I never feared a lack of fresh water, for when, in the dry season, the ship's stock and my reserve from the wet season were exhausted, I busied myself with the condensing of sea water in my kettle, adding to my store literally drop by drop.Water was the only liquid I drank, all the tea and coffee carried on board having been rendered utterly useless.
The powerful winged birds that abounded on the island one day gave me an idea: Why not hang a message around their necks and send them forth into the unknown? Possibly they might bring help--who knows? And with me to conceive was to act.I got a number of empty condensed-milk tins, and, by means of fire, separated from the cylinder the tin disc that formed the bottom.On this disc Iscratched a message with a sharp nail.In a few words I conveyed information about the wreck and my deplorable condition.I also gave the approximate bearings--latitude fifteen to thirteen degrees, not far from the Australian main.
These discs--I prepared several in English, French, bad Dutch, German, and Italian--I then fastened round the necks of the pelicans, by means of fish-gut, and away across the ocean sped the affrighted birds, so scared by the mysterious encumbrance that THEYNEVER RETURNED TO THE ISLAND.
I may say here that more than twenty years later, when I returned to civilisation, I chanced to mention the story about my messenger-birds to some old inhabitants at Fremantle, Western Australia, when, to my amazement, they told me that a pelican carrying a tin disc round its neck, bearing a message in French from a castaway, HAD been found many years previously by an old boatman on the beach near the mouth of the Swan River.But it was not mine.
So appalling was the monotony, and so limited my resources, that Iwelcomed with childish glee any trifling little incident that happened.For example, one lovely night in June I was amazed to hear a tremendous commotion outside, and on getting up to see what was the matter, I beheld dimly countless thousands of birds--Java sparrows I believe them to be.I went back to bed again, and in the morning was a little dismayed to find that my pretty visitors had eaten up nearly all my green corn.And the birds were still there when I went forth in the morning.They made the air ring with their lively chatter, but the uproar they made was as music to me.The majority of them had greyish-yellow bodies, with yellow beaks and pink ruffs, and they were not at all afraid of me.Imoved about freely among them, and did not attempt to drive them out of my corn patch, being only too grateful to see so much life about me.They rose, however, in great clouds the next day, much to my regret, and as they soared heavenwards I could not help envying them their blessed freedom.
I kept count of the long days by means of pearl shells, for I had not used up the whole cargo in the walls of my hut.I put shells side by side in a row, one for each day, until the number reached seven, and then I transferred one shell to another place, representing the weeks.Another pile of shells represented the months; and as for the years, I kept count of those by making notches on my bow.My peculiar calendar was always checked by the moon.
Now, I am not a superstitious man, so I relate the following extraordinary occurrence merely as it happened, and without advancing any theory of my own to account for it.I had been many, many months--perhaps more than a year--on that terrible little sand-spit, and on the night I am describing I went to bed as usual, feeling very despondent.As I lay asleep in my hammock, I dreamed a beautiful dream.Some spiritual being seemed to come and bend over me, smiling pityingly.So extraordinarily vivid was the apparition, that I suddenly woke, tumbled out of my hammock, and went outside on a vague search.In a few minutes, however, Ilaughed at my own folly and turned in again.
I lay there for some little time longer, thinking about the past--for I dared not dwell on the future--when suddenly the intense stillness of the night was broken by a strangely familiar voice, which said, distinctly and encouragingly, "Je suis avec toi.Soit sans peur.Tu reviendras." I can never hope to describe my feelings at that moment.
It was not the voice of my father nor of my mother, yet it was certainly the voice of some one I knew and loved, yet was unable to identify.The night was strangely calm, and so startling was this mysterious message that instinctively I leaped out of my hammock again, went outside and called out several times, but, of course, nothing happened.From that night, however, I never absolutely despaired, even when things looked their very worst.
Two interminable years had passed away, when one day the weather suddenly changed, and a terrible gale commenced to blow, which threatened almost to wreck my little hut.One morning, a few days later, when the storm had abated somewhat, I heard Bruno barking wildly on the beach.A few seconds afterwards he came rushing into the hut, and would not rest until I prepared to follow him outside.
Before doing so, however, I picked up an oar--I knew not why.Ithen followed my dog down to the beach, wondering what could possibly have caused him to make such a fuss.The sea was somewhat agitated, and as it was not yet very light, I could not clearly distinguish things in the distance.
On peering seawards for the third or fourth time, however, Ifancied I could make out a long, black object, which I concluded must be some kind of a boat, tossing up and down on the billows.
Then I must confess I began to share Bruno's excitement,--particularly when a few minutes later I discerned a well-made catamaran, WITH SEVERAL HUMAN FIGURES LYING PROSTRATE UPON IT!
