I come round the edge of the beach where the lagoon begins, and see the seawater streaming out with the tide. Quite fast it streams out. I wait, and at low tide there is only a small pool left and there are trees all around with roots sticking out of the water and oysters clinging to the roots, oysters like they sold in London, which we never could buy.
What really brings joy to my heart, though, is the small waterfall of fresh water pouring in at the far end. A big problem solved. After the tide rip has slowed, I wade through the shallow water and head for the other end. When I get there, I see that the waterfall actually empties into a small basin above the salt water, forming a little pond, and around the pond are flat rocks and grassy areas. I get the uneasy feeling that I'm being rewarded for something that I ain't earned. Maybe I earned it with my flight hanging under the Hope.
I stick my hand under the waterfall and drink from my palm. The water is fresh and good. It don't take much for me to decide that my camp is about to be moved.
After some thought, I decide that I'll make the signal fire down on the beach itself, between the tide lines 'cause that way the water will erase the ashes so there won't be any sign of it afterward for cannibals and such to see. If I build it on the ridge, I'd be getting a little more height, but it might attract the wrong eyes.
I take myself down to the beach at low tide—the sand is all smooth and level—and look out across the water to where I think the island is. I know that men with spyglasses were sent up to the tops of the highest coconut trees that day I was there and they couldn't see the tops of the cliffs behind me here. Given that the line of sight from a sailor standing in the mizzen top of the Dolphin, when she was sailing, to the horizon is about fifteen miles, I figure the island has to be at least twenty miles off. I don't think I was passed out for very long when I was up in the Hope, but I'll add another ten miles for it. Thirty miles, then. That means I'll have to get my column of smoke up three or four hundred feet.
It will have to be a very still day when I light it off.
So, after eating some of the oysters and still trying to think of ways to make a cook pot, I gather up a pile of sticks and branches near the beach and, while it is drying out some, I realize it could rain again tonight so I know I got to tie the Good Ship Hope over the top of the pile and fend for myself.
After I do that, I move my belongings over to the new camp. Climbing back up to the waterfall—which is more of a water trickle really, just a little stream coming down the hillside—I find some rocky outcroppings that I can crawl under for shelter tonight. It will serve till I can get the kite up here. Now for a fire and a bit of lunch.
I gather as dry a wood as I can find and spread it out on the rocks next to the pond. The pond is only about three feet deep in the middle and is about twenty feet across. The bottom is rock and it is slippery as I find when I wade in and slip and fall. I get out and add my clothes to the wood on the rocks to dry out and it occurs to me that I might have a bath. My first real one since my mum used to do me.
It's warm and in the heat of the day. The sun is almost directly overhead and there's a break in the trees so it shines nicely in on the pond and the rocks and the grass. I'm beginning to like my new kip in spite of my nagging fear that I could be left here alone forever. Old Crusoe had a problem with that, and I know that I would, too.
I go down to the lagoon by way of some stone ledges that make kind of a stairway and I dip into the water, but the bottom's sort of mucky so I go out to the beach and wade out beyond where the waves tumble over. Grabbing fistfuls of sand from the bottom, I scrub myself all pink and then dive into a wave to rinse it off. When I come up, another wave knocks me down again.
I snort the water from my nose. What marvelous fun. Being marooned has its good points. I resolve to learn to swim.
When I get back to my camp, I slip into my pond to rinse off the salt. As I float there on my back, I notice two turtles on the opposite bank, eyeing me with interest. Careful, fellows, I think, Jacky's getting hungry again.
I have learned to float, but I have not yet learned to swim, as I only got about three strokes in before I went under out in the salt water. I think the legs got to be made to help somehow. Further study is necessary.
The bits of wood and tinder I have gathered are dry now, I discover upon getting out, and I set about making a fire. My clothes are dry, too, but I don't bother putting them on. Why bother? It's hot and I'm all by myself.
There's a likely bunch of rocks for a sort of firepit over by the outcropping, so I build the fire there. Getting it all stacked up proper, as I have been taught by the ship's cook, I set about to light it. The big lens on the glass unscrews fairly easily and I hold it down to the tinder such that the sun shines through the lens and concentrates on a tiny point. Smoke arises. I blow on the spark and soon I have a blaze.
I gather as many oysters as my hands will bear and put them on a rock right close to the coals and go to gather more wood. When I get back they are sizzling nicely. Upon trying them I find that they are much better this way. It occurs to me that fish, too, could be cooked in such a manner. I nip back down to the beach to get some of the weeds, but even cooked they are still not very good. I eat them anyway 'cause Tilly said they are good for the digestion and prevent scurvy, and as a midshipman in His Majesty's Royal Navy my duty is to keep myself in good form for the good of the Service.
I lay back on the grass and put my hands behind my head and look up at the sky and smile about how poor Captain Locke is going to be repaid for his kindness in rating me midshipman, by being made the laughingstock of the Navy. Poor Captain Locke. I can see the broadsides now, tacked up on the printer's wall, with naughty verses and maybe a cartoon of the Captain looking all leering and lustful and me all spilling out of a midshipman's uniform and frolicking about the quarterdeck while the ship heads for the rocks. One of the rocks would be labeled FOLLY, another DECEPTION, and another SHEER STUPIDITY. Poor Captain Locke.
Actually, that would make a pretty good sheet. I shall have to learn to draw.
I know, though, that I will never be inside the uniform of a midshipman and it makes me sort of sad. I would have been a good one.
Chapter 39
I passed the night in some fear, not even having the comfort of the Hope above me, but at least it did not rain. Before retiring for the night, I cut a good straight stick from a tree, split the end, inserted the hilt of my shiv, and wrapped it down tight with the thong from my whistle so now I at least have a spear for defense from any beast what might try me. How I will deal with serpents what slither up next to me, I shan't think about.
The night noise started again. In the daytime, there's plenty of noise from the birds I see darting about, and even some pretty loud and raucous cries from the bright blue and green and red parrots I see high in the treetops, but nothing compares to this. After I hear a particularly awful screech from nearby, followed by a nasty gurgle, I reach over and take my whistle and cover all the holes and take a deep breath and let out the highest, shrillest, longest blast of which the whistle is capable, and it rips through the night.
Silence.
Well, that stopped 'em. Perhaps they'd like a tune. So I roll over on me back and gives 'em "The Rocky Road to Dublin" and it seems to help all of us get through the night.
***
For the signal fire to work, I will need a perfectly calm day, which this one ain't since a stiff onshore breeze is blowing that would take all the smoke and whip it away. No, it's got to be completely still so the column of smoke goes straight up high and stays there.
I gather more wood and this time I also gather some smelly wet seaweed that's tossed up on the shore, for making smoke when I do finally light it off.
I dive into the surf, manage to stay up for five strokes with my legs thrashing, then head back to camp. Breakfast is coconut milk. I can't get into the coconut proper yet, but I can shave the end of it with my shiv till I get down to these things that look like eyes and poke one of them open and then pour the juice inside down my throat.
I figure I'll walk down the beach to the south today to see what's there. I put on my shirt and pants 'cause if I'm taken by cannibals or other rascals, I'll not want to appear immodest. I take my spear in hand and put my whistle in my waistband. The Compleat Beachcomber.
I'm lazing along, poking in this pile of flotsam here, that pile of jetsam there, not finding much 'cept some dead fish that even I can't eat and some amazingly disgusting jellyfish when I come upon a real find. It's a large clamshell, about a foot across and three inches deep in the middle and it's good and thick. A cook pot, at last.
There's a lot of the same kind of shells at this spot and I pick up a couple of smaller ones. Spoons and cups.
Home for lunch.
***
A bunch of oysters and clams goes in the shell first, then I poke a hole in the eye of a coconut and pour in the juice. Then some pigweed and then on the fire in not too hot a place so the shell don't crack. I gather some smooth small rocks and wash them off and put them in the hottest part of the fire. When they get good and hot, I use a couple of palm frond stems as tongs to pick them and drop them in the pot to help things along. I got plenty of time to wait for it to cook.
Several hours later I'm lying back, patting my belly and thinking as how this was much more to my liking. Even the greens was good. I'm half dozing, looking up at the treetops, when I notice that they ain't moving. Not even a little bit. The wind has died and there's at least six hours of light left. Maybe it's time.
Down at the beach, the sea is calm as glass, with scarcely a ripple on its surface. The tide is down about halfway. I choose a spot just below the high tidemark and down the beach somewhat—I don't want someone to find traces of the fire and then find me and my camp right off. There I put an armful of the dry tinder I had tucked under the Hope. Next, bigger dry wood and then bigger yet till I have the whole rack laid out. One final check of the wind and I light it with the lens.
While it is catching, I drag the poor Hope down to the shore and wet it down completely, then drag it back, much heavier now, to the edge of the fire. A column of white smoke is heading straight up.
I give it a while longer and then throw on more wood and then more, till the fire is forming some good coals. Then more, and this time the wood ain't dry at all and the smoke is darker now.
When things are really roaring, I toss on a bunch of the wet seaweed and it hisses and the smoke turns thick and black. Then I set the Hope up on its point next to the fire, and I let the black smoke get well up in the sky.
I let the Hope fall down over the fire, blocking the smoke, and I slowly count to ten before lifting it back up. The kite smokes a bit, but the wet fabric don't burn. I repeat the action three more times, leaving three puffs of smoke in the air. Then I take the kite back to the water and douse it again.
Looking up now, there's the first column of smoke, which is beginning to thin out and drift away, then the three puffs, then the next column building up again. It's got to be at least three hundred feet up there. I'll wait a few minutes and do it again.
I'm hoping Davy will remember the Brotherhood's secret number when he sees this. Tink'll probably still be in sick bay. Willy, well, forget it. And I know Jaimy'll be too deep in his grief over the death of his darlin' girl to notice anything.