The Mysterious Island, Jules Verne [inspiring books for teens TXT] 📗

“But,” observed Spilett, “this proves that men not only landed here, but that they lived here. Now who and how many were these men, and how many remain?”

“The paper speaks of but one,” replied Herbert.

“Well,” said Pencroff, “if he is still here we cannot help finding him.”

The exploration was continued, following diagonally across the island, and by this means the sailor and his companions reached the little stream which flowed towards the sea.

If animals of European origin, if works of human hands proved conclusively that man had once been here, many specimens of the vegetable kingdom also evidenced the fact. In certain clear places it was plain that kitchen vegetables had formerly been planted. And Herbert was overjoyed when he discovered potatoes, succory, sorrel, carrots, cabbage, and turnips, the seeds of which would enrich the garden at Granite House.

“Indeed,” exclaimed Pencroff, “this will rejoice Neb. Even if we don’t find the man, our voyage will not have been useless, and Heaven will have rewarded us.”

“Doubtless,” replied Spilett, “but from the conditions of these fields, it looks as if the place had not been inhabited for a long time.”

“An inhabitant, whoever he was, would not neglect anything so important as this.”

“Yes, this man has gone. It must be—”

“That the paper had been written a long time ago?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And that the bottle had been floating in the sea a good while before it arrived at Lincoln Island?”

“Why not?” said Pencroff. “But, see, it is getting dark,” he added, “and I think we had better give over the search.”

“We will go aboard, and to-morrow we will begin again,” replied the reporter.

They were about adopting this counsel, when Herbert, pointing to something dimly visible, through the trees, exclaimed:—

“There’s a house!”

All three directed their steps towards the place indicated, and they made out in the twilight that it was built of planks, covered with heavy tarpaulin. The door, half closed, was pushed back by Pencroff, who entered quickly.

The place was empty!

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE INVENTORY—THE NIGHT—SOME LETTERS—THE SEARCH CONTINUED—PLANTS AND ANIMALS—HERBERT IN DANGER—ABOARD—THE DEPARTURE—BAD WEATHER—A GLIMMER OF INTELLIGENCE —LOST AT SEA—A TIMELY LIGHT.

Pencroff, Spilett and Herbert stood silent In darkness. Then the former gave a loud call. There was no answer. He lit a twig, and the light illuminated for a moment a small room, seemingly deserted. At one end was a large chimney, containing some cold cinders and an armful of dry wood. Pencroff threw the lighted twig into it, and the wood caught fire and gave out a bright light.

The sailor and his companions thereupon discovered a bed in disorder, its damp and mildewed covers proving that it had been long unused; in the corner of the fireplace were two rusty kettles and an overturned pot; a clothes-press with some sailors’ clothing, partially moulded; on the table a tin plate, and a Bible, injured by the dampness; in a corner some tools, a shovel, a mattock, a pick, two shot guns, one of which was broken; on a shelf was a barrel full of powder, a barrel of lead, and a number of boxes of caps. All were covered with a thick coating of dust.

“There is no one here,” said the reporter.

“Not a soul.”

“This room has not been occupied in a long time.”

“Since a very long time.”

“Mr. Spilett,” said Pencroff, “I think that instead of going on board we had better stay here all night.”

“You are right, Pencroff, and if the proprietor returns he will not be sorry, perhaps, to find the place occupied.”

“He won’t come back, though,” said the sailor, shaking his head.

“Do you think he has left the island?”

“If he had left the island he would have taken these things with him. You know how much a shipwrecked person would be attached to these objects. No, no,” repeated the sailor, in the tone of a man perfectly convinced; “no, he has not left the island. He is surely here.”

“Alive?”

“Alive or dead. But if he is dead he could not have buried himself, I am sure, and we will at least find his remains.”

It was therefore agreed to pass the night in this house, and a supply of wood in the corner gave them the means of heating it. The door having been closed, the three explorers, seated upon a bench, spoke little, but remained deep in thought. They were in the mood to accept anything that might happen, and they listened eagerly for any sound from without. If the door had suddenly opened and a man had stood before them, they would not have been much surprised, in spite of all the evidence of desolation throughout the house; and their hands were ready to clasp the hands of this man, of this shipwrecked one, of this unknown friend whose friends awaited him.

But no sound was heard, the door did not open, and the hours passed by.

The night seemed interminable to the sailor and his companions. Herbert, alone, slept for two hours, as at his age, sleep is a necessity. All were anxious to renew the search of the day before, and to explore the innermost recesses of the islet. Pencroff’s conclusions were certainly just, since the house and its contents had been abandoned. They determined, therefore, to search for the remains of its inhabitant, and to give them Christian burial.

As soon as it was daylight they began to examine the house. It was prettily situated under a small hill, on which grew several fine gum trees. Before it a large space had been cleared, giving a view over the sea. A small lawn, surrounded by a dilapidated fence, extended to the bank of the little stream. The house had evidently been built from planks taken from a ship. It seemed likely that a ship had been thrown upon the island, that all or at least one of the crew had been saved, and that this house had been built from the wreck. This was the more probable, as Spilett, in going round the dwelling, saw on one of the planks these half-effaced letters:—

BR ... TAN ... A.

“Britannia,” exclaimed Pencroff, who had been called by the reporter to look at it; “that is a common name among ships, and I cannot say whether it is English or American. However, it don’t matter to what country the man belongs, we will save him, if he is alive. But before we begin our search let us go back to the Good Luck.”

Pencroff had been seized with a sort of anxiety about his sloop. Supposing the island was inhabited, and some one had taken it—but he shrugged his shoulders at this unlikely thought. Nevertheless the sailor was not unwilling to go on board to breakfast. The route already marked was not more than a mile in length, and they started on their walk, looking carefully about them in the woods and underbrush, through which ran hundreds of pigs and goats.

In twenty minutes the party reached the place where the Good Luck rode quietly at anchor. Pencroff gave a sigh of satisfaction.

After all, this boat was his baby, and it is a father’s right to be often anxious without reason.

All went on board and ate a hearty breakfast, so as not to want anything before a late dinner; then the exploration was renewed, and conducted with the utmost carefulness. As it was likely that the solitary inhabitant of this island was dead, the party sought rather to find his remains than any traces of him living. But during all the morning they were unable to find anything; if he was dead, some animal must have devoured his body.

“We will leave to-morrow at daylight,” said Pencroff to his companions, who towards 2 o’clock were resting for a few moments under a group of trees.

“I think we need not hesitate to take those things which belonged to him?” queried Herbert.

“I think not,” answered Spilett; “and these arms and tools will add materially to the stock at Granite House. If I am not mistaken, what is left of the lead and powder is worth a good deal.”

“And we must not forget to capture a couple of these pigs,” said Pencroff.

“Nor to gather some seed,” added Herbert, “which will give us some of our own vegetables.”

“Perhaps it would be better to spend another day here, in order to get together everything that we want,” suggested the reporter.

“No, sir;” replied the sailor. “I want to get away to-morrow morning. The wind seems to be shifting to the west, and will be in our favor going back.”

“Then don’t let us lose any time,” said Herbert, rising.

“We will not,” replied Pencroff. “Herbert, you get the seed, and Spilett and I will chase the pigs, and although we haven’t Top, I think we will catch some.”

Herbert, therefore, followed the path which led to the cultivated part of the island, while the others plunged at once into the forest. Although the pigs were plenty they were singularly agile, and not in the humor to be captured. However, after half an hour’s chasing the hunters had captured a couple in their lair, when cries mingled with horrible hoarse sounds, having nothing human in them, were heard. Pencroff and Spilett sprang to their feet, regardless of the pigs, which escaped.

“It is Herbert!” cried the reporter.

“Hurry!” cried the sailor, as the two ran with their utmost speed towards the place from whence the cries came.

They had need to hasten, for at a turn in the path they saw the lad prostrate beneath a savage, or perhaps a gigantic ape, who was throttling him.

To throw themselves on this monster and pinion him to the ground, dragging Herbert away, was the work of a moment. The sailor had herculean strength. Spilett, too, was muscular, and, in spite of the resistance of the monster, it was bound so that it could not move.

“You are not wounded, Herbert?”

“No, oh no.”

“Ah! if it had hurt you, this ape-”

“But he is not an ape!” cried Herbert.

At these words Pencroff and Spilett looked again at the object lying on the ground. In fact, it was not an ape, but a human being—a man! But what a man! He was a savage, in all the horrible acceptation of the word; and, what was more frightful, he seemed to have fallen to the last degree of brutishness.

Matted hair, tangled beard descending to his waist, his body naked, save for a rag about his loins, wild eyes, long nails, mahogany-colored skin, feet as hard as if they had been made of horn; such was the miserable creature which it was, nevertheless, necessary to call a man. But one might well question whether this body still contained a soul, or whether the low, brutish instinct alone survived.

“Are you perfectly sure that this is what has been a man?” questioned Pencroff of the reporter.

“Alas! there can be no doubt of it,” replied Spilett.

“Can he be the person shipwrecked?” asked Herbert

“Yes,” responded the reporter, “but the poor creature is no longer human.”

Spilett was right. Evidently, if the castaway had ever been civilized, isolation had made him a savage, a real creature of the woods. He gave utterance to hoarse sounds, from between teeth which were as sharp as those of animals living on raw flesh. Memory had doubtless long ago left him, and he had long since forgotten the use of arms and tools, and even how to make a fire. One could see that he was active and supple, but that his physical qualities had developed to the exclusion of his moral perception.

Spilett spoke to him, but he neither understood nor listened, and, looking him in the eye, the reporter could see that all intelligence had forsaken him. Nevertheless, the prisoner did not struggle or strive to break his bonds. Was he cowed by the presence of these men, whom he had once resembled? Was there in some corner of his brain a flitting remembrance which drew him towards humanity? Free, would he have fled or would he have remained? They did not know,