Île mystérieuse. English

Chapter 12

They now be­gan the de­scent of the moun­tain. Climb­ing down the crater, they went round the cone and reached their en­camp­ment of the pre­vi­ous night. Pen­croft thought it must be break­fast-​time, and the watch­es of the re­porter and en­gi­neer were there­fore con­sult­ed to find out the hour.

That of Gideon Spilett had been pre­served from the sea-​wa­ter, as he had been thrown at once on the sand out of reach of the waves. It was an in­stru­ment of ex­cel­lent qual­ity, a per­fect pock­et chronome­ter, which the re­porter had not for­got­ten to wind up care­ful­ly ev­ery day.

As to the en­gi­neer’s watch, it, of course, had stopped dur­ing the time which he had passed on the downs.

The en­gi­neer now wound it up, and as­cer­tain­ing by the height of the sun that it must be about nine o’clock in the morn­ing, he put his watch at that hour.

“No, my dear Spilett, wait. You have kept the Rich­mond time, have you not?”

“Yes, Cyrus.”

“Con­se­quent­ly, your watch is set by the merid­ian of that town, which is al­most that of Wash­ing­ton?”

“Un­doubt­ed­ly.”

“Very well, keep it thus. Con­tent your­self with wind­ing it up very, ex­act­ly, but do not touch the hands. This may be of use to us.

“What will be the good of that?” thought the sailor.

They ate, and so hearti­ly, that the store of game and al­monds was to­tal­ly ex­haust­ed. But Pen­croft was not at all un­easy, they would sup­ply them­selves on the way. Top, whose share had been very much to his taste, would know how to find some fresh game among the brush­wood. More­over, the sailor thought of sim­ply ask­ing the en­gi­neer to man­ufac­ture some pow­der and one or two fowl­ing-​pieces; he sup­posed there would be no dif­fi­cul­ty in that.

On leav­ing the plateau, the cap­tain pro­posed to his com­pan­ions to re­turn to the Chim­neys by a new way. He wished to re­con­noi­ter Lake Grant, so mag­nif­icent­ly framed in trees. They there­fore fol­lowed the crest of one of the spurs, be­tween which the creek that sup­plied the lake prob­ably had its source. In talk­ing, the set­tlers al­ready em­ployed the names which they had just cho­sen, which sin­gu­lar­ly fa­cil­itat­ed the ex­change of their ideas. Her­bert and Pen­croft–the one young and the oth­er very boy­ish–were en­chant­ed, and while walk­ing, the sailor said,

“Hey, Her­bert! how cap­ital it sounds! It will be im­pos­si­ble to lose our­selves, my boy, since, whether we fol­low the way to Lake Grant, or whether we join the Mer­cy through the woods of the Far West, we shall be cer­tain to ar­rive at Prospect Heights, and, con­se­quent­ly, at Union Bay!”

It had been agreed, that with­out form­ing a com­pact band, the set­tlers should not stray away from each oth­er. It was very cer­tain that the thick forests of the is­land were in­hab­it­ed by dan­ger­ous an­imals, and it was pru­dent to be on their guard. In gen­er­al, Pen­croft, Her­bert, and Neb walked first, pre­ced­ed by Top, who poked his nose in­to ev­ery bush. The re­porter and the en­gi­neer went to­geth­er, Gideon Spilett ready to note ev­ery in­ci­dent, the en­gi­neer silent for the most part, and on­ly step­ping aside to pick up one thing or an­oth­er, a min­er­al or veg­etable sub­stance, which he put in­to his pock­et, with­out mak­ing any re­mark.

“What can he be pick­ing up?” mut­tered Pen­croft. “I have looked in vain for any­thing that’s worth the trou­ble of stoop­ing for.”

To­wards ten o’clock the lit­tle band de­scend­ed the last de­cliv­ities of Mount Franklin. As yet the ground was scant­ily strewn with bush­es and trees. They were walk­ing over yel­low­ish cal­ci­nat­ed earth, form­ing a plain of near­ly a mile long, which ex­tend­ed to the edge of the wood. Great blocks of that basalt, which, ac­cord­ing to Bischof, takes three hun­dred and fifty mil­lions of years to cool, strewed the plain, very con­fused in some places. How­ev­er, there were here no traces of la­va, which was spread more par­tic­ular­ly over the north­ern slopes.

Cyrus Hard­ing ex­pect­ed to reach, with­out in­ci­dent, the course of the creek, which he sup­posed flowed un­der the trees at the bor­der of the plain, when he saw Her­bert run­ning hasti­ly back, while Neb and the sailor were hid­ing be­hind the rocks.

“What’s the mat­ter, my boy?” asked Spilett.

“Smoke,” replied Her­bert. “We have seen smoke among the rocks, a hun­dred paces from us.”

“Men in this place?” cried the re­porter.

“We must avoid show­ing our­selves be­fore know­ing with whom we have to deal,” replied Cyrus Hard­ing. “I trust that there are no na­tives on this is­land; I dread them more than any­thing else. Where is Top?”

“Top is on be­fore.”

“And he doesn’t bark?”

“No.”

“That is strange. How­ev­er, we must try to call him back.”

In a few mo­ments, the en­gi­neer, Gideon Spilett, and Her­bert had re­joined their two com­pan­ions, and like them, they kept out of sight be­hind the heaps of basalt.

From thence they clear­ly saw smoke of a yel­low­ish col­or ris­ing in the air.

Top was re­called by a slight whis­tle from his mas­ter, and the lat­ter, sign­ing to his com­pan­ions to wait for him, glid­ed away among the rocks. The colonists, mo­tion­less, anx­ious­ly await­ed the re­sult of this ex­plo­ration, when a shout from the en­gi­neer made them has­ten for­ward. They soon joined him, and were at once struck with a dis­agree­able odor which im­preg­nat­ed the at­mo­sphere.

The odor, eas­ily rec­og­nized, was enough for the en­gi­neer to guess what the smoke was which at first, not with­out cause, had star­tled him.

“This fue,” said he, “or rather, this smoke is pro­duced by na­ture alone. There is a sul­phur spring there, which will cure all our sore throats.”

“Cap­tain!” cried Pen­croft. “What a pity that I haven’t got a cold!”

The set­tlers then di­rect­ed their steps to­wards the place from which the smoke es­caped. They there saw a sul­phur spring which flowed abun­dant­ly be­tween the rocks, and its wa­ters dis­charged a strong sul­phuric acid odor, af­ter hav­ing ab­sorbed the oxy­gen of the air.

Cyrus Hard­ing, dip­ping in his hand, felt the wa­ter oily to the touch. He tast­ed it and found it rather sweet. As to its tem­per­ature, that he es­ti­mat­ed at nine­ty-​five de­grees Fahren­heit. Her­bert hav­ing asked on what he based this cal­cu­la­tion,–

“Its quite sim­ple, my boy,” said he, “for, in plung­ing my hand in­to the wa­ter, I felt no sen­sa­tion ei­ther of heat or cold. There­fore it has the same tem­per­ature as the hu­man body, which is about nine­ty-​five de­grees.”

The sul­phur spring not be­ing of any ac­tu­al use to the set­tlers, they pro­ceed­ed to­wards the thick bor­der of the for­est, which be­gan some hun­dred paces off.

There, as they had con­jec­tured, the wa­ters of the stream flowed clear and limpid be­tween high banks of red earth, the col­or of which be­trayed the pres­ence of ox­ide of iron. From this col­or, the name of Red Creek was im­me­di­ate­ly giv­en to the wa­ter­course.

It was on­ly a large stream, deep and clear, formed of the moun­tain wa­ter, which, half riv­er, half tor­rent, here rip­pling peace­ful­ly over the sand, there falling against the rocks or dash­ing down in a cas­cade, ran to­wards the lake, over a dis­tance of a mile and a half, its breadth vary­ing from thir­ty to forty feet. Its wa­ters were sweet, and it was sup­posed that those of the lake were so al­so. A for­tu­nate cir­cum­stance, in the event of their find­ing on its bor­ders a more suit­able dwelling than the Chim­neys.

As to the trees, which some hun­dred feet down­wards shad­ed the banks of the creek, they be­longed, for the most part, to the species which abound in the tem­per­ate zone of Amer­ica and Tas­ma­nia, and no longer to those conifer­ae ob­served in that por­tion of the is­land al­ready ex­plored to some miles from Prospect Heights. At this time of the year, the com­mence­ment of the month of April, which rep­re­sents the month of Oc­to­ber, in this hemi­sphere, that is, the be­gin­ning of au­tumn, they were still in full leaf. They con­sist­ed prin­ci­pal­ly of ca­suar­inas and eu­ca­lyp­ti, some of which next year would yield a sweet man­na, sim­ilar to the man­na of the East. Clumps of Aus­tralian cedars rose on the slop­ing banks, which were al­so cov­ered with the high grass called “tus­sac” in New Hol­land; but the co­coanut, so abun­dant in the archipela­goes of the Pa­cif­ic, seemed to be want­ing in the is­land, the lat­itude, doubt­less, be­ing too low.

“What a pity!” said Her­bert, “such a use­ful tree, and which has such beau­ti­ful nuts!”

As to the birds, they swarmed among the scanty branch­es of the eu­ca­lyp­ti and ca­suar­inas, which did not hin­der the dis­play of their wings. Black, white, or gray cock­atoos, paro­quets, with plumage of all col­ors, king­fish­ers of a sparkling green and crowned with red, blue lo­ries, and var­ious oth­er birds ap­peared on all sides, as through a prism, flut­ter­ing about and pro­duc­ing a deaf­en­ing clam­or. Sud­den­ly, a strange con­cert of dis­cor­dant voic­es re­sound­ed in the midst of a thick­et. The set­tlers heard suc­ces­sive­ly the song of birds, the cry of quadrupeds, and a sort of clack­ing which they might have be­lieved to have es­caped from the lips of a na­tive. Neb and Her­bert rushed to­wards the bush, for­get­ting even the most el­emen­tary prin­ci­ples of pru­dence. Hap­pi­ly, they found there, nei­ther a formidable wild beast nor a dan­ger­ous na­tive, but mere­ly half a dozen mock­ing and singing birds, known as moun­tain pheas­ants. A few skill­ful blows from a stick soon put an end to their con­cert, and pro­cured ex­cel­lent food for the evening’s din­ner.

Her­bert al­so dis­cov­ered some mag­nif­icent pi­geons with bronzed wings, some su­perbly crest­ed, oth­ers draped in green, like their con­geners at Port- Mac­quar­ie; but it was im­pos­si­ble to reach them, or the crows and mag­pies which flew away in flocks.

A charge of small shot would have made great slaugh­ter among these birds, but the hunters were still lim­it­ed to sticks and stones, and these prim­itive weapons proved very in­suf­fi­cient.

Their in­suf­fi­cien­cy was still more clear­ly shown when a troop of quadrupeds, jump­ing, bound­ing, mak­ing leaps of thir­ty feet, reg­ular fly­ing mam­mifer­ae, fled over the thick­ets, so quick­ly and at such a height, that one would have thought that they passed from one tree to an­oth­er like squir­rels.

“Kan­ga­roos!” cried Her­bert.

“Are they good to eat?” asked Pen­croft.

“Stewed,” replied the re­porter, “their flesh is equal to the best veni­son!–“

Gideon Spilett had not fin­ished this ex­cit­ing sen­tence when the sailor, fol­lowed by Neb and Her­bert, dart­ed on the kan­ga­roos tracks. Cyrus Hard­ing called them back in vain. But it was in vain too for the hunters to pur­sue such ag­ile game, which went bound­ing away like balls. Af­ter a chase of five min­utes, they lost their breath, and at the same time all sight of the crea­tures, which dis­ap­peared in the wood. Top was not more suc­cess­ful than his mas­ters.

“Cap­tain,” said Pen­croft, when the en­gi­neer and the re­porter had re­joined them, “Cap­tain, you see quite well we can’t get on un­less we make a few guns. Will that be pos­si­ble?”

“Per­haps,” replied the en­gi­neer, “but we will be­gin by first man­ufac­tur­ing some bows and ar­rows, and I don’t doubt that you will be­come as clever in the use of them as the Aus­tralian hunters.”

“Bows and ar­rows!” said Pen­croft scorn­ful­ly. “That’s all very well for chil­dren!”

“Don’t be proud, friend Pen­croft,” replied the re­porter. “Bows and ar­rows were suf­fi­cient for cen­turies to stain the earth with blood. Pow­der is but a thing of yes­ter­day, and war is as old as the hu­man race–un­hap­pi­ly.”

“Faith, that’s true, Mr. Spilett,” replied the sailor, “and I al­ways speak too quick­ly. You must ex­cuse me!”

Mean­while, Her­bert con­stant to his fa­vorite sci­ence, Nat­ural His­to­ry, re­vert­ed to the kan­ga­roos, say­ing,–

“Be­sides, we had to deal just now with the species which is most dif­fi­cult to catch. They were gi­ants with long gray fur; but if I am not mis­tak­en, there ex­ist black and red kan­ga­roos, rock kan­ga­roos, and rat kan­ga­roos, which are more easy to get hold of. It is reck­oned that there are about a dozen species.”

“Her­bert,” replied the sailor sen­ten­tious­ly, “there is on­ly one species of kan­ga­roos to me, that is ‘kan­ga­roo on the spit,’ and it’s just the one we haven’t got this evening!”

They could not help laugh­ing at Mas­ter Pen­croft’s new clas­si­fi­ca­tion. The hon­est sailor did not hide his re­gret at be­ing re­duced for din­ner to the singing pheas­ants, but for­tune once more showed it­self oblig­ing to him.

In fact, Top, who felt that his in­ter­est was con­cerned went and fer­ret­ed ev­ery­where with an in­stinct dou­bled by a fe­ro­cious ap­petite. It was even prob­able that if some piece of game did fall in­to his clutch­es, none would be left for the hunters, if Top was hunt­ing on his own ac­count; but Neb watched him and he did well.

To­wards three o’clock the dog dis­ap­peared in the brush­wood and grunt­ings showed that he was en­gaged in a strug­gle with some an­imal. Neb rushed af­ter him, and soon saw Top ea­ger­ly de­vour­ing a quadruped, which ten sec­onds lat­er would have been past rec­og­niz­ing in Top’s stom­ach. But for­tu­nate­ly the dog had fall­en up­on a brood, and be­sides the vic­tim he was de­vour­ing, two oth­er ro­dents–the an­imals in ques­tion be­longed to that or­der–lay stran­gled on the turf.

Neb reap­peared tri­umphant­ly hold­ing one of the ro­dents in each hand. Their size ex­ceed­ed that of a rab­bit, their hair was yel­low, min­gled with green spots, and they had the mer­est rudi­ments of tails.

The cit­izens of the Union were at no loss for the right name of these ro­dents. They were maras, a sort of agouti, a lit­tle larg­er than their con­geners of trop­ical coun­tries, reg­ular Amer­ican rab­bits, with long ears, jaws armed on each side with five mo­lars, which dis­tin­guish the agouti.

“Hur­rah!” cried Pen­croft, “the roast has ar­rived! and now we can go home.”

The walk, in­ter­rupt­ed for an in­stant, was re­sumed. The limpid wa­ters of the Red Creek flowed un­der an arch of ca­suan­nas, banksias, and gi­gan­tic gum-​trees. Su­perb lilacs rose to a height of twen­ty feet. Oth­er ar­bores­cent species, un­known to the young nat­ural­ist, bent over the stream, which could be heard mur­mur­ing be­neath the bow­ers of ver­dure.

Mean­while the stream grew much wider, and Cyrus Hard­ing sup­posed that they would soon reach its mouth. In fact, on emerg­ing from be­neath a thick clump of beau­ti­ful trees, it sud­den­ly ap­peared be­fore their eyes.

The ex­plor­ers had ar­rived on the west­ern shore of Lake Grant. The place was well worth look­ing at. This ex­tent of wa­ter, of a cir­cum­fer­ence of near­ly sev­en miles and an area of two hun­dred and fifty acres, re­posed in a bor­der of di­ver­si­fied trees. To­wards the east, through a cur­tain of ver­dure, pic­turesque­ly raised in some places, sparkled an hori­zon of sea. The lake was curved at the north, which con­trast­ed with the sharp out­line of its low­er part. Nu­mer­ous aquat­ic birds fre­quent­ed the shores of this lit­tle On­tario, in which the thou­sand isles of its Amer­ican name­sake were rep­re­sent­ed by a rock which emerged from its sur­face, some hun­dred feet from the south­ern shore. There lived in har­mo­ny sev­er­al cou­ples of king­fish­ers perched on a stone, grave, mo­tion­less, watch­ing for fish, then dart­ing down, they plunged in with a sharp cry, and reap­peared with their prey in their beaks. On the shores and on the islets, strut­ted wild ducks, pel­icans, wa­ter-​hens, red-​beaks, phile­dons, fur­nished with a tongue like a brush, and one or two spec­imens of the splen­did menu­ra, the tail of which ex­pands grace­ful­ly like a lyre.

As to the wa­ter of the lake, it was sweet, limpid, rather dark, and from cer­tain bub­blings, and the con­cen­tric cir­cles which crossed each oth­er on the sur­face, it could not be doubt­ed that it abound­ed in fish.

“This lake is re­al­ly beau­ti­ful!” said Gideon Spilett. “We could live on its bor­ders!”

“We will live there!” replied Hard­ing.

The set­tlers, wish­ing to re­turn to the Chim­neys by the short­est way, de­scend­ed to­wards the an­gle formed on the south by the junc­tion of the lake’s bank. It was not with­out dif­fi­cul­ty that they broke a path through the thick­ets and brush­wood which had nev­er been put aside by the hand of mm, and they thus went to­wards the shore, so as to ar­rive at the north of Prospect Heights. Two miles were cleared in this di­rec­tion, and then, af­ter they had passed the last cur­tain of trees, ap­peared the plateau, car­pet­ed with thick turf, and be­yond that the in­fi­nite sea.

To re­turn to the Chim­neys, it was enough to cross the plateau oblique­ly for the space of a mile, and then to de­scend to the el­bow formed by the first de­tour of the Mer­cy. But the en­gi­neer de­sired to know how and where the over­plus of the wa­ter from the lake es­caped, and the ex­plo­ration was pro­longed un­der the trees for a mile and a half to­wards the north. It was most prob­able that an over­fall ex­ist­ed some­where, and doubt­less through a cleft in the gran­ite. This lake was on­ly, in short, an im­mense cen­ter basin, which was filled by de­grees by the creek, and its wa­ters must nec­es­sar­ily pass to the sea by some fall. If it was so, the en­gi­neer thought that it might per­haps be pos­si­ble to uti­lize this fall and bor­row its pow­er, ac­tu­al­ly lost with­out prof­it to any one. They con­tin­ued then to fol­low the shores of Lake Grant by climb­ing the plateau; but, af­ter hav­ing gone a mile in this di­rec­tion, Cyrus Hard­ing had not been able to dis­cov­er the over­fall, which, how­ev­er, must ex­ist some­where.

It was then half-​past four. In or­der to pre­pare for din­ner it was nec­es­sary that the set­tlers should re­turn to their dwelling. The lit­tle band re­traced their steps, there­fore, and by the left bank of the Mer­cy, Cyrus Hard­ing and his com­pan­ions ar­rived at the Chim­neys.

The fire was light­ed, and Neb and Pen­croft, on whom the func­tions of cooks nat­ural­ly de­volved, to the one in his qual­ity of Ne­gro, to the oth­er in that of sailor, quick­ly pre­pared some broiled agouti, to which they did great jus­tice.

The repast at length ter­mi­nat­ed; at the mo­ment when each one was about to give him­self up to sleep, Cyrus Hard­ing drew from his pock­et lit­tle spec­imens of dif­fer­ent sorts of min­er­als, and just said,–

“My friends, this is iron min­er­al, this a pyrite, this is clay, this is lime, and this is coal. Na­ture gives us these things. It is our busi­ness to make a right use of them. To-​mor­row we will com­mence op­er­ations.”