Now, if we have been going for five hours, we must have cleared
Pamlico Sound, whether we issued by Ocracoke or Hatteras inlet, and
must be off the coast a good mile, at least. Yet I haven't felt any
motion from the swell of the sea.
It is inexplicable, incredible! Come now, have I made a mistake? Am
I the dupe of an illusion? Am I not imprisoned in the hold of a ship
under way?
Another hour has passed and the movement of the ship suddenly ceases;
I realize perfectly that she is stationary. Has she reached her
destination? In this event we can only be in one of the coast ports
to the north or south of Pamlico Sound. But why should Thomas Roch be
landed again? The abduction must soon have been discovered, and our
kidnappers would run the greatest risk of falling into the hands of
the authorities if they attempted to disembark.
However this may be, if the vessel is coming to anchor I shall hear
the noise of the chain as it is paid out, and feel the jerk as
the ship is brought up. I know that sound and that jerk well from
experience, and I am bound to hear and feel them in a minute or two.
I wait--I listen.
A dead and disquieting silence reigns on board. I begin to wonder
whether I am not the only living being in the ship.
Now I feel an irresistible torpor coming over me. The air is vitiated.
I cannot breathe. My chest is bursting. I try to resist, but it is
impossible to do so. The temperature rises to such a degree that I am
compelled to divest myself of part of my clothing. Then I lie me down
in a corner. My heavy eyelids close, and I sink into a prostration
that eventually forces me into heavy slumber.
How long have I been asleep? I cannot say. Is it night? Is it day? I
know not. I remark, however, that I breathe more easily, and that the
air is no longer poisoned carbonic acid.
Was the air renewed while I slept? Has the door been opened? Has
anybody been in here?
Yes, here is the proof of it!
In feeling about, my hand has come in contact with a mug filled with
a liquid that exhales an inviting odor. I raise it to my lips, which,
are burning, for I am suffering such an agony of thirst that I would
even drink brackish water.
It is ale--an ale of excellent quality--which refreshes and comforts
me, and I drain the pint to the last drop.
But if they have not condemned me to die of thirst, neither have they
condemned me to die of hunger, I suppose?
No, for in one of the corners I find a basket, and this basket
contains some bread and cold meat.
I fall to, eating greedily, and my strength little by little returns.
Decidedly, I am not so abandoned as I thought I was. Some one entered
this obscure hole, and the open door admitted a little of the oxygen
from the outside, without which I should have been suffocated. Then
the wherewithal to quench my thirst and appease the pangs of hunger
was placed within my reach.
How much longer will this incarceration last? Days? Months? I cannot
estimate the hours that have elapsed since I fell asleep, nor have I
any idea as to what time of the day or night it may be. I was careful
to wind up my watch, though, and perhaps by feeling the hands--Yes, I
think the little hand marks eight o'clock--in the morning, no doubt.
What I do know, however, is that the ship is not in motion. There is
not the slightest quiver.
Hours and hours, weary, interminable hours go by, and I wonder whether
they are again waiting till night comes on to renew my stock of
air and provisions. Yes, they are waiting to take advantage of my
slumbers. But this time I am resolved to resist. I will feign to be
asleep--and I shall know how to force an answer from whoever enters!
CHAPTER VI.
ON DECK.
Here I am in the open air, breathing freely once more. I have at last
been hauled out of that stifling box and taken on deck. I gaze around
me in every direction and see no sign of land. On every hand is that
circular line which defines earth and sky. No, there is not even a
speck of land to be seen to the west, where the coast of North America
extends for thousands of miles.
The setting sun now throws but slanting rays upon the bosom of the
ocean. It must be about six o'clock in the evening. I take out my
watch and it marks thirteen minutes past six.
As I have already mentioned, I waited for the door of my prison to
open, thoroughly resolved not to fall asleep again, but to spring upon
the first person who entered and force him to answer my questions. I
was not aware then that it was day, but it was, and hour after hour
passed and no one came. I began to suffer again from hunger and
thirst, for I had not preserved either bite or sup.
As soon as I awoke I felt that the ship was in motion again, after
having, I calculated, remained stationary since the previous day--no
doubt in some lonely creek, since I had not heard or felt her come to
anchor.
A few minutes ago--it must therefore have been six o'clock--I again
heard footsteps on the other side of the iron wall of my compartment.
Was anybody coming to my cell? Yes, for I heard the creaking of the
bolts as they were drawn back, and then the door opened, and the
darkness in which I had been plunged since the first hour of my
captivity was illumined by the light of a lantern.
Two men, whom I had no time to look at, entered and seized me by the
arms. A thick cloth was thrown over my head, which was enveloped in
such a manner that I could see absolutely nothing.
What did it all mean? What were they going to do with me? I struggled,
but they held me in an iron grasp. I questioned them, but they made
no reply. The men spoke to each other in a language that I could not
understand, and had never heard before.
They stood upon no ceremony with me. It is true I was only a madhouse
warder, and they probably did not consider it necessary to do so; but
I question very much whether Simon Hart, the engineer, would have
received any more courtesy at their hands.
This time, however, no attempt was made to gag me nor to bind either
my arms or legs. I was simply restrained by main force from breaking
away from them.
In a moment I was dragged out of the compartment and pushed along a
narrow passage. Next, the steps of a metallic stairway resounded under
our feet. Then the fresh air blew in my face and I inhaled it with
avidity.
Finally they took their hands from off me, and I found myself free. I
immediately tore the cloth off my head and gazed about me.
I am on board a schooner which is ripping through the water at a great
rate and leaving a long white trail behind her.
I had to clutch at one of the stays for support, dazzled as I was
by the light after my forty-eight hours' imprisonment in complete
obscurity.
On the deck a dozen men with rough, weather-beaten faces come and
go--very dissimilar types of men, to whom it would be impossible to
attribute any particular nationality. They scarcely take any notice of
me.
As to the schooner, I estimate that she registers from two hundred and
fifty to three hundred tons. She has a fairly wide beam, her masts are
strong and lofty, and her large spread of canvas must carry her along
at a spanking rate in a good breeze.
Aft, a grizzly-faced man is at the wheel, and he is keeping her head
to the sea that is running pretty high.
I try to find out the name of the vessel, but it is not to be seen
anywhere, even on the life-buoys.
I walk up to one of the sailors and inquire:
"What is the name of this ship?"
No answer, and I fancy the man does not understand me.
"Where is the captain?" I continue.
But the sailor pays no more heed to this than he did to the previous
question.
I turn on my heel and go forward.
Above the forward hatchway a bell is suspended. Maybe the name of the
schooner is engraved upon it. I examine it, but can find no name upon
it.
I then return to the stern and address the man at the wheel. He gazes
at me sourly, shrugs his shoulders, and bending, grasps the spokes of
the wheel solidly, and brings the schooner, which had been headed off
by a large wave from port, stem on to sea again.
Seeing that nothing is to be got from that quarter, I turn away and
look about to see if I can find Thomas Roch, but I do not perceive
him anywhere. Is he not on board? He must be. They could have had no
reason for carrying me off alone. No one could have had any idea
that I was Simon Hart, the engineer, and even had they known it what
interest could they have had in me, and what could they expect of me?
Therefore, as Roch is not on deck, I conclude that he is locked in one
of the cabins, and trust he has met with better treatment than his
ex-guardian.
But what is this--and how on earth could I have failed to notice it
before? How is this schooner moving? Her sails are furled--there is
not an inch of canvas set--the wind has fallen, and the few puffs that
occasionally come from the east are unfavorable, in view of the fact
that we are going in that very direction. And yet the schooner speeds
through the sea, her bows down, throwing off clouds of foam, and
leaving a long, milky, undulating trail in her wake.
Is she a steam-yacht? No--there is not a smokestack about her. Is she
propelled by electricity--by a battery of accumulators, or by piles of
great power that work her screw and send her along at this rate?
I can come to no other conclusion. In any case she must be fitted with
a screw, and by leaning over the stern I shall be able to see it, and
can find out what sets it working afterwards.
The man at the wheel watches me ironically as I approach, but makes no
effort to prevent me from looking over.
I gaze long and earnestly, but there is no foaming and seething of
the water such as is invariably caused by the revolutions of the
screw--naught but the long white furrow that a sailing vessel leaves
behind is discernible in the schooner's wake.
Then, what kind of a machine is it that imparts such a marvellous
speed to the vessel? As I have already said, the wind is against her,
and there is a heavy swell on.
I must--I will know. No one pays the slightest attention, and I again
go forward.
As I approach the forecastle I find myself face to face with a man who
is leaning nonchalantly on the raised hatchway and who is watching me.
He seems to be waiting for me to speak to him.
I recognize him instantly. He is the person who accompanied the Count
d'Artigas during the latter's visit to Healthful House. There can be
no mistake--it is he right enough.
It was, then, that rich foreigner who abducted Thomas Roch, and I am
on board the -Ebba- his schooner-yacht which is so well known on the
American coast!
The man before me will enlighten me about what I want to know. I
remember that he and the Count spoke English together.
I take him to be the captain of the schooner.
"Captain," I say, "you are the person I saw at Healthful House. You
remember me, of course?"
He looks me up and down but does not condescend to reply.
"I am Warder Gaydon, the attendant of Thomas Roch," I continue, "and I
want to know why you have carried me off and placed me on board this
schooner?"
The captain interrupts me with a sign. It is not made to me, however,
but to some sailors standing near.
They catch me by the arms, and taking no notice of the angry movement
that I cannot restrain, bundle me down the hatchway. The hatchway
stair in reality, I remark, is a perpendicular iron ladder, at the
bottom of which, to right and left, are some cabins, and forward, the
men's quarters.
Are they going to put me back in my dark prison at the bottom of the
hold?
No. They turn to the left and push me into a cabin. It is lighted by
a port-hole, which is open, and through which the fresh air comes in
gusts from the briny. The furniture consists of a bunk, a chair, a
chest of drawers, a wash-hand-stand and a table.
The latter is spread for dinner, and I sit down. Then the cook's mate
comes in with two or three dishes. He is a colored lad, and as he is
about to withdraw, I try to question him, but he, too, vouchsafes no
reply. Perhaps he doesn't understand me.
The door is closed, and I fall to and eat with an excellent appetite,
with the intention of putting off all further questioning till some
future occasion when I shall stand a chance of getting answered.
It is true I am a prisoner, but this time I am comfortable enough, and
I hope I shall be permitted to occupy this cabin for the remainder of
the voyage, and not be lowered into that black hole again.
I now give myself up to my thoughts, the first of which is that it was
the Count d'Artigas who planned the abduction; that it was he who is
responsible for the kidnapping of Thomas Roch, and that consequently
the French inventor must be just as comfortably installed somewhere on
board the schooner.
But who is this Count d'Artigas? Where does he hail from? If he has
seized Thomas Roch, is it not because he is determined to secure the
secret of the fulgurator at no matter what cost? Very likely, and I
must therefore be careful not to betray my identity, for if they knew
the truth, I should never be afforded a chance to get away.
But what a lot of mysteries to clear up, how many inexplicable things
to explain--the origin of this d'Artigas, his intentions as to the
future, whither we are bound, the port to which the schooner belongs,
and this mysterious progress through the water without sails and
without screws, at a speed of at least ten knots an hour!
The air becoming keener as night deepens, I close and secure the
port-hole, and as my cabin is bolted on the outside, the best thing I
can do is to get into my bunk and let myself be gently rocked to sleep
by the broad Atlantic in this mysterious cradle, the -Ebba-.
The next morning I rise at daybreak, and having performed my
ablutions, dress myself and wait.
Presently the idea of trying the door occurs to me. I find that it has
been unbolted, and pushing it open, climb the iron ladder and emerge
on deck.
The crew are washing down the deck, and standing aft and conversing
are two men, one of whom is the captain. The latter manifests no
surprise at seeing me, and indicates my presence to his companion by a
nod.
This other man, whom I have never before seen, is an individual of
about fifty years of age, whose dark hair is streaked with gray.
His features are delicately chiselled, his eyes are bright, and his
expression is intelligent and not at all displeasing. He is somewhat
of the Grecian type, and I have no doubt that he is of Hellenic origin
when I hear him called Serko--Engineer Serko--by the Captain of the
-Ebba-.
As to the latter, he is called Spade--Captain Spade--and this name has
an Italian twang about it. Thus there is a Greek, an Italian, and a
crew recruited from every corner of the earth to man a schooner with a
Norwegian name! This mixture strikes me as being suspicious.
And that Count d'Artigas, with his Spanish name and Asiatic type,
where does he come from?
Captain Spade and Engineer Serko continue to converse in a low tone of
voice. The former is keeping a sharp eye on the man at the wheel, who
does not appear to pay any particular attention to the compass in
front of him. He seems to pay more heed to the gestures of one of the
sailors stationed forward, and who signals to him to put the helm to
port or to starboard.
Thomas Roch is near them, gazing vacantly out upon the vast expanse
which is not limited on the horizon by a single speck of land. Two
sailors watch his every movement. It is evidently feared that the
madman may possibly attempt to jump overboard.
I wonder whether I shall be permitted to communicate with my ward.
I walk towards him, and Captain Spade and Engineer Serko watch me.
Thomas Roch doesn't see me coming, and I stand beside him. Still he
takes no notice of me, and makes no movement. His eyes, which sparkle
brightly, wander over the ocean, and he draws in deep breaths of the
salt, vivifying atmosphere. Added to the air surcharged with oxygen is
a magnificent sunset in a cloudless sky. Does he perceive the change
in his situation? Has he already forgotten about Healthful House, the
pavilion in which he was a prisoner, and Gaydon, his keeper? It is
highly probable. The past has presumably been effaced from his memory
and he lives solely in the present.
In my opinion, even on the deck of the -Ebba-, in the middle of the
sea, Thomas Roch is still the helpless, irresponsible man whom I
tended for fifteen months. His intellectual condition has undergone no
change, and his reason will return only when he is spoken to about
his inventions. The Count d'Artigas is perfectly aware of this mental
disposition, having had a proof of it during his visit, and he
evidently relies thereon to surprise sooner or later the inventor's
secret. But with what object?
"Thomas Roch!" I exclaim.
My voice seems to strike him, and after gazing at me fixedly for an
instant he averts his eyes quickly.
I take his hand and press it. He withdraws it brusquely and walks
away, without having recognized me, in the direction of Captain Spade
and Engineer Serko.
Does he think of speaking to one or other of these men, and if they
speak to him will he be more reasonable than he was with me, and reply
to them?
At this moment his physiognomy lights up with a gleam of intelligence.
His attention, obviously, has been attracted by the queer progress
of the schooner. He gazes at the masts and the furled sails. Then he
turns back and stops at the place where, if the -Ebba- were a steamer,
the funnel ought to be, and which in this case ought to be belching
forth a cloud of black smoke.
What appeared so strange to me evidently strikes Thomas Roch as being
strange, too. He cannot explain what I found inexplicable, and, as I
did, he walks aft to see if there is a screw.
On the flanks of the -Ebba- a shoal of porpoises are sporting.
Swift as is the schooner's course they easily pass her, leaping and
gambolling in their native element with surprising grace and agility.
Thomas Roch pays no attention to them, but leans over the stern.
Engineer Serko and Captain Spade, fearful lest he should fall
overboard, hurry to him and drag him gently, but firmly, away.
I observe from long experience that Roch is a prey to violent
excitement. He turns about and gesticulates, uttering incoherent
phrases the while.
It is plain to me that another fit is coming on, similar to the one he
had in the pavilion of Healthful House on the night we were abducted.
He will have to be seized and carried down to his cabin, and I shall
perhaps be summoned to attend to him.
Meanwhile Engineer Serko and Captain Spade do not lose sight of him
for a moment. They are evidently curious to see what he will do.
After walking towards the mainmast and assuring himself that the sails
are not set, he goes up to it and flinging his arms around it, tries
with all his might to shake it, as though seeking to pull it down.
Finding his efforts futile, he quits it and goes to the foremast,
where the same performance is gone through. He waxes more and more
excited. His vague utterances are followed by inarticulate cries.
Suddenly he rushes to the port stays and clings to them, and I
begin to fear that he will leap into the rigging and climb to the
cross-tree, where he might be precipitated into the sea by a lurch of
the ship.
On a sign from Captain Spade, some sailors run up and try to make him
relinquish his grasp of the stays, but are unable to do so. I know
that during his fits he is endowed with the strength of ten men, and
many a time I have been compelled to summon assistance in order to
overpower him.
Other members of the crew, however, come up, and the unhappy madman is
borne to the deck, where two big sailors hold him down, despite his
extraordinary strength.
The only thing to do is to convey him to his cabin, and let him
lie there till he gets over his fit. This is what will be done in
conformity with orders given by a new-comer whose voice seems familiar
to me.
I turn and recognize him.
He is the Count d'Artigas, with a frown on his face and an imperious
manner, just as I had seen him at Healthful House.
I at once advance toward him. I want an explanation and mean to have
it.
"By what right, sir?"--I begin.
"By the right of might," replies the Count.
Then he turns on his heel, and Thomas Roch is carried below.
CHAPTER VII.
TWO DAYS AT SEA.
Perhaps--should circumstances render it necessary--I may be induced to
tell the Count d'Artigas that I am Simon Hart, the engineer. Who knows
but what I may receive more consideration than if I remain Warder
Gaydon? This measure, however, demands reflection. I have always been
dominated by the thought that if the owner of the -Ebba- kidnapped the
French inventor, it was in the hope of getting possession of Roch's
fulgurator, for which, neither the old nor new continent would pay the
impossible price demanded. In that case the best thing I can do is to
remain Warder Gaydon, on the chance that I may be allowed to continue
in attendance upon him. In this way, if Thomas Roch should ever
divulge his secret, I may learn what it was impossible to do at
Healthful House, and can act accordingly.
Meanwhile, where is the -Ebba- bound?--first question.
Who and what is the Count d'Artigas?--second question.
The first will be answered in a few days' time, no doubt, in view of
the rapidity with which we are ripping through the water, under the
action of a means of propulsion that I shall end by finding out
all about. As regards the second, I am by no means so sure that my
curiosity will ever be gratified.
In my opinion this enigmatical personage has an all important reason
for hiding his origin, and I am afraid there is no indication by which
I can gauge his nationality. If the Count d'Artigas speaks English
fluently--and I was able to assure myself of that fact during his
visit to Pavilion No. 17,--he pronounces it with a harsh, vibrating
accent, which is not to be found among the peoples of northern
latitudes. I do not remember ever to have heard anything like it in
the course of my travels either in the Old or New World--unless it
be the harshness characteristic of the idioms in use among the Malays.
And, in truth, with his olive, verging on copper-tinted skin, his
jet-black, crinkly hair, his piercing, deep-set, restless eyes, his
square shoulders and marked muscular development, it is by no means
unlikely that he belongs to one of the extreme Eastern races.
I believe this name of d'Artigas is an assumed one, and his title of
Count likewise. If his schooner bears a Norwegian name, he at any rate
is not of Scandinavian origin. He has nothing of the races of Northern
Europe about him.
But whoever and whatever he may be, this man abducted Thomas Roch--and
me with him--with no good intention, I'll be bound.
But what I should like to know is, has he acted as the agent of a
foreign power, or on his own account? Does he wish to profit alone by
Thomas Roch's invention, and is he in the position to dispose of it
profitably? That is another question that I cannot yet answer. Maybe
I shall be able to find out from what I hear and see ere I make my
escape, if escape be possible.
The -Ebba- continues on her way in the same mysterious manner. I am
free to walk about the deck, without, however, being able to go beyond
the fore hatchway. Once I attempted to go as far as the bows where I
could, by leaning over, perceive the schooner's stem as it cut through
the water, but acting, it was plain, on orders received, the watch
on deck turned me back, and one of them, addressing me brusquely in
harsh, grating English, said:
"Go back! Go back! You are interfering with the working of the ship!"
With the working of the ship! There was no working.
Did they realize that I was trying to discover by what means the
schooner was propelled? Very likely, and Captain Spade, who had looked
on, must have known it, too. Even a hospital attendant could not fail
to be astonished at the fact that a vessel without either screw or
sails was going along at such a speed. However this may be, for some
reason or other, the bows of the -Ebba- are barred to me.
Toward ten o'clock a breeze springs up--a northwest wind and very
favorable--and Captain Spade gives an order to the boatswain. The
latter immediately pipes all hands on deck, and the mainsail, the
foresail, staysail and jibs are hoisted. The work could not have been
executed with greater regularity and discipline on board a man-of-war.
The -Ebba- now has a slight list to port, and her speed is notably
increased. But the motor continues to push her along, as is evident
from the fact that the sails are not always as full as they ought
to be if the schooner were bowling along solely under their action.
However, they continue to render yeoman's service, for the breeze has
set in steadily.
The sky is clear, for the clouds in the west disappear as soon as they
attain the horizon, and the sunlight dances on the water.
My preoccupation now is to find out as near as possible where we
are bound for. I am a good-enough sailor to be able to estimate
the approximate speed of a ship. In my opinion the -Ebba- has been
travelling at the rate of from ten to eleven knots an hour. As to the
direction we have been going in, it is always the same, and I have
been able to verify this by casual glances at the binnacle. If the
fore part of the vessel is barred to Warder Gaydon he has been allowed
a free run of the remainder of it. Time and again I have glanced at
the compass, and noticed that the needle invariably pointed to the
east, or to be exact, east-southeast.
These are the conditions in which we are navigating this part of the
Atlantic Ocean, which is bounded on the west by the coast of the
United States of America.
I appeal to my memory. What are the islands or groups of islands to
be found in the direction we are going, ere the continent of the Old
World is reached?
North Carolina, which the schooner quitted forty-eight hours ago, is
traversed by the thirty-fifth parallel of latitude, and this parallel,
extending eastward, must, if I mistake not, cut the African coast at
Morocco. But along the line, about three thousand miles from America,
are the Azores. Is it presumable that the -Ebba- is heading for this
archipelago, that the port to which she belongs is somewhere in these
islands which constitute one of Portugal's insular domains? I cannot
admit such an hypothesis.
Besides, before the Azores, on the line of the thirty-fifth parallel,
is the Bermuda group, which belongs to England. It seems to me to be a
good deal less hypothetical that, if the Count d'Artigas was entrusted
with the abduction of Thomas Roch by a European Power at all, it was
by the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The possibility,
however, remains that he may be acting solely in his own interest.
Three or four times during the day Count d'Artigas has come aft and
remained for some time scanning the surrounding horizon attentively.
When a sail or the smoke from a steamer heaves in sight he examines
the passing vessel for a considerable time with a powerful telescope.
I may add that he has not once condescended to notice my presence on
deck.
Now and then Captain Spade joins him and both exchange a few words in
a language that I can neither understand nor recognize.
It is with Engineer Serko, however, that the owner of the -Ebba-
converses more readily than with anybody else, and the latter appears
to be very intimate with him. The engineer is a good deal more free,
more loquacious and less surly than his companions, and I wonder what
position he occupies on the schooner. Is he a personal friend of the
Count d'Artigas? Does he scour the seas with him, sharing the enviable
life enjoyed by the rich yachtsman? He is the only man of the lot who
seems to manifest, if not sympathy with, at least some interest in me.
I have not seen Thomas Roch all day. He must be shut in his cabin,
still under the influence of the fit that came upon him last night.
I feel certain that this is so, when about three o'clock in the
afternoon, just as he is about to go below, the Count beckons me to
approach.
I do not know what he wishes to say to me, this Count d'Artigas, but I
do know what I will say to him.
"Do these fits to which Thomas Roch is subject last long?" he asks me
in English.
"Sometimes forty-eight hours," I reply.
"What is to be done?"
"Nothing at all. Let him alone until he falls asleep. After a night's
sleep the fit will be over and Thomas Roch will be his own helpless
self again."
"Very well, Warder Gaydon, you will continue to attend him as you did
at Healthful House, if it be necessary."
"To attend to him!"
"Yes--on board the schooner--pending our arrival."
"Where?"
"Where we shall be to-morrow afternoon," replies the Count.
To-morrow, I say to myself. Then we are not bound for the coast of
Africa, nor even the Azores. There only remains the hypothesis that we
are making for the Bermudas.
Count d'Artigas is about to go down the hatchway when I interrogate
him in my turn:
"Sir," I exclaim, "I desire to know, I have the right to know, where I
am going, and----"
"Here, Warder Gaydon," he interrupted, "you have no rights. All you
have to do is to answer when you are spoken to." "I protest!"
"Protest, then," replies this haughty and imperious personage,
glancing at me menacingly.
Then he disappears down the hatchway, leaving me face to face with
Engineer Serko.
"If I were you, Warder Gaydon, I would resign myself to the
inevitable," remarks the latter with a smile. "When one is caught in a
trap----"
"One can cry out, I suppose?"
"What is the use when no one is near to hear you?"
"I shall be heard some day, sir."
"Some day--that's a long way off. However, shout as much as you
please."
And with this ironical advice, Engineer Serko leaves me to my own
reflections.
Towards four o'clock a big ship is reported about six miles off to
the east, coming in our direction. She is moving rapidly and grows
perceptibly larger. Black clouds of smoke pour out of her two funnels.
She is a warship, for a narrow pennant floats from her main-mast,
and though she is not flying any flag I take her to be an American
cruiser.
I wonder whether the -Ebba- will render her the customary salute as
she passes.
No; for the schooner suddenly changes her course with the evident
intention of avoiding her.
This proceeding on the part of such a suspicious yacht does not
astonish me greatly. But what does cause me extreme surprise is
Captain Spade's way of manoeuvring.
He runs forward to a signalling apparatus in the bows, similar to that
by which orders are transmitted to the engine room of a steamer. As
soon as he presses one of the buttons of this apparatus the -Ebba-
veers off a point to the south-west.
Evidently an order of "some kind" has been transmitted to the driver
of the machine of "some kind" which causes this inexplicable movement
of the schooner by the action of a motor of "some kind" the principle
of which I cannot guess at.
The result of this manoeuvre is that the -Ebba- slants away from the
cruiser, whose course does not vary. Why should this warship cause a
pleasure-yacht to turn out of its way? I have no idea.
But the -Ebba- behaves in a very different manner when about six
o'clock in the evening a second ship comes in sight on the port bow.
This time, instead of seeking to avoid her, Captain Spade signals an
order by means of the apparatus above referred to, and resumes his
course to the east--which will bring him close to the said ship.
An hour later, the two vessels are only about four miles from each
other.
The wind has dropped completely. The strange ship, which is a
three-masted merchantman, is taking in her top-gallant sails. It is
useless to expect the wind to spring up again during the night, and
she will lay becalmed till morning. The -Ebba-, however, propelled by
her mysterious motor, continues to approach her.
It goes without saying, that Captain Spade has also begun to take in
sail, and the work, under the direction of the boatswain Effrondat, is
executed with the same precision and promptness that struck me before.
When the twilight deepens into darkness, only a mile and a half
separates the vessels.
Captain Spade then comes up to me--I am standing on the starboard
side--and unceremoniously orders me to go below.
I can but obey. I remark, however, ere I go, that the boatswain has
not lighted the head-lamps, whereas the lamps of the three-master
shine brightly--green to starboard, and red to port.
I entertain no doubt that the schooner intends to pass her without
being seen; for though she has slackened speed somewhat, her direction
has not been in any way modified.
I enter my cabin under the impression of a vague foreboding. My supper
is on the table, but uneasy, I know not why, I hardly touch it, and
lie down to wait for sleep that does not come.
I remain in this condition for two hours. The silence is unbroken save
by the water that ripples along the vessel's sides.
My mind is full of the events of the past two days, and other thoughts
crowd thickly upon me. To-morrow afternoon we shall reach our
destination. To-morrow, I shall resume, on land, my attendance upon
Thomas Roch, "if it be necessary," said the Count d'Artigas.
If, when I was thrown into that black hole at the bottom of the hold,
I was able to perceive when the schooner started off across Pamlico
Sound, I now feel that she has come to a stop. It must be about ten
o'clock.
Why has she stopped? When Captain Spade ordered me below, there was no
land in sight. In this direction, there is no island until the Bermuda
group is reached--at least there is none on the map--and we shall have
to go another fifty or sixty miles before the Bermudas can be
sighted by the lookout men. Not only has the -Ebba- stopped, but her
immobility is almost complete. There is not a breath of wind, and
scarcely any swell, and her slight, regular rocking is hardly
perceptible.
Then my thoughts turn to the merchantman, which was only a mile and a
half off, on our bow, when I came below. If the schooner continued her
course towards her, she must be almost alongside now. We certainly
cannot be lying more than one or two cables' length from her. The
three-master, which was becalmed at sundown, could not have gone west.
She must be close by, and if the night is clear, I shall be able to
see her through the porthole.
It occurs to me, that perhaps a chance of escape presents itself. Why
should I not attempt it, since no hope of being restored to liberty is
held out to me? It is true I cannot swim, but if I seize a life buoy
and jump overboard, I may be able to reach the ship, if I am not
observed by the watch on deck.
I must quit my cabin and go up by the forward hatchway. I listen. I
hear no noise, either in the men's quarters, or on deck. The sailors
must all be asleep at this hour. Here goes.
I try to open the door, and find it is bolted on the outside, as I
might have expected.
I must give up the attempt, which, after all, had small chance of
success.
The best thing I can do, is to go to sleep, for I am weary of mind,
if not of body. I am restless and racked by conflicting thoughts, and
apprehensions of I know not what. Oh! if I could but sink into the
blessed oblivion of slumber!
I must have managed to fall asleep, for I have just been awakened by
a noise--an unusual noise, such as I have not hitherto heard on board
the schooner.
Day begins to peer through the glass of my port-hole, which is turned
towards the east. I look at my watch. It is half-past four.
The first thing I wonder is, whether the -Ebba- has resumed her
voyage.
No, I am certain she has not, either by sail, or by her motor. The
sea is as calm at sunrise as it was at sunset. If the -Ebba- has been
going ahead while I slept, she is at any rate, stationary now.
The noise to which I referred, is caused by men hurrying to and fro on
deck--by men heavily laden. I fancy I can also hear a similar noise
in the hold beneath my cabin floor, the entrance to which is situated
abaft the foremast. I also feel that something is scraping against the
schooner's hull. Have boats come alongside? Are the crew engaged in
loading or unloading merchandise?
And yet we cannot possibly have reached our journey's end. The Count
d'Artigas said that we should not reach our destination till this
afternoon. Now, I repeat, she was, last night, fully fifty or sixty
miles from the nearest land, the group of the Bermudas. That she could
have returned westward, and can be in proximity to the American coast,
is inadmissible, in view of the distance. Moreover, I have reason to
believe that the -Ebba- has remained stationary all night. Before I
fell asleep, I know she had stopped, and I now know that she is not
moving.
However, I shall see when I am allowed to go on deck. My cabin door is
still bolted, I find on trying it; but I do not think they are likely
to keep me here when broad daylight is on.
An hour goes by, and it gradually gets lighter. I look out of my
porthole. The ocean is covered by a mist, which the first rays of the
sun will speedily disperse.
I can, however, see for a half a mile, and if the three-masted
merchantman is not visible, it is probably because she is lying off
the other, or port, side of the -Ebba-.
Presently I hear a key turned in my door, and the bolts drawn. I push
the door open and clamber up the iron ladder to the deck, just as the
men are battening down the cover of the hold.
I look for the Count d'Artigas, but do not see him. He has not yet
left his cabin.
Aft, Captain Spade and Engineer Serko are superintending the stowing
of some bales, which have doubtless been hoisted from the hold. This
explains the noisy operations that were going on when I was awakened.
Obviously, if the crew are getting out the cargo, we are approaching
the end of our voyage. We are not far from port, and perhaps in a few
hours, the schooner will drop anchor.
But what about the sailing ship that was to port of us? She ought to
be in the same place, seeing that there has been and is no wind.
I look for her, but she is nowhere to be seen. There is not a sail,
not a speck on the horizon either east, west, north or south.
After cogitating upon the circumstance I can only arrive at the
following conclusion, which, however, can only be accepted under
reserve: Although I did not notice it, the -Ebba- resumed her voyage
while I slept, leaving the three-master becalmed behind her, and this
is why the merchantman is no longer visible.
I am careful not to question Captain Spade about it, nor even Engineer
Serko, as I should certainly receive no answer.
Besides, at this moment Captain Spade goes to the signalling apparatus
and presses one of the buttons on the upper disk. Almost immediately
the -Ebba- gives a jerk, then with her sails still furled, she starts
off eastward again.
Two hours later the Count d'Artigas comes up through the main hatchway
and takes his customary place aft. Serko and Captain Spade at once
approach and engage in conversation with him.
All three raise their telescopes and sweep the horizon from southeast
to northeast.
No one will be surprised to learn that I gaze intently in the same
direction; but having no telescope I cannot distinguish anything.
The midday meal over we all return on deck--all with the exception of
Thomas Roch, who has not quitted his cabin.
Towards one o'clock land is sighted by the lookout man on the foretop
cross-tree. Inasmuch as the -Ebba- is bowling along at great speed I
shall soon be able to make out the coast line.
In effect, two hours later a vague semicircular line that curves
outward is discernible about eight miles off. As the schooner
approaches it becomes more distinct. It is a mountain, or at all
events very high ground, and from its summit a cloud of smoke ascends.
What! A volcano in these parts? It must then be----
CHAPTER VIII.
BACK CUP.
In my opinion the -Ebba- could have struck no other group of islands
but the Bermudas in this part of the Atlantic. This is clear from the
distance covered from the American coast and the direction sailed in
since we issued from Pamlico Sound. This direction has constantly been
south-southeast, and the distance, judging from the -Ebba's- rate of
speed, which has scarcely varied, is approximately seven hundred and
fifty miles.
Still, the schooner does not slacken speed. The Count d'Artigas and
Engineer Serko remain aft, by the man at the wheel. Captain Spade has
gone forward.
Are we not going to leave this island, which appears to be isolated,
to the west?
It does not seem likely, since it is still broad daylight, and the
hour at which the -Ebba- was timed to arrive.
All the sailors are drawn up on deck, awaiting orders, and Boatswain
Effrondat is making preparations to anchor.
Ere a couple of hours have passed I shall know all about it. It will
be the first answer to one of the many questions that have perplexed
me since the schooner put to sea.
And yet it is most unlikely that the port to which the -Ebba- belongs
is situated on one of the Bermuda islands, in the middle of an English
archipelago--unless the Count d'Artigas has kidnapped Thomas Roch for
the British government, which I cannot believe.
I become aware that this extraordinary man is gazing at me with
singular persistence. Although he can have no suspicion that I am
Simon Hart, the engineer, he must be asking himself what I think of
this adventure. If Warder Gaydon is but a poor devil, this poor devil
will manifest as much unconcern as to what is in store for him as any
gentleman could--even though he were the proprietor of this queer
pleasure yacht. Still I am a little uneasy under his gaze.
I dare say that if the Count d'Artigas could guess how certain things
have suddenly become clear to me, he would not hesitate to have me
thrown overboard.
Prudence therefore commands me to be more circumspect than ever.
Without giving rise to any suspicion--even in the mind of Engineer
Serko--I have succeeded in raising a corner of the mysterious veil,
and I begin to see ahead a bit.
As the -Ebba- draws nearer, the island, or rather islet, towards which
she is speeding shows more sharply against the blue background of the
sky. The sun which has passed the zenith, shines full upon the western
side. The islet is isolated, or at any rate I cannot see any others of
the group to which it belongs, either to north or south.
This islet, of curious contexture, resembles as near as possible a
cup turned upside down, from which a fuliginous vapor arises. Its
summit--the bottom of the cup, if you like--is about three hundred
feet above the level of the sea, and its flanks, which are steep and
regular, are as bare as the sea-washed rocks at its base.
There is another peculiarity about it which must render the islet
easily recognizable by mariners approaching it from the west, and this
is a rock which forms a natural arch at the base of the mountain--the
handle of the cup, so to speak--and through which the waves wash as
freely as the sunshine passes. Seen this way the islet fully justifies
the name of Back Cup given to it.
Well, I know and recognize this islet! It is situated at the extremity
of the archipelago of the Bermudas. It is the "reversed cup" that I
had occasion to visit a few years ago--No, I am not mistaken. I then
climbed over the calcareous and crooked rocks at its base on the east
side. Yes, it is Back Cup, sure enough!
Had I been less self-possessed I might have uttered an exclamation
of surprise--and satisfaction--which, with good reason, would have
excited the attention and suspicion of the Count d'Artigas.
These are the circumstances under which I came to explore Back Cup
while on a visit to Bermuda.
This archipelago, which is situated about seven hundred and fifty
miles from North Carolina is composed of several hundred islands or
islets. Its centre is crossed by the sixty-fourth meridian and the
thirty-second parallel. Since the Englishman Lomer was shipwrecked
and cast up there in 1609, the Bermudas have belonged to the United
Kingdom, and in consequence the colonial population has increased to
ten thousand inhabitants. It was not for its productions of cotton,
coffee, indigo, and arrowroot that England annexed the group--seized
it, one might say; but because it formed a splendid maritime station
in that part of the Ocean, and in proximity to the United States of
America. Possession was taken of it without any protest on the part of
other powers, and Bermuda is now administered by a British governor
with the addition of a council and a General Assembly.
The principal islands of the archipelago are called St. David,
Somerset, Hamilton, and St. George. The latter has a free port, and
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579
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