Island of the Lost

by Joan Druett

  Back at the cutter, the men were busily setting things to rights for “a sea voyage, which I believe the vessel had not yet been called upon to perform. She is nearly new,” Musgrave added, “and has been wholly employed in the coasting trade.” When the wind at last became favorable, on August sixth, he was exceedingly glad to proceed. They made their start at two in the afternoon, and by eight the following morning were fourteen miles south of Stewart Island.

  After that they sailed merrily along—“the little vessel is dancing about like a cork,” he described, going on to say that it was exceedingly difficult to write up his journal, “as it is impossible to sit, or stand, or even lie, without holding on, or being well chocked off.” However, the voyage that was starting out so blithely proved to be doomed. When they were within ten miles of the Snares Islands the wind veered to the southwest, which was dead ahead, and then it blew up hard, with a rugged sea. It was too dangerous to lay to in the gale, and so they turned back.

  Then they got lost. “It is now 3 A.M.,” Musgrave wrote nervously. “We have just hove the cutter to, and will wait for daylight, as we have not yet made the land, although we have run 20 miles farther than where we should have found it.” There was only one compass on board, and Musgrave had every reason to believe it was faulty. Worse still, there was a strong possibility they were “in the vicinity of those ugly dangers, the Traps Reefs; and if the sea is running high and breaking all over, it will be impossible to see them before we should be on the top of them.”

  When day broke, there was nothing in sight. At nine in the morning Musgrave took a sight of the sun, but with indifferent results, because “the vessel is tossing about and throwing so much water over, and the sea is so rough.” Accordingly, they stayed where they were until he could get better sights at noon—“We are all very miserable, everything wet, and we can get nothing cooked, for the man whom Captain Cross engaged, who was to have done the cooking, is a seasick, lazy good-for-nothing fellow, and can’t, or won’t do it, and Cross and the other man have to be almost constantly on deck. She is very wet and uneasy, and all this is bad enough, and we all wish the cruise well ended.” However, as Musgrave then commented, it was a pleasure compared to his last experience in these seas.

  At noon, he succeeded in finding that they were about sixty miles sou’sou’east of the East Cape of Stewart Island—meaning that he was right about the faulty compass—and he and Cross debated what to do next. Musgrave thought of going into a large New Zealand port, like Port Chalmers in Otago, but Cross had a hankering to go back to Port Adventure, because he thought he might be able to get a decent compass there.

  So they steered for Stewart Island, arriving just in time to avoid the worst of a very heavy sou’sou’west gale, but only to find that there was no compass available. Someone told them there might be one twelve miles away, at a place called Paterson’s Inlet, so Cross thought he would try to get there in the cutter’s boat. “]trip is becoming so protracted that I am thoroughly sick of it, and am getting quite downhearted about it,” Musgrave despaired; “indeed the question arises in my mind, am I doing an injustice to my family by prosecuting it?”

  However, the storm continued, and it would have been madness to leave the harbor. After three days, the gale having somewhat abated, they set sail in the cutter for Paterson’s Inlet, “where by good fortune a Mr. Lowrie furnished us with a compass,” and the chief of Ruapuke, Tione Topi “Toby” Patuki, offered to lend them yet another. Musgrave was glad to accept, as it appeared to be in a better state than either of the others, and after getting back to Port Adventure—which they had to do with sweeps, as the wind fell away completely—he spent a lot of time and trouble comparing all three compasses, to try to ascertain which one was right.

  While he was engaged in this, another gale blew up, this time from the west-sou’west. “The bay was one continual sheet of foam all the afternoon, and since nightfall it has been thundering and lightning, with frequent showers. The New Zealand coast pilot says that thunder and lightning during a gale is indicative of its long continuance,” Musgrave glumly continued. “We have had a great deal of it lately; so what may we expect now?”

  The local Maori people prophesied that the bad weather would continue until the moon was past its last quarter, and it looked very much as if they were right. “All night the thunder and lightning were incessant, peal rolling upon peal, and keeping the earth in a continual tremor, accompanied by pouring rain,” Musgrave went on. It was the heaviest thunderstorm he had ever known, and, true to the local superstition, even though the wind died away for a spell, it then blew up again from the south, with constant sleet and snow. It was bad enough here at Port Adventure, so what was it like for the two poor fellows on Auckland Island?

  It was not until Tuesday, August 22—thirty-five days after leaving George and Harry in Carnley Harbour—that Musgrave was finally able to record, “I am once more tossing about on Old Ocean. The little vessel is dashing the laughing spray from about her bows and galloping away, with a fair wind from the N.W.,” he went on; “and I think we have a fair prospect of a speedy, and in some measure comfortable, run down to the Aucklands.”

  He was right, because the morning after that they raised land, which proved to be an island to the north end of the Auckland Island group. It was the twenty-second day since their departure from Invercargill.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Rescue

  Musgrave glimpsed a line of breakers to leeward, stretching as far as he could see. Realizing that these were the reefs that broke out from the northeastern coast of Auckland Island, he advised Cross to haul off and stand about ten miles from land until they were well clear of them: “These reefs are very ugly dangers, and cannot too carefully be avoided until surveyed.”

  This hazard circumvented, they hauled in again, and sailed southward closer to the shore. Then all at once they saw smoke. It was on the side of one of the mountains, about eight miles north of Epigwaitt. Had Harry and George climbed up there, and set fire to the grass? Or was it a trick of the mist? There was nothing they could do about investigating the strange sight, and so they kept south.

  The entry into Carnley Harbour was a desperate struggle against the westerly wind, which “drew down the sound with great fury,” loaded with sleet and hail. For a while they felt doubtful that the Flying Scud could stand it, but they “hauled her up to it, standing by the halyards, and lowering away everything in some of the squalls, which would otherwise have capsized her, or blown away the canvas. We thrashed her up,” Musgrave went on, “and nobly did the little craft do her work.”

  Cross was at the helm, while at every moment the gusts threatened to carry away the single mast, which was bending back and forth like a reed, or capsize the cutter, which was “frequently down, hatches in the water, while the spray flew in clouds over the masthead, smothering and nearly blinding us all.” However, despite everything the weather could throw at them, at eight in the evening the Flying Scud made the haven of Camp Cove, and Musgrave was back at the place from where he’d set sail precisely five weeks before—“How very different are my feelings to then!”

  “THURSDAY, AUGUST 24,” he wrote next day. “We were up and on shore as soon as it was daylight.” To his surprise, the tent that he and his men had lived in while they prepared the Rescue for her last-hope voyage was gone, along with all the tools and other gear. Evidently Harry and George had collected them—but how, without a boat? Perhaps they had made a raft, Musgrave thought, a notion that was reinforced when he found half a seal hanging in a tree, and “a rudely constructed oar and mast.” The harbor was still white with foam, so they couldn’t set out to investigate. Instead, they went on a hunt, Musgrave killing a cow and a calf.

  This led to what he considered an amusing incident. Musgrave shot the calf, and after he had fired, “Cross saw the old cow running towards him, and at once bolted down the cliff and made for the boat.” The female seal headed off in another direction, with Musgrave followi
ng her, so Tom Cross “took courage,” and came back. Seeing the calf lying there, he thought it was asleep, set upon it with his club, and then cried out in triumph, “Where are you, boys? I’ve killed a seal!”

  Musgrave returned, and thoughtfully studied the corpse. “Are you sure you’ve killed him?” he inquired.

  “Killed him? Yes—his brains are coming out of his mouth.”

  On closer inspection, Musgrave saw that the pup had vomited milk in its death throes. He pointed out the bullet hole in the animal’s head, and Cross was quite crestfallen. “Well,” he said. “I thought I’d killed a seal.”

  IT WAS STILL very showery, but in the afternoon the rain eased and the wind moderated, and so they got under way and beat up to Epigwaitt, which was so enveloped in mist “the boys” didn’t see the Flying Scud. Musgrave and Cross landed in the boat, “leaving the cutter underweigh, as there was too much wind and sea to anchor her,” and hurried up to the cabin.

  Harry, on seeing them, “turned as pale as a ghost,” and staggered up to a post, against which he leaned for support, for he was evidently on the point of fainting; while the other, George, seized my hand in both of his and gave my arm a severe shaking, crying, ‘Captain Musgrave, how are ye? How are ye?’ apparently unable to say anything else.”

  After a struggle the Englishman managed to get control of himself, but still his “eyes were filled with tears” of utter joy. Crouching down by Harry, who was now insensible, George and Musgrave shook him and sprinkled his face with cold water that Captain Cross “brought in his oil-skin cap from the neighbouring brook,” but it was a long time before the poor fellow opened his eyes.

  As dark was falling, Musgrave and Cross rushed the two castaways off to the cutter without pausing to ask or answer questions. Off before the wind they flew, and were at Camp Cove in good time for supper, which “consisted of fish and potatoes, tea, and bread and butter, and the two poor fellows set about with such a zest as I have seldom seen exhibited over a meal.” Little wonder—one of their first revelations, as Musgrave related, was that at one time their food had become so short that they had been reduced to killing and eating mice. Worse still, they had had a falling-out—“were on the point of separating and living apart!” That nothing like this had happened before Musgrave had left the island was clearly a testament not only to his leadership but to the spirit of camaraderie that had bound them all together.

  However, Musgrave’s thoughts were focused on the smoke they had sighted as the cutter had come down the coast. Henry and George knew nothing about it, telling him that they had been nowhere near the mountains since the day the Rescue had sailed, so perhaps, he meditated, there was a possibility that there were other unfortunates living on the island. In that case, it was imperative to run back along the shore as soon as wind and weather allowed it. The thought of abandoning men who were suffering the same trials and tribulations he and his little company had endured for nineteen long months was utterly unacceptable.

  THE NEXT MORNING dawned without any wind, so it was impossible to leave Carnley Harbour. However, the weather was otherwise relatively moderate, so Cross’s crew put out the sweeps and rowed the Flying Scud to Epigwaitt, which gave Musgrave, Harry, and George an opportunity to retrieve what mementos of their long ordeal they might want. With thoughts of Raynal, waiting back in Invercargill, Musgrave detached the bellows from the forge, and carried it back to the cutter.

  At the same time, Musgrave learned from Harry and George how they had retrieved the tent from Camp Cove. After having been reduced to catching and eating mice, they had made a raft with four empty casks, which had made a huge difference to them, because it meant that they had been able to get about the harbor to hunt, and also to retrieve the gear that had been left behind at Camp Cove. The badly made oar and mast had been abandoned after they had manufactured better ones. The half-carcass was the result of one of their hunting expeditions, they said; they had left it behind because a whole grown seal was more than two men could consume.

  This talk of seal-hunting gave Captain Cross the urge to have another go, and so they set off with his dog—a large noble beast, as Musgrave described, “such as would have been of the greatest service to us while down here.” When they flushed an old cow out of the bush the dog flew after it, and only let go after one of Cross’s men, mad with excitement, hit the dog on the head instead of the seal.

  However, the cutter’s men gained boThskill and courage over the next few stormbound days, collecting a few skins and rendering down a lot of oil, despite the constant heavy rain. For Musgrave, still exceedingly anxious about his family, the time dragged—“It is one month today since we left Invercargill,” he wrote on August 30, “and a long dreary month it has been to me.”

  On the night of August 31 the wind increased with great violence, but after midnight it moderated considerably, and by daylight had fallen to a strong breeze. The sky was blue, the scudding clouds broken, and at ten in the morning they weighed anchor and headed out to sea, Musgrave feeling very glad indeed to depart from the place “in whose folds I have experienced the greatest misery of my life.”

  With due care to avoid reefs, they sailed up the eastern coast, while Musgrave took sightings and made notes. Everyone looked for signs of smoke, but saw nothing. About four-thirty in the afternoon they passed the northeast point of Auckland Island, and then cautiously ventured amongst the host of islets that hid the passage into Port Ross, still on the search for men who might have set the fire—though they were becoming less and less sure that what they had seen was smoke.

  THE ONLY PILOT Musgrave had to help find an anchorage in this northern extremity of Auckland Island was a short chapter in a slender volume called The History of Gold, which had been published in 1853, and which he had acquired in Invercargill. After describing the island group as situated “in 51° South latitude and 166° east longitude,” and “about 180 miles south of New Zealand, and 900 southeast from Van Diemen’s Land” (Tasmania), this book went on to describe Bristow’s discovery, the release of pigs into the territory, and the Enderby settlement in Port Ross. Then it launched into physical, biological, and meteorological descriptions—all from hearsay. The author, James Ward, had not even visited the island group, but had compiled his observations from letters sent to him by a friend, the surgeon of the Sydney whaler Lord Hardwicke.

  Reading this book, Musgrave learned much about the early history of the islands, something he naturally found intriguing. Of more immediate interest to him, however, was the set of instructions for entering Port Ross. “Port Ross is at the extreme north of the island, and contains secure anchorage for vessels,” the book assured him. If they entered the bay from the north, and kept Enderby Island on the right while passing about a small wooded peninsula, they would be able to anchor “in perfect safety in any part.” The inlet beyond the headland was “perfectly landlocked,” the writer went on, “and the steep beach on the southern shore affords the greatest facility for clearing and reloading vessels.”

  As Musgrave and Cross swiftly found out, this advice was absolute humbug. It took them hours to get about the peninsula, because when Musgrave went down in a boat to test the soundings, he found that the bottom shallowed dangerously to less than a fathom. Finally they put out the sweeps and got the cutter to an anchorage just as the rain came pouring down—but surely this wasn’t the right place? Around them, low hills clad in tussock and stag-headed bush rolled all the way to the water; the wind whistled freely in all directions; and there was no sign of a shelving beach. The scene was such a mismatch to the written description that Musgrave couldn’t believe they had actually arrived—but, as it proved, they were there. “What a disappointment!” he wrote.

  After an uncomfortable night rolling and pitching in a nasty swell that curled about the headland, Musgrave, with Tom Cross, went on shore to look around. Obviously, people had come before them, because a great deal of timber had been cut down—but where was the village of Hardwicke that W
ard’s book described? Like the Invercauld castaways who had stumbled on this place fifteen months earlier, Musgrave and Cross stared around in utter bewilderment.

  “All gone,” wrote Musgrave; “scarcely a vestige of a house remains; bare leveled places point out where many of them stood, as remaining traces of rude fences also point out where innumerable small gardens have been; but the ground everywhere, except where some of the houses have apparently stood, is choked up with a vigorous growth of thick long grass, and there is not the slightest sign of any edible vegetable.” He was vastly relieved that he hadn’t known anything about Hardwicke when he had been wrecked at Carnley Harbour, because if he had been aware of its existence he would have made a great effort to get here, and in the process most probably condemned all five Grafton castaways to death, because there were no sea lions to be seen at this place, “and there are very few of the roots here which we used to eat.”

  It began to rain heavily, with a hard gale from the north-west, so Cross and Musgrave returned to the cutter to drop a second anchor. After another nasty night, they went on shore again, this time with George Harris. Again the rain poured, so Musgrave took shelter under a flax bush while George and Captain Cross trekked on. Soon they were out of sight. Tiring of crouching in the downpour, Musgrave went back on board the Flying Scud. No sooner had he settled down than they came rushing back in a state of excitement.

  Tom Cross and George Harris had found a dead man—“who had apparently died of starvation, and had evidently not been long dead, as flesh remained on his hands.” A roof slate had been discovered alongside the corpse, and they had brought this with them, thinking it was interesting because it had squiggles scratched on its face—“which had no doubt been written by the deceased man, probably when dying,” Musgrave guessed, having no idea that it might have been a memoriam inscribed by a fellow castaway, because the writing had been scoured off by the weather—“we found [it] impossible to decipher any further than the Christian name, James.”