Chapter Ten.Onshore in Shetland—A Family of Guides—A Wild Ride and a Primitive Lunch—Westward Ho!—Racing a Whale.“What shall we do and where shall we go?” These were the questions which naturally presented themselves for solution to our three heroes, on first stepping out of their boat on Lerwick beach.“We’ll take a turn up the town,” suggested Allan, “and see the place.”“And then go and have lunch somewhere,” said Ralph.“To be sure,” said Rory. “An Englishman will never be long without thinking about eating. But let us take pot-luck for the lunch. We’ll just get a quarter of a dozen of Shetland ponies, that’ll be one to every one of the three of us, and ride away over the island. We’ll fall on our feet, never fear.”“More likely,” said Allan, with a laugh, “to fall on our heads and break our necks; but never mind, I’m ready.”There were many listeners to this conversation. The town “loafers” of Lerwick are not a whit more polite than town “loafers” anywhere else, and seeing three smartly-dressed young yachtsmen, evidently the owners of the beautiful vessel that lay at anchor in the harbour, they gathered around them, crowded them in fact, and were profuse in their offers of their services as guides to either town or country. But for the present our friends declined their assistance, and set off on a brisk walk away up the curious straggling narrow street. Here were few shops worth a second look; the houses stand end on to the pavements, not in a straight row, but simply anyhow, and seem to shoulder the passengers into the middle of the road in the most unceremonious fashion. The street itself was muddy and fishy, and they were not a bit sorry when they found themselves out in the open country, quite at the other end of it. By this time they had shaken themselves clear of the crowd, or almost, for they still had four satellites. One of these was quite a giant of a fellow, with a pipe in his mouth and a tree in his right hand by way of a walking-stick, and looking altogether so rough and unkempt that he might have been taken for the presiding genius of this wild island. In striking contrast with this fellow there stood near him a pretty and interesting-looking young girl, with a little peat-creel on her back, and knitting materials in her hand, which betokened industry. She had yellow hair floating, over her shoulders, and eyes as blue as summer seas.“My daughter, gentlemen,” said the giant, “and here is my son.”Our heroes could not refrain from laughing when they looked at the latter. Such a mite he was, such a Hop-o’-my-thumb, such a mop of a head, the hair of which defied confinement by the old Tam o’ Shanter stuck on the top of it! This young urchin was rich in rags but wreathed in smiles.This interesting family were engaged forthwith as guides.They would all three go, not one would be left behind: the father and son would run, the daughter would ride, and the price of their services would be half-a-crown each, including the use of the ponies.Oh! these ponies, I do so wish I could describe them to you. They were so small, to begin with, that Ralph and Allan looked quite ridiculous on their backs, for their feet almost touched the ground. Rory looked better on his charger. The ponies’ tails swept the heather, their coats were like the coats of Skye terriers, and their morsels of heads were buried in hair, all save the nose. Cobby as to body were these diminutive horses, and cunning as to eye—that is, whenever an eye could be seen it displayed cunning and mischief.Rory mounted and rode like a Centaur, the young lady guide sat like a Shetland-queen. But woe is me for Ralph and Allan,—they were hardly on when they were off again. It must be said for them, however, that they stuck to their bridles if they couldn’t stick to the saddles, and again and again they mounted their fiery steeds with the same ignominious results. Two legs seemed enough for those ponies to walk upon, and it did not matter for the time being whether they were, hind legs or fore legs. They could stand, on their heads too, turn somersaults, and roll over on their backs, and do all sorts of pretty tricks.“It’s only their fun,” cried Rory, “they’ll shake down presently.”“Shake down!” said Ralph, rubbing his leg with a wry face. “I’mpretty well shaken down. Why, I don’t believe there is a whole bone in my body.—Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”But when the ponies had gone through their performances to their own entire satisfaction, and done quite enough to maintain their name and fame as wild Shetland ponies, they suffered their riders to keep their seats, but tossed their manes in the air, as if to clear their eyesight for the run they were now determined to have.Then off started the cavalcade, rushing like a hairy hurricane along the mountain road. Swiftly as they went, however, lo! and behold, at every turn of the road the giant and his little boy were visible, the former vaulting along on his pole, the latter running with the speed of a wild deer.It was early summer in Shetland; the top of lonely Mount Bressay was still shrouded in snow, but all the moorlands were green with grass and heather, and gay with wild hyacinth and crimson-belled bilberry bushes; the light breeze that blew over the islands and across the blue sea was balmy and yet bracing—it was a breeze that raised the spirits; yes, and it did something else, it appealed to the inner man, as Ralph expressed, and so, when after a ride of over a dozen miles a well-known roadside hostelry hove in sight, our heroes positively hailed it with a cheer. What mattered it that the little parlour into which they were shown was destitute of a carpet and possessed of chairs of deal? It was clean and quiet, the tablecloth was spotless as the snows of Ben Rona, the cakes were crisp, the bread was white, the butter was redolent of the fragrant herbage that the cows had browsed, and the rich milk was purer and better far than any wine that could have been placed before them; and when hot and steaming smoked haddocks were added to the fare, why they would not have changed places with a king in his banqueting-hall.All confessed they had never spent a more enjoyable forenoon. The ride back was especially delightful. Before they left their guides to return on board, little Norna, the giant’s lovely daughter, produced from the mysterious depths of her peat-creel quite a wonderful assortment of gauzy mits and gauntlets, and tiny little shawls, and queer old-fashioned head-dresses, all knitted by her own fair fingers. Of course they bought some of each as souvenirs of their visit to the sea-girdled mainland of Shetland, and they paid for them so liberally too, that the tears stood in the girl’s blue eyes as they bade her good-bye. Norna had never been so rich in her life before.Captain McBain was in his cabin poring over a chart when our heroes returned.“Bravo! boys,” he said, heartily; “you’re up to time, and now, as the breeze is from the south with a point or two of east in it, I think we’d better make sail without delay. We’ll work her quietly through the sound. We’ll keep to the south of Yell, but once past Fiedland Point, good-bye to the British Islands for many a day. What more can we wish, boys, than a fair wind and a clear sea, light hearts, and a ship that can go?”“What more indeed?” said Rory.“Are we going to touch at Faroe and Iceland?” asked Ralph.“That,” said McBain, “is, of course, as you wish. I’m at andinyour service.”“Yes, yes,” said Ralph; “but we don’t forget you are our adviser as well, and our sea-father.”“Well,” replied McBain, “I’ve taken the liberty of writing to your real father to say that we thought it better to leave Faroe out of the chart, for the voyage out, at all events. We don’t know what may be before us, boys, nor how precious time may be.”That evening about sunset old Ap’s boatswain’s pipe was heard high above the whistling wind; the breeze had freshened, and sail was being taken in, and the starboard courses were hauled farther aft. They passed very close to some of the numerous outlying islands, the last land their eyes would rest upon for some time. The tops of these isles were smooth and green, their sides were beetling cliffs and rocks of brown, with the waves breaking into foam at the foot, and white-winged gulls wheeling high around them. Little sandy alcoves there were too, where dun seals lay basking in the evening sunshine, some of whom lazily lifted their heads and gazed after the yacht, wondering probably whether she were not some gigantic gannet or cormorant. And theSnowbirdsailed on and left them to wonder. The sun sank red behind the waves, the stars shone brightly down from a cloudless sky, and the moon’s pale crescent glimmered faintly in the west, while the wind kept steady to a point, the yacht rising and falling on the waves with a motion so uniform, that even Ralph—who, as regards walking, was the worst sailor of the three—felt sure he had his sea-legs, and could walk as well as any Jack Tar that ever went afloat. The night was so fine that no one cared to go below until it was quite late.They needed their pea-jackets on all the same.When morning broke there was not a bit of land to be seen, not even a distant mountain top for the eye to rest upon.“Well, boys,” said McBain, when they all met together on the quarter-deck, “how did you enjoy your first night on blue water? How did you sleep?”“I slept like a top,” said Rory.“I believe,” said Allan, looking at Ralph, “we slept like three tops.”“Like three tops, yes,” assented Ralph.“Oh! I’m sure you didn’t, Ralph,” said Rory; “I wakened about seven bells in the morning watch, just for a moment, you know, and you were snoring like a grampus. And tops don’t snore, do they?”“And how do you know a grampus does?” asked McBain, smiling.“Troth,” said Rory, “it’s a figure of speech entirely.”“But isn’t Rory getting nautical?” said Ralph; “didn’t you observe he said ‘seven bells’ instead of half-past three, or three-thirty?”“Three-thirty indeed!” cried Rory, in affected disdain. “Ha! ha! ha! I can’t help laughing at all at all; 3:30! just fancy a fellow talking like an old Bradshaw, while standing on the white deck of a fine yacht like this, with a jolly breeze blowing and all sail set alow and aloft.“Poor little Ralph!” continued Rory, patting his friend on the shoulder, and looking quizzingly up into his face, “and didn’t he get any letters this morning! Do run down below, Allan, my boy, and see if the postman has brought the morning paper.”“Hurrah?” shouted Allan, so loudly and so suddenly that every one stared at him in astonishment.“Hurrah!” he shouted again, this time flinging his cap in true Highland fashion half-way up to the maintop.“Gentlemen,” he continued, in mock heroic tones, “the last mail is about to leave—the ship, bound for the distant Castle of Arrandoon.”And away he rushed below, leaving Ralph and Rory looking so comically puzzled that McBain burst out laughing.“Is it leave of his seven senses,” said Rory, seriously, “that poor Allan is after taking? And can you really laugh at such an accident, Captain McBain? it’s myself that is astonishedatyou?”“Ah! but lad,” said McBain, “I’m in the secret.”Allan was on deck again in a minute.He was waving a basket aloft.“Helen’s pigeon, boys! Helen’s pigeon!” he was crying, with the tears actually in his eyes. “I’d forgotten Peter had it till now.”Ten minutes afterwards the tiny missive, beginning “At sea” and ending “All’s well,” was written, and attached to the strong bird’s leg. It was examined carefully, and carefully and cautiously fed, then a message was whispered to it by Rory—a message such as a poet might send; a kiss was pressed upon its bonnie back, and then it was thrown up, and almost immediately it began to soar.“The bravest bird that ever cleaved the air,” said Allan, with enthusiasm. “I’ve flown it four hundred miles and over.”In silence they watched it in its circling flight, and to their joy they saw it, ere lost to view, heading away for the distant mainland of Scotland. Then they resumed walking and talking on deck.That was about the only incident of their first day at sea. Towards evening a little stranger came on board, and glad he seemed to be to reach the deck of theSnowbird, for he must have been very tired with his long flight.Only a yellowhammer—the most persecuted bird in all the British Islands—that was what the little stranger was. McBain had caught him and brought him below with him to the tea-table, much to the wonderment of his messmates.“It is a common thing,” said McBain, “for land birds to follow ships, or rather to be blown out to sea, and take refuge on a vessel.” A cage was constructed for the bird, and it was hung up in the snuggery, or after-saloon.“That’ll be the sweet little cherub,” said Rory, “that will sit up aloft and look after the life of poor Jack.”Westwards and northwards went theSnowbird, the breeze never failing nor varying for three whole days. By this time the seagulls that had followed the ship since they left the isles, picking up the crumbs that were cast overboard from the galley, had all gone back home. They probably had wives and little fledgling families to look after, and so could not go any farther, good though the living was.“When I see the last gull flying far away astern,” said McBain, “then I think myself fairly at sea. But isn’t it glorious weather we are having, boys? I like to begin a voyage like this, and not with a gale.”“Why?” said Rory, “we’re all sea fast now, we wouldn’t mind it much.”“Why?” repeated McBain, “everything shakes itself into shape thus, ay, and every man of the crew gets shaken into shape, and when it does come on to blow—and we cannot always expect fine weather—there won’t be half the rolling nor half the confusion there would otherwise be.”“Give me your glass,” cried Rory, somewhat excitedly; “I see something.”“What is it?” said Allan, looking in the same direction; “the great sea-serpent?”“Indeed, no,” replied Rory, “it’s a whale, and he is going in the same direction too.”“It’s my whale, you know,” continued Rory, when everybody had had a good peep at him, “because I saw him first.”“Very well,” said McBain, “we are not going to dispute the proprietorship. We wish you luck with your whale; he won’t want to come on board, I dare say, and he won’t cost much to keep out there, at any rate.”All that day Rory’s whale kept up with the ship; they could see his dark head and back, as he rose and sank on the waves; he was seldom three-quarters of a mile off, and very often much nearer.Next day at breakfast, “How is your whale, Rory?” said Ralph.“Oh!” said Rory, “he is in fine form this morning; I’m not sure he isn’t going to give us the slip; he is right away on the weather bow.”“Give us the slip!” said McBain; “no, that she won’t, unless she alters her course. Steward, tell Mr Stevenson I want him.”Stevenson was the mate, and a fine stalwart sailor he was, with dark hair and whiskers and a face as red as a brick.“Do you think,” said McBain, “you can take another knot or two out of her without carrying anything away?”“I think we can, sir.”“Very well, Mr Stevenson, shake a few reefs out.”Ap’s pipe was now heard on deck, then the trampling of feet, and a few minutes afterwards there was a saucy lurch to leeward, and, although the fiddles were across the table, Rory received the contents of a cup of hot coffee in his lap.“Now the beauty feels it,” said McBain, with a smile of satisfaction.“So do I,” said Rory, jumping up and shaking himself; “and its parboiled that my poor legs are entirely.”“Let us go on deck,” said Allan, “and see the whale.”Before the end of the forenoon watch they had their strange companion once more on the weather quarter.“It is evident,” said McBain, “we could beat her.”Racing a whale, reader, seems idle work, but sailors, when far away at sea, do idler things than that. They were leaning over the bulwarks after dinner that day gazing it this lonely monster of the deep, and guessing and speculating about its movements.“I wonder,” said Ralph, “if he knows where he is going?”“I’ve no doubt he does,” said Allan; “the same kind Hand directs his movements that makes the wind to blow and the needle to point to the north.”“But,” said Ralph, “isn’t there something very solemn about the great beast, ploughing on and on in silence like that, and all alone too—no companion near?”“He has left his wife in Greenland, perhaps,” said Rory, “and is going, like ourselves, to seek his fortune in the far west.”“I wonder if he’ll find her when he returns.”“Yes, I wonder that; for she can’t remain in the same place all the time, can she?”“Now, boys,” said Allan, “you see what a wide, wide world of water is all around us—we must be nearly a thousand miles from land. How, if a Great Power did not guide them, could mighty fishes like that find their way about?”“Suppose that whale had a wife,” said Ralph, “as Rory imagines, and they were journeying across this great ocean together, and supposing they lost sight of each other for a few minutes only, does it not seem probable they might swim about for forty or fifty years yet never meet again?”“Oh, how vast the ocean is!” said Rory, almost solemnly. “I never felt it so before.”“And yet,” said Allan, “there is One who can hold it in the hollow of His hand?”“Watch, shorten sail.”McBain had come on deck and given the order.“The glass is going down,” he said to Allan, “and I don’t half like the look of the sea nor the whistle of the wind. We’ll have a dirty night, depend upon it.”
“What shall we do and where shall we go?” These were the questions which naturally presented themselves for solution to our three heroes, on first stepping out of their boat on Lerwick beach.
“We’ll take a turn up the town,” suggested Allan, “and see the place.”
“And then go and have lunch somewhere,” said Ralph.
“To be sure,” said Rory. “An Englishman will never be long without thinking about eating. But let us take pot-luck for the lunch. We’ll just get a quarter of a dozen of Shetland ponies, that’ll be one to every one of the three of us, and ride away over the island. We’ll fall on our feet, never fear.”
“More likely,” said Allan, with a laugh, “to fall on our heads and break our necks; but never mind, I’m ready.”
There were many listeners to this conversation. The town “loafers” of Lerwick are not a whit more polite than town “loafers” anywhere else, and seeing three smartly-dressed young yachtsmen, evidently the owners of the beautiful vessel that lay at anchor in the harbour, they gathered around them, crowded them in fact, and were profuse in their offers of their services as guides to either town or country. But for the present our friends declined their assistance, and set off on a brisk walk away up the curious straggling narrow street. Here were few shops worth a second look; the houses stand end on to the pavements, not in a straight row, but simply anyhow, and seem to shoulder the passengers into the middle of the road in the most unceremonious fashion. The street itself was muddy and fishy, and they were not a bit sorry when they found themselves out in the open country, quite at the other end of it. By this time they had shaken themselves clear of the crowd, or almost, for they still had four satellites. One of these was quite a giant of a fellow, with a pipe in his mouth and a tree in his right hand by way of a walking-stick, and looking altogether so rough and unkempt that he might have been taken for the presiding genius of this wild island. In striking contrast with this fellow there stood near him a pretty and interesting-looking young girl, with a little peat-creel on her back, and knitting materials in her hand, which betokened industry. She had yellow hair floating, over her shoulders, and eyes as blue as summer seas.
“My daughter, gentlemen,” said the giant, “and here is my son.”
Our heroes could not refrain from laughing when they looked at the latter. Such a mite he was, such a Hop-o’-my-thumb, such a mop of a head, the hair of which defied confinement by the old Tam o’ Shanter stuck on the top of it! This young urchin was rich in rags but wreathed in smiles.
This interesting family were engaged forthwith as guides.
They would all three go, not one would be left behind: the father and son would run, the daughter would ride, and the price of their services would be half-a-crown each, including the use of the ponies.
Oh! these ponies, I do so wish I could describe them to you. They were so small, to begin with, that Ralph and Allan looked quite ridiculous on their backs, for their feet almost touched the ground. Rory looked better on his charger. The ponies’ tails swept the heather, their coats were like the coats of Skye terriers, and their morsels of heads were buried in hair, all save the nose. Cobby as to body were these diminutive horses, and cunning as to eye—that is, whenever an eye could be seen it displayed cunning and mischief.
Rory mounted and rode like a Centaur, the young lady guide sat like a Shetland-queen. But woe is me for Ralph and Allan,—they were hardly on when they were off again. It must be said for them, however, that they stuck to their bridles if they couldn’t stick to the saddles, and again and again they mounted their fiery steeds with the same ignominious results. Two legs seemed enough for those ponies to walk upon, and it did not matter for the time being whether they were, hind legs or fore legs. They could stand, on their heads too, turn somersaults, and roll over on their backs, and do all sorts of pretty tricks.
“It’s only their fun,” cried Rory, “they’ll shake down presently.”
“Shake down!” said Ralph, rubbing his leg with a wry face. “I’mpretty well shaken down. Why, I don’t believe there is a whole bone in my body.—Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”
But when the ponies had gone through their performances to their own entire satisfaction, and done quite enough to maintain their name and fame as wild Shetland ponies, they suffered their riders to keep their seats, but tossed their manes in the air, as if to clear their eyesight for the run they were now determined to have.
Then off started the cavalcade, rushing like a hairy hurricane along the mountain road. Swiftly as they went, however, lo! and behold, at every turn of the road the giant and his little boy were visible, the former vaulting along on his pole, the latter running with the speed of a wild deer.
It was early summer in Shetland; the top of lonely Mount Bressay was still shrouded in snow, but all the moorlands were green with grass and heather, and gay with wild hyacinth and crimson-belled bilberry bushes; the light breeze that blew over the islands and across the blue sea was balmy and yet bracing—it was a breeze that raised the spirits; yes, and it did something else, it appealed to the inner man, as Ralph expressed, and so, when after a ride of over a dozen miles a well-known roadside hostelry hove in sight, our heroes positively hailed it with a cheer. What mattered it that the little parlour into which they were shown was destitute of a carpet and possessed of chairs of deal? It was clean and quiet, the tablecloth was spotless as the snows of Ben Rona, the cakes were crisp, the bread was white, the butter was redolent of the fragrant herbage that the cows had browsed, and the rich milk was purer and better far than any wine that could have been placed before them; and when hot and steaming smoked haddocks were added to the fare, why they would not have changed places with a king in his banqueting-hall.
All confessed they had never spent a more enjoyable forenoon. The ride back was especially delightful. Before they left their guides to return on board, little Norna, the giant’s lovely daughter, produced from the mysterious depths of her peat-creel quite a wonderful assortment of gauzy mits and gauntlets, and tiny little shawls, and queer old-fashioned head-dresses, all knitted by her own fair fingers. Of course they bought some of each as souvenirs of their visit to the sea-girdled mainland of Shetland, and they paid for them so liberally too, that the tears stood in the girl’s blue eyes as they bade her good-bye. Norna had never been so rich in her life before.
Captain McBain was in his cabin poring over a chart when our heroes returned.
“Bravo! boys,” he said, heartily; “you’re up to time, and now, as the breeze is from the south with a point or two of east in it, I think we’d better make sail without delay. We’ll work her quietly through the sound. We’ll keep to the south of Yell, but once past Fiedland Point, good-bye to the British Islands for many a day. What more can we wish, boys, than a fair wind and a clear sea, light hearts, and a ship that can go?”
“What more indeed?” said Rory.
“Are we going to touch at Faroe and Iceland?” asked Ralph.
“That,” said McBain, “is, of course, as you wish. I’m at andinyour service.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ralph; “but we don’t forget you are our adviser as well, and our sea-father.”
“Well,” replied McBain, “I’ve taken the liberty of writing to your real father to say that we thought it better to leave Faroe out of the chart, for the voyage out, at all events. We don’t know what may be before us, boys, nor how precious time may be.”
That evening about sunset old Ap’s boatswain’s pipe was heard high above the whistling wind; the breeze had freshened, and sail was being taken in, and the starboard courses were hauled farther aft. They passed very close to some of the numerous outlying islands, the last land their eyes would rest upon for some time. The tops of these isles were smooth and green, their sides were beetling cliffs and rocks of brown, with the waves breaking into foam at the foot, and white-winged gulls wheeling high around them. Little sandy alcoves there were too, where dun seals lay basking in the evening sunshine, some of whom lazily lifted their heads and gazed after the yacht, wondering probably whether she were not some gigantic gannet or cormorant. And theSnowbirdsailed on and left them to wonder. The sun sank red behind the waves, the stars shone brightly down from a cloudless sky, and the moon’s pale crescent glimmered faintly in the west, while the wind kept steady to a point, the yacht rising and falling on the waves with a motion so uniform, that even Ralph—who, as regards walking, was the worst sailor of the three—felt sure he had his sea-legs, and could walk as well as any Jack Tar that ever went afloat. The night was so fine that no one cared to go below until it was quite late.
They needed their pea-jackets on all the same.
When morning broke there was not a bit of land to be seen, not even a distant mountain top for the eye to rest upon.
“Well, boys,” said McBain, when they all met together on the quarter-deck, “how did you enjoy your first night on blue water? How did you sleep?”
“I slept like a top,” said Rory.
“I believe,” said Allan, looking at Ralph, “we slept like three tops.”
“Like three tops, yes,” assented Ralph.
“Oh! I’m sure you didn’t, Ralph,” said Rory; “I wakened about seven bells in the morning watch, just for a moment, you know, and you were snoring like a grampus. And tops don’t snore, do they?”
“And how do you know a grampus does?” asked McBain, smiling.
“Troth,” said Rory, “it’s a figure of speech entirely.”
“But isn’t Rory getting nautical?” said Ralph; “didn’t you observe he said ‘seven bells’ instead of half-past three, or three-thirty?”
“Three-thirty indeed!” cried Rory, in affected disdain. “Ha! ha! ha! I can’t help laughing at all at all; 3:30! just fancy a fellow talking like an old Bradshaw, while standing on the white deck of a fine yacht like this, with a jolly breeze blowing and all sail set alow and aloft.
“Poor little Ralph!” continued Rory, patting his friend on the shoulder, and looking quizzingly up into his face, “and didn’t he get any letters this morning! Do run down below, Allan, my boy, and see if the postman has brought the morning paper.”
“Hurrah?” shouted Allan, so loudly and so suddenly that every one stared at him in astonishment.
“Hurrah!” he shouted again, this time flinging his cap in true Highland fashion half-way up to the maintop.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, in mock heroic tones, “the last mail is about to leave—the ship, bound for the distant Castle of Arrandoon.”
And away he rushed below, leaving Ralph and Rory looking so comically puzzled that McBain burst out laughing.
“Is it leave of his seven senses,” said Rory, seriously, “that poor Allan is after taking? And can you really laugh at such an accident, Captain McBain? it’s myself that is astonishedatyou?”
“Ah! but lad,” said McBain, “I’m in the secret.”
Allan was on deck again in a minute.
He was waving a basket aloft.
“Helen’s pigeon, boys! Helen’s pigeon!” he was crying, with the tears actually in his eyes. “I’d forgotten Peter had it till now.”
Ten minutes afterwards the tiny missive, beginning “At sea” and ending “All’s well,” was written, and attached to the strong bird’s leg. It was examined carefully, and carefully and cautiously fed, then a message was whispered to it by Rory—a message such as a poet might send; a kiss was pressed upon its bonnie back, and then it was thrown up, and almost immediately it began to soar.
“The bravest bird that ever cleaved the air,” said Allan, with enthusiasm. “I’ve flown it four hundred miles and over.”
In silence they watched it in its circling flight, and to their joy they saw it, ere lost to view, heading away for the distant mainland of Scotland. Then they resumed walking and talking on deck.
That was about the only incident of their first day at sea. Towards evening a little stranger came on board, and glad he seemed to be to reach the deck of theSnowbird, for he must have been very tired with his long flight.
Only a yellowhammer—the most persecuted bird in all the British Islands—that was what the little stranger was. McBain had caught him and brought him below with him to the tea-table, much to the wonderment of his messmates.
“It is a common thing,” said McBain, “for land birds to follow ships, or rather to be blown out to sea, and take refuge on a vessel.” A cage was constructed for the bird, and it was hung up in the snuggery, or after-saloon.
“That’ll be the sweet little cherub,” said Rory, “that will sit up aloft and look after the life of poor Jack.”
Westwards and northwards went theSnowbird, the breeze never failing nor varying for three whole days. By this time the seagulls that had followed the ship since they left the isles, picking up the crumbs that were cast overboard from the galley, had all gone back home. They probably had wives and little fledgling families to look after, and so could not go any farther, good though the living was.
“When I see the last gull flying far away astern,” said McBain, “then I think myself fairly at sea. But isn’t it glorious weather we are having, boys? I like to begin a voyage like this, and not with a gale.”
“Why?” said Rory, “we’re all sea fast now, we wouldn’t mind it much.”
“Why?” repeated McBain, “everything shakes itself into shape thus, ay, and every man of the crew gets shaken into shape, and when it does come on to blow—and we cannot always expect fine weather—there won’t be half the rolling nor half the confusion there would otherwise be.”
“Give me your glass,” cried Rory, somewhat excitedly; “I see something.”
“What is it?” said Allan, looking in the same direction; “the great sea-serpent?”
“Indeed, no,” replied Rory, “it’s a whale, and he is going in the same direction too.”
“It’s my whale, you know,” continued Rory, when everybody had had a good peep at him, “because I saw him first.”
“Very well,” said McBain, “we are not going to dispute the proprietorship. We wish you luck with your whale; he won’t want to come on board, I dare say, and he won’t cost much to keep out there, at any rate.”
All that day Rory’s whale kept up with the ship; they could see his dark head and back, as he rose and sank on the waves; he was seldom three-quarters of a mile off, and very often much nearer.
Next day at breakfast, “How is your whale, Rory?” said Ralph.
“Oh!” said Rory, “he is in fine form this morning; I’m not sure he isn’t going to give us the slip; he is right away on the weather bow.”
“Give us the slip!” said McBain; “no, that she won’t, unless she alters her course. Steward, tell Mr Stevenson I want him.”
Stevenson was the mate, and a fine stalwart sailor he was, with dark hair and whiskers and a face as red as a brick.
“Do you think,” said McBain, “you can take another knot or two out of her without carrying anything away?”
“I think we can, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Stevenson, shake a few reefs out.”
Ap’s pipe was now heard on deck, then the trampling of feet, and a few minutes afterwards there was a saucy lurch to leeward, and, although the fiddles were across the table, Rory received the contents of a cup of hot coffee in his lap.
“Now the beauty feels it,” said McBain, with a smile of satisfaction.
“So do I,” said Rory, jumping up and shaking himself; “and its parboiled that my poor legs are entirely.”
“Let us go on deck,” said Allan, “and see the whale.”
Before the end of the forenoon watch they had their strange companion once more on the weather quarter.
“It is evident,” said McBain, “we could beat her.”
Racing a whale, reader, seems idle work, but sailors, when far away at sea, do idler things than that. They were leaning over the bulwarks after dinner that day gazing it this lonely monster of the deep, and guessing and speculating about its movements.
“I wonder,” said Ralph, “if he knows where he is going?”
“I’ve no doubt he does,” said Allan; “the same kind Hand directs his movements that makes the wind to blow and the needle to point to the north.”
“But,” said Ralph, “isn’t there something very solemn about the great beast, ploughing on and on in silence like that, and all alone too—no companion near?”
“He has left his wife in Greenland, perhaps,” said Rory, “and is going, like ourselves, to seek his fortune in the far west.”
“I wonder if he’ll find her when he returns.”
“Yes, I wonder that; for she can’t remain in the same place all the time, can she?”
“Now, boys,” said Allan, “you see what a wide, wide world of water is all around us—we must be nearly a thousand miles from land. How, if a Great Power did not guide them, could mighty fishes like that find their way about?”
“Suppose that whale had a wife,” said Ralph, “as Rory imagines, and they were journeying across this great ocean together, and supposing they lost sight of each other for a few minutes only, does it not seem probable they might swim about for forty or fifty years yet never meet again?”
“Oh, how vast the ocean is!” said Rory, almost solemnly. “I never felt it so before.”
“And yet,” said Allan, “there is One who can hold it in the hollow of His hand?”
“Watch, shorten sail.”
McBain had come on deck and given the order.
“The glass is going down,” he said to Allan, “and I don’t half like the look of the sea nor the whistle of the wind. We’ll have a dirty night, depend upon it.”
Chapter Eleven.The Storm—A Fearful Night—The Pirates—A Fight at Sea.“All hands shorten sail.”The glass had not gone “tumbling down,” as sailors term it, which would have indicated a storm or hurricane in violence equal perhaps to the typhoons of lower latitudes, but it went down in a slow determined manner, as if it did not mean to rise again in a hurry, so McBain resolved to be prepared for a spell of nasty weather. The wind was now about south-west by south, but it did not blow steadily; it was gusty, not to say squally, and heavy seas began to roll in, the tops of which were cut off by the breeze, and dashed in foam and spray over the rigging and decks of theSnowbird.It increased in force as the sun went down to something over half a gale, and now more sail was taken in and the storm-jib set. McBain was a cautious sailor, and left no more canvas on her than she could carry with comparative safety.TheSnowbirdbegan to grow exceedingly lively. She seemed on good terms with herself, as the captain expressed it. All hands, fore and aft, had found the necessity of rigging out in oilskins and sou’-westers; the latter were bought at Lerwick, and were just the right sort for facing heavy weather in these seas. They were capacious enough, and had flannel-lined side-pieces, which came down over the ears and cheeks.“I think I’ve made her pretty snug for the night,” said McBain, coming aft to where Allan and Rory stood on the weather side of the quarter-deck, holding on to the bulwarks to prevent themselves from falling. “How do you like it, boys? and where is Ralph?”“Oh,welike it well enough,” said Rory, “but Ralph has gone below, and is now asleep on the sofa.”“Sleepy is he?” said McBain, smiling; “well, that is just the nearest approach to sea-sickness. We won’t disturb him, and he’ll be all right and merry again to-morrow.”“What do you think of the weather, captain?” asked Allan.McBain gave one glance round at sea and sky, and a look aloft as if to see that everything was still right there, ere he replied,—“The wind is fair, Allan, that’s all I can say, but we’ll have enough of it before morning; the only danger is meeting ice; it is often as far south as this, at this time of the year.”The night began to fall even as he spoke, for great grey clouds had rolled up and hidden the sinking sun; sky and sea seemed to meet, and the horizon was everywhere close aboard of them. The motion of theSnowbirdwas an unpleasant jerky one; she pitched sharply into the hollows and as quickly rose again; she took little water on board, but what little she did ship, made decks and rigging wet and slippery. Presently both Allan and Rory were advised to go below for the night, and feeling the same strange sleepiness stealing over them that had overcome Ralph, they made a bolt for the companion. Allan succeeded in fetching it at once, and when half-way down he stopped to laugh at Rory, who was rolling porpoise-fashion in the lee scuppers. But Rory was more successful in his next attempt. In the saloon they found Ralph sound enough and snoring, and Peter, the steward, staggering in through the doorway with the supper. The lamp was lighted, and both that and the swing-tables were apparently trying to jump out of their gymbals, and go tumbling down upon Ralph’s prostrate form. In fact everything seemed awry, and the table and chairs were jerking about anyhow, and, as Rory said, “making as much creaking as fifty pairs of new boots.”“Ah! Peter, you’re a jewel,” cried Rory, as the steward placed on the table, between the fiddle bars, a delicious lobster salad and two cups of fragrant coffee. “Yes, Peter,” continued Rory, “it’s a jewel you are entirely; there isn’t a man that ever I knew, Peter, could beat ye at making a salad. And it isn’t blarney either that I’m trying to put upon you.”With supper the sleepy feeling passed away, and Rory said he felt like a giant refreshed, only not quite so tall.“Bring my dear old fiddle, Peter,” he cried, “like a good soul. This is just the night for music.”Heplayed and Allan read for two hours at least, both steadying themselves as best they could at the weather side of the table; then they wakened Ralph, and all three turned in for the night and were soon fast asleep.It was early summer, and Ralph, so he thought in his dream, was reclining, book in hand, on a sweet wild-thyme-scented green bank in Glentroom. A blue sky was reflected from the broad bosom of the lake, the green was on the birch, the milk-white flowers on the thorn, and the feathery larch-trees were tasselled with crimson; bees went droning from wild flower to wild flower, and the woodlands resounded with the music of a thousand joyous birds.Ding-dong, ding-dong!“It is the first dinner-bell from the Castle of Arrandoon,” said Ralph to himself; “Allan and his sister will be waiting, I must hurry home.”Ding-dong, ding-dong-ding!Ralph was wide awake now, and sitting up in his little bed. It was all dark; it must be midnight, he thought, or long past.Ding-dong, ding-dong-ding again, followed by a terrible rush of water and a quivering of the vessel, the like of which he had never known before.Ding, ding, ding! It was the seas breaking over theSnowbirdand ringing her bell.“What an awakening!” thought poor Ralph, and he shivered as he listened, partly with cold and partly, it must be confessed, with an undefinable feeling of alarm. And no wonder!It was, indeed, a fearful night!The gale had burst upon them in all its fury, and, well prepared though she was aloft to contend with it, it would require all the vessel’s powers of endurance and all the skill of the manly hearts on board of her, to bring her safely through it. Every time a sea struck her it sounded below like a dull, heavy thud; it stopped her way for a moment or two. It was then she quivered from stem to stern, like some creature in agony, and Ralph could hear the water washing about the decks overhead and pouring down below. The seas, striking the ship, gave him the idea of blows from something soft but terribly strong, and, ridiculous though it may seem, for the life of him Ralph could not help thinking of the bolster fights of the days of his boyhood. What other sounds did he hear? The constant and incessant creaking of the yacht’s timbers, the rattle of the rudder chains, and, high over all, the roar of the tempest in the rigging aloft. In the lull of the gale every now and then, he could hear the trampling of feet and voices—voices giving and voices answering words of command.“Starboard a little! Steady?”“Starboard it is, sir. Steady!”“Hard down!”“Hurrsh-sh!” A terrible sea seemed here to have struck her; the din below was increased to a fearful extent by the smashing of crockery and rattling of furniture and fittings.“Another man to the wheel! Steady as you go. Steady.”Then there was a sound like a dreadful explosion, with a kind of grating noise, followed by a rattling as if a thousand men were volley-firing overhead; meanwhile the good ship heeled over as if she never would right again. It was a sail rent into ribbons!“I can’t stand this!” said Ralph, aloud. “Up I must get, and see if Allan and Rory be awake. They must be.”Getting out of bed he discovered was a very simple proceeding, for he had no sooner begun the operation than he found himself sprawling on the deck. The floor was flooded, and everything was chaos. Feeling for his clothes, he could distinguish books by the dozen, a drawer, a camp-stool, and a broken glass. At last he managed to find a dressing-gown, and also his way along to the saloon. Here a lamp was burning, and here were Allan and Rory both, and the steward as well.All three were somewhat pale. They were simply waiting—but waiting for what? They themselves could hardly have told you, but at that time something told everyone in the saloon the danger was very great indeed.On deck McBain and his men were fighting the seas; two hands were at the wheel, and it needed all their strength at times to keep the vessel’s head in the right direction, and save her from broaching-to. In the pale glimmer of the sheet lightning every rope and block and stay could at one moment be seen, and the wet, shining decks, and the men clustering in twos and threes, lashed to masts or clinging to ropes to save themselves from destruction. Next moment the decks would be one mass of seething foam. It was by the lightning’s flash, however, or the pale gleam of the breaking waves, and by these alone, that McBain could guide his vessel safely through this awful tempest.So speedily had the gale increased to almost a hurricane, that there was no time to batten down; but with the first glimpse of dawn the wind seemed to abate, and no time was lost in getting tarpaulins nailed down, and only the fore companion was left partially unprotected for communication between decks.Soon after the captain came below, looking, in his wet and shining oilskins, like some curious sea-monster, for there was hardly a bit of his face to be seen. “What!” he cried, “you boys all up?”“Indeed,” said Rory, who was nearly always the first to speak, “we thought it wasdownwe soon would all be instead of up?”The captain laughed, and applied himself with rare zest to the coffee and sandwiches the steward placed before him. “Don’t give us cups at breakfast to-morrow, Peter,” he said, “but the tin mugs; we’re going to have some days of this weather. And now, boys, I’m going to have a caulk for an hour. You had better follow my example; you will be drier in bed, and, I believe, warmer too.”Breakfast next day was far from a comfortable meal. The gale still continued, though to a far less extent, and the fire in the galley had been drowned out the night before, and was not yet re-lit. But every one was cheerful.“Better,” said McBain, “is a cold sardine and a bit of ship biscuit where love is, than roast beef and—”“Roast beef and botheration!” said Rory, helping him out.“That’s it! Thank ye,” said McBain. “And now, who is going on deck to have a look at the sea?”“Ha! what a scene is here!” said Allan, looking around him, as he clung to the weather rail.Well might he quote Walter Scott. The green seas were higher than the maintop, their foaming, curling tops threatening to engulf the yacht every minute.“I may tell you, my boys,” said McBain, grasping a stay and swaying to and fro like a drunken man, “that if theSnowbirdweren’t the best little ship that ever floated, she couldn’t have stood the storm of last night. And look yonder, that is all the damage.”From near her bows, aft as far as the mizen-mast, the bulwarks were smashed and torn by the force of the waves.“We have two men hurt, but not severely, and the pump’s at work, but only to clear her of the drop of water she shipped; and we’ll soon mend the bulwarks.”All that day and all the next night the gale continued to blow, and it was anything but comfortable or pleasant below; but the morning of the third day broke brightly enough, albeit the wind had forged round and was now coming from the west; but McBain did not mind that.“We made such a roaring spin during the gale,” he said, “although scudding under nearly bare poles, that we can afford to slacken speed a little now.”The sea was still angry and choppy, but all things considered theSnowbirdmade goodly way.The forenoon was spent in making good repairs and in getting up the crow’s-nest, a barrel of large dimensions, which in all Greenland-going ships is hoisted and made fast, as high as high can be, namely, alongside the main truck. A comfortable place enough is this crow’s-nest when you get there, but you need a sailor’s head to reach it, for at the main-top-gallant crosstrees the rattlins leave you, and you have a nasty corner to turn, round to a Jacob’s-ladder, up which you must scramble, spider fashion, and enter the nest from under. You need a sailor’s head to reach it and a sailor’s heart to remain there, for if there is any sea on at all, the swinging and swaying about is enough to turn any landsman sick and giddy.Hardly was the crow’s-nest in position when the look-out man hailed the deck below.“A vessel in sight, sir.”Here was some excitement, anyhow.“Where away?” bawled the captain.“On the weather quarter, sir; I can just raise her topmasts; she is holding the same course as ourselves.”Shortly after, Mr Stevenson, who had gone aloft, came below to report.“She is no whaler, sir, whatever she is,” he said.“But what else can she be?” said Captain McBain. “She might have been blown out of her course, to be sure, but with this wind she could make up her leeway. Keep our yacht a bit nearer the wind, Mr Stevenson, we’ll give her a chance of showing her bunting anyhow.”Dinner-hour in the saloon was one o’clock, and it was barely over when Mr Stevenson entered, and with him a being that made our heroes start and stare in astonishment. What or who was he? They had never seen him before, and knew not he was on board—a very little, thin, wiry, weazened old man, all grey hairs, parchment skin, and wrinkles. Was he the little old man of the sea?McBain saw their bewilderment and hastened to explain.“My worthy friend Magnus Green,” he said, “the passenger I took on board at Lerwick.”“There is precious little green about him,” thought Rory.“The ship is not far off, she is flying a flag of distress, but Magnus says he knows her, and bids us keep clear of her.”“Well, Magnus, what do you know about her?” asked McBain.The little old man talked fast, almost wildly,—it was a way he had,—and gesticulated much.“What do I know?” he cried; “why, this,—she is a Spaniard, and a thief. She came into Lerwick two weeks before you, took stores on board, sailed in the night, and paid nobody. She is armed to the teeth, and in my opinion is after you. Keep away from her, keep away, keep away.”“But how could she be after us?” asked McBain, incredulous.“How? ha! ha!” laughed Magnus; “you speak like a child. She herself sailed from Inverness to Lerwick: she’d heard of you, a gentleman’s yacht, with everything good on board. She couldn’t tackle you near shore, but out here on the high sea, ha! ha! the case in different.”“There is something in what Magnus says,” said McBain. “Let us go on deck. Hoist the flag, Mr Stevenson.”Up went the roll of bunting, one touch to the lanyard, and out on the breeze floated the red ensign of England.(The white ensign is flown by the Royal Navy only, the blue by the Naval Reserve, the red by merchantmen and others.)The Spaniard was hardly a mile to windward, a long, low, rakish craft, as black as a Mother Carey’s chicken. She had ports as if for guns; and though there was no answering signal, she was seen to alter her course and bear down on theSnowbird.“She’s too like a hawk to be honest,” said McBain, “and too big for us to fight. We’ll try how she can sail; keep her away, Stevenson.”TheSnowbirdbegan to pay off, but not before a white puff of smoke was seen rising from the stranger’s bows. Next moment down the wind came a cannon’s roar, and a shot ricocheted past the bows of the yacht.“Ha! ha! ha!” shrieked little Magnus, “yon’s the answering signal—ha! ha! ha!”At the same moment down went the flag of distress, and up went the black flag that pirates like to display when they really mean mischief. Something else went up at the same time, namely, Captain McBain’s Highland blood. This is no figure of speech; you could have seen pride and anger mantling in his cheek and glancing like fire from his eye.“The black flag, indeed!” he growled; “only cowards hoist it; they think it startles their would-be prey, like the hiss a cat or a goose emits, or the images and figures idiot savages carry in their battle-van. They will not frighten us. Stevenson, load the six-pounder Armstrong. Lucky we took that little tool with us. Tell Ap to see to the small arms. We’ll show them the metal we’re made of ere we surrender theSnowbird. Stand by tacks and sheets, we’ll put her before the wind. A stern chase is a long chase; we may give her the slip after nightfall.”There was a cheeriness in McBain’s voice as he spoke, that communicated itself to all hands fore and aft. There was no bombast about the captain, mind you, no vulgar jingoism. He merely meant to hold his own, even if he had to fight for it.All sail was set that theSnowbirdcould carry, both below and aloft, an example that was speedily followed by the pirate, for pirate she seemed, from her bunting, to even brag in being, and so the chase began in earnest. The stranger fired once or twice only, but the shots falling short she gave it up, and concentrated all her attention in endeavouring to get within reach.For the next hour there was silence on board theSnowbird, except for some brief words of command given in quiet quick tones, and just as speedily obeyed. Rory, Ralph, and Allan were clustered astern, watching the pirate. This was a kind of danger to which they had never dreamed they would be exposed; yet still the confidence they had in brave, cool McBain banished all fear from their hearts.But the captain’s anxiety was extreme, and his eyes roved incessantly from theSnowbirdto the vessel in chase, not without many a glance at the fast-declining sun.“Are we quite prepared?” he asked Stevenson.“All ready, sir,” was the reply, with an uneasy glance astern, “but I think she is coming up, sir, hand over hand and now she is actually setting stunsails.”“Then God help us, Stevenson, for that chap is bound to win the battle if he can only win the race.”The stunsails set by the stranger, however, were no sooner set than they were blown away, booms and all.“Hullo?” cried the captain, “that is providential. Now Stevenson, get the Armstrong aft.”This was soon accomplished.“Here, Magnus Green,” cried McBain, “come on you’re the best shot in the ship. Many a harpoon gun I’ve seen you fire. Pepper away at that pirate till you’re tired. Cripple her if you can. It’s our only chance.”The fire was briskly returned from the bows of the pirate, and it was soon evident that she was getting nearer and nearer to them, for the shots went over theSnowbird, and some even pierced the sails, proof positive that it was not her intention to sink but to capture the beautiful yacht.The captain whistled low to himself.“This is awkward,” he muttered, gloomily. He was gazing aloft, wondering if he could do nothing else to keep clear of the pirate until nightfall, when a shout behind him, followed by a ringing cheer from all hands, made him turn hastily round. Old man Magnus was capering around the quarter-deck wild with glee, rushing hither and thither, only returning every moment to pat the little Armstrong, as though it were a living thing.“He! he! he!” he cried, “I’ve done it, I’ve done it.”He had indeed done it. The stranger’s foremast had gone by the board, mast and sails and rigging lay about her forepart in dire confusion, burying guns and gunners.“Glorious old Magnus!” shouted McBain, rubbing his hands with glee. “Now, Stevenson, ready about.”The yacht came round like a bird, and sailing wonderfully close to the wind, began rapidly to near the smitten pirate. Presently it was “ready about” again on the other tack, and all the while never a shot came from the foe, but the dastardly flag still floated sullenly aloft.Ten men were stationed in the weather bow of theSnowbirdwith rifles, their orders being to fire wherever they saw a head.“Now then, Magnus,” cried McBain, “fifty guineas are yours if you’ll splinter the enemy’s mainmast. I want to let her have two jury masts to rig instead of one.” McBain carried theSnowbirdcruelly near to the pirate, dangerously near too, for presently there was an answering fire of small arms, and two men fell wounded.Crang! went the Armstrong. Faithfully and well had Magnus done his work, and down went the pirate’s other mast.“We’ll leave her the mizen,” said McBain; “down with the helm.”His voice was almost drowned in that deafening shout of victory. Even Oscar the Saint Bernard and the wiry wee Skye felt bound to join it, and Peter the steward rushed below for his bagpipes.And when the moon rose that night and shone quietly down on the waters, theSnowbirdwas bravely holding on her course, and the discomfited pirate was far away.
“All hands shorten sail.”
The glass had not gone “tumbling down,” as sailors term it, which would have indicated a storm or hurricane in violence equal perhaps to the typhoons of lower latitudes, but it went down in a slow determined manner, as if it did not mean to rise again in a hurry, so McBain resolved to be prepared for a spell of nasty weather. The wind was now about south-west by south, but it did not blow steadily; it was gusty, not to say squally, and heavy seas began to roll in, the tops of which were cut off by the breeze, and dashed in foam and spray over the rigging and decks of theSnowbird.
It increased in force as the sun went down to something over half a gale, and now more sail was taken in and the storm-jib set. McBain was a cautious sailor, and left no more canvas on her than she could carry with comparative safety.
TheSnowbirdbegan to grow exceedingly lively. She seemed on good terms with herself, as the captain expressed it. All hands, fore and aft, had found the necessity of rigging out in oilskins and sou’-westers; the latter were bought at Lerwick, and were just the right sort for facing heavy weather in these seas. They were capacious enough, and had flannel-lined side-pieces, which came down over the ears and cheeks.
“I think I’ve made her pretty snug for the night,” said McBain, coming aft to where Allan and Rory stood on the weather side of the quarter-deck, holding on to the bulwarks to prevent themselves from falling. “How do you like it, boys? and where is Ralph?”
“Oh,welike it well enough,” said Rory, “but Ralph has gone below, and is now asleep on the sofa.”
“Sleepy is he?” said McBain, smiling; “well, that is just the nearest approach to sea-sickness. We won’t disturb him, and he’ll be all right and merry again to-morrow.”
“What do you think of the weather, captain?” asked Allan.
McBain gave one glance round at sea and sky, and a look aloft as if to see that everything was still right there, ere he replied,—
“The wind is fair, Allan, that’s all I can say, but we’ll have enough of it before morning; the only danger is meeting ice; it is often as far south as this, at this time of the year.”
The night began to fall even as he spoke, for great grey clouds had rolled up and hidden the sinking sun; sky and sea seemed to meet, and the horizon was everywhere close aboard of them. The motion of theSnowbirdwas an unpleasant jerky one; she pitched sharply into the hollows and as quickly rose again; she took little water on board, but what little she did ship, made decks and rigging wet and slippery. Presently both Allan and Rory were advised to go below for the night, and feeling the same strange sleepiness stealing over them that had overcome Ralph, they made a bolt for the companion. Allan succeeded in fetching it at once, and when half-way down he stopped to laugh at Rory, who was rolling porpoise-fashion in the lee scuppers. But Rory was more successful in his next attempt. In the saloon they found Ralph sound enough and snoring, and Peter, the steward, staggering in through the doorway with the supper. The lamp was lighted, and both that and the swing-tables were apparently trying to jump out of their gymbals, and go tumbling down upon Ralph’s prostrate form. In fact everything seemed awry, and the table and chairs were jerking about anyhow, and, as Rory said, “making as much creaking as fifty pairs of new boots.”
“Ah! Peter, you’re a jewel,” cried Rory, as the steward placed on the table, between the fiddle bars, a delicious lobster salad and two cups of fragrant coffee. “Yes, Peter,” continued Rory, “it’s a jewel you are entirely; there isn’t a man that ever I knew, Peter, could beat ye at making a salad. And it isn’t blarney either that I’m trying to put upon you.”
With supper the sleepy feeling passed away, and Rory said he felt like a giant refreshed, only not quite so tall.
“Bring my dear old fiddle, Peter,” he cried, “like a good soul. This is just the night for music.”
Heplayed and Allan read for two hours at least, both steadying themselves as best they could at the weather side of the table; then they wakened Ralph, and all three turned in for the night and were soon fast asleep.
It was early summer, and Ralph, so he thought in his dream, was reclining, book in hand, on a sweet wild-thyme-scented green bank in Glentroom. A blue sky was reflected from the broad bosom of the lake, the green was on the birch, the milk-white flowers on the thorn, and the feathery larch-trees were tasselled with crimson; bees went droning from wild flower to wild flower, and the woodlands resounded with the music of a thousand joyous birds.
Ding-dong, ding-dong!
“It is the first dinner-bell from the Castle of Arrandoon,” said Ralph to himself; “Allan and his sister will be waiting, I must hurry home.”
Ding-dong, ding-dong-ding!
Ralph was wide awake now, and sitting up in his little bed. It was all dark; it must be midnight, he thought, or long past.
Ding-dong, ding-dong-ding again, followed by a terrible rush of water and a quivering of the vessel, the like of which he had never known before.
Ding, ding, ding! It was the seas breaking over theSnowbirdand ringing her bell.
“What an awakening!” thought poor Ralph, and he shivered as he listened, partly with cold and partly, it must be confessed, with an undefinable feeling of alarm. And no wonder!
It was, indeed, a fearful night!
The gale had burst upon them in all its fury, and, well prepared though she was aloft to contend with it, it would require all the vessel’s powers of endurance and all the skill of the manly hearts on board of her, to bring her safely through it. Every time a sea struck her it sounded below like a dull, heavy thud; it stopped her way for a moment or two. It was then she quivered from stem to stern, like some creature in agony, and Ralph could hear the water washing about the decks overhead and pouring down below. The seas, striking the ship, gave him the idea of blows from something soft but terribly strong, and, ridiculous though it may seem, for the life of him Ralph could not help thinking of the bolster fights of the days of his boyhood. What other sounds did he hear? The constant and incessant creaking of the yacht’s timbers, the rattle of the rudder chains, and, high over all, the roar of the tempest in the rigging aloft. In the lull of the gale every now and then, he could hear the trampling of feet and voices—voices giving and voices answering words of command.
“Starboard a little! Steady?”
“Starboard it is, sir. Steady!”
“Hard down!”
“Hurrsh-sh!” A terrible sea seemed here to have struck her; the din below was increased to a fearful extent by the smashing of crockery and rattling of furniture and fittings.
“Another man to the wheel! Steady as you go. Steady.”
Then there was a sound like a dreadful explosion, with a kind of grating noise, followed by a rattling as if a thousand men were volley-firing overhead; meanwhile the good ship heeled over as if she never would right again. It was a sail rent into ribbons!
“I can’t stand this!” said Ralph, aloud. “Up I must get, and see if Allan and Rory be awake. They must be.”
Getting out of bed he discovered was a very simple proceeding, for he had no sooner begun the operation than he found himself sprawling on the deck. The floor was flooded, and everything was chaos. Feeling for his clothes, he could distinguish books by the dozen, a drawer, a camp-stool, and a broken glass. At last he managed to find a dressing-gown, and also his way along to the saloon. Here a lamp was burning, and here were Allan and Rory both, and the steward as well.
All three were somewhat pale. They were simply waiting—but waiting for what? They themselves could hardly have told you, but at that time something told everyone in the saloon the danger was very great indeed.
On deck McBain and his men were fighting the seas; two hands were at the wheel, and it needed all their strength at times to keep the vessel’s head in the right direction, and save her from broaching-to. In the pale glimmer of the sheet lightning every rope and block and stay could at one moment be seen, and the wet, shining decks, and the men clustering in twos and threes, lashed to masts or clinging to ropes to save themselves from destruction. Next moment the decks would be one mass of seething foam. It was by the lightning’s flash, however, or the pale gleam of the breaking waves, and by these alone, that McBain could guide his vessel safely through this awful tempest.
So speedily had the gale increased to almost a hurricane, that there was no time to batten down; but with the first glimpse of dawn the wind seemed to abate, and no time was lost in getting tarpaulins nailed down, and only the fore companion was left partially unprotected for communication between decks.
Soon after the captain came below, looking, in his wet and shining oilskins, like some curious sea-monster, for there was hardly a bit of his face to be seen. “What!” he cried, “you boys all up?”
“Indeed,” said Rory, who was nearly always the first to speak, “we thought it wasdownwe soon would all be instead of up?”
The captain laughed, and applied himself with rare zest to the coffee and sandwiches the steward placed before him. “Don’t give us cups at breakfast to-morrow, Peter,” he said, “but the tin mugs; we’re going to have some days of this weather. And now, boys, I’m going to have a caulk for an hour. You had better follow my example; you will be drier in bed, and, I believe, warmer too.”
Breakfast next day was far from a comfortable meal. The gale still continued, though to a far less extent, and the fire in the galley had been drowned out the night before, and was not yet re-lit. But every one was cheerful.
“Better,” said McBain, “is a cold sardine and a bit of ship biscuit where love is, than roast beef and—”
“Roast beef and botheration!” said Rory, helping him out.
“That’s it! Thank ye,” said McBain. “And now, who is going on deck to have a look at the sea?”
“Ha! what a scene is here!” said Allan, looking around him, as he clung to the weather rail.
Well might he quote Walter Scott. The green seas were higher than the maintop, their foaming, curling tops threatening to engulf the yacht every minute.
“I may tell you, my boys,” said McBain, grasping a stay and swaying to and fro like a drunken man, “that if theSnowbirdweren’t the best little ship that ever floated, she couldn’t have stood the storm of last night. And look yonder, that is all the damage.”
From near her bows, aft as far as the mizen-mast, the bulwarks were smashed and torn by the force of the waves.
“We have two men hurt, but not severely, and the pump’s at work, but only to clear her of the drop of water she shipped; and we’ll soon mend the bulwarks.”
All that day and all the next night the gale continued to blow, and it was anything but comfortable or pleasant below; but the morning of the third day broke brightly enough, albeit the wind had forged round and was now coming from the west; but McBain did not mind that.
“We made such a roaring spin during the gale,” he said, “although scudding under nearly bare poles, that we can afford to slacken speed a little now.”
The sea was still angry and choppy, but all things considered theSnowbirdmade goodly way.
The forenoon was spent in making good repairs and in getting up the crow’s-nest, a barrel of large dimensions, which in all Greenland-going ships is hoisted and made fast, as high as high can be, namely, alongside the main truck. A comfortable place enough is this crow’s-nest when you get there, but you need a sailor’s head to reach it, for at the main-top-gallant crosstrees the rattlins leave you, and you have a nasty corner to turn, round to a Jacob’s-ladder, up which you must scramble, spider fashion, and enter the nest from under. You need a sailor’s head to reach it and a sailor’s heart to remain there, for if there is any sea on at all, the swinging and swaying about is enough to turn any landsman sick and giddy.
Hardly was the crow’s-nest in position when the look-out man hailed the deck below.
“A vessel in sight, sir.”
Here was some excitement, anyhow.
“Where away?” bawled the captain.
“On the weather quarter, sir; I can just raise her topmasts; she is holding the same course as ourselves.”
Shortly after, Mr Stevenson, who had gone aloft, came below to report.
“She is no whaler, sir, whatever she is,” he said.
“But what else can she be?” said Captain McBain. “She might have been blown out of her course, to be sure, but with this wind she could make up her leeway. Keep our yacht a bit nearer the wind, Mr Stevenson, we’ll give her a chance of showing her bunting anyhow.”
Dinner-hour in the saloon was one o’clock, and it was barely over when Mr Stevenson entered, and with him a being that made our heroes start and stare in astonishment. What or who was he? They had never seen him before, and knew not he was on board—a very little, thin, wiry, weazened old man, all grey hairs, parchment skin, and wrinkles. Was he the little old man of the sea?
McBain saw their bewilderment and hastened to explain.
“My worthy friend Magnus Green,” he said, “the passenger I took on board at Lerwick.”
“There is precious little green about him,” thought Rory.
“The ship is not far off, she is flying a flag of distress, but Magnus says he knows her, and bids us keep clear of her.”
“Well, Magnus, what do you know about her?” asked McBain.
The little old man talked fast, almost wildly,—it was a way he had,—and gesticulated much.
“What do I know?” he cried; “why, this,—she is a Spaniard, and a thief. She came into Lerwick two weeks before you, took stores on board, sailed in the night, and paid nobody. She is armed to the teeth, and in my opinion is after you. Keep away from her, keep away, keep away.”
“But how could she be after us?” asked McBain, incredulous.
“How? ha! ha!” laughed Magnus; “you speak like a child. She herself sailed from Inverness to Lerwick: she’d heard of you, a gentleman’s yacht, with everything good on board. She couldn’t tackle you near shore, but out here on the high sea, ha! ha! the case in different.”
“There is something in what Magnus says,” said McBain. “Let us go on deck. Hoist the flag, Mr Stevenson.”
Up went the roll of bunting, one touch to the lanyard, and out on the breeze floated the red ensign of England.
(The white ensign is flown by the Royal Navy only, the blue by the Naval Reserve, the red by merchantmen and others.)
The Spaniard was hardly a mile to windward, a long, low, rakish craft, as black as a Mother Carey’s chicken. She had ports as if for guns; and though there was no answering signal, she was seen to alter her course and bear down on theSnowbird.
“She’s too like a hawk to be honest,” said McBain, “and too big for us to fight. We’ll try how she can sail; keep her away, Stevenson.”
TheSnowbirdbegan to pay off, but not before a white puff of smoke was seen rising from the stranger’s bows. Next moment down the wind came a cannon’s roar, and a shot ricocheted past the bows of the yacht.
“Ha! ha! ha!” shrieked little Magnus, “yon’s the answering signal—ha! ha! ha!”
At the same moment down went the flag of distress, and up went the black flag that pirates like to display when they really mean mischief. Something else went up at the same time, namely, Captain McBain’s Highland blood. This is no figure of speech; you could have seen pride and anger mantling in his cheek and glancing like fire from his eye.
“The black flag, indeed!” he growled; “only cowards hoist it; they think it startles their would-be prey, like the hiss a cat or a goose emits, or the images and figures idiot savages carry in their battle-van. They will not frighten us. Stevenson, load the six-pounder Armstrong. Lucky we took that little tool with us. Tell Ap to see to the small arms. We’ll show them the metal we’re made of ere we surrender theSnowbird. Stand by tacks and sheets, we’ll put her before the wind. A stern chase is a long chase; we may give her the slip after nightfall.”
There was a cheeriness in McBain’s voice as he spoke, that communicated itself to all hands fore and aft. There was no bombast about the captain, mind you, no vulgar jingoism. He merely meant to hold his own, even if he had to fight for it.
All sail was set that theSnowbirdcould carry, both below and aloft, an example that was speedily followed by the pirate, for pirate she seemed, from her bunting, to even brag in being, and so the chase began in earnest. The stranger fired once or twice only, but the shots falling short she gave it up, and concentrated all her attention in endeavouring to get within reach.
For the next hour there was silence on board theSnowbird, except for some brief words of command given in quiet quick tones, and just as speedily obeyed. Rory, Ralph, and Allan were clustered astern, watching the pirate. This was a kind of danger to which they had never dreamed they would be exposed; yet still the confidence they had in brave, cool McBain banished all fear from their hearts.
But the captain’s anxiety was extreme, and his eyes roved incessantly from theSnowbirdto the vessel in chase, not without many a glance at the fast-declining sun.
“Are we quite prepared?” he asked Stevenson.
“All ready, sir,” was the reply, with an uneasy glance astern, “but I think she is coming up, sir, hand over hand and now she is actually setting stunsails.”
“Then God help us, Stevenson, for that chap is bound to win the battle if he can only win the race.”
The stunsails set by the stranger, however, were no sooner set than they were blown away, booms and all.
“Hullo?” cried the captain, “that is providential. Now Stevenson, get the Armstrong aft.”
This was soon accomplished.
“Here, Magnus Green,” cried McBain, “come on you’re the best shot in the ship. Many a harpoon gun I’ve seen you fire. Pepper away at that pirate till you’re tired. Cripple her if you can. It’s our only chance.”
The fire was briskly returned from the bows of the pirate, and it was soon evident that she was getting nearer and nearer to them, for the shots went over theSnowbird, and some even pierced the sails, proof positive that it was not her intention to sink but to capture the beautiful yacht.
The captain whistled low to himself.
“This is awkward,” he muttered, gloomily. He was gazing aloft, wondering if he could do nothing else to keep clear of the pirate until nightfall, when a shout behind him, followed by a ringing cheer from all hands, made him turn hastily round. Old man Magnus was capering around the quarter-deck wild with glee, rushing hither and thither, only returning every moment to pat the little Armstrong, as though it were a living thing.
“He! he! he!” he cried, “I’ve done it, I’ve done it.”
He had indeed done it. The stranger’s foremast had gone by the board, mast and sails and rigging lay about her forepart in dire confusion, burying guns and gunners.
“Glorious old Magnus!” shouted McBain, rubbing his hands with glee. “Now, Stevenson, ready about.”
The yacht came round like a bird, and sailing wonderfully close to the wind, began rapidly to near the smitten pirate. Presently it was “ready about” again on the other tack, and all the while never a shot came from the foe, but the dastardly flag still floated sullenly aloft.
Ten men were stationed in the weather bow of theSnowbirdwith rifles, their orders being to fire wherever they saw a head.
“Now then, Magnus,” cried McBain, “fifty guineas are yours if you’ll splinter the enemy’s mainmast. I want to let her have two jury masts to rig instead of one.” McBain carried theSnowbirdcruelly near to the pirate, dangerously near too, for presently there was an answering fire of small arms, and two men fell wounded.
Crang! went the Armstrong. Faithfully and well had Magnus done his work, and down went the pirate’s other mast.
“We’ll leave her the mizen,” said McBain; “down with the helm.”
His voice was almost drowned in that deafening shout of victory. Even Oscar the Saint Bernard and the wiry wee Skye felt bound to join it, and Peter the steward rushed below for his bagpipes.
And when the moon rose that night and shone quietly down on the waters, theSnowbirdwas bravely holding on her course, and the discomfited pirate was far away.
Chapter Twelve.Containing a Strange, Strange Story, Told by the Snuggery Fire.“It never rains but it pours,” said McBain, entering the saloon rubbing his hands, and smiling as he seated himself at the breakfast-table. “Steward, I hope it is beefsteak this morning, with boiled eggs to follow, for I declare to you honestly I don’t think I ever felt half so hungry in my born days before! Bravo, steward! bravo, Peter! Be thankful, boys, for all His mercies, and fall to!”“One would think, captain,” said Ralph, “that you had got good news this morning.”“Why, it makes one laugh just to look at you,” said Rory.“Laugh away, lad?” said McBain; “laugh and grow fat, but eat as well, boys! And why haven’t you been on deck, eh?”“Overslept ourselves,” observed Allan; “Well, no wonder! You’re young, and the excitement of the past few days has been great: even I have felt it. But to-day, my boys, there isn’t a pirate in sight; the wind has gone back to the south-east, and in five more days, if it holds we’ll be on shore shooting the denizens of the scented pine forests of the farthest north lands of America.”Our heroes were soon on deck, theSnowbirdwas bounding along before a beautiful breeze, with all her fair-weather sails set and nicely trimmed. Every one on board seemed joyful; the laugh and the joke were heard from the second officer’s cabin, and the men in the forecastle were trolling a song.That same evening a very happy group were assembled around a bright fire in the cosy snuggery. They were our heroes three, squatted or reclining on mats before the stove, not sitting on chairs—certainly not, they knew a trick worth two of that. The captain occupied a rocking-chair, as became his dignity; Oscar the Saint Bernard’s nose was turned stovewards; and Rory was making a pillow of him. Oscar was eyeing the cheerful blaze, but every other eye was directed upon wee weazen-faced Magnus Green, the mysterious little stranger that McBain had picked up in Lerwick, and who had done them such noble service in crippling the pirate. He was seated on a camp-stool in the corner.“Now, Magnus!” cried McBain, “we’re all waiting for your yarn.”“Jan Jansen, then,” said Magnus, after a moment’s pause or two—“Jan Jansen, gentlemen, was first mate of a merchant brig, as neat and tight a little craft as ever sailed the seas. He had been in her, man and boy, for nearly twenty years—in the same ship and with the same captain. This captain was a Dane, but he hailed and he sailed from a little town in Shetland. And dearly did this sailor captain love his profession; he was never really at home except when afloat on the billowy ocean, when he was as happy as the sea-birds.“Many a long and prosperous voyage he had made to distant lands, and never as yet had misfortune—apart from the usual ups and downs of a sailor’s life—befallen him. He had a wife—ay, and a family. Before the latter had increased the skipper’s wife had used to sail with her husband, but latterly she had stayed at home. And now that she could no longer share his perils, all she could do—and that wasn’t little, either—was to pray for him, and teach his dear children to do so likewise. But she thought that if her house were only close to the sea it would seem like living nearer to the loved one. So the captain built a house on the slope of a hill, and planted pine-trees thereon to shelter it from the cutting winds, that in winter and spring swept downwards from the north and north-east. And the windows of the house looked away over the broad Atlantic. In his outward voyages the captain’s ship, after leaving the port of embarkation, passed within two miles of his cottage door, and his wife and children used to watch the trim-built brig as she glided away from the land, lessening and lessening, until she looked but like a bird on the horizon, and finally disappeared. On stormy nights, when the wind howled around the cottage, and the angry waves lashed themselves into foam against the dark cliffs that bounded the sea-beach, the little lonely family would assemble in the parlour to pray for poor father, far at sea, to Him who can quiet the raging of the winds, and say to the troubled ocean, ‘Peace, be still!’“But the Danish captain was not only a fortunate sailor but a very ambitious man as well, and ever after each successful voyage his wife would entreat him to remain on shore now for the rest of his life. Several times indeed the husband had acceded to her wishes, and settled down on shore. But only for a time, for woe is me! the heart of a true sailor is often as restless as the great sea itself.“The pet of the captain’s household was his only daughter, a bright-faced, lovely girl of sweet seventeen. With her fair flowing hair, her laughing blue eyes, her cheerful voice, and her winsome ways, no wonder Nanette was a favourite. But why did she so love to roam down by the rocks where the seagulls screamed, and why, when her father was abroad, did her eyes so often fill with tears as she gazed across the sea? She was her father’s darling, it is true; but she was something else—she was brave Jan Jansen’s promised bride. And his thoughts were always on shore with Nanette, and hers were on the little barque with Jan. When he was at sea the months seemed to her like long gloomy years, and the few weeks he was at home like bright short hours of sunshine and joy.“And they were going to be married after the very next voyage; then Jan was to have a ship of his own, and take her away with him to the sunny lands he was so fond of describing to her, and about which she so loved to hear, as they walked arm in arm on the breezy cliff-tops.“If previous voyages had seemed long to Nanette, this last appeared an age in itself. But one summer’s morning when Nanette, awoke and opened her window to admit the sweet sea air and the song of the lark, oh! joy, there was the dear old brig with her sea-washed sides, standing close in towards the land, and she was sure—yes, there was no mistake about it—those were her father and Jan waving their handkerchiefs to attract her attention. How quickly did Nanette dress that morning and hurry out; and how speedily did she bend on and hoist the red flag on the garden staff, to tell her anxious father and lover that all was well at home!“Then away stood the brig on the starboard tack, and next day Nanette had beside her all that she loved on earth—father, mother, her brothers, and Jan.“There seemed to be a cloud on the captain’s brow, which his wife was not slow to notice, and even honest Jan appeared to be possessed of some gloomy secret, that sat but uneasily on his mind. Yet each when asked had only replied,—“‘’Tis nothing, you will hear it all in good time.’“But that evening, after supper was cleared away, and Jan with the captain sat beside the fire in the cosy parlour,—“‘Wife,’ said the mariner, ‘I have news for you that is both good and bad. Tell them, Jan, I can’t.’“Jan dared not meet the loving eyes of poor Nanette, but gazed dreamily into the fire as he told them the news that some shipwrecked sailors had brought to the port of Katrinesand, from which they had last sailed, of wealth immeasurable to be made on an island far away in the frozen ocean, and of mines of ivory to be had for the gathering, and of the captain’s resolve to make one last—certainly the last—Jan little knew how prophetically he spoke—voyage in the brig, and that this voyage was to be to the Arctic regions; and that neither he nor the captain doubted that this single voyage would make wealthy men of them both.“The wife was the first to reply, for poor Nanette was sobbing as if her heart would break.“‘Oh!’ cried the captain’s wife, ‘it is ever, ever thus. Do not go, I beseech you, oh! my husband. Do not rashly brave the terrors of that dreadful sea of ice. There has been a cloud on my heart for weeks that I could not understand till now, and both Nanette and myself have dreamed dreams that bode no good to us or ours. Husband, husband, stay at home!’“But a determined man will have his way, and the captain’s mind was so bent on the new project that nothing would induce him to give it up. What his wife must suffer, but Nanette even more, for wherever her father went Jan was bound to follow, and the danger would be the same to both!“On the twenty-first day of April, in seventeen hundred and ninety-six, there sailed away from Shetland the sturdy brigDanish Queen, well manned, mated, found and commanded, and with it went the hearts of the gentle Nanette and her mother.“The day was mild and balmy. A soft south wind blew over the sea and filled the sails, and wafted the brig—oh! how fast she seemed to fly—away and away and away, till she disappeared on the northern horizon, and the poor bereaved ones, clasped in each other’s arms, wept in silence now, for neither could find a word of comfort for the other; hope itself had fled from their hearts.“And theDanish Queenreturned again no more to Shetland shores.“Two years and a half had barely passed since she sailed away, and the autumn leaves were mingling with the long green grass in the little churchyard of Dergen, when two new-made graves might have been seen there, side by side. One was that of little Nanette, the other the grave of her heartbroken mother.“And the time flew by, and theDanish Queenwas soon forgotten, and people had ceased to speak of her, and the friends of her brave sailors had doffed the garb of mourning for five long years.“But one day there arrived in Shetland the whaling barqueClotho, direct from the Greenland Ocean, and one passenger, the sole survivor, by his own account, of the ill-fatedDanish Queen. If it were indeed as he said, there must be some strange mystery about his existence for so many years on the sea of ice, which even Jan Jansen himself—for it was he—could not, or rather would not, then explain. He was found dressed in bear-skins, a young man, but with snow-white hair and beard, wandering purposelessly on the ice, and taken on board. All that he would tell was that his unfortunate vessel had been dashed to pieces against the ice just three months after he had left Shetland, and that he alone of all on board had been saved from a watery grave.“Jan Jansen never shed a tear when he heard of the death of the two beings he had loved far better than any one else on earth, but he never smiled again. He built himself a small cottage and tilled a little farm quite close to the graveyard of Dergen, and in sight of the sea. Years softened the poor man’s grief, and to many an earnest child-listener, not a few of whom have long ago gone grey and passed away from earth, he used to tell the tale of his strange adventures in the far-off sea of ice.“It was on winter evenings, when the snow was sifting in beneath Jan Jansen’s cottage door, and the roar of the wind mingling with the dash of the waves on the cliffs beneath, that Jan would draw closer to the fire, and rake the blazing peat together till the shadows danced and flickered on the walls: then his little friends felt sure that he was going to repeat to them his strange, strange story.“‘But I never told you, did I,’ old Jan would say, ‘of the lonely island of Alba, in the frozen ocean?’“He had told them scores of times, but the tale never palled upon them.“‘Yes, yes, Father Jan,’ they would cry, ‘but we have quite forgotten a great deal that you told us. Do tell us once again of that wonderful island, and all the strange things you saw there.’“And Jan would begin, keeping his eyes on the fire, as if the curling smoke and the blazing peat aided his recollections.“‘It was almost summer when the good brigDanish Queenleft Shetland. A favouring breeze filled our sails, and in less than fourteen days we made the ice, and the ripple left the water, but still the wind blew fair. Onward we ploughed our way in the sturdy brig, now through fields of floating slush and snow, now through streams of small bergs, but little larger than sheep or swans. Farther north still, and the bergs grew as large as oxen, then as big as elephants, then bigger than houses, then bigger than churches; and as they rose and fell on the smooth dark billows they threatened us every moment with destruction. Then we knew we had at last reached the sea of perpetual ice; ’twas the season of the year when the sun never sets, but goes on day and night, round and round in the cold blue sky, where never a cloud is seen. We saw strange birds and beasts in the water and on the ice, beasts that glared at us with a stony fearless stare, and birds that floated so close we could have captured them by hand. The beautiful snowbird, with plumage more white than the lily’s petal, with eyes and legs of crimson, and bill of jet; the wild pilot bird, and a hundred curious gulls, and little sparrow-like birds that fluttered from berg to berg in the breeze, as if it were very much against their will they were there at all; and flocks of curious blackbirds with white mottled breasts, that laughed in the air as they flew around us, with a sound like the voices of little children just let loose from school. We saw the lonely narwhal, the unicorn of the sea, with his one long ivory horn appearing and disappearing in the black waters as he pursued his prey. Seals in thousands popped their heads above the water to stare at us with their beautiful eyes; sea cows basked on the snowy bergs; whales played their gigantic fountains on every side of us; and the great Greenland bear, king of these regions of ice, stalked majestically around on many a floe, waiting a chance to pounce on some unwary seal.“‘Northwards still, and now we sailed into an open sea, where no icebergs were anywhere visible—nothing but water, water, wherever we looked, except on the northern horizon, where was one small snowy cone, no bigger it would seem than a sugar-loaf. Taller and taller and broader and broader it grew, as we sailed towards it, till it formed itself into a lofty table-land, and we found ourselves under the ice-bound cliffs of the Isle of Alba.“‘Imagine if you can a large and mountainous island covered with the snows of ages, with one gigantic cone, the shaft of an extinct volcano, towering upwards until lost in the heavens; imagine all around an ocean of inky blackness, a sky above of cloudless blue, with a sun like a rayless disc of molten silver; imagine neither sight nor sound of life, saving the mournful cry of the wheeling sea-bird, or the sullen plunge of the narwhal and whale; and imagine if you can the feeling of being all alone in such a place, where foot of mortal man had never been planted before.“‘But for all this, little recked the brave crew of theDanish Queen, for we found the ivory we had braved every danger to seek.“‘Caves full of it!“‘Mines of it!“‘For days and weeks our boats did nothing but ply between ship and shore, laden to the gunwale with our pearly treasure. We had but room for one more ton. It was ready packed on shore, and I was left to watch. Alas and alas! that same night it came on to blow great guns from off the ocean. I could not see our brig for the foam and spray that dashed over the cliffs. But, ah me! I soon heard a mournful and piercing shriek, rising high over wail of wind and wash of wave, and I knew then she had gone down and all on board had perished. Shuddering with cold and horror, I sheltered myself in the inner recesses of a cave, careless even of falling a victim to a bear. I wandered in, and I wandered on and on, till I could no longer hear the surging of the storm-lashed waves, and the light behind me was swallowed up in obscurity. And now I could distinctly perceive a glimmering light and a rising mist far away ahead, while at the same time the air around me waxed sensibly warmer; still a spirit of curiosity seemed to impel me forward, until I found myself standing in front of a vast waterfall, which disappeared in the bowels of the earth beneath my feet, while floating in the vapoury mist above me were beings the most lovely I had ever imagined, in gauzy garments of pink and green.“‘With their strange eyes bent pityingly on me, those water-spirits floated nearer and nearer. Then I felt lifted off my feet and borne gently but swiftly upwards through the luminous haze, upwards and into day once more; and what a blissful day!“‘In this lovely land, where I dwelt so long, there was no alloy of sorrow, and the strange, bright beings that inhabited it were as happy and joyous as the birds that sang on every bough, or the flowers that wooed the wind and the sunshine.“‘Five years passed away like one long and happy dream; then one day my spirit-friends came towards me with downcast looks and tear-bedimmed eyes. They came to tell me that, as with joy they had found me, so in sorrow they must now part with me—that no mortal must stay longer in their land than my allotted time. Then they clad me in skins and conveyed me up the mountain-side, even to the top of the highest cone. Looking down from this height, I could behold all the sea of ice spread out like a map before me, with sealers at work on the southern floes.“‘“Yonder are your countrymen,” said the beautiful spirits; then sadly they bade me farewell.“‘It must have been days afterwards when I was picked up by theClotho’smen, who had gone to look for fresh-water ice.’“The old man,” continued Magnus Green, “used to sigh as he finished his story, and we—for I, gentlemen, was one of his child-listeners—just whispering adieu, would steal away homewards through the winter’s night, seeing as we went spirits in every curling snowdrift, and hearing voices in every blast.”“And what do you now think,” asked McBain, after a pause, “of this old man’s strange story?”“Of the spirit portion of it,” said Magnus, “I cannot give an opinion, but that a sea of open waterdoeslie to the far north, my experience as sealer and whaler has long since convinced me. The Isle of Alba is known to many Norwegian narwhal and walrus-hunters, and I know the mammoth caves of ivory to be not only probable, but a fact.”“And you think,” continued McBain, “you could guide us and pilot us to these strange regions?”“Yes, yes?” cried Magnus, producing from his bosom an old and much stained parchment chart, and tapping it with his skinny hand as he spoke, “it is all here, even if my memory failed me. Yes, yes; I can guide you, if the hearts of your crew do not fail them before the dangers to be encountered.”“I could answer for the hearts of my crew,” said McBain, smiling; “they are hearts of oak, my Magnus! You will know that before you are long with us. As to the mammoth caves Magnus, if we ever attempt to reach them, I promise you that you shall be our pilot.”
“It never rains but it pours,” said McBain, entering the saloon rubbing his hands, and smiling as he seated himself at the breakfast-table. “Steward, I hope it is beefsteak this morning, with boiled eggs to follow, for I declare to you honestly I don’t think I ever felt half so hungry in my born days before! Bravo, steward! bravo, Peter! Be thankful, boys, for all His mercies, and fall to!”
“One would think, captain,” said Ralph, “that you had got good news this morning.”
“Why, it makes one laugh just to look at you,” said Rory.
“Laugh away, lad?” said McBain; “laugh and grow fat, but eat as well, boys! And why haven’t you been on deck, eh?”
“Overslept ourselves,” observed Allan; “Well, no wonder! You’re young, and the excitement of the past few days has been great: even I have felt it. But to-day, my boys, there isn’t a pirate in sight; the wind has gone back to the south-east, and in five more days, if it holds we’ll be on shore shooting the denizens of the scented pine forests of the farthest north lands of America.”
Our heroes were soon on deck, theSnowbirdwas bounding along before a beautiful breeze, with all her fair-weather sails set and nicely trimmed. Every one on board seemed joyful; the laugh and the joke were heard from the second officer’s cabin, and the men in the forecastle were trolling a song.
That same evening a very happy group were assembled around a bright fire in the cosy snuggery. They were our heroes three, squatted or reclining on mats before the stove, not sitting on chairs—certainly not, they knew a trick worth two of that. The captain occupied a rocking-chair, as became his dignity; Oscar the Saint Bernard’s nose was turned stovewards; and Rory was making a pillow of him. Oscar was eyeing the cheerful blaze, but every other eye was directed upon wee weazen-faced Magnus Green, the mysterious little stranger that McBain had picked up in Lerwick, and who had done them such noble service in crippling the pirate. He was seated on a camp-stool in the corner.
“Now, Magnus!” cried McBain, “we’re all waiting for your yarn.”
“Jan Jansen, then,” said Magnus, after a moment’s pause or two—“Jan Jansen, gentlemen, was first mate of a merchant brig, as neat and tight a little craft as ever sailed the seas. He had been in her, man and boy, for nearly twenty years—in the same ship and with the same captain. This captain was a Dane, but he hailed and he sailed from a little town in Shetland. And dearly did this sailor captain love his profession; he was never really at home except when afloat on the billowy ocean, when he was as happy as the sea-birds.
“Many a long and prosperous voyage he had made to distant lands, and never as yet had misfortune—apart from the usual ups and downs of a sailor’s life—befallen him. He had a wife—ay, and a family. Before the latter had increased the skipper’s wife had used to sail with her husband, but latterly she had stayed at home. And now that she could no longer share his perils, all she could do—and that wasn’t little, either—was to pray for him, and teach his dear children to do so likewise. But she thought that if her house were only close to the sea it would seem like living nearer to the loved one. So the captain built a house on the slope of a hill, and planted pine-trees thereon to shelter it from the cutting winds, that in winter and spring swept downwards from the north and north-east. And the windows of the house looked away over the broad Atlantic. In his outward voyages the captain’s ship, after leaving the port of embarkation, passed within two miles of his cottage door, and his wife and children used to watch the trim-built brig as she glided away from the land, lessening and lessening, until she looked but like a bird on the horizon, and finally disappeared. On stormy nights, when the wind howled around the cottage, and the angry waves lashed themselves into foam against the dark cliffs that bounded the sea-beach, the little lonely family would assemble in the parlour to pray for poor father, far at sea, to Him who can quiet the raging of the winds, and say to the troubled ocean, ‘Peace, be still!’
“But the Danish captain was not only a fortunate sailor but a very ambitious man as well, and ever after each successful voyage his wife would entreat him to remain on shore now for the rest of his life. Several times indeed the husband had acceded to her wishes, and settled down on shore. But only for a time, for woe is me! the heart of a true sailor is often as restless as the great sea itself.
“The pet of the captain’s household was his only daughter, a bright-faced, lovely girl of sweet seventeen. With her fair flowing hair, her laughing blue eyes, her cheerful voice, and her winsome ways, no wonder Nanette was a favourite. But why did she so love to roam down by the rocks where the seagulls screamed, and why, when her father was abroad, did her eyes so often fill with tears as she gazed across the sea? She was her father’s darling, it is true; but she was something else—she was brave Jan Jansen’s promised bride. And his thoughts were always on shore with Nanette, and hers were on the little barque with Jan. When he was at sea the months seemed to her like long gloomy years, and the few weeks he was at home like bright short hours of sunshine and joy.
“And they were going to be married after the very next voyage; then Jan was to have a ship of his own, and take her away with him to the sunny lands he was so fond of describing to her, and about which she so loved to hear, as they walked arm in arm on the breezy cliff-tops.
“If previous voyages had seemed long to Nanette, this last appeared an age in itself. But one summer’s morning when Nanette, awoke and opened her window to admit the sweet sea air and the song of the lark, oh! joy, there was the dear old brig with her sea-washed sides, standing close in towards the land, and she was sure—yes, there was no mistake about it—those were her father and Jan waving their handkerchiefs to attract her attention. How quickly did Nanette dress that morning and hurry out; and how speedily did she bend on and hoist the red flag on the garden staff, to tell her anxious father and lover that all was well at home!
“Then away stood the brig on the starboard tack, and next day Nanette had beside her all that she loved on earth—father, mother, her brothers, and Jan.
“There seemed to be a cloud on the captain’s brow, which his wife was not slow to notice, and even honest Jan appeared to be possessed of some gloomy secret, that sat but uneasily on his mind. Yet each when asked had only replied,—
“‘’Tis nothing, you will hear it all in good time.’
“But that evening, after supper was cleared away, and Jan with the captain sat beside the fire in the cosy parlour,—
“‘Wife,’ said the mariner, ‘I have news for you that is both good and bad. Tell them, Jan, I can’t.’
“Jan dared not meet the loving eyes of poor Nanette, but gazed dreamily into the fire as he told them the news that some shipwrecked sailors had brought to the port of Katrinesand, from which they had last sailed, of wealth immeasurable to be made on an island far away in the frozen ocean, and of mines of ivory to be had for the gathering, and of the captain’s resolve to make one last—certainly the last—Jan little knew how prophetically he spoke—voyage in the brig, and that this voyage was to be to the Arctic regions; and that neither he nor the captain doubted that this single voyage would make wealthy men of them both.
“The wife was the first to reply, for poor Nanette was sobbing as if her heart would break.
“‘Oh!’ cried the captain’s wife, ‘it is ever, ever thus. Do not go, I beseech you, oh! my husband. Do not rashly brave the terrors of that dreadful sea of ice. There has been a cloud on my heart for weeks that I could not understand till now, and both Nanette and myself have dreamed dreams that bode no good to us or ours. Husband, husband, stay at home!’
“But a determined man will have his way, and the captain’s mind was so bent on the new project that nothing would induce him to give it up. What his wife must suffer, but Nanette even more, for wherever her father went Jan was bound to follow, and the danger would be the same to both!
“On the twenty-first day of April, in seventeen hundred and ninety-six, there sailed away from Shetland the sturdy brigDanish Queen, well manned, mated, found and commanded, and with it went the hearts of the gentle Nanette and her mother.
“The day was mild and balmy. A soft south wind blew over the sea and filled the sails, and wafted the brig—oh! how fast she seemed to fly—away and away and away, till she disappeared on the northern horizon, and the poor bereaved ones, clasped in each other’s arms, wept in silence now, for neither could find a word of comfort for the other; hope itself had fled from their hearts.
“And theDanish Queenreturned again no more to Shetland shores.
“Two years and a half had barely passed since she sailed away, and the autumn leaves were mingling with the long green grass in the little churchyard of Dergen, when two new-made graves might have been seen there, side by side. One was that of little Nanette, the other the grave of her heartbroken mother.
“And the time flew by, and theDanish Queenwas soon forgotten, and people had ceased to speak of her, and the friends of her brave sailors had doffed the garb of mourning for five long years.
“But one day there arrived in Shetland the whaling barqueClotho, direct from the Greenland Ocean, and one passenger, the sole survivor, by his own account, of the ill-fatedDanish Queen. If it were indeed as he said, there must be some strange mystery about his existence for so many years on the sea of ice, which even Jan Jansen himself—for it was he—could not, or rather would not, then explain. He was found dressed in bear-skins, a young man, but with snow-white hair and beard, wandering purposelessly on the ice, and taken on board. All that he would tell was that his unfortunate vessel had been dashed to pieces against the ice just three months after he had left Shetland, and that he alone of all on board had been saved from a watery grave.
“Jan Jansen never shed a tear when he heard of the death of the two beings he had loved far better than any one else on earth, but he never smiled again. He built himself a small cottage and tilled a little farm quite close to the graveyard of Dergen, and in sight of the sea. Years softened the poor man’s grief, and to many an earnest child-listener, not a few of whom have long ago gone grey and passed away from earth, he used to tell the tale of his strange adventures in the far-off sea of ice.
“It was on winter evenings, when the snow was sifting in beneath Jan Jansen’s cottage door, and the roar of the wind mingling with the dash of the waves on the cliffs beneath, that Jan would draw closer to the fire, and rake the blazing peat together till the shadows danced and flickered on the walls: then his little friends felt sure that he was going to repeat to them his strange, strange story.
“‘But I never told you, did I,’ old Jan would say, ‘of the lonely island of Alba, in the frozen ocean?’
“He had told them scores of times, but the tale never palled upon them.
“‘Yes, yes, Father Jan,’ they would cry, ‘but we have quite forgotten a great deal that you told us. Do tell us once again of that wonderful island, and all the strange things you saw there.’
“And Jan would begin, keeping his eyes on the fire, as if the curling smoke and the blazing peat aided his recollections.
“‘It was almost summer when the good brigDanish Queenleft Shetland. A favouring breeze filled our sails, and in less than fourteen days we made the ice, and the ripple left the water, but still the wind blew fair. Onward we ploughed our way in the sturdy brig, now through fields of floating slush and snow, now through streams of small bergs, but little larger than sheep or swans. Farther north still, and the bergs grew as large as oxen, then as big as elephants, then bigger than houses, then bigger than churches; and as they rose and fell on the smooth dark billows they threatened us every moment with destruction. Then we knew we had at last reached the sea of perpetual ice; ’twas the season of the year when the sun never sets, but goes on day and night, round and round in the cold blue sky, where never a cloud is seen. We saw strange birds and beasts in the water and on the ice, beasts that glared at us with a stony fearless stare, and birds that floated so close we could have captured them by hand. The beautiful snowbird, with plumage more white than the lily’s petal, with eyes and legs of crimson, and bill of jet; the wild pilot bird, and a hundred curious gulls, and little sparrow-like birds that fluttered from berg to berg in the breeze, as if it were very much against their will they were there at all; and flocks of curious blackbirds with white mottled breasts, that laughed in the air as they flew around us, with a sound like the voices of little children just let loose from school. We saw the lonely narwhal, the unicorn of the sea, with his one long ivory horn appearing and disappearing in the black waters as he pursued his prey. Seals in thousands popped their heads above the water to stare at us with their beautiful eyes; sea cows basked on the snowy bergs; whales played their gigantic fountains on every side of us; and the great Greenland bear, king of these regions of ice, stalked majestically around on many a floe, waiting a chance to pounce on some unwary seal.
“‘Northwards still, and now we sailed into an open sea, where no icebergs were anywhere visible—nothing but water, water, wherever we looked, except on the northern horizon, where was one small snowy cone, no bigger it would seem than a sugar-loaf. Taller and taller and broader and broader it grew, as we sailed towards it, till it formed itself into a lofty table-land, and we found ourselves under the ice-bound cliffs of the Isle of Alba.
“‘Imagine if you can a large and mountainous island covered with the snows of ages, with one gigantic cone, the shaft of an extinct volcano, towering upwards until lost in the heavens; imagine all around an ocean of inky blackness, a sky above of cloudless blue, with a sun like a rayless disc of molten silver; imagine neither sight nor sound of life, saving the mournful cry of the wheeling sea-bird, or the sullen plunge of the narwhal and whale; and imagine if you can the feeling of being all alone in such a place, where foot of mortal man had never been planted before.
“‘But for all this, little recked the brave crew of theDanish Queen, for we found the ivory we had braved every danger to seek.
“‘Caves full of it!
“‘Mines of it!
“‘For days and weeks our boats did nothing but ply between ship and shore, laden to the gunwale with our pearly treasure. We had but room for one more ton. It was ready packed on shore, and I was left to watch. Alas and alas! that same night it came on to blow great guns from off the ocean. I could not see our brig for the foam and spray that dashed over the cliffs. But, ah me! I soon heard a mournful and piercing shriek, rising high over wail of wind and wash of wave, and I knew then she had gone down and all on board had perished. Shuddering with cold and horror, I sheltered myself in the inner recesses of a cave, careless even of falling a victim to a bear. I wandered in, and I wandered on and on, till I could no longer hear the surging of the storm-lashed waves, and the light behind me was swallowed up in obscurity. And now I could distinctly perceive a glimmering light and a rising mist far away ahead, while at the same time the air around me waxed sensibly warmer; still a spirit of curiosity seemed to impel me forward, until I found myself standing in front of a vast waterfall, which disappeared in the bowels of the earth beneath my feet, while floating in the vapoury mist above me were beings the most lovely I had ever imagined, in gauzy garments of pink and green.
“‘With their strange eyes bent pityingly on me, those water-spirits floated nearer and nearer. Then I felt lifted off my feet and borne gently but swiftly upwards through the luminous haze, upwards and into day once more; and what a blissful day!
“‘In this lovely land, where I dwelt so long, there was no alloy of sorrow, and the strange, bright beings that inhabited it were as happy and joyous as the birds that sang on every bough, or the flowers that wooed the wind and the sunshine.
“‘Five years passed away like one long and happy dream; then one day my spirit-friends came towards me with downcast looks and tear-bedimmed eyes. They came to tell me that, as with joy they had found me, so in sorrow they must now part with me—that no mortal must stay longer in their land than my allotted time. Then they clad me in skins and conveyed me up the mountain-side, even to the top of the highest cone. Looking down from this height, I could behold all the sea of ice spread out like a map before me, with sealers at work on the southern floes.
“‘“Yonder are your countrymen,” said the beautiful spirits; then sadly they bade me farewell.
“‘It must have been days afterwards when I was picked up by theClotho’smen, who had gone to look for fresh-water ice.’
“The old man,” continued Magnus Green, “used to sigh as he finished his story, and we—for I, gentlemen, was one of his child-listeners—just whispering adieu, would steal away homewards through the winter’s night, seeing as we went spirits in every curling snowdrift, and hearing voices in every blast.”
“And what do you now think,” asked McBain, after a pause, “of this old man’s strange story?”
“Of the spirit portion of it,” said Magnus, “I cannot give an opinion, but that a sea of open waterdoeslie to the far north, my experience as sealer and whaler has long since convinced me. The Isle of Alba is known to many Norwegian narwhal and walrus-hunters, and I know the mammoth caves of ivory to be not only probable, but a fact.”
“And you think,” continued McBain, “you could guide us and pilot us to these strange regions?”
“Yes, yes?” cried Magnus, producing from his bosom an old and much stained parchment chart, and tapping it with his skinny hand as he spoke, “it is all here, even if my memory failed me. Yes, yes; I can guide you, if the hearts of your crew do not fail them before the dangers to be encountered.”
“I could answer for the hearts of my crew,” said McBain, smiling; “they are hearts of oak, my Magnus! You will know that before you are long with us. As to the mammoth caves Magnus, if we ever attempt to reach them, I promise you that you shall be our pilot.”