[Contents]CHAPTER LXVI.A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in Elgin.The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy. The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of considerable height,[530]manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood; these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only sheet of magnitude.“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer; “should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said Barnard, sticking testily to his point.“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward. “Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew. Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard. Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the rocks.”“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer, pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth look. Trust me, no human power[531]may force her against the tempest. But thou art ever for working impossibilities.”“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the land, I say.”In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman, grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about, giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased, and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy, and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and heeded it not.“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man, becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain destruction.”But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of them could reach him.“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most miraculously on board, being unwillingly[532]saved from his rash, though generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself. Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman, aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel. A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss. Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children, but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the grandchild of mine old age.Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment, but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,” cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be[533]laid decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to bury his emotions in darkness and silence.After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it. Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was but little chance of ever seeing another sun.Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven,[534]and, as they scudded gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently, but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it was impossible to say.Preparations were made for bestowing upon oldBarnardthe same funeral rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes. The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on[535]the land became lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out, half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately, the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it. They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore. Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short, and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach, whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them, but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.[536]
[Contents]CHAPTER LXVI.A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in Elgin.The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy. The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of considerable height,[530]manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood; these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only sheet of magnitude.“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer; “should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said Barnard, sticking testily to his point.“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward. “Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew. Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard. Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the rocks.”“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer, pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth look. Trust me, no human power[531]may force her against the tempest. But thou art ever for working impossibilities.”“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the land, I say.”In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman, grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about, giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased, and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy, and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and heeded it not.“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man, becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain destruction.”But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of them could reach him.“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most miraculously on board, being unwillingly[532]saved from his rash, though generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself. Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman, aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel. A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss. Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children, but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the grandchild of mine old age.Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment, but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,” cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be[533]laid decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to bury his emotions in darkness and silence.After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it. Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was but little chance of ever seeing another sun.Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven,[534]and, as they scudded gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently, but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it was impossible to say.Preparations were made for bestowing upon oldBarnardthe same funeral rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes. The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on[535]the land became lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out, half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately, the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it. They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore. Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short, and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach, whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them, but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.[536]
CHAPTER LXVI.A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in Elgin.
A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in Elgin.
A Ship of Olden Times—Tempest Tossed—Arrival at the Maison Dieu in Elgin.
The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy. The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of considerable height,[530]manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood; these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only sheet of magnitude.“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer; “should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said Barnard, sticking testily to his point.“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward. “Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew. Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard. Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the rocks.”“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer, pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth look. Trust me, no human power[531]may force her against the tempest. But thou art ever for working impossibilities.”“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the land, I say.”In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman, grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about, giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased, and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy, and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and heeded it not.“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man, becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain destruction.”But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of them could reach him.“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most miraculously on board, being unwillingly[532]saved from his rash, though generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself. Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman, aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel. A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss. Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children, but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the grandchild of mine old age.Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment, but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,” cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be[533]laid decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to bury his emotions in darkness and silence.After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it. Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was but little chance of ever seeing another sun.Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven,[534]and, as they scudded gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently, but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it was impossible to say.Preparations were made for bestowing upon oldBarnardthe same funeral rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes. The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on[535]the land became lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out, half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately, the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it. They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore. Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short, and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach, whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them, but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.[536]
The bark which we left threading its way down the mazes of the Thames made a tedious and difficult passage northwards along the coast of England. It was sometimes borne on by favouring breezes, but it often encountered furious contrary blasts that compelled the dauntless Mercer, its commander, to yield before them, and to submit to be driven back for many a league. We must not forget that naval architecture and nautical science were then, comparatively speaking, in their infancy. The hull of this Scottish privateer, or pirate, as she was called by the English, was awkwardly encumbered by two enormous erections. One of these, over the stern, is still recognized in some degree in the poop of our larger ships. Of the other, called the forecastle, although nothing now remains but the name, it was then in reality a tower of considerable height,[530]manned during an engagement by cross-bow men, who were enabled to gall the enemy very severely from that elevated position. The masts were three, one rising from the middle of the vessel, and the others from the two extremities, each formed of one thick short tree, the mainmast being the largest. At the upper end of each mast was fixed a circular stage, walled strongly in with wood; these were called the round-tops, and were large enough to admit of several warriors being stationed in them. Each mast had but one sail hanging from its yard, and that attached to the mainmast was the only sheet of magnitude.
“Ha! what sayest thou now, Barnard?” exclaimed Mercer, slapping on the shoulder his steersman, an old sailor, who had served him and his father before him for some fifty years in the same capacity, and whose back was bent by his constant position at the helm; “methinks this is the only breeze that hath promised to be steady during these fourteen days of our wearisome voyage. An it do but last for some good hour or twain, we may hope to see the other side of St. Abb’s yonder.”
“Ay,” replied Barnard, casting his eye over his left shoulder, “but I like not yonder wide-flaming cloud that doth heave itself up so i’ the sou’-west, Master Mercer. I’m no sailor an it be not big with something worse than aught we have had yet to deal with.”
“Come, come, no evil-omened croaking, Master Barnard,” replied Mercer; “should the breeze freshen, we shall speed but the faster.”
“Nay, but I do tell thee, there is some cruel ill-nature yonder,” said Barnard, sticking testily to his point.
“By St. Rule, but it doth look somewhat angry,” replied Mercer. “We must get more under the lee of the land ere the mischief cometh.”
“By St. Paul, but it doth come already,” cried Barnard; “seest thou not yonder white-topped waves tripping after us?”
“By the mass, but it doth come indeed,” cried Mercer, jumping forward. “Ha, there goeth the foresail flying through the air like a sea-mew. Down with the mainsail. Come, stir ye, stir ye, my hearts. Out with your long-sweeps, my brave spirits—put her head to the land, Barnard. Pull yarely now, my gallants. There is a lull yonder beneath the rocks.”
“’Tis a lull thou wilt never reach, I’ll promise thee, Master Mercer, pull as thou wilt,” said old Barnard gruffly. “Better let her drive to the open sea before the storm. See how angry yonder sinking sun doth look. Trust me, no human power[531]may force her against the tempest. But thou art ever for working impossibilities.”
“Tush, old man,” cried Mercer; “time enow to give in when we shall have tried and failed. I have no fancy for a run to Norway, if by any means we may reach the bonny Frith o’ Forth. So put her head more to the land, I say.”
In obedience to the command of his resolute master, the old helmsman, grumbling like a bear, put the bark into the course he had ordered, and the mariners, aided by the pike and cross-bow men, put their hands steadily to the long oars. The brave Mercer moved actively about, giving life and spirit to their exertions. The storm rapidly increased, and he climbed the forecastle to look out ahead.
“Mercy on us,” cried old Barnard, “there burneth a blue flame at the foremast head. ’Tis gone. Some one is near his end, I trow. Run, boy, and tell the master to come down. He is, as it were, mine own son, and I like not to see him yonder after that dismal warning.”
The ship-boy carried the steersman’s message, but Mercer laughed and heeded it not.
“Here, Peter Patullo, do thou take the helm a bit,” cried the old man, becoming anxious. “He is so wilful, I must go to him myself.”
Barnard had hardly spoken, when a tremendous wave came rolling on against the head of the ship, and striking the forecastle, a dreadful crash followed, the huge timber tower being swept away like a cobweb.
“Holy Mother of God, he is gone,” cried Barnard. “My master—Oh! the boy I nursed, as I may say. Ha, see’st thou nought of Him?” cried the distracted old man, running to the lee-side of the ship, which was drifting broadside on, from the sudden cessation of the panic-struck rowers. “Ha, he’s there; I see him; I saw him as he was heaved up on the bosom of the billow. I’ll save him, or I’ll perish with him.”
“Stop him,” cried the Franciscan, who had rushed from the cabin on hearing the confused cry; “stop him, he plunges to certain destruction.”
But old Barnard was too alert for them all. He was overboard ere any of them could reach him.
“Madman,” cried the Franciscan, hastily picking up a rope; and as the sea lifted up the bulky form of the old skipper, who hung for some moments poised as it were on the crest of the wave, he, with great dexterity, threw a coil over him, and Barnard was dragged most miraculously on board, being unwillingly[532]saved from his rash, though generous, but utterly hopeless attempt.
Meanwhile the brave Mercer was borne away, seemingly to certain destruction. Everything was done by the active Franciscan to bring the bark near him. He was seen, now tossed on the high top of a mountainous surge, and now far down in the gulf out of which it had swelled itself. Sometimes he was thrown violently towards them, and again he was whirled far away with the velocity of thought; yet amidst all the horrors of the apparently inevitable death that surrounded him, he struggled with a calmness that showed his undaunted soul, and seemed determined to husband his strength as long as hope remained. A rope with a noose upon it was thrown to him. He had watched the endeavours his friends were making to save him, and he now exerted all his strength and skill to aid them. After many an unsuccessful effort, he at last caught the rope, and, with great adroitness, passed the noose over his head and arms. The Franciscan and the half-frantic helmsman, aided by some of the crew, began to pull him gently towards the vessel. A long rolling wave came and dashed him against the ship’s side. He was hastily pulled up—but life was for ever extinct.
The deepest grief fell upon the crew when they beheld their beloved commander thus stretched inanimate before them; and they forgot their own safety and that of the vessel in their affliction for his loss. Poor old Barnard hung over the dripping corpse of his master, and seemed to be utterly unconscious of all that was passing around him.
“Alas!” he cried, looking in his face, and putting back his drenched locks with his rough hand as he said so, “would I had but sunk ere I had beheld thee so. I had never the blessing of wife or of children, but I did esteem thy father as my son; yea, and thou wert as the grandchild of mine old age.Thou didst grow to be a man under mine own especial nurture. I had pride and pleasure in thy gallantry and in thy success. Right cheerfully did I work for thee; ay, and would have worked for thee whiles my old timbers did hang together; but now, sith thou art gone, I have but little tie to this world. I care not how soon I weigh anchor for the land of souls; for what have I, a poor old lonesome man, to do here without thee? Let fresher hands take the watch, for—I—I—” his feelings overcame his hardy nature for a moment, but he recovered himself. “Take care no harm comes over his corpse,” cried he, looking sternly round upon his shipmates. “Let it be[533]laid decently out in his own berth—and—and——” His voice again became choked—he coughed—he put his hands to his eyes—and turning hastily away, disappeared into the hole that was his usual place of repose, to bury his emotions in darkness and silence.
After the loss of Mercer, there was an utter confusion and want of system among the under officers and crew, until the Franciscan monk boldly assumed the command. Many of those on board had sailed with him in the days of old Mercer, and being well acquainted with his resolute mind, as well as with his nautical knowledge, they scrupled not to obey him. He was indefatigable in his exertions; but nothing he could do availed, and he was compelled to allow the bark, crazed as she was, to drift before the wind with every fear of her foundering.
Dreadful was the night that ensued, and anxiously did every soul on board long for morning, but when it came it was like a mimic night. The clouds hung darkly over the sea, as if about to mingle with it. Torrents of rain fell; and the waves arose like peaked mountains, their whitened tops piercing the black vault of the clouds. The tempestuous wind seemed to shift from one point to another; and they were so tossed to and fro that they became bewildered, and could not even avail themselves of the imperfect needle then in use. Land they could see none; and when the second night fell upon them, each man gave his soul to the care of the Virgin or his patron saint, persuaded that there was but little chance of ever seeing another sun.
Meanwhile the hardy Franciscan never quailed, nor did he ever leave the deck. Little could be done to aid the ship, but he ceased not to encourage the mariners, both by his voice and his example.
At last the tempest seemed to yield. The wind became hushed, and although the swell of the sea continued for some hours, yet it diminished every moment, and went on gradually moderating until daybreak. By this time the sky had cleared itself of the clouds that had hitherto obscured it, the sun rose above the horizon in full splendour, and a faint hope arose with it that the vessel might yet be saved. But no land was yet visible. The needle was consulted, and it was determined to hoist the mainsail, and to avail themselves of an eastern breeze, to steer in that direction where they knew the British coast must lie; and two men, who were placed in the round-top to look out a-head, soon cheered them with the intelligence that the land was visible; upon which they gave thanks to Heaven,[534]and, as they scudded gently before the breeze, the blue mountains began to appear in the distant haze, and were swelling every moment upon their sight.
Now it was that some of the older men in the ship came to inform the Franciscan that it had been the wish of Mercer, repeatedly expressed during his life, that wherever he might die, he should, if possible, be buried at sea; and, since the cessation of the storm permitted them to have some leisure, the monk gave directions accordingly to prepare for the solemn rite. Old Barnard had never appeared since the moment he left the deck after the catastrophe that befel Mercer, and the struggle the crew had been maintaining ever since with the angry elements had hindered any one from visiting him where he had retreated. He was now sent for; but the sailor who went for him speedily returned with a face of alarm, to report that he could get no answer from him. The Franciscan then lighted a lamp, and went below, followed by several anxious faces. There lay the old man, wrapped up in a blanket, in his berth. His head was turned from them. The Franciscan shook him gently, but he stirred not. He then turned him round, and the light of the lamp fell upon his face. It was ghastly—the eyes were glazed, and the rough features fixed in death. He seemed to have died soon after he had lain down; but whether he had suffered some fatal injury in his noble attempt to save Mercer, or whether he had died of a broken heart for the loss of the brave young man, to whom he was so much attached, it was impossible to say.
Preparations were made for bestowing upon oldBarnardthe same funeral rites as were contemplated for his master. The religious duties were performed over both by the Franciscan, and both were consigned together to the deep amidst the tears that fell from many a weather-beaten face.
The breeze continued, and the distant mountains grew every moment more and more distinct; but long ere they had approached the land sufficiently near to enable them to determine what part of the coast they were borne towards, a thick fog arose, and put an end to every speculation on the subject, by shutting it entirely from their eyes. The vessel laboured exceedingly, from her shattered condition, and there was no hope of safety left for them but to avail themselves to the utmost of the favourable breeze that still continued to blow. It lasted them bravely, and earned them cheerily on until sunset, but then it fell calm; and the mist clearing away, the moon arose, and showed them a bold coast some miles to the south. Farther on[535]the land became lower, and thither the Franciscan made the crew pull with all their might. As they neared the land, the Lady Beatrice was brought out, half-dead, upon the deck, to be prepared for disembarking immediately, the frail vessel beginning every moment to show more alarming symptoms of the shattered state to which the continued storm had reduced it. They now beheld the lights in some fishermen’s huts on shore, and the distant murmur of the waves, breaking gently on the beach, was the cheering music of hope to them. All at once the vessel struck upon some sunken rock or sand, and instantly began to fill. The confusion was dreadful. The Franciscan approached Beatrice, and quickly made her sensible of her danger. The boat was got out, but it was instantly overloaded—sunk—and all were in the water.
“Hold fast by my cowl, and fear not,” cried the Franciscan, who had the wisdom to stick to the vessel, and who now committed himself to the waves, as it went down under them. Where all were men accustomed to the sea, all were necessarily swimmers, and all made lustily for the shore. Thither also did the bold monk press his way, the Lady Beatrice hanging with the gripe of fate to his cowl; and the distance being but short, and the sea smooth, she was soon placed in safety upon the beach, whence he quickly carried her to the fishermen’s cottages.
The poor inhabitants of the fishing hamlet did all in their power to cherish the unfortunate people who were thus shipwrecked amongst them, but it was little they could do; and the comfort of a large fire was the utmost that any of the hovels could furnish. The Franciscan eagerly inquired what part of the coast they had been thrown on; and he declared that, since it had pleased the saints to deny them an entrance into the Frith of Forth, where lay their destination, he had reason to rejoice that they had taken land on the eastern coast of Moray. The Lady Beatrice, who had never held up her head during the tempestuous voyage, was grievously weakened by sickness. She sank down exhausted on the wretched pallet that was provided for her, and, eager as was the Franciscan to proceed with her to Elgin, the following day was far spent before she could gather strength enough to undertake even so short a ride. Horses were then procured, and they arrived at the gates of the Hospital of the Maison Dieu, where they were kindly received by the pious brethren and the sisterhood, who administered the hospitalities of the institutions to pilgrims and strangers of the better sort, as well as its charities to the poor.[536]