A Mystery to be cleared up -- The Stranger's first Words --
Twelve Years on the Islet -- Avowal which escapes him -- The
Disappearance -- Cyrus Harding's Confidence -- Construction
of a Mill -- The first Bread -- An Act of Devotion -- Honest
Hands.
Yes! the unfortunate man had wept! Some recollection doubtless had
flashed across his brain, and to use Cyrus Harding's expression, by
those tears he was once more a man.
The colonists left him for some time on the plateau, and withdrew
themselves to a short distance, so that he might feel himself free;
but he did not think of profiting by this liberty, and Harding soon
brought him back to Granite House. Two days after this occurrence, the
stranger appeared to wish gradually to mingle with their common life.
He evidently heard and understood, but no less evidently was he
strangely determined not to speak to the colonists; for one evening,
Pencroft, listening at the door of his room, heard these words escape
from his lips:--
"No! here! I! never!"
The sailor reported these words to his companions.
"There is some painful mystery there!" said Harding.
The stranger had begun to use the labouring tools, and he worked in
the garden. When he stopped in his work, as was often the case, he
remained retired within himself; but on the engineer's recommendation,
they respected the reserve which he apparently wished to keep. If one
of the settlers approached him, he drew back, and his chest heaved
with sobs, as if overburthened!
Was it remorse that overwhelmed him thus? They were compelled to
believe so, and Gideon Spilett could not help one day making this
observation,--
"If he does not speak it is because he has, I fear, things too serious
to be told!"
They must be patient and wait.
[Illustration: "WHO ARE YOU?" HE ASKED IN A HOLLOW VOICE]
A few days later, on the 3rd of November, the stranger, working on the
plateau, had stopped, letting his spade drop to the ground, and
Harding who was observing him from a little distance, saw that tears
were again flowing from his eyes. A sort of irresistible pity led him
towards the unfortunate man, and he touched his arm lightly.
"My friend!" said he.
The stranger tried to avoid his look, and Cyrus Harding, having
endeavoured to take his hand, he drew back quickly.
"My friend," said Harding in a firmer voice, "look at me, I wish it!"
The stranger looked at the engineer, and seemed to be under his power,
as a subject under the influence of a mesmerist. He wished to run
away. But then his countenance suddenly underwent a transformation.
His eyes flashed. Words struggled to escape from his lips. He could no
longer contain himself!... At last he folded his arms, then, in a
hollow voice,--
"Who are you?" he asked Cyrus Harding.
"Castaways, like you," replied the engineer, whose emotion was deep.
"We have brought you here, among your fellow-men."
"My fellow-men!... I have none!"
"You are in the midst of friends."
"Friends!--for me! friends!" exclaimed the stranger, hiding his face
in his hands. "No--never--leave me! leave me!"
Then he rushed to the side of the plateau which overlooked the sea,
and remained there a long time motionless.
Harding rejoined his companions and related to them what had just
happened.
"Yes! there is some mystery in that man's life," said Gideon Spilett,
"and it appears as if he had only re-entered society by the path of
remorse."
"I don't know what sort of a man we have brought here," said the
sailor. "He has secrets--"
"Which we will respect," interrupted Cyrus Harding quickly. "If he has
committed any crime, he has most fearfully expiated it, and in our
eyes he is absolved."
[Illustration: THE STRANGER]
For two hours the stranger remained alone on the shore, evidently
under the influence of recollections which recalled all his past
life--a melancholy life doubtless--and the colonists, without losing
sight of him, did not attempt to disturb his solitude. However, after
two hours, appearing to have formed a resolution, he came to find
Cyrus Harding. His eyes were red with the tears he had shed, but he
wept no longer. His countenance expressed deep humility. He appeared
anxious, timorous, ashamed, and his eyes were constantly fixed on the
ground.
"Sir," said he to Harding, "your companions and you, are you English?"
"No," answered the engineer, "we are Americans."
"Ah!" said the stranger, and he murmured, "I prefer that!"
"And you, my friend?" asked the engineer.
"English," replied he hastily.
And as if these few words had been difficult to say, he retreated to
the beach, where he walked up and down between the cascade and the
mouth of the Mercy, in a state of extreme agitation.
Then, passing one moment close to Herbert, he stopped, and in a
stifled voice,--
"What month?" he asked.
"December," replied Herbert.
"What year?"
"1866."
"Twelve years! twelve years!" he exclaimed.
Then he left him abruptly.
Herbert reported to the colonists the questions and answers which had
been made.
"This unfortunate man," observed Gideon Spilett, "was no longer
acquainted with either months or years!"
"Yes!" added Herbert, "and he had been twelve years already on the
islet when we found him there!"
"Twelve years!" rejoined Harding. "Ah! twelve years of solitude, after
a wicked life, perhaps, may well impair a man's reason!"
"I am induced to think," said Pencroft, "that this man was not wrecked
on Tabor Island, but that in consequence of some crime he was left
there."
"You must be right, Pencroft," replied the reporter, "and if it is so
it is not impossible that those who left him on the island may return
to fetch him some day!"
"And they will no longer find him," said Herbert.
"But then," added Pencroft, "they must return, and--"
"My friends," said Cyrus Harding, "do not let us discuss this question
until we know more about it. I believe that the unhappy man has
suffered, that he has severely expiated his faults, whatever they may
have been, and that the wish to unburden himself stifles him. Do not
let us press him to tell us his history! He will tell it to us
doubtless, and when we know it, we shall see what course it will be
best to follow. He alone besides can tell us, if he has more than a
hope, a certainty, of returning some day to his country, but I doubt
it!"
"And why?" asked the reporter.
"Because that, in the event of his being sure of being delivered at a
certain time, he would have waited the hour of his deliverance and
would not have thrown this document into the sea. No, it is more
probable that he was condemned to die on that islet, and that he never
expected to see his fellow-creatures again!"
"But," observed the sailor, "there is one thing which I cannot
explain."
"What is it?"
"If this man had been left for twelve years on Tabor Island, one may
well suppose that he had been several years already in the wild state
in which we found him!"
"That is probable," replied Cyrus Harding.
"It must then be many years since he wrote that document!"
"No doubt, and yet the document appears to have been recently
written!"
"Besides, how do you know that the bottle which enclosed the document
may not have taken several years to come from Tabor Island to Lincoln
Island?"
"That is not absolutely impossible," replied the reporter.
"Might it not have been a long time already on the coast of the
island?"
"No," answered Pencroft, "for it was still floating. We could not even
suppose that after it had stayed for any length of time on the shore,
it would have been swept off by the sea, for the south coast is all
rocks, and it would certainly have been smashed to pieces there!"
"That is true," rejoined Cyrus Harding thoughtfully.
"And then," continued the sailor, "if the document was several years
old, if it had been shut up in that bottle for several years, it would
have been injured by damp. Now, there is nothing of the kind, and it
was found in a perfect state of preservation."
The sailor's reasoning was very just, and pointed out an
incomprehensible fact, for the document appeared to have been recently
written, when the colonists found it in the bottle. Moreover, it gave
the latitude and longitude of Tabor Island correctly, which implied
that its author had a more complete knowledge of hydrography than
could be expected of a common sailor.
"There is in this, again, something unaccountable," said the engineer;
"but we will not urge our companion to speak. When he likes, my
friends, then we shall be ready to hear him!"
During the following days the stranger did not speak a word, and did
not once leave the precincts of the plateau. He worked away, without
losing a moment, without taking a minute's rest, but always in a
retired place. At meal times he never came to Granite House, although
invited several times to do so, but contented himself with eating a
few raw vegetables. At nightfall he did not return to the room
assigned to him, but remained under some clump of trees, or when the
weather was bad crouched in some cleft of the rocks. Thus he lived in
the same manner as when he had no other shelter than the forests of
Tabor Island, and as all persuasion to induce him to improve his life
was in vain, the colonists waited patiently. And the time was near,
when, as it seemed, almost involuntarily urged by his conscience, a
terrible confession escaped him.
On the 10th of November, about eight o'clock in the evening, as night
was coming on, the stranger appeared unexpectedly before the settlers,
who were assembled under the verandah. His eyes burned strangely, and
he had quite resumed the wild aspect of his worst days.
Cyrus Harding and his companions were astounded on seeing that,
overcome by some terrible emotion, his teeth chattered like those of a
person in a fever. What was the matter with him? Was the sight of his
fellow-creatures insupportable to him? Was he weary of this return to
a civilised mode of existence? Was he pining for his former savage
life? It appeared so, as soon he was heard to express himself in these
incoherent sentences:--
"Why am I here?... By what right have you dragged me from my islet?...
Do you think there could be any tie between you and me?... Do you know
who I am--what I have done--why I was there--alone? And who told you
that I was not abandoned there--that I was not condemned to die
there?... Do you know my past?... How do you know that I have not
stolen, murdered--that I am not a wretch--an accursed being--only fit
to live like a wild beast far from all--speak--do you know it?"
The colonists listened without interrupting the miserable creature,
from whom these broken confessions escaped, as it were, in spite of
himself. Harding wishing to calm him, approached him, but he hastily
drew back.
"No! no!" he exclaimed; "one word only--am I free?"
"You are free," answered the engineer.
"Farewell then!" he cried, and fled like a madman.
Neb, Pencroft, and Herbert ran also towards the edge of the wood--but
they returned alone.
"We must let him alone!" said Cyrus Harding.
"He will never come back!" exclaimed Pencroft.
"He will come back," replied the engineer.
Many days passed; but Harding--was it a sort of
presentiment?--persisted in the fixed idea that sooner or later the
unhappy man would return.
"It is the last revolt of his wild nature," said he, "which remorse
has touched, and which renewed solitude will terrify."
In the meanwhile, works of all sorts were continued, as well on
Prospect Heights as at the corral, where Harding intended to build a
farm. It is unnecessary to say that the seeds collected by Herbert on
Tabor Island had been carefully sown. The plateau thus formed one
immense kitchen-garden, well laid out and carefully tended, so that
the arms of the settlers were never in want of work. There was always
something to be done. As the esculents increased in number, it became
necessary to enlarge the simple beds, which threatened to grow into
regular fields and replace the meadows. But grass abounded in other
parts of the island, and there was no fear of the onagas being obliged
to go on short allowance. It was well worth while, besides, to turn
Prospect Heights into a kitchen-garden, defended by its deep belt of
creeks, and to remove them to the meadows, which had no need of
protection against the depredations of quadrumana and quadrupeds.
On the 15th of November, the third harvest was gathered in. How
wonderfully had the field increased in extent, since eighteen months
ago, when the first grain of wheat was sown! The second crop of six
hundred thousand grains produced this time four thousand bushels, or
five hundred millions of grains!
The colony was rich in corn, for ten bushels alone were sufficient for
sowing every year to produce an ample crop for the food both of men
and beasts. The harvest was completed, and the last fortnight of the
month of November was devoted to the work of converting it into food
for man. In fact, they had corn, but not flour, and the establishment
of a mill was necessary. Cyrus Harding could have utilised the second
fall which flowed into the Mercy to establish his motive power, the
first being already occupied with moving the felting mill; but after
some consultation, it was decided that a simple windmill should be
built on Prospect Heights. The building of this presented no more
difficulty than the building of the former, and it was moreover
certain that there would be no want of wind on the plateau, exposed as
it was to the sea breezes.
"Not to mention," said Pencroft, "that the windmill will be more
lively and will have a good effect in the landscape!"
They set to work by choosing timber for the frame and machinery of the
mill. Some large stones, found at the north of the lake, could be
easily transformed into millstones; and as to the sails, the
inexhaustible case of the balloon furnished the necessary material.
Cyrus Harding made his model, and the site of the mill was chosen a
little to the right of the poultry-yard, near the shore of the lake.
The frame was to rest on a pivot supported with strong timbers, so
that it could turn with all the machinery it contained according as
the wind required it. The work advanced rapidly. Neb and Pencroft had
become very skilful carpenters, and had nothing to do but to copy the
models provided by the engineer.
Soon a sort of cylindrical box, in shape like a pepperpot, with a
pointed roof, rose on the spot chosen. The four frames which formed
the sails had been firmly fixed in the centre beam, so as to form a
certain angle with it, and secured with iron clamps. As to the
different parts of the internal mechanism, the box destined to contain
the two millstones, the fixed stone and the moving stone, the hopper,
a sort of large square trough, wide at the top, narrow at the bottom,
which would allow the grain to fall on the stones, the oscillating
spout intended to regulate the passing of the grain, and lastly the
bolting machine, which by the operation of sifting, separates the bran
from the flour, were made without difficulty. The tools were good, and
the work not difficult, for in reality, the machinery of a mill is
very simple. This was only a question of time.
Every one had worked at the construction of the mill, and on the 1st
of December it was finished. As usual, Pencroft was delighted with his
work, and had no doubt that the apparatus was perfect.
"Now for a good wind," said he, "and we shall grind our first harvest
splendidly!"
"A good wind, certainly," answered the engineer, "but not too much,
Pencroft."
"Pooh! our mill would only go the faster!"
"There is no need for it to go so very fast," replied Cyrus Harding.
"It is known by experience that the greatest quantity of work is
performed by a mill when the number of turns made by the sails in a
minute is six times the number of feet traversed by the wind in a
second. A moderate breeze, which passes over twenty-four feet to the
second, will give sixteen turns to the sails during a minute, and
there is no need of more."
"Exactly!" cried Herbert; "a fine breeze is blowing from the
north-east, which will soon do our business for us."
There was no reason for delaying the inauguration of the mill, for the
settlers were eager to taste the first piece of bread in Lincoln
Island. On this morning two or three bushels of wheat were ground, and
the next day at breakfast a magnificent loaf, a little heavy perhaps,
although raised with yeast, appeared on the table at Granite House.
Every one munched away at it with a pleasure which may be easily
understood.
In the meanwhile, the stranger had not reappeared. Several times
Gideon Spilett and Herbert searched the forest in the neighbourhood of
Granite House, without meeting or finding any trace of him. They
became seriously uneasy at this prolonged absence. Certainly, the
former savage of Tabor Island could not be perplexed how to live in
the forest, abounding in game, but was it not to be feared that he had
resumed his habits, and that this freedom would revive in him his wild
instincts? However, Harding, by a sort of presentiment, doubtless,
always persisted in saying that the fugitive would return.
"Yes, he will return!" he repeated with a confidence which his
companions could not share. "When this unfortunate man was on Tabor
Island, he knew himself to be alone! Here, he knows that fellow men
are awaiting him! Since he has partially spoken of his past life, the
poor penitent will return to tell the whole, and from that day he will
belong to us!"
The event justified Cyrus Harding's predictions. On the 3rd of
December, Herbert had left the plateau to go and fish on the southern
bank of the lake. He was unarmed, and till then had never taken any
precautions for defence as dangerous animals had not shown themselves
on that part of the island.
Meanwhile, Pencroft and Neb were working in the poultry-yard, whilst
Harding and the reporter were occupied at the Chimneys in making soda,
the store of soap being exhausted.
Suddenly cries resounded,--
"Help! help!"
Cyrus Harding and the reporter, being at too great a distance, had not
been able to hear the shouts. Pencroft and Neb, leaving the
poultry-yard in all haste, rushed towards the lake.
[Illustration: NOW FOR A GOOD WIND]
But before them, the stranger, whose presence at this place no one had
suspected, crossed Creek Glycerine, which separated the plateau from
the forest, and bounded up the opposite bank.
Herbert was there face to face with a fierce jaguar, similar to the
one which had been killed on Reptile End. Suddenly surprised, he was
standing with his back against a tree, whilst the animal, gathering
itself together, was about to spring.
But the stranger, with no other weapon than a knife, rushed on the
formidable animal, who turned to meet this new adversary.
The struggle was short. The stranger possessed immense strength and
activity. He seized the jaguar's throat with one powerful hand,
holding it as in a vice, without heeding the beast's claws which tore
his flesh, and with the other he plunged his knife into its heart.
The jaguar fell. The stranger kicked away the body, and was about to
fly at the moment when the settlers arrived on the field of battle,
but Herbert, clinging to him, cried,--
"No, no! You shall not go!"
Harding advanced towards the stranger, who frowned when he saw him
approaching. The blood flowed from his shoulder under his torn shirt,
but he took no notice of it.
"My friend," said Cyrus Harding, "we have just contracted a debt of
gratitude to you. To save our boy you have risked your life!"
"My life!" murmured the stranger "What is that worth? Less than
nothing!"
"You are wounded!"
"It is no matter."
"Will you give me your hand?"
And as Herbert endeavoured to seize the hand which had just saved him,
the stranger folded his arms, his chest heaved, his look darkened, and
he appeared to wish to escape, but making a violent effort over
himself, and in an abrupt tone,--
"Who are you?" he asked, "and what do you claim to be to me?"
It was the colonists' history which he thus demanded, and for the
first time. Perhaps this history recounted, he would tell his own.
[Illustration: HE SEIZED THE JAGUAR'S THROAT WITH ONE POWERFUL HAND]
In a few words Harding related all that had happened since their
departure from Richmond; how they had managed, and what resources they
now had at their disposal.
The stranger listened with extreme attention.
Then the engineer told who they all were, Gideon Spilett, Herbert,
Pencroft, Neb, himself; and he added, that the greatest happiness they
had felt since their arrival in Lincoln Island was on the return of
the vessel from Tabor Island, when they had been able to include
amongst them a new companion.
At these words the stranger's face flushed, his head sunk on his
breast, and confusion was depicted on his countenance.
"And now that you know us," added Cyrus Harding, "will you give us
your hand?"
"No," replied the stranger in a hoarse voice; "no! You are honest men,
you! And I--"