The Naval Cadet

A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea

BY

DR. GORDON STABLES

Author of "In the Great White Land" &c.

ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I.

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Printed in Great Britain by
Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow

CONTENTS.

Chap.

I. [The Hermit of Kilmara]
II. [The Night came on before its Time]
III. [The Storm]
IV. [Story of the Skye Clearings]
V. [A Terrible Adventure]
VI. [In Search of Adventure]
VII. [Lost in a Highland Mist]
VIII. [Creggan and Oscar]
IX. [On Board the Gunboat Rattler]
X. [War Ahead!]
XI. [The City of Blood]
XII. [Capture of the City of Benin]
XIII. [In a Wild and Lovely Mountain-land]
XIV. [A Fearful Night]
XV. [Welcome Back to Skye]
XVI. [Life on the Good Ship Osprey]
XVII. [Mess-room Fun]
XVIII. [St. Elmo's Fire]
XIX. [The Burning Ship]
XX. [Gun-room Fun]
XXI. [Jacko Steals the Captain's Pudding]
XXII. [In the Wilds of Venezuela]
XXIII. [Dolce Far Niente]
XXIV. [On the Lonesome Llanos]
XXV. [Promotion]
XXVI. [Adventure in a Papuan Lake-Village]
XXVII. [A Terrible Tragedy]
XXVIII. ["The Battle rages Loud and Long"]
XXIX. [Like a Battle of Olden Times]
XXX. [Court-martialed]
XXXI. [Safely Home at Last]

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Ju-Ju king sprang up ... Frontispiece [Missing from source book]

[Creggan kept the boat head-on to each threatening wave]

["Well, my lad, you're one of the 'Rattler's' middies, aren't you?"]

Just in the nick of time, Creggan fires [Missing from source book]

["Antoine was in a state of mesmeric fascination, and pale as death"]

THE NAVAL CADET.

CHAPTER I.
THE HERMIT OF KILMARA.

There was something in the reply given by young Creggan M'Vayne to Elliott Nugent, Esq., that this gentleman did not altogether relish. He could not have complained of any want of respect in the boy's utterance or in his manner, but there was an air of independence about the lad that jarred against his feelings, and made him a trifle cross—for the time being, that is.

For Nugent was a great man,—in his own country at all events. He was an ex-secretary from one of the Colonies, and at home in Australia he had been like the centurion we read of in the New Testament, and had had many men under him to whom he could say "Do this" with the certainty of finding it done, for in his own great office his word had been law.

But here stood this kilted ghillie with his collie dog by his side—stay, though, till I present my young hero to you, reader. You will then know a little more of the merits of the case.

Than young Creggan M'Vayne, then, no boy was better known on land or at sea, all along the wild rocky shores that stretch from Loch Snizort to the very northernmost cape of Skye, well-named in the Gaelic "The Island of Wings". At any time of the day or by moonlight his little skiff of a boat might be met by sturdy fishermen speeding over the waves of the blue Minch, or lazily floating in some rock-guarded bay, while its solitary occupant lured from the dark, deep water many a silvery dancing fish. But inland, too, he was well-known, on lonely moor and on mountain brow.

And Creggan was welcome wherever he went. Welcome when he appeared at the doors of the rude huts that were huddled along the sea-shore, welcome in the shepherd's shieling far away on the hills, and welcome even at the firesides of gamekeepers themselves.

Up to the present time, at all events, Creggan's life had been a half-wild one, to say the least of it. Though tall for his years, which barely numbered fourteen, he was as strong and well-knit as the sinewy deer of the mountains. Good-looking he certainly was, with a depth of chin that pronounced him more English than Scotch; the bluest of eyes, a sun-kissed face, and fair, curly hair of so self-assertive a nature that Creggan's Highland bonnet never by any chance got within three inches of his brow.

From that same bonnet, then, down to his boots, or rather brogues, the lad looked every inch a gentleman. He was just a trifle shy in presence of his elders and those who moved in a superior walk of life to him; but every really good honest-hearted lad is so. Among the peasantry, however, he was always his own manly self.

There was one thing concerning Creggan's wild life that he did not care for anyone to know, not even his best friend, M'Ian the minister. And it was this: he was kind to the very poor. The fact is, that the lad was always either in pursuit of game, as he chose to call even rabbits, or fishing from his skiff or from the rocks, so that he had generally more than sufficed for his own needs and those of his guardian, whom I shall presently introduce to you. So when he appeared at the door of widow M'Donald, M'Leod, or M'Rae, as the case might be—for they were nearly all Macs thereabout,—you couldn't have guessed that he was carrying a beautiful string of codling or a "sonsy" rabbit, so carefully was it concealed in his well-worn and somewhat tattered plaid.

I am quite sure that Creggan's faithful collie, whose name was Oscar, quite approved of what his master did; he always looked so pleased, and sometimes even barked for joy, when Creggan presented those welcome gifts, and while the recipients called blessings down from heaven on the boy's curly head.

But not only did the poorest among the crofters, or squatters as they might have been called, love the winsome, happy-visaged boy, but many of them looked upon him with a strange mixture of superstition and awe. He was supposed to bear a kind of charmed life, because a mystery hung over his advent which might never, never be cleared up. For Creggan was an ocean-child in the truest sense of the word. When a mere infant he had been found in a small boat which was stranded on the rock-bound Isle of Kilmara, off the shores of Skye, one morning after a gale of wind. In this islet, which indeed is but little more than a sea-girt rock, he had dwelt for many years with the strange being who had picked him up half-frozen, and had wooed him back to life, and became not only a father to him but a tutor as well.

A strange being indeed was old Tomnahurich, the Hermit of Kilmara, the name by which he was generally known. Only old people could remember his coming to and taking possession of the island, which probably belonged to no one in particular, although in summer-time a few sheep used to be sent to crop the scanty herbage that grew thereon. But one beautiful spring morning,—with snow-white cloudlets in the blue sky, and a light breeze rippling the Minch, till from the mainland of Skye it looked like some mighty river rolling onwards and north 'twixt the Outer and Inner Hebrides,—some fisher-lads on landing were confronted by a tall, brown-bearded stranger, dressed in seaman's clothes, and with a cast of countenance and bearing that showed he was every inch a sailor. He had come out from a cave, and into this, with smiles and nods and talking in the purest of Gaelic, he had invited the young fellows. They found a fire burning here, and fish boiling; there was a rude bench, several stools, and various articles of culinary utility, to say nothing of a row of brown stone bottles, the contents of one of which he begged them to taste.

But where the hermit had come from, or how or why he had come, nobody could tell, and he never even referred to his own history.

He had ceased to dwell in the cave after a time, and with wood from a shipwrecked barque he had built himself, in a sheltered corner, a most substantial though very uncouth kind of a dwelling-hut. As the time went on, silver threads had begun to appear in the brown of the hermit's beard; and now it was nearly white. He was apparently as strong and sturdy as ever, notwithstanding the wintryness of his hair, and the boy loved his strange guardian far more than any friend he had, and was never so happy anywhere as at the rude fireside of his island home.

We never think of what Fate may have in store for us, especially when we are young, nor at what particular date fortune's tide may be going to flow for us.

This morning, for instance, when Creggan came on shore with Oscar, he had no idea that anything particular was going to happen. He had first and foremost drawn up his little boat—the very skiff it was in which he had been cradled on the billowy ocean,—then gone straight away up to the manse. Here he was a great favourite, and M'Ian, the kind-hearted minister, had for years been his teacher, educating the boy with his own two children, Rory and Maggie, both his juniors.

I am not going to say that Creggan was more clever than children of his age usually are, but as the instruction he received was given gratuitously or for love, he felt it to be his bounden duty to learn all he could so as to gratify his teacher.

His English was therefore exceptionally good already, and he had made good progress in geography, history, arithmetic, and knew the first two books of Euclid; and he could even prattle in French, which he had learned from the hermit. It was usual for Creggan to spend an hour or two playing with Rory and little winsome Maggie, after lessons, but to-day they were going with their father to the distant town of Portree, so, after bidding them good-bye he shouldered his little gun, a gift from M'Ian, and, whistling for Oscar, went off to the cairns to find a rabbit or two.

The cairns where the rabbits dwelt were small rounded hills about a quarter of a mile inland from the wild cliffs that frowned over the deep, dark sea. These knolls were everywhere covered with stones, and hundreds of wild rabbits played about among these. But no sooner had Creggan shot just one than the rest disappeared into their burrows as if by magic. The boy had plenty of patience, however, so he simply lay down and began to read. Not to study, though. His school-books he had left in the graveyard on an old tombstone, and near to the last resting-place of the romantic Flora M'Donald, the lady who had saved the unfortunate Prince Charlie Stuart.

After half an hour he secured two more rabbits, and as the sun began to wester, he strolled slowly backwards towards the spot where he had beached his boat, with no intention, however, of putting out to sea for some little time.

With the exception of his school-books poor Creggan's library was wonderfully small, and his literature was nearly always borrowed or given to him. For instance, even in the most squalid huts he had often found books that gave him no end of pleasure. They were mostly in the grand old Gaelic; but Creggan could read the language well, and in the long dark forenights of winter he used to delight the old hermit by trotting out the mysterious and Homeric-like lines of Ossian's poems. Then tourists, to whom he acted in the capacity of guide in summer-time, sometimes gave him a book, and M'Ian's library was always at his service.

So to-day he had thrown himself on his face on the green cliff-top, and had commenced to read his Ossian.

What a glorious summer afternoon! There was the blue Minch asleep in the sunshine, and stretching away and away far over to the hazy hills of Harris and Lewis. White gulls were floating on its billows close inshore, or wheeling high in air around the stupendous cliffs, where their nests were,—their plaintive, melancholy notes mingling with the song of the lark, the mavis, and the merle, while the solemn boom of the breaking waves made a sweet but awful diapason.

The air all around was warm and balmy, and laden with the sweet breath of wild thyme.

And Creggan M'Vayne was just reading one of his favourite, because most romantic passages, when the dry and business-like tones of Elliott Nugent fell upon his ear. Beautiful, indeed, did the boy consider every line of that wild and weird poem Carric-Thura. The ghost scene therein made him shudder; but it was the death of the lovers on the field of battle—the death of Connal and Crimora that affected him most. She had given him his arms with sad and woesome foreboding, but at the same time had determined to follow him into the fight.

Here was the din of arms; here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of Fingal, O Connal, and it was here thou didst fall! Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky; thy height a rock upon the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Warriors fell by thy sword as the thistles by the staff of a boy. Then Dargo the mighty came on, darkening in his wrath.

Bright rose their swords on each side; loud was the clang of their steel.

But Crimora was near, bright in the armour of man. Her yellow hair is loose behind, her bow is in her hand.

She drew the string on Dargo; but—erring—she pierced her Connal. He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill. What now can she do, O hapless maiden? See how he bleeds, her Connal dies!

All night long she weeps and all the livelong day. O Connal, O Connal, my love and my friend!

But with grief the maiden dies, and in the same grave they sleep. Undisturbed they now sleep together; in the tomb on the mountain they rest alone, and the wind sighs through the long green grass that grows twixt the stones of the grave.

Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mists rest on the hills. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill and marks the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round in the wind and strew the grave of the dead. Soft be their rest, hapless children of streamy Loda.

Here Creggan had closed the book with a sigh.

"Boy, are you willing to earn an honest shilling? Keep back that dog, please!"

The boy had sprung to his feet and seized the all-too-impetuous Oscar by the collar.

Nugent's appearance was somewhat out of keeping with the grandeur of the scenery around him. Thin and wan he was, with close-trimmed whiskers turning to gray, a London coat, and a soft felt hat.

"Earn a shilling, sir?"

"I said earn a shilling, an honest shilling. But perhaps you are above that sort of thing. You Skye Highlanders are, as a rule, so lazy."

"Thank you, sir, but I am not a Skyeman, though I should not be ashamed to be. I was born on the high seas, and I have neither mother nor father."

Nugent's voice softened at once. His whole bearing was altered.

"Poor boy!" he said. "I fear I talked harshly. But come, we were directed here by an old man who told us you could guide us over the mountains inland. My wife is an artist, and wants to make a sketch or two. See, yonder she comes, and my little daughter, Matty. Come, you seem to be a superior sort of lad, you shall have half a crown."

"I don't want your money. I sha'n't touch it. But if you wait a few minutes I will guide you to a strange land far away among the hills. There will just be time to return before sunset."

"And you will take no reward?"

"Oh yes, sir, I will. I love books. I would have a book if you could lend it to me."

"That we will, with pleasure. I have a boy just about your age—sixteen, and he lives in books. You are a little over sixteen, perhaps?"

Creggan smiled.

"No, sir," he replied, taking off his bonnet now, for Mrs. Nugent and Matty had come up; "I want some months of fourteen."

"You are a very beautiful Highland boy," said Matty, gazing up at Creggan with innocent admiration; "and if you is good, mamma will paint you."

"Hush, dear, hush!" cried the stately mother.

Creggan looked at the child. He had never seen anyone so lovely before, not even in Portree. But there was a little green knoll high up in a glen that he knew of, on which, as the old people told him, fairies danced and played in the moonlight. He had never seen any of these, though many times and oft he had watched for them. But he thought now that Matty must just be like one.

I must confess that there was a small hole in each of the elbows of Creggan's tweed jacket, but nevertheless when he stepped right up, as if moved by some sudden impulse and shook Matty's tiny hand, his bearing was in keeping with the action, and even Nugent himself admitted afterwards that he looked a perfect little gentleman.

"I wish you were my sister."

That is all he said.

But for the next few minutes very busy was Creggan indeed.

First and foremost he made a flag of his handkerchief and hoisted it on the end of his gun. This he waved in the air, until presently an answering signal could be seen on the distant island.

Then to right and to left, alow and aloft, he made signals with the flag, much to the delight of little blue-eyed Matty, ending all by holding his gun perpendicularly and high in air, after which he turned to his new acquaintances.

"I'm quite ready," he said.

The march towards the mountains was now commenced. But the road led past the manse, and thither ran Creggan, returning almost immediately with a tiny Shetland pony. This consequential little fellow was fully caparisoned, with not only a child's saddle but saddle-bags. Into the latter Mrs. Nugent's sketching-gear was put, and then Creggan picked Matty up and placed her on the saddle. Oscar barked, and the child screamed with joy, as off they headed for the wild mountains.

* * * * * * * * * * *

High above the blue-gray hills of Harris lay streak on streak of carmine clouds, with saffron all between, as Creggan's skiff went dancing over the waves that evening, towards his little island home. But the boy saw them not, saw nothing in fact till his boat's keel rasped upon the beach, where his foster-father stood, ready to haul her up.

For Creggan's thoughts were all with his newly-found friends and the doings of this eventful day.

CHAPTER II.
THE NIGHT CAME ON BEFORE ITS TIME.

The home of Hermit M'Vayne, which was Creggan's foster-father's real name, was indeed a strange one. Situated under the south-western side of a rock, partly leaning against it, in fact, stood the strong and sturdy hut. The sides, and even the roof, were of timber, the latter thatched with heather and grass; though only one gable was of stone, and here was the chimney that conducted the smoke from the low hearth upwards and outwards to the sky.

And night and day around this log-house moaned the wind, for even when almost calm on the mainland a breeze was blowing here, and ever and aye on the dark cliff-foot beneath broke and boomed the waves of the restless Minch. But when the storm-king rose in his wrath and went shrieking across the bleak island, the spray from the breakers was dashed high and white, far over the hut, and would have found its way down the chimney itself had this not been protected by a moving cowl.

But I really think that the higher the wind blew, and the louder it howled, while the waves sullenly boomed and thundered on the rocks below, the cosier and happier did the hermit and his foster-child feel within.

Although, strangely enough, the hermit had never as yet told Creggan the story of his own past life, nor his reasons for settling down on this sea-girdled little morsel of rock and moorland, still he never seemed to tire of telling the boy about his adventures on many lands and many seas, nor did the lad ever weary of listening to these. And the wilder they were the better he liked them.

It was on stormy nights, especially in winter, that Creggan's strange foster-father became most communicative. But on such nights, before even the frugal supper was placed upon the board, the hermit felt he had a duty to perform, and he never neglected it. For high on a rock on the centre of the island he had erected a little hollow tower of stone. It was in reality a kind of slow-combustion stove filled with peats and chunks of wood, and with pieces of sea-weed over all. It was lit from below, and when the wind blew through the chinks and crannies, it sent forth a glare that could be seen far and high over the storm-tossed ocean. Many a brave brig or barque staggering up the Minch, and many a fisherman's boat also, on dark and windy nights had to thank the hermit's beacon-light that warned them off the Whaleback rocks.

Having set fire to his storm-signal, the old man's work was done for the day. Supper finished, a chapter from the Book of Books was read, then a prayer was prayed—not read from a printed book,—and after this the inmates of this rude but cosy hut drew their stools more closely to the fire. No light was lit if not needed, and indeed it was seldom necessary, the blazing peats and the crackling logs gave forth a glare that, though fitful, was far more pleasant to talk by than any lamp could have been.

Now, Mr. Nugent and his wife had promised to visit Creggan some evening on his lonely island, and not only Matty but her brother also were to accompany them. They did not say when the visit would be made. Their lives were as unlike Creggan's as one could possibly imagine. They were spending the summer here in Skye, living in a rough sort of a shanty, which, however, they had furnished themselves and made exceedingly comfortable; and every day brought them some new pleasure: boating parties, long journeys over the mountains, painting, botanizing, or collecting specimens and even fossils, for on no island in all our possessions, does nature display her stores on a more liberal scale than in this same wildly romantic Skye.

The afternoon's outing for which they were indebted to young Creggan Ogg M'Vayne had been pronounced delightful beyond compare. It was indeed a strange land they had reached at last, pastoral and poetic as well. Bonnie green valleys, watered by many a rippling burn, and little waterfalls that came trickling down from the rocks, and studded over with lazy, well-fed cattle and a few sheep. There were but two huts here, near-by the banks of a little stream, that went singing onwards till its brown waters were swallowed up in a small lake, the surface of which was everywhere wrinkled by sportive trout, leaping high to catch gnats or midges even in the air.

The Nugents were surprised, but charmed to find that the tiny encampment was inhabited only by sturdy bare-footed, bare-headed lassies, who were here to tend the cows, and to make butter and cheese, which would afterwards be sold at the distant market town of Portree.

Creggan had to be interpreter, for never a word of English had these girls to bless themselves in.

And Mrs. Nugent stayed long enough to make several delightful sketches in water-colours, over which the lassies went into raptures. The clouds in the blue sky, the distant peeps of ocean, with here and there a little sail, the darkling rocks, the mountain peaks, and nearer still in the foreground, the foaming linns, the green braes, and the beautiful cows, with their attendants, all came out on the paper by the magic touch of the artist's brush.

Long before they had once more reached the cliffs by the sea that night, Matty and Creggan seemed to have established a friendship as frank and free as if they had known each other for many and many a year. Then good-byes had been said, and the promise given by Mr. Nugent to come out to the island some afternoon, or to take it in their way home from the far-off island of Harris. But a fortnight passed by and they had not yet appeared. Nor, although he thought about them, and especially about Matty, times without number, had Creggan seen them even at a distance.

One afternoon, the boy in his skiff returned home much sooner than usual.

It is not in winter only that wild storms sweep up or down or across the Minch, for even in summer, and suddenly too, gales arise, and while, as far as eye can see, the Atlantic is one wide chaos of broken and foaming water, the cliffs and hills seem shaken to their rude foundations by wind and wave. Yet speedily as such tempests come, there are generally indications beforehand that tell the fishermen abroad in their open boats that they must run quickly for the nearest shelter, if dear life itself is to be saved.

"Right glad to see you, lad," said the hermit, as he helped Creggan to secure his boat high and dry behind a rock, where, blow as it might, nothing could damage her.

"You think it is going to blow, Daddy?"

"Aye, sonny, that it is. Night will come on, too, long hours before its time. Ah, boy, we'll have to pray for those at sea to-night! I hope your friends will not think of leaving Lewis."

"You have seen them, father?"

"Aye, boy, aye. They passed the island almost within hail of me, in a half-deck boat, which I think must have been hired at Portree."

"And was little Matty there?"

"Yes, lad, and her father and mother, and a boy older than you—though not so brave-looking."

The old hermit put his hand fondly on young Creggan's curly head as he spoke. No father could have been fonder of a son than was he of this motherless bairn.

"But, dear boy, you haven't come empty-handed, I see."

"No; I never had a better forenoon among the trout. Look!"

From under a thwart of the boat forward, Creggan lugged forth and held up for admiration, a string of crimson-spotted mountain trout that would have caused many a Cockney sportsman to bite his lips with envy.

The old man smiled, patted the boy once again, then hand in hand—such was their habit—they took their way along the winding path which led to the hut.

Oscar had been at home all day, but he now came bounding out with many a joyous bark, to welcome his master back. More quietly, too, though none the less sincerely did Gilbert, a huge, red tabby cat, bid the boy welcome, rubbing his great head against Creggan's stocking and purring loudly, while from the inner recesses of the hut a voice could be heard shouting:

"Come in, Creggan! Come in, come in!"

It was the voice of no human being, however, but that of a beautiful gray parrot, who had been the hermit's companion since ever he had taken up his residence on this little isle of the ocean.

The afternoon wore away quickly enough, as afternoons always do when one is busy. And Creggan had hooks to busk, and his foster-father was busy mending nets.

But the sun set at last, in lurid fiery clouds, over the hills of Harris, and soon after those very clouds, dark and threatening now, began to bank up and roll forward over the sea, on the wings of a moaning wind, shortening the twilight and obscuring the rising stars that had already begun to twinkle in the east.

The beacon had not been lit for many weeks, but to-night the hermit seemed to take extra pains with it, and as soon as the shadows of night fell over the sea its red glimmer shone far over the darkling waves, on which already white horses had begun to appear.

Bleak and cold blew the wind, too, for in these northern climes summer is not always the synonym for warmth of weather.

But supper and prayers over, the two Crusoes, as we well might term them, drew closer round the fire. Even Polly asserted her right to join the circle.

"Poor Polly!" she cried; "poor dear old, old Polly! Polly wants to come!"

Then Creggan carried her cage forward and placed it in a corner, where the firelight might dance and flicker on it. Collie curled up in front of the fire, and close beside him Gibbie the cat sat down. And before seating himself near to his foster-father's big easy-chair, the boy handed him his pipe, and not that alone, but a fine old fiddle that he took from a green baize bag which hung upon the wall.

"And now," said Creggan; "now, dear Daddy, I feel just very happy, but I'm not quite sure yet what I shall make you do. You shall sing, anyhow, over the fiddle, some fine old sea-song, father, that will bring right up before me all the romance of your early days, just as this little book of Ossian's poems makes me think I am living in the olden times, and can hear the clang and crash of battle, or the sweet notes of harps sounding low and sweet in halls by the stormy sea."

"Verily, boy, you are a poet yourself. Ah, lad, when you enter life all will be stern reality!"

"I never want to enter life, Daddy dear; I want always, always to be here with you on our own little island home. But listen, Daddy, was that not a scream? There again?"

"Nay, boy, nay, it is but the cry of some storm-frightened night-bird rising shrill and high over the wail of the wind and dash of the waves. Yet may Heaven in its mercy protect any craft on a lee shore to-night!"

But Creggan felt uneasy, and for quite a long time he sat in silence, while the hermit, gazing quietly into the blazing fire as he smoked, seemed to recall many a strange event in his former life.

Suddenly Creggan sprang up. He had keen ears. The dog ran towards the door at the same time, barking aloud.

For adown the wind, twice repeated, had floated the sharp sound of a rifle or gun.

"Oh, Daddy," cried Creggan, now pale with agitation, "some ship or boat is on the Whaleback rocks out yonder! That was a signal of distress."

"Then, boy, we must give all the assistance in our power, and if in doing so we die, we shall die doing our duty. Light the great hurricane-lamp. Keep calm, lad; while there is life there is hope."

Next minute both stood together on the edge of the cliff that pointed nor'ard and west, while behind them on a pole was fixed the hurricane-lamp.

What a wild turmoil of a sea was down below. As each white wave dashed against the beetling rocks, high upwards almost to their feet rose the singing seething water. But at present the sky was not wholly overcast. There were rifts among the scudding, hurrying clouds, and now and then the moon shone through.

"Look! look!" cried Creggan. "Can you see it, Daddy? High and dark on Lorna's rock! The boat, the boat, with the waves sweeping past and over it!"

The hermit passed his hand across his brow and eyes, and strained forward to gaze into the darkness.

Just then the moon cast a pale glimmer across the waves, and every line of the stranded boat stood darkling out against a background of white and stormy water.

The old man shuddered.

"Heaven be near to help us, boy," he cried, "but yonder is the Nugents' boat!"

CHAPTER III.
THE STORM.

Never would I dare to detract from the glory and honour that hangs, halo-like, around the memory of one of our nation's heroines—poor Grace Darling; but there are deeds done along the shores of this land of ours every winter, ay, and every summer too, that, although they shine not in story, are as bravely undertaken and as courageously carried out as that rescue at the Longstone lighthouse.

Though the hermit was white as to hair, though his beard flowed backwards now in the breeze like a silver stream as he stood in the glare of the hurricane-lamp, he was not an aged man. Every limb was straight, every muscle was strong, and his lowered brows nearly hid eyes that burned like living coals as he stood there on the cliff-top, pointing towards the doomed and stranded boat.

"Creggan, my lad," he cried, "we may not be able to save a single life, but our duty lies plain before us—we shall try!"

He unfastened the lamp and swung it to and fro for a spell, as if to give heart to those on board, then hastened with it down to the beach, closely followed by Creggan.

Not only was there here, in a little rock-bound cove, Creggan's own skiff, but one of far broader beam, one with a sturdy keel, and encircled as to its outside with a great and thick band of cork. The old man called it his lifeboat, and it had done duty more than once before, but never perhaps on so wild and stormy a night as this.

It was quickly launched now, and, being to the manner born, Creggan seized the tiller and the hermit took the oars.

Every rock around the islet was well-known to both. The lamp was hung aloft on a morsel of mast that was stepped near to the fore thwart, and cast its red glare on the seas ahead as well as on the faces of these daring heroes.

Once beyond the protection of the black jutting rocks, it was all that M'Vayne could do—strong though his arms were—to keep the boat from broaching-to, but soon he got weigh on her and then the rudder told.

But how the wind howled, and how the seething, angry waves dashed over them! Sometimes the bows were tossed clean out of the water, and it seemed for a second or two that she would go down stem first into the trough of the sea; and as that wave went racing past her, down dashed the bows again with a slapping sound that could be heard high over the roar of the wind.

CREGGAN KEPT THE BOAT HEAD-ON TO EACH THREATENING WAVE

Not a word was spoken. Not a word could have been heard in the turmoil, unless it were shrieked. Yet Creggan knew enough to keep her head on to each advancing, threatening wave. Neither the fury of the tempest nor the anger of the curling waves frightened him. He felt in that state of exultation which danger never fails to raise in the hearts of the truly brave, and beside which fear finds no place.

So sturdily did the hermit row, that in less than twenty minutes' time—and this did not seem long—the boat was well to windward of the stranded craft.

The danger now was great. To bear down on the wave-tops and get alongside seemed almost a hopeless task.

But although she shipped some water she came bravely round, and went heading inland now, like a bird adrift on the ocean tide.

The Skyemen on board the stranded craft saw her, and did not require to be told to throw a rope. Next minute it seemed—so quickly did the minutes fly—that the tiny lifeboat was alongside and fast.

"Quick now!" shouted the hermit. "Lower down the ladies and the boy. We can only manage three. Bear a hand, my lads. Bear a hand!"

It seemed in answer to the hermit's prayers that at this moment a lull in the storm took place, and the moon shone out bright and clear over the tempestuous sea.

Nevertheless, the labour of getting the trembling lady and frightened little Matty on board was most dangerous, and had to be undertaken with the greatest caution.

Nugent shouted to his son Willie to go next, but the brave boy positively refused to get over the side until the boat returned from the shore when his father had landed. His father must go first, he said.

She did return, and then took off young Nugent and two seamen, all she could stow away with safety. There was but one man left in the lugger now.

Alas, for his fate!

Just as M'Vayne's boat was once more leaving the beach, a heavier squall than any that yet had swept over the sea dashed her back and beached her. When the wind subsided somewhat she was once more launched, but had not proceeded far from the shore when she found herself surrounded by wreckage.

Just for one moment, in the side of a darkling wave and in a glimpse of moonlight, a white face could be seen and a raised arm.

That was all, and the unfortunate fisherman's body was never found.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Everything possible was done for the comfort of Matty and her mother and father. A bigger fire was made up, and from his cupboard, honest, kind-hearted Tomnahurich brought forth refreshments for them as they sat before the roaring fire to get dry and warm. The hermit even made tea for his guests, a luxury he seldom indulged in himself, or Creggan either. Then he said "Good-night", blessed them in his semi-patriarchal kind of way, and left with Willie Nugent. They reached the bottom of the cliff by the zigzag path safely enough, though the spray dashed over them in sheets of white and blinding foam. It was indeed a fearful night.

The boat had already been secured, and when they entered the cave they found that a good fire had already been lit by Creggan, and was roaring up the rude chimney that led into a cleft in the rocks.

For a long time the hermit, with the two seamen and Willie and Creggan, sat around the fire, talking low during a lull in the storm, or remaining silent and awe-struck when the huge waves boomed and crashed against the rocks, seeming to shake the very island to its foundations.

Sorrow induces sleep, and at last all turned in on beds of heather, and the events of this terrible night were forgotten.

Morning broke, bright and clear, but still the storm raged on.

Skyemen, like most Highlanders, are very superstitious, and one of these honest fishermen declared that he had slept but little, for every now and then he had heard poor Matheson—the drowned sailor—calling, calling, calling from the deep.

The hermit assured him that it was but the scream of the frightened sea-birds.

"Och and och no, Mr. Tomnahurich. Mind you, I'll no be sayin' it was Matheson himself—it was his wraith, sure and sure enough!"

Prayers were row said, and a hymn sung to that beautiful old melody called "Martyrdom", the hermit leading with his clear and manly voice, which many a night, when far at sea, had been heard high over the raging storm and the dash of angry seas:—

"Take comfort, Christians, when your friends
In Jesus fall asleep;
Their better being never ends:
Why then dejected weep?

"Why inconsolable as those
To whom no hope is given?
Death is the messenger of peace,
And calls the soul to heaven."

All seemed more cheerful after this, and breakfast was cooked and eaten with relish.

Then the hermit and the two boys, who were already great friends, ascended the cliff. They met Nugent, and were glad to hear that Matty and her mother were well and happy. They had been told nothing about the lost sailor.

"There will be no getting on shore to-day, I fear," said Mr Nugent.

The hermit shook his head and pointed to the seething sea, on which white horses[[1]] were riding.

[[1]] White horses=the spume on the breaking waves.

"No, sir, no," he said; "but we have plenty of food and plenty of fire. Heaven be praised!"

Tomnahurich all that day laid himself out to please his guests. He did all the cooking himself; and the food was by no means to be despised, for the old man was plentifully supplied with stores from shore, Creggan being the purchaser. Well, they had fish and bacon, and the eggs of sea-birds, so beautiful in colour and markings that Nugent said it was almost a sin to break them. The fish were of the best, for off the rocks mullet can be caught with rod and line. Rock pigs these delightful little seafarers are called.

They had potatoes, butter, and, last but not least, beautiful lobsters. What more could anyone expect on a hermit's isle?

When the sun went down the storm lulled somewhat, but it was thought advisable to remain one more night on the island.

After an early supper in the hut, and, the cave also, where the fishermen remained as troglodytes—if you don't know this word, dear young reader, take your dictionary and look it up;—after an early supper, I say, the hermit went down the cliff and returned soon.

"I'm going to bring up my wife," he said with a quiet smile.

"Your wife, Mr. M'Vayne!" cried Mrs. Nugent in astonishment. "Have you a wife, then? We will be delighted to see her."

"That you shall, and hear her too. Her voice is sweetness itself."

There was a roguish smile playing about his eyes as he departed.

Creggan was in a corner near the fire talking low to Matty, Pussy was curled up beside Collie (Oscar), and Polly was making droll remarks to all, when Tomnahurich entered with his "wife".

He carried her in a green baize bag. A strange place to stow away a wife in, it must be admitted.

"Have you brought Mrs. M'Vayne?"

"Yes," said the hermit, "and here she is!"

As he spoke he opened the green baize bag, and pulled out his Cremona fiddle.

He smiled, but he sighed as well. "Och hey!" he said; "this is the only wife I have now!"

But sweet was the music he brought from that old fiddle. Sweet and plaintive at first. Then he sang over it,—grand old sea-songs in which his listeners could fancy they heard the "coo" and the "moan" of the waves, as they dashed along the quarter of some gallant ship, far, far at sea.

Then looking up, and thinking he was making the young folks a trifle triste or sad, he burst into such a rattling cheery sailor's hornpipe, that the children laughed aloud in spite of themselves, while Polly danced for joy on her perch, uttering every now and then that real Irish "whoop!" which used to be heard at Donnybrook Fair.

* * * * * * * * * * *

That evening, as all sat in a wide circle around the fire-peats and wood, and after a momentary lull in the conversation, Mrs. Nugent addressed the hermit.

"Mr. M'Vayne," she said, "I noticed that you sighed deeply when you took your violin from its bag. Now, I know yours may be a sad story, but will you not tell it to us?"

"Oh, tell us a stoly!" cried bonnie Matty, clapping her tiny hands.

"I have never told my story to anyone hereabouts yet," said the hermit; "not even to my sonny, Creggan Ogg. But," he added, "when ladies ask, what can I do but obey."

"Well, light your pipe."

"May I?"

"Certainly."

The hermit smoked for a minute or two, looking into the fire, as if to renovate his memories of the past.

Then he began.

CHAPTER IV.
STORY OF THE SKYE CLEARINGS.

"I must be brief, madam," the hermit began, as he glanced at a little "wag-at-the-wa'",[[1]] "for night comes on apace."

[[1]] A small clock, with weights and pendulum exposed, that is hung against the wall.

"I was born, then, in Skye, and not fifty miles from the spot where I and Creggan here now live."

"You were born in Skye," interrupted Mrs. Nugent, "and yet you never go on shore!"

"Ah, madam! there is a reason for that, which I will presently tell you. But for just one day I shall go, I hope, before I die, and visit a green and lonesome grave close to the cliffs where the sea-birds scream, and where, for ever and for aye, one can hear the moan of the waves—the sweet, sad song of the sea.

"I was born in a beautiful glen, and down near to the beach was my father's cottage, only one of many that clustered here and there, forming a village without either street or lane, and more like the towns one sees in Madagascar than anything else. We were all poor enough, goodness knows, but still we were happy. Our farms were mere crofts, and we tilled only the tops of the ridge with the wooden plough, or what is called the crooked spade. We paid but little rent, it is true, but our wants were easily satisfied. We were called lazy by visitors who in summer passed through the glen. We were not. For well we knew that if we improved our land as some did, the grasping landlord would at once raise our rent.

"We were—and many Skyemen are to this day—in a condition of serfdom. The old feudal system still existed, and we had even to leave our own corn standing until we cut down and stooked that on the minister's large and beautiful glebe. For this we received nothing, and often before we were finished at the manse, a wild, wet storm would come on and our own little patches of grain would be spoiled.

"So far was feudalism carried, that the first and choicest of the fish we caught, whether mullet or saith or codling, had to be given to the minister, and the best of the crabs and lobsters also. In return for this the minister visited the sick, with medicine in his pocket—salts and senna or a nauseous pill. But he never brought food. And many an old man or woman, aye, and many an innocent child died, not of disease, but of sheer starvation, although the minister's barns and stackyards, and the landlord's also, were full to overflowing.

"It was not from choice that we dwelt in those windowless huts, with a raised stone in the centre, around which the fire was built, with simply a hole in the roof to let out the eye-racking smoke when it chose to go.

"But in dark, dreary winters those roof-holes not only permitted a little smoke to escape, but the snow to drift in. The soft, powdery snow also sifted in under the door, and through the apertures in the eaves which did duty as windows.

"It was no uncommon thing for some of these huts to be entirely buried in the snow. When one or two neighbours escaped they dug the rest out. For water we often had to melt the snow.

"Food? Well, madam, in summer we were not so badly off; we had oatmeal and fish and a herring harvest. But in some icy winters, when we couldn't launch a boat, and when fishing from the rocks was useless, as the mullet refused to bite, we lived principally on oatmeal—often bad at the best,—and limpets that we gathered from the great black rocks when the tide was back. They are poor eating, but we gathered dulse from the boulders, roasted it with a red-hot poker, and ate it with the limpets. At every door you would have seen a large pile of empty limpet-shells, that told of the poverty within.

"My father's hut was one of two rooms. Our two cows were turned into one at night and we occupied the other. There were many other huts with two rooms and a cow, or perhaps more than one. Often the dividing partition between the cow's room and the family apartment was but a few ragged old Highland plaids hung upon a rope.

"They used to say that the breath of the kine and the smoke were healthy, and kept us all strong and hardy. Well, as a boy I preferred the fresh air. I got plenty of this, because every day it was my duty to collect all the cattle in the village, after they had been milked, and, assisted by two honest collie dogs, drive them far away to the uplands for pasture. Would you believe it, madam, that even this privilege was finally taken from us, and there being but little herbage in the glen, many of us had to take our cows to Portree and sell them? Yes, our homes were miserable enough; but still they were homes, and we dearly loved them—loved the seas that swept the craggy shores, loved the green braes, the rocks and cliffs, and the grand old hills that frowned brown o'er all the scene. For home is home, be it ever so humble.

"Well, I grew up to manhood. Both father and mother were now dead, and when one day the neighbours saw me and some friends start building a better sort of hut, they smiled to each other, nodded and winked. They knew what was coming. True enough, for I loved sweet Mary Gray as I believe only Highlanders can love. I won't bother you with this part of my history. But I just went on building my house. You see it was like this, madam. Many of the lads of the glen went every year to the herring-fishery at Peterhead, and thus we saved a little money; why, I even got real glass windows from Portree, and had a real chimney in my hut, chairs, and a good bed. I built also a byre for my two cows, so that I was considered the richest man in the glen.

"Then one day Mary and I got married, and I'm sure that when we were settled in our home there was no more happy couple in all the glen, or in any other glen. I had no ambition then. I only wanted to live and die in our cottage by the sea. And I used to take down my fiddle, a gift from an Englishman whom I had saved from drowning, and sing over it such love ditties as this."

And the hermit played:

"O, whar was ye sae[[2]] late yestreen,
My bonnie Jeannie Gray?
Your mither missed you late at e'en,
And eke at break o' day."

* * * * * * * *

"Dear sister, sit ye doon by me,
And let nae body ken,
For I hae promised late yestreen
To wed young Jamie Glen."

[[2]] To English boys. 'Sae' and 'hae' are pronounced 'say' and 'hay', and in all Scotch words ending in '-ae' the 'ae' sounds like 'ay'.

"Well, time wore on; a year and a half—Oh, what a happy time! Then a beautiful child saw the light of day, and our joy was trebled. But about three months after this came a bolt from the blue—an order that every man, woman, and child was to clear out of the glen.

"We would have a free passage to America, but the glen was wanted as a sheep-farm.

"What wailing and anguish there was now in every hut and hamlet!

"But the men were furious. They would take no notice of the cowardly edict. They could not, would not, leave their Highlands.

"Another month went past, and then half a dozen men from Portree arrived with summonses and delivered them. These long blue letters were torn from their hands, rent in pieces, and thrown fluttering on the breeze. The men tried to use their sticks. There was a battle, but a brief one. The minions of an unjust law were soundly thrashed, and two were thrown into a pond. They were glad to get away with their lives, I think.

"Police were sent next, and a more terrible fight ensued. Many of our brave glensmen were wounded, but eventually this enemy also had to beat a speedy retreat.

"Nothing more happened for three weeks, and we were beginning to think we should be left in the peaceful possession of our bonnie glen. But one day, much to our surprise, a small steamer cast anchor in the bay, and on her deck were redcoats. Alas! I knew now the grief had come. But still we determined to resist to the bitter end. Bitter it was bound to be, for it was a cold, bleak day in early winter.

"We speedily placed heaps of stones where they would be handiest.

"The fight lasted till nearly darkling. We kept well beyond reach of the fixed bayonets, and battered the soldiers severely with stones. Again and again the order was given to charge. But these fellows might as well have tried to follow Highland deer on foot as lithe and active Skyemen like us.

"At last the order was given to fire, and two of our poor fellows were stretched bleeding on the grass.

"The end had come. What is a stone-armed mob against soldiers with ball cartridge!

"So we gave in, and I myself advanced with a white rag tied to my stick as a flag of truce.

"But the officer in charge was furious. He must do his duty, he said. He had dallied too long. Out we must turn. He would give us an hour to save any small articles we valued, no more.

"Oh, madam, fancy the sadness of that night! The old, the young, and the infirm were turned forth into the bleak cold of a wind-swept glen. The sick were carried out in blankets, and put down on the bare green braes to die or to live.

"Then at midnight every hamlet was fired, and the glen was lit up by a blood-red blaze that tipped even the distant hills with carmine, while tongues of flame, mounting every moment higher and higher, seemed to lick up the rolling clouds of smoke, while showers of sparks, thick as flakes of snow in a winter's storm, were carried far away to leeward.

"I was dazed. I knew not what to do. I knelt beside my poor Mary, but she spoke not. How cold her hand was! And her face. 'Ah,' I shrieked, 'my wife, my wife is dead!'

"I remember nothing more. I had fainted, but in the dusk of the morning I recovered my senses. Not only was Mary dead, but poor baby had rolled over her on to the grass, and there lay stark and stiff."

Tears were trickling down the hermit's cheeks, and it was some time before he felt fit to continue his story.

"Ah, madam," he said, "that was a sad morning. The people of the glen, I could just see, were all loaded on to that steamer, which was to bear them away, far away across the broad Atlantic. I could hear their weeping and wailing, I could see the women wringing their hands and the men tearing their hair as they gazed on the land they should never see again. The soldiers, too, were on board, and steam up. Speedily she rounded the cape, and I was left alone with the dead.

"All that day I lay beside Mary and baby, and all the next bleak, cold night. The people that crowded in kindness to the deserted glen could not get me to move.

"But next day I consented to have my darlings buried.

"And there they lie, and my heart lies also in that shallow grave.

"Since then, madam, and until I came to this island, my life has been one of constant wandering by land and on the sea. I am a good sailor, but I have also been gold-miner, treasure-hunter, and pearl-fisher by turns. Anything that could give me excitement and help me to forget was new life to me, so my career has been a chequered one.

"I have made a little money, and that is safe. But at long last an indescribable longing to visit dear old Skye seized me, and I returned to Glasgow. Here I bought a boat, and having been offered a passage as far as Skye in a sailing ship, which, however, did not mean to put in there, I gladly accepted it, buying stores, &c., and feeling that if it were possible I should get a site for a house however humble, and live once more near to baby's and Mary's lonely grave.

"Well, my heart failed me at the last moment, and when the kindly skipper lowered my boat and stores and bade me farewell, instead of rowing to the glen I landed here with my parrot. And here I have been ever since, and here I may remain, madam, till God calls me. I am willing to live, but I am also ready to die.

"And my sonny here,"—he put an arm over Creggan's shoulder as he spoke,—"who came to me in so strange a way, and has been such comfort to me, he, I say, must go out into life soon and see the world.

"Hush, lad, hush! You must have a career—you must be a sailor!

"Why," he added, "you may yet clear up the mystery of your childhood. But come, children, I fear I have saddened you;" and once more this strange mortal put his fiddle under his chin, and dashed off into one of the maddest, merriest airs the Nugents had ever listened to.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Next morning all the hermits were landed, Matty being delighted because Creggan took her, and her only, in his skiff.

It was a lovely day now, blue sky above and rippling waves beneath and around, that broke in long white lisping lines on the beach where they landed.

M'Ian and Creggan's two playmates, Rory and Maggie, were delighted to see them all. Their anxiety had been very great, for pieces of wreckage had been washed up on the beach, and they believed that every soul on board the lugger had perished. They dined at the manse, and afterwards Nugent took Creggan aside.

"Come with me for a walk, my boy. I have something to say to you, but I must have you all alone."

So off they went, down along the cliffs, and at last seated themselves on the grass, high above the blue Minch, the summer sunshine sparkling on the sea, and the soft summer wind perfumed with the odour of wild thyme.

CHAPTER V.
A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE.

Mr. Nugent sat down among the wild thyme, and beckoned to Creggan to follow his example.

Then he lit a huge meerschaum, and smoked in silence for a time, gazing thoughtfully far over the Minch at the mountains of Harris, that lay like clouds of blue on the horizon.

"Now boy," he said at last, "I'm a plain-spoken man. You were instrumental in saving my life, my wife's, and dear Matty's. How can I reward you? Not with money, I know. You couldn't have lived so long in Skye without being proud."

He smiled as he spoke, afraid apparently of offending the brave and spirited lad.

"Well, sir, I don't want any reward at all, I only did my duty, and the hermit has often told me that when I clearly saw my duty, I was to go straight for it, through thick and thin. But, sir—"

He paused, looking shy.

"Well, lad?"

"You may lend me a book to read."

Mr. Nugent took his pipe out of his mouth to laugh aloud.

"A book, my boy! A book for saving all our lives! Ha, ha, ha! This is really too amusing.

"But, tell me," he added, "what you would like to be?"

"Nothing at all. Just live on the island with Daddy."

"Nonsense, that will never do."

"Well, sir, I suppose I must leave Daddy and Oscar, but if I do, I shall go to sea, before the mast."

"That will never do either. Now, your hermit Daddy told me that he had gold, and that all was yours. I have not very much gold, but, lad, I have influence, much influence, and it is into the Royal Navy you must go as a brave cadet, and if you keep up your self-respect and never give way to temptations, I feel certain your career will be a brilliant one. What do you say?"

There was a big lump in Creggan's throat, and as he gazed across the Minch he could see his dear island home only through a mist of tears.

But he turned bravely round and said to Nugent:

"Thank you, sir; I will go into the navy and try to do my duty."

"Well, that is spoken right manfully. Leave all the rest to me. All you have got to do is to continue your studies; but take plenty of open air exercise as well, for in the service they like strong hardy boys."

Then he shook hands with Creggan and rose to go.

"We will be three weeks longer in this wild and romantic island, and during that time you'll be our guide, won't you?"

"That I will, sir," said Creggan, his eyes all in a sparkle now. "I'll show you everything, and Matty can always ride on the Shetland pony. Can't she?"

"You young rascal," replied Mr. Nugent laughing. "I believe you have fallen in love with my little Matty!"

Creggan blushed, but spoke out straightforwardly.

"I don't know about love, sir. I love Oscar and Daddy, but I like Matty so very, very much. To be sure she is a child; but she is pretty, and talks just like a linnet."

"Well, well, boy, the sea will soon drive all that out of your noddle."

So they parted, and soon Creggan's little skiff was dancing over the wavelets, her prow turned towards Kilmara.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Dear boy readers, I hope that many of you will one day visit the Island of Wings—Skye. I've travelled the world around, but I have never yet landed on a wilder or more romantic island. I have no idea of describing the grandeur of its scenery. Walter Scott himself were he alive could not do that; but if I now close my eyes just for a moment, it rises before me, its mountains towering far into the blue of the skies; its thousand-feet-high cliffs; its bonnie bosky glens; its long stretches of heath-clad moorland; its streams; its torrents; its castles, mostly ruins, that carry the thoughts back and away into the long forgotten feudal past; and, last but not least, its dark tarns or lochs, and the awful desolation of some of its cañons.

But independent of the wildness of its scenery, Skye is not only a man's paradise as regards sport, but a boy's as well, if he is fond of fishing. The dark lakes abound in trout, and all around the island the sea is alive with fish.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was not only for three weeks, but four, that the Nugents remained on the island, and happy weeks indeed they were to Creggan, and I'm sure to Matty also. The bracing sea breezes that blew across the hills and braes had heightened her colour, and she now looked more like a fairy than ever. Only, as a rule fairies don't ride on Shetland ponies through the bonnie crimson heather.

Many a dark night at sea while keeping the middle watch, when hardly a sound was to be heard, except now and then the nap of a great sail overhead, or the dreary cry of some belated sea-bird, did Creggan's thoughts revert to those days he had spent in the Island of Wings with the Nugents.

And when the stars were shining overhead, so big, so clear, and so close that it seemed as if the main-truck could touch them, the sailor-boy used to hope, aye, and pray, that he might be spared to go back to Skye, to see old Daddy, and to meet the Nugents—especially Matty—once again.