Off on a Comet! a Journey through Planetary Space
short of a hundred fathoms. A formation such as this plainly indicated
that at some remote epoch Cape Bon had been connected with Cape Furina,
the extremity of Sicily, in the same manner as Ceuta has doubtless been
connected with Gibraltar.
Lieutenant Procope was too well acquainted with the Mediterranean to
be unaware of this peculiarity, and would not lose the opportunity of
ascertaining whether the submarine ridge still existed, or whether the
sea-bottom between Sicily and Africa had undergone any modification.
Both Timascheff and Servadac were much interested in watching the
operations. At a sign from the lieutenant, a sailor who was stationed at
the foot of the fore-shrouds dropped the sounding-lead into the water,
and in reply to Procope’s inquiries, reported--“Five fathoms and a flat
bottom.”
The next aim was to determine the amount of depression on either side of
the ridge, and for this purpose the _Dobryna_ was shifted for a distance
of half a mile both to the right and left, and the soundings taken
at each station. “Five fathoms and a flat bottom,” was the unvaried
announcement after each operation. Not only, therefore, was it evident
that the submerged chain between Cape Bon and Cape Furina no longer
existed, but it was equally clear that the convulsion had caused a
general leveling of the sea-bottom, and that the soil, degenerated, as
it has been said, into a metallic dust of unrecognized composition,
bore no trace of the sponges, sea-anemones, star-fish, sea-nettles,
hydrophytes, and shells with which the submarine rocks of the
Mediterranean had hitherto been prodigally clothed.
The _Dobryna_ now put about and resumed her explorations in a southerly
direction. It remained, however, as remarkable as ever how completely
throughout the voyage the sea continued to be deserted; all expectations
of hailing a vessel bearing news from Europe were entirely falsified, so
that more and more each member of the crew began to be conscious of his
isolation, and to believe that the schooner, like a second Noah’s ark,
carried the sole survivors of a calamity that had overwhelmed the earth.
On the 9th of February the _Dobryna_ passed over the site of the city
of Dido, the ancient Byrsa--a Carthage, however, which was now more
completely destroyed than ever Punic Carthage had been destroyed by
Scipio Africanus or Roman Carthage by Hassan the Saracen.
In the evening, as the sun was sinking below the eastern horizon,
Captain Servadac was lounging moodily against the taffrail. From the
heaven above, where stars kept peeping fitfully from behind the moving
clouds, his eye wandered mechanically to the waters below, where the
long waves were rising and falling with the evening breeze.
All at once, his attention was arrested by a luminous speck straight
ahead on the southern horizon. At first, imagining that he was the
victim of some spectral illusion, he observed it with silent attention;
but when, after some minutes, he became convinced that what he saw was
actually a distant light, he appealed to one of the sailors, by whom
his impression was fully corroborated. The intelligence was immediately
imparted to Count Timascheff and the lieutenant.
“Is it land, do you suppose?” inquired Servadac, eagerly.
“I should be more inclined to think it is a light on board some ship,”
replied the count.
“Whatever it is, in another hour we shall know all about it,” said
Servadac.
“No, captain,” interposed Lieutenant Procope; “we shall know nothing
until to-morrow.”
“What! not bear down upon it at once?” asked the count in surprise.
“No, sir; I should much rather lay to and wait till daylight. If we are
really near land, I should be afraid to approach it in the dark.”
The count expressed his approval of the lieutenant’s caution, and
thereupon all sail was shortened so as to keep the _Dobryna_ from making
any considerable progress all through the hours of night. Few as those
hours were, they seemed to those on board as if their end would never
come. Fearful lest the faint glimmer should at any moment cease to be
visible, Hector Servadac did not quit his post upon the deck; but the
light continued unchanged. It shone with about the same degree of luster
as a star of the second magnitude, and from the fact of its remaining
stationary, Procope became more and more convinced that it was on land
and did not belong to a passing vessel.
At sunrise every telescope was pointed with keenest interest towards the
center of attraction. The light, of course, had ceased to be visible,
but in the direction where it had been seen, and at a distance of about
ten miles, there was the distinct outline of a solitary island of very
small extent; rather, as the count observed, it had the appearance of
being the projecting summit of a mountain all but submerged. Whatever it
was, it was agreed that its true character must be ascertained, not
only to gratify their own curiosity, but for the benefit of all future
navigators. The schooner accordingly was steered directly towards it,
and in less than an hour had cast anchor within a few cables’ lengths of
the shore.
The little island proved to be nothing more than an arid rock rising
abruptly about forty feet above the water. It had no outlying reefs, a
circumstance that seemed to suggest the probability that in the recent
convulsion it had sunk gradually, until it had reached its present
position of equilibrium.
Without removing his eye from his telescope, Servadac exclaimed: “There
is a habitation on the place; I can see an erection of some kind quite
distinctly. Who can tell whether we shall not come across a human
being?”
Lieutenant Procope looked doubtful. The island had all the appearance of
being deserted, nor did a cannon-shot fired from the schooner have
the effect of bringing any resident to the shore. Nevertheless, it was
undeniable that there was a stone building situated on the top of
the rock, and that this building had much the character of an Arabian
mosque.
The boat was lowered and manned by the four sailors; Servadac,
Timascheff and Procope were quickly rowed ashore, and lost no time
in commencing their ascent of the steep acclivity. Upon reaching the
summit, they found their progress arrested by a kind of wall, or rampart
of singular construction, its materials consisting mainly of vases,
fragments of columns, carved bas-reliefs, statues, and portions of
broken stelae, all piled promiscuously together without any pretense
to artistic arrangement. They made their way into the enclosure, and
finding an open door, they passed through and soon came to a second
door, also open, which admitted them to the interior of the mosque,
consisting of a single chamber, the walls of which were ornamented in
the Arabian style by sculptures of indifferent execution. In the center
was a tomb of the very simplest kind, and above the tomb was suspended a
large silver lamp with a capacious reservoir of oil, in which floated a
long lighted wick, the flame of which was evidently the light that had
attracted Servadac’s attention on the previous night.
“Must there not have been a custodian of the shrine?” they mutually
asked; but if such there had ever been, he must, they concluded, either
have fled or have perished on that eventful night. Not a soul was there
in charge, and the sole living occupants were a flock of wild cormorants
which, startled at the entrance of the intruders, rose on wing, and took
a rapid flight towards the south.
An old French prayer-book was lying on the corner of the tomb; the
volume was open, and the page exposed to view was that which contained
the office for the celebration of the 25th of August. A sudden
revelation dashed across Servadac’s mind. The solemn isolation of the
island tomb, the open breviary, the ritual of the ancient anniversary,
all combined to apprise him of the sanctity of the spot upon which he
stood.
“The tomb of St. Louis!” he exclaimed, and his companions involuntarily
followed his example, and made a reverential obeisance to the venerated
monument.
It was, in truth, the very spot on which tradition asserts that the
canonized monarch came to die, a spot to which for six centuries and
more his countrymen had paid the homage of a pious regard. The lamp
that had been kindled at the memorial shrine of a saint was now in all
probability the only beacon that threw a light across the waters of the
Mediterranean, and even this ere long must itself expire.
There was nothing more to explore. The three together quitted the
mosque, and descended the rock to the shore, whence their boat
re-conveyed them to the schooner, which was soon again on her southward
voyage; and it was not long before the tomb of St. Louis, the only spot
that had survived the mysterious shock, was lost to view.
CHAPTER XII. AT THE MERCY OF THE WINDS
As the affrighted cormorants had winged their flight towards the south,
there sprang up a sanguine hope on board the schooner that land might be
discovered in that direction. Thither, accordingly, it was determined to
proceed, and in a few hours after quitting the island of the tomb,
the _Dobryna_ was traversing the shallow waters that now covered the
peninsula of Dakhul, which had separated the Bay of Tunis from the Gulf
of Hammamet. For two days she continued an undeviating course, and
after a futile search for the coast of Tunis, reached the latitude of 34
degrees.
Here, on the 11th of February, there suddenly arose the cry of “Land!”
and in the extreme horizon, right ahead, where land had never been
before, it was true enough that a shore was distinctly to be seen. What
could it be? It could not be the coast of Tripoli; for not only would
that low-lying shore be quite invisible at such a distance, but it was
certain, moreover, that it lay two degrees at least still further
south. It was soon observed that this newly discovered land was of
very irregular elevation, that it extended due east and west across
the horizon, thus dividing the gulf into two separate sections and
completely concealing the island of Jerba, which must lie behind. Its
position was duly traced on the _Dobryna_‘s chart.
“How strange,” exclaimed Hector Servadac, “that after sailing all this
time over sea where we expected to find land, we have at last come upon
land where we thought to find sea!”
“Strange, indeed,” replied Lieutenant Procope; “and what appears to me
almost as remarkable is that we have never once caught sight either of
one of the Maltese tartans or one of the Levantine xebecs that traffic
so regularly on the Mediterranean.”
“Eastwards or westwards,” asked the count--“which shall be our course?
All farther progress to the south is checked.”
“Westwards, by all means,” replied Servadac quickly. “I am longing to
know whether anything of Algeria is left beyond the Shelif; besides,
as we pass Gourbi Island we might take Ben Zoof on board, and then
make away for Gibraltar, where we should be sure to learn something, at
least, of European news.”
With his usual air of stately courtesy, Count Timascheff begged the
captain to consider the yacht at his own disposal, and desired him to
give the lieutenant instructions accordingly.
Lieutenant Procope, however, hesitated, and after revolving matters
for a few moments in his mind, pointed out that as the wind was blowing
directly from the west, and seemed likely to increase, if they went to
the west in the teeth of the weather, the schooner would be reduced to
the use of her engine only, and would have much difficulty in making any
headway; on the other hand, by taking an eastward course, not only would
they have the advantage of the wind, but, under steam and canvas, might
hope in a few days to be off the coast of Egypt, and from Alexandria or