THE DENSCHMAN’S HAD.
A LEGEND OF SHETLAND.
From Widwick to Hermaness the cliffs rise steep and high from a deep ocean, so deep that a large ship might float alongside of the crags without danger of scraping her keel. What would be the fate of such a vessel, if she were carried by the might of that sea against that iron wall, I leave you to imagine. The rocks are broken all along their range by fissures and caves, inaccessible from the land, and scarcely approachable from the sea. He is a bold voyager who brings even a boat to thread the ‘baas’ and ‘stacks’—submerged rocks and needle-crags—which guard the way to those haunts of sea-fowl and seals. One of the caves is named the Denschman’s Had. I ought to explain that a ‘had’ means the den of a wild beast, his stronghold; and ‘Denschman’ is ‘Dane.’
In old days, Shetland (or Hialtland) was nothing more than a ‘had’ of vikinger, those pirates of the North who have so often been confounded with the noble sea-kings of Scandinavia; but while the islands belonged to Norway, their inhabitants were under powerful protection, and suffered little inconvenience from the uses to which the sea-rovers turned the sheltered voes and secluded islets. It was only when Scottish rule came in that the vikinger of Norway and Denmark turned their weapons against their brother-Norsemen of the Shetland Isles. During the times of the Stuarts, Scotland had enough to do to look after itself, far less to extend protection to an outlying dependency that was more plague than profit. Indeed, the Scottish kings and nobles seem to have regarded Hialtland as fair game, and robbed and oppressed the people after as cruel a method as that of the northern pirates. Between the two, those islands had a hot time of it; and the islanders, once a prosperous community, sank into poverty and hopeless serfdom.
About the time of Mary Stuart, the isle of Unst was harassed by a noted viking whose name and lineage were unknown. He and his daring crew were believed to be Danes, and his swift barque—appropriately named the Erne—and his stalwart person were familiar to the affrighted eyes of the islanders. When the Denschman swooped upon the isle, its inhabitants fled to the hills and rocks, leaving their homes as spoil for the lawless rover. What else could they do? The enemy were strong, reckless, brave, well armed and well disciplined. The islanders, groaning and disheartened under the yoke of an alien power, were at the mercy of might, and could neither resist nor make treaty; so the Denschman came and went like the fierce bird of prey whose name his vessel bore, and no man dared oppose him.
One midsummer evening, a westerly squall arose which sent the fishing-boats flying to the shelter of their voes and vicks. Those storms rise and fall with tropical rapidity and violence. Six hours after it was at its height, the wind had fallen to an ordinary fresh breeze, the sky was smiling as before, and only the wrathful surf, rolling white and broken under the influence of a changing tide, remained to tell of the tempest. All the boats had returned in safety, and there should have been rejoicing in Unst; but instead, men frowned and women trembled, for the fishers had brought news that the Denschman was on the coast: his well-known sail had been seen hovering beyond the holms of Gloup; he was coming upon the wings of the westerly wind; he would be on the Westing Bicht ere long. There was no landing-place available—with such a heavy sea—on that side of the island; but the Denschman knew what he was about, doubtless. He would scud to the nor’ard, fly round the Flugga skerries and Skau, would lay-to, and bide his time till dusk drew down; then he would alight on the eastern shore, and work his wild will upon the defenceless isle. Such had been his tactics aforetime. The people ran to the high lands of Vaalafiel and Patester to mark the Denschman’s course, for where he meant to land, there they must not be.
Soon the Erne was descried emerging from a mist of spindrift, and bearing swiftly towards Unst, heading straight for the isle, and not—as the folk had supposed—skirting the coast. Did the vikinger mean to bring their vessel to harbour among those crags, where the sea was in such a turmoil? Was the Erne a demon-ship that could dare everything and perform such a feat? On he came right before the wind with a following tide; but when well in the Westing Bicht, some experienced seamen affirmed that there must be something wrong aboard, for the Erne did not rise on the waves with its usual buoyancy; he seemed to plunge madly forward, as if in fierce conflict with the ocean he had ruled so long. By-and-by it was seen that the vessel laboured more and more, yet carried full sail, as if on speed depended salvation.
‘I would not say but he’s sprung a leak, or the like,’ said an old udaller among the onlookers. ‘Who but a madman would bring a ship in-shore like yon, if all was taut aboard!’
‘That is so,’ remarked a seaman. ‘Without doubt, he’s in straits; and he’s going to try to beach on the Aire of Widwick. It’s his only chance, and a poor one.’
‘Pray the powers he may not make the Aire,’ replied the old man; ‘and I’m thinking,’ he added, ‘that the powers will hear us. There is something fatal amiss with that evil one. See yon! He’s not obeying his helm; he’s just driving with wind and tide. He’s in a mighty strait, praise the Lord!’
‘If he misses the Aire, he’ll go in shallmillens [the fragments of eggshell] upon the baas of Flübersgerdie,’ said a fisherman, with a grim smile; and all cried out: ‘Pray the powers it may be so!’
As if the powers thus invoked were ready to prove their immediate willingness to answer the cry of the oppressed, the wind veered more to the west, and carried the disabled ship against the holm of Widwick, a small islet which lies off the creek, and wards from it the full force of the North Atlantic. If the Erne had stranded on the holm, some of his crew might have effected a landing there; but that was not the end of the viking’s barque; she reeled back from the holm with a gash in her side that was a death-wound indeed, and drifted onwards once more. Now, would she gain the creek? No! In a few moments the Erne was carried past the little harbour, where lay the sole chance of deliverance, and then crashed among the rocks of Flübersgerdie.
‘Praise to the powers that are above all!’ cried the men of Unst, and even gentle-hearted women rejoiced as the Denschman, barque and crew, disappeared among the breakers.
The people returned to their homes, happy in the thought that the rocks of Fatherland had proved able protectors, and that Unst was for ever rid of its most dreaded foe.
Two days and two nights passed. No trace of the storm was left. A boat put off from Widwick with the intention of saving such portions of the Erne as would certainly be drifting among the skerries near Flübersgerdie. The men could tell by the state of the tides and the wind exactly where the wreckage was to be found, and they made for the spot, never doubting that some spoil would be there to reward them. As they approached the submerged reef where the Erne finished her career, the skipper, alluding to the dreaded Denschman, said: ‘Well did he deserve what he met here! Think our isle would give him foothold!—our isle, that he has harried this ten year and more! No, no!’
Scarcely were the words spoken, when one of the fishermen called out excitedly: ‘Lord be about us, men, what’s yon?’—and he pointed to a cave situated in the cliff opposite the reef.
All gazed, and were struck dumb, for, on a ledge within the mouth of the helyer (cave) stood a man—the man! the Denschman, alive, stalwart, terrible as ever, and brandishing his sword, as if defying mortal to molest him.
The boat was instantly backed, and when the islanders had put what they considered a safe distance between themselves and their dreaded foeman, the men consulted together. Should they make a bold attack? The Denschman was alone; they were six in number. Surely, they could overpower him, tired and despairing as he must be. Yes. But one, or even two of their number were likely to fall before his sword ere he could be conquered. Who was patriot enough ‘to lead such dire attack?’ No one of that crew! Then should they leave him to die of exhaustion, as he must ere long? There was no way of escape. The lofty precipice overhung the cave, precluding any scheme of climbing upwards; on either side, the aiguille crags rose from a seething depth of sea; in front, a reef of sunken rocks covered with fretful surf, dared the bravest swimmer that ever breasted waves to pass alive.
The Denschman had evidently reached his present refuge by aid of a large plank belonging to the Erne, which still floated near the cave. When they had recovered every vestige of the wreck which floated, he could not escape. It was beyond the power of man to leave that cave unaided from without. Help must come from ropes lowered from the land above, or boats brought to the cave. And who was there in Unst would bring rope or boat to aid the Denschman? None!
‘Let him die the death!’ said the men whose homes the viking had devastated. So they ventured nearer, and removed every floating spar or plank, then returned to Widwick; and it was told in the isle that the Denschman had survived his barque and crew only to meet a more terrible death. No man pitied him; no man dreamt of giving him succour. Those were days when the gentler feelings had little part in men’s warfare, and no red cross of healing followed battle ensigns to the field of fight.
Next day, a number of boats put off, that men might feast their eyes on the dead or dying viking; and many saw him. That day, he was seated on the ledge of rock glowering at them; but he made no sign of either submission or defiance. ‘He grows weak,’ they said, and wondered that even the Denschman’s tough and giant frame had so long withstood the exposure and starvation.
A third time the islanders sought the rocks of Flübersgerdie and saw the pirate chief as before. Then they began to fear, and to say that he must be allied to potent powers of evil; for how, otherwise, could he have survived there so long? The interior of the helyer could be seen from a little distance: no food or clothing had been saved from the wreck to be secreted there. The prisoner was always seen sitting on the cold bare ledge where he had been first discovered, and the people were satisfied that the cave held no means of sustenance.
Day by day for a whole fortnight boats were guided to Flübersgerdie, and men gazed in awe, but did not venture to molest the Denschman, who merely returned their stare with haughty glances, and never deigned to bespeak their compassion. Dread of the supernatural added its paralysing effects to the terror which the viking’s fame had implanted, and there was not a man found brave enough to attack the Denschman in his ‘had.’
Then heaviness fell on the men’s spirits, for wives and mothers upbraided them as cowards; their little ones shrieked and hid their faces when it was told that the bugbear of their dreams was making his ‘had’ in an Unst helyer; and at last, driven by shame and a remnant of manly courage, the islanders determined on attacking their enemy. They would discover if he were immortal; they would prove if the powers of evil were above those of good.
A fleet of boats was got ready, laden with sharp stones, which were to be cast at the foe—a safe mode of onslaught! The islanders armed themselves with staves and axes. Nets were prepared, in whose toils the Denschman should fall if he, by any strange chance, came to close quarters. The oldest udaller in the isle ordered his best boat to be launched and consecrated, to lead the attack. A day was fixed upon. It had been ascertained on the previous evening that the Denschman was still in his ‘had,’ alive and strong. No one doubted by that time that there he would remain while the island remained, if not ousted by force and the help of holy powers; or if not aided by demons to rise and blight the isle.
‘Pray,’ said the old udaller to his three fair daughters, who stood to see him embark in the consecrated boat—‘pray that I bring the Denschman’s dishonoured corpse back with me.’
‘We will pray,’ said the golden-haired maidens.
But what consternation there was on the Aire of Widwick, a few minutes later, when it was found that the old man’s boat—the largest and best in the isle, the skiff that was to have led the attack—had disappeared! She had not sunk into the pellucid water, else she had been easily recovered; she had not floated out to sea, for the tide was running landwards; yet she had gone as completely as if she had owned feet to carry her over earth, or wings to fly through air. To be sure, the boat had both feet and wings of a kind, but these were of use on the ocean alone. And she was gone—oars and sails too! Doubtless, her flight had been on her native element; but some man’s hand must have spread her wings or moved her feet. Then who had stolen the udaller’s boat? No Hialtlander, be sure! Robbery was never the vice of those islanders; moreover, such a theft could have been brought home to a native easily.
One fisherman, more acute than his neighbours, whispered: ‘None but the Denschman has done this;’ and with common assent, all echoed: ‘The Denschman has done this.’
Boats instantly put off and sped to Flübersgerdie, where confirmation of those suspicions was not wanting. The Denschman was no longer in the cave. He had been there, hale and terrible, on the previous evening; he had vanished that morning, and left no trace behind. ‘It must have been the Evil One himself,’ said the folk; and there was gloom in the isle, trembling, and much fear, for all expected that ere long the Denschman would descend upon Unst, and, fired by revenge, deal worse havoc than even that of former days.
But days and weeks went past, and nothing further was known of the Denschman or the udaller’s boat, and still the people feared their ancient foe and looked for his return. None doubted that he survived. The man who could live in unabated vigour through a fortnight without food or fire in a dark ocean cave, who could find means of leaving his prison, and could spirit away a large boat—such a one was not likely to have perished on the sea. Yes, without doubt, the Denschman would return to Unst; ‘and heaven help us when he comes!’ said the islanders.
Then it happened one autumn afternoon that a stranger vessel was seen, on the Westing Bicht, making tacks for the isle. The people had always cause to suspect an unknown sail, and they watched the stranger’s approach with some fear. As he drew nearer, it was observed that he closely resembled the Erne of old, but carried the white flag of peace. The Norland pirates ever scorned to conceal their true character, which was never a treacherous one, but flaunted their ruthless blood-red colours in the face of day. If a viking hoisted the white banner, he meant peace; and so well was this known, and so thoroughly could all men trust in the good faith of a viking, that the islanders instantly sent off a boat to the vessel, though they suspected it was a pirate ship. The stranger had a boat in tow, and when the islanders came near, he lay-to and allowed them to come alongside of his convoy. What was the fishermen’s astonishment to find that the boat was no other than that of the Unst udaller!
Then a stern voice spoke from the ship. ‘Come not nearer,’ it said, in a patois half-Danish, half-English, which the Hialtlanders could interpret well enough. ‘Come not nearer; but undo the tow-line, and take that boat to its owner. It is freighted with goodly gifts for the udaller’s three fair daughters, who will know whence those tokens come.—And know, ye hinds of Unst, that ye owe your lives and all that makes life precious to the golden-haired maidens.—Begone!’ Then the speaker—easily recognised as the Denschman—made imperious sign to his mariners, who speedily put the vessel on another tack, and before many minutes he was running out to sea again.
The islanders towed the laden boat ashore, where a throng was waiting their return. Numerous questions were asked, numerous conjectures made. The udaller and his daughters were summoned and the precious cargo displayed. Table utensils of silver, personal ornaments of gold, silken stuffs and snowy linens, rich wines and fruits, and precious grain, whatever could please feminine taste, were spread before the wondering people, while the three sisters stood mute and blushing, now cowering with strange shame, anon glancing with curious pride at all around.
Presently, their old father addressed them in grave and troubled tones: ‘Tell us the meaning of this strange güdic [riddle].’
At that, the two younger girls fell on their knees and clasped his hands entreatingly, while the eldest sister cried: ‘O father, do not be angered, and I will tell ye all. We heard you speak of the Denschman in his sore strait with nobody to pity him. It’s true he had dealt cruelly by our isle; but—but, O father, it lay heavy on our hearts that a man—and such a man, with such a goodly presence and such a bold spirit—should die like an otter trapped in a snare; and so, we—we went to the rock in the dark hour of nicht, and we lowered a keschie [basket] to him with food and cordials and clothes—everything to keep in life. And then—when we knew that our men meant to stone the poor defenceless captive to death, our souls were melted with pity; so we took the boat and helped him to escape. We were not afraid of the Denschman; and, truth to tell, he can be kind and gentle like other men. Or ere he left the isle—all in the mirk hour—he promised that, because of what we had done, he would never harry Unst again. No doubt, it was wrong of us, father; but then, oh, be mindful that the plight he was in could not fail to touch lasses’ hearts. And if good instead of harm come of it—nay, has come of it—ye need not trouble yourself more, but forgive us, and trust the Denschman to keep his word. He will do so. We all know that a viking stands to his promise, whate’er betide.’
‘The lass has spoken words of wisdom,’ said a prudent matron, eyeing the viking’s royal gifts; and a laughing seaman added: ‘Ay, and what would come of us poor men if lasses were not pitiful, and not just altogether wise at times!’
So the old udaller forgave his daughters, and—as legend says—‘after that Unst was often benefited, and never more harried, by the Denschman,’ whose ‘had’ is still pointed out to the inquiring stranger.