An Antarctic Mystery - Jules Verne (good summer reads TXT) 📗

But hunger, devouring hunger!”

“Come, come, Dirk Peters,” said I, “you exaggerate! If the lot had fallen to you, you would have incurred the fate of Parker. You cannot be charged with a crime.”

“Sir, would Parker’s family speak of it as you do?”

“His family! Had he then relations?”

“Yes⁠—and that is why Pym changed his name in the narrative. Parker’s name was not Parker⁠—it was⁠—”

“Arthur Pym was right,” I said, interrupting him quickly, “and as for me, I do not wish to know Parker’s real name. Keep this secret.”

“No, I will tell it to you. It weighs too heavily on me, and I shall be relieved, perhaps, when I have told you, Mr. Jeorling.”

“No, Dirk Peters, no!”

“His name was Holt⁠—Ned Holt.”

“Holt!” I exclaimed, “the same name as our sailing-master’s.”

“Who is his own brother, sir.”

“Martin Holt?”

“Yes⁠—understand me⁠—his brother.”

“But he believes that Ned Holt perished in the wreck of the Grampus with the rest.”

“It was not so, and if he learned that I⁠—”

Just at that instant a violent shock flung me out of my bunk.

The schooner had made such a lurch to the port side that she was near foundering.

I heard an angry voice cry out:

“What dog is that at the helm?”

It was the voice of West, and the person he addressed was Hearne.

I rushed out of my cabin.

“Have you let the wheel go?” repeated West, who had seized Hearne by the collar of his jersey.

“Lieutenant⁠—I don’t know⁠—”

“Yes, I tell you, you have let it go. A little more and the schooner would have capsized under full sail.”

“Gratian,” cried West, calling one of the sailors, “take the helm; and you, Hearne, go down into the hold.”

On a sudden the cry of “Land!” resounded, and every eye was turned southwards.

XIX Land

“Land” is the only word to be found at the beginning of the nineteenth chapter of Edgar Poe’s book. I thought it would be a good idea⁠—placing after it a note of interrogation⁠—to put it as a heading to this portion of our narrative.

Did that word, dropped from our foremasthead, indicate an island or a continent? And, whether a continent or an island, did not a disappointment await us? Could they be there whom we had come to seek? And Arthur Pym, who was dead, unquestionably dead, in spite of Dirk Peters’ assertions, had he ever set foot on this land?

When the welcome word resounded on board the Jane on the 17th January, 1828⁠—(a day full of incidents according to Arthur Pym’s diary)⁠—it was succeeded by “Land on the starboard bow!” Such might have been the signal from the masthead of the Halbrane.

The outlines of land lightly drawn above the sky line were visible on this side.

The land announced to the sailors of the Jane was the wild and barren Bennet Islet. Less than one degree south of it lay Tsalal Island, then fertile, habitable and inhabited, and on which Captain Len Guy had hoped to meet his fellow-countrymen. But what would this unknown island, five degrees farther off in the depths of the southern sea, be for our schooner? Was it the goal so ardently desired and so earnestly sought for? Were the two brothers, William and Len Guy, to meet at this place. Would the Halbrane come there to the end of a voyage whose success would be definitely secured by the restoration of the survivors of the Jane to their country?

I repeat that I was just like the half-breed. Our aim was not merely to discover the survivors, nor was success in this matter the only success we looked for. However, since land was before our eyes, we must get nearer to it first.

That cry of “Land” caused an immediate diversion of our thoughts. I no longer dwelt upon the secret Dirk Peters had just told me⁠—and perhaps the half-breed forgot it also, for he rushed to the bow and fixed his eyes immovably on the horizon. As for West, whom nothing could divert from his duty, he repeated his commands. Gratian came to take the helm, and Hearne was shut up in the hold.

On the whole this was a just punishment, and none of the old crew protested against it, for Hearne’s inattention or awkwardness had really endangered the schooner, for a short time only.

Five or six of the Falklands sailors did, however, murmur a little.

A sign from the mate silenced them, and they returned at once to their posts.

Needless to say, Captain Len Guy, upon hearing the cry of the lookout man, had tumbled up from his cabin: and eagerly examined this land at ten or twelve miles distance.

As I have said, I was no longer thinking about the secret Dirk Peters had confided to me. Besides, so long as the secret remained between us two⁠—and neither would betray it⁠—there would be nothing to fear. But if ever an unlucky accident were to reveal to Martin Holt that his brother’s name had been changed to Parker, that the unfortunate man had not perished in the shipwreck of the Grampus, but had been sacrificed to save his companions from perishing of hunger; that Dirk Peters, to whom Martin Holt himself owed his life, had killed him with his own hand, what might not happen then? This was the reason why the half-breed shrank from any expression of thanks from Martin Holt⁠—why he avoided Martin Holt, the victim’s brother.

The boatswain had just struck six bells. The schooner was sailing with the caution demanded by navigation in unknown seas. There might be shoals or reefs barely hidden under the surface on which she might run aground or be wrecked. As things stood with the Halbrane, and even admitting that she could be floated again, an accident would have rendered her return impossible before the winter set in. We had urgent need that every chance should be in our favour and not one against us.

West had given orders to shorten sail. When the boatswain had furled the topgallant-sail, the topsail and