Chapter Eight.
Rolf Morton’s Expedition—Watches the corvette—Hilda’s marriage discussed—The storm—A ship seen driving towards shore.
After Rolf Morton had left the “Saint Cecilia,” and was steering for Yell Sound, he recollected that a long time had passed since he had paid a visit to an old friend, who had been Captain Scarsdale’s first mate on several voyages, but who had now retired from sea life, and settled at Hillswick, in the southern part of that peculiarly shaped peninsula of Shetland, called North Maven. There were two ways of getting there. The most speedy was to haul up to the southward at once, and to steer for Saint Magnus’s Bay, so as to round the southern point of North Maven, called Esha Ness; but then, when he wished to return to Whalsey, he would have had to retrace his course along the whole western coast of the peninsula before he could enter Yell Sound. Should the weather continue fine, this would be of little consequence; but in bad weather the voyage would be one of great danger, as standing out as do its lofty cliffs, to brave the whole roll of the Western Ocean, on no part of the coast does the sea break with more terrific fury. The other course was to run up Yell Sound as he had intended; but, instead of passing through it, to land on the southern shore, in one of the many small voes or inlets, to be found there, so that a walk of a mile or so would enable him to reach the house of his friend Angus Maitland. Before determining what to do, he cast his eye seaward round the horizon. The low bank of clouds he there observed, just rising, as it were, out of the water, made him keep the boat on the course he had before been steering. Before many minutes had passed the increasing wind showed the wisdom of his determination. Away bounded the boat over the rising seas; but no sooner had she entered the Sound than she glided smoothly along over its calm water, and soon reached the point where Morton proposed landing. All the crew, however, had some excuse for visiting Hillswick. Angus Maitland’s abode was known for its hospitality, and no one ever came there who did not receive a hearty welcome, and the best accommodation he could afford, suited to their rank and position. The boat was left securely moored in a little voe, where not the fiercest of storms from without could reach her.
Honesty is a characteristic of the Shetlanders, and Morton and his crew knew well that should she by chance be discovered, not a rope-yarn would be taken away. A high heather-covered hill lay between the spot where they landed and Hillswick. Morton stopped when he reached the top, and took a glance along the whole western horizon, which lay open to view. The corvette was already hull down, standing on close-hauled to the southward of west, in which direction the bank of clouds he had before remarked had greatly increased in height and denseness.
“She is making a good offing, and the Spaniards will have reason enough to be glad they have done so,” observed Morton. “The squall brewing out there will be down upon them before long, hot and strong; but if they heave the ship to at once, it will have blown itself out before they have time to drift back near enough to our coast to come to any harm.”
The men assented to the correctness of Morton’s remark. Perhaps they did not as warmly wish for the safety of the corvette as he did. Formerly, probably, they would have prayed that Providence would mercifully drive her back, and wreck her in some convenient spot among the rocks, where, though the crew might be lost, whatever was of value in her might be cast on shore for the benefit of the people.
Angus Maitland spied Morton coming down the hill, and, his portly figure clad in a suit of grey shepherd’s plaid, and a stout stick in his hand, he sallied forth to meet him. His greeting was warm and hearty.
“Come along, Rolf—come along, man; now I’ve got you I’ll keep you,” he exclaimed, when Morton had told him how it was he had come to North Maven. “Your guid wife will spare ye for a day, and she’ll guess that you would not pass within hail of our shores without coming to see me.”
Morton, however, urged that Bertha was not aware that he had come round to the west coast; that she would be expecting him, and would be anxious if he did not appear.
“Stay, though,” exclaimed his host. “There is Sandy McNab will be crossing the mainland with his pack, and he will send over a message for you to Whalsey; there will be no lack of opportunities.”
Morton promised to stay away this night, should he be able to send a message to his wife, to the effect that he was doing so. Sandy McNab, the packman, was found on the point of starting, with his two half-starved shelties, scarcely the size of ordinary donkeys, but with wonderful strength of limb and power of endurance. He undertook that Morton’s note to his wife should be delivered without fail; and this matter being settled, Rolf, in no way loath, accepted his friend’s invitation. There was good cheer for all hands, though dried fish, oat-cakes, and whisky formed the staple articles of the feast.
Maitland of course wished to hear all about the extraordinary marriage of the heiress of Lunnasting with the Spanish captain, for strange stories had got about, and, as he observed, it was hard to know what to believe and what to discredit.
“There’s nothing so unnatural-like in the proceeding,” observed the old gentleman, after Rolf had given him a true, unvarnished account of the affair. “He’s a handsome gallant, and she’s a very fine lassie, there’s no denying that; but at the same time, God’s blessing does not alight on marriages contracted without the parent’s consent; and it’s my opinion that Miss Wardhill should have waited till Sir Marcus came home before entering into a contract.”
Rolf hinted that Sir Marcus’s whole conduct was not such as to secure the love and obedience of his daughter.
“That may be,” answered Maitland; “he might not have gained her love, but her obedience still was due to him. He left her, too, in charge of the castle, and now she has fled from her post like a deserter. Poor lassie, I would not be hard on her, though; and I doubt not by this time she is wishing herself on shore again, for the gallant ship she thought so brave must be pitching and rolling pretty heavily by this time.”
The friends were at supper, and while they were discussing their food and this same knotty subject, the loud barking of two Newfoundland dogs which roamed round the premises was heard, answered by the fierce growl of another of the canine race, which seemed to come from some little distance off.
“This is a late time o’ night for a visitor to come, but whoever he may be he is welcome,” said Maitland. “Here’s to you, Rolf; we’ll just finish this glass, that we may have a fresh brew of toddy for him when he comes.”
Again the deep bark and growl of the stranger’s dog was heard.
“There is but one creature in Shetland which barks like that,” observed Morton. “I should know his voice anywhere; it is Lawrence Brindister’s dog, Surly Grind. What can have brought him here?”
“He’ll answer for himself, for here he comes,” replied Maitland, looking out of the window, whence the person in question was seen approaching the house, mounted on the smallest and shaggiest of Shetland ponies, and his legs, encased in top-boots, almost dragging along the ground, though he managed, by a succession of sudden jerks, to lift them up so as to avoid the numerous inequalities of the way. His odd appearance was increased by his wearing a broad-brimmed hat and feather, and a long-waisted coat, part of an old court-suit. When he came to the door of the house, all he did was to stand upright, and to let his steed pass from under him. He threw the bridle to Surly Grind, who took it in his mouth, and lying down held it fast, the pony agreeing quietly in that novel mode of being tethered. Just as Captain Maitland had risen to receive him, he shuffled into the room, making a bow worthy of a Frenchman of the old school.
“Welcome to Hillswick, Mr Lawrence,” said Captain Maitland; “it is not often that we have had the pleasure of your company of late. Come, sit down and take your supper; it’s a long journey you have made to-day, and the air on the top of Ronas Hill is well calculated to give a man an appetite.”
“Not a bad notion, friend Maitland,” answered poor Lawrence. “By the same token, too, little Neogle and Surly Grind will be beholden to your hospitality, for it is but a small allowance of food they have had since we left Whalsey this morning. A bone for the dog, and a handful of meal for Neogle, is all I’ll ask. The pony will easily pick up enough by himself to finish his supper.”
Captain Maitland gave the necessary orders to an old man who acted as his servant-of-all-work, but Surly Grind would not be induced to let go the bridle, even though a savoury mess besides the bone was placed before his nose, till his master had called to him from the window and released him from his office. The pony, as soon as he had had his basin of brose, and his bridle and saddle were taken off him, trotted off to the plot of greenest grass in the neighbourhood.
“That is a curious name you have given your pony, Mr Lawrence,” observed Maitland, when his guest was comfortably seated at supper. “It is what would be called in Scotland a water kelpie. Is there anything of the nature of a Trow in your little animal?”
“More, perhaps, than you think of, friend,” answered Lawrence, gravely. “Neogle can do everything but speak; whatever I tell him he does it immediately. He follows me like my dog; he’ll step into my boat and lie down at the bottom of it, as readily as Surly Grind himself, or if I order him to swim astern, he jumps in forthwith; and if I was to take a cruise round the mainland, he would come after me as long as he had strength to swim.”
“He may do all that and not be a trow,” observed Morton, laughing; for he, as well as Captain Maitland, was anxious to prevent Lawrence’s thoughts running upon the recent events.
“Right, cousin Morton, right,” answered Lawrence. “I came honestly by him by purchase, and called him Neogle on account of his strength, and sagacity, and docility. The country people gave the name of the Neogle to a wicked sort of trow, whom they believe lives in the water, and whose great aim is to carry off people to destroy them. On that account he appears in the shape of a pretty pony, bridled and saddled, and all ready for a pleasant gallop across the country. He has a great fancy for carrying off millers. To do this he stops the wheel of the mill. That makes the miller come out of the house to learn what is the matter. On goes the mill once more, and when he looks about he sees the pony. If he is a young miller, and has not heard about the Neogle, or doesn’t believe in it, or forgets about it—‘Ho, ho!’ says he, ‘the mill is going on all smooth and pleasantly, so I’ll just take a gallop, and be back before it’s time to put in more grist.’ On that he leaps on the seeming pony, when off goes the trow, fleet as the winds. Away, away he goes. In vain the poor miller tries to throw himself off: a broken leg or an arm would be far, far better than the fate awaiting him. He is though, he finds, glued, as it were, to the saddle. On gallops the Neogle over hill and down, and bog, and loch, and stream, and voe; nothing stops him till the sea is reached, and then across it he flies till he is over the deep water, when down he dives in a mass of flame, with loud shrieks of mocking laughter, and never again is the poor miller heard of.”
“That’s a curious notion, Mr Lawrence,” observed Captain Maitland. “I never heard it before; but do you say the people believe in it?”
“Troth do I; and why should they not?” answered Lawrence, blinking his eyes. “There are many things which you have seen in your voyages, and which would seem very strange to our people, if you were to tell of them. As to the Neogle, I never saw one that I know of, but I should be very cautious about mounting him if I did.”
The evening was now drawing on, the storm which had for some time been threatening had nearly reached the island; vivid flashes of lightning darted from the sky, and loud thunder claps rolled almost overhead. A sharp neigh was heard, and Lawrence Brindister started up.
“Ah, Neogle is aware of what is coming, and has trotted up to ask for shelter,” he observed, going to the window. “You’ll let him have a corner in your stable, captain, I dare say?”
The request was at once complied with, and scarcely was the pony under shelter than down came the storm, the wind blowing furiously, with torrents of rain, while the lightning flashed faster and brighter, and the thunder broke in louder and more crashing peals. The rain kept the party close prisoners in the house till it was time for them to retire to bed. All night the storm raged. At an early hour Lawrence Brindister was on foot, the rain had ceased, but the wind blew as furiously as ever. Lawrence was seen to put on his boots, then hurrying to the stable he mounted Neogle, and followed by Surly Grind, he was trotting off, when Captain Maitland hailed him, and inquired where he was going.
“To Navie Grind, Captain,” was his answer. “I have a fancy for watching the sea breaking over those cliffs, as it will be doing this morning, and maybe I shall get a glimpse of the Spanish ship, for she is not so far off our shores as some of you may think, and as those on board would pray they might be.”
“Heaven forbid that the Spaniard, or any other craft, is near our cliffs at this time,” said Morton. “There are good seamen on board her, and she must have got a good offing before she met the gale.”
“Still, we’ll take a stroll across to Navie Grind, and have a look at the Western Ocean,” observed Maitland. “I love to watch it at all times, in storm or sunshine; but, as my days of romance are over, we’ll have breakfast first. Morton, you’ll agree to that? Mr Lawrence, you’ll join us? The sea will not go down before you have had time to break your fast, nor will, I trust, the Spanish ship heave in sight.”
Notwithstanding, however, all the hospitable old sailor’s persuasions, Lawrence would only be persuaded to take a handful of oatcake and a draught of milk; and then away he trotted on Neogle, followed by Surly Grind, towards the west. Morton and their host took their time in discussing a far more substantial breakfast, consisting of salted and dried haddocks, pickled pork, oaten cakes, and other substantial articles of food, sufficient to astonish a southern stomach. The captain then lighted his pipe, inviting Rolf to join him, and they smoked away in that deliberate manner which showed that they considered it a far pleasanter pastime than battling with the fierce gale outside. Captain Maitland at length shook the ashes out of his pipe, and was considering whether he should light another, when Lawrence Brindister’s voice was heard from below the window, shouting—
“The spirits of the storm have not failed in their duty; the proud Spaniards will meet with their deserts. I knew it would be so. Hurra! hurra! but I’m off again. I wouldn’t miss the sight to be made Earl of Zetland.”
The two friends hurried to the window, and inquired what was the matter.
“Matter!” exclaimed Lawrence. “Why, that the Spanish corvette is driving ashore, and that ere many minutes are over she and all on board will be hurled to destruction. I would save poor Hilda if I could, in spite of her pride and haughtiness, but that is beyond human power to accomplish.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Captain Maitland. “The poor young lady, we must at all events try to save her and those with her.”
“Are you certain, Mr Lawrence, that it is the Spanish ship you have seen?” shouted Morton; but he received no answer, for Lawrence had turned Neogle’s head, and was galloping off as hard as the little creature could lay hoof to the ground.
“Whether Spanish or any other ship, we’ll try what brave hearts and stout hands can do to help the unfortunates on board her,” said the fine old seaman, Captain Maitland, as he hurried out of the house. “Here, Sandy Neill, Davie Borthwick,—here, lads!” he shouted, and two stout seafaring-looking men employed on his farm came running up. “There’s a ship ashore, or likely soon to be, and you’ll be ready to follow me, not to wreck and to plunder, but to save life, if so we can.”
Both Sandy and Davie agreed to do whatever the captain wished, and Morton’s own crew were also quickly collected. Before setting out they provided themselves with such coils of rope and long spars as the captain’s store could provide. Morton and his friend, armed with stout sticks and coats buttoned up, followed by their men, set out with the fierce gale blowing in their teeth, on their errand of mercy.
Chapter Nine.
Navie Grind described—The Wreck on shore—The Ship Dashed to Pieces—The Rescued.
Navis Grind, or Navie Grind, the point towards which Morton and his friend directed their steps, is a high cliff forming the extreme western point of that part of Shetland called North Maven, and thus stands out prominently into the Atlantic Ocean, some way to the south of Ronas Hill. A short way off from it, due west, like the advanced sentry of an outpost, is the small rocky islet of Ossa Skerry, but this in no way breaks the force of the seas as they rush impetuously onward from far far away across the ocean. It seems, on the contrary, to have the effect of uniting the strength of two seas in one, and of impelling them with double vehemence against the bold cliff which confronts their fury. Solid as is the rock of which the cliff is composed, it has in the course of ages been rent away, quarried out as it were; huge blocks, many of several tons weight, being cast far away inland, while the whole ground, for two or three hundred yards from the edge of the cliff, is strewed with fragments of lesser size, so that the rocks present more the appearance of the ruins of some vast edifice, than, as they really are, masses hove there by the operation of one of nature’s most potent agents. At length the sea has worked a deep chasm in the cliff, and each successive storm seems to dig out and force upward a fresh layer of rock. As the party approached this spot, so wild and desolate at all times, but doubly so now, the seas, dark, towering, and topped with crests of foam, came rolling onward in quick succession, with a fierceness which seemed irresistible, till, meeting the cliff, they rushed upwards in dense masses, making the very ground shake with the concussion. Now a sea, fiercer than its forerunners, would tear away a huge fragment of rock, and throw it into the air as if it had been projected from the mouth of a volcano, or send it rolling along the down, making it dangerous to approach the spot; and, while dense sheets of spray obscured the view seaward, the great body of water was thrown back in a continuous cascade, increasing the tumult of the foaming caldron which raged below.
“It was near this wild place that Lawrence Brindister obtained that strange dog of his,” said Captain Maitland to Morton. “It was the only living creature washed ashore from the wreck of a large ship—a foreigner, we could not ascertain of what nation. While others were engaged in picking up the treasures they could find, he, at no little risk to his own life, assisted the poor animal, who was sadly battered by the fragments of wreck, and exhausted by swimming to land. The creature looked up into his face, licked his hand, and, from that moment, claimed him as his master, and would follow no one else. See, there he stands; I fear he is to-day in one of his maddest fits.”
The captain pointed, as he spoke, to the top of a high rocky mount which overlooked the sea. Lawrence Brindister, with his two dumb animals by his side, was there seen gesticulating wildly, waving his hand towards the ocean, and shouting apparently with his utmost strength. The roar of the waters, however, as they were hurled against the cliff, added to the howling of the tempest, created a noise so deafening that even the two seamen, accustomed even in the hurricane to make their voices heard, could with difficulty hear each other speak.
Their first glance, as they came in sight of the sea, was in search of the ship of which Lawrence had told them.
“Too true, there she is,” exclaimed Morton, while a sickening feeling came over his heart.
Morton and his friend lifted their glasses to their eyes mechanically, for they could scarcely have expected to have discovered more than their unaided sight would have told them.
“She is the Spanish corvette, there’s no doubt about it,” shouted Morton to his companion, who, however, could scarcely hear what else he said, as he added: “All the poor fellows on board can hope to do is to put off this fatal moment, though I doubt not they have some notion of making Yell Sound; but the sight of Ronas Hill must, if they look at their charts, show them that they cannot fail to drive on shore long before they could reach it.”
“Even now that ship might be saved, or, at all events, the lives of her people, if she had a pilot on board to carry her into Yell Sound,” shouted Captain Maitland. “What say you, Rolf?”
“That if mortal power could carry a man on board her, I would go,” answered Morton. “But what boat could live in such a sea as that?”
“If a boat built and manned by human hands can live in this sea, there is one this moment in Hamna Voe as well able to do so as any which floats on water,” answered Maitland. “Some of her crew may be at their hut even now, though the gale will have given those who live nearest a holiday, and they probably have gone to their houses.”
The voe alluded to was a small but deep one, forming a good harbour on the north side of Navie Grind. High rugged rocks formed the sides, but there was a pathway down them to the water. Towards the inner end there was a piece of level ground, sloping up from the beach; here the fishermen had built a shed, which served them as a dwelling during the fishing season. It was a long, low edifice, composed both of mud and blocks of rock, but chiefly of timber, fragments of wreck cast up on the beach. The doorway was the only aperture, and this served not only for the ingress and egress of the inhabitants, but to admit light, and to allow such part of the smoke from the fire in the centre as ever found its way into the open air to escape; a considerable portion, it appeared clinging to the walls and rafters, which were thoroughly blackened by it, giving it a somewhat gloomy aspect. On one side were piled up masts, and spars, and oars; and sails, and nets, and coils of rope were hung against the walls or on the beams overhead; while, on the other, were a row of bunks or standing bed places, formed out of fragments of wreck-wood. Three or four men, seated on casks or three-legged stools, were busily plying their netting-needles, while several others were fast asleep on the bunks. The pathway, down which Morton and his companions hurried, led close down to the shed. His announcement, as he entered, that there was a ship in sight, partly dismasted, made all hands, the sleepers as well as the workers, spring to their feet. They looked rather blank, however, when Captain Maitland, who entered directly after, added:
“Remember, lads, we must have none of the old customs of the island put in practice, understand that. We want to save the ship if we can, or the lives of those on board. Come, lads, they are fellow-creatures—seamen like ourselves, in distress. Where is the faint-hearted coward who would leave them to perish without lifting a hand to save them. Such a fellow is not to be found among Shetlanders, I hope.”
This appeal had an instant effect. When the men heard that Captain Maitland and Rolf Morton proposed going out in their boat to assist the disabled ship, they agreed to lend her, and to accompany them, the captain undertaking to make good any damage which might accrue, even to the loss of the boat herself.
The boat, the largest of the class used for fishing on that coast, pulled twelve oars, and, what with the men belonging to her, and those who had come from Hillswick, as fine a crew as ever manned a boat was collected. The oars and other gear being placed in her, the next thing to be done was to launch her; and while this operation was taking place, Morton and his friend ascended the cliff, to ascertain the position of the corvette, and what prospect there was of getting on board her. As they climbed up the path they observed that the wind had somewhat abated, and this gave them greater hopes of getting to sea. A moment’s glance, however, told them, when they reached the top of the cliff, that all hope of saving the ship must be abandoned. Perhaps the Spaniards, mistaking Saint Magnus’s Bay for the entrance of Yell Sound, she had been kept away and then hauled up again; but there she was drifting bodily down towards the terrific headland on which they stood.
Callous and cold-hearted indeed must be the man who can witness with indifference a scene such as that at which the two seamen now gazed—the proud ship, which but the day before had left the shore in such gallant trim, now shattered and crippled, struggling on amid the giant seas which were about, in a few short moments, to hurl her to destruction.
“Nothing can save her, I fear,” cried Morton, his generous heart wrung with sorrow.
“Nothing,” answered his older companion; “still, by the will of Providence, we may be able to save the lives of some of the people on board; but we must wait and see where she strikes: if we were to attempt to get out to her now we should only involve ourselves in her fate.”
“If she fails to weather Ossa Skerry she will drift right down on Navie Grind, and then Heaven have mercy on their souls, for no human being on board can escape,” said Captain Maitland. “A few minutes must settle the point.”
“Luff, luff all you can, men,” he exclaimed, as if those on board could hear him. Probably they had caught sight of the terrific sea breaking over the cliffs, and still hoped to weather the little island under their lee bow.
All this time Lawrence Brindister kept his post, with his pony and dog by his side, waving his arms towards the ship, and apparently shouting out as before.
“She will weather the Skerry even now,” cried Morton, but at that instant a squall—one of the last blasts of the tempest—struck her. Over went her mainmast, her head fell off from the sea, on she flew amid showers of foam, and in another minute she was hid to view by the rocky island before them. In vain they hoped against hope to see her appear on the other side. Her fate was indeed sealed. There was only one spot where even in moderate weather a landing could be without difficulty effected on Ossa Skerry. Still Morton and his friend resolved to attempt it. There was not a moment to be lost, already, probably, numbers of the hapless crew were being swept to destruction. They hurried down the cliff, sprang on board the boat, and shoved off. Morton steered: with rapid strokes they pulled down the remainder of the voe; even there heavy waves rolled in and showed the crew the sort of sea with which they would have to contend when they got outside. Few but Shetlanders would have attempted to face such a sea, and the finest of boats alone could have lived in it. They reached the mouth of the voe; their passage through the mouth was the first danger they had to encounter; a huge sea came thundering in.
“Back off all,” cried Morton; and instead of forcing the boat onward, she slowly receded before the wave, which broke in a loud crash directly before her, the foam flying over her bows and deluging her fore and aft. “Now, lads, give way,” shouted Morton again, and before the next sea broke, the boat had got into deep water. They now encountered the full force of the gale; and none but a boat admirably manned, as was theirs, could have made headway against it, nor could she have escaped being instantly swamped, unless steered with the greatest caution and judgment. Now she rose on the top of a sea surrounded with foam, now she plunged down into the trough, and those standing on the rocks, at the mouth of the voe, feared more than once that she had sunk for ever. Again she rose on the side of the opposite sea; the summit was reached; but once more she disappeared beyond it. At times it seemed as if scarcely any way was made, but still the bold seamen persevered; the lives of some of their fellow-creatures depended on their exertions—how many it was impossible to say, till they had ascertained where the ship had gone on shore. They knew that in all probability in a few minutes, even should the ship hold together, numbers must be swept off from the decks.
Morton’s object was to get sufficiently out to sea to ascertain the position of the ship. The rapid diminution of the strength of the wind enabled him to do this with greater ease than had at first appeared possible; still the sea came rolling in as fiercely as before, and rendered the greatest caution necessary to prevent the boat being swamped. At last they got sufficiently to the westward to look along the outer side of Ossa Skerry. No ship was to be seen. Had she foundered, or was it possible that in so short a time she had so completely gone to pieces that not a particle of the wreck was to be seen? If so, not a soul on board could have escaped.
“Poor girl!” thought Morton; “it will break the heart of Bertha Eswick to hear of it; and my wife, too—it will make her very sad.”
“We will pull out a little further, Rolf,” said Captain Maitland. “There is a little bay, or bight, nearly at the south-east of the rock—if the ship by chance drove in there we should not see her from hence.”
“Give way, lads!” shouted Morton, with hope revived by his friend’s remark.
In a short time they opened the little bay of which Captain Maitland spoke. There lay the ship almost broadside on with the shore, her stern apparently under an overhanging cliff, while her bow, over which the sea made a clean breach, seemed to hang on a rock, and was thus prevented from being driven further in. Her masts and bowsprit were gone by the board: and from the force with which the sea was breaking over her, it seemed scarcely possible that she could herself keep much longer together. An attempt to approach her from the seaside would have proved the destruction of the boat. The only chance of rendering assistance was to land on the east side of the island. Hitherto the boat’s head had been kept directly towards the seas as they came rolling in. It was far more dangerous work crossing them as they had now to do, to reach the inner side of the island. Often Morton and his friend watched the foaming masses of water, as they came roaring towards them, with no little anxiety; but by pulling round to face the larger ones, and by then rapidly giving way, the boat at length got under the lee of the islet. To obtain footing on the slippery rock was a work of considerable difficulty, and still greater was it to climb to the summit and to convey them the ropes and spars which they had brought with them. Some of the men remained to take care of the boat, for that alone was not an easy task, as had she been carried away by the sea, the whole party might have been starved before assistance could have come to them. The remainder proceeded, as rapidly as they could, across the island. With more anxiety than they had often felt, Morton and the captain hurried towards the edge of the cliff. Before even reaching it the appearance which the foaming water presented, even some way from the shore, told them too plainly the destruction which had already occurred; while the fearful shrieks, which even through the roar of the angry waters came up from below, warned them that every instant fresh victims were being added to those who had already fallen a sacrifice to the tempest.
Among fragments of masts, and spars, and planks, and other parts of the ship, were seen the forms of numerous human beings, some yet struggling, but struggling in vain, for life; others floating helplessly among the pieces of wreck, or clinging to them with a convulsive clutch, while many, already lifeless, were tossed to and fro in the boiling caldron, happier than those who were seen every now and then, as they were swept off, to throw up their arms, and then, with a fearful shriek of despair, to sink from sight.
On gaining the edge of the cliff, Morton and Captain Mainland threw themselves on the ground and looked over. The fore part of the vessel had already been knocked to pieces. A few men still clung to part of the bulwarks in the waist; but the sea was making a clean breach over it, and one by one they were torn from their treacherous hold and carried off by the waves. The only part of the wreck which yet afforded a precarious shelter was the poop. The mainmast, in falling, had been washed across it, and the end jamming against the cliff, it formed a breakwater, within which a group of people yet stood, almost paralysed with terror and despair, for the precipitous cliff above them afforded not the slightest prospect of escape, while the violent shaking of the wreck, and the rapid advances of the waves, showed them that in a few minutes even that uncertain foothold would be carried from beneath them.
Morton and his friend beckoned to their companions to bring on the ropes. It was the work of a few seconds to uncoil them and to make one end fast to the spars they had brought. These they fixed in the ground, two of them holding on at the same time to the upper part of the spars.
Not till all the preparations were made did Morton shout to those below to let them know that aid was at hand. In the centre of the group was a female form—that it was Hilda there could be little doubt. The rope was lowered with a pair of slings at the end of it. How anxiously did those both above and below watch its descent! The end dropped some way from the stern of the ship; it seemed a question whether it was within reach of those whose existence depended on clutching it. A seaman sprang towards it as it swung backwards and forwards in the gale, but he missed his aim, and fell headlong into the seething water, which soon silenced his death shriek. Another, an officer apparently, made the attempt; he had secured a line round his body, he clutched the rope and dragged it inboard. Even at that moment Spanish gallantry was maintained; no undue haste was shown by any to secure their own lives. The first care of the men was to secure Hilda in the slings; this was speedily done, but it was soon seen that if she was hauled up by herself she would run great risk of being thrown against the side of the cliff and severely injured. The officer who had hauled in the rope accordingly secured himself to it, and made a sign to those above to hoist away. The fearful rocking of the ship made them do this with all the speed of which they were capable. At any moment the ship might go to pieces; Morton stood nearest the edge. At length the head of Pedro Alvarez appeared, and while with one arm he kept the end of the rope from dashing against the cliff, with the other he supported the almost inanimate form of Hilda Wardhill. She was speedily released from the rope, which was again lowered, while Captain Maitland and one of the men carried her to a hollow in the downs, which afforded some shelter from the wind. The brave lieutenant made signs that he was going to descend again, but Morton, who saw that it would be useless, refused to allow him. The rope was lowered; “Haul away!” he shouted, and in a little time the priest, Father Mendez, appeared. He was unloosed also, more dead than alive; the rope was lowered, but scarcely had it reached the deck when a raging sea came roaring up—fearful shrieks were heard—the mast was torn away from its hold in the rock—a rush was made at the rope; one man grasped it, but others in their haste dragged him off, and the next instant the remainder of the wreck which hung together was dashed into numberless fragments, while all who had clung to it were hurled amidst them, one after the other rapidly disappearing beneath the foaming waters.
Morton and the Shetlanders looked anxiously over the cliff. It was too evident that not another human being had escaped from the wreck of the “Saint Cecilia.”
“There goes the brave ship, and there go my gallant captain and worthy comrades,” cried Pedro Alvarez, wringing his hands and pulling away at his moustachios in the excess of his grief, as he looked over the cliff and watched the utter destruction of the corvette. The priest, when he had sufficiently recovered to understand what had occurred, knelt down, and those who watched him supposed, as he lifted up his hands over the ocean, that he was uttering prayers for the souls of his departing shipmates. Meantime Captain Maitland was kneeling by the almost inanimate form of Hilda, and endeavouring by every means which his experience could suggest to restore her to consciousness. At length he was joined by Father Mendez. “Let her continue thus, kind sir,” he said. “It is better that she should not be aware of the calamity which has overtaken her.”
Morton also, followed by the Spanish lieutenant, came up. “We can render no further assistance to the crew of the unfortunate ship,” he observed; “not another person who was on board her remains alive but those we have here.”
With the most gentle care poor Hilda was conveyed to the boat, which pulled back towards Hamna Voe.
The priest shuddered as he saw the seas from which he had so lately escaped come rolling up on the boat’s quarter, but his compressed lips showed that he was resolved not to give way to his feelings in words. Sea followed sea in quick succession, and Morton’s utmost care was required to save the boat from being swamped. All breathed more freely when the entrance of the voe was safely reached. As they pulled up it, Morton heard some shouts. On raising his head, he saw Lawrence Brindister standing on a height overlooking the voe. He was whirling his arms wildly about as before, and peering down to ascertain who was in the boat. When he discovered a female, he apparently guessed that she was his cousin Hilda; and striking little Neogle, he turned the pony’s head, and rode off as fast as the creature could gallop. The boat continued her course to the head of the voe.
A rough litter being formed, Hilda was conveyed to Captain Maitland’s house; but as she continued plunged in a state of stupor, Father Mendez advised that she should at once be taken to her home. His advice seemed so judicious, that Morton offered to carry her there in his boat. Captain Maitland also expressed a wish to be of the party, and the next morning, accompanied by Pedro Alvarez and Father Mendez, they embarked for Lunnasting. The only person who appeared on the landing-place was Lawrence Brindister. He stood, hat in hand, with a mocking expression on his countenance, and he was beginning to address the party when his eye fell on Hilda. Her appearance seemed to touch his heart, for he said nothing, but, turning round, walked slowly back before them to the castle.
It is needless to describe the dismay and astonishment which poor Hilda’s return excited in the establishment. Lawrence had evidently in no way warned them of what had occurred. Bertha Eswick had need of all her self-possession and presence of mind to perform her duty. It was many days before Hilda returned to a state of consciousness! In the meantime, Father Mendez took up his abode in the castle; and, from the way in which Pedro Alvarez settled himself in his apartment, it looked as if he also intended to be a permanent guest at Lunnasting.
Chapter Ten.
Guests at the Castle—The Heir of Lunnasting—Lawrence Brindister’s Cave.
For a long time after Hilda’s return to Lunnasting, Bertha Eswick feared that the mind of her young mistress had gone for ever. All the aid which medical skill could afford appeared to be of no avail; the only person who had in the slightest degree the power of arousing her sufficiently to speak was Father Mendez—the means he employed no one could discover. He would sit with her in a turret chamber for hours together; and after several weeks had passed, she was heard talking fluently and rapidly with him; but as soon as she entered the hall, where she took her seat as usual, she relapsed into the most perfect silence. When, however, the priest addressed her, she answered him readily, though briefly, but seemed to be totally unconscious of the presence of any one else. The condition of the unfortunate lady was a sufficient reason for Father Mendez remaining at Lunnasting; indeed, he remarked that he should consider himself guilty of the greatest cruelty should he take his departure till the return of her father and sister. There was no one besides Hilda of sufficient authority in the castle to request him to go, so he remained on. No news had been received of Sir Marcus Wardhill and his daughter, and it was supposed that they were entirely ignorant of the strange occurrences which had taken place. Pedro Alvarez likewise continued to live on at the castle; when he had learned enough English to express himself, he offered several excellent reasons for remaining. In the first place, he said that Don Hernan had confided his wife to his charge, as with a prescience of what was to occur, just before the shipwreck; and that at that awful moment he had vowed to devote himself to her interests as long as his life should last. He also frankly confessed that he had no means of returning home; he had written to Spain for a remittance, as well as to announce the loss of the corvette, and till his cash arrived he could not go away, even if he wished to do so. Father Mendez also stated that it was the wish of his late captain’s widow that the lieutenant should continue a guest at the castle, as long as he found it convenient to remain.
Pedro Alvarez and Lawrence after a time became very great friends. They boated, and fished, and shot together; and Lawrence assisted him very much in learning English. When, however, the days grew shorter, and the nights longer and colder, he shrugged his shoulders, and complained that the time was very dull. He had, however, by his frank, open, and unpretending manners, and quiet habits, won very much upon the good opinion of Bertha Eswick, who declared that she would far rather have his society at the castle than that of Father Mendez, whose ways and notions she could by no means understand, although she owned that he spoke far better English, and that no fault could be found with the courtesy and gentleness of his manners. Neither of them gave any trouble. Father Mendez especially was satisfied with the simplest fare. Plain water formed his beverage, eggs and fish his principal food. Pedro Alvarez preferred as great a variety as he could get, and several times descended to the kitchen to instruct Moggie Druster, the cook, in the art of concocting dishes in the Spanish fashion, of which oil (and of that there was an ample supply in Shetland) formed one of the chief ingredients. He was made perfectly happy too with a package of tobacco, which Rolf Morton obtained for him from Lerwick, and which he employed his leisure moments in converting into cigarettes. Lawrence Brindister also still further added to his satisfaction, by putting into his hands five goodly volumes, on opening which he found to be Spanish; travels, histories, and a romance—subjects exactly suited to the worthy Pedro’s tastes. They were strangely battered, and stained as with salt water. How he had obtained them Lawrence would not say. The priest saw the books, but turned away from them with a disdainful glance, as if he could take no interest in subjects of a character so trivial. The contrast between the two strangers was very great. Pedro Alvarez was in figure more like an English sailor than a Spaniard. He was somewhat short, and broad-shouldered, and stout, with a frank, open, and ruddy, though sunburnt countenance; his large black sparkling eyes, beaming with good humour, spoke of the southern clime which gave him birth, as did his black curling moustache, and hair of the same hue. Father Mendez, on the other hand, was thin in the extreme, with sallow complexion, and sharp features, but his countenance showed that he possessed a peculiarly intelligent and acute intellect. It could not be said that there was anything unpleasing in the expression of his features; it was rather the total want of expression which they mechanically assumed when he was conversing, or when he was aware that he was observed, of which any one would complain. It was not a stolid look which he put on, but rather that of a person totally unconscious of what was passing around; indeed, so perfect was the composure of every muscle of his face, that it looked completely like a mask with a pair of bright eyes gleaming through it. Though he kept those eyes perfectly fixed, he had not succeeded in obscuring at pleasure their brightness. Nothing could surpass the subdued gentleness of the tone of voice in which he generally spoke, though he could at will raise it in a way to astonish his hearers.
The long winter of Shetland was passing slowly by, without any events of interest occurring in the neighbourhood of Lunnasting; the time was drawing on when it would be necessary for Rolf Morton to go south to look out for a ship, unless he would altogether give up his profession and chance of promotion; but he was naturally unwilling to leave home till his wife had made him a father, which she expected in a very short time to do. It was also generally understood that the unhappy Hilda would shortly become a mother, and already a very general feeling of compassion was expressed for the poor little fatherless babe which was about to be born. How would the poor lady get through her trials? Was she likely to live? If the child lived, would it be the heir of Lunnasting? Or should its father have been heir to estates, and a title in Spain, as it had been said he was, would it succeed instead of him?
These and numerous other questions of a similar character were asked over and over again, but were never satisfactorily answered. Letters had been received from Sir Marcus, but he fixed no time for his return home, and it was very evident from the tenor of his remarks that he believed everything was going on in his castle as he had left it. He might possibly have been rather astonished had he heard what had occurred. The truth was, that neither had his factor Sandy Redland, nor any one else, ventured to write to him, and very naturally Hilda had not done so; Sandy was a man who liked to live a peaceable life, and to have matters his own way, and he knew very well that, should Sir Marcus be hurried back, not only would all peace and quiet be banished from Lunnasting, but he would most certainly for the future have nothing whatever his own way. It is possible that Sir Marcus was not the only head of a family who might have cause to be astonished at the doings of his household during his absence. At length a packet of letters arrived from Spain. It contained some for Don Hernan, as well as for other deceased officers of the “Saint Cecilia;” one was for Pedro Alvarez, and several were addressed to Father Mendez, who likewise took possession of all the rest. The lieutenant read his despatch with a great deal of interest.
“And so our poor captain would have been a marquis,” he exclaimed to himself, “the Marquis de Medea, and owner of those magnificent estates. Well, truly he had something to live for, and yet he was cut off—while I who have not a peco beyond my pay, and little enough of that, have been allowed to remain in existence. I cannot understand these matters—it is very strange; still, I will not forget my vow. I promised that poor fellow to look after his widow, and if she has a son, I will, to the best of my humble power, see that his interests are not neglected. Now I wonder what information Father Mendez has received. He must have heard that Don Hernan, had he lived, would have succeeded to this title and these estates. The letters to the captain, which he has opened, cannot fail of speaking of the matter. Probably they are written expressly to give the information. I wonder, now, whether the father will say anything about it. Well, he does not love me, and I do not trust him, and I will watch him narrowly, and see if I cannot be as close as he can. Bah! if all men would be honest it would save a great deal of trouble. If Donna Hilda’s child should be a girl there will be very little for me to do in the affair; she cannot, I suspect, inherit either the title or estates. If the child is a boy he will be the rightful heir, there is no doubt about that; but then he will find a mortal enemy in Don Hernan’s cousin, Don Anibal Villavicencio, who will stir heaven and earth to keep the boy out of his rights; the moment he hears of Don Hernan’s death he will take possession of the property and assume the title. I must find out what tack Father Mendez is sailing on. Is he in the interest of the living marquis, or of the unborn baby? He is never happy unless he is playing some deep game or other. I suspect that he is waiting to see how things turn out. At all events, though he beats me hollow in an argument, I’ll try whether in a good cause I cannot outmanoeuvre him. He does not want for money, that I know. He has his belt stuffed full of gold pieces even now, so the want of means to go away does not keep him here. Why he does not offer some to me to get me away I do not know. Probably he looks on me as a rough, untutored sailor, and despises me too much to dread my interference with his plans. Perhaps he intends to buy me over, and to make use of me to aid him. He knows himself pretty well, and thinks all men are likewise rogues. He will be rather astonished if he finds that he has been outwitted by a straightforward, honest sailor.”
At length the event for some time looked for, both at the castle and the cottage, occurred. Bertha Morton presented her husband with a fine boy, and scarcely had the young gentleman—Ronald Morton he was to be called—given notice of his arrival in the world by a lusty fit of crying, and had been exhibited in due form to his father, than the wise woman who attended on such occasions was now moving in hot haste to the castle of Lunnasting, to afford her aid to Donna Hilda, who was, it is said, in sore pain and distress. Alas! she had no fond husband to cheer and console her; no one to whom she could show with pride and joy the little creature about to be born into the world. Bertha Eswick had expressed her hopes that the child would be a girl. A lassie, she observed, would be a comfort and a companion to the poor lady, who would herself be able to instruct her, and would ever keep her by her side; whereas a boy must be sent away to school, and would then have to go into the world, where he would again see little or nothing of his poor mother.
Father Mendez and Pedro Alvarez were walking up and down, but not together, on the sunny side of the court-yard. It was the only spot, they declared, in the whole island where they could be sheltered from the biting keenness of the wind, and feel any of the warmth to which they were accustomed in their own country. Both were anxious to hear whether a son or daughter was born to the lady of the mansion. Pedro Alvarez was certainly the least anxious.
While the two foreigners were thus engaged, Moggie Druster, the cook, put her head out of a window and shouted—
“It’s a braw laddie, sirs—a fine strapping bairn. It’s like to do weel, and so is it’s mother, poor lady.”
“A what do you say it is, Mistress Moggie?” asked Father Mendez.
“A braw laddie; a big bouncing boy, ye would ca’ him in English,” answered Moggie, with a slight touch of scorn in her tone.
“A boy!” exclaimed the priest and the lieutenant almost at the same moment.
The priest took several rapid turns up and down the courtyard with compressed lips and knitted brow, but said nothing.
“And how goes the poor lady?” inquired Pedro Alvarez. “And good Mistress Moggie,” he continued, going up to her and whispering, “I tell her that her husband’s warmest friend is ready and at hand to assist and comfort her, as far as he has the power.”
“Ay, that will I, Mr Pedro; ye are a kind-hearted gentleman, that ye are,” answered Moggie, whose heart the honest lieutenant had completely won, in return for the culinary instruction he had afforded her.
Poor Bertha Eswick was nearly worn to death from hurrying between her daughter’s cottage and the castle, though her young mistress required, and certainly obtained, by far the greatest share of her care. Healthy, however, as Bertha Morton had always appeared, soon after the birth of her child she caught a cold, and this produced an illness which made her mother and husband very anxious about her, and it became too evident, before long, to the anxious eyes of affection, that she held her life on a most precarious tenure. Hilda, on the contrary, seemed completely restored to health, both of body and mind. She had now a deeply interesting object in existence, and all her thoughts and attention were devoted to her infant.
Lawrence Brindister did not return to the castle till late in the day on which Hilda’s child was born. He received the announcement with a look of incredulity on his countenance.
“And so you tell me that an heir to Lunnasting is born,” he exclaimed to Bertha Eswick, whom he met as she was hurrying down for the first time from her mistress’s chamber. “Ha, ha, ha! how many heirs to Lunnasting are there, think ye? Never mind, good Bertha, ‘The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!’ Who is the prince, think ye, Bertha? Ye little ken, but I do; the fool knows more than the wise man, or the wise woman either ha, ha, ha!”
These remarks sorely puzzled Bertha Eswick, and made her think a great deal; she knew Lawrence Brindister thoroughly, and seldom failed to distinguish between the mere hallucinations which occasionally took possession of his mind, and the ideas which originated from facts. “If Marcus Wardhill is not the rightful possessor of Lunnasting, who can be the owner?” she asked herself, over and over again.
Several weeks passed by, and young Don Hernan, for so Hilda’s new-born babe was called, gave every promise of being a remarkably healthy and robust child. Father Mendez seemed deeply interested in it, and took every opportunity of watching its progress, and examining it to ascertain that it was a thoroughly well-made healthy child.
At length the father gave notice that he was going to Lerwick: he went, and some of the household declared that they breathed far more freely than they had done for a very long time. Pedro Alvarez walked about with a more self-confident air than usual, and Lawrence sang and laughed and rattled away as had been his custom in former days; even Hilda looked as if she had been relieved of an incubus which had depressed her spirits. She said nothing; she did not even mention the name of Father Mendez, but if by chance she heard it, she gave a slight shudder, while the frown which grew on her brow showed that whatever the influence he had gained over her, it was not of a nature to which she willingly submitted. He had announced that he should not be absent more than three or four days; but more than a week elapsed and he did not return. As no one wished him back, this caused more surprise than regret. Ten days, then a fortnight, passed by, and the priest did not appear. At last Pedro Alvarez whispered his suspicions to Lawrence Brindister that the reverend father had played them a slippery trick, and left Shetland altogether; this idea was found to be correct, when Sandy McNab, the pedlar and great news-monger of the district, paid his next visit to Whalsey. A foreigner who, though somewhat disguised, was recognised as the Spanish priest, Father Mendez, had been observed going on board a ship bound for the south, and he had not since then been seen in Lerwick. The lieutenant was more than usually agitated when he heard this. “There is some mischief brewing,” he observed, the first moment he found Lawrence alone. “You and I must try to fathom it, if we can. You can be secret, Mr Lawrence, and with such a man as that cunning priest to contend, with, we need all the caution we can exercise.”
“Mum’s the word with me,” answered Lawrence, looking very sagacious; “I love not the priest more than you do, for I believe he would not scruple to stick a dagger in the back of his brother if that brother stood in the way of any object he wished to attain. What he aims at I do not know: whether or not he wishes to advance the interests of Hilda’s child, is what I want to discover.”
Pedro shook his head. “Not he, Mr Lawrence,” he answered: “he cares not for the fatherless or the widow. I have watched him narrowly: his aim was to get Donna Hilda completely under his thumb, so that he might rule her and her child. While he thought that there was a prospect of success he remained on here, but when he at length discovered that he had totally failed, or that he could not depend for an instant on maintaining his influence, he at once altered his whole plan. You must understand that when we left Spain there were three persons in existence who would by law succeed to the title and estates of the Marquis of Medea before Don Hernan de Escalante. He often told me that he himself never expected to inherit the property, and that he must find some other means of improving his fortunes. It is my belief, however, that Father Mendez, by some of the wonderful means at his disposal, knew that these three persons would die before our return, and that he accompanied us for the very purpose of obtaining an influence over Don Hernan, that his order might thus benefit by the wealth which would be at his disposal. He knew Don Hernan sufficiently to believe that he should obtain that influence, and he probably would have succeeded. Now, however, he is playing another game; he can have no sure hold over a person of so uncertain a mind as Donna Hilda, and he has now returned to Spain that he may be able to make his bargain with Don Anibal Villavicencio, who has already succeeded to the property. Just consider the immense influence he will have over him when he is able to prove that there is an heir alive, who, if produced, will turn him out of the estates and title. What do you say to the question, Mr Lawrence? Do you think I am right in my suspicions?”
“Ay, that I do, most sagacious mariner,” answered Lawrence, who had really comprehended the tenor of these remarks; they were of course made in much more broken English than has been used. “The priest may be an honest priest, as he is undoubtedly a most polite gentleman; and his ways may be good ways, in his own sight, though they are not my ways; but that he is not labouring for the good of the poor little fatherless child up there, I am clearly of opinion.”
“So far we are agreed, my friend,” said the lieutenant; “but when the boy succeeds his grandfather, and becomes the owner of the property, he will be able with his own right arm, or rather with his well-filled purse, which is better than a strong arm to him, to establish his rights to his Spanish estates and proper rank.”
“Ah, there a fool may by chance know more than a wise man, friend Pedro,” observed Lawrence, rubbing the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Come along with me, most worthy lieutenant, and I will show you matters which will astonish you.”
Pedro Alvarez accepted the invitation, and the two oddly-matched friends set out together, towards the east end of the island. Lawrence turned several times to observe if they were watched, and then continued his course across heathery moorland, and valley, and swamp, as rapidly as before.
“I know this spot, surely,” observed Pedro Alvarez; “it is where the Catholic chapel stands.”
“The same, friend mariner,” answered Lawrence; “but we have nothing to do with the chapel just now: keep close at my heels, or rather step exactly where I step, or you may chance to have a tumble to the bottom of the cliff, with a broken neck as the consequence.”
Lawrence, as he spoke, reached the brow of the cliff; he slid over it, and dropped himself down on a narrow ledge which appeared to afford scarcely room for his feet to rest. He went on, leaning against the side of the cliff for a short distance, and then let himself down in the same manner that he had before done. The Spanish officer at first hesitated to follow, but a laugh from Lawrence made him ashamed of himself, and when he reached the first ledge, he perceived that there were rings let into the rock, and of the same colour, which made the operation less difficult than it had at first appeared. Three or four ledges were thus reached in succession, and then there was a very narrow winding path cut in the face of the cliff which led down to the very edge of the water. Before, however, Lawrence reached the bottom, he turned off along another ledge, when Pedro entirely lost sight of him.
Following in the same direction, however, he found himself in front of a cave; the entrance was so small, that at a distance it could scarcely be perceived, but on looking in he saw that it expanded into a chamber of considerable dimensions.
“Come in, friend mariner, and survey my marine abode,” exclaimed Lawrence from within.
A few rough steps enabled him to enter, and he discovered that the cave was not only large, but that it contained a bed and table, some stools and several chests, and casks, and bales, besides sails and coils of rope, and spars, and pieces of wreck; indeed, it had somewhat the appearance of a marine store, so various were the articles collected in it.
As he entered he was saluted by a low, fierce growl, and he saw in rather unpleasant proximity to his legs the savage jaws of Surly Grind, wide expanded in readiness to seize him. A word, however, from his master, sent him growling back to his couch at the further end of the cave.
“Never fear the dog; he is the guardian genius of the place, and is in duty bound to defend it against the approach of animated visitors,” said Lawrence. “But sit down, worthy mariner, and feel that you are in the abode of a friend; eatables we do not require, but I keep a store of some of the luxuries of life of which I know you will not refuse to partake.”
Saying this, he produced some pipes and tobacco, and a bottle of Schiedam, a case of which, he told his guest, had come on shore near his cave. Pedro partook of the latter very moderately, but he gladly replenished his own tobacco-pouch, as his own supply of the fragrant weed was running short. Lawrence then led him to the mouth of the cave.
“Mark the appearance of that line of broken water out there, which with its whirlpools and eddies comes sweeping round from the north and strikes the base of this point. Every object which once gets within its power is driven against this point. All these things which you see arranged round here have reached me in that way. What tales of shipwreck do they tell! Often, too, I fancy the waifs cast up come from far distant shores; strange, also, the water which rushes round the base of this rock is quite warm at times, and I could believe that it still retains the heat imparted to it by the sun of a southern clime. But all these things are useless to you, you will say, and so it may be; but these are the chests, and the bales, and the casks which Surly Grind and I, between us, have hauled on shore. That reminds me I promised to show you the contents of one of the chests; and here—,” (he opened a remarkably massive and well-made oaken sea-chest; the lid fitted so well, that although it had evidently been in the water for some time, none had found an entrance; Lawrence had contrived to force it open; lifting the lid, he took from it a tin case, and out of the case produced a document which he put into his companion’s hand). “Read that, and tell me what you think,” he said; and while Pedro opened the paper, and slowly perused it, he fixed his eyes earnestly on his countenance.
The Spaniard read on very slowly, and not without great difficulty.
“It is in English,” he said at length. “I cannot pretend to understand it all, but from what I do comprehend, I see that if I could fulfil my promise to my dead shipmate and captain, and see justice done to his widow and child, I have greater reason than ever for hurrying back to Spain to try and counteract the schemes of Father Mendez, and to oppose the Marquis Don Anibal Villavicencio, who will of course stir heaven and earth to maintain his position.”
“I thought as much,” said Lawrence; “you see that his friend here may have very little power to assist him in asserting his rights. Give me back the paper. I keep all my valuables in this cavern; there is no place so safe, for there is little chance of fire, and still less likely are thieves to break in and steal.”
Lawrence pointed to several other chests, but he seemed in no way disposed to exhibit any more of his treasures, whatever they were. The lieutenant, indeed, proposed returning forthwith to the castle. Lawrence having charged Surly Grind to keep strict watch and ward over his storehouse, they set off to return by the same way they had come.
Not long after this Pedro received the long-looked-for remittance from Spain, and prepared for his departure from Shetland. When he went to pay his adieus to Hilda, he dropped on one knee, and taking her hand, respectfully pressed it to his lips, while he silently repeated his oath, to exert himself to the utmost in the cause of her and her child. Accompanied by Lawrence, he then set off for Lerwick, whence he immediately embarked on board a vessel bound for London. He was much regretted by all the inhabitants of Lunnasting, but more especially by Hilda, who, although not aware of the extent of his devotion to her cause, felt that she had lost one of the few friends on whom she could depend for counsel and assistance.