

E-text prepared by Martin Robb



THE PILOTS OF POMONA

A Story of the Orkney Islands

by

ROBERT LEIGHTON







CONTENTS

      Chapter I.  In Which I Am Late For School.
     Chapter II.  Andrew Drever's School
    Chapter III.  A Half Holiday.
     Chapter IV.  Sandy Ericson, Pilot.
      Chapter V.  The Hen Harrier.
     Chapter VI.  "Better Gear Than Rats."
    Chapter VII.  What The Shingle Revealed.
   Chapter VIII.  Dividing The Spoil.
     Chapter IX.  Captain Gordon.
      Chapter X.  The Dominie Explains.
     Chapter XI.  My Sister Jessie.
    Chapter XII.  A Tragedy And A Transportation.
   Chapter XIII.  In Which I Receive A Present.
    Chapter XIV.  Thora.
     Chapter XV.  In Which The Viking's Amulet Is Proved.
    Chapter XVI.  Wherein I Go A-Fishing.
   Chapter XVII.  How The Golden Rule Was Kept.
  Chapter XVIII.  The Wreck Of The "Undine."
    Chapter XIX.  Tom Kinlay's Bargain.
     Chapter XX.  The Opposition Boat.
    Chapter XXI.  The Rescue.
   Chapter XXII.  After The Accident.
  Chapter XXIII.  Gray's Inn.
   Chapter XXIV.  Carver Kinlay's Success.
    Chapter XXV.  A Family Removal.
   Chapter XXVI.  A Subterranean Adventure.
  Chapter XXVII.  A Family Misfortune.
 Chapter XXVIII.  Captain Flett Of The "Falcon."
   Chapter XXIX.  In Which The "Falcon" Sets Sail.
    Chapter XXX.  An Orcadian Voyage.
   Chapter XXXI.  An Arctic Waif.
  Chapter XXXII.  The Last Of The "Pilgrim."
 Chapter XXXIII.  The Light In The Gaulton Cave.
  Chapter XXXIV.  Colin Lothian Makes An Accusation.
   Chapter XXXV.  A Search And A Discovery.
  Chapter XXXVI.  Trapped In The Cave.
 Chapter XXXVII.  In Which I Am Put Under Arrest.
Chapter XXXVIII.  Accused Of Murder.
  Chapter XXXIX.  An Unprofessional Inquiry.
     Chapter XL.  Ephraim Quendale.
    Chapter XLI.  The Last Of The Kinlays.
   Chapter XLII.  A Choice Among Three.
  Chapter XLIII.  Thora's Answer.
          Notes.



Chapter I. In Which I Am Late For School.


On a certain bright morning in the month of May, 1843, the little
port of Stromness wore an aspect of unwonted commotion. The great
whaling fleet that every year sailed from this place for the
Greenland fisheries was busily preparing for sea. The sun was
shining over the brown hills of Orphir, and casting a golden sheen
over the calm bay. Out beyond the Holms the whaling ships lay at
anchor, the Blue Peter flying at each forepeak, and between them
and the town many boats were passing to and fro.

I remember the day, not so much in connection with the whaling
ships themselves as by the fact that their sailing fixes upon my
memory the date of other more personal events which I am about to
set forth in the following pages. Indeed, I was altogether
unaffected by the departure of the ships. As I sat on the edge of
one of the tiny stone piers that support the old houses along the
shoreline, my bare feet dangling above the clear green water, I
thought only of my fishing line and of the row of bright-scaled
sillocks that lay on a stone at my side, being quite unmindful that
the school bell had long since begun to ring.

A small boat passed within a few yards of the jetty, rowed by Tom
Kinlay, one of my schoolfellows.

"Now, then, Ericson," he cried out as he saw me; "d'ye not hear the
bell? Hurry up, lad, or you'll be late again. Aha! I'll tell the
dominie that you're sitting there fishing when you should be at the
school. Come away now, or ye'll get your licks."

Without seeming to hear his warning, I drew in my line with a good
young coal fish at the end of it, and quietly counted my catch.
There were just three-and-twenty fish, and I could not resist the
temptation of making up the even two dozen; so I baited my hook
again and cast it into the water, meditating as I did so upon
Kinlay's unnecessary interference.

Now Tom Kinlay, I must tell you, was some twelve months older than
I, and, as I had reason to remember, much taller and stronger. In
our early school days he had exercised a tyranny over me which I
even now recall with feelings partly of indignation against him,
and partly of shame in myself for having so foolishly bent under
the yoke of his oppression. When we went bathing, as we frequently
did, out on the further shores of the bay, he would not scruple to
lead us younger lads into the deepest waters, and, when we were far
beyond our depth and almost exhausted, he would swim behind us and
force us under, for the mere cruel pleasure, I believe, of seeing
our struggles and hearing our cries below the surface. From some
fancied sense of duty we allowed ourselves meekly to serve and obey
him. When we went on a cliff-climbing expedition he would choose to
remain in safety up above on the banks holding the rope, while it
was we who were sent down the dangerous precipice to harry the
sea-birds' nests.

I had not yet forgiven Tom for what he had done a few days earlier
than this spring morning. It happened this way:

Four of us had a boat out on the bay, and we sailed about from
point to point, fancying ourselves sailors voyaging on foreign
seas. Our dinghy, we imagined, was a sailing vessel, and the broad
bay of Stromness represented the Atlantic Ocean. The Outer Holm we
called "America," Graemsay Island was "Africa," and the Ness Point
was "Spain," while a small rock that stood far out in the bay was
"St. Helena." Tom Kinlay was, by his own appointment, our skipper;
Robbie Rosson and Willie Hercus were classed able seamen; and my
dog, Selta, and I were called upon to do duty for both passengers
and cargo, curiously enough, sailing with the ship on every voyage.

We had touched at each of these places in turn, and when we were
homeward bound I was landed at an imaginary port in "Spain." The
boat had pushed off, when I called out to the skipper that I would
walk home to Stromness if he would take the ship into port.

I had returned home and was seated at dinner, when I thought of the
dog and looked about for her. But she had not come back; so I went
down to the jetty at the end of the Anchor Close, to see if I could
discover the boat or any of the lads. Standing there I heard the
dog's bark across the water, and what was my consternation to see
my pet stranded like a castaway on "St. Helena"! She was tethered
by a rope to the rock, and could not escape without help. The tide
was rising, and the rock barely visible above the water. In a few
minutes my dog would be drowned. No boat was near at hand, and
there was nothing for it but that I should swim out to the rescue,
so I had to strip there on the jetty and plunge in. The swim was a
long one, and I reached the rock only just in time. The dog had
been marooned on that little island, but Tom Kinlay had fastened up
the boat and gone home, caring nothing, and neither of the other
lads dared so far offend him as to attempt to rescue poor Selta
without his permission.

As I sat fishing on the pier, I was thinking of Kinlay's attitude
towards me, and wondering if I should ever be able to hold my own
against him in our outdoor intercourse as easily as I certainly
could hold it in our class at school. But soon I was interrupted by
feeling another twitch at my line. I hauled in another sillock; and
having now completed my two dozen fish, I gathered them and my
lines together, thrust my fishhooks into my trousers' pocket, and
went off to school, only staying a few minutes on the way to give
the fish to my sister Jessie, and get my slate and books in
exchange.



Chapter II. Andrew Drever's School


Our schoolhouse was situated on the braeside above the main street
of Stromness. It was a plain stone building with crow-step gables
and a slated roof; and the only indication of its purpose was a
large board over the door, upon which Andrew Drever had himself
imprinted the word "SCHOOL" in bold black letters on a white
ground.

The morning's lessons were already well advanced, as I could hear
by the hum of voices as I approached. Even Peter, the jackdaw, in
his wicker cage at the open doorway, joined in the clatter of
tongues. His quick eye noticed me hurrying to the school, and he
sidled awkwardly along his perch, put out his long black beak
through the bars of his cage, and flapped his wings with
unmistakable signs of welcome.

I was very late; so late that I half dreaded going into the school;
and to discover if possible what humour the schoolmaster was in, I
peeped through the half-open window. In the inner room I could see
old Grace Drever seated with her gray cat beside the peat fire,
busily twirling her spinning wheel. Nearer to me Mr. Drever himself
sat at a high desk, at the side of which hung the inevitable
"tawse;" and I did not fail to notice that this instrument of
torture had already been used that morning, for it still swung with
a gentle motion from side to side, like the pendulum of a lazy
clock.

Lest you should suppose that Andrew Drever was a severe taskmaster,
however, let me here hasten to assure you that his nature was as
sweet as summer. His methods of punishment and reward were the
perfection of justice. In stature he was a small man, but his back
was broad and strong, and his hands were firm and large. His long,
straight hair was as black as the wing of his own jackdaw, and his
cheeks, though thin, had a freshness of colour about them that was
brought there by the bracing breezes of our native hills.

The class was at the Latin exercises, for Latin formed part of our
education, and I could hear Jessie Grey repeating a conjugation. I
saw Tom Kinlay looking absently towards the window where I stood,
and fearing that he would notice me, I moved a step nearer the
door. Then I heard Mr. Drever speak.

"Kinlay," said he, "finish the subjunctive mood, where Jessie Grey
left off."

Tom's trembling voice betrayed his ignorance of the-lesson.

"Regor, I am ruled; regeris, thou--"

"No, no," interrupted the master. "What are you thinking of, boy?
That's the indicative mood. I asked for the subjunctive. Take your
hands out of your pockets, sir, and don't stand there glowering at
the whaling ships. They'll not be away till afternoon. Now, the
subjunctive mood?"

"I can't say it, sir. I could not get it into my head," whined Tom.

"Can't! do you say? Can't! Was there ever such a word?--Here, you,
Halcro Ericson, finish the--Now, where's that lad? Has he not come
to the school yet?"

"No, sir," replied two or three voices.

Now that the schoolmaster's attention had been so drawn to my
absence, I felt more than ever reluctant to enter.

"Where is he? Does anyone know?" asked Mr. Drever.

"Dinna ken, sir," was the weak response.

Then Tom Kinlay, anxious, I suppose, to retrieve his lost ground,
droned out: "He's away down at the shore side, sir. I saw him
fishing."

"Ah! s-sneak!" hissed one of the boys near him; "what for need you
tell?"

"Now, now!" said the master quietly. "None of that. Get along with
the lesson."

He glanced along the row of faces before him.

"Thora Kinlay," he said, "finish the conjugation where Jessie Grey
left off."

I was again at the window.

Mr. Drever looked towards a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl who stood
directly opposite to him. At her throat there was a cowslip--a rare
flower in Orkney. She wore a rough, homespun frock, as all the
other girls did; but, for some reason which I cannot explain, Thora
Kinlay was quite unlike her companions. Such was the refined
gentleness of her nature that I can compare her only with the
tern--the most beautiful, I believe, of all our sea birds.

"Regerer, I might be ruled; regereris, thou mightst be ruled," she
began, and as she repeated the conjugation, I listened with
attention not unmixed with envy, for she was the best scholar in
the whole school.

As Thora concluded, the schoolmaster gave her a word of praise, and
told her to go to the top of the class, while her brother, Tom, was
ordered to the bottom.

Andrew Drever had given these directions, and was leaning with his
elbow on the desk, his chin resting on his hand, when his eye was
attracted by my moving shadow at the doorway; and amid a sudden
silence I entered and took my place at the bottom of the class.

"Good morning, sir!" I said, looking fearlessly into Mr. Drever's
kind face.

"Good morning, Ericson!" said he. "You take your proper place, I
notice. But what is the meaning of this lateness? What excuse have
you this time?"

"I was down at the shore side catching sillocks," I boldly
answered, "and I just stopped to make up the even number."

Robbie Rosson here put his hand to his mouth in the form of a
speaking trumpet, and whispered: "How many did you catch, Hal?"

"Just two dozen," I quietly replied, yet not so quietly but Mr.
Drever heard me.

"Yes, Ericson," said he sternly, "you stay to make up the number of
your fish. But why do you not remember that you have a duty in
making up the number of your class at school?"

"I'm very sorry, sir," I said; "but I'll not do it again."

"See that you do not. I will excuse you this time, but only because
you were at the fishing." Then he added more kindly, "I have myself
lost count of time in the same way. And now let me hear your Latin
lesson."

Fortunately I went through the lesson without mistake, and was
rewarded by being told to go above Tom Kinlay. As I took my place,
however, the next boy to me, Robbie Rosson, gave a great shout of
pain, as though a pin had been stuck into him.

"Hello, hello! What's wrong now?" exclaimed the schoolmaster.

"It's nothing, sir," said Robbie, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"Nothing! What for did you cry out like that, then?"

"'Twas one of my fishhooks stuck in his leg, sir," I explained,
extracting the offending hook from Rosson's trousers, and putting
it back with others into my pocket.

"Give me the hooks!" demanded Mr. Drever, holding out his hand to
receive them. "I don't know what can possess you, bringing such
things to school."

Then before putting the hooks away in his desk, he examined them
with a knowing eye, and I heard him murmur, "Dear me, dear me! You
lads beat everything. I cannot think where ye get such good hooks
from."

The lesson was now changed. We all took our seats at the desks for
arithmetic, and throughout the morning there were few interruptions
further than the necessary disturbance caused by the changing of
places as one or another of us was distinguished for reward.



Chapter III. A Half Holiday.


You will have gathered from Andrew Drever's remark about the
fishhooks that he was something of a fisher. He was a fisher; but
he was also a naturalist, and he varied the hard duties of the
school by making frequent excursions across the hills in search of
objects for his favourite study. In addition to the maps and
diagrams that hung on the whitewashed walls of the schoolroom there
were many cases containing stuffed birds, such as guillemots,
terns, owls, and ouzels; and specimens of the small quadrupeds of
the locality, including a weasel and a fine pair of otters. All of
these specimens had been prepared and stuffed by himself, and upon
a side table by the window he kept a collection of curious stones
and old coins that he had found on his wanderings.

Andrew's heart was in both of his occupations. He loved his birds
and his curiosities, and I think he loved his pupils. Often, as he
sat on his high stool behind his desk, with a severity in his
features which his position seemed to demand, I have seen his brown
eyes soften as they looked round the circle of faces, and I have
known that he had some affection for each one of us. Out of school
hours he took great interest in our pursuits, giving to the girls
advice in the arrangement of colour in their needlework, and to the
boys many a valuable hint for the hooking of trout. He knew no
distinctions of rank or social position. A laird's son was treated
by him with the same dignity or kindness that was shown to the son
of a poor kelp burner; and the coveted seat at the head of the
class was as often occupied by a poor fisherman's lad as by the
better dressed, but not better educated, son of the Inspector of
Fisheries, or the bright little daughter of so great a man as
Lloyd's agent.

