Part 7 (1/2)
At a little past six away we steered for home, but with a head wind and rather choppy sea, so there was no help for it but to tack, which made a long trip of it; but to make it short to the reader we reached home about nine p.m., tired, wet, and hungry, for it began to drizzle at sundown. Still, I never enjoyed a trip better than this memorable one of about twenty-five miles, although I was glad after supper to lay my head down on my pillow (and dream it all over again).
At the risk of wearying my readers I must tell them of a trip I took round Guernsey about a month later.
”Begum” went with me, that was now a matter of course, for directly the boat was shoved off, he would jump in and take his seat as if he were pilot: there was no getting him out again.
Well provisioned and provided for casualties, we started at the somewhat late hour of six a.m., and in an hour made the land opposite St.
Sampson's harbour, and peeped in on pa.s.sing, so as to see the busy scene of granite tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, breaking, and loading, which goes on here from sunrise to sunset all the year round. I could plainly hear the detonations as shots were fired in the quarries, and the dull rumble of the stone, as great ma.s.ses of granite, which have been unmoved since the creation, were rent asunder and toppled into the quarry below. Vale Castle and Bordeaux harbour, where I anch.o.r.ed, look picturesque from whatever points they are seen, whether from land or sea, and two hours quickly glided by as I sketched the lovely little bits of scenery around me. My plan was to take about half an hour for each sketch, to get the general outline and feeling of color, so that on my return I had plenty to occupy me on a rainy day.
The next point of interest was a little rocky island just past Bordeaux, called Hommet Paradis, which is the scene of the death of Victor Hugo's hero, Gilliatt, as related in ”The Toilers of the Sea.” He creates a splendid hero, and in the last chapter makes him commit suicide in an impossible manner. He causes his hero to stand in the sea, so that the tide rises up to his feet, his knees, his waist, his shoulders, till, still watching the vessel which bears his love from him through his own stupid act, nothing but his head remains. Then the tide continues to rise, and as the vessel vanishes on the horizon, ”the head of Gilliatt disappears. Nothing was visible now but the sea.” Surely he might have left a lock of hair or a sigh to mark the spot where he disappeared. I have tried on even a very calm day to stand as Hugo's hero did, and let the tide rise around me, but find the thing an impossibility. The motion of the rising tide would lift one off their feet long before the water rose above their shoulders, and as to making the man stand _still_ and drown, why the idea is ludicrous. But as Hugo created his hero, why should he not be allowed to destroy him as he likes? The book (except the last chapter) is an exquisite piece of word painting, but I always wish he had made a happy end of his hero. I felt this so much when I read it on Jethou (for the third or fourth time) that I actually re-wrote the last chapter for my own edification, and made Gilliatt marry Dernchette w.i.l.l.y-nilly, so that everything ended properly, and the lovers ”lived happily ever after.”
North Guernsey (called Parish) is very uninteresting, in fact, from the sea it looks a perfectly flat wilderness or desert, and I was glad when the ”Yellow Boy” glided into the deep clear blue water of Grand Havre, where we moored for lunch.
Here an incident occurred which might have caused me to go ash.o.r.e against my wish. While peppering some fish I was eating, the lid came off my little tin box, and the contents were strewn thickly on my food.
Some of the condiment I scooped back into the box, and then gave a mighty puff to blow the rest off my plate, when, unluckily blowing against the wind, some of it blew into my eyes, causing me exquisite pain for some time, necessitating my rubbing them.
Had I remembered the Spanish proverb, ”Never rub your eyes but with your elbows,” I should have saved myself a lot of needless pain, for they became quite inflamed. I bathed them first in tepid water and afterwards in cold, and then sat down in the bottom of the boat with a wet handkerchief over them for an hour. This did them much good, but still they felt very hot and inflamed. I could only just see to pick my way among the shoals of rocks along this west coast, and consequently made very slow progress. Saline, Cobo, and Vazon Bays were all sailed slowly through, and very pretty they were; but it now dawned upon me that I should not see Jethou to-night, as it was already approaching the gloaming of the day. Lowering the sail I put out the sculls, and paddled back to a little inlet I had noticed near Cobo Bay, called Albecq Cove, a rocky little inlet, but nicely sheltered from the south-west wind, then gently blowing. Here I made all snug for the night; put on my kettle to boil water for tea, while with the sail I made a kind of awning to roof in the boat should it come on to rain, and made myself generally comfortable.
At nine p.m. I went to sleep, and at four a.m. was up again getting ready for a start. My eyes felt nearly well again, but still rather weak, so, stripping, I jumped overboard, and had a swim and dive, then dressed, and after a cup of coffee felt no more of the eye soreness.
Between Lihou Island and the sh.o.r.e I moored in shallow water to make a sketch of the remains of what are said to have once been a Priory, standing on the island, and which have since been used as a manufactory of iodine, although it is now discontinued. When my sketch was nearly completed, I became suddenly aware, by reason of the cessation of motion, that my craft was aground. Sure enough so it was, for the tide had left me on the causeway (laid bare at low tide), which serves as a means of communication with the sh.o.r.e for the family who occupy the only house on the eighteen-acre island. I jumped up and seized the oars, and pushed with main and utmost might, but the ”Yellow Boy” refused to budge, and I was in a quandary. The tide would not float me for another three or four hours, so to wait would spoil my whole morning, and if I stepped overboard and pushed off, should I not be breaking my contract by landing? I sat down a few minutes and held council with myself, and came to the conclusion that to stand in a foot of water was not _landing_, so over I jumped, and by dint of a great deal of pus.h.i.+ng, hauling, perspiring, and the use of interjections (not profane, for I never use a bad word), I got her off into deep water, and jumped in, resolving never to anchor again in fleet water with a falling tide.
From Lihou I made a bee-line to the Hanois lighthouse, which stands about a mile from the sh.o.r.e, and forcibly reminds one of the Longs.h.i.+p Light off Land's End, Cornwall. I pa.s.sed so close that the two men who were standing on the rocks with a tub between them doing their week's was.h.i.+ng, asked me ash.o.r.e; but I made a gurgling noise in my throat, and pointed to my ears and mouth as I pa.s.sed on. I meant them to understand by this that I was a deaf mute, but they evidently took me for a lunatic, as I could hear by their remarks.
Rounding Pleinmont Point, upon which stands the dreary, solitary stone house mentioned so frequently in Hugo's ”Toilers of the Sea,” I caught the south breeze which was now blowing very fresh, and having a lea sh.o.r.e on my left, I had to give it rather a wide berth till I came to La Moye Point, where I turned into Pet.i.t Bo Bay for my mid-day meal, that being somewhat sheltered from the wind. It is a lovely little haven, and so I found Icart, Moulin-Huet, and Fermain Bays, with their t.i.tanic surroundings.
While moored in Fermain Bay admiring the beautiful scene, the wooded slopes of the environing hills, the grand rocks, the pretty little semicircular stretch of yellow sandy beach, the puny little martello tower, and other items of interest, I discovered that while my surroundings were interesting _me_, that I was also interesting my surroundings, for I found I was gradually being surrounded by boats.
These contained pleasure parties, to whom the fishermen had evidently told the story of my Crusoe life, and they were therefore anxious to get a near view of me and my curious craft, while ”Begum” came in for his share of attention also.
Some of the people wished to speak to me, but I up anchor, and with my usual dumb appeal to my ears and mouth tried to get away, but there was so little wind under the great cliffs that my progress was very slow, so I had to sit, tiller and sheet in hand, while my tormentors said their say, to me and about me, in French, German, and English. One young lady, when she found I was dumb to her enquiries, made a confidant of ”Begum,”
and told him how she would like to see over Crusoe's island, as she called Jethou, but all to no purpose, for, like his master, the dog was dumb also, though not deaf.
I should have bubbled over with pleasure to show the damsel my island and resources; but all I could do was to raise my yellow cap, and expand my mouth horizontally across my face, to signify my approval of her attention to _my dog_!
As the boat crept out from the headland of Fermain Bay my yellow sail began to draw, and very soon I left my pursuers behind. I had become so used to my queer yellow boat and its yellow sail and flag, that I had long ceased to see anything peculiar in it; but of course to other eyes my craft and its crew were a source of speculation and surprise. After this I never went near Guernsey again during the day-time.
I made a straight run for home now, but somehow felt rather melancholy, and could not get the young lady's face out of my mind. I felt somewhat depressed to think I was fleeing from my fellow-men, as if I had committed some grave offence and could not face them; but when once my foot touched Jethou's sh.o.r.e (about seven p.m.) my thoughts and melancholia vanished. There I was, home again, patting ”Eddy's” back, and pulling his long ears, and feeding the pig, and milking the goat, getting ready my tea, and finally stretching my weary legs to take out the kinks, which a couple of days in an open boat will put into any man's limbs.
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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.
After my boating adventures I began to think it was high time I should spend a week or two ash.o.r.e, looking after my crops and the estate generally.
It was now September, and my apples and pears were ripe, and so were the lovely mulberries. The giant tree was a sight to behold, with its bushels of red, purple, and blackish-ruby fruit. I might have gathered enough fruit and vegetables to have supplied a small community throughout the season, so prolific is the soil, and encouraging to vegetation the air.