LIFE AT LEIGH HALL--THE LAUNCH OF THE "ARRANDOON"--TRIAL TRIPS--A ROW
AND A FIGHT--"FREEZING POWDERS."
As the owner of a large house, the head of a county family, and a landed
proprietor, there were many duties devolved upon Ralph Leigh when at
home, from which he never for a moment thought of shrinking. Though a
great part of the day was spent in shooting, rowing, or fishing, the
mornings were never his own, nor the evenings either. He had a knack of
giving nice dinners, and young though he was, he also possessed the
happy knack of making all his guests feel perfectly at home, so that
when carriages drew round, and it was time to start for their various
homes, everybody was astonished at the speed with which the evening had
sped away; and that was proof positive it had passed most pleasantly.
They kept early hours at Leigh Hall, and so they did at every house all
over the quiet, romantic country, and no doubt they were all the better
for it, and all the more healthy.
But our heroes must be forgiven, if, after the last guest had gone,
after the lights were out in the banqueting hall, and the doors closed
for the night, they assembled in a cosy, fire-brightened room upstairs,
all by their three selves, for a quiet confab and talk, a little
exchange of ideas, a little conversation about the days o' auld lang
syne, and their hopes of adventures in the far north, whither they were
so soon to sail.
About once a fortnight, McBain, whom we may as well call Captain McBain
now--Captain McBain, of the steam yacht _Arrandoon_--used to run down to
Leigh Hall to report progress; the "social hour," as Rory called it, was
then doubly dear to them all, and I'm not at all sure that they did not
upon these occasions steal half an hour at least from midnight. You see
they were very happy; they were happy with the happiness of
anticipation. They never dreamt of failure in the expedition on which
they were about to embark.
"In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves
For a great manhood, there is no such word as--fail."
True, but had they known the dangers they were to encounter, the trials
they would have to come through, brave as they undoubtedly were, their
hearts might have throbbed less joyfully. They had, however, the most
perfect confidence in each other, just as brothers might have. The
friendship, begun long ago between them, cemented, during the cruise of
the _Snowbird_, in many an hour of difficulty and danger--for had they
not come through fire and death together?--was strengthened during their
residence at Leigh Hall. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that
their affection for each other was brotherly to a degree. Dissimilar in
character in many ways they were, but this same dissimilarity seemed but
to increase their mutual regard and esteem. Faults each one of them
had--who on this earth has not?--and each could see those of the other,
if he did not always notice his own. Says Burns--
"O would some power the giftie gie us,
To see ourselves as others see us,
It would from mony a fautie free us."
Probably, individually they did not forget these lines, and so the one
was most careful in guarding against anything that might hurt the
feelings of the others. Is not this true friendship?
But as to what is called "chaff," they had all learned long ago to be
proof against that--I'm not sure they did not even like it; Rory did, I
know; he said so one day; and on Allan asking him his reason, "My reason
is it?" says Rory; "sure enough, boys, chaffing metres with laughing;
where you find the chaff you find the laugh, and laughing is better to a
man than cod-liver oil. And that's my reason!"
And Rory's romantic sayings and doings were oftentimes the subject of a
considerable deal of chaff and fun; so, too, was what the young Irishman
was pleased to call Ralph's English "stolidity" and Allan's Scottish
fire and intensity of patriotism; but never did the blood of one of our
boys get hot, never did their lips tighten in anger or their cheeks pale
with vexation.
Just on one occasion--which I now record lest I forget it--was boy Rory,
as he was still affectionately called, very nearly losing his temper
under a rattling fire of chaff from Allan and Ralph, who were in extra
good spirits. It happened months after they had sailed in the
_Arrandoon_. All at once that day Rory grew suddenly quiet, and the
smile that still remained on his face was only round the lips, and
didn't ripple round the eyes. It was a sad kind of a smile; then he
jumped up and ran away from the table.
"We've offended him," said Allan, looking quite serious.
"I hope not," said Ralph, growing serious in turn.
"I'll go and look him up;" this from Allan.
"No, that you won't!" put in McBain.
"Leave boy Rory alone; he'll come to presently."
Meanwhile, ridiculous as it may seem, Rory had sped away forward to the
dispensary, where he found the doctor. "Doctor, dear," cried Rory,
"give me a blue pill at once--a couple of them, if you like, for sure it
isn't well I am!"
"Oh!" said the surgeon, "liver a bit out of order, eh?"
"Liver!" cried Rory; "I know by the nasty temper that's on me that there
isn't a bit of liver left in me worth mentioning! There now, give me
the pills."
The doctor laughed, but Rory had his bolus; then he came aft again,
smiling, confessing to his comrades what a ninny he had very nearly been
making of himself. Just like Rory!
The bearing of our young heroes towards Captain McBain was invariably
respectful and affectionate; they both loved and admired him, and,
indeed, he was worthy of all their esteem. In wealth there is power,
but in wisdom worth, and Ralph, Rory, and Allan felt this truth if they
never expressed it. McBain had really raised himself to the position he
now held; he was a living proof that--
"Whate'er a man dares he can do."
I will not deny, however that McBain possessed a little genius to begin
with; but here is old Ap, once but a poor boat-builder, with never a
spark of genius in him, superintending the construction of a noble ship.
In him we have an example of industry and perseverance pure and simple.
The _Arrandoon_ made speedy progress on the stocks, and the anxious day
was near at hand when she would leave her native timbers, and slide
gracefully and auspiciously it was to be hoped, into the smooth waters
of the Clyde.
That day came at last, and with it came thousands to view the launch.
With it came Mrs McGregor and Allan's sister; and the latter was to
break the tiny phial of wine and name the ship!
On the platform beneath, and closely adjoining the bows of the
_Arrandoon_, were numerous gentlemen and ladies; conspicuous among the
former was Rory. He was full of earnest and pleasant excitement.
Conspicuous among the latter was Helen Edith. She certainly never
looked more lovely than she did now. The ceremony she was about to
engage in, in which, indeed, she was chief actress, was just a trifle
too much for her delicate nerves, and as she stood, bouquet in hand,
with a slight flush on her cheek and a sparkle in her eye, with head
slightly bent, she looked like a bride at the altar. Rory stood near
her; perhaps his vicinity comforted her, as did his remarks, to which,
however, he met with but little response.
I am beginning to think that Rory loved this sweet child; if he did it
was a love that was purely Platonic, and it needed be none the less
sincere for all that. As for Helen Edith--but hark! A gun rings out
from the deck of the _Arrandoon_ causing every window in the vicinity to
rattle again, and the steeples to nod. The gallant ship moves off down
the slip slowly--slowly--slowly, yes, slowly but steadily, swerving
neither to starboard nor larboard, quicker now faster still. Will she
float? Our heroes' hearts stand still. McBain is pale and breathes
not. She slows, she almost stops, now she is over the hitch and on
again, on--on--and on--and into the water. Hurrah! You should have
heard that cheer, and Rory shakes hands with Helen Edith, and
compliments her, and positively there are tears in the foolish boy's
eyes. There was a deal of hand-shaking, I can assure you, after the
launch, and a deal of joy expressed, and if the truth be told, more than
one prayer breathed for the future safety of the _Arrandoon_ and her
gallant crew. There was lunch after launch in the saloon of the new
yacht, at which Allan's mother presided with the same quiet dignity she
was wont to maintain at the castle that gave the ship its name.
McBain made a speech, and a good one, too, after Ralph had spoken a few
words. Poor Ralph! speaking was certainly not his strong point. But
there was no hesitancy about McBain, and no nervousness either, and
during its delivery he stood bolt upright in his place, as straight as
an arrow, and his words were manly and straightforward. Allan felt
proud of his foster-father. But Rory came next. For once in his life
he hadn't the slightest intention of making anybody laugh. But because
he tried not to, he did; and when Irish bull after Irish bull came
rattling out, "Och!" thinks Rory to himself, "seriousness isn't my forte
after all;" then he simply gave himself rein, and expressed himself so
comically that there was not a dry eye in the room, for tears come with
laughing as well as weeping.
There was a deal to be done to the _Arrandoon_--in her, on her, and
around her--after she was launched, before she was ready; but it would
serve no good purpose and only waste time to describe her completion,
for we long to be "steam up" and away to sea _en route_ for the starry
north.
She was a gallant sight, the _Arrandoon_, as she stood away out to sea,
past the rocky shores of Bute, bound south on her trial trip by the
measured mile. Fifteen hundred tons burden was she, with tall and
tapering masts: lower, main, topgallant, and royal; not one higher; no
star-gazers, sky-scrapers, or moon-rakers; she wouldn't have to rake
much for the wind in the stormy seas they were going to. Then there was
the funnel, such a funnel as a man with an eye in his head likes to see,
not a mere pipe of a thing, but a great wide armful of a funnel, with
the tiniest bit of rake on it; so too had the masts, though the
_Arrandoon_ did not look half so saucy as the _Snowbird_. The
_Arrandoon_ had more solidity about her, and more soberness and
staidness, as became her--a ship about to be pitted against dangers
unknown.
Her figure-head was the bust of a fair and beautiful girl.
That day, on her trial trip, the ladies were on board; and Rory made
this remark to Helen Edith:
"The fair image on our bows, Helen, will soon be gazing wistfully
north."
"Ah! you seem to long for that," said Helen, "but," she added archly,
"mamma and I look forward to the time when she will be gazing just as
wistfully south again."
Rory laughed, and the conversation assumed a livelier tone.
Steamers, I always think, are very similar in one way to colts, they
require a certain amount of breaking in, they seldom do well on their
trial trip. The _Arrandoon_ was no exception; she promised well at
first, and fulfilled that promise for twenty good miles and two; then
she intimated to the engineers in charge that she had had enough of it.
Well, this was a good opportunity of trying her sailing qualities, and
in these she exceeded all expectations.
McBain rubbed his hands with delight, for no yacht at Cowes ever sailed
more close to the wind, came round on shorter length, or made more knots
an hour. He promised himself a treat, and that treat was to run out
some day with her in half a gale of wind, when there were no ladies on
board. He would then see what the _Arrandoon_ could do under sail, and
what she couldn't. He did this; and the very next day after he came
back he made the journey to Leigh Hall, and stopped there for a whole
week. That was proof enough that the captain was pleased with his ship.
Early in the month of the succeeding February, the _Arrandoon_ lay at
the Broomielaw, with the blue-peter unfurled, steam up, all hands on
board, and even the pilot. That very morning they were to begin their
adventurous voyage. Ralph, Allan, and Rory would be picked up at Oban,
and the vessel now only awaited the arrival of McBain before casting off
and dropping down stream.
The Broomielaw didn't look pretty that morning, nor very comfortable.
Although the hills all around Glasgow were white with snow, over the
city itself hung the smoke like a murky pall. There was mud under feet,
and a Scotch mist held possession of the air. Here was nothing cheering
to look at, slop-shops and pawn-shops, and Jack-frequented dram-shops,
bales of wet merchandise on the quay, and eave-dripping dock-houses; nor
were the people pleasant to be among; the only human beings that did
seem to enjoy themselves were the ragged urchins who had taken shelter
in the empty barrels that lined the back of the warehouses; they had
shelter, and sugar to eat. McBain thought he wouldn't be sorry when he
was safely round the Mull of Cantyre.
"Come on, Jack," cried one of these tiny gutter-snipes, rushing out of
his tub; "come on, here's a row."
There was a row; apparently a fight was going on, for a ring had formed
a little way down the street; and simply out of curiosity McBain went to
have a peep over the shoulders of the mob. As usual, the policemen were
very busy in some other part of the street.
Only a poor little itinerant nigger boy lying on the ground, being
savagely kicked by a burly and half-drunken street porter.
"Oh!" the little fellow was shrieking; "what for you kickee my shins so?
Oh!"
McBain entered the ring in a very businesslike fashion indeed; he begged
for room; he told the mob he meant thrashing the ruffian if he did not
apologise to the poor lad. Then he intimated as much to the ruffian
himself.
"Come on," was the defiant reply, as the fellow threw himself into a
fighting attitude. "Man, your mither'll no ken ye when you gang home
the nicht."
"We'll see," said McBain, quietly.
For the next three minutes this ruffianly porter's movements were
confined to a series of beautiful falls, that would have brought down
the house in a circus. When he rose the last time it was merely to
assume a sitting position, "Gie us your hand," he said to McBain.
"You're the first chiel that ever dang Jock the Wraggler. I admire ye,
man--I admire ye."
"Come with me, my little fellow," said McBain to the nigger boy; and he
took him kindly by the hand. Meanwhile a woman who had been standing by
placed a curious-looking bundle in the lad's hand, and bade him be a
good boy, and keep out of Jock the Wraggler's way next time.
"I'll see you a little way home, Jim," continued McBain, when they were
clear of the crowd. "Jim is what they call you, isn't it?"
"Jim," said the blackamoor, "is what dey are good enough to call me.
But, sah, Jim has no home."
"And where do you sleep at night, Jim?"
"Anywhere, sah. Jim ain't pertikler; some time it is a sugar barrel, an
oder time a door-step."
A low, sneering laugh was at this moment heard from the mysterious
bundle Jim carried. McBain started.
"Don't be afeared, sah," said Jim; "it's only de cockatoo, sah!"
"Have you any money, Jim?" asked McBain.
"Only de cockatoo, sah," replied Jim; "but la!" he added, "I'se a puffuk
gemlam (gentleman), sah--I'se got a heart as high as de steeple, sah!"
"Well, Jim," said McBain, laughing, "would you like to sail in a big
ship with me, and--and--black my boots?"
"Golly! yes, sah; dat would suit Jim all to nuffin."
"But suppose, Jim, we went far away--as far as the North Pole?"
"Don't care, sah," said Jim, emphatically; "der never was a pole yet as
Jim couldn't climb."
"Have you a surname, Jim?"
"No, sah," replied poor Jim; "I'se got no belongings but de cockatoo."
"I mean, Jim, have you a second name?"
"La! no, sir," said Jim; "one name plenty good enough for a nigga boy.
Only--yes now I 'members, in de ship dat bring me from Sierra Leone last
summer de cap'n never call me nuffin else but Freezin' Powders."
McBain did not take long to make up his mind about anything; he
determined to take this strange boy with him, so he took him to a shop
and bought him a cage for the cockatoo, and then the two marched on
board together, talking away as if they had known each other for years.
Freezing Powders was sent below to be washed and dressed and made
decent. The ship was passing Inellan when he came on deck again. Jim
was thunderstruck; he had never seen snow before.
"La! sah," he cried, pointing with outstretched arm towards the hills;
"look, sah, look; dey never like dat before. De Great Massa has been
and painted dem all white."