held her southeast course, and, unless she was drawn aside by some
unknown current, she would make Tabor Island exactly. The sea was
completely deserted, save that sometimes an albatross or frigate-bird
passed within gun-shot distance.
“And yet,” said Herbert, “this is the season when the whalers usually
come towards the southern part of the Pacific. I don’t believe that
there is a sea more deserted than this.”
“It is not altogether deserted,” responded Pencroff.
“What do you mean?”
“Why we are here. Do you take us for porpoises or our sloop for
driftwood?” And Pencroff laughed at his pleasantry.
By evening they calculated the distance traversed at 130 miles, or
three and a third miles an hour. The breeze was dying away, but they
had reason to hope, supposing their course to have been correct, that
they would sight Tabor Island at daylight.
No one of the three slept during this night. While waiting for morning
they experienced the liveliest emotions. There was so much uncertainty
in their enterprise. Were they near the island? Was the shipwrecked man
still there? Who was he? Might not his presence disturb the unity of
the colony? Would he, indeed, consent to exchange one prison for
another? All these questions, which would doubtless be answered the
next day, kept them alert, and at the earliest dawn they began to scan
the western horizon.
What was the joy of the little crew when towards 6 o’clock Pencroff
shouted—
“Land!”
In a few hours they would be upon its shore.
The island was a low coast, raised but a little above the waves, not
more than fifteen miles away. The sloop, which had been heading south
of it, was put about, and, as the sun rose, a few elevations became
visible here and there.
“It is not as large as Lincoln Island,” said Herbert, “and probably
owes its origin to like submarine convulsions.”
By 11 o’clock the Good Luck was only two miles distant from shore, and
Pencroff, while seeking some place to land, sailed with extreme caution
through these unknown waters. They could see the whole extent of this
island, on which were visible groups of gum and other large trees of
the same species as those on Lincoln Island. But, it was astonishing,
that no rising smoke indicated that the place was inhabited, nor was
any signal visible upon the shore. Nevertheless the paper had been
precise: it stated that there was a shipwrecked man here; and he should
have been upon the watch.
Meanwhile the Good Luck went in through the tortuous passages between
the reefs, Herbert steering, and the sailor stationed forward, keeping
a sharp lookout, with the halliards in his hand, ready to run down the
sail. Spilett, with the spy-glass, examined all the shore without
perceiving anything. By noon the sloop touched the beach, the anchor
was let go, the sails furled, and the crew stepped on shore.
There could be no doubt that that was Tabor Island, since the most
recent maps gave no other land in all this part of the Pacific.
After having securely moored the sloop, Pencroff and his companion,
well armed, ascended the coast towards a round hill, some 250 feet
high, which was distant about half a mile, from the summit of which
they expected to have a good view of the island.
The explorers followed the edge of grassy plain which ended at the foot
of the hill. Rock-pigeons and sea-swallows circled about them, and in
the woods bordering the plain to the left they heard rustlings in the
bushes and saw movements in the grass indicating the presence of very
timid animals, but nothing, so far, indicated that the island was
inhabited.
Having reached the hill the party soon climbed to its summit, and their
gaze traversed the whole horizon. They were certainly upon an island,
not more than six miles in circumference, in shape a long oval, and but
little broken by inlets or promontories. All around it, the sea,
absolutely deserted, stretched away to the horizon.
This islet differed greatly from Lincoln Island in that it was covered
over its entire surface with woods, and the uniform mass of verdure
clothed two or three less elevated hills. Obliquely to the oval of the
island a small stream crossed a large grassy plain and emptied into the
sea on the western side by a narrowed mouth.
“The place is small,” said Herbert.
“Yes,” replied the sailor. “It would have been too small for us.”
“And,” added the reporter, “it seems uninhabited.”
“Nevertheless,” said Pencroff, “let us go down and search.”
The party returned to the sloop, and they decided to walk round the
entire island before venturing into its interior, so that no place
could escape their investigation.
The shore was easily followed, and the explorers proceeded towards the
south, starting up flocks of aquatic birds and numbers of seals, which
latter threw themselves into the sea as soon as they caught sight of
the party.
“Those beasts are not looking on man for the first time. They fear what
they know,” said the reporter.
An hour after their departure the three had reached the southern point
of the islet, which terminated in a sharp cape, and they turned towards
the north, following the western shore, which was sandy, like the
other, and bounded by a thick wood.
In four hours after they had set out the party had made the circuit of
the island, without having seen any trace of a habitation, and not even
a footprint. It was most extraordinary, to say the least, and it seemed
necessary to believe that the place was not and had not been inhabited.
Perhaps, after all, the paper had been in the water for many months, or
even years, and it was possible, in that case, that the shipwrecked one
had been rescued or that he had died from suffering.
The little party, discussing all sorts of possibilities, made a hasty
dinner on board the sloop, and at 5 o’clock started to explore the
woods.
Numerous animals fled before their approach, principally, indeed
solely, goats and pigs, which it was easy to see were of European
origin. Doubtless some whaler had left them here, and they had rapidly
multiplied. Herbert made up his mind to catch two or three pairs to
take back to Lincoln Island.
There was no longer any doubt that the island had previously been
visited. This was the more evident as in passing through the forest
they saw the traces of pathways, and the trunks of trees felled by the
hatchet, and all about, marks of human handiwork; but these trees had
been felled years before; the hatchet marks were velvetted with moss,
and the pathways were so overgrown with grass that it was difficult to
discover them.
“But,” observed Spilett, “this proves that men not only landed here,
but that they lived here. Now who and how many were these men, and how
many remain?”
“The paper speaks of but one,” replied Herbert.
“Well,” said Pencroff, “if he is still here we cannot help finding
him.”
The exploration was continued, following diagonally across the island,
and by this means the sailor and his companions reached the little
stream which flowed towards the sea.
If animals of European origin, if works of human hands proved
conclusively that man had once been here, many specimens of the
vegetable kingdom also evidenced the fact. In certain clear places it
was plain that kitchen vegetables had formerly been planted. And
Herbert was overjoyed when he discovered potatoes, succory, sorrel,
carrots, cabbage, and turnips, the seeds of which would enrich the
garden at Granite House.
“Indeed,” exclaimed Pencroff, “this will rejoice Neb. Even if we don’t
find the man, our voyage will not have been useless, and Heaven will
have rewarded us.”
“Doubtless,” replied Spilett, “but from the conditions of these fields,
it looks as if the place had not been inhabited for a long time.”
“An inhabitant, whoever he was, would not neglect anything so important
as this.”
“Yes, this man has gone. It must be—”
“That the paper had been written a long time ago?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And that the bottle had been floating in the sea a good while before
it arrived at Lincoln Island?”
“Why not?” said Pencroff. “But, see, it is getting dark,” he added,
“and I think we had better give over the search.”
“We will go aboard, and to-morrow we will begin again,” replied the
reporter.
They were about adopting this counsel, when Herbert, pointing to
something dimly visible, through the trees, exclaimed:—
“There’s a house!”
All three directed their steps towards the place indicated, and they
made out in the twilight that it was built of planks, covered with
heavy tarpaulin. The door, half closed, was pushed back by Pencroff,
who entered quickly.
The place was empty!
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE INVENTORY—THE NIGHT—SOME LETTERS—THE SEARCH CONTINUED—PLANTS AND
ANIMALS—HERBERT IN DANGER—ABOARD—THE DEPARTURE—BAD WEATHER—A GLIMMER OF
INTELLIGENCE —LOST AT SEA—A TIMELY LIGHT.
Pencroff, Spilett and Herbert stood silent In darkness. Then the former
gave a loud call. There was no answer. He lit a twig, and the light
illuminated for a moment a small room, seemingly deserted. At one end
was a large chimney, containing some cold cinders and an armful of dry
wood. Pencroff threw the lighted twig into it, and the wood caught fire
and gave out a bright light.
The sailor and his companions thereupon discovered a bed in disorder,
its damp and mildewed covers proving that it had been long unused; in
the corner of the fireplace were two rusty kettles and an overturned
pot; a clothes-press with some sailors’ clothing, partially moulded; on
the table a tin plate, and a Bible, injured by the dampness; in a
corner some tools, a shovel, a mattock, a pick, two shot guns, one of
which was broken; on a shelf was a barrel full of powder, a barrel of
lead, and a number of boxes of caps. All were covered with a thick
coating of dust.
“There is no one here,” said the reporter.
“Not a soul.”
“This room has not been occupied in a long time.”
“Since a very long time.”
“Mr. Spilett,” said Pencroff, “I think that instead of going on board
we had better stay here all night.”
“You are right, Pencroff, and if the proprietor returns he will not be
sorry, perhaps, to find the place occupied.”
“He won’t come back, though,” said the sailor, shaking his head.
“Do you think he has left the island?”
“If he had left the island he would have taken these things with him.
You know how much a shipwrecked person would be attached to these
objects. No, no,” repeated the sailor, in the tone of a man perfectly
convinced; “no, he has not left the island. He is surely here.”
“Alive?”
“Alive or dead. But if he is dead he could not have buried himself, I
am sure, and we will at least find his remains.”
It was therefore agreed to pass the night in this house, and a supply
of wood in the corner gave them the means of heating it. The door
having been closed, the three explorers, seated upon a bench, spoke
little, but remained deep in thought. They were in the mood to accept
anything that might happen, and they listened eagerly for any sound
from without. If the door had suddenly opened and a man had stood
before them, they would not have been much surprised, in spite of all
the evidence of desolation throughout the house; and their hands were
ready to clasp the hands of this man, of this shipwrecked one, of this
unknown friend whose friends awaited him.
But no sound was heard, the door did not open, and the hours passed by.
The night seemed interminable to the sailor and his companions.
Herbert, alone, slept for two hours, as at his age, sleep is a
necessity. All were anxious to renew the search of the day before, and
to explore the innermost recesses of the islet. Pencroff’s conclusions
were certainly just, since the house and its contents had been
abandoned. They determined, therefore, to search for the remains of its
inhabitant, and to give them Christian burial.
As soon as it was daylight they began to examine the house. It was
prettily situated under a small hill, on which grew several fine gum
trees. Before it a large space had been cleared, giving a view over the
sea. A small lawn, surrounded by a dilapidated fence, extended to the
bank of the little stream. The house had evidently been built from
planks taken from a ship. It seemed likely that a ship had been thrown
upon the island, that all or at least one of the crew had been saved,
and that this house had been built from the wreck. This was the more
probable, as Spilett, in going round the dwelling, saw on one of the
planks these half-effaced letters:—
BR ... TAN ... A.
“Britannia,” exclaimed Pencroff, who had been called by the reporter to
look at it; “that is a common name among ships, and I cannot say
whether it is English or American. However, it don’t matter to what
country the man belongs, we will save him, if he is alive. But before
we begin our search let us go back to the Good Luck.”
Pencroff had been seized with a sort of anxiety about his sloop.
Supposing the island was inhabited, and some one had taken it—but he
shrugged his shoulders at this unlikely thought. Nevertheless the
sailor was not unwilling to go on board to breakfast. The route already
marked was not more than a mile in length, and they started on their
walk, looking carefully about them in the woods and underbrush, through
which ran hundreds of pigs and goats.
In twenty minutes the party reached the place where the Good Luck rode
quietly at anchor. Pencroff gave a sigh of satisfaction.
After all, this boat was his baby, and it is a father’s right to be
often anxious without reason.
All went on board and ate a hearty breakfast, so as not to want
anything before a late dinner; then the exploration was renewed, and
conducted with the utmost carefulness. As it was likely that the
solitary inhabitant of this island was dead, the party sought rather to
find his remains than any traces of him living. But during all the
morning they were unable to find anything; if he was dead, some animal
must have devoured his body.
“We will leave to-morrow at daylight,” said Pencroff to his companions,
who towards 2 o’clock were resting for a few moments under a group of
trees.
“I think we need not hesitate to take those things which belonged to
him?” queried Herbert.
“I think not,” answered Spilett; “and these arms and tools will add
materially to the stock at Granite House. If I am not mistaken, what is
left of the lead and powder is worth a good deal.”
“And we must not forget to capture a couple of these pigs,” said
Pencroff.
“Nor to gather some seed,” added Herbert, “which will give us some of
our own vegetables.”
“Perhaps it would be better to spend another day here, in order to get
together everything that we want,” suggested the reporter.
“No, sir;” replied the sailor. “I want to get away to-morrow morning.
The wind seems to be shifting to the west, and will be in our favor
going back.”
“Then don’t let us lose any time,” said Herbert, rising.
“We will not,” replied Pencroff. “Herbert, you get the seed, and
Spilett and I will chase the pigs, and although we haven’t Top, I think
we will catch some.”
Herbert, therefore, followed the path which led to the cultivated part
of the island, while the others plunged at once into the forest.
Although the pigs were plenty they were singularly agile, and not in
the humor to be captured. However, after half an hour’s chasing the
hunters had captured a couple in their lair, when cries mingled with
horrible hoarse sounds, having nothing human in them, were heard.
Pencroff and Spilett sprang to their feet, regardless of the pigs,
which escaped.
“It is Herbert!” cried the reporter.
“Hurry!” cried the sailor, as the two ran with their utmost speed
towards the place from whence the cries came.
They had need to hasten, for at a turn in the path they saw the lad
prostrate beneath a savage, or perhaps a gigantic ape, who was
throttling him.
To throw themselves on this monster and pinion him to the ground,
dragging Herbert away, was the work of a moment. The sailor had
herculean strength. Spilett, too, was muscular, and, in spite of the
resistance of the monster, it was bound so that it could not move.
“You are not wounded, Herbert?”
“No, oh no.”
“Ah! if it had hurt you, this ape-”
“But he is not an ape!” cried Herbert.
At these words Pencroff and Spilett looked again at the object lying on
the ground. In fact, it was not an ape, but a human being—a man! But
what a man! He was a savage, in all the horrible acceptation of the
word; and, what was more frightful, he seemed to have fallen to the
last degree of brutishness.
Matted hair, tangled beard descending to his waist, his body naked,
save for a rag about his loins, wild eyes, long nails, mahogany-colored
skin, feet as hard as if they had been made of horn; such was the
miserable creature which it was, nevertheless, necessary to call a man.
But one might well question whether this body still contained a soul,
or whether the low, brutish instinct alone survived.
“Are you perfectly sure that this is what has been a man?” questioned
Pencroff of the reporter.
“Alas! there can be no doubt of it,” replied Spilett.
“Can he be the person shipwrecked?” asked Herbert
“Yes,” responded the reporter, “but the poor creature is no longer
human.”
Spilett was right. Evidently, if the castaway had ever been civilized,
isolation had made him a savage, a real creature of the woods. He gave
utterance to hoarse sounds, from between teeth which were as sharp as
those of animals living on raw flesh. Memory had doubtless long ago
left him, and he had long since forgotten the use of arms and tools,
and even how to make a fire. One could see that he was active and
supple, but that his physical qualities had developed to the exclusion
of his moral perception.
Spilett spoke to him, but he neither understood nor listened, and,
looking him in the eye, the reporter could see that all intelligence
had forsaken him. Nevertheless, the prisoner did not struggle or strive
to break his bonds. Was he cowed by the presence of these men, whom he
had once resembled? Was there in some corner of his brain a flitting
remembrance which drew him towards humanity? Free, would he have fled
or would he have remained? They did not know, and they did not put him
to the proof. After having looked attentively at the miserable
creature, Spilett said:—
“What he is, what he has been, and what he will be; it is still our
duty to take him to Lincoln Island.”
“Oh yes, yes,” exclaimed Herbert, “and perhaps we can, with care,
restore to him some degree of intelligence.”
“The soul never dies,” answered the reporter, “and it would be a great
thing to bring back this creature of God’s making from his
brutishness.”
Pencroff shook his head doubtfully.
“It is necessary to try at all events,” said the reporter, “humanity
requires it of us.”
“It was, indeed, their duty as civilized and Christian beings, and they
well knew that Smith would approve of their course.
“Shall we leave him bound?” inquired the sailor.
“Perhaps if we unfasten his feet he will walk,” said Herbert.
“Well, let us try,” replied the sailor.
And the cords binding the creature’s legs were loosened, although his
arms were kept firmly bound. He rose without manifesting any desire to
escape. His tearless eyes darted sharp glances upon the three men who
marched beside him, and nothing denoted that he remembered being or
having been like them. A wheezing sound escaped from his lips, and his
aspect was wild, but he made no resistance.
By the advice of the reporter, the poor wretch was taken to the house,
where, perhaps, the sight of the objects in it might make some
impression upon him. Perhaps a single gleam would awaken his sleeping
consciousness, illuminate his darkened mind.
The house was near by, and in a few minutes they were there; but the
prisoner recognized nothing—he seemed to have lost consciousness of
everything. Could it be that this brutish state was due to his long
imprisonment on the island? That, having come here a reasoning being,
his isolation had reduced him to this state?
The reporter thought that perhaps the sight of fire might affect him,
and in a moment one of those lovely flames which attract even animals
lit up the fireplace. The sight of this flame seemed at first to
attract the attention of the unfortunate man, but very soon he ceased
regarding it. Evidently, for the present at least, there was nothing to
do but take him aboard the Good Luck, which was accordingly done. He
was left in charge of Pencroff, while the two others returned to the
island and brought over the arms and implements, a lot of seeds, some
game, and two pairs of pigs which they had caught. Everything was put
on board, and the sloop rode ready to hoist anchor as soon as the next
morning’s tide would permit.
The prisoner had been placed in the forward hold, where he lay calm,
quiet, insensible, and mute. Pencroff offering him some cooked meat to
eat, he pushed it away; but, on being shown one of the ducks which
Herbert had killed, he pounced on it with bestial avidity and devoured
it.
“You think he’ll be himself again?” asked the sailor, shaking his head.
“Perhaps,” replied the reporter. “It is not impossible that our
attentions will react on him, since it is the isolation that has done
this; and he will be alone no longer.”
“The poor fellow has doubtless been this way for a long time.”
“Perhaps so.”
“How old do you think he is?” asked the lad.
“That is hard to say,” replied the reporter, “as his matted beard
obscures his face; but he is no longer young, and I should say he was
at least fifty years old.”
“Have you noticed how his eyes are set deep in his head?”
“Yes, but I think that they are more human than one would suspect from
his general appearance.”
“Well, we will see,” said Pencroff; “and I am curious to have Mr.
Smith’s opinion of our savage. We went to find a human being, and we
are bringing back a monster. Any how, one takes what he can get.”
The night passed, and whether the prisoner slept or not he did not
move, although he had been unbound. He was like one of those beasts
that in the first moments of their capture submit, and to whom the rage
returns later.
At daybreak the next day, the 17th, the change in the weather was as
Pencroff had predicted. The wind hauled round to the northwest and
favored the return of the Good Luck; but at the same time it had
freshened, so as to make the sailing more difficult. At 5 o’clock the
anchor was raised, Pencroff took a reef in the mainsail and headed
directly towards home.
The first day passed without incident. The prisoner rested quietly in
the forward cabin, and, as he had once been a sailor, the motion of the
sloop produced upon him a sort of salutary reaction. Did it recall to
him some remembrance of his former occupation? At least he rested
tranquil, more astonished than frightened.
On the 16th the wind freshened considerably, coming round more to the
north, and therefore in a direction less favorable to the course of the
Good Luck, which bounded over the waves. Pencroff was soon obliged to
hold her nearer to the wind, and without saying so, he began to be
anxious at the lookout ahead. Certainly, unless the—wind moderated, it
would take much longer to go back than it had taken to come.
On the 17th they had been forty-eight hours out, and yet nothing
indicated they were in the neighborhood of Lincoln Island. It was,
moreover, impossible to reckon their course, or even to estimate the
distance traversed, as the direction and the speed had been too
irregular. Twenty-four hours later there was still no land in view. The
wind was dead ahead, and an ugly sea running. On the 18th a huge wave
struck the sloop, and had not the crew been lashed to the deck, they
would have been swept overboard.
On this occasion Pencroff and his companions, busy in clearing things
away, received an unhoped-for assistance from the prisoner, who sprang
from the hatchway as if his sailor instinct had returned to him, and
breaking the rail by a, vigorous blow—with a spar, enabled the water on
the deck to flow off more freely. Then, the boat cleared, without
having said a word, he returned to his cabin.
Nevertheless, the situation was bad, and the sailor had cause to
believe himself lost upon this vast sea, without the possibility of
regaining his course. The night of the 18th was dark and cold. But
about 11 o’clock the wind lulled, the sea fell, and the sloop, less
tossed about, moved more rapidly. None of the crew thought of sleep.
They kept an eager lookout, as either Lincoln Island must be near at
hand and they would discover it at daybreak, or the sloop had been
drifted from her course by the currents, and it would be next to
impossible to rectify the direction.
Pencroff, anxious to the last degree, did not, however, despair; but,
seated at the helm, he tried to see through the thick darkness around
him. Towards 2 o’clock he suddenly started up, crying:—“A light! a
light!” It was indeed a bright light appearing twenty miles to—the
northeast. Lincoln Island was there, and this light, evidently lit by
Smith, indicated the direction to be followed.
Pencroff, who had been heading much too far towards the north, changed
his course, and steered directly towards the light, which gleamed above
the horizon like a star of the first magnitude.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE RETURN-DISCUSSION—SMITH AND THE UNKNOWN—BALLOON HARBOR-THE DEVOTION
OF THE ENGINEER-A TOUCHING EXPERIENCE-TEARS.
At 7 o’clock the next morning the boat touched the shore at the mouth
of the Mercy. Smith and Neb, who had become very anxious at the stormy
weather and the prolonged absence of their companions, had climbed, at
daylight, to Prospect Plateau, and had at length perceived the sloop in
the distance.
“Thank Heaven! There they are,” exclaimed Smith; while Neb, dancing
with pleasure, turned towards his master, and, striking his hands
together, cried, “Oh, my master!”-a more touching expression than, the
first polished phrase.
The engineer’s first thought, on counting the number of persons on the
deck of the Good Luck, was that Pencroff had found no one on Tabor
Island, or that the unfortunate man had refused to exchange one prison
for another.
The engineer and Neb were on the beach at the moment the sloop arrived,
and before the party had leaped ashore, Smith said:—
“We have been very anxious about you, my friends. Did anything happen
to you?” “No, indeed; everything went finely,” replied Spilett. “We
will tell you all about it.”
“Nevertheless, you have failed in your search, since you are all
alone.”, “But, sir, there are four of us,” said the sailor.
“Have you found this person?”. “Yes.”
“And brought him back?” “Yes.” “Living?” “Where is he, and what is he,
then?” “He is, or rather, he was a human being; and that is all, Cyrus,
that we can say.”
The engineer was thereupon, informed of everything that had happened;
of the search, of the long-abandoned house, of the capture of the
scarcely human inhabitant.
“And,” added Pencroff,” I don’t know whether we have done right in
bringing him here.”
“Most certainly you have done right,” replied the engineer.
“But the poor fellow has no sense at all.” “Not now, perhaps; in a few
months, he will be as much a man as any of us. “Who knows what might
happen to the last one of us, after living for a long time alone on
this island? It is terrible to be all alone, my friends, and it is
probable that solitude quickly overthrows reason, since you have found
this poor being in such a condition.”
“But, Mr. Smith,” asked Herbert, “what makes you think that the
brutishness of this man has come on within a little while?”
“Because the paper we found had been recently written, and no one but
this shipwrecked man could have written it.”
“Unless,” suggested Spilett, “it had been written by a companion of
this man who has since died.”
“That is impossible, Spilett.”
“Why so?”
“Because, then, the paper would have mentioned two persons instead of
one.”
Herbert briefly related the incident of the sea striking the sloop, and
insisted that the prisoner must then have had a glimmer of his sailor
instinct.
“You are perfectly right, Herbert,” said the engineer, “to attach great
importance to this fact. This poor man will not be incurable; despair
has made him what he is. But here he will find his kindred, and if he
still has any reason, we will save it.”
Then, to Smith’s great pity and Neb’s wonderment, the man was brought
up from the cabin of the sloop, and as soon as he was on land, he
manifested a desire to escape. But Smith, approaching him, laid his
hand authoritatively upon his shoulder and looked at him with infinite
tenderness. Thereupon the poor wretch, submitting to a sort of
instantaneous power, became quiet, his eyes fell, his head dropped
forward, and he made no further resistance.
“Poor shipwrecked sailor,” murmured the reporter.
Smith regarded him attentively. To judge from his appearance, this
miserable creature had little of the human left in him; but Smith
caught in his glance, as the reporter had done, an almost imperceptible
gleam of intelligence.
It was decided that the Unknown, as his new companions called him,
should stay in one of the rooms of Granite House, from which he could
not escape. He made no resistance to being conducted there, and with
good care they might, perhaps, hope that some day he would prove a
companion to them.
Neb hastened to prepare breakfast, for the voyagers were very hungry,
and during the meal Smith made them relate in detail every incident of
the cruise. He agreed with them in thinking that the name of the
Britannia gave them reason to believe that the Unknown was either
English or American; and, moreover, under all the growth of hair
covering the man’s face, the engineer thought he recognized the
features characteristic of an Anglo-Saxon.
“But, by the way, Herbert,” said the reporter, “you have never told us
how you met this savage, and we know nothing, except that he would have
strangled you, had we not arrived so opportunely.”
“Indeed, I am not sure that I can tell just what happened,” replied
Herbert. “I was, I think, gathering seeds, when I heard a tremendous
noise in a high tree near by. I had hardly time to turn, when this
unhappy creature, who had, doubtless, been hidden crouching in the
tree, threw himself upon me; and, unless Mr. Spilett and Pencroff—”
“You were in great danger, indeed, my boy,” said Smith; “but perhaps,
if this had not happened, this poor being would have escaped your
search, and we would have been without another companion.”
“You expect, then, to make him a man again?” asked the reporter.
“Yes,” replied Smith.
Breakfast ended, all returned to the shore and began unloading the
sloop; and the engineer examined the arms and tools, but found nothing
to establish the identity of the Unknown.
The pigs were taken to the stables, to which they would soon become
accustomed. The two barrels of powder and shot and the caps were a
great acquisition, and it was determined to make a small powder
magazine in the upper cavern of Granite House, where there would be no
danger of an explosion. Meantime, since the pyroxyline answered very
well, there was no present need to use this powder.
When the sloop was unloaded Pencroff said:—
“I think, Mr. Smith, that it would be better to put the Good Luck in a
safe place.”
“Is it not safe enough at the mouth of the Mercy?”
“No, sir,” replied the sailor. “Most of the time she is aground on the
sand, which strains her.”
“Could not she be moored out in the stream?”
“She could, but the place is unsheltered, and in an easterly wind I am
afraid she would suffer from the seas.”
“Very well; where do you want to put her?”
“In Balloon Harbor,” replied the sailor. “It seems to me that that
little inlet, hidden by the rocks, is just the place for her.”
“Isn’t it too far off?”
“No, it is only three miles from Granite House, and we have a good
straight road there.”
“Have your way, Pencroff,” replied the engineer. “Nevertheless, I
should prefer to have the sloop under our sight. We must, when we have
time, make a small harbor.”
“Capital!” cried Pencroff. “A harbor with a light house, a breakwater,
and a dry dock! Oh, indeed, sir, everything will be easy enough with
you!”
“Always provided, my good man, that you assist me, as you do three
fourths of the work.”
Herbert and the sailor went aboard the Good Luck, and set sail, and in
a couple of hours the sloop rode quietly at anchor in the tranquil
water of Balloon Harbor.
During the first few days that the Unknown was at Granite House, had he
given any indication of a change in his savage nature? Did not a
brighter light illumine the depths of his intelligence? Was not, in
short, his reason returning to him? Undoubtedly, yes; and Smith and
Spilett questioned whether this reason had ever entirely forsaken him.
At first this man, accustomed to the air and liberty which he had had
in Tabor Island, was seized with fits of passion, and there was danger
of his throwing himself out of one of the windows of Granite House. But
little by little he grew more quiet, and he was allowed to move about
without restraint.
Already forgetting his carnivorous instincts, he accepted a less
bestial nourishment, and cooked food did not produce in him the
sentiment of disgust which he had shown on board the Good Luck.
Smith had taken advantage of a time when the man was asleep to cut the
hair and beard which had grown like a mane about his face, and had
given him such a savage aspect. He had also been clothed more decently,
and the result was that the Unknown appeared more like a human being,
and it seemed as if the expression of his eyes was softened. Certainly,
sometimes, when intelligence was visible, the expression of this man
had a sort of beauty.
Every day, Smith made a point of passing some hours in his company. He
worked beside him, and occupied himself in various ways to attract his
attention. It would suffice, if a single ray of light illuminated his
reason, if a single remembrance crossed his mind. Neither did the
engineer neglect to speak in a loud voice, so as to penetrate by both
sound and sight to the depths of this torpid intelligence. Sometimes
one or another of the party joined the engineer, and they usually
talked of such matters pertaining to the sea as would be likely to
interest the man. At times the Unknown gave a sort of vague attention
to what was said, and soon the colonists began to think that he partly
understood them. Again his expression would be dolorous, proving that
he suffered inwardly. Nevertheless, he did not speak, although they
thought, at times, from his actions, that words were about to pass his
lips.
The poor creature was very calm and sad. But was not the calmness only
on the surface, and the sadness the result of his confinement? They
could not yet say. Seeing only certain objects and in a limited space,
always with the colonists, to whom he had become accustomed, having no
desire to satisfy, better clothed and better fed, it was natural that
his physical nature should soften little by little; but was he imbued
with the new life, or, to use an expression justly applicable to the
case, was he only tamed, as an animal in the presence of its master?
This was the important question Smith was anxious to determine, and
meantime he did not wish to be too abrupt with his patient. For to him,
the unknown was but a sick person. Would he ever be a convalescent?
Therefore, the engineer watched him unceasingly. How he laid in wait
for his reason, so to speak, that he might lay hold of it.
The colonists followed with strong interest all the phases of this cure
undertaken by Smith. All aided him in it, and all, save perhaps the
incredulous Pencroff, came to share in his belief and hope.
The submission of the Unknown was entire, and it seemed as if he showed
for the engineer, whose influence over him was apparent, a sort of
attachment, and Smith resolved now to test it by transporting him to
another scene, to that ocean which he had been accustomed to look upon,
to the forest border, which would recall those woods where he had lived
such a life!”
“But,” said Spilett, “can we hope that once at liberty, he will not
escape?”
“We must make the experiment,” replied the engineer.
“All right,” said Pencroff. “You will see, when this fellow snuffs the
fresh air and sees the coast clear, if he don’t make his legs spin!”
“I don’t think it,” replied the engineer.
“We will try, any how,” said Spilett.
It was the 30th of October, and the Unknown had been a prisoner for
nine days. It was a beautiful, warm, sunshiny day. Smith and Pencroff
went to the room of the Unknown, whom they found at the window gazing
out at the sky.
“Come, my friend,” said the engineer to him.
The Unknown rose immediately. His eye was fixed on Smith, whom he
followed; and the sailor, little confident in the results of the
experiment, walked with him.
Having reached the door, they made him get into the elevator, at the
foot of which the rest of the party were waiting. The basket descended,
and in a few seconds all were standing together on the shore.
The colonists moved off a little distance from the Unknown, so as to
leave him quite at liberty. He made some steps forward towards the sea,
and his face lit up with pleasure, but he made no effort to escape. He
looked curiously at the little waves, which, broken by the islet, died
away on the shore.
“It is not, indeed, the ocean,” remarked Spilett, “and it is possible
that this does not give him the idea of escaping.”
“Yes,” replied Smith, “we must take him to the plateau on the edge of
the forest. There the experiment will be more conclusive.”
“There he cannot get away, since the bridges are all raised,” said Neb.
“Oh, he is not the man to be troubled by such a brook as Glycerine
Creek; he could leap it at a bound,” returned Pencroff.
“We will see presently,” said Smith, who kept his eye fixed on his
patient.
And thereupon all proceeded towards Prospect Plateau. Having reached
the place they encountered the outskirts of the forest, with its leaves
trembling in the wind, The Unknown seemed to drink in with eagerness
the perfume in the air, and a long sigh escaped from his breast.
The colonists stood some paces back, ready to seize him if he attempted
to escape.
The poor creature was upon the point of plunging in the creek that
separated him from the forest; he placed himself ready to spring—then
all at once he turned about, dropping his arms beside him, and tears
coursed down his cheeks.
“Ah!” cried Smith, “you will be a man again, since you weep!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED—THE FIRST WORDS OF THE UNKNOWN—TWELVE YEARS ON
THE ISLAND—CONFESSIONS—DISAPPEARANCE—SMITH’S CONFIDENCE —BUILDING A
WIND-MILL—THE FIRST BREAD—AN ACT OF DEVOTION—HONEST HANDS.
Yes, the poor creature had wept. Some remembrance had flashed across
his spirit, and, as Smith had said, he would be made a man through his
tears.
The colonists left him for some time, withdrawing themselves, so that
he could feel perfectly at liberty; but he showed no inclination to
avail himself of this freedom, and Smith soon decided to take him back
to Granite House.
Two days after this occurrence, the Unknown showed a disposition to
enter little by little into the common life. It was evident that he
heard, that he understood, but it was equally evident that he
manifested a strange disinclination to speak to them. Pencroff,
listening at his room, heard these words escape him:—
“No! here! I! never!”
The sailor reported this to his companions, and Smith said:—
“There must be some sad mystery here.”
The Unknown had begun to do some little chores, and to work in the
garden. When he rested, which was frequent, he seemed entirely
self-absorbed; but, on the advice of the engineer, the others respected
the silence, which he seemed desirous of keeping. If one of the
colonists approached him he recoiled, sobbing as if overcome. Could it
be by remorse? or, was it, as Spilett once suggested:—
“If he does not speak I believe it is because he has something on his
mind too terrible to mention.”
Some days later the Unknown was working on the plantation, when, of a
sudden, he stopped and let his spade fall, and Smith, who was watching
him from a distance, saw that he was weeping again. An irresistible
pity drew the engineer to the poor fellow’s side; and, touching his arm
lightly,
“My friend,” said he.
The Unknown tried to look away, and when Smith sought to take his hand
he drew back quickly.
“My friend,” said Smith, with decision, “I wish you to look at me.”
The Unknown obeyed, raising his eyes and regarding the other as one
does who is under the influence of magnetism. At first he wished to
break away, then his whole expression changed; his eyes flashed, and,
unable longer to contain himself, he muttered some incoherent words.
Suddenly he crossed his arms, and in a hollow voice:—
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Men shipwrecked as you have been,” replied the engineer, greatly
moved. “We have brought you here among your kindred.”
“My kindred! I have none!
“You are among friends—,”
“Friends! I! Friends!” cried the Unknown, hiding his face in his hands.
“Oh, no! never! Leave me! leave me!” and he rushed to the brink of the
plateau overlooking the sea, and stood there, motionless, for a long
time.
Smith had rejoined his companions and had related to them what had
happened.
“There certainly is a mystery in this man’s life,” said Spilett, “and
it seems as if his first human sensation was remorse.”
“I don’t understand what kind of a man we have brought back,” says the
sailor. “He has secrets—”
“Which we will respect,” answered the engineer, quickly. “If he has
committed some fault he has cruelly expiated it, and in our sight it is
absolved.”
For two hours the Unknown remained upon the shore, evidently under the
influence of remembrances which brought back to him all his past, a
past which, doubtless, was hateful enough, and the colonists, though
keeping watch upon him, respected his desire to be alone.
Suddenly he seemed to have taken a resolution, and he returned to the
engineer. His eyes were red with the traces of tears, and his face wore
an expression of deep humility. He seemed apprehensive, ashamed,
humiliated, and his looks were fixed on the ground.
“Sir,” said he, “are you and your companions English?”
“No,” replied Smith, “we are Americans.”
“Ah!” murmured the Unknown, “I am glad of that.”
“And what are you, my friend?” asked the engineer.
“English,” he responded, as if these few words had cost him a great
effort. He rushed to the shore, and traversed its length to the mouth
of the Mercy, in a state of extreme agitation.
Having, at one place, met Herbert, he stopped, and in a choking voice,
accosted him:—
“What month is it?”
“November,” replied the lad.
“And what year?”
“1866.”
“Twelve years! Twelve years!” he cried, and then turned quickly away.
Herbert related this incident to the others.
“The poor creature knew neither the month nor the year,” remarked
Spilett.
“And he had been twelve years on the island, when we found him.”
“Twelve years,” said Smith. “Twelve years of isolation, after a wicked
life, perhaps; that would indeed affect a man’s reason.”
“I cannot help thinking,” observed Pencroff, “that this man was not
wrecked on that island, but that he has been left there for some
crime.”
“You may be right, Pencroff,” replied the reporter, “and if that is the
case, it is not impossible that whoever left him there may return for
him some day.”
“And they would not find him,” said Herbert.
“But, then,” exclaimed Pencroff, “he would want to go back, and—”
“My friends,” interrupted Smith, “do not let us discuss this question
till we know what we are talking about. I believe that this unhappy man
has suffered, and that he has paid bitterly for his faults, whatever
they may have been, and that he is struggling with the need of opening
his heart to someone. Do not provoke him to speak; he will tell us of
his own accord some day, and when we have learned all, we will see what
course it will be necessary to follow. He alone can tell us if he has
more than the hope, the certainty of some day being restored to his
country, but I doubt it.”
“Why?” asked the reporter.
“Because, had he been sure of being delivered after a fixed time, he
would have awaited the hour of his deliverance, and not have thrown
that paper in the sea. No, it is more likely that be was condemned to
die upon this island, to never look upon his kind again.”
“But there still is something which I cannot understand,” said the
sailor.
“What is that?”
“Why, if this man had been left on Tabor Island twelve years ago, it
seems probable that he must have been in this savage condition for a
long time.”
“That is probable,” replied the engineer.
“And, therefore, it is a long time since he wrote that paper.”
“Doubtless—and yet that paper seemed to have been written recently—”
“Yes, and how account for the bottle taking so many years in coming
from Tabor Island here?”
“It is not absolutely impossible,” responded the reporter. “Could not
it have been in the neighborhood of the island for a long time?”
“And have remained floating? No,” answered the sailor, “for sooner or
later it would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks.”
“It would, indeed,” said Smith, thoughtfully.
“And, moreover,” continued the sailor, if the paper had been enclosed
in the bottle for a long time, it would have been injured by the
moisture, whereas, it was not damaged in the least.”
The sailor’s remark was just, and, moreover, this paper, recently
written, gave the situation of the island with an exactness which
implied a knowledge of hydrography, such as a simple sailor could not
have.
“There is, as I said before, something inexplicable in all this,” said
the engineer, “but do not let us urge our new companion to speak, When
he wishes it we will be ready to listen.”
For several days after this the Unknown neither spoke nor left the
plateau. He worked incessantly, digging in the garden apart from the
colonists, and at meal times, although he was often asked to join them,
he remained alone, eating but a few uncooked vegetables. At night,
instead of returning to his room in Granite House, he slept under the
trees, or hid himself, if the weather was bad, in some hollow of the
rocks. Thus he returned again to that manner of life in which he had
lived when he had no other shelter than the forests of Tabor Island,
and all endeavor to make him modify this life having proved fruitless,
the colonists waited patiently. But the moment came when, irresistibly
and as if involuntarily forced from him by his conscience, the terrible
avowals were made.
At dusk on the evening of the 10th of November, as the colonists were
seated in the arbor, the Unknown stood suddenly before them. His eyes
glowed, and his whole appearance wore again the savage aspect of former
days. He stood there, swayed by some terrible emotion, his teeth
chattering like those of a person in a fever. The colonists were
astounded. “What was the matter with him? Was the sight of his
fellow-creatures unendurable? Had he had enough of this honest life?
Was he homesick for his brutish life? One would have thought so,
hearing him give utterance to these incoherent phrases:-
“Why am I here? By what right did you drag me from my island? Is there
any bond between you and me? Do you know who I am—what I have done—why
I was there—alone? And who has told you that I was not abandoned—that I
was not condemned to die there? Do you know my past? Do you know
whether I have not robbed, murdered—if I am not a miserable—a wicked
being—fit to live like a wild beast—far from all—say—do you know?”
The colonists listened silently to the unhappy creature, from whom
these half avowals came in spite of himself. Smith, wishing to soothe
him, would have gone to him, but the Unknown drew back quickly.
“No! no!” he cried. “One word only—am I free?”.
“You are free,” replied the engineer.
“Then, good-bye!” he cried, rushing off.
Neb, Pencroff, and Herbert ran to the border of the wood, but they
returned alone.
“We must let him have his own way,” said the engineer.
“He will never come back,” exclaimed Pencroff.
“He will return,” replied the engineer.
And after that conversation many days passed, but Smith—was it a
presentiment—persisted in the fixed idea that the unhappy man would
return sooner or later.
“It is the last struggle of this rude nature, which is touched by
remorse, and which would be terrified by a new isolation.”
In the meantime, work of all kinds was continued, both on Prospect
Plateau and at the corral, where Smith proposed to make a farm. It is
needless to say that the seeds brought from Tabor Island had been
carefully sown. The plateau was a great kitchen-garden, well laid out
and enclosed, which kept the colonists always busy. As the plants
multiplied, it was necessary to increase the size of the beds, which
threatened to become fields, and to take the place of the grass land.
But as forage abounded in other parts of the island, there was no fear
of the onagers having to be placed on rations; and it was also better
to make Prospect Plateau, defended by its belt of creeks, a garden of
this kind, and to extend the fields, which required no protection,
beyond the belt.
On the 15th of November they made their third harvest. Here was a field
which had indeed increased in the eighteen months since the first grain
of corn had been sown. The second crop of 600,000 grains produced this
time 4,000 bushels or more than 500,000,000 grains. The colonists were,
therefore, rich in corn; as it was only necessary to sow a dozen
bushels each year in order to have a supply sufficient for the
nourishment of man and beast.
After harvesting they, gave up the last fortnight in the month to
bread-making. They had the grain but not the flour, and a mill was
therefore necessary. Smith could have used the other waterfall which
fell into the Mercy, but, after discussing the question, it was decided
to build a simple wind-mill on the summit of the plateau. Its
construction would be no more difficult than a water-mill, and they
would be sure of always having a breeze on this open elevation.
“Without counting,” said Pencroff, “the fine aspect a wind-mill will
give to the landscape.”
They began the work by selecting timber for the cage and machinery for
the mill. Some large sand-stones, which the colonists found to the
north of the lake, were readily made into mill-stones, and the
inexhaustible envelope of the balloon furnished the cloth necessary for
the sails.
Smith made his drawings, and the site for the mill was chosen a little
to the right of the poultry-yard, and close to the lake shore. The
whole cage rested upon a pivot, held in position by heavy timbers, in
such a manner that it could turn, with all the mechanism within it,
towards any quarter of the wind.
The work progressed rapidly. Neb and Herbert had become expert
carpenters, and had only to follow the plans furnished by the engineer,
so that in a very short time a sort of round watch-house, a regular
pepper-box, surmounted by a sharp roof, rose upon the site selected.
The four wings had been firmly fastened by iron tenons to the main
shaft, in such a manner as to make a certain angle with it. As for the
various parts of the interior mechanism—the two mill-stones, the runner
and the feeder; the hopper, a sort of huge square trough, large above
and small below, permitting the grains to fall upon the mill-stones;
the oscillating bucket, designed to regulate the passage of the grain;
and, finally, the bolter, which, by the operation of the sieve,
separated the bran from the flour—all these were easily made. And as
their tools were good, the work simple, and everybody took part in it,
the mill was finished by the 1st of December.
As usual, Pencroff was overjoyed by his work, and he was sure that the
machine was perfection.
“Now, with a good wind, we will merrily grind our corn.”
“Let it be a good wind, Pencroff, but not too strong,” said the
engineer.
“Bah! our mill will turn the faster.”
“It is not necessary to turn rapidly,” replied the engineer.
“Experience has demonstrated that the best results are obtained by a
mill whose wings make six times the number of turns in a minute that
the wind travels feet in a second. Thus, an ordinary wind, which
travels twenty-four feet in a second, will turn the wings of the mill
sixteen times in a minute, which is fast enough.”
“Already!” exclaimed Herbert, “there is a fine breeze from the
northeast, which will be just the thing!”
There was no reason to delay using the mill, and the colonists were
anxious to taste the bread of Lincoln Island; so this very morning two
or three bushels of corn were ground, and the next day, at breakfast, a
splendid loaf, rather heavy perhaps, which had been raised with the
barm of beer, was displayed upon the table of Granite House. Each
munched his portion with a pleasure perfectly inexpressible.
Meantime the Unknown had not come back again. Often Spilett and Herbert
had searched the forest in the neighborhood of Granite House without
finding any trace of him, and all began to be seriously alarmed at his
prolonged absence. Undoubtedly the former savage of Tabor Island would
not find it difficult to live in the forests of the Far West, which
were so rich in game; but was it not to be feared that he would resume
his former habits, and that his independence would revive in him his
brutish instincts? Smith alone, by a sort of presentiment, persisted in
saying that the fugitive would return.
“Yes, he will come back,” he repeated with a confidence in which his
companions could not share. “When this poor creature was on Tabor
Island, he knew he was alone, but here, he knows that his kindred await
him. Since he half-spoke of his past life, he will return to tell us
everything, and on that day he will be ours.”
The event proved the correctness of Cyrus Smith’s reasoning.
On the 3d of December, Herbert had gone to the southern shore of the
lake, to fish, and, since the dangerous animals never showed themselves
in this part of the island, he had gone unarmed.
Pencroff and Neb were working in the poultry-yard, while Smith and the
reporter were occupied at the Chimneys making soda, the supply of soap
being low.
Suddenly sharp cries of help were heard by Neb and Pencroff, who
summoned the others, and all rushed towards the lake.
But before them, the Unknown, whose presence in the neighborhood had
not been suspected, leapt over Glycerine Creek and bounded along the
opposite bank.
There, Herbert stood facing a powerful jaguar, like the one which had
been killed at Reptile End. Taken by surprise, he stood with his back
against a tree, and the animal, crouching on his haunches, was about to
spring upon him, when the Unknown, with no other arm than his knife,
threw himself on the brute, which turned upon its new adversary.
The struggle was short. This man, whose strength and agility was
prodigious, seized the jaguar by the throat in a vice-like grip, and,
not heeding the claws of the beast tearing his flesh, he thrust his
knife into its heart.
The jaguar fell, and the Unknown was about turning to go away, when the
colonists came up, and Herbert, catching hold of him, exclaimed:—
“No, no, you must not leave us!”
Smith walked towards the man, who frowned at his approach. The blood
was flowing from a wound in his shoulder, but he did not heed it.
“My friend,” said Smith, “we are in your debt. You have risked your
life to save our boy.”
“My life,” murmured the Unknown; “what is it worth? less than nothing.”
“You are wounded?”
“That does not matter.”
“Will you not shake hands with me?” asked Herbert.
But on the lad’s seeking to take his hand, the Unknown folded his arms,
his chest heaved, and he looked about as if he wished to escape; but,
making a violent effort at self-control, and in a gruff voice:—
“Who are you?” he asked, “and what are you going to do with me?”
It was their history that he thus asked for, for the first time.
Perhaps, if that was related, he would tell his own. So Smith, in a few
words, recounted all that had happened since their departure from
Richmond; how they had succeeded, and the resources now at their
disposal.
The Unknown listened with the utmost attention.
Then Smith told him who they all were, Spilett, Herbert, Pencroff, Neb,
himself, and he added that the greatest happiness that had come to them
since their arrival on Lincoln Island was on their return from the
islet, when they could count one more companion.
At these words the other colored up, and bowing his head, seemed
greatly agitated.
“And now that you know us,” asked Smith, “will you give us your hand?”
“No,” answered the Unknown in a hoarse voice; “no! You are honest men.
But I—”
CHAPTER XXXIX
ALWAYS APART—A BEQUEST OF THE UNKNOWN’S—THE FARM ESTABLISHED AT THE
CORRAL—TWELVE YEARS—THE BOATSWAIN’S MATE OF THE BRITANNIA —LEFT ON
TABOR ISLAND—THE HAND OF SMITH—THE MYSTERIOUS PAPER
These last events justified the presentiments of the colonists. There
was some terrible past in the life of this man, expiated, perhaps, in
the eyes of men, but which his conscience still held unabsolved. At any
rate, he felt remorse; he had repented, and his new friends would have
cordially grasped that hand, but he did not feel himself worthy to
offer it to honest men. Nevertheless, after the struggle with the
jaguar, he did not go back to the forest, but remained within the
bounds of Granite House.
What was the mystery of this life? Would he speak of it some day? The
colonists thought so, but they agreed that, under no circumstances,
would they ask him for his secret; and, in the meantime, to associate
with him as if they suspected nothing.
For some days everything went on as usual. Smith and Spilett worked
together, sometimes as chemists, sometimes as physicists, the reporter
never leaving the engineer, except to hunt with Herbert, as it was not
prudent to allow the young lad to traverse the forest alone. As to Neb
and Pencroff, the work in the stables and poultry-yard, or at the
corral, besides the chores about Granite House, kept them busy.
The Unknown worked apart from the others. He had gone back to his
former habit of taking no share in the meals, of sleeping under the
trees, of having nothing to do with his companions. It seemed, indeed,
as if the society of those who had saved him was intolerable.
“But why, then,” asked Pencroff, “did he seek succor from his
fellow-creatures; why did he throw this paper in the sea?”
“He will tell us everything,” was Smith’s invariable answer.
“But when?”
“Perhaps sooner than you think, Pencroff.”
And, indeed, on the 10th of December, a week after his return to
Granite House, the Unknown accosted the engineer and in a quiet humble
voice said:—
“Sir, I have a request to make.”
“Speak,” replied the engineer, “but, first, let me ask you a question?”
At these words the Unknown colored and drew back. Smith saw what was
passing in the mind of the culprit, who feared, doubtless, that the
engineer would question him upon his past.
Smith took him by the hand.
“Comrade,” said he, “we are not only companions, we are friends. I
wanted to say this to you first, now I will listen.”
The Unknown covered his eyes with his hand; a sort of tremor seized
him, and for some moments he was unable to articulate a word.
“Sir,” said he, at length, “I came to implore a favor from you.”
“What is it?”
“You have, four or five miles from here, at the foot of the mountain, a
corral for your animals. These require looking after. Will you permit
me to live over there with them?”
Smith regarded the unhappy man for some time, with deep commiseration.
Then:—
“My friend,” said he, “the corral has nothing but sheds, only fit for
the animals—”
“It will be good enough, for me, sir.”
“My friend,” replied Smith, “we will never thwart you in anything. If
you wish to live in the corral, you may; nevertheless, you will always
be welcome at Granite House. But since you desire to stay at the
corral, we will do what is necessary to make you comfortable.”
“Never mind about that, I will get along well enough.”
“My friend,” responded Smith, who persisted in the use of this cordial
title, “you must let us be the judges in that matter.”
The Unknown thanked the engineer and went away. And Smith, having told
his companions of the proposition that had been made, they decided to
build a log house at the corral, and to make it as comfortable as
possible.
The same day the colonists went, with the necessary tools, to the
place, and before the week was out the house was ready for its guest.
It was built twenty feet from the sheds, at a place where the herd of
moufflons, now numbering twenty-four animals, could be easily
overlooked. Some furniture, including a bed, table, bench,
clothes-press, and chest was made, and some arms, ammunition, and
tools, were carried there.
The Unknown, meanwhile, had not seen his new home, letting the
colonists work without him, while he remained at the plateau, wishing,
doubtless, to finish up his work there. And, indeed, by his exertion
the ground was completely tilled, and ready for the sowing when the
time should arrive.
On the 20th everything was prepared at the corral, aid the engineer
told the Unknown that his house was ready for him, to which the other
replied that he would sleep there that night.
The same evening, the colonists were all together in the great hall of
Granite House. It was 8 o’clock, the time of their companion’s
departure; and not wishing by their presence to impose on him the
leave-taking, which would, perhaps, have cost him an effort, they had
left him alone and gone up into Granite House.
They had been conversing together in the hall for some minutes, when
there was a light knock on the door, the Unknown entered, and without
further introduction:—
“Before I leave you, sirs,” said he, “it is well that you should know
my history. This is it.”
These simple words greatly affected Smith and companions. The engineer
started up.
“We ask to hear nothing, my friend,” he said. “It is your right to be
silent—”
“It is my duty to speak.”
“Then sit down.”
“I will stand where I am.”
“We are ready to hear what you have to say,” said Smith.
The Unknown stood in a shadowed corner of the hall, bare-headed, his
arms crossed on his breast. In this position, in a hoarse voice,
speaking as one who forces himself to speak, he made the following
recital, uninterrupted by any word from his auditors:—
“On the 20th of December, 1854, a steam pleasure-yacht, the Duncan,
belonging to a Scotch nobleman, Lord Glenarvan, cast anchor at Cape
Bernoulli, on the western coast of Australia, near the thirty-seventh
parallel. On board the yacht were Lord Glenarvan, his wife, a major in
the English army, a French geographer, a little boy, and a little girl.
These two last were the children of Captain Grant, of the ship
Britannia, which, with its cargo, had been lost the year before. The
Duncan was commanded by Captain John Mangles, and was manned by a crew
of fifteen men.
“This is the reason why the yacht was on the Australian coast at that
season:—
“Six months before, a bottle containing a paper written in English,
German, and French, had been picked up by the Duncan in the Irish Sea.
This paper said, in substance, that three persons still survived from
the wreck of the Britannia; that they were the captain and two of the
men; that they had found refuge on a land of which the latitude and
longitude was given, but the longitude, blotted by the sea water, was
no longer legible.
“The latitude was 37° 11’ south. Now, as the longitude was unknown, if
they followed the latitude across continents and seas, they were
certain to arrive at the land inhabited by Captain Grant and his
companions.
“The English Admiralty, having hesitated to undertake the search, Lord
Glenarvan had resolved to do everything in his power to recover the
captain. Mary and Robert Grant had been in correspondence with him, and
the yacht Duncan was made ready for a long voyage, in which the family
of Lord Glenarvan and the children of the captain intended to
participate. The Duncan, leaving Glasgow, crossed the Atlantic, passed
the Straits of Magellan, and proceeded up the Pacific to Patagonia,
where, according to the first theory suggested by the paper, they might
believe that Captain Grant was a prisoner to the natives.
“The Duncan left its passengers on the western coast of Patagonia, and
sailed for Cape Corrientes on the eastern coast, there to wait for
them.
“Lord Glenarvan crossed Patagonia, following the 37th parallel, and,
not having found any trace of the captain, he reembarked on the 13th of
November, in order to continue his search across the ocean.
“After having visited without success the islands of Tristan d’Acunha
and of Amsterdam, lying in the course, the Duncan, as I have stated,
arrived at Cape Bernouilli on the 20th of December, 1854.
“It was Lord Glenarvan’s intention to cross Australia, as he had
crossed Patagonia, and he disembarked. Some miles from the coast was a
farm belonging to an Irishman, who offered hospitality to the
travellers. Lord Glenarvan told the Irishman the object which had
brought him to that region, and asked if he had heard of an English
three-master, the Britannia, having been lost, within two years, on the
west coast of Australia.
“The Irishman had never heard of this disaster, but, to the great
surprise of everybody, one of his servants, intervening, said:—
“‘Heaven be praised, my lord. If Captain Grant is still alive he is in
Australia.’
“‘Who are you?’ demanded Lord Glenarvan.
“‘A Scotchman, like yourself, my lord,’ answered this man, ‘and one of
the companions of Captain Grant, one of the survivors of the
Britannia.’
“This man called himself Ayrton. He had been, in short, boatswain’s
mate of the Britannia, as his papers proved. But, separated from
Captain Grant at the moment when the ship went to pieces on the rocks,
he had believed until this moment that every one had perished but
himself.
“‘Only,’ he added, ‘it was not on the western but on the eastern coast
of Australia that the Britannia was lost; and if the Captain is still
living he is a prisoner to the natives, and he must be searched for
there.’
“This man said these things frankly and with a confident expression. No
one would have doubted what he said. The Irishman, in whose service he
had been for more than a year, spoke in his favor. Lord Glenarvan
believed in his loyalty, and, following his advice, he resolved to
cross Australia, following the 37th parallel. Lord Glenarvan, his wife,
the children, the major, the Frenchman, Captain Mangles and some
sailors formed the little party under the guidance of Ayrton, while the
Duncan, under the command of the mate, Tom Austin, went to Melbourne,
to await further instructions.
“They left on the 23d of December, 1861.
“It is time to say that this Ayrton was a traitor. He was, indeed, the
boatswain’s mate of the Britannia; but, after some dispute with his
captain, he had tried to excite the crew to mutiny and seize the ship,
and Captain Grant had put him ashore, the 8th of April, 1832, on the
west coast of Australia, and had gone off, leaving him there, which was
no more than right.
“Thus this wretch knew nothing of the shipwreck of the Britannia. He
had just learned it from Lord Glenarvan’s recital! Since his
abandonment, he had become, under the name of Ben Joyce, the leader of
some escaped convicts; and, if he impudently asserted the ship had been
lost on the east coast, if he urged Lord Glenarvan to go in that
direction, it was in the hope of separating him from his ship, of
seizing the Duncan, and of making this yacht a pirate of the Pacific.”
Here the Unknown stopped for a moment. His voice trembled, but he began
again in these words:—
“The expedition across Australia set out. It was naturally unfortunate,
since Ayrton, or Ben Joyce, whichever you wish, led it, sometimes
preceded, sometimes followed by the band of convicts, who had been
informed of the plot.
“Meanwhile, the Duncan had been taken to Melbourne to await
instructions. It was therefore necessary to persuade Lord Glenarvan to
order her to leave Melbourne and to proceed to the east coast of
Australia, where it would be easy to seize her. After having led the
expedition sufficiently near this coast, into the midst of vast
forests, where all resources were wanting, Ayrton obtained a letter
which he was ordered to deliver to the mate of the Duncan; a letter
which gave the order directing the yacht to proceed immediately to the
east coast, to Twofold Bay, a place some days journey from the spot
where the expedition had halted. It was at this place that Ayrton had
given the rendezvous to his accomplices.
“At the moment when this letter was to have been sent, the traitor was
unmasked and was obliged to flee. But this letter, giving him the
Duncan, must be had at any cost. Ayrton succeeded in getting hold of
it, and, in two days afterwards, he was in Melbourne.
“So far, the criminal had succeeded in his odious projects. He could
take the Duncan to this Twofold Bay, where it would be easy for the
convicts to seize her; and, her crew massacred, Ben Joyce would be
master of the sea. Heaven stopped him in the consummation of these dark
designs.
“Ayrton, having reached Melbourne, gave the letter to the mate, Tom
Austin, who made ready to execute the order; but one can judge of the
disappointment and the rage of Ayrton, when, the second day out, he
learned that the mate was taking the ship, not to Twofold Bay on the
east coast of Australia, but to the east coast of New Zealand. He
wished to oppose this, but the mate showed him his order. And, in
truth, by a providential error of the French geographer who had written
this letter, the eastern coast of New Zealand had been named as their
place of destination.
“All the plans of Ayrton had miscarried. He tried to mutiny. They put
him in irons; and he was taken to the coast of New Zealand, unaware of
what had become of his accomplices, or of Lord Glenarvan.
“The Duncan remained on this coast until the 3d of March. On that day,
Ayrton heard firing. It was a salute from the Duncan, and, very soon,
Lord Glenarvan and all his party came on board.
“This is what had happened:—
“After innumerable fatigues and dangers, Lord Glenarvan had been able
to accomplish his journey and arrived at Twofold Bay. The Duncan was
not there! He telegraphed to Melbourne, and received a reply:—’Duncan
sailed on the 18th. Destination unknown.’
“Lord Glenarvan could think of but one explanation, that was that the
good yacht had fallen into the hands of Ben Joyce, and had become a
pirate ship.
“Nevertheless, Lord Glenarvan did not wish to give up his undertaking.
He was an intrepid and a generous man. He embarked on a merchant
vessel, which took him to the west coast of New Zealand, and he crossed
the country, following the 37th parallel without finding any trace of
Captain Grant; but on the other coast, to his great surprise, and by
the bounty of Heaven, he found the Duncan, commanded by the mate, which
had been waiting for him for five weeks!
“It was the 3d of March, 1855. Lord Glenarvan was again on the Duncan,
but Ayrton was there also. He was brought before his lordship, who
wished to get from this bandit all that he knew concerning Captain
Grant. Ayrton refused to speak. Lord Glenarvan told him, then, that at
the first port, he would be given over to the English authorities.
Ayrton remained silent.
“The Duncan continued along the thirty-seventh parallel. Meanwhile,
Lady Glenarvan undertook to overcome the obstinacy of the bandit, and,
finally, her influence conquered him. Ayrton, in exchange for what he
would tell, proposed to Lord Glenarvan to leave him upon one of the
islands in the Pacific, instead of giving him up to the English
authorities. Lord Glenarvan, ready to do anything to gain information
concerning Captain Grant, consented.
“Then Ayrton told the history of his life, and declared that he knew
nothing about Captain Grant since the day when the latter had left him
on the Australian coast.
“Nevertheless, Lord Glenarvan kept the promise he had made. The Duncan,
continuing her route, arrived at Tabor Island. It was there that Ayrton
was to be left, and it was there, too, that, by a miracle, they found
Captain Grant and his two companions. The convict was put upon the
island in their stead, and when he left the yacht, Lord Glenarvan spoke
to him in these words:—
“‘Here, Ayrton, you will be far from any country, and without any
possible means of communicating with your fellow-men. You will not be
able to leave this island. You will be alone, under the eye of a God
who looks into the depths of our hearts, but you will neither be lost
nor neglected, like Captain Grant. Unworthy as you are of the
remembrance of men, you will be remembered. I know where you are,
Ayrton, and I know where to find you. I will never forget it.’
“And the Duncan, setting sail, soon disappeared.
“This was the 18th of March, 1855.
“Ayrton was alone; but he lacked neither ammunition nor arms nor seeds.
He, the convict, had at his disposal the house built by the honest
Captain Grant. He had only to live and to expiate in solitude the
crimes which he had committed.
“Sirs, he repented; he was ashamed of his crimes, and he was very
unhappy. He said to himself that, as some day men would come to seek
him on this islet, he must make himself worthy to go back with them.
How he suffered, the miserable man! How he labored to benefit himself
by labor! How he prayed to regenerate himself by prayer!
“For two years, for three years, it was thus. Ayrton, crushed by this
isolation, ever on the watch for a ship to appear upon the horizon of
his island, asking himself if the time of expiation was nearly ended,
suffered as one has rarely suffered. Oh! but solitude is hard, for a
soul gnawed by remorse!
“But, doubtless, Heaven found this unhappy wretch insufficiently
punished, for he fell, little by little, till he became a savage! He
felt, little by little, the brute nature taking possession of him. He
cannot say whether this was after two or four years of
abandonment, but at last he became the miserable being whom you found.
“I need not tell you, sirs, that Ayrton and Ben Joyce and I are one!”
Smith and his companions rose as this recital was finished. It is hard
to say how deeply they were affected! Such misery, such grief, and such
despair, had been shown to them!
“Ayrton,” said Smith, “you have been a great criminal, but Heaven has,
doubtless, witnessed the expiation of your crimes. This is proved, in
that you have been restored to your fellow-men. Ayrton, you are
pardoned! And now, will you be our companion?”
The man drew back.
“Here is my hand,” said the engineer.
Ayrton darted forward and seized it, great tears streaming from his
eyes.
“Do you desire to live with us?” asked Smith.
“Oh, Mr. Smith, let me have yet a little time,” he answered, “let me
remain alone in the house at the corral!”
“Do as you wish, Ayrton,” responded Smith.
The unhappy man was about retiring, when Smith asked him a last
question.
“One word more, my friend. Since it is your wish to live in solitude,
why did you throw that paper, which put us in the way of finding you,
into the sea?”
“A paper?” answered Ayrton, who seemed not to understand what was said.
“Yes, that paper, which we found enclosed in a bottle, and which gave
the exact situation of Tabor Island?”
The man put his hand to his forehead, and, after some reflection,
said:—
“I never threw any paper into the sea!”
“Never!” cried Pencroff.
“Never!”
And then, inclining his head, Ayrton left the room.
CHAPTER XL.
A TALK—SMITH AND SPILETT—THE ENGINEER’S IDEA—THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH—THE
WIRES—THE BATTER-THE ALPHABET—FINE WEATHER—THE PROSPERITY OF THE
COLONY—PHOTOGRAPHY—A SNOW EFFECT—TWO YEARS ON LINCOLN ISLAND.
“The poor man!” said Herbert, returning from the door, after having
watched Ayrton slide down the rope of the elevator and disappear in the
darkness.
“He will come back,” said Smith.
“What does it mean?” exclaimed Pencroff. “That he had not thrown this
bottle into the sea? Then who did it?”
Certainly, if there was a reasonable question this was.
“He did it,” replied Neb; “only the poor fellow was half out of his
senses at the time.”
“Yes,” said Herbert, “and he had no knowledge of what he was doing.”
“It can be explained in no other way, my friends,” responded Smith,
hurriedly, “and I understand, now, how Ayrton was able to give the
exact situation of the island, since the events prior to his
abandonment gave him that knowledge.”
“Nevertheless,” observed Pencroff, “he was not a brute when he wrote
that paper, and if it is seven or eight years since it was thrown into
the sea, how is it that the paper has not been injured by moisture?”
“It proves,” said Smith, “that Ayrton retained possession of his
faculties to a period much more recent than he imagines.”
“That must be it,” replied Pencroff, “for otherwise the thing would be
inexplicable.”
“Inexplicable, indeed,” answered the engineer, who seemed not to wish
to prolong this talk.
“Has Ayrton told the truth?” questioned the sailor.
“Yes,” answered the reporter, “the history he has related is true in
every particular. I remember, perfectly well, that the papers reported
Lord Glenarvan’s undertaking and its result.”
“Ayrton has told the truth,” added Smith, “without any doubt, Pencroff,
since it was trying enough for him to do so. A man does not lie when he
accuses himself in this way.”
The next day—the 21st—the colonists went down to the beach, and then
clambered up to the plateau, but they saw nothing of Ayrton. The man
had gone to his house the night before, and they judged it best not to
intrude upon him. Time would, doubtless, effect what sympathy would
fail to accomplish.
Herbert, Pencroff, and Neb resumed their accustomed occupations; and it
happened that their work brought Smith and Spilett together at the
Chimneys.
“Do you know, Cyrus, that your explanation of yesterday about the
bottle does not satisfy me at all? It is impossible to suppose that
this unhappy creature could have written that paper, and thrown the
bottle into the sea, without remembering anything about it!”
“Consequently, it is not he who threw it there, my dear Spilett!”
“Then you believe—”
“I believe nothing, I know nothing!” replied Smith, interrupting the
reporter. “I place this incident with those others which I have not
been able to explain!”
“In truth, Cyrus,” said Spilett, “these things are incredible. Your
rescue, the box thrown up on the beach, Top’s adventures, and now this
bottle. Will we never have an answer to these enigmas?”
“Yes,” answered the engineer, earnestly, “yes, when I shall have
penetrated the bowels of this island!”
“Chance will, perhaps, give us the key to this mystery.”
“Chance, Spilett! I do not believe in chance any more than I believe in
mystery in this world. There is a cause for everything, however
inexplicable, which has happened here, and I will discover it. But,
while waiting, let us watch and work.”
January arrived, and the year 1867 began. The works had been pushed
forward vigorously. One day Herbert and Spilett, passing the corral,
ascertained that Ayrton had taken possession of his abode. He occupied
himself with the large herd confided to his care, and thus saved his
companions the necessity of visiting it two or three times a week.
Nevertheless, in order not to leave Ayrton too much alone, they
frequently went there.
It was just as well—owing to certain suspicions shared by Smith and
Spilett—that this part of the island should be under a certain
supervision, and Ayrton, if anything happened, would not fail to let
the inhabitants of Granite House know of it.
Possibly, some sudden event might happen, which it would be important
to communicate to the engineer without delay. And, aside from whatever
might be connected with the mystery of the island, other things,
requiring the prompt intervention of the colonists, might occur, as,
for example, the discovering of a ship in the offing and in sight of
the west coast, a wreck on that shore, the possible arrival of pirates,
etc.
So Smith determined to place the corral in instant communication with
Granite House.
It was the 10th of January when he told his project to his companions.
“How are you going to do such a thing as that, Mr. Smith?” asked
Pencroff. “Maybe you propose to erect a telegraph!”
“That is precisely what I propose to do.”
“Electric?” exclaimed Herbert.
“Electric,” responded Smith. “We have everything necessary for making a
battery, and the most difficult part will be to make the wires, but I
think we can succeed.”
“Well, after this,” replied the sailor, “I expect some day to see us
riding along on a railway!”
They entered upon the work at once, beginning with the most difficult
part, that is to say, the manufacture of the wires, since, if that
failed, it would be useless to make the battery and other accessories.
The iron of Lincoln Island was, as we know, of excellent quality, and,
therefore, well adapted to the purpose. Smith began by making a steel
plate, pierced with conical holes of different sizes, which would bring
the wire to the desired size. This piece of steel, after having been
tempered “through and through,” was fixed firmly to a solid frame-work
sunk in the ground, only a few feet distant from the waterfall—the
motive power which the engineer intended to use.
And, indeed, there was the fulling-mill, not then in use, the main
shaft of which turned with great force, and would serve to draw out the
wire and roll it around itself.
The operation was delicate and required great care. The iron,
previously made into long and thin bars, with tapering ends, having
been introduced into the largest hole of the drawing-plate, was drawn
out by the main shaft of the mill, rolled out to a length of 25 or 30
feet, then unrolled, and pulled, in turn, through the smaller holes;
and at length, the engineer obtained wires 30 or 40 feet long, which it
was easy to join together and place along the five miles between the
corral and Granite House.
It took but a little while to get this work under way, and then, Smith,
making his companions the wire-drawers, busied himself in the
construction of his battery.
It was necessary to make a battery with a constant circuit. We know
that modern batteries are usually made of a certain kind of coke, zinc,
and copper. Copper the engineer was without, since, in spite of all his
efforts, he had been unable to find a trace of it on the island. The
coke, which is that hard deposit obtained from gas retorts could be
procured, but it would be necessary to arrange a special apparatus—a
difficult thing to do. As to the zinc, it will be remembered that the
box found on Jetsam Point, was lined with a sheet of that metal, which
could not be better utilized than at present.
Smith, after deep reflection, resolved to make a very simple battery,
something like that which Becquerel invented in 1820, in which zinc
alone is used. The other substances, nitric-acid and potash, he had at
hand.
The manner in which he made this battery, in which the current was
produced by the action of the acid and the potash on each other, was as
follows:—
A certain number of glass vessels were made and filled with
nitric-acid. They were corked with perforated corks, containing glass
tubes reaching into the acid, and stopped: with clay plugs, connected
with threads. Into these tubes the engineer poured a solution of
potash—obtained from burnt plants—and thus the acid and the potash
reacted on each other through the clay.
Then Smith plunged two plates of zinc, the one in the nitric acid, the
other in the solution, and thus produced a circuit between the tube and
jar, and as these plates had been connected by a bit of wire, the one
in the tube became the positive and the other the negative pole of the
apparatus. Each jar produced its currents, which, together, were
sufficient to cause all the phenomena of the electric telegraph.
On the 6th of February they began to erect the poles, furnished with
glass insulators, and some days later the wire was stretched, ready to
produce the electric current, which travels with the speed of 100,000
kilometres a second.
Two batteries had been made, one for Granite House, and the other for
the corral, as, if the corral had to communicate with Granite House, it
might, also, be needful for Granite House to communicate with the
corral.
As to the indicator and manipulator, they were very simple. At both
stations the wire was wrapped around an electro-magnet of soft iron.
Communication was established between the two poles; the current,
leaving the positive pole, traversed the wire, passed into the
electro-magnet, and returned under ground to the negative pole. The
current closed, the attraction of the electro-magnet ceased. It was,
therefore, sufficient to place a plate of soft iron before the
electro-magnet which, attracted while the current is passing, falls,
when it is interrupted. The movement of the plate thus obtained, Smith
easily fastened to it a needle, pointing to a dial, which bore the
letters of the alphabet upon its face.
Everything was finished by the 12th of February. On that day Smith,
having turned on the current, asked if everything was all right at the
corral, and received, in a few moments, a satisfactory reply from
Ayrton.
Pencroff was beside himself with delight, and every morning and evening
he sent a telegraph to the corral, which never remained unanswered.
This method of communication presented evident advantages, both in
informing the colonists of Ayrton’s presence at the corral, and in
preventing his complete isolation. Moreover, Smith never allowed a week
to pass without visiting him, and Ayrton came occasionally to Granite
House, where he always found a kind reception.
Continuing their accustomed work, the fine weather passed away, and the
resources of the colony, particularly in vegetables and cereals,
increased from day to day, and the plants brought from Tabor Island had
been perfectly acclimated. The plateau presented a most attractive
appearance. The fourth crop of corn had been excellent, and no one
undertook to count the 400,000,000,000 grains produced in the harvest;
although Pencroff had had some such idea, until Smith informed him
that, supposing he could count 300 grains a minute, or 18,000 an hour,
it would take him 5,500 years to accomplish his undertaking.
The weather was superb, though somewhat warm during the day; but, in
the evening, the sea-breeze sprung up, tempering the air and giving
refreshing nights to the inhabitants of Granite House. Still there were
some storms, which, although not long continued, fell upon Lincoln
Island with extraordinary violence. For several hours at a time the
lightning never ceased illuminating the heavens, and the thunder roared
without cessation.
This was a season of great prosperity to the little colony. The
denizens of the poultry-yard increased rapidly, and the colonists lived
on this increase, as it was necessary to keep the population within
certain limits. The pigs had littered, and Pencroff and Neb’s attention
to these animals absorbed a great part of their time. There were too
young onagers, and their parents were often ridden by Spilett and
Herbert, or hitched to the cart to drag wood or bring the minerals
which the engineer made use of.
Many explorations were made about this time into the depths of the Far
West. The explorers did not suffer from the heat, as the sun’s rays
could not penetrate the leafy roof above them. Thus, they visited all
that part to the left of the Mercy, bordering on the route from the
corral to the mouth of Fall River.
But during these excursions the colonists took care to be well armed,
as they often encountered exceedingly savage and ferocious wild boars.
They also waged war against the jaguars, for which animals Spilett had
a special hatred, and his pupil, Herbert, seconded him well. Armed as
they were, the hunters never shunned an encounter with these beasts,
and the courage of Herbert was superb, while the coolness of the
reporter was astonishing. Twenty magnificent skins already ornamented
the hall at Granite House, and at this rate the jaguars would soon be
exterminated.
Sometimes the engineer took part in explorations of the unknown
portions of the island, which he observed with minute attention. There
were other traces than those of animals which he sought for in the
thickest places in the forests, but not once did anything suspicions
appear. Top and Jup, who accompanied him, showed by their action that
there was nothing there, and yet the dog had growled more than once
again above that pit which the engineer had explored without result.
During this season Spilett, assisted by Herbert, took numerous views of
the most picturesque portions of the island, by means of the
photographic apparatus, which had not been used until now.
This apparatus, furnished with a powerful lens, was very complete. All
the substances necessary in photographic work were there; the nitrate
of silver, the hyposulphata of soda, the chloride of ammonium, the
acetate of soda, and the chloride of gold. Even the paper was there,
all prepared, so that all that was necessary, in order to use it, was
to steep it for a few moments in diluted nitrate of silver.
The reporter and his assistant soon became expert operators, and they
obtained fine views of the neighborhood, such as a comprehensive view
of the island taken from Prospect Plateau, with Mount Franklin on the
horizon, the mouth of the Mercy so picturesquely framed between its
high rocks, the glade and the corral, with the lower spurs of the
mountain in the background, the curious outline of Claw Cape, Jetsam
Point, etc. Neither did the photographers forget to take portraits of
all the inhabitants of the island, without exception.
“Its people,” as Pencroff expressed it.
And the sailor was charmed to see his likeness, faithfully reproduced,
ornamenting the walls of Granite House, and he stood before this
display as pleased as if he had been gazing in one of the richest
show-windows on Broadway.
It must be confessed, however, that the portrait, showing the finest
execution, was that of master Jup. Master Jup has posed with a gravity
impossible to describe, and his picture was a speaking likeness!
“One would say he was laughing!” exclaimed Pencroff.
And if Jup had not been satisfied, he must have been hard to please.
But there it was, and he contemplated his image with such a sentimental
air, that it was evident he was a little conceited.
The heat of the summer ended with March. The season was rainy, but the
air was still warm, and the month was not as pleasant as they had
expected. Perhaps it foreboded an early and a rigorous winter.
One morning, the 21st, Herbert had risen early, and, looking from the
window, exclaimed:—
“Hullo, the islet is covered with snow!”
“Snow at this season!” cried the reporter, joining the lad.
Their companions were soon beside them, and every one saw that not only
the islet, but that the entire beach below Granite House, was covered
with the white mantle.
“It is, indeed, snow,” said Pencroff.
“Or something very much like it,” replied Neb.
“But the thermometer stands at 58°,” said Spilett.
Smith looked at the white covering without speaking, for he was,
indeed, at a loss how to explain such a phenomenon in this season and
in this temperature.
“The deuce!” cried the sailor; “our crops will have been frost-bitten.”
And he was about descending when Jup sprang before him and slid down
the rope to the ground.
The orang had scarcely touched the earth before the immense body of
snow rose and scattered itself through the air in such innumerable
flocks as to darken all the heavens for a time.
“They are birds!” cried Herbert.
The effect had, indeed, been produced by myriads of sea-birds, with
plumage of brilliant whiteness. They had come from hundreds of miles
around on to the islet and the coast, and they now disappeared in the
horizon, leaving the colonists as amazed as if they had witnessed a
transformation scene, from winter to summer, in some fancy spectacle.
Unfortunately, the change had been so sudden that neither the reporter
nor the lad had had an opportunity of knocking over some of these
birds, whose species they did not recognize.
A few days later, and it was the 26th of March. Two years had passed
since the balloon had been thrown upon Lincoln Island.
CHAPTER XLI.
THOUGHTS OF HOME—CHANCES OF RETURN —PLAN TO EXPLORE THE COAST—THE
DEPARTURE OF THE 16TH OF APRIL—SERPENTINE PENINSULA SEEN FROM SEA—THE
BASALTIC CLIFFS OF THE WESTERN COAST—BAD WEATHER—NIGHT—A NEW INCIDENT.
Two years already! For two years the colonists had had no communication
with their fellows! They knew no more of what was happening in the
world, lost upon this island, than if they had been upon the most
distant asteroid of the solar system.
What was going on in their country? Their fatherland was always present
to their eyes, that land which, when they left it, was torn by civil
strife, which perhaps was still red with rebellious blood. It was a
great grief to them, this war, and they often talked about it, never
doubting, however, that the cause of the North would triumph for the
honor of the American confederation.
During these two years not a ship had been seen. It was evident that
Lincoln Island was out of the route of vessels; that it was unknown—the
maps proved this—was evident, because, although it had no harbor, yet
its streams would have drawn thither vessels desiring to renew their
supply of water. But the surrounding sea was always desert, and the
colonists could count on no outside help to bring them to their home.
Nevertheless, one chance of rescue existed, which was discussed one day
in the first week of April, when the colonists were gathered in the
hall of Granite House.
They had been talking of America and of the small hope of ever seeing
it again.
“Undoubtedly, there is but one way of leaving the island,” said
Spilett, “which is, to build a vessel large enough to make a voyage of
some hundreds of miles. It seems to me, that, when one can build a
shallop, they can readily build a ship.”
“And that they can as easily go to the Low Archipelago as to Tabor
Island,” added Herbert.
“I do not say we cannot,” replied Pencroff, who always had the most to
say on questions of a maritime nature; “I do not say we cannot,
although it is very different whether one goes far or near! If our
sloop had been threatened with bad weather when we went to Tabor
Island, we knew that a shelter was not far off in either direction; but
1,200 miles to travel is a long bit of road, and the nearest land is at
least that distance!”
“Do you mean, supposing the case to occur, Pencroff, that you would not
risk it?” questioned the reporter.
“I would undertake whatever you wished, sir,” replied the sailor, “and
you know I am not the man to draw back.”
“Remember, moreover, that we have another sailor with us, now,” said
Neb.
“Who do you mean,” asked Pencroff.
“Ayrton.”
“That is true,” responded Herbert.
“If he would join us,” remarked Pencroff.
“Why,” said the reporter, “do you think that if Lord Glenarvan’s yacht
had arrived at Tabor Island while Ayrton was living there, that he
would have refused to leave?”
“You forget, my friends,” said Smith, “that Ayrton was not himself
during the last few years there. But that is not the question. It is
important to know whether we can count on the return of this Scotch
vessel as among our chances for rescue. Now, Lord Glenarvan promised
Ayrton that he would return to Tabor Island, when he judged his crimes
sufficiently punished, and I believe that he will return.
“Yes,” said the reporter, “and, moreover, I think he will return soon,
as already Ayrton has been here twelve years!”
“I, also, think this lord will come back, and, probably, very soon. But
where will he come to? Not here, but to Tabor Island.”
“That is as sure as that Lincoln Island is not on the maps,” said
Herbert.
“Therefore, my friends,” replied Smith, “we must take the necessary
precautions to have Ayrton’s and our presence on Lincoln Island
advertised on Tabor Island.”
“Evidently,” said the reporter, “and nothing can be easier than to
place in Captain Grant’s cabin a notice, giving the situation of our
island.”
“It is, nevertheless, annoying,” rejoined the sailor, “that we forgot
to do that on our first voyage to the place.”
“Why should we have done so?” replied Herbert. “We knew nothing about
Ayrton at that time, and when we learned his history, the season was
too far advanced to allow of our going back there.”
“Yes,” answered Smith, “it was too late then, and we had to postpone
the voyage until spring.”
“But supposing the yacht comes in the meantime?” asked Pencroff.
“It is not likely,” replied the engineer, “as Lord Glenarvan would not
choose the winter season to adventure into these distant seas. Either
it has already been to the island, in the five months that Ayrton has
been with us, or it will come later, and it will be time enough, in the
first fine weather of October, to go to Tabor Island and leave a notice
there.”
“It would, indeed, be unfortunate,” said Neb, “if the Duncan has been
to and left these seas within a few months.”
“I hope that it is not so,” answered Smith, “and that Heaven has not
deprived us of this last remaining chance.”
“I think,” observed the reporter, “that, at least, we will know what
our chances are, when we have visited the island; for those Stockmen
would, necessarily, leave some trace of their visit, had they been
there.”
“Doubtless,” answered the engineer. “And, my friends, since we have
this chance of rescue, let us wait patiently, and if we find it has
been taken from us, we will see then what to do.”
“At any rate,” said Pencroff, “it is agreed that if we do leave the
inland by some way or another, it will not be on account of
ill-treatment!”
“No indeed, Pencroff,” replied the reporter, “it will be because we are
far from everything which a man loves in this world, his family, his
friends, his country!”
Everything having been thus arranged there was no longer any question
of building a ship, and the colonists occupied themselves in preparing
for their third winter in Granite House.
But they determined, before the bad weather set in, to make a voyage in
the sloop around the island. The exploration of the coast had never
been completed, and the colonists had only an imperfect idea of its
western and northern portions from the mouth of Fall River to the
Mandible Capes, and of the narrow bay between them.
Pencroff had proposed this excursion, and Smith had gladly agreed to
it, as he wished to see for himself all that part of his domain.
The weather was still unsettled, but the barometer made no rapid
changes, and they might expect fair days. So, in the first week of
April, after a very low barometer, its rise was followed by a strong
west wind, which lasted for five or six weeks; then the needle of the
instrument became stationary at a high figure, and everything seemed
propitious for the exploration.
The day of departure was set for the 16th, and the Good Luck, moored in
Balloon Harbor, was provisioned for a long cruise.
Smith told Ayrton of the excursion, and proposed to him to take part in
it; but as Ayrton preferred to remain on shore, it was decided that he
should come to Granite House while his companions were absent. Jup was
left to keep him company, and made no objection.
On the morning of the 16th all the colonists, including Top, went on
board the Good Luck. The breeze blew fresh from the south-west, so that
from Balloon Harbor they had to beat up against the wind in order to
make Reptile End. The distance between these two points, following the
coast, was twenty miles. As the wind was dead ahead, and they had had
on starting but two hours of the ebb, it took all day to reach the
promontory, and it was night before the point was doubled.
Pencroff proposed to the engineer that they should keep on slowly,
sailing under a double-reef, but Smith preferred mooring some cable
lengths from shore, in order to survey this part of the coast by
daylight.
And it was agreed that henceforth, as a minute exploration of the
island was to be made, they would not sail at night, but cast anchor
every evening at the most available point.
The wind fell as night approached, and the silence was unbroken. The
little party, excepting Pencroff, slept less comfortably than in their
beds at Granite House, but still they slept; and at daylight the next
morning the sailor raised anchor, and, with a free wind, skirted the
shore.
The colonists knew this magnificently wooded border, as they had
traversed it formerly, on foot; but its appearance excited renewed
admiration. They ran as close in as possible, and moderated their speed
in order to observe it carefully. Often, they would cast anchor that
Spilett might take photographic views of the superb scenery.
About noon the Good Luck arrived at the mouth of the Fall River. Above,
upon the right bank, the trees were less numerous, and three miles
further on they grew in mere isolated groups between the western spurs
of the mountain, whose arid declivities extended to the very edge of
the ocean.