CHAPTER VII.
LOST IN A HIGHLAND MIST.
Soon now the scene must change, and we shall find ourselves afloat on the dark blue sea, and taking part in adventures far more thrilling than any that could possibly be met with even in the wild Island of Wings itself. I have said that, when not fishing or boating with Matty, Creggan used to be guide to Mr. Nugent and show him all the sights. In these devious wanderings both rode, when the ground permitted it, Nugent on a pretty bay mare, Creggan on a daft little Shetland pony, who sometimes pitched him off and then rolled on him. Only play certainly, but play may be a trifle rough at times.
For example, I was walking—in full uniform—one day in a lonely part of the city of Zanzibar. Well, just as I entered one end of a rather narrow lane a camel entered the other. There wasn't a soul in the street but our two selves.
"There is plenty of room to pass," I said to myself. So on I went, and on came the camel, with his head half a mile in the air (more or less). When we met about the centre, instead of nodding to me in a friendly way and saying "Yambo sana" (good luck to you), he snuffed the air, grinned, uttered a little scream and made straight for me. I thought my hour had come. He didn't bite, however—he did worse. He crunched me against the wall and turned me right round. Oh, how I ached! For the next hour or two I felt as flat as a pancake. I have never trusted camel or dromedary since.
But just one little adventure before we leave dear old romantic Skye—for a time, at all events.
It was early morning.
Creggan had just finished a homely but delicious breakfast of mullet, crisp oat-cakes with butter, and sea-gulls' eggs, and after bidding Daddy good-bye, had launched his skiff, and with faithful Oscar in the bows might have been seen speeding shorewards over a blue but somewhat uncertain sea.
"Might have been seen," I said. Yes, and was seen. For look yonder, a tiny tottie of a child high on the cliff-top waving a white handkerchief to him.
Creggan replies, and at once Matty disappears. She is making a somewhat perilous descent a-down the high cliff, which here is of grass and rock commingled. She is there on the beach to meet Creggan and his collie doggie nevertheless. And now after the usual affectionate greetings she scrambles into the skiff, and, with reason or none, the lad has to take her for a little row.
They are soon on shore again, for Creggan has promised to guide Mr. Nugent far over the mountains, in order that he may make some additions to his collection of Skye flora.
"Ah, welcome, Creggan lad!" he cried, as the latter, hand in hand with Matty, came up the little path that led to the bungalow. "What do you think of the weather, my child of the ocean wave?" he added merrily. For despite the severe style of his whiskers he could be right merry when he liked.
"I don't quite like it," answered Creggan dubiously.
"And why, lad?"
"Well, sir, you see it is nine now, and the hills haven't taken their night-caps[1] off yet. That is one thing. Then the sea is a bit lumpy, and every now and then comes a puff, making big cat's-paws on it."
[1] The morning mist on the mountain-tops is so called.
"Well, lad, I start in two days' time for the tame, domestic south of England, so if you are willing I'll venture."
"Oh," answered Creggan flushing a little, "I'm ready, sir, aye ready!"
"Bravo!"
Willie and his mother were off to Portree, so poor Matty would have a lonesome day with only the servants to amuse her. The journey would have been too much for Matty at any rate. After a second breakfast at eleven o'clock they started. One, by the by, can always eat two breakfasts in Skye, just as I do while travelling in my caravan, "The Wanderer".
Oscar went with them of course. Oscar went everywhere. And so much did Creggan love the dog, that his heart beat high and the tears sprang to his eyes when he thought that in about six months' time they would have to part.
And who can blame one for loving a dog?
Right happy were Mr. Nugent and Creggan as they set out over the moor towards the mountains that forenoon, while Oscar ran on in front barking for joy, sometimes starting a bird, and actually pretending to jump after it into the sky.
"If I only had bits of wings," he appeared to say, "I'd soon catch that quack-quacking old duck."
The hills had by this time thrown off their nightcaps and were fully awake, but the wind seemed on the increase, blowing in uncertain squalls, then dying away again into a calm. This is always an ugly sign. Besides, there was a nasty bank of "sugar-loaf clouds", as Creggan called them, rising slowly in the west. Nor did Creggan like the appearance of them, and said so to Mr. Nugent.
"Never meet troubles half-way, my lad," was the answer. "For troubles, you know, are never quite so bad when they do come as we imagined they would be. The cloud approaching the moon is black and dark, but lo! when it gets in front the light shines through."
"Well, sir," said Creggan, "I shall always try to think of that, but I myself do not mind storms. I was thinking of lonely Matty's father if we get lost."
* * * * * * * * * * *
Creggan had a botanical case slung over his shoulder and Nugent a much larger one. This latter contained the luncheon.
They collected a large number of specimens on an upland moor they reached about one o'clock. Many of these were well-known to the boy, but he could only give Gaelic and English names to them.
Now, in a mountainous or Alpine region like that of Skye, however high you climb it seems there are still higher hills ahead of you. By three o'clock Creggan suggested that they should not go farther.
It was good advice, for the sea-damp wind from the west was increasing every minute, while away to the east the moisture had already condensed against the cold sides of the lofty hills, and here the wind was blowing high, sweeping before it a genuine Scotch mist.
Very few people in England have any idea what a real Scotch mist means. Some think it is a fog, some a drizzle. It is neither. It is rain broken up into mist by the violence of the wind, and driven along the sides of the hills or valleys in intermittent clouds. It is searching, bitter, miserable, and will not only wet an Englishman to the skin in five minutes, but will penetrate even the plaid of a Scot.
They now sat down to luncheon. It was a very sumptuous one, for Nugent was nothing if not a good and generous eater. As he discussed his meal he talked away right merrily, and told Creggan scores of humorous and other anecdotes of colonial life and adventure. So delightful were these that Creggan said he longed to be there.
"If," he continued, "I could only take poor Oscar."
"Look here, my boy; Oscar is young, isn't he?"
"Only two, sir."
"And you love him?"
"Very, very much."
"Well, I have a deal more influence than I care to boast about. So, after you have passed through the Britannia, if you are appointed to a small ship, as you most likely will be, I'll see to it that Oscar and you shall not be parted."
Creggan's joy was so great that for a few moments he dared not trust himself to speak.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!" he said at last; and then Oscar had an extra hug, for a load had been lifted off his master's mind.
While talking thus they did not observe a bank of rolling fog creeping gradually up the hillside.
Creggan saw the danger first and sprung to his feet.
"We must hurry, sir; it is a fearful thing to be lost in the mist all among the lonely mountains.
"If we hurry, though," he added, "I think we can reach old Donald Clearach's cottage before the mist gets near us."
All sail was now made downwards and homewards. But this meant meeting the mist!
In less than an hour, and while only a mile from the shepherd's hut, they were enveloped in so dense a fog that even Oscar was puzzled. Donald's hut stood on a bit of moorland, that, though far above the level of the sea, afforded excellent pasture for the sheep he tended.
Well, it is far more confusing to walk in a fog like this than in the dark of the darkest night, for one speedily loses his bearings, and owing to the muscles of the right side of the body being stronger than those of the left, the person who is lost usually walks round in a circle.
"What's to be done, boy?" said Nugent uneasily.
"Nothing, sir, but wrap our plaids about us and wait. Even Oscar could not guide us now."
Mr. Nugent smiled faintly, lit his pipe, and sat down.
The wind now began to get higher and higher, but it had no visible effect upon the fog.
The time went on and on, oh! so slowly, although Nugent continued to talk and tell of far-off lands beyond the seas.
Six o'clock, seven, eight o'clock, came and passed. But still no change. Creggan had a splendid plaid, and his companion a stout coat of frieze, but the wet, cold mist that went curling round their necks made them shiver and shudder.
"Is it not possible to proceed, lad?"
"No sir; we are on level ground now, you see, and we should only go round and round and further astray. We might fall into a wild-duck pond and get drowned. Even if we were on a hillside, though we could descend, we might go astray and tumble over a precipice."
"You speak like an old man—wisely," said Mr. Nugent. "Well, anyhow we can have supper. That will warm us."
By the time they had finished it was dark.
The darkness soon grew dismal. Not a star would shine to-night, except far away beyond the clouds. It was pleasant, though, to think and know that the stars and moon were there.
Both now remained silent for a very long time. Their faculties were quite benumbed with the cold.
Then Nugent lay back.
"Are you going to sleep, sir?"
"Yes, just forty winks."
"No, no, no! I cannot let you, for many and many a man lost on the moors as we now are has been found stark and stiff when the mist cleared away, just because of falling asleep."
His companion, now thoroughly aroused to a true sense of his danger, tried to pull himself together. He even tried to tell more stories, but his teeth were chattering in his head, and his lips were all but frozen. He could not.
Soon after there was a wild blood-curdling eldritch yell heard, that startled both.
"Heavens! what is it?" cried Nugent.
Something dark rushed past next moment at their very feet. It was a wild cat, and Oscar jumped up to pursue it, but Creggan quickly caught him by the collar.
"No, Oscar, no. I might never see you more, and you're going to sea with me, you know."
Another long dreary hour passed, perhaps two. Both were now resigned to their fate. They must spend the night on the moor.
Even Creggan himself began to nod.
Suddenly Oscar sprang up and uttered a short defiant or challenging bark.
And lo! not far off, a light appeared glimmering hazily through the dismal fog, and a spectre-like figure, so magnified by the mist that it seemed to reach from earth to heaven, slowly approached.
"Is it that there is any-pody here at all at all whatefer?"
Once more Oscar barked, but it was with a ring of joy and pleasure.
"Oh, Donald, is that yourself?"
"To be surely, boy, to be surely; and is it you, my dear lad Creggan?"
"Oh, I am so glad you've come! This is my friend Mr. Nugent, and we're lost, you know."
"Well, well, well, but it isn't long lost you'll be whatefer. Sure I know the sheepies' tracks, and can guide you safely to my hut.
"Ay," he continued, "and it's as dead as braxie you'd have been 'fore mornin' if I hadn't been out lookin' for a sheepie."
How gladly they followed him need not be told, and how delighted they were to find themselves seated once more in front of a fire of wood and peats.
Donald hastened to make supper—oatmeal porridge and milk. Though eaten from caups[2] and with horn spoons, Nugent told the old shepherd that he had never supped more sumptuously in his life.
[2] Round, strong, wooden bowls.
Then Donald himself sat down, and while the two collies fraternized in a corner, the men folks had a long and enjoyable conversation.
Donald next made "shake-downs", or heather beds, for both, and they slept as sound as babies.
Early astir they were, however, and after more porridge and milk Nugent thanked the shepherd—solidly, and away they went down the hill with poor Donald's blessing ringing in their ears.
It was a bright and beautiful morning, with ne'er a cloud in all the sky.
What a relief for poor Mrs. Nugent when they entered the bungalow! And innocent wee Matty must jump up into Creggan's arms and cry for joy.