Off on a Comet, Jules Verne [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

CHAPTER XVIII

AN UNEXPECTED POPULATION

 

The Dobryna was now back again at the island. Her cruise had lasted

from the 31st of January to the 5th of March, a period of thirty-five days

(for it was leap year), corresponding to seventy days as accomplished

by the new little world.

 

Many a time during his absence Hector Servadac had wondered how his

present vicissitudes would end, and he had felt some misgivings

as to whether he should ever again set foot upon the island, and see

his faithful orderly, so that it was not without emotion that he had

approached the coast of the sole remaining fragment of Algerian soil.

But his apprehensions were groundless; Gourbi Island was just as he had

left it, with nothing unusual in its aspect, except that a very peculiar cloud

was hovering over it, at an altitude of little more than a hundred feet.

As the yacht approached the shore, this cloud appeared to rise

and fall as if acted upon by some invisible agency, and the captain,

after watching it carefully, perceived that it was not an accumulation

of vapors at all, but a dense mass of birds packed as closely together

as a swarm of herrings, and uttering deafening and discordant cries,

amidst which from time to time the noise of the report of a gun could

be plainly distinguished.

 

The Dobryna signalized her arrival by firing her cannon, and dropped

anchor in the little port of the Shelif. Almost within a minute

Ben Zoof was seen running, gun in hand, towards the shore; he cleared

the last ridge of rocks at a single bound, and then suddenly halted.

For a few seconds he stood motionless, his eyes fixed, as if obeying

the instructions of a drill sergeant, on a point some fifteen

yards distant, his whole attitude indicating submission and respect;

but the sight of the captain, who was landing, was too much

for his equanimity, and darting forward, he seized his master’s

hand and covered it with kisses. Instead, however, of uttering

any expressions of welcome or rejoicing at the captain’s return,

Ben Zoof broke out into the most vehement ejaculations.

 

“Thieves, captain! beastly thieves! Bedouins! pirates! devils!”

 

“Why, Ben Zoof, what’s the matter?” said Servadac soothingly.

 

“They are thieves! downright, desperate thieves! those infernal birds!

That’s what’s the matter. It is a good thing you have come.

Here have I for a whole month been spending my powder and shot

upon them, and the more I kill them, the worse they get; and yet,

if I were to leave them alone, we should not have a grain of corn

upon the island.”

 

It was soon evident that the orderly had only too much cause for alarm.

The crops had ripened rapidly during the excessive heat of January,

when the orbit of Gallia was being traversed at its perihelion,

and were now exposed to the depredations of many thousands of birds;

and although a goodly number of stacks attested the industry of

Ben Zoof during the time of the Dobryna‘s voyage, it was only too

apparent that the portion of the harvest that remained ungathered

was liable to the most imminent risk of being utterly devoured.

It was, perhaps, only natural that this clustered mass of birds,

as representing the whole of the feathered tribe upon the surface

of Gallia, should resort to Gourbi Island, of which the meadows

seemed to be the only spot from which they could get sustenance

at all; but as this sustenance would be obtained at the expense,

and probably to the serious detriment, of the human population,

it was absolutely necessary that every possible resistance should

be made to the devastation that was threatened.

 

Once satisfied that Servadac and his friends would cooperate with him

in the raid upon “the thieves,” Ben Zoof became calm and content,

and began to make various inquiries. “And what has become,”

he said, “of all our old comrades in Africa?”

 

“As far as I can tell you,” answered the captain, “they are all

in Africa still; only Africa isn’t by any means where we expected

to find it.”

 

“And France? Montmartre?” continued Ben Zoof eagerly.

Here was the cry of the poor fellow’s heart.

 

As briefly as he could, Servadac endeavored to explain

the true condition of things; he tried to communicate the fact

that Paris, France, Europe, nay, the whole world was more

than eighty millions of leagues away from Gourbi Island;

as gently and cautiously as he could he expressed his fear that

they might never see Europe, France, Paris, Montmartre again.

 

“No, no, sir!” protested Ben Zoof emphatically; “that is all nonsense.

It is altogether out of the question to suppose that we are not to

see Montmartre again.” And the orderly shook his head resolutely,

with the air of a man determined, in spite of argument, to adhere

to his own opinion.

 

“Very good, my brave fellow,” replied Servadac, “hope on,

hope while you may. The message has come to us over the sea,

‘Never despair’; but one thing, nevertheless, is certain;

we must forthwith commence arrangements for making this island

our permanent home.”

 

Captain Servadac now led the way to the gourbi, which, by his

servant’s exertions, had been entirely rebuilt; and here he did

the honors of his modest establishment to his two guests, the count

and the lieutenant, and gave a welcome, too, to little Nina,

who had accompanied them on shore, and between whom and Ben Zoof

the most friendly relations had already been established.

 

The adjacent building continued in good preservation, and Captain Servadac’s

satisfaction was very great in finding the two horses, Zephyr and Galette,

comfortably housed there and in good condition.

 

After the enjoyment of some refreshment, the party proceeded to a general

consultation as to what steps must be taken for their future welfare.

The most pressing matter that came before them was the consideration

of the means to be adopted to enable the inhabitants of Gallia

to survive the terrible cold, which, in their ignorance of

the true eccentricity of their orbit, might, for aught they knew,

last for an almost indefinite period. Fuel was far from abundant;

of coal there was none; trees and shrubs were few in number, and to cut

them down in prospect of the cold seemed a very questionable policy;

but there was no doubt some expedient must be devised to prevent disaster,

and that without delay.

 

The victualing of the little colony offered no immediate difficulty.

Water was abundant, and the cisterns could hardly fail to be replenished

by the numerous streams that meandered along the plains; moreover,

the Gallian Sea would ere long be frozen over, and the melted ice

(water in its congealed state being divested of every particle of salt)

would afford a supply of drink that could not be exhausted.

The crops that were now ready for the harvest, and the flocks

and herds scattered over the island, would form an ample reserve.

There was little doubt that throughout the winter the soil

would remain unproductive, and no fresh fodder for domestic

animals could then be obtained; it would therefore be necessary,

if the exact duration of Gallia’s year should ever be calculated,

to proportion the number of animals to be reserved to the real

length of the winter.

 

The next thing requisite was to arrive at a true estimate of the number

of the population. Without including the thirteen Englishmen at Gibraltar,

about whom he was not particularly disposed to give himself much

concern at present, Servadac put down the names of the eight Russians,

the two Frenchman, and the little Italian girl, eleven in all,

as the entire list of the inhabitants of Gourbi Island.

 

“Oh, pardon me,” interposed Ben Zoof, “you are mistaking

the state of the case altogether. You will be surprised to

learn that the total of people on the island is double that.

It is twenty-two.”

 

“Twenty-two!” exclaimed the captain; “twenty-two people on this island?

What do you mean?”

 

“The opportunity has not occurred,” answered Ben Zoof, “for me

to tell you before, but I have had company.”

 

“Explain yourself, Ben Zoof,” said Servadac. “What company have you had?”

 

“You could not suppose,” replied the orderly, “that my own unassisted hands

could have accomplished all that harvest work that you see has been done.”

 

“I confess,” said Lieutenant Procope, “we do not seem to have noticed that.”

 

“Well, then,” said Ben Zoof, “if you will be good enough to come

with me for about a mile, I shall be able to show you my companions.

But we must take our guns,”

 

“Why take our guns?” asked Servadac. “I hope we are not going to fight.”

 

“No, not with men,” said Ben Zoof; “but it does not answer to throw

a chance away for giving battle to those thieves of birds.”

 

Leaving little Nina and her goat in the gourbi, Servadac, Count Timascheff,

and the lieutenant, greatly mystified, took up their guns and followed

the orderly. All along their way they made unsparing slaughter of the birds

that hovered over and around them. Nearly every species of the feathered

tribe seemed to have its representative in that living cloud.

There were wild ducks in thousands; snipe, larks, rooks, and swallows;

a countless variety of sea-birds—widgeons, gulls, and seamews;

beside a quantity of game—quails, partridges, and woodcocks.

The sportsmen did their best; every shot told; and the depredators fell

by dozens on either hand.

 

Instead of following the northern shore of the island,

Ben Zoof cut obliquely across the plain. Making their progress

with the unwonted rapidity which was attributable to their

specific lightness, Servadac and his companions soon found

themselves near a grove of sycamores and eucalyptus massed

in picturesque confusion at the base of a little hill.

Here they halted.

 

“Ah! the vagabonds! the rascals! the thieves!” suddenly exclaimed Ben Zoof,

stamping his foot with rage.

 

“How now? Are your friends the birds at their pranks again?”

asked the captain.

 

“No, I don’t mean the birds: I mean those lazy beggars

that are shirking their work. Look here; look there!”

And as Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed to some scythes, and sickles,

and other implements of husbandry that had been left upon the ground.

 

“What is it you mean?” asked Servadac, getting somewhat impatient.

 

“Hush, hush! listen!” was all Ben Zoof’s reply; and he raised

his finger as if in warning.

 

Listening attentively, Servadac and his associates could distinctly

recognize a human voice, accompanied by the notes of a guitar

and by the measured click of castanets.

 

“Spaniards!” said Servadac.

 

“No mistake about that, sir,” replied Ben Zoof; “a Spaniard would

rattle his castanets at the cannon’s mouth.”

 

“But what is the meaning of it all?” asked the captain,

more puzzled than before.

 

“Hark!” said Ben Zoof; “it is the old man’s turn.”

 

And then a voice, at once gruff and harsh, was heard vociferating,

“My money! my money! when will you pay me my money?

Pay me what you owe me, you miserable majos.”

 

Meanwhile the song continued:

_”Tu sandunga y cigarro,

Y una cana de Jerez,

Mi jamelgo y un trabuco,

Que mas gloria puede haver?“_

 

Servadac’s knowledge of Gascon enabled him partially to comprehend

the rollicking tenor of the Spanish patriotic air, but his attention

was again arrested by the voice of the old man