CHAPTER IX.
STORM.
Behind the rugged mountains, peaked and torn,
One planet glitters in the icy cold,
Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks;
And now again the wild nor’wester speaks,
And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold
While every timber, every casement creaks.
Morning broke cold and cloudy for the first time. The upper end of our valley was blocked with mist, and the scene was very like a Scotch or Irish one on a wet day. I found I could not light the fire—it all blew into the middle of the room, and threatened us with a conflagration. I just managed some eggs and tea, and we breakfasted out of doors devoured by sand-flies; and, as my house became covered with dust and ashes, and filled with smoke—we agreed, if bad weather set in, we should have to flee in the Berline. It was just as well we had brought a supply of food back with us, as lighting a fire was out of the question.
The morning passed cleaning-up, reading, and writing, and then we set off to see Mr. Macpherson, who had returned to the Lone Shieling. We knew this by finding a bottle of milk set on our table by way of a visiting card when we came in last night. By noon it had settled into a drizzle, and we went along the base of the mountains by a narrow track that keeps rather high and avoids the river-bed, but involving a good deal of scrambling and several boggy places to get over—and the four miles took us a long time. We found the family at home. Macpherson, a true Highlander, tall and big, entered with zest into all our plans, and said we would try for the Ice-caves to-morrow, if the weather cleared. He was a great talker once he started, and knew a great deal about the mountains, though he had never been to the Ice-caves. He holds 54,000 acres of barren mountain, the only good land being the strips along the rivers and in the valleys. As we sat talking, the rain came down in torrents, and mist hid the mountains, and one could imagine how lonely and desolate is this little settlement from autumn to spring. Sitting round the tea-table we heard more stories of the river.
This spring Mrs. Macpherson took the children to Pembroke in the trap—leaving her little boy with Macpherson. When they left Russell’s Flat on the return journey, rain came on, they were wet through, and her husband was not at the ford. True, there was the Niger Hut, but they wanted to get home, and she drove the horse into the river; but in a little time she found he was being carried away and beginning to swim. The children cried with fear, and in terror of the river she got the horse turned, and wet and cold they got out. Fortunately the rain ceased, and unharnessing the horse, they started to walk by the bridle-track. Here she met her husband with a second horse. He forded first, carrying two children; then she and the baby were placed on the saddle, but she was too terrified to hold the reins, and clutched her baby while he led the horse through—she is always terrified of the cruel river.
Tea over, we set out homewards, with old sacks pinned round our shoulders, slopping and slipping through water and wet grass. There was no sign of the horses when we got back, but we hoped they had gone up into the bush for shelter. The wood was wet, everything dripping, and the light failing, but we managed to kindle a fire and make some soup; and then sat listening to the rumble of the avalanches and the increasing roar of the waterfalls. It was a wild night of storm and rain. We awoke, sometimes to wonder, would the old cottage stand the terrific blasts that swept down on it from the mountains?
When we got up it was late; the sun was shining, the rain had ceased; but it was too windy to think of a fire in our wide chimney, so I retired to the ruined cowshed below the rise, and managed to coax up a blaze, boil some eggs, and then carried our breakfast indoors. Showers chased each other over the mountain, which were veiled half way in mist—all their sides were seamed with waterfalls, leaping and roaring, and the river hurried by in a grey flood. We had just two compensations—the cows had gone away, and the flies too. Later it cleared somewhat; lights and shadows swept over the rocky mountain sides; now a peak gleamed in sunshine; then again a jagged edge stood black against a grey sky. No excursions were possible in this weather.
That night it was too windy to light a fire, and it had become cold; we sat indoors by the feeble light of two candles, our shoulders wrapped in rugs. Our bread supply was nearly exhausted, and next day was Sunday, and we could not get a fresh one.
All night it blew fitfully. I had promised salmon for breakfast, but we had to eat it cold, and we had only a very hard end of a loaf and one scone left. Again, the next afternoon, the sky seemed to come down and fill the gorge, and we returned from a short expedition very wet and much depressed. So miserable were we, I felt we must have a fire, and, to my joy, I found the wind had shifted, and the chimney was drawing up, not down. We had dinner, using our last five potatoes, and there was no bread.
I had just washed up when two dogs came bounding up to me, and behind them Mr. Macpherson was seen riding over the paddock. He was very welcome, especially so as he brought us some milk and a jar of cream, and had come to say the weather would be all right by to-morrow, and he would take us to the Ice-caves. As I was setting to work getting some soup ready for him, the wind played me a scurvy trick, for a sudden gust sent sparks and ashes all over my clean floor; and the men had to prop an old door across the hearth to keep a remnant of the fire in!
It is certainly a very inconvenient house in this respect, and in windy weather always full of wood-ashes and dust; nevertheless our visitor enjoyed his supper, and he and Transome smoked a pipe together, and then he rode away as dusk was falling.
A happy change in the night ushered in a bright sunny morning: the air crisp as with frost, and everything shining after the rain. We were early astir, the fire burned clear, and I fried some bacon; the horses were caught, and we started across the flat and rode through the “Gate of Death,” in high hopes of a successful day. The “sturm und drang” of the last few days had but made us all the keener, and we were glad once more to see the cloudless sunshine and blue sky over the valley.