Kitabı oku: «The Cruise of the Snowbird: A Story of Arctic Adventure», sayfa 6
“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.”
