Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
10 December, 1936 to 13 December, 1936



Tuesday, December 10th. 1936

Freezing. New “shelter” is not keeping us warm, and firewood is getting hard to find under fresh snow. We can only eat to keep warm, and our supplies will not last at this rate. Getting hard to write. Am rather worried about Molly’s ears, and Helen’s tail. My own feels like an icicle.

    (Later)  We are rescued!  Just in time too. We looked over our supplies and decided that whatever it may cost us in points, we would rather lose points in our survival test to ear tips to frostbite. Molly still had most of her pack of Mortal Danger matches; we had been saving those as they are too valuable when ordinary matches can light the stove. Maria and Helen came steaming back from the beach waving the telescope, Helen panting that there were swimmers in the water about a mile away.

    In five minutes we were up on the headland facing there, Molly improvising a sling from rope and half an empty pemmican tin. She lit a match (they need disturbingly little triggering and are likely to ignite if dropped) and dropped it in the tin – two quick swings and she launched it high above us, spotting magnesium fire and leaving a clear trail of white smoke.  It took another three launches, but the distant swimmers evidently saw us – through the telescope I saw them pointing our way, then four of them struck out for “home” assuming they live on the bigger island. An hour later a powerful launch hove into view, evidently a converted fishing-vessel.

    We are certainly trained to be cautious about accepting lifts from strangers, having experienced the local customs of Krupmark and Cranium Island. But “any port in a storm” as they say, and we were all definitely willing to take a risk.
 
    A muffled-up figure in Oilskins hailed us in English and Russian, and a small whale-boat was launched with half a dozen rowers towards the nearest beach. The crew were all some type of oversized otter, surprisingly scantily clad for the climate but not looking too unhappy about it. By the time the ship’s boat had rounded the point we were waiting for them, our essential kit there (and our food supplies of frozen fish cached in a snowdrift for possible future needs.)

    I had expected some grizzled Alaskan crab fisherman of arctic fox or moose stock – I was quite surprised to hear decidedly cultured American tones from the captain, a grey fox who greeted us and asked if we needed a ride. Molly’s ears pricked up and she whispered “Old Alabama”, but Helen thought Louisiana more likely. At any rate, it was not what one expects to hear in the Sub-Arctic.

    Half an hour’s boat ride took us across the straits to the main island, where we navigated a fjord-like inlet that opened up after a hundred yards into a surprisingly good natural harbour that there is no sign of from the open sea, where one can only see a high rift in the cliffs like many others on that coast. There was a substantial stone jetty there bigger than anything we saw at Dutch Harbour, and looking rather older.

    The captain had introduced himself as Beauregard J. Pennington the Fourth, and welcomed us to the plantation. As the landscape around looked just as bleak as the island we had just left, it was rather a mystery what except icicles they could grow there. (The place must be austere indeed if his family even have to use the same name for four generations rather than being able to afford a new one!) He clapped his paws and barked orders to the crew in a language I did not recognise, then bowed and told us the family would be honoured to receive guests.

    When we came up from the docks I think all four of us stood stock-still in amazement. There was a cliff some three stories high, and in it was carved a house. Cut in the living rock was the front of a pillared classical mansion, with veranda and porch with elegant balustrades. The windows looked normal till one noticed that not all the panes were glass, but the rest were solid dummies carved in the rock to preserve the classical symmetry of the design. I have seen pictures and newsreels of thousand-year old churches in Italian East Africa (Maria does not like to hear anyone using the name Ethiopia any more) that were carved similarly with every detail hewn from solid rock.

    Mr. Pennington The Fourth bowed and waved us forward. Our ears and tails were freezing and we would have probably walked into a house on Krupmark Island prepared to handle whatever threats were inside once our paws had thawed out a little.

    I had not expected to find a fully furnished mansion house out here. The whole place must be built into the mountainside, going back room after room, all brightly lit with electric bulbs. We felt like Great War soldiers coming across an intact and inhabited Chateau full of elegant furs of quality, embarrassed to be mostly wearing mud and battledress rather than evening wear. At least the snow had cleaned our Sidcot Suits to an extent, but it was an awful shock to hear a piano played (quite badly, I thought) from a distant room and realise just how big this place must be.

    A uniformed butler and two maids appeared from a side room, all sea-otters and dressed in rather old-fashioned outfits. Mr. Pennington said something elaborate and we were escorted by the maids to a large bathroom, hardly believing our eyes.

    Half an hour later we were feeling and scenting rather better; there were plain but comfortable frock dresses that Maria thought might be maids’ Sunday best; although we tried all the local languages we know the two otter maids did not understand any of them. The language sounded a bit like they speak in Tillamook, but not quite. If it is one of those Amerindian languages I have heard that they are ferocious things to learn.

    Getting circulation back in our paws and ear-tips was definitely painful, but hopefully we should be spared trench paw. Molly’s ears responded to rubbing, and according to the books should make a full recovery. It is a good thing none of us are of tropical stock; I pity Carmen or Jasbir who are somewhere out in these islands’ weather. Getting clean again was a welcome relief; it would be embarrassing to trail mud through such a nice house.

    Then it was time to meet the Penningtons. We were received very graciously – I thought it best to use my title as Lady Allworthy, while I still have it. The family comprised Mr. Beauregard Pennington, his grizzled father Rhett, and four sisters Lucille, Blanche, Emily and Cindy. They were all very surprised to see us, and were full of questions. Nobody had heard of Songmark, which was not surprising right up here.

    I had not expected to be sitting down under a chandelier drinking tea, this time yesterday! We managed to pick up a surprising story, from what our hosts let slip. Apparently the Penningtons were a prosperous family of plantation-owners seventy years ago, but it was ruined in their Civil War and burned to the ground. Old Mr. Rhett asked Molly and Helen if they were “Yankees” which sounded odd coming from him. Helen seemed to pass the test being mostly from Texas, and Molly quick-wittedly remembered that at that time her mother’s father was in Tennessee. (By her account he was a “road-agent” but she sensibly did not mention that bit. Since first )

    Having lost everything, the family headed West, following gold rushes to Alaska, where they had some luck and accumulated a modest fortune. The life of a mining camp was not to their tastes, and having made money they wanted to get back to the lifestyle they had lost. Unfortunately (so said old Mr. Rhett) the “damn Yankees” had made that quite impossible in their old neighbourhood, so they searched for several years for somewhere suitable.

    Well! I was wondering what a Plantation here could grow, and where the fields were. We had already passed over them without noticing – the crop is kelp, harvested by the sea-otters (“poor benighted heathens” according to Missy Blanche) who are looked after and supported by the Penningtons. Exactly how much support they get for their labour, I did not really like to ask our gracious hosts. Mr. Beauregard mentioned that his family’s know-how made it possible to turn a profit even here; there are caves used to dry the kelp after harvest (a steady wind is guaranteed, after all) and watermills grind it ready to be sold on the open market for all sorts of uses ranging from chicken feed to ice-cream. Apparently they can sell it cheaper than anyone else; one wonders why.

    I could see Helen was having difficulty stopping her ears going flat as she listened. She managed to ask politely what the local Government thought of the arrangement. Old Mr. Rhett gave a wheezy laugh and explained that the Government they agreed it with was the Imperial Russian one! When they first arrived Alaska was still ruled from Moscow, and he has inherited a contract “in perpetuity”. When the Americans bought Alaska they hardly thought about the Aleutians at all, and had happily signed a deal promising all existing businesses should continue “without let or hindrance”. Presumably they thought there were only a few fishermen and prospectors out here, and wanted to encourage them to carry on rather than spend money dealing with revolts in such inaccessible places.

    Helen did ask innocently enough if the Natives moved around to other islands a lot, or if the schools and churches the Penningtons doubtless provided were enough to keep them close. Old Mr. Rhett snorted, and claimed that schools and churches had been the ruination of the old Plantation. Presumably they do not want folk learning about Bolshevism (or voting, for that matter) and as long as they stay “poor benighted heathens” they are looked on as fair game. Giving them preachers and teachers would “give them ideas”.
 
    That said, the sea-otters were not exactly starving or particularly downcast-looking – I gathered that they did get decent food and medical care, but that might just be a matter of keeping them working efficiently. One wonders if it would be a good plan to tell (say) Liberty Morgenstern about the place. Not everyone was contented before the revolution in New Haven either, but hearing about the place now I hardly see an improvement.

    Supper was a lively affair, a huge platter of roast fish with (recognisably bottled) peas and carrots, neither of which are likely to grow around here. The Misses Pennington quizzed us eagerly about fashions and life outside; they were frankly amazed at our accounts of Songmark life. I think I was right to pull on my Lady Allworthy title, as they were much into respectability. I did not mention how I got that title. That might have rather spoiled the effect.

    What with trying to keep our paws and tails from freezing, none of us had been too well rested the last couple of nights, and the sudden warmth and fine meal had us all yawning politely (even Molly tried to be on her best behaviour.) Our hosts were quite attentive; Mr. Beauregard clapped his hands and three sea-otter maids popped out of the side-room to take us to basic but well-appointed guest chambers. One gets the idea that there were once far more Penningtons than there are now, but this is a dangerous place to live.

    At least last year in Vostok I could talk to the servants, even though I had to use my poor French. But it was rather difficult to have a conversation with these when we had only about ten words in common we both recognised from the Tillamook languages – we gave up in the end and retired for the night. Even their names were difficult to pronounce, if indeed they were their personal names; one could have been pointing to herself and saying “I’m in charge of the hot water supply” for all I could tell.

    Helen was extremely unhappy with the situation; though she is far from being a Red she thinks something ought to be done about this. I agreed, but reminded her that we are well-treated Guests here having been rescued from a bad situation and it would be rank ingratitude to our hosts to send trouble their way. Besides, it is hardly as if the locals labour under teams of whip-cracking overseers (that we have noticed, anyway); they work on their own and seem fairly cheerful. More so than the workers filing out of one of Henri Fnord’s car factory in Detroit at the end of a shift, Molly says.

    Caution would have had one of us awake at all times on shifts watching in a strange place while we slept, but there was a substantial bolt on the door and we trusted in that. Besides, we were all worn out and unarmed anyway. Molly had been griping about this all trip, although when Miss Devinski put the question to her before we left Songmark, she gritted her teeth and admitted that for once forty pounds of pemmican might be more use than forty pounds of anti-tank rifle.


Wednesday, 11th December 1936

A strange day, even for a Songmark education. We had a leisurely morning after an excellent night’s sleep, waking when the otter servants tapped on the door carrying breakfast (fish and rice) and our Sidcot suits, which had been cleaned though there was a limit to what could be done for them. They are our only outdoor clothing, after all.

    As soon as we were dressed, all four of the daughters of the household came in as a pack, and carried on where they had left off last night quizzing us about life outside. Fortunately my dorm has seen quite a bit of the world between us, as there was just no end to their questions. It seems they have never left the island, having been educated by their grandmother Scarlett and a since-departed Governess. One gets the impression they have been given a rather partisan view of the world outside. The idea that we are training to be Adventuresses is a rather new one to them – fortunately the idea that Maria is not far off a Princess (something she denies furiously and tried to point out how Italy is actually run, to little comprehension) and I am technically a Lady (right this minute, until I can arrange otherwise)  rather helped settle their minds.

    It seems that the Pennington family have their own ships that can get as far as Dutch Harbour, where they offload the kelp meal and their agent handles the dealings with the rest of the world. So they are doubly insulated; nobody from the outside world comes to this island and very few even know they are there. Even with a detailed aerial survey only the dock is visible, and that would need one of the rare breaks in the weather to see it. In this part of the world I doubt anyone has ever bothered.

    Before lunch we were taken on a tour of the “plantation” – in the same massif the house is cut into, there are enlarged natural caves in which hundreds of tons of kelp dry. With these temperatures it does not spoil before the howling wind dries it pretty thoroughly. Two forty-foot waterwheels hidden in ravines power the grinding mills and are geared-up to run dynamos for lighting the house. Before that, Missy Emily recounted with a shiver her Grandmother’s tales of having to depend on whale oil and fish oil lamps.

    Helen rather bore the brunt of their more social questions, having the nearest accent to their own. From what I gathered, their family had kept up a very long-distance correspondence with other grand old families in their homeland even though many were in “sadly reduced circumstances”. Via various involved routes, their mother and grandmother had come over to preside over the last plantation, and they were wondering when they would be allowed to “write away” for prospective suitors. Only grey foxes, one assumes.

    Hmm.  From what Helen has said of her countrymen, the chances of someone wanting to leave everything behind and colonise this island forever seem slim, no matter what the Depression is throwing at them. A life here could be depressing enough as it is, unless someone was keen on the rugged beauties of the landscape and the tender beauties of the Pennington girls. No wonder there are fewer Penningtons around than there used to be. For all the daughters’ charms and apparent wealth, anyone coming out here may have riches but nowhere to spend them. Their social graces do not seem to include dancing the Charleston or anything newer for that manner, and though they have mentioned jazz music (there is evidently a radio around here somewhere) it is in the same tones of pious horror Eva Schiller tends to use.
 
    We asked to see the Aleut village, which caused some consternation and not a little puzzlement, as if we had asked to inspect the drains. Our spirits were actually lifted a little when we got to the far side of the island, to find a well-built cluster of sturdy stone houses all very neat and tidy, with quite spacious and clean rooms filled with Native artwork, carvings and a few essentials brought in from outside such as paraffin lamps. Certainly the Penningtons put some of their wealth back into their workforce. On the other paw, most of the materials and all the labour was probably local so there might not have been too much wealth involved.

    Luncheon was a brief affair with the menfolk away working at the docks and only the daughters there to quiz us. Helen rather staggered them announcing that she was Engaged – and they wanted to know all the details. Possibly it is just as well their brother and father were elsewhere, for Helen is quite forthright at times. I had whispered that it might not do to go into much detail about being “Tailfast” rather than what they think of as Engaged, as this family might get rather upset at the idea of a Euro girl wedding a Native in a Native ceremony. They would have been still more shocked to hear that I planned exactly the same.

Missy Blanche had been saying she hoped she could write off and get a handsome husband one day soon – I would have thought there were potentially plenty at the far end of the island, but if they had not thought of the idea I was not going to suggest it to our hosts! I remember our Albert Island trip back in Easter, where there was that pair of sea-otter brothers that Beryl happily staked a temporary claim on. There are various ways Nature has equipped sea-otters for life mostly in the water that we have heard of, and Beryl does occasionally tell the truth if it is alarming enough. We were certainly warned by Mrs. Oelabe that they are one of the species that the Spontoon Native style of Precautions will not work reliably against. It is not just their fur that is waterproof.

    The day passed comfortably, and when Helen announced we were retiring for an afternoon nap it was accepted without comment. Actually as soon as the door was bolted she called an immediate “Chinese Parliament” as to how we should get out of here immediately. I had to agree – not because I have much to fear from our hosts (if there were four brothers rather than sisters contemplating matrimony in the family it might be different) but we are due to be picked up on the next island, and with the best will in the world we could get stranded here unable to cross in time. True, weather that bad would probably stop Captain Anuninjac being able to pick us up anyway, but we have to be there and waiting on time.

    I can see what Helen means about this place – but unless we can talk to the locals we can hardly judge how happy they are with the situation. The Aleuts outnumber the Penningtons thirty to one and there is no Police, military or any other Authority supporting the status quo – so it can hardly be that bad or they would either have revolted or voted with their (swimming) paws to leave years ago.  By repute the sea-otters can swim for days, and getting to other islands in the chain should be possible at least in Summer.

    Actually, we did receive an offer at suppertime – old Mr. Rhett extended us the hospitality of the house till Spring, and hoped we could keep his grand-daughters company. I can see they need it, but we are not the ones.  We have our Tutors awaiting us fairly shortly, and all of us have other folk waiting on Spontoon. Helen and I have our Warrior Priestess training to continue, even when we are not in term-time, and the Hoele’toemi brothers would wonder where we were.
 
    I suppose it is a great complement that people keep wanting to retain our services – the Johnsons in (New) New South Zion wanted me to join their family back in September, and even in our first Easter holiday the Noenoke fisher clan gave us all a standing invite that one could indeed do worse than take up. But we had to respectfully decline, explaining we have a Duty to get back. The Penningtons put much store on Duty, and quite understood.

    Still, we managed to do a few things for them. Missy Emily asked if we could teach them any new tunes, and indeed a lot of their music books must have been in the house when old Mr. Rhett was a cub. I sat down at the piano and discovered one reason it had sounded so bad – it had evidently not been tuned since it got here, whenever that was. Out here it is not a matter of leafing through the tradesman’s book and asking if they can come round on Tuesday, and presumably the climate is not kind to precisely shaped instruments.

    Amazingly, Molly came to the rescue. She has mentioned her Father’s speakeasy chain always being loud with pianos (as well as gun-fire; on one occasion business rivals even shot the piano-player as an “asset to deny to the enemy”). She picked up a few technical tricks, and despite this pianoforte not having the loud pedal permanently wired down, she was familiar enough with the layout to improve matters greatly. It seems some speakeasies were highly secure places where it was bad policy to let an unknown workman turn up with supposedly a bag of tools that was likely to contain something more explosive.

    It will be something Miss Devinski will certainly be checking up on when she reads Molly’s report – “Aleutian Islands experiences: survived in Arctic waters, built rock shelter, foraged for food, tuned baby grand piano.” Just as well the rest of us can vouch for it!

    I played what old country songs I could remember from school, guessing that any attempt at the current swing and jazz based Hit Parade would not be well received.  Neither do I know the chords for the latest film songs with “Wing” Crosby and Dorothy Llama that everyone is humming on Casino Island. Even some songs I knew in the nursery were new here, and I had to sing them several times while the four sisters eagerly made notes in quite accurate musical score. Evidently their Governess had taught them traditional social skills but very little “Realpolitik”. Though one part of me rather wishes they had more … opportunities for agreeable company, another part rather winces at the idea of those four Misses on their own in any big city. It is just as well Beryl did not find them.

    Still, we exchanged addresses, at least via their company Agent in Dutch Harbour. Molly whispered this may come back to bite us, and she has visions of seeing headlines “Aleutian Indentured servants rise in Red Terror revolt!” and finding the four camped on our doorsteps one morning with an undeniable claim on our Hospitality. As to their wondering if we knew any suitable gentlemen to correspond with, I had to disappoint them and confirm that although there are grey foxes in Spontoon, I rather doubted there are any with the long-established social rank and Pedigree they would be looking for. Actually, I doubt any Spontoonie would want to come here having seen the climate; Spontoon is famous for having no coconuts growing there but here the main vegetation is arctic willow, sphagnum moss and lichen with hardly a blade of grass to be seen, let alone a palm tree. The only grey fox on Spontoon of distinguished family I know originating from their part of the world is Spontoon’s Chief of Police, who is already a happily and faithfully married Todd by all appearances. Thinking of which, the … social arrangements could get crowded if all four girls get husbands and bring them back here. It is a lot to hope that they would get on well together in the house, and there is little chance to go elsewhere in an Aleutian winter.

    It is pitch dark here by four in the afternoon, which rather restricts the opportunities of crossing back to our original island. For all we know there may be a flat calm around midnight tonight, but with no lighthouses or accurate charts nobody in their right minds would risk night crossings in these waters. I am sure Krupmark and Cranium Island have captains who would do it and laugh, but those are places where nobody worries about their retirement bonus.

    A fine last evening! Mr. Beauregard promised the boat would be ready at first light, awaiting any chance to cross. In the meantime we did our best to repay their hospitality, being the only unfettered voices from outside they have talked to in a long time. Not that we were too unfettered; I had dire visions of Molly telling them about our exploits on the Parsifal fighting off the Moro pirates with pom-pom gun and tetryl explosive charges, or describing one of Lars’ parties in detail. Despite the dire things our Tutors hint, in fact Lars is not at all jealous and has frequently introduced her to various gentlemen of various species at his party who she has got on very comrehensively with (far more than I think looks fun, but Molly has a wider range of interests in some respects) Fortunately she kept her snout shut on such matters and I think we at least sounded respectable.

    Helen did her best to communicate with the Aleuts, but I think we really would need to stay the winter here to make much progress on that language. I know some Tillamook languages have words that can have up to thirty independent prefixes and the same number of suffixes – which makes a comprehensive grammar rather complex. No wonder one rarely hears of them being touted as rivals to Esperanto and Volapuk as candidates to a world standard.

    Molly speculated as to just who knows of this place; having been “grandfathered in” as residents, the plantation might not show up on anyone’s accounts. I doubt they are keen on being registered citizens ruled ultimately from Washington, having heard much fulmination about “damn Yankees.” Molly reflected that both her own Father and Mr. Capone (a fur she still admires for his style and ruthlessness) were brought down for not paying taxes, and as Mr. Rhett claims he has the lowest overheads in the kelp market I supect he fills in no tax forms for anyone. To be fair, he gets absolutely nothing from any Government anywhere, but Inspectors never listen to that sort of excuse and one wonders what a seventy year tax bill with compound interest would look like.
 
   
Thursday December 12th, 1936

Back in the freezer. Maria grumbles that she knows how a side of beef feels when it is put into the cold store. We were called before dawn, there being a favourable wind (and not too much of it), and with Mr. Beauregard we hurried down to the docks clad in our Sidcot suits, grateful for the loan of ten square yards of industrial tarpaulin usually carried as a boat spare. We promised to leave it weighed down, and he assured us he would send the Aleuts out to find it at the end of the week. Of course, if we are still stuck on the island by then it is not just the tarpaulin that will need rescuing.

    We were only just in time; by the time we were half-way across the straits when the wind-speed doubled. The nearest beach was suddenly far too dangerous to land on, and Mr. Beauregard had to circle round to the lee side to find anything remotely suitable. Even so we had to dive into waist-deep water and splash ashore, soaking our suits in the process. Actually it was a race to get ashore feeling the elastic bands tied tight around our boot-tops losing the battle of keeping the Bering Sea out – I was up to my waist but by the time I got onto dry (well, damp) land the water level inside the suit had barely reached my knees, which is better than it might have been. By the time we were ashore and turned to wave farewell the boat was already vanishing out of sight behind a snow squall.

    Having dined well the previous day and with a hearty breakfast in us (in Helen’s case recently in her at least – she makes sure to swallow plenty of sugars in such cases as it is the only thing she has time to digest)  we could make top speed across to our old hut site carrying the precious tarpaulin between us.  Since leaving the winds had sculpted the drifts very differently, and in twenty yard visibility we hardly recognised the landscape at all.  Great cornices and ice-sculptures clung to the crags, and we had to dig through four feet of snow to even find the floor of our hut.

    A busy morning followed, mostly snow-clearing and hauling fallen stones back into place with exceedingly chilled paws. The snow was better for building than it had been; earlier it was fine, dry and as free-running as the sand in an hourglass, and just as hard to pile up into a wall. At last we could put into practice some of the designs we have read of and by the end of the day we were back in shelter, with two feet of snow plastered on the outside of the wall keeping it windproof. With a little repair my clay stove was back in action and as night fell we could relax in some decent shelter again. Unfortunately the peat we had stacked was just a brown sludge, and we thought longingly of the drying caves the Pennington Plantation had available.

    Having the stove working let us start to dry our Sidcot suits and get some warmth back into our paws as we took stock again of our provisions. If we could rely on being picked up on time I would think them ample – as it is, we will find out how adequate they may be when we are rescued. I think we all had visions of Captain Anuninjac being stranded somewhere in the Delarof Islands at the far end of the chain, waiting for a new crankshaft to be flown out from Anchorage (weather permitting, which means probably Not permitting, around here.) Of course we had a Plan B, C and D, especially as the Penningtons promised to send their Aleuts over here next week to retrieve the tarpaulin we borrowed. Maria says that one could do worse than being forced to accept their offer of hospitality over the winter, and if we tired of the Plantation-house company there is always “anthropomorphology research” to be tried with the locals. Although the Plantation folk may see them as untouchable, we could have our own opinions as to who is untouchable, socially and otherwise. Perhaps it is just as well Helen and I will be getting Tailfast to the Hoele’toemi brothers this Solstice, as all this Adventuring is having an … effect on me. The nights are awfully long, and although Molly, Maria and Helen are excellent company – we could all wish for more variety.


Friday 13th December, 1936

(Written in Dutch Harbour, much to my surprise)   
A surprising end to our trip! When we ventured out of our shelter at first light to collect snow for melting, there was a clear spell and in a trice Helen had the telescope out. It was Captain Anuninjac’s ship, rather early, heading towards us at top speed. There was a rapid breaking of camp and swallowing of pemmican, and with a brief but heartfelt backward glance we said farewell to our freshly rebuilt hut and headed towards the beach. One of Molly’s last Mortal Danger matches served as a flare again; it is a big enough island to spot four furs on and there is no one beach that a captain would automatically steer towards even if he knew the island well.
 
    Captain Anuninjac hailed us at two hundred yards, and this time the ship’s boat was lowered. It was a great relief to see Prudence and co. waving on the deck; they looked fit and well, and not as battered as I am sure we did.  In two minutes we were onboard with all our kit (except the original tarpaulin we “wrote off”) and giving Miss Devinski a brief first report. She gave us a cursory look over, asked if we have any injuries needing treatment, and informed us we were the last to be picked up.  The weather was even worse this year than last year, and it was getting plain dangerous. Having Songmark girls unable to fly an aircraft and graduate because of fingers lost to frostbite, wouls not look good on the prospectus next year.

    Actually, Prudence and co. look quite sleek and well fed, while we have certainly lost a lot of weight. Prudence says they were lucky, having found a snug cave and the storm that washed up the fish to us brought them hundreds of Alaskan crabs! Better even than fish. Ada is limping with a sprained ankle, but otherwise they say they all managed to keep warm. I could see Molly’s ears going right down as she thought about that, although she generally gets on very well with that dorm. Not well enough to relish a fortnight with them in a snug cavern, though.

    We counted out our remaining provisions under our Tutors’ watchful eye and ever-present notebook; two pounds of chocolate, six tins of pemmican and three pounds of dried manioc flakes. Not many days’ ration for the four of us, although we included about twenty pounds of cached fish guts that we could dig up if hard-pressed. All-in-all, it is just as well Captain Anuninjac arrived on time.

    (Later) A stormy crossing to Dutch Harbour, with us arriving just in time. An hour after we helped secure the ship, the visibility was down to nil. We could see the Lockheed Lamprey was already there, pulled out of the water on a landing-trolley and with two dozen battleship-sized cables lashing it to rock bolts that evidently get a lot of use. Everybody was back in the warehouse we had left nearly two weeks earlier, some looking far more battered than us, and Madeleine X’s four were wading into the first meal they had had for three days. I will have to ask Susan de Ruiz what happened there, rather than Madeleine or the other two. *

    Just as we were settling down, Miss Wildford came in looking cheerful (her usual mood) and announced the weather has cleared, but we have to go instantly to stand much chance of getting away tonight. So a dozen half-eaten lunches were abandoned and we slung on our packs, heading back to the harbour to help release the Lamprey from its protective lashings. So assuming we get it in the water before the weather closes again – farewell Aleutians!


*  (Editor’s note: although with the exception of the three-strong dorm headed by Missy K, every Songmark dorm has four junior Adventuresses in it. Who the other two in Madeleine X’s dorm may be, or even their species or nationality, comprises a surprising hole in Amelia’s diary – until this point their very existence has had to be inferred. There must be a reason, but as Amelia has said nothing more about it, it may remain lost to History.)


Amelia's Diary continues in "Christmas Present"
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