The Mysterious Island. Jules VerneЧитать онлайн книгу.

       “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