The Mysterious Island

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A MYSTERY TO BE SOLVED—THE FIRST WORDS OF THE UNKNOWN—TWELVE YEARS ON THE ISLAND—CONFESSIONS—DISAPPEARANCE—SMITH’S CONFIDENCE —BUILDING A WIND-MILL—THE FIRST BREAD—AN ACT OF DEVOTION—HONEST HANDS.

Yes, the poor creature had wept. Some remembrance had flashed across his spirit, and, as Smith had said, he would be made a man through his tears.

The colonists left him for some time, withdrawing themselves, so that he could feel perfectly at liberty; but he showed no inclination to avail himself of this freedom, and Smith soon decided to take him back to Granite House.

Two days after this occurrence, the Unknown showed a disposition to enter little by little into the common life. It was evident that he heard, that he understood, but it was equally evident that he manifested a strange disinclination to speak to them. Pencroff, listening at his room, heard these words escape him:—

“No! here! I! never!”

The sailor reported this to his companions, and Smith said:—

“There must be some sad mystery here.”

The Unknown had begun to do some little chores, and to work in the garden. When he rested, which was frequent, he seemed entirely self-absorbed; but, on the advice of the engineer, the others respected the silence, which he seemed desirous of keeping. If one of the colonists approached him he recoiled, sobbing as if overcome. Could it be by remorse? or, was it, as Spilett once suggested:—

“If he does not speak I believe it is because he has something on his mind too terrible to mention.”

Some days later the Unknown was working on the plantation, when, of a sudden, he stopped and let his spade fall, and Smith, who was watching him from a distance, saw that he was weeping again. An irresistible pity drew the engineer to the poor fellow’s side; and, touching his arm lightly,

“My friend,” said he.

The Unknown tried to look away, and when Smith sought to take his hand he drew back quickly.

“My friend,” said Smith, with decision, “I wish you to look at me.”

The Unknown obeyed, raising his eyes and regarding the other as one does who is under the influence of magnetism. At first he wished to break away, then his whole expression changed; his eyes flashed, and, unable longer to contain himself, he muttered some incoherent words. Suddenly he crossed his arms, and in a hollow voice:—

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Men shipwrecked as you have been,” replied the engineer, greatly moved. “We have brought you here among your kindred.”

“My kindred! I have none!

“You are among friends—,”

“Friends! I! Friends!” cried the Unknown, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh, no! never! Leave me! leave me!” and he rushed to the brink of the plateau overlooking the sea, and stood there, motionless, for a long time.

Smith had rejoined his companions and had related to them what had happened.

“There certainly is a mystery in this man’s life,” said Spilett, “and it seems as if his first human sensation was remorse.”

“I don’t understand what kind of a man we have brought back,” says the sailor. “He has secrets—”

“Which we will respect,” answered the engineer, quickly. “If he has committed some fault he has cruelly expiated it, and in our sight it is absolved.”

For two hours the Unknown remained upon the shore, evidently under the influence of remembrances which brought back to him all his past, a past which, doubtless, was hateful enough, and the colonists, though keeping watch upon him, respected his desire to be alone.

Suddenly he seemed to have taken a resolution, and he returned to the engineer. His eyes were red with the traces of tears, and his face wore an expression of deep humility. He seemed apprehensive, ashamed, humiliated, and his looks were fixed on the ground.

“Sir,” said he, “are you and your companions English?”

“No,” replied Smith, “we are Americans.”

“Ah!” murmured the Unknown, “I am glad of that.”

“And what are you, my friend?” asked the engineer.

“English,” he responded, as if these few words had cost him a great effort. He rushed to the shore, and traversed its length to the mouth of the Mercy, in a state of extreme agitation.

Having, at one place, met Herbert, he stopped, and in a choking voice, accosted him:—

“What month is it?”

“November,” replied the lad.

“And what year?”

“1866.”

“Twelve years! Twelve years!” he cried, and then turned quickly away.

Herbert related this incident to the others.

“The poor creature knew neither the month nor the year,” remarked Spilett.

“And he had been twelve years on the island, when we found him.”

“Twelve years,” said Smith. “Twelve years of isolation, after a wicked life, perhaps; that would indeed affect a man’s reason.”

“I cannot help thinking,” observed Pencroff, “that this man was not wrecked on that island, but that he has been left there for some crime.”

“You may be right, Pencroff,” replied the reporter, “and if that is the case, it is not impossible that whoever left him there may return for him some day.”

“And they would not find him,” said Herbert.

“But, then,” exclaimed Pencroff, “he would want to go back, and—”

“My friends,” interrupted Smith, “do not let us discuss this question till we know what we are talking about. I believe that this unhappy man has suffered, and that he has paid bitterly for his faults, whatever they may have been, and that he is struggling with the need of opening his heart to someone. Do not provoke him to speak; he will tell us of his own accord some day, and when we have learned all, we will see what course it will be necessary to follow. He alone can tell us if he has more than the hope, the certainty of some day being restored to his country, but I doubt it.”

“Why?” asked the reporter.

“Because, had he been sure of being delivered after a fixed time, he would have awaited the hour of his deliverance, and not have thrown that paper in the sea. No, it is more likely that be was condemned to die upon this island, to never look upon his kind again.”

“But there still is something which I cannot understand,” said the sailor.

“What is that?”

“Why, if this man had been left on Tabor Island twelve years ago, it seems probable that he must have been in this savage condition for a long time.”

“That is probable,” replied the engineer.

“And, therefore, it is a long time since he wrote that paper.”

“Doubtless—and yet that paper seemed to have been written recently—”

“Yes, and how account for the bottle taking so many years in coming from Tabor Island here?”

“It is not absolutely impossible,” responded the reporter. “Could not it have been in the neighborhood of the island for a long time?”

“And have remained floating? No,” answered the sailor, “for sooner or later it would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks.”

“It would, indeed,” said Smith, thoughtfully.

“And, moreover,” continued the sailor, if the paper had been enclosed in the bottle for a long time, it would have been injured by the moisture, whereas, it was not damaged in the least.”

The sailor’s remark was just, and, moreover, this paper, recently written, gave the situation of the island with an exactness which implied a knowledge of hydrography, such as a simple sailor could not have.

“There is, as I said before, something inexplicable in all this,” said the engineer, “but do not let us urge our new companion to speak, When he wishes it we will be ready to listen.”

For several days after this the Unknown neither spoke nor left the plateau. He worked incessantly, digging in the garden apart from the colonists, and at meal times, although he was often asked to join them, he remained alone, eating but a few uncooked vegetables. At night, instead of returning to his room in Granite House, he slept under the trees, or hid himself, if the weather was bad, in some hollow of the rocks. Thus he returned again to that manner of life in which he had lived when he had no other shelter than the forests of Tabor Island, and all endeavor to make him modify this life having proved fruitless, the colonists waited patiently. But the moment came when, irresistibly and as if involuntarily forced from him by his conscience, the terrible avowals were made.

At dusk on the evening of the 10th of November, as the colonists were seated in the arbor, the Unknown stood suddenly before them. His eyes glowed, and his whole appearance wore again the savage aspect of former days. He stood there, swayed by some terrible emotion, his teeth chattering like those of a person in a fever. The colonists were astounded. “What was the matter with him? Was the sight of his fellow-creatures unendurable? Had he had enough of this honest life? Was he homesick for his brutish life? One would have thought so, hearing him give utterance to these incoherent phrases:-

“Why am I here? By what right did you drag me from my island? Is there any bond between you and me? Do you know who I am—what I have done—why I was there—alone? And who has told you that I was not abandoned—that I was not condemned to die there? Do you know my past? Do you know whether I have not robbed, murdered—if I am not a miserable—a wicked being—fit to live like a wild beast—far from all—say—do you know?”

The colonists listened silently to the unhappy creature, from whom these half avowals came in spite of himself. Smith, wishing to soothe him, would have gone to him, but the Unknown drew back quickly.

“No! no!” he cried. “One word only—am I free?”.

“You are free,” replied the engineer.

“Then, good-bye!” he cried, rushing off.

Neb, Pencroff, and Herbert ran to the border of the wood, but they returned alone.

“We must let him have his own way,” said the engineer.

“He will never come back,” exclaimed Pencroff.

“He will return,” replied the engineer.

And after that conversation many days passed, but Smith—was it a presentiment—persisted in the fixed idea that the unhappy man would return sooner or later.

“It is the last struggle of this rude nature, which is touched by remorse, and which would be terrified by a new isolation.”

In the meantime, work of all kinds was continued, both on Prospect Plateau and at the corral, where Smith proposed to make a farm. It is needless to say that the seeds brought from Tabor Island had been carefully sown. The plateau was a great kitchen-garden, well laid out and enclosed, which kept the colonists always busy. As the plants multiplied, it was necessary to increase the size of the beds, which threatened to become fields, and to take the place of the grass land. But as forage abounded in other parts of the island, there was no fear of the onagers having to be placed on rations; and it was also better to make Prospect Plateau, defended by its belt of creeks, a garden of this kind, and to extend the fields, which required no protection, beyond the belt.

On the 15th of November they made their third harvest. Here was a field which had indeed increased in the eighteen months since the first grain of corn had been sown. The second crop of 600,000 grains produced this time 4,000 bushels or more than 500,000,000 grains. The colonists were, therefore, rich in corn; as it was only necessary to sow a dozen bushels each year in order to have a supply sufficient for the nourishment of man and beast.

After harvesting they, gave up the last fortnight in the month to bread-making. They had the grain but not the flour, and a mill was therefore necessary. Smith could have used the other waterfall which fell into the Mercy, but, after discussing the question, it was decided to build a simple wind-mill on the summit of the plateau. Its construction would be no more difficult than a water-mill, and they would be sure of always having a breeze on this open elevation.

“Without counting,” said Pencroff, “the fine aspect a wind-mill will give to the landscape.”

They began the work by selecting timber for the cage and machinery for the mill. Some large sand-stones, which the colonists found to the north of the lake, were readily made into mill-stones, and the inexhaustible envelope of the balloon furnished the cloth necessary for the sails.

Smith made his drawings, and the site for the mill was chosen a little to the right of the poultry-yard, and close to the lake shore. The whole cage rested upon a pivot, held in position by heavy timbers, in such a manner that it could turn, with all the mechanism within it, towards any quarter of the wind.

The work progressed rapidly. Neb and Herbert had become expert carpenters, and had only to follow the plans furnished by the engineer, so that in a very short time a sort of round watch-house, a regular pepper-box, surmounted by a sharp roof, rose upon the site selected. The four wings had been firmly fastened by iron tenons to the main shaft, in such a manner as to make a certain angle with it. As for the various parts of the interior mechanism—the two mill-stones, the runner and the feeder; the hopper, a sort of huge square trough, large above and small below, permitting the grains to fall upon the mill-stones; the oscillating bucket, designed to regulate the passage of the grain; and, finally, the bolter, which, by the operation of the sieve, separated the bran from the flour—all these were easily made. And as their tools were good, the work simple, and everybody took part in it, the mill was finished by the 1st of December.

As usual, Pencroff was overjoyed by his work, and he was sure that the machine was perfection.

“Now, with a good wind, we will merrily grind our corn.”

“Let it be a good wind, Pencroff, but not too strong,” said the engineer.

“Bah! our mill will turn the faster.”

“It is not necessary to turn rapidly,” replied the engineer. “Experience has demonstrated that the best results are obtained by a mill whose wings make six times the number of turns in a minute that the wind travels feet in a second. Thus, an ordinary wind, which travels twenty-four feet in a second, will turn the wings of the mill sixteen times in a minute, which is fast enough.”

“Already!” exclaimed Herbert, “there is a fine breeze from the northeast, which will be just the thing!”

There was no reason to delay using the mill, and the colonists were anxious to taste the bread of Lincoln Island; so this very morning two or three bushels of corn were ground, and the next day, at breakfast, a splendid loaf, rather heavy perhaps, which had been raised with the barm of beer, was displayed upon the table of Granite House. Each munched his portion with a pleasure perfectly inexpressible.

Meantime the Unknown had not come back again. Often Spilett and Herbert had searched the forest in the neighborhood of Granite House without finding any trace of him, and all began to be seriously alarmed at his prolonged absence. Undoubtedly the former savage of Tabor Island would not find it difficult to live in the forests of the Far West, which were so rich in game; but was it not to be feared that he would resume his former habits, and that his independence would revive in him his brutish instincts? Smith alone, by a sort of presentiment, persisted in saying that the fugitive would return.

“Yes, he will come back,” he repeated with a confidence in which his companions could not share. “When this poor creature was on Tabor Island, he knew he was alone, but here, he knows that his kindred await him. Since he half-spoke of his past life, he will return to tell us everything, and on that day he will be ours.”

The event proved the correctness of Cyrus Smith’s reasoning.

On the 3d of December, Herbert had gone to the southern shore of the lake, to fish, and, since the dangerous animals never showed themselves in this part of the island, he had gone unarmed.

Pencroff and Neb were working in the poultry-yard, while Smith and the reporter were occupied at the Chimneys making soda, the supply of soap being low.

Suddenly sharp cries of help were heard by Neb and Pencroff, who summoned the others, and all rushed towards the lake.

But before them, the Unknown, whose presence in the neighborhood had not been suspected, leapt over Glycerine Creek and bounded along the opposite bank.

There, Herbert stood facing a powerful jaguar, like the one which had been killed at Reptile End. Taken by surprise, he stood with his back against a tree, and the animal, crouching on his haunches, was about to spring upon him, when the Unknown, with no other arm than his knife, threw himself on the brute, which turned upon its new adversary.

The struggle was short. This man, whose strength and agility was prodigious, seized the jaguar by the throat in a vice-like grip, and, not heeding the claws of the beast tearing his flesh, he thrust his knife into its heart.

The jaguar fell, and the Unknown was about turning to go away, when the colonists came up, and Herbert, catching hold of him, exclaimed:—

“No, no, you must not leave us!”

Smith walked towards the man, who frowned at his approach. The blood was flowing from a wound in his shoulder, but he did not heed it.

“My friend,” said Smith, “we are in your debt. You have risked your life to save our boy.”

“My life,” murmured the Unknown; “what is it worth? less than nothing.”

“You are wounded?”

“That does not matter.”

“Will you not shake hands with me?” asked Herbert.

But on the lad’s seeking to take his hand, the Unknown folded his arms, his chest heaved, and he looked about as if he wished to escape; but, making a violent effort at self-control, and in a gruff voice:—

“Who are you?” he asked, “and what are you going to do with me?”

It was their history that he thus asked for, for the first time. Perhaps, if that was related, he would tell his own. So Smith, in a few words, recounted all that had happened since their departure from Richmond; how they had succeeded, and the resources now at their disposal.

The Unknown listened with the utmost attention.

Then Smith told him who they all were, Spilett, Herbert, Pencroff, Neb, himself, and he added that the greatest happiness that had come to them since their arrival on Lincoln Island was on their return from the islet, when they could count one more companion.

At these words the other colored up, and bowing his head, seemed greatly agitated.

“And now that you know us,” asked Smith, “will you give us your hand?”

“No,” answered the Unknown in a hoarse voice; “no! You are honest men. But I—”