“Goodbye, Hopeless I must leave you,
For it’s time for me to go.
I won’t miss your dismal sea-views
And the cold Atlantic blow.
No more trudging over headland
In the fog and driving rain.
So Farewell, Hopeless, I must leave you.
Goodbye Hopeless Maine.”

Granted, it wasn’t exactly up to the standard of Messrs. Cobb and Barnes, the original authors of the song, but the colonel was quietly pleased with his parody of “Goodbye Dolly Gray”.
The truth was that Colonel Ruscombe-Green was feeling out of sorts. Spending five years on the island of Hopeless had not been his plan when he and his valet, Ebley, had set out to row across the Atlantic and seek their fortunes in America, the land of adventure and opportunity. While the islanders had been generally welcoming and supportive, it was, he reflected, no life for a professional soldier. Too boring by far… except, maybe, for the ever-present threat of being attacked by various night-stalkers. One could not discount the danger, either, of being whisked into the ocean by any passing kraken. These blighters seemed to regard the island in the same way that a child might approach a bran-tub at a vicarage fête; something to dip into for its own amusement. And don’t mention those blasted spoonwalker wallahs, who either drive one mad, steal one’s cutlery, or do both. Oh yes, then there was the unpleasant likelihood of being infested by nameless squiggly things that had a nasty habit of  disappearing up trouser legs. Thank goodness he’d hung on to his puttees after the war. No, life on Hopeless was totally uneventful for a man such as himself.
The colonel’s mood did not improve when an urchin from the orphanage delivered the following wedding invitation.

Mr William Ebley and Miss Constanza Gannicox request the pleasure of your company on the occasion of their marriage…

Ruscombe-Green knew that Ebley had been spending a lot of time at the distillery lately but he had no idea that his ex-valet was doing anything other than helping out; certainly not wooing the owner’s sister. He  supposed that he should be happy for Ebley and his bride-to-be but it was difficult. Despite their differences in rank, education and class, he and his batman had been brothers-in-arms for years and had survived many a scrape together. The colonel, feeling suddenly alone, decided there and then that the time had come to find a means of leaving Hopeless for good.

His opportunity came some weeks later. By then Reverend Crackstone had consecrated the marriage of Ebley and Constanza and the misty island was enjoying a brief spell of basking contentedly in the slightly jauntier weather that masqueraded as late summer on Hopeless. It was while visiting the newlyweds in their cottage next to the distillery that Ruscombe-Green stumbled upon the means for escape. Joseph Dreaming-By-The-River-Where-The-Shining-Salmon-Springs, of  the Passamaquoddy tribe, was making one of his bi-annual trips to the island. He was trading furs and brightly coloured textiles in exchange for the Gannicox moonshine that had become extremely popular in certain quarters of the mainland since the introduction of prohibition. With gentle persuasion and the promise of future remuneration, the colonel secured himself a cramped seat in a small canoe, overloaded with bootleg alcohol.
That evening, in The Squid and Teapot, Sebastian Lypiatt threw a farewell party for the colonel. It was there that Ruscombe-Green found out that he had many more friends on the island than he realised. Not least among them was the barmaid, Betty Butterow, who by now was twenty years old. Betty had, over the years, grown especially fond of the colonel. Despite his occasional brusqueness and strange and starchy English manners, she had always found him to be as kind and big-hearted a man as you could wish to know. This evening, however, she was genuinely worried. While Joseph’s skills in handling a canoe were widely acknowledged as being excellent, there really was only room for one in the little craft, loaded as it was with moonshine. Besides that, the permanently fog-bound channel that lay between Hopeless and the mainland was a treacherous stretch of water with unpredictable tides, hidden reefs and rife with an assortment of nightmare creatures that could easily crush an ocean liner, much less a simple canoe. Betty knew these things more than most for, as you may remember, she was a Selkie, a seal-woman.
The following morning the colonel was glad to see that his old friend and ex-valet, Bill Ebley had come to see him off and wish him well. Their parting was particularly emotional. Both men were fully aware that any chance of their meeting again was unlikely but this remained unspoken. They both made promises that they would keep in touch by letter via Joseph, who had happily agreed to the arrangement. And so it was that amid much back-slapping, hand-shaking and the shedding of an occasional manly tear that not even the stiffest of stiff-upper lips could drive back, the colonel bade a fond farewell to the curious island of Hopeless, Maine.

The first letter arrived in the following Spring when Joseph next returned to the island, a full eight months after Ruscombe-Green’s departure.

My dear Ebley,
Greetings, would you believe, from the Nevada Desert.
I trust you and Mrs Ebley are keeping well. For myself, I have never felt better. My passage from the island was happily uneventful. It was a delightful addition to an otherwise nondescript journey when a harbour seal accompanied us all the way to the mainland, swimming as close to the canoe as it was possible to get.
Upon reaching Portland I immediately went to the Masonic Lodge in Congress Street, knowing that my fellow masons would aid a chap in need. From there I was able to wire my bank in London and, again with the help of the masons, prove my identity and release the not insubstantial  funds therein. I have left five hundred dollars with Joseph, whom I trust implicitly, to furnish you and others on the island with anything you might need until the money runs out. Just ask and he will bring it across on his next jaunt – providing it fits in the canoe, of course!
With these affairs in order I at once decided to explore the continent. After visiting Utah (where polygamy seems rife!) I caught the splendidly named Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad down to this strange and fairly new city called Las Vegas. I can’t for the life of me imagine why it was founded in the desert. There is very little here and I confidently predict that within ten years it will be no more than a ghost town.
Over the next few months I fully intend to explore the continent before returning to New England.
Please send my warmest regards to my good friends on Hopeless and do not forget to avail yourselves of anything you may desire from Joseph.

Yours sincerely

J W Ruscombe-Green (Col.)

The letter caused quite a stir on the island and before long Joseph found himself holding a batch of modest requests, ranging from building materials to toilet paper. The Gannicox distillery wanted as much crushed corn as possible. Betty Butterow needed something to wear, preferably low-cut, sultry and saucy. Someone had sent word to Randall Middlestreet, the Night Soil Man; he was desperately in need of a new bucket; one that had a decent lid that stayed securely in place. He also needed a new jacket. Joseph correctly guessed that the two requests were not unconnected. As the day wore on it became obvious that this would not all fit into the canoe. In view of the colonel’s generosity, the Indian resolved to make several trips to the island this year instead of his customary two.
Joseph took only a week or so to fulfil the first few requests. He recognised that Randall’s bucket and jacket were a priority. The supplies of corn for the distillery were in the first consignment, too. Joseph had also included a quantity of blackstrap molasses and barley; he was nothing if not pragmatic and the continued survival of the Gannicox distillery served his own business interests.
Although Joseph traded moonshine, he was not a drinking man; it caused a certain amount of surprise, therefore, when he walked into the bar of the Squid and Teapot. Much to the barmaid’s delight, Joseph had taken it upon himself to deliver Betty’s dress personally. To his great embarrassment she made him stay to see how it looked. No one could criticise Joseph’s judgement as the new dress was quite stunning upon her and fitted perfectly, in all of the right places. It was no wonder, really. The Indian had gazed at Betty with great admiration for some time. For this he was rewarded with a less than chaste kiss upon the lips and a knowing look in Betty’s eyes.

Over the next few weeks the little canoe shuttled back and forth between Hopeless and the mainland; each request for goods was duly met and every dollar spent. On each trip that he made Joseph could not help but notice the harbor seal that accompanied his craft. The legends of his people were full of tales of shape-shifters and spirit creatures. This was plainly no ordinary seal. Joseph instinctively knew it was there to protect him. He could only wonder who his guardian might be.

The months wore on and Bill Ebley eagerly awaited the colonel’s next letter. When it came he thought that his old friend had at last gone quite mad. Apparently Ruscombe-Green had been drinking somewhat excessively in a bar in South Dakota with chap called Robinson. Between them they had come up with a hare-brained scheme to carve a huge likeness of Abraham Lincoln and any other presidents with suitably craggy features, into the sides of a mountain known to the Lakota Indians as The Six Grandfathers. To his great annoyance, a few weeks later the colonel read in a newspaper that the bounder Robinson had stolen the idea and, along with a sculptor chap called Borgum, was actually going to do the job and with government funding no less!
Ebley shook his head in disbelief. The colonel always had one or two tall stories up his sleeve but this one took the biscuit. Carving massive faces into mountains, indeed! Besides, the Ebleys had little time for such rubbish. They had their own exciting news to pass on; William and Constanza were about to become parents. Suddenly, Hopeless was not feeling quite as hopeless as it once had.

Art by Tom Brown