Marooned

Intended for children ages 11 to 12 years old.


Martin gazed out of the window of Bella Pasta at the crowds of people wandering aimlessly around Leicester Square. Most of them, like Martin and his mother, were tourists attracted to this small area of London more by it’s name than by anything in particular to see. He wiped tomato sauce from his mouth and drained the last of the Coke, crunching the ice-cubes loudly.

"You little thief!" exclaimed Martin’s mum as she tucked the restaurant receipt into her purse. "That was my drink." She dropped a few coins on the table for the waiter. "You’re for it now," she said, trying to sound scary, and failing. "Come with me, I’ve got the perfect punishment."

They waded their way out of the square through the crush of people past the stalls selling plastic policeman helmets, Union-Jack Flags and T-Shirts with maps of the London Underground printed on them. They went a short way down the busy street until Martin’s mum started up wide steps towards a large entrance.

"What’s this place?" said Martin, looking at the stone columns either side of the double doors.

"It’s called the National Portrait Gallery" Martin’s mum reached for the brass handle. "It has an amazing collection of paintings."

"Amazing… NOT", thought Martin as he followed his mother past the grand stone staircase and into a fancy old room. "There’s hundreds of paintings. I’m going to be stuck here for ages." Sighing Martin plonked himself down on a bench and took out his GameBoy.

Nearby two people were talking about the paintings. "Ah! Yes. This one is of Robert Jeffery. He was marooned on a remote island for stealing a drink don’t you know?"

Martin glanced up. "Marooned for stealing a drink." I can relate to that he thought.

"His is quite an interesting story really." The speaker was a tall man with unruly hair and a deep voice. He looked like Dr. Who from TV, the one with the long scarf and jelly babies. He was with another man who wore an old fashioned jacket that had those funny patches on the elbows. They were looking at a painting of a desperate young man who was half-lying on a rugged rock that was being pounded by fierce waves. "Robert Jeffery was a poor simple teenager from Cornwall pressed into service on the warship HMS Recruit in the early eighteen hundreds."

"Pressed?" Interrupted the other man, twisting his moustache.

"That is where men were tricked or taken by force to serve in the Navy."

"Kidnapped?" Moustache’s eyebrows shot up.

"Sort of. Anyway, the ship was sailing to the West Indies when young Jeffery was caught stealing beer. HMS Recruit’s cruel Captain Lake’s punishment was to abandon Jeffery on the remote island of Sombrero. An inhospitable place without food or water."

"Just for stealing beer? Outrageous!"

Dr. Who ran a hand through his hair, to no effect. "When the admiral found out he thought so too and ordered the captain to return and pick the poor chap up." He tousled his beard too. "They didn’t get back to the island until two months later."

"Surely Jeffery couldn’t have survived that long without food and water?"

"As it turned out he didn’t have to," Dr. Who continued. "Luckily a passing American schooner rescued him after nine days." Dr. Who leaned closer to Moustache. "The evil captain didn’t get off scot-free though. In fact the Admiralty in London and even Parliament became involved and the captain was court-martialled and dismissed." He turned to study the painting. "Robert Jeffery became something of a local celebrity for a short while, they even had an exhibition and called him ‘the Governor of Sombrero’. He eventually returned to obscurity in Cornwall"

Dr. Who and Moustache moved off to the next painting. "Now this one…"

Martin wondered just how scared Jeffery must have felt as he watched his ship disappear over the horizon, abandoned so far from home to die of starvation and thirst. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his shoulder.

"Steady!" Laughed his mum. "You were miles away. What were you thinking of?"

"Being marooned." He stood up and took a last look at the painting.

(word count 700)

© Mark Ashton 2003