Although not very learned in astronomy, Servadac was acquainted with
the position of the principal constellations. It was therefore a
considerable disappointment to him that, in consequence of the heavy
clouds, not a star was visible in the firmament. To have ascertained
that the pole-star had become displaced would have been an undeniable
proof that the earth was revolving on a new axis; but not a rift
appeared in the lowering clouds, which seemed to threaten torrents of
rain.
It happened that the moon was new on that very day; naturally,
therefore, it would have set at the same time as the sun. What, then,
was the captain’s bewilderment when, after he had been walking for about
an hour and a half, he noticed on the western horizon a strong glare
that penetrated even the masses of the clouds.
“The moon in the west!” he cried aloud; but suddenly bethinking himself,
he added: “But no, that cannot be the moon; unless she had shifted very
much nearer the earth, she could never give a light as intense as this.”
As he spoke the screen of vapor was illuminated to such a degree that
the whole country was as it were bathed in twilight. “What can this be?”
soliloquized the captain. “It cannot be the sun, for the sun set in the
east only an hour and a half ago. Would that those clouds would disclose
what enormous luminary lies behind them! What a fool I was not to have
learnt more astronomy! Perhaps, after all, I am racking my brain over
something that is quite in the ordinary course of nature.”
But, reason as he might, the mysteries of the heavens still remained
impenetrable. For about an hour some luminous body, its disc evidently
of gigantic dimensions, shed its rays upon the upper strata of the
clouds; then, marvelous to relate, instead of obeying the ordinary laws
of celestial mechanism, and descending upon the opposite horizon, it
seemed to retreat farther off, grew dimmer, and vanished.
The darkness that returned to the face of the earth was not more
profound than the gloom which fell upon the captain’s soul. Everything
was incomprehensible. The simplest mechanical rules seemed falsified;
the planets had defied the laws of gravitation; the motions of the
celestial spheres were erroneous as those of a watch with a defective
mainspring, and there was reason to fear that the sun would never again
shed his radiance upon the earth.
But these last fears were groundless. In three hours’ time, without any
intervening twilight, the morning sun made its appearance in the west,
and day once more had dawned. On consulting his watch, Servadac
found that night had lasted precisely six hours. Ben Zoof, who was
unaccustomed to so brief a period of repose, was still slumbering
soundly.
“Come, wake up!” said Servadac, shaking him by the shoulder; “it is time
to start.”
“Time to start?” exclaimed Ben Zoof, rubbing his eyes. “I feel as if I
had only just gone to sleep.”
“You have slept all night, at any rate,” replied the captain; “it has
only been for six hours, but you must make it enough.”
“Enough it shall be, sir,” was the submissive rejoinder.
“And now,” continued Servadac, “we will take the shortest way back to
the gourbi, and see what our horses think about it all.”
“They will think that they ought to be groomed,” said the orderly.
“Very good; you may groom them and saddle them as quickly as you like.
I want to know what has become of the rest of Algeria: if we cannot get
round by the south to Mostaganem, we must go eastwards to Tenes.” And
forthwith they started. Beginning to feel hungry, they had no hesitation
in gathering figs, dates, and oranges from the plantations that formed a
continuous rich and luxuriant orchard along their path. The district was
quite deserted, and they had no reason to fear any legal penalty.
In an hour and a half they reached the gourbi. Everything was just as
they had left it, and it was evident that no one had visited the place
during their absence. All was desolate as the shore they had quitted.
The preparations for the expedition were brief and simple. Ben Zoof
saddled the horses and filled his pouch with biscuits and game; water,
he felt certain, could be obtained in abundance from the numerous
affluents of the Shelif, which, although they had now become tributaries
of the Mediterranean, still meandered through the plain. Captain
Servadac mounted his horse Zephyr, and Ben Zoof simultaneously got
astride his mare Galette, named after the mill of Montmartre. They
galloped off in the direction of the Shelif, and were not long in
discovering that the diminution in the pressure of the atmosphere
had precisely the same effect upon their horses as it had had upon
themselves. Their muscular strength seemed five times as great as
hitherto; their hoofs scarcely touched the ground, and they seemed
transformed from ordinary quadrupeds into veritable hippogriffs.
Happily, Servadac and his orderly were fearless riders; they made no
attempt to curb their steeds, but even urged them to still greater
exertions. Twenty minutes sufficed to carry them over the four or five
miles that intervened between the gourbi and the mouth of the Shelif;
then, slackening their speed, they proceeded at a more leisurely pace to
the southeast, along what had once been the right bank of the river, but
which, although it still retained its former characteristics, was now
the boundary of a sea, which extending farther than the limits of the
horizon, must have swallowed up at least a large portion of the province
of Oran. Captain Servadac knew the country well; he had at one time been
engaged upon a trigonometrical survey of the district, and consequently
had an accurate knowledge of its topography. His idea now was to draw up
a report of his investigations: to whom that report should be delivered
was a problem he had yet to solve.
During the four hours of daylight that still remained, the travelers
rode about twenty-one miles from the river mouth. To their vast
surprise, they did not meet a single human being. At nightfall they
again encamped in a slight bend of the shore, at a point which on the
previous evening had faced the mouth of the Mina, one of the left-hand
affluents of the Shelif, but now absorbed into the newly revealed
ocean. Ben Zoof made the sleeping accommodation as comfortable as the
circumstances would allow; the horses were clogged and turned out to
feed upon the rich pasture that clothed the shore, and the night passed
without special incident.
At sunrise on the following morning, the 2nd of January, or what,
according to the ordinary calendar, would have been the night of the
1st, the captain and his orderly remounted their horses, and during the
six-hours’ day accomplished a distance of forty-two miles. The right
bank of the river still continued to be the margin of the land, and only
in one spot had its integrity been impaired. This was about twelve miles
from the Mina, and on the site of the annex or suburb of Surkelmittoo.
Here a large portion of the bank had been swept away, and the hamlet,
with its eight hundred inhabitants, had no doubt been swallowed up by
the encroaching waters. It seemed, therefore, more than probable that a
similar fate had overtaken the larger towns beyond the Shelif.
In the evening the explorers encamped, as previously, in a nook of the
shore which here abruptly terminated their new domain, not far from
where they might have expected to find the important village of
Memounturroy; but of this, too, there was now no trace. “I had quite
reckoned upon a supper and a bed at Orleansville to-night,” said
Servadac, as, full of despondency, he surveyed the waste of water.
“Quite impossible,” replied Ben Zoof, “except you had gone by a boat.
But cheer up, sir, cheer up; we will soon devise some means for getting
across to Mostaganem.”
“If, as I hope,” rejoined the captain, “we are on a peninsula, we are
more likely to get to Tenes; there we shall hear the news.”
“Far more likely to carry the news ourselves,” answered Ben Zoof, as he
threw himself down for his night’s rest.
Six hours later, only waiting for sunrise, Captain Servadac set himself
in movement again to renew his investigations. At this spot the shore,
that hitherto had been running in a southeasterly direction, turned
abruptly to the north, being no longer formed by the natural bank of the
Shelif, but consisting of an absolutely new coast-line. No land was in
sight. Nothing could be seen of Orleansville, which ought to have been
about six miles to the southwest; and Ben Zoof, who had mounted the
highest point of view attainable, could distinguish sea, and nothing but
sea, to the farthest horizon.
Quitting their encampment and riding on, the bewildered explorers kept
close to the new shore. This, since it had ceased to be formed by the
original river bank, had considerably altered its aspect. Frequent
landslips occurred, and in many places deep chasms rifted the ground;
great gaps furrowed the fields, and trees, half uprooted, overhung the
water, remarkable by the fantastic distortions of their gnarled trunks,
looking as though they had been chopped by a hatchet.
The sinuosities of the coast line, alternately gully and headland,
had the effect of making a devious progress for the travelers, and at
sunset, although they had accomplished more than twenty miles, they had
only just arrived at the foot of the Merdeyah Mountains, which, before
the cataclysm, had formed the extremity of the chain of the Little
Atlas. The ridge, however, had been violently ruptured, and now rose
perpendicularly from the water.
On the following morning Servadac and Ben Zoof traversed one of the
mountain gorges; and next, in order to make a more thorough acquaintance
with the limits and condition of the section of Algerian territory of
which they seemed to be left as the sole occupants, they dismounted, and
proceeded on foot to the summit of one of the highest peaks. From this
elevation they ascertained that from the base of the Merdeyah to the
Mediterranean, a distance of about eighteen miles, a new coast line had
come into existence; no land was visible in any direction; no isthmus
existed to form a connecting link with the territory of Tenes, which had
entirely disappeared. The result was that Captain Servadac was driven
to the irresistible conclusion that the tract of land which he had been
surveying was not, as he had at first imagined, a peninsula; it was
actually an island.
Strictly speaking, this island was quadrilateral, but the sides were so
irregular that it was much more nearly a triangle, the comparison of the
sides exhibiting these proportions: The section of the right bank of the
Shelif, seventy-two miles; the southern boundary from the Shelif to the
chain of the Little Atlas, twenty-one miles; from the Little Atlas to
the Mediterranean, eighteen miles; and sixty miles of the shore of the
Mediterranean itself, making in all an entire circumference of about 171
miles.
“What does it all mean?” exclaimed the captain, every hour growing more
and more bewildered.
“The will of Providence, and we must submit,” replied Ben Zoof, calm and
undisturbed. With this reflection, the two men silently descended the
mountain and remounted their horses. Before evening they had reached
the Mediterranean. On their road they failed to discern a vestige of the
little town of Montenotte; like Tenes, of which not so much as a ruined
cottage was visible on the horizon, it seemed to be annihilated.
On the following day, the 6th of January, the two men made a forced
march along the coast of the Mediterranean, which they found less
altered than the captain had at first supposed; but four villages had
entirely disappeared, and the headlands, unable to resist the shock of
the convulsion, had been detached from the mainland.
The circuit of the island had been now completed, and the explorers,
after a period of sixty hours, found themselves once more beside the
ruins of their gourbi. Five days, or what, according to the established
order of things, would have been two days and a half, had been occupied
in tracing the boundaries of their new domain; and they had ascertained
beyond a doubt that they were the sole human inhabitants left upon the
island.
“Well, sir, here you are, Governor General of Algeria!” exclaimed Ben
Zoof, as they reached the gourbi.
“With not a soul to govern,” gloomily rejoined the captain.
“How so? Do you not reckon me?”
“Pshaw! Ben Zoof, what are you?”
“What am I? Why, I am the population.”
The captain deigned no reply, but, muttering some expressions of regret
for the fruitless trouble he had taken about his rondo, betook himself
to rest.
CHAPTER VII. BEN ZOOF WATCHES IN VAIN
In a few minutes the governor general and his population were asleep.
The gourbi being in ruins, they were obliged to put up with the best
accommodation they could find in the adjacent erection. It must be owned
that the captain’s slumbers were by no means sound; he was agitated by
the consciousness that he had hitherto been unable to account for his
strange experiences by any reasonable theory. Though far from being
advanced in the knowledge of natural philosophy, he had been instructed,
to a certain degree, in its elementary principles; and, by an effort
of memory, he managed to recall some general laws which he had almost
forgotten. He could understand that an altered inclination of the
earth’s axis with regard to the ecliptic would introduce a change of
position in the cardinal points, and bring about a displacement of
the sea; but the hypothesis entirely failed to account, either for the
shortening of the days, or for the diminution in the pressure of the
atmosphere. He felt that his judgment was utterly baffled; his only
remaining hope was that the chain of marvels was not yet complete, and
that something farther might throw some light upon the mystery.
Ben Zoof’s first care on the following morning was to provide a
good breakfast. To use his own phrase, he was as hungry as the
whole population of three million Algerians, of whom he was the
representative, and he must have enough to eat. The catastrophe which
had overwhelmed the country had left a dozen eggs uninjured, and upon
these, with a good dish of his famous couscous, he hoped that he and his
master might have a sufficiently substantial meal. The stove was ready
for use, the copper skillet was as bright as hands could make it, and
the beads of condensed steam upon the surface of a large stone al-caraza
gave evidence that it was supplied with water. Ben Zoof at once lighted
a fire, singing all the time, according to his wont, a snatch of an old
military refrain.
Ever on the lookout for fresh phenomena, Captain Servadac watched the
preparations with a curious eye. It struck him that perhaps the air,
in its strangely modified condition, would fail to supply sufficient
oxygen, and that the stove, in consequence, might not fulfill its
function. But no; the fire was lighted just as usual, and fanned into
vigor by Ben Zoof applying his mouth in lieu of bellows, and a bright
flame started up from the midst of the twigs and coal. The skillet was
duly set upon the stove, and Ben Zoof was prepared to wait awhile for
the water to boil. Taking up the eggs, he was surprised to notice that
they hardly weighed more than they would if they had been mere shells;
but he was still more surprised when he saw that before the water had
been two minutes over the fire it was at full boil.
“By jingo!” he exclaimed, “a precious hot fire!”
Servadac reflected. “It cannot be that the fire is hotter,” he said,
“the peculiarity must be in the water.” And taking down a centigrade
thermometer, which hung upon the wall, he plunged it into the skillet.
Instead of 100 degrees, the instrument registered only 66 degrees.
“Take my advice, Ben Zoof,” he said; “leave your eggs in the saucepan a
good quarter of an hour.”
“Boil them hard! That will never do,” objected the orderly.
“You will not find them hard, my good fellow. Trust me, we shall be able
to dip our sippets into the yolks easily enough.”
The captain was quite right in his conjecture, that this new phenomenon
was caused by a diminution in the pressure of the atmosphere. Water
boiling at a temperature of 66 degrees was itself an evidence that the
column of air above the earth’s surface had become reduced by one-third
of its altitude. The identical phenomenon would have occurred at
the summit of a mountain 35,000 feet high; and had Servadac been in
possession of a barometer, he would have immediately discovered the fact
that only now for the first time, as the result of experiment, revealed
itself to him--a fact, moreover, which accounted for the compression of
the blood-vessels which both he and Ben Zoof had experienced, as well
as for the attenuation of their voices and their accelerated breathing.
“And yet,” he argued with himself, “if our encampment has been projected
to so great an elevation, how is it that the sea remains at its proper
level?”
Once again Hector Servadac, though capable of tracing consequences, felt
himself totally at a loss to comprehend their cause; hence his agitation
and bewilderment!
After their prolonged immersion in the boiling water, the eggs were
found to be only just sufficiently cooked; the couscous was very much in
the same condition; and Ben Zoof came to the conclusion that in future
he must be careful to commence his culinary operations an hour earlier.
He was rejoiced at last to help his master, who, in spite of his
perplexed preoccupation, seemed to have a very fair appetite for
breakfast.
“Well, captain?” said Ben Zoof presently, such being his ordinary way of
opening conversation.
“Well, Ben Zoof?” was the captain’s invariable response to his servant’s
formula.
“What are we to do now, sir?”
“We can only for the present wait patiently where we are. We are
encamped upon an island, and therefore we can only be rescued by sea.”
“But do you suppose that any of our friends are still alive?” asked Ben
Zoof.
“Oh, I think we must indulge the hope that this catastrophe has not
extended far. We must trust that it has limited its mischief to some
small portion of the Algerian coast, and that our friends are all alive
and well. No doubt the governor general will be anxious to investigate
the full extent of the damage, and will send a vessel from Algiers to
explore. It is not likely that we shall be forgotten. What, then, you
have to do, Ben Zoof, is to keep a sharp lookout, and to be ready, in
case a vessel should appear, to make signals at once.”
“But if no vessel should appear!” sighed the orderly.
“Then we must build a boat, and go in search of those who do not come in
search of us.”
“Very good. But what sort of a sailor are you?”
“Everyone can be a sailor when he must,” said Servadac calmly.
Ben Zoof said no more. For several succeeding days he scanned the
horizon unintermittently with his telescope. His watching was in vain.
No ship appeared upon the desert sea. “By the name of a Kabyle!” he
broke out impatiently, “his Excellency is grossly negligent!”
Although the days and nights had become reduced from twenty-four hours
to twelve, Captain Servadac would not accept the new condition of
things, but resolved to adhere to the computations of the old calendar.
Notwithstanding, therefore, that the sun had risen and set twelve times
since the commencement of the new year, he persisted in calling the
following day the 6th of January. His watch enabled him to keep an
accurate account of the passing hours.
In the course of his life, Ben Zoof had read a few books. After
pondering one day, he said: “It seems to me, captain, that you have
turned into Robinson Crusoe, and that I am your man Friday. I hope I
have not become a negro.”
“No,” replied the captain. “Your complexion isn’t the fairest in the
world, but you are not black yet.”
“Well, I had much sooner be a white Friday than a black one,” rejoined
Ben Zoof.
Still no ship appeared; and Captain Servadac, after the example of all
previous Crusoes, began to consider it advisable to investigate the
resources of his domain. The new territory of which he had become the
monarch he named Gourbi Island. It had a superficial area of about
nine hundred square miles. Bullocks, cows, goats, and sheep existed in
considerable numbers; and as there seemed already to be an abundance
of game, it was hardly likely that a future supply would fail them. The
condition of the cereals was such as to promise a fine ingathering of
wheat, maize, and rice; so that for the governor and his population,
with their two horses, not only was there ample provision, but even if
other human inhabitants besides themselves should yet be discovered,
there was not the remotest prospect of any of them perishing by
starvation.
From the 6th to the 13th of January the rain came down in torrents; and,
what was quite an unusual occurrence at this season of the year, several
heavy storms broke over the island. In spite, however, of the continual
downfall, the heavens still remained veiled in cloud. Servadac,
moreover, did not fail to observe that for the season the temperature
was unusually high; and, as a matter still more surprising, that it kept
steadily increasing, as though the earth were gradually and continuously
approximating to the sun. In proportion to the rise of temperature, the
light also assumed greater intensity; and if it had not been for
the screen of vapor interposed between the sky and the island, the
irradiation which would have illumined all terrestrial objects would
have been vivid beyond all precedent.
But neither sun, moon, nor star ever appeared; and Servadac’s irritation
and annoyance at being unable to identify any one point of the firmament
may be more readily imagined than described. On one occasion Ben Zoof
endeavored to mitigate his master’s impatience by exhorting him to
assume the resignation, even if he did not feel the indifference, which
he himself experienced; but his advice was received with so angry a
rebuff that he retired in all haste, abashed, to résumé his watchman’s
duty, which he performed with exemplary perseverance. Day and night,
with the shortest possible intervals of rest, despite wind, rain, and
storm, he mounted guard upon the cliff--but all in vain. Not a speck
appeared upon the desolate horizon. To say the truth, no vessel could
have stood against the weather. The hurricane raged with tremendous
fury, and the waves rose to a height that seemed to defy calculation.
Never, even in the second era of creation, when, under the influence of
internal heat, the waters rose in vapor to descend in deluge back upon
the world, could meteorological phenomena have been developed with more
impressive intensity.
But by the night of the 13th the tempest appeared to have spent its
fury; the wind dropped; the rain ceased as if by a spell; and Servadac,
who for the last six days had confined himself to the shelter of his
roof, hastened to join Ben Zoof at his post upon the cliff. Now, he
thought, there might be a chance of solving his perplexity; perhaps now
the huge disc, of which he had had an imperfect glimpse on the night of
the 31st of December, might again reveal itself; at any rate, he hoped
for an opportunity of observing the constellations in a clear firmament
above.
The night was magnificent. Not a cloud dimmed the luster of the stars,
which spangled the heavens in surpassing brilliancy, and several nebulae
which hitherto no astronomer had been able to discern without the aid of
a telescope were clearly visible to the naked eye.
By a natural impulse, Servadac’s first thought was to observe the
position of the pole-star. It was in sight, but so near to the horizon
as to suggest the utter impossibility of its being any longer the
central pivot of the sidereal system; it occupied a position through
which it was out of the question that the axis of the earth indefinitely
prolonged could ever pass. In his impression he was more thoroughly
confirmed when, an hour later, he noticed that the star had approached
still nearer the horizon, as though it had belonged to one of the
zodiacal constellations.
The pole-star being manifestly thus displaced, it remained to be
discovered whether any other of the celestial bodies had become a
fixed center around which the constellations made their apparent daily
revolutions. To the solution of this problem Servadac applied himself
with the most thoughtful diligence. After patient observation, he
satisfied himself that the required conditions were answered by a
certain star that was stationary not far from the horizon. This
was Vega, in the constellation Lyra, a star which, according to the
precession of the equinoxes, will take the place of our pole-star 12,000
years hence. The most daring imagination could not suppose that a period
of 12,000 years had been crowded into the space of a fortnight; and
therefore the captain came, as to an easier conclusion, to the opinion
that the earth’s axis had been suddenly and immensely shifted; and
from the fact that the axis, if produced, would pass through a point
so little removed above the horizon, he deduced the inference that the
Mediterranean must have been transported to the equator.
Lost in bewildering maze of thought, he gazed long and intently upon the
heavens. His eyes wandered from where the tail of the Great Bear, now a
zodiacal constellation, was scarcely visible above the waters, to where
the stars of the southern hemisphere were just breaking on his view. A
cry from Ben Zoof recalled him to himself.
“The moon!” shouted the orderly, as though overjoyed at once again
beholding what the poet has called:
“The kind companion of terrestrial night;”
and he pointed to a disc that was rising at a spot precisely opposite
the place where they would have expected to see the sun. “The moon!”
again he cried.
But Captain Servadac could not altogether enter into his servant’s
enthusiasm. If this were actually the moon, her distance from the
earth must have been increased by some millions of miles. He was rather
disposed to suspect that it was not the earth’s satellite at all,
but some planet with its apparent magnitude greatly enlarged by its
approximation to the earth. Taking up the powerful field-glass which
he was accustomed to use in his surveying operations, he proceeded to
investigate more carefully the luminous orb. But he failed to trace
any of the lineaments, supposed to resemble a human face, that mark the
lunar surface; he failed to decipher any indications of hill and plain;
nor could he make out the aureole of light which emanates from what
astronomers have designated Mount Tycho. “It is not the moon,” he said
slowly.
“Not the moon?” cried Ben Zoof. “Why not?”
“It is not the moon,” again affirmed the captain.
“Why not?” repeated Ben Zoof, unwilling to renounce his first
impression.
“Because there is a small satellite in attendance.” And the captain drew
his servant’s attention to a bright speck, apparently about the size of
one of Jupiter’s satellites seen through a moderate telescope, that was
clearly visible just within the focus of his glass.
Here, then, was a fresh mystery. The orbit of this planet was assuredly
interior to the orbit of the earth, because it accompanied the sun
in its apparent motion; yet it was neither Mercury nor Venus, because
neither one nor the other of these has any satellite at all.
The captain stamped and stamped again with mingled vexation, agitation,
and bewilderment. “Confound it!” he cried, “if this is neither Venus nor
Mercury, it must be the moon; but if it is the moon, whence, in the name
of all the gods, has she picked up another moon for herself?”
The captain was in dire perplexity.
CHAPTER VIII. VENUS IN PERILOUS PROXIMITY
The light of the returning sun soon extinguished the glory of the stars,
and rendered it necessary for the captain to postpone his observations.
He had sought in vain for further trace of the huge disc that had so
excited his wonder on the 1st, and it seemed most probable that, in its
irregular orbit, it had been carried beyond the range of vision.
The weather was still superb. The wind, after veering to the west, had
sunk to a perfect calm. Pursuing its inverted course, the sun rose and
set with undeviating regularity; and the days and nights were still
divided into periods of precisely six hours each--a sure proof that the
sun remained close to the new equator which manifestly passed through
Gourbi Island.
Meanwhile the temperature was steadily increasing. The captain kept his
thermometer close at hand where he could repeatedly consult it, and on
the 15th he found that it registered 50 degrees centigrade in the shade.
No attempt had been made to rebuild the gourbi, but the captain and
Ben Zoof managed to make up quarters sufficiently comfortable in the
principal apartment of the adjoining structure, where the stone walls,
that at first afforded a refuge from the torrents of rain, now formed an
equally acceptable shelter from the burning sun. The heat was becoming
insufferable, surpassing the heat of Senegal and other equatorial
regions; not a cloud ever tempered the intensity of the solar rays;
and unless some modification ensued, it seemed inevitable that all
vegetation should become scorched and burnt off from the face of the
island.
In spite, however, of the profuse perspirations from which he suffered,
Ben Zoof, constant to his principles, expressed no surprise at the
unwonted heat. No remonstrances from his master could induce him to
abandon his watch from the cliff. To withstand the vertical beams of
that noontide sun would seem to require a skin of brass and a brain
of adamant; but yet, hour after hour, he would remain conscientiously
scanning the surface of the Mediterranean, which, calm and deserted, lay
outstretched before him. On one occasion, Servadac, in reference to his
orderly’s indomitable perseverance, happened to remark that he thought
he must have been born in the heart of equatorial Africa; to which Ben
Zoof replied, with the utmost dignity, that he was born at Montmartre,
which was all the same. The worthy fellow was unwilling to own that,
even in the matter of heat, the tropics could in any way surpass his own
much-loved home.
This unprecedented temperature very soon began to take effect upon the
products of the soil. The sap rose rapidly in the trees, so that in the
course of a few days buds, leaves, flowers, and fruit had come to full
maturity. It was the same with the cereals; wheat and maize sprouted and
ripened as if by magic, and for a while a rank and luxuriant pasturage
clothed the meadows. Summer and autumn seemed blended into one. If
Captain Servadac had been more deeply versed in astronomy, he would
perhaps have been able to bring to bear his knowledge that if the axis
of the earth, as everything seemed to indicate, now formed a right angle
with the plane of the ecliptic, her various seasons, like those of the
planet Jupiter, would become limited to certain zones, in which they
would remain invariable. But even if he had understood the -rationale-
of the change, the convulsion that had brought it about would have been
as much a mystery as ever.
The precocity of vegetation caused some embarrassment. The time for
the corn and fruit harvest had fallen simultaneously with that of the
haymaking; and as the extreme heat precluded any prolonged exertions,
it was evident “the population” of the island would find it difficult to
provide the necessary amount of labor. Not that the prospect gave
them much concern: the provisions of the gourbi were still far from
exhausted, and now that the roughness of the weather had so happily
subsided, they had every encouragement to hope that a ship of some
sort would soon appear. Not only was that part of the Mediterranean
systematically frequented by the government steamers that watched the
coast, but vessels of all nations were constantly cruising off the
shore.
In spite, however, of all their sanguine speculations, no ship appeared.
Ben Zoof admitted the necessity of extemporizing a kind of parasol for
himself, otherwise he must literally have been roasted to death upon the
exposed summit of the cliff.
Meanwhile, Servadac was doing his utmost--it must be acknowledged, with
indifferent success--to recall the lessons of his school-days. He would
plunge into the wildest speculations in his endeavors to unravel
the difficulties of the new situation, and struggled into a kind of
conviction that if there had been a change of manner in the earth’s
rotation on her axis, there would be a corresponding change in her
revolution round the sun, which would involve the consequence of the
length of the year being either diminished or increased.
Independently of the increased and increasing heat, there was another
very conclusive demonstration that the earth had thus suddenly
approximated towards the sun. The diameter of the solar disc was now
exactly twice what it ordinarily looks to the naked eye; in fact, it was
precisely such as it would appear to an observer on the surface of the
planet Venus. The most obvious inference would therefore be that the
earth’s distance from the sun had been diminished from 91,000,000 to
66,000,000 miles. If the just equilibrium of the earth had thus been
destroyed, and should this diminution of distance still continue, would
there not be reason to fear that the terrestrial world would be carried
onwards to actual contact with the sun, which must result in its total
annihilation?
The continuance of the splendid weather afforded Servadac every facility
for observing the heavens. Night after night, constellations in
their beauty lay stretched before his eyes--an alphabet which, to his
mortification, not to say his rage, he was unable to decipher. In the
apparent dimensions of the fixed stars, in their distance, in their
relative position with regard to each other, he could observe no change.
Although it is established that our sun is approaching the constellation
of Hercules at the rate of more than 126,000,000 miles a year, and
although Arcturus is traveling through space at the rate of fifty-four
miles a second--three times faster than the earth goes round the
sun,--yet such is the remoteness of those stars that no appreciable
change is evident to the senses. The fixed stars taught him nothing.
Far otherwise was it with the planets. The orbits of Venus and Mercury
are within the orbit of the earth, Venus rotating at an average distance
of 66,130,000 miles from the sun, and Mercury at that of 35,393,000.
After pondering long, and as profoundly as he could, upon these figures,
Captain Servadac came to the conclusion that, as the earth was now
receiving about double the amount of light and heat that it had been
receiving before the catastrophe, it was receiving about the same as the
planet Venus; he was driven, therefore, to the estimate of the measure
in which the earth must have approximated to the sun, a deduction in
which he was confirmed when the opportunity came for him to observe
Venus herself in the splendid proportions that she now assumed.
That magnificent planet which--as Phosphorus or Lucifer, Hesperus or
Vesper, the evening star, the morning star, or the shepherd’s star--has
never failed to attract the rapturous admiration of the most indifferent
observers, here revealed herself with unprecedented glory, exhibiting
all the phases of a lustrous moon in miniature. Various indentations in
the outline of its crescent showed that the solar beams were refracted
into regions of its surface where the sun had already set, and proved,
beyond a doubt, that the planet had an atmosphere of her own; and
certain luminous points projecting from the crescent as plainly marked
the existence of mountains. As the result of Servadac’s computations, he
formed the opinion that Venus could hardly be at a greater distance than
6,000,000 miles from the earth.
“And a very safe distance, too,” said Ben Zoof, when his master told him
the conclusion at which he had arrived.
“All very well for two armies, but for a couple of planets not quite so
safe, perhaps, as you may imagine. It is my impression that it is more
than likely we may run foul of Venus,” said the captain.
“Plenty of air and water there, sir?” inquired the orderly.
“Yes; as far as I can tell, plenty,” replied Servadac.
“Then why shouldn’t we go and visit Venus?”
Servadac did his best to explain that as the two planets were of
about equal volume, and were traveling with great velocity in opposite
directions, any collision between them must be attended with the most
disastrous consequences to one or both of them. But Ben Zoof failed to
see that, even at the worst, the catastrophe could be much more serious
than the collision of two railway trains.
The captain became exasperated. “You idiot!” he angrily exclaimed;
“cannot you understand that the planets are traveling a thousand times
faster than the fastest express, and that if they meet, either one
or the other must be destroyed? What would become of your darling
Montmartre then?”
The captain had touched a tender chord. For a moment Ben Zoof stood with
clenched teeth and contracted muscles; then, in a voice of real concern,
he inquired whether anything could be done to avert the calamity.
“Nothing whatever; so you may go about your own business,” was the
captain’s brusque rejoinder.
All discomfited and bewildered, Ben Zoof retired without a word.
During the ensuing days the distance between the two planets continued
to decrease, and it became more and more obvious that the earth, on her
new orbit, was about to cross the orbit of Venus. Throughout this time
the earth had been making a perceptible approach towards Mercury, and
that planet--which is rarely visible to the naked eye, and then only
at what are termed the periods of its greatest eastern and western
elongations--now appeared in all its splendor. It amply justified the
epithet of “sparkling” which the ancients were accustomed to confer
upon it, and could scarcely fail to awaken a new interest. The periodic
recurrence of its phases; its reflection of the sun’s rays, shedding
upon it a light and a heat seven times greater than that received by the
earth; its glacial and its torrid zones, which, on account of the great
inclination of the axis, are scarcely separable; its equatorial bands;
its mountains eleven miles high;--were all subjects of observation
worthy of the most studious regard.
But no danger was to be apprehended from Mercury; with Venus only did
collision appear imminent. By the 18th of January the distance between
that planet and the earth had become reduced to between two and three
millions of miles, and the intensity of its light cast heavy shadows
from all terrestrial objects. It might be observed to turn upon its own
axis in twenty-three hours twenty-one minutes--an evidence, from the
unaltered duration of its days, that the planet had not shared in the
disturbance. On its disc the clouds formed from its atmospheric vapor
were plainly perceptible, as also were the seven spots, which, according
to Bianchini, are a chain of seas. It was now visible in broad daylight.
Buonaparte, when under the Directory, once had his attention called to
Venus at noon, and immediately hailed it joyfully, recognizing it as
his own peculiar star in the ascendant. Captain Servadac, it may well be
imagined, did not experience the same gratifying emotion.
On the 20th, the distance between the two bodies had again sensibly
diminished. The captain had ceased to be surprised that no vessel
had been sent to rescue himself and his companion from their strange
imprisonment; the governor general and the minister of war were
doubtless far differently occupied, and their interests far otherwise
engrossed. What sensational articles, he thought, must now be teeming to
the newspapers! What crowds must be flocking to the churches! The end
of the world approaching! the great climax close at hand! Two days more,
and the earth, shivered into a myriad atoms, would be lost in boundless
space!
These dire forebodings, however, were not destined to be realized.
Gradually the distance between the two planets began to increase; the
planes of their orbits did not coincide, and accordingly the dreaded
catastrophe did not ensue. By the 25th, Venus was sufficiently remote to
preclude any further fear of collision. Ben Zoof gave a sigh of relief
when the captain communicated the glad intelligence.
Their proximity to Venus had been close enough to demonstrate that
beyond a doubt that planet has no moon or satellite such as Cassini,
Short, Montaigne of Limoges, Montbarron, and some other astronomers have
imagined to exist. “Had there been such a satellite,” said Servadac,
“we might have captured it in passing. But what can be the meaning,” he
added seriously, “of all this displacement of the heavenly bodies?”
“What is that great building at Paris, captain, with a top like a cap?”
asked Ben Zoof.
“Do you mean the Observatory?”
“Yes, the Observatory. Are there not people living in the Observatory
who could explain all this?”
“Very likely; but what of that?”
“Let us be philosophers, and wait patiently until we can hear their
explanation.”
Servadac smiled. “Do you know what it is to be a philosopher, Ben Zoof?”
he asked.
“I am a soldier, sir,” was the servant’s prompt rejoinder, “and I have
learnt to know that ‘what can’t be cured must be endured.’”
The captain made no reply, but for a time, at least, he desisted from
puzzling himself over matters which he felt he was utterly incompetent
to explain. But an event soon afterwards occurred which awakened his
keenest interest.
About nine o’clock on the morning of the 27th, Ben Zoof walked
deliberately into his master’s apartment, and, in reply to a question as
to what he wanted, announced with the utmost composure that a ship was
in sight.
“A ship!” exclaimed Servadac, starting to his feet. “A ship! Ben Zoof,
you donkey! you speak as unconcernedly as though you were telling me
that my dinner was ready.”
“Are we not philosophers, captain?” said the orderly.
But the captain was out of hearing.
CHAPTER IX. INQUIRIES UNSATISFIED
Fast as his legs could carry him, Servadac had made his way to the top
of the cliff. It was quite true that a vessel was in sight, hardly more
than six miles from the shore; but owing to the increase in the earth’s
convexity, and the consequent limitation of the range of vision, the
rigging of the topmasts alone was visible above the water. This was
enough, however, to indicate that the ship was a schooner--an impression
that was confirmed when, two hours later, she came entirely in sight.
“The -Dobryna-!” exclaimed Servadac, keeping his eye unmoved at his
telescope.
“Impossible, sir!” rejoined Ben Zoof; “there are no signs of smoke.”
“The -Dobryna-!” repeated the captain, positively. “She is under sail;
but she is Count Timascheff’s yacht.”
He was right. If the count were on board, a strange fatality was
bringing him to the presence of his rival. But no longer now could
Servadac regard him in the light of an adversary; circumstances had
changed, and all animosity was absorbed in the eagerness with which
he hailed the prospect of obtaining some information about the recent
startling and inexplicable events. During the twenty-seven days that she
had been absent, the -Dobryna-, he conjectured, would have explored the
Mediterranean, would very probably have visited Spain, France, or Italy,
and accordingly would convey to Gourbi Island some intelligence from
one or other of those countries. He reckoned, therefore, not only upon
ascertaining the extent of the late catastrophe, but upon learning
its cause. Count Timascheff was, no doubt, magnanimously coming to the
rescue of himself and his orderly.
The wind being adverse, the -Dobryna- did not make very rapid progress;
but as the weather, in spite of a few clouds, remained calm, and the
sea was quite smooth, she was enabled to hold a steady course. It seemed
unaccountable that she should not use her engine, as whoever was on
board, would be naturally impatient to reconnoiter the new island, which
must just have come within their view. The probability that suggested
itself was that the schooner’s fuel was exhausted.
Servadac took it for granted that the -Dobryna- was endeavoring to
put in. It occurred to him, however, that the count, on discovering an
island where he had expected to find the mainland of Africa, would not
unlikely be at a loss for a place of anchorage. The yacht was evidently
making her way in the direction of the former mouth of the Shelif,
and the captain was struck with the idea that he would do well to
investigate whether there was any suitable mooring towards which he
might signal her. Zephyr and Galette were soon saddled, and in twenty
minutes had carried their riders to the western extremity of the island,
where they both dismounted and began to explore the coast.
They were not long in ascertaining that on the farther side of the
point there was a small well-sheltered creek of sufficient depth to
accommodate a vessel of moderate tonnage. A narrow channel formed a
passage through the ridge of rocks that protected it from the open sea,
and which, even in the roughest weather, would ensure the calmness of
its waters.
Whilst examining the rocky shore, the captain observed, to his great
surprise, long and well-defined rows of seaweed, which undoubtedly
betokened that there had been a very considerable ebb and flow of the
waters--a thing unknown in the Mediterranean, where there is scarcely
any perceptible tide. What, however, seemed most remarkable, was the
manifest evidence that ever since the highest flood (which was caused,
in all probability, by the proximity of the body of which the huge
disc had been so conspicuous on the night of the 31st of December) the
phenomenon had been gradually lessening, and in fact was now reduced to
the normal limits which had characterized it before the convulsion.
Without doing more than note the circumstance, Servadac turned his
entire attention to the -Dobryna-, which, now little more than a mile
from shore, could not fail to see and understand his signals. Slightly
changing her course, she first struck her mainsail, and, in order to
facilitate the movements of her helmsman, soon carried nothing but her
two topsails, brigantine and jib. After rounding the peak, she steered
direct for the channel to which Servadac by his gestures was pointing
her, and was not long in entering the creek. As soon as the anchor,
imbedded in the sandy bottom, had made good its hold, a boat was
lowered. In a few minutes more Count Timascheff had landed on the
island. Captain Servadac hastened towards him.
“First of all, count,” he exclaimed impetuously, “before we speak one
other word, tell me what has happened.”
The count, whose imperturbable composure presented a singular contrast
to the French officer’s enthusiastic vivacity, made a stiff bow, and
in his Russian accent replied: “First of all, permit me to express my
surprise at seeing you here. I left you on a continent, and here I have
the honor of finding you on an island.”
“I assure you, count, I have never left the place.”
“I am quite aware of it. Captain Servadac, and I now beg to offer you my
sincere apologies for failing to keep my appointment with you.”
“Never mind, now,” interposed the captain; “we will talk of that
by-and-by. First, tell me what has happened.”
“The very question I was about to put to you, Captain Servadac.”
“Do you mean to say you know nothing of the cause, and can tell me
nothing of the extent, of the catastrophe which has transformed this
part of Africa into an island?”
“Nothing more than you know yourself.”
“But surely, Count Timascheff, you can inform me whether upon the
northern shore of the Mediterranean--”
“Are you certain that this is the Mediterranean?” asked the count
significantly, and added, “I have discovered no sign of land.”
The captain stared in silent bewilderment. For some moments he seemed
perfectly stupefied; then, recovering himself, he began to overwhelm the
count with a torrent of questions. Had he noticed, ever since the 1st
of January, that the sun had risen in the west? Had he noticed that the
days had been only six hours long, and that the weight of the atmosphere
was so much diminished? Had he observed that the moon had quite
disappeared, and that the earth had been in imminent hazard of running
foul of the planet Venus? Was he aware, in short, that the entire
motions of the terrestrial sphere had undergone a complete modification?
To all these inquiries, the count responded in the affirmative. He
was acquainted with everything that had transpired; but, to Servadac’s
increasing astonishment, he could throw no light upon the cause of any
of the phenomena.
“On the night of the 31st of December,” he said, “I was proceeding by
sea to our appointed place of meeting, when my yacht was suddenly caught
on the crest of an enormous wave, and carried to a height which it
is beyond my power to estimate. Some mysterious force seemed to have
brought about a convulsion of the elements. Our engine was damaged, nay
disabled, and we drifted entirely at the mercy of the terrible hurricane
that raged during the succeeding days. That the -Dobryna- escaped at all
is little less than a miracle, and I can only attribute her safety
to the fact that she occupied the center of the vast cyclone, and
consequently did not experience much change of position.”
He paused, and added: “Your island is the first land we have seen.”
“Then let us put out to sea at once and ascertain the extent of the
disaster,” cried the captain, eagerly. “You will take me on board,
count, will you not?”
“My yacht is at your service, sir, even should you require to make a
tour round the world.”
“A tour round the Mediterranean will suffice for the present, I think,”
said the captain, smiling.
The count shook his head.
“I am not sure,” said he, “but what the tour of the Mediterranean will
prove to be the tour of the world.”
Servadac made no reply, but for a time remained silent and absorbed in
thought.
After the silence was broken, they consulted as to what course was
best to pursue; and the plan they proposed was, in the first place, to
discover how much of the African coast still remained, and to carry on
the tidings of their own experiences to Algiers; or, in the event of the
southern shore having actually disappeared, they would make their way
northwards and put themselves in communication with the population on
the river banks of Europe.
Before starting, it was indispensable that the engine of the -Dobryna-
should be repaired: to sail under canvas only would in contrary winds
and rough seas be both tedious and difficult. The stock of coal on
board was adequate for two months’ consumption; but as it would at
the expiration of that time be exhausted, it was obviously the part
of prudence to employ it in reaching a port where fuel could be
replenished.
The damage sustained by the engine proved to be not very serious; and
in three days after her arrival the -Dobryna- was again ready to put to
sea.
Servadac employed the interval in making the count acquainted with
all he knew about his small domain. They made an entire circuit of
the island, and both agreed that it must be beyond the limits of that
circumscribed territory that they must seek an explanation of what had
so strangely transpired.
It was on the last day of January that the repairs of the schooner were
completed. A slight diminution in the excessively high temperature which
had prevailed for the last few weeks, was the only apparent change in
the general order of things; but whether this was to be attributed to
any alteration in the earth’s orbit was a question which would still
require several days to decide. The weather remained fine, and although
a few clouds had accumulated, and might have caused a trifling fall
of the barometer, they were not sufficiently threatening to delay the
departure of the -Dobryna-.
Doubts now arose, and some discussion followed, whether or not it was
desirable for Ben Zoof to accompany his master. There were various
reasons why he should be left behind, not the least important being that
the schooner had no accommodation for horses, and the orderly would have
found it hard to part with Zephyr, and much more with his own favorite
Galette; besides, it was advisable that there should be some one left to
receive any strangers that might possibly arrive, as well as to keep an
eye upon the herds of cattle which, in the dubious prospect before them,
might prove to be the sole resource of the survivors of the catastrophe.
Altogether, taking into consideration that the brave fellow would incur
no personal risk by remaining upon the island, the captain was induced
with much reluctance to forego the attendance of his servant, hoping
very shortly to return and to restore him to his country, when he had
ascertained the reason of the mysteries in which they were enveloped.
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-
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.
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