Adrift in the Pacific-Two Years Holiday Read online

  Adrift in the Pacific

  ADRIFT IN THE PACIFIC:

  Two Years Holiday

  BY

  JULES VERNE

  AUTHOR OF

  THE CLIPPER OF THE CLOUDS,

  . . .

  THE VANISHED DIAMOND,

  ETC.

  SHE DRINKS! SHE DRINKS! EXCLAIMED DONAGAN AND IN AN INSTANT HE WAS BY THE SIDE OF THE SEA AND DRINKING THE WATER THAT PAN SO MUCH ENJOYED. IT WAS FRESH!

  Adrift in the Pacific:

  Two Years Holiday

  by

  Jules Verne

  Fredonia Books Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  ISBN: 1-4101-0215-7 Copyright © 2003 by Fredonia Books

  Fredonia Books Amsterdam, The Netherlands http: //www. fredoniabooks. com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  In order to make original editions of historical works available to scholars at an economical price, this facsimile of the original edition is reproduced from the best available copy and has been digitally enhanced to improve legibility, but the text remains unaltered to retain historical authenticity.

  Contents

  Adrift in the Pacific

  PART I.

  CHAPTER I—THE STORM.

  CHAPTER II—THE WRECK

  CHAPTER III—CAST ADRIFT

  CHAPTER IV—THE FIRST DAY ASHORE

  CHAPTER V—THE VIEW FROM THE CAPE.

  CHAPTER VI—A SPELL OF RAIN.

  CHAPTER VII—THE EXPLORERS.

  CHAPTER VIII—THE CAVE.

  CHAPTER IX—FRANÇOIS BAUDOIN.

  CHAPTER X—THE RAFT.

  CHAPTER XI—A CAPTURE.

  CHAPTER XII—THE COLONY.

  CHAPTER XIII—WINTER QUARTERS.

  CHAPTER XIV—A JOURNEY NORTHWARDS.

  CHAPTER XV—BRAVO, BAXTER!

  END OF THE FIRST PART.

  Part II

  CHAPTER I—THE SEAL HUNT.

  CHAPTER II—ACROSS THE LAKE.

  CHAPTER III—THE NEW CHIEF.

  CHAPTER IV—A SKATING ADVENTURE.

  CHAPTER V—THE SEPARATION.

  CHAPTER VI—THE BOAT OF THE BEACH.

  CHAPTER VII—THE INVASION.

  CHAPTER VIII—ALL TOGETHER.

  CHAPTER IX—THE TAIL OF A KITE.

  CHAPTER X—THE ENEMY IN SIGHT.

  CHAPTER XI—A DARING ESCAPE.

  CHAPTER XII—DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

  CHAPTER XIII—THE FORTUNE OF WAR.

  CHAPTER XIV—AFLOAT ONCE MORE.

  CHAPTER XV—HOME.

  THE END.

  PART I.

  CHAPTER I—THE STORM.

  IT was the 9th of March, 1860, and eleven o’clock at night. The sea and sky were as one, and the eye could pierce but a few fathoms into the gloom. Through the raging sea, over which the waves broke with a livid light, a little ship was driving under almost bare poles.

  She was a schooner of a hundred tons. Her name was the Sleuth, but you would have sought it in vain on her stern, for an accident of some sort had torn it away.

  In this latitude, at the beginning of March, the nights are short. The day would dawn about five o’clock. But would the dangers that threatened the schooner grow less when the sun illumined the sky? Was not the frail vessel at the mercy of the waves? undoubtedly; and only the calming of the billows and the lulling of the gale could save her from that most awful of shipwrecks—foundering in the open sea far from any coast on which the survivors might find safety.

  In the stern of the schooner were three boys, one about fourteen, the two others about thirteen years of age; these, with a young negro some twelve years old, were at the wheel, and, with their united strength, strove to check the lurches which threatened every instant to throw the vessel broadside on. It was a difficult task, for the wheel seemed as though it would turn in spite of all they could do. and hurl them against the bulwarks. Just before midnight such a wave came thundering against the stern that it was a wonder the rudder was not unshipped. The boys were thrown backwards by the shock, but they recovered themselves almost immediately.

  ‘Does she still steer?’ asked one of them.

  ‘Yes, Gordon,’ answered Briant, who had coolly resumed his place. ‘Hold on tight, Donagan,’ he continued, ‘and don’t be afraid. There are others besides ourselves to look after. You are not hurt, Moko?’

  ‘No, Massa Briant,’ answered the boy. ‘But we must keep the yacht before the wind, or we shall be pooped.’

  At this moment the door of the companion leading to the saloon was thrown open. Two little heads appeared above the level of the deck, and with them came up the genial face of a dog, who saluted with a loud, ‘Whough! whough!’

  ‘Briant! Briant!’ shouted one of the youngsters.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Iverson, nothing!’ returned Briant. ‘Get down again with Dole, and look sharp!’

  ‘We are awfully frightened down here,’ said the other boy, who was a little younger.

  ‘All of you?’ asked Donagan.

  ‘Yes; all of us!’ said Dole.

  ‘Well, get back again,’ said Briant. ‘Shut up; get under the clothes; shut your eyes; and nothing will hurt you. There is no danger!‘

  ‘Look out,’ said Moko. ‘Here’s another wave!’

  A violent blow shook the yacht’s stern. This time fortunately the wave did not come on board, for if the water had swept down the companion, the yacht would have been swamped.

  ‘Get back, will you?’ shouted Gordon. ‘Go down; or I’ll come after you!’

  ‘Look here,’ said Briant, rather more gently. ‘Go down, you young ‘uns.’

  The two heads disappeared, and at the same moment another boy appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Do you want us, Briant?’

  ‘No, Baxter,’ said Briant. ‘Let you and Cross and Webb and Service and Wilcox stop with the little ones! We four can manage.’

  Baxter shut the door from within.

  ‘Yes, all of us,’ Dole had said.

  But were there only little boys on board this schooner thus driven before the storm? Yes, only boys! And how many were there? Fifteen, counting Gordon, Briant, Donagan, and the negro. How came they to be here? That you shall know shortly.

  Was there not a man on the yacht? Not a captain to look after it? Not a sailor to give a hand in its management? Not a helmsman to steer in such a storm? No! Not one!

  And more than that—there was not a person on board who knew the schooner’s position on the ocean! And what ocean? The largest of all, the Pacific, which stretches for 6,000 miles from Australia and New Zealand to the coast of South America.

  What, then, had happened? Had the schooner’s crew disappeared in some catastrophe? Had the Malay pirates carried them off and left on board only this batch of boys from fourteen downwards? A yacht of a hundred tons ought to have a captain, a mate, and five or six men, and of these all that had been left was the nigger boy!

  Where did the schooner come from? From what Australian port or Oceanic archipelago did she hail? How long had she been at sea? Whither was she bound? The boys would probably have been able to answer these questions had they been asked them by any captain speaking the schooner on her course; but there was no vessel in sight, neither steamer nor sailing-ship, and had there been one, she would have had quite enough to do to look after herself, without giving assistance to this yacht that the sea was throwing about like a raft.

  Briant and his friends did their utmost to keep the schooner straight ahead.

  ‘What is to be done?’ asked Donagan.

  ‘All we can to sav
e ourselves, Heaven helping us,’ answered Briant, although even the most energetic man might have despaired under such circumstances, for the storm was increasing in violence.

  The gale blew in thunderclaps, as the sailors say, and the expression was only too true. The schooner had lost her mainmast, gone about four feet above the partners, so that no trysail could be set under which she might have been more easily steered. The foremast still held, but the shrouds had stretched, and every minute it threatened to crash on to the deck. The fore-staysail had been split to ribbons, and kept up a constant cracking, as if a rifle were being fired. The only sail that remained sound was the foresail, and this seemed as though it would go every moment, for the boys had not been strong enough to manage the last reef. If it were to go, the schooner could not be kept before the wind, the waves would board her over the quarter, and she would go down.

  Not an island had been sighted; and there could be no continent yet awhile to the eastward. To run ashore was a terrible thing to do, but the boys did not fear its terrors so much as those of this interminable sea. A lee shore, with its shoals, it breakers, the terrible waves roaring on to it, and beaten into surf by the rocks, might, they thought, prove safe enough to them; at least it would be firm ground, and not this raging ocean, which any minute might open under their feet. And so they looked ahead for some light to which they could steer.

  But there was no light in that thick darkness!

  Suddenly, about one o’clock, a fearful crash was heard above the roaring of the storm.

  ‘There goes the foremast!’ said Donagan.

  ‘No,’ said Moko; ‘it is the foresail blown out of the bolt ropes!’

  ‘We must clear it,’ said Briant. ‘You remain at the wheel, Gordon, with Donagan; and Moko, come and help me.’

  Briant was not quite ignorant of things nautical. On his voyage out from Europe he had crossed the North Atlantic and Pacific, and had learnt a little seamanship, and that was why his companions, who knew none whatever, had left the schooner in his and Moko’s hands.

  Briant and the negro rushed forward. At all costs the foresail must be cut adrift, for it had caught and was bellying out in such a way that the schooner was in danger of capsizing, and if that happened she could never be righted, unless the mast were cut away and the wire shrouds broken, and how could the boys manage that?

  Briant and Moko set to work with remarkable judgment. Their object was to keep as much sail on the schooner as possible, so as to steer her before the wind as long as the storm lasted. They slacked off the halliards and let the sail down to within four or five feet of the deck, and they cut off the torn strips with their knives, secured the lower corners, and made all snug. Twenty times, at least, were they in danger of being swept away by the waves.

  Under her very small spread of canvas the schooner could still be kept on her course, and though the wind had so little to take hold of, she was driven along at the speed of a torpedo-boat. The faster she went the better. Her safety depended on her going faster than the waves, so that none could follow and board her.

  Briant and Moko were making their way back to the wheel when the door of the companion again opened. A boy’s head again appeared. This time it was Jack, Briant’s brother, and three years his junior.

  ‘What do you want, Jack?’ asked his brother.

  ‘Come here! Come here!’ said Jack. ‘There’s water in the saloon.’ Briant rushed down the companion-stairs. The saloon was confusedly lighted by a lamp, which the rolling swung backwards and forwards. Its light revealed a dozen boys lounging on the couches around. The youngest—there were some as young as eight—were huddling against each other in fear.

  ‘There is no danger,’ said Briant, wishing to give them confidence. ‘We are all right. Don’t be afraid.’

  Then holding a lighted lantern to the floor, he saw that some water was washing from side to side.

  Whence came this water? Did it come from a leak? That must be ascertained at once.

  Forward of the saloon was the day-saloon, then the dining-saloon, and then the crew’s quarters.

  Briant went through these in order, and found that the water had been taken in from the seas dashing over the bows, down the fore-companion, which had not been quite closed, and that it had been run aft by the pitching of the ship. There was thus no danger on this head.

  Briant stopped to cheer up his companions as he went back through the saloon, and then returned to his place at the helm. The schooner was very strongly built, and had only just been re-coppered, so that she might withstand the waves for some time.

  It was then about one o’clock. The darkness was darker than ever, and the dark clouds still gathered; and more furiously than ever raged the storm. The yacht seemed to be rushing through a liquid mass that flowed above, beneath, and around her. The shrill cry of the petrel was heard in the air. Did its appearance mean that land was near? No; for it is often met with hundreds of miles at sea. And, in truth, these birds of the storm found themselves powerless to struggle against the aerial current, and by it were borne along like the schooner.

  An hour later there was another report from the bow. What remained of the foresail had been split to ribbons, and the strips flew off into space like huge seagulls.

  ‘We have no sail left!’ exclaimed Donagan; ‘and it is impossible for us to set another.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ said Briant ‘We shall not get along so fast, that is all!’

  ‘What an answer!’ replied Donagan. ‘If that is your style of seamanship—’

  ‘Look out for the wave astern!’ said Moko. ‘Lash yourselves, or you’ll be swept overboard—’

  The boy had not finished the sentence when several tons of water came with a leap over the taffrail. Briant, Donagan, and Gordon were hurled against the companion, to which they managed to cling. But the negro had disappeared in the wave which had swept the deck from stern to bow, carrying away the binnacle, a lot of spare spars, and the three boats which were swinging to the davits inboard. The deck was cleared at one blow, but the water almost instantly flowed off, and the yacht was saved from sinking beneath the flood.

  ‘Moko! Moko!’ shouted Briant, as soon as he could speak.

  ‘See if he’s gone overboard,’ said Donagan.

  ‘No,’ said Gordon, leaning out to leeward. ‘No, I don’t see him, and I don’t hear him.’

  ‘We must save him! Throw him a buoy! Throw him a rope!’ said Briant

  And in a voice that rang clearly out in a few seconds of calm, he shouted again, —

  Moko! Moko!’

  ‘Here! Help!’ replied the negro.

  ‘He is not in the sea,’ said Gordon. ‘His voice comes from the bow.’

  ‘I’ll save him,’ said Briant.

  And he crept forward along the heaving, slippery deck, avoiding as best he might the blocks swinging from the ropes that were all adrift. The boy’s voice was heard again, and then all was silent. By great effort Briant reached the fore-companion.

  He shouted. There was no response.

  Had Moko been swept away into the sea since he uttered his last cry? If so, he must be far astern now, for the waves could not carry him along as fast as the schooner was going. And then he was lost.

  No! A feeble cry reached Briant, who hurried to the windlass in the frame of which the foot of the bowsprit was fitted. There he found the negro stuck in the very angle of the bow. A halliard was tightening every instant round his neck. He had been saved by it when the wave was carrying him away. Was he now to be strangled by it?

  Briant opened his knife, and, with some difficulty, managed to cut the rope. Moko was then dragged aft, and as soon as he had recovered strength enough to speak, ‘Thanks, Massa Briant,’ he said, and immediately resumed his place at the wheel, where the four did their utmost to keep the yacht safe from the enormous waves that now ran behind them, for the waves now ran faster than the yacht, and could easily board her as they passed. But what could be done? It
was impossible to set the least scrap of sail.

  In the southern hemisphere the month of March corresponds to that of September in the northern, and the nights are shorter than the days. About four o’clock the horizon would grow grey in the east, whither the schooner was being borne. With daybreak the storm might lull. Perhaps land might be in sight, and the fate of the schooner’s passengers be settled in a few minutes!

  About half-past four a diffused light began to appear overhead. Unfortunately the mist limited the range of view to less than a quarter of a mile. The clouds swept by with terrible rapidity. The storm had lost nothing of its fury; and but a short distance off the sea was hidden by the veil of spray from the raging waves. The schooner at one moment mounting the wave-crest, at the next hurled into the trough, would have been shattered to pieces again and again had she touched the ground.

  The four boys looked out at the chaos of wild water; they felt that if the calm was long in coming their situation would be desperate. It was impossible that the schooner could float for another day, for the waves would assuredly sweep away the companions and swamp her.

  But suddenly there came a cry from Moko of ‘Land! Land!’

  Through a rift in the mist the boy thought he had seen the outline of a coast to the eastward. Was he mistaken? Nothing is more difficult than to recognize the vague lineaments of land, which are so easily confounded with those of the clouds.

  ‘Land!’ exclaimed Briant

  ‘Yes,’ replied Moko. ‘Land! to the eastward.’ And he pointed towards a part of the horizon now hidden by a mass of vapours.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Donagan.

  ‘Yes!—Yes!—Certain!’ said Moko. ‘If the mist opens again you look—there—a little to the right of the foremast—Look! look!’

  The mist began to open and rise from the sea. A few moments more and the ocean reappeared for several miles In front of the yacht.

  ‘Yes! Land! It is really land!’ shouted Briant.

  ‘And land that is very low,’ added Gordon, who had just caught sight of the indicated coast.

  There was now no room for doubt. A land—continent, or island—lay some five or six miles ahead, along a large segment of the horizon. In the direction she was going, and which the storm would not allow her to deviate from, the schooner would be driven on it in less than an hour. That she would be smashed, particularly if breakers stopped her before she reached the shore, there was every reason to fear. But the boys did not give that a thought. In this land, which had offered itself so unexpectedly to their sight, they saw, they could only see, a means of safety.