"All hands shorten sail."
The glass had not gone "tumbling down," as sailors term it, which would
have indicated a storm or hurricane in violence equal perhaps to the
typhoons of lower latitudes, but it went down in a slow determined
manner, as if it did not mean to rise again in a hurry, so McBain
resolved to be prepared for a spell of nasty weather. The wind was now
about south-west by south, but it did not blow steadily; it was gusty,
not to say squally, and heavy seas began to roll in, the tops of which
were cut off by the breeze, and dashed in foam and spray over the
rigging and decks of the _Snowbird_.
It increased in force as the sun went down to something over half a
gale, and now more sail was taken in and the storm-jib set. McBain was
a cautious sailor, and left no more canvas on her than she could carry
with comparative safety.
The _Snowbird_ began to grow exceedingly lively. She seemed on good
terms with herself, as the captain expressed it. All hands, fore and
aft, had found the necessity of rigging out in oilskins and
sou'-westers; the latter were bought at Lerwick, and were just the right
sort for facing heavy weather in these seas. They were capacious
enough, and had flannel-lined side-pieces, which came down over the ears
and cheeks.
"I think I've made her pretty snug for the night," said McBain, coming
aft to where Allan and Rory stood on the weather side of the
quarter-deck, holding on to the bulwarks to prevent themselves from
falling. "How do you like it, boys? and where is Ralph?"
"Oh, _we_ like it well enough," said Rory, "but Ralph has gone below,
and is now asleep on the sofa."
"Sleepy is he?" said McBain, smiling; "well, that is just the nearest
approach to sea-sickness. We won't disturb him, and he'll be all right
and merry again to-morrow."
"What do you think of the weather, captain?" asked Allan.
McBain gave one glance round at sea and sky, and a look aloft as if to
see that everything was still right there, ere he replied,--
"The wind is fair, Allan, that's all I can say, but we'll have enough of
it before morning; the only danger is meeting ice; it is often as far
south as this, at this time of the year."
The night began to fall even as he spoke, for great grey clouds had
rolled up and hidden the sinking sun; sky and sea seemed to meet, and
the horizon was everywhere close aboard of them. The motion of the
_Snowbird_ was an unpleasant jerky one; she pitched sharply into the
hollows and as quickly rose again; she took little water on board, but
what little she did ship, made decks and rigging wet and slippery.
Presently both Allan and Rory were advised to go below for the night,
and feeling the same strange sleepiness stealing over them that had
overcome Ralph, they made a bolt for the companion. Allan succeeded in
fetching it at once, and when half-way down he stopped to laugh at Rory,
who was rolling porpoise-fashion in the lee scuppers. But Rory was more
successful in his next attempt. In the saloon they found Ralph sound
enough and snoring, and Peter, the steward, staggering in through the
doorway with the supper. The lamp was lighted, and both that and the
swing-tables were apparently trying to jump out of their gymbals, and go
tumbling down upon Ralph's prostrate form. In fact everything seemed
awry, and the table and chairs were jerking about anyhow, and, as Rory
said, "making as much creaking as fifty pairs of new boots."
"Ah! Peter, you're a jewel," cried Rory, as the steward placed on the
table, between the fiddle bars, a delicious lobster salad and two cups
of fragrant coffee. "Yes, Peter," continued Rory, "it's a jewel you are
entirely; there isn't a man that ever I knew, Peter, could beat ye at
making a salad. And it isn't blarney either that I'm trying to put upon
you."
With supper the sleepy feeling passed away, and Rory said he felt like a
giant refreshed, only not quite so tall.
"Bring my dear old fiddle, Peter," he cried, "like a good soul. This is
just the night for music."
_He_ played and Allan read for two hours at least, both steadying
themselves as best they could at the weather side of the table; then
they wakened Ralph, and all three turned in for the night and were soon
fast asleep.
It was early summer, and Ralph, so he thought in his dream, was
reclining, book in hand, on a sweet wild-thyme-scented green bank in
Glentroom. A blue sky was reflected from the broad bosom of the lake,
the green was on the birch, the milk-white flowers on the thorn, and the
feathery larch-trees were tasselled with crimson; bees went droning from
wild flower to wild flower, and the woodlands resounded with the music
of a thousand joyous birds.
Ding-dong, ding-dong!
"It is the first dinner-bell from the Castle of Arrandoon," said Ralph
to himself; "Allan and his sister will be waiting, I must hurry home."
Ding-dong, ding-dong-ding!
Ralph was wide awake now, and sitting up in his little bed. It was all
dark; it must be midnight, he thought, or long past.
Ding-dong, ding-dong-ding again, followed by a terrible rush of water
and a quivering of the vessel, the like of which he had never known
before.
Ding, ding, ding! It was the seas breaking over the _Snowbird_ and
ringing her bell.
"What an awakening!" thought poor Ralph, and he shivered as he listened,
partly with cold and partly, it must be confessed, with an undefinable
feeling of alarm. And no wonder!
It was, indeed, a fearful night!
The gale had burst upon them in all its fury, and, well prepared though
she was aloft to contend with it, it would require all the vessel's
powers of endurance and all the skill of the manly hearts on board of
her, to bring her safely through it. Every time a sea struck her it
sounded below like a dull, heavy thud; it stopped her way for a moment
or two. It was then she quivered from stem to stern, like some creature
in agony, and Ralph could hear the water washing about the decks
overhead and pouring down below. The seas, striking the ship, gave him
the idea of blows from something soft but terribly strong, and,
ridiculous though it may seem, for the life of him Ralph could not help
thinking of the bolster fights of the days of his boyhood. What other
sounds did he hear? The constant and incessant creaking of the yacht's
timbers, the rattle of the rudder chains, and, high over all, the roar
of the tempest in the rigging aloft. In the lull of the gale every now
and then, he could hear the trampling of feet and voices--voices giving
and voices answering words of command.
"Starboard a little! Steady?"
"Starboard it is, sir. Steady!"
"Hard down!"
"Hurrsh-sh!" A terrible sea seemed here to have struck her; the din
below was increased to a fearful extent by the smashing of crockery and
rattling of furniture and fittings.
"Another man to the wheel! Steady as you go. Steady."
Then there was a sound like a dreadful explosion, with a kind of grating
noise, followed by a rattling as if a thousand men were volley-firing
overhead; meanwhile the good ship heeled over as if she never would
right again. It was a sail rent into ribbons!
"I can't stand this!" said Ralph, aloud. "Up I must get, and see if
Allan and Rory be awake. They must be."
Getting out of bed he discovered was a very simple proceeding, for he
had no sooner begun the operation than he found himself sprawling on the
deck. The floor was flooded, and everything was chaos. Feeling for his
clothes, he could distinguish books by the dozen, a drawer, a
camp-stool, and a broken glass. At last he managed to find a
dressing-gown, and also his way along to the saloon. Here a lamp was
burning, and here were Allan and Rory both, and the steward as well.
All three were somewhat pale. They were simply waiting--but waiting for
what? They themselves could hardly have told you, but at that time
something told everyone in the saloon the danger was very great indeed.
On deck McBain and his men were fighting the seas; two hands were at the
wheel, and it needed all their strength at times to keep the vessel's
head in the right direction, and save her from broaching-to. In the
pale glimmer of the sheet lightning every rope and block and stay could
at one moment be seen, and the wet, shining decks, and the men
clustering in twos and threes, lashed to masts or clinging to ropes to
save themselves from destruction. Next moment the decks would be one
mass of seething foam. It was by the lightning's flash, however, or the
pale gleam of the breaking waves, and by these alone, that McBain could
guide his vessel safely through this awful tempest.
So speedily had the gale increased to almost a hurricane, that there was
no time to batten down; but with the first glimpse of dawn the wind
seemed to abate, and no time was lost in getting tarpaulins nailed down,
and only the fore companion was left partially unprotected for
communication between decks.
Soon after the captain came below, looking, in his wet and shining
oilskins, like some curious sea-monster, for there was hardly a bit of
his face to be seen. "What!" he cried, "you boys all up?"
"Indeed," said Rory, who was nearly always the first to speak, "we
thought it was _down_ we soon would all be instead of up?"
The captain laughed, and applied himself with rare zest to the coffee
and sandwiches the steward placed before him. "Don't give us cups at
breakfast to-morrow, Peter," he said, "but the tin mugs; we're going to
have some days of this weather. And now, boys, I'm going to have a
caulk for an hour. You had better follow my example; you will be drier
in bed, and, I believe, warmer too."
Breakfast next day was far from a comfortable meal. The gale still
continued, though to a far less extent, and the fire in the galley had
been drowned out the night before, and was not yet re-lit. But every
one was cheerful.
"Better," said McBain, "is a cold sardine and a bit of ship biscuit
where love is, than roast beef and--"
"Roast beef and botheration!" said Rory, helping him out.
"That's it! Thank ye," said McBain. "And now, who is going on deck to
have a look at the sea?"
"Ha! what a scene is here!" said Allan, looking around him, as he clung
to the weather rail.
Well might he quote Walter Scott. The green seas were higher than the
maintop, their foaming, curling tops threatening to engulf the yacht
every minute.
"I may tell you, my boys," said McBain, grasping a stay and swaying to
and fro like a drunken man, "that if the _Snowbird_ weren't the best
little ship that ever floated, she couldn't have stood the storm of last
night. And look yonder, that is all the damage."
From near her bows, aft as far as the mizen-mast, the bulwarks were
smashed and torn by the force of the waves.
"We have two men hurt, but not severely, and the pump's at work, but
only to clear her of the drop of water she shipped; and we'll soon mend
the bulwarks."
All that day and all the next night the gale continued to blow, and it
was anything but comfortable or pleasant below; but the morning of the
third day broke brightly enough, albeit the wind had forged round and
was now coming from the west; but McBain did not mind that.
"We made such a roaring spin during the gale," he said, "although
scudding under nearly bare poles, that we can afford to slacken speed a
little now."
The sea was still angry and choppy, but all things considered the
_Snowbird_ made goodly way.
The forenoon was spent in making good repairs and in getting up the
crow's-nest, a barrel of large dimensions, which in all Greenland-going
ships is hoisted and made fast, as high as high can be, namely,
alongside the main truck. A comfortable place enough is this
crow's-nest when you get there, but you need a sailor's head to reach
it, for at the main-top-gallant crosstrees the rattlins leave you, and
you have a nasty corner to turn, round to a Jacob's-ladder, up which you
must scramble, spider fashion, and enter the nest from under. You need
a sailor's head to reach it and a sailor's heart to remain there, for if
there is any sea on at all, the swinging and swaying about is enough to
turn any landsman sick and giddy.
Hardly was the crow's-nest in position when the look-out man hailed the
deck below.
"A vessel in sight, sir."
Here was some excitement, anyhow.
"Where away?" bawled the captain.
"On the weather quarter, sir; I can just raise her topmasts; she is
holding the same course as ourselves."
Shortly after, Mr Stevenson, who had gone aloft, came below to report.
"She is no whaler, sir, whatever she is," he said.
"But what else can she be?" said Captain McBain. "She might have been
blown out of her course, to be sure, but with this wind she could make
up her leeway. Keep our yacht a bit nearer the wind, Mr Stevenson,
we'll give her a chance of showing her bunting anyhow."
Dinner-hour in the saloon was one o'clock, and it was barely over when
Mr Stevenson entered, and with him a being that made our heroes start
and stare in astonishment. What or who was he? They had never seen him
before, and knew not he was on board--a very little, thin, wiry,
weazened old man, all grey hairs, parchment skin, and wrinkles. Was he
the little old man of the sea?
McBain saw their bewilderment and hastened to explain.
"My worthy friend Magnus Green," he said, "the passenger I took on board
at Lerwick."
"There is precious little green about him," thought Rory.
"The ship is not far off, she is flying a flag of distress, but Magnus
says he knows her, and bids us keep clear of her."
"Well, Magnus, what do you know about her?" asked McBain.
The little old man talked fast, almost wildly,--it was a way he had,--
and gesticulated much.
"What do I know?" he cried; "why, this,--she is a Spaniard, and a thief.
She came into Lerwick two weeks before you, took stores on board,
sailed in the night, and paid nobody. She is armed to the teeth, and in
my opinion is after you. Keep away from her, keep away, keep away."
"But how could she be after us?" asked McBain, incredulous.
"How? ha! ha!" laughed Magnus; "you speak like a child. She herself
sailed from Inverness to Lerwick: she'd heard of you, a gentleman's
yacht, with everything good on board. She couldn't tackle you near
shore, but out here on the high sea, ha! ha! the case in different."
"There is something in what Magnus says," said McBain. "Let us go on
deck. Hoist the flag, Mr Stevenson."
Up went the roll of bunting, one touch to the lanyard, and out on the
breeze floated the red ensign of England.
[The white ensign is flown by the Royal Navy only, the blue by the Naval
Reserve, the red by merchantmen and others.]
The Spaniard was hardly a mile to windward, a long, low, rakish craft,
as black as a Mother Carey's chicken. She had ports as if for guns; and
though there was no answering signal, she was seen to alter her course
and bear down on the _Snowbird_.
"She's too like a hawk to be honest," said McBain, "and too big for us
to fight. We'll try how she can sail; keep her away, Stevenson."
The _Snowbird_ began to pay off, but not before a white puff of smoke
was seen rising from the stranger's bows. Next moment down the wind
came a cannon's roar, and a shot ricocheted past the bows of the yacht.
"Ha! ha! ha!" shrieked little Magnus, "yon's the answering signal--ha!
ha! ha!"
At the same moment down went the flag of distress, and up went the black
flag that pirates like to display when they really mean mischief.
Something else went up at the same time, namely, Captain McBain's
Highland blood. This is no figure of speech; you could have seen pride
and anger mantling in his cheek and glancing like fire from his eye.
"The black flag, indeed!" he growled; "only cowards hoist it; they think
it startles their would-be prey, like the hiss a cat or a goose emits,
or the images and figures idiot savages carry in their battle-van. They
will not frighten us. Stevenson, load the six-pounder Armstrong. Lucky
we took that little tool with us. Tell Ap to see to the small arms.
We'll show them the metal we're made of ere we surrender the _Snowbird_.
Stand by tacks and sheets, we'll put her before the wind. A stern
chase is a long chase; we may give her the slip after nightfall."
There was a cheeriness in McBain's voice as he spoke, that communicated
itself to all hands fore and aft. There was no bombast about the
captain, mind you, no vulgar jingoism. He merely meant to hold his own,
even if he had to fight for it.
All sail was set that the _Snowbird_ could carry, both below and aloft,
an example that was speedily followed by the pirate, for pirate she
seemed, from her bunting, to even brag in being, and so the chase began
in earnest. The stranger fired once or twice only, but the shots
falling short she gave it up, and concentrated all her attention in
endeavouring to get within reach.
For the next hour there was silence on board the _Snowbird_, except for
some brief words of command given in quiet quick tones, and just as
speedily obeyed. Rory, Ralph, and Allan were clustered astern, watching
the pirate. This was a kind of danger to which they had never dreamed
they would be exposed; yet still the confidence they had in brave, cool
McBain banished all fear from their hearts.
But the captain's anxiety was extreme, and his eyes roved incessantly
from the _Snowbird_ to the vessel in chase, not without many a glance at
the fast-declining sun.
"Are we quite prepared?" he asked Stevenson.
"All ready, sir," was the reply, with an uneasy glance astern, "but I
think she is coming up, sir, hand over hand and now she is actually
setting stunsails."
"Then God help us, Stevenson, for that chap is bound to win the battle
if he can only win the race."
The stunsails set by the stranger, however, were no sooner set than they
were blown away, booms and all.
"Hullo?" cried the captain, "that is providential. Now Stevenson, get
the Armstrong aft."
This was soon accomplished.
"Here, Magnus Green," cried McBain, "come on you're the best shot in the
ship. Many a harpoon gun I've seen you fire. Pepper away at that
pirate till you're tired. Cripple her if you can. It's our only
chance."
The fire was briskly returned from the bows of the pirate, and it was
soon evident that she was getting nearer and nearer to them, for the
shots went over the _Snowbird_, and some even pierced the sails, proof
positive that it was not her intention to sink but to capture the
beautiful yacht.
The captain whistled low to himself.
"This is awkward," he muttered, gloomily. He was gazing aloft,
wondering if he could do nothing else to keep clear of the pirate until
nightfall, when a shout behind him, followed by a ringing cheer from all
hands, made him turn hastily round. Old man Magnus was capering around
the quarter-deck wild with glee, rushing hither and thither, only
returning every moment to pat the little Armstrong, as though it were a
living thing.
"He! he! he!" he cried, "I've done it, I've done it."
He had indeed done it. The stranger's foremast had gone by the board,
mast and sails and rigging lay about her forepart in dire confusion,
burying guns and gunners.
"Glorious old Magnus!" shouted McBain, rubbing his hands with glee.
"Now, Stevenson, ready about."
The yacht came round like a bird, and sailing wonderfully close to the
wind, began rapidly to near the smitten pirate. Presently it was "ready
about" again on the other tack, and all the while never a shot came from
the foe, but the dastardly flag still floated sullenly aloft.
Ten men were stationed in the weather bow of the _Snowbird_ with rifles,
their orders being to fire wherever they saw a head.
"Now then, Magnus," cried McBain, "fifty guineas are yours if you'll
splinter the enemy's mainmast. I want to let her have two jury masts to
rig instead of one." McBain carried the _Snowbird_ cruelly near to the
pirate, dangerously near too, for presently there was an answering fire
of small arms, and two men fell wounded.
Crang! went the Armstrong. Faithfully and well had Magnus done his
work, and down went the pirate's other mast.
"We'll leave her the mizen," said McBain; "down with the helm."
His voice was almost drowned in that deafening shout of victory. Even
Oscar the Saint Bernard and the wiry wee Skye felt bound to join it, and
Peter the steward rushed below for his bagpipes.
And when the moon rose that night and shone quietly down on the waters,
the _Snowbird_ was bravely holding on her course, and the discomfited
pirate was far away.