CHAPTER XIX.

Next to Oppenheimer and Morrell, who rotted with me through the years

of darkness, I was considered the most dangerous prisoner in San

Quentin. On the other hand I was considered the toughest—tougher even

than Oppenheimer and Morrell. Of course by toughness I mean

enduringness. Terrible as were the attempts to break them in body and

in spirit, more terrible were the attempts to break me. And I endured.

Dynamite or curtains had been Warden Atherton’s ultimatum. And in the

end it was neither. I could not produce the dynamite, and Warden

Atherton could not induce the curtains.

It was not because my body was enduring, but because my spirit was

enduring. And it was because, in earlier existences, my spirit had been

wrought to steel-hardness by steel-hard experiences. There was one

experience that for long was a sort of nightmare to me. It had neither

beginning nor end. Always I found myself on a rocky, surge-battered

islet so low that in storms the salt spray swept over its highest

point. It rained much. I lived in a lair and suffered greatly, for I

was without fire and lived on uncooked meat.

Always I suffered. It was the middle of some experience to which I

could get no clue. And since, when I went into the little death I had

no power of directing my journeys, I often found myself reliving this

particularly detestable experience. My only happy moments were when the

sun shone, at which times I basked on the rocks and thawed out the

almost perpetual chill I suffered.

My one diversion was an oar and a jackknife. Upon this oar I spent much

time, carving minute letters and cutting a notch for each week that

passed. There were many notches. I sharpened the knife on a flat piece

of rock, and no barber was ever more careful of his favourite razor

than was I of that knife. Nor did ever a miser prize his treasure as

did I prize the knife. It was as precious as my life. In truth, it was

my life.

By many repetitions, I managed to bring back out of the jacket the

legend that was carved on the oar. At first I could bring but little.

Later, it grew easier, a matter of piecing portions together. And at

last I had the thing complete. Here it is:

This is to acquaint the person into whose hands this Oar may fall, that

Daniel Foss, a native of Elkton, in Maryland, one of the United States

of America, and who sailed from the port of Philadelphia, in 1809, on

board the brig Negociator, bound to the Friendly Islands, was cast upon

this desolate island the February following, where he erected a hut and

lived a number of years, subsisting on seals—he being the last who

survived of the crew of said brig, which ran foul of an island of ice,

and foundered on the 25th Nov. 1809.

There it was, quite clear. By this means I learned a lot about myself.

One vexed point, however, I never did succeed in clearing up. Was this

island situated in the far South Pacific or the far South Atlantic? I

do not know enough of sailing-ship tracks to be certain whether the

brig _Negociator_ would sail for the Friendly Islands via Cape Horn or

via the Cape of Good Hope. To confess my own ignorance, not until after

I was transferred to Folsom did I learn in which ocean were the

Friendly Islands. The Japanese murderer, whom I have mentioned before,

had been a sailmaker on board the Arthur Sewall ships, and he told me

that the probable sailing course would be by way of the Cape of Good

Hope. If this were so, then the dates of sailing from Philadelphia and

of being wrecked would easily determine which ocean. Unfortunately, the

sailing date is merely 1809. The wreck might as likely have occurred in

one ocean as the other.

Only once did I, in my trances, get a hint of the period preceding the

time spent on the island. This begins at the moment of the brig’s

collision with the iceberg, and I shall narrate it, if for no other

reason, at least to give an account of my curiously cool and deliberate

conduct. This conduct at this time, as you shall see, was what enabled

me in the end to survive alone of all the ship’s company.

I was awakened, in my bunk in the forecastle, by a terrific crash. In

fact, as was true of the other six sleeping men of the watch below,

awaking and leaping from bunk to floor were simultaneous. We knew what

had happened. The others waited for nothing, rushing only partly clad

upon deck. But I knew what to expect, and I did wait. I knew that if we

escaped at all, it would be by the longboat. No man could swim in so

freezing a sea. And no man, thinly clad, could live long in the open

boat. Also, I knew just about how long it would take to launch the

boat.

So, by the light of the wildly swinging slush-lamp, to the tumult on

deck and to cries of “She’s sinking!” I proceeded to ransack my

sea-chest for suitable garments. Also, since they would never use them

again, I ransacked the sea chests of my shipmates. Working quickly but

collectedly, I took nothing but the warmest and stoutest of clothes. I

put on the four best woollen shirts the forecastle boasted, three pairs

of pants, and three pairs of thick woollen socks. So large were my feet

thus incased that I could not put on my own good boots. Instead, I

thrust on Nicholas Wilton’s new boots, which were larger and even

stouter than mine. Also, I put on Jeremy Nalor’s pea jacket over my

own, and, outside of both, put on Seth Richard’s thick canvas coat

which I remembered he had fresh-oiled only a short while previous.

Two pairs of heavy mittens, John Robert’s muffler which his mother had

knitted for him, and Joseph Dawes’ beaver cap atop my own, both bearing

ear-and neck-flaps, completed my outfitting. The shouts that the brig

was sinking redoubled, but I took a minute longer to fill my pockets

with all the plug tobacco I could lay hands on. Then I climbed out on

deck, and not a moment too soon.

The moon, bursting through a crack of cloud, showed a bleak and savage

picture. Everywhere was wrecked gear, and everywhere was ice. The

sails, ropes, and spars of the mainmast, which was still standing, were

fringed with icicles; and there came over me a feeling almost of relief

in that never again should I have to pull and haul on the stiff tackles

and hammer ice so that the frozen ropes could run through the frozen

shivs. The wind, blowing half a gale, cut with the sharpness that is a

sign of the proximity of icebergs; and the big seas were bitter cold to

look upon in the moonlight.

The longboat was lowering away to larboard, and I saw men, struggling

on the ice-sheeted deck with barrels of provisions, abandon the food in

their haste to get away. In vain Captain Nicholl strove with them. A

sea, breaching across from windward, settled the matter and sent them

leaping over the rail in heaps. I gained the captain’s shoulder, and,

holding on to him, I shouted in his ear that if he would board the boat

and prevent the men from casting off, I would attend to the

provisioning.

Little time was given me, however. Scarcely had I managed, helped by

the second mate, Aaron Northrup, to lower away half-a-dozen barrels and

kegs, when all cried from the boat that they were casting off. Good

reason they had. Down upon us from windward was drifting a towering

ice-mountain, while to leeward, close aboard, was another ice-mountain

upon which we were driving.

Quicker in his leap was Aaron Northrup. I delayed a moment, even as the

boat was shoving away, in order to select a spot amidships where the

men were thickest, so that their bodies might break my fall. I was not

minded to embark with a broken member on so hazardous a voyage in the

longboat. That the men might have room at the oars, I worked my way

quickly aft into the sternsheets. Certainly, I had other and sufficient

reasons. It would be more comfortable in the sternsheets than in the

narrow bow. And further, it would be well to be near the afterguard in

whatever troubles that were sure to arise under such circumstances in

the days to come.

In the sternsheets were the mate, Walter Drake, the surgeon, Arnold

Bentham, Aaron Northrup, and Captain Nicholl, who was steering. The

surgeon was bending over Northrup, who lay in the bottom groaning. Not

so fortunate had he been in his ill-considered leap, for he had broken

his right leg at the hip joint.

There was little time for him then, however, for we were labouring in a

heavy sea directly between the two ice islands that were rushing

together. Nicholas Wilton, at the stroke oar, was cramped for room; so

I better stowed the barrels, and, kneeling and facing him, was able to

add my weight to the oar. For’ard, I could see John Roberts straining

at the bow oar. Pulling on his shoulders from behind, Arthur Haskins

and the boy, Benny Hardwater, added their weight to his. In fact, so

eager were all hands to help that more than one was thus in the way and

cluttered the movements of the rowers.

It was close work, but we went clear by a matter of a hundred yards, so

that I was able to turn my head and see the untimely end of the

_Negociator_. She was caught squarely in the pinch and she was squeezed

between the ice as a sugar plum might be squeezed between thumb and

forefinger of a boy. In the shouting of the wind and the roar of water

we heard nothing, although the crack of the brig’s stout ribs and

deckbeams must have been enough to waken a hamlet on a peaceful night.

Silently, easily, the brig’s sides squeezed together, the deck bulged

up, and the crushed remnant dropped down and was gone, while where she

had been was occupied by the grinding conflict of the ice-islands. I

felt regret at the destruction of this haven against the elements, but

at the same time was well pleased at thought of my snugness inside my

four shirts and three coats.

Yet it proved a bitter night, even for me. I was the warmest clad in

the boat. What the others must have suffered I did not care to dwell

upon over much. For fear that we might meet up with more ice in the

darkness, we bailed and held the boat bow-on to the seas. And

continually, now with one mitten, now with the other, I rubbed my nose

that it might not freeze. Also, with memories lively in me of the home

circle in Elkton, I prayed to God.

In the morning we took stock. To commence with, all but two or three

had suffered frost-bite. Aaron Northrup, unable to move because of his

broken hip, was very bad. It was the surgeon’s opinion that both of

Northrup’s feet were hopelessly frozen.

The longboat was deep and heavy in the water, for it was burdened by

the entire ship’s company of twenty-one. Two of these were boys. Benny

Hardwater was a bare thirteen, and Lish Dickery, whose family was near

neighbour to mine in Elkton, was just turned sixteen. Our provisions

consisted of three hundred-weight of beef and two hundred-weight of

pork. The half-dozen loaves of brine-pulped bread, which the cook had

brought, did not count. Then there were three small barrels of water

and one small keg of beer.

Captain Nicholl frankly admitted that in this uncharted ocean he had no

knowledge of any near land. The one thing to do was to run for more

clement climate, which we accordingly did, setting our small sail and

steering quartering before the fresh wind to the north-east.

The food problem was simple arithmetic. We did not count Aaron

Northrup, for we knew he would soon be gone. At a pound per day, our

five hundred pounds would last us twenty-five days; at half a pound, it

would last fifty. So half a pound had it. I divided and issued the meat

under the captain’s eyes, and managed it fairly enough, God knows,

although some of the men grumbled from the first. Also, from time to

time I made fair division among the men of the plug tobacco I had

stowed in my many pockets—a thing which I could not but regret,

especially when I knew it was being wasted on this man and that who I

was certain could not live a day more, or, at best, two days or three.

For we began to die soon in the open boat. Not to starvation but to the

killing cold and exposure were those earlier deaths due. It was a

matter of the survival of the toughest and the luckiest. I was tough by

constitution, and lucky inasmuch as I was warmly clad and had not

broken my leg like Aaron Northrup. Even so, so strong was he that,

despite being the first to be severely frozen, he was days in passing.

Vance Hathaway was the first. We found him in the gray of dawn crouched

doubled in the bow and frozen stiff. The boy, Lish Dickery, was the

second to go. The other boy, Benny Hardwater, lasted ten or a dozen

days.

So bitter was it in the boat that our water and beer froze solid, and

it was a difficult task justly to apportion the pieces I broke off with

Northrup’s claspknife. These pieces we put in our mouths and sucked

till they melted. Also, on occasion of snow-squalls, we had all the

snow we desired. All of which was not good for us, causing a fever of

inflammation to attack our mouths so that the membranes were

continually dry and burning. And there was no allaying a thirst so

generated. To suck more ice or snow was merely to aggravate the

inflammation. More than anything else, I think it was this that caused

the death of Lish Dickery. He was out of his head and raving for

twenty-four hours before he died. He died babbling for water, and yet

he did not die for need of water. I resisted as much as possible the

temptation to suck ice, contenting myself with a shred of tobacco in my

cheek, and made out with fair comfort.

We stripped all clothing from our dead. Stark they came into the world,

and stark they passed out over the side of the longboat and down into

the dark freezing ocean. Lots were cast for the clothes. This was by

Captain Nicholl’s command, in order to prevent quarrelling.

It was no time for the follies of sentiment. There was not one of us

who did not know secret satisfaction at the occurrence of each death.

Luckiest of all was Israel Stickney in casting lots, so that in the

end, when he passed, he was a veritable treasure trove of clothing. It

gave a new lease of life to the survivors.

We continued to run to the north-east before the fresh westerlies, but

our quest for warmer weather seemed vain. Ever the spray froze in the

bottom of the boat, and I still chipped beer and drinking water with

Northrup’s knife. My own knife I reserved. It was of good steel, with a

keen edge and stoutly fashioned, and I did not care to peril it in such

manner.

By the time half our company was overboard, the boat had a reasonably

high freeboard and was less ticklish to handle in the gusts. Likewise

there was more room for a man to stretch out comfortably.

A source of continual grumbling was the food. The captain, the mate,

the surgeon, and myself, talking it over, resolved not to increase the

daily whack of half a pound of meat. The six sailors, for whom Tobias

Snow made himself spokesman, contended that the death of half of us was

equivalent to a doubling of our provisioning, and that therefore the

ration should be increased to a pound. In reply, we of the afterguard

pointed out that it was our chance for life that was doubled did we but

bear with the half-pound ration.

It is true that eight ounces of salt meat did not go far in enabling us

to live and to resist the severe cold. We were quite weak, and, because

of our weakness, we frosted easily. Noses and cheeks were all black

with frost-bite. It was impossible to be warm, although we now had

double the garments we had started with.

Five weeks after the loss of the _Negociator_ the trouble over the food

came to a head. I was asleep at the time—it was night—when Captain

Nicholl caught Jud Hetchkins stealing from the pork barrel. That he was

abetted by the other five men was proved by their actions. Immediately

Jud Hetchkins was discovered, the whole six threw themselves upon us

with their knives. It was close, sharp work in the dim light of the

stars, and it was a mercy the boat was not overturned. I had reason to

be thankful for my many shirts and coats which served me as an armour.

The knife-thrusts scarcely more than drew blood through the so great

thickness of cloth, although I was scratched to bleeding in a round

dozen of places.

The others were similarly protected, and the fight would have ended in

no more than a mauling all around, had not the mate, Walter Dakon, a

very powerful man, hit upon the idea of ending the matter by tossing

the mutineers overboard. This was joined in by Captain Nicholl, the

surgeon, and myself, and in a trice five of the six were in the water

and clinging to the gunwale. Captain Nicholl and the surgeon were busy

amidships with the sixth, Jeremy Nalor, and were in the act of throwing

him overboard, while the mate was occupied with rapping the fingers

along the gunwale with a boat-stretcher. For the moment I had nothing

to do, and so was able to observe the tragic end of the mate. As he

lifted the stretcher to rap Seth Richards’ fingers, the latter, sinking

down low in the water and then jerking himself up by both hands, sprang

half into the boat, locked his arms about the mate and, falling

backward and outboard, dragged the mate with him. Doubtlessly he never

relaxed his grip, and both drowned together.

Thus left alive of the entire ship’s company were three of us: Captain

Nicholl, Arnold Bentham (the surgeon), and myself. Seven had gone in

the twinkling of an eye, consequent on Jud Hetchkins’ attempt to steal

provisions. And to me it seemed a pity that so much good warm clothing

had been wasted there in the sea. There was not one of us who could not

have managed gratefully with more.

Captain Nicholl and the surgeon were good men and honest. Often enough,

when two of us slept, the one awake and steering could have stolen from

the meat. But this never happened. We trusted one another fully, and we

would have died rather than betray that trust.

We continued to content ourselves with half a pound of meat each per

day, and we took advantage of every favouring breeze to work to the

north’ard. Not until January fourteenth, seven weeks since the wreck,

did we come up with a warmer latitude. Even then it was not really

warm. It was merely not so bitterly cold.

Here the fresh westerlies forsook us and we bobbed and blobbed about in

doldrummy weather for many days. Mostly it was calm, or light contrary

winds, though sometimes a burst of breeze, as like as not from dead

ahead, would last for a few hours. In our weakened condition, with so

large a boat, it was out of the question to row. We could merely hoard

our food and wait for God to show a more kindly face. The three of us

were faithful Christians, and we made a practice of prayer each day

before the apportionment of food. Yes, and each of us prayed privately,

often and long.

By the end of January our food was near its end. The pork was entirely

gone, and we used the barrel for catching and storing rainwater. Not

many pounds of beef remained. And in all the nine weeks in the open

boat we had raised no sail and glimpsed no land. Captain Nicholl

frankly admitted that after sixty-three days of dead reckoning he did

not know where we were.

The twentieth of February saw the last morsel of food eaten. I prefer

to skip the details of much that happened in the next eight days. I

shall touch only on the incidents that serve to show what manner of men

were my companions. We had starved so long, that we had no reserves of

strength on which to draw when the food utterly ceased, and we grew

weaker with great rapidity.

On February twenty-fourth we calmly talked the situation over. We were

three stout-spirited men, full of life and toughness, and we did not

want to die. No one of us would volunteer to sacrifice himself for the

other two. But we agreed on three things: we must have food; we must

decide the matter by casting lots; and we would cast the lots next

morning if there were no wind.

Next morning there was wind, not much of it, but fair, so that we were

able to log a sluggish two knots on our northerly course. The mornings

of the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh found us with a similar breeze.

We were fearfully weak, but we abided by our decision and continued to

sail.

But with the morning of the twenty-eighth we knew the time was come.

The longboat rolled drearily on an empty, windless sea, and the

stagnant, overcast sky gave no promise of any breeze. I cut three

pieces of cloth, all of a size, from my jacket. In the ravel of one of

these pieces was a bit of brown thread. Whoever drew this lost. I then

put the three lots into my hat, covering it with Captain Nicholl’s hat.

All was ready, but we delayed for a time while each prayed silently and

long, for we knew that we were leaving the decision to God. I was not

unaware of my own honesty and worth; but I was equally aware of the

honesty and worth of my companions, so that it perplexed me how God

could decide so fine-balanced and delicate a matter.

The captain, as was his right and due, drew first. After his hand was

in the hat he delayed for some time with closed eyes, his lips moving a

last prayer. And he drew a blank. This was right—a true decision I

could not but admit to myself; for Captain Nicholl’s life was largely

known to me and I knew him to be honest, upright, and God-fearing.

Remained the surgeon and me. It was one or the other, and, according to

ship’s rating, it was his due to draw next. Again we prayed. As I

prayed I strove to quest back in my life and cast a hurried tally-sheet

of my own worth and unworth.

I held the hat on my knees with Captain Nicholl’s hat over it. The

surgeon thrust in his hand and fumbled about for some time, while I

wondered whether the feel of that one brown thread could be detected

from the rest of the ravel.

At last he withdrew his hand. The brown thread was in his piece of

cloth. I was instantly very humble and very grateful for God’s blessing

thus extended to me; and I resolved to keep more faithfully than ever

all of His commandments. The next moment I could not help but feel that

the surgeon and the captain were pledged to each other by closer ties

of position and intercourse than with me, and that they were in a

measure disappointed with the outcome. And close with that thought ran

the conviction that they were such true men that the outcome would not

interfere with the plan arranged.

I was right. The surgeon bared arm and knife and prepared to open a

great vein. First, however, he spoke a few words.

“I am a native of Norfolk in the Virginias,” he said, “where I expect I

have now a wife and three children living. The only favour that I have

to request of you is, that should it please God to deliver either of

you from your perilous situation, and should you be so fortunate as to

reach once more your native country, that you would acquaint my

unfortunate family with my wretched fate.”

Next he requested courteously of us a few minutes in which to arrange

his affairs with God. Neither Captain Nicholl nor I could utter a word,

but with streaming eyes we nodded our consent.

Without doubt Arnold Bentham was the best collected of the three of us.

My own anguish was prodigious, and I am confident that Captain Nicholl

suffered equally. But what was one to do? The thing was fair and proper

and had been decided by God.

But when Arnold Bentham had completed his last arrangements and made

ready to do the act, I could contain myself no longer, and cried out:

“Wait! We who have endured so much surely can endure a little more. It

is now mid-morning. Let us wait until twilight. Then, if no event has

appeared to change our dreadful destiny, do you Arnold Bentham, do as

we have agreed.”

He looked to Captain Nicholl for confirmation of my suggestion, and

Captain Nicholl could only nod. He could utter no word, but in his

moist and frosty blue eyes was a wealth of acknowledgment I could not

misread.

I did not, I could not, deem it a crime, having so determined by fair

drawing of lots, that Captain Nicholl and myself should profit by the

death of Arnold Bentham. I could not believe that the love of life that

actuated us had been implanted in our breasts by aught other than God.

It was God’s will, and we His poor creatures could only obey and fulfil

His will. And yet, God was kind. In His all-kindness He saved us from

so terrible, though so righteous, an act.

Scarce had a quarter of an hour passed, when a fan of air from the

west, with a hint of frost and damp in it, crisped on our cheeks. In

another five minutes we had steerage from the filled sail, and Arnold

Bentham was at the steering sweep.

“Save what little strength you have,” he had said. “Let me consume the

little strength left in me in order that it may increase your chance to

survive.”

And so he steered to a freshening breeze, while Captain Nicholl and I

lay sprawled in the boat’s bottom and in our weakness dreamed dreams

and glimpsed visions of the dear things of life far across the world

from us.

It was an ever-freshening breeze of wind that soon began to puff and

gust. The cloud stuff flying across the sky foretold us of a gale. By

midday Arnold Bentham fainted at the steering, and, ere the boat could

broach in the tidy sea already running, Captain Nicholl and I were at

the steering sweep with all the four of our weak hands upon it. We came

to an agreement, and, just as Captain Nicholl had drawn the first lot

by virtue of his office, so now he took the first spell at steering.

Thereafter the three of us spelled one another every fifteen minutes.

We were very weak and we could not spell longer at a time.

By mid-afternoon a dangerous sea was running. We should have rounded

the boat to, had our situation not been so desperate, and let her drift

bow-on to a sea-anchor extemporized of our mast and sail. Had we

broached in those great, over-topping seas, the boat would have been

rolled over and over.

Time and again, that afternoon, Arnold Bentham, for our sakes, begged

that we come to a sea-anchor. He knew that we continued to run only in

the hope that the decree of the lots might not have to be carried out.

He was a noble man. So was Captain Nicholl noble, whose frosty eyes had

wizened to points of steel. And in such noble company how could I be

less noble? I thanked God repeatedly, through that long afternoon of

peril, for the privilege of having known two such men. God and the

right dwelt in them and no matter what my poor fate might be, I could

but feel well recompensed by such companionship. Like them I did not

want to die, yet was unafraid to die. The quick, early doubt I had had

of these two men was long since dissipated. Hard the school, and hard

the men, but they were noble men, God’s own men.

I saw it first. Arnold Bentham, his own death accepted, and Captain

Nicholl, well nigh accepting death, lay rolling like loose-bodied dead

men in the boat’s bottom, and I was steering when I saw it. The boat,

foaming and surging with the swiftness of wind in its sail, was

uplifted on a crest, when, close before me, I saw the sea-battered

islet of rock. It was not half a mile off. I cried out, so that the

other two, kneeling and reeling and clutching for support, were peering

and staring at what I saw.

“Straight for it, Daniel,” Captain Nicholl mumbled command. “There may

be a cove. There may be a cove. It is our only chance.”

Once again he spoke, when we were atop that dreadful lee shore with no

cove existent.

“Straight for it, Daniel. If we go clear we are too weak ever to win

back against sea and wind.”

He was right. I obeyed. He drew his watch and looked, and I asked the

time. It was five o’clock. He stretched out his hand to Arnold Bentham,

who met and shook it weakly; and both gazed at me, in their eyes

extending that same hand-clasp. It was farewell, I knew; for what

chance had creatures so feeble as we to win alive over those

surf-battered rocks to the higher rocks beyond?

Twenty feet from shore the boat was snatched out of my control. In a

trice it was overturned and I was strangling in the salt. I never saw

my companions again. By good fortune I was buoyed by the steering-oar I

still grasped, and by great good fortune a fling of sea, at the right

instant, at the right spot, threw me far up the gentle slope of the one

shelving rock on all that terrible shore. I was not hurt. I was not

bruised. And with brain reeling from weakness I was able to crawl and

scramble farther up beyond the clutching backwash of the sea.

I stood upright, knowing myself saved, and thanking God, and staggering

as I stood. Already the boat was pounded to a thousand fragments. And

though I saw them not, I could guess how grievously had been pounded

the bodies of Captain Nicholl and Arnold Bentham. I saw an oar on the

edge of the foam, and at certain risk I drew it clear. Then I fell to

my knees, knowing myself fainting. And yet, ere I fainted, with a

sailor’s instinct I dragged my body on and up among the cruel hurting

rocks to faint finally beyond the reach of the sea.

I was near a dead man myself, that night, mostly in stupor, only dimly

aware at times of the extremity of cold and wet that I endured. Morning

brought me astonishment and terror. No plant, not a blade of grass,

grew on that wretched projection of rock from the ocean’s bottom. A

quarter of a mile in width and a half mile in length, it was no more

than a heap of rocks. Naught could I discover to gratify the cravings

of exhausted nature. I was consumed with thirst, yet was there no fresh

water. In vain I tasted to my mouth’s undoing every cavity and

depression in the rocks. The spray of the gale so completely had

enveloped every portion of the island that every depression was filled

with water salt as the sea.

Of the boat remained nothing—not even a splinter to show that a boat

had been. I stood possessed of my garments, a stout knife, and the one

oar I had saved. The gale had abated, and all that day, staggering and

falling, crawling till hands and knees bled, I vainly sought water.

That night, nearer death than ever, I sheltered behind a rock from the

wind. A heavy shower of rain made me miserable. I removed my various

coats and spread them to soak up the rain; but, when I came to wring

the moisture from them into my mouth, I was disappointed, because the

cloth had been thoroughly impregnated with the salt of the ocean in

which I had been immersed. I lay on my back, my mouth open to catch the

few rain-drops that fell directly into it. It was tantalizing, but it

kept my membranes moist and me from madness.

The second day I was a very sick man. I, who had not eaten for so long,

began to swell to a monstrous fatness—my legs, my arms, my whole body.

With the slightest of pressures my fingers would sink in a full inch

into my skin, and the depressions so made were long in going away. Yet

did I labour sore in order to fulfil God’s will that I should live.

Carefully, with my hands, I cleaned out the salt water from every

slight hole, in the hope that succeeding showers of rain might fill

them with water that I could drink.

My sad lot and the memories of the loved ones at Elkton threw me into a

melancholy, so that I often lost my recollection for hours at a time.

This was a mercy, for it veiled me from my sufferings that else would

have killed me.

In the night I was roused by the beat of rain, and I crawled from hole

to hole, lapping up the rain or licking it from the rocks. Brackish it

was, but drinkable. It was what saved me, for, toward morning, I awoke

to find myself in a profuse perspiration and quite free of all

delirium.

Then came the sun, the first time since my stay on the island, and I

spread most of my garments to dry. Of water I drank my careful fill,

and I calculated there was ten days’ supply if carefully husbanded. It

was amazing how rich I felt with this vast wealth of brackish water.

And no great merchant, with all his ships returned from prosperous

voyages, his warehouses filled to the rafters, his strong-boxes

overflowing, could have felt as wealthy as did I when I discovered,

cast up on the rocks, the body of a seal that had been dead for many

days. Nor did I fail, first, to thank God on my knees for this

manifestation of His ever-unfailing kindness. The thing was clear to

me: God had not intended I should die. From the very first He had not

so intended.

I knew the debilitated state of my stomach, and I ate sparingly in the

knowledge that my natural voracity would surely kill me did I yield

myself to it. Never had sweeter morsels passed my lips, and I make free

to confess that I shed tears of joy, again and again, at contemplation

of that putrefied carcass.

My heart of hope beat strong in me once more. Carefully I preserved the

portions of the carcass remaining. Carefully I covered my rock cisterns

with flat stones so that the sun’s rays might not evaporate the

precious fluid and in precaution against some upspringing of wind in

the night and the sudden flying of spray. Also I gathered me tiny

fragments of seaweed and dried them in the sun for an easement between

my poor body and the rough rocks whereon I made my lodging. And my

garments were dry—the first time in days; so that I slept the heavy

sleep of exhaustion and of returning health.

When I awoke to a new day I was another man. The absence of the sun did

not depress me, and I was swiftly to learn that God, not forgetting me

while I slumbered, had prepared other and wonderful blessings for me. I

would have fain rubbed my eyes and looked again, for, as far as I could

see, the rocks bordering upon the ocean were covered with seals. There

were thousands of them, and in the water other thousands disported

themselves, while the sound that went up from all their throats was

prodigious and deafening. I knew it when I saw it—meat lay there for

the taking, meat sufficient for a score of ships’ companies.

I directly seized my oar—than which there was no other stick of wood on

the island—and cautiously advanced upon all that immensity of

provender. It was quickly guessed by me that these creatures of the sea

were unacquainted with man. They betrayed no signals of timidity at my

approach, and I found it a boy’s task to rap them on the head with the

oar.

And when I had so killed my third and my fourth, I went immediately and

strangely mad. Indeed quite bereft was I of all judgment as I slew and

slew and continued to slay. For the space of two hours I toiled

unceasingly with the oar till I was ready to drop. What excess of

slaughter I might have been guilty of I know not, for at the end of

that time, as if by a signal, all the seals that still lived threw

themselves into the water and swiftly disappeared.

I found the number of slain seals to exceed two hundred, and I was

shocked and frightened because of the madness of slaughter that had

possessed me. I had sinned by wanton wastefulness, and after I had duly

refreshed myself with this good wholesome food, I set about as well as

I could to make amends. But first, ere the great task began, I returned

thanks to that Being through whose mercy I had been so miraculously

preserved. Thereupon I laboured until dark, and after dark, skinning

the seals, cutting the meat into strips, and placing it upon the tops

of rocks to dry in the sun. Also, I found small deposits of salt in the

nooks and crannies of the rocks on the weather side of the island. This

I rubbed into the meat as a preservative.

Four days I so toiled, and in the end was foolishly proud before God in

that no scrap of all that supply of meat had been wasted. The

unremitting labour was good for my body, which built up rapidly by

means of this wholesome diet in which I did not stint myself. Another

evidence of God’s mercy; never, in the eight years I spent on that

barren islet, was there so long a spell of clear weather and steady

sunshine as in the period immediately following the slaughter of the

seals.

Months were to pass ere ever the seals revisited my island. But in the

meantime I was anything but idle. I built me a hut of stone, and,

adjoining it, a storehouse for my cured meat. The hut I roofed with

many sealskins, so that it was fairly water-proof. But I could never

cease to marvel, when the rain beat on that roof, that no less than a

king’s ransom in the London fur market protected a castaway sailor from

the elements.

I was quickly aware of the importance of keeping some kind of reckoning

of time, without which I was sensible that I should soon lose all

knowledge of the day of the week, and be unable to distinguish one from

the other, and not know which was the Lord’s day.

I remembered back carefully to the reckoning of time kept in the

longboat by Captain Nicholl; and carefully, again and again, to make

sure beyond any shadow of uncertainty, I went over the tale of the days

and nights I had spent on the island. Then, by seven stones outside my

hut, I kept my weekly calendar. In one place on the oar I cut a small

notch for each week, and in another place on the oar I notched the

months, being duly careful indeed, to reckon in the additional days to

each month over and beyond the four weeks.

Thus I was enabled to pay due regard to the Sabbath. As the only mode

of worship I could adopt, I carved a short hymn, appropriate to my

situation, on the oar, which I never failed to chant on the Sabbath.

God, in His all-mercy, had not forgotten me; nor did I, in those eight

years, fail at all proper times to remember God.

It was astonishing the work required, under such circumstances, to

supply one’s simple needs of food and shelter. Indeed, I was rarely

idle, that first year. The hut, itself a mere lair of rocks,

nevertheless took six weeks of my time. The tardy curing and the

endless scraping of the sealskins, so as to make them soft and pliable

for garments, occupied my spare moments for months and months.

Then there was the matter of my water supply. After any heavy gale, the

flying spray salted my saved rainwater, so that at times I was

grievously put to live through till fresh rains fell unaccompanied by

high winds. Aware that a continual dropping will wear a stone, I

selected a large stone, fine and tight of texture and, by means of

smaller stones, I proceeded to pound it hollow. In five weeks of most

arduous toil I managed thus to make a jar which I estimated to hold a

gallon and a half. Later, I similarly made a four-gallon jar. It took

me nine weeks. Other small ones I also made from time to time. One,

that would have contained eight gallons, developed a flaw when I had

worked seven weeks on it.

But it was not until my fourth year on the island, when I had become

reconciled to the possibility that I might continue to live there for

the term of my natural life, that I created my masterpiece. It took me

eight months, but it was tight, and it held upwards of thirty gallons.

These stone vessels were a great gratification to me—so much so, that

at times I forgot my humility and was unduly vain of them. Truly, they

were more elegant to me than was ever the costliest piece of furniture

to any queen. Also, I made me a small rock vessel, containing no more

than a quart, with which to convey water from the catching-places to my

large receptacles. When I say that this one-quart vessel weighed all of

two stone, the reader will realize that the mere gathering of the

rainwater was no light task.

Thus, I rendered my lonely situation as comfortable as could be

expected. I had completed me a snug and secure shelter; and, as to

provision, I had always on hand a six months’ supply, preserved by

salting and drying. For these things, so essential to preserve life,

and which one could scarcely have expected to obtain upon a desert

island, I was sensible that I could not be too thankful.

Although denied the privilege of enjoying the society of any human

creature, not even of a dog or a cat, I was far more reconciled to my

lot than thousands probably would have been. Upon the desolate spot,

where fate had placed me, I conceived myself far more happy than many,

who, for ignominious crimes, were doomed to drag out their lives in

solitary confinement with conscience ever biting as a corrosive canker.

However dreary my prospects, I was not without hope that that

Providence, which, at the very moment when hunger threatened me with

dissolution, and when I might easily have been engulfed in the maw of

the sea, had cast me upon those barren rocks, would finally direct some

one to my relief.

If deprived of the society of my fellow creatures, and of the

conveniences of life, I could not but reflect that my forlorn situation

was yet attended with some advantages. Of the whole island, though

small, I had peaceable possession. No one, it was probable, would ever

appear to dispute my claim, unless it were the amphibious animals of

the ocean. Since the island was almost inaccessible, at night my repose

was not disturbed by continual apprehension of the approach of

cannibals or of beasts of prey. Again and again I thanked God on my

knees for these various and many benefactions.

Yet is man ever a strange and unaccountable creature. I, who had asked

of God’s mercy no more than putrid meat to eat and a sufficiency of

water not too brackish, was no sooner blessed with an abundance of

cured meat and sweet water than I began to know discontent with my lot.

I began to want fire, and the savour of cooked meat in my mouth. And

continually I would discover myself longing for certain delicacies of

the palate such as were part of the common daily fare on the home table

at Elkton. Strive as I would, ever my fancy eluded my will and wantoned

in day-dreaming of the good things I had eaten and of the good things I

would eat if ever I were rescued from my lonely situation.

It was the old Adam in me, I suppose—the taint of that first father who

was the first rebel against God’s commandments. Most strange is man,

ever insatiable, ever unsatisfied, never at peace with God or himself,

his days filled with restlessness and useless endeavour, his nights a

glut of vain dreams of desires wilful and wrong. Yes, and also I was

much annoyed by my craving for tobacco. My sleep was often a torment to

me, for it was then that my desires took licence to rove, so that a

thousand times I dreamed myself possessed of hogsheads of tobacco—ay,

and of warehouses of tobacco, and of shiploads and of entire

plantations of tobacco.

But I revenged myself upon myself. I prayed God unceasingly for a

humble heart, and chastised my flesh with unremitting toil. Unable to

improve my mind, I determined to improve my barren island. I laboured

four months at constructing a stone wall thirty feet long, including

its wings, and a dozen feet high. This was as a protection to the hut

in the periods of the great gales when all the island was as a tiny

petrel in the maw of the hurricane. Nor did I conceive the time

misspent. Thereafter I lay snug in the heart of calm while all the air

for a hundred feet above my head was one stream of gust-driven water.

In the third year I began me a pillar of rock. Rather was it a pyramid,

four-square, broad at the base, sloping upward not steeply to the apex.

In this fashion I was compelled to build, for gear and timber there was

none in all the island for the construction of scaffolding. Not until

the close of the fifth year was my pyramid complete. It stood on the

summit of the island. Now, when I state that the summit was but forty

feet above the sea, and that the peak of my pyramid was forty feet

above the summit, it will be conceived that I, without tools, had

doubled the stature of the island. It might be urged by some unthinking

ones that I interfered with God’s plan in the creation of the world.

Not so, I hold. For was not I equally a part of God’s plan, along with

this heap of rocks upjutting in the solitude of ocean? My arms with

which to work, my back with which to bend and lift, my hands cunning to

clutch and hold—were not these parts too in God’s plan? Much I pondered

the matter. I know that I was right.

In the sixth year I increased the base of my pyramid, so that in

eighteen months thereafter the height of my monument was fifty feet

above the height of the island. This was no tower of Babel. It served

two right purposes. It gave me a lookout from which to scan the ocean

for ships, and increased the likelihood of my island being sighted by

the careless roving eye of any seaman. And it kept my body and mind in

health. With hands never idle, there was small opportunity for Satan on

that island. Only in my dreams did he torment me, principally with

visions of varied foods and with imagined indulgence in the foul weed

called tobacco.

On the eighteenth day of the month of June, in the sixth year of my

sojourn on the island, I descried a sail. But it passed far to leeward

at too great a distance to discover me. Rather than suffering

disappointment, the very appearance of this sail afforded me the

liveliest satisfaction. It convinced me of a fact that I had before in

a degree doubted, to wit: that these seas were sometimes visited by

navigators.

Among other things, where the seals hauled up out of the sea, I built

wide-spreading wings of low rock walls that narrowed to a _cul de sac_,

where I might conveniently kill such seals as entered without exciting

their fellows outside and without permitting any wounded or frightening

seal to escape and spread a contagion of alarm. Seven months to this

structure alone were devoted.

As the time passed, I grew more contented with my lot, and the devil

came less and less in my sleep to torment the old Adam in me with

lawless visions of tobacco and savoury foods. And I continued to eat my

seal meat and call it good, and to drink the sweet rainwater of which

always I had plenty, and to be grateful to God. And God heard me, I

know, for during all my term on that island I knew never a moment of

sickness, save two, both of which were due to my gluttony, as I shall

later relate.

In the fifth year, ere I had convinced myself that the keels of ships

did on occasion plough these seas, I began carving on my oar minutes of

the more remarkable incidents that had attended me since I quitted the

peaceful shores of America. This I rendered as intelligible and

permanent as possible, the letters being of the smallest size. Six, and

even five, letters were often a day’s work for me, so painstaking was

I.

And, lest it should prove my hard fortune never to meet with the

long-wished opportunity to return to my friends and to my family at

Elkton, I engraved, or nitched, on the broad end of the oar, the legend

of my ill fate which I have already quoted near the beginning of this

narrative.

This oar, which had proved so serviceable to me in my destitute

situation, and which now contained a record of my own fate and that of

my shipmates, I spared no pains to preserve. No longer did I risk it in

knocking seals on the head. Instead, I equipped myself with a stone

club, some three feet in length and of suitable diameter, which

occupied an even month in the fashioning. Also, to secure the oar from

the weather (for I used it in mild breezes as a flagstaff on top of my

pyramid from which to fly a flag I made me from one of my precious

shirts) I contrived for it a covering of well-cured sealskins.

In the month of March of the sixth year of my confinement I experienced

one of the most tremendous storms that was perhaps ever witnessed by

man. It commenced at about nine in the evening, with the approach of

black clouds and a freshening wind from the south-west, which, by

eleven, had become a hurricane, attended with incessant peals of

thunder and the sharpest lightning I had ever witnessed.

I was not without apprehension for the safety of the island. Over every

part the seas made a clean breach, except of the summit of my pyramid.

There the life was nigh beaten and suffocated out of my body by the

drive of the wind and spray. I could not but be sensible that my

existence was spared solely because of my diligence in erecting the

pyramid and so doubling the stature of the island.

Yet, in the morning, I had great reason for thankfulness. All my saved

rainwater was turned brackish, save that in my largest vessel which was

sheltered in the lee of the pyramid. By careful economy I knew I had

drink sufficient until the next rain, no matter how delayed, should

fall. My hut was quite washed out by the seas, and of my great store of

seal meat only a wretched, pulpy modicum remained. Nevertheless I was

agreeably surprised to find the rocks plentifully distributed with a

sort of fish more nearly like the mullet than any I had ever observed.

Of these I picked up no less than twelve hundred and nineteen, which I

split and cured in the sun after the manner of cod. This welcome change

of diet was not without its consequence. I was guilty of gluttony, and

for all of the succeeding night I was near to death’s door.

In the seventh year of my stay on the island, in the very same month of

March, occurred a similar storm of great violence. Following upon it,

to my astonishment, I found an enormous dead whale, quite fresh, which

had been cast up high and dry by the waves. Conceive my gratification

when in the bowels of the great fish I found deeply imbedded a harpoon

of the common sort with a few fathoms of new line attached thereto.

Thus were my hopes again revived that I should finally meet with an

opportunity to quit the desolate island. Beyond doubt these seas were

frequented by whalemen, and, so long as I kept up a stout heart, sooner

or later I should be saved. For seven years I had lived on seal meat,

so that at sight of the enormous plentitude of different and succulent

food I fell a victim to my weakness and ate of such quantities that

once again I was well nigh to dying. And yet, after all, this, and the

affair of the small fish, were mere indispositions due to the

foreignness of the food to my stomach, which had learned to prosper on

seal meat and on nothing but seal meat.

Of that one whale I preserved a full year’s supply of provision. Also,

under the sun’s rays, in the rock hollows, I tried out much of the oil,

which, with the addition of salt, was a welcome thing in which to dip

my strips of seal-meat whilst dining. Out of my precious rags of shirts

I could even have contrived a wick, so that, with the harpoon for steel

and rock for flint, I might have had a light at night. But it was a

vain thing, and I speedily forwent the thought of it. I had no need for

light when God’s darkness descended, for I had schooled myself to sleep

from sundown to sunrise, winter and summer.

I, Darrell Standing, cannot refrain from breaking in on this recital of

an earlier existence in order to note a conclusion of my own. Since

human personality is a growth, a sum of all previous existences added

together, what possibility was there for Warden Atherton to break down

my spirit in the inquisition of solitary? I am life that survived, a

structure builded up through the ages of the past—and such a past! What

were ten days and nights in the jacket to me?—to me, who had once been

Daniel Foss, and for eight years learned patience in that school of

rocks in the far South Ocean?

At the end of my eighth year on the island in the month of September,

when I had just sketched most ambitious plans to raise my pyramid to

sixty feet above the summit of the island, I awoke one morning to stare

out upon a ship with topsails aback and nearly within hail. That I

might be discovered, I swung my oar in the air, jumped from rock to

rock, and was guilty of all manner of livelinesses of action, until I

could see the officers on the quarter-deck looking at me through their

spyglasses. They answered by pointing to the extreme westerly end of

the island, whither I hastened and discovered their boat manned by half

a dozen men. It seems, as I was to learn afterward, the ship had been

attracted by my pyramid and had altered its course to make closer

examination of so strange a structure that was greater of height than

the wild island on which it stood.

But the surf proved to be too great to permit the boat to land on my

inhospitable shore. After divers unsuccessful attempts they signalled

me that they must return to the ship. Conceive my despair at thus being

unable to quit the desolate island. I seized my oar (which I had long

since determined to present to the Philadelphia Museum if ever I were

preserved) and with it plunged headlong into the foaming surf. Such was

my good fortune, and my strength and agility, that I gained the boat.

I cannot refrain from telling here a curious incident. The ship had by

this time drifted so far away, that we were all of an hour in getting

aboard. During this time I yielded to my propensities that had been

baffled for eight long years, and begged of the second mate, who

steered, a piece of tobacco to chew. This granted, the second mate also

proffered me his pipe, filled with prime Virginia leaf. Scarce had ten

minutes passed when I was taken violently sick. The reason for this was

clear. My system was entirely purged of tobacco, and what I now

suffered was tobacco poisoning such as afflicts any boy at the time of

his first smoke. Again I had reason to be grateful to God, and from

that day to the day of my death, I neither used nor desired the foul

weed.

I, Darrell Standing, must now complete the amazingness of the details

of this existence which I relived while unconscious in the

strait-jacket in San Quentin prison. I often wondered if Daniel Foss

had been true in his resolve and deposited the carved oar in the

Philadelphia Museum.

It is a difficult matter for a prisoner in solitary to communicate with

the outside world. Once, with a guard, and once with a short-timer in

solitary, I entrusted, by memorization, a letter of inquiry addressed

to the curator of the Museum. Although under the most solemn pledges,

both these men failed me. It was not until after Ed Morrell, by a

strange whirl of fate, was released from solitary and appointed head

trusty of the entire prison, that I was able to have the letter sent. I

now give the reply, sent me by the curator of the Philadelphia Museum,

and smuggled to me by Ed Morrell:

“It is true there is such an oar here as you have described. But few

persons can know of it, for it is not on exhibition in the public

rooms. In fact, and I have held this position for eighteen years, I was

unaware of its existence myself.

“But upon consulting our old records I found that such an oar had been

presented by one Daniel Foss, of Elkton, Maryland, in the year 1821.

Not until after a long search did we find the oar in a disused attic

lumber-room of odds and ends. The notches and the legend are carved on

the oar just as you have described.

“We have also on file a pamphlet presented at the same time, written by

the said Daniel Foss, and published in Boston by the firm of N.

Coverly, Jr., in the year 1834. This pamphlet describes eight years of

a castaway’s life on a desert island. It is evident that this mariner,

in his old age and in want, hawked this pamphlet about among the

charitable.

“I am very curious to learn how you became aware of this oar, of the

existence of which we of the museum were ignorant. Am I correct in

assuming that you have read an account in some diary published later by

this Daniel Foss? I shall be glad for any information on the subject,

and am proceeding at once to have the oar and the pamphlet put back on

exhibition.

“Very truly yours,

“HOSEA SALSBURTY.”[1]

[1] Since the execution of Professor Darrell Standing, at which time

the manuscript of his memoirs came into our hands, we have written to

Mr. Hosea Salsburty, Curator of the Philadelphia Museum, and, in

reply, have received confirmation of the existence of the oar and the

pamphlet.—THE EDITOR.