 Chapter 5 of Facing the Flag This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John T. K. Facing the Flag by Jules Verne. Translated by Casual Hoey. Chapter Number 5 Where Am I? Notes by Simon Hart, the engineer. Where am I? What has happened since the sudden aggression of which I was the victim near the pavilion? I had just quitted the doctor. He was about to mount the steps, close the door, and resume my post beside Thomas Roche when several men sprang upon me and knocked me down. Who are they? My eyes had been bandaged. I was unable to recognize them. I could not cry for help, having been gagged. I could make no resistance, for they had bound me hand and foot. Thus powerless, I felt myself lifted and carried about one hundred paces. Then hoisted, then lowered, then laid down. Where? Where? In Thomas Roche. What has become of him? It must have been he rather than I thereafter. I was but gait in the water. None suspected that I was Simon Hart, the engineer. Nor could they have suspected my nationality. Why, therefore, should they have desired to kidnap a mere hospital attendant? There can consequently be no doubt that the French inventor has been carried off, and if he was snatched from Hellful House, it must have been in the hope of forcing his secret from him. But I'm reasoning on the supposition that Thomas Roche was carried off with me. Is it so? Yes, it must be, it is. I can entertain no doubt whatever about it. I have not fallen into the hands of malefactors, whose only intention is robbery. They would not have acted in this way, after rendering it impossible for me to cry out. After having thrown me into a clump of bushes in the corner of the garden, after having kidnapped Thomas Roche, they would not have shut me up. Where I now am? Where? That is the question which I have been asking myself for hours without being able to answer it. However, one thing is certain, and that is that I have embarked upon an extraordinary venture. That will end in what matter I know not. I dare not even imagine what the upshot of it will be. Anyhow, it is my intention to commit to memory, minute by minute, the least circumstance, and then, if it be possible, to jot down my daily impressions. Who knows what the future has in store for me, and who knows but what in my new position? I may finally discover the secret of Roche's fulgurator. If I am to be delivered one day, this secret must be made known as well as who is the author, or who are the authors of this criminal outrage, which may be attended with such serious consequences. I continue to revert to this question, hoping that some instant will occur to enlighten me. Where am I? Let me begin from the beginning. After having been carried by the head and feet from Hellful House, I felt that I was laid, without any brutality I must admit, upon the stretchers of a rowboat of small dimensions. The rocking cause by the weight of my body was succeeded, shortly afterwards by a further rocking, which I attribute to the embarking of a second person. Can there be room for doubt that it was Thomas Roche? As far as he was concerned, they would not have had to take the precaution of gagging him, or of bandaging his eyes, or of binding him. He must still have been in a state of prostration, which precluded the possibility of his making any resistance, or even of being conscious of what was being done. The proof that I am not deceiving myself is that I could smell the unmistakable odor of ether. Now, yesterday, before taking leave of us, the doctor administered a few drops of ether to the invalid and, I remember distinctly, a little of this extremely volatile substance fell upon his clothing, while he was struggling in his fit. There is therefore nothing astonishing in the fact that this odor should have clung to him, nor that I should have distinguished it, even beneath the bandages that covered my face. Yes, Thomas Roche was extended near me in the boat, and to think that had I not returned to the pavilion when I did, and I delayed a few minutes longer, I should have found him gone. Let me think, what could have inspired that Count D'Artigas with the unfortunate curiosity to visit Hellfell House? If he had not been allowed to see my patient, nothing of the kind would have happened. Talking to Thomas Roche about his inventions brought on a fit of exceptional violence. The director is primarily to blame for not heeding my warning. Had he listened to me, the doctor would not have been called upon to attend him. The doors pavilion would have been locked, and the attempt of the band would have been frustrated. As to the interest there could have been in carrying off Thomas Roche, either on behalf of a private person or of one of the states of the old world, it is so evident that there is no need to dwell upon it. However, I can be perfectly easy about the result. No one can possibly succeed in learning what for 15 months I have been unable to ascertain. In the condition of intellectual collapse into which my fellow countrymen has fallen, all attempts to force his secret from him will be futile. Moreover, he is bound to go from bad to worse until he is hopelessly insane, even as regards those points upon which he has hitherto preserved his reason intact. After all, however, it is less about Thomas Roche than myself that I must think just now, and this is what I have experienced, to resume the thread of my adventure where I dropped it. After more rocking caused by our captors jumping into it, the boat is rode off. The distance must be very short, for a minute after we bumped against something. I surmise that this something must be the hull of a ship, and that we have run alongside. There are some scurrying and excitement. Indistinctly through my bandages I can hear orders being given and a confused murmur of voices that last for about five minutes, but I cannot distinguish a word that is said. The only thought that occurs to me now is that they will hoist me on board and lower me to the bottom of the hold and keep me there till the vessel is far out at sea. Obviously they will not allow either Thomas Roche or his keeper to appear on deck as long as she remains in Pamlicle sound. My conjecture is correct. Still gagged and bound I am at last lifted by the legs and shoulders. My impression, however, is that I am not being raised over a ship's bulwark, but on the contrary, am being lowered. Are they going to drop me over board to drown like a rat, so as to get rid of a dangerous witness? This thought flashes into my brain and a quiver of anguish passes through my body from head to foot. Instinctively I draw a long breath and my lungs are filled with the precious air they will speedily lack. No, there is no immediate cause for alarm. I am laid with comparative gentleness upon a hard floor, which gives me the sensation of metallic coldness. I am lying at full length. To my extreme surprise I find that the ropes with which I was bound have been untied and loosened. The tramping about me has ceased. The next instant I hear a door closed with a bang. Where am I? And in the first place am I alone? I tear the gag from my mouth and the bandages from my head. It is dark, pitch dark, not a ray of light, not even the vague perception of light that the eyes preserve when the lids are tightly closed. I shout, I shout repeatedly. No response. My voice is smothered. The air I breathe is hot, hey, thick, and the working of my lungs will become difficult, impossible, unless the store of air is renewed. I extend my arms and feel about me, and this is what I conclude. I am in a compartment with sheet-iron walls, which cannot measure more than four cubic yards. I can feel that the walls are of bolted plates, like the sides of a ship's watertight compartment. I can feel that the entrance to it is by a door on one side, for the hinges protrude somewhat. This door must open inwards, and it is through here, no doubt, that I was carried in. I place my ear to the door, but not a sound can be heard. The silence is as profound as the obscurity. A strange silence that is only broken by the sonorousness of the metallic floor when I move about. None of the dull noises, usually to be heard on board a ship, is perceptible, not even the rippling of the water along the hull, nor is there the slightest movement to be felt, yet in the estuary of the news, the current is always strong enough to cause a marked oscillation to any vessel. But does the compartment in which I am confined really belong to a ship? How do I know that I am afloat on the news, though I was conveyed a short distance in a boat? Might not the latter, instead of heading for a ship and waiting for it, opposite healthful house, have been rode to a point further down the river? In this case, is it not possible that I was carried into the collar of a house? This would explain the complete immobility of the compartment. It is true that the walls are a bolted plate and that there is a vague smell of salt water, that odor, sway, gennery, which generally pervades the interior of a ship and which there is no mistaking. An interval, which I estimate at about four hours, must have been passed since my incarceration. It must therefore be near midnight. Shall I be left here in this way till morning? Luckily, I dined at six o'clock, which is the regular dinner hour at healthful house. I am not suffering from hunger. In fact, I feel more inclined to sleep than to eat. Still, I hope I shall have energy enough to resist the inclination. I will not give way to it. I must try and find out what is going on outside, but neither sound nor light can penetrate this iron box. Wait a minute, though. Perhaps by listening intently, I may hear some sound, however feeble. Therefore, I concentrate all my vital power in my sense of hearing. Moreover, I try, in case I should really not be on terra firma, to distinguish some movement, some oscillation of my prison. Admitting that the ship is still in anger, it cannot be long before it will start. Otherwise, I shall have to give up imagining why Thomas Roche and I have been carried off. And last, it is no illusion. A slight rolling proves to me, beyond a doubt, that I am not on land. We are evidently moving, but the motion is scarcely perceptible. It is not a jerky, but rather a gliding movement, as though we were skimming through the water without effort on an even keel. Let me consider the matter calmly. I am on board a vessel, and it was anchored in the news, waiting under sail or steam for the result of the expedition. A boat brought me aboard, but I repeat, I did not feel that I was lifted over her bulwarks. Was I passed through a portal? But, after all, what does it matter? Whether I was lowered into the hold or not, I am certainly upon something that is floating and moving. No doubt I shall soon be let out together with Thomas Roche, supposing them to have locked him up as carefully as they have me. By being let out, I mean being accorded permission to go on deck, it will not be for some hours to come. However, that is certain, for they won't want us to be seen, so that there is no chance of getting a whiff of fresh air till we are well out at sea. If it is a sailing vessel, she must have waited for a breeze, for the breeze that freshens offshore at daybreak, and is favorable to ships navigating Pamlico Sound. It certainly cannot be a steamer. I could not have failed to smell the oil and other odours of the engine room, and then I should feel the trembling of a machinery to jerk the pistons and the movements of the screws or paddles. The best thing to do is to wait patiently. I shan't be taken out of this hall until tomorrow anyway. Moreover, if I am not released, somebody will surely bring me something to eat. There is no reason to suppose that they intend to starve me to death. They wouldn't have taken the trouble to bring me aboard, but would have dropped something to eat. Had they been desirous of getting rid of me, once we are out at sea, what will they have to fear from me? No one could hear my shouts. As to demanding an explanation and making a fuss, it would be useless. Besides, what am I to men who have carried us off? I am a sailor. I am a sailor. I am a sailor. I am a sailor. I am men who have carried us off. And I'm a hospital attendant, one gaydoin who has no consequence. It is Thomas Rosh they were after. I was taken along, too, because I happened to return the pavilion at the critical moment. At any rate, no matter what happens, no matter who our kidnappers may be, no matter where we are taken, I shall stick to this resolution. continue to play my role of Warder. No one, no, none can suspect that Gaiden is Simon Hart, the engineer. There are two advantages in this. In the first place, they will take no notice of a poor devil of a Warder, and in the second, I will be able to solve the mystery surrounding this plot and turn my knowledge to profit if I succeed in making my escape. But wither are my thoughts wandering. I must perforce, wait till we arrive at our destination before thinking of escaping. It will be time enough to bother about that when the occasion presents itself. Until then, the essential is that they remain ignorant as to my identity, and they cannot and shall not know who I am. I am now certain that we are going through the water. But there is one thing that puzzles me. It is hot, a ceiling vessel, neither can it be a steamer. Yet it is incontestably propelled by some powerful machine. There are none of the noises, nor is there the trembling that accompanies the working of steam engines. The movement of the vessel is more continuous and regular. It is a sort of direct rotation that is communicated by the motor, whatever the latter may be. No mistake is possible. The ship is repelled by some special mechanism. But what is it? It is one of those turbines that have been spoken of lately, which, fitted into a submerged tube, are destined to replace the ordinary screw. It being claimed that they utilize the resistance of the water better than the latter and give increased speed to a ship. In a few hours' time, I shall doubtless know all about this means of locomotion. Meanwhile, there is another thing that equally puzzles me. There is not the slightest rolling or pitching. How is it that panicle sound is so extraordinarily calm? The varying currents continuously ruffle the surface of the sound, even if nothing else does. It is true the tide may be out, and I remember that last night the wind had fallen altogether. Still, no matter, the thing is inexplicable. For a ship propelled by machinery, no matter at what speed she may be going, always oscillates more or less, and I cannot perceive the slightest rocking. Such are the thoughts with which my mind is persistently filled. Despite an almost overpowering desire to sleep, despite the torpor that is coming upon me in this suffocating atmosphere, I am resolved not to close my eyes. I will keep awake until daylight, and there will be no daylight for me till it is let into my prison from the outside. Perhaps even if the door were open, it would not penetrate to this black hole. I shall probably not see it again until I am taken on deck. I am squatting in a corner of my prison, for I have no stool or anything to sit upon. But as my eyelids are heavy and I feel somnolent in spite of myself, I get up and walk about. Then I wax wrathful. Here fills my soul, I beat upon the iron walls with my fists, and shout for help. In vain, I hurt my hands against the bolts of the plates, and no one answers my cries. Such conduct is unworthy of me. I flattered myself that I would remain calm under all circumstances, and here I am acting like a child. The absence of any rolling or lurching movement at least proves that we are not yet at sea. Instead of crossing Palmykosound, may we not be going in the opposite direction up the river Noose? What would they go further inland for? If Thomas Roche has been carried off from a healthful house, his captors obviously mean to take him out of the United States, probably to a distant island of the Atlantic, or to some point on the European continent. It is therefore not up the Noose that our maritime machine, whatever it may be, is going, but across Palmykosound, which must be as calm as a mirror. Very well then, when we get to sea, I shall soon know, for the vessel will rock right enough in the swell offshore, even though there be no wind, unless I am aboard a battleship or big cruiser, and this I fancy can hardly be. But Hark, if I mistake not, no, it was not imagination, I hear footsteps. Someone is approaching the side of the compartment where the door is. One of the crew, no doubt. Are they going to let me out at last? I can now hear voices. A conversation is going on outside the door, but it is carried on in a language that I do not understand. I shout to them. I shout again, but no answer is vouchsafed. There is nothing to do then, but wait, wait, wait. I keep repeating the word, and it rings in my ears like a bell. Let me try to calculate how long I have been here. The ship must have been underway for at least four or five hours. I reckon it must be past midnight, but I cannot tell, for unfortunately my watch is of no use to me in this Sumerian darkness. Now, if we have been going for five hours, we must have cleared Pamlico Sound, whether we issued by Ochrecoke or Hatteras Inlet, and must be off the coast to Good Mile at least, if I haven't felt any motion from the swell of the sea. It is inexplicable, inexplicable. Come now, have I made a mistake, am I the dupe of an illusion, am I not imprisoned in the hold of a ship underway? Another hour has passed and the movement of the ship suddenly ceases. I realize perfectly that she is stationary. As she reach her destination, in this event we can only be in one of the coast ports to the north or south of Pamlico Sound, but why should Thomas Roche be landed again? The abduction must soon have been discovered. Our kidnappers would run the greatest risk of falling into the hands of the authorities if they attempted to disembark. However this may be, if the vessel is coming to anchor, I shall hear the noise of the chain as it is paid out and feel the jerk as the ship is brought up. I know that sound and that jerk well from experience and I am bound to hear and feel them in a minute or two. I wait, I listen. A dead and disquieting silence reigns on board. I begin to wonder whether I am not the only living being in the ship. I now feel an irresistible torpor coming over me. The air is vitiated, I cannot breathe, my chest is bursting. I try to resist, but it is impossible to do so. The temperature rises to such a degree that I am compelled to divest myself of part of my clothing. Then I lie me down in a corner, my heavy eyelids close, and I sink into a frustration that eventually forces me into heavy slumber. How long have I been asleep? I cannot say. Is it night? Is it day? I know not. I remark, however, that I breathe more easily and that the air is no longer poisoned carbonic acid. Was the air renewed while I slept? Has the door been opened? Has anybody been in here? Yes. Here is the proof of it. In feeling about, my hand has come in contact with a mug filled with a liquid that exhales an inviting odor. I raise it to my lips, which are burning for I am suffering such an agony of thirst that I would even drink brackish water. It is ale, an ale of excellent quality which refreshes and comforts me, and I drain the pint to the last drop. But if they have not condemned me to die of thirst, neither have they condemned me to die of hunger, I suppose. No, for in one of the corners I find a basket, and this basket contains some bread and cold meat. I fall, too, eating greedily, and my strength little by little returns. Decidely, I am not so abandoned as I thought I was. One entered this obscure hole, and the open door admitted a little of the oxygen from the outside. Without wish I should have been suffocated. Then the wherewithal to quench my thirst and appease the pangs of hunger was placed within my reach. How much longer will this incarceration last? Days? Months? I kind of estimate the hours that have elapsed since I fell asleep, nor have I any idea to what time of the day or night it may be. I was careful to wind up my watch, though, and perhaps by feeling the hands, yes, I think the little hand marks eight o'clock in the morning, no doubt. What I do know, however, is that the ship is not in motion. There is not the slightest quiver. Hours and hours, weary, interminable hours, go by, and I wonder whether they are again waiting till night comes on to renew my stock of air and provisions. Yes, they are waiting to take advantage of my slumbers. But this time I am resolved to resist. I will feign to be asleep, and I shall know how to force an answer from whoever enters. End of Chapter 5, Recording by John www.validateyourlife.com Chapter 6 of Facing the Flag This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John T. K. Facing the Flag by Jules Verne, translated by Casual Hoey. Chapter 6, On Deck Here I am in the open air, breathing freely once more. I have at last been hauled out of that stifling box and taken on deck. I gaze around me in every direction and see no sign of land. On every hand is that circular line which defines earth and sky. No, there is not even a speck of land to be seen to the west, where the coast of North America extends for thousands of miles. The setting sun now throws, but slanting rays upon bosom of the ocean. It must be about six o'clock in the evening. I take on my watch and it marks thirteen minutes past six. As I have already mentioned, I waited for the door of my prison to open, thoroughly resolved not to fall asleep again, but to spring upon the first person who entered and force him to answer my questions. I was not aware, then, that it was day, but it was, and hour after hour passed and no one came. I began to suffer again from hunger and thirst, for I had not preserved either bite or sup. As soon as I awoke, I felt the ship was in motion again. After having, I calculated, remained stationary since the previous day. No doubt, in some lonely creek, since I had not heard or felt her come to anchor. A few minutes ago, it must, therefore, have been six o'clock. I again heard footsteps on the outside of the iron wall of my compartment. Was anybody coming to my cell? Yes, I heard the creaking of the bolts as they were drawn back. And then the door opened, in the darkness in which I had been plunged, since the first hour of my captivity was illuminated by the light of a lantern. Two men, whom I had no time to look at, entered and seized me by the arms. A thick cloth was thrown over my head, which was enveloped in such a manner that I could see absolutely nothing. But did it all mean? What were they going to do with me? I struggled, but they held me in an iron grasp. I questioned them, but they made no reply. The men spoke each other in a language that I could not understand and had never heard before. They stood upon no ceremony with me. It is true, I was only a madhouse warder, and they probably did not consider it necessary to do so. But I questioned very much whether Simon Hartley and Nier would have received any more courtesy in their hands. This time, however, no attempt was made to gag me, nor to bind either my arms or legs. I was simply restrained by main force from breaking away from them. In a moment, I was dragged out of the compartment and pushed along a narrow passage. Next, the steps of a metallic stairway resounded under our feet. Then the fresh air blew in my face, and I inhaled it with avidity. Finally, they took their hands off me, and I found myself free. I immediately tore the cloth off my head and gazed about me. I'm on board a schooner, which is ripping through the water at a great rate in leaving a long white trail behind her. I had no clutch at one of the stays for support, dazzled as I was by the light after my 48 hours of imprisonment in complete obscurity. On the deck, a dozen men with rough weather-beating faces come and go, very dissimilar types of men, to whom it would be impossible to attribute any particular nationality. They scarcely take any notice of me. As to the schooner, I estimate that she registers from 250 to 300 tons. She has a fairly wide beam. Her mass are strong and lofty, and her large spread of canvas must carry her along at a spanking rate in a good breeze. Aft, a grisly-faced man is at the wheel, and he is keeping her head to the sea that is running pretty high. I try to find out the name of the vessel, but it is not to be seen anywhere, even on the lifebuoys. I walk up to one of the sailors and inquire, what is the name of his ship? No answer, and I fancy the man does not understand me. Where is the captain, I continue. But the sailor pays no more heed to this than he did the previous question. I turn over my heel and go forward. Above the forward hatchway, a bell is suspended. Maybe the name of the schooner is engraved upon it, I examine it, but can find no name upon it. I then return to the stern and address the man at the wheel. He gazes at me sourly, shrugs his shoulders, and bending grasps the spokes of the wheel solidly and brings the schooner, which had been headed off by a large wave from the port, stem on to sea again. Seeing that nothing is to be got from that quarter, I turn away and look about to see if I can find Thomas Roche, but I do not perceive him anywhere. Is he not on board? He must be. They could have had no reason for carrying me off alone. No one could have had any idea that I was Simon Hartley engineer, and even had they known it, what interest could they have had in me, and what could they expect of me? Therefore, as Thomas Roche is not on deck, I conclude that he is locked in one of the cabins and trust he has met with better treatment than his ex-guardian. But what is this, and how, on earth, could I have failed to notice it before? How is the schooner moving? Our sails are furrowed, there is not an inch of canvas set, the wind has fallen, and the few puffs that occasionally come from the east are unfavorable. In view of the fact that we are going in that very direction. And yet the schooner speeds through the sea, her bow is down, throwing off clouds of foam and leaving a long, milky, undulating trail in her wake. Is she a steam yacht? No, there is not a smokestack about her. She propelled by electricity, by battery of accumulators, or by piles of great power that work her screw and send her along at this rate, I can come to know other conclusion. In any case, he must be fitted with a screw, and by leaning over the stern I shall be able to see it, and can find out what sets it working afterwards. The man at the wheel watches me ironically as I approach, but makes no effort to prevent me from looking over. I gaze long and earnestly, but there is no foaming and seething of the water, such as is invariably caused by the revolutions of the screw, not by the long white furrow that a sailing vessel leaves behind is discernible in the schooner's wake. Then what kind of machine is it that imparts such a marvelous speed to the vessel? As I've already said, the wind is against her, and there is a heavy swell on. I must. I will know. No one pays the slightest attention, and I again go forward. As I approach the forecastle, I find myself face to face with a man who is leaning nonchalantly on the raised hatchwork and who is watching me. He seems to be waiting for me to speak to him. I recognize him instantly. He is the person who accompanied the Count D'Artigas during the latter's visit to Hellful House. There can be no mistake. It is he, right enough. It was then that rich foreigner who abducted Thomas Roche, and I am on a board the Eba, his schooner yacht, which is so well known on the American coast. The man before me will enlighten me about what I want to know. I remember that he and the Count spoke English together. I take him to be the captain of the schooner. Captain, I say, you are the person I saw at Hellful House. You remember me, of course. He looks me up and down, but does not come descend to reply. I am Wardergaden, the attendant of Thomas Roche. I continue, and I want to know why you have carried me off and placed me on board the schooner. The captain interrupts me with a sign. It is not made to me, however, but to the sailor standing near. They catch me by the arms, and taking no notice of the angry movement that I cannot restrain, bundled me down the hatchway. The hatchway, stare in reality, I remark, is a perpendicular iron ladder at the bottom of which, to right and left, are some cabins, and forward the man's quarters. Are they going to put me back in the dark prison at the bottom of the hold? No. They turn to the left and push me into a cabin. It is lighted by a portal, which is open, and though which the fresh air comes in gusts from the briney. The furniture consists of a bunk, a chair, a chest of drawers, a wash, handstand, and a table. The latter is spread for dinner, and I sit down. Then the cook's mate comes in with two or three dishes. He has a colored lad, and as he is about to withdraw, I try to question him, but he too vouchsafes no reply. Perhaps he doesn't understand me. The door is closed, and I fall to and eat with an excellent appetite, with the intention of putting off all further questioning, till some future occasion when I shall stand a chance of getting answered. It is true I am a prisoner, but this time I am comfortable enough, and I hope I shall be permitted to occupy this cabin if the remainder of the voyage, and not be lowered into that black hole again. I now give myself up to my thoughts. The first of which is that it was the Count D'Artigas who planned the abduction, that it was he who was responsible for the kidnapping of Thomas Roche, and that consequently the French inventor must be just as comfortably installed somewhere on board the schooner. But who is this Count D'Artigas? Where does he hail from? If he has seized Thomas Roche, is it not because he is determined to secure the secret of the Fulgarator at no matter what cost? Very likely, and I must therefore be careful not to betray my identity, or if they knew the truth, I should never be afforded a chance to get away. But what a lot of mysteries to clear up. How many inexplicable things to explain? The origin of this Count D'Artigas, his intentions as to the future, whether we are bound, the port to which the schooner belongs, and this mysterious progress through the water without sails and without screws, at a speed of at least ten knots an hour. There, becoming keener as night deepens, I close and secure the portal. And as my cabin is bolted on the outside, the best thing I can do is to get into my bunk and let myself be gently rocked to sleep by the broad Atlantic in this mysterious cradle, the Eba. The next morning I rise to daybreak, and having performed my ablutions, I dress myself in weight. Presently, the idea of trying the door occurs to me. I find that it has been unbolted and pushing it, climb the iron ladder, and emerge on deck. The crew are washing down the deck and standing aft and conversing are two men, one of whom is the captain. The latter manifests no surprise at seeing me and indicates my presence to his companion by a nod. This other man, whom I have never seen before, is an individual of about 50 years of age, whose dark hair is streaked with gray. His features are delicately chiseled. His eyes are bright and his expression is intelligent and not at all displeasing. He is somewhat of the Grecian type, and I have no doubt that he is of Hellenic origin when I hear him called Circo, engineer Circo, by the captain of the Eba. As the latter he is called Spade, Captain Spade, and this name has an Italian twang about it. Thus there is a Greek, an Italian, and a crew recruited from every corner of the earth to manage Gunnar with a Norwegian name. This mixture strikes me as being suspicious, and that Count Dartegas, with his Spanish name and Asiatic type, where does he come from? Captain Spade and engineer Circo continue to converse in a low tone of voice. The former is keeping a sharp eye on the man at the wheel, who does not appear to pay any particular attention to the compass in front of him. He seems to pay more attention to the gestures of one of the sailors stationed forward, and who signals to him to put the helm to port, or to starboard. Thomas Roche is near them, gazing vacantly out upon the vast expanse, which is not limited on the fries and by a single speck of land. Two sailors watch his every movement. It is evidently feared that the man-man may possibly attempt to jump overboard. I wonder whether I shall be permitted to communicate with my ward. I walk towards him, and Captain Spade and engineer Circo watch me. Thomas Roche doesn't see me coming, and I stand beside him. Still, he takes no notice of me, and makes no movement. His eyes, which sparkle brightly, wander over the ocean, and he draws in deep breaths of the salt, vivifying atmosphere. Added to the air, surcharged with oxygen, is a magnificent sunset in a cloudless sky. Does he perceive the change in this situation? As he already forgotten about Hellful House, the pavilion in which he was a prisoner, and gait in his keeper, it is highly probable. The past has presumably been effaced from his memory, and he lives solely in the present. In my opinion, even on the deck of the Eba, in the middle of the sea, Thomas Roche is still the helpless, irresponsible man, whom I tended for 15 months. His intellectual condition has undergone no change, and his reason will return only when he is spoken to about his inventions. The Count Dardegas is perfectly aware of this mental disposition, having had a proof of it during his visit, and he evidently relies thereon to surprise sooner or later the inventor's secret, but with what object? Thomas Roche, I claim, my voice seems to strike him, and after gazing at me fixedly for an instant, he averts his eyes quickly. I take his hand and press it. He withdraws it brusquely, and walks away without having recognized me in the direction of Captain Spade and engineer Circo. Does he think of speaking to one or other of these men? If they speak to him, will he be more reasonable than he was with me, and reply to them? At this moment, his physiognomy lights up with a gleam of intelligence, his attention, obviously, has been attracted by the queer progress of the schooner. He gazes at the masts and the furled sails, then he turns back and stops at the place where, if the ever were a steamer, the funnel ought to be, and which, in this case, ought to be belching forth a cloud of black smoke. What appeared so strange to me evidently strikes Thomas Roche as being strange, too. He cannot explain what I have found inexplicable, and, as I did, he walks af to see if there is a screw. On the flanks of the eba, a shoal of porpoises are sporting. Swift, as is the schooner's course, they easily pass her, leaping and gambling in their native element with surprising grace and agility. Thomas Roche pays no attention to them, but leans over the sterns. Engineer Circo and Captain Spade, fearful lest he should fall aboard, hurry to him and drag him gently, but firmly away. I observe from long experience that Roche is a prey to violent excitement. He turns about and justiculates, uttering incoherent phrases the while. It is plain to me that another fit is coming on, similar to the one he had in the pavilion of helpful house on the night we were abducted. He will have to be seized and carried down to his cabin, and I shall perhaps be summoned to attend him. Meanwhile, Engineer Circo and Captain Spade do not lose sight of him for a moment. They are evidently curious to see what he will do. After walking towards the main mist, and assuring himself that the sails are not set, he goes up to it, and fleeing his arms around it, tries with all his might to shake it, as though seeking to pull it down. Finding his efforts futile, he quits it and goes to the foremost, where the same performance is gone through. He waxes more and more excited. His vague utterances are followed by inarticulate cries. Suddenly, he rushes to the port, stays and clings to them, and I begin to fear he will leap into the rigging and climb to the cross-tree, where he might be precipitated into the sea by a lurch of the ship. When assigned from Captain Spade, some sailors run up and try to make relinquish his grasps of the stays, but are unable to do so. I know that during his fits he is endowed with the strength of 10 men, and many a time I have been compelled to summon assistance in order to overpower him. Other members of the crew however come up, and the unhappy madman is born to the deck, where two big sailors hold him down despite his extraordinary strength. The only thing to do is to convey him to his cabin, and let him lie there till he gets over his fit. This is what will be done in conformity with orders given by a newcomer whose voice seems familiar to me. I turn and recognize him. He is the Count Dartias, with a frown on his face, and an imperious manner, just as I had seen him at healthful house. I had once advanced toward him. I want an explanation and mean to have it. By what right, sir, I begin, by the right of might, replies the Count, then he turns on his heel, and Thomas Roche is carried below. End of Chapter 6, recording by John Thomas Coops, or John Kosmarski, www.Velodaturalife.com, or JohnCoops.com. Chapter 7 of Facing the Flag, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by John Thomas Coops, or John Kosmarski, or John. Facing the Flag by Jules Verne, translated by Casual Hoey. Chapter number 7, Two Days at Sea. Perhaps, should circumstances render it necessary, I may be induced to tell the Count Artigas that I am Simon Hartley Engineer. Who knows but what I may receive more consideration than if I remain ward or gated. This measure, however, demands reflection. I have always been dominated by the thought that if the owner of the Eba kidnapped the French inventor, it was in the hope of getting possession of Roshu's Fulgarator, for which, out of the old nor new continent, would pay the impossible price demanded. In that case, the best thing I can do is to remain ward or gated, on the chance that I may be allowed to continue in attendance upon him. In this way, if Thomas Rosh would ever divulge his secret, I may learn what is impossible to do at healthful house and can act accordingly. Meanwhile, where is the Eba bound? First question. Who and what is the Count Artigas? Second question. The first will be answered in a few days time, no doubt, in view of the rapidity with which we are ripping through the water, under the action of the means of propulsion that I shall end by finding about. As regards the second, I am by no means so sure that my curiosity will ever be gratified. In my opinion, this enigmatico personage has an all important reason for hiding his origin, and I am afraid there is no indication by which I can gauge his nationality. If the Count Artigas speaks English fluently, and I was able to assure myself that fact, during his visit to Pavilion Number 17, he pronounces it with a harsh, vibrating accent, which is not to be found among the peoples of northern latitudes. I do not remember ever to have heard anything like it in the course of my travels, either in the old or new world, unless it be the harshness characteristic of the idioms in use among the malees. And in truth, with his olive verging, on copper tinted skin, his jet black, crinkly hair, his piercing, deep set restless eyes, his square shoulders, and mocking muscular development, it is by no means unlikely that he belongs to one of the extreme eastern races. I believe this name of Artigas is an assumed one, and his title of count likewise. If the schooner bears a Norwegian name, he at any rate is not of a Scandinavian origin. He has nothing of the races of northern Europe about him. But whoever and whatever he may be, this man abducted Thomas Roche and me with him, with no good intention I'll be bound, but what I should like to know is, has he acted as the agent of a foreign power? Does he wish to profit alone by Thomas Roche's invention? And is he in the position to dispose of it profitably? That is another question that I cannot yet answer. Maybe I shall be able to find out from what I hear and see ere I make my escape, if escape be possible. The ebb continues on her way in the same mysterious manner. I am free to walk about the deck without however being able to go beyond the four hatchway. Once I attempted to go as far as the bows where I could by leaning over, perceive the schooner's stem as it cut through the water. But acting as it was plain on orders received, the washroom deck turned me back and one of them, addressing me brusquely in harsh great English, said, go back, go back. You are interfering with the working of the ship. The working of the ship? There was no working. Did they realize that I was trying to discover by what means the schooner was propelled? Very likely, and Captain Spade, who had looked on, must have known it too. Even a hospital attendant could not fail to be astonished at the fact that a vessel without either screws or sails was going along at such a speed. Wherever this may be, for some reason or other, the bowels of the Eba are barred to me. Toward 10 o'clock a breeze springs up, a northwest wind, and very favorable, and Captain Spade or gives an order to the boatman. The latter immediately pipes all hands on deck and the mainsail, the foresail, stasail, and jibs are hoisted. The work could not have been executed with greater recognition and discipline on board a man of war. The Eba now has a slight list to port and her speed is notably increased. But the motor continues to push her along, as is evident from the fact that the sails are not always as full as they ought to be if the schooner were bowling along solely under their action. However, they continue to render human service for the breeze has set in steadily. The sky is clear for the clouds in the west disappear as soon as they attain the horizon and the sunlight dances on the water. My preoccupation now is to find out as near as possible where we are bound for. I am the good enough sailor to be able to estimate the approximate speed of a ship. In my opinion, the Eba has been traveling at the rate of from 10 to 11 knots an hour. As to the direction we have been going in, it is always the same. And I have been able to verify this by casual glances at the binnacle. If the fore part of the vessel is barred to Watergaden, he has been allowed a free run of remainder of it. Time and again, I have glanced at the compass and noticed the needle invariably pointed to the east or to be exact east southeast. I appeal to my memory. What are the islands or groups of islands to be found in the direction we are going? Air, the continent of the old world, is reached. North Carolina, which the schooner quitted 48 hours ago, is traversed by the 35th parallel of latitude, and this parallel, extending eastward, must, if I mistake, not cut the African coast at Morocco. But along the line, about 3,000 miles from America are the Azores. Is it presumable that the Eva's heading for this archipelago that the port to which she belongs is somewhere in these islands, which constitutes one of Portugal's insular domains? I cannot admit such an hypothesis. Besides, before the Azores, on the line of the 35th parallel, is the Bermuda group, which belongs to England. It seems to me to be a good deal less hypothetical that, if a Count d'Artigas were entrusted with the abduction of Thomas Roche by a European power at all, it was by the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The possibility, however, remains that he may be acting solely in his own interest. Three or four times during the day, Count d'Artigas has come aft and remained for some time scanning the surrounding horizon attentively. When a sail or the smoke from a steamer heaves in sight, he examines the passing vessel for a considerable time with powerful telescope. I may add that he has not once condescended to notice my presence on deck. Now and then Captain Spade joins him and both exchange a few words in a language that I can neither understand nor recognize. It is with engineer Sercohover that the owner of the Eva converses more readily than with anybody else. And the latter appears to be very intimate with him. The engineer is a good deal more free, more loquacious, and less surly than his companions, and I wonder what position he occupies on the schooner. Is he a personal friend of the Count d'Artigas? Does he scour the seas with him, sharing the enviable life enjoyed by the rich yachtsmen? He is the only man of the lot who seems to manifest, if not sympathy with, at least some interest in me. I have not seen Thomas Roche all day. He must be shut in his cabin still in the influence of the fit that came upon him last night. I feel certain that this is so. When about three o'clock in the afternoon, just as he is about to go below, the Count beckons me to approach. I do not know what he wishes to say to me, this Count d'Artigas, but I do know what I will say to him. Do these fits to which Thomas Roche is subject last long? He asked me in English. Sometimes 48 hours, I reply. What is to be done? Nothing at all. Lemon-loan until he falls asleep. After night's sleep, the fit will be over, and Thomas Roche will be his own helpless self again. Very well, Lord Argaden. You will continue to attend him, as you did at Hell for House, if it be necessary. To attend him? Yes, on board the schooner, pending our arrival. Where? Where we shall be tomorrow afternoon, replies the Count. Tomorrow, I say to myself. Then we are not bound for the coast of Africa, nor even the Azores. There only remains the hypothesis that we are making for the Bermudas. Count d'Artigas is about to go down the hatchway when I interrogate him in my turn. Sir, I claim, I desire to know, I have the right to know, where I am going, and here, Watergaden, he interrupted, you have no rights. All you have to do is to answer when you are spoken to. I protest. Protest, then, your plies, this haughty and imperious personage, glancing at me menacingly. Then he disappears down the hatchway, leaving me face to face with engineer Circo. If I were you, Watergaden, I would resign myself to the inevitable. Remarks the latter with a smile. When one is caught in a trap, one can cry out, I suppose. What is the use when no one is near to hear you? I shall be heard someday, sir. Someday, that's a long way off. However, shout as much as you please. And with this ironical advice, engineer Circo leaves me to my own reflections. Towards four o'clock, a big ship is reported about six miles off to the east, coming in our direction. She is moving rapidly and grows perceptively larger. Black clouds of smoke pour out of her two funnels. She is a warship for narrow pennant floats from her main mist. And though she is not flying any flag, I take her to be an American cruiser. I wonder whether the Eba will render her the customary salute as she passes. No, for the scooter suddenly changes her course with the evident intention of avoiding her. This proceeding on the part of such a suspicious yacht does not astonish me greatly. But what does cause me extreme surprise is Captain Spade's way of maneuvering. He runs forward to a signaling apparatus in the boughs, similar to that by which orders are transmitted to the engine room of a steamer. As soon as he presses one of the buttons of this apparatus, the Eba veers off a point to the southwest. Evidently, an order of some kind has been transmitted to the driver of the machine of some kind, which causes this inexplicable movement of the schooner by the action of a motor of some kind, the principle of which I cannot guess at. The result of this maneuver is that the Eba slants away from the cruiser, whose course does not vary. Why should this warship cause a pleasure yacht to turn out of its way? I have no idea. But the Eba behaves in a very different manner when, about six o'clock in the evening, a second ship comes in sight on the port bow. This time, instead of seeking to avoid her, Captain Spade signals an order by means of the apparatus above, referred to, and resumes his course to the east, which will bring him close to the said ship. An hour later, the two vessels are only about four miles from each other. The wind has dropped completely. The strange ship, which is a three-masted merchantman, is taking in her top gallant sails. It is useless to expect the wind to spring up again during the night, and she will lay be calmed till morning. The Eba, however, propelled by her mysterious motor, continues to approach her. It goes without saying that Captain Spade has also begun to take in sail, and the work, under the direction of the bows in the frontend, is executed with the same precision and promptness that struck me before. When the twilight deepens into darkness, only a mile and a half separates the vessels. Captain Spade then comes up to me. I am standing on the starboard side, and unceremoniously orders me to go below. I can but obey. I remark, however, ere I go, that the bows in has not lighted the headlamps, whereas the lamps of the three master shone brightly, green to starboard, and red to port. I entertain no doubt that the schooner intends to pass her without being seen, for though she has slackened speed somewhat, her direction has not been in any way modified. I enter my cabin under the impression of a vague foreboding. My supper is on the table, but uneasy. I know not why. I hardly touch it, and I lie down to wait for sleep. That does not come. I remain in this condition for two hours. The silence is unbroken, saved by the water that ripples along the vessel's sides. My mind is full of the events of the past two days. Another thoughts crowd thickly upon me. Tomorrow afternoon, we shall reach our destination. Tomorrow, I shall resume on land, my attendance upon Thomas Roche, if it be necessary, said the Count D'Artigas. If, when I was thrown into that black hold, the bottom of the hold, I was able to perceive when the schooner started off across Pamlico Sound, I now feel that she has come to a stop. Must be about ten o'clock. Why has she stopped? When Captain Spade ordered me below, there was no land in sight. In this direction, there is no island until the Bermuda group is reached. At least there is none on the map. And we shall have to go another 50 or 60 miles before the Bermudas can be sighted by the lookoutmen. Not only has the Ebba stopped, but her immobility is almost complete. There's not a breath of wind and scarcely any swell, and her slight regular rocking is hardly perceptible. Then my thoughts turn to the merchantmen, which was only a mile and a half off on her bow when I came below. If the schooner continued her course towards her, she must be almost alongside now. We certainly cannot be lying more than one or two cables length from her. The three master, which was becalmed at sundown, could not have gone west. She must be close by, and if the night is clear, I shall be able to see her through the porthole. It occurs to me that perhaps a chance of escape presents itself. Why should I not attempt it, since no hope of being restored to liberty is held out to me? It is true I cannot swim, but if I seized a life buoy and jump overboard, I may be able to reach the ship if I am not observed by the watch on deck. I must quit my cabin and go up by the forward hatchway. I listen, I hear no noise, either in the men's quarters or on deck. The sailors must all be asleep at this hour. Here goes. I try to open the door and find it is bolted on the outside, as I might have expected. I must give up the attempt, which after all had small chance of success. The best thing I can do is to go to sleep, for I am weary of mind, if not of body. I am restless and wracked by conflicting thoughts and apprehensions of, I know not what, oh, if I could but sink into the blessed oblivion of slumber. I must have managed to fall asleep for. I have just been awakened by a noise, an unusual noise, such as I have not here to herd on board the schooner. Day begins to peer through the glass of my porthole, which is turned towards the east. I look at my watch. It is half past four. The first thing I wonder is, whether the eba has resumed her voyage. No, I am certain she has not, either by sail or by her motor. The sea is as calm at sunrise as it was at sunset. If the eba has been going ahead while I slept, she is at any rate stationary now. The noise to which I referred is caused by men hurrying to and fro on deck, by men heavily laden. I fancy I can also hear a similar noise in the hold beneath my cabin floor. The entrance to which is situated a bath to the foremost. I also feel that something is scraping against the schooner's hull. Have boats come alongside? Are the crew engaged in loading or unloading merchandise? And yet we cannot possibly have reached our journey's end. The Count D'Artigas said that we should not reach our destination till this afternoon. Now, I repeat, she was last night, full 50 or 60 miles from the nearest land, the group of the Grimutas. That she could have returned westward and can be in proximity to American coast is inadmissible in view of the distance. Moreover, I have reason to believe that the eba has remained stationary all night. Before I fell asleep, I know she had stopped, and I now know that she is not moving. However, I shall see when I am allowed to go on deck. My cabin door is still bolted. I find on trying it, but I do not think they are likely to keep me here when broad daylight is on. An hour goes by and it gradually gets lighter. I look out of my portal. The ocean is covered by a mist, which the first rays of the sun will speedily disperse. I can, however, see for a half a mile, and if the three-mastion merchantman is not visible, it is probably because she is lying off the other or port side of the eba. Presently, I hear a key turn in my door, and the bolt is drawn. I push the door open and clamor up the iron ladder to the deck, just as the men are battering down the cover of the hold. I look for the Count D'Artigas, but do not see him. He has not yet left his cabin. Aft, Captain Spade and Engineer Circo are super-intending the stowing of some bails, which have doubtless been hoisted from the hold. This explains the noisy operations that were going on when I was awakened. Obviously, if the crew are getting out of the cargo, we are approaching the end of our voyage. We are not far from port, and perhaps in a few hours the schooner will drop anchor. But what about the sailing ship that was to port of us? She thought to be in the same place, seeing that there has been and is no wind. I look for her, but she is nowhere to be seen. There is not a sail, not a speck on the horizon, either east, west, north or south. After cogitating upon the circumstance, I can only arrive at the following conclusion, which, however, can only be accepted under reserve. Although I did not notice it, the Eva resumed her voyage while I slept, leaving the three master be calmed behind her, and this is why the merchant is no longer visible. I am careful not to question Captain Spade about it, nor even Engineer Circo, as I should certainly receive no answer. Besides, at this moment Captain Spade goes to the signaling apparatus and presses one of the buttons on the upper disk. Almost immediately, the Eva gives a jerk, then with her sails still furrowed, she starts off eastward again. Two hours later, the Count D'Artigas comes up through the main hatchway and takes his customary place aft. Circo and Captain Spade at once approach and engage in conversation with him. All three raise their telescopes and sweep the horizon from southeast to northeast. No one will be surprised to learn that I gaze intently in the same direction, but having no telescope, I cannot distinguish anything. The midday meal over, we all return on deck, all with exception of Thomas Roche, who has not quitted his cabin. Towards one o'clock, land is sited by the lookout man on the four-top cross-tree. Inasmuch as the Eva is bowling along at great speed, I shall soon be able to make out the coastline. In effect, two hours later, a vague semi-circular line that curves outward is discernible about eight miles off. As the schooner approaches, it becomes more distinct. It is a mountain, or at all events, very high ground, and from its summit, a cloud of smoke ascends. What a volcano in these parts? It must then be... End of Chapter 7, recording by John Thomas Kaye, www.validateralife.com Chapter 8 of Facing the Flag This is the LibriVox Recordings. All LibriVox Recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Facing the Flag by Jules Verne, translated by Casual Hoey, Chapter Number 8 Back Cup In my opinion, the Eva could have struck no other group of islands but the Bermudas in this part of the Atlantic. This is clear from the distance covered from the American coast and the direction sailed in since we issued from Pamlico Sound. This direction has constantly been south, southeast, and the distance, shutting from the Eva's rate of speed, which has scarcely varied, is approximately 750 miles. Still, the schooner does not slacken speed. The Count D'Artigas and Engineer Circo remain aft by the man at the wheel. Captain Spade has gone forward. Are we not to leave this island, which appears to be isolated to the west? It does not seem likely, since it is still a broad daylight, and the hour at which the Eva was timed to arrive. All the sailors are drawn up on the deck, awaiting orders, and both in a frontend is making preparations to anchor. Air, a couple of hours have passed. I shall know all about it. It will be the first answer to one of the many questions that have perplexed me since the schooner put to sea, and yet it is most unlikely that the port to which the Eva belongs is situated on one of the Bermuda islands in the middle of an English archipelago, unless the Count D'Artigas has kidnapped Thomas Roche for the British government, which I cannot believe. I became aware that this extraordinary man is gazing at me with singular persistence. Although he can have no suspicion that I am Simon Hart, the engineer, he must be asking himself what I think of this adventure. If Watergaden is but a poor devil, this poor devil will manifest as much unconcern as to what is in store for him as any gentleman could, even though he were the proprietor of this queer pleasure yacht. Still, I'm a little uneasy under his gaze. I dare say that if the Count D'Artigas could guess how certain things have suddenly become clear to me, he would not hesitate to have me thrown overboard. Prudence therefore commands me to be more circumspect than ever. Without giving rise to any suspicion, even in the mind of engineer Sherco, I have succeeded in raising a corner of the mysterious veil, and I begin to see ahead of it. As the Eba draws nearer the island, or rather, Islet towards which she is speeding, shows more sharply against the blue background of the sky. The sun, which has passed the zenith, shines full upon the western side. The islet is isolated, or at any rate, I cannot see any others of the group to which it belongs, either to north or south. This islet of curious contexture resembles as near as possible a cup turned upside down, from which a fuliginous vapor arises. Its summit, the bottom of the cup, if you like, is about 300 feet above the level of the sea, and its flanks, which are steep and regular, are as bare as the sea-washed rocks at its base. There is another peculiarity about it, which must render the islet easily recognizable by mariners approaching it from the west, and this is a rock which forms a natural arch at the base of the mountain, the handle of the cup, so to speak, and through which the waves wash as freely as the sunshine passes. Seen this way, the islet fully justifies the name of back cup given to it. Well, I know and recognize this islet. It is situated at the extremity of the archipelago of the Remunas. It is the reversed cup that I had occasion to visit a few years ago. No, I am not mistaken. I then climbed over the calciferous and crooked rocks at its base on the east side, yes, it is back cup, sure enough. Had I been less self-possessed, I might have uttered an exclamation of surprise and satisfaction, which, with good reason, would have excited the attention and suspicion of the Count D'Artigas. These are the circumstances under which I came to explore back cup while on a visit to Bermuda. This archipelago, which is situated about 750 miles from North Carolina, is composed of several hundred islands or islets. Its center is crossed by the 64th Meridian and the 32nd Parallel. Since the Englishman Lohmer was shipwrecked and cast up there in 1609, the Bermudas have belonged to the United Kingdom and, in consequence, the colonial population has increased to 10,000 inhabitants. It was not for its productions of cotton, coffee, indigo, and arrowroot that England annexed the group, seized it, one might say, but because it formed a splendid maritime station in that part of the ocean and in proximity to the United States of America, possession was taken of it without any protest on the part of other powers, and Bermuda is now administered by a British governor with the addition of a council and a general assembly. The principal islands of the archipelago are called St. David, Somerset, Hamilton, and St. George. The latter has a free port and the town of the same name is also the capital of the group. The largest of these isls is not more than 17 miles long and five wide, leaving out the medium-sized ones. There remains but an agglomeration of islets and reefs scattered over an area of 12 square leagues. Although the climate of Bermuda is very healthy, very salubrious, the isls are nevertheless frightfully beaten by the heavy winter tempests of the Atlantic, and their approach by navigators presents certain difficulties. What the archipelago especially lacks are rivers and reos. However, as abundant rains fall frequently, this drawback is gone over by the inhabitants who treasure up the heaven-sent water for household and agricultural purposes. This has necessitated the construction of vast cisterns, which the downfalls keep filled. These works of engineering skill justly merit the admiration they receive and do honor to the genius of man. It was in connection with the setting of these cisterns that I made the trip, as well as out of curiosity to inspect the fine works. I obtained from the company of which I was the engineer in New Jersey a vacation of several weeks and embarked at New York for the Bermudas. While I was staying on Hamilton Island in the vast port of Southampton, an event occurred of great interest to geologists. One day, a whole flotilla of fishers, men, women and children entered Southampton Harbor. For 50 years, these families had lived on the east coast of Back Cup, where they had erected log cabins and houses of stone. Their position for carrying on their industry was an exceptionally favorable one for the water's team with fish all the year round and in March and April whales abound. Nothing had hitherto occurred to disturb their tranquil existence. They were quite contented with their rough lot, which was rendered less onerous by the facility of communication with Hamilton and St. George. Their solid barks took cargoes of fish there, which they exchanged for the necessities of life. Why had they thus abandoned the islet with the intention, as it pretty soon appeared, of never returning to it? The reason turned out to be that they no longer considered themselves in safety there. A couple of months previously, they had been at first surprised, then alarmed by several distinct detonations that appear to have taken place in the interior of the mountain. At the same time, smoke and flames issued from the summit, or the bottom of the reversed cup, if you like. Now, no one had ever suspected that the islet was of volcanic origin, or that there was a crater at the top. No one having been able to climb its sides. Now, however, there could be no possible doubt that the mountain was an ancient volcano that had suddenly become active again and threatened the village with destruction. During the ensuing two months, internal rumblings and explosions continued to be heard, which were accompanied by bursts of flame from the top, especially at night. The island was shaken by the explosions. The shocks could be distinctly felt. All these phenomena were indicative of an imminent eruption, and there was no spot at the base of the mountain that could afford any protection from the rivers or lava that would inevitably pour down its smooth, steep slopes and overwhelm the village in their boiling flood. Besides, the very mountain might be destroyed in the eruption. There was nothing for the population exposed to such a dire catastrophe to do, but leave this they did. Their humble lairs and pinnets, in fact, all their belongings, were loaded into the fishing smacks and the entire colony sought refuge in Southampton Harbor. The news that a volcano that had presumably been smoldering for centuries at the western extremity of the group showed signs of breaking out again, caused a sensation throughout the Bermudas, but while some were terrified, the curiosity of others was roused, mine included. The phenomenon was worth investigation, even if the simple fisherfolk had exaggerated. Back cup, which, as already stated, lies at the western extremity of the archipelago, is connected therewith by a chain of small islets and reefs, which cannot be approached from the east. Being only 300 feet in altitude, it cannot be seen either from St. George or Hamilton. I joined a party of explorers and we embarked in a cutter that landed us on the island and made our way to the abandoned village of the Bermudan Fishers. The internal crackings and detonations could be plainly heard, and a sheaf of smoke was swayed by the wind at the summit. Beyond a purr adventure, the ancient volcano had been started again by the subterranean fire, and an eruption at any moment was to be apprehended. In vain, we attempted to climb to the mouth of the crater. The mountain sheared down at an angle of from 75 to 80 degrees, and its smooth slippery sides afforded absolutely no foothold. Anything more barren than this rocky freak of nature, it would be difficult to conceive. Only a few tufts of wild herbs were to be seen upon the whole island, and these seemed to have no raison d'être. Our explorations were therefore necessarily limited, and in view of the active symptoms of danger that manifested themselves, we could but approve the action of the villagers in abandoning the place, for we entertained no doubt that its destruction was imminent. These were the circumstances in which I was led to visit back up, and no one will consequently be surprised at the fact that I recognized it immediately we have in sight of the queer structure. No, I repeat, the Count D'Artigas would probably not be over pleased if he were aware that Watergatan is perfectly acquainted with this islet, even if the Eba was to anchor there, which, as there is no port, is to say the least extremely improbable. As we draw nearer, I attentively examine back up. Not one of its former inhabitants has been induced to return, and as it is absolutely deserted, I cannot imagine why the schooner should visit the place. Perhaps, however, the Count D'Artigas and his companions have no intention of landing there. Even though the Eba should find temporary shelter between the rocky sides of a narrow creek, there is nothing to give ground to the supposition that a wealthy yachtsman would have the remotest idea of fixing upon, as his residence, an arid cone exposed to all the terrible tempests of the Western Atlantic. To live hero is all very well for rustic fishermen, but not for the Count D'Artigas, engineer Circo, Captain Spade, and his crew. Back up is now only half a mile off, and the seaweed thrown up on its rocky base is plainly discernible. The only living things upon it are the seagulls and other birds that circle in clouds around the smoking crater. When she is only two cables lengths off, the schooner slackens speed, and then stops at the entrance of a sort of natural canal formed by a couple of reefs that barely rise above the water. I wonder whether the Eba will venture to try the dangerous feat of passing through it. I do not think so. She will probably lay where she is, though why she should do so, I do not know, for a few hours and then continue her voyage towards the east. However this may be, I see no preparations in progress for dropping anchor. The anchors are suspended in their usual places. The cables have not been cleared, and no motion has been made to lower a single boat. At this moment, Count D'Artigas, engineer Circo, and Captain Spade go forward and perform some maneuver that is inexplicable to me. I walk along the port side of the deck until I am near the foremost. And then I can see a small buoy that the sailors are hoisting in, almost immediately the water at the same spot becomes dark and I observe a black mass rising to the surface. Is it a big whale rising for air? And is the Eba in danger of being shattered by a blow from the monster's tail? Now I understand at last the mystery is solved. I know what was the motor that caused the scooter to go at such an extraordinary speed without sails and without a screw? Her indefatigable motor is emerging from the sea. After having towed her from the coast of America to the archipelago of Muta's, there it is, floating alongside a submersible boat, a submarine tug worked by a screw set in motion by the current from a battery of accumulators or powerful electrical piles. On the upper part of the long cigar-shaped iron tug is a platform in the middle of which is the lid by which an entrance is affected. In the four part of the platform projects a periscope or lookout formed by portals or lenses through which an electric search light can throw its gleam for some distance underwater in front of and on each side of the tug. Now relieved of its ballast of water the boat has risen to the surface. Its lid will open and fresh air will penetrate it to every part. In all probability if remained submerged during the day it rose at night and towed the eba on the surface. But if the mechanical power of the tug is produced by electricity the ladder must be furnished by some manufactory where it is stored and the means of procuring the batteries is not to be found on back cut I suppose. And then why does the eba have recourse to this submarine towing system? Why is she not provided with her own means of proportion like other pleasure boats? These are things however upon which I have at present no leisure to ruminate. The lid of the tug opens and several men issue on to the platform. They are the crew of this submarine boat and Captain Spade has been able to communicate with them and transmit his orders as to the direction to be taken by means of electrical signals connected with the tug by a wire that passes along the stem of schooner. Engine or circle approaches me and says pointing to the boat get in get in I exclaim. Yes in the tug and look sharp about it. As usual there is nothing for it but to obey. I hasten to comply with the order and clamor over the side. At the same time Thomas Roche appears on deck accompanied by one of the crew. He appears to be very calm and very indifferent too and makes no resistance when he is lifted over and lowered into the tug. When he has been taken in Count Dartegas and engineer circle follow. Captain Spade and the crew of the Ewa remain behind with the exception of four men who man the dinghy which has been lowered. They have hold of a long hausser with which the schooner is probably to be towed through the reef. Is there then a creek in the middle of the rocks where the vessel is secured from the breakers? Is this the port to which he belongs? They row off with the hausser and make the end fast to a ring in the reef. Then the crew on board haul on it and in five minutes the schooner is so completely lost to sight among the rocks that even the tip of her mast could not be seen from the sea. Who in Bermuda imagines that a vessel is accustomed to lay up in this secret creek? Who in America would have any idea that the rich yachtsman so well known in all these reports abides in the solitude of back cup mountain? Twenty minutes later the dinghy returns with the four men towards the tug which was evidently waiting for them before proceeding where? They climb on board. Little boat is made fast astern and movement is felt. The screw revolves rapidly and the tug skims along the surface to back cup skirting the reefs to the south. Three cable lengths further on another tortuous canal is seen that leads to the island. Into this the tug enters when it gets close in shore an order is given to two men who jump out and haul the dinghy up on a narrow sandy beach out of the reach of wave or weed and where it will be easily get atable when wanted. This done the sailors return to the tug an engineer's circle signs to me to go below. A short iron ladder leads into a central cabin where various bales and packages are stored and for which no doubt there was not room in the hole of the schooner. I am pushed into a side cabin the door is shut upon me and here I am once more a prisoner in profound darkness. I recognize the cabin the moment I enter it. It is the place in which I spent so many long hours after our abduction from Hellful House and in which I was confined until well out at sea off Pamlico Sound. It is evident that Thomas Roche has been placed in a similar compartment. A loud noise is heard the banging of the lid as it closes and the tug begins to sink as the water is admitted to the tanks. This movement is succeeded by another a movement that impells the boat through the water. Three minutes later it stops and I feel that we are rising to the surface again another noise made by the lid being raised. The door of my cabin opens and I rush out and clamor onto the platform. I look around and find that the tug has penetrated to the interior of Backcup Mountain. This is the mysterious retreat where Count Dartagas lives with his companions out of the world so to speak. End of Chapter 8 Recording by John Thomas Kaye www.validateyourlife.com Chapter 9 of Facing the Flag This is LibriVox Recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by John T. Kaye Facing the Flag by Jules Verne Translated by Casual Hoey Chapter 9 Inside Backcup The next morning I'm able to make a first inspection of the vast cavern of Backcup. No one seeks to prevent me. What a night I have passed. What strange visions I have seen. With what impatience I waited for the morning. I was conducted to a grotto about a hundred paces from the edge of the lake where the tug stopped. The grotto, 12 feet by 10, was lighted by an incandescent lamp and fitted with an entrance door that was closed upon me. I'm not surprised that electricity is employed in lighting the interior of the cavern as it is also used in the submarine boat. And where is it generated? Where does it come from? Is there a manufacturer reinstalled somewhere or other in this vast crypt with machinery, dynamos and accumulators? My cell is neatly furnished with a table on which provisions are spread. A bunk with bedding a basket chair a wash handstand with toilet set and a closet containing linen and various suits of clothes in a drawer of the table I find paper, ink and pens. My dinner consists of fresh fish, preserved meat, bread of excellent quality, ale and whisky. But I'm so excited that I scarcely touch it yet I feel that I ought to fortify myself and recover my calmness of mind. I must and will solve the mystery surrounding the handful of men who burrow in the bowels of this island. So it is under the carapace of backcub that Count D'Artigas has established himself. This cavity, the existent of which is not even suspected is his home when he is not sailing in the Eba along the coast of the new world or the old. This is the unknown retreat he has discovered to which access is obtained by a submarine passage 12 or 15 feet below the surface of the ocean. Why has he severed himself from the world? What has been his past if, as I suspect, this name of D'Artigas and this title of Count are assumed? What motive has he for hiding his identity? Has he been banished? Is he an outcast of society? That he should have selected this place above all others? Am I not in the power of an evil doer anxious to ensure impunity for his crimes and to defy the law by seeking refuge in this undiscoverable burrow? I have the right of supposing anything in the case of this suspicious foreigner and I exercise it. Then the question to which I have never been able to suggest a satisfactory answer once more surges into my mind. Why was Thomas Roche ducted from helpful house in a manner already fully described? Does the Count D'Artigas hope to force him to the secret of his full greater with a view to utilizing it for the defense of back cup in cases retreat should by chance be discovered? Hardly. It would be easy enough to starve the gang out of back cup by preventing the tug from supplying them with provisions. On the other hand the schooner could never break through the investing lines and if she did her description would be known in every port. In this event of what possible use would Thomas Roche's invention be to the Count D'Artigas decidedly? I cannot understand it. About 7 o'clock in the morning I jump out of bed. If I'm a prisoner in the cavern I'm at least not imprisoned in my grotto cell. The door yields when I turn the handle and push against it and I walk out. 30 yards in front of me is a rocky plain forming a sort of quay that extends to right and left. Several sailors of the Abba are engaged in landing males in stores from the interior of the tug which lays alongside a little stone jetty. A dim light through which my eyes soon grow accustomed envelops the cavern and comes from a hole in the center of the roof through which the blue sky can be seen. It is from that hole that the smoke which can be seen for such distance issues I say to myself and this discovery suggests a whole series of reflections. Back up then is not a volcano as was supposed as I supposed myself. The flames that were seen a few years ago and the columns of smoke that still rise were and are produced artificially the detonations and rumblings that so alarming the Bermudan fishers were not caused by the internal workings of nature. These various phenomena were fictitious that manifested themselves at the mere will of the owner of the island who wanted to scare away the inhabitants who resided on the coast. He succeeded this Count D'Artigas and remains the sole and unspeeded monarch of the mountain by exploding gunpowder and burning seaweed swept up in inexhaustible quantities by the ocean he has been able to simulate a volcano upon the point of eruption and effectually scare would be settlers away. The light becomes stronger as the sun rises higher the daylight streams through the fictitious crater and I shall soon be able to estimate the cavern's dimensions. This is how I calculate. Exteriorly, the island of MacCup which is as nearly as possible circular measures 250 engines or conference and presents an interior superfixies of about six acres. The size of the mountain at its base vary in thickness from 30 to 100 yards. It therefore follows that this excavation practically occupies the whole of that part of MacCup Island which appears above water. As to the length of the submarine tunnel by which communication is obtained with the outside and through which the tug passed I estimate that is 50 yards in length. The size of the cavern can be judged from these approximate figures but vast as it is I remember that there are caverns of larger dimensions both in the old and new worlds. For instance in Carniol Northumberland Derbyshire Piedmont the Bellarix Hungary and California are larger grottos than MacCup and those at Hans or less in Belgium and the mammoth caves in Kentucky are also more extensive. The latter contain no fewer than 200 and 26 domes seven rivers eight cataracts 32 wells of unknown depth and an immense lake which extends over six or seven leagues the limit of which has never been reached by explorers. I know these Kentucky grottos having visited them as many thousands of tourists have done. The principal one will serve as comparison to MacCup. The roof of the former like that of the latter is supported by pillars of various lengths which give it the appearance of a Gothic cathedral with naves and aisles though it lacks the architectural regularity of religious edifice. The only difference is that whereas the roof of the Kentucky grotto is over 400 feet high that of MacCup is not about 220 at that part of it where the round hole through which issue the smoke and flames is situated. Another peculiarity and a very important one that requires to be pointed out is that whereas the majority of the grottos referred to are easily accessible and were therefore bound to be discovered sometime or other the same remark does not apply to MacCup. Although it is marked on the map as an island forming part of the Bermuda group how could anyone imagine that it is hollow that its rocky sides are only the walls of an enormous cavern? In order to make such a discovery it would be necessary to get inside and to get inside a submarine app or add a similar to that of the Count Dart de Gas would be necessary. In my opinion this strange Jotsman discovery of the tunnel by which he has been able to found this disquieting colony of MacCup have been due to pure chance. Now I turn my attention to the lake and observe that it is a very small one measuring not more than 400 yards in circumference. It is, properly speaking, a lagoon the rocky sides of which are perpendicular. It is large enough for the tug to work about in it. And holds enough water too. For it must be 120 feet deep. It goes without saying that this crypt given its position and structure belongs to the category of those which are due to the encroachments of the sea. It is at once of Neptunian and Plutonian origin like the garrados of Crowson and Morgate in the Bay of Gordnaise in France and Bonifacio on the Corsican coast for Gaten in Norway the height of which is estimated at over 300 feet. The catapults of Greece the grottos of Gibraltar in Spain and Turana in Cochin China whose carapes indicates that they are all the product of this dual geological labor. The adevacup is in great part formed of Calcerus rocks which slope upwards gently from the lagoon towards the sides and are separated from each other by narrow beaches of fine sand. Thick layers of seaweed that have been swept through the tunnel by the tide and thrown up around the lake have been piled into heaps some of which are dry and some still wet but all of which exhale the strong odor of the brining ocean. This however is not the only combustible employed by the inhabitants of the back cup for I see an enormous store of coal that must have been brought by the schooner and the tug but it is the incineration of masses of dried seaweed that causes the smoke vomited forth by the crater of the mountain. Continuing my walk I perceive on the northern side of the lagoon the habitations of this colony of druglites. Do they not merit the appellation? This part of the cavern which is known as the beehive fully justifies its name for it is honeycombed by cells excavated in the limestone rock and in which these human bees or perhaps they should rather be called wasps reside. The lay of the cavern to the east is very different. Here hundreds of pillars of all shapes rise to the dome and form a veritable forest of stone trees through this sinuous avenues of which one can thread one's way to the extreme limit of the place. By counting the cells of the beehive I calculate that count Dartagas's companions number from 80 to 100. As my eye wanders over the place I notice that the count is standing in front of one of the cells which is isolated from the others and talking to engineer Circo and captain Spade. After a while they stroll down to the jetty alongside which the tug is lying. A dozen men have been emptying the merchandise out of the tug and transporting the goods in the boat to the other side where great cellars have been excavated in the rocks and form the storehouses of the band. The orifice of the tunnel is not visible in the waters of lagoon and I remember that when I was brought here I felt the tug sink several feet before it entered. In this respect therefore back cup does not resemble idea of the grottos of Staffa or Morgate entrance to which is always open even at high tide. There may be another passage communicating with the coast either natural or artificial and this I shall have to make my business to find out. The gallon well merits its name of back cup is indeed a gigantic cup turned upside down not only to outward appearance but inwardly too though people are ignorant of the fact. I have already remarked the beehive is situated to the north of lagoon that is to say to the left on entering the tunnel. On the opposite side are the store rooms filled with provisions of all kinds bales of merchandise barrels of wine beer and spirits and various packets bearing different marks and labels that show that they came from all parts of the world. One would think that the cargos of a score of ships had been landed here. A little farther on is a large wooden shed the nature of which is easily distinguishable from a pole above it a network of thick copper wires extends which conducts the current to the powerful electric lights suspended from the roof or dome and to the incandescent lamps in each the cells of the hive. A large number of lamps are also installed among the stone pillars and light up the avenues to their extremities. Shall I be permitted to roam about wherever I please? You ask myself? I hope so. I cannot for the life of me see why the Count Dartagas should prohibit me from doing so for I cannot get farther than the surrounding walls of this mysterious domain. I question whether there is any other issue than the tunnel and how on earth could I get through that? Besides a meaning that I am able to get through it I cannot get off the island. My disappearance would be soon noticed and a tug would take out a dozen men who would explore every nook and cranny. I should inevitably be recaptured brought back to the beehive and deprived of my liberty for good. I must therefore give up all idea of making my escape unless I can see that it has some chance of being successful and if ever an opportunity does present itself I shall not be slow to take advantage of it. On strolling round by the rows of cells I am able to observe a few of these companions of the Count Dartagas who are content to pass their monotonous existence in the depths of back up. As I said before calculating from the number of cells in the beehive there must be between 80 and 100 of them. They pay no attention whatever to me as I pass and unexamining them closely it seems to me that they must have been recruited from well every country. I do not distinguish any community of origin among them not even a similarity by which they might be classed as North Americans, Europeans or Asianics. The color of their skin shades from white to yellow and black the black peculiar to Australia rather than to Africa. To sum up they appear for the most part to pertain to the Malay races. I may add that the Count Dartagas certainly belongs to that particular race which peoples the Dutch Isles in the West Pacific while engineer Circo must be Leventine and Captain Spade of Italian origin. But if the inhabitants of back up are not bound to each other by the ties of race they certainly are by instinct and inclination. What forbidding savage looking faces they have to be sure they are men of violent character who have probably never placed any restraint upon their passions nor hesitated at anything. And it occurs to me that in all likelihood they have sought refuge in this cavern where they fancy they can continue to defy the law with impunity. After a long series of crimes robbery, murder, barcinment, excesses have old descriptions committed together. In this case back up is nothing but a layer of pirates. The Count Dartagas is the leader of the band in Circo and Spade are his lieutenants. I cannot get this idea out of my head and the more I consider the more convinced I am that I am right especially as everything I see during my stroll about the cavern seems to confirm my opinion. However this may be and whatever may be the circumstances that have brought them together in this place Count Dartagas's companions appear to accept his old powerful domination without question. On the other hand if he keeps them under his iron heel by enforcing the severe discipline certain advantages some compensation must accrue from the servitude to which they bow. What can this compensation be? Having turned that part of the bank under which the tunnel passes I find myself on the opposite side of the lagoon where are situated the storerooms containing the merchandise brought by the Abba on each trip and which contain a great quantity of bails. Beyond is the manufacturing of electric energy a gaze in at the windows as I pass and notice that it contains machines of the latest invention in highest attained perfection which take up little space not one steam engine with its more or less complicated mechanism and need of fuel is to be seen in the place. As I had surmised piles of extraordinary power supply the current to the lamps in the cavern as well as to the dynamos of the tug. No doubt the current is also utilized for domestic purposes such as warm and beehive and cooking food. I can see that in a neighboring cavity it is applied to the alembics used to produce fresh water at any rate the conists of back up are not reduced to catching the rain water that falls so abundantly upon the exterior of the mountain. A few paces from the electric powerhouse is a large cistern that save in the matter of proportions is the counterpart of those I visit in Bermuda. In the latter place the cisterns have to supply the needs of over 10,000 people. This one of a hundred what? I'm not sure yet what to call them. That their teeth had serious reasons for choosing the bowels of this island for this abiding place as obvious. But what were those reasons? I can understand monks shutting themselves behind their monastery walls with the intention of separating themselves from the world but these subjects of the Count D'Artigas have nothing of the monk about them and would not be mistaken for such by the most simple minded of mortals. I continue my way through the pillars to the extremity of the cavern. No one has sought to stop me. No one has spoken to me. Not a soul apparently has taken the very slightest notice of me. This portion of back up is extremely curious and comparable to the most marvelous of the grottoes of Kentucky or the Baylorix. I need hardly say that nowhere is the labor of man apparent. All this is a handiwork of nature. And it is not without wonder mingled with awe that I reflect upon the teleuric forces capable of engendering such prodigious substructions. The daylight from the crater in the center only strikes this part of the cavern obliquely so that it is very imperfectly lighted. But at night when illuminated by the electric lamps its aspect must be positively fantastic. I've examined the walls everywhere with minute attention but have been unable to discover any means of communicating with the outside. Quite a colony of birds, gulls, sea swallows, and other feathery genocins of the Bermudan beaches have made their home in the cavern. They have apparently never been hunted for they are in no way disturbed by the presence of man. But besides sea birds which are free to come and go as they please by the orifice in the dome there's a whole farmyard of domestic poultry in cows and pigs. The food supply is therefore no less assured than it is varied when the fish of all kinds that abound in the lagoon and around the island are taken into consideration. Moreover, a mere glance to the colonists of back up amply suffices to show that they are not accustomed to fare scantily. They are all vigorous, robust, seafaring men, weather beaten and seasoned in the burning beat of tropical latitudes whose rich blood is surcharge with oxygen by the breezes of the ocean. There is not a youth nor an old man among them. They are all in their prime, their ages ranting from 30 to 50. But why do they submit to such an existence? Do they never leave their rocky retreat? Perhaps I shall find out ere I am much older. End of chapter 9 Recording by John T.K.