Rottnest Island, _February_.
There have been patches, as it were, of hot disagreeable weather, since
I last wrote, but generally, even if the morning has been close and
sultry since sunrise, the sea-breeze comes stealing down about noon and
freshens the air. The land wind keeps us cool at night, and our great
anxiety is that it may last late enough to bring the twice-a-week boat
over. Sometimes it dies away provokingly, just when the poor boat has
got half-way across, and then we watch it anxiously through the big
telescope, as the flapping sails try to catch every puff of wind, and
we can plainly see the alternate attempts at rowing and sailing. The
crew are always terribly hot and tired by the time they get here,—about
one o’clock,—poor fellows, and then they have only a short rest
before a start back must be made, for fear of being again belated.
The stillest day of all was one unfortunate time when the doctor was
urgently wanted on the island. He left Fremantle before nine o’clock,
and did not get to Rottnest until six in the evening! Then he had to
start again homewards a couple of hours later, and was kept out all
night, for there was no wind either way. It was really dreadful for him
and for all the men in the boat. When we get our little steam-tug this
cannot happen any more, but it is very tiresome this year.
Boat-day is always very fussy. There are boxes on boxes of fruit,
flowers, and vegetables, from Perth—ice, stores, and all sorts of
things about which I am anxious—empty boxes to be returned, clothes
to go to and from the laundress, and so forth. Then nearly every boat
brings or takes away friends who are kind enough to come over and
enliven our solitude. I am always inquiring about, and watching the
wind on their account, particularly if there are ladies and children
among the passengers. There seems always to be too much or too little
wind, when I specially want a perfect day for my guests! However, no
one makes the least fuss about it, and I really believe I am much more
concerned for them than they are for themselves!
All the animals and pets share in the benefits of boat-day. The cows
get green fodder, rushes, tops of young pears, and melons; the canaries
regale themselves on fresh chickweed, and even the wild birds get
grapes! Impudent little creatures! these “white eyes” (so called from
a white ring round their eyes) are, flying in at my fruit-room window,
and actually digging their long pointed beaks into the bunches of
grapes, or into the ripe peaches and apricots, whilst Catherine and I
are still arranging the quantities and quantities of fruit. I try to
pacify them by giving them all the old fruit, but they prefer it fresh!
Even a muslin blind at the window is very little protection, they
contrive to get under it, or else peck away till they make a hole big
enough to get through.
I wonder Louis does not die of fruit. He is eating it all day long,
just as you would do, I suspect, if you were here. He always takes a
great bunch of grapes to bed with him, and falls asleep eating them.
All this time I have never said a word about the shooting, and yet it
is the great feature of the place. Nearly every spring myriads of snipe
come over to the island. They are not regular snipe, but something
between a plover and a land-rail; pretty slender birds, with long beaks
and legs, and black and white plumage. They come in thousands to feed
on the salt lakes I have told you about, and are delicious eating. No
one can tell where they go to during eight or nine months of the year,
for they are never seen on the mainland, and are very uncertain in the
length of their annual visits to Rottnest. Sometimes they only remain
for six weeks, another year they will stay four months. There are great
quantities of them this year. Almost the first question Pater asked,
when we landed on the 2d of January, was, “Have the snipe come?” And
all the gentlemen inquire about them the moment they arrive, no matter
whether the voyage has been long or short, rough or much too smooth.
About four o’clock every afternoon great preparations for the tramp
after snipe begin. Strong boots are needed, for the shores of the lakes
seem strewn with extremely rough and sharp little stones, and the
rocks are cruelly pointed. Breakwinds or shelters of brushwood have
been built on most of the little spits of shingle, which here and there
jut out into the lakes, and a sportsman can thus creep up behind them
to a favourite feeding-place. For after a week or two the snipe become
exceedingly wild and shy, and it would be difficult to get near them.
They generally feed in the middle of the lakes far out of shot, and
even when they are closer into the shore, no one without the help of
these breakwinds could get near them with a gun. There appears always
to be a friendly little gull or two feeding close by, whose sharp eyes
give the alarm directly; and after you have cautiously and carefully
stalked a feeding flock nearly to within range, up gets the screaming
gull, alarms the snipe, then comes a whirr and wheeling rise of slender
bird-forms from the blue water, and away they all sweep over the low
hills, or across the stony shores, to settle down again a couple of
miles farther off. It is very tantalising, and all the guns, generally
three or four every evening, seldom succeed in bringing me in more than
I absolutely need for next day’s larder.
Some hares are still to be seen on the island, and I have constantly
caught a glimpse of them feeding at sunset on the open glades. But
they have been shot down so much in former years that it is necessary
to give them two or three years’ protection, so no one shoots them
now. I have turned out several pairs of guinea-fowl, remembering what
good sport they gave at Rodrigues, but I fear the numerous hawks and
wild-cats will prevent much increase.
The wild ducks come down to the water-holes in the early morning and
late at night, and sometimes allow the sportsmen to get a shot at
them; but they require very careful stalking, for they are even more
wild and shy than the snipe, and still more on the alert. I am always
glad when the shooters bring me in a duck, but it is rather a rare
occurrence. Pater does so oftener than any one else, for he has learned
by constantly going after them how best to get near; but I confess
I don’t think any duck can be worth the trouble he and the other
gentlemen take. Such crawling, almost on their faces, through grass and
low bushes, dragging their guns after them, such patient watching, such
early rising, and such late long tramps home at dark, after what has
literally been a “wild _duck_ chase.”
Sometimes the snipe or ducks fall, when shot, in the very middle of the
lake, so the gentlemen always take a couple of native prisoners with
them to act as retrievers. The men delight in the excursion, and it is
always made a reward for good behaviour. They are keen sportsmen and
keep a sharp look-out for what they call “big fellow” (that is, ducks),
and also for “’nipe.” Their delight and astonishment at a successful
shot is great, and they are always eager to wade or swim out to bring
the birds in. After they come back, a stick or two of tobacco sends
them home blissfully happy. I have not time this mail to tell you about
the natives, but you shall have a letter about them next month. I must
finish about the shooting this time.
It would amuse you to watch, as I do, a hawk who comes out every
evening. I am sure he watches us at tea in the verandah and sees the
gentlemen collecting their cartridges and looking at their guns, and
generally getting themselves ready. The moment we (the puppy and I
generally walk with the least ardent of the sportsmen, who are not
likely to want to go too far!) get clear of the house and paddock, and
set our faces towards the lake, the hawk appears, circling round and
round us all the time, getting as his reward, now and then, a snipe
which falls too far out in the lake, and which he can pick up and bear
off in triumph, long before the native can swim out to it. If ever a
wounded snipe flutters down on the shore, even close by, the hawk,
with a savage cry swoops down on it directly, and the chances are he
has begun his supper before we can drive him off. When I think it is
getting dark, and consequently time to turn our faces homeward, my
favourite argument is, “The hawk has gone home.”
There is capital fishing, but it is difficult to go either fishing
or sailing, because the only boats on the island belong to the Pilot
Station, and they and their crews are constantly wanted to go out and
bring some ship in through the rather difficult passage made by all
these little islands, which look as if they had once upon a time been
broken off from the big mainland. Rottnest is the largest, and has a
lighthouse as I have told you, but there are several others. One is
famous for snakes, another is supposed to support lots of rabbits,
though, as all the islands except Rottnest are quite barren, I can’t
make out what the poor bunnies live upon. _Our_ dear little island has
nothing ugly about it, except its old Dutch name, and even that is a
libel, for I don’t believe there is anything larger than a mouse—there
are lots of those—to be found on it.
I often drive up to the lighthouse, partly to look at the beautiful
view, and feel the fresh cool breeze which always blows up there, and
partly to take the keeper and his family some of our abundance of
fruit and vegetables. It is far too windy for a garden, and only a few
cabbages can be grown even in the sheltered parts near the prison, so
grapes and melons are a treat, as well as the newspapers I always put
at the bottom of the basket.
We have droll adventures sometimes in these drives. The island
trap—for I really cannot call it a carriage—is the most absurdly
high, and heavy, and solid affair you ever saw. It is of the nature
of a dog-cart, but a very rudimentary dog-cart, and was built in the
prison on the mainland, long ago in the old convict days, being then
considered a triumph of the coach-building art. A huge royal crown
in every colour of the rainbow is the much admired decoration of its
massive panels. The difficulty of climbing into this conveyance is
great, and even when you are in you feel that you are going to tumble
out again directly; and I can’t make out now how it is that we don’t
fall over the low rail when the horse, who seems much too small, and
very much below us, begins to trot. But you are so jogged and jolted,
even on the good smooth roads which have been made by prisoners all
over the island, that you can’t remonstrate, and have to devote all
your attention to keeping yourself on your perch.
There have been several small upsets all more or less of a ludicrous
nature, and with no worse results than slight cuts and bruises. Once,
when a couple of gentlemen were coming fast downhill (one of them was
very heavy) the horse objected to the weight on his back, and suddenly
flung up his heels, which caught in some of the complicated iron
circles on which the body of the trap rests. Of course, the whole
affair upset into the wattle bushes, and the horse’s leg was found
to be so firmly fixed amid the ironwork, that the carriage had to be
unscrewed and taken to pieces before he could be set free.
Another time a reckless driver insisted on careering fast over ground
covered with tussocks, and after an alarming amount of swaying from
side to side over the trap went. A good deal of sticking-plaster
and arnica was needed after that mishap. I have never “assisted” at
any of these adventures, for I always insist on great caution and
circumspection. My favourite drive is across some rough country, lying
between us and the other side of the island. The beach there is quite
different, with different shells, and even strewn with more beautiful
seaweed than on our bit of coast. I cannot get near it, however, in the
dog-cart, and we have to get out some way off and cross the intervening
sand-hills and cliffs on foot. The scramble, however, is very nice, and
the breeze on that windward side delicious after a hot day; and then
we discover such constant surprises in fairy coves and miniature bays,
strewn with brilliant seaweed and strange and curious creatures, that
Ethel—a girl-friend who often comes over for a little sea-bathing and
general frolic—and I are always begging to go there, instead of being
taken out snipe-shooting.
I wonder which you would like best? the shooting I suspect, as Louis
does; but our scrambles are delicious too, specially when we can coax a
couple of the gentlemen to bring the smallest and lightest boat round
the point, and meet us, and row us home by moonlight. But we have no
chance of their liking to do this unless the cartridges have run short
until next boat-day, or else, for some reason or another, the snipe
have not come down to the lakes, or the “big fellows” are keeping very
close.
A sort of “natural jetty,” as it is called, runs out for about half a
mile from the southern point of the island. It shelters our harbour
beautifully, and breaks the force of the great rolling waves from
seaward. Some of the gentlemen have walked along it, out to the very
end on a calm day; but it is a dangerous performance at the best of
times, for it is extremely slippery, and the water is always a-wash
over it, making it difficult to keep any sort of foothold. There are
generally quantities of screaming sea-gulls on it, and shags, and even
wild duck often go there; and I have seen thousands of snipe feeding
on the dry part which is sometimes above water. The sportsmen often
try to get near enough for a shot, but have never been able to hit
anything smaller than a gull. Large poles, with thick bushes lashed
on them, stand boldly on this sort of causeway to warn vessels not to
try, even at high water, to get across instead of going round it; and
there is a very large bush, quite like a tree, tied securely to the
furthest point, as a landmark. Every year a pair of hawks come down to
this bleak exposed spot, and make a nest, and rear a brood in defiance
of all attempts to dislodge them. The sea-gulls lay their eggs on the
numerous little rocks close by, and it is easy in the season to get
plenty of them.
The fishing is splendid, and the fish delicious. Close to the pier one
gets shoals of a small fish like white bait, and there are lots of a
large but delicate tasting cray fish. If you go farther out for a few
miles to the good fishing banks, you are sure of capital sport. But, as
I said before, one cannot always get the boat; and to enjoy this place
thoroughly we ought to have a boat or two of our own. One day, when we
were all out fishing on a bank called “Jerusalem” (all the fish caught
there are known as “Jew fish”), a huge fish swallowed my hook; I was
nearly pulled out of the boat by my struggling prize, and finally was
only too glad to give over my line to the stalwart coxswain, and _he_
actually needed help before he could pull the fish into the boat.