Mathias Sandorf

Next day, about one o’clock in the afternoon, the doctor and Pierre Bathory completed their preparations to go ashore.

The gig received its passengers; but before he left, the doctor ordered Captain Kostrik to watch for the arrival of “Electric No. 2,” then hourly expected, and to send her out beyond the Farrighonis, otherwise known as the rocks of Polyphemus. If the plan succeeded: if Sarcany, or even Zirone and Carpena, were taken prisoners, the launch would be ready to convey them to Antekirtta, where he would have them in his power.

The gig put off. In a few minutes she reached the steps at the wharf. Dr. Antekirtt and Pierre had assumed the usual dress of tourists ascending the mountain, who may have to endure a temperature of fourteen degrees below freezing, while at the sea level it stands at fifty degrees above that point. A guide was in waiting with the horses, which at Nicolosi were to be replaced by mules, as more untiring and surer of foot.

The town of Catania is of little width, compared to its length, and was soon crossed. Nothing occurred to show that the doctor was watched and followed. Pierre and he, after taking the Belvidere road, began to ascend the earlier slopes of the mountain to which the Sicilians give the name of Mongibello, and of which the diameter is not less than twenty-five miles.

The road is uneven and winding. It turns aside frequently to avoid the lava streams and basaltic rocks solidified millions of years ago, the dry ravines filled in the spring-time with the impetuous torrents, and on its way it cuts through a well-wooded region of olive-trees, orange-trees, carob-trees, ash-trees and long-branched vines. This is the first of the three zones which gird the volcano, the “mountain of the smithy,” the Phœnician translation of the word Etna—“the spike of the earth and the pillar of the sky” for the geologists of an age when geological science did not exist.

After a couple of hours’ climbing, during a halt of some minutes more needed by the horses than the riders, the doctor and Pierre beheld at their feet the town of Catania, the superb rival of Palermo. They could look down on the lines of its chief streets running parallel to the quays, the towers and domes of its hundred churches, the numerous and picturesque convents, and the houses in the pretentious style of the seventeenth century—all inclosed in the belt of green that encircles the city. In the foreground was the harbor, of which Etna itself formed the principal walls in the eruption of 1669 which destroyed fourteen towns and villages and claimed 18,000 victims, and poured out over the country more than a million cubic yards of lava.

Etna is quieter now, and it has well earned the right to rest. In fact there have been more than thirty eruptions since the Christian era. That Sicily has not been overwhelmed is a sufficient proof of the solidity of its foundation. It should be noted, however, that the volcano has not formed a permanent crater. It changes it as it pleases. The mountain falls in where one of the fire-vomiting abysses opens, and from the gap there spreads the lavic matter accumulated on the flanks. Hence the numerous small volcanoes—the Monte Rossi, a double mountain piled up in three months to a height of 400 feet by tho sands and scoriæ of 1669, Frumento, Simoni, Stornello, Crisinco, arranged like the turrets around a cathedral dome, to say nothing of the craters of 1809, 1811, 1819, 1838, 1852, 1865, 1875, whose funnels perforate the flanks of the central cone like the cells of a bee-hive.

After crossing the hamlet of Belvidere the guide took a short cut so as to reach the Kamertieri road near that from Nicolosi. The first cultivated zone extends almost from this town to 2,120 feet above. It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon when Nicolosi appeared, and the travelers had not met with a single adventure along the nine miles from Catania, and had seen neither boars nor wolves. They had still twelve and a half miles to go before they reached the Casa degli Inglesi.

“How long will your excellency stop here?” asked the guide.

“No longer than necessary,” answered the doctor; “let us get in to-night about nine o’clock.”

“Forty minutes then?”

“Forty minutes be it.”

And that was enough to procure a hasty meal in one of the two inns of the town, which—be it said to the honor of the 3,000 inhabitants of Nicolosi, including the beggars who swarm in it—has rather a better culinary reputation than most Sicilian inns.

A piece of kid, some fruit, raisins, oranges, and pomegranates, and San Placido wine from the environs of Catania—there are very few more important towns in Italy in which an innkeeper would offer as much.

Before five o’clock the doctor, Pierre, and the guide, mounted on their mules, were climbing the second stage of the ascent—the forest zone. Not that the trees there are numerous, for the wood-cutters, as everywhere else, are at work destroying the ancient forests, which will soon be no more than a mythologic remembrance. Here and there, however, in clumps and groups, along the sides of the lava streams and on the edges of the abysses, grow beeches and oaks and almost black-leaved figs, and then, still higher, firs and pines and birches. Even the cinders, mixed with a little mold, give birth to large masses of ferns, fraxinellas, and mallons, rising from a carpet of moss.

About eight o’clock in the evening the doctor and Pierre had already reached the 3280 feet almost marking the limit of perpetual snow, which on the flanks of Etna is abundant enough to supply all Italy and Sicily. They were then in the region of black lavas, cinders, and scoriæ which stretches away beyond an immense crevasse, the vast elliptic amphitheater of the Valle del Bove, forming cliffs from 1000 to 3000 feet high, at whose base lie the strata of trachyte and basalt which the elements have not yet destroyed.

In front rose the cone of the volcano, on which here and there a few phanerogams formed hemispheres of verdure. This central hump, which is quite a mountain in itself—a Pelion on Ossa rises till it reaches an altitude of 10,874 feet above the level of the sea.

Already the ground trembled under foot. Vibrations caused by the plutonic laboring ever present in the mountain ran beneath the patches of snow. The cloud of sulphurous vapors drawn down by the wind from the mouth of the crater occasionally reached to the base of the cone, and a shower of scoriæ, like incandescent coke, fell on the whitish carpet, where it hissed as it suddenly cooled.

The temperature was then very low—many degrees below zero—and respiration had become difficult, owing to the rarefaction of the air. The travelers wrapped their cloaks more closely round them. A biting wind cut across the shoulder of the mountain, whirling along the snow-flakes it had swept from the ground. From the height there could be seen the mouth whence issued the faintly flickering flame and many other secondary craters, narrow solfataras or gloomy depths, at the bottom of which could be heard the roaring of the subterranean fire—a continuous roaring, rising occasionally into a storm, as if it were due to an immense boiler from which the steam had forced up the valves. No eruption was anticipated, however, and all this internal rage was due to the rumblings of the higher crater and the eructations from the volcanic throats that opened out on to the cone.

It was then nine o’clock. The sky was resplendent with thousands of stars that the feeble density of the atmosphere at this altitude rendered still more sparkling. The moon’s crescent was dipping in the west in the waters of the Æolian Sea. On a mountain that was not an active volcano the calm of the night would have been sublime.

“We ought to have arrived,” said the doctor.

“There is the Casa degli Inglesi,” answered the guide.

And he pointed to a short wall having two windows and a door, which its position had protected from the snow, about fifty paces away to the left, and nearly 1400 feet below the summit of the central zone. This was the house constructed in 1811 by the English officers then stationed in Sicily. It is built on a plateau at the base of the lava mass named Piano del Lago.

However, Dr. Antekirtt, Pierre Bathory, and the guide came up to the Casa degli Inglesi, and as soon as they reached it they knocked at the door, which was opened immediately. A moment afterward they were among their men.

The Casa degli Inglesi consists of only three rooms, with table, chairs, and cooking utensils; but that was enough for the climbers of Etna, after reaching a height of 9469 feet. Till then Luigi, fearing that the presence of his little detachment might be suspected, had not lighted a fire, although the cold was extreme. But now there was no need to continue the precaution, for Zirone knew that the doctor was to spend the night at the Casa degli Inglesi. Some wood found in reserve in the shed was therefore piled on the hearth, and soon a crackling flame gave the needed warmth and light.

The doctor took Luigi apart and asked him if anything had happened since he arrived.

“Nothing,” answered Luigi. “But I am afraid that our presence here is not as secret as we wished.”

“And why?”

“Because after we left Nicolosi, if I am not mistaken, we were followed by a man who disappeared just before we reached the base of the cone.”

“That is a pity, Luigi! That may prevent Zirone from having the honor to surprise me! Since sundown no one has been looking round the Casa degli Inglesi?”

“No one, sir,” answered Luigi; “I even took the precaution to search the ruins of the Philosopher’s Tower; there is nobody there.”

“See that a man is always on guard at the door! You can see a good way to-night, for it is so clear, and it is important that we should not be surprised.”

The doctor’s orders were executed, and when he had taken his place on a stool by the fire the men lay down on the bundles of straw around him. Cape Matifou, however, came up to the doctor. He looked at him without daring to speak. But it was easy to understand what made him anxious.

“You wish to know what has become of Point Pescade?” asked the doctor. “Patience! He will return soon, although he is now playing a game that might cost him his neck.”

An hour elapsed, and nothing occurred to trouble the solitude around the central cone. Not a shadow appeared on the shining slope in front of the Piarro del Lago. Both the doctor and Pierre experienced an impatience and even an anxiety that they could not restrain. If unfortunately Zirone had been warned of the presence of the little detachment he would never dare to attack the Casa degli Inglesi. The scheme had failed. And yet somehow it was necessary to get hold of this accomplice of Sarcany, failing Sarcany himself.

A little before ten o’clock the report of a gun was heard about half a mile below the Casa degli Inglesi.

They all went out and looked about, but saw nothing suspicious.

“It was unmistakably a gun!” said Pierre.

“Perhaps some one out after an eagle or a boar!” answered Luigi.

“Come in,” said the doctor, “and keep yourselves out of sight.”

They went back into the house.

But ten minutes afterward the sailor on guard without rushed in hurriedly.

“All hands!” he said. “I think I can see—”

“Many of them?” asked Pierre.

“No, only one!”

The doctor, Pierre, Luigi, Cape Matifou went to the door, taking care to keep out of the light.

They saw a man bounding along like a chamois, and crossing the lines of the old lava which ran alongside the plateau. He was alone, and in a few bounds he fell into the arms that were held open for him—the arms of Cape Matifou.

It was Point Pescade.

“Quick! Quick! Undercover, doctor!” he exclaimed.

In an instant all were inside the Casa degli Inglesi, and the door was immediately shut.

“And Zirone?” asked the doctor, “what has become of him? You have had to leave him?”

“Yes, to warn you!”

“Is he not coming?”

“In twenty minutes he will be here.”

“So much the better.”

“No! So much the worse! I do not know how he was told that you had first sent up a dozen men.”

“Probable by the mountaineer that followed us!” said Luigi.

“Anyhow he knows it,” answered Pescade, “and he saw that you were trying to get him in a trap.”

“He will come then!” said Pierre.

“He is coming, Mr. Pierre! But to the dozen recruits he had from Malta there has been added the rest of the band, who came in this very morning to Santa Grotta.”

“And how many bandits are there?” asked the doctor.

“Fifty,” replied Pescade.

The position of the doctor and his little band, consisting of the eleven sailors, Luigi, Pierre, Cape Matifou and Point Pescade—sixteen against fifty—was rather alarming; and if anything was to be done it should be done immediately.

But in the first place the doctor wanted to know from Pescade what had happened, and this is what he was told:

That morning Zirone had returned from Catania, where he had passed the night, and he it was whom the doctor had noticed prowling about the gardens of the Villa Bellini. When he returned to Santa Grotta he found a mountaineer who gave him the information that a dozen men, coming from different directions, had occupied the Casa degli Inglesi.

Zirone immediately understood how matters lay. It was no longer he who was trapping the doctor, but the doctor who was trapping him. Point Pescade, however, insisted that Zirone ought to attack the Casa degli Inglesi, assuring him that the Maltese would soon settle the doctor’s little band. But Zirone remained none the less undecided what he should do, and the urgency of Point Pescade appeared so suspicious that Zirone gave orders that he should be watched, which Pescade easily and immediately discovered. It is probable that Zirone would have given up his idea of carrying off the doctor had not his band been re-enforced about three o’clock in the afternoon. Then, with fifty men under his orders, he no longer hesitated, and leaving Santa Grotta with all his followers, he advanced on the Casa degli Inglesi.

Point Pescade saw that the doctor and his people were lost if he did not warn them in time, so as to let them escape, or, at least, put them on their guard. He waited until the gang were in sight of the Casa degli Inglesi, the position of which he did not know. The light shining in the windows rendered it visible about nine o’clock, when he was less than two miles off on the slopes of the cone. As soon as he saw it, Point Pescade set off at a run. A gun was fired at him by Zirone—the one that was heard up at the Casa—but it missed him. With his acrobatic agility, he was soon out of range. And that is how he had arrived at the house only about twenty minutes in advance of Zirone.

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