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“GRIPPING. . . . Rogers’s gritty, atmospheric
tale is skillfully told.”
—Publishers Weekly
 $24.95

MOTOO EETEE
Shipwrecked at the
Edge of the World

Four men swim for their lives from the

senseless wreck of the American sealing ship
Dove: Thomas, a headstrong young sailor;
Harrison, the affable, inventive ship’s
carpenter; Mr. Morgen, the Dove’s pedestrian
first mate; and the aging Captain Tobit—
a short-sighted bungler. Battered, empty-
handed, and stripped naked, they wash up
on an isolated and uncharted yet bountiful
volcanic island rich with all they need to
survive and thrive.
But almost immediately, the two crewmen
realize that, for their fanatical captain, hierarchy
outstrips human need. As they set up shelter
and forage for food, he insists upon main-
taining the old divisions between officers and
crew. Consumed by a zealot’s vision of
founding a colony on what he imagines as a
cannibal archipelago, he disparages every
discovery—the strange creatures they kill for
meat and hides; the tubers that supplement
their diet; a large log they might hollow out as
a canoe—and dominates all decisions. When
an almost-certain escape for all of them is
thwarted, the rift between Thomas and the
captain becomes a gulf.
The survival of all four characters is
jeopardized by the two officers’ struggle to
control the men once under their command.
Desperately at odds, the castaways find their
fate inextricably intertwined with the island at
the cataclysmic climax of this powerful book.
Motoo
Eetee
 Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press
BY ALEXANDER KENT BY DEWEY LAMBDIN
Midshipman Bolitho The French Admiral
Stand into Danger
BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT
In Gallant Company
Frank Mildmay OR
Sloop of War
The Naval Officer
To Glory We Steer
The King’s Own
Command a King’s Ship
Mr Midshipman Easy
Passage to Mutiny
Newton Forster OR
With All Despatch
The Merchant Service
Form Line of Battle!
Snarleyyow OR
Enemy in Sight!
The Dog Fiend
The Flag Captain
The Privateersman
Signal–Close Action!
The Phantom Ship
The Inshore Squadron
A Tradition of Victory BY JAN NEEDLE
Success to the Brave A Fine Boy for Killing
Colours Aloft! The Wicked Trade
Honour this Day
BY IRV C. ROGERS
The Only Victor
Motoo Eetee
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea BY NICHOLAS NICASTRO
For My Country’s Freedom The Eighteenth Captain
Cross of St George
BY C. NORTHCOTE PARKINSON
Sword of Honour
The Guernseyman
Second to None
Devil to Pay
Relentless Pursuit
The Fireship
BY DUDLEY POPE
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL
Ramage
Wreck of the Grosvenor
Ramage & The Drumbeat
Yarn of Old Harbour Town
Ramage & The Freebooters
Governor Ramage R.N. BY RAFAEL SABATINI
Ramage’s Prize Captain Blood
Ramage & The Guillotine
BY MICHAEL SCOTT
Ramage’s Diamond
Tom Cringle’s Log
Ramage’s Mutiny
Ramage & The Rebels BY A.D. HOWDEN SMITH
The Ramage Touch Porto Bello Gold
Ramage’s Signal
BY DOUGLAS REEMAN
Ramage & The Renegades
Badge of Glory
Ramage’s Devil
First to Land
Ramage’s Trial
Ramage’s Challenge BY R.F. DELDERFIELD
Too Few for Drums
BY DAVID DONACHIE
Seven Men of Gascony
The Devil’s Own Luck
The Dying Trade BY V.A. STUART
A Hanging Matter Victors and Lords
An Element of Chance The Sepoy Mutiny
Massacre at Cawnpore
Motoo
Eetee
Shipwrecked
at the Edge of the
World

IRV C. ROGERS

MCBOOKS PRESS
ITHACA, NEW YORK
 Published by McBooks Press 2002
Copyright © I.C. Rogers 2001

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any
portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
without the written permission of the publisher.
Requests for such permissions should be addressed to
McBooks Press, 120 West State Street, Ithaca, NY 14850.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rogers, Irv C.
Motoo eetee: shipwrecked at the edge of the world. / by Irv C. Rogers.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59013-018-9 (alk. paper)
1. Survival after airplane accidents, shipwrecks, etc.—Fiction 2. Sealing
ships—Fiction. 3. Ship captains—Fiction. 4. Pacific Islands—Fiction.
5. Shipwrecks—Fiction. 6. Sailors—Fiction. 7. Islands—Fiction. I. Title
PS3618.O46 M68 2002
823'.6—dc21 20020000234

All McBooks Press publications can be ordered by calling toll-free

1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711).
Please call to request a free catalog.

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my wife, Emilia
Motoo Eetee
“Little Island”
 M PREFACE N

IN THE FIRST two decades of the 19th century, sealing vessels

from America and the New South Wales Colony landed gangs on the
lower coasts of New Zealand and on the remote islands far to the south
of that country. They were a wide spectrum of men—New England
farm lads, a few aborigines and kanakas (Polynesians), lascars, paroled
and escaped convicts. In the earlier years, fur seals were plentiful and
brought good prices, and even the green hands with log clubs and
well-honed knives might earn far more than the ten or twelve dollars
a month that was the seaman’s wage. Yet it was a perilous life coast-
ing in a whaleboat and making landings through the surf. Men were
injured, killed by natives, and drowned in oversets. Little note was
taken of the harshness of their lives or, beyond their immediate fam-
ilies, of their deaths and disappearances.
They lived for months in hovels and skinned the fur seals of their
valuable hides while the vessel that had stationed them there went off
to other islands. The location of a new rookery was never purposely
revealed. Secrecy was necessary to keep competitors from moving in
on the rich pickings, yet if the ship was lost, no one would be aware
of the sealers left behind in the rookeries. Some men were rescued by
other ships happening upon their isle. But others were marooned,
some for as long as seven years, while surviving on seal meat, shell-
fish, and seabirds’ eggs. Their individual histories were rarely recorded
and, of those that were known, almost none was ever related in any
detail. They have been lost to history, yet each one might have been
as fascinating as that of Alexander Selkirk, the real castaway fictional-
ized by Defoe as Robinson Crusoe.

VII
VIII M OTOO E ETEE

It was a short-lived “fishery” carried on at the edge of the known

world. In little more than twenty years, the seals were reduced to near-
extinction. When their ship had been loaded with skins and, in the
later years, with the addition of oil rendered from sea elephants, the
men faced a long cruise halfway around the earth to return home. The
world was much larger then, when it was measured in voyages that
lasted many months. In that larger world, secrets were more numer-
ous.
IRV C. ROGERS
FALL 2001
 M ACKNOWLEDGMENTS N

THE MANY PEOPLE who helped this book reach print are scattered
from New England to California, and across the Pacific to Guam, New
Zealand, and Tasmania.
Foremost among them are Barbara Manning, John Wylie, and the
late George Seng, who supplied an unfailing optimism and proffered
valuable suggestions for years. Andrea Sim of Auckland located and
provided the key history of sealing that shaped the adventure. Frank
Conley, a friend of long standing, gave expert advice on the weapons
of the period. Descriptive material regarding the appearance of Ston-
ington in the early 19th century was kindly sent to me by Mary
Thacher of the Stonington Historical Society. Pam Eastlick of the Uni-
versity of Guam ferreted out obscure information about constellations
that I was unable to locate in hours of searching. Judie Swartz, my
daughter, printed out reams of copy and explained the quirks of com-
puters to me. Others of my family gave encouragement and tolerated
the books, papers, maps, and equipment that took over space in the
house.
—I.C.R.
SALINAS, CALIFORNIA
DECEMBER 2001

IX
 M CHAPTER N
1

EVEN BEFORE rounding Five Fingers Point, the

barque rose and dipped on the reaching, unhindered
waves of the Great Southern Sea. With the swells came a fresh wind
blowing through her rigging, never varying in its strength and direc-
tion. The stays, shrouds, and the lines of the running gear, each boused
to a different tensity, produced a keening in the ears of those on deck
every hour of the days and nights as their northerly course angled
away from the abrupt coast of the Middle Island.
Old Will craned his neck and stared high overhead. Without shift-
ing his eyes from the stunsail, he reached over and laid his hand on
the boom brace belayed at the rail. His callused fingers curled around
the line and held it in a firm grip.
“Here, Thomas,” he muttered, “put your hand o’ that.” The old
sailor lisped through a gap left by some missing teeth. He always swore
he had not lost them to age but as a youth, when he was struck square
in the mouth by a block that had parted its strap.
The young sailor grabbed the line above Will’s grasp.
“There, d’ye feel the strain in the fiber?” Will asked.
Thomas clenched the brace tighter and felt its vibrations. The stun-
sail was bellied out drum-tight by the wind, and its leeches shivered
and passed the tremors down the straining line to his hand. He nod-
ded, agreeing with his watch-mate.
“She wasn’t meant for a wind like this,” Will grumbled and gave
his head a shake. “No, we’ve too much on as ’tis, but ol’ Tobit’ll not
be satisfied till he’s got every mile. Damn! Never seen him t’ carry on
like this afore.”

1
2 M OTOO E ETEE

Will’s bearded and wrinkled face remained turned up to the rig-

ging. Thomas watched the old sailor’s eyes narrowed against the cold
wind. His attention shifted to Will’s worn monkey jacket. Its collar
was frayed to threads and both elbows were patched with scraps of
sailcloth sewn on with neat overcast stitching. The jacket was but-
toned to the top, and he had also wrapped a wool scarf around his
neck to bar the cold and dampness. Its short ends fluttered erratically
in the wind.
Thomas’s clothing was in a like poor condition. Skinning the beasts
and the boat work around the islands had been hard on his clothes,
more so than the duties aboard the barque. He had patched his duck
trousers over each knee and now even the patches were wearing
through. Spots and streaks of tar were pressed into the once-white
fabric from leaning against the standing rigging and from working
tarred hemp in his lap. When he took them off and held them up,
the creases and strained weave held the very shape of his body. He
knew he must sew at least one new pair for the voyage home or look
beggarly when he arrived in Boston or New York. He certainly could-
n’t return to the Longpoint in rags after such a success on the grounds.
Thomas leaned his head back to look at the sail Will was watch-
ing. “I hope it holds,” he wished aloud. “I don’t fancy reeving new
lines before our watch is out.”
“Ho, lad! We’ll be up there ’less the wind eases,” Will replied, then
faced Thomas and complained, “Ah, don’t grumble so. For sure I’m
one that’s too old to be ’loft. I’m not light and springy like you no
more. No, not a wicker like you. My bones are brittle now and all
damned sore ’tween ’em.”
Thomas regarded the part of Will’s face visible between his gray-
ing beard and the brim of his battered hat. Years of exposure to the
sun and raw wind had ruddied his cheeks. Little red veins, fine as lint,
formed a network beneath the skin, and from the outer end of each
eyelid a pinch of small wrinkles fanned back across the temple. With
his tarpaulin pushed back, the fore part of his bald head was always
visible, and when he took the hat off in the fo’c’s’le, his hairless pate
M OTOO E ETEE 3

had the shine of a glazed bowl in the lamplight. A beneficent smile

was always there to soften Will’s weathered face. Thomas recalled it
from the first days of the voyage when the old tar’s hands had guided
his in bending a sail or reeving a luff tackle.
Most of the crew allowed he was the best man in the Dove, though
pointing out that Gabe, Harrison, and Jack were good in their own
ways. Will had been out many times for pelts and oil and, like Mr.
Morgen and Harrison, had been in privateers during the war. Yet it
was his gritty acceptance of his lot as a foremast hand that impressed
Thomas. He had no other trade and would continue as a topman until
he could no longer climb up the futtock shrouds or sidle out on the
footrope. Perhaps he would then earn enough as a ship-keeper in New
York or Boston to feed and clothe himself and buy his week’s portion
of tobacco.
“How many voyages have you made in the fisheries?” the lad asked.
Thomas knew, the entire crew, except the lascars, knew how many
times he had been out. The old sailor had recited all his adventures
in the night watches and in the fo’c’s’le. He was almost the equal of
Gabe, the master of the yarn in the starboard watch.
Gabe claimed to have seen monstrous creatures swimming in the
sea and crawling around the rocks of uninhabited coasts. He told one
story about a small island he had visited off the coast of Chile where
the savages were so rude and unlearned they did not have fire and
were terrified when they first saw it, thinking it was lightning spring-
ing from the earth. Once on a calm night far out at sea he had heard
voices, women’s voices. He swore to it, holding an open hand up to
impress his listeners with the truth of it. “Sigh-reens” he called them,
women close by but unseen who had breathed to him sweet and firm
promises of their oyster baskets.
Will’s tales were more believable. Thomas’s question to him was
simply to tease out another story. Will could guess that, but he never
let on that he did, for he savored retelling and reliving all the times
of excitement and awe in his life as much as his listeners. They all
knew the destination of each voyage, the number of skins taken, and
4 M OTOO E ETEE

the amount of sperm and black oil rendered. Even a recital of those
well-known tales made the watches seem shorter.
The old sailor kept his hand on the brace and lowered his gaze to
the horizon. His head tilted a little to his left as he made the effort to
recall his trips at sea. “Let me see. . . . First, three times after the whale.
That was Greenland and the Brazils. Then it was to Masy Foora for
skins and on to Canton for a China cargo.” He let go of the line and
counted on his fingers as he enumerated his voyages. “Then a year in
privateers and coasters during the war. To the South Georgias twice
for seal. Now, this time again for fur and oil. That will be seven times
after the seal and whale, ’bout fifteen . . . sixteen year when we make
Stonington again. Afore that it was the sugar trade.”
“That was to Jamaica,” Thomas prompted.
“Aye, Jamaica and Matanzas,” Will answered. “Molasses, sugar, rum,
and the fever.”
“And pirates,” the lad put in.
“Pirates, oh yes, pirates. Off Santiagy where you’d expect ’em for
sure. I told you that tale.”
“Yes, how they came up on you in the night.”
“Aye, we suspicioned when we saw them with no light. We loaded
our guns with bar and chain shot and carried away her rigging. Left
the Spaniard in a trice. Hee, hee, hee. That was something we learned
well from them.” Will’s laugh died away as he looked aloft again. He
eyed the studding sail and tugged at the brace and warned, “Mark me,
lad, something will part soon.”
The wind driving the barque on her northerly course came from
the west-southwest and struck the barque on her larboard quarter.
Thomas began coiling and stowing the extra line of the running
gear. He looked over the rail as he worked and watched the white-
capped swells rolling toward the ship from the same direction as the
wind. On the leeward side of the vessel, their receding backs at any
given instant appeared to be surfaces of chipped, smoke-hued glass.
When the subdued colors of dawn had spread over the sea that
morning, scattered clouds had become visible drifting northeast and
M OTOO E ETEE 5

had grown in bulk and height from midday on, boiling up higher and
higher.
The barque heaved forward into the troughs until the horizon could
not be seen from the deck. She bore up sluggishly as each crest came
under her keel, but the heavy press of canvas kept her heeled over.
Across the sternboard of the vessel were the words: “Dove, Ston-
ington” carved out in raised letters and painted white. Below these
was the figure of a bird also carved in relief. Its wings were spread as
if in flight, and its head was turned to its right, showing a single eye.
The eye was just a cavity in the wood that, at one time, might have
been set with a bit of glass. Now, the bird stared blankly astern. The
paint on it and on the names was weathered and peeling, especially
on the harder grain. The sternboard was split in its entire length, and
the wing tips of the bird had fallen off or had been knocked loose,
making it appear dumpy and incapable of a soaring flight.
Thomas watched the stunsail again for any weakness, then his gaze
moved up to the topgallant yard. He remembered he was up there
standing on the horse the day they left Stonington Port. A chill wind
was blowing out of the northeast when the newly painted Dove was
cast loose and warped out. It had made his eyes water, and, in its
crisp, icy feel on the skin of his face and hands, he felt the cold and
severity of another coming winter or perhaps another strange year like
1816. In his ignorance he thought he was evading the harsh season,
but many months later he had been plunged into worse weather far
below the equinoctial line. From the height of that yard he had been
able to see from a different perspective the town he had known since
he was four years old. He had picked out the ropewalks, the shops,
the churches, the kiln dock and the marshland beyond it. The trees
in and to the northeast of Stonington were fast losing their leaves then.
The blustering wind had stripped them from the branches and swirled
them around the weathered houses and over rickety fences. In short
lulls they had settled to the ground, only to be scooped again from
the derelict garden plots, pig pens, and rutted roads, and carried
toward the harbor. When they reached the dock, the leaves had sailed
6 M OTOO E ETEE

around and over the score of people gathered there to watch the Dove
depart for the southern fishery. Then they had lost their momentum
over the inlet and fluttered down onto the water. Between the wharf
and the moving stern of the barque, hundreds of scarlet leaves pat-
terned the dark surface of the harbor. More and more had fallen each
minute in zigzagging descents to the water. The Dove, responding to
the warp and nudged by the same wind that scattered the leaves,
moved away from the land. In the eddies of her wake, the reddened
bits of flotsam gyred into the murk.
Thomas had known nearly all the people who stood on the wharf
that day, yet only his father and Isabel drew his eyes and held them.
Father was taller than most of the others there and, unlike any of
them, he had not waved to the departing crew. Thomas was puzzled,
even piqued by that omission then, having thought they had come to
an agreement. Or had Father changed his mind? Had the old melan-
choly taken him again? The men of both watches except those turning
the windlass and tending the running gear had spread out on the yards
to loose the sails and wave a hearty farewell to their shore-bound kin.
They shouted hurrahs, fired with their prospects yet laden with good-
byes, over and over. Thomas didn’t feel like such a display, but when
he saw Isabel’s face framed in the circle of her bonnet and saw her
shake a handkerchief, he joined in. His right hand gripped his tar-
paulin hat, and he waved it port to starboard in a wide arc over his
head.
Ned, the smaller boy aboard, had overheard Mr. Morgen say it
would be a two-year voyage. Jack guessed two and a half or three
years, saying it would take that long to fill the hold. Seals had been
scarce of late. No one knew for sure, not even the older hands who
had been out for seal and train oil before. It would all depend on their
fortune in the rookeries. Thomas remembered thinking he would not
see Stonington again until late 1820 or even 1821. He had reasoned
with Father that it was not too long a time to be away. He was almost
sure to make more than wages in that time and might gain a small
fortune. Many other lads had left for the grounds and had done far
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