Île mystérieuse. English

Chapter 15

The next day, the 20th of Oc­to­ber, at sev­en o’clock in the morn­ing, af­ter a voy­age of four days, the “Bonad­ven­ture” gen­tly glid­ed up to the beach at the mouth of the Mer­cy.

Cyrus Hard­ing and Neb, who had be­come very un­easy at the bad weath­er and the pro­longed ab­sence of their com­pan­ions, had climbed at day­break to the plateau of Prospect Heights, and they had at last caught sight of the ves­sel which had been so long in re­turn­ing.

“God be praised! there they are!” ex­claimed Cyrus Hard­ing.

As to Neb in his joy, he be­gan to dance, to twirl round, clap­ping his hands and shout­ing, “Oh! my mas­ter!” A more touch­ing pan­tomime than the finest dis­course.

The en­gi­neer’s first idea, on count­ing the peo­ple on the deck of the “Bonad­ven­ture,” was that Pen­croft had not found the cast­away of Ta­bor Is­land, or at any rate that the un­for­tu­nate man had re­fused to leave his is­land and change one prison for an­oth­er.

In­deed Pen­croft, Gideon Spilett, and Her­bert were alone on the deck of the “Bonad­ven­ture.”

The mo­ment the ves­sel touched, the en­gi­neer and Neb were wait­ing on the beach, and be­fore the pas­sen­gers had time to leap on to the sand, Hard­ing said: “We have been very un­easy at your de­lay, my friends! Did you meet with any ac­ci­dent?”

“No,” replied Gideon Spilett; “on the con­trary, ev­ery­thing went won­der­ful­ly well. We will tell you all about it.”

“How­ev­er,” re­turned the en­gi­neer, “your search has been un­suc­cess­ful, since you are on­ly three, just as you went!”

“Ex­cuse me, cap­tain,” replied the sailor, “we are four.”

“You have found the cast­away?”

“Yes.”

“And you have brought him?”

“Yes.”

“Liv­ing?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he? Who is he?”

“He is,” replied the re­porter, “or rather he was a man! There, Cyrus, that is all we can tell you!”

The en­gi­neer was then in­formed of all that had passed dur­ing the voy­age, and un­der what con­di­tions the search had been con­duct­ed; how the on­ly dwelling in the is­land had long been aban­doned; how at last a cast­away had been cap­tured, who ap­peared no longer to be­long to the hu­man species.

“And that’s just the point,” added Pen­croft, “I don’t know if we have done right to bring him here.”

“Cer­tain­ly you have, Pen­croft,” replied the en­gi­neer quick­ly.

“But the wretched crea­ture has no sense!”

“That is pos­si­ble at present,” replied Cyrus Hard­ing, “but on­ly a few months ago the wretched crea­ture was a man like you and me. And who knows what will be­come of the sur­vivor of us af­ter a long soli­tude on this is­land? It is a great mis­for­tune to be alone, my friends; and it must be be­lieved that soli­tude can quick­ly de­stroy rea­son, since you have found this poor crea­ture in such a state!”

“But, cap­tain,” asked Her­bert, “what leads you to think that the brutish­ness of the un­for­tu­nate man be­gan on­ly a few months back?”

“Be­cause the doc­ument we found had been re­cent­ly writ­ten,” an­swered the en­gi­neer, “and the cast­away alone can have writ­ten it.”

“Al­ways sup­pos­ing,” ob­served Gideon Spilett, “that it had not been writ­ten by a com­pan­ion of this man, since dead.”

“That is im­pos­si­ble, my dear Spilett.”

“Why so?” asked the re­porter.

“Be­cause the doc­ument would then have spo­ken of two cast­aways,” replied Hard­ing, “and it men­tioned on­ly one.”

Her­bert then in a few words re­lat­ed the in­ci­dents of the voy­age, and dwelt on the cu­ri­ous fact of the sort of pass­ing gleam in the pris­on­er’s mind, when for an in­stant in the height of the storm he had be­come a sailor.

“Well, Her­bert,” replied the en­gi­neer, “you are right to at­tach great im­por­tance to this fact. The un­for­tu­nate man can­not be in­cur­able, and de­spair has made him what he is; but here he will find his fel­low-​men, and since there is still a soul in him, this soul we shall save!”

The cast­away of Ta­bor Is­land, to the great pity of the en­gi­neer and the great as­ton­ish­ment of Neb, was then brought from the cab­in which he oc­cu­pied in the fore part of the “Bonad­ven­ture”; when once on land he man­ifest­ed a wish to run away.

But Cyrus Hard­ing ap­proach­ing, placed his hand on his shoul­der with a ges­ture full of au­thor­ity, and looked at him with in­fi­nite ten­der­ness. Im­me­di­ate­ly the un­hap­py man, sub­mit­ting to a su­pe­ri­or will, grad­ual­ly be­came calm, his eyes fell, his head bent, and he made no more re­sis­tance.

“Poor fel­low!” mur­mured the en­gi­neer.

Cyrus Hard­ing had at­ten­tive­ly ob­served him. To judge by his ap­pear­ance this mis­er­able be­ing had no longer any­thing hu­man about him, and yet Hard­ing, as had the re­porter al­ready, ob­served in his look an in­de­fin­able trace of in­tel­li­gence.

It was de­cid­ed that the cast­away, or rather the stranger as he was thence­forth termed by his com­pan­ions, should live in one of the rooms of Gran­ite House, from which, how­ev­er, he could not es­cape. He was led there with­out dif­fi­cul­ty, and with care­ful at­ten­tion, it might, per­haps, be hoped that some day he would be a com­pan­ion to the set­tlers in Lin­coln Is­land.

Cyrus Hard­ing, dur­ing break­fast, which Neb had has­tened to pre­pare, as the re­porter, Her­bert, and Pen­croft were dy­ing of hunger, heard in de­tail all the in­ci­dents which had marked the voy­age of ex­plo­ration to the islet. He agreed with his friends on this point, that the stranger must be ei­ther En­glish or Amer­ican, the name Bri­tan­nia lead­ing them to sup­pose this, and, be­sides, through the bushy beard, and un­der the shag­gy, mat­ted hair, the en­gi­neer thought he could rec­og­nize the char­ac­ter­is­tic fea­tures of the An­glo-​Sax­on.

“But, by the bye,” said Gideon Spilett, ad­dress­ing Her­bert, “you nev­er told us how you met this sav­age, and we know noth­ing, ex­cept that you would have been stran­gled, if we had not hap­pened to come up in time to help you!”

“Up­on my word,” an­swered Her­bert, “it is rather dif­fi­cult to say how it hap­pened. I was, I think, oc­cu­pied in col­lect­ing my plants, when I heard a noise like an avalanche falling from a very tall tree. I scarce­ly had time to look round. This un­for­tu­nate man, who was with­out doubt con­cealed in a tree, rushed up­on me in less time than I take to tell you about it, and un­less Mr. Spilett and Pen­croft–“

“My boy!” said Cyrus Hard­ing, “you ran a great dan­ger, but, per­haps, with­out that, the poor crea­ture would have still hid­den him­self from your search, and we should not have had a new com­pan­ion.”

“You hope, then, Cyrus, to suc­ceed in re­form­ing the man?” asked the re­porter.

“Yes,” replied the en­gi­neer.

Break­fast over, Hard­ing and his com­pan­ions left Gran­ite House and re­turned to the beach. They there oc­cu­pied them­selves in un­load­ing the “Bonad­ven­ture,” and the en­gi­neer, hav­ing ex­am­ined the arms and tools, saw noth­ing which could help them to es­tab­lish the iden­ti­ty of the stranger.

The cap­ture of pigs, made on the islet, was looked up­on as be­ing very prof­itable to Lin­coln Is­land, and the an­imals were led to the sty, where they soon be­came at home.

The two bar­rels, con­tain­ing the pow­der and shot, as well as the box of caps, were very wel­come. It was agreed to es­tab­lish a small pow­der- mag­azine, ei­ther out­side Gran­ite House or in the Up­per Cav­ern, where there would be no fear of ex­plo­sion. How­ev­er, the use of py­rox­yle was to be con­tin­ued, for this sub­stance giv­ing ex­cel­lent re­sults, there was no rea­son for sub­sti­tut­ing or­di­nary pow­der.

When the un­load­ing of the ves­sel was fin­ished,–

“Cap­tain,” said Pen­croft, “I think it would be pru­dent to put our ‘Bonad­ven­ture’ in a safe place.”

“Is she not safe at the mouth of the Mer­cy?” asked Cyrus Hard­ing.

“No, cap­tain,” replied the sailor. “Half of the time she is strand­ed on the sand, and that works her. She is a fa­mous craft, you see, and she be­haved ad­mirably dur­ing the squall which struck us on our re­turn.”

“Could she not float in the riv­er?”

“No doubt, cap­tain, she could; but there is no shel­ter there, and in the east winds, I think that the ‘Bonad­ven­ture’ would suf­fer much from the surf.”

“Well, where would you put her, Pen­croft?”

“In Port Bal­loon,” replied the sailor. “That lit­tle creek, shut in by rocks, seems to me to be just the har­bor we want.”

“Is it not rather far?”

“Pooh! it is not more than three miles from Gran­ite House, and we have a fine straight road to take us there!”

“Do it then, Pen­croft, and take your ‘Bonad­ven­ture’ there,” replied the en­gi­neer, “and yet I would rather have her un­der our more im­me­di­ate pro­tec­tion. When we have time, we must make a lit­tle har­bor for her.”

“Fa­mous!” ex­claimed Pen­croft. “A har­bor with a light­house, a pier, and dock! Ah! re­al­ly with you, cap­tain, ev­ery­thing be­comes easy.”

“Yes, my brave Pen­croft,” an­swered the en­gi­neer, “but on con­di­tion, how­ev­er, that you help me, for you do as much as three men in all our work.”

Her­bert and the sailor then re-​em­barked on board the “Bonad­ven­ture,” the an­chor was weighed, the sail hoist­ed, and the wind drove her rapid­ly to­wards Claw Cape. Two hours af­ter, she was repos­ing on the tran­quil wa­ters of Port Bal­loon.

Dur­ing the first days passed by the stranger in Gran­ite House, had he al­ready giv­en them rea­son to think that his sav­age na­ture was be­com­ing tamed? Did a brighter light burn in the depths of that ob­scured mind? In short, was the soul re­turn­ing to the body?

Yes, to a cer­tain­ty, and to such a de­gree, that Cyrus Hard­ing and the re­porter won­dered if the rea­son of the un­for­tu­nate man had ev­er been to­tal­ly ex­tin­guished. At first, ac­cus­tomed to the open air, to the un­re­strained lib­er­ty which he had en­joyed on Ta­bor Is­land, the stranger man­ifest­ed a sullen fury, and it was feared that he might throw him­self on­to the beach, out of one of the win­dows of Gran­ite House. But grad­ual­ly he be­came calmer, and more free­dom was al­lowed to his move­ments.

They had rea­son to hope, and to hope much. Al­ready, for­get­ting his car­niv­orous in­stincts, the stranger ac­cept­ed a less bes­tial nour­ish­ment than that on which he fed on the islet, and cooked meat did not pro­duce in him the same sen­ti­ment of re­pul­sion which he had showed on board the “Bonad­ven­ture.” Cyrus Hard­ing had prof­it­ed by a mo­ment when he was sleep­ing, to cut his hair and mat­ted beard, which formed a sort of mane and gave him such a sav­age as­pect. He had al­so been clothed more suit­ably, af­ter hav­ing got rid of the rag which cov­ered him. The re­sult was that, thanks to these at­ten­tions, the stranger re­sumed a more hu­man ap­pear­ance, and it even seemed as if his eyes had be­come milder. Cer­tain­ly, when for­mer­ly light­ed up by in­tel­li­gence, this man’s face must have had a sort of beau­ty.

Ev­ery day, Hard­ing im­posed on him­self the task of pass­ing some hours in his com­pa­ny. He came and worked near him, and oc­cu­pied him­self in dif­fer­ent things, so as to fix his at­ten­tion. A spark, in­deed, would be suf­fi­cient to reil­lu­mine that soul, a rec­ol­lec­tion cross­ing that brain to re­call rea­son. That had been seen, dur­ing the storm, on board the “Bonad­ven­ture!” The en­gi­neer did not ne­glect ei­ther to speak aloud, so as to pen­etrate at the same time by the or­gans of hear­ing and sight the depths of that tor­pid in­tel­li­gence. Some­times one of his com­pan­ions, some­times an­oth­er, some­times all joined him. They spoke most of­ten of things be­long­ing to the navy, which must in­ter­est a sailor.

At times, the stranger gave some slight at­ten­tion to what was said, and the set­tlers were soon con­vinced that he part­ly un­der­stood them. Some­times the ex­pres­sion of his coun­te­nance was deeply sor­row­ful, a proof that he suf­fered men­tal­ly, for his face could not be mis­tak­en; but he did not speak, al­though at dif­fer­ent times, how­ev­er, they al­most thought that words were about to is­sue from his lips. At all events, the poor crea­ture was quite qui­et and sad!

But was not his calm on­ly ap­par­ent? Was not his sad­ness on­ly the re­sult of his seclu­sion? Noth­ing could yet be as­cer­tained. See­ing on­ly cer­tain ob­jects and in a lim­it­ed space, al­ways in con­tact with the colonists, to whom he would soon be­come ac­cus­tomed, hav­ing no de­sires to sat­is­fy, bet­ter fed, bet­ter clothed, it was nat­ural that his phys­ical na­ture should grad­ual­ly im­prove; but was he pen­etrat­ed with the sense of a new life? or rather, to em­ploy a word which would be ex­act­ly ap­pli­ca­ble to him, was he not be­com­ing tamed, like an an­imal in com­pa­ny with his mas­ter? This was an im­por­tant ques­tion, which Cyrus Hard­ing was anx­ious to an­swer, and yet he did not wish to treat his in­valid rough­ly! Would he ev­er be a con­va­les­cent?

How the en­gi­neer ob­served him ev­ery mo­ment! How he was on the watch for his soul, if one may use the ex­pres­sion! How he was ready to grasp it! The set­tlers fol­lowed with re­al sym­pa­thy all the phas­es of the cure un­der­tak­en by Hard­ing. They aid­ed him al­so in this work of hu­man­ity, and all, ex­cept per­haps the in­cred­ulous Pen­croft, soon shared both his hope and his faith.

The calm of the stranger was deep, as has been said, and he even showed a sort of at­tach­ment for the en­gi­neer, whose in­flu­ence he ev­ident­ly felt. Cyrus Hard­ing re­solved then to try him, by trans­port­ing him to an­oth­er scene, from that ocean which for­mer­ly his eyes had been ac­cus­tomed to con­tem­plate, to the bor­der of the for­est, which might per­haps re­call those where so many years of his life had been passed!

“But,” said Gideon Spilett, “can we hope that he will not es­cape, if once set at lib­er­ty?”

“The ex­per­iment must be tried,” replied the en­gi­neer.

“Well!” said Pen­croft. “When that fel­low is out­side, and feels the fresh air, he will be off as fast as his legs can car­ry him!”

“I do not think so,” re­turned Hard­ing.

“Let us try,” said Spilett.

“We will try,” replied the en­gi­neer.

This was on the 30th of Oc­to­ber, and con­se­quent­ly the cast­away of Ta­bor Is­land had been a pris­on­er in Gran­ite House for nine days. It was warm, and a bright sun dart­ed its rays on the is­land. Cyrus Hard­ing and Pen­croft went to the room oc­cu­pied by the stranger, who was found ly­ing near the win­dow and gaz­ing at the sky.

“Come, my friend,” said the en­gi­neer to him.

The stranger rose im­me­di­ate­ly. His eyes were fixed on Cyrus Hard­ing, and he fol­lowed him, while the sailor marched be­hind them, lit­tle con­fi­dent as to the re­sult of the ex­per­iment.

Ar­rived at the door, Hard­ing and Pen­croft made him take his place in the lift, while Neb, Her­bert, and Gideon Spilett wait­ed for them be­fore Gran­ite House. The lift de­scend­ed, and in a few mo­ments all were unit­ed on the beach.

The set­tlers went a short dis­tance from the stranger, so as to leave him at lib­er­ty.

He then made a few steps to­ward the sea, and his look bright­ened with ex­treme an­ima­tion, but he did not make the slight­est at­tempt to es­cape. He was gaz­ing at the lit­tle waves which, bro­ken by the islet, rip­pled on the sand.

“This is on­ly the sea,” ob­served Gideon Spilett, “and pos­si­bly it does not in­spire him with any wish to es­cape!”

“Yes,” replied Hard­ing, “we must take him to the plateau, on the bor­der of the for­est. There the ex­per­iment will be more con­clu­sive.”

“Be­sides, he could not run away,” said Neb, “since the bridge is raised.”

“Oh!” said Pen­croft, “that isn’t a man to be trou­bled by a stream like Creek Glyc­er­ine! He could cross it di­rect­ly, at a sin­gle bound!”

“We shall soon see,” Hard­ing con­tent­ed him­self with re­ply­ing, his eyes not quit­ting those of his pa­tient.

The lat­ter was then led to­wards the mouth of the Mer­cy, and all climb­ing the left bank of the riv­er, reached Prospect Heights.

Ar­rived at the spot on which grew the first beau­ti­ful trees of the for­est, their fo­liage slight­ly ag­itat­ed by the breeze, the stranger ap­peared greed­ily to drink in the pen­etrat­ing odor which filled the at­mo­sphere, and a long sigh es­caped from his chest.

The set­tlers kept be­hind him, ready to seize him if he made any move­ment to es­cape!

And, in­deed, the poor crea­ture was on the point of spring­ing in­to the creek which sep­arat­ed him from the for­est, and his legs were bent for an in­stant as if for a spring, but al­most im­me­di­ate­ly he stepped back, half sank down, and a large tear fell from his eyes.

“Ah!” ex­claimed Cyrus Hard­ing, “you have be­come a man again, for you can weep!”