I could sleep but little during that long and wearying night. Terrible thoughts haunted me--thoughts of my own peril and loneliness, thoughts of the dead men that I had seen. Before daybreak I was on deck, and in the dim light I noticed that the ice which had been so scattered over the sea for the past few days had almost disappeared.
At daylight, looking overboard at the hull of the dread ship alongside, I observed two things. The first was that we were drifting perceptibly southward; this was satisfactory. The second was that the larger vessel had sunk at least a couple of inches deeper in the water; this was alarming.
Now that it was daylight I was able to read the ship's name at her stern, though I had first to knock away a quantity of ice and snow from above the letters. I found that she was the Pilgrim of Bristol. I had before perceived that she was not a whaler, nor did she appear to have been fitted out for an Arctic voyage. I marvelled much what had brought her to these seas, and whither she had been bound, and what her cargo was.
More than all did I wonder what I was to do with her. Here was I, placed by strange circumstances in command of two vessels, a schooner and a barque, and without the power or skill to take either of them into port--not knowing, indeed, where a port could be found. Had Davie Flett, Peter, and Jerry still been with me on the Falcon, we might have taken the Pilgrim to Stromness; we might also have given to her crew, or what remained of them, the decent burial for which they had waited so long. But, as things stood, I should have been thankful if I could have simply foreseen the possibility of getting out of my position of difficulty, regardless of either vessel. The sight of those dead bodies on the Pilgrim had made me utterly downcast. Their terrible fate had suggested to me the uncertainty of my own.
When I had taken some breakfast, I again went aboard the Pilgrim. I discovered that her cargo consisted for the most part of sulphur. Now, sulphur I knew to be a product of Iceland, and I judged from this that the ship had touched at that northern island.
I went into the chart room. A couple of charts were spread out on a couch. One of them was a chart of the north of Scotland, including the Orkney and Shetland Islands; the second was a continuation of the first, and gave the whole coast of Iceland and the sea beyond as high as the seventy-seventh degree of north latitude. The ship's course was clearly traced upon the charts in lines of red ink, and, following it, I could see that the Pilgrim (sailing, I suppose, from Bristol or some other English port) had rounded Cape Wrath and gone in at Kirkwall, in the Orkneys; thence the course was continued in a regular zigzag northward to a port on the north of Iceland, and then due east, as though she had been making for Scandinavia. But here the line became broken and irregular, and swept round suddenly to the far northwest, as though the vessel had been carried away by some adverse current or contrary wind away into the Arctic seas.
Here, then, I had a rough sort of explanation of the Pilgrim's voyage.
I was leaving the captain's room, taking the charts with me, when, on giving a last look round, I noticed a sleeping berth curtained off by a plaid shawl. I drew the curtain aside, and saw something sparkling. It was a beautiful diamond ring that encircled one of the fingers of a man's thin white hand. The hand was clasped over some small object that I did not see. Turning down a heavy fur rug that covered the man's dead body I noticed that his clothing, his appearance generally, were not those of a seaman. He had a long, silky, brown beard, and a very handsome face, which, however, was marred by an ugly scar on the brow. I judged him to be about thirty-five years old. Lying on his breast was a thick notebook, which, on opening the pages, I found to be filled with writing in a foreign language.
Turning from the bed place I was again attracted by the man's sparkling ring. I gently opened the hand and drew the ring from the thin finger, and as I did so a small gold locket dropped from the hand. It contained the painted portrait of a very beautiful girl with fair hair and fine blue eyes. I looked in strange admiration at the face. It had probably been the last object the dead man had seen. With a feeling of reverence I put the locket back into his hand. But with feelings that were less reverent I placed the diamond ring on my own finger, and took possession of the notebook. These, with the charts and the log book of the man in the after cabin, I carried on board the Falcon.
That afternoon I chanced to look overboard at the Pilgrim's waterline. She had sunk at least three more inches. I felt that, whatever happened to myself and the schooner, the Pilgrim at least would never again reach port, and I determined to save from the vessel what articles might be of use to me in case I should be able to return to land. I therefore went on board again and took possession of the ship's papers, some firearms and cabin furniture, a number of English books, and a small chest that I found in the captain's room.
The wind had fallen almost to a dead calm very soon after I had come alongside the Pilgrim, and I had thus been able to keep the two vessels together without any difficulty. But that afternoon as I sat before my fire reading a book on navigation--that part of it relating to the art of taking an observation on the sun, moon, and stars--the schooner listed over to larboard, as though the wind had caught her sails. I rushed up on deck and found that a strong breeze was blowing from the northwest, and was filling the sails of both vessels. The Pilgrim, indeed, was sailing with considerable speed, dragging the schooner along with her.
I ran forward and cast off the rope that held us together. Not too soon, for the barque was leaning over on her port side and visibly settling down.
As speedily as I could I trimmed the schooner's sails and got her free. She took the wind bravely, and I left the Pilgrim to leeward. I watched her struggling on the gradually rising waves as she tossed about aimlessly for the space of about half an hour. Then I saw her bows dip deep into the water and her stern rise high, while, with a heavy plunge and a surging sound that came to me like a melancholy groan, she disappeared, carrying her lifeless crew with her to that tomb for which they had waited so long.
The favourable breeze from the northwest continued with little variation for several days after the foundering of the Pilgrim, and I kept the schooner on the one tack, sailing before the wind, with the tiller often tied up for many hours together without my needing to touch it. I contrived, after many failures, to take an observation on the second day, for the sky was then clear, and I had all the necessary appliances excepting only the skill to use the quadrant with a seaman's confidence. I made out that I was to the northwest of the Faroe Islands, and I made no doubt that I should sight one of that group in the course of that same day or the day after.
But such was not to be my good luck. For eight full days and nights I kept on the same course, with a dull, leaden sky above and a mist creeping over the sea, and never a bit of land could I discover, nor any light, whether of beacon or of ship.
On the twelfth day after the sinking of the Pilgrim, however, I saw, to my great joy, a strip of land on the southeastern horizon. I had not the slightest notion whether it belonged to the Faroe or to the Shetland islands, but I fancied it might be the latter. It was a small island with a high rocky coast, and a vast number of sea fowl flying about and above it.
I was some six miles from the island when I noticed a brown-sailed fishing smack bearing out towards me. As the boat came near enough I hailed it. Two men were aboard, and they answered me in good Orkney dialect. They dropped alongside of the Falcon, and I threw them a rope's end.
My first question was to ask them the name of this island. What joy it was to me to hear once more a human voice, to see a fresh and rosy face!
"It's the Fair Isle," said one of them. "We thought you was lost. Where have you been, my lad, all this while past since Davie Flett fell owerboard?"
"What!" I asked, "did Davie come ashore?"
"Ay, did he," said the fisherman; "he was picked up by his own boat, and they brought him ashore here the next morning. We sent three luggers out to seek you yourself, when we heard that you were aboard the Falcon alone, but they could find you nowhere."
The men brought their boat astern and came aboard. I asked them further about Captain Flett, and learned that he, with the mate and Jerry, had only the evening before gone back to Orkney in a Kirkwall fishing sloop.
The two Fair Islanders then helped me to take the Falcon into their small landlocked haven, where, having supplied the good people with an abundance of provisions, I engaged the services of three fishermen to help me with the schooner back to Stromness, and on the morning following we set sail.
It was well that I got this timely assistance, and that I was not suffered to remain any longer alone on the Falcon, for on leaving Fair Isle we encountered boisterous weather. For two days we were tossed about on the great, white-crested waves of the open sea, and frequent showers of hail and sleet added to our discomfort. The storm abated somewhat as the rocky shores of Pomona hove in sight, and soon the familiar bay of Skaill and the cliffs of my native parish seaboard showed me that the voyage was approaching a welcome end.
It was evening when the schooner passed abreast of the rocks of Yeskenaby, and now I watched eagerly for the light in the windows of Lyndardy farm. As I looked landward, however, I observed something through the growing darkness that excited considerable wonder in my mind. Low down in the North Gaulton cliffs I noticed a peculiar hazy light. Presently it grew brighter and developed into a flickering flame and then disappeared. The light was not seen by any of my crew; but from its position I judged that it proceeded from a torch which someone was using in that cave in the cliff wherein Thora and I had met with our adventure some weeks before.
When I went ashore at Stromness I found that Captain Flett, who had landed in Orkney three or four days before me, had not yet come over from Kirkwall; so next morning I paid off my three Fair Islanders, who went over by land to Kirkwall, intending to return to their home by the sloop that had brought my skipper and shipmates.
I saw the schooner safely moored in the bay, with her cabin door locked and her hatchway closed, and then went up home to Lyndardy. My mother and Jessie had already heard that the Falcon had come into the harbour; they gave me a very warm welcome from this my first voyage, and listened with interest and surprise to the things I had to tell them.
On my way through the town the following morning I chanced to meet my old schoolmaster, who walked along with me as far as the quay. He had two things that he wished to tell me: the one being that his written account of Jarl Haffling's remains had been read before the Society of Antiquaries in Edinburgh, and was to be printed in the Society's Transactions; the other matter being that proceedings were, he believed, very soon to be taken against Tom Kinlay for having appropriated a part of the viking's treasure.
When we had spoken of these matters, there was much for me to tell the dominie; but as it was too cold for us to stand on the quay, I took him with me aboard the schooner, where I had some advice to ask him regarding my course in reporting the loss of the Pilgrim to the underwriters. Seated in the cabin I told him my adventure, and showed him all the books and papers I had taken from the barque before she went down. He gave me what simple instruction I required, and offered to help me in preparing my report for Lloyd's agent. With this purpose in view I permitted Mr. Drever to take the log book ashore with him, as well as the little chest that I had taken from the captain's room on board the Pilgrim.
I was pushing off from the pier, having put the dominie ashore, when I heard myself called, and there, at the head of the piers stood my skipper, Davie Flett, newly arrived from Kirkwall. How thankful I was to see his familiar stumpy figure again I need not say.
He was coming down towards me when Carver Kinlay accosted him, and kept him in conversation. But I approached the two men, taking Flett by the hand.
He gave little notice to me beyond a very ordinary greeting; but I saw by his eyes that he was glad enough to see me, only that he probably had some business to talk over with the pilot. I stood by them, wishing they would be done.
"And how's business in the islands, Davie?" said Kinlay in an offhand tone.
"Fairly weel! fairly weel!" said the captain. "Nothing to complain o', ye ken."
"Ay, I see!" said Carver; "no sae weel but ye might do better, eh? I'm thinkin', Davie, ye need to open up a new line o' business among the crofters."
"Ah! and what business is that, pilot?" asked Flett.
"Oh, I dinna just ken that, but ye canna aye sail on the same tack. Now, supposin', for instance, ye were to start something in the liquor line. Ye have grand facilities for that, have ye not?"
"I'll not deny that I have the facilities," observed Flett, with a curious twinkle in his eye. "But ye see, pilot, there's no demand for liquor in the islands. What for would I tak' spirits to the crofters when the poor folk canna more than pay for their bannocks?"
"Why, man alive, ye can surely make a demand? Just carry a good supply of spirits in yer schooner, and I warrant ye'll do a grand trade."
"Ye're maybe no far wrang there," said Davie thoughtfully. "But then, there's another difficulty, pilot; where will the spirits come from?"
"Why, man," said Kinlay, lowering his voice, "that's just the simplest part o' the whole business. Think ye that no whisky comes into Stromness forbye what gangs to Oliver Gray's? Why, man, if it came to that, I could undertake to supply ye mysel' on the most easy terms."
"Ay, like enough," returned Flett, with a look in his face that Carver did not observe. "Like enough--excise paid, of course?"
"Oh! we needna say anything about the excise, Davie," said the pilot, looking uneasy. "What does't matter about the excise?"
Davie Flett quietly stroked his bristly chin, saying:
"Weel, Carver Kinlay, it's the first time I have heard of a pilot having a hand in that business. But, no doubt, a pilot has grand facilities. However that may be, I'm not sure that the Orkney crofters would welcome such a new line of business. Anyway, I have more respect for the crofters and for their poor families than to think of starting such a damnable traffic; nor am I in the least disposed to turn a schooner of mine into a floating grog shop. Good morning, pilot!"
Kinlay winced visibly under this taunting speech of the trading captain. Evidently he had mistaken his man in supposing that Flett would descend to his own level, and aid in promoting the nefarious traffic he suggested. Davie Flett's intimate knowledge of the Orcadians, and the nature of his commerce with them, would certainly have made it easy for him to do a considerable retail trade. But, as I well knew, the skipper of the Falcon had systematically avoided including spirits in his stock of marketable commodities. Though himself no enemy to an occasional dram on a cold night, he knew too well the evil effects that would probably follow the introduction of strong drink among the innocent islanders, who, for the most part, had the greatest difficulty in gaining a simple livelihood. Even apart from his moral scruples, Davie Flett had excellent reasons for rejecting Kinlay's singular proposal.
One thing that I gathered from this conversation was the suspicion that Carver, who had often posed as a very innocent man, was, either directly or indirectly, in league with the smugglers of Scapa Flow. That could be the only way in which he could obtain spirits or other illicit goods at a lower rate than through the ordinary channels of commerce; and the pilot's evasion of the question regarding excise almost confirmed my suspicions.
Kinlay walked slowly away, and when he had disappeared, Davie Flett turned round to me with open arms as though he would embrace me.
"Halcro, my lad," said he, "I am real glad to see you. Thank the Lord ye're safe!"
"I might say the same to you, captain," said I. "How were ye rescued, and where are Peter and Jerry?"
"Peter and Jerry are at Oliver Gray's," he answered. "Come, let us join them. As for mysel', why, there's nothing much to tell. I was picked up by the boat ten minutes after I dropped owerboard. We searched about for you all night. But ye mind what a mist was ower the sea. It was no wonder we lost sight of the schooner. But ye're safe, and that's a blessing."
The skipper then began to ask me a multitude of questions concerning the behaviour of the schooner. But we were now passing through the narrow street and I was interrupted; for we overtook old Colin Lothian, the wandering beggar, who was trudging along over the frost-covered stones with his dog at his heels.
"Weel, Colin, auld crony," exclaimed the skipper as we came alongside the old man, "you're aye travelling. Think you we're to have some more snow?"
"Nay, captain, I dinna think it; the wind's ower high for that," the wanderer replied, looking up at the dull sky above Gray's signboard.
"Then if it isna snow it'll be a night o' hard frost," said the skipper. "Will ye come in and take something to warm ye, Colin?"
And Colin silently complied.
Entering the inn we found a goodly number of men gathered round the cosy stove with steaming glasses before them. Most of them were men of Pomona; but I noticed also a young man who sat somewhat apart from the rest, and in him, despite the absence of naval uniform, I had little difficulty in recognizing Lieutenant Fox of the Clasper, who had boarded the Falcon some weeks before in the Sound of Hoxa.
Then, too, there were Peter and Jerry, both of whom welcomed me with many words of kindness, and made room for me beside them.
Captain Flett ordered Oliver to bring in a glass of hot rum for himself, and two mugs of coffee for Lothian and me; and we had not been seated long before Peter Brown inquired of me the particulars of my solitary voyage in the Falcon. At first very few of the men paid much attention to my narrative, but when I came to the discovery of the ship that had been imprisoned in the ice, and told about the man I saw through the porthole, they all drew their chairs nearer to me and listened with rapt attention. When I spoke about the dead captain's wife, and said that her features were still lifelike, there was a murmur of incredulity; none of the men would believe that I was not romancing. But the young lieutenant here interposed.
"Let the lad go on with his yarn," he said. "Believe me it's quite possible that the woman's face should show no signs of death. I have known frost and ice preserve a dead body for many months."
With that they were quieted. But again, when I spoke of the log book and said that the ship had been enclosed in the ice for thirteen years, even the lieutenant seemed to disbelieve me.
"Thirteen years!" he exclaimed. "Come now, come, draw it mild, my lad, that won't do at all, you've mistaken the writing somehow. Show us the log book and then we'll believe it."
"I'm sure I did not mistake, sir," I protested, "for the writing was as plain as plain could be,
"'New Year's Day, 1831. The ice still closing in on us. Opened last bag of biscuits. Murray died this morning.'
"These were the very words, and I'll show you them if--"
Here I felt a trembling hand clasped on my knee, and Peter asked excitedly, "What name did you say? Was it Murray?"
"Murray! yes, that was the man who died on New Year's Day."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter. "Tell me, what was the name of the ship? Did you not find that out?"
"Why, yes, Peter, I saw her name. She was called the Pilgrim--of Bristol."
Peter became excited, and a strange pallor came over his face.
"Why, what's come ower you, Peter?" asked Captain Flett. "D'ye know the craft?"
"Know her!" said Peter; "I should think I did. She was my own ship. I sailed in the Pilgrim as second mate for three years, and I started with her on that same last voyage."
It was now my turn to show surprise.
"Your ship, Peter!" I said.
"Yes," he continued. "We sailed out of Bristol in the month of February, 1830, bound for Copenhagen, calling at Iceland. But off the Lewis--or was it Cape Wrath?--I had some o' my bones broken, and they put me ashore at Kirkwall."
"Yes, she called at Kirkwall," I said. "I saw that on the chart."
"That was just before I joined the Falcon, captain," continued Peter, turning to Flett. "I mind them all, those dead folk, even to the dog that Ericson has told us about--a retriever named Bounce. Our skipper was a Dane named Thomassen, and his wife sailed with us that voyage. She was as fine a woman as ever I see in Denmark. Murray was the first mate, and the man Ericson saw through the porthole can have been none other than Jenkins, the supercargo; he belonged to Bristol. The only thing that puzzles me is the man that Ericson saw lying in the captain's room."
"Maybe he went aboard in Iceland, Peter--a passenger," suggested Flett. "Ye canna tell."
"Ay, that'll just be it," mused Peter, "a passenger, no doubt. Ay, I well believe that will just be what he was."
Lieutenant Fox at this point moved away from the circle to get a light for his pipe at the stove. He stood behind us listening to a conversation between Colin Lothian and Jack Paterson; and as Peter Brown lapsed into silent meditation I diverted my own attention to what Colin and Jack were saying.
"Ay, Colin, but that's news," said Paterson. "And so Harry Ewan has fallen into their hands at last, eh!"
"Ay, just that," said Lothian. "I was over at Clestron yestreen, and they were telling me that just as Harry was slipping round into the Bay of Houton, thinking, no doubt, that everything was clear for the landin' o' his cargo, the revenue boat came out from behind the Holm, like a hawk on a ferret. Ye may be sure, Jack, that Harry and his crew didna give in without a fight for it; but the navy lads had the upper hand at last, and, what was more to their purpose, they found in Ewan's lugger five gallant casks o' whisky, not to speak o' half a dozen rolls o' tobacco, and I dinna ken how muckle salt and candles."
Lothian had raised his voice, and several of the men had moved closer to him to hear the particulars of this raid upon one of the known smugglers of Scapa Flow. So much, indeed, was the general attention occupied that none of the men seemed to regard the entrance of yet another person into the inn parlour. This was none other than Tom Kinlay, who, with his great boots and pea jacket on and his sou'wester hat, looked as big a man as any of them.
For a moment he hesitated, on seeing the young naval officer, but, emboldened by Mr. Fox's disguised appearance, he took up a position where he could hear all that was being said.
"I canna think what had put the revenue men on the track o' the smugglers," a fisherman was saying. "Surely if any man carried the game on secretly it was Harry Ewan."
"What's to hinder them finding out?" said Jack Paterson. "Why, I ken'd it lang syne, though it isna ony business o' mine to ken."
"Ah!" put in Lothian, with the air of one who was well acquainted with the subject, "it's not the most cautious that are least suspected o' breakin' the law. Now, I ken a man that not one here would suspect, an' he has been carryin' on the business underhand this many a day. But tak' my word for it, the fox has his eye on him for all that, and it isna long before he'll be dropped on the same as Harry Ewan."
Lieutenant Fox stepped a little nearer to the speakers.
"Oho!" exclaimed Jack Paterson; "and who may that be now, Colin?"
"Weel," replied the wanderer, "it isna for me just to say, though I wouldna lift a hand to save ony smuggling rogue. But I ken o' a fine hole in the face o' the clifts o' Gaulton, that would suit a smuggler grandly for stowing away a few casks o' whisky in. Sandy Ericson was another that ken'd it. But Sandy was an honest man."
"What!" said Paterson; "d'ye mean the cave that Sandy found Carver Kinlay in, after the wreck o' the Undine?"
"Ay," said Colin.
"Then Kinlay kens o' the cave?" continued Jack.
"Doubtless," said Colin.
David Flett raised his eyebrows at this, and I thought of his conversation with the pilot.
"It's no' possible that Carver has ony hand in the smuggling, is it, Colin?" he observed.
"Weel, captain, I wonldna like to assert publicly that Carver is a smuggler himself," said Colin; "but I shouldna be surprised though it turn out as I suspect."
"It's a lie ye tell!" furiously exclaimed Tom Kinlay, suddenly revealing himself, and shaking his fist in Lothian's face. "It's a lie ye tell, ye drivelling auld idiot! And if ye canna prove what ye say, maybe ye'll deny it?"
Colin Lothian stood up and said coolly:
"Now just hold yer tongue, Kinlay. I ken mair then I hae said. And as to denyin' it, that I willna do. Nay, threaten as ye will, I carena. What I say is perfectly true. Carver Kinlay's a smuggler!"
Tom Kinlay bit the stem of his clay pipe so hard that it broke in his mouth, so great was his rage. Then, as though words of denial were of no use, he took to the more cowardly argument of violence, and, hissing the words, "Ye auld liar, take that," raised his hand, and struck a blow at Colin Lothian's face.
But Jack Paterson knocked up the lad's arm, and caught Tom round the waist, dragging him forcibly away.
"What! ye young scamp, would ye strike an auld man?" he said.
And he raised Tom Kinlay in his strong arms high in air, and almost threw him out at the open door.
"That was smartly done, my man," said Lieutenant Fox. "I wish we had a few such fellows as you aboard the Clasper."
And thus revealing himself, the officer finished his drink and leisurely left us.
"Who's that chap just gone out?" asked Paterson.
"It's Lieutenant Fox of the Clasper," I said.
"If that be so, then," said Colin, "it seems to me he has gone away wiser than he came."
"Ay," said Paterson; "it's no use wonderin' how the revenue lads get to ken about the smugglers, if that be the way they set about it."
Shortly afterwards we went aboard the Falcon, and the rest of the day was spent in cleaning up after the voyage, and in balancing our accounts. In this latter occupation I think my assistance was not without value to Davie Flett, whose system of bookkeeping was original and peculiar, involving a large use of hieroglyphics, which were not always clear even to the skipper himself.
That evening when I tramped over the moor to Lyndardy the snow fell heavily--a driving, drifting snow that penetrated into every cranny it had access to, and collected in deep wreaths on meadow and moor. The cold wind blew hard from the north, carrying the fine snow past me in great clouds that curled and swept along the hard ground, forming in some places high barriers that were almost impassable, in other places leaving the ground perfectly bare.
All through that night the snow fell unceasingly, and the drifts grew deeper and deeper in the hollows.
At bedtime, after our chapter from the Bible had been read, my mother barred the door, and said:
"Let us be thankful, bairns, that we are all at home this night. I couldna sleep in my bed if I thought there was kith or kin o' mine outside on such a night o' blind drift. It's just terrible."
And I think we all slept the more comfortably, feeling that we knew of no one who was suffering in the storm.
Some hours before daylight, while I lay dreaming in my cosy box bed, I was awakened by hearing a rapping noise. I listened, fancying it was but the noise of some rat behind the wainscot that had come for shelter into the warm house; but the loud knocking came again. I hurriedly drew on some clothes and opened the outer door. A wild gust of wind and snow swished in upon me, and in the deep snow outside there stood a woman holding a lighted lantern.
"Please d'ye ken anything about Thora Kinlay?" said she; and I recognized Ann, the servant woman of Crua Breck.
"Anything about Thora?" I asked, surprised at the inquiry. "Why, Ann, what's gone wrong wi' her?"
"We're feared she's lost," said the woman. "She went outby in the forenoon, and she hasna come back yet."
"Did she not say where she was going to?" I asked.
"No; and we've heard nothing o' her. We canna think what can hae come ower her."
"But where are Carver and Tom, and the boat's crew?" I asked. "Have they not been out seeking for the lass?"
"No; they're all away in the St. Magnus; and the mistress is ill in her bed. The shepherd and me has been seekin' Thora all the night, and I've come to Lyndardy, thinkin' ye might hae seen her yestreen."
"No; I havena seen Thora these nine or ten weeks past," I said. "But if she be out in this storm she must be looked for; so bide here a wee, Ann, and I'll come out and help ye."
I thereupon hastened within for my sea boots and oilskins. I had next to procure a lantern from the byre; and this was somewhat difficult, for the snow had drifted in a high bank against the door, and I had to remove it before I could effect an entrance. Lighting the lantern, and taking down my long staff, I noticed that my climbing lines had been taken from the peg where they usually hung. My gun, too, was amissing. No one but myself had any use for either the ropes or the gun, and I thought it curious that they were removed; but at the moment I did not concern myself about so apparently trivial a circumstance.
I soon rejoined the woman, and with her I made diligent search for Thora. Backward and forward we tramped for many weary miles in the wind and snow. We went by every road and footpath that we knew, yet not even a footmark but our own could we find.
I questioned Ann and the shepherd, who had joined us, as to where they had searched before I came out. The shepherd had been to a cottage where lived an old woman named Mary Firth, but Mary was not at home, and there was no one in the cottage--no trace of Thora.
"Has either o' ye been across at Jack Paterson's croft?" I then asked.
"No," said the shepherd.
"Weel, then, that's the only place she can have been to, that I can think of. So you two had better get back to Crua Breck and wait till daylight. I'll gang to Jack Paterson's, and if they ken nothing of Thora there, we can only wait till the morning."
The two returned to the farm, therefore, and I tramped through the storm to the croft of Clouston, past the ghostly standing stones of the Druids, and along the dreary, snow-covered road.
The cottage was in darkness, with a great drift of snow against the door. I knocked with my stick several times, and presently I heard Jack Paterson's gruff voice demanding who was there.
"It's me, Halcro Ericson. Open the door, Jack."
"Save us all!" he exclaimed, raising the bolt. "What brings ye out on a night like this, lad? Come inside."
"No; I'm seeking for Thora Kinlay; d'ye ken anything about her; she's lost!"
"Lost! No; I ken nothing o' her. But wait and I'll see the bairns."
He returned to the door in a few minutes.
"Hilda says that Thora was here yestreen," he said. "But she went away to Crua Breck when the snow came on so bad."
I was dismayed at his answer, for it seemed to prove to me that Thora was really lost in the snow.
Paterson offered to continue the search with me, but I advised him to dress and go to Stromness, and make inquiries in the town, while I left him and returned to Lyndardy, always searching for footprints on the snow.
At dawn I resumed the search with my sister Jessie. We first went to Crua Breck to make sure that Thora had not yet returned. We heard that Mrs. Kinlay was very ill now, and that Ann could not leave her.
We returned by the top of the cliffs, where the snow was shallow, but nothing rewarded our search until we got as far as North Gaulton, where we observed what appeared to be footprints crossing our path. They were indistinct, for the wind had disturbed the snow; but they were indeed footprints, and we followed them. They led us to the brink of the cliff, to the very spot where Thora and I had, many weeks before, gone over to descend to the cave.
"Somebody has gone over here, Hal," said Jessie. "Look down on that jag of rock, there is the mark of a rope!"
And at once I remembered about the disappearance of my climbing lines. I looked to where Jessie pointed, and sure enough there were the marks of a rope, where it had disturbed the snow and grazed against the frosted stone. There was no rope hanging there, but I well knew that it could have been removed from below by means of a few dexterous jerks and twitches.
I reasoned with myself upon what I saw, and I considered that the person who had gone down the cliff could be none other than Thora, for I believed that none but she knew of that way down to the cave. Only she and Tom Kinlay knew that I kept my climbing ropes in the byre; but Tom had, as Ann told me, gone out in the St. Magnus. Only Thora could have taken them, then.
What her possible reason for going down to the cave might be, I did not pause to reflect, further than surmising the probability of her having had some quarrel with her father, and of her having run away from Crua Breck as she had once threatened to do. But why do this on such a night of storm?
The first thing to be done was to ascertain beyond doubt if Thora was now in the cave. Had it been expedient, I would at once have gone over the cliff, notwithstanding its frozen condition. Unfortunately, however, I had no other good rope than the one that had been taken away. An old one I had which was neither long enough nor strong enough for the purpose; but even this might be of service, I thought. We went back to the farm, and Jessie helped me to lengthen the rope by joining to it several shorter pieces. Then, judging that Thora, if she were in the cavern, would be suffering from want of food, we got a small basket and stored it with tempting eatables--some newly-made scones, two hard-boiled eggs, and a closed flagon filled with hot tea. Thus prepared we went together through the snow to the cliff.
Whilst I was tying the rope to the handle of our basket, Jessie gathered some stones and threw them down the precipice to attract Thora's attention to the mouth of the cave. I stood out on the brink of the cliff above the cavern and allowed the line to slip through my fingers as though I were "heaving the lead," until the basket touched upon the rock at the entrance to the cave.
For several minutes we waited for some sign that the food was accepted. Twice the line was drawn up a little, and the weight of the basket was still felt. I called for more stones to throw down, at the same time kicking a loose piece of rock well out, so that it fell with a loud splash into the deep water. Jessie went about picking up stones from among the snow, when suddenly an exclamation escaped her.
"Eh, Hal!" said she; "why here's your magic stone!"
"Impossible!" I exclaimed, unable to believe her.
"I tell you it is, indeed!" she protested; and she brought the stone to me, holding it in the palm of her hand.
I at once recognized the viking's talisman. And now I felt sure that Thora was in the cave, and that she had probably dropped the stone by some accident before going over the brink of the cliff, for it was at the very edge that Jessie found it.
When I tried the rope again, I felt that the basket was being held. Then the line was drawn further down, and again set loose, and I drew it up. The basket had been emptied.
In the afternoon, as the snow had abated, I went out, though without stating my intention, and returned to the top of the cliff, determined upon making the descent to the cave and hearing from Thora her reason for this strange freak of hers, before venturing to inform them at Crua Breck that I had discovered the girl's hiding place. The danger of a descent was very great, for the face of the rocks was in parts coated with frozen snow, and I knew that besides the difficulty of climbing with cold hands there was the possibility of slipping upon the icy surface of the ledges. But now I had my viking stone to protect me, and with less hesitation than the occasion warranted I proceeded to climb down the precipice, and was fortunate enough to reach the bottom without accident.
Lighting a small lantern I had brought, I walked into the cavern, thinking it strange that I saw no trace of Thora at the entrance, for I had made noise enough to attract her. Yet I noticed the flagon that had held the warm tea we had sent down in the morning lying empty on a flat stone. I continued my way further into the cavern, watching the play of light upon the huge stalactites that hung from the roof. At last I came to the stream in which Thora had so nearly lost her life. It was swollen, and rushed past with great force. At one point a kind of bridge had been formed by a couple of wooden planks that had been thrown across. Over this bridge I crossed, turning my lantern to right and left, anxiously looking for Thora, whom I also called by name. Beyond the little bridge I was sensible of a strong spirituous smell, and this became still stronger as I advanced, until, when I held my light towards a side chamber of the cave I discerned a large number of small kegs.
At once I thought of what Colin Lothian had said the day before in Gray's Inn about smuggled whisky. Here, then, I had discovered the secret store of some unlawful trader. But my surprise at this soon abated in my anxiety to find Thora. I was continuing my way yet further when my foot touched something strange. I turned my light upon it, and there, lying before me, was the sleeping form, not of Thora, but of Tom Kinlay.
I stood for some moments transfixed with surprise at seeing Tom Kinlay in this situation. He was lying with his head and shoulders upon a square box and snoring loudly. Behind him were piled up many kegs, which I doubted not were filled with contraband spirits. As I reasoned on all this I surmised that Tom was there probably by the directions of his father, whom, after what I had heard and seen, I could not but associate with the smugglers.
I now, for the first time, saw also some shade of reason for the enmity that had existed between Carver and my father. At the time of the wreck of the Undine, years before, when he was stranded in the cavern, Carver had no doubt seen the convenience of the place for smuggling purposes. The cave was commodious, and the fact that its situation was little known among the natives gave it the additional advantage of secrecy.
I could not tell whether Kinlay had carried on his illicit traffic whilst my father was alive, but I guessed that this was so; and believing that my father was the only man who knew his secret, I saw reason sufficient for enmity. My father's death had removed the one great obstacle in the way of Carver's carrying on the smuggling unsuspected. It had also enabled him to become a pilot--a position which gave unusual opportunity to a man so unscrupulous. As pilot he was able to board any vessel that entered the Orcadian waters, and in the case of ships which came over from the Continent or from the north of Scotland with contraband goods, a transfer of cargo could be boldly effected without exciting suspicion. And here in the cave I saw before me a part of the smuggler's store.
Having explored the cavern by the light of my lantern, I was forced to believe that Thora was not there. I returned once more to the kegs of spirits before departing.
Tom was still sound asleep. Approaching him, I turned the light upon him and knelt down, shielding the light from his closed eyes.
Suddenly I was alarmed by hearing the noise of voices at the outer part of the cave--the voices of many men. I blew out the light of my lantern, rose to my feet, and slipped into the shadow to watch, for I did not doubt that these were the smugglers.
I had not stood there very long before I observed a flickering of lights, and the sound of men's feet and voices came nearer and nearer. Then I saw the lights of two lanterns, and distinguished the figures of five men. Their sea jackets were powdered with snow.
"Now, lads," said a hoarse voice that I recognized as Carver Kinlay's, "look smart. Get as many as ye can into the boat, then roll the others into the water."
His eyes rested upon the sleeping form of his son.
"Hullo!" he cried, "why, here is the young devil after all!"
Then, crossing the plank bridge, he gave Tom a heavy kick in the ribs, and placed his lantern on the top of one of the casks.
Tom awoke with a start, and I saw him tremble as in fear. His face was ghastly white.
"Where have ye been all night?" growled his father, without waiting for an answer; "hurry along here and help to get these kegs into the boat."
Young Kinlay rose and staggered after the men. Evidently he had broached one of the whisky kegs.
I drew closer within the shadow of the rock and watched the proceedings. The smugglers carried away one by one as many of the spirit kegs as I believed might lie in the bottom of the St. Magnus. This was done in a great hurry as though much depended upon getting the things cleared away, and Carver was for ever urging his men to "hurry up!"
Then they all set to work, and rolled what remained of the casks into the stream, until, after about an hour's time, there was left no trace of the smuggler's store, excepting only the square box that Tom had slept upon.
Carver Kinlay knelt down beside this chest and unlocked it. He turned over many bundles of papers, and I saw him take out what appeared to be a roll of bank notes and thrust them into his breast pocket. He paused suddenly in his work at the hurried return of his men, and grasped at the box like a miser suddenly surprised.
"The hounds are on us!" exclaimed one excitedly. "They have taken the boat!" And almost immediately there was a tramp of feet coming up the cavern, and a blaze of light from several torches shining on drawn cutlasses.
Kinlay turned with the fury of a wild animal that finds itself trapped, and stood at bay before a company of blue jackets, who were headed by the young officer I had twice before met, Lieutenant Fox of the revenue cutter Clasper.
"In the Queen's name, I arrest you, Carver Kinlay!" said the officer in a firm, loud voice.
"Not so easily," said Kinlay, who was evidently determined not to surrender himself without resistance; and planting one foot firmly on the little bridge which spanned the stream, he drew a large revolver and pointed it full at the lieutenant's head.
Standing very near to him, in a dark crevice at his right hand, I saw the movement. I saw Carver's eyes flash in the torchlight, and just as the click of the trigger sounded I sprang quickly forward and knocked the man's hand upward. The shot rattled among the stalactites of the roof, and the report filled the cavern with deafening noise.
Kinlay was utterly taken aback by what happened, and as the weapon fell from his hand and dropped into the deep water, he turned instinctively to see who had attacked him. Two of the cutter's men thereupon crossed the planks and encountered him on the large flat rock whence the casks had been taken, while I made my way past them.
I was walking coolly over the little bridge, with my extinguished lantern in my hand, when the lieutenant stepped forward and took me by the collar.
"Aha, youngster!" he exclaimed, "I've seen you before. You've done me a good turn, but I must take you nevertheless."
And he retained his hold of my jacket, giving directions to his men the while.
I made a gentle protest, showing no resistance, and stood by the officer, looking excitedly at the scuffle that ensued between the smugglers and the revenue men. Tom Kinlay had already been seized and dragged off to the cutter's boat. One of the smugglers had retreated to the inner recesses of the cave, taking refuge in the darkness, and the three others were having a severe fight with the sailors, using large knives in their defence.
Two of them were speedily overpowered, one of them receiving a serious wound in his side, the other a great cut across his cheek. They were both taken to the boat, and there kept under strict guard. The third man managed to get over to Kinlay.
Carver, on losing his pistol, had taken out his sheath knife, and armed with this he fought with furious determination, standing with his back against a wall of rock. One of his antagonists, in trying to lay hold of his hand, was badly cut, and the other disabled by a blow in the face. But when Carver was joined by his comrade there was a rush of the cutter's men across the bridge, and the smugglers were finally conquered.
They had yet to be brought over to the outer side of the stream, however, and this was a work of no small difficulty. A couple of the sailors walked over the narrow planks, one before and one behind their prisoner, who made an unsuccessful attempt to break loose.
Then Carver was brought to the bridge in a similar manner; and he also attempted to escape by making a spring forward when he reached the middle of the planks. His captors, however, were ready for him. The man behind him had held his two hands, and when by main force he got his right hand free, the sailor held with such a tight grip to the other that Carver was pulled round and he overbalanced himself.
A stiff struggle for mastery then took place. Kinlay was the stronger man, and with his free hand he dealt the sailor a hard blow on the chest. The sailor staggered and fell across the narrow planks, but still holding Kinlay's left hand he pulled the pilot smuggler down with him. The sailor let his hand go free. Then Kinlay tripped, and, uttering a wild yell, fell headlong into the rushing stream.
The lieutenant, seeing what had happened, loosened his grasp of my collar and hurried over to his men to try to save Carver from the dreadful current. One of the wooden planks was thrown into the water for him to take hold of, but Carver must have failed in his attempt to reach it. One of the cutter's men ran to the mouth of the cave and brought back with him a long rope--my own climbing rope--which he had seen lying on the rocks: this also was too late, for Carver was already carried off by the swift stream, no doubt to be taken over into that gulf where Thora had so nearly lost her life.
There now remained only one other of the smugglers to be captured, and he was ultimately discovered crouching like a terrified dog in a dark corner. Before the revenue men left, however, they made a careful search of the cavern; but they brought nothing down to the boat excepting the wooden box that Kinlay had been searching in when he was surprised by the arrival of the blue jackets.
When this excitement was over, and the lieutenant had ordered his men to return to their boat, I was wondering what their movements would be in regard to myself. Would they leave me to climb the cliff and go home, or would they take me round to Stromness?
I was not left long in doubt. Two of the sailors, still with drawn cutlasses, took me into the bow of the longboat and placed me there beside Tom Kinlay and the other prisoners, and bound me to them with my own rope. Then the lieutenant took his seat in the stern sheets, his men plied their oars, and we were taken out to the cutter, which lay anchored a few fathoms out from the rocks.
We were all taken aboard of her. Her white canvas was hoisted and her anchor weighed, and soon we were speeding blithely along in the direction of Stromness, with the St. Magnus towed astern.
When we were well under weigh, and I had done admiring the cutter's trim fittings and the smartness of her men, I turned to consider the condition of my unfortunate companions. Two of them were badly wounded, and they were ordered to be taken below to have their wounds dressed, whilst the others were now being placed in irons. They were bound hand and foot to a gun carriage.
Tom Kinlay, who was beside me under the starboard bulwarks, watched the men with consternation in his face. He was evidently very much afraid. I saw him put his hand to his breast as though he felt there for something. I thought he was searching for some weapon; but whatever it was he did not find it. He opened his coat and still searched.
"Hang it!" he exclaimed, "I must have lost it;" and then he looked at me accusingly.
Somehow I thought just then of my viking's stone that I had recovered so strangely, and as I took it from my pocket and assured myself that it was all safe, I began to wonder how it had come to be left there at the top of the cliff. How had Thora allowed it to go out of her keeping? And Thora, where now was she?
Suddenly I felt a warm breath on my face. I turned and saw Tom Kinlay glaring at me.
"Ah! it is you," he exclaimed; "you've stolen it from me!"
And he made a grab at the stone, which fell from my hand upon the deck, for the string had been taken from it, and I had consequently not been able to hang it round my neck. We both scrambled upon the deck, each eager to secure the talisman. But I managed to push Kinlay away, and picking up the stone I put it safely in my breast pocket just as two of the cutter's men came towards us.
"Now, then, youngster," said one of them, taking Tom by the shoulder, "it's your turn now, my lad;" and he proceeded to adjust a pair of handcuffs upon Tom's wrists.
At the same time the other sailor came to me and was in the act of binding me in a similar manner when Lieutenant Fox came forward from the after deck.
"Hold hard, Gillions!" he said. "This youngster needn't be treated like the others, I think. Leave him to me;" and addressing me he asked, "What is your name, my lad?"
"Halcro Ericson, sir," I replied.
"Well, Ericson, tell me, how came you to be mixed up in this affair? I thought I saw you on board that coasting schooner, the Falcon, the other night. Have you turned smuggler since then?"
"No, sir; I was in the cave for something else. I was down seeking for Thora."
"For Thora? What's that--some sort of birds?"
"Birds! No; for the lass that was lost in the snow yestreen."
"Queer place to look for a lass, that, I must say! But how did you get there if you did not go round with Kinlay?"
"I climbed down the cliff, sir."
"Come, come, none of your nonsense!" said the officer. "Don't tell me you climbed down that cliff. I know it's impossible."
"It's not impossible," I rejoined, "for I have climbed it many a time before."
"Well, it's to be hoped the girl was worth risking your neck for. However, as you did not find her after all, you deserve to get off, to look for her in a more likely place."
Then turning to the seaman he said:
"Off with the irons, Gillions, and put the youngster ashore when the anchor's down."
"Ay, ay, sir!" said Gillions.
Accordingly I was set free; and seeing my rope lying on the deck I coiled it up ready to take ashore with me, taking it aft to the gangway.
We were by this time abreast of the Ness and entering Stromness Bay. Notwithstanding the continued falling of snow, several boats put out from the jetties of the harbour when the Clasper was seen sailing in with her prize; and as the chains, rattled over her bow and she came to an anchorage close inshore, she was surrounded by inquiring fisher folk.
In one of the first boats that came alongside sat Bailie Duke wrapped in a great gray plaid. He hailed one of the petty officers of the cutter, and Mr. Fox came forward and asked him aboard.
"What's all this about?" said Mr. Duke, addressing the lieutenant as he stepped on the deck. "I see ye've made a prisoner of our pilot."
"I've made prisoner of a smuggler, sir, pilot or not pilot," said Mr. Fox.
"But on whose authority have you taken the St. Magnus? Do you not know that she is our pilot boat?" asked the bailie.
"On the highest authority, Mr. Duke--the Queen's," replied the lieutenant. "If Kinlay was your pilot, then all the greater was his offence. His men must suffer the penalty for their crime, and I suppose the port must just appoint another pilot, that's all."
"His men must suffer, you say?" said Mr. Duke, not understanding. "Then you do not accuse Carver Kinlay himself of smuggling?"
"I should certainly have done that, Mr. Duke; but Carver Kinlay, unfortunately, is dead."
"Carver Kinlay dead!" exclaimed the bailie.
"Yes; he lost his life just now in the Gaulton Cave, where we discovered him and his crew in the act of carrying off contraband spirits.
"I suppose," the officer continued, "we can send the prisoners ashore to your jail, sir?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Duke; "we've plenty of room there: send them ashore. But they will be tried at Kirkwall, not here, you know."
"I know," returned the officer; "but you see the roads are blocked with this snow. There's no getting to Kirkwall except by sea, and I have another little affair of this sort on hand tonight."
Bailie Duke was naturally inquisitive, and at the mention of this other "little affair" he pricked up his ears.
The lieutenant drew him to the other side of the deck, and they both remained there in earnest conversation. Mr. Duke had his back towards me. He had not observed me as yet. But the cutter's boat was being got out to take me ashore, and as I was anxious to hear from him whether Thora had been found, I walked across and waited until he should turn round. As I stood there I heard my own name mentioned.
"Oh, it's just as clear as daylight!" said the magistrate, in reply to a question from Mr. Fox. "I have traced it all out. There is little doubt that it was young Halcro Ericson that did it."
"Halcro Ericson! What! the boy Halcro Ericson?" exclaimed the lieutenant with undisguised surprise. "Why, then, that accounts for our finding him hiding in the cave! I would never have thought it."
"What!" said the bailie. "You don't mean you have got the lad?"
"Yes, I do, sir; that is if you have no other natives with the same outlandish name. He's on board, I assure you. Ay, and here he is."
The officer turned round towards me where I stood with my lantern in one hand, and the coil of rope over my shoulder.
Bailie Duke looked at me with a frown on his brow, and his eyes were steadily fixed upon my face, which could only have reflected the innocence of my heart.
"I cannot believe it," he said in an undertone; "and yet the thing's so clear."
Then he laid a hand sternly on my shoulder, and said, "Ericson, my lad, I'm really sorry; but, you see, there's no use evadin' the hand o' the law, and I must make you my prisoner."
"Your prisoner, Mr. Duke! But you cannot think that I have anything to do with the smuggling?"
"Smuggling!" said he. "I said nothing about smuggling. With that I have no business. No, it's not the smuggling, it's the murder!"
"Murder! What murder?" I gasped.
"The murder of Colin Lothian, the wandering beggar," he said.
Colin Lothian murdered! I was stunned and perplexed by these terrible words. But, without further explanation, Mr. Duke gave orders to some men in the boat he had come out by to make a prisoner of me. Two men came aboard and bound my arms about me with my own rope, and conducted me into the boat, while the bailie got down into the stern, where he sat ruminating as we were rowed towards the landing pier.
I was marched between two guards up the narrow street of Stromness, and the cold snow fell down upon me. At the doors of the houses women and children, whose faces were all so familiar, looked at me, some with pity, some with shrinking fear. I heard strange utterances of accusation.
"Who would have thought it, that he could hae done such a thing?" said one.
"See how the lad hangs his head!" said another.
"Ay, but it's a young murderer he is," said a third.
And this word "murderer" sounded in my ears from every side, and much I wondered what it all could mean.
When we arrived at the door of the prison house a crowd of the townspeople awaited us. I looked round the faces fearlessly, and in their midst I recognized the wrinkled face of my skipper, Davie Flett.
"Cheer up, my hearty!" said he, as I passed by him. "We'll not heave anchor till ye come out; and you'll not be long, I'll warrant."
But I confess it was difficult for me to feel cheerful at that moment. Indeed, when the prison doors closed upon me, when I found myself alone in my dark cell, I became dazed and stupid, and began to think that perhaps after all I was the murderer that I had been called. Yet what could it all mean? Colin Lothian murdered! My old friend Colin Lothian!
I need not prolong my narrative by telling you in what way I spent that first night in the cold solitude of my prison cell, or by recording the thoughts that occupied my mind through those long and weary hours. My jailer, one Jimmy Macfarlane, an honest, kind-hearted man, who had known my father, gave me a basin of hot porridge before he locked me up for the night, and left with me, as though by accident, a good, thick horse cloth to keep me warm. Conscious of my innocence, and trusting in the justice of my accusers, I slept well and soundly, nor did I awake until late on the following morning, when the Sabbath light stole through the crossbars of the little window, and the opening of the door aroused me.
I heard Macfarlane speaking with some one.
"Ye'll find him in here, captain; but dinna stay ower long wi' him; for, ye ken, I'm breakin' the rule in letting ye see the lad."
"All right, Jimmy!" said a voice that I at once recognized as that of Captain Flett.
"Well, Ericson, my lad," he said, entering the cell and offering me his hand. "They've not put the hangman's rope round your neck yet, I see."
Then he added in a more serious tone, "Come, I canna stay with you long. Let us talk the affair over, and see what's to be done."
"First of all then," I said, "I want to know what it's all about. Why have they put me in here?"
"What! have they not told you the particulars?"
"No; I know nothing but that old Colin Lothian has been murdered."
"And ye dinna ken who it was that murdered him? Tell me the truth now."
"I know nothing at all about it," I said.
"Well, then, I'll just tell you all that I know myself, Ericson."
And sitting down beside me on an old box that was in the cell, the skipper proceeded with his account of the affair, of which the following is the substance.
On the afternoon following that of the beginning of the snowstorm, Captain Flett waited for me on the schooner, for he wanted to set sail again. Every now and then he went up the companion ladder to look out for me towards the snow-covered town. While thus engaged he heard the boatswain's whistle sounded on board the revenue cutter, then lying in the outer bay, and he was admiring the alertness of the blue jackets as they got the cutter ready for sailing, when a small boat that he had not noticed came alongside of the Falcon, and Bailie Duke accosted him.
"Captain Flett," said the bailie excitedly, "I want the lad Ericson; where is he?"
"'Deed I can't tell you that, your honour," replied Flett. "I have been waiting for him here mysel' all the day."
"Just as I expected," said the bailie, with evident annoyance; "the young rascal has escaped. When did you last see him, captain?"
"I saw him yestreen, sir. But was it anything of importance you're wanting the lad for?"
"Anything of importance! Ay, is it of importance! For, know you this, Captain Flett, the lad's nothing but a murderer, a murderer in cold blood!"
"Impossible!" ejaculated the skipper. "When heard you of the lad harming body or beast? But who is it that's murdered, bailie?"
"Colin Lothian, the gaberlunzie," replied the magistrate.
"Man, you astonish me," exclaimed Flett. "Poor auld Lothian! And when did the thing happen?"
Bailie Duke then told how during that morning a party of men had been sent up from the town to the moor to search for the lost Thora Kinlay. They did not find the girl. But Jack Paterson and another fisherman, while crossing a very lonely part of the moor, had discovered a poor dog, whose pitiful whining had drawn them to the spot. The animal was at once recognized as the dog that had always been seen at the heels of the wandering beggar, and it stood shivering in the cold snow that had gathered there in a deep wreath. The dog refused to move from the spot, and the men cleared away some of the snow, when they came upon the stiff and lifeless body of Colin Lothian.
At first they thought the man was merely asleep, for his woollen plaid was spread over him like a blanket. But on raising the garment they saw marks of blood that had trickled upon the snow and sunk down into the underlying heather. Paterson at once despatched his companion to Stromness for Dr. Linklater, whilst he himself went up to a small cottage which stood about two hundred yards away. Nobody was in the cottage, but there were signs of some one having been there very recently, for the peats were yet smouldering on the hearthstone, and on a little table lay a towel stained with blood.
Dr. Linklater arrived sooner than Paterson expected him, and after a careful examination of the body he stated that Lothian had been dead several hours, and that his death was the result of foul play. The man had, in fact, been murdered.
"I'm real sorry to hear this, sir," said Flett to the bailie. "It was only yestreen I was speakin' wi' poor Colin at the inn. He'll be sorely missed in the countryside. But tell me, Mr. Duke, what for d'ye say that young Ericson has anything to do wi' it?"
"Because," the magistrate replied, "simply because the gun that the man was shot with was found near the spot where he died. That gun, captain, is identified as Halcro Ericson's."
"But surely ye canna convict the lad on such slight evidence, sir. He's innocent, I'll swear!"
"I trust he may prove so, captain. But you must allow that the evidence is against him. Colin has been shot dead, and with Ericson's gun. Ericson is not to be found; no one knows where he is. That is clearly against him; and as a magistrate I am bound to arrest him on suspicion. In fact, I have already issued a warrant for his arrest, and if you know anything of his whereabouts, just say so, Davie; for the lad's not at his home, and his mother knows nothing. They say he is out seeking for young Thora Kinlay; but it seems clear to me that he has fled from the consequences of his foul crime."
"Well," said Flett, "I have told you all I know, that the lad left the schooner here before the snow came on so heavy. I have been expecting him aboard all the day. I know no more, Mr. Duke, and that's the truth."
At this point of my skipper's account we were interrupted by Macfarlane, who put his head in at the door and said:
"Come away, Davie. I canna let ye stay longer, man."
"Ay, ay, just another minute, Jimmy," said Flett.
Then turning to me again, he continued: "Weel, I'm just away up to Dominie Drever's. The dominie was aboard the Falcon just before the Clasper came in yestreen, and I saw him again after ye were brought here. He was up at Lyndardy this mornin' seeing your mother for information about all your movements these two days past. And now I'm to go up to the schoolhouse and tell him--what shall I tell him, Halcro?"
"Just tell him this, Davie: that the last time I saw poor Colin Lothian was when we were in Gray's Inn. That I went straight home from the Falcon, and never left the house till the servant woman at Crua Breck knocked me up to seek for Thora. That I was out looking for her part of the night and all the morning, and then that I climbed down the Gaulton Cliff, thinking I would find her in the cave. There, instead of finding Thora, I was taken along with the smugglers and brought in the Clasper to Stromness, where Bailie Duke himself arrested me.
"There, that is the sum of it all. Tell it to Mr. Drever, and he will believe it and understand."
"Very good," said the skipper, and then he left me.
He had not gone out many minutes before Jimmy Macfarlane came into the apartment and made a fire in the grate, and brought me water to wash myself, and a good breakfast of coffee and fried bacon. When I was made comfortable he left me alone again, and only disturbed me during the rest of the day to bring in my meals or more fuel for the fire.