force of the incoming waves. But the tide was now waist high and the biting coldness of it penetrated to his marrow.
It was a brutal scene. And when a swaying beam of light from The Dolphin crossed Craigdaroch’s face it appeared cruel and devilish.
And Craigdaroch was enjoying the scene. Now he felt his presence dominated the scene, that if his spirit did not ride the natural elements yet it most surely dominated the human elements. He was keenly aware that rebellion simmered in the hearts of his men: he knew that at this moment they hated him with a deep slow-burning hatred. But that hatred never once broke out in the sudden flame of action. And he felt it was his presence and his presence alone that prevented this. Actually so warmed was he by the inward lust of his power that he was oblivious to the personal discomfort of the storm.
There was a peculiar look of concentration about his eyes which were narrowed and hard. His brow was knit and wrinkled and the fringe of his moustache was sucked down by his lower lip – a trick of his whenever he was angry or his thoughts were concentrated.
The skipper of The Dolphin was deeply anxious about his ship. He saw now that there was little chance of beaching her further inshore – he would never be able to hold her bow to the storm: most likely she would keel over on her side, fill up and lie at the mercy of the waves. Already she was as good as lost. But he was not the man to give in without a fight – and at least the lime must be got out of the hold before she shipped water.
The crest of a wave lashed across the deck and sprayed the men in the hold. The skipper threw himself forward.
‘Let the bags go: let them go into the sea. Sclanders – pack my things: then see about the crew’s belongings. We’ll maybe need to abandon her.’
Sclanders hurried away. The skipper leaned over the stanchions.
‘Stand clear there below. Do you hear, Gibson? Stand clear if you don’t want your neck broken – we’re throwing the bags overboard.’
Two bags struck the sea beside the grieve. He dropped his arms in a resigned gesture. Craigdaroch glowered at him as he stepped out of the sea.
‘We can do no more, Mr. MacWhirrie. They’re couping the bags overboard.’
‘You told him that was a breach of contract?’
‘I did not, Mr. MacWhirrie: I’ve done my best and I can do no more.’
‘N’aye …’
‘I suppose the men can go home now, Mr. MacWhirrie?’
‘They can go to hell.’
‘Whatever you say, Mr. MacWhirrie – but they’ve had a hard day. I’ll better go and see that the horses are dried down rightly: we don’t want any trouble wi’ the weed.’
‘N’aye: you’re no’ staying to see The Dolphin broken up? There’ll be some good firewood here in the morning.’
‘It’ll be a damned shame, Mr. MacWhirrie, for he’s a decent man that skipper.’
Craigdaroch laughed.
‘N’aye … he’ll have good cause to mind Craigdaroch – if he’s the sense to abandon her in time. On you go, Tom, and see to they horses. I’ll stand by here.’
Tom Gibson turned and picked up his jacket and vest. Pity and anger fought for the dominance of his emotions. His pity went out to the skipper of The Dolphin: his anger mounted against Craigdaroch. Because of his feelings he was anxious to escape from the scene. Only on the way home did he become conscious of the bitterness of the wind.
Craigdaroch remained. The scene fascinated him. The destruction of another’s property always gave him intense satisfaction. He would gallop for miles to a stackyard blaze and gaze spellbound till the fire either burned itself out or was got under control. But his fondest hope was not to be realised: the end was not spectacular. Indeed for him the end came as a bitter anti-climax.
The skipper and the crew abandoned The Dolphin. They stood on the beach, withdrawn from Craigdaroch, watching silently every movement of the ship.
As the skipper anticipated, The Dolphin as she began to float was battered broadside on to the shore. The tide rose. The ship filled with water. The waves pounded and broke on her side and then the last swaying light on the yard-arm was dowsed.
Dimly they could distinguish the hull of The Dolphin and the waves, now mountainous, breaking over her.
The mate held a small storm lamp in his hand. Craigdaroch stepped into the dim circle of its light. The evening’s entertainment was over.
‘Well, skipper: you’ll no’ sail her again. Aye: it’s a great pity. But come away up to the house and I’ll see about a drink and a bite of supper.’
The skipper turned towards him, speaking slowly and deliberately.
‘The only charity I’ll ask from you, MacWhirrie, is a shed to shelter me and my men for the night.’
Craigdaroch laughed.
‘Aye, aye. But there’s nae harm in having some toddy and a bite first.’
And chuckling quietly to himself, he led the way up from the shore.
SABBATH SERMON
After the farmers (though they in turn were in the grip of the landlords) the church was the most dominating force in the land. But church services were short. Owing to the long distances the farmers and their labourers had to travel, and since many of them could only be spared with difficulty from the dairy farms where work differed little on the Sabbath from the weekdays, there was only one service: at eleven o’clock in the morning. The service seldom lasted more than an hour.
The Reverend John Ross was the parish minister in Kirkcolm and his two leading elders were Sam MacKitteroch, the schoolmaster, and Andrew Ramsay, the drystone dyker.
In the hands of this trio the church declined in influence and authority – although, when prompted or bullied by the Laird of Kirkcolm, Sir Thomas MacCready, Mr. Ross could exercise his authority.
But it was not religion so much as common intellectual interest that bonded the three in friendship.
The Reverend John always preached a thorough-going sermon suitably shot through with fire and brimstone. He dealt largely with the Devil and always spoke with something like fervour about Hell. The threat of eternal damnation was the thread of all his discourses.
In all this the Reverend John was a firm believer. Yet the moment the service was over and the congregation had departed, he hung up his beliefs with his sorely worn robes. He had done his duty: and a man – even of God – can do no more. In the vestry he was joined by Sam and Andrew. After the collection was counted, pipes were lit, the bottle was produced and, in winter, they gathered round the fire.
It was a unique gathering. The afternoon was theirs and they guarded the privilege jealously. For years now they had never missed their Sunday afternoon’s foregathering in the vestry.
On this particular Sabbath they had much to discuss. As the result of the storm that had wrecked The Dolphin, two steamers had been wrecked near Corsewall Point. In addition to this there was a fresh crop of scandals to discuss. The rise in the illegitimate birth-rate was causing some concern to Sir Thomas and he had been chiding the minister.
The Reverend John, who was a powerful stocky-built man with a cherubic countenance, introduced the less important topic first.
‘That makes the third illegitimate born this week.’
Andrew Ramsay nodded gravely.
Sam MacKitteroch coughed.
‘We had a brave and early spring, John: and that always has an effect on young blood. They’re nearly all first-borns – or I’m gravely mistaken.’