A SAILOR'S COTTAGE--THE TELEGRAM--"SOMETHING'S IN THE WIND"--THE GOOD
YACHT "POLAR STAR"--HOPE FOR THE WANDERERS.
A cottage on a cliff. A cliff whose black, beetling sides rose sheer up
out of the water three hundred feet and over; a cliff around which
sea-birds whirled in dizzy flight; a cliff in which the cormorant had
her home; a cliff against which all the might of the German Ocean had
dashed and chafed and foamed for ages. Some fifty yards back from the
edge of this cliff the cottage was built, of hard blue granite, with
sturdy bay windows--a cottage that seemed as independent of any storm
that could blow as the cliff itself was. In front was a neat wee
garden, with nicely gravelled walks and edging of box, and all round it
a natty railing painted an emerald green. At the back of the cottage
were more gravelled walks and more flower garden, with a summer-house
and a smooth lawn, from the centre of which rose a tall ship's mast by
way of flagstaff, with ratlines and rigging and stays and top complete.
Not far off was a pigeon-house on a pole, and not far from that still
another pole surmounted by a weather-vane, and two little wooden
blue-jackets, that whenever the wind blew, went whirling round and
round, clashing swords and engaging in a kind of fanatic duel, which
seemed terribly real and terribly deadly for the time being.
It was a morning in early spring, and up and down the walk behind the
cottage stepped a sturdy, weather-beaten old sailor, with hair and beard
of iron-grey, and a face as red as the newest brick that ever was
fashioned.
He stood for a moment gazing upwards at the strutting fantails.
"Curr-a-coo--curr-a-coo," said the pigeons.
"Curr-a-coo--curr-a-coo," replied the sailor. "I dare say you're very
happy, and I'm sure you think the sun was made for you and you only.
Ah! my bonnie birdies, you don't know what the world is doing. You
don't--hullo?"
"Yes, my dear, you may say hullo," said a cheerful little woman, with a
bright, pleasant face, walking up to him, and placing an arm in his.
"Didn't you hear me tapping on the pane for you?"
"Not I, little wife, not I," said Silas Grig. "I've been thinking,
lass, thinking--"
"Well, then," interrupted his wife, "don't you think any more; you've
made your hair all white with thinking. Just come in and have
breakfast. That haddock smells delicious, and I've made some nice
toast, and tried the new tea. Come, Silas, come."
Away went the two together, he with his arm around her waist, looking as
happy, the pair of them, as though their united ages didn't make a deal
over a hundred.
"Come next month," said Silas, as soon as he had finished his first cup
of tea--"come next month, little wife, it will just be two years since I
first met the _Arrandoon_. Heigho?"
"You needn't sigh, Silas," his wife remarked. "They may return.
Wonders never cease."
"Return?" repeated Silas, with a broken-hearted kind of a laugh, "Nay,
nay, nay, we'll meet them no more in this world. Poor Rory! He was my
favourite. Dear boy, I think I see him yet, with his fair, laughing
face, and that rogue of an eye of his."
Rat-tat.
Silas started.
"The postman?" he said; "no, it can't be. That's right, little woman,
run to the door and see. What! a telegram for me!"
Silas took the missive, and turned it over and over in his hand half a
dozen times at least.
"Why, my dear, who _can_ it be from?" he asked with a puzzled look, "and
what _can_ it be about? _Can_ you guess, little wife? Eh? can you?"
"If I were you, Silas," said his wife, quietly, "I'd open it and see."
"Dear me! to be sure," cried Silas. "I didn't think of that. Why, I
declare," he continued, as soon as he had read it, "it is from Arrandoon
Castle, and the poor widow, Allan's mother, wants to see me at once.
I'm off, little woman, at once. Get out my best things. The blue
pilots, you know. Quick, little woman--quick! Bear a hand! Hurrah!"
Silas Grig didn't finish that second cup of tea. He was dressed in less
than ten minutes, had kissed his wife, and was hurrying away to the
station. Indeed, Silas had never in his life felt in such a hurry
before.
"It'll be like my luck," he muttered, "if I miss this train."
But he did not miss it, and it was a fast one, too, a flying train, that
every day went tearing along through Scotland, and was warranted to land
him at Inverness six hours after he first stepped on board.
No sooner was Silas seated than he pulled out the telegram again, and
read it over and over at least a dozen times. Then he looked at the
back of it, as if it were just possible that some further information
might be found there. Then he read the address, and as he could not get
anything more out of it he folded it up and replaced it in his pocket,
merely remarking, "I'll vow something's in the wind."
Silas had bought a newspaper. He had meant to read; he tried to read as
hard as ever he had tried to do anything, but it was all in vain. His
mind was in too great a ferment, so he threw down the paper and devoted
himself to gazing out of the window at the glorious panorama that was
passing before him; but if anybody else had been in the same
compartment, he or she would have heard this ancient mariner frequently
muttering to himself, and the burden of all his remarks was,
"Something's in the wind, I'm sure of that!"
A fast train? A flying train? Yes, a deal too much so, many would have
thought, but she could not fly a bit too fast for Silas. Yet how she
did rattle and rush and roar along the lines, to be sure! The din she
made only deepening for a moment as she dived under a bridge or brushed
past a wayside station, too insignificant by far to waste a thought
upon! Now she passes a country village, with rows of trim-built
cottages and tidy gardens, with lines for clothes to dry, and fences
where children hang or perch and wave their caps at the flying train.
Now she shaves past rows of platelayers, who stand at attention or
extend their grimy arms like signal yards, while a blue-coated
jack-in-a-box waves a white flag from his window to show that all is
safe. Now she ploughs through some larger junction, over a whole field
of rails that seems to run in every conceivable direction; but she makes
her way in safety in a whirl of dust, and next she shrieks as she
plunges into the darkness of a long, dreary tunnel. Ah! but she is out
again into the glare of the day, and again the telegraph posts go
popping past as fast as one could wink. Five miles now on a stretch of
level country as straight as crow could fly, through fields and woods
and past thriving farms, with far beyond on the horizon hills, hills,
hills.
'Tis spring-time, spring changing into summer, summer coming six good
weeks before its time. Look, Silas, look! crimson flowers are already
peeping red through the greenery of cornfields, drowsy-looking cows are
wading knee-deep in grass and buttercups, the braelands are snowed over
with the gowan's bloom. Birds are singing in meadow and copse, the
yellow furze is blossoming on heathy moorlands. Great black spruces
raise their tall heads skywards, and their every branch is tipped with a
tassel of tender green; rowan-trees seem studded with roses of a pearly
hue, and the feathery larches are hung round with a fringe-work of
darkest crimson. Is it not glorious, Silas? is it not all beautiful?
Did ever you see a sky more blue before, or cloudlets more fleecy and
light?
"I'll stake my word," replies Silas, "that something's in the wind."
Wilder scenery now, dark, frowning mountains, lonely glens, heathlands,
highlands, canons, and tarns, then a long and fertile flat, every sod of
which marks a Scottish warrior's grave.
Inverness at last!
"Boat gone, is it?" cried Silas. "Like my luck. But why didn't she
wait for the train? Tell me that, eh?"
"Yes, sir; dare say I could, sir." This from an ostler in answer to
another query of friend Silas. "Five-and-twenty mile, sir. I've just
the horse that'll suit. Three hours to a tick, sir, rough though the
road is, sir. I'll be ready in twenty minutes. Thank'ee, sir, much
obliged. Now then, Donald, bustle about, will you? Get out the bay
mare. Look sharp, gentleman's only got five minutes to feed."
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"It can't be Captain Grig already," said Mrs McGregor.
"And yet who else can it be?" said Helen Edith.
"I'll run out and see," said Ralph's father, who had been spending some
weeks at the castle.
"Ha! welcome, honest Silas Grig," he cried, rushing up and literally
receiving Silas with open arms as he jumped from the high-wheeled
dogcart. "A thousand welcomes. Well, I do declare you haven't let the
grass grow under your feet. How your horse steams! Take him round,
driver, and see to his comfort, then go to the kitchen and see to your
own. Old Janet is there. Now, Silas," continued Mr Leigh, "before you
go to talk to the ladies, I'll tell you what we have arranged. We have
thought well over all you said when you were here in the autumn, and
I've chartered a German Arctic cruiser, and we're going to put you in
command. She is lying at Peterhead, everything ready, crew and all,
stores and all. Our prayers will follow you, dear Captain Grig, and if
you find our poor boys, or even bring us tidings of their fate, we will
be ever grateful. Nay, nay, but `grateful' poorly expresses my meaning.
We will--"
"Not another word," cried Silas, "not one single word more, sir, or as
sure as my name is Silas Grig I'll clap my fingers in my ears."
He shook Mr Leigh's hand as he spoke.
"I'll find the boys if they be alive," he said. "I knew, sir, when I
got the telegram there was something in the wind. I told my little wife
I was quite sure of it. Ha! ha! ha!"
Silas was laughing, but it was only to hide the tears with which his
eyes were swimming.
"When can you start, my dear Silas?"
"To-night. At once. Give me a fresh horse and five minutes for a
mouthful of refreshment, and off I start; and I'll take command
to-morrow before the sun is over the foreyard."
"To-night?" cried Mr Leigh, smiling. "No, no, no."
"But I say `yo, yo, yo,'" said Silas, "and `yo heave, O,' and what Silas
says he means. There! Ah, ladies, how are you? Nay, never cry, Miss
McGregor. I'm going straight away to the Arctic Sea, and I'm sure to
bring your brother back, and Rory as well, to say nothing of honest
Ralph and Peter the piper. So cheer ye up, my little lass, If Silas
Grig doesn't come back in company with the bonnie _Arrandoon_, may he
never chew cheese again!"
There was no getting over the impetuosity of this honest old sailor, but
there was withal a freshness and happiness about him, which made every
one he talked with feel as hopeful as he was himself. Before dinner was
done both Mrs McGregor and her lovely daughter were smiling and
laughing as they had not smiled or laughed for months before, and when
Silas asked for a song, the latter went quite joyfully to the harp.
You see it appeared quite a foregone conclusion with everybody that
night, that Silas would find the lost explorers and bring them safely
home.
The moon rose in all its majesty as nine tolled forth from the
clock-tower of the ancient castle. Then Silas said "good-bye," and,
followed by many a blessing and many a prayer, the dogcart wound away up
through the solemn pine forest, and was soon lost to view.
He was just as good as his word. He took command of his new ship--a
splendid sea-going yacht--before noon next day. Almost immediately
afterwards he summoned both officers and men and mustered them all aft,
and somewhat startled them by the following curt speech: "Gentlemen and
men of the _Polar Star_, we'll sail to-morrow morning. We touch nowhere
until we enter harbour here again. Any one that isn't ready to go can
step on shore and stop there. All ready, eh? Bravo, men! You'll find
your skipper isn't a bad fellow to deal with, but he means to crack on!
No ship that ever sailed 'twixt Pekin and London, no clipper that ever
left Aberdeen, or yacht from New York city, ever did such cracking on as
I mean to do. Go to your duty. Pipe down."
Then Silas Grig inspected the ship. He was pleased with her get-up and
her rig-out, only he ordered extra spars and extra sails, and these were
all on board ere sundown.
"The old man means business," said the first mate to the second.
"That he does!" replied the inferior officer.
The _Polar Star_ sailed away from Peterhead on the very day that poor
Ted Wilson was laid in his grave beneath the eternal snows of Alba.
Could Silas have seen the desperate position of the _Arrandoon_ just
then, how little hopes he would have entertained of ever reaching her in
time to save the precious lives on board!
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The doctor was left alone in the saloon of the great ship.
The silence that reigned both fore and aft was oppressive even to
dismalness.
For a moment or two Sandy buried his face in his hands, and tears welled
through his fingers. "Oh," he whispered, "it is terrible! The silence
of death is all about us! Our men dying forward, our captain doomed,
and Allan and Rory. Ay, and poor Ralph will be next; I can see that in
his face. Not one of us can ever reach his native land again! I envy--
yes, I envy the dead in their quiet graves, and even wish it were all
past--all, all over?"
"Doctor!" a kindly hand was laid on his shoulder. Sandy started to his
feet, he cared not who saw his face, wet though it was with tears.
"Doctor, don't you take on so," said Stevenson.
"Speak, man I speak quick! There is hope in your face!" cried the
doctor.
"There is hope in my heart, too," said the mate--"only a glint, only a
gleam; but it is there. The frost is gone; the ice is open again."
"Then quick," cried the surgeon, "get up steam! that alone can save the
dying. Energy, energy, and something to do. _I_ can do nothing more to
save my patients while this hopeless silence lies pall-like around us.
Break it, dear mate, with the roar of steam and the rattle of the
engine's screw!"
"Listen," said the mate. "There goes the steam. Our chief has not been
long."
Round went the screw once more, and away moved the ship.
Poor McBain came staggering from his cabin. Ghastly pale he looked. He
had the appearance of one risen from the grave.
He clutched Sandy by the shoulder.
"We are--under--way?" he gasped.
"Yes, yes," said the surgeon. "Homeward bound, captain."
"Homeward bound," muttered the captain, pressing his hand on his brow,
as if to recall his memory, which for a time had been unseated from her
throne.
For a minute or two the surgeon feared for his captain's life or reason.
"Drink this, dear sir," he said; "be seated, too, you are not over well,
and there is much to be done."
"Much to be done?" cried McBain, as soon as he had quaffed the medicine.
"I'm better. Thank you, good doctor; thank you, Sandy. There is much
to be done. Those words have saved your captain's life."
Sandy gave a big sigh of relief and hastened away to Rory's cabin.
Rory had been lying like a dead thing for hours, but now a new light
seemed to come into his eye. He extended his hand to Sandy and smiled.
"We are positively under steam again, Sandy?" he said.
Sandy, like a wise surgeon, did not tell him the frost was quite gone.
Joy kills, and Sandy knew it.
"Yes," he said, carelessly, "we'll get down south a few miles farther, I
dare say. It is nice, though, isn't it, to hear the old screw rattling
round again?"
"Why, it is music, it is life?" said Rory. "Sandy, I'm going to be well
again soon. I know and feel I am."
Then Ralph burst into the cabin.
"I say, Sandy," he said, "run and see dear old Allan; he says he is
going to get up, and I know he is far, far too weak."
Sandy had to pass through the saloon. Freezing Powders was sitting bolt
upright in the corner, and Cockie was apparently mad with joy. The bird
couldn't speak fast enough, and he seemed bent on choking himself with
hemp.
"Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter," he was saying, "here's a pretty, pretty,
pretty to-do. Call the steward, call the steward. Come on, come on,
come on."
"Oh, Cockie," Freezing Powders said, "I'se drefful, drefful cold,
Cockie. 'Spects I'se gwine to die, Cockie. 'Spects I is--Oh! de-ah,
what my ole mudder say den?"
"Come, come," cried Sandy, "take this, you young sprout, and don't let
me catch you talking about dying. There now, pull yourself together."
"I'll try," said the poor boy, "but I 'spects I'se as pale as deaf
(death)."