Wild Adventures round the Pole

But he did not miss it, and it was a fast one, too, a flying train, that every day went tearing along through Scotland, and was warranted to land him at Inverness six hours after he first stepped on board.

No sooner was Silas seated than he pulled out the telegram again, and read it over and over at least a dozen times. Then he looked at the back of it, as if it were just possible that some further information might be found there. Then he read the address, and as he could not get anything more out of it he folded it up and replaced it in his pocket, merely remarking, “I’ll vow something’s in the wind.”

Silas had bought a newspaper. He had meant to read; he tried to read as hard as ever he had tried to do anything, but it was all in vain. His mind was in too great a ferment, so he threw down the paper and devoted himself to gazing out of the window at the glorious panorama that was passing before him; but if anybody else had been in the same compartment, he or she would have heard this ancient mariner frequently muttering to himself, and the burden of all his remarks was, “Something’s in the wind, I’m sure of that!”

A fast train? A flying train? Yes, a deal too much so, many would have thought, but she could not fly a bit too fast for Silas. Yet how she did rattle and rush and roar along the lines, to be sure! The din she made only deepening for a moment as she dived under a bridge or brushed past a wayside station, too insignificant by far to waste a thought upon! Now she passes a country village, with rows of trim-built cottages and tidy gardens, with lines for clothes to dry, and fences where children hang or perch and wave their caps at the flying train. Now she shaves past rows of platelayers, who stand at attention or extend their grimy arms like signal yards, while a blue-coated jack-in-a-box waves a white flag from his window to show that all is safe. Now she ploughs through some larger junction, over a whole field of rails that seems to run in every conceivable direction; but she makes her way in safety in a whirl of dust, and next she shrieks as she plunges into the darkness of a long, dreary tunnel. Ah! but she is out again into the glare of the day, and again the telegraph posts go popping past as fast as one could wink. Five miles now on a stretch of level country as straight as crow could fly, through fields and woods and past thriving farms, with far beyond on the horizon hills, hills, hills.

’Tis spring-time, spring changing into summer, summer coming six good weeks before its time. Look, Silas, look! crimson flowers are already peeping red through the greenery of cornfields, drowsy-looking cows are wading knee-deep in grass and buttercups, the braelands are snowed over with the gowan’s bloom. Birds are singing in meadow and copse, the yellow furze is blossoming on heathy moorlands. Great black spruces raise their tall heads skywards, and their every branch is tipped with a tassel of tender green; rowan-trees seem studded with roses of a pearly hue, and the feathery larches are hung round with a fringe-work of darkest crimson. Is it not glorious, Silas? is it not all beautiful? Did ever you see a sky more blue before, or cloudlets more fleecy and light?

“I’ll stake my word,” replies Silas, “that something’s in the wind.”

Wilder scenery now, dark, frowning mountains, lonely glens, heathlands, highlands, cañons, and tarns, then a long and fertile flat, every sod of which marks a Scottish warrior’s grave.

Inverness at last!

“Boat gone, is it?” cried Silas. “Like my luck. But why didn’t she wait for the train? Tell me that, eh?”

“Yes, sir; dare say I could, sir.” This from an ostler in answer to another query of friend Silas. “Five-and-twenty mile, sir. I’ve just the horse that’ll suit. Three hours to a tick, sir, rough though the road is, sir. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Thank’ee, sir, much obliged. Now then, Donald, bustle about, will you? Get out the bay mare. Look sharp, gentleman’s only got five minutes to feed.”

“It can’t be Captain Grig already,” said Mrs McGregor.

“And yet who else can it be?” said Helen Edith.

“I’ll run out and see,” said Ralph’s father, who had been spending some weeks at the castle.

“Ha! welcome, honest Silas Grig,” he cried, rushing up and literally receiving Silas with open arms as he jumped from the high-wheeled dogcart. “A thousand welcomes. Well, I do declare you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet. How your horse steams! Take him round, driver, and see to his comfort, then go to the kitchen and see to your own. Old Janet is there. Now, Silas,” continued Mr Leigh, “before you go to talk to the ladies, I’ll tell you what we have arranged. We have thought well over all you said when you were here in the autumn, and I’ve chartered a German Arctic cruiser, and we’re going to put you in command. She is lying at Peterhead, everything ready, crew and all, stores and all. Our prayers will follow you, dear Captain Grig, and if you find our poor boys, or even bring us tidings of their fate, we will be ever grateful. Nay, nay, but ‘grateful’ poorly expresses my meaning. We will – ”

“Not another word,” cried Silas, “not one single word more, sir, or as sure as my name is Silas Grig I’ll clap my fingers in my ears.”

He shook Mr Leigh’s hand as he spoke.

“I’ll find the boys if they be alive,” he said. “I knew, sir, when I got the telegram there was something in the wind. I told my little wife I was quite sure of it. Ha! ha! ha!”

Silas was laughing, but it was only to hide the tears with which his eyes were swimming.

“When can you start, my dear Silas?”

“To-night. At once. Give me a fresh horse and five minutes for a mouthful of refreshment, and off I start; and I’ll take command to-morrow before the sun is over the foreyard.”

“To-night?” cried Mr Leigh, smiling. “No, no, no.”

“But I say ‘yo, yo, yo,’” said Silas, “and ‘yo heave, O,’ and what Silas says he means. There! Ah, ladies, how are you? Nay, never cry, Miss McGregor. I’m going straight away to the Arctic Sea, and I’m sure to bring your brother back, and Rory as well, to say nothing of honest Ralph and Peter the piper. So cheer ye up, my little lass, If Silas Grig doesn’t come back in company with the bonnie Arrandoon, may he never chew cheese again!”

There was no getting over the impetuosity of this honest old sailor, but there was withal a freshness and happiness about him, which made every one he talked with feel as hopeful as he was himself. Before dinner was done both Mrs McGregor and her lovely daughter were smiling and laughing as they had not smiled or laughed for months before, and when Silas asked for a song, the latter went quite joyfully to the harp.

You see it appeared quite a foregone conclusion with everybody that night, that Silas would find the lost explorers and bring them safely home.

The moon rose in all its majesty as nine tolled forth from the clock-tower of the ancient castle. Then Silas said “good-bye,” and, followed by many a blessing and many a prayer, the dogcart wound away up through the solemn pine forest, and was soon lost to view.

He was just as good as his word. He took command of his new ship – a splendid sea-going yacht – before noon next day. Almost immediately afterwards he summoned both officers and men and mustered them all aft, and somewhat startled them by the following curt speech: “Gentlemen and men of the Polar Star, we’ll sail to-morrow morning. We touch nowhere until we enter harbour here again. Any one that isn’t ready to go can step on shore and stop there. All ready, eh? Bravo, men! You’ll find your skipper isn’t a bad fellow to deal with, but he means to crack on! No ship that ever sailed ’twixt Pekin and London, no clipper that ever left Aberdeen, or yacht from New York city, ever did such cracking on as I mean to do. Go to your duty. Pipe down.”

Then Silas Grig inspected the ship. He was pleased with her get-up and her rig-out, only he ordered extra spars and extra sails, and these were all on board ere sundown.

“The old man means business,” said the first mate to the second.

“That he does!” replied the inferior officer.

The Polar Star sailed away from Peterhead on the very day that poor Ted Wilson was laid in his grave beneath the eternal snows of Alba. Could Silas have seen the desperate position of the Arrandoon just then, how little hopes he would have entertained of ever reaching her in time to save the precious lives on board!

The doctor was left alone in the saloon of the great ship.

The silence that reigned both fore and aft was oppressive even to dismalness.

For a moment or two Sandy buried his face in his hands, and tears welled through his fingers. “Oh,” he whispered, “it is terrible! The silence of death is all about us! Our men dying forward, our captain doomed, and Allan and Rory. Ay, and poor Ralph will be next; I can see that in his face. Not one of us can ever reach his native land again! I envy – yes, I envy the dead in their quiet graves, and even wish it were all past – all, all over?”

“Doctor!” a kindly hand was laid on his shoulder. Sandy started to his feet, he cared not who saw his face, wet though it was with tears. “Doctor, don’t you take on so,” said Stevenson.

“Speak, man I speak quick! There is hope in your face!” cried the doctor.

“There is hope in my heart, too,” said the mate – “only a glint, only a gleam; but it is there. The frost is gone; the ice is open again.”

“Then quick,” cried the surgeon, “get up steam! that alone can save the dying. Energy, energy, and something to do. I can do nothing more to save my patients while this hopeless silence lies pall-like around us. Break it, dear mate, with the roar of steam and the rattle of the engine’s screw!”

“Listen,” said the mate. “There goes the steam. Our chief has not been long.”

Round went the screw once more, and away moved the ship.

Poor McBain came staggering from his cabin. Ghastly pale he looked. He had the appearance of one risen from the grave.

He clutched Sandy by the shoulder.

“We are – under – way?” he gasped.

“Yes, yes,” said the surgeon. “Homeward bound, captain.”

“Homeward bound,” muttered the captain, pressing his hand on his brow, as if to recall his memory, which for a time had been unseated from her throne.

For a minute or two the surgeon feared for his captain’s life or reason.

“Drink this, dear sir,” he said; “be seated, too, you are not over well, and there is much to be done.”

“Much to be done?” cried McBain, as soon as he had quaffed the medicine. “I’m better. Thank you, good doctor; thank you, Sandy. There is much to be done. Those words have saved your captain’s life.”

Sandy gave a big sigh of relief and hastened away to Rory’s cabin.

Rory had been lying like a dead thing for hours, but now a new light seemed to come into his eye. He extended his hand to Sandy and smiled.

“We are positively under steam again, Sandy?” he said.