The Mysterious Island
melancholy life doubtless--and the colonists, without losing sight of
him, did not attempt to disturb his solitude. However, after two hours,
appearing to have formed a resolution, he came to find Cyrus Harding.
His eyes were red with the tears he had shed, but he wept no longer.
His countenance expressed deep humility. He appeared anxious, timorous,
ashamed, and his eyes were constantly fixed on the ground.
“Sir,” said he to Harding, “your companions and you, are you English?”
“No,” answered the engineer, “we are Americans.”
“Ah!” said the stranger, and he murmured, “I prefer that!”
“And you, my friend?” asked the engineer.
“English,” replied he hastily.
And as if these few words had been difficult to say, he retreated to the
beach, where he walked up and down between the cascade and the mouth of
the Mercy, in a state of extreme agitation.
Then, passing one moment close to Herbert, he stopped and in a stifled
voice,--
“What month?” he asked.
“December,” replied Herbert.
“What year?”
“1866.”
“Twelve years! twelve years!” he exclaimed.
Then he left him abruptly.
Herbert reported to the colonists the questions and answers which had
been made.
“This unfortunate man,” observed Gideon Spilett, “was no longer
acquainted with either months or years!”
“Yes!” added Herbert, “and he had been twelve years already on the islet
when we found him there!”
“Twelve years!” rejoined Harding. “Ah! twelve years of solitude, after a
wicked life, perhaps, may well impair a man’s reason!”
“I am induced to think,” said Pencroft, “that this man was not wrecked
on Tabor Island, but that in consequence of some crime he was left
there.”
“You must be right, Pencroft,” replied the reporter, “and if it is so
it is not impossible that those who left him on the island may return to
fetch him some day!”
“And they will no longer find him,” said Herbert.
“But then,” added Pencroft, “they must return, and--”
“My friends,” said Cyrus Harding, “do not let us discuss this question
until we know more about it. I believe that the unhappy man has
suffered, that he has severely expiated his faults, whatever they may
have been, and that the wish to unburden himself stifles him. Do not let
us press him to tell us his history! He will tell it to us doubtless,
and when we know it, we shall see what course it will be best to follow.
He alone besides can tell us, if he has more than a hope, a certainty,
of returning some day to his country, but I doubt it!”
“And why?” asked the reporter.
“Because that, in the event of his being sure of being delivered at a
certain time, he would have waited the hour of his deliverance and would
not have thrown this document into the sea. No, it is more probable that
he was condemned to die on that islet, and that he never expected to see
his fellow-creatures again!”
“But,” observed the sailor, “there is one thing which I cannot explain.”
“What is it?”
“If this man had been left for twelve years on Tabor Island, one may
well suppose that he had been several years already in the wild state in
which we found him!”
“That is probable,” replied Cyrus Harding.
“It must then be many years since he wrote that document!”
“No doubt,” and yet the document appears to have been recently written!
“Besides, how do you know that the bottle which enclosed the document
may not have taken several years to come from Tabor Island to Lincoln
Island?”
“That is not absolutely impossible,” replied the reporter.
“Might it not have been a long time already on the coast of the island?”
“No,” answered Pencroft, “for it was still floating. We could not even
suppose that after it had stayed for any length of time on the shore, it
would have been swept off by the sea, for the south coast is all rocks,
and it would certainly have been smashed to pieces there!”
“That is true,” rejoined Cyrus Harding thoughtfully.
“And then,” continued the sailor, “if the document was several years
old, if it had been shut up in that bottle for several years, it would
have been injured by damp. Now, there is nothing of the kind, and it was
found in a perfect state of preservation.”
The sailor’s reasoning was very just, and pointed out an
incomprehensible fact, for the document appeared to have been recently
written, when the colonists found it in the bottle. Moreover, it gave
the latitude and longitude of Tabor Island correctly, which implied that
its author had a more complete knowledge of hydrography than could be
expected of a common sailor.
“There is in this, again, something unaccountable,” said the engineer,
“but we will not urge our companion to speak. When he likes, my
friends, then we shall be ready to hear him!”
During the following days the stranger did not speak a word, and did not
once leave the precincts of the plateau. He worked away, without losing
a moment, without taking a minute’s rest, but always in a retired place.
At meal times he never came to Granite House, although invited several
times to do so, but contented himself with eating a few raw vegetables.
At nightfall he did not return to the room assigned to him, but remained
under some clump of trees, or when the weather was bad crouched in some
cleft of the rocks. Thus he lived in the same manner as when he had no
other shelter than the forests of Tabor Island, and as all persuasion
to induce him to improve his life was in vain, the colonists
waited patiently. And the time was near, when, as it seemed, almost
involuntarily urged by his conscience, a terrible confession escaped
him.
On the 10th of November, about eight o’clock in the evening, as night
was coming on, the stranger appeared unexpectedly before the settlers,
who were assembled under the veranda. His eyes burned strangely, and he
had quite resumed the wild aspect of his worst days.
Cyrus Harding and his companions were astounded on seeing that, overcome
by some terrible emotion, his teeth chattered like those of a person
in a fever. What was the matter with him? Was the sight of his
fellow-creatures insupportable to him? Was he weary of this return to a
civilized mode of existence? Was he pining for his former savage
life? It appeared so, as soon he was heard to express himself in these
incoherent sentences:--
“Why am I here?.... By what right have you dragged me from my islet?....
Do you think there could be any tie between you and me?.... Do you know
who I am--what I have done--why I was there--alone? And who told
you that I was not abandoned there--that I was not condemned to die
there?.... Do you know my past?.... How do you know that I have not
stolen, murdered--that I am not a wretch--an accursed being--only fit to
live like a wild beast, far from all--speak--do you know it?”
The colonists listened without interrupting the miserable creature, from
whom these broken confessions escaped, as it were, in spite of himself.
Harding wishing to calm him, approached him, but he hastily drew back.
“No! no!” he exclaimed; “one word only--am I free?”
“You are free,” answered the engineer.
“Farewell, then!” he cried, and fled like a madman.
Neb, Pencroft, and Herbert ran also towards the edge of the wood--but
they returned alone.
“We must let him alone!” said Cyrus Harding.
“He will never come back!” exclaimed Pencroft.
“He will come back,” replied the engineer.
Many days passed; but Harding--was it a sort of
presentiment?--persisted in the fixed idea that sooner or later the
unhappy man would return.
“It is the last revolt of his wild nature,” said he, “which remorse has
touched, and which renewed solitude will terrify.”
In the meanwhile, works of all sorts were continued, as well on Prospect
Heights as at the corral, where Harding intended to build a farm. It is
unnecessary to say that the seeds collected by Herbert on Tabor
Island had been carefully sown. The plateau thus formed one immense
kitchen-garden, well laid out and carefully tended, so that the arms of
the settlers were never in want of work. There was always something to
be done. As the esculents increased in number, it became necessary to
enlarge the simple beds, which threatened to grow into regular fields
and replace the meadows. But grass abounded in other parts of the
island, and there was no fear of the onagers being obliged to go on
short allowance. It was well worth while, besides, to turn Prospect
Heights into a kitchen-garden, defended by its deep belt of creeks, and
to remove them to the meadows, which had no need of protection against
the depredations of quadrumana and quadrapeds.
On the 15th of November, the third harvest was gathered in. How
wonderfully had the field increased in extent, since eighteen months
ago, when the first grain of wheat was sown! The second crop of six
hundred thousand grains produced this time four thousand bushels, or
five hundred millions of grains!
The colony was rich in corn, for ten bushels alone were sufficient for
sowing every year to produce an ample crop for the food both of men and
beasts. The harvest was completed, and the last fortnight of the month
of November was devoted to the work of converting it into food for man.
In fact, they had corn, but not flour, and the establishment of a mill
was necessary. Cyrus Harding could have utilized the second fall which
flowed into the Mercy to establish his motive power, the first
being already occupied with moving the felting mill, but, after some
consultation, it was decided that a simple windmill should be built on
Prospect Heights. The building of this presented no more difficulty than
the building of the former, and it was moreover certain that there would
be no want of wind on the plateau, exposed as it was to the sea breezes.
“Not to mention,” said Pencroft, “that the windmill will be more lively
and will have a good effect in the landscape!”
They set to work by choosing timber for the frame and machinery of the
mill. Some large stones, found at the north of the lake, could be easily
transformed into millstones, and as to the sails, the inexhaustible case
of the balloon furnished the necessary material.
Cyrus Harding made his model, and the site of the mill was chosen a
little to the right of the poultry-yard, near the shore of the lake. The
frame was to rest on a pivot supported with strong timbers, so that it
could turn with all the machinery it contained according as the wind
required it. The work advanced rapidly. Neb and Pencroft had become
very skilful carpenters, and had nothing to do but to copy the models
provided by the engineer.
Soon a sort of cylindrical box, in shape like a pepper-pot, with a
pointed roof, rose on the spot chosen. The four frames which formed the
sails had been firmly fixed in the center beam, so as to form a certain
angle with it, and secured with iron clamps. As to the different
parts of the internal mechanism, the box destined to contain the two
millstones, the fixed stone and the moving stone, the hopper, a sort of
large square trough, wide at the top, narrow at the bottom, which would
allow the grain to fall on the stones, the oscillating spout intended to
regulate the passing of the grain, and lastly the bolting machine, which
by the operation of sifting, separates the bran from the flour,
were made without difficulty. The tools were good, and the work not
difficult, for in reality, the machinery of a mill is very simple. This
was only a question of time.
Every one had worked at the construction of the mill, and on the 1st
of December it was finished. As usual, Pencroft was delighted with his
work, and had no doubt that the apparatus was perfect.
“Now for a good wind,” said he, “and we shall grind our first harvest
splendidly!”
“A good wind, certainly,” answered the engineer, “but not too much,