Île mystérieuse. English

Chapter 7

Gideon Spilett was stand­ing mo­tion­less on the shore, his arms crossed, gaz­ing over the sea, the hori­zon of which was lost to­wards the east in a thick black cloud which was spread­ing rapid­ly to­wards the zenith. The wind was al­ready strong, and in­creased with the de­cline of day. The whole sky was of a threat­en­ing as­pect, and the first symp­toms of a vi­olent storm were clear­ly vis­ible.

Her­bert en­tered the Chim­neys, and Pen­croft went to­wards the re­porter. The lat­ter, deeply ab­sorbed, did not see him ap­proach.

“We are go­ing to have a dirty night, Mr. Spilett!” said the sailor: “Pe­trels de­light in wind and rain.”

The re­porter, turn­ing at the mo­ment, saw Pen­croft, and his first words were,–

“At what dis­tance from the coast would you say the car was, when the waves car­ried off our com­pan­ion?”

The sailor had not ex­pect­ed this ques­tion. He re­flect­ed an in­stant and replied,–

“Two ca­bles lengths at the most.”

“But what is a ca­ble’s length?” asked Gideon Spilett.

“About a hun­dred and twen­ty fath­oms, or six hun­dred feet.”

“Then,” said the re­porter, “Cyrus Hard­ing must have dis­ap­peared twelve hun­dred feet at the most from the shore?”

“About that,” replied Pen­croft.

“And his dog al­so?”

“Al­so.”

“What as­ton­ish­es me,” re­joined the re­porter, “while ad­mit­ting that our com­pan­ion has per­ished, is that Top has al­so met his death, and that nei­ther the body of the dog nor of his mas­ter has been cast on the shore!”

“It is not as­ton­ish­ing, with such a heavy sea,” replied the sailor. “Be­sides, it is pos­si­ble that cur­rents have car­ried them far­ther down the coast.”

“Then, it is your opin­ion that our friend has per­ished in the waves?” again asked the re­porter.

“That is my opin­ion.”

“My own opin­ion,” said Gideon Spilett, “with due def­er­ence to your ex­pe­ri­ence, Pen­croft, is that in the dou­ble fact of the ab­so­lute dis­ap­pear­ance of Cyrus and Top, liv­ing or dead, there is some­thing un­ac­count­able and un­like­ly.”

“I wish I could think like you, Mr. Spilett,” replied Pen­croft; “un­hap­pi­ly, my mind is made up on this point.” Hav­ing said this, the sailor re­turned to the Chim­neys. A good fire crack­led on the hearth. Her­bert had just thrown on an arm­ful of dry wood, and the flame cast a bright light in­to the dark­est parts of the pas­sage.

Pen­croft im­me­di­ate­ly be­gan to pre­pare the din­ner. It ap­peared best to in­tro­duce some­thing sol­id in­to the bill of fare, for all need­ed to get up their strength. The strings of couroucous were kept for the next day, but they plucked a cou­ple of grouse, which were soon spit­ted on a stick, and roast­ing be­fore a blaz­ing fire.

At sev­en in the evening Neb had not re­turned. The pro­longed ab­sence of the Ne­gro made Pen­croft very un­easy. It was to be feared that he had met with an ac­ci­dent on this un­known land, or that the un­hap­py fel­low had been driv­en to some act of de­spair. But Her­bert drew very dif­fer­ent con­clu­sions from this ab­sence. Ac­cord­ing to him, Neb’s de­lay was caused by some new cir­cum­stances which had in­duced him to pro­long his search. Al­so, ev­ery­thing new must be to the ad­van­tage of Cyrus Hard­ing. Why had Neb not re­turned un­less hope still de­tained him? Per­haps he had found some mark, a foot­step, a trace which had put him in the right path. Per­haps he was at this mo­ment on a cer­tain track. Per­haps even he was near his mas­ter.

Thus the lad rea­soned. Thus he spoke. His com­pan­ions let him talk. The re­porter alone ap­proved with a ges­ture. But what Pen­croft thought most prob­able was, that Neb had pushed his re­search­es on the shore far­ther than the day be­fore, and that he had not as yet had time to re­turn.

Her­bert, how­ev­er, ag­itat­ed by vague pre­sen­ti­ments, sev­er­al times man­ifest­ed an in­ten­tion to go to meet Neb. But Pen­croft as­sured him that that would be a use­less course, that in the dark­ness and de­plorable weath­er he could not find any traces of Neb, and that it would be much bet­ter to wait. If Neb had not made his ap­pear­ance by the next day, Pen­croft would not hes­itate to join him in his search.

Gideon Spilett ap­proved of the sailor’s opin­ion that it was best not to di­vide, and Her­bert was obliged to give up his project; but two large tears fell from his eyes.

The re­porter could not re­frain from em­brac­ing the gen­er­ous boy.

Bad weath­er now set in. A fu­ri­ous gale from the south­east passed over the coast. The sea roared as it beat over the reef. Heavy rain was dashed by the storm in­to par­ti­cles like dust. Ragged mass­es of va­por drove along the beach, on which the tor­ment­ed shin­gles sound­ed as if poured out in cart- loads, while the sand raised by the wind added as it were min­er­al dust to that which was liq­uid, and ren­dered the unit­ed at­tack in­sup­port­able. Be­tween the riv­er’s mouth and the end of the cliff, ed­dies of wind whirled and gusts from this mael­strom lashed the wa­ter which ran through the nar­row val­ley. The smoke from the fire­place was al­so driv­en back through the open­ing, fill­ing the pas­sages and ren­der­ing them un­in­hab­it­able.

There­fore, as the grouse were cooked, Pen­croft let the fire die away, and on­ly pre­served a few em­bers buried un­der the ash­es.

At eight o’clock Neb had not ap­peared, but there was no doubt that the fright­ful weath­er alone hin­dered his re­turn, and that he must have tak­en refuge in some cave, to await the end of the storm or at least the re­turn of day. As to go­ing to meet him, or at­tempt­ing to find him, it was im­pos­si­ble.

The game con­sti­tut­ed the on­ly dish at sup­per; the meat was ex­cel­lent, and Pen­croft and Her­bert, whose long ex­cur­sion had ren­dered them very hun­gry, de­voured it with in­fi­nite sat­is­fac­tion.

Their meal con­clud­ed, each re­tired to the cor­ner in which he had rest­ed the pre­ced­ing night, and Her­bert was not long in go­ing to sleep near the sailor, who had stretched him­self be­side the fire­place.

Out­side, as the night ad­vanced, the tem­pest al­so in­creased in strength, un­til it was equal to that which had car­ried the pris­on­ers from Rich­mond to this land in the Pa­cif­ic. The tem­pests which are fre­quent dur­ing the sea­sons of the equinox, and which are so pro­lif­ic in catas­tro­phes, are above all ter­ri­ble over this im­mense ocean, which op­pos­es no ob­sta­cle to their fury. No de­scrip­tion can give an idea of the ter­rif­ic vi­olence of the gale as it beat up­on the un­pro­tect­ed coast.

Hap­pi­ly the pile of rocks which formed the Chim­neys was sol­id. It was com­posed of enor­mous blocks of gran­ite, a few of which, in­se­cure­ly bal­anced, seemed to trem­ble on their foun­da­tions, and Pen­croft could feel rapid quiv­er­ings un­der his head as it rest­ed on the rock. But he re­peat­ed to him­self, and right­ly, that there was noth­ing to fear, and that their re­treat would not give way. How­ev­er he heard the noise of stones torn from the sum­mit of the plateau by the wind, falling down on to the beach. A few even rolled on to the up­per part of the Chim­neys, or flew off in frag­ments when they were pro­ject­ed per­pen­dic­ular­ly. Twice the sailor rose and in­trenched him­self at the open­ing of the pas­sage, so as to take a look in safe­ty at the out­side. But there was noth­ing to be feared from these show­ers, which were not con­sid­er­able, and he re­turned to his couch be­fore the fire­place, where the em­bers glowed be­neath the ash­es.

Notwith­stand­ing the fury of the hur­ri­cane, the up­roar of the tem­pest, the thun­der, and the tu­mult, Her­bert slept pro­found­ly. Sleep at last took pos­ses­sion of Pen­croft, whom a sea­far­ing life had ha­bit­uat­ed to any­thing. Gideon Spilett alone was kept awake by anx­iety. He re­proached him­self with not hav­ing ac­com­pa­nied Neb. It was ev­ident that he had not aban­doned all hope. The pre­sen­ti­ments which had trou­bled Her­bert did not cease to ag­itate him al­so. His thoughts were con­cen­trat­ed on Neb. Why had Neb not re­turned? He tossed about on his sandy couch, scarce­ly giv­ing a thought to the strug­gle of the el­ements. Now and then, his eyes, heavy with fa­tigue, closed for an in­stant, but some sud­den thought re­opened them al­most im­me­di­ate­ly.

Mean­while the night ad­vanced, and it was per­haps two hours from morn­ing, when Pen­croft, then sound asleep, was vig­or­ous­ly shak­en.

“What’s the mat­ter?” he cried, rous­ing him­self, and col­lect­ing his ideas with the promp­ti­tude usu­al to sea­men.

The re­porter was lean­ing over him, and say­ing,–

“Lis­ten, Pen­croft, lis­ten!”

The sailor strained his ears, but could hear no noise be­yond those caused by the storm.

“It is the wind,” said he.

“No,” replied Gideon Spilett, lis­ten­ing again, “I thought I heard–“

“What?”

“The bark­ing of a dog!”

“A dog!” cried Pen­croft, spring­ing up.

“Yes–bark­ing–“

“It’s not pos­si­ble!” replied the sailor. “And be­sides, how, in the roar­ing of the storm–“

“Stop–lis­ten–” said the re­porter.

Pen­croft lis­tened more at­ten­tive­ly, and re­al­ly thought he heard, dur­ing a lull, dis­tant bark­ing.

“Well!” said the re­porter, press­ing the sailor’s hand.

“Yes–yes!” replied Pen­croft.

“It is Top! It is Top!” cried Her­bert, who had just awoke; and all three rushed to­wards the open­ing of the Chim­neys. They had great dif­fi­cul­ty in get­ting out. The wind drove them back. But at last they suc­ceed­ed, and could on­ly re­main stand­ing by lean­ing against the rocks. They looked about, but could not speak. The dark­ness was in­tense. The sea, the sky, the land were all min­gled in one black mass. Not a speck of light was vis­ible.

The re­porter and his com­pan­ions re­mained thus for a few min­utes, over­whelmed by the wind, drenched by the rain, blind­ed by the sand.

Then, in a pause of the tu­mult, they again heard the bark­ing, which they found must be at some dis­tance.

It could on­ly be Top! But was he alone or ac­com­pa­nied? He was most prob­ably alone, for, if Neb had been with him, he would have made his way more di­rect­ly to­wards the Chim­neys. The sailor squeezed the re­porter’s hand, for he could not make him­self heard, in a way which sig­ni­fied “Wait!” then he reen­tered the pas­sage.

An in­stant af­ter he is­sued with a light­ed fagot, which he threw in­to the dark­ness, whistling shril­ly.

It ap­peared as if this sig­nal had been wait­ed for; the bark­ing im­me­di­ate­ly came near­er, and soon a dog bound­ed in­to the pas­sage. Pen­croft, Her­bert, and Spilett en­tered af­ter him.

An arm­ful of dry wood was thrown on the em­bers. The pas­sage was light­ed up with a bright flame.

“It is Top!” cried Her­bert.

It was in­deed Top, a mag­nif­icent An­glo-​Nor­man, who de­rived from these two races crossed the swift­ness of foot and the acute­ness of smell which are the pre­em­inent qual­ities of cours­ing dogs. It was the dog of the en­gi­neer, Cyrus Hard­ing. But he was alone! Nei­ther Neb nor his mas­ter ac­com­pa­nied him!

How was it that his in­stinct had guid­ed him straight to the Chim­neys, which he did not know? It ap­peared in­ex­pli­ca­ble, above all, in the midst of this black night and in such a tem­pest! But what was still more in­ex­pli­ca­ble was, that Top was nei­ther tired, nor ex­haust­ed, nor even soiled with mud or sand!–Her­bert had drawn him to­wards him, and was pat­ting his head, the dog rub­bing his neck against the lad’s hands.

“If the dog is found, the mas­ter will be found al­so!” said the re­porter.

“God grant it!” re­spond­ed Her­bert. “Let us set off! Top will guide us!”

Pen­croft did not make any ob­jec­tion. He felt that Top’s ar­rival con­tra­dict­ed his con­jec­tures. “Come along then!” said he.

Pen­croft care­ful­ly cov­ered the em­bers on the hearth. He placed a few pieces of wood among them, so as to keep in the fire un­til their re­turn. Then, pre­ced­ed by the dog, who seemed to in­vite them by short barks to come with him, and fol­lowed by the re­porter and the boy, he dashed out, af­ter hav­ing put up in his hand­ker­chief the re­mains of the sup­per.

The storm was then in all its vi­olence, and per­haps at its height. Not a sin­gle ray of light from the moon pierced through the clouds. To fol­low a straight course was dif­fi­cult. It was best to re­ly on Top’s in­stinct. They did so. The re­porter and Her­bert walked be­hind the dog, and the sailor brought up the rear. It was im­pos­si­ble to ex­change a word. The rain was not very heavy, but the wind was ter­rif­ic.

How­ev­er, one cir­cum­stance fa­vored the sea­man and his two com­pan­ions. The wind be­ing south­east, con­se­quent­ly blew on their backs. The clouds of sand, which oth­er­wise would have been in­sup­port­able, from be­ing re­ceived be­hind, did not in con­se­quence im­pede their progress. In short, they some­times went faster than they liked, and had some dif­fi­cul­ty in keep­ing their feet; but hope gave them strength, for it was not at ran­dom that they made their way along the shore. They had no doubt that Neb had found his mas­ter, and that he had sent them the faith­ful dog. But was the en­gi­neer liv­ing, or had Neb on­ly sent for his com­pan­ions that they might ren­der the last du­ties to the corpse of the un­for­tu­nate Hard­ing?

Af­ter hav­ing passed the precipice, Her­bert, the re­porter, and Pen­croft pru­dent­ly stepped aside to stop and take breath. The turn of the rocks shel­tered them from the wind, and they could breathe af­ter this walk or rather run of a quar­ter of an hour.

They could now hear and re­ply to each oth­er, and the lad hav­ing pro­nounced the name of Cyrus Hard­ing, Top gave a few short barks, as much as to say that his mas­ter was saved.

“Saved, isn’t he?” re­peat­ed Her­bert; “saved, Top?”

And the dog barked in re­ply.

They once more set out. The tide be­gan to rise, and urged by the wind it threat­ened to be un­usu­al­ly high, as it was a spring tide. Great bil­lows thun­dered against the reef with such vi­olence that they prob­ably passed en­tire­ly over the islet, then quite in­vis­ible. The mole no longer pro­tect­ed the coast, which was di­rect­ly ex­posed to the at­tacks of the open sea.

As soon as the sailor and his com­pan­ions left the precipice, the wind struck them again with re­newed fury. Though bent un­der the gale they walked very quick­ly, fol­low­ing Top, who did not hes­itate as to what di­rec­tion to take.

They as­cend­ed to­wards the north, hav­ing on their left an in­ter­minable ex­tent of bil­lows, which broke with a deaf­en­ing noise, and on their right a dark coun­try, the as­pect of which it was im­pos­si­ble to guess. But they felt that it was com­par­ative­ly flat, for the wind passed com­plete­ly over them, with­out be­ing driv­en back as it was when it came in con­tact with the cliff.

At four o’clock in the morn­ing, they reck­oned that they had cleared about five miles. The clouds were slight­ly raised, and the wind, though less damp, was very sharp and cold. In­suf­fi­cient­ly pro­tect­ed by their cloth­ing, Pen­croft, Her­bert and Spilett suf­fered cru­el­ly, but not a com­plaint es­caped their lips. They were de­ter­mined to fol­low Top, wher­ev­er the in­tel­li­gent an­imal wished to lead them.

To­wards five o’clock day be­gan to break. At the zenith, where the fog was less thick, gray shades bor­dered the clouds; un­der an opaque belt, a lu­mi­nous line clear­ly traced the hori­zon. The crests of the bil­lows were tipped with a wild light, and the foam re­gained its white­ness. At the same time on the left the hilly parts of the coast could be seen, though very in­dis­tinct­ly.

At six o’clock day had bro­ken. The clouds rapid­ly lift­ed. The sea­man and his com­pan­ions were then about six miles from the Chim­neys. They were fol­low­ing a very flat shore bound­ed by a reef of rocks, whose heads scarce­ly emerged from the sea, for they were in deep wa­ter. On the left, the coun­try ap­peared to be one vast ex­tent of sandy downs, bristling with this­tles. There was no cliff, and the shore of­fered no re­sis­tance to the ocean but a chain of ir­reg­ular hillocks. Here and there grew two or three trees, in­clined to­wards the west, their branch­es pro­ject­ing in that di­rec­tion. Quite be­hind, in the south­west, ex­tend­ed the bor­der of the for­est.

At this mo­ment, Top be­came very ex­cit­ed. He ran for­ward, then re­turned, and seemed to en­treat them to has­ten their steps. The dog then left the beach, and guid­ed by his won­der­ful in­stinct, with­out show­ing the least hes­ita­tion, went straight in among the downs. They fol­lowed him. The coun­try ap­peared an ab­so­lute desert. Not a liv­ing crea­ture was to be seen.

The downs, the ex­tent of which was large, were com­posed of hillocks and even of hills, very ir­reg­ular­ly dis­tribut­ed. They re­sem­bled a Switzer­land mod­eled in sand, and on­ly an amaz­ing in­stinct could have pos­si­bly rec­og­nized the way.

Five min­utes af­ter hav­ing left the beach, the re­porter and his two com­pan­ions ar­rived at a sort of ex­ca­va­tion, hol­lowed out at the back of a high mound. There Top stopped, and gave a loud, clear bark. Spilett, Her­bert, and Pen­croft dashed in­to the cave.

Neb was there, kneel­ing be­side a body ex­tend­ed on a bed of grass.

The body was that of the en­gi­neer, Cyrus Hard­ing.