A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

“What hae ye dune wi’ ma sister Maggie?”

He answered as quietly as he could, although there shot through his heart a new pain, a new anxiety:

“I know naught of her. I haven’t seen her since last night, when Alice MacDonald was being married. Is she not at home?”

“Dinna ye ken damned weel that she’s no’. Why did ye send her oot?”

And he looked at him with the menace of murder in his eyes. The lieutenant saw from the looks of the two men that something was wrong, and asked Neil shortly:

“Where did you see her last?”

Neil was going to make some angry reply; but in an instant Mendoza stepped forward, and in a loud voice gave instruction to one of his men who had been on board the Sea Gull to take charge of her, as she was his under a bill of sale. This gave Neil time to think, and his answer came sullenly:

“Nane o’ ye’re business — mind yer ain affairs!”

MacWhirter, when he had seen Neil come running back, had realised the worst, and leaned on the taffrail of the boat, groaning. Mendoza’s man sprang on board, and, taking him roughly by the shoulder, said:

“Come, clear out here. This boat is to Mendoza; get away!”

The old man was so overcome with his feelings regarding Maggie that he made no reply, but quietly, with bent form, stepped on the plank and gained the quay. Willy Barrow rushed forward and took him by the hand and whispered to him:

“What does he mean?”

“He means,” said the old man in a low, strained voice, “that for me an’ him, an’ to warn us she cam oot last nicht in the storm in a wee bit boat, an’ that she is no’ to her hame!” and he groaned.

Willy was smitten with horror. This, then, was Maggie’s high and desperate purpose when she left him. He knew now the meaning of those despairing words, and the darkness of the grave seemed to close over his soul. He moaned out to the old man:

“She did not tell me she was going. I never knew it. O my God!”

The old man, with the protective instinct of the old to the young, laid his hand on his shoulder, as he said to him in a broken voice:

“A ken it, lad! A ken it weel! She tell’t me sae hersel! The sin is a’ wi’ me, though you, puir lad, must e’en bear yer share o’ the pain!”

The commander said quietly to the lieutenant:

“Looks queer, don’t it — the coastguard and the smuggler whispering?”

“All right,” came the answer, “I know Barrow; he is as true as steel, but he’s engaged to the old man’s daughter. But I gather there’s something queer going on this morning about her. I’ll find out. Barrow,” he added, calling Willy to him, “what is it about MacWhirter’s daughter?”

“I don’t know for certain, sir; but I fear she was out at sea last night.”

“At sea,” broke in the commander; “at sea last night — how?”

“She was in a bit fishin’-boat,” broke in MacWhirter. “Neighbours, hae ony o’ ye seen her this mornin’? ‘Twas ma son Andra’s boat, that he keeps i’ the Downans!” — another name for the Watter’s Mou’.

A sad silence that left the angry roar of the waves as they broke on the rocks and on the long strand in full possession was the only reply.

“Is the boat back in the Watter’s Mou’?” asked the lieutenant sharply.

“No,” said a fisherman. “A cam up jist noo past the Barley Mill, an’ there’s nae boat there.”

“Then God help her, an’ God forgie me,” said MacWhirter, tearing off his cap and holding up his hands, “for A’ve killed her — her that sae loved her auld father, that she went oot alane in a bit boat i’ the storm i’ the nicht to save him frae the consequence o’ his sin.”

Willy Barrow groaned, and the lieutenant turned to him:

“Heart, man, heart! God won’t let a brave girl like that be lost. That’s the lass for a sailor’s wife. ‘Twill be all right — you’ll be proud of her yet!”

But Sailor Willy only groaned despite the approval of his conscience; his words of last night came back to him.

“Ye’re no fit wife for me!”

Now the commander spoke out to MacWhirter:

“When did you see her last?”

“Aboot twa o’clock i’ the mornin’.”

“Where?”

“Aboot twenty miles off the Scaurs.”

“How did she come to leave you?”

“She pulled the boat that she cam in alongside the coble, an’ got in by hersel — the last I saw o’ her she had hoisted her sail an’ was running nor’west... But A’ll see her nae mair — a’s ower wi’ the puir, brave lass — an’ wi’ me, tae, that killed her — a’s ower the noo — a’s ower!” and he covered his face with his hands and sobbed.

The commander said kindly enough, but with a stern gravity that there was no mistaking:

“Do I take it rightly that the girl went out in the storm to warn you?”

“Ay! Puir lass — ’twas an ill day that made me put sic a task on her — God forgie me!” and there and then he told them all of her gallant deed.

The commander turned to the lieutenant, and spoke in the quick, resolute, masterful accents of habitual command:

“I shall leave you the bluejackets to help — send your men all out, and scour every nook and inlet from Kirkton to Boddam. Out with all the lifeboats on the coast! And you, men!” he turned to the crowd, “turn out, all of you, to help! Show that there’s some man’s blood in you, to atone if you can for the wrong that sent this young girl out in a storm to save her father from you and your like!” Here he turned again to the lieutenant, “Keep a sharp eye on that man — Mendoza, and all his belongings. We’ll attend to him later on: I’ll be back before night.”

“Where are you off to, Commander?”

“I’m going to scour the sea in the track of the storm where that gallant lass went last night. A brave girl that dared what she did for her father’s sake is not to be lost without an effort; and, by God, she shan’t lack it whilst I hold Her Majesty’s command! Boatswain, signal the cutter full steam up — no, you! We mustn’t lose time, and the boatswain comes with me. To your oars, men!”

The seamen gave a quick, sharp ‘Hurrah!’ as they sprang to their places, whilst the man of the shore party to whom the order had been given climbed the sea-wall and telegraphed the needful orders; the crowd seemed to catch the enthusiasm of the moment, and scattered right and left to make search along the shore. In a few seconds the revenue boat was tossing on the waves outside the harbour, the men laying to their work as they drove her along, their bending oars keeping time to the swaying body of the commander, who had himself taken the tiller. The lieutenant said to Willy with thoughtful kindness:

“Where would you like to work on the search? Choose which part you will!”

Willy instinctively touched his cap as he answered sadly:

“I should like to watch here, sir, if I may. She would make straight for the Watter’s Mou’!”

The search for the missing girl was begun vigorously, and carried on thoroughly and with untiring energy. The Port Erroll lifeboat was got out and proceeded up coast, and a telegram was sent to Kirkton to get out the lifeboat there, and follow up the shore to Port Erroll. From either place a body of men with ropes followed on shore keeping pace with the boat’s progress. In the meantime the men of each village and hamlet all along the shore of Buchan from Kirkton to Boddam began a systematic exploration of all the openings on the coast. Of course there were some places where no search could at present be made. The Bullers, for instance, was well justifying its name with the wild turmoil of waters that fretted and churned between its rocky walls, and the neighbourhood of the Twa Een was like a seething caidron. At Dunbuy, a great sheet of foam, perpetually renewed by the rush and recoil of the waves among the rocks, lay like a great white blanket over the inlet, and effectually hid any flotsam or jetsam that might have been driven thither. But on the high cliffs around these places, on every coign of vantage, sat women and children, who kept keen watch for aught that might develop. Every now and again a shrill cry would bring a rush to the place and eager eyes would follow the pointing hand of the watcher who had seen some floating matter; but in every case a few seconds and a little dispersing of the shrouding foam put an end to expectation. Throughout that day the ardour of the searchers never abated. Morning had come rosy and smiling over the waste of heaving waters, and the sun rose and rose till its noonday rays beat down oppressively. But Willy Barrow never ceased from his lonely vigil on the cliff. At dinner-time a good-hearted woman brought him some food, and in kindly sympathy sat by him in silence, whilst he ate it. At first it seemed to him that to eat at all was some sort of wrong to Maggie, and he felt that to attempt it would choke him. But after a few mouthfuls the human need in him responded to the occasion, and he realised how much he wanted food. The kindly neighbour then tried to cheer him with a few words of hope, and a many words of Maggie’s worth, and left him, if not cheered, at least sustained for what he had to endure.