Île mystérieuse. English

Chapter 4

All at once the re­porter sprang up, and telling the sailor that he would re­join them at that same place, he climbed the cliff in the di­rec­tion which the Ne­gro Neb had tak­en a few hours be­fore. Anx­iety has­tened his steps, for he longed to ob­tain news of his friend, and he soon dis­ap­peared round an an­gle of the cliff. Her­bert wished to ac­com­pa­ny him.

“Stop here, my boy,” said the sailor; “we have to pre­pare an en­camp­ment, and to try and find rather bet­ter grub than these shell-​fish. Our friends will want some­thing when they come back. There is work for ev­ery­body.”

“I am ready,” replied Her­bert.

“All right,” said the sailor; “that will do. We must set about it reg­ular­ly. We are tired, cold, and hun­gry; there­fore we must have shel­ter, fire, and food. There is wood in the for­est, and eggs in nests; we have on­ly to find a house.”

“Very well,” re­turned Her­bert, “I will look for a cave among the rocks, and I shall be sure to dis­cov­er some hole in­to which we can creep.”

“All right,” said Pen­croft; “go on, my boy.”

They both walked to the foot of the enor­mous wall over the beach, far from which the tide had now re­treat­ed; but in­stead of go­ing to­wards the north, they went south­ward. Pen­croft had re­marked, sev­er­al hun­dred feet from the place at which they land­ed, a nar­row cut­ting, out of which he thought a riv­er or stream might is­sue. Now, on the one hand it was im­por­tant to set­tle them­selves in the neigh­bor­hood of a good stream of wa­ter, and on the oth­er it was pos­si­ble that the cur­rent had thrown Cyrus Hard­ing on the shore there.

The cliff, as has been said, rose to a height of three hun­dred feet, but the mass was un­bro­ken through­out, and even at its base, scarce­ly washed by the sea, it did not of­fer the small­est fis­sure which would serve as a dwelling. It was a per­pen­dic­ular wall of very hard gran­ite, which even the waves had not worn away. To­wards the sum­mit flut­tered myr­iads of sea-​fowl, and es­pe­cial­ly those of the web-​foot­ed species with long, flat, point­ed beaks–a clam­orous tribe, bold in the pres­ence of man, who prob­ably for the first time thus in­vad­ed their do­mains. Pen­croft rec­og­nized the skua and oth­er gulls among them, the vo­ra­cious lit­tle sea-​mew, which in great num­bers nes­tled in the crevices of the gran­ite. A shot fired among this swarm would have killed a great num­ber, but to fire a shot a gun was need­ed, and nei­ther Pen­croft nor Her­bert had one; be­sides this, gulls and sea-​mews are scarce­ly eat­able, and even their eggs have a de­testable taste. How­ev­er, Her­bert, who had gone for­ward a lit­tle more to the left, soon came up­on rocks cov­ered with sea-​weed, which, some hours lat­er, would be hid­den by the high tide. On these rocks, in the midst of slip­pery wrack, abound­ed bi­valve shell-​fish, not to be de­spised by starv­ing peo­ple. Her­bert called Pen­croft, who ran up hasti­ly.

“Here are mus­sels!” cried the sailor; “these will do in­stead of eggs!”

“They are not mus­sels,” replied Her­bert, who was at­ten­tive­ly ex­am­in­ing the mol­luscs at­tached to the rocks; “they are lithodomes.”

“Are they good to eat?” asked Pen­croft.

“Per­fect­ly so.”

“Then let us eat some lithodomes.”

The sailor could re­ly up­on Her­bert; the young boy was well up in nat­ural his­to­ry, and al­ways had had quite a pas­sion for the sci­ence. His fa­ther had en­cour­aged him in it, by let­ting him at­tend the lec­tures of the best pro­fes­sors in Boston, who were very fond of the in­tel­li­gent, in­dus­tri­ous lad. And his turn for nat­ural his­to­ry was, more than once in the course of time, of great use, and he was not mis­tak­en in this in­stance. These lithodomes were ob­long shells, sus­pend­ed in clus­ters and ad­her­ing very tight­ly to the rocks. They be­long to that species of mol­lus­cous per­fo­ra­tors which ex­ca­vate holes in the hard­est stone; their shell is round­ed at both ends, a fea­ture which is not re­marked in the com­mon mus­sel.

Pen­croft and Her­bert made a good meal of the lithodomes, which were then half opened to the sun. They ate them as oys­ters, and as they had a strong pep­pery taste, they were palat­able with­out condi­ments of any sort.

Their hunger was thus ap­peased for the time, but not their thirst, which in­creased af­ter eat­ing these nat­ural­ly-​spiced mol­luscs. They had then to find fresh wa­ter, and it was not like­ly that it would be want­ing in such a capri­cious­ly un­even re­gion. Pen­croft and Her­bert, af­ter hav­ing tak­en the pre­cau­tion of col­lect­ing an am­ple sup­ply of lithodomes, with which they filled their pock­ets and hand­ker­chiefs, re­gained the foot of the cliff.

Two hun­dred paces far­ther they ar­rived at the cut­ting, through which, as Pen­croft had guessed, ran a stream of wa­ter, whether fresh or not was to be as­cer­tained. At this place the wall ap­peared to have been sep­arat­ed by some vi­olent sub­ter­ranean force. At its base was hol­lowed out a lit­tle creek, the far­thest part of which formed a tol­er­ably sharp an­gle. The wa­ter­course at that part mea­sured one hun­dred feet in breadth, and its two banks on each side were scarce­ly twen­ty feet high. The riv­er be­came strong al­most di­rect­ly be­tween the two walls of gran­ite, which be­gan to sink above the mouth; it then sud­den­ly turned and dis­ap­peared be­neath a wood of stunt­ed trees half a mile off.

“Here is the wa­ter, and yon­der is the wood we re­quire!” said Pen­croft. “Well, Her­bert, now we on­ly want the house.”

The wa­ter of the riv­er was limpid. The sailor as­cer­tained that at this time–that is to say, at low tide, when the ris­ing floods did not reach it –it was sweet. This im­por­tant point es­tab­lished, Her­bert looked for some cav­ity which would serve them as a re­treat, but in vain; ev­ery­where the wall ap­peared smooth, plain, and per­pen­dic­ular.

How­ev­er, at the mouth of the wa­ter­course and above the reach of the high tide, the con­vul­sions of na­ture had formed, not a grot­to, but a pile of enor­mous rocks, such as are of­ten met with in gran­ite coun­tries and which bear the name of “Chim­neys.”

Pen­croft and Her­bert pen­etrat­ed quite far in among the rocks, by sandy pas­sages in which light was not want­ing, for it en­tered through the open­ings which were left be­tween the blocks, of which some were on­ly sus­tained by a mir­acle of equi­lib­ri­um; but with the light came al­so air–a reg­ular cor­ri­dor-​gale–and with the wind the sharp cold from the ex­te­ri­or. How­ev­er, the sailor thought that by stop­ping-​up some of the open­ings with a mix­ture of stones and sand, the Chim­neys could be ren­dered hab­it­able. Their ge­omet­ri­cal plan rep­re­sent­ed the ty­po­graph­ical sign “&,” which sig­ni­fies “et cetera” abridged, but by iso­lat­ing the up­per mouth of the sign, through which the south and west winds blew so strong­ly, they could suc­ceed in mak­ing the low­er part of use.

“Here’s our work,” said Pen­croft, “and if we ev­er see Cap­tain Hard­ing again, he will know how to make some­thing of this labyrinth.”

“We shall see him again, Pen­croft,” cried Her­bert, “and when be re­turns he must find a tol­er­able dwelling here. It will be so, if we can make a fire­place in the left pas­sage and keep an open­ing for the smoke.”

“So we can, my boy,” replied the sailor, “and these Chim­neys will serve our turn. Let us set to work, but first come and get a store of fu­el. I think some branch­es will be very use­ful in stop­ping up these open­ings, through which the wind shrieks like so many fiends.”

Her­bert and Pen­croft left the Chim­neys, and, turn­ing the an­gle, they be­gan to climb the left bank of the riv­er. The cur­rent here was quite rapid, and drift­ed down some dead wood. The ris­ing tide–and it could al­ready be per­ceived–must drive it back with force to a con­sid­er­able dis­tance. The sailor then thought that they could uti­lize this ebb and flow for the trans­port of heavy ob­jects.

Af­ter hav­ing walked for a quar­ter of an hour, the sailor and the boy ar­rived at the an­gle which the riv­er made in turn­ing to­wards the left. From this point its course was pur­sued through a for­est of mag­nif­icent trees. These trees still re­tained their ver­dure, notwith­stand­ing the ad­vanced sea­son, for they be­longed to the fam­ily of “conifer­ae,” which is spread over all the re­gions of the globe, from north­ern cli­mates to the trop­ics. The young nat­ural­ist rec­og­nized es­pe­cial­ly the “deedara,” which are very nu­mer­ous in the Hi­malayan zone, and which spread around them a most agree­able odor. Be­tween these beau­ti­ful trees sprang up clus­ters of firs, whose opaque open para­sol boughs spread wide around. Among the long grass, Pen­croft felt that his feet were crush­ing dry branch­es which crack­led like fire­works.

“Well, my boy,” said he to Her­bert, “if I don’t know the name of these trees, at any rate I reck­on that we may call them ‘burn­ing wood,’ and just now that’s the chief thing we want.”

“Let us get a sup­ply,” replied Her­bert, who im­me­di­ate­ly set to work.

The col­lec­tion was eas­ily made. It was not even nec­es­sary to lop the trees, for enor­mous quan­ti­ties of dead wood were ly­ing at their feet; but if fu­el was not want­ing, the means of trans­port­ing it was not yet found. The wood, be­ing very dry, would burn rapid­ly; it was there­fore nec­es­sary to car­ry to the Chim­neys a con­sid­er­able quan­ti­ty, and the loads of two men would not be suf­fi­cient. Her­bert re­marked this.

“Well, my boy,” replied the sailor, “there must be some way of car­ry­ing this wood; there is al­ways a way of do­ing ev­ery­thing. If we had a cart or a boat, it would be easy enough.”

“But we have the riv­er,” said Her­bert.

“Right,” replied Pen­croft; “the riv­er will be to us like a road which car­ries of it­self, and rafts have not been in­vent­ed for noth­ing.”

“On­ly,” ob­served Her­bert, “at this mo­ment our road is go­ing the wrong way, for the tide is ris­ing!”

“We shall be all right if we wait till it ebbs,” replied the sailor, “and then we will trust it to car­ry our fu­el to the Chim­neys. Let us get the raft ready.”

The sailor, fol­lowed by Her­bert, di­rect­ed his steps to­wards the riv­er. They both car­ried, each in pro­por­tion to his strength, a load of wood bound in fagots. They found on the bank al­so a great quan­ti­ty of dead branch­es in the midst of grass, among which the foot of man had prob­ably nev­er be­fore trod. Pen­croft be­gan di­rect­ly to make his raft. In a kind of lit­tle bay, cre­at­ed by a point of the shore which broke the cur­rent, the sailor and the lad placed some good-​sized pieces of wood, which they had fas­tened to­geth­er with dry creep­ers. A raft was thus formed, on which they stacked all they had col­lect­ed, suf­fi­cient, in­deed, to have load­ed at least twen­ty men. In an hour the work was fin­ished, and the raft moored to the bank, await­ed the turn­ing of the tide.

There were still sev­er­al hours to be oc­cu­pied, and with one con­sent Pen­croft and Her­bert re­solved to gain the up­per plateau, so as to have a more ex­tend­ed view of the sur­round­ing coun­try.

Ex­act­ly two hun­dred feet be­hind the an­gle formed by the riv­er, the wall, ter­mi­nat­ed by a fall of rocks, died away in a gen­tle slope to the edge of the for­est. It was a nat­ural stair­case. Her­bert and the sailor be­gan their as­cent; thanks to the vig­or of their mus­cles they reached the sum­mit in a few min­utes; and pro­ceed­ed to the point above the mouth of the riv­er.

On at­tain­ing it, their first look was cast up­on the ocean which not long be­fore they had tra­versed in such a ter­ri­ble con­di­tion. They ob­served, with emo­tion, all that part to the north of the coast on which the catas­tro­phe had tak­en place. It was there that Cyrus Hard­ing had dis­ap­peared. They looked to see if some por­tion of their bal­loon, to which a man might pos­si­bly cling, yet ex­ist­ed. Noth­ing! The sea was but one vast wa­tery desert. As to the coast, it was soli­tary al­so. Nei­ther the re­porter nor Neb could be any­where seen. But it was pos­si­ble that at this time they were both too far away to be per­ceived.

“Some­thing tells me,” cried Her­bert, “that a man as en­er­get­ic as Cap­tain Hard­ing would not let him­self be drowned like oth­er peo­ple. He must have reached some point of the shore; don’t you think so, Pen­croft?”

The sailor shook his head sad­ly. He lit­tle ex­pect­ed ev­er to see Cyrus Hard­ing again; but wish­ing to leave some hope to Her­bert: “Doubt­less, doubt­less,” said he; “our en­gi­neer is a man who would get out of a scrape to which any one else would yield.”

In the mean­time he ex­am­ined the coast with great at­ten­tion. Stretched out be­low them was the sandy shore, bound­ed on the right of the riv­er’s mouth by lines of break­ers. The rocks which were vis­ible ap­peared like am­phibi­ous mon­sters repos­ing in the surf. Be­yond the reef, the sea sparkled be­neath the sun’s rays. To the south a sharp point closed the hori­zon, and it could not be seen if the land was pro­longed in that di­rec­tion, or if it ran south­east and south­west, which would have made this coast a very long penin­su­la. At the north­ern ex­trem­ity of the bay the out­line of the shore was con­tin­ued to a great dis­tance in a wider curve. There the shore was low, flat, with­out cliffs, and with great banks of sand, which the tide left un­cov­ered. Pen­croft and Her­bert then re­turned to­wards the west. Their at­ten­tion was first ar­rest­ed by the snow-​topped moun­tain which rose at a dis­tance of six or sev­en miles. From its first de­cliv­ities to with­in two miles of the coast were spread vast mass­es of wood, re­lieved by large green patch­es, caused by the pres­ence of ev­er­green trees. Then, from the edge of this for­est to the shore ex­tend­ed a plain, scat­tered ir­reg­ular­ly with groups of trees. Here and there on the left sparkled through glades the wa­ters of the lit­tle riv­er; they could trace its wind­ing course back to­wards the spurs of the moun­tain, among which it seemed to spring. At the point where the sailor had left his raft of wood, it be­gan to run be­tween the two high gran­ite walls; but if on the left bank the wall re­mained clear and abrupt, on the right bank, on the con­trary, it sank grad­ual­ly, the mas­sive sides changed to iso­lat­ed rocks, the rocks to stones, the stones to shin­gle run­ning to the ex­trem­ity of the point.

“Are we on an is­land?” mur­mured the sailor.

“At any rate, it seems to be big enough,” replied the lad.

“An is­land, ev­er so big, is an is­land all the same!” said Pen­croft.

But this im­por­tant ques­tion could not yet be an­swered. A more per­fect sur­vey had to be made to set­tle the point. As to the land it­self, is­land or con­ti­nent, it ap­peared fer­tile, agree­able in its as­pect, and var­ied in its pro­duc­tions.

“This is sat­is­fac­to­ry,” ob­served Pen­croft; “and in our mis­for­tune, we must thank Prov­idence for it.”

“God be praised!” re­spond­ed Her­bert, whose pi­ous heart was full of grat­itude to the Au­thor of all things.

Pen­croft and Her­bert ex­am­ined for some time the coun­try on which they had been cast; but it was dif­fi­cult to guess af­ter so hasty an in­spec­tion what the fu­ture had in store for them.

They then re­turned, fol­low­ing the south­ern crest of the gran­ite plat­form, bor­dered by a long fringe of jagged rocks, of the most whim­si­cal shapes. Some hun­dreds of birds lived there nes­tled in the holes of the stone; Her­bert, jump­ing over the rocks, star­tled a whole flock of these winged crea­tures.

“Oh!” cried he, “those are not gulls nor sea-​mews!”

“What are they then?” asked Pen­croft.

“Up­on my word, one would say they were pi­geons!”

“Just so, but these are wild or rock pi­geons. I rec­og­nize them by the dou­ble band of black on the wing, by the white tail, and by their slate- col­ored plumage. But if the rock-​pi­geon is good to eat, its eggs must be ex­cel­lent, and we will soon see how many they may have left in their nests!”

“We will not give them time to hatch, un­less it is in the shape of an omelet!” replied Pen­croft mer­ri­ly.

“But what will you make your omelet in?” asked Her­bert; “in your hat?”

“Well!” replied the sailor, “I am not quite con­juror enough for that; we must come down to eggs in the shell, my boy, and I will un­der­take to despatch the hard­est!”

Pen­croft and Her­bert at­ten­tive­ly ex­am­ined the cav­ities in the gran­ite, and they re­al­ly found eggs in some of the hol­lows. A few dozen be­ing col­lect­ed, were packed in the sailor’s hand­ker­chief, and as the time when the tide would be full was ap­proach­ing, Pen­croft and Her­bert be­gan to re­descend to­wards the wa­ter­course. When they ar­rived there, it was an hour af­ter mid­day. The tide had al­ready turned. They must now avail them­selves of the ebb to take the wood to the mouth. Pen­croft did not in­tend to let the raft go away in the cur­rent with­out guid­ance, nei­ther did he mean to em­bark on it him­self to steer it. But a sailor is nev­er at a loss when there is a ques­tion of ca­bles or ropes, and Pen­croft rapid­ly twist­ed a cord, a few fath­oms long, made of dry creep­ers. This veg­etable ca­ble was fas­tened to the af­ter-​part of the raft, and the sailor held it in his hand while Her­bert, push­ing off the raft with a long pole, kept it in the cur­rent. This suc­ceed­ed cap­ital­ly. The enor­mous load of wood drift­ed down the cur­rent. The bank was very equal; there was no fear that the raft would run aground, and be­fore two o’clock they ar­rived at the riv­er’s mouth, a few paces from the Chim­neys.