Île mystérieuse. English

Chapter 5

Pen­croft’s first care, af­ter un­load­ing the raft, was to ren­der the cave hab­it­able by stop­ping up all the holes which made it draughty. Sand, stones, twist­ed branch­es, wet clay, closed up the gal­leries open to the south winds. One nar­row and wind­ing open­ing at the side was kept, to lead out the smoke and to make the fire draw. The cave was thus di­vid­ed in­to three or four rooms, if such dark dens with which a don­key would scarce­ly have been con­tent­ed de­served the name. But they were dry, and there was space to stand up­right, at least in the prin­ci­pal room, which oc­cu­pied the cen­ter. The floor was cov­ered with fine sand, and tak­ing all in all they were well pleased with it for want of a bet­ter.

“Per­haps,” said Her­bert, while he and Pen­croft were work­ing, “our com­pan­ions have found a su­pe­ri­or place to ours.”

“Very like­ly,” replied the sea­man; “but, as we don’t know, we must work all the same. Bet­ter to have two strings to one’s bow than no string at all!”

“Oh!” ex­claimed Her­bert, “how jol­ly it will be if they were to find Cap­tain Hard­ing and were to bring him back with them!”

“Yes, in­deed!” said Pen­croft, “that was a man of the right sort.”

“Was!” ex­claimed Her­bert, “do you de­spair of ev­er see­ing him again?”

“God for­bid!” replied the sailor. Their work was soon done, and Pen­croft de­clared him­self very well sat­is­fied.

“Now,” said he, “our friends can come back when they like. They will find a good enough shel­ter.”

They now had on­ly to make a fire­place and to pre­pare the sup­per–an easy task. Large flat stones were placed on the ground at the open­ing of the nar­row pas­sage which had been kept. This, if the smoke did not take the heat out with it, would be enough to main­tain an equal tem­per­ature in­side. Their wood was stowed away in one of the rooms, and the sailor laid in the fire­place some logs and brush­wood. The sea­man was busy with this, when Her­bert asked him if he had any match­es.

“Cer­tain­ly,” replied Pen­croft, “and I may say hap­pi­ly, for with­out match­es or tin­der we should be in a fix.”

“Still we might get fire as the sav­ages do,” replied Her­bert, “by rub­bing two bits of dry stick one against the oth­er.”

“All right; try, my boy, and let’s see if you can do any­thing be­sides ex­er­cis­ing your arms.”

“Well, it’s a very sim­ple pro­ceed­ing, and much used in the is­lands of the Pa­cif­ic.”

“I don’t de­ny it,” replied Pen­croft, “but the sav­ages must know how to do it or em­ploy a pe­cu­liar wood, for more than once I have tried to get fire in that way, but I could nev­er man­age it. I must say I pre­fer match­es. By the bye, where are my match­es?”

Pen­croft searched in his waist­coat for the box, which was al­ways there, for he was a con­firmed smok­er. He could not find it; he rum­maged the pock­ets of his trousers, but, to his hor­ror, he could nowhere dis­cov­er the box.

“Here’s a go!” said he, look­ing at Her­bert. “The box must have fall­en out of my pock­et and got lost! Sure­ly, Her­bert, you must have some­thing–a tin­der-​box–any­thing that can pos­si­bly make fire!”

“No, I haven’t, Pen­croft.”

The sailor rushed out, fol­lowed by the boy. On the sand, among the rocks, near the riv­er’s bank, they both searched care­ful­ly, but in vain. The box was of cop­per, and there­fore would have been eas­ily seen.

“Pen­croft,” asked Her­bert, “didn’t you throw it out of the car?”

“I knew bet­ter than that,” replied the sailor; “but such a small ar­ti­cle could eas­ily dis­ap­pear in the tum­bling about we have gone through. I would rather even have lost my pipe! Con­found the box! Where can it be?”

“Look here, the tide is go­ing down,” said Her­bert; “let’s run to the place where we land­ed.”

It was scarce­ly prob­able that they would find the box, which the waves had rolled about among the peb­bles, at high tide, but it was as well to try. Her­bert and Pen­croft walked rapid­ly to the point where they had land­ed the day be­fore, about two hun­dred feet from the cave. They hunt­ed there, among the shin­gle, in the clefts of the rocks, but found noth­ing. If the box had fall­en at this place it must have been swept away by the waves. As the sea went down, they searched ev­ery lit­tle crevice with no re­sult. It was a grave loss in their cir­cum­stances, and for the time ir­repara­ble. Pen­croft could not hide his vex­ation; he looked very anx­ious, but said not a word. Her­bert tried to con­sole him by ob­serv­ing, that if they had found the match­es, they would, very like­ly, have been wet­ted by the sea and use­less.

“No, my boy,” replied the sailor; “they were in a cop­per box which shut very tight­ly; and now what are we to do?”

“We shall cer­tain­ly find some way of mak­ing a fire,” said Her­bert. “Cap­tain Hard­ing or Mr. Spilett will not be with­out them.”

“Yes,” replied Pen­croft; “but in the mean­time we are with­out fire, and our com­pan­ions will find but a sor­ry repast on their re­turn.”

“But,” said Her­bert quick­ly, “do you think it pos­si­ble that they have no tin­der or match­es?”

“I doubt it,” replied the sailor, shak­ing his head, “for nei­ther Neb nor Cap­tain Hard­ing smoke, and I be­lieve that Mr. Spilett would rather keep his note-​book than his match-​box.”

Her­bert did not re­ply. The loss of the box was cer­tain­ly to be re­gret­ted, but the boy was still sure of procur­ing fire in some way or oth­er. Pen­croft, more ex­pe­ri­enced, did not think so, al­though he was not a man to trou­ble him­self about a small or great grievance. At any rate, there was on­ly one thing to be done–to await the re­turn of Neb and the re­porter; but they must give up the feast of hard eggs which they had meant to pre­pare, and a meal of raw flesh was not an agree­able prospect ei­ther for them­selves or for the oth­ers.

Be­fore re­turn­ing to the cave, the sailor and Her­bert, in the event of fire be­ing pos­itive­ly unattain­able, col­lect­ed some more shell-​fish, and then silent­ly re­traced their steps to their dwelling.

Pen­croft, his eyes fixed on the ground, still looked for his box. He even climbed up the left bank of the riv­er from its mouth to the an­gle where the raft had been moored. He re­turned to the plateau, went over it in ev­ery di­rec­tion, searched among the high grass on the bor­der of the for­est, all in vain.

It was five in the evening when he and Her­bert re-​en­tered the cave. It is use­less to say that the dark­est cor­ners of the pas­sages were ran­sacked be­fore they were obliged to give it up in de­spair. To­wards six o’clock, when the sun was dis­ap­pear­ing be­hind the high lands of the west, Her­bert, who was walk­ing up and down on the strand, sig­nal­ized the re­turn of Neb and Spilett.

They were re­turn­ing alone! . . . . The boy’s heart sank; the sailor had not been de­ceived in his fore­bod­ings; the en­gi­neer, Cyrus Hard­ing, had not been found!

The re­porter, on his ar­rival, sat down on a rock, with­out say­ing any­thing. Ex­haust­ed with fa­tigue, dy­ing of hunger, he had not strength to ut­ter a word.

As to Neb, his red eyes showed how he had cried, and the tears which he could not re­strain told too clear­ly that he had lost all hope.

The re­porter re­count­ed all that they had done in their at­tempt to re­cov­er Cyrus Hard­ing. He and Neb had sur­veyed the coast for a dis­tance of eight miles and con­se­quent­ly much be­yond the place where the bal­loon had fall­en the last time but one, a fall which was fol­lowed by the dis­ap­pear­ance of the en­gi­neer and the dog Top. The shore was soli­tary; not a ves­tige of a mark. Not even a peb­ble re­cent­ly dis­placed; not a trace on the sand; not a hu­man foot­step on all that part of the beach. It was clear that that por­tion of the shore had nev­er been vis­it­ed by a hu­man be­ing. The sea was as de­sert­ed as the land, and it was there, a few hun­dred feet from the coast, that the en­gi­neer must have found a tomb.

As Spilett end­ed his ac­count, Neb jumped up, ex­claim­ing in a voice which showed how hope strug­gled with­in him, “No! he is not dead! he can’t be dead! It might hap­pen to any one else, but nev­er to him! He could get out of any­thing!” Then his strength for­sak­ing him, “Oh! I can do no more!” he mur­mured.

“Neb,” said Her­bert, run­ning to him, “we will find him! God will give him back to us! But in the mean­time you are hun­gry, and you must eat some­thing.”

So say­ing, he of­fered the poor Ne­gro a few hand­fuls of shell-​fish, which was in­deed wretched and in­suf­fi­cient food. Neb had not eat­en any­thing for sev­er­al hours, but he re­fused them. He could not, would not live with­out his mas­ter.

As to Gideon Spilett, he de­voured the shell-​fish, then he laid him­self down on the sand, at the foot of a rock. He was very weak, but calm. Her­bert went up to him, and tak­ing his hand, “Sir,” said he, “we have found a shel­ter which will be bet­ter than ly­ing here. Night is ad­vanc­ing. Come and rest! To-​mor­row we will search far­ther.”

The re­porter got up, and guid­ed by the boy went to­wards the cave. On the way, Pen­croft asked him in the most nat­ural tone, if by chance he hap­pened to have a match or two.

The re­porter stopped, felt in his pock­ets, but find­ing noth­ing said, “I had some, but I must have thrown them away.”

The sea­man then put the same ques­tion to Neb and re­ceived the same an­swer.

“Con­found it!” ex­claimed the sailor.

The re­porter heard him and seiz­ing his arm, “Have you no match­es?” he asked.

“Not one, and no fire in con­se­quence.”

“Ah!” cried Neb, “if my mas­ter was here, he would know what to do!”

The four cast­aways re­mained mo­tion­less, look­ing un­easi­ly at each oth­er. Her­bert was the first to break the si­lence by say­ing, “Mr. Spilett, you are a smok­er and al­ways have match­es about you; per­haps you haven’t looked well, try again, a sin­gle match will be enough!”

The re­porter hunt­ed again in the pock­ets of his trousers, waist­coat, and great-​coat, and at last to Pen­croft’s great joy, no less to his ex­treme sur­prise, he felt a tiny piece of wood en­tan­gled in the lin­ing of his waist­coat. He seized it with his fin­gers through the stuff, but he could not get it out. If this was a match and a sin­gle one, it was of great im­por­tance not to rub off the phos­pho­rus.

“Will you let me try?” said the boy, and very clev­er­ly, with­out break­ing it, he man­aged to draw out the wretched yet pre­cious lit­tle bit of wood which was of such great im­por­tance to these poor men. It was un­used.

“Hur­rah!” cried Pen­croft; “it is as good as hav­ing a whole car­go!” He took the match, and, fol­lowed by his com­pan­ions, en­tered the cave.

This small piece of wood, of which so many in an in­hab­it­ed coun­try are wast­ed with in­dif­fer­ence and are of no val­ue, must here be used with the great­est cau­tion.

The sailor first made sure that it was quite dry; that done, “We must have some pa­per,” said he.

“Here,” replied Spilett, af­ter some hes­ita­tion tear­ing a leaf out of his note-​book.

Pen­croft took the piece of pa­per which the re­porter held out to him, and knelt down be­fore the fire­place. Some hand­fuls of grass, leaves, and dry moss were placed un­der the fagots and dis­posed in such a way that the air could eas­ily cir­cu­late, and the dry wood would rapid­ly catch fire.

Pen­croft then twist­ed the piece of pa­per in­to the shape of a cone, as smok­ers do in a high wind, and poked it in among the moss. Tak­ing a small, rough stone, he wiped it care­ful­ly, and with a beat­ing heart, hold­ing his breath, he gen­tly rubbed the match. The first at­tempt did not pro­duce any ef­fect. Pen­croft had not struck hard enough, fear­ing to rub off the phos­pho­rus.

“No, I can’t do it,” said he, “my hand trem­bles, the match has missed fire; I can­not, I will not!” and ris­ing, he told Her­bert to take his place.

Cer­tain­ly the boy had nev­er in all his life been so ner­vous. Prometheus go­ing to steal the fire from heav­en could not have been more anx­ious. He did not hes­itate, how­ev­er, but struck the match di­rect­ly.

A lit­tle splut­ter­ing was heard and a tiny blue flame sprang up, mak­ing a chok­ing smoke. Her­bert quick­ly turned the match so as to aug­ment the flame, and then slipped it in­to the pa­per cone, which in a few sec­onds too caught fire, and then the moss.

A minute lat­er the dry wood crack­led and a cheer­ful flame, as­sist­ed by the vig­or­ous blow­ing of the sailor, sprang up in the midst of the dark­ness.

“At last!” cried Pen­croft, get­ting up; “I was nev­er so ner­vous be­fore in all my life!”

The flat stones made a cap­ital fire­place. The smoke went quite eas­ily out at the nar­row pas­sage, the chim­ney drew, and an agree­able warmth was not long in be­ing felt.

They must now take great care not to let the fire go out, and al­ways to keep some em­bers alight. It on­ly need­ed care and at­ten­tion, as they had plen­ty of wood and could re­new their store at any time.

Pen­croft’s first thought was to use the fire by prepar­ing a more nour­ish­ing sup­per than a dish of shell-​fish. Two dozen eggs were brought by Her­bert. The re­porter lean­ing up in a cor­ner, watched these prepa­ra­tions with­out say­ing any­thing. A three­fold thought weighed on his mind. Was Cyrus still alive? If he was alive, where was he? If he had sur­vived from his fall, how was it that he had not found some means of mak­ing known his ex­is­tence? As to Neb, he was roam­ing about the shore. He was like a body with­out a soul.

Pen­croft knew fifty ways of cook­ing eggs, but this time he had no choice, and was obliged to con­tent him­self with roast­ing them un­der the hot cin­ders. In a few min­utes the cook­ing was done, and the sea­man in­vit­ed the re­porter to take his share of the sup­per. Such was the first repast of the cast­aways on this un­known coast. The hard eggs were ex­cel­lent, and as eggs con­tain ev­ery­thing in­dis­pens­able to man’s nour­ish­ment, these poor peo­ple thought them­selves well off, and were much strength­ened by them. Oh! if on­ly one of them had not been miss­ing at this meal! If the five pris­on­ers who es­caped from Rich­mond had been all there, un­der the piled-​up rocks, be­fore this clear, crack­ling fire on the dry sand, what thanks­giv­ing must they have ren­dered to Heav­en! But the most in­ge­nious, the most learned, he who was their un­ques­tioned chief, Cyrus Hard­ing, was, alas! miss­ing, and his body had not even ob­tained a buri­al-​place.

Thus passed the 25th of March. Night had come on. Out­side could be heard the howl­ing of the wind and the monotonous sound of the surf break­ing on the shore. The waves rolled the shin­gle back­wards and for­wards with a deaf­en­ing noise.

The re­porter re­tired in­to a dark cor­ner af­ter hav­ing short­ly not­ed down the oc­cur­rences of the day; the first ap­pear­ance of this new land, the loss of their lead­er, the ex­plo­ration of the coast, the in­ci­dent of the match­es, etc.; and then over­come by fa­tigue, he man­aged to for­get his sor­rows in sleep. Her­bert went to sleep di­rect­ly. As to the sailor, he passed the night with one eye on the fire, on which he did not spare fu­el. But one of the cast­aways did not sleep in the cave. The in­con­solable, de­spair­ing Neb, notwith­stand­ing all that his com­pan­ions could say to in­duce him to take some rest, wan­dered all night long on the shore call­ing on his mas­ter.