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Title: From ploughshare to pulpit : A tale of the battle of life
Author: Stables, Gordon
Language: English
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[Illustration: TOWN AND GOWN.--_Page 155._
_Frontispiece._]
FROM PLOUGHSHARE TO PULPIT
A Tale of the Battle of Life
BY
GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.
(_Surgeon Royal Navy_)
AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE SNOWBIRD,” “JUST LIKE JACK,”
“CHILDREN OF THE MOUNTAIN,” ETC. ETC.
“Who walked in glory and in pride,
Following his plough along the mountain-side”
_SECOND EDITION._
London
JAMES NISBET & CO.
21 BERNERS STREET
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO
_At the Ballantyne Press_
TO
MY OLD PROFESSOR
_SIR WM. D. GEDDES_
PRINCIPAL OF ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY
This Book is Dedicated
WITH SUNNY MEMORIES OF AULD LANG SYNE
BY
THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
BOOK I.
_THE STUDENT AT HOME._
CHAP. PAGE
I. A DEATH THE MOST DREADFUL LOOMED BEFORE HIM 3
II. AT THE OLD FARM OF KILBUIE 11
III. THE PLOUGHMAN-STUDENT AT HOME 21
IV. AN IDYLLIC LIFE 30
V. SORROW NEVER COMES SINGLY--CHRIST-LIKE CHRISTIANITY 39
VI. SMASHING A BULLY--GENTLE WILLIE MUNRO 49
VII. THE LOVE-DARG--THE BALL AT KILBUIE 61
VIII. THE STORM--SNOWSHOES--A SLEIGH-RIDE 70
IX. THE ADVENTURE AT BRUCE’S CAVERN 81
BOOK II.
_UPS AND DOWNS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE._
I. THE GREAT COMPETITION 93
II. VICTORY--POOR HERBERT GRANT 104
III. HARD WORK AND EARNEST STRUGGLES 114
IV. A STRANGE DUEL--BAD BOYS’ PRANKS 126
V. AMONG THE WHITE HARES--HOGMANAY NIGHT 137
VI. IN SNOW-TIME--A TOWN AND GOWN 147
VII. THE INSTALLATION RIOT 158
VIII. BACK AT THE DEAR OLD FARM 168
IX. WISE WEE JOHN AND WITTY EPPIE 178
X. LIFE AT JOHN’S COTTAGE--THE FISHING 185
XI. SINKS BEFORE THE VERY EYES OF THOSE ON SHORE 195
XII. A STRANGE TERROR CREEPS OVER SANDIE’S HEART 205
BOOK III.
_FAR, FAR AT SEA._
I. “NAE POSSIBLE!” SAID TIBBIE 217
II. “REMEMBER, REMEMBER THIS FIFTH OF NOVEMBER” 227
III. “WE HAVE BEEN AS BROTHERS: WE ARE BROTHERS
STILL” 237
IV. THE DANGER AND DIFFICULTY WAS TO COME 247
V. FIGHTING THE FIRELANDERS 257
VI. THE LAST OF THE BRAVE BARQUE “BOO-BOO-BOO” 267
VII. AFLOAT ON A DERELICT SHIP 273
VIII. CRUSOES--PREPARED FOR ANYTHING 281
IX. “O MY POOR, DEAR FATHER!” CRIED SANDIE 291
X. HOW IT ALL ENDED 302
BOOK I
_THE STUDENT AT HOME_
FROM PLOUGHSHARE TO PULPIT
CHAPTER I
_A DEATH THE MOST DREADFUL LOOMED BEFORE HIM_
There was something well calculated to raise the spirits of such a man
as Mackenzie on this balmy spring morning. Mackenzie was the minister of
the parish of Belhaven, a parish that lies far up the winding Don, in a
country that combines all the beauties of Lowland vegetation and
treescape with the wilder scenery of the true Scottish Highlands.
Mac had been called to this parish when very young, but had remained
here ever since, and he was now over forty, hale, handsome, and as
straight as the ramrod of the old muzzle-loader he used when shooting
rabbits; cheery also to a degree, and he seldom moved around anywhere
without singing some old Scotch lilt or merry jig. Well, the fact is
Mac’s life was a very easy one. His Church was the Established, not the
Free Kirk, and he therefore was to all intents and purposes independent.
He had not to depend upon the whims and caprices of the people for his
salary, nor upon the state of the crops at harvest-time. Not only had
he a good stipend “bound to his head,” as his parishioners phrased it,
but a bonnie stretch of glebe land, quite a farm, in fact, that extended
for over a mile along one bank of the river.
On this fair day in May, with its blue, blue sky and its fleecy
cloudlets, against which, like little dots of darkness, the laverocks
quivered and sang, the corn braird was waving green on the braes; the
fields, in which sleek-coated kine were roaming, were yellow with
buttercups, and starred over with gowans or mountain daisies--Burns’s
“wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower”--and a cool soft breeze went
sighing through the lofty pine-trees. Here cawed the busy rooks, here
the magpies chattered, and the cushats croodled and moaned; but
elsewhere birds were seen and heard in every direction. In the thickets
of spruce the blackbird and the mavis had their nests, and their musical
rivalry was delightful to listen to, while high up in the lordly
rowan-tree by the minister’s gate, the merry bold chaffinch chanted loud
and long, and would not be denied. But it was away across the minister’s
hill, perhaps, where spring was seen in its greatest beauty to-day. It
was a heather hill and a blaeberry[1] hill, and it was gilded over here
and there by great patches of golden whins or furze. These were now all
in compact masses of bloom, and the rich delicious odour from their
blossoms--Ah! surely there is no finer perfume in nature--filled the
air on every side.
There would have been silence up there to-day, save for the plaintive
bleating of lambs, the occasional barking of the shepherd’s collie, the
hum of bees among the whins, and the sweet tender notes of the
rose-linnet perched on a thorn twig above them.
Yes, it was indeed a day to raise the spirits of any one possessed of a
soul, and that is just one thing that Mackenzie had, and a very
sensitive one too. Not that he was ever much cast down, even in the
gloomiest or murkiest of weather, but when the sun glinted in silver
radiance off the river that went singing past the old-fashioned manse,
with its old-fashioned front garden, and its gate-posts made out of a
whale’s jaw-bones;--when the sun was bright, I say, and warm balmy
western winds were blowing, then, whether in his study or out of doors,
Mackenzie could no more help singing than could the mavis on the lawn,
or the starling on the one solitary poplar-tree.
Mac’s life was not a very busy one. He bothered himself far less in
visiting even his sick parishioners, and praying with them or talking
good things to them, than English parsons invariably do; for most of
this sort of thing he could with confidence leave the honest elders of
his kirk to perform. But on this particular morning it happened that one
of those very elders was lying ill and must be visited. So soon after
breakfast, Mac had ordered out the Shetland pony and the little
four-wheel trap.
Few who have not seen these ponies in their own wild homes in Shetland,
the sea-girdled peat-mosses of the Northern seas, nor seen them in the
Highlands of Aberdeenshire, which county seems congenial to the
development of their health and powers, could believe the strength they
are able at times to put forth, and the self-willed determination they
exhibit when they take an idea into their hirsute little noddles.
Larnie, the minister’s pony, was no exception. But indeed he never had
been thoroughly broken, since bought for a five-pound note out of a
drove at Alford market. Stuart, the minister’s orra man, or, in plain
English, man-of-all-work, had pretended to break in the beastie, but
Stuart hadn’t really done anything of the kind, and Mackenzie himself
was easy-going and far too apt to take things for granted.
But soon Larnie with his little trap was on the gravel in front of the
porch, and looking full of life and spirit, despite the fact that Stuart
held him not only by the bridle but by the snout as well; and the little
animal casting sharp sidelong glances towards the house, kept scraping
up the gravel as if impatient to be off.
“Maggie May! Maggie May! are ye coming?” shouted the minister as he
strolled out. “It’s a heavenly morning, my lassie.”
Maggie May had appeared in the porch for just a moment in answer to the
summons.
A sweet-faced girl of little over twelve, but tall for her years, with
blue eyes, an intelligent face, and a wealth of brown hair flowing loose
over her shoulders. A slight shade of sadness seemed natural to her, but
rather increased than detracted from her singular beauty.
But a smile lit up that bonnie face of hers when she went to smooth and
cuddle Larnie.
“Come,” Larnie appeared to say, if ponies’ eyes can speak, “kissing is
all very well, but I want some more substantial proof of the affection
you pretend to have for me.”
Back to the house ran Maggie May, and next minute had returned with a
delicious slab of well-baked white oatcake, and Larnie was happy for
once. “Yes, father, I will gladly go with you; I have merely my cloak to
put on.”
* * * * *
The day was so truly delightful that Mackenzie would have been glad to
drive quite leisurely in order to enjoy the sweet spring scenery. But
Larnie took another view of the matter. He scented oats at the other end
of the journey, and determined to push on and have the business over.
The flowers were nodding in dingle and dell; the young crimson-tasselled
larch-trees brightened many a hillside; the rich yellow primroses peeped
coyly up at their feet; the silver-stemmed birch-trees were drooping on
the braelands, their sweet-scented foliage still weeping with the dews
of night; but nothing of all this saw Larnie--his thoughts were on oats
intent.
Many a strange and beautiful wild bird made wood and welkin ring with
his glad notes, but Larnie heard not the songs. Up yonder in a green
corn patch a hare pauses in the act of washing his face, that he may sit
up and stare curiously at the fast flying equipage--Larnie takes no
heed. Rabbits in little groups of five or six scurry here and there
among the boulders on bare hillsides, but Larnie takes not the slightest
notice. Oats alone absorb his thoughts, so on he flies.
The road was a very winding one. It kept well away from the river,
though sometimes approaching it. It was up hill and down dell too, and
Larnie was wise enough to get up extra speed when rushing down a hill,
so that the momentum might carry the vehicle half-way up the next hill.
This is the Highland plan of driving, and in some ways is sensible
enough.
But now they were within half-a-mile of the most dangerous part of all
the road, for here there was a terribly steep descent, with a high
precipice and sharp curve right at the bottom. More than one fatal
accident had already taken place at this place, so Mackenzie set himself
to the task of immediately restraining the impetuosity of his Shetland
steed. This he might have succeeded in doing without much difficulty,
but for once fate seemed against him, for just at that moment a hare
suddenly bounded from a bush of broom, and crossed the path almost among
Larnie’s feet. So startling an apparition caused the nervous little
animal to lose all control over himself. Larnie felt as if under the
influence of some dreadful nightmare, and I am convinced this is
precisely how horses do feel under such circumstances, and off he dashed
at a speed that was perfectly uncontrollable by his driver, and which
would have been so even had he been a younger and stronger man.
Death, and a death the most dreadful, loomed before him and his little
daughter. When they should make the descent and reach the precipice,
nothing on earth could save them!
The ground beneath goes rushing past like a grey bewildering mist, the
bank at each side, with its greenery of ferns and its wild flowers
yellow and crimson, glides by like a lovely rainbow. Maggie May sits
quiet and pale, holding on to the side of the trap; Mackenzie himself
has almost ceased his futile endeavours to rein up, and abandoned
himself to fate, yet his lips are moving in prayer.
And now they are within a hundred--seventy--fifty yards of the dreaded
brae that has death at its foot.
Soon all will be over for ever and for aye.
* * * * *
But see, while still within thirty yards of the hill, a stalwart young
figure, who has been reading by the bush-side, takes cognisance of the
situation at a glance. He drops the book, and next moment has sprung
into the road.
Will he succeed in catching the reins? That is the momentous question.
And if he catches them, will all his young strength suffice to restrain
the speed of that equine demon? He has but a moment to brace himself for
action. Next instant he has sprung like catamount upon its prey.
Brave lad! The attempt so manfully made has succeeded. Yes, he is
successful, but the trap is overturned, and he himself has been dragged
and is sadly stunned.
What matters that? we may say. He has saved two precious lives, for both
Mackenzie and his little daughter are unhurt--intact.
But who is the hero? Who is this bold yet unfortunate stranger?
CHAPTER II
AT THE OLD FARM OF KILBUIE
The farm of Kilbuie was by no means of large dimensions, though it was a
farm, and not merely a croft. Nor was it, at the time our story
commences, in very flourishing conditions, for only one year ago more
than twenty head of fat cattle had been taken dead from the byres, a sad
and almost irreparable loss to honest Farmer M‘Crae, or “Kilbuie,” as he
was more often called, according to the custom of the country.
That last summer and autumn had been a disastrous one all through, for
besides the loss in fat cattle, a cow had succumbed in calving, a
splendid horse had died; then in the autumn, ere the corn was cut, but
when it was all ablaze and ready for the scythe, there had come a
terrible storm of wind and hail, and the destruction to the standing
crop was pitiable. There was lost at least as much seed as would have
sufficed to sow the ground twice over.
“The hand of the Lord is against me,” said the farmer sadly and piously.
And he tried to remember what sins he had been guilty of, that he might
“repent,” as he phrased it, in “sackcloth and ashes.”
But there were really many far worse and more wicked men in the world
than honest Farmer M‘Crae. He hadn’t a neighbour all around who would
not have trusted him with their uttermost farthing. Indeed, every
Friday, when he took his butter, eggs, and milk to the far-off city of
Aberdeen by train, to dispose of in the New Market, his neighbours sent
with him large sums of money to bank, and gave him many important
commissions besides.
Then, as far as the internal economy and discipline of the farm and
farm-steading were concerned, everything was as complete as could be
desired.
Kilbuie lay some miles from the river, well into the quiet, still,
beautiful country indeed, and at the foot of a highish hill, around
whose lower portions grew the golden furze and the bonnie yellow broom,
but on whose braes in autumn the heather bloomed purple and crimson. It
was a romantic kind of a spot, because there was also not far off a pine
wood of tall weird trees, branchless till near their summits, and with
no undergrowth, though the ground was soft carpeted with the withered
fir-needles of many a long year. This wood was dark even by daylight,
and gazing into it from the fields on a summer’s day gave one the idea
one was looking into some gloomsome pillared cave. This wood was the
home, _par excellence_, of the cushat or wild pigeon, whose mournful
croodling could be heard all day long. But here hares also dwelt, and
the cony had many a well-arranged and comfortable burrow. On the whole,
although the wood occupied more than a score of acres of the farm, it
paid its way after a fashion, for it required no cultivation, it
afforded excellent sport, and it kept the larder full when the purchase
of meat would have been entirely out of the question, for more reasons
than one.
The live stock and working plant of Kilbuie farm consisted of two pairs
of sturdy horses and an orra beast. There is no word in the English
language that could do duty for the term “orra.” An orra horse is one,
say, about thirteen or fourteen hands high, and perhaps half-blooded. He
is capable of doing duty either in a gig or a single harrow, or he will
pull a large roller; you can ride on him to church or market, mill or
smithy; and so long as he has enough to eat and drink, he is by no means
particular as to the quality. He will eat good oats with relish, but he
won’t refuse poor hay or even thistles, and I have known one drink sour
beer or butter-milk, and smack his lips after it. He is generally
good-natured and willing to do anything to oblige, and I do believe he
likes his orra life and his constant change of employment.
Well, as there was an orra beast or horse, so there also was an orra
man, and his were odd jobs also. To be sure, he did not milk the cows or
kye--the indoor servant lassie Jeannie did that--but he fed and attended
to them; he took them out in the morning and in at night, and he also
attended well to the orra horse, did work in the garden, ran errands,
and did everything he was told, like the willing and honest lad his
master called him. He was up with the lark in the morning, and in
summer-time to bed with the mavis at night.
His name was Geordie Black. But nobody ever thought of putting the Black
to his Christian name. Geordie was just Geordie to all and sundry, and
nothing more.
There being two pairs of horses, two horsemen were necessary. The first,
or best pair, was worked by a tall, hardy, and handsome young fellow, as
smart as some ancient Norseman, as tough as an old sea-king. He rejoiced
in the simple name of Jamie Duncan, and took the greatest pride possible
in his tall and handsome horses. He spared no pains in grooming them, so
that what with the brush and the currycomb, and an occasional wash,
there were no horses in all the countryside whose hides glittered and
glanced as did Jamie’s. When Jamie marched them to the distant smithy to
get their shoes seen to, riding sideways on one of them, and singing to
himself some old Scotch lilt, the animals elicited universal praise and
encomiums. Then Jamie was a happy man indeed.
Nearly all his spare time of an evening was devoted to cleaning the
harness of his pets, till the black became like polished jet, and the
brass like burnished gold.
Oh, I am not going to say that Jamie had not a sweetheart that he went
to see at times, but I do aver that not even for her did he ever
neglect the comfort of his horses.
Well, the other pair of horses were worked and seen to equally well by
the farmer’s only son, while the only daughter, a blithe and intelligent
lassie of sixteen, assisted her mother and Jeannie with the household
work, the making of butter and cheese, cooking and cleaning. Jeannie was
always cheerful, always merry, never frivolous. Like every one else in
this book, she is a character from the real life, and while writing
about her, I cannot possibly banish from my mind a bonnie old Scottish
song, one verse of which I may be allowed to give, because it paints
Jeannie herself. It is called--
THE NAMELESS LASSIE.
There’s nane may ever guess or tell
My bonnie lassie’s name;
There’s nane may ken the humble cot
My lassie ca’s her hame.
Yet, though my lassie’s nameless,
Her kin o’ low degree,
Her heart is warm, her thoughts are pure,
And oh! she’s dear to me!
The farm-steading of Kilbuie lay fully four miles back from the river,
into the interior of the wild and beautiful country, a country but
little known to the wandering Englishman, but romantic enough in all
conscience, and rendered famous if only from the fact that here Robert
the Bruce lay long in hiding before he made his grand and successful
attempt to secure his kingdom and free his land from the tyranny of the
Saxon invader. It is a country of hills and dells, of wood and water,
lochs and roaring streams; a country almost every acre of which has been
in days long gone by a battle-field; and hardly can you walk a mile here
without stumbling upon the ruins of some feudal castle. Could these
strongholds but speak, what tales we should have to listen to--tales
that would cause our very heart’s blood to tingle, and nervous cold to
run down our spines!
Although four miles from the river and about the same distance from a
railway station, the farm was not over a quarter of a mile from a main
road, being connected therewith by a level straight road, with a ditch
at each side, called the “long loanings.” On each side the fields, level
and green, were spread out, and all were surrounded by sturdy stone
fences called dikes. A dike in England means a ditch, in Scotland it
signifies a wall of loose stones--that is, stones built up without any
lime.
The fields around Kilbuie were not, however, all level. By no means.
There were hills on the farm so steep that it taxed all the ingenuity of
the men to plough or harrow them.
A word about the steading itself. There was in front the square-built
unpretentious square house, with bow windows below, and a good
old-fashioned garden in front, a garden in which grew vegetables of all
kinds, bar potatoes, and whose borders round about were filled with
gooseberry and rose trees time about, with fine old-fashioned flowers
between. Behind the house was the steading proper, and which was similar
to those we see in England, with one most important exception, a dirty
dunghill did not lie between the living house and the cattle houses.
This is an unsanitary arrangement never beheld in Scotland. Such places
are kept well away from the stable, byre, and dwelling-house.
It spoke well, I think, for Farmer M‘Crae’s kindliness of heart and
manner, that none of his servants had left him for the last four years,
nor were thinking of leaving him even now. You see, he never was a
tyrant, and he as often as not took Jamie into consultation before
carrying out any plan or beginning any new piece of work. Farmer M‘Crae
was not much over forty, though his son was eighteen. He had married
very young, but it seems never had had reason to repent it, for he was
always happy and cheerful, even in situations where other men might have
been much cast down, as during his recent terrible losses of cattle and
corn. There were just two things, however, that Kilbuie insisted on: one
was the presence of all the servants and family in the best room every
evening to family worship; a chapter read from the Book of Books; a
prayer and short dissertation from Norman Macleod’s book. That was all,
short and simple, and every one felt the better for it. The son’s name
was simple enough in all conscience. It was Sandie.
There were few more handsome lads in all the parish round than Sandie.
You might have taken him to be two-and-twenty from his build and general
deportment, and from the incipient whisker on his cheek and hair on his
upper lip. His cheeks and lips were the rosiest ever seen, while his
very blue eyes sparkled with ruddy health. Yet had he many ways that
might have been called almost childish.
That evening, for instance, before the accident to the minister’s trap,
Sandie entered the best room, where, near to the fire--the evenings are
cold even in May in the far north of Scotland--his gentle mother sat
knitting.
He took a low stool, and, seating himself by her knee, laid his head in
her lap.
He had a little book in his hand, a Latin classic, Virgil to wit; but
though his forefinger retained his place, he was not looking at it now.
He was gazing at the fire. He gazed thus for some time, while his mother
smoothed his brow with her soft hands.
“Is my laddie tired?”
“I dinna know, mother. Sometimes I’m happy and hopeful that I’ll take a
bursary,[2] at other times I’m dull and wae and think I won’t.”
“Weel, laddie, you maun keep up your heart and pray.”
“Oh, yes, of course, mother, but I must work as well as pray. I think
you’d better do the principal part of the praying, and I’ll do the work.
The Lord is more likely to listen to you, mother, than to sinful me.”
“Whisht! Sandie; whisht! laddie. But pray I do, mornin’, noon, and
nicht. Ay, and my boy is clever, too. I’ll hear him preachin’ yet in one
of the best pulpits in a’ broad Scotland. And oh! Sandie, that will be a
happy, happy day to me.”
The thoughts of it caused the tears to flow to the good lady’s eyes, and
a lump to rise in her throat that for the time being effectually
arrested speech.
“Well, mother, you see it’s like this. Work as I may, I come upon bits
o’ hitches here and there that I can’t get over. I have nobody to help
me, and can’t afford a tutor. Again, you see I have nobody else to
compare my knowledge with. In the parish of Drumlade here, our minister
is too old; I wouldn’t think of worrying him, and I don’t know Mackenzie
of Belhaven, though they do say he is very clever, and was in his day a
first bursar at King’s College in Auld Aberdeen.”
“Well, live in hope, my boy, and work awa’.”
“That is just what I mean to do.”
“And may be the Lord will raise you up a frien’.”
“Who can tell?”
Sandie was silent for a while. Then he raised himself up till his glance
could meet that of his mother.
“O mother, dear,” he said gleefully, “won’t it be nice when I’m a
minister, and when I get a call! It must be to some bonnie country
parish, mother. I couldn’t stand the noisy town. I must hear the wild
birds sing, see the wild flowers bloom, and listen to the winds sighing
through the pine-trees. I must be near a stream where on bonnie summer
evenings I can fish and read. My manse must be a bonnie one, too,
surrounded by trees and fine old-fashioned gardens. Mother, I already
can hear the church-bell ringing on the Sabbath morn, and I can see you
and father--for, of course, you both will live with me--coming arm in
arm through the auld kirkyard to the church-door, and slowly up the
passage to your pew beneath the pulpit stairs. Oh, it will be a happy
life! But now, mother, I’m off to my study, to struggle another hour or
two with Virgil. I’ll be in again in time for supper. Ta-ta, mother.”
And off strode Sandie, and his mother resumed her knitting, the tear,
however, still glancing in her eye.
CHAPTER III
THE PLOUGHMAN-STUDENT AT HOME
Sandie M‘Craw’s study was unique in its way. To get to it he had to
enter the stable first, then scramble up a straight ladder fastened
against the wall, and so through a trap-door. This landed him in a large
granary and straw loft. There was a window at the far end, and around
this window Sandie, with his own hands, had boarded off a portion about
ten feet square. Here were a table, a chair, and some rough
book-shelves, and this was Sandie’s study.
It was comfortable enough in summer nights, but when in winter the
window was banked high with snow, when the winds howled wild and drear
without, and the temperature had sunk almost to zero, then study in such
a room was something of a hardship.
But although night was really the only time Sandie had for study, he
never gave in. And in the darkest, dreariest nights of winter you might
have found him here, his bonnet pulled down over his ears, a Scottish
plaid rolled round his chest, and a horse-rug over his knees, deep in
the learned intricacies of Juvenal, Horace, Homer, or Livy, or
translating English into Latin and Greek, calm, sleepless, defiant of
Boreas or any wind whatever. And strangers passing along the high-road
at midnight, ay, or even long past that hour, would see the light
blinking from the little window, and know that Sandie M‘Crae, the
ploughman-student, as he was usually called, was hard at work.
It is not too much to say that Sandie was almost an enthusiast in his
studies, so no wonder he sat late, night after night, in that rustic
little chamber of his, where there was no sound to disturb him, save
outside, now and then, the barking of Tyro, the bawsent-faced collie, or
the crowing of some wakeful cock, and inside, beneath him, the
occasional sound of a horse’s hoof upon the brick floor. Yes, Sandie was
an enthusiast, and so the time glided very quickly by. The rolling
thunder-laden lines of Homer carried the lad quite away; the poems of
Horace, so full of scenes of country life, were music to his ear, the
Bucolics of Virgil brought before his mind’s eye such visions of rustic
beauty, of rural joys, as fairly dazzled his senses; while to him the
bonnie wee Greek songs of Anacreon gave a pleasure he could not well
define, except by saying that Anacreon was the Burns of Greece. But
Sandie revelled in History as well. He was with the Greeks in their
wondrous march as described by Xenophon; he went into raptures with the
soldiers when they saw the sea. Nor were the Romans forgotten. Livy was
an especial favourite with Sandie. Cæsar he considered too simple, but
Cicero, in his grand Orations, was truly a delight. And strangely
enough, while reading either Cicero or Livy, he could quite identify
himself with every scene that was spread out before him. He was no
longer sitting on a hard-bottomed chair by a rustic table in a grain
loft. No, he was in the midst of great, busy, bustling Rome. Blue skies
were shining over him, the green of the orange-tree was in every garden,
flowers and fruit were everywhere, while around him was a strangely
dressed multitude whose every attitude appealed to him. Or he would be
lounging in the baths or in the Forum, or in the great theatres, while
sometimes, sword in hand, he would be fighting by a bridge or on the
city walls. Is it any wonder, I ask, that the time glided quickly by
till Sandie’s immense great silver turnip of a watch warned him that it
was what Burns calls--
“The wee short hoor ayont the twal?”
Then what do you think my hero did? Well, he slowly closed his books to
begin with; then he reached him down a tiny New Testament which had been
translated into Greek. From this he read a chapter, then he quietly
knelt him down to pray. It is but fair to my hero to say that he was not
what might be called greedy or ambitious in his prayers. The part of the
Lord’s Prayer, for instance, which is most difficult of all for poor
mankind to pray, is that which says, “Thy will be done on earth.” But
Sandie had somehow mastered that, so that, in making his wishes known to
Heaven, just as a child does and ought to, to its earthly father, this
earnest student never forgot to append the words, “if it be for my
good.” So might Heaven bless his one grand ambition to become a
clergyman in the Church of Scotland.
He could not conceal from himself, however, what a dark and troublesome
ocean there was to navigate before ever he could reach the goal he had
set his face towards. Sometimes his heart would sink with doubts and
fears as he thought of the little likelihood there was of his being
successful. He was positively almost penniless, and he had never a
friend in all the wide, wide world, even had he not been too proud to
accept pecuniary assistance, while his parents were far too poor to
assist him. No, it must be bursary or not bursary--bursary or utter
failure.
After Sandie had said his prayers, he lit his lantern, blew out his oil
lamp, and started for the house. Tyro, the dear kind-hearted collie,
always met him at the stable door, and always insisted on dancing a
ram-reel with him before permitting him to go. But ten minutes after
this ram-reel, poor Sandie M‘Crae was sleeping the sleep of the tired
and weary. This ploughman-student possessed, however, wonderful
recuperative powers, for he always awakened by eight o’clock, feeling as
fresh as a mountain trout, to begin the hard day’s manual labour on the
farm.
I should say he _was_ awakened every morning, and by no less a personage
than Tyro, the beautiful and wise collie. Exactly at a quarter to eight
every morning, this doggie used to run feathering up the stairs, open
his master’s door with a bang, and arouse him by licking his cheek and
ear with soft, warm, loving tongue. There was a stream ran by at no
great distance from the house, and in the stream a deep brown pool, or
pot, as it is called in Scotland. Into this, winter or summer, all the
long year through, Sandie and Tyro plunged, revelled for a few minutes,
and then would Sandie dry himself and dress.
Breakfast would be eaten--porridge, that blithesome Jeannie knew so well
how to make, and bread and milk to follow. No, no tea; Sandie cared but
little for it, and was glad of this, for he knew it affected the nerves
and produced sleeplessness. Why, tea-drinking might really ruin all his
prospects!
* * * * *
On that beautiful morning in May described in my first chapter, Sandie
had an errand to a distant mill by the Donside. There was no great
hurry; the work on the farm was somewhat slack at present; ploughing was
of course all over, the potatoes had been planted a month ago, and were
peeping blue and green above the drills, and even turnip-sowing had been
finished, and the young leaflets were already appearing in long lines of
emerald along the centre of the flattened ridges. It was the horses’
holiday season, and Sandie wouldn’t have taken even Lord Raglan, the
orra beast, away from the delights of that beautiful meadow, where all
five of them waded pastern-deep in the richest grass and whitest of
white clover, pausing now and then in the act of eating to stand neck to
neck and nibble each other’s shoulders.
No, Sandie would walk--he would dawdle along the road, and enjoy the
sight of all the happy creatures he might see on every side of him,
trees and birds and flowers, and even the shoals of minnows that
wantoned and gambolled in the sunlit pools, or the blithe little frogs
that leapt lightly through the still dewy grass. But Sandie took a
companion with him--a companion, too, well suited for just such a day as
this--and that companion was his good friend Horace, who had been to him
a solace many a day and many a year.
There was one particular poem that struck Sandie as very beautiful and
true to nature. In order to enjoy it more thoroughly, he had seated
himself on a bank under the shade of a silver birch. He was now on the
main road, and not a very long way from the mill. While still reading,
there had fallen upon his ears the rapid rattling of a swiftly advancing
trap, and the sound of a horse’s hoofs coming onwards at full gallop.
Sandie took in the situation at a glance. He knew the extreme danger of
the hill and the precipice, and resolved to act on the spur of the
moment, even although it was at the risk of his own life.
How bravely and how well he acted we already know, and we also know how
successful he was, though, alas! so sadly stunned and wounded.
Luckily, while Larnie was still plunging on the ground, the minister
sitting on his head, and poor Sandie lying so stark and still, two
countrymen came up. The trap and pony, from whom now all spunk had clean
gone, were righted, and Larnie’s head turned homewards.
Sandie was got on board and made as easy as possible, and a doctor being
sent for, Larnie was driven slowly homewards.
The ploughman-student never spoke, but he was breathing.
Mackenzie had bound up his wounded head with his own and Maggie May’s
handkerchiefs, and the bleeding was in a measure staunched,
* * * * *
“Mother, mother, where am I?”
It was the first words Sandie had spoken for a long weary week. It was
the first time he had opened his eyes.
“Where am I?”
He well might ask this. He was in a room which, as far as beauty of
furnishing went, was as unlike his own little bed-closet as Paradise
might be supposed to be unlike a kitchen garden. The prettily dressed
mantelpiece, the cheerful paper on the walls, the mirrors, the brackets,
the pictures and flowers, all combined to cause Sandie to think he was
in a dream.
Besides, by the window-side, sewing some white seam, sat a beautiful
child, that Sandie thought must be a fairy.
But his own mother was not far away; she was seated knitting near his
pillow.
“The Lord’s name be praised,” she said fervently. “He has heard my
prayer, and my laddie will live. But ye maunna speak, my dearie, ye
maunna talk. The doctor says, ‘No.’ And the doctor kens best.”
“But, mother, one question: What has happened?”
Little Maggie May now dropped her white seam and advanced towards the
bed.
The tears were chasing each other adown the child’s face.
“Larnie, our pony, ran off,” she said simply; “father was driving, but
couldn’t hold him. We were close to Cauldron Hill, and would all have
been killed; but you jumped up and catched the bridle and stopped us.
Only you got hurt. Father says God sent you, you dear, dear boy.”
Sandie did not speak for a few moments. He had but little breath.
“I think,” he said, “that God must have sent me. But don’t cry, because
I’ll soon get better.”
“It is--it is--for joy I’m crying now.”
“What is your name, child?”
“My name is Maggie May. But I’m not a child.”
“Well, when I opened my eyes I took you for a fairy, and----”
What more he would have said may never be known, for just then the
doctor entered the room. He smiled to find Sandie awake, re-dressed his
wounds, then gave him a draught, and commanded silence.
The fairy went back to her white seam; Mrs. M‘Crae once more took up her
knitting; Sandie’s eyelids began to droop; wave after wave of sleep
appeared to roll up and over his brain, and soon he was once more in the
land of forgetfulness.
CHAPTER IV
_AN IDYLLIC LIFE_
When Sandie awoke again, he felt so much fresher, lightsomer, and
better, and was admitted by the doctor to be so far recovered that he
was permitted to sit up a little and engage in conversation with his
mother and gentle little nurse, Maggie May.
The latter interested Sandie very much indeed. He had never before seen
a child-girl half so lovely. To him she was idyllic, a poem, a
dream-child. It seemed to this romantic ploughboy-student as if Maggie
May--what a sweet name, too!--had flown straight out from the pages of
Anacreon.
Of course there may have been a good deal of super-sentimentality about
all this, for the mind is always more sensitive when the body is feeble
and weak; and weak Sandie still was, and would be for many a day.
However, it may be confessed, before we go any farther, that Maggie May
was an innocent, artless, and a very beautiful child.
I have myself an opinion that no girl can be really beautiful who is not
truly good, whose heart is not imbued with religion and in touch with
nature. If the soul, in all truthfulness, does not shine through the
eyes, be they brown or be they blue, then, ah! me, beauty is far, far
away. And yet many girls now-a-days think that the more closely they
approach in figure, face, and complexion to the waxen dummies we see in
the windows of hairdressers the prettier they must be. A greater mistake
could not be made. Let me say earnestly to every girl who may read these
lines, “Cultivate mind and soul if you wish to become beautiful.”
This is a digression, and I apologise for it, and proceed with my true
story.
A day or two afterwards, Sandie’s sister came over to the manse, and the
mother went home.
Maggie May and she soon became fast friends, and together it was evident
they would soon nurse Sandie back to life.
Maggie May possessed a zither, on which, for so young a girl, she played
charmingly, singing thereto old Scotch songs, such as “The Flowers of
the Forest,” “The Parting,” “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie,” and other
Jacobite lilts, that caused the tears to come welling up into Sandie’s
eyes till he could see nothing for the mist they produced; for Sandie
was still very weak and hysterical.
The minister came daily, twice a day, to see the patient. One day he
brought Sandie’s Horace.
“Do you mean to tell me, Sandie,” said the minister, “that you read
Latin?”
“Oh, yes, just a little. And a little Greek,” he added.
Mackenzie patted his thin white hand, and looked wonderingly down into
his pinched and worn face.
From that moment Sandie knew he had found a friend.
Then he told him all--all his ambitions, all his struggles, and all his
doubts and fears.
Mackenzie was silent for a time after he had ceased speaking. Then he
took Sandie’s hand in his. “Listen!” he said. “I was a bursar at my
University, or I would not be where I am now, for my people were only
fisher-folks at Peterhead. I was a bursar, and I have ever since kept up
my classics. Now, I can put you in the way of working up for the Grand
Competition at the end of October, if you care to come over here about
twice or thrice a week.”
Once more came that wildering mist of tears to Sandie’s weak eyes. “The
Lord be praised and you be thanked,” he said, pressing Mackenzie’s hand.
“He has raised me up a friend, and I am more happy now and hopeful than
I have ever been in life.”
For another whole week Sandie was still so weak as to be unable to leave
his room; then he was able to totter out into the minister’s garden, and
seat himself on the summer-seat, in the warm spring sunshine, in the
healthful bracing breath of the sweetest month in all the year.
Maggie May went with him, and sat near him, and read to him little
stories, in which he pretended to take great interest, though it really
was the story-teller, not the story, he was studying all the time. Soon
after his first out-going, young blood began to assert itself, and he
somehow felt ashamed of being ill or a patient. He was getting rapidly
stronger, at all events, and one morning announced his intention of
going home. The minister knew it would be useless to argue with him.
Genius is wilful, and there was every probability even now that Sandie
would eventually prove that he possessed genius. “What is genius after
all,” said somebody, or words to this effect, “but the capability of
plodding and steady work?” I am certainly not prepared to agree with
this. Genius depends greatly on brain power and brain formation. I never
would expect much except a grunt from a sow, however much she applied
herself to study.
Sandie went home. The spring and merry May were now almost gone. The joy
of June would soon be here. The men, and even Jeannie, the simple
servant lassie, were busily engaged thinning the young turnips. As
Sandie drove slowly down the loanings in the gig, he could hear their
merry voices as they talked and laughed, with now and then Jeannie’s
gentle voice raised in song, to which Jamie appended a deep broad bass.
The horses were still in the fields as he had seen them last--Glancer
nibbling the shoulder of Tippet, Tippet nibbling that of Glancer, the
best proof one horse can give his fellow that he loves and respects him.
The banks by the dike and ditch-sides were now all ablaze with the most
charming wild-flowers. I might be accused of making copy were I to
mention the half of them; but on the water itself floated the spotlessly
white water-anemone and the wild forget-me-not. On the banks near by
nodded the crimson ragged-robin and blood-red selené. They seemed to be
looking at and admiring their own sweet faces reflected from the pools
beneath. But the banks were also patched with sky-blue speedwells,
starred over with great, solemn-looking, oxeye daisies, and backed by a
profusion of the tall and lordly purple orchis.
Sandie took all this in at a glance. His own humble home was the chief
part of the picture before him; the banks of wild-flowers, and the clear
flowing wee burns or streamlets, were but settings.
His doctor had warned him that he must not use his study for some days
to come. Sandie had promised, and he determined to obey. Well, he could
not work just yet, so he determined to fall back upon Robbie Burns and
Anacreon. With a volume of each in his pocket, he went to the fields
every day, and just dawdled along behind the workers, the rooks in turn
following up at a respectful distance behind all. Sandie read to the
workers, and read so pleasantly, that one moment he would have all hands
laughing enough to scare the very rooks, and next the men-folks looking
solemn and sad, and the salt, salt tear in Jeannie’s eyes. Dear me! what
a power there is in poetry and song when it is well and feelingly read!
Somehow I cannot help thinking that, to read poetry well, the reader
himself must be possessed of a portion of the divine afflatus.
“Well, mother,” said Sandie one evening, just after June had come in,
“I’ve made up my mind to go in for the bursary competition in the end of
October. I can but fail.”
“You winna fail, laddie. I’ll pray.”
“Ah! mother, prayer is only one thing. I’m going to work.”
“You winna kill yoursel’?”
“No fears, mother. Honest work never killed anybody, though the hoofs of
a daft Shetland pony skilfully applied might. No; I’m going to work,
mother mine, and go over twice a week to see Minister Mackenzie. It
really is good of him to promise to put me on the straight road, isn’t
it?”
“It is, laddie. It was mebbe all for the best that the pony hurt you.”
“I think it was.”
“God moves in a mysterious way, Sandie.”
“He does, mother; but now there is something else worrying me. Should I
succeed in getting a bursary, that, with the addition of a little
pupil-teaching, will be enough to support me, won’t father miss my work
very much all winter?”
“We maun do the best we can, laddie; that maunna stand in the way o’
your advancement. Na, na, Sandie; banish a’ sich thochts frae your
heid.”
“Weel then, mother, I’ll make my first run over to the minister’s
to-morrow, and to save time I’ll ride on Lord Raglan. He’ll be turned
into one of Mackenzie’s fields till I’m ready to come back.”
* * * * *
That was one of the most pleasant day’s outings that ever Sandie had
had, and there were many such to follow during the long sweet summer
days.
Mackenzie was simply astonished at the amount of the lad’s erudition.
He, however, managed to put him right in many little things; that is,
there were subjects that Sandie had been studying, and studying hard
too, which would not be required of him while competing for a bursary.
It would be obviously worse than useless to continue with these. So the
minister was of real service to our ploughboy-student.
But Mackenzie was wise in his day and generation. No one knew better
than he that a brain kept constantly on the rack soon becomes a weakened
brain, and that poverty of blood and body follows. So on the days when
Sandie came over to the manse, the kindly minister just granted him
three hours of tuition in the forenoon; then came luncheon, and after
that he was sent off to fish. On these little piscatorial forays,
Sandie’s constant companion was little Maggie May. None knew better than
she where the best
[Illustration: “HE WANTED TO WATCH MAGGIE MAY”--_Page 37._]
and biggest mountain trout lay, or where to use fly and where to fish
with bait; and her knowledge she invariably communicated to her big
companion. And he--well, he never had been very much of a fisherman, but
now it seemed to him that he was less artistic than ever. If the truth
must be told, he could not do so much as he could have wished, because
he wanted to watch Maggie May. There was something in every look and
movement of this beautiful child, and in her innocent prattle as well,
that drew Sandie irresistibly towards her. To his way of thinking she
was idyllic.
Was he falling in love with the bonnie bairn? Oh, I do not wish for a
single moment to suggest anything of the sort; only be it remembered
that Sandie really was a poet at heart, and that poets love all things
lovely that they see around them.
Towards six o’clock sport always ended, and with their bags on their
backs, and fishing-rods over their shoulders, they went together slowly
back to the manse.
Dinner followed. Mackenzie would always insist on his pupil staying to
dinner. Then, in the calm summer’s gloaming, Sandie would bid his
friends adieu, mount Lord Raglan, and ride slowly home. Mrs. M‘Crae and
his father invariably sat up for him, and he had always much that was
hopeful to tell them. But he must even yet spend a few hours in his
study; for, pleasant though they were, Sandie could not help looking
upon those fishing excursions as so much time wasted or thrown away.
Therefore he resorted to his rustic study in the corn loft, and there he
would sometimes sit till grey daylight in the morning. This at the
summer’s height is not necessarily very late, for, far away north in
Aberdeenshire, about mid-summer, there is really very little darkness.
But never, I ween, did sleeper sleep more sweetly than did Sandie when
his head was at last on the pillow. Slumber stole over his
senses--immediate, instantaneous--and he never awoke until Tyro the
collie put his paws on the bed and licked his ear; and thus for the
present was his life almost an idyllic one. Alas! this is a kind of life
that does not last long with any one in this weary world.
CHAPTER V
_SORROW NEVER COMES SINGLY--CHRIST-LIKE CHRISTIANITY_
I don’t think there is a more truthful aphorism in our language than
that which tells us that sorrows seldom come singly.
Fortune or fate had dealt so very hardly with honest Farmer Kilbuie last
season, that he might reasonably have expected now some surcease of
sorrow--a respite, if not indeed a flow of good luck. Alas! it was
otherwise.
The turnips had been thinned and earthed up--they were already beginning
to cover the drills--and the haymaking season was in full blow. It was
hot sunshine now every day, with now and then a gentle breeze blowing
from westward or south, a breeze that blew through the tossed and
tumbled hay and made and “won” it.
There was still a good deal to cut down, however, and Sandie himself was
walking behind the reaping-machine with the great horse Glancer
dragging. This machine not only cut the hay, but tossed it into wreaths.
Sandie didn’t look particularly like a student or genius at present. He
wore little save a blue checked shirt, his trousers, and a wide-brimmed
straw hat, inside which was a cabbage leaf as a security against
sunstroke.
The mowing went merrily on.
In another part of the field the servants, with Mr. M‘Crae himself, were
busily and cheerfully engaged among the hay that had been cut down
yesterday, and which was already dry enough to put into “cocks” or
“coles.”
Sandie was just about half-way down a ridge, when he pulled up to wipe
his wet perspiring brow. Just at that moment Glancer threw up his head
and emitted a kind of pained and stifled cry. He reeled for a moment,
then fell heavily on his side. _Coup de soleil_, or sunstroke, without a
shadow of doubt.
Mr. M‘Crae and the servants saw the poor horse fall, and hurried at once
to Sandie’s assistance. At first an attempt was made to raise the
animal, but this was found impossible; the neck drooped, the legs were
paralysed. M‘Crae had always been his own veterinary surgeon, and
perhaps knew quite as much about the ailments of cattle and horses as
did the drunken little smith and farrier who lived in the neighbouring
village. So Glancer’s harness was unloosened, a bundle of soft dry hay
was placed under his head, and a canvas shelter was erected to save him
from the burning rays of the sun. His poor head, too, was kept
constantly wet with the coldest of water, and now and then his tongue
was pulled to one side, and a cooling draught administered.
Sandie and Jamie never left him all that day; Jeannie brought their
dinner out to the field, and their supper also, and they ate it beside
the dying Glancer.
Poor Tyro, the collie, seemed to know he was in the presence of death.
He sat or lay, though not asleep, near to the horse till the end, often
heaving deep sighs, for the farm nags were all special favourites of
his.
Tyro really was a faithful and kind-hearted dog. I need not tell the
reader he was wise, because he was a Scottish collie, and collies are
the kings of the race canine. Yes, he was loving and gentle, and he was
an excellent guard by night. Once upon a time he surprised a
hawker-tramp robbing the fowl-house. Tyro did not fly at the man and
bite him, as a less sensible dog would have done. No, he simply placed
that fowl-house, with the itinerant hardware merchant inside, in a state
of siege.
“If you dare to come out,” Tyro told him, “I will cut your throat, as
certain as sunrise.”
So the unhappy man preferred capture to a cut throat; and when M‘Crae
came round in the grey dawn, he found the tramp, and in due course he
was landed in prison.
But in the interests of truth, I must state here that Tyro had one
fault, and a very sad one it was. In company with another dog, a
smooth-coated cross ’twixt a greyhound and collie, he used in the season
to go hunting the turnip-fields for hares or rabbits. They worked very
systematically, Spot going into the field to start the game and chase it
towards the gate, where Tyro lay in wait to seize and kill it. In this
way they sometimes laid dead as many as six or eight hares a night,
bringing home one each in the grey of the morn, and hiding the others to
be recovered by degrees.
Tyro had even been accused of sheep-killing, but the crime was brought
home to another dog, and Tyro left without a stain on his character.
Just as the sun had dipped behind the wooded hills of the west, and
gloaming shadows began to fill up the hollows, it was evident that great
Glancer’s minutes were numbered. The fast glazing eye and the stertorous
breathing told the watchers that. Soon after, he had a few fits of
shivering, one last long sigh, and then he lay still--all was over.
Jamie Duncan had kept up till now, but when he heard that sigh, and knew
the horse was dead, he lost all control over himself, and threw himself
on the body in a paroxysm of grief and tears.
You must remember he was an illiterate ploughman, reader.
“O Glancer, Glancer!” he cried; “oh! my poor dead friend Glancer, will I
never mair clean your harness, or lead you to the fields in the
mornin’? O Glancer, my heart is br’akin’! my heart is br’akin’!”
And so he kept on for a time, until Sandie insisted on leading him
homewards.
But Jamie wasn’t well for days.
The next death at Kilbuie occurred about two weeks after this, and
affected Mrs. M‘Crae and her two children more than any one else. It was
that of Crummie, a cow nearly fifteen years old, but yet in calf. She
took what is called the “quarter-ill,” or mortification of one joint or
limb, and quickly succumbed. There was a halo of romance about this wise
old cow. Like the bovine in the old Scotch song called “Tak’ your auld
cloak about you”--
“Crummie was a usefu’ coo,
And aft she wet the bairnie’s mou’.”
Ah! that was just where the sorrow came in. Long, long ago, when Sandie
and Elsie were but toddling thingies, in the bright and early days of
her husband’s love, when all was hope and happiness about the smiling
farm, and sorrow seemed very far away indeed, that old-fashioned cow had
given the milk for the bairnies’ porridge, and the cream for butter.
During all these long years she had kept the same stall in the byre, and
woe be to any other cow beast that thoughtlessly dared to enter it. The
retribution was sharp and swift.
Hardly ever a day passed either that, before going to her stall, after
having been out for water or away in the green fields, Crummie did not
come to the back door and knock with her head, and Mrs. M‘Crae, or
Jeannie latterly, would present her with a nice piece of oat-cake, after
which she would gracefully retire, that is as gracefully as a cow can,
walking backwards a considerable way, as if she had been in the presence
of royalty.
But now Crummie was “nae mair,” as Jeannie phrased it, and the bairns
and the mother were inconsolable.
In a week more the calf would have been born. As it was, its skin was
utilised. There is a curious but rather beautiful superstition away in
northern Aberdeenshire, namely, that the very large family or hall Bible
should be covered with the skin of a calf that has never been born. So
poor Crummie’s calf’s skin was used by M‘Crae to cover his great Brown’s
Bible.
* * * * *
Now I must tell you that Kilbuie was very much respected and beloved by
the neighbouring farmers. For Kilbuie was a farmer, and not an upstart.
He had been among them all his life. His father, too, had farmed Kilbuie
before him. Had M‘Crae been a shopkeeper or sailor turned farmer, they
would have left him severely alone. They were clannish.
Well, one evening there was a secret meeting of these farmer folks in
the little village school-house. It was a secret meeting, but they
weren’t plotting to blow up the manse with dynamite, or set the old
town-hall in a blaze. No, and the result of the secret meeting one day
about a week after walked down the long loaning towards Kilbuie, in the
shape of a fine sturdy young cart-horse, as like Glancer as possibly
could be. He was, as may be guessed, a gift to the unfortunate M‘Crae
from his kindly neighbours. To refuse would have been to offend. So what
could he do but accept, to thank and bless them? The neighbours’
kindness did not end here. They had heard that Sandie M‘Crae meant to
compete for a bursary, and, after taking his Master or Bachelor of Arts
degree, study for the ministry. Well, it occurred to them that, one way
or another, Kilbuie would be rather short handed for the ensuing
harvest, that is, if Sandie was going to get anything like fair play,
and be allowed to make preparations for the competition; so they
determined to give Kilbuie a love-darg, not only for the harvest, but
with the subsequent ploughing.
In case there may be some readers of mine in the far south who do not
know what a love-darg means, I must explain. I have said already that
the farmers of the North are clannish. Well, it often occurs that when,
through misfortune, one of their number falls behind-hand, say in the
ploughing, the neighbours all assemble in force with horses and ploughs,
and in one day turn over every yard of his stubble or leas; or in the
same way they may sow his oats in spring, or reap them for him in
harvest-time.
Surely this is genuine and Christlike Christianity!
They did not, however, communicate their intention to the farmer
himself, but to Sandie they did. Sandie’s eyes sparkled with joy.
“Hurrah!” he cried, “the bursary is as good as won. How can I thank you,
gentlemen?”
“By no thankin’ us at a’,” returned Farmer Mon’ Blairie, the spokesman.
“Man!” he added, “we’re a’ as prood o’ ye, lad, as prood can be. We’d
like to hae a minister reared frae among oursels, and we’ll hae you.”
“I hope so.”
“Weel, keep up a good heart. Ye can study a’ the hairst.”
“I’m going to do something else besides.”
“Weel?”
“Ye see, if I can manage to get just one month at the Grammar School of
Aberdeen before the competition, it will ensure my success.”
“To be sure; weel?”
“Weel, by the merest chance yesterday I met Lord Hamilton at the
minister’s manse. He was having lunch there. He was bemoaning the fact
that when the grouse-shooting began on the Twelfth, he should not have a
single keeper who thoroughly knew the hills. Then a happy thought
occurred to me, and something made me speak.
“‘My lord,’ I said, smiling, ‘there isn’t a corrie nor a knowe, a height
nor a howe, all over these hills that I haven’t known since my
childhood; will you accept my services as your head-keeper? I’ll serve
you well and faithfully till past the middle of September.’
“‘But you,’ cried his lordship, laughing, ‘the minister’s friend and a
farmer’s son! I should never think of offering you a post so menial. Oh!
no, boy; you must be joking.’
“‘But I’m not joking,’ I insisted.
“Then I told him all the truth, and all my ambition to win a bursary and
to study for the ministry, and to do all and everything by my own
exertions entirely.
“He smiled once more; then he stretched out his soft white hand and
grasped mine.
“‘Sandie M‘Crae,’ he said, ‘I admire your pluck; you’re a Scotsman every
inch. Yes, I accept your services. Be at the shooting-box the day before
the Twelfth.’”
* * * * *
The Twelfth of August--that glorious day on Scottish hills--came round
at last, and Sandie found himself starting off to the heather with Lord
Hamilton and party long before sunrise. There was to be no battue
shooting, none of that unfair driving so common in Yorkshire: each man
walked behind his well-trained setter and retriever. This was real
sport, and gave the birds a chance, as well as showing what kind of a
shot each man was.
Sandie attended personally on Lord Hamilton, and gave such entire
satisfaction that his lordship was loud in his praises at eventide, when
he found his bag so large that two ordinary keepers were needed to carry
it.
There was a great dinner-party that day in the shooting-box, and wine
and wit sparkled bright and merrily; but Sandie, as soon as he had dined
sumptuously in the kitchen with the other keepers, begged leave to
retire, and sought the solitude of his little bedroom, where his books
were, there to study as usual till far into the night.
He was up and ready for Lord Hamilton, however, some time before that
gentleman appeared, and another excellent day on the hill succeeded.
Well, why need I say more about it? Each day was like another, and so
the time flew on, only Sandie grew every day more brown and hard, till
at the end of the six weeks he left Lord Hamilton’s service as happy as
a king, with his lordship’s words of praise ringing in his head, and
quite enough money jingling in his pocket to maintain him for a whole
month and a week at the Grammar School.
CHAPTER VI
_SMASHING A BULLY--GENTLE WILLIE MUNRO_
A low large squat building, with an iron-railed quad, a building with
two wings in front and two running out behind, abutting on to the
grounds of the Gordon Hospital or Sillerton Boys’ School, such was the
old Grammar School of Aberdeen, which has given literary birth to so
many men of eminence, including the great poet Lord Byron himself.
On the top of the main hall this seminary had a little belfry, in which
was a little bell, which it was the duty of old John the porter to ring
at stated hours every day, in order to call the noisy students to study
and to work.
* * * * *
At eight o’clock on a dull September evening Sandie M‘Crae was trudging
along one of the best terraces in the west end of the Granite City. The
lamps were bright enough surely, and the houses were as white as the
driven snow. Yet Sandie had some difficulty in finding a certain number.
By the help of a Herculean policeman he was successful at last, however,
and trotting up the steps, he knocked modestly at the door. His own
heart was beating at that moment far more vehemently than any
door-knocker could have done. The next half-hour would be big with his
fate.
Was Mr. Geddes,[3] Rector of the Grammar School, in, and could he see
him?
These were the questions he put to the neat-fingered Phyllis, who held
the door a little open, and peeped round the edge of it.
She would see in a moment. What name?
Alexander M‘Crae of Kilbuie.
Nanny returned in half a minute.
Then Sandie was admitted, and ushered into a room in which he could hear
a voice wishing him good evening, but could see nothing save the glimmer
of the gas-light and the hazy flicker of the fire. The whole room was
filled with tobacco-smoke as with a dense cloud.
“Nanny, show the young gentleman into the drawing-room,” said the
Rector; and next minute Sandie found himself in a cool and pleasant room
indeed, a great portion of whose furniture was books--poets, novelists,
theologians, historians, all sorts and in all tongues apparently.
And now there entered the Rector himself, and Sandie stood up to greet
him, but was waved back to his seat. The Rector took a seat very close
to him, as if to read his every thought.
“I await your pleasure,” said Rector Geddes.
Then Sandie opened fire and told him he desired to take a month or six
weeks at the Grammar School, if he might do so previous to the annual
competition for bursaries.
The Rector at this time was a young man of probably not more than
seven-and-twenty, tall, very dark in hair, and with cheeks as rosy as
those of a ploughboy. He looked Sandie up and down before he replied; he
even scanned his boots, and doubtless noted that the legs of his
well-worn trousers were hardly long enough to meet the boots, thus
showing a considerable expanse of blue ribbed stockings.
“No doubt,” he said at last, “you have been at the best parish schools?”
“With the exception of a few lessons, sir, given me by the Rev. D.
Mackenzie of Belhaven, within the last few months, I am entirely
self-taught.”
“You are ambitious, young sir.” Geddes was smiling now.
“I am, sir, and I am something else.”
“And that is?”
“Hopeful.”
“Well, I shall be the last to throw cold water over those hopes. On the
one hand, I shall not extinguish them; on the other, I should be the
last to fan them into a blaze if they are false. I shall now,” he added,
“see what you can do. Shall I try you with Cæsar?”
“No, please, I hate it. It is only fit for babies.”
“_Omne Gallia divisa est in partes tres!_ ha! ha! ha!”
And Sandie burst out laughing.
The Rector joined him right merrily.
“No,” continued Sandie, “let me try Livy and Cicero and Virgil, with
Horace, Homer, Anacreon, and Juvenal.”
The Rector got up from his seat and left the room. Presently he
returned, carrying a whole pile of books, and next half-hour flew by on
the wings of the wind, apparently so busy was Sandie, reading and
translating passages from his favourite authors.
The Rector was delighted, astonished; and when he learned that all day
long this lad worked as a farm-labourer, studying only in the evenings
and at night, he marvelled still more.
“Will I do?” said Sandie at last. “Have I a chance?”
His whole soul seemed to go out with these two simple questions; his
whole happiness hung on the answer thereto.
That answer was forthcoming at once.
“Do!” said the Rector, “yes, my dear boy, you’ll do. Yours is more than
a chance; it is all but a certainty of success. You will, I feel
convinced, reap the guerdon of all your long and weary nocturnal
studies, and that right soon. But,” he added, “you are not a solitary
example of the indomitable energy and perseverance of the Northern
Scottish student. You are not the only ploughman-student. Every year we
have them. They come from the lowliest of Lowland hamlets and crofters’
cottages, and from the meanest of little Highland huts and shielings.
Their mind is in their work. They live apparently on the wind, but night
and day they study, and at the end of the curriculum go out into the
world an honour and a glory to themselves, and to our great Northern
University.
“But now, Mr. M‘Crae, you’ll lose no time. You will come to-morrow. It
is version or translation day. Seat yourself at the bottom of the lowest
faction, and next morning, when the versions have been examined, you
will find your level.”
When Sandie walked homewards that evening, after this memorable
interview with the Rector, he felt as if he was treading the air instead
of the hard granite streets. He had found himself a lodging in Union
Terrace, an attic three storeys high above the street, and which he was
to share with a bank-clerk, each paying the modest sum of three
shillings, which would include cooking and attendance. The clerk was a
modest and retiring young man, but he showed great interest in Sandie’s
welfare, and was delighted to hear the result of the interview with the
Rector.
Next morning Sandie was early at the Grammar School. He stood modestly
in a corner of the quad until such time as the door should be opened by
the porter, John. This functionary presently presented himself before
Sandie, where he stood for a few moments smiling but silent; then he
took a large pinch of snuff, and handed the sneeshin mull to Sandie.
“A stranger, aren’t you?”
“I am that.”
“Well, I’m going to give ye a bit o’ advice.” The old man’s bright eyes
sparkled as he spoke, and his rosy cheeks seemed to grow rosier. “The
boys,” he said, “will tease you for a bit, but don’t you take any notice
of them. There is nothing really bad at their hearts.”
“Thank you,” said Sandie; “I’ll try to take your advice.”
By-and-bye the young men began to arrive in swarms, and Sandie at once
became the centre of attraction. It must be confessed that Sandie’s
clothes, if not decidedly countrified, were not over fashionable.
“Hullo, Geordie,” cried one fellow, rushing up and seizing Sandie by the
hand; “man, I’m awfu’ glaid to see you.”
“And hoo’s the taties and neeps?” cried another.
Sandie answered never a word.
“Man, Geordie Muckiefoot, do you think ye can manage to do a version?”
“Can you conjugate _amo_, Geordie? Ye ken hoo it goes: _Amo_, _amas_, I
love a lass; _amas_, _amat_, she lived in a flat, and so on?”
“But I say, Geordie Muckiefoot,” cried a taller fellow, coming forward
and throwing himself into a pugilistic attitude before Sandie--squaring
up, as it is called--“can ye fecht? Losh! I’m spoilin’ for a fecht.”
“I can’t fight, and I won’t fight,” said Sandie; “I’d rather be friends
with you.”
“Rather run a mile than fecht a minute, eh? Weel, weel, dinna fash your
fins; I wadna like to hurt ye, Geordie Muckiefoot.”
This hulking lad, it may be as well to state, was the bully of the
school, and all had to lower their flag to him. He changed his tactics
now to tactics more tantalising.
“And foo (how) did ye leave a’ at hame?” he asked. “Foo is your big fat
mither, and your sister, muckle-moo’d Meg?”
Sandie’s face grew crimson with rage.
“Stop just right there,” he cried; “you may insult me as much as you
like, but you shall leave my dear mother and sister alone.”
“Bravo!” cried several students.
But the bully didn’t mean to be put back. He threw off his jacket, and
advanced once more in a threatening attitude, and once more launched an
insult at Sandie’s sister.
Off came the ploughman-student’s coat, and in half-a-minute more the
bully was lying in the quad, breathless, and bleeding from nose and eye.
But he hadn’t quite enough. He rallied, and once again came on like
death.
And now Sandie got his head in chancery, and simply made what is called
a mummy of the fellow. When our hero let him go, he dropped down on the
gravel as limp and “dweeble” as bath-towel, and the rest of the students
crowded round the victor to wish him luck, and bid him welcome to the
Grammar School. Fraser, the bully, they said, richly deserved what he
had gotten, and he, Sandie M‘Crae, had emancipated the whole school.
Just then the bell began to ring, and presently Rector Geddes himself
walked up to the hall-door. He walked with a slight studious stoop.
Whether or not he saw Fraser doubled up there like an old dishcloth may
never be known; at all events, he took no notice.
Sandie said that he quite reciprocated the good feeling of the lads, and
hoped they would all be friends henceforward. Then he went quietly in
with his burden of books, and seated himself at the very bottom of the
lowest faction. Here Lord Byron’s name was cut out in the desk; it had
been carved by his own hand, and the lads who occupied this faction
pointed to it with no little pride. They were a merry lot in this
corner, and laughed and talked instead of paying any attention to what
the Rector was saying.
“You’ll be as happy as a king down here for months,” said one
bright-faced and particularly well-dressed boy; “I’ll lend you novels to
read, if you like.”
“But I hope,” said Sandie, “I won’t be long down here. Your father is
rich, I suppose?”
“Yes, my father is Provost.”
“Ah! but mine is only a poor farmer, and I am really only a farm-servant
to him. If I get a bursary this year, I will get on; if not, I shall
have to go back again to the plough.”
“Poor fellow! what is your name?”
“Sandie M‘Crae.”
“Well, Sandie, I like you; you are brave. I rejoiced in the way you
stood up for your mother and sister; I’m sure she must be a nice girl.”
“She is the best and sweetest girl in all the parish of Drumlade.”
“And I like the way you tumbled old Eraser, the bully, up, and turned
him outside in. Will you come and have supper with me to-night? Do.”
What could Sandie say to this idle but gentle boy? He could not well
refuse.
“My life depends on my gaining a bursary,” he replied; “but I will come
for two hours.”
“Well, two hours be it.”
And no more was said.
That forenoon the students under the Rector adjourned to the hall, and
the version was dictated, and translations gone on with.
Sandie found that version far more easy than he had expected. He hardly
had to use a dictionary twice the whole time. When he had finished, he
carefully revised it twice, than handed it in, and received a bow and
thanks from the polite Rector.
* * * * *
He did not forget his appointment with gentle Willie Munro, the
Provost’s son. Sandie dressed most carefully for the occasion, and in
his Sunday’s clothes, with a flower in his button-hole, he really looked
handsome.
He was shy, however, and a little taken aback when ushered into the
splendidly furnished and well-lighted drawing-room, more particularly as
Willie’s mother and ever so many sisters were there. The mother rallied
him about the battle with the bully, and Willie arriving just then,
Sandie was soon completely at his ease. He soon found that he was among
real friends, in the bosom of a family of kind-hearted people, who,
though very well-to-do in the world, had none of that foolish pride only
too common to people in such a station.
When at the two hours’ end Sandie left to burn the midnight oil, it was
with a promise that he would come again and again, that he would look
upon them as friends, and the house as his home. Sandie promised.
Very much to his own astonishment, and to the wonder of everybody else,
Sandie’s version next day was declared _sine errore_ (free from all
mistakes), and from the bottom faction he was elevated to the very
first, close beneath the Rector’s desk.
As he walked up the passage between the rows of seats, he held down his
head, for his face was burning like a coal.
Rector Geddes held out his hand, and shook that of Sandie.
“I congratulate you, boy, from my heart, and trust you will maintain the
proud position you have now secured.”
And Sandie did. He never once had reason to leave that first faction all
the time he was there. And the Munroes became his constant friends and
companions whenever he had an hour to spare. Many a delightful long walk
Willie and he had together out by the dark woods of Rubislaw, or by the
old bridge of Balgownie, that Byron writes about so feelingly. After
walks like these, Sandie always went to Willie’s house to supper. The
girls would play and sing to him, and sometimes he himself would be
induced to sing an auld Scotch song, so that the evenings passed quickly
and pleasantly enough.
One day Sandie received a polite invitation from the Rector to come to
supper. It wanted just eight days from the great competition day. The
Rector was very merry to-night, and did not talk classics at all; but
just before Sandie left, he took him by the hand.
“You’ll do what I tell you, won’t you?”
“I will, sir, right gladly.”
“Well, you shall go home to-morrow to the country, and you shall not
open a book nor pass a single hour in study until you are seated in the
University Hall with the competition papers before you. Do this, and you
will succeed. Disobey me, and you will worry yourself and fail.”
“I promise,” said Sandie; and he kept his word.
CHAPTER VII
_THE LOVE-DARG--THE BALL AT KILBUIE_
Home with Sandie to his rural residence went Willie Munro. Willie had
invited himself. Willie would not be denied. It was all in vain that
Sandie had told him flatly that he would be a stranger to all luxury,
that he would have to live on milk, oatmeal, sheep’s-head broth, and
new-laid eggs, and sleep in a closet not big enough to swing a cat in.
“I don’t care,” cried Willie determinedly; “I’m going. Rural fare will
be a delightful change, and I don’t want to swing a cat, so I’m going,
Sandie. Besides,” he added demurely, “I want to get some fishing, and to
hear your sister play the zither.”
There had been no gainsaying such arguments as these; so on the evening
of a bright clear day in October, Sandie’s mother was bidding her son
and his friend a right hearty welcome in the best parlour.
If ever there was a real city lad, that lad was Willie Munro. His total
ignorance of country and farm life was delightfully refreshing to Sandie
and his sister. Of course Willie knew that potatoes did not grow on
trees, but that was about the extent of his agricultural knowledge; and
as to natural history and the lives of birds, moths, beetles, &c., he
really knew nothing. Had any one told him that the rook built its nest
in a bush of broom, and that the lark built high in a swaying ash-tree,
Willie would have taken it for truth.
Willie’s ignorance of country life did not, however, detract in the
least from his enjoyment thereof. He had come out from town with the
intention of being jolly and happy, and he determined he should be so.
He was not long in confiding to Sandy that his sister Elsie was an
angel, and that his mother was an angel’s mother. Elsie was quite as
much pleased with Willie as Willie was with her, and it gave her very
great pleasure to play the zither and sing to him in the evening.
Well, then, they paid a visit to the manse together. Mackenzie was much
pleased to see Sandie once again, and to hear of his success, and Willie
seemed to fall head over heels in love with Maggie May. But Maggie May
was severely demure, very much to Sandie’s delight, and he felt that the
child loved no one half so well as she loved him--that is, after her
father, of course.
They all went fishing together, and wonderful to relate, Willie
succeeded in catching a trout, a real live trout, that capered and
jumped about on the green grassy bank at a fine rate, turning up its
silvery sides to the sun till in mercy Sandie put it out of pain.
But Willie was not really happy until, that same evening, he had written
home a long account of the capture of that fish and his hopes of
catching more.
The day after that was a big day at Kilbuie, for the love-darg in
ploughing came off. Almost before the dawn, horses and ploughs and
ploughmen began to arrive at the farm from all directions, and when all
were assembled, it was found there were no fewer than two-and-twenty
pairs. With such a force, long before sundown every ridge of stubble or
grass on Kilbuie would be turned over.
Not only the ploughmen themselves, but in many cases the farmer-owners
of the horses had come over, and these farmers had made up between them
several prizes to be awarded to the men who did the best work.
So the ploughing went merrily on. It was a fine sight too to see all
those gallant horses in their light but polished harness, and gay with
silken ribbons of every colour, and brass bradoons, walking majestically
to and fro the ridges, the gaily dressed honest-faced ploughmen holding
the stilts and quietly but earnestly trying to do their best.
Willie Munro was delighted. But he and Sandie had something else to do
that day than simply look on at the ploughing match; for that evening,
in Kilbuie’s largest grain loft, there was going to take place a grand
country ball, and the decorations of the room devolved upon Sandie,
Willie freely offering to help.
Well, the first thing was to get the place thoroughly swept out and
cleaned. This was a dusty job, but it was finished at last. It also had
been a thirsty job, but Sandie’s sister Elsie had brought the boys a
whole gallon of delicious butter-milk, and thirst was kept in abeyance.
Geordie Black, the orra man, had been busy for days in making wooden
sconces for candles, and these were nailed up all around the hall, and
tall candles placed in them.
Off now to the woods went Sandie and Willie to cut down green boughs for
the purpose of decoration. They made many such journeys to and fro, and
did not spare their backs, so that by the time the frugal mid-day meal
was on the board, they had conveyed home nearly enough. Elsie was too
busy in the house, so the whole work devolved upon the two boys; but
right cheerily it went on.
The last part of the room to be decorated was the orchestra. This was
simply a raised bench close to the wall in the middle of the room, so
that dancers at either end could have an equal chance of hearing the
music.
The band was to consist of three small fiddles, one double-bass, and a
clarionet. They were all volunteers, and would not charge Mr. M‘Crae a
brass farthing for their services. This was the band proper, but during
the evening they would be relieved occasionally by a couple of Highland
pipers--
“All plaided and plumed in their tartan array.”
Well, then, when the work was at last finished, they paused to look at
it.
“I think it will do well,” said Sandie.
“And I say it is just too awfully scrumptious for anything,” said
Willie.
“I think we ought to receive a vote of thanks.”
“And I think we can live a long time without having the proud
satisfaction glowing within our manly buzzoms that we have done it all.”
“But come, I’m hungry,” said Sandie.
“_Et ego quoque_,” quoth Willie.
“There is cold beef about, I know. Let us go and hunt up Jeannie.”
Jeannie was easily found, and produced in the kitchen, _sans cérémonie_,
not only cold beef, but freshly boiled mashed potatoes and two huge
beakers of milk.
“Fa’ tee,” she said, meaning “Fall to.” “Fa’ tee, laddies.”
The laddies didn’t require a second bidding.
That evening at six o’clock, after bread and cheese and a dram, the
ploughman chiels took their horses home. They would need all their time
to dress and get back to the ball; but the farmers themselves were
entertained in Kilbuie’s biggest room to a plain but substantial dinner.
They sat down at half-past six o’clock, and it was nine before they rose
to go.
By this time the hall was beginning to fill with buxom lads and lasses
gay. There were forms by way of seats arranged all around the walls, and
the lasses sat religiously on one side, and the lads on the other.
The dresses of the girls were all simple, chiefly white, with coloured
ribbons in their hair, and light silken plaids of tartan thrown prettily
over the shoulder. Many of the lads wore the Highland dress.
An Englishman would have been utterly surprised and taken aback at the
display of beauty on the female side of the room. The girls were nearly
all young and regular in feature, while their bright eyes, ruddy lips,
and splendid complexions left nothing to be desired.
Couple after couple now began to arrive rapidly enough, the lads leading
their partners to the female side of the house, bowing, and leaving
them.
Anon, the fiddles began to tune up, every note striking a joy-chord in
the hearts of the younger girls and boys, bringing a brighter flush to
their cheeks, a more gleesome glitter to their eyes.
But as yet dancing had not commenced. Presently, however, there entered
M‘Crae with his buxom wife, followed by a posse of sturdy farmers. They
were received with a true Highland cheer, and it was felt by all that
the ball would now begin.
M‘Crae first made a little speech, bidding everybody heartily welcome to
the winter ball at Kilbuie, and especially thanking the farmers and
their bold ploughmen for their kind and thoughtful love-darg. His own
dancing days being over, he said, his son, and a friend of his, would
open the ball with the Reel of Tulloch, to which the pipers would
vouchsafe music.
Now Willie and Sandie take the floor. Willie leads up Sandie’s shy but
smiling sister, Elsie, who is dressed in white, with a M‘Crae tartan
plaid, and a single blood-red rose in her dark hair. Sandie wears the
kilt, but he has yet to look for a partner.
There are a good many downcast looks, and not a few palpitating hearts,
as he walks gaily along the ladies’ benches. He is simply looking for
the prettiest girl he can find.
He is satisfied at last, and leads her blushing to the floor. The pipers
take their stand, and, after a few preliminary skirls, strike straight
into the Reel o’ Hoolachan.
Anon the dance begins, and such dancing! Don’t call waltzing or the
quadrille dancing, reader. Unless you have seen the Reel of Tulloch
danced well, as it is at, say, the balls at Balmoral Castle, you have
never known what a dance is in your life.
After this wild reel, the ice may be said to be fairly broken, and dance
after dance succeeds each other without intermission, accompanied by
much cracking of thumbs and “hooching.”
It is a merry scene--the merriest of the merry. No English tourist, who
wants to learn anything about the Scot at home, should neglect seeing a
rural ball, if he should be fortunate enough to get the chance of
securing a ticket. I think he would retire south with kindlier thoughts
of the Scottish people than are usually entertained in the southern
counties at the present day.
One chief feature of the ball I must not forget to mention, namely, the
sweetie-wives. No one knows where these women gather from, but there
they are, to the number of a dozen or more, sitting in two rows, just
outside the door. At their feet stand huge baskets, filled with packets
of Scotch confectionery, and the lads during all the evening are
constant in their attendance, buying sweets, to treat their partners
withal.
Some of the more pretty girls have really not pockets enough to contain
all the sweets they receive from their admiring partners of the dance,
and so distribute them with a liberal hand to their less fortunate
neighbours, thus making room for more.
Some time after midnight there is a lull in the dancing, and bread and
cheese, with pailfuls of steaming punch or toddy, are handed round
twice. During this interval for refreshment, several bonnie old Scotch
songs are sung, to the sweet accompaniment of fiddle and clarionet.
After this, the fun may be said to become fast and furious, and the ball
is kept up without intermission till long past three o’clock. But now
weary eyes begin, to long for sleep; so shawls and big Highland plaids
are got out, and one by one the couples melt away, and presently the
band descends from its perch, helps itself to more bread and cheese and
the remainder of the now cold punch, then puts up its instruments in
green baize bags, and seeks the outer air.
The ball is over, but through the length and breadth of the country next
day it is freely admitted that no night’s enjoyment ever remembered
could compare with the glorious ball, the gleesome rant, at the farm of
old Kilbuie.
CHAPTER VIII
_THE STORM--SNOW SHOES--A SLEIGH RIDE_
More than once during this week Sandie M‘Crae experienced an almost
irresistible longing to get back to his books. What, he could not help
saying to himself, would dear old Horace and Homer the thunderer do
without him? Then he remembered his promise to Rector Geddes and
refrained. He knew in his own heart that the Rector really was right,
for by giving the brain a complete rest, it would be all the fresher
when it came to stand the test. The first part of the brain-power to get
weak is the memory; and rest, and rest alone, can restore this.
So whenever Sandie longed for his books, he jumped up and went in search
of Willie, who was never far away, and together they would plan some new
amusement.
They marched over to the manse of Belhaven one day, for example, with
their shooting-bags on their backs, and their guns upon their shoulders.
The minister was delighted to see them. Yes, they had just come to the
right place. There were plenty of partridges in the turnips, there were
rabbits on or near the corries, and there were thousands of wild
pigeons, devouring the remainder of the blaeberries on the blaeberry
hill. The good minister even caused his cook to make up a delightful
luncheon for them, and put in the basket two bottles of heather-ale.
“Of course,” said Mackenzie, “you will want a keeper or guide.”
“Shall we?”
“Oh, yes, most certainly; and I’ll send you one.”
He retired for that purpose.
Presently into the room marched pretty Maggie May herself, with a bag
slung over her shoulder, and in her hand a tiny double-barrelled
fowling-piece.
After her came her father.
“Boys,” he said, smiling, “behold your keeper!”
Both lads looked astonished, but especially Willie.
“Why--why,” he ejaculated, “you never mean to say that _she_ can let a
gun off?”
“She is a very good sportsman, indeed,” said her father proudly. “I
myself would go with you, but I am busy to-day. She knows the
whereabouts of every bird on the glebe and on the hills. Trust her.”
I may mention here, parenthentically, that it is by no means an uncommon
thing in the Highlands of Scotland for young ladies to go to the hill
with bag and gun, and I know many at this moment who are very excellent
shots indeed.
“Well,” continued Willie, “I _am_ astonished. In fact, I believe you
could knock me down with a feather, or with a sledge-hammer anyhow.
Shouldn’t wonder now if Miss M‘Crae mightn’t be a better shot than I
am.”
“Have you had much experience?” asked Mackenzie.
“Oh, quite a deal!” answered Willie seriously--“in the ha’penny
shooting-galleries, ye know. ‘Only a ha’penny a shot, and fire away;’
and ‘a great big cocoa-nut if ye rings the bell.’ I rung the bell once.
It was before I took aim--the gun just went off by chance. But of course
that is a mere detail; I got the great big cocoa-nut all the same, I
have it in my study till this day, labelled, ‘Won at a shooting-match.’”
Maggie May and her father both laughed.
“But you’ve never been on the hill?”
“Oh, never near it.”
“Well, you must try not to shoot the dogs.”
“I’ll try hard.”
“Mine are a charming Gordon setter, who won’t range far away, and a
curly retriever, as wise as many a Christian.”
The dogs were delighted to get out: the setter fawned and cringed by way
of showing his delight and thankfulness; the retriever stood boldly
erect and barked his joy.
Maggie May proposed walking first to the distant blaeberry hill, and
trying their luck among the wild pigeons.
“The worst of it is,” said Maggie, “that after the first volley they all
fly away, and it may be hours before we see them again.”
They reached the hill at last, and approached the feeding-grounds of the
doves very cautiously--almost creeping, in fact.
All at once the good setter started a flock that flew right over them.
Both Sandie’s barrels and both Maggie May’s rang out on the still autumn
air almost simultaneously, and four birds fell.
But Willie’s gun, the trigger of which had been duly drawn, missed fire.
“Whatever is the matter?” cried the boy wonderingly.
Now, this gun was a muzzle-loader; but, if the truth must be told, the
lad had never loaded a fowling-piece in his life before; and, being
cross-questioned, here is how he confessed having done so now. First he
had measured the charge of shot, and put that in, next the gunpowder,
and finally the wad. When he had put on the cap, he thought himself a
true sportsman, and fit for anything.
To say that Maggie May and Sandie laughed, would but poorly express the
degree of merriment they experienced at Willie’s confession.
Sandie now addressed a few words to Maggie May in the Gaelic, and she
smiled as she gave a brief reply.
The truth is, that with the screw end of the ramrod Sandie could easily
have drawn the wad and emptied the gun; but as Willie did not know this,
his companion determined to do nothing of the kind; for, if he did, he
felt certain in his own mind that one of the dogs would be shot ere
sundown, even if no more terrible tragedy should occur.
“What _am_ I to do?” cried poor Willie, looking the very picture of
disconsolation.
“There is a blacksmith,” said Sandie, “lives about five miles from here,
who, I dare say, in three or four hours could put matters right. But I’m
not sure.”
“And my sport is ended for the day?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“_Heu! me miserum!_ as the Latin Grammar says. I’m in the dumps.”
And he looked so sad that Maggie May positively felt sorry for him.
They adjourned now to the corries, and all the forenoon was spent among
the rabbits. Here they certainly made a good bag--two good bags--though
they would have done better had they faced the bunnies in the open or in
the woods. Among the corries there was so much cover, so many stones,
and burrows or caves, and rabbits have a disagreeable habit of dragging
themselves out of sight even when all but dead. Carlo, the retriever,
however, did most excellent work, and succeeded in dragging many a
rabbit to bank, even after it had almost disappeared.
About two o’clock Maggie May frankly expressed herself as being hungry,
and Willie said he was famishing, though he hadn’t fired a shot.
So luncheon was produced, and ample justice done thereto, for these
three young people had succeeded in establishing appetites of a kind
practically unknown in the lower districts of Merrie England.
Willie, after luncheon and a draught of heather-ale, admitted he felt
better, and could bear his misfortune with greater equanimity.
A start was now made for the turnip-fields, and here, the dogs having
better play, excellent sport was obtained. The Gordon setter worked
wonderfully well, keeping well in, not ranging, as Irish
setters--beautiful though they be--are rather too apt to do. He made
splendid points, and never less than two fell to the two guns if there
was anything like a covey. This was good, for it must be remembered that
the birds were now rather wild.
After the partridges, they once more adjourned to the blaeberry hill, to
which by this time the wild pigeons had returned. They managed to bag a
few more; and going on upwards to the heath-crested portion of the hill,
they were lucky enough to bring down a couple of grouse and a ptarmigan.
Neither Sandie nor Maggie May, who were real children of the mist, felt
one whit tired, but Willie frankly confessed that he was beginning to
get both “dweeble” and drowsy.
Well, the sun was already so near the horizon that it was getting as red
as a rising moon, and was just as rayless; so Maggie May, out of pity
for Willie, proposed to return home.
Mackenzie was standing in his hall-door to welcome home the sportsmen,
laden with the spoils of the chase.
“And what sort of a day have you had, boys?”
“Oh, splendid, sir, especially I,” said poor Willie. He then told him
how he had loaded his gun to begin with.
“But,” said the parson, “couldn’t you----”
A few words of Gaelic from Maggie May, and the sentence was never
finished.
“I’m afraid, Willie,” said Mackenzie, “your city method of loading guns
and our rural way present some slight differences. But away you go and
wash, the whole lot of you; dinner will be ready in half-an-hour.”
And dinner was. And such a dinner! Willie felt a happy man now. Clear
soup to trifle with as a commencement; then salmon that, but the day
before, had been sporting in the clear waters of the sunny Don;
partridges, and a small turkey to follow, with all the usual vegetable
fixings--what could heart of even so mighty a Nimrod as Willie Munro
desire better than that?
* * * * *
It was long past nine o’clock, and the moon’s rich light was falling on
woods and valleys, when the two students, bidding their kindly
entertainers good-bye, started to walk home to the old farm of Kilbuie.
“I feel very contented and happy, Sandie,” said Willie, when they at
length reached the long loanings, and saw the lights from Kilbuie
windows blinking bonnily over the garden. “Very contented and happy.
There certainly are a few advantages in living in a city, but, ah! give
me a farmer’s life in preference to any. I do believe I shall ask my dad
to make me a farmer.”
“Well,” sighed Sandie, “it is all right when things go well; but, alas!
my dear father has had losses that would have driven many a man
distracted. Ha! here comes Tyro to bid us welcome. Down, doggie, down,
boy, down. Good dog! did you think we’d never return again any more?”
My English readers will not, I trust, feel shocked when I tell them that
the boys really enjoyed the nice little supper that Elsie had spread for
them by the roaring kitchen-fire. They were not gluttons, but remember
they had had a long walk since dinner, and that the air of the Don-side
Highlands is so strong and pure, that to be out in it for even a couple
of hours is to secure the appetite of a lion-hunter.
* * * * *
It was eight o’clock next morning before either awoke, and, considering
the exertions of the previous day, this is not to be wondered at. But
when they did at last draw the blinds and look out, they were
surprised, agreeably or otherwise, to find that, during the night, a
heavy snowstorm had fallen, and that the snow was still coming steadily
down. There had been no wind, however, and it had not drifted.
Just after breakfast Jamie Duncan announced that he and Geordie, the
orra man, were going off to the fields to get up a “fordle” (large
supply) of “neeps” (turnips) for the cattle before the storm became
deeper and rendered it impossible.
“I’ll go too,” said Sandie determinedly.
“And I also,” put in Willie.
Willie would not be denied; so half-an-hour afterwards four brave young
fellows were busy in the turnip-field. To pull the turnips with the
hands was, of course, impossible. They had to be dragged up with a
curious kind of fork, whose toes were claws. It is called in
Aberdeenshire a “pluck.”
But so well and manfully did they work, that, with the assistance of the
light cart and the orra beast, before one o’clock the “fordle” was
secured, and as many turnips stored in the shed as would last the cattle
for three weeks’ time at least.
It cleared up in the afternoon, and Sandie got out a pair of real
skis,[4] or snowshoes, that a cousin of his had brought him from Norway
some years ago. He was quite an adept on these, and the speed with which
he went skidding over the snow-clad fields was truly marvellous.
It seemed so easy, too; so, of course, Willie must beg to be allowed to
try.
“You’ll find them a bit awkward at first,” said Sandie. “In about a week
you might master them.”
Willie got them on, or rather he got fastened on to them.
His first sensation on trying to move was that his feet were tied like
those of a hen going to market; his second, that he had dislocated both
ankles; his third, that he had broken his neck in the heap of snow into
which he had tumbled.
However, he prayed Sandie, as a good and kind friend, to release him.
“No more shees or skis, or whatever you call them, for me, thank you.”
Sandie laughed.
“If to-morrow is anything like a day,” he said, “we’ll get out the
sleigh, and Lord Raglan will tool us over to see the minister; you’ll be
safe enough in that, anyhow.”
“Oh, that will be delightful,” cried Willie excitedly.
Well, the next day was propitious, so far as the fore part of it went,
at all events. So Lord Raglan had his best harness put on, with any
number of silver-toned bells to jangle all around him; then he was put
into the sleigh, which was loaded with rugs and furs of all kinds, and
after luncheon they got on board. Geordie Black tucked the rugs well
around them; Sandie flicked the pony lightly with the whip.
“Hip, hip, hip, hurray!” cried Geordie, Jamie, and Jeannie, and away
went the sleigh, never a sound breaking the silence save the merry music
of the bells, bells, bells, the ringing and the jingling of the bells.
How very brightly the sun shone! How bright and white the snow! It
seemed to have been sown with diamonds too, for the snow-stars sparkled
with all the colours of the rainbow, but far more brightly than any
rainbow ever bent o’er blackest cloud.
As the boys walked it, across country that is, the distance to the manse
of Belhaven would not be over five miles, but by horse-road it was fully
seven; and this was the road Sandie had to take with the sleigh. But so
warm and snug were they, and so exhilarating was the journey, that the
time seemed very short indeed. To Willie it was more than
exhilarating--it was romantic, and his heart spoke through his eyes as
he exclaimed--
“As long as I live, Sandie, I will never forget this delightful visit to
your charming Highland home.”
[Illustration: THE BLIZZARD.--_Page 83._]
CHAPTER IX
_THE ADVENTURE AT BRUCE’S CAVERN_
On their arrival at the manse, they found that the minister himself had
been called away to pray with a poor woman who was supposed to be dying.
But Maggie May was eminently suited to perform the duties of hostess,
and a right hearty welcome did she give them.
With her own hands did she prepare them a delicious hot draught of
mulled heather-ale, with soft biscuit broken up in it, for it was a long
time ere the dinner-hour.
Lord Raglan was put in the best stall in the stable, and the sleigh was
drawn into the shed.
Given three people all in their teens, a good piano, plenty of books and
music, and I think there is no danger of the time feeling irksome. It
did not in this case, at all events; and when Mackenzie entered the room
three hours after, he found them all as merry as crickets, and merrier.
He was glad to see the boys, and said he really envied them their
pleasant ride. “For,” he added, “of all kinds of vehicular motion, that
of the sledge is undoubtedly the most pleasant.”
Sandie was a true gentleman at heart, and he at once proposed to place
his sleigh and Lord Raglan at the disposal of Mackenzie and his little
daughter for next day, if he chose to enjoy a ride. He himself would be
going back to Aberdeen, he said, in three days’ time, but his father
would let him have the sleigh at any time, all the same.
“Besides,” said Sandie, “it will hold you and me, sir, and little Maggie
May easily; so, if you like, I will come over if it is fine to-morrow
and give you an outing.”
The minister thanked him very much and readily accepted. But, woe is me!
there is many a slip in this world ’twixt the cup and the lip.
At dinner that day all three male people seemed to be in more than their
usual spirits, while Maggie May sat saying little, but an amused and
delighted listener nevertheless.
At nine o’clock it was time to start, but, first and foremost, all went
out to have a look at the weather.
It was moonlight--bright, clear, full moonlight--but ever and anon grey
and white ominous-looking snow-clouds were driving across the moon’s
disc, and rendering it momentarily dark. There was heard also now and
then a low moaning sound coming upwards from the pine woods that fringed
the icy Don. It appeared as if a storm were awakening in the forest,
and might soon burst bounds and go howling over all the land.
“I must confess,” said Mackenzie, shaking his head, “that I don’t quite
like the look of things. The wind--what little there is--is dead from
the north too. Don’t you think you had better stay all night?”
But for once in a way Sandie was obstinate, and so the sleigh was had
out, and Lord Raglan with his jingling bells put proudly in.
Soon after this, bidding their friends an affectionate “good night,” the
boys took their seats, and, with a farewell wave of their caps, off they
started as silently as if they had been ghosts--only ghosts don’t have
such sweetly musical bells.
* * * * *
They had accomplished about three miles of the journey at no great pace,
and were now in a very wild and dreary country indeed, hill and dell and
gloomy glen.
They were down in a hollow, and just crossing a Gothic bridge that
spanned a stream of dark brown water, which, slowly winding between its
banks of snow, looked at present as black as ink. Hardly had they left
the bridge, when, from the hills above and from the pine woods, swept a
blizzard so terrible that it almost cut their breath away, and caused
even the horse himself to stagger and feel faint.
It grew very dark too all at once, and, strange sight, they could see
lightning flashes among the snow, and hear peals of thunder high over
the roaring of the blizzard wind.
The whole air was not only filled with falling snow, but with ice-dust,
as it is called,--that is, the snow was caught up from the ground and
pulverised, till it became a powder so fine, but so cold, that to
breathe it caused a feeling of asphyxia, somewhat akin to that one feels
on going first under a shower-bath.
It must be confessed Sandie M‘Crae was taken aback, and hardly knew what
to do for the best. Perhaps the best would have been to return to the
manse. But his pride forbade, and he determined to push on.
It must be confessed, also, that Lord Raglan did all he could, and
proved himself a right good pony indeed. Yet it was soon evident to
Sandie that he must depend upon his sagacity entirely to keep to the
right path, for he could not tell in which direction he was driving.
Facing fearful odds, they got on about another mile, and the blizzard
now seemed to increase rather than abate, while great snow-wreaths were
thrown across the road that were all but impassable.
Sandie had shut his eyes for a time, leaving everything to Lord Raglan.
Every eyelash was an icicle, and the ice and snow were incrusted on the
cheeks of both boys.
And now I have to record an instance of sagacity on the part of this
wise old pony, that, if not unparalleled, is at least very strange, and
proves that there are more things in heaven and earth than we have
dreamt of in our philosophy. In fact, in our human pride, we are all too
apt to despise the lower animals, and to forget that they reason and
think on the same lines as we do, though not to the same degree. But
every now and then occasions or emergencies arise that seem to stimulate
their reasoning faculties, and raise them for the time being to a level
with those of the biped man.
When Sandie opened his sleepy, half-frozen eyes--indeed he was not sure
that he had not been asleep--he found that there was a momentary lull in
the blizzard, and that the moon once more shone clearly down on the
great snow waste, though away to windward huge clouds, like rocks and
towers, were slowly banking up, and would soon again cover all the sky,
when once more the storm would rage with additional fury.
But he also noticed, to his alarm and surprise, that Lord Raglan had
left the road, bringing the wind more on their backs, and that he was
rapidly approaching a high, black, rocky cliff at the head of a field,
and close to a dark and brawling burn.
Ten minutes afterwards he drew up right at the foot of these rocks, and
close to the opening of a cave.
Lord Raglan and Sandie too had often been here before in the sweet
summer-time, when the banks of the stream were covered with
wild-flowers, and glad fish leapt up in scores in every sunlit pool.
Sandie knew the place at once.
He nudged Willie, who was half asleep.
“Willie, Willie,” he cried, “we are saved. The horse has saved us from a
terrible death.”
“Where are we?” muttered Willie.
“At Bruce’s cavern. I know it well. We must all get in before the storm
comes on again. Arise, Willie, pull yourself together; there is no time
to lose.”
Willie did arise, and leapt as nimbly down as his half-frozen legs would
permit him.
Then Lord Raglan was unharnessed and led into the cave. Next the sleigh
was dragged in, and hardly was this secured ere the blizzard came on
again with redoubled fury. The mouth of the cave was so situated that
the snow could not drift very far in, but in less than an hour it was
entirely and completely snowed over, so that to all intents and purposes
the boys were buried alive.
The snow at the cave mouth, however, only made it warmer within. So one
of the lamps were lit, and Sandie proceeded to make a bed from the rugs
and skins, but not before he had thrown one of the heaviest of these
over Lord Raglan’s loins, kissed his soft snout, and wished him
good-night.
A few minutes after both boys, huddled close together for warmth, had
said their prayers, and were sound asleep.
Under circumstances such as these human beings slumber well. When Sandie
awoke, for a time he could remember nothing. But gradually things came
back to his memory. It was pitch dark, however; the lamp had burned out,
so he lit the other, and finding by his old silver watch that it was
past nine o’clock, he knew it must be broad daylight out of doors, so he
awoke Willie.
An attempt was now made to force their way through the snow, but having
nothing to dig with, this was soon abandoned, the terrible truth forcing
itself upon them that they were as much lost as miners buried in a mine,
and cut away from their fellows. They breakfasted on a little snow,
which, at all events, refreshed them somewhat. They must live in hope of
being dug out.
* * * * *
When the fearful blizzard broke over Kilbuie, great fears were
entertained for the safety of the boys, but it was hoped they had stayed
at Belhaven manse all night. The storm lasted all night, but abated at
daybreak, and then Jamie Duncan and Mr. M‘Crae himself started to ride
each on a strong cart-horse to the manse. They found the road almost
impassable, for some of the wreaths were eight feet high.
But they reached the manse at last, only to suffer grief and
disappointment.
The country near to the minister’s house was more densely populated, and
it was not difficult to get up a small but strong search party, and
once more they returned along the road, Mackenzie himself accompanying
them, their object now being to find a trail or cue.
Poor Tyro, Sandie’s dog, seemed to know exactly what the matter was, and
exerted himself as much as any one.
All along the route the snow-banks at each side were searched, and
probed with long poles, and every hollow into which the sleigh might
have fallen was also examined.
They had now advanced about three miles on the road, but so particular
and careful had the search been, that it was already two by the clock.
And now they all assembled for luncheon, and soon after the search was
resumed.
Another mile was slowly got over, but without success. Where could they
have gone to? It seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed them.
Hope was now beginning to fade and die in the hearts of the searchers.
If the boys were under a bank of snow somewhere, they could hardly now
be alive. Besides, the day was far spent. It would soon be dark, then
all work must be abandoned. But see! what aileth Tyro? He has left the
main road, and is galloping in a straight line towards the beetling
rocks, yapping or barking every now and then, with his nose on the
ground as if chasing a rabbit.
Hope springs fresh in every heart!
The men shoulder their poles and spades and follow the dog.
Straight as the bee flies he leads them to the snowed-up entrance to
Bruce’s cavern, and here Tyro begins to tear and scratch at the snow in
the most frantic way.
“To work, men,” cries M‘Crae. “Dead or alive, the boys are inside the
cave.”
And the men did work too, as hard as ever men worked in life.
The snow, however, was powdery, and difficult to dig, and it must have
been fifteen feet deep if a single inch.
Willie and Sandie had both fallen into an uneasy kind of slumber, worn
out with cold and hunger, when they were aroused by hearing Raglan
neigh. Indeed it seemed more of a happy laugh than a neigh.
“Hee--haw--hm-m-m--haw--hm-m-m!” Over and over again too.
For his quick ear could catch sounds outside long before those of the
boys.
Presently, however, a little ray of light streamed into their utter
darkness through the awful bank of snow, and they could hear voices
without.
Before the opening was a foot wide Tyro came dashing through, and the
wild excitement and delight of the poor animal it would indeed be
difficult to describe.
The boys shouted now as well as their voices would permit them. Raglan
neighed once more.
Wider and wider grew the opening, and in ten minutes more Sandie was
pressed in his father’s arms.
The tears were streaming down the good farmer’s face, and down the
minister’s as well.
“Thank God!” was all he could say, and fervently indeed did every one in
that group of uncouth-looking men add the little word, “Amen!”
END OF BOOK FIRST.
BOOK II
_UPS AND DOWNS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE_
CHAPTER I
_THE GREAT COMPETITION_
The great day had come at last--the day that was going to be big with
our hero’s fate. It was early yet, however--hardly seven, and still
pitch dark. Sandie lifted the blinds in his solitary little attic in
Skene Street and peeped out. Why, he wondered, were there no sounds of
traffic, no noise of wheels? This was easily accounted for. The street
was inches deep in snow, and snow was still silently falling.
Our hero lit his little oil lamp now. He felt cold and anxious, and not
at all over-well rested.
He had called on his friend the Rector, Geddes, the evening before, and
received much encouragement.
“But go home now,” said the Rector, “and go right away to bed. If you
get a good night’s sleep it will be half the battle. You will awaken
clear-brained and as fresh as a mountain daisy.”
The stars were shining very clearly when he left the good Rector’s
house, as they ever do in wintry nights in the far north. The stars
looked so near and large too. Then there was the beautiful aurora
borealis, which on this particular evening was singularly bright and
dazzling, with now and then a tinge of red in it, which Sandie heard
more than one old wife say presaged war.
Sandie obeyed the Rector to the letter. He went home and went to bed.
But to sleep, alas! he found was out of the question. He could not keep
himself from thinking what a pleasant life might be before him if he
were successful. Ah! _if_. But what if he failed in winning a bursary
big enough to support him? That was the “if” that caused his heart to
beat and kept him wide-awake. Back he would have to go to the slush and
the drudgery of farm labour, the plough, the harrow, the mud, the snow,
the hard work, wet day or dry day, the stiff joints and the aching
bones. It was a sad and a dreary look-out, and somehow to-night he was
pessimistically inclined. He could not help looking at the darkest side
of the picture of life, entirely ignoring the light. But towards the
small hours of the morning he had fallen into a kind of uneasy slumber;
it seemed more of a trance than anything else, for his sleep was filled
with the most disturbing dreams. Tired and weary, he was trailing
through the snow over long stretches of moorland and bog, that it seemed
would never, never have an end. Anon, he is sinking in the dark bog, the
black ooze and slime closing over his head and choking him, till he
awakes with a gulp and a scream. He doses again, only to have a renewal
of those terrible dreams; among others, he and Maggie May have fallen
over a black and beetling cliff, pony-trap, horse, and all, down, down,
down to the brown rolling river far beneath.
And thus he had spent the night.
No wonder he has a slight headache, or that when his kindly old landlady
comes up to light his fire and lay his breakfast, she notices that he
looks pale and haggard.
“Ye’ll no hae parridge this morning, laddie, but a nice bit o’ butter’d
toast and a strong cup o’ tay, that I’ll mak’ oot o’ ma ain caddy.”
“Oh, a thousand thanks,” said Sandie; “that will be just delightful!”
This old landlady knew how to make good tea, a lost art with many
now-a-days, and the result of her treatment was, that not only was
Sandie’s headache dispelled, but he began to look at things more
hopefully; and when at last it was time to start for Marischal College,
where he had elected to compete, the two universities being not then
amalgamated, he felt even cheerful before he had been five minutes in
the fresh air.
It had now ceased snowing, but the snow was fully three inches deep on
the street, and as he trudged along, more than one snowball came
whizzing past his ear, for Aberdeen boys are perhaps the best snow-boys
in all broad Scotland.
Sandie took no heed though, for his mind was all upon the coming
competition. On reaching Broad Street and the University gate, he found
he was too soon. He might have entered the quad, but he did not care to
join the squad of roystering lads there. The fact is, he fancied that
to-day his appearance was somewhat countrified, for he had not dressed
in his Sunday clothing. He wore the same short trousers frayed at the
ends, the same rough jacket bare at the elbows, an old Glengarry, and a
pair of very Highland brogues; so he crossed over and began to examine
the contents of a bookseller’s window.
Even here he was not free from molestation. A couple of slatternly young
bare-headed girls, with roguish looks and arms akimbo, stationed
themselves near by, and began to criticise and quiz him.
“My conscience!” said one, “sich a bonnie laddie! Look at the rosy
cheeks o’ him. He’s ane o’ them, Tibbie. He’s gaun to compete for a
birsary. Muckle luck to ye, laddie!”
“He comes fae (from) the country, Sally. Look at his blue ribbit
stockins, his short breeks, and awfu’ sheen (shoes). I’m sayin’,
Geordie, gin (if) ye dae (do) tak’ a birsary, be sere (sure) to come in
and lat us ken. We’ll gie ye the nicest cup o’ tey (tea) ever ye drank
in a’ your born days.”
And so they kept on for fully fifteen minutes; but Sandie was not to be
drawn; he never even smiled, but at length sauntered quietly away.
He had to endure more chaff when he joined his fellow-competitors at the
great hall-door.
“Behold, gentlemen,” cried one unwholesome-chafted brat, pointing to
Sandie,--“Behold before you Peter M‘Tavish, Esq., from the braes of Glen
Foudland. Look to your laurels, lads. Peter means to carry all before
him and cabbage the first bursary!”
“Mocking is catching,” said another young man. “I happen to know Peter,
as you call him, and his versions have been _sine errore_ for over a
month at the Grammar School. _You_ needn’t talk, anyhow, Johnnie Wilson,
you floury-faced nincompoop. There will be two moons in the sky when
_you_ take a bursary. Stand back, or else I’ll daub your nose in the
snow.”
Johnnie slunk away quite cowed.
“Good morning, Sandie,” said the last speaker. “I hope you feel in good
form?”
Sandie laughed.
“Only middling,” he said. “Fact is, last night I was like the minister
who kissed the fiddler’s wife and couldn’t get sleep for thinkin’ o’t.”
“Ha! never mind. I know you’ll be in the money, anyhow, though there
will be a hard tussle.”
Presently Willie Munro came up smiling, and then Sandie felt indeed at
home.
“You really are going to compete, then?” said Sandie.
“Oh, rather! The old folks expect it, you know. I’m not expecting to
win, you know. I shall have a couple of errors at the end of each line,
and one in the middle. If they’d give a bursary for the worst version
as well as the best, I’ll be bound I’d take that. But my sisters feel
certain I shall come in third at least. I may inform you that all my
sisters are females, and we all know what stupid creatures girls are.”
Just then the hall-door was opened by serious, dark-haired John Colvin.
The Sacrist was there too in his robes--a well-worn, rusty, black gown,
and when the crowd entered the lower hall they found the professors in
goodly force.
Small tables were arranged all over the hall, but none of these were
within speaking distance of each other, the object being to prevent one
student from assisting another.
In the centre of the hall stood a pulpit, and all day long one or other
of the professors would do sentry-go therein, and keep an eagle-eyed
outlook upon the competitors to prevent inter-communication. But, as
will be presently seen, all their alertness and vigilance did not have
the desired effect.
The papers to be translated, with foolscap, pen, and ink, lay on each
table.
Don’t smile, reader mine, at what I am now going to tell you, for
remember Sandie M‘Crae is a character from real life, and I have to
paint him as he was. Before even looking at the papers, then, Sandie
bent low his head over his little table, and prayed long and earnestly
that, if it were for his good, God might give him strength to do his
work as it ought to be done. Then he said from his very heart, “Thy will
be done.”
He did not even yet examine his papers. No, he had a good look around
him first. Some had already begun to write. Others who, he knew, were
good and clever students, sat poring over the version with gloomy faces
and knitted brows, and from this he augured difficulty.
His friend, Willie Munro, he could see at no great distance. Willie was
evidently drawing faces on his blotting-paper, but seeing Sandie looking
towards him, he nodded and smiled.
“Happy boy!” thought Sandie.
Then he began to read.
With every sentence his hopes rose higher and higher. Why, here was no
difficulty at all. Not a word he could not translate.
Well, he made up his mind now what he should do. As to doing the
versions into English or Latin, as the case might be, that would be
simple enough. But--and it really was a happy inspiration--he must have
both the Latin and English elegant. There was just one danger attached
to this scheme, he might be led to make a paraphrase of the translation,
and well he knew that this would be fatal to success.
So he worked away for an hour and a half making his preliminary or
simple translations. Then he took a rest for a time, and began to look
about him and study life.
He was not long in noticing that little pellets of paper were flying
from one student to another, whenever the professorial sentry’s head
was down. This meant that one student was helping another; friend
cribbing from friend.
There stood near the hall-door a large bucketful of cold icy water, with
a tin pannikin beside it, that the students might refresh themselves
when thirsty. Sandie noticed that one student would go to have a drink,
slip his hand suspiciously round to the back of the bucket, and
evidently deposit something there, and that immediately he had finished
another student would rush to the drinking-pail, and that his hand also
would find its way to the other side of the bucket.
There is no doubt this was all most unfair, but there was nothing of the
sneak about Sandie. He was not doing sentry-go, so he determined to take
no notice, but just let things slide.
And now, after a draught of cool water, he commenced what he called his
elegant translations. He wrote no less than three copies of these, and
read them over half-a-dozen times before he gathered up his papers and
prepared to go.
Nearly everybody else had already departed, for it was long past three
o’clock, and the short and stormy winter’s day was fast deepening into
gloaming and night.
Sandie’s hand shook like the leaf o’ the linn as he placed his corrected
copy on the desk before his watching professor.
Then heaving a sigh of relief, he took his departure. He was not
displeased with his performance by any means. In fact, he somehow felt
almost certain that his would be in the money, but how high--ah! that
was the rub.
When he arrived at his attic lodgings, he found his friend, Willie
Munro, waiting for him and anxious to know how he got on.
“I think I may say I have hope,” said Sandie, smiling and sighing at the
same time. “And you?”
“Oh, I didn’t give in mine. I didn’t mean to, you know.”
The little industrious landlady bustled away now to make tea, and Willie
informed his friend that he was come to take him to dinner.
Sandie went at once and changed his clothes, and as soon as tea was
drank they set out for the Provost’s house.
“I’m afraid,” said Sandie, “I’ll be but poor company to-night; my
thoughts are all with those papers.”
“You won’t know the result till to-morrow night.”
“No, that is the worst of it. To-morrow will be the longest day in life
to me.”
“That it won’t; we’ll find something to do.”
The dinner was an excellent one, and put Sandie in the best of spirits,
and afterwards, with music and conversation in the drawing-room, the
evening sped merrily and quickly away indeed.
* * * * *
Human nature asserted itself, and that night our hero slept long and
soundly. He could hardly believe his watch, when he noticed that the
hour hand pointed to nine.
“I wadna hae disturbit ye, for a’ the warld, sir,” said his landlady.
“Ah, laddie! there’s naething like rest and sleep.”
Hardly had Sandie finished breakfast ere his friend Willie Munro
arrived.
“Now,” he cried gleefully, “you’re a curler, aren’t you?”
“Rather,” said Sandie. “It is the best game in the world.”
“Well, this day won’t seem long if you come with me. The Loch o’ Skene,
nine miles from here, is bearing, and there is going to be curling. I
have a chumping horse and dogcart. Come lad, come.”
Sandie needed no second bidding.
Curling, I may notify the English reader, is a game played on the ice
with immense large stones like cheeses, that are sent gliding along from
tee to tee. In some ways it is like bowls, in some respects like
skittles, and in others like billiards on a very large scale. But it
beats all for pleasure and excitement. I only wish Englishmen would take
to Scotland’s roaring game, as they have adopted our other national
games of football and golf.
Sandie was permitted to drive, and in an hour that grey mare had trotted
them out to the loch. The boys spent all the forenoon playing.
Everybody was there, and all hands were hail fellow well met. It was a
pleasant little republic on the ice, laird, lord, parson, and peasant
all were here, and all were equals. Meanwhile their wives and daughters
were skating far over the broad and beautiful expanse of frozen water.
At one o’clock a halt was called for luncheon--bread and cheese and a
dram. But now Sandie got in the mare, and bidding kindly good-bye to
their playmates, the boys started back for the distant city.
They had not gone far, however, before they drew up on the causeway of a
comfortable little hostelry--the Inn of Straik. A boy held the horse,
and the landlady herself met them in the doorway.
“Now, mother,” said Willie blithely, “we’ve been curling, and we’re half
dead with hunger. What can you give us nicest and quickest?”
“Weel, my bonnie bairns, you’ve come at the richt time. You’ll hae
smeekit (smoked) bacon, new-laid eggs, chappit (mashed) tatties,
oatcakes, fresh butter, tattie scones, and tea.”
“Hurrah!” cried Willie, “we’re in luck.”
And a right hearty meal they made.
Then resuming their journey, they reached the Granite City just as the
sun, lurid and red, was shedding his parting beams from off the Drummond
Hill.
CHAPTER II
_VICTORY--POOR HERBERT GRANT_
As soon after four o’clock as possible, it had been announced, the
result of the competition would be made to the students from one of the
windows near to the Senatus-room and overlooking the quad. So even
before that time Sandie, with his friend Willie, had joined the crowd
beneath the window. And a right jovial and merry crowd it was, to all
outward appearance; and yet there were amongst those roystering lads
many whose hearts were like Sandie’s, going pit-a-pat, and of a verity,
almost sick with anxiety.
Many poor students there were from the far Highlands of Inverness, whose
future careers, if not indeed their very lives, depended upon their
success in this competition, and who, if unsuccessful, would have to go
back to the misery of their smoky Highland homes and hard work, to be
the butt of many a senseless joke and the laughing-stock of the parish,
that would tell them to their faces that pride goeth before a fall and
haughtiness before destruction.
Four o’clock passed, half-past four, and five--oh, so wearily away--and
still the window was not opened.
But behold, a few minutes after that, the form of the old Sacrist in his
dusty gown, holding a paper and a lamp, can be dimly descried behind the
window.
Hushed is every voice now, upturned each eager face. So great is the
silence, I might almost say one could hear the snowflakes fall.
“Ahem! ahem!”
The Sacrist cleared his throat by way of creating a greater impression.
“Ahem! First Bursar, Peter--no, Alexander Mac--Mac--Mac--Oh, I see.
First Bursar Alexander M‘Crae. Is Sandie there? Come up, young sir, into
the Senatus-room.”
And as Sandie, head down, and walking apparently on the air, goes
hurrying away for the stair-door, the Sacrist continues leisurely to
read out the list until the close, and as one student comes back from
the Senatus, the next in turn is asked to go up.
Sandie was terribly but delightfully bewildered. He soon found himself
in the Senatus-room, though how he had gotten there he never could be
rightly sure. He found the professors all standing, all arrayed in their
gowns, and each one shook him by the hand. They even praised the
elegance of the diction he had written, congratulated him on his
wonderful success, and hoped he would live to become an honour and
glory to the grand old Marischal College and University.
Sandie thanked them, blushing beet-red as he retired.
He would fain have got away home quietly now to write to his dear
mother.
But this was not to be.
He was received by such shouting and cheering as he had never heard
before, while every student in the quad crowded round to shake him by
the hand. No spite, no chaff, no jealousy, only friendship unalloyed,
and downright pride in the ploughman-student with his short frayed
breeks, his brogues, and his stockings of blue.
Their enthusiasm ended by bringing tears to Sandie’s eyes. He had meant
to make a speech, but he never got farther than--
“Gentlemen, I thank you all. I--I--I--No, it is impossible--I can’t
speak----”
“Hurrah!” cried one of the students. He it was who had gained the third
bursary. “Hoist, lads, hoist! I must go to the Senatus-room.”
And before Sandie could move a step, he was hoisted shoulder-high, and
borne twice round the quad, his followers singing in voices loud and
shrill--
“For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fellow,
For he’s a jolly good fe--a--low
Which nobody can deny.”
The usual chorus of hip, hips, and Sandie was glad when at last, with
his friend Willie, he found himself outside the gates and able to
breathe more freely.
“Well,” said Willie, “you know how friendly I feel towards you, so I’ll
say nothing. Let me see,” he continued; “it is only six; you’ll just
have time to go home and change, and write your letter, and be at our
place at half-past seven to dinner.”
“But really----”
“Nonsense! your coming, and there is an end to it. I’ll go with you to
your attic and have a cup of old Mrs. Gully’s excellent tea. I’ll read
while you write and dress. I shall thus make sure of you.”
So home to Sandie’s attic went the two students, and when old Mrs. Gully
heard the news, she was so joyously excited that she almost cried.
“To think,” she said, “that I should hae a real leevin’ first bursar in
my attic! Eh! sirs, it’s a high, high honour. But noo for your tay, for
ye maun be famished.”
* * * * *
That evening spent at the Provost’s house was like many others, very
shortsome and pleasant, and even very merry. A great cloud had rolled
off the firmament of Sandie’s existence. His mental sky was clear. The
future was all bright and hopeful, and he was happy. But his happiness
was not permitted to last unalloyed all that evening. He had bidden his
friends good-night, and Willie and he had walked up on to the
Castle-gate to feast their eyes on the four long chains of light that,
starting from here at right angles, go sweeping along Union Street and
King Street, the houses on each side looking like mansions of marble
under the stars, now so sweetly shining.
As they still stood looking and admiring, Sandie humming a song the
while, their attention was attracted to a little crowd like a procession
that had just rounded the corner of Market Street, and were coming
onwards in their direction. They went straight away to meet it, and soon
found that the centre of the crowd consisted of four policemen bearing a
stretcher, on which lay a form, still in death, and covered over with a
black cloth.
Willie sought explanations from some of the crowd. All they could tell
him was that the body had been taken out of the harbour. It was that of
a young man and supposed to be a student.
The body was taken to the station and to the dead-house.
“I think,” said Willie to a superintendent, “that I and my friend--we
are both students--can identify the body, if it be a student, for either
he or I know them all.”
“Well, come along, lads,” said the officer.
He led them to the gloomy room, and still more gloomy table, whereon the
body lay.
With scant ceremony the officer pulled off the cloth.
Then with a stifled cry of alarm, Willie shrank back, clapping his hand
to his brow.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “it is poor Herbert Grant!”
“You know him, then?”
“Oh, well, and all his history. He was a poor Highland student who came
down to compete, but failed.”
“Do you know the address of his parents? It is evidently a case of
suicide. Here is a letter we found on him addressed to his mother and
father, but not directed. In the agony of his mind the poor boy must
have forgotten that.”
“I do know their address.”
Then Willie took the letter, which was somewhat blotted from immersion
and subsequent drying, and read as follows:--
“DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--Only a line in my agony can I write at
all at all. But to be sure it is perhaps just as well. I have
failed to take a bursary. When your eyes shall fall on these lines
I shall be dead evermore. Don’t sorrow for me whatever. I shall be
quieter and better in the cold, cold grave.
“I never could face you after failure, and I never could face the
taunts of my brothers and my cousins. Forgive me! forgive me!
Good-bye for evermore whatever.--Your dead boy,
HERBERT.”
Willie Munro was naturally a tender-hearted boy, and this strange last
letter, with the sight of the calm dead face lying there as if Herbert
but slept, so wrought upon his feelings that he threw himself into a
rude chair, and, with his hands to his face, wept long and bitterly.
Even the sturdy superintendent of police was visibly affected, and tried
to console the boy, but for a time he only wept the more.
He started up at last, and that suddenly too; he dashed the tears aside.
“Come, Sandie, come,” he said, and left the dead-house.
In the outer office he addressed an envelope to Herbert’s parents. The
very act of doing so seemed to restore him somewhat. He bade the officer
good-night more cheerfully, and with Sandie walked out into the night
and the starlight.
* * * * *
“Sandie,” said Willie next morning, “you’re going home, aren’t you?”
“Yes, certainly, to-day too.”
“Well, I think I could do with another day or two in the country. I want
to get out from under the shadow of that dead-house, Sandie, away from
the memory of that awful sleeping face.”
“My dear friend,” replied Sandie, “I had meant to ask you to come,
though I wasn’t sure you would accept. But now I am delighted.”
* * * * *
There were several days to be spent in the Deeside Highlands before the
classes should assemble for the work of the winter, and right pleasantly
were they spent now by our heroes and their friend Mackenzie. The
weather was most delightful, cold, crisp, and clear, with bright starry
nights and dancing aurora. The aurora is here called the Merry Dancers,
and right well does it deserve the name.
Long spears of light that meet, and mix, and clash in such a way as
quite to bewilder the senses. It is in, the following way Burns the poet
talks about pleasures--
“But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snowfall in the river,
One moment white, then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race
That flit ere ye can point their place.”
It was cold work fishing now, but they did spend one forenoon by a trout
stream-side, and, much to his joy and pride, Willie caught no less than
three handsome trout. He duly entered the fact in his note-book, and
henceforward he said he thought he should be quite justified in dubbing
himself a member of the gentle craft and a disciple of Walton’s.
But it was glorious weather for walking, and together they climbed some
of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, the view spread out beneath
them, wintry aspect though it was, being sometimes magnificent. The many
streams winding out and in through snow-clad glens, and woods and wilds,
the rocks and hills, the black solemn river itself, the cliffs above it,
and the weird-like forests of pines--the whole formed a scene that was
impressive in the extreme. “That tall sugar-loaf mountain to the east,”
said Mackenzie, “some day we will climb. It towers half-a-mile above the
level of the sea, and the view obtained from its summit is awe-striking
and magnificent. Some day, Willie, when, as the song says,
‘Summer comes lilting out o’er the green leas,’
we will climb that hill. There is a romance attached to it that few are
aware of. The mountain is called Benachie, or the Hill of the Mist, and
many hundreds of years ago a wild Highland chieftain had a castle or
stronghold on the very summit of it. He also had a castle below here,
that old ruin that you can just see peeping round the corner of the pine
wood. He owned all the land you can see to the east of us here. I am
sorry to tell you this chief was a bad man. His constant habit was to
abduct young ladies from the country of his hereditary enemy, just
beyond the Don, and convey them to his fortress on the mountain; and
never were they seen again. Well, it came to pass that a wealthy laird
across the water was to be married to a beautiful young lady, the
daughter of the chieftain, and the chief of Benachie’s son, who was now
of age, thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps. So he made a
raid across the Don one dark night, attacked the castle and carried off
the daughter, taking her right to the stronghold on the summit of the
mountain. When he heard of it, the young lady’s intended husband could
not contain himself with rage. He collected a force with which he
crossed the Don, and commenced laying waste the country with fire and
sword. But his triumph was short-lived, for Benachie came down in force.
Not only did he hurl the invader backwards into the dark rolling Don,
but--oh! pitiful to relate!--he crossed the river and commenced an
indiscriminate slaughter of young and old, while every cottage was
fired, the chief slain, and his castle laid in ruins.[5]
“I do not tell you this story, boys, for the sake of sensation, but that
you may thank Heaven in your hearts, we do not live in such dark and
terrible times.”
CHAPTER III
_HARD WORK AND EARNEST STRUGGLES_
On the morning before starting for the distant city, Sandie had an
interview with his father.
“Now, daddie,” he said straightforwardly, “I am going to borrow money
from you. Mind you, it is only a loan, and as soon as I get my first
bursary money I will refund.”
“Don’t mention that, dear boy. You have made your mother and me as proud
as princes. You are an honour to us and an honour to the district,
though I say it to your face. Now, how much money do you want?”
“Well, I have my gown to buy and books to buy, besides a tweed suit of
clothes, a little longer in the legs than this, father; then my landlady
to pay, and so on. But ten pounds, father, will do amply.”
The money was soon forthcoming; then Mr. M‘Crae gave his son much good
advice, especially as to the evils of intemperance and bad company. To
this advice he, Scotsman-like, appended his blessing, and his last words
to Sandie were these: “Never forget to read the Book and pray.”
Sandie’s mother and sister promised that, in a few weeks’ time, they
would both come to Aberdeen and pay him a visit.
The boys had the minister’s blessing as well, and poor little Maggie May
cried bitterly when parting with Sandie, and, innocent morsel that she
was, held up her tear-bedewed face to be kissed.
Sandie all throughout the session never forgot dear Maggie May as he had
last seen her--her eyes swollen with weeping, but beautiful withal, as
she stood at the garden-gate, waving her wet handkerchief to him as long
as he was in sight.
* * * * *
John Adams was then the students’ bookseller. His shop was in the New
Market, and he really gave the boys bargains of second-hand books. To
him therefore went Sandie with his custom. John even went so far as to
recommend him a tailor, and having ordered a good useful suit of tweed
clothes, Willie and he went off to buy their gowns.
These gowns were of scarlet baize, with loose-hanging sleeves, and very
broad collars of dark red silk velvet. They are much the same at the
present time, but now-a-days the students wear trencher caps. Then they
did not. They might array themselves in Glengarries, in broad Prince
Charlies, or in Tarn o’ Shanters, just as they chose, so long as they
wore the gown.
The King’s College University gown had only a plain collar, and it had
no loose sleeves. The reason, it was said, why the gown was deprived of
sleeves was this: the students used to fasten a stone in the end of
each, and go swinging along the streets, hitting the passengers right
and left in all directions.
It was also said that at one time this King’s College gown had a velvet
collar, but that this was taken away on account of a crime the students
committed. It seems that a certain porter played the sneak, and got many
of them into serious trouble for some lark they had taken part in. They
determined to punish this porter by pretending to execute him.
At the midnight hour he was taken from his bed, his eyes were bandaged,
and he was led through the streets. When the bandage was removed, to the
poor fellow’s horror he found himself in a room all hung with black. At
one side sat judge and jury, at another stood, immovable as statues, two
masked men with broad axes beside a crape-covered block. The porter was
tried and at once condemned to death. He was allowed five minutes, then
led trembling to the block. His head was placed thereon.
“Strike!” cried the judge.
A student struck a light blow with a wet towel across the neck.
“Now,” said the judge, “now, Mr. Porter, you can get up. You’ve had your
fright, but take care how you play the sneak again. Arise!”
But the poor porter never moved.
He was dead!
Dead, from the very fear of death.
* * * * *
Buying those gowns afforded Sandie and Willie a good deal of fun. Well,
they were light-hearted, and inclined to make merry over anything. But
the gowns were so ridiculously long, they came down nearly to their
heels. That would never do. So they commanded the shopkeeper to dock
them by a foot at least; then they were paid for and taken away.
Classes were duly opened next day, and Sandie, somewhat shame-facedly it
must be confessed, walked out into the street, bearing his blushing
honours on his back. Somehow he had an idea that every one was looking
at him. Well, at all events he was an object of very great interest to
bevies of little guttersnipe urchins, who followed him shouting,
“Buttery Willie Collie, red-backed and holy.”
I don’t know at all why they should shout such doggerel at the gown
students, but they do. His back also became a target for innumerable
snowballs, so that on the whole he was not sorry when safe in the quad
at last.
The class-rooms were seated after the fashion of the gallery of a church
or theatre, the seats rising tier after tier from the floor near the
windows, where stood the professor’s table, towards the roof, so that to
gain their places the students had first to climb a back stair, then
descend the centre stair-like passage to their seats on either side. In
Sandie’s days, whatever it may be now, practical joking was in its
glory. Sometimes these jokes took what Sandie considered a mean and
ungentlemanly turn, as when, to his astonishment, he saw a fusillade of
snowballs coming over the gallery from the back-stairs and falling on
the professor’s table.
All the more unworthy of any student was such conduct, inasmuch as it
was the Professor of Greek who was thus assailed, and he was a very old
and nervous man.
Another day a door-mat was thrown over the gallery class-room, alighting
on the table and demolishing everything; and this by men who would have
been mortally offended had you told them they were not gentlemen.
Sandie soon settled down to the routine of the class-rooms, and also to
his own quiet studies at home. He soon found out the truth about the
lecture system, however, namely, that it is a mistake, and that an
earnest student can learn more at home from books in one hour than he
could from twenty lectures.
* * * * *
Although Sandie paid three shillings and sixpence of weekly rent for his
room, he had it all to himself. He could therefore study when he
pleased, without fear of interruption, and his landlady was really very
good and kind to him. Willie was his constant visitor, but knowing
Sandie’s studious habits, made it a point never to come and see him of
an evening unless specially invited. And if, when Willie invited Sandie
to his house to spend the evening, he replied that he could not well
spare the time, nothing more was said on the subject.
Sandie had entered on a new sphere of study that possessed great
attractions for him, namely, algebra and the higher branches of
mathematics.
He made a solemn resolve to pay his father back the ten pounds as soon
as possible, and what with this debt and one thing or another, he found
he would have enough to do to rub along.
So he determined now to take a pupil, that is, if he could find one.
Surely a first bursar would be successful in a little matter like this.
Well, Sandie was so after a fashion. He was engaged by a widow lady, who
lived on the outskirts of the town, to teach her fat-faced
pudding-headed “loon,” aged about twelve, for one hour every night for
the large sum of ten shillings a week.
A more provoking pupil it would have been difficult for any one to
conceive. He was his mother’s darling, a spoiled and ignorant child, who
at times would positively refuse to be taught or to open a book.
Sandie lost his temper with him one night, and pulled his ears.
“Oh, don’t do that,” said his mother pleadingly.
“I will, and more,” cried Sandie determinedly. “If he will not work, I
am but robbing you, and losing my own precious time besides.”
“Now, look here, Andrew: if there is any more of this, either now or any
other night, I’m going to give you a jolly good belting, and to-morrow I
shall bring a strap in my pocket for the purpose.” And so Sandie did,
and laid it ominously on the table in the boy’s sight.
Andrew became quite a reformed character after this, and Sandie used to
take him out for long rambles on Saturday afternoons, and to the church
on Sundays.
* * * * *
A rather curious fact must here be mentioned regarding Willie Munro, as
it not only gives an additional insight to the lad’s character, but
really has some bearing on future acts in our story.
Willie, then, had never forgotten that fiasco on the hill, when he
loaded his gun by putting in the charge of shot first. He was a very
sensitive boy, and sometimes since that day, in his dreams, he would
hear Maggie May’s shrill peals of laughter, and see her merry
mischievous face. Had Sandie alone been there, it would not have
mattered so much, but to have made a fool of himself before a girl--ah!
there was the rub. He felt at times that he almost hated Maggie May,
though surely it was no fault of hers.
However, he made a vow that he would rectify the mistake. He told his
father the whole story, and his father kindly acquiesced in his wishes.
Willie paid a visit to a keeper who lived a little way up Deeside. A
crack shot he was. The man was grooming a Lavereck setter when Willie
reached his humble dwelling.
“Fat can I dee for ye, laddie?” said Bob Brown, meaning, “What can I do
for you?”
“Oh,” said Willie, “I want you to teach me to shoot birds, so that I can
go to the hill and not make a fool of myself.”
Bob looked him all over. He even tested his eye-sight and the quickness
and steadiness of his hand.
“You’ll do,” he said. “How often can you come here?”
“Every afternoon, and I’m willing to pay fairly well.”
“Richt! in a month or sax weeks you ought to be as gweed (good) a shot
as mysel’. Hae ye a gun?”
“No.”
“Weel, we’ll gang and buy ane the day.”
And so they did--not a very heavy one, but a breech-loader by one of the
best makers.
They also bought a spring-trap to throw crystal balls into the air, to
represent birds. These balls were filled with feathers, so it was easy
to see when they were broken.
For the first few days Willie was awkward enough, and hardly broke a
ball; then all at once he seemed, to get into the knack of the thing,
and broke the balls fast enough, and without apparent aim or effort.
The lad was rejoiced beyond measure. I am really afraid he neglected his
studies somewhat for this new-fangled fad of his, only he was
determined to wipe out what he looked upon as a stain on his character.
He practised at home every morning, as well as going to Bob’s in the
afternoons.
Bob had a bit of private shooting, and now he began to take Willie out
with him, and an excellent hill-man the boy proved.
“Man,” said Bob more than once, “I’m perfectly prood o’ ye. And ye’re a’
ma ain makin’ too.”
Willie now added the revolver to his armoury. Very awkward, indeed, he
was at first with this weapon, but the pistol was pronounced a good one,
and he soon became very precise in his shooting indeed.
Now Willie was sly.
Willie never told Sandie, his friend, what he was doing or studying. Not
he. If you had asked him why he did not, he might have replied--
“Because I know a trick worth two of that. I want my revenge. I want to
astonish Sandie, and Maggie May as well.”
There is a good old saying which, I must confess, has been of much
service to me during life. It is this: “You never know what you can do
till you try.”
I have often felt so ill, that I thought to get out of bed and begin
literary work would be a sheer impossibility. Then that bold saying has
come to my mind, and I have got up, and shaved myself--a terrible ordeal
when one is low and sick--and had my cold bath--another terrible
ordeal, even for a Scotsman, when out of form. Then I have had breakfast
and begun work, and wonderful to relate, the more I wrote the better I
grew. What think you of that, reader mine?
Well, in Willie’s case there was another proof of the truth of the grand
old aphorism. Willie persevered and persevered, and in six weeks’ time,
long before Christmas, he had been pronounced by Bob Brown a crack shot,
one who could single out his bird from a covey, and bring one down with
each barrel.
“I dinna think,” said Bob frankly and honestly, “I can teach you muckle
mair.”
But Willie went every night to Bob Brown’s all the same.
They had two spring-traps now, and two balls were dislodged into the air
at one time, and Bob rubbed his hands with delight, and laughed to see
his pupil smash each ball, making the feathers fly right and left.
* * * * *
Sandie continued hard at his studies, especially mathematics, night
after night, and made considerable progress.
What a happy day that was, though, when his mother and sister Elsie came
to visit him.
Not only he, but Willie himself absented themselves from classes that
day, simply dropping a line to the various professors candidly owning up
to the cause of their playing truant.
So Sandie escorted his dear mother, and Willie chaperoned Elsie, all
over the Granite City. It was the first time Elsie had been to Aberdeen,
and she was naturally much struck by the marble whiteness of the stately
buildings.
The ladies were even taken into the quad to gaze upon the University at
which Sandie had achieved such signal success.
Then, when tired of wandering through the streets and seeing the lions
of the place, Willie--wilful Willie, as Sandie called him--insisted upon
their all dining together in the M‘Gregor Hotel.
“It is only four o’clock,” he said, “and you go away at six. Well, I
would have asked you to my house, but we will be ever so much more free
and easy here.”
“I shall pay,” said Sandie.
“Indeed, indeed you won’t.”
“Oh, but I must.”
“Well, if you do, I shan’t come out with you to Kilbuie to spend the
Christmas week. So there!”
That settled it.
Not only did Willie pay, but he ordered the dinner, and it was one just
suited to the requirements of a bright clear winter’s day. No French
names either. 1. Delicious Scotch barley-broth. 2. Fresh salmon from the
Dee, caught the day before, not Norwegian salmon that had lain dead in
ice for three weeks, till all taste and flavour had fled to the moon or
elsewhere. 3. A juicy joint of roast-beef with snow-white mashed
potatoes and cauliflower. 4. Pudding and custard. 5. Cheese, oat-cakes,
fresh butter, and salad. For wine, although the ladies had their option,
they chose good table-ale, and the boys joined them. When about
half-past five tea was brought, I think both the mother and Elsie were
very happy; at any rate, they both confessed that they had never in
their lives spent a more pleasant or happy day.
“The time is getting short now,” said Mrs. M‘Crae, “and I want to make
sure of one thing.”
“And that is?” asked Willie.
“Sure o’ your promise to come out at Christmas when Sandie comes.”
“I promise, mother,” said Willie.
“You both look rather pale. I’m sure you’ve both been studying very
hard.”
Willie smiled inwardly, but made no reply.
They sauntered down to the station in good time, and just as they were
going away, and Elsie extended her hand to Willie, he gallantly pressed
it to his lips.
As he raised his cap, shy eyes met his, and a smiling but blushing face.
The whistle shrieked.
The train was gone.
CHAPTER IV
_A STRANGE DUEL--BAD BOYS’ PRANKS_
Some of the greatest treats Sandie enjoyed were his invitations out to
breakfast with his professors, some even whose classes he was not yet
attending inviting him. He could hardly have told you which of these he
liked best to breakfast with. There was old Dr. Brown, for example, who
filled the Greek chair, a very ugly but highly intellectual man, who
spoke like a Northumbrian, with a burr or rattle in the throat, and
whom, as he preferred the Doric dialect, the students had nicknamed “The
Dorian.” The Dorian, on ordinary days, used to finish his breakfast on
the street, and might be met in short cuts any morning eating a bap.[6]
But on days when he had students to breakfast, he was all there indeed,
and up betimes. He himself seemed blessed with the appetite of a
Highland hunter, and he made the students eat consumedly. But it was
also a feast of reason and flow of soul, and the number of racy
anecdotes he told without apparent effort during the breakfast-hour was
marvellous; so too was the number of buttered baps he got down.
Then there was Dr. Maclure, Professor of Humanity, that is, he filled
the Latin chair. A little man, perky, proud, and fat. He was an
Englishman, but a great admirer of Burns, whom he was constantly
quoting. The students called him “Cockie Maclure,” but it is to be hoped
he did not know this. However, breakfast with him, although not such a
heavy meal as that with the Dorian, was always most enjoyable.
Sandie used to think he would give a good deal could he only speak
English with so charming an accent.
Then there was poor Maxwell, so well known in the scientific
world--brown haired, handsome, thoughtful, and wise; he always had some
scientific marvel to tell his students about during breakfast. He was
always smiling, but never laughed a deal. I suppose he had an idea that
strong tea was not good for young fellows, for he invariably filled the
cup half up with rich delicious cream before pouring in the beverage.
Poor Maxwell! he is dead and gone, and great loss his death has been to
the world.
* * * * *
Would my young reader fight a duel if called out? I should not advise
him to, though I myself have once or twice been foolish enough to appear
on the field and duly take my stand to shoot and be shot at.
But in Sandie’s days duelling was not entirely unknown among the
students. One King’s College student sent his bullet through the left
arm of his opponent. Honour was declared to be satisfied after this, as
well it might have been.
Well, among Sandie’s intimate friends was a tall, pale-faced,
aristocratic-looking English lad named Coleman; a student our hero also
knew was Tom Brierly, a far more robust and daring-looking youth--a
scapegrace, I fear. At the University in the far North quarrels generate
very simply sometimes. For example, there lived with her mother in Upper
Kirkgate a girl of about seventeen. Sweet seventeen it was in her case,
for she was very beautiful, with eyes of darkest hazel, eyelashes that
swept her cheeks, and a complexion like strawberries and cream. Her
mother and she made and sold tuppenny pies. They did a good trade all
day, but towards evening and up till eleven o’clock that trade became a
roaring one.
Well, Tom Brierly fell in love, or pretended to, with bonnie Mary Mayne,
and used to appear upon the festive scene every evening and eat pies,
till one could not have helped wondering how he could contain so many.
He also got Mary to teach him how to make them, and after he became an
adept he used to stand by her side and turn them out by the dozen. For
Tom was not a bit shy. On Sunday evenings the pair used to go to church
together if it rained, or out for a long walk if the weather was fine.
In fact, they were looked upon by all as sweethearts, and it was even
rumoured that Tom, who, by the way, was a clergyman’s son, was going to
marry Mary soon, and take up a pie-shop on his own account, which of
course would be doing infinite honour to his reverend daddie.
However, to make a long story short, who should Tom find one evening
when he paid his usual visit, but tall young Coleman, leaning over the
counter with a sickly smile on his face as he breathed sweet nothings
and the flavour of caramels in bonnie Mary’s face.
Tom wasn’t a man of many words, so he simplified matters and brought
them to an abrupt conclusion by seizing Coleman by his garments above
and below, and flinging him straight into the street. Coleman gathered
himself up.
“I cannot fight you with fists,” he said in a voice as like thunder as a
hen’s might be, “but a friend of mine shall call on you within an hour.”
And sure enough a friend did.
Tom was laughing and joking with Mary, and turning out pie after pie
with extraordinary agility.
He hardly looked up.
“I won’t disappoint you,” he said; “keep your mind easy. I choose
pistols. My friend Smith, of 36 Union Terrace, will provide them. Yes,
seven o’clock, or say 7.30. We’d hardly see before. Go now and look
Smith up.”
And Tom coolly proceeded to turn out another pie. But poor Mary had
turned pale.
“You’re not going to fight--with--guns--are you, and all about me?”
“Keep your mind easy, Mary dear,” said Tom. “I don’t suppose we shall
hurt each other. And listen, Mary, I’ve made up my mind not to fire at
his head or body. I might let his little life out, you know. I mean to
aim at those thin legs of his.”
“Oh dear! oh dear!” mourned Mary, wringing her hands. “And where,” she
asked innocently, “will you fecht?”
“Oh,” replied Tom, as he rolled out a piece of paste, “there is only one
place. Smith knows it well, because I had a pugilistic encounter there
with a butcher. Round at the seaside of the Broad Hill. There won’t be a
soul there at that time of the morning. Pass the gravy, Mary.”
* * * * *
It was some time past eleven o’clock. At the police-station near the
Tolbooth, a serjeant and one or two burly night-watchmen sat before a
roaring fire talking and laughing, when there entered a very pretty
dark-eyed maiden, with a shawl about her head. She appeared to be in
very great grief and trouble. But after she had told her story, she
seemed comforted, because in very kind tones the sergeant had replied--
“You keep your mind easy, my dear. Just go home and go to bed. We’ll
make it all right. Shall one of my men see you safe home?”
“Oh, no,” was the reply, “I’ll soon run home.”
* * * * *
Tom and his second, Smith, were up and dressed even before the stars,
that had been shining so brightly all night, had commenced to pale
before the coming of day. Smith, after warming coffee, busied himself in
getting the irons ready.
He was a brave, smart little fellow, Smith, and the idea of aiming at
Coleman’s thin legs tickled him very much, and made him laugh as he
cleaned the pistols.
“His thin legs, eh?” he said. “Well, friend Tom, you’ll be a smart shot
if you hit ’em. Why, it will be like firing at a couple of raspberry
canes.”
A little after seven both young men started for the links and Broad
Hill.
They got right up over the top of the hill, and having gained the
summit, looked beneath them. Yes, Coleman and his second were already
there, although the time was not yet up.
What a heavenly morning it was too! The sun was not yet up, but red and
crimson and golden clouds flecked all the eastern sky, and were
reflected from the rolling waves till all the ocean seemed ablaze. Only
on the yellow sands were the long lines of snow-white foam, where the
seas broke lazily upon the beach.
“What a pity,” said Tom with a sigh, “to have to face so deadly an
encounter on a morning like this!”
“I daresay,” said Smith, “if you were to apolo----”
He never got any further, Tom stopped him with a look.
Five minutes after this, Tom and his opponent had shaken hands, and
stood facing each other at twelve paces waiting for the words, “One,
two, three, fire!” when suddenly from behind a sandhill at no great
distance started two burly policemen. They appeared to spring from the
very earth.
“Halt!” That was the stentorian word of command they gave.
“Boys!” cried Smith, “there has been a magpie about. Policemen,” he
added, “did you cry ‘halt’?”
“We cried ‘Halt!’”
“Then I cry something else, ‘Bolt!’”
He suited his own actions to the word, and before either of those
policemen could say “Jack-knife,” the race for liberty had commenced.
All honour to the bobbies; they _did_ give chase, but as well might a
tortoise try to catch a weasel. They were speedily distanced and left
breathless far behind.
The four students went on to Balgownie Bridge, then crossed country to
Woodside, when, coming to a farm, they succeeded in breakfasting on
curds and cream, oatcakes, fresh butter, and new-laid eggs.
Both seconds declared that, under the circumstances, honour should be
deemed satisfied. Then both principals shook hand, each, declaring
himself in the wrong. Thus was a friendship established between Tom
Brierly and Coleman, and--and--and they lived happy ever afterwards. But
this is the true story of an Aberdeen University duel.
They never heard another word from the police-office about the escapade,
so rightly judged that the magistrates had forgiven them.
* * * * *
My description of University life in the Granite City during Sandie’s
curriculum would be incomplete were I to say nothing of what I may call
the bad boys of the College. Of course, you find these everywhere,
though in after life they are sure to look back with some degree of
sorrow on the days that are gone never to return.
Tom Brierly was one of these. Sandie tried hard to reform him, but I
fear with little success.
Sandie more than once, thinking that example was better than precept,
accompanied Tom to Mother Robertson’s, an inn in the Guestrow, much
frequented by the students. There were more merry faces round the tables
of the coffee-room than there had any right to be; there were more
steaming tumblers of toddy, and there would be more headaches in the
morning. Sandie drank nothing but stone bottles of ginger-beer.
“How can you be so merry on that?” cried Tom.
“It’s all custom,” said Sandie. “I feel very happy and merry on this,
and I won’t have the ghost of a heavy head in the morning.”
So Sandie sat with them, and he told stories that made every one laugh,
and he sang songs that made some of them cry; but at ten o’clock he
arose, and, in spite of their importunities, bade all good-night and
walked straight home to his attic.
The principal practical jokes performed at night by the students in
Sandie’s day were extinguishing gas lamps, wrenching off knockers with
the twist of a strong stick, and pulling out bell-handles.
The night-watchmen, as they were called, were certainly a body of grand
men. Their physique left nothing to be desired. But then they were not
active.
They were called “Charlies,” just as the day-policemen were denominated
“Bobbies.”
These sturdy fellows were dressed in strong broadcloth fear-nothing
coats, that reached down to their heels; they wore broad Tam o’ Shanter
bonnets, and were armed with oaken cudgels big enough to have felled an
ox.
At nine o’clock each evening they were marshalled two deep in front of
the watchhouse door. The officer gave the words of command in the
broadest of Scotch.
“Are ye a’ richt there, Jamie?” This to the sergeant.
“A’ richt, sir,” Jamie would reply.
“Weel, richt fut foremaist. Quick mairch! awa’ ye gang.”
And away they went, filing off here and there at the corners of streets
to take up their several beats.
But the bad boy students were the bane of those poor fellows’ lives.
There was no saying when one or two would turn up.
They would see lamp after lamp extinguished right ahead of them,
sometimes a whole street placed in darkness, and yet be powerless to
give chase to the light-footed lads.
Or they would hear sounds like shots fired in the quiet streets, bang!
bang! bang! here and there, and know that metal knockers were being
broken, but knowing also that they might as well try to catch a
will-o’-the-wisp as one of the perpetrators.
It must be admitted that playing such practical jokes as these is poor
fun, and the only thing to be said for the students is, that they never
paused to think.
* * * * *
Sandie still stuck to his little pupil, though he confessed more than
once to Willie that the work was irksome in the extreme.
Our hero was no gourmand. And yet there were many Highland students at
the University, who lived on far poorer fare than did Sandie, as we
shall see as the story goes on.
Sandie had porridge and milk for breakfast, nothing else, but plenty of
that. For dinner he usually had sheep’s-head broth of barley and
vegetables, with potatoes and perhaps kail as auxiliaries. He allowed
himself tea in the afternoon, and for supper a large dish of stiff
pease-meal brose with plenty of creamy milk.
When fresh herrings could be got--but they were not now in season--he
treated himself to a few of these.
This was plain, but it was also wholesome fare.
Herring and sand cadgers are quite a feature of the Granite City. What
the poor people do with all the fine sea-sand it would be difficult to
imagine. But the Aberdonians are a cleanly people, the very show of
their white granite walls appears to suggest cleanliness, and the women
folks are constantly seen scouring down their stairs and passages.
The sand is hawked in donkey-carts, and the boy hawkers’ are invariably
all in rags and tatters.
“Twa buckets o’ fine sea-sand for three bawbees, and I’ll carry them
upstairs for a cauld tattie or a bit o’ cake for the cuddy.”
I may state at once that the cuddy never gets the piece of cake.
The herring-cadgers are a cut above the sand-laddies.
In going to classes one day shortly before Christmas, Sandie was witness
to a rather humorous episode. Let me premise that the streets were
covered with mud and slime.
Well, a large cart-load of hay from the country had just met and passed
a cadger’s cart laden with fresh herrings. This was an excellent
opportunity to get a wisp of hay, thought the herring-man, so he was
speedily helping himself to an armful. But Geordie spied him, and off he
went to the cart and quite filled his arms with herrings.
“Faur (where) are ye gaun wi’ my herrin’?” cried the cadger aghast.
“Faur are ye gaun wi’ my hay?” answered Geordie.
“There’s you dirty hay,” shouted the cadger, throwing it on the ground.
“And there’s your dirty herrings,” cried Geordie, throwing the fish in
the mud, which certainly would not improve either their flavour or
quality.
But Geordie had the best of it.
CHAPTER V
_AMONG THE WHITE HARES--HOGMANAY NIGHT_
When Christmas-time came round, Sandie M‘Crae not only felt that he
needed a week’s rest, but that he had worked hard enough to deserve one.
It was therefore with a feeling of intense enjoyment and pleasure that
he seated himself in the train, his merry little friend Willie by his
side, the train that should soon bear him far away to his own bonnie
Highland home and his ain fireside.
Oh, that ain fireside, which nought surrounds save an atmosphere of
love, how pleasant it is to think of when far, far away! Sandie had
thought of it often and often when hard at work in his little attic, and
longed to be there. The loving father, seated in his arm-chair, quietly
smoking; the gentle-faced mother, bending over her knitting; his sweet
sister Elsie, with a book; the cat and the bawsent-faced collie Tyro.
Quickly enough sped the train, but under the circumstances it is no
wonder Sandie thought it slow. His head is out through the window long
before he nears the station. Yes, he can see Elsie with the dogcart and
Lord Raglan, and he waves his handkerchief to her, and she smilingly
waves her hand in return, for Elsie and Sandie are all in all to each
other.
Sandie is in such a hurry that he almost forgets to give up his ticket.
He rushes off the little platform, and next moment is almost capsized by
Tyro himself, who is perfectly wild in his demonstrations of joy and
undying love.
“Oh,” he seems to tell Sandie, “I thought I would never, never see you
more; I thought you were dead and away, and now, what can I do to allay
my feelings?”
And in order to do so the poor dog must commence flying round and round
in a circle, so quickly that his shape is barely distinguishable. Having
fondly embraced his sister, and asked after his father and mother, and
while Willie and she are shaking hands, Sandie takes Raglan’s head in
his arms to cuddle. Then he kisses his soft snout, and the horse
whinnies a welcome.
Sandie next takes a paper parcel from his ulster and opens it,
extracting therefrom great slabs of white oat-cake.
“Lord Raglan,” he cries, “I didn’t forget you.”
Raglan whinnies once more, and probably enjoys that cake far more than
he has enjoyed anything for many a day.
Tyro also has a share. Then all wheel happily home to the farm of old
Kilbuie.
* * * * *
“I shan’t touch a classic or open a book on mathematics until we return
to college.” That is what Sandie told Willie next morning at breakfast.
“Well, now, I do call that wise,” replied Willie; “one doesn’t expect
much wisdom from a genius--one doesn’t really, but for once in a
way----”
“Thank you,” said Sandie.
“And you’ll eat all you can, laddie,” quoth Sandie’s mother, “and drink
plenty o’ milk, for indeed you’re as white as a ghost.”
“Mother dear,” replied Sandie, “I’ll do all you tell me, even to the
drinking of milk, and right glad I am to have the chance of obeying you
once again.”
“O mother and Siss,” he added, with something akin to exultation, “I
used often and often to dream about this good old-fashioned fireside,
and then waken all alone in my attic so cold and dismal!”
* * * * *
Of course, one of the first visits the boys made was to the manse of
Belhaven.
The first person they saw was Maggie May herself. She ran joyously to
meet Sandie, holding out both her hands. But she did not present her
face to be kissed.
“I do declare, Maggie May,” said our hero, “you appear to have grown
since I saw you last.”
“Yes,” said the girl, “I suppose I must have.” Then she blushed bonniely
as she added, “You must remember I am quite old now, thirteen last
birthday.”
“And you’ve had a birthday since I’ve been here, and I was not aware of
it! How hard is fate! Never mind, Maggie May, I’ve brought you something
for a Christmas present. Oh, I shan’t keep you guessing what it is, and
you shall have it now. I have it here.”
Sandie went to the little dogcart and produced a box, and Maggie May’s
eyes sparkled as she opened it and took therefrom a charming and
well-filled cartridge-belt.
Of course she tried it on at once, and it fitted her nicely, and became
her very much.
“And my little gift,” said Willie, presenting a little box. It contained
a pair of beautiful earrings, that Maggie May thought must have cost a
small fortune, so studded with precious stones were they.
About this moment Maggie May was probably the happiest girl in the
parish.
Presently Mackenzie himself came in, then conversation became general.
“What think you of the weather?” said Sandie at last.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” answered the minister, “before twenty-four
hours are over there will be a slight fall of snow and no wind.”
“Hurrah!” cried Sandie.
“I know why you cry ‘Hurrah!’ You’re thinking about the white hares!”
“That’s it.”
“Well, it is all arranged. There will be you, Sandie, Maggie May here,
my man Stuart, and my simple self.”
“And me,” added Willie, with small regard for grammar.
“Well, now, as a friend,” said Sandie, “I’m going to be very
straightforward. You remember your last sporting venture, and the
somewhat original way you loaded your gun? Well, I think that this time
you had better stay at home, Willie, and talk to my mother and Elsie.”
“I’ve got a new gun,” said Willie doggedly. “You’ve only to put in a
cartridge and hold it out, and she goes off beautifully.”
“Yes; and perhaps shoots your neighbour.”
“Sandie M‘Crae, first Bursar of Marischal College, I’m going. That is
decided.”
Sandie sighed.
“A wilful man must have his way,” he said.
The white or mountain hare, reader, is found plentifully in Norway and
among our Scottish hills. It is not white all summer, but only changes
to that colour when winter comes, a kind of provision of nature to hide
it from its enemies, the fox and the eagle, and probably the great owl.
Its life is a hard one among the frozen hills in winter. Oftentimes its
poor paws will be found skinned and bleeding from scratching the hard
ground in order to procure a little food. They are usually stalked when
snow is on the ground, their footsteps being followed, so that dogs are
not really necessary.
But on this expedition, undertaken by our hero and his friends, the
minister’s retriever, Carlo, made one of the party.
It may be thought wonderful that a mere child like Maggie May should be
permitted to join a venture like this across the bleak and frozen hills.
Sandie had suggested her staying at home.
“She’s a true Mackenzie,” said the minister. “A Mackenzie is nothing at
all if not hardy. Believe me, Maggie will keep up with the best of us.”
Stuart, who had no gun, carried the luncheon and looked after the dog.
The trap was left at a little croft not far from a high steep hill, and
then the party proceeded on foot.
There was broom to struggle through at first, then heather to wade
among, so high that it nearly buried Maggie May. Sandie stuck by her
side, helping her in every difficulty.
But as they reached higher ground, the heather grew shorter, and ere
long entirely disappeared; then, to their great joy, they came upon the
footprints of apparently several hares.
Cautiously they followed them up for some distance. Suddenly Willie
brought his gun to the shoulder.
Bang! Carlo bounded forwards and returned next minute with a splendid
specimen of the mountain hare.
“Good, Willie, good!” cried Sandie, grasping him by the hand. “But
wasn’t it a----”
“A fluke? I think not.”
No one there had such quick eyes as Willie, for in five minutes more he
repeated his first exploit, and a short time afterwards he did the same
again.
As Mackenzie and the others looked so thoroughly and completely
astonished, Willie was forced to laugh aloud.
“Oh, you humbug!” cried Sandie. “Why you’re a crack shot, you rascal,
and that episode of loading the gun was got up to deceive us!”
“Look! look!” This from Willie, as two splendid ptarmigans rose from the
ground.
Mackenzie and Willie fired a barrel each, and both birds fluttered
groundwards.
Well might Willie smile. He had established his fame as a good shot, and
completely wiped out the stain from his character as a sportsman.
On and on all that forenoon went the party, no one seeming to feel the
least tired. But towards two o’clock they began to feel hungry, if they
did not feel tired, for the air among these Highland hills is keen and
bracing. So Stuart spread plaids on the snow, and down they all sat to
one of the most delightful luncheons ever partaken of by hungry
huntsmen. It was now nearly three o’clock, and the winter’s sun was
rapidly nearing the pine forest on the rugged shores south of the Don.
So all haste was made back to the trap, Sandie assisting Stuart in
carrying the hares and birds. As they mounted the trap to drive back to
the manse, everybody agreed that they had spent a glorious day.
Willie, nevertheless, confessed to being tired.
“Well,” said Sandie, “we’ll forgive you for that; but, O Willie, what a
trick you played us!”
But the refreshing cups of tea that Maggie May brought Willie, when at
last they got safely home, banished every vestige of fatigue, and he was
soon his laughing, happy self again.
As the wind had now begun to blow, and snow was falling, the students
agreed to stay at the manse all night. So a messenger was despatched
immediately to Kilbuie farm to let Mrs. M‘Crae know their decision, and
then Mackenzie, who really was a boy at heart, and the students settled
down to enjoy themselves.
The minister rather prided himself on the good dinners he gave, and
certainly that of to-night was no exception to the general rule.
After this, as Robbie Burns says--
“The nicht drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,”
till twelve o’clock, chimed out by the pretty clock on the mantelpiece,
a gift from the minister’s parishioners, warned them it was time to
court repose.
* * * * *
How quickly that week sped away, only those situated as were Sandie and
Willie could imagine.
But every time has an end, and the more we are enjoying ourselves, the
faster does old Father Time fly. This is very nasty of old Father Time,
only he will have his own way, despite anything we can say or do.
The last night had come and gone, and Willie had retired to his room,
and was seated by the window, through which the bright moonlight was
streaming, when Elsie, looking in her long night-dress like a sheeted
ghost, came gliding in. Her dark hair all undone was streaming down her
back. Sandie hastened to place a seat for her, and to wrap her from top
to toe in a Highland plaid.
All in all were they to each other that brother and sister, and
innumerable were the things they had to tell each other on this last
night, and many the confidences to interchange, for four long months
must elapse ere they could see each other again.
More than once Sandie could see tears glistening in the moonbeams on his
sister’s cheeks.
But one o’clock came at last, and he had to send her away.
“Anyhow, Sandie,” she said, as she rose to go, “you will promise not to
study too, _too_ hard. Mind you are all I have, Sandie, and if anything
happened to you, the grave would soon close over your poor sister
Elsie.”
“I promise,” said Sandie, “to take care of myself for mother’s sake and
yours. Good-night, dear Elsie.”
“Good-night, dear Sandie.”
And away glided the girl again as silently as she had come.
* * * * *
Sandie and Willie got back to the city on Hogmanay night. That is the
last night of the old year. This is kept in Scotland with great glee,
and I fear with not a little drunkenness. No one thinks of going to bed
till the New Year comes in, and no one thinks of remaining indoors.
Our heroes found Union Street about eleven o’clock crowded to excess,
one dense mob from Union Bridge to Castle Hill, but all good-humoured,
all hearty. Here and there the bagpipes skirled, here and there songs
were sung.
But when it was within about five minutes to twelve an expectant hush
fell over all that vast multitude.
Anon the first stroke of the bell boomed over the city, then the cheer
that went toward that moonlit sky may be imagined, but never never could
be described.
At the same moment everybody seemed to produce a bottle of whisky, and
everybody drank with and shook hands with his nearest neighbour, no
matter who or what he was.
But by one o’clock the multitude had melted away, solitary watchmen
paraded the streets, and the pale moon shown calmly down on the pure
white walls of the Granite City.
CHAPTER VI
_IN SNOW-TIME--A TOWN AND GOWN_
My well-beloved reader--what a pretty expression, by the way!--must not
jump to the conclusion that this chapter, and those that follow,
describe life at the Northern University far back in the Middle Ages.
No; Sandie’s time was just about thirty years ago. Ten years after that,
I know there was but little change. There may or may not be an
alteration since, for I have been to sea, and scarcely clapped eyes on a
red gown.
Well, in Sandie’s time, town and gown riots were far from uncommon;
especially in snow-time. Snow-time was glow-time then. The very look of
the falling snow sent a thrill of joy to each Grammar School boy’s or
even student’s heart, and the first question one would ask another would
be--
“Is it making?”
That is, was the snow soft enough to form easily into snowballs? For if
very frosty and powdery it was of course no use. As most of the real
snowball battles took place just when the thaw commenced, a constant
fusillade would then be carried on all up and down Union Street. The
street boys, as well as students, were chokeful of mischief, and every
conspicuous person caught it hot--if a snowball can be called hot.
Battered silk hats were scattered in all directions. Mashers or
extra-well-dressed people became simply living targets; silk umbrellas,
if put up, were speedily riddled--it was only a case of making the
snowball a trifle harder, an extra squeeze did that, and lo! there was a
hole in the silken ’brella.
It is almost needless to say that the bobbies, or policemen, suffered
greatly at such times. In fact, a policeman was hardly to be seen
without an expanded snowball or two on his greatcoat, and more than one
might be sporting black eyes. As for catching the depredators, and
running them in, this was out of the question. The running-in part would
have been easy enough, but first they had to catch their hare,--there
was the rub.
Well, school challenged school. The Grammar School, for example,
dominated the Gordons, or Sillerton boys, with a rod of iron.
These boys, in those days, were the drollest-looking chaps it is
possible to conceive. They used to march four deep, with a bit of a fife
and drum band ahead of them; and, just imagine it, they were all dressed
like little old men, in blue swallow-tailed coats, with brass buttons,
knee-breeches, and broad Tam o’ Shanter bonnets.
Well, on days when the snow was making, the Grammar School lads would
lie in wait for them, about three deep on each side of the street, and
when they got the Gordons right between, oh, then the fun began, and
soon waxed fast and furious. Some of the teachers, foolishly enough,
would charge the Grammarians with their umbrellas. They were soon to be
pitied; here and there you would see one of these well-dressed whiskered
dons lying on his back, his umbrella torn to tatters, and snowballs
alighting on his person from all directions, as if from a Maxim gun.
Meanwhile the Gordon ranks would be broken up, the music stopped, and
after perhaps an ineffectual attempt at self-defence, Sillerton would be
demoralised and flying for safety in all directions.
But there were other schools that would meet the Grammar School at
times. I have known them meet by challenge by the Denburn side, and a
fine afternoon’s fight be the result.
Then there used to be a manufactory where the workers were terrible
roughs, namely, “the comb-work chaps,” as they were called. As a rule,
the Grammar School steered clear of these. They were bad to beat, and
there was no honour or glory in beating them. Besides, they used to put
stones inside their snowballs.
Sometimes bands of sailor boys used to come up from the shipping in the
harbour to engage the Grammar School in a pitched battle, and all up and
down the school-hill the fight would rage sometimes for hours.
Once I remember the Grammar School was being badly beaten by the
comb-work chaps. Many had received ugly cuts in their faces with stoned
snowballs.
The school lads were almost demoralised, and making a running fight of
it towards their own quad. But help was at hand. A band of red gowns had
heard of the brutality of those roughs, and now they managed to outflank
the cowardly ruffians, while the Grammar School boys rallied once again
and attacked them from the front.
Desperate diseases require desperate cures, and in this case the
students despised snowballs. Those cads used stones, let them have it.
This was the cry, and the red gowns went at them tooth and nail, or
stick and fist. It ended by the comb-work chaps receiving such a
drubbing that they were civil for all the season thereafter. They seemed
determined now not again to provoke a fight with the Grammar School
boys, who had such fierce and terrible allies in those wild hordes of
red gowns.
“Where were the policemen?” it may be asked, when fights like these were
going on. I think I would be safe to say they were somewhere round the
corner. One dutiful bobbie might go to his sergeant, and a conversation
such as the following would take place:--
_Bobbie._ “Man! sairgent, there’s an unco killo-shangie (riot) goin on
at the tap o’ Jack’s brae!”
_Sergeant._ “Ye dinna say so? What’s doin?”
_B._ “Oh, Grammarians, comb-work chaps, and students--they’re a’ at
it.”
_S._ “Ony (any) windows broken?”
_B._ “I canna say there is.”
_S._ “Weel, man, just lat them fecht awa. They canna hurt ane-anither
(each other); a black e’e or a bloody nose’ll do them good, and we canna
help it. Laddies will be laddies.”
_B._ “A’ richt then. I’ll keep oot o’ sicht.”
_S._ “Ay, do.”
* * * * *
“Now, Sandie,” cried Willie, one morning in the end of January, as he
burst gleefully into his friend’s attic and surprised him at his
porridge, “I’ve good news for you. You and I are both invited to the
medical students’ supper, the night after next.”
“I don’t know that I care to go, Willie,” said Sandie. “Aren’t they just
a wee bit noisy and rough at times?”
“Oh, that is nothing, it is only good-humoured and funny they are.”
“And don’t they as a body indulge in toddy to some considerable extent?”
“Perhaps, perhaps, but you and I shall indulge in gingerbeer and
lemonade. Come, you mustn’t refuse. They will be offended. I won’t go
unless you go, and if I don’t go I shall lose some good friends.”
“Well, Willie, for your sake, I’ll go.”
“That’s a man! You’ll hear some humorous speeches and some capital
songs, most of them with choruses.”
Well, the night came round; and round the great tables in the
dining-room of the Lemon Tree Hotel about a hundred as sturdy, happy,
and healthy-looking young men assembled as ever you would wish to
witness. They were not only happy, they were hungry. The speedy way in
which the viands disappeared was proof positive of this. Every edible
domestic animal seemed to be represented on these tables--turkey, geese,
and fowls, pork, mutton, and beef, besides haggis galore, and plenty of
mashed potatoes and sturdy Scottish kail.
Each plate was flanked by a tankard of table-ale. Nothing stronger.
Stronger potations had yet to come.
Well, in due time even the puddings were discussed, and then the tables
were cleared.
“Give your orders, gentlemen,” cried the president, knocking on the
table. A very tall splendid-looking fellow this president was, by birth
an Africander, who had come to take a medical degree in Aberdeen
previously to taking up practice at Cape Town.
The orders were given.
Most of these were simple enough--the wine of the country, with hot
water, sugar, and lemon.
Then right loyally all the usual toasts were given, the Queen, the army,
navy, and volunteers. The volunteers was responded to in a most heroic
speech by one of themselves, who had been coupled with the toast. After
this, song after song was sung, and many private individuals in the room
were toasted, and had to reply, which they did in speeches more or less
humorous.
Not much to his delight, Sandie, as first bursar, was “let in,” as
Willie called it, for a speech.
“I don’t know, gentlemen,” he began, “whether I can speak or not; I am
like the Irishman who, on being asked if he could play the fiddle,
replied, ‘Oh, I daresay I could, but I never tried.’”
Then Sandie warmed to his oratory, and it was universally admitted that
he had made the best speech of the evening.
More songs and more speeches followed this, and so very quickly did the
time fly by, that hardly anybody would believe the landlord when he came
in, smiling and rubbing his hands, to announce--
“Eleven o’clock, gentlemen, if _you_ please!”
They had to please, for policemen were at the door to see the house
cleared.
Now, if these somewhat wild young men had broken up into little parties
of three or four, and each gone its own way, the riot I have to describe
would never have taken place.
I must tell you, first, that a very heavy snow-storm had fallen some
days before, and that then a partial thaw had come. The streets were
cleared in the centre only, the snow being thrown in shovelfuls to the
sides near the pavement.
But frost had returned, and those shovelfuls of snow had become frozen
into huge bricks of part ice, part snow.
“Well,” cried the Africander, who carried an umbrella like a weaver’s
beam, “let us form four deep, and go singing up Union Street, as far as
the bridge, then give three cheers and disperse.”
Four deep was formed accordingly, and the march commenced, also “Auld
Lang Syne.”
But they had not got farther than Market Street ere the roughs had
assembled in force, and commenced a regular cannonade on the students.
“Halt, front!” cried the tall Africander, waving his great umbrella.
“Give ’em fits, charge.”
The mob by this time must have been nearly two hundred strong, but so
desperate and determined was the charge made by the students, that they
were beaten and partially scattered. The Africander, with his great
umbrella, was as good as any three men. The others fought chiefly with
those huge bricks of ice that I have already mentioned; and no matter
where a man was struck with one of these, down he went as if shot.
But the mob was beaten. They made a kind of running fight of it, back as
far as the Castle-gate, and now the victorious students would willingly
have retired.
Fate, however, was against them. For just at that moment, while the
students were meditating retiring with honour, the theatre, then at the
foot of Marischal Street, a street leading directly down to the harbour
from the square called Castle-gate, gave exit to its swarms. The gods,
as those who occupied the galleries were called, seeing that a riot was
on, at once raised the cry of “Down with the students,” as they joined
the beaten mob. The fight was now sharp and fierce, but against such
fearful odds only one ending was possible--the students were beaten and
scattered.
Now to his credit be it said, Sandie would have gone straight home, and
not engaged in this unseemly town-and-gown at all, but Willie went in
for it like wildfire.
And after the first defeat, Sandie, to his dismay, saw the poor lad
lying helpless on the ground kicked and cuffed by the mob. The
Africander was at his elbow, and both rushed to Willie’s assistance.
The Africander fairly shouldered Willie, and fought his way with him
clear of the mob.
But ill-fared it with poor Sandie. He was knocked down and half killed,
three of his ribs being broken with a stout stick. It was well for him
that two burly night-watchmen rushed in to his rescue.
They bore him away, however, and kindly helped him all the way home.
They even assisted him to bed--a bed, by the way, he did not leave for a
fortnight.
“I’ll never forget your goodness,” said Sandie, as he presented one of
them with a five-shilling piece, that the three might drink his health.
“Oh,” said the spokesman, “we did naething mair than common charity.”
“But you don’t understand, men. You might have made me prisoner,
mightn’t you?”
“Oh, ay!”
“Then I might have been tried as one of the ringleaders of the riot?”
“To be surely!”
“Well, and if so, ten to one I should have been tried next by the
Senatus Academicus, and deprived of my bursary. God bless you this
night, men; good-bye now. But come back and see me.”
Sandie’s landlady was kindness personified. Dr. Kilgour himself attended
the poor fellow, and Willie constituted himself his constant nurse.
There was at no time any real danger, so the patient did not write to
alarm his father and mother.
He had plenty of callers to keep up his heart. The great Africander came
every evening.
“I never saw any one fight more bravely against fearful odds,” he said
over and over again, “than you did, Sandie M‘Crae.”
“Oh,” said Sandie, smiling, “I assure you fighting is not much in my
line, and but for my friend Willie, you ne’er would have seen me there.”
But with his temperate habits and his wonderful constitution, Sandie was
at last able to get up, and though pale and stiff, rejoin his classes.
The first day he appeared, leaning on a stick in the quad, he was the
recipient of a regular ovation. The students cheered and cheered again
and crowded round him to shake hands, and I believe they would have
hoisted him shoulder high had not his ribs been still so weak.
But it must be confessed that Sandie did not enjoy this ovation half so
much as that he received on the night he gained the bursary. He had no
wish in the world to pose as a warlike hero, and he made a vow that in
future, come what might, he should keep clear of riots and
town-and-gowns. It was well for him he did, as the sequel will show.
CHAPTER VII
_THE INSTALLATION RIOT_
The close of that same winter session is memorable for a riot of such a
strange character, and of such startling dimensions, that I make no
apology for giving a brief description thereof.
It was an election or installation riot, and many a student was
rusticated for having taken a too active part in it; and yet, methinks,
the students had right on their side.
In order to let the reader understand it, I must tell him that, as a
rule, two men, probably lords, dukes, or eminent literary men, are put
up for election as Lord Rector of the University, and one of these is
chosen, not by numerical strength of votes, but by nations, as they are
called.
The whole body of students at Marischal College were divided into
nations. The men who were born twixt Dee and Don were called the Mar
nation; those born between the Don and Deveron the Buchan nation; all
west of the Deveron the Highland nation; while those south of the Dee,
or belonging to countries over the sea, were called the Foreign nation.
Four nations in all, you will observe. Well, if two nations went for
one man and two for another, it was a tie, and the Principal of the
University had the casting vote. When he was a wise man, he always gave
his vote to the two nations that contained the largest number of
students.
On this particular year it so happened that the Mar and Buchan nations
were on one side, as against the Highland and Foreign. Now the former
two nations included the main body of students of the University, the
other two being in numbers quite insignificant compared to them.
The Principal was, therefore, very unwise to give his vote against them.
The wrath and indignation of Buchan and Mar were terrible. They held
meetings, and took a solemn vow to prevent, by every means in their
power, the installation of the chosen Lord Rector.
There were lively spirits among those Buchan and Mar lads, and not only
did they parade the streets by day with flags and banners flying,
stopping at every professor’s house to hoot and yell if that professor
were against them, or loudly cheer and sing his praises if known to be
on their side, but at night also they had marches and counter-marches,
and these were of a more serious character, for many encounters with the
police took place, and the windows of inimical professors were freely
stoned and broken. All this was bad and spiteful enough, but worse was
to follow.
I forget, by the way, whether it was during this time, or a few years
before, that a strange piece of revenge was taken against a professor
who had incurred the displeasure of his students. This gentleman was a
fowl fancier. And one night a band of some twenty or thirty students
appeared a little before midnight at the professor’s house. They first
barred the doors up from the outside. Then they coolly attacked the
fowl-house, killing every one and carrying away the lot. Next night, at
some inn in the New Town, there was a big supper, and the standing
dishes were roast and boiled fowls. Such a criminal riot as this would
hardly be tolerated now-a-days.
At long and last the installation day came round. A riot was confidently
expected, and all preparations made to, if possible, stem the tide
thereof.
The installation of Lord Rector is one of the sights of a session. It
takes place in the great upper hall of the University, which occupies
the top storey of a wing stretching from the back of the University,
with many tall mullioned windows at each side. It is beautifully
furnished with cushioned forms, a platform, and pulpit, and the walls
are covered with costly pictures.
There is one thing sure and certain, the ringleaders among the
student-rioters knew the value and the science of organisation, and they
had everything well planned beforehand.
For example, there was an order of the Senate that rendered it
impossible for policemen to enter the quad to make an arrest or to
clear the square during a riot. This was a very old law, but whether
rescinded or not by this time, I cannot tell.
And the ringleaders knew this. They had also found out that it was
proposed to send for the soldiers, to clear courts and quad, if the riot
should assume gigantic proportions. They knew that the regimental
colonel had been notified to this effect, and that the soldiers were
confined to barracks. It is strange that soldiers might enter in where
bobbies feared to follow, but such, it would seem, was really the case.
However, against such a contingency the chief ringleaders had provided;
and I may as well state here as farther on, that during the progress of
the riot, first one student messenger, and then another, were despatched
to solicit the aid of the soldiers to clear the quad, but that both were
captured by the enemy’s scouts, and made prisoners in Mother Robertson’s
till the riot was all over.
As a rule, at an installation of Lord Rector, ladies are admitted, and
very gay the hall looks with their presence; but on this occasion,
fearing the consequences, the presence of ladies was forbidden. This was
another mistake, for students are possessed of considerable gallantry,
and the rioters would never have proceeded to such extremes as they did
in the presence of their mothers, sisters, and sweethearts.
As the students filed in through the gates into the quad, they were
ordered to give up their sticks. This the rioters willingly did; and
well they might, for, concealed under his coat or gown, every one
carried a short heavy-headed hammer.
And now the great hall was crowded. The dissenters keeping all together,
that is, the nations of Mars and Buchan, the two poor skinny little
Highland and Foreign nations looking a mere handful beside them.
On to the platform now meekly and modestly comes his lordship, and the
professors group around him.
He is received by a few faint cheers from the Highlanders and
Foreigners, but by a dinful distracting chorus of yelling, hooting, and
hissing by the rioters.
But Scotsmen are naturally pious, so, while Dr. Dewar prays, they are
silent and still.
No sooner, however, does the ceremony commence in earnest, than, with
their arms crossed, two stalwart students form a chair, and on this
between them mounts Jamie B----r, afterwards Dr. B----r, and only
recently dead. He is carried forward till right beneath the platform. He
there reads a long and well-worded protest against his lordship’s
election.
Three groans are then called for, after which a voice is heard
shouting--
“All that are against this unjust and cruel installation will now leave
the hall.”
And so the rioters left in a body, and the great hall doors were shut
behind them.
These great folding doors, I may mention, are as nearly as I can
remember about twelve feet high, and open in the centre. They were now
locked and bolted, and the installation, it was hoped, would proceed in
peace. Those who thought so had, however, reckoned without their host.
On both sides of the wing, in which was the installation hall, the
rioters stationed themselves. They had a fine supply of stones and
pebbles, and inside that hall, from through the windows, those stones
soon began to fall as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.
Not one student or professor, but many, were hit with the hail-shower of
falling pebbles.
All at once, however, there was a lull.
“The worst is over, I think,” a professor ventured to remark.
He was mistaken, the worst was to come. The rioters had found out that
the big hall doors were closed against them.
“Why should they be shut out? Had not they as good a right to be inside
as any?”
Certainly they had. “Hurrah! lads, hurrah!”
In another minute they were crowding, in two dense bodies, up the two
stairs that converged in front of the folding doors. Here they loudly
knocked, and demanded admittance. This was refused.
Then all the force the rioters could command was applied to that door.
The locks and bolts, it is true, held good, but each half gave way
simultaneously at its hinges. Down with a crash went the door, and in
rushed the mob.
“Now, lads, out with your hammers.”
The students friendly to the Lord Rector rallied and fought well, but
were speedily beaten, and had to seek refuge in flight.
The Lord Rector himself, during the scrimmage, is said to have received
a wound in the nose from a piece of splintered wood.
And now the work of wreckage and destruction was commenced. By means of
the hammers the forms were broken up, and, worse than all, many of the
fine paintings that could not be restored were rent in ribbons.
Satiated with revenge, at long and last, and fearful, perhaps, that the
soldiers might arrive, and turn them out at the point of the bayonet,
the rioters retired. They formed four deep in the quad, and went
marching off, dispersing to their several homes after arriving at the
centre of the town.
The punishments that followed this strange riot were not very severe,
and all academical, of course. But it was considered that the students
really had had a great grievance, and so the _Senatus Academicus_ was
lenient. But several of the ringleaders, including Jamie B----, were
rusticated.
Sandie M‘Crae took no part in this riot, and he even succeeded in
inducing his friend Willie to keep away from the University that day.
Instead of going near Marischal College, they hired a dogcart, and went
off out the Skene Road, with rods and tackle, to enjoy a day’s fishing
in a bonnie brown burn that led from the Loch o’ Skene.
The day was most delightful, the blue of the sky all the bluer in that
grey or fleecy clouds floated here and there. But the wind’s light
breath was balmy and warm, laverocks carolled against the sky, wild
flowers, by the wayside, sprang wanton to be pressed; the dark pine
woods of Hazlehead and Maidencraig were a sight to see, while in the
more open country the larches were already fringed with tender spring
greens, and tasselled with crimson.
The very horse Sandie drove seemed to feel the influence of this
delightful day, and as he trotted merrily on--his feet made music on the
pebbled road.
They never drew rein until they came to the inn of Straik in Echt, where
they had formerly dined, and here they put up.
They would walk the rest of the distance, and the landlady promised she
would have a charming little dinner ready for them by the time they
returned.
Would her little boy be of use to them as a guide? Well, they would take
him anyhow.
He was a very tiny lad indeed, with a head of tow apparently, and no
cap; but they found him invaluable. For wee Johnnie knew all the best
“pots” where the biggest trout lay, and he knew also precisely the kind
of flies they liked.
“Oh,” he cried, when he saw Sandie’s and Willie’s book, “the troots
wadna look at they.”
Then from what he called his “oxter pouch” he produced his own book.
Something very different here. But the results justified the boy’s
wisdom, and an excellent day’s sport was the result.
“Johnnie, you’re a little brick,” cried Willie, after he had put up his
rod.
He placed a five-shilling piece in the boy’s hand as he spoke.
Johnnie looked at it, and his eyes appeared to turn quite as large and
round as the coin. He had never fingered so much money in his life
before.
“Is a’ this for me?” he said.
“All for you, Johnnie.”
“A’ for my nain sel’?”
“All for your own self.”
“My conscience! I’m the happiest lad in the countryside!”
And so he really appeared to be.
Our heroes had spent a very calm but pleasant day, and Willie felt
thankful, and expressed himself so more than once, that they were down
in the cool green country, far away from scenes of strife and riot.
They stopped for a moment by the side of the silvery lake to admire the
beautiful sheet of water with the greenery of the woods rising up from
its banks beyond, and afar off the blue summits of the Grampian Hills.
Johnnie here volunteered a statement.
“Gintlemen,” he said, “do ye ken what the mad laird o’ Skene ance did?”
“Is there a mad laird o’ Skene, Johnnie?”
“Oh, no noo, but lang syne. He wasna doonricht daft, ye ken, but jist
reckless-kind and deil-may-care.”
“Well, what did he do, Johnnie?”
“Weel, he made a wager that he’d drive a carriage and pair ower the loch
after only ae’ (one) nicht’s frost.”
“And did he do it?”
“Ay, that did he. But he made a compact with the servant that sat beside
him, that he wasna to look roun’. The man did look roun’ tho’, just as
the hosses had got footin’ on the bank. He saw an awfu’ beast like a big
baboon sittin’ up behind, then the ice broke and the carriage sunk. But
the laird won the wager.”
“Come on,” said Willie; “I’m hungry.”
CHAPTER VIII
_BACK AT THE DEAR OLD FARM_
The close of the session had come. Soon the streets, that had all winter
long been rendered so gay and cheerful by the flash of the scarlet togas
and the merry laugh of the wearers, would know neither toga nor wearer
any more for six long months.
The session had ended, and spring had come. There was balm in the breath
of the breeze that now blew over the Broad Hill and swept along the wide
golf links. The breakers thundered less often in fury upon the yellow
sand. They preferred now to roll in more slowly, and to lisp and to sing
as they curled in long lines of foam upon the beach. Trees were all in
bud, birds were in fullest song, people were busy in their gardens,
where tulips, hyacinths, polyanthuses, and the sweet-faced primroses
were already blooming side by side with the blue-eyed, gentle myosotis
or forget-me-not.
There is always more or less of sadness in the hearts of students at
this the time of parting with the comrades they have sat in the same
class-rooms with all the winter, have walked with, played with, nay,
even fought with mayhap. But now all is forgiven, if, indeed, there be
anything to forgive, and in a week’s time the classes are scattered to
the four winds of heaven. The majority, it is true, live in
Aberdeenshire, but this county is broad and wide stretching--we may say,
from the Bullers of Buchan to the rolling Dee, and from the far-off
heathy hills of Braemar in the west, to the sea that laves its sand-girt
eastern shore.
Some men had gone away into the Highlands of Inverness, and during all
the summer would delve and dig or hold the plough. Others away to wild
romantic Skye--the Isle of Wings, and others again far North to that
_Ultima Thule_, Shetland, which some one has likened to “a sea-girdled
peat-moss.” It is rather, however, a series of sea-girdled peat-mosses,
for the islands are very numerous indeed, their shores, when the purple
mantle of summer is thrown like a veil of gauze over them, as romantic
as they are lonesome and wild.
And Sandie and Willie had parted. But they would think of each other
constantly, and they would write almost every day.
Willie was going south to the Riviera with his mother and one of his
sisters, but as soon as he should return, his first visit would be up
Deeside to the dear old farm of Kilbuie.
So Sandie went home alone. But how delighted his parents and Elsie were
to see him, I need not tell the reader!
* * * * *
Since Sandie had been at home last, a little change had taken place
near the farm. He noticed this as he came slowly down the long loaning,
and just as Elsie and dear old Tyro came running delightedly to meet
him. A little cottage had sprung up, a cottage consisting only of a butt
and a ben, that is, dear English reader, one of two rooms, namely, a
room at each side of the door, a best room and a living room or kitchen.
“But what did it mean?” Sandie asked himself. There was even a garden
laid out before the door, the door itself had a rustic porch, and the
cottage was prettily stob-thatched with straw.
As soon as Tyro’s first wild greetings were over, and Elsie had welcomed
her brother back, he pointed to the cottage and asked for an
explanation.
“Oh,” cried Elsie, “I meant to have written and told you, but Jamie and
Jeannie beseeched me not to. They thought it much better it should come
as a surprise to you when you returned home.”
“Well,” said Sandie, “I begin to smell a rat. They are going to be
married. Is it not so?”
“Yes.”
“Sly old Jamie Duncan! I never knew he was soft in that direction. Won’t
I roast him just?”
“Oh no, dear Sandie, you mustn’t. It really isn’t sly he is, so much as
shy.”
But nevertheless, as soon as Sandie saw Jamie, and the first greetings
were over, he tackled him on the forthcoming great event in his life.
“So,” said Sandie, “I’ve got to rub shoulders with you, have I?”
For the information of the Southern reader, I may explain that to rub
shoulders with a bridegroom is supposed to bring the rubber great good
luck.
“I’m no goin’ to deny it,” replied Jamie, his cheeks like the rosy beet.
“Man!” he added by way of excuse, “I lo’oed Jeannie a lang, lang time,
though she didna ken (didn’t know), but at last I had to tell her, or
lay me doon and dee, as the auld sang says.”
“And she has been kind enough to promise to marry you?”
“Ay, that has she, Sandie, and sealed the bargain wi’ a kiss. And a
richt bonnie and usefu’ wifie she’ll mak’ to a poor chiel like me. Oh,
man, it is a fine thing to hae a bit hoose o’ your ain, to come hame at
even to your little cot, and find your firie burnin’, your supper ready,
and your winsome wifie a’ smiles and saft, saft words!”
“Well,” said Sandie, “I’m sure, Jamie, I wish you all the happiness you
deserve, and Jeannie too.”
Jamie’s wedding took place just a week after Sandie’s return.
It was an exceedingly quiet one, but Jeannie made a bonnie bride, and
Jamie a sturdy independent bridegroom.
Mr. Mackenzie himself, though it was not his parish, was asked to
perform the ceremony, and came over on purpose to do so, after which
there was a right merry and jolly breakfast, then the happy pair set out
together to spend their honeymoon.
And how long, think you, did this honeymoon last? Why, just one day.
They went off to see the sights in the Granite City, and next day at
gloaming, they came linking down the long loanings arm-in-arm, looking
as happy, quite as the yellow-billed blackbird and his wife who lived in
yonder thicket of spruce.
Geordie Black, the orra man, had lit a fire in the cottage, and it was
burning brightly; Elsie had laid the table, and tea and dinner combined
were ready, just as the happy pair came over the threshold.
“Oh,” cried Jamie, “this is truly delichtfu’.”
The occasion even required verse, and Jamie was equal to it. As he threw
himself into the easy-chair with a kind of tired but contented sigh, he
carolled forth--
“Mid pleasures and palaces
Where’er we may roam,
Be it ever so humble,
There’s no place like home.”
* * * * *
Now to return to our hero Sandie: his experiences of pupil-teaching had
not been to him bliss unalloyed. It took him away from his studies, it
was a loss of time, and a terrible worry, and the pay was hardly
commensurate. Besides, as at the close of next session he meant to
compete for a great prize for mathematics of sixty pounds, tenable for
the two last sessions of the curriculum, he would really need all his
time for preparation.
So in his own mind he began to cast about for some means of making a
little money during the summer, to help him through the weary winter. A
little would do; but that little must be earned.
He must help his father with the harvest work, free, gratis. Many and
many a year and day that dear old father, whose hair was now silvered
with age, had helped him.
Then, as if he had received a flash of inspiration, the herring-fishery
came into his mind.
Now, in Scotland, it will do my Southern reader no harm to know, the
herring come to the coast months before they reach the shores of, say,
Norfolk and Suffolk. In the Land o’ Cakes they come in with the new
potatoes in June, and a most delicious dish fresh herring and new
potatoes make.
Well, Sandie could have two months at this industry before his father’s
harvest came on.
When he mentioned his determination to his mother and Elsie next day,
with tears in their eyes, they tried to dissuade him from his purpose.
It was rash, they alleged, and it was highly dangerous. But Sandie stood
firm as a rock.
Our hero now resumed, to a certain extent, his old life on the farm.
With the exception of a forenoon, spent about twice a week with his old
friend Mackenzie, and his little favourite, Maggie May, with whom he
frequently went fishing, he worked with his father’s servants. The
horses’ holiday time had come round again once more, and once more they
were wading pastern-deep in the daisied grass, as happy as the day was
long; but there was plenty to do for the men in thinning turnips,
weeding and hoeing potatoes, and other things.
In the evening, however, immediately after supper, he retired to his
little grain-loft study, and there bent all his energies to the
elucidation of the mysteries of mathematics till far on into the night.
He did not find mathematics so very hard after all, when he fairly set
himself to tackle it. The problems looked dreadfully dark and difficult
a little way off, just as a black cloud does that is approaching the
moon, but the moon soon brightens it. And in the same way, Sandie’s
determination and study soon illuminated the darkest clouds of
mathematics.
Indeed, Sandie was really pleased with his prowess and advancement, but
well he knew, nevertheless, that he would have to study steadily, hard
and long, if he was to have the slightest chance of capturing that great
prize of £60 for two years. Why, such a haul would render him
independent.
Well, he determined to work and trust in Providence.
Sandie, however, did not neglect his health. He ate and drank well, and
every fine evening his sister Elsie and he went up the hill through the
long sweet-scented yellow broom for a walk.
Delicious hours those! To have seen Elsie hanging on to her brother’s
arm, and he smiling as he looked fondly down into her sweet face, a
stranger would have taken them for lovers.
Then what castles in the air they did build to be sure! What day-dreams
were theirs! Of the time when he should be minister of some beautiful
old church by the banks of a stream, and she, Elsie, his housekeeper.
Already, in imagination, they could hear the church-bell tolling of a
Sunday morning, and see the well-dressed congregation slowly wending
their way through the auld kirkyard to the door.
And Sandie’s sermons should be such rousing ones; couched in eloquent
language, that should go straight to the heart of every hearer, and
sometimes even bring tears to the eyes of the listeners.
Of course, dear old father and mother would be in the manse pew. Then
the manse itself, an old-fashioned house, with fine old-fashioned
gardens, and rare old-fashioned flowers, gardens in which, in the
spring-time, the mavis and the blackbird would all day long fill the air
with their charming melody, and the lark sing above till past the
midnight hour.
Oh, they had it all cut and dry, I assure you; but dear me, what a long
time they would have to wait yet before there was a chance of those
dreams coming true!
Never mind! were they not young? Ah! hope beats high in youthful hearts.
So back they would saunter through the golden-tasselled broom, and then
Sandie would begin his lucubrations.
* * * * *
Just the very day before Sandie had intended starting north and east to
get an engagement as a herring-fisher, he was agreeably startled by a
visit from Willie, who had just returned from the Riviera.
“Had you been a day later,” Sandie said, as he grasped his friend’s
hand, “you would not have found me.”
“Inasmuch as to wherefore?” said Willie, raising his brows.
“I’m off to-morrow to join the herring-fleet.”
“What! you? You turn a herring-fisher?”
“Yes, Willie.”
Then Sandie told him all the reader already knows.
“I’d ten times sooner catch herring,” he ended, “than teach that young
blockhead the rudiments of Latin grammar.”
“Well, then,” said Willie, “I shall go with you for a day, just to see
you settled.”
“I’ll be delighted, I’m sure.”
So bidding his father and mother and Elsie adieu--he had already said
good-bye to Mackenzie and Maggie May--on the very next morning, Sandie
started in company with Willie for the fishing village of Blackhive.
_N.B._--I call it Blackhive because that is not its name. Its real title
I have reasons for keeping secret.
They found the little town already very busy indeed. All hands were
getting their nets on board the great sturdy open boats, in which these
hardy fishermen venture far to sea and encounter many a storm.
The boats have a bit of a close deck fore and aft, but all betwixt and
between is a well. Here lie the nets, and here are stowed the herring
when caught.
Our heroes found the village swarming with foreigners, in the shape of
men from the far Hebrides, especially Skye, who had come to join the
fishery, and if possible to make a little money to carry them on for
another year.
If the fishing should be good, there was no doubt about making money,
for they were not only paid good wages, but a certain percentage on the
takes or crans.
There was no great hurry, so Willie and Sandie sauntered about for
hours, looking at the strange and busy scene, which was so unlike
anything they had ever witnessed before.
Not only young men had swarmed into the town, but modest-looking young
lassies too. These latter would be employed in gutting the herring, in
salting them, and packing them in barrels for the Southern markets.
And the coopers or barrel-makers were very busy indeed already, and had
been so for weeks; their fires burned in every direction, while the
clanging of their hammers was incessant.
Our heroes found themselves at last at a cosy little inn.
Yes, they could have dinner, nice new potatoes, fresh butter, and fresh
herrings and milk. “Hurrah!” cried Willie, “what could be better?” So
they dined delectably.
CHAPTER IX
_WISE WEE JOHN AND WITTY EPPIE_
The landlady of the little inn, at which Sandie and Willie had dined so
sumptuously, was a chatty wee body. Like most chatty wee bodies, she was
by no means averse to being informed concerning the nature of other
people’s business.
“Ye’ll be tourists, I reckon?” she said, as she placed a delicious dish
of curds and cream in front of them.
Now it had occurred to Sandie that this same gossipy landlady, who
evidently knew everybody, might put him in the way of getting a boat. So
he answered her question readily enough.
“No,” he said, “not quite tourists, mother. I come on quite a different
errand, and mean to stay for a bit. My friend here came to bear me
company, and will return to-morrow, if not to-day.”
“And what may your business be, young sir?”
“Ah! that’s what I’m coming to, mother. I’m a student, you see, and my
people are poor. I have just enough to do to rub along and pay my way
during the winter session.”
“But, mind you,” interpolated Willie somewhat proudly, “my friend here
is first bursar at Marischal College and University, Aberdeen.”
“Preserve me!” cried the woman, lifting up her palms and raising her
eyes ceilingwards. “Preserve us a’, but what a high honour to hae a
first bursar in my poor house!”
“Never mind about the honour, mother. Let me tell you at once, that I’ve
come down here to find a boat, if possible, and to try to make a few
white shillings at the herring-fishing.”
“Gang awa’ wi’ ye, you’re jokin’. You a gentleman and a first bursar, to
go and catch scaly herrings, and work like a galley-slave. Dinna try to
deceive an auld wife; you’re just poking fun at Widow Stephen.”
“No, Mrs. Stephen, I was never so much in earnest in all my life. Look
at my brawny arms, look at my chest. I’ve been used to the scythe and
the plough, the pluck and the hoe. Think you that casting a net is going
to frighten me?
“But,” he said after a pause, “I thought you might know of some one who
would be glad to have youth, strength, and agility.”
“Oh, plenty will be glad to have you. Why, as sure as I live, there goes
the very man, and I ken weel that his boat’s crew is no complete. I’ll
tap at the window.”
She did so, and then hurried out to meet the fisherman.
Suffice it to say, that in less than half-an-hour Sandie was appointed
to John Menzies’ boat, at a good wage and his chance, that is, so much
per crane on the take.
Not only that, but, to his great joy, John told him that his wife Eppie
would take him in and do for him for an auld sang. He would have a canty
wee roomie, with a wee window lookin’ oot to the hills, where he could
study to the ring o’ the bonnet when the boat wasn’t at sea. This is
pretty much John’s own language, and it is needless to say that Sandie
was glad to accept the offer.
Willie and Sandie spent a very agreeable day indeed, and slept at the
little inn, but next morning Willie departed after a friendly and
somewhat sad farewell, and Sandie sauntered along the beach to John’s
house.
He found the worthy couple both waiting for him, and he noted at once
that they were characters. When I mention the fact that they are
sketched from the real life, perhaps my reader will understand my
reasons for not giving the village in which they resided its real name.
A few words about this queer, delightful couple won’t, I feel sure, be
thrown away.
John Menzies, then, was an honest fisherman of this same famous old town
of Blackhive, celebrated from time immemorial for the finest smoked
haddies that ever delighted the eye, or tickled the palate of gourmand
or epicure.
John Menzies (pronounced Maingees) lived with his wife, “as,” he himself
more than once remarked, “every decent man should.” It was the custom
with John to catch the fish, and the custom with John’s wife to sell
them, and thus they shared life’s burden.
Now John was reputed to be as wise a man as there was in the town, or
for that matter any town whatever, and his wife--well I should not like
to be the goose whose wings should supply the quills to write or
describe all the virtues ascribed to this good lady by her neighbours.
John’s wife, she was called, and likewise surnamed the Witty. Eppie was
her name--Witty Eppie. There you have it. “A virtuous wife,” says
Solomon, “is a crown unto her husband.” Well John’s wife was all that to
him, and more besides. In point of fact, John was often heard to say,
“It was for my Eppie’s goodness I married her,” and he was generally
believed for this simple reason--it could not have been for her beauty.
No; Nature had dealt sparingly with her as far as beauty was concerned.
But then, Nature could hardly be expected to give her all things. She
had an honest sonsy face of her own, though, for all that, and a
motherly look in it too, although so far from being a fruitful vine, she
never had borne fruit at all.
“John is my bairn,” Eppie would say, “and between him and the creel it
tak’s me a’ my time, ’oman.”
In figure, Eppie was rather rotund and somewhat given to corpulency
without, but then she had a Herculean frame to bear it. “A broad back to
a big burden,” was another of her sayings, for, like all Scottish
fisherwomen, she was much addicted to quoting proverbs, which she was
wont to term “the pepper dulse” of conversation.[7] Yet if she was not
a bonnie fishwife, she was at best a handsome one--six feet tall if an
inch, and well-made in proportion. On the other hand, John himself was
what might with fear of any serious contradiction be called a spare
man--a wee wee man--a man of bone and sinew certainly, but of little
else. Well, he might have been of feet four, and of inches double the
number, and it would have done your heart good to have seen the worthy
couple going to church on a Sabbath-day, which, to their credit be it
told, they never failed to do. The best view was to be obtained from
behind. Here, you could observe the exact difference in stature, for
John’s Sunday’s hat, which never, never sat easily on his head, and was
always bobbing from one side to another, scarcely reached his better
half’s shoulder. The difference too in the breadth of beam was here very
apparent--the vast and ample folds of the red tartan shawl on the one
hand, and the short waggling swallow tails of the little green coat with
its plain brass buttons on the other.
Despise not that dumpy garment, reader, for it was his best. It was his
marriage coat, and he had never got another since.
The next best view of the loving couple was the side view. There you
could observe and marvel at the vast difference in length of step, at
least John’s was a step, Eppie’s was a stride, and when, as sometimes
would occur, the church-bells ceased to ring before they reached the
gate, oh! to see the way she lugged the poor little man along by the
hand! Still, even under these circumstances, Eppie could afford to walk,
but--I almost sob to say it--wee Johnnie had to trot. In a word, imagine
an ostrich walking to church with a rook, and you see them. Good simple
couple, the minister never missed them from the kirk a single Sunday
from that auspicious day when he had joined their hands, until the
mournful morning when the old hearse wound slowly down the long loaning
that conveyed poor wee Johnnie to his home in the mould, while every
wife in Blackhive stood at her door with her apron to her eyes. But of
this more anon.
Eppie was as kind to her husband as kind could be, and it is but fair to
say that for this she took no credit.
“De’il thank me,” she used to exclaim, “wha could be onything else to
the poor wee worriting body?”
Yet, while never failing in household duties--and there never was a
button missing from John’s shirt, never _was_ his big toe seen staring
impudently through a hole in his stocking, neither did he ever come home
wet and cold without finding a change of well-aired warm raiment, a warm
meal, and some creature comforts besides waiting for him--John’s wife
found plenty of time to do kind and friendly actions to her neighbours
too.
Honest woman, she was always welcome wherever she went, for she carried
a ray of light into the darkest and gloomiest cottage. Even death itself
did not seem so terrible when Eppie stood at the bedside.
But strangest thing of all--because, where could she have obtained the
knowledge?--Eppie was always to be found handy in houses where little
caps and small-waisted frocks and many other mysteries began to appear,
without any visible little heads or small waists on which to fit them.
Poor John! it was on such occasions as those, and I am proud to add
only, that he had to be content with a cold dinner or a bowl of hasty
pudding made by his own hands. But he never grumbled.
CHAPTER X
_LIFE AT JOHN’S COTTAGE--THE FISHING_
I have told the reader a little about Sandie’s new master and his
landlady, John’s wife, and a glimpse at the cottage itself may not be
uninteresting.
John’s residence, then, was what a house-factor would have described as
pleasantly situated by the sea-shore, and as far as the situation went
he would have been right.
The house itself stood with one of its gables towards the sea, as if it
had fallen out with the sea and was giving it the cold shoulder. It was
separated from high-water mark by about three square yards of green
sward, or, as a recent poet says--
“The sea washing up to the door,
The bay running down to the boat.”
There, of a summer’s evening, John and his wife might have been seen
mending their nets or preparing the bait for lobster creels or deep-sea
lines. John used to say that there never was any woman whatever who
could render bait so tempting to the eye or nose of fish or lobster as
his Eppie could, and there must have been a good deal of truth in what
he said, for often when fishermen drew in their lines, or drew up their
creels empty, John’s draught of fishes would be but a little short of
miraculous. In the winter-time, at spring tides the sea used often to
despise the boundaries set to it, inundate the bit of green sward, wash
the clay from the foundations of the hut, and dash in angry spray over
the chimney itself. This east-end chimney had accordingly a very
dilapidated appearance, being plastered up with boards, old tarpaulin,
and ropes of straw, which, however, were constantly coming to grief, so
that John’s constant employment, whenever he had nothing else to do, was
to sit cross-legged upon the roof and repair it. The other chimney was
quite a respectable affair in comparison.
The front of the little building, however, was quite a picture of
neatness and cleanliness. The causeway in front of it was always swept
and tidy, for Eppie made it a law that neither murlin nor creel should
lie about her door. She had a small hut for all such gear, and there
they were placed when not in use.
In the front side of John’s house were a door and two small windows,
from which statement the reader may easily infer that the accommodation
consisted only of two rooms, “a butt and a ben.” And the amount of
whitewash expended every month on both the outside walls and the inside
must have been something very considerable indeed.
From sea, John’s house was therefore by day a very good mark to the
helmsman, and on a clear night was as good as many a lighthouse.
Small though the building was, John’s best room, now given up to Sandie,
was as snug and well furnished as any fisherman’s need be. The bed at
one end, with its snowy counterpane and white calico curtains, would
have made you drowsy to look at. Then there was a chest of drawers, an
old-fashioned grandfather’s clock, and a real mahogany table with
chairs, besides a little bookcase filled with the most motley collection
of books ever seen, and a large sea-chest well stocked, nay, even
crammed, with everything appertaining to male or female wearing apparel.
And all these articles of use and luxury John and his wife had gathered
by their own untiring industry. But this room, you may be sure, was only
dwelt in upon high days and holidays, such as John’s birthday, or “my
ain,” Eppie would say, “which comes but once a year, ye ken.”
The portals of this sacred chamber were likewise thrown open wide on
Halloween and Fasterseen, called in England Shrove Tuesday, and until
the advent of one or other of those festive occasions, let us leave it.
The best room was called _butt_ the house. It was ben the house,
however, where you found John and Eppie when really at home. This was
the apartment next the sea, and in addition to its front window, it
could also boast of a little six-paned gable window, with a very broad
sill. Alongside this window stood John’s easy-chair, a vast
chintz-covered edifice, which one would imagine had been built on the
premises. And on the window sill, within easy reach, lay a large Family
Bible, a copy of the Shorter Catechism, Burns’ Poems, and a Life of Sir
William Wallace.
On stormy nights, when John’s boat was far out in the bay, rocked in the
cradle of the deep, Eppie used to burn a bright light in the wee window,
to keep up the spirits of her little man, and guide him safe to shore.
The window was, moreover, fitted with a strong shutter, which was
shipped when the tides were high or the weather threatening.
A low fire of peats and pinewood burned upon the hearth, and in winter
evenings, the stormier the night and the higher the waves, the bigger
was the fire that Eppie built, seating herself near it, with a bright
and cheery face to knit her stocking, while John, in his easy-chair
opposite, entertained her with wonderful stories from that seemingly
inexhaustible book, the Life of Wallace.
John, too, had other accomplishments besides that of reading, one of
which, and not the least clever either, was his ability to stamp a reel
or a strathspey on an old fiddle, that hung in its green baize bag on
the wall behind his chair; how he loved that old instrument too! It was
the only thing in the world that Eppie had ever had reason to be jealous
of. John called his violin by the not over-euphonious name of “Janet.”
“Isn’t she natural?” he would exclaim gleefully after playing a tune.
“Isn’t she na-a-tural?” and he would pat it on the back, and laughing,
kiss it, then hold it to his breast as if it were a favourite child.
Yet John never cared to perform for his own special delectation, but
rather for the happiness of others. Although himself childless, very
seldom indeed was John’s fireside not surrounded of an evening by little
curly heads and bright jubilant faces, listening mute and wondering to
the weird old-fashioned tales he had such a gift in relating. How, too,
would these little faces light up with smiles when, after a long story,
John would rise, and standing on a chair, take down the mysterious green
bag, and, after a series of tinkle-tankle-tum-tum, as he tuned up, and
which made expectancy itself a pleasure, launch forth into a lively
tune.
Then at once a reel would be formed on the floor, and never did feet of
fairies trip it more lightly, in moonlit glade, than did these laughing
children over the fisherman’s floor.
Thus did John spend his evenings at home, when the sea was too stormy to
permit of his going after his usual avocations. On clear nights,
however, the little boat bobbed up and down against the starry horizon,
and Eppie burned her little oil lamp in the gable window, albeit the
moon might be shining as bright as day.
There were times, however, when that bright little beacon lamp was
sorely needed, nights when the lonely fisherman was overtaken by sudden
storms, when clouds and darkness lowered around him, sea and sky met in
wildest fury; then did that light in the window steel his arm and nerve
his heart, telling as it did of the cosy wee cottage--his home, where
his good wife sat anxiously awaiting his return, though often and often,
strong-minded though she was, with womanly tears falling from her eyes.
But for all the dangers John had come through--and what fisherman on
that wild coast does not?--he had so far never yet met with any accident
worth mentioning, or out of the usual run common to his class. Many a
strong boat belonging to his neighbours had perished, and many a
stalwart fellow had left a widow and fatherless bairns to mourn, but
nothing had ever happened to John more distressing than the occasional
loss of his lines, or destruction of his gear by awkward and
obstreperous bottle-nosed whales, too eager in pursuit of the silvery
herrings to consider the little fisherman’s interest. Not a small
misfortune, either, to a poor man like him, to have a dozen of these
unwieldy brutes run their blunt noses through his nets, rending asunder
nearly all his worldly wealth, and carrying away the pieces on their
great greasy tails, to goodness knows where.
* * * * *
Still a few days would elapse before the launching of John’s great boat,
and the commencement of herring-fishing in earnest. Very busy days they
were for John and Eppie, making and mending nets, and completing all
preparations for the silver harvest.
First bursar at the University though he was, the making of a fishing
net was far beyond Sandie’s skill, but as his wages had already
commenced, he was determined he should not be idle. One lesson in the
management of the lobster creels was enough, so he took them in charge.
This left John free to go on with more important work.
So every evening Sandie broke up crabs, and baited the creels with the
pieces. Then one by one he would carry them to the little boat, then
launching the craft upon the salt sea, leap on board and seize the oars.
Sandie was by no means an awkward boatman. In handling an oar his
constant practice on the Don had made him quite an adept. And so, as the
sun was slowly sinking towards the green hills in the far west, and
hardly a ripple on the swelling sea, Sandie would row his boat far away
out to a rocky point of the coast, several miles from John’s cottage.
The cliffs here were for the most part steep and precipitous, and
afforded no landing for boat or skiff, while the water all around was
very deep. Yellow scented furze and stunted pine-trees grew on the
cliff-tops--these trees, more inland, deepening into a dark and gloomy
wood. Seagulls were for ever wheeling and screaming around this bold
promontory, and it was said that at one time even the golden-headed
eagle had had an eerie on the most inaccessible shelf of the rock.
But it was not birds Sandie was after, but crabs and lobsters; and here
the best on all the coast were to be found in abundance.
Having sunk his creel, Sandie would pull farther away from the rocks,
then taking out a book on mathematics, and hauling in his oars, he would
become wrapt in Elysium, till twilight deepened into night, and even his
young eyes could see no more.
By this time, too, Eppie’s lamp would be shining clear and beacon-like
across the heaving sea, as if inviting him home to supper.
Then he would “out-oars,” and pull rapidly shorewards, when he always
found little John waiting to beach the boat.
Now, I would not like to say that evening worship is the universal
custom in fisher villages in Scotland, but I know it is in a great many
of the cottages of these contented and industrious people, and it
certainly was so in John’s. John himself read a chapter, and said a
prayer, and a psalm was also sung to the sad and mournful music of some
such old tune as Martyrdom, Ballerma, or London New. Soon after this,
every one was sound asleep. Sandie used to open his window wide before
lying down, that he might breathe the balmy sea-breeze, and listen to
the musical monotone of the waves as they broke lazily on the golden
sand.
His first act of a morning was to dress negligently and hurry down to
the seaside, where, behind some dark rocks, he could enjoy a bath in a
deep pool, that the sun’s rays had not as yet reached.
* * * * *
All was right at last!
The herring had come to the coast in myriads. No one could remember a
more promising year.
Then, one evening, John’s crew were all assembled, and the great boat
was launched. With Eppie’s hearty blessing and prayers for success
ringing in his ears, John scrambled on board, and took his seat by the
tiller; sail was set, the night-wind blew from off the land, and ere
long the sturdy fishing-boat was bobbing and curtseying to each
advancing wave, far out beyond the waters of the bay.
There were very many more boats there besides John’s, quite a fleet
indeed, but in the friendly way common to fisher-folks, they had spread
themselves well out in a kind of skirmishing order, so that the one
would not interfere with the other’s take or chance.
The paying out of the nets seemed to Sandie and the Skyemen, who acted
as his mates, like mere child’s play.
But some time afterwards, when these nets came to be hauled in again,
nobody found it such easy work. It made even Sandie’s arms ache.
“I think, John,” said Sandie, “we are going to have a good haul this
time.”
“And thank the Lord for a’ His goodness,” responded little John
piously.
“Haul away, men,” he cried, as the Skyemen stopped for a moment to blow
on their hands.
“Haul away it is,” was the answering call, and up came the net.
“A miraculous draught!” cried John joyfully, as he saw the silver mass
moving in the boat’s well or bottom. “Why, Sandie M‘Crae, I believe it’s
a’ your luck.”
Again and again were the nets launched, again and again were they hauled
up well filled.
And now supper was placed upon the boards. And a right hearty supper all
hands made too, although there was nothing stronger to drink than
excellent coffee and milk served out in mugs.
But a fire had been lit over some stones, and in a huge frying-pan
herrings were cooked. Neither the salt, the pepper, the bread nor the
butter had been forgotten, and that meal, eaten on the bosom of the
rolling deep, long past the midnight hour, was one of the most enjoyable
Sandie could remember ever having partaken of.
At the “skreigh” of day, or, in plain English, at dawn, John’s boat,
well laden, sailed slowly tack and half tack, for the wind was still off
the shore, towards the land.
And a happy woman was Eppie when she saw the haul which, as she phrased
it, “the Lord had sent them.”
After an excellent breakfast Sandie went to bed, and dreamt he was
wandering, fishing-rod in hand, along the banks of the winding Don, with
Maggie May by his side, and Tyro, the dog, an interesting spectator of
the sport.
CHAPTER XI
_SINKS BEFORE THE VERY EYES OF THOSE ON SHORE_
Week after week the herring-fishery went by, and certainly John Menzies
had no reason to complain of his want of success. Never a day passed
that he did not send his hauls in barrels to the Southern market, and in
all the fleet, this season, not a casualty had occurred as yet of a
fatal character.
Once a shoal of porpoises had appeared in the bay, but by shouting, and
the throwing of stones, the fishermen had succeeded in heading them
away, and so the nets had been saved.
Sandie had not only settled down to his new life, but had become quite
enamoured of it.
The sea was not always calm, however. Our hero told himself that he
liked it best in its wayward moods. But there was more than one night
when the wind blew so high, and the waves raged with such violence, that
it would have been madness to have ventured out. Again, sometimes after
they had launched and sailed away, under the most favouring auspices,
shortly after midnight a gale would suddenly arise. Then would they
have to draw in their nets as speedily as possible, and make at once for
the distant harbour, feeling happy and lucky to get inside.
Sandie had a letter from Willie about every second day, and very
cheerful epistles they were, just like Willie himself.
But these letters helped greatly to keep up Sandie’s spirits.
Then he had his mathematical books. Oh, yes, he had plenty of time to
study, and good use he made of it too.
It seemed to him, moreover, that instead of hard manual labour injuring
his constitution, he was waxing stronger every day. His limbs were as
stiff as gate-posts, his biceps was as hard as the mainstay of an
Aberdeen clipper. He found himself singing, too, at all odd times, and
somehow the songs he sang always bore some relation to his present
calling; as, for example--
THE BOATIE ROWS.
Oh, weel may the boatie row
That fills a heavy creel,
An’ clothes us a’ frae top to toe,
An’ buys our porridge-meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows indeed,
An’ happy be the lot o’ a’
That wish the boatie speed.
Or that other tuneful fisher’s song called--
CALLER HERRIN’.
Wha’ll buy our caller herrin’?
They’re bonnie fish and halesome fairin’;
Wha’ll buy our caller herrin’,
Just new come frae the Forth?
When you’re sleepin’ on your pillows,
Dream ye aught of our poor fellows,
Darkling, as they face the billows,
A’ to fill their woven willows.
Buy, buy, &c.
It was on the Monday evening preceding what was long known in the little
village of Blackhive as Black Tuesday, and the fishing was well-nigh at
its close. Some boats indeed had been taken off the stations, and had
borne up for the South. They would fish for a week or two perhaps near
the Forth, then sail still farther south to the shores of Norfolk,
making Yarmouth itself their headquarters.
Storms are not unfrequent on the shores of England at this time of year,
and it is the marvel of the Southern fishermen how those hardy denizens
of far northern latitudes can dare all the dangers of the deep in their
open boats, which, by the way, in build, and probably also in rig, are
not unlike the warships of the Vikings of old. It would really seem that
in some instances those fishermen are the lineal descendants of the
fearless Norsemen, who were, probably, the first to wage real warfare on
the bosom of the mighty ocean.
But on this particular Monday evening, John Menzies was just as merry as
ever Sandie had seen him.
“The Lord,” he said, “liked a merry heart when it was sinless, and the
Lord had been very good to him, and had blessed him in his basket and in
his store, in his murlin and in his creel.”
To-night he had no less than half-a-dozen towsy polls and bright round
faces to play to, for there would be no expedition to sea this evening.
The wind blew half a gale, and the breakers roared and fumed and foamed
upon the beach, houses high, certainly as high as John’s little cottage,
for ever and anon the green seas broke over the chimney, and, as the
little fisherman expressed it, tirled the thatch.
It was cold enough, too, to make a fire a comfort, if only but to look
at.
Mirth is catching, and even Sandie had sung several of his very best
songs, while Eppie at the other side of the fire sat birling her
knitting, her honest sonsy face quite wreathed in smiles.
After each song of Sandie’s, John went off into a rattling reel, and
next moment the merry bairnies, laughing like sea-birds, were footing it
on the light fantastic toe from end to end of the floor.
By-and-bye two or three of the herring-lassies opened the door and stood
shyly there, until invited ben by Eppie and by John.
Their day’s work was all over, and they were dressed both neatly and
cleanly, with bonnily braided hair, and tartan shawls around their
shoulders.
Very humble lassies these were, hailing mostly from the far west, but
how many a lady in high life might have envied their beautiful
complexions and their pearly teeth, or the gentle smile that played
around their ruby lips.
* * * * *
When Sandie retired to bed that night, the wind still howled and raged
around the fisherman’s cottage, and the breakers broke in thunder on the
beach.
When Sandie awoke next morning, the wind was hushed, the waves had gone
down, and the sun was just rising over the eastern horizon and changing
all the sea to blood.
As he hastened away to his pool to enjoy his bath, he found all along
the shore a huge embankment of brown seaweed of every sort, that the sea
had flung up in its wrath. This was mingled with dead fish of many
kinds, especially dog-fish and herrings. Crabs too there were in
abundance, and here and there sodden salt-encrusted spars of wood. Could
these spars have told their story, a sad one indeed it would have
been--a story of tempest and shipwreck, of widows’ tears and orphans’
cries.
Although the eastern sky was pretty clear, heavy clouds hung low on the
horizon in every other direction, and the waves that now broke more
lazily on the golden sands had a sullen boom in them that somehow, to
Sandie’s ears, was far from reassuring.
However, all preparations were made that afternoon for another night at
sea.
It seemed, as the day drew near a close, that the wind meant to veer
round to the north-west entirely, and though it might blow fresh for a
time, no one imagined it would be so high as to interfere in any great
degree with the catch.
What was the matter with John to-night, I wonder? I am sure I cannot
tell, but although he had already twice bidden his Eppie good-bye, he
must run back once more, just as all hands were on board and sail was
being hoisted, to say good-night again.
* * * * *
Away went John’s great boat, fleet and swift upon the wings of that
nor’-western breeze. And away went fifty other boats as well, spreading
out as they gave the land a wide berth, so as not to hamper each other.
As John’s boat opened out the rocky promontory, the wind blew higher and
higher.
“I think,” said John to his mate, “we better take in a reef. What think
ye, men?”
“To be surely,” said a Skyeman, “and it is myself that would close-reef
her entirely evermore.”
“Weel, men, close-reefin’ be it.”
And in a short time the thing was accomplished.
Under the influence of so strong a breeze the boat soon reached the
fishing-ground. Just as a round moon rose slowly up from the sea,
fighting every foot of its way through stormy clouds that raced across
the sky, the net was paid out.
Despite the disturbed nature of the sea, fortune appeared to favour
them, and a good haul was their reward.
This was succeeded by other good hauls, but by this time--it was now
past midnight--the weather seemed so threatening, and the wind so
stormy, it was deemed advisable to make their last haul, and bear up for
the harbour. As it was, they would have to sail pretty close to the wind
to make it, but John knew the qualities of his sturdy little vessel and
had no fear.
Already they could see in the glimmering moonlight many of the other
boats hurrying past them shorewards, and no doubt dreading the oncoming
of some fearful tempest.
While they were preparing to put about, Sandie suddenly clutched John by
the arm and tremblingly pointed shorewards.
It seemed as if the moon had dropped from the sky, so suddenly had she
been eclipsed by a pall of ink-black clouds, but beneath on the sea, and
getting larger and larger every moment, was a long white line evidently
approaching with tremendous speed. Flash after flash of lightning
appeared to course along it, and a continued roar as of muttering
thunder fell on the ears of the frightened fishermen.
The boat had been half round and well into the wind’s eye, but John at
once altered the helm, and ere the squall struck her she was once more
dead before the wind.
The white wall was a mountain wave, a hurricane wave, borne along before
the gale with all the force of Niagara. It struck the boat right aft,
and pooped and swamped her, at the same time that the wind caught her
and sent her onwards with fearful speed through the broiling, seething
waves.
All hands had to hold on for dear life. The only wonder is that the mast
did not go by the board, when, without doubt, the brave boat would have
broached to and foundered with all hands. She seemed now, however, to
settle to it, but there was nothing for it but to stand on before the
tempest, even should they be driven far across the North Sea to Denmark
itself.
After scudding before the wind for some hours of darkness and tempest,
all hands working hard to keep her bailed out, the force of the storm
seemed to have been broken, and once again the hopeful moon was seen
struggling among the clouds, now and then shining for a few moments in a
rift of blue, her sweet rays silvering the crests of the broken waves.
The wind at the same time drew more round to the north, even with a
little eastering in it, so John determined now to put about, and make in
the direction of the Scottish coast.
He kept her well up, however, being wishful to haul as far to the north
as possible. It would thus be more easy to drop down upon the harbour of
Blackhive, which he trusted he should be able to reach by daylight.
Had the wind continued to go down, there is no doubt the boat would have
made the harbour without further mishap. But the wind was fractious, to
say the least of it. It hardly seemed to know its own mind for
half-an-hour on a stretch.
Just, however, as daylight, grey and uncertain, was beginning to
struggle over the sea, and a strange saturnine light glared over the
mountain waves that ridged the eastern horizon, down to leeward, to the
infinite joy of those mariner-fishermen a long greyish-blue bank became
visible, which they knew was land.
As daylight broadened, and the sun got up, it became more distinct, and
they were soon able to make out the white-washed cottage walls of the
village itself.
Tears of joy streamed down honest John’s face. His lips moved in prayer,
but it appeared that the singing of a verse or two of one of the
metrical psalms of David alone could meet the requirements of the case.
The little man’s voice, however, was very hoarse and croaky as he
commenced--
“God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore, although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid:
Though hills amidst the seas be cast,
And waters roaring make,
Nay, although the earth itself
By swelling seas doth shake.”
On and on flew the bonnie boat. She appeared to be instinct with vigour
and life; she appeared to know she was nearing the harbour in safety.
And now they are close enough in-shore to see the beach densely crowded
with distracted men and women, over whom ever and anon a huge wave would
send a perfect cataract of snow-white spray.
Careful now, John,--careful. Keep the sheet in command, mates, all ready
to let go. The mouth of that harbour is but a narrow, but the good boat
will do it. Yes, she----Great heavens! what is that? A sudden puff of
wind, a monstrous wave, the brave boat’s head is carried round. She
swings for a moment on her stern, and next moment is dashed with fearful
violence against the pier-head.
Steady she stays for just two seconds, then backward she reels like a
stricken deer, swerves from side to side, then plunges astern, and sinks
before the very eyes of those on shore.
CHAPTER XII
_A STRANGE TERROR CREEPS OVER SANDIE’S HEART_
Young Sandie M‘Crae was a powerful swimmer, and as he reaches the
surface of the water he stares wildly round him; but he finds that alone
by his side floats John himself, and instinctively he seizes the little
man. He is very light, and Sandie can swim almost as well with him as
without him.
He is being carried outward some distance to sea, however, and it takes
him a terrible struggle to once more regain the mouth of the harbour.
But he succeeds at last, and ere he reaches the steps a rope is thrown
to him, which with feeble hands he catches, and is towed onwards. He
stands on the pier at last. Safe! But strange lights scintillate now
across his eyes, there comes a roaring in his ears, then all is
darkness, oblivion, and he sinks to the ground insensible.
When he recovers himself he is warm and in bed.
For a time he can remember nothing, but soon it all comes back, the
storm, the squall, the wreck.
And just at that moment sounds of wailing and of woe fall upon his ear
from the other room. Some one is weeping and moaning in sadness and
sorrow. A strange terror creeps over Sandie’s heart, a kind of nameless
fear. He sits up and listens intently. Some one is talking too. It is
Eppie. But her voice is strangely altered.
“My ain wee man! my ain wee man!” she is crying. “O dool (grief) on the
day I e’er let you leave me! O John, John, John, you’ll never speak to
your Eppie again! O my heart will break, my heart will break!”
Then once more she broke off into a fit of sobbing and crying.
A cold hand seemed to clutch at Sandie’s heart. He knew only too well
what it all meant. John Menzies, the blithesome and merry little
fisherman, was gone. It was but the lifeless body he had succeeded in
bringing on shore--the soul had fled.
Sandie rose now, although he felt a little giddy. He slowly dressed
himself in dry clothes, that had thoughtfully been placed handy for him.
“Poor Eppie!” Sandie said half aloud, “even in her own great grief she
did not forget me.” The very kindness of the woman’s act brought the
tears to his eyes.
He opened his door at last and went softly into the kitchen.
Eppie was swaying back and fore beside the corpse, which lay on the bed;
swaying backwards and forwards, her wet apron to her face and in an
agony of grief.
She did not perceive Sandie, nor hear his footstep, until he touched her
lightly on the shoulder.
Then she looked up, startled.
“Can I be of any use or comfort to you, dear Mrs. Menzies?”
“Oh! na, na, na,” she wailed. “There is naething on earth can comfort me
mair, now my ain wee man is ta’en (taken) awa’. Like unto Rachael am I,
this day, like Rachael weeping for her children, and will not be
comforted, because they are not.”
“What use is it,” thought Sandie, “to air my platitudes before such
grief as this?”
And yet he tried.
“Dear Mrs. Menzies,” he said, “we have all to die.”
“Ay, ay, my bonnie bairn, an’ my day will no be lang. I dinna want to
live. I dinna want to live.”
“All may be for the best, Mrs. Menzies. Better perhaps that poor John
should have died as he did, quickly and speedily, and, I am sure,
painlessly, than if he had lingered in suffering for weeks or months in
bed.”
Eppie, it was evident, was not listening.
“And the poor wee body,” she said, speaking more to herself than Sandie,
“must come toddlin’ back last nicht after the boat was afloat. ‘O
Eppie!’ he said, ‘I maun say good-nicht again.’ Eh, sirs, sirs! little
did I think that would be the last time I should haud (hold) him in my
arms alive. Oh, wurra! wurra! wurra!”
Sandie’s attempt at giving mental comfort having failed, he addressed
himself to the purely physical.
He went and made up the fire, and got the kettle to boil. He even fried
some fish and boiled eggs. Then he made strong tea, and laid the
breakfast.
“Come, Mrs. Menzies, and eat a little, and drink a cup of tea; it will
do you good.”
“Na, na, my bairn; every mouthfu’ would choke me, when he is no here to
share it.”
“Mrs. Menzies, you must sit down here and take something, for two
reasons--the first is, that you have a deal to do, a deal before you,
duties that you will not be able to perform without some bodily
strength. Secondly, because I am weak and not over-well, and I can
neither eat nor drink unless you do.”
It showed the kindness of this poor woman’s nature, that the last
argument was quite convincing, and without a word, she got up and seated
herself at the table, and tried to eat and drink, though all the time
her tears were silently coursing down her cheeks.
She did not speak much, and Sandie, respecting her grief, made no
attempt to force her to do so.
Sandie felt pleased when the door opened, and “a neighbouring woman”
came quietly in, to keep Eppie company.
He himself, knowing now that the widow would be well looked after--for
those poor fisher-folks are marvellously kind to each other--left the
house, and went on down towards the pier. Oh, the sadness of that scene.
Oh, the grief and the misery of it. The people, male and female, young
and old, formed one dense crowd. The men were silent and sad, the women
were weeping and wailing, but the poor children, many of them were
simply frantic with grief, and leapt and jumped and danced upon the
stones, not knowing what they were doing.
And it went to Sandie’s inmost heart to hear them wail, “O my daddie! O
my daddie! I’ll never never see my daddie mair.”
A kindly, old white-haired man met Sandie and shook him by the hand.
“Ye did your duty nobly, lad,” he said, “and the Lord will reward you.”
“But oh,” he continued, “it was an awfu’ nicht. Black Tuesday, Black
Tuesday, and by that name it will go down to posterity.”
“I hardly like to ask,” said Sandie, “how many boats have been lost.”
“The loss is appallin’, young sir. Boat after boat was seen to founder,
some o’ them within sicht o’ land, some o’ them near the harbour mouth.
Fifty-and-five bonnie boats in all set sail the’streen (last night),
three-and-twenty have gone down wi’ every soul on board. A black
Tuesday--a terrible Tuesday! And,” he added, with a pathos that was
touching, “I hae lost a bonnie son!”
His eyes were turned for just a moment meekly heavenwards.
“Heaven help me,” he said; “Thy will be done, but oh! it is hard, hard.
It is our duty to submit to His will. The Lord gave, and the Lord has
taken away, blessed be His name.”
Every now and then all that day swollen corpses came floating in, and
were speedily dragged on shore, and identified amid such wild
manifestations of grief as Sandie had never seen or heard before, and
prayed Heaven he never might see or hear again.
* * * * *
Two days passed by--two woesome weary days.
Then the dead were buried. All save John. It seemed that Eppie could not
bear to part with the mortal remains of the little man she had loved so
well in life.
But the wee bit coffin was screwed down at last, and next day it would
be consigned to its long home in the mould.
Willie had come down, and both he and Sandie were living at the cosy
little inn, whose landlady, though kind and good-natured, was such a
gossip.
That night Sandie had just paid his last visit to poor John’s cottage,
and said good-night to Eppie. Willie and he had gone for a walk along
the shore.
It was about eleven o’clock, and a most beautiful night. A gentle breeze
was blowing from the west. The gladsome moon made a great triangular
silvery wake upon the waters, and the wavelets laughed and lisped as
they broke upon the soft golden sands.
“Look! look!” cried Willie, clutching Sandie’s arm and pointing almost
fearfully seawards.
It was certainly something to marvel at. First one broad-sailed boat,
then another, and then a third glided slowly into the silvery wake of
the moon, looking as black as death against the shimmer of the moonlit
sea.
“Sandie!” gasped Willie, “do our eyes deceive us? Or are they phantom
boats?”
“No, no,” cried Sandie, recovering his self-possession, “they are part
of the fleet that, being driven out to sea, have succeeded in weathering
the gale. Come, let us bring the joyful tidings to those honest
fisher-folks.”
In less than fifteen minutes almost every soul in the village was down
at the pier-head, on each side of which a roaring fire had been lit,
that the skippers of the boats might make no mistake in steering in.
On and on, nearer and nearer, slowly came the great black boats.
The anxiety in the crowd was painful to witness. There were many there
over whose drowned relatives the grave had that day closed. Neither hope
nor anxiety could trouble them. But there were many others who had yet
received no certain account of the fate of their friends. In their
hearts burned the anxiety, the hope, the doubt. This boat coming slowly
in might contain a missing husband or father for them.
Well, those boats landed at last, and joyful recognition was the result,
while grief once more took the place of hope in those who had now
suffered disappointment.
* * * * *
It was but a short walk to the graveyard that surrounded the wee
steepleless church of Blackhive. Had it been miles, Eppie would have
trudged it all the same, behind the little coffin--it was but a size
larger than a boy’s--of her wee man.
Meanwhile the chiming of the bell sounded mournful in the extreme.
Everybody noticed how altered Eppie was, and how strange she looked.
Her hair, which was grey before, appeared to have turned white under the
influence of her terrible affliction. She was sadly bent, too, and
needed the support of a stick to aid her in tottering along.
Around the grave, spades in hand, and with heads bare, stood the friends
and chief mourners, for in Scotland it is their duty to fill in the
clods, to add the earth to earth, the dust to dust.
The coffin is lowered, the ropes are pulled up. The mourners, among whom
are Sandie M‘Crae, wait for a moment, each silently breathing a prayer.
Then they look towards Eppie.
She has to throw in the first handful of earth, and she knows it.
But there is a mist before her eyes that is not caused by tears, and a
cold feeling at her heart that grief alone cannot account for; she
stoops--she lifts a handful of earth. Now she staggers forward to the
open grave and drops it in. She turns as if to go. But in turn reels for
a moment, then sinks upon the long green sward.
The mourners hurry forward to raise her. Among them is the young village
doctor.
Poor Eppie is laid on her back on the grass, a half-sunken baby’s grave
forming a kind of pillow. Then the doctor bends over her and takes her
wrist. He lifts an eyelid and speedily recloses it. Then he slowly
rises.
“Dead?” says an old white-haired man. His name is Grant, and he is the
same who advanced and spoke to Sandie on the pier.
“Dead?”
“Ay, dead, Mr. Grant. Her sorrows are all over, and it is perhaps as
well.”
There were a few moments of silence. It is a terrible thing to stand
thus in the presence of Death.
Then old Grant cleared his throat to speak.
“My friends,” he said sadly and solemnly, “it is but meet that this
worthy couple should sleep together in one grave. ’Twere better, I
think, they should be buried on the same day. Let us raise once more the
little coffin, and convey it to the watch-house yonder. Peradventure,
there are those among you who will watch by it day and night, till the
poor corpse now lying yonder can bear it company. They loved each other
in life, in death let them not be divided.”
So this was done.
Sandie and Willie constituted themselves two of the principal watchers.
The grave was enlarged, and upon a Monday morning, only a week since
both Eppie and John had been alive and happy together, their remains
were lowered in solemn silence into the same grave.
This time it was Sandie who threw in the first handful of holy earth.
And then back from the little green graveyard, feeling somewhat lonesome
and sad, went Willie and Sandie.
END OF BOOK II.
BOOK III
_FAR, FAR AT SEA_
CHAPTER I
_“NAE POSSIBLE!” SAID TIBBIE_
Sorrow does not hold the young heart long enthralled. It is as well it
should be so. It is for the old to feel sad, unless they can see in
imagination the bright and gladsome light that shines behind the pall of
Death. But the young--no, sorrow ought to be neither kith nor kin to
them.
Back again, then, at the dear old farm of Kilbuie, with Willie as his
constant companion, for the lad had come to spend a long holiday, with
frequent visits to the house of his best of friends, Mackenzie the
minister, with many a little fishing excursion, in company with little
Maggie May and happy-go-lucky Tyro the collie--excursions that somehow
always ended in a kind of picnic--Sandie began to forget the sad and
gloomsome ending to his fishing experiences.
But the corn was now changing in patches from green to yellow. Soon it
would be all ablaze, and then there would be but little time to spend in
picnics or in fishing.
Willie had declared himself determined to assist at harvest work. He
could bind the sheaves if he could do nothing else, and he could carry
and stook them, that is, set them up together, that they might get dry
and more thoroughly ripe in the sunshine.
He had provided himself with a wonderful canvas apron, that quite
enveloped all his person in front, from chin to ankles.
“I daresay,” said Willie, as he saw Jeannie--Mrs. Duncan, we ought now
to call her--smiling, “I daresay I look a bit of a guy, but I don’t
mind, because it will save my clothes. Do you see, Mrs. Jeannie?”
“I see,” said Jeannie, “you’re a thrifty lad.”
* * * * *
In another week harvest had begun. Jamie Duncan drove the
reaping-machine. The new second horseman and Sandie wielded a scythe
each.
And it was near and around them that all the blitheness and the fun
radiated. A reaping-machine is a very good invention, it must be
admitted, but at the same time it must be granted that there is no
poetry, no romance about it.
But listen to the musical swish swish of the curved and flashing scythe,
wielded by the brown bare arms of the sturdy reaper. Note how the golden
grain lies in its long straight swaths, till made into sheaves by the
merry girl gatherers, who are coming closely up behind. Note, too, the
friendly rivalry of the two scythemen, who work close at each other’s
heels, pausing at last, panting and perspiring, when the “bout” is
finished, and chatting and laughing and joking as they walk slowly to
the other end of the field, there to sharpen scythes, to swallow a
draught of table-beer, butter-milk or whey, and begin again once more.
A strong sturdy lass of about seventeen, with a complexion like
strawberries smothered in cream, acted as gatherer to the new second
horseman, while Jeannie herself followed Sandie. Then behind these came
Geordie Black the orra man, and Willie himself, with his immense apron,
doing duty as binders and stookers.
A word of digression, indulgent reader, which you may skip if you are so
minded; but I have often remarked the great difference that exists
between the reapers in an English and those in a Scotch harvest-field.
In England you will never, scarcely, hear a joke, certainly never a
song; the men and women look soddened, stupid, fat-headed, and that is
precisely how they feel. And it is all owing to the frequent
applications they make to the jars of beer, without which they would
refuse to work. In Scottish harvest-fields it is entirely different.
Nothing stronger than butter-milk, whey, or “sma’ ale” is taken, and the
result is, that they are merry, lightsome, witty, and you may hear them
laughing, joking, and singing long before you come near the field.
Pardon the digression, though I can’t say I feel sorry I have made it.
And Sandie, with his friend Willie, was the life of the cornfields.
Dear me! how their tongues did rattle on, to be sure; and dear me! how
young Tibbie Morrison, she with the pretty complexion, did laugh. Why,
it came to pass after a little time that Willie had only to look at her
to set her off again; and when she laughed Geordie Black’s laugh was
ready chorus.
Geordie was no beauty to look at, but he had a good heart of his own,
nevertheless. That is, I should say, he _had_ had, until--well, it is
always best to speak the truth--until it was lost and won by bonnie
Tibbie Morrison.
Jeannie herself remarked more than once, that all the time Geordie was
working he couldn’t take his eyes off Tibbie.
But I think that Geordie must have been hardly hit, and I will tell you
why. Going into the stable on the evening of the second day, Sandie was
surprised to find Geordie sitting with his back to the dusty cobwebby
window, and a slate in his hand.
He was so thoroughly absorbed, that he neither saw our hero nor heard
his footsteps.
So Sandie made bold to peep over Geordie’s shoulder, and, to his intense
surprise, he found he was writing verses. That they possessed but little
literary merit, the following specimen will prove:--
BONNIE TIBBIE MORRISON.
O Tibbie, Tibbie Morrison,
I lo’e ye as my life,
And I would range the warld o’er
To mak’ ye my guid wife.
When ye are near, my Tibbie dear,
The sun seems shinin’ bright;
When Tibbie’s far awa’ frae me,
’Tis blackest, darkest night.
A ploughman lad is all my rank,
Sma’, sma’s my penny fee,
But I would gie it a’ awa’
For a love blink frae your e’e.
Tibbie, _Tibbie!_ TIBBIE!! TIBBIE!!!
Will ever ye be mine?
Will e’er I hold ye to my heart,
My wife and valentine?
“Why, Geordie, man!” cried Sandie, “is it as bad as that with you?”
Geordie sprang up as if shot, and grew as red as a beet. He tried to
hide the slate.
“Don’t trouble, Geordie; I’ve read it all, and really there is an
anguish displayed in the first line of that last verse that is quite
touching.
‘Oh, Tibbie, Tibbie! _Tibbie!!_ TIBBIE!!!’
You come to a splendid climax with that last Tibbie. Shall I show it to
my friend Willie?”
“Losh! man, no!”
“Or to Tibbie herself?”
“Loshie me! man, what can ye be thinkin’ o’?”
“But, Geordie, you don’t mean to say that verses containing so much
sweetness and pathos as these are going to waste their sweetness in the
desert air? I question if Bobbie Burns himself would have written
anything like them.”
Geordie blushed again, and after much persuasion he agreed to write them
out--when Sabbath came round--and permit Sandie to present them.
“Of course,” said Sandie, somewhat mischievously, “when I give Tibbie
the poem, I will just brush the dew from her lips.”
“Oh, weel,” said Geordie resignedly, “I canna help that. You’ll do as
you like about it.”
The dinner-hour in the hairst (harvest) field was the most delightful of
all. The somewhat weary workers lay on the ground, or leant their backs
against the stocks. Mrs. M‘Crae herself, with Elsie and Geordie, brought
the dinner, and there was no want of appetite. The milk was of the
creamiest, the mashed potatoes like snow, the oatcakes crisp and
delicious, and the herrings done to a turn. Then there was curds and
cream by way of dessert, to say nothing of “swack” cheese, and
potato-scones to finish up with.
The happy harvesters felt like giants refreshed, and there would still
be half-an-hour to rest.
That half-hour, however, was not spent in drowsy listlessness or sleep
itself. No, for the laugh and the joke went round; then Willie or Sandie
would always raise a song, a song with a chorus, and it was sweet to
hear the girlish voices of Tibbie and Jeannie chiming musically in with
this chorus.
Willie would have been nobody if he couldn’t have indulged in his joke,
and there was one song he sang, the chorus of which, it will be
admitted, was very witty indeed--that is, if brevity be the soul of
wit.
Every line ended with the words--
“And the wind blew the bonnie lassie’s plaidie awa’!”
Then “Chorus,” Sandie would shout.
_Chorus_--“Plaidie awa!”
But the song made everybody laugh all the same, and so some considerable
good was accomplished by it.
* * * * *
As far as the weather was concerned, the harvest was a delightful one,
for the sun shone brightly every day, and there blew a gentle breeze to
help to dry and “win” the corn.
As a crop, too, the yield was average, so Farmer M‘Crae was hopeful and
happy.
Then came the day when “kliack” would be taken, that is, when the last
or kliack sheaf would be cut.
As they neared the last “bout” cried Sandie, “Look out now, Geordie, for
the kliack hare!”
It is very strange, but true, that a hare very frequently starts off
from the last “bout” of corn that is cut on the harvest-field. This time
was no exception.
A splendid long brown-legged beast darted off for the woods.
Up to his shoulder went Geordie’s old gun.
Bang!
The echo rang back from the woods, and went reverberating away among
the rocky hills, but puss was intact. She gave her heels an extra kick,
took to the forest, and was seen no more.
So the hare was declared to be a witch, and no more was said about it.
But now comes Elsie herself, and Willie runs to meet her and lead her
forward by the hand. Right bonnie she looks in her dress of silken green
with poppies in her hair.
She has come to cut the kliack sheaf. Right deftly she does it too, and
binds it also with her own fair fingers.
Then cheers arise, three times three, that seem to make the welkin ring.
Harvest is done, kliack is taken, and every heart rejoices.
By-and-bye, when the stooking is quite finished, all march merrily home.
Now, mark you this, reader, no vinous stimulant of any kind has been
used while harvest work was in progress.
But now, in the kitchen, all hands, each with a spoon, surround a big
table on which stands an immense basin of what is called meal and ale. I
will tell you its composition: about half a gallon of oatmeal, mixed
with good ale, sweetened with syrup, and fortified with a pint of the
best Scotch whisky.
And hark! somewhere in that dish was Mrs. M‘Crae’s marriage-ring. So
every mouthful had to be carefully examined by the tongue previous to
swallowing, and the person who was lucky enough to find that ring would
be married before the year was out.
When all this strange dish of brose was finished, and everybody averred
he or she had seen nothing of the ring, everybody began to cast
suspicious glances at everybody else.
But at long and last, noticing a strange light in Geordie’s eyes, Sandie
jumped up, and seizing him by one ear, pulled it till the rustic poet’s
eyes began to water.
“You’ve got it, Geordie! You’ve got it!”
Then, blushing like a beggar at a “bap” or a bun, Geordie confessed.
Everybody shook hands with him, and he felt the happiest man in all the
parish.
But greater happiness still was in store for Geordie.
After the meal and ale, in some sly way or other, Sandie succeeded in
obtaining private audience of winsome Tibbie.
“I’ve something to show you, Tibbie,” said Sandie.
“Nae possible!” said the artless lassie.
“Ah! but it’s fact. Geordie Black is in love with you, and he wrote you
these beautiful verses. Come nearer and I’ll read them.”
“Nae possible!” said Tibbie.
While he slowly, and with much emotion, read these verses, Sandie
encircled Tibbie’s waist with one arm.
I am not quite certain that this was necessary.
Tibbie blushed as Sandie read.
“Now,” said Sandie, “I’ll let you have them to keep for a kiss.”
“Nae possible!” said Tibbie. But the bargain was concluded all the same.
Next evening all the lads and lasses in the countryside gathered at
Kilbuie to the kliack-ball, and if Geordie danced once that evening with
artless Tibbie, he danced with her fifty times.
Geordie was in the third heaven.
Tibbie was kind.
CHAPTER II
_“REMEMBER, REMEMBER THIS FIFTH OF NOVEMBER”--MACLEAN’S ROOMS_
Classes were once more up. The session had opened, and once again the
streets of Aberdeen were gay with the crimson togas of the students.
Everybody was glad to see everybody else, and the several professors
professed themselves rejoiced to meet again their pupils in the old and
classic halls of the University. They hoped work would now go on apace,
so that in after years of their lives the students would be able to look
back with pleasure to the time they spent so profitably within the
embrace of their beloved _alma mater_.
A week or two passed by, then came the never-forgotten 5th of November.
Now, I do not believe that such a scene, as I fear I shall now all too
inadequately describe, is possible in the Aberdeen of to-day. I can only
premise that it is painted from the life.
Castlegate, let me tell you, is a large square formed at the junctions
of those splendid pearly-walled thoroughfares, Union and King Streets.
It has a granite statue of the Duke of Gordon, a fine old cross similar
to that in Chichester, and some other ancient cities, also a few pieces
of cannon captured from the Russians at Sebastopol.
In a line with King Street, and from the other side of the square, runs
Marischal Street, which is very steep, and leads direct to the quay,
where lie the ships. This is all I wish you to remember.
On this particular 5th of November, it did not appear that there would
be any greater excitement than usual.
“Only a bit of fun and a few fireworks,” Willie explained to Sandie, and
thus induced him to come along.
But by nine o’clock, not only was the square densely thronged by a mob
bent on merriment and mischief, but all the streets leading thereto.
About half-past nine the fun waxed fast and furious. Even had they
tried, the police force would have been powerless to clear the
Castlegate. They would have but infuriated the mob, and an Aberdeen mob,
if it loses its temper, is very terrible indeed, as witness the
meal-mobs and the Chartist riots.
The discharge of fireworks was incessant and marvellous. Pyrotechny was
there in every form. Rockets, Roman candles, St. Catherine wheels, even
dangerous maroons; while as for squibs, the deft young fellows stuck
them in pistols, lit them, and fired them in the air, or in through open
first-floor windows, much to the terror of those leaning over to gaze at
the pandemonium going on beneath.
Nearly everybody had their jackets closely buttoned up, but crackers
and squibs were lit and thrust into every available pocket that could be
seen. Many thus had their clothes burned and ruined.
A little after ten o’clock, policemen and watchmen, full ninety strong,
made their appearance in marching order, and attempted to clear the
square. They had no truncheons, only simply their sticks. Their
endeavours, however, were utterly unsuccessful. If the crowd disappeared
before them at one place, it was only to bank up in double force in
another.
The police were good-natured.
“Gang hame noo, like good bairns,” was about all they said.
But the action of one townsman--I am glad to say he was no
student--precipitated a crisis at last. He was foolish enough to seize a
watchman and attempt to throw him. Both men came heavily to the ground,
then others took the townsman’s part, and in less time than it takes me
to write it, truncheons on the one side, and heavy bludgeons on the
other were drawn, and blood flowed like water. Ninety men opposed to
about two thousand have little chance, despite the fact that they have
law on their side, so the upshot of the collision was that in twenty
minutes’ time the Bobbies and Charlies were beaten back, and had to take
refuge behind the Town Hall.
“Hadn’t we better get home now?” said Sandie. “If I am found or captured
in this crowd I shall lose my bursary, and that means ruin.”
“Father,” said Willie exultantly, “will be out before long to read the
Riot Act. After that you know the soldiers will come. We shall make a
move just before that.”
But now the riot entered upon a new phase. Some one raised the cry “A
boat! a boat!” and in a moment it spread like wildfire through all that
vast determined mob.
Sandie and Willie had only time to back into an entry, when the crowd
went surging past them, one vast human river, flowing down Marischal
Street towards the harbour.
They seemed to have been gone no time when they were back again, singing
and yelling and shouting triumphantly, as they dragged a boat along.
Where, I wonder, did the hammers come from? I cannot answer, but here
they were.
Bang, bang, smash, smash, and in a very few minutes the broken timbers
of the boat were piled in a heap in the middle of the square.
Where did that bucket of tar come from? I cannot even answer that. But
it was poured upon the woodwork, and the bucket itself was left on top.
Then a light was set to the pile, and in a few minutes the flames were
ascending sky-high. Every house around stood out in bold and fiery
relief, and the Duke’s monument looked like a martyr at the stake.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the frantic mob. Then in a huge circle they
joined hands and danced around the blazing fire, just as many a time
since have I seen savages in Central Africa do.
How they yelled! How they shouted! How they sang!
But the fire began to burn dull and low at last, and just about this
time there arose a shout of alarm: the Provost in his robes was coming
in an open carriage to read the Riot Act.
“Come now, Sandie,” cried Willie, “we’ve had enough fun for one night.
Father musn’t see me here.”
Nor did he.
Indeed, he saw but very few.
For the mob had no wish to have a collision with the soldiers--“the
gallant Forty-twa,” so they melted away like snowflakes in a river, and
truly speaking, the Act was read to the dying embers of the fire.
One large party of students had still a little fun left in them,
however. They formed fours-deep, and went marching off down King Street,
singing “The Land o’the Leal.”
“We’re wearin’ awa’, Jean,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,
We’re wearin’ awa’--a’--a’
To the Land o’the Leal.”
For the life of him the douce Provost could not help laughing, as they
went filing past his carriage.
Willie went with Sandie to his attic, and Sandie’s little busybody of a
landlady placed before them a delicious supper of mashed potatoes,
stewed tripe, and fragrant coffee.
“Glad we’ve got safe home,” said Sandie. “Aren’t you, Willie?”
“Oh, delighted, but I must say I enjoyed myself immensely. That bonfire
was a beauty. I hope my dear old father won’t catch cold. And the
soldiers will have nothing to do, if they do come, but drown out the
dying embers of the fire.”
* * * * *
The great prize of sixty pounds, tenable for two years, was to be
competed for at the end of the present session. There were in reality
two, one for Greek, the other for higher mathematics, but it was to the
latter Sandie determined to bend all his energies, as he thought the
competition would not here be so great.
Next to Sandie, if not indeed superior in this branch of the curriculum,
was a Highland student of the name of Maclean, with whom I must now make
the reader better acquainted.
Sandie, by the way, had made quite enough at the herring-fishing to
render him independent of his dunderheaded pupil for one session at
least; and for this he felt he could not be too thankful.
Maclean and he one day, while sauntering arm-in-arm along Union Street,
deep in the mysteries of _x_ + _y_, entered into a compact to study
together. One evening it was to be in Sandie’s garret, and the next in
Maclean’s diggings, as he termed his lodgings.
The first grind took place in our hero’s attic. At one o’clock, when
both parted for the night, they each agreed that the evening had been
most profitably spent.
Next night, at eight o’clock, Sandie, after some difficulty, found his
way to Maclean’s door. The house in which the lodgings were was a
somewhat cheap and unsavoury thoroughfare off George Street.
The stairs were sadly rickety, the house itself was not a sweet one.
From a room on the ground-floor issued the scraping of a vile old
fiddle, accompanied by the scuffling of feet, and every now and then an
eldritch shriek of laughter. But Sandie went onwards and upwards, and on
the top floor of all a door was suddenly thrown open, and Maclean held
out his hand to welcome him in.
A great oil lamp was burning on a table at one end of the long room.
This lamp served for heat and light both, for there was no fire. In
fact, these students--of whom there were four in all living in this one
room--could not afford fire except to cook.
“You are right welcome, Mr. M‘Crae,” said Maclean.
Then he pointed to another young man who sat book in hand by the table.
“My brother,” he said; “he is at the grammar-school, but he won’t
disturb us. Now,” he continued, “look around you, and I’ll put you up to
our domestic economy and household arrangements. To begin with, you know
we are all as poor as rats, though all bursars, and we all mean to study
for the Church, or to be teachers at least. Yonder, in that bed, are
the brothers Macleod. They come from our parish. Well, you see, they go
to bed--we only have one--at seven and sleep till one. My brother and I
study till one, then we have the bed and they begin their studies,
though often enough they curl up in their plaids and have a few more
hours on the floor.”
“Yes, I understand, and I don’t blame them.”
“Well, we have no landlady. The few sticks of furniture you see are all
hired, except the frying-pan and other cooking utensils. These we
bought. We are not going to invite you to dinner, Mr. M‘Crae, because
our fare is far too meagre.
“You see those barrels? Well, two contain herrings, salt and red, one
contains nice oatmeal, and the small one pease-flour. And with the
addition of milk that is brought to us every morning, and now and then
an egg, and a bit of butter, with always a nice sheep’s head and
trotters on Sunday, I can assure you we live like fighting-cocks. Don’t
we, Donal?”
“That we do,” said Donal, looking smilingly up from Xenophon’s Anabasis.
And poor though an Englishman would consider fare like this, it must be
confessed that the two Macleans were as hard and brown as hazel-nuts
upon it.
“And now then, my friend, if you are ready, let us begin the grind.”
And the “grind” was commenced accordingly. And hardly did those earnest
plodding students lift head except to address each other in low
monotones, till forth from the great steeple of the East Church peeled
the solemn stroke of one.
Then Maclean closed his books with a bang and jumped joyfully up.
“Turn out the Macleods,” he shouted as loud as he could. “One o’clock,
my hearties. Turn out! Turn out! There, Donal! pull the blankets off
them while I see Mr. M‘Crae safely down the rickety old stairs.”
He lit match after match for this purpose.
“Don’t lean on the bannisters,” he said, “else over you go.”
Sandie was safe in the street at last, and bade his friend good-night,
just as every watchman in the city with stentorian lungs was bawling--
“Past one! Pa-a-ast one-n-n,” with a long ringing musical emphasis on
the “n” of the one.
Sandie went homewards happy enough, and just a little tired and sleepy,
but he had found out one truth, namely, that poor though he himself
might be, he was not, by a long way, the poorest student at the great
Northern University.
Sandie and his friend Maclean kept up their mathematical studies
together in the most friendly way till the very last day. Everybody knew
that the prize lay between these two hard-working students, and it came
to pass that when the day of competition arrived at last, and Sandie and
Maclean found their way to the class-room where the papers were to be
given out, they only found two other opponents there, and both left
within an hour without handing in a paper.
The Professor looked up from his desk and smiled.
“When Greek meets Greek,” he said, “then comes the tug of war.”
CHAPTER III
_“WE HAVE BEEN AS BROTHERS: WE ARE BROTHERS STILL”_
Yes, Greek had met Greek, and the tug of war had begun.
It really does seem surprising, when we come to consider it, that those
two humble Scottish students, knowing that they were rivals, well aware
that they would have to fight against each other at the great
competition, should have studied side by side, cheek by cheek, for so
many weary months.
But such was the case.
They were very far separated now though, many seats apart, and each was
for himself.
Before he even glanced at the paper, Sandie bent his head over his hands
on the desk and prayed long and fervently, asking a blessing on the work
he was about to do, but reverently adding, “If it be Thy will.”
Do not smile, O thoughtless reader. I myself, the writer of this true
story, have had in my time the most marvellous answers to prayers, and I
do not think I ever prayed for anything fervently, earnestly, without my
prayer being granted.
Sandie soon found that he could do every portion of the exercises,
difficult though they were, except one. That he could not bring out.
After finishing all the rest, he pored and posed over this for one long
hour. His head felt splitting in twain, strange nervous tremors ran
along his limbs, and the cold sweat burst out from every pore.
At last a strange drowsiness stole over him. He put up his feet upon the
seat, leaned his head upon his folded hands, and fell fast asleep.
Now, account for it as you may, reader, account for it if you can, I but
state a fact when I say that in a dream Sandie got out of his
difficulty, and saw the question written plainly out before him.
He was hardly awake when he sprung up and recommenced to write, fast and
faster, and presently the thing was done.
“Hurrah!” he shouted, “EUREKA!”
He really could not help it.
The Professor looked a little surprised, but smiled.
“I hope you enjoyed your nap,” he said.
“Did I sleep long?” said Sandie.
“Only two hours.”
“Oh dear, Professor, I am very very sorry, and I see Maclean has gone.
It was cruel of me to keep you.”
“All right, my lad; don’t mention it. Are you ready now?”
“I shall just write a clean copy of this last, then I’m done.”
In fifteen minutes more he had handed in his papers. The Professor shook
him by the hand, and he went away happy and hopeful.
But he did not remain long so, for while at tea, about an hour after, on
looking over his papers he discovered a mistake he had made, which threw
him into the lowest depths of despair.
He had scarcely finished, when there was a modest knock at the door, and
his friend Maclean himself entered, smiling too.
“He is the winner,” said Sandie to himself, when he saw that smile.
“May I come in?”
“Don’t ask such a question; you know you are as welcome as the primrose
in spring!”
Maclean seated himself on the edge of a chair.
“Mr. M‘Crae--Sandie,” he said, “if you don’t win this £60 prize, I
will.”
“True!”
“And, Sandie, if I lose, you will win.”
“Naturally!”
“But I haven’t flattered myself I shall win, so don’t think it will keep
me awake at night if I don’t.”
“Bravo! Maclean. Spoken like a true Highlander.”
“But, Sandie----”
“Yes, Mac!”
“I want you to promise me one thing, and the same promise do I now make
to you.”
“Name it, lad.”
“I promise faithfully that whichever way the prize goes, it shall not
alter my friendship for you.”
“And I promise the same, Mac.”
“Shake hands.”
“Will you have a cup of tea? Do.”
“Well, I will, to please you.”
“And now,” said Mac, when tea was finished, “suppose we compare papers.”
“Right; but, Maclean, I tell you to begin with, that when I handed in my
work, I thought it was _sine errore_, but only a few minutes ago I
discovered an egregious mistake. So I fear I have little chance.”
The landlady came at Sandie’s summons--there was no bell; he simply
knocked on the floor with the heel of his boot. She cleared the table
and placed thereon cold water and glasses.
Then those two anxious young men drew near, and first Sandie’s papers
were carefully gone over. No mistake but the one could be discovered.
“If you are right,” said Maclean, his hopes going down to zero, “then
I’m very far out of my reckoning in many things.”
And so it really seemed.
Sandie took very great pains, but could not help condemning more than
one of Maclean’s exercises.
Maclean leaned back in his chair at last and heaved a deep sigh.
“What is to be will be,” he said resignedly. “Sandie, you are the lucky
man.”
“Maclean,” said Sandie innocently, “I begin to think I am. Oh, would we
could both get a prize!”
“Maclean,” he said, after a pause, “we have worked and toiled together
all throughout the weary winter. We have been as brothers. We are as
brothers still. We are both poor, but, Mac, you are the poorer. It seems
certain this prize is mine; let me share it with you. I can rub along,
God helping me, with half of it.”
The tears sprang to poor Mac’s eyes.
“Och, and och,” he said, rapidly dashing his hand across his face, “I
never thought the man was living who could bring tears to the eyes of a
Maclean, whose forbears fought and bled at Culloden. Sandie, if anybody
but yourself had made me such an offer, it is wild with the anger I
would have been. But you are like a brother. Promise never to repeat the
offer, and I’ll forgive you. Never will a Maclean touch the copper penny
he has not won or earned. Promise!”
“I promise, and crave your forgiveness--brother.”
* * * * *
Yes, Sandie was declared victor.
And just an hour afterwards, a little boy with a buff-coloured envelope
appeared at the door of Kilbuie house. Elsie flew to meet him, and went
rushing in with the telegram to her mother.
Mrs. M‘Crae’s hand shook so, she could not open it, so Elsie tore it
open.
Her face sparkled with joy when she read the glad tidings.
About the same time another telegraph-boy put in an appearance at the
manse of Belhaven.
This message was addressed to Maggie May. It was the first telegram ever
she had received in her life. She read it a dozen times over, ay, and
kissed it. Then she went joyfully bounding down the road to meet her
father, who had been paying visits in the pony trap.
“O father, father! what do you think?” she shouted.
“Oh, I can guess.”
“Yes, Sandie has won! Oh, isn’t it nice? oh, isn’t he clever?”
She jumped up beside her father as she spoke, that with his own eyes he
might read the joyful news.
“So glad, so glad!” he said with moistening eyes. “He is our own boy--so
glad!”
* * * * *
I may state here at once, that both sums of £60 each, that were paid to
Sandie during the next two years, were placed carefully away in the
North of Scotland Bank. They would come in handy later on, when he
commenced the study of Divinity.
Meanwhile, Sandie relaxed no effort to keep well ahead of his classes.
He determined not only to pass his examinations for his Bachelor of Arts
degree, but to pass with honours.
With this end in view, I am bound to say that he studied harder than he
ought to have done.
Sandie was, however, much reinvigorated in health from his
herring-fishing cruises, which he took every summer. But he never sailed
again from Blackhive. The memories of the sad deaths of poor Eppie and
her wee man were far too painful, and he wished rather they should die
away than revive.
* * * * *
It is the end of the last session of the curriculum. Sandie and several
others are to be capped and gowned in the great hall, as they have their
degrees conferred upon them.
The ceremony is a very pretty, not to say an impressive one, and the
hall is crowded with lady sight-seers, chiefly the friends and relations
of the young Masters and Bachelors of Arts.
Among these is a young girl of about sixteen, so innocently beautiful
that many an opera-glass is turned towards her by the students--who as a
class are by no means shy. She sits by the side of an elderly clergyman
with mild blue eyes and a pleasant smile. The girl is Maggie May, the
gentleman her father. Next her on the other side is Elsie herself,
flanked by Willie Munro. She too is beautiful, and commands a greater
share of attention than she desires, for more than once the colour
suffuses her face, and she feels anything but happy.
When Sandie was receiving his degree, so great was the silence you might
have heard the proverbial pin drop, especially when the Principal of
the University addressed him in words somewhat as follows:--
“I cannot let this opportunity pass, Mr. M‘Crae, of congratulating you
on the most successful career you have sustained at this University. My
brother Professors all agree with me in saying you have been an honour
to the great Northern University. We all wish you long life and good
health. If you have this latter blessing, we do not fear for your
success in life.”
Then every Professor shook Sandie kindly by the hand, while the cheering
of his fellow-students was like thunder itself.
* * * * *
It was all over now, and it is no wonder that reaction came on, or that
depression succeeded to the long-continued excitement of study.
Sandie was home at Kilbuie, and Willie--merry-hearted Willie, who never
let anything trouble him long--was on an early summer visit to the farm.
But do what he could, he was unable to rouse Sandie from the seeming
lethargy into which he was sinking.
Sandie was changed too, and changing still. His cheeks and temples had
become more hollow of late; there was a red spot beneath each eye that
his mother did not like; he had lost much of his strength, perspired
more easily than he ought to have done; his voice was weak, and, worst
symptom of all, he sometimes had a hollow cough.
Willie went straight away to Aberdeen one day, and when he returned
next forenoon Dr. Kilgour was with him.
He most carefully examined our ploughboy-student, then he said to him--
“You’re a sensible youth, so I can speak to you straight. If you can get
away to sunnier climes for a year, including a long sea-voyage in a
sailing ship, you’ll return as hard as a hunter. If you don’t do this,
you are booked for the other side of Jordan.”
The rough but kindly doctor told his mother the same, and she began to
cry.
“Oh,” she moaned, “if my boy goes to sea, I shall never never see him
more!”
“Tuts! woman, don’t be a fool. I tell you it is his only chance. You are
bound to let him go--so there!”
* * * * *
There was that sum of £120 lying untouched in the bank, and this Sandie
determined to devote to the payment of his expenses. If it pleased God,
he said to himself, to bring him back from sea safe and well, he would
be able by teaching to make enough to pay his divinity classes.
So he commenced at once to get ready his outfit.
There was a hopeful pleasure in even this, and while so engaged Sandie
believed himself getting better already.
The parting from his parents and Elsie, and from Maggie May and the
minister, would, he knew, be painful enough, but then there was Hope to
sit up aloft and breathe the flattering tale.
One day Willie, who had been to Aberdeen, burst into Sandie’s room in a
state of joyful excitement. He was waving aloft a curious-looking
document, which was half printed, half written.
“Hurrah!” he cried. “Now, Sandie, I’m going to astonish you. Better
catch hold of something for fear you fall. Do you know the Tomlisons,
the rich shipowners?”
“By hearsay, Willie.”
“Well, they know you by hearsay. They know all your strange story, and
all your hard struggles, and they have heard about your illness, and
even got Dr. Kilgour’s report, and they have sent you a free pass to
Australia, round by the Horn.”
“Oh, how kind!” cried Sandie. “But, Willie, can I in honour accept?”
“If you didn’t accept, I should look upon you as a pagan, Sandie. Sit
down there at once, and write and thank them.”
And Sandie did.
CHAPTER IV
_THE DANGER AND DIFFICULTY WAS TO COME_
The _Boo-boo-boo_ was a crack Aberdeen clipper barque, of large
dimensions, and though not in the habit of carrying passengers,
beautifully fitted aft, with a saloon like a marble hall, and splendid
well-fitted state-rooms off it.
She was in the Australian trade. Her cargo might best be described by
the American term “notions,” for she carried anything and everything by
which she was likely to turn an honest penny.
The barque was nearly new, having only made three voyages, and always
with pecuniary success to her owners.
She lay in Aberdeen harbour, and was nearly ready for sea.
* * * * *
Now partings and all that are not nice things to write about. So I shall
skip them, and reintroduce Sandie to you on a bright moonlit evening, as
the good barque goes bounding away on the wings of a twelve-knot breeze,
well to the outside of the Bay of Biscay.
Both Sandie and Willie--yes, Willie had won his father round to let him
accompany his friend on his long, long voyage. Both Sandie and Willie, I
was going to say, have got over their little experience of _mal de mer_,
and have also acquired their sea-legs.
So, although the ship bobs and curtsies and coquettes with each
advancing wave, it does not annoy our heroes in the least.
And although Sandie is wrapped in a warm Highland plaid, and looks in
the moon’s pale rays somewhat of an invalid, he seems already to have
regained much of his former heartiness and spirit.
The men forward are lazily leaning over the bows smoking and yarning;
the midshipman of the watch paces rapidly up and down, watching sail and
sky, now and then admonishing the man at the wheel to keep her full. He
really seems speaking for speaking’s sake, as middies sometimes do.
Presently Sandie stoops down to pat and pet a dog, who has been
following up and down, close at their heels.
“Dear old Tyro!” he says; “what a happy thought it was to take you, and
what a delightful sailor-dog you do make!”
And now the lid of the after companion is pushed open, and, just like a
jack-in-the-box, up pop a head and shoulders.
The rest of the body follows, and next minute the captain himself
approaches the spot where our heroes are standing together, holding on
to the mizzen rigging.
“And how are you by this time, Sandie, man?” he says right cheerily.
Sandie answers quite as cheerily, and conversation becomes general.
The captain is a short, stoutish individual, very rosy and jolly as to
face, very white as to whiskers and hair. His age might be
sixty-and-five, but he has all the activity of a youth of twenty.
It seems to me, to put it parenthetically, that a life on the ocean wave
really tends to keep people young. Somehow, it makes men brave, because
they are always face to face with danger, till in course of time they
become so inured to its presence that they can afford to despise it. The
sea gives health and strength too, and these in turn give contentment
and jollity; and if a man has this, he is bound to feel young, and look
young also. There is some truth, therefore, in the term “A jolly tar.”
“And now, boys,” says the captain, “come down to supper. I promised to
look after you, and faith I’m going to do my duty.”
The table was already laid, with plenty of delicious cold meat and
vegetables, to say nothing of pudding and sweets.
The first mate sat at one end of this table, a tall, brown-faced,
swarthy individual, with shoulders of wondrous breadth, and hands as big
as spades, more or less. But he had a right merry twinkle in his eye,
especially when the captain asked him to join him in a glass of rosy
wine. The rosy wine, I may inform you, was nothing more nor less than
rum.
After supper the midshipman came down, having been relieved for a spell
by the second mate, who lived forward with other petty officers and an
apprentice or two.
Then Robins, the mate, got out his Cremona. He was a truly beautiful
performer. His magic shifting and his weird tremolo made you imagine you
were in a dream, a dream from which you hoped never to be awakened.
Even his playing of so simple an air as “Black-eyed Susan” transformed
the whole melody, and caused one to think the composer must really have
been a genius.
Willie, who was no mean player on the piano, used often to accompany the
mate. He did so to-night.
The captain seated himself in his easy-chair to listen, folding his
hands in front of him, after putting his red silk handkerchief over the
bald spot on the top of his head.
But seven bells rang out at last, and saying “good-night,” Sandie and
Willie retired to their state-room, and were soon snug in the arms of
Morpheus. As he lay down, that old hymn-song that Willie and the mate
had played kept ringing in Sandie’s head--
ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;
Then calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
In the next verse Sandie got mixed.
The first thing he was conscious or semi-conscious of was a dream, that
seemed very real, of wandering by the side of the romantic Don,
fishing-rod in hand, sweet Maggie by his side.
“You laziest of lazy lads, can’t you wake? Bath’s all ready, and I can
smell breakfast. Turn out. What are you talking about? There is no
Maggie May here.”
It was Willie who was shaking his friend by the shoulder.
That plunge in the marble cauldron of cool sea water was glorious, and
by the time he had finished towelling, Sandie felt downright hungry.
Willie had already had his plunge, and so both were soon dressed and on
deck.
“Ha! good morning, lads. I declare you both look as healthy and happy as
a couple of skip-jacks.”
It was the captain who spoke.
They had ten minutes walking on the weather side. She was on the port
tack, the wind well a-beam. Not a deal of it, but quite enough to make
that bonnie clipper barque dance and bound over the rippling water as if
she really were a thing of life. The sun was already pretty high in the
heavens, and every wavelet sparkled so brightly in his beams that it
dazzled the eyes to gaze eastwards.
“Look there!” cried Captain D’Acre, pointing away aloft. “Ever see such
a sight? Got ’em all on, eh!”
And the good captain rubbed his hands and chuckled with glee.
Certainly our heroes had never seen such a spread before.
Sail after sail towering skywards, the highest seemingly no bigger than
a baby’s bib.
“Why,” said Sandie, “I couldn’t even name them; I could go no farther
than the royals.”
“Oh, but we have got moon-rakers, and star-gazers, and sky-scrapers
above them, and----”
Ring--ding, ding, ding, ding.
It was the steward’s breakfast-bell.
“Ah! what a glorious sound,” said the good skipper. “Come on, boys, and
see me make the fish fly.”
* * * * *
It appeared that this would be an idyllic voyage all through. The good
old skipper himself averred that our heroes had brought him good luck,
for a fair wind held until the barque got into the trades; and although
the vessel was becalmed for about three weeks near the tropics, lying
like a log on the water, with idle flapping sails, rolling from side to
side on the glassy mountain waves with a motion that was terribly
tiresome, this was only what was to be expected. Everybody was rejoiced,
nevertheless, when the trades were once more made, and the
_Boo-boo-boo_ shook herself, as it were, and prepared for solid sailing
after her long and irksome inactivity.
There is no doubt that before he left home Sandie had been threatened
with that scourge of our islands, phthisis or consumption, and that had
he remained in our fog-girt island another winter, he might have
succumbed. But the balmy ozonic breath of the ocean had already done
wonders for him. His cheeks had filled out, his voice was so far from
weak that he could sing old-fashioned Scotch songs, like “Annie Laurie”
and “Afton Water,” to Willie’s accompaniment. He slept sound at night,
and was calm and contented by day.
There was no lack of recreation or enjoyment on board, independent of
music. The saloon library was really a very excellent one, and contained
the best novels of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Bulwer, besides a
score of volumes of Blackwood’s Magazine, and nearly all the standard
poets.
There were games--chess, draughts, &c.--below for evening enjoyment, and
there were games for daytime also on the upper deck, peg on the ring,
sea-quoits, and several others that helped to while away the time.
The first mate, second mate, Willie, and Midshipman Murray played at
leap-frog. Sandie, too, would fain have given a back, and taken one
also, but the skipper would not permit him.
Nor did he allow him to engage in a mad harum-scarum game of football,
that young Murray had invented, and which really caused no end of fun
and amusement, to say nothing of barked shins and a sprained ankle or
two.
Sandie used to delight to watch the sea-birds that, the ship being well
on towards the east shores of America, came floating or hovering round
the ship. The two most remarkable were the frigate-bird and the
albatross. It is supposed that either bird can fly hundreds of miles an
hour. The frigate-bird really can go to sleep in the air, and for days
and weeks it never alights. Far away on some solitary rock or island, in
the spring season, the female bird, and at times the male, sits on their
single egg, and at this time they are so tame that the natives can catch
them with the hand.
But what shall we say about the albatross, or how describe that great
eagle of the sea? The powers of flight of this wondrous bird are
marvellous in the extreme. No golden eagle in Scotland ever swept down
from the sky with more arrow-like speed than does the albatross on a
ship; then he goes sailing round it and round it, apparently without
effort, hardly a wing moving, hardly a feather, but the great head, with
its weird wild eye, keenly alert all the time. Next moment, in the very
teeth of the wind, he goes dashing off, and is seen like a lark against
the clouds miles and miles astern. The wind is this bird’s slave; it
obeys him, carries him hither and thither with lightning speed, and
seems ever ready at his beck and call. Truly a marvellous bird is the
albatross!
But there were strange fishes and creatures in the sea that Sandie
delighted to watch as well. Sometimes they saw a great lonesome whale
ploughing his way through the vastness of the mighty deep, going
straight as an arrow, but whither and how guided no one ever could tell.
At other times and frequently a shoal of dolphins would cross bows or
stern. They took no notice of the brave barque; they had their own life
and business to attend to. But surely a right merry life it was, seeing
the way they jumped and plunged, even cooing in their glee, and turning
somersaults in the air.
Then there was the barracuta, a fish of immense size, not unfrequently
observed. He too used to leap out of the water, but with no apparent
sense of enjoyment.
The skip-jack leapt from wave-top to wave-top, as if he was learning to
fly, and might in course of time become a bird.
The flying gurnet had already learned to fly, and could support himself
quite a long time in the air.
At night the men hung lights about the bows, and these flying-fish flew
on board and flopped about the decks in desperation, till caught and
killed. The wings were kept by the men as souvenirs of the voyage, but
the fish was always fried for the saloon breakfast; and very delicious
eating they were, in flavour not unlike herring, or even salmon trout,
but much more delicate than either.
The _Boo-boo-boo_ touched at Rio, to land some cargo and take in fresh
meat.
Sandie and Willie marvelled much at the romantic beauty of the bay or
harbour, with its surroundings of green and rugged mountains. But when
they landed they marvelled more. Everything strange, everything
wonderful, oceans of fruit and flowers, and the people, whether
inky-black or nearly white, all as contented with their lot as doves in
a tree, and all chattering away as merry as monkeys.
The next halting-place was Sandy Point, inside the Straits of Magellan,
through which they meant to pass.
But now the weather had got black and stormy; the idyllic portion of the
voyage was over; all the danger and difficulty was to come.
People cannot tell what is before them. This is a merciful dispensation
of Providence.
CHAPTER V
_FIGHTING THE FIRELANDERS_
It was the dead of a dreary winter in the Straits of Magellan, about the
beginning of July--the seasons, as I need hardly tell my young readers,
being quite the reverse of ours--the dead of a dreary winter; and no one
who has ever traversed this region of fogs and storms in a sailing ship
at such a time will be likely to forget the feeling of gloom that often
settles down on board, both fore and aft. The men try hard to fight
against it. They smoke, they sing, they fiddle, they dance--on every
available excuse the captain may even splice the main-brace; but all
pleasures are transient, and do not come directly from the heart.
This was the case now on board the good barque _Boo-boo-boo_. Willie and
Sandie felt depressed; even Tyro the collie seemed in low spirits or out
of sorts.
At times the days would be bright and clear enough, and with probably a
strong wind blowing, and a white and chafing sea, the rugged rocks and
mountains would be seen on the distant horizon like threatening
storm-clouds.
Even pieces of ice were not unfrequently met with; but strangest sight
of all were the half-naked savages in their queer little boats that
crossed the barque’s hawse, or, hanging on to her sides, begged for
alms.
These were Firelanders, or Terra del Fuegians.
“And,” said Captain D’Acre, “mild and cringing though they now appear,
they are among the most implacable savages in the world, and cannibals
to boot. Heaven help the merchant ship that runs on shore on their
inhospitable coast; unless they can defend their lives, a short shrift
is theirs. They are killed, and eaten afterwards.”
Sandie shuddered.
“I could tell you some terrible stories connected with these
Firelanders, boys, but the weather is depressing enough. No need to sink
your spirits to zero. Besides, we are still among them. We must not
hulloo till we are out of the wood.”
Very little sail, comparatively speaking, could now be carried, for to a
sailing ship the passage of the Straits presents dangers innumerable.
But to those days, so bright and clear, succeed nights of inky darkness
and silence, a darkness that the light streaming from the binnacle, or
upwards from the dead-lights, seemed to pierce as with arrows of gold.
There was a mystery, nay, even a strange fascination to Sandie--who was
deeply imbued with romance and superstition--in nights like these.
Perhaps even the men felt something of this as well, for hardly would
they speak above a whisper, and even walked along the decks in silence,
as if dreading to wake an echo. But Sandie would lean over the bulwarks,
and peer into the intense black darkness, listening breathlessly, as if
he expected some voice to hail him from the inky deep.
Sometimes his heart almost stood still with a nameless dread, as near by
he could hear a sullen plash and boom. What was it? He could never even
guess.
No one was ever sorry when the long dark nights wore away, and the
cheerless dawn came slowly creeping over the sea from a lurid yellow
horizon, flecked with ugly clouds, like the wings of demon bats.
On the 7th of July, early in the morning, a sudden storm arose,
accompanied by sleet and hail, that there was no facing. The cold was
intense. Yet bravely the _Boo-boo-boo_ kept as near to the wind as ever
barque could do.
It ended, however, in her being blown very considerably out of her
course.
Towards afternoon the wind went down as quickly as it had arisen, and
very uneasy indeed did the captain feel, not only on account of the dead
calm that ensued, but because pine-clad hills and rocks were within a
measurable distance, and because he knew that another black dark night
would succeed the stormy day.
Aberdeen men are noted for their forethought, or canniness, and Captain
D’Acre was no exception.
About three o’clock he called a council. All hands, officers included,
were had aft, and then the skipper addressed them.
“Men,” he said, “we’re not cowards. Cowards don’t grow in Bonnie
Scotland. But I confess to you that I feel uneasy. We are not far off a
shore that is infested--haunted, you may call it--by fierce and
implacable savages. They will attack us to-night, if they think they can
capture the ship. It is best to be prepared. (‘Hurrah!’) Well, we have
plenty of arms. We shall get them up. Luckily, pistols and rifles and
ammunition are part of our cargo. But there is another thing to take
into consideration: we shall not know at what part of the ship, bow, or
stern, or quarter, these fiends shall board. Therefore, I propose to get
up the sheep-netting. It is strong enough to repel boarders, if placed
double all round, on top of the bulwarks. See that done, mate.
Moreover,” he continued, “we have oceans of lamps. Let them be all
trimmed and lit, but covered up. They should be placed here and there on
deck, so as to light us up fore and aft when the enemy comes, by simply
hauling off the tarpaulin. Men, I shall not splice the main-brace now,
but when the danger is over, when the long black night has worn away,
and daylight finds us far from danger, then I’ll splice it twice.”
The men cheered. The mate ordered them forward, and work was commenced
at once.
The sheep or calf netting was got up, and all along the bulwarks fore
and aft, port and starboard, a barricade erected that it would take
savages some time to cut through.
There was a sword or cutlass for every man and a good revolver also.
By the time everything was finished and the lamps lit and covered, black
night had fallen.
The barque was uncomfortably near to the shore, and there was not a
breath of wind, though the sails hung there ready to catch it when it
came.
Coffee and biscuits, with cold meat, were served out to all hands about
nine o’clock; then came the long dreary spell of waiting--waiting for a
horror to come--waiting for something awful to happen--the very
uncertainty as to the shape that something might assume making the
waiting all the worse to bear.
High above them on a hill-top, about eleven o’clock, they noticed a fire
suddenly spring up. It cast a ruddy glare across the waters, a blood-red
path in the pitchy darkness, that was terrible to behold.
In a short time fire after fire shone out on the hill-tops all along the
coast.
“You see those fires,” cried the captain to his men. “They are to summon
the black and infernal clans. We’ll have them here in hundreds in
another hour.”
“We’re ready,” cried a bold voice from among the men. “Never fear, sir.
We’ll show them Glenorchy.”
“Hurrah!” cried the others.
The mate now approached the captain, evidently with a proposal.
“Yes, why shouldn’t we?” replied D’Acre; “everything is fair in love and
war, especially against such demons as these. Do so, by all means.”
The proposal was to get up steam in the engine used on board for making
soft water from salt, and if the worst came to the worst, and the
savages obtained a footing on board, to turn the boiling hose upon them.
It seemed very dreadful, but life is sweet.
Another long hour of suspense and waiting passed slowly, drearily away.
The fires had died down on the hills and gone out, and the silence was
intense.
Sandie was leaning over the bulwarks as usual, gazing into the
mysterious blackness. Near him was Tyro.
Suddenly, without warning of any kind, the dog placed his forepaws
against the bulwarks and barked loudly, fiercely.
“Good dog!” said the captain.
“Men, be ready; they are coming!”
“Uncover the lamps!”
This was done, and instantaneously the ship’s deck and every spar and
rope was revealed in a light almost as bright as day.
At the same time a yell rang up from the water, so savage, so
demoniacal, that it almost paralysed the nerves of those who heard it.
It was answered next moment, however, by a truly British cheer.
The Firelanders had chosen the bows at which to board. The
boarding-netting, however, was something they had not reckoned for.
They could be seen in scores, like demons, hacking at it with their
knives from the outside.
But volley after volley was poured into them from the revolvers. Then a
charge was made with swords.
Sandie had no fear now, and his good sword thrust more than one savage
wounded to the water beneath. The fight was a terrible one while it
lasted, and it really seemed that for every cannibal killed two more
appeared.
If they should once gain a footing on board, then well those brave men
knew that the brave barque would be at their mercy.
Every revolver was now empty, and there was no time to reload.
It was a case, therefore, of cut and thrust; but it soon became evident
that the white men’s arms were getting tired battling against such
terrible odds.
But now the captain’s voice was heard high over the din of battle and
the yells of savage strife.
“Give ’em the hose, mate. Fetch it along. Be calm. Cheerily does it.”
Three or four blacks had already reached on board, and more than one
white man fell stabbed to the heart.
But now the mate dashes forward with the hose.
How shall I describe the scene that followed, or the sickening yells of
those now terror-stricken savages?
They tumbled backwards into the sea, or down with fearful thuds on top
of their frail canoes. Mercy, I fear, this swarthy mate knew not. Nay,
he even commanded lights to be held overboard, that he might play on the
laden canoes; but these were speedily deserted, as, leaving their arms,
the cannibals leapt wildly and shrieking into the sea, and commenced
swimming shorewards through the blackness and the darkness of this
fearful night.
The whole battle had not occupied over half-an-hour, and though the
savages must have suffered terribly, it was found that the _Boo-boo-boo_
had only two men killed and three wounded.
Just an hour afterwards, greatly to the joy of all on board, a light
breeze began to blow off the shore; the sails no longer flapped, but
filled, and the brave barque was soon standing steadily out to sea, and
away from that blood-stained cannibal isle.
* * * * *
It was nearly a whole week after the above adventure before the
_Boo-boo-boo_ got quite clear of the straits, and turned her jibboom to
the nor’ard and west.
Hopes began to rise high now in every breast. Surely the worst of their
dangers were past and gone.
The wounded were doing well.
The two poor fellows who had been slain were buried at daylight next
morning, the captain himself conducting the burial service.
The bodies were placed side by side on a grating. Each was sewn in a
hammock, which was weighted with iron.
The service was most impressive, and as the captain prayed and gave out
a hymn to sing, it is no departure from the truth to say, that tears
chased each other adown many a brave and weather-beaten face, tears the
men strove in vain to hide.
“We commit these bodies to the deep.”
Here the grating was tilted, and with a dull and sullen plash the bodies
sank, to appear no more till the sea gives up its dead.
“We commend their spirits to the living God who gave them.”
* * * * *
The captain had closed the book, and a few minutes afterwards the men
were going about their duties, as if there was no such thing as death
and sorrow in the wide wide world.
I wish I could say that all the troubles of the good barque
_Boo-boo-boo_ were now over and done with. I wish it for this reason,
that I am no lover of horrors. I neither like to read about nor to write
about them. But I have an “ower true” tale to relate, and I am the last
person in the world, I trust, or one of the last persons, to shirk a
duty.
For a day or two, then, all went well. The wind blew fair, the waves
sparkled and shone in the sunshine, as if elfin fingers were scattering
their sides with diamonds.
Then suddenly the wind veared round to the west, but fell considerably.
Except on tack and half tack there was no way of making headway against
it.
But to make matters worse, a fog came down upon the ship so dense that
the jibboom could not be descried from the binnacle, and the men, even
by the foremast, loomed out like tall and ghastly spectres.
This was the _musgo_, so much dreaded in these regions.
But nobody thought even now that the _Boo-boo-boo_ was a doomed ship.
Read on, and you shall learn the terrible truth.
CHAPTER VI
_THE LAST OF THE BRAVE BARQUE “BOO-BOO-BOO”_
All that day the _musgo_ lasted. The night closed in early. It closed in
so pitchy dark and gloomy, that even Captain D’Acre himself was fain to
confess he had never seen anything to compare with it.
It lacked to some extent, however, the strange mystery associated with
the deep silence of the black nights they had experienced in the
straits. It was not silent to-night, for the head wind continued to
blow, and great seas, houses high, rolled in from the west, making the
motion of the vessel when tacking very disagreeable.
It might have been about four bells in the morning watch when a wild
shout arose from the men, who, more for custom’s sake than any use they
could be, were stationed at the bows to look out.
“Keep her away, keep her away, for God’s sake.”
“Port your helm--hard a port!”
Even against the blackness of the night, they had seen a monstrous
shape, dark as Erebus, bearing down upon them.
The helm was put hard a port, but alas! it was too late. Next moment
down with the send of a great sea came the shape. There was a crash
amidships, as if the _Boo-boo-boo_ had been blown broadside on to a
rock. She heeled over till her starboard-yard ends almost touched the
water. No one on board expected she could right herself again, yet
slowly she did so, and was once more upon an even keel.
The pumps were now got to work; the barque was badly stove, and filling
fast.
By those of the crew not engaged pumping, an attempt was made, under the
supervision of the mate, to rig a device, with the aid of poles,
blankets, and tarpaulins, to stop if possible the terrible leak. This
was lowered over the side, and was far more successful than could have
been expected.
But it was evident to all that the ship could not be kept long afloat,
so all haste was now made to get the boats ready, and to provision and
arm them.
Before this business was completed daylight began to glare, yellow and
grey, through the fog; but the fog by itself was evidently thinner, and
presently it lifted entirely, and went rolling away like a tall black
wall to leeward. Then the sun shone over the sea with a brightness that
was quite dazzling.
“Look!” cried the mate to the captain, “what is that down to leeward? A
ship, sir?”
“It is a ship,” replied D’Acre gloomily; “she is doubtless a derelict,
and she it was who worked our ruin.”
“A derelict, sir?”
“Yes, mate; there are many of them in these seas, and they constitute a
danger against which the mariner is powerless to guard himself.”[8]
“But come,” he continued, “we will put about and bear down towards her.
She is high out of the water, and still has one mast and her jibboom
standing. She cannot have been abandoned long.”
“Ready about!” shouted the mate. “Tacks and sheets!”
The vessel’s course was now altered and though she yawed about in a
disagreeable and even alarming manner, she made fair progress down
towards the derelict vessel.
Captain D’Acre laid her right alongside and grappled, or secured, the
two vessels together.
Then the captain, with Sandie and Willie, scrambled on to the deck of
the forsaken ship.
Their feelings as they did so may be better imagined than described.
Curiosity, perhaps, was upper-most in their minds, but it was a
curiosity mixed with awe.
What was the mystery? they wondered. Ah! the sea hath many mysteries,
and here was one of them, yet it seemed one that was not inexplicable,
not impossible to ravel.
The deck was hampered with a litter of wreck, fallen spars and rigging.
There were no boats to be seen. It seemed evident that the ship had been
taken aback or struck by a sudden squall, and that, believing she was
sinking, a panic had seized upon the crew and they had left in the
boats. There was every appearance of a hasty exodus, for stores lay
about the deck where they had fallen, tinned meats, and even bottled
beer.
But there was now no living thing on board.
Yes, there was though; for while they were yet gazing around them in
surprise and wonder, a beautiful young tom-cat made his appearance, a
red tabby he was, and commenced singing aloud as he rubbed himself
against Sandie’s leg.
Sandie took the poor puss up in his arms, smoothed it and spoke kindly
to it.
“Jump on board the _Boo-boo-boo_, Willie, and fetch the poor creature a
bit of meat.”
[Illustration: THE ONLY LIVING THING ON BOARD.--_Page 270_]
Willie was off in a moment, and soon returned with a plate of food,
which the cat ate ravenously.
It surely spoke well for the goodness of those young men’s hearts that,
in the midst of their own sore trouble and danger, they could think
about a cat.
* * * * *
The mate and captain now held a consultation, and the derelict was
thoroughly examined. There was a considerable amount of water in her
hold, and she was leaking badly, but with care she would float a week,
while, alas! the poor _Boo-boo-boo_ might sink at any moment, and
certainly would go down in a few hours.
It was determined, therefore, to take possession of the derelict, and
with this view the _Boo-boo-boo’s_ boats, spare spars, water,
provisions, with everything useful, were transferred on board her.
There was hurry, certainly, for there was no time to lose, but there was
no confusion.
As soon as everything was done, it being evident the _Boo-boo-boo_ was
going fast, all hands got out of her and she was cut adrift. At the same
time sail was made on the foremast--the only remaining one--and jibboom
of the derelict, and she was soon well off from the doomed and sinking
barque.
None too soon. Her end came with a rapidity that was extraordinary. The
tarpaulin arrangement had doubtless shifted from her side, and the
water rushed in.
Her whole fore part rose for a moment and trembled in the air. Next
minute, she went down with a fearful sounding plunge, stern first. The
frothy bubbling waters closed over her, and this was the last of the
brave barque _Boo-boo-boo_.
CHAPTER VII
_AFLOAT ON A DERELICT SHIP_
How strange it all seemed! And how unreal! Only yesterday bounding along
in their own good barque, their home on the ocean wave, filled with
hope, and even happiness. To-day, afloat on a derelict ship! There were
times when Sandie was not quite sure whether or not he was awake,
whether all he saw around him was not merely the phantasm of an ugly
dream.
Alas! it was all too real.
The deserted ship was, like the lost _Boo-boo-boo_, a barque, but not of
the same dimensions by a long way.
What had been her trade or calling? Well, Captain D’Acre and his mate
had not much difficulty in determining this. First and foremost, she was
exceedingly light in the water--almost empty, in fact. It was evident,
therefore, that she had not yet taken her cargo on board. Down below in
the hold, and ’tween decks, were found large quantities of rice and many
barrels of water. There was also ample provision for cooking this rice
at the large galley.
“Do you begin to smell a rat, sir?” said the mate.
“I do, my friend, I do.”
“And see, sir, what we have in this corner!”
As he spoke he hauled out a long strong iron bar, to which leg irons
were attached, and a padlock fastened to the end.
“Now,” said the skipper, “we can not only smell the rat, but see it.”
“Blackbirders!”
“Blackbirders,” repeated D’Acre, “evidently.”
For the benefit of the uninitiated, I beg to say that in some parts of
Australia--Queensland, in particular, I think--black labour is hired
from the islands of the South Pacific. The natives--call them savages,
if you please--who “volunteer,” are offered good wages and a free and
safe passage back to their own homes. It is almost needless to say that
they seldom see those homes again.
But the men engaged in this nefarious trade are called Blackbirders, and
as a rule the business resolves itself into one of kidnapping the
blacks, oftentimes associated with the most shocking atrocities and
cruelties that can be imagined.
As long as Blackbirding is suffered to exist, slavery of the basest sort
must be supposed to flourish. I know there are people even now that deny
the existence of Blackbirding, or that it ever did flourish in cruelty
and tyranny. Proofs are all against these people, and many a burned and
blackened island, many a desolated village, and many an ant-cleaned
skeleton lying unburied and bleaching in the sun, shall testify to what
I say.
“Yes, she is a Blackbirder, right enough, mate. Perish the fiends! But
what fools they were to leave their ship!”
“As a rule,” said the mate, “the cruel are cowards.”
“Well, mate, I don’t hold with you altogether there. I have known fiends
in human form who were very far indeed from being cowards. But come now,
mate, we’ll go on deck, and begin making the ship as snug as ever we
can.”
“Well, sir, there is one thing sure enough, we must make the best of our
way towards some island. The ship won’t float a week.”
“Think not?”
“Sure of it, sir. Collision with us didn’t improve her. No, she won’t
float.”
“Well, we must beach her.”
“Yes; that is, if we can fall in with an island to beach her on.”
“Another thing is this, mate, we must try to keep in the track of
vessels, outward or homeward bound.”
“Yes, captain, that’s our only holt.”
“You see, mate, if we strike some lonely out-of-the-world island, we run
the chance of lying there till we rot, even if our bones are not picked
by hostile natives.”
“True, sir, true.”
“Well, in the route from China to England round the Horn there are many
islands, so there are in the route ’twixt Sydney and England viâ
Panama. Our plan will be to repair ship, and bear up for some of these.
With God’s good help, I think we may reach an island in safety. If the
worst comes to the worst, we have still the boats.”
“Good, sir, good! Ah! excuse me, sir, but your head is screwed on with
the face to the front.”
The kindly old captain laughed, then both went on deck.
All hands were now called, and work was commenced at once.
The skipper first, however, made his men a little speech, explaining the
discoveries they had made below, and his intentions of trying to beach
the sinking derelict on some island in the track of trading ships.
After this the men set to work with a will, cheering each other with
chaffing, and laughing, and talk, and even with snatches of song.
In a very short time the wreck was cleared away, all that was useful
being retained, and mere lumber bundled overboard to amuse the sharks.
The mainmast had gone, but not quite by the board, so that it was easy
to rig a jury, and set thereon a huge trysail. With her square sails on
the fore, and jibs set, and the wind being now on the quarter, the
_Peaceful_, for that was her name, which must have been given by way of
a grim joke, seemed to feel herself once more, and fancy herself also,
lifting proudly to every wave, and coming down again with a saucy
plunge that sent the spray flying inboard over the bows.
On the heaving of the log, it was found that she was making the highly
respectable progress of seven knots an hour.
This was increased to eight after the pumps had been rigged and the
water lowered in the hold.
This pumping, it was found ere long, was work that must be kept up for
over two hours in every watch, else the _Peaceful_ would soon follow the
example of the _Boo-boo-boo_, and sink to rise no more.
Sandie soon came to the conclusion, that what he saw around him did not
belong to the realms of dreamland, but to those of stern reality.
He could not tell what dangers or difficulties were yet to be
encountered, but he had the most perfect confidence in the skill and
ability of that white-haired old skipper to do whatever was for the
best. And he had, moreover, faith and trust in God, who rules all, and
who can hold the ocean in the palm of His hand.
Tyro, the collie, had entered into relations of the most friendly
character with the young red tabby cat, and the two were romping
together on the quarter-deck, as if there was no such thing as death or
danger in the universe.
The course now steered was as nearly nor’-west as possible.
Captain D’Acre really entertained some hopes that he might meet some
homeward bound steamer, or be overtaken by one that was outward bound.
But one never knows how vast the ocean is until he is sailing on its
heaving breast. Ay, and you may sail for weeks in an ocean highway, and
never meet or see a ship, only the great silent wondrous world of
waters, for ever moving and heaving around you.
* * * * *
With varying fortunes as to wind and weather, the sadly-stricken barque,
_Peaceful_, sailed on and on and on.
It was now very warm on deck, not to say broiling hot. The pitch boiled
in the vessel’s seams, and Tyro’s bonnie white paws were sadly soiled
and blackened. The sun all day blazed in a sky of lightest blue, only
down along the horizon, great rock-looking clouds were banked up, behind
which every night summer lightning gleamed incessant.
It was about three bells in the morning watch one night, but still inky
dark, when the first mate, lamp in hand, entered the captain’s cabin,
and touched him on the shoulder.
The skipper was but a light sleeper, and so raised himself from his cot
at once.
“Anything wrong, mate?”
“I fear, sir, there is something very much wrong indeed. We seem to have
sprung an ugly leak all at once. The water is gaining on us fast, though
we’re pumping all we can.”
“Bless my soul, mate!”
“If we can keep her afloat for six hours, sir, I think it will be all we
can do.”
“Well, in three hours, my friend, we can easily arm and provision
boats.”
“Yes.”
“Better call all hands, then.”
“I’ve done so an hour ago, sir.”
“Tell the steward to splice the main-brace immediately after the men
have had their coffee and biscuit.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“What time did you say it was?”
“About three bells and a quarter. The sun will be up in a short time.”
“Good! I’ll be on deck in a brace of shakes.”
Sandie and Willie had been aroused by the shouting and trampling of
feet, and dreading something unusual had happened, they had quickly
dressed and gone on deck.
On learning what had happened, both heartily volunteered to lend a hand
at the pumps, and so the work went merrily on.
Soon the sky assumed the most glorious colours, with flushes of gold and
cloud stripes of purest amber and crimson.
Next, there hung low down on the horizon a short bright blood-red line,
which got bigger and more definite in shape every moment, till at last
up leapt the sun, and a triangular bar of bright ensanguined water
stretched right away to the very hull of the sinking ship herself.
Higher and higher mounts the sun, paler and clearer become its beams.
And now, to the joy of all, there is visible, not many miles away, a
green island.
It is like a veritable fairyland, for it does not appear to be in the
sea at all, but afloat in the ambient sky.
“Can we make it, sir,” asks Sandie, “before the vessel sinks?”
The captain’s glass was turned towards the island. He could see its
golden sands, see the long white line the breakers made as they broke
lazily on its beach, and see behind tall cocoa-nut trees and banks of
waving palms.
“We can make it, my young friend, if----”
“If what, sir?” said Sandie, feeling somewhat uneasy at the captain’s
manner.
“If, Sandie, it _be an island_, and not a mocking _mirage_.”
CHAPTER VIII
_CRUSOES--PREPARED FOR ANYTHING_
But that island was no mirage. Of this all hands were speedily
convinced, and redoubled their efforts to pump the vessel and keep her
afloat until they could reach it. Breakfast of biscuits steeped in
coffee was partaken of on deck, then the steward spliced the main-brace.
Hardly half a mile now intervened between the _Peaceful_ and the island,
but her rate of sailing was very slow, and she yawed about more than was
agreeable.
It must be confessed that the danger was now extreme. The ship might
sink at any moment, and in a moment, with all on board. Yet the captain
and crew determined to stick to her.
And they did. Ah! there is no sailor in all the wide world like the
British Jack-a’-tar, whether he treads the decks of a man-o’-war or
hoists sail on a merchant vessel.
Death was staring those men in the face. In another minute they might
all be in eternity, yet hear them sing as they work the busy pumps. Oh,
only sailors’ doggerel, with no sense in it, bar that it chimes in with
the motion and sound of the levers, and the gush of water that flows
over the side--
“In San Domingo I was born,
Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
And reared among the yellow corn,
Heave, boys, and away she goes.
Hurrah!
My parients both were black as ink,
Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
They killed theirselves wi’ cussed drink,
Heave, boys, till pumps go dry.
Hurrah!”
The ship is reeling like a sick man. She reels, she staggers. When she
yaws, it seems as though she would never recover.
But hurrah! the shore is near. And here is a little cove that runs
inland a little way between banks of waving bananas and trees gorgeous
with creeping flowers.
At last she strikes, she rasps, she is fast upon the sand, and on an
even keel.
“The Lord’s Name be praised,” says the captain. And more than one manly
voice responds, “Amen!”
The strain upon both Sandie’s mind and Willie’s, particularly during the
last hour, had been very great; and now that the reaction had come,
strangely enough, Sandie, at all events, felt that he would have given a
five-pound note for a five minutes’ cry.
* * * * *
Our heroes were Crusoes now with a vengeance, but Crusoes after a
somewhat strange fashion.
In looking back to all their adventures since they left Sandy Point,
they could not but marvel at the wondrous way they had been preserved.
And here they were on board the wrecked derelict, safe and sound for a
time, at all events, and with good hopes of soon being picked up.
The first thing the crew had to do was to cut down trees in the woods,
to prop the ship up when the tide went farther back.
Meanwhile, taking Tyro with them, and not only a rifle each but a good
revolver, Sandie and Willie set out to explore the island. They soon
found that it was of no great extent, not more, indeed, than about ten
miles long by five or six wide.
This they ascertained by climbing a rather high hill, which had a bold
bluff rock right on its peak.
The island altogether was hilly and beautifully wooded, though there
were many green and verdant glades in it, and some open glens as well,
adown which they found, much to their joy, streamlets of clear water
bounding or rippling along, going singing to the sea, in fact.
There was no smoke to be seen anywhere, consequently they came to the
conclusion that the island was uninhabited.
This was strange, because there were fish in the streams, there were
rock-rabbits on the hills, and cocoa-nut and other trees were laden
with fruit. And it is the rule that, wherever on an island or on a coast
you find cocoa-nut trees, you find natives.
“What is the mystery, I wonder?” said Willie.
“I cannot tell at all,” replied Sandie. “It appears so strange that so
fertile and lovely an island as this should be lonesome and
uninhabited.”
“Well, anyhow, Sandie, let us get farther into the interior.”
They wandered on and on, now through the greenery of the lovely woods,
pausing often to admire the strange and beautiful flowers, that hung
pendant or in garlands from the branches of the loftier trees, or to
listen to the sweet low singing of some little bright-winged bird.
On and on they wander.
And now, all at once, a wide grassy glade opens out to their view.
Both Sandie and Willie shrink back appalled at the sight that meets
their view.
Here are the ruins of a very large native village, with grass and
creepers growing rank over the fallen walls.
Regaining courage, they venture forward, but do not proceed far before
Willie trips, and almost falls over something in the grass. With the
barrel of his gun he moves aside the weeds, A white ant-cleaned skeleton
lies there. Lizards skurry away from it, grey lizards, red lizards, and
green.
They shudder as they perceive that the skull has been cloven as if with
an axe.
But they do not go much farther ere they come upon many, very many
skeletons, and all bear the marks of violence.
And some among them are the skeletons of mere children.
Even in the blackened ruins of the huts lie half-charred bones, which
tell their own dismal tale.
But the saddest sight of all is that which they come to at last.
It is that of a large skeleton, with no marks of violence, hanging in
chains to a tree. The skull has tumbled to the ground and one of the
limbs, but enough remains to show the gruesomeness of the tragedy which
at no very recent date must have been enacted in this lovely glade. The
poor wretch must have been chained up alive, and left to die in the
sunshine, or to be eaten alive by the awful insects, the centipedes, and
poisonous beetles that infest a forest such as this by night.
Sandie and Willie both felt sick, and were not sorry when they found
themselves far away from that haunted glade.
They managed to shoot over a dozen rock-rabbits, and now with their
spoil they betook themselves back to the ship, to report on all they had
seen.
“As I thought,” said the old captain. “The Blackbirders have been at
work. They have wiped out a portion of the natives who dared to resist,
and have made prisoners of the rest; and the poor wretch, hung in
chains to die a lingering death, was no doubt the chief.
* * * * *
The men of the lost _Boo-boo-boo_ soon began to settle down to their new
mode of life, lonely and all though it was.
Captain D’Acre thought it would be best to live on board the _Peaceful_.
They would not only be free from malaria, and the troubles of creeping
insect life, but in a better position to defend themselves if attacked
by some wandering hostile tribe.
There was no saying how soon an attack of this kind might not be made,
so they determined to be prepared. They found a kind of willow-withe
growing plentifully on the island, and from this they manufactured in a
few days enough boarding-netting to go all the way round above the
bulwarks. They got all arms up, and loaded them, also plenty of
ammunition. They also trimmed all the lamps lest an attack should take
place under cover of the night. Moreover, lest a fight might end in a
siege, they laid in a goodly store of fresh water.
After this they felt comparatively safe, and inclined to take life very
easy indeed.
Many little shooting excursions and rambles were made into the interior.
Fishing parties too were got up, both inland and at sea.
All day long a look-out was stationed on the rocky peak of the highest
hill. His duty was to report by an arranged code of signals either the
approach of suspicious canoes, or the appearance in the offing of a
ship.
In the latter case, it would be the duty of two boats, always kept ready
manned for the purpose, to row out to sea and endeavour to communicate
with the vessel.
The rock-rabbits, the fresh-water fish, but above all the many delicious
varieties of fish caught at sea, formed a most wholesome addition to the
larder, so that it is no wonder that Willie remarked more than once,
that, instead of existing in the guise of starving Crusoes, they really
were living like the British fighting-cock.
The fruit of the island was luscious, rich, and rare, and to crown all,
there were rare crabs, and curious but succulent lobsters, and oysters
of rarest flavour found clinging to the rocks at low water.
Sandie had come through a good many hardships, and much anxiety of mind,
within the last month or so; yet, singular to say, he had waxed hardy,
stout, and strong. There was no trace of consumption about him now,
unless, as Willie told him, it was the consumption of bananas and
oysters. All cough had gone, his voice was once more manly and strong,
and his spirits were never higher.
Oh, he often thought of home--that was but natural. He often wondered
what his parents and Elsie might be doing, and dear little Maggie May.
But when he did think of home, it was always hopefully, always with a
happy feeling of certainty that he should return in health and safety to
resume his studies at the University.
A whole month passed away, but no ship ever came; another dragged
somewhat more wearily by.
Things were beginning to look a trifle serious, for this reason: there
was a limit to the length of time the flour and biscuit would last. When
these were done, they would be compelled to live on salt meat, with the
fish, fruit, and rabbits they might succeed in getting.
So the men were now--in the third month of their Crusoe-ship--put on an
allowance of biscuit. It was deemed advisable also to be as sparing in
the expenditure of gunpowder as possible, so the rock-rabbits were
snared instead of being shot.
But if no ship appeared, it was satisfactory, on the other hand, that no
boats laden with savages hove in sight, so the Crusoes tried to live as
contentedly as circumstances would permit.
No fishing, or even snaring of rabbits, took place on the Sabbath. This
was kept as a day of rest, and in the forenoons the old captain always
called all hands aft. Then a prayer would be offered up, several hymns
sung, a chapter of the Bible read and explained or commented on to the
best of the good old man’s ability, then, after more singing and
another prayer, the men would be dismissed.
But D’Acre was a true sailor, and so every Saturday he caused the
main-brace to be spliced. Well spliced, too, not in any half-hearted
way, so that the men might enjoy themselves, and drink to those so far
away--their mothers, wives, and sweethearts.
And almost every Saturday night the mate would go forward with his
fiddle, and Sandie, too, would be there to sing a song. But before eight
bells every man had turned in who was not on duty.
* * * * *
Three long months had passed away, and things began to look serious. The
biscuits were done now, and even the beef was running short.
But, oh, joy! one forenoon the signalman on the hill-top was seen to
indicate the presence of a ship, and pointed with his large fan in her
direction.
In five minutes’ time two boats were under way, pulling merrily over the
sparkling waters in the direction indicated. Never even at a boat-race
surely did men pull more earnestly. It was indeed a race for life.
But now they can see the vessel. A great ocean steamer she is.
They alter course a little, their object being to intercept her. No need
to hurry now! Oh, glorious hour! She sees the approaching boats and
stops ship.
They are saved! What need to say more? The vessel is an outward-bound
steamer for Sydney. She carries a few passengers, but has ample
accommodation for the Crusoes.
They are made heartily welcome, and that evening, down in the splendid
saloon, our chief heroes have, over and over again, to tell all the outs
and ins of their wondrous adventures.
CHAPTER IX
_“O MY POOR, DEAR FATHER!” CRIED SANDIE_
What a pleasant voyage that was to Sydney! Our heroes had nothing to do
but talk and read, and laze dreamily in the sparkling sunshine, or under
the quarter-deck awning.
The ladies on board, and there were several young and
not-quite-so-young, appeared determined to make heroes of Sandie and
Willie. Moreover, they treated the former as somewhat of an invalid,
Willie having told them all his story, so they gave up a deck-chair to
him. They wrapped him in rugs at eventide. During the day they brought
to him cunningly concocted drinks, and when the shades of night fell
they made him drink fragrant coffee, fortified with condensed milk, plus
a modicum of preserved cream. Preserved fruits, too, were his. The only
drawback to all this enjoyment rested in the fact that these
kind-intentioned ladies made him swallow half-an-ounce of cod-liver oil
three times every day; and Sandie didn’t like it.
Sydney has the most beautiful and extensive harbour in the world. I feel
in duty bound to make that remark, because everybody else says the same
thing, and because I know it will please the Sydneyites, and the
Australians in general. You see, I mean to visit Sydney one of these
days, and I wish to have a Highland welcome.
“Have you anywhere in particular to stay?” asked the most matronly lady
of our young heroes.
“No,” was the candid reply.
“Oh, then I shall carry you off.”
And she did.
A very pleasing time she gave them, too, for over two months. Then
somebody else carried them away for another month, and as this was
repeated, it may be presumed that during their stay in Sydney their keep
did not cost them much.
But the matronly lady got hold of them again, and being a widow with
plenty of means, she could do as she pleased. So she made up her mind to
show Sandie and Willie something of Australia and Australian life.
Some men inform us that this world is all bad and vile. For my own part,
I have not found it so. I still am a believer in human nature. Well, for
example, persons like this matronly lady, who had taken so great an
interest in our heroes, are not such _raræ aves_ as certain pessimists
would have us believe; and they obtain their own happiness by bringing
about and enjoying the happiness of others.
Mrs. Maxwell was this dear lady’s name, and her eyes positively
sparkled with delight when she witnessed the admiration and wonderment
exhibited by Sandie and Willie on first beholding the weird and awful
beauty of, for instance, the gum-tree forests.
City views, though very grand and rich, failed to impress them. Had they
not seen Edinburgh and Glasgow? But the wild sylvan loveliness of the
green silent country, ah! that indeed sent a thrill of pleasure to their
hearts.
“As long as I live, Mrs. Maxwell,” Sandie told the lady when at long
last he had to bid her adieu, “I shall never forget this visit to
Australia, nor all the disinterested kindness you have shown us. Yes, we
will write.”
“Good-bye, boys, and God bless you!”
“God bless _you_, Mrs. Maxwell.”
There was tears in Sandie’s eyes, and I think in Willie’s too.
Yes, their time was up, they had to go. In two days’ time one of Mr.
Tomlison’s ships--a bonnie clipper barque and sister vessel to the lost
_Boo-boo-boo_--would leave Sydney harbour, going home round the Cape of
Good Hope instead of the Straits of Magellan, or the still more stormy
Horn, and not only were Sandie and Willie going by her, but Captain
D’Acre and the first mate as well.
It was the month of March, or autumn, when the good barque--_Fairy
Queen_ was her name--reached Cape Town and cast anchor in the bay.
“What a lovely spot!” were Willie’s first words to Sandie, when both
went on deck next morning.
“It is indeed beautiful!”
It was not, however, the town they were admiring, but the grand romantic
mountainous scenery in its rear.
After breakfast they went on shore for a ramble. They soon found a Malay
guide, who for a trifle agreed to show them everything.
That word “everything” included all the public buildings, but best of
all the Botanical Gardens, which both our heroes agreed were a veritable
fairyland. Surely no such palms or flowers as these flourished or
bloomed anywhere else in the world!
When they had lingered long here, they came reluctantly away, and their
guide then took them to the hills.
And what hills! They were everywhere ablaze with flowers and the rarest
of heaths, that at home in Britain can only be kept alive in the
hothouse. Gorgeous geraniums were everywhere, and wherever there was a
patch of ground uncovered by these or by heaths, it would be closely
overgrown by a compact little flower of inexpressible sweetness, and in
shape not unlike a cineraria. These were principally crimson and white.
The only drawback to perfect enjoyment during this long hillside ramble
was the constant presence of snakes. The little sand-snake wriggled
about where least expected--on damp ground a great black snake lay
coiled. Sometimes when stooping down to cull flowers where the grass
grew greenest, the long thin dark whip-snake would glide out and away
from among their very fingers, very much to their horror. But worse than
all was the hooded cobra, the most deadly of all Cape snakes, and of
these they saw far more than they desired to.
Nevertheless, on the whole, they enjoyed their visit to the capital of
the Cape, and got on board at last, laden with botanical specimens, and
quite as hungry as there was any need to be.
* * * * *
The _Fairy Queen_ was once more at sea, and the weather was all that
could be desired.
With the exception, therefore, of a visit to the romantic and beautiful
island of St. Helena, the so-called sea-girt rock on which Napoleon was
imprisoned and died, the voyage was altogether uneventful.
The last letter received from home reached Sandie and Willie just before
they left Sydney. At that time all their friends and relations were
well.
Alas! though, in this world of sorrow much may happen in two or three
months.
The news of the arrival of the _Fairy Queen_ in Aberdeen docks spread
like wildfire, and on the very next morning Sandie’s mother and Elsie
came off to welcome him home.
They were both dressed in the deepest mourning.
“O my poor, dear father!” cried Sandie in an agony of grief.
And what could his mother do but weep with him.
Yes, M‘Crae, the honest farmer of Kilbuie, had been called away.
What a change!
The farm itself was not kept on by Sandie’s mother. Everything had been
sold, and she and Elsie had come to live at a pretty little granite
cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen.
So this, then, would be Sandie’s new home.
But as soon as the first great wave of grief had passed over his soul,
leaving it sad and chastened, Sandie determined to live but for his
mother and sister alone.
He was now well and strong, and could resume his studies without fear.
But he would not have to tax his brain so much in future. For the study
of Divinity presents no such difficulties as do Greek, Latin, and
Mathematics.
The cottage in which Mrs. M‘Crae had settled down, though by no means an
expensive one, was very pretty. It stood at the Rubislaw end of Union
Street, quite on the outskirts, and had a pretty little bit of garden in
front, and a long one behind.
Of course both Elsie and her brother missed the fields with their
wild-flowers, missed the golden furze and the yellow tasselled broom,
missed too the whisper of the wind in the dark waving pine-trees, the
croodle of the cushat, the mellow notes of the mavis, and plaintive
song of the blackbird; but Sandie told Elsie all these things would come
again when he got his church, which was bound to be in the country, and
in one of the most romantic parts of the country too. Meanwhile they
must live in hope.
You may be sure that Sandie had not been long at home ere he paid a
visit to the manse of Belhaven, and his friend Willie went with him.
Sandie would not--could not--go near Kilbuie; his grief was far too
recent.
He found Mackenzie not one whit altered. Maggie May came forward with a
smile and a bonnie blush to welcome Sandie back; but she gave him no
kiss. She was altered. She was a child no more.
But she paid him a compliment.
“How you have improved!” she said. “And how red and burned you are!”
That night, while discussing a delightful dinner, Sandie and Willie held
Mackenzie and Maggie May spellbound as they related all the adventures
of their perilous voyage.
Next day, by way of bringing back sweet memories of Auld Lang Syne, the
young folks went fishing and picnicking; and a very happy, pleasant day
they spent, bringing home, too, an excellent bag.
They stayed nearly a week at the manse, then, promising faithfully soon
to come again, they said “Adieu!” and shortly were back once more in the
Granite City.
I must not forget to mention that Sandie brought back with him from sea,
not only his dear friend Tyro, but that beautiful young red tabby cat,
and that they speedily made themselves perfectly at home at Kilbuie
Cottage.
During the summer that ensued, Sandie devoted much of his time to
coaching young students for the University. This was a kind of work that
was congenial to his tastes, and that really paid fairly well.
But when the winter session commenced, and he entered Divinity Hall, as
it is phrased, he threw up teaching. He was determined to do nothing now
to endanger his health.
Willie had entered a stockbroker’s office, so the two sincere friends
did not see quite so much of each other all the week. But there were
always the Saturday afternoons, and the Sundays to boot. Indeed, at such
times, if Willie was not at Kilbuie Cottage, it was because Sandie and
he both were at the Provost’s beautiful home in King Street.
And so the time passed by quickly and happily enough; this winter flew
away, and summer came again.
Then Sandie renewed his coaching.
“Monday is Bank holiday,” said Willie, one Saturday afternoon, as he
with Elsie and Sandie sat in the back summer-house, listening to the
sweet sad song of a merle perched upon a crimson-flowered May-tree.
“Yes, Sandie, Monday is Bank holiday, and do you know what I should
dearly like to do?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“Go to Mackenzie’s?”
“Ah! Sandie, Mackenzie’s is a good deal in your head.”
What made Sandie blush, I wonder, and slightly alter his position?
“No, my friend, I like Mackenzie’s very well indeed, but it is too far
away. Now what say you to a dogcart drive up to the Loch of Skene, and
dinner at the old-fashioned cosy inn of Straik?”
“Delightful!” said Sandie.
“Will you go?” said Willie, turning suddenly round to Elsie. “Mind,” he
added, “we don’t mean to go without you.”
“In which case,” replied Elsie, laughing, “I shall be your humble
servant.”
“No, Elsie, our sweet companion, the partner of our joys and sorrows,
our bites and nibbles. So it is arranged.”
Monday was a delightful summer’s day, with just enough breeze to cool
the air, and cause a ripple on the water.
How delicious it was to stop in the dark woods of Hazelhead, and hear
that same breeze sigh and whisper through the lofty pine-trees, and to
listen to the wild glad melody of the birds.
“Oh,” cried Sandie, who was ever romantic, “this is heavenly; does it
not put you in mind of that grand old Scotch song, ‘The bonnie woods o’
Craigielee’?”
“Everything puts you in mind of a song,” said Willie, “but sing it,
Sandie, sing it.”
“Help me, then.”
And sweetly in the morning air, in that dark wood, rose those tuneful
voices three.
I dare only give one verse.
“Far down thy dark green plantin’ shade
The cushat croodles am’rouslie,
The mavis in the buchtin’ glade
Mak’s echo ring frae tree to tree.
Thou bonnie wood o’ Craigielee,
Thou bonnie wood o’ Craigielee,
In thee I spent life’s early day,
An’ won my Mary’s heart in thee.”
The landlady of the little inn knew the young men, and was delighted to
see them. She promised, if they would leave the matter to her, to
provide a dinner, she felt sure, would not only please them, but the
winsome young lady too. And would they have the boy, their old guide? Of
course they would. Without him they could not be sure of anything like a
bag.
Well, the boy came, and he carried the luncheon that was to be eaten by
the burnside, and the bottle of delicious heather-ale.
It was, on the whole, a heavy burden, but this lad’s back seemed just
made for heavy burdens, tiny and all though he was.
The trout to-day were very kind, and even before luncheon-time they had
succeeded in making a fairly good bag.
After luncheon they completed their “take,” then spent the rest of their
time in wandering through the woods and fields, and by the Loch side,
collecting wild-flowers. Then back to the inn in good time for dinner.
The tablecloth was spotlessly white, the knives and forks shone like
silver, though they weren’t, and through the open window, as they dined,
blew the soft west wind, laden with the odour of roses. Roast duck and
tender green peas, what could be better, but the whole associations made
that dinner, simple though it was, far more delightful than if it had
been eaten in the banqueting hall of a palace.
Low over the greenery of the woods the sun was declining when, bidding
good-bye to the kindly landlady, they mounted once more and drove off.
But the gloaming star was shining sweet and clear long before they
reached once more the bonnie woods of Hazelhead.
CHAPTER X
_HOW IT ALL ENDED_
Ah! now my story draws to a close. I am very sorry because I have quite
enjoyed writing it.
The reader may never know how much of my own young life is depicted in
these pages. Many a time and often have I laughed as recollections of
schoolboy or student pranks have risen up before my mind’s eye, but more
than once as I wrote a mist bedimmed my sight, and something fell--it
might have been a tear.
Life, dear reader, is all like a dream; but we never realise this until
grey hairs appear around our temples, and there are silver threads in
the dark brown of our beards.
But come, I must pull myself up with a round turn, as we sailors say.
Moping never did any good in this world, that I am aware of; grief is
more ageing than time itself. There is nothing so healthful as
cheerfulness and good temper. “A merry heart goes all the day.” Let us
laugh, then. There isn’t the slightest fear of getting too fat. I don’t
believe in the silly old saying, “Laugh and grow fat.” I’ve been
laughing all my life, when I haven’t been whistling or humming a tune,
but I’m not fat yet, and what is more, I don’t want to be. But a merry
heart strengthens every muscle and organ in the body, and prevents
chilblains. A ridiculous thing to say, is it? Oh, perhaps, but it is
true. That disagreeable winter complaint belongs to the sad and the
phlegmatic morose sort of people. But a merry heart means a
well-balanced circulation, and so, if you want to be healthy, you’ve got
to cultivate cheerfulness.
All this is digression? Well, I don’t care, I shall do what I like in my
last chapter.
* * * * *
In course of years, Mrs. M‘Crae and Elsie both got to like the little
cottage. It was cosy and homely and snug. They had their regular
visitors, too, and never cared to add many to them.
When in harbour, both Captain D’Acre and his mate used to be constant
visitors, and the mate never failed to bring his fiddle. Then a regular
musical evening was sure to follow, much to Mrs. M‘Crae’s delight, for
she was passionately fond of melody.
Summer after summer, Sandie continued coaching his pupils, remunerating
to both teacher and students, and winter after winter he plodded back
and fore to the Divinity Hall. He was a pet student with all the
professors, because he was a very promising one. Whatever study he took
in hand, he went into thoroughly, and was not content until he had
mastered it. That is the sort of man Sandie was.
But the winters and the summers too wore away at last,--Sandie’s
divinity studies were over. He had passed every examination with honour,
and was now the Rev. Alexander M‘Crae, M.A.
What joy!
All his toils were over--so he thought; he would soon get a church--so
he believed; and he would take his mother away to his beautiful home in
the cool green country, far away from the madding crowd, from the bustle
and din, from the grime and the gride of city life. As hope told him
this flattering tale, he could not help repeating to himself those
charming lines of Horace, beginning
“Beatus ille qui preul negotiis,
* * * * *
Paterna rura bubus exercit suis
Solutus omni fenore,”
which may be paraphrased: “Happy is the man who, far from the busy
haunts of life, far from care and worry, ploughs with his own oxen the
paternal acres.”
But Sandie’s life while at the Divinity Hall had not been all bliss
unalloyed. There was one drawback to his happiness. Let me explain it,
if I can. Sandie, then, was constitutionally shy.
Now shyness is about the worst fault a public orator or preacher can
have, though I must not omit to mention that the cleverest men are
usually the shyest.
In the privacy of his own study, which was right away up at the top of
Kilbuie Cottage, an attic, in fact, Sandie, when all alone, could
declaim triumphantly, and many a rousing extempore sermon he here
preached. Again, he could preach a sermon anywhere, and with confidence,
if he had written it out beforehand, and might have the manuscript on
the pulpit desk in front of him. But well he knew that many old people
in country parishes had a decided objection to written sermons. They
liked their ministers to walk into the pulpit, to take a text, and trust
to the Spirit of God to give them language and words.
Now, after all, extempore preaching is merely a matter of habit and
experience.
Strangely enough, assistance came to Sandie from quite an unexpected
quarter.
It was while he was in his third year, that one Thursday evening he was
told by Elsie, who could hardly keep from smiling, that a lady and
gentleman wanted to see him on a matter of business.
“Where are they, Elsie?”
“In the drawing-room, Sandie.”
“Say, I’ll be down in a moment.”
He dashed his fingers through his hair, smoothed down his dark brown
beard, pulled up his collar, cleared his throat, and descended.
When he opened the drawing-room door, he was certainly somewhat
surprised and taken aback at the youth and diminutive stature of the
lady and gentleman. The boy was about eight, the girl barely ten.
But she opened negotiations with a promptitude that did her credit.
“Oh, if you please, Mr. M‘Crae, long, long ago when father first comed
to this country from the Norf, he builded a school, and every Sunday
night now there is preachin’ in the school, ’cause the people likes it,
an’ every Fursday night little wee Williamie Gordon here, my bludder,
and myse’f comes in to get a minister. But, oh, if you please, sir, we
can’t get one to-night, and oh, would you come?”
“And where is the school, my dear?”
“Oh, if you please, it is four miles from here at Bellfield. And you has
through the dark Hazelhead woods to go, where sometimes the robbers
kills folks. Williamie Gordon and I isn’t afraid, ’cause we is too small
to bother killing, and we have nothing to rob. But you wouldn’t be
afraid, ’cause you’s a big fine man, and could kill them back again.”
Sandie laughed at the droll conceit. But he promised he would come in
spite of the robbers. Then he rung the bell, and five minutes after that
the two children were doing justice to a hearty supper.
Then the wee toddlers started back on their long and dreary journey,
arriving home safe and sound.
After they had gone, Sandie went straight up-stairs, chose a text, and
never lifted his head from over his desk until he had written a good
long sermon.
With this in his pocket--as he thought--he started on the Sunday
afternoon for Bellfield school. His child friends were there to give him
a hearty welcome, and an invitation to supper after the sermon.
Every one was struck with the young man’s appearance and manner. He gave
out a psalm and conducted the singing. He prayed long and fervently.
Then he opened the Book, and after giving out his text, placed his hand
in his pocket to produce his manuscript.
It was gone!
His heart seemed to leap clean out of him; his head swam, and he almost
fell. Then he bent his brow reverently over the Bible and prayed for
strength.
Slowly and in short constrained sentences he began to speak, but he
gathered strength as he went on, he waxed eloquent, impassioned; he
could scarcely believe it was he himself who was talking.
And never, I ween, was sermon listened to with more marked and solemn
attention.
“Thank God,” said Sandie to himself when at last he closed the Book.
Sandie preached at this school every fortnight after this, but neither
here nor anywhere else did he ever again use a manuscript.
A letter came from Sandie’s friend Mackenzie a few weeks after he had
been ordained minister.
The clergyman of Drumlade, the very parish in which Sandie was born, and
in which stood the farm of Kilbuie, was very old and wanted a helper.
He (Mackenzie) had proposed Sandie. Would he come?
This was glorious news!
Sandie became such a favourite with the parishioners, that, six months
afterwards, when the poor old minister died, he received a universal and
unanimous call to take the office.
And so it came to pass that ere long our hero became minister of the
fine old parish of Drumlade.
The church itself was a large one, and stood on an eminence overlooking
a curve of the winding Don, and surrounded by its God’s acre of green,
green graves.
At a distance of about an eighth of a mile, and nestling near the
river-side, in a bosky dell, stood the fine old manse, with its rich old
walled gardens, its grass lawns and rose terraces, on one of which stood
an ancient dial-stone.
There was a wilderness of trees all about, bird-haunted trees. Surely
not a feathered songster that ever trilled a note in the far North that
did not sing in those copses and groves, while high aloft, in the
swaying pine-trees, lived hawk and crow and magpie.
All the place, in the sweet summer-time, was a poem, a romance, a dream.
Of course Kilbuie Cottage was now given up, and Sandie’s mother and
Elsie came to reside at the manse, and sit Sunday after Sunday in the
manse pew, near to the pulpit.
Sandie’s living was a good one, and there was, in addition to the
stipend, a large and rich farm of glebeland, which soon became the young
minister’s chief delight.
* * * * *
I must tell you something else, as long as I think of it. Jamie Duncan
had a rich uncle, who was good enough to shuffle off this mortal coil
for the benefit of Jamie. He left him quite a haul of money.
Then Jamie took Kilbuie farm and stocked it, and elevated Geordie
Black--the quondam orra man--to the proud position of first horseman,
and lived happy ever afterwards, so far as I know.
I did hear lately that Geordie Black had married Tibbie, but it may be
mere rumour.
* * * * *
One beautiful summer’s day Willie called at the manse. He had come to
stay for a whole fortnight.
And he meant to enjoy himself, so he said. Yes, Willie meant to enjoy
himself, and he did. But, going into her room one day, Sandie found his
mother sitting on the sofa weeping bitterly.
Somewhat alarmed, he seated himself beside her, and put an arm around
her waist in the old tender fashion.
“Mother, mother, what is the matter? You frighten me!”
“Oh,” she sobbed, “he--your friend Willie--is going to deprive me of--of
my child.”
More tears and sobbing.
“I am--going to lose my daughter.”
“Mother, mother,” pleaded Sandie, caressing her, “you must not give way
like this. It is nature--nay, more, marriage is Heaven’s ordination.”
She got quieter after a time, and even smiled through her tears.
“But,” she said, after a thoughtful pause, “I shall almost break my
heart to be deprived of my daughter.”
“Oh! no, you won’t, mother dear. Because, listen! I am going to bring
you home another daughter.”
Sandie got straight up now from his mother’s side and walked out.
Presently he returned, leading by the hand--why, whom do you think?
Bonnie blushing Maggie May.
“Mother, your daughter that is to be!”
Sandie’s mother opened her arms, and next moment Maggie May was nestling
on her breast.
And this is how it all ended, reader mine.
And surely we could hardly have wished it otherwise. Could we?
THE END.
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
_Edinburgh and London_
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FOOTNOTES:
[1] The blaeberry is the English hert.
[2] My English readers ought to know that a bursary is a kind of
scholarship, which not only entitles the holder to free education at
the University, but to a sum of money paid annually during the whole
four years’ curriculum.
[3] Now Sir W. D. Geddes of the Aberdeen University.
[4] Pronounced “shees.”
[5] This story is not imagination, but truth.
[6] A kind of floury Scotch roll.
[7] Dulse is an edible seaweed much used in the North, and pepper dulse
is a smaller seaweed with pleasant pungent flavour, that is eaten as a
relish along with it.
[8] “How do all these vessels become derelicts, because I thought a
ship was never deserted while she would float?”--“No. When a ship
has rolled her masts over the side, or gets leaking badly, or has a
heavy list, or from a thousand and one other causes gets dangerous,
her crew are frequently only too ready to leave her. There are some
notable cases, and only just within the last week or two the _Bahama_,
a fine large steel sailing vessel on her first voyage, was deserted in
the Atlantic, and was sighted afterwards in an apparently seaworthy
condition. But there is to be an inquiry into her case, so I will say
nothing more about her, except that she is not yet charted, and is
knocking about without lights, without foghorn, without anything--in
fact, a tremendous danger to navigation. Over and over again a crew
has left a ship when another crew from the relieving vessel has
stayed behind and brought the otherwise derelict safely into port.
Many of these derelicts, I should tell you, are waterlogged timber
ships; and it may interest you to learn, while I think of it, that
one of the United States vessels engaged in sinking derelicts is the
old _Kearsarge_, who fought and sunk the _Alabama_ in the English
Channel.”--_Pall-Mall Gazette._
Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber:
“your a thrifty lad."=> “you’re a thrifty lad.” {pg 218}
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "From ploughshare to pulpit : A tale of the battle of life" ***
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