CHAPTER XII.AT THE MERCY OF THE WINDS.
As the affrighted cormorants had winged their flight
towards the south, there sprang up a sanguine hope on
board the schooner that land might be discovered in that
direction. Thither, accordingly, it was determined to
proceed, and in a few hours after quitting the island of the
tomb, the Dobryna was traversing the shallow waters that
now covered the peninsula of Dakhul, which had separated
the Bay of Tunis from the Gulf of Hammamet. For two
days she continued an undeviating course, and after a futile
search for the coast of the Sahel of Tunis, reached the
latitude of 34°, where the meridian had crossed the Gulf
of Cabes, but not a trace could be discerned of the estuary
that six weeks before had been the inlet to the channel
that had flooded the new Sahara Sea. Far as the eye could
reach it was all ocean, stretching away indefinitely.
However, before that day, the 11th of February, had
closed in, there suddenly arose the cry of “Land!” and in
the extreme horizon, right ahead, where land had never
been before, it was true enough that a shore was distinctly
to be seen. What could it be? It could not be the coast
of Tripoli; for not only would that low-lying shore be
quite invisible at such a distance, but it was certain, moreover,
that it lay two degrees at least still further south. It
was soon observed that this newly discovered land was of
very irregular elevation, that it extended due east and
west across the horizon, thus dividing the gulf into two
separate sections and completely concealing the island of
Jerba, which must lie behind, and that apparently it had
partially filled in the Sahara Sea. Its position was duly
traced on the Dobryna's chart.
“How strange,” exclaimed Hector Servadac, “that
after sailing all this time over sea where we expected to
find land, we have at last come upon land where we thought
to find sea!”
“Strange, indeed,” replied Lieutenant Procope; “and
what appears to me almost as remarkable is that we have
never once caught sight either of one of the Maltese
tartans or one of the Levantine xebecs that traffic so
regularly on the Mediterranean.”
“Eastwards or westwards,” asked the count—“which
shall be our course? All farther progress to the south is
checked.”
“Westwards, by all means,” replied Servadac quickly.
“I am longing to know whether anything of Algeria is
left beyond the Shelif; besides, as we pass Gourbi Island
we might take Ben Zoof on board, and then make away
for Gibraltar, where we should be sure to learn something,
at least, of European news.”
With his usual air of stately courtesy, Count Timascheff
begged the captain to consider the yacht at his own
disposal, and desired him to give the lieutenant instructions
accordingly.
Lieutenant Procope, however, hesitated, and after
revolving matters for a few moments in his mind, pointed
out that as the wind was blowing directly from the west,
and seemed likely to increase, if they went to the west in
the teeth of the weather, the schooner would be reduced
to the use of her engine only, and would have much difficulty
in making any headway; on the other hand, by
taking an eastward course, not only would they have the
advantage of the wind, but, under steam and canvas, might
hope in a few days to be off the coast of Egypt, and
from Alexandria or some other port they would have
the same opportunity of getting tidings from Europe as
they would at Gibraltar.
Intensely anxious as he was to revisit the province of
Oran, and eager, too, to satisfy himself of the welfare of
his faithful Ben Zoof, Servadac could not but own the
reasonableness of the lieutenant's objections, and yielded to
the proposal that the eastward course should be adopted.
The wind gave signs only too threatening of the breeze
rising to a gale; but, fortunately, the waves did not culminate
in breakers, but rather in a long swell which ran in
the same direction as the vessel.
During the last fortnight the high temperature had been
gradually diminishing, until it now reached an average of
20° Cent, (or 68° Fahr.), and sometimes descended as low
as 15°, That this diminution was to be attributed to the
change in the earth's orbit was a question that admitted of
little doubt. After approaching so near to the sun as to
cross the orbit of Venus, the earth must now have receded
so far from the sun that its normal distance of ninety-one
millions of miles was greatly increased, and the probability
was great that it was approximating to the orbit of Mars,
that planet which in its physical constitution most nearly
resembles our own. Nor was this supposition suggested
merely by the lowering of the temperature; it was strongly
corroborated by the reduction of the apparent diameter of
the sun's disc to the precise dimensions which it would
assume to an observer actually stationed on the surface of
Mars. The necessary inference that seemed to follow from
these phenomena was that the earth had been projected
into a new orbit, which had the form of a very elongated
ellipse.
Very slight, however, in comparison was the regard
which these astronomical wonders attracted on board the
Dobryna. All interest there was too much absorbed in
terrestrial matters, and in ascertaining what changes had
taken place in the configuration of the earth itself, to
permit much attention to be paid to its erratic movements
through space.
The schooner kept bravely on her way, but well out to
sea, at a distance of two miles from land. There was good
need of this precaution, for so precipitous was the shore
that a vessel driven upon it must inevitably have gone to
pieces; it did not offer a single harbour of refuge, but,
smooth and perpendicular as the walls of a fortress, it rose
to a height of two hundred, and occasionally of three
hundred feet The waves dashed violently against its base.
Upon the general substratum rested a massive conglomerate,
the crystallizations of which rose like a forest of
gigantic pyramids and obelisks.
But what struck the explorers more than anything was
the appearance of singular newness that pervaded the
whole of the region. It all seemed so recent in its formation
that the atmosphere had had no opportunity of producing
its wonted effect in softening the hardness of its
lines, in rounding the sharpness of its angles, or in modifying
the colour of its surface; its outline was clearly
marked against the sky, and its substance, smooth and
polished as though fresh from a founder's mould, glittered
with the metallic brilliancy that is characteristic of pyrites.
It seemed impossible to come to any other conclusion but
that the land before them, continent or island, had been
upheaved by subterranean forces above the surface of the
sea, and that it was mainly composed of the same metallic
element as had characterized the dust so frequently uplifted
from the bottom.
The extreme nakedness of the entire tract was likewise
very extraordinary. Elsewhere, in various quarters of the
globe, there may be sterile rocks, but there are none so
adamant as to be altogether unfurrowed by the filaments
engendered in the moist residuum of the condensed vapour;
elsewhere there may be barren steeps, but none so rigid as
not to afford some hold to vegetation, however low and
elementary may be its type; but here all was bare, and
blank, and desolate—not a symptom of vitality was visible.
Such being the condition of the adjacent land, it could
hardly be a matter of surprise that all the sea-birds, the
albatross, the gull, the sea-mew, sought continual refuge on
the schooner; day and night they perched fearlessly upon
the yards, the report of a gun failing to dislodge them, and
when food of any sort was thrown upon the deck, they
would dart down and fight with eager voracity for the
prize. Their extreme avidity was recognized as a proof
that any land where they could obtain a sustenance must
be far remote.
Onwards thus for several days the Dobryna followed
the contour of the inhospitable coast, of which the features
would occasionally change, sometimes for two or three
miles assuming the form of a simple arris, sharply defined
as though cut by a chisel, when suddenly the prismatic
lamellae soaring in rugged confusion would again recur;
but all along there was the same absence of beach or tract
of sand to mark its base, neither were there any of those
shoals of rock that are ordinarily found in shallow water.
At rare intervals there were some narrow fissures, but not
a creek available for a ship to enter to replenish its supply
of water; and the wide roadsteads were unprotected and
exposed to well-nigh every point of the compass.
But after sailing two hundred and forty miles, the progress
of the Dobryna was suddenly arrested. Lieutenant
Procope, who had sedulously inserted the outline of the
newly revealed shore upon the maps, announced that it had
ceased to run east and west, and had taken a turn due
north, thus forming a barrier to their continuing their
previous direction. It was, of course, impossible to conjecture
how far this barrier extended; it coincided pretty
nearly with the fourteenth meridian of east longitude; and
if it reached, as probably it did, beyond Sicily to Italy, it
was certain that the vast basin of the Mediterranean, which
had washed the shores alike of Europe, Asia, and Africa,
must have been reduced to about half its original area.
It was resolved to proceed upon the same plan as
heretofore, following the boundary of the land at a safe
distance. Accordingly, the head of the Dobryna was
pointed north, making straight, as it was presumed, for the
south of Europe. A hundred miles, or somewhat over,
in that direction, and it was to be anticipated she would
come in sight of Malta, if only that ancient island, the
heritage in succession of Phoenicians, Carthaginians,
Sicilians, Romans, Vandals, Greeks, Arabians, and the
knights of Rhodes, should still be undestroyed.
But Malta, too, was gone; and when, upon the 14th,
the sounding-line was dropped upon its site, it was only
with the same result so oftentimes obtained before.
“The devastation is not limited to Africa,” observed
the count.
“Assuredly not,” assented the lieutenant; adding, “and
I confess I am almost in despair whether we shall ever
ascertain its limits. To what quarter of Europe, if Europe
still exists, do you propose that I should now direct your
course?”
“To Sicily, Italy, France!” ejaculated Servadac, eagerly—“anywhere
where we can learn the truth of what has
befallen us.”
“How if we are the sole survivors?” said the count,
gravely.
Hector Servadac was silent; his own secret presentiment
so thoroughly coincided with the doubts expressed
by the count, that he refrained from saying another word.
The coast, without deviation, still tended towards the
north, shutting off all communication with the Gulf of
Sydra, anciently the Great Syrtes, which had formerly
extended as far as Egypt; and so uninterrupted was its
continuity that there remained no longer any access by sea
to the shores of Greece or the ports of Turkey, and consequently
all approach to the southern confines of Russia by
way of the Archipelago, the Dardanelles, the Sea of Marmora,
the Bosphorus, and the Black Sea, was rendered
utterly impossible.
No alternative, therefore, remained than to take a
westerly course and to attempt to reach the northern
shores of the Mediterranean. On the 16th the Dobryna
essayed to start upon her altered way, but it seemed as if
the elements had conspired to obstruct her progress. A
furious tempest arose; the wind beat dead in the direction
of the coast, and the danger incurred by a vessel of a
tonnage so light was necessarily very great.
Lieutenant Procope was extremely uneasy. He took
in all sail, struck his topmasts, and resolved to rely entirely
on his engine. But the peril seemed only to increase.
Enormous waves caught the schooner and carried her up
to their crests, whence again she was plunged deep into the
abysses that they left. The screw failed to keep its hold
upon the water, but continually revolved with useless speed
in the vacant air; and thus, although the steam was forced
on to the extremest limit consistent with safety, the vessel
held her way with the utmost difficulty, and recoiled before
the hurricane.
Still, not a single resort for refuge did the inaccessible
shore present. Again and again the lieutenant asked himself
what would become of him and his comrades, even it
they should survive the peril of shipwreck, and gain a footing
upon the cliff. What resources could they expect to
find upon that scene of desolation? What hope could
they entertain that any portion of the old continent still
existed beyond that dreary barrier?
It was a trying time, but throughout it all the crew
behaved with the greatest courage and composure; confident
in the skill of their commander, and in the stability
of their ship, they performed their duties with steadiness
and unquestioning obedience.
But neither skill, nor courage, nor obedience could
avail; all was in vain. Despite the strain put upon her
engine, the schooner, bare of canvas (for not even the
smallest stay-sail could have withstood the violence of
the storm), was drifting with terrific speed towards the
menacing precipices, which were only a few short miles to
leeward. Fully alive to the hopelessness of their situation,
the crew were all on deck.
“All over with us, sir!” said Procope to the count.
“I have done everything that man could do; but our case
is desperate. Nothing short of a miracle can save us now.
Within an hour we must go to pieces upon yonder rocks.”
“Let us, then, commend ourselves to the providence of
Him to Whom nothing is impossible,” replied the count, in
a calm, clear voice that could be distinctly heard by all;
and as he spoke, he reverently uncovered, an example in
which he was followed by all the rest.
The destruction of the vessel seeming thus inevitable.
Lieutenant Procope took the best measures he could to
insure a few days' supply of food for any who might
escape from the wreck and get ashore. He ordered several
cases of provisions and kegs of water to be brought on
deck, and saw that they were securely lashed to some
empty barrels, to make them float after the ship had gone
down.
Less and less grew the distance from the shore, but no
creek, no inlet, could be discerned in the towering wall of
cliff, which seemed about to topple over and involve them
in annihilation. Except a change of wind or, as Procope
observed, a supernatural rifting of the rock, nothing could
bring deliverance now.
But the wind did not veer, and in a few minutes more
the schooner was hardly three cables' distance from the
fatal land. All were aware that their last moment had
arrived. Servadac and the count grasped each others'
hands for a long farewell; and, tossed by the tremendous
waves, the schooner was on the very point of being hurled
upon the cliff, when a ringing shout was heard—
“Quick, boys, quick! Hoist the jib, and right the
tiller!”
Sudden and startling as the unexpected orders were,
they were executed as if by magic.
The lieutenant, who had shouted from the bow, rushed
astern and took the helm, and before any one had time to
speculate upon the object of his manœuvres, he shouted
again—
“Look out! sharp! watch the sheets!”
An involuntary cry broke forth from all on board. But
it was no cry of terror. Right ahead was a narrow opening
in the solid rock; it was hardly forty feet wide.
Whether it was a passage or no, it mattered little; it was
at least a refuge; and, driven by wind and wave, the
Dobryna, under the dexterous guidance of the lieutenant,
dashed in between its perpendicular walls.
Had she not immured herself in a perpetual prison?