest had begun. Jamie Duncan drove the
reaping-machine. The new second horseman and Sandie wielded a scythe
each.
And it was near and around them that all the blitheness and the fun
radiated. A reaping-machine is a very good invention, it must be
admitted, but at the same time it must be granted that there is no
poetry, no romance about it.
But listen to the musical swish swish of the curved and flashing scythe,
wielded by the brown bare arms of the sturdy reaper. Note how the golden
grain lies in its long straight swaths, till made into sheaves by the
merry girl gatherers, who are coming closely up behind. Note, too, the
friendly rivalry of the two scythemen, who work close at each other’s
heels, pausing at last, panting and perspiring, when the “bout” is
finished, and chatting and laughing and joking as they walk slowly to
the other end of the field, there to sharpen scythes, to swallow a
draught of table-beer, butter-milk or whey, and begin again once more.
A strong sturdy lass of about seventeen, with a complexion like
strawberries smothered in cream, acted as gatherer to the new second
horseman, while Jeannie herself followed Sandie. Then behind these came
Geordie Black the orra man, and Willie himself, with his immense apron,
doing duty as binders and stookers.
A word of digression, indulgent reader, which you may skip if you are so
minded; but I have often remarked the great difference that exists
between the reapers in an English and those in a Scotch harvest-field.
In England you will never, scarcely, hear a joke, certainly never a
song; the men and women look soddened, stupid, fat-headed, and that is
precisely how they feel. And it is all owing to the frequent
applications they make to the jars of beer, without which they would
refuse to work. In Scottish harvest-fields it is entirely different.
Nothing stronger than butter-milk, whey, or “sma’ ale” is taken, and the
result is, that they are merry, lightsome, witty, and you may hear them
laughing, joking, and singing long before you come near the field.
Pardon the digression, though I can’t say I feel sorry I have made it.
And Sandie, with his friend Willie, was the life of the cornfields.
Dear me! how their tongues did rattle on, to be sure; and dear me! how
young Tibbie Morrison, she with the pretty complexion, did laugh. Why,
it came to pass after a little time that Willie had only to look at her
to set her off again; and when she laughed Geordie Black’s laugh was
ready chorus.
Geordie was no beauty to look at, but he had a good heart of his own,
nevertheless. That is, I should say, he _had_ had, until--well, it is
always best to speak the truth--until it was lost and won by bonnie
Tibbie Morrison.
Jeannie herself remarked more than once, that all the time Geordie was
working he couldn’t take his eyes off Tibbie.
But I think that Geordie must have been hardly hit, and I will tell you
why. Going into the stable on the evening of the second day, Sandie was
surprised to find Geordie sitting with his back to the dusty cobwebby
window, and a slate in his hand.
He was so thoroughly absorbed, that he neither saw our hero nor heard
his footsteps.
So Sandie made bold to peep over Geordie’s shoulder, and, to his intense
surprise, he found he was writing verses. That they possessed but little
literary merit, the following specimen will prove:--
BONNIE TIBBIE MORRISON.
O Tibbie, Tibbie Morrison,
I lo’e ye as my life,
And I would range the warld o’er
To mak’ ye my guid wife.
When ye are near, my Tibbie dear,
The sun seems shinin’ bright;
When Tibbie’s far awa’ frae me,
’Tis blackest, darkest night.
A ploughman lad is all my rank,
Sma’, sma’s my penny fee,
But I would gie it a’ awa’
For a love blink frae your e’e.
Tibbie, _Tibbie!_ TIBBIE!! TIBBIE!!!
Will ever ye be mine?
Will e’er I hold ye to my heart,
My wife and valentine?
“Why, Geordie, man!” cried Sandie, “is it as bad as that with you?”
Geordie sprang up as if shot, and grew as red as a beet. He tried to
hide the slate.
“Don’t trouble, Geordie; I’ve read it all, and really there is an
anguish displayed in the first line of that last verse that is quite
touching.
‘Oh, Tibbie, Tibbie! _Tibbie!!_ TIBBIE!!!’
You come to a splendid climax with that last Tibbie. Shall I show it to
my friend Willie?”
“Losh! man, no!”
“Or to Tibbie herself?”
“Loshie me! man, what can ye be thinkin’ o’?”
“But, Geordie, you don’t mean to say that verses containing so much
sweetness and pathos as these are going to waste their sweetness in the
desert air? I question if Bobbie Burns himself would have written
anything like them.”
Geordie blushed again, and after much persuasion he agreed to write them
out--when Sabbath came round--and permit Sandie to present them.
“Of course,” said Sandie, somewhat mischievously, “when I give Tibbie
the poem, I will just brush the dew from her lips.”
“Oh, weel,” said Geordie resignedly, “I canna help that. You’ll do as
you like about it.”
The dinner-hour in the hairst (harvest) field was the most delightful of
all. The somewhat weary workers lay on the ground, or leant their backs
against the stocks. Mrs. M‘Crae herself, with Elsie and Geordie, brought
the dinner, and there was no want of appetite. The milk was of the
creamiest, the mashed potatoes like snow, the oatcakes crisp and
delicious, and the herrings done to a turn. Then there was curds and
cream by way of dessert, to say nothing of “swack” cheese, and
potato-scones to finish up with.
The happy harvesters felt like giants refreshed, and there would still
be half-an-hour to rest.
That half-hour, however, was not spent in drowsy listlessness or sleep
itself. No, for the laugh and the joke went round; then Willie or Sandie
would always raise a song, a song with a chorus, and it was sweet to
hear the girlish voices of Tibbie and Jeannie chiming musically in with
this chorus.
Willie would have been nobody if he couldn’t have indulged in his joke,
and there was one song he sang, the chorus of which, it will be
admitted, was very witty indeed--that is, if brevity be the soul of
wit.
Every line ended with the words--
“And the wind blew the bonnie lassie’s plaidie awa’!”
Then “Chorus,” Sandie would shout.
_Chorus_--“Plaidie awa!”
But the song made everybody laugh all the same, and so some considerable
good was accomplished by it.
* * * * *
As far as the weather was concerned, the harvest was a delightful one,
for the sun shone brightly every day, and there blew a gentle breeze to
help to dry and “win” the corn.
As a crop, too, the yield was average, so Farmer M‘Crae was hopeful and
happy.
Then came the day when “kliack” would be taken, that is, when the last
or kliack sheaf would be cut.
As they neared the last “bout” cried Sandie, “Look out now, Geordie, for
the kliack hare!”
It is very strange, but true, that a hare very frequently starts off
from the last “bout” of corn that is cut on the harvest-field. This time
was no exception.
A splendid long brown-legged beast darted off for the woods.
Up to his shoulder went Geordie’s old gun.
Bang!
The echo rang back from the woods, and went reverberating away among
the rocky hills, but puss was intact. She gave her heels an extra kick,
took to the forest, and was seen no more.
So the hare was declared to be a witch, and no more was said about it.
But now comes Elsie herself, and Willie runs to meet her and lead her
forward by the hand. Right bonnie she looks in her dress of silken green
with poppies in her hair.
She has come to cut the kliack sheaf. Right deftly she does it too, and
binds it also with her own fair fingers.
Then cheers arise, three times three, that seem to make the welkin ring.
Harvest is done, kliack is taken, and every heart rejoices.
By-and-bye, when the stooking is quite finished, all march merrily home.
Now, mark you this, reader, no vinous stimulant of any kind has been
used while harvest work was in progress.
But now, in the kitchen, all hands, each with a spoon, surround a big
table on which stands an immense basin of what is called meal and ale. I
will tell you its composition: about half a gallon of oatmeal, mixed
with good ale, sweetened with syrup, and fortified with a pint of the
best Scotch whisky.
And hark! somewhere in that dish was Mrs. M‘Crae’s marriage-ring. So
every mouthful had to be carefully examined by the tongue previous to
swallowing, and the person who was lucky enough to find that ring would
be married before the year was out.
When all this strange dish of brose was finished, and everybody averred
he or she had seen nothing of the ring, everybody began to cast
suspicious glances at everybody else.
But at long and last, noticing a strange light in Geordie’s eyes, Sandie
jumped up, and seizing him by one ear, pulled it till the rustic poet’s
eyes began to water.
“You’ve got it, Geordie! You’ve got it!”
Then, blushing like a beggar at a “bap” or a bun, Geordie confessed.
Everybody shook hands with him, and he felt the happiest man in all the
parish.
But greater happiness still was in store for Geordie.
After the meal and ale, in some sly way or other, Sandie succeeded in
obtaining private audience of winsome Tibbie.
“I’ve something to show you, Tibbie,” said Sandie.
“Nae possible!” said the artless lassie.
“Ah! but it’s fact. Geordie Black is in love with you, and he wrote you
these beautiful verses. Come nearer and I’ll read them.”
“Nae possible!” said Tibbie.
While he slowly, and with much emotion, read these verses, Sandie
encircled Tibbie’s waist with one arm.
I am not quite certain that this was necessary.
Tibbie blushed as Sandie read.
“Now,” said Sandie, “I’ll let you have them to keep for a kiss.”
“Nae possible!” said Tibbie. But the bargain was concluded all the same.
Next evening all the lads and lasses in the countryside gathered at
Kilbuie to the kliack-ball, and if Geordie danced once that evening with
artless Tibbie, he danced with her fifty times.
Geordie was in the third heaven.
Tibbie was kind.
CHAPTER II
_“REMEMBER, REMEMBER THIS FIFTH OF NOVEMBER”--MACLEAN’S ROOMS_
Classes were once more up. The session had opened, and once again the
streets of Aberdeen were gay with the crimson togas of the students.
Everybody was glad to see everybody else, and the several professors
professed themselves rejoiced to meet again their pupils in the old and
classic halls of the University. They hoped work would now go on apace,
so that in after years of their lives the students would be able to look
back with pleasure to the time they spent so profitably within the
embrace of their beloved _alma mater_.
A week or two passed by, then came the never-forgotten 5th of November.
Now, I do not believe that such a scene, as I fear I shall now all too
inadequately describe, is possible in the Aberdeen of to-day. I can only
premise that it is painted from the life.
Castlegate, let me tell you, is a large square formed at the junctions
of those splendid pearly-walled thoroughfares, Union and King Streets.
It has a granite statue of the Duke of Gordon, a fine old cross similar
to that in Chichester, and some other ancient cities, also a few pieces
of cannon captured from the Russians at Sebastopol.
In a line with King Street, and from the other side of the square, runs
Marischal Street, which is very steep, and leads direct to the quay,
where lie the ships. This is all I wish you to remember.
On this particular 5th of November, it did not appear that there would
be any greater excitement than usual.
“Only a bit of fun and a few fireworks,” Willie explained to Sandie, and
thus induced him to come along.
But by nine o’clock, not only was the square densely thronged by a mob
bent on merriment and mischief, but all the streets leading thereto.
About half-past nine the fun waxed fast and furious. Even had they
tried, the police force would have been powerless to clear the
Castlegate. They would have but infuriated the mob, and an Aberdeen mob,
if it loses its temper, is very terrible indeed, as witness the
meal-mobs and the Chartist riots.
The discharge of fireworks was incessant and marvellous. Pyrotechny was
there in every form. Rockets, Roman candles, St. Catherine wheels, even
dangerous maroons; while as for squibs, the deft young fellows stuck
them in pistols, lit them, and fired them in the air, or in through open
first-floor windows, much to the terror of those leaning over to gaze at
the pandemonium going on beneath.
Nearly everybody had their jackets closely buttoned up, but crackers
and squibs were lit and thrust into every available pocket that could be
seen. Many thus had their clothes burned and ruined.
A little after ten o’clock, policemen and watchmen, full ninety strong,
made their appearance in marching order, and attempted to clear the
square. They had no truncheons, only simply their sticks. Their
endeavours, however, were utterly unsuccessful. If the crowd disappeared
before them at one place, it was only to bank up in double force in
another.
The police were good-natured.
“Gang hame noo, like good bairns,” was about all they said.
But the action of one townsman--I am glad to say he was no
student--precipitated a crisis at last. He was foolish enough to seize a
watchman and attempt to throw him. Both men came heavily to the ground,
then others took the townsman’s part, and in less time than it takes me
to write it, truncheons on the one side, and heavy bludgeons on the
other were drawn, and blood flowed like water. Ninety men opposed to
about two thousand have little chance, despite the fact that they have
law on their side, so the upshot of the collision was that in twenty
minutes’ time the Bobbies and Charlies were beaten back, and had to take
refuge behind the Town Hall.
“Hadn’t we better get home now?” said Sandie. “If I am found or captured
in this crowd I shall lose my bursary, and that means ruin.”
“Father,” said Willie exultantly, “will be out before long to read the
Riot Act. After that you know the soldiers will come. We shall make a
move just before that.”
But now the riot entered upon a new phase. Some one raised the cry “A
boat! a boat!” and in a moment it spread like wildfire through all that
vast determined mob.
Sandie and Willie had only time to back into an entry, when the crowd
went surging past them, one vast human river, flowing down Marischal
Street towards the harbour.
They seemed to have been gone no time when they were back again, singing
and yelling and shouting triumphantly, as they dragged a boat along.
Where, I wonder, did the hammers come from? I cannot answer, but here
they were.
Bang, bang, smash, smash, and in a very few minutes the broken timbers
of the boat were piled in a heap in the middle of the square.
Where did that bucket of tar come from? I cannot even answer that. But
it was poured upon the woodwork, and the bucket itself was left on top.
Then a light was set to the pile, and in a few minutes the flames were
ascending sky-high. Every house around stood out in bold and fiery
relief, and the Duke’s monument looked like a martyr at the stake.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the frantic mob. Then in a huge circle they
joined hands and danced around the blazing fire, just as many a time
since have I seen savages in Central Africa do.
How they yelled! How they shouted! How they sang!
But the fire began to burn dull and low at last, and just about this
time there arose a shout of alarm: the Provost in his robes was coming
in an open carriage to read the Riot Act.
“Come now, Sandie,” cried Willie, “we’ve had enough fun for one night.
Father musn’t see me here.”
Nor did he.
Indeed, he saw but very few.
For the mob had no wish to have a collision with the soldiers--“the
gallant Forty-twa,” so they melted away like snowflakes in a river, and
truly speaking, the Act was read to the dying embers of the fire.
One large party of students had still a little fun left in them,
however. They formed fours-deep, and went marching off down King Street,
singing “The Land o’the Leal.”
“We’re wearin’ awa’, Jean,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,
We’re wearin’ awa’--a’--a’
To the Land o’the Leal.”
For the life of him the douce Provost could not help laughing, as they
went filing past his carriage.
Willie went with Sandie to his attic, and Sandie’s little busybody of a
landlady placed before them a delicious supper of mashed potatoes,
stewed tripe, and fragrant coffee.
“Glad we’ve got safe home,” said Sandie. “Aren’t you, Willie?”
“Oh, delighted, but I must say I enjoyed myself immensely. That bonfire
was a beauty. I hope my dear old father won’t catch cold. And the
soldiers will have nothing to do, if they do come, but drown out the
dying embers of the fire.”
* * * * *
The great prize of sixty pounds, tenable for two years, was to be
competed for at the end of the present session. There were in reality
two, one for Greek, the other for higher mathematics, but it was to the
latter Sandie determined to bend all his energies, as he thought the
competition would not here be so great.
Next to Sandie, if not indeed superior in this branch of the curriculum,
was a Highland student of the name of Maclean, with whom I must now make
the reader better acquainted.
Sandie, by the way, had made quite enough at the herring-fishing to
render him independent of his dunderheaded pupil for one session at
least; and for this he felt he could not be too thankful.
Maclean and he one day, while sauntering arm-in-arm along Union Street,
deep in the mysteries of _x_ + _y_, entered into a compact to study
together. One evening it was to be in Sandie’s garret, and the next in
Maclean’s diggings, as he termed his lodgings.
The first grind took place in our hero’s attic. At one o’clock, when
both parted for the night, they each agreed that the evening had been
most profitably spent.
Next night, at eight o’clock, Sandie, after some difficulty, found his
way to Maclean’s door. The house in which the lodgings were was a
somewhat cheap and unsavoury thoroughfare off George Street.
The stairs were sadly rickety, the house itself was not a sweet one.
From a room on the ground-floor issued the scraping of a vile old
fiddle, accompanied by the scuffling of feet, and every now and then an
eldritch shriek of laughter. But Sandie went onwards and upwards, and on
the top floor of all a door was suddenly thrown open, and Maclean held
out his hand to welcome him in.
A great oil lamp was burning on a table at one end of the long room.
This lamp served for heat and light both, for there was no fire. In
fact, these students--of whom there were four in all living in this one
room--could not afford fire except to cook.
“You are right welcome, Mr. M‘Crae,” said Maclean.
Then he pointed to another young man who sat book in hand by the table.
“My brother,” he said; “he is at the grammar-school, but he won’t
disturb us. Now,” he continued, “look around you, and I’ll put you up to
our domestic economy and household arrangements. To begin with, you know
we are all as poor as rats, though all bursars, and we all mean to study
for the Church, or to be teachers at least. Yonder, in that bed, are
the brothers Macleod. They come from our parish. Well, you see, they go
to bed--we only have one--at seven and sleep till one. My brother and I
study till one, then we have the bed and they begin their studies,
though often enough they curl up in their plaids and have a few more
hours on the floor.”
“Yes, I understand, and I don’t blame them.”
“Well, we have no landlady. The few sticks of furniture you see are all
hired, except the frying-pan and other cooking utensils. These we
bought. We are not going to invite you to dinner, Mr. M‘Crae, because
our fare is far too meagre.
“You see those barrels? Well, two contain herrings, salt and red, one
contains nice oatmeal, and the small one pease-flour. And with the
addition of milk that is brought to us every morning, and now and then
an egg, and a bit of butter, with always a nice sheep’s head and
trotters on Sunday, I can assure you we live like fighting-cocks. Don’t
we, Donal?”
“That we do,” said Donal, looking smilingly up from Xenophon’s Anabasis.
And poor though an Englishman would consider fare like this, it must be
confessed that the two Macleans were as hard and brown as hazel-nuts
upon it.
“And now then, my friend, if you are ready, let us begin the grind.”
And the “grind” was commenced accordingly. And hardly did those earnest
plodding students lift head except to address each other in low
monotones, till forth from the great steeple of the East Church peeled
the solemn stroke of one.
Then Maclean closed his books with a bang and jumped joyfully up.
“Turn out the Macleods,” he shouted as loud as he could. “One o’clock,
my hearties. Turn out! Turn out! There, Donal! pull the blankets off
them while I see Mr. M‘Crae safely down the rickety old stairs.”
He lit match after match for this purpose.
“Don’t lean on the bannisters,” he said, “else over you go.”
Sandie was safe in the street at last, and bade his friend good-night,
just as every watchman in the city with stentorian lungs was bawling--
“Past one! Pa-a-ast one-n-n,” with a long ringing musical emphasis on
the “n” of the one.
Sandie went homewards happy enough, and just a little tired and sleepy,
but he had found out one truth, namely, that poor though he himself
might be, he was not, by a long way, the poorest student at the great
Northern University.
Sandie and his friend Maclean kept up their mathematical studies
together in the most friendly way till the very last day. Everybody knew
that the prize lay between these two hard-working students, and it came
to pass that when the day of competition arrived at last, and Sandie and
Maclean found their way to the class-room where the papers were to be
given out, they only found two other opponents there, and both left
within an hour without handing in a paper.
The Professor looked up from his desk and smiled.
“When Greek meets Greek,” he said, “then comes the tug of war.”
CHAPTER III
_“WE HAVE BEEN AS BROTHERS: WE ARE BROTHERS STILL”_
Yes, Greek had met Greek, and the tug of war had begun.
It really does seem surprising, when we come to consider it, that those
two humble Scottish students, knowing that they were rivals, well aware
that they would have to fight against each other at the great
competition, should have studied side by side, cheek by cheek, for so
many weary months.
But such was the case.
They were very far separated now though, many seats apart, and each was
for himself.
Before he even glanced at the paper, Sandie bent his head over his hands
on the desk and prayed long and fervently, asking a blessing on the work
he was about to do, but reverently adding, “If it be Thy will.”
Do not smile, O thoughtless reader. I myself, the writer of this true
story, have had in my time the most marvellous answers to prayers, and I
do not think I ever prayed for anything fervently, earnestly, without my
prayer being granted.
Sandie soon found that he could do every portion of the exercises,
difficult though they were, except one. That he could not bring out.
After finishing all the rest, he pored and posed over this for one long
hour. His head felt splitting in twain, strange nervous tremors ran
along his limbs, and the cold sweat burst out from every pore.
At last a strange drowsiness stole over him. He put up his feet upon the
seat, leaned his head upon his folded hands, and fell fast asleep.
Now, account for it as you may, reader, account for it if you can, I but
state a fact when I say that in a dream Sandie got out of his
difficulty, and saw the question written plainly out before him.
He was hardly awake when he sprung up and recommenced to write, fast and
faster, and presently the thing was done.
“Hurrah!” he shouted, “EUREKA!”
He really could not help it.
The Professor looked a little surprised, but smiled.
“I hope you enjoyed your nap,” he said.
“Did I sleep long?” said Sandie.
“Only two hours.”
“Oh dear, Professor, I am very very sorry, and I see Maclean has gone.
It was cruel of me to keep you.”
“All right, my lad; don’t mention it. Are you ready now?”
“I shall just write a clean copy of this last, then I’m done.”
In fifteen minutes more he had handed in his papers. The Professor shook
him by the hand, and he went away happy and hopeful.
But he did not remain long so, for while at tea, about an hour after, on
looking over his papers he discovered a mistake he had made, which threw
him into the lowest depths of despair.
He had scarcely finished, when there was a modest knock at the door, and
his friend Maclean himself entered, smiling too.
“He is the winner,” said Sandie to himself, when he saw that smile.
“May I come in?”
“Don’t ask such a question; you know you are as welcome as the primrose
in spring!”
Maclean seated himself on the edge of a chair.
“Mr. M‘Crae--Sandie,” he said, “if you don’t win this £60 prize, I
will.”
“True!”
“And, Sandie, if I lose, you will win.”
“Naturally!”
“But I haven’t flattered myself I shall win, so don’t think it will keep
me awake at night if I don’t.”
“Bravo! Maclean. Spoken like a true Highlander.”
“But, Sandie----”
“Yes, Mac!”
“I want you to promise me one thing, and the same promise do I now make
to you.”
“Name it, lad.”
“I promise faithfully that whichever way the prize goes, it shall not
alter my friendship for you.”
“And I promise the same, Mac.”
“Shake hands.”
“Will you have a cup of tea? Do.”
“Well, I will, to please you.”
“And now,” said Mac, when tea was finished, “suppose we compare papers.”
“Right; but, Maclean, I tell you to begin with, that when I handed in my
work, I thought it was _sine errore_, but only a few minutes ago I
discovered an egregious mistake. So I fear I have little chance.”
The landlady came at Sandie’s summons--there was no bell; he simply
knocked on the floor with the heel of his boot. She cleared the table
and placed thereon cold water and glasses.
Then those two anxious young men drew near, and first Sandie’s papers
were carefully gone over. No mistake but the one could be discovered.
“If you are right,” said Maclean, his hopes going down to zero, “then
I’m very far out of my reckoning in many things.”
And so it really seemed.
Sandie took very great pains, but could not help condemning more than
one of Maclean’s exercises.
Maclean leaned back in his chair at last and heaved a deep sigh.
“What is to be will be,” he said resignedly. “Sandie, you are the lucky
man.”
“Maclean,” said Sandie innocently, “I begin to think I am. Oh, would we
could both get a prize!”
“Maclean,” he said, after a pause, “we have worked and toiled together
all throughout the weary winter. We have been as brothers. We are as
brothers still. We are both poor, but, Mac, you are the poorer. It seems
certain this prize is mine; let me share it with you. I can rub along,
God helping me, with half of it.”
The tears sprang to poor Mac’s eyes.
“Och, and och,” he said, rapidly dashing his hand across his face, “I
never thought the man was living who could bring tears to the eyes of a
Maclean, whose forbears fought and bled at Culloden. Sandie, if anybody
but yourself had made me such an offer, it is wild with the anger I
would have been. But you are like a brother. Promise never to repeat the
offer, and I’ll forgive you. Never will a Maclean touch the copper penny
he has not won or earned. Promise!”
“I promise, and crave your forgiveness--brother.”
* * * * *
Yes, Sandie was declared victor.
And just an hour afterwards, a little boy with a buff-coloured envelope
appeared at the door of Kilbuie house. Elsie flew to meet him, and went
rushing in with the telegram to her mother.
Mrs. M‘Crae’s hand shook so, she could not open it, so Elsie tore it
open.
Her face sparkled with joy when she read the glad tidings.
About the same time another telegraph-boy put in an appearance at the
manse of Belhaven.
This message was addressed to Maggie May. It was the first telegram ever
she had received in her life. She read it a dozen times over, ay, and
kissed it. Then she went joyfully bounding down the road to meet her
father, who had been paying visits in the pony trap.
“O father, father! what do you think?” she shouted.
“Oh, I can guess.”
“Yes, Sandie has won! Oh, isn’t it nice? oh, isn’t he clever?”
She jumped up beside her father as she spoke, that with his own eyes he
might read the joyful news.
“So glad, so glad!” he said with moistening eyes. “He is our own boy--so
glad!”
* * * * *
I may state here at once, that both sums of £60 each, that were paid to
Sandie during the next two years, were placed carefully away in the
North of Scotland Bank. They would come in handy later on, when he
commenced the study of Divinity.
Meanwhile, Sandie relaxed no effort to keep well ahead of his classes.
He determined not only to pass his examinations for his Bachelor of Arts
degree, but to pass with honours.
With this end in view, I am bound to say that he studied harder than he
ought to have done.
Sandie was, however, much reinvigorated in health from his
herring-fishing cruises, which he took every summer. But he never sailed
again from Blackhive. The memories of the sad deaths of poor Eppie and
her wee man were far too painful, and he wished rather they should die
away than revive.
* * * * *
It is the end of the last session of the curriculum. Sandie and several
others are to be capped and gowned in the great hall, as they have their
degrees conferred upon them.
The ceremony is a very pretty, not to say an impressive one, and the
hall is crowded with lady sight-seers, chiefly the friends and relations
of the young Masters and Bachelors of Arts.
Among these is a young girl of about sixteen, so innocently beautiful
that many an opera-glass is turned towards her by the students--who as a
class are by no means shy. She sits by the side of an elderly clergyman
with mild blue eyes and a pleasant smile. The girl is Maggie May, the
gentleman her father. Next her on the other side is Elsie herself,
flanked by Willie Munro. She too is beautiful, and commands a greater
share of attention than she desires, for more than once the colour
suffuses her face, and she feels anything but happy.
When Sandie was receiving his degree, so great was the silence you might
have heard the proverbial pin drop, especially when the Principal of
the University addressed him in words somewhat as follows:--
“I cannot let this opportunity pass, Mr. M‘Crae, of congratulating you
on the most successful career you have sustained at this University. My
brother Professors all agree with me in saying you have been an honour
to the great Northern University. We all wish you long life and good
health. If you have this latter blessing, we do not fear for your
success in life.”
Then every Professor shook Sandie kindly by the hand, while the cheering
of his fellow-students was like thunder itself.
* * * * *
It was all over now, and it is no wonder that reaction came on, or that
depression succeeded to the long-continued excitement of study.
Sandie was home at Kilbuie, and Willie--merry-hearted Willie, who never
let anything trouble him long--was on an early summer visit to the farm.
But do what he could, he was unable to rouse Sandie from the seeming
lethargy into which he was sinking.
Sandie was changed too, and changing still. His cheeks and temples had
become more hollow of late; there was a red spot beneath each eye that
his mother did not like; he had lost much of his strength, perspired
more easily than he ought to have done; his voice was weak, and, worst
symptom of all, he sometimes had a hollow cough.
Willie went straight away to Aberdeen one day, and when he returned
next forenoon Dr. Kilgour was with him.
He most carefully examined our ploughboy-student, then he said to him--
“You’re a sensible youth, so I can speak to you straight. If you can get
away to sunnier climes for a year, including a long sea-voyage in a
sailing ship, you’ll return as hard as a hunter. If you don’t do this,
you are booked for the other side of Jordan.”
The rough but kindly doctor told his mother the same, and she began to
cry.
“Oh,” she moaned, “if my boy goes to sea, I shall never never see him
more!”
“Tuts! woman, don’t be a fool. I tell you it is his only chance. You are
bound to let him go--so there!”
* * * * *
There was that sum of £120 lying untouched in the bank, and this Sandie
determined to devote to the payment of his expenses. If it pleased God,
he said to himself, to bring him back from sea safe and well, he would
be able by teaching to make enough to pay his divinity classes.
So he commenced at once to get ready his outfit.
There was a hopeful pleasure in even this, and while so engaged Sandie
believed himself getting better already.
The parting from his parents and Elsie, and from Maggie May and the
minister, would, he knew, be painful enough, but then there was Hope to
sit up aloft and breathe the flattering tale.
One day Willie, who had been to Aberdeen, burst into Sandie’s room in a
state of joyful excitement. He was waving aloft a curious-looking
document, which was half printed, half written.
“Hurrah!” he cried. “Now, Sandie, I’m going to astonish you. Better
catch hold of something for fear you fall. Do you know the Tomlisons,
the rich shipowners?”
“By hearsay, Willie.”
“Well, they know you by hearsay. They know all your strange story, and
all your hard struggles, and they have heard about your illness, and
even got Dr. Kilgour’s report, and they have sent you a free pass to
Australia, round by the Horn.”
“Oh, how kind!” cried Sandie. “But, Willie, can I in honour accept?”
“If you didn’t accept, I should look upon you as a pagan, Sandie. Sit
down there at once, and write and thank them.”
And Sandie did.
CHAPTER IV
_THE DANGER AND DIFFICULTY WAS TO COME_
The _Boo-boo-boo_ was a crack Aberdeen clipper barque, of large
dimensions, and though not in the habit of carrying passengers,
beautifully fitted aft, with a saloon like a marble hall, and splendid
well-fitted state-rooms off it.
She was in the Australian trade. Her cargo might best be described by
the American term “notions,” for she carried anything and everything by
which she was likely to turn an honest penny.
The barque was nearly new, having only made three voyages, and always
with pecuniary success to her owners.
She lay in Aberdeen harbour, and was nearly ready for sea.
* * * * *
Now partings and all that are not nice things to write about. So I shall
skip them, and reintroduce Sandie to you on a bright moonlit evening, as
the good barque goes bounding away on the wings of a twelve-knot breeze,
well to the outside of the Bay of Biscay.
Both Sandie and Willie--yes, Willie had won his father round to let him
accompany his friend on his long, long voyage. Both Sandie and Willie, I
was going to say, have got over their little experience of _mal de mer_,
and have also acquired their sea-legs.
So, although the ship bobs and curtsies and coquettes with each
advancing wave, it does not annoy our heroes in the least.
And although Sandie is wrapped in a warm Highland plaid, and looks in
the moon’s pale rays somewhat of an invalid, he seems already to have
regained much of his former heartiness and spirit.
The men forward are lazily leaning over the bows smoking and yarning;
the midshipman of the watch paces rapidly up and down, watching sail and
sky, now and then admonishing the man at the wheel to keep her full. He
really seems speaking for speaking’s sake, as middies sometimes do.
Presently Sandie stoops down to pat and pet a dog, who has been
following up and down, close at their heels.
“Dear old Tyro!” he says; “what a happy thought it was to take you, and
what a delightful sailor-dog you do make!”
And now the lid of the after companion is pushed open, and, just like a
jack-in-the-box, up pop a head and shoulders.
The rest of the body follows, and next minute the captain himself
approaches the spot where our heroes are standing together, holding on
to the mizzen rigging.
“And how are you by this time, Sandie, man?” he says right cheerily.
Sandie answers quite as cheerily, and conversation becomes general.
The captain is a short, stoutish individual, very rosy and jolly as to
face, very white as to whiskers and hair. His age might be
sixty-and-five, but he has all the activity of a youth of twenty.
It seems to me, to put it parenthetically, that a life on the ocean wave
really tends to keep people young. Somehow, it makes men brave, because
they are always face to face with danger, till in course of time they
become so inured to its presence that they can afford to despise it. The
sea gives health and strength too, and these in turn give contentment
and jollity; and if a man has this, he is bound to feel young, and look
young also. There is some truth, therefore, in the term “A jolly tar.”
“And now, boys,” says the captain, “come down to supper. I promised to
look after you, and faith I’m going to do my duty.”
The table was already laid, with plenty of delicious cold meat and
vegetables, to say nothing of pudding and sweets.
The first mate sat at one end of this table, a tall, brown-faced,
swarthy individual, with shoulders of wondrous breadth, and hands as big
as spades, more or less. But he had a right merry twinkle in his eye,
especially when the captain asked him to join him in a glass of rosy
wine. The rosy wine, I may inform you, was nothing more nor less than
rum.
After supper the midshipman came down, having been relieved for a spell
by the second mate, who lived forward with other petty officers and an
apprentice or two.
Then Robins, the mate, got out his Cremona. He was a truly beautiful
performer. His magic shifting and his weird tremolo made you imagine you
were in a dream, a dream from which you hoped never to be awakened.
Even his playing of so simple an air as “Black-eyed Susan” transformed
the whole melody, and caused one to think the composer must really have
been a genius.
Willie, who was no mean player on the piano, used often to accompany the
mate. He did so to-night.
The captain seated himself in his easy-chair to listen, folding his
hands in front of him, after putting his red silk handkerchief over the
bald spot on the top of his head.
But seven bells rang out at last, and saying “good-night,” Sandie and
Willie retired to their state-room, and were soon snug in the arms of
Morpheus. As he lay down, that old hymn-song that Willie and the mate
had played kept ringing in Sandie’s head--
ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;
Then calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
In the next verse Sandie got mixed.
The first thing he was conscious or semi-conscious of was a dream, that
seemed very real, of wandering by the side of the romantic Don,
fishing-rod in hand, sweet Maggie by his side.
“You laziest of lazy lads, can’t you wake? Bath’s all ready, and I can
smell breakfast. Turn out. What are you talking about? There is no
Maggie May here.”
It was Willie who was shaking his friend by the shoulder.
That plunge in the marble cauldron of cool sea water was glorious, and
by the time he had finished towelling, Sandie felt downright hungry.
Willie had already had his plunge, and so both were soon dressed and on
deck.
“Ha! good morning, lads. I declare you both look as healthy and happy as
a couple of skip-jacks.”
It was the captain who spoke.
They had ten minutes walking on the weather side. She was on the port
tack, the wind well a-beam. Not a deal of it, but quite enough to make
that bonnie clipper barque dance and bound over the rippling water as if
she really were a thing of life. The sun was already pretty high in the
heavens, and every wavelet sparkled so brightly in his beams that it
dazzled the eyes to gaze eastwards.
“Look there!” cried Captain D’Acre, pointing away aloft. “Ever see such
a sight? Got ’em all on, eh!”
And the good captain rubbed his hands and chuckled with glee.
Certainly our heroes had never seen such a spread before.
Sail after sail towering skywards, the highest seemingly no bigger than
a baby’s bib.
“Why,” said Sandie, “I couldn’t even name them; I could go no farther
than the royals.”
“Oh, but we have got moon-rakers, and star-gazers, and sky-scrapers
above them, and----”
Ring--ding, ding, ding, ding.
It was the steward’s breakfast-bell.
“Ah! what a glorious sound,” said the good skipper. “Come on, boys, and
see me make the fish fly.”
* * * * *
It appeared that this would be an idyllic voyage all through. The good
old skipper himself averred that our heroes had brought him good luck,
for a fair wind held until the barque got into the trades; and although
the vessel was becalmed for about three weeks near the tropics, lying
like a log on the water, with idle flapping sails, rolling from side to
side on the glassy mountain waves with a motion that was terribly
tiresome, this was only what was to be expected. Everybody was rejoiced,
nevertheless, when the trades were once more made, and the
_Boo-boo-boo_ shook herself, as it were, and prepared for solid sailing
after her long and irksome inactivity.
There is no doubt that before he left home Sandie had been threatened
with that scourge of our islands, phthisis or consumption, and that had
he remained in our fog-girt island another winter, he might have
succumbed. But the balmy ozonic breath of the ocean had already done
wonders for him. His cheeks had filled out, his voice was so far from
weak that he could sing old-fashioned Scotch songs, like “Annie Laurie”
and “Afton Water,” to Willie’s accompaniment. He slept sound at night,
and was calm and contented by day.
There was no lack of recreation or enjoyment on board, independent of
music. The saloon library was really a very excellent one, and contained
the best novels of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Bulwer, besides a
score of volumes of Blackwood’s Magazine, and nearly all the standard
poets.
There were games--chess, draughts, &c.--below for evening enjoyment, and
there were games for daytime also on the upper deck, peg on the ring,
sea-quoits, and several others that helped to while away the time.
The first mate, second mate, Willie, and Midshipman Murray played at
leap-frog. Sandie, too, would fain have given a back, and taken one
also, but the skipper would not permit him.
Nor did he allow him to engage in a mad harum-scarum game of football,
that young Murray had invented, and which really caused no end of fun
and amusement, to say nothing of barked shins and a sprained ankle or
two.
Sandie used to delight to watch the sea-birds that, the ship being well
on towards the east shores of America, came floating or hovering round
the ship. The two most remarkable were the frigate-bird and the
albatross. It is supposed that either bird can fly hundreds of miles an
hour. The frigate-bird really can go to sleep in the air, and for days
and weeks it never alights. Far away on some solitary rock or island, in
the spring season, the female bird, and at times the male, sits on their
single egg, and at this time they are so tame that the natives can catch
them with the hand.
But what shall we say about the albatross, or how describe that great
eagle of the sea? The powers of flight of this wondrous bird are
marvellous in the extreme. No golden eagle in Scotland ever swept down
from the sky with more arrow-like speed than does the albatross on a
ship; then he goes sailing round it and round it, apparently without
effort, hardly a wing moving, hardly a feather, but the great head, with
its weird wild eye, keenly alert all the time. Next moment, in the very
teeth of the wind, he goes dashing off, and is seen like a lark against
the clouds miles and miles astern. The wind is this bird’s slave; it
obeys him, carries him hither and thither with lightning speed, and
seems ever ready at his beck and call. Truly a marvellous bird is the
albatross!
But there were strange fishes and creatures in the sea that Sandie
delighted to watch as well. Sometimes they saw a great lonesome whale
ploughing his way through the vastness of the mighty deep, going
straight as an arrow, but whither and how guided no one ever could tell.
At other times and frequently a shoal of dolphins would cross bows or
stern. They took no notice of the brave barque; they had their own life
and business to attend to. But surely a right merry life it was, seeing
the way they jumped and plunged, even cooing in their glee, and turning
somersaults in the air.
Then there was the barracuta, a fish of immense size, not unfrequently
observed. He too used to leap out of the water, but with no apparent
sense of enjoyment.
The skip-jack leapt from wave-top to wave-top, as if he was learning to
fly, and might in course of time become a bird.
The flying gurnet had already learned to fly, and could support himself
quite a long time in the air.
At night the men hung lights about the bows, and these flying-fish flew
on board and flopped about the decks in desperation, till caught and
killed. The wings were kept by the men as souvenirs of the voyage, but
the fish was always fried for the saloon breakfast; and very delicious
eating they were, in flavour not unlike herring, or even salmon trout,
but much more delicate than either.
The _Boo-boo-boo_ touched at Rio, to land some cargo and take in fresh
meat.
Sandie and Willie marvelled much at the romantic beauty of the bay or
harbour, with its surroundings of green and rugged mountains. But when
they landed they marvelled more. Everything strange, everything
wonderful, oceans of fruit and flowers, and the people, whether
inky-black or nearly white, all as contented with their lot as doves in
a tree, and all chattering away as merry as monkeys.
The next halting-place was Sandy Point, inside the Straits of Magellan,
through which they meant to pass.
But now the weather had got black and stormy; the idyllic portion of the
voyage was over; all the danger and difficulty was to come.
People cannot tell what is before them. This is a merciful dispensation
of Providence.
CHAPTER V
_FIGHTING THE FIRELANDERS_
It was the dead of a dreary winter in the Straits of Magellan, about the
beginning of July--the seasons, as I need hardly tell my young readers,
being quite the reverse of ours--the dead of a dreary winter; and no one
who has ever traversed this region of fogs and storms in a sailing ship
at such a time will be likely to forget the feeling of gloom that often
settles down on board, both fore and aft. The men try hard to fight
against it. They smoke, they sing, they fiddle, they dance--on every
available excuse the captain may even splice the main-brace; but all
pleasures are transient, and do not come directly from the heart.
This was the case now on board the good barque _Boo-boo-boo_. Willie and
Sandie felt depressed; even Tyro the collie seemed in low spirits or out
of sorts.
At times the days would be bright and clear enough, and with probably a
strong wind blowing, and a white and chafing sea, the rugged rocks and
mountains would be seen on the distant horizon like threatening
storm-clouds.
Even pieces of ice were not unfrequently met with; but strangest sight
of all were the half-naked savages in their queer little boats that
crossed the barque’s hawse, or, hanging on to her sides, begged for
alms.
These were Firelanders, or Terra del Fuegians.
“And,” said Captain D’Acre, “mild and cringing though they now appear,
they are among the most implacable savages in the world, and cannibals
to boot. Heaven help the merchant ship that runs on shore on their
inhospitable coast; unless they can defend their lives, a short shrift
is theirs. They are killed, and eaten afterwards.”
Sandie shuddered.
“I could tell you some terrible stories connected with these
Firelanders, boys, but the weather is depressing enough. No need to sink
your spirits to zero. Besides, we are still among them. We must not
hulloo till we are out of the wood.”
Very little sail, comparatively speaking, could now be carried, for to a
sailing ship the passage of the Straits presents dangers innumerable.
But to those days, so bright and clear, succeed nights of inky darkness
and silence, a darkness that the light streaming from the binnacle, or
upwards from the dead-lights, seemed to pierce as with arrows of gold.
There was a mystery, nay, even a strange fascination to Sandie--who was
deeply imbued with romance and superstition--in nights like these.
Perhaps even the men felt something of this as well, for hardly would
they speak above a whisper, and even walked along the decks in silence,
as if dreading to wake an echo. But Sandie would lean over the bulwarks,
and peer into the intense black darkness, listening breathlessly, as if
he expected some voice to hail him from the inky deep.
Sometimes his heart almost stood still with a nameless dread, as near by
he could hear a sullen plash and boom. What was it? He could never even
guess.
No one was ever sorry when the long dark nights wore away, and the
cheerless dawn came slowly creeping over the sea from a lurid yellow
horizon, flecked with ugly clouds, like the wings of demon bats.
On the 7th of July, early in the morning, a sudden storm arose,
accompanied by sleet and hail, that there was no facing. The cold was
intense. Yet bravely the _Boo-boo-boo_ kept as near to the wind as ever
barque could do.
It ended, however, in her being blown very considerably out of her
course.
Towards afternoon the wind went down as quickly as it had arisen, and
very uneasy indeed did the captain feel, not only on account of the dead
calm that ensued, but because pine-clad hills and rocks were within a
measurable distance, and because he knew that another black dark night
would succeed the stormy day.
Aberdeen men are noted for their forethought, or canniness, and Captain
D’Acre was no exception.
About three o’clock he called a council. All hands, officers included,
were had aft, and then the skipper addressed them.
“Men,” he said, “we’re not cowards. Cowards don’t grow in Bonnie
Scotland. But I confess to you that I feel uneasy. We are not far off a
shore that is infested--haunted, you may call it--by fierce and
implacable savages. They will attack us to-night, if they think they can
capture the ship. It is best to be prepared. (‘Hurrah!’) Well, we have
plenty of arms. We shall get them up. Luckily, pistols and rifles and
ammunition are part of our cargo. But there is another thing to take
into consideration: we shall not know at what part of the ship, bow, or
stern, or quarter, these fiends shall board. Therefore, I propose to get
up the sheep-netting. It is strong enough to repel boarders, if placed
double all round, on top of the bulwarks. See that done, mate.
Moreover,” he continued, “we have oceans of lamps. Let them be all
trimmed and lit, but covered up. They should be placed here and there on
deck, so as to light us up fore and aft when the enemy comes, by simply
hauling off the tarpaulin. Men, I shall not splice the main-brace now,
but when the danger is over, when the long black night has worn away,
and daylight finds us far from danger, then I’ll splice it twice.”
The men cheered. The mate ordered them forward, and work was commenced
at once.
The sheep or calf netting was got up, and all along the bulwarks fore
and aft, port and starboard, a barricade erected that it would take
savages some time to cut through.
There was a sword or cutlass for every man and a good revolver also.
By the time everything was finished and the lamps lit and covered, black
night had fallen.
The barque was uncomfortably near to the shore, and there was not a
breath of wind, though the sails hung there ready to catch it when it
came.
Coffee and biscuits, with cold meat, were served out to all hands about
nine o’clock; then came the long dreary spell of waiting--waiting for a
horror to come--waiting for something awful to happen--the very
uncertainty as to the shape that something might assume making the
waiting all the worse to bear.
High above them on a hill-top, about eleven o’clock, they noticed a fire
suddenly spring up. It cast a ruddy glare across the waters, a blood-red
path in the pitchy darkness, that was terrible to behold.
In a short time fire after fire shone out on the hill-tops all along the
coast.
“You see those fires,” cried the captain to his men. “They are to summon
the black and infernal clans. We’ll have them here in hundreds in
another hour.”
“We’re ready,” cried a bold voice from among the men. “Never fear, sir.
We’ll show them Glenorchy.”