Five Weeks in a Balloon

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.

The Jet of Light.–The Mis­sion­ary.–The Res­cue in a Ray of Elec­tric­ity.–A Lazarist Priest.–But lit­tle Hope.–The Doc­tor’s Care.–A Life of Self-​De­nial. –Pass­ing a Vol­cano.

Dr. Fer­gu­son dart­ed his pow­er­ful elec­tric jet to­ward var­ious points of space, and caused it to rest on a spot from which shouts of ter­ror were heard. His com­pan­ions fixed their gaze ea­ger­ly on the place.

The baobab, over which the bal­loon was hang­ing al­most mo­tion­less, stood in the cen­tre of a clear­ing, where, be­tween fields of In­di­an-​corn and sug­ar-​cane, were seen some fifty low, con­ical huts, around which swarmed a nu­mer­ous tribe.

A hun­dred feet be­low the bal­loon stood a large post, or stake, and at its foot lay a hu­man be­ing–a young man of thir­ty years or more, with long black hair, half naked, wast­ed and wan, bleed­ing, cov­ered with wounds, his head bowed over up­on his breast, as Christ’s was, when He hung up­on the cross.

The hair, cut short­er on the top of his skull, still in­di­cat­ed the place of a half-​ef­faced ton­sure.

“A mis­sion­ary! a priest!” ex­claimed Joe.

“Poor, un­for­tu­nate man!” said Kennedy.

“We must save him, Dick!” re­spond­ed the doc­tor; “we must save him!”

The crowd of blacks, when they saw the bal­loon over their heads, like a huge comet with a train of daz­zling light, were seized with a ter­ror that may be read­ily imag­ined. Up­on hear­ing their cries, the pris­on­er raised his head. His eyes gleamed with sud­den hope, and, with­out too thor­ough­ly com­pre­hend­ing what was tak­ing place, he stretched out his hands to his un­ex­pect­ed de­liv­er­ers.

“He is alive!” ex­claimed Fer­gu­son. “God be praised! The sav­ages have got a fine scare, and we shall save him! Are you ready, friends?”

“Ready, doc­tor, at the word.”

“Joe, shut off the cylin­der!”

The doc­tor’s or­der was ex­ecut­ed. An al­most im­per­cep­ti­ble breath of air im­pelled the bal­loon di­rect­ly over the pris­on­er, at the same time that it gen­tly low­ered with the con­trac­tion of the gas. For about ten min­utes it re­mained float­ing in the midst of lu­mi­nous waves, for Fer­gu­son con­tin­ued to flash right down up­on the throng his glow­ing sheaf of rays, which, here and there, marked out swift and vivid sheets of light. The tribe, un­der the in­flu­ence of an in­de­scrib­able ter­ror, dis­ap­peared lit­tle by lit­tle in the huts, and there was com­plete soli­tude around the stake. The doc­tor had, there­fore, been right in count­ing up­on the fan­tas­tic ap­pear­ance of the bal­loon throw­ing out rays, as vivid as the sun’s, through this in­tense gloom.

The car was ap­proach­ing the ground; but a few of the sav­ages, more au­da­cious than the rest, guess­ing that their vic­tim was about to es­cape from their clutch­es, came back with loud yells, and Kennedy seized his ri­fle. The doc­tor, how­ev­er, be­sought him not to fire.

The priest, on his knees, for he had not the strength to stand erect, was not even fas­tened to the stake, his weak­ness ren­der­ing that pre­cau­tion su­per­flu­ous. At the in­stant when the car was close to the ground, the brawny Scot, lay­ing aside his ri­fle, and seiz­ing the priest around the waist, lift­ed him in­to the car, while, at the same mo­ment, Joe tossed over the two hun­dred pounds of bal­last.

The doc­tor had ex­pect­ed to as­cend rapid­ly, but, con­trary to his cal­cu­la­tions, the bal­loon, af­ter go­ing up some three or four feet, re­mained there per­fect­ly mo­tion­less.

“What holds us?” he asked, with an ac­cent of ter­ror.

Some of the sav­ages were run­ning to­ward them, ut­ter­ing fe­ro­cious cries.

“Ah, ha!” said Joe, “one of those cursed blacks is hang­ing to the car!”

“Dick! Dick!” cried the doc­tor, “the wa­ter-​tank!”

Kennedy caught his friend’s idea on the in­stant, and, snatch­ing up with des­per­ate strength one of the wa­ter-​tanks weigh­ing about one hun­dred pounds, he tossed it over­board. The bal­loon, thus sud­den­ly light­ened, made a leap of three hun­dred feet in­to the air, amid the howl­ings of the tribe whose pris­on­er thus es­caped them in a blaze of daz­zling light.

“Hur­rah!” shout­ed the doc­tor’s com­rades.

Sud­den­ly, the bal­loon took a fresh leap, which car­ried it up to an el­eva­tion of a thou­sand feet.

“What’s that?” said Kennedy, who had near­ly lost his bal­ance.

“Oh! noth­ing; on­ly that black vil­lain leav­ing us!” replied the doc­tor, tran­quil­ly, and Joe, lean­ing over, saw the sav­age that had clung to the car whirling over and over, with his arms out­stretched in the air, and present­ly dashed to pieces on the ground. The doc­tor then sep­arat­ed his elec­tric wires, and ev­ery thing was again buried in pro­found ob­scu­ri­ty. It was now one o’clock in the morn­ing.

The French­man, who had swooned away, at length opened his eyes.

“You are saved!” were the doc­tor’s first words.

“Saved!” he with a sad smile replied in En­glish, “saved from a cru­el death! My brethren, I thank you, but my days are num­bered, nay, even my hours, and I have but lit­tle longer to live.”

With this, the mis­sion­ary, again yield­ing to ex­haus­tion, re­lapsed in­to his faint­ing-​fit.

“He is dy­ing!” said Kennedy.

“No,” replied the doc­tor, bend­ing over him, “but he is very weak; so let us lay him un­der the awning.”

And they did gen­tly de­posit on their blan­kets that poor, wast­ed body, cov­ered with scars and wounds, still bleed­ing where fire and steel had, in twen­ty places, left their ag­oniz­ing marks. The doc­tor, tak­ing an old hand­ker­chief, quick­ly pre­pared a lit­tle lint, which he spread over the wounds, af­ter hav­ing washed them. These rapid at­ten­tions were be­stowed with the celer­ity and skill of a prac­tised sur­geon, and, when they were com­plete, the doc­tor, tak­ing a cor­dial from his medicine-​chest, poured a few drops up­on his pa­tient’s lips.

The lat­ter fee­bly pressed his kind hands, and scarce­ly had the strength to say, “Thank you! thank you!”

The doc­tor com­pre­hend­ed that he must be left per­fect­ly qui­et; so he closed the folds of the awning and re­sumed the guid­ance of the bal­loon.

The lat­ter, af­ter tak­ing in­to ac­count the weight of the new pas­sen­ger, had been light­ened of one hun­dred and eighty pounds, and there­fore kept aloft with­out the aid of the cylin­der. At the first dawn of day, a cur­rent drove it gen­tly to­ward the west-​north­west. The doc­tor went in un­der the awning for a mo­ment or two, to look at his still sleep­ing pa­tient.

“May Heav­en spare the life of our new com­pan­ion! Have you any hope?” said the Scot.

“Yes, Dick, with care, in this pure, fresh at­mo­sphere.”

“How that man has suf­fered!” said Joe, with feel­ing. “He did bold­er things than we’ve done, in ven­tur­ing all alone among those sav­age tribes!”

“That can­not be ques­tioned,” as­sent­ed the hunter.

Dur­ing the en­tire day the doc­tor would not al­low the sleep of his pa­tient to be dis­turbed. It was re­al­ly a long stu­por, bro­ken on­ly by an oc­ca­sion­al mur­mur of pain that con­tin­ued to dis­qui­et and ag­itate the doc­tor great­ly.

To­ward evening the bal­loon re­mained sta­tion­ary in the midst of the gloom, and dur­ing the night, while Kennedy and Joe re­lieved each oth­er in care­ful­ly tend­ing the sick man, Fer­gu­son kept watch over the safe­ty of all.

By the morn­ing of the next day, the bal­loon had moved, but very slight­ly, to the west­ward. The dawn came up pure and mag­nif­icent. The sick man was able to call his friends with a stronger voice. They raised the cur­tains of the awning, and he in­haled with de­light the keen morn­ing air.

“How do you feel to-​day?” asked the doc­tor.

“Bet­ter, per­haps,” he replied. “But you, my friends, I have not seen you yet, ex­cept­ing in a dream! I can, in­deed, scarce­ly re­call what has oc­curred. Who are you –that your names may not be for­got­ten in my dy­ing prayers?”

“We are En­glish trav­ellers,” replied Fer­gu­son. “We are try­ing to cross Africa in a bal­loon, and, on our way, we have had the good for­tune to res­cue you.”

“Sci­ence has its heroes,” said the mis­sion­ary.

“But re­li­gion its mar­tyrs!” re­joined the Scot.

“Are you a mis­sion­ary?” asked the doc­tor.

“I am a priest of the Lazarist mis­sion. Heav­en sent you to me–Heav­en be praised! The sac­ri­fice of my life had been ac­com­plished! But you come from Eu­rope; tell me about Eu­rope, about France! I have been with­out news for the last five years!”

“Five years! alone! and among these sav­ages!” ex­claimed Kennedy with amaze­ment.

“They are souls to re­deem! ig­no­rant and bar­barous brethren, whom re­li­gion alone can in­struct and civ­ilize.”

Dr. Fer­gu­son, yield­ing to the priest’s re­quest, talked to him long and ful­ly about France. He lis­tened ea­ger­ly, and his eyes filled with tears. He seized Kennedy’s and Joe’s hands by turns in his own, which were burn­ing with fever. The doc­tor pre­pared him some tea, and he drank it with sat­is­fac­tion. Af­ter that, he had strength enough to raise him­self up a lit­tle, and smiled with plea­sure at see­ing him­self borne along through so pure a sky.

“You are dar­ing trav­ellers!” he said, “and you will suc­ceed in your bold en­ter­prise. You will again be­hold your rel­atives, your friends, your coun­try–you–“

At this mo­ment, the weak­ness of the young mis­sion­ary be­came so ex­treme that they had to lay him again on the bed, where a pros­tra­tion, last­ing for sev­er­al hours, held him like a dead man un­der the eye of Dr. Fer­gu­son. The lat­ter could not sup­press his emo­tion, for he felt that this life now in his charge was ebbing away. Were they then so soon to lose him whom they had snatched from an ag­oniz­ing death? The doc­tor again washed and dressed the young mar­tyr’s fright­ful wounds, and had to sac­ri­fice near­ly his whole stock of wa­ter to re­fresh his burn­ing limbs. He sur­round­ed him with the ten­der­est and most in­tel­li­gent care, un­til, at length, the sick man re­vived, lit­tle by lit­tle, in his arms, and re­cov­ered his con­scious­ness if not his strength.

The doc­tor was able to gath­er some­thing of his his­to­ry from his bro­ken mur­murs.

“Speak in your na­tive lan­guage,” he said to the suf­fer­er; “I un­der­stand it, and it will fa­tigue you less.”

The mis­sion­ary was a poor young man from the vil­lage of Aradon, in Brit­tany, in the Mor­bi­han coun­try. His ear­li­est in­stincts had drawn him to­ward an ec­cle­si­as­ti­cal ca­reer, but to this life of self-​sac­ri­fice he was al­so de­sirous of join­ing a life of dan­ger, by en­ter­ing the mis­sion of the or­der of priest­hood of which St. Vin­cent de Paul was the founder, and, at twen­ty, he quit­ted his coun­try for the in­hos­pitable shores of Africa. From the sea-​coast, over­com­ing ob­sta­cles, lit­tle by lit­tle, brav­ing all pri­va­tions, push­ing on­ward, afoot, and pray­ing, he had ad­vanced to the very cen­tre of those tribes that dwell among the trib­utary streams of the Up­per Nile. For two years his faith was spurned, his zeal de­nied recog­ni­tion, his char­ities tak­en in ill part, and he re­mained a pris­on­er to one of the cru­elest tribes of the Nyam­bar­ra, the ob­ject of ev­ery species of mal­treat­ment. But still he went on teach­ing, in­struct­ing, and pray­ing. The tribe hav­ing been dis­persed and he left for dead, in one of those com­bats which are so fre­quent be­tween the tribes, in­stead of re­trac­ing his steps, he per­sist­ed in his evan­gel­ical mis­sion. His most tran­quil time was when he was tak­en for a mad­man. Mean­while, he had made him­self fa­mil­iar with the id­ioms of the coun­try, and he cat­echised in them. At length, dur­ing two more long years, he tra­versed these bar­barous re­gions, im­pelled by that su­per­hu­man en­er­gy that comes from God. For a year past he had been re­sid­ing with that tribe of the Nyam-​Nyams known as the Barafri, one of the wildest and most fe­ro­cious of them all. The chief hav­ing died a few days be­fore our trav­ellers ap­peared, his sud­den death was at­tribut­ed to the mis­sion­ary, and the tribe re­solved to im­mo­late him. His suf­fer­ings had al­ready con­tin­ued for the space of forty hours, and, as the doc­tor had sup­posed, he was to have per­ished in the blaze of the noon­day sun. When he heard the sound of fire-​arms, na­ture got the best of him, and he had cried out, “Help! help!” He then thought that he must have been dream­ing, when a voice, that seemed to come from the sky, had ut­tered words of con­so­la­tion.

“I have no re­grets,” he said, “for the life that is pass­ing away from me; my life be­longs to God!”

“Hope still!” said the doc­tor; “we are near you, and we will save you now, as we saved you from the tor­tures of the stake.”

“I do not ask so much of Heav­en,” said the priest, with res­ig­na­tion. “Blessed be God for hav­ing vouch­safed to me the joy be­fore I die of hav­ing pressed your friend­ly hands, and hav­ing heard, once more, the lan­guage of my coun­try!”

The mis­sion­ary here grew weak again, and the whole day went by be­tween hope and fear, Kennedy deeply moved, and Joe draw­ing his hand over his eyes more than once when he thought that no one saw him.

The bal­loon made lit­tle progress, and the wind seemed as though un­will­ing to jos­tle its pre­cious bur­den.

To­ward evening, Joe dis­cov­ered a great light in the west. Un­der more el­evat­ed lat­itudes, it might have been mis­tak­en for an im­mense au­ro­ra bo­re­alis, for the sky ap­peared on fire. The doc­tor very at­ten­tive­ly ex­am­ined the phe­nomenon.

“It is, per­haps, on­ly a vol­cano in full ac­tiv­ity,” said he.

“But the wind is car­ry­ing us di­rect­ly over it,” replied Kennedy.

“Very well, we shall cross it then at a safe height!” said the doc­tor.

Three hours lat­er, the Vic­to­ria was right among the moun­tains. Her ex­act po­si­tion was twen­ty-​four de­grees fif­teen min­utes east lon­gi­tude, and four de­grees forty-​two min­utes north lat­itude, and four de­grees forty-​two min­utes north lat­itude. In front of her a vol­canic crater was pour­ing forth tor­rents of melt­ed la­va, and hurl­ing mass­es of rock to an enor­mous height. There were jets, too, of liq­uid fire that fell back in daz­zling cas­cades–a su­perb but dan­ger­ous spec­ta­cle, for the wind with unswerv­ing cer­tain­ty was car­ry­ing the bal­loon di­rect­ly to­ward this blaz­ing at­mo­sphere.

This ob­sta­cle, which could not be turned, had to be crossed, so the cylin­der was put to its ut­most pow­er, and the bal­loon rose to the height of six thou­sand feet, leav­ing be­tween it and the vol­cano a space of more than three hun­dred fath­oms.

From his bed of suf­fer­ing, the dy­ing mis­sion­ary could con­tem­plate that fiery crater from which a thou­sand jets of daz­zling flame were that mo­ment es­cap­ing.

“How grand it is!” said he, “and how in­fi­nite is the pow­er of God even in its most ter­ri­ble man­ifes­ta­tions!”

This over­flow of blaz­ing la­va wrapped the sides of the moun­tain with a ver­ita­ble drap­ery of flame; the low­er half of the bal­loon glowed red­ly in the up­per night; a tor­rid heat as­cend­ed to the car, and Dr. Fer­gu­son made all pos­si­ble haste to es­cape from this per­ilous sit­ua­tion.

By ten o’clock the vol­cano could be seen on­ly as a red point on the hori­zon, and the bal­loon tran­quil­ly pur­sued her course in a less el­evat­ed zone of the at­mo­sphere.