A SUMMER'S DAY AT SEA--STRANGE SCENERY--THE SQUALL--ADVENTURE AMONG
BOTTLE-NOSED WHALES--THE "SNOWBIRD."
The cutter yacht had been riding at anchor for two whole days and nights
in the beautiful little bay of Talisker. This bay lies on the
west-by-south side of the wonderful Isle of Wings, which we call Skye,
and forms, in fact, the mouth or entrance to one of the prettiest glens
in all the Highlands. [It is called in the Gaelic language "the winged
island," owing to its peculiar formation.] Let me try to describe it to
you then in a few words, but I shall be very clever indeed if I can give
you anything like a just conception of its beauty. Suppose you have
been standing in from the sea, and have just dropped anchor at the mouth
of the glen, which is not more than half a mile in width, you will find
on your right hand and on your left tall beetling cliffs, the tops of
which are often hidden by the clouds. You may judge of their height
when I tell you that the eagles have built their nests for ages on the
southern rock. The bay itself is perfectly crescentic, receiving in its
centre the waters of a fine salmon stream, while its waves break upon
silver sand instead of the usual shingle. The bottom of the glen is
perfectly flat, and occupied by well-tilled land; its sides descend
precipitously from the table-land above, so much so that the burns or
streamlets that form after every summer shower come roaring down over
them in white foaming cascades. The upper end of the glen is wooded,
and from above the trees peep out the white chimneys of the mansion
house of Talisker. This glen or ravine ends in a sugar-loaf mountain of
great height, the little pathway to the top of which winds round and
round, so that looking at it from below it reminds you forcibly of the
pictures of the Tower of Babel, as seen in old-fashioned illustrated
Bibles.
Our heroes had been enjoying themselves, fishing in the stream all day,
dining with the hospitable squire in the evenings, and going off at
nights to sleep on board their little yacht.
"Boys," said McBain, early in the morning of the third day, "rouse out
like good fellows."
Rory and Allan were soon stirring. Ralph contented himself with simply
turning himself round in his oblong hammock, and feebly inquiring,--
"What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" said McBain, sitting down near him; "this is the
matter--the morning is far too bright to please me; there is a little
wind from the nor'ard, and it seems increasing, and the glass is
tumbling down, and we can't lie here unless we want to leave the bones
of the _Flower of Arrandoon_ to bleach on the sands."
"Och!" cried Rory, in his richest brogue; "it's very wrong of you to
bother the poor English crayture so much. Bring him a cup of tea and
leave him alone."
But Ralph was now fully aroused, and three minutes afterwards the three
friends were splashing and dashing in the sea, mounting the rollers,
diving and treading water, laughing and joking, and making more noise
than all the gulls and kittywakes that screamed around them.
McBain had stopped on board to cook the breakfast, and it was all ready
by the time they were dressed--fresh salmon steaks, new-laid eggs, and
fragrant coffee.
"Now then, my lads," cried McBain, "on deck all of you, and stand by to
get the anchor up. I've sent a message to the squire, saying we must
start, and bidding him good-bye for the present.
"Which way are we going, captain?" asked Rory.
"Up north, my lad," was the reply. "Portree is our destination, and
though by going south we would have a favouring wind at first, we would
never get past Loch Alsh; besides, if you look at the chart you'll find
that northwards is nearer. And now, Rory, please, no more talk; you
just untie the mainsail cover and undo the tyers, that's your work,
because you're neat."
"Thank you," said Rory.
"Mainsheet all right?"
"All right, sir."
"Well, heave away and shorten cable.
"So--top the boom, hook on, hoist together. Up goes the gaff. Well
done, lads, and handily. Belay--why, I have hardly to speak. Well done
again. Now, if your sheets are shipshape, up with the jib and foresail.
"Trip the anchor, and on board with it. There we are, Rory; we're going
on the starboard tack a little way; just cant her head. Now she feels
it. Belay halyards, and coil the slack. That's right and not lubberly.
Rory, you'll make the best sailor of the lot of us. No, never mind the
topsail for a bit. Presently though. Now I'll steer for a little. We
may have a puff when we clear the cliffs. Meanwhile, hoist your morsel
of ensign, and, Rory, fire that farthing gun of yours."
"The farthing gun made a deal of noise for the price of it, anyhow,"
said Rory.
Hardly had the sound ceased reverberating from among the cliffs, when
two white puffs of smoke rose up from under the nearest tree, and then,
bang! bang! came the sound towards them. "Good-bye" it seemed to say.
It was Macallum, the keeper, with his double-barrelled gun.
There was not much of a breeze after all, and plenty of sail being
carried, they bowled along beautifully on the starboard tack, sailing
moderately, but not _too_ close to the wind. Although every now and
then the cutter elevated her bows, and brought them down again with a
peevish thud that sent the spray flying from stem to stern, nobody
minded that a bit; the weather was warm, the water was warm, and besides
they were all encased in oilskins.
Indeed it was one of the most enjoyable cruises they had ever had,
counting from their departure from Glen Talisker to their arrival at
Portree. McBain knew the coast well. He did not hug it, neither did he
put far out to sea; he put her about on the other tack shortly, as if he
meant to go up Loch Bacadale. Presently they were not far off Idrigail
Point, and the cutter was once more laid on the starboard tack, and
sails being trimmed, and everything working well, there was time for
conversation.
"Shall I steer?" said Rory, who was never happier than when he was "the
man at the wheel."
"Not just yet," said McBain; "when we're round Point Aird, very likely
I'll let you do as you please; but, boys, I've got that falling glass on
the brain, and I want to take every advantage, and fight for every
corner."
"Look now, Ralph and Rory, you've never been so close in-shore before.
Allan, don't _you_ speak, you have. The day is bright and clear; do you
see McLeod's Table?"
"The never a table see I," said Rory.
"Well," continued McBain, "that lofty mountain with the flat top is so
called."
"And a precious big feast McLeod could spread there too," said Allan.
"And a precious big feast he did one time spread," replied McBain, "if
an old Gaelic book of mine is anything to go by."
"Tell us," cried Rory, who was always on tiptoe to hear a tale.
"It would seem, then, that the McLeods and the McDonalds were, in old
times, deadly foes; although at times they appeared to make it up, and
vowed eternal friendship. The chief McLeod invited the McDonalds once
to a great `foy,' and after eating and drinking on the top of that great
hill, until perhaps they had had more than enough, three hundred armed
Highlanders sprang from an ambush among the rocks and slew the McDonalds
without mercy. Their flesh was literally given to the eagles, as Walter
Scott expresses it, and their bones, which lay bleaching on the mountain
top, have long since mouldered to dust.
"On another occasion," continued McBain, "the McLeods surprised two
hundred McDonalds at worship, in a cave, and building fires in front of
it, smothered them. The poor half-burned wretches that leapt out
through the flames speedily fell by the edge of the sword."
"What cruel, treacherous brutes those McLeods must have been," remarked
Ralph.
"Well," said McBain, "war is always cruel, and even in our own day
treachery towards the enemy is far from uncommon; but, mind you, the
McDonalds were not sinless in this respect either. A chief of this bold
clan once invited a chief of the McLeods to dinner in his castle of
Duntulm."
"I wouldn't have gone a step of my toe," cried Rory.
"But McLeod did," said McBain, "and he went unarmed."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Allan; "it strikes me they were playing the rogue's
game of `confidence.'"
"Something very like it, but McDonald apparently didn't know how kind to
be to his guest, and pressed him to eat and drink _galore_, as we say.
McDonald even showed McLeod to his bedroom, and, for the first time
perhaps in his lifetime, poor McLeod began to quake when he found
himself within the donjon-keep.
"`There is your bedroom,' said the stern McDonald. `Yonder is where
your body will lie, and yonder is where your bones will repose when the
rats have done with them.'
"McLeod would have tried to rush out, but strong arms were there to
thrust him back. No one came near the prisoner for two days, then
through the barred window food was handed him, salt-sodden flesh and a
flask of water. He ate greedily, then applied the jar to his lips to
quench his thirst. Horror! the water was seawater."
"And he perished of thirst?" inquired Ralph.
"So the story goes," replied McBain.
"A chief of the McLeods," said McBain, "one of the very, _very_ oldest
of the chiefs, had a large family of grown-up daughters, and they
wouldn't always obey the old man, and one day, instead of attending upon
him--for he was blind--they went to bathe and disport themselves among
the billows, but a sea-nymph came and turned them all into stone."
"And served them right," said Rory.
"And there they stand; those tall black rocks, well in towards the point
yonder, with the white waves dashing among their feet. They are called
McLeod's maidens until this day."
"Well," said Ralph, with a quiet smile, "there is no mistake about it--
there were giants in those days."
They were nearly at Dunvegan Head by this time, standing, in fact, well
in towards it on the port tack, for the waters are deep even close
in-shore. When they had left it on the beam they opened out broad Loch
Follart, when McBain, pointing landwards, said,--
"In there is a little bay, called Loch Bay, and by it a rural hamlet or
village, which is claimed as the real capital of Skye. It is called
Stein."
"But see, see," cried Rory. "Is that a geyser rising out of the sea
between us and the shore?"
"Why, it is very like a fountain," said Ralph.
"It is very like a whale," said Allan, and McBain laughed.
"It is a whale," he added. "It is the solitary, or caa'in' whale, and
the rascal is in there after the herrings. A more independent brute
doesn't swim in the sea. He ignores a boat. He looks upon mankind as
poor, miserable, puny creatures, and I don't think he would go very far
out of his way for a line-of-battle ship."
An hour or two afterwards they came in sight of Duntulm Castle,
previously having passed the little church of Kilmuir, with its
bleak-looking stone-built manse. Near it is a graveyard, which had very
great interest for poetic Rory.
"Poor Flora McDonald!" he almost sighed. "I always think that Prince
Charlie should have taken her away with him to sunny Italy and married
her. How beautifully the story of the ill-fated prince would have read
had it ended thus!"
"Rory," said Ralph, "I'll leave you to dream and romance while I go and
see about the luncheon."
"So like an Englishman," said Rory.
"Never mind," replied Ralph; "we can't be all alike. What if I _do_
prefer roly-poly to romance; don't the English win all their battles on
beefsteak?"
"Yes, it is time for you to dive in," said Rory, laughing; "but there,
hand out my fiddle and I'll forgive you. If the sea-nymphs will only be
kind now," he continued, "and keep me dry, I'll play and sing you
something appropriate."
He did, in his sweet tenor voice, accompanying himself with his
favourite instrument. He sang them the old song that begins:
"Far over the hills and the heather so green,
And down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat weeping alane,
The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e.
She looked at a boat with the breezes that swung,
Away on the wave like a bird of the main,
And ay as it lessened, she sigh'd and she sung,
`Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again.'"
"'Deed, indeed," said Rory, in his richest brogue, and with a moisture
in his eye, "it is very pretty, and would be romantic entirely if the
frizzle, _frizzle, frizzle_ of that Saxon's frying-pan wouldn't join in
the chorus."
"Ham and eggs, boys; ham and eggs?" cried Ralph. "Away with
melancholy."
Not far from Duntulm Castle was a house, of which our friends bore the
kindliest of recollections, for here they had been most hospitably
entertained.
"I wonder," said Ralph and Rory, almost in the same breath, "if they'll
see us and know us."
"Fire your gun again, anyhow, Rory," said McBain.
The gun was run in, loaded and fired, and they had the satisfaction of
seeing their friends in the garden waving welcome to them with a
Highland plaid. Then the ensign was dipped, the headsails hauled to
leeward again, and away they went.
But see, it is getting wonderfully dark ahead, and a misty cloud seems
rapidly nearing them, with a long white line right under it.
"Stand by the jib-sheet," cried McBain. "Ease away; now luff, my lady."
The cutter was laid nearly lee-rail under, but she bore it wonderfully
well. Then sail was taken in, for, said McBain, "We'll have more of
these gentry." And so they had, and it was more than an hour ere they
doubled Ru-Hunish Point, and bore away for the Aird. Once round here
the danger was over, and they were no longer on a lee shore.
I myself never could see the good of a squall, either white or black,
and either of them are dangerous enough in all conscience when they take
you unawares, but it is said there is good in all things. Be this as it
may, the squalls the cutter had gone through seemed to clear the summer
air in a remarkable manner, for even the glass began to rise, and with
it the spirits of those on board.
It was a fair wind now all the way to Portree, and they made the best of
it, Rory being once more in his favourite seat with tiller in hand.
Past that mysterious mountain called Quiraing, onwards and past the
tartan rock, over the precipitous sides of which a cataract was pouring
into the sea, so that you might have sailed a boat between the water and
the cliff; past the bay of Steinscholl, past the point of Braddan, past
the strange weird rocks of Storr, with Rona Isle and Raasay on the
weather beam, and the wild white hills of Cuchullin in full view in the
far distance, and past Prince Charlie's cave itself, and now they keep
her in more towards the shore, for they are not far from the loch of
Portree. Just past the cave they sail through a fleet of fishing boats.
The men on board seem greatly excited. They have hauled in their oars,
and stand by with great stones in their hands--part of the boat's
ballast--as if watching for a coming foe. But where is this foe? Why,
look ahead, the whole sea for half a mile is darkened with an immense
shoal of porpoises, driving straight towards the cutter and the boats,
turning neither to right nor left, leaping from the water, splashing and
dashing, and apparently wild with glee. Small respect have these "sea
pigs," as they are termed in the native language, for the poor
fishermen's nets; if the nets happen to come in their way, through they
go, and there is an end of it. How the men shout and scream, to be
sure! The bottle-noses take not the slightest heed of them; they are in
their own element, so on they come and on they go, the wild shouts of
the fishermen are nothing to them, and the stones thrown glide
harmlessly off their greasy backs; but they are gone at last, gone like
a whirlwind, and the boatmen are left lamenting over their bad luck and
their broken nets.
Three hours after this the storm came on in earnest, but the little
yacht lay snug at her moorings, and her owners were sipping their coffee
after a good dinner in peace.
It was quite late that night before they retired. It mattered little in
one way at what time they turned in, for there was small likelihood that
the storm now raging across the island would abate before twelve hours
at least. And what do you think they talked about? Why, the sea, the
sea, and nothing but the sea, and wild adventures here and there in many
lands. Again and again they plied McBain with questions about that
strange country up in the frozen north, where it was said the mammoth
caves lay. And McBain told them all he knew, and all he had ever heard
concerning them. It was determined that northwards they should sail and
nowhere else.
"What shall we call our coming queen?" said Rory. "What shall we name
the yacht?"
"Oh! wait till we see her first," said Allan.
"Ridiculous!" cried the impetuous Rory. "No, let us call her the
_Snowbird_."