Île mystérieuse. English

Chapter 20

An iso­lat­ed rock, thir­ty feet in length, twen­ty in breadth, scarce­ly ten from the wa­ter’s edge, such was the on­ly sol­id point which the waves of the Pa­cif­ic had not en­gulfed.

It was all that re­mained of the struc­ture of Gran­ite House! The wall had fall­en head­long and been then shat­tered to frag­ments, and a few of the rocks of the large room were piled one above an­oth­er to form this point. All around had dis­ap­peared in the abyss; the in­fe­ri­or cone of Mount Franklin, rent asun­der by the ex­plo­sion; the la­va jaws of Shark Gulf, the plateau of Prospect Heights, Safe­ty Islet, the gran­ite rocks of Port Bal­loon, the basalts of Dakkar Grot­to, the long Ser­pen­tine Penin­su­la, so dis­tant nev­er­the­less from the cen­ter of the erup­tion. All that could now be seen of Lin­coln Is­land was the nar­row rock which now served as a refuge to the six colonists and their dog Top.

The an­imals had al­so per­ished in the catas­tro­phe; the birds, as well as those rep­re­sent­ing the fau­na of the is­land–all ei­ther crushed or drowned, and the un­for­tu­nate Jup him­self had, alas! found his death in some crevice of the soil.

If Cyrus Hard­ing, Gideon Spilett, Her­bert, Pen­croft, Neb, and Ayr­ton had sur­vived, it was be­cause, as­sem­bled un­der their tent, they had been hurled in­to the sea at the in­stant when the frag­ments of the is­land rained down on ev­ery side.

When they reached the sur­face they could on­ly per­ceive, at half a ca­ble’s length, this mass of rocks, to­wards which they swam and on which they found foot­ing.

On this bar­ren rock they had now ex­ist­ed for nine days. A few pro­vi­sions tak­en from the mag­azine of Gran­ite House be­fore the catas­tro­phe, a lit­tle fresh wa­ter from the rain which had fall­en in a hol­low of the rock, was all that the un­for­tu­nate colonists pos­sessed. Their last hope, the ves­sel, had been shat­tered to pieces. They had no means of quit­ting the reef; no fire, nor any means of ob­tain­ing it. It seemed that they must in­evitably per­ish.

This day, the 18th of March, there re­mained on­ly pro­vi­sions for two days, al­though they lim­it­ed their con­sump­tion to the bare nec­es­saries of life. All their sci­ence and in­tel­li­gence could avail them noth­ing in their present po­si­tion. They were in the hand of God.

Cyrus Hard­ing was calm, Gideon Spilett more ner­vous, and Pen­croft, a prey to sullen anger, walked to and fro on the rock. Her­bert did not for a mo­ment quit the en­gi­neer’s side, as if de­mand­ing from him that as­sis­tance he had no pow­er to give. Neb and Ayr­ton were re­signed to their fate.

“Ah, what a mis­for­tune! what a mis­for­tune!” of­ten re­peat­ed Pen­croft. “If we had but a wal­nut-​shell to take us to Ta­bor Is­land! But we have noth­ing, noth­ing!”

“Cap­tain Nemo did right to die,” said Neb.

Dur­ing the five en­su­ing days Cyrus Hard­ing and his un­for­tu­nate com­pan­ions hus­band­ed their pro­vi­sions with the most ex­treme care, eat­ing on­ly what would pre­vent them from dy­ing of star­va­tion. Their weak­ness was ex­treme. Her­bert and Neb be­gan to show symp­toms of delir­ium.

Un­der these cir­cum­stances was it pos­si­ble for them to re­tain even the shad­ow of a hope? No! What was their sole re­main­ing chance? That a ves­sel should ap­pear in sight of the rock? But they knew on­ly too well from ex­pe­ri­ence that no ships ev­er vis­it­ed this part of the Pa­cif­ic. Could they cal­cu­late that, by a tru­ly prov­iden­tial co­in­ci­dence, the Scotch yacht would ar­rive pre­cise­ly at this time in search of Ayr­ton at Ta­bor Is­land? It was scarce­ly prob­able; and, be­sides, sup­pos­ing she should come there, as the colonists had not been able to de­posit a no­tice point­ing out Ayr­ton’s change of abode, the com­man­der of the yacht, af­ter hav­ing ex­plored Ta­bor Is­land with­out re­sults, would again set sail and re­turn to low­er lat­itudes.

No! no hope of be­ing saved could be re­tained, and a hor­ri­ble death, death from hunger and thirst, await­ed them up­on this rock.

Al­ready they were stretched on the rock, inan­imate, and no longer con­scious of what passed around them. Ayr­ton alone, by a supreme ef­fort, from time to time raised his head, and cast a de­spair­ing glance over the desert ocean.

But on the morn­ing of the 24th of March Ayr­ton’s arms were ex­tend­ed to­ward a point in the hori­zon; he raised him­self, at first on his knees, then up­right, and his hand seemed to make a sig­nal.

A sail was in sight off the rock. She was ev­ident­ly not with­out an ob­ject. The reef was the mark for which she was mak­ing in a di­rect line, un­der all steam, and the un­for­tu­nate colonists might have made her out some hours be­fore if they had had the strength to watch the hori­zon.

“The ‘Dun­can’!” mur­mured Ayr­ton–and fell back with­out sign of life.

When Cyrus Hard­ing and his com­pan­ions re­cov­ered con­scious­ness, thanks to the at­ten­tion lav­ished up­on them, they found them­selves in the cab­in of a steam­er, with­out be­ing able to com­pre­hend how they had es­caped death.

A word from Ayr­ton ex­plained ev­ery­thing.

“The ‘Dun­can’!” he mur­mured.

“The ‘Dun­can’!” ex­claimed Cyrus Hard­ing. And rais­ing his hand to Heav­en, he said, “Oh! Almighty God! mer­ci­ful­ly hast Thou pre­served us!”

It was, in fact, the “Dun­can,” Lord Gle­nar­van’s yacht, now com­mand­ed by Robert, son of Cap­tain Grant, who had been despatched to Ta­bor Is­land to find Ayr­ton, and bring him back to his na­tive land al­ter twelve years of ex­pi­ation.

The colonists were not on­ly saved, but al­ready on the way to their na­tive coun­try.

“Cap­tain Grant,” asked Cyrus Hard­ing, “who can have sug­gest­ed to you the idea, af­ter hav­ing left Ta­bor Is­land, where you did not find Ayr­ton, of com­ing a hun­dred miles far­ther north­east?”

“Cap­tain Hard­ing,” replied Robert Grant, “it was in or­der to find, not on­ly Ayr­ton, but your­self and your com­pan­ions.”

“My com­pan­ions and my­self?”

“Doubt­less, at Lin­coln Is­land.”

“At Lin­coln Is­land!” ex­claimed in a breath Gideon Spilett, Her­bert, Neb, and Pen­croft, in the high­est de­gree as­ton­ished.

“How could you be aware of the ex­is­tence of Lin­coln Is­land?” in­quired Cyrus Hard­ing, “it is not even named in the charts.”

“I knew of it from a doc­ument left by you on Ta­bor Is­land,” an­swered Robert Grant.

“A doc­ument!” cried Gideon Spilett.

“With­out doubt, and here it is,” an­swered Robert Grant, pro­duc­ing a pa­per which in­di­cat­ed the lon­gi­tude and lat­itude of Lin­coln Is­land, “the present res­idence of Ayr­ton and five Amer­ican colonists.”

“It is Cap­tain Nemo!” cried Cyrus Hard­ing, af­ter hav­ing read the no­tice, and rec­og­nized that the hand­writ­ing was sim­ilar to that of the pa­per found at the cor­ral.

“Ah!” said Pen­croft, “it was then he who took our ‘Bonad­ven­ture’ and haz­ard­ed him­self alone to go to Ta­bor Is­land!”

“In or­der to leave this no­tice,” added Her­bert.

“I was then right in say­ing,” ex­claimed the sailor, “that even af­ter his death the cap­tain would ren­der us a last ser­vice.”

“My friends,” said Cyrus Hard­ing, in a voice of the pro­found­est emo­tion, “may the God of mer­cy have had pity on the soul of Cap­tain Nemo, our bene­fac­tor.”

The colonists un­cov­ered them­selves at these last words of Cyrus Hard­ing, and mur­mured the name of Cap­tain Nemo.

Then Ayr­ton, ap­proach­ing the en­gi­neer, said sim­ply, “Where should this cof­fer be de­posit­ed?”

It was the cof­fer which Ayr­ton had saved at the risk of his life, at the very in­stant that the is­land had been en­gulfed, and which he now faith­ful­ly hand­ed to the en­gi­neer.

“Ayr­ton! Ayr­ton!” said Cyrus Hard­ing, deeply touched. Then, ad­dress­ing Robert Grant, “Sir,” he added, “you left be­hind you a crim­inal; you find in his place a man who has be­come hon­est by pen­itence, and whose hand I am proud to clasp in mine.”

Robert Grant was now made ac­quaint­ed with the strange his­to­ry of Cap­tain Nemo and the colonists of Lin­coln Is­land. Then, ob­ser­va­tion be­ing tak­en of what re­mained of this shoal, which must hence­for­ward fig­ure on the charts of the Pa­cif­ic, the or­der was giv­en to make all sail.

A few weeks af­ter­wards the colonists land­ed in Amer­ica, and found their coun­try once more at peace al­ter the ter­ri­ble con­flict in which right and jus­tice had tri­umphed.

Of the trea­sures con­tained in the cof­fer left by Cap­tain Nemo to the colonists of Lin­coln Is­land, the larg­er por­tion was em­ployed in the pur­chase of a vast ter­ri­to­ry in the State of Iowa. One pearl alone, the finest, was re­served from the trea­sure and sent to La­dy Gle­nar­van in the name of the cast­aways re­stored to their coun­try by the “Dun­can.”

There, up­on this do­main, the colonists in­vit­ed to la­bor, that is to say, to wealth and hap­pi­ness, all those to whom they had hoped to of­fer the hos­pi­tal­ity of Lin­coln Is­land. There was found­ed a vast colony to which they gave the name of that is­land sunk be­neath the wa­ters of the Pa­cif­ic. A riv­er there was called the Mer­cy, a moun­tain took the name of Mount Franklin, a small lake was named Lake Grant, and the forests be­came the forests of the Far West. It might have been an is­land on ter­ra fir­ma.

There, un­der the in­tel­li­gent hands of the en­gi­neer and his com­pan­ions, ev­ery­thing pros­pered. Not one of the for­mer colonists of Lin­coln Is­land was ab­sent, for they had sworn to live al­ways to­geth­er. Neb was with his mas­ter; Ayr­ton was there ready to sac­ri­fice him­self for all; Pen­croft was more a farmer than he had ev­er been a sailor; Her­bert, who com­plet­ed his stud­ies un­der the su­per­in­ten­dence of Cyrus Hard­ing, and Gideon Spilett, who found­ed the New Lin­coln Her­ald, the best-​in­formed jour­nal in the world.

There Cyrus Hard­ing and his com­pan­ions re­ceived at in­ter­vals vis­its from Lord and La­dy Gle­nar­van, Cap­tain John Man­gles and his wife, the sis­ter of Robert Grant, Robert Grant him­self, Ma­jor Mc­Nab, and all those who had tak­en part in the his­to­ry both of Cap­tain Grant and Cap­tain Nemo.

There, to con­clude, all were hap­py, unit­ed in the present as they had been in the past; but nev­er could they for­get that is­land up­on which they had ar­rived poor and friend­less, that is­land which, dur­ing four years had sup­plied all their wants, and of which there re­mained but a frag­ment of gran­ite washed by the waves of the Pa­cif­ic, the tomb of him who had borne the name of Cap­tain Nemo.

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