Off on a Comet (17 page)

Once satisfied that Servadac and his friends would cooperate with him in
the raid upon "the thieves," Ben Zoof became calm and content, and began
to make various inquiries. "And what has become," he said, "of all our
old comrades in Africa?"

"As far as I can tell you," answered the captain, "they are all in
Africa still; only Africa isn't by any means where we expected to find
it."

"And France? Montmartre?" continued Ben Zoof eagerly. Here was the cry
of the poor fellow's heart.

As briefly as he could, Servadac endeavored to explain the true
condition of things; he tried to communicate the fact that Paris,
France, Europe, nay, the whole world was more than eighty millions of
leagues away from Gourbi Island; as gently and cautiously as he could
he expressed his fear that they might never see Europe, France, Paris,
Montmartre again.

"No, no, sir!" protested Ben Zoof emphatically; "that is all nonsense.
It is altogether out of the question to suppose that we are not to see
Montmartre again." And the orderly shook his head resolutely, with the
air of a man determined, in spite of argument, to adhere to his own
opinion.

"Very good, my brave fellow," replied Servadac, "hope on, hope while you
may. The message has come to us over the sea, 'Never despair'; but one
thing, nevertheless, is certain; we must forthwith commence arrangements
for making this island our permanent home."

Captain Servadac now led the way to the gourbi, which, by his servant's
exertions, had been entirely rebuilt; and here he did the honors of his
modest establishment to his two guests, the count and the lieutenant,
and gave a welcome, too, to little Nina, who had accompanied them on
shore, and between whom and Ben Zoof the most friendly relations had
already been established.

The adjacent building continued in good preservation, and Captain
Servadac's satisfaction was very great in finding the two horses, Zephyr
and Galette, comfortably housed there and in good condition.

After the enjoyment of some refreshment, the party proceeded to a
general consultation as to what steps must be taken for their future
welfare. The most pressing matter that came before them was the
consideration of the means to be adopted to enable the inhabitants of
Gallia to survive the terrible cold, which, in their ignorance of the
true eccentricity of their orbit, might, for aught they knew, last for
an almost indefinite period. Fuel was far from abundant; of coal there
was none; trees and shrubs were few in number, and to cut them down in
prospect of the cold seemed a very questionable policy; but there was
no doubt some expedient must be devised to prevent disaster, and that
without delay.

The victualing of the little colony offered no immediate difficulty.
Water was abundant, and the cisterns could hardly fail to be replenished
by the numerous streams that meandered along the plains; moreover, the
Gallian Sea would ere long be frozen over, and the melted ice (water
in its congealed state being divested of every particle of salt) would
afford a supply of drink that could not be exhausted. The crops that
were now ready for the harvest, and the flocks and herds scattered over
the island, would form an ample reserve. There was little doubt that
throughout the winter the soil would remain unproductive, and no fresh
fodder for domestic animals could then be obtained; it would therefore
be necessary, if the exact duration of Gallia's year should ever be
calculated, to proportion the number of animals to be reserved to the
real length of the winter.

The next thing requisite was to arrive at a true estimate of the
number of the population. Without including the thirteen Englishmen at
Gibraltar, about whom he was not particularly disposed to give himself
much concern at present, Servadac put down the names of the eight
Russians, the two Frenchman, and the little Italian girl, eleven in all,
as the entire list of the inhabitants of Gourbi Island.

"Oh, pardon me," interposed Ben Zoof, "you are mistaking the state of
the case altogether. You will be surprised to learn that the total of
people on the island is double that. It is twenty-two."

"Twenty-two!" exclaimed the captain; "twenty-two people on this island?
What do you mean?"

"The opportunity has not occurred," answered Ben Zoof, "for me to tell
you before, but I have had company."

"Explain yourself, Ben Zoof," said Servadac. "What company have you
had?"

"You could not suppose," replied the orderly, "that my own unassisted
hands could have accomplished all that harvest work that you see has
been done."

"I confess," said Lieutenant Procope, "we do not seem to have noticed
that."

"Well, then," said Ben Zoof, "if you will be good enough to come with me
for about a mile, I shall be able to show you my companions. But we must
take our guns."

"Why take our guns?" asked Servadac. "I hope we are not going to fight."

"No, not with men," said Ben Zoof; "but it does not answer to throw a
chance away for giving battle to those thieves of birds."

Leaving little Nina and her goat in the gourbi, Servadac, Count
Timascheff, and the lieutenant, greatly mystified, took up their guns
and followed the orderly. All along their way they made unsparing
slaughter of the birds that hovered over and around them. Nearly every
species of the feathered tribe seemed to have its representative in that
living cloud. There were wild ducks in thousands; snipe, larks, rooks,
and swallows; a countless variety of sea-birds—widgeons, gulls, and
seamews; beside a quantity of game—quails, partridges, and woodcocks.
The sportsmen did their best; every shot told; and the depredators fell
by dozens on either hand.

Instead of following the northern shore of the island, Ben Zoof cut
obliquely across the plain. Making their progress with the unwonted
rapidity which was attributable to their specific lightness, Servadac
and his companions soon found themselves near a grove of sycamores and
eucalyptus massed in picturesque confusion at the base of a little hill.
Here they halted.

"Ah! the vagabonds! the rascals! the thieves!" suddenly exclaimed Ben
Zoof, stamping his foot with rage.

"How now? Are your friends the birds at their pranks again?" asked the
captain.

"No, I don't mean the birds: I mean those lazy beggars that are shirking
their work. Look here; look there!" And as Ben Zoof spoke, he pointed
to some scythes, and sickles, and other implements of husbandry that had
been left upon the ground.

"What is it you mean?" asked Servadac, getting somewhat impatient.

"Hush, hush! listen!" was all Ben Zoof's reply; and he raised his finger
as if in warning.

Listening attentively, Servadac and his associates could distinctly
recognize a human voice, accompanied by the notes of a guitar and by the
measured click of castanets.

"Spaniards!" said Servadac.

"No mistake about that, sir," replied Ben Zoof; "a Spaniard would rattle
his castanets at the cannon's mouth."

"But what is the meaning of it all?" asked the captain, more puzzled
than before.

"Hark!" said Ben Zoof; "it is the old man's turn."

And then a voice, at once gruff and harsh, was heard vociferating, "My
money! my money! when will you pay me my money? Pay me what you owe me,
you miserable majos."

Meanwhile the song continued:

"Tu sandunga y cigarro,
Y una cana de Jerez,
Mi jamelgo y un trabuco,
Que mas gloria puede haver?"

Servadac's knowledge of Gascon enabled him partially to comprehend the
rollicking tenor of the Spanish patriotic air, but his attention was
again arrested by the voice of the old man growling savagely, "Pay me
you shall; yes, by the God of Abraham, you shall pay me."

"A Jew!" exclaimed Servadac.

"Ay, sir, a German Jew," said Ben Zoof.

The party was on the point of entering the thicket, when a singular
spectacle made them pause. A group of Spaniards had just begun dancing
their national fandango, and the extraordinary lightness which had
become the physical property of every object in the new planet made
the dancers bound to a height of thirty feet or more into the air,
considerably above the tops of the trees. What followed was irresistibly
comic. Four sturdy majos had dragged along with them an old man
incapable of resistance, and compelled him,
nolens volens
, to join
in the dance; and as they all kept appearing and disappearing above the
bank of foliage, their grotesque attitudes, combined with the pitiable
countenance of their helpless victim, could not do otherwise than recall
most forcibly the story of Sancho Panza tossed in a blanket by the merry
drapers of Segovia.

Servadac, the count, Procope, and Ben Zoof now proceeded to make their
way through the thicket until they came to a little glade, where two men
were stretched idly on the grass, one of them playing the guitar, and
the other a pair of castanets; both were exploding with laughter, as
they urged the performers to greater and yet greater exertions in
the dance. At the sight of strangers they paused in their music, and
simultaneously the dancers, with their victim, alighted gently on the
sward.

Breathless and half exhausted as was the Jew, he rushed with an effort
towards Servadac, and exclaimed in French, marked by a strong Teutonic
accent, "Oh, my lord governor, help me, help! These rascals defraud me
of my rights; they rob me; but, in the name of the God of Israel, I ask
you to see justice done!"

The captain glanced inquiringly towards Ben Zoof, and the orderly, by a
significant nod, made his master understand that he was to play the part
that was implied by the title. He took the cue, and promptly ordered
the Jew to hold his tongue at once. The man bowed his head in servile
submission, and folded his hands upon his breast.

Servadac surveyed him leisurely. He was a man of about fifty, but from
his appearance might well have been taken for at least ten years older.
Small and skinny, with eyes bright and cunning, a hooked nose, a short
yellow beard, unkempt hair, huge feet, and long bony hands, he presented
all the typical characteristics of the German Jew, the heartless, wily
usurer, the hardened miser and skinflint. As iron is attracted by the
magnet, so was this Shylock attracted by the sight of gold, nor would he
have hesitated to draw the life-blood of his creditors, if by such means
he could secure his claims.

His name was Isaac Hakkabut, and he was a native of Cologne. Nearly the
whole of his time, however, he informed Captain Servadac, had been spent
upon the sea, his real business being that of a merchant trading at all
the ports of the Mediterranean. A tartan, a small vessel of two hundred
tons burden, conveyed his entire stock of merchandise, and, to say the
truth, was a sort of floating emporium, conveying nearly every possible
article of commerce, from a lucifer match to the radiant fabrics of
Frankfort and Epinal. Without wife or children, and having no settled
home, Isaac Hakkabut lived almost entirely on board the
Hansa
, as he
had named his tartan; and engaging a mate, with a crew of three men, as
being adequate to work so light a craft, he cruised along the coasts of
Algeria, Tunis, Egypt, Turkey, and Greece, visiting, moreover, most of
the harbors of the Levant. Careful to be always well supplied with the
products in most general demand—coffee, sugar, rice, tobacco, cotton
stuffs, and gunpowder—and being at all times ready to barter, and
prepared to deal in secondhand wares, he had contrived to amass
considerable wealth.

On the eventful night of the 1st of January the
Hansa
had been at
Ceuta, the point on the coast of Morocco exactly opposite Gibraltar. The
mate and three sailors had all gone on shore, and, in common with
many of their fellow-creatures, had entirely disappeared; but the
most projecting rock of Ceuta had been undisturbed by the general
catastrophe, and half a score of Spaniards, who had happened to be
upon it, had escaped with their lives. They were all Andalusian majos,
agricultural laborers, and naturally as careless and apathetic as men of
their class usually are, but they could not help being very considerably
embarrassed when they discovered that they were left in solitude upon
a detached and isolated rock. They took what mutual counsel they could,
but became only more and more perplexed. One of them was named Negrete,
and he, as having traveled somewhat more than the rest, was tacitly
recognized as a sort of leader; but although he was by far the most
enlightened of them all, he was quite incapable of forming the least
conception of the nature of what had occurred. The one thing upon which
they could not fail to be conscious was that they had no prospect of
obtaining provisions, and consequently their first business was to
devise a scheme for getting away from their present abode. The
Hansa
was lying off shore. The Spaniards would not have had the slightest
hesitation in summarily taking possession of her, but their utter
ignorance of seamanship made them reluctantly come to the conclusion
that the more prudent policy was to make terms with the owner.

And now came a singular part of the story. Negrete and his companions
had meanwhile received a visit from two English officers from Gibraltar.
What passed between them the Jew did not know; he only knew that,
immediately after the conclusion of the interview, Negrete came to him
and ordered him to set sail at once for the nearest point of Morocco.
The Jew, afraid to disobey, but with his eye ever upon the main chance,
stipulated that at the end of their voyage the Spaniards should pay for
their passage—terms to which, as they would to any other, they did not
demur, knowing that they had not the slightest intention of giving him a
single real.

The
Hansa
had weighed anchor on the 3rd of February. The wind blew
from the west, and consequently the working of the tartan was easy
enough. The unpracticed sailors had only to hoist their sails and,
though they were quite unconscious of the fact, the breeze carried them
to the only spot upon the little world they occupied which could afford
them a refuge.