Unable to believe in the rescue which that bugle proclaimed, they stopped irresolute, like their comrades who had previously taken refuge on the quay, and who now came up at almost the same moment.
It was thus that Captain Marcenay found them—for it was he whose intervention had been announced by the roar of the cannon and the notes of the bugle. There they were grouped together in the middle of the Esplanade, pale, haggard, weak, trembling with fatigue and hunger.
When the Tirailleurs appeared in the breach, the refugees tried to go to meet them, but so overcome were they with weakness and emotion that all they could do was to extend their arms towards their rescuers; several, indeed, dropped unconscious on the ground.
Such was the sad spectacle which greeted the eyes of Captain Marcenay as, at the head of his men, he reached the Esplanade. Beyond the river a vast expanse of ruins, from which rose columns of smoke. To right and left, two impressive structures partly shattered, but each dominated by a tower which still remained intact. Immediately before him a great open place littered with several hundred dead bodies, and in the midst of them a huddled group of people from whom came groans and cries of pain.
It was towards that group that Captain Marcenay advanced, as it was there alone that he could find any survivors. And would he have the joy of finding the one he sought for, the one whom above all others he wished to rescue?
He was quickly reassured On seeing the Captain, Jane Blazon, with a sudden burst of energy, had regained her feet and staggered towards him. He could ardly recognize in this poor creature, her face pale, her cheeks fallen in, her eyes shining with fever, the girl whom he had left, less than three months before, radiant in her health and strength. He hastened towards her just in time to catch her as she fainted.
While he was trying to restore her, two terrible explosions shook the earth on each side of the Esplanade. The Factory and the Palace had collapsed at once. Alone above their ruins stood the two towers, tall, massive, intact.
On top of that of the Palace could be seen William Femey, the eight Counsellors, the nine Negro servants and five men of the Black Guard. Twenty-three in all, they were leaning over the parapet and seemed to be appealing for help.
On the other tower was only one man. Three separate times he strode round the platform, addressing the distant horizon in an incomprehensible tirade accompanied by wild gestures. He must however have been shouting for, although he was so far away, a few of his utterances could be caught; twice they rang out clearly: "Accursed. ... Accursed be Blackland!"
William Ferney must also have heard them for he suddenly stamped with fury, seized a rifle, and fired at random towards the Factory tower, about four hundred yards away.
Rather by sheer chance than by judgment, the bullet found its mark. Marcel Camaret clapped his hand to his chest and staggered into the tower.
Almost at once there came a double explosion, even more violent than any of the others, and the two towers simultaneously collapsed. The one burying in its ruins William Femey and his companions and the other Marcel Camaret, they fell with an appalling crash.
The terrible uproar was followed by a deep silence. Horrorstruck, the survivors of the catastrophe were still gazing when there was nothing to see and listening when there was nothing to hear.
Everything was over. Blackland, completely destroyed by the man who had created it, was now only ruin and desolation. Of the magnificent but ill fated achievements of Marcel Camaret there remained nothing.
CHAPTER XV
CONCLUSION
Thus perished Marcel Camaret and William Ferney, alias Harry Killer. Thus perished at the same time that astonishing city of Blackland, which had flourished unknown to the world. And with it perished the marvellous inventions it contained.
Of the town and it contents nothing remained but a heap of ruins, soon to vanish under a shroud of sand. The clouds ceased to shed their life giving rain, the Red River ran dry and became a barren oued unmoistened by even a drop of water, the fields dried up, and the desert, reconquering its realm, advanced to the attack of that human creation, whose last vestige soon disappeared.
At the behest of its creator, Camaret's work was dead, and nothing would hand down to the ages the name of that brilliant but unbalanced inventor.
Captain Marcenay did everything possible to curtail his stay in this desolation. Over a month elapsed, however, before he could set out homewards. He had to inter the dead, several hundred in number, to tend the wounded, to wait until they were able to endure the journey, and to allow time for strength to return to those whom he had rescued at the last moment.
Several among the former personnel of Blackland would never again see their native country. A score of workmen, three women and two children were dead, fallen beneath the blows of the Merry Fellows.
Yet fate had protected the members, official and officious, of the Barsac Mission. Except for Amedee Florence, who had been slightly wounded, they had all come off scotfree. This also applied to Tongane and Malik, who had resumed the course of their idyll, which consisted in exchanging hearty slaps and grinning at each other for all they were worth.
While those who he had saved were recovering from the trials they had endured, while the wounds were healing, Captain Marcenay rounded up the scattered population of Blackland. Those of the whites who resisted arrest were soon brought to reason by a bullet, and the others were fettered, their fate to be finally decided by the law. The one time slaves were gradually assembled and reassured. Taken back to the Niger, they were allowed to disperse, and they all succeeded in returning to their own villages and their relatives.
It was not until the 10th of June that the column could get into motion, well provided with food found plentifully among the ruins of the town and in the surrounding country. A few of the wounded, those most seriously injured, were not yet able to walk and had to be carried on stretchers. But it was high time to get away. The rainy season was approaching, this, in the Sudan, is called the winter, although it coincides with the astronomical summer. So for various reasons the journey had to be made but slowly.
There is no need to follow diat return journey stage by stage. Though sometimes painful, it was none the less accomplished without serious incident or danger. Six weeks after leaving the ruins of Blackland, the column led by Captain Marcenay arrived at Timbuctoo. Two months later the heroes of this dramatic adventure disembarked in Europe, some of them in England and the others in France.
A few words will suffice to let the reader know what ultimately became of them.
To everyone his reward. M. Poncin rejoined his ministry and gave himself up, as of old, to the joys of statistics, continuing to discover, from time to time, something really "astounding." The average number of hairs among the world's different races, and the average growth of the human nail, by die year, by the month, by the hour, and by the second, at the various seasons, formed his most recent "finds."
So he is happy, for somewhere in the world he will always find something new to count. There is, however, one fly in his ointment; so far he has not been able to solve the problem set by Amedee Florence. But nothing here below is perfect.
Dr. Chatonnay has gone back into his professional harness and has got in touch with his patients, whose good health seemed hardly a compliment to him. Since he has become their physician all is again as it should be: they can afford the luxury of being ill, and just as they wish, but always to their own benefit, as it is by doctor's orders, they can come and go, or stay in bed or in their bedchamber.
M. le Depute Barsac certainly "keeps to his chamber," but this is spelled with a capital C. Although the question of granting the vote to the Negroes has been temporarily shelved, the overthrowing of the theory put forward by le Depute du Midi has done no disservice to its author. It was evident, on the contrary, that the trials he had suffered, the risks he had run, deserved to be compensated. His position is thus firmer than ever before, and he is now being spoken of as the next Colonial Mini
ster.
Malik and Tongane have left Africa. Following their mistress into England, they have got married. On British soil there now flourishes a charming little group of piccaninnies, of whom the first are already fairly big.
St. Berain . . . but St. Berain hasn't any history. He fishes and hunts, he still says "Madame" to people who wear moustaches and "Sir" to those of the opposite sex. Such are his main occupations. Otherwise, his history is identical with that of Jane Blazon; and, as hers is intimately associated with everything that concerns her brother Lewis and Captain Marcenay, the fate of all four can be indicated at once.
As might be expected, Marcenay, who as soon as he got to Timbuctoo asked for leave of absence, which this time, was granted without demur, accompanied the three others to England.
During the month they had spent near the ruins of Blackland he had found leisure to describe, to the one who had now become his fiancee, the marvellous chance by which the message sent by Marcel Camaret arrived at its destination through the imponderable ether, the request he had made to Colonel Allegre, and his distress when he was met by a categorical refusal.
Fortunately on the very next day, the reply had come from Colonel St. Auban. Not only did he declare that the order brought by the socalled Lieutenant Le-cour was bogus, but he gave instructions that an expedition should at once be sent to the rescue of M. le Depute Barsac, regarding whose fate he felt a very reasonable .anxiety. Organized forthwith, the expedition set off down die Niger to Gao; and in crossing the desert beyond this point, Marcenay, who in spite of enormous difficulties was equipped with a field gun, reached Blackland by a series of forced marches.
Scarcely had she arrived in England when Jane Blazon, with her brother, Captain Marcenay and St. Berain, travelled by the quickest possible route to Glenor Castle, whence a telegram preceded them. Since she left it more than a year had elapsed. She now returned successful in her enterprise, the family honour restored to its original integrity.
In what condition would she find her father? Would the aged man, now ninety-four years old, have had the strength to endure his daughter's absence and to withstand the shame brought upon his second son by the robbery at the Central Bank? Certainly the press, after having done so much damage, had striven to repair it. Through the efforts of Amedee Florence, the moment he had got into touch with the outer world, they had proclaimed urbi et orbi the innocence of George and Lewis Blazon. But had the Lord of Glenor read the papers, or would this great happiness have reached him too late? Jane could not forget the condition her father had been in since the Central Bank business. Great as was her uneasiness, it was equalled by her anxiety to see him.
At last she arrived and was able to fall on her knees at the bedside of this aged man condemned to complete helplessness. Yet his eyes, alight with intelligence, showed that he still retained the clearness of his mind.
Accompanied by Lewis and St. Berain as well as by Captain Marcenay, whose presence she explained, the girl gave her father a complete account of her journey. She enumerated the witnesses to her narrative, and exhibited the attestation drawn up beside the grave at Koubo. She revealed something regarding which the press had so far kept silent, the hate which the wretched William Ferney had vowed towards the Blazon family and the dreadful methods by which he had satisfied it.
Everything held together. The Lord of Glenor could no longer doubt. Though one of his sons was dead, the honour of both had been saved.
The old man, his eyes fixed on his daughter, listened attentively. When she completed her narrative, a little blood reddened his face, his lips quivered, and his whole body trembled. His will was plainly struggling against the bonds which held his exhausted frame in their grip.
All who watched this tragic struggle were suddenly swept by an indescribable emotion. The will, stronger than the flesh, had triumphed. For the first time, after so many months, the Lord of Glenor was able to move. He could speakl
His transfigured face turned towards Jane; then, while his trembling hand sought that of the brave girl so deeply devoted to him, his lips murmured his thanks.
Then, as if at that very instant he had lost all reason for living, he gave a deep sigh, closed his eyes, and ceased to draw breath.
They strove in vain to revive him. Lord Blazon of Glenor had entered into his eternal rest as though he had fallen asleep. He was dead, but his end had been peace.
Here this story must end.
Of all its characters we now know the fate: Barsac, a future minister; M. Poncin, intoxicated with his statistics; Dr. Chatonnay, restored to his patients; St. Berain, happy to be near his aunt-niece, and she happy to be Captain Marcenay's wife; Lewis Blazon, promoted to take charge of the Central Bank; Malik and Tongane, the parents of a thriving offspring.
As for myself....
Well, therel . . . There I'm prematurely disclosing the secretl ... So let's say, as for Amedee Florence, he resumed his work with L'Expansion Francaise, in which he published the story of his adventures, which his editor valued at thirty centimes a line. To supplement his pay, the reporter, who was not a wealthy man, had the inspiration to kill two birds with one stone and to write a story on the same subject.
A story, you ask? ... What story?
But it is the very one, dear readers, which, as you have reached these lines, you must have gone through from beginning to end.
A profound psychologist, Amedee Florence rightly thought that if he merely related the actual facts, he would make people yawn until they dislocated their jaws. Yet the same facts, told under the guise of fiction, might chance to give their readers a moment's entertainment. That's the way of the world. Historv, with a capital H, daunts us. Only stories amuse us . . . sometimes! What do you expect, we don't take things seriously nowadays!
These adventures being, unfortunately for himself, authentic, Amedee Florence has veiled his identity with a skill to which he must be the first to pay honour; by camouflaging them as fiction he hopes to make them go into a fair number of editions. This technique of proceeding from a newspaper article to notes jotted down from day to day and thence to an impersonal narrative, this method of exaggerating a somewhat audacious style and of going on to depict himself as a courageous and witty fellow, these little touches of spite, these little touches of flattery, all these bye-plots, these "dodges," these tricks of the trade, these literary artifices, may serve to hide more effectively the author's true identity.
But here he is at the end of his task. Good or bad, amusing or tedious, here is his book. So at last his incognito can be dropped without any repercussions, and his narrative can be revealed as authentic. And so its author, your most obedient and humble servant, can sign it with his own name—Amedee Florence, reporter to L'Expansion Francaise—before he writes those great words, those sublime words, that king of phrases:
the end
* * *
Jules Verne, City in the Sahara - Barsac Mission 02
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