To be marooned once on a remote island in the South Seas – for island it certainly is; I have checked from the mountain’s summit and paced it a thousand times – most would regard as unfortunate, but to be marooned twice on the same island many would regard as careless. When the despicable pirate, Lee Weng, left me and five loyal crew members here all those years ago with a few rudimentary tools and weapons, we believed we had a chance of escape, to visit ultimate retribution and revenge upon the wicked Lee.
Over the following days – it may easily have been weeks or months – we survived on the bounty provided by the island and managed to construct a seaworthy raft with a sail fashioned from woven strips of palm leaves. We built up a considerable store of dried and fresh food as well as goat skin water bags. Although we could see no other land, even from the mountain top, we knew that inhabited islands were no more than a week or two sailing on our modest craft. The island was surrounded by a dangerous reef, but we had identified two places that, at high tide, could be navigated in relative safety.
Preparations progressed to the point where it was decided that we were as ready as we’d ever be. We had calculated when the next high tide would occur and made everything ready on the beach. With a day to go, I made one last visit to the spring at our encampment, some hour’s walk from the beach. The camp was on a bluff where we had built a large beacon, should a ship be sighted, and it offered a clear view out to sea beyond the reef. We never saw any ships, but my tinder box was always at the ready. Having filled the skins and about to set off back to the beach, I was horrified to see the raft with four men at the oars approach the gap in the reef. Dropping the skins, I raced back to the shore.
Further horrors awaited me. Van der Pol lay face down in the water’s edge, a short cutlass protruding from his back and the sea running red about him. Removing the weapon and turning him over, it was clear that my first mate had put up quite a fight before being treacherously done to death. Much later, it occurred to me that either he was fighting for a place on the raft or because they were deserting me: I prefer to believe the latter. Either way, it ended badly for him. The crashing of waves on the reef around the raft doubtless drowned the foul and blasphemous curses I screamed at them, giving full vent to hatred of such despicable scum, wishing death and destruction upon them and their kin. My unheard and unheeded wrath was lost to the wind and waves.
Exhausted, drained and dispirited, I dragged the corpse off the beach and covered it with sand, palm fronds and the trimmings left over from the raft. I could find no suitable words to say over the grave; they would have to wait their turn. I could now see my nemeses had set the sail and were making good speed away from the island; the very same island that I must now consider my home. Cleaning the blood from the cutlass, I stumbled back to the encampment, low in spirits but determined not to be defeated by my misfortune.
On gaining the bluff, there was no sign of the raft. Surely they could not have made such good speed as to be beyond the horizon, yet I could see no sign of wreckage that would accompany their just fate; a mystery that did not occupy my thoughts for long. My survival was what concerned me now. I could not let my feelings for the mutinous dogs consume me. That way lay madness. Too often I had witnessed the effects of pent up hate and resentment. It ruined families, communities and even whole countries when they took against each other for their differences of faith, creed or colour. It made monsters of men. This was now my island, my kingdom, my home; hate had no place here.
I set about assessing my scarce resources. By the spring was my knapsack containing the tinderbox and a few personal mementoes. There were the two skins I had dropped on first seeing the raft receding from the island. Hanging them in their usual place, in the shade beside the hut, I drew water to slake my desperate thirst. Scouring the camp site for anything useful, I realised how rushed and careless had been our preparations to escape. I found two good knives dropped in the undergrowth, half a dozen makeshift fish hooks and lines, a crudely fashioned digging tool, several simple hunting spears, Petersen’s serviceable, if rather too large, cocked hat and, best of all, the hatchet we had used to laboriously fell and trim the logs for the raft. A treasure trove indeed! There was ample fruit and wildlife to live off, and the sea would provide a veritable banquet. Doubtless I would soon discover even more that was edible and useful to my existence; indeed, to my life, for I was determined to do more than merely exist. I would live!
That evening, after a splendid meal of baked fish and fruit, washed down with some excellent, late vintage spring water, I sat on the bluff, contemplating my future. As the sun slid below the horizon and the starry firmament revealed its glory, I allowed myself to believe that this life of solitude, however long, might not be quite so bad after all.
Over the following days – it may easily have been weeks or months – we survived on the bounty provided by the island and managed to construct a seaworthy raft with a sail fashioned from woven strips of palm leaves. We built up a considerable store of dried and fresh food as well as goat skin water bags. Although we could see no other land, even from the mountain top, we knew that inhabited islands were no more than a week or two sailing on our modest craft. The island was surrounded by a dangerous reef, but we had identified two places that, at high tide, could be navigated in relative safety.
Preparations progressed to the point where it was decided that we were as ready as we’d ever be. We had calculated when the next high tide would occur and made everything ready on the beach. With a day to go, I made one last visit to the spring at our encampment, some hour’s walk from the beach. The camp was on a bluff where we had built a large beacon, should a ship be sighted, and it offered a clear view out to sea beyond the reef. We never saw any ships, but my tinder box was always at the ready. Having filled the skins and about to set off back to the beach, I was horrified to see the raft with four men at the oars approach the gap in the reef. Dropping the skins, I raced back to the shore.
Further horrors awaited me. Van der Pol lay face down in the water’s edge, a short cutlass protruding from his back and the sea running red about him. Removing the weapon and turning him over, it was clear that my first mate had put up quite a fight before being treacherously done to death. Much later, it occurred to me that either he was fighting for a place on the raft or because they were deserting me: I prefer to believe the latter. Either way, it ended badly for him. The crashing of waves on the reef around the raft doubtless drowned the foul and blasphemous curses I screamed at them, giving full vent to hatred of such despicable scum, wishing death and destruction upon them and their kin. My unheard and unheeded wrath was lost to the wind and waves.
Exhausted, drained and dispirited, I dragged the corpse off the beach and covered it with sand, palm fronds and the trimmings left over from the raft. I could find no suitable words to say over the grave; they would have to wait their turn. I could now see my nemeses had set the sail and were making good speed away from the island; the very same island that I must now consider my home. Cleaning the blood from the cutlass, I stumbled back to the encampment, low in spirits but determined not to be defeated by my misfortune.
On gaining the bluff, there was no sign of the raft. Surely they could not have made such good speed as to be beyond the horizon, yet I could see no sign of wreckage that would accompany their just fate; a mystery that did not occupy my thoughts for long. My survival was what concerned me now. I could not let my feelings for the mutinous dogs consume me. That way lay madness. Too often I had witnessed the effects of pent up hate and resentment. It ruined families, communities and even whole countries when they took against each other for their differences of faith, creed or colour. It made monsters of men. This was now my island, my kingdom, my home; hate had no place here.
I set about assessing my scarce resources. By the spring was my knapsack containing the tinderbox and a few personal mementoes. There were the two skins I had dropped on first seeing the raft receding from the island. Hanging them in their usual place, in the shade beside the hut, I drew water to slake my desperate thirst. Scouring the camp site for anything useful, I realised how rushed and careless had been our preparations to escape. I found two good knives dropped in the undergrowth, half a dozen makeshift fish hooks and lines, a crudely fashioned digging tool, several simple hunting spears, Petersen’s serviceable, if rather too large, cocked hat and, best of all, the hatchet we had used to laboriously fell and trim the logs for the raft. A treasure trove indeed! There was ample fruit and wildlife to live off, and the sea would provide a veritable banquet. Doubtless I would soon discover even more that was edible and useful to my existence; indeed, to my life, for I was determined to do more than merely exist. I would live!
That evening, after a splendid meal of baked fish and fruit, washed down with some excellent, late vintage spring water, I sat on the bluff, contemplating my future. As the sun slid below the horizon and the starry firmament revealed its glory, I allowed myself to believe that this life of solitude, however long, might not be quite so bad after all.