Chapter 18: The Wrong Road!

Next day, our departure took place at a very early hour. There was no time for the least delay. According to my account, we had five days’ hard work to get back to the place where the galleries divided.

I can never tell all the sufferings we endured upon our return. My uncle bore them like a man who has been in the wrong--that is, with concentrated and suppressed anger; Hans, with all the resignation of his pacific character; and I--I confess that I did nothing but complain, and despair. I had no heart for this bad fortune.

But there was one consolation. Defeat at the outset would probably upset the whole journey!

As I had expected from the first, our supply of water gave completely out on our first day’s march. Our provision of liquids was reduced to our supply of Schiedam; but this horrible--nay, I will say it--this infernal liquor burnt the throat, and I could not even bear the sight of it. I found the temperature to be stifling. I was paralyzed with fatigue. More than once I was about to fall insensible to the ground. The whole party then halted, and the worthy Icelander and my excellent uncle did their best to console and comfort me. I could, however, plainly see that my uncle was contending painfully against the extreme fatigues of our journey, and the awful torture generated by the absence of water.

At length a time came when I ceased to recollect anything--when all was one awfull hideous, fantastic dream!

At last, on Tuesday, the seventh of the month of July, after crawling on our hands and knees for many hours, more dead than alive, we reached the point of junction between the galleries. I lay like a log, an inert mass of human flesh on the arid lava soil. It was then ten in the morning.

Hans and my uncle, leaning against the wall, tried to nibble away at some pieces of biscuit, while deep groans and sighs escaped from my scorched and swollen lips. Then I fell off into a kind of deep lethargy.

Presently I felt my uncle approach, and lift me up tenderly in his arms.

“Poor boy,” I heard him say in a tone of deep commiseration.

I was profoundly touched by these words, being by no means accustomed to signs of womanly weakness in the Professor. I caught his trembling hands in mine and gave them a gentle pressure. He allowed me to do so without resistance, looking at me kindly all the time. His eyes were wet with tears.

I then saw him take the gourd which he wore at his side. To my surprise, or rather to my stupefaction, he placed it to my lips.

“Drink, my boy,” he said.

Was it possible my ears had not deceived me? Was my uncle mad? I looked at him, with, I am sure, quite an idiotic expression. I could not believe him. I too much feared the counteraction of disappointment.

“Drink,” he said again.

Had I heard aright? Before, however, I could ask myself the question a second time, a mouthful of water cooled my parched lips and throat--one mouthful, but I do believe it brought me back to life.

I thanked my uncle by clasping my hands. My heart was too full to speak.

“Yes,” said he, “one mouthful of water, the very last--do you hear, my boy--the very last! I have taken care of it at the bottom of my bottle as the apple of my eye. Twenty times, a hundred times, I have resisted the fearful desire to drink it. But--no--no, Harry, I saved it for you.”

“My dear uncle,” I exclaimed, and the big tears rolled down my hot and feverish cheeks.

“Yes, my poor boy, I knew that when you reached this place, this crossroad in the earth, you would fall down half dead, and I saved my last drop of water in order to restore you.”

“Thanks,” I cried; “thanks from my heart.”

As little as my thirst was really quenched, I had nevertheless partially recovered my strength. The contracted muscles of my throat relaxed--and the inflammation of my lips in some measure subsided. At all events, I was able to speak.

“Well,” I said, “there can be no doubt now as to what we have to do. Water has utterly failed us; our journey is therefore at an end. Let us return.”

While I spoke thus, my uncle evidently avoided my face: he held down his head; his eyes were turned in every possible direction but the right one.

“Yes,” I continued, getting excited by my own words, “we must go back to Sneffels. May heaven give us strength to enable us once more to revisit the light of day. Would that we now stood on the summit of the crater.”

“Go back,” said my uncle, speaking to himself, “and must it be so?”

“Go back--yes, and without losing a single moment,” I vehemently cried.

For some moments there was silence under that dark and gloomy vault.

“So, my dear Harry,” said the Professor in a very singular tone of voice, “those few drops of water have not sufficed to restore your energy and courage.”

“Courage!” I cried.

“I see that you are quite as downcast as before--and still give way to discouragement and despair.”