An Antarctic Mystery (8 page)

"It is ice," said he, "and it is lucky that it is dissolving.
The
Halbrane
might have come to serious grief by collision with it
in the night."

I was struck by the fixity of his gaze upon the object, whose nature
he had so promptly declared: he continued to contemplate it for
several minutes, and I guessed what was passing in the mind of the
man under the obsession of a fixed idea. This fragment of ice, torn
from the southern icebergs, came from those waters wherein his
thoughts continually ranged. He wanted to see it more near, perhaps
at close quarters, it might be to take away some bits of it. At an
order from West the schooner was directed towards the floating mass;
presently we were within two cables'-length, and I could examine
it.

The mound in the center was melting rapidly; before the end of the
day nothing would remain of the fragment of ice which had been
carried by the currents so high up as the forty-fifth parallel.

Captain Len Guy gazed at it steadily, but he now needed no glass,
and presently we all began to distinguish a second object which
little by little detached itself from the mass, according as the
melting process went on—a black shape, stretched on the white ice.

What was our surprise, mingled with horror, when we saw first an
arm, then a leg, then a trunk, then a head appear, forming a human
body, not in a state of nakedness, but clothed in dark garments.

For a moment I even thought that the limbs moved, that the hands
were stretched towards us.

The crew uttered a simultaneous cry. No! this body was not moving,
but it was slowly slipping off the icy surface.

I looked at Captain Len Guy. His face was as livid as that of the
corpse that had drifted down from the far latitudes of the austral
zone. What could be done was done to recover the body of the
unfortunate man, and who can tell whether a faint breath of life did
not animate it even then? In any case his pockets might perhaps
contain some document that would enable his identity to be
established. Then, accompanied by a last prayer, those human remains
should be committed to the depths of the ocean, the cemetery of
sailors who die at sea.

A boat Was let down. I followed it with my eyes as it neared the
side of the ice fragment eaten by the waves.

Hurliguerly set foot upon a spot which still offered some
resistance. Gratian got out after him, while Francis kept the boat
fast by the chain. The two crept along the ice until they reached
the corpse, then drew it to them by the arms and legs and so got it
into the boat. A few strokes of the oars and the boatswain had
rejoined the schooner. The corpse, completely frozen, having been
laid at the foot of the mizen mast, Captain Len Guy approached and
examined it long and closely, as though he sought to recognize it.

It was the corpse of a sailor, dressed in coarse stuff, woollen
trousers and a patched jersey; a belt encircled his waist twice. His
death had evidently occurred some months previously, probably very
soon after the unfortunate man had been carried away by the drift.
He was about forty, with slightly grizzled hair, a mere skeleton
covered with skin. He must have suffered agonies of hunger.

Captain Len Guy lifted up the hair, which had been preserved by the
cold, raised the head, gazed upon the scaled eyelids, and finally
said with a sort of sob,—

"Patterson! Patterson!"

"Patterson?" I exclaimed.

The name, common as it was, touched some chord in my memory. When
had I heard it uttered? Had I read it anywhere?

At this moment, James West, on a hint from the boatswain, searched
the pockets of the dead man, and took out of them a knife, some
string, an empty tobacco box, and lastly a leather pocket-book
furnished with a metallic pencil.

"Give me that," said the captain. Some of the leaves were
covered with writing, almost entirely effaced by the damp. He found,
however, some words on the last page which were still legible, and
my emotion may be imagined when I heard him read aloud in a
trembling voice: "The
Jane . . .
Tsalal island . . . by
eighty-three . . . There . . . eleven years . . . Captain . . . five
sailors surviving . . . Hasten to bring them aid."

And under these lines was a name, a signature, the name of Patterson!

Then I remembered! Patterson was the second officer of the
Jane
, the
mate of that schooner which had picked up Arthur Pym and Dirk Peters
on the wreck of the
Grampus
, the
Jane
having reached Tsalal Island;
the
Jane
which was attacked by natives and blown up in the midst of
those waters.

So then it was all true? Edgar Poe's work was that of an
historian, not a writer of romance? Arthur Gordon Pym's journal
had actually been confided to him! Direct relations had been
established between them! Arthur Pym existed, or rather he had
existed, he was a real being! And he had died, by a sudden and
deplorable death under circumstances not revealed before he had
completed the narrative of his extraordinary voyage. And what
parallel had he reached on leaving Tsalal Island with his companion,
Dirk Peters, and how had both of them been restored to their native
land, America?

I thought my head was turning, that I was going mad—I who accused
Captain Guy of being insane! No! I had not heard aright! I had
misunderstood? This was a mere phantom of my fancy!

And yet, how was I to reject the evidence found on the body of the
mate of the
Jane
, that Patterson whose words were supported by
ascertained dates? And above all, how could I retain a doubt, after
James West, who was the most self-possessed among us, had succeeded
in deciphering the following fragments of sentences:—

"Drifting since the 3rd of June north of Tsalal Island...Still
there...Captain William Guy and five of the men of the
Jane
—the
piece of ice I am on is drifting across the iceberg...food will soon
fail me...Since the 13th of June...my last resources
exhausted...to-day...16th of June . . . I am going to die."

So then for nearly three months Patterson's body had lain on the
surface of this ice-waif which we had met on our way from the
Kerguelens to Tristan d'Acunha! Ah! why had we not saved the mate
of the
Jane
!

I had to yield to evidence. Captain Len Guy, who knew Patterson, had
recognized him in this frozen corpse! It was indeed he who
accompanied the captain of the
Jane
when he had interred that
bottle, containing the letter which I had refused to believe
authentic, at the Kerguelens. Yes! for eleven years, the survivors
of the English schooner had been cast away there without any hope of
succour.

Len Guy turned to me and said, "Do you believe—
now
?"

"I believe," said I, falteringly; "but Captain William Guy of
the
Jane
, and Captain Len Guy of the
Halbrane
—"

"Are brothers!" he cried in a loud voice, which was heard by all
the crew.

Then we turned our eyes once more to the place where the lump of ice
had been floating; but the double influence of the solar rays and
the waters in this latitude had produced its effect, no trace of the
dead man's last refuge remained on the surface of the sea.

Four days later, the
Halbrane
neared that curious island of Tristan
d'Acunha, which may be described as the big boiler of the African
seas. By that time I had come to realize that the
"hallucination" of Captain Len Guy was a truth, and that he and
the captain of the
Jane
(also a reality) were connected with each
other by this ocean waif from the authentic expedition of Arthur
Pym. My last doubts were buried in the depths of the ocean with the
body of Patterson.

And now, what was Captain Len Guy going to do? There was not a
shadow of doubt on that point. He would take the
Halbrane
to Tsalal
Island, as marked upon Patterson's note-book. His lieutenant,
James West, would go whithersoever he was ordered to go; his crew
would not hesitate to follow him, and would not be stopped by any
fear of passing the limits assigned to human power, for the soul of
their captain and the strength of their lieutenant would be in them.

This, then, was the reason why Captain Len Guy refused to take
passengers on board his ship, and why he had told me that his routes
never were certain; he was always hoping that an opportunity for
venturing into the sea of ice might arise. Who could tell indeed,
whether he would not have sailed for the south at once without
putting in at Tristan d'Acunha, if he had not wanted water? After
what I had said before I went on board the
Halbrane
, I should have
had no right to insist on his proceeding to the island for the sole
purpose of putting me ashore. But a supply of water was
indispensable, and besides, it might be possible there to put the
schooner in a condition to contend with the icebergs and gain the
open sea—since open it was beyond the eighty-second parallel—in
fact to attempt what Lieutenant Wilkes of the American Navy was then
attempting.

The navigators knew at this period, that from the middle of November
to the beginning of March was the limit during which some success
might be looked for. The temperature is more bearable then, storms
are less frequent, the icebergs break loose from the mass, the ice
wall has holes in it, and perpetual day reigns in that distant
region.

Tristan d'Acunha lies to the south of the zone of the regular
south-west winds. Its climate is mild and moist. The prevailing
winds are west and north-west, and, during the winter—August and
September—south. The island was inhabited, from 1811, by American
whale fishers. After them, English soldiers were installed there to
watch the St. Helena seas, and these remained until after the death
of Napoleon, in 1821. Several years later the group of islands
populated by Americans and Dutchmen from the Cape acknowledged the
suzerainty of Great Britain, but this was not so in 1839. My
personal observation at that date convinced me that the possession
of Tristan d'Acunha was not worth disputing. In the sixteenth
century the islands were called the Land of Life.

On the 5th of September, in the morning, the towering volcano of the
chief island was signalled; a huge snow-covered mass, whose crater
formed the basin of a small lake. Next day, on our approach, we
could distinguish a vast heaped-up lava field. At this distance the
surface of the water was striped with gigantic seaweeds, vegetable
ropes, varying in length from six hundred to twelve hundred feet,
and as thick as a wine barrel.

Here I should mention that for three days subsequent to the finding
of the fragment of ice, Captain Len Guy came on deck for strictly
nautical purposes only, and I had no opportunities of seeing him
except at meals, when he maintained silence, that not even James
West could have enticed him to break. I made no attempt to do this,
being convinced that the hour would come when Len Guy would again
speak to me of his brother, and of the efforts which he intended to
make to save him and his companions. Now, I repeat, the season being
considered, that hour had not come, when the schooner cast anchor on
the 6th of September at Ansiedling, in Falmouth Bay, precisely in
the place indicated in Arthur Pym's narrative as the moorings of
the
Jane
.

At the period of the arrival of the
Jane
, an ex-corporal of the
English artillery, named Glass, reigned over a little colony of
twenty-six individuals, who traded with the Cape, and whose only
vessel was a small schooner. At our arrival this Glass had more than
fifty subjects, and was, as Arthur Pym remarked, quite independent
of the British Government. Relations with the ex-corporal were
established on the arrival of the
Halbrane
, and he proved very
friendly and obliging. West, to whom the captain left the business
of refilling the water tanks and taking in supplies of fresh meat
and vegetables, had every reason to be satisfied with Glass, who, no
doubt, expected to be paid, and was paid, handsomely.

The day after our arrival I met ex-corporal Glass, a vigorous,
well-preserved man, whose sixty years had not impaired his
intelligent vivacity. Independently of his trade with the Cape and
the Falklands, he did an important business in seal-skins and the
oil of marine animals, and his affairs were prosperous. As he
appeared very willing to talk, I entered briskly into conversation
with this self-appointed Governor of a contented little colony, by
asking him,—

"Do many ships put in to Tristan d'Acunha?"

"As many as we require," he replied, rubbing his bands together
behind his back, according to his invariable custom.

"In the fine season?"

"Yes, in the fine season, if indeed we can be said to have any
other in these latitudes."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Glass. But it is to be regretted that
Tristan d'Acunha has not a single port. If you possessed a
landing-stage, now?"

"For what purpose, sir, when nature has provided us with such a
bay as this, where there is shelter from gales, and it is easy to
lie snug right up against the rocks? No, Tristan has no port, and
Tristan can do without one."

Why should I have contradicted this good man? He was proud of his
island, just as the Prince of Monaco is justly proud of his tiny
principality.

I did not persist, and we talked of various things. He offered to
arrange for me an excursion to the depths of the thick forests,
which clothed the volcano up to the middle of the central cove.

I thanked him, but declined his offer, preferring to employ my
leisure on land in some mineralogical studies. Besides, the
Halbrane
was to set sail so soon as she had taken in her provisions.