THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND
by Jules Verne
1874
PART 1--DROPPED FROM THE CLOUDS
Chapter 1
“Are we rising again?” “No. On the contrary.” “Are we descending?”
“Worse than that, captain! we are falling!” “For Heaven’s sake heave out
the ballast!” “There! the last sack is empty!” “Does the balloon rise?”
“No!” “I hear a noise like the dashing of waves. The sea is below the
car! It cannot be more than 500 feet from us!” “Overboard with every
weight! ... everything!”
Such were the loud and startling words which resounded through the air,
above the vast watery desert of the Pacific, about four o’clock in the
evening of the 23rd of March, 1865.
Few can possibly have forgotten the terrible storm from the northeast,
in the middle of the equinox of that year. The tempest raged without
intermission from the 18th to the 26th of March. Its ravages were
terrible in America, Europe, and Asia, covering a distance of eighteen
hundred miles, and extending obliquely to the equator from the
thirty-fifth north parallel to the fortieth south parallel. Towns were
overthrown, forests uprooted, coasts devastated by the mountains of
water which were precipitated on them, vessels cast on the shore, which
the published accounts numbered by hundreds, whole districts leveled
by waterspouts which destroyed everything they passed over, several
thousand people crushed on land or drowned at sea; such were the traces
of its fury, left by this devastating tempest. It surpassed in disasters
those which so frightfully ravaged Havana and Guadalupe, one on the 25th
of October, 1810, the other on the 26th of July, 1825.
But while so many catastrophes were taking place on land and at sea, a
drama not less exciting was being enacted in the agitated air.
In fact, a balloon, as a ball might be carried on the summit of a
waterspout, had been taken into the circling movement of a column of
air and had traversed space at the rate of ninety miles an hour, turning
round and round as if seized by some aerial maelstrom.
Beneath the lower point of the balloon swung a car, containing five
passengers, scarcely visible in the midst of the thick vapor mingled
with spray which hung over the surface of the ocean.
Whence, it may be asked, had come that plaything of the tempest? From
what part of the world did it rise? It surely could not have started
during the storm. But the storm had raged five days already, and the
first symptoms were manifested on the 18th. It cannot be doubted that
the balloon came from a great distance, for it could not have traveled
less than two thousand miles in twenty-four hours.
At any rate the passengers, destitute of all marks for their guidance,
could not have possessed the means of reckoning the route traversed
since their departure. It was a remarkable fact that, although in the
very midst of the furious tempest, they did not suffer from it. They
were thrown about and whirled round and round without feeling the
rotation in the slightest degree, or being sensible that they were
removed from a horizontal position.
Their eyes could not pierce through the thick mist which had gathered
beneath the car. Dark vapor was all around them. Such was the density
of the atmosphere that they could not be certain whether it was day or
night. No reflection of light, no sound from inhabited land, no roaring
of the ocean could have reached them, through the obscurity, while
suspended in those elevated zones. Their rapid descent alone had
informed them of the dangers which they ran from the waves. However,
the balloon, lightened of heavy articles, such as ammunition, arms, and
provisions, had risen into the higher layers of the atmosphere, to a
height of 4,500 feet. The voyagers, after having discovered that the sea
extended beneath them, and thinking the dangers above less dreadful than
those below, did not hesitate to throw overboard even their most useful
articles, while they endeavored to lose no more of that fluid, the life
of their enterprise, which sustained them above the abyss.
The night passed in the midst of alarms which would have been death to
less energetic souls. Again the day appeared and with it the tempest
began to moderate. From the beginning of that day, the 24th of March,
it showed symptoms of abating. At dawn, some of the lighter clouds had
risen into the more lofty regions of the air. In a few hours the wind
had changed from a hurricane to a fresh breeze, that is to say, the rate
of the transit of the atmospheric layers was diminished by half. It
was still what sailors call “a close-reefed topsail breeze,” but the
commotion in the elements had none the less considerably diminished.
Towards eleven o’clock, the lower region of the air was sensibly
clearer. The atmosphere threw off that chilly dampness which is felt
after the passage of a great meteor. The storm did not seem to have gone
farther to the west. It appeared to have exhausted itself. Could it have
passed away in electric sheets, as is sometimes the case with regard to
the typhoons of the Indian Ocean?
But at the same time, it was also evident that the balloon was again
slowly descending with a regular movement. It appeared as if it were,
little by little, collapsing, and that its case was lengthening and
extending, passing from a spherical to an oval form. Towards midday the
balloon was hovering above the sea at a height of only 2,000 feet. It
contained 50,000 cubic feet of gas, and, thanks to its capacity, it
could maintain itself a long time in the air, although it should reach a
great altitude or might be thrown into a horizontal position.
Perceiving their danger, the passengers cast away the last articles
which still weighed down the car, the few provisions they had kept,
everything, even to their pocket-knives, and one of them, having hoisted
himself on to the circles which united the cords of the net, tried to
secure more firmly the lower point of the balloon.
It was, however, evident to the voyagers that the gas was failing, and
that the balloon could no longer be sustained in the higher regions.
They must infallibly perish!
There was not a continent, nor even an island, visible beneath them.
The watery expanse did not present a single speck of land, not a solid
surface upon which their anchor could hold.
It was the open sea, whose waves were still dashing with tremendous
violence! It was the ocean, without any visible limits, even for those
whose gaze, from their commanding position, extended over a radius of
forty miles. The vast liquid plain, lashed without mercy by the storm,
appeared as if covered with herds of furious chargers, whose white and
disheveled crests were streaming in the wind. No land was in sight, not
a solitary ship could be seen. It was necessary at any cost to arrest
their downward course, and to prevent the balloon from being engulfed in
the waves. The voyagers directed all their energies to this urgent work.
But, notwithstanding their efforts, the balloon still fell, and at the
same time shifted with the greatest rapidity, following the direction of
the wind, that is to say, from the northeast to the southwest.
Frightful indeed was the situation of these unfortunate men. They were
evidently no longer masters of the machine. All their attempts were
useless. The case of the balloon collapsed more and more. The gas
escaped without any possibility of retaining it. Their descent was
visibly accelerated, and soon after midday the car hung within 600 feet
of the ocean.
It was impossible to prevent the escape of gas, which rushed through a
large rent in the silk. By lightening the car of all the articles which
it contained, the passengers had been able to prolong their suspension
in the air for a few hours. But the inevitable catastrophe could only
be retarded, and if land did not appear before night, voyagers, car, and
balloon must to a certainty vanish beneath the waves.
They now resorted to the only remaining expedient. They were truly
dauntless men, who knew how to look death in the face. Not a single
murmur escaped from their lips. They were determined to struggle to the
last minute, to do anything to retard their fall. The car was only a
sort of willow basket, unable to float, and there was not the slightest
possibility of maintaining it on the surface of the sea.
Two more hours passed and the balloon was scarcely 400 feet above the
water.
At that moment a loud voice, the voice of a man whose heart was
inaccessible to fear, was heard. To this voice responded others not
less determined. “Is everything thrown out?” “No, here are still 2,000
dollars in gold.” A heavy bag immediately plunged into the sea. “Does
the balloon rise?” “A little, but it will not be long before it falls
again.” “What still remains to be thrown out?” “Nothing.” “Yes! the
car!” “Let us catch hold of the net, and into the sea with the car.”
This was, in fact, the last and only mode of lightening the balloon.
The ropes which held the car were cut, and the balloon, after its fall,
mounted 2,000 feet. The five voyagers had hoisted themselves into the
net, and clung to the meshes, gazing at the abyss.
The delicate sensibility of balloons is well known. It is sufficient to
throw out the lightest article to produce a difference in its vertical
position. The apparatus in the air is like a balance of mathematical
precision. It can be thus easily understood that when it is lightened of
any considerable weight its movement will be impetuous and sudden. So
it happened on this occasion. But after being suspended for an instant
aloft, the balloon began to redescend, the gas escaping by the rent
which it was impossible to repair.
The men had done all that men could do. No human efforts could save them
now.
They must trust to the mercy of Him who rules the elements.
At four o’clock the balloon was only 500 feet above the surface of the
water.
A loud barking was heard. A dog accompanied the voyagers, and was held
pressed close to his master in the meshes of the net.
“Top has seen something,” cried one of the men. Then immediately a loud
voice shouted,--
“Land! land!” The balloon, which the wind still drove towards the
southwest, had since daybreak gone a considerable distance, which might
be reckoned by hundreds of miles, and a tolerably high land had, in
fact, appeared in that direction. But this land was still thirty miles
off. It would not take less than an hour to get to it, and then there
was the chance of falling to leeward.
An hour! Might not the balloon before that be emptied of all the fluid
it yet retained?
Such was the terrible question! The voyagers could distinctly see that
solid spot which they must reach at any cost. They were ignorant of what
it was, whether an island or a continent, for they did not know to what
part of the world the hurricane had driven them. But they must reach
this land, whether inhabited or desolate, whether hospitable or not.
It was evident that the balloon could no longer support itself! Several
times already had the crests of the enormous billows licked the bottom
of the net, making it still heavier, and the balloon only half rose,
like a bird with a wounded wing. Half an hour later the land was not
more than a mile off, but the balloon, exhausted, flabby, hanging in
great folds, had gas in its upper part alone. The voyagers, clinging to
the net, were still too heavy for it, and soon, half plunged into the
sea, they were beaten by the furious waves. The balloon-case bulged out
again, and the wind, taking it, drove it along like a vessel. Might it
not possibly thus reach the land?
But, when only two fathoms off, terrible cries resounded from four pairs
of lungs at once. The balloon, which had appeared as if it would never
again rise, suddenly made an unexpected bound, after having been struck
by a tremendous sea. As if it had been at that instant relieved of a new
part of its weight, it mounted to a height of 1,500 feet, and here it
met a current of wind, which instead of taking it directly to the coast,
carried it in a nearly parallel direction.
At last, two minutes later, it reproached obliquely, and finally fell on
a sandy beach, out of the reach of the waves.
The voyagers, aiding each other, managed to disengage themselves from
the meshes of the net. The balloon, relieved of their weight, was taken
by the wind, and like a wounded bird which revives for an instant,
disappeared into space.
But the car had contained five passengers, with a dog, and the balloon
only left four on the shore.
The missing person had evidently been swept off by the sea, which had
just struck the net, and it was owing to this circumstance that the
lightened balloon rose the last time, and then soon after reached the
land. Scarcely had the four castaways set foot on firm ground, than they
all, thinking of the absent one, simultaneously exclaimed, “Perhaps he
will try to swim to land! Let us save him! let us save him!”
Chapter 2
Those whom the hurricane had just thrown on this coast were neither
aeronauts by profession nor amateurs. They were prisoners of war whose
boldness had induced them to escape in this extraordinary manner.
A hundred times they had almost perished! A hundred times had they
almost fallen from their torn balloon into the depths of the ocean. But
Heaven had reserved them for a strange destiny, and after having, on the
20th of March, escaped from Richmond, besieged by the troops of General
Ulysses Grant, they found themselves seven thousand miles from the
capital of Virginia, which was the principal stronghold of the South,
during the terrible War of Secession. Their aerial voyage had lasted
five days.
The curious circumstances which led to the escape of the prisoners were
as follows:
That same year, in the month of February, 1865, in one of the coups
de main by which General Grant attempted, though in vain, to possess
himself of Richmond, several of his officers fell into the power of the
enemy and were detained in the town. One of the most distinguished was
Captain Cyrus Harding. He was a native of Massachusetts, a first-class
engineer, to whom the government had confided, during the war, the
direction of the railways, which were so important at that time. A
true Northerner, thin, bony, lean, about forty-five years of age; his
close-cut hair and his beard, of which he only kept a thick mustache,
were already getting gray. He had one-of those finely-developed heads
which appear made to be struck on a medal, piercing eyes, a serious
mouth, the physiognomy of a clever man of the military school. He was
one of those engineers who began by handling the hammer and pickaxe,
like generals who first act as common soldiers. Besides mental power, he
also possessed great manual dexterity. His muscles exhibited remarkable
proofs of tenacity. A man of action as well as a man of thought, all he
did was without effort to one of his vigorous and sanguine temperament.
Learned, clear-headed, and practical, he fulfilled in all
emergencies those three conditions which united ought to insure human
success--activity of mind and body, impetuous wishes, and powerful will.
He might have taken for his motto that of William of Orange in the 17th
century: “I can undertake and persevere even without hope of success.”
Cyrus Harding was courage personified. He had been in all the battles of
that war. After having begun as a volunteer at Illinois, under Ulysses
Grant, he fought at Paducah, Belmont, Pittsburg Landing, at the siege of
Corinth, Port Gibson, Black River, Chattanooga, the Wilderness, on the
Potomac, everywhere and valiantly, a soldier worthy of the general who
said, “I never count my dead!” And hundreds of times Captain Harding had
almost been among those who were not counted by the terrible Grant; but
in these combats where he never spared himself, fortune favored him till
the moment when he was wounded and taken prisoner on the field of battle
near Richmond. At the same time and on the same day another important
personage fell into the hands of the Southerners. This was no other than
Gideon Spilett, a reporter for the New York Herald, who had been ordered
to follow the changes of the war in the midst of the Northern armies.
Gideon Spilett was one of that race of indomitable English or American
chroniclers, like Stanley and others, who stop at nothing to obtain
exact information, and transmit it to their journal in the shortest
possible time. The newspapers of the Union, such as the New York Herald,
are genuine powers, and their reporters are men to be reckoned with.
Gideon Spilett ranked among the first of those reporters: a man of great
merit, energetic, prompt and ready for anything, full of ideas, having
traveled over the whole world, soldier and artist, enthusiastic in
council, resolute in action, caring neither for trouble, fatigue, nor
danger, when in pursuit of information, for himself first, and then for
his journal, a perfect treasury of knowledge on all sorts of curious
subjects, of the unpublished, of the unknown, and of the impossible. He
was one of those intrepid observers who write under fire, “reporting”
among bullets, and to whom every danger is welcome.
He also had been in all the battles, in the first rank, revolver in one
hand, note-book in the other; grape-shot never made his pencil tremble.
He did not fatigue the wires with incessant telegrams, like those who
speak when they have nothing to say, but each of his notes, short,
decisive, and clear, threw light on some important point. Besides, he
was not wanting in humor. It was he who, after the affair of the Black
River, determined at any cost to keep his place at the wicket of the
telegraph office, and after having announced to his journal the result
of the battle, telegraphed for two hours the first chapters of the
Bible. It cost the New York Herald two thousand dollars, but the New
York Herald published the first intelligence.
Gideon Spilett was tall. He was rather more than forty years of age.
Light whiskers bordering on red surrounded his face. His eye was steady,
lively, rapid in its changes. It was the eye of a man accustomed to take
in at a glance all the details of a scene. Well built, he was inured to
all climates, like a bar of steel hardened in cold water.
For ten years Gideon Spilett had been the reporter of the New York
Herald, which he enriched by his letters and drawings, for he was as
skilful in the use of the pencil as of the pen. When he was captured,
he was in the act of making a description and sketch of the battle. The
last words in his note-book were these: “A Southern rifleman has just
taken aim at me, but--” The Southerner notwithstanding missed Gideon
Spilett, who, with his usual fortune, came out of this affair without a
scratch.
Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett, who did not know each other except
by reputation, had both been carried to Richmond. The engineer’s
wounds rapidly healed, and it was during his convalescence that he made
acquaintance with the reporter. The two men then learned to appreciate
each other. Soon their common aim had but one object, that of escaping,
rejoining Grant’s army, and fighting together in the ranks of the
Federals.
The two Americans had from the first determined to seize every chance;
but although they were allowed to wander at liberty in the town,
Richmond was so strictly guarded, that escape appeared impossible. In
the meanwhile Captain Harding was rejoined by a servant who was devoted
to him in life and in death. This intrepid fellow was a Negro born on
the engineer’s estate, of a slave father and mother, but to whom Cyrus,
who was an Abolitionist from conviction and heart, had long since given
his freedom. The once slave, though free, would not leave his master. He
would have died for him. He was a man of about thirty, vigorous, active,
clever, intelligent, gentle, and calm, sometimes naive, always merry,
obliging, and honest. His name was Nebuchadnezzar, but he only answered
to the familiar abbreviation of Neb.
When Neb heard that his master had been made prisoner, he left
Massachusetts without hesitating an instant, arrived before Richmond,
and by dint of stratagem and shrewdness, after having risked his life
twenty times over, managed to penetrate into the besieged town. The
pleasure of Harding on seeing his servant, and the joy of Neb at finding
his master, can scarcely be described.
But though Neb had been able to make his way into Richmond, it was quite
another thing to get out again, for the Northern prisoners were very
strictly watched. Some extraordinary opportunity was needed to make the
attempt with any chance of success, and this opportunity not only did
not present itself, but was very difficult to find.
Meanwhile Grant continued his energetic operations. The victory of
Petersburg had been very dearly bought. His forces, united to those of
Butler, had as yet been unsuccessful before Richmond, and nothing gave
the prisoners any hope of a speedy deliverance.
The reporter, to whom his tedious captivity did not offer a single
incident worthy of note, could stand it no longer. His usually active
mind was occupied with one sole thought--how he might get out of
Richmond at any cost. Several times had he even made the attempt,
but was stopped by some insurmountable obstacle. However, the siege
continued; and if the prisoners were anxious to escape and join Grant’s
army, certain of the besieged were no less anxious to join the Southern
forces. Among them was one Jonathan Forster, a determined Southerner.
The truth was, that if the prisoners of the Secessionists could not
leave the town, neither could the Secessionists themselves while the
Northern army invested it. The Governor of Richmond for a long time had
been unable to communicate with General Lee, and he very much wished to
make known to him the situation of the town, so as to hasten the march
of the army to their relief. Thus Jonathan Forster accordingly conceived
the idea of rising in a balloon, so as to pass over the besieging lines,
and in that way reach the Secessionist camp.
The Governor authorized the attempt. A balloon was manufactured and
placed at the disposal of Forster, who was to be accompanied by five
other persons. They were furnished with arms in case they might have
to defend themselves when they alighted, and provisions in the event of
their aerial voyage being prolonged.
The departure of the balloon was fixed for the 18th of March. It should
be effected during the night, with a northwest wind of moderate force,
and the aeronauts calculated that they would reach General Lee’s camp in
a few hours.
But this northwest wind was not a simple breeze. From the 18th it was
evident that it was changing to a hurricane. The tempest soon became
such that Forster’s departure was deferred, for it was impossible to
risk the balloon and those whom it carried in the midst of the furious
elements.
The balloon, inflated on the great square of Richmond, was ready to
depart on the first abatement of the wind, and, as may be supposed, the
impatience among the besieged to see the storm moderate was very great.
The 18th, the 19th of March passed without any alteration in the
weather. There was even great difficulty in keeping the balloon fastened
to the ground, as the squalls dashed it furiously about.
The night of the 19th passed, but the next morning the storm blew with
redoubled force. The departure of the balloon was impossible.
On that day the engineer, Cyrus Harding, was accosted in one of the
streets of Richmond by a person whom he did not in the least know. This
was a sailor named Pencroft, a man of about thirty-five or forty years
of age, strongly built, very sunburnt, and possessed of a pair of
bright sparkling eyes and a remarkably good physiognomy. Pencroft was an
American from the North, who had sailed all the ocean over, and who had
gone through every possible and almost impossible adventure that a being
with two feet and no wings would encounter. It is needless to say that
he was a bold, dashing fellow, ready to dare anything and was astonished
at nothing. Pencroft at the beginning of the year had gone to Richmond
on business, with a young boy of fifteen from New Jersey, son of a
former captain, an orphan, whom he loved as if he had been his
own child. Not having been able to leave the town before the first
operations of the siege, he found himself shut up, to his great disgust;
but, not accustomed to succumb to difficulties, he resolved to escape by
some means or other. He knew the engineer-officer by reputation; he knew
with what impatience that determined man chafed under his restraint. On
this day he did not, therefore, hesitate to accost him, saying, without
circumlocution, “Have you had enough of Richmond, captain?”
The engineer looked fixedly at the man who spoke, and who added, in a
low voice,--
“Captain Harding, will you try to escape?”
“When?” asked the engineer quickly, and it was evident that this
question was uttered without consideration, for he had not yet examined
the stranger who addressed him. But after having with a penetrating
eye observed the open face of the sailor, he was convinced that he had
before him an honest man.
“Who are you?” he asked briefly.
Pencroft made himself known.
“Well,” replied Harding, “and in what way do you propose to escape?”
“By that lazy balloon which is left there doing nothing, and which looks
to me as if it was waiting on purpose for us--”
There was no necessity for the sailor to finish his sentence. The
engineer understood him at once. He seized Pencroft by the arm, and
dragged him to his house. There the sailor developed his project, which
was indeed extremely simple. They risked nothing but their lives in its
execution. The hurricane was in all its violence, it is true, but so
clever and daring an engineer as Cyrus Harding knew perfectly well how
to manage a balloon. Had he himself been as well acquainted with the art
of sailing in the air as he was with the navigation of a ship, Pencroft
would not have hesitated to set out, of course taking his young friend
Herbert with him; for, accustomed to brave the fiercest tempests of the
ocean, he was not to be hindered on account of the hurricane.
Captain Harding had listened to the sailor without saying a word,
but his eyes shone with satisfaction. Here was the long-sought-for
opportunity--he was not a man to let it pass. The plan was feasible,
though, it must be confessed, dangerous in the extreme. In the night,
in spite of their guards, they might approach the balloon, slip into the
car, and then cut the cords which held it. There was no doubt that they
might be killed, but on the other hand they might succeed, and without
this storm!--Without this storm the balloon would have started already
and the looked-for opportunity would not have then presented itself.
“I am not alone!” said Harding at last.
“How many people do you wish to bring with you?” asked the sailor.
“Two; my friend Spilett, and my servant Neb.”
“That will be three,” replied Pencroft; “and with Herbert and me five.
But the balloon will hold six--”
“That will be enough, we will go,” answered Harding in a firm voice.
This “we” included Spilett, for the reporter, as his friend well knew,
was not a man to draw back, and when the project was communicated to him
he approved of it unreservedly. What astonished him was, that so simple
an idea had not occurred to him before. As to Neb, he followed his
master wherever his master wished to go.
“This evening, then,” said Pencroft, “we will all meet out there.”
“This evening, at ten o’clock,” replied Captain Harding; “and Heaven
grant that the storm does not abate before our departure.”
Pencroft took leave of the two friends, and returned to his lodging,
where young Herbert Brown had remained. The courageous boy knew of the
sailor’s plan, and it was not without anxiety that he awaited the result
of the proposal being made to the engineer. Thus five determined
persons were about to abandon themselves to the mercy of the tempestuous
elements!
No! the storm did not abate, and neither Jonathan Forster nor his
companions dreamed of confronting it in that frail car.
It would be a terrible journey. The engineer only feared one thing; it
was that the balloon, held to the ground and dashed about by the
wind, would be torn into shreds. For several hours he roamed round the
nearly-deserted square, surveying the apparatus. Pencroft did the same
on his side, his hands in his pockets, yawning now and then like a man
who did not know how to kill the time, but really dreading, like
his friend, either the escape or destruction of the balloon. Evening
arrived. The night was dark in the extreme. Thick mists passed like
clouds close to the ground. Rain fell mingled with snow, it was very
cold. A mist hung over Richmond. It seemed as if the violent storm had
produced a truce between the besiegers and the besieged, and that the
cannon were silenced by the louder detonations of the storm. The streets
of the town were deserted. It had not even appeared necessary in that
horrible weather to place a guard in the square, in the midst of which
plunged the balloon. Everything favored the departure of the prisoners,
but what might possibly be the termination of the hazardous voyage they
contemplated in the midst of the furious elements?--
“Dirty weather!” exclaimed Pencroft, fixing his hat firmly on his head
with a blow of his fist; “but pshaw, we shall succeed all the same!”
At half-past nine, Harding and his companions glided from different
directions into the square, which the gas-lamps, extinguished by the
wind, had left in total obscurity. Even the enormous balloon, almost
beaten to the ground, could not be seen. Independently of the sacks of
ballast, to which the cords of the net were fastened, the car was
held by a strong cable passed through a ring in the pavement. The five
prisoners met by the car. They had not been perceived, and such was the
darkness that they could not even see each other.
Without speaking a word, Harding, Spilett, Neb, and Herbert took their
places in the car, while Pencroft by the engineer’s order detached
successively the bags of ballast. It was the work of a few minutes only,
and the sailor rejoined his companions.
The balloon was then only held by the cable, and the engineer had
nothing to do but to give the word.
At that moment a dog sprang with a bound into the car. It was Top,
a favorite of the engineer. The faithful creature, having broken his
chain, had followed his master. He, however, fearing that its additional
weight might impede their ascent, wished to send away the animal.
“One more will make but little difference, poor beast!” exclaimed
Pencroft, heaving out two bags of sand, and as he spoke letting go the
cable; the balloon ascending in an oblique direction, disappeared, after
having dashed the car against two chimneys, which it threw down as it
swept by them.
Then, indeed, the full rage of the hurricane was exhibited to the
voyagers. During the night the engineer could not dream of descending,
and when day broke, even a glimpse of the earth below was intercepted by
fog.
Five days had passed when a partial clearing allowed them to see the
wide extending ocean beneath their feet, now lashed into the maddest
fury by the gale.
Our readers will recollect what befell these five daring individuals
who set out on their hazardous expedition in the balloon on the 20th of
March. Five days afterwards four of them were thrown on a desert coast,
seven thousand miles from their country! But one of their number was
missing, the man who was to be their guide, their leading spirit, the
engineer, Captain Harding! The instant they had recovered their feet,
they all hurried to the beach in the hopes of rendering him assistance.
Chapter 3
The engineer, the meshes of the net having given way, had been carried
off by a wave. His dog also had disappeared. The faithful animal
had voluntarily leaped out to help his master. “Forward,” cried the
reporter; and all four, Spilett, Herbert, Pencroft, and Neb, forgetting
their fatigue, began their search. Poor Neb shed bitter tears, giving
way to despair at the thought of having lost the only being he loved on
earth.
Only two minutes had passed from the time when Cyrus Harding disappeared
to the moment when his companions set foot on the ground. They had hopes
therefore of arriving in time to save him. “Let us look for him! let us
look for him!” cried Neb.
“Yes, Neb,” replied Gideon Spilett, “and we will find him too!”
“Living, I trust!”
“Still living!”
“Can he swim?” asked Pencroft.
“Yes,” replied Neb, “and besides, Top is there.”
The sailor, observing the heavy surf on the shore, shook his head.
The engineer had disappeared to the north of the shore, and nearly half
a mile from the place where the castaways had landed. The nearest point
of the beach he could reach was thus fully that distance off.
It was then nearly six o’clock. A thick fog made the night very dark.
The castaways proceeded toward the north of the land on which chance had
thrown them, an unknown region, the geographical situation of which they
could not even guess. They were walking upon a sandy soil, mingled with
stones, which appeared destitute of any sort of vegetation. The ground,
very unequal and rough, was in some places perfectly riddled with holes,
making walking extremely painful. From these holes escaped every minute
great birds of clumsy flight, which flew in all directions. Others, more
active, rose in flocks and passed in clouds over their heads. The sailor
thought he recognized gulls and cormorants, whose shrill cries rose
above the roaring of the sea.
From time to time the castaways stopped and shouted, then listened for
some response from the ocean, for they thought that if the engineer had
landed, and they had been near to the place, they would have heard the
barking of the dog Top, even should Harding himself have been unable to
give any sign of existence. They stopped to listen, but no sound arose
above the roaring of the waves and the dashing of the surf. The little
band then continued their march forward, searching into every hollow of
the shore.
After walking for twenty minutes, the four castaways were suddenly
brought to a standstill by the sight of foaming billows close to
their feet. The solid ground ended here. They found themselves at the
extremity of a sharp point on which the sea broke furiously.
“It is a promontory,” said the sailor; “we must retrace our steps,
holding towards the right, and we shall thus gain the mainland.”
“But if he is there,” said Neb, pointing to the ocean, whose waves shone
of a snowy white in the darkness. “Well, let us call again,” and all
uniting their voices, they gave a vigorous shout, but there came no
reply. They waited for a lull, then began again; still no reply.
The castaways accordingly returned, following the opposite side of the
promontory, over a soil equally sandy and rugged. However, Pencroft
observed that the shore was more equal, that the ground rose, and he
declared that it was joined by a long slope to a hill, whose massive
front he thought that he could see looming indistinctly through the
mist. The birds were less numerous on this part of the shore; the sea
was also less tumultuous, and they observed that the agitation of the
waves was diminished. The noise of the surf was scarcely heard. This
side of the promontory evidently formed a semicircular bay, which the
sharp point sheltered from the breakers of the open sea. But to follow
this direction was to go south, exactly opposite to that part of the
coast where Harding might have landed. After a walk of a mile and a
half, the shore presented no curve which would permit them to return to
the north. This promontory, of which they had turned the point, must
be attached to the mainland. The castaways, although their strength
was nearly exhausted, still marched courageously forward, hoping every
moment to meet with a sudden angle which would set them in the first
direction. What was their disappointment, when, after trudging nearly
two miles, having reached an elevated point composed of slippery rocks,
they found themselves again stopped by the sea.
“We are on an islet,” said Pencroft, “and we have surveyed it from one
extremity to the other.”
The sailor was right; they had been thrown, not on a continent, not
even on an island, but on an islet which was not more than two miles in
length, with even a less breadth.
Was this barren spot the desolate refuge of sea-birds, strewn with
stones and destitute of vegetation, attached to a more important
archipelago? It was impossible to say. When the voyagers from their car
saw the land through the mist, they had not been able to reconnoiter
it sufficiently. However, Pencroft, accustomed with his sailor eyes
to piece through the gloom, was almost certain that he could clearly
distinguish in the west confused masses which indicated an elevated
coast. But they could not in the dark determine whether it was a single
island, or connected with others. They could not leave it either, as the
sea surrounded them; they must therefore put off till the next day their
search for the engineer, from whom, alas! not a single cry had reached
them to show that he was still in existence.
“The silence of our friend proves nothing,” said the reporter. “Perhaps
he has fainted or is wounded, and unable to reply directly, so we will
not despair.”
The reporter then proposed to light a fire on a point of the islet,
which would serve as a signal to the engineer. But they searched in vain
for wood or dry brambles; nothing but sand and stones were to be found.
The grief of Neb and his companions, who were all strongly attached to
the intrepid Harding, can be better pictured than described. It was too
evident that they were powerless to help him. They must wait with what
patience they could for daylight. Either the engineer had been able to
save himself, and had already found a refuge on some point of the coast,
or he was lost for ever! The long and painful hours passed by. The cold
was intense. The castaways suffered cruelly, but they scarcely perceived
it. They did not even think of taking a minute’s rest. Forgetting
everything but their chief, hoping or wishing to hope on, they continued
to walk up and down on this sterile spot, always returning to its
northern point, where they could approach nearest to the scene of the
catastrophe. They listened, they called, and then uniting their voices,
they endeavored to raise even a louder shout than before, which would
be transmitted to a great distance. The wind had now fallen almost to
a calm, and the noise of the sea began also to subside. One of Neb’s
shouts even appeared to produce an echo. Herbert directed Pencroft’s
attention to it, adding, “That proves that there is a coast to the west,
at no great distance.” The sailor nodded; besides, his eyes could not
deceive him. If he had discovered land, however indistinct it might
appear, land was sure to be there. But that distant echo was the only
response produced by Neb’s shouts, while a heavy gloom hung over all the
part east of the island.
Meanwhile, the sky was clearing little by little. Towards midnight the
stars shone out, and if the engineer had been there with his companions
he would have remarked that these stars did not belong to the Northern
Hemisphere. The Polar Star was not visible, the constellations were not
those which they had been accustomed to see in the United States; the
Southern Cross glittered brightly in the sky.
The night passed away. Towards five o’clock in the morning of the 25th
of March, the sky began to lighten; the horizon still remained dark,
but with daybreak a thick mist rose from the sea, so that the eye could
scarcely penetrate beyond twenty feet or so from where they stood. At
length the fog gradually unrolled itself in great heavily moving waves.
It was unfortunate, however, that the castaways could distinguish
nothing around them. While the gaze of the reporter and Neb were cast
upon the ocean, the sailor and Herbert looked eagerly for the coast
in the west. But not a speck of land was visible. “Never mind,” said
Pencroft, “though I do not see the land, I feel it... it is there...
there... as sure as the fact that we are no longer at Richmond.” But the
fog was not long in rising. It was only a fine-weather mist. A hot
sun soon penetrated to the surface of the island. About half-past
six, three-quarters of an hour after sunrise, the mist became more
transparent. It grew thicker above, but cleared away below. Soon the
isle appeared as if it had descended from a cloud, then the sea showed
itself around them, spreading far away towards the east, but bounded on
the west by an abrupt and precipitous coast.
Yes! the land was there. Their safety was at least provisionally
insured. The islet and the coast were separated by a channel about half
a mile in breadth, through which rushed an extremely rapid current.
However, one of the castaways, following the impulse of his heart,
immediately threw himself into the current, without consulting his
companions, without saying a single word. It was Neb. He was in haste
to be on the other side, and to climb towards the north. It had been
impossible to hold him back. Pencroft called him in vain. The reporter
prepared to follow him, but Pencroft stopped him. “Do you want to cross
the channel?” he asked. “Yes,” replied Spilett. “All right!” said the
seaman; “wait a bit; Neb is well able to carry help to his master. If we
venture into the channel, we risk being carried into the open sea by
the current, which is running very strong; but, if I’m not wrong, it is
ebbing. See, the tide is going down over the sand. Let us have patience,
and at low water it is possible we may find a fordable passage.” “You
are right,” replied the reporter, “we will not separate more than we can
help.”
During this time Neb was struggling vigorously against the current. He
was crossing in an oblique direction. His black shoulders could be seen
emerging at each stroke. He was carried down very quickly, but he also
made way towards the shore. It took more than half an hour to cross from
the islet to the land, and he reached the shore several hundred feet
from the place which was opposite to the point from which he had
started.
Landing at the foot of a high wall of granite, he shook himself
vigorously; and then, setting off running, soon disappeared behind
a rocky point, which projected to nearly the height of the northern
extremity of the islet.
Neb’s companions had watched his daring attempt with painful anxiety,
and when he was out of sight, they fixed their attention on the land
where their hope of safety lay, while eating some shell-fish with which
the sand was strewn. It was a wretched repast, but still it was better
than nothing. The opposite coast formed one vast bay, terminating on the
south by a very sharp point, which was destitute of all vegetation,
and was of a very wild aspect. This point abutted on the shore in a
grotesque outline of high granite rocks. Towards the north, on the
contrary, the bay widened, and a more rounded coast appeared, trending
from the southwest to the northeast, and terminating in a slender cape.
The distance between these two extremities, which made the bow of the
bay, was about eight miles. Half a mile from the shore rose the islet,
which somewhat resembled the carcass of a gigantic whale. Its extreme
breadth was not more than a quarter of a mile.
Opposite the islet, the beach consisted first of sand, covered with
black stones, which were now appearing little by little above the
retreating tide. The second level was separated by a perpendicular
granite cliff, terminated at the top by an unequal edge at a height of
at least 300 feet. It continued thus for a length of three miles, ending
suddenly on the right with a precipice which looked as if cut by the
hand of man. On the left, above the promontory, this irregular and
jagged cliff descended by a long slope of conglomerated rocks till it
mingled with the ground of the southern point. On the upper plateau of
the coast not a tree appeared. It was a flat tableland like that above
Cape Town at the Cape of Good Hope, but of reduced proportions; at least
so it appeared seen from the islet. However, verdure was not wanting to
the right beyond the precipice. They could easily distinguish a confused
mass of great trees, which extended beyond the limits of their view.
This verdure relieved the eye, so long wearied by the continued ranges
of granite. Lastly, beyond and above the plateau, in a northwesterly
direction and at a distance of at least seven miles, glittered a white
summit which reflected the sun’s rays. It was that of a lofty mountain,
capped with snow.
The question could not at present be decided whether this land formed
an island, or whether it belonged to a continent. But on beholding
the convulsed masses heaped up on the left, no geologist would have
hesitated to give them a volcanic origin, for they were unquestionably
the work of subterranean convulsions.
Gideon Spilett, Pencroft, and Herbert attentively examined this land, on
which they might perhaps have to live many long years; on which indeed
they might even die, should it be out of the usual track of vessels, as
was likely to be the case.
“Well,” asked Herbert, “what do you say, Pencroft?”
“There is some good and some bad, as in everything,” replied the sailor.
“We shall see. But now the ebb is evidently making. In three hours we
will attempt the passage, and once on the other side, we will try to get
out of this scrape, and I hope may find the captain.” Pencroft was not
wrong in his anticipations. Three hours later at low tide, the greater
part of the sand forming the bed of the channel was uncovered. Between
the islet and the coast there only remained a narrow channel which would
no doubt be easy to cross.
About ten o’clock, Gideon Spilett and his companions stripped themselves
of their clothes, which they placed in bundles on their heads, and
then ventured into the water, which was not more than five feet deep.
Herbert, for whom it was too deep, swam like a fish, and got through
capitally. All three arrived without difficulty on the opposite shore.
Quickly drying themselves in the sun, they put on their clothes, which
they had preserved from contact with the water, and sat down to take
counsel together what to do next.
Chapter 4
All at once the reporter sprang up, and telling the sailor that he would
rejoin them at that same place, he climbed the cliff in the direction
which the Negro Neb had taken a few hours before. Anxiety hastened
his steps, for he longed to obtain news of his friend, and he soon
disappeared round an angle of the cliff. Herbert wished to accompany
him.
“Stop here, my boy,” said the sailor; “we have to prepare an encampment,
and to try and find rather better grub than these shell-fish. Our
friends will want something when they come back. There is work for
everybody.”
“I am ready,” replied Herbert.
“All right,” said the sailor; “that will do. We must set about it
regularly. We are tired, cold, and hungry; therefore we must have
shelter, fire, and food. There is wood in the forest, and eggs in nests;
we have only to find a house.”
“Very well,” returned Herbert, “I will look for a cave among the rocks,
and I shall be sure to discover some hole into which we can creep.”
“All right,” said Pencroft; “go on, my boy.”
They both walked to the foot of the enormous wall over the beach, far
from which the tide had now retreated; but instead of going towards the
north, they went southward. Pencroft had remarked, several hundred feet
from the place at which they landed, a narrow cutting, out of which
he thought a river or stream might issue. Now, on the one hand it was
important to settle themselves in the neighborhood of a good stream
of water, and on the other it was possible that the current had thrown
Cyrus Harding on the shore there.
The cliff, as has been said, rose to a height of three hundred feet, but
the mass was unbroken throughout, and even at its base, scarcely washed
by the sea, it did not offer the smallest fissure which would serve as
a dwelling. It was a perpendicular wall of very hard granite, which even
the waves had not worn away. Towards the summit fluttered myriads of
sea-fowl, and especially those of the web-footed species with long,
flat, pointed beaks--a clamorous tribe, bold in the presence of man,
who probably for the first time thus invaded their domains. Pencroft
recognized the skua and other gulls among them, the voracious little
sea-mew, which in great numbers nestled in the crevices of the granite.
A shot fired among this swarm would have killed a great number, but to
fire a shot a gun was needed, and neither Pencroft nor Herbert had one;
besides this, gulls and sea-mews are scarcely eatable, and even their
eggs have a detestable taste. However, Herbert, who had gone forward
a little more to the left, soon came upon rocks covered with sea-weed,
which, some hours later, would be hidden by the high tide. On these
rocks, in the midst of slippery wrack, abounded bivalve shell-fish, not
to be despised by starving people. Herbert called Pencroft, who ran up
hastily.
“Here are mussels!” cried the sailor; “these will do instead of eggs!”
“They are not mussels,” replied Herbert, who was attentively examining
the molluscs attached to the rocks; “they are lithodomes.”
“Are they good to eat?” asked Pencroft.
“Perfectly so.”
“Then let us eat some lithodomes.”
The sailor could rely upon Herbert; the young boy was well up in natural
history, and always had had quite a passion for the science. His father
had encouraged him in it, by letting him attend the lectures of the best
professors in Boston, who were very fond of the intelligent, industrious
lad. And his turn for natural history was, more than once in the course
of time, of great use, and he was not mistaken in this instance. These
lithodomes were oblong shells, suspended in clusters and adhering
very tightly to the rocks. They belong to that species of molluscous
perforators which excavate holes in the hardest stone; their shell is
rounded at both ends, a feature which is not remarked in the common
mussel.
Pencroft and Herbert made a good meal of the lithodomes, which were
then half opened to the sun. They ate them as oysters, and as they had
a strong peppery taste, they were palatable without condiments of any
sort.
Their hunger was thus appeased for the time, but not their thirst, which
increased after eating these naturally-spiced molluscs. They had then to
find fresh water, and it was not likely that it would be wanting in such
a capriciously uneven region. Pencroft and Herbert, after having taken
the precaution of collecting an ample supply of lithodomes, with which
they filled their pockets and handkerchiefs, regained the foot of the
cliff.
Two hundred paces farther they arrived at the cutting, through which, as
Pencroft had guessed, ran a stream of water, whether fresh or not was to
be ascertained. At this place the wall appeared to have been separated
by some violent subterranean force. At its base was hollowed out a
little creek, the farthest part of which formed a tolerably sharp angle.
The watercourse at that part measured one hundred feet in breadth, and
its two banks on each side were scarcely twenty feet high. The river
became strong almost directly between the two walls of granite, which
began to sink above the mouth; it then suddenly turned and disappeared
beneath a wood of stunted trees half a mile off.
“Here is the water, and yonder is the wood we require!” said Pencroft.
“Well, Herbert, now we only want the house.”
The water of the river was limpid. The sailor ascertained that at this
time--that is to say, at low tide, when the rising floods did not reach
it--it was sweet. This important point established, Herbert looked for
some cavity which would serve them as a retreat, but in vain; everywhere
the wall appeared smooth, plain, and perpendicular.
However, at the mouth of the watercourse and above the reach of the high
tide, the convulsions of nature had formed, not a grotto, but a pile
of enormous rocks, such as are often met with in granite countries and
which bear the name of “Chimneys.”
Pencroft and Herbert penetrated quite far in among the rocks, by sandy
passages in which light was not wanting, for it entered through the
openings which were left between the blocks, of which some were only
sustained by a miracle of equilibrium; but with the light came also
air--a regular corridor-gale--and with the wind the sharp cold from the
exterior. However, the sailor thought that by stopping-up some of
the openings with a mixture of stones and sand, the Chimneys could be
rendered habitable. Their geometrical plan represented the typographical
sign “&,” which signifies “et cetera” abridged, but by isolating the
upper mouth of the sign, through which the south and west winds blew so
strongly, they could succeed in making the lower part of use.
“Here’s our work,” said Pencroft, “and if we ever see Captain Harding
again, he will know how to make something of this labyrinth.”
“We shall see him again, Pencroft,” cried Herbert, “and when he returns
he must find a tolerable dwelling here. It will be so, if we can make a
fireplace in the left passage and keep an opening for the smoke.”
“So we can, my boy,” replied the sailor, “and these Chimneys will serve
our turn. Let us set to work, but first come and get a store of fuel. I
think some branches will be very useful in stopping up these openings,
through which the wind shrieks like so many fiends.”
Herbert and Pencroft left the Chimneys, and, turning the angle, they
began to climb the left bank of the river. The current here was quite
rapid, and drifted down some dead wood. The rising tide--and it could
already be perceived--must drive it back with force to a considerable
distance. The sailor then thought that they could utilize this ebb and
flow for the transport of heavy objects.
After having walked for a quarter of an hour, the sailor and the boy
arrived at the angle which the river made in turning towards the left.
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324
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350
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.
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.
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«
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!
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«
,
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;
«
.
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911
«
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913
«
.
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«
.
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916
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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;
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.
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«
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«
,
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.
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.
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-
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-
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.
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,
;
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,
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,
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«
.
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,
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,
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;
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-
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.
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,
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.
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«
,
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,
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,
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979
«
’
,
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980
,
.
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981
982
«
,
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«
983
.
,
984
.
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986
«
,
,
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.
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,
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.
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,
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.
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,
.
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-
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.
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.
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998
,
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.
1000