Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Cruise of the SnowbirdA Story of Arctic AdventureBy Gordon StablesPublished by Hodder and Stoughton, 27 Paternoster Row, London.This edition dated 1882.
The Cruise of the Snowbird, by Gordon Stables.
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________________________________________________________________________THE CRUISE OF THE SNOWBIRD, BY GORDON STABLES.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE YOUNG CHIEF OF ARRANDOON--THE RISING STORM--LOST IN THE SNOW.
It was winter. Allan McGregor stood, gun in hand, leaning against arock half-way down the mountain-side, and, with the exception of himselfand the stately deer-hound that lay at his feet, there was no sign ofany living thing in all the glen; and dreary and desolate in the extremewas the landscape all around him. Glentroom in the summer time, whenthe braes were all green with the feathery birches, and the hillsidesablaze with the purple bloom of the heather, must have been bothpleasant and romantic; but the birch-trees were now leafless and bare,the mountains were clad in snow, and the rock-bound lake, that lay farbeneath, was leaden and grey like the sky itself, except where its waveswere broken into foam by the snow-wind. That snow-wind blew from thenorth, and there was a sound in its voice, as it sighed through thewithered breckans and moaned fitfully among the rocks and crags, thattold of a coming storm.
Allan was the young laird of Arrandoon. All the glen had at one timebelonged to his ancestors--ay, and all the land that could be seen, andall the lochs that could be counted from the peaks of Ben Lona. Hisfather, but two short years before the commencement of this strangestory of adventure, had died, sword in hand, at the head of his regimentin distant Afghan, and left him--what? A few thousand sheep, a fewthousand acres of heather land on which to feed them, the title ofchief, and yonder ancient castle, where dwelt his widowed mother and hissister.
Although he was a good Highland mile from his home, the castle, visiblein every line and lineament from where he stood, formed quite a featurein the landscape. A tall grey building, with many a quaint and curiouswindow, and many a turret chamber, it was built on the spur of themountain, around which swept a brown hill-stream, the third side, orbase of the triangle, being bounded by a moat now dry, and a drawbridgenever raised. Far down beneath it was the grey loch, to which the noisystream was hurrying.
Every old castle has its old story, and Arrandoon was no exception. Ithad been built in troublous times--built when the wild clans of theMcGregors were in their glory. There the chiefs had dwelt, thence hadthey often sallied to tread the war-path or arouse the chase, and in itsancient halls many a gay revel had been held; but peace with theLowlands, strange to say, had wrought the downfall of the chiefs ofArrandoon. The country had been thrown open, Englishmen had visited theglens, and friendships had been formed between those who once weredeadly foes. In their own Highland homes the McGregors had entertainedstrangers in a regal fashion. Herein was pride--the pride that goesbefore a fall. When the chieftains went south, there, too, they wouldlord it, and herein lay more pride--the pride that caused the fall--for,alas and a lack-a-day! for the want of money land must be sold. Thusthe stranger crept into the country of the Gael, and gold did for theproud McGregors, what the sword itself could never achieve--it laid themlow.
That was one chapter of this castle's story; the second is even a sadderone, for it tells of the days when, bereft of their lands, the proudchiefs of the McGregors, scorning trade, placed their claymores at theservice of the reigning monarch, and fell in many a foreign land,fighting in a cause that was not their own, because fighting, theythought, was honourable, and fighting gave them bread. And their wivesand their little ones were left at home to mourn. But no stranger sawthe tears they shed.
It was towards this castle that the eyes of Allan McGregor were turnedwhen first we see him; it was of the mournful history of his family hewas thinking, as he stood on the hillside on this bleak, cold wintryevening.
"Bah!" he said to himself, "the very game seem to forsake the glen.Just look here," he continued, addressing the dog, who looked up,wagging his tail, "only two hares and a brace or two of birds, with awild cat that we shot at hazard, didn't we, Bran? And I'm sure we'vewalked fully twenty miles, haven't we, Bran?"
"Twenty miles fully," Bran seemed to say, speaking with his eyes and histail.
"And really, Bran, when my English college friends come to see me--asthey will to-night, you know--I'll hardly have anything to give them toeat, leaving sport out of the question; will I, Bran?"
Bran looked very serious at this, for he knew every inflection of hismaster's voice.
"Ah, Bran, Bran! my dear old dog! it is very hard being a Highlandchieftain with nothing to support one's dignity on. Dignity, indeed!Why, Bran, I have positively to put mine in the pot and boil it fordinner. Now rouse up, Bran; I want to speak to you, because I must havesomebody to open my heart to."
Bran sat up on his haunches, and young Allan placed his hand on hishead.
"Yes, Bran, my heart seems strangely full of something, and I think, olddog, that it is hope! hope for better times to come. You see our castlehome down yonder, Bran?"
The noble hound looked in the direction indicated, and again moved histail.
"Well, Bran, for many, many years there hasn't been a single wreath ofsmoke seen above any of the chimneys of that bonnie old house, exceptthose that rise from the southern wing--the smallest wing, Bran,remember--and all the rest of the castle is going to wreck and ruin. Nowonder you half close your eyes, Bran; it is a sad serious business, andfine times the mice and the rats and the owls and the bats have beenhaving in it, I can tell you!
"But now just listen, old fellow! All the time that you have beensnoozing among the snow there, with your nose on top of the game-bag, Ihave been standing here thinking--thinking--thinking.
"You would like to know what I have been thinking about, wouldn't you?Well, as you're a good, faithful dog, I'll tell you. I've been thinkingabout the past, and old, old times, when McGregor of Arrandoon was theproudest chief that ever trod the heather. That is more than a hundredyears ago, Bran. The present chief of Arrandoon is a very differentsort of an individual. To tell you the truth, my friend, your master isjust as poor as peastraw, and there isn't much substance in that. But,oh! Bran, I've been thinking that, what if I myself, by my ownexertions, could go somewhere and do something that would earn me wealthand fame? To be sure I would like to be a soldier, but then mother saysI must not leave her for the wars, and my poor father fought and bledfor twenty long years, and there was nothing to send home but his sword.Heigho! No, I cannot be a soldier, even if I would. But something,Bran, I mean to do; something I mean to be, Bran. I don't know yet,though, what that something will be, but my mother shall not die inpoverty; of that I feel quite certain. Pride caused the fall of thechiefs of Arrandoon; pride shall raise us once again. The song says,--
"`Whate'er a man dares he can do.'
"And I mean to _dare_ and I mean to _do_, even if I go off to thegold-diggings. But, oh! Bran, only to think of getting back even aportion of my lands, that are now turned into shooting-grounds for thealien and stranger, to see sheep and lowing kine grazing where now onlythe heather grows, and the smoke curling upwards once more, from everychimney of our dear old home! Isn't it a glorious thought, Bran?"
Bran jumped up at once and shook himself. Poor dog! he had no knowledgeof a world beyond the glen, and probably the words in his master'sheroic speech that he understood the best, were those about goingsomewhere and doing s
omething.
So he shook himself, wagged his tail, looked up to the sky, down at thecastle, then all round him, and finally up into his master's face,saying plainly enough,--
"By all means, master. I'm ready if you are. What is it to be--hares,rabbits, deer, or wild cat? I'm ready."
Young Allan laughed aloud, and again patted the rough honest head of thefaithful hound. And a very nice picture he and the dog would, just atthat moment, have made, had an artist been there to transfer it tocanvas. McGregor was poor, I grant you, but he owned something bettereven than riches: he had youth and health and beauty--the beauty ofmanliness, and his were a face and figure that once seen were sure to beremembered.
"Tall and stately, and strong as the oak, graceful as the bendingwillow,"--this is something like the language that Ossian, or any otherancient Celtic bard, might have used in describing him.
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