CHAPTER XXIV.A SLEDGE-RIDE.
Formentera was at once recognized by Servadac and
the count as the name of one of the smallest of the Balearic
Islands. It was more than probable that the unknown
writer had thence sent out the mysterious documents, and
from the message just come to hand by the carrier-pigeon,
it appeared all but certain that at the beginning of April, a
fortnight back, he had still been there. In one important
particular the present communication differed from those
that had preceded it: it was written entirely in French,
and exhibited none of the ecstatic exclamations in other
languages that had been remarkable in the two former
papers. The concluding line, with its intimation of failing
provisions, amounted almost to an appeal for help. Captain
Servadac briefly drew attention to these points, and
concluded by saying:
“My friends, we must, without delay, hasten to the
assistance of this unfortunate man.”
“For my part,” said the count, “I am quite ready to
accompany you; it is not unlikely that he is not alone in
his distress.”
Lieutenant Procope expressed much surprise.
“We must have passed close to Formentera,” he said,
“when we explored the site of the Balearic Isles; this fragment
must be very small; it must be smaller than the
remaining splinter of Gibraltar or Ceuta; otherwise, surely
it would never have escaped our observation.”
“However small it may be,” replied Servadac, “we
must find it. How far off do you suppose it is?”
“It must be a hundred and twenty leagues away,” said
the lieutenant, thoughtfully; “and I do not quite understand
how you would propose to get there.”
“Why, on skates of course; no difficulty in that, I should
imagine,” answered Servadac, and he appealed to the count
for confirmation of his opinion.
The count assented, but Procope looked doubtful.
“Your enterprise is generous,” he said, “and I should
be most unwilling to throw any unnecessary obstacle in
the way of its execution; but, pardon me, if I submit to
you a few considerations which to my mind are very
important. First of all, the thermometer is already down
to 22° below zero, and the keen wind from the south is
making the temperature absolutely unendurable; in the
second place, supposing you travel at the rate of twenty
leagues a day, you would be exposed for at least six consecutive
days; and thirdly, your expedition will be of
small avail unless you convey provisions not only for yourselves,
but for those whom you hope to relieve.”
“We can carry our own provisions on our backs in
knapsacks,” interposed Servadac, quickly, unwilling to
recognize any difficulty in the way.
“Granted that you can,” answered the lieutenant,
quietly; “but where, on this level ice-field, will you find
shelter in your periods of rest? You must perish with cold,
you will not have the chance of digging out ice-huts like
the Esquimaux.”
“As to rest,” said Servadac, “we shall take none; we
shall keep on our way continuously; by travelling day
and night without intermission, we shall not be more than
three days in reaching Formentera.”
“Believe me,” persisted the lieutenant, calmly, “your
enthusiasm is carrying you too far; the feat you propose
is impossible; but even conceding the possibility of your
success in reaching your destination, what service do you
imagine that you, half-starved and half-frozen yourself,
could render to those who are already perishing by want
and exposure? you would only bring them away to die.”
The obvious and dispassionate reasoning of the lieutenant
could not fail to impress the minds of those who
listened to him; the impracticability of the journey became
more and more apparent; unprotected on that drear
expanse, any traveller must assuredly succumb to the
snow-drifts that were continually being whirled across it.
But Hector Servadac, animated by the generous desire of
rescuing a suffering fellow-creature, could scarcely be
brought within the bounds of common sense. Against
his better judgment he was still bent upon the expedition,
and Ben Zoof declared himself ready to accompany his
master in the event of Count Timascheff hesitating to
encounter the peril which the undertaking involved. But
the count entirely repudiated all idea of shrinking from
what, quite as much as the captain, he regarded as a
sacred duty, and turning to Lieutenant Procope, told him
that unless some better plan could be devised, he was
prepared to start off at once and make the attempt to
skate across to Formentera. The lieutenant, who was lost
in thought, made no immediate reply.
“I wish we had a sledge,” said Ben Zoof.
“I daresay that a sledge of some sort could be contrived,”
said the count; “but then we should have no dogs
or reindeer to draw it.”
“Why not rough-shoe the two horses?”
“They would never be able to endure the cold,” objected
the count.
“Never mind,” said Servadac, “let us get our sledge and
put them to the test. Something must be done!”
“I think,” said Lieutenant Procope, breaking his
thoughtful silence, “that I can tell you of a sledge already
provided for your hand, and I can suggest a motive power
surer and swifter than horses.”
“What do you mean?” was the eager inquiry.
“I mean the Dobryna's yawl,” answered the lieutenant;
“and I have no doubt that the wind would carry her rapidly
along the ice.”
The idea seemed admirable. Lieutenant Procope was
well aware to what marvellous perfection the Americans
had brought their sail-sledges, and had heard how in the
vast prairies of the United States they had been known to
outvie the speed of an express train, occasionally attaining
a rate of more than a hundred miles an hour. The wind
was still blowing hard from the south, and assuming that
the yawl could be propelled with a velocity of about fifteen
or at least twelve leagues an hour, he reckoned that it was
quite possible to reach Formentera within twelve hours,
that is to say, in a single day between the intervals of
sunrise and sunset.
The yawl was about twelve feet long, and capable of
holding five or six people. The addition of a couple of
iron runners would be all that was requisite to convert it
into an excellent sledge, which, if a sail were hoisted, might
be deemed certain to make a rapid progress over the
smooth surface of the ice. For the protection of the
passengers it was proposed to erect a kind of wooden roof
lined with strong cloth; beneath this could be packed a
supply of provisions, some warm furs, some cordials, and a
portable stove to be heated by spirits of wine.
For the outward journey the wind was as favourable as
could be desired; but it was to be apprehended that,
unless the direction of the wind should change, the return
would be a matter of some difficulty; a system of tacking
might be carried out to a certain degree, but it was not
likely that the yawl would answer her helm in any way
corresponding to what would occur in the open sea. Captain
Servadac, however, would not listen to any representation
of probable difficulties; the future, he said, must
provide for itself.
The engineer and several of the sailors sat vigourously
to work, and before the close of the day the yawl was
furnished with a pair of stout iron runners, curved upwards
in front, and fitted with a metal scull designed to assist in
maintaining the directness of her course; the roof was put
on, and beneath it were stored the provisions, the wraps,
and the cooking utensils.
A strong desire was expressed by Lieutenant Procope
that he should be allowed to accompany Captain Servadac
instead of Count Timascheff. It was unadvisable for all
three of them to go, as, in case of there being several
persons to be rescued, the space at their command would
be quite inadequate. The lieutenant urged that he was
the most experienced seaman, and as such was best qualified
to take command of the sledge and the management
of the sails; and as it was not to be expected that Servadac
would resign his intention of going in person to
relieve his fellow-countryman, Procope submitted his own
wishes to the count. The count was himself very anxious
to have his share in the philanthropic enterprise, and
demurred considerably to the proposal; he yielded, however,
after a time to Servadac's representations that in the
event of the expedition proving disastrous, the little colony
would need his services alike as governour and protector,
and overcoming his reluctance to be left out of the perilous
adventure, was prevailed upon to remain behind for the
general good of the community at Nina's Hive.
At sunrise on the following morning, the 16th of April,
Captain Servadac and the lieutenant took their places in
the yawl. The thermometer was more than 20° below
zero, and it was with deep emotion that their companions
beheld them thus embarking upon the vast white
plain. Ben Zoof s heart was too full for words; Count
Timascheff could not forbear pressing his two brave
friends to his bosom; the Spaniards and the Russian
sailors crowded round for a farewell shake of the hand, and
little Nina, her great eyes flooded with tears, held up her
face for a parting kiss. The sad scene was not permitted
to be long. The sail was quickly hoisted, and the sledge,
just as if it had expanded a huge white wing, was in a
little while carried far away beyond the horizon.
Light and unimpeded, the yawl scudded on with
incredible speed. Two sails, a brigantine and a jib, were
arranged to catch the wind to the greatest advantage, and
the travellers estimated that their progress would be little
under the rate of twelve leagues an hour. The motion of
their novel vehicle was singularly gentle, the oscillation
being less than that of an ordinary railway-carriage, while
the diminished force of gravity contributed to the swiftness.
Except that the clouds of ice-dust raised by the
metal runners were an evidence that they had not actually
left the level surface of the ice, the captain and lieutenant
might again and again have imagined that they were being
conveyed through the air in a balloon.
Lieutenant Procope, with his head all muffled up for
fear of frost-bite, took an occasional peep through an
aperture that had been intentionally left in the roof, and
by the help of a compass, maintained a proper and straight
course for Formentera. Nothing could be more dejected
than the aspect of that frozen sea; not a single living
creature relieved the solitude; both the travellers, Procope
from a scientific point of view, Servadac from an aesthetic,
were alike impressed by the solemnity of the scene, and
when the lengthened shadow of the sail cast upon the ice
by the oblique rays of the setting sun had disappeared,
and day had given place to night, the two men, drawn
together as by an involuntary impulse, mutually held each
other's hands in silence.
There had been a new moon on the previous evening;
but, in the absence of moonlight, the constellations shone
with remarkable brilliancy. The new pole-star close upon
the horizon was resplendent, and even had Lieutenant
Procope been destitute of a compass, he would have
had no difficulty in holding his course by the guidance of
that alone. However great was the distance that separated
Gallia from the sun, it was after all manifestly insignificant
in comparison with the remoteness of the nearest of the
fixed stars.
Observing that Servadac was completely absorbed in
his own thoughts, Lieutenant Procope had leisure to contemplate
some of the present perplexing problems, and to
ponder over the true astronomical position. The last of
the three mysterious documents had represented that
Gallia, in conformity with Kepler's second law, had travelled
along her orbit during the month of March twenty
millions of leagues less than she had done in the previous
month; yet, in the same time, her distance from the sun
had nevertheless been increased by thirty-two millions of
leagues. She was now, therefore, in the centre of the zone
of telescopic planets that revolve between the orbits of
Mars and Jupiter, and had captured for herself a satellite
which, according to the document, was Nerina, one of the
asteroids most recently identified. If thus, then, it was
within the power of the unknown writer to estimate with
such apparent certainty Gallia's exact position, was it not
likely that his mathematical calculations would enable him
to arrive at some definite conclusion as to the date at
which she would begin again to approach the sun? Nay,
was it not to be expected that he had already estimated,
with sufficient approximation to truth, what was to be the
true length of the Gallian year?
So intently had they each separately been following
their own train of thought, that daylight re-appeared
almost before the travellers were aware of it. On consulting
their instruments, they found that they must have
travelled close upon a hundred leagues since they started,
and they resolved to slacken their speed. The sails were
accordingly taken in a little, and in spite of the intensity
of the cold, the explorers ventured out of their shelter, in
order that they might reconnoitre the plain, which was
apparently as boundless as ever. It was completely
desert; not so much as a single point of rock relieved the
bare uniformity of its surface.
“Are we not considerably to the west of Formentera?”
asked Servadac, after examining the chart.
“Most likely,” replied Procope. “I have taken the
same course as I should have done at sea, and I have kept
some distance to windward of the island; we can bear
straight down upon it whenever we like.”
“Bear down then, now; and as quickly as you can.”
The yawl was at once put with her head to the north
east, and Captain Servadac, in defiance of the icy blast,
remained standing at the bow, his gaze fixed on the
horizon.
All at once his eye brightened.
“Look, look!” he exclaimed, pointing to a faint outline
that broke the monotony of the circle that divided the
plain from the sky.
In an instant the lieutenant had seized his telescope.
“I see what you mean,” said he; “it is a pylone that
has been used for some geodesic survey,”
The next moment the sail was filled, and the yawl was
bearing down upon the object with inconceivable swiftness,
both Captain Servadac and the lieutenant too excited to
utter a word. Mile after mile the distance rapidly grew
less, and as they drew nearer the pylone they could see
that it was erected on a low mass of rocks that was the
sole interruption to the dull level of the field of ice. No
wreath of smoke rose above the little island; it was
manifestly impossible, they conceived, that any human
being could there have survived the cold; the sad presentiment
forced itself upon their minds that it was a mere
cairn to which they had been hurrying.
Ten minutes later, and they were so near the rock that
the lieutenant took in his sail, convinced that the impetus
already attained would be sufficient to carry him to the
land. Servadac's heart bounded as he caught sight of a
fragment of blue canvas fluttering in the wind from the top
of the pylone: it was all that now remained of the
French national standard. At the foot of the pylone
stood a miserable shed, its shutters tightly closed. No
other habitation was to be seen; the entire island was less
than a quarter of a mile in circumference; and the conclusion
was irresistible that it was the sole surviving
remnant of Formentera, once a member of the Balearic
Archipelago.
To leap on shore, to clamber over the slippery stones,
and to reach the cabin was but the work of a few moments.
The worm-eaten door was bolted on the inside. Servadac
began to knock with all his might. No answer. Neither
shouting nor knocking could draw forth a reply.
“Let us force it open, Procope!” he said.
The two men put their shoulders to the door, which
soon yielded to their vigourous efforts, and they found
themselves inside the shed, and in almost total darkness.
By opening a shutter they admitted what daylight they
could. At first sight the wretched place seemed to be
deserted; the little grate contained the ashes of a fire long
since extinguished; all looked black and desolate. Another
instant's investigation, however, revealed a bed in the
extreme corner, and extended on the bed a human form.
“Dead!” sighed Servadac; “dead of cold and hunger!”
Lieutenant Procope bent down and anxiously contemplated
the body.
“No; he is alive!” he said, and drawing a small flask
from his pocket he poured a few drops of brandy between
the lips of the senseless man.
There was a faint sigh, followed by a feeble voice, which
uttered the one word—
“Gallia?”
“Yes, yes! Gallia!” echoed Servadac, eagerly.
“My comet, my comet!” said the voice, so low as to be
almost inaudible, and the unfortunate man relapsed again
into unconsciousness.
“Where have I seen this man?” thought Servadac to
himself; “his face is strangely familiar to me.”
But it was no time for deliberation. Not a moment
was to be lost in getting the unconscious astronomer away
from his desolate quarters. He was soon conveyed to the
yawl; his books, his scanty wardrobe, his papers, his
instruments, and the black board which had served for his
calculations, were quickly collected; the wind, by a fortuitous
Providence, had shifted into a favourable quarter;
they set their sail with all speed, and ere long were on their
journey back from Formentera.
Thirty-six hours later, the brave travellers were greeted
by the acclamations of their fellow-colonists, who had been
most anxiously awaiting their re-appearance, and the still
senseless savant, who had neither opened his eyes nor
spoken a word throughout the journey, was safely deposited
in the warmth and security of the great hall of
Nina's Hive.
END OF FIRST PART.
