Island of the Lost (29 page)

I
NVERCARGILL
, Thursday, 4:50
P.M.

Captain Musgrave, the mate, and Alick, a seaman, of the schooner
Grafton
, of Sydney, wrecked at the Auckland Islands twenty months since, have arrived. Two of the crew are left on the island.

“On the morning of the 27th July, 1865, I landed in Invercargill, and, in company with Captain Cross, walked up the jetty and entered, I think, the first store we came to—that of Mr. J. Ross,” recorded Musgrave. “I had not been there more than five minutes when Mr. John Macpherson, of the firm of Macpherson and Co., came in.” After hearing the tale, the merchant instantly offered all the help he could. “He took me at once to Mr. Ellis, Collector of Customs, who was the first person that I should see,” Musgrave went on.

After giving Ellis the ship's papers, Musgrave asked for a vessel to be sent to the island to rescue Harry and George, but the government official said he could do nothing. “Mr. Macpherson then waited on the Deputy-Superintendent,” but with the same
disappointing result. Undeterred by these setbacks, Macpherson took the men to his house, and gave them lunch. Then he walked about town, going from store to store and house to house, soliciting money, blankets, and clothes for the poor destitute men, and telling the story of their astonishing escape from the Auckland Islands.

The response was generous, not just because openhandedness was typical of pioneer society, but also because the locals had a very good idea of the shocking ordeal the
Grafton
men had endured, many Invercargill men being mariners and fisherfolk who plied their trade in subantarctic seas. “For five days and nights did these brave men unremittingly battle with the winds and waves, sustained by the hope of life and the prospect of deliverance,” related the
Southland News
on July 29. A benevolent publican, “Mr. Colyer, of the Princess's Hotel,” immediately offered accommodation for the three men, free of charge, and the small community took the castaways to their hearts. Over the next two days a hundred pounds was contributed, besides clothing and blankets, which Musgrave proudly—and also to wreak a little revenge on Uncle Musgrave, no doubt—refused to accept without payment. According to his own account, he wrote out and handed to Macpherson “a bill for the amount on Sarpy and Musgrave,” the total of which also covered the advance of a sum of money.

François Raynal, safely ensconced in the Princess Hotel, related that “a large number of the inhabitants came to see us, and express their sympathy.” Mr. Colyer set apart three rooms for their use, and “Doctor Innes came to see us, and refusing to accept any other remuneration than our thanks, lavished upon us the most assiduous care.” The illness that had nearly cost Raynal
his life on Campbell Island had returned: “I could hardly move a step without supporting myself on a stout staff.”

Raynal, like Musgrave and Alick, was appalled that the government, for unknown political reasons, was unable to do anything about saving Harry and George. Instead, the local officials promised in vague terms “that they would take the matter into consideration at a later date—in fact, as soon as they could. At a later date!” Raynal exclaimed in disgust. While they were waiting for the wheels of government to turn, Harry and George could be starving to death. Even if matters were going reasonably well with them, they were most certainly counting the hours until they learned whether their shipmates had reached New Zealand. There was no doubt about it: “Later meant—too late!”

By now, the indefatigable Mr. Macpherson had raised enough money to cover the cost of sending a ship to Carnley Harbour. Unfortunately, though, the only vessel available was Tom Cross's little oyster-cutter. “Several schooners were expected, but when they arrived they would occupy a certain time in unloading before they could undertake a voyage,” Raynal went on—and how could anyone reconcile himself to such a delay?

A public meeting was held, and after due deliberation it was decided that though the
Flying Scud
was really too small, she was so well built, and possessed such excellent sailing qualities, that with a fine, practical seaman like Tom Cross in command, she could carry out the mission—as long as Captain Musgrave went with her as pilot.

As Musgrave himself phrased it, it was considered “incumbent on me to accompany Captain Cross, so as, from my knowledge of the place, to be in some measure a guarantee for the
safety of the vessel, as she is not insured.” After some heart searching, because he was overwhelmingly anxious to get to Sydney and find out how his family was faring, he agreed to go, even though he was still exhausted from the arduous voyage in the
Rescue
, and had an abscess in his armpit. As Raynal meditated, “Obeying a sentiment of humanity, this noble heart kept down his ardent desire to revisit his beloved family, and though just escaped from the clutches of Death, was willing to confront it anew, in accomplishing what he conceived to be a sacred duty!”

Provisions and gear for the voyage were collected, much of it donated, and the cutter was loaded. Musgrave, who had written a long letter to his wife, entrusted it to Mr. Macpherson to send to Sydney on the first available ship. Then, about four in the afternoon on Saturday, July 29, accompanied by Raynal, Alick, and just about the whole population of Invercargill, he walked down to the docks. “I grasped my friend's hand,” wrote Raynal, “and penetrated by an emotion I could hardly restrain, I saw him set out again for the Aucklands, on board the
Flying Scud
.”

T
HE
F
LYING
S
CUD
sailed at 5
P.M.
, “followed by ardent prayers and warmest wishes of this community for a speedy and successful issue to her voyage of benevolence and mercy,” according to the
Southland Times
. As it happened, the
Flying Scud
did not get very far that night. By the time the cutter arrived at the bar the tide was too low to cross it, so, as Musgrave noted, “we brought up for the night in a snug anchorage, at a place on the west side of the river called Sandy Point, about six miles from town.”

Early the following morning they got through the breakers with the use of long oars called sweeps (one of which they lost) because the northerly wind was so light. After a daylong struggle with the uncooperative breezes, they wafted into Stewart Island at dark. Then the wind shifted to the northwest and increased, giving them a quick run into Port Adventure, the same fishing village where the castaways had landed just a week previously, and the place where Tom Cross had his home.

The wind promptly shifted again, this time blowing contrarily from the south, so that they were detained there for a week. Musgrave was still suffering from the aftereffects of the dreadful passage to New Zealand, writing, “I fear that I am going to be attacked with some serious illness.” However, it passed away. One of Cross's sailors rowed him about the port, so Musgrave could study the various anchorages. He stopped to converse with a Maori party who were gathering oysters: “They presented me with four or five dozen, which I must pronounce the finest I have met with in the Southern Hemisphere.” The timber that grew on the surrounding slopes was interesting, too, in that it was very similar to the ironwood that had given the castaways such difficulties at Carnley Harbour, but grew straight and tall.

Back at the cutter, the men were busily setting things to rights for “a sea voyage, which I believe the vessel had not yet been called upon to perform. She is nearly new,” Musgrave added, “and has been wholly employed in the coasting trade.” When the wind at last became favorable, on August sixth, he was exceedingly glad to proceed. They made their start at two in the afternoon, and by eight the following morning were fourteen miles south of Stewart Island.

After that they sailed merrily along—“the little vessel is
dancing about like a cork,” he described, going on to say that it was exceedingly difficult to write up his journal, “as it is impossible to sit, or stand, or even lie, without holding on, or being well chocked off.” However, the voyage that was starting out so blithely proved to be doomed. When they were within ten miles of the Snares Islands the wind veered to the southwest, which was dead ahead, and then it blew up hard, with a rugged sea. It was too dangerous to lay to in the gale, and so they turned back.

Then they got lost. “It is now 3
A.M.
,” Musgrave wrote nervously. “We have just hove the cutter to, and will wait for daylight, as we have not yet made the land, although we have run 20 miles farther than where we should have
found
it.” There was only one compass on board, and Musgrave had every reason to believe it was faulty. Worse still, there was a strong possibility they were “in the vicinity of those ugly dangers, the Traps Reefs; and if the sea is running high and breaking all over, it will be impossible to see them before we should be on the top of them.”

When day broke, there was nothing in sight. At nine in the morning Musgrave took a sight of the sun, but with indifferent results, because “the vessel is tossing about and throwing so much water over, and the sea is so rough.” Accordingly, they stayed where they were until he could get better sights at noon—“We are all very miserable, everything wet, and we can get nothing cooked, for the man whom Captain Cross engaged, who was to have done the cooking, is a seasick, lazy good-for-nothing fellow, and can't, or won't do it, and Cross and the other man have to be almost constantly on deck. She is very wet and uneasy, and all this is bad enough, and we all wish the
cruise well ended.” However, as Musgrave then commented, it was a pleasure compared to his last experience in these seas.

At noon, he succeeded in finding that they were about sixty miles sou'sou'east of the East Cape of Stewart Island—meaning that he was right about the faulty compass—and he and Cross debated what to do next. Musgrave thought of going into a large New Zealand port, like Port Chalmers in Otago, but Cross had a hankering to go back to Port Adventure, because he thought he might be able to get a decent compass there.

So they steered for Stewart Island, arriving just in time to avoid the worst of a very heavy sou'sou'west gale, but only to find that there was no compass available. Someone told them there might be one twelve miles away, at a place called Paterson's Inlet, so Cross thought he would try to get there in the cutter's boat. “]trip is becoming so protracted that I am thoroughly sick of it, and am getting quite downhearted about it,” Musgrave despaired; “indeed the question arises in my mind, am I doing an injustice to my family by prosecuting it?”

However, the storm continued, and it would have been madness to leave the harbor. After three days, the gale having somewhat abated, they set sail in the cutter for Paterson's Inlet, “where by good fortune a Mr. Lowrie furnished us with a compass,” and the chief of Ruapuke, Tione Topi “Toby” Patuki, offered to lend them yet another. Musgrave was glad to accept, as it appeared to be in a better state than either of the others, and after getting back to Port Adventure—which they had to do with sweeps, as the wind fell away completely—he spent a lot of time and trouble comparing all three compasses, to try to ascertain which one was right.

While he was engaged in this, another gale blew up, this
time from the west-sou'west. “The bay was one continual sheet of foam all the afternoon, and since nightfall it has been thundering and lightning, with frequent showers. The New Zealand coast pilot says that thunder and lightning during a gale is indicative of its long continuance,” Musgrave glumly continued. “We have had a great deal of it lately; so what may we expect now?”

The local Maori people prophesied that the bad weather would continue until the moon was past its last quarter, and it looked very much as if they were right. “All night the thunder and lightning were incessant, peal rolling upon peal, and keeping the earth in a continual tremor, accompanied by pouring rain,” Musgrave went on. It was the heaviest thunderstorm he had ever known, and, true to the local superstition, even though the wind died away for a spell, it then blew up again from the south, with constant sleet and snow. It was bad enough here at Port Adventure, so what was it like for the two poor fellows on Auckland Island?

It was not until Tuesday, August 22—thirty-five days after leaving George and Harry in Carnley Harbour—that Musgrave was finally able to record, “I am once more tossing about on Old Ocean. The little vessel is dashing the laughing spray from about her bows and galloping away, with a fair wind from the N.W.,” he went on; “and I think we have a fair prospect of a speedy, and in some measure comfortable, run down to the Aucklands.”

He was right, because the morning after that they raised land, which proved to be an island to the north end of the Auckland Island group. It was the twenty-second day since their departure from Invercargill.

TWENTY-ONE