The Island
With the first streaks of dawn, Peter, who had been sleeping soundly in
the open, with his feet towards the still glowing embers, shook himself
like a great mastiff, and stretched his cramped limbs. It had been a
strange sensation sleeping on the hard ground after days and weeks on
the ocean. Some moments elapsed before he was fully aware of his
surroundings.
He looked seawards. The flood-tide was making, and the wavelets were
lapping against the edge of the serrated reef. The boat was still
aground. Her anchor warp had not tautened, so that it was obvious that
she had not shifted her position on the top of the previous high water.
The wind had piped down considerably, but was now blowing softly from
the west'ard. During the night the breeze had veered completely round
from east to west.
"Just our luck!" thought Peter. "Now we have fetched Madagascar after
beating for hours against it, the wind shifts round. It would have
saved us hours if it had been in this quarter for the last twenty-four
hours. However, here we are, so I mustn't grouse."
None of his companions showed signs of stirring. Silence reigned in
the tents. The scent of the morning air was mingled with the pleasing
reek of the camp-fire. Farther along the coast a number of seagulls
were hovering over some object and screeching, as they warily circled
round the coveted piece of flotsam.
From where Peter stood, the landscape was rather limited. Less than a
mile to the nor'ard a bluff of about two hundred feet in height served
as the boundary of his vision in that direction. Southward the wall of
cliffs terminated abruptly at a distance of about a quarter of a mile.
Evidently beyond that the coastline receded, unless the light were
insufficient to enable the more distant land to be seen.
"May as well stretch my legs," thought Peter. "I'll have a shot at
getting to the top of the cliffs and see what's doing. I wonder how
far it is to the nearest village?"
He had to walk a hundred yards along the beach before he found a likely
means of ascent--a narrow gorge through which a clear stream dashed
rapidly. Yet the rivulet never met the sea direct. The water,
although of considerable volume, simply soaked into the sand and
disappeared.
"We shan't need to go slow with the drinking-water," he said to
himself, as he gathered a double handful of the cool, sparkling fluid
and held it to his lips. "By Jove, isn't that a treat after water from
a boat's keg. Well, here goes."
The ascent was steep but fairly easy. Nevertheless Mostyn was so out
of training, from a pedestrian point of view, that his muscles ached
and his limbs grew stiff long before he arrived at the top.
At length, breathless and weary, he gained the summit and threw himself
at full length upon the grass.
After a while he stood up and looked around. The sun was just
rising--and it appeared to rise out of the sea. From where he stood,
Peter could see right across the ground from west to east and from
north to south; and, save where the tall bluff cut the skyline, sea and
sky formed a complete circular horizon.
Peter gave a gasp of astonishment. Instead of finding himself, as he
had expected, upon one of the largest islands of the world, he was on a
sea-girt piece of land barely three miles in length and two in breadth.
In vain he looked for other land. The extent of his view, assuming
that the point on which he stood was two hundred feet above the
sea-level, was a distance of roughly twenty miles, and, except for the
island upon which the boat had stranded, there was nothing in sight but
sky and sea.
"So much for Madagascar," ejaculated the Wireless Officer. "I'm a
rotten bad navigator. Wonder where this show is, and if it is
inhabited."
For the most part the island consisted of a fairly level plateau
covered with scrub. The southern part was well wooded with palms,
while the course of the little stream was marked by a double line of
reeds.
In vain Peter looked for signs of human habitation. Not so much as a
solitary column of smoke marked the presence of any inhabitants.
"This is out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance," said
the Wireless Officer to himself. "We've plenty of fresh water, it is
true, but precious little to eat. And the boat is beyond repair with
the limited means at our disposal. Fire, did I say? We can obtain
that, so the possibility of having to eat raw or sun-dried fish is
removed."
By this time the rest of the temporary sojourners on the island were
astir. From his lofty point of vantage Peter could see the three
Mohammedans at their devotions at some distance from the tents. Mrs.
Shallop was actually out and about, and had deigned to fetch a balerful
of water. Miss Baird had thrown fresh driftwood and kelp on the fire,
and was apparently undertaking the frying of some of the fish. Propped
up on a roll of painted canvas was Preston, slowly and steadily gutting
the herrings before grilling them in front of the fire.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Peter, when he rejoined the others and had
greeted Miss Baird. "Feeling better?"
"Much thanks," replied the Acting Chief. "Soon be O.K., I hope. And
what have you been doing, Sparks?"
"Taking my bearings," said Mostyn. "My festive chum, I've made a hash
of things. We're on an island."
"Madagascar is an island," remarked Preston. "So why make a song about
it?"
"This isn't Madagascar," replied Peter. "It's a small island. A
fellow ought to be able to walk right round it in a couple of hours
comfortably."
Preston tried to whistle and failed miserably. The attempt was still
too painful.
"You seem fond of putting boats ashore on small islands, old man," he
remarked. "How about grub? Seen anything in the edible line?"
"A few coco-palms," announced Mostyn. "I didn't investigate. We may
strike oil."
"I'd rather strike grub," rejoined the Acting Chief. "Well, there's
one blessing--we've cigarettes."
Breakfast consisted of biscuits, fresh water, and fried fish. It was
meagre fare, but the hungry castaways relished it. They could have
eaten more, but Peter kept an iron hand on the biscuits, and fried fish
without biscuits was neither satisfying nor appetizing.
The meal over, Mostyn set all hands--Preston excepted, by reason of his
injuries--to work. He meant to keep everybody employed--even Mrs.
Shallop. Idleness breeds discontent and discord, and he had no wish to
have either.
The first task was to carry the tents and the small kit at their
disposal to the high ground beyond the edge of the cliffs. Peter and
the lascars managed the spars and canvas between them, while Olive and
Mrs. Shallop carried up the lighter gear. Once she made up her mind
that she had to work, Mrs. Shallop became quite energetic, finding her
way up the cliff-path with tolerable speed in spite of her bulk. By
ten in the morning the whole of the stuff brought ashore had been taken
to a spot a hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level, and placed in a
sheltered hollow within easy distance of the little stream that Peter
had discovered.
While the two Lascars were setting up the tents, Peter and Mahmed
constructed a stretcher in order to get Preston to the new camp.
The Acting Chief was practically helpless. At first it was thought
that his injuries were confined to his head; but after he had been
brought ashore his legs were found to have been crushed, and from the
knees downwards the limbs were devoid of any sensation of pain, and the
muscles incapable of responding to the dictates of his will.
It required twenty minutes of hard yet cautious work to carry Preston
to the top of the cliffs, in spite of the fact that the path was fairly
easy for an unencumbered person. The difficulty was for the bearers to
keep their burden in a horizontal position, and at the same time
maintain their footing. For the greater part of the ascent Mahmed was
crouching and holding his end of the stretcher within a few inches of
the ground, while Peter was supporting his end on his shoulders and
cautiously feeling his way, since it was impossible for him to see
where he was treading.
At length Preston was brought to the camp and placed in one of the
tents, while his bearers, hot and well nigh exhausted, threw themselves
at full length in order to rest and regain their breath.
The next step was to salve the boat. This task required all available
hands, for the craft was heavily built of elm.
By dint of strenuous exertions the boat was lifted clear of the jagged
coral, and dragged along the ledge and up the sandy beach well above
high-water mark.
"That will do for the present," decided Mostyn. "She won't hurt there.
We'll have to patch her up and resume our voyage as soon as possible."
He spoke sanguinely, but in his mind he realized that the task was
practically beyond the small resources at their command. With the
exception of a small rusty hatchet, that was discovered under the floor
of the after locker, a knife, and a marline-spike, there were no tools
available for the extensive repairs necessary to make the boat again
seaworthy.
The time for the midday meal came round only too soon. Feeling like a
miser compelled to disgorge his treasured hoard, Peter served out more
of his carefully husbanded biscuits. These were augmented by coconuts,
which Mahmed and the lascars had obtained from some palms growing close
to the camp. Up to the present there were no indications of the
presence of bread-fruit trees, but, as Olive remarked, there was a good
deal of the island to be explored.
"What's the time, Miss Baird, please?" inquired Preston.
The girl consulted her watch.
"Five minutes to twelve, Mr. Preston."
"Thank you," rejoined the Acting Chief, then, after a slight pause, "is
your watch fairly accurate?"
Olive shook her head.
"I never possessed a fairly accurate watch," she replied. "Mine gains
about a minute a day, and every time I wind it I put it back a minute.
It was set by ship's time on the day the _West Barbican_ sank."
"Why so anxious to know the time, old man?" inquired Mostyn. "You
haven't to go on watch."
"Never you mind, old son," rejoined the Acting Chief. "In due course
I'll enlighten your mind on the subject, but until then--nothin' doin'."
For the next ten minutes conversation drifted into other channels.
Peter had almost forgotten about the mysterious inquiries of Mr.
Preston, when the latter inquired abruptly:
"What do you think is our position, Sparks?"
"About fifty miles west of Madagascar," replied Peter.
The Acting Chief shook his head.
"Wrong, my festive. Absolutely out of it," he stated with conviction.
"Say a hundred and fifty miles to the south'ard of Cape St.
Mary--that's the southern-most point of Madagascar--and you won't be
far out."
"But, why----?" began the astonished Wireless Officer.
"Hold on," continued Preston. "It's now mid-summer in the Southern
Hemisphere. Consequently the sun must be overhead, or nearly so, on
the Tropic of Capricorn. Here, at midday, it's roughly five degrees
north of our zenith. That means we're well south of the island you
were making for."
"But how's that?" demanded Mostyn. "I steered due east, and when the
wind headed us I tacked for equal periods."
"Maybe you did," rejoined the Acting Chief drily. "You don't know the
deviation of the boat's compass. Neither do I, for that matter. It
might be points out on an easterly course. Again, there's a strong
current setting southward through the Mozambique Channel. Another and
by no means inconsiderable factor is that almost every boat when
close-hauled sails faster on one tack than the other. The net result
is that, unconsciously, you were faced well to the south-east instead
of making due east. However, here we are, and we must make the best of
it. Everything considered, old man, you haven't done so badly."
By dusk everything was in order so far as their limited resources
permitted, even to the extent of building a light breastwork on the
windward side of the camp to protect the tents from storms from
seaward. The strenuous labours had kept the castaways' minds so fully
occupied that they had had no time to think about their difficulties.
Tired in body, yet cheerful in mind, they slept the sleep that only the
healthy can enjoy.