The Mysterious Island, Jules Verne [most popular ebook readers txt] 📗

was his custom to do. This surprised the engineer, but he concluded that Ayrton was not at the corral at the moment, and perhaps had started on his way back to Granite House. In fact, two days had elapsed since his departure; and it had been agreed that on the evening of the 10th or the morning of the 11th, at latest, he would return.

The colonists were now waiting to see Ayrton on Prospect Plateau. Neb and Herbert both looked after the approach by way of the bridge, so as to let it down when their companion should appear, but when 6 o’clock in the evening came, and there was no sign of Ayrton, they agreed to send another despatch, asking for an immediate answer.

The wire at Granite House remained silent.

The uneasiness of the colonists was now extreme. What had happened? “Was Ayrton not at the corral? or, if there, had he not power over his own movements? Ought they to go in search of him on this dark night?

They discussed the point. Some were for going, and others for waiting.

“But,” said Herbert, “perhaps some accident has happened to the wires which prevents their working.”

“That may be,” said the reporter.

“Let us wait until to-morrow,” said Smith. “It is just possible that either Ayrton has not received our despatch, or we have missed his.”

They waited, as may be imagined, with much anxiety. At daylight on the 11th of November, Smith sent a message across the wires, but received no answer. Again, with the same result.

“Let us set off at once for the corral,” said he.

“Aid will armed,” added Pencroff.

It was agreed that Granite House must not be deserted, so Neb was left behind to take charge. After accompanying his companions to Glycerine Creek, he put up the bridge again, and hid behind a tree, to wait either for their return or for that of Ayrton. In case the pirates should appear, and should attempt to force the passage, he would try to defend it with his gun; and in the last resort he would take refuge in Granite House, where, the elevator once drawn up, he would be in perfect safety. The others were to go direct to the corral, and failing to find Ayrton there, were to scour the neighboring woods.

At 6 o’clock in the morning the engineer and his three companions had crossed Glycerine Creek, and Neb posted himself behind a low cliff, crowned by some large dragon trees on the left side of the brook. The colonists, after leaving Prospect Plateau, took the direct route to the corral. They carried their guns on their shoulders, ready to fire at the first sign of hostility. The two rifles and the two guns had been carefully loaded.

On either side of the path was a dense thicket, which might easily hide enemies, who, as they were armed, would be indeed formidable. The colonists walked on rapidly without a word. Top preceded them, sometimes keeping to the path, and sometimes making a detour into the wood, but not appearing to suspect anything unusual; and they might depend upon it that the faithful dog would not be taken by surprise, and would bark at the slightest appearance of danger.

Along this same path Smith and his companions followed the telegraphic wires which connected the corral with Granite House. For the first two miles they did not notice any solution of continuity. The posts were in good condition, the insulators uninjured, and the wire evenly stretched. From this point the engineer noticed that the tension was less complete, and at last, arriving at post No. 74, Herbert, who was ahead of the others, cried, “The wire is broken!”

His companions hastened forward and arrived at the spot where the boy had stopped. There the overturned post was lying across the path. They had discovered the break, and it was evident that the dispatches from Granite House could not have been received at the corral.

“It can’t be the wind that has overturned this post,” said Pencroff.

“No,” answered the reporter, “there are marks of footsteps on the ground; it has been uprooted by the hand of man.”

“Besides, the wire is broken,” added Herbert, showing the two ends of the wire which had been violently torn asunder.

“Is the break a fresh one?” asked Smith.

“Yes,” said Herbert, “it was certainly made a very short time ago.”

“To the corral! to the corral!” cried the sailor.

The colonists were then midway between Granite House and the corral, and had still two miles and a half to go. They started on a run.

In fact, they might well fear that something had happened at the corral. Ayrton doubtless might have sent a telegram which had not arrived. It was not this which alarmed his companions, but a circumstance more remarkable. Ayrton, who had promised to come back the evening before, had not reappeared! The communication, between Granite House and the corral had been out with a sinister design.

They hurried on, their hearts beating quick with fear for their comrade, to whom they were sincerely attached; Were they to find him struck down by the hand of those he had formerly led?

Soon they reached the place where the road lay along by the little brook flowing from Red Creek, which watered the meadows of the corral. They had moderated their pace, so as not to be out of breath at the moment when a deadly struggle might occur. Their guns were uncocked, but loaded. Each of them watched one side of the woods. Top kept up an ill-omened growling.

At last the fenced enclosure appeared behind the trees. They saw no signs of devastation. The door was closed as usual; a profound silence reigned at the corral. Neither the accustomed bleatings of the sheep nor the voice of Ayrton was to be heard.

“Let us go in,” said Smith, and the engineer advanced, while his companions, keeping guard twenty feet in the rear, stood ready to fire.

Smith raised the inner latch, and began to push back the door, when Top barked loudly. There was a report from behind the fence, followed by a cry of pain, and Herbert, pierced by a bullet, fell to the ground!

CHAPTER XLIX

THE REPORTER AND PENCROFF IN THE CORRAL—MOVING HERBERT—DESPAIR OF THE SAILOR—CONSULTATION OF THE ENGINEER AND THE REPORTER—MODE OF TREATMENT—A GLIMMER OF HOPE—HOW TO WARN NEB—A FAITHFUL MESSENGER—NEB’S REPLY.

At Herbert’s cry, Pencroff, dropping his gun, sprang towards him.

“They have killed him!” cried he. “My boy—they have killed him.”

Smith and Spilett rushed forward. The reporter put his ear to the boy’s heart to see if it were still beating.

“He’s alive,” said he, “but he must be taken—”

“To Granite House? Impossible!” said the engineer.

“To the corral, then,” cried Pencroff.

“One moment,” said Smith, and he rushed to the left around the fence. There he found himself face to face with a convict, who fired at him and sent a ball through his cap. An instant later, before he had time to fire again, he fell, struck to the heart by Smith’s poniard, a surer weapon even than his gun.

While this was going on, the reporter and Pencroff hoisted themselves up to the angle of the fence, strode over the top, jumped into the enclosure, made their way into the empty house, and laid Herbert gently down on Ayrton’s bed.

A few minutes afterwards Smith was at his side. At the sight of Herbert, pale and unconscious, the grief of the sailor was intense. He sobbed and cried bitterly; neither the engineer nor the reporter could calm him. Themselves over whelmed with emotion, they could hardly speak.

They did all in their power to save the poor boy’s life. Spilett, in his life of varied experience, had acquired some knowledge of medicine. He knew a little of everything; and had had several opportunities of learning the surgery of gunshot wounds. With Smith’s assistance, he hastened to apply the remedies which Herbert’s condition demanded.

The boy lay in a complete stupor, caused either by the hemorrhage or by concussion of the brain. He was very pale, and his pulse beat only at long intervals, as if every moment about to stop. This, taken in conjunction with his utter loss of consciousness, was a grave symptom. They stripped his chest, and, staunching the blood by means of handkerchiefs, kept bathing the wounds in cold water.

The ball had entered between the third and fourth rib, and there they found the wound. Smith and Spilett turned the poor boy over. At this he uttered a moan so faint that they feared it was his last breath. There was another wound on his back, for the bullet had gone clean through.

“Thank Heaven!” said the reporter, “the ball is not in his body; we shall not have to extract it.”

“But the heart?” asked Smith.

“The heart has not been touched, or he would be dead.”

“Dead!” cried Pencroff, with a groan. He had only heard the reporter’s last word.

“No, Pencroff,” answered Smith. “No he is not dead; his pulse still beats; he has even uttered a groan. For his sake, now, you must be calm. We have need of all our self-possession; you must not be the means of our losing it, my friend.”

Pencroff was silent, but large tears rolled down his cheeks.

Meanwhile, Spilett tried to recall to memory the proper treatment of the case before him. There seemed no doubt that the ball had entered in front and gone out by the back; but what injuries had it done by the way? Had it reached any vital spot? This was a question which even a professional surgeon could not have answered at once.

There was something, however, which Spilett knew must be done, and that was to keep down the inflammation, and to fight against the fever which ensues upon a wound. The wound must be dressed without delay. It was not necessary to bring on a fresh flow of blood by the use of tepid water and compresses, for Herbert was already too weak. The wounds, therefore, were bathed with cold water.

Herbert was placed upon his left side and held in that position.

“He must not be moved,” said Spilett; “he is in the position most favorable to an easy suppuration, and absolute repose is necessary.”

“Cannot we take him to Granite House?” asked Pencroff.

“No, Pencroff,” said the reporter.

Spilett was examining the boy’s wounds again with close attention. Herbert was so frightfully pale that he became alarmed.

“Cyrus,” said he, “I am no doctor. I am in a terrible strait; you must help me with your advice and assistance.”

“Calm yourself, my friend,” answered the engineer, pressing his hand. “Try to judge coolly. Think only of saving Herbert.”

Spilett’s self-possession, which in a moment of discouragement his keen sense of responsibility had caused him to lose, returned again at these words. He seated himself upon the bed; Smith remained standing, Pencroff had torn up his shirt and began mechanically to make lint.

Spilett explained that the first thing to do was to check the hemorrhage, but not to close the wounds or bring on immediate cicatrization—for there had been internal perforation, and they must not let the suppurated matter collect within. It was decided therefore to dress the two wounds, but not to press them together. The colonists possessed a most powerful agent for quelling inflamation, and one which nature supplies in the greatest abundance; to-wit, cold water, which is now used by all doctors. It has, moreover, the advantage of allowing the wound perfect rest, and dispensing with the frequent dressing, which by exposing the wound to the air in the early stages, is so often attended with lamentable results.

Thus did Smith and Spilett reason, with clear, native good sense, and acted as the best surgeon would have done. The wounds were bandaged with linen and constantly soaked with fresh water. The sailor had lighted a fire in the chimney, and the house fortunately contained all the necessaries of life. They had maple-sugar and the medicinal plants which the boy had gathered on the shores of Lake Grant. From these they