The Frith of Clyde.
At Gourock, Murray engage two small vessels; one for the earl and
countess, with Wallace as their escort; the other for himself and
Edwin, to follow with a few of the men.
It was a fine evening, and they embarked with everything in their
favor. The boatmen calculated on reaching Bute in a few hours; but ere
they had been half an hour at sea, the wind, veering about, obliged
them to woo its breezes by a traversing motion, which, though it
lengthened their voyage, increased its pleasantness by carrying them
often within near views of the ever-varying shores. Sailing under a
side-wind, they beheld the huge irregular rocks of Dunoon, overhanging
the ocean; while from their projecting brows hung every shrub which can
live in that saline atmosphere.
"There," whispered Lady mar, gently inclining toward Wallace, "might
the beautiful mermaid of Corie Vrekin keep her court! Observe how
magnificently those arching cliffs overhang the hollows, and how richly
they are studded with shells and sea-flowers!"
No flower of the field or of the ocean that came within the ken of
Wallace, wasted its sweetness unadmired. He assented to the remarks of
Lady Mar, who continued to expatiate on the beauties of the shores
which they passed; and thus the hours flew pleasantly away, till,
turning the southern point of the Cowal Mountains, the scene suddenly
changed. The wind, which had gradually been rising, blew a violent
gale from that part of the coast; and the sea, being pent between the
rocks which skirt the continent and the northern side of Bute, became
so boisterous, that the boatmen began to think they should be driven
upon the rocks of the island, instead of reaching its bay. Wallace
tore down the sails, and laying his nervous arms to the oar, assisted
to keep the vessel off the breakers, against which the waves were
driving her. The sky collected into a gloom; and while the teeming
clouds seemed descending even to rest upon the cracking masts, the
swelling of the ocean threatened to heave her up into their very bosoms.
Lady Mar looked with affright at the gathering tempest, and with
difficulty was persuaded to retire under the shelter of a little
awning. The earl forgot his debility in the general terror; and tried
to reassure the boatmen. But a tremendous sweep of the gale, driving
the vessel far across the head of Bute, shot her past the mouth of Loch
Fyne, toward the perilous rocks of Arran. "Here our destruction is
certain!" cried the master of the bark, at the same time confessing his
ignorance of the navigation on this side of the island. Lord Mar,
seizing the helm from the stupefied master, called to Wallace, "While
you keep the men to their duty," cried he, "I will steer."
The earl being perfectly acquainted with the coast, Wallace gladly saw
the helm in his hand. But he had scarcely stepped forward himself to
give some necessary directions, when a heavy sea, breaking over the
deck, carried two of the poor mariners overboard. Wallace instantly
threw out a couple of ropes. Then, amidst a spray so blinding that the
vessel appeared in a cloud, and while buffeted on each side by the
raging of waves, which seemed contending to tear her to pieces, she lay
to for a few minutes, to rescue the men from the yawning gulf; one
caught a rope and was saved, but the other was seen no more.
Again the bark was set loose to the current. Wallace, now with two
rowers only, applied his whole strength to their aid. The master and
the third man were employed in the unceasing toil of laying out the
accumulating water.
While the anxious chief tugged at the oar, and watched the thousand
embattled cliffs which threatened destruction, his eye looked for the
vessel that contained his friends. But the liquid mountains which
rolled around him prevented all view; and, with hardly a hope of seeing
them again, he pursued his attempt to preserve the lives of those
committed to his care.
All this while Lady Mar lay in a state of stupefaction. Having fainted
at the first alarm of danger, she had fallen from swoon to swoon, and
now remained almost insensible upon the bosoms of her maids. In a
moment the vessel struck with a great shock, and the next instant it
seemed to move with a velocity incredible. "The whirpool! the
whirlpool!" resounded from every lip. But again the rapid motion was
suddenly checked, and the women, fancying they had struck on the Vrekin
Rock, shrieked aloud. The cry, and the terrified words which
accompanied it, aroused Lady Mar. She started from her trance, and,
while the confusion redoubled, rushed toward the dreadful scene.
The mountainous waves and lowering clouds, borne forward by the blast,
anticipated the dreariness of night. The last rays of the setting sun
had long passed away, and the deep shadows of the driving heavens cast
the whole into a gloom, even more terrific than absolute darkness;
while the high and beetling rocks, towering aloft in precipitous walls,
mocked the hopes of the sea-beaten mariner, should he even buffet the
waters to reach their base; and the jagged shingles, deeply shelving
beneath the waves, or projecting their pointed summits upward, showed
the crew where the rugged death would meet them.
A little onward, a thousand massy fragments, rent by former tempests
from their parent cliffs, lay at the foundations of the immense
acclivities which faced the cause of their present alarm--a whirlpool
almost as terrific as that of Scarba. The moment the powerful blast
drove the vessel within the influence of the outward edge of the first
circle of the vortex. Wallace leaped from the deck on the rocks, and,
with the same rope in his hand with which he had saved the life of the
seaman, he called to the two men to follow him, who yet held similar
ropes, fastened like his own to the prow of the vessel; and being
obeyed, they strove by towing it along, to stem the suction of the
current.
It was at this instant that Lady Mar rushed forward upon deck.
"In for your life, Joanna!" exclaimed the earl. She answered him not,
but looked wildly around her. Nowhere could she see Wallace.
"Have I drowned him?" cried she, in a voice of frenzy, and striking the
women from her, who would have held her back. "Let me clasp him, even
in the deep waters!"
Happily, the earl lost the last sentence in the roaring of the storm.
"Wallace, Wallace!" cried she, wringing her hands, and still struggling
with her women. At that moment a huge wave, sinking before her,
discovered the object of her fears, straining along the surface of a
rock, and followed by the men in the same laborious task, tugging
forward the ropes to which the bark was attached. She gazed at them
with wonder and affright, for, notwithstanding the beating of the
elements (which seeming to find their breasts of iron and their feet
armed with some preternatural adhesion to the cliff), they continued to
bear resolutely onward. Fortunately, they did not now labor against
the wind. Sometimes they pressed forward on the level edge of the
rock; then a yawning chasm forced them to leap from cliff to cliff, or
to spring on some more elevated projection. Thus, contending with the
vortex and the storm, they at last arrived at the doubling of
Cuthonrock,** the point that was to clear them of this minor Corie
Vrekin. But at that crisis the rope which Wallace held broke, and,
with the shock, he fell backward into the sea. The foremost man
uttered a dreadful cry; but ere it could be echoed by his fellows,
Wallace had risen above the waves, and, beating their whelming waters
with his invincible arm, soon gained the vessel and jumped upon the
deck. The point was doubled, but the next moment the vessel struck,
and in a manner that left no hope of getting her off. All must take to
the water or perish, for the second shock would scatter her piecemeal.
**Cuthon means the mournful sound of waves.
Again Lady Mar appeared. At sight of Wallace she forgot everything but
him; and perhaps would have thrown herself into his arms, had not the
anxious earl caught her in his own.
"Are we to die?" cried she to Wallace, in a voice of horror.
"I trust that God has decreed otherwise," was his reply. "Compose
yourself; all may yet be well."
Lord Mar, from his yet unhealed wounds, could not swim; Wallace
therefore tore up the benches of the rowers, and binding them into the
form of a small raft, made it the vehicle for the earl and countess,
with her two maids and the child. While the men were towing it, and
buffeting with it through the breakers, he too threw himself into the
sea to swim by its side, and be in readiness in case of accident.
Having gained the shore, or rather the broken rocks, that lie at the
foot of the stupendous craigs which surround the Isle of Arran, Wallace
and his sturdy assistants conveyed the countess and her terrified women
up their acclivities. Fortunately for the shipwrecked voyagers, though
the wind raged, its violence was of some advantage, for it nearly
cleared the heavens of clouds, and allowed the moon to send forth her
guiding light. By her lamp one of the men discovered the mouth of a
cavern, where Wallace gladly sheltered his dripping charges.
The child, whom he had guarded in his own arms during the difficult
ascent, he now laid on the bosom of its mother. Lady mar kissed the
hand that relinquished it, and gave way to a flood of grateful tears.
The earl, as he sunk almost powerless against the side of the cave, yet
had strength enough to press Wallace to his heart. "Ever preserver of
me and mine!" cried he, "how must I bless thee!-My wife, my child-"
"Have been saved to you, my friend," interrupted Wallace, "by the
presiding care of Him who walked the waves! Without His especial arm
we must all have perished in this awful night; therefore let our
thanksgivings be directed to Him alone."
"So be it!" returned the earl, and dropping on his knees, he breathed
forth so pathetic and sublime a prayer of thanks, that the countess
trembled, and bent her head upon the bosom of her child. She could not
utter the solemn Amen, that was repeated by every voice in the cave.
Her unhappy infatuation saw no higher power in this great preservation
than the hand of the man she adored. She felt that guilt was cherished
in her heart; and she could not lift her eyes to join with those who,
with the boldness of innocence, called on Heaven to attest the sanctity
of their vows.
Sleep soon sealed every weary eye, excepting those of Wallace. A
racking anxiety respecting the fate of the other vessel, in which were
the brave men of Bothwell, and his two dear friends, filled his mind
with dreadful forebodings that they had not outlived the storm.
Sometimes, when wearied nature for a few minutes sunk into slumber, he
would start, grief-struck, from the body of Edwin floating on the briny
flood, and as he awoke, a cold despondence would tell him that his
dream was, perhaps, too true. "Oh! I love thee, Edwin!" exclaimed he
to himself; "and if my devoted heart was to be separated from all but a
patriot's love!-why did I think of loving thee?-must thou, too, die,
that Scotland may have no rival, that Wallace may feel himself quite
alone!"
Thus he sat musing, and listening, with many a sigh, to the yelling
gusts of wind, and louder roaring of the water. At last the former
gradually subsided, and the latter, obeying the retreating ride, rolled
away in hoarse murmurs.
Morning began to dawn, and spreading upon the mountains of the opposite
shore, shed a soft light over their misty sides. All was tranquil and
full of beauty. That element, which so lately in its rage had
threatened to ingulf them all, now flowed by the rocks at the foot of
the cave in gentle undulations; and where the spiral cliffs gave a
little resistance, the rays of the rising sun, striking on the bursting
waves, turned their vapory showers into dropping gems.
While his companions were still wrapped in sleep, Wallace stole away to
seek some knowledge respecting the part of the Isle of Arran on which
they were cast. Close by the mouth of the cave he discovered a cleft
in the rock, into which he turned, and finding the upward footing
sufficiently secure, clambered to the summit. Looking around, he found
himself at the skirt of a chain of high hills, which seemed to stretch
from side to side over the island, while their tops, in alpine
succession, rose in a thousand grotesque and pinnacled forms. The
ptarmigan and capercailzie were screaming from those upper regions; and
the nimble roes, with their fawns, bounding through the green defiles
below. No trace of human habitation appeared; but from the size and
known population of the island, he knew he could not be far from
inhabitants; and thinking it best to send the boatmen in search of
them, he retraced his steps. The morning vapors were fast rolling
their snowy wreaths down the opposite mountains, whose heads, shining
in resplendent purple, seemed to view themselves in the bright
reflections of the now smooth sea. Nature, like a proud conqueror,
appeared to have put on a triumphal garb, in exultation of the
devastation she had committed the night before. Wallace shuddered, as
the parallel occurred to his mind, and turned from the scene.
On re-entering the cave he dispatched the seamen, and disposed himself
to watch by the sides of his still sleeping friends. An hour hardly
had elapsed before the men returned, bringing with them a large boat
and its proprietor. But, alas! no tidings of Murray and Edwin, whom he
had hoped might have been driven somewhere on the island. In bringing
the boat round to the creek under the rock, the men discovered that the
sea had driven their wreck between two projecting rocks, where it now
lay wedged. Though ruined as a vessel, sufficient held together to
warrant their exertions to save the property. Accordingly they entered
it, and drew thence most of the valuables which belonged to Lord Mar.
While this was doing, Wallace reascended to the cave, and finding the
earl awake, told him a boat was ready for their re-embarkation. "But
where, my friend, are my nephews?" inquired he; "Alas! has this fatal
expedition robbed me of them?"
Wallace tried to inspire him with a hope he scarcely dare credit
himself, that they had been saved on some more distant shore. The
voices of the chiefs awakened the women, but the countess still slept.
Aware that she would resist trusting herself to the waves again, Lord
Mar desired that she might be moved on board without disturbing her.
This was readily done, the men having only to take up the extremities
of the plaid on to the boat. The earl received her head on his bosom.
All were then on board, the rowers struck their oars, and once more the
little party found themselves launched upon the sea.
While they were yet midway between the isles, with a bright sun playing
its sparkling beams upon the gently rippling waves, the countess,
heaving a deep sigh, slowly opened her eyes. All around glared with
the light of day; she felt the motion of the boat, and raising her
head, saw that she was again embarked on the treacherous element on
which she had lately experienced so many terrors. She grew deadly
pale, and grasped her husband's hand. "My dear Joanna," cried he, "be
not alarmed, we are all safe."
"And Sir William Wallace has left us?" demanded she.
"No, madam," answered a voice from the steerage, "not till this party
is safe at Bute do I quit it."
She looked round with a grateful smile; "Ever generous! How could I
for a moment doubt our preserver?"
Wallace bowed, but remained silent; and they passed calmly along till
the vessel came in sight of a birling,** which, bounding over the
waves, was presently so near the earl's, that the figures in each could
be distinctly seen. In it the chiefs, to their rapturous surprise,
beheld Murray and Edwin. The latter, with a cry of joy, leaped into
the sea; the next instant he was over the boat's side, and clasped in
the arms of Wallace. Real transport, true happiness, now dilated the
heart of the before desponding chief. He pressed the dear boy again
and again to his bosom, and kissed his white forehead with all the
rapture of the fondest brother. "Thank God! thank God!" was all that
Edwin could say; while, at every effort to tear himself from Wallace,
to congratulate his uncle on his safety, his heart overflowing toward
his friend, opened afresh, and he clung the closer to his breast; till
at last, exhausted with happiness, the little hero of Dumbarton gave
way to the sensibility of his tender age, and the chief felt his bosom
wet with the joy--drawn tears of his youthful banneret.
While this was passing, the birling had drawn close to the boat; and
Murray, shaking hands with his uncle and aunt, exclaimed to Wallace,
"That urchin is such a monopolizer, I see you have not a greeting for
any one else." On this Edwin raised his face, and turned to the
affectionate welcomes of Lord Mar. Wallace stretched out his hand to
the ever-gay Lord Andrew; and, inviting him into the boat, soon
learned, that on the portentous beginning of the storm, Murray's
company made direct to the nearest creek in Bute, being better seamen
than Wallace's helmsman who, until danger stopped him, had foolishly
continued to aim for Rothsay. By this prudence, without having been in
much peril, or sustained any fatigue, Murray's party had landed safely.
The night came on dark and tremendous; but not doubting that the
earl's rowers had carried him into a similar haven, the young chief and
his companion kept themselves very easy in a fisher's hut till morning.
At an early hour, they then put themselves at the head of the Bothwell
men; and, expecting they should come up with Wallace and his party at
Rothsay, walked over to the castle. Their consternation was
unutterable when they found that Lord Mar was not there, threw
themselves into a birling, to seek their friends upon the seas; and
when they did espy them, the joy of Edwin was so great, that not even
the unfathomable gulf could stop him from flying to the embrace of his
friend.
**Birling is a small boat generally used by fishers.
While mutual felicitations passed, the boats, now nearly side by side,
reached the shore; and the seamen, jumping on the rocks, moored their
vessels under the projecting towers of Rothsay. The old steward
hastened to receive a master who had not blessed his aged eyes for many
a year; a master who had the infant in his arms that was to be the
future representative of the house of Mar, he wept aloud. The earl
spoke to him affectionately, and then walked on with Edwin, whom he
called to support him up the bank. Murray led the countess out of the
boat; while the Bothwell men so thronged about Wallace, congratulating
themselves on his safety, that she saw there was no hope of his arm
being then offered to her.
Having entered the castle, the steward led them into a room, in which
he had spread a plentiful repast. Here Murray (having recounted the
adventures of his voyage) called for a history of what had befallen his
friends. The earl gladly took up the tale, and, with many a glance of
gratitude to Wallace, narrated the perilous events of their shipwreck,
and providential preservation on the Isle of Arran.
Happiness now seemed to, have shed her heavenly influence over every
bosom. All hearts owned the grateful effects of the late rescue. The
rapturous joy of Edwin burst into a thousand sallies of ardent and
luxurious imagination. The high spirits of Murray turned every
transient subject into a "mirth-moving jest". The veteran earl seemed
restored to health and to youth; and Wallace felt the sun of
consolation expanding in his bosom. He had met a heart, though a young
one, on which his soul might repose; that dear selected brother of his
affection was saved from the whelming waves; and all his superstitious
dreams of a mysterious doom vanished before this manifestation of
heavenly goodness. His friend, too, the gallant Murray, was spared.
How many subjects had he for unmurmuring gratitude! And with an
unclouded brow and a happy spirit, he yielded to the impulse of the
scene. He smiled; and, with an endearing graciousness, listened to
every fond speaker; while his own ingenuous replies bespoke the
treasures of love which sorrow, in her cruelest aspect, had locked
within his heart.
The complacency with which he regarded every one--the pouring out of his
beneficent spirit, which seemed to embrace all, like his dearest
kindred--turned every eye and heart toward him, as to the source of
every bliss; as to a being who seemed made to love, and be beloved by
every one. Lady mar looked at him, listened to him, with her rapt soul
seated in her eyes. In his presence all was transport.
But when he withdrew for the night, what was then the state of her
feelings! The overflowing of heart he felt for all, she appropriated
solely for herself. The sweetness of his voice, the unutterable
expression of his countenance, while, as he spoke, he veiled his eyes
under their long brown lashes, had raised such vague hopes in her
bosom, that--he being gone--she hastened her adieus to the rest, eager to
retire to bed, and there uninterruptedly muse on the happiness of
having at last touched the heart of a man for whom she would resign the
world.