by L. A. Meyer
When I do get up, I head to the beach for breakfast. There's some of the plants that Tilly pointed out as all right to eat, and when I walk on the sand next to the water, things squirt water up so that will be clams. Very well. Clams and weeds it is.
I kneel down in the sand and commence to digging with my hands and my shiv right where I see a good strong squirt, and before too long I come up with a small round clam about the size of my thumb. I rinse it off and run my shiv between the shells and it gives up the fight. I pry off the top shell and see this disgusting lump of what looks like snot, but I must keep my strength up for the good of the Service and all so I lift it up and let it slide out of the shell, over my tongue, and down.
Not as bad as I would have thought. Sort of like salty nothing. I dig up a few more and do them, and then I try the weeds. Tilly called it pigweed when he was pointing out edible plants to us back on the island. Well, this is one little piggy what don't like it overmuch. It is stringy and not very good, but I force some of it down and it dawns on me that all of this would taste better if it were cooked. The problem is that I don't have a cook pot. Further thought is required.
The breakfast being less than hearty, I decide to explore to see if I can improve my condition in other ways.
The beach, which is about fifty yards wide at this tide, runs up to a line of low trees, and beyond them the land rises to a height of about a hundred feet. What's beyond that, I cannot see, and so I resolve to have a look.
I go back to my camp to pick up the glass and leave off some clothes 'cause it's getting terrible hot. I of course did not put the vest back on when I got up, just my white shirt, Charlie's old shirt, which is now as thin as gauze it's been washed so many times so it's nice and cool, and now I drop the underdrawers, too, and make do with my pants, which I roll up to my knees. Poor Charlie, I thinks, your clothes have made it halfway around the world. And your shiv. And your Little Mary, too.
Looking like a proper castaway, I head off and up.
The climb is not hard as there are plenty of vines and bushes to cling to, and after about fifteen minutes I make it to the top and look about. This is definitely not an island, at least not a little one. I put the glass to my eye and look from the south around to the north and I see nothing but a vast carpet of forest. No cities, no towns, no villages, no cooking fires, no nothing. Which is all right 'cause it might also mean no cannibals. 'Course they could be sneaky devils who've doused their fires and are creeping up on me right now with dinner on their minds.
Once, during that time back in the Mediterranean when that rotten Bliffil had been sent off with the prize ship, I snuck down into the midshipmen's berth and made off with a book called Robinson Crusoe that one of 'em had. I read it in a day, read parts of it out loud to the lads, and had it back before they knew it was gone. The boys, of course, really liked the part where the cannibals were about to roast poor Friday, the bloody-minded sods. Anyway, that's how I know all about cannibals.
Bringing myself back to where I am I reflect that the Dolphin don't need any towns or such—all she needs is good wood and it looks like there's plenty here. Next I train the glass westward towards where I last saw the island. Nothing, of course, not even a smudge. No matter. Time enough for that later.
Now I look down towards the beach and I see, off to the left of my camp, a place where the water has come in and made a little lagoon, with many coconut palms about. I resolve to see what that offers when I climb down.
I come round the edge of the beach where the lagoon begins, and see the seawater streaming out with the tide. Quite fast it streams out. I wait, and at low tide there is only a small pool left and there are trees all around with roots sticking out of the water and oysters clinging to the roots, oysters like they sold in London, which we never could buy.
What really brings joy to my heart, though, is the small waterfall of fresh water pouring in at the far end. A big problem solved. After the tide rip has slowed, I wade through the shallow water and head for the other end. When I get there, I see that the waterfall actually empties into a small basin above the salt water, forming a little pond, and around the pond are flat rocks and grassy areas. I get the uneasy feeling that I'm being rewarded for something that I ain't earned. Maybe I earned it with my flight hanging under the Hope.
I stick my hand under the waterfall and drink from my palm. The water is fresh and good. It don't take much for me to decide that my camp is about to be moved.
After some thought, I decide that I'll make the signal fire down on the beach itself, between the tide lines 'cause that way the water will erase the ashes so there won't be any sign of it afterward for cannibals and such to see. If I build it on the ridge, I'd be getting a little more height, but it might attract the wrong eyes.
I take myself down to the beach at low tide—the sand is all smooth and level—and look out across the water to where I think the island is. I know that men with spyglasses were sent up to the tops of the highest coconut trees that day I was there and they couldn't see the tops of the cliffs behind me here. Given that the line of sight from a sailor standing in the mizzen top of the Dolphin, when she was sailing, to the horizon is about fifteen miles, I figure the island has to be at least twenty miles off. I don't think I was passed out for very long when I was up in the Hope, but I'll add another ten miles for it. Thirty miles, then. That means I'll have to get my column of smoke up three or four hundred feet.
It will have to be a very still day when I light it off.
So, after eating some of the oysters and still trying to think of ways to make a cook pot, I gather up a pile of sticks and branches near the beach and, while it is drying out some, I realize it could rain again tonight so I know I got to tie the Good Ship Hope over the top of the pile and fend for myself.
After I do that, I move my belongings over to the new camp. Climbing back up to the waterfall—which is more of a water trickle really, just a little stream coming down the hillside—I find some rocky outcroppings that I can crawl under for shelter tonight. It will serve till I can get the kite up here. Now for a fire and a bit of lunch.
I gather as dry a wood as I can find and spread it out on the rocks next to the pond. The pond is only about three feet deep in the middle and is about twenty feet across. The bottom is rock and it is slippery as I find when I wade in and slip and fall. I get out and add my clothes to the wood on the rocks to dry out and it occurs to me that I might have a bath. My first real one since my mum used to do me.
It's warm and in the heat of the day. The sun is almost directly overhead and there's a break in the trees so it shines nicely in on the pond and the rocks and the grass. I'm beginning to like my new kip in spite of my nagging fear that I could be left here alone forever. Old Crusoe had a problem with that, and I know that I would, too.
I go down to the lagoon by way of some stone ledges that make kind of a stairway and I dip into the water, but the bottom's sort of mucky so I go out to the beach and wade out beyond where the waves tumble over. Grabbing fistfuls of sand from the bottom, I scrub myself all pink and then dive into a wave to rinse it off. When I come up, another wave knocks me down again.
I snort the water from my nose. What marvelous fun. Being marooned has its good points. I resolve to learn to swim.
When I get back to my camp, I slip into my pond to rinse off the salt. As I float there on my back, I notice two turtles on the opposite bank, eyeing me with interest. Careful, fellows, I think, Jacky's getting hungry again.
I have learned to float, but I have not yet learned to swim, as I only got about three strokes in before I went under out in the salt water. I think the legs got to be made to help somehow. Further study is necessary.
The bits of wood and tinder I have gathered are dry now, I discover upon getting out, and I set about making a fire. My clothes are dry, too, but I don't bother putting them on. Why bother? It's hot and I'm all by myself.
There's a likely bunch of rocks for a sort of firepit over by
the outcropping, so I build the fire there. Getting it all stacked up proper, as I have been taught by the ship's cook, I set about to light it. The big lens on the glass unscrews fairly easily and I hold it down to the tinder such that the sun shines through the lens and concentrates on a tiny point. Smoke arises. I blow on the spark and soon I have a blaze.
I gather as many oysters as my hands will bear and put them on a rock right close to the coals and go to gather more wood. When I get back they are sizzling nicely. Upon trying them I find that they are much better this way. It occurs to me that fish, too, could be cooked in such a manner. I nip back down to the beach to get some of the weeds, but even cooked they are still not very good. I eat them anyway 'cause Tilly said they are good for the digestion and prevent scurvy, and as a midshipman in His Majesty's Royal Navy my duty is to keep myself in good form for the good of the Service.
I lay back on the grass and put my hands behind my head and look up at the sky and smile about how poor Captain Locke is going to be repaid for his kindness in rating me midshipman, by being made the laughingstock of the Navy. Poor Captain Locke. I can see the broadsides now, tacked up on the printer's wall, with naughty verses and maybe a cartoon of the Captain looking all leering and lustful and me all spilling out of a midshipman's uniform and frolicking about the quarterdeck while the ship heads for the rocks. One of the rocks would be labeled FOLLY, another DECEPTION, and another SHEER STUPIDITY. Poor Captain Locke.
Actually, that would make a pretty good sheet. I shall have to learn to draw.
I know, though, that I will never be inside the uniform of a midshipman and it makes me sort of sad. I would have been a good one.
Chapter 39
I passed the night in some fear, not even having the comfort of the Hope above me, but at least it did not rain. Before retiring for the night, I cut a good straight stick from a tree, split the end, inserted the hilt of my shiv, and wrapped it down tight with the thong from my whistle so now I at least have a spear for defense from any beast what might try me. How I will deal with serpents what slither up next to me, I shan't think about.
The night noise started again. In the daytime, there's plenty of noise from the birds I see darting about, and even some pretty loud and raucous cries from the bright blue and green and red parrots I see high in the treetops, but nothing compares to this. After I hear a particularly awful screech from nearby, followed by a nasty gurgle, I reach over and take my whistle and cover all the holes and take a deep breath and let out the highest, shrillest, longest blast of which the whistle is capable, and it rips through the night.
Silence.
Well, that stopped 'em. Perhaps they'd like a tune. So I roll over on me back and gives 'em "The Rocky Road to Dublin" and it seems to help all of us get through the night.
***
For the signal fire to work, I will need a perfectly calm day, which this one ain't since a stiff onshore breeze is blowing that would take all the smoke and whip it away. No, it's got to be completely still so the column of smoke goes straight up high and stays there.
I gather more wood and this time I also gather some smelly wet seaweed that's tossed up on the shore, for making smoke when I do finally light it off.
I dive into the surf, manage to stay up for five strokes with my legs thrashing, then head back to camp. Breakfast is coconut milk. I can't get into the coconut proper yet, but I can shave the end of it with my shiv till I get down to these things that look like eyes and poke one of them open and then pour the juice inside down my throat.
I figure I'll walk down the beach to the south today to see what's there. I put on my shirt and pants 'cause if I'm taken by cannibals or other rascals, I'll not want to appear immodest. I take my spear in hand and put my whistle in my waistband. The Compleat Beachcomber.
I'm lazing along, poking in this pile of flotsam here, that pile of jetsam there, not finding much 'cept some dead fish that even I can't eat and some amazingly disgusting jellyfish when I come upon a real find. It's a large clamshell, about a foot across and three inches deep in the middle and it's good and thick. A cook pot, at last.
There's a lot of the same kind of shells at this spot and I pick up a couple of smaller ones. Spoons and cups.
Home for lunch.
***
A bunch of oysters and clams goes in the shell first, then I poke a hole in the eye of a coconut and pour in the juice. Then some pigweed and then on the fire in not too hot a place so the shell don't crack. I gather some smooth small rocks and wash them off and put them in the hottest part of the fire. When they get good and hot, I use a couple of palm frond stems as tongs to pick them and drop them in the pot to help things along. I got plenty of time to wait for it to cook.
Several hours later I'm lying back, patting my belly and thinking as how this was much more to my liking. Even the greens was good. I'm half dozing, looking up at the treetops, when I notice that they ain't moving. Not even a little bit. The wind has died and there's at least six hours of light left. Maybe it's time.
Down at the beach, the sea is calm as glass, with scarcely a ripple on its surface. The tide is down about halfway. I choose a spot just below the high tidemark and down the beach somewhat—I don't want someone to find traces of the fire and then find me and my camp right off. There I put an armful of the dry tinder I had tucked under the Hope. Next, bigger dry wood and then bigger yet till I have the whole rack laid out. One final check of the wind and I light it with the lens.
While it is catching, I drag the poor Hope down to the shore and wet it down completely, then drag it back, much heavier now, to the edge of the fire. A column of white smoke is heading straight up.
I give it a while longer and then throw on more wood and then more, till the fire is forming some good coals. Then more, and this time the wood ain't dry at all and the smoke is darker now.
When things are really roaring, I toss on a bunch of the wet seaweed and it hisses and the smoke turns thick and black. Then I set the Hope up on its point next to the fire, and I let the black smoke get well up in the sky.
I let the Hope fall down over the fire, blocking the smoke, and I slowly count to ten before lifting it back up. The kite smokes a bit, but the wet fabric don't burn. I repeat the action three more times, leaving three puffs of smoke in the air. Then I take the kite back to the water and douse it again.
Looking up now, there's the first column of smoke, which is beginning to thin out and drift away, then the three puffs, then the next column building up again. It's got to be at least three hundred feet up there. I'll wait a few minutes and do it again.
I'm hoping Davy will remember the Brotherhood's secret number when he sees this. Tink'll probably still be in sick bay. Willy, well, forget it. And I know Jaimy'll be too deep in his grief over the death of his darlin' girl to notice anything.
He'd better be.
I go through the whole thing again and then put the glass back together to look seaward to where I think the island is.
Nothing.
I'll take a swim and then try again.
Again the puffs go up and again nothing. The tide comes in and puts the fire out. Tomorrow is another day. I pick up my things and head back to the kip.
There's a tall and wide tree that sits on the edge of my clearing, with its branches hanging out over the lagoon. Its trunk and branches are smooth and pink and have patches on them like peeling skin and there ain't many little branches and the leaves are mainly on the top canopy so it's real easy to climb. The branches are so wide and level that I can walk right along them, no hands.
There's a place right up top that looks out over the sea, where four branches come together, and so I get some rope and weave it back and forth, round and round the four branches, and make myself a little platform. I take another long length of rope and run it from there down to the ground where I pull it taut and tie it around a stout root that curls up from out of the ground. So I've got myself a foretop, like, and I can run up and down that rope j
ust like it was a shroud on the ship. Keep myself ready for sea. I shall call it The Foretop.
I keep watch the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Nothing.
Dinner, and so to bed.
Chapter 40
It rained again last night, so all hope of another signal fire is gone for several days, at least. If I had not been so lazy I would have collected more wood and put it under the Hope, but no, I didn't. Conduct Unbecoming a Midshipman in His Majesty's Navy. I put myself on report.
I deny myself breakfast as punishment for my dereliction of duty and go right down to the beach to gather another stack of wood. I will regretfully put the Hope on top again tonight. I regret it 'cause I got drenched last night and didn't like it much. Even when it's as warm as this, sleeping wet ain't fun, and I really want to use the Hope as shelter again soon.
Oh, well, as Liam says, offer it up. I'll stretch out in the sun later just like my turtles and catch up on ...
There.
Out on the sea, very low on the horizon. I'd have missed it if I hadn't been down here on the beach. A wisp of smoke. In puffs of three. Oh, my joy. My shipmates have answered and they will come for me. I figure it will take at least another week to finish the boat. Now all I have to do is wait.
***
The Good (and it has been good except for its initial treachery) Ship Hope is now suspended in the tree, securely lashed such that it gives shelter to the branches right below it. Between those branches I have made a rope hammock, more a bed, really, 'cause it's flatter than a hammock. It's a little coarse, but it's much better than sleeping on the ground. And, it's more secure from prowling beasts. And snakes.
With the help of several large rocks, I've managed to get into a ripe coconut and it's all white and delicious, both raw or cooked in my chowder. My chowder, which I keep warm by the fire all day and add to as I collect things for it and eat it as I need it, changes constantly depending on the day's catch. I noticed that schools of a certain flat-headed goggle-eyed fish swim in and out of the lagoon at times, and the next time they came in, I was ready for them with a spear, and two fell prey to my skill. After I cleaned them, I put one in the pot and I put one on a palm leaf and carefully roasted it, sprinkling it with sea salt. It is very good. I inform the turtles that I will not be eating them after all, as I have an ample supply of fish and will not be needing their services.