Part 40

The colonists were then halfway between Granite House and the corral. They therefore still had two and a half miles to cover. They broke into a run. Indeed, there was reason to fear that some grave event might have taken place at the corral. No doubt Ayrton might have sent a telegram that had not arrived, and that was not a reason to alarm his companions; but, a more inexplicable circumstance, Ayrton, who had promised to return the previous evening, had not reappeared. Finally, it was not without cause that all communication between the corral and Granite House had been cut off, and what others than the convicts could have an interest in interrupting that communication?

The colonists ran, their hearts tight with emotion. They had sincerely grown attached to their new companion. Were they going to find him struck down by the very hand of those whose chief he had once been?

Soon they reached the spot where the road ran alongside the small stream diverted from the Red Creek, which irrigated the corral meadows. They then slackened their pace, so as not to be out of breath at the moment when a struggle might perhaps become necessary. The rifles were no longer at half-cock, but loaded. Each watched one side of the forest. Top uttered some low growls that were of ill omen. At last, the palisaded enclosure appeared through the trees. No trace of damage was to be seen upon it. The gate was shut as usual. A profound silence reigned in the corral. Neither the accustomed bleating of the sheep nor Ayrton's voice could be heard.

“Let us go in!” said Cyrus Smith.

And the engineer advanced, while his companions, keeping watch twenty paces from him, were ready to fire.

Cyrus Smith lifted the inner latch of the gate, and was about to push back one of the leaves, when Top barked violently. A shot rang out above the palisade, and a cry of pain answered it.

Harbert, struck by a bullet, lay stretched upon the ground!

CHAPTER VII

At Harbert's cry, Pencroff, letting his weapon fall, had sprung toward him.

“They have killed him!” he cried. “Him, my boy! They have killed him!”

Cyrus Smith and Gideon Spilett had rushed to Harbert. The reporter listened to see if the poor child's heart still beat.

“He lives,” he said. “But he must be carried—”

“To Granite House? That is impossible!” replied the engineer.

“To the corral, then!” cried Pencroff.

“One moment,” said Cyrus Smith.

And he dashed to the left so as to circle the enclosure. There, he found himself face to face with a convict who, taking aim at him, sent a bullet through his hat. A few seconds later, before he had even had time to fire a second shot, he fell, struck to the heart by Cyrus Smith's dagger, surer still than his rifle.

Meanwhile, Gideon Spilett and the sailor climbed the angles of the palisade, straddled its top, leapt inside the enclosure, threw down the props that held the gate from within, rushed into the house, which was empty, and soon the poor Harbert was lying on Ayrton's bed. A few moments later, Cyrus Smith was beside him.

At the sight of the unconscious Harbert, the sailor's grief was terrible. He sobbed, he wept, he wanted to dash his head against the wall. Neither the engineer nor the reporter could calm him. Emotion choked them as well. They could not speak.

Nevertheless, they did all that depended on them to wrest the poor child, who was dying before their eyes, from death. Gideon Spilett, after so many incidents with which his life had been strewn, was not without some knowledge of common medicine.

He knew a little of everything, and many occasions had already arisen in which he had had to treat wounds caused either by a cutting weapon or by firearms. Aided by Cyrus Smith, he therefore proceeded with the care that Harbert's condition demanded.

First of all, the reporter was struck by the general stupor that overwhelmed him, a stupor due either to the hemorrhage or even to the concussion, if the bullet had struck a bone with enough force to produce a violent shock.

Harbert was extremely pale, and his pulse so weak that Gideon Spilett felt it beat only at long intervals, as if it were about to stop. At the same time, there was an almost complete suspension of the senses and of intelligence. These symptoms were very grave.

Harbert's chest was bared, and, the blood having been staunched by means of handkerchiefs, it was washed with cold water.

The contusion, or rather the contused wound, appeared. An oval hole existed in the chest between the third and fourth ribs. It was there that the bullet had struck Harbert.

Cyrus Smith and Gideon Spilett then turned over the poor child, who let escape so faint a moan that one might have thought it was his last breath. Another contused wound bloodied Harbert's back, and the bullet that had struck him came out of it at once.

“Praise be to God!” said the reporter. “The bullet has not remained in the body, and we shall not have to extract it.”

“But the heart?...” asked Cyrus Smith.

“The heart has not been touched, otherwise Harbert would be dead!”

“Dead!” cried Pencroff, who uttered a roar!

The sailor had heard only the last words spoken by the reporter.

“No, Pencroff,” answered Cyrus Smith, “no! He is not dead. His pulse still beats! He has even uttered a moan. But, for your boy's own sake, calm yourself. We need all our presence of mind. Do not make us lose it, my friend.”

Pencroff was silent, but, a reaction taking place within him, great tears flooded his face.

Meanwhile, Gideon Spilett tried to recall his memories and to proceed methodically. From his observation, it was not doubtful, for him, that the bullet, entering in front, had exited behind.

But what ravages had this bullet caused in its passage? What essential organs were affected? That is what a professional surgeon would hardly have been able to say at that moment, and, all the more so, the reporter.

However, he knew one thing: that he would have to prevent the inflammatory strangulation of the injured parts, then combat the local inflammation and the fever that would result from this wound—a wound perhaps mortal! Now, what topical agents, what antiphlogistics to employ? By what means to avert this inflammation? In any case, what was important was that the two wounds be dressed without delay. It did not seem necessary to Gideon Spilett to provoke a fresh outflow of blood, by washing them with lukewarm water and compressing their lips. The hemorrhage had been very abundant, and Harbert was already too much weakened by the loss of his blood.

The reporter therefore thought he should content himself with washing the two wounds with cold water.

Harbert was placed on his left side, and he was kept in that position.

“He must not move,” said Gideon Spilett. “He is in the most favorable position for the wounds of the back and chest to suppurate freely, and absolute rest is necessary.”

“What! We cannot carry him to Granite House?” asked Pencroff.

“No, Pencroff,” replied the reporter.

“Curse it!” cried the sailor, whose fist turned toward the sky.

“Pencroff!” said Cyrus Smith.

Gideon Spilett had begun again to examine the wounded child with extreme attention. Harbert was still so frightfully pale that the reporter felt troubled.

“Cyrus,” he said, “I am not a physician... I am in terrible perplexity... you must aid me with your counsel, with your experience!...”

“Regain your calm..., my friend,” replied the engineer, pressing the reporter's hand... “judge with a cool head... think only of this: Harbert must be saved!”

These words restored to Gideon Spilett that self-possession which, in a moment of discouragement, the keen sense of his responsibility had made him lose. He sat down near the bed.

Cyrus Smith remained standing. Pencroff had torn his shirt, and, mechanically, he made lint.

Gideon Spilett then explained to Cyrus Smith that he believed he ought, above all, to check the hemorrhage, but not to close the two wounds, nor to provoke their immediate healing, because there had been internal perforation and it was not well to let the suppuration accumulate in the chest.

Cyrus Smith entirely approved, and it was decided that the two wounds should be dressed without attempting to close them by immediate coaptation. Very fortunately, they did not seem to need to be laid open.

And now, to react against the inflammation that would supervene, did the colonists possess an effective agent?

Yes! They had one, for nature has lavished it generously. They had cold water, that is to say the most powerful sedative that can be used against the inflammation of wounds, the most efficacious therapeutic agent in grave cases, and which now is adopted by all physicians. Cold water has, moreover, the advantage of leaving the wound in absolute rest and of preserving it from all premature dressing, a considerable advantage, since experience shows that contact with the air is baneful during the first days.

Gideon Spilett and Cyrus Smith reasoned thus with their simple good sense, and they acted as the best surgeon would have done. Linen compresses were applied to the poor Harbert's two wounds and had to be constantly soaked with cold water.

The sailor had, at first, lit a fire in the dwelling's hearth, which lacked none of the things necessary to life. Some maple sugar, some medicinal plants—those very ones that the young boy had gathered on the banks of Lake Grant—made it possible to prepare some refreshing herbal teas, and these were given to him without his being aware of it. His fever was extremely high, and the whole day and night passed thus without his regaining consciousness. Harbert's life hung by a thread, and that thread might break at any moment.

The next day, November 12, Cyrus Smith and his companions recovered some hope. Harbert had emerged from his long stupor. He opened his eyes, he recognized Cyrus Smith, the reporter, Pencroff. He uttered two or three words. He did not know what had happened. They told him, and Gideon Spilett begged him to keep absolute rest, telling him that his life was not in danger and that his wounds would heal in a few days. Besides, Harbert scarcely suffered, and this cold water, with which they incessantly bathed them, prevented all inflammation of the wounds. The suppuration was established regularly, the fever showed no tendency to increase, and it could be hoped that this terrible wound would bring about no catastrophe. Pencroff felt his heart gradually unburden itself. He was like a sister of charity, like a mother at her child's bedside.

Harbert dozed off again, but his sleep seemed better.

“Tell me again that you hope, Mr. Spilett!” said Pencroff. “Tell me again that you will save Harbert!”

“Yes, we shall save him!” replied the reporter. “The wound is grave, and perhaps even the bullet has traversed the lung, but perforation of that organ is not mortal.”

“God hear you!” repeated Pencroff.

As may well be thought, for the twenty-four hours they had been at the corral, the colonists had had no other thought than to care for Harbert. They had concerned themselves neither with the danger that might threaten them if the convicts returned, nor with the precautions to take for the future.

But that day, while Pencroff watched at the sick boy's bedside, Cyrus Smith and the reporter spoke together of what it was proper to do.

First, they went over the corral. There was no trace of Ayrton. Had the unhappy man been carried off by his former accomplices? Had he been surprised by them in the corral? Had he struggled and succumbed in the fight? This last hypothesis was but too probable. Gideon Spilett, at the moment when he was scaling the palisade, had perfectly seen one of the convicts fleeing by the southern spur of Mount Franklin and toward whom Top had hurled himself. It was one of those whose boat had been broken on the rocks, at the mouth of the Mercy. Besides, the one whom Cyrus Smith had killed, and whose corpse was found outside the enclosure, belonged indeed to Bob Harvey's band.

As for the corral, it had as yet suffered no devastation. Its gates were shut, and the domestic animals could not have scattered into the forest. Nor was any trace of struggle to be seen, any damage, either at the dwelling or at the palisade.

Only, the ammunition, with which Ayrton had been supplied, had disappeared with him.

“The unhappy man must have been surprised,” said Cyrus Smith, “and, as he was a man to defend himself, he must have succumbed.”

“Yes! That is to be feared!” replied the reporter. “Then, no doubt, the convicts installed themselves at the corral, where they found everything in abundance, and they took flight only when they saw us arrive. It is also very evident that at that moment Ayrton, dead or alive, was no longer here.”

“We shall have to beat the forest,” said the engineer, “and rid the island of these wretches. Pencroff's presentiments did not deceive him, when he wanted us to hunt them like wild beasts. That would have spared us many misfortunes!”

“Yes,” replied the reporter, “but now we have the right to be without pity!”

“In any case,” said the engineer, “we are forced to wait some time and to remain at the corral until the moment when Harbert can be transported to Granite House without danger.”

“But Nab?” asked the reporter.

“Nab is safe.”

“And if, anxious at our absence, he should venture to come?”

“He must not come!” replied Cyrus Smith quickly. “He would be assassinated on the way!”

“The thing is that he will probably try to rejoin us!”

“Ah! If the telegraph still worked, we could warn him! But that is impossible now! As for leaving Pencroff and Harbert alone here, we cannot do it!... well, I shall go alone to Granite House.”

“No, no! Cyrus,” replied the reporter, “you must not expose yourself! Your courage could do nothing there. These wretches are evidently watching the corral, they are ambushed in the thick woods that surround it, and, if you left, we should soon have to regret two misfortunes instead of one!”

“But Nab?” repeated the engineer. “It is twenty-four hours since he has had news of us! He will want to come!”

“And as he will be even less on his guard than we should be ourselves,” answered Gideon Spilett, “he will be struck!...”

“Is there then no means of warning him?”

While the engineer reflected, his eyes fell upon Top, who, going to and fro, seemed to say: “Am I not here, then?”

“Top!” cried Cyrus Smith.

The animal bounded at his master's call.

“Yes, Top will go!” said the reporter, who had understood the engineer. “Top will pass where we could not pass! He will carry news of the corral to Granite House, and he will bring us those of Granite House!”

“Quick!” replied Cyrus Smith. “Quick!”

Gideon Spilett had rapidly torn a page from his notebook, and he wrote these lines upon it:

“Harbert wounded. We are at the corral. Be on your guard. Do not leave Granite House. Have the convicts appeared in the neighborhood? Answer by Top.”

This laconic note contained all that Nab needed to learn and asked him at the same time all that the colonists had an interest in knowing. It was folded and attached to Top's collar, in a very conspicuous manner.

“Top! My dog,” said the engineer then, caressing the animal, “Nab, Top! Nab! Go! Go!”

Top sprang at these words. He understood, he guessed what was required of him. The road to the corral was familiar to him. In less than half an hour, he could have traversed it, and it was permitted to hope that where neither Cyrus Smith nor the reporter could have ventured without danger, Top, running in the grass or under the edge of the wood, would pass unnoticed.

The engineer went to the corral gate, and he pushed back one of the leaves.

“Nab! Top, Nab!” repeated the engineer once more, extending his hand in the direction of Granite House.

Top dashed outside and disappeared almost immediately.

“He will arrive!” said the reporter.

“Yes, and he will return, the faithful animal!”

“What time is it?” asked Gideon Spilett.

“Ten o'clock.”

“In an hour he can be here. We shall watch for his return.”

The corral gate was shut again. The engineer and the reporter re-entered the house. Harbert was then profoundly asleep. Pencroff kept his compresses in a permanent state of moisture.

Gideon Spilett, seeing that there was nothing to do at that moment, occupied himself with preparing some food, while carefully watching that part of the enclosure backed by the spur, by which an attack might come.

The colonists awaited Top's return, not without anxiety. A little before eleven o'clock, Cyrus Smith and the reporter, carbine in hand, were behind the gate, ready to open it at the first bark of their dog. They did not doubt that if Top had been able to arrive safely at Granite House, Nab would have immediately sent him back.

They had both been there for about ten minutes, when a shot rang out and was at once followed by repeated barking.

The engineer opened the gate, and, seeing still a remnant of smoke a hundred paces into the wood, he fired in that direction.

Almost immediately Top bounded into the corral, the gate of which was quickly shut.

“Top, Top!” cried the engineer, taking the dog's good big head between his arms. A note was attached to his neck, and Cyrus Smith read these words, traced in Nab's clumsy handwriting:

“No pirates in the neighborhood of Granite House. I shall not stir. Poor Mr. Harbert!”

CHAPTER VIII

Thus, the convicts were still there, spying on the corral, and determined to kill the colonists one after another! There was nothing left but to treat them as ferocious beasts. But great precautions must be taken, for these wretches had, at that moment, the advantage of the situation, seeing and not being seen, able to surprise by the suddenness of their attack and unable to be surprised.

Cyrus Smith therefore arranged to live at the corral, whose supplies, besides, could suffice for a fairly long time. Ayrton's house had been provided with everything necessary to life, and the convicts, frightened by the arrival of the colonists, had not had time to pillage it. It was probable, as Gideon Spilett pointed out, that things had passed as follows: the six convicts, landed on the island, had followed its southern coast, and, after traversing the double shore of the Serpentine Peninsula, being not of a humor to venture under the woods of the Far-West, they had reached the mouth of the Falls River. Once at that point, going up the right bank of the watercourse, they had arrived at the spurs of Mount Franklin, among which it was natural that they should seek some retreat, and they could not have failed to discover the corral, then uninhabited. There, they had presumably installed themselves, awaiting the moment to carry out their abominable projects.

The arrival of Ayrton had surprised them, but they had managed to seize the unhappy man, and... the rest was easily guessed!

Now, the convicts—reduced to five, it is true, but well armed—roamed in the woods, and to venture there was to expose oneself to their blows, without any possibility either of parrying or of foreseeing them.

“Wait! There is nothing else to do!” repeated Cyrus Smith. “When Harbert is cured, we shall be able to organize a general beating of the island and get the better of these convicts. That will be the object of our great expedition, at the same time...”

“As the search for our mysterious protector,” added Gideon Spilett, finishing the engineer's sentence. “Ah! It must be owned, my dear Cyrus, that, this time, his protection has failed us, and at the very moment when it would have been most necessary to us!”

“Who knows!” replied the engineer.

“What do you mean?” asked the reporter.

“That we are not at the end of our troubles, my dear Spilett, and that the powerful intervention may perhaps yet have occasion to exert itself. But that is not the question. Harbert's life above all.”

That was the most painful preoccupation of the colonists. Some days passed, and the poor boy's condition had, happily, not worsened. Now, time gained over the disease was much. The cold water, always maintained at the proper temperature, had absolutely prevented inflammation of the wounds. It even seemed to the reporter that this water, somewhat sulfurous—which the neighborhood of the volcano explained—had a more direct action on the healing. The suppuration was much less abundant, and, thanks to the unceasing care with which he was surrounded, Harbert was returning to life, and his fever tended to lower. He was, besides, subjected to a strict diet, and, consequently, his weakness was and must be extreme; but the herbal teas were not lacking to him, and absolute rest did him the greatest good.

Cyrus Smith, Gideon Spilett and Pencroff had become very skillful at dressing the young wounded boy. All the linen of the dwelling had been sacrificed. Harbert's wounds, covered with compresses and lint, were bound neither too tight nor too loose, so as to promote their healing without determining an inflammatory reaction. The reporter brought an extreme care to these dressings, knowing well their importance, and repeating to his companions what most physicians readily acknowledge: that it is perhaps more rare to see a well-made dressing than a well-made operation. At the end of ten days, on November 22, Harbert was going sensibly better. He had begun to take some nourishment. Color returned to his cheeks, and his good eyes smiled at his nurses. He talked a little, despite Pencroff's efforts, who, he, talked all the time to keep him from speaking and told the most improbable stories.

Harbert had questioned him about Ayrton, whom he was astonished not to see near him, thinking he must be at the corral. But the sailor, not wishing to grieve Harbert, had contented himself with answering that Ayrton had rejoined Nab, in order to defend Granite House.

“Eh!” said he, “these pirates! There are gentlemen who are entitled to no consideration now! And Mr. Smith who wanted to take them by their feelings! I'll send them feelings, I will, but in good caliber lead!”

“And they have not been seen again?” asked Harbert.

“No, my boy,” replied the sailor, “but we shall find them again, and, when you are cured, we shall see if these cowards, who strike from behind, dare attack us face to face!”

“I am still very weak, my poor Pencroff!”

“Eh! Strength will return little by little! What is a bullet through the chest? A simple joke! I have seen far worse, and I am none the worse for it!”

Finally, things appeared to be for the best, and, from the moment that no complication arose, Harbert's recovery might be regarded as assured. But what would the colonists' situation have been if his condition had worsened, if, for example, the bullet had remained in his body, if his arm or his leg had had to be amputated!

“No,” said Gideon Spilett more than once, “I never thought of such an eventuality without shuddering!”

“And yet, if it had been necessary to act, would you not have hesitated?” Cyrus Smith asked him one day.

“No, Cyrus!” said Gideon Spilett, “but blessed be God for having spared us that complication!”

“Stories of the world, in your language.”