The Mysterious Island (74 page)

The engineer stopped them.

He led his companions to a hollow in the rocks, and there—

"We must wait," said he. "The tide is high. At low water the way will be
open."

"But what can make you think-" asked Pencroft.

"He would not have called us if the means had been wanting to enable us
to reach him!"

Cyrus Harding spoke in a tone of such thorough conviction that no
objection was raised. His remark, besides, was logical. It was quite
possible that an opening, practicable at low water, though hidden now by
the high tide, opened at the foot of the cliff.

There was some time to wait. The colonists remained silently crouching
in a deep hollow. Rain now began to fall in torrents. The thunder was
re-echoed among the rocks with a grand sonorousness.

The colonists' emotion was great. A thousand strange and extraordinary
ideas crossed their brains, and they expected some grand and superhuman
apparition, which alone could come up to the notion they had formed of
the mysterious genius of the island.

At midnight, Harding carrying the lantern, descended to the beach to
reconnoiter.

The engineer was not mistaken. The beginning of an immense excavation
could be seen under the water. There the wire, bending at a right angle,
entered the yawning gulf.

Cyrus Harding returned to his companions, and said simply,—

"In an hour the opening will be practicable."

"It is there, then?" said Pencroft.

"Did you doubt it?" returned Harding.

"But this cavern must be filled with water to a certain height,"
observed Herbert.

"Either the cavern will be completely dry," replied Harding, "and in
that case we can traverse it on foot, or it will not be dry, and some
means of transport will be put at our disposal."

An hour passed. All climbed down through the rain to the level of the
sea. There was now eight feet of the opening above the water. It was
like the arch of a bridge, under which rushed the foaming water.

Leaning forward, the engineer saw a black object floating on the
water. He drew it towards him. It was a boat, moored to some interior
projection of the cave. This boat was iron-plated. Two oars lay at the
bottom.

"Jump in!" said Harding.

In a moment the settlers were in the boat. Neb and Ayrton took the
oars, Pencroft the rudder. Cyrus Harding in the bows, with the lantern,
lighted the way.

The elliptical roof, under which the boat at first passed, suddenly
rose; but the darkness was too deep, and the light of the lantern too
slight, for either the extent, length, height, or depth of the cave to
be ascertained. Solemn silence reigned in this basaltic cavern. Not a
sound could penetrate into it, even the thunder peals could not pierce
its thick sides.

Such immense caves exist in various parts of the world, natural crypts
dating from the geological epoch of the globe. Some are filled by the
sea; others contain entire lakes in their sides. Such is Fingal's Cave,
in the island of Staffa, one of the Hebrides; such are the caves of
Morgat, in the bay of Douarnenez, in Brittany, the caves of Bonifacio,
in Corsica, those of Lyse-Fjord, in Norway; such are the immense Mammoth
caverns in Kentucky, 500 feet in height, and more than twenty miles in
length! In many parts of the globe, nature has excavated these caverns,
and preserved them for the admiration of man.

Did the cavern which the settlers were now exploring extend to the
center of the island? For a quarter of an hour the boat had been
advancing, making detours, indicated to Pencroft by the engineer in
short sentences, when all at once,—

"More to the right!" he commanded.

The boat, altering its course, came up alongside the right wall. The
engineer wished to see if the wire still ran along the side.

The wire was there fastened to the rock.

"Forward!" said Harding.

And the two oars, plunging into the dark waters, urged the boat onwards.

On they went for another quarter of an hour, and a distance of
half-a-mile must have been cleared from the mouth of the cave, when
Harding's voice was again heard.

"Stop!" said he.

The boat stopped, and the colonists perceived a bright light
illuminating the vast cavern, so deeply excavated in the bowels of the
island, of which nothing had ever led them to suspect the existence.

At a height of a hundred feet rose the vaulted roof, supported on basalt
shafts. Irregular arches, strange moldings, appeared on the columns
erected by nature in thousands from the first epochs of the formation of
the globe. The basalt pillars, fitted one into the other, measured
from forty to fifty feet in height, and the water, calm in spite of the
tumult outside, washed their base. The brilliant focus of light, pointed
out by the engineer, touched every point of rocks, and flooded the walls
with light.

By reflection the water reproduced the brilliant sparkles, so that the
boat appeared to be floating between two glittering zones. They could
not be mistaken in the nature of the irradiation thrown from the glowing
nucleus, whose clear rays were shattered by all the angles, all the
projections of the cavern. This light proceeded from an electric source,
and its white color betrayed its origin. It was the sun of this cave,
and it filled it entirely.

At a sign from Cyrus Harding the oars again plunged into the water,
causing a regular shower of gems, and the boat was urged forward towards
the light, which was now not more than half a cable's length distant.

At this place the breadth of the sheet of water measured nearly 350
feet, and beyond the dazzling center could be seen an enormous basaltic
wall, blocking up any issue on that side. The cavern widened here
considerably, the sea forming a little lake. But the roof, the side
walls, the end cliff, all the prisms, all the peaks, were flooded with
the electric fluid, so that the brilliancy belonged to them, and as if
the light issued from them.

In the center of the lake a long cigar-shaped object floated on the
surface of the water, silent, motionless. The brilliancy which issued
from it escaped from its sides as from two kilns heated to a white heat.
This apparatus, similar in shape to an enormous whale, was about 250
feet long, and rose about ten or twelve above the water.

The boat slowly approached it, Cyrus Harding stood up in the bows. He
gazed, a prey to violent excitement. Then, all at once, seizing the
reporter's arm,—

"It is he! It can only be he!" he cried, "he!—"

Then, falling back on the seat, he murmured a name which Gideon Spilett
alone could hear.

The reporter evidently knew this name, for it had a wonderful effect
upon him, and he answered in a hoarse voice,—

"He! an outlawed man!"

"He!" said Harding.

At the engineer's command the boat approached this singular floating
apparatus. The boat touched the left side, from which escaped a ray of
light through a thick glass.

Harding and his companions mounted on the platform. An open hatchway was
there. All darted down the opening.

At the bottom of the ladder was a deck, lighted by electricity. At the
end of this deck was a door, which Harding opened.

A richly-ornamented room, quickly traversed by the colonists, was joined
to a library, over which a luminous ceiling shed a flood of light.

At the end of the library a large door, also shut, was opened by the
engineer.

An immense saloon—a sort of museum, in which were heaped up, with
all the treasures of the mineral world, works of art, marvels of
industry—appeared before the eyes of the colonists, who almost thought
themselves suddenly transported into a land of enchantment.

Stretched on a rich sofa they saw a man, who did not appear to notice
their presence.

Then Harding raised his voice, and to the extreme surprise of his
companions, he uttered these words,—

"Captain Nemo, you asked for us! We are here.—"

At these words the reclining figure rose, and the electric light fell
upon his countenance; a magnificent head, the forehead high, the glance
commanding, beard white, hair abundant and falling over the shoulders.

His hand rested upon the cushion of the divan from which he had just
risen. He appeared perfectly calm. It was evident that his strength had
been gradually undermined by illness, but his voice seemed yet powerful,
as he said in English, and in a tone which evinced extreme surprise,—

"Sir, I have no name."

"Nevertheless, I know you!" replied Cyrus Harding.

Captain Nemo fixed his penetrating gaze upon the engineer, as though he
were about to annihilate him.

Then, falling back amid the pillows of the divan,—

"After all, what matters now?" he murmured; "I am dying!"

Cyrus Harding drew near the captain, and Gideon Spilett took his
hand—it was of a feverish heat. Ayrton, Pencroft, Herbert, and Neb
stood respectfully apart in an angle of the magnificent saloon, whose
atmosphere was saturated with the electric fluid.

Meanwhile Captain Nemo withdrew his hand, and motioned the engineer and
the reporter to be seated.

All regarded him with profound emotion. Before them they beheld that
being whom they had styled the "genius of the island," the powerful
protector whose intervention, in so many circumstances, had been so
efficacious, the benefactor to whom they owed such a debt of gratitude!
Their eyes beheld a man only, and a man at the point of death, where
Pencroft and Neb had expected to find an almost supernatural being!

But how happened it that Cyrus Harding had recognized Captain Nemo? why
had the latter so suddenly risen on hearing this name uttered, a name
which he had believed known to none?—

The captain had resumed his position on the divan, and leaning on his
arm, he regarded the engineer, seated near him.

"You know the name I formerly bore, sir?" he asked.

"I do," answered Cyrus Harding, "and also that of this wonderful
submarine vessel—"

"The 'Nautilus'?" said the captain, with a faint smile.

"The 'Nautilus.'"

"But do you—do you know who I am?"

"I do."

"It is nevertheless many years since I have held any communication with
the inhabited world; three long years have I passed in the depth of
the sea, the only place where I have found liberty! Who then can have
betrayed my secret?"

"A man who was bound to you by no tie, Captain Nemo, and who,
consequently, cannot be accused of treachery."

"The Frenchman who was cast on board my vessel by chance sixteen years
since?"

"The same."

"He and his two companions did not then perish in the maelstrom, in the
midst of which the 'Nautilus' was struggling?"

"They escaped, and a book has appeared under the title of 'Twenty
Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,' which contains your history."

"The history of a few months only of my life!" interrupted the captain
impetuously.

"It is true," answered Cyrus Harding, "but a few months of that strange
life have sufficed to make you known."

"As a great criminal, doubtless!" said Captain Nemo, a haughty smile
curling his lips. "Yes, a rebel, perhaps an outlaw against humanity!"

The engineer was silent.

"Well, sir?"

"It is not for me to judge you, Captain Nemo," answered Cyrus Harding,
"at any rate as regards your past life. I am, with the rest of the
world, ignorant of the motives which induced you to adopt this strange
mode of existence, and I cannot judge of effects without knowing their
causes; but what I do know is, that a beneficent hand has constantly
protected us since our arrival on Lincoln Island, that we all owe our
lives to a good, generous, and powerful being, and that this being so
powerful, good and generous, Captain Nemo, is yourself!"

"It is I," answered the captain simply.

The engineer and the reporter rose. Their companions had drawn near, and
the gratitude with which their hearts were charged was about to express
itself in their gestures and words.

Captain Nemo stopped them by a sign, and in a voice which betrayed more
emotion than he doubtless intended to show.

"Wait till you have heard all," he said.

And the captain, in a few concise sentences, ran over the events of his
life.

His narrative was short, yet he was obliged to summon up his whole
remaining energy to arrive at the end. He was evidently contending
against extreme weakness. Several times Cyrus Harding entreated him to
repose for a while, but he shook his head as a man to whom the morrow
may never come, and when the reporter offered his assistance,—

"It is useless," he said; "my hours are numbered."

Captain Nemo was an Indian, the Prince Dakkar, son of a rajah of the
then independent territory of Bundelkund. His father sent him, when ten
years of age, to Europe, in order that he might receive an education
in all respects complete, and in the hopes that by his talents and
knowledge he might one day take a leading part in raising his long
degraded and heathen country to a level with the nations of Europe.

From the age of ten years to that of thirty Prince Dakkar, endowed by
Nature with her richest gifts of intellect, accumulated knowledge of
every kind, and in science, literature, and art his researches were
extensive and profound.

He traveled over the whole of Europe. His rank and fortune caused him to
be everywhere sought after; but the pleasures of the world had for him
no attractions. Though young and possessed of every personal advantage,
he was ever grave—somber even—devoured by an unquenchable thirst for
knowledge, and cherishing in the recesses of his heart the hope that
he might become a great and powerful ruler of a free and enlightened
people.

Still, for long the love of science triumphed over all other feelings.
He became an artist deeply impressed by the marvels of art, a
philosopher to whom no one of the higher sciences was unknown, a
statesman versed in the policy of European courts. To the eyes of those
who observed him superficially he might have passed for one of those
cosmopolitans, curious of knowledge, but disdaining action; one of those
opulent travelers, haughty and cynical, who move incessantly from place
to place, and are of no country.