A COUNCIL--PREPARING FOR WINTER QUARTERS--THE ISLE OF ALBA AND ITS
MAMMOTH CAVES--MAGNUS'S TALE--AT HIS BOY'S GRAVE.
The word "canny" is often applied to Scotchmen in a somewhat disparaging
sense by those who do not know the meaning of the word, nor the true
character of the people on whom they choose to fix the epithet. The
word is derived from "can," signifying knowledge, ability, skill, etc,
and probably a corruption of the Gaelic "caen" (head). The Scotch are
pre-eminently a thinking nation, and, as a rule, they are individually
skilful in their undertakings; they like to look before they leap, they
like to know what they have to do before they begin, but having begun,
they work or fight with all their life and power. It was "canniness"
that won for Robert Bruce the Battle of Bannockburn, it was the
canniness of Prince Charles Stuart that enabled him to defeat Sir John
Cope at the Battle of Dunbar. There is no nation in the world possesses
more "can" than the Scotch, although they are pretty well matched by the
Germans. Prince Bismarck is the canniest man of the century.
"A Berlin! A Berlin!" was the somewhat childish cry of the volatile
Gaul, when war broke out betwixt his sturdy neighbour and him.
Yes, fair France, go to Berlin if you choose, only first and foremost
you have to overthrow--what? Oh! only one man. A very old one, too.
Yonder he is, in that tent in the corner of a field, seated at a table,
quietly solving, one would almost think, a chess problem. And so it is,
but he is playing the game with living men, and every move he makes is
carefully studied. That old man in the tent, to which the wires
converge from the field of battle, is General von Moltke, the best
soldier that the world has ever known since the days of Bonaparte and
Wellington, and the _canniest_.
But the word "canny" never implies over-frugality or meanness, and I
believe my readers will go a long way through the world, without meeting
a Scotchman who would not gladly share the last sixpence he had in the
world to benefit a friend.
Our Captain McBain was canny in the true sense of the word, and it was
this canniness of his that induced him to call his officers, and every
one who could think and give an opinion, into the saloon two days after
the events described in the last chapter.
After making a short speech, in which he stated his own ideas freely, he
called upon them to express theirs.
"If," he concluded, "you think we have gone far enough north with the
ship, here, or near here, we will anchor; if you think we ought to push
on, I will take that barrier of ice to the north-east, and push and bore
and forge and blast my way for many miles farther, and it may be we will
strike the open water around the Pole, if such open water exists."
"We are now," said Stevenson, after consulting for a short time with the
second mate, with Magnus, and De Vere the aeronaut--"we are now nearly
88 degrees north and 76 degrees west from the meridian; the season has
been a wonderful one, but will we have an open summer to find our way
back again if we push on farther?"
"No," cried old Magnus, with some vehemence; "no, such seasons as these
come but once in ten years."
"I see how the land lies," said McBain, smiling, "and I am glad that we
are all of the same way of thinking. Well, gentlemen, this decides me;
we shall winter where we are."
"Hurrah!" cried Stevenson; "we wouldn't have gone contrary to your
wishes for the world, captain, but I'm sure we will be all delighted to
go into winter quarters."
After this the _Arrandoon_ was kept away more to the west, where the
water was clearer of bergs, and where mountainous land was seen to lie.
They steamed along this land or shore for many miles, although lighted
only by the bright silvery stars and the gleaming Aurora. They came at
length to a small landlocked bay or gulf, entirely filled with flat ice.
The ship was stopped, and all hands ordered away to a clear a passage
by means of ice-saws and torpedoes. After many hours of hard work this
was successfully accomplished, and the vessel was warped in till she lay
close under the lee of the braeland, that rose steeply up from the
surface of the sea. Those braes were to the north and west of them, and
would help to shelter the ship from at least one of the coldest winds.
"Well, boys," said McBain that day as they sat down to dinner, and he
spoke more cheerfully than he had done since the departure of the
_Scotia_,--"well, boys, here we are safe and snug in winter quarters.
How do you like the prospect of living here for three months without
ever catching a blink of the sun?"
"I for one don't mind it a bit," said Allan. "It'll do us all good; but
won't we be glad to see the jolly visage of old Sol again, when he peeps
over the hills to see whether we are dead or alive!"
"I'm sure," said Rory, "that I will enjoy the fun immensely."
"What fun?" asked Ralph.
"Why, the new sensation," replied Rory; "a winter at the Pole."
"You're not quite there yet," said Ralph; "but as for me, I think I'll
enjoy it too, though of course winter in London would be more lively.
Why, what is that green-looking stuff in those glasses, doctor?"
"That's your dram," said Sandy.
"Why it's lime-juice," cried Rory, tasting his glass and making a face.
"So it is," said Ralph. "Where are the sugar-plums, doctor?"
"Yes," cried Rory; "where are the plums? Oh!" he continued, "I have
it--a drop of Silas Grig's green ginger, steward, quick."
And every day throughout the winter, when our heroes swallowed their
dose of lime-juice, they were allowed a tiny drop of green ginger to put
away the taste, and as they sipped it, they never failed to think and
talk of honest Silas.
And lime-juice was served out by the surgeon to all hands. They knew
well it was to keep scurvy at bay, so they quietly took their dose and
said nothing.
The sea remained open for about a week longer, and scores of bears were
bagged. [These animals are said to bury themselves in the snow during
winter, and sleep soundly for two or three months. This, however, is
doubtful.] This seemed, indeed, to be the autumn home of the King of
the Ice. Then the winter began to close in in earnest, and all saving
the noonday twilight deserted them. The sky, however, remained clear
and starry, and many wonderful meteors were seen almost nightly shooting
across the firmament, and for a time lighting up the strange and
desolate scene with a brightness like the noon of day. The Aurora was
clearer and more dazzling after the frost came, so that as far as light
was concerned the sun was not so much missed.
On going on deck one morning our heroes were astonished to find a light
gleaming down upon them from the maintop, of such dazzling whiteness
that they were fain, for the moment, to press their hands against their
eyes.
It was an electric candle, means for erecting which McBain had provided
himself with before leaving the Clyde. So successful was he with his
experiment that the sea of ice on the one hand, and the braeland on the
other, seemed enshrouded in gloom. Rory gazed in ecstasy, then he must
needs walk up to McBain and shake him enthusiastically by the hand,
laughing as he remarked,--
"'Deed, indeed, captain, you're a wonderful man. Whatever made you
think of this? What a glorious surprise. Have you any more in store
for us? Really! sir, I don't know what your boys would do without you
at all at all."
Thus spoke impulsive young Rory, as McBain laughingly returned his
hand-shake, while high overhead the new light eclipsed the radiance of
the brightest stars. But what is that strange, mournful cry that is
heard among the hills far up above them? It comes nearer and still more
near, and then out from the gloom swoops a gigantic bird. Attracted by
the light, it has come from afar, and now keeps wheeling round and round
it. Previously there had not been a bird visible for many days, but
now, curious to relate, they come in hundreds, and even alight close by
the ship to feed on the refuse that has been thrown overboard.
"It is strange, isn't it, sir?" said Rory.
"It is, indeed," replied McBain, adding, after a pause, "Rory, boy, I've
got an idea."
"Well," said Rory, "I know before you mention it that it is a good one."
"Ah! but," said McBain, "I'm not going to mention it yet awhile."
"I vill vager," said the aeronaut, who stood beside them, gazing upwards
at the bright light and the circling birds--"I vill vager my big balloon
dat de same idea has struck me myself."
"Whisper," said the captain.
The aeronaut did so, and McBain burst out laughing.
"How funny!" he remarked; "but you are perfectly right, De Vere; only
keep it dark for a bit."
"Oh yes," said De Vere, laughing in turn; "very dark; as dark as--"
"Hush?" cried McBain, clapping a hand on his mouth.
"How tantalising!" said Rory.
"You'll know all about it in good time," McBain said; "and now, boys,
we've got to prepare for winter in right good earnest. Duty before
pleasure, you know. Now here is what I propose."
What he did propose was set about without loss of time. Little Ap was
summoned aft.
"Can you build barrows?" asked McBain.
Little Ap took an immense pinch of snuff before he replied.
"I have built many a boat," he said, "but never a barrow. But look, you
see, with the help of the cooper and the carpenters I can build barrows
by the dozen. Yes, yes, sir."
"Bravo, Ap!" cried McBain; "then set about it at once, for we are all
going to turn navvies. We are going," he added, "to excavate a cave
half-way up that brae yonder on the starboard quarter. It will be big
enough, Ap, to hold the whole ship's crew, officers and all. It will be
a glorious shelter from the cold, and it will--"
"Stop," cried Sandy McFlail. "Beg your pardon, sir, but let me finish
the sentence: it will give the men employment and keep sickness away."
"That's it, my worthy surgeon," said McBain.
"Bravo!" said Sandy. "I look upon that now as--"
Sandy paused and reddened a little.
"As a vera judeecious arrangement," said Rory, laughing. "Out with it,
Sandy, man."
Rory edged off towards the door of the saloon as he spoke; the doctor
kicked over his chair and made a dart after him, but Rory had fled.
Hardly, however, was the surgeon re-seated ere his tormentor keeked in
again.
"Eh! mon, Sandy McFlail," he cried; "you'll want to take a lot more salt
in your porridge, mon, before ye can catch Rory Elphinston."
On the hillside, fifty feet above the sea level, they commenced
operations, and in a fortnight's time the cave was almost completed; and
not only that, but a beautiful staircase leading up to it. The soil was
not hard after the outer crust was tapped, although some veins of quartz
were alighted upon which required to be blasted. Several times they
came across the trunks of huge trees that seemed to have been scorched
by fire, the remains, doubtless, of the primeval forest that had once
clad these hills with a sea of living green. Nor were bones wanting;
some of immense size were turned up and carefully preserved.
Rory made a careful study of the remains of the animal and vegetable
life which were found, and the result of this was his painting two
pictures representing the Past and Present of the strange land where
their vessel now lay. The one represented the _Arrandoon_ lying under
bare poles and yards in the ice-locked bay, with the wild mountainous
land beyond, peak rising o'er peak, and crag o'er crag, all clad in the
garments of eternal winter, and asleep in the uncertain light of the
countless stars and the radiant Aurora. But the other picture! Who but
Rory--who but an artist-poet could have painted that? There are the
same formations of hill and dale, the same towering peaks and bold
bluffs, but neither ice nor snow is there; the glens and valleys are
clad in waving forests; flowers and ferns are there; lichens, crimson
and white, creep and hang over the brown rocks; happy birds are in the
sky; bright-winged butterflies seem flitting in the noonday sunshine,
and strange animals of monstrous size are basking on the sea-shore.
Rory's pictures were admired by all hands, but the artist had his
private view to begin with, and, among others like privileged, aft came
weird old Magnus. First he was shown the picture of the Past.
He gazed at it long and earnestly, muttering to himself, "Strange,
strange, strange."
But no sooner was the companion picture placed before him, than he
started from the chair on which he had been sitting.
"I was right! I was right?" he cried. "Oh! bless you, boy Rory; bless
you, Captain McBain. This--this is the Isle of Alba. Yonder are the
dear hills. I thought I could not be mistaken, and not far off are the
mammoth caves. I can guide you, gentlemen, to the place where lies
wealth untold. This is the happiest day of old Magnus's life."
"Sit down, Magnus," said McBain, kindly; "sit down, my old sea-dad.
Gentlemen, gather round us; Magnus has something to tell us I know.
Magnus," he continued, taking the old man's thin and withered hand in
his, "I have often thought you knew more about this Isle of Alba than
you cared to tell. What is the mystery? You have spoken so often about
these mammoth caves. How know you there is wealth of ivory lying
there?"
"I have no story to relate," said Magnus, talking apparently to himself;
"only a sad reminiscence of a voyage I took years and years ago to these
same dreary latitudes. I had a son with me, a son I loved for his dead
mother's sake and his own. I commanded a sloop--'twas but a sloop--and
we sailed away from Norwegian shores in search of the ivory mines. We
reached this very island. The year was an open one, just like this;
myself and my brave fellows found ivory in abundance; in such abundance
that our sloop would not carry a thousandth part of it, for, gentlemen,
in ages long gone by, this island and those around it were the homes of
the mammoth and the mastodon. We collected all the ivory and placed it
in one cave. How I used to gloat over my treasure! It was all for my
boy. He would be the richest man in Northern Europe. My boy, my dear
boy, with his mother's eyes! I had only to go back to Norway with my
sloop and charter a large vessel, and return to the Isle of Alba for my
buried treasure."
Here poor old Magnus threw his body forward and covered his face with
his skinny hands, and the tears welled through his fingers, while his
whole form was convulsed with sobs.
"My boy--died!" was all he could utter. "He sleeps yonder--yonder at
the cave's mouth. Yonder--yonder. To-morrow I will guide you to the
cave, and we will see my boy."
The old man seemed wandering a little.
"I would sleep now," he added. "To-morrow--to-morrow."
There was a strange light in Magnus's eye next day when he joined the
search party on deck, and a strange flush on his cheek that seemed to
bode no good.
"I'll see my boy," he kept repeating to himself, as he led the way on
shore. "I'll see my boy."
He walked so fast that his younger companions could hardly keep pace
with him.
Along the shore and upwards through a glen, round hills and rocks, by
many a devious path, he led them on and on, till they stood at last at
the foot of a tall perpendicular cliff, with, close beside it, a spar or
flagstaff.
They knew now that Magnus had not been raving, that they were no old
man's dream, these mammoth caves, but a glorious reality.
"Quick, quick," cried Magnus, pointing to a spot at the foot of the
spar. "Clear away the snow."
Our heroes were hardly prepared for the sight that met their eyes, as
soon as Magnus had been obeyed, for there, encased in a block of crystal
ice, lay the form of a youth of probably sixteen summers, dressed in the
blue uniform of a Norwegian sailor, with long fair hair floating over
his shoulders. Time had wrought no change on the face; this lad, though
buried for twenty years, seemed even now only in a gentle slumber, from
which a word or touch might awake him.
"My boy! my boy!" was the cry of the old man, as he knelt beside the
grave, kissed the cold ice, and bedewed it with his tears. "Look up,
look up; 'tis your father that is bending over you. But no, no, no;
he'll never speak nor smile again. Oh! my boy, my boy!"
Rory was in tears, and not he alone, for the roughest sailor that stood
beside the grave could not witness the grief of that old man unmoved.
McBain stepped forward and placed his hand kindly on his shoulder.
Magnus turned his streaming eyes just once upwards to his captain's
face, then he gave vent to one long, sobbing sigh, threw out his arms,
and dropped.
Magnus was no more.
They made his grave close to that of his boy's, and there, side by side,
these twain will sleep till the sea gives up its dead.