Shortly after midnight, when I lay comfortably in my bunk, I was
awakened by hearing the anchor scraping and thumping against the
schooner's bow; then there was a hauling of ropes on deck and a
creaking of timbers as the sails were run up, and I fell to sleep
again before we had got out beyond the shelter of the coast.
When I got up in the morning and went on deck, the island of Hoy
lay far to windward like a bank of mist upon the sea. We were far
out on the broad Pentland Firth, plunging about on the rough water,
with our mainsail double-reefed, and the flying jib pulling away
like to split itself in the wind. I enjoyed it all for a time; but
when I went below to help Jerry to get ready some breakfast for the
skipper, the smell of the coffee and the frying bacon overcame me,
and I was forced to go back to my bunk, where I remained for the
rest of the day helplessly seasick.
The next morning, feeling better, I went up to get a breath of
fresh air, and found that we were hemmed in by a thick white mist
that crept round us, and rendered it difficult for Jerry, who was
on the lookout at the bow, to determine our course. We were making
for South Ronaldsay, and had been beating about all night, making
very little headway; and when the mist lifted before noon, it was
discovered that we had been driven down by the current, and had
come nigh to running into the black rocks of Stroma Island.
Here, where two strong streams met with terrific force, the
turbulent water whirled about with wild irregular motion, and we
were swept now one way, now another, until it seemed useless to
fight against the current that controlled us. We were, in fact, in
the midst of that dangerous vortex locally known as the Swelkie.
Those who know the secrets of the ocean currents of the northern
seas have their own scientific explanations to give; but our native
boatmen and sailors, who were not so well acquainted with the
eccentricities of the Gulf stream as with the popular legends of
Orkney, accounted for the Swelkie in this way:
A certain King Frodi had a magical quern, or hand mill, called
Grotti; the largest quern ever known in Denmark. Now Grotti, which
ground either gold or peace for King Frodi as he willed, was stolen
by a sea king named Mysing, who set the mill to grind white salt
for his ships. But it happened that Mysing had only learned the
spell to set the mill going, and knew not how to stop it. His
ships, therefore, became so full of salt that they sank, and Grotti
with them, before they could reach the islands of Orkney; hence the
Swelkie. This took place to the northwest of Stroma Island, and
ever since the sea there has not rested, for as the water falls
through the eye of the quern, it roars and rushes about, and the
quern goes on grinding and grinding salt, and giving its saltness
to the whole ocean.
The mist having lifted, Captain Flett had a reef or two let out,
and himself took the helm until he got us into calmer water, when
we luffed to the windward and headed for South Ronaldsay, with a
stiff breeze springing up that gave us a clear seaway to get past
the Lother Reef, when we sailed steadily through a lesser rush of
tide across a quiet, landlocked sea, into the little haven of
Burwick, where in the gathering darkness the chain went rattling
down, and we came to a restful anchorage.
But our stay at Burwick was not for long, as we had lost much time
in the outer sea, and the skipper wanted to get round to St.
Margaret's Hope. No sooner had we put a boatload of goods ashore
than we set sail again. And now that we were in smoother water, I
was not allowed to shirk my watch, but had to spend the better part
of the night on deck.
A little after midnight we were sailing under easy sail through the
dark Sound of Hoxa. I was at the helm, the mate walking the deck in
front of me. The night was extremely cold, and some light flakes of
snow were falling. I had difficulty in making out the points of
land as we passed, but Jerry was at the bow, and I depended upon
him and Peter for my steering. Just as we were abreast of Stanger
Head, on the little island of Flotta, I thought I saw a small
vessel creeping along, well inshore. I drew the mate's attention to
it, and he was denying me, when a bright flash of light was seen,
followed by a loud report, as of a small piece of ordnance. Peering
through the darkness, we could distinguish the sails of a large
cutter, which was now bearing down upon us.
"It's the Clasper," said Jerry, coming aft.
"Confound him!" said the mate. "Does she take us for a smuggler?"
From these words I at once understood the meaning of the shot that
had been fired; the revenue cutter had evidently mistaken the
Falcon for one of the famous smuggling craft of Scapa Flow.
We were at once hauled round, and a boat from the Clasper came
alongside. A sprightly young lieutenant climbed over our starboard
bulwarks, followed by a sailor who carried a large lantern. This
the officer took from him, and coming aft to where we all three
stood, he held the light aloft peering into our faces.
By this time our skipper came up from the cabin, rubbing his sleepy
eyes.
"What's all the row, Peter?" said he.
"Ah! Flett, it's you, eh?" said the lieutenant politely. "I'm sorry
to trouble you on such a cold night; I did not recognize your
schooner in the dark. But we have strict orders, you know. There's
a lot of it going on, and we must search you. A mere matter of
form, of course. You won't object?"
"Nay, I don't object, Mr. Fox. Search away," said David, turning to
go below.
A hurried search was made accordingly, but nothing suggesting
contraband traffic being discovered, the revenue men went away
perfectly satisfied, the lieutenant wishing us a goodnight, and
requesting us to keep the affair a secret when we arrived in
Stromness.
Early on the next day we touched at St. Margaret's Hope--one of the
chief fishing stations of Orkney--and our course thereafter lay
along the eastern shores of the Mainland.
Long and dreary was the passage northward from Ronaldsay to
Stronsay. The cold, frosty winds and weary, dark nights, made the
long watches on deck difficult to endure; but when my turn was
over, and I could get below to the fire, I generally forgot about
the hardships, and began to think that life at sea was really not
unpleasant.
Captain Flett tried to make my position comfortable and my work
agreeable, and sometimes when I was on deck with him at night, he
would remain by me smoking, and make the time pass lightly by
telling me of his early experiences in the Dundee whaling ships; or
more often he would instruct me in seamanship, and teach me
regarding the tides and channels of Orkney.
Thus during this voyage among the islands was the weariness of many
a night watch relieved. There was something to be told of almost
every place at which the Falcon touched. Often the talk would turn
upon the subject of wrecks, and of the wreckers who inhabited the
storm-swept islands, and were not above welcoming a shipwreck for
the sake of the valuable spoil they might procure.
Anchored off a little port in Sanday, David told me of a minister
who, while professing to deplore the frequency of shipwrecks on the
coast, ended a prayer by saying:
"Nevertheless, if it please Thee to cause helpless ships to be cast
on the shore, oh, dinna forget the poor island of Sanday."
We pursued our tortuous course as far north as a place called
Pierowall, in the island of Westray; when we found that there was
need to continue the voyage still further to Fair Isle, a little
island that lies about midway between Orkney and Shetland, for the
people in that place, we heard, had got short of winter provisions,
and our skipper would not hear of returning until he had supplied
the deficiency.
The weather became boisterous as we entered the open sea again, and
I had my first experience of really rough sailing. For two days the
schooner tossed upon the great white-crested waves which dashed
against her bows, broke in snowy foam upon the deck, and glistened
on oilskin and sou'wester. The wind whistled with piteous noise
among the ropes, and frequent showers of hail and sleet added to
our discomfort.
On the third day after leaving the Orkneys we sighted Fair Isle,
looming faintly through a mist of snow, far to starboard. With
difficulty we tacked to windward, for the northeast wind had driven
us considerably out of our course. Darkness came on at about three
o'clock in the afternoon in these latitudes, and we wanted to make
the harbour in daylight. But though the wind fell, the snow and
mist came on so thickly that we quite lost sight of the island, and
in our difficulty a terrible thing happened.
We were all hands on deck, and sailing close-hauled with a good
stretch of canvas set. I was at the helm, and the skipper standing
near me. Jerry and the mate were nailing some boards on the
companion hatch to keep out the snow from the cabin. Suddenly the
schooner gave a great lurch and fell off the wind. The mainsail
flapped wildly for a moment, and as we luffed again we went over
with a list that swung the boom back with such force that the ropes
that held it were slipped, and the spar struck the skipper a blow
upon the shoulder that sent him headlong overboard into the sea.
Jerry and the mate saw the accident, and while I still held the
tiller hard a-port, they at once got out the boat. Jerry and Peter
each took an oar and rowed quickly astern to where Captain Flett
was swimming.
It will be easily understood that, left to myself, I could not
manage the schooner with much skill; for, in the first place, I
could not without help bring the sails over on the other tack, and
in the second I could not well leave the helm. Indeed, I had the
greatest difficulty in hauling the vessel round, and before I
succeeded in doing anything beyond simply putting the helm a-port,
the driving snow had surrounded me in its mist, and I lost sight of
the boat.
I could see it nowhere. I called aloud, but the wind whistling in
the ropes overpowered my voice. I left the tiller and got the fog
horn. But, alas! I had never practised blowing that instrument, and
try as I would, I could get no more than a feeble grunt out of it.
Thicker and thicker grew the mist, and the snow fell in numerous
and heavy flakes. Darkness came on, and still never a boat could I
see, never a sound could I hear but the ceaseless swish of the snow
and the soughing of the wind. The schooner pitched and rolled
helplessly on the waves, and I was in terror lest the sails should
split in their mad flapping.
I tried to secure the heavy boom that had been the cause of this
mischief, and after a long struggle with it I succeeded. Then I
went below and lighted the lamps, and having fixed them in their
places so that they might be seen from the boat I made another
attempt to bring the vessel round on the starboard tack and keep
her to the windward.
All through that long dark night I beat about on the rough sea with
the snow driving cold and sharp upon me, and the waves breaking on
the deck. I was tired and sleepy after a hard day's work, yet I
could not think of this, nor of my hunger and my cold hands and
feet. My only object now was to recover my messmates, and as the
night wore on without my seeing any sign of them, I grew utterly
hopeless, for they were without food and far from land, and God
alone knew what had become of them.
From my despair at the probable fate of the boat, however, I
gradually realized the fact that my own condition was not without
peril. Here was I, a slip of a lad, alone and helpless, out in the
open sea, in a schooner that three men could only with difficulty
manage. I had but small skill in seamanship. I knew almost nothing
of my whereabouts, and, added to these disadvantages, I had the
physical discomforts to endure of fatigue, hunger, and cold.
At about nine o'clock I went below to get something to eat. The
fire was out, so I could not make any coffee; but there was a
bottle of spirits in the locker, and fancying this might do me good
I, for the first time in my life, drank some. I at once felt much
warmer, and I took half a glassful with some water and drank it
with the oatcake and cold bacon that I ate.
Going on deck again, I felt much more comfortable; but the spirits
that had warmed my vitals soon had an effect upon me that I had not
counted upon. My eyesight became hazy, and I felt terribly
sleepy--so sleepy that I could not remain at the helm for fear of
falling into a slumber at my post. So I tied up the tiller, and,
for the rest of the night, walked the deck, only altering the
schooner's course when I thought that she was being driven too far
from the spot where the boat had put off.
All the night through I peered over the dark sea, and at intervals
raised my voice, in the faint hope of coming across the boat. But
for all the lookout that I kept, never a boat could I see; and for
all my shouting, never a response to my cries could I hear.
Whatever had become of the skipper--whether he had been picked up
or was drowned--the mate and Jerry were gone, and I, the youngest
of the crew, was left alone on the Falcon to bring her back to
port, if haply I was not taken by her across the dreary waste of
ocean to some terrible and unknown destiny.