An Antarctic Mystery (4 page)

The next morning at daybreak I bade adieu to the Green Cormorant,
and went down to the port, with my kind-hearted host, who insisted
on accompanying me to the ship, partly in order to make his mind
easy respecting the sincerity of the captain's repentance, and
partly that he might take leave of him, and also of Hurliguerly. A
boat was waiting at the quay, and we reached the ship in a few
minutes.

The first person whom I met on the deck was Hurliguerly; he gave me
a look of triumph, which said as plainly as speech: "Ha! you see
now. Our hard-to-manage captain has given in at last. And to whom do
you owe this, but to the good boatswain who did his best for you,
and did not boast overmuch of his influence?"

Was this the truth? I had strong reasons for doubting it. After all,
what did it matter?

Captain Len Guy came on deck immediately after my arrival; this was
not surprising, except for the fact that he did not appear to remark
my presence.

Atkins then approached the captain and said in a pleasant tone,—

"We shall meet next year!"

"If it please God, Atkins."

They shook hands. Then the boatswain took a hearty leave of the
innkeeper, and was rowed back to the quay.

Before dark the white summits of Table Mount and Havergal, which
rise, the former to two, the other to three thousand feet above the
level of the sea, had disappeared from our view.

Never did a voyage begin more prosperously, or a passenger start in
better spirits. The interior of the
Halbrane
corresponded with its
exterior. Nothing could exceed the perfect order, the Dutch
cleanliness of the vessel. The captain's cabin, and that of the
lieutenant, one on the port, the other on the starboard side, were
fitted up with a narrow berth, a cupboard anything but capacious, an
arm-chair, a fixed table, a lamp hung from the ceiling, various
nautical instruments, a barometer, a thermometer, a chronometer, and
a sextant in its oaken box. One of the two other cabins was prepared
to receive me. It was eight feet in length, five in breadth. I was
accustomed to the exigencies of sea life, and could do with its
narrow proportions, also with its furniture—a table, a cupboard, a
cane-bottomed arm-chair, a washing-stand on an iron pedestal, and a
berth to which a less accommodating passenger would doubtless have
objected. The passage would be a short one, however, so I took
possession of that cabin, which I was to occupy for only four, or at
the worst five weeks, with entire content.

The eight men who composed the crew were named respectively Martin
Holt, sailing-master; Hardy, Rogers, Drap, Francis, Gratian, Burg,
and Stern—sailors all between twenty-five and thirty-five years
old—all Englishmen, well trained, and remarkably well disciplined
by a hand of iron.

Let me set it down here at the beginning, the exceptionally able man
whom they all obeyed at a word, a gesture, was not the captain of
the
Halbrane
; that man was the second officer, James West, who was
then thirty-two years of age.

James West was born on the sea, and had passed his childhood on
board a lighter belonging to his father, and on which the whole
family lived. Ail his life he had breathed the salt air of the
English Channel, the Atlantic, or the Pacific. He never went ashore
except for the needs of his service, whether of the State or of
trade. If he had to leave one ship for another he merely shifted his
canvas bag to the latter, from which he stirred no more. When he was
not sailing in reality he was sailing in imagination. After having
been ship's boy, novice, sailor, he became quartermaster, master,
and finally lieutenant of the
Halbrane
, and he had already served
for ten years as second in command under Captain Len Guy.

James West was not even ambitious of a higher rise; he did not want
to make a fortune; he did not concern himself with the buying or
selling of cargoes; but everything connected with that admirable
instrument a sailing ship, James West understood to perfection.

The personal appearance of the lieutenant was as follows: middle
height, slightly built, all nerves and muscles, strong limbs as
agile as those of a gymnast, the true sailor's "look," but of
very unusual far-sightedness and surprising penetration, sunburnt
face, hair thick and short, beardless cheeks and chin, regular
features, the whole expression denoting energy, courage, and
physical strength at their utmost tension.

James West spoke but rarely—only when he was questioned. He gave
his orders in a clear voice, not repeating them, but so as to be
heard at once, and he was understood. I call attention to this
typical officer of the Merchant Marine, who was devoted body and
soul to Captain Len Guy as to the schooner
Halbrane
. He seemed to be
one of the essential organs of his ship, and if the
Halbrane
had a
heart it was in James West's breast that it beat.

There is but one more person to be mentioned; the ship's cook—a
negro from the African coast named Endicott, thirty years of age,
who had held that post for eight years. The boatswain and he were
great friends, and indulged in frequent talks.

Life on board was very regular, very simple, and its monotony was
not without a certain charm. Sailing is repose in movement, a
rocking in a dream, and I did not dislike my isolation. Of course I
should have liked to find out why Captain Len Guy had changed his
mind with respect to me; but how was this to be done? To question
the lieutenant would have been loss of time. Besides, was he in
possession of the secrets of his chief? It was no part of his
business to be so, and I had observed that he did not occupy himself
with anything outside of it. Not ten words were exchanged between
him and me during the two meals which we took in common daily. I
must acknowledge, however, that I frequently caught the captain's
eyes fixed upon me, as though he longed to question me, as though he
had something to learn from me, whereas it was I, on the contrary,
who had something to learn from him. But we were both silent.

Had I felt the need of talking to somebody very strongly, I might
have resorted to the boatswain, who was always disposed to chatter;
but what had he to say that could interest me? He never failed to
bid me good morning and good evening in most prolix fashion, but
beyond these courtesies I did not feel disposed to go.

The good weather lasted, and on the 18th of August, in the
afternoon, the look-out discerned the mountains of the Crozet group.
The next day we passed Possession Island, which is inhabited only in
the fishing season. At this period the only dwellers there are
flocks of penguins, and the birds which whalers call "white
pigeons."

The approach to land is always interesting at sea. It occurred to me
that Captain Len Guy might take this opportunity of speaking to his
passenger; but he did not.

We should see land, that is to say the peaks of Marion and Prince
Edward Islands, before arriving at Tristan d'Acunha, but it was
there the
Halbrane
was to take in a fresh supply of water. I
concluded therefore that the monotony of our voyage would continue
unbroken to the end. But, on the morning of the 20th of August, to
my extreme surprise, Captain Len Guy came on deck, approached me,
and said, speaking very low,—

"Sir, I have something to say to you."

"I am ready to hear you, captain."

"I have not spoken until to-day, for I am naturally taciturn."
Here he hesitated again, but after a pause, continued with an
effort,—

"Mr. Jeorling, have you tried to discover my reason for changing
my mind on the subject of your passage?"

"I have tried, but I have not succeeded, captain. Perhaps, as I am
not a compatriot of yours, you—"

"It is precisely because you are an American that I decided in the
end to offer you a passage on the
Halbrane
."

"Because I am an American?"

"Also, because you come from Connecticut."

"I don't understand."

"You will understand if I add that I thought it possible, since
you belong to Connecticut, since you have visited Nantucket Island,
that you might have known the family of Arthur Gordon Pym."

"The hero of Edgar Poe's romance?"

"The same. His narrative was founded upon the manuscript in which
the details of that extraordinary and disastrous voyage across the
Antarctic Sea was related."

I thought I must be dreaming when I heard Captain Len Guy's words.
Edgar Poe's romance was nothing but a fiction, a work of
imagination by the most brilliant of our American writers. And here
was a sane man treating that fiction as a reality.

I could not answer him. I was asking myself what manner of man was
this one with whom I had to deal.

"You have heard my question?" persisted the captain.

"Yes, yes, captain, certainly, but I am not sure that I quite
understand."

"I will put it to you more plainly. I ask you whether in
Connecticut you personally knew the Pym family who lived in
Nantucket Island? Arthur Pam's father was one of the principal
merchants there, he was a Navy contractor. It was his son who
embarked in the adventures which he related with his own lips to
Edgar Poe—"

"Captain! Why, that story is due to the powerful imagination of
our great poet. It is a pure invention."

"So, then, you don't believe it, Mr. Jeorling?" said the
captain, shrugging his shoulders three times.

"Neither I nor any other person believes it, Captain Guy, and you
are the first I have heard maintain that it was anything but a mere
romance."

"Listen to me, then, Mr. Jeorling, for although this
'romance'—as you call it—appeared only last year, it is none
the less a reality. Although eleven years have elapsed since the
facts occurred, they are none the less true, and we still await the
' word J of an enigma which will perhaps never be solved."

Yes, he was mad; but by good fortune West was there to take his
place as commander of the schooner. I had only to listen to him, and
as I had read Poe's romance over and over again, I was curious to
hear what the captain had to say about it.

"And now," he resumed in a sharper tone and with a shake in his
voice which denoted a certain amount of nervous irritation, "it is
possible that you did not know the Pym family; that you have never
met them either at Providence or at Nantucket—"

"Or elsewhere."

"Just so! But don't commit yourself by asserting that the Pym
family never existed, that Arthur Gordon is only a fictitious
personage, and his voyage an imaginary one! Do you think any man,
even your Edgar Poe, could have been capable of inventing, of
creating—?"

The increasing vehemence of Captain Len Guy warned me of the
necessity of treating his monomania with respect, and accepting all
he said without discussion.

"Now," he proceeded, "please to keep the facts which I am
about to state clearly in your mind; there is no disputing about
facts. You may deduce any results from them you like. I hope you
will not make me regret that I consented to give you a passage on
the
Halbrane
."

This was an effectual warning, so I made a sign of acquiescence. The
matter promised to be curious. He went on,—

"When Edgar Poe's narrative appeared in 1838, I was at New York.
I immediately started for Baltimore, where the writer's family
lived; the grandfather had served as quarter-master-general during
the War of Independence. You admit, I suppose, the existence of the
Poe family, although you deny that of the Pym family?"

I said nothing, and the captain continued, with a dark glance at
me,—

"I inquired into certain matters relating to Edgar Poe. His abode
was pointed out to me and I called at the house. A first
disappointment! He had left America, and I could not see him.
Unfortunately, being unable to see Edgar Poe, I was unable to refer
to Arthur Gordon Pym in the case. That bold pioneer of the Antarctic
regions was dead! As the American poet had stated, at the close of
the narrative of his adventures, Gordon's death had already been
made known to the public by the daily press."

What Captain Len Guy said was true; but, in common with all the
readers of the romance, I had taken this declaration for an artifice
of the novelist. My notion was that, as he either could not or dared
not wind up so extraordinary a work of imagination, Poe had given it
to be understood that he had not received the last three chapters
from Arthur Pym, whose life had ended under sudden and deplorable
circumstances which Poe did not make known.

"Then," continued the captain, "Edgar Poe being absent, Arthur
Pym being dead, I had only one thing to do; to find the man who had
been the fellow-traveller of Arthur Pym, that Dirk Peters who had
followed him to the very verge of the high latitudes, and whence
they had both returned—how? This is not known. Did they come back
in company? The narrative does not say, and there are obscure points
in that part of it, as in many other places. However, Edgar Poe
stated explicitly that Dirk Peters would be able to furnish
information relating to the non-communicated chapters, and that he
lived at Illinois. I set out at once for Illinois; I arrived at
Springfield; I inquired for this man, a half-breed Indian. He lived
in the hamlet of Vandalia; I went there, and met with a second
disappointment. He was not there, or rather, Mr. Jeorling, he was no
longer there. Some years before this Dirk Peters had left Illinois,
and even the United States, to go—nobody knows where. But I have
talked, at Vandalia with people who had known him, with whom he
lived, to whom he related his adventures, but did not explain the
final issue. Of that he alone holds the secret."