THE TWIN RIVERS--A BUSY SCENE--OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES--THE BUILDING
OF THE GREAT SHIP--PEOPLE'S OPINIONS--RALPH'S HIGHLAND HOME.
Wilder scenery there is in abundance in Scotland, but hardly will you
find any more picturesquely beautiful than that in which the two great
rivers, the Clyde and the Tweed, first begin their journey seawards. It
is a classic land, there is poetry in every breath you breathe, the very
air seems redolent of romance. Here Coleridge, Scott, and Burns roved.
Wilson loved it well, and on yonder hills Hogg, the Bard of Ettrick--he
who "taught the wandering winds to sing"--fed his flocks. It is a land,
too, not only of poetic memories, but one dear to all who can appreciate
daring deeds done in a good cause, and who love the name of hero.
If the reader saw the rivers we have just named, as they roll their
waters majestically into the ocean, the one at Greenock, the other near
the quaint old town of Berwick, he would hardly believe that at the
commencement of their course they are so small and narrow that
ordinary-sized men can step across them, that bare-legged little boys
wade through them, and thrust their arms under their green banks,
bringing therefrom many a lusty trout. But so it is.
Both rise in the same district, within not very many miles of each
other, and for a considerable distance they follow the same direction
and flow north.
But soon the Tweed gets very faint-hearted indeed.
"The country is getting wilder and wilder," she says to her companion,
"we'll never be able to do it. I'm going south and east. It is
easier."
"And I," says the bold Clyde, "am going northwards and west; it is more
difficult, and therein lies the enjoyment. I will conquer every
obstacle, I'll defy everything that comes against me, and thus I'll be a
mightier river than you. I'll water great cities, and on my broad
breast I will bear proud navies to the ocean, to do battle against wind
and wave. `Faint heart never won fair lady.' Farewell, friend Tweed,
farewell."
And so they part.
This conversation between the two rivers is held fourteen hundred feet
above the level of the sea, and five score miles and over have to be
traversed before the Clyde can reach it. Yet, nothing daunted, merrily
on she rolls, gaining many an accession of strength on the way from
streams and burns.
"If you are going seaward," say these burns, "so are we, so we'll take
the liberty of joining you."
"And right welcome you are," sings the Clyde; "in union lies strength."
In union lies strength; yes, and in union is happiness too, it would
seem, for the Clyde, broader and stronger now, glides peacefully and
silently onwards; or if not quite silently, it emits but a silvery
murmur of content. Past green banks and wooded braes, through daisied
fields where cattle feed, through lonely moorlands heather-clad, now
hidden in forest depths, now out again into the broad light of day,
sweeping past villages, cottages, mansions, and castles, homes of serf
and feudal lord in times long past and gone, with many a sweep and many
a curve it reaches the wildest part of its course. Here it must rush,
the rapids and go tumbling and roaring over the lynns, with a noise that
may be heard for miles on a still night, with an impetuosity that shakes
the earth for hundreds of yards on every side.
"I wonder how old Tweed is getting on?" thinks our brave river as soon
as it has cleared the rocks and rapids and pauses for breath.
But the Clyde will soon be rewarded for its pluck and its daring, before
long it will enter and sweep through the second city of the empire, the
great metropolis of the west; but ere it does so, forgive it, if it
lingers awhile at Bothwell, and if it seems sullen and sad as it dashes
underneath the ancient bridge where, in days long gone, so fierce a
fight took place that five hundred of the brave Covenanters lay dead on
the field of battle. And pardon it when anon it makes a grand and
splendid sweep round Bothwell Bank, as if loth to leave it. Yonder are
the ruins of the ancient castle--
"Where once proud Murray held the festive board.
*****
But where are now the festive board,
The martial throng, and midnight song?
Ah! ivy binds the mouldering walls,
And ruin reigns in Bothwell's halls.
O, deep and long have slumbered now
The cares that knit the soldier's brow,
The lovely grace, the manly power,
In gilded hall and lady's bower;
The tears that fell from beauty's eye,
The broken heart, the bitter sigh,
E'en deadly feuds have passed away,
Still thou art lovely in decay."
But see, our river has left both beauty and romance far behind it. It
has entered the city--the city of merchant princes, the city of a
thousand palaces; it bears itself more steadily now, for hath not Queen
Commerce deigned to welcome it, and entrusted to it the floating wealth
of half a nation? The river is in no hurry to leave this fair city.
"My noble queen," it seems to say, "I am at your service. I come from
the far-off hills to obey your high behests. My ambition is fulfilled,
do with me as you will."
But soon as the bustle and din of the city are led behind, soon as the
grand old hills begin to appear on the right, and glimpses of green on
the southern banks, lo! the tide comes up to welcome the noble river;
and so the Clyde falls silently and imperceptibly into the mighty
Atlantic. Yet scarcely is the lurid and smoky atmosphere that hangs
pall-like over the town exchanged for the purer, clearer air beyond,
hardly have the waters from the distant mountains begun to mingle with
ocean's brine, ere the noise of ten thousand hammers seems to rend the
very sky.
Clang, clang, clang, clang--surely the ancient god Vulcan has
reappeared, and taken up his abode by the banks of the river. Clang,
clang, clang. See yonder is the _Iona_, churning the water into foam
with her swift-revolving paddles. She has over a thousand passengers on
board; they are bound for the Highlands, bent on pleasure. But this
terrible noise and din of hammers--they will have three long miles of it
before they can even converse in comfort. Clang, clang, clang--it is no
music to them. Nay, but to many it is.
It is music to the merchant prince, for yonder lordly ship, when she is
launched from the slips, will sail far over the sea, and bring him back
wealth from many a foreign shore. It is music to the naval officer; it
tells him his ship is preparing, that ere long she will be ready for
sea, that his white flag will be unfurled to the breeze, and that he
will walk her decks--her proud commander.
And it is music--merry music to the ears of two individuals at least,
who are destined to play a very prominent part in this story. They are
standing on the quarter-deck of a half-completed ship, while clang,
clang, clang, go the hammers outside and inside.
The younger of the two--he can be but little over twenty-three--with
folded arms, is leaning carelessly against the bulwarks. Although there
is a thoughtful look upon his handsome face, there is a smile as well, a
smile of pleasure. He is taller by many inches than his companion,
though by no means better "built," as sailors call it. This companion
has a bold, brown, weather-beaten face, the lower half of it buried in a
beard that is slightly tinged with grey; his eyes are clear and
honest,--eyes that you can tell at a glance would not flinch to meet
even death itself. He stands bold, erect, firm. Both are dressed well,
but there is a marked difference in the style of their attire. The
garments of the elder pronounce him at once just what he is,--one who
has been "down to the sea in ships." The younger is dressed in the
fashionable attire of an English gentleman. To say more were needless.
A minute observer, however, might have noticed that there was a slight
air of _neglige_ about him, if only in the unbuttoned coat or the
faultless hat pushed back off the brow.
"And so you tell me," said the younger, "that the work still goes
bravely on?"
"Ay, that it does," said his companion; "there have been rumours of a
strike for higher wages among the men of other yards, but none, I am
proud to say, in this."
"And still," continued the former, "we pay but a fraction of wage more
than other people, and then, of course, there is the extra weekly
half-holiday."
"There is something more, Ralph--forgive me if I call you Ralph, in
memory of dear old times. You will always be a boy to me, and I could
no more call you Mr Leigh than I could fly."
Ralph grasped his companion by the hand; the action was but momentary,
but it showed a deal of kindly feeling. "Always call me Ralph," he
said, "always, McBain, always. When we are back once more at sea I'll
call you captain, not till then. But what is the something more that
makes our men so happy?"
"Why, your kindly manner, Ralph boy. You mix with them, you talk with
them, and take an interest in all their doings, and you positively seem
to know every one of them by name. Mind you, that extra half-holiday
isn't thrown away: they work all the harder, and they are happy. Why,
listen to them now."
He paused, and held up one hand. From bows to stern of the vessel there
arose the sound of industry, incessant, continual; but high over the
clang of hammers and the grating noise of saws there arose the voice of
song.
"They sing, you see," continued McBain; "but they don't put down their
tools to sing. But here comes old Ap. What cheer, Mr Ap Ewen?"
Those of my readers who knew Ap as he was two or three years ago--the
little stiff figure-head of a fellow--would be surprised to see him now.
[_Vide_ "Cruise of the Snowbird." Same Author and Publishers.] He is
far more smartly dressed, he is more active looking, and more the man,
had taken him in hand. He had caused him to study his trade of
boat-builder in a far more scientific fashion, with the result that he
was now, as our story opens, foreman over all the men employed on the
ship in which Ralph Leigh stood.
Indeed, McBain himself, as well as Ap, were good examples of what
earnest study can effect. There is hardly anything which either boy or
man cannot learn if he applies his mind thereto.
"What cheer, Mr Ap Ewen?" said McBain.
"More hands wanted, sir," said Ap, pulling out his snuff-box and taking
a vigorous pinch.
"More hands, Ap?" exclaimed McBain.
"Ay, sir, ay; look you see," replied Ap, "you told me to hurry on, you
see, and on Monday we shall want to begin the saloon bulkheads."
"Bravo! Ap, bravo! come to my office to-night at seven, and we'll put
that all straight."
"Thank you, sir," said Ap, touching his hat and retiring.
Ralph Leigh was owner of the splendid composite steamship that was now
fast nearing her completion.
She was not being built by contract, but privately, and McBain was head
controller of every department, and for every department he had hired
experts to carry on the work. The vessel was designed for special
service, and therefore she must be a vessel of purity, a vessel of
strength. There must not be a flaw in her, not a patch--all must be
solid, all must be good. McBain had hired experts to examine everything
ere it was purchased, but he made use of his own eyes and ears as well.
The yard in which the ship was built was rented, and every bit of timber
that entered it was tested first, whether it were oak or teak, pine,
mahogany, or cedar; and the iron the same, and the bolts of copper and
steel, so that Captain McBain's work was really no sinecure.
"Well, then," said Ralph, "I've been over all the ship; I'm extremely
pleased with the way things are going on, so if you have nothing more to
say to me I'm off. By the way, do the people still flock down on Friday
afternoons to look over the ship?"
"They do," replied McBain; "and poor old Ap, I feel sorry for him. _He_
gets no Friday half-holiday; he won't let me stop, but he insists upon
remaining himself to show the people round."
"And the people enjoy it?"
"They do. They marvel at our engines, as well they may. The gear, so
simple and strong, that Ap and I invented for the shipping and
unshipping of the rudder, and the easy method we have for elevating the
screw out of the water and reducing the vessel to a sailing ship, they
think little short of miraculous. They are astonished, too, at the
extraordinary strength of build of the ship. Indeed, they are highly
complimentary to us in their general admiration. But," continued
McBain, laughing aloud, "it would amuse you to hear the remarks of some
of these good, innocent souls. The two 12-pounder Dalgrens are
universal favourites. They pat them as if they loved them. One girl
last Friday said `they just looked for a' the warld like a couple o' big
iron soda-water bottles.' They linger in the armoury; old Ap shows them
our `express' rifles, and our `bone-crushers,' and the hardened and
explosive bullets: then he takes them to the harpoon-room and shows them
the harpoons, and the guns, and the electric apparatus, and all the
other gear. They stare open-mouthed at the balloon-room and the
sledge-lockers, but when they come to the door of the torpedo-chamber
they simply hurry past with looks of awe. It is currently reported that
we are bound for the very North Pole itself; I'm not sure we are not
going to bring it back home with us. Anyhow, they say that as soon as
we reach the ice, we are to fill our balloons, attaching one to each
mast and funnel, and float away and away over the sea of ancient ice
until we reach the Pole."
Ralph laughed right merrily, and next minute he was over the side, with
his face set townwards, trudging steadily on to the railway-station. It
was only a trifle over three miles; there were cabs to be had in
abundance, but what young man would ride if he had time to walk?
Ralph was going home. Not to his fair English home far away in the
south, for ever since, in the early spring-time--and now it was autumn--
the keel of the ship--_his_ ship--had been laid, Ralph had taken up his
abode in a rustic cottage by the banks of a broad-bosomed lake in the
Highlands of Argyll. Wild though the country was all around, it was but
four miles from the railway, and this journey he used to accomplish
twice or oftener every week, on the back of a daft-looking Welsh pony
that he had bought for the purpose. Once on board the train, two hours
took him to the city, and thence a brisk walk to the building-yard.
He had watched, week after week, the gradual progress of his ship
towards completion, with an interest and a joy that were quite boyish.
He dearly loved to see the men at work, and listen to their cheerful
voices as they laboured. Even the smell of the pine or cedar shavings
was perfume to Ralph, and the way he used to climb about and wander over
and through the ship, when she was little more than ribs, knees, and
beams, was quite amusing.
But he was nevertheless always happy to get back to his Highland home,
his books, his boat, and his fishing-rod. She was a widow who owned the
humble cottage, but she was kind and good, and Ralph's rooms, that
looked away out over the lake, were always kept in a state of perfect
cleanliness. The widow had one little daughter, a sweetly pretty and
intelligent child, over whose fair wee head five summers had hardly
rolled. Jeannie was her name, Jeannie Morrison, and she was an especial
pet of Ralph's. She and the collie dog always came gleefully down the
road to meet him on his return from the distant city, and you may be
perfectly sure he always brought something nice in his pocket for the
pair of them.
When tired of reading, Ralph used to romp with wee Jeannie, or take her
on his knee and tell her wonderful stories, which made her blue eyes
grow bigger and more earnest than ever as she listened.
In fact, Jeannie and Ralph were very fond of each other, indeed, and
every time he went to a romantic little island out in the lake to fish,
he took Jeannie in the stern of the boat, and the time passed doubly
quick.
"Oh, Mista Walph! Mista Walph!" cried Jeannie, bursting into Ralph's
room one afternoon, clapping her hands with joy. "Mista McBain is
coming; Capping McBain is coming."
"Yes," said Mistress Morrison, entering behind her little daughter.
"I'm sure you'll be delighted, sir, and so am I, for the captain hasn't
been here for a month."
Then Ralph got his hat, and, accompanied by the honest collie and his
favourite Jeannie, went off down the road to meet McBain and bid him
welcome to his Highland home.