In the meantime, the Glasgow party on board Allan M’Lean’s pilot-boat
was enjoying their sail and sosherie. Enticed by the beauty of the
sunny weather, which had preceded the arrival of our Glengael friends
at Wick, they had made a long stretch as far to the north as the
Mainland of Shetland, and after enjoying fresh ling and stockfish in
the highest perfection there, and laying in a capital assortment of
worsted hose for winter, they again weighed anchor, with the intention
of returning by the Pentland Firth. Being, however, overtaken by the
boisterous weather, which obliged Mr. Frazer and his two recruiting
guests to stop at Wick, they went into Kirkwall Bay, where they were
so long detained, that the thoughts of business and bills began to
deteriorate their pleasure.
To none of the party was the detention so irksome as to Mr. Walkinshaw,
for, independent of the cares of his mercantile concerns, his fancy was
running on Ellen Frazer, and he was resolved, as soon as he returned
to the Clyde, to sound her father with a proposal, to solicit her for
his second wife. Why a gentleman, so well advanced in life, should have
thought of offering himself as a candidate for a lady’s love, against
his nephew, we must leave to be accounted for by those who are able to
unravel the principles of the Earl of Caithness’s enmity to his son,
particularly as we are in possession of no reasonable theory, adequate
to explain how he happened to prefer Ellen Frazer to the numerous
beauties of the royal city. It is sufficient for us, as historians,
simply to state the fact, and narrate the events to which it gave rise.
Mr. Walkinshaw then, being rendered weary of the Orkneys, and, perhaps,
also of the joviality of his companions, by the mingled reflections of
business, and the tender intention of speedily taking a second wife,
resolved, rather than again incur the uncertainties of the winds and
waves, to leave the pilot-boat at Kirkwall, and embark for Thurso, in
order to return home over land; a vessel belonging to that port being
then wind-bound in the bay. Accordingly, on the same morning that the
party from Wick went to visit Girnigo Castle, and the magnificent
horrors of Noss-head, he embarked.
For some time after leaving Kirkwall, light airs and summer breezes
enabled the sloop in which he had taken his passage to work pleasantly
round Moulhead. But before she had passed the spiky rocks and islets of
Copinshaw, the master deemed it prudent to stand farther out to sea;
for the breeze had freshened, and the waves were dashing themselves
into foam on Roseness and the rugged shores of Barra.
The motion of the sloop, notwithstanding the experience which
the passenger had gained in the pilot-boat, overwhelmed him with
unutterable sickness, and he lay on the deck in such affliction, that
he once rashly wished he was drowned. The cabin-boy who attended him
was so horror-struck at hearing so profane a wish at sea, while the
wind was rising on a lee shore, that he left him to shift for himself.
For some time the master did not think it necessary to shorten sail,
but only to stretch out towards the south-east; but, as the sun mounted
towards the meridian, the gale so continued to increase, that he not
only found it necessary to reef, but in the end to hand almost all his
canvas save the foresail. Still, as there were no clouds, no rain,
no thunder nor lightning, the sea-sick Glasgow merchant dreamt of no
danger.
‘Maybe,’ said the cabin-boy in passing, as the Laird happened to look
up from his prostrate situation on the deck, ‘ye’ll get your ugly wish
oure soon.’
The regardless manner and serious tone in which this was said had an
immediate and restorative effect. Mr. Walkinshaw roused himself, and,
looking round, was surprised to see the sails taken in; and, casting
his eyes to leeward, beheld, with a strong emotion of consternation,
the ocean boiling with tremendous violence, and the spindrift rising
like steam.
‘It blows a dreadful gale?’ said he inquiringly to the master.
‘It does,’ was the emphatic reply.
‘I hope there is no danger,’ cried the merchant, alarmed, and drawing
himself close under the larboard gunnel.
The master, who was looking anxiously towards Duncansby-head, which
presented a stupendous tower of foaming spray, over the starboard bow,
replied,--
‘I hope we shall be able to weather Noss-head.’
‘And if we do not,’ said Mr. Walkinshaw, ‘what’s to be done?’
‘You’ll be drowned,’ cried the cabin-boy, who had seated himself on the
lee-side of the companion; and the bitterness of the reproachful accent
with which this was said stung the proud merchant to the quick--but he
said nothing; his fears were, however, now all awake, and he saw, with
a feeling of inexpressible alarm, that the crew were looking eagerly
and sorrowfully towards the roaring precipices of Caithness.
Still the vessel kept bravely to her helm, and was working slowly
outward; but, as she gradually wore round, her broadside became more
and more exposed to the sea, and once or twice her decks were washed
fore and aft.
‘This is terrible work, Captain,’ said Mr. Walkinshaw.
‘It is,’ was all the answer he received.
‘Is there no port we can bear away for?’
‘None.’
‘Good Heavens! Captain, if this continues till night?’
The master eyed him for a moment, and said with a shudder,--
‘If it does, sir, we shall never see night.’
‘You’ll be drowned,’ added the little boy, casting an angry look from
behind the companion.
‘Almighty Powers!--surely we are not in such danger?’ exclaimed the
terrified merchant.
‘Hold your tongue,’ again cried the boy.
Mr. Walkinshaw heard him, and for a moment was petrified, for the
command was not given with insolence, but solemnity.
A cry of ‘Hold fast’, in the same instant, came from the forecastle,
and, after a momentary pause, a dreadful sea broke aboard, and swept
the deck. The master, who had himself taken the helm, was washed
overboard, and the tiller was broken.
‘We are gone!’ said the little boy, as he shook the water from his
jacket, and crawled on towards the mast, at the foot of which he seated
himself, for the loss of the tiller, and the damage the rudder had
sustained, rendered the vessel unmanageable, and she drifted to her
fate before the wind.
‘Is there indeed no hope?’ cried Mr. Walkinshaw to one of the sailors,
who was holding by the shrouds.
‘If we get into Sinclair’s Bay, there is a sandy beach,’ replied the
sailor.
‘And if we do not?’ exclaimed the passenger in the accent of despair.
‘We’ll a’ be drowned,’ replied the boy with a scowling glance, as he
sat cowering with his head between his knees, at the foot of the mast.
‘We shall not get into Sinclair’s Bay,’ said the sailor, firmly; ‘but
we may pass Noss-head.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Mr. Walkinshaw, catching something like hope
and fortitude from the sedate courage of the sailor.
Another cry of ‘Hold fast’ prepared him for a second breach of the sea,
and he threw himself on the deck, and took hold of a ring-bolt, in
which situation he continued, though the vessel rose to the wave. In
the meantime, the resolute sailor, after looking calmly and collectedly
around for some time, went from the larboard to the starboard, and
mounted several rattlings of the shrouds, against which he leant with
his back, while the vessel was fast driving towards Noss-head.