say anything yet,” answered Pencroft, “for her rigging alone is above the horizon, and not a bit of her hull can be seen.”
“What is to be done?” asked the lad.
“Wait,” replied Harding.
And for a considerable time the settlers remained silent, given up to all the thoughts, all the emotions, all the fears, all the hopes, which were aroused by this incident—the most important which had occurred since their arrival in Lincoln Island. Certainly, the colonists were not in the situation of castaways abandoned on a sterile islet, constantly contending against a cruel nature for their miserable existence, and incessantly tormented by the longing to return to inhabited countries. Pencroft and Neb, especially, who felt themselves at once so happy and so rich, would not have left their island without regret. They were accustomed, besides, to this new life in the midst of the domain which their intelligence had as it were civilised. But at any rate this ship brought news from the world, perhaps even from their native land. It was bringing fellow-creatures to them, and it may be conceived how deeply their hearts were moved at the sight!
From time to time Pencroft took the glass and rested himself at the window. From thence he very attentively examined the vessel, which was at a distance of twenty miles to the east. The colonists had as yet, therefore, no means of signalising their presence. A flag would not have been perceived; a gun would not have been heard; a fire would not have been visible. However, it was certain that the island, overtopped by Mount Franklin, could not have escaped the notice of the vessel’s look-out. But why was this ship coming there? Was it simple chance which brought it to that part of the Pacific, where the maps mentioned no land except Tabor Islet, which itself was out of the route usually followed by vessels from the Polynesian Archipelagos, from New Zealand, and from the American coast? To this question, which each one asked himself, a reply was suddenly made by Herbert.
“Can it be the Duncan?” he cried.
The Duncan, as has been said, was Lord Glenarvan’s yacht, which had left Ayrton on the islet, and which was to return there some day to fetch him. Now, the islet was not so far-distant from Lincoln Island, but that a vessel, standing for the one, could pass in sight of the other. A hundred and fifty miles only separated them in longitude, and seventy in latitude.
“We must tell Ayrton,” said Gideon Spilett, “and send for him immediately. He alone can say if it is the Duncan.”
This was the opinion of all, and the reporter, going to the telegraphic apparatus which placed the corral in communication with Granite House, sent this telegram:—“Come with all possible speed.”
In a few minutes the bell sounded.
“I am coming,” replied Ayrton.
Then the settlers continued to watch the vessel.
“If it is the Duncan,” said Herbert, “Ayrton will recognise her without difficulty, since he sailed on board her for some time.”
“And if he recognises her,” added Pencroft, “it will agitate him exceedingly!”
“Yes,” answered Cyrus Harding; “but now Ayrton is worthy to return on board the Duncan, and pray Heaven that it is indeed Lord Glenarvan’s yacht, for I should be suspicious of any other vessel. These are ill-famed seas, and I have always feared a visit from Malay pirates to our island.”
“We could defend it,” cried Herbert.
“No doubt, my boy,” answered the engineer smiling, “but it would be better not to have to defend it.”
“A useless observation,” said Spilett. “Lincoln Island is unknown to navigators, since it is not marked even on the most recent maps. Do you not think, Cyrus, that that is a sufficient motive for a ship, finding herself unexpectedly in sight of new land, to try and visit rather than avoid it?”
“Certainly,” replied Pencroft.
“I think so too,” added the engineer. “It may even be said that it is the duty of a captain to come and survey any land or island not yet known, and Lincoln Island is in this position.”
“Well,” said Pencroft, “suppose this vessel comes and anchors there a few cables-lengths from our island, what shall we do?” This sudden question remained at first without any reply. But Cyrus Harding, after some moments’ thought, replied in the calm tone which was usual to him—
“What we shall do, my friends? What we ought to do is this:—we will communicate with the ship, we will take our passage on board her, and we will leave our island, after having taken possession of it in the name of the United States. Then we will return with any who may wish to follow us to colonise it definitely, and endow the American Republic with a useful station in this part of the Pacific Ocean!”
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Pencroft, “and that will be no small present which we shall make to our country! The colonisation is already almost finished; names are given to every part of the island; there is a natural port, fresh water, roads, a telegraph, a dockyard, and manufactories; and there will be nothing to be done but to inscribe Lincoln Island on the maps!”
“But if any one seizes it in our absence?” observed Gideon Spilett.
“Hang it!” cried the sailor. “I would rather remain all alone to guard it: and trust to Pencroft, they shouldn’t steal it from him, like a watch from the pocket of a swell!”
For an hour it was impossible to say with any certainty whether the vessel was or was not standing towards Lincoln Island. She was nearer, but in what direction was she sailing? This Pencroft could not determine. However, as the wind was blowing from the north-east, in all probability the vessel was sailing on the starboard tack. Besides, the wind was favourable for bringing her towards the island, and, the sea being calm, she would not be afraid to approach although the shallows were not marked on the chart.
Towards four o’clock—an hour after he had been sent for—Ayrton arrived at Granite House. He entered the dining-room, saying—
“At your service, gentlemen.”
Cyrus Harding gave him his hand, as was his custom to do, and, leading him to the window—
“Ayrton,” said he, “we have begged you to come here for an important reason. A ship is in sight of the island.”
Ayrton at first paled slightly, and for a moment his eyes
“Take this telescope,” said Spilett, “and look carefully, Ayrton, for it is possible that this ship may be the Duncan come to these seas for the purpose of taking you home again.”
“The Duncan!” murmured Ayrton. “Already?” This last word escaped Ayrton’s lips as if involuntarily, and his head drooped upon his hands.
Did not twelve years’ solitude on a desert island appear to him a sufficient expiation? Did not the penitent yet feel himself pardoned, either in his own eyes or in the eyes of others?
“No,” said he, “no! it cannot be the Duncan!”
“Look, Ayrton,” then said the engineer, “for it is necessary that we should know beforehand what to expect.”
Ayrton took the glass and pointed it in the direction indicated. During some minutes he examined the horizon without moving, without uttering a word. Then—
“It is indeed a vessel,” said he, “but I do not think she is the Duncan.”
“Why do you not think so?” asked Gideon Spilett. “Because the Duncan is a steam-yacht, and I cannot perceive any trace of smoke either above or near that vessel.”
“Perhaps she is simply sailing,” observed Pencroft. “The wind is favourable for the direction which she