Читать книгу The Mysterious Island - Jules Verne - Страница 11

I THE CASTAWAYS FROM THE SKY

CHAPTER I

“Are we rising again?”

“No! On the contrary! We’re going down!”

“Worse than that, Mr. Cyrus!¹ We’re falling!”

“For God’s sake, throw out the ballast!”

“There! The last sack is empty!”

“Is the balloon going up now?”²

“No!”

“I hear the splashing of waves!”

“The sea is under the basket!”

“It can’t be more than five hundred feet below us!”

Then a powerful, booming voice cut through the air:

“Throw everything overboard! … Everything! We are in God’s hands!”

Those were the words that resounded in the sky over the vast watery desert of the Pacific about four o’clock in the evening of March 23, 1865.

No one can forget the terrible northeast storm that erupted during the equinox of that year. The barometer fell to 710 millimeters. It was a storm that lasted from March 18 to 26 with no letup. It ravaged America, Europe, and Asia over a broad zone of 1800 miles along a line intersecting the equator, from the 35th north parallel to the 40th south parallel. Towns were knocked flat, forests uprooted, and shores devastated by tidal waves. Weather bureaus counted hundreds of ships beached along the coast. Entire territories were leveled by the waterspouts which pulverized everything in their path. Several thousand people were crushed on land or swallowed up by the sea. Such were the marks of fury this horrific storm left in its wake. It surpassed the disasters which had so frightfully ravaged Havana and Guadeloupe, one on October 25, 1810 and the other on July 26, 1825.

At this very moment when so many catastrophes were occurring on land and sea, a drama no less gripping was taking place in the stormy skies.

A balloon, carried like a ball at the top of a waterspout, was traveling through space with a velocity of 90 miles per hour,* turning around as if it had been seized by an aerial whirlpool.

A basket swung back and forth below the balloon with five passengers inside, barely visible in the thick fog.

Where did this plaything of the terrible storm come from? From which point on the earth’s surface did it arise? Evidently it could not have lifted off during the storm which had already lasted for five days, the first symptoms having been felt on the 18th. In the last 24 hours alone, the balloon had traveled more than 2000 miles.

The passengers had no way of knowing where they were because there were no points of reference. It was a curious fact that they had not suffered from the storm’s violence. They were carried along, spinning round and round, without having any sense of this rotation or of their horizontal movement.³ Their eyes could not pierce the thick fog. Everything was obscured. They could not even say if it was day or night. No reflection of light, no noise, no bellowing of the ocean could reach them so long as they remained at higher altitudes.⁴ Their rapid descent alone alerted them to the dangers they faced.

Relieved of heavy objects such as munitions, arms, and provisions, the balloon now rose to a height of 4500 feet. Realizing that the dangers from above were less formidable than those from below, the passengers did not hesitate to throw overboard even the most useful objects as they tried to lose no more of this gas, the soul of their apparatus, which kept them above the abyss.

Night passed with anxieties that would have killed weaker people. From the beginning of March 24, the storm seemed to moderate. At dawn, the clouds rose higher in the sky, and after several hours, the waterspout broke up. The wind, no longer a hurricane, changed to a brisk breeze. It was still what sailors would call “a three-reef breeze,” but it was nevertheless an improvement.

About eleven o’clock, the atmosphere became noticeably clearer and the air exuded a damp clarity that is seen and even felt after the passage of such strong weather disturbances. It did not appear that the storm had gone farther westward but had simply died out on its own, perhaps dispersed into electric strata after the breakup of its waterspout, as sometimes occurs with the typhoons of the Indian Ocean.

But it was again evident that the balloon was slowly but constantly falling. It was deflating little by little, and its envelope was elongating and distending, changing from a spherical shape to an oval.

About noon, the balloon hovered no more than 2000 feet above the sea. It contained 50,000 cubic feet of gas* and, thanks to this capacity, it had been able to remain in the air for a long time. The passengers now threw overboard the last objects that still weighed them down, several provisions they had kept, everything, even the small knick-knacks in their pockets. Helping each other, they hoisted themselves onto the ring where the ropes were attached, all the while searching for solid ground below.

It was obvious that the passengers could not keep the balloon aloft much longer. Too much gas had escaped.

They were going to die!

There was no continent, not even an island, beneath them—no place to land, no firm surface they could touch down on. There was only an immense ocean whose waves still churned with incomparable violence. It was an ocean without visible limits, even though they could see over a radius of forty miles from their height. It was a liquid plain, battered by the storm without mercy. No land in sight, not even a ship.

They had to keep the balloon, at any price, from dropping into the waves. But, despite their best efforts, the balloon kept falling, sometimes rapidly, while being carried along by the wind from northeast to southwest.

It was a terrible situation for these unfortunate men. They were no longer masters of the balloon. Their efforts had no effect. The envelope of the balloon was stretching more and more. The gas continued to escape, and they could do nothing to keep it in. Their descent was now visibly accelerating and, at one o’clock in the afternoon, the balloon was no more than 600 feet above the ocean.

By throwing out everything in the basket, the passengers were able to keep it in the air for several more hours, but the inevitable catastrophe could not be avoided. If land did not appear before nightfall, the passengers, their basket, and the balloon would no doubt disappear beneath the waves.

They now executed the only maneuver still left to them. These were energetic men who knew how to look death square in the face. Not a single murmur escaped their lips. They would struggle to the last second and do everything they could to delay their fall. The basket was only a wicker box, not intended for floating, and there was no possibility of keeping it afloat on the surface of the sea.

At two o’clock the balloon was scarcely 400 feet above the waves.

At this moment, the voice of a man whose heart knew no fear was heard. Other voices, no less energetic, answered.

“Has everything been thrown out?”

“No! We still have ten thousand francs in gold!”

A weighty sack fell at once into the sea.

“Is the balloon rising now?”

“A little, but it won’t be long before it falls again!”

“Is there anything left to throw out?”

“No!”

“Yes! … the basket!”

“Let’s hang on to the ropes and drop the basket into the sea!”

It was the only way to make the balloon lighter. The cords which connected the basket to the ring were slashed, and the balloon rose to 2000 feet. The five passengers hoisted themselves onto the ropes above the ring and, holding on to the balloon’s rigging, they looked down at the abyss below them. The aerostatic sensitivity of balloons is well known and throwing out the lightest objects suffices to induce an immediate vertical rise. The apparatus, floating in the air, behaves like a highly accurate set of scales. When a weight is removed, its displacement is significant and instantaneous. So it was on this occasion.

But after maintaining its equilibrium for an instant at a higher altitude, the balloon soon began to fall again. The gas was escaping through a tear that was impossible to repair.

The passengers had done all that they could do. No human means could save them now. They could no longer count on any help, save from God.

At four o’clock, the balloon was no more than 500 feet above the water.

A bark was heard. A dog accompanying the passengers hung on to the rigging near his master.

“Top has seen something!” shouted one of the passengers.

Then suddenly a strong voice shouted out:

“Land! Land!”

The balloon, which the wind had been carrying toward the southwest, had covered hundreds of miles since dawn, and a rather elevated land mass had appeared on the horizon in that direction.

But the land was still more than 30 miles windward. More than a full hour was needed to reach it, assuming they did not deviate from their path. One hour! Wouldn’t the balloon have lost all its gas before then?

This was the crucial question. The passengers could distinctly see this point of land that they had to reach at all costs. They did not know what it was, island or continent, because they were unaware of exactly where the storm had driven them. But they knew that they had to reach this land, inhabited or not, hospitable or not.

At four o’clock, it was obvious that the balloon could no longer stay aloft. It grazed the surface of the sea. Several times already the crests of enormous waves licked the bottom of the ropes making it still heavier. Like a bird with a wounded wing, the balloon could barely remain airborne.

A half hour later, land was only a mile away. But the balloon, now exhausted, flabby, distended, and creased with large wrinkles, had no more gas except in its uppermost canopy. The passengers, holding on to the rigging, were just too heavy for it. And soon, as it half immersed itself into the sea, they began to be battered by strong waves. The casing of the balloon made an air pocket which the wind pushed like a vessel. Perhaps they could reach the coast in this manner?

When they were only 1000 feet away, four men simultaneously cried out. The balloon, which seemed as though it would never rise again, made an unexpected bound after being struck by a large wave. As if it had lost another of its weights, it suddenly rose to a height of 1500 feet. It was swept up into a wind pocket which, instead of bringing it directly to the coast, forced it to move in an almost parallel direction. Finally, two minutes later, it approached the coast obliquely, then dropped down on the shore out of reach of the waves.

The passengers, helping one another, managed to untangle themselves from the balloon’s rigging. The balloon, now relieved of their weight, lurched upward into the wind. And, like a wounded bird that revives for a moment, it soon disappeared into the sky.

The balloon fell onto the shore.

The basket had contained five passengers and a dog, but only four were dropped onto the shore.

The missing passenger had evidently been swept away by the wave that struck the deflated balloon, an event that allowed the lightened balloon to rise one last time and, a few moments later, to finally reach land.

The four castaways—we will call them by this name—had scarcely set foot on shore when, thinking of the one who was missing, they began to shout:

“Perhaps he’s trying to swim. Let’s save him! Let’s save him!”⁵

*In other words, 46 meters per second or 166 kilometers per hour (nearly 42 leagues of 4 kilometers).

*Around 1,700 cubic meters.

CHAPTER II

Those whom the storm had thrown onto this coast were neither professional nor even amateur aeronauts. They were prisoners of war,¹ whose audacity had induced them to escape under these extraordinary circumstances. A hundred times they should have perished! A hundred times their torn balloon should have fallen into the abyss! But Heaven had reserved a strange destiny for them. On March 24, after having fled Richmond which was under siege by the troops of General Ulysses Grant,² they found themselves 7000 miles from the capitol of Virginia, the principal stronghold of the rebels during the dreadful Civil War. Their aerial journey had lasted five days.

These are the curious circumstances which led to the prisoners’ escape:

That same year, in the month of February 1865, during one of those bold maneuvers by which General Grant tried unsuccessfully to capture Richmond, some of his officers fell into enemy hands and were interned within the city. One of the most distinguished of those taken was a Union staff officer named Cyrus Smith.³

Cyrus Smith, a native of Massachusetts, was an engineer and a scientist of the first rank. During the war, the Union government entrusted him with the management of the railroads which were strategically important at that time. A true Northerner, he was lean, rawboned, and about 45 years of age. His close-cut hair was already beginning to show streaks of gray, and his thick moustache as well. He had one of those handsome “numismatic” heads that seemed made to be stamped on medallions, with fiery eyes, a thin-lipped mouth, and the physiognomy of an experienced military scientist. He was one of those engineers who want to begin by handling the hammer and pick, like those generals who wish to begin as simple soldiers. In addition to his inventive genius, he also possessed unmatched manual dexterity, and his muscles were remarkably well developed. Truly a man of action as well as a man of thought, he moved effortlessly with a vitality and steadfast persistence that defied all misfortune. Very educated, practical, and resourceful, he had a superb temperament, always remaining master of himself whatever the circumstances. He had in large measure those three characteristics whose combination defines human energy: activity of mind and body, boldness of desire, and power of will. His motto could have been that of William of Orange of the 17th Century: “I have no need of hope to take action, nor of success to persevere.”⁴

Cyrus Smith was also courage personified. He had been in all the battles of the Civil War. After serving under Ulysses Grant with the volunteers of Illinois, he fought at Paducah, at Belmont, at Pittsburgh Landing, at the siege of Corinth, at Port Gibson, at Black River, at Chattanooga, at Wilderness,⁵ and on the Potomac, everywhere and valiantly, a soldier worthy of the general who said “I never count my dead!” And, a hundred times, Cyrus Smith should have been among those not counted by the fierce Grant. But in all those combats, although he never spared himself, fortune always favored him, until the moment when he was wounded and captured on the Richmond battlefield.

On that same day, another important personage fell into Southern hands. It was none other than the honorable Gideon Spilett,⁶ “reporter” for the New York Herald, who had been assigned to follow the fortunes of this war among the armies of the North.

Gideon Spilett was of that race of astonishing British or American reporters, such as Stanley⁷ and others, who stop at nothing in order to obtain exact information and to transmit it to their newspaper as soon as possible. The newspapers of the Union, such as the New York Herald, are very influential and their reporters are highly respected. Gideon Spilett belonged in the first rank of these reporters.

A man of great merit, energetic, prompt and ready for anything, full of ideas, having traveled the entire world, soldier and artist, rash in council, resolute in action, acknowledging neither pain nor fatigue nor danger when gathering news for himself first and then for his newspaper, a true hero of the curious, the unpublishable, the unknown, and the impossible, he was one of those intrepid observers who writes as bullets fly, always in the line of fire, for whom peril is good fortune.

Gideon Spilett

He too had been in all the battles, on the front lines, revolver in one hand, notebook in the other. Grapeshot did not make him tremble. He did not burden the telegraph wires incessantly, like those who speak when they have nothing to say; but each of his notes, short, candid and clear, brought light to bear on an important point. Further, he did not lack a certain sense of humor. It was he who, after the affair of Black River, wishing at any price to keep his place at the window of the telegraph office in order to announce to his newspaper the result of the battle, telegraphed the first chapters of the Bible for two hours.⁸ It cost the New York Herald $2000, but the New York Herald was the first to publish.

Gideon Spilett was tall, forty years old, and light red side whiskers framed his face. His eyes were calm, quick, and rapid in their movements, the eyes of a man accustomed to taking in rapidly all the details of a scene. Of solid frame, he was tempered in all climates like a bar of steel in ice water.

For ten years, Gideon Spilett had been an official reporter for the New York Herald which he enriched with his articles and his drawings because he was as skilled with the pencil as with the pen. When he was captured, he was in the act of describing and sketching the battle and the last words written in his notebook were these: “A Southerner is taking aim at me and …” The shot missed its mark and, following his usual luck, Gideon Spilett came out of the affair without a scratch.

Cyrus Smith and Gideon Spilett, who did not know each other except by reputation, were both taken to Richmond. The engineer rapidly recovered from his wound, and during his convalescence he made the acquaintance of the reporter. These two men liked one another at first sight and learned to appreciate each other. Soon their common life had only one goal: to escape, rejoin Grant’s army, and, once in its ranks again, to fight for the preservation of the federal Union.

The two Americans decided to take advantage of any occasion that arose; but, although they had been left at liberty within the city, Richmond itself was so closely guarded that an escape was impossible.

At this time, Cyrus Smith was joined by his servant who was devoted to him in life and in death. This fearless person was a Negro born of slave parents into the engineer’s estate. But Cyrus Smith, who was an abolitionist by conviction as well as from the heart, had long since emancipated him. The slave, on becoming free, did not wish to leave his master. He would have willingly given up his life for him. He was thirty years old, vigorous, agile, skillful, intelligent, gentle and calm, naive at times, always smiling, helpful and kind. He was named Nebuchadnezzar,⁹ but he answered only to the abbreviated nickname of Neb.

When Neb learned that his master had been made prisoner, he left Massachusetts without hesitation, arrived in Richmond, and, with shrewdness and guile, after having risked his life twenty times, he succeeded in penetrating the besieged city. Cyrus Smith’s pleasure in seeing his servant again and Neb’s joy on finding his master cannot be expressed.

But if Neb was able to get into Richmond, it was much more troublesome to get out because the Federal prisoners were closely guarded. It would take an extraordinary turn of events before they could attempt an escape with any chance of success. This opportunity not only did not present itself, but it was also difficult to make happen.

Meanwhile, Grant continued his energetic maneuvers. The victory at Petersburg had been very dearly fought.¹⁰ His forces, united with those of Butler,¹¹ could still not gain a decisive victory at Richmond, so the release of the prisoners was not at hand. The reporter, who found his captivity tedious, could not find a single detail worth noting and could no longer endure it. He had but one idea: to leave Richmond at any cost. Several times he attempted to escape, but was stopped by insurmountable obstacles.

Still the siege continued. If the prisoners were in a hurry to escape to rejoin Grant’s army, some of the besieged were no less in a hurry to flee in order to rejoin the rebel army, among them a certain Jonathan Forster,¹² a dyed-in-the-wool Southerner. In fact, if the Federal prisoners could not leave the city, neither could the Confederates because the Northern army surrounded it. The governor of Richmond had not been able to communicate with General Lee¹³ for some time. It was of utmost importance to make the city’s situation known in order to hasten the march of the relief army. This Jonathan Forster had the idea of crossing above the lines of the besiegers in a balloon, to reach the Confederate camp in that way.¹⁴

The governor authorized the attempt. A balloon was fabricated and placed at the disposal of Jonathan Forster and five of his companions who would follow him into the skies. It was furnished with weapons and ammunition in case they had to defend themselves on landing, and with provisions in case their aerial voyage was prolonged.

The departure of the balloon was fixed for the 18th of March. It would take place during the night and, with a moderate northwest wind, the aeronauts could count on arriving at General Lee’s headquarters in a few hours.

But this northwest wind was not a mere breeze. From the 18th on, they could see that it was turning into a storm. Soon the storm became so strong that Forster’s departure had to be postponed because of the impossible risk, in such violent conditions, to both the balloon and to the men it would carry.

The balloon, inflated in the main square of Richmond, remained there ready to leave at the first calming of the wind. Impatience grew as the storm refused to die down. The 18th and the 19th passed without any change. It even proved difficult to keep the balloon intact because gusts of wind continually threw it to the ground.

The nights of the 19th and the 20th went by. The following morning, the fury of the storm increased. Departure was impossible.

On that day the engineer, Cyrus Smith, was approached in one of the streets of Richmond by a man he did not know. It was a sailor named Pencroff,¹⁵ between thirty five and forty years old, with a stocky build, very suntanned, sharp and blinking eyes, but with a kind face. This Pencroff was a Northerner who had crossed all the seas of the globe and who had experienced all the adventures that could befall a being with two feet and no feathers. Needless to say, he had an enterprising nature, ready to venture anything and was surprised at nothing. Pencroff came to Richmond at the beginning of the year on business with a fifteen year old boy, Harbert Brown¹⁶ of New Jersey, the son of his captain, an orphan whom he loved like his own child. Not being able to leave the city before the beginnings of the siege, he found himself confined there to his great displeasure. He too had but one idea, to escape by all means possible. He knew of Cyrus Smith’s reputation, and he knew how impatient this determined man was to break free. On this day, he therefore did not hesitate to approach him saying without thinking:

“Mr. Smith, have you had enough of Richmond?”

“Mr. Smith, would you like to escape?”

The engineer stared at the man who spoke to him in this way, who added in a low voice:

“Mr. Smith, would you like to escape?”

“When?” the engineer replied briskly. This response burst from him before he could examine the person speaking to him.

But after giving the sailor a penetrating look, he did not doubt that he had an honest man before him.

“Who are you?” he asked briefly.

Pencroff introduced himself.

“Good,” replied Cyrus Smith, “and how do you propose to escape?”

“By that lazy balloon which lies there doing nothing and which seems to be waiting just for us …”

The sailor had no need to finish his sentence. The engineer understood from the first word. He seized Pencroff by the arms and led him to his dwelling.

There the sailor outlined his plan, really a simple one. They risked nothing in its execution but their lives. The storm was at its height, it was true, but an engineer as skillful as Cyrus Smith would know how to navigate a balloon. If Pencroff had known how to maneuver it himself, he would not have hesitated to leave, with Harbert of course. He had seen better storms than this at sea.

Cyrus Smith listened to the sailor without saying a word, but his eyes were burning bright. This was the opportunity and he was not a man to let it pass. The project was very dangerous, but it was feasible. At night they could board the balloon in spite of the surveillance, slip into the basket, and cut the lines that held it. Certainly they risked being killed but, on the other hand, they might succeed, and without this storm … But, without this storm, the balloon would already have left, and this long sought opportunity would not have presented itself at all.

“I am not alone! …” Cyrus Smith finally said.

“How many people do you want to take along?” asked the sailor.

“Two: my friend Spilett and my servant Neb.”

“That makes three,” replied Pencroff, “and with Harbert and me, five. The balloon can carry six …”

“That’s enough. We will go!” said Cyrus Smith.

This “we” committed the reporter, but he was not a man to back down and, when told about the plan, he approved it without reservation. What astonished him was that they had not already thought of so simple an idea. As for Neb, he would follow his master wherever his master wished to go.

“This evening then,” said Pencroff, “the five of us will stroll along there pretending to be curious.”

“This evening at ten o’clock,” replied Cyrus Smith, “and pray this storm does not let up before our departure.”

Pencroff left the engineer and returned to his lodging where young Harbert Brown had remained. This courageous lad knew of the sailor’s plan and waited anxiously for the results of his discussion with the engineer. It was that five determined men would hurl themselves into the storm’s full fury!

The storm did not abate. Neither Jonathan Forster nor his companions could dream of confronting it in the frail basket. The weather that day was horrific. The engineer feared but one thing: that the balloon, held to the ground and leveled by the wind, would be torn into a thousand pieces. For several hours he prowled around the nearly deserted square, examining the apparatus. Pencroff on his side did likewise, his hands in his pockets, about to yawn, like a man who doesn’t know how to kill time, but also afraid that the balloon would be torn or even that it would break its lines and escape into the sky. Evening came. The night was gloomy and a thick mist rolled in, like a cloud at ground level. Rain fell mixed with snow. It was cold. A sort of fog settled over Richmond. It seemed that the violent tempest forced a truce between the besiegers and the besieged, and that the cannons had decided to remain silent before the deafening thunder of the storm. The streets of the city were deserted. In this horrible weather, it did not even seem necessary to guard the square where the balloon was floundering. Everything obviously favored the escape of the prisoners; but to journey thus, in the midst of this furious storm …?

“Nasty weather,” Pencroff said to himself, punching his hat down onto his head as the wind was trying to blow it off. “Oh well! We’ll manage all the same!”

At half past nine, Cyrus Smith and his companions crept in from different corners of the square. The gas lanterns, extinguished by the wind, left them in complete darkness. They could not even see the enormous balloon which was almost completely pushed down onto the ground. Besides the sacks of ballast which held the ropes, the basket was also held down by a strong cable which passed through a ring in the pavement.

The five prisoners met near the basket of the balloon. They had not been seen and in the darkness they could not even see each other.

Without saying a word, Cyrus Smith, Gideon Spilett, Neb, and Harbert took their place in the basket, while Pencroff, on an order from the engineer, detached the bags of ballast. This took but a few moments, and the sailor rejoined his companions.

They met near the basket of the balloon.

The balloon was then held by the cable alone, and Cyrus Smith now had only to give the order to depart.

At that moment a dog dashed toward the basket. It was Top, the engineer’s dog who, having broken his chain, had followed his master. The engineer, fearing the excess weight, wanted to send the animal away.

“Bah! What’s one more,” said Pencroff, throwing two sacks of sand out of the basket.

Then he cast off the cable and the balloon rose at an angle and disappeared into the sky after the basket knocked down two chimneys in the fury of its departure.

The storm then unleashed itself with a frightful violence. During the night, the engineer could not think of descending and, when day returned, they could not see the ground through the clouds. After five days, a clearing let them see the immense ocean beneath the balloon, which the wind had driven on at a frightful speed.

Five men left on the 20th of March. Four of them were now thrown, on the 24th of March,¹⁷ on a deserted coast more than 6000 miles from their country.*

And the one who was missing, the one the four other balloon survivors were now running to rescue, was their natural leader, the engineer Cyrus Smith.

CHAPTER III

The engineer was carried off by a wave through the netting which had given way. His dog had also disappeared. The faithful animal had voluntarily thrown himself into the sea to rescue his master.

“Hurry!” shouted the reporter.

All four survivors, Gideon Spilett, Harbert, Pencroff and Neb, forgetting their exhaustion and fatigue, began their search. Poor Neb cried with rage and despair at the thought of having lost all that he loved in the world.

Less than two minutes had passed from the moment Cyrus Smith disappeared to the instant his companions touched land. They hoped to arrive in time to save him.

“Let’s search! Let’s search for him!” shouted Neb.

“Yes, Neb,” replied Gideon Spilett, “and we will find him!”

“Living?”

“Living!”

“Does he know how to swim?” asked Pencroff.

“Yes,” replied Neb, “and besides, Top is there …”

The sailor, listening to the roar of the sea, shook his head.

It was on the coast to the north, about a half mile from the spot where the castaways had landed, that the engineer had disappeared. If he had been able to reach the nearest point on the shoreline, he would be at most a half mile from them.

It was then nearly six o’clock. A fog had just rolled in, making the evening dark. The castaways proceeded northward along the eastern coastline of this land upon which they had been thrown by chance, an unknown land whose geographical location they could not even guess at. They trod upon sandy soil, mixed with stones, which seemed to be deprived of every species of vegetation. This soil, very uneven and rugged, seemed in certain spots to be riddled with small potholes which made their progress very difficult. From these holes, heavy birds of sluggish flight escaped at each instant, flying off in all directions into the darkness. Other more agile ones rose and passed overhead in cloud-like flocks. The sailor thought he recognized sea gulls and sea mews whose sharp cries competed with the roars from the sea.

From time to time, the castaways stopped to shout and listen for some sound not made by the ocean. It was possible that, if they were near the place where the engineer had landed, they might hear Top’s barking if Cyrus Smith was unable to give some sign of life. But no cry was heard above the growling of the waves and the crashing of the surf. The small troop resumed their forward march and searched every crevice of the shoreline.

After a walk of twenty minutes, the four castaways were suddenly stopped by the foaming waves. Solid ground vanished and they found themselves at the extremity of a sharp point of land where the sea broke with great fury.

“It is a promontory,” said the sailor. “We must retrace our steps keeping to our right and, in this way, we’ll get to the mainland.”

They shouted in unison.

“But what if he’s there!” replied Neb, pointing to the ocean, whose enormous waves whitened the darkness.

“Then let’s call him!”

They all shouted together vigorously, but there was no answer. They waited for a lull. They shouted again. Again nothing.

The castaways then went back to the opposite side of the promontory on soil just as sandy and rocky. However Pencroff noticed that this shoreline was more abrupt, and that the ground was more elevated. He assumed that it gradually sloped upward to a high hill that he could barely make out. The birds were less numerous on this part of the shore and the sea also surged less here. It was less noisy, and the waves were less turbulent. They could barely hear the noise of the surf. Doubtless, this side of the promontory formed a semi-circular cove with a sharp point that protected it from the waves of the open sea.

But, by going in this direction, they were moving south, away from that part of the coast where Cyrus Smith might have landed. Stretching out for a mile and a half, the shoreline did not contain any turn that would permit them to head north again. The promontory whose tip they had just crossed had to be somehow connected to the mainland. In spite of their exhaustion, the castaways continued to move forward, courageously hoping at each moment to find a sharp turn that would put them back on their original track.

Imagine their disappointment when, after about two miles, they found themselves once again stopped by the sea on a high bluff of slippery rocks.

“We’re on a small island,” said Pencroff, “and we’ve surveyed it from one end to the other.”

The sailor was right. The castaways had been thrown not on a continent, not even on an island, but on an tiny islet that did not measure more than two miles in length and much less in width.

But was this barren, rock-strewn islet merely the desolate refuge for a few sea birds or part of an important archipelago? They could not say. When the balloon passengers were in the basket, they could see land only indistinctly through the fog. They were not able to judge its size. However, Pencroff, whose sailor’s eyes were accustomed to piercing through the gloom, believed that he could see several indistinct masses in the west which could be a high coastline.

But in the darkness they could not decide whether or not the islet was part of a larger system of islands. They could not leave the islet because the sea surrounded them. They were forced to delay until the next day their search for the engineer who had not signaled his presence by any cry.

“Cyrus’s silence proves nothing,” said the reporter. “He may have fainted or might be injured and in no condition to respond. We must not give in to despair.”

The reporter then had the idea of lighting a fire at the point of the islet to serve as a signal to the engineer. They looked in vain for dry wood or brushwood, but found only sand and stones, nothing else.

One can understand the grief of Neb and his companions who were keenly attached to the intrepid Cyrus Smith. It was quite evident that they were powerless to help him. They had to wait for daylight. Either the engineer had been able to save himself and had already found refuge at some point on the coast, or he was lost forever!

These were long and painful hours. The cold was sharp. The castaways suffered cruelly but they scarcely felt it. It did not occur to them for a moment to rest. Forgetting themselves for the sake of their leader, hoping, always wanting to hope, they went back and forth across the barren islet, always coming back to its north point, closest to the place of the catastrophe. They shouted, listened, and tried to detect some feeble answer. Their voices must have carried far since the weather was calm and the noise of the sea began to diminish with the size of the swells.

One of Neb’s cries even seemed, for a moment, to produce an echo. Harbert brought this to Pencroff’s attention, adding:

“This proves that there is a shoreline not too far to the west.”

The sailor made an affirmative sign. Besides, his eyes could not deceive him. If he had distinguished land however faintly, it was because land was there.

But this remote echo was the only response provoked by Neb’s shouts, and all else on the eastern part of the islet remained silent.

Little by little the sky cleared. Toward midnight, some stars began to appear and, if the engineer had been with them at that moment, he would have remarked that these stars were no longer those of the northern hemisphere. In fact, the pole star did not appear above this new horizon, and the polar constellations were no longer those usually observed in North America. It was the Southern Cross which was shining at the south pole of the sky.

Night passed. About five o’clock in the morning, the 25th of March, the upper levels of the sky began to change color slightly. The horizon was still dark but, with the first light of day, an opaque fog rose from the sea and reduced visibility to no more than about twenty feet. Large and heavy wreaths of fog rolled in.

It was a serious setback. The castaways could not distinguish anything around them. While Neb and the reporter looked toward the ocean, the sailor and Harbert searched for a coastline in the west, but not a bit of land was visible.

“No matter,” said Pencroff, “if I don’t see the coastline, I can feel it … It is there … there … just as surely as we are no longer in Richmond.”

But the fog, only a fine haze, soon lifted. A warm sun heated its upper layers, and this heat filtered down to the surface of the islet.

At about half past six, three quarters of an hour after sunrise, the fog became more transparent. It persisted above but dissipated below. Soon the entire islet appeared as if it had dropped from a cloud. The sea encircling them could now be seen, infinite in the east but bounded by a high and abrupt coast in the west.

Yes! Land was there. Their safety was at least provisionally assured. Between the islet and the coast, separated by an open channel a half mile wide, a rapid current flowed noisily.

One of the castaways, following his heart, immediately threw himself into the current, without asking the opinions of his companions and without saying a single word. It was Neb. He was in a hurry to be on this coast and to rush northward. No one could hold him back. Pencroff called to him but in vain. The reporter was inclined to follow Neb.

Pencroff then went to him:

“Do you want to cross this channel?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Gideon Spilett.

“Well then listen,” the sailor said, “Neb will be able to bring help to his master. If we throw ourselves into this channel, we’ll risk being carried out to sea by its extremely violent current. If I’m not mistaken, it’s ebb tide. The sea is going down on the beach. Let’s have patience. At low tide, it’s possible we’ll find a fordable passage …”

“You’re right,” replied the reporter. “Let’s not split up any more than we have to …”

During this time, Neb was struggling against the current. He crossed it at an angle. They saw his black shoulders emerge at each stroke. He was swept on at an extreme speed but he also got closer to the shore. It took him a half hour to cross the half mile that separated the islet from the mainland and he reached the opposite shore several thousand feet downstream from the point on the islet where he had started.

Neb set foot at the base of a high granite wall and shook himself vigorously. Then, running, he soon disappeared behind a pile of rocks that extended into the sea.

Neb’s companions anxiously followed his daring efforts. When he was out of sight, they turned their attention to this land on which they would be taking refuge, while eating some shellfish which were scattered on the sand. It was a meager meal but it was something.

The opposite coast formed a vast bay, terminated in the south by a very sharp point which was devoid of all vegetation and had a very bleak appearance. This point was joined to the shore by uneven ground and was abutted by high granite rocks. Toward the north, on the other hand, a wide bay formed a more rounded coast, running from southwest to northeast and ending with a sharp cape. Between these two extreme points of the bay’s arc, the distance was perhaps eight miles. A half mile from shore, the islet occupied a narrow strip of the sea and, although larger in scale, resembled the body of an enormous whale. Its width even at its greatest point was not more than a quarter of a mile.

Facing the islet, the shoreline opposite them was composed of sand scattered with blackish rocks which were reappearing little by little with the ebbing tide. Behind that was a sort of smooth granite facade crowned by a capricious ridge at a height of 300 feet. It ran for three miles and ended abruptly on the right with a slanted corner that one would think was made by the hand of man. On the left, in contrast, beyond the promontory, this irregular cliff broke into jagged fragments of conglomerate rocks, sloping downward by an elongated slope which gradually blended in with the rocks at the southern point.

There was not one tree on the upper plateau. It was a flat plateau like the one which overlooks Capetown at the Cape of Good Hope, but much smaller. At least so it appeared as seen from the islet. Nevertheless, vegetation was not lacking to the right, behind the slanted corner. They could easily distinguish a tangled mass of large trees extending well beyond their vision. This verdant greenery gladdened the eye, which had been saddened by the hard lines of the granite face.

Lastly, to the rear beyond the plateau, in a northwesterly direction and at a distance of at least seven miles, glittered a white peak reflecting the sun’s rays. It was a snowy cap crowning some distant mountain.

They could not say if the land formed an island or if it was part of a continent. But, looking at the twisted rocks piled up on the left, a geologist would not have hesitated to give them a volcanic origin, because they were incontestably the result of subterranean activity.

Gideon Spilett, Pencroff, and Harbert carefully observed this land on which they would perhaps spend many long years, or perhaps even die, if they were not on the shipping lanes.

“Well,” asked Harbert, “what do you say, Pencroff?”

“Well,” replied the sailor, “there is good here and bad, as in everything. We’ll see. Ebb tide is almost here. In three hours we’ll try to cross over and, once there, hope to find Mr. Smith!”

Pencroff was not wrong in his prediction. Three hours later, at low tide, most of the sand that formed the bed of the canal was uncovered. Between the shore and the islet there remained only a narrow channel which would be easy to cross.

About ten o’clock, Gideon Spilett and his two companions took off their clothing, placed them in bundles over their heads, and ventured into the channel whose depth was now no more than five feet. Harbert, for whom the water was too high, swam like a fish and managed wonderfully. All arrived without difficulty on the other side. The sun rapidly dried them, they put on their clothes which they had kept away from the water, and they discussed what they would do next.

*On the 5th of April, Richmond fell to Grant. The revolt of the rebels was suppressed, Lee withdrew to the west, and the cause of the American Union triumphed.

CHAPTER IV

The reporter told the sailor to wait for him in this very spot, and he headed down the beach in the direction Neb had gone several hours earlier. He rapidly disappeared behind a corner, so anxious was he for news about the engineer.

Harbert wanted to go with him.

“Stay here, my boy,” the sailor said. “We must prepare a camp and see if we can find something better to eat than shellfish. Our friends will need to recuperate on their return. Each to his task.”

“I’m ready, Pencroff,” replied Harbert.

“Good!” replied the sailor. “Let’s proceed methodically. We’re tired, cold and hungry. So we must find shelter, fire and food. The forest has wood, the nests have eggs; we still need to find a house.”

“Very well,” replied Harbert, “I’ll look for a cave among these rocks. I’m sure to find some hole that we can curl up in.”

“That’s the spirit,” replied Pencroff. “Let’s go, my boy.”

They both walked to the foot of the enormous wall on this beach left largely uncovered by the receding tide. But instead of going north, they went south. Several hundred feet from where they had landed, Pencroff saw that the beach was cut by a narrow opening which, in his opinion, could be the mouth of a river or a brook. Now, on the one hand, it was important to settle in an area with fresh water; on the other, it was not impossible that the current may have thrown Cyrus Smith on this side.

The cliff rose to a height of 300 feet but its face was solid throughout. Even at its base, barely washed by the sea, it did not show the smallest fissure which could serve as a temporary shelter. It was a perpendicular wall, made of a very hard granite, never eroded by the waves. Near the summit all kinds of sea birds fluttered about, various web-footed species with long pointed beaks who were squawking loudly. They were not afraid of the humans who, for the first time no doubt, were disturbing their solitude. Among these web-footers Pencroff recognized several skua, a sort of sea gull which is sometimes called Stercorarius and also the voracious little sea mews which nested in the crevices of the granite. A gunshot fired into this swarm of birds would have killed a great number. But to fire a gunshot, a gun was needed, and neither Pencroff nor Harbert had one. Besides, these sea mews and skua are only barely edible and even their eggs have a detestable taste.

Meanwhile Harbert, who had gone a little more to the left, saw some seaweed covered rocks which the high tide would cover again a few hours later. On these rocks, amid slippery seaweed, bivalve shellfish abounded which famished people could not refuse. Harbert called Pencroff, who quickly ran up.

“Ah! These are mussels!” shouted the sailor. “Here’s something to replace the eggs we don’t have!”

“They’re not mussels!” replied young Harbert, who carefully examined the mollusks attached to the rocks, “they’re lithodomes.”¹

“Are they edible?” asked Pencroff.

“Are they edible?” asked Pencroff.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s eat lithodomes!”

The sailor could rely on Harbert. The young boy was very strong in natural history and had a veritable passion for this science. His father had encouraged him in this line by letting him take courses with the best professors in Boston who were fond of this intelligent and industrious lad. His instincts as a naturalist would afterwards be used more than once, and on this first occasion, they did not disappoint.

These lithodomes were oval shells, tightly attached in clusters to the rocks. They belonged to that species of molluscous perforators which bore holes in the hardest stones. Their shell is rounded at both ends, a feature not found in the ordinary mussel.

Pencroff and Harbert made a good meal of these lithodomes which were then half opened to the sun. They ate them like oysters, and found them to have a strong peppery taste which consoled them, since they had neither pepper nor any other condiment.

Their hunger was appeased for the moment, but not their thirst, which increased after they ate these naturally spiced mollusks. But it would be easy to find fresh water in such hilly terrain. Pencroff and Harbert filled their pockets and handkerchiefs with an ample supply of lithodomes and went back to the foot of the cliff. Two hundred feet further along, they arrived at an indentation in the coastline where, if Pencroff guessed correctly, a small river should be flowing. At this point, the wall appeared to have been separated by some violent subterranean action. At its base a cove was hollowed out and the far end formed a sharp corner. The watercourse here measured one hundred feet in breadth, and its two banks on each side were were not quite twenty feet wide. The river ran almost directly between the two walls of granite which were not quite as high further upstream; then it turned abruptly and disappeared under some brushwood at a distance of half a mile.

“Here’s water! And there’s wood!” said Pencroff. “Well, Harbert, all we need now is the house!”

The river water was clear. The sailor knew that, at this moment of low tide, the ocean had not reached here, and the water would be fresh. With this important point established, Harbert looked for some cavity which would serve as shelter, but it was useless. Everywhere the wall was smooth, flat and perpendicular.

However, at the very mouth of the river, above the line of high tide, landslides had formed a pile of enormous fallen rocks, like those often seen in countries with much granite, which are called “Chimneys.”

Pencroff and Harbert went far in among the rocks, along the sandy passages where light was not lacking because it entered through various openings among the granite rocks, some of which were supported only by a miracle of equilibrium. But, along with the light, there was also wind, a stiff corridor-type wind, which brought with it the sharp cold from the outside. However, the sailor thought that by closing these openings with a mixture of stones and sand, they could make the “Chimneys” liveable. The geometrical design of the “Chimneys” resembled the typographical sign “&” which signifies “et cetera” abbreviated. Now, by isolating the upper loop of the sign, through which the wind blew from the south and from the west, they would doubtless succeed in putting the lower part to use.

The Chimneys.

“This is our best bet,” said Pencroff, “and if we ever see Mr. Smith again he’ll know what to make of this labyrinth.”

“We will see him again, Pencroff,” exclaimed Harbert, “and, when he returns, he’ll find a halfway decent shelter here. It will be so if we can build a fireplace in the left passage and keep an opening for the smoke.”

“We can do it, my boy,” replied the sailor, “and these Chimneys”—the name Pencroff gave this temporary home—“will do nicely. But first let’s get a stock of fuel. I imagine that wood will be useful in stopping up these holes through which the very devil himself is blowing his trumpet.”

Harbert and Pencroff left the Chimneys, turned a corner, and began walking along the left bank of the river. The current was rather rapid and carried some dead wood. The rising tide—and it could already be felt at this time—was forcefully driving it back a considerable distance. It occurred to the sailor that they could use this ebb and flow to transport heavy objects.

After walking for a quarter of an hour, the sailor and the young boy arrived at a left turn in the river. Its course then passed through a forest of magnificent trees. These trees had kept their greenness in spite of the advanced season because they belonged to the family of conifers which grow in all regions of the globe, from the frigid climates to the tropics. The young naturalist recognized especially the “deodars,”² a species very numerous in the Himalayan zone, which emit an agreeable odor. Among these fine trees grew clusters of fir trees whose opaque umbrella boughs spread wide around. In the tall grass, Pencroff felt his feet crushing dry branches which crackled like fireworks.

“Good, my boy,” he said to Harbert, “if the name of these trees escapes me, I know at least to classify them in the category of ‘firewood’ and, for the moment it is the only category that we need!”

“Let’s gather up some,” replied Harbert, getting to work at once.

The harvest was easy. It was not even necessary to break the branches off the trees because enormous quantities of dead wood were lying at their feet. But if the fuel was not lacking, the means of transporting it left something to be desired. This wood, being very dry, would burn rapidly but it would be necessary to carry a considerable quantity to the Chimneys and two men would not be enough. Harbert noted this.

“Well, my boy,” replied the sailor, “there must be some way of moving this wood. There is always a way to do everything! If we had a cart or a boat it would be quite easy.”

“But we have the river!” said Harbert.

“Right,” replied Pencroff. “The river will be for us a road which moves itself and rafts were not invented for nothing.”

“Only” observed Harbert, “right now our road is going the wrong way since the tide is rising.”

“We’ll wait till it ebbs,” replied the sailor, “and then it will be responsible for carrying our fuel to the Chimneys. Anyhow, let’s prepare our raft.”

The sailor, followed by Harbert, went to the bend that the edge of the forest made with the river. Each carried a load of wood tied in faggots. On the river’s bank, they found a large quantity of dead branches among grass where the foot of man had probably never trod. Pencroff began at once to put his raft together.

In an eddy, the sailor and the young boy placed some large pieces of wood attached together with dried vines. It formed a sort of raft. Then they piled up on top of it all their collected wood, a load for at least twenty men. In an hour, the work was finished and the raft, moored to the bank, waited for the change in tide.

They had several hours to wait. So Pencroff and Harbert decided to climb to the upper plateau to examine a wider span of the countryside.

Two hundred feet beyond the bend in the river, the wall, terminated by a pile of rocks, sloped away gently to the border of the forest. It was like a natural staircase. Harbert and the sailor began to climb. They reached the crest in a few moments and positioned themselves at the corner above the mouth of the river.

On arriving, their first glance was toward the ocean that they had crossed under such terrible conditions! They observed with strong emotions the coastline to the north where the catastrophe had occurred. It was there that Cyrus Smith had disappeared. They searched to see if some wreckage of their balloon, which a man might hang onto, was still floating. Nothing! The sea was a vast desert of water. As for the shore, it too was deserted. Neither the reporter nor Neb could be seen there, but it was possible that they were too far away.

“Something tells me,” Harbert said, “that a man as energetic as Mr. Cyrus would not allow himself to drown like a new born babe. He must have reached some point on the shore. Isn’t that so, Pencroff?”

The sailor sadly shook his head. He hardly expected to see Cyrus Smith again, but he wanted to give Harbert something to hope for. “Without doubt, without doubt,” he said, “our engineer is a man able to get out of a situation where others would succumb! …”

However he observed the coast very carefully. Beneath them was the sandy shore bounded to the right of the river’s mouth by a line of breakers. These rocks, still above water, resembled groups of amphibians lying in the surf. Beyond the strip of reefs, the sea sparkled under the sun’s rays. In the south, a sharp point hid the horizon, and they could not say if the land extended in this direction or if it ran from southeast to southwest which would have made this coast a sort of elongated peninsula. Up to the extreme north of the bay, the outline of the shore followed a more rounded contour. There the shore was low, flat, without cliffs, and with large sandy beaches uncovered by the ebbing tide. Pencroff and Harbert then turned to the west. First, they saw a mountain topped by snow which rose at the distance of six or seven miles. Vast woods extended from the foothills of this mountain to within two miles of the coast enhanced by large green patches due to the presence of evergreens. Then, from the edge of this forest to the coast itself, groups of trees were scattered randomly over a broad plateau. On the left, they saw the sparkling waters of a small river as it flowed through several glades. It seemed that the river’s rather sinuous course led it back to its source near the spurs of the mountain. At the place where the sailor had left his raft, the river flowed between two high granite walls. If, on the left bank, the wall remained sharp and abrupt, on the right bank, in contrast, it sank little by little, the blocks changing to isolated rocks, the rocks to stones, the stones to pebbles up to the end of the point.

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

“In any case, it seems to be rather large!” replied the young lad.

“An island, however large, will never be anything but an island!” said Pencroff.

“Then what sort of birds are they?”

But this important question could not yet be resolved. The answer would have to wait for another time. As to the land itself, island or continent, it seemed to be fertile, with a pleasant appearance and with a variety of flora.

“That’s fortunate,” Pencroff noted, “and in our misfortune, we should give thanks to Providence.”

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

For a long while Pencroff and Harbert examined this country where destiny had thrown them, but it was difficult to guess from this quick inspection what the future had in store for them.

They returned by following the southern crest of the granite plateau, bordered by twisted rocks in odd shapes. Several hundred birds lived there, nested in holes of the stone. Harbert, hopping over the rocks, made a large flock of these winged creatures fly away.

“Ah,” he shouted, “These are neither sea gulls nor sea mews!”

“Then what sort of birds are they?” asked Pencroff. “Upon my word, one would say pigeons.”

“Quite so, but these are wild pigeons or rock pigeons,” replied Harbert. “I recognize them by the double black band on their wing, by their white rump, and their ashen blue plumage. Now, if rock pigeons are good to eat, then their eggs must be excellent, if there are still some in their nests! …”

“We’ll not give them time to hatch unless it is in the shape of an omelette!” replied Pencroff gleefully.

“But what will you make your omelette in?” asked Harbert. “In your hat?”

“Well,” replied the sailor, “I’m not enough of a wizard for that. We’ll have to be happy with hard-boiled eggs, my boy, and I’ll eat the hardest of them.”

Pencroff and the young lad carefully examined the crevices in the granite, and they did in fact find eggs in some of the cavities. Several dozen were collected, then placed in the sailor’s handkerchief. Since it was almost high tide, they began to descend to the water’s edge. When they arrived at the bend in the river, it was one o’clock in the afternoon. The current had already reversed itself. It was necessary to take advantage of the ebb to bring the raft of wood to the river’s mouth. Pencroff had no intention of letting the raft float in the current at random, nor did he intend to climb aboard to steer it. But a sailor is never at a loss when it is a question of cables or ropes, and Pencroff quickly braided a long rope several yards long made of dried vines. This vegetable cable was attached to the back of the raft. The sailor pulled it by hand while Harbert pushed the raft with a long pole, keeping it in the current.

The procedure worked perfectly. The large load of wood, which the sailor held onto while walking along the bank, followed the current. The bank was even, and there was no reason to fear that the raft would run aground. Before two o’clock, they arrived at the mouth of the river just a few paces from the Chimneys.

CHAPTER V

After the raft of wood was unloaded, Pencroff’s first concern was to make the Chimneys habitable by blocking those holes where the wind blew in. Some sand, stones, intertwined branches, and mud tightly sealed the corridors of the “&” which were open to the winds from the south, isolating the upper loop. One passageway only, narrow, winding, and open on one side, was kept to channel the smoke outside and to induce a draft from the fireplace. The Chimneys were divided into three or four rooms, if one could give this name to such gloomy dens where a wild beast would hardly be content. But it was dry and one could stand up, at least in the main room. A fine sand covered the ground and all things considered, they would have to manage until they could find something better.

While working, Harbert and Pencroff chatted.

“Perhaps,” said Harbert, “our companions have found a better accommodation than ours?”

“That’s possible,” replied the sailor, “but when in doubt, we’d best play it safe. It’s better to have one string too many on your bow than no strings at all!”

“Ah!” repeated Harbert, “if they could only bring back Mr. Smith when they return, how we would thank Heaven!”

“Yes,” murmured Pencroff. “That was truly a man!”

“Was …” said Harbert. “Do you despair of ever seeing him again?”

“God forbid!” replied the sailor.

The arrangements were quickly completed, and Pencroff was quite satisfied with them.

“Now,” he said, “our friends can return. They will find a suitable shelter.”

Nothing remained to do but build a fireplace and prepare a meal, really a simple and easy task. Some large flat stones were placed on the ground at the entrance of the narrow passageway which had been reserved for this purpose. If the smoke did not draw out too much heat, this would be sufficient to maintain a proper temperature inside. A load of wood was stored in one of the rooms, and the sailor placed several logs and small pieces of wood on the rocks of the fireplace. The sailor was busy with this work when Harbert asked him if he had any matches.

“Certainly,” replied Pencroff, “and I’ll add, fortunately, because without matches or tinder we’d have quite a problem!”

“We could always make fire the way the savages do,” replied Harbert, “by rubbing two pieces of dry wood against each other.”

“Well, my boy, try it and then see if you can do it without breaking your arms.”

“Nevertheless it’s a very simple procedure and is often used on the islands of the Pacific.”

“I don’t say it’s not,” replied Pencroff, “but I believe that the savages must either have their own way of doing it or that they use a particular type of wood because, more than once, I’ve tried to make a fire this way and I’ve never succeeded. I admit that I much prefer matches. By the way, where are my matches?”

Pencroff searched in his vest for the match box that was always with him because he was a zealous smoker. He did not find it. He rummaged through his pants pockets and, to his amazement, he could not find the box.

“This is annoying! It’s more than annoying!” he said looking at Harbert. “The box must have fallen out of my pocket, and I’ve lost it! But you, Harbert, do you have a tinder box or anything we can use to make a fire?”

“No, Pencroff.”

The sailor went out scratching his forehead followed by the young boy.

Both searched with the greatest care along the beach, among the rocks, near the bank of the river, but to no avail. The box was made of copper and should not have escaped their attention.

“Pencroff,” asked Harbert, “didn’t you throw the box out of the basket?”

“I took good care not to,” replied the sailor, “but when one has been tossed about like we were, so small an object can easily disappear. Even my pipe is gone. Where can the confounded box be?”

“Well, the tide is going down now,” said Harbert, “let’s go round to the spot where we landed.”

There was little chance that they would recover this box tossed among the rocks at high tide, but it was worth a try under the circumstances. Harbert and Pencroff ran to the spot where they had landed earlier, about two hundred feet from the Chimneys.

There, among the pebbles, in the cavities of the rocks, they searched carefully. The result: nothing. If the box had fallen here, it must have been swept away by the waves. As the sea went down, the sailor searched every crevice in the rocks without finding anything. It was a serious loss under the circumstances and, for the moment, irreparable. Pencroff found it hard to hide his disappointment. His brow wrinkled up. He didn’t say a word. Harbert wanted to console him by observing that, very likely, the matches would have been wet from the sea water and therefore useless.

“But no, my boy,” replied the sailor. “They were in a tightly closed copper box! And now what are we to do?”

“We’ll certainly find some way to make fire,” said Harbert. “Mr. Smith or Mr. Spilett will know what to do.”

“Yes,” replied Pencroff, “but in the meanwhile we’re without fire, and our companions will find a sorry meal on their return.”

“But,” said Harbert briskly, “isn’t it possible that they have tinder or matches?”

“I doubt it,” the sailor replied shaking his head. “First, Neb and Mr. Smith don’t smoke, and Mr. Spilett would rather save his notebook than his box of matches.”

Harbert did not reply. The loss of the box was obviously regrettable. However, the lad was certain they could start a fire one way or another. Pencroff, who was more experienced and a man not normally bothered by such inconveniences, did not think so. In any event, there was only one course to take: wait for the return of Neb and the reporter. But it was necessary to forget about the meal of cooked eggs that they had wanted to prepare for them; a diet of raw meat either for themselves or for the others was not a cheery prospect.

Before returning to the Chimneys, the sailor and Harbert collected a new batch of lithodomes in case a fire could not be started. They went back silently.

Pencroff, his eyes fixed on the ground, was still looking for the lost box. He even walked again along the left bank of the river from the mouth to the bend where the raft of wood had been moored. He returned to the upper plateau. He went over it in every direction, searching among the tall grass along the edge of the forest—all in vain.

It was five o’clock in the evening when Harbert and he returned to the Chimneys. Needless to say, they rummaged through the darkest corners of the passageways, but they ultimately had to give up.

About six o’clock, when the sun was disappearing behind the highlands of the west, Harbert, who was pacing back and forth on the shore, signaled the return of Neb and Gideon Spilett.

They were returning alone! … His heart skipped a beat. The sailor had not been wrong in his misgivings. The engineer Cyrus Smith had not been found!

On arriving, the reporter sat down on a rock without saying a word. Exhausted and half-dead with hunger, he did not have the strength to say anything.

Neb’s red eyes showed that he had lost all hope!

The reporter told them about the search they had undertaken to find Cyrus Smith. Neb and he had followed the coastline for a distance of eight miles, well beyond the point where the next-to-last fall of the balloon occurred, the fall that was followed by the disappearance of the engineer and the dog Top. The shore was deserted. Not a trace, not a single footprint. Not a stone overturned, not a sign on the sand, no mark of the human foot along this entire part of the coast. It was evident that no inhabitant ever frequented this part of the island. The ocean was just as deserted as the beach, and it was there, several hundred feet from shore, that the engineer must have met his fate.

Then Neb got up and voiced the sentiments of hope that were bottled up within him:

“No!” he shouted. “No! He is not dead! No! That cannot be! He! Come now! It might happen to me or anyone else but him! Never! He could get out of any scrape! …”

The reporter sat down on a rock without saying a word.

Then his strength left him.

“Ah! I can do no more,” he murmured.

Harbert ran to him.

“Neb,” said the lad, “we’ll find him! God will return him! But you’re hungry. Eat a little, I beg you.” And, while speaking, he offered the poor Negro a handful of shellfish, a meager and insufficient meal.

Neb had not eaten for many hours but he refused. Deprived of his master he could not, he did not want to live!

As for Gideon Spilett, he devoured the mollusks. Then he lay down on the sand in front of a rock, exhausted but calm. Harbert came up to him and offered his hand:

“Sir,” he said, “we’ve discovered a shelter where you’ll be better off than here. It’s getting dark. Come along and get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll see …”

The reporter got up and, guided by the lad, he went to the Chimneys.

Pencroff came over and asked him in a casual voice if by chance he had a match on him.

The reporter stopped, looked in his pockets, and didn’t find any. He said, “I had some but I must have thrown them away …”

The sailor asked Neb the same question and got the same reply.

“Confound it!” cried the sailor. The reporter heard him and said, “No matches?”

“Not a single one, and so we can have no fire!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Neb, “If my master were here, he’d know how to make one!”

The four castaways stood there and looked at each other. Harbert broke the silence by saying:

“Mr. Spilett, you’re a smoker. You always have matches on you. Perhaps you have not looked thoroughly. Look again. A single match will suffice.”

The reporter rummaged again through his pants pockets, his waistcoat, his overcoat and finally, to Pencroff’s great joy and to his own surprise, he felt a sliver of wood caught in the lining of his waistcoat. His fingers had grasped this small piece of wood through the coat’s fabric, but he could not get it out. Since this was probably a match, and their only one, they had to be careful not to rub away the phosphorous.

“Will you let me try?” the lad asked him.

Very skillfully, without breaking it, Harbert managed to remove this matchstick, this precious trifle which, for these unfortunate people, was of such crucial importance. It was intact.

“A match!” shouted Pencroff. “Ah! It’s as if we had a whole cargo!”

He took the match and, followed by his companions, went back to the Chimneys.

This small sliver of wood, which in civilized countries is treated with indifference, would need to be used here with extreme care. The sailor assured himself that it was really dry. That done, he said, “We need some paper.”

“Here,” replied Gideon Spilett who, after some hesitation, tore out a leaf from his notebook.

Pencroff took the piece of paper and squatted in front of the fireplace. Several handfuls of grass, leaves, and dry moss were placed under the faggots and arranged so the air could easily circulate, letting the dead wood catch fire quickly.

Then Pencroff folded the paper in the form of a cone, as smokers do in a high wind, and placed it among the mosses. Next, taking a rather flat stone, he wiped it with care. With his heart beating fast, he gently rubbed the stone without breathing.

The first rubbing produced no effect. Pencroff had not applied enough pressure, afraid that he would scratch away the phosphorous.

“No, I can’t do it,” he said, “my hand trembles … The match didn’t catch fire … I can’t … I don’t want to,” and getting up he asked Harbert to take his place.

Certainly, in all his life, the lad had never been so nervous. His heart pounded. Prometheus going to steal fire from Heaven had not been more anxious. He did not hesitate, however, and quickly rubbed the stone. They heard a sputter, then a weak blue flame spurted out producing a sharp flame. Harbert gently turned the match so as to feed the flame, then he slipped it into the paper cone. The paper caught fire in a few seconds and then the moss began to burn.

Several moments later, the dry wood crackled, and a joyful flame, fanned by the sailor’s vigorous breath, began to glow in the darkness.

“Truly,” exclaimed Pencroff, getting up. “I was never so nervous in my life!”

The fire burned well on the fireplace of flat stones. The smoke went up easily through the narrow passage, the chimney drew the smoke, and a pleasant warmth soon filled the shelter.

As to the fire, they had to take care not to let it burn out and to always keep some embers under the ashes. But this was merely a matter of care and attention since there was no shortage of wood, and their supply could always be renewed at their convenience. Pencroff first intended to use the fireplace to prepare a supper more nourishing than a dish of lithodomes. Harbert brought over two dozen eggs. The reporter, resting in a corner, watched these preparations without saying a word. Three thoughts were on his mind. Was Cyrus still alive? If he was alive where could he be? If he had survived his fall, why had he not made his existence known? As for Neb, he prowled the beach like a body without a soul.

“I was never so nervous in my life!”

Pencroff, who knew fifty two ways to make eggs, had no options at the moment. He had to be content to place them among the warm cinders and to let them cook at low heat.

In a few minutes, the cooking was done and the sailor invited the reporter to take his share of the supper. Such was the first meal of the castaways on this unknown shore. These hard eggs were excellent and, since eggs contain all the nutrients necessary for human nourishment, these poor men found themselves well off and felt strengthened.

Ah! If only one of them had not been missing at this meal! If only the five prisoners who had escaped from Richmond could all have been there under this pile of rocks in front of this bright crackling fire on this dry sand, what thanks they would have given to Heaven! But the most ingenious and the wisest among them, he who was their unquestioned chief, Cyrus Smith, was missing! And his body had not even had a decent burial!

So passed the day of March 25. Night had come. Outside, they heard the wind whistling and the monotonous surf beating against the shore. The pebbles, tossed around by the waves, rolled about with a deafening roar.

The reporter had lain down on the floor after having quickly noted the incidents of the day: the first appearance of this new land, the disappearance of the engineer, the exploration of the coast, the incident with the matches, etc.; and, helped by fatigue, he managed to fall sleep. Harbert slept well. As to the sailor, he spent the night with one eye on the fire and spared no fuel.

One of the castaways did not find rest in the Chimneys. It was Neb. Forlorn, without hope, and in spite of the pleadings of his companions, he wandered on the shore for the entire night calling for his master!

CHAPTER VI

The inventory of objects possessed by these castaways from the sky, thrown down onto a coast that appeared to be uninhabited, was soon taken.

They had nothing except the clothes on their backs at the moment of the catastrophe. There was a notebook and a watch that Gideon Spilett had saved, inadvertently no doubt; but there was not a single weapon, not a tool, not even a pocket knife. The balloon passengers had thrown everything overboard in order to lighten their craft. The imaginary heroes of Daniel Defoe or of Wyss, as well as the Selkirks and the Raynals, castaways at Juan-Fernandez and the archipelago of Auckland,¹ never found themselves so entirely helpless. These men had abundant resources of grain, animals, tools, and munitions drawn from their stranded vessels; or else some wreckage had washed up along the shore which allowed them to provide for the necessities of life. They were not, at the outset, so absolutely defenseless before the rigors of nature. They owned no instrument whatsoever, not a utensil. From nothing, the castaways would need to supply themselves with everything!

If only Cyrus Smith had been with them, if only the engineer had been able to apply his practical science and his inventive spirit to this situation, perhaps all hope would not have been lost. Alas! They could not count on seeing Cyrus Smith again. The castaways could only depend on themselves and on Providence who never abandons those whose faith is sincere.

But should they settle themselves on this part of the shore without trying to find out to what continent it belonged, if it was inhabited or only the beach of a deserted island?

It was an important question to be resolved quickly for the measures to be taken would depend on the answer. Pencroff advised that it would be best to wait a few days before undertaking an exploration since it was necessary to prepare provisions and get food more substantial than eggs and mollusks. The explorers, having endured long fatigue, without a shelter for sleeping, would need to refresh themselves before doing anything else.

The Chimneys offered sufficient refuge for the time being. The fire was lit and it would be easy to keep the cinders alive. For the moment, there was no lack of mollusks and eggs among the rocks and on the beach. Using sticks or stones, they would surely find a way to kill some of these pigeons that flew about by the hundreds at the crest of the plateau. Perhaps the trees of the nearby forest would give them edible fruit? And, lastly, there was plenty of fresh water there. It was therefore agreed that, for the next few days, they would remain at the Chimneys to prepare for an exploration either of the coastline or the interior of the country.

This plan particularly suited Neb. As stubborn in his ideas as in his forebodings, he was in no hurry to leave this part of the coast, the scene of the catastrophe. He did not believe, he did not want to believe, that Cyrus Smith was lost. No, it didn’t seem possible that such a man met his end in so vulgar a fashion, carried off by a wave, drowned in the sea only a few hundred feet from shore. As long as the waves had not washed up the body of the engineer, as long as he, Neb, had not seen with his own eyes, touched with his own hands the corpse of his master, he would not believe that he was dead. This idea took root in his obstinate heart. An illusion perhaps, but a respected illusion nevertheless which the sailor did not wish to destroy. For him there was no more hope, and the engineer had indeed perished in the waves; but it was pointless to discuss this with Neb. He was like a dog that will not leave the place where his master died, and his grief was such that he probably would not survive him.

On the morning of March 26th, at dawn, Neb went back to the shore in a northerly direction, returning to the place where the sea had doubtless closed in on the unfortunate Smith.

Breakfast on this day was composed only of pigeon eggs and lithodomes. Harbert found some salt left behind in the crevices of the rocks by evaporation and this mineral substance was put to good use.

The meal finished, Pencroff asked the reporter if he wanted to accompany them to the forest where Harbert and he would try to hunt. However, on further reflection, it was decided that someone should stay behind to look after the fire and to help Neb, in the unlikely event that he would need it. The reporter remained behind.

“Let’s go hunting, Harbert,” said the sailor. “We’ll find our munitions along the way and we’ll fire our guns in the forest.”

But, when they were about to leave, Harbert noted that since they had no tinder, it would be prudent to replace it with another substance.

“What?” asked Pencroff.

“Burnt linen,” replied the lad. “In a pinch, it can serve as tinder.”

The sailor found that this advice made sense, only it was a rather inconvenient necessity since it meant the sacrifice of a piece of his handkerchief. Nevertheless it was worth the trouble, and so a piece of Pencroff’s large square handkerchief was soon reduced to a half burnt rag. This inflammable material was placed in the central chamber at the bottom of a small cavity in a rock completely sheltered from wind and dampness.

It was then nine o’clock in the morning. The weather was threatening and the wind blew from the southeast. Harbert and Pencroff turned the corner of the Chimneys, glancing at the smoke which was twirling around the rocks. Then they went along the left bank of the river.

Arriving at the forest, Pencroff first broke off two sturdy branches which he transformed into sticks. Harbert ground them down to a point on a rock. Ah! If they only had a knife! Then the two hunters advanced in the tall grass following the riverbank. On leaving the bend, the river changed its course to the southwest; it grew narrower and its banks formed a channel enclosed by a double arc of trees. Pencroff, not wanting to get lost, decided to follow the water’s course which would always return him to his starting point. But the bank was not without some obstacles: trees whose flexible branches bent to the level of the water, and creepers or thorn bushes which they had to break with their sticks. Often, Harbert glided among the broken stumps with the agility of a young cat and disappeared into the brushwood. But Pencroff recalled him immediately, begging him not to venture too far away.

Meanwhile, the sailor carefully noted the surroundings. On the left bank, the soil was level and rose imperceptibly toward the interior. Sometimes moist, it then took on a marshy appearance. Everywhere they felt an underground network of streams which, by some subterranean fault, flowed toward the river. At some places, a brook flowed through the brushwood which they crossed without difficulty. The opposite bank was more varied. The hill, covered by trees of various sizes, formed a curtain which obstructed their vision. On the right bank, walking would have been difficult because of the holes in the ground and because of the trees which, bent to the surface of the water, were held in place only by their roots. Needless to say, both this forest and the riverbank showed no sign of human life. Pencroff noted the fresh tracks of quadrupeds of a species he did not recognize. Most certainly—and this was also Harbert’s opinion—they had been left by dangerous wild beasts with which they would no doubt have to contend; but nowhere was found the mark of a hatchet on a tree trunk, nor the remains of an extinguished fire, nor a footprint. They should perhaps congratulate themselves because, in this part of the Pacific, the presence of man was often more to be feared than desired.

Pencroff noted the fresh animal tracks.

Harbert and Pencroff scarcely spoke because of the difficult path. They advanced slowly and, after an hour, they had scarcely gone a mile. Until then, the hunt had not been productive. Nevertheless, several birds were chirping and flying about under the branches, showing themselves to be very timid as if man instinctively inspired them with a justifiable fear. Among other winged creatures, Harbert saw, in a marshy part of the forest, a bird with a sharp and elongated beak which anatomically resembled a kingfisher. However it was distinguished by its rugged plumage coated with a metallic brilliance.

“That must be a jacamar,”² said Harbert, trying to close in on the bird.

“It would be nice to have the opportunity to taste jacamar,” replied the sailor, “if this bird is in a mood to let himself be roasted!”

At this moment, the lad, skillfully and vigorously, threw a stone that struck the creature at the base of its wing. But it was not enough; the jacamar took to its legs, running away at full speed and disappearing in an instant. “I’m so clumsy,” Harbert shouted.

“Not at all, my boy,” replied the sailor. “It was a good throw and more than one person would have missed the bird completely. Come! Don’t feel frustrated. We’ll catch it another day.”

The exploration continued. As the hunters made headway, the trees became more spacious and magnificent. But none produced any edible fruit. Pencroff looked in vain for a few of those precious palm trees, which have so many uses in domestic life and which are found as far as the 40th parallel in the northern hemisphere and down to the 35th parallel in the southern hemisphere. But this forest revealed only conifers such as the deodars already recognized by Harbert, Douglas pines resembling those growing on the northwest coast of America, and admirable spruce measuring a hundred fifty feet in height.

At this instant, a flock of small birds with pretty plumage and long, glittering tails scattered among the branches, dropping their weakly attached feathers which covered the ground with a fine down. Harbert picked up a few of these feathers and, after having examined them:

“These are ‘couroucous’,”³ he said.

“I would prefer a guinea fowl or a grouse cock,” replied Pencroff, “but are they good to eat?”

“They’re good to eat and their flesh is even tender,” replied Harbert. “Besides, if I am not mistaken, it is easy to approach them and kill them with a stick.”

The sailor and the boy slipped through the grass and arrived at the foot of a tree whose lower branches were covered with small birds. The couroucous were waiting for passing insects, which served as their nourishment. One could see their feathered feet strongly clenching the small branches which supported them.

The hunters then straightened up and, using their sticks like a scythe, they mowed down entire rows of these couroucous who did not think of flying away and stupidly allowed themselves to be beaten. A hundred littered the ground before the others decided to fly away.

“Well,” said Pencroff, “here’s game made for hunters such as ourselves. We’ve only to reach out for it.”

On a flexible stick the sailor strung up the couroucous like larks, and the exploration continued. They could see that the river took a gentle turn southward, but this detour probably did not extend very far because the river’s source was in the mountain and was fed by the melting snow covering the sides of the central peak.

The principal object of this excursion was to get the largest possible quantity of game. This goal had not been attained up to now. The sailor actively pursued his search, and how he complained when some animal that he did not even have time to recognize escaped among the tall grass. If only they had had the dog Top. But Top had disappeared at the same time as his master and had probably perished with him.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, they caught a glimpse of new flocks of birds who were pecking at the aromatic berries of certain trees, junipers among others. Suddenly, a trumpet-like sound resounded throughout the forest. It was the strange and loud fanfare made by gallinules, which are called “grouse” in the United States. Soon they saw several couples, with a variety of brown and fawn colored plumage, and with a brown tail. Harbert recognized the males by the two pointed fins formed by feathers raised on their neck. Pencroff judged it indispensable to get hold of one of these gallinules, as big as a hen, whose flesh is like that of a prairie chicken. But this was difficult because they would not allow themselves to be approached. After several fruitless attempts, which only seemed to frighten the grouse, the sailor said to the lad:

“Well, since we can’t kill them in flight, we’ll try to take them with a line.”

“Like a fish?” shouted Harbert, very surprised at this suggestion.

“Like a fish,” the sailor replied seriously.

Pencroff found a half dozen grouses’ nests in the grass, each having two or three eggs. He took care not to touch these nests, knowing their proprietors would surely return. It was around these nests that he intended to stretch his lines—not collar traps but real hook lines. He took Harbert some distance away from the nests, and there he prepared his strange contraption with the care appropriate to a disciple of Isaac Walton.* Harbert watched this activity with understandable interest, though he doubted the probability of its success. The lines were made of thin creepers fastened to one another at a length of fifteen to twenty feet. Some large strong thorns with bent points, supplied by a dwarf acacia bush, were tied to the ends of the creepers to take the place of hooks. As for bait, some large red worms, which were crawling on the ground, were put on the thorns.

That done, Pencroff moved among the grass skillfully concealing himself, and placed the end of his lines with baited hooks near the grouses’ nests. Then he took the other end and hid with Harbert behind a large tree. Both then waited patiently. Harbert did not count on the success of inventor Pencroff.

A long half hour passed but, as predicted by the sailor, several pairs of grouse returned to their nests. They hopped, pecked the ground, and gave no sign that they suspected the presence of the hunters who had taken care to place themselves to the leeward of the gallinules.

Certainly at this moment the lad was very attentive. He held his breath. Pencroff was staring, his mouth open, his lips protruding as if he was about to taste a piece of grouse, hardly breathing. However the gallinules walked among the hooks without noticing them. Pencroff made small jerks which moved the bait as if the worms were still alive.

At this instant, the sailor no doubt felt as much emotion as a fisherman who, in contrast, does not see his prey approaching in the water.

The jerks soon attracted the attention of the gallinules, and they pecked at the hooks. Three of the grouse swallowed both bait and hook. Suddenly, Pencroff sprung his trap, and flapping wings showed that the birds had been taken.

“Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” he shouted, dashing toward the game which he now mastered.

Harbert clapped his hands. It was the first time he had seen birds taken with a line, but the sailor very modestly told him that it was not his first try and not his invention.

“And in any case,” he added, “in our situation, we must depend on measures such as these.”

The grouse were tied by their feet and Pencroff, happy that he was not returning with empty hands and seeing that the daylight was beginning to lessen, decided to return home.

The path to follow was clearly indicated by the river; there was no question about which direction to go. At about six o’clock, rather tired from their excursion, Harbert and Pencroff again entered the Chimneys.

*Celebrated author of a book on angling.⁴

CHAPTER VII

Gideon Spilett, motionless, his arms crossed, was on the beach looking at the sea whose horizon was obscured in the east by a large black cloud that was rapidly moving towards the zenith. The wind was already strong and becoming fresher with the decline of day. The sky looked bad and the first symptoms of a storm were apparent.

Harbert entered the Chimneys, and Pencroff went to the reporter. The latter, deeply absorbed, did not see him come.

“We’re going to have a bad night, Mr. Spilett!” said the sailor. “Rain and wind are the joy of petrels.”*

The reporter, then turning, saw Pencroff and his first words were these:

“At what distance from the coast would you say the basket was when it was struck by the wave which carried off our companion?”

The sailor had not expected this question. He reflected for a moment and replied:

“At two cables length at most.”

“But what is a cable length?”

“About 120 fathoms or 600 feet.”

“Then,” said the reporter, “Cyrus Smith disappeared 1200 feet at most from the shore?”

“About,” replied Pencroff.

“And his dog also?”

“Also.”

“What astonishes me,” added the reporter, “is that our companion has perished, and Top has likewise met his end, but neither the body of the dog nor that of his master has been thrown on shore.”

“It isn’t astonishing with such a strong sea,” replied the sailor. “Besides, it’s possible that the current carried them further along the coast.”

“So it’s your opinion that our companion has perished among the waves?” the reporter asked again.

“That’s my opinion.”

“My opinion,” said Gideon Spilett, “much as I respect your experience, Pencroff, is that the double disappearance of Cyrus and Top, living or dead, is an inexplicable and improbable thing.”

“I wish I could think like you, Mr. Spilett,” replied Pencroff, “but, unfortunately, my mind is made up.”

That said, the sailor returned to the Chimneys. A good fire crackled on the hearth. Harbert threw an armful of dry wood on it, and the flames shed light into the gloomy parts of the passageway. Pencroff occupied himself at once with preparing dinner. It seemed best to introduce some “pièce de résistance” into the menu because everyone needed to renew his strength. The strings of couroucous were saved for the next day but they plucked two grouse, and soon the gallinules were roasting on a spit in front of a blazing fire.

At seven o’clock Neb had not yet returned. This prolonged absence only made Pencroff uneasy about the Negro. He feared that he had either met with some accident on this unknown land or that the poor wretch had given in to some act of despair. But Harbert drew totally different conclusions from this absence. In his opinion, if Neb had not yet returned, it was due to some new circumstance which caused him to prolong his search and anything new could only be to Cyrus Smith’s advantage. Why had Neb not returned unless some hope detained him? Perhaps he had found some indication, a footprint or the remains of a wreck which put him on the track. Perhaps, at this very moment, he was following a solid clue. Perhaps he was even near his master …

So the lad reasoned. His companions let him speak of it. The reporter alone approved with a gesture. But, for Pencroff, it was likely that Neb had gone further than the previous day in his search along the coast and that he could not yet return.

However, Harbert was agitated by vague premonitions, and several times he wanted to go to meet Neb. Pencroff made him understand that it would be a useless course of action, that in this darkness and deplorable weather, he would find no trace of Neb, and it would be better to wait. If, by the next day, Neb had not reappeared, Pencroff would not hesitate to join Harbert in searching for him.

Gideon Spilett agreed that they must not separate, and Harbert had to give up his plan; but two large tears fell from his eyes. The reporter could not refrain from embracing the noble lad.

Bad weather had now definitely broken out. A windstorm of unparalleled violence passed over the coast from the southeast. They heard the sea, then at low tide, roaring against the leading edge of rocks on the beach. The rain, whipped by the storm, rose up like a wet mist. Ragged masses of fog swept along the shore where pebbles rattled noisily like cartloads of stone being emptied. Sand, lifted by the wind, became mixed with the rain, making the storm’s attack invincible. There was just as much mineral dust in the air as water vapor. Large whirlwinds swirled between the mouth of the river and the face of the wall, and strong gusts of air escaping from this maelstrom could find no exit other than through the narrow valley whose river was churned up with an irresistible violence. The smoke from the hearth, restricted by the narrow passageway, backed up frequently, filling the corridors and rendering them uninhabitable.

That is why, as soon as the grouse were roasted, Pencroff let the fire die down, conserving nothing but the embers buried under the cinders.

At eight o’clock Neb still had not reappeared. They could now assume that the awful weather alone prevented his return and that he had found refuge in some hollow to wait out the end of the storm or at least the return of day. To attempt to find him under these conditions was impossible.

The game formed the only dish for supper, and they gladly ate this excellent meat. Pencroff and Harbert, whose appetites were excited by their long excursion, were ravenous.

Everyone retired to the corner where he had rested the previous night. Harbert soon fell asleep near the sailor who stretched out along the hearth. Outside, as the night advanced, the storm took on formidable proportions. It was a windstorm comparable to the one that carried the prisoners from Richmond to this land in the Pacific. Tempests are frequent during the seasons of the equinox. They produce terrible catastrophes throughout this vast area where no obstacles oppose their fury. One can therefore understand how a coast so exposed, in direct line with the storm and struck headlong, was battered by a force that cannot be described.

Pencroff crawled to the opening.

Fortunately, the pile of rocks which formed the Chimneys was sturdy. It was composed of enormous slabs of granite though a few, slightly off-balance, seemed to tremble at their base. Pencroff sensed this and, pressing his hand against the walls, felt the rapid vibrations. But he finally convinced himself, and rightly so, that there was nothing to fear and that his improvised retreat would not cave in. Nevertheless, he heard the clatter of the rocks which, detached from the summit of the plateau and uprooted by the swirling wind, fell on the beach. A few even rolled as far as the upper part of the Chimneys or broke into fragments when they fell straight down. Twice the sailor got up and crawled to the opening of the passageway to look outside. But these falling rocks did not constitute any danger and he returned to his place in front of the fire whose embers were sputtering under the cinders. Despite the furies of the storm, the roar of the tempest, and the thunder of the storm, Harbert was in a deep sleep. Even Pencroff finally closed his eyes in slumber, since a seaman’s life had accustomed him to such violent weather. Gideon Spilett alone was kept wide awake by his worries. He reproached himself for not having accompanied Neb. One could see that he too had not abandoned all hope and that he shared Harbert’s premonitions. His thoughts were concentrated on Neb. Why had Neb not returned? He tossed on his bed of sand hardly giving a thought to the battle of the elements. At times his eyes, heavy with fatigue, closed for an instant but some passing thought reopened them at once. The night advanced, however, and it must have been two o’clock in the morning when Pencroff, then in a deep sleep, was shaken vigorously.

“What is it?” he shouted, awakening and recollecting himself with the rapidity typical of seamen.

The reporter was leaning over him and said to him:

“Listen Pencroff, listen!”

The sailor cocked his ear but could not distinguish any sound other than the squall.

“It’s the wind,” he said.

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

“What?”

“A dog barking!”

“A dog!” shouted Pencroff, getting up in a single bound.

“Yes … barking …”

“That isn’t possible!” replied the sailor. “And besides, how with the roar of the storm …”

“Wait … Listen …” said the reporter.

Pencroff listened more attentively and in fact he thought he heard a distant barking in a quiet moment.

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

“Yes … Yes! …” replied Pencroff.

“It’s Top! … It’s Top! …” shouted Harbert, just awakening, and all three dashed toward the entrance to the Chimneys.

They went outside with extreme difficulty. The wind drove them back. They finally succeeded, although they could not stand erect without leaning against the rocks. They saw but they could not speak.

The darkness was absolute. The sea, the sky, the ground were merged in equal darkness. It seemed that there was not an atom of light in the sky.

For several minutes the reporter and his two companions remained so, crushed by the storm, drenched by the rain, blinded by the sand. They heard the barking once again during a break in the storm, which came from far away. It could only be Top barking in this manner! But was he alone or with someone? Most likely he was alone because if Neb was with him, Neb would have rushed back toward the Chimneys.

Since he could not make himself heard, the sailor pressed the hand of the reporter as if to say: “Wait!” He re-entered the corridor.

An instant later he came out again with a lighted torch which lit up the gloom. He whistled sharply. This signal seemed expected. In response, the barking came much nearer and soon a dog dashed into the corridor. Pencroff, Harbert and Gideon Spilett followed him inside.

An armful of dry wood was thrown on the embers. A vivid flame lit up the corridor.

“It’s Top!” shouted Harbert.

It was indeed Top, a magnificent anglo-norman crossbreed who inherited from these two species both speed and odor sensitivity, the two prime qualities of a hunting dog.

It was Cyrus Smith’s dog.

But he was alone! Neither his master nor Neb was with him!

This signal seemed expected.

How had his instinct been able to lead him to the Chimneys which he knew nothing about? This appeared inexplicable, especially on such a dark night, and in such a storm! An even more inexplicable detail was that Top was neither tired nor exhausted, not even soiled with mud or sand! …

Harbert approached him and took his head between his hands. The dog allowed him to do so and began rubbing his neck on the boy’s hands.

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

“May God will it!” replied Harbert. “Let’s leave! Top will guide us!”

Pencroff made no objection. He felt that Top’s arrival contradicted his earlier suppositions.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Pencroff carefully covered the embers of the fire. He placed several pieces of wood under the cinders so that the fire could be rekindled on their return. Then, preceded by the dog who seemed to invite them with crisp barks, and followed by the reporter and the lad, he dashed outside bringing along the remains of the supper.

The storm was at full strength and perhaps even at its maximum intensity. No moonlight filtered through the clouds since the moon was then new and in conjunction with the sun. It was difficult to follow a straight course. It was best to rely on Top’s instinct and they did so. The reporter and the boy followed behind the dog, and the sailor brought up the rear. They exchanged no words. The rain was not heavy but it was driven by blasts of wind. The storm was terrible.

One circumstance fortunately favored the sailor and his two companions. The wind blew from the southeast, and consequently it pushed them from behind. The sand which was violently thrown about and which would have been unbearable, struck them from the rear, and as long as no one turned around, it did not interfere with their journey. In fact, they often went faster than they wanted to and this affected their walk almost to the point of making them stumble. But an immense hope doubled their efforts, for this time they did not move randomly along the shore. They had no doubt that Neb had found his master and had sent the faithful dog to them. But was the engineer alive, or was Neb only summoning his companions to render the last rites to the body of the unfortunate Smith?

After passing by the smooth face of the cliff which they carefully side-stepped, Harbert, the reporter and Pencroff stopped to catch their breath. The angle of the cliff sheltered them from the wind, and they caught their breath after this march of a quarter of an hour which had been something of a race.

They could now hear and speak to one another. The lad pronounced the name of Cyrus Smith. Top gave a few short barks as if he wanted to say that his master was rescued.

“Saved, is he?” repeated Harbert, “Saved, Top?”

And the dog barked as if in response.

The march was resumed. It was about half past two in the morning. The sea began to rise and, driven by the wind, the tide threatened to be very high. Large waves boomed against the edge of the reef and assailed it with such violence that they would very likely sweep over the islet, then completely invisible. This long breakwater would no longer protect the coast which was directly exposed to the onslaught of the open sea.

As soon as the sailor and his companions left the edge of the cliff, the wind struck them anew with extreme fury. Bent and straining their backs against the gusts of wind, they quickly followed Top who did not hesitate in his direction. They went north. On their right was an interminable crest of waves which broke with a deafening roar, and on their left a dark landscape it was impossible to make out. But they sensed that it was relatively flat because the wind now passed above them without being driven back as it had when it struck the face of the granite cliff.

At four o’clock in the morning, they estimated that a distance of five miles had been covered. The clouds were slightly higher and no longer at ground level. The wind, less humid, moving in very brisk currents, was drier and colder. Insufficiently protected by their clothing, Pencroff, Harbert, and Gideon Spilett must have suffered cruelly, but not a complaint escaped their lips. They had decided to follow Top wherever the intelligent animal wanted to lead them.

About five o’clock, day began to break. First, at the zenith, where the fog was not so dense, several grayish hues delineated the border of the clouds, and, soon after, beneath a dark band of clouds, a luminous streak of light clearly outlined the water’s horizon. The crest of waves had a light brown glimmer and their foam was white. At the same time, on their left, the hilly parts of the coastline began to loom up vaguely, gray on black.

At six o’clock, day broke. The clouds moved rapidly to a higher elevation. The sailor and his companions were then about six miles from the Chimneys. They followed a very flat shoreline bordered on the open sea by a line of rocks whose tops alone emerged. On the left, the land was composed of several uneven dunes bristling with thistles, offering a rather savage appearance in this vast sandy region. The shoreline was relatively flat and offered no barrier to the ocean other than an irregular chain of hillocks. Here and there, one or two twisted trees could be seen, which were leaning toward the west with their branches extending in this direction. Well behind them, in the southwest, appeared the edge of the forest.

At this moment, Top gave obvious signs of agitation. He went on ahead and then returned to the sailor as if urging him to hasten his steps. The dog left the beach and, guided by his admirable instinct and without showing a moment’s hesitation, he ran into the dunes.

They followed him. The country appeared to be absolutely deserted. Not a living creature anywhere.

This very wide area of the dunes was composed of hillocks and scattered hills, like a miniature Switzerland in sand, and nothing less than a dog’s superb instinct was needed to find one’s way through it.

Five minutes after having left the beach, the reporter and his companions arrived in front of a sort of excavation hollowed out in the rear of a high dune. There Top stopped and barked loud and clear. Spilett, Harbert, and Pencroff dashed into the cave.

Neb was there, kneeling next to a body lying on a bed of grass … The body was that of the engineer Cyrus Smith.

*Sea birds who especially enjoy flying in storms.

CHAPTER VIII

Neb did not move. The sailor said only one word to him.

“Living?” he shouted.

Neb did not reply. Gideon Spilett and Pencroff turned pale. Harbert clasped his hands and remained still. But it was evident that the poor Negro, absorbed in his grief, had neither seen his companions nor heard the sailor’s words.

The reporter knelt down next to the motionless body and placed his ear on the engineer’s chest after having half-opened his garment. A minute—a century!—passed, during which he tried to detect some heartbeat.

The body was that of the engineer.

Neb had straightened up a bit and stared without seeing. Despair could not have changed a man’s face more. Neb was unrecognizable, exhausted by fatigue, broken by pain. He believed his master dead. Gideon Spilett got up after a long and careful examination.

“He lives!” he said.

Pencroff, in his turn, knelt next to Cyrus Smith; his ear also detected a heartbeat and some breath that escaped from the engineer’s lips.

Harbert ran outside to look for water. A hundred feet away he found a clear stream, evidently very swollen by the rains of the previous evening, which filtered through the sand. But there was nothing he could use to carry this water, not a shell among these dunes. The boy had to content himself with dipping his handkerchief into the stream, and he ran back to the cave.

Fortunately the soaked handkerchief was sufficient for Gideon Spilett who wanted only to wet the engineer’s lips. These molecules of cool water produced an immediate effect. A sigh escaped from Cyrus Smith’s chest and it even appeared that he was trying to say a few words.

“We’ll save him!” said the reporter.

At these words, Neb recovered hope. He removed his master’s clothing to see if the body showed any wound. Neither the head nor torso nor limbs had any contusions, not even scratches—a surprising thing, since the engineer must have been tossed around among the rocks. Even the hands were intact, and it was difficult to explain how the engineer showed no trace of the efforts he must have made to get past the reef.

But the explanation of these circumstances would come later. When Cyrus Smith was able to speak, he would tell what happened. For the moment, they must recall him to life, and it was likely that vigorously rubbing his body might bring on this result. This is what was done with the sailor’s pea jacket. The engineer, warmed by this rough massage, moved his hands slightly, and his breathing began to be more regular. He was dying of exhaustion and no doubt, without the arrival of the reporter and his companions, it would have been all over for Cyrus Smith.

“You thought that your master was dead?” the sailor asked Neb.

“Yes! Dead!” replied Neb, “and if Top had not found you, if you hadn’t come, I would have buried my master, and I would have died beside him!”

One could see on what Cyrus Smith’s life had depended!

Neb related what had happened. The day before, after leaving the Chimneys at daybreak, he went along the coast in a northeasterly direction and reached the point on the shore that he had already visited. There, admittedly without any hope, Neb searched along the shore, among the rocks, on the sand, for the least indication to guide him. He had especially examined the part of the shore that the high tide had not reached because, on the beach, the rise and fall of the tide had erased all signs. Neb no longer hoped to find his master living. His purpose was to discover the engineer’s body, a cadaver that he wanted to bury with his own hands!

Neb searched for a long time. His efforts remained fruitless. It did not seem that this deserted coast had ever been frequented by a human being. Those shells that the sea had not reached, and which could be seen by the thousands above the tideline, were intact—not a single one had been broken. In a space of two to three hundred yards,* there was no trace of a landing, either recently or in the distant past.

Neb then decided to go up the coast for several miles. It was possible that currents carried the body to a point further up. When a cadaver floats a short distance from a low shore, it is rare that the waves do not push it up onto the beach sooner or later. Neb knew this and he wanted to see his master one last time.

“I ran along the shore for two more miles. I visited the entire reef line at low tide, the entire beach at high tide, and I despaired of finding anything when yesterday, about five o’clock in the evening, I saw footprints in the sand.”

“Footprints?” shouted Pencroff.

“Yes!” replied Neb.

“And did these footprints begin at the reef?” asked the reporter.

“No,” replied Neb, “at the high water mark only, because those between the high water mark and the reef were washed away.”

“Continue, Neb,” said Gideon Spilett.

“When I saw these prints, I was nearly crazy with joy. They were very distinct and went toward the dunes. Running, I followed them for a quarter of a mile, taking care not to erase them. Five minutes later, as night was coming on, I heard a dog barking. It was Top, and Top led me here to my master.”

Neb finished his recital by telling them about his grief on finding this inanimate body. He tried to detect some sign of life. Now that he had found him dead, he wanted him alive! All his efforts were useless. Nothing remained but to render the last rites to him whom he loved so much.

Neb then thought of his companions. Doubtless they would want to see the unfortunate man for one last time. Top was there. Couldn’t he count on the shrewdness of the faithful animal? Neb pronounced the reporter’s name several times, the one that Top knew best of the engineer’s companions. Then he pointed to the south and the dog darted off in that direction.

Guided by an instinct that might seem almost supernatural because the animal had never been to the Chimneys, Top nevertheless arrived there.

Neb’s companions listened carefully to this story. It astonished them that Cyrus Smith, after the efforts he must have made to escape the waves and get past the reef, did not even show a scratch. Also inexplicable was that the engineer had been able to get to this distant cave in the middle of dunes more than a mile from the coast.

“So, Neb,” said the reporter, “it wasn’t you who brought your master to this place?”

“No, it wasn’t I,” replied Neb.

“It’s obvious that Mr. Smith came here alone,” said Pencroff.

“It’s obvious,” noted Gideon Spilett, “but it’s unbelievable!”

They could only get an explanation from the engineer himself; they would have to wait until he was able to speak. Fortunately, life was already rapidly returning to him. The massage had improved his blood circulation. Cyrus Smith moved his arms again, then his head, and several incomprehensible words escaped from his lips.

Neb, bending over him, called him, but the engineer did not seem to hear and his eyes were still closed. Life revealed itself only by the slight movements of his body; his consciousness had not yet returned.

Pencroff regretted not having a fire, or the means for making one, because he had unfortunately forgotten to bring along the burnt linen which would have been easy to ignite by striking two flintstones together. As for the engineer’s pockets, they were absolutely empty except for his vest which contained his watch. They had to carry Cyrus Smith to the Chimneys as soon as possible. Everyone was in full agreement.

Meanwhile, the care they lavished on the engineer was making his recovery more rapid than they had dared to hope. The water with which they wet his lips was reviving him little by little. Pencroff had the idea of mixing with this water some of the gravy from the flesh of the grouse that he had brought along. Harbert, running to the shore, returned with two large bivalve shells. The sailor made a sort of mixture and placed it between the lips of the engineer, who seemed eager to swallow it.

His eyes opened. Neb and the reporter were bent over him. “My master! My Master!” shouted Neb.

The engineer heard him. He recognized Neb and Spilett, then his two other companions, Harbert and the sailor, and his hand lightly pressed theirs.

Several words again escaped from his mouth, the same words that he had doubtless uttered earlier, expressing the thoughts that were, even then, troubling his mind. This time these words were understood. “Island or continent?” he murmured.

“Ah,” shouted Pencroff, “By all the devils, we couldn’t care less provided you’re alive, Mr. Cyrus! Island or continent? We’ll see later.”

The engineer made a slight affirmative sign and appeared to sleep. Taking care not to disturb him, the reporter immediately made arrangements to have the engineer transported under the best conditions. Neb, Harbert, and Pencroff left the cave and made their way toward a high dune crowned with some scraggy trees. On the way, the sailor could not help repeating:

“Island or continent! To think of that, with what might’ve been his final breath! What a man!”

Arriving at the top of the dune, Pencroff and his two companions, without any tools but their hands, stripped off the main branches from a rather stunted tree, a sort of maritime pine weakened by the wind. Then, with these branches, they made a litter which, once covered with foliage and grass, would allow them to transport the engineer.

It took about forty minutes, and it was ten o’clock when the sailor, Neb, and Harbert returned to Cyrus Smith whom Gideon Spilett had not left.

The engineer was then up from his sleep or rather from this stupor in which they had found him. The color returned to his cheeks which had held the pallor of death. He got up a little, looked around him, and seemed to ask where he was.

“Can you listen to me without tiring yourself, Cyrus?” asked the reporter.

“Yes,” replied the engineer.

“I’d say,” the sailor then said, “that Mr. Smith could listen to you better if he had more of this grouse jelly—it really is grouse, Mr. Cyrus,” he added, presenting him some of this jelly to which this time he added some scraps of flesh.

Cyrus Smith chewed these bits of grouse, the remainder of which was distributed to his four companions who were very hungry and who found the meal rather meager.

“Good,” said the sailor, “we have provisions waiting for us at the Chimneys, because it’s well for you to know, Mr. Cyrus, we have down there in the south a house with rooms, beds, and a fireplace and in the pantry dozens of birds which our Harbert calls couroucous. Your litter is ready and, as soon as you feel strong enough, we’ll carry you to our shelter.”

“Thanks, my friend,” said the engineer, “in an hour or two we’ll be able to leave … and now, speak, Spilett.”

The reporter then told him all that had happened. He related those events not known to Cyrus Smith: the last fall of the balloon, setting foot on this unknown land which appeared deserted whether it be an island or a continent, the discovery of the Chimneys, the search to find the engineer, Neb’s devotion, all they owed to the intelligence of the faithful Top, etc.

“But,” Cyrus Smith asked in a voice still weak, “you didn’t pick me up at the beach?”

“No,” replied the reporter.

“And it wasn’t you who brought me to this cave?”

“No.”

“How far are we from the reef?”

“About half a mile,” replied Pencroff, “and if you’re astonished, Mr. Cyrus, we’re equally surprised to see you here!”

“Indeed,” replied the engineer, taking an interest in these details, “indeed, there is something peculiar in this!”

“But,” responded the sailor, “can you tell us what happened after you were carried away by the wave?”

Cyrus Smith tried to remember but he knew little. The wave had torn him from the ropes of the balloon. At first he sank several fathoms but when he returned to the surface of the sea, he felt a living being moving near him in the semi-darkness. It was Top who had thrown himself into the water to come to his aid. On raising his eyes, he could no longer see the balloon which, relieved of his weight and that of the dog, had shot away like an arrow. He found himself in the midst of an angry sea at least a half mile from shore. He tried to battle the waves and swam vigorously. Top held him up by his clothes, but a strong current seized him and pushed him northward. After a half hour of struggling, he sank, dragging Top with him down into the abyss. From that time until the moment when he found himself in the arms of his friends, he remembered nothing.

“However,” said Pencroff, “you must have been thrown on the beach, and you must have had the strength to come here since Neb found your footprints!”

“Yes … that must be it …” replied the engineer, “And you didn’t see any traces of human beings along this shore?”

“Not a sign,” said the reporter. “Besides, if by chance some rescuer ran into you there, why would he have abandoned you after having plucked you from the waves?”

“You’re right, my dear Spilett. Tell me Neb,” added the engineer, turning to his servant, “it wasn’t you who … you didn’t have a forgetful moment … during which … No, that’s absurd … Are there any other footprints?” asked Cyrus Smith.

“Yes, master,” replied Neb, “here at the entrance, at the back of this dune, in a place sheltered from the wind and the rain. The others have been wiped away by the storm.”

“Pencroff,” said Cyrus Smith, “would you take my shoes and see if they positively fit these footprints?”

The sailor did as the engineer asked. Harbert and he, guided by Neb, went to check the footprints while Cyrus said to the reporter: “These events are inexplicable!”

“Inexplicable indeed!” replied Gideon Spilett.

“But let’s not dwell on it at the moment, my dear Spilett. We’ll discuss it later.”

An instant later the sailor, Neb and Harbert returned.

There was no doubt possible. The engineer’s shoes fit the remaining footprints exactly. Therefore, it was indeed Cyrus Smith who had left them in the sand.

“So then,” he said, “it was I who experienced this hallucination, not Neb! I must’ve walked up here like a sleepwalker, without being conscious of my steps, and it was Top who instinctively led me here after having dragged me from the waves … Come Top! Come my dog!”

He had to lean on the sailor.

The magnificent animal ran to his master, barking, and was spared no caresses.

They agreed that there was no other explanation to be given to the events that led up to Cyrus Smith’s rescue and that all honor belonged to Top.

Around noontime, Pencroff asked Cyrus Smith if he was ready to travel. With an effort that attested to his very energetic will, Cyrus Smith responded by getting up. But he had to lean on the sailor or he would have fallen.

“Good! Good!” said Pencroff, “bring the engineer’s litter.”

The litter was brought. The transverse branches were covered with moss and long grass. They placed Cyrus Smith on it and started toward the coast, Pencroff carrying it at one end and Neb at the other.

There were eight miles to cover. Since they could not go fast and since it would be necessary to stop frequently, they would need at least six hours to get to the Chimneys. The wind was still strong but, fortunately, it was no longer raining. While lying down, the engineer rested on his arms and observed the coastline, especially the part opposite the sea. He did not speak but looked and this country with its rugged terrain, its forests, and its variety of flora impressed itself on his mind. However, after travelling for two hours, he was overcome by fatigue and he slept on the litter.

At five-thirty, the small group reached the cliff’s face, and a little later they were in front of the Chimneys. They stopped, and the litter was placed on the sand. Cyrus Smith was in a deep sleep and did not waken.

To his great surprise, Pencroff saw that the previous night’s frightful storm had altered the surroundings. A serious landslide had occurred. Large sections of rock were deposited on the beach, and a thick layer of seaweed, wrack and algae covered the entire shore. Evidently the sea, passing over the islet, had carried itself up to the very base of the enormous wall of granite. In front of the Chimneys the soil had deep holes due to the violent assault of the waves.

Pencroff had a premonition. He dashed into the corridor.

Almost immediately he came out, stood still, and looked at his companions.

The fire was extinguished. The drowned cinders were nothing but slime. The burnt linen, which was to have served as tinder, had disappeared. The sea had penetrated deeply into the passageways and had wrecked everything! All was demolished in the interior of the Chimneys!

Cyrus Smith was in a deep sleep.

*The yard is an American measure of length, equivalent to 0.99144 meters.

CHAPTER IX

In a few words Gideon Spilett, Harbert and Neb were brought up to date. This accident which could have very serious consequences—at least Pencroff envisioned it so—produced different reactions from the honest sailor’s companions.

Neb, in his joy at having found his master, did not listen, or rather did not wish to concern himself with what Pencroff was saying. Harbert, to some degree, shared the sailor’s apprehensions. As to the reporter, he simply responded:

“Honestly, Pencroff, I don’t care!”

“But I repeat that we no longer have any fire!”

“Pooh!”

“Nor any means of relighting it.”

“No problem!”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Spilett …”

“Isn’t Cyrus Smith here?” replied the reporter. “Isn’t our engineer alive? He will easily find the means of making us some fire, he will!”

“And with what?”

“With nothing.”

What answer could Pencroff give to that? There was no reply because, deep down, he shared the confidence that his companions had in Cyrus Smith. The engineer was for them a microcosm of all science and all human intelligence. Better to find oneself with Cyrus on a deserted island than without Cyrus in the most industrialized city of the Union. With him, they could want for nothing. With him, they could not despair. If someone were to tell these brave people that a volcanic eruption would annihilate this land, that it would be thrown into the depths of the Pacific, they would have calmly replied: “Cyrus is here. Go see Cyrus!”

In the meanwhile, however, the engineer had once more relapsed into an unconscious state brought on by the journey, and they could not call on his ingenuity at the moment. Supper would be necessarily meager. In fact all the grouse meat had been eaten, and there was no means whatsoever of roasting any game. Besides, the couroucous which served as a reserve had disappeared. Before anything else, Cyrus Smith was carried into the central corridor. There, they managed to arrange a couch of algae and seaweed which had remained almost dry. The deep sleep that took possession of him would doubtless do more to bring his strength back than any food.

Night came on, and the temperature dropped to freezing once more. Since the sea had destroyed Pencroff’s partitions, the air currents were strong, making the Chimneys barely habitable. The engineer would have found himself in a bad state if his companions, by removing their own jackets and waistcoats, had not carefully covered him. Supper that evening consisted only of the inevitable lithodomes amply gathered by Harbert and Neb on the shore. To these mollusks the boy added a certain quantity of edible algae that he collected on some high rocks that the sea could not reach except during extremely high tides. These algae belonged to the fucus family, being a species of sargassum which, when dry, furnishes a gelatinous material rather rich in nutrients. The reporter and his companions, after having eaten a considerable quantity of lithodomes, chewed on this sargassum which they found to have a good flavor. It should be said that, on Asiatic shores, they are an important food for the natives.

“No matter,” said the sailor, “Mr. Smith will soon help us.”

However, the cold became very intense and, unfortunately, they had no means of combatting it.

The sailor, truly vexed, looked for every possible way to make a fire. Neb even helped him with this. They found some dry moss and striking two pebbles they obtained some sparks; but the moss, not being sufficiently flammable, did not catch. Moreover, these sparks, which were only from incandescent flint, did not have the strength of those produced by a piece of steel in the ordinary tinder box, so the operation did not succeed.

Pencroff, although he had no confidence in the procedure, then tried rubbing two pieces of dry wood against each other the way the savages do. Certainly, if his and Neb’s physical efforts in this attempt had been transformed into heat, according to the latest theories, it would have been sufficient to fire the boiler of a steamer. But the result itself was negative. The wood heated up, that was all, and much less so than the operators themselves.

After working for an hour Pencroff was in a rage and he threw the pieces of wood away with disgust.

“When someone can make me believe that the savages make fire in this way” he said, “it will be hot even in winter! I could sooner light up my arms by rubbing them against each other!”

Pencroff rubbed two pieces of dry wood.

The sailor was wrong to belittle this technique. It is known that savages set fire to wood by means of a rapid rubbing. But all kinds of wood are not proper for this procedure and, in addition, one must have the “knack” for it, and Pencroff likely did not have the “knack.”

Pencroff’s ill humor did not last long. Harbert picked up the two pieces and began to rub them. The robust sailor laughed on seeing the adolescent’s efforts to succeed where he had failed.

“Rub, my boy, rub!” he said.

“I am rubbing,” replied Harbert laughing, “but I don’t pretend to do anything except take my turn at warming myself instead of shivering. Soon I’ll be as warm as you, Pencroff!”

This was the case, but they finally had to give up on starting a fire for the night. Gideon Spilett repeated for the twentieth time that Cyrus Smith would not have been inconvenienced by such a trifle. And while waiting, he stretched out on a bed of sand in one of the corridors. Harbert, Neb, and Pencroff did likewise while Top slept at the foot of his master.

The next day, March 28th, when the engineer awoke about eight o’clock in the morning, he saw his companions nearby watching him sleep. As on the previous day, his first words were:

“Island or continent?”

One could see that he was fixated on this idea.

“Well” replied Pencroff, “we know nothing about it, Mr. Smith!”

“You still don’t know? …”

“But we will know,” added Pencroff, “when you will have guided us around this land.”

“I think I’m well enough to try it,” replied the engineer. Without too much effort, he got up and held himself erect.

“That’s good,” said the sailor.

“I was suffering especially from exhaustion,” replied Cyrus Smith. “My friends, a little food, and it will no longer show. You have a fire, don’t you?”

This question did not get an immediate response. But after a few moments:

“Alas! We have no fire,” said Pencroff, “or rather, Mr. Cyrus, we have it no longer!”

The sailor related all that had happened on the previous day. He amused the engineer with his story of the single match and his aborted attempt to make fire the way the savages do.

“We’ll think about it,” replied the engineer, “and if we don’t find a substance similar to tinder …”

“Then?” asked the sailor.

“Then we’ll make matches.”

“With chemicals?”¹

“With chemicals.”

“It isn’t any more difficult than that,” shouted the reporter, slapping the sailor’s shoulder.

The latter did not find the thing so simple, but he did not protest. They all went out. The weather was fine once again. A bright sun was rising on the sea’s horizon, and its golden rays sparkled on the coarse refractive surface of the granite wall.

After casting a quick glance around him, the engineer sat down on a rock. Harbert offered him a few handfuls of mussels and seaweed saying:

“This is all we have, Mr. Cyrus.”

“Thanks, my boy,” replied Cyrus Smith, “this will suffice, for this morning at least.”

He ate this scanty meal and washed it down with a little fresh water drawn from the river in a large shell.

His companions looked at him without speaking. After assuaging his hunger as best he could, Cyrus Smith then crossed his arms and said:

“So my friends, you still don’t know if fate has thrown us on a continent or an island?”

“No, Mr. Cyrus,” responded the boy.

“We’ll know that tomorrow,” replied the engineer. “Until then, there’s nothing to do.”

“Except,” said Pencroff.

“What?”

“Fire,” said the sailor, who also had only one idea.

“We’ll make it, Pencroff,” replied Cyrus Smith. “While you transported me yesterday, didn’t I see in the west a mountain which overlooked this land?”

“Yes,” said Gideon Spilett, “a high mountain …”

“Good,” replied the engineer, “tomorrow we’ll climb to the top, and we’ll see if this land is an island or a continent. Until then, I repeat, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Yes, make a fire!” said the stubborn sailor.

“We’ll make a fire,” replied Gideon Spilett, “a little patience, Pencroff.”

The sailor looked at Gideon Spilett as if to say: “If it depended on you to make it, we wouldn’t soon taste any roasted meat.” But he was silent.

However, Cyrus Smith did not reply. He seemed very little preoccupied with this question of fire. For several moments, he remained absorbed in his thoughts. Then he spoke again.

“My friends,” he said, “our situation is perhaps deplorable, but in any case it’s very simple. Either we’re on a continent and then, at the price of greater or less fatigue, we’ll eventually reach some inhabited part. Or else we’re on an island and, in that case, there are two possibilities: if the island is inhabited, we’ll get out of this situation with their help; if it’s deserted, we’ll have to do so alone.”

“Nothing is simpler,” replied Pencroff.

“But whether it is a continent or an island,” asked Gideon Spillet, “where do you think, Cyrus, this storm has thrown us?”

“In truth, I can’t say for sure,” replied the engineer. “But I presume that it’s a land in the Pacific. When we left Richmond, the wind blew from the northeast, and its very violence proves that its direction must not have varied much. If this direction was maintained from northeast to southwest, we crossed the states of North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, the Gulf of Mexico, the narrow part of Mexico, then a portion of the Pacific Ocean. I estimate that the distance covered by the balloon was not less than six to seven thousand miles. If the wind varied by as little as a few degrees, it would have carried us either to the archipelago of Marquesas or to the Tuamotu, and if it had a much larger speed than I suppose, even to New Zealand. If this latter hypothesis is the case, then our return home will be easy. British or Maoris, we’ll always find someone to speak to. If, on the contrary, this shore is a part of some deserted island of a micronesian archipelago—and we’ll perhaps learn this from the top of the mountain which overlooks this land—then we’ll have to plan on settling down here as if we’ll never leave it!”

“Never?” shouted the reporter. “You say never, my dear Cyrus?”

“Better to first put things in the worst,” replied the engineer, “and to save pleasant surprises for later.”

“Well spoken,” said Pencroff, “and let’s hope that this island, if it is one, won’t be situated outside the shipping lanes. That would really be a run of bad luck.”

“We’ll know what we are faced with after first climbing the mountain,” replied the engineer.

“But tomorrow, Mr. Cyrus,” asked Harbert, “will you be strong enough to make this climb?”

“I hope so,” responded the engineer, “but on the condition that Master Pencroff and you, my boy, show yourselves to be intelligent and skillful hunters.”

“Mr. Cyrus,” replied the sailor, “since you’re speaking of game, if, on my return, I was as certain of being able to roast it as I am of bringing it back …”

“Bring it back all the same, Pencroff,” replied Cyrus Smith.

It was agreed that the engineer and the reporter would spend the day at the Chimneys examining the shore and the upper plateau. During this time, Neb, Harbert, and the sailor would return to the forest to renew the stockpile of wood and to lay hands on all beasts of feather or hair that would come within their reach.

They left about ten o’clock in the morning, Harbert confident, Neb joyful, and Pencroff mumbling to himself:

“If, on my return, I find fire, I’ll believe that thunder came in person to light it.”

All three went along the bank and arrived at the bend formed by the river. The sailor stopped and said to his companions: “Shall we begin by being hunters or woodsmen?”

“Hunters,” replied Harbert. “Top is already on the hunt.”

“Hunters then,” said the sailor. “Then we’ll return here to renew our supply of wood.”

That said, Harbert, Neb, and Pencroff tore off three sticks from the trunk of a young fir tree and followed Top who dashed in among the tall grass.

This time the hunters, instead of walking along the river’s edge, plunged directly into the depths of the forest. They still found the same trees belonging for the most part to the pine family. In certain less crowded areas, isolated in clusters, these pines were very large and seemed to indicate that this country was at a higher latitude than the engineer had conjectured. Some clearings, bristling with stumps rotted by time, were covered with dead wood, and formed an inexhaustible reserve of fuel. Then, beyond the clearing, the brushwood grew closer and became almost impenetrable.

Without a beaten path, it was rather difficult to find their way among these massive trees. From time to time the sailor marked out his route by breaking some boughs that would be easy to recognize. But perhaps they were wrong not to have followed the water’s course as Harbert and he had done during their first excursion because, after an hour’s march, they still had no game to show. Top, moving under low branches, only gave warning of birds they could not get near. The couroucous themselves were absolutely invisible, and it was likely that the sailor would be forced to return to that marshy part of the forest in which he had so fortunately used his fishing line to capture the grouse.

“Well, Pencroff,” said Neb in a sarcastic tone, “if this is all the game you’ve promised to bring back, it won’t take a very big fire to roast it.”

“Patience, Neb,” replied the sailor, “it won’t be game that will be lacking on our return.”

“Have you no confidence in Mr. Smith?”

“Certainly.”

“But you don’t believe he’ll make a fire?”

“I’ll believe it when the wood is burning on the hearth.”

“It will burn since my master has said so.”

“We’ll see.”

The sun had not yet reached its highest point in the sky. The exploration therefore continued and was marked by a useful discovery, made by Harbert, of a tree whose fruit is edible. It was the pine kernel which produces an excellent almond, highly esteemed in the temperate regions of America and Europe. These almonds were perfectly ripe, and Harbert pointed this out to his two companions who were delighted by it.

“Well,” said Pencroff, “we have algae to take the place of bread, mussels for meat, and almonds for dessert. What a meal for people who don’t have a single match in their pocket!”

“It’s no use complaining,” replied Harbert.

“I don’t complain, my boy” said Pencroff. “Only I repeat that meat is a little too scant in this type of meal.”

“Top has seen something! …” shouted Neb. He ran toward a thicket in which the barking dog had disappeared. Peculiar growls mingled with Top’s barks.

The sailor and Harbert followed Neb. If they had some game here, this was not the time to discuss how to cook it but how to capture it.

The hunters had barely entered the thicket when they saw Top holding an animal by an ear. This quadruped was a kind of pig about two and a half feet long, blackish brown but not as dark on the underside, having tough but thin hair. The animal’s toes, which were then gripping the ground, seemed to be united by membranes. Harbert thought he recognized this animal as a capybara, one of the largest rodents.²

They saw Top holding an animal.

However, the capybara was not struggling with the dog. It stupidly rolled its large eyes which were deeply imbedded in a thick layer of fat. Perhaps it was seeing men for the first time.

“Look!”

Neb, holding his stick firmly in his hand, ran to kill the rodent when the latter, being held only by the tip of his ear, tore himself away from Top’s teeth, gave a hearty grunt, plunged headlong on Harbert, knocking him half over, and disappeared into the woods.

“The rascal!” shouted Pencroff.

Immediately all three ran after Top and, just as they caught up to him, the capybara disappeared under the waters of a large pond shaded by some large old pines.

Neb, Harbert, and Pencroff stopped at the water’s edge. Top threw himself into the water, but the capybara, lying at the bottom of the pond, was no longer visible.

“Let’s wait,” said the lad, “because he’ll soon come to the surface to breathe.”

“Won’t he drown?” asked Neb.

“No,” replied Harbert, “since his feet are webbed and he’s almost an amphibian. But watch for him.”

Top continued to swim. Pencroff and his two companions each occupied a different point on the bank in order to cut off all retreat for the capybara while the dog searched as he swam on the surface of the pond.

Harbert was not mistaken. After a few minutes, the animal emerged from the waters. Top was after him in a bound and prevented him from plunging again. An instant later the capybara, dragged to the bank, was killed by a blow from Neb’s stick.

“Hurrah!” shouted Pencroff in triumph. “If we can only get a hot fire going, this rodent will be gnawed to the bone.”

Pencroff loaded the capybara on his shoulder and, judging by the height of the sun that it was about two o’clock, he gave the signal to return.

Top’s instinct was of great usefulness to the hunters. Thanks to the intelligent animal, they were able to find the road they had already traveled. A half hour later, they arrived at the bend in the river.

As he had done the first time, Pencroff quickly made a raft of wood—even though the lack of a fire made it seem like a useless task—and with the raft moving downstream, they returned to the Chimneys.

But the sailor had not gone fifty steps when he stopped, once again let out a formidable hurrah, and pointed toward the corner of the cliff.

“Harbert! Neb! Look!” he shouted.

Smoke was rising and swirling above the rocks!

CHAPTER X

Several moments later, the three hunters found themselves in front of a crackling hearth. Cyrus Smith and the reporter were there. Pencroff looked from one to the other without saying a word, his capybara in hand.

“Yes indeed, my good fellow,” shouted the reporter.

“Fire, real fire, that will perfectly roast this magnificent game which we’ll feast on within the hour.”

“But who kindled it? …” asked Pencroff.

“The sun!”

Gideon Spilett’s response was precise. It was the sun that had furnished this heat which amazed Pencroff. The sailor could not believe his eyes, and he was so speechless that he did not think of questioning the engineer.

“You had a lens, sir?” Harbert asked Cyrus Smith.

“No, my child,” he replied, “but I made one.”

And he showed him the apparatus that he had used as a magnifying glass. It was simply two glass crystals that he had removed from his watch and the reporter’s. After filling them with water and sealing their edges by means of a little clay, he had thus manufactured a real lens which, concentrating the sun’s rays on some very dry moss, produced combustion.

The sailor examined the apparatus, then he looked at the engineer without saying a word although his look spoke volumes. Yes, as far as he was concerned, if Cyrus Smith was not a god, he was assuredly more than a mere man. His speech finally returned, and he shouted:

“Note that, Mr. Spilett, note that in your book!”

“It’s noted,” replied the reporter.

Then, with Neb helping, the sailor arranged the spit, and the capybara, properly dressed, was soon roasting like a suckling pig over a bright and sparkling flame.

The Chimneys once more became habitable, not only because the corridors were warmed by the fire from the hearth but also because the partitions of stones and sand were once again put in place.

The engineer and his companion had employed their day well. Cyrus Smith had almost completely recovered his strength which he tested by climbing to the upper plateau. From this point, his eye, accustomed to evaluating heights and distances, had gazed for several minutes at the mountain whose summit he wanted to reach the next day. The mountain, situated about six miles to the northwest, appeared to him to measure 3500 feet above sea level. Consequently, an observer posted at the summit would be able to see the surrounding area with a radius of at least fifty miles. It was probable that Cyrus Smith would easily resolve this question of “continent or island” which he justifiably gave precedence over all others.

They ate in style. The cabybara meat was excellent, and the seaweed and pine kernel almonds completed the meal admirably. But the engineer spoke little. He was preoccupied with the next day’s projects.

Once or twice, Pencroff mentioned some ideas about things it would be convenient to make, but Cyrus Smith, who evidently had a methodical mind, only shook his head.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, “we’ll know what we’re up against, and we’ll act accordingly.”

The meal finished, some additional armfuls of wood were thrown on the fire and the guests of the Chimneys, including the faithful Top, fell into a deep sleep. No incident disturbed this peaceful night, and the next day, March 29th, they woke up fresh and hearty, ready to undertake this excursion which would decide their fate.

All was ready for the departure. The remains of the capybara would provide nourishment for Cyrus Smith and his companions for the next twenty four hours. Besides, they hoped to find provisions along the way. Since the glass crystals were now back on the engineer’s and the reporter’s watches, Pencroff burnt a little linen to serve as tinder. As to flint, there would be no shortage of that on terrain that was of volcanic origin.

It was seven thirty in the morning when the explorers, armed with clubs, left the Chimneys. Following Pencroff’s advice, it seemed best to take the road already used through the forest and to use another route on the return trip. It was also the most direct way to reach the mountain. They turned the south corner and followed the left bank of the river which they then left at the point where it curved toward the southwest. The footpath, already frayed under the green trees, was found and, at nine o’clock, Cyrus Smith and his companions reached the western edge of the forest. The ground, which was not too hilly up to that point, marshy at first, dry and sandy later, gradually sloped upward as they went from the coast toward the interior. Several fleeing animals had been glimpsed in the forest. Top promptly began to chase them, but his master immediately called him back because the time had not come to pursue them. Later they would see. The engineer was not a man to let himself be distracted from his goal. He did not observe the country, neither its physical features nor its natural flora. His only objective was this mountain which he aspired to climb, and he made straight for it.

At ten o’clock, they halted for a few minutes. On leaving the forest, they could now see the orographical nature of the region.¹ The mountain was composed of two cones. The first, truncated at a height of about 2500 feet, was supported by winding foothills which seemed to spread out like immense claws gripping the ground. Between these foothills were narrow valleys, bristling with trees, the latter rising in clusters up to truncated summit. However, the vegetation seemed less abundant on the side of the mountain exposed to the northeast, and they could see there deep stripes made by flowing lava.

A second cone rested on the first cone, slightly rounded at the top, standing a bit askew. It was like a large hat cocked over the ear. It seemed to be formed of bare terrain punctuated in many spots by reddish rocks.

They agreed to reach the summit of the second cone and the ridge of the foothills offered the best way to get there.

“We’re on volcanic terrain,” said Cyrus Smith. His companions, following him, began to climb little by little up the side of a foothill whose winding path ended at the first plateau.

The ground was irregular and there was evidence of much volcanic activity. Random blocks, basaltic debris, pumice rocks, and volcanic glass were strewn all about. Several hundred feet below grew conifers, in thick isolated clusters, at the bottom of narrow gorges scarcely touched by the sun’s rays.

During the first part of this climb on the lower slopes, Harbert saw prints which indicated the recent passage of large animals.

“Perhaps these beasts won’t willingly give up their territory to us,” said Pencroff.

“Well,” replied the reporter, who had already hunted tigers in India and lions in Africa, “we’ll see about getting rid of them but, in the meantime, we must be on our guard.”

They gradually went higher. The route was long, made longer by the many detours and obstacles that could not be crossed directly. Also, at times, the ground suddenly fell away, and they found themselves at the edge of deep crevices that had to be skirted. Continually having to retrace their steps in order to find a more negotiable path took much time and energy. At noon, when the small troupe halted for lunch at the foot of a large cluster of spruce trees near a cascading brook, they found themselves still only half way to the first plateau, which they would not reach till nightfall.

The climbers struggled up a steep slope.

From this altitude, the sea’s horizon was much broader but, on the right, their view was blocked by a sharp promontory in the southeast, and they could not determine whether the coastline was connected to some land beyond. To the left, their line of sight extended several miles to the north; but their view to the northwest was cut off by the ridge of an unusually-shaped spur which formed a powerful abutment to the central cone. They were still, thus, unable to answer the question that Cyrus Smith wanted above all to resolve.

At one o’clock, the climb was resumed. It was necessary to angle toward the southwest and move once again through thick brushwood. There, under the cover of the trees, several pairs of gallinules² of the pheasant family were flying about. They were “tragopans,”³ adorned by fleshy wattles which hang from their throats and by two slender cylindrical horns set behind their eyes. Among this species, which are the size of a rooster, the female is uniformly brown while the male glitters in his red plumage sprinkled with small white teardrop shapes. Gideon Spilett, with a stone thrown skillfully and vigorously, killed one of these tragopans which Pencroff, now hungry, could not look at without coveting.

Upon leaving the brushwood, the climbers, by mounting on each other’s shoulders, struggled up a steep hundred foot slope and finally reached a higher terrace composed of volcanic ground with very few trees. They then went toward the east once more, moving on a winding path which made the very steep slopes more practical. Everyone had to carefully choose the spot where he placed his foot. Neb and Harbert were in front, Pencroff was in the rear, and Cyrus and the reporter were between them. The animals which frequented these heights—and there was no lack of their prints—belonged to those species of sure foot and supple backbone, the chamois and the izards. They saw several of them, but this was not the name that Pencroff gave them:

“Sheep!” he shouted.

Everyone stopped fifty feet from a half dozen of these large animals with strong horns curving rearward and flat at the tip, with woolen fleece hidden under long silky buff colored hair. They were not ordinary sheep but a species generally found in the mountainous regions of the temperate zones which Harbert called mouflons.⁴

“Do they have legs and chops?” asked the sailor.

“Yes,” replied Harbert.

“Well, then they’re sheep,” said Pencroff.

These animals stood still among the basaltic debris and looked astonished as if they were seeing biped humans for the first time. Then their fear suddenly awakened and they disappeared in a bound among the rocks.

“Au revoir! Until we meet again!” Pencroff shouted to them in a tone so comic that Cyrus Smith, Gideon Spilett, Harbert, and Neb laughed.

The climb continued. On certain rock faces, they often saw traces of irregularly striated lava. They had to go around small volcanic areas of hot sulphur vapors which sometimes cut across their route. In several places, sulphur was present in crystalline form among other substances that generally precede lava flows, such as pozzuolanas, highly torrefied whitish cinders made by an infinity of small feldspar crystals.

As they neared the first plateau, formed by the truncated top of the lower cone, the difficulties of the climb became greater. Around four o’clock, they had passed the last zone of trees. There only remained, here and there, some emaciated pines which had managed to resist the strong blasts of the wind at this altitude. Fortunately for the engineer and his companions, the weather was magnificent and calm; a strong breeze at an altitude of 3000 feet would have severely affected their movement. They could feel the purity of the sky overhead through the transparent air. Around them reigned perfect calm. They could no longer see the sun, hidden by the vast screen of the upper cone which masked the western horizon. This enormous shadow, reaching to the shore, would lengthen as the radiant star descended in it daily trajectory. Several wisps of haze rather than clouds began to rise in the east, colored by all the colors of the spectrum under the action of the solar rays.

Only 500 feet separated the explorers from the plateau they wanted to reach in order to establish camp for the night, but these 500 feet were increased to more than 2000 by the zigzags they had to follow. The ground gave way underfoot. The incline was so steep that they slipped on the lava strata when, worn smooth by the wind, it did not offer enough foothold. Evening came on little by little, and it was almost night when Cyrus Smith and his companions, tired from a climb of seven hours, finally reached the plateau of the first cone.

The first order of business was to set up camp and to regain their strength by eating first and then getting some sleep. This second tier of the mountain rose on a base of rocks where they would easily find shelter. Fuel was not abundant; however, they could make a fire with moss and dry brushwood which grew on certain portions of the plateau. While the sailor made his fireplace on rocks which he arranged for this purpose, Neb and Harbert occupied themselves with gathering fuel. They soon returned with a load of brushwood. The flint was struck, the burnt linen caught the sparks of the flint and, with Neb blowing, a crackling fire was soon growing in the shelter of the rocks.

The fire was only intended to combat the night’s temperature, which was a little cold. It was not used to roast the pheasant which Neb saved for the next day. The rest of the capybara and a few dozen pine kernel almonds made up the ingredients of supper. It was not past six thirty when everything was finished.

Cyrus Smith then thought of exploring, in the semi-darkness, this large circular foundation which supported the upper cone of the mountain. Before resting, he wanted to know if this cone could be walked around at its base, just in case its flanks were too steep, making the summit inaccessible. This question preoccupied him because it was possible that on the side toward which the hat inclined, that is to say toward the north, the plateau might not be climbable. On the one hand, if they could not ascend to the summit of the mountain and if, on the other hand, they could not go round the base of the cone, then it would be impossible to examine the western portion of the country and the purpose of the climb would be in part unfulfilled.

The engineer left Pencroff and Neb to organize the sleeping arrangements and Gideon Spilett to note the incidents of the day. Ignoring his fatigue, he began to follow the circular border of the plateau going northward. Harbert went with him.

The night was fine and tranquil and not yet fully dark. Cyrus Smith and the boy walked near each other without speaking. In certain places, the plateau was wide and they proceeded without difficulty. Other places, obstructed by debris, offered only a narrow path so that the two could not walk side by side. After a walk of twenty minutes, Cyrus Smith and Harbert were forced to stop. From this point on, the slopes of the two cones were flush. No shoulder separated the two parts of the mountain. To go around it, along slopes of nearly 70° incline, was impossible.

As they went higher into the crater.

But if the engineer and the boy had to give up the idea of following a circular route, there was nevertheless the possibility that they could climb the cone directly.

In fact, there was before them a deep opening⁵ in the solid block. It was the flare of the upper crater, the outlet so to speak, by which liquid eruptive material escaped at a time when the volcano was still active. The hardened lava and the encrusted slag formed a sort of natural staircase well designed for a climb, which would facilitate access to the summit of the mountain.

A glance sufficed for Cyrus Smith to recognize the situation. Without hesitation, and followed by the lad, he entered the enormous crevice. It was getting darker.

There was still 1000 feet to climb. Would the walls of the interior of the crater be scalable? They would see. The engineer would continue his climb as long as he could. Fortunately, the incline was gradual and winding, moving in a large spiral path along the interior of the volcano and favoring upward movement.

As to the volcano itself, there was no doubt that it was completely extinct. No smoke escaped from its interior. No flame revealed itself in the deep crevices. Neither growl, nor murmur, nor shudder came forth from this dark pit which perhaps extended to the very bowels of the earth. Even the atmosphere within the crater was not saturated with any sulphurous vapor. The volcano was more than slumbering; it was totally extinct.

Cyrus Smith’s attempt would most likely succeed. Little by little, he and Harbert ascended the inner walls and saw the crater enlarge above their heads. The radius of this circular portion of the sky, surrounded by the borders of the cone, became noticeably larger. With each step that Cyrus Smith and Harbert made, new stars entered their field of view. The magnificent constellations of the southern sky were shining brightly. At the zenith, the splendid Antares of Scorpio⁶ was sparkling with a pure glare, and not far away was the ß of Centaurus which is thought to be the nearest star to the terrestrial globe. Then as they went higher, Fomalhaut⁷ of the Southern Fish appeared, the Southern Triangle, and finally near the southern pole of the sky, the sparkling Southern Cross which takes the place of the pole star of the northern hemisphere.

It was nearly eight o’clock when Cyrus Smith and Harbert set foot on the upper crest of the mountain, the summit of the cone. By then it was completely dark and they could not see more than two miles. Did the sea completely surround this unknown land, or was it attached in the west to some continent of the Pacific? They still could not tell. Toward the west, a bank of clouds were clearly discernable on the horizon, adding to the darkness. They could not distinguish the line between sky and water.

But at one point on this horizon, a vague light suddenly appeared, slowly descending as the clouds rose to the zenith.

It was the slender crescent of the moon about to set. But its light was sufficient to clearly show the horizon then detached from a cloud, and the engineer was able to see its trembling image reflected for a moment on the liquid surface.

Cyrus Smith seized the boy’s hand and, with a solemn voice, said:

“An island!”

At that moment, the light of the lunar crescent was extinguished by the waves.

CHAPTER XI

A half hour later, Cyrus Smith and Harbert returned to camp. The engineer merely told his companions that the land where they had been thrown by chance was an island and that the next day they would discuss their options. Then each made the best sleeping arrangement he could, and in this crevice of basalt at a height of 2500 feet above sea level, the “islanders” enjoyed a deep sleep during a peaceful night.

The next day, March 30th, after a quick breakfast of roasted tragopan, the engineer wanted to climb to the volcano’s summit in order to carefully observe the island. He and his friends would perhaps be imprisoned for life here if this island was situated far from all land or if it was not near the lanes of ships visiting the archipelagos of the Pacific Ocean. This time, his companions followed him in this new exploration. They too wanted to see this island which they would ask to fulfill all their needs.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning when Cyrus Smith, Harbert, Pencroff, Gideon Spilett, and Neb broke camp, and none appeared uneasy about the situation. They had faith in themselves but it should be noted that the basis of this faith was not the same in Cyrus Smith as in his companions. The engineer had confidence because he felt capable of wresting from this savage nature all that would be necessary for his life and the life of his companions; they feared nothing precisely because Cyrus Smith was with them. Pencroff especially, since the incident of the rekindled fire, would not despair for an instant even if he found himself on a bare rock, if the engineer was with him on this rock.

“Bah!” he said. “We left Richmond without permission from the authorities! It would be a devil of a thing if we didn’t succeed in leaving a place where no one was holding us back!”

Cyrus Smith followed the same path as the day before. They went around the cone by the plateau which formed the shoulder up to the opening of the enormous crevice. The weather was magnificent. The sun rose in a pure sky and its rays enveloped the entire eastern side of the mountain.

They reached the crater. It was just as the engineer had recognized it in the darkness, that is to say a vast crater that extended 1000 feet above the plateau. From the base of the crevice, broad thick flows of lava had meandered over the sides of the mountain, marking out the route of the eruptive material into the lower valleys which criss-crossed the northern portion of the island.

The interior of the crater, whose inclination was not more than thirty five to forty degrees, presented no difficulties or obstacles to climbing. They saw traces of very old lava which probably had poured out at the summit of the cone before this lateral crevice opened a new route.

As to the volcanic chimney which established communication between the subterranean levels and the crater, they could not estimate its depth by looking at it since it was lost in darkness. But there was no doubt that the volcano was completely extinct.

Before eight o’clock, Cyrus Smith and his companions were gathered at the summit of the crater on a conical elevation of the northern rim.

“The sea! The sea everywhere!” they said as if their lips could not hold back this word that made islanders of them. The sea was an immense circular expanse around them. Perhaps on climbing to the summit of the cone Cyrus Smith had hoped to discover some coast, some neighboring island, which he had not been able to see in the darkness of the previous night. But nothing appeared on the horizon for a radius of over fifty miles. No land in sight. Not a sail. An immense desert. The island occupied the center of a circumference that seemed to extend to infinity in all directions.

The engineer and his companions, speechless, motionless, gazed at the ocean for several minutes. Their eyes strained to make out its furthest limits. Pencroff, who possessed a marvellous power of vision, saw nothing. If there was land anywhere on the horizon, even if it appeared as an imperceptible vapor, the sailor would undoubtedly have detected it because nature had truly placed two telescopes under his eyebrows.

After the ocean, their attention shifted to the island itself which they could see in its entirety. The first question was asked by Gideon Spilett:

“About how large is the island?”

It did not appear to be very substantial in the middle of this immense ocean.

Cyrus Smith reflected for several moments. He looked all around the island taking into account the height at which they were situated; then:

“My friends,” he said, “I believe I’m not mistaken in giving the shoreline of the island a perimeter of more than 100 miles.”*

“And its area?”

“That’s difficult to estimate,” replied the engineer, “because it’s outline is so irregular.”

If Cyrus Smith was not mistaken in his evaluation, the island was nearly as large as Malta or Zakynthos in the Mediterranean; but at the same time it was much more irregular and less rich in capes, promontories, points, bays, coves, or creeks. Its truly unusual shape surprised them, and when Gideon Spilett sketched its contours at the engineer’s suggestion, they found that it resembled some fantastic animal, a sort of monstrous pteropoda¹ which was sleeping on the surface of the Pacific.

This was the exact configuration of the island, a map of which was immediately and concisely sketched by the reporter:

The eastern portion of the coast on which the castaways had landed was curved on a large arc and bordered by a vast bay which ended in the southeast by a sharp cape, a point hidden from Pencroff at the time of his first exploration. In the northeast, two other capes closed the bay and between them a narrow gulf was hollowed out which resembled the half opened jaw of some formidable shark.

From the northeast to the northwest, the coast was rounded like the flattened skull of a wild beast rising to a kind of indeterminate hump whose center was occupied by the volcanic mountain.

From this point on, the coastline was somewhat regular north and south, cut at two thirds of its length by a narrow creek, and it ended in a long tail resembling the caudal appendage of a gigantic alligator.

This tail formed a true peninsula which extended for more than thirty miles into the sea, counting the southeast cape of the island, already mentioned. The lower shore of this strangely-shaped piece of land curled around, creating a natural open harbor.

In it smallest width, that is to say between the Chimneys and the creek observed on the western coast, the island measured only ten miles. And its greatest length, from the jaw of the northeast to the end of the tail in the southwest, came to about thirty miles.

As to the interior of the island, its general appearance was thus: very wooded in all of its southern portion from the mountain up to the shore and dry and sandy in its northern part. Between the volcano and the east coast, Cyrus Smith and his companions were surprised to see a lake, bordered by green trees, whose existence they had not suspected. Seen from this height, the lake seemed to be at the same level as the sea but on reflection the engineer explained to his companions that the altitude of this small expanse of water must be 300 feet because the plateau which served as its basin was that high above the coast.

“Is this a fresh water lake?” asked Pencroff.

“Necessarily,” replied the engineer, “because it must be fed by waters which flow down from the mountain.”

“I see a small brook that flows into it,” said Harbert, pointing to a narrow creek which probably flowed from the foothills in the west.

“Yes,” replied Cyrus Smith, “since this stream feeds the lake, it’s likely that there exists an outlet by the sea where its overflow escapes. We’ll see this on our return.”

This winding watercourse and the river already noted, such was the hydrographic system they saw. It was possible, however, that beneath these masses of trees in the immense forest which made up two thirds of the island, other streams flowed toward the sea. They could assume so since this fertile and rich region showed the most magnificent specimens of flora of the temperate zones. As to the northern part, there was no indication of flowing water: perhaps some stagnant water in the marshy portions of the northeast, but that was all; there were dunes, sand, and a very pronounced aridity which vividly contrasted with the fertile soil in its larger portion.

“I see a small brook …”

The volcano did not occupy the central part of the island. It stood in the northwest region and seemed to mark the boundary between the two zones. Toward the southwest, the south, and the southeast, the lower levels of the foothills disappeared under masses of vegetation. In the north, on the contrary, one could follow their contours which gradually faded into the plains of sand. It was also on this coast, during the time of volcanic eruptions, that the discharges had opened up a passage, and one broad path of lava extended to this narrow jaw forming a gulf in the northeast.

Cyrus Smith and his companions stayed for an hour on the summit of the mountain. The island revealed itself under their eyes like a relief map with various tints, greens for the forests, yellows for the sands, blues for the waters. They saw it in its entirety. The ground hidden under the immense vegetation, the bottom of the shaded valleys, the interior of the narrow sunken gorges which extended to the foot of the volcano, these alone escaped their searching eyes.

One serious question remained to answer which would singularly influence the future of the castaways.

Was the island inhabited?

It was the reporter who posed this question. It seemed they could already give a negative response after their minute examination of the island’s diverse regions.

Nowhere could be seen the work of human hands, no conglomeration of cabins, not an isolated hut, not a fishery on the shore. No smoke rose to betray the presence of man. It is true that a distance of approximately thirty miles separated the observers from the furthest points of the island, and it would be difficult even for Pencroff’s eyes to discover a habitation there. Neither could they lift up the screen of foliage which covered three quarters of the island to see if it did or did not hide some village. But the islanders of these narrow lands that emerge from the Pacific tend to live along the shore, and the shore appeared to be absolutely deserted.

Until a more complete exploration, they would have to admit that the island was uninhabited.

But was it visited, at times, by natives from neighboring islands? It was difficult to answer this question. No land appeared within a radius of approximately fifty miles. But fifty miles could easily be crossed, either by Malaysian proas or by large Polynesian canoes. All depended on the position of the island, its isolation in the Pacific, and its proximity to the archipelagos. Would Cyrus Smith later be able to determine their latitude and longitude without instruments? That would be difficult. It would be best to take certain precautions against a possible visit from neighboring natives.

The exploration of the island was complete, its configuration determined, its outline noted, its area calculated, its hydrography and orography accounted for. The disposition of the forests and the plains were roughly sketched in on the map by the reporter. There was nothing left to do but descend the slopes of the mountain and explore the land for its mineral, vegetable and animal resources.

But before giving his companions the signal to depart, Cyrus Smith said to them in a calm and serious voice:

“Here, my friends, is the small corner of the world on which the hand of the Almighty has thrown us. It’s here that we’re going to live a long time perhaps. Maybe unexpected help will arrive if some vessel passes by chance … I say by chance because this island is not very important. It offers nothing which can serve as a port of call for ships, and I fear that it’s situated outside the ordinary shipping lanes. It’s too far south for the vessels which frequent the archipelagos of the Pacific, too far north for those that go to Australia by doubling Cape Horn. I wish to conceal nothing from you.”

“And you are right, my dear Cyrus,” the reporter replied eagerly. “You are dealing with men. They have confidence in you and you can count on them. Isn’t that so, my friends?”

“I will obey you in everything, Mr. Cyrus,” said Harbert.

“My master, always and everywhere!” said Neb.

“As for me,” said the sailor, “may I lose my name if I shirk my work. If you wish, Mr. Smith, we’ll make this island a Little America! We’ll build towns, railroads, telegraphs, and one fine day when it is transformed and civilized we’ll offer it to the government of the Union! I ask only one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked the reporter.

“That we no longer think of ourselves as castaways but as colonists, here to colonize.”

Cyrus Smith could not restrain a smile and the sailor’s motion was adopted. Then he thanked his companions and added that he counted on their energy and on the blessing of Heaven.

“Well then, on to the Chimneys!” said Pencroff.

“One moment, my friends,” said the engineer. “It seems best to give a name to this island, and its capes, its promontories, and the watercourses that we saw below.”

“Very good,” said the reporter. “In the future, this will simplify the instructions that we’ll have to give or follow.”

“In fact,” replied the sailor, “it’s already something to be able to say where you’ve been and where you’re going. At least you have the feeling of having been somewhere.”

“The Chimneys, for example,” said Harbert.

“Right!” replied Pencroff. “This name was the most convenient, and it was the only one that came to me. Shall we keep this name for our first camp, Mr. Cyrus?”

“Yes, Pencroff, since you so baptized it.”

“Good! As to the others, that will be easy,” the sailor replied in good spirits. “Let’s use names like the Robinsons did. Harbert read their story to me more than once; ‘Providence Bay,’ ‘Cachalots Point,’ ‘Cape of Deceived Hope’ …”

“Or rather the names of Mr. Smith,” replied Harbert, “of Mr. Spilett, of Neb! …”

“My name!” said Neb, showing his sparkling white teeth.

“Why not?” replied Pencroff. “‘Port Neb’ would be very good. And ‘Cape Gideon.’”

“I would prefer names borrowed from our country” replied the reporter, “which would remind us of America.”

“Yes, for the main features,” said Cyrus Smith, “for those of the bays or the seas, I fully agree. We could give to this vast bay in the east the name Union Bay for example, to this large indentation in the south that of Washington Bay, to the mountain on which we’re now standing that of Mount Franklin, to the lake which extends beneath us that of Lake Grant;² nothing could be better, my friends. These names will remind us of our country and those great citizens who have honored it. But for the rivers, the gulfs, the capes, and the promontories which we see from the top of this mountain, let’s choose names which will recall their particular configuration. It will make them easier to remember, and it will be more practical at the same time. The shape of the island is strange enough so we’ll have no difficulty in imagining names by which to remember it. As to the watercourses that we don’t know, the various parts of the forest that we’ll explore later, the creeks that will be discovered in due time, we’ll name those when we discover them. What do you think, my friends?”

Gideon Spilett inscribed the names on his map.

The engineer’s proposition was unanimously adopted. The island was there under their eyes like an open map, and they had only to specify names for all its features. Gideon Spilett would draw it to scale and the geographical nomenclature of the island would be formally adopted.

First they named Union Bay, Washington Bay, and Mount Franklin, as the engineer had proposed.

“Now,” said the reporter, “this peninsula which projects to the southwest of the island, I propose to give it the name of Serpentine Peninsula, and the name Reptile End to the curved tail at its end because it’s truly a reptile’s tail.”

“Adopted,” said the engineer.

“Now,” said Harbert, “for this other extremity of the island, this gulf which so singularly resembles an open jaw, let’s call it Shark Gulf.”

“Well done!” said Pencroff, “and we’ll complete the picture by giving the two parts of the jaw the name Mandible Cape.”

“But there are two capes,” observed the reporter.

“Well then,” replied Pencroff, “we’ll have North Mandible Cape and South Mandible Cape.”

“They’re so registered,” replied Gideon Spilett.

“How about the point at the southeast end of the island?” said Pencroff.

“You mean the end of Union Bay?” replied Harbert.

“Cape Claw,” Neb shouted out. He also wanted to be the godfather of some piece of this domain.

In truth, Neb had found an excellent name because this cape really represented the powerful claw of the fantastic animal which resembled the outline of the island.

Pencroff was delighted by this turn of events. And their somewhat overexcited imaginations had soon given:

To the river, which furnished fresh water to the colonists near where the balloon had thrown them, the name of the Mercy, a true thanks to Providence;

To the islet, on which the castaways had first set foot, the name of Safety Island;

To the plateau, which crowned the high wall of granite above the Chimneys and from where they could see all of the vast bay, the name Grand View Plateau;

Finally to this massive impenetrable woods, which covered Serpentine Peninsula, the name Forests of the Far West.

The nomenclature of the visible and known parts of the island was finished, and later they would complete it with new discoveries as they went along.

As to the geographical orientation of the island, the engineer had determined it approximately by the height and position of the sun which put Union Bay and all of Grand View Plateau to the east. But the next day, by taking the exact time of sunrise and sunset and by determining the sun’s position at the midpoint between sunrise and sunset, he would calculate exactly the north of the island. Because they were located in the southern hemisphere, the sun, at the precise moment of reaching its highest point, would pass to the north and not to the south in its apparent movement, as it seems to do in locales in the northern hemisphere.

Everything was thus finished, and the colonists had only to climb down Mount Franklin to return to the Chimneys, when Pencroff said:

“What incredible dopes we are!”

“Why do you say that?” asked Gideon Spilett, who had closed his notebook and was getting ready to leave.

“What about our island itself? We’ve forgotten to name it.”

Harbert was going to propose the engineer’s name and all his companions would have applauded this choice, when Cyrus Smith simply said:

“Let’s name it after that great citizen, my friends, who now fights to defend the unity of the American republic. Let’s call it Lincoln Island.”³

Three hurrahs cheered the engineer’s proposition.

And that evening, before going to sleep, the new colonists spoke of the country they all longed for; they spoke of this terrible war which was staining it with blood; they could not doubt that the South would soon be subdued and that the cause of the North, the cause of justice, could only triumph thanks to Grant and thanks to Lincoln.

So passed the 30th of March 1865. They could scarcely know that, two weeks and a day later, a horrible crime would be committed in Washington and that, on Good Friday, Abraham Lincoln would be murdered by a fanatic.

*Approximately 45 leagues of 4 kilometers.