Browne John Ross
Crusoe's Island: A Ramble in the Footsteps of Alexander Selkirk
CHAPTER XVI.
DIFFICULTY BETWEEN ABRAHAM AND THE DOUBTER
Every one of us, except the man that had no faith in Robinson Crusoe, admitted that the tea was the best ever produced in China or any where else; that the fried kid was perfectly delicious; that the fish were the fattest and tenderest ever fished out of the sea; that the biscuit tasted a thousand times better than the biscuit we had on board ship; that the whole house and all about it were wonderfully well arranged for comfort; and that Pearce, after all, was the jolliest old brick of a Crusoe ever found upon a desolate island.
In fine, we came to the conclusion that it was a glorious life, calculated to enlarge a man's soul; an independent life; a perfect Utopia in its way. "Let us," said we, "spend the remainder of our days here! Who cares about the gold of Ophir, when he can live like a king on this island, and be richer and happier than Solomon in his temple!"
"You'd soon be tired of it," muttered a voice from a dark corner: it was the voice of the Doubter. "You wouldn't be here a month till you'd give the eyes out of your heads to get away."
"Where's that man?" cried several of us, fiercely.
"I'm here – here in the corner, gentlemen, rayther troubled with fleas."
"You'd better turn in and go to sleep."
"I can't sleep. Nobody can sleep here. I've tried it long enough. I reckon the fleas will eat us all up by morning, and leave nothing but the hair of our heads. I doubt if they'll leave that."
"Was there ever such a man? Why, you do nothing but throw cold water on every body."
"No I don't; it comes through the roof. It's as much as I can do to keep clear of it myself, without throwin' it on other people." With this we let him alone.
The fire now blazed cheerfully, sending its ruddy glow through the cabin. A rude earthen lamp, that hung from one of the rafters, also shed its cheerful light upon us as we sat in a circle round the crackling fagots; and altogether our rustic quarters looked very lively and pleasant. Every face beamed with good-humor. Even the face of the Doubter belied his croaking remarks, and glowed with unwonted enthusiasm. Little Jim Paxton, the whaler, under the inspiration of the tea, which was uncommonly strong, volunteered a song; and the cries of bravo being general, he gave us, in true sailor style,
"I'm monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I'm lord of the fowl and the brute!
Oh Solitude where are the charms," &c.
This was so enthusiastically applauded, that my friend Abraham, whose passion for all sorts of curiosities had led him to explore musty old books as well as musty old caves for odds and ends, now rose on his goatskin, and said that, with permission of the company, he would attempt something which he considered peculiarly appropriate to the occasion. He was not much of a singer, but he hoped the interest attached to the words would be a sufficient compensation for all the deficiencies of voice and style.
"Go ahead, Abraham!" cried every body, greatly interested by these remarks. "Let us have the song! Out with it!"
"First," said Abraham, clearing his voice, "I beg leave to state, for the benefit of all who may not be familiar with the fact, that this is no vulgar or commonplace song, as many people suppose who sing it. On the contrary, it may be regarded as a classical production. Among the many effusions to which the popularity of Robinson Crusoe gave rise, none was a greater favorite in its day than the song which I am about to attempt. It has been customary to introduce it in the character of Jerry Sneak, in Foote's celebrated farce, the Mayor of Garratt. As the words are now nearly forgotten, I hope you'll not consider it tiresome if I go through to the end. Join in the chorus, gentlemen!"
POOR ROBINSON CRUSOE
"When I was a lad, my fortune was bad,
My grandfather I did lose O;
I'll bet you a can, you've heard of the man,
His name it was Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe,
Tinky ting tang, tinky ting tang,
Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe.
"You've read in a book of a voyage he took,
While the raging whirlwinds blew, so
That the ship with a shock fell plump on a rock,
Near drowning poor Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor, &c.
"Poor soul! none but he escaped on the sea.
Ah, Fate! Fate! how could you do so?
'Till at length he was thrown on an island unknown,
Which received poor Robinson Crusoe."
"Here, gentlemen, I beg you to take notice that we are now, in all probability, on the very spot. I have the strongest reasons for supposing that the castle of our excellent host, in which we are at this moment enjoying the flow of soul and the feast of reason, is built upon the identical site occupied in former times by the castle of the remarkable adventurer in whose honor this song was composed. But to proceed —
"Tinky ting tang, tinky ting tang,
Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe.
"But he saved from on board a gun and a sword,
And another old matter or two, so
That by dint of his thrift, he managed to shift
Pretty well, for poor Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor, &c.
"He wanted something to eat, and couldn't get meat,
The cattle away from him flew, so
That but for his gun he'd been sorely undone,
And starved would poor Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor, &c.
"And he happened to save from the merciless wave
A poor parrot, I assure you 'tis true, so
That when he came home, from a wearisome roam,
Used to cry out, Poor Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor, &c.
"Then he got all the wood that ever he could,
And stuck it together with glue, so
That he made him a hut, in which he might put
The carcass of Robinson Crusoe."
"Hold on there! hold on!" cried a voice, in a high state of excitement. Every body turned to see who it was that dared to interrupt so inspiring a song. Immediately the indignant gaze was fixed upon the face of the Doubter, who, with outstretched neck, was peering at Abraham from his dark corner. "Excuse me, gentlemen," said he, "but I want some information on that point. Did you mean to say, sir, that he, Robinson Crusoe, stuck the wood together with glue when he built his house? with glue, did you say?"
"So the song goes," said Abraham, a little confused, not to say irritated. "Doubtless the words are used in a metaphorical sense. There is every reason to believe that this is a mere poetical license; but it doesn't alter the general accuracy of the history. For my own part, I am disposed to think that the house was built very much upon the same principles as that of our friend Pearce; in fact, that it was precisely such an establishment as we at present occupy."
"Go on, sir – go on; I'm perfectly satisfied," muttered the Doubter; "the whole thing hangs together by means of glue; every part of it is connected with the same material!"
Abraham reddened to the eyebrows at this uncalled-for remark; his fine features, usually so placid and full of good nature, were distorted with indignation; he turned fiercely toward the Doubter; he instinctively doubled up both fists; he breathed hard between his clenched teeth; then, hearing a low murmur of dissuasion from the whole party, he turned away with a smile of contempt, breaking abruptly into the burden of his song,
"Tinky ting tang, tinky ting tang,
Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe!
"While his man Friday kept the house snug and tidy,
For be sure 'twas his business to do so,
They lived friendly together, less like servant than neighbor,
Lived Friday and Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor, &c.
"Then he wore a large cap, and a coat without nap,
And a beard as long as a Jew, so
That, by all that's civil, he looked like a devil
More than poor Robinson Crusoe."
"Which shows," continued Abraham, with his accustomed smile of good humor, "the extraordinary shifts to which a man may be reduced by necessity, and the uncouth appearance he must present in a perfectly unshaved state, when even the poet admits that he looked like a devil. These articles of clothing, which contributed to give him such a wild aspect, were made of goatskins, as he himself informs us in his wonderful narrative; and I beg you to remember, gentlemen, that the very skins upon which we are this moment sitting are related, by direct descent, to those which were worn by Robinson Crusoe."
Here the Doubter groaned.
"Well, sir, is there any thing improbable in that?" said Abraham, fiercely. "Have you any objection to that remark, sir?"
"No; I have nothing to say against it in particular, except that I'd believe it sooner if there were goats in the skins. I never heard of modern goatskins descending from ancient goatskins before."
"Of course, sir," said Abraham, coloring, "the goats were in the skins before they were taken out."
"Likely they were," growled the Doubter; "I won't dispute that. But I'd like to know, as a matter of information, if he, Robinson Crusoe, made his clothes in the same way as he made his house?"
"To be sure, sir; to be sure: he made both with his own hands."
"I thought so," said the Doubter, sinking back into his dark corner; "he sew'd 'em with glue. All glue – glue from beginning to end."
"I'll see you to-morrow, sir!" said Abraham, swelling with indignation; "we'll settle this matter to-morrow, sir. At present I shall pay no further attention to your remarks!" Here he drew several rapid breaths, as if swallowing down his passion; and, looking round with a darkened brow upon the mute and astonished company, resumed, in a loud and steady voice,
"Tinky ting tang, tinky ting tang,
Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe!
"At length, within hail, he saw a stout sail,
And he took to his little canoe; so,
When he reach'd the ship, they gave him a trip,
Back to England brought Robinson Crusoe.
Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe!"
We all joined in the chorus – all, except the incredulous man; and, notwithstanding the unfortunate difference between Abraham and that individual, which tended so much to mar the harmony of the occasion, we thought, from the way our voices sounded, that it must have been the very first time this inspiring song was sung in the solitudes of Juan Fernandez. I even fancied I detected the crusty voice of Pearce in the chorus: but I wouldn't like to make a positive assertion to that effect, on account of the danger of giving him offense, should he ever cast his eyes upon this narrative. As there was still evidently a cloud upon Abraham's brow, which might burst to-morrow upon the Doubter, and thereby bring the whole adventure to a tragic termination, several of us now, by a concerted movement, endeavored to effect a reconciliation. We seized upon the Doubter, who by this time was dozing away in the corner, and brought him forth to the light, where he looked about him in mute astonishment, muttering, as if awakened out of a dream, "No, sir, it can't be done, sir; a house never was built with glue yet; goatskins never were sewed together with glue – never, sir, never!"
"You shall swallow those words, sir!" cried Abraham, quivering with passion; "I'll make you swallow them, sir, to-morrow morning!"
"I'll swallow 'em now if you like," drawled the Doubter, with provoking coolness, "but I can't swallow a house built of glue. Possibly I might swallow the goatskins, but the house won't go down – it ain't the kind of thing to go down!"
Here it required our full force to restrain Abraham; he fairly chafed with indignation; his face was flushed; his nostrils distended; his stalwart limbs writhing convulsively; in truth, our well-meant plan of reconciliation only seemed to hasten the tragedy which we were striving to prevent. Pearce himself now interposed.
"I know'd it," said he; "I know'd they'd tear my house down yet, and ruin my furniture! Next thing, all hands'll be breakin' my chairs to pieces on one another's heads; I know'd it; I wouldn't believe 'em on oath!"
This rebuke touched Abraham in a tender point. Quick to take offense, he was also ready in forgiving an injury, especially when a due regard for the feelings of others required it.
"Gentlemen," said he, "it shall never be said that I have violated the rites of hospitality. There shall be no further difficulty about this matter; I forgive all. Your hand, sir!"
The Doubter awkwardly held out his hand and suffered it to be shaken, upon which he crept back into his dark corner, still, however, muttering incoherently from time to time; but as nothing could be distinguished but the word "glue," it was not deemed of sufficient importance for the renewal of hostilities, or the interruption of the general harmony. Good humor being restored, it was all the more hearty after these unpleasant little episodes; and so genial an effect had it upon Pearce, that he quite forgot his resentment, and unbended himself again. Gradually he began to tell us wild stories of his Crusoe life; how he had lived all alone for nearly a year on the island of Massafuero without seeing the face of man; how, during that time, he sustained himself upon roots and herbs, and likewise by catching wild goats in traps; how he never was so happy in his life, and never had any trouble till he left that island in a whaler, and came here to Juan Fernandez; how for two years he had lived on this island, sometimes alone, and sometimes surrounded by outlawed Chilians; how on one occasion, while up in the mountains hunting goats, he fell down a precipice, and broke his arm and two of his ribs, and was near dying all alone, without a soul to care for him. A great many strange stories and legends he told us, too, in his rude way, about Juan Fernandez; and so strong was his homely language, and so fresh and novel his reminiscences, that we often looked round in the waning light of the lamp for fear some ghost or murderer would steal in upon us.
As well as I can remember, one of his strange narratives was substantially as follows. There was all the force of reality to give it interest; for it was evidently, as he told us, a simple recital of facts.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MURDER
About five years ago (I think he said it was in 1844), a murder was committed on the island by the father of one of the present Chilian residents. Pearce was then in Valparaiso, and had a statement of the circumstances from some of the parties concerned in it.
A Scotch sailor, it appeared, deserted from a vessel that touched at the island for wood and water. For a time he concealed himself in a cave among the cliffs near the bay. When the vessel sailed, he came down into the valley and built himself a hut out of straw, in which he resided several months alone. By fishing, and catching wild goats in traps, he supported himself comfortably, and was becoming reconciled to his isolated life, when a family of Chilians, consisting of five or six men and women, under the control of an old Spaniard, father-in-law of one of the younger men, came over about this period in a small trading vessel from Massafuero. They had been living there for some time, but thought they could do better in Juan Fernandez. There were no huts standing there then except that belonging to the sailor. The Chilians prevailed upon him to let them occupy a part of his house, promising to build themselves one as soon as they could cut straw and wood enough. Every day they went out on the hill-sides to cut the straw, and they seemed to be making good progress with their hut. One night the sailor, as he lay in bed, overheard one of the Chilians say to the others, "We are working hard every day, but it will be a long time before we can get a house built. Neither will it be big enough for us all when we finish it. This man is nothing but a heretic, therefore it would be no sin to take his life. Let us kill him, and then we can have his house, which has other buildings to it, without the trouble of doing any more work." The others agreed to this, all except one woman, who said God would never suffer them to prosper if they committed such a deed. However, they silenced her by threats, and then talked further upon the best means of murdering the Scotchman. Having been a beach-comber for many years in Spanish countries, he understood the language, and it so happened that he overheard nearly every word. Being a powerful man, of great courage and fierce temper, he sprang from his bed, and swore they must leave the house at that very instant, or he would cut their throats. The woman he would have spared this treatment, but he knew she would only fare the worse for his protection. Finding him resolute, they took their things and left the house; but after they were out in the dark, it being a stormy night, they begged so hard for shelter that he told them they might go into a shed, which he had built some distance off to keep goats in. Here they remained, without daring to molest him, until their own house was completed. In the mean time, the suspicions of the sailor were lulled by their friendly behavior, and he often spent a part of his time in social talk with them, which was the more agreeable inasmuch as the old man's daughter, who had taken his part at first, fell in love with him, and, although jealously watched by her husband, found frequent chances of meeting him alone. He became much attached to her, as well on account of her attempt to save his life as the charms of her person, which were well calculated to excite admiration and kindle the amorous flame. She was a very beautiful woman, a Chilian by birth, and was married against her inclination; and coming from a country where the marriage tie is not considered so sacred as it is in more northern climes, she had but little scruple in yielding to her guilty love. His manly person and bold bearing had attracted her in the first place, and these stolen interviews only served to strengthen the passion that grew up between them. At this period they were joined by an English sailor, another deserter, who took up his quarters with the Chilians in their new abode, and became a member of their gang. The Scotchman had refused, from some dislike that he formed to this man on first sight, to take him into his cabin. This led to a mutual hatred, which was soon increased by other causes. The Englishman, struck by the beauty of the young woman, whose affections the other had won, now made love to her on all occasions, but she gave him no encouragement. He attributed his failure to the Scotchman, whom he secretly watched. Fired with jealousy and deadly hatred toward his rival, he resolved upon putting him to death by stratagem, for he was too cowardly to undertake it openly. Having learned the difficulty that had previously occurred, he took occasion to tell the Chilians that the Scotchman was their mortal enemy, and only awaited an opportunity to murder them all, so as to get entire possession of the young woman, with whom he had already formed a guilty connection. At this period three Americans deserted from a whale-ship and joined the Scotchman. Through some accident, or most likely by foul means, his hut took fire soon after, and was burnt to the ground. He and his companions were obliged to move to a cave near by, where they designed living till they could build another. Knowing nothing of the schemes of the English sailor, who took care that it should not be found out through the woman, they were ignorant of the hostile intention of the Chilians, till one day, as they were scattered over the valley, cutting wild oats for their cabin, the Englishman told the old man, who was the leader of the Chilians, that he had overheard the other party say they were going to murder them all that night; and prevailed upon him to muster his men together secretly, and settle the matter at once. They all went first to the cave, and took possession of the arms left there by the Americans and their leader. The old man, followed at a distance by his comrades, thereupon proceeded to the valley with a loaded gun; and seeing the Scotchman at a distance from the others, he stole upon him and shot him through the body with slugs. Badly wounded, but not mortally, the Scotchman shouted to his friends that he was shot; that they must follow him and fight for their lives, upon which he ran, covered with blood, toward the cave, followed by the Americans. On arriving there they found all their fire-arms gone: they fought for some time with their knives, but were finally overpowered by the Chilian party and bound hand and foot.
Next day it so happened that a whale-ship came into the harbor for wood and water. The Americans were carried back some distance and hid among the cliffs, with an armed guard over them, so that they might be out of the way when the people from the ship came ashore; and the wounded man was concealed in a cave. The Englishman then went on board with the old Chilian, and told the captain that a deserter from a whale-ship, who had been on the island some time, had undertaken to murder them, and they had shot him in self-defense. Their story was plausibly told, and was believed. They said the man was not dead, and they asked the captain to take him away, as they wanted to get rid of him. The captain refused to do this, saying he would have nothing to do with a deserter; if the man got into trouble by his misconduct, he might get out of it the best way he could. When the vessel sailed, which was the next day, the Chilians, in compliance with the advice of the Englishman, took their wounded prisoner out into an open space, and shot him through the heart. He fell dead upon the spot. They then dug a hole in the ground and buried him; and, in order to keep his spirit from rising upon them at night, they erected a cross over the grave. The woman, upon hearing that her lover was murdered, fell into a state of melancholy, and refused to taste any food for many days. Such was her distress, that she wandered about the cliffs like one bereft of her senses, and was often found at night weeping upon his grave. Indeed, she never fully recovered, but was always from that time weakly and unsettled in her mind.
Another vessel came into port in the course of a few months, and the affair became known through the three Americans, who made their escape and got on board. News of the murder was carried to Talcahuana by this vessel; and as soon as it reached Valparaiso, a small Chilian cutter, then lying in the harbor, was dispatched to the island of Juan Fernandez to capture and bring home the murderers. On their arrival in Valparaiso they were taken in irons to Santiago, the seat of government, where they were tried and sentenced to be shot in the public plaza. Some of the circumstances, considered palliating, became known before the execution was carried into effect, and their punishment was commuted to five years' banishment on the island of St. Felix.
The Chilian government still holds a penal settlement on that island. All criminals of a desperate character are sent there and subjected to hard labor. The term for which these murderers had been banished had just expired (in 1849), and it was supposed by the present Chilian residents that they would return by the first opportunity to Juan Fernandez.
