"Who, did you say?" enquired the captain with deep anxiety.
"Ruby—Ruby Brand," replied the man.
"What became of him, said you?"
"Don't know."
"Was he drowned?"
"Don't know," repeated the man.
The captain could get no other answer from him, so he was compelled to rest content, for the poor man appeared to be sinking.
A sort of couch had been prepared for him, on which he was carried into the town, but before he reached it he was dead. Nothing more could be done that night, but next day, when the tide was out, men were lowered down the precipitous sides of the fatal bay, and the bodies of the unfortunate seamen were sent up to the top of the cliffs by means of ropes. These ropes cut deep grooves in the turf, as the bodies were hauled up one by one and laid upon the grass, after which they were conveyed to the town, and decently interred.
The spot where this melancholy wreck occurred is now pointed out to the visitor as "The Seamen's Grave", and the young folk of the town have, from the time of the wreck, annually recut the grooves in the turf, above referred to, in commemoration of the event, so that these grooves may be seen there at the present day.
It may easily be imagined that poor Captain Ogilvy returned to
Arbroath that night with dark forebodings in his breast.