The Cruise of the Snowbird: A Story of Arctic Adventure

The cruise of the Snowbird had begun in earnest.

The breeze was light, but well aft, so all sail was clapped on her, and with her head north and by east, she glided slowly onwards as if loth to leave the land. We will take this opportunity of having a look over the goodly yacht, that is destined to be the home of our heroes for many a day to come.

The Snowbird then was a schooner-yacht of nearly two hundred tons, as well fitted and found for cruising in the northern seas as ingenuity could make her. Rising and falling, rocking and nodding on the waves, with her white canvas spread out to the breeze, she looked a very pretty craft indeed. She had just enough free-board and enough breadth of beam to make her safe and comfortable in a sea-way. Her hull was painted black, her ports only being picked out with vermilion; her masts were rakish, but not too much so; her jibboom had the graceful bend that sailors love to see, and every bit of her rigging, fore and aft, running and standing, was as taut and trim as hands could make it, or eyes wish to gaze upon.

Her deck was flush both fore and aft, with never a cabin or house thereon, for the seas they would probably ship, in the wild ocean they were about to traverse, would be little likely to brook obstruction. Her decks were as white as snow, her brass-work shone like burnished gold, her binnacle would have been an ornament even in a drawing-room, every rope-end was neatly coiled, and not a bar nor a marling-spike was out of its place.

Light and graceful though the Snowbird appeared, she was nevertheless well fortified and strong. Hers was a double skin, one that would be likely to resist the dread embrace of the ice king, while her bows were of triple strength, and shod with bars of steel. Her ballast was water in unshiftable iron tanks. Her boats were three in number, but of these I may speak again, merely saying here that they were unique of the kind.

Let us go between decks and have a look at the living-rooms. Entering by the after companion, then, we find ourselves in the passage that leads to the dining-saloon. Here are the cabins of Ralph and Rory, and, as the door of each stands invitingly open, we take a peep in. They are large and roomy; the sofas are covered with crimson velvet, the curtains on the berths are of the same colour, and the pillows and counterpanes therein are white as the driven snow. There is a bookshelf in each, filled with the owner’s favourite authors, a little swing table, and a silver spring-candlestick hung in gymbals, and the nattiest of marble basin-stands; there is every comfort and luxury in these cabins, and the bulkheads are adorned with pictures, and, wonderful to say, these cabins do not even smell of varnish – no, but of sweet spring flowers, and I need not tell you who placed the vases there. Passing forward we enter the saloon (see plan). Here is a comfortable table, luxurious ottoman, side-board, cushioned lockers, chairs, and stove, and everywhere around us taste and luxury are displayed. It was the hand of an artist that painted those panels, that devised and positioned the mirrors, and that hung those polished circular swing-tables, radiant as the rainbow with sparkling coloured glass – there are three of these in all, and so cunningly are they devised that they look like bouquets of beautiful flowers pendent from stems of sterling silver. The hanging lamps, ay, and even the stoves and coal-vases in this saloon and in the drawing-room, were works of art, but space warns me that I must enlarge no more on the fittings of the rooms; in a word, then, comfort and refinement reigned supreme in the between decks of the Snowbird.

The third mate and old Ap, with the second officer of the ship, had a mess-place to themselves, and very snug it was. The men messed forward, and here, in the forecastle, a few hammocks were hung at night, but the bulk of the crew slept under, where was plenty of room for bunks, and plenty of warmth, with no lack of ventilation. The cooking-range, or galley-fire, was abaft the foremast, adjoining Ap’s room and that of the steward and third mate; and at sea, around this same galley-fire, both men and second officers would find a snug retreat in many a long, long winter’s night in the stormy regions of the north; for here, when the ship was snug, they would gather together and spin many a yarn about their own adventurous lives, and their homes far away in Scotland.

But, so far as our heroes were concerned, the snuggest corner of the ship was the drawing-room right aft. Here was the library, and here the piano, and a stove in the centre of the room, that all could sit around and make themselves happy and generally jolly.

Captain McBain’s room was next in size to the saloons, as befitted his position.

The crew were twenty hands all told. Ap was boatswain and carpenter; our friend Peter was steward. In addition to his duties as captain or master of the yacht, McBain had been duly elected supercargo. He had seen to the victualling department, and the catering for all hands, both fore and aft. Rory got hold of his list one morning, and from the extracts he read therefrom to his companions, it was evident that Captain McBain had done his work right well.

“Why,” said Rory, “I wouldn’t mind a bit living forward among the crew, for, in addition to preserved meats, and biscuits and butter, and barley, and bacon and beans, they have pork and potatoes, and pepper, and pickles, and peas, and raisins for pudding, and suet for dumplings, and oatmeal and sugar, and coffee and tea. But oh! boys! aren’t we going to live like fighting-cocks! We have all the good things they’ve got forward, and lots of cabin luxuries besides – potted milk and potted meats, and potted fish of every name, and almonds and arrowroot, and curries and capers, and all kinds of fruit, and jellies and jams galore. But what is this? I can understand the dried herbs and celery seed, but Birmingham wares! Old guns and beads!”

It was McBain’s turn to laugh, as poor Rory, with a puzzled countenance, looked beseechingly at him for an explanation.

“Indeed,” was his reply, “it is those same old guns and those beads we’ll maybe have to eat when our stock of fresh provisions wears down.”

“Oh! I see,” said Rory, a light suddenly breaking in on him. “You mean we’ll barter them with the natives for food.”

“Just so.”

“Just so; and here is an item that proves how good an officer you are, Captain McBain. You are like a king, indeed, who is mindful of the welfare and necessities of even his meanest subjects. The item speaks for itself: Dog biscuits, ten sacks.”

Yes, reader, for independent of the crew all told there were on board two passengers of the race canine – namely, honest Oscar, the Saint Bernard, and Spunkie, the wildest and weirdest-looking Skye terrier that ever barked in the kennels at Arrandoon. These two dogs lived in the forecastle, and very useful they ultimately proved, as the sequel will show.

Two days more and our heroes had gathered on the quarter-deck, to have the last look they would have for a long time on their native land.

Most of them gazed in silence at the rugged and wild scene to windward. Their hearts were rather full to speak; but Rory, leaning on the taffrail – he were nothing unless he were romantic, so he must needs say, or sigh, or sing, I do not know which it was, —

“‘Farewell to the land of the rock and the wild wood,The hill and the forest, and proud swelling wave,To the land where bliss smiled on the days of our childhood, —Farewell to dear Scotland, the land of the brave.’”

Then the breeze freshened, and the sails flapped as she leaned steadily over to it.

“Keep her away,” cried McBain, waving his hand to the helmsman.

And when they came on deck again, after dinner that evening, great seas were rolling in from the Pentland Firth, from which came the glorious wind. Nor was there any land visible in the west, where the sun was dipping down into the waves like a great vermilion shield, his beams making a bright red pathway betwixt them and the horizon. Long grey clouds were floating in the sky above, clouds of a dark and bluish grey, and yet every cloud was bound with a fringe of silver and gold.

Ere darkling some sails were taken in, and a couple of reefs in the mainsail, but shortened even thus the good yacht seemed to fly over the waves, bounding along like a thing of life, as if she positively loved the sea and felt made for it, but in all her glee she behaved herself well, and hardly shipped a drop of water.

Next morning there was a terrible noise and row on deck, and a dire rattling of chains, and a shouting of words of command, and when Rory ran up to see what was the matter he found that the anchor had just been let go, and that they were lying in Bressay Sound, right abreast of the strangely picturesque little town of Lerwick.

“As soon,” said Captain McBain, “as we’ve had breakfast we’ll go on shore. You can make the best of your time, and enjoy yourselves all you can. There is lots to see, and ponies to ride that I reckon will tax all your equestrian powers, but mind you’re off by three o’clock. There is nothing to keep us here, and we’ll weigh again this afternoon.”

“But aren’t you going to be with us?” asked Rory.

“Nay, boy, nay,” replied McBain. “I go to pick up another passenger; and one, too, whose presence on board is bound to affect for evil or for good our voyage to the far north.”

“Dear me!” said Rory, “a bit of mystery, is it? Well, that makes it all the more romantic; but get ready, boys, get ready. I, for one, mean to make a regular forenoon of it. I want to see the pony I can’t ride, that’s all.”

Chapter Ten

Onshore in Shetland – A Family of Guides – A Wild Ride and a Primitive Lunch – Westward Ho! – Racing a Whale

“What shall we do and where shall we go?” These were the questions which naturally presented themselves for solution to our three heroes, on first stepping out of their boat on Lerwick beach.

“We’ll take a turn up the town,” suggested Allan, “and see the place.”

“And then go and have lunch somewhere,” said Ralph.

“To be sure,” said Rory. “An Englishman will never be long without thinking about eating. But let us take pot-luck for the lunch. We’ll just get a quarter of a dozen of Shetland ponies, that’ll be one to every one of the three of us, and ride away over the island. We’ll fall on our feet, never fear.”

“More likely,” said Allan, with a laugh, “to fall on our heads and break our necks; but never mind, I’m ready.”

There were many listeners to this conversation. The town “loafers” of Lerwick are not a whit more polite than town “loafers” anywhere else, and seeing three smartly-dressed young yachtsmen, evidently the owners of the beautiful vessel that lay at anchor in the harbour, they gathered around them, crowded them in fact, and were profuse in their offers of their services as guides to either town or country. But for the present our friends declined their assistance, and set off on a brisk walk away up the curious straggling narrow street. Here were few shops worth a second look; the houses stand end on to the pavements, not in a straight row, but simply anyhow, and seem to shoulder the passengers into the middle of the road in the most unceremonious fashion. The street itself was muddy and fishy, and they were not a bit sorry when they found themselves out in the open country, quite at the other end of it. By this time they had shaken themselves clear of the crowd, or almost, for they still had four satellites. One of these was quite a giant of a fellow, with a pipe in his mouth and a tree in his right hand by way of a walking-stick, and looking altogether so rough and unkempt that he might have been taken for the presiding genius of this wild island. In striking contrast with this fellow there stood near him a pretty and interesting-looking young girl, with a little peat-creel on her back, and knitting materials in her hand, which betokened industry. She had yellow hair floating, over her shoulders, and eyes as blue as summer seas.

“My daughter, gentlemen,” said the giant, “and here is my son.”

Our heroes could not refrain from laughing when they looked at the latter. Such a mite he was, such a Hop-o’-my-thumb, such a mop of a head, the hair of which defied confinement by the old Tam o’ Shanter stuck on the top of it! This young urchin was rich in rags but wreathed in smiles.

This interesting family were engaged forthwith as guides.

They would all three go, not one would be left behind: the father and son would run, the daughter would ride, and the price of their services would be half-a-crown each, including the use of the ponies.

Oh! these ponies, I do so wish I could describe them to you. They were so small, to begin with, that Ralph and Allan looked quite ridiculous on their backs, for their feet almost touched the ground. Rory looked better on his charger. The ponies’ tails swept the heather, their coats were like the coats of Skye terriers, and their morsels of heads were buried in hair, all save the nose. Cobby as to body were these diminutive horses, and cunning as to eye – that is, whenever an eye could be seen it displayed cunning and mischief.

Rory mounted and rode like a Centaur, the young lady guide sat like a Shetland-queen. But woe is me for Ralph and Allan, – they were hardly on when they were off again. It must be said for them, however, that they stuck to their bridles if they couldn’t stick to the saddles, and again and again they mounted their fiery steeds with the same ignominious results. Two legs seemed enough for those ponies to walk upon, and it did not matter for the time being whether they were, hind legs or fore legs. They could stand, on their heads too, turn somersaults, and roll over on their backs, and do all sorts of pretty tricks.

“It’s only their fun,” cried Rory, “they’ll shake down presently.”

“Shake down!” said Ralph, rubbing his leg with a wry face. “I’m pretty well shaken down. Why, I don’t believe there is a whole bone in my body. – Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

But when the ponies had gone through their performances to their own entire satisfaction, and done quite enough to maintain their name and fame as wild Shetland ponies, they suffered their riders to keep their seats, but tossed their manes in the air, as if to clear their eyesight for the run they were now determined to have.

Then off started the cavalcade, rushing like a hairy hurricane along the mountain road. Swiftly as they went, however, lo! and behold, at every turn of the road the giant and his little boy were visible, the former vaulting along on his pole, the latter running with the speed of a wild deer.

It was early summer in Shetland; the top of lonely Mount Bressay was still shrouded in snow, but all the moorlands were green with grass and heather, and gay with wild hyacinth and crimson-belled bilberry bushes; the light breeze that blew over the islands and across the blue sea was balmy and yet bracing – it was a breeze that raised the spirits; yes, and it did something else, it appealed to the inner man, as Ralph expressed, and so, when after a ride of over a dozen miles a well-known roadside hostelry hove in sight, our heroes positively hailed it with a cheer. What mattered it that the little parlour into which they were shown was destitute of a carpet and possessed of chairs of deal? It was clean and quiet, the tablecloth was spotless as the snows of Ben Rona, the cakes were crisp, the bread was white, the butter was redolent of the fragrant herbage that the cows had browsed, and the rich milk was purer and better far than any wine that could have been placed before them; and when hot and steaming smoked haddocks were added to the fare, why they would not have changed places with a king in his banqueting-hall.

All confessed they had never spent a more enjoyable forenoon. The ride back was especially delightful. Before they left their guides to return on board, little Norna, the giant’s lovely daughter, produced from the mysterious depths of her peat-creel quite a wonderful assortment of gauzy mits and gauntlets, and tiny little shawls, and queer old-fashioned head-dresses, all knitted by her own fair fingers. Of course they bought some of each as souvenirs of their visit to the sea-girdled mainland of Shetland, and they paid for them so liberally too, that the tears stood in the girl’s blue eyes as they bade her good-bye. Norna had never been so rich in her life before.

Captain McBain was in his cabin poring over a chart when our heroes returned.

“Bravo! boys,” he said, heartily; “you’re up to time, and now, as the breeze is from the south with a point or two of east in it, I think we’d better make sail without delay. We’ll work her quietly through the sound. We’ll keep to the south of Yell, but once past Fiedland Point, good-bye to the British Islands for many a day. What more can we wish, boys, than a fair wind and a clear sea, light hearts, and a ship that can go?”

“What more indeed?” said Rory.

“Are we going to touch at Faroe and Iceland?” asked Ralph.

“That,” said McBain, “is, of course, as you wish. I’m at and in your service.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ralph; “but we don’t forget you are our adviser as well, and our sea-father.”

“Well,” replied McBain, “I’ve taken the liberty of writing to your real father to say that we thought it better to leave Faroe out of the chart, for the voyage out, at all events. We don’t know what may be before us, boys, nor how precious time may be.”

That evening about sunset old Ap’s boatswain’s pipe was heard high above the whistling wind; the breeze had freshened, and sail was being taken in, and the starboard courses were hauled farther aft. They passed very close to some of the numerous outlying islands, the last land their eyes would rest upon for some time. The tops of these isles were smooth and green, their sides were beetling cliffs and rocks of brown, with the waves breaking into foam at the foot, and white-winged gulls wheeling high around them. Little sandy alcoves there were too, where dun seals lay basking in the evening sunshine, some of whom lazily lifted their heads and gazed after the yacht, wondering probably whether she were not some gigantic gannet or cormorant. And the Snowbird sailed on and left them to wonder. The sun sank red behind the waves, the stars shone brightly down from a cloudless sky, and the moon’s pale crescent glimmered faintly in the west, while the wind kept steady to a point, the yacht rising and falling on the waves with a motion so uniform, that even Ralph – who, as regards walking, was the worst sailor of the three – felt sure he had his sea-legs, and could walk as well as any Jack Tar that ever went afloat. The night was so fine that no one cared to go below until it was quite late.

They needed their pea-jackets on all the same.

When morning broke there was not a bit of land to be seen, not even a distant mountain top for the eye to rest upon.

“Well, boys,” said McBain, when they all met together on the quarter-deck, “how did you enjoy your first night on blue water? How did you sleep?”

“I slept like a top,” said Rory.

“I believe,” said Allan, looking at Ralph, “we slept like three tops.”

“Like three tops, yes,” assented Ralph.

“Oh! I’m sure you didn’t, Ralph,” said Rory; “I wakened about seven bells in the morning watch, just for a moment, you know, and you were snoring like a grampus. And tops don’t snore, do they?”

“And how do you know a grampus does?” asked McBain, smiling.

“Troth,” said Rory, “it’s a figure of speech entirely.”

“But isn’t Rory getting nautical?” said Ralph; “didn’t you observe he said ‘seven bells’ instead of half-past three, or three-thirty?”

“Three-thirty indeed!” cried Rory, in affected disdain. “Ha! ha! ha! I can’t help laughing at all at all; 3:30! just fancy a fellow talking like an old Bradshaw, while standing on the white deck of a fine yacht like this, with a jolly breeze blowing and all sail set alow and aloft.

“Poor little Ralph!” continued Rory, patting his friend on the shoulder, and looking quizzingly up into his face, “and didn’t he get any letters this morning! Do run down below, Allan, my boy, and see if the postman has brought the morning paper.”

“Hurrah?” shouted Allan, so loudly and so suddenly that every one stared at him in astonishment.

“Hurrah!” he shouted again, this time flinging his cap in true Highland fashion half-way up to the maintop.

“Gentlemen,” he continued, in mock heroic tones, “the last mail is about to leave – the ship, bound for the distant Castle of Arrandoon.”

And away he rushed below, leaving Ralph and Rory looking so comically puzzled that McBain burst out laughing.

“Is it leave of his seven senses,” said Rory, seriously, “that poor Allan is after taking? And can you really laugh at such an accident, Captain McBain? it’s myself that is astonished at you?”

“Ah! but lad,” said McBain, “I’m in the secret.”

Allan was on deck again in a minute.

He was waving a basket aloft.

“Helen’s pigeon, boys! Helen’s pigeon!” he was crying, with the tears actually in his eyes. “I’d forgotten Peter had it till now.”

Ten minutes afterwards the tiny missive, beginning “At sea” and ending “All’s well,” was written, and attached to the strong bird’s leg. It was examined carefully, and carefully and cautiously fed, then a message was whispered to it by Rory – a message such as a poet might send; a kiss was pressed upon its bonnie back, and then it was thrown up, and almost immediately it began to soar.

“The bravest bird that ever cleaved the air,” said Allan, with enthusiasm. “I’ve flown it four hundred miles and over.”

In silence they watched it in its circling flight, and to their joy they saw it, ere lost to view, heading away for the distant mainland of Scotland. Then they resumed walking and talking on deck.

That was about the only incident of their first day at sea. Towards evening a little stranger came on board, and glad he seemed to be to reach the deck of the Snowbird, for he must have been very tired with his long flight.

Only a yellowhammer – the most persecuted bird in all the British Islands – that was what the little stranger was. McBain had caught him and brought him below with him to the tea-table, much to the wonderment of his messmates.

“It is a common thing,” said McBain, “for land birds to follow ships, or rather to be blown out to sea, and take refuge on a vessel.” A cage was constructed for the bird, and it was hung up in the snuggery, or after-saloon.

“That’ll be the sweet little cherub,” said Rory, “that will sit up aloft and look after the life of poor Jack.”

Westwards and northwards went the Snowbird, the breeze never failing nor varying for three whole days. By this time the seagulls that had followed the ship since they left the isles, picking up the crumbs that were cast overboard from the galley, had all gone back home. They probably had wives and little fledgling families to look after, and so could not go any farther, good though the living was.

“When I see the last gull flying far away astern,” said McBain, “then I think myself fairly at sea. But isn’t it glorious weather we are having, boys? I like to begin a voyage like this, and not with a gale.”

“Why?” said Rory, “we’re all sea fast now, we wouldn’t mind it much.”

“Why?” repeated McBain, “everything shakes itself into shape thus, ay, and every man of the crew gets shaken into shape, and when it does come on to blow – and we cannot always expect fine weather – there won’t be half the rolling nor half the confusion there would otherwise be.”

“Give me your glass,” cried Rory, somewhat excitedly; “I see something.”

“What is it?” said Allan, looking in the same direction; “the great sea-serpent?”

“Indeed, no,” replied Rory, “it’s a whale, and he is going in the same direction too.”

“It’s my whale, you know,” continued Rory, when everybody had had a good peep at him, “because I saw him first.”

“Very well,” said McBain, “we are not going to dispute the proprietorship. We wish you luck with your whale; he won’t want to come on board, I dare say, and he won’t cost much to keep out there, at any rate.”

All that day Rory’s whale kept up with the ship; they could see his dark head and back, as he rose and sank on the waves; he was seldom three-quarters of a mile off, and very often much nearer.