"No, sir, I'm not a sailor; I'm only a boatman, or a fisherman if you
like it better."
But this was only McBain's modesty. A sailor by profession he certainly
was not, although he had, as I before told you, spent a portion of his
younger life at sea; but from his infancy he was used to rough it, not
only on the stormy lakes of the inlands, but in open or half-decked
boats all along the western shores of romantic Scotland, and that, too,
in winter as well as in summer; nor was there a loch, nor cape, nor kyle
he did not know every bearing of, from Handa Isle in the north,
southwards as far as the Ross of Mull. And that is saying a great deal,
for on that wild, indented coast, exposed as it is to the whole force of
the wide Atlantic, stormy seas are met with and sudden squalls, such as
are happily but little known on the shores of Merrie England.
"He _is_ a good seaman, isn't he?" Rory had said one day to old Ap,
referring, of course, to McBain.
"Is it seamanship you talk of?" old Ap replied. "Look, you see, sir;
I'd rather be in a herring boat with McBain in half a gale of wind,
although he was managing the sails by himself look, you see, and
steering with his teeth or knees, so to speak, than I'd be in a 200-ton
schooner, with a score of dandified yachtsmen; yes, yes, indeed."
Hearing old Ap talk thus enthusiastically about quiet, non-assuming
McBain, the latter gained an ascendency in Rory's estimation that he
never after lost.
Often, in fact as a rule, McBain smiled when he gave an order to his
boys, but his was not a stereotyped smile. His smile played not only
around his lips, but it danced around his eyes and lighted up all his
face. It was not, however, so much the smile of mirth as that of
genuine good-heartedness.
Often, even when in a difficult position, he would allow the young men
to handle the boat according to their own judgment, but at the same time
his grave grey eyes would be cautiously watching their every movement,
and his hand would be ready at a moment's notice to grasp a sheet or
rectify a foul, and so prevent unpleasantness. I am not sure that
McBain's method of teaching was not somewhat unique in many ways, but it
was at times very effective.
"I'm not sorry that this should have happened, my boys," was one of
McBain's favourite expressions, after any little accident or mishap.
His crew knew well that he meant that a lesson given roughly, and sent
well home, was likely to be remembered.
One day, for example, with Rory as steersman, their course led them
pretty close to the passenger boat _Crocodile_. Perhaps they needn't
have gone near enough to have most of the wind taken out of their sails,
and their way considerably lessened; perhaps, though, Rory was just a
little proud of his pretty vessel, and of being looked at by the lady
passengers, looked at and probably admired; be this as it may, he forgot
a warning that McBain had often given him, to have an easy sheet for the
sudden rush of wind that would meet them, immediately after passing to
leeward of anything, and so, on this particular day, his pride had a
most disagreeable fall, and he himself, with the rest of his companions,
had a good wetting, for down went the _Flower of Arrandoon_ on her beam
ends as soon as they had cleared the _Crocodile_. But she was well
ballasted, the sliding hatch was on, and when sheets were eased she
righted again, though it was a considerable time before _Rory_ righted
again.
McBain shook himself a bit, much in the same way that a Newfoundland dog
does.
"I'm not sorry that this should have happened," he said, quietly.
Rory was, though. Especially when Ralph laughed pointedly at, or
towards him.
Well, but another day Rory had his revenge, and the laughing was all on
the other side.
It happened thus: they were cracking on nicely with every inch of canvas
spread, sailing pretty close to the wind. The light breeze was on to
the land, from which they were distant about a mile and a half, and
although the sea was very far from being rough, there was a bit of a
swell rolling in. Now Ralph was tall, and stout, and strong; he was no
feather-weight therefore, but for all that the cutter did not require
him to sit upon her weather gunwale, in order to keep her from
capsizing. She could have done just as well had he kept on the seat,
and by so doing he would have been consulting his own safety. Many a
time and oft had McBain pointed this out to him, but he seemed forgetful
on this particular point, and so, on the day in question, he was lazily
occupying the forbidden quarter. One would have thought that the saucy
wee yacht had done it on purpose; be that as it may--when down in the
trough between two seas she simply gave a kind of a swing--hardly a
lurch--in the wrong direction for Ralph's stability, and over he went,
literally speaking, heels over head, into the sea, a most ungraceful and
unscientific way of taking to the water.
Both Allan and Rory knew well that their friend could swim, and the
latter at all events seemed to treat the affair as a very pretty piece
of entertainment.
"Man overboard?" he shouted. "Let go the life-buoy, Allan."
Instinctively Allan did as he was told, and sent the big cork ring
flying after Ralph, but seeing the merry twinkle in Rory's eye, and
knowing there was no necessity for it, he repented having done so next
minute.
"Lower away your dinghy," cried McBain to Allan, as he hauled the
headsails to windward and stopped the cutter's way, "it will be a bit of
practice for you."
Allan was pulling away astern two minutes after in the little boat,
dignified by the undignified name of dinghy, for she was very tiny
indeed, but Allan could have sculled a wash-tub.
He soon met Ralph coming ploughing and spluttering along, breasting the
billows, for he was a powerful young swimmer, with the life-buoy in
front of him, which, however, he scorned to make use of.
"Take your little joke on board," he cried laughing. Allan picked up
the buoy and threw Ralph a rope.
"That's better," said Ralph, and in a few minutes more they were
alongside and on board.
Rory was singing "A life on the ocean wave," and the merry twinkle had
not left his eyes.
When Ralph had changed his dripping clothes for dry ones, and reappeared
looking somewhat blue, Rory had his laugh out, and all hands were fain
to join.
"I caught a crab indeed," said poor Ralph.
"Caught a crab is it?" cried Rory. "It wasn't a crab but a turtle you
turned. Och! it was the beautifulest sight ever I saw in the world to
see the long legs of you go up. You know, Ralph, my brother tar, you
couldn't see it yourself, or it's delighted you'd have been entirely!"
and Rory laughed again till the tears came into his eyes.
"I'm not sorry that this happened," said McBain, "after all."
For her size I do not think there was a more comfortable little yacht
afloat than the _Flower of Arrandoon_. Small though the box was they
called by courtesy the saloon, it was fitted with every comfort, and
there was not an inch of space from stem to stern that was not well
economised for some useful purpose. One useful lesson in yacht life our
heroes were not long in learning, and that was to put everything back
again in its proper place as soon as it was done with; in other words,
the circumstances under which they were placed taught them tidiness, so
that there was no lubberliness about their little ship. And everything
in and about her was the perfection of cleanliness and neatness, for
they were not only the crew, but the cook and the cabin-boy as well.
And so, plain woodwork was as white as snow, paint-work clean, polished
wood looked as bright as the back of a boatman beetle, and brass shone
like burnished gold. Their meals they managed to serve up to time, and
cooking was performed by means of a spirits-of-wine-canteen.
But it is not the cruise of the _Flower of Arrandoon_ I am writing, else
would I love to tell you of all the adventures our heroes had among
these islands, and how thoroughly they enjoyed themselves. No wonder
they felt well, and happy, and jolly; no wonder that Allan said to his
companions, one beautiful day early in August, "I do wonder that more
fellows don't go in for this sort of life."
They had just been dining gipsy-fashion on shore when he made the
remark. They were reclining on the top of a high cliff on the western
coast of Skye. Far down beneath them was the sea, the blue Minch,
bounded on the distant horizon by the rugged mountains of Harris and
Lewis. To their right lay the rocks of the Cave of Gold; beyond that,
on a lofty promontory, the ruins of Duntulm Castle; then green hills;
while downwards to the left sloped the land until quite on a level with
the water; and there in a little natural harbour of rock lay the yacht,
looking, as Rory always said, as tidy and neat as nine pins, but
wonderfully diminutive as seen from the spot where Allan McGregor and
his friends were indolently lounging.
The day was exceedingly bright and beautiful, the sun shone with
unclouded splendour, the hills were purple-painted with the heather's
bloom, and the air was laden with the perfume of the wild thyme.
No one answered Allan's remark; perhaps everybody was thinking how
pleasant it all was, nevertheless.
"Boys!" said Ralph, at length.
"Hullo!" cried all hands, but nobody moved a muscle.
"Boys!" said Ralph, in a louder key.
"That means `attention,'" said Allan, sitting up. All hands followed
his example.
"Och! then," cried Rory, "just look at Ralph's face. Sure now if we
could believe that the dear boy possesses such a thing as a mind, we'd
think there was something on it."
"Well," said Ralph, smiling, "I sha'n't keep you longer in suspense; the
letter I got to-day from Uig brought me--that is, brought _us_--glorious
news."
"And you've kept it all this time to yourself?" said Rory. "Och! you're
a rogue."
"I confess," said Ralph, "it was wrong of me, but I thought we could
talk the matter ever so much more comfortably over after dinner,
especially in a place like this.
"I've got the best father in the world," said Ralph, with an emphasis,
and almost an emotion, which he did not usually exhibit.
"No one doubts it," said Allan, somewhat sadly; "I wish I had a father."
"And I," said Rory.
"Well, would you believe it, boys?" continued Ralph, "he now in this
letter offers me what we all so much desire a real yacht, a big,
glorious yacht, that may sail to any clime and brave the stormiest
seas. He said that though I had never even hinted my wishes, he
gathered from my letters that my heart was bent upon sailing a yacht,
and that his son should own one worthy of the family name he bore. Oh!
boys; aren't you happy? But what ails you?"
He looked from the one to the other as he spoke.
"What ails you? What ails you both, boys? Speak."
"Well!" said Rory, "then the truth is this, that the same thought is
running through both our two minds at once. And there is only one way
out of the trouble. We won't go with you, there! We won't go in your
yacht, in _your_ yacht. Mind you, Ralph, dear boy, I say we won't go in
_your_ yacht."
"That's it," said Allan, repeating Rory's words; "we won't go in _your_
yacht."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Ralph, right heartily. Then he jumped to his
feet, and smilingly doffing his cap, "I respect your Celtic pride,
gentlemen," he said. "It shall not be _my_ yacht. It shall be _our_
yacht, and _we'll go shares in expenses_."
"Spoken like men, every one of you," roared McBain, no longer able to
restrain himself. "I'm proud of my boys. Indeed, indeed, old McBain is
proud of his pupils."
And he shook hands with them all round. This is Highland fashion, you
know, reader.
They spent fully four hours longer on that cliff-top; they had so much
to talk of now, for new prospects were opening out before them, and they
determined to try at least to turn them to good account.
The sun was setting ere they reached their little vessel once again, and
prepared to turn in for the night.