CHAPTER V

Various Doings in the West

The _Tobermory_ was no ship for passengers. Its decks were littered

with a hundred oddments, so that a man could barely walk a step without

tacking, and my bunk was simply a shelf in the frowsty little saloon,

where the odour of ham and eggs hung like a fog. I joined her at

Greenock and took a turn on deck with the captain after tea, when he

told me the names of the big blue hills to the north. He had a fine old

copper-coloured face and side-whiskers like an archbishop, and, having

spent all his days beating up the western seas, had as many yarns in

his head as Peter himself.

“On this boat,” he announced, “we don’t ken what a day may bring forth.

I may put into Colonsay for twa hours and bide there three days. I get

a telegram at Oban and the next thing I’m awa ayont Barra. Sheep’s the

difficult business. They maun be fetched for the sales, and they’re

dooms slow to lift. So ye see it’s not what ye call a pleasure trip,

Maister Brand.”

Indeed it wasn’t, for the confounded tub wallowed like a fat sow as

soon as we rounded a headland and got the weight of the south-western

wind. When asked my purpose, I explained that I was a colonial of Scots

extraction, who was paying his first visit to his fatherland and wanted

to explore the beauties of the West Highlands. I let him gather that I

was not rich in this world’s goods.

“Ye’ll have a passport?” he asked. “They’ll no let ye go north o’ Fort

William without one.”

Amos had said nothing about passports, so I looked blank.

“I could keep ye on board for the whole voyage,” he went on, “but ye

wouldna be permitted to land. If ye’re seekin’ enjoyment, it would be a

poor job sittin’ on this deck and admirin’ the works o’ God and no

allowed to step on the pier-head. Ye should have applied to the

military gentlemen in Glesca. But ye’ve plenty o’ time to make up your

mind afore we get to Oban. We’ve a heap o’ calls to make Mull and Islay

way.”

The purser came up to inquire about my ticket, and greeted me with a

grin.

“Ye’re acquaint with Mr Gresson, then?” said the captain. “Weel, we’re

a cheery wee ship’s company, and that’s the great thing on this kind o’

job.”

I made but a poor supper, for the wind had risen to half a gale, and I

saw hours of wretchedness approaching. The trouble with me is that I

cannot be honestly sick and get it over. Queasiness and headache beset

me and there is no refuge but bed. I turned into my bunk, leaving the

captain and the mate smoking shag not six feet from my head, and fell

into a restless sleep. When I woke the place was empty, and smelt

vilely of stale tobacco and cheese. My throbbing brows made sleep

impossible, and I tried to ease them by staggering upon deck. I saw a

clear windy sky, with every star as bright as a live coal, and a

heaving waste of dark waters running to ink-black hills. Then a douche

of spray caught me and sent me down the companion to my bunk again,

where I lay for hours trying to make a plan of campaign.

I argued that if Amos had wanted me to have a passport he would have

provided one, so I needn’t bother my head about that. But it was my

business to keep alongside Gresson, and if the boat stayed a week in

some port and he went off ashore, I must follow him. Having no passport

I would have to be always dodging trouble, which would handicap my

movements and in all likelihood make me more conspicuous than I wanted.

I guessed that Amos had denied me the passport for the very reason that

he wanted Gresson to think me harmless. The area of danger would,

therefore, be the passport country, somewhere north of Fort William.

But to follow Gresson I must run risks and enter that country. His

suspicions, if he had any, would be lulled if I left the boat at Oban,

but it was up to me to follow overland to the north and hit the place

where the _Tobermory_ made a long stay. The confounded tub had no

plans; she wandered about the West Highlands looking for sheep and

things; and the captain himself could give me no time-table of her

voyage. It was incredible that Gresson should take all this trouble if

he did not know that at some place—and the right place—he would have

time to get a spell ashore. But I could scarcely ask Gresson for that

information, though I determined to cast a wary fly over him. I knew

roughly the _Tobermory’s_ course—through the Sound of Islay to

Colonsay; then up the east side of Mull to Oban; then through the Sound

of Mull to the islands with names like cocktails, Rum and Eigg and

Coll; then to Skye; and then for the Outer Hebrides. I thought the last

would be the place, and it seemed madness to leave the boat, for the

Lord knew how I should get across the Minch. This consideration upset

all my plans again, and I fell into a troubled sleep without coming to

any conclusion.

Morning found us nosing between Jura and Islay, and about midday we

touched at a little port, where we unloaded some cargo and took on a

couple of shepherds who were going to Colonsay. The mellow afternoon

and the good smell of salt and heather got rid of the dregs of my

queasiness, and I spent a profitable hour on the pier-head with a

guide-book called _Baddely’s Scotland_, and one of Bartholomew’s maps.

I was beginning to think that Amos might be able to tell me something,

for a talk with the captain had suggested that the _Tobermory_ would

not dally long in the neighbourhood of Rum and Eigg. The big droving

season was scarcely on yet, and sheep for the Oban market would be

lifted on the return journey. In that case Skye was the first place to

watch, and if I could get wind of any big cargo waiting there I would

be able to make a plan. Amos was somewhere near the Kyle, and that was

across the narrows from Skye. Looking at the map, it seemed to me that,

in spite of being passportless, I might be able somehow to make my way

up through Morvern and Arisaig to the latitude of Skye. The difficulty

would be to get across the strip of sea, but there must be boats to

beg, borrow or steal.

I was poring over Baddely when Gresson sat down beside me. He was in a

good temper, and disposed to talk, and to my surprise his talk was all

about the beauties of the countryside. There was a kind of apple-green

light over everything; the steep heather hills cut into the sky like

purple amethysts, while beyond the straits the western ocean stretched

its pale molten gold to the sunset. Gresson waxed lyrical over the

scene. “This just about puts me right inside, Mr Brand. I’ve got to get

away from that little old town pretty frequent or I begin to moult like

a canary. A man feels a man when he gets to a place that smells as good

as this. Why in hell do we ever get messed up in those stone and lime

cages? I reckon some day I’ll pull my freight for a clean location and

settle down there and make little poems. This place would about content

me. And there’s a spot out in California in the Coast ranges that I’ve

been keeping my eye on.” The odd thing was that I believe he meant it.

His ugly face was lit up with a serious delight.

He told me he had taken this voyage before, so I got out _Baddely_ and

asked for advice. “I can’t spend too much time on holidaying,” I told

him, “and I want to see all the beauty spots. But the best of them seem

to be in the area that this fool British Government won’t let you into

without a passport. I suppose I shall have to leave you at Oban.”

“Too bad,” he said sympathetically. “Well, they tell me there’s some

pretty sights round Oban.” And he thumbed the guide-book and began to

read about Glencoe.

I said that was not my purpose, and pitched him a yarn about Prince

Charlie and how my mother’s great-grandfather had played some kind of