no doubt but that they were now going to learn the long-searched-for
answer to the enigma, the name of that mysterious being, so deeply
concerned in their life, so generous in his influence, so powerful
in his action! Must not this stranger have indeed mingled with their
existence, have known the smallest details, have heard all that was said
in Granite House, to have been able always to act in the very nick of
time?
Every one, wrapped up in his own reflections, pressed forward. Under the
arch of trees the darkness was such that even the edge of the road
could not be seen. Not a sound in the forest. Both animals and birds,
influenced by the heaviness of the atmosphere, remained motionless
and silent. Not a breath disturbed the leaves. The footsteps of the
colonists alone resounded on the hardened ground.
During the first quarter of an hour the silence was only interrupted by
this remark from Pencroft:--
“We ought to have brought a torch.”
And by this reply from the engineer:--
“We shall find one at the corral.”
Harding and his companions had left Granite House at twelve minutes past
nine. At forty-seven minutes past nine they had traversed three out of
the five miles which separated the mouth of the Mercy from the corral.
At that moment sheets of lightning spread over the island and illumined
the dark trees. The flashes dazzled and almost blinded them. Evidently
the storm would not be long in bursting forth.
The flashes gradually became brighter and more rapid. Distant thunder
growled in the sky. The atmosphere was stifling.
The colonists proceeded as if they were urged onwards by some
irresistible force.
At ten o’clock a vivid flash showed them the palisade, and as they
reached the gate the storm burst forth with tremendous fury.
In a minute the corral was crossed, and Harding stood before the hut.
Probably the house was occupied by the stranger, since it was from
thence that the telegram had been sent. However, no light shone through
the window.
The engineer knocked at the door.
No answer.
Cyrus Harding opened the door, and the settlers entered the room, which
was perfectly dark. A light was struck by Neb, and in a few moments the
lantern was lighted and the light thrown into every corner of the room.
There was no one there. Everything was in the state in which it had been
left.
“Have we been deceived by an illusion?” murmured Cyrus Harding.
No! that was not possible! The telegram had clearly said,--
“Come to the corral immediately.”
They approached the table specially devoted to the use of the wire.
Everything was in order--the pile on the box containing it, as well as
all the apparatus.
“Who came here the last time?” asked the engineer.
“I did, captain,” answered Ayrton.
“And that was--”
“Four days ago.”
“Ah! a note!” cried Herbert, pointing to a paper lying on the table.
On this paper were written these words in English:--
“Follow the new wire.”
“Forward!” cried Harding, who understood that the despatch had not been
sent from the corral, but from the mysterious retreat, communicating
directly with Granite House by means of a supplementary wire joined to
the old one.
Neb took the lighted lantern, and all left the corral. The storm
then burst forth with tremendous violence. The interval between each
lightning-flash and each thunder-clap diminished rapidly. The summit
of the volcano, with its plume of vapor, could be seen by occasional
flashes.
There was no telegraphic communication in any part of the corral between
the house and the palisade; but the engineer, running straight to the
first post, saw by the light of a flash a new wire hanging from the
isolator to the ground.
“There it is!” said he.
This wire lay along the ground, and was surrounded with an isolating
substance like a submarine cable, so as to assure the free transmission
of the current. It appeared to pass through the wood and the southern
spurs of the mountain, and consequently it ran towards the west.
“Follow it!” said Cyrus Harding.
And the settlers immediately pressed forward, guided by the wire.
The thunder continued to roar with such violence that not a word could
be heard. However, there was no occasion for speaking, but to get
forward as fast as possible.
Cyrus Harding and his companions then climbed the spur rising between
the corral valley and that of Falls River, which they crossed at its
narrowest part. The wire, sometimes stretched over the lower branches
of the trees, sometimes lying on the ground, guided them surely. The
engineer had supposed that the wire would perhaps stop at the bottom of
the valley, and that the stranger’s retreat would be there.
Nothing of the sort. They were obliged to ascend the south-western spur,
and re-descend on that arid plateau terminated by the strangely-wild
basalt cliff. From time to time one of the colonists stooped down and
felt for the wire with his hands; but there was now no doubt that the
wire was running directly towards the sea. There, to a certainty, in the
depths of those rocks, was the dwelling so long sought for in vain.
The sky was literally on fire. Flash succeeded flash. Several struck the
summit of the volcano in the midst of the thick smoke. It appeared there
as if the mountain was vomiting flame. At a few minutes to eleven the
colonists arrived on the high cliff overlooking the ocean to the west.
The wind had risen. The surf roared 500 feet below.
Harding calculated that they had gone a mile and a half from the corral.
At this point the wire entered among the rocks, following the steep side
of a narrow ravine. The settlers followed it at the risk of occasioning
a fall of the slightly-balanced rocks, and being dashed into the sea.
The descent was extremely perilous, but they did not think of the
danger; they were no longer masters of themselves, and an irresistible
attraction drew them towards this mysterious place as the magnet draws
iron.
Thus they almost unconsciously descended this ravine, which even in
broad daylight would have been considered impracticable.
The stones rolled and sparkled like fiery balls when they crossed
through the gleams of light. Harding was first--Ayrton last. On they
went, step by step. Now they slid over the slippery rock; then they
struggled to their feet and scrambled on.
At last the wire touched the rocks on the beach. The colonists had
reached the bottom of the basalt cliff.
There appeared a narrow ridge, running horizontally and parallel with
the sea. The settlers followed the wire along it. They had not gone a
hundred paces when the ridge by a moderate incline sloped down to the
level of the sea.
The engineer seized the wire and found that it disappeared beneath the
waves.
His companions were stupefied.
A cry of disappointment, almost a cry of despair, escaped them! Must
they then plunge beneath the water and seek there for some submarine
cavern? In their excited state they would not have hesitated to do it.
The engineer stopped them.
He led his companions to a hollow in the rocks, and there--
“We must wait,” said he. “The tide is high. At low water the way will be
open.”
“But what can make you think-” asked Pencroft.
“He would not have called us if the means had been wanting to enable us
to reach him!”
Cyrus Harding spoke in a tone of such thorough conviction that no
objection was raised. His remark, besides, was logical. It was quite
possible that an opening, practicable at low water, though hidden now by
the high tide, opened at the foot of the cliff.
There was some time to wait. The colonists remained silently crouching
in a deep hollow. Rain now began to fall in torrents. The thunder was
re-echoed among the rocks with a grand sonorousness.
The colonists’ emotion was great. A thousand strange and extraordinary
ideas crossed their brains, and they expected some grand and superhuman
apparition, which alone could come up to the notion they had formed of
the mysterious genius of the island.
At midnight, Harding carrying the lantern, descended to the beach to
reconnoiter.
The engineer was not mistaken. The beginning of an immense excavation
could be seen under the water. There the wire, bending at a right angle,
entered the yawning gulf.
Cyrus Harding returned to his companions, and said simply,--
“In an hour the opening will be practicable.”
“It is there, then?” said Pencroft.
“Did you doubt it?” returned Harding.
“But this cavern must be filled with water to a certain height,”
observed Herbert.
“Either the cavern will be completely dry,” replied Harding, “and in
that case we can traverse it on foot, or it will not be dry, and some
means of transport will be put at our disposal.”
An hour passed. All climbed down through the rain to the level of the
sea. There was now eight feet of the opening above the water. It was
like the arch of a bridge, under which rushed the foaming water.
Leaning forward, the engineer saw a black object floating on the
water. He drew it towards him. It was a boat, moored to some interior
projection of the cave. This boat was iron-plated. Two oars lay at the
bottom.
“Jump in!” said Harding.
In a moment the settlers were in the boat. Neb and Ayrton took the
oars, Pencroft the rudder. Cyrus Harding in the bows, with the lantern,
lighted the way.
The elliptical roof, under which the boat at first passed, suddenly
rose; but the darkness was too deep, and the light of the lantern too
slight, for either the extent, length, height, or depth of the cave to
be ascertained. Solemn silence reigned in this basaltic cavern. Not a
sound could penetrate into it, even the thunder peals could not pierce
its thick sides.
Such immense caves exist in various parts of the world, natural crypts
dating from the geological epoch of the globe. Some are filled by the
sea; others contain entire lakes in their sides. Such is Fingal’s Cave,
in the island of Staffa, one of the Hebrides; such are the caves of
Morgat, in the bay of Douarnenez, in Brittany, the caves of Bonifacio,
in Corsica, those of Lyse-Fjord, in Norway; such are the immense Mammoth
caverns in Kentucky, 500 feet in height, and more than twenty miles in
length! In many parts of the globe, nature has excavated these caverns,
and preserved them for the admiration of man.
Did the cavern which the settlers were now exploring extend to the
center of the island? For a quarter of an hour the boat had been
advancing, making detours, indicated to Pencroft by the engineer in
short sentences, when all at once,--
“More to the right!” he commanded.
The boat, altering its course, came up alongside the right wall. The
engineer wished to see if the wire still ran along the side.
The wire was there fastened to the rock.
“Forward!” said Harding.
And the two oars, plunging into the dark waters, urged the boat onwards.
On they went for another quarter of an hour, and a distance of
half-a-mile must have been cleared from the mouth of the cave, when
Harding’s voice was again heard.
“Stop!” said he.
The boat stopped, and the colonists perceived a bright light
illuminating the vast cavern, so deeply excavated in the bowels of the
island, of which nothing had ever led them to suspect the existence.
At a height of a hundred feet rose the vaulted roof, supported on basalt
shafts. Irregular arches, strange moldings, appeared on the columns
erected by nature in thousands from the first epochs of the formation of
the globe. The basalt pillars, fitted one into the other, measured
from forty to fifty feet in height, and the water, calm in spite of the
tumult outside, washed their base. The brilliant focus of light, pointed
out by the engineer, touched every point of rocks, and flooded the walls
with light.
By reflection the water reproduced the brilliant sparkles, so that the
boat appeared to be floating between two glittering zones. They could
not be mistaken in the nature of the irradiation thrown from the glowing
nucleus, whose clear rays were shattered by all the angles, all the
projections of the cavern. This light proceeded from an electric source,
and its white color betrayed its origin. It was the sun of this cave,
and it filled it entirely.
At a sign from Cyrus Harding the oars again plunged into the water,
causing a regular shower of gems, and the boat was urged forward towards
the light, which was now not more than half a cable’s length distant.
At this place the breadth of the sheet of water measured nearly 350
feet, and beyond the dazzling center could be seen an enormous basaltic
wall, blocking up any issue on that side. The cavern widened here
considerably, the sea forming a little lake. But the roof, the side
walls, the end cliff, all the prisms, all the peaks, were flooded with
the electric fluid, so that the brilliancy belonged to them, and as if
the light issued from them.
In the center of the lake a long cigar-shaped object floated on the
surface of the water, silent, motionless. The brilliancy which issued
from it escaped from its sides as from two kilns heated to a white heat.
This apparatus, similar in shape to an enormous whale, was about 250
feet long, and rose about ten or twelve above the water.
The boat slowly approached it, Cyrus Harding stood up in the bows. He
gazed, a prey to violent excitement. Then, all at once, seizing the
reporter’s arm,--
“It is he! It can only be he!” he cried, “he!--”
Then, falling back on the seat, he murmured a name which Gideon Spilett
alone could hear.
The reporter evidently knew this name, for it had a wonderful effect
upon him, and he answered in a hoarse voice,--
“He! an outlawed man!”
“He!” said Harding.
At the engineer’s command the boat approached this singular floating
apparatus. The boat touched the left side, from which escaped a ray of
light through a thick glass.
Harding and his companions mounted on the platform. An open hatchway was
there. All darted down the opening.
At the bottom of the ladder was a deck, lighted by electricity. At the
end of this deck was a door, which Harding opened.
A richly-ornamented room, quickly traversed by the colonists, was joined
to a library, over which a luminous ceiling shed a flood of light.
At the end of the library a large door, also shut, was opened by the
engineer.
An immense saloon--a sort of museum, in which were heaped up, with
all the treasures of the mineral world, works of art, marvels of
industry--appeared before the eyes of the colonists, who almost thought
themselves suddenly transported into a land of enchantment.
Stretched on a rich sofa they saw a man, who did not appear to notice
their presence.
Then Harding raised his voice, and to the extreme surprise of his
companions, he uttered these words,--
“Captain Nemo, you asked for us! We are here.--”
Chapter 16
At these words the reclining figure rose, and the electric light fell
upon his countenance; a magnificent head, the forehead high, the glance
commanding, beard white, hair abundant and falling over the shoulders.
His hand rested upon the cushion of the divan from which he had just
risen. He appeared perfectly calm. It was evident that his strength had
been gradually undermined by illness, but his voice seemed yet powerful,
as he said in English, and in a tone which evinced extreme surprise,--
“Sir, I have no name.”
“Nevertheless, I know you!” replied Cyrus Harding.
Captain Nemo fixed his penetrating gaze upon the engineer, as though he
were about to annihilate him.
Then, falling back amid the pillows of the divan,--
“After all, what matters now?” he murmured; “I am dying!”
Cyrus Harding drew near the captain, and Gideon Spilett took his
hand--it was of a feverish heat. Ayrton, Pencroft, Herbert, and Neb
stood respectfully apart in an angle of the magnificent saloon, whose
atmosphere was saturated with the electric fluid.
Meanwhile Captain Nemo withdrew his hand, and motioned the engineer and
the reporter to be seated.
All regarded him with profound emotion. Before them they beheld that
being whom they had styled the “genius of the island,” the powerful
protector whose intervention, in so many circumstances, had been so
efficacious, the benefactor to whom they owed such a debt of gratitude!
Their eyes beheld a man only, and a man at the point of death, where
Pencroft and Neb had expected to find an almost supernatural being!
But how happened it that Cyrus Harding had recognized Captain Nemo? why
had the latter so suddenly risen on hearing this name uttered, a name
which he had believed known to none?--
The captain had resumed his position on the divan, and leaning on his
arm, he regarded the engineer, seated near him.
“You know the name I formerly bore, sir?” he asked.
“I do,” answered Cyrus Harding, “and also that of this wonderful
submarine vessel--”
“The ‘Nautilus’?” said the captain, with a faint smile.
“The ‘Nautilus.’”
“But do you--do you know who I am?”
“I do.”
“It is nevertheless many years since I have held any communication with
the inhabited world; three long years have I passed in the depth of
the sea, the only place where I have found liberty! Who then can have
betrayed my secret?”
“A man who was bound to you by no tie, Captain Nemo, and who,
consequently, cannot be accused of treachery.”
“The Frenchman who was cast on board my vessel by chance sixteen years
since?”
“The same.”
“He and his two companions did not then perish in the maelstrom, in the
midst of which the ‘Nautilus’ was struggling?”
“They escaped, and a book has appeared under the title of ‘Twenty
Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,’ which contains your history.”
“The history of a few months only of my life!” interrupted the captain
impetuously.
“It is true,” answered Cyrus Harding, “but a few months of that strange
life have sufficed to make you known.”
“As a great criminal, doubtless!” said Captain Nemo, a haughty smile
curling his lips. “Yes, a rebel, perhaps an outlaw against humanity!”
The engineer was silent.
“Well, sir?”
“It is not for me to judge you, Captain Nemo,” answered Cyrus Harding,
“at any rate as regards your past life. I am, with the rest of the
world, ignorant of the motives which induced you to adopt this strange
mode of existence, and I cannot judge of effects without knowing their
causes; but what I do know is, that a beneficent hand has constantly
protected us since our arrival on Lincoln Island, that we all owe our
lives to a good, generous, and powerful being, and that this being so
powerful, good and generous, Captain Nemo, is yourself!”
“It is I,” answered the captain simply.
The engineer and the reporter rose. Their companions had drawn near, and
the gratitude with which their hearts were charged was about to express
itself in their gestures and words.
Captain Nemo stopped them by a sign, and in a voice which betrayed more
emotion than he doubtless intended to show.
“Wait till you have heard all,” he said.
And the captain, in a few concise sentences, ran over the events of his
life.
His narrative was short, yet he was obliged to summon up his whole
remaining energy to arrive at the end. He was evidently contending
against extreme weakness. Several times Cyrus Harding entreated him to
repose for a while, but he shook his head as a man to whom the morrow
may never come, and when the reporter offered his assistance,--
“It is useless,” he said; “my hours are numbered.”
Captain Nemo was an Indian, the Prince Dakkar, son of a rajah of the
then independent territory of Bundelkund. His father sent him, when ten
years of age, to Europe, in order that he might receive an education
in all respects complete, and in the hopes that by his talents and
knowledge he might one day take a leading part in raising his long
degraded and heathen country to a level with the nations of Europe.
From the age of ten years to that of thirty Prince Dakkar, endowed by
Nature with her richest gifts of intellect, accumulated knowledge of
every kind, and in science, literature, and art his researches were
extensive and profound.
He traveled over the whole of Europe. His rank and fortune caused him to
be everywhere sought after; but the pleasures of the world had for him
no attractions. Though young and possessed of every personal advantage,
he was ever grave--somber even--devoured by an unquenchable thirst for
knowledge, and cherishing in the recesses of his heart the hope that
he might become a great and powerful ruler of a free and enlightened
people.
Still, for long the love of science triumphed over all other feelings.
He became an artist deeply impressed by the marvels of art, a
philosopher to whom no one of the higher sciences was unknown, a
statesman versed in the policy of European courts. To the eyes of those
who observed him superficially he might have passed for one of those
cosmopolitans, curious of knowledge, but disdaining action; one of those
opulent travelers, haughty and cynical, who move incessantly from place
to place, and are of no country.
The history of Captain Nemo has, in fact, been published under the title
of “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.” Here, therefore, will apply
the observation already made as to the adventures of Ayrton with regard
to the discrepancy of dates. Readers should therefore refer to the note
already published on this point.
This artist, this philosopher, this man was, however, still cherishing
the hope instilled into him from his earliest days.
Prince Dakkar returned to Bundelkund in the year 1849. He married a
noble Indian lady, who was imbued with an ambition not less ardent than
that by which he was inspired. Two children were born to them, whom they
tenderly loved. But domestic happiness did not prevent him from seeking
to carry out the object at which he aimed. He waited an opportunity. At
length, as he vainly fancied, it presented itself.
Instigated by princes equally ambitious and less sagacious and more
unscrupulous than he was, the people of India were persuaded that they
might successfully rise against their English rulers, who had brought
them out of a state of anarchy and constant warfare and misery, and had
established peace and prosperity in their country. Their ignorance and
gross superstition made them the facile tools of their designing chiefs.
In 1857 the great sepoy revolt broke out. Prince Dakkar, under the
belief that he should thereby have the opportunity of attaining the
object of his long-cherished ambition, was easily drawn into it. He
forthwith devoted his talents and wealth to the service of this cause.
He aided it in person; he fought in the front ranks; he risked his life
equally with the humblest of the wretched and misguided fanatics; he was
ten times wounded in twenty engagements, seeking death but finding it
not, but at length the sanguinary rebels were utterly defeated, and the
atrocious mutiny was brought to an end.
Never before had the British power in India been exposed to such danger,
and if, as they had hoped, the sepoys had received assistance from
without, the influence and supremacy in Asia of the United Kingdom would
have been a thing of the past.
The name of Prince Dakkar was at that time well known. He had fought
openly and without concealment. A price was set upon his head, but he
managed to escape from his pursuers.
Civilization never recedes; the law of necessity ever forces it onwards.
The sepoys were vanquished, and the land of the rajahs of old fell again
under the rule of England.
Prince Dakkar, unable to find that death he courted, returned to the
mountain fastnesses of Bundelkund. There, alone in the world, overcome
by disappointment at the destruction of all his vain hopes, a prey
to profound disgust for all human beings, filled with hatred of the
civilized world, he realized the wreck of his fortune, assembled some
score of his most faithful companions, and one day disappeared, leaving
no trace behind.
Where, then, did he seek that liberty denied him upon the inhabited
earth? Under the waves, in the depths of the ocean, where none could
follow.
The warrior became the man of science. Upon a deserted island of the
Pacific he established his dockyard, and there a submarine vessel was
constructed from his designs. By methods which will at some future
day be revealed he had rendered subservient the illimitable forces of
electricity, which, extracted from inexhaustible sources, was employed
for all the requirements of his floating equipage, as a moving,
lighting, and heating agent. The sea, with its countless treasures, its
myriads of fish, its numberless wrecks, its enormous mammalia, and not
only all that nature supplied, but also all that man had lost in its
depths, sufficed for every want of the prince and his crew--and thus was
his most ardent desire accomplished, never again to hold communication
with the earth. He named his submarine vessel the “Nautilus,” called
himself simply Captain Nemo, and disappeared beneath the seas.
During many years this strange being visited every ocean, from pole to
pole. Outcast of the inhabited earth in these unknown worlds he gathered
incalculable treasures. The millions lost in the Bay of Vigo, in 1702,
by the galleons of Spain, furnished him with a mine of inexhaustible
riches which he devoted always, anonymously, in favor of those nations
who fought for the independence of their country.
(This refers to the resurrection of the Candiotes, who were, in
fact, largely assisted by Captain Nemo.)
For long, however, he had held no communication with his
fellow-creatures, when, during the night of the 6th of November, 1866,
three men were cast on board his vessel. They were a French professor,
his servant, and a Canadian fisherman. These three men had been hurled
overboard by a collision which had taken place between the “Nautilus”
and the United States frigate “Abraham Lincoln,” which had chased her.
Captain Nemo learned from this professor that the “Nautilus,” taken now
for a gigantic mammal of the whale species, now for a submarine vessel
carrying a crew of pirates, was sought for in every sea.
He might have returned these three men to the ocean, from whence chance
had brought them in contact with his mysterious existence. Instead of
doing this he kept them prisoners, and during seven months they were
enabled to behold all the wonders of a voyage of twenty thousand leagues
under the sea.
One day, the 22nd of June, 1867, these three men, who knew nothing of
the past history of Captain Nemo, succeeded in escaping in one of the
“Nautilus’s” boats. But as at this time the “Nautilus” was drawn into
the vortex of the maelstrom, off the coast of Norway, the captain
naturally believed that the fugitives, engulfed in that frightful
whirlpool, found their death at the bottom of the abyss. He was unaware
that the Frenchman and his two companions had been miraculously cast
on shore, that the fishermen of the Lofoten Islands had rendered
them assistance, and that the professor, on his return to France, had
published that work in which seven months of the strange and eventful
navigation of the “Nautilus” were narrated and exposed to the curiosity
of the public.
For a long time after this, Captain Nemo continued to live thus,
traversing every sea. But one by one his companions died, and found
their last resting-place in their cemetery of coral, in the bed of the
Pacific. At last Captain Nemo remained the solitary survivor of all
those who had taken refuge with him in the depths of the ocean.
He was now sixty years of age. Although alone, he succeeded in
navigating the “Nautilus” towards one of those submarine caverns which
had sometimes served him as a harbor.
One of these ports was hollowed beneath Lincoln Island, and at this
moment furnished an asylum to the “Nautilus.”
The captain had now remained there six years, navigating the ocean no
longer, but awaiting death, and that moment when he should rejoin his
former companions, when by chance he observed the descent of the balloon
which carried the prisoners of the Confederates. Clad in his diving
dress he was walking beneath the water at a few cables’ length from the
shore of the island, when the engineer had been thrown into the sea.
Moved by a feeling of compassion the captain saved Cyrus Harding.
His first impulse was to fly from the vicinity of the five castaways;
but his harbor refuge was closed, for in consequence of an elevation of
the basalt, produced by the influence of volcanic action, he could
no longer pass through the entrance of the vault. Though there was
sufficient depth of water to allow a light craft to pass the bar,
there was not enough for the “Nautilus,” whose draught of water was
considerable.
Captain Nemo was compelled, therefore, to remain. He observed these men
thrown without resources upon a desert island, but had no wish to be
himself discovered by them. By degrees he became interested in their
efforts when he saw them honest, energetic, and bound to each other by
the ties of friendship. As if despite his wishes, he penetrated all the
secrets of their existence. By means of the diving dress he could easily
reach the well in the interior of Granite House, and climbing by the
projections of rock to its upper orifice he heard the colonists as they
recounted the past, and studied the present and future. He learned from
them the tremendous conflict of America with America itself, for the
abolition of slavery. Yes, these men were worthy to reconcile Captain
Nemo with that humanity which they represented so nobly in the island.
Captain Nemo had saved Cyrus Harding. It was he also who had brought
back the dog to the Chimneys, who rescued Top from the waters of the
lake, who caused to fall at Flotsam Point the case containing so many
things useful to the colonists, who conveyed the canoe back into the
stream of the Mercy, who cast the cord from the top of Granite House at
the time of the attack by the baboons, who made known the presence
of Ayrton upon Tabor Island, by means of the document enclosed in the
bottle, who caused the explosion of the brig by the shock of a torpedo
placed at the bottom of the canal, who saved Herbert from certain death
by bringing the sulphate of quinine; and finally, it was he who had
killed the convicts with the electric balls, of which he possessed the
secret, and which he employed in the chase of submarine creatures. Thus
were explained so many apparently supernatural occurrences, and which
all proved the generosity and power of the captain.
Nevertheless, this noble misanthrope longed to benefit his proteges
still further. There yet remained much useful advice to give them, and,
his heart being softened by the approach of death, he invited, as we are
aware, the colonists of Granite House to visit the “Nautilus,” by means
of a wire which connected it with the corral. Possibly he would not
have done this had he been aware that Cyrus Harding was sufficiently
acquainted with his history to address him by the name of Nemo.
The captain concluded the narrative of his life. Cyrus Harding then
spoke; he recalled all the incidents which had exercised so beneficent
an influence upon the colony, and in the names of his companions and
himself thanked the generous being to whom they owed so much.
But Captain Nemo paid little attention; his mind appeared to be absorbed
by one idea, and without taking the proffered hand of the engineer,--
“Now, sir,” said he, “now that you know my history, your judgment!”
In saying this, the captain evidently alluded to an important incident
witnessed by the three strangers thrown on board his vessel, and which
the French professor had related in his work, causing a profound and
terrible sensation. Some days previous to the flight of the professor
and his two companions, the “Nautilus,” being chased by a frigate in the
north of the Atlantic had hurled herself as a ram upon this frigate, and
sunk her without mercy.
Cyrus Harding understood the captain’s allusion, and was silent.
“It was an enemy’s frigate,” exclaimed Captain Nemo, transformed for
an instant into the Prince Dakkar, “an enemy’s frigate! It was she who
attacked me--I was in a narrow and shallow bay--the frigate barred my
way--and I sank her!”
A few moments of silence ensued; then the captain demanded,--
“What think you of my life, gentlemen?”
Cyrus Harding extended his hand to the ci-devant prince and replied
gravely, “Sir, your error was in supposing that the past can be
resuscitated, and in contending against inevitable progress. It is one
of those errors which some admire, others blame; which God alone can
judge. He who is mistaken in an action which he sincerely believes to be
right may be an enemy, but retains our esteem. Your error is one that
we may admire, and your name has nothing to fear from the judgment of
history, which does not condemn heroic folly, but its results.”
The old man’s breast swelled with emotion, and raising his hand to
heaven,--
“Was I wrong, or in the right?” he murmured.
Cyrus Harding replied, “All great actions return to God, from whom they
are derived. Captain Nemo, we, whom you have succored, shall ever mourn
your loss.”
Herbert, who had drawn near the captain, fell on his knees and kissed
his hand.
A tear glistened in the eyes of the dying man. “My child,” he said, “may
God bless you!”
Chapter 17
Day had returned. No ray of light penetrated into the profundity of the
cavern. It being high-water, the entrance was closed by the sea. But the
artificial light, which escaped in long streams from the skylights of
the “Nautilus” was as vivid as before, and the sheet of water shone
around the floating vessel.
An extreme exhaustion now overcame Captain Nemo, who had fallen back
upon the divan. It was useless to contemplate removing him to Granite
House, for he had expressed his wish to remain in the midst of those
marvels of the “Nautilus” which millions could not have purchased, and
to wait there for that death which was swiftly approaching.
During a long interval of prostration, which rendered him almost
unconscious, Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett attentively observed
the condition of the dying man. It was apparent that his strength was
gradually diminishing. That frame, once so robust, was now but the
fragile tenement of a departing soul. All of life was concentrated in
the heart and head.
The engineer and reporter consulted in whispers. Was it possible to
render any aid to the dying man? Might his life, if not saved, be
prolonged for some days? He himself had said that no remedy could
avail, and he awaited with tranquillity that death which had for him no
terrors.
“We can do nothing,” said Gideon Spilett.
“But of what is he dying?” asked Pencroft.
“Life is simply fading out,” replied the reporter.
“Nevertheless,” said the sailor, “if we move him into the open air, and
the light of the sun, he might perhaps recover.”
“No, Pencroft,” answered the engineer, “it is useless to attempt it.
Besides, Captain Nemo would never consent to leave his vessel. He
has lived for a dozen years on board the ‘Nautilus,’ and on board the
‘Nautilus’ he desires to die.”
Without doubt Captain Nemo heard Cyrus Harding’s reply, for he raised
himself slightly, and in a voice more feeble, but always intelligible,--
“You are right, sir,” he said. “I shall die here--it is my wish; and
therefore I have a request to make of you.”
Cyrus Harding and his companions had drawn near the divan, and now
arranged the cushions in such a manner as to better support the dying
man.
They saw his eyes wander over all the marvels of this saloon, lighted
by the electric rays which fell from the arabesques of the luminous
ceiling. He surveyed, one after the other, the pictures hanging from
the splendid tapestries of the partitions, the chef-d’oeuvres of the
Italian, Flemish, French, and Spanish masters; the statues of marble and
bronze on their pedestals; the magnificent organ, leaning against the
after-partition; the aquarium, in which bloomed the most wonderful
productions of the sea--marine plants, zoophytes, chaplets of pearls
of inestimable value; and, finally, his eyes rested on this device,
inscribed over the pediment of the museum--the motto of the “Nautilus”--
“Mobilis in mobile.”
His glance seemed to rest fondly for the last time on these masterpieces
of art and of nature, to which he had limited his horizon during a
sojourn of so many years in the abysses of the seas.
Cyrus Harding respected the captain’s silence, and waited till he should
speak.
After some minutes, during which, doubtless, he passed in review his
whole life, Captain Nemo turned to the colonists and said,
“You consider yourselves, gentlemen, under some obligations to me?”
“Captain, believe us that we would give our lives to prolong yours.”
“Promise, then,” continued Captain Nemo, “to carry out my last wishes,
and I shall be repaid for all I have done for you.”
“We promise,” said Cyrus Harding.
And by this promise he bound both himself and his companions.
“Gentlemen,” resumed the captain, “to-morrow I shall be dead.”
Herbert was about to utter an exclamation, but a sign from the captain
arrested him.
“To-morrow I shall die, and I desire no other tomb than the ‘Nautilus.’
It is my grave! All my friends repose in the depths of the ocean; their
resting-place shall be mine.”
These words were received with profound silence.
“Pay attention to my wishes,” he continued. “The ‘Nautilus’ is
imprisoned in this grotto, the entrance of which is blocked up; but,
although egress is impossible, the vessel may at least sink in the
abyss, and there bury my remains.”
The colonists listened reverently to the words of the dying man.
“To-morrow, after my death, Mr. Harding,” continued the captain,
“yourself and companions will leave the ‘Nautilus,’ for all the
treasures it contains must perish with me. One token alone will remain
with you of Prince Dakkar, with whose history you are now acquainted.
That coffer yonder contains diamonds of the value of many millions,
most of them mementoes of the time when, husband and father, I thought
happiness possible for me, and a collection of pearls gathered by my
friends and myself in the depths of the ocean. Of this treasure at a
future day, you may make good use. In the hands of such men as yourself
and your comrades, Captain Harding, money will never be a source of
danger. From on high I shall still participate in your enterprises, and
I fear not but that they will prosper.”
After a few moments’ repose, necessitated by his extreme weakness,
Captain Nemo continued,--
“To-morrow you will take the coffer, you will leave the saloon, of which
you will close the door; then you will ascend on to the deck of the
‘Nautilus,’ and you will lower the mainhatch so as entirely to close the
vessel.”
“It shall be done, captain,” answered Cyrus Harding.
“Good. You will then embark in the canoe which brought you hither; but,
before leaving the ‘Nautilus,’ go to the stern and there open two large
stop-cocks which you will find upon the water-line. The water will
penetrate into the reservoirs, and the ‘Nautilus’ will gradually sink
beneath the water to repose at the bottom of the abyss.”
And comprehending a gesture of Cyrus Harding, the captain added,--
“Fear nothing! You will but bury a corpse!”
Neither Cyrus Harding nor his companions ventured to offer any
observation to Captain Nemo. He had expressed his last wishes, and they
had nothing to do but to conform to them.
“I have your promise, gentlemen?” added Captain Nemo.
“You have, captain,” replied the engineer.
The captain thanked the colonists by a sign, and requested them to leave
him for some hours. Gideon Spilett wished to remain near him, in the
event of a crisis coming on, but the dying man refused, saying, “I shall
live until to-morrow, sir.”
All left the saloon, passed through the library and the dining-room, and
arrived forward, in the machine-room where the electrical apparatus was
established, which supplied not only heat and light, but the mechanical
power of the “Nautilus.”
The “Nautilus” was a masterpiece containing masterpieces within itself,
and the engineer was struck with astonishment.
The colonists mounted the platform, which rose seven or eight feet above
the water. There they beheld a thick glass lenticular covering, which
protected a kind of large eye, from which flashed forth light. Behind
this eye was apparently a cabin containing the wheels of the rudder, and
in which was stationed the helmsman, when he navigated the “Nautilus”
over the bed of the ocean, which the electric rays would evidently light
up to a considerable distance.
Cyrus Harding and his companions remained for a time silent, for they
were vividly impressed by what they had just seen and heard, and their
hearts were deeply touched by the thought that he whose arm had so often
aided them, the protector whom they had known but a few hours, was at
the point of death.
Whatever might be the judgment pronounced by posterity upon the events
of this, so to speak, extra-human existence, the character of Prince
Dakkar would ever remain as one of those whose memory time can never
efface.
“What a man!” said Pencroft. “Is it possible that he can have lived at
the bottom of the sea? And it seems to me that perhaps he has not found
peace there any more than elsewhere!”
“The ‘Nautilus,’” observed Ayrton, “might have enabled us to leave
Lincoln Island and reach some inhabited country.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Pencroft, “I for one would never risk myself
in such a craft. To sail on the seas, good, but under the seas, never!”
“I believe, Pencroft,” answered the reporter, “that the navigation of a
submarine vessel such as the ‘Nautilus’ ought to be very easy, and that
we should soon become accustomed to it. There would be no storms, no
lee-shore to fear. At some feet beneath the surface the waters of the
ocean are as calm as those of a lake.”
“That may be,” replied the sailor, “but I prefer a gale of wind on
board a well-found craft. A vessel is built to sail on the sea, and not
beneath it.”
“My friends,” said the engineer, “it is useless, at any rate as regards
the ‘Nautilus,’ to discuss the question of submarine vessels. The
‘Nautilus’ is not ours, and we have not the right to dispose of it.
Moreover, we could in no case avail ourselves of it. Independently of
the fact that it would be impossible to get it out of this cavern, whose
entrance is now closed by the uprising of the basaltic rocks, Captain
Nemo’s wish is that it shall be buried with him. His wish is our law,
and we will fulfil it.”
After a somewhat prolonged conversation, Cyrus Harding and his
companions again descended to the interior of the “Nautilus.” There they
took some refreshment and returned to the saloon.
Captain Nemo had somewhat rallied from the prostration which had
overcome him, and his eyes shone with their wonted fire. A faint smile
even curled his lips.
The colonists drew around him.
“Gentlemen,” said the captain, “you are brave and honest men. You
have devoted yourselves to the common weal. Often have I observed
your conduct. I have esteemed you--I esteem you still! Your hand, Mr.
Harding.”
Cyrus Harding gave his hand to the captain, who clasped it
affectionately.
“It is well!” he murmured.
He resumed,--
“But enough of myself. I have to speak concerning yourselves, and this
Lincoln Island, upon which you have taken refuge. You now desire to
leave it?”
“To return, captain!” answered Pencroft quickly.
“To return, Pencroft?” said the captain, with a smile. “I know, it is
true, your love for this island. You have helped to make it what it now
is, and it seems to you a paradise!”
“Our project, captain,” interposed Cyrus Harding, “is to annex it to the
United States, and to establish for our shipping a port so fortunately
situated in this part of the Pacific.”
“Your thoughts are with your country, gentlemen,” continued the captain;
“your toils are for her prosperity and glory. You are right. One’s
native land!--there should one live! there die! And I die far from all I
loved!”
“You have some last wish to transmit,” said the engineer with emotion,
“some souvenir to send to those friends you have left in the mountains
of India?”
“No, Captain Harding; no friends remain to me! I am the last of my race,
and to all whom I have known I have long been as are the dead.--But
to return to yourselves. Solitude, isolation, are painful things, and
beyond human endurance. I die of having thought it possible to live
alone! You should, therefore, dare all in the attempt to leave Lincoln
Island, and see once more the land of your birth. I am aware that those
wretches have destroyed the vessel you have built.”
“We propose to construct a vessel,” said Gideon Spilett, “sufficiently
large to convey us to the nearest land; but if we should succeed, sooner
or later we shall return to Lincoln Island. We are attached to it by too
many recollections ever to forget it.”
“It is here that we have known Captain Nemo,” said Cyrus Harding.
“It is here only that we can make our home!” added Herbert.
“And here shall I sleep the sleep of eternity, if--” replied the
captain.
He paused for a moment, and, instead of completing the sentence, said
simply,--
“Mr. Harding, I wish to speak with you--alone!”
The engineer’s companions, respecting the wish, retired.
Cyrus Harding remained but a few minutes alone with Captain Nemo, and
soon recalled his companions; but he said nothing to them of the private
matters which the dying man had confided to him.
Gideon Spilett now watched the captain with extreme care. It was evident
that he was no longer sustained by his moral energy, which had lost the
power of reaction against his physical weakness.
The day closed without change. The colonists did not quit the “Nautilus”
for a moment. Night arrived, although it was impossible to distinguish
it from day in the cavern.
Captain Nemo suffered no pain, but he was visibly sinking. His noble
features, paled by the approach of death, were perfectly calm. Inaudible
words escaped at intervals from his lips, bearing upon various incidents
of his checkered career. Life was evidently ebbing slowly and his
extremities were already cold.
Once or twice more he spoke to the colonists who stood around him, and
smiled on them with that last smile which continues after death.
At length, shortly after midnight, Captain Nemo by a supreme effort
succeeded in folding his arms across his breast, as if wishing in that
attitude to compose himself for death.
By one o’clock his glance alone showed signs of life. A dying light
gleamed in those eyes once so brilliant. Then, murmuring the words, “God
and my country!” he quietly expired.
Cyrus Harding, bending low closed the eyes of him who had once been the
Prince Dakkar, and was now not even Captain Nemo.
Herbert and Pencroft sobbed aloud. Tears fell from Ayrton’s eyes. Neb
was on his knees by the reporter’s side, motionless as a statue.
Then Cyrus Harding, extending his hand over the forehead of the dead,
said solemnly, “May his soul be with God!” Turning to his friends, he
added, “Let us pray for him whom we have lost!”
Some hours later the colonists fulfilled the promise made to the captain
by carrying out his dying wishes.
Cyrus Harding and his companions quitted the “Nautilus,” taking with
them the only memento left them by their benefactor, the coffer which
contained wealth amounting to millions.
The marvelous saloon, still flooded with light, had been carefully
closed. The iron door leading on deck was then securely fastened in
such a manner as to prevent even a drop of water from penetrating to the
interior of the “Nautilus.”
The colonists then descended into the canoe, which was moored to the
side of the submarine vessel.
The canoe was now brought around to the stern. There, at the water-line,
were two large stop-cocks communicating with the reservoirs employed in
the submersion of the vessel.
The stop-cocks were opened, the reservoirs filled, and the “Nautilus,”
slowly sinking, disappeared beneath the surface of the lake.
But the colonists were yet able to follow its descent through the waves.
The powerful light it gave forth lighted up the translucent water, while
the cavern became gradually obscure. At length this vast effusion of
electric light faded away, and soon after the “Nautilus,” now the tomb
of Captain Nemo, reposed in its ocean bed.
Chapter 18
At break of day the colonists regained in silence the entrance of the
cavern, to which they gave the name of “Dakkar Grotto,” in memory of
Captain Nemo. It was now low-water, and they passed without difficulty
under the arcade, washed on the right by the sea.
The canoe was left here, carefully protected from the waves. As
additional precaution, Pencroft, Neb, and Ayrton drew it up on a little
beach which bordered one of the sides of the grotto, in a spot where it
could run no risk of harm.
The storm had ceased during the night. The last low mutterings of the
thunder died away in the west. Rain fell no longer, but the sky was yet
obscured by clouds. On the whole, this month of October, the first of
the southern spring, was not ushered in by satisfactory tokens, and the
wind had a tendency to shift from one point of the compass to another,
which rendered it impossible to count upon settled weather.
Cyrus Harding and his companions, on leaving Dakkar Grotto, had taken
the road to the corral. On their way Neb and Herbert were careful to
preserve the wire which had been laid down by the captain between the
corral and the grotto, and which might at a future time be of service.
The colonists spoke but little on the road. The various incidents of the
night of October 15th had left a profound impression on their minds. The
unknown being whose influence had so effectually protected them, the
man whom their imagination had endowed with supernatural powers, Captain
Nemo, was no more. His “Nautilus” and he were buried in the depths of
the abyss. To each one of them their existence seemed even more isolated
than before. They had been accustomed to count upon the intervention of
that power which existed no longer, and Gideon Spilett, and even Cyrus
Harding, could not escape this impression. Thus they maintained a
profound silence during their journey to the corral.
Towards nine in the morning the colonists arrived at Granite House.
It had been agreed that the construction of the vessel should be
actively pushed forward, and Cyrus Harding more than ever devoted his
time and labor to this object. It was impossible to divine what future
lay before them. Evidently the advantage to the colonists would be great
of having at their disposal a substantial vessel, capable of keeping the
sea even in heavy weather, and large enough to attempt, in case of
need, a voyage of some duration. Even if, when their vessel should be
completed, the colonists should not resolve to leave Lincoln Island as
yet, in order to gain either one of the Polynesian Archipelagoes of the
Pacific or the shores of New Zealand, they might at least, sooner or
later, proceed to Tabor Island, to leave there the notice relating to
Ayrton. This was a precaution rendered indispensable by the possibility
of the Scotch yacht reappearing in those seas, and it was of the highest
importance that nothing should be neglected on this point.
The works were then resumed. Cyrus Harding, Pencroft, and Ayrton,
assisted by Neb, Gideon Spilett, and Herbert, except when unavoidably
called off by other necessary occupations, worked without cessation. It
was important that the new vessel should be ready in five months--that
is to say, by the beginning of March--if they wished to visit Tabor
Island before the equinoctial gales rendered the voyage impracticable.
Therefore the carpenters lost not a moment. Moreover, it was unnecessary
to manufacture rigging, that of the “Speedy” having been saved entire,
so that the hull only of the vessel needed to be constructed.
The end of the year 1868 found them occupied by these important labors,
to the exclusion of almost all others. At the expiration of two months
and a half the ribs had been set up and the first planks adjusted. It
was already evident that the plans made by Cyrus Harding were admirable,
and that the vessel would behave well at sea.
Pencroft brought to the task a devouring energy, and would even grumble
when one or the other abandoned the carpenter’s axe for the gun of the
hunter. It was nevertheless necessary to keep up the stores of Granite
House, in view of the approaching winter. But this did not satisfy
Pencroft. The brave, honest sailor was not content when the workmen were
not at the dockyard. When this happened he grumbled vigorously, and, by
way of venting his feelings, did the work of six men.
The weather was very unfavorable during the whole of the summer season.
For some days the heat was overpowering, and the atmosphere, saturated
with electricity, was only cleared by violent storms. It was rarely that
the distant growling of the thunder could not be heard, like a low but
incessant murmur, such as is produced in the equatorial regions of the
globe.
The 1st of January, 1869, was signalized by a storm of extreme violence,
and the thunder burst several times over the island. Large trees were
struck by the electric fluid and shattered, and among others one of
those gigantic nettle-trees which had shaded the poultry-yard at the
southern extremity of the lake. Had this meteor any relation to the
phenomena going on in the bowels of the earth? Was there any connection
between the commotion of the atmosphere and that of the interior of the
earth? Cyrus Harding was inclined to think that such was the case, for
the development of these storms was attended by the renewal of volcanic
symptoms.
It was on the 3rd of January that Herbert, having ascended at daybreak
to the plateau of Prospect Heights to harness one of the onagers,
perceived an enormous hat-shaped cloud rolling from the summit of the
volcano.
Herbert immediately apprised the colonists, who at once joined him in
watching the summit of Mount Franklin.
“Ah!” exclaimed Pencroft, “those are not vapors this time! It seems to
me that the giant is not content with breathing; he must smoke!”
This figure of speech employed by the sailor exactly expressed the
changes going on at the mouth of the volcano. Already for three months
had the crater emitted vapors more or less dense, but which were as yet
produced only by an internal ebullition of mineral substances. But
now the vapors were replaced by a thick smoke, rising in the form of a
grayish column, more than three hundred feet in width at its base, and
which spread like an immense mushroom to a height of from seven to eight
hundred feet above the summit of the mountain.
“The fire is in the chimney,” observed Gideon Spilett.
“And we can’t put it out!” replied Herbert.
“The volcano ought to be swept,” observed Neb, who spoke as if perfectly
serious.
“Well said, Neb!” cried Pencroft, with a shout of laughter; “and you’ll
undertake the job, no doubt?”
Cyrus Harding attentively observed the dense smoke emitted by Mount
Franklin, and even listened, as if expecting to hear some distant
muttering. Then, turning towards his companions, from whom he had gone
somewhat apart, he said,--
“The truth is, my friends, we must not conceal from ourselves that an
important change is going forward. The volcanic substances are no longer
in a state of ebullition, they have caught fire, and we are undoubtedly
menaced by an approaching eruption.”
“Well, captain,” said Pencroft, “we shall witness the eruption; and if
it is a good one, we’ll applaud it. I don’t see that we need concern
ourselves further about the matter.”
“It may be so,” replied Cyrus Harding, “for the ancient track of
the lava is still open; and thanks to this, the crater has hitherto
overflowed towards the north. And yet--”
“And yet, as we can derive no advantage from an eruption, it might be
better it should not take place,” said the reporter.
“Who knows?” answered the sailor. “Perhaps there may be some valuable
substance in this volcano, which it will spout forth, and which we may
turn to good account!”
Cyrus Harding shook his head with the air of a man who augured no good
from the phenomenon whose development had been so sudden. He did not
regard so lightly as Pencroft the results of an eruption. If the lava,
in consequence of the position of the crater, did not directly menace
the wooded and cultivated parts of the island, other complications might
present themselves. In fact, eruptions are not unfrequently accompanied
by earthquakes; and an island of the nature of Lincoln Island, formed of
substances so varied, basalt on one side, granite on the other, lava on
the north, rich soil on the south, substances which consequently could
not be firmly attached to each other, would be exposed to the risk
of disintegration. Although, therefore, the spreading of the volcanic
matter might not constitute a serious danger, any movement of the
terrestrial structure which should shake the island might entail the
gravest consequences.
“It seems to me,” said Ayrton, who had reclined so as to place his ear
to the ground, “it seems to me that I can hear a dull, rumbling sound,
like that of a wagon loaded with bars of iron.”
The colonists listened with the greatest attention, and were convinced
that Ayrton was not mistaken. The rumbling was mingled with a
subterranean roar, which formed a sort of rinforzando, and died slowly
away, as if some violent storm had passed through the profundities of
the globe. But no explosion properly so termed, could be heard. It might
therefore be concluded that the vapors and smoke found a free passage
through the central shaft; and that the safety-valve being sufficiently
large, no convulsion would be produced, no explosion was to be
apprehended.
“Well, then!” said Pencroft, “are we not going back to work? Let Mount
Franklin smoke, groan, bellow, or spout forth fire and flame as much as
it pleases, that is no reason why we should be idle! Come, Ayrton, Neb,
Herbert, Captain Harding, Mr. Spilett, every one of us must turn to at
our work to-day! We are going to place the keelson, and a dozen pair
of hands would not be too many. Before two months I want our new
‘Bonadventure’--for we shall keep the old name, shall we not?--to float
on the waters of Port Balloon! Therefore there is not an hour to lose!”
All the colonists, their services thus requisitioned by Pencroft,
descended to the dockyard, and proceeded to place the keelson, a thick
mass of wood which forms the lower portion of a ship and unites firmly
the timbers of the hull. It was an arduous undertaking, in which all
took part.
They continued their labors during the whole of this day, the 3rd of
January, without thinking further of the volcano, which could not,
besides, be seen from the shore of Granite House. But once or twice,
large shadows, veiling the sun, which described its diurnal arc through
an extremely clear sky, indicated that a thick cloud of smoke passed
between its disc and the island. The wind, blowing on the shore, carried
all these vapors to the westward. Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett
remarked these somber appearances, and from time to time discussed
the evident progress of the volcanic phenomena, but their work went
on without interruption. It was, besides, of the first importance from
every point of view, that the vessel should be finished with the least
possible delay. In presence of the eventualities which might arise,
the safety of the colonists would be to a great extent secured by their
ship. Who could tell that it might not prove some day their only refuge?
In the evening, after supper, Cyrus Harding, Gideon Spilett, and Herbert
again ascended the plateau of Prospect Heights. It was already dark, and
the obscurity would permit them to ascertain if flames or incandescent
matter thrown up by the volcano were mingled with the vapor and smoke
accumulated at the mouth of the crater.
“The crater is on fire!” said Herbert, who, more active than his
companion, first reached the plateau.
Mount Franklin, distant about six miles, now appeared like a gigantic
torch, around the summit of which turned fuliginous flames. So much
smoke, and possibly scoriae and cinders were mingled with them, that
their light gleamed but faintly amid the gloom of the night. But a kind
of lurid brilliancy spread over the island, against which stood out
confusedly the wooded masses of the heights. Immense whirlwinds of vapor
obscured the sky, through which glimmered a few stars.
“The change is rapid!” said the engineer.
“That is not surprising,” answered the reporter. “The reawakening of the
volcano already dates back some time. You may remember, Cyrus, that
the first vapors appeared about the time we searched the sides of the
mountain to discover Captain Nemo’s retreat. It was, if I mistake not,
about the 15th of October.”
“Yes,” replied Herbert, “two months and a half ago!”
“The subterranean fires have therefore been smoldering for ten weeks,”
resumed Gideon Spilett, “and it is not to be wondered at that they now
break out with such violence!”
“Do not you feel a certain vibration of the soil?” asked Cyrus Harding.
“Yes,” replied Gideon Spilett, “but there is a great difference between
that and an earthquake.”
“I do not affirm that we are menaced with an earthquake,” answered Cyrus
Harding, “may God preserve us from that! No; these vibrations are due to
the effervescence of the central fire. The crust of the earth is
simply the shell of a boiler, and you know that such a shell, under the
pressure of steam, vibrates like a sonorous plate. It is this effect
which is being produced at this moment.”
“What magnificent flames!” exclaimed Herbert.
At this instant a kind of bouquet of flames shot forth from the crater,
the brilliancy of which was visible even through the vapors. Thousands
of luminous sheets and barbed tongues of fire were cast in various
directions. Some, extending beyond the dome of smoke, dissipated
it, leaving behind an incandescent powder. This was accompanied
by successive explosions, resembling the discharge of a battery of
machine-guns.
Cyrus Harding, the reporter, and Herbert, after spending an hour on the
plateau of Prospect Heights, again descended to the beach, and returned
to Granite House. The engineer was thoughtful and preoccupied, so much
so, indeed, that Gideon Spilett inquired if he apprehended any immediate
danger, of which the eruption might directly or indirectly be the cause.
“Yes, and no,” answered Cyrus Harding.
“Nevertheless,” continued the reporter, “would not the greatest
misfortune which could happen to us be an earthquake which would
overturn the island? Now, I do not suppose that this is to be feared,
since the vapors and lava have found a free outlet.”
“True,” replied Cyrus Harding, “and I do not fear an earthquake in the
sense in which the term is commonly applied to convulsions of the soil
provoked by the expansion of subterranean gases. But other causes may
produce great disasters.”
“How so, my dear Cyrus?’
“I am not certain. I must consider. I must visit the mountain. In a few
days I shall learn more on this point.”
Gideon Spilett said no more, and soon, in spite of the explosions of
the volcano, whose intensity increased, and which were repeated by the
echoes of the island, the inhabitants of Granite House were sleeping
soundly.
Three days passed by--the 4th, 5th, and 6th of January. The construction
of the vessel was diligently continued, and without offering further
explanations the engineer pushed forward the work with all his energy.
Mount Franklin was now hooded by a somber cloud of sinister aspect, and,
amid the flames, vomiting forth incandescent rocks, some of which fell
back into the crater itself. This caused Pencroft, who would only look
at the matter in the light of a joke, to exclaim,--
“Ah! the giant is playing at cup and ball; he is a conjurer.”
In fact, the substances thrown up fell back again in to the abyss, and
it did not seem that the lava, though swollen by the internal pressure,
had yet risen to the orifice of the crater. At any rate, the opening on
the northeast, which was partly visible, poured out no torrent upon the
northern slope of the mountain.
Nevertheless, however pressing was the construction of the vessel, other
duties demanded the presence of the colonists on various portions of the
island. Before everything it was necessary to go to the corral, where
the flocks of musmons and goats were enclosed, and replenish the
provision of forage for those animals. It was accordingly arranged that
Ayrton should proceed thither the next day, the 7th of January; and as
he was sufficient for the task, to which he was accustomed, Pencroft and
the rest were somewhat surprised on hearing the engineer say to Ayrton--
“As you are going to-morrow to the corral I will accompany you.”
“But, Captain Harding,” exclaimed the sailor, “our working days will not
be many, and if you go also we shall be two pair of hands short!”
“We shall return to-morrow,” replied Cyrus Harding, “but it is necessary
that I should go to the corral. I must learn how the eruption is
progressing.”
“The eruption! always the eruption!” answered Pencroft, with an air of
discontent. “An important thing, truly, this eruption! I trouble myself
very little about it.”
Whatever might be the sailor’s opinion, the expedition projected by the
engineer was settled for the next day. Herbert wished to accompany Cyrus
Harding, but he would not vex Pencroft by his absence.
The next day, at dawn, Cyrus Harding and Ayrton, mounting the cart drawn
by two onagers, took the road to the corral and set off at a round trot.
Above the forest were passing large clouds, to which the crater of Mount
Franklin incessantly added fuliginous matter. These clouds, which rolled
heavily in the air, were evidently composed of heterogeneous substances.
It was not alone from the volcano that they derived their strange
opacity and weight. Scoriae, in a state of dust, like powdered
pumice-stone, and grayish ashes as small as the finest feculae, were
held in suspension in the midst of their thick folds. These ashes are so
fine that they have been observed in the air for whole months. After
the eruption of 1783 in Iceland for upwards of a year the atmosphere was
thus charged with volcanic dust through which the rays of the sun were
only with difficulty discernible.
But more often this pulverized matter falls, and this happened on the
present occasion. Cyrus Harding and Ayrton had scarcely reached the
corral when a sort of black snow like fine gunpowder fell, and instantly
changed the appearance of the soil. Trees, meadows, all disappeared
beneath a covering several inches in depth. But, very fortunately,
the wind blew from the northeast, and the greater part of the cloud
dissolved itself over the sea.
“This is very singular, Captain Harding,” said Ayrton.
“It is very serious,” replied the engineer. “This powdered pumice-stone,
all this mineral dust, proves how grave is the convulsion going forward
in the lower depths of the volcano.”
“But can nothing be done?”
“Nothing, except to note the progress of the phenomenon. Do you,
therefore, Ayrton, occupy yourself with the necessary work at the
corral. In the meantime I will ascend just beyond the source of Red
Creek and examine the condition of the mountain upon its northern
aspect. Then--”
“Well, Captain Harding?”
“Then we will pay a visit to Dakkar Grotto. I wish to inspect it. At any
rate I will come back for you in two hours.”
Ayrton then proceeded to enter the corral, and, while awaiting the
engineer’s return, busied himself with the musmons and goats which
seemed to feel a certain uneasiness in presence of these first signs of
an eruption.
Meanwhile Cyrus Harding ascended the crest of the eastern spur, passed
Red Creek, and arrived at the spot where he and his companions had
discovered a sulphurous spring at the time of their first exploration.
How changed was everything! Instead of a single column of smoke he
counted thirteen, forced through the soil as if violently propelled by
some piston. It was evident that the crust of the earth was subjected
in this part of the globe to a frightful pressure. The atmosphere was
saturated with gases and carbonic acid, mingled with aqueous vapors.
Cyrus Harding felt the volcanic tufa with which the plain was strewn,
and which was but pulverized cinders hardened into solid blocks by time,
tremble beneath him, but he could discover no traces of fresh lava.
The engineer became more assured of this when he observed all the
northern part of Mount Franklin. Pillars of smoke and flame escaped from
the crater; a hail of scoriae fell on the ground; but no current of
lava burst from the mouth of the volcano, which proved that the volcanic
matter had not yet attained the level of the superior orifice of the
central shaft.
“But I would prefer that it were so,” said Cyrus Harding to himself. “At
any rate, I should then know that the lava had followed its accustomed
track. Who can say that it may not take a new course? But the danger
does not consist in that! Captain Nemo foresaw it clearly! No, the
danger does not lie there!”
Cyrus Harding advanced towards the enormous causeway whose prolongation
enclosed the narrow Shark Gulf. He could now sufficiently examine on
this side the ancient channels of the lava. There was no doubt in his
mind that the most recent eruption had occurred at a far-distant epoch.
He then returned by the same way, listening attentively to the
subterranean mutterings which rolled like long-continued thunder,
interrupted by deafening explosions. At nine in the morning he reached
the corral.
Ayrton awaited him.
“The animals are cared for, Captain Harding,” said Ayrton.
“Good, Ayrton.”
“They seem uneasy, Captain Harding.”
“Yes, instinct speaks through them, and instinct is never deceived.”
“Are you ready?”
“Take a lamp, Ayrton,” answered the engineer; “we will start at once.”
Ayrton did as desired. The onagers, unharnessed, roamed in the corral.
The gate was secured on the outside, and Cyrus Harding, preceding
Ayrton, took the narrow path which led westward to the shore.
The soil they walked upon was choked with the pulverized matter fallen
from the cloud. No quadruped appeared in the woods. Even the birds had
fled. Sometimes a passing breeze raised the covering of ashes, and the
two colonists, enveloped in a whirlwind of dust, lost sight of each
other. They were then careful to cover their eyes and mouths with
handkerchiefs, for they ran the risk of being blinded and suffocated.
It was impossible for Cyrus Harding and Ayrton, with these impediments,
to make rapid progress. Moreover, the atmosphere was close, as if the
oxygen had been partly burned up, and had become unfit for respiration.
At every hundred paces they were obliged to stop to take breath. It was
therefore past ten o’clock when the engineer and his companion reached
the crest of the enormous mass of rocks of basalt and porphyry which
composed the northwest coast of the island.
Ayrton and Cyrus Harding commenced the descent of this abrupt declivity,
following almost step for step the difficult path which, during that
stormy night, had led them to Dakkar Grotto. In open day the descent was
less perilous, and, besides, the bed of ashes which covered the polished
surface of the rock enabled them to make their footing more secure.
The ridge at the end of the shore, about forty feet in height, was soon
reached. Cyrus Harding recollected that this elevation gradually sloped
towards the level of the sea. Although the tide was at present low, no
beach could be seen, and the waves, thickened by the volcanic dust, beat
upon the basaltic rocks.
Cyrus Harding and Ayrton found without difficulty the entrance to Dakkar
Grotto, and paused for a moment at the last rock before it.
“The iron boat should be there,” said the engineer.
“It is here, Captain Harding,” replied Ayrton, drawing towards him the
fragile craft, which was protected by the arch of the vault.
“On board, Ayrton!”
The two colonists stepped into the boat. A slight undulation of the
waves carried it farther under the low arch of the crypt, and there
Ayrton, with the aid of flint and steel, lighted the lamp. He then took
the oars, and the lamp having been placed in the bow of the boat, so
that its rays fell before them, Cyrus Harding took the helm and steered
through the shades of the grotto.
The “Nautilus” was there no longer to illuminate the cavern with its
electric light. Possibly it might not yet be extinguished, but no ray
escaped from the depths of the abyss in which reposed all that was
mortal of Captain Nemo.
The light afforded by the lamp, although feeble, nevertheless enabled
the engineer to advance slowly, following the wall of the cavern. A
deathlike silence reigned under the vaulted roof, or at least in the
anterior portion, for soon Cyrus Harding distinctly heard the rumbling
which proceeded from the bowels of the mountain.
“That comes from the volcano,” he said.
Besides these sounds, the presence of chemical combinations was soon
betrayed by their powerful odor, and the engineer and his companion were
almost suffocated by sulphurous vapors.
“This is what Captain Nemo feared,” murmured Cyrus Harding, changing
countenance. “We must go to the end, notwithstanding.”
“Forward!” replied Ayrton, bending to his oars and directing the boat
towards the head of the cavern.
Twenty-five minutes after entering the mouth of the grotto the boat
reached the extreme end.
Cyrus Harding then, standing up, cast the light of the lamp upon the
walls of the cavern which separated it from the central shaft of the
volcano. What was the thickness of this wall? It might be ten feet or a
hundred feet--it was impossible to say. But the subterranean sounds were
too perceptible to allow of the supposition that it was of any great
thickness.
The engineer, after having explored the wall at a certain height
horizontally, fastened the lamp to the end of an oar, and again surveyed
the basaltic wall at a greater elevation.
There, through scarcely visible clefts and joinings, escaped a pungent
vapor, which infected the atmosphere of the cavern. The wall was broken
by large cracks, some of which extended to within two or three feet of
the water’s edge.
Cyrus Harding thought for a brief space. Then he said in a low voice,--
“Yes! the captain was right! The danger lies there, and a terrible
danger!”
Ayrton said not a word, but, upon a sign from Cyrus Harding, resumed the
oars, and half an hour later the engineer and he reached the entrance of
Dakkar Grotto.
Chapter 19
The next day, the 8th day of January, after a day and night passed
at the corral, where they left all in order, Cyrus Harding and Ayrton
arrived at Granite House.
The engineer immediately called his companions together, and informed
them of the imminent danger which threatened Lincoln Island, and from
which no human power could deliver them.
“My friends,” he said, and his voice betrayed the depth of his emotion,
“our island is not among those which will endure while this earth
endures. It is doomed to more or less speedy destruction, the cause of
which it bears within itself, and from which nothing can save it.”
The colonists looked at each other, then at the engineer. They did not
clearly comprehend him.
“Explain yourself, Cyrus!” said Gideon Spilett.
“I will do so,” replied Cyrus Harding, “or rather I will simply
afford you the explanation which, during our few minutes of private
conversation, was given me by Captain Nemo.”
“Captain Nemo!” exclaimed the colonists.
“Yes, and it was the last service he desired to render us before his
death!”
“The last service!” exclaimed Pencroft, “the last service! You will see
that though he is dead he will render us others yet!”
“But what did the captain say?” inquired the reporter.
“I will tell you, my friends,” said the engineer. “Lincoln Island does
not resemble the other islands of the Pacific, and a fact of which
Captain Nemo has made me cognizant must sooner or later bring about the
subversion of its foundation.”
“Nonsense! Lincoln Island, it can’t be!” cried Pencroft, who, in spite
of the respect he felt for Cyrus Harding, could not prevent a gesture of
incredulity.
“Listen, Pencroft,” resumed the engineer, “I will tell you what Captain
Nemo communicated to me, and which I myself confirmed yesterday, during
the exploration of Dakkar Grotto.
“This cavern stretches under the island as far as the volcano, and is
only separated from its central shaft by the wall which terminates it.
Now, this wall is seamed with fissures and clefts which already allow
the sulphurous gases generated in the interior of the volcano to
escape.”
“Well?” said Pencroft, his brow suddenly contracting.
“Well, then, I saw that these fissures widen under the internal pressure
from within, that the wall of basalt is gradually giving way and that
after a longer or shorter period it will afford a passage to the waters
of the lake which fill the cavern.”
“Good!” replied Pencroft, with an attempt at pleasantry. “The sea will
extinguish the volcano, and there will be an end of the matter!”
“Not so!” said Cyrus Harding, “should a day arrive when the sea, rushing
through the wall of the cavern, penetrates by the central shaft into the
interior of the island to the boiling lava, Lincoln Island will that day
be blown into the air--just as would happen to the island of Sicily were
the Mediterranean to precipitate itself into Mount Etna.”
The colonists made no answer to these significant words of the engineer.
They now understood the danger by which they were menaced.
It may be added that Cyrus Harding had in no way exaggerated the danger
to be apprehended. Many persons have formed an idea that it would be
possible to extinguish volcanoes, which are almost always situated on
the shores of a sea or lake, by opening a passage for the admission of
the water. But they are not aware that this would be to incur the risk
of blowing up a portion of the globe, like a boiler whose steam is
suddenly expanded by intense heat. The water, rushing into a cavity
whose temperature might be estimated at thousands of degrees, would
be converted into steam with a sudden energy which no enclosure could
resist.
It was not therefore doubtful that the island, menaced by a frightful
and approaching convulsion, would endure only so long as the wall
of Dakkar Grotto itself should endure. It was not even a question of
months, nor of weeks, but of days; it might be of hours.
The first sentiment which the colonists felt was that of profound
sorrow. They thought not so much of the peril which menaced themselves
personally, but of the destruction of the island which had sheltered
them, which they had cultivated, which they loved so well, and had hoped
to render so flourishing. So much effort ineffectually expended, so much
labor lost.
Pencroft could not prevent a large tear from rolling down his cheek, nor
did he attempt to conceal it.
Some further conversation now took place. The chances yet in favor of
the colonists were discussed; but finally it was agreed that there was
not an hour to be lost, that the building and fitting of the vessel
should be pushed forward with their utmost energy, and that this was the
sole chance of safety for the inhabitants of Lincoln Island.
All hands, therefore, set to work on the vessel. What could it avail
to sow, to reap, to hunt, to increase the stores of Granite House?
The contents of the storehouse and outbuildings contained more than
sufficient to provide the ship for a voyage, however long might be its
duration. But it was imperative that the ship should be ready to receive
them before the inevitable catastrophe should arrive.
Their labors were now carried on with feverish ardor. By the 23rd of
January the vessel was half-decked over. Up to this time no change had
taken place on the summit of the volcano. Vapor and smoke mingled with
flames and incandescent stones were thrown up from the crater. But
during the night of the 23rd, in consequence of the lava attaining the
level of the first stratum of the volcano, the hat-shaped cone which
formed over the latter disappeared. A frightful sound was heard. The
colonists at first thought the island was rent asunder, and rushed out
of Granite House.
This occurred about two o’clock in the morning.
The sky appeared on fire. The superior cone, a mass of rock a thousand
feet in height, and weighing thousands of millions of pounds, had
been thrown down upon the island, making it tremble to its foundation.
Fortunately, this cone inclined to the north, and had fallen upon the
plain of sand and tufa stretching between the volcano and the sea. The
aperture of the crater being thus enlarged projected towards the sky a
glare so intense that by the simple effect of reflection the atmosphere
appeared red-hot. At the same time a torrent of lava, bursting from the
new summit, poured out in long cascades, like water escaping from a vase
too full, and a thousand tongues of fire crept over the sides of the
volcano.
“The corral! the corral!” exclaimed Ayrton.
It was, in fact, towards the corral that the lava was rushing as the
new crater faced the east, and consequently the fertile portions of the
island, the springs of Red Creek and Jacamar Wood, were menaced with
instant destruction.
At Ayrton’s cry the colonists rushed to the onagers’ stables. The cart
was at once harnessed. All were possessed by the same thought--to hasten
to the corral and set at liberty the animals it enclosed.
Before three in the morning they arrived at the corral. The cries of the
terrified musmons and goats indicated the alarm which possessed them.
Already a torrent of burning matter and liquefied minerals fell from
the side of the mountain upon the meadows as far as the side of the
palisade. The gate was burst open by Ayrton, and the animals, bewildered
with terror, fled in all directions.
An hour afterwards the boiling lava filled the corral, converting into
vapor the water of the little rivulet which ran through it, burning up
the house like dry grass, and leaving not even a post of the palisade to
mark the spot where the corral once stood.
To contend against this disaster would have been folly--nay, madness. In
presence of Nature’s grand convulsions man is powerless.
It was now daylight--the 24th of January. Cyrus Harding and his
companions, before returning to Granite House, desired to ascertain the
probable direction this inundation of lava was about to take. The soil
sloped gradually from Mount Franklin to the east coast, and it was to be
feared that, in spite of the thick Jacamar Wood, the torrent would reach
the plateau of Prospect Heights.
“The lake will cover us,” said Gideon Spilett.
“I hope so!” was Cyrus Harding’s only reply.
The colonists were desirous of reaching the plain upon which the
superior cone of Mount Franklin had fallen, but the lava arrested their
progress. It had followed, on one side, the valley of Red Creek, and
on the other that of Falls River, evaporating those watercourses in its
passage. There was no possibility of crossing the torrent of lava;
on the contrary, the colonists were obliged to retreat before it. The
volcano, without its crown, was no longer recognizable, terminated as it
was by a sort of flat table which replaced the ancient crater. From two
openings in its southern and eastern sides an unceasing flow of lava
poured forth, thus forming two distinct streams. Above the new crater a
cloud of smoke and ashes, mingled with those of the atmosphere, massed
over the island. Loud peals of thunder broke, and could scarcely be
distinguished from the rumblings of the mountain, whose mouth vomited
forth ignited rocks, which, hurled to more than a thousand feet, burst
in the air like shells. Flashes of lightning rivaled in intensity the
volcano’s eruption.
Towards seven in the morning the position was no longer tenable by the
colonists, who accordingly took shelter in the borders of Jacamar Wood.
Not only did the projectiles begin to rain around them, but the lava,
overflowing the bed of Red Creek, threatened to cut off the road to the
corral. The nearest rows of trees caught fire, and their sap, suddenly
transformed into vapor, caused them to explode with loud reports, while
others, less moist, remained unhurt in the midst of the inundation.
The colonists had again taken the road to the corral. They proceeded but
slowly, frequently looking back; but, in consequence of the inclination
of the soil, the lava gained rapidly in the east, and as its lower waves
became solidified others, at boiling heat, covered them immediately.
Meanwhile, the principal stream of Red Creek Valley became more and
more menacing. All this portion of the forest was on fire, and enormous
wreaths of smoke rolled over the trees, whose trunks were already
consumed by the lava.
The colonists halted near the lake, about half a mile from the mouth of
Red Creek. A question of life or death was now to be decided.
Cyrus Harding, accustomed to the consideration of important crises, and
aware that he was addressing men capable of hearing the truth, whatever
it might be, then said,--
“Either the lake will arrest the progress of the lava, and a part of
the island will be preserved from utter destruction, or the stream will
overrun the forests of the Far West, and not a tree or plant will
remain on the surface of the soil. We shall have no prospect but that
of starvation upon these barren rocks--a death which will probably be
anticipated by the explosion of the island.”
“In that case,” replied Pencroft, folding his arms and stamping his
foot, “what’s the use of working any longer on the vessel?”
“Pencroft,” answered Cyrus Harding, “we must do our duty to the last!”
At this instant the river of lava, after having broken a passage through
the noble trees it devoured in its course, reached the borders of the
lake. At this point there was an elevation of the soil which, had it
been greater, might have sufficed to arrest the torrent.
“To work!” cried Cyrus Harding.
The engineer’s thought was at once understood. It might be possible to
dam, as it were, the torrent, and thus compel it to pour itself into the
lake.
The colonists hastened to the dockyard. They returned with shovels,
picks, axes, and by means of banking the earth with the aid of fallen
trees they succeeded in a few hours in raising an embankment three feet
high and some hundreds of paces in length. It seemed to them, when
they had finished, as if they had scarcely been working more than a few
minutes.
It was not a moment too soon. The liquefied substances soon after
reached the bottom of the barrier. The stream of lava swelled like a
river about to overflow its banks, and threatened to demolish the sole
obstacle which could prevent it from overrunning the whole Far West. But
the dam held firm, and after a moment of terrible suspense the torrent
precipitated itself into Grant Lake from a height of twenty feet.
The colonists, without moving or uttering a word, breathlessly regarded
this strife of the two elements.
What a spectacle was this conflict between water and fire! What pen
could describe the marvelous horror of this scene--what pencil could
depict it? The water hissed as it evaporated by contact with the boiling
lava. The vapor whirled in the air to an immeasurable height, as if
the valves of an immense boiler had been suddenly opened. But, however
considerable might be the volume of water contained in the lake, it must
eventually be absorbed, because it was not replenished, while the stream
of lava, fed from an inexhaustible source, rolled on without ceasing new
waves of incandescent matter.
The first waves of lava which fell in the lake immediately solidified
and accumulated so as speedily to emerge from it. Upon their surface
fell other waves, which in their turn became stone, but a step
nearer the center of the lake. In this manner was formed a pier which
threatened to gradually fill up the lake, which could not overflow, the
water displaced by the lava being evaporated. The hissing of the water
rent the air with a deafening sound, and the vapor, blown by the wind,
fell in rain upon the sea. The pier became longer and longer, and the
blocks of lava piled themselves one on another. Where formerly stretched
the calm waters of the lake now appeared an enormous mass of smoking
rocks, as if an upheaving of the soil had formed immense shoals. Imagine
the waters of the lake aroused by a hurricane, then suddenly solidified
by an intense frost, and some conception may be formed of the aspect of
the lake three hours after the eruption of this irresistible torrent of
lava.
This time water would be vanquished by fire.
Nevertheless it was a fortunate circumstance for the colonists that the
effusion of lava should have been in the direction of Lake Grant. They
had before them some days’ respite. The plateau of Prospect Heights,
Granite House, and the dockyard were for the moment preserved. And these
few days it was necessary to employ in planking and carefully calking
the vessel, and launching her. The colonists would then take refuge on
board the vessel, content to rig her after she should be afloat on the
waters. With the danger of an explosion which threatened to destroy the
island there could be no security on shore. The walls of Granite House,
once so sure a retreat, might at any moment fall in upon them.
During the six following days, from the 25th to the 30th of January, the
colonists accomplished as much of the construction of their vessel as
twenty men could have done. They hardly allowed themselves a moment’s
repose, and the glare of the flames which shot from the crater enabled
them to work night and day. The flow of lava continued, but perhaps
less abundantly. This was fortunate, for Lake Grant was almost entirely
choked up, and if more lava should accumulate it would inevitably spread
over the plateau of Prospect Heights, and thence upon the beach.
But if the island was thus partially protected on this side, it was not
so with the western part.
In fact, the second stream of lava, which had followed the valley of
Falls River, a valley of great extent, the land on both sides of the
creek being flat, met with no obstacle. The burning liquid had then
spread through the forest of the Far West. At this period of the year,
when the trees were dried up by a tropical heat, the forest caught fire
instantaneously, in such a manner that the conflagration extended itself
both by the trunks of the trees and by their higher branches, whose
interlacement favored its progress. It even appeared that the current
of flame spread more rapidly among the summits of the trees than the
current of lava at their bases.
Thus it happened that the wild animals, jaguars, wild boars, capybaras,
koalas, and game of every kind, mad with terror, had fled to the banks
of the Mercy and to the Tadorn Marsh, beyond the road to Port Balloon.
But the colonists were too much occupied with their task to pay any
attention to even the most formidable of these animals. They had
abandoned Granite House, and would not even take shelter at the
Chimneys, but encamped under a tent, near the mouth of the Mercy.
Each day Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett ascended the plateau of
Prospect Heights. Sometimes Herbert accompanied them, but never
Pencroft, who could not bear to look upon the prospect of the island now
so utterly devastated.
It was, in truth, a heart-rending spectacle. All the wooded part of the
island was now completely bare. One single clump of green trees raised
their heads at the extremity of Serpentine Peninsula. Here and there
were a few grotesque blackened and branchless stumps. The side of the
devastated forest was even more barren than Tadorn Marsh. The eruption
of lava had been complete. Where formerly sprang up that charming
verdure, the soil was now nothing but a savage mass of volcanic tufa.
In the valleys of the Falls and Mercy rivers no drop of water now
flowed towards the sea, and should Lake Grant be entirely dried up,
the colonists would have no means of quenching their thirst. But,
fortunately the lava had spared the southern corner of the lake,
containing all that remained of the drinking water of the island.
Towards the northwest stood out the rugged and well-defined outlines of
the sides of the volcano, like a gigantic claw hovering over the island.
What a sad and fearful sight, and how painful to the colonists, who,
from a fertile domain covered with forests, irrigated by watercourses,
and enriched by the produce of their toils, found themselves, as it
were, transported to a desolate rock, upon which, but for their reserves
of provisions, they could not even gather the means of subsistence!
“It is enough to break one’s heart!” said Gideon Spilett, one day.
“Yes, Spilett,” answered the engineer. “May God grant us the time to
complete this vessel, now our sole refuge!”
“Do not you think, Cyrus, that the violence of the eruption has somewhat
lessened? The volcano still vomits forth lava, but somewhat less
abundantly, if I mistake not.”
“It matters little,” answered Cyrus Harding. “The fire is still burning
in the interior of the mountain, and the sea may break in at any moment.
We are in the condition of passengers whose ship is devoured by a
conflagration which they cannot extinguish, and who know that sooner or
later the flames must reach the powder-magazine. To work, Spilett, to
work, and let us not lose an hour!”
During eight days more, that is to say until the 7th of February,
the lava continued to flow, but the eruption was confined within the
previous limits. Cyrus Harding feared above all lest the liquefied
matter should overflow the shore, for in that event the dockyard could
not escape. Moreover, about this time the colonists felt in the frame of
the island vibrations which alarmed them to the highest degree.
It was the 20th of February. Yet another month must elapse before the
vessel would be ready for sea. Would the island hold together till then?
The intention of Pencroft and Cyrus Harding was to launch the vessel
as soon as the hull should be complete. The deck, the upperworks, the
interior woodwork and the rigging might be finished afterwards, but the
essential point was that the colonists should have an assured refuge
away from the island. Perhaps it might be even better to conduct the
vessel to Port Balloon, that is to say, as far as possible from the
center of eruption, for at the mouth of the Mercy, between the islet and
the wall of granite, it would run the risk of being crushed in the event
of any convulsion. All the exertions of the voyagers were therefore
concentrated upon the completion of the hull.
Thus the 3rd of March arrived, and they might calculate upon launching
the vessel in ten days.
Hope revived in the hearts of the colonists, who had, in this fourth
year of their sojourn on Lincoln island, suffered so many trials. Even
Pencroft lost in some measure the somber taciturnity occasioned by
the devastation and ruin of his domain. His hopes, it is true, were
concentrated upon his vessel.
“We shall finish it,” he said to the engineer, “we shall finish it,
captain, and it is time, for the season is advancing and the equinox
will soon be here. Well, if necessary, we must put in to Tabor island
to spend the winter. But think of Tabor island after Lincoln Island. Ah,
how unfortunate! Who could have believed it possible?”
“Let us get on,” was the engineer’s invariable reply.
And they worked away without losing a moment.
“Master,” asked Neb, a few days later, “do you think all this could have
happened if Captain Nemo had been still alive?”
“Certainly, Neb,” answered Cyrus Harding.
“I, for one, don’t believe it!” whispered Pencroft to Neb.
“Nor I!” answered Neb seriously.
During the first week of March appearances again became menacing.
Thousands of threads like glass, formed of fluid lava, fell like rain
upon the island. The crater was again boiling with lava which overflowed
the back of the volcano. The torrent flowed along the surface of the
hardened tufa, and destroyed the few meager skeletons of trees which had
withstood the first eruption. The stream, flowing this time towards the
southwest shore of Lake Grant, stretched beyond Creek Glycerine, and
invaded the plateau of Prospect Heights. This last blow to the work of
the colonists was terrible. The mill, the buildings of the inner court,
the stables, were all destroyed. The affrighted poultry fled in all
directions. Top and Jup showed signs of the greatest alarm, as if their
instinct warned them of an impending catastrophe. A large number of the
animals of the island had perished in the first eruption. Those which
survived found no refuge but Tadorn Marsh, save a few to which the
plateau of Prospect Heights afforded asylum. But even this last retreat
was now closed to them, and the lava-torrent, flowing over the edge of
the granite wall, began to pour down upon the beach its cataracts of
fire. The sublime horror of this spectacle passed all description.
During the night it could only be compared to a Niagara of molten fluid,
with its incandescent vapors above and its boiling masses below.
The colonists were driven to their last entrenchment, and although the
upper seams of the vessel were not yet calked, they decided to launch
her at once.
Pencroft and Ayrton therefore set about the necessary preparations for
the launching, which was to take place the morning of the next day, the
9th of March.
But during the night of the 8th an enormous column of vapor escaping
from the crater rose with frightful explosions to a height of more than
three thousand feet. The wall of Dakkar Grotto had evidently given way
under the pressure of gases, and the sea, rushing through the central
shaft into the igneous gulf, was at once converted into vapor. But
the crater could not afford a sufficient outlet for this vapor. An
explosion, which might have been heard at a distance of a hundred miles,
shook the air. Fragments of mountains fell into the Pacific, and, in a
few minutes, the ocean rolled over the spot where Lincoln island once
stood.
Chapter 20
An isolated rock, thirty feet in length, twenty in breadth, scarcely ten
from the water’s edge, such was the only solid point which the waves of
the Pacific had not engulfed.
It was all that remained of the structure of Granite House! The wall had
fallen headlong and been then shattered to fragments, and a few of the
rocks of the large room were piled one above another to form this point.
All around had disappeared in the abyss; the inferior cone of Mount
Franklin, rent asunder by the explosion; the lava jaws of Shark Gulf,
the plateau of Prospect Heights, Safety Islet, the granite rocks of Port
Balloon, the basalts of Dakkar Grotto, the long Serpentine Peninsula, so
distant nevertheless from the center of the eruption. All that could
now be seen of Lincoln Island was the narrow rock which now served as a
refuge to the six colonists and their dog Top.
The animals had also perished in the catastrophe; the birds, as well
as those representing the fauna of the island--all either crushed or
drowned, and the unfortunate Jup himself had, alas! found his death in
some crevice of the soil.
If Cyrus Harding, Gideon Spilett, Herbert, Pencroft, Neb, and Ayrton
had survived, it was because, assembled under their tent, they had been
hurled into the sea at the instant when the fragments of the island
rained down on every side.
When they reached the surface they could only perceive, at half a
cable’s length, this mass of rocks, towards which they swam and on which
they found footing.
On this barren rock they had now existed for nine days. A few provisions
taken from the magazine of Granite House before the catastrophe, a
little fresh water from the rain which had fallen in a hollow of the
rock, was all that the unfortunate colonists possessed. Their last hope,
the vessel, had been shattered to pieces. They had no means of quitting
the reef; no fire, nor any means of obtaining it. It seemed that they
must inevitably perish.
This day, the 18th of March, there remained only provisions for two
days, although they limited their consumption to the bare necessaries
of life. All their science and intelligence could avail them nothing in
their present position. They were in the hand of God.
Cyrus Harding was calm, Gideon Spilett more nervous, and Pencroft, a
prey to sullen anger, walked to and fro on the rock. Herbert did not
for a moment quit the engineer’s side, as if demanding from him that
assistance he had no power to give. Neb and Ayrton were resigned to
their fate.
“Ah, what a misfortune! what a misfortune!” often repeated Pencroft.
“If we had but a walnut-shell to take us to Tabor Island! But we have
nothing, nothing!”
“Captain Nemo did right to die,” said Neb.
During the five ensuing days Cyrus Harding and his unfortunate
companions husbanded their provisions with the most extreme care, eating
only what would prevent them from dying of starvation. Their weakness
was extreme. Herbert and Neb began to show symptoms of delirium.
Under these circumstances was it possible for them to retain even the
shadow of a hope? No! What was their sole remaining chance? That a
vessel should appear in sight of the rock? But they knew only too well
from experience that no ships ever visited this part of the Pacific.
Could they calculate that, by a truly providential coincidence, the
Scotch yacht would arrive precisely at this time in search of Ayrton
at Tabor Island? It was scarcely probable; and, besides, supposing
she should come there, as the colonists had not been able to deposit
a notice pointing out Ayrton’s change of abode, the commander of the
yacht, after having explored Tabor Island without results, would again
set sail and return to lower latitudes.
No! no hope of being saved could be retained, and a horrible death,
death from hunger and thirst, awaited them upon this rock.
Already they were stretched on the rock, inanimate, and no longer
conscious of what passed around them. Ayrton alone, by a supreme effort,
from time to time raised his head, and cast a despairing glance over the
desert ocean.
But on the morning of the 24th of March Ayrton’s arms were extended
toward a point in the horizon; he raised himself, at first on his knees,
then upright, and his hand seemed to make a signal.
A sail was in sight off the rock. She was evidently not without an
object. The reef was the mark for which she was making in a direct line,
under all steam, and the unfortunate colonists might have made her out
some hours before if they had had the strength to watch the horizon.
“The ‘Duncan’!” murmured Ayrton--and fell back without sign of life.
When Cyrus Harding and his companions recovered consciousness, thanks to
the attention lavished upon them, they found themselves in the cabin of
a steamer, without being able to comprehend how they had escaped death.
A word from Ayrton explained everything.
“The ‘Duncan’!” he murmured.
“The ‘Duncan’!” exclaimed Cyrus Harding. And raising his hand to Heaven,
he said, “Oh! Almighty God! mercifully hast Thou preserved us!”
It was, in fact, the “Duncan,” Lord Glenarvan’s yacht, now commanded by
Robert, son of Captain Grant, who had been despatched to Tabor Island to
find Ayrton, and bring him back to his native land after twelve years of
expiation.
The colonists were not only saved, but already on the way to their
native country.
“Captain Grant,” asked Cyrus Harding, “who can have suggested to you the
idea, after having left Tabor Island, where you did not find Ayrton, of
coming a hundred miles farther northeast?”
“Captain Harding,” replied Robert Grant, “it was in order to find, not
only Ayrton, but yourself and your companions.”
“My companions and myself?”
“Doubtless, at Lincoln Island.”
“At Lincoln Island!” exclaimed in a breath Gideon Spilett, Herbert, Neb,
and Pencroft, in the highest degree astonished.
“How could you be aware of the existence of Lincoln Island?” inquired
Cyrus Harding, “it is not even named in the charts.”
“I knew of it from a document left by you on Tabor Island,” answered
Robert Grant.
“A document!” cried Gideon Spilett.
“Without doubt, and here it is,” answered Robert Grant, producing a
paper which indicated the longitude and latitude of Lincoln Island, “the
present residence of Ayrton and five American colonists.”
“It is Captain Nemo!” cried Cyrus Harding, after having read the notice,
and recognized that the handwriting was similar to that of the paper
found at the corral.
“Ah!” said Pencroft, “it was then he who took our ‘Bonadventure’ and
hazarded himself alone to go to Tabor Island!”
“In order to leave this notice,” added Herbert.
“I was then right in saying,” exclaimed the sailor, “that even after his
death the captain would render us a last service.”
“My friends,” said Cyrus Harding, in a voice of the profoundest emotion,
“may the God of mercy have had pity on the soul of Captain Nemo, our
benefactor.”
The colonists uncovered themselves at these last words of Cyrus Harding,
and murmured the name of Captain Nemo.
Then Ayrton, approaching the engineer, said simply, “Where should this
coffer be deposited?”
It was the coffer which Ayrton had saved at the risk of his life, at
the very instant that the island had been engulfed, and which he now
faithfully handed to the engineer.
“Ayrton! Ayrton!” said Cyrus Harding, deeply touched. Then, addressing
Robert Grant, “Sir,” he added, “you left behind you a criminal; you find
in his place a man who has become honest by penitence, and whose hand I
am proud to clasp in mine.”
Robert Grant was now made acquainted with the strange history of Captain
Nemo and the colonists of Lincoln Island. Then, observation being taken
of what remained of this shoal, which must henceforward figure on the
charts of the Pacific, the order was given to make all sail.
A few weeks afterwards the colonists landed in America, and found their
country once more at peace after the terrible conflict in which right
and justice had triumphed.
Of the treasures contained in the coffer left by Captain Nemo to the
colonists of Lincoln Island, the larger portion was employed in the
purchase of a vast territory in the State of Iowa. One pearl alone, the
finest, was reserved from the treasure and sent to Lady Glenarvan in the
name of the castaways restored to their country by the “Duncan.”
There, upon this domain, the colonists invited to labor, that is to say,
to wealth and happiness, all those to whom they had hoped to offer the
hospitality of Lincoln Island. There was founded a vast colony to
which they gave the name of that island sunk beneath the waters of the
Pacific. A river there was called the Mercy, a mountain took the name
of Mount Franklin, a small lake was named Lake Grant, and the forests
became the forests of the Far West. It might have been an island on
terra firma.
There, under the intelligent hands of the engineer and his companions,
everything prospered. Not one of the former colonists of Lincoln Island
was absent, for they had sworn to live always together. Neb was with his
master; Ayrton was there ready to sacrifice himself for all; Pencroft
was more a farmer than he had ever been a sailor; Herbert, who completed
his studies under the superintendence of Cyrus Harding, and Gideon
Spilett, who founded the New Lincoln Herald, the best-informed journal
in the world.
There Cyrus Harding and his companions received at intervals visits from
Lord and Lady Glenarvan, Captain John Mangles and his wife, the sister
of Robert Grant, Robert Grant himself, Major McNab, and all those who
had taken part in the history both of Captain Grant and Captain Nemo.
There, to conclude, all were happy, united in the present as they had
been in the past; but never could they forget that island upon which
they had arrived poor and friendless, that island which, during four
years had supplied all their wants, and of which there remained but a
fragment of granite washed by the waves of the Pacific, the tomb of him
who had borne the name of Captain Nemo.