THAT AWFUL NIGHT AT SEA--A RIDE FOR PRECIOUS LIFE.
During this long summer holiday Fred made quite a sailor of his
friend Frank, that is as far as anyone could, for the lad was not
entirely cut out for a seafarer.
In return for this instruction in seamanship Frank taught Fred to
ride, and riding was really an accomplishment of Frank's. It takes a
plucky boy too to acquire the art of horsemanship with a Shetland
pony, especially when, as Frank insisted, the learner had first to
practise bare-back.
"You'll never get the grip with your knees else," he told him rightly
enough; but this daft wee horse was probably just as difficult to
ride before you knew his tricks and his manners as any to be met with
in all Scotland.
However, Fred was declared master after a time, and then the pony
became far more serious and manageable.
But this delightful holiday came to an end at last, and once more
Mrs. Fielding took her lad south to a fresh school she had heard such
good accounts of.
"Poor Frank!" said Eean, when he heard of it.
* * * * * *
Some people would have condemned the fisherman bard's plan of
training Fred. I myself do not think it was wrong. He was certainly
kept strictly to school, and his lessons were superintended by Eean
himself at night; but then he had unbounded exercise, and he was also
taught to work. Before he was fourteen years of age he was a fairly
good carpenter, and could help to make a cask, while he knew all the
mysteries of fish-curing.
Then he had his hobbies, namely, his music and his aquarium, and he
had his amusements as well. The wild woods were his home, and on the
sea he felt as safe as in his own bed in the fisherman's cottage.
Fisher folks are a very humble and unambitious people; but I really
know no other class so innocent in their mode of life and manners.
If Christianity flourishes anywhere in Scotland, it is in the obscure
villages of honest fisher people.
Very superstitious they are, however; but surely there is no harm in
this.
Kindly they are too, and clannish, hardly caring to mix much, far
less intermarry, with the peasantry that dwell around them, and when
grief falls upon one house it seems to fall on all. A wedding causes
happiness and merriment to the whole of a fisher community, and a
death, especially by drowning, brings grief to every cot.
Although Eppie was not by any means very old, she was looked up to as
the matron of the village--a veritable mother in Israel. She was
supposed to know far more of medicine than the old doctor who used to
put in an appearance about once a week riding on a wonderful old
white pony. When I tell you what this pony did one day, you will, I
think, admit he was entitled to be called "wonderful."
Frank, on his Shetland, overtook the old doctor in a wood, and
touching his hat to his grey hairs, immediately commenced a
conversation.
"That's been a nice pony of yours, sir, in its day."
"Humph!" said the medicine man, "I daresay you think both he and I
are out of the hunt, eh?"
"Oh, no, sir! But I say, sir, this is a nice bit of road, isn't it?"
The doctor laughed.
"I do like a cheeky boy," he said; "but see if I don't accept your
challenge. From the first milestone to the next, then.
"Now here's the milestone; are you all ready?"
"All ready, sir."
"Gee--ee--up, then!"
And away they went.
For the first half mile Frank was far ahead. So confident of victory
was he that he took off his bonnet and waved it back at the doctor.
But before he was aware a streak of lightning seemed to be coming up
behind, and Frank had to fly. Hand over hand the doctor came on; it
was soon neck and neck; and after this poor Frank was nowhere in the
running.
But Eppie was an herbalist; no witch, however. She did not gather
her simples at midnight on the moor under the light of the moon, nor
utter incantations over them. No; she used to walk out in broad
daylight knitting her stocking, with Toddie and Tip coming up behind
her, each carrying a basket.
As she passed through the village on her return she would call at
many a little cot, and she had a welcome wherever she went. The old
women would get up and dust a chair for her, and the toddling
bairnies would run laughing to meet her. And honest Eppie never came
away without getting a blessing, and leaving one too. She would
leave something else as well for the sick; namely, a bunch of roots
or fresh green leaves, with instructions how to brew a decoction
therefrom.
"These reets [roots] are, may be, no vera bonnie," Eppie would say,
"but they're the best things for the bluid you ever saw or heard tell
o'."
Eppie was as good as an elder among some of the sick people, and she
had a way with her of administering spiritual advice that never gave
offence. How prettily she could tell a Bible story, or describe in,
simple language the plan of salvation, those who heard her speak in
her own broad East of Scotland Scotch--for she was not a native of
this wild west village--may remember to this day.
Eean never visited; he was naturally shy but he conducted service in
his cave every Sunday evening all the year round.
On calm summer evenings boats containing stranger tourists would
sometimes stop beneath the cliffs, and greatly would these
holiday-keepers marvel to hear the sweet sad strains of "Martyrdom"
or "London New," coming whence they could not tell, for no one was
visible on the cliff or about it, and the ports of the cave were not
easy to distinguish.
The village of Methlin was a very small one from a fisherman's point
of view; but though the boats were few, they were manned by hearts as
brave as ever dared to face the stormy ocean. Nor were the fishermen
idlers or laggards. They did not depend on the herring season for a
living--they found fish all the year round if it were possible to go
out; then there were always lobsters and crabs to be caught in the
cage or creel. The haddocks were smoked, and cod were salted. There
was a town about twenty miles from the village, and here there was a
ready market for all the produce of this industrious people. Instead
of loitering about the street corners on days when fishing was an
impossibility, the men found plenty to do in their gardens, which
were kept in great perfection, or on their little crofts of an acre
or two each in extent.
If ever a stray tourist or strolling artist came to Methlin, he was
at once struck by the beauty of the gardens and the quaintness of the
cottages.
On the whole I am rather proud of my wee village, and do not hesitate
to say it was unique, and of its kind quite idylic.
Next to Eean and Eppie, I'm not quite sure that honest Bunko did not
rank as the greatest favourite after the adventure I am now going to
describe.
I should state, to begin with, that Scottish fishing boats are not
like those used, say, at Yarmouth and in England generally; these
latter are decked over, and therefore fit to stop a week at sea; the
Scotch are open all amidships, and, though very strong and high in
the free-board, would quickly fill and perish in a sea-way with a
strong gale blowing.
But the hardy Scot, like the Viking of old, takes his life in his
hand, and boldly ventures far to sea in these boats; yet, woe is me!
never a season passes that widows and children are not left to weep
and mourn for dear husbands and fathers they ne'er will see again in
this world beneath.
It was in the autumn time, when the corn in the fields was ripening
yellow, when the leaves on the birchen trees were growing darker and
darker, and when almost every bird save the robin and skite had
ceased to sing, that there came a boat into Methlin Bay reporting
fish to be found in immense shoals a goodly way to the nor'ard and
west. On board this boat was a wealth of silvery herrings, amply
proving the truth of the boat-owner's words. He had called here to
give the villagers a friendly hint.
What hurry, commotion, and excitement there were now! The men,
women, and even the tiniest children were busy for a time; but soon
this passed away, and there fell over the village that strange hush
that only the women of wigwams in the Indian districts of America
west, when their braves have gone on the warpath, know, or the wives
of Scottish fisher-folk, when their husbands are hurried away to sea.
Eean had gone with the rest, and with him both Fred and Toddie, for
the latter would not be denied.
The weather was to all appearance most propitious for deep-sea
fishing, and everyone was cheerful and merry. "Why, Toddie, you
coming with us!" said Eean's best hand. "Why we'll have luck, my
little lass!"
As Eean rolled his wee girl in a pea-jacket, and set her near him at
the helm, he could not help crooning to himself some verses from
Longfellow's "Wreck of the _Hesperus_."
"It was the schooner _Hesperus_,
hat sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
"Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May."
Away went the boats. The women and children watched them from the
cliff-top till a gathering haze swallowed them up, then went somewhat
sadly back to their homes. "I dinna like the looks of the weather,"
said a fisherman's wife that evening after sunset. "The moon has an
unco' queer look about it, and there are clouds rising in the east
that'll soon chase ilke starn [star] out o' the lift."
"Hush, Jemmie, hush!" said Eppie, heaping more peat and wood on the
fire. "Our men have been mercifully preserved on mony a stormy
nicht, and I've little fear of them noo, even should the wind blaw
ower the hills in hurricanes."
About ten o'clock that night Eppie was dosing in her chair, for her
day's work had been hard, when an anxious knocking was heard at the
door, and she speedily got up and drew aside the bolt, admitting
three neighbours.
"Oh, woman, woman!" they cried, "hear at the wind, and Johnnie
Stevens' glass is doon, doon, doon! It'll be the wildest nicht at
sea that ever a boat was oot in."
"Sit down by the fire," said Eppie. "I've been listenin' to the
wind. It's no a cheery sound; but oh, women, do you no ken that the
Lord can hold the sea in the hollow of his han'?"
But I fear Eppie was trying to impart to her neighbours a comfort she
herself was very far indeed from possessing. No one thought of bed
or rest that night. Nor could the wives who had gathered around
Eppie's blazing hearth sit long in one place. They must keep pacing
about, often going anxiously to peer out into the darkness,
shuddering and shivering as they heard the wild howl of the tempest
and the rattle of hail and sleet on the window panes. The
kindly-hearted Eppie kept them talking as much as possible, and she
herself seemed no whit affected, though in reality her heart was a
heavy one indeed. But there were, in spite of all she could do,
spells of silence, broken only by the wail and "howther" of the wind,
and the sobs of those grief-stricken women.
It must have been well on towards morning when every eye was turned
towards the door, for the "sneck was tirled"; and next moment the
outer door was opened.
Who was coming?
Every heart beat quick with anxiety. Then the inner door was thrown
wide, and in stalked Bunko, red coat on and pole in hand.
His bonnet was pulled down over his ears, and his face was
rain-battered and red. He looked indeed an uncouth figure.
"He is a good man," said Bunko, "and bringeth good tidings."
"Oh, may the Lord love you for they words!" cried one of the women;
"but speak, Bunko, speak!"
"It's like this," said the half-witted lad. "There is hope yet, ye
mustna let down your hearts. I've just come back from the harbour,
and ae [one] boat has just come in."
"Oh, bless you, Bunko! Who's boat is it?"
"None o' your men."
The women wrung their hands.
"It's Will Scroggie's boat. Will had a mis-shanter, and bore up
afore the brunt o' the storm cam' on. But the boat is sadly tashed.
And a' the rest are blown oot to sea."
"Oh, Bunko, Bunko! is that a' the comfort ye have to gie?"
"Wheesht, women. Hold your din till I tell ye."
"When I returned sair for-fochten" (sorely over-powered), "I found
the public-hoose open, and in I gaed to taste a drap for my stomach's
sake. And wha saw I sittin' there by the fire but Sandie Grigg just
returned from the sea. He'd heard the awfu' news, and was condolin'
wi' me about it, when up he sprang frae his stool. I have it, I have
it," he cried.
"Hae ye ta'en leave o' your seven sinses?" said I.
"Na, na, Bunko," said Sandie, "and if you can ride you may save every
boat."
"I can ride anywhaur, or do onything to save but ane o' those bonnie
boats," I cried.
"Well," he said, "it's twenty miles and a bittock to the town of
D---- whaur I came from the day. The gunboat _Sandpiper_ is there.
She sails at seven sharp. You may catch her. Rin, Bunko, rin, and
tell the women folks, and I'll hae Jock Leggie's brown mare at
Eppie's door in a hand clap."
Even as Bunko spoke there came the sound of hoofs on the stones
outside.
"Quick, Eppie, quick!" cried Bunko, dashing his plaid and pole on the
floor, "give me a drink o' milk. That's it. Noo tak care o' Keelie.
Keelie, lie down, sir, till I come back."
Eppie thrust a bannock in his pocket. Bunko pulled his cap down
still farther over his brow, and hardly waiting to hear the prayers
and blessings the poor women hurled after him, though he fain would
have waited, he pulled the door open and dashed out.
"You've three hours, but its deed against the storm you'll ride."
"I'll do it or die," cried Bunko.
And away towards the woods he flew, hardly visible in the hurricane
mist that obscured the dawn of this awful day.
He hurried on, but aye as the gusts gathered extra force he waited
for the lull, then once more struck his heels against the sides of
his willing steed.
Poor honest Bunko, he was Scotch to the back bone; and as he tore
along he kept up his courage with verses from the Bible, and snatches
from the poems of Burns.
"Go on, good mare!" he cried. "It's life or death, my lassie!
Clothe your neck wi' thunder, as Job says, and rejoice in your
strength.
"'But sich a nicht he took the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last,
The rattlin' hail roared on the blast.
Near and more near the thunders roll,
The lightnings flashed from pole to pole.'"
At long last he is near the town, in sight even of the harbour. He
can even see the white steam and the smoke of the _Sandpiper_. Her
commander was one of those daring men whom no wind off a shore would
keep in harbour if he once made up his mind to sail.
Nearer and nearer comes Bunko; but, alas! the mare's strength gives
out, she staggers and falls. Bunko is on his feet in a moment, and
flying by himself now towards the harbour steps.
The last boat has just returned.
The gunboat is already in motion.
But these boatmen knew not Bunko; and his red-coated figure,
bareheaded, and with face streaming with blood, was startling enough,
no doubt.
They positively refused to take him off.
"But," cried Bunko wildly, "it's to save precious life, I tell you!
I'll give you one hundred pounds to take me!"
"In you jump then, lad. Shove off, men. Give way with a will.
We'll hardly catch her."
But Bunko tore off his red coat and waved it wildly in the air, and
next minute the good ship stopped.
The commander heard all Bunko had to say, and loudly praised his
gallantry. "I'll save your friends, boy, never fear, if they are
still afloat."
So back to the shore Bunko was rowed.
The poor mare was on the top of the steps, but she would need a long
rest before she could take the road again. And Bunko himself felt
the need of rest; so, leading his mare, he betook himself to the
nearest inn.
Meanwhile Captain Heydon, of the saucy _Sandpiper_, lost no time in
steaming away in search of the missing boats.
He came up with the distressed fleet about four in the afternoon, and
barely in time to save the lives of those poor struggling fellows.
Not a boat had as yet sunk, but they were filling fast; while the
crews were completely exhausted, and had given way entirely to
despair.
The faint cheer they gave, when they noticed the brave little
war-ship bearing down to their assistance, could scarce be heard amid
the howling of the storm.
Boat after boat was emptied of its crew, old Eean, Toddie, and Fred
being among the first to be hauled over the side.
Weak as she was, Toddie resolutely refused to be taken on board the
gunboat, till she had seen her pet Tippetty in safety.
The half-drowned men were at once seen to by the kindly sailors, and
were soon in warm hammocks or sitting around the galley fire.
The boats as well as their crews were taken in charge, but several
were stove and sank; so that when at last the _Sandpiper_ steamed
into Methlin port only four remained afloat.
It was late when they got in, and the first intimation of the safety
of husband, brother, or sweetheart received was from the men
themselves.
But oh, what joy was there! Some might have been seen dancing,
others laughing and weeping by turns, while others knelt by their
humble firesides and prayed aloud. It was an affecting scene.
But scenes like these, and many far more sad, are to be witnessed
only too often on the wild Scottish coasts.
Concerning this very adventure, Thorn, the sweet bard of Ury, writes
in graphic language--
"Man dies but once? O, say it not!
He lives again to die,
When the surly surly sea has taught
The hope-dissolving sigh,
When the stubborn arm, that strains for life,
Falls feebly on the oar;
When the loved last look of child and wife
Swims wildly o'er the settling strife,
O Death, what canst thou more!"
Just a closing word or two about the chief hero of the episode, poor
Bunko. He did not return till next morning, and it is needless to
say the welcome he received was a warm one.
He had taken plenty of time to ride back; but just before mounting
his mare, the boatmen who had rowed him off came up to demand their
fare.
One of them was rather rude.
"You're the village fool, arena' ye?"
"You're no over civil to say so, man," returned Bunko.
"Weel never min', we want that hundred pounds ye promised us."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Bunko, turning to the landlord. "They took a
fool's word for a hunner poun's, ha! ha! ha! Wha's the fool now?"
Then he jumped into the saddle.
"Come ower to Methlin," he shouted as he cantered out of the yard,
"and you'll have a rattling good dram, and be thankfu'. Ta! Ta!"
And with this promised hospitality in lieu of fare the discomfited
boatmen were fain to be content.