Old Jack

by William Henry Giles Kingston

We found him standing before a rude hut erected in front of a cave, which formed, indeed, a back apartment to it. There was only one rough bed-place on one side of it, though there were several stools, and a table in the centre. A seaman’s chest stood open, and contained a few articles of clothing. There were two muskets, and some powder-flasks hung up against the wall; but there was no food, although an iron pot and a saucepan, with a place where a fire had been made, showed that provisions had at one time been cooked there. On a shelf there were several books, both in English and in foreign languages, and above them was a flute with a music-book. A few carpenter’s tools were arranged on another shelf. Several things showed that the place had last been inhabited by a person of superior education. On opening the books, a name was found in several of them. It was that of William Evans. Two of them Newman discovered to be on medical subjects, which of course made us conjecture that they had belonged to the surgeon of the ship. The decayed state of the books showed that it was long since they had been opened, and on a further examination of the hut, it also was found to be in a very dilapidated condition. From the number of things left in the hut, Captain Carr surmised that the last occupants must have left the place very suddenly, if, indeed, they had left it at all. One thing was certain, that we were not likely to find any of them on the island.

We were, therefore, on our return to the boats, when I saw the figure of a man sitting, with his back to a rock, on a gentle slope, whence a view could be obtained of the blue ocean. I had separated a little from my companions. I called to him, and I thought I heard him answer, “Halloa, who calls?” His face was turned away from me, and he did not move. I called again, and at that moment Newman broke through the brushwood, and joined me. Together we climbed the hill, both equally surprised that the man we saw did not get up to meet us. In another minute we were by his side. The straw-hat, stained and in tatters, covered a skull; the clothes, decayed and discoloured, hung loosely on a fleshless skeleton. A book was by his side. It was a copy of a Latin poet—Horace, Newman told me. Before him was another book of manuscript; and, as we looked about, we picked up the remains of pencil, which had dropped from the dead man’s fingers. Newman opened the manuscript, and though it was rotten, and the characters much defaced, he could still decipher them. He glanced his eye rapidly over them.

“Ah! poor fellow, his appears to have been a sad fate,” he remarked, with a voice full of sadness. “Compelled by a strong necessity to leave England—to wrench asunder all the ties which held him there, and embark on board a South-sea-man as surgeon—he seems to have had a hard life of it with a drunken, brutal captain, and ignorant—not a human being with whom he could sympathise. Unable to return home, after three years’ service he exchanged into another ship. His master and officers, with all the boats, were away in chase of whales, which had appeared about them in great numbers, when a gale arose. The crew, already too much weakened by that scourge of the ocean, the scurvy, and the loss of several men, were unable to shorten sail. The boats were far out of sight, as they believed, to windward. In vain they endeavoured to beat up to them. The main and mizzen-masts went by the board; and the gale still further increasing, they were compelled to run before it, without a prospect of picking up their shipmates in the boats.

“Away they drove for several days before the wind, till one night all who were below were thrown out of their berths by a violent concussion. Again and again the ship struck—the sea beat in her stern. They rushed on deck. It was to find nearly all those who had been there washed away. The next instant, the ship again lifting, was carried into smooth water, and finally jammed fast in the position we had found her.

“Five only of all the crew then survived, and they were the most sickly. The writer was himself suffering from illness; happily, however, he bore up against it. They collected all the provisions, and all articles likely to be useful, which the sea had not destroyed, and carried them on shore, which they easily reached by means of a raft.

“They had food enough to last them for some time; but they had but a scanty supply of water. In vain they searched through the island—no springs were to be found. With great labour they got up all the casks of water still uninjured from the hold, and resolved to husband the contents. They formed themselves a habitation. They made reservoirs in which to catch the rain when it fell; but, in those latitudes, for many weeks together no rain falls. For a time, with their fire-arms, they killed a few birds; but their ammunition failed them, and they could kill no more. Their water was at last expended, and for many weeks together the only moisture they could obtain was by chewing the leaves of the shrubs and grass they found. They continued, as at first, very weak. They talked of building a boat from the wreck, but had neither strength nor knowledge among them sufficient for the undertaking.

“At last their spirits gave way, and disease made fearful progress with them all. One by one they died, and the survivors buried them. The writer of the sad journal was alone left.” Alas! not a word did he say about seeking consolation where alone it can be given—not a thought about another world and judgment to come. The writer seemed to pride himself on his heathen stoicism—heathen expressions of resignation were alone mentioned. His dying eyes had rested on the pages of Horace—his dying thoughts, were they heavenward?

“In vain had he crawled to the spot where we found him, day after day, in the faint hopes of seeing a ship to bear him away. Three long years had thus passed, and all the food that had been brought on shore had been consumed; and he had not strength to search for more, so he came up there and sat himself down, and his spirit passed away.”

Mr Newman had read this rapid sketch of the last events in the life of this unhappy exile before the captain came up, when he handed him the journal. The captain desired Newman to keep the “Horace,” observing that he could not himself understand the contents.

We had found some tools in the hut, with which we dug a shallow grave close to where we had found these sad remains of mortality, and in it we placed them. On the rock above we cut the name of William Evans, and the date of the day on which we found him dead. Loading ourselves with the articles found in the hut, Newman being allowed to take most of the books as his share, we returned to the boats.