The Kip Brothers. Jules Verne

been on the island for two weeks?”

      “Two weeks.”

      “And you didn’t meet anyone here?”

      “No one.”

      “And,” added the younger man, “we are fairly sure there is no other human being on this island, or at least this part of the shore is uninhabited.”

      “It didn’t occur to you to search out the interior?” asked Nat Gibson.

      “Yes,” replied the elder, “but it would have been necessary to venture into deep forests, at the risk of becoming lost, and we might not have found anything to eat there.”

      “And then,” said the other, “what would we have gained, since you just told us we were on a desert island? It was better not to abandon the shore. That would have meant giving up any chance of being seen, or saved, as we have been.”

      “You were right.”

      “And your brig … What is it?” asked the younger man.

      “The English brig, James Cook.”

      “And its captain?”

      “Myself,” responded Mr. Gibson.

      “Well, Captain,” the older man said, shaking Mr. Gibson’s hand, “you can see that we were right in waiting for you on this promontory!”

      Indeed, to go around the base of Mount Pitt, or even reach its peak, the shipwrecked men, experiencing insurmountable difficulties, would have perished from exhaustion and fatigue in the middle of the impassible forests of the interior.

      “But how have you managed to survive in these conditions of privation?” asked Mr. Gibson.

      “Our food consisted mainly of vegetation,” responded the older brother, “some roots here and there, cabbage palms cut from the tops of trees, wild sorrel, milkweed, sea fennel, pine cones of the araucaria. If we had had any line we could have caught fish, for they are numerous among the rocks.”

      “And fire? …,” Nat Gibson asked, “How did you make it?”

      “For the first days,” replied the younger, “we had to get along without it. No matches, or rather wet matches and quite useless. By good luck, while climbing toward the mountain behind us we found a volcanic fissure, still emitting some flames. Some layers of sulfur were around it, so we managed to cook our roots and vegetables.”

      “So that’s how you’ve been living for two weeks?”

      “That’s it, Captain. But I must admit, our strength was ebbing and we were desperate, when coming back yesterday from the fissure I noticed a ship anchored two miles from the coast.”

      “The wind had given out,” said Mr. Gibson, “and since the current threatened to bear us southeast, I felt obliged to drop anchor.”

      “It was already late,” said the elder. “There was scarcely an hour of daylight left and we were still more than half a league in the interior. After running as fast as possible toward the promontory, we noticed a dinghy setting off to join the brig … I called … With gestures I signaled for help …”

      “I was in that dinghy,” Nat Gibson said, “and it seemed to me that I saw a man—just one—on that rock, at the moment dusk was moving in.”

      “That was me,” said the elder. “I had arrived before my brother … and what disappointment I felt when the dinghy moved off without my being noticed! We thought that the last chance of salvation was slipping away! A little breeze came up. Wouldn’t the brig move on during the night? The next day wouldn’t it be far out on the high sea again?”

      “Poor fellows!” murmured Mr. Gibson.

      “The shore was plunged into darkness. We could see nothing of the ship. The hours slipped by … It was then that we thought of lighting a fire on the promontory. Dried grasses, dry wood, we brought it by the armfuls and some hot coals from the fire that we kept alive on this shore. Soon we had a good fire going. If the ship was still at its mooring, the fire would surely be seen by the men on watch … Oh! what a joy when about ten o’clock we heard those three shots fired! Then a lantern was burning at the top of the brig’s mast … They had seen us! We were sure now that the ship would wait until daybreak before leaving, and we would be rescued after dawn … But it was in time, Captain, yes! Your arrival was in time, and, as I said when you first came ashore, thank you … thank you …”

      The shipwrecked men seemed near the end of their tether. Insufficient food, exhaustion, complete misery under the tatters that scarcely covered them … One could readily understand that they were anxious to be aboard the James Cook.

      “Come aboard,” said Mr. Gibson. “You need food and clothing. Then we’ll see what we can do for you.”

      The survivors of the Wilhelmina had no need to return to shore. Their rescuers would furnish them every need. They would not have to set foot on the island again!

      As soon as Mr. Gibson, his son, and the two brothers had seated themselves in the stern, the grapnel was taken in and the craft started back through the channel.

      Mr. Gibson had observed, in listening to the way they expressed themselves, that these two men were of a class well above that from which sailors are generally recruited. However, he had wanted to wait until they were in the presence of Mr. Hawkins to learn of their situation.

      For his part and to his bitter displeasure, Vin Mod had also recognized that the rescued men did not represent run-of-the-mill seamen like Len Cannon and his comrades from Dunedin, or even those adventurers whom one encounters all too frequently in this part of the Pacific.

      The two brothers were not at all part of the schooner’s crew. They were passengers, then, and probably the only ones who got out of that sinking ship safe and sound. So Vin Mod returned even more irritated by the thought that his plans would not be carried out.

      The craft came alongside. Mr. Gibson, his son, and the shipwreck victims climbed to the bridge. The latter two were presented to Mr. Hawkins, who did not conceal his emotions on seeing what a miserable state they were in.

      After shaking hands, he said:

      “You’re welcome here, my friends.”

      The two brothers, no less impressed, were about to throw themselves at his knees, but he stopped them.

      “No,” he said, “no … we are most happy …”

      A good-hearted man, he was at a loss for words, and he could only second the words of Nat Gibson, who called out:

      “Let’s eat. Let’s give them something to eat. They’re dying of hunger!”

      The two brothers were led to the mess, where their first meal was served, and there they could catch up after two weeks of privation and suffering.

      Then Mr. Gibson put at their disposal one of the side cabins, where some clothes, selected from the crew’s spare garments, were set out. Then, once cleaned and dressed, they returned aft and in the presence of Mr. Hawkins, of the captain and his son, they recounted their story.

      These men were Dutch, originally from Groningen. Their names were Karl and Pieter Kip.¹ The elder brother, an officer in the Netherlands merchant marine, had made a number of crossings as lieutenant, then second in command of commercial ships. Pieter, the younger, was associated with an office in Ambon, on one of the Molucca Islands of Indonesia,² an affiliate of the Kip Company of Groningen.

      This firm carried out wholesale and semi-wholesale commerce in the archipelago, which belongs to Holland, and more specifically in the trade of nutmegs and cloves, very abundant in this Spice Island colony. If the above-named company did not count among the most important of the city, at least its head enjoyed an excellent reputation in the commercial world.

      Mr. Kip Senior, widower for several years, had died five months before. This was a serious loss for the business,