I look for the Count d’Artigas, but do not see him. He has not yet left his cabin.
Aft, Captain Spade and Engineer Serko are superintending the stowing of some bales, 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 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 ought 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 Ebba resumed her voyage while I slept, leaving the three-master becalmed behind her, and this is why the merchantman is no longer visible.
I am careful not to question Captain Spade about it, nor even Engineer Serko, as I should certainly receive no answer.
Besides, at this moment Captain Spade goes to the signalling apparatus and presses one of the buttons on the upper disk. Almost immediately the Ebba gives a jerk, then with her sails still furled, she starts off eastward again.
Two hours later the Count d’Artigas comes up through the main hatchway and takes his customary place aft. Serko 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 the exception of Thomas Roch, who has not quitted his cabin.
Towards one o’clock land is sighted by the lookout man on the foretop cross-tree. Inasmuch as the Ebba is bowling along at great speed I shall soon be able to make out the coast line.
In effect, two hours later a vague semicircular 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—
VIII
Back Cup
In my opinion the Ebba 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, judging from the Ebba’s rate of speed, which has scarcely varied, is approximately seven hundred and fifty miles.
Still, the schooner does not slacken speed. The Count d’Artigas and Engineer Serko remain aft, by the man at the wheel. Captain Spade has gone forward.
Are we not going to leave this island, which appears to be isolated, to the west?
It does not seem likely, since it is still broad daylight, and the hour at which the Ebba was timed to arrive.
All the sailors are drawn up on deck, awaiting orders, and Boatswain Effrondat is making preparations to anchor.
Ere 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 Ebba belongs is situated on one of the Bermuda islands, in the middle of an English archipelago—unless the Count d’Artigas has kidnapped Thomas Roch for the British government, which I cannot believe.
I become 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 Warder Gaydon 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 am 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 Serko—I have succeeded in raising a corner of the mysterious veil, and I begin to see ahead a bit.
As the Ebba 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 three hundred 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
