die as they did. Higher! still higher!"
All the phantoms of this necrology passed before my eyes. The
rarefaction of the air and the sun's rays added to the expansion
of the gas, and the balloon continued to mount. I tried
mechanically to open the valve, but the unknown cut the cord
several feet above my head. I was lost!
"Did you see Madame Blanchard fall?" said he. "I saw her; yes, I!
I was at Tivoli on the 6th of July, 1819. Madame Blanchard rose
in a small sized balloon, to avoid the expense of filling, and
she was forced to entirely inflate it. The gas leaked out below,
and left a regular train of hydrogen in its path. She carried
with her a sort of pyrotechnic aureola, suspended below her car
by a wire, which she was to set off in the air. This she had done
many times before. On this day she also carried up a small
parachute ballasted by a firework contrivance, that would go off
in a shower of silver. She was to start this contrivance after
having lighted it with a port-fire made on purpose. She set out;
the night was gloomy. At the moment of lighting her fireworks she
was so imprudent as to pass the taper under the column of
hydrogen which was leaking from the balloon. My eyes were fixed
upon her. Suddenly an unexpected gleam lit up the darkness. I
thought she was preparing a surprise. The light flashed out,
suddenly disappeared and reappeared, and gave the summit of the
balloon the shape of an immense jet of ignited gas. This sinister
glow shed itself over the Boulevard and the whole Montmartre
quarter. Then I saw the unhappy woman rise, try twice to close
the appendage of the balloon, so as to put out the fire, then sit
down in her car and try to guide her descent; for she did not
fall. The combustion of the gas lasted for several minutes. The
balloon, becoming gradually less, continued to descend, but it
was not a fall. The wind blew from the north-west and drove it
towards Paris. There were then some large gardens just by the
house No. 16, Rue de Provence. Madame Blanchard essayed to fall
there without danger: but the balloon and the car struck on the
roof of the house with a light shock. 'Save me!' cried the
wretched woman. I got into the street at this moment. The car
slid along the roof, and encountered an iron cramp. At this
concussion, Madame Blanchard was thrown out of her car and
precipitated upon the pavement. She was killed!"
These stories froze me with horror. The unknown was standing with
bare head, dishevelled hair, haggard eyes!
There was no longer any illusion possible. I at last recognized
the horrible truth. I was in the presence of a madman!
He threw out the rest of the ballast, and we must have now
reached a height of at least nine thousand yards. Blood spurted
from my nose and mouth!
"Who are nobler than the martyrs of science?" cried the lunatic.
"They are canonized by posterity."
But I no longer heard him. He looked about him, and, bending down
to my ear, muttered,--
"And have you forgotten Zambecarri's catastrophe? Listen. On the
7th of October, 1804, the clouds seemed to lift a little. On the
preceding days, the wind and rain had not ceased; but the
announced ascension of Zambecarri could not be postponed. His
enemies were already bantering him. It was necessary to ascend,
to save the science and himself from becoming a public jest. It
was at Boulogne. No one helped him to inflate his balloon.
"He rose at midnight, accompanied by Andreoli and Grossetti. The
balloon mounted slowly, for it had been perforated by the rain,
and the gas was leaking out. The three intrepid aeronauts could
only observe the state of the barometer by aid of a dark lantern.
Zambecarri had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Grossetti was
also fasting.
"'My friends,' said Zambecarri, 'I am overcome by cold, and
exhausted. I am dying.'
"He fell inanimate in the gallery. It was the same with
Grossetti. Andreoli alone remained conscious. After long efforts,
he succeeded in reviving Zambecarri.
"'What news? Whither are we going? How is the wind? What time is
it?'
"'It is two o'clock.'
"'Where is the compass?'
"'Upset!'
"'Great God! The lantern has gone out!'
"'It cannot burn in this rarefied air,' said Zambecarri.
"The moon had not risen, and the atmosphere was plunged in murky
darkness.
"'I am cold, Andreoli. What shall I do?'
"They slowly descended through a layer of whitish clouds.
"'Sh!' said Andreoli. 'Do you hear?'
"'What?' asked Zambecarri.
"'A strange noise.'
"'You are mistaken.'
"'No.'
"Consider these travellers, in the middle of the night, listening
to that unaccountable noise! Are they going to knock against a
tower? Are they about to be precipitated on the roofs?
"'Do you hear? One would say it was the noise of the sea.'
"'Impossible!'
"'It is the groaning of the waves!'
"'It is true.'
"'Light! light!'
"After five fruitless attempts, Andreoli succeeded in obtaining
light. It was three o'clock.
"The voice of violent waves was heard. They were almost touching
the surface of the sea!
"'We are lost!' cried Zambecarri, seizing a large bag of sand.
"'Help!' cried Andreoli.
"The car touched the water, and the waves came up to their
breasts.
"'Throw out the instruments, clothes, money!'
"The aeronauts completely stripped themselves. The balloon,
relieved, rose with frightful rapidity. Zambecarri was taken with
vomiting. Grossetti bled profusely. The unfortunate men could not
speak, so short was their breathing. They were taken with cold,
and they were soon crusted over with ice. The moon looked as red
as blood.
"After traversing the high regions for a half-hour, the balloon
again fell into the sea. It was four in the morning. They were
half submerged in the water, and the balloon dragged them along,
as if under sail, for several hours.
"At daybreak they found themselves opposite Pesaro, four miles
from the coast. They were about to reach it, when a gale blew
them back into the open sea. They were lost! The frightened boats
fled at their approach. Happily, a more intelligent boatman
accosted them, hoisted them on board, and they landed at Ferrada.
"A frightful journey, was it not? But Zambecarri was a brave and
energetic man. Scarcely recovered from his sufferings, he resumed
his ascensions. During one of them he struck against a tree; his
spirit-lamp was broken on his clothes; he was enveloped in fire,
his balloon began to catch the flames, and he came down half
consumed.
"At last, on the 21st of September, 1812, he made another
ascension at Boulogne. The balloon clung to a tree, and his lamp
again set it on fire. Zambecarri fell, and was killed! And in
presence of these facts, we would still hesitate! No. The higher
we go, the more glorious will be our death!"
[Illustration: "Zambecarri fell, and was killed!"]
The balloon being now entirely relieved of ballast and of all it
contained, we were carried to an enormous height. It vibrated in
the atmosphere. The least noise resounded in the vaults of
heaven. Our globe, the only object which caught my view in
immensity, seemed ready to be annihilated, and above us the
depths of the starry skies were lost in thick darkness.
I saw my companion rise up before me.
"The hour is come!" he said. "We must die. We are rejected of
men. They despise us. Let us crush them!"
"Mercy!" I cried.
"Let us cut these cords! Let this car be abandoned in space. The
attractive force will change its direction, and we shall approach
the sun!"
Despair galvanized me. I threw myself upon the madman, we
struggled together, and a terrible conflict took place. But I was
thrown down, and while he held me under his knee, the madman was
cutting the cords of the car.
"One!" he cried.
"My God!"
"Two! Three!"
I made a superhuman effort, rose up, and violently repulsed the
madman.
"Four!"
The car fell, but I instinctively clung to the cords and hoisted
myself into the meshes of the netting.
The madman disappeared in space!
[Illustration: The madman disappeared in space!]
The balloon was raised to an immeasurable height. A horrible
cracking was heard. The gas, too much dilated, had burst the
balloon. I shut my eyes--
Some instants after, a damp warmth revived me. I was in the midst
of clouds on fire. The balloon turned over with dizzy velocity.
Taken by the wind, it made a hundred leagues an hour in a
horizontal course, the lightning flashing around it.
Meanwhile my fall was not a very rapid one. When I opened my
eyes, I saw the country. I was two miles from the sea, and the
tempest was driving me violently towards it, when an abrupt shock
forced me to loosen my hold. My hands opened, a cord slipped
swiftly between my fingers, and I found myself on the solid
earth!
It was the cord of the anchor, which, sweeping along the surface
of the ground, was caught in a crevice; and my balloon,
unballasted for the last time, careered off to lose itself beyond
the sea.
When I came to myself, I was in bed in a peasant's cottage, at
Harderwick, a village of La Gueldre, fifteen leagues from
Amsterdam, on the shores of the Zuyder-Zee.
A miracle had saved my life, but my voyage had been a series of
imprudences, committed by a lunatic, and I had not been able to
prevent them.
May this terrible narrative, though instructing those who read
it, not discourage the explorers of the air.
A WINTER AMID THE ICE.
CHAPTER I.
THE BLACK FLAG.
The curé of the ancient church of Dunkirk rose at five o'clock on
the 12th of May, 18--, to perform, according to his custom, low
mass for the benefit of a few pious sinners.
Attired in his priestly robes, he was about to proceed to the
altar, when a man entered the sacristy, at once joyous and
frightened. He was a sailor of some sixty years, but still
vigorous and sturdy, with, an open, honest countenance.
"Monsieur the curé," said he, "stop a moment, if you please."
[Illustration: "Monsieur the curé," said he, "stop a moment, if
you please."]
"What do you want so early in the morning, Jean Cornbutte?" asked
the curé.
"What do I want? Why, to embrace you in my arms, i' faith!"
"Well, after the mass at which you are going to be present--"
"The mass?" returned the old sailor, laughing. "Do you think you
are going to say your mass now, and that I will let you do so?"
"And why should I not say my mass?" asked the curé. "Explain
yourself. The third bell has sounded--"
"Whether it has or not," replied Jean Cornbutte, "it will sound
many more times to-day, monsieur the curé, for you have promised
me that you will bless, with your own hands, the marriage of my
son Louis and my niece Marie!"
"He has arrived, then," said the curé "joyfully.
"It is nearly the same thing," replied Cornbutte, rubbing his
hands. "Our brig was signalled from the look out at sunrise,--our
brig, which you yourself christened by the good name of the
'Jeune-Hardie'!"
"I congratulate you with all my heart, Cornbutte," said the curé,
taking off his chasuble and stole. "I remember our agreement. The
vicar will take my place, and I will put myself at your disposal
against your dear son's arrival."
"And I promise you that he will not make you fast long," replied
the sailor. "You have already published the banns, and you will
only have to absolve him from the sins he may have committed
between sky and water, in the Northern Ocean. I had a good idea,
that the marriage should be celebrated the very day he arrived,
and that my son Louis should leave his ship to repair at once to
the church."
"Go, then, and arrange everything, Cornbutte."
"I fly, monsieur the curé. Good morning!"
The sailor hastened with rapid steps to his house, which stood on
the quay, whence could be seen the Northern Ocean, of which he
seemed so proud.
Jean Cornbutte had amassed a comfortable sum at his calling.
After having long commanded the vessels of a rich shipowner of
Havre, he had settled down in his native town, where he had
caused the brig "Jeune-Hardie" to be constructed at his own
expense. Several successful voyages had been made in the North,
and the ship always found a good sale for its cargoes of wood,
iron, and tar. Jean Cornbutte then gave up the command of her to
his son Louis, a fine sailor of thirty, who, according to all the
coasting captains, was the boldest mariner in Dunkirk.
Louis Cornbutte had gone away deeply attached to Marie, his
father's niece, who found the time of his absence very long and
weary. Marie was scarcely twenty. She was a pretty Flemish girl,
with some Dutch blood in her veins. Her mother, when she was
dying, had confided her to her brother, Jean Cornbutte. The brave
old sailor loved her as a daughter, and saw in her proposed union
with Louis a source of real and durable happiness.
The arrival of the ship, already signalled off the coast,
completed an important business operation, from which Jean
Cornbutte expected large profits. The "Jeune-Hardie," which had
left three months before, came last from Bodoë, on the west coast
of Norway, and had made a quick voyage thence.
On returning home, Jean Cornbutte found the whole house alive.
Marie, with radiant face, had assumed her wedding-dress.
"I hope the ship will not arrive before we are ready!" she said.
"Hurry, little one," replied Jean Cornbutte, "for the wind is
north, and she sails well, you know, when she goes freely."
"Have our friends been told, uncle?" asked Marie.
"They have."
"The notary, and the curé?"
"Rest easy. You alone are keeping us waiting."
At this moment Clerbaut, an old crony, came in.
"Well, old Cornbutte," cried he, "here's luck! Your ship has
arrived at the very moment that the government has decided to
contract for a large quantity of wood for the navy!"
"What is that to me?" replied Jean Cornbutte. "What care I for
the government?"
"You see, Monsieur Clerbaut," said Marie, "one thing only absorbs
us,--Louis's return."
"I don't dispute that," replied Clerbaut. "But--in short--this
purchase of wood--"
"And you shall be at the wedding," replied Jean Cornbutte,
interrupting the merchant, and shaking his hand as if he would
crush it.
"This purchase of wood--"
"And with all our friends, landsmen and seamen, Clerbaut. I have
already informed everybody, and I shall invite the whole crew of
the ship."
"And shall we go and await them on the pier?" asked Marie.
"Indeed we will," replied Jean Cornbutte. "We will defile, two by
two, with the violins at the head."
Jean Cornbutte's invited guests soon arrived. Though it was very
early, not a single one failed to appear. All congratulated the
honest old sailor whom they loved. Meanwhile Marie, kneeling
down, changed her prayers to God into thanksgivings. She soon
returned, lovely and decked out, to the company; and all the
women kissed her on the check, while the men vigorously grasped
her by the hand. Then Jean Cornbutte gave the signal of
departure.
It was a curious sight to see this joyous group taking its way,
at sunrise, towards the sea. The news of the ship's arrival had
spread through the port, and many heads, in nightcaps, appeared
at the windows and at the half-opened doors. Sincere compliments
and pleasant nods came from every side.
The party reached the pier in the midst of a concert of praise
and blessings. The weather was magnificent, and the sun seemed to
take part in the festivity. A fresh north wind made the waves
foam; and some fishing-smacks, their sails trimmed for leaving
port, streaked the sea with their rapid wakes between the
breakwaters.
The two piers of Dunkirk stretch far out into the sea. The
wedding-party occupied the whole width of the northern pier, and
soon reached a small house situated at its extremity, inhabited
by the harbour-master. The wind freshened, and the "Jeune-Hardie"
ran swiftly under her topsails, mizzen, brigantine, gallant, and
royal. There was evidently rejoicing on board as well as on land.
Jean Cornbutte, spy-glass in hand, responded merrily to the
questions of his friends.
"See my ship!" he cried; "clean and steady as if she had been
rigged at Dunkirk! Not a bit of damage done,--not a rope
wanting!"
"Do you see your son, the captain?" asked one.
"No, not yet. Why, he's at his business!"
"Why doesn't he run up his flag?" asked Clerbaut.
"I scarcely know, old friend. He has a reason for it, no doubt."
"Your spy-glass, uncle?" said Marie, taking it from him. "I want
to be the first to see him."
"But he is my son, mademoiselle!"
"He has been your son for thirty years," answered the young girl,
laughing, "and he has only been my betrothed for two!"
The "Jeune-Hardie" was now entirely visible. Already the crew
were preparing to cast anchor. The upper sails had been reefed.
The sailors who were among the rigging might be recognized. But
neither Marie nor Jean Cornbutte had yet been able to wave their
hands at the captain of the ship.
"Faith! there's the first mate, André Vasling," cried Clerbaut.
"And there's Fidèle Misonne, the carpenter," said another.
"And our friend Penellan," said a third, saluting the sailor
named.
The "Jeune-Hardie" was only three cables' lengths from the shore,
when a black flag ascended to the gaff of the brigantine. There
was mourning on board!
A shudder of terror seized the party and the heart of the young
girl.
The ship sadly swayed into port, and an icy silence reigned on
its deck. Soon it had passed the end of the pier. Marie, Jean
Cornbutte, and all their friends hurried towards the quay at
which she was to anchor, and in a moment found themselves on
board.
"My son!" said Jean Cornbutte, who could only articulate these
words.
The sailors, with uncovered heads, pointed to the mourning flag.
Marie uttered a cry of anguish, and fell into old Cornbutte's
arms.
André Vasling had brought back the "Jeune-Hardie," but Louis
Cornbutte, Marie's betrothed, was not on board.
CHAPTER II.
Jean Cornbutte's Project.
As soon as the young girl, confided to the care of the
sympathizing friends, had left the ship, André Vasling, the mate,
apprised Jean Cornbutte of the dreadful event which had deprived
him of his son, narrated in the ship's journal as follows:--
[Illustration: André Vasling, the mate, apprised Jean Cornbutte
of the dreadful event]
"At the height of the Maëlstrom, on the 26th of April, the ship,
putting for the cape, by reason of bad weather and south-west
winds, perceived signals of distress made by a schooner to the
leeward. This schooner, deprived of its mizzen-mast, was running
towards the whirlpool, under bare poles. Captain Louis Cornbutte,
seeing that this vessel was hastening into imminent danger,
resolved to go on board her. Despite the remonstrances of his
crew, he had the long-boat lowered into the sea, and got into it,
with the sailor Courtois and the helmsman Pierre Nouquet. The
crew watched them until they disappeared in the fog. Night came
on. The sea became more and more boisterous. The "Jeune-Hardie",
drawn by the currents in those parts, was in danger of being
engulfed by the Maëlstrom. She was obliged to fly before the
wind. For several days she hovered near the place of the
disaster, but in vain. The long-boat, the schooner, Captain
Louis, and the two sailors did not reappear. André Vasling then
called the crew together, took command of the ship, and set sail
for Dunkirk."
After reading this dry narrative, Jean Cornbutte wept for a long
time; and if he had any consolation, it was the thought that his
son had died in attempting to save his fellow-men. Then the poor
father left the ship, the sight of which made him wretched, and
returned to his desolate home.
The sad news soon spread throughout Dunkirk. The many friends of
the old sailor came to bring him their cordial and sincere
sympathy. Then the sailors of the "Jeune-Hardie" gave a more
particular account of the event, and André Vasling told Marie, at
great length, of the devotion of her betrothed to the last.
When he ceased weeping, Jean Cornbutte thought over the matter,
and the next day after the ship's arrival, when Andre came to see
him, said,--
"Are you very sure, André, that my son has perished?"
"Alas, yes, Monsieur Jean," replied the mate.
"And you made all possible search for him?"
"All, Monsieur Cornbutte. But it is unhappily but too certain
that he and the two sailors were sucked down in the whirlpool of
the Maëlstrom."
"Would you like, André, to keep the second command of the ship?"
"That will depend upon the captain, Monsieur Cornbutte."
"I shall be the captain," replied the old sailor. "I am going to
discharge the cargo with all speed, make up my crew, and sail in
search of my son."
"Your son is dead!" said André obstinately.
"It is possible, Andre," replied Jean Cornbutte sharply, "but it
is also possible that he saved himself. I am going to rummage all
the ports of Norway whither he might have been driven, and when I
am fully convinced that I shall never see him again, I will
return here to die!"
André Vasling, seeing that this decision was irrevocable, did not
insist further, but went away.
Jean Cornbutte at once apprised his niece of his intention, and
he saw a few rays of hope glisten across her tears. It had not
seemed to the young girl that her lover's death might be
doubtful; but scarcely had this new hope entered her heart, than
she embraced it without reserve.
The old sailor determined that the "Jeune-Hardie" should put to
sea without delay. The solidly built ship had no need of repairs.
Jean Cornbutte gave his sailors notice that if they wished to
re-embark, no change in the crew would be made. He alone replaced
his son in the command of the brig. None of the comrades of Louis
Cornbutte failed to respond to his call, and there were hardy
tars among them,--Alaine Turquiette, Fidèle Misonne the
carpenter, Penellan the Breton, who replaced Pierre Nouquet as
helmsman, and Gradlin, Aupic, and Gervique, courageous and well-tried
mariners.
Jean Cornbutte again offered André Vasling his old rank on board.
The first mate was an able officer, who had proved his skill in
bringing the "Jeune-Hardie" into port. Yet, from what motive
could not be told, André made some difficulties and asked time
for reflection.
"As you will, André Vasling," replied Cornbutte. "Only remember
that if you accept, you will be welcome among us."
Jean had a devoted sailor in Penellan the Breton, who had long
been his fellow-voyager. In times gone by, little Marie was wont
to pass the long winter evenings in the helmsman's arms, when he
was on shore. He felt a fatherly friendship for her, and she had
for him ah affection quite filial. Penellan hastened the fitting
out of the ship with all his energy, all the more because,
according to his opinion, André Vasling had not perhaps made
every effort possible to find the castaways, although he was
excusable from the responsibility which weighed upon him as
captain.
Within a week the "Jeune-Hardie" was ready to put to sea. Instead
of merchandise, she was completely provided with salt meats,
biscuits, barrels of flour, potatoes, pork, wine, brandy, coffee,
tea, and tobacco.
The departure was fixed for the 22nd of May. On the evening
before, André Vasling, who had not yet given his answer to Jean
Cornbutte, came to his house. He was still undecided, and did not
know which course to take.
Jean was not at home, though the house-door was open. André went
into the passage, next to Marie's chamber, where the sound of an
animated conversation struck his ear. He listened attentively,
and recognized the voices of Penellan and Marie.
The discussion had no doubt been going on for some time, for the
young girl seemed to be stoutly opposing what the Breton sailor
said.
"How old is my uncle Cornbutte?" said Marie.
"Something about sixty years," replied Penellan.
"Well, is he not going to brave danger to find his son?"
"Our captain is still a sturdy man," returned the sailor. "He has
a body of oak and muscles as hard as a spare spar. So I am not
afraid to have him go to sea again!'"
"My good Penellan," said Marie, "one is strong when one loves!
Besides, I have full confidence in the aid of Heaven. You
understand me, and will help me."
"No!" said Penellan. "It is impossible, Marie. Who knows whither
we shall drift, or what we must suffer? How many vigorous men
have I seen lose their lives in these seas!"
"Penellan," returned the young girl, "if you refuse me, I shall
believe that you do not love me any longer."
André Vasling understood the young girl's resolution. He
reflected a moment, and his course was determined on.
"Jean Cornbutte," said he, advancing towards the old sailor, who
now entered, "I will go with you. The cause of my hesitation has
disappeared, and you may count upon my devotion."
"I have never doubted you, André Vasling," replied Jean
Cornbutte, grasping him by the hand. "Marie, my child!" he added,
calling in a loud voice.
Marie and Penellan made their appearance.
"We shall set sail to-morrow at daybreak, with the outgoing
tide," said Jean. "My poor Marie, this is the last evening that
we shall pass together.
"Uncle!" cried Marie, throwing herself into his arms.
"Marie, by the help of God, I will bring your lover back to you!"
"Yes, we will find Louis," added André Vasling.
"You are going with us, then?" asked Penellan quickly.
"Yes, Penellan, André Vasling is to be my first mate," answered
Jean.
"Oh, oh!" ejaculated the Breton, in a singular tone.
"And his advice will be useful to us, for he is able and
enterprising.
"And yourself, captain," said André. "You will set us all a good
example, for you have still as much vigour as experience."
"Well, my friends, good-bye till to-morrow. Go on board and make
the final arrangements. Good-bye, André; good-bye, Penellan."
The mate and the sailor went out together, and Jean and Marie
remained alone. Many bitter tears were shed during that sad
evening. Jean Cornbutte, seeing Marie so wretched, resolved to
spare her the pain of separation by leaving the house on the
morrow without her knowledge. So he gave her a last kiss that
evening, and at three o'clock next morning was up and away.
The departure of the brig had attracted all the old sailor's
friends to the pier. The curé, who was to have blessed Marie's
union with Louis, came to give a last benediction on the ship.
Rough grasps of the hand were silently exchanged, and Jean went
on board.
The crew were all there. André Vasling gave the last orders. The
sails were spread, and the brig rapidly passed out under a stiff
north-west breeze, whilst the cure, upright in the midst of the
kneeling spectators, committed the vessel to the hands of God.
Whither goes this ship? She follows the perilous route upon which
so many castaways have been lost! She has no certain destination.
She must expect every peril, and be able to brave them without
hesitating. God alone knows where it will be her fate to anchor.
May God guide her!
CHAPTER III.
A RAY OF HOPE.
At that time of the year the season was favourable, and the crew
might hope promptly to reach the scene of the shipwreck.
Jean Cornbutte's plan was naturally traced out. He counted on
stopping at the Feroë Islands, whither the north wind might have
carried the castaways; then, if he was convinced that they had
not been received in any of the ports of that locality, he would
continue his search beyond the Northern Ocean, ransack the whole
western coast of Norway as far as Bodoë, the place nearest the
scene of the shipwreck; and, if necessary, farther still.
André Vasling thought, contrary to the captain's opinion, that
the coast of Iceland should be explored; but Penellan observed
that, at the time of the catastrophe, the gale came from the
west; which, while it gave hope that the unfortunates had not
been forced towards the gulf of the Maëlstrom, gave ground for
supposing that they might have been thrown on the Norwegian
coast.
It was determined, then, that this coast should be followed as
closely as possible, so as to recognize any traces of them that
might appear.
The day after sailing, Jean Cornbutte, intent upon a map, was
absorbed in reflection, when a small hand touched his shoulder,
and a soft voice said in his ear,--
"Have good courage, uncle."
[Illustration: A soft voice said in his ear, "Have good courage,
uncle."]
He turned, and was stupefied. Marie embraced him.
"Marie, my daughter, on board!" he cried.
"The wife may well go in search of her husband, when the father
embarks to save his child."
"Unhappy Marie! How wilt thou support our fatigues! Dost thou
know that thy presence may be injurious to our search?"
"No, uncle, for I am strong."
"Who knows whither we shall be forced to go, Marie? Look at this
map. We are approaching places dangerous even for us sailors,
hardened though we are to the difficulties of the sea. And thou,
frail child?"
"But, uncle, I come from a family of sailors. I am used to
stories of combats and tempests. I am with you and my old friend
Penellan!"
"Penellan! It was he who concealed you on board?"
"Yes, uncle; but only when he saw that I was determined to come
without his help."
"Penellan!" cried Jean.
Penellan entered.
"It is not possible to undo what you have done, Penellan; but
remember that you are responsible for Marie's life."
"Rest easy, captain," replied Penellan. "The little one has force
and courage, and will be our guardian angel. And then, captain,
you know it is my theory, that all in this world happens for the
best."
The young girl was installed in a cabin, which the sailors soon
got ready for her, and which they made as comfortable as
possible.
A week later the "Jeune-Hardie" stopped at the Feroë Islands, but
the most minute search was fruitless. No wreck, or fragments of a
ship had come upon these coasts. Even the news of the event was
quite unknown. The brig resumed its voyage, after a stay of ten
days, about the 10th of June. The sea was calm, and the winds
were favourable. The ship sped rapidly towards the Norwegian
coast, which it explored without better result.
Jean Cornbutte determined to proceed to Bodoë. Perhaps he would
there learn the name of the shipwrecked schooner to succour which
Louis and the sailors had sacrificed themselves.
On the 30th of June the brig cast anchor in that port.
The authorities of Bodoë gave Jean Cornbutte a bottle found on
the coast, which contained a document bearing these words:--
"This 26th April, on board the 'Froöern,' after being accosted by
the long-boat of the 'Jeune-Hardie,' we were drawn by the
currents towards the ice. God have pity on us!"
Jean Cornbutte's first impulse was to thank Heaven. He thought
himself on his son's track. The "Froöern" was a Norwegian sloop
of which there had been no news, but which had evidently been
drawn northward.
Not a day was to be lost. The "Jeune-Hardie" was at once put in
condition to brave the perils of the polar seas. Fidèle Misonne,
the carpenter, carefully examined her, and assured himself that
her solid construction might resist the shock of the ice-masses.
Penellan, who had already engaged in whale-fishing in the arctic
waters, took care that woollen and fur coverings, many sealskin
moccassins, and wood for the making of sledges with which to
cross the ice-fields were put on board. The amount of provisions
was increased, and spirits and charcoal were added; for it might
be that they would have to winter at some point on the Greenland
coast. They also procured, with much difficulty and at a high
price, a quantity of lemons, for preventing or curing the scurvy,
that terrible disease which decimates crews in the icy regions.
The ship's hold was filled with salt meat, biscuits, brandy, &c.,
as the steward's room no longer sufficed. They provided
themselves, moreover, with a large quantity of "pemmican," an
Indian preparation which concentrates a great deal of nutrition
within a small volume.
By order of the captain, some saws were put on board for cutting
the ice-fields, as well as picks and wedges for separating them.
The captain determined to procure some dogs for drawing the
sledges on the Greenland coast.
The whole crew was engaged in these preparations, and displayed
great activity. The sailors Aupic, Gervique, and Gradlin
zealously obeyed Penellan's orders; and he admonished them not to
accustom themselves to woollen garments, though the temperature
in this latitude, situated just beyond the polar circle, was very
low.
Penellan, though he said nothing, narrowly watched every action
of André Vasling. This man was Dutch by birth, came from no one
knew whither, but was at least a good sailor, having made two
voyages on board the "Jeune-Hardie". Penellan would not as yet
accuse him of anything, unless it was that he kept near Marie too
constantly, but he did not let him out of his sight.
Thanks to the energy of the crew, the brig was equipped by the
16th of July, a fortnight after its arrival at Bodoë. It was then
the favourable season for attempting explorations in the Arctic
Seas. The thaw had been going on for two months, and the search
might be carried farther north. The "Jeune-Hardie" set sail, and
directed her way towards Cape Brewster, on the eastern coast of
Greenland, near the 70th degree of latitude.
CHAPTER IV.
IN THE PASSES.
About the 23rd of July a reflection, raised above the sea,
announced the presence of the first icebergs, which, emerging
from Davis' Straits, advanced into the ocean. From this moment a
vigilant watch was ordered to the look-out men, for it was
important not to come into collision with these enormous masses.
The crew was divided into two watches. The first was composed of
Fidèle Misonne, Gradlin, and Gervique; and the second of Andre
Vasling, Aupic, and Penellan. These watches were to last only two
hours, for in those cold regions a man's strength is diminished
one-half. Though the "Jeune-Hardie" was not yet beyond the 63rd
degree of latitude, the thermometer already stood at nine degrees
centigrade below zero.
Rain and snow often fell abundantly. On fair days, when the wind
was not too violent, Marie remained on deck, and her eyes became
accustomed to the uncouth scenes of the Polar Seas.
On the 1st of August she was promenading aft, and talking with
her uncle, Penellan, and André Vasling. The ship was then
entering a channel three miles wide, across which broken masses
of ice were rapidly descending southwards.
"When shall we see land?" asked the young girl.
"In three or four days at the latest," replied Jean Cornbutte.
"But shall we find there fresh traces of my poor Louis?"
"Perhaps so, my daughter; but I fear that we are still far from
the end of our voyage. It is to be feared that the 'Froöern' was
driven farther northward."
"That may be," added André Vasling, "for the squall which
separated us from the Norwegian boat lasted three days, and in
three days a ship makes good headway when it is no longer able to
resist the wind."
"Permit me to tell you, Monsieur Vasling." replied Penellan,
"that that was in April, that the thaw had not then begun, and
that therefore the 'Froöern' must have been soon arrested by the
ice."
"And no doubt dashed into a thousand pieces," said the mate, "as
her crew could not manage her."
"But these ice-fields," returned Penellan, "gave her an easy
means of reaching land, from which she could not have been far
distant."
"Let us hope so," said Jean Cornbutte, interrupting the
discussion, which was daily renewed between the mate and the
helmsman. "I think we shall see land before long."
"There it is!" cried Marie. "See those mountains!"
"No, my child," replied her uncle. "Those are mountains of ice,
the first we have met with. They would shatter us like glass if
we got entangled between them. Penellan and Vasling, overlook the
men."
These floating masses, more than fifty of which now appeared at
the horizon, came nearer and nearer to the brig. Penellan took
the helm, and Jean Cornbutte, mounted on the gallant, indicated
the route to take.
Towards evening the brig was entirely surrounded by these moving
rocks, the crushing force of which is irresistible. It was
necessary, then, to cross this fleet of mountains, for prudence
prompted them to keep straight ahead. Another difficulty was
added to these perils. The direction of the ship could not be
accurately determined, as all the surrounding points constantly
changed position, and thus failed to afford a fixed perspective.
The darkness soon increased with the fog. Marie descended to her
cabin, and the whole crew, by the captain's orders, remained on
deck. They were armed with long boat-poles, with iron spikes, to
preserve the ship from collision with the ice.
The ship soon entered a strait so narrow that often the ends of
her yards were grazed by the drifting mountains, and her booms
seemed about to be driven in. They were even forced to trim the
mainyard so as to touch the shrouds. Happily these precautions
did not deprive, the vessel of any of its speed, for the wind
could only reach the upper sails, and these sufficed to carry her
forward rapidly. Thanks to her slender hull, she passed through
these valleys, which were filled with whirlpools of rain, whilst
the icebergs crushed against each other with sharp cracking and
splitting.
Jean Cornbutte returned to the deck. His eyes could not penetrate
the surrounding darkness. It became necessary to furl the upper
sails, for the ship threatened to ground, and if she did so she
was lost.
"Cursed voyage!" growled André Vasling among the sailors, who,
forward, were avoiding the most menacing ice-blocks with their
boat-hooks.
"Truly, if we escape we shall owe a fine candle to Our Lady of
the Ice!" replied Aupic.
"Who knows how many floating mountains we have got to pass
through yet?" added the mate.
"And who can guess what we shall find beyond them?" replied the
sailor.
"Don't talk so much, prattler," said Gervique, "and look out on
your side. When we have got by them, it'll be time to grumble.
Look out for your boat-hook!"
At this moment an enormous block of ice, in the narrow strait
through which the brig was passing, came rapidly down upon her,
and it seemed impossible to avoid it, for it barred the whole
width of the channel, and the brig could not heave-to.
"Do you feel the tiller?" asked Cornbutte of Penellan.
"No, captain. The ship does not answer the helm any longer."
"-Ohé-, boys!" cried the captain to the crew; "don't be afraid,
and buttress your hooks against the gunwale."
The block was nearly sixty feet high, and if it threw itself upon
the brig she would be crushed. There was an undefinable moment of
suspense, and the crew retreated backward, abandoning their posts
despite the captain's orders.
But at the instant when the block was not more than half a
cable's length from the "Jeune-Hardie," a dull sound was heard,
and a veritable waterspout fell upon the bow of the vessel, which
then rose on the back of an enormous billow.
The sailors uttered a cry of terror; but when they looked before
them the block had disappeared, the passage was free, and beyond
an immense plain of water, illumined by the rays of the declining
sun, assured them of an easy navigation.
"All's well!" cried Penellan. "Let's trim our topsails and
mizzen!"
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