Читать книгу Inchbracken - Robert Cleland - Страница 9

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Long ere daylight the storm had died away. The new-risen sun shone in a sky of transparent blue, with not a cirrhus rag to shew of the enswathing vapours of the night before.

The air, bracingly fresh but calm, stirred faintly among the sandhills by the shore, shaking out the bent and grasses laid limp and tangled by their drenching overnight.

When the minister set forth on his return, the sun still hung low over the eastern sea, and reddened the waves, foam-flecked and tossing in angry recollection of the lash of last night's gale. In the ebb they had shrunk far back across the sands, but again the tide had turned and was advancing. The fisher folk were not astir. No boats could be expected home that morning. Such as were away during the gale must have put in for refuge somewhere, or been swallowed by the sea; nor would any stir outside the harbour till the sea went down. Perforce they must rest; and they rested. The cottages were still shut up, and no smoke curled from the chimneys as Roderick rode over the roughly causewayed street, past the harbour, where a lugger or two swayed up and down upon the heaving tide, and down upon the sands beyond, that he might avoid the long detour of the night before.

The Effick Water spreads itself out into a small firth or bay some three or four miles round, but the mouth of this bay is encumbered by upstanding rocks and boulders, and about these a bar or beach has gathered, standing up out of the water at all times, save the highest tides, or when the sea is driven up by an easterly gale. Through this beach the Effick cuts a channel for its own escape, and that of the water in the bay at the tide's turn, but it is fordable at any time, and at low water is but an insignificant trickling over the shingly beach. The Point of Inverlyon divides Inverlyon bay and harbour from the Bay of Effick, it runs sharply out into the sea and completely conceals the one from the other; and, in those days of scanty provision for the ship-wrecked, a vessel might be driven ashore in the latter desolate bay without the people of the village being aware, especially if the catastrophe took place after dark; and their first intimation would be when in scanning the shore after a gale they came on the wreckage.

It was an hour or two after Roderick had started before the first band of prowlers set forth to search for the rejected spoils of victorious Ocean. The shore was solitary, and he was the first to come upon the tokens of the night's disaster. On passing the point, he found the shattered relics scattered on every side--boxes, barrels, planks, wreckage of every kind. By and by he came upon a stove-in boat, and a little further along the body of a drowned sailor lay upon the sand. He was but partly dressed, and the dark yellow tinge of his skin, the straight black hair, prominent features, and set of the eyes, as well as the long, strange-looking knife, tied securely to his waist, showed him to be a Lascar. So the ship probably had been an East Indiaman, had sailed in safety round the Cape, crossed the Bay of Biscay, and escaped who can tell how many perils, and all to be cast away in the end on this solitary shore, within a few leagues or hours of her destined haven.

Roderick dismounted and examined the poor fellow, but he was manifestly dead, and there was no dwelling near to which he might carry him; so he drew the body up above high-water mark, to await the searchers who were sure to arrive shortly in search of plunder. He had visitations and a meeting to fill up his day on getting home--service due, as he told himself, to the living, and therefore more important than ceremonial cares for the dead.

Hastening forward, he crossed the shingly beach at the mouth of the Effick, and reached the sands gathered about the base of the rocks, and sloping on the one side to the sea, on the other to the inner basin or firth of the little stream,--at high water a brimming lake, but now at the ebb a slimy hollow full of pools, boulders, seaweed, and mussel beds, where gulls and crows met to quarrel over the spoils of sea and land. There he came upon a sight sadder than the last, two women thrown together upon the sand, surrounded and partly covered with wreckage, as though a specially strong eddy had set in this direction, and there unburdened itself of its prey. The first he examined was clad in thin and peculiar garments of white cotton, a life-preserver was made fast about her body, and her hands clung with the inextricable grasp of death to the clothes of her companion. Her feet were bare, so was her head, her skin was a dark olive, and her dress and appearance showed her to be an Ayah or Indian maid, in attendance doubtless on some lady returning to Europe. Her long black hair was clotted and stained with blood, and closer inspection showed terrible wounds and bruises on the head, as though the waves had dashed and pounded her against the rocks before at length relinquishing their hold. Clearly there could be no hope of resuscitation there, and Roderick passed to the other.

From under pieces of plank and broken cabin furniture he was able at last to disentangle the form of a lady. She too was encased in a life-preserver, which in her case too had failed to save her life. The cruel rocks and breakers had made sure of that. Her head and face especially showed contusions and bruises of the most dreadful description, and there was a distortion of the features, as though her last thought had been one of agony, in striking contrast to the calm which had settled on the face of her companion. The arms too were stretched out in an intensity of purpose that death had been unable to paralyze, and the fingers were clenched on a bit of a chain composed of coins connected by knotted links of gold. Could it be that the parting of this chain, and the severance from what it held, was the last agonizing idea which had passed through the poor creature's mind?

As Roderick gazed, a feeble wail hard by gave a new turn to his musings. Not many steps away, but where the sand sloped inwards to the protected waters of the bay, he descried a bundle of clothing, and while he looked it seemed to move, and again the wail was heard. Taking it up he found the bundle to be a tiny infant, warmly wrapped up in many shawls and wound in a life-preserver. The poor drowned mother had probably given her last care to make the little one as safe as she could, and by a miracle she had succeeded. The lightness and smallness of the tiny bundle had secured its safety. While heavier bodies were being hurled and rolled among rocks and stones on the beach, this slight thing had been caught up on the crest of a surge and flung beyond the rocks and boulders margining the sea, into the protected waters of the inner bay, where it would float in comparative safety till, on the subsidence of the tide, it stranded on the shore.

Roderick took it up and undid the swathings, that it might freely use its limbs. At once the infant ceased its wailing; it stretched its little arms, and, looking into his face, it smiled. Who that is human, not to say humane, could resist the appeal?--the flattery of being approved by a pure fresh soul, all untarnished by the world's guile, and so lately come from heaven!

"The baby smiled, and twined its fingers in his whisker-ends." Page 19.

Roderick was enthralled at once. 'You poor wee darling,' he said, 'we cannot leave you here alone, waiting till other help finds you; you must come with me!'

The baby smiled again, and twined its fingers in his whisker ends. Roderick wrapped it again in its shawls, remounted the pony, and proceeded on his way.

He could not but look back regretfully at the poor dead mother, whom he seemed to be separating from her child; but there was nothing he could do for her without assistance, and that he must go miles to seek, and he knew it would arrive equally soon without his intervention.

He passed a good deal more wreckage as he went, but nothing that had life, nor any more bodies of the drowned. Leaving the shore, he came in time to Effick Bridge. It had withstood the spate, and though badly shaken, was still available for crossing the stream. The waters had subsided over the flooded meadows, and after crossing these he began to ascend the hill. It was a tedious task; the soil was washed away in places, and in others stones had rolled from above, among which he had to pick his way carefully, lest a jolt should disturb his fragile burden.

The morning coach for Inverlyon reached the brow of the hill, coming down, while he was still wending upwards. It stopped there, and its passengers were required to alight, and make their way downward on foot, while the driver, with all precaution, guided his team and the empty vehicle over the encumbered track. The passengers included a parishioner or two of the minister's, who by and by encountered him on their descent, and greeted him effusively. His response, however, was absent and constrained, he was wholly disinclined to stand still in the middle of the tedious ascent, or engage in the desultory gossip so dear to his rustic friends. In truth, he was worn out. His tempestuous journey over-night, the early start without breakfast, the sad spectacle of death which he had beheld, and doubts how best to do his duty to his helpless charge, had thrown him into a melancholy and preoccupied mood, and deprived him of all power to enter into indifferent chat. He made no attempt, therefore, to rein up the 'pownie,' and that canny beast went tranquilly forward, picking his steps as seemed best among the sods and heather tufts by the side of the road.

'What's come ower the minister? He wad scarce gie us the time o' day as he gaed by, an' he glowered at a body like the far awa end o' Willie Cant's fiddle. An' what brings him awa down here at this time o' day? An' ridin' on that godless chield, Patey Soutar's pownie! I'm sair misdoubtin' but he's been after nae gude!'

'Hoot, awa! Peter Malloch, ye maunna judge sae hard. I'm jalousin' he's been awa a' nicht, an' aiblins he's meditatin' on his next discoorse. Gin he'd gotten as far as the twalthly, or even the seventhly, ye see, he wadna be for brecken aff, to haver wi' a curran fules, ower a' the clashes o' the country side.'

'Speak for yersel, Tammas! An' dinna ye be for judgin' the office-bearers o' the Lord's Kirk by yer ain silly sel'. I'm thinkin gin he'd kenned a' 'at I cud hae telt him, he'd hae frisket up his legs, an' drawn bridle fast enough. The Sustentation Fund's prosperin' bye a' expectation, an' I wad hae telled him a' about it. But noo he can juist bide till the next Deacons' Coort, whan I'll read my report. Set him up wi' his high looks! Is't no me 'ats gatherin' the siller that's to pay him wi?'

'Hoot! Peter, man, I'm thinkin' he was that carried like in's mind, he didna ken even wha it was gaed by! But I'm sayin', Peter, what was yon the minister was carryin' afore him on the saidle, 'at he took sae muckle tent on? It was sma' an' muckle happit up, an' he ne'er took his e'en aff it. Gin it hadna been him I'd hae said it was a bairn, an' he was blate ower 't.'

The subject of the discussion went on his way, unwitting of the offence he had given. 'Tammas' was scarcely wrong in surmising that he did not know who passed. Had he been questioned at the moment he would no doubt have answered correctly, but as there was no one to do so, the impression on his consciousness glanced off, causing, indeed, the mechanical salutation at the moment, but powerless to influence his thought.

Upward toils the pony, picking his steps from one soft sod to the next; the rider sunk in a brown study lets the bridle hang loosely on his neck, and the baby, rocked by the springy undulations of his gait, sleeps again, unconscious and content. The summit is gained in time, the road grows easier, and the pace mends, till a shout in front startles their drowsy senses.

'Hallo! Roddie!--halt! You're not going to pass an old friend like that!'

Roderick, wakening with a start, catches the bridle of the good-natured beast, which has already come to a stand. A middle-aged gentleman is descending a heathery knoll overhanging the road, and carries a salmon rod on his shoulder, and a boy follows with his basket, apparently well filled, and from which there peers a companionable-looking bottle neck.

'Good morning! Captain Drysdale.'

'Good morning, Roddie! Glad to see you after so long.'

'Going to try a last cast at the salmon before the fishing closes? You have every prospect of good sport. The water looked splendid at the bridge as I came over. The spate has fallen, but the water is still brown, and dotted with foam-spots. You will have a fine day's sport.'

'I hope so, lad! And I only wish you were coming with me! Od! Roddie, do you ever think of the jolly days we used to have, when young Kenneth was at home, lad! The fishing! and the days after the grouse! we expect Kenneth home to-day for three months' leave,--in fact he should have come last night. I wish you were to be with us too, old man!'

'Thanks, Captain John; but that can scarcely be. A minister should have other things to think about,--at least the Presbytery would say so, and I do not think the General would relish the crack of a dissenter's gun on any moor of his.'

'Hang the dissenters! and that weary Free Kirk that has set the people by the ears. I never could understand how they contrived to inveigle a sensible fellow like you--gentle born and bred, and your father's son, in among a crew of canting demagogues.'

'Please don't! Captain Drysdale. Nothing but a conviction that it was right could have led me to take the step, and give up so much of what I valued most. Having that conviction, I am sure even you must approve my acting up to it. My choice has cost me much, but I counted, the cost before I made it. So, as regards the church, we had better "let that flea stick to the wa'" as my beadle says. We might argue till we vexed each other, but neither would be converted to the other's views.'

'Well, Roddie! And probably your beadle says again--"They that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar;"--there's no use speaking, but it's a great pity!--And where, in the name of all that's wonderful, are you trapezing to, at this hour of the morning? And of all the steeds in the country side to carry a douse Free Kirk presbyter, if that is not Patey Soutar the drunken cadger's pony! Bonny on-goings! my lad. What would the 'Residuary' Presbytery, as you are pleased to denominate the church of your fathers say to that? Ha, ha! I doubt not the Free is both free and easy--ha! ha! And what may that be your reverence is carrying home so gingerly? My stars! I believe it is a child!'

At this point the baby disturbed first by the cessation of the pony's rocking gait, and then fairly awakened by the Captain's loud guffaw, lifted up its small voice and wept.

'Indeed, Master Roddie, yours seems to be a very free church indeed!'

'Captain Drysdale, I do think some things should not be said even in jest, which is all you mean, I know. But I do not think I have hitherto so desecrated my sacred calling as to have laid myself open to such insinuations even in jest.'

'Tush, man! Don't be so thin-skinned. One must have his joke. Besides, after all, you have no need to be much vexed, "it is such a little one," as the French girl said to her confessor.' And with a volley of 'ha, ha, ha!' Captain John bounded down the hill.