When Ruby Brand reached the outskirts of Arbroath, he checked his speed and walked into his native town whistling gently, and with his hands in his pockets, as though he had just returned from an evening walk. He directed his steps to one of the streets near the harbour, in which his mother’s cottage was situated.
Mrs Brand was a delicate, little old woman—so little and so old that people sometimes wondered how it was possible that she could be the mother of such a stalwart son. She was one of those kind, gentle, uncomplaining, and unselfish beings, who do not secure much popularity or admiration in this world, but who secure obedient children, also steadfast and loving friends. Her favourite book was the Bible; her favourite hope in regard to earthly matters, that men should give up fighting and drinking, and live in peace; her favourite theory that the study of truth was the object for which man was created, and her favourite meal—tea.
Ruby was her only child. Minnie was the daughter of a distant relation, and, having been left an orphan, she was adopted by her. Mrs Brand’s husband was a sailor. He commanded a small coasting sloop, of which Ruby had been the mate for several years. As we have said, Ruby had been prevailed on to remain at home for some months in order to please his mother, whose delicacy of health was such that his refusal would have injured her seriously; at least the doctor said so, therefore Ruby agreed to stay.
The sloop Penguin, commanded by Ruby’s father, was on a voyage to Newcastle at that time, and was expected in Arbroath every day. But it was fated never more to cast anchor in that port. The great storm, to which reference has been made in a previous chapter, caused many wrecks on the shores of Britain. The Penguin, was one of the many.
In those days telegraphs, railroads, and penny papers did not exist. Murders were committed then, as now, but little was said, and less was known about them. Wrecks occurred then, as now, but few, except the persons immediately concerned, heard of them. “Destructive fires”, “terrible accidents”, and the familiar round of “appalling catastrophes” occurred then, as now, but their influence was limited, and their occurrence soon forgotten.
We would not be understood to mean that “now” (as compared with “then”), all is right and well; that telegraphs and railways and daily papers are all-potent and perfect. By no means. We have still much to learn and to do in these improved times; and, especially, there is wanting to a large extent among us a sympathetic telegraphy, so to speak, between the interior of our land and the sea-coast, which, if it existed in full and vigorous play, would go far to improve our condition, and raise us in the esteem of Christian nations. Nevertheless, as compared with now, the state of things then was lamentably imperfect.
The great storm came and went, having swept thousands of souls into eternity, and hundreds of thousands of pounds into nonentity. Lifeboats had not been invented. Harbours of refuge were almost unknown, and although our coasts bristled with dangerous reefs and headlands, lighthouses were few and far between. The consequence was, that wrecks were numerous; and so also were wreckers,—a class of men, who, in the absence of an efficient coastguard, subsisted to a large extent on what they picked up from the wrecks that were cast in their way, and who did not scruple, sometimes, to cause wrecks, by showing false lights in order to decoy vessels to destruction.
We do not say that all wreckers were guilty of such crimes, but many of them were so, and their style of life, at the best, had naturally a demoralising influence upon all of them.
The famous Bell Rock, lying twelve miles off the coast of Forfarshire, was a prolific source of destruction to shipping. Not only did numbers of vessels get upon it, but many others ran upon the neighbouring coasts in attempting to avoid it.
Ruby’s father knew the navigation well, but, in the confusion and darkness of the furious storm, he miscalculated his position and ran upon the rock, where, as we have seen, his body was afterwards found by the two fishermen. It was conveyed by them to the cottage of Mrs Brand, and when Ruby entered he found his mother on her knees by the bedside, pressing the cold hand of his father to her breast, and gazing with wild, tearless eyes into the dead face.
We will not dwell upon the sad scenes that followed.
Ruby was now under the necessity of leaving home, because his mother being deprived of her husband’s support naturally turned in distress to her son. But Ruby had no employment, and work could not be easily obtained at that time in the town, so there was no other resource left him but to go to sea. This he did in a small coasting sloop belonging to an old friend, who gave him part of his wages in advance to enable him to leave his mother a small provision, at least for a short time.
This, however, was not all that the widow had to depend on. Minnie Gray was expert with her needle, and for some years past had contributed not a little to the comforts of the household into which she had been adopted. She now set herself to work with redoubled zeal and energy. Besides this, Mrs Brand had a brother, a retired skipper, who obtained the complimentary title of Captain from his friends. He was a poor man, it is true, as regarded money, having barely sufficient for his own subsistence, but he was rich in kindliness and sympathy, so that he managed to make his small income perform wonders. On hearing of his brother-in-law’s death, Captain Ogilvy hastened to afford all the consolation in his power to his sorrowing sister.
The captain was an eccentric old man, of rugged aspect. He thought that there was not a worse comforter on the face of the earth than himself, because, when he saw others in distress, his heart invariably got into his throat, and absolutely prevented him from saying a single word. He tried to speak to his sister, but all he could do was to take her hand and weep. This did the poor widow more good than any words could have done, no matter how eloquently or fitly spoken. It unlocked the fountain of her own heart, and the two wept together.
When Captain Ogilvy accompanied Ruby on board the sloop to see him off, and shook hands as he was about to return to the shore, he said— “Cheer up, Ruby; never say die so long as there’s a shot in the looker. That’s the advice of an old salt, an’ you’ll find it sound, the more you ponder of it. W’en a young feller sails away on the sea of life, let him always go by chart and compass, not forgettin’ to take soundin’s w’en cruisin’ off a bad coast. Keep a sharp lookout to wind’ard, an’ mind yer helm—that’s my advice to you lad, as ye go:—
“‘A-sailin’ down life’s troubled stream,
All as if it wor a dream.’”
The captain had a somewhat poetic fancy (at least he was impressed with the belief that he had), and was in the habit of enforcing his arguments by quotations from memory. When memory failed he supplemented with original composition.
“Goodbye, lad, an’ Providence go wi’ ye.”
“Goodbye, uncle. I need not remind you to look after mother when I’m away.”
“No, nephy, you needn’t; I’ll do it whether or not.”
“And Minnie, poor thing, she’ll need a word of advice and comfort now and then, uncle.”
“And she shall have it, lad,” replied the captain with a tremendous wink, which was unfortunately lost on the nephew, in consequence of its being night and unusually dark, “advice and comfort on demand, gratis; for:—
“‘Woman, in her hours of ease,
Is most uncommon hard to please;’
“But she must be looked arter, ye know, and made of, d’ye see? so Ruby, boy, farewell.”
Half-an-hour before midnight was the time chosen for the sailing of the sloop Termagant, in order that she might get away quietly and escape the press-gang. Ruby and his uncle had taken the precaution to go down to the harbour just a few minutes before sailing, and they kept as closely as possible to the darkest and least-frequented streets while passing through the town.
Captain Ogilvy returned by much the same route to his sister’s cottage, but did not attempt to conceal his movements. On the contrary, knowing that the sloop must have got clear of the harbour by that time, he went along the streets whistling cheerfully. He had been a noted, not to say noisy, whistler when a boy, and the habit had not forsaken him in his old age. On turning sharp round a corner, he ran against two men, one of whom swore at him, but the other cried—
“Hallo! messmate, yer musical the night. Hey, Captain Ogilvy, surely I seed you an’ Ruby slinkin’ down the dark side o’ the market-gate half an ’oor ago?”
“Mayhap ye did, an’ mayhap ye didn’t,” retorted the captain, as he walked on; “but as it’s none o’ your business to know, I’ll not tell ye.”
“Ay, ay? O but ye’re a cross auld chap. Pleasant dreams t’ye.”
This kindly remark, which was expressed by our friend Davy Spink, was lost on the captain, in consequence of his having resumed his musical recreation with redoubled energy, as he went rolling back to the cottage to console Mrs Brand, and to afford “advice and comfort gratis” to Minnie Gray.
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