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The Nameless Island: A Story of Some Modern Robinson Crusoes — Edition Insights

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In Category - Childrens Adventures

Authors: Westerman, Percy F. (Percy Francis), 1876-1959 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2011 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Shipwreck survival -- Juvenile fiction; Castaways -- Juvenile fiction; Robinsonades; Islands of the Pacific -- Juvenile fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 70,069

Reading time 305 min

Text sections 9

This digital edition of The Nameless Island: A Story of Some Modern Robinson Crusoes — Edition Insights is described by source-level measurements including 70,069 words, 5 hr 5 min estimated reading time, and 9 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 15.9 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Shipwreck survival -- Juvenile fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #37652

Percy F. Westerman's 1920 adventure follows castaways on a Pacific island, with a focus on survival, resourcefulness, and imperial symbolism. The narrative moves between shipwreck, camp-building, and confrontations with savages and buccaneers, using recurring images of reefs, flags, and makeshift alarms.

Editorial Edition Score 4.7/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg37652

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I. THE HURRICANE II. AGROUND III. ABANDONED IV. THE LANDING V. THE CAMP VI. THE ANIMAL THAT WOULDN'T BE RESCUED VII. THE EMBLEM OF EMPIRE VIII. "A SAIL!" IX. UNWELCOME VISITORS X. STRANGE ALLIES XI. THE FRUSTRATED SACRIFICE XII. AT BAY XIII. ELLERTON TO THE RESCUE XIV. ROUTING THE SAVAGES XV. A KNIFE-THRUST IN THE DARK XVI. THE GALE XVII. BACK TO THE ISLAND XVIII. A SURPRISE FOR THE INVADERS XIX. THE PRISONER'S ESCAPE XX. THE ENEMY IS CORNERED XXI. THE BUCCANEERS' CAVE XXII. THE TREASURE CHAMBER XXIII. "A SAIL! A SAIL!" XXIV. A FALSE AND A REAL ALARM XXV. THE GREAT INVASION XXVI. A GREAT DISASTER XXVII. THE LAST STAND XXVIII. THE RESCUE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Amid the cheers of the band of Britishers the ensign was broken at the masthead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

Ellerton was only just in time. Another dazzling flash enabled him to see the helpless form of the crippled seaman

Andy, finding the bull close to his heels, gripped a rope and swung himself into a position of comparative safety

The chief's canoe was paddled slowly towards the shore

Crash! fair in the centre of the lightly built fifty-feet hull struck the sharp stem

"A sail! a sail!" he exclaimed breathlessly

A huge turtle had crawled across the beach and ... had set the alarm bell ringing

With fierce shouts the savages tore down the path straight for the barricade

The _San Martin_, a single-screw cargo steamer of 3050 tons, was on her way from Realejo to Tahiti. Built on the Clyde twenty years back, this Peruvian-owned tramp was no longer in her prime. Since passing out of the hands of her British owners, neglect had lessened her speed, while the addition of various deck-houses, to suit the requirements of the South American firm under whose house-flag she sailed, had not increased her steadiness.

Captain Antonio Perez, who was in command, was a short, thick-set man of almost pure Spanish descent, swarthy, greasy, and vain--combining all the characteristics, good, bad, and indifferent, of the South American skipper. As part owner of the _San Martin_ he was glad of the opportunity of adding to the vessel's earnings, so he had willingly agreed to take five passengers as far as Tahiti.

The five passengers were Mr. McKay, his son Andrew, Terence Donaghue, Fanshaw Ellerton, and Quexo; but before relating the circumstances in which they found themselves on board the _San Martin_, it will be necessary to introduce them to our readers.

Mr. McKay, a tall, erect Queenslander, of Scottish descent, had, through the death of a near relative, migrated from Australia to one of the Central American republics in order to test the possibilities of an estate which had been left him, before putting it into the market.

Andrew McKay, or Andy, as he was called, was a well-set-up young fellow of nineteen, broad-shouldered and straight-limbed, with a fine head surmounted by a crop of auburn hair.

Terence Donaghue, the son of an Irish Canadian, was about Andy's age, and was on a visit to the McKays. He was impulsive both in manner and speech, high-spirited, and good-natured.

Fanshaw Ellerton, a lad of sixteen, was supposed to be serving his apprenticeship on board the _Tophet_, a barque of 2200 tons, of the port of Liverpool. He was in reality a deserter--but in circumstances beyond his control.

Taking advantage of general leave being granted to the crew of the _Tophet_, Ellerton had gone "up-country," and, before he actually realised it, he found himself besieged in Mr. McKay's ranch of San Eugenio.

One of those revolutions that occur in many of the South Central American states had broken out, and the rebels, thinking that Mr. McKay's house and estate would prove an easy and profitable prize, promptly attempted to take and plunder San Eugenio.

In spite of a vigorous defence, it seemed as if numbers would gain the day, till Quexo, a mulatto lad on the ranch, contrived to steal through the rebels' lines and bring timely aid, but not before Mr. McKay had been severely wounded.

But, so far as his Central American affairs were concerned, Mr. McKay was practically ruined, and he took steps to return to Queensland with the least possible delay.

Andy, of course, was to accompany him, while Terence arranged to go as far as Tahiti, whence he could take steamer to Honolulu and on to Victoria, British Columbia.

"Never mind, old chap," exclaimed Andy, when Ellerton made the startling yet not altogether unexpected discovery that the _Tophet_ had sailed without him. "We've stuck together through thick and thin these last few days, and it seems as if we have been chums for years. I know the governor will be only too glad to have you with us, and no doubt you can pick up your ship at Sydney."

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The first chapter of The Nameless Island opens not on the island but aboard the San Martin, a deteriorating Peruvian tramp steamer. Westerman establishes a pattern of movement between vessel and shore that will recur throughout the book: the hurricane scene shifts from the steamer to a yawl, then to the reef, and finally to the island itself. The author’s attention to nautical detail—the “staysail burst asunder,” the “glistening coral” in the trough of waves—grounds the adventure in specific, tactile hazards. This opening sequence also introduces a moral contrast: the Spanish captain, Antonio Perez, is described as “swarthy, greasy,” while the British characters, including the resourceful Mr. McKay, are defined by their competence and self-sacrifice, as when McKay lashes a lifebelt around his would-be murderer.

From Shipwreck to Settlement

The narrative structure hinges on a series of transitions from sea to land. After the yawl is wrecked on the reef, the survivors must establish a camp—a process that occupies several chapters. Westerman devotes careful description to the construction of shelters, the sourcing of food, and the creation of tools, echoing the Robinsonade tradition. Yet the movement is not linear: the castaways repeatedly return to the wreck or venture along the coast, and later chapters involve voyages back to the island after attempted escapes. This back-and-forth rhythm gives the story a restless quality, as if the island is a trap that must be constantly re-entered.

The Flag and the Reef: Recurring Images

Two images recur with notable frequency: the British ensign and the coral reef. The frontispiece shows the ensign being “broken at the masthead,” and the flag appears as a symbol of claimed territory and imperial identity. The reef, meanwhile, is described in visceral terms: it “showed its teeth” and “bares itself to strike.” These images are not merely decorative; they structure the plot. The reef is the initial obstacle to survival, and later it becomes a defensive barrier against invaders. The flag, raised during a ceremony, marks the island as British space, a move that anticipates later conflicts with “savages” and buccaneers.

Movement Between Peril and Safety

Westerman orchestrates a constant oscillation between moments of extreme danger and brief respites. The hurricane chapter is a sustained crisis, but even after landing, the characters face sharks, a bull, and a knife-thrust in the dark. The chapter titles themselves trace this pattern: “Aground,” “Abandoned,” “The Landing,” then “Unwelcome Visitors,” “At Bay,” “The Frustrated Sacrifice.” The camp is never truly safe; alarms are triggered by turtles crawling across the beach. This rhythm keeps the reader off-balance, as no location—ship, yawl, camp, or cave—offers lasting security. The only constant is the need to move, to repair, to defend.

The Crew as a Collective Protagonist

Unlike many Robinsonades that focus on a single hero, The Nameless Island distributes agency among a group: the injured Ellerton, the stalwart Mr. McKay, the loyal Terence, the reformed prisoner Blight. Westerman uses dialogue and action to differentiate them, but the narrative rarely lingers on interiority. Instead, the group acts as a unit, with tasks divided and reassigned. This collective focus is reinforced by the structure: chapters alternate between different characters’ perspectives, but the point of view remains external. The result is a story that emphasizes teamwork and resourcefulness over individual psychology, fitting for a boys’ adventure serial.

Readers approaching The Nameless Island should attend to the way Westerman builds suspense through spatial movement—from ship to reef to camp to cave—and through the repetition of key images like the flag and the reef. The book rewards attention to its practical details: how a lifebelt is fastened, how a yawl is handled in a gale, how an alarm bell is rigged. These specifics, rather than character development, drive the narrative forward. The island remains nameless, but its geography is drawn with enough precision to make each journey across it feel consequential.

Some evenings, I think of Westerman's castaways, their plucky alarms and planted flags, and then my gaze drifts to the darker Congo river. Both books whisper of young men thrown upon indifferent landscapes, learning the sharp weight of solitude and empire’s uneasy shadow. One fires the imagination; the other, quieter, haunts it. I keep them side by side, a strange, honest pair. Samba: A Story of the Rubber Slaves of the Congo — Reading Companion holds a different, more somber truth.