Never would I dare to detract from the glory and honour that hangs, halo-like, around the memory of one of our nation's heroines—poor Grace Darling; but there are deeds done along the shores of this land of ours every winter, ay, and every summer too, that, although they shine not in story, are as bravely undertaken and as courageously carried out as that rescue at the Longstone lighthouse.
Though the hermit was white as to hair, though his beard flowed backwards now in the breeze like a silver stream as he stood in the glare of the hurricane-lamp, he was not an aged man. Every limb was straight, every muscle was strong, and his lowered brows nearly hid eyes that burned like living coals as he stood there on the cliff-top, pointing towards the doomed and stranded boat.
"Creggan, my lad," he cried, "we may not be able to save a single life, but our duty lies plain before us—we shall try!"
He unfastened the lamp and swung it to and fro for a spell, as if to give heart to those on board, then hastened with it down to the beach, closely followed by Creggan.
Not only was there here, in a little rock-bound cove, Creggan's own skiff, but one of far broader beam, one with a sturdy keel, and encircled as to its outside with a great and thick band of cork. The old man called it his lifeboat, and it had done duty more than once before, but never perhaps on so wild and stormy a night as this.
It was quickly launched now, and, being to the manner born, Creggan seized the tiller and the hermit took the oars.
Every rock around the islet was well-known to both. The lamp was hung aloft on a morsel of mast that was stepped near to the fore thwart, and cast its red glare on the seas ahead as well as on the faces of these daring heroes.
Once beyond the protection of the black jutting rocks, it was all that M'Vayne could do—strong though his arms were—to keep the boat from broaching-to, but soon he got weigh on her and then the rudder told.
But how the wind howled, and how the seething, angry waves dashed over them! Sometimes the bows were tossed clean out of the water, and it seemed for a second or two that she would go down stem first into the trough of the sea; and as that wave went racing past her, down dashed the bows again with a slapping sound that could be heard high over the roar of the wind.
CREGGAN KEPT THE BOAT HEAD-ON TO EACH THREATENING WAVE
Not a word was spoken. Not a word could have been heard in the turmoil, unless it were shrieked. Yet Creggan knew enough to keep her head on to each advancing, threatening wave. Neither the fury of the tempest nor the anger of the curling waves frightened him. He felt in that state of exultation which danger never fails to raise in the hearts of the truly brave, and beside which fear finds no place.
So sturdily did the hermit row, that in less than twenty minutes' time—and this did not seem long—the boat was well to windward of the stranded craft.
The danger now was great. To bear down on the wave-tops and get alongside seemed almost a hopeless task.
But although she shipped some water she came bravely round, and went heading inland now, like a bird adrift on the ocean tide.
The Skyemen on board the stranded craft saw her, and did not require to be told to throw a rope. Next minute it seemed—so quickly did the minutes fly—that the tiny lifeboat was alongside and fast.
"Quick now!" shouted the hermit. "Lower down the ladies and the boy. We can only manage three. Bear a hand, my lads. Bear a hand!"
It seemed in answer to the hermit's prayers that at this moment a lull in the storm took place, and the moon shone out bright and clear over the tempestuous sea.
Nevertheless, the labour of getting the trembling lady and frightened little Matty on board was most dangerous, and had to be undertaken with the greatest caution.
Nugent shouted to his son Willie to go next, but the brave boy positively refused to get over the side until the boat returned from the shore when his father had landed. His father must go first, he said.
She did return, and then took off young Nugent and two seamen, all she could stow away with safety. There was but one man left in the lugger now.
Alas, for his fate!
Just as M'Vayne's boat was once more leaving the beach, a heavier squall than any that yet had swept over the sea dashed her back and beached her. When the wind subsided somewhat she was once more launched, but had not proceeded far from the shore when she found herself surrounded by wreckage.
Just for one moment, in the side of a darkling wave and in a glimpse of moonlight, a white face could be seen and a raised arm.
That was all, and the unfortunate fisherman's body was never found.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Everything possible was done for the comfort of Matty and her mother and father. A bigger fire was made up, and from his cupboard, honest, kind-hearted Tomnahurich brought forth refreshments for them as they sat before the roaring fire to get dry and warm. The hermit even made tea for his guests, a luxury he seldom indulged in himself, or Creggan either. Then he said "Good-night", blessed them in his semi-patriarchal kind of way, and left with Willie Nugent. They reached the bottom of the cliff by the zigzag path safely enough, though the spray dashed over them in sheets of white and blinding foam. It was indeed a fearful night.
The boat had already been secured, and when they entered the cave they found that a good fire had already been lit by Creggan, and was roaring up the rude chimney that led into a cleft in the rocks.
For a long time the hermit, with the two seamen and Willie and Creggan, sat around the fire, talking low during a lull in the storm, or remaining silent and awe-struck when the huge waves boomed and crashed against the rocks, seeming to shake the very island to its foundations.
Sorrow induces sleep, and at last all turned in on beds of heather, and the events of this terrible night were forgotten.
Morning broke, bright and clear, but still the storm raged on.
Skyemen, like most Highlanders, are very superstitious, and one of these honest fishermen declared that he had slept but little, for every now and then he had heard poor Matheson—the drowned sailor—calling, calling, calling from the deep.
The hermit assured him that it was but the scream of the frightened sea-birds.
"Och and och no, Mr. Tomnahurich. Mind you, I'll no be sayin' it was Matheson himself—it was his wraith, sure and sure enough!"
Prayers were row said, and a hymn sung to that beautiful old melody called "Martyrdom", the hermit leading with his clear and manly voice, which many a night, when far at sea, had been heard high over the raging storm and the dash of angry seas:—
"Take comfort, Christians, when your friends
In Jesus fall asleep;
Their better being never ends:
Why then dejected weep?
"Why inconsolable as those
To whom no hope is given?
Death is the messenger of peace,
And calls the soul to heaven."
All seemed more cheerful after this, and breakfast was cooked and eaten with relish.
Then the hermit and the two boys, who were already great friends, ascended the cliff. They met Nugent, and were glad to hear that Matty and her mother were well and happy. They had been told nothing about the lost sailor.
"There will be no getting on shore to-day, I fear," said Mr Nugent.
The hermit shook his head and pointed to the seething sea, on which white horses[1] were riding.
[1] White horses=the spume on the breaking waves.
"No, sir, no," he said; "but we have plenty of food and plenty of fire. Heaven be praised!"
Tomnahurich all that day laid himself out to please his guests. He did all the cooking himself; and the food was by no means to be despised, for the old man was plentifully supplied with stores from shore, Creggan being the purchaser. Well, they had fish and bacon, and the eggs of sea-birds, so beautiful in colour and markings that Nugent said it was almost a sin to break them. The fish were of the best, for off the rocks mullet can be caught with rod and line. Rock pigs these delightful little seafarers are called.
They had potatoes, butter, and, last but not least, beautiful lobsters. What more could anyone expect on a hermit's isle?
When the sun went down the storm lulled somewhat, but it was thought advisable to remain one more night on the island.
After an early supper in the hut, and, the cave also, where the fishermen remained as troglodytes—if you don't know this word, dear young reader, take your dictionary and look it up;—after an early supper, I say, the hermit went down the cliff and returned soon.
"I'm going to bring up my wife," he said with a quiet smile.
"Your wife, Mr. M'Vayne!" cried Mrs. Nugent in astonishment. "Have you a wife, then? We will be delighted to see her."
"That you shall, and hear her too. Her voice is sweetness itself."
There was a roguish smile playing about his eyes as he departed.
Creggan was in a corner near the fire talking low to Matty, Pussy was curled up beside Collie (Oscar), and Polly was making droll remarks to all, when Tomnahurich entered with his "wife".
He carried her in a green baize bag. A strange place to stow away a wife in, it must be admitted.
"Have you brought Mrs. M'Vayne?"
"Yes," said the hermit, "and here she is!"
As he spoke he opened the green baize bag, and pulled out his Cremona fiddle.
He smiled, but he sighed as well. "Och hey!" he said; "this is the only wife I have now!"
But sweet was the music he brought from that old fiddle. Sweet and plaintive at first. Then he sang over it,—grand old sea-songs in which his listeners could fancy they heard the "coo" and the "moan" of the waves, as they dashed along the quarter of some gallant ship, far, far at sea.
Then looking up, and thinking he was making the young folks a trifle triste or sad, he burst into such a rattling cheery sailor's hornpipe, that the children laughed aloud in spite of themselves, while Polly danced for joy on her perch, uttering every now and then that real Irish "whoop!" which used to be heard at Donnybrook Fair.
* * * * * * * * * * *
That evening, as all sat in a wide circle around the fire-peats and wood, and after a momentary lull in the conversation, Mrs. Nugent addressed the hermit.
"Mr. M'Vayne," she said, "I noticed that you sighed deeply when you took your violin from its bag. Now, I know yours may be a sad story, but will you not tell it to us?"
"Oh, tell us a stoly!" cried bonnie Matty, clapping her tiny hands.
"I have never told my story to anyone hereabouts yet," said the hermit; "not even to my sonny, Creggan Ogg. But," he added, "when ladies ask, what can I do but obey."
"Well, light your pipe."
"May I?"
"Certainly."
The hermit smoked for a minute or two, looking into the fire, as if to renovate his memories of the past.
Then he began.