FIRST THOUGHTS AND IMPRESSIONS--A TOUR OF THE ISLAND AND
DESCRIPTION.
As I walked up the rocky path leading to the house, I must confess I
felt anything but sprightly. I felt that Crusoe life, after all, was not
all _caviare_. I was very depressed, and must admit a few tears, as the
whole force of what I had undertaken presented itself vividly to my
mind. What if I met with an accident? What if I were taken ill? Suppose
someone put in at night and cut my throat for the sake of plunder? Who
would help me? Who would know of my position? Might I not die any one of
a hundred deaths without the fact being known for weeks, perhaps months?
What did this idiotic idea of mine amount to after all? Where was the
pleasure? Would it not be better to be home in dear old Barton with my
skiff and pretty Priscilla?
Such were some of my thoughts, but my depression I cannot so readily
sprinkle on paper, and will not try to describe it. Let it suffice that
_I was_ depressed, and deeply too.
I felt thirsty, so wandered to the house and sat down and poured myself
out a bottle of Bass, and as I drank it, became aware of the presence of
my dog, who placed his muzzle in my hand and looked into my face with
positively tears in his dear old eyes. Why, after all, I was not alone.
No, here was a friend indeed (teste Byron), who would be ever by my side
in weal and woe. "Poor dog, are you hungry then?" Yes he was, and by the
bye, why should I not try something? We ate; and in half an hour--such
is the changeableness of the human mind--I was as happy as a sand-boy
(whatever that may be), as I wandered by the sunny shore.
I would make a tour of inspection of my estate; and, reader, if you will
kindly accompany me, I will show you the different sights of my little
island.
Jethou, I must premise, is about half a mile long by a quarter wide. It
rises steeply from the sea all round, except at the North end, where the
slope is somewhat gentle. It is a dome-shaped mass, rising at the summit
to a height of nearly three hundred feet. It may serve to give a good
idea of its form if I liken it to a huge dish cover (a Britannia metal
one, if you will, for it is crown property), as it is very symmetrical
when viewed from a distance. It is, in fact, a huge bosom-like hill,
around which three paths are cut; the first varying from fifty to a
hundred feet above the sea, the second averages one hundred and fifty
feet above high water, and another runs round perhaps fifty feet higher
still. These paths at certain points are connected by other paths, so
that one may readily get from one elevation to another, except where
the island is unusually steep, when zig-zag paths have to be negotiated.
In one part seven or eight zig-zags have to be walked to rise to an
elevation of about sixty or seventy feet, so steep is the south end of
the island. At the north-west rises a curious pyramidal mass of granite,
about one hundred and twenty feet above high water, called Creviçon,
which may be reached on foot at low tide or even quarter flood; but
after the tide once gets above the boulders it comes in like a mill
race, rising at times during certain winds as much as seven feet within
the hour; so that one may be cut off from the main island in a very few
minutes, as it would be madness to try and cross during a heavy sea,
whatever excellent swimming powers one might possess, as the rush of the
tide would sweep one away like a straw.
Strange to say, there is another of these vast piles of granite, but of
greater altitude and bulk, at the south end of the island, with just
such a race of water running between it and the mainland after the tide
turns. It is called La Fauconnaire, or the Falconry, and approaches two
hundred feet in height, and very difficult of ascent. Each of these
rock-islands is surmounted by a stone beacon in form of a miniature
lighthouse tower (without the lantern story), about fifteen feet high.
These beacons serve seamen as landmarks, from which to take bearings,
and to warn them of the danger of a too near approach to this dreadful
coast--or rather coasts--for all these islands are terrible places in
rough weather.
[Illustration: ISLAND of JETHOU By E. R. Suffling]
Now I will ask the reader to accompany me on a brief tour round the
island. Starting from the house, past the pigeon-tower, we pass under
some large walnut trees so thickly planted as to make the part very
shady, even on a bright day, and on dull days quite gloomy. We take the
middle path, which is about four feet wide, and flanked on each side by
braken and boulders. Indeed, nearly half the island consists of brakes
and granite blocks. I will mention the various items of interest as we
pass along, if the reader will supply his own imaginings of whirling
seagulls, frisking rabbits, sea breezes, bellowing surge as it bumps and
breaks against the granite sides of the island, flowers and bloom,
singing birds and sweet-smelling shrubs, etc. These things a mere pen,
however facile and graceful, cannot adequately describe without the help
of the reader's brain; so I will ask him to imagine the above for
himself, but I must warn him not to take cold with his lively
imagination, as occasionally the March winds are very keen here, and in
the present age of hypnotism, and thought-reading, and like gymnastics
of the brain, it is very easy to make the imagination play pranks of an
undesirable nature.
Now to resume our walk. Taking the middle path we quickly ascend to a
height of nearly two hundred feet above the boiling surge dashing
against the impregnable rocks below, and get a splendid view of
Guernsey, a good three miles distant, stretching far away to the north,
where it lies so low that it seems to melt gradually away into the sea.
Presently we come to some huge rocks which lie so much in our path that
the footway has to wind round them. They are huge masses of granite so
poised that apparently a good push would send them rolling into the sea
below, but their very size makes them secure, as some of the larger ones
must certainly weigh forty or fifty tons, and the wind would have to
blow a hurricane indeed which would dislodge them.
Here is one weighing perhaps three or four hundredweight which I will
try and push over. I tug, and push, and presently it nods, and nods, and
rolls over and over, till gathering impetus down the steep side of the
island, it crashes with irresistible force through the furze, and
heather, and shrubs, clearing a path as it goes till it reaches the
granite rocks, upon which it crashes and bounds, breaking off great
splinters, till finally with a boom it buries itself in the foam, never
more to be seen by mortal eyes.
Following the path we come to some curious terraces, one above the
other, which form a hanging garden facing due south. Now covered with
turf, it was many years ago a famous potato garden. This spot is known
as the Cotils.
Almost opposite this end of the island and at a short distance, rises
the huge pyramidal mass of granite called La Fauconnaire (The Falconry).
It is nearly two hundred feet high, and surmounted, as already
mentioned, by a white stone beacon, which from Jethou looks the shape
and size of a loaf of white sugar; but a scramble to the top of the
rocks for those who have nerve to climb the steep sides of La
Fauconnaire, will show that the sugar loaf is fifteen feet high. La
Fauconnaire is, I believe, unclimbable except at one place, at least for
those who are not experienced cragsmen or Alpine experts. At low water
a causeway of rocks joins it to the mainland, but at half-tide even it
is impassable, except in a boat on a calm day. On a windy day such a
strong tide rushes through the strait that a boat would be swept away in
the attempt to cross, although the distance is only four or five hundred
feet. The narrowness of the channel makes the rush greater.
Still keeping the middle path we come to an awful yawning chasm in the
earth, called La Creux Terrible. Its sides are so sheer that one
shudders to approach its crumbling brink for fear a slip should mean a
step into eternity. No man could fall here and live to tell the
sensation. Standing near the brink one can just discern the bottom, and
hear the sea surging and rolling along the floor as the tide gradually
rises. The chasm is funnel-shaped, and about two hundred feet deep by
about one hundred feet across. The bottom is connected with the beach by
a cavern, which may be entered at low tide, and the view taken from
below upward; but woe to the individual caught in this cave, for he
would have but a poor chance for his life if the tide once hemmed him
in.
Leaving this dreadful place, which I never approached but twice in the
dark, we shortly come to a very noticeable rock rising from the sea; it
is called Le Rocher Rouge, but as the apex takes the form of a gigantic
arm-chair, I have taken the liberty (as I have done with many other
places and things) of rechristening it Trône de Neptune (Neptune's
Throne), and it has so fixed itself in my mind, that I have often during
a stormy night wondered if he might not be sitting there ruling the
elements, but never had the temerity to go and see. I may here tell the
reader that although not naturally superstitious, I have a way of
peopling my island with beings during the solitary walks I take in the
day, that at night I almost fancy these spirit-forms hover round
me--perhaps watching me. It may be that I have mistaken the flight of a
sea-gull or night-bird for something superhuman, but on several
occasions I have been warned of approaching danger by something outside
myself; not tangible to the touch, nor definable to the eye, but still
noticeable to the ear and to the mind. Put it down a bird, as your
opinion, reader, and enjoy that opinion, and let me enjoy my warning
watchers, whether fowl or spirit. Perhaps during my narrative I may have
more to say of my "hovering ones."
From the island, at the point opposite Neptune's Throne, a good view of
Sark is obtained; on one day it will be seen standing clearly above the
sea, with Brechou or Merchant's Island clearly discernible, and La
Coupée (the isthmus which holds the two parts of the island together)
plainly in view in the sunlight; while on another day but a misty view
of it may be obtained; on yet another day it will be quite invisible,
although the distance is only about six miles.
Resuming our path, Herm is close on our right, the swift channel, La
Percée, running between us and it, and as it lies in the sun looks a
very beautiful picture, especially as the prettiest end, the south, is
presented to our view. A little further we turn up the hill and come to
a grove of rather stunted trees, standing like a double row of soldiers
up to their knees in braken. It is a lovely spot, as the pretty
fern-like brakes grow in great luxuriance beneath the spreading arms of
the walnut and other trees. These brakes grow so tall and thick that it
is quite difficult to force a passage through them, except where I have
cut a narrow path leading to a clearing, across which, on hot days, I
frequently swing my hammock, so as to obtain the full benefit of the
cool sea breeze as I sway beneath the welcome shadow of the biggest
walnut.
Beyond the grove, at the summit of the island, is my arable land, my
farm, lying in a fence of wire-netting, without which I should not be
able to preserve a blade of anything eatable from the hordes of rabbits
which make the island a perfect warren.
We descend again to the pathway with care, as the island's side is so
steep here that a trip over a stone or root might result in fatal
consequences.
As we approach the north-east corner of the island we find the pathway
gradually descending, till we are not more than twenty or thirty feet
above sea level, and notice that a spur of land hooks out into the sea,
forming quite a little bay, very rugged, and very rocky, but still very
convenient as a haven in light weather. Here I keep my crab and lobster
pots, as it is easily accessible from the house. I call it Baie de
Homard (Lobster Bay).
Keeping along the shore, to the north end of the island, we arrive at a
two-storied stone building which stands on the beach. This is my
store-house (for fishing gear, etc.) and workshop, and is situated only
a short distance from the house--perhaps three hundred yards. In the
days of the old privateers this house played an important part, for it
was fitted as a blacksmith's and carpenter's shop, and was probably a
very handy place for slight repairs to be carried out at very short
notice.
Leaving the Store, a beautiful velvety path, broad enough for a cart
road, leads up a slight ascent skirting the beach to the house and
cottage, which I naturally call by a word very dear to me in my
solitude--_home_.
I will ask the reader to glance at the accompanying plan to aid him in
getting a clearer idea of this homestead than my pen, unaided by
pictorial effort, would convey.
A, then, is a comfortable and picturesque four-roomed cottage. B is the
stable for my noble steed, Edward. C is the store-house, with loft over
for straw, etc., for said noble quadruped. In the store I keep my
utensils and implements for farm work, potatoes, flour, coals, and other
heavy goods. D, sheltered garden for winter crops; F, the vegetable and
fruit garden, in the midst of which stands an immense and very prolific
mulberry tree; it spreads its branches fifty-four feet from north to
south, and fifty-one feet from east to west. The garden contains fruit
trees of all kinds. E, the Seignieurie or Government House--my
palace--or, in plain words, a solid stone-built four-roomed house that
might stand a siege. The front windows look out over the lawn, G, to the
sea beyond, and those at the back command the well-walled-in fruit
garden, F. H is devoted to shrubs and medicinal herbs. J is the
flower-garden with a summer-house in the corner. K, the well of
excellent water. L, flight of stone steps to the lower path leading
round the island. M, pigeon-tower and fowl-house amidst walnut trees. N,
Plantation and forest trees. O, watch house, once used as a strong room
or prison. P, an old iron gun (mounted on a stone platform, which would
probably fall to pieces at the first discharge) for summoning aid in
case of sickness or distress. Q, road to fishing-store and boathouse. R,
path up the hill to the piggery.
I think the reader may, from the foregoing, form some idea of the island
and homestead, as I have taken him all round the former, and pointed
out, although very briefly, the various portions of the latter. I have
wasted no time nor ink in so doing, as he like myself, will doubtless
find more pleasure in the narrative which commences in the succeeding
chapter. A fair idea of the island is necessary, so as clearly to
understand some of the incidents which are placed before the reader, and
I trust I have said sufficient to enable him to follow me in what I have
to tell of my sojourn on the pretty, though solitary island of Jethou.
A glance at the accompanying map will give a good idea of the various
places in Jethou mentioned in this story.
[Illustration: Decorative scroll]
[Illustration: PLAN OF HOMESTEAD 1890]
[Illustration: Decorative chapter heading]