Robert Michael Ballantyne - The Eagle Cliff

Barret walked straight up to the door of the hut, and the collies withdrew from the attack—as most noisy demonstrators do when treated with silent indifference.

“Is there any one inside?” he asked of a bare-legged, shaggy-headed boy, who came out and gazed at him, apparently with his mouth as well as his eyes.

“Na,” answered the boy.

“Any other cottages or houses near this?”

“Ay; yonder.”

The boy pointed in the direction of the sea, where, in a stony nook between two jutting masses of rock, nestled about a dozen huts built of boulder stones gathered from the sea-shore. So small were these huts, and so stupendous the rocks around them, that they might easily have been overlooked by a careless eye. So might the half-dozen fishing-boats that lay in the little cove beside them.

A stream or rivulet—better known in Scotland as a burn—ran past the hamlet, formed a pool just below it, and dropped into the cove close to the place where the boats lay.

Rejoiced to find even the poorest kind of shelter in such a place, Barret hastened down to the cove, and, tapping at the door of the largest of the cottages, was bidden “come in” by a soft voice.

Entering, he was surprised to find a neatly, though plainly, furnished room, which was evidently the kitchen of the house—indeed, the sole room, with the exception of an off-shoot closet. The large open fireplace contained a peat fire on the hearth, over which hung a bubbling pot. There were two box-beds opposite the fire, and in the wall which faced the door there was a very small window, containing four panes of glass, each of which had a knot in the middle of it. One of them also presented the phenomenon of a flattened nose, for the boy with the ragged head had rushed down and stationed himself there to observe the result of the unexpected and singular visit.

Beside the window, in a homely arm-chair, sat an invalid girl with pale thin cheeks, bright blue eyes, and long flaxen hair. If not pretty, she was, at all events, extremely interesting, and possessed the great charm of a winning smile.

Apologising for causing her alarm by his damp, dishevelled, and sudden appearance, Barret asked if there were any men about the place.

No, there were none there at the moment; most of them being out after the sheep and cattle, and some gathering peat, or away in the boats.

“But surely they have not left you all by yourself?” said Barret, struck not only by the appearance of the girl, but by the comparative refinement of her language.

“Oh no!” she replied, with a slight smile; “they look well after me. Mrs Anderson has only gone to fetch some peats. But where have you come from, sir? Your clothes are all wet!”

“You are right. I have just been saved from drowning, through God’s mercy, along with my companions.”

Here Barret gave her a brief outline of the recent disaster, and then asked if Mrs Anderson was her mother.

“No; she is my aunt, but she is very good to me; takes as much care of me as if I was her own daughter. I don’t belong to this place. They have sent me here for my health.”

At this point they were interrupted by Mrs Anderson herself, who entered with a load of peat, which she flung down, shook her fist at the nose-flattener outside, and turned in astonishment to her visitor.

Of course our shipwrecked friend had to retail his story to the woman, and then learned from her that the island was a very large one, with a name unpronounceable by English lips, that it was very thinly inhabited, that it consisted almost entirely of pasture land, and that “the laird” owned a large portion of it, including the little fishing village of “Cove.”

While the woman was speaking an elderly man entered, whom she introduced as her husband Ian. To him Barret had to re-repeat his story, and then asked if he and his friends could obtain shelter in the village for the night.

“Iss it shelter ye’ll be wantin’? Ye’ll hev that an’ welcome, though it will be of the poorest. But in the mornin’ ye’ll gang up to the hoose, for the laird wud be ill-pleased if we keepit ye here.”

“Pray, who is this laird?” asked Barret; “your wife has already mentioned him.”

“Maister Gordon is his name. He lives near the heed o’ Loch Lossie. It iss over eight mile from here,” said Ian; “an’ a coot shentleman he iss, too. Fery fond o’ company, though it iss not much company that comes this way, for the steam-poats don’t veesit the loch reg’lar or often. He’ll be fery glad to see you, sir, an’ to help ye to git home. But we’d petter be goin’ to tell your freen’s that we can putt them up for the nicht. I’ll go pack with ye, an we’ll take the poy to help an’ carry up their things.”

“You forget that we have been wrecked,” returned Barret with a laugh, “and have no ‘things’ to carry, except our own damp carcases.”

“That’s true, sir, but we’ll be none the worse o’ the poy, what-ë-ver. Come away, Tonal’,” said Ian, as they started back along the shore. “It iss under the Eagle Cliff where ye came to laund, I make no doot?”

“Well, I suppose it was; at least, there is a range of cliffs close to the place where our raft struck.”

“Oo ay—but it iss not the wee precipices, it iss the big hull behind them that we ca’ the Eagle Cliff.”

“Oh, indeed! I saw that cliff in a peculiar manner as I came along,” said Barret giving a description of the scene.

“Ay; it iss sometimes seen like that,” said Ian; “an’ we often see the eagle, but it’s no’ possible to git a shot at that crater. The laird is real keen to bring it doon, for it plays the mischief among the lambs, an’ him an’ his freen’s hes aften tried, but they hev not manicht it yet.”

Thus chatting they soon reached the raft, and found the disconsolate party waiting impatiently for them.

“Shall we leave it where it lies, or drag it further up on the beach?” asked Mabberly, referring to the raft.

“Ye petter haul it a wee higher up,” said Ian, examining the machine with much interest; “for when it comes on to plow there’s a heavy sea here. Weel, weel, but it iss a strange contrivance!”

“Ay; an’ also a useful one,” said the skipper, drily—at least as duly as was possible in the circumstance.

“Noo, shentlemen, I think we had petter be goin’.”

It was indeed time, for although the weather was warm and fine, the sun had set, and their damp garments began to feel uncomfortable.

At the Cove the whole party was accommodated in a single-roomed hut, which chanced to be empty at the time. Here the hospitable fishermen spread nets for bedding, and with plaids made up for the lack of blankets. They also kindled a large peat fire, and put on a pot of potatoes, and some splendid sea-trout, while Mrs Anderson prepared oat-cakes at her own fire, and sent them in as required.

“Noo, shentlemen, ye’ll tak a tram?” said Ian, producing a black bottle.

Immeasurable was the astonishment of the Highlander when the gentlemen refused a dram.

“But—but, ye’ll catch yer death o’ cauld, if ye don’t!” he said, remonstratively, as he stood bottle and glass in hand.

“Thanks, friend,” replied Jackman, “but we have taken in so much salt water during our swim to land that we are not sure whether the whisky would agree with it.”

“Hoots! havers!” exclaimed Ian, pouring out some of the liquid; “ye’re jokin’.”

“In truth we are not, then,” said Mabberly; “for we are all total abstainers.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Ian, who could not understand the principles or feelings of men who, after a long exhausting swim in their clothes, were capable of refusing whisky! For it is to be remembered that, although the time we write of is comparatively recent, that remote island had not been visited by any apostle of temperance or total abstinence in regard to alcohol. Of course Ian had heard something of such principles, but he did not believe in them, and certainly did not practise them. “Hooiver, shentlemen,” he added, “if ye wunna tak it—here’s wushin’ your fery coot health!”