START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JETHOU*** E-text prepared by Steven Gibbs, Martin Pettit, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 17618-h.htm or 17618-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/1/17618/17618-h/17618-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/1/17618/17618-h.zip) JETHOU Or Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles Illustrated by Drawings Prepared from Author's Own Sketches by E. R. SUFFLING Author of "History and Legends of the Broad District," "How to Organize a Cruise on the Broads," "Afloat in a Gipsy Van," etc. Third Edition [Illustration: Publisher's logo] London Jarrold & Sons, 10 & 11, Warwick Lane, E.C. [All Rights Reserved] 1898 PREFACE. As the writer does not pretend to possess what is termed literary style, he would ask the indulgence of the reader in any little slip of the pen which may occur in these pages, as it is not every Crusoe who can command the facile quill, the pure style, or the lively imagination of a Daniel Defoe, to narrate his adventures. It must be borne in mind that the island of Juan Fernandez possessed many natural features, and a far greater area than Jethou can boast of, and therefore more scope for the development of incidents and descriptive embellishment. Doubtless many of the adventures here placed before the public will appear puny beside the exploits of the original Crusoe; but it must be taken into consideration that the author does not, like Defoe's hero, revel in the impossible. At the same time it may be noted that the adventures detailed are of a sufficiently exciting kind as to be above any suspicion of dulness. Juan Fernandez lies about four hundred miles from the nearest land, and it is therefore very difficult to imagine from whence the savages came who were about to convert Friday into a _fricassee_. The Friday of our story, y'clept Monday, came to Jethou in a natural if in an exciting manner, and it will be found that everything else in the narrative, if not an _exact_ account of what really did happen, is at least feasible. It is in fact a practicable narrative, served up in a plain, ungarnished form, except that to make it more palatable to the general reader a little love-story has been introduced towards the conclusion, which, it is hoped, sustains the interest right to the last, and makes the volume end as all good books should, by allowing the principal actors to "live happily ever after." E. R. SUFFLING (HARRY NILFORD). _Blomfield Lodge_, _Portsdown Road_, _London, W._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE My birth and home--My pretty cousin--Accident to the "Kittywich"--Journey to Guernsey--Pleading to become a Crusoe--My wish granted--Outfit secured--Sail to Jethou 9 CHAPTER II. I take possession of the Island--Landing stores--A grand carousal--Farewell--Alone 24 CHAPTER III. First thoughts and impressions--A tour of the Island and description 32 CHAPTER IV. Farming operations--I make a plough and a cart--A donkey hunt--Dumb helpers--My live stock 44 CHAPTER V. Canoeing--Fish of the place--The ormer and limpet--A curious fishing adventure--Queer captures from the sea--Rock fish--Construct a fish pond and water-mill 55 CHAPTER VI. "Flapp," the gull--Surgical operation--The gull who refused to die--Taxidermy extraordinary--Feathered friends--Snakes 69 CHAPTER VII. I build a curious "box-boat"--An unpleasant night at sea--My Sunday service--The poem, "Alexander Selkirk"--Its applicability to my lot 79 CHAPTER VIII. 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 93 CHAPTER IX. Harvest operations--Explore La Creux Derrible, and nearly lose my life--Crusoe on crutches--An extraordinary discovery--Kill a grampus--Oil on troubled waters--Make an overflow pump 112 CHAPTER X. A storm and a wreck--The castaway--Dead--A night of horror--The boathouse destroyed--A burial at sea 126 CHAPTER XI. Climate in Winter--Vision of my father--A warning voice--Supernatural manifestations--The falling rock--My life saved by my dog 139 CHAPTER XII. A fairy pool--Wonders of the deep--Portrait of a poet--The cave of Fauconnaire--A letter from home and my answer to it 148 CHAPTER XIII. Another terrible storm--Loss of the "Yellow Boy"--A ketch wrecked--I rescue a man from the sea, badly injured--He recovers 159 CHAPTER XIV. Work and song--Sunday service--Build a larger boat, the "Anglo-Franc"--Collecting wreckage--Commence a jetty--Our cookery--Blasting operations--The opening banquet 172 CHAPTER XV. Trawling for fish and dredging for curios--Some remarkable finds--A ghastly resurrection--The mysterious paper--The hieroglyphic--A dangerous fall--_Hors de combat_--Attempts to unravel the paper 181 CHAPTER XVI. Yarns: The cabbages which hung their heads--The raft of spruce--Voyage of the "Dewdrop"--A lucky family--A deep, deep draught--The maire's cat 193 CHAPTER XVII. The Will again--Searching for a clue to the paper--Barbe Rouge's Will--A probable clue--Hopes and doubts--Perplexed--A memorable trawl by moonlight--A real clue at last--The place of the skull found 207 CHAPTER XVIII. Digging for the treasure--A noonday rest--The ghastly tenant of the treasure house--We find the treasure--An account of what we discovered 217 CHAPTER XIX. Preparing to leave--A letter home--We lengthen and enlarge the "Anglo-Franc"--Re-christen her "Happy Return"--Love at first sight--Victualling and stowing cargo--Pretty Jeannette--The long voyage--Incidents en route--Vegetarians, and their diet--Yarmouth reached--Fresh-water navigation--My native heath 231 CHAPTER XX. I surprise the old folks at home--All well--Is Priscilla false--We meet--The missing letters--A snake in the grass--Dreams of vengeance 250 CHAPTER XXI. The "Happy Return" inspected--More of my father's ghost--Unpacking the treasure--Seek an interview with Walter Johnson--Two letters 257 CHAPTER XXII. M. Oudin arrives--The Wedding Day--Division of the spoil--Alec returns to Jethou--Wedding gifts--The end 265 APPENDIX. A few words about the Channel Isles 271 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. THE ISLAND OF JETHOU _Frontispiece_ 1 THE OLD HOME AT BARTON 10 MAP OF THE ISLAND OF JETHOU 35 PLAN OF HOMESTEAD 43 MY PLOUGH 47 AN ANTEDILUVIAN CHARIOT 48 "I WAS SWAMPED IN A MOMENT" 61 THE "YELLOW BOY," PLANS, ETC. 81 A PORCINE MURDER 99 ROCKS AT SOUTH END OF SARK 101 THE MAIN PATH OF THE ISLAND 113 LA CREUX DERRIBLE 119 TOO LATE! 131 A GHOSTLY VISITANT 141 "ALONG THE RUGGED CLIFF PATH" 161 RESCUE OF ALEC DUCAS 167 THE PUZZLING DOCUMENT 186, 209 A TERRIBLE FALL 187 THE TENANT OF THE TREASURE HOUSE 223 LENGTHENING THE "ANGLO-FRANC" 235 [Illustration: Frontispiece--THE ISLAND OF JETHOU] [Illustration: Decorative chapter heading] JETHOU; OR, Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles. CHAPTER I. MY BIRTH AND HOME--MY PRETTY COUSIN--ACCIDENT TO THE "KITTYWICH"--JOURNEY TO GUERNSEY--PLEADING TO BECOME A CRUSOE--MY WISH GRANTED--OUTFIT SECURED--SAIL TO JETHOU. That Crusoe of Crusoes, Alexander Selkirk, as I am aware, commences his entertaining history with his birth and parentage, and as I am also a Crusoe, although a very minor adventurer, I may as well follow the precedent and declare my nativity. I was born at the little village of Barton in Norfolk, at the time the guns at Balaclava were mowing down our red coats and tars, where my father had a small house facing the Broad. It was a comfortable old two-storied building, with a thatched roof, through which a couple of dormer windows peered out, like two eyes, over the beautiful green lawn which sloped to the reed-fringed water. My father was in very comfortable circumstances, as he was owner of six large fishing vessels hailing from the port of Great Yarmouth, some ten or twelve miles distant as the crow flies. [Illustration: THE OLD HOME AT BARTON.] Being born, as it were, on the water (for a distance of a hundred yards matters but little), I was naturally from my birth a young water dog, although they tell me that for some months after I made my bow to the world, milk also played a prominent part in my career. As I grew into boyhood, of course I had my rowing punt and my rod, and thus gained my first taste for a solitary life, as it frequently happened that I would be away from sunrise to sunset on some little expedition to one or other of the neighbouring Broads. By and bye came the time when I arrived at that rare age for enjoyment, fourteen years. This birthday, the fourteenth, was a red-letter day in my life, as I received two presents, which were in my eyes very valuable ones; my uncle presented me with a beautiful little light gun, and my father handed me over his small sailing boat. Now I was a man! I felt it, and I knew it, and so did my schoolmates, for there was not one of them, who at some time or other, had not felt the effects of my prowess in a striking manner. Still, the drubbings I gave were not always to my credit, for I was a very big and strong lad for my age, and my self-imposed tasks of long rowing trips and other athletic exercises, naturally made me powerful in the arms and chest. Of my brain power I shall say little, as my mind was ever bent on sporting topics when it should have been diving into English history or vulgar fractions. Some new device in fishing gear was always of more consequence to me than any inquiry as to the name of the executioner who gave Charles the I. "chops for breakfast," as we youngsters used to say, when we irreverently spoke of the decollation of his Majesty. Still, somehow I stumbled through my schooling till I was sixteen, when I was sent off to my father's office on the Quay at Yarmouth to take charge of the books, which were an everlasting humdrum record of herrings and the various trawl fish which came in so frequently in our vessels. Between whiles I had plenty of spare time, and whenever a few hours were allowed me, I could not keep out of my boat, so that if the sea happened to be fairly calm, I was sure to be found bobbing about on it, and was as well known by the fishermen along the coast ten miles north and south of Yarmouth, as I was by the folks in my own village. When the sea was rough I turned my attention to Breydon Water, or the Bure, or other of the rivers flowing into it, so that at an early age I could command my little boat as easily as one manages a horse in driving. On Saturdays, when the wind and weather were at all favourable, I used frequently to hurry away from business as early as possible, and sail home along the Bure and Ant, a distance of about twenty miles, rather more than less, and became so accustomed to the route that I knew every tree and post, aye, and almost every reed and bulrush on the river's bank on my homeward way. Sometimes night would close in rather quickly upon me, but as I only had two turnings to look out for, Thurne Mouth and Ant Mouth, I seldom made a mistake, however dark it might be, especially when the venerable old ruined gateway of St. Benet's Abbey was once passed. Almost always these trips were solitary ones, if I except the companionship of my retriever "Begum," who was a present from my cousin on his return from India. Begum, he informed me, was a ruler in India, but whether male or female I never discovered. My dog was a gentleman, but to this day it has remained a matter of conjecture with me, as to whether we inadvertantly gave him a lady's name, or no. Anyway, "Begum" sounded well; he was a ruler, and being black coincided with our school rulers, which were always black with ink. Unfortunately, everyone persisted (possibly to annoy me if they could), in calling him By Gum! strongly accentuating the second word, and till the poor old dog died, the name stuck to him like a postage stamp to a letter. In my holiday trips I had a companion, my cousin Priscilla, who was, if the term be permissible; as great a water dog as myself. I am not going to attempt a description of her, but I _must_ let the reader know that she was bigger, stronger, and a vast deal prettier than any girl within a radius of many miles of our village; not that I wish to disparage the looks or figures of our Norfolk girls, for they can hold their own with the rest of England, as Bad King Harry knew when he wooed and won Norfolk's Queen, Mistress Anne Boleyn of Blickling. 'Cilla, as I called my cousin for brevity, could row, sail a boat, skate, and shoot; yes, she was a very fair shot, and never a winter passed but she gave a good account of duck, teal, mallard, pewit, and geese, as the result of her prowess. But I will say no more of pretty cousin 'Cilla at present, as this narrative is to be a record of what more nearly concerns myself, so I must not "_mardle_," as we say in Norfolk, but proceed with my story. I was twenty-one and some months more, for the rejoicings consequent upon the event had become matter of past history, when my father one day received intelligence of one of his fishing vessels having been towed in a disabled state into the harbour of St. Peter Port, Guernsey. She was so badly damaged that his presence was imperative, to decide as to her ultimate fate. She had been to a Spanish port for cork and hemp, as the fishing season was not a very good one, and on her return voyage had run upon an island called Jethou, during a dense fog, luckily in a calm sea, or she would never have come off whole again. Nothing ever does when it once plays at ramming these granite islands. Like the Syrens, who lured or tried to lure Ulysses, these islands are very fair to behold; but woe to the ship that comes into contact with them, for they rarely escape from their deadly embrace. The very next day (my father having allowed me to accompany him) we started for Plymouth, a long journey, _via_ London, at which city, being my first visit to the metropolis, I could fain have broken our journey, but our business being urgent we steamed away to Plymouth by the night train. After a substantial meal next morning we sallied out to find the first vessel sailing to Guernsey, and were lucky in discovering one called the "Fawn," which was preparing to sail the same day. Although only a cargo ketch the skipper bargained to take us, and about two p.m. we unmoored and were soon off. Our passage was a quick one, a strong N.W. wind bowling us over to St. Peter Port in time for early breakfast next morning. It is needless for me to go through the whole story of the running ashore of our smack, as beyond the important fact that it was her mishap which caused me ever to visit the Channel Islands, she has little else to do with my narrative. She was damaged very seriously amidships, but my father, who had a happy knack of turning almost everything to a good account, unless irredeemably hopeless, was struck with a capital idea in this instance. Instead of selling her as a worthless hulk, he had her cut in two, the damaged timbers removed, a new length of keel laid down, and had her lengthened about ten feet; after which operation she was as sound as ever, and as my father had prophesied, no one recognized her again for the same vessel. While we were waiting for the "Kittywitch" (for that was her name) to be run off the slips, we had plenty of time to look about us; in fact, we spent nearly seven weeks among these lovely islands. We explored Guernsey and Sark thoroughly, also Herm as far as we were allowed, that island being more of a proprietary place than the others. We also spent about ten days in Jersey, which is quite a large place in comparison with the other islands. But of all the islands, I think Sark carries off the palm, not that it has beauties of its own, or is grander or more prolific, but it is an _epitome_ of all the other islands; in fact it contains in a small space every salient feature of the Channel Isles; the people, the granite cliffs, the bays, the caves, the hills, the woods, the shady lanes, the sandy beaches, are all there, and the surrounding sea is not a tone the less blue in its intensity, nor the air a whit less balmy than that with which the other islands are favoured. Now it happened, while we were staying at St. Peter Port, awaiting the re-launching of our vessel, that we made friends with the proprietor of the island of Jethou, upon which the "Kittywich" struck, and although it was a good three miles from St. Peter's harbour, yet we made occasional trips to the islet when the wind was fair and the sea smooth. With this little island of Jethou I was charmed, and fancied I could make it my Paradise, if only I could be allowed to live there for a twelvemonth, _a la_ Robinson Crusoe. At this idea my father, who was a thoroughly business-like, matter-of-fact man, set up his eyes and called me a name not at all polite; but as he was my parent, and viewed life through older optics than mine, I daresay he was right in the main, when he called me, to put it mildly, a "stupid fool." But although he pooh-poohed the idea, and bade me dismiss it from my mind, I could not help the thought entering my brain, and I wished something might possibly happen by which I might be left alone on the island, to try, at all events, what Crusoe life was really like. Sure enough something did happen which ultimately gave me the opportunity of carrying out my idea in its entirety. M. Oudin, the proprietor of the island, had two events to chronicle in one day, events which quite altered his after life, and took him at an hour's notice from his Jethou home to Gardner's Hotel, Guernsey. A letter arrived at St. Peter Port for him, from Paris, which, according to custom, was placed in the guernsey breast of a fisherman, who sailed with it straightway to M. Oudin. The latter gentleman having adjusted his glasses, after instructing his man to give the messenger spirituous refreshment (which is so very cheap in these islands), proceeded to scan the contents of the letter. It was from a lawyer in Paris, informing him of the decease of his brother, a leather merchant, who, dying wifeless and childless, had bequeathed him both his business and fortune. This intelligence of both joy and sorrow so bewildered and unstrung the nerves of M. Oudin that, in accordance with his custom, he took a dram--in fact the circumstances were so very warrantable that he took two--and probably even more; or else they were like Mynheer Van Dunk's, "deep, _deep_ draughts." Anyway, upon giving the fisherman orders to sail him back to Guernsey, and attempting to follow him with his serving man, they somehow found themselves at the bottom of the gulch which led down to the shore (upon which the boat was careened), so much mixed as to arms and legs, that an observer would have wondered what curious animal he was gazing upon. Two of them scrambled to their feet, and as well as they could, shook themselves together; but the third, M. Oudin, had unfortunately broken his right thigh-bone completely in two. Then the maudlin men, despite his groans, placed him awkwardly in the boat, and hoisted sail for Guernsey. As luck would have it, my father and I were standing upon the deck of the now nearly finished "Kittywich," when the boat came in, and M. Oudin having communicated to my father the nature of his hurt, my dad immediately gave orders for him to be taken to Gardner's Hotel, where we were staying, and hurrying for a doctor soon joined him there. The leg was set, and I spent the greater part of each day by the side of M. Oudin's bed, chatting and reading to him, and attending to his wants. During our conversation I happened to mention what a great treat I should consider it to be allowed to live on his island for a few months. Presently we went more fully into the "whys and wherefores" of the case, so that I quite began to imagine it might all come to pass as I wished, but the arrival of my father in the midst of our very pleasant conversation quite put a damper on the scheme. "Bah! he would hear nothing of it; it was a mad fool's idea. No, no, think no more of such rubbish, my boy. Crusoe is all very well to _read_, but it's a poor look out to have to _live_ Crusoe." M. Oudin, seeing how my mind was bent upon the scheme, gave my father a day or two to simmer down, and then took him in hand quietly and practically. "Now look here, Nilford," said M. Oudin, motioning my respected father to draw his chair nearer to the bed-side, "as you know, I must for the present, at all events, leave Jethou, for by my brother's death my presence is necessary in Paris. By his decease I become possessed of a fortune of upwards of 700,000 francs and a large business to boot. Now a business employing upwards of forty men will require my constant supervision, and it is therefore very unlikely that I shall ever return to Jethou, except perhaps for a very brief holiday. "Now, during my enforced sojourn in this town, your son has shewn me every attention and kindness, and with your permission I will give him the whole of my interest in Jethou as a reward for his attention to me during my recovery. The island is Crown property, which I rent for a nominal sum, and as to the furniture, fixtures, and live stock they shall be his (by your permission) to do as he likes with." My father made a wry face at this, while I, who sat speechless, could feel my heart bounding against my ribs for very joy. Alas! my father negatived the whole thing. "It was not to be thought of; it could not be carried out by a youngster like me; I should perhaps die without assistance reaching me; I might starve," and a score more obstacles were mentioned. By and bye, however, with my earnest persuasion, backed up by M. Oudin's quiet but forcible manner, my dad melted so far as to ask for a couple of days for consideration. Oh! those two days, would they never pass? Yes, they rolled by at last, and once more we were seated in M. Oudin's room. "Well, Nilford, what is your decision? I trust it is a favourable one for the lad, for I am sure he would thoroughly enjoy the life; but if not, why in case he grew 'mammy sick,' he could return home. But the lad is of the right metal, and I'll warrant would see twelve months out without getting weary of the life. Come now, Nilford, give me your hand, and boy let go." By the way, my name is Harry Nilford, which I do not think I have mentioned before. Then came a long verbal tug of war between these two good men, in which I could discern that my father's refusal was solely based upon his love for me and his apprehension for my safety. The tug of words, like a tug of war at an athletic meeting, was a long one, first one gained an advantage only to lose it to his opponent directly after; then the opponent would get in a strong verbal tug, and nearly draw his man over the line; but at length my father, with great reluctance, conceded a point, a great point in fact, one which virtually settled the contest. "M. Oudin," said my parent, "I'll consent on one condition, which is, that I may be allowed to draw up an agreement as to the boy's tenancy of the island, and if Harry agrees to abide by it, well and good." "Very well, father," I quickly put in, "here are writing implements; draw up your Code and I will soon tell you my decision." This was said with great emphasis on the "_my_," and delivered with an air of--"see what a decided person _I_ am." In an hour my father had drawn up the following document:-- TERMS OF AGREEMENT FOR MY SON'S RESIDENCE UPON JETHOU FOR 12 MONTHS. My son Harry wishes to live the life of a Crusoe or Hermit, on the Island of Jethou for twelve months, and to this I agree only on his signifying his willingness to abide by the terms stated in this agreement. 1. He shall allow no one to land on the island. 2. Shall not himself land upon any of the surrounding islands (rocks which are uninhabited excepted). 3. Shall not speak to a living soul during the course of his self-exilement. 4. Shall obtain no stores nor goods of any kind from any other island, nor from any passing vessel. 5. Shall hold no communication with anyone, in any way:-- (_a_) Either ashore or afloat. (_b_) Except in case of sickness, accident, detrimental to limb or life, or (_c_) In other case of dire necessity. Should my son choose to abide by the above regulations, I will agree to his holding the island for a period of one year. Signed, THOMAS J. NILFORD. "There!" said my father, laying down his pen, "that is my ultimatum, my son; and mark me, I will agree to _nothing_ else." This was said in a manner which shewed plainly that he considered he had drawn up a code so stringent that he did not deem it at all likely I should accept his plan; but to his great chagrin, and I may almost say his consternation, I reached out my hand, after reading the document, and taking the goose quill, wrote under the last clause, "Accepted--Harry Nilford." That being done, my father could not go back upon his word, and accordingly the whole thing was settled. M. Oudin was pleased, and I was supremely delighted, but my good old father was quite dejected, and frankly avowed that it was like sentencing me to twelve months' imprisonment. So it was, but what a delightful imprisonment I anticipated it would be! However, in a day or two he came round, and as he could not well alter the turn circumstances had taken, he endeavoured to ameliorate them. He made me write down a list of what I thought I should require, and to this list he added a long supplement; and after mature consultation with M. Oudin, another list was added as addendum; in fact, the articles were so numerous that they filled four huge packing cases. These cases were zinc-lined to keep the goods dry, as some of them were perishable, and no one can tell with what pride I gazed at these boxes, and thought of the glorious life I was about to lead. No thought of any accident, or other drawback, even entered my head; in fact, as I sat on the top of a case, swinging my legs and counting the hours which had to pass before the day arrived when I was to take possession of my island home, I was most consummately happy, being naturally ignorant of what was to befall me. At length came the day for launching the "Kittywich," at which I assisted to my utmost; for I knew that any hitch with her meant further detention in Guernsey for me. All went well, and as she slid off the stocks (like a duck entering the water) without a splash or jar of any kind, a ringing cheer went up, and then I knew that I should soon bid farewell to picturesque St. Peter Port, one of the finest harbour towns of Great Britain. A few more days and the "Kittywich" had received her cargo for home, and with it a new name, for in consideration of her additional carrying capacity, we rechristened her the "Cormorant." Then came the day on which the Blue Peter was seen at her masthead, but what was even better in my eyes, was my own outfit packed in the four huge cases which stood so prominently on her hatchway amidships. M. Oudin hobbled down to the harbour to see us off, and in doing so handed me a long heavy case as a parting gift, with instructions not to open it for a week, by which time he hoped to be far away in Paris. We unmoored, left the harbour, and in an hour were laying at anchor off the north end of Jethou. [Illustration: Decorative scroll] [Illustration: Decorative chapter heading] CHAPTER II. I TAKE POSSESSION OF THE ISLAND--LANDING STORES--A GRAND CAROUSAL--FAREWELL--ALONE. The 2nd March, 187--, was a bright mild day, with but little wind and a quiet sea: just the day for landing my stores. The goods I had selected, and those added by my father and M. Oudin, were of a very miscellaneous kind, and included provisions, farm and garden seeds (and a few implements), a canoe, a gun, clothing, fishing gear, oil and coal, cooking apparatus, and a score other things. As I knew the island was devoid of animals except rabbits, I asked for, and obtained some live stock--in fact, quite a farmyard. There were a goat, a dog, a cat, six pigeons, two pigs, six fowls, and last, though by no means least, a young donkey. The large cases of goods were landed in a boat, not without a slight mishap, however, as one of them, in being lowered over the bulwarks, was carelessly unhitched by the men in the boat and tumbled overboard; it fell in three fathoms of water, but the water was so translucent that it was clearly discernible on the bottom. This took quite an hour to get up, as it was an awkward thing to grapple, but there were plenty of hands willing to help in landing the goods, as several of the Guernsey men had come over to have a parting spree. The pigs and donkey were pushed overboard and quickly reached the shore; the former, in spite of popular belief, proving themselves excellent swimmers when once they struck out shorewards, especially as the distance was short. On landing they went up over the island, and for the time disappeared among the rocks and wild bushes. By dusk the cry was, "All ashore," as everything had been landed, and the "Cormorant" brought to a safe mooring under the lee of the rocky island of Creviçon. Altogether there were nearly twenty of us, that is, my father and self, the skipper and crew of the "Kitty," and several of the workmen who had been employed in altering and repairing the vessel; also the master shipwright, in whose charge the vessel had been. First came a grand spread in the principal room of the house, the provisions for which had been brought over from St. Peter Port. It was a great success, and after the improvised table had been cleared away (boxes, surmounted by planks covered with a sail, formed the table) the fun commenced. Joke followed joke, and song followed song. Then came toasts and sentiments, which were of quite an international character, as songs and sentiments in English, French, and Spanish were continuously fired off, most of them being of a seafaring character. The skipper of the "Cormorant" led off with a regular old North Sea song, called, "The Dark-eyed Sailor." It is probably known by nearly every seaman in the North Sea Fishery, and is a great favourite at all carousals. It commences: "It's of a comely young maiden fair, Who walked on the quay to take the air, She met a young sailor on the way, So I paid attention, so I paid attention to what they did say." This song, sung by a Norfolk man, always seems to me a great curiosity, as the last line is lengthened out and twisted about in a most grotesque manner, apparently to suit the whim or fancy of the singer, for no two of them seem to conjure vocally with it in the same way. Everyone present is supposed to join in the last line as a kind of chorus, and not only join in, but "give it lungs," as they say. Some of them pay such attention to these points, that they appear in danger of lockjaw, or the starting of a blood-vessel, so heartily do they sing. Then came a French song, with a chorus something about "Houp, houp, houp à tra-la-la-la!" the singer standing on the top of an empty barrel to warble, and as he set the fashion, so every succeeding singer followed suit, and mounted the "pulpit," as they dubbed the cask. Old Roscoe, our wooden-legged mate (the right leg of flesh having been lost in my father's service), gave a funny jaw-breaking Scotch song, with a chorus which no one could repeat, so when the chorus came he sang it alone, while we contented ourselves with howling "Rule Britannia"--at least all those who knew it, while the others who did not, laughed and smoked. Then a Spaniard (who was a shipwright) sang one of his national songs to an accompaniment of thumb-snapping (to imitate castanets), at which he was very expert. He had a fine baritone voice, and his song was full of fire, being a famous bull-fighting ditty, in which El Toro came in for a dashing chorus. By and bye the fun became still faster and more furious, till old Ross, of the timber-toe, took exception and would insist on order being kept. Ross always constituted himself Master of the Ceremonies when anything festive was on foot, and our men, as a matter of course, left everything in his hands; but the men of St. Peter Port knew him not, and would have no authority from him, and as a kind of good-natured revenge for his interference, some of them played a practical joke upon him; but they did not know their man, for no sooner had the joke been carried into effect (gunpowder in his pipe) than Ross seized his stick and knocked two of his tormentors down, the rest quickly fleeing out of doors. His wooden leg greatly handicapped him, but he at length got one of the men in a corner, who, on finding there was no means of escape, struck out right and left at Ross's somewhat prominent nose, causing the claret to flow like the cataract of Lodore. Now his Scotch blood was up, and he certainly would have done his assailant an injury, as he was a very powerful man, had not some of his comrades rescued him. But this did not appease his fury, for he went at them all with a glass bottle in one hand and a heavy stick in the other; but luckily his career was cut short by a man who ran behind him, and with a well-directed blow with an iron rod broke his leg clean in two just below the knee--the wooden one, of course. Down came the hero, who in his rage tore up the earth around him to fling at the circle of grinning faces. By this time my father and the skipper came upon the scene, and after a time cooled down the gallant Scot, and persuaded him to "gang awa" to bed, which he did, going in state, borne at the _four_ corners by four of his shipmates. This incident put a stop to the singing, but commenced fun in another way. Some of the fellows cut up the remains of Ross's leg and stick and set them on fire, the barrel which had done duty for a rostrum being also broken up and added; other wooden articles were quickly flung on, till at length quite a large bonfire was formed, round which these excited men danced hand-in-hand like children round a Maypole. Their manners, however, were hardly childlike, for they jumped, and yelled, and sang with the ruddy firelight glowing on their countenances, till they looked like a lot of demons performing some diabolical incantation. All around was the dark night, and rocks, and trees, which gave a most weird aspect to the scene when viewed from a short distance. And thus they were enjoying their pandemonium when my father, the skipper, and I left them in the "wee sma' hours" and retired to rest. How long they kept it up I know not, but when I awoke and dressed at daylight all was quiet. At six all hands were called, and a sorry sight they presented. Ross had mounted a jury-leg, while among the other men no less than three black eyes appeared, beside bruised cheeks, and red swollen noses. However, all were friendly again, and agreed that they had hardly ever before spent such a jolly night. Such was a sailor's idea of a jolly time or "high old spree!" Breakfast over, my goods were hauled from the beach and placed in the different rooms and sheds according to their kind, while by noon the "Cormorant," with her Blue Peter flying, was ready for a start northward to dear old England. The Guernseaise had departed amid give and take cheering directly after breakfast, so that only the crew of the vessel remained. My father bade me an affectionate farewell on the deck of the vessel, but at the last embrace I felt too full of emotion to speak, for a lump was in my throat, and a tear started from my father's eye and rolled down his bronzed cheek, so that I knew that he, too, was greatly moved at losing me for such a long period. A firm grip of the hand told without words how we, father and son, loved each other, and to hide my emotion I tumbled over the bulwarks into the dingy, and was pulled ashore by a couple of hands, amid the hearty cheers of the men who stood on deck. They gave me a salute of twelve _guns_ (fired from two revolvers). I stood on the rocky shore and waved a tablecloth tied to a boat-hook till the vessel was hull down on the horizon, and then turned my face to my island home, not feeling nearly so happy as I had anticipated a month before. Alone! I felt as if the whole world had departed from me, and that I was the sole survivor of the human race. [Illustration: Decorative chapter heading] CHAPTER III. 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
{'title': 'Jethou; or, Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles by Ernest R. Suffling', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}