Morning broke bleakly forbidding on the iron-bound coast of Kerguelen Island. Over the fantastic peaks, flung broadcast as if from the primeval cauldron of the world, hung a grim pall of low, grey-black cloud, so low, indeed, that the sea-birds drifting disconsolately to and fro between barren shore and gale-tossed sea were often hidden from view as if behind a fog-bank, and only their melancholy screams denoted their presence, until they glinted into sight again like huge snow-flakes hesitating to fall. Yet it was the Antarctic mid-summer, it was the breaking of Christmas Day.

As the pale dawn grew less weak, it revealed a tiny encampment, just a few odds and ends of drifting wreckage piled forlornly together, and yielding a dubious shelter to a huddled-up group of fourteen men, sleeping in spite of their surroundings. Presently, there were exposed, perched upon the snarling teeth of an outlying rock-cluster, the “ribs and trucks” of a small wooden ship, a barque-rigged craft of about four hundred tons. Her rigging hung in slovenly festoons from the drunkenly standing masts, the yards made more angles with their unstable supports than are known to Euclid, while through many a jagged gap in her topsides the mad sea rushed wantonly, as if elated with its opportunities of marring the handiwork of the daring sea-masters.

The outlook was certainly sufficiently discomforting; yet, as one by one the sleepers awakened, and with many a grunt and shiver crept forth from their lair, it would have been difficult to judge from the expressions upon their weather-beaten countenances how hopeless was the situation that they were in.

For they came of a breed that is strong to endure hardness, that takes its much bitter with little sweet as a matter of course, and, by dint of steady refusal to be dismayed at Fate’s fiercest frowns, has built up for itself a most gallantly earned reputation for pluck, endurance, and success throughout the civilized world. They were Scotch to a man, rugged and stern as the granite of their native Aberdeenshire.

They were the crew of the barque Jeanie Deans, of Peterhead, which, while outward bound from Aberdeen to Otago, New Zealand, had, after long striving against weather extraordinarily severe for the time of year, been hurled against that terrific coast during the previous afternoon. Their escape shoreward had been as miraculous as fifty per cent. of such escapes are, and, beyond their lives, they had saved nothing. So the prospect was unpromising. Nothing could be expected from the break-up of the ship. She was loaded with ironwork of various sorts, and her stores were not in any water-tight cases which might bring them ashore in an eatable condition. But the large-limbed, red-bearded skipper, after a keen look round, said—

“Ou, ay, ther isna ower muckle tae back an’ fill on, but A’am thenkin’ we’ll juist hae to bestir wersells an’ see if we canna get some breakfas’. Has ony ane got ony matches?”

It presently appeared that of these simple yet invaluable little adjuncts to civilization there was not one among the crowd. But even this grim discovery appeared to make no great impression, and presently the mate, a tall man from Auchtermuchty, with an expressionless face and a voice like “a coo’s,” as he was wont to say, remarked casually—

“If ye’ll scatther aboot an’ see fat ye can fine tae cuik, I’se warrant ye Aa’ll get ye some fire tae cuik it wi’.”

No one spoke another word, but silently they separated for their quest, leaving Mr. Lowrie, with his blank face, methodically rummaging among the dÉbris. Presently he sat down quietly with a piece of flat board before him about two feet long by six inches wide. In his hand he held a piece of broomstick, which in some mysterious way had got included in the flotsam. This he whittled at one end into a blunt point, carefully saving the cuttings in his trousers pocket. Then with a steady movement of his stick he commenced to chafe a groove lengthways in the board, adding occasionally a pinch of grit from the ground to assist friction.

By-and-by there was quite a little heap of brown wood-dust collected at one end of the groove. Then getting on his knees and grasping his broom-stick-piece energetically in both hands, he pushed it to and fro in the groove with all his force and speed, until suddenly he flung away the stick, and stooping over the little pile of dust, he covered it tenderly with both hands hollowed, and bending his head over it breathed upon it most gently. And by imperceptible degrees there arose from it a slender spiral of smoke.

His right hand stole to his pocket, and fetched therefrom a few slivers of wood, which he coyly introduced under the shelter of his other hand, until suddenly the Red Flower blossomed—there was fire. Now it only needed feeding to rise gloriously into that gloomy air. To this end Mr. Lowrie worked like a Chinaman, until within an hour he had a pile of burning driftwood, four feet high and fully six feet round, sending up ruddy tongues of flame and a column of smoke like a palm tree.

One by one the adventurers returned with dour faces, empty-handed save for a sea-bird’s egg or two, a few fronds of seaweed which the bearers insisted was “dulse” (the edible fucus), and a brace of birds that looked scarcely enough to furnish an appetizer for one. But just as a stray sunbeam darted down upon the little gathering, while they huddled round the grateful warmth, there was a hoarse shout. All started, for it was the skipper’s voice roaring—

“C’way here an’ lend a han’, ye louns. Fat’r ye aal shtannin there toasting yer taes fur like a pickle o’ weans juist waitin’ on yer mithers tae cry on ye tae come ben fur yer breakfas’?”

The men at once obeyed the familiar command, finding the skipper and the cook wrestling with a huge case, that was so stoutly built that not a plank of it had come adrift. When they had man-handled it over the rugged ground to within reach of the warmth the skipper said—

“Ah divna ken fats intilt, bit Ah min fine that Mester Broon, fan he shipped it, said it wis somethin’ Ah wis tae tak unco care o’. And so ’twis lasht under th’ s’loon table. C’wa, le’s open’t; please God ther may be somethin’ useful inside o’t.”

Willing hands, regardless of the loss of skin from knuckles and arms, wrought at the task; but so stoutly did the case resist their efforts that it was long before they had stripped off the stout planking and revealed an air-tight lining of thick tin. This was attacked with sheath-knives, and, after much hacking and breaking of cutlery, yielded and exposed a number of queer-looking parcels most carefully packed. On the top was a letter. It ran as follows:—

“Em, ehmm” (no written words can adequately represent the peculiar Scottish exclamation that stands for anything you like, being strictly non-committal), “that reads no sae bad. We’ll juist investigate. Fat hae we here? Et’s a duff, mahn, ou ay, bit et’s a boeny wan.”

And as he spoke he pulled out of its nest a gorgeous Christmas pudding weighing some twenty-five pounds. Next came an enormous oblong tin case, labelled, “Fortnum and Mason. Special Christmas turkey, stuffed with capon, tongue, and forcemeat,” upon reading which the skipper murmured again, “Ou ay, that’s no sae dusty, ye ken.” Next came a layer of bottles of green peas, alternated with bottles labelled “Turtle soup.” Other queer tin cases followed, bearing inscriptions such as “Special mince-pies,” “Scotch shortbread,” “American biscuits”—like foam-flakes—“Dessert fruits,” “York ham, best quality, ready cooked,” and “Boar’s head.” Finally, on the ground floor, as it were, was displayed a compact array of bottles, of which six were labelled, “Extra special Scotch whisky,” six “Special port, bin 50,” two corpulent ones bore the signature “D.O.M.,” and twelve had big-headed corks with gold foil adorning them. Followed at last two boxes of fat-looking cigars, and the book.

That grim assembly looked down upon this tempting array with their hard features perceptibly softening, while the skipper said—

“Weel a’weel. A’am no’ an advocate for specializin’ Chrismuss masel, altho’ Ah laik fine tae keep up Hogmanay. But A’am no a bigot, ye ken, an’ A’am thenkin’ that unner th’ circumstances ’twad juist be flytin’ Proeveedence no tae accept in a speerut o’ moderashun sichn a Chrismuss Boex as thon. Bit I’ll not coairce ony man. Them ’at disna approve o’ keepin’ Chrismuss ava can juist daunder awa’. ’S far as A’am consairned”—here he deftly knocked the top off one of the special Scotch bottles, and, looking round benignantly, said—“Here’s tae wersels, boys, a blessin’ on the giver o’ th’ feast, an’ a Merry Chrismuss tae us a’.”

Why particularize the proceedings that ensued? Should it not be sufficient to say that no conscientious scruples were entertained by any of those hard-grained men at this almost compulsory wrecking of their principles? Scarcely; yet passing notice may be given to the difficulties attendant upon drinking champagne out of bottle-necks, of eating concentrated turtle-soup warmed in the bottle like Pommard, of the total want of order and routine evidenced in dealing with the assorted provisions so providentially to hand—and mouth. Especially was this the case with the rotund bottles of Benedictine. One and all agreed that while the contents were “gey an’ oily-like,” they were “vara seductiv’,” and had the effect of making the partakers thereof curiously unreserved and open to conviction as to the general satisfactoriness of things in general.

When at last, with long-drawn sighs, the unwonted Christmas-keepers sank down upon their stony seats and lit up their aromatic smokes with brands passed from hand to hand, it evidently needed no keen judge of human nature to prophesy that a unanimous vote would be given if asked for as to the desirability of keeping up Christmas English fashion.

When all had quietly settled down to the soothing influence of nicotine in its best form, the skipper lifted up his voice and said—

“Weel, ma lads, A’am thenkin’ that we k’n dae nae less than gae through the haill reetual. This buik, ‘A Christmas Carol,’ is eevidently pairt o’ th’ programme, an’ as A’am nae that ongratefu’ I’ll juist read it, fativer it coasts ma.”

So he opened the volume, and read while the hard lines of the faces softened under the magic of the Master’s words, and in spite of the well-worn masks of indifference an occasional dewdrop of sympathy glittered like a diamond in the furrow of a bronzed visage.

“Ah wudna wuss tae interrup ye, sir,” suddenly interjected an ordinary seaman, “bit Ah thocht ye micht laik tae ken that thers a vessel juist lookin’ roun’ the point.”

“Man, ye’re richt, there is that. Weel, A’am neerly throu’, an’ as thon auld deevil Scrooge has been conveencit o’ th’ errour of’s ways (as we have), A’am of opingon we ma tak’ th’ lave o’ th’ storey as read. But ’twas a gey guid yarn, was’t no?”

By this time the ship of deliverance, having hove to, was getting a boat out. That laborious business over, the boat came at fair speed towards the only practicable landing-place, until the commiserating face of the officer in charge took on an expression of bewilderment as he noted the smug complacency on the countenances of the castaways.

It did not diminish when the skipper, gravely welcoming him with one hand, held out invitingly a decapitated bottle of extra special Scotch with the other, saying, with lingering sweetness in his voice—

“Mahn dear, here’s wussin’ ye a Merry Chrismuss.”