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 Tunis, reached the latitude of 34 degrees.
Here, on the 11th of February, 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. 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.”
“Captain Servadac,” replied Count Timascheff with his usual air of stately courtesy, “I beg you to consider the yacht at his own disposal. Please give the lieutenant instructions accordingly.”
“Sir, I have one observation to make,” said the lieutenant, “after a few moment’s reflection.”
“Since the wind is blowing directly from the west, and seems likely to increase,” said Lieutenant Procope, “if we go westward in the teeth of the weather the schooner will be reduced to the use of her engine only, and will have great difficulty in making any headway. On the other hand, if we were to take an eastward course, not only would we have the advantage of the wind, but, under steam and canvas, we might hope in a few days to be off the coast of Egypt, and from Alexandria or some other port we would have the same opportunity of getting tidings from Europe as we would at Gibraltar.”
“Well, captain? What do you think?” said Count Timascheff turning to Hector Servadac.
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 degrees Centigrade (or 68 degrees Fahrenheit), and sometimes descended as low as 15 degrees. 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 edge or boundary line, 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!” exclaimed 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. No alternative, therefore, remained than to take a westerly course and to attempt to reach the northern shores of the Mediterranean. On the l6th 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 most extreme 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 if 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.”
“Before that hour is up,” said Count Timascheff, “and in a manner all will see, God will have saved all of us.”
“He’ll save us if it pleases Him to uncover some passage for the Dobryna!”
“We are in the hands of He for Whom nothing is impossible,” replied the count, in a calm, clear voice that could be distinctly heard by all. As he spoke, he uncovered his head.
Hector Servadac, the lieutenant, the sailors, all in reverent silence, followed suit.
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 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.
“Adieu, Count Timascheff,” said Captain Servadac, shaking his companion’s hand.
“A dieu—to God!—captain,” replied the count, “who holds up the heavens.”
Tossed by the tremendous waves, the schooner was on the very point of being hurled upon the cliff.
Suddenly a ringing shout was heard.
“Quick, boys, quick! Hoist the jib, and right the tiller!”
It was Procope, who had shouted from the bow, rushed astern and took the helm, and before anyone had time to speculate upon the object of his manoeuvres, he shouted again, “Look out! sharp! watch the sheets!”
What did Lieutenant Procope want? To steer, of course, the ship so as to plunge on straight ahead.
“Watch it,” he cried.
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.
But what if she could never find her way out again?