Thora Quendale--as I must now call my young girl friend--returned
that evening to her old home at Crua Breck. We walked together that
far over the hardened snow; and many were the questions she asked
me concerning all that I had seen and learnt of her dead father.
What was he like? Was he tall, and great, and noble as she imagined
him? What was the colour of his hair? How old did I think he was?
And did I suppose he had suffered much in that dreadful ice prison
in the far north?
To all of which I answered as best I could, with my very slight
knowledge of the facts she was so much interested in. O, if I had
only known who that passenger was that lay dead in the captain's
room! I could perhaps have discovered more about him before the
ship went down.
As we walked side by side across the white moorland, my companion
looked again and again at the glittering ring on her finger.
"I am glad," I said, "that I happened to bring the ring away with
me."
She sighed.
"I'd rather you had brought my mother's picture. That would have
been more to me than anything else."
"Alas!" I said. "But I did not know then that it was the picture of
your mother, Thora; and I thought it would be wrong to take it from
his hand. For it was perhaps the only thing he had to look upon in
those weary long days in the ice prison that could remind him of
his happier times. I think it must have been the last thing his
eyes rested upon while his life lingered."
"Maybe you're right, Halcro," said she; "but I'd like to have seen
the picture.
"Tell me," she continued, "d'ye know where my mother's grave is?"
"Yes, well do I know it, and I'll take you to it some day when the
snow is away."
We walked along silently after this, and parted at the gate of Crua
Breck farm.
A few days after Bailie Duke's preliminary examination of
witnesses, the procurator fiscal--the official by whom such
inquiries are conducted in Scotland on behalf of the Crown--arrived
from Kirkwall. The case had already been made clear in preparation
for him, and he had little else to do than take the evidence
formally and arrange it in legal order.
The matter became somewhat involved with the action against the
smugglers, for it transpired that Tom Kinlay had, after telling his
father of the affair at the inn, been sent by Carver to spy on
Colin Lothian, and to watch the cliffs and give an alarm in case
the revenue authorities had determined to institute a plan of
attack from the land. The evidence against him was too strong to
admit of a doubt as to the ultimate issue of the examination, and a
single day's inquiry was sufficient to establish the case against
him. He was accordingly carried off to Kirkwall, and there
committed to prison on the charge of having "wilfully, wickedly,
and with malice aforethought, murdered Colin Lothian by shooting
him with a gun."
The trial was awaited with much interest by the people of the
Mainland. No one doubted that the prisoner would be found guilty of
a capital offence. The only question that gave any one concern was
the nature of the punishment that his guilt would merit.
But several weeks before the date fixed for the trial an event
occurred which made all speculation superfluous. One morning the
rumour reached Stromness that Tom Kinlay and all the smugglers had
escaped from Kirkwall jail. At first this was generally
discredited, for the building in which the men were confined was a
notably strong one; but later reports confirmed the rumour. The
authorities had trusted more to the strength of the prison than to
the vigilance of the guard; and one dark night, by the aid of some
of their comrades outside and the treachery of one of the jailers,
the prisoners effected an easy escape. Dodging through the narrow
streets they went by various ways to the harbour, and there took
forcible possession of a small brig that was lying at anchor in the
bay. Before the alarm spread the vessel was far out at sea beyond
the possibility of pursuit. The escape was well planned, and as the
brig was fully provisioned, her destination could only be surmised.
It was commonly believed that the fugitives would return to their
old trade of smuggling, and, as the men's knowledge of navigation
was known to be extremely limited, it was not thought that they
would venture upon a voyage to very distant parts.
At this time I was away on a short trip in the Falcon. We touched
at the island of Rousay, and here we learnt that some smugglers in
a strange brig had, two days earlier, made a daring raid upon one
of the small villages, robbing the inhabitants of their most
precious possessions. We heard a similar story at Papa Westray. But
it was not until our return to Stromness that we associated these
piratical raids with Tom Kinlay and his companions.
A few weeks afterwards a Glasgow barque, named the Surprise, put in
at Stromness, and reported having, on passing one of the Outer
Hebrides, rendered assistance to a wrecked vessel, which, though
bearing another name, answered exactly to the description of the
stolen brig. Among the passengers on the Surprise was Captain
Gordon, who had left his ship, the Lydia, at Greenock, and was now
on his way to Leith. He had gone out in the ship's boat to the
wreck. One of the crew was saved, an Orkney man; but the rest were
all lost, including, as we afterwards heard, young Tom Kinlay,
whose career of crime was thus brought to an early termination.
Mrs. Kinlay, who was a gentle and good woman, had much tribulation
to bear up against in the unhappy deaths of her husband and son;
and, having but little of the sympathy of her neighbours, she
resolved to leave the island. Accordingly, as soon as she recovered
her health, the farm, stock, and furniture at Crua Breck were sold,
and the unfortunate widow took passage over to Caithness, where she
remained among her relatives for the rest of her days.
A great dread came upon me when I heard that Mrs. Kinlay had left
for Scotland. I thought that Thora Quendale had gone with her, and
that I had lost sight of my dear girl friend for ever. I feared
even to ask if this was so; but passing along the road one evening,
soon after we had dropped anchor in the bay, I chanced to meet
Andrew Drever walking home with a string of trout hanging at his
side.
Having exchanged a few friendly remarks with me, he asked if I
would go and spend the evening with him.
"Come and take some supper with us, lad," said he. "Thora will be
glad to see ye."
"Thora!" I exclaimed.
"Ay, Thora. Did you not know Thora lives with us now?"
"No; I thought she had gone to Caithness with Mrs. Kinlay."
"Nay, nay," said Andrew; "Thora can look after herself now, since
we heard from Copenhagen. But come along as soon's you can, and
we'll tell you all about it."
And with that he trudged away humming a lightsome tune.