Darkness profound at times, and often with it a silence so strange and
weird that Steve found himself speaking in a whisper. He was not alone
in this, for he found the crew often answered him in a low voice, as if
afraid of being heard. For, in spite of all that could be done to cheer
them up, the poor fellows were growing very despondent, and even when
the shortest day arrived they did not rouse up as the captain had hoped
would be the case.
Time had been gliding on so monotonously of late, with nothing to look
for but the changes in the moon, that it took Steve quite by surprise
when at breakfast the captain cried cheerily:
"The shortest day, my boy! Well, why don't you look pleased? What are
you thinking about?"
"I was thinking," said Steve as he started out of a reverie, "that it
would be the longest night."
"Well, take it that way, then: the longest night, and the shortest day.
To-morrow the sun will have started on the backward journey, so come,
cheer up, and--"
They all sprang to their feet, for a terrific report somewhere on high
was followed by a crashing roar as of thunder, and with one consent they
hurried on deck and out into the snow.
All was silent by then, but a few moments later there was a rushing and
crashing sound, evidently on the steep mountain-side, in the direction
of the chasm through which they had been in the habit of making their
way to the open sea.
"An avalanche of ice and rocks," said the captain.
"Yes, sir," said Johannes, as the rushing sound stopped. "The frost
must have rent open some big rock, and this started the others in
falling."
Here was something to do.
"A good beginning, though a few hours too soon, my lads. We've reached
the shortest day, and it's time to be active once more. Quick! wrap up;
coats on, and mitts. We'll go and see what the ice avalanche has done."
The men returned to their quarters, but it was in a dull, spiritless
way, which Steve could not help noticing, but he said nothing then.
"Take guns, sir?" he asked, as they reached the cabin.
"We may as well, my lad, though I don't think there will be anything to
shoot."
Steve was ready first, and went out on deck, to see the men coming up
from the forecastle, looking big and uncouth in their hooded fur coats
and mittens; but no one spoke as they stood there in the gloom waiting
for orders. Steve peered about, but could not see the face he sought,
and he turned to Hamish, who was close at hand.
"Where's Watty?" he said.
"In her bunk, sir," said the man surlily.
"In his bunk? Why didn't you rouse him up? It will do him good to
come. Andra isn't here, either. He ought to try and walk as far as
we're going to-day."
"Na, let them be, sir," said the man. "Better let the puir chiels dee
in peace."
"For shame!" cried Steve hotly; "what do you mean by talking about dying
in peace?"
"Only that she may as weel lee doon and ket it ower, sir. She'll neffer
see Scotia acain."
"Hamish, I should be ashamed to say that if I were a big, strong fellow
like you. What are you thinking about?"
"She thinks it wass a shame to pring us all oop here to dee."
There was a low murmur of acquiescence here among the men, and Steve
felt a shiver run through him, as if the men's dread and despondency
were contagious. But he brightened up the next minute, and said
lightly:
"This doesn't sound very brave;" and he pushed by the men and descended
to the forecastle, where Andrew lay staring at the dim light swinging
from one of the beams.
"Hullo, Andra!" he cried cheerily, though he knew the jubilant sound of
his voice was forced; "lying down? How are the pipes?"
"The pipes are froze hard, Meester Stevey, an' she'll hae them put wi'
her in the hole in the snow."
"What, to thaw them?" cried Steve. "Nonsense! you're not so bad as
that. Where's Watty?"
"Oh!" came from right forward out of the darkness.
"What a groan!" cried Steve boisterously. "Here, come out, you lazy old
rascal; we're just going on a bit of a trip. Where are you? Oh, I say,
you do like playing dormouse."
"Oh, dinna tooch her, sir; she's froze all through, and she'll preak."
"Nonsense! Let's have a look at you, Watty!" cried Steve jovially,
though his heart ached as he spoke and thought of how the doctor had
said that unless the men's spirits were kept up they would droop and
die.
As he spoke he half dragged the lad, blankets, and all into the light.
"Why, you're not half frozen yet."
"Hey, put she dinna ken. She's a' ane muckle chilplain."
"Then come out, and have a run through the snow."
"Nay, she'll never rin acain."
"Yes, you will. I want you, Watty. Come along."
"Nay, she dinna like her, an' she never tid. She's ferry pad."
"Did the doctor say so?"
"No," growled Andrew; "she said it wass nothing the matter with the
callant, and she ought to ket oop and rin apoot."
"Eh?" cried Watty, rising up so quickly that he knocked his head against
the bottom of the next bunk. "The doctor said Andra wass petter as I
am, Meester Stevey, an' she should pe apoot her wairk. She's ferry well
inteet."
"A lee!" cried Andrew fiercely. "The doctor dinna ken how sair she be.
She's ferry pad, and she's coing to dee."
"So we all are, some day, Andra. Come, man, get up, and you, too,
Watty."
"Na, na--na, na," came with quite a duet of groans. "Oh, I say!" cried
Steve. "I know I feel quite as bad and low-spirited as you both do.
Come, Watty laddie, it's horribly dull without you. Get up."
"She dinna want her, sir, she dinna want her."
"But I do, Watty, 'pon my word. You and I are the only two boys in the
ship, and I miss you. Get up, and you and I'll stick together all day,
and have a good run with Skeny."
"Do she mean she to want her ferry padly?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then she'll ket oop," said the lad with a groan.
"And you, too, Andra. Get up, and come with us; it will do you good."
"Neffer no more, neffer no more," groaned the man.
"Nonsense! It's too bad of you!" cried Steve. "The ship's as dull as
dull now, and you might make it so different."
Andrew groaned, but he pulled the blanket away from his left ear, and
Steve noticed it as he went on.
"One never hears you making a joke about Hamish."
"Ah, she tid mak' chokes apoot Hahmeesh."
"And just when we want the place to be made cheerful with a bit of
music, you go and put away the pipes and pretend they're frozen."
Andrew groaned again, but it was a much shorter groan.
"When it was light we could hear the pipes going. Ha! what were those
tunes you played--Strathclydes?"
"Na, na, Strathspeys, laddie; but if she tuked a holt o' the pipes the
noo it wad pe a coronach she'd blaw."
"Very well; I'd rather hear that than nothing. That was a good tune,
`Maggie Lauder.'"
"Oh ay, she wass a ferry coot chune," sighed Andrew.
"And that jolly jig, `Money Rusk.'"
"`Musk,'" sighed Andrew. "Oh ay, `Money Musk' mak's ta plood stir in a
man maist as much as `Tullochgorum.'"
"Or `The Gathering of the Clans,' Andra," cried Steve.
"Hey, she's crant!" cried the man excitedly. "She stirs the plood,
too."
"Yes, and it rouses up the men."
"She feels as if she cauld play it a pit the noo."
"Could you? Then look here, Andra. We're going to have a run across
the fiord in the moonlight. It's full moon and as clear as day."
"She's retty the noo," said Watty.
"That's right, Watty; and I want Andra to come, too. Look here, old
fellow. Get the pipes, and you and I and Watty'll go at the head of the
men, and we'll march across to the side, with you playing `The Gathering
of the Clans' in the moonlight, and making the mountains ring. Why, it
would be grand."
"Ay, she'd pe crant," said Watty; "put she couldna play it. The notes
would freeze, ant come rattling doon like hail-stanes."
"No, they wouldn't, Watty. My word, how the old pipes would make the
mountain-side ring and echo again! Such a sound was never heard before
so far north."
"Hey! and if she had a claymore an' the plaidie--the plaidie o' the
McByles."
"Never mind the plaid, Andra. Put on the sheep-skin coat, and come and
try."
The man's eyes flashed, and, raising himself on his elbow, he thrust one
hand behind him, and brought out his beloved pipes from under the
blankets.
"Tak' haud, laddie," he said. "She was frichten tat the pahg might
freeze hairt, put she's quite saft. She'll be retty tirectly."
In ten minutes Andrew was in his big boots and sheep-skin coat and hood,
ready to stretch out his hands for the pipes.
"Ahoy, Mr Steve!" came from the deck in Johannes voice. "We're ready
to start."
"Coming!" cried Steve, who was trembling for fear his efforts had been
thrown away and that Andrew would shirk.
But the man pulled himself together, and marched out with quite a
military bearing on to the deck, which was empty, and then down the snow
steps to where the men were waiting with the captain at their head. And
as Steve and his companions stepped out into the bright moonlight
reflected from the dazzling snow, the men burst into a cheer, which they
repeated when, without a word, Steve took his place with Watty in front,
and then signed to Andrew to go first.
The Highlander did not hesitate, but threw back his head, placed the
mouthpiece to his lips, blew out the bag, and then stepped off, sending
forth the wild notes quivering on the frosty air. He played, and played
well, the thrilling strains, which echoed and throbbed from the sides of
the rock in a weird and wonderful manner, and sent a curious sensation
trembling through the nerves of every man present.
They were utterly silent now, as they kept step to the music, every one
bringing his feet down with a heavy tramp, till the regular _beat, beat_
was repeated from the snowy rocks in front like the regular tap on some
giant drum. Then the echoes grew more and more, till to the excited
imagination of Andrew, who, like the rest of the crew, was half
hysterical from long-continued depression, it seemed as if other pipes
were being played high up among the dazzling snow pinnacles, and clans
afar off were gathering indeed to the wild notes of the pibroch.
Right away across the fiord, with hearts glowing and pulses beating
high, the men marched on till the entrance to the chasm was reached, and
Andrew, looking three inches taller than usual, gave a final blast,
which went quivering and echoing through the clear, silent air for miles
before it quite died away upon the ears of the men, who drew aside their
hoods to listen.
Then, and then only, did they burst forth into a stentorian cheer, which
was repeated twice and listened to until it died away.
"Bravo! bravo!" cried the captain. "Well done, Andrew, my man. It was
grand! It was worth coming through all these troubles to hear."
"Ay, the pipes is crant," said Andrew proudly. "She's the far pestest
musick as effer wass for the mountains."
"And never better played," cried the doctor. "I say bravo, too."
"Well, Watty, how are you?" whispered Steve.
"She feels petter, chust noo."
"Keep moving, my lads!" cried the captain cheerily; and he stepped
forward.
But not many yards; for there before them, piled-up in mighty masses,
was the freshly fallen rock which had come crashing down from on high,
and completely blocked up the entrance to the passage-like gorge through
which they had been wont to row to the sea.
"Will the water force its way through, Johannes?" said the captain.
"No, sir, never. If it had been ice and solid snow, it would of course
in time; but this is all granite rock."
"Well," said the captain, "it will be work for us to haul a boat right
over the mountain and keep on the other side."
In due time the word was given, and Andrew went to the front again to
strike up some of his gayest lilts; and the men marched back to muster
on deck afterwards, glowing with health and exercise, and ready to enjoy
a hearty meal.
"Steve, my lad," cried the captain, as soon as they were in the cabin,
"God bless you for this! You've started the poor fellows on a fresh
lease of life. And done me more good, boy, than ever I did to any one
yet."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried Steve, who felt a choking sensation in his throat.
"No nonsense, my lad. Try to keep it up; any way, so that we can kill
the demon _ennui_."
"I'll try," said Steve huskily; "but, hard though it was, I didn't know
it would do so much good. But I'll never laugh at the bagpipes again."