The Adventures of Louis de Rougemont

by Louis de Rougemont

Never can I hope to describe the gnawing pain at my heart as, hoarse and half mad, I sank exhausted on the sand, watching the last vestige of the ship disappearing. Altogether, I saw five ships pass in this way during my sojourn on the island, but they were always too far out at sea to notice my signals. One of these vessels I knew to be a man-o’-war flying the British ensign. I tried to rig up a longer flag-staff, as I thought the original one not high enough for its purpose. Accordingly I spliced a couple of long poles together, but to my disappointment found them too heavy to raise in the air. Bruno always joined in my enthusiasm when a sail was in sight; in fact, he was generally the first to detect it, and he would bark and drag at me until he had drawn my attention to the new hope. And I loved him for his tender sympathy in my paroxysms of regret and disappointment. The hairy head would rub coaxingly against my arm, the warm tongue licking my hand, and the faithful brown eyes gazing at me with a knowledge and sympathy that were more than human—these I feel sure saved me again and again. I might mention that, although my boat was absolutely useless for the purpose of escape, I did not neglect her altogether, but sailed her about the enclosed lagoon by way of practice in the handling of her sails. This was also a welcome recreation.

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 I scratched 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 they never 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 I welcomed 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. I moved 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, I laughed 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.