Читать книгу The Mac's of '37 A Story of The Canadian Rebellion - John Price-Brown - Страница 8

Table of Contents

^"It's clear enough now, Miss, but yon sky looks squally," said Ned, as he slid Marie's canoe into the bay. "I'd advise ye to make a short run of it. Don't be out longer than an hour and a half, at most."

"Can't we make it longer than that?" Marie asked, looking thoughtfully over the eastern gap at the shifting white clouds.

"It wouldn't be safe." adjusting his pipe to the proper angle. "Toronto bay's al'us treacherous for canoes, and that storm's coming."

"We'll be back in good time, then; but it would be a joke if we had to swim ashore," Marie returned, jestingly.

"If there's danger we'd better not go," said Jessie.

"Can't you swim? I know you could last summer. But there's really no danger; I promise you we'll be back in time."

"And how much can I? Just the fifty yards you taught me, and that only in smooth water."

"As I say, in an hour an' a half, there's safety," repeated the old sailor, reassuringly; "and Miss MacAlpine's a good paddler. I never saw a better, and never expect to; but for heaven's sake don't stop a minute longer, Miss."

"On my word, Ned," said Marie, slipping a coin into his hand. "And be here, sure, to take charge of Fawn when we return."

"Sartin, Miss."

Followed by Jessie, she stepped lightly into the superb little craft. It was tough as whalebone, light as a feather, varnished and cushioned, and buoyant as a cork upon the water, but obedient to every impulse of Marie's paddle.

The air was still and hot, and the water almost without a ripple, while sail-boats and a steamer were moored in the harbor.

"I don't see why Ned should be so fearsome," said Marie, as she dipped her paddle with Jessie facing her. "I must have skimmed this bay a score of times at least, and he was always encouraging instead of exacting until now."

"But you never went when a storm was brewing," returned Jessie. "People say that Ned's a true seaman, and only signals danger when he has good reason."

"That may be, but I've seen many storms in the islands; and it may be hours before this one comes. Ned's a dear old fellow, but getting a little bit fussy. Still, I always prepare for a swim when I go out canoeing. I think every girl should."

"What do you do?"

"Did I never tell you? Why, I wear tights under a loose skirt, and so fastened that I can throw everything else off in a minute. Father insisted upon it when I was a child; and I have kept it up ever since."

"I wish I did," said Jessie, gravely, "it would be safer."

"We shall be just as safe as on shore!" exclaimed Marie with a silvery laugh that sounded far out over the still water, for her paddle was almost noiseless. "See, I am steering for our little cove at the east end of the Island. We can land and then run over to the lake side, for I want to gather a few more of those little white shells."

"If we have time."

"Yes, if we have time. Oh, yonder is the Transit away beyond the gap!"

Jessie turned and looked. "It's a long way off, must be two miles at least."

"It's heading in this direction," said Marie, "but scarcely moving."

"How still the bay is! I don't see a rowboat anywhere, nor a single canoe but ours."

"It is enchanting. Our paddle makes a little breeze; and the bay is so smooth that you can see the bottom."

"And the fish, is that a pickerel?"

"Yes, and there goes a bass. Oh, look at the little shoal of perch!"

Jessie languidly trailed her hand through the water, as Marie, with head thrown back and the grace of an accomplished canoeist, dipped her paddle. Then she hummed a low refrain in musical rhythm to the swing.

"Sing it out," said Jessie, "you haven't forgotten it."

"How could I? Association and memory make it both sad and sweet to me. It always comes to mind when canoeing alone on the water."

Again she hummed. She was thinking of her girlhood life in the Thousand Isles; and away back of that of the days of her childhood on the hills of Scotland, where her mother told her tales and sang her songs of their Stuart ancestry. It seemed like centuries ago, and yet only yesterday.

Jessie watched her with keen interest. She almost worshipped her friend, so lithe, so graceful, so strong.

"I believe you could swim across," she ventured.

"Could I?"

Evidently the answer was an unconscious one, for without comment her eye glanced again at the distant Transit.

"But the song. Do sing it, please."

Then her deep contralto rang out the words:

My paddle swings as memory sings

Of the tragic days of old,

And the long, dark past comes back too fast,

As legend and song unfold.

For the Stuart race could find no place

In the land of Scottish heather,

And smitten and torn from thistle and thorn

They were lash'd by wintry weather.

Both in lowland fen and highland glen

Men scorn'd the blood of their Kings;

Then truth came free far over the sea,

And liberty's song it sings.

Yes, justice and truth, while lost, forsooth,

By false ones over the brine,

Still fill the breast of the mighty west

Like bouquet of blood-red wine.

So my paddle swings and the forest rings,

All islands echo the sound;

Each swash of the wave is one more stave

In the freedom our race has found.

"The refrain is a sad one with a joyous outlook," said Jessie.

"That is why I like it," said Marie. "The song has its history."

"I thought so when I first heard you sing it. I often wondered what its origin could be."

"Well, I'll tell you. Our old Andrew, down at Fingal's Notch, is the author. He remembers the last Prince Charlie, and has a passion for rhyming, so when he found out that my two brothers and I were Stuarts, he wrote the song for us. Then to my delight I discovered that it would go to one of my mother's old Prince Charlie tunes."

"And did your father like it?"

"I think he did, for he once told me that it was not very loyal to King William, and perhaps I liked it all the better for that."

"The MacAlpines are Highlandmen," said Jessie.

"Yes, and it was in France, the refuge of the Stuarts, that my father met my mother. She was simply Marie Stuart then, and I have inherited her name."

"And she died in Scotland?"

"Oh, no, but in our island home. That sweet mother of mine! There never was anyone like her. Fair and gentle and frail. I was the only daughter. My brother Donald came before me, and Charlie after—then she died. I was only eight years old, but I remember her as if it were yesterday. Her fair face, her sweet blue eyes, her tales of the Stuarts and of France, and the songs she sang."

Again Marie hummed, but it was a different tune, that of a French ballad.

"We are nearing the shore," said Jessie. "The Transit, too, is closer."

"I'll slip in here and we can step on to that little reef," said Marie.

In another minute they drew the canoe up the bank. Again Marie looked at the clouds. "They are not much nearer. I don't know but they are drifting to the south. We may get the shells, I think."

"Are you sure we shall have time?"

"I paddled straight over, and we can easily get back and over to the wharf again before Ned's hour and a half are up. Come along, Pussie, don't be afraid."

And with cat-like devotion Jessie hurried after her. In little over a minute they were there, "gathering shells on the seashore."

"What beauties they are, the little pearly things! I have a handful already. But we cannot stay another second. Those treacherous clouds have veered round. See how they are sweeping in. We must run, Jessie. I should have seen it sooner. Oh, it is all my fault!"

And back they ran. Black clouds were looming up in the east and sweeping in with terrible velocity. It was no north nor south now, but due west with a vengeance.

Panting for breath, they launched the canoe and, springing in, shoved out from the shore.

"Ned's time was too long," said Marie, as she made her first stroke. "It's not nearly an hour since we left the wharf, and though still now, in five minutes we'll have the first swell of the sea."

"I'm glad the Transit's coming nearer," said Jessie.

"Lieutenant Stuart said he would watch the movements of the Fawn," said Marie with a smile. "He is coming for a better look."

"Stuart watching Stuart."

"It cannot be that; he knows nothing of the cousinship," retorted Marie, glancing keenly at the sky while she plied her paddle with a long, steady sweep. "Ah, the waves are coming now! See the white crests. I must angle across to keep out of the trough. Slip down further, Jessie."

"Best I can do. Can I help you?"

"Not in the least. But it is well to be ready. Nothing is going to happen. But if it should and the canoe capsizes, don't forget but grasp the end of it and hold on. My! this is a lark! Not quarter over and the storm already started. Rain coming down already. In another minute we'll be drenched."

"Who cares for that if we can only get over!" ejaculated Jessie, doing her best to be brave.

"We'll get there, but it's hard paddling through these big waves."

"The Transit's lowering a boat," said Jessie.

"And a boat is shoving off from the wharf," echoed Marie, "coming directly toward us—one man in it—slip down Jessie, almost flat, but keep your head up. My, what a sea! Never was in as big a one before—not even in the islands."

Huge waves rolled in from the east, each one bigger than the last, while the wind in wild gusts ushered in a tumult of rain. The frail bark rose and fell as it lurched from one trough into another, while with every big wave water was shipped. Still the canoe floated and Marie valiantly stuck to her paddle.

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Jessie in despairing tones. "The canoe is full and sinking."

"Hold on a little longer and the boats will reach us," cried Marie, reassuringly.

But the canoe was quivering on the top of a mountain wave, and the next moment it pitched headlong into another abyss. Crash went the bow upon an unseen snag, piercing a large hole beneath the water line, and flinging the canoe upon its side. The girls were both hurled into the water; but Marie, seeing the inevitable, had sprung clear of the craft, and diving into deep water, rose again to find Jessie tangled beneath the upturned canoe. Seizing it with one hand and Jessie with the other, she trod water, while with all her strength she pulled her friend from beneath. But Jessie was stunned by the blow of the wreck.

Fortunately, Marie, terrible though the disaster was, had lost neither self-control nor strength. The island life had made her resourceful. She saw that the canoe, although upturned, was impaled upon the snag, and being fixed, was a safe anchor to cleave to. The question was, with such a high sea, each wave dashing their bodies against the little wreck, could she keep the unconscious Jessie and herself from being carried away before help could reach them? For this she prayed. It was the only hope. But how soon would help come? Seconds seemed like minutes—minutes like hours. Jessie hung like a log and was still unconscious, even if alive. A cut upon her temple indicated where the blow had struck; and the weight of her body, her head being held above water by one hand, while she clung to the canoe with the other, taxed Marie's strength to the utmost.

The boats from opposite directions were coming rapidly toward them through the rough sea; but Marie's strength was failing; her hold upon Jessie was becoming less secure; and her head reeled as one wave after another dashed over them. Sensation, too, was getting dull, when suddenly a voice roused her.

"Marie, catch this line," it sang out, and a rope was flung from the harbor boat.

But how could she catch the line, with one hand clinging to Jessie and the other to the canoe? The next moment an impetuous wave brought the two barks together with a crash. The canoe was rolled over by the collision and freed from the snag, while both Jessie and Marie were swept away in the current. Still with one hand Marie kept her hold upon her unconscious friend, while with the other she struck bravely out.

Other help was near. The ship's lifeboat, manned by two men and Lieutenant Stuart, was within oar's length. Marie saw it as the man from the harbor boat stretched out his hand to save her.

"Jessie first," she gasped, and, relieved of her burden, she struck out with both hands, rising on each wave until her friend was rescued. With such a hurricane blowing, the rain coming down in torrents, and each wave sweeping over his boat, it was all the man could do to rescue the insensible girl, while he frantically glanced at the one still in the water.

"For heaven's sake, save her!" he cried.

But there was no need for his call. Already Stuart had thrown out a rope, and with coat off, was ready to dive in his effort of rescue.

"Seize it!" he shouted.

A sweep of Marie's hand touched and held it.

"Now, don't let it slip."

Then he grasped her round the waist and lifted her out of the water. He was none too soon, for, worn out by the prolonged effort, she became unconscious as they stretched her upon the flat deck of the lifeboat.

"Throw me that rug!" he cried, for Marie had dropped her outer garments in her first dive from the wrecked canoe. "Now, brandy."

"For heaven's sake, how is she?" shouted the man in the other boat in excited tones.

Stuart glanced at him quickly. He was a powerfully built fellow, perhaps a little older than himself. His head was bare and his breast open, but he was evidently a man to be trusted.

"She's all right," returned Stuart. "A little faint, but the brandy's reviving her."

"Better steer for the shore," was the response; "when we get there I can help you."

"Which shall it be?" he asked of Marie, who had regained consciousness. "The shore or the Transit?"

"The shore, the shore," she gasped. "It was so good of you—both of you—and Jessie?"

"She's breathing better," shouted the man.

"Oh—I'm so glad—if she had died it would have been all my fault."

Again her eyes closed.

"Lead the way," cried Stuart to the shoreman. "We'll follow you."

And with a vague interest in the personality of the stranger who had called Marie by name, Stuart followed his lead.