"A herd—ay, kye in legions. We made a slaughter o' them and smoke-cured the flesh for the harnish casks—the Frenchmen are the clever ones at that work—'boucan,' they would be saying; and, man, it aye minded me o' a bochan wi' the smoke and that"; and I was thinking while Angus McKinnon was speaking of the wee black huts that our folk will be calling bochans to this day, and wondering if the French had put that name on them, for smoky they are indeed.
"It was that I was coming to," said the sailor; "it would be there I fell in with your kinsman."
"Ay," said I, sitting up and thinking of Mhari nic Cloidh; "is it Bryde
McBride you are meaning?"
"Just that," said he, looking far to sea; "a devil o' a man yon, with eyes that would drill a hole in an oak timber. He came there in a privateer—Captain Cook, I think, was master of her, Bryde McBride mate—lieutenant, the crew would be saying, for the schooner carried letters o' marque—a fast ship and well found; the Spray was the name of her."
"And Bryde McBride—had you speech with him?"
"I had that—ay, we yarned for long and long, him in his fine clothes an' all, and very pressing with the rum. He would be speaking about you, and telling me if I was seeing you ever to be saying he would be doing finely, and very full of notions about growing fine crops when he would be back again. It was droll to be listening to him yarning about his crops, and me with all the stories I would be hearing from the crew of his schooner."
"Ay, man; but what like is the boy?"
"The boy," says he, and laughed. "Lord, he is a boy, ye may weel say it, quiet and smiling, and fond of throwing back the head of him and laughing. He will aye be doing that; but there is no man will run foul o' him, drunk or sober, in these seas, and there are bold sailor-men in the Indies, ay, bold stark men. He carries a long lean sword wi' a bonny grip—the maiden, he will be calling her,—she will have kissed many, they were saying. . . ."
"And is he coming home?"
"He would be settling that," said the sailor; "but there were stories o' bonny bright eyes in Jamaica and the towns there-away—ay there is dancing and devilry in these bonny places"; and McKinnon's son sighed in a way that would have brought no pleasure to the ears of his mother, Mirren Stuart, that used to ride the Uist pony in her young days.