the town of the same name is also the capital of the group.
The largest of these isles is not more than seventeen miles long and
five wide. Leaving out the medium-sized ones, there remains but an
agglomeration of islets and reefs scattered over an area of twelve
square leagues.
Although the climate of Bermuda is very healthy, very salubrious, the
isles are nevertheless frightfully beaten by the heavy winter tempests
of the Atlantic, and their approach by navigators presents certain
difficulties.
What the archipelago especially lacks are rivers and rios. However,
as abundant rains fall frequently, this drawback is got over by the
inhabitants, who treasure up the heaven-sent water for household and
agricultural purposes. This has necessitated the construction of vast
cisterns which the downfalls keep filled. These works of engineering
skill justly merit the admiration they receive and do honor to the
genius of man.
It was in connection with the setting up of these cisterns that I made
the trip, as well as out of curiosity to inspect the fine works.
I obtained from the company of which I was the engineer in New
Jersey a vacation of several weeks, and embarked at New York for the
Bermudas.
While I was staying on Hamilton Island, in the vast port of
Southampton, an event occurred of great interest to geologists.
One day a whole flotilla of fishers, men, women and children, entered
Southampton Harbor. For fifty years these families had lived on the
east coast of Back Cup, where they had erected log-cabins and houses
of stone. Their position for carrying on their industry was an
exceptionally favorable one, for the waters teem with fish all the
year round, and in March and April whales abound.
Nothing had hitherto occurred to disturb their tranquil existence.
They were quite contented with their rough lot, which was rendered
less onerous by the facility of communication with Hamilton and St.
George. Their solid barks took cargoes of fish there, which they
exchanged for the necessities of life.
Why had they thus abandoned the islet with the intention, as it pretty
soon appeared, of never returning to it? The reason turned out to be
that they no longer considered themselves in safety there.
A couple of months previously they had been at first surprised, then
alarmed, by several distinct detonations that appeared to have taken
place in the interior of the mountain. At the same time smoke and
flames issued from the summit--or the bottom of the reversed cup, if
you like. Now no one had ever suspected that the islet was of volcanic
origin, or that there was a crater at the top, no one having been able
to climb its sides. Now, however, there could be no possible doubt
that the mountain was an ancient volcano that had suddenly become
active again and threatened the village with destruction.
During the ensuing two months internal rumblings and explosions
continued to be heard, which were accompanied by bursts of flame
from the top--especially at night. The island was shaken by the
explosions--the shocks could be distinctly felt. All these phenomena
were indicative of an imminent eruption, and there was no spot at the
base of the mountain that could afford any protection from the rivers
of lava that would inevitably pour down its smooth, steep slopes
and overwhelm the village in their boiling flood. Besides, the very
mountain might be destroyed in the eruption.
There was nothing for the population exposed to such a dire
catastrophe to do but leave. This they did. Their humble Lares
and Penates, in fact all their belongings, were loaded into the
fishing-smacks, and the entire colony sought refuge in Southhampton
Harbor.
The news that a volcano, that had presumably been smouldering for
centuries at the western extremity of the group, showed signs of
breaking out again, caused a sensation throughout the Bermudas. But
while some were terrified, the curiosity of others was aroused, mine
included. The phenomenon was worth investigation, even if the simple
fisher-folk had exaggerated.
Back Cup, which, as already stated, lies at the western extremity of
the archipelago, is connected therewith by a chain of small islets
and reefs, which cannot be approached from the east. Being only three
hundred feet in altitude, it cannot be seen either from St. George or
Hamilton. I joined a party of explorers and we embarked in a cutter
that landed us on the island, and made our way to the abandoned
village of the Bermudan fishers.
The internal crackings and detonations could be plainly heard, and a
sheaf of smoke was swayed by the wind at the summit.
Beyond a peradventure the ancient volcano had been started again
by the subterranean fire, and an eruption at any moment was to be
apprehended.
In vain we attempted to climb to the mouth of the crater. The mountain
sheered down at an angle of from seventy-five to eighty degrees, and
its smooth, slippery sides afforded absolutely no foothold. Anything
more barren than this rocky freak of nature it would be difficult to
conceive. Only a few tufts of wild herbs were to be seen upon the
whole island, and these seemed to have no -raison d'être-.
Our explorations were therefore necessarily limited, and in view of
the active symptoms of danger that manifested themselves, we could but
approve the action of the villagers in abandoning the place; for we
entertained no doubt that its destruction was imminent.
These were the circumstances in which I was led to visit Back Cup, and
no one will consequently be surprised at the fact that I recognized it
immediately we hove in sight of the queer structure.
No, I repeat, the Count d'Artigas would probably not be overpleased
if he were aware that Warder Gaydon is perfectly acquainted with this
islet, even if the -Ebba- was to anchor there--which, as there is no
port, is, to say the least, extremely improbable.
As we draw nearer, I attentively examine Back Cup. Not one of
its former inhabitants has been induced to return, and, as it is
absolutely deserted, I cannot imagine why the schooner should visit
the place.
Perhaps, however, the Count d'Artigas and his companions have no
intention of landing there. Even though the -Ebba- should find
temporary shelter between the rocky sides of a narrow creek there is
nothing to give ground to the supposition that a wealthy yachtsman
would have the remotest idea of fixing upon as his residence an arid
cone exposed to all the terrible tempests of the Western Atlantic. To
live here is all very well for rustic fishermen, but not for the Count
d'Artigas, Engineer Serko, Captain Spade and his crew.
Back Cup is now only half a mile off, and the seaweed thrown up on its
rocky base is plainly discernible. The only living things upon it are
the sea-gulls and other birds that circle in clouds around the smoking
crater.
When she is only two cable's lengths off, the schooner slackens speed,
and then stops at the entrance of a sort of natural canal formed by a
couple of reefs that barely rise above the water.
I wonder whether the -Ebba- will venture to try the dangerous feat of
passing through it. I do not think so. She will probably lay where she
is--though why she should do so I do not know--for a few hours, and
then continue her voyage towards the east.
However this may be I see no preparations in progress for dropping
anchor. The anchors are suspended in their usual places, the cables
have not been cleared, and no motion has been made to lower a single
boat.
At this moment Count d'Artigas, Engineer Serko and Captain Spade go
forward and perform some manoeuvre that is inexplicable to me.
I walk along the port side of the deck until I am near the foremast,
and then I can see a small buoy that the sailors are hoisting in.
Almost immediately the water, at the same spot becomes dark and I
observe a black mass rising to the surface. Is it a big whale rising
for air, and is the -Ebba- in danger of being shattered by a blow from
the monster's tail?
Now I understand! At last the mystery is solved. I know what was the
motor that caused the schooner to go at such an extraordinary speed
without sails and without a screw. Her indefatigable motor is emerging
from the sea, after having towed her from the coast of America to
the archipelago of the Bermudas. There it is, floating alongside--a
submersible boat, a submarine tug, worked by a screw set in motion by
the current from a battery of accumulators or powerful electric piles.
On the upper part of the long cigar-shaped iron tug is a platform in
the middle of which is the "lid" by which an entrance is effected. In
the fore part of the platform projects a periscope, or lookout, formed
by port-holes or lenses through which an electric searchlight can
throw its gleam for some distance under water in front of and on each
side of the tug. Now relieved of its ballast of water the boat has
risen to the surface. Its lid will open and fresh air will penetrate
it to every part. In all probability, if it remained submerged during
the day it rose at night and towed the -Ebba- on the surface.
But if the mechanical power of the tug is produced by electricity the
latter must be furnished by some manufactory where it is stored, and
the means of procuring the batteries is not to be found on Back Cup, I
suppose.
And then, why does the -Ebba- have recourse to this submarine towing
system? Why is she not provided with her own means of propulsion, like
other pleasure-boats?
These are things, however, upon which I have at present no leisure to
ruminate.
The lid of the tug opens and several men issue on to the platform.
They are the crew of this submarine boat, and Captain Spade has been
able to communicate with them and transmit his orders as to the
direction to be taken by means of electric signals connected with the
tug by a wire that passes along the stem of the schooner.
Engineer Serko approaches me and says, pointing to the boat:
"Get in."
"Get in!" I exclaim.
"Yes, in the tug, and look sharp about it."
As usual there is nothing for it but to obey. I hasten to comply with
the order and clamber over the side.
At the same time Thomas Roch appears on deck accompanied by one of the
crew. He appears to be very calm, and very indifferent too, and makes
no resistance when he is lifted over and lowered into the tug. When he
has been taken in, Count d'Artigas and Engineer Serko follow.
Captain Spade and the crew of the -Ebba- remain behind, with the
exception of four men who man the dinghy, which has been lowered. They
have hold of a long hawser, with which the schooner is probably to be
towed through the reef. Is there then a creek in the middle of the
rocks where the vessel is secure from the breakers? Is this the port
to which she belongs?
They row off with the hawser and make the end fast to a ring in the
reef. Then the crew on board haul on it and in five minutes the
schooner is so completely lost to sight among the rocks that even the
tip of her mast could not be seen from the sea.
Who in Bermuda imagines that a vessel is accustomed to lay up in
this secret creek? Who in America would have any idea that the rich
yachtsman so well known in all the eastern ports abides in the
solitude of Back Cup mountain?
Twenty minutes later the dinghy returns with the four men towards the
tug which was evidently waiting for them before proceeding--where?
They climb on board, the little boat is made fast astern, a movement
is felt, the screw revolves rapidly and the tug skims along the
surface to Back Cup, skirting the reefs to the south.
Three cable's lengths further on, another tortuous canal is seen that
leads to the island. Into this the tug enters. When it gets close
inshore, an order is given to two men who jump out and haul the dinghy
up on a narrow sandy beach out of the reach of wave or weed, and where
it will be easily get-at-able when wanted.
This done the sailors return to the tug and Engineer Serko signs to me
to go below.
A short iron ladder leads into a central cabin where various bales and
packages are stored, and for which no doubt there was not room in the
hold of the schooner. I am pushed into a side cabin, the door is shut
upon me, and here I am once more a prisoner in profound darkness.
I recognize the cabin the moment I enter it. It is the place in which
I spent so many long hours after our abduction from Healthful House,
and in which I was confined until well out at sea off Pamlico Sound.
It is evident that Thomas Roch has been placed in a similar
compartment.
A loud noise is heard, the banging of the lid as it closes, and the
tug begins to sink as the water is admitted to the tanks.
This movement is succeeded by another--a movement that impels the boat
through the water.
Three minutes later it stops, and I feel that we are rising to the
surface again.
Another noise made by the lid being raised.
The door of my cabin opens, and I rush out and clamber on to the
platform.
I look around and find that the tug has penetrated to the interior of
Back Cup mountain.
This is the mysterious retreat where Count d'Artigas lives with his
companions--out of the world, so to speak.
CHAPTER IX.
INSIDE BACK CUP.
The next morning I am able to make a first inspection of the vast
cavern of Back Cup. No one seeks to prevent me.
What a night I have passed! What strange visions I have seen! With
what impatience I waited for morning!
I was conducted to a grotto about a hundred paces from the edge of
the lake where the tug stopped. The grotto, twelve feet by ten, was
lighted by an incandescent lamp, and fitted with an entrance door that
was closed upon me.
I am not surprised that electricity is employed in lighting the
interior of the cavern, as it is also used in the submarine boat. But
where is it generated? Where does it come from? Is there a manufactory
installed somewhere or other in this vast crypt, with machinery,
dynamos and accumulators?
My cell is neatly furnished with a table on which provisions are
spread, a bunk with bedding, a basket chair, a wash-hand-stand with
toilet set, and a closet containing linen and various suits of
clothes. In a drawer of the table I find paper, ink and pens.
My dinner consists of fresh fish, preserved meat, bread of excellent
quality, ale and whisky; but I am so excited that I scarcely touch it.
Yet I feel that I ought to fortify myself and recover my calmness of
mind. I must and will solve the mystery surrounding the handful of men
who burrow in the bowels of this island.
So it is under the carapace of Back Cup that Count d'Artigas has
established himself! This cavity, the existence of which is not even
suspected, is his home when he is not sailing in the -Ebba- along the
coasts of the new world or the old. This is the unknown retreat he has
discovered, to which access is obtained by a submarine passage twelve
or fifteen feet below the surface of the ocean.
Why has he severed himself from the world? What has been his past?
If, as I suspect, this name of d'Artigas and this title of Count are
assumed, what motive has he for hiding his identity? Has he been
banished, is he an outcast of society that he should have selected
this place above all others? Am I not in the power of an evildoer
anxious to ensure impunity for his crimes and to defy the law by
seeking refuge in this undiscoverable burrow? I have the right of
supposing anything in the case of this suspicious foreigner, and I
exercise it.
Then the question to which I have never been able to suggest a
satisfactory answer once more surges into my mind. Why was Thomas Roch
abducted from Healthful House in the manner already fully described?
Does the Count d'Artigas hope to force from him the secret of his
fulgurator with a view to utilizing it for the defence of Back Cup in
case his retreat should by chance be discovered? Hardly. It would be
easy enough to starve the gang out of Back Cup, by preventing the tug
from supplying them with provisions. On the other hand, the schooner
could never break through the investing lines, and if she did her
description would be known in every port. In this event, of what
possible use would Thomas Roch's invention be to the Count d'Artigas
Decidedly, I cannot understand it!
About seven o'clock in the morning I jump out of bed. If I am a
prisoner in the cavern I am at least not imprisoned in my grotto cell.
The door yields when I turn the handle and push against it, and I walk
out.
Thirty yards in front of me is a rocky plane, forming a sort of quay
that extends to right and left. Several sailors of the -Ebba- are
engaged in landing bales and stores from the interior of the tug,
which lays alongside a little stone jetty.
A dim light to which my eyes soon grow accustomed envelops the cavern
and comes from a hole in the centre of the roof, through which the
blue sky can be seen.
"It is from that hole that the smoke which can be seen for such a
distance issues," I say to myself, and this discovery suggests a whole
series of reflections.
Back Cup, then, is not a volcano, as was supposed--as I supposed
myself. The flames that were seen a few years ago, and the columns
of smoke that still rise were and are produced artificially. The
detonations and rumblings that so alarmed the Bermudan fishers were
not caused by the internal workings of nature. These various phenomena
were fictitious. They manifested themselves at the mere will of the
owner of the island, who wanted to scare away the inhabitants who
resided on the coast. He succeeded, this Count d'Artigas, and remains
the sole and undisputed monarch of the mountain. By exploding
gunpowder, and burning seaweed swept up in inexhaustible quantities by
the ocean, he has been able to simulate a volcano upon the point of
eruption and effectually scare would-be settlers away!
The light becomes stronger as the sun rises higher, the daylight
streams through the fictitious crater, and I shall soon be able to
estimate the cavern's dimensions. This is how I calculate:
Exteriorly the island of Back Cup, which is as nearly as possible
circular, measures two hundred and fifty yards in circumference, and
presents an interior superficies of about six acres. The sides of the
mountain at its base vary in thickness from thirty to a hundred yards.
It therefore follows that this excavation practically occupies the
whole of that part of Back Cup island which appears above water. As to
the length of the submarine tunnel by which communication is obtained
with the outside, and through which the tug passed, I estimate that it
is fifty yards in length.
The size of the cavern can be judged from these approximate figures.
But vast as it is, I remember that there are caverns of larger
dimensions both in the old and new worlds. For instance in Carniole,
Northumberland, Derbyshire, Piedmont, the Balearics, Hungary
and California are larger grottoes than Back Cup, and those at
Han-sur-Lesse in Belgium, and the Mammoth Caves in Kentucky, are also
more extensive. The latter contain no fewer than two hundred and
twenty-six domes, seven rivers, eight cataracts, thirty two wells of
unknown depth, and an immense lake which extends over six or seven
leagues, the limit of which has never been reached by explorers.
I know these Kentucky grottoes, having visited them, as many thousands
of tourists have done. The principal one will serve as a comparison
to Back Cup. The roof of the former, like that of the latter, is
supported by pillars of various lengths, which give it the appearance
of a Gothic cathedral, with naves and aisles, though it lacks the
architectural regularity of a religious edifice. The only difference
is that whereas the roof of the Kentucky grotto is over four hundred
feet high, that of Back Cup is not above two hundred and twenty at
that part of it where the round hole through which issue the smoke and
flames is situated.
Another peculiarity, and a very important one, that requires to be
pointed out, is that whereas the majority of the grottoes referred to
are easily accessible, and were therefore bound to be discovered some
time or other, the same remark does not apply to Back Cup. Although it
is marked on the map as an island forming part of the Bermuda group,
how could any one imagine that it is hollow, that its rocky sides
are only the walls of an enormous cavern? In order to make such a
discovery it would be necessary to get inside, and to get inside a
submarine apparatus similar to that of the Count d'Artigas would be
necessary.
In my opinion this strange yachtsman's discovery of the tunnel by
which he has been able to found this disquieting colony of Back Cup
must have been due to pure chance.
Now I turn my attention to the lake and observe that it is a
very small one, measuring not more than four hundred yards in
circumference. It is, properly speaking, a lagoon, the rocky sides of
which are perpendicular. It is large enough for the tug to work about
in it, and holds enough water too, for it must be one hundred and
twenty-five feet deep.
It goes without saying that this crypt, given its position and
structure, belongs to the category of those which are due to the
encroachments of the sea. It is at once of Neptunian and Plutonian
origin, like the grottoes of Crozon and Morgate in the bay of
Douarnenez in France, of Bonifacio on the Corsican coast, Thorgatten
in Norway, the height of which is estimated at over three hundred
feet, the catavaults of Greece, the grottoes of Gibraltar in Spain,
and Tourana in Cochin China, whose carapace indicates that they are
all the product of this dual geological labor.
The islet of Back Cup is in great part formed of calcareous rocks,
which slope upwards gently from the lagoon towards the sides and are
separated from each other by narrow beaches of fine sand. Thick layers
of seaweed that have been swept through the tunnel by the tide and
thrown up around the lake have been piled into heaps, some of which
are dry and some still wet, but all of which exhale the strong odor of
the briny ocean. This, however, is not the only combustible employed
by the inhabitants of Back Cup, for I see an enormous store of coal
that must have been brought by the schooner and the tug. But it is the
incineration of masses of dried seaweed that causes the smoke vomited
forth by the crater of the mountain.
Continuing my walk I perceive on the northern side of the lagoon the
habitations of this colony of troglodytes--do they not merit the
appellation? This part of the cavern, which is known as the Beehive,
fully justifies its name, for it is honeycombed by cells excavated
in the limestone rock and in which these human bees--or perhaps they
should rather be called wasps--reside.
The lay of the cavern to the east is very different. Here hundreds of
pillars of all shapes rise to the dome, and form a veritable forest of
stone trees through the sinuous avenues of which one can thread one's
way to the extreme limit of the place.
By counting the cells of the Beehive I calculate that Count d'Artigas'
companions number from eighty to one hundred.
As my eye wanders over the place I notice that the Count is standing
in front of one of the cells, which is isolated from the others, and
talking to Engineer Serko and Captain Spade. After a while they stroll
down to the jetty alongside which the tug is lying.
A dozen men have been emptying the merchandise out of the tug and
transporting the goods in boats to the other side, where great cellars
have been excavated in the rocks and form the storehouses of the band.
The orifice of the tunnel is not visible in the waters of the lagoon,
and I remember that when I was brought here I felt the tug sink
several feet before it entered. In this respect therefore Back Cup
does not resemble either the grottoes of Staffa or Morgate, entrance
to which is always open, even at high tide. There may be another
passage communicating with the coast, either natural or artificial,
and this I shall have to make my business to find out.
The island well merits its name of Back Cup. It is indeed a gigantic
cup turned upside down, not only to outward appearance, but inwardly,
too, though people are ignorant of the fact.
I have already remarked that the Beehive is situated to the north of
the lagoon, that is to say to the left on entering by the tunnel. On
the opposite side are the storerooms filled with provisions of all
kinds, bales of merchandise, barrels of wine, beer, and spirits and
various packets bearing different marks and labels that show that they
came from all parts of the world. One would think that the cargoes of
a score of ships had been landed here.
A little farther on is a large wooden shed the nature of which is
easily distinguishable. From a pole above it a network of thick copper
wires extends which conducts the current to the powerful electric
lights suspended from the roof or dome, and to the incandescent lamps
in each of the cells of the hive. A large number of lamps are also
installed among the stone pillars and light up the avenues to their
extremities.
"Shall I be permitted to roam about wherever I please?" I ask myself.
I hope so. I cannot for the life of me see why the Count d'Artigas
should prohibit me from doing so, for I cannot get farther than the
surrounding walls of his mysterious domain. I question whether there
is any other issue than the tunnel, and how on earth could I get
through that?
Besides, admitting that I am able to get through it, I cannot get off
the island. My disappearance would be soon noticed, and the tug would
take out a dozen men who would explore every nook and cranny. I should
inevitably be recaptured, brought back to the Beehive, and deprived of
my liberty for good.
I must therefore give up all idea of making my escape, unless I can
see that it has some chance of being successful, and if ever an
opportunity does present itself I shall not be slow to take advantage
of it.
On strolling round by the rows of cells I am able to observe a few of
these companions of the Count d'Artigas who are content to pass their
monotonous existence in the depths of Back Cup. As I said before,
calculating from the number of cells in the Beehive, there must be
between eighty and a hundred of them.
They pay no attention whatever to me as I pass, and on examining them
closely it seems to me that they must have been recruited from every
country. I do not distinguish any community of origin among them, not
even a similarity by which they might be classed as North Americans,
Europeans or Asiatics. The color of their skin shades from white to
yellow and black--the black peculiar to Australia rather than to
Africa. To sum up, they appear for the most part to pertain to the
Malay races. I may add that the Count d'Artigas certainly belongs
to that particular race which peoples the Dutch isles in the West
Pacific, while Engineer Serko must be Levantine and Captain Spade of
Italian origin.
But if the inhabitants of Back Cup are not bound to each other by
ties of race, they certainly are by instinct and inclination. What
forbidding, savage-looking faces they have, to be sure! They are men
of violent character who have probably never placed any restraint upon
their passions, nor hesitated at anything, and it occurs to me that
in all likelihood they have sought refuge in this cavern, where they
fancy they can continue to defy the law with impunity, after a
long series of crimes--robbery, murder, arson, and excesses of all
descriptions committed together. In this case Back Cup is nothing but
a lair of pirates, the Count d'Artigas is the leader of the band and
Serko and Spade are his lieutenants.
I cannot get this idea out of my head, and the more I consider the
more convinced I am that I am right, especially as everything I see
during my stroll about the cavern seems to confirm my opinion.
However this may be, and whatever may be the circumstances that have
brought them together in this place, Count d'Artigas' companions
appear to accept his all-powerful domination without question. On the
other hand, if he keeps them under his iron heel by enforcing the
severest discipline, certain advantages, some compensation,
must accrue from the servitude to which they bow. What can this
compensation be?
Having turned that part of the bank under which the tunnel passes, I
find myself on the opposite side of the lagoon, where are situated the
storerooms containing the merchandise brought by the -Ebba- on each
trip, and which contain a great quantity of bales.
Beyond is the manufactory of electric energy. I gaze in at the windows
as I pass and notice that it contains machines of the latest invention
and highest attained perfection, which take up little space. Not one
steam engine, with its more or less complicated mechanism and need
of fuel, is to be seen in the place. As I had surmised, piles of
extraordinary power supply the current to the lamps in the cavern,
as well as to the dynamos of the tug. No doubt the current is also
utilized for domestic purposes, such as warming the Beehive and
cooking food, I can see that in a neighboring cavity it is applied to
the alembics used to produce fresh water. At any rate the colonists
of Back Cup are not reduced to catching the rain water that falls so
abundantly upon the exterior of the mountain.
A few paces from the electric power house is a large cistern that,
save in the matter of proportions, is the counterpart of those I
visited in Bermuda. In the latter place the cisterns have to supply
the needs of over ten thousand people, this one of a hundred--what?
I am not sure yet what to call them. That their chief had serious
reasons for choosing the bowels of this island for his abiding place
is obvious. But what were those reasons? I can understand monks
shutting themselves behind their monastery walls with the intention of
separating themselves from the world, but these subjects of the Count
d'Artigas have nothing of the monk about them, and would not be
mistaken for such by the most simple-minded of mortals.
I continue my way through the pillars to the extremity of the cavern.
No one has sought to stop me, no one has spoken to me, not a soul
apparently has taken the very slightest notice of me. This portion of
Back Cup is extremely curious, and comparable to the most marvellous
of the grottoes of Kentucky or the Balearics. I need hardly say that
nowhere is the labor of man apparent. All this is the handiwork of
nature, and it is not without wonder, mingled with awe, that I reflect
upon the telluric forces capable of engendering such prodigious
substructions. The daylight from the crater in the centre only strikes
this part of the cavern obliquely, so that it is very imperfectly
lighted, but at night, when illuminated by the electric lamps, its
aspect must be positively fantastic.
I have examined the walls everywhere with minute attention, but have
been unable to discover any means of communicating with the outside.
Quite a colony of birds--gulls, sea-swallows and other feathery
denizens of the Bermudan beaches have made their home in the cavern.
They have apparently never been hunted, for they are in no way
disturbed by the presence of man.
But besides sea-birds, which are free to come and go as they please
by the orifice in the dome, there is a whole farmyard of domestic
poultry, and cows and pigs. The food supply is therefore no less
assured than it is varied, when the fish of all kinds that abound in
the lagoon and around the island are taken into consideration.
Moreover, a mere glance at the colonists of Back Cup amply suffices
to show that they are not accustomed to fare scantily. They are all
vigorous, robust seafaring men, weatherbeaten and seasoned in the
burning beat of tropical latitudes, whose rich blood is surcharged
with oxygen by the breezes of the ocean. There is not a youth nor an
old man among them. They are all in their prime, their ages ranging
from thirty to fifty.
But why do they submit to such an existence? Do they never leave their
rocky retreat?
Perhaps I shall find out ere I am much older.
CHAPTER X.
KER KARRAJE.
The cell in which I reside is about a hundred paces from the
habitation of the Count d'Artigas, which is one of the end ones of
this row of the Beehive. If I am not to share it with Thomas Roch, I
presume the latter's cell is not far off, for in order that Warder
Gaydon may continue to care for the ex-patient of Healthful House,
their respective apartments will have to be contiguous. However, I
suppose I shall soon be enlightened on this point.
Captain Spade and Engineer Serko reside separately in proximity to
D'Artigas' mansion.
Mansion? Yes, why not dignify it with the title since this habitation
has been arranged with a certain art? Skillful hands have carved an
ornamental façade in the rock. A large door affords access to it.
Colored glass windows in wooden frames let into the limestone
walls admit the light. The interior comprises several chambers, a
dining-room and a drawing-room lighted by a stained-glass window, the
whole being perfectly ventilated. The furniture is of various styles
and shapes and of French, English and American make. The kitchen,
larder, etc., are in adjoining cells in rear of the Beehive.
In the afternoon, just as I issue from my cell with the firm intention
of "obtaining an audience" of the Count d'Artigas, I catch sight of
him coming along the shore of the lagoon towards the hive. Either he
does not see me, or wishes to avoid me, for he quickens his steps and
I am unable to catch him.
"Well, he will have to receive me, anyhow!" I mutter to myself.
I hurry up to the door through which he has just disappeared and which
has closed behind him.
It is guarded by a gigantic, dark-skinned Malay, who orders me away in
no amiable tone of voice.
I decline to comply with his injunction, and repeat to him twice the
following request in my very best English:
"Tell the Count d'Artigas that I desire to be received immediately."
I might just as well have addressed myself to the surrounding rock.
This savage, no doubt, does not understand a word of English, for he
scowls at me and orders me away again with a menacing cry.
I have a good mind to attempt to force the door and shout so that the
Count d'Artigas cannot fail to hear me, but in all probability I shall
only succeed in rousing the wrath of the Malay, who appears to be
endowed with herculean strength. I therefore judge discretion to be
the better part of valor, and put off the explanation that is owing
to me--and which, sooner or later, I will have--to a more propitious
occasion.
I meander off in front of the Beehive towards the east, and my
thoughts revert to Thomas Roch. I am surprised that I have not seen
him yet. Can he be in the throes of a fresh paroxysm?
This hypothesis is hardly admissible, for if the Count d'Artigas is to
be believed, he would in this event have summoned me to attend to the
inventor.
A little farther on I encounter Engineer Serko.
With his inviting manner and usual good-humor this ironical individual
smiles when he perceives me, and does not seek to avoid me. If he
knew I was a colleague, an engineer--providing he himself really is
one--perhaps he might receive me with more cordiality than I have yet
encountered, but I am not going to be such a fool as to tell him who
and what I am.
He stops, with laughing eyes and mocking mouth, and accompanies a
"Good day, how do you do?" with a gracious gesture of salutation.
I respond coldly to his politeness--a fact which he affects not to
notice.
"May Saint Jonathan protect you, Mr. Gaydon!" he continues in his
clear, ringing voice. "You are not, I presume, disposed to regret
the fortunate circumstance by which you were permitted to visit this
surpassingly marvellous cavern--and it really is one of the finest,
although the least known on this spheroid."
This word of a scientific language used in conversation with a simple
hospital attendant surprises me, I admit, and I merely reply:
"I should have no reason to complain, Mr. Serko, if, after having had
the pleasure of visiting this cavern, I were at liberty to quit it."
"What! Already thinking of leaving us, Mr. Gaydon,--of returning to
your dismal pavilion at Healthful House? Why, you have scarcely had
time to explore our magnificent domain, or to admire the incomparable
beauty with which nature has endowed it."
"What I have seen suffices," I answer; "and should you perchance be
talking seriously I will assure you seriously that I do not want to
see any more of it."
"Come, now, Mr. Gaydon, permit me to point out that you have not yet
had the opportunity of appreciating the advantages of an existence
passed in such unrivalled surroundings. It is a quiet life, exempt
from care, with an assured future, material conditions such as are not
to be met with anywhere, an even climate and no more to fear from the
tempests which desolate the coasts in this part of the Atlantic than
from the cold of winter, or the heat of summer. This temperate and
salubrious atmosphere is scarcely affected by changes of season. Here
we have no need to apprehend the wrath of either Pluto or Neptune."
"Sir," I reply, "it is impossible that this climate can suit you, that
you can appreciate living in this grotto of----"
I was on the point of pronouncing the name of Back Cup. Fortunately I
restrained myself in time. What would happen if they suspected that
I am aware of the name of their island, and, consequently, of its
position at the extremity of the Bermuda group?
"However," I continue, "if this climate does not suit me, I have, I
presume, the right to make a change."
"The right, of course."
"I understand from your remark that I shall be furnished with the
means of returning to America when I want to go?"
"I have no reason for opposing your desires, Mr. Gaydon," Engineer
Serko replies, "and I regard your presumption as a very natural
one. Observe, however, that we live here in a noble and superb
independence, that we acknowledge the authority of no foreign power,
that we are subject to no outside authority, that we are the
colonists of no state, either of the old or new world. This is worth
consideration by whomsoever has a sense of pride and independence.
Besides, what memories are evoked in a cultivated mind by these
grottoes which seem to have been chiselled by the hands of the gods
and in which they were wont to render their oracles by the mouth of
Trophonius."
Decidedly, Engineer Serko is fond of citing mythology! Trophonius
after Pluto and Neptune? Does he imagine that Warder Gaydon ever heard
of Trophonius? It is clear this mocker continues to mock, and I have
to exercise the greatest patience in order not to reply in the same
tone.
"A moment ago," I continue shortly, "I wanted to enter yon habitation,
which, if I mistake not, is that of the Count d'Artigas, but I was
prevented."
"By whom, Mr. Gaydon?"
"By a man in the Count's employ."
"He probably had received strict orders about it."
"Possibly, yet whether he likes it or not, Count d'Artigas will have
to see me and listen to me."
"Maybe it would be difficult, and even impossible to get him to do
so," says Engineer Serko with a smile.
"Why so?"
"Because there is no such person as Count d'Artigas here."
"You are jesting, I presume; I have just seen him."
"It was not the Count d'Artigas whom you saw, Mr. Gaydon."
"Who was it then, may I ask?"
"The pirate Ker Karraje."
This name was thrown at me in a hard tone of voice, and Engineer Serko
walked off before I had presence of mind enough to detain him.
The pirate Ker Karraje!
Yes, this name is a revelation to me. I know it well, and what
memories it evokes! It by itself explains what has hitherto been
inexplicable to me. I now know into whose hands I have fallen.
With what I already knew, with what I have learned since my arrival in
Back Cup from Engineer Serko, this is what I am able to tell about the
past and present of Ker Karraje:
Eight or nine years ago, the West Pacific was infested by pirates
who acted with the greatest audacity. A band of criminals of various
origins, composed of escaped convicts, military and naval deserters,
etc., operated with incredible audacity under the orders of a
redoubtable chief. The nucleus of the band had been formed by men
pertaining to the scum of Europe who had been attracted to New South
Wales, in Australia, by the discovery of gold there. Among these
gold-diggers, were Captain Spade and Engineer Serko, two outcasts,
whom a certain community of ideas and character soon bound together in
close friendship.
These intelligent, well educated, resolute men would most assuredly
have succeeded in any career. But being without conscience or
scruples, and determined to get rich at no matter what cost, deriving
from gambling and speculation what they might have earned by patient
and steady work, they engaged in all sorts of impossible adventures.
One day they were rich, the next day poor, like most of the
questionable individuals who had hurried to the gold-fields in search
of fortune.
Among the diggers in New South Wales was a man of incomparable
audacity, one of those men who stick at nothing--not even at
crime--and whose influence upon bad and violent natures is
irresistible.
That man's name was Ker Karraje.
The origin or nationality or antecedents of this pirate were never
established by the investigations ordered in regard to him. He eluded
all pursuit, and his name--or at least the name he gave himself--was
known all over the world, and inspired horror and terror everywhere,
as being that of a legendary personage, a bogey, invisible and
unseizable.
I have now reason to believe that Ker Karraje is a Malay. However, it
is of little consequence, after all. What is certain is that he was
with reason regarded as a formidable and dangerous villain who had
many crimes, committed in distant seas, to answer for.
After spending a few years on the Australian goldfields, where he made
the acquaintance of Engineer Serko and Captain Spade, Ker Karraje
managed to seize a ship in the port of Melbourne, in the province
of Victoria. He was joined by about thirty rascals whose number was
speedily tripled. In that part of the Pacific Ocean where piracy is
still carried on with great facility, and I may say, profit, the
number of ships pillaged, crews massacred, and raids committed in
certain western islands which the colonists were unable to defend,
cannot be estimated.
Although the whereabouts of Ker Karraje's vessel, commanded by Captain
Spade, was several times made known to the authorities, all attempts
to capture it proved futile. The marauder would disappear among the
innumerable islands of which he knew every cove and creek, and it was
impossible to come across him.
He maintained a perfect reign of terror. England, France, Germany,
Russia and America vainly dispatched warships in pursuit of the
phantom vessel which disappeared, no one knew whither, after robberies
and murders that could not be prevented or punished had been committed
by her crew.
One day this series of crimes came to an end, and no more was heard of
Ker Karraje. Had he abandoned the Pacific for other seas? Would this
pirate break out in a fresh place? It was argued that notwithstanding
what they must have spent in orgies and debauchery the pirate and his
companions must still have an enormous amount of wealth hidden in some
place known only to themselves, and that they were enjoying their
ill-gotten gains.
Where had the band hidden themselves since they had ceased their
depredations? This was a question which everybody asked and none was
able to answer. All attempts to run them to earth were vain. Terror
and uneasiness having ceased with the danger, Ker Karraje's exploits
soon began to be forgotten, even in the West Pacific.
This is what had happened--and what will never be known unless I
succeed in escaping from Back Cup:
These wretches were, as a matter of fact, possessed of great wealth
when they abandoned the Southern Seas. Having destroyed their ship
they dispersed in different directions after having arranged to meet
on the American continent.
Engineer Serko, who was well versed in his profession, and was a
clever mechanic to boot, and who had made a special study of submarine
craft, proposed to Ker Karraje that they should construct one of
these boats in order to continue their criminal exploits with greater
secrecy and effectiveness.
Ker Karraje at once saw the practical nature of the proposition, and
as they had no lack of money the idea was soon carried out.
While the so-called Count d'Artigas ordered the construction of the
schooner -Ebba- at the shipyards of Gotteborg, in Sweden, he gave to
the Cramps of Philadelphia, in America, the plans of a submarine boat
whose construction excited no suspicion. Besides, as will be seen, it
soon disappeared and was never heard of again.
The boat was constructed from a model and under the personal
supervision of Engineer Serko, and fitted with all the known
appliances of nautical science. The screw was worked with electric
piles of recent invention which imparted enormous propulsive power to
the motor.
It goes without saying that no one imagined that Count d'Artigas was
none other than Ker Karraje, the former pirate of the Pacific, and
that Engineer Serko was the most formidable and resolute of his
accomplices. The former was regarded as a foreigner of noble birth and
great fortune, who for several months had been frequenting the ports
of the United States, the -Ebba- having been launched long before the
tug was ready.
Work upon the latter occupied fully eighteen months, and when the boat
was finished it excited the admiration of all those interested in
these engines of submarine navigation. By its external form, its
interior arrangements, its air-supply system, the rapidity with which
it could be immersed, the facility with which it could be handled and
controlled, and its extraordinary speed, it was conceded to be far
superior to the -Goubet,- the -Gymnote-, the -Zede-, and other similar
boats which had made great strides towards perfection.
After several extremely successful experiments a public test was given
in the open sea, four miles off Charleston, in presence of several
American and foreign warships, merchant vessels, and pleasure boats
invited for the occasion.
Of course the -Ebba- was among them, with the Count d'Artigas,
Engineer Serko, and Captain Spade on board, and the old crew as well,
save half a dozen men who manned the submarine machine, which was
worked by a mechanical engineer named Gibson, a bold and very clever
Englishman.
The programme of this definite experiment comprised various evolutions
on the surface of the water, which were to be followed by an immersion
to last several hours, the boat being ordered not to rise again until
a certain buoy stationed many miles out at sea had been attained.
At the appointed time the lid was closed and the boat at first
manoeuvred on the surface. Her speed and the ease with which
she turned and twisted were loudly praised by all the technical
spectators.
Then at a signal given on board the -Ebba- the tug sank slowly out
of sight, and several vessels started for the buoy where she was to
reappear.
Three hours went by, but there was no sign of the boat.
No one could suppose that in accordance with instructions received
from the Count d'Artigas and Engineer Serko this submarine machine,
which was destined to act as the invisible tug of the schooner, would
not emerge till it had gone several miles beyond the rendezvous.
Therefore, with the exception of those who were in the secret, no one
entertained any doubt that the boat and all inside her had perished
as the result of an accident either to her metallic covering or
machinery.
On board the -Ebba- consternation was admirably simulated. On board
the other vessels it was real. Drags were used and divers sent down
along the course the boat was supposed to have taken, but it could
not be found, and it was agreed that it had been swallowed up in the
depths of the Atlantic.
Two days later the Count d'Artigas put to sea again, and in
forty-eight hours came up with the tug at the place appointed.
This is how Ker Karraje became possessed of the admirable vessel
which was to perform the double function of towing the schooner and
attacking ships. With this terrible engine of destruction, whose very
existence was ignored, the Count d'Artigas was able to recommence his
career of piracy with security and impunity.
These details I have learned from Engineer Serko, who is very proud of
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