Part 8

Here we are comfortably established in our charming summer home, and I must tell you all about it, from the very beginning! First of all you must know Rottnest is a little island about a dozen miles long, and 3 miles wide, some 12 or 14 miles from the mainland, right in the track of the cool sea-breezes. There was a time when I actually thought the name—meaning “rat’s nest,” and given by the Dutch discoverers long, long ago—ugly, but now I like it, and would not change it on any account. High hills run down the middle of the island, and on the highest peak stands a lighthouse. There is a nice little Government Cottage which stands on a green rising ground in a lovely situation, with the most delicious beach and bathing-place imaginable just below it, only a few yards off. The house holds lots of small bedrooms which is exactly what is wanted over here, and everything seems capitally planned and arranged for our summer picnic life. The cottage stands in a sort of enclosure neatly walled in, with grass all round, and green as any emerald when I first saw it last September; now, alas, all the herbage everywhere has turned into a sort of coarse yellow straw. Our little island still remains green, however, because of the thick wattle-scrub, with which it is entirely covered, and through which roads and paths have been cut in every direction. These wattle-bushes were a mass of vivid golden blossom in the early spring, but only an occasional stray yellow patch is to be found in summer.

Then there is also, about half a mile from the house, but entirely hidden by trees, a large prison for natives. Native prisoners have to be kept over here, because they can enjoy much more of the liberty which is necessary to their lives and health, on an island, than on the mainland, where, unless they worked in chains, escape would be easy. As one sails across from Fremantle, the Cottage gleams white and pretty from its green setting, and, higher up the curved coast-line of the little island, you see the Superintendent’s house, the warders’ cottages, the pilot-station, etc., peeping out, small as toy houses, in front of the trees which conceal the larger prison buildings. There are no other dwellings of any sort on the island, except the salt manufactory, farther inland, which is worked by prison labour, and no one is even permitted to land on Rottnest without a special order.

This is your father’s third visit to it. The first time he came, only a few weeks after our arrival, having heard that a severe epidemic of influenza had broken out among the native prisoners, and that some of them had died. It was then wild and wintry weather, with constant gales blowing; and the only way of getting across to the island was in an open boat, safe enough, but sure to be a voyage of wet and discomfort. There seemed to be difficulties in the way of taking a doctor over, nor did Pater feel sure the natives had everything possible to save their lives or to cure them. At all events he thought he ought to go and see for himself how they were being taken care of; so one wild and gusty morning, in spite of warnings of a bad passage, father and his private secretary (who, I may mention, was not at all ill, and enjoyed the tempestuous sail across immensely, just as you would have done!), and a doctor with lots of medical stores and comforts, set sail in an open boat, and a fine wetting they had for some five or six hours, tossing about in the teeth of a wintry gale, over a rough bit of sea. I must say I was very glad when a telegram arrived from the harbour-master at Fremantle to say the boat had reached Rottnest in safety; for the previous message, saying it had started, had added a prophecy of a bad passage.

However, they arrived safely, cold and wet, sick and hungry, but all these disagreeables soon righted themselves, and then they set off to the prison, where most of the daylight hours of their three days’ stay were spent, arranging a hospital, nursing and doctoring the poor sick natives, and doing everything possible to save their lives. The chief difficulty lay in getting them to take nourishing food. The influenza took away their appetites, and they would not touch the strong mutton-broth, or beef-tea, or wine, or anything provided for them. What the sick men probably pined for was a bit of fried snake, or a nice tender iguana, or some bush delicacy of that sort. At last some one thought of trying porridge or rice, boiled in preserved milk (there are neither cows nor goats on the island, for they cannot live there), and the patients liked that very much, and ate it, and many of them began to get better.

As soon as the gale moderated the gentlemen all came back, and another doctor went over, and we had nothing but good news of recovery after that. Then, in September, just before the Council closed (the Legislative Council is our Parliament, you must know), the _Meda_, H.M.’s surveying ship of the station, came back from her long cruise on the northwest coast; and before she went into dock, the captain kindly offered to take me over for a peep at Rottnest. So we made up a little picnic party of about eight people, and had a delicious sail of less than two hours across, on an exquisite spring morning; and then the dear little _Meda_ sailed herself back again to Fremantle, returning a couple of days later, to fetch us home, in an equally swift and pleasant manner. How you would have enjoyed it all! I fell tremendously in love with the charming little island, and we made excursions in every direction, for it was then cold enough to take long walks. Ever since that visit I have been raving of the delightfulness of Rottnest, and looking forward with great eagerness to coming over for the summer, and here we are at last, bag and baggage.

The _Meda_ brought us over this time also, having spent the intervening three months in making herself new and smart and trim; so I need hardly tell you that we had a quick and delightful voyage. She just glided across the bay and dropped her anchor to lee of a tiny island, close to Rottnest, for the water then became too shallow for her. We all got into various boats with as little delay as possible, and rowed swiftly across the half mile of smooth water to the little pier. What a ridiculous party we must have looked as we landed, for the _Meda_ had turned herself into a perfect Noah’s ark for that voyage. The riding-horses, and the two cows, with tons of hay and all the biggest boxes, the large cage for the canaries, etc., had all gone over in luggers the day before—when the private secretary had received an agonised telegram to say that one of the cows had “taken charge” of the Fremantle jetty, and no one could go near her. I am afraid we all laughed very much at the picture this message conjured up before us; however, Mrs. Cow was lassoed at last, and put on board her lugger, with a lot of dry seaweed to lie on, and taken across to her summer home, where there is nothing whatever for her to eat, except what is brought from the mainland.

However, to return to our landing this time. The servants came first, all very limp and pale and sea-sick, and laden with hat-boxes and brown-paper parcels of their own, staggering up the little wooden pier, which has a bathing-house at the end of it. Louis followed, very white and wan, and more limp than any one, but carrying a basket with a white kitten in it. Monsieur Puppy soon leaped on shore, and took possession of his new home, with a perfect fury of barking. Then one small cage after another was handed out of the boats, full of cockatoos and parrots and paroquets and canaries. Next came barred wooden boxes with ducks, turkeys, guinea-fowls, and chickens; hampers of flowers; a large box of ice (that is our great comfort this weather—we have very good ice, plentiful and cheap, artificially made, from 1st November to 1st March). Our first meal was like a picnic; for everything had been brought over ready cooked, and I was impatient to get luncheon finished that I might see to the comfort of my birds. The canaries’ large cage stood all ready for them in a sheltered corner of the verandah, where they will not be blown away by the strong winds which sweep over our little island; and it was pretty to see the delight with which the birds once more found themselves in it, with lots of space and baths, and a heap of green. Even the fluffy, baby-canaries, who have made the voyage in a basket, seemed to enjoy having plenty of room in which to flounder about with wide open beaks, after their parents.

The parrots were, perhaps, most glad of all to be set free in a large room (more than a cage), with wire-netting walls, and a zinc roof, and with plenty of shrubs growing in it, which stands about 30 yards behind the house among the trees. They had been diligently gnawing away at their cages, and would soon have got through the bars, especially the Albany cockatoo, with its huge strong beak. And the poultry were very glad to be turned loose at the back of the paddock. The stables are some way off, near the prison, so we did not see the horses; but the cows looked sulkily tranquil, lying in the shade, each with a bundle of hay before her. They miss the long, cool, couch-grass in their paddock at Perth—grass which keeps green till the very end of summer. However, all possible arrangements have been made for their comfort, and they are to have the tops of young bamboo-grass, pig-melons (which they love), and pears(!), sent over in quantities for them twice a week.

You must know that water is our great treasure here. An enormous tank, covered in and locked up, has been built in former years for the use of the house, and it collects all the rainfall of the long wet winters. I am afraid to say how many thousand gallons it holds; but then we use a good deal for cooking and drinking, and the cows are obliged to drink it too, as the well-water, which is strongly tinctured with magnesia, makes them ill. There are wells or water-holes in different places, but they all taste more or less strongly of magnesia.

After the pets had been attended to, I found plenty to do in arranging the pretty little house. When I had seen it in September I had been obliged to acknowledge that the furniture was woefully shabby and dirty; and no wonder, for it had been in use for ages. But, thanks to the liberality of the Legislative Council, sufficient money was forthcoming to make it fresh and clean and bright as heart could wish. Everything in a little place like this is, of course, extremely simple, but none the less pretty and comfortable, and I am delighted with it all, and as for Louis and the puppy, they are quite wild with joy.

I cannot make up my mind whether the view is more charming from the verandah at the back of the house, or from the balcony upstairs in front, overlooking the sea. Behind the house, looking across a green copse or thicket of wattles, you see a chain of salt lakes lying at the foot of the little range of hills I have mentioned, and many more are hidden away among the hills. These lakes are astonishingly blue, with the crystallised salt lying on their shores like snow, or sometimes blown lightly about in pure white flakes and bubbles. The sharp contrast between the dazzling white and brilliant blue, and the vivid pale green of the trees, is most curious and beautiful; and there seems always to be a crisp cool breeze blowing across the lakes. I never look out without seeing myriads of snipe feeding on the water, and it is difficult, when the sun shines on their white wing-tips, to distinguish them from the flying flakes of salt.

However hot I may be—and the mid-day sun is very roasting—I only have to turn the corner of that upstair verandah to find a deliciously cool air blowing. But, perhaps, I like to do whatever loitering I can find time for in front, where the look-out is over the stretch of blue water between us and the low shores opposite. There is a heliograph station at Fremantle, the nearest point of land, and I can easily make out the flashes by which we talk, from our station here, to the people on the mainland. I like best, however, to sit down in an armchair and look straight across the bay, with its wonderful lights and shadows, and dark blue and light blue breadths of water. Even Louis, restless as he is, will stand for what he calls “a tiny while” by my side, silently gazing at the beautiful sparkling ocean. It is the thick patches of wrack and other seaweed, and the shoal-water, streaking the “deep blue sea,” which make so much variety; you can scarcely imagine from any words I can find how brilliant and beautiful this same seaweed is when it is washed up on the shore.

Then there are ridges of reef close by, where—even at the stillest dawn, long after the rough west wind has died away, and before the sea-breeze has woke up to come gently, gently creeping over the mirror-like water—you can see long white lines of foam heaving up against the sunken rocks. Amid these breakers still stick up the tall masts of a fine steamer, which went ashore there, a year or two ago, and sank almost immediately. Her davits are above water now, and it is the dream of Louis’s life to get out to the wreck. The moment the breeze springs up this peaceable-looking quiet wash of water will show itself in its true colours, as a barrier of fierce breakers thundering their threats in our ears.

I can only long and wish for you to see it all with your own eyes, for nothing I can write, nor any picture I could make, gives you the least idea of how delicious it is. Seven o’clock in the morning is perhaps the most enchanting time, and it is then I go down with Louis to bathe from the little wooden hut at the end of the pier. It is really larger than it looks, and is divided into a couple of comfortable dressing-rooms, and inside its shelter a flight of steps, the lower ones very slippery with seaweed and long sea-grasses, takes us down into the sea just beneath the pier. From there we can easily get into the deeper part of the lovely blue water by walking along a firm white sand-floor. No rocks or sharp-pointed stones are there to wound one’s feet; it is indeed a perfect bathing-place, and is kept entirely for us ladies, a brushwood hut and sheltering breakwind being built every summer, a little farther down the shore in deeper water, for the gentlemen.

I always look carefully over the edge of the pier, before going into the bathing-house, lest a basking shark should be asleep too near; for there are plenty of legends about sharks seen close by. However, as ladies and children have bathed here for the last twenty years without accident or adventure, I suppose we are pretty safe. At all events the water is much too tempting, specially to Louis, not to be worth running even a risk for; I only go through the preliminary scouting because I promised Pater to do so. We never venture out very far, as no one but Louis likes to take more than one foot at a time off the delicious firm sand. He flounders and gasps and sinks, and splutters up again, and declares he is swimming. I don’t know what name you would give to his performances, but they seem very rash to me, whose fault is certainly not a want of caution in the water.

It is all very delicious, and if the day is excusably hot we come down again, just before luncheon, for another dip. Louis would spend his whole time in the water if I allowed him, and indeed it requires a sharp look-out to prevent him. He is a little cured, just for the moment, of his mania for going in the sea at all hours and places; for the other day he got into trouble by it. Directly after his early dinner he slipped away, of course without leave, and went with some of the warders’ children to bathe much higher up the coast. The boys began ducking each other, and whilst Louis’s head was under water, a “cobbler” caught him a sharp slap on the side of the face. This creature is like a small octopus, and at the moment it gives its slap it squirts out a horrid acrid juice. By the time Louis could huddle on his clothes and run home, you never saw such a state as his face was in. One eye was entirely closed (fortunately the sight is not injured), a thick rash had come out all over his face, and the marks of the blow could plainly be seen, looking as if five _very_ long thin fingers had given him a box on the ear. The pain was very severe—a tingling, smarting sensation. It was quite curious the size to which his head swelled, and it altered Louis’s little face so much for a couple of days that I am sure you would not have known him. There was nothing to be done except bathe his face in warm milk and water, and induce him to lie down in a cool room. I think he is cured of clandestine bathing for the present.

LETTER XV.

Rottnest Island, _February_.

There have been patches, as it were, of hot disagreeable weather, since I last wrote, but generally, even if the morning has been close and sultry since sunrise, the sea-breeze comes stealing down about noon and freshens the air. The land wind keeps us cool at night, and our great anxiety is that it may last late enough to bring the twice-a-week boat over. Sometimes it dies away provokingly, just when the poor boat has got half-way across, and then we watch it anxiously through the big telescope, as the flapping sails try to catch every puff of wind, and we can plainly see the alternate attempts at rowing and sailing. The crew are always terribly hot and tired by the time they get here,—about one o’clock,—poor fellows, and then they have only a short rest before a start back must be made, for fear of being again belated. The stillest day of all was one unfortunate time when the doctor was urgently wanted on the island. He left Fremantle before nine o’clock, and did not get to Rottnest until six in the evening! Then he had to start again homewards a couple of hours later, and was kept out all night, for there was no wind either way. It was really dreadful for him and for all the men in the boat. When we get our little steam-tug this cannot happen any more, but it is very tiresome this year.

Boat-day is always very fussy. There are boxes on boxes of fruit, flowers, and vegetables, from Perth—ice, stores, and all sorts of things about which I am anxious—empty boxes to be returned, clothes to go to and from the laundress, and so forth. Then nearly every boat brings or takes away friends who are kind enough to come over and enliven our solitude. I am always inquiring about, and watching the wind on their account, particularly if there are ladies and children among the passengers. There seems always to be too much or too little wind, when I specially want a perfect day for my guests! However, no one makes the least fuss about it, and I really believe I am much more concerned for them than they are for themselves!

All the animals and pets share in the benefits of boat-day. The cows get green fodder, rushes, tops of young pears, and melons; the canaries regale themselves on fresh chickweed, and even the wild birds get grapes! Impudent little creatures! these “white eyes” (so called from a white ring round their eyes) are, flying in at my fruit-room window, and actually digging their long pointed beaks into the bunches of grapes, or into the ripe peaches and apricots, whilst Catherine and I are still arranging the quantities and quantities of fruit. I try to pacify them by giving them all the old fruit, but they prefer it fresh! Even a muslin blind at the window is very little protection, they contrive to get under it, or else peck away till they make a hole big enough to get through.

I wonder Louis does not die of fruit. He is eating it all day long, just as you would do, I suspect, if you were here. He always takes a great bunch of grapes to bed with him, and falls asleep eating them.

All this time I have never said a word about the shooting, and yet it is the great feature of the place. Nearly every spring myriads of snipe come over to the island. They are not regular snipe, but something between a plover and a land-rail; pretty slender birds, with long beaks and legs, and black and white plumage. They come in thousands to feed on the salt lakes I have told you about, and are delicious eating. No one can tell where they go to during eight or nine months of the year, for they are never seen on the mainland, and are very uncertain in the length of their annual visits to Rottnest. Sometimes they only remain for six weeks, another year they will stay four months. There are great quantities of them this year. Almost the first question Pater asked, when we landed on the 2d of January, was, “Have the snipe come?” And all the gentlemen inquire about them the moment they arrive, no matter whether the voyage has been long or short, rough or much too smooth.