THE PARTAN CRAIG.
"Prone on the midnight surge with panting breath,
They cry for aid, and long contend with death;
High o'er their heads the rolling billows sweep,
And down they sink in everlasting sleep.
Bereft of power to help, their comrades see
The wretched victims die beneath the lee!"
FALCONER'S _Shipwreck_.
Inspired by fears, perhaps, similar to those of his lady, the
Quartermaster made no immediate reply, but continued to watch with
deep interest, and somewhat of a professional eye, the red flashes
which broke from the bosom of that gloomy bank of cloud, which seemed
to rest upon the surface of the water, about six miles distant.
The wind was still blowing a gale from the seaward. Through the
fast-flying masses of black and torn vapour, the setting sun, for a
few minutes, shed a lurid glare--it almost seemed a baleful glow
along the crested waves, reddening their frothy tops, and lighting
up, as if with crimson flames, the wet canvas of the brig; but lo! at
the same instant, there shot out of the vapour, and into the ruddy
sheen of the stormy sunset, another square-rigged craft, a brig of
larger size, whose guns were fired with man-o'-war-like precision and
rapidity.
The first vessel, the same which for so many hours had been working
close-hauled in long tacks to beat off the lee shore, now
relinquished the attempt, and, squaring her yards, hoisting her
topsails from the cap, stood straight towards Rohallion, her crew
evidently expecting some military protection from the castle on the
rock, or deeming it better to run bump ashore, with all its risks,
than be taken by the enemy.
The fugitive was snow-rigged, a merchant brig apparently by her deep
bends, bluff bows, and somewhat clumsy top and hamper; the British
colours were displayed at her gaff peak. The other was a smart
gun-brig or privateer with the tricolour of France floating at her
gaff, and a long whiplike pennant streaming ahead of her, as she
fired her bow chasers. Twice luffing round, she let fly some of her
broadside guns, and once she discharged a large pivot cannon from
amidships, in her efforts to cripple the fugitive. But as both
vessels were plunging heavily in a tempestuous sea, the shot only
passed through the fore and main courses of the merchantman, and were
seen to ricochet along the waves' tops ahead, ere they sunk amid tiny
waterspouts to the bottom. Thus the violence of the gale rendered
the cannonading of the Frenchman nearly futile.
Neglected, or ill-protected at times by warship and batteries, as the
whole Scottish coast was during the war against France, such episodes
as this were of frequent occurrence. There was no cruiser in the
vicinity, so the flight and pursuit in the offing went on
interrupted, notwithstanding the fury of the gale, which was
increasing every moment.
Although our fleets successfully blockaded the great military ports
of France, in the beginning of the war, her privateers infested all
the broad and narrow seas, and frequently made dashes inshore. Only
seventeen years before the period of our story, the _Fearnought_, of
Dunkirk, cannonaded Arbroath with red-hot shot; and much, about the
same time, the notorious renegade Paul Jones kept all the Scottish
seaboard in alarm with his fleet.
Now the wild blast that tore round the sea-beaten cliff on which the
castle stood, increased in fury; the waves grew whiter as the lurid
sun went down, enveloped in clouds; the sky grew darker and the guns
flashed redder, as they broke through the murky atmosphere, while
their reports were brought by the wind, sharply and distinctly, to
the ears of those who so anxiously looked on.
"Oh, if Rohallion should be there!" exclaimed Lady Winifred, wringing
her hands again and again.
"This will never do!" exclaimed the old Quartermaster, wrathfully; "a
Frenchman in the very mouth o' the Clyde and dinging a Scottish ship
in that fashion! I must fire a gun, and get the volunteers to man
the battery."
Suddenly the sails of the merchantman were seen to shiver, and she
seemed in danger of losing her masts, for a shot had carried away her
rudder, and consequently she became unmanageable!
Both vessels were now so near the land, that the Frenchman probably
became alarmed for his own safety; so changing his course, he braced
his yards sharp up, and beating to windward, speedily disappeared
into the gloom from which he had so suddenly emerged, and was seen no
more; but the unfortunate victim of his hostility drifted fast away
before the wind, partly broadside on, towards that lee and rocky
shore.
"She will be foul o' the Partan Craig, so sure as my name is John
Girvan!" exclaimed the Quartermaster.
"There is death in the air, Girvanmains," added Lady Rohallion, in a
low voice that was full of deep emotion; "I heard the moan of the sea
and wind--the deep sough of coming trouble--in the coves below the
house this morning, and I never knew the omen fail--oh, look
there--_all is over!_" she exclaimed with a shudder, as the drifting
vessel struck with a crash, they seemed to hear, on the long white
ridge of the Partan Craig.
For a moment her masts were seen to sway from port to starboard, then
away they went to leeward, a mass of entangled ruin, rigging, yards,
and sails, as she became a complete wreck bulged upon the reef, with
the roaring sea making tremendous breaches over her, washing boats,
booms, bulwarks, and everything from her deck; and thus she lay,
helpless and abandoned to the elemental war, within a mile of the
shore.
By the naked eye, but more particularly by means of a telescope, the
crew could be seen making frantic signals to those on shore, or
lashing themselves to the timber heads and the stumps of the masts;
and near her bows there was a man bearing in his arms a child, whom
he sought to shield from the waves that every moment swept over the
whole ship.
"A father and his child," exclaimed Lady Rohallion, in deep
commiseration; "oh, my God, the poor things will perish! I will give
a hundred guineas to have them saved."
"The national debt wouldn't do it," replied the old quartermaster,
grimly, with something in his throat between a sob and a sigh.
In those days there were no lifeboats, no rocket apparatus to succour
the shipwrecked, and in such a wild night of storm and tempest--for
now the chill November eve had deepened into night--the hardy
fishermen, who alone could have ventured forth to aid the drowning
crew, thought and spoke of their wives and little ones, whose bread
depended on their exertions and on the safety of their clinker-built
boats, now drawn high and dry upon the beach; and thus compelled by
prudence to remain inactive, they remained with their weather-beaten
faces turned stolidly seaward to watch the helpless wreck.
That those who were thereon did not despair of succour from the shore
was evident, for on the stump of their mainmast the red glaring light
of a tar-barrel was soon seen burning to indicate where they were,
for as the darkness increased, even the snow-white foam that boiled
over the Partan Craig became invisible.
Then the fishermen's wives wrung their hands, and exclaimed in
chorus--
"The puir man wi' his bairn--oh the puir man wi' his bairn! God save
and sain them!"
Flaring steadily like a great torch, the light of the blazing barrel
shed a weird gloom upon the wreck, and defied for a time even the
seas that swept her to extinguish it, while the heartrending cries of
the poor fellows who were lashed to the timber-heads and belaying
pins, were brought to the listeners' ears, from time to time, on the
stormy gusts of wind.
To add to the wildness of the scene, the sea-lairds, disturbed, in
their eyries among the rocks by the cries, the recent firing, and the
blazing barrel now came forth, and the spotted guillemot (or
sea-turtle), the red-throated northern douker, the ravenous gull, and
the wild screaming mews went swooping about in flocks on the blast.
A loud and despairing cry that was echoed by all on shore arose from
the wreck, as the fire-barrel was extinguished by one tremendous
breaker; and now local knowledge alone could indicate the place where
the bulged ship was perishing amid the gloom. Soon after this, the
cries for succour ceased, and as large pieces of timber, planking,
bulwarks, spars and masts were dashed upon the pier and rocks by the
furious sea, it was rightly conjectured that she had gone to pieces,
and that all was at an end now, with her and her crew.
Accompanied by the village dominie, Symon Skaill, a party of
fishermen, farm labourers and servants from the castle, Mr. John
Girvan, with a shawl tied over his hat and yellow wig, searched the
whole beach around the little bay that was overshadowed and sheltered
by the castle-rock, and the coves or caverns that yawned in it,
hoping that some poor wretch might be cast ashore with life enough
remaining to tell the story of his ship; but they searched long and
vainly. Pieces of wreck, cordage, torn sails, broken spars and
blocks alone were left by the reflux of the waves, and the flaring of
the searchers' torches on the gusty wind, as seen from the Castle of
Rohallion, made them seem like wandering spirits, or something
certainly uncanny and weird to the eyes of Lady Winifred.
So the night wore on, the storm continued unabated; heavily the rain
began to lash the sea-beat rocks and castle walls; louder than ever
roared the wind in the caves below, and more fiercely boiled the
breakers over the Partan Craig, as if the warring elements were
rejoicing in their strength, and in the destruction they had achieved.
Wet, wearied, breathless, and longing particularly for a glass of
that steaming whisky-toddy, which they knew awaited them in the
castle, the dominie and the quartermaster, whose flambeaux were both
nearly burned out, just as they were about to ascend a narrow path
that wound upward from the beach, heard simultaneously a sound like a
wild gasping sob--a half-stifled cry of despair and exhaustion--from
the seaward. Shouting lustily for assistance, they gathered some of
the stragglers, and by the united glare of their torches, upheld at
arm's length, they beheld a sight that roused their tenderest
sympathies.
Struggling with that wild sea, whose waves were still rolling
inshore, about twenty feet from where the spectators stood, a man's
head could be seen amid the white surf, bobbing like a fisher's
float, as he swam, combating nobly with the waves, but with one hand
and arm only; the other hand and arm sustained a child, who seemed
already dead or partially drowned.
"Oh, weelawa, it was na for nocht that the sealghs were yowling on
the Partan Craig yestreen!" cried Elsie Irvine, a stout and comely
matron; but from that haunt the seals have long since been scared by
the river steamers.
"Oh, the bairn--save the bairn--the puir wee lammie--the puir wee
doo!" chorussed the women, whose maternal instincts were keenly
excited, and led by Elsie's husband, several men rushed into the
water, grasping each other hand-in-hand to stem alike the flow and
backwash of the waves; but paralysed now by past exhaustion and by
the extreme cold of the sea and atmosphere, the poor man, who was
clad in a light green frock, laced with gold, could do no more to
save either himself or his burden; and thus lay floating passively on
the surface, drawn deep into the black trough one moment, and tossed
upon the white froth of a wave-summit the next, but always far beyond
the reach of those who sought to rescue him and his boy, and wild and
ghastly seemed his face, when, at times, it could be seen by the
light of the upheld torches.
Uttering a short, sharp cry of exhaustion and despair, he suddenly
seemed to stand, or rise erect in the water; then he cast the child
towards the beach, threw up his hands as if human nature could endure
no more, and sank--sank within twenty feet of where the spectators
stood.
Irvine, the fisherman, cleverly caught hold of the child, which a
wave fortunately threw towards him, and the little fellow, senseless,
cold and breathless, was borne away in the plump, sturdy arms of his
wife, to be stripped, put in a warm bed, and restored, if possible,
to heat and animation.
Great exertions were meanwhile made, but made in vain, to rescue the
body of his father, for it was never doubted that such was his
relationship by those who witnessed his severe struggles, his love,
and his despair.
The storm was passing away; wet, weary, and very much "out of sorts"
by their unwonted exertions, the quartermaster and the village
dominie, a thickset, sturdy old fellow, clad in rusty black, with a
tie perriwig and square buckled shoes, a very wrinkled and somewhat
careworn face, arrived at the Castle to make their report to Lady
Rohallion, who had anxiously awaited the events of the night.
With that love of the marvellous and the morbid peculiar to their
class, her servants had every few minutes brought intelligence of the
number of corpses, gashed and mangled, which strewed the beach; of
treasures and rich stuffs which came ashore from the wreck, and so
forth; but, by reading her letters and other occupations, she had
striven to wean herself from thinking too much of the terrors that
reigned without, though every gust of wind that howled round the old
tower brought to mind the bulged ship, and made her sigh for the
absence of her husband and son, both far away from her; and now
starting up, she listened to the narrative of Dominie Skail and his
gossip, Mr. Girvan.
"Ugh!" concluded the latter; "I've never had such a soaking since I
tumbled into the Weser, in heavy marching order, the night before
Minden; and drowned I should have been, but for the ready hand of
Rohallion."
"But this child you speak of--where is it?" asked Lady Winifred.
"Wi' auld Elsie Irvine, down by the coves, my lady," replied the
dominie, with one of his most respectful bows.
"The poor little thing is alive, then?"
"Yes--alive, warm, and sleeping cosily in Elsie's breast by this
time--cosily as ever bairn o' her ain did."
"Bring this child to me in the morning, dominie--you will see to it?"
"Yes, my lady."
"A boy, you say it is?"
"Yes."
"And what is he like, John Girvan?
"Just like other bairns, my lady."
"How?"
"With yellow hair and a nose above his chin," replied the
quartermaster, wiping the water out of his neck and wig.
"A bonnie golden-haired bairnie as ever you saw, Lady Rohallion,"
replied the dominie, with a glistening eye, for he had a kinder heart
for children than the old bachelor Girvan; "and he minded me much of
your ladyship's son, the master, when about the same size or age."
"And this poor child is the sole survivor of the wreck?"
"So far as we can learn, the sole--the only one!"
"Heaven help us! this is very sad!" exclaimed the lady, while her
eyes filled with tears. "Many a mother will have a sore heart after
this storm, and more than one widow may weep for a husband drowned."
"Ay, madam, in warring wi' the elements, we feel ourselves what the
Epicureans of old dreamed they were--scarcely the creation of a
benevolent Being, so helpless and infirm is man when opposed to them."
"Bother the Epicureans, whoever they were; wring the water out of
your wig, dominie," said the quartermaster.
"Any bodies that come ashore must be noted, examined, and buried with
due reverence."
"Yes, my lady," replied the dominie; "we'll have to see the minister
and the sheriff anent this matter."
"Dominie, the butler will attend to you and Mr. Girvan. You are
quite wet, so lose no time in getting your clothes changed; and bring
me in the morning this little waif of the ocean, whom I quite long to
see. Until we discover his parentage, he shall be my peculiar care."
"That shall I do, my lady, joyfully," replied the dominie, bowing
very low; "and that you will be unto him all that the daughter of
Pharosh was to the little waif she found in the ark of bulrushes, I
doubt not."
"Now, dominie," said the quartermaster, testily, "grog first--Exodus
after."
"I have the honour to wish your ladyship a very good night; and we
shall drink to your health a glass for every letter of your name,
like the Romans of old, as we find in Tibullus and Martial," said the
solemn dominie, retiring and making three profound bows in reply to
Lady Rohallion's stately courtesy.
"Good night, dominie. You, Girvanmains, will tell me the last news
in the morning."
The old quartermaster made his most respectful military obeisance as
he withdrew, on receiving this patronymic; for though he had begun
life in the ranks of the 25th, or old Edinburgh regiment, like every
Scot he had a pedigree, and claimed a descent from the Girvans of
Girvanmains and Dalmorton, an old Ayrshire stock, who were always
adherents of the Crawfords of Rohallion, either for good or for evil,
especially in their feuds with the Kennedies of Colzean; and thus he
was disposed to be more than usually suave, when the lady addressed
him as "Girvanmains," or more kindly and simply as "John Girvan," a
familiarity which won entirely the heart of the worthy old soldier,
for he had followed her husband to many a battle and siege, and,
under his eye and orders, had expended many a thousand round of John
Bull's ball ammunition in the Seven Years' war and in the fruitless
strife with our colonists in America.