Stables Gordon
The Cruise of the Snowbird: A Story of Arctic Adventure

Chapter One
The Young Chief of Arrandoon – The Rising Storm – Lost in the Snow

It was winter. Allan McGregor stood, gun in hand, leaning against a rock half-way down the mountain-side, and, with the exception of himself and the stately deer-hound that lay at his feet, there was no sign of any living thing in all the glen; and dreary and desolate in the extreme was the landscape all around him. Glentroom in the summer time, when the braes were all green with the feathery birches, and the hillsides ablaze with the purple bloom of the heather, must have been both pleasant and romantic; but the birch-trees were now leafless and bare, the mountains were clad in snow, and the rock-bound lake, that lay far beneath, was leaden and grey like the sky itself, except where its waves were broken into foam by the snow-wind. That snow-wind blew from the north, and there was a sound in its voice, as it sighed through the withered breckans and moaned fitfully among the rocks and crags, that told of a coming storm.

Allan was the young laird of Arrandoon. All the glen had at one time belonged to his ancestors – ay, and all the land that could be seen, and all the lochs that could be counted from the peaks of Ben Lona. His father, but two short years before the commencement of this strange story of adventure, had died, sword in hand, at the head of his regiment in distant Afghan, and left him – what? A few thousand sheep, a few thousand acres of heather land on which to feed them, the title of chief, and yonder ancient castle, where dwelt his widowed mother and his sister.

Although he was a good Highland mile from his home, the castle, visible in every line and lineament from where he stood, formed quite a feature in the landscape. A tall grey building, with many a quaint and curious window, and many a turret chamber, it was built on the spur of the mountain, around which swept a brown hill-stream, the third side, or base of the triangle, being bounded by a moat now dry, and a drawbridge never raised. Far down beneath it was the grey loch, to which the noisy stream was hurrying.

Every old castle has its old story, and Arrandoon was no exception. It had been built in troublous times – built when the wild clans of the McGregors were in their glory. There the chiefs had dwelt, thence had they often sallied to tread the war-path or arouse the chase, and in its ancient halls many a gay revel had been held; but peace with the Lowlands, strange to say, had wrought the downfall of the chiefs of Arrandoon. The country had been thrown open, Englishmen had visited the glens, and friendships had been formed between those who once were deadly foes. In their own Highland homes the McGregors had entertained strangers in a regal fashion. Herein was pride – the pride that goes before a fall. When the chieftains went south, there, too, they would lord it, and herein lay more pride – the pride that caused the fall – for, alas and a lack-a-day! for the want of money land must be sold. Thus the stranger crept into the country of the Gael, and gold did for the proud McGregors, what the sword itself could never achieve – it laid them low.

That was one chapter of this castle’s story; the second is even a sadder one, for it tells of the days when, bereft of their lands, the proud chiefs of the McGregors, scorning trade, placed their claymores at the service of the reigning monarch, and fell in many a foreign land, fighting in a cause that was not their own, because fighting, they thought, was honourable, and fighting gave them bread. And their wives and their little ones were left at home to mourn. But no stranger saw the tears they shed.

It was towards this castle that the eyes of Allan McGregor were turned when first we see him; it was of the mournful history of his family he was thinking, as he stood on the hillside on this bleak, cold wintry evening.

“Bah!” he said to himself, “the very game seem to forsake the glen. Just look here,” he continued, addressing the dog, who looked up, wagging his tail, “only two hares and a brace or two of birds, with a wild cat that we shot at hazard, didn’t we, Bran? And I’m sure we’ve walked fully twenty miles, haven’t we, Bran?”

“Twenty miles fully,” Bran seemed to say, speaking with his eyes and his tail.

“And really, Bran, when my English college friends come to see me – as they will to-night, you know – I’ll hardly have anything to give them to eat, leaving sport out of the question; will I, Bran?”

Bran looked very serious at this, for he knew every inflection of his master’s voice.

“Ah, Bran, Bran! my dear old dog! it is very hard being a Highland chieftain with nothing to support one’s dignity on. Dignity, indeed! Why, Bran, I have positively to put mine in the pot and boil it for dinner. Now rouse up, Bran; I want to speak to you, because I must have somebody to open my heart to.”

Bran sat up on his haunches, and young Allan placed his hand on his head.

“Yes, Bran, my heart seems strangely full of something, and I think, old dog, that it is hope! hope for better times to come. You see our castle home down yonder, Bran?”

The noble hound looked in the direction indicated, and again moved his tail.

“Well, Bran, for many, many years there hasn’t been a single wreath of smoke seen above any of the chimneys of that bonnie old house, except those that rise from the southern wing – the smallest wing, Bran, remember – and all the rest of the castle is going to wreck and ruin. No wonder you half close your eyes, Bran; it is a sad serious business, and fine times the mice and the rats and the owls and the bats have been having in it, I can tell you!

“But now just listen, old fellow! All the time that you have been snoozing among the snow there, with your nose on top of the game-bag, I have been standing here thinking – thinking – thinking.

“You would like to know what I have been thinking about, wouldn’t you? Well, as you’re a good, faithful dog, I’ll tell you. I’ve been thinking about the past, and old, old times, when McGregor of Arrandoon was the proudest chief that ever trod the heather. That is more than a hundred years ago, Bran. The present chief of Arrandoon is a very different sort of an individual. To tell you the truth, my friend, your master is just as poor as peastraw, and there isn’t much substance in that. But, oh! Bran, I’ve been thinking that, what if I myself, by my own exertions, could go somewhere and do something that would earn me wealth and fame? To be sure I would like to be a soldier, but then mother says I must not leave her for the wars, and my poor father fought and bled for twenty long years, and there was nothing to send home but his sword. Heigho! No, I cannot be a soldier, even if I would. But something, Bran, I mean to do; something I mean to be, Bran. I don’t know yet, though, what that something will be, but my mother shall not die in poverty; of that I feel quite certain. Pride caused the fall of the chiefs of Arrandoon; pride shall raise us once again. The song says, —

“‘Whate’er a man dares he can do.’

“And I mean to dare and I mean to do, even if I go off to the gold-diggings. But, oh! Bran, only to think of getting back even a portion of my lands, that are now turned into shooting-grounds for the alien and stranger, to see sheep and lowing kine grazing where now only the heather grows, and the smoke curling upwards once more, from every chimney of our dear old home! Isn’t it a glorious thought, Bran?”

Bran jumped up at once and shook himself. Poor dog! he had no knowledge of a world beyond the glen, and probably the words in his master’s heroic speech that he understood the best, were those about going somewhere and doing something.

So he shook himself, wagged his tail, looked up to the sky, down at the castle, then all round him, and finally up into his master’s face, saying plainly enough, —

“By all means, master. I’m ready if you are. What is it to be – hares, rabbits, deer, or wild cat? I’m ready.”

Young Allan laughed aloud, and again patted the rough honest head of the faithful hound. And a very nice picture he and the dog would, just at that moment, have made, had an artist been there to transfer it to canvas. McGregor was poor, I grant you, but he owned something better even than riches: he had youth and health and beauty – the beauty of manliness, and his were a face and figure that once seen were sure to be remembered.

“Tall and stately, and strong as the oak, graceful as the bending willow,” – this is something like the language that Ossian, or any other ancient Celtic bard, might have used in describing him. I am sorry that I am not a Celtic bard, and that I must content myself with prosaically saying that Allan was handsome, and that the Highland garb which he wore – perhaps the most romantic of all costumes – well became him.

Reader, did ever you run down a mountain-side? I can tell you that it is glorious fun. You must know your mountain well though, and be sure no precipices are in your way. Having made certain of this, off you go, just as Allan and his hound went now, with wild skips, and hops, and jumps; it is not running, it is positive kangarooing, and when you do leave the ground in a leap, you think you will never touch it again. But no fear must dwell in your heart during this mad race. Once commenced, nothing can stop your wild career, till you find yourself at the foot and on level ground; and even then you have to run a goodly distance to expend the impulse that carried you downwards, or else you will tumble. But when you have stopped at last, and gazed upwards, “Is it possible,” you say to yourself, “that I can have descended from such a height in so short a space of time?”

I do not know whether Bran or his master was at the foot of the mountain first, but I do happen to know that they both disappeared in a wreath of snow as soon as they got there, and that both of them emerged therefrom laughing. After that, Allan McGregor sloped his gun and walked on more sedately, as became the chief of Arrandoon.

And now he approached the old castle, which looked ever so much higher and more imposing as one stood beneath it. He fired both barrels of his gun in the air, and the sound reverberated from hill and crag, rolling far away over the loch itself in a thousand echoes, as if the fairies were engaged at platoon-firing. Bran barked, and his bark was re-echoed too, not only from the rocks around, but from the interior of the castle walls. This last, I must tell you, was an Irish echo; it was no ghostly recoil of Bran’s own voice, but the genuine outcome from canine lungs; and lo! yonder come the owners of them, pouring over the bridge, a perfect hairy hurricane, to welcome Bran and his master home. Two Highland collies, a lordly Saint Bernard, a whole pack of what looked like stable brooms, but were in reality Skye terriers, and last, but not least, Bran’s old mother.

When the hubbub and din were somewhat settled, and the greetings over, Allan proceeded to cross the bridge, and McBain, his foster-father, advanced with a kindly smile to meet him.

I must introduce McBain to the reader without more ado – that is, I must give you some idea of his appearance; as to his character, that will develop itself as the story proceeds. He was about the middle height, then, and clad, like Allan, in the Highland dress of McGregor tartan – or plaid, as the English and Lowland Scotch erroneously call it. Though far from old, McBain was grey in beard and furrowed in brow; yet there are but few young men, I ween, who, had they ventured on a tussle with that broad-shouldered, wiry Highlander, would have cared to repeat the experiment for a week to come at least.

This was Allan’s foster-father. He had been in the family since he was a child, and his ancestors, like himself, had been chief retainers to the lairds of Arrandoon. He was a right faithful fellow, and a Scotchman in everything, thinking no people so good or brave or powerful as his own, nor any other country in the world worth living in; and from this you will readily infer that he had never mixed very much with the peoples of the earth. This is true; and still he had travelled when a young man, but it was towards the desolate regions of the North Pole. It was pride had taken him there – a cross word that his father had said to him, and young McBain had gone to sea. Only, a few years of the wild, rough life he had led on the icy ocean around Spitzbergen had taught him that there was no place like home, so he returned to it and received his father’s pardon, and, later on, his blessing.

“Aha, Allan, boy!” cried McBain; “so you’ve got back at last. Indeed – indeed we thought you were lost, and Bran and all. What sport, boy – what sport?”

“There is the bag,” said Allan, “and precious little you’ll find in it.”

“Ah! But, boy, half a loaf is better than no bread. When I was in Spitzbergen – ”

“There, there,” said Allan, interrupting him, “never mind about Spitzbergen now; but tell me, have Ralph and Rory come, there’s a good old foster-father.”

“Ralph and Rory come!” replied McBain, with an air of surprise. “Why, they are English, Allan; and do you think they’d leave the hospitality and good cheer of an Inverness hotel, to visit Glentroom in such weather as this? It isn’t likely!”

Allan was silent; he had turned away his head and was gazing skywards, with something very like a frown on his face.

McBain laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. “You are piqued, son,” he said; “you are angry. There is the proud, defiant look of the McGregor chiefs on your countenance. Let it pass, Allan; let it pass. Do not forget for a moment what the McBains have ever been to your people. Have they not served them well, and fought and bled for them too? Were they not ever the first at the castle walls, when the fiery cross was sent through the glen? Do not forget that I have been a true foster-father to you, my son? Haven’t I taught you all you know? on the hills, on the lochs, and by the river? and would you get angry with the old man because he says your guests will hardly dare turn up to-night?”

Allan passed his hand quickly across his brow, as if to brush away a cloud.

“No, no!” he replied; “I’m not angry. Only – only you don’t know my English friends; you will alter your opinion of them when you do. They are brave and manly fellows, McBain. Ralph rowed stroke oar in his boat at Cambridge, and Rory is the best bowler in the three royal counties.”

McBain laughed.

“Allan! Allan!” he said; “think you for a moment they could do what I have taught you to do? Could either of them cross Loch Kreenan in a cobble when the waves are houses high, when their white crests cut the face like a Highland dirk? Could they bring the eagle from the clouds with a single bullet, or the windhover from the sky? Could they grapple with and gralloch a wounded red deer? Nay; and even if they could, if they were as brave and strong and fierce as the wild cat of the mountain, it would take all their strength and all their courage to face the storm that is brewing to-night. See, Allan, the clouds are already settling down on the hills, the peak of Melfourvounie is buried in mist, there is a mournful sough in the rising wind, and ere five hours are over the boddach will be shrieking among the crags of Drontheim.”

(Boddach – A spirit, believed in by many, who takes the shape of an old man, sometimes seen by night in the woods, but always heard shrieking among the rocks that he haunts whenever storms are raging.)

“All the more reason,” cried Allan, talking rapidly, “that I should go and meet them. Tell mother and sister I have gone a little way down the glen to meet Ralph and Rory, and we’ll all be back to dinner. Bran and Oscar will go with me. But stay, don’t you hear the bagpipes? It is Peter, and very likely my friends are with him.”

The sound came nearer and nearer, and presently out from the shadows of the dark pine-wood strode Peter – all alone.

Both went quickly to meet him, and Peter’s story was soon told.

“The Sassenach gentlemans,” he said, “had both left Inverness with him in the morning, and fine young gentlemans they were, and might have been Highlanders for the matter of that. But och and och! they would take the high road for sake of the scenery, bless you, and he had to take the low; but for all that they ought to have been at the castle hours and hours ago.”

Young Allan and his foster-father said never a word; they did but tighten their hands, and glance for a moment in each other’s eyes, yet both understood that the simple action implied a promise on either side to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, whatever might happen.

Presence of mind in emergency is a gift that seems peculiar to the Scottish Highlander. Born in a mountain land, and accustomed from his very infancy to face every danger in hill or glen, in flood or fell or field, his true character is never better seen than in times of danger. McBain waited for a few minutes in the castle courtyard until Allan, who had hurried away, should have time to communicate with his mother and sister; then he struck a gong, and while yet its thunders were reverberating among the hills, he was surrounded by every servant in the place, old Janet, the cook, not excepted; then the orders that fell calmly and yet quickly from his lips showed at once that he was master of the situation.

“Janet, old woman,” he said, “run away to the house like a good creature and get ready the dinner; the best that ever you made, do ye hear? Peter, run, lad, and get a rope, the crooks, and lanterns. Here, take the chief’s gun. Yes, certainly, bring the bagpipes, and don’t forget the flask. Donald Ogg, get the pony put in the trap, with rugs and plaids galore. Take the high road to Inverness and follow us soon. Thank you, Peter. Now for the dogs. No, no; not a pack. Back with them all to the kennel save Oscar, Bran, and Kooran the collie. Here we are, Allan, boy, all ready for a start.”

And in less time than it takes me to tell it, the little expedition was equipped and started. A few minutes more and they had disappeared in the pine forest from which Peter had so lately emerged, and the old Castle of Arrandoon was left to silence and the gloom of quickly-descending night.

Chapter Two
Saved – Rory and Ralph – McBain has an Idea

There is probably no music in the world more spirit-stirring – when heard amongst the native hills – than that of the Highland bagpipe. How often it has led our Scottish troops to victory, and cheered their drooping hearts in times of trouble, let history tell. In the London streets the sound of the pipes may be something vastly different, and then the pipers get undue blame.

The little party who left the Castle of Arrandoon to go in search of Ralph and Rory did well to have Peter and his bagpipes included in their number, for, so long as they were within hearing distance of the castle, the music would give hope to those left behind; and when beyond that, it would not only serve to while away the time of the searchers, but even in the darkness it might perchance be heard by the sought.

The road they had taken led upwards through the pine forest for more than a mile, and even when it left the wood it still ascended, until it at last joined the old highway to Inverness. This was quite high up among the mountains – so high, indeed, that even the most distant peaks were visible on the other side of the lake.

“Surely,” said McBain, “we shall meet your friends ere long.”

“I fear the very worst,” said Allan, gloomily, “for, had they not left the road for some purpose or another, they would have reached the glen long before this time. Rory would have his sketch-book, and both of them are fond of wild scenery.”

“Wild scenery indeed!” said McBain; “they needn’t leave the road to search for that.”

His words were surely true, for a grander scene than that around them it would be difficult to imagine.

It was a toilsome road they had to trace though, for the untrodden snow lay a good foot deep on the path, and, albeit they cast many a longing look ahead, they had but little time and little heart to look around to admire the scenery. And the snow was dry and treacherous. It lay lightly on the brae-sides, and on the bending heather stems, apparently awaiting only the breath of the storm to raise it into clouds of whirling drift, and drive it into deep and impassable wreaths.

For more than an hour they trudged onwards without catching sight or hearing sound of life, whether of man, or bird, or beast. The wind, too, was beginning to rise, a few flakes of snow had begun to fall, and night and darkness were already settling down in the hollows and glens, and only on the hilltops did daylight remain.

At last they came to a shepherd’s hut, and McBain knocked loudly at the door.

“Are you in, Donald? Are you in?” he cried.

“To be surely I’m in,” said a tall, plaided Highlander, opening the little door; “to be surely I’m in, Mr McBain, and where else is it I’d be, I wonder, in such a night as it soon will be?”

“Have you been abroad to-day, Donald?” asked Allan.

“Abroad? Yes, looking after the sheepies, to be surely.”

“Have you seen or met any one?”

“Yes, yes; two English bodies, to be surely. One would be sitting on a stone, making a picture, and the other would be looking over his shoulder, as it were. Och! Yes, to be surely.”

“Would you go with us, Donald?” asked Allan, “and show us the spot where you saw them.”

“Would I go with you? Is it that you are asking me?” cried Donald; “and what for do you ask me? Why didn’t you tell us to go? Didn’t my poor brother go with your father? ay, and die by his side. Yes, Donald will go with you to the end of the world if you’ll want him. Wait till I get my crook; to be surely I’ll go.”

Donald disappeared as he spoke, but after about a minute he joined our friends, and they journeyed on together.

“It will be an awful night, to be surely,” said Donald, “and troth, it is more than likely the two English bodies are dead, or drowned, or frozen by this time. An’ och! it’s a blessing they are only English bodies.”

Such a speech as this did not tend to reassure young Allan. In very truth it almost quenched the hopes that were beginning to rise in his heart.

Donald was now their guide, and they were not surprised to observe that before very long he deserted the main road entirely, for a steep and craggy path that led downwards towards the distant lake. Along this narrow footway Donald bounded along with almost the speed of a red deer. Nor were Allan and his trusty companions slow to follow, for all felt how precious were the few minutes of daylight that were left to them.

And now the shepherd stops, removes his cap, and, passing his fingers through his hair in a puzzled kind of manner, stares around him in some surprise.

“Yes, yes,” he says at last; “this is the place, to be surely, but I don’t see a sign of the English bodies whatsomever.”

But if he does not, Allan McGregor, quicker of eye, does. He springs lightly forward, and picks something up that lies half-buried among the snow.

“It is Rory’s sketch-book,” he says, “Alas! poor Rory.”

But what is that mournful wail that now rises up towards them, apparently from the very bosom of the dark lake itself?

“It’s the boddach of Drontheim,” falters the shepherd, trembling like an aspen leaf. “It’s the boddach, to be surely, och! and och! What will become of us whatsomever?”

“Silence, Donald, silence?” cries McBain, as the strange sound falls once more on their listening ears. “Where is Oscar? Not here? Why, it is he! Come, men! Come, Allan, for, dead or alive, your friends are down yonder.”

They follow the footprints of the noble dog, although they are hardly visible, but Kooran, the collie, takes up the scent and does excellent service. So down the steep and craggy hill they rush, often stumbling, sometimes falling, but still going bravely on, and cheering Oscar with their voices as they run. At the foot at last, and on level ground, they hasten forward, welcomed by the Saint Bernard to a spot where lie two inanimate human forms, partly hidden by the lightly drifting snow.

Dead? No, thank Heaven! they are not dead, and what joy for Allan McGregor, when stalwart Ralph sits up, rubs his eyes, and gazes vacantly and wildly around him.

“Drink,” says McBain, holding a flask to his lips. The young Englishman swallows a mouthful almost mechanically, then staggers to his feet Allan and McBain steady him by the arms till he comes a little more to himself.

“Ralph, old fellow,” says Allan, “don’t you know me?”

“Yes, yes,” he mutters, hardly yet sensible of his surroundings, “I remember all now. Rory – the cliff – I could not raise him – sleep stole my senses away. But we are saved, are we not, and by you, good Allan, and by you strangers? But see to Rory, see to Rory.”

McBain was chafing Rory’s hands, and rubbing his half-frozen limbs.

“No,” he said, “not saved by us. You have Providence to thank, and yonder brave dog. Had he not found you, the sleep that had overcome you would have been your last.”

It was a long time, and it seemed doubly long to Allan and Ralph, ere Rory showed the slightest signs of returning life. At length, however, the blood began to trickle slowly from a wound he had received in the forehead in his fall over the cliff, and next moment he sighed deeply, then opened his eyes.

“God be praised?” said McBain, fervently; “and now, my friends, let us carry him.”

This was very easily done, for Rory was a light weight. So with Donald in front, and the dogs capering and barking all around them, the party commenced the ascent, and half-an-hour afterwards they were safe at the shepherd’s hut. And none too soon, for night was now over all the land, and the snow fell thick and fast.

Rory was laid upon the shepherd’s dais, and Allan and Donald proposed moving it close to the fire. But McBain knew better.

“No, no, no!” he cried, “leave him where he is. Never take a frozen man near the fire. I learned that at Spitzbergen. He has young blood in his veins, and will soon come round.”

But Rory, for a time, lay quiet enough. He was very white too, and but for his regular and uninterrupted breathing, and the tinge of red in his lips, one might have thought him dead.

“Poor little Rory!” said Allan, smoothing his dark hair from off his brow. “How cold his forehead is!”

Very simple words these were, yet there was something in the very tone in which they were uttered that would have convinced even a stranger, that Allan McGregor bore for the youth before him quite a brother’s love.

And who was Rory, and who was Ralph? These questions are very soon answered. Roderick Elphinston and Ralph Leigh were, or had been, students at the University of Cambridge. They had been “inseparables” all through the curriculum, and firm friends from the very first day they had met together. And yet in appearance, and indeed in character, they were entirely different. Ralph was a great broad-shouldered, pleasant-faced young Saxon Rory was small as to stature, but lithe and wiry in the extreme; his face was always somewhat pale, but his eyes had all the glitter and fire of a wild cat in them. Well, then, if you do not like the “wild cat,” I shall say “poet” – the glitter and fire of a poet. And a poet he was, though he seldom wrote verses. Oh! it is not always the verses one writes that prove him to be a poet. Very often it is just the reverse. I know a young man who has written more verses than would stretch from Reading to Hyde Park, and there is just as much poetry in that young man’s soul as there is in the flagstaff on my lawn yonder. But Rory’s soul was filled with life and imagination, a gladsome glowing life that could not be restrained, but that burst upwards like a fountain in the sunlight, giving joy to all around. Everything in nature was understood and loved by Rory, and everything in nature seemed to love him in return; the birds and beasts made a confidant of him, and the very trees and the tenderest flowerets in garden or field seemed to whisper to him and tell him all their secrets. And just because he was so full of life he was also full of fun.

When silent and thinking, this young Irishman’s face was placid, and even somewhat melancholy in expression, but it lighted up when he spoke, and it was wonderfully quick in its changes from grave to gay, or gay to grave. It was like a rippling summer sea with cloud-shadows chasing each other all over it. Like most of his countrymen, Rory was brave even to a fault. Well, then, there you have his description in a few words, and if you will not let me call him poet, I really do not know what else to call him.

Ralph Leigh I must dismiss with a word. But, in a word, he was in my opinion everything that a young English gentleman should be; he was straightforward, bold and manly, and though very far from being as clever as Rory, he loved Rory for possessing the qualities he himself was deficient in. Thoroughly guileless was honest Ralph, and indeed, if the truth must be told, he was not a little proud of his companion, and he was never better pleased than when, along with Rory in the company of others, the Irishman was what Ralph called “in fine form.”

At such times Ralph would not have interrupted the flow of Rory’s wit for the world, but the quiet and happy glance he would give round the room occasionally, to see if other people were listening to and fully appreciating his adopted brother, spoke volumes.

McBain was right. The young blood in Rory’s veins soon reasserted itself, and after half-an-hour’s rest he seemed as well as ever. His first action on awaking was to put his hand to his brow, and his first words were, —

“What is it at all, and where am I? Have I been in any trouble?”

“Trouble, Rory?” said Allan, pressing his hand. “Well, you and Ralph went tumbling over a cliff.”

“Only fifty feet of a fall, Rory,” said Ralph.

Rory sat bolt upright now, and opened his eyes in astonishment.

“Och! now I remember,” he said, “that we had a bit of a fall – But fifty feet! do you tell me so? Indeed then it’s a wonder there is one single whole bone between the two of us. But where is my sketch-book?”

“Here you are,” said Allan.

“Oh!” said Rory, opening the book, “this is worse than all; the prettiest sketch ever I made in my life all spoiled with the snow.”

“Now, boys,” continued Rory, after a pause, “I grant you this is a very romantic situation – everything is romantic bar the smoke; but what are we waiting for? and is this your Castle of Arrandoon, my friend?”

“Not quite,” replied Allan, laughing. “We are waiting for you to recover, and – ”

“Well, sure enough,” cried Rory, “I have recovered.”

He jumped up as he spoke, kicked out his legs, and stretched out his arms.

“No; never a broken bone,” he said.

Now it had been arranged between Allan and McBain that Rory should ride in the cart, while they and Ralph should walk.

But Rory was aghast at such a proposal.

“What,” he cried; “is it a procession you’d make of me? Would you put me on straw in the bottom of a cart, like an old wife coming from a fair?”

“But,” persisted Allan, “you must be weak from the loss of blood.”

“Loss of blood,” laughed Rory, “don’t be chaffing a poor boy. If you’d seen the blood I lost at the last election, and all in the cause of peace and honour, too! No, indeed; I’ll walk.”

The storm was at its very worst when they once more emerged from the pine-wood, but every now and then they could see the light glimmering from one of the castle turrets, to guide them through the darkness. They sent the dogs on before to give notice of their approach; then Peter tuned up, and high above the roaring of the snow rose the scream of the great Highland bagpipe.

A few hours afterwards, the three friends had all but forgotten their perilous adventure among the snow, or remembered it only to make merry over it. It is needless to say that Allan’s mother and sister welcomed his friends, or that Ralph and Rory were charmed with the reception they received.

“Well,” said Rory, after the ladies had retired for the night, “I fully understand now what your poet Burns meant when he said —

“‘In heaven itself I’ll ask nae mair Than just a Highland welcome.’”

And now they gathered round the cosy hearth, on which great logs were blazing. McBain was relegated to an armchair in a corner, being the oldest Rory, who still felt the effects of his fall, reclined on a couch in front, with Ralph seated on one side and Allan on the other. Bran, the deer-hound, thought this too good a chance to be thrown away, so he got upon the sofa and lay with his great, honest head on Rory’s knees, while Kooran curled himself up on the hearthrug, and Oscar watched the door.

“Well,” said Ralph, “I call this delightful; and the idea of doing the Highlands in mid-winter is decidedly a new one, and that is saying a great deal.”

“Yes,” said Rory, laughing; “and a beautiful taste we’ve had of it to begin with. I fall over a cliff in the snow and Ralph comes tumbling after, just like Jack and Jill, and then we go to sleep like lambs, and waken with a taste of spirits in our mouths. Indeed yes, boys, it is romantic entirely.”

“Everything now-a-days,” said Ralph, with half a yawn, “is so hackneyed, as it were. You go up the Rhine – that is hackneyed. You go down the Mediterranean – that is hackneyed. You go here, there, and everywhere, and you find here, there, and everywhere hackneyed. And if you go into a drawing-room and begin to speak of where you’ve been and what you’ve done, you soon find that every other fellow has been to the same places, and done precisely the same things.”

“Sure, you’re right, Ralph,” said Rory; “and I do believe if you were to go to the moon and come back, some fellow would meet you on your return and lisp out, ‘Oh, been to the moon, have you! awfly funny old place the moon. Did you call on the Looneys when you were there? Jolly family the Looneys.’”

“There is a kind of metaphorical truth in what you say, Rory,” Ralph replied; “but I say, Allan, wouldn’t it be nice to go somewhere where no one – no white man – had ever been before, or do something never before accomplished?”

“It would indeed,” said Allan; “and I for one always looked upon Livingstone, and Stanley, and Gordon Cumming, and Cameron, and men like them, as the luckiest fellows in the world.”

“Now,” said Ralph, “I’m just nineteen. I’ve only two years more of what I call roving life, and if I don’t ride across some continent before I’m twenty-one, or embark at one end of some unknown river and come out into the sea at the other, I’ll never have a chance again.”

“Why, how is that?” said McBain.

“Well,” replied Ralph, “Sir Walter Leigh, my father, told me straight that we were as poor as Church mice, and that in order to retrieve our fortunes, as soon as I came of age I must marry my grandmother.”

“Marry your grandmother!” exclaimed McBain, half rising in his chair.

“Well, my cousin, then,” said Ralph, smiling; “she is five-and-forty, so it is all the same. But she has oceans of money, and my old father, bless him! is very, very good and kind. He doesn’t limit me in money now; though, of course, I don’t take advantage of all his generosity. ‘Go and travel, my boy,’ he said, ‘and enjoy yourself till you come of age. Just see all you can and thus have your fling. I know I can trust you.’”

“Have your fling?” cried Rory; “troth now that is exactly what my Irish tenants told me to do. ‘The sorra a morsel av rint have we got to give you,’ says they, ‘so go and have your fling, but ’deed and indeed, if we see you here again until times are mended, we’ll shoot ye as dead as a Ballyshannon rabbit.’”

“Well, young gentlemen,” said McBain, after a pause in the conversation, during which nothing was heard except the crackling of the blazing logs and the mournful moaning of the wind without, “you want to do something quite new. Well, I’ve got an idea.”

“Oh, do tell us what it is?” cried Ralph and Rory, both in one breath.

“No, no; not to-night,” said McBain, laughing; “besides, it wants working out a bit, so I’m off to bed to dream about it. Good night.”

“Depend upon it,” said Allan McGregor, as he parted with his friends at their chamber door, “that whatever it is, McBain’s idea is a good one, and he’ll tell us all about it to-morrow. You’ll see.”

Chapter Three
Life at the Old Castle – McBain Explains his “Idea” – Allan’s Dream

To say that our heroes, Ralph and Rory, were not a little impatient to know something about the scheme McBain was to propose for the purpose of giving them pleasure, would be equivalent to saying that they were not boys, or that they had men’s heads upon boys’ shoulders. So I willingly confess that it was the very first thing they thought about next morning, immediately after they had drawn up the blinds, to peep out and see what kind of a day it was going to be.

But this peeping out to ascertain the state of the weather was not so easily accomplished, as it would have been in the south of England. For fairy fingers seemed to have been at work during the night, and the panes were covered with a frost-work of ferns and leaves, more beautifully traced, more artistically finished, than the work of any human designer that ever lived. The whole seemed floured over with powdered snow. It was a pity, so thought Rory, to spoil the pattern on even one of the panes, but it had to be done, so by breathing on it for quite half a minute, a round, clear space was obtained; and gazing through this he could see that it was a glorious morning, that the clouds had all fled, that the sky was bluer than ever he had seen a sky before, that the wind was hushed, and the sun shining brightly over hills of dazzling white. The stems of the leafless trees looked like pillars of frosted silver, while their branches were more lovely by far than the coral that lies beneath the blue waves of the Indian Ocean.

“How different this is,” said Rory, “from anything we ever see in England! Ah! sure, it was a good idea our coming here in winter.”

“I wonder where McBain is this morning?” said Ralph.

“And I know right well,” said Rory, “what you’re thinking about.”

“Perhaps you do,” Ralph replied.

“Ay, that I do,” said Rory; “but don’t be an old wife, Ralph – never evince undue curiosity, never exhibit impatience. In other words, don’t be a squaw.”

“Oho!” cried Ralph, “now I see where the land lies. ‘Don’t be a squaw,’ eh? You’ve been reading Fenimore Cooper, you old rogue, you! The centre of a great forest in the Far West of America – midnight – a council of war – chiefs squatting around the camp fire – smoking the calumet – enter Eagle-eye – scats himself in silence – everybody burning to hear what he has to say, but no one dares ask for the world – ugh! and all that sort of thing. Am I right, Rory?”

“Indeed you are,” said the other, laughing; “you’ve bowled me out, I confess. But, after all, you know, it will be just as well not to seem impatient, and so I move that we never speak a word to McBain about what he said last night until he is pleased to open the conversation.”

“Right,” said Ralph; “and now let us go down to breakfast.”

Both Mrs McGregor and Allan’s sister Helen were very different from what Ralph and Rory had expected to find them. They had taken their notions of Highland ladies from the novels of Walter Scott and other literary worthies. Before they had come to Glentroom they had pictured to themselves Mrs McGregor as a kind of Spartan mother – tall, stately, dark, and proud, with a most exalted idea of her own importance, with an inexorable hatred of all the Saxon race, and an inordinate love of spinning. Her daughter, they had thought, must also be tall, and, if beautiful, of a kind of majestic and stately beauty, repellent more than attractive, and one more to be feared than loved. And they felt sure that Mrs McGregor would be almost constantly bending over her spinning-wheel, while Helen, if ever she condescended to bend over anything, which they had deemed a matter of doubt, would be bending over a very ancient piece of goods in the shape of a harp.

These were their imaginings prior to their arrival at the castle, but these ideas were all wrong, and very delighted were the young men to find them so. Here in Mrs McGregor was no stiff fastidious lady; she was a very woman and a very mother, loving her children tenderly, and devoted to their interests, and rejoiced to hold out the hand of welcome to her children’s friends. On the sunny side of fifty, she was slightly inclined to embonpoint, extremely pleasant both in voice and manner as well as in face. Rory first, and Ralph soon afterwards, felt as much at home in her presence and company as if they had known her all their lives.

As to Helen Edith, I do not think that any one would have been able to guess her nationality had they met her in society in town. She had been educated principally abroad, and could speak both the Italian and French languages, not only fluently, but, if I may be allowed the expression, mellifluently, for she possessed perfection of accent as well as exceeding sweetness of voice. She was rather small in stature, with pretty and shapely hands, and a nice figure.

Was she beautiful? you may ask me. Well, had you asked her brother he would have said, “Indeed, I never gave the matter a thought,” but Rory and Ralph would have told you that she was beautiful, and they would have added the words, “and sisterly.” I do not know whether or not Helen was a better or a worse musician than most young girls of her age – she was just turned seventeen. She sang sweetly, though not loudly; she never screamed, but sang with expression, as if she felt what she sang; and she accompanied herself on the harp. But as for Mrs McGregor’s spinning-wheel, why, our young heroes cast their eyes about in vain for it.

The portion of the castle now occupied by the McGregors was furnished in a far more luxurious style than probably accorded with their fallen fortunes, but everywhere there was evidence of refinement of taste. The old hall and the picture gallery delighted Rory most; he could fit a romance into every rusty coat of mail, and fix a poem to every spear and helmet.

“What a grand thing,” he said to Allan, “it is to have had ancestors! Never one had I, that I know of – leastways, none of them ever troubled themselves to sit for their portraits. More by token, perhaps, they couldn’t afford it.”

If Ralph enjoyed himself at the castle – and I might say that he undoubtedly did – he did not say a very great deal about it. To give vocal expression to his pleasure was not much in Ralph’s line, but it was in Rory’s, who, by the way, although nearly as old as his companion, was far more of a boy.

The feelings of the young chief of the McGregors, while showing his friends over the old castle, the ancient home of his fathers, were those of sadness, mingled with a very little touch of pride. Every room had its story, every chamber its tale – often one of sorrow; and these were listened to by Ralph and Rory with rapt attention, although every now and then some curious or quaint remark from the lips of the latter would set the other two laughing, and often materially damage some relation of events that bordered closely on the romantic.

“If ever I’m rich enough,” said Allan, leading the way into the ancient banqueting-hall, “I mean to re-roof and re-furnish the whole of the older portion of the castle.”

“But wherever has the roof gone to?” asked Rory, looking upwards at the sky above them.

“Fire would explain that,” replied Allan; “the whole of this wing of the building was burned by Cumberland in ’45 – he who was surnamed the Bloody Duke, you know.”

“Were your people ‘out,’ as you call it, in ’45?” asked Ralph.

Allan nodded, and bit his lips; the memory of that terrible time was not a pleasant one to this Highland chief.

The little turret chambers were a source of both interest and curiosity to Allan’s companions.

“Bedrooms and watch-towers, are they?” said Ralph, viewing them critically. “Well, you catch a beautiful glimpse of the glen, and the hills, and woods, and lake from that little narrow window, with its solitary iron stanchion; but I say, Allan – bedrooms, eh? Aren’t you joking, old man? Fancy a great tall lanky fellow like me in a bedroom this size; why, I’d have to double up like a jack-knife!”

“Oh! look, Ralph, at these dark, mysterious stains on the oaken floor,” cried Rory – “blood, of course? Do you know, Allan, my boy, what particular deed of darkness was committed in this turret chamber?”

“I do, precisely,” replied Allan.

“Och! tell us, then – tell us!” said Rory.

“Ay, do,” said Ralph. “I shall lean against the window here and look out, for the view is delightful, but I’ll be listening all the same.”

“Well, then,” said Allan, “I made this little room my study for a few months last summer, and I spilt some ink there.”

“Now, indeed, indeed,” cried romantic Rory, “that is a shame to put us off like that. Never mind, Ralph; we know it is a blood-stain, and if Allan won’t tell us the story, then, we’ll invent one. Sure, now,” he continued, “I’d like to sleep here.”

“You’d catch your death of cold from the damp,” said Allan.

Rory wheeled him right round to the light, and gazed at him funnily from top to toe, and from toe to top.

“You’re a greater curiosity than the fine old castle itself,” said Rory; “and I don’t believe there is an ounce of romance in the whole big body of you. Now, if the place was mine, there isn’t a room – why, what is that?”

“That’s the gong,” said Allan, “and it says plainly enough, ‘Get r-r-r-r-ready for dinner.’”

“Well, but,” persisted Rory, “just before we go down below show us the corridor where the ghost walks at midnight, and the door through which it disappears.”

“A ghost!” said Allan; “indeed, I never knew there was one.”

“Ah! but,” Rory continued, “you never knew there wasn’t. Well, then, say probably there is a ghost, because you know, old fellow, in an ancient family like yours there must be a ghost. There must be some old fogey or another who didn’t think he was very well done by in this world, and feels bound to come back and walk about at midnight, and all that sort of thing. Pray, Allan, don’t break the spell. You’re welcome to the stains if you please, but ’deed and indeed, I mean to stick to the ghost.”

The first few days of their stay in Glentroom were spent in what Allan called “doing nothing,” for unless he left the castle for the hill, the river, or the lake, he did not consider he was doing anything. Within the castle walls, however, Rory for one was not idle. There was, in his opinion, a deal to be seen and a deal to be done: he had to make acquaintance with every living thing about the place – ponies and dogs, cattle and pigs, ducks, geese, fowl, and pigeons.

Old Janet averred that she had never seen such a boy in all her born days – that he turned the castle upside down, and kept all the “beasties” in an uproar; but at the same time she added that he was the prettiest boy ever she’d seen, and “Heaven bless his bonnie face,” which put her in mind of her dear dead boy Donald, and she couldn’t be angry with him, for even when he was doing mischief he made her laugh.

The parish in which Glentroom lies is a very wide one indeed, and contained at the time our tale opens many families of distinction. Nearly all of these were on visiting terms with the McGregors, and many a beautifully-fitted sledge used to drive over the drawbridge of Arrandoon Castle during the winter months – wheels, of course, were out of the question when the snow lay thick on the ground – so that life in Allan’s family, although it did not partake of the gaiety of the London season, was by no means a dull one, and both Ralph and Rory thought the evenings spent in the drawing-room were very enjoyable indeed. Ralph was a good conversationalist and a good listener: he delighted in hearing music, while Rory delighted to play, and, for his years, he was a violinist of no mean order. He had never been known to go anywhere – not even on the shortest of holiday tours – without the long black case that contained his pet instrument.

Now, as none of “the resident gentry,” as they were called, who visited at the castle have anything at all to do with our story, I shall not fatigue my readers by introducing them.

And why, it may be asked, should I trouble myself about describing life at the castle at all? And where is the Snowbird? – for doubtless you have guessed already that it is a ship of some kind. The Snowbird ere very long will sail majestically up that Highland lake before you, and in her, along with our heroes, you and I, reader, will embark, and together we will journey afar over the ocean wave, to regions hitherto but little known to man. Our adventures there will be many, wild, and varied, and some of them, too, so far from pleasant, that while exiled in the frozen seas of the far North, our thoughts will oftentimes turn fondly homewards, and we will think with a joy borrowed from the past of the quiet and peaceful days we spent in bonnie Arrandoon.

Ralph and Rory had kept the promise they had made to each other on the morning succeeding their arrival at Arrandoon; they left McBain to dream over his “idea” in peace. They did not behave like squaws, and I think it was the third or fourth evening before Allan’s foster-father said another word about it. They were then all around the fire, as they had been before; the ladies had retired, and the dogs were making themselves as snug and comfortable as dogs know how to whenever they get a chance.

“Well,” said McBain, after there had been a lull in the conversation for some little time, “we’ve been all so happy and jolly here for the last few days, that we haven’t had time to think much or to look ahead either; but now, if you don’t mind, young gentlemen, I will tell you what I should propose in the way of spending a few of the incoming spring and summer months, in what I should call a very pleasant fashion.”

“Yes,” cried Rory, “do tell us, we are burning to hear about it, and if it be anything new it is sure to be nice.”

“Very well,” said McBain. “Allan there tells me he means to stick to you both for a time – to keep you prisoners in Glentroom. He will trot you about for all that; you’ll be on parole, and roam about wherever you like; and you can fish and shoot and sketch just as much as ever you have a mind to. Meanwhile, buy a boat; I know where there is one to sell that will suit us in every way – a grand, big, strong, open boat. She belongs to Duncan Forbes, of Fort Augustus, and can be bought for an old song. We can have her round into the loch here. I’m a bit of a sailor, as Allan knows, and I’ll show you how to deck her over, set up rigging and mast, and make her complete, and I’ll make bold to say that before we have done with her she will be as neat and pretty a little craft as ever hauled the wind.”

“I say, boys,” said Rory, “I think the idea is a glorious one.”

“I must say, I like it immensely,” said Ralph.

“And so do I,” said Allan, “if – if we can all afford it.”

“Oh! but stop a little,” said McBain, “you haven’t heard all my proposal yet; the best of it is to come. Your cruising ground will be all up and down among the Western Islands, where the wildest and finest scenery in Europe exists. You’ll get any amount of fishing and shooting too, for wherever you three smart-looking young yachtsmen land on the coast, people will vie with each other in offering you Highland hospitality. And all the while you can make your pleasure pay you.”

“How – how – tell us how?”

“Why,” continued McBain, “around the rocky and rugged islands where you will be cruising are the finest lobsters in the world. You have only to sink a few cages every night when at anchor; you will draw them up full in the morning, and place them in a well in your hold. As soon as you have enough to make a paying voyage, round you will run to Greenock, where is always a ready market and good prices.”

Here Ralph jumped up and rubbed his hands; and Rory, forgetting his bruised shoulder and still bandaged head, hopped off the sofa to cry “Hurrah!” and this made Kooran bark, and of course Bran chimed in for company’s sake, and McBain wagged his beard and laughed with delight at the pleasure his suggestion seemed to afford the three young men; and, indeed, for the time being he felt quite as youthful as either of them.

“And I’ll be the crew of the craft,” said McBain. “Allan ought to be captain, and you others naval cadets.”

“Yes,” said Rory, “that will suit us excellently, and we can take lessons from you and Allan in seamanship, and by-and-bye be just as clever sailors as either of you.”

“Ay, that you can,” said McBain.

Allan laid his hand on Ralph’s shoulder, for the latter was gazing quietly and dreamily firewards.

“What are you thinking about?” said Allan.

Ralph smiled as he made reply.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that our adventures as amateur yachtsmen will not begin and end with cruising among the Western Isles of Scotland, pleasant and romantic enough though that may be. Listen to me, boys. It has been the one dream of my life to be able to be master of a beautiful yacht, and to sail away to far countries, and to see the world in earnest. Now I know I shall have an opportunity of doing so. My good, kind old father will baulk me in nothing that is reasonable; and if, after a few months’ cruising in this boat, I can convince him that I have mastered the rudiments of seamanship, he will, I believe, let me have a real yacht, capable of voyaging to any part of the world!”

“Ah! that would indeed be glorious, boys,” cried Rory, with enthusiasm.

“If we could only arrange it,” said Allan, “so as to all go together.”

“Of course,” said Ralph; “there would not be half the pleasure else. And we would sail to some country, if possible, where Englishmen had never been, or never lived before.”

“To the countries and islands around the Pole, for example,” suggested McBain.

“Yes,” Ralph said; “from all I have read of the Sea of Ice, it seems to me the most fascinating place in the world.”

“Ay,” said McBain; “to me it possesses a strange charm; for everything connected with the countries and seas beyond the Arctic circle is as different from anything one sees elsewhere as though it belonged to some other planet.”

For hours before retiring to rest they talked about Greenland; and McBain told them of many a wild adventure in which he himself had been the principal hero. And among other things he told them of the mammoth caves of Alba Isle, where an untold wealth of ivory lay buried.

For hours after they had retired Allan lay awake, thinking only of that buried treasure. Then he slept, and dreamt he had returned from the far north a wealthy man – that Arrandoon was re-furnished and re-roofed, that he had regained all the proud acres which his fathers had squandered, and that his dear mother and sister were reinstated in the rank of life they were born to adorn, and which was the right of birth of the chiefs of Glentroom.

Do dreams ever come true? At times.

Chapter Four
The “Flower of Arrandoon” – Old Ap’s Cottage – Trial Trips and Useful Lessons

I do not think that, during any period of his former life, Allan McGregor’s foster-father was much happier than he was while engaged, with the help of his boy friends, in getting the cutter they had bought ready for her summer cruise among the Western Islands.

They were not quite unassisted in their labours though; no, for had they not the advantage of possessing skilled labour? Was not Tom Ap Ewen their right-hand man; to guide, direct, and counsel them in every difficulty? And right useful they found him, too.

Thomas was a Welshman, as his name indicates; he had been a boatbuilder all his life. He lived in a little house by the lake-side, and this house of his bore in every respect a very strong resemblance to a boat turned upside down. All its furniture and fittings looked as though at one time they had been down to the sea in ships, and very likely they had. Tom’s bed was a canvas cot which might have been white at one time, but which was terribly smoke-begrimed now; Tom’s cooking apparatus was a stove, and, saving a sea-chest which served the double purpose of dais and tool-box, all the seats in his cottage were lockers, while the old lamp that hung from the blackened rafters gave evidence of having seen better days, having in fact dangled from the cabin deck of some trusty yacht.

Tom himself was quite in keeping with his little home. A man of small stature was Tom. I will not call him dapper, because you know that would imply neatness and activity, and there was very little of either about Tom. But he had plenty of breadth of beam, and so stiff was he, apparently, that he looked as if he had been made out of an old bowsprit, and had acted for years in the capacity of figure-head to an old seventy-four. Seen from the front, Tom appeared, on week-days, to be all apron from his chin to his toes; his hard wiry face was bestubbled over in half its length with grey hairs, for Tom found the scissors more handy and far less dangerous than a razor; and, jauntily cocked a little on one side of his head, he wore a square paper cap over a reddish-brown wig. Well, if to this you add a pair of short arms, a pair of hard horny hands, and place two roguish beads of hazel eyes in under his bushy eyebrows, you have just as complete a description of Thomas Ap Ewen as I am capable of giving.

This wee wee man generally went by the name of Old Ap. Of course there were ill-natured people who sometimes, behind Tom’s back, added an e to the Ap; but, honestly speaking, there was not a bit of the ape about him, except, perhaps, when taking snuff. Granting that his partiality for snuff was a fault, it was one that you could reasonably strive to forgive, in consideration of his many other sterling qualities.

Well, Tom was master of the yard, so to speak, into which the purchased cutter was hauled to be fitted, and although McBain did not take all the advice that was tendered to him, it is but fair to say that he benefited by a good deal of it.

It would have done the heart of any one, save a churl, good to have seen how willingly those boys worked; axe, or saw, or hammer, plane or spokeshave, nothing came amiss to them. Allan was undoubtedly the best artisan; he had been used to such work before; but generally where there’s a will there’s a way, and the very newness of the idea of labouring like ordinary mechanics lent, as far as Ralph and Rory were concerned, a charm to the whole business.

“There is nothing hackneyed about this sort of thing, is there?” Ralph would say, looking up from planing a deck-spar.

“There is a deal to learn, too,” Rory might answer. “Artisans mustn’t be fools, sure. But how stiff my saw goes!”

“A bit of grease will put that to rights.” Ralph’s face would beam while giving a bit of information like this, or while initiating Rory into the mysteries of dovetailing, or explaining to him that when driving a nail he must hit it quietly on the head, and then it would not go doubling round his finger.

Old Ap and McBain were both of them very learned – or they appeared to be so – in the subject of rigging, nor did their opinions in this matter altogether coincide. Old Ap’s cottage and the yard were quite two miles – Scotch ones – from the castle, so on the days when they were busy our heroes would not hear of returning to lunch.

“Isn’t good bread and cheese, washed down with goat’s milk, sufficient for us?” Ralph might say.

And Rory would reply, “Yes, my boy, indeed, it’s food fit for a king.”

After luncheon was the time for a little well-earned rest. The young men would stroll down towards the lake, by whose banks there was always something to be seen or done for half-an-hour, if it were only skipping flat stones across its surface; while the two elder ones would enjoy the dolce far niente and their odium cum dignitate seated on a log.

“Well,” said old Ap, one day, “I suppose she is to be cutter-rigged, though for my own part I’d prefer a yawl.”

“There is no accounting for tastes,” replied McBain; “and as to me, I don’t care for two masts where one will do. She won’t be over large, you know, when all is said and done.”

“Just look you,” continued Ap, “how handy a bit of mizen is.”

“It is at times, I grant you,” replied McBain.

“To be sure,” said Ap, “you may sail faster with the cutter rig, but then you don’t want to race, do you, look see?”

“Not positively to race, Mr Ewen,” replied McBain, “but there will be times when it may be necessary to get into harbour or up a loch with all speed, and if that isn’t racing, why it’s the very next thing to it.”

“Yes, yes,” said old Ap, “but still a yawl is easier worked, and as you’ll be a bit short-handed – ”

“What!” cried McBain, in some astonishment; “an eight-ton cutter, and four of us. Call you that short-handed?”

“Yes, yes, I do, look see,” answered Ap, taking a big pinch of his favourite dust, “because I’d call it only two; surely you wouldn’t count upon the Englishmen in a sea-way.”

McBain laughed.

“Why,” he said, “before a month is over I’ll have those two Saxon lads as clever cuttersmen as ever handled tiller or belayed a halyard. Just wait until we return up the loch after our summer’s cruise, and you can criticise us as much as ever you please.”

Now these amateur yacht-builders, if so we may call them, took the greatest of pains, not only with the decking and rigging of their cutter, but with her painting and ornamentation as well. There were two or three months before them, because they did not mean to start cruising before May, so they worked away at her with the plodding steadiness of five old beavers. In their little cabin, where it must be confessed there was not too much head room, there was nevertheless a good deal of comfort, and all the painting and gilding was done by Rory’s five artistic fingers. In fact, he painted her outside and in, and he named her the Flower of Arrandoon, and he painted that too on her stern, with a great many dashes and flourishes, that any one, save himself, would have deemed quite unnecessary.

It was only natural that they should do their best to make their pigmy vessel look as neat and as nice as possible; but they had another object in view in doing so, for as soon as their summer cruise was over they meant to sell her. So that what they spent upon her would not really be money thrown to the winds, but quite the reverse. Young Ralph knew dozens of young men just as fond of sailing and adventure as he was, and he thought it would be strange indeed if he himself, assisted by the voluble Rory, could not manage to give such a glowing account of their cruise, and of all the fun and adventures they were sure to have, as would make the purchase of the Flower of Arrandoon something to be positively competed for.

When she was at last finished and fitted, and lying at anchor, in the creek of Glentroom, with the water lap-lapping under her bows, her sails all nicely clewed, and her slender topmast bobbing and bending to the trees, as if saluting them, why I can assure you she looked very pretty indeed. But there was something more than mere prettiness about her; she looked useful. Care had been taken with her ballasting, so she rode like a duck in the water. She had, too, sufficient breadth of beam, and yet possessed depth of keel enough to make her safe in a sea-way, and McBain knew well – and so, for that matter, did Allan – that these were solid advantages in the kind of waters that would form their cruising ground. In a word, the Flower of Arrandoon was a comfortable sea-worthy boat, well proportioned and handy, and what more could any one wish for?

And now the snow had all fled from the hills and the glens, only on the crevices of mountain tops was it still to be seen – ay, and would be likely to be seen all the summer through, but softly and balmily blew the western winds, and the mavis and blackbird returned to make joyous music from morning’s dawn till dewy eve. Half hidden in bushy dells, canary-coloured primroses smiled over the green of their leaves, and ferns and breckans began to unfold their brown fingers in the breeze, while buds on the silvery-scented birches that grew on the brae-lands, and verdant crimson-tipped tassels on the larches that courted the haughs, told that spring had come, and summer itself was not far distant.

And so one fine morning says McBain, “Now, Allan, if your friends are ready, we’ll go down to the creek, get up our bit of an anchor, and be off on a trial trip.”

Trial trips are often failures, but that of the boys’ cutter certainly was not. Everything was done under McBain’s directions, Allan doing nearly all the principal work, though assisted by old Ap; but if Ralph and Rory did not work, they watched. Nothing escaped them, and if they did not say much, it was because, like Paddy’s parrot, they were “rattling up the thinking.”

The day was beautiful – a blue sky with drifting cloudlets of white overhead, and a good though not stiff breeze blowing right up the loch; so they took advantage of this, and scudded on for ten miles to Glen Mora. They did not run right up against the old black pier, and smash their own bowsprit in the attempt to knock it down. No, the boat was well steered, and the sails lowered just at the right time, the mainsail neatly and smartly furled, and covered as neatly, and the jib stowed. Old Ap was left as watchman, and McBain and his friends went on shore for a walk and luncheon.

In the evening, after they had enjoyed to the full their “bit of a cruise on shore,” as McBain called it, they returned to their boat, and almost immediately started back for Glentroom. The wind still blew up the loch; it was almost, though not quite, ahead of them. This our young yachtsmen did not regret, for, as their sailing-master told them, it would enable them to find out what the cutter could do, for, tacking and half-tacking, they had to work to windward.

It was gloaming ere they dropped anchor again in the creek, and McBain’s verdict on the Flower of Arrandoon was a perfectly satisfactory one.

“She’ll do, gentlemen,” he said, “she’ll do; she is handy, and stout, and willing. There is no extra sauciness about her, though she is on excellent terms with herself, and although she doesn’t sail impudently close to the wind, still I say she behaves herself gallantly and well.”

It wanted nothing more than this to give Allan and his friends an appetite for the haunch of mountain mutton that awaited them on their return to the castle. They were in bounding spirits too; it made every one else happy just to see them happy, so that everything passed off that night as merrily as marriage bells.

The loch near the old Castle of Arrandoon is one of the great chain of lakes that stretch from east to west of Scotland, and are joined together by a broad and deep canal, which gives passage to many a stately ship. This canal, once upon a time, was looked upon as one of the engineering wonders of the world, leading as it does often up and over hills so high and wild that in sober England they would be honoured with the title of mountains.

For a whole week or more, ere the cutter turned her bows to the southward and west, and started away on her summer cruise, almost every day was spent on this loch. It is big enough in all conscience for manoeuvres of any kind, being in many places betwixt two and three miles in width, while its length is over twenty.

It might be said, with a good deal of truth, that Allan McGregor had spent his life in boats upon lakes, for as soon as his little hand was big enough to grasp a tiller he had held one. He knew all about boats and boat-sailing, and was, on the whole, an excellent fresh-water sailor. With Ralph and Rory it was somewhat different, good oarsman though the former at all events was. However, they were apt pupils, and, with good health and willingness to work, what is it a boy will not learn?

In old Ap’s cottage were models of several well-rigged vessels of the smaller class, the principal of them being a sloop, a cutter, and a yawl. Ap delighted to give lectures on the peculiar merits and rigging of these, interspersed with many a “Yes, yes, young shentlemen, and look you see,” spoken with the curious accent which Welshmen alone can give to such simple words. These models our heroes used to copy, so that, theoretically speaking, they knew a great deal about seamanship before they stepped on board the cutter to take their first cruise.

Practice alone makes perfect in any profession, and although experience is oftentimes a hard and cruel teacher, there is no doubt she docet stultos, and her lessons are given with a force there is no forgetting. Of such was the lesson Rory got one morning; he had the tiller in his hand, and was bowling along full before the wind. It seemed such easy work sailing thus, and Rory was giving more of his time than he ought to have done to conversation with his companions, and even occasionally stealing a glance on shore to admire the scenery, when all at once, “Flop! flop! crack! harsh!” cried the sail, and round came the boom. The wind was not very fresh, so there was little harm done; besides, McBain was there, and I verily believe that had that old tar gone to sleep, he would have been dozing in dog fashion with his weather eye open. But on this occasion poor Rory was scratching and rubbing a bare head.

“Crack, harsh!” he said, looking at the offending sail; “troth and indeed it is harsh you crack, I can tell you.”

“Ah!” said McBain, quietly, “sailing a bit off, you see.”

“’Deed and indeed,” replied Rory, “but you’re right, and by the same token my hat’s off too, and troth I thought the poor head of me was in it.”

It will be observed that Rory had a habit of talking slightly Irish at times, but I must do him the credit of saying that he never did so except when excited, or simply “for the fun of the thing.”

Another useful lesson that both Ralph and Rory took some pains to learn was to look out for squalls. They learned this on the loch, for there sometimes, just as you are quietly passing some tree-clad bank or brae, you all at once open out some beautifully romantic glen. Yes, both beautiful and romantic enough, but down that gully sweeps the gusty wind, with force enough often to tear the sticks off the sturdiest boat, or lay her flat and helpless on her beam ends. But the lesson, once learned, was taken to heart, and did them many a good turn in after days, when sailing away over the seas of the far North in their saucy yacht, the Snowbird.

The time now drew rapidly near for them to start away to cruise in earnest. They had spent what they termed “a jolly time of it” in Glentroom. Time had never, never seemed to fly so quickly before. They had had many adventures too; but one they had only a day or two before sailing was the strangest. As, however, this adventure had so funny a beginning, though all too near a fatal ending, I must reserve it for another chapter.

Chapter Five
Showing how Royalty Visited Arrandoon, and how our Heroes Returned the Call

The windows of the double-bedded chamber occupied by Allan McGregor’s guests overlooked both lake and glen. At one corner of it was a kind of turret recess; this had been originally used as a dressing-room, but Allan had gone to some trouble and expense in fitting it up as an own, own room for Rory. Ralph called it Rory’s “boudoir,” Rory himself called it his “sulky.” The floor of the curious little room was softly carpeted; the walls were hung with ancient tapestry; the windows neatly draped. There was a little bookcase in it, in which, much to his surprise, the young man found all his favourite poets and authors. His fiddle and music were in this turret as well; so it was all very nice and snug indeed.

Scarcely a day passed that Rory did not spend an hour or two in his “sulky,” generally after luncheon, when not on or at the lake; and even while reclining on his lounge the view that he could catch a glimpse of was just as romantic and beautiful as any boy poet could wish. There was no door between this and the bedchamber, only a curtain which could be drawn at pleasure.

Now, as I happen to love the truth for its own simple sake, I must tell you that neither Rory nor Ralph was very fond of early rising, practically speaking – theory being another thing. Allan was often away at the river hours and hours before breakfast, and the beautiful dishes of mountain trout that lay on the table, so crisp and still, had been frisking and gambolling only a short time before in their native streams. But Allan’s friends – well, it may have been the Highland air, you know, which is remarkably strong and pure, but anyhow, neither of them thought of stirring until the first gong pealed its thunders forth. It was not that they did not get a good example set them by the sun, for, it being now the month of May, that luminary deemed it his duty to get up himself, and to arouse most ordinary mortals, shortly after four o’clock.

The list of ordinary mortals, so far as the castle was concerned, included old Janet the cook, and most of the other servants and retainers, and all the dogs, and all the cocks and hens, and ducks and geese, and turkeys, to say nothing of pigs and pigeons, sheep and cattle; and as every single mortal among them felt himself bound as soon as his eyes were open to express his feelings audibly, and in his own peculiar fashion, you can easily believe that the din and the hubbub around Arrandoon at early morning were something considerable. Whether asleep or awake, Ralph had an easy mind, nothing bothered him. I believe he could have slept throughout general quarters at sea, with cannon thundering overhead, if he had a mind to; but with Rory it was somewhat different, and the cock-crowing used to fidget him in his dreams. If there had been only one cock, and that cock had crowed till his comb fell off, it would have been merely monotonous, and Rory would have slumbered on in peace, but there were so many cocks of so many strains. The game-cocks crowed boldly and bravely, and their tones clearly proved them kings of the harem; the bantams shrieked defiance at every other cock about the place, but no cock about the place took any heed of them; the cowardly Shanghais kept at a safe distance from the game-birds, and shouted themselves hoarse; and besides these there was the half-apologetic, half-formed crow of the cockerels, who got thrashed a dozen times everyday because they dared to mimic their betters.

These sounds, I say, fidgeted our poetic Rory; but when half a dozen fantail pigeons would alight outside the window, and strut about and cry, “Coo, coo, troubled with you, troubled with you,” then Rory would become more sensible, and he would open one eye to have a look at the clock on the mantelpiece. Mind you, he wouldn’t open both eyes for the world, lest he should awaken altogether.

“Oh!” he would think to himself, “only five o’clock; gong won’t go for three hours yet. How jolly!”

Then he would turn round on the other side and go to sleep again. The cocks might go on crowing, and the pigeons might preen their feathers and “coo-coo” as much as they pleased now. Rory heard no more until “Ur-ur – R-Rise, Ur-ur – R-Ralph and Rory,” roared the gong.

One particular morning Rory had opened his one eye just as usual, had his look at the clock, had rejoiced that it was still early, and had turned himself round to go off once more to the land of Nod, when, suddenly, there arose from beneath such an inexpressible row, such an indefinable din, as surely never before had been heard around the Castle of Arrandoon. The horses stamped and neighed in their stables, the cattle moaned a double bass, the pigs squeaked a shrill tenor, the fowl all went mad.

“Whack, whack, whack!” roared the ducks.

“Kank, kank, kank?” cried the geese.

“Hubbub – ub – ub – bub!” yelled the turkeys.

Rory sat bolt upright in bed, with both eyes open, more fully awake than ever he had felt in his life before.

“Hubbub, indeed!” says Rory; “indeed, then, I never heard such a hubbub before in all my born days. Ralph, old man, Ralph. Sit up, my boy. I wonder what the matter can be.”

“And so do I,” replied Ralph, without, however, offering to stir; “but surely a fellow can wonder well enough without getting out of bed to wonder.”

“Ooh! you lazy old horse!” cried Rory; “well, then, it’s myself that’ll get up.”

Suiting the action to the word, Rory sprang out of bed, and next moment he had thrown open his “sulky” window and popped his head and shoulders out. He speedily drew them in again and called to Ralph, and the words he used were enough to bring even that matter-of-fact hero to his side with all the speed he cared to expend.

What they saw I’ll try to explain to you.

Eagles had been far more numerous this season than they had been for years. McBain knew this well, and Allan McGregor knew it to his cost, for in an eyrie on a distant part of his estate a pair of these kingly birds had established themselves, and brought forth young, and, judging from the number of lambs they had carried off, a terribly rapacious family they were. Although five miles from the castle, Allan had several times gone to the place at early morn for the purpose of getting a ride-shot at these birds; but although he knew the very ledge on which the nest was laid – there is little building about an eagle’s nest – he had always been unsuccessful, for the favourites of Jove were wary, and could scent danger from afar.

So day by day the lambs went on diminishing, and the shepherds went on grumbling, but they grumbled in vain. Upwards and upwards in circling flight the eagles would soar, as if to hide themselves in the sun’s effulgence, until they were all but invisible to the keenest eye. They would then hover hawk-like over their innocent prey, until chance favoured them, when there would be a swift, unerring, downward rush, and often before the very eyes of the astonished keepers the lamb was seized and borne in triumph to the eyrie.

The glen, or rather gorge, which the eagles had chosen for their home, is one of the wildest and dreariest I ever traversed; at the bottom of it lies a brown and weird-looking loch about two miles long, one side of which is bounded by birch-trees, through which a road runs, and if you gaze across this loch, what think you do you see beyond? Why, a black and beetling wall of rock rising sheerly perpendicular up out of the water, and towering to a height of over one thousand feet. Although the loch is five hundred yards wide, you can hardly get rid of the impression that this immense wall of rock is bending towards you from the top, and about to fall and crush your pigmy body to atoms. No wonder the loch itself is still and dark and treacherous-looking, and no wonder the natives care not to traverse the glen by day, or that they give it a wide berth at night, for the place has an evil name, and they say that often and often at the hour of midnight the water-kelpie’s fiendish laugh is heard at the foot of the rock, followed by the plash and sullen plunging sound which a heavy body always emits when sinking in very deep water.

Remember that I do not myself believe in water-kelpies, nor any other kelpies whatever, and I have fished for char (the Salmo umbla) in the loch, and traversed the glen in the starlight, yet I never came across anything much worse-looking than myself – so there!

Now it was in the middle of this rocky precipice, on a ledge of stone, that the kingly birds had made their nest of sticks and turf, with just as little regard to the laws of avine architecture as the cushat of the English copse evinces. It was an airy abode, yet for all that a prettier pair of young ones than the two that lay therein, both the father and mother eagle averred, had never yet been seen or hatched. It is needless to say that they were very fond of their progeny, and also very fond of each other, so that when one lovely morning the she-eagle said to the he one, —

“What is for breakfast, dear?” it was only natural that the he one should reply, “Anything you like, my love.”

“Well then,” said she, “we’ve been having nothing but mutton, mutton, mutton for weeks. I’m sure the children would like a change, and I know I should.”

Then the royal eagle lowered his eyebrows, and scratched his ear with one great toe, as if very deep in thought, and then his countenance cleared all at once, a grim smile stole over his face, and he said, —

“I have it. Babies are scarce, you know, but I’ll bring you a turkey.”

“Oh!” said her royal highness, “that will be nice, and the feathers will help to keep the children warm.”

So away the eagle soared, and about ten minutes afterwards he alighted with a rush right in the middle of the poultry yard at Arrandoon Castle. Hence the hubbub which had aroused both Ralph and Rory.

Now had the bird of Jove not been so greedy, I feel bound to believe he could have left the yard almost as quickly as he had entered it one turkey the richer, and his royal helpmeet and children would not have been disappointed in their breakfast. But no, “I may just as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” he thought to himself, and so he alighted on the back of the oldest and biggest turkey cock he could see. But he did not find this bird so easy a prey as he could have wished; indeed the turkey at once made up his mind to have a tussle for it; he did not mean to accept so hasty an invitation to breakfast – in an eyrie of all places. So by hook and by crook he managed to scramble half-way under the wooden grain-house, eagle and all. Next moment the eagle bitterly repented of his rashness, for every bird in the place attacked him, and Ralph and Rory were roaring success to them from the “sulky” window. An old turkey is usually a tough one, and do what he would the eagle could only disengage one talon from the back of his captive, if captive he could now be called, and with this and his beak he had to do battle.

Now, that discretion is the better part of valour, even an eagle knows, so when at last he did manage to disengage his other talon, although several of his foes lay dead and dying around, the eagle had had quite enough turkey, and prepared to soar.

But behold! quite an unexpected combatant makes his appearance, and goes to work at once on the eagle’s breast, and this was none other than Allan’s pet Skye, a little dog of determination, for whenever he made up his mind to lay hold of anything he did it, and stuck to it. With such a weight attached to him in such a way, rapid flight was out of the question; the eagle had only strength enough left to flutter out of the yard, and fall on the ground on the other side, there to meet – pity me, reader, for how shall I name it? Were I not writing facts this brave but discomfited eagle should have a nobler end – there to meet old Janet with a broom-handle!

“Hold, Janet, hold?” cried our gallant English Ralph from the “sulky” window; “fair play, Janet, fair play.”

Too late! The king of birds lies dead.

“Ten feet from tip to tip of his wings,” said McBain, as he stood over him about an hour after. Allan, and Ralph, and Rory were all there. “Eagle, eagle,” Rory was saying, —

 

“Thou hast bowed

From thine empire o’er the cloud;

Thou that hadst ethereal birth,

Thou hast stooped too near the earth,

And the hunter’s shaft hath found thee;

And the toils of Death have bound thee.”

 

“Hunter’s shaft, indeed,” laughed Ralph; “old Janet’s broom-handle; but come, boys, I know you are both of you game enough for anything, so I propose we go and try to bag the disconsolate widow of this royal bird. We can capture the young ones and rear them.”

“It would indeed be a pity to leave the widow to mourn,” said Rory.

“It’s a sad pity my sheep must mourn,” said Allan. When at the breakfast-table that morning, Allan said, in a seemingly unconcerned voice, —

“Mother, we mean to have a day among the eagles; they have commenced it, you know.” His mother knew well he was asking her consent, and she gave it because she would not see him unhappy. But nevertheless, she whispered to him as he left the room, —

“Oh, child! do take care of yourself, and take care of Rory. I had strange dreams about you last night.”

Our three heroes, accompanied by men carrying the wooden well-windlass with a plank or two, and plenty of length of rope, made their way over the mountain to the top of the precipice before described. McBain with his trusty rifle went down the glen, among the birch-trees at the other side of the lake. He was not only eagle-slayer, but signalman to the expedition. Keeping close to the loch, he walked onwards for fully three-quarters of a mile, then he stopped and fired his rifle in the air. He stood now as still as a statue, and so remained for fully half-an-hour, until his party had fixed the windlass to the brink of the cliff. Had this latter been flat at the top the danger would have been but small, but the ground sloped towards the brink, so that a false step or a slip meant something too awful to contemplate. Right down beneath them is the eyrie, quite one hundred feet from the top. Circling high in air, far, far above them, is the she-eagle. She is watching and wondering. If any one dares descend she will rend them in pieces. But see, something leaves the cliff-top, and goes downwards and downwards nearer and nearer to her nest. With a scream of rage she rushes from her hover, passes our friends swift as a thunderbolt, and is lost to view. She is expending her anger now, she is having revenge, and fragments of a torn garment flutter down towards the lake. McBain has thrown himself on his face; he is no mean marksman, but he will need all his skill and steadiness now, and this he knows right well.

Seconds, long, long seconds of suspense – so at least they seem to those on the cliff. Then a puff of white smoke and at the very moment that the crack of the rifle falls on their ears, McBain is on his legs again, and waving his gun in joy aloft. The eagle is slain, and downwards with drooping head and outstretched pinions is falling lakewards. Then the lure, rent in ribbons, is drawn back, and Rory, the lightest of the three, prepares to descend. He laughs as he puts his limbs through the bight.

“Troth, I’ll have the youngsters up in a brace of shakes,” he says, “now the ould mother of them is slain. And there isn’t a taste of danger in the whole business. Lower away.”

And they do lower away slowly and steadily. Rory disappears, and Allan’s heart sinks and seems to descend with his friend. A thousand times rather would he have gone down himself, but Rory had opposed this wish with the greatest determination; he was the lightest weight, and it was his privilege.

They watch the signalman; he stands with one arm aloft, and they lower away until that arm falls suddenly by his side. Then they stop, and the “pawl” holds the windlass fast. Rory has reached the eyrie, he grasps the rock, and scrambles on to the projecting ledge.

“Shut your mouths now, and be quiet with you,” he says to the woolly young eaglets; “there’s neither bite nor sup shall go into the crops of you until you’re safe in Arrandoon.”

He placed the birds in the basket, tied it to the rope, signalled to McBain, who signalled to the cliff by raising two arms, and up to the brink went the precious burden. A few minutes afterwards and the rope once more dangled before Rory’s eyes.

But why does poor Rory turn so pale, and why does he tremble so, and crouch backward against the wet rock’s side?

The rope dangles before his eyes, it is true, but it dangles a goodly foot beyond his reach. The top of the cliff projects farther than the eyrie itself; in his descent the rope had oscillated with his weight, and he had unknowingly been swung on to the ledge of rock. But who now will swing him the empty bight of rope?

Rory recovered himself in a few moments. “Action, action,” he said aloud, as if the sound of his own voice would help to steel his nerves. “Action alone can save me, I must leap.”

As he spoke he cleared the ledge of rock of the rotting sticks and of the bones, for these might perchance impede his feet, and signalled to McBain to lower the rope still farther. Then he stood erect and firm, leaning backwards, however, against the precipice, for nearly a minute. Rory is no coward, but see, he is kneeling down with his face to the cliff; he is seeking strength from One more powerful than he.

Reader, at five bells in the morning watch on board a man-o’-war, the midshipmen are roused from their hammocks, and many of them kneel beside their sea-chests for some minutes before they dress, and not one of these did I ever know who was not truly brave at heart, or who failed to do his duty in the hour of danger.

Now Rory is erect again, his elbows and back are squared, his hands half open, his face is set and determined, and now he – he springs.

Has he caught it? Yes; but he cannot hold it. It is slipping through his grasp, struggle as he may; but now, oh! joy, his foot gets in the bight, and he is saved!

He is soon to brink, and his comrades receive him with a joyful shout Rory says but little; but when they reach the head of the glen he runs forward at the top of his speed to meet McBain.

“McBain,” he says, quickly, “not one word of what you saw, to either Ralph or Allan.”

“Give me your hand, dear boy,” replied McBain, with a strange moisture in his eyes; “I appreciate your kindly motive as much as I admire the brave heart that prompts it.”

Chapter Six
Cruising round the Hebrides – Caught in a “Puff” – Man Overboard – Dinner on the Cliff – Bright Prospects

Three months have passed away since the adventure at the eagle’s nest. So swiftly, too, they have fled that it seems to our heroes but yesterday that the little cutter spread her white sails to the wind, and headed down the loch for Fort Augustus. And all the time they have been cruising, with varied fortunes, up and down among the Western Isles. When I say that the time has passed swiftly, it is equivalent to telling you that the brave crew of the Flower of Arrandoon have enjoyed themselves, and this again you will readily guess is equivalent to saying that it had not been all plain sailing with them; had it been so, the very monotony of such a cruise, and the lack of adventure, would have rendered it distasteful to them. In this bright, beautiful world of ours you may find seas in which, during the months of summer, you can cruise in the most flimsy of yachts, among islands, too, as lovely as dreamland, where the wind is never higher than a gentle breeze, nor the waves than a ripple, and where danger is hardly ever to be encountered; but such a dolce far niente existence is not for youth; youth should be no lotus-eater, and so McBain had done well in choosing for his young pupils the cruising ground on which they now were sailing. They had had a taste of all kinds of Highland summer weather – true it had been mostly fine – but many a stiff breeze they had had to face nevertheless, and they soon learned to do so cheerily, and to feel just as happy under their glittering oilskins and sou’-westers, with half a gale tearing through the rigging, and the spray dashing most uncomfortably in their teeth and eyes, as they did when, with all sail set, they glided calmly over the rippling sea, the sun shining brightly overhead, and the purple mist of distance half hiding the rugged mountains. McBain knew exactly what the cutter could do, and to use his own phrase, he just kept her at it. In fact he got to love the boat, and he used to talk about her as a living thing. And so she really appeared to be, for although she almost invariably did all that was required of her, there were days when she seemed to evince a will and determination of her own, and to want to shake herself free of all control.

“Wo, my beauty?” McBain would say when she was particularly disobedient, talking to her as if she were a restless hunter; but he would smile quaintly as he spoke, for the vessel’s little eccentricities only served to show off his seamanship. He said he knew how to manage her, and so he did. So he used to play with her, as it were, while in a sea-way or on a wind, and delighted in showing off her good qualities. Not that he did a great deal of the manual labour himself. Was he not master, and were not Ralph, Allan, and Rory not only his crew, but his pupils as well? It would have been unfair to them, then, if they had not been allowed to do all they had a mind to, and that, I assure you, was nearly everything that was to be done. But McBain had all the orders to give when sailing, especially if there was a bit of a blow on.

I am rambling on with my tale now in a kind of a gossiping fashion; but it is not without a purpose. I wish you to know as clearly as possible what manner of man McBain was, because you will see him in several different strange positions before he finally disappears from off the boards.

Well, then, when giving his orders, he never talked a bit louder nor quicker than there was any occasion for. He knew by experience that a command given in a sharp, loud key, was very likely to cause nervousness and slight confusion in obeying it. Woe is me for your officers on board big ships – and there are many of them too – who, while giving orders, strut about the decks, and stamp and yell at their men; they do but excite them, and cause them to give proof of the proverb, “The more hurry the less speed.” More than once have I seen a good ship’s safety jeopardised in a squall, and all through this fault in the officer carrying on duty. But you see McBain loved the crew – he loved “his boys,” as he was fond of calling them, and he was wishful to impart to them in a friendly way all the knowledge of boats that he himself possessed.

If you had called McBain a sailor, he would have replied, —

“No, sir, I’m not a sailor; I’m only a boatman, or a fisherman if you like it better.”

But this was only McBain’s modesty. A sailor by profession he certainly was not, although he had, as I before told you, spent a portion of his younger life at sea; but from his infancy he was used to rough it, not only on the stormy lakes of the inlands, but in open or half-decked boats all along the western shores of romantic Scotland, and that, too, in winter as well as in summer; nor was there a loch, nor cape, nor kyle he did not know every bearing of, from Handa Isle in the north, southwards as far as the Ross of Mull. And that is saying a great deal, for on that wild, indented coast, exposed as it is to the whole force of the wide Atlantic, stormy seas are met with and sudden squalls, such as are happily but little known on the shores of Merrie England.

“He is a good seaman, isn’t he?” Rory had said one day to old Ap, referring, of course, to McBain.

“Is it seamanship you talk of?” old Ap replied. “Look, you see, sir; I’d rather be in a herring boat with McBain in half a gale of wind, although he was managing the sails by himself look, you see, and steering with his teeth or knees, so to speak, than I’d be in a 200-ton schooner, with a score of dandified yachtsmen; yes, yes, indeed.”

Hearing old Ap talk thus enthusiastically about quiet, non-assuming McBain, the latter gained an ascendency in Rory’s estimation that he never after lost.

Often, in fact as a rule, McBain smiled when he gave an order to his boys, but his was not a stereotyped smile. His smile played not only around his lips, but it danced around his eyes and lighted up all his face. It was not, however, so much the smile of mirth as that of genuine good-heartedness.

Often, even when in a difficult position, he would allow the young men to handle the boat according to their own judgment, but at the same time his grave grey eyes would be cautiously watching their every movement, and his hand would be ready at a moment’s notice to grasp a sheet or rectify a foul, and so prevent unpleasantness. I am not sure that McBain’s method of teaching was not somewhat unique in many ways, but it was at times very effective.

“I’m not sorry that this should have happened, my boys,” was one of McBain’s favourite expressions, after any little accident or mishap. His crew knew well that he meant that a lesson given roughly, and sent well home, was likely to be remembered.

One day, for example, with Rory as steersman, their course led them pretty close to the passenger boat Crocodile. Perhaps they needn’t have gone near enough to have most of the wind taken out of their sails, and their way considerably lessened; perhaps, though, Rory was just a little proud of his pretty vessel, and of being looked at by the lady passengers, looked at and probably admired; be this as it may, he forgot a warning that McBain had often given him, to have an easy sheet for the sudden rush of wind that would meet them, immediately after passing to leeward of anything, and so, on this particular day, his pride had a most disagreeable fall, and he himself, with the rest of his companions, had a good wetting, for down went the Flower of Arrandoon on her beam ends as soon as they had cleared the Crocodile. But she was well ballasted, the sliding hatch was on, and when sheets were eased she righted again, though it was a considerable time before Rory righted again.

McBain shook himself a bit, much in the same way that a Newfoundland dog does.

“I’m not sorry that this should have happened,” he said, quietly.

Rory was, though. Especially when Ralph laughed pointedly at, or towards him.

Well, but another day Rory had his revenge, and the laughing was all on the other side.

It happened thus: they were cracking on nicely with every inch of canvas spread, sailing pretty close to the wind. The light breeze was on to the land, from which they were distant about a mile and a half, and although the sea was very far from being rough, there was a bit of a swell rolling in. Now Ralph was tall, and stout, and strong; he was no feather-weight therefore, but for all that the cutter did not require him to sit upon her weather gunwale, in order to keep her from capsizing. She could have done just as well had he kept on the seat, and by so doing he would have been consulting his own safety. Many a time and oft had McBain pointed this out to him, but he seemed forgetful on this particular point, and so, on the day in question, he was lazily occupying the forbidden quarter. One would have thought that the saucy wee yacht had done it on purpose; be that as it may – when down in the trough between two seas she simply gave a kind of a swing – hardly a lurch – in the wrong direction for Ralph’s stability, and over he went, literally speaking, heels over head, into the sea, a most ungraceful and unscientific way of taking to the water.

Both Allan and Rory knew well that their friend could swim, and the latter at all events seemed to treat the affair as a very pretty piece of entertainment.

“Man overboard?” he shouted. “Let go the life-buoy, Allan.”

Instinctively Allan did as he was told, and sent the big cork ring flying after Ralph, but seeing the merry twinkle in Rory’s eye, and knowing there was no necessity for it, he repented having done so next minute.

“Lower away your dinghy,” cried McBain to Allan, as he hauled the headsails to windward and stopped the cutter’s way, “it will be a bit of practice for you.”

Allan was pulling away astern two minutes after in the little boat, dignified by the undignified name of dinghy, for she was very tiny indeed, but Allan could have sculled a wash-tub.

He soon met Ralph coming ploughing and spluttering along, breasting the billows, for he was a powerful young swimmer, with the life-buoy in front of him, which, however, he scorned to make use of.

“Take your little joke on board,” he cried laughing. Allan picked up the buoy and threw Ralph a rope.

“That’s better,” said Ralph, and in a few minutes more they were alongside and on board.

Rory was singing “A life on the ocean wave,” and the merry twinkle had not left his eyes.

When Ralph had changed his dripping clothes for dry ones, and reappeared looking somewhat blue, Rory had his laugh out, and all hands were fain to join.

“I caught a crab indeed,” said poor Ralph.

“Caught a crab is it?” cried Rory. “It wasn’t a crab but a turtle you turned. Och! it was the beautifulest sight ever I saw in the world to see the long legs of you go up. You know, Ralph, my brother tar, you couldn’t see it yourself, or it’s delighted you’d have been entirely!” and Rory laughed again till the tears came into his eyes.

“I’m not sorry that this happened,” said McBain, “after all.”

For her size I do not think there was a more comfortable little yacht afloat than the Flower of Arrandoon. Small though the box was they called by courtesy the saloon, it was fitted with every comfort, and there was not an inch of space from stem to stern that was not well economised for some useful purpose. One useful lesson in yacht life our heroes were not long in learning, and that was to put everything back again in its proper place as soon as it was done with; in other words, the circumstances under which they were placed taught them tidiness, so that there was no lubberliness about their little ship. And everything in and about her was the perfection of cleanliness and neatness, for they were not only the crew, but the cook and the cabin-boy as well. And so, plain woodwork was as white as snow, paint-work clean, polished wood looked as bright as the back of a boatman beetle, and brass shone like burnished gold. Their meals they managed to serve up to time, and cooking was performed by means of a spirits-of-wine-canteen.

But it is not the cruise of the Flower of Arrandoon I am writing, else would I love to tell you of all the adventures our heroes had among these islands, and how thoroughly they enjoyed themselves. No wonder they felt well, and happy, and jolly; no wonder that Allan said to his companions, one beautiful day early in August, “I do wonder that more fellows don’t go in for this sort of life.”

They had just been dining gipsy-fashion on shore when he made the remark. They were reclining on the top of a high cliff on the western coast of Skye. Far down beneath them was the sea, the blue Minch, bounded on the distant horizon by the rugged mountains of Harris and Lewis. To their right lay the rocks of the Cave of Gold; beyond that, on a lofty promontory, the ruins of Duntulm Castle; then green hills; while downwards to the left sloped the land until quite on a level with the water; and there in a little natural harbour of rock lay the yacht, looking, as Rory always said, as tidy and neat as nine pins, but wonderfully diminutive as seen from the spot where Allan McGregor and his friends were indolently lounging.

The day was exceedingly bright and beautiful, the sun shone with unclouded splendour, the hills were purple-painted with the heather’s bloom, and the air was laden with the perfume of the wild thyme.

No one answered Allan’s remark; perhaps everybody was thinking how pleasant it all was, nevertheless.

“Boys!” said Ralph, at length.

“Hullo!” cried all hands, but nobody moved a muscle.

“Boys!” said Ralph, in a louder key.

“That means ‘attention,’” said Allan, sitting up. All hands followed his example.

“Och! then,” cried Rory, “just look at Ralph’s face. Sure now if we could believe that the dear boy possesses such a thing as a mind, we’d think there was something on it.”

“Well,” said Ralph, smiling, “I sha’n’t keep you longer in suspense; the letter I got to-day from Uig brought me – that is, brought us– glorious news.”

“And you’ve kept it all this time to yourself?” said Rory. “Och! you’re a rogue.”

“I confess,” said Ralph, “it was wrong of me, but I thought we could talk the matter ever so much more comfortably over after dinner, especially in a place like this.

“I’ve got the best father in the world,” said Ralph, with an emphasis, and almost an emotion, which he did not usually exhibit.

“No one doubts it,” said Allan, somewhat sadly; “I wish I had a father.”

“And I,” said Rory.

“Well, would you believe it, boys?” continued Ralph, “he now in this letter offers me what we all so much desire a real yacht, a big, glorious yacht, that may sail to any clime and brave the stormiest seas. He said that though I had never even hinted my wishes, he gathered from my letters that my heart was bent upon sailing a yacht, and that his son should own one worthy of the family name he bore. Oh! boys; aren’t you happy? But what ails you?”

He looked from the one to the other as he spoke.

“What ails you? What ails you both, boys? Speak.”

“Well!” said Rory, “then the truth is this, that the same thought is running through both our two minds at once. And there is only one way out of the trouble. We won’t go with you, there! We won’t go in your yacht, in your yacht. Mind you, Ralph, dear boy, I say we won’t go in your yacht.”

“That’s it,” said Allan, repeating Rory’s words; “we won’t go in your yacht.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Ralph, right heartily. Then he jumped to his feet, and smilingly doffing his cap, “I respect your Celtic pride, gentlemen,” he said. “It shall not be my yacht. It shall be our yacht, and we’ll go shares in expenses.”

“Spoken like men, every one of you,” roared McBain, no longer able to restrain himself. “I’m proud of my boys. Indeed, indeed, old McBain is proud of his pupils.”

And he shook hands with them all round. This is Highland fashion, you know, reader.

They spent fully four hours longer on that cliff-top; they had so much to talk of now, for new prospects were opening out before them, and they determined to try at least to turn them to good account.

The sun was setting ere they reached their little vessel once again, and prepared to turn in for the night.

Chapter Seven
A Summer’s Day at Sea – Strange Scenery – The Squall – Adventure among Bottle-Nosed Whales – The “Snowbird.”

The cutter yacht had been riding at anchor for two whole days and nights in the beautiful little bay of Talisker. This bay lies on the west-by-south side of the wonderful Isle of Wings, which we call Skye, and forms, in fact, the mouth or entrance to one of the prettiest glens in all the Highlands. (It is called in the Gaelic language “the winged island,” owing to its peculiar formation.) Let me try to describe it to you then in a few words, but I shall be very clever indeed if I can give you anything like a just conception of its beauty. Suppose you have been standing in from the sea, and have just dropped anchor at the mouth of the glen, which is not more than half a mile in width, you will find on your right hand and on your left tall beetling cliffs, the tops of which are often hidden by the clouds. You may judge of their height when I tell you that the eagles have built their nests for ages on the southern rock. The bay itself is perfectly crescentic, receiving in its centre the waters of a fine salmon stream, while its waves break upon silver sand instead of the usual shingle. The bottom of the glen is perfectly flat, and occupied by well-tilled land; its sides descend precipitously from the table-land above, so much so that the burns or streamlets that form after every summer shower come roaring down over them in white foaming cascades. The upper end of the glen is wooded, and from above the trees peep out the white chimneys of the mansion house of Talisker. This glen or ravine ends in a sugar-loaf mountain of great height, the little pathway to the top of which winds round and round, so that looking at it from below it reminds you forcibly of the pictures of the Tower of Babel, as seen in old-fashioned illustrated Bibles.

Our heroes had been enjoying themselves, fishing in the stream all day, dining with the hospitable squire in the evenings, and going off at nights to sleep on board their little yacht.

“Boys,” said McBain, early in the morning of the third day, “rouse out like good fellows.”

Rory and Allan were soon stirring. Ralph contented himself with simply turning himself round in his oblong hammock, and feebly inquiring, —

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter?” said McBain, sitting down near him; “this is the matter – the morning is far too bright to please me; there is a little wind from the nor’ard, and it seems increasing, and the glass is tumbling down, and we can’t lie here unless we want to leave the bones of the Flower of Arrandoon to bleach on the sands.”

“Och!” cried Rory, in his richest brogue; “it’s very wrong of you to bother the poor English crayture so much. Bring him a cup of tea and leave him alone.”

But Ralph was now fully aroused, and three minutes afterwards the three friends were splashing and dashing in the sea, mounting the rollers, diving and treading water, laughing and joking, and making more noise than all the gulls and kittywakes that screamed around them.

McBain had stopped on board to cook the breakfast, and it was all ready by the time they were dressed – fresh salmon steaks, new-laid eggs, and fragrant coffee.

“Now then, my lads,” cried McBain, “on deck all of you, and stand by to get the anchor up. I’ve sent a message to the squire, saying we must start, and bidding him good-bye for the present.

“Which way are we going, captain?” asked Rory.

“Up north, my lad,” was the reply. “Portree is our destination, and though by going south we would have a favouring wind at first, we would never get past Loch Alsh; besides, if you look at the chart you’ll find that northwards is nearer. And now, Rory, please, no more talk; you just untie the mainsail cover and undo the tyers, that’s your work, because you’re neat.”

“Thank you,” said Rory.

“Mainsheet all right?”

“All right, sir.”

“Well, heave away and shorten cable.

“So – top the boom, hook on, hoist together. Up goes the gaff. Well done, lads, and handily. Belay – why, I have hardly to speak. Well done again. Now, if your sheets are shipshape, up with the jib and foresail.

“Trip the anchor, and on board with it. There we are, Rory; we’re going on the starboard tack a little way; just cant her head. Now she feels it. Belay halyards, and coil the slack. That’s right and not lubberly. Rory, you’ll make the best sailor of the lot of us. No, never mind the topsail for a bit. Presently though. Now I’ll steer for a little. We may have a puff when we clear the cliffs. Meanwhile, hoist your morsel of ensign, and, Rory, fire that farthing gun of yours.”

“The farthing gun made a deal of noise for the price of it, anyhow,” said Rory.

Hardly had the sound ceased reverberating from among the cliffs, when two white puffs of smoke rose up from under the nearest tree, and then, bang! bang! came the sound towards them. “Good-bye” it seemed to say. It was Macallum, the keeper, with his double-barrelled gun.

There was not much of a breeze after all, and plenty of sail being carried, they bowled along beautifully on the starboard tack, sailing moderately, but not too close to the wind. Although every now and then the cutter elevated her bows, and brought them down again with a peevish thud that sent the spray flying from stem to stern, nobody minded that a bit; the weather was warm, the water was warm, and besides they were all encased in oilskins.

Indeed it was one of the most enjoyable cruises they had ever had, counting from their departure from Glen Talisker to their arrival at Portree. McBain knew the coast well. He did not hug it, neither did he put far out to sea; he put her about on the other tack shortly, as if he meant to go up Loch Bacadale. Presently they were not far off Idrigail Point, and the cutter was once more laid on the starboard tack, and sails being trimmed, and everything working well, there was time for conversation.

“Shall I steer?” said Rory, who was never happier than when he was “the man at the wheel.”

“Not just yet,” said McBain; “when we’re round Point Aird, very likely I’ll let you do as you please; but, boys, I’ve got that falling glass on the brain, and I want to take every advantage, and fight for every corner.”

“Look now, Ralph and Rory, you’ve never been so close in-shore before. Allan, don’t you speak, you have. The day is bright and clear; do you see McLeod’s Table?”

“The never a table see I,” said Rory.

“Well,” continued McBain, “that lofty mountain with the flat top is so called.”

“And a precious big feast McLeod could spread there too,” said Allan.

“And a precious big feast he did one time spread,” replied McBain, “if an old Gaelic book of mine is anything to go by.”

“Tell us,” cried Rory, who was always on tiptoe to hear a tale.

“It would seem, then, that the McLeods and the McDonalds were, in old times, deadly foes; although at times they appeared to make it up, and vowed eternal friendship. The chief McLeod invited the McDonalds once to a great ‘foy,’ and after eating and drinking on the top of that great hill, until perhaps they had had more than enough, three hundred armed Highlanders sprang from an ambush among the rocks and slew the McDonalds without mercy. Their flesh was literally given to the eagles, as Walter Scott expresses it, and their bones, which lay bleaching on the mountain top, have long since mouldered to dust.

“On another occasion,” continued McBain, “the McLeods surprised two hundred McDonalds at worship, in a cave, and building fires in front of it, smothered them. The poor half-burned wretches that leapt out through the flames speedily fell by the edge of the sword.”

“What cruel, treacherous brutes those McLeods must have been,” remarked Ralph.

“Well,” said McBain, “war is always cruel, and even in our own day treachery towards the enemy is far from uncommon; but, mind you, the McDonalds were not sinless in this respect either. A chief of this bold clan once invited a chief of the McLeods to dinner in his castle of Duntulm.”

“I wouldn’t have gone a step of my toe,” cried Rory.

“But McLeod did,” said McBain, “and he went unarmed.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Allan; “it strikes me they were playing the rogue’s game of ‘confidence.’”

“Something very like it, but McDonald apparently didn’t know how kind to be to his guest, and pressed him to eat and drink galore, as we say. McDonald even showed McLeod to his bedroom, and, for the first time perhaps in his lifetime, poor McLeod began to quake when he found himself within the donjon-keep.

“‘There is your bedroom,’ said the stern McDonald. ‘Yonder is where your body will lie, and yonder is where your bones will repose when the rats have done with them.’

“McLeod would have tried to rush out, but strong arms were there to thrust him back. No one came near the prisoner for two days, then through the barred window food was handed him, salt-sodden flesh and a flask of water. He ate greedily, then applied the jar to his lips to quench his thirst. Horror! the water was seawater.”

“And he perished of thirst?” inquired Ralph.

“So the story goes,” replied McBain.

“A chief of the McLeods,” said McBain, “one of the very, very oldest of the chiefs, had a large family of grown-up daughters, and they wouldn’t always obey the old man, and one day, instead of attending upon him – for he was blind – they went to bathe and disport themselves among the billows, but a sea-nymph came and turned them all into stone.”

“And served them right,” said Rory.

“And there they stand; those tall black rocks, well in towards the point yonder, with the white waves dashing among their feet. They are called McLeod’s maidens until this day.”

“Well,” said Ralph, with a quiet smile, “there is no mistake about it – there were giants in those days.”

They were nearly at Dunvegan Head by this time, standing, in fact, well in towards it on the port tack, for the waters are deep even close in-shore. When they had left it on the beam they opened out broad Loch Follart, when McBain, pointing landwards, said, —

“In there is a little bay, called Loch Bay, and by it a rural hamlet or village, which is claimed as the real capital of Skye. It is called Stein.”

“But see, see,” cried Rory. “Is that a geyser rising out of the sea between us and the shore?”

“Why, it is very like a fountain,” said Ralph.

“It is very like a whale,” said Allan, and McBain laughed.

“It is a whale,” he added. “It is the solitary, or caa’in’ whale, and the rascal is in there after the herrings. A more independent brute doesn’t swim in the sea. He ignores a boat. He looks upon mankind as poor, miserable, puny creatures, and I don’t think he would go very far out of his way for a line-of-battle ship.”

An hour or two afterwards they came in sight of Duntulm Castle, previously having passed the little church of Kilmuir, with its bleak-looking stone-built manse. Near it is a graveyard, which had very great interest for poetic Rory.

“Poor Flora McDonald!” he almost sighed. “I always think that Prince Charlie should have taken her away with him to sunny Italy and married her. How beautifully the story of the ill-fated prince would have read had it ended thus!”

“Rory,” said Ralph, “I’ll leave you to dream and romance while I go and see about the luncheon.”

“So like an Englishman,” said Rory.

“Never mind,” replied Ralph; “we can’t be all alike. What if I do prefer roly-poly to romance; don’t the English win all their battles on beefsteak?”

“Yes, it is time for you to dive in,” said Rory, laughing; “but there, hand out my fiddle and I’ll forgive you. If the sea-nymphs will only be kind now,” he continued, “and keep me dry, I’ll play and sing you something appropriate.”

He did, in his sweet tenor voice, accompanying himself with his favourite instrument. He sang them the old song that begins:

 

“Far over the hills and the heather so green,

And down by the corrie that sings to the sea,

The bonnie young Flora sat weeping alane,

The dew on her plaid and the tear in her e’e.

She looked at a boat with the breezes that swung,

Away on the wave like a bird of the main,

And ay as it lessened, she sigh’d and she sung,

‘Fareweel to the lad I shall ne’er see again.’”

 

“’Deed, indeed,” said Rory, in his richest brogue, and with a moisture in his eye, “it is very pretty, and would be romantic entirely if the frizzle, frizzle, frizzle of that Saxon’s frying-pan wouldn’t join in the chorus.”

“Ham and eggs, boys; ham and eggs?” cried Ralph. “Away with melancholy.”

Not far from Duntulm Castle was a house, of which our friends bore the kindliest of recollections, for here they had been most hospitably entertained.

“I wonder,” said Ralph and Rory, almost in the same breath, “if they’ll see us and know us.”

“Fire your gun again, anyhow, Rory,” said McBain.

The gun was run in, loaded and fired, and they had the satisfaction of seeing their friends in the garden waving welcome to them with a Highland plaid. Then the ensign was dipped, the headsails hauled to leeward again, and away they went.

But see, it is getting wonderfully dark ahead, and a misty cloud seems rapidly nearing them, with a long white line right under it.

“Stand by the jib-sheet,” cried McBain. “Ease away; now luff, my lady.”

The cutter was laid nearly lee-rail under, but she bore it wonderfully well. Then sail was taken in, for, said McBain, “We’ll have more of these gentry.” And so they had, and it was more than an hour ere they doubled Ru-Hunish Point, and bore away for the Aird. Once round here the danger was over, and they were no longer on a lee shore.

I myself never could see the good of a squall, either white or black, and either of them are dangerous enough in all conscience when they take you unawares, but it is said there is good in all things. Be this as it may, the squalls the cutter had gone through seemed to clear the summer air in a remarkable manner, for even the glass began to rise, and with it the spirits of those on board.

It was a fair wind now all the way to Portree, and they made the best of it, Rory being once more in his favourite seat with tiller in hand. Past that mysterious mountain called Quiraing, onwards and past the tartan rock, over the precipitous sides of which a cataract was pouring into the sea, so that you might have sailed a boat between the water and the cliff; past the bay of Steinscholl, past the point of Braddan, past the strange weird rocks of Storr, with Rona Isle and Raasay on the weather beam, and the wild white hills of Cuchullin in full view in the far distance, and past Prince Charlie’s cave itself, and now they keep her in more towards the shore, for they are not far from the loch of Portree. Just past the cave they sail through a fleet of fishing boats. The men on board seem greatly excited. They have hauled in their oars, and stand by with great stones in their hands – part of the boat’s ballast – as if watching for a coming foe. But where is this foe? Why, look ahead, the whole sea for half a mile is darkened with an immense shoal of porpoises, driving straight towards the cutter and the boats, turning neither to right nor left, leaping from the water, splashing and dashing, and apparently wild with glee. Small respect have these “sea pigs,” as they are termed in the native language, for the poor fishermen’s nets; if the nets happen to come in their way, through they go, and there is an end of it. How the men shout and scream, to be sure! The bottle-noses take not the slightest heed of them; they are in their own element, so on they come and on they go, the wild shouts of the fishermen are nothing to them, and the stones thrown glide harmlessly off their greasy backs; but they are gone at last, gone like a whirlwind, and the boatmen are left lamenting over their bad luck and their broken nets.

Three hours after this the storm came on in earnest, but the little yacht lay snug at her moorings, and her owners were sipping their coffee after a good dinner in peace.

It was quite late that night before they retired. It mattered little in one way at what time they turned in, for there was small likelihood that the storm now raging across the island would abate before twelve hours at least. And what do you think they talked about? Why, the sea, the sea, and nothing but the sea, and wild adventures here and there in many lands. Again and again they plied McBain with questions about that strange country up in the frozen north, where it was said the mammoth caves lay. And McBain told them all he knew, and all he had ever heard concerning them. It was determined that northwards they should sail and nowhere else.

“What shall we call our coming queen?” said Rory. “What shall we name the yacht?”

“Oh! wait till we see her first,” said Allan.

“Ridiculous!” cried the impetuous Rory. “No, let us call her the Snowbird.”

Chapter Eight
Rolling Home – A Rough Passage – The Welcome Back – The Way a Sailor Sleeps

When the royal eagle, the bird of Jove, paid a visit to the Castle of Arrandoon, and dropped so daringly into the poultry yard, intent only on turkey, it will be remembered that his presence created no little commotion, but I question if the din of even that memorable morning equalled the hubbub that arose when Allan and his friends returned from their four months’ cruise in the cutter.

A letter from Oban had reached Mrs McGregor three days beforehand, so that they were quite expected, and even the probable hour of their arrival in the creek in Glentroom was known.

The voyage from Portree to Oban had been an uneventful one. The wind was favourable all the way, but strong enough to make a glorious passage with a close-reefed mainsail and storm-jib, so they bowled along, impatient now to get back to bonnie Arrandoon. But they did not mind the roughness of the passage; they did not mind the tumbling and the tossing they got; they despised even the danger of being pooped. They made heavy weather just off Ardnamurchan Point. McBain stuck to the tiller, and for a whole hour, or more, perhaps, there was not a word spoken by any one. They are fearful cliffs, those around the wild highlands of Ardnamurchan, black and wet and fearful; the largest ship that ever floated would be dashed to pieces in a few minutes if it had the misfortune to run amongst them. Perhaps our heroes were thinking how little chance their cockle-shell of a cutter would have, if she got carried any where near them, but they kept their thoughts to themselves, and meanwhile the yacht was behaving like the beauty she was. Indeed she seemed positively to enjoy rolling homewards over these great, green, foam-crested seas; for she bobbed and she bowed to the waves; she curtseyed to them and she coquetted with them as if she were indeed a nymph of the sea and a flirt as well. Sometimes she would dip her bowsprit into a wave, as if she meant to go down bows first, but in a moment she had lifted her head again, and tossed the water saucily off, ere ever it had time to reach the well; next she would flood the lee-rail, and make the waves believe they could board her there, then righting again in an instant, after a nod or two to the seas ahead, as much as to say, “Please to observe what I shall do now,” she would sink herself right down by the stern, with the foam surging around her like a boiling cauldron, but never admitted a drop. There were times though, when she sank so far down in the trough of the sea that her sails began to shiver, yet for all that she was uphill again in a second or two, and scudding onwards as merrily as ever.

The seas were shorter in Loch Sunart, they were choppy in the Sound of Mull, and seemed to get bigger and rougher every other mile of the journey; the crew were not sorry, therefore, when the anchor was let go, and the mainsail clewed, in the Bay of Oban.

“Why,” said Ralph, after dinner that day, “we haven’t had such a tossing all the cruise. I declare to you, boys, that every bone of my body aches from top to toe.” McBain laughed.

“You ought to go out,” he said, “for a few nights with the herring boats.”

“Is it rougher,” queried Ralph, “than what we have already gone through?”

“Ten times,” replied McBain.

“Then, if you please,” said Ralph, “don’t send me. I’d rather be excused, Captain McBain, I do assure you.”

“And so our summer cruise is ended,” said Allan, with something very like a sigh.

“And haven’t we enjoyed it too!” said Rory, who was lying on the sofa locker, book in hand. “Troth, boys,” he added, “I didn’t notice, till this very minute, that my book was upside down. It is dreaming I was entirely. Oh! those, beautiful mountains of the Cuchullin, raising their diamond tops into the summer air, with the purple haze beneath them, and the blue sea flecked with white-winged birds! Scenery like this I’ll never get out of my head, and what is more I never wish to, and if ever it does attempt to slip away, sure I’ve only to shut my eyes and play that sweetest of old reveries, ‘Tha mi tinn leis a ghoal,’ (The Languor of Love), and it will all, all come back again.”

“And we’ve had the very best of eating and drinking all the time, you know,” Ralph said.

“And it hasn’t cost us much,” added Allan.

Rory looked first at one and then at the other of his friends, apparently more in sorrow than in anger; then he resumed his book, this time with the right side up.

“I’ve been keeping tally,” continued Allan, addressing himself more particularly to McBain, “of all that our voyage has cost us, and taking everything into consideration, I find that we couldn’t have travelled half so cheaply on shore, nor could we have lived as cheaply even at home. We did not pay much for the cutter and all her fittings, and if we had cared to do a little more fishing, and sent more boxes of lobsters down with the southern steamers, I think we would positively have made a good deal of profit.”

“You are thoroughly practical,” said Ralph; “I like you for that.”

“Well, but,” said Allan, half apologetically, “neither of us, you know, is extra rich, and I think it is some satisfaction to look back to a time spent most pleasantly and enjoyably, without either extra expenditure, or – or – what shall I say?”

“Prodigality,” suggested Ralph.

“That word will do,” said Allan; “but I do declare I’m nearly half asleep.”

“I expect,” said McBain, trying to repress a yawn, “that we will all sleep to-night without rocking.”

Two hours afterwards they were all asleep, and the yacht rose and fell gently on the rippling water, the moon shone over the mountains, making the houses in the little town all look as if their walls were marble and their slated roofs were burnished gold.

They would have gone right up Loch Linnhe, instead of calling at Oban, only Rory wished to do a little extra varnishing and gilding before their return, so they stopped here for two days.

Yes, there is no mistake about it, there was a commotion in and around the old castle. As Allan and his friends came filing up the glen, headed by Peter, who had gone to meet them with the bagpipes, in true Highland fashion, I think the dogs were the first to hear the wild joyous notes of the pibroch. Every one of them found his way out into the courtyard; the inner gate of the drawbridge was closed, so Oscar and Bran stood and barked at it, just as if that would open it; the smaller dogs yapped at their heels, for whatsoever Bran and Oscar did, the collie and Skyes followed suit; every feathered biped about the place joined in the chorus, and then, for just a moment, there was a slight lull, and Allan’s favourite pony was heard laughing loud and shrill to himself in the stables.

“Och! and och!” cried old Janet, rushing out to open the gate for the dogs, “it’s the happy day for old Yonish (Janet) and it’s the happy day for the whole of us. Go doggies, go craytures, and meet the dear master!”

The dogs needed no pressing. Headed by Bran, with Oscar in the rear – for these dogs always kept up a certain decorum in presence of the others – out they rushed, and next moment Allan was in the midst of them.

He would not check them in their glee for all the world, but, with Bran on one side of him, and Collie on the other, and all the Skyes dancing round his feet, it must be confessed that for fully five minutes he had rather a rough time of it. Oscar, after kissing his master on the ear, picked off his hat, and trotted away back with it to the castle.

So Allan returned bareheaded, but laughing, to receive the affectionate greetings of his mother and sister. But who is that tall, handsome, elderly gentleman in company with the latter? You would have required no answer to that question had you but seen the rich blood mantling in Ralph’s cheeks the moment he saw him, or marked the glad glitter in his eyes. He seemed to clear the drawbridge at a couple of bounds.

“Father! father!”

“Ralph, boy!”

“Your runaway son,” said Ralph, laughing.

“My sailor boy!” said his father, smiling in his turn.

Those last words made Ralph’s heart bound with joy. He knew his father well, and he knew when he said “my sailor boy” that he did not mean to repent his promise anent the yacht.

Allan was talking to his mother and sister, Helen McGregor hanging on his arm, and looking fondly up in his face.

But poor Irish Rory stood shyly by himself, close by the drawbridge gate. At present there was nobody to speak to him; for the time being, at all events, there was no one to bid him welcome back.

“Och!” he said to himself, with a sigh, “the never a father nor mother have I. Sure I never remember feeling before that I was an orphan entirely.”

A big cold nose was thrust into his hand. Then a great dog rubbed its shoulder with rough but genuine kindness against his legs. It was Bran’s mother, and her behaviour affected him so that he was almost letting fall a tear on her honest head, when he suddenly spied old Janet, and off went the cloud from his brow in a moment – and off went he, to pump-shake the old lady by the hand, and vow to her that this was the happiest day in his life.

And old Janet must needs wipe her eyes with her apron as she called him, much to his amusement, “mo chree” and “mo ghoal” (love), and “the bonnie boy that he was,” and a hundred other flattering and endearing epithets, that made Rory laugh and pump-shake her hand again, and feel on the whole as merry as a cricket. But when Helen herself came running towards him, and placed both her hands in his and welcomed him “home,” then his cup of joy was about full, and he entirely forgot he was an orphan. Then she dragged him over to her mother, and the first greetings over —

“Isn’t he sunburnt?” said Helen; “but do, mamma, look at Allan and his friend.”

“Well,” said Allan, “what colour are we?”

“Oh, just like flower-pots,” said Helen, laughing.

That same afternoon Allan was sitting talking to Rory in his “sulky,” when in burst Ralph. He had just returned from a long walk with his father, and he was looking all over joyous.

“Why, what do you think, boys?” he cried, rubbing his hands, and then making believe to punch Allan in the ribs; “what do you think, old man?” he added.

“Something very nice, I’ll be bound,” said Allan, “or staid steady Ralph would not be so far off his balance.”

“It is pleasant in the extreme,” said Ralph, taking a seat in front of them, “and so very unexpected too.

“Now guess what it is.”

“Oh; but we can’t, we never could,” said his friends.

“Out with it, Ralph,” cried Allan, “don’t keep us in ‘tig-tire.’”

“Yes, don’t be provoking, Ralph,” added Rory.

“Well, then,” said Ralph, speaking very slowly, just a word at a time, “father – has – been – down – to Cowes – and – bought – ”

“The yacht!” cried Allan, interrupting him. “Hurrah!”

“Just one moment, my boys,” cried Rory. “I must blow off steam or I’ll burst.” So saying, he seized his violin and commenced playing one of the wildest, maddest Irish melodies ever they had listened to. You might have called the air a jig, but there was a certain sadness in it, as there is in even the merriest of Ireland’s melodies; tenderness breathed through every bar of it. You might have imagined while Rory played that you saw his countrymen dancing at a wake, and heard even their wild “Hooch!” but at the same time you could not help fancying you saw the mourners crooning over the coffin, and heard the broken-hearted wail of the coronach.

Both Allan and Ralph were pretty well used to all Rory’s queer, passionate, and impulsive ways, and so they always gave him what sailors call “plenty of rope,” and landsmen call “latitude.”

When he had finished and quieted down, then did Ralph explain to his friends all about the purchase of the yacht.

“Not a toy, mind you,” he said, “a really first-rate seagoing schooner-yacht, A1 at Lloyd’s, and all that sort of thing. New only three years ago, copper fastenings, wire rigging, and everything complete.”

“And what is her size?” said Allan.

“Oh?” said Ralph, “there is plenty of room to swing a cat in her, I can assure you; she is nearly two hundred tons.”

“Two hundred tons! why she’ll take some managing, won’t she?”

“Father says she will be as easily sailed with the crew we will have, and with ordinary caution, as our little cutter yacht.”

“Of course,” said Rory, “we will have trial trips and all that sort of thing.”

“Ay, ay, lad,” said Ralph; “but don’t you imagine that my father will trust this fine yacht in such juvenile hands as ours, without an experienced sailing-master being on board.”

“And I wonder who that will be,” said Rory, “for you know we wouldn’t take to every stranger.”

“Boys,” said Allan, “I don’t think we will have a stranger over us as sailing-master. I can tell you a bit of a secret; or perhaps, Ralph, you can guess it, if I ask you a question or two. Well, then, what do you think McBain has been studying his Rosser so earnestly for these last many months?”

“I have it,” cried Rory, “sure he’s going to take out a Board of Trade certificate as master.”

“You’re right,” said Allan, “and I think he could take one now even, for he is well up in navigation. He is well up in logarithms, and a capital arithmetician, I won’t say mathematician, though he knows something of mathematics as well. He can take his latitude and longitude, and can lay the place of a vessel on the chart. He knows how to use his sextant well, and can adjust it by the sun; he can take lunars and find his latitude by a star, and he knows everything about compasses and chronometers, and mind you that is saying a good deal. And he can observe azimuths too, and he knows many things more that I can’t tell you about; he says himself he can work a day’s work well, and I for one wouldn’t mind sailing anywhere with him; but he doesn’t mean going up yet for three months. McBain may be slow, but he is sure.”

“And we know,” said Rory, “he can pass in seamanship.”

“I should think he could,” said Allan; “in that respect I’m proud of my foster-father; he can make sail and take it in, and work a ship in the stormiest weather; he can secure a mast, or cut one adrift, and he can rig a jury, and I needn’t tell you he knows all about the lead and the log-line. Oh yes, he is a thorough seaman, and he is well up in something else too, which I don’t think the Board of Trade ever think of examining people on. He is a good weather prognosticator; he knows the signs of the clouds, and from which direction the wind is likely to blow, and by looking at the sea he can tell you the wind’s force, and whether the sea is going down or rising, and also the rate the ship is going at. Nor is the barometer a mere toy with him, it is a friend in need, and positively seems to speak to him. Well, boys, what else would you have? He is a sailor every inch, and dearly loves the sea; he tells me, too, he can sleep like a sailor.”

“How should a sailor sleep?” asked Ralph.

“Why, with one eye open, figuratively speaking,” replied Allan. “He ought to be able to sleep soundly through all natural and legitimate noises. He ought to know the position of the ship before he lies down, how her head is, what sail she carries, how the wind is, and how it is likely to be, and whether the glass is rising, falling, or steady. With this knowledge, commending himself to the kind God who rules and governs all things, his slumbers will be deeper and sweeter, I do verily believe, than any that ever a landsman knows. Rocked in the cradle of the deep, the creaking of the ship’s rudder will not awake him, nor the labouring of her timbers, nor the dull thud of striking seas, nor the howling of the wind itself; but let anything go wrong, let a sail carry away, ay, or a rope itself, or let her ship more water than she ought to with a good man at the wheel, then your sailor awakes, and very likely his head will appear above the companion hatch about five seconds afterwards.”

“Allan,” said Rory, “you’re quite eloquent. Troth, it strikes me you’re a sailor yourself, every inch of you.”

“I should like to be,” said Allan, earnestly.

“And so should we all,” said Rory; “but, Ralph, dear boy,” he added, “where is this yacht? Where is the Snowbird?”

“She is called the Sappho at present,” replied Ralph, “and she is safely in dock at Dundee.”

“Dundee?” exclaimed Rory, in some amazement.

“Yes, Dundee,” repeated Ralph; “that is the place to fit out ships for the far north. You see, she’ll want an extra skin on her to withstand the ice, and she must be fortified, strongly fortified in the bows, inside with wood and outside with iron. Father told me all about it. Father is very clever.”

“And I know he is very, very good,” said Rory; “but did you tell him where we purposed cruising?”

“I did, of course,” replied Ralph; “that was the reason he sent the yacht to be fortified. In my very last letter I explained all our hopes and wishes to him.”

“And what does he say?”

“Why, that an English gentleman, with youth on his side, ought to be able to go anywhere and do anything.”

“Bravely spoken,” cried Allan.

“Bravely indeed,” said Ralph; “but father added that in this great cruise of ours we must not be rash.”

“We will look upon that wish of your father’s,” said Allan, “as a sacred command, never to be broken.”

“That will we,” said Rory, enthusiastically.

“And he advised us, when thoroughly fitted and ready for sea, not to go right up icewards all at once, but to take Shetland on our way.”

“That would indeed be nice,” said Rory. “I’ll warrant we’ll find many things well worth seeing in both places.”

“Yes,” said Ralph, “and he says we should then bear up for Baffin’s Bay, and not attempt the far northern ice till we have done some exploring there, and got acclimatised, and well versed in the knowledge and nature of the ice. ‘Working a ship,’ he says, ‘among ice is very different from ordinary seamanship.’ But look, there is father down in the courtyard, playing with the dogs. Let us all go down and join him.”

Chapter Nine
The “Snowbird” at Anchor – Preparations for Departure – Farewell to the Land of the Rock and the Wild Wood

The Snowbird lay at anchor in the lake, not far from the creek where the cutter used to swing, and just beneath the birch-clad braes of Arrandoon. A steady breeze was blowing from the west-sou’-west, a breeze that made the landsman’s heart glad. It was a balmy wind and a drying wind – a wind that chased away the winter from the glens, that breathed encouragement to the green and tender corn peeping shyly up from the brown earth; a wind that went sighing through the woods, and whispered to the trees that spring had come; ay, and a breeze that rejoiced the heart of the sailor; a breeze he liked to stand against, and feel, and wave his arms in, as he gazed skywards, and longed to be “up anchor and away.”

And the saucy Snowbird never felt a bit more saucy than she did that morning. She felt impatient, and she showed it, too, in many little ways. She pulled and “titted,” as Ap phrased it, at her anchor; she bent forwards and she bent sternwards; then she would roll, perhaps once to port and twice to starboard, or vice versâ, as the thought struck her; then she would positively stop steady for a few moments, as if listening for an order.

“What can the captain be thinking about?” she seemed to say. “Why don’t they hoist the Blue Peter? Oh! shouldn’t I like to spread my wings in this beautiful wind and be off!”

But we must leave the Snowbird to herself for a little while, impatient though she be, and pay a visit to the castle, from the higher windows of which the yacht could be seen, both masts and hull. Had we come here about two weeks ago, we would have found a great deal of bustle and stir going on, especially among the female portion of the establishment, for Mrs McGregor and her gentle daughter Helen had, with the help of their maids, undertaken the superintendence not only of the upholstering and decoration of the cabins and staterooms of the Snowbird, but of all the purely domestic arrangements therein. This had cost them months of work, and entailed besides a great many journeys, not only to Inverness, but to Glasgow itself. The duties they had undertaken had been instigated by love, and they were not without good results to the performers. They had kept them from thinking. An only son and an only brother, Allan had never been very far away from home as yet, and it is needless to say that he was very dearly loved indeed. But now that he was to leave his home and leave his country, and to journey far over the sea, to lands unknown, where dangers were to be encountered, the nature of which could hardly be guessed at, or even dreamt of, it is no wonder that his mother and sister felt sad and sorrowful as the time drew near for parting.

Ah! these partings, reader! Surely one of the joys of heaven will be to think we never again will have to breathe the painful word “Farewell.”

And the Snowbird was now ready for sea; all was done to her, inside and out, that could be done. Even the crew were on board, and, as soon as Ralph should return with his father from the south, they would weigh anchor, and the cruise would be begun in earnest. If I were to analyse the feelings uppermost in Mrs McGregor’s mind at this time, I should find sorrow without doubt, but no regrets at granting her boy permission to roam over sea and land for a year or two. Why, she reasoned, should not she suffer bereavement for a little while as well as many other mothers, when it would be for Allan’s advantage and good? So her sadness never found vent in tears – at least nobody ever saw them. She went about as cheerfully, to all appearance, as before, only – and this Allan felt and knew – she tried now to have her boy near her as often as she could. Helen was less brave. Helen was but a girl, little more than a child, and if the truth must be told, she very often cried herself to sleep of nights. Her mother used to find the pillow wet in the morning, and well knew the cause.

But there was one thing they both could do – they could pray. And what a comfort that was! Oh! what a weary, dreary wilderness this world of ours would be if this power of praying were denied us, if we could not appeal in times of grief or danger to our kind Friend, who is nigh us everywhere, whether we are at peace and at home, or amidst the din and strife of battle, or far away at sea, fighting for life ’mid billows and tempest. I myself have travelled much and far, and I have oftentimes had reason to thank Him who gave me a mother who taught me to pray.

Rat, tat, tat! at the red parlour door, where the McGregor family and Rory are enjoying quiet conversation. Rat, tat, tat! and enter Peter, as Rory more than once lately remarked, not looking like the same Peter at all, at all; in fact, he was now a blue Peter, for he was rigged out from top to toe in a suit of bran new pilot, cut shipshape and sailor fashion, and very gay and sprightly Peter looked.

“Well, Peter,” said Allan, “what is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“And I’m not so sure I haven’t; but pray, sir, come to the window in the staircase, and look for yourself.”

Rory and Allan both followed Peter.

“What call you that?” cried the latter, pointing to a white sail that came skimming like a sea-bird across the dark bosom of the lake.

“Why, that is the cutter?” said Allan, in amazement.

“Or her ghost,” said Peter, with a long face.

“Come on, Rory, to the creek,” cried Allan, “and we’ll meet her.”

And they were just in time to see Ralph and his father land.

“Glad to see you both at last,” said Allan; “but tell us what is the meaning of this? You went away to sell the Flower, and behold you come back in her.”

“My father,” Ralph replied, “wouldn’t part with her; he has bought her.”

“Yes,” said the knight smiling; “she is far too good to part with. When you sail, I will accompany you a few miles on your voyage. And, please God, when you return, I will be the first to welcome you in that same boy’s yacht.”

Even my youngest readers know how quickly time flies when one wishes it to linger, and the few days that intervened betwixt Ralph’s return and the sailing of the Snowbird passed on eagle’s wings. Helen McGregor, with a tiny bottle of wine that might have been sent from Elfinland for the occasion, named the beautiful yacht. Then there was a dinner on board, at which every one tried to seem gay, but failed for all that.

Next day the wind was fair, and no time was lost in getting the anchor up and setting sail for Inverness. The ladies accompanied the expedition so far in the Snowbird, then farewells were said, blessings murmured, and once again the good yacht’s foresails were filled, and she bore bravely away up the Moray Firth, the little cutter keeping her company until right off Fort George, when waving them once more a fond adieu, the Flower of Arrandoon was put about, and very soon the point of land hid her from their view.

The cruise of the Snowbird had begun in earnest.

The breeze was light, but well aft, so all sail was clapped on her, and with her head north and by east, she glided slowly onwards as if loth to leave the land. We will take this opportunity of having a look over the goodly yacht, that is destined to be the home of our heroes for many a day to come.

The Snowbird then was a schooner-yacht of nearly two hundred tons, as well fitted and found for cruising in the northern seas as ingenuity could make her. Rising and falling, rocking and nodding on the waves, with her white canvas spread out to the breeze, she looked a very pretty craft indeed. She had just enough free-board and enough breadth of beam to make her safe and comfortable in a sea-way. Her hull was painted black, her ports only being picked out with vermilion; her masts were rakish, but not too much so; her jibboom had the graceful bend that sailors love to see, and every bit of her rigging, fore and aft, running and standing, was as taut and trim as hands could make it, or eyes wish to gaze upon.

Her deck was flush both fore and aft, with never a cabin or house thereon, for the seas they would probably ship, in the wild ocean they were about to traverse, would be little likely to brook obstruction. Her decks were as white as snow, her brass-work shone like burnished gold, her binnacle would have been an ornament even in a drawing-room, every rope-end was neatly coiled, and not a bar nor a marling-spike was out of its place.

Light and graceful though the Snowbird appeared, she was nevertheless well fortified and strong. Hers was a double skin, one that would be likely to resist the dread embrace of the ice king, while her bows were of triple strength, and shod with bars of steel. Her ballast was water in unshiftable iron tanks. Her boats were three in number, but of these I may speak again, merely saying here that they were unique of the kind.

Let us go between decks and have a look at the living-rooms. Entering by the after companion, then, we find ourselves in the passage that leads to the dining-saloon. Here are the cabins of Ralph and Rory, and, as the door of each stands invitingly open, we take a peep in. They are large and roomy; the sofas are covered with crimson velvet, the curtains on the berths are of the same colour, and the pillows and counterpanes therein are white as the driven snow. There is a bookshelf in each, filled with the owner’s favourite authors, a little swing table, and a silver spring-candlestick hung in gymbals, and the nattiest of marble basin-stands; there is every comfort and luxury in these cabins, and the bulkheads are adorned with pictures, and, wonderful to say, these cabins do not even smell of varnish – no, but of sweet spring flowers, and I need not tell you who placed the vases there. Passing forward we enter the saloon (see plan). Here is a comfortable table, luxurious ottoman, side-board, cushioned lockers, chairs, and stove, and everywhere around us taste and luxury are displayed. It was the hand of an artist that painted those panels, that devised and positioned the mirrors, and that hung those polished circular swing-tables, radiant as the rainbow with sparkling coloured glass – there are three of these in all, and so cunningly are they devised that they look like bouquets of beautiful flowers pendent from stems of sterling silver. The hanging lamps, ay, and even the stoves and coal-vases in this saloon and in the drawing-room, were works of art, but space warns me that I must enlarge no more on the fittings of the rooms; in a word, then, comfort and refinement reigned supreme in the between decks of the Snowbird.

The third mate and old Ap, with the second officer of the ship, had a mess-place to themselves, and very snug it was. The men messed forward, and here, in the forecastle, a few hammocks were hung at night, but the bulk of the crew slept under, where was plenty of room for bunks, and plenty of warmth, with no lack of ventilation. The cooking-range, or galley-fire, was abaft the foremast, adjoining Ap’s room and that of the steward and third mate; and at sea, around this same galley-fire, both men and second officers would find a snug retreat in many a long, long winter’s night in the stormy regions of the north; for here, when the ship was snug, they would gather together and spin many a yarn about their own adventurous lives, and their homes far away in Scotland.

But, so far as our heroes were concerned, the snuggest corner of the ship was the drawing-room right aft. Here was the library, and here the piano, and a stove in the centre of the room, that all could sit around and make themselves happy and generally jolly.

Captain McBain’s room was next in size to the saloons, as befitted his position.

The crew were twenty hands all told. Ap was boatswain and carpenter; our friend Peter was steward. In addition to his duties as captain or master of the yacht, McBain had been duly elected supercargo. He had seen to the victualling department, and the catering for all hands, both fore and aft. Rory got hold of his list one morning, and from the extracts he read therefrom to his companions, it was evident that Captain McBain had done his work right well.

“Why,” said Rory, “I wouldn’t mind a bit living forward among the crew, for, in addition to preserved meats, and biscuits and butter, and barley, and bacon and beans, they have pork and potatoes, and pepper, and pickles, and peas, and raisins for pudding, and suet for dumplings, and oatmeal and sugar, and coffee and tea. But oh! boys! aren’t we going to live like fighting-cocks! We have all the good things they’ve got forward, and lots of cabin luxuries besides – potted milk and potted meats, and potted fish of every name, and almonds and arrowroot, and curries and capers, and all kinds of fruit, and jellies and jams galore. But what is this? I can understand the dried herbs and celery seed, but Birmingham wares! Old guns and beads!”

It was McBain’s turn to laugh, as poor Rory, with a puzzled countenance, looked beseechingly at him for an explanation.

“Indeed,” was his reply, “it is those same old guns and those beads we’ll maybe have to eat when our stock of fresh provisions wears down.”

“Oh! I see,” said Rory, a light suddenly breaking in on him. “You mean we’ll barter them with the natives for food.”

“Just so.”

“Just so; and here is an item that proves how good an officer you are, Captain McBain. You are like a king, indeed, who is mindful of the welfare and necessities of even his meanest subjects. The item speaks for itself: Dog biscuits, ten sacks.”

Yes, reader, for independent of the crew all told there were on board two passengers of the race canine – namely, honest Oscar, the Saint Bernard, and Spunkie, the wildest and weirdest-looking Skye terrier that ever barked in the kennels at Arrandoon. These two dogs lived in the forecastle, and very useful they ultimately proved, as the sequel will show.

Two days more and our heroes had gathered on the quarter-deck, to have the last look they would have for a long time on their native land.

Most of them gazed in silence at the rugged and wild scene to windward. Their hearts were rather full to speak; but Rory, leaning on the taffrail – he were nothing unless he were romantic, so he must needs say, or sigh, or sing, I do not know which it was, —

 

“‘Farewell to the land of the rock and the wild wood,

The hill and the forest, and proud swelling wave,

To the land where bliss smiled on the days of our childhood, —

Farewell to dear Scotland, the land of the brave.’”

 

Then the breeze freshened, and the sails flapped as she leaned steadily over to it.

“Keep her away,” cried McBain, waving his hand to the helmsman.

And when they came on deck again, after dinner that evening, great seas were rolling in from the Pentland Firth, from which came the glorious wind. Nor was there any land visible in the west, where the sun was dipping down into the waves like a great vermilion shield, his beams making a bright red pathway betwixt them and the horizon. Long grey clouds were floating in the sky above, clouds of a dark and bluish grey, and yet every cloud was bound with a fringe of silver and gold.

Ere darkling some sails were taken in, and a couple of reefs in the mainsail, but shortened even thus the good yacht seemed to fly over the waves, bounding along like a thing of life, as if she positively loved the sea and felt made for it, but in all her glee she behaved herself well, and hardly shipped a drop of water.

Next morning there was a terrible noise and row on deck, and a dire rattling of chains, and a shouting of words of command, and when Rory ran up to see what was the matter he found that the anchor had just been let go, and that they were lying in Bressay Sound, right abreast of the strangely picturesque little town of Lerwick.

“As soon,” said Captain McBain, “as we’ve had breakfast we’ll go on shore. You can make the best of your time, and enjoy yourselves all you can. There is lots to see, and ponies to ride that I reckon will tax all your equestrian powers, but mind you’re off by three o’clock. There is nothing to keep us here, and we’ll weigh again this afternoon.”

“But aren’t you going to be with us?” asked Rory.

“Nay, boy, nay,” replied McBain. “I go to pick up another passenger; and one, too, whose presence on board is bound to affect for evil or for good our voyage to the far north.”

“Dear me!” said Rory, “a bit of mystery, is it? Well, that makes it all the more romantic; but get ready, boys, get ready. I, for one, mean to make a regular forenoon of it. I want to see the pony I can’t ride, that’s all.”

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’m pretty 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 and in your 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 the Snowbird sailed 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 astonished at you?”

“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 the Snowbird, 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 the Snowbird, 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.”