Born to Wander: A Boy's Book of Nomadic Adventures

The smuggler smiled.

“We won’t have any killing in the matter, but just answer me one question now, for you are too brave a lad to tell a lie. What do you think we are?”

“Why, smugglers, of course,” replied Leonard. “I have often read of such people as you. Those men make whisky in the cave, and you take it away in a ship and sell it.”

“I see you know about all. Yes, I take this whisky away in a ship to France, where they make it into brandy, and then I bring it back and sell it. Well, you’ve seen so much, and know so much, that I’m going to take you and your sister away in my ship with me.”

“And Ossian?” said Effie, anxiously.

“Well, he can go too. I couldn’t make you into brandy,” he continued, laughing, “else I would, but we will turn you into gold.”

“Oh, sir!” said Effie, with round wondering eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, little Red Riding-Hood. I’m not going to eat you, and you won’t be hurt, and in good time I trust you will be landed once again at your father’s house. Now keep your minds easy. There is a room in there with plenty of skins and plaids, and a lamp burning, where you can sleep soundly and safely till morning.”

“Pray, sir, what about Don and our caravan?”

“I’m going to send one of our brave and gallant fellows back with it to your father’s house.”

“Oh! tell him to haste then, and to be so good to Don,” Effie implored.

“There, there, my little maiden, go to bed, and all will be right.”

The apartment into which this robber captain showed them was well removed from the larger cave. The passage that led to it was so concealed by a door, painted and fashioned so as to resemble the rocks, that no one could have guessed at its existence.

Having bade them good-night, and wished them sound repose and pleasant dreams, Captain Bland left them, and they now began to gaze around them and wonder. Although lofty, it was by no means a very large apartment, but it was furnished in a style of luxuriance that quite astonished our little wanderers. The walls were draped all round with tapestry, the floor covered with thick soft carpets; there were chairs and couches, and a library of books, near which stood a harp, while the light from coloured lamps diffused a soft radiance around. Nor had creature comforts been forgotten, for here, on a little sideboard, stood a joint of meat, a game pasty, and cruets of wine.

“You heard what the robber captain said, didn’t you, Effie? We are quite safe, and I’m hungry. Sit in, Eff, and have some supper. This pasty tastes splendid.”

For a time, however, Effie could not be prevailed upon to eat, but she finally relented so far as to taste a tiny morsel. Then, as eating only wants a beginning, she allowed Leonard to help her freely.

In about half an hour the door of the apartment was opened after a knock, the curtain that hid it was drawn aside, and Captain Bland himself came in.

“Ha!” he said, “I’m glad to see you enjoying yourselves. I’m going away.”

Effie’s face fell, and he noticed it.

“Not for long, my little Red Riding-Hood,” he said, kindly. “I’ll be back early in the morning. I only came to tell you that if you want anything, you are to go to the door at the other end of the passage, and knock. Don’t be afraid. You are quite safe. Good-night, again.”

“Leonard,” said Effie, “that is a good robber, and I’m sorry he has gone. He puts me in mind of the story of the good robber in the Babes in the Wood. I hope there isn’t a bad robber, though, who will want to kill us.”

“We must say our prayers, Eff, and never fear.”

“I wish though, Leonie, that we had not come away so far from home gipsying. Poor papa and mamma – what will they think?”

About two hours afterwards, when both were sound asleep, they were suddenly awakened by a noise in the room. They started from their couches and looked about, Effie terribly frightened, and Leonard just a little. It was a stone dropped from the roof, and there it lay.

“Hist!” cried a voice from above, in a loud whisper, “are you asleep?”

“No,” from Leonard. “Who is it, and where are you?”

“Don’t be afraid; it’s only Zella, the little gipsy lass you saw in the woods when her granny was dying. I am up here outside on the hill, talking down to you through a little hole.”

“Can you take us away out of this place?” asked Leonard.

“No, no, no. I could not even come to you, and if they found me here they would kill me.”

“Well, why did you come?”

“To help you, if possible.”

“What can you do?”

“I can take your donkey and cart, and drive away to your home – I know where it is – and get assistance.”

“But they are going to take us away in a ship.”

“Well, you are safe, so far, only don’t say I came.”

“Oh no!” said Leonard. “We are so thankful. Take poor Don, and hurry away. He will be safe with you.”

“Yes, and I’ll be so good to him.”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

The strangest part, reader, about this little interview, if so it could be called, was that Ossian had never even barked or growled, but lay looking very wise and wagging his long tail.

“I’m sure,” said Effie, “she is a good girl, else Ossian would have been angry.”

They slept again more soundly now, and it was far into the next day before they awoke. Perhaps they would not have wakened even then, had not a knocking at the door aroused them.

“Are you all alive, little ones? Breakfast is waiting.”

It was Captain Bland’s voice.

“Yes, thank you,” cried Leonard; “we’ll soon come out.”

Having finished their toilets, with all speed they hastened to the large cave.

“My men have all gone – only myself here,” said the robber chief, as Effie called him. “Now, dears, eat heartily; you have a long journey before you. By-the-bye, your donkey wandered away somewhere by himself last night. Very likely some farmer has found him. But my men have been sent to look everywhere about, and it is sure to be all right.”

The journey was indeed a long one, for it was nearly evening before they arrived at a little village near the sea. The captain took them into an inn there, and they had an excellent supper, the smuggler chief telling them stories that made them laugh.

“I suppose,” said Leonard, quite bravely, “there is not much chance of our escaping?”

“Not much,” said Captain Bland, laughing. “You’re going to kidnap us, aren’t you?”

“Well, I daresay that is just the word, young sir. And now, if you’re finished, we’ll march; the boat is waiting.”

Once on board the lugger, sail was set immediately, with neither noise nor shouting, and away southward through the darkness, with the stars overhead and the black waves all around, went the smuggler’s lugger Sea-horse.

Book One – Chapter Seven

Life in the Lighthouse

“The winds and the waves of ocean,Had they a merry time?Didst thou hear from those lofty chambersThe harp and the minstrel’s rhyme?“The winds and the waves of ocean,They rested quietly;But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,And tears came to mine eye.”Longfellow.

Scene: A prettily-furnished room in a building that forms part and parcel of a lighthouse, on a small lonely island on the coast. The island is little else save a sea-girt rock, though on one green side of it some sheep are grazing. Effie and Leonard standing by the window, gazing silently and somewhat sadly over the sea.

Effie (speaks). “It is nearly a month, Leonard, since Captain Bland sailed away and left us here. I wonder if he will ever, ever come back.”

Leonard. “Oh! I am quite sure he will, unless – ”

Effie. “Yes, unless his ship is wrecked, and he is drowned, and poor papa never, never knows where we are.”

Leonard (laughing). “Why, Eff, what a long face you pull! It is always ‘ever ever’ or ‘never never’ with you. Now I dreamt last night he would return in a week, and I’m sure he’ll come. No use looking out of the window any longer to-night, Eff. The sun is just going down, and the sea-birds are all going to roost in the cliffs beneath the window. And it is time for the great lamps to be lit. Come on, Eff; let us go up with old Grindlay.”

Effie checked a sigh, cut it in two, as it were, and turned it into a laugh, and next minute both were out on the grass among the sheep, and gazing up at the whitewashed tower, which seemed so very tall to them.

“Ahoy-oy-oy!” sang Leonard, with one hand to his mouth in true sailor fashion. “Are you up there, old shipmate?”

“Ay, lad, ay,” a cheery voice returned. “Come up and bring missie.”

They were pattering up the stone stairs next minute, and soon arrived panting and breathless at the lamp room.

Old Grindlay was there, and had already lit up, and by-and-bye, when darkness fell, the gleam from the great lamps would shine far over the sea, and be seen perhaps by many a ship homeward bound from distant lands. It was very still and quiet up here, only the wind sighing round the roof, the occasional shriek and mournful scream of some sea-bird, and the boom of the dark waters breaking lazily on the rocks beneath. Old Grindlay sat on a little stool waiting for his son to come and keep watch, the two men, with old Grindlay’s “old woman,” as he called his wife, being all that dwelt on the island, and no boats ever visited it except about once a month.

Old Grindlay was kindly-hearted, but terribly ugly. As he sat there winking and blinking at the light, he looked more like a gnome than a human being. His son’s step was heard on the stone stairs at last, and, preceded by a cloud of tobacco smoke, he presently appeared. He was a far more cheerful-looking being than his father, but Leonard and Effie liked the latter better.

“Come, my dears,” said the little gnome, “let us toddle.”

“Keep the lights bright, Harry lad; I think it’s going to blow.”

Down the long stairs they went, and away into the house. The supper was laid in the old-fashioned kitchen, and cheerful it looked; for though it was July a bit of fire was burning on the hearth. It was wreckage they used for fuel here, and every bit of wood could have told a sorrowful, perhaps even tragic story, had it been able to speak.

“Something tells me, children,” said old Mrs Grindlay, as she cleared away the remains of the supper, “that you will not be long here. Hark to the sound of the rising wind! God save all at sea to-night!”

“Amen,” said the gnome.

“Amen,” said Leonard and Effie in one breath.

“Gather close round the fire now, children, and let us feel thankful to the Great Father that we are well and safe.”

The old woman began knitting as she spoke, the gnome replenished the fire with a few more pieces of wreck to drive the cold sea air out of the chimney. Then he lit his pipe, and sat down in his favourite corner.

After a pause, during which nothing was heard but the roar of the rising wind and the solemn boom of the waves, and the steady tick of an old clock that wagged the time away in a corner, —

“Why,” said Effie, “do you think we’ll soon go?”

“I cannot tell you,” replied the old lady, and her stocking wires clicked faster and faster. “We folks who live for years and years in the midst of the sea, have warnings of coming events that shore folks could never understand. But the house won’t seem the same, Effie, when you and Leonard are gone away – heigho!”

“Well,” said Effie, “I’ll be so sorry to go, and yet so glad.”

“Tell us a story,” said Leonard, “and change the subject. Hush! what was that?”

A wild and mournful scream it was, and sounded close under the window.

“That is a cry we often hear,” said the old lighthouse keeper, “always before a storm, sometimes before a wreck. It’s a bird, I suppose, or maybe a mermaid. Do I believe in them? I do. I’ll tell you a strange dream I had once upon a time, though I don’t think it could have been a dream.”

Old Grindlay’s Dream

“It was far away in the Greenland seas I was, sailing northwards towards Spitzbergen. I was second mate of the bonnie barque Scotia’s Queen. Well, one dark night we were ploughing away on a bit of a beam wind, doing maybe about an eight knots, maybe not so much. There was very little ice about, and as I had eight hours in that night, I went early to my bunk, and was soon fast asleep. It must have been well on to two bells in the middle watch – the spectioneer’s – when I awoke all of a sudden like. I don’t know, no more than Adam, what I could have been thinking about, but I crept out of my bunk in the state-room, where also the doctor and steward slept, and up on deck I went. I wondered to myself more than once if I really was in a dream. But there were sails and rigging, and the stars all shining, and the ship bobbing and curtseying to the dark waters, that went swishing and lapping alongside of her, and all awfully real for a dream. I could hear the men talking round the fo’c’s’le, and smell their tobacco, too.

“Well, Leonard, I went to the weatherside, and leant over to calculate, sailor fashion, our rate of speed, when I noticed something like a square dark shadow on the water at the gangway. There was nothing above to cause so strange a shadow, but while I was yet wondering a face appeared in the middle of it, the face of a lovely woman. I saw it as plain as I see dear wee Effie’s at this present moment. The long yellow hair was floating on the top of the water, and a fair hand beckoned me, and a sweet voice said, ‘Come.’ I thought of nothing but how to save the life of what I took to be a drowning woman. I sprang over at once, though I never could swim a stroke, and down I sank like lead. There was a surging roar of water in my ears, and I remembered nothing more till I found myself at the bottom of the sea, with a strange green light from a window in a rock a kind of dazzling my eyes. The woman’s face and long yellow hair were close beside me, and the fair arms were round me.

“I tried to pray, but I was speechless. Then the rock in front seemed to open of its own accord, and next minute I was inside. But oh! what a gorgeous hall – what a home of delight! There were other mermaids there – ay, scores of them. There was light and warmth all around us, that appeared to come from the precious stones of which the walls were built, and the glittering pillars that supported the roof.

“Such flowers, too, as grew in snow-white vases I had never seen before!

“Then music began to float through the hall, slow and solemn at first, then quicker and quicker, and all at once the marble floor was filled with fairies – the loveliest elves imagination could paint – all mingling and mixing in a mazy dance with waving arms and floating hair, and all keeping time to the music. The mermaids, too, left the couches of pearl on which they had been reclining, and were carried through and through the air, the ends of their bodies covered with long floating drapery of green and crimson. Then some of these strange creatures brought me fruit and wine, and bade me eat and drink. I fain would have spoken, but all my attempts were in vain.

“Suddenly our ship’s bell rang out clear enough, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting, ting. It was seven bells, and all the mermaids and fairies melted away before me, the music died away as if drowned, the surging of water returned to my ears, and next moment my head was above the sea, and I could see the stars shining down, and looking so large and near and clear, as they always do in those northern seas. In a minute I had caught the chains, and swung myself on board. I went to bed. In the morning I awoke, and laughed to myself as I thought of my dream, but my laughing was changed to wonder when I found every stitch of my clothing wringing with salt water, and when the spectioneer told me that he had seen me with his own eyes come on deck at two bells and go below at seven. Then I told him and the rest the story, and we all agreed that it was something far more than a dream.”

Effie sat looking into the fire for some time in silence; then she said, —

“Were there no mermen in that lovely hall, and were they very noble-looking and gallant, like my dear papa in uniform?”

“No,” said old Grindlay, “I don’t think mermen would have been admitted into such a place any more than the great sea-serpent would.”

“Why not?”

“Because, missie, they are such ugly old customers. I’ve never seen one, that I know of, but a mate that sailed with me said he had, and that it was uglier than the faces we sometimes see on door-knockers, and uglier than any baboon that ever grinned and gibbered in an African forest.”

“How terrible!” said Effie.

“Oh, I should like to meet one of those!” said Leonard. “And I’ve been told that the mermaids wouldn’t live anywhere near where these mermen are, and that instead of dwelling down in coral caves and marble halls at the bottom of the green sea, where the sunbeams flash by day, and the moon shines all the way down at night, these mermen live at the bottom of the darkest, deepest pits of the ocean, where there is nothing but mud and slime, and where the young sea-serpents and the devil-fish grow. No, the beautiful mermaids I don’t think ever do any harm, but the mermen are bad – bad!”

“Granny,” said Effie to Mrs Grindlay, after a pause, “tell us a pretty story to dream upon.”

“Did I ever tell you the story of But – but – but?”

“No, never. Do tell us about ‘But – But – But,’ and begin, ‘Once upon a time.’”

“Well, then, once upon a time there lived, far away up on the top of a mountain, a little old, old woman, and this little old woman had a very lovely young daughter, who lived with her in a cave on the mountain top. And one day her mother said, —

“‘Dear love, all the provisions are done. I must go away down to the plains and buy some. I have no money, but shall take a small bagful of precious stones.’

“So away she went, leaning on her stick and carrying a basket. She looked very feeble, her old cloak was ragged and worn, and, as she crept along, she kept saying to herself, ‘but – but – but.’

“Well, at last she got down to the village, and entered a grocer’s shop.

“‘What can I get for you, ma’am?’ said the grocer.

“‘I want some nice ham, and some nice eggs, and some fresh butter. I have no money – but – but – but – ’

“‘Oh! get out of here with your “buts,”’ cried the man. ‘Who would trust the like of you, with your old age and your rags?’

“So he chased her away.

“Then the old woman crept away to the fishmonger’s.

“‘I want,’ she said, ‘some nice fresh salmon, and some nice prawns, and a delicious lobster. I’ve no money – but – but – but – ’

“‘Oh, get out of here!’ cried the fishmonger, ‘with your “buts.” Who would trust you with your old age and your rags?’

“And he chased her down the street.

“Then she entered the butcher’s.

“‘Give me a tender joint of mutton,’ she said. ‘I’ve no money – but – but – but – ’

“‘Oh!’ cried the butcher, ‘get out of here, with your “buts.” Who would trust you with your old age and your rags?’

“And he called his dogs, and they chased away the poor old woman, and tore her cloak worse than before.

“Then she went into the baker’s.

“‘I want a loaf or two of bread,’ she said. ‘I’ve no money, but – but – but – ’

“‘Don’t say another word,’ said the baker. ‘Here are two nice new ones, and some new-laid eggs. Don’t thank me. I respect old age, and I pity rags.’

“So the old, old woman crept back to the mountain top, and she and her beautiful daughter had a nice supper.

“And now the strangest part of the story begins, for although the baker’s trade increased every day, his store of flour appeared never to diminish. He got richer and richer every month, and was soon in a position to buy a pretty little cottage and furnish it in the prettiest style imaginable; and when he had done so he went and laid his fortune at the feet of Mary the Maid of the Mill. In other words, he went wooing the miller’s daughter.

“After a modest pause for thought and consideration she consented, saying as she did so, —

“‘I don’t marry you for sake of your money, John, because I have quite a deal of gold and silver.’

“‘What! you?’ said John.

“‘Yes, me,’ said Mary.

“‘But – but – but – ’ said John.

“‘But, how did I get it? Well, I’ll tell you. A poor old woman, crawling on a stick and all in rags, called the other night, when the wind blew high and the snow was falling fast, and because I took her in, and sheltered her – just only what anybody would do, John – she left me a bagful of pretty stones. She said she didn’t want them, as she knew a hill where they grew, and I took them to the jeweller’s, and they paid me so much for them that I am quite wealthy, and I’m going to marry for love.’

“So John was indeed a happy man.

“But that same evening, first the butcher called, and then the fishmonger, and then the grocer, all dressed up in their Sunday clothes.

“So John hid behind a curtain, and as soon as they came into the room, all three proposed to marry Mary the Maid of the Mill.

“Then Mary looked down at them, and laughed and said, —

“‘Really, gentlemen, you do me too much honour, but – but – but – ’

“‘But I’m the happy man,’ cried John suddenly, popping out from behind the curtain.

“‘You!’ they all shouted in disdain.

“‘Yes, I. I’m very sorry for you, but – but – but – ’

“‘But what?’ they all cried.

“‘But I’m going to kick you all out,’ said John; ‘that’s the “but.”’

“Then Mary ran and opened the door, and as they ran out John kicked the grocer, then the fishmonger, and last of all the butcher, and they all fell in a heap on the pavement.

“Well, Mary and John got married, and a merrier wedding never was in the village, and when it was all over a gilded coach drove up to the door and took them away to spend the honeymoon in a beautiful seaside village.

“And the old lady was in the carriage and her pretty daughter, but the ragged old cloak was gone, and in its place a robe of ermine and scarlet.

“And Mary and John lived happy together ever after.”

“Of course,” said Effie, “the old lady was a good fairy.”

“Oh yes!” said Mrs Grindlay, “but – but – but – ”

“But what, Mrs Grindlay?”

“But it’s time for bed.”

What a terrible night it was. The wind blew and roared around the building till the whole island seemed to shake, the waves beat and dashed against the rocks, and the spray flew far over the lighthouse itself, and every now and then, high over the howling of the storm and the boom of the seas, rose that strange, eerie scream, like the cry of the sea-bird, but it sounded far more plaintive and pitiful, like —

            “The drowning cryOf some strong swimmer in his agony.”

And one sentence was mingled with the prayers of Leonard and Effie before they sought their couch —

“God save all at sea to-night.”

Book One – Chapter Eight

“The Wreck! The Wreck!”

“The breakers were right beneath her bows,    She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crew    Like icicles from her deck.“She struck where the white and fleecy waves    Looked soft as carded wool;But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides    Like the horns of an angry bull.”Longfellow.

Scene: The lighthouse island on the morning after the storm. The sea all around it, still covered with foam-capped waves. The wind dying away, but rising every now and then in uncertain gusts. No vessels in sight, but a long, low, rakish craft wedged in the rocks beneath the lighthouse, and fast breaking up. The whole scene bleak and desolate in the extreme.

“It is the lugger, sure enough,” said old Grindlay. “Heigho! what an awful affair, to be sure! And there can’t be a living soul on board. Captain Bland and all must have gone to their account.”

“And she is breaking up,” said his wife. “Goodness grant she may disappear entirely before the young ones see her.”

“Oh!” cried Leonard, rushing into the kitchen; “the wreck! the wreck! It is the lugger. Oh the poor robber chief!”

“He is dead, my dear,” said Mrs Grindlay solemnly. “No, no; I can see him from our window, where Effie is crying. He is under the wreck of the masts amidships and alive, for he waved his hand to us. Oh, save him, Mr Grindlay, if you can!”

“Ah, lad, I fear nothing can be done!”

“I’ll go, I’ll go! Effie is not afraid; she says I may go. I’ve gone over worse rocks than that with a rope. He is alive, and I will save him. Quick, bring the rope, and an axe and saw.”