A TRIP TO ST. SAMPSON'S HARBOUR--A HORRID PORCINE MURDER--A VOYAGE
ROUND SARK--NEARLY CAPSIZED--TRIP ROUND GUERNSEY--THE
PEPPER-BOX--CURIOSITY OF TOURISTS.
From time to time I made many improvements in the "Yellow Boy," and
learnt her capabilities, so that in time I took quite long cruises as
far as Guernsey, and even to Sark.
It will be remembered that two of the conditions my father imposed upon
me, were that I should not land on any other island nor speak to anyone
under any pretence whatever, and these rules I rigorously carried out.
Many a time passing boatmen hailed me, but a wave of the hand and my
finger pointed to my output tongue was the only answer they received,
consequently I was called the "Dumb Man of Jethou," or the "Yellow Boy,"
and as such and by no other name many of the fishermen knew me. Those
who did not know my history pitied me as a kind of voiceless castaway or
semi-sane being.
My long trips were sometimes undertaken on calm moonlight nights: one, I
remember, was to St. Sampson's Harbour, Guernsey. I started about three
a.m., and reached the harbour before four o'clock, so that I had a good
look around the little haven, and at the shipping before anyone was
astir. I moored to the cable of a big brigantine which was lying
alongside the wharf ready for her cargo of granite for London. Curb
stones, blocks for paving, and broken metal for macadam roads are all
shipped here to the amount of several thousand tons weekly, so that the
granite quarrying and dressing give occupation to about 2,000 men,
women, and children. Granite working and fruit growing are the two great
industries of the island, which seems to me to be composed principally
of two extremely different materials--granite and glass; at any rate it
is not the place for stone throwing.
As I swung on the cable of the big ship, I made myself a cup of coffee;
for I always carried a small lamp stove with me, so that I could cook
the fish I caught fresh from the sea, or make myself a cup of tea or
coffee to wash my meal down with.
I have since found, that within the memory of persons still alive,
Guernsey was nearly cut off from Vale Parish by an arm of the sea, which
flowed over the salt marshes at high tide, so that all communication was
cut off between the two parts of the island except by one little bridge
and the ferry boat. The bridge was about 380 yards west of St. Sampson's
Church; but at the present day pleasant meadows, houses, and roads take
the place of the broad stream of salt water and marshes, which formerly
made Guernsey and Vale separate islands twice a day, at the time of high
tide.
Just before five o'clock when heads began to peep over bulwarks, and men
to appear on the quay, passing to their work, I thought it time to be
off, as my strange craft would be sure to attract attention, which I did
not court, so I packed up and made snug for sailing. I was only just in
time, for a bearded face looked over the bulwarks of the brigantine, and
hailed me with a "Good morning, mate!" but I only pointed to my mouth
and ears as I unmoored. When I looked up again as I pushed off there
were half a dozen merry faces peering over the side at me, and I could
see they were surprised at the "Yellow Boy" and her dumb skipper. As I
sculled out of the harbour I could hear their remarks and laughter,
despite my deaf-mutism, and would gladly have had a chat with them if it
had not been for my "rules," for these were the first human voices I had
heard close by me for nearly four months.
Away I scudded, taking my way across the Little Russel, past the stone
fort, with its one pop-gun on top, which is supposed to dominate the
channel, standing as it does on a rocky islet midway between Guernsey
and Herm. If a modern warship meant business, the bellicose gunners of
this little inkpot-looking fort would have what the French call a
_mauvais quart d'heure_. Arrived home about seven I had all the day
before me. One of our poets says,
"The only way to lengthen our days,
Is to take a piece off of the night, my boys!"
This I used frequently to do, but always took care to take _my_ piece
off the night, so as to _prefix_ the day instead of making it a kind of
baccanalian _appendix_. I have sometimes had my day twenty hours long,
from two in the morning till ten at night; but with this I used
afterwards to take an antidote in the shape of ten or eleven hours'
sleep. On such occasions I always gave my animals a double allowance of
food, and if they were improvident enough to consume it, as if it were
carnival time, or a period of some great feast, that was their look out,
and after their feast came a fast, which at worst only gave them an
increased appetite, and did them no real harm.
Speaking of appetite and eating, I must describe my first pig-killing. I
felt that I required pork, and the more I thought of it the more I was
convinced that I _must_ have it, although a murder had to be committed
before I could have it either roast, boiled, or fried. Very well, what
easier! There were the two pigs, each about one hundred and forty pounds
weight; all I had to do was to kill one. Of course I would set about it
at once; but upon reflection I became aware that some courage was
required, and that I was totally ignorant of the work before me.
However, I sharpened a long knife and went and had a look at the pigs,
and the more I looked the less I liked my task; so much so, that after
half an hour I decided that I would have tinned mutton for dinner--the
pork would be too fresh, and perhaps it might be a dull day to-morrow,
and I should want something to do! So the pig received a respite. Next
morning when I awoke and considered how and when I should kill the pig,
I made the resolve that come what might "that day the pig should die."
After breakfast I again sharpened the knife, as if it had become blunt
again in the night, and got up a razor edge on the weapon, and once more
proceeded to the stye. I selected my victim, and got one of my legs over
the wall of the enclosure; but then my heart failed me, it seemed as if
I was about to slay an old friend; indeed, they _were_ old friends,
those two piggies, and I had had many a chat with them, in fact, could
almost understand their language of grunts.
How was I going to secure my victim before giving the _coup de grace_?
Should he not be offered up on a stool? if so, I had not one to use; but
an idea struck me, and that idea I adopted. Over the stye, about ten
feet from the ground, the limb of a walnut tree stretched across, and my
idea was to drop a line over the bough and make it fast round the
porker's snout, haul him up on his hind legs, and bury my knife up to
the hilt in his throat about where I thought his heart was situated.
Away I went and procured my cord, threw the end over the limb, made a
noose, and got it in the pig's mouth and over his nose; then I hauled
away amid the most blood-curdling shrieks imaginable. I got him on his
hind legs, and then for the first time, as I took the knife from my
belt, I knew the full meaning of the word "coward." But the deed had to
be done, it would never do to let the animal die of old age while I
wanted meat; so, setting my teeth, plunge went the knife, and at the
same time in my eagerness to step back, down I fell backward over the
other pig, who turned and bit me in the thigh, and then as he rushed
away went full butt into his comrade, which broke the rope, and down
came the bleeding animal on top of me. I was in an awful state of filth,
and as I rose they both came at me again; in fact I might have been
seriously hurt had I not used my knife freely on the already-wounded
pig. Luckily the other ran away, or it might have been serious for me.
In falling a second time I went down with my leg under me, and could not
rise; but I drove the knife into the animal's breast with all my might,
and then, seizing him round the body with my arms, forced the hilt
further in with my chest, but instead of killing the beast, to my horror
the point came out of his back as he freed himself and walked away. I
rose and got out of the stye as nimbly as I possibly could, and sat down
to try and find my face through the accumulation of blood and filth,
which having done, I peeped over the stye wall, and found the pig still
alive; so, to end the poor thing's misery and my own, I took up my gun
and shot him dead. What a relief it was to see him lie stone still in an
instant. I vowed never to attempt a porcine murder again, and while I
was on the island the other pig had a good time of it, for as governor
of Jethou I abolished capital punishment, and if a pig's years were as
many as Methuselah's, he might enjoy them all before I should again
attempt to put a period to them.
From assassination to boat sailing is a long stride but at least a
change.
I performed two long voyages in my little craft; at least they seemed
long ones to me at the time, considering the dangers of navigation in
these rocky, swift seas.
[Illustration: A PORCINE MURDER.]
One trip was to Sark, which lies about six miles south-east of Jethou. I
selected a beautiful day in August for this trip, and started at
daylight, about four a.m., well provisioned, and with "Begum" to
accompany me, for somehow I always felt safer with him beside me. A
light south-west wind was blowing, so we reached Sark by six a.m., and
mooring the boat at the foot of the Coupée, in a bay called Grand Gréve,
I prepared coffee, and had a very leisurely breakfast, wondering at
man's capacity for stowage; but that is due to the salt breeze which
never yet put a man's liver wrong.
After enjoying the rocking in the bright warm sunshine, and watching the
tiny people crossing the Coupée (like the little men crossing a bridge
on a willow-patterned plate), three hundred feet overhead, off I started
again. I kept about two hundred yards from the precipitous sides of the
island, steering so close to the rock Moie de la Bretagne, which rises
ninety feet above the sea, that I touched it as we (my boat, dog, and I)
glided by.
Next, into the romantic little bay of Port Gorey (just a lovers'
paradise), where I let "Begum" have a run ashore while I sketched. Here
are situate the mines which were abandoned many years ago as a dismal
failure, leaving as a legacy to those fond of sketching some ruinous
cottages and huge chimney shafts, which look down on the little Bay of
Gorey, as Gog and Magog look down on the visitors to the London
Guildhall.
Leaving Gorey we had a good look at the rock called L'Etac de Sark with
its satellites, and gave them a wide berth, for their tooth-like
appearance is not at all pleasant when but an inch of wood lies between
one and a watery grave. L'Etac is the highest isolated rock round the
island, rising nearly two hundred feet above low water.
[Illustration: ROCKS AT SOUTH END OF SARK.]
To save time, instead of sweeping the bays we made a straight line, so
as to pass between Point Derrible and La Couchée, and quickly arrived
off what one may suppose the most picturesque spot in the Channel
Isles--Creux Harbour, with its stumpy little breakwater pier and cave
cutting which gives entrance to the island. The half-dozen fishermen on
the quay gave us a cheer as we passed, in answer to a wave from my
yellow cap.
On our right were the rocky islets, rising about one hundred feet above
the sea, called La Burons, and I passed just in time to see a sheep fall
with a plunge and splash into the sea, shot by a man in a boat. This
appeared to be the local way of slaughtering the sheep which are put on
the rocks to crop the sparse herbage which grows above high-water mark.
After a fortnight among the rocks sheep will get so agile and
surefooted, that a man has no chance with them in running or climbing,
hence the rifle has to be employed to obtain mutton.
After passing Grand Moie (one hundred and seventeen feet)--there are no
other rocks of any magnitude--so keeping well out I stripped and tumbled
overboard, hanging now to the stern, and then swimming alongside, but
never more than a yard away, for fear a current might part my boat and
me. "Begum," of course, swam with me, and seemed to keep an eye on his
master, for he seldom went far away from me. Whenever I looked round his
dear old brown eyes were upon me, as if he would say, "How are you
getting on, master?"
We rounded the northernmost point of Sark, a rock called Bec du Nez,
about twelve a.m., and with a fair wind ran into Port Jument, where we
hove to for dinner; then creeping round Point Moie de Mouton, anchored
off the famous Gouilot caves, and took a sketch, but could not by reason
of my compact enter them. This was very annoying, for I had heard so
much about them and their wonderful pools and anemonæ. Disappointedly
hauling in my anchor I steered for the Gouilot Pass, and like a fool
nearly lost myself and craft. The distance between Moie de Gouilot and
the island of Brechou is only about seventy yards, and as it was now
past three o'clock, a swift tide was pouring pell-mell through the
channel; this in my indolence I did not think of, and had like an ass
taken a turn of the sheet round a cleat, and somehow got it jammed. Away
went the "Yellow Boy," like a shot out of a gun, and as we passed
through, a big puff of wind came round the end of Brechou, and nearly
took the mast out before I could let go the sheet. Another two or three
inches more and we must have capsized, and it was only due to the boat
being rather heavily laden with cooking apparatus, gun, and cartridges,
extra provisions, and the weight of "Begum" (eighty pounds), who was
fortunately lying to windward, that we did not heel right over. As it
was we were all afloat in each compartment, so I ran into the beautiful
bay of Havre Gosselin and anchored. It took an hour to bale out and
sponge dry and put everything in order for the run home. After
rightsiding, and when over my tea, I cast my eyes upon the beautiful
precipitous vale which comes down from a height of about one hundred and
fifty feet to the sandy shore. It was an exquisite sight in the full
glow of the western sun, and would make a lovely theme for a canvas. It
was an emerald valley, through the trees of which the sun glinted and
made splendid contrasts of light and shade so beloved by the artist,
while at the top of the vale, hung, or appeared to hang, half a dozen
fishermen's cottages, such as the aforesaid artist frequently looks for
in vain; but here they are, and perhaps my artistic friends may thank me
for pointing out these delightful "bits" to them.
I lingered as long as prudence would allow at this enchanting spot, and
crept along the lee of Brechou Island to get a peep at its harbour or
port, and soon found it, facing due west, a snug little haven enough in
calm weather; but the very thought of trying to get into it in a heavy
sea was enough to make one shudder. A steep path leads up from the beach
to a farmhouse, which stands high upon the island; it is the _only_
habitation in the place.
This island is probably larger than Jethou, but being so near Havre
Gosselin is not so lonely, as help may very quickly be summoned in case
of accident or illness.
How I should have loved to pay the old farmer and his family a visit to
compare notes with him; but it could not be, and even if I had seen him
it is doubtful if I could have understood him, as doubtless he spoke
Sarkoise French, and with that language I was totally unacquainted.
Still, we might have had what the Indians call a "pow-wow," and
fraternised to some extent if only by signs.
At a little past six away we steered for home, but with a head wind and
rather choppy sea, so there was no help for it but to tack, which made a
long trip of it; but to make it short to the reader we reached home
about nine p.m., tired, wet, and hungry, for it began to drizzle at
sundown. Still, I never enjoyed a trip better than this memorable one of
about twenty-five miles, although I was glad after supper to lay my head
down on my pillow (and dream it all over again).
At the risk of wearying my readers I must tell them of a trip I took
round Guernsey about a month later.
"Begum" went with me, that was now a matter of course, for directly the
boat was shoved off, he would jump in and take his seat as if he were
pilot: there was no getting him out again.
Well provisioned and provided for casualties, we started at the somewhat
late hour of six a.m., and in an hour made the land opposite St.
Sampson's harbour, and peeped in on passing, so as to see the busy scene
of granite trimming, breaking, and loading, which goes on here from
sunrise to sunset all the year round. I could plainly hear the
detonations as shots were fired in the quarries, and the dull rumble of
the stone, as great masses of granite, which have been unmoved since the
creation, were rent asunder and toppled into the quarry below. Vale
Castle and Bordeaux harbour, where I anchored, look picturesque from
whatever points they are seen, whether from land or sea, and two hours
quickly glided by as I sketched the lovely little bits of scenery around
me. My plan was to take about half an hour for each sketch, to get the
general outline and feeling of color, so that on my return I had plenty
to occupy me on a rainy day.
The next point of interest was a little rocky island just past Bordeaux,
called Hommet Paradis, which is the scene of the death of Victor Hugo's
hero, Gilliatt, as related in "The Toilers of the Sea." He creates a
splendid hero, and in the last chapter makes him commit suicide in an
impossible manner. He causes his hero to stand in the sea, so that the
tide rises up to his feet, his knees, his waist, his shoulders, till,
still watching the vessel which bears his love from him through his own
stupid act, nothing but his head remains. Then the tide continues to
rise, and as the vessel vanishes on the horizon, "the head of Gilliatt
disappears. Nothing was visible now but the sea." Surely he might have
left a lock of hair or a sigh to mark the spot where he disappeared. I
have tried on even a very calm day to stand as Hugo's hero did, and let
the tide rise around me, but find the thing an impossibility. The motion
of the rising tide would lift one off their feet long before the water
rose above their shoulders, and as to making the man stand _still_ and
drown, why the idea is ludicrous. But as Hugo created his hero, why
should he not be allowed to destroy him as he likes? The book (except
the last chapter) is an exquisite piece of word painting, but I always
wish he had made a happy end of his hero. I felt this so much when I
read it on Jethou (for the third or fourth time) that I actually
re-wrote the last chapter for my own edification, and made Gilliatt
marry Dérnchette willy-nilly, so that everything ended properly, and the
lovers "lived happily ever after."
North Guernsey (called Parish) is very uninteresting, in fact, from the
sea it looks a perfectly flat wilderness or desert, and I was glad when
the "Yellow Boy" glided into the deep clear blue water of Grand Havre,
where we moored for lunch.
Here an incident occurred which might have caused me to go ashore
against my wish. While peppering some fish I was eating, the lid came
off my little tin box, and the contents were strewn thickly on my food.
Some of the condiment I scooped back into the box, and then gave a
mighty puff to blow the rest off my plate, when, unluckily blowing
against the wind, some of it blew into my eyes, causing me exquisite
pain for some time, necessitating my rubbing them.
Had I remembered the Spanish proverb, "Never rub your eyes but with your
elbows," I should have saved myself a lot of needless pain, for they
became quite inflamed. I bathed them first in tepid water and afterwards
in cold, and then sat down in the bottom of the boat with a wet
handkerchief over them for an hour. This did them much good, but still
they felt very hot and inflamed. I could only just see to pick my way
among the shoals of rocks along this west coast, and consequently made
very slow progress. Saline, Cobo, and Vazon Bays were all sailed slowly
through, and very pretty they were; but it now dawned upon me that I
should not see Jethou to-night, as it was already approaching the
gloaming of the day. Lowering the sail I put out the sculls, and paddled
back to a little inlet I had noticed near Cobo Bay, called Albecq Cove,
a rocky little inlet, but nicely sheltered from the south-west wind,
then gently blowing. Here I made all snug for the night; put on my
kettle to boil water for tea, while with the sail I made a kind of
awning to roof in the boat should it come on to rain, and made myself
generally comfortable.
At nine p.m. I went to sleep, and at four a.m. was up again getting
ready for a start. My eyes felt nearly well again, but still rather
weak, so, stripping, I jumped overboard, and had a swim and dive, then
dressed, and after a cup of coffee felt no more of the eye soreness.
Between Lihou Island and the shore I moored in shallow water to make a
sketch of the remains of what are said to have once been a Priory,
standing on the island, and which have since been used as a manufactory
of iodine, although it is now discontinued. When my sketch was nearly
completed, I became suddenly aware, by reason of the cessation of
motion, that my craft was aground. Sure enough so it was, for the tide
had left me on the causeway (laid bare at low tide), which serves as a
means of communication with the shore for the family who occupy the only
house on the eighteen-acre island. I jumped up and seized the oars, and
pushed with main and utmost might, but the "Yellow Boy" refused to
budge, and I was in a quandary. The tide would not float me for another
three or four hours, so to wait would spoil my whole morning, and if I
stepped overboard and pushed off, should I not be breaking my contract
by landing? I sat down a few minutes and held council with myself, and
came to the conclusion that to stand in a foot of water was not
_landing_, so over I jumped, and by dint of a great deal of pushing,
hauling, perspiring, and the use of interjections (not profane, for I
never use a bad word), I got her off into deep water, and jumped in,
resolving never to anchor again in fleet water with a falling tide.
From Lihou I made a bee-line to the Hanois lighthouse, which stands
about a mile from the shore, and forcibly reminds one of the Longship
Light off Land's End, Cornwall. I passed so close that the two men who
were standing on the rocks with a tub between them doing their week's
washing, asked me ashore; but I made a gurgling noise in my throat, and
pointed to my ears and mouth as I passed on. I meant them to understand
by this that I was a deaf mute, but they evidently took me for a
lunatic, as I could hear by their remarks.
Rounding Pleinmont Point, upon which stands the dreary, solitary stone
house mentioned so frequently in Hugo's "Toilers of the Sea," I caught
the south breeze which was now blowing very fresh, and having a lea
shore on my left, I had to give it rather a wide berth till I came to La
Moye Point, where I turned into Petit Bo Bay for my mid-day meal, that
being somewhat sheltered from the wind. It is a lovely little haven, and
so I found Icart, Moulin-Huet, and Fermain Bays, with their Titanic
surroundings.
While moored in Fermain Bay admiring the beautiful scene, the wooded
slopes of the environing hills, the grand rocks, the pretty little
semicircular stretch of yellow sandy beach, the puny little martello
tower, and other items of interest, I discovered that while my
surroundings were interesting _me_, that I was also interesting my
surroundings, for I found I was gradually being surrounded by boats.
These contained pleasure parties, to whom the fishermen had evidently
told the story of my Crusoe life, and they were therefore anxious to get
a near view of me and my curious craft, while "Begum" came in for his
share of attention also.
Some of the people wished to speak to me, but I up anchor, and with my
usual dumb appeal to my ears and mouth tried to get away, but there was
so little wind under the great cliffs that my progress was very slow, so
I had to sit, tiller and sheet in hand, while my tormentors said their
say, to me and about me, in French, German, and English. One young lady,
when she found I was dumb to her enquiries, made a confidant of "Begum,"
and told him how she would like to see over Crusoe's island, as she
called Jethou, but all to no purpose, for, like his master, the dog was
dumb also, though not deaf.
I should have bubbled over with pleasure to show the damsel my island
and resources; but all I could do was to raise my yellow cap, and expand
my mouth horizontally across my face, to signify my approval of her
attention to _my dog_!
As the boat crept out from the headland of Fermain Bay my yellow sail
began to draw, and very soon I left my pursuers behind. I had become so
used to my queer yellow boat and its yellow sail and flag, that I had
long ceased to see anything peculiar in it; but of course to other eyes
my craft and its crew were a source of speculation and surprise. After
this I never went near Guernsey again during the day-time.
I made a straight run for home now, but somehow felt rather melancholy,
and could not get the young lady's face out of my mind. I felt somewhat
depressed to think I was fleeing from my fellow-men, as if I had
committed some grave offence and could not face them; but when once my
foot touched Jethou's shore (about seven p.m.) my thoughts and
melancholia vanished. There I was, home again, patting "Eddy's" back,
and pulling his long ears, and feeding the pig, and milking the goat,
getting ready my tea, and finally stretching my weary legs to take out
the kinks, which a couple of days in an open boat will put into any
man's limbs.
[Illustration: Decorative scroll]
[Illustration: Decorative chapter heading]