was lucky. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone else had
survived. Why he should have done he didn't know. He simply
accepted it.
Later, with the rabbit reduced to bones that
he carefully preserved for making into fish-hooks, the Bosun drank
his fill at the nearby stream, then stretched out peacefully on a
bed of old leaves. To a shipwrecked mariner it was sheer luxury. He
closed his eyes and fell into the deep, untroubled sleep of a
child.
The next morning was clear and windless. As
he wandered the island searching for firewood, the Bosun could see
that they were no more than about three miles from the mainland.
This was a busy trade route and he might well see a passing ship
working its way through the straits on a quiet day. Hopeful of
possible rescue, he spent the day building a huge bonfire with
which he could signal a distant ship.
So the days passed for the Bosun; hunting
and fishing, making clothes from the skins of animals he caught,
and adding bit by bit to his bonfire. But he saw no ships.
He had been on the island about three weeks
by his reckoning when he first saw the skua. It was a Great Skua -
a big brown bird like an overgrown seagull, but with the cruel
hooked bill of an eagle. Whether it was looking for a place to
nest, or just over from the mainland hunting, he didn't know. He
saw it circling the small colony of seagulls that lived in a
stubbly patch of ground at the far end of the island. He often
visited the colony to collect a few eggs as a change from his usual
diet of fish and rabbits.
He stood and watched the skua for a while,
circling low down over the squabbling gulls. Then it dived,
disappearing behind the steep grassy bank separating him from the
gull colony. There was an almighty rumpus as gulls flew off in all
directions, squawking and screaming. The Bosun knew that skuas were
predatory birds, not above snatching the odd baby seagull, so he
dashed across to see what was happening.
As he topped the rise he could see the bulky
brown shape of the skua with its huge wings open, leaping up and
down stabbing and pummelling a small seagull. The gull lay on the
ground flapping its wings feebly, mewing like a cat. The Bosun ran
down the hill shouting and waving his arms. As he got nearer, he
stooped to pick up a stone and hurled it in the direction of the
marauder. It missed, but the bird was alerted. When it saw the
irate Bosun approaching at the run, arms flailing, it backed away
hissing, head low down like an angry goose. Then it opted for
discretion and took off, winging away in the direction of the
distant mainland.
When the Bosun reached the gull he saw that
it was badly injured and bleeding, so he picked it up and quickly
wrung its neck. Then he saw the egg nearby. The gull must have been
trying to protect it from the skua. He reached down and picked it
up to take home for his tea. But as he turned away, the sight of
the dead mother made him pause. She had given her life to save that
egg; it didn't seem right that he should simply take it home and
eat it, as the skua would have done. That made him little better
than the seagull's killer.
He felt the egg in his pocket; it was very
warm. The mother had obviously been sitting when the skua arrived.
It was right, he felt, that the baby should live, after its
mother's sacrifice. He wondered how near it was to hatching. He
thought for a moment, then came to a decision. Picking up the body
of the dead mother, he turned and walked rapidly back towards his
camp.
It would be something to do, he thought;
something more interesting than simply sitting around waiting to be
rescued. He had never heard of a seagull being reared from the egg,
but there was always a first time. All he had to do, he reasoned,
was keep it warm.
He soon reached his camp and entered the
lean-to hut he had built out of branches and driftwood. Dropping
the dead gull on the floor, he went straight to the smouldering
fire and stoked it up. He placed the still warm egg in a deep
survived. Why he should have done he didn't know. He simply
accepted it.
Later, with the rabbit reduced to bones that
he carefully preserved for making into fish-hooks, the Bosun drank
his fill at the nearby stream, then stretched out peacefully on a
bed of old leaves. To a shipwrecked mariner it was sheer luxury. He
closed his eyes and fell into the deep, untroubled sleep of a
child.
The next morning was clear and windless. As
he wandered the island searching for firewood, the Bosun could see
that they were no more than about three miles from the mainland.
This was a busy trade route and he might well see a passing ship
working its way through the straits on a quiet day. Hopeful of
possible rescue, he spent the day building a huge bonfire with
which he could signal a distant ship.
So the days passed for the Bosun; hunting
and fishing, making clothes from the skins of animals he caught,
and adding bit by bit to his bonfire. But he saw no ships.
He had been on the island about three weeks
by his reckoning when he first saw the skua. It was a Great Skua -
a big brown bird like an overgrown seagull, but with the cruel
hooked bill of an eagle. Whether it was looking for a place to
nest, or just over from the mainland hunting, he didn't know. He
saw it circling the small colony of seagulls that lived in a
stubbly patch of ground at the far end of the island. He often
visited the colony to collect a few eggs as a change from his usual
diet of fish and rabbits.
He stood and watched the skua for a while,
circling low down over the squabbling gulls. Then it dived,
disappearing behind the steep grassy bank separating him from the
gull colony. There was an almighty rumpus as gulls flew off in all
directions, squawking and screaming. The Bosun knew that skuas were
predatory birds, not above snatching the odd baby seagull, so he
dashed across to see what was happening.
As he topped the rise he could see the bulky
brown shape of the skua with its huge wings open, leaping up and
down stabbing and pummelling a small seagull. The gull lay on the
ground flapping its wings feebly, mewing like a cat. The Bosun ran
down the hill shouting and waving his arms. As he got nearer, he
stooped to pick up a stone and hurled it in the direction of the
marauder. It missed, but the bird was alerted. When it saw the
irate Bosun approaching at the run, arms flailing, it backed away
hissing, head low down like an angry goose. Then it opted for
discretion and took off, winging away in the direction of the
distant mainland.
When the Bosun reached the gull he saw that
it was badly injured and bleeding, so he picked it up and quickly
wrung its neck. Then he saw the egg nearby. The gull must have been
trying to protect it from the skua. He reached down and picked it
up to take home for his tea. But as he turned away, the sight of
the dead mother made him pause. She had given her life to save that
egg; it didn't seem right that he should simply take it home and
eat it, as the skua would have done. That made him little better
than the seagull's killer.
He felt the egg in his pocket; it was very
warm. The mother had obviously been sitting when the skua arrived.
It was right, he felt, that the baby should live, after its
mother's sacrifice. He wondered how near it was to hatching. He
thought for a moment, then came to a decision. Picking up the body
of the dead mother, he turned and walked rapidly back towards his
camp.
It would be something to do, he thought;
something more interesting than simply sitting around waiting to be
rescued. He had never heard of a seagull being reared from the egg,
but there was always a first time. All he had to do, he reasoned,
was keep it warm.
He soon reached his camp and entered the
lean-to hut he had built out of branches and driftwood. Dropping
the dead gull on the floor, he went straight to the smouldering
fire and stoked it up. He placed the still warm egg in a deep
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