As she approached nearer to the beach the sound grew to a dull thunder over which only the sharper cries of the wind could be heard. She struggled over a rise of ground and then she felt the stinging salt spray on her cheeks while the wind tore at her as if to prevent her coming nearer.
She struggled on and there below her she saw the swinging lights of The Dolphin and heard the cries of the men.
Craigdaroch was directing operations. But by now no one was heeding his commands. The men were sullen and exhausted: numb to their marrows. Only the terrific driving force of the grieve kept them from giving in.
It was a mad and eerie scene. The rising tide was now breaking round The Dolphin: very soon it would be impossible to work beside her. They all knew this. The men hoped that the tide would save them further labour. But the skipper and Craigdaroch hoped differently. The skipper saw that there would be little chance of getting his boat out to sea. His only hope lay in lightening her sufficiently to enable him to beach her higher up. Not that this would solve his difficulties entirely. But if he managed to do so he might save The Dolphin from having her sides staved in by the full force of the waves. His men also saw the necessity for this though not with the same urgency.
As for Craigdaroch, he had set his mind on a project and he was not going to be deviated from it. The cargo would have to be unloaded no matter what the cost. No elements, natural or unnatural, were going to be allowed to stand in his way. The experience would be invaluable to his men and provide the parish with something to talk about for many a long day.
‘Tell Tom Gibson I want him,’ he called to a man.
The grieve came striding out of the water wet to the knees. He wiped the sweat and rain from his brow with his forearm. He was soaking: his shirt and trousers clung damply to his skin.
‘Are you near through with it, Tom?’
‘I think we’ll manage, Mr. MacWhirrie. But we’ll not need to lose any time.’
‘How many tons are there yet?’
‘Fully ten.’
‘Aye … You’ll just need to manage, Tom. I don’t think your men are putting their backs into the work the way they might.’
‘It’s sair work, Mr. MacWhirrie: and it’s sair on the horse. We’ll need to lighten the loads or we’ll be losing a cart.’
‘Don’t take your carts so far down: get them to carry the bags a bit further: a man’s easier got nor a horse.’
‘Just as you say, Mr. MacWhirrie … but they’re twa hundredweight bags and fully more, what with the rain.’
‘A man that can’t lift a twa hundredweight bag is no’ worth his wages on Craigdaroch: he can go at the term. That’s all, Tom.’
Tom Gibson had turned and was going back towards The Dolphin (Craigdaroch had no desire, as yet, to get his feet wet) when Jean came running out of the shadows with the flask of gruel. He was quite startled by the appearance of the child at such a juncture.
‘My mother sent me down with some gruel for you, father.’
A sudden wave of tenderness came over the grieve as he beheld his child standing there in the storm, the wind blowing the hair from under her close fitting hat.
‘But, wean dear, this is a terrible night for you to be out.’
He unwrapped the shawl from the flask and felt its warmth. At almost any other time he would have dismissed the offer as an insult to his manhood. But he was now shivering as a result of his talk with Craigdaroch. He uncorked the flask and put it to his head. The warm gruel was refreshing. He handed the empty flask back to his daughter.
‘Tell your mother I won’t be long now, and you get back with Jock Paterson in the next cart.’
And then, feeling he had idled enough time, he plunged forward to the side of The Dolphin, where Jock Paterson was struggling with his horse. The waves were now breaking around The Dolphin and the cart was slipping into the gravel while the horse was becoming restless.
The grieve roared at the men.
‘Get you backs into the wheels. Come on there, Andy, damn you…’
And suiting action to words, he flung his whole weight on to the spokes of the wheel while Jock Paterson roared and cursed at his horse. Suddenly a wheel caught on a rock and the cart turned sideways as it lurched forward, throwing Andy, the boy, off his balance.
Andy picked himself out of the shallow water, bruised and shaken, for the wheel had passed within an inch of his head. But no one bothered about him.
The next cart was attempting to back into position when Craigdaroch halted it.
The grieve took a bag on his back and ran with it to the cart. The bag was heavy and he was conscious of its weight: but it did not tax his strength. Though it was all the man in the cart could do to drag it into position.
Sam MacDowell took the next bag but a wave caught him above the knees and he fell face forward with the bag on top of him.
It took all Tom Gibson’s strength to remove the bag and raise the stunned carter out of the water.
The men were now in a bitter mood: they felt angry and rebellious. But the grieve’s threat of dismissal at the term checked them.
It fell to the grieve to carry the sacks. It was a task that called for his utmost reserve of energy. But gradually he felt himself tiring, became conscious of a definite weakening in his muscles. The Dolphin had swung her bow round with the rising tide, so that the grieve was no longer in danger from the direct 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
