Chimneys to prepare for an exploration either of the coastline or the interior of the country.
This plan particularly suited Neb. As stubborn in his ideas as in his forebodings, he was in no hurry to leave this part of the coast, the scene of the catastrophe. He did not believe, he did not want to believe, that Cyrus Smith was lost. No, it didn’t seem possible that such a man met his end in so vulgar a fashion, carried off by a wave, drowned in the sea only a few hundred feet from shore. As long as the waves had not washed up the body of the engineer, as long as he, Neb, had not seen with his own eyes, touched with his own hands the corpse of his master, he would not believe that he was dead. This idea took root in his obstinate heart. An illusion perhaps, but a respected illusion nevertheless which the sailor did not wish to destroy. For him there was no more hope, and the engineer had indeed perished in the waves; but it was pointless to discuss this with Neb. He was like a dog that will not leave the place where his master died, and his grief was such that he probably would not survive him.
On the morning of March 26th, at dawn, Neb went back to the shore in a northerly direction, returning to the place where the sea had doubtless closed in on the unfortunate Smith.
Breakfast on this day was composed only of pigeon eggs and lithodomes. Harbert found some salt left behind in the crevices of the rocks by evaporation and this mineral substance was put to good use.
The meal finished, Pencroff asked the reporter if he wanted to accompany them to the forest where Harbert and he would try to hunt. However, on further reflection, it was decided that someone should stay behind to look after the fire and to help Neb, in the unlikely event that he would need it. The reporter remained behind.
“Let’s go hunting, Harbert,” said the sailor. “We’ll find our munitions along the way and we’ll fire our guns in the forest.”
But, when they were about to leave, Harbert noted that since they had no tinder, it would be prudent to replace it with another substance.
“What?” asked Pencroff.
“Burnt linen,” replied the lad. “In a pinch, it can serve as tinder.”
The sailor found that this advice made sense, only it was a rather inconvenient necessity since it meant the sacrifice of a piece of his handkerchief. Nevertheless it was worth the trouble, and so a piece of Pencroff’s large square handkerchief was soon reduced to a half burnt rag. This inflammable material was placed in the central chamber at the bottom of a small cavity in a rock completely sheltered from wind and dampness.
It was then nine o’clock in the morning. The weather was threatening and the wind blew from the southeast. Harbert and Pencroff turned the corner of the Chimneys, glancing at the smoke which was twirling around the rocks. Then they went along the left bank of the river.
Arriving at the forest, Pencroff first broke off two sturdy branches which he transformed into sticks. Harbert ground them down to a point on a rock. Ah! If they only had a knife! Then the two hunters advanced in the tall grass following the riverbank. On leaving the bend, the river changed its course to the southwest; it grew narrower and its banks formed a channel enclosed by a double arc of trees. Pencroff, not wanting to get lost, decided to follow the water’s course which would always return him to his starting point. But the bank was not without some obstacles: trees whose flexible branches bent to the level of the water, and creepers or thorn bushes which they had to break with their sticks. Often, Harbert glided among the broken stumps with the agility of a young cat and disappeared into the brushwood. But Pencroff recalled him immediately, begging him not to venture too far away.
Meanwhile, the sailor carefully noted the surroundings. On the left bank, the soil was level and rose imperceptibly toward the interior. Sometimes moist, it then took on a marshy appearance. Everywhere they felt an underground network of streams which, by some subterranean fault, flowed toward the river. At some places, a brook flowed through the brushwood which they crossed without difficulty. The opposite bank was more varied. The hill, covered by trees of various sizes, formed a curtain which obstructed their vision. On the right bank, walking would have been difficult because of the holes in the ground and because of the trees which, bent to the surface of the water, were held in place only by their roots. Needless to say, both this forest and the riverbank showed no sign of human life. Pencroff noted the fresh tracks of quadrupeds of a species he did not recognize. Most certainly—and this was also Harbert’s opinion—they had been left by dangerous wild beasts with which they would no doubt have to contend; but nowhere was found the mark of a hatchet on a tree trunk, nor the remains of an extinguished fire, nor a footprint. They should perhaps congratulate themselves because, in this part of the Pacific, the presence of man was often more to be feared than desired.
Pencroff noted the fresh animal tracks.
Harbert and Pencroff scarcely spoke because of the difficult path. They advanced slowly and, after an hour, they had scarcely gone a mile. Until then, the hunt had not been productive. Nevertheless, several birds were chirping and flying about under the branches, showing themselves to be very timid as if man instinctively inspired them with a justifiable fear. Among other winged creatures, Harbert saw, in a marshy part of the forest, a bird with a sharp and elongated beak which anatomically resembled a kingfisher. However it was distinguished by its rugged plumage coated with a metallic brilliance.
“That must be a jacamar,”2 said Harbert, trying to close in on the bird.
“It would be nice to have the opportunity to taste jacamar,” replied the sailor, “if this bird is in a mood to let himself be roasted!”
At this moment, the lad, skillfully and vigorously, threw a stone that struck the creature at the base of its wing. But it was not enough; the jacamar took to its legs, running away at full speed and disappearing in an instant. “I’m so clumsy,” Harbert shouted.
“Not at all, my boy,” replied the sailor. “It was a good throw and more than one person would have missed the bird completely. Come! Don’t feel frustrated. We’ll catch it another day.”
The exploration continued. As the hunters made headway, the trees became more spacious and magnificent. But none produced any edible fruit. Pencroff looked in vain for a few of those precious palm trees, which have so many uses in domestic life and which are found as far as the 40th parallel in the northern hemisphere and down to the 35th parallel in the southern hemisphere. But this forest revealed only conifers such as the deodars already recognized by Harbert, Douglas pines resembling those growing on the northwest coast of America, and admirable spruce measuring a hundred fifty feet in height.
At this instant, a flock of small birds with pretty plumage and long, glittering tails scattered among the branches, dropping their weakly attached feathers which covered the ground with a fine down. Harbert picked up a few of these feathers and, after having examined them:
“These are ‘couroucous’,”3 he said.
“I would prefer a guinea fowl or a grouse cock,” replied Pencroff, “but are they good to eat?”
“They’re good to eat and their flesh is even tender,” replied Harbert. “Besides, if I am not mistaken, it is easy to approach them and kill them with a stick.”
The sailor and the boy slipped through the grass and arrived at the foot of a tree whose lower branches were covered with small birds. The couroucous were waiting for passing insects, which served as their nourishment. One could see their feathered feet strongly clenching the small branches which supported them.
The
