Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama ClamosaCleland, Robert
General
Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama Clamosa
Cleland, Robert
Historical fiction; Scotland -- Fiction
As Roderick gazed, a feeble wail hard by gave a new turn to his
musings. Not many steps away, but where the sand sloped inwards to the
protected waters of the bay, he descried a bundle of clothing, and
while he looked it seemed to move, and again the wail was heard.
Taking it up he found the bundle to be a tiny infant, warmly wrapped
up in many shawls and wound in a life-preserver. The poor drowned
mother had probably given her last care to make the little one as safe
as she could, and by a miracle she had succeeded. The lightness and
smallness of the tiny bundle had secured its safety. While heavier
bodies were being hurled and rolled among rocks and stones on the
beach, this slight thing had been caught up on the crest of a surge
and flung beyond the rocks and boulders margining the sea, into the
protected waters of the inner bay, where it would float in comparative
safety till, on the subsidence of the tide, it stranded on the shore.
Roderick took it up and undid the swathings, that it might freely use
its limbs. At once the infant ceased its wailing; it stretched its
little arms, and, looking into his face, it smiled. Who that is human,
not to say humane, could resist the appeal?--the flattery of being
approved by a pure fresh soul, all untarnished by the world's guile,
and so lately come from heaven!
[Illustration: "The baby smiled, and twined its fingers in his
whisker-ends." Page 19.]
Roderick was enthralled at once. 'You poor wee darling,' he said, 'we
cannot leave you here alone, waiting till other help finds you; you
must come with me!'
The baby smiled again, and twined its fingers in his whisker ends.
Roderick wrapped it again in its shawls, remounted the pony, and
proceeded on his way.
He could not but look back regretfully at the poor dead mother, whom
he seemed to be separating from her child; but there was nothing he
could do for her without assistance, and that he must go miles to
seek, and he knew it would arrive equally soon without his
intervention.
He passed a good deal more wreckage as he went, but nothing that had
life, nor any more bodies of the drowned. Leaving the shore, he came
in time to Effick Bridge. It had withstood the spate, and though badly
shaken, was still available for crossing the stream. The waters had
subsided over the flooded meadows, and after crossing these he began
to ascend the hill. It was a tedious task; the soil was washed away in
places, and in others stones had rolled from above, among which he had
to pick his way carefully, lest a jolt should disturb his fragile
burden.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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