An Antarctic Mystery, Jules Verne [ereader that reads to you TXT] 📗

to change the helm. What mortal anguish soever the captain’s must be, I understood too well that he would not give that order without hesitation.

For several days past I had not seen the half-breed, or, least, I had not exchanged a word with him. He was boycotted by the whole crew, with the exception of the boatswain, who was careful to address him, although rarely got a word in return. Dirk Peters took not faintest notice of this state of things. He remained completely absorbed in his own thoughts, yet, had he heard West give the word to steer north, I know not to what acts of violence he might have been driven. He seemed to avoid me; was this from a desire not to compromise me?

On the 17th, in the afternoon, however, Dirk Peters manifested an intention of speaking to me, and never, never, could I have imagined what I was to learn in that interview.

It was about half-past two, and, not feeling well, I gone to my cabin, where the side window was open, that at the back was closed. I heard a knock at the door and asked who was there.

“Dirk Peters,” was the reply.

“You want to speak to me?”

“Yes.”

“I am coming out.”

“If you please⁠—I should prefer⁠—may I come into your cabin?”

“Come in.”

He entered, and shut the door behind him?

Without rising I signed to him to seat himself armchair, but he remained standing.

“What do you want of me, Dirk Peters?” I asked at length, as he seemed unable to make up his mind to speak.

“I want to tell you something⁠—because it seems well that you should know it, and you only. In the crew⁠—they must never know it.”

“If it is a grave matter, and you fear any indiscretion, Dirk Peters, why do you speak to me?”

“If!⁠—I must! Ah, yes! I must! It is impossible to keep it there! It weighs on me like a stone.”

And Dirk Peters struck his breast violently.

Then he resumed:

“Yes! I am always afraid it may escape me during my sleep, and that someone will hear it, for I dream of it, and in dreaming⁠—”

“You dream,” I replied, “and of what?”

“Of him, of him. Therefore it is that I sleep in corners, all alone, for fear that his true name should be discovered.”

Then it struck me that the half-breed was perhaps about to respond to an inquiry which I had not yet made⁠—why he had gone to live at the Falklands under the name of Hunt after leaving Illinois?

I put the question to him, and he replied⁠—

“It is not that; no, it is not that I wish⁠—”

“I insist, Dirk Peters, and I desire to know in the first place for what reason you did not remain in America, for what reason you chose the Falklands⁠—”

“For what reason, sir? Because I wanted to get near Pym, my poor Pym⁠—because I hoped to find an opportunity at the Falklands of embarking on a whaling ship bound for the southern sea.”

“But that name of Hunt?”

“I would not bear my own name any longer⁠—on account of the affair of the Grampus.”

The half-breed was alluding to the scene of the “short straw” (or lot-drawing) on board the American brig, when it was decided between Augustus Barnard, Arthur Pym, Dirk Peters, and Parker, the sailor, that one of the four should be sacrificed⁠—as food for the three others. I remembered the obstinate resistance of Arthur Pym, and how it was impossible for him to refuse to take his part in the tragedy about to be performed⁠—he says this himself⁠—and the horrible act whose remembrance must poison the existence of all those who had survived it.

Oh, that lot-drawing! The “short straws” were little splinters of wood of uneven length which Arthur held in his hand. The shortest was to designate him who should be immolated. And he speaks of the sort of involuntary fierce desire to deceive his companions that he that he felt⁠—“to cheat” is the word he uses⁠—but he did not “cheat,” and he asks pardon for having had the idea! Let us try to put ourselves in his place!

He made up his mind, and held out his hand, closed on the four slips. Dirk Peters drew the first. Fate favoured him. He had nothing more to fear. Arthur Pym calculated that one more chance was against him. Augustus Barnard drew in his turn. Saved, too, he! And now Arthur Pym reckoned up the exact chances between Parker and himself. At that moment all the ferocity of the tiger entered into his soul. He conceived an intense and devilish hatred of his poor comrade, his fellow-man.

Five minutes elapsed before Parker dared to draw. At length Arthur Pym, standing with closed eyes, not knowing whether the lot was for or against him, felt a hand seize his own. It was the hand of Dirk Peters. Arthur Pym had escaped death. And then the half-breed rushed upon Parker and stabbed him in the back. The frightful repast followed⁠—immediately⁠—and words are not sufficient to convey to the mind the horror of the reality.

Yes! I knew that hideous story, not a fable, as I had long believed. This was what had happened on board the Grampus, on the 16th of July, 1827, and vainly did I try to understand Dirk Peters’ reason for recalling it to my recollection.

“Well, Dirk Peters,” I said, “I will ask you, since you were anxious to hide your name, what it was that induced you to reveal it, when the Halbrane was moored off Tsalal Island; why you did not keep to the name of Hunt?”

“Sir⁠—understand me⁠—there was hesitation about going farther⁠—they wanted to turn back. This was decided, and then I thought that by telling who I was⁠—Dirk Peters⁠—of the Grampus⁠—poor Pym’s companion⁠—I should be heard; they would believe with me that he was still living, they would go in search of him! And yet, it was a serious thing to do⁠—to acknowledge that I was Dirk Peters, he who had killed Parker!