0367
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In Search of the Castaways
IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS
By Jules Verne
From The Works Of Jules Verne
Edited By Charles F. Horne, Ph.D.
VOLUME FOUR
PAGE
IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS
SOUTH AMERICA . . . . . . 3
AUSTRALIA . . . . . . . 165
NEW ZEALAND . . . . . . . 305
[page intentionally blank]
INTRODUCTION TO VOLUME FOUR
THE three books gathered under the title “In Search of the Castaways”
occupied much of Verne’s attention during the three years following
1865. The characters used in these books were afterwards reintroduced
in “The Mysterious Island,” which was in its turn a sequel to “Twenty
Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.” Thus this entire set of books form a
united series upon which Verne worked intermittently during ten years.
“In Search of the Castaways,” which has also been published as “The
Children of Captain Grant” and as “A Voyage Around the World,” is
perhaps most interesting in connection with the last of these titles. It
is our author’s first distinctly geographical romance. By an ingenious
device he sets before the rescuers a search which compels their
circumnavigation of the globe around a certain parallel of the southern
hemisphere. Thus they cross in turn through South America, Australia and
New Zealand, besides visiting minor islands.
The three great regions form the sub-titles of the three books which
compose the story. In each region the rescuers meet with adventures
characteristic of the land. They encounter Indians in America;
bushrangers in Australia; and Maoris in New Zealand. The passage of
the searching party gives ground,--one is almost tempted to say,
excuse,--for a close and careful description of each country and of its
inhabitants, step by step. Even the lesser incidents of the story
are employed to emphasise the distinctive features of each land. The
explorers are almost frozen on the heights of the Andes, and almost
drowned in the floods of the Patagonian Pampas. An avalanche sweeps some
of them away; a condor carries off a lad. In Australia they are stopped
by jungles and by quagmires; they hunt kangaroos. In New Zealand they
take refuge amid hot sulphur springs and in a house “tabooed”; they
escape by starting a volcano into eruption.
Here then are fancy and extravagance mixed with truth and information.
Verne has done a vast and useful work in stimulating the interest not
only of Frenchmen but of all civilised nations, with regard to the
lesser known regions of our globe. He has broadened knowledge and guided
study. During the years following 1865 he even, for a time, deserted
his favorite field of labor, fiction, and devoted himself to a popular
semi-scientific book, now superseded by later works, entitled “The
Illustrated Geography of France and her Colonies.”
Verne has perhaps had a larger share than any other single individual
in causing the ever-increasing yearly tide of international travel.
And because with mutual knowledge among the nations comes mutual
understanding and appreciation, mutual brotherhood; hence Jules Verne
was one of the first and greatest of those teachers who are now leading
us toward International Peace.
IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS
or
THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT
SOUTH AMERICA
CHAPTER I THE SHARK
ON the 26th of July, 1864, a magnificent yacht was steaming along the
North Channel at full speed, with a strong breeze blowing from the N.
E. The Union Jack was flying at the mizzen-mast, and a blue standard
bearing the initials E. G., embroidered in gold, and surmounted by a
ducal coronet, floated from the topgallant head of the main-mast. The
name of the yacht was the DUNCAN, and the owner was Lord Glenarvan, one
of the sixteen Scotch peers who sit in the Upper House, and the
most distinguished member of the Royal Thames Yacht Club, so famous
throughout the United Kingdom.
Lord Edward Glenarvan was on board with his young wife, Lady Helena, and
one of his cousins, Major McNabbs.
The DUNCAN was newly built, and had been making a trial trip a few miles
outside the Firth of Clyde. She was returning to Glasgow, and the Isle
of Arran already loomed in the distance, when the sailor on watch caught
sight of an enormous fish sporting in the wake of the ship. Lord Edward,
who was immediately apprised of the fact, came up on the poop a few
minutes after with his cousin, and asked John Mangles, the captain, what
sort of an animal he thought it was.
“Well, since your Lordship asks my opinion,” said Mangles, “I think it
is a shark, and a fine large one too.”
“A shark on these shores!”
“There is nothing at all improbable in that,” returned the captain.
“This fish belongs to a species that is found in all latitudes and in
all seas. It is the ‘balance-fish,’ or hammer-headed shark, if I am not
much mistaken. But if your Lordship has no objections, and it would
give the smallest pleasure to Lady Helena to see a novelty in the way of
fishing, we’ll soon haul up the monster and find out what it really is.”
“What do you say, McNabbs? Shall we try to catch it?” asked Lord
Glenarvan.
“If you like; it’s all one to me,” was his cousin’s cool reply.
“The more of those terrible creatures that are killed the better, at all
events,” said John Mangles, “so let’s seize the chance, and it will not
only give us a little diversion, but be doing a good action.”
“Very well, set to work, then,” said Glenarvan.
Lady Helena soon joined her husband on deck, quite charmed at the
prospect of such exciting sport. The sea was splendid, and every
movement of the shark was distinctly visible. In obedience to the
captain’s orders, the sailors threw a strong rope over the starboard
side of the yacht, with a big hook at the end of it, concealed in a
thick lump of bacon. The bait took at once, though the shark was full
fifty yards distant. He began to make rapidly for the yacht, beating
the waves violently with his fins, and keeping his tail in a perfectly
straight line. As he got nearer, his great projecting eyes could be seen
inflamed with greed, and his gaping jaws with their quadruple row of
teeth. His head was large, and shaped like a double hammer at the end
of a handle. John Mangles was right. This was evidently a
balance-fish--the most voracious of all the SQUALIDAE species.
The passengers and sailors on the yacht were watching all the animal’s
movements with the liveliest interest. He soon came within reach of the
bait, turned over on his back to make a good dart at it, and in a second
bacon and contents had disappeared. He had hooked himself now, as the
tremendous jerk he gave the cable proved, and the sailors began to haul
in the monster by means of tackle attached to the mainyard. He struggled
desperately, but his captors were prepared for his violence, and had a
long rope ready with a slip knot, which caught his tail and rendered him
powerless at once. In a few minutes more he was hoisted up over the side
of the yacht and thrown on the deck. A man came forward immediately,
hatchet in hand, and approaching him cautiously, with one powerful
stroke cut off his tail.
This ended the business, for there was no longer any fear of the shark.
But, though the sailors’ vengeance was satisfied, their curiosity was
not; they knew the brute had no very delicate appetite, and the contents
of his stomach might be worth investigation. This is the common practice
on all ships when a shark is captured, but Lady Glenarvan declined to
be present at such a disgusting exploration, and withdrew to the cabin
again. The fish was still breathing; it measured ten feet in length, and
weighed more than six hundred pounds. This was nothing extraordinary,
for though the hammer-headed shark is not classed among the most
gigantic of the species, it is always reckoned among the most
formidable.
The huge brute was soon ripped up in a very unceremonious fashion. The
hook had fixed right in the stomach, which was found to be absolutely
empty, and the disappointed sailors were just going to throw the remains
overboard, when the boatswain’s attention was attracted by some large
object sticking fast in one of the viscera.
“I say! what’s this?” he exclaimed.
“That!” replied one of the sailors, “why, it’s a piece of rock the beast
swallowed by way of ballast.”
“It’s just a bottle, neither more nor less, that the fellow has got in
his inside, and couldn’t digest,” said another of the crew.
“Hold your tongues, all of you!” said Tom Austin, the mate of the
DUNCAN. “Don’t you see the animal has been such an inveterate tippler
that he has not only drunk the wine, but swallowed the bottle?”
“What!” said Lord Glenarvan. “Do you mean to say it is a bottle that the
shark has got in his stomach.”
“Ay, it is a bottle, most certainly,” replied the boatswain, “but not
just from the cellar.”
“Well, Tom, be careful how you take it out,” said Lord Glenarvan, “for
bottles found in the sea often contain precious documents.”
“Do you think this does?” said Major McNabbs, incredulously.
“It possibly may, at any rate.”
“Oh! I’m not saying it doesn’t. There may perhaps be some secret in it,”
returned the Major.
“That’s just what we’re to see,” said his cousin. “Well, Tom.”
“Here it is,” said the mate, holding up a shapeless lump he had managed
to pull out, though with some difficulty.
“Get the filthy thing washed then, and bring it to the cabin.”
Tom obeyed, and in a few minutes brought in the bottle and laid it on
the table, at which Lord Glenarvan and the Major were sitting ready with
the captain, and, of course Lady Helena, for women, they say, are always
a little curious. Everything is an event at sea. For a moment they all
sat silent, gazing at this frail relic, wondering if it told the tale
of sad disaster, or brought some trifling message from a frolic-loving
sailor, who had flung it into the sea to amuse himself when he had
nothing better to do.
However, the only way to know was to examine the bottle, and Glenarvan
set to work without further delay, so carefully and minutely, that he
might have been taken for a coroner making an inquest.
He commenced by a close inspection of the outside. The neck was long and
slender, and round the thick rim there was still an end of wire hanging,
though eaten away with rust. The sides were very thick, and strong
enough to bear great pressure. It was evidently of Champagne origin, and
the Major said immediately, “That’s one of our Clicquot’s bottles.”
Nobody contradicted him, as he was supposed to know; but Lady Helena
exclaimed, “What does it matter about the bottle, if we don’t know where
it comes from?”
“We shall know that, too, presently, and we may affirm this much
already--it comes from a long way off. Look at those petrifactions all
over it, these different substances almost turned to mineral, we might
say, through the action of the salt water! This waif had been tossing
about in the ocean a long time before the shark swallowed it.”
“I quite agree with you,” said McNabbs. “I dare say this frail concern
has made a long voyage, protected by this strong covering.”
“But I want to know where from?” said Lady Glenarvan.
“Wait a little, dear Helena, wait; we must have patience with bottles;
but if I am not much mistaken, this one will answer all our questions,”
replied her husband, beginning to scrape away the hard substances round
the neck. Soon the cork made its appearance, but much damaged by the
water.
“That’s vexing,” said Lord Edward, “for if papers are inside, they’ll be
in a pretty state!”
“It’s to be feared they will,” said the Major.
“But it is a lucky thing the shark swallowed them, I must say,” added
Glenarvan, “for the bottle would have sunk to the bottom before long
with such a cork as this.”
“That’s true enough,” replied John Mangles, “and yet it would have been
better to have fished them up in the open sea. Then we might have found
out the road they had come by taking the exact latitude and longitude,
and studying the atmospheric and submarine currents; but with such a
postman as a shark, that goes against wind and tide, there’s no clew
whatever to the starting-point.”
“We shall see,” said Glenarvan, gently taking out the cork. A strong
odor of salt water pervaded the whole saloon, and Lady Helena asked
impatiently: “Well, what is there?”
“I was right!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “I see papers inside. But I fear it
will be impossible to remove them,” he added, “for they appear to have
rotted with the damp, and are sticking to the sides of the bottle.”
“Break it,” said the Major.
“I would rather preserve the whole if I could.”
“No doubt you would,” said Lady Helena; “but the contents are more
valuable than the bottle, and we had better sacrifice the one than the
other.”
“If your Lordship would simply break off the neck, I think we might
easily withdraw the papers,” suggested John Mangles.
“Try it, Edward, try it,” said Lady Helena.
Lord Glenarvan was very unwilling, but he found there was no
alternative; the precious bottle must be broken. They had to get a
hammer before this could be done, though, for the stony material had
acquired the hardness of granite. A few sharp strokes, however, soon
shivered it to fragments, many of which had pieces of paper sticking to
them. These were carefully removed by Lord Glenarvan, and separated and
spread out on the table before the eager gaze of his wife and friends.
CHAPTER II THE THREE DOCUMENTS
ALL that could be discovered, however, on these pieces of paper was
a few words here and there, the remainder of the lines being almost
completely obliterated by the action of the water. Lord Glenarvan
examined them attentively for a few minutes, turning them over on all
sides, holding them up to the light, and trying to decipher the least
scrap of writing, while the others looked on with anxious eyes. At last
he said: “There are three distinct documents here, apparently copies of
the same document in three different languages. Here is one in English,
one in French, and one in German.”
“But can you make any sense out of them?” asked Lady Helena.
“That’s hard to say, my dear Helena, the words are quite incomplete.”
“Perhaps the one may supplement the other,” suggested Major McNabbs.
“Very likely they will,” said the captain. “It is impossible that
the very same words should have been effaced in each document, and by
putting the scraps together we might gather some intelligible meaning
out of them.”
“That’s what we will do,” rejoined Lord Glenarvan; “but let us proceed
methodically. Here is the English document first.”
All that remained of it was the following:
62 _Bri gow
sink stra
aland
skipp Gr
that monit of long
and ssistance
lost_
“There’s not much to be made out of that,” said the Major, looking
disappointed.
“No, but it is good English anyhow,” returned the captain.
“There’s no doubt of it,” said Glenarvan. “The words SINK, ALAND, LOST
are entire; SKIPP is evidently part of the word SKIPPER, and that’s
what they call ship captains often in England. There seems a Mr. Gr.
mentioned, and that most likely is the captain of the shipwrecked
vessel.”
“Well, come, we have made out a good deal already,” said Lady Helena.
“Yes, but unfortunately there are whole lines wanting,” said the Major,
“and we have neither the name of the ship nor the place where she was
shipwrecked.”
“We’ll get that by and by,” said Edward.
“Oh, yes; there is no doubt of it,” replied the Major, who always echoed
his neighbor’s opinion. “But how?”
“By comparing one document with the other.”
“Let us try them,” said his wife.
The second piece of paper was even more destroyed than the first; only a
few scattered words remained here and there.
It ran as follows:
7 Juni Glas
zwei atrosen
graus
bringt ihnen
“This is written in German,” said John Mangles the moment he looked at
it.
“And you understand that language, don’t you?” asked Lord Glenarvan.
“Perfectly.”
“Come, then, tell us the meaning of these words.”
The captain examined the document carefully, and said:
“Well, here’s the date of the occurrence first: 7 Juni means June 7; and
if we put that before the figures 62 we have in the other document, it
gives us the exact date, 7th of June, 1862.”
“Capital!” exclaimed Lady Helena. “Go on, John!”
“On the same line,” resumed the young captain, “there is the syllable
GLAS and if we add that to the GOW we found in the English paper, we get
the whole word GLASGOW at once. The documents evidently refer to some
ship that sailed out of the port of Glasgow.”
“That is my opinion, too,” said the Major.
“The second line is completely effaced,” continued the Captain; “but
here are two important words on the third. There is ZWEI, which means
TWO, and ATROSEN or MATROSEN, the German for SAILORS.”
“Then I suppose it is about a captain and two sailors,” said Lady
Helena.
“It seems so,” replied Lord Glenarvan.
“I must confess, your Lordship, that the next word puzzles me. I can
make nothing of it. Perhaps the third document may throw some light on
it. The last two words are plain enough. BRINGT IHNEN means BRING THEM;
and, if you recollect, in the English paper we had SSISTANCE, so
by putting the parts together, it reads thus, I think: ‘BRING THEM
ASSISTANCE.’”
“Yes, that must be it,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “But where are the poor
fellows? We have not the slightest indication of the place, meantime,
nor of where the catastrophe happened.”
“Perhaps the French copy will be more explicit,” suggested Lady Helena.
“Here it is, then,” said Lord Glenarvan, “and that is in a language we
all know.”
The words it contained were these:
troi ats tannia
gonie austral
abor
contin pr cruel indi
jete ongit
et 37 degrees 11” LAT
“There are figures!” exclaimed Lady Helena. “Look!”
“Let us go steadily to work,” said Lord Glenarvan, “and begin at the
beginning. I think we can make out from the incomplete words in the
first line that a three-mast vessel is in question, and there is little
doubt about the name; we get that from the fragments of the other
papers; it is the BRITANNIA. As to the next two words, GONIE and
AUSTRAL, it is only AUSTRAL that has any meaning to us.”
“But that is a valuable scrap of information,” said John Mangles. “The
shipwreck occurred in the southern hemisphere.”
“That’s a wide world,” said the Major.
“Well, we’ll go on,” resumed Glenarvan. “Here is the word ABOR; that
is clearly the root of the verb ABORDER. The poor men have landed
somewhere; but where? CONTIN--does that mean continent? CRUEL!”
“CRUEL!” interrupted John Mangles. “I see now what GRAUS is part of in
the second document. It is GRAUSAM, the word in German for CRUEL!”
“Let’s go on,” said Lord Glenarvan, becoming quite excited over his
task, as the incomplete words began to fill up and develop their
meaning. “INDI,--is it India where they have been shipwrecked? And what
can this word ONGIT be part of? Ah! I see--it is LONGITUDE; and here is
the latitude, 37 degrees 11”. That is the precise indication at last,
then!”
“But we haven’t the longitude,” objected McNabbs.
“But we can’t get everything, my dear Major; and it is something at all
events, to have the exact latitude. The French document is decidedly
the most complete of the three; but it is plain enough that each is the
literal translation of the other, for they all contain exactly the same
number of lines. What we have to do now is to put together all the
words we have found, and translate them into one language, and try to
ascertain their most probable and logical sense.”
“Well, what language shall we choose?” asked the Major.
“I think we had better keep to the French, since that was the most
complete document of the three.”
“Your Lordship is right,” said John Mangles, “and besides, we’re all
familiar with the language.”
“Very well, then, I’ll set to work.”
In a few minutes he had written as follows:
7 Juin 1862 trois-mats Britannia Glasgow
sombre gonie austral
a terre deux matelots
capitaine Gr abor
contin pr cruel indi
jete ce document de longitude
et 37 degrees 11” de latitude Portez-leur secours
perdus.
[7th of June, 1862 three-mast BRITANNIA Glasgow]
foundered gonie southern
on the coast two sailors Gr
Captain landed
contin pr cruel indi
thrown this document in longitude
and 37 degrees 11” latitude Bring them assistance
lost
Just at that moment one of the sailors came to inform the captain that
they were about entering the Firth of Clyde, and to ask what were his
orders.
“What are your Lordship’s intentions?” said John Mangles, addressing
Lord Glenarvan.
“To get to Dunbarton as quickly as possible, John; and Lady Helena will
return to Malcolm Castle, while I go on to London and lay this document
before the Admiralty.”
The sailor received orders accordingly, and went out to deliver them to
the mate.
“Now, friends,” said Lord Glenarvan, “let us go on with our
investigations, for we are on the track of a great catastrophe, and the
lives of several human beings depend on our sagacity. We must give our
whole minds to the solution of this enigma.”
“First of all, there are three very distinct things to be considered
in this document--the things we know, the things we may conjecture, the
things we do not know.”
“What are those we know? We know that on the 7th of June a three-mast
vessel, the BRITANNIA of Glasgow, foundered; that two sailors and the
captain threw this document into the sea in 37 degrees 11” latitude, and
they entreat help.”
“Exactly so,” said the Major.
“What are those now we may conjecture?” continued Glenarvan. “That the
shipwreck occurred in the southern seas; and here I would draw your
attention at once to the incomplete word GONIE. Doesn’t the name of the
country strike you even in the mere mention of it?”
“Patagonia!” exclaimed Lady Helena.
“Undoubtedly.”
“But is Patagonia crossed by the 37th parallel?” asked the Major.
“That is easily ascertained,” said the captain, opening a map of South
America. “Yes, it is; Patagonia just touches the 37th parallel. It cuts
through Araucania, goes along over the Pampas to the north, and loses
itself in the Atlantic.”
“Well, let us proceed then with our conjectures. The two sailors and the
captain LAND--land where? CONTIN--on a continent; on a continent, mark
you, not an island. What becomes of them? There are two letters here
providentially which give a clew to their fate--PR, that must mean
prisoners, and CRUEL INDIAN is evidently the meaning of the next two
words. These unfortunate men are captives in the hands of cruel Indians.
Don’t you see it? Don’t the words seem to come of themselves, and fill
up the blanks? Isn’t the document quite clear now? Isn’t the sense
self-evident?”
Glenarvan spoke in a tone of absolute conviction, and his enthusiastic
confidence appeared contagious, for the others all exclaimed, too, “Yes,
it is evident, quite evident!”
After an instant, Lord Edward said again, “To my own mind the hypothesis
is so plausible, that I have no doubt whatever the event occurred on the
coast of Patagonia, but still I will have inquiries made in Glasgow, as
to the destination of the BRITANNIA, and we shall know if it is possible
she could have been wrecked on those shores.”
“Oh, there’s no need to send so far to find out that,” said John
Mangles. “I have the _Mercantile and Shipping Gazette_ here, and we’ll
see the name on the list, and all about it.”
“Do look at once, then,” said Lord Glenarvan.
The file of papers for the year 1862 was soon brought, and John began
to turn over the leaves rapidly, running down each page with his eye in
search of the name required. But his quest was not long, for in a few
minutes he called out: “I’ve got it! ‘May 30, 1862, Peru-Callao, with
cargo for Glasgow, the BRITANNIA, Captain Grant.’”
“Grant!” exclaimed Lord Glenarvan. “That is the adventurous Scotchman
that attempted to found a new Scotland on the shores of the Pacific.”
“Yes,” rejoined John Mangles, “it is the very man. He sailed from
Glasgow in the BRITANNIA in 1861, and has not been heard of since.”
“There isn’t a doubt of it, not a shadow of doubt,” repeated Lord
Glenarvan. “It is just that same Captain Grant. The BRITANNIA left
Callao on the 30th of May, and on the 7th of June, a week afterward, she
is lost on the coast of Patagonia. The few broken disjointed words we
find in these documents tell us the whole story. You see, friends, our
conjectures hit the mark very well; we know all now except one thing,
and that is the longitude.”
“That is not needed now, we know the country. With the latitude alone, I
would engage to go right to the place where the wreck happened.”
“Then have we really all the particulars now?” asked Lady Helena.
“All, dear Helena; I can fill up every one of these blanks the sea has
made in the document as easily as if Captain Grant were dictating to
me.”
And he took up the pen, and dashed off the following lines immediately:
“On the 7th of June, 1862, the three-mast vessel, BRITANNIA, of Glasgow,
has sunk on the coast of Patagonia, in the southern hemisphere. Making
for the shore, two sailors and Captain Grant are about to land on the
continent, where they will be taken prisoners by cruel Indians. They
have thrown this document into the sea, in longitude and latitude 37
degrees 11”. Bring them assistance, or they are lost.”
“Capital! capital! dear Edward,” said Lady Helena. “If those poor
creatures ever see their native land again, it is you they will have to
thank for it.”
“And they will see it again,” returned Lord Glenarvan; “the statement is
too explicit, and clear, and certain for England to hesitate about going
to the aid of her three sons cast away on a desert coast. What she has
done for Franklin and so many others, she will do to-day for these poor
shipwrecked fellows of the BRITANNIA.”
“Most likely the unfortunate men have families who mourn their loss.
Perhaps this ill-fated Captain Grant had a wife and children,” suggested
Lady Helena.
“Very true, my dear, and I’ll not forget to let them know that there is
still hope. But now, friends, we had better go up on deck, as the boat
must be getting near the harbor.”
A carriage and post-horses waited there, in readiness to convey Lady
Helena and Major McNabbs to Malcolm Castle, and Lord Glenarvan bade
adieu to his young wife, and jumped into the express train for Glasgow.
But before starting he confided an important missive to a swifter agent
than himself, and a few minutes afterward it flashed along the electric
wire to London, to appear next day in the _Times and Morning Chronicle_
in the following words: “For information respecting the fate of the
three-mast vessel BRITANNIA, of Glasgow, Captain Grant, apply to Lord
Glenarvan, Malcolm Castle, Luss, Dumbartonshire, Scotland.”
CHAPTER III THE CAPTAIN’S CHILDREN
LORD GLENARVAN’S fortune was enormous, and he spent it entirely in doing
good. His kindheartedness was even greater than his generosity, for the
one knew no bounds, while the other, of necessity, had its limits. As
Lord of Luss and “laird” of Malcolm, he represented his county in the
House of Lords; but, with his Jacobite ideas, he did not care much for
the favor of the House of Hanover, and he was looked upon coldly by the
State party in England, because of the tenacity with which he clung to
the traditions of his forefathers, and his energetic resistance to the
political encroachments of Southerners. And yet he was not a man behind
the times, and there was nothing little or narrow-minded about him; but
while always keeping open his ancestral county to progress, he was a
true Scotchman at heart, and it was for the honor of Scotland that he
competed in the yacht races of the Royal Thames Yacht Club.
Edward Glenarvan was thirty-two years of age. He was tall in person, and
had rather stern features; but there was an exceeding sweetness in his
look, and a stamp of Highland poetry about his whole bearing. He was
known to be brave to excess, and full of daring and chivalry--a
Fer-gus of the nineteenth century; but his goodness excelled every other
quality, and he was more charitable than St. Martin himself, for he
would have given the whole of his cloak to any of the poor Highlanders.
He had scarcely been married three months, and his bride was Miss Helena
Tuffnell, the daughter of William Tuffnell, the great traveler, one
of the many victims of geographical science and of the passion for
discovery. Miss Helena did not belong to a noble family, but she was
Scotch, and that was better than all nobility in the eyes of Lord
Glenarvan; and she was, moreover, a charming, high-souled, religious
young woman.
Lord Glenarvan did not forget that his wife was the daughter of a great
traveler, and he thought it likely that she would inherit her father’s
predilections. He had the DUNCAN built expressly that he might take
his bride to the most beautiful lands in the world, and complete their
honeymoon by sailing up the Mediterranean, and through the clustering
islands of the Archipelago.
However, Lord Glenarvan had gone now to London. The lives of the
shipwrecked men were at stake, and Lady Helena was too much concerned
herself about them to grudge her husband’s temporary absence. A telegram
next day gave hope of his speedy return, but in the evening a letter
apprised her of the difficulties his proposition had met with, and
the morning after brought another, in which he openly expressed his
dissatisfaction with the Admiralty.
Lady Helena began to get anxious as the day wore on. In the evening,
when she was sitting alone in her room, Mr. Halbert, the house steward,
came in and asked if she would see a young girl and boy that wanted to
speak to Lord Glenarvan.
“Some of the country people?” asked Lady Helena.
“No, madame,” replied the steward, “I do not know them at all. They came
by rail to Balloch, and walked the rest of the way to Luss.”
“Tell them to come up, Halbert.”
In a few minutes a girl and boy were shown in. They were evidently
brother and sister, for the resemblance was unmistakable. The girl was
about sixteen years of age; her tired pretty face, and sorrowful eyes,
and resigned but courageous look, as well as her neat though poor
attire, made a favorable impression. The boy she held by the hand
was about twelve, but his face expressed such determination, that he
appeared quite his sister’s protector.
The girl seemed too shy to utter a word at first, but Lady Helena
quickly relieved her embarrassment by saying, with an encouraging smile:
“You wish to speak to me, I think?”
“No,” replied the boy, in a decided tone; “not to you, but to Lord
Glenarvan.”
“Excuse him, ma’am,” said the girl, with a look at her brother.
“Lord Glenarvan is not at the castle just now,” returned Lady Helena;
“but I am his wife, and if I can do anything for you--”
“You are Lady Glenarvan?” interrupted the girl.
“I am.”
“The wife of Lord Glenarvan, of Malcolm Castle, that put an announcement
in the TIMES about the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA?”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Helena, eagerly; “and you?”
“I am Miss Grant, ma’am, and this is my brother.”
“Miss Grant, Miss Grant!” exclaimed Lady Helena, drawing the young girl
toward her, and taking both her hands and kissing the boy’s rosy cheeks.
“What is it you know, ma’am, about the shipwreck? Tell me, is my father
living? Shall we ever see him again? Oh, tell me,” said the girl,
earnestly.
“My dear child,” replied Lady Helena. “Heaven forbid that I should
answer you lightly such a question; I would not delude you with vain
hopes.”
“Oh, tell me all, tell me all, ma’am. I’m proof against sorrow. I can
bear to hear anything.”
“My poor child, there is but a faint hope; but with the help of almighty
Heaven it is just possible you may one day see your father once more.”
The girl burst into tears, and Robert seized Lady Glenarvan’s hand and
covered it with kisses.
As soon as they grew calmer they asked a complete string of questions,
and Lady Helena recounted the whole story of the document, telling them
that their father had been wrecked on the coast of Patagonia, and that
he and two sailors, the sole survivors, appeared to have reached
the shore, and had written an appeal for help in three languages and
committed it to the care of the waves.
During the recital, Robert Grant was devouring the speaker with his
eyes, and hanging on her lips. His childish imagination evidently
retraced all the scenes of his father’s shipwreck. He saw him on the
deck of the BRITANNIA, and then struggling with the billows, then
clinging to the rocks, and lying at length exhausted on the beach.
More than once he cried out, “Oh, papa! my poor papa!” and pressed close
to his sister.
Miss Grant sat silent and motionless, with clasped hands, and all she
said when the narration ended, was: “Oh, ma’am, the paper, please!”
“I have not it now, my dear child,” replied Lady Helena.
“You haven’t it?”
“No. Lord Glenarvan was obliged to take it to London, for the sake of
your father; but I have told you all it contained, word for word, and
how we managed to make out the complete sense from the fragments of
words left--all except the longitude, unfortunately.”
“We can do without that,” said the boy.
“Yes, Mr. Robert,” rejoined Lady Helena, smiling at the child’s decided
tone. “And so you see, Miss Grant, you know the smallest details now
just as well as I do.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I should like to have seen my father’s writing.”
“Well, to-morrow, perhaps, to-morrow, Lord Glenarvan will be back.
My husband determined to lay the document before the Lords of the
Admiralty, to induce them to send out a ship immediately in search of
Captain Grant.”
“Is it possible, ma’am,” exclaimed the girl, “that you have done that
for us?”
“Yes, my dear Miss Grant, and I am expecting Lord Glenarvan back every
minute now.”
“Oh, ma’am! Heaven bless you and Lord Glenarvan,” said the young girl,
fervently, overcome with grateful emotion.
“My dear girl, we deserve no thanks; anyone in our place would have done
the same. I only trust the hopes we are leading you to entertain may be
realized, but till my husband returns, you will remain at the Castle.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I could not abuse the sympathy you show to strangers.”
“Strangers, dear child!” interrupted Lady Helena; “you and your brother
are not strangers in this house, and I should like Lord Glenarvan to be
able on his arrival to tell the children of Captain Grant himself, what
is going to be done to rescue their father.”
It was impossible to refuse an invitation given with such heart,
and Miss Grant and her brother consented to stay till Lord Glenarvan
returned.
CHAPTER IV LADY GLENARVAN’S PROPOSAL
LADY HELENA thought it best to say nothing to the children about
the fears Lord Glenarvan had expressed in his letters respecting the
decisions of the Lords of the Admiralty with regard to the document.
Nor did she mention the probable captivity of Captain Grant among the
Indians of South America. Why sadden the poor children, and damp their
newly cherished hopes? It would not in the least alter the actual
state of the case; so not a word was said, and after answering all Miss
Grant’s questions, Lady Helena began to interrogate in her turn, asking
her about her past life and her present circumstances.
It was a touching, simple story she heard in reply, and one which
increased her sympathy for the young girl.
Mary and Robert were the captain’s only children. Harry Grant lost
his wife when Robert was born, and during his long voyages he left his
little ones in charge of his cousin, a good old lady. Captain Grant was
a fearless sailor. He not only thoroughly understood navigation, but
commerce also--a two-fold qualification eminently useful to skippers in
the merchant service. He lived in Dundee, in Perthshire, Scotland. His
father, a minister of St. Katrine’s Church, had given him a thorough
education, as he believed that could never hurt anybody.
Harry’s voyages were prosperous from the first, and a few years after
Robert was born, he found himself possessed of a considerable fortune.
It was then that he projected the grand scheme which made him popular in
Scotland. Like Glenarvan, and a few noble families in the Lowlands, he
had no heart for the union with England. In his eyes the interests of
his country were not identified with those of the Anglo-Saxons, and to
give scope for personal development, he resolved to found an immense
Scotch colony on one of the ocean continents. Possibly he might have
thought that some day they would achieve their independence, as the
United States did--an example doubtless to be followed eventually by
Australia and India. But whatever might be his secret motives, such was
his dream of colonization. But, as is easily understood, the Government
opposed his plans, and put difficulties enough in his way to have killed
an ordinary man. But Harry would not be beaten. He appealed to the
patriotism of his countrymen, placed his fortune at the service of the
cause, built a ship, and manned it with a picked crew, and leaving his
children to the care of his old cousin set off to explore the great
islands of the Pacific. This was in 1861, and for twelve months, or up
to May, 1862, letters were regularly received from him, but no tidings
whatever had come since his departure from Callao, in June, and the name
of the BRITANNIA never appeared in the Shipping List.
Just at this juncture the old cousin died, and Harry Grant’s two
children were left alone in the world.
Mary Grant was then only fourteen, but she resolved to face her
situation bravely, and to devote herself entirely to her little brother,
who was still a mere child. By dint of close economy, combined with tact
and prudence, she managed to support and educate him, working day
and night, denying herself everything, that she might give him all he
needed, watching over him and caring for him like a mother.
The two children were living in this touching manner in Dundee,
struggling patiently and courageously with their poverty. Mary thought
only of her brother, and indulged in dreams of a prosperous future for
him. She had long given up all hope of the BRITANNIA, and was fully
persuaded that her father was dead. What, then, was her emotion when she
accidentally saw the notice in the TIMES!
She never hesitated for an instant as to the course she should adopt,
but determined to go to Dumbartonshire immediately, to learn the best
and worst. Even if she were to be told that her father’s lifeless body
had been found on a distant shore, or in the bottom of some abandoned
ship, it would be a relief from incessant doubt and torturing suspense.
She told her brother about the advertisement, and the two children
started off together that same day for Perth, where they took the train,
and arrived in the evening at Malcolm Castle.
Such was Mary Grant’s sorrowful story, and she recounted it in so simple
and unaffected a manner, that it was evident she never thought her
conduct had been that of a heroine through those long trying years.
But Lady Helena thought it for her, and more than once she put her arms
round both the children, and could not restrain her tears.
As for Robert, he seemed to have heard these particulars for the first
time. All the while his sister was speaking, he gazed at her with
wide-open eyes, only knowing now how much she had done and suffered for
him; and, as she ended, he flung himself on her neck, and exclaimed,
“Oh, mamma! My dear little mamma!”
It was quite dark by this time, and Lady Helena made the children go to
bed, for she knew they must be tired after their journey. They were soon
both sound asleep, dreaming of happy days.
After they had retired. Lady Helena sent for Major McNabbs, and told him
the incidents of the evening.
“That Mary Grant must be a brave girl,” said the Major.
“I only hope my husband will succeed, for the poor children’s sake,”
said his cousin. “It would be terrible for them if he did not.”
“He will be sure to succeed, or the Lords of the Admiralty must have
hearts harder than Portland stone.”
But, notwithstanding McNabbs’s assurance, Lady Helena passed the night
in great anxiety, and could not close her eyes.
Mary Grant and her brother were up very early next morning, and were
walking about in the courtyard when they heard the sound of a carriage
approaching. It was Lord Glenarvan; and, almost immediately, Lady Helena
and the Major came out to meet him.
Lady Helena flew toward her husband the moment he alighted; but he
embraced her silently, and looked gloomy and disappointed--indeed, even
furious.
“Well, Edward?” she said; “tell me.”
“Well, Helena, dear; those people have no heart!”
“They have refused?”
“Yes. They have refused me a ship! They talked of the millions that
had been wasted in search for Franklin, and declared the document was
obscure and unintelligible. And, then, they said it was two years now
since they were cast away, and there was little chance of finding them.
Besides, they would have it that the Indians, who made them prisoners,
would have dragged them into the interior, and it was impossible, they
said, to hunt all through Patagonia for three men--three Scotchmen;
that the search would be vain and perilous, and cost more lives than it
saved. In short, they assigned all the reasons that people invent
who have made up their minds to refuse. The truth is, they remembered
Captain Grant’s projects, and that is the secret of the whole affair. So
the poor fellow is lost for ever.”
“My father! my poor father!” cried Mary Grant, throwing herself on her
knees before Lord Glenarvan, who exclaimed in amazement:
“Your father? What? Is this Miss--”
“Yes, Edward,” said Lady Helena; “this is Miss Mary Grant and
her brother, the two children condemned to orphanage by the cruel
Admiralty!”
“Oh! Miss Grant,” said Lord Glenarvan, raising the young girl, “if I had
known of your presence--”
He said no more, and there was a painful silence in the courtyard,
broken only by sobs. No one spoke, but the very attitude of both
servants and masters spoke their indignation at the conduct of the
English Government.
At last the Major said, addressing Lord Glenarvan: “Then you have no
hope whatever?”
“None,” was the reply.
“Very well, then,” exclaimed little Robert, “I’ll go and speak to
those people myself, and we’ll see if they--” He did not complete his
sentence, for his sister stopped him; but his clenched fists showed his
intentions were the reverse of pacific.
“No, Robert,” said Mary Grant, “we will thank this noble lord and lady
for what they have done for us, and never cease to think of them with
gratitude; and then we’ll both go together.”
“Mary!” said Lady Helena, in a tone of surprise.
“Go where?” asked Lord Glenarvan.
“I am going to throw myself at the Queen’s feet, and we shall see if she
will turn a deaf ear to the prayers of two children, who implore their
father’s life.”
Lord Glenarvan shook his head; not that he doubted the kind heart of her
Majesty, but he knew Mary would never gain access to her. Suppliants but
too rarely reach the steps of a throne; it seems as if royal palaces
had the same inscription on their doors that the English have on their
ships: _Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the wheel_.
Lady Glenarvan understood what was passing in her husband’s mind, and
she felt the young girl’s attempt would be useless, and only plunge the
poor children in deeper despair. Suddenly, a grand, generous purpose
fired her soul, and she called out: “Mary Grant! wait, my child, and
listen to what I’m going to say.”
Mary had just taken her brother by the hand, and turned to go away; but
she stepped back at Lady Helena’s bidding.
The young wife went up to her husband, and said, with tears in her eyes,
though her voice was firm, and her face beamed with animation: “Edward,
when Captain Grant wrote that letter and threw it into the sea,
he committed it to the care of God. God has sent it to us--to us!
Undoubtedly God intends us to undertake the rescue of these poor men.”
“What do you mean, Helena?”
“I mean this, that we ought to think ourselves fortunate if we can begin
our married life with a good action. Well, you know, Edward, that to
please me you planned a pleasure trip; but what could give us such
genuine pleasure, or be so useful, as to save those unfortunate fellows,
cast off by their country?”
“Helena!” exclaimed Lord Glenarvan.
“Yes, Edward, you understand me. The DUNCAN is a good strong ship, she
can venture in the Southern Seas, or go round the world if necessary.
Let us go, Edward; let us start off and search for Captain Grant!”
Lord Glenarvan made no reply to this bold proposition, but smiled, and,
holding out his arms, drew his wife into a close, fond embrace. Mary and
Robert seized her hands, and covered them with kisses; and the servants
who thronged the courtyard, and had been witnesses of this touching
scene, shouted with one voice, “Hurrah for the Lady of Luss. Three
cheers for Lord and Lady Glenarvan!”
CHAPTER V THE DEPARTURE OF THE “DUNCAN”
WE have said already that Lady Helena was a brave, generous woman, and
what she had just done proved it in-disputably. Her husband had good
reason to be proud of such a wife, one who could understand and enter
into all his views. The idea of going to Captain Grant’s rescue had
occurred to him in London when his request was refused, and he would
have anticipated Lady Helena, only he could not bear the thought
of parting from her. But now that she herself proposed to go, all
hesitation was at an end. The servants of the Castle had hailed
the project with loud acclamations--for it was to save their
brothers--Scotchmen, like themselves--and Lord Glenarvan cordially
joined his cheers with theirs, for the Lady of Luss.
The departure once resolved upon, there was not an hour to be lost. A
telegram was dispatched to John Mangles the very same day, conveying
Lord Glenarvan’s orders to take the DUNCAN immediately to Glasgow, and
to make preparations for a voyage to the Southern Seas, and possibly
round the world, for Lady Helena was right in her opinion that the yacht
might safely attempt the circumnavigation of the globe, if necessary.
The DUNCAN was a steam yacht of the finest description. She was 210
tons burden--much larger than any of the first vessels that touched the
shores of the New World, for the largest of the four ships that sailed
with Columbus was only 70 tons. She had two masts and all the sails and
rigging of an ordinary clipper, which would enable her to take advantage
of every favorable wind, though her chief reliance was on her mechanical
power. The engine, which was constructed on a new system, was a
high-pressure one, of 160-horse power, and put in motion a double screw.
This gave the yacht such swiftness that during her trial trip in the
Firth of Clyde, she made seventeen miles an hour, a higher speed than
any vessel had yet attained. No alterations were consequently needed
in the DUNCAN herself; John Mangles had only to attend to her interior
arrangements.
His first care was to enlarge the bunkers to carry as much coal as
possible, for it is difficult to get fresh supplies _en route_. He
had to do the same with the store-rooms, and managed so well that
he succeeded in laying in provisions enough for two years. There was
abundance of money at his command, and enough remained to buy a cannon,
on a pivot carriage, which he mounted on the forecastle. There was no
knowing what might happen, and it is always well to be able to send a
good round bullet flying four miles off.
John Mangles understood his business. Though he was only the captain
of a pleasure yacht, he was one of the best skippers in Glasgow. He
was thirty years of age, and his countenance expressed both courage and
goodness, if the features were somewhat coarse. He had been brought
up at the castle by the Glenarvan family, and had turned out a capital
sailor, having already given proof, in some of his long voyages, of his
skill and energy and _sang-froid_. When Lord Glenarvan offered him the
command of the DUNCAN, he accepted it with right good will, for he loved
the master of Malcolm Castle, like a brother, and had hitherto vainly
sought some opportunity of showing his devotion.
Tom Austin, the mate, was an old sailor, worthy of all confidence. The
crew, consisting of twenty-five men, including the captain and chief
officer, were all from Dumbartonshire, experienced sailors, and all
belonging to the Glenarvan estate; in fact, it was a regular clan, and
they did not forget to carry with them the traditional bagpipes.
Lord Glenarvan had in them a band of trusty fellows, skilled in their
calling, devoted to himself, full of courage, and as practiced in
handling fire-arms as in the maneuvering of a ship; a valiant little
troop, ready to follow him any where, even in the most dangerous
expeditions. When the crew heard whither they were bound, they could not
restrain their enthusiasm, and the rocks of Dumbarton rang again with
their joyous outbursts of cheers.
But while John Mangles made the stowage and provisioning of the yacht
his chief business, he did not forget to fit up the rooms of Lord and
Lady Glenarvan for a long voyage. He had also to get cabins ready for
the children of Captain Grant, as Lady Helena could not refuse Mary’s
request to accompany her.
As for young Robert, he would have smuggled himself in somewhere in the
hold of the DUNCAN rather than be left behind. He would willingly have
gone as cabin-boy, like Nelson. It was impossible to resist a little
fellow like that, and, indeed, no one tried. He would not even go as a
passenger, but must serve in some capacity, as cabin-boy, apprentice or
sailor, he did not care which, so he was put in charge of John Mangles,
to be properly trained for his vocation.
“And I hope he won’t spare me the ‘cat-o-nine-tails’ if I don’t do
properly,” said Robert.
“Rest easy on that score, my boy,” said Lord Glenarvan, gravely; he did
not add, that this mode of punishment was forbidden on board the DUNCAN,
and moreover, was quite unnecessary.
To complete the roll of passengers, we must name Major McNabbs. The
Major was about fifty years of age, with a calm face and regular
features--a man who did whatever he was told, of an excellent, indeed,
a perfect temper; modest, silent, peaceable, and amiable, agreeing with
everybody on every subject, never discussing, never disputing, never
getting angry. He wouldn’t move a step quicker, or slower, whether he
walked upstairs to bed or mounted a breach. Nothing could excite him,
nothing could disturb him, not even a cannon ball, and no doubt he will
die without ever having known even a passing feeling of irritation.
This man was endowed in an eminent degree, not only with ordinary animal
courage, that physical bravery of the battle-field, which is solely
due to muscular energy, but he had what is far nobler--moral courage,
firmness of soul. If he had any fault it was his being so intensely
Scotch from top to toe, a Caledonian of the Caledonians, an obstinate
stickler for all the ancient customs of his country. This was the reason
he would never serve in England, and he gained his rank of Major in the
42nd regiment, the Highland Black Watch, composed entirely of Scotch
noblemen.
As a cousin of Glenarvan, he lived in Malcolm Castle, and as a major he
went as a matter of course with the DUNCAN.
Such, then, was the PERSONNEL of this yacht, so unexpectedly called to
make one of the most wonderful voyages of modern times. From the hour
she reached the steamboat quay at Glasgow, she completely monopolized
the public attention. A considerable crowd visited her every day, and
the DUNCAN was the one topic of interest and conversation, to the great
vexation of the different captains in the port, among others of Captain
Burton, in command of the SCOTIA, a magnificent steamer lying close
beside her, and bound for Calcutta. Considering her size, the SCOTIA
might justly look upon the DUNCAN as a mere fly-boat, and yet this
pleasure yacht of Lord Glenarvan was quite the center of attraction, and
the excitement about her daily increased.
The DUNCAN was to sail out with the tide at three o’clock on the morning
of the 25th of August. But before starting, a touching ceremony was
witnessed by the good people of Glasgow. At eight o’clock the night
before, Lord Glenarvan and his friends, and the entire crew, from
the stokers to the captain, all who were to take part in this
self-sacrificing voyage, left the yacht and repaired to St. Mungo’s, the
ancient cathedral of the city. This venerable edifice, so marvelously
described by Walter Scott, remains intact amid the ruins made by the
Reformation; and it was there, beneath its lofty arches, in the grand
nave, in the presence of an immense crowd, and surrounded by tombs as
thickly set as in a cemetery, that they all assembled to implore the
blessing of Heaven on their expedition, and to put themselves under the
protection of Providence. The Rev. Mr. Morton conducted the service, and
when he had ended and pronounced the benediction, a young girl’s voice
broke the solemn silence that followed. It was Mary Grant who poured
out her heart to God in prayer for her benefactors, while grateful happy
tears streamed down her cheeks, and almost choked her utterance. The
vast assembly dispersed under the influence of deep emotion, and at ten
o’clock the passengers and crew returned on board the vessel.
CHAPTER VI AN UNEXPECTED PASSENGER
THE ladies passed the whole of the first day of the voyage in their
berths, for there was a heavy swell in the sea, and toward evening the
wind blew pretty fresh, and the DUNCAN tossed and pitched considerably.
But the morning after, the wind changed, and the captain ordered the men
to put up the foresail, and brigantine and foretopsail, which greatly
lessened the rolling of the vessel. Lady Helena and Mary Grant were
able to come on deck at daybreak, where they found Lord Glenarvan, Major
McNabbs and the captain.
“And how do you stand the sea, Miss Mary?” said Lord Glenarvan.
“Pretty well, my Lord. I am not very much inconvenienced by it. Besides
I shall get used to it.”
“And our young Robert!”
“Oh, as for Robert,” said the captain, “whenever he is not poking about
down below in the engine-room, he is perched somewhere aloft among the
rigging. A youngster like that laughs at sea-sickness. Why, look at him
this very moment! Do you see him?”
The captain pointed toward the foremast, and sure enough there was
Robert, hanging on the yards of the topgallant mast, a hundred feet
above in the air. Mary involuntarily gave a start, but the captain said:
“Oh, don’t be afraid, Miss Mary; he is all right, take my word for it;
I’ll have a capital sailor to present to Captain Grant before long, for
we’ll find the worthy captain, depend upon it.”
“Heaven grant it, Mr. John,” replied the young girl.
“My dear child,” said Lord Glenarvan, “there is something so
providential in the whole affair, that we have every reason to hope. We
are not going, we are led; we are not searching, we are guided. And
then see all the brave men that have enlisted in the service of the good
cause. We shall not only succeed in our enterprise, but there will be
little difficulty in it. I promised Lady Helena a pleasure trip, and I
am much mistaken if I don’t keep my word.”
“Edward,” said his wife, “you are the best of men.”
“Not at all,” was the reply; “but I have the best of crews and the best
of ships. You don’t admire the DUNCAN, I suppose, Miss Mary?”
“On the contrary, my lord, I do admire her, and I’m a connoisseur in
ships,” returned the young girl.
“Indeed!”
“Yes. I have played all my life on my father’s ships. He should have
made me a sailor, for I dare say, at a push, I could reef a sail or
plait a gasket easily enough.”
“Do you say so, miss?” exclaimed John Mangles.
“If you talk like that you and John will be great friends, for he can’t
think any calling is equal to that of a seaman; he can’t fancy any
other, even for a woman. Isn’t it true, John?”
“Quite so,” said the captain, “and yet, your Lordship, I must confess
that Miss Grant is more in her place on the poop than reefing a topsail.
But for all that, I am quite flattered by her remarks.”
“And especially when she admires the DUNCAN,” replied Glenarvan.
“Well, really,” said Lady Glenarvan, “you are so proud of your yacht
that you make me wish to look all over it; and I should like to go down
and see how our brave men are lodged.”
“Their quarters are first-rate,” replied John, “they are as comfortable
as if they were at home.”
“And they really are at home, my dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan.
“This yacht is a portion of our old Caledonia, a fragment of
Dumbartonshire, making a voyage by special favor, so that in a manner
we are still in our own country. The DUNCAN is Malcolm Castle, and the
ocean is Loch Lomond.”
“Very well, dear Edward, do the honors of the Castle then.”
“At your service, madam; but let me tell Olbinett first.”
The steward of the yacht was an excellent _maitre d’hotel_, and might
have been French for his airs of importance, but for all that he
discharged his functions with zeal and intelligence.
“Olbinett,” said his master, as he appeared in answer to his summons,
“we are going to have a turn before breakfast. I hope we shall find it
ready when we come back.”
He said this just as if it had been a walk to Tarbert or Loch Katrine
they were going, and the steward bowed with perfect gravity in reply.
“Are you coming with us, Major?” asked Lady Helena.
“If you command me,” replied McNabbs.
“Oh!” said Lord Glenarvan; “the Major is absorbed in his cigar; you
mustn’t tear him from it. He is an inveterate smoker, Miss Mary, I can
tell you. He is always smoking, even while he sleeps.”
The Major gave an assenting nod, and Lord Glenarvan and his party went
below.
McNabbs remained alone, talking to himself, as was his habit, and was
soon enveloped in still thicker clouds of smoke. He stood motionless,
watching the track of the yacht. After some minutes of this silent
contemplation he turned round, and suddenly found himself face to face
with a new comer. Certainly, if any thing could have surprised him, this
RENCONTRE would, for he had never seen the stranger in his life before.
He was a tall, thin, withered-looking man, about forty years of age, and
resembled a long nail with a big head. His head was large and massive,
his forehead high, his chin very marked. His eyes were concealed by
enormous round spectacles, and in his look was that peculiar
indecision which is common to nyctalopes, or people who have a peculiar
construction of the eye, which makes the sight imperfect in the day
and better at night. It was evident from his physiognomy that he was
a lively, intelligent man; he had not the crabbed expression of
those grave individuals who never laugh on principle, and cover their
emptiness with a mask of seriousness. He looked far from that. His
careless, good-humored air, and easy, unceremonious manners, showed
plainly that he knew how to take men and things on their bright side.
But though he had not yet opened his mouth, he gave one the impression
of being a great talker, and moreover, one of those absent folks who
neither see though they are looking, nor hear though they are listening.
He wore a traveling cap, and strong, low, yellow boots with leather
gaiters. His pantaloons and jacket were of brown velvet, and their
innumerable pockets were stuffed with note-books, memorandum-books,
account-books, pocket-books, and a thousand other things equally
cumbersome and useless, not to mention a telescope in addition, which he
carried in a shoulder-belt.
The stranger’s excitement was a strong contrast to the Major’s
placidity. He walked round McNabbs, looking at him and questioning
him with his eyes without eliciting one remark from the imperturbable
Scotchman, or awakening his curiosity in the least, to know where he
came from, and where he was going, and how he had got on board the
DUNCAN.
Finding all his efforts baffled by the Major’s indifference, the
mysterious passenger seized his telescope, drew it out to its fullest
extent, about four feet, and began gazing at the horizon, standing
motionless with his legs wide apart. His examination lasted some few
minutes, and then he lowered the glass, set it up on deck, and leaned on
it as if it had been a walking-stick. Of course, his weight shut up
the instrument immediately by pushing the different parts one into
the other, and so suddenly, that he fell full length on deck, and lay
sprawling at the foot of the mainmast.
Any one else but the Major would have smiled, at least, at such a
ludicrous sight; but McNabbs never moved a muscle of his face.
This was too much for the stranger, and he called out, with an
unmistakably foreign accent:
“Steward!”
He waited a minute, but nobody appeared, and he called again, still
louder, “Steward!”
Mr. Olbinett chanced to be passing that minute on his way from the
galley, and what was his astonishment at hearing himself addressed like
this by a lanky individual of whom he had no knowledge whatever.
“Where can he have come from? Who is he?” he thought to himself. “He can
not possibly be one of Lord Glenarvan’s friends?”
However, he went up on the poop, and approached the unknown personage,
who accosted him with the inquiry, “Are you the steward of this vessel?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Olbinett; “but I have not the honor of--”
“I am the passenger in cabin Number 6.”
“Number 6!” repeated the steward.
“Certainly; and your name, what is it?”
“Olbinett.”
“Well, Olbinett, my friend, we must think of breakfast, and that pretty
quickly. It is thirty-six hours since I have had anything to eat, or
rather thirty-six hours that I have been asleep--pardonable enough in a
man who came all the way, without stopping, from Paris to Glasgow. What
is the breakfast hour?”
“Nine o’clock,” replied Olbinett, mechanically.
The stranger tried to pull out his watch to see the time; but it was not
till he had rummaged through the ninth pocket that he found it.
“Ah, well,” he said, “it is only eight o’clock at present. Fetch me
a glass of sherry and a biscuit while I am waiting, for I am actually
falling through sheer inanition.”
Olbinett heard him without understanding what he meant for the voluble
stranger kept on talking incessantly, flying from one subject to
another.
“The captain? Isn’t the captain up yet? And the chief officer? What is
he doing? Is he asleep still? It is fine weather, fortunately, and the
wind is favorable, and the ship goes all alone.”
Just at that moment John Mangles appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Here is the captain!” said Olbinett.
“Ah! delighted, Captain Burton, delighted to make your acquaintance,”
exclaimed the unknown.
John Mangles stood stupefied, as much at seeing the stranger on board as
at hearing himself called “Captain Burton.”
But the new comer went on in the most affable manner.
“Allow me to shake hands with you, sir; and if I did not do so yesterday
evening, it was only because I did not wish to be troublesome when you
were starting. But to-day, captain, it gives me great pleasure to begin
my intercourse with you.”
John Mangles opened his eyes as wide as possible, and stood staring at
Olbinett and the stranger alternately.
But without waiting for a reply, the rattling fellow continued:
“Now the introduction is made, my dear captain, we are old friends.
Let’s have a little talk, and tell me how you like the SCOTIA?”
“What do you mean by the SCOTIA?” put in John Mangles at last.
“By the SCOTIA? Why, the ship we’re on, of course--a good ship that has
been commended to me, not only for its physical qualities, but also for
the moral qualities of its commander, the brave Captain Burton. You will
be some relation of the famous African traveler of that name. A daring
man he was, sir. I offer you my congratulations.”
“Sir,” interrupted John. “I am not only no relation of Burton the great
traveler, but I am not even Captain Burton.”
“Ah, is that so? It is Mr. Burdness, the chief officer, that I am
talking to at present.”
“Mr. Burdness!” repeated John Mangles, beginning to suspect how the
matter stood. Only he asked himself whether the man was mad, or
some heedless rattle pate? He was beginning to explain the case in a
categorical manner, when Lord Glenarvan and his party came up on the
poop. The stranger caught sight of them directly, and exclaimed:
“Ah! the passengers, the passengers! I hope you are going to introduce
me to them, Mr. Burdness!”
But he could not wait for any one’s intervention, and going up to them
with perfect ease and grace, said, bowing to Miss Grant, “Madame;” then
to Lady Helena, with another bow, “Miss;” and to Lord Glenarvan, “Sir.”
Here John Mangles interrupted him, and said, “Lord Glenarvan.”
“My Lord,” continued the unknown, “I beg pardon for presenting myself
to you, but at sea it is well to relax the strict rules of etiquette a
little. I hope we shall soon become acquainted with each other, and that
the company of these ladies will make our voyage in the SCOTIA appear as
short as agreeable.”
Lady Helena and Miss Grant were too astonished to be able to utter a
single word. The presence of this intruder on the poop of the DUNCAN was
perfectly inexplicable.
Lord Glenarvan was more collected, and said, “Sir, to whom have I the
honor of speaking?”
“To Jacques Eliacin Francois Marie Paganel, Secretary of the
Geographical Society of Paris, Corresponding Member of the Societies of
Berlin, Bombay, Darmstadt, Leipsic, London, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and
New York; Honorary Member of the Royal Geographical and Ethnographical
Institute of the East Indies; who, after having spent twenty years
of his life in geographical work in the study, wishes to see active
service, and is on his way to India to gain for the science what
information he can by following up the footsteps of great travelers.”
CHAPTER VII JACQUES PAGANEL IS UNDECEIVED
THE Secretary of the Geographical Society was evidently an amiable
personage, for all this was said in a most charming manner. Lord
Glenarvan knew quite well who he was now, for he had often heard Paganel
spoken of, and was aware of his merits. His geographical works, his
papers on modern discoveries, inserted in the reports of the Society,
and his world-wide correspondence, gave him a most distinguished place
among the LITERATI of France.
Lord Glenarvan could not but welcome such a guest, and shook hands
cordially.
“And now that our introductions are over,” he added, “you will allow me,
Monsieur Paganel, to ask you a question?”
“Twenty, my Lord,” replied Paganel; “it will always be a pleasure to
converse with you.”
“Was it last evening that you came on board this vessel?”
“Yes, my Lord, about 8 o’clock. I jumped into a cab at the Caledonian
Railway, and from the cab into the SCOTIA, where I had booked my cabin
before I left Paris. It was a dark night, and I saw no one on board, so
I found cabin No. 6, and went to my berth immediately, for I had heard
that the best way to prevent sea-sickness is to go to bed as soon as you
start, and not to stir for the first few days; and, moreover, I had
been traveling for thirty hours. So I tucked myself in, and slept
conscientiously, I assure you, for thirty-six hours.”
Paganel’s listeners understood the whole mystery, now, of his presence
on the DUNCAN. The French traveler had mistaken his vessel, and gone on
board while the crew were attending the service at St. Mungo’s. All was
explained. But what would the learned geographer say, when he heard the
name and destination of the ship, in which he had taken passage?
“Then it is Calcutta, M. Paganel, that you have chosen as your point of
departure on your travels?”
“Yes, my Lord, to see India has been a cherished purpose with me all my
life. It will be the realization of my fondest dreams, to find myself in
the country of elephants and Thugs.”
“Then it would be by no means a matter of indifference to you, to visit
another country instead.”
“No, my Lord; indeed it would be very disagreeable, for I have letters
from Lord Somerset, the Governor-General, and also a commission to
execute for the Geographical Society.”
“Ah, you have a commission.”
“Yes, I have to attempt a curious and important journey, the plan of
which has been drawn up by my learned friend and colleague, M. Vivien de
Saint Martin. I am to pursue the track of the Schlaginweit Brothers;
and Colonels Waugh and Webb, and Hodgson; and Huc and Gabet, the
missionaries; and Moorecroft and M. Jules Remy, and so many celebrated
travelers. I mean to try and succeed where Krick, the missionary so
unfortunately failed in 1846; in a word, I want to follow the course
of the river Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou, which waters Thibet for a distance of
1500 kilometres, flowing along the northern base of the Himalayas,
and to find out at last whether this river does not join itself to the
Brahmapoutre in the northeast of As-sam. The gold medal, my Lord, is
promised to the traveler who will succeed in ascertaining a fact which
is one of the greatest DESIDERATA to the geography of India.”
Paganel was magnificent. He spoke with superb animation, soaring away on
the wings of imagination. It would have been as impossible to stop him
as to stop the Rhine at the Falls of Schaffhausen.
“Monsieur Jacques Paganel,” said Lord Glenarvan, after a brief pause,
“that would certainly be a grand achievement, and you would confer a
great boon on science, but I should not like to allow you to be laboring
under a mistake any longer, and I must tell you, therefore, that for the
present at least, you must give up the pleasure of a visit to India.”
“Give it up. And why?”
“Because you are turning your back on the Indian peninsula.”
“What! Captain Burton.”
“I am not Captain Burton,” said John Mangles.
“But the SCOTIA.”
“This vessel is not the SCOTIA.”
It would be impossible to depict the astonishment of Paganel. He stared
first at one and then at another in the utmost bewilderment.
Lord Glenarvan was perfectly grave, and Lady Helena and Mary showed
their sympathy for his vexation by their looks. As for John Mangles,
he could not suppress a smile; but the Major appeared as unconcerned as
usual. At last the poor fellow shrugged his shoulders, pushed down his
spectacles over his nose and said:
“You are joking.”
But just at that very moment his eye fell on the wheel of the ship, and
he saw the two words on it: Duncan.
Glasgow.
“The DUNCAN! the DUNCAN!” he exclaimed, with a cry of despair, and
forthwith rushed down the stairs, and away to his cabin.
As soon as the unfortunate SAVANT had disappeared, every one, except the
Major, broke out into such peals of laughter that the sound reached the
ears of the sailors in the forecastle. To mistake a railway or to take
the train to Edinburgh when you want to go to Dumbarton might happen;
but to mistake a ship and be sailing for Chili when you meant to go to
India--that is a blunder indeed!
“However,” said Lord Glenarvan, “I am not much astonished at it in
Paganel. He is quite famous for such misadventures. One day he published
a celebrated map of America, and put Japan in it! But for all that, he
is distinguished for his learning, and he is one of the best geographers
in France.”
“But what shall we do with the poor gentleman?” said Lady Helena; “we
can’t take him with us to Patagonia.”
“Why not?” replied McNabbs, gravely. “We are not responsible for his
heedless mistakes. Suppose he were in a railway train, would they stop
it for him?”
“No, but he would get out at the first station.”
“Well, that is just what he can do here, too, if he likes; he can
disembark at the first place where we touch.”
While they were talking, Paganel came up again on the poop, looking very
woebegone and crestfallen. He had been making inquiry about his
luggage, to assure himself that it was all on board, and kept repeating
incessantly the unlucky words, “The DUNCAN! the DUNCAN!”
He could find no others in his vocabulary. He paced restlessly up and
down; sometimes stopping to examine the sails, or gaze inquiringly over
the wide ocean, at the far horizon. At length he accosted Lord Glenarvan
once more, and said--
“And this DUNCAN--where is she going?”
“To America, Monsieur Paganel,” was the reply.
“And to what particular part?”
“To Concepcion.”
“To Chili! to Chili!” cried the unfortunate geographer. “And my mission
to India. But what will M. de Quatre-fages, the President of the Central
Commission, say? And M. d’ Avezac? And M. Cortanbert? And M. Vivien de
Saint Martin? How shall I show my face at the SEANCES of the Society?”
“Come, Monsieur Paganel, don’t despair. It can all be managed; you will
only have to put up with a little delay, which is relatively of not
much importance. The Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou will wait for you still in the
mountains of Thibet. We shall soon put in at Madeira, and you will get a
ship there to take you back to Europe.”
“Thanks, my Lord. I suppose I must resign myself to it; but people will
say it is a most extraordinary adventure, and it is only to me such
things happen. And then, too, there is a cabin taken for me on board the
SCOTIA.”
“Oh, as to the SCOTIA, you’ll have to give that up meantime.”
“But the DUNCAN is a pleasure yacht, is it not?” began Paganel again,
after a fresh examination of the vessel.
“Yes, sir,” said John Mangles, “and belongs to Lord Glenarvan.”
“Who begs you will draw freely on his hospitality,” said Lord Glenarvan.
“A thousand thanks, my Lord! I deeply feel your courtesy, but allow me
to make one observation: India is a fine country, and can offer many a
surprising marvel to travelers. These ladies, I suppose, have never seen
it. Well now, the man at the helm has only to give a turn at the wheel,
and the DUNCAN will sail as easily to Calcutta as to Concepcion; and
since it is only a pleasure trip that you are--”
His proposal was met by such grave, disapproving shakes of the head,
that he stopped short before the sentence was completed; and Lady Helena
said:
“Monsieur Paganel, if we were only on a pleasure trip, I should reply,
‘Let us all go to India together,’ and I am sure Lord Glenarvan would
not object; but the DUNCAN is going to bring back shipwrecked mariners
who were cast away on the shores of Patagonia, and we could not alter
such a destination.”
The Frenchman was soon put in possession of all the circumstances of
the case. He was no unmoved auditor, and when he heard of Lady Helena’s
generous proposition, he could not help saying,
“Madame, permit me to express my admiration of your conduct
throughout--my unreserved admiration. Let your yacht continue her
course. I should reproach myself were I to cause a single day’s delay.”
“Will you join us in our search, then?” asked Lady Helena.
“It is impossible, madame. I must fulfill my mission. I shall disembark
at the first place you touch at, wherever it may be.”
“That will be Madeira,” said John Mangles.
“Madeira be it then. I shall only be 180 leagues from Lisbon, and I
shall wait there for some means of transport.”
“Very well, Monsieur Paganel, it shall be as you wish; and, for my own
part, I am very glad to be able to offer you, meantime, a few days’
hospitality. I only hope you will not find our company too dull.”
“Oh, my Lord,” exclaimed Paganel, “I am but too happy to have made
a mistake which has turned out so agreeably. Still, it is a very
ridiculous plight for a man to be in, to find himself sailing to America
when he set out to go to the East Indies!”
But in spite of this melancholy reflection, the Frenchman submitted
gracefully to the compulsory delay. He made himself amiable and merry,
and even diverting, and enchanted the ladies with his good humor. Before
the end of the day he was friends with everybody. At his request, the
famous document was brought out. He studied it carefully and minutely
for a long time, and finally declared his opinion that no other
interpretation of it was possible. Mary Grant and her brother inspired
him with the most lively interest. He gave them great hope; indeed, the
young girl could not help smiling at his sanguine prediction of success,
and this odd way of foreseeing future events. But for his mission he
would have made one of the search party for Captain Grant, undoubtedly.
As for Lady Helena, when he heard that she was a daughter of William
Tuffnell, there was a perfect explosion of admiring epithets. He had
known her father, and what letters had passed between them when William
Tuffnell was a corresponding member of the Society! It was he himself
that had introduced him and M. Malte Brun. What a _rencontre_ this was,
and what a pleasure to travel with the daughter of Tuffnell.
He wound up by asking permission to kiss her, which Lady Helena granted,
though it was, perhaps, a little improper.
CHAPTER VIII THE GEOGRAPHER’S RESOLUTION
MEANTIME the yacht, favored by the currents from the north of Africa,
was making rapid progress toward the equator. On the 30th of August
they sighted the Madeira group of islands, and Glenarvan, true to his
promise, offered to put in there, and land his new guest.
But Paganel said:
“My dear Lord, I won’t stand on ceremony with you. Tell me, did you
intend to stop at Madeira before I came on board?”
“No,” replied Glenarvan.
“Well, then, allow me to profit by my unlucky mistake. Madeira is an
island too well known to be of much interest now to a geographer. Every
thing about this group has been said and written already. Besides, it is
completely going down as far as wine growing is concerned. Just imagine
no vines to speak of being in Madeira! In 1813, 22,000 pipes of wine
were made there, and in 1845 the number fell to 2,669. It is a grievous
spectacle! If it is all the same to you, we might go on to the Canary
Isles instead.”
“Certainly. It will not the least interfere with our route.”
“I know it will not, my dear Lord. In the Canary Islands, you see, there
are three groups to study, besides the Peak of Teneriffe, which I always
wished to visit. This is an opportunity, and I should like to avail
myself of it, and make the ascent of the famous mountain while I am
waiting for a ship to take me back to Europe.”
“As you please, my dear Paganel,” said Lord Glenarvan, though he could
not help smiling; and no wonder, for these islands are scarcely 250
miles from Madeira, a trifling distance for such a quick sailer as the
DUNCAN.
Next day, about 2 P. M., John Mangles and Paganel were walking on
the poop. The Frenchman was assailing his companion with all sorts of
questions about Chili, when all at once the captain interrupted him, and
pointing toward the southern horizon, said:
“Monsieur Paganel?”
“Yes, my dear Captain.”
“Be so good as to look in this direction. Don’t you see anything?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not looking in the right place. It is not on the horizon, but
above it in the clouds.”
“In the clouds? I might well not see.”
“There, there, by the upper end of the bowsprit.”
“I see nothing.”
“Then you don’t want to see. Anyway, though we are forty miles off,
yet I tell you the Peak of Teneriffe is quite visible yonder above the
horizon.”
But whether Paganel could not or would not see it then, two hours later
he was forced to yield to ocular evidence or own himself blind.
“You do see it at last, then,” said John Mangles.
“Yes, yes, distinctly,” replied Paganel, adding in a disdainful tone,
“and that’s what they call the Peak of Teneriffe!”
“That’s the Peak.”
“It doesn’t look much of a height.”
“It is 11,000 feet, though, above the level of the sea.”
“That is not equal to Mont Blanc.”
“Likely enough, but when you come to ascend it, probably you’ll think it
high enough.”
“Oh, ascend it! ascend it, my dear captain! What would be the good after
Humboldt and Bonplan? That Humboldt was a great genius. He made the
ascent of this mountain, and has given a description of it which leaves
nothing unsaid. He tells us that it comprises five different zones--the
zone of the vines, the zone of the laurels, the zone of the pines, the
zone of the Alpine heaths, and, lastly, the zone of sterility. He set
his foot on the very summit, and found that there was not even room
enough to sit down. The view from the summit was very extensive,
stretching over an area equal to Spain. Then he went right down into the
volcano, and examined the extinct crater. What could I do, I should like
you to tell me, after that great man?”
“Well, certainly, there isn’t much left to glean. That is vexing, too,
for you would find it dull work waiting for a vessel in the Peak of
Teneriffe.”
“But, I say, Mangles, my dear fellow, are there no ports in the Cape
Verde Islands that we might touch at?”
“Oh, yes, nothing would be easier than putting you off at Villa Praya.”
“And then I should have one advantage, which is by no means
inconsiderable--I should find fellow-countrymen at Senegal, and that is
not far away from those islands. I am quite aware that the group is said
to be devoid of much interest, and wild, and unhealthy; but everything
is curious in the eyes of a geographer. Seeing is a science. There are
people who do not know how to use their eyes, and who travel about
with as much intelligence as a shell-fish. But that’s not in my line, I
assure you.”
“Please yourself, Monsieur Paganel. I have no doubt geographical science
will be a gainer by your sojourn in the Cape Verde Islands. We must go
in there anyhow for coal, so your disembarkation will not occasion the
least delay.”
The captain gave immediate orders for the yacht to continue her route,
steering to the west of the Canary group, and leaving Teneriffe on her
larboard. She made rapid progress, and passed the Tropic of Cancer on
the second of September at 5 A. M.
The weather now began to change, and the atmosphere became damp and
heavy. It was the rainy season, “_le tempo das aguas_,” as the Spanish
call it, a trying season to travelers, but useful to the inhabitants of
the African Islands, who lack trees and consequently water. The rough
weather prevented the passengers from going on deck, but did not make
the conversation any less animated in the saloon.
On the 3d of September Paganel began to collect his luggage to go on
shore. The DUNCAN was already steaming among the Islands. She passed
Sal, a complete tomb of sand lying barren and desolate, and went on
among the vast coral reefs and athwart the Isle of St. Jacques, with
its long chain of basaltic mountains, till she entered the port of
Villa Praya and anchored in eight fathoms of water before the town. The
weather was frightful, and the surf excessively violent, though the bay
was sheltered from the sea winds. The rain fell in such torrents that
the town was scarcely visible through it. It rose on a plain in the form
of a terrace, buttressed on volcanic rocks three hundred feet high. The
appearance of the island through the thick veil of rain was mournful in
the extreme.
Lady Helena could not go on shore as she had purposed; indeed, even
coaling was a difficult business, and the passengers had to content
themselves below the poop as best they might. Naturally enough, the main
topic of conversation was the weather. Everybody had something to say
about it except the Major, who surveyed the universal deluge with the
utmost indifference. Paganel walked up and down shaking his head.
“It is clear enough, Paganel,” said Lord Glenarvan, “that the elements
are against you.”
“I’ll be even with them for all that,” replied the Frenchman.
“You could not face rain like that, Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena.
“Oh, quite well, madam, as far as I myself am concerned. It is for my
luggage and instruments that I am afraid. Everything will be ruined.”
“The disembarking is the worst part of the business. Once at Villa Praya
you might manage to find pretty good quarters. They wouldn’t be over
clean, and you might find the monkeys and pigs not always the most
agreeable companions. But travelers are not too particular, and,
moreover, in seven or eight months you would get a ship, I dare say, to
take you back to Europe.”
“Seven or eight months!” exclaimed Paganel.
“At least. The Cape Verde Islands are not much frequented by ships
during the rainy season. But you can employ your time usefully. This
archipelago is still but little known.”
“You can go up the large rivers,” suggested Lady Helena.
“There are none, madam.”
“Well, then, the small ones.”
“There are none, madam.”
“The running brooks, then.”
“There are no brooks, either.”
“You can console yourself with the forests if that’s the case,” put in
the Major.
“You can’t make forests without trees, and there are no trees.”
“A charming country!” said the Major.
“Comfort yourself, my dear Paganel, you’ll have the mountains at any
rate,” said Glenarvan.
“Oh, they are neither lofty nor interesting, my Lord, and, beside, they
have been described already.”
“Already!” said Lord Glenarvan.
“Yes, that is always my luck. At the Canary Islands, I saw myself
anticipated by Humboldt, and here by M. Charles Sainte-Claire Deville, a
geologist.”
“Impossible!”
“It is too true,” replied Paganel, in a doleful voice. “Monsieur Deville
was on board the government corvette, La Decidee, when she touched at
the Cape Verde Islands, and he explored the most interesting of the
group, and went to the top of the volcano in Isle Fogo. What is left for
me to do after him?”
“It is really a great pity,” said Helena. “What will become of you,
Monsieur Paganel?”
Paganel remained silent.
“You would certainly have done much better to have landed at Madeira,
even though there had been no wine,” said Glenarvan.
Still the learned secretary was silent.
“I should wait,” said the Major, just as if he had said, “I should not
wait.”
Paganel spoke again at length, and said:
“My dear Glenarvan, where do you mean to touch next?”
“At Concepcion.”
“Plague it! That is a long way out of the road to India.”
“Not it! From the moment you pass Cape Horn, you are getting nearer to
it.”
“I doubt it much.”
“Beside,” resumed Lord Glenarvan, with perfect gravity, “when people are
going to the Indies it doesn’t matter much whether it is to the East or
West.”
“What! it does not matter much?”
“Without taking into account the fact that the inhabitants of the Pampas
in Patagonia are as much Indians as the natives of the Punjaub.”
“Well done, my Lord. That’s a reason that would never have entered my
head!”
“And then, my dear Paganel, you can gain the gold medal anyway. There is
as much to be done, and sought, and investigated, and discovered in the
Cordilleras as in the mountains of Thibet.”
“But the course of the Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou--what about that?”
“Go up the Rio Colorado instead. It is a river but little known, and
its course on the map is marked out too much according to the fancy of
geographers.”
“I know it is, my dear Lord; they have made grave mistakes. Oh, I
make no question that the Geographical Society would have sent me
to Patagonia as soon as to India, if I had sent in a request to that
effect. But I never thought of it.”
“Just like you.”
“Come, Monsieur Paganel, will you go with us?” asked Lady Helena, in her
most winning tone.
“Madam, my mission?”
“We shall pass through the Straits of Magellan, I must tell you,” said
Lord Glenarvan.
“My Lord, you are a tempter.”
“Let me add, that we shall visit Port Famine.”
“Port Famine!” exclaimed the Frenchman, besieged on all sides. “That
famous port in French annals!”
“Think, too, Monsieur Paganel, that by taking part in our enterprise,
you will be linking France with Scotland.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“A geographer would be of much use to our expedition, and what can be
nobler than to bring science to the service of humanity?”
“That’s well said, madam.”
“Take my advice, then, and yield to chance, or rather providence. Follow
our example. It was providence that sent us the document, and we set
out in consequence. The same providence brought you on board the DUNCAN.
Don’t leave her.”
“Shall I say yes, my good friends? Come, now, tell me, you want me very
much to stay, don’t you?” said Paganel.
“And you’re dying to stay, now, aren’t you, Paganel?” returned
Glenarvan.
“That’s about it,” confessed the learned geographer; “but I was afraid
it would be inconsiderate.”
CHAPTER IX THROUGH THE STRAITS OF MAGELLAN
THE joy on board was universal when Paganel’s resolution was made known.
Little Robert flung himself on his neck in such tumultuous delight
that he nearly threw the worthy secretary down, and made him say, “Rude
_petit bonhomme_. I’ll teach him geography.”
Robert bade fair to be an accomplished gentleman some day, for John
Mangles was to make a sailor of him, and the Major was to teach him
_sang-froid_, and Glenarvan and Lady Helena were to instil into him
courage and goodness and generosity, while Mary was to inspire him with
gratitude toward such instructors.
The DUNCAN soon finished taking in coal, and turned her back on the
dismal region. She fell in before long with the current from the coast
of Brazil, and on the 7th of September entered the Southern hemisphere.
So far, then, the voyage had been made without difficulty. Everybody was
full of hope, for in this search for Captain Grant, each day seemed to
increase the probability of finding him. The captain was among the most
confident on board, but his confidence mainly arose from the longing
desire he had to see Miss Mary happy. He was smitten with quite a
peculiar interest for this young girl, and managed to conceal his
sentiments so well that everyone on board saw it except himself and Mary
Grant.
As for the learned geographer, he was probably the happiest man in all
the southern hemisphere. He spent the whole day in studying maps,
which were spread out on the saloon table, to the great annoyance of M.
Olbinett, who could never get the cloth laid for meals, without disputes
on the subject. But all the passengers took his part except the Major,
who was perfectly indifferent about geographical questions, especially
at dinner-time. Paganel also came across a regular cargo of old books
in the chief officer’s chest. They were in a very damaged condition, but
among them he raked out a few Spanish volumes, and determined forthwith
to set to work to master the language of Cervantes, as no one on board
understood it, and it would be helpful in their search along the Chilian
coast. Thanks to his taste for languages, he did not despair of being
able to speak the language fluently when they arrived at Concepcion.
He studied it furiously, and kept constantly muttering heterogeneous
syllables.
He spent his leisure hours in teaching young Robert, and instructed him
in the history of the country they were so rapidly approaching.
On the 25th of September, the yacht arrived off the Straits of Magellan,
and entered them without delay. This route is generally preferred by
steamers on their way to the Pacific Ocean. The exact length of the
straits is 372 miles. Ships of the largest tonnage find, throughout,
sufficient depth of water, even close to the shore, and there is a good
bottom everywhere, and abundance of fresh water, and rivers abounding in
fish, and forests in game, and plenty of safe and accessible harbors;
in fact a thousand things which are lacking in Strait Lemaire and Cape
Horn, with its terrible rocks, incessantly visited by hurricane and
tempest.
For the first three or four hours--that is to say, for about sixty to
eighty miles, as far as Cape Gregory--the coast on either side was low
and sandy. Jacques Paganel would not lose a single point of view, nor a
single detail of the straits. It would scarcely take thirty-six hours to
go through them, and the moving panorama on both sides, seen in all the
clearness and glory of the light of a southern sun, was well worth the
trouble of looking at and admiring. On the Terra del Fuego side, a few
wretched-looking creatures were wandering about on the rocks, but on the
other side not a solitary inhabitant was visible.
Paganel was so vexed at not being able to catch a glimpse of any
Patagonians, that his companions were quite amused at him. He would
insist that Patagonia without Patagonians was not Patagonia at all.
But Glenarvan replied:
“Patience, my worthy geographer. We shall see the Patagonians yet.”
“I am not sure of it.”
“But there is such a people, anyhow,” said Lady Helena.
“I doubt it much, madam, since I don’t see them.”
“But surely the very name Patagonia, which means ‘great feet’ in
Spanish, would not have been given to imaginary beings.” “Oh, the
name is nothing,” said Paganel, who was arguing simply for the sake of
arguing. “And besides, to speak the truth, we are not sure if that is
their name.”
“What an idea!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “Did you know that, Major?”
“No,” replied McNabbs, “and wouldn’t give a Scotch pound-note for the
information.”
“You shall hear it, however, Major Indifferent. Though Magellan called
the natives Patagonians, the Fuegians called them Tiremenen, the
Chilians Caucalhues, the colonists of Carmen Tehuelches, the Araucans
Huiliches; Bougainville gives them the name of Chauha, and Falkner that
of Tehuelhets. The name they give themselves is Inaken. Now, tell me
then, how would you recognize them? Indeed, is it likely that a people
with so many names has any actual existence?”
“That’s a queer argument, certainly,” said Lady Helena.
“Well, let us admit it,” said her husband, “but our friend Paganel must
own that even if there are doubts about the name of the race there is
none about their size.”
“Indeed, I will never own anything so outrageous as that,” replied
Paganel.
“They are tall,” said Glenarvan.
“I don’t know that.”
“Are they little, then?” asked Lady Helena.
“No one can affirm that they are.”
“About the average, then?” said McNabbs.
“I don’t know that either.”
“That’s going a little too far,” said Glenarvan. “Travelers who have
seen them tell us.”
“Travelers who have seen them,” interrupted Paganel, “don’t agree at all
in their accounts. Magellan said that his head scarcely reached to their
waist.”
“Well, then, that proves.”
“Yes, but Drake declares that the English are taller than the tallest
Patagonian?”
“Oh, the English--that may be,” replied the Major, disdainfully, “but we
are talking of the Scotch.”
“Cavendish assures us that they are tall and robust,” continued Paganel.
“Hawkins makes out they are giants. Lemaire and Shouten declare that
they are eleven feet high.”
“These are all credible witnesses,” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, quite as much as Wood, Narborough, and Falkner, who say they are
of medium stature. Again, Byron, Giraudais, Bougainville, Wallis, and
Carteret, declared that the Patagonians are six feet six inches tall.”
“But what is the truth, then, among all these contradictions?” asked
Lady Helena.
“Just this, madame; the Patagonians have short legs, and a large bust;
or by way of a joke we might say that these natives are six feet high
when they are sitting, and only five when they are standing.”
“Bravo! my dear geographer,” said Glenarvan. “That is very well put.”
“Unless the race has no existence, that would reconcile all statements,”
returned Paganel. “But here is one consolation, at all events: the
Straits of Magellan are very magnificent, even without Patagonians.”
Just at this moment the DUNCAN was rounding the peninsula of Brunswick
between splendid panoramas.
Seventy miles after doubling Cape Gregory, she left on her starboard
the penitentiary of Punta Arena. The church steeple and the Chilian flag
gleamed for an instant among the trees, and then the strait wound on
between huge granitic masses which had an imposing effect. Cloud-capped
mountains appeared, their heads white with eternal snows, and their feet
hid in immense forests. Toward the southwest, Mount Tarn rose 6,500
feet high. Night came on after a long lingering twilight, the light
insensibly melting away into soft shades. These brilliant constellations
began to bestud the sky, and the Southern Cross shone out. There were
numerous bays along the shore, easy of access, but the yacht did not
drop anchor in any; she continued her course fearlessly through the
luminous darkness. Presently ruins came in sight, crumbling buildings,
which the night invested with grandeur, the sad remains of a deserted
settlement, whose name will be an eternal protest against these fertile
shores and forests full of game. The DUNCAN was passing Fort Famine.
It was in that very spot that Sarmiento, a Spaniard, came in 1581, with
four hundred emigrants, to establish a colony. He founded the city
of St. Philip, but the extreme severity of winter decimated the
inhabitants, and those who had struggled through the cold died
subsequently of starvation. Cavendish the Corsair discovered the last
survivor dying of hunger in the ruins.
After sailing along these deserted shores, the DUNCAN went through a
series of narrow passes, between forests of beech and ash and birch, and
at length doubled Cape Froward, still bristling with the ice of the last
winter. On the other side of the strait, in Terra del Fuego, stood Mount
Sarmiento, towering to a height of 6,000 feet, an enormous accumulation
of rocks, separated by bands of cloud, forming a sort of aerial
archipelago in the sky.
It is at Cape Froward that the American continent actually terminates,
for Cape Horn is nothing but a rock sunk in the sea in latitude 52
degrees. At Cape Momax the straits widened, and she was able to get
round Narborough Isles and advance in a more southerly direction, till
at length the rock of Cape Pilares, the extreme point of Desolation
Island, came in sight, thirty-six hours after entering the straits.
Before her stem lay a broad, open, sparkling ocean, which Jacques
Paganel greeted with enthusiastic gestures, feeling kindred emotions
with those which stirred the bosom of Ferdinand de Magellan himself,
when the sails of his ship, the TRINIDAD, first bent before the breeze
from the great Pacific.
CHAPTER X THE COURSE DECIDED
A WEEK after they had doubled the Cape Pilares, the DUNCAN steamed into
the bay of Talcahuano, a magnificent estuary, twelve miles long and
nine broad. The weather was splendid. From November to March the sky is
always cloudless, and a constant south wind prevails, as the coast
is sheltered by the mountain range of the Andes. In obedience to Lord
Glenarvan’s order, John Mangles had sailed as near the archipelago of
Chiloe as possible, and examined all the creeks and windings of the
coast, hoping to discover some traces of the shipwreck. A broken spar,
or any fragment of the vessel, would have put them in the right track;
but nothing whatever was visible, and the yacht continued her route,
till she dropped anchor at the port of Talcahuano, forty-two days from
the time she had sailed out of the fogs of the Clyde.
Glenarvan had a boat lowered immediately, and went on shore, accompanied
by Paganel. The learned geographer gladly availed himself of the
opportunity of making use of the language he had been studying so
conscientiously, but to his great amazement, found he could not make
himself understood by the people. “It is the accent I’ve not got,” he
said.
“Let us go to the Custom-house,” replied Glenarvan.
They were informed on arriving there, by means of a few English
words, aided by expressive gestures, that the British Consul lived at
Concepcion, an hour’s ride distant. Glenarvan found no difficulty in
procuring two fleet horses, and he and Paganel were soon within the
walls of the great city, due to the enterprising genius of Valdivia, the
valiant comrade of the Pizarros.
How it was shorn of its ancient splendor! Often pillaged by the
natives, burned in 1819, it lay in desolation and ruins, its walls
still blackened by the flames, scarcely numbering 8,000 inhabitants, and
already eclipsed by Talcahuano. The grass was growing in the streets,
beneath the lazy feet of the citizens, and all trade and business,
indeed any description of activity, was impossible. The notes of the
mandolin resounded from every balcony, and languishing songs floated
on the breeze. Concepcion, the ancient city of brave men, had become a
village of women and children. Lord Glenarvan felt no great desire to
inquire into the causes of this decay, though Paganel tried to draw him
into a discussion on the subject. He would not delay an instant, but
went straight on to the house of Mr. Bentic, her Majesty’s Consul, who
received them very courteously, and, on learning their errand, undertook
to make inquiries all along the coast.
But to the question whether a three-mast vessel, called the BRITANNIA,
had gone ashore either on the Chilian or Araucanian coast, he gave a
decided negative. No report of such an event had been made to him, or
any of the other consuls. Glenarvan, however, would not allow himself
to be disheartened; he went back to Talcahuano, and spared neither pains
nor expense to make a thorough investigation of the whole seaboard. But
it was all in vain. The most minute inquiries were fruitless, and Lord
Glenarvan returned to the yacht to report his ill success. Mary Grant
and her brother could not restrain their grief. Lady Helena did her best
to comfort them by loving caresses, while Jacques Paganel took up the
document and began studying it again. He had been poring over it for
more than an hour when Glenarvan interrupted him and said:
“Paganel! I appeal to your sagacity. Have we made an erroneous
interpretation of the document? Is there anything illogical about the
meaning?”
Paganel was silent, absorbed in reflection.
“Have we mistaken the place where the catastrophe occurred?” continued
Glenarvan. “Does not the name Patagonia seem apparent even to the least
clear-sighted individual?”
Paganel was still silent.
“Besides,” said Glenarvan, “does not the word INDIEN prove we are
right?”
“Perfectly so,” replied McNabbs.
“And is it not evident, then, that at the moment of writing the words,
the shipwrecked men were expecting to be made prisoners by the Indians?”
“I take exception to that, my Lord,” said Paganel; “and even if your
other conclusions are right, this, at least, seemed to me irrational.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lady Helena, while all eyes were fixed on the
geographer.
“I mean this,” replied Paganel, “that Captain Grant is _now a prisoner
among the Indians_, and I further add that the document states it
unmistakably.”
“Explain yourself, sir,” said Mary Grant.
“Nothing is plainer, dear Mary. Instead of reading the document _seront
prisonniers_, read _sont prisonniers_, and the whole thing is clear.”
“But that is impossible,” replied Lord Glenarvan.
“Impossible! and why, my noble friend?” asked Paganel, smiling.
“Because the bottle could only have been thrown into the sea just when
the vessel went to pieces on the rocks, and consequently the latitude
and longitude given refer to the actual place of the shipwreck.”
“There is no proof of that,” replied Paganel, “and I see nothing to
preclude the supposition that the poor fellows were dragged into the
interior by the Indians, and sought to make known the place of their
captivity by means of this bottle.”
“Except this fact, my dear Paganel, that there was no sea, and therefore
they could not have flung the bottle into it.”
“Unless they flung it into rivers which ran into the sea,” returned
Paganel.
This reply was so unexpected, and yet so admissible, that it made them
all completely silent for a minute, though their beaming eyes betrayed
the rekindling of hope in their hearts. Lady Helena was the first to
speak.
“What an idea!” she exclaimed.
“And what a good idea,” was Paganel’s naive rejoinder to her
exclamation.
“What would you advise, then?” said Glenarvan.
“My advice is to follow the 37th parallel from the point where it
touches the American continent to where it dips into the Atlantic,
without deviating from it half a degree, and possibly in some part of
its course we shall fall in with the shipwrecked party.”
“There is a poor chance of that,” said the Major.
“Poor as it is,” returned Paganel, “we ought not to lose it. If I am
right in my conjecture, that the bottle has been carried into the sea
on the bosom of some river, we cannot fail to find the track of the
prisoners. You can easily convince yourselves of this by looking at this
map of the country.”
He unrolled a map of Chili and the Argentine provinces as he spoke, and
spread it out on the table.
“Just follow me for a moment,” he said, “across the American continent.
Let us make a stride across the narrow strip of Chili, and over the
Cordilleras of the Andes, and get into the heart of the Pampas. Shall we
find any lack of rivers and streams and currents? No, for here are the
Rio Negro and Rio Colorado, and their tributaries intersected by the
37th parallel, and any of them might have carried the bottle on its
waters. Then, perhaps, in the midst of a tribe in some Indian settlement
on the shores of these almost unknown rivers, those whom I may call my
friends await some providential intervention. Ought we to disappoint
their hopes? Do you not all agree with me that it is our duty to go
along the line my finger is pointing out at this moment on the map, and
if after all we find I have been mistaken, still to keep straight on and
follow the 37th parallel till we find those we seek, if even we go right
round the world?”
His generous enthusiasm so touched his auditors that, involuntarily,
they rose to their feet and grasped his hands, while Robert exclaimed as
he devoured the map with his eyes:
“Yes, my father is there!”
“And where he is,” replied Glenarvan, “we’ll manage to go, my boy, and
find him. Nothing can be more logical than Paganel’s theory, and we must
follow the course he points out without the least hesitation. Captain
Grant may have fallen into the hands of a numerous tribe, or his captors
may be but a handful. In the latter case we shall carry him off at
once, but in the event of the former, after we have reconnoitered the
situation, we must go back to the DUNCAN on the eastern coast and get to
Buenos Ayres, where we can soon organize a detachment of men, with Major
McNabbs at their head, strong enough to tackle all the Indians in the
Argentine provinces.”
“That’s capital, my Lord,” said John Mangles, “and I may add, that there
is no danger whatever crossing the continent.”
“Monsieur Paganel,” asked Lady Helena, “you have no fear then that if
the poor fellows have fallen into the hands of the Indians their lives
at least have been spared.”
“What a question? Why, madam, the Indians are not anthropophagi! Far
from it. One of my own countrymen, M. Guinnard, associated with me in
the Geographical Society, was three years a prisoner among the Indians
in the Pampas. He had to endure sufferings and ill-treatment, but came
off victorious at last. A European is a useful being in these countries.
The Indians know his value, and take care of him as if he were some
costly animal.”
“There is not the least room then for hesitation,” said Lord Glenarvan.
“Go we must, and as soon as possible. What route must we take?”
“One that is both easy and agreeable,” replied Paganel. “Rather
mountainous at first, and then sloping gently down the eastern side of
the Andes into a smooth plain, turfed and graveled quite like a garden.”
“Let us see the map?” said the Major.
“Here it is, my dear McNabbs. We shall go through the capital of
Araucania, and cut the Cordilleras by the pass of Antuco, leaving the
volcano on the south, and gliding gently down the mountain sides, past
the Neuquem and the Rio Colorado on to the Pampas, till we reach the
Sierra Tapalquen, from whence we shall see the frontier of the province
of Buenos Ayres. These we shall pass by, and cross over the Sierra
Tandil, pursuing our search to the very shores of the Atlantic, as far
as Point Medano.”
Paganel went through this programme of the expedition without so much
as a glance at the map. He was so posted up in the travels of Frezier,
Molina, Humboldt, Miers, and Orbigny, that he had the geographical
nomenclature at his fingers’ ends, and could trust implicitly to his
never-failing memory.
“You see then, friend,” he added, “that it is a straight course. In
thirty days we shall have gone over it, and gained the eastern side
before the DUNCAN, however little she may be delayed by the westerly
winds.”
“Then the DUNCAN is to cruise between Corrientes and Cape Saint
Antonie,” said John Mangles.
“Just so.”
“And how is the expedition to be organized?” asked Glenarvan.
“As simply as possible. All there is to be done is to reconnoiter the
situation of Captain Grant and not to come to gunshot with the Indians.
I think that Lord Glenarvan, our natural leader; the Major, who would
not yield his place to anybody; and your humble servant, Jacques
Paganel.”
“And me,” interrupted Robert.
“Robert, Robert!” exclaimed Mary.
“And why not?” returned Paganel. “Travels form the youthful mind. Yes,
Robert, we four and three of the sailors.”
“And does your Lordship mean to pass me by?” said John Mangles,
addressing his master.
“My dear John,” replied Glenarvan, “we leave passengers on board, those
dearer to us than life, and who is to watch over them but the devoted
captain?”
“Then we can’t accompany you?” said Lady Helena, while a shade of
sadness beclouded her eyes.
“My dear Helena, the journey will so soon be accomplished that it will
be but a brief separation, and--”
“Yes, dear, I understand, it is all right; and I do hope you may
succeed.”
“Besides, you can hardly call it a journey,” added Paganel.
“What is it, then?”
“It is just making a flying passage across the continent, the way a
good man goes through the world, doing all the good he can. _Transire
beneficiendo_--that is our motto.”
This ended the discussion, if a conversation can be so called, where all
who take part in it are of the same opinion. Preparations commenced the
same day, but as secretly as possible to prevent the Indians getting
scent of it.
The day of departure was fixed for the 14th of October. The sailors were
all so eager to join the expedition that Glenarvan found the only way
to prevent jealousy among them was to draw lots who should go. This was
accordingly done, and fortune favored the chief officer, Tom Austin,
Wilson, a strong, jovial young fellow, and Mulrady, so good a boxer that
he might have entered the lists with Tom Sayers himself.
Glenarvan displayed the greatest activity about the preparations, for he
was anxious to be ready by the appointed day. John Mangles was equally
busy in coaling the vessel, that she might weigh anchor at the same
time. There was quite a rivalry between Glenarvan and the young captain
about getting first to the Argentine coast.
Both were ready on the 14th. The whole search party assembled in the
saloon to bid farewell to those who remained behind. The DUNCAN was just
about to get under way, and already the vibration of the screw began to
agitate the limpid waters of Talcahuano, Glenarvan, Paganel, McNabbs,
Robert Grant, Tom Austin, Wilson, and Mulrady, stood armed with carbines
and Colt’s revolvers. Guides and mules awaited them at the landing
stairs of the harbor.
“It is time,” said Lord Glenarvan at last.
“Go then, dear Edward,” said Lady Helena, restraining her emotion.
Lord Glenarvan clasped her closely to his breast for an instant, and
then turned away, while Robert flung his arms round Mary’s neck.
“And now, friends,” said Paganel, “let’s have one good hearty shake
of the hand all round, to last us till we get to the shores of the
Atlantic.”
This was not much to ask, but he certainly got strong enough grips to go
some way towards satisfying his desire.
All went on deck now, and the seven explorers left the vessel. They were
soon on the quay, and as the yacht turned round to pursue her course,
she came so near where they stood, that Lady Helena could exchange
farewells once more.
“God help you!” she called out.
“Heaven will help us, madam,” shouted Paganel, in reply, “for you may be
sure we’ll help ourselves.”
“Go on,” sung out the captain to his engineer.
At the same moment Lord Glenarvan gave the signal to start, and away
went the mules along the coast, while the DUNCAN steamed out at full
speed toward the broad ocean.
CHAPTER XI TRAVELING IN CHILI
THE native troops organized by Lord Glenarvan consisted of three men and
a boy. The captain of the muleteers was an Englishman, who had become
naturalized through twenty years’ residence in the country. He made a
livelihood by letting out mules to travelers, and leading them over the
difficult passes of the Cordilleras, after which he gave them in charge
of a BAQUEANO, or Argentine guide, to whom the route through the Pampas
was perfectly familiar. This Englishman had not so far forgotten his
mother tongue among mules and Indians that he could not converse with
his countrymen, and a lucky thing it was for them, as Lord Glenarvan
found it far easier to give orders than to see them executed, Paganel
was still unsuccessful in making himself understood.
The CATAPEZ, as he was called in Chilian, had two natives called PEONS,
and a boy about twelve years of age under him. The PEONS took care of
the baggage mules, and the boy led the MADRINA, a young mare adorned
with rattle and bells, which walked in front, followed by ten mules. The
travelers rode seven of these, and the CATAPEZ another. The remaining
two carried provisions and a few bales of goods, intended to secure the
goodwill of the Caciques of the plain. The PEONS walked, according to
their usual habit.
Every arrangement had been made to insure safety and speed, for crossing
the Andes is something more than an ordinary journey. It could not
be accomplished without the help of the hardy mules of the far-famed
Argentine breed. Those reared in the country are much superior to their
progenitors. They are not particular about their food, and only drink
once a day, and they can go with ease ten leagues in eight hours.
There are no inns along this road from one ocean to another. The only
viands on which travelers can regale themselves are dried meat, rice
seasoned with pimento, and such game as may be shot _en route_. The
torrents provide them with water in the mountains, and the rivulets in
the plains, which they improve by the addition of a few drops of rum,
and each man carries a supply of this in a bullock’s horn, called
CHIFFLE. They have to be careful, however, not to indulge too freely in
alcoholic drinks, as the climate itself has a peculiarly exhilarating
effect on the nervous system. As for bedding, it is all contained in
the saddle used by the natives, called RECADO. This saddle is made of
sheepskins, tanned on one side and woolly on the other, fastened by
gorgeous embroidered straps. Wrapped in these warm coverings a traveler
may sleep soundly, and brave exposure to the damp nights.
Glenarvan, an experienced traveler, who knew how to adapt himself to the
customs of other countries, adopted the Chilian costume for himself
and his whole party. Paganel and Robert, both alike children, though of
different growth, were wild with delight as they inserted their heads in
the national PONCHO, an immense plaid with a hole in center, and their
legs in high leather boots. The mules were richly caparisoned, with
the Arab bit in their mouths, and long reins of plaited leather, which
served as a whip; the headstall of the bridle was decorated with
metal ornaments, and the ALFORJAS, double sacks of gay colored linen,
containing the day’s provisions. Paganel, DISTRAIT as usual, was flung
several times before he succeeded in bestriding his good steed, but once
in the saddle, his inseparable telescope on his shoulder-belt, he held
on well enough, keeping his feet fast in the stirrups, and trusting
entirely to the sagacity of his beast. As for Robert, his first attempt
at mounting was successful, and proved that he had the making in him of
an excellent horseman.
The weather was splendid when they started, the sky a deep cloudless
blue, and yet the atmosphere so tempered by the sea breezes as to
prevent any feeling of oppressive heat. They marched rapidly along the
winding shore of the bay of Talcahuano, in order to gain the extremity
of the parallel, thirty miles south. No one spoke much the first day,
for the smoke of the DUNCAN was still visible on the horizon, and the
pain of parting too keenly felt. Paganel talked to himself in Spanish,
asking and answering questions.
The CATAPEZ, moreover, was a taciturn man naturally, and had not been
rendered loquacious by his calling. He hardly spoke to his PEONS. They
understood their duties perfectly. If one of the mules stopped, they
urged it on with a guttural cry, and if that proved unavailing, a
good-sized pebble, thrown with unerring aim, soon cured the animal’s
obstinacy. If a strap got loose, or a rein fell, a PEON came forward
instantly, and throwing off his poncho, flung it over his beast’s head
till the accident was repaired and the march resumed.
The custom of the muleteers is to start immediately after breakfast,
about eight o’clock, and not to stop till they camp for the night, about
4 P. M. Glenarvan fell in with the practice, and the first halt was just
as they arrived at Arauco, situated at the very extremity of the bay.
To find the extremity of the 37th degree of latitude, they would have
required to proceed as far as the Bay of Carnero, twenty miles further.
But the agents of Glenarvan had already scoured that part of the
coast, and to repeat the exploration would have been useless. It was,
therefore, decided that Arauco should be the point of departure, and
they should keep on from there toward the east in a straight line.
Since the weather was so favorable, and the whole party, even Robert,
were in perfect health, and altogether the journey had commenced under
such favorable auspices, it was deemed advisable to push forward as
quickly as possible. Accordingly, the next day they marched 35 miles or
more, and encamped at nightfall on the banks of Rio Biobio. The country
still presented the same fertile aspect, and abounded in flowers, but
animals of any sort only came in sight occasionally, and there were no
birds visible, except a solitary heron or owl, and a thrush or grebe,
flying from the falcon. Human beings there were none, not a native
appeared; not even one of the GUASSOS, the degenerate offspring of
Indians and Spaniards, dashed across the plain like a shadow, his
flying steed dripping with blood from the cruel thrusts inflicted by the
gigantic spurs of his master’s naked feet. It was absolutely impossible
to make inquiries when there was no one to address, and Lord Glenarvan
came to the conclusion that Captain Grant must have been dragged right
over the Andes into the Pampas, and that it would be useless to search
for him elsewhere. The only thing to be done was to wait patiently and
press forward with all the speed in their power.
On the 17th they set out in the usual line of march, a line which it was
hard work for Robert to keep, his ardor constantly compelled him to get
ahead of the MADRINA, to the great despair of his mule. Nothing but a
sharp recall from Glenarvan kept the boy in proper order.
The country now became more diversified, and the rising ground indicated
their approach to a mountainous district. Rivers were more numerous, and
came rushing noisily down the slopes. Paganel consulted his maps, and
when he found any of those streams not marked, which often happened, all
the fire of a geographer burned in his veins, and he would exclaim, with
a charming air of vexation:
“A river which hasn’t a name is like having no civil standing. It has no
existence in the eye of geographical law.”
He christened them forthwith, without the least hesitation, and marked
them down on the map, qualifying them with the most high-sounding
adjectives he could find in the Spanish language.
“What a language!” he said. “How full and sonorous it is! It is like
the metal church bells are made of--composed of seventy-eight parts of
copper and twenty-two of tin.”
“But, I say, do you make any progress in it?” asked Glenarvan.
“Most certainly, my dear Lord. Ah, if it wasn’t the accent, that
wretched accent!”
And for want of better work, Paganel whiled away the time along the
road by practising the difficulties in pronunciation, repeating all the
break-jaw words he could, though still making geographical observations.
Any question about the country that Glenarvan might ask the CATAPEZ was
sure to be answered by the learned Frenchman before he could reply, to
the great astonishment of the guide, who gazed at him in bewilderment.
About two o’clock that same day they came to a cross road, and naturally
enough Glenarvan inquired the name of it.
“It is the route from Yumbel to Los Angeles,” said Paganel.
Glenarvan looked at the CATAPEZ, who replied:
“Quite right.”
And then, turning toward the geographer, he added:
“You have traveled in these parts before, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” said Paganel, quite gravely.
“On a mule?”
“No, in an easy chair.”
The CATAPEZ could not make him out, but shrugged his shoulders and
resumed his post at the head of the party.
At five in the evening they stopped in a gorge of no great depth, some
miles above the little town of Loja, and encamped for the night at the
foot of the Sierras, the first steppes of the great Cordilleras.
CHAPTER XII ELEVEN THOUSAND FEET ALOFT
NOTHING of importance had occurred hitherto in the passage through
Chili; but all the obstacles and difficulties incident to a mountain
journey were about to crowd on the travelers now.
One important question had first to be settled. Which pass would take
them over the Andes, and yet not be out of their fixed route?
On questioning the CATAPEZ on the subject, he replied:
“There are only two practicable passes that I know of in this part of
the Cordilleras.”
“The pass of Arica is one undoubtedly discovered by Valdivia Mendoze,”
said Paganel.
“Just so.”
“And that of Villarica is the other.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, my good fellow, both these passes have only one fault; they take
us too far out of our route, either north or south.”
“Have you no other to propose?” asked the Major.
“Certainly,” replied Paganel. “There is the pass of Antuco, on the slope
of the volcano, in latitude, 37 degrees 30’ , or, in other words, only
half a degree out of our way.”
“That would do, but are you acquainted with this pass of Antuco,
CATAPEZ?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, your Lordship, I have been through it, but I did not mention
it, as no one goes that way but the Indian shepherds with the herds of
cattle.”
“Oh, very well; if mares and sheep and oxen can go that way, we can, so
let’s start at once.”
The signal for departure was given immediately, and they struck into the
heart of the valley of Las Lejas, between great masses of chalk crystal.
From this point the pass began to be difficult, and even dangerous. The
angles of the declivities widened and the ledges narrowed, and frightful
precipices met their gaze. The mules went cautiously along, keeping
their heads near the ground, as if scenting the track. They marched
in file. Sometimes at a sudden bend of the road, the MADRINA would
disappear, and the little caravan had to guide themselves by the distant
tinkle of her bell. Often some capricious winding would bring the column
in two parallel lines, and the CATAPEZ could speak to his PEONS across
a crevasse not two fathoms wide, though two hundred deep, which made
between them an inseparable gulf.
Glenarvan followed his guide step by step. He saw that his perplexity
was increasing as the way became more difficult, but did not dare to
interrogate him, rightly enough, perhaps, thinking that both mules and
muleteers were very much governed by instinct, and it was best to trust
to them.
For about an hour longer the CATAPEZ kept wandering about almost at
haphazard, though always getting higher up the mountains. At last he was
obliged to stop short. They were in a narrow valley, one of those gorges
called by the Indians “quebrads,” and on reaching the end, a wall of
porphyry rose perpendicularly before them, and barred further passage.
The CATAPEZ, after vain attempts at finding an opening, dismounted,
crossed his arms, and waited. Glenarvan went up to him and asked if he
had lost his way.
“No, your Lordship,” was the reply.
“But you are not in the pass of Antuco.”
“We are.”
“You are sure you are not mistaken?”
“I am not mistaken. See! there are the remains of a fire left by the
Indians, and there are the marks of the mares and the sheep.”
“They must have gone on then.”
“Yes, but no more will go; the last earthquake has made the route
impassable.”
“To mules,” said the Major, “but not to men.”
“Ah, that’s your concern; I have done all I could. My mules and myself
are at your service to try the other passes of the Cordilleras.”
“And that would delay us?”
“Three days at least.”
Glenarvan listened silently. He saw the CATAPEZ was right. His mules
could not go farther. When he talked of returning, however, Glenarvan
appealed to his companions and said:
“Will you go on in spite of all the difficulty?”
“We will follow your Lordship,” replied Tom Austin.
“And even precede you,” added Paganel. “What is it after all? We have
only to cross the top of the mountain chain, and once over, nothing can
be easier of descent than the slopes we shall find there. When we get
below, we shall find BAQUEANOS, Argentine shepherds, who will guide
us through the Pampas, and swift horses accustomed to gallop over
the plains. Let’s go forward then, I say, and without a moment’s
hesitation.”
“Forward!” they all exclaimed. “You will not go with us, then?” said
Glenarvan to the CATAPEZ.
“I am the muleteer,” was the reply.
“As you please,” said Glenarvan.
“We can do without him,” said Paganel. “On the other side we shall get
back into the road to Antuco, and I’m quite sure I’ll lead you to the
foot of the mountain as straight as the best guide in the Cordilleras.”
Accordingly, Glenarvan settled accounts with the CATAPEZ, and bade
farewell to him and his PEONS and mules. The arms and instruments, and a
small stock of provisions were divided among the seven travelers, and it
was unanimously agreed that the ascent should recommence at once, and,
if necessary, should continue part of the night. There was a very steep
winding path on the left, which the mules never would have attempted.
It was toilsome work, but after two hours’ exertion, and a great deal of
roundabout climbing, the little party found themselves once more in the
pass of Antuco.
They were not far now from the highest peak of the Cordilleras, but
there was not the slightest trace of any beaten path. The entire region
had been overturned by recent shocks of earthquake, and all they
could do was to keep on climbing higher and higher. Paganel was rather
disconcerted at finding no way out to the other side of the chain, and
laid his account with having to undergo great fatigue before the topmost
peaks of the Andes could be reached, for their mean height is between
eleven and twelve thousand six hundred feet. Fortunately the weather was
calm and the sky clear, in addition to the season being favorable,
but in Winter, from May to October, such an ascent would have been
impracticable. The intense cold quickly kills travelers, and those who
even manage to hold out against it fall victims to the violence of the
TEMPORALES, a sort of hurricane peculiar to those regions, which yearly
fills the abysses of the Cordilleras with dead bodies.
They went on toiling steadily upward all night, hoisting themselves up
to almost inaccessible plateaux, and leaping over broad, deep crevasses.
They had no ropes, but arms linked in arms supplied the lack, and
shoulders served for ladders. The strength of Mulrady and the dexterity
of Wilson were taxed heavily now. These two brave Scots multiplied
themselves, so to speak. Many a time, but for their devotion and courage
the small band could not have gone on. Glenarvan never lost sight of
young Robert, for his age and vivacity made him imprudent. Paganel was a
true Frenchman in his impetuous ardor, and hurried furiously along. The
Major, on the contrary, only went as quick as was necessary, neither
more nor less, climbing without the least apparent exertion. Perhaps he
hardly knew, indeed, that he was climbing at all, or perhaps he fancied
he was descending.
The whole aspect of the region had now completely changed. Huge blocks
of glittering ice, of a bluish tint on some of the declivities, stood up
on all sides, reflecting the early light of morn. The ascent became very
perilous. They were obliged to reconnoiter carefully before making a
single step, on account of the crevasses. Wilson took the lead, and
tried the ground with his feet. His companions followed exactly in his
footprints, lowering their voices to a whisper, as the least sound would
disturb the currents of air, and might cause the fall of the masses of
snow suspended in the air seven or eight hundred feet above their heads.
They had come now to the region of shrubs and bushes, which, higher
still, gave place to grasses and cacti. At 11,000 feet all trace of
vegetation had disappeared. They had only stopped once, to rest and
snatch a hurried meal to recruit their strength. With superhuman
courage, the ascent was then resumed amid increasing dangers and
difficulties. They were forced to bestride sharp peaks and leap over
chasms so deep that they did not dare to look down them. In many places
wooden crosses marked the scene of some great catastrophes.
About two o’clock they came to an immense barren plain, without a sign
of vegetation. The air was dry and the sky unclouded blue. At this
elevation rain is unknown, and vapors only condense into snow or hail.
Here and there peaks of porphyry or basalt pierced through the white
winding-sheet like the bones of a skeleton; and at intervals fragments
of quartz or gneiss, loosened by the action of the air, fell down with
a faint, dull sound, which in a denser atmosphere would have been almost
imperceptible.
However, in spite of their courage, the strength of the little band was
giving way. Glenarvan regretted they had gone so far into the interior
of the mountain when he saw how exhausted his men had become. Young
Robert held out manfully, but he could not go much farther.
At three o’clock Glenarvan stopped and said:
“We must rest.”
He knew if he did not himself propose it, no one else would.
“Rest?” rejoined Paganel; “we have no place of shelter.”
“It is absolutely necessary, however, if it were only for Robert.”
“No, no,” said the courageous lad; “I can still walk; don’t stop.”
“You shall be carried, my boy; but we must get to the other side of the
Cordilleras, cost what it may. There we may perhaps find some hut to
cover us. All I ask is a two hours’ longer march.”
“Are you all of the same opinion?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” was the unanimous reply: and Mulrady added, “I’ll carry the boy.”
The march eastward was forthwith resumed. They had a frightful height to
climb yet to gain the topmost peaks. The rarefaction of the atmosphere
produced that painful oppression known by the name of PUNA. Drops of
blood stood on the gums and lips, and respiration became hurried and
difficult. However strong the will of these brave men might be, the
time came at last when their physical powers failed, and vertigo,
that terrible malady in the mountains, destroyed not only their bodily
strength but their moral energy. Falls became frequent, and those who
fell could not rise again, but dragged themselves along on their knees.
But just as exhaustion was about to make short work of any further
ascent, and Glenarvan’s heart began to sink as he thought of the snow
lying far as the eye could reach, and of the intense cold, and saw the
shadow of night fast overspreading the desolate peaks, and knew they had
not a roof to shelter them, suddenly the Major stopped and said, in a
calm voice, “A hut!”
CHAPTER XIII A SUDDEN DESCENT
ANYONE else but McNabbs might have passed the hut a hundred times, and
gone all round it, and even over it without suspecting its existence. It
was covered with snow, and scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding
rocks; but Wilson and Mulrady succeeded in digging it out and clearing
the opening after half an hour’s hard work, to the great joy of the
whole party, who eagerly took possession of it.
They found it was a CASUCHA, constructed by the Indians, made of ADOBES,
a species of bricks baked in the sun. Its form was that of a cube, 12
feet on each side, and it stood on a block of basalt. A stone stair
led up to the door, the only opening; and narrow as this door was, the
hurricane, and snow, and hail found their way in when the TEMPORALES
were unchained in the mountains.
Ten people could easily find room in it, and though the walls might be
none too water-tight in the rainy season, at this time of the year, at
any rate, it was sufficient protection against the intense cold, which,
according to the thermometer, was ten degrees below zero. Besides, there
was a sort of fireplace in it, with a chimney of bricks, badly enough
put together, certainly, but still it allowed of a fire being lighted.
“This will shelter us, at any rate,” said Glenarvan, “even if it is
not very comfortable. Providence has led us to it, and we can only be
thankful.”
“Why, it is a perfect palace, I call it,” said Paganel; “we only want
flunkeys and courtiers. We shall do capital here.”
“Especially when there is a good fire blazing on the hearth, for we are
quite as cold as we are hungry. For my part, I would rather see a good
faggot just now than a slice of venison.”
“Well, Tom, we’ll try and get some combustible or other,” said Paganel.
“Combustibles on the top of the Cordilleras!” exclaimed Mulrady, in a
dubious tone.
“Since there is a chimney in the CASUCHA,” said the Major, “the
probability is that we shall find something to burn in it.”
“Our friend McNabbs is right,” said Glenarvan. “Get everything in
readiness for supper, and I’ll go out and turn woodcutter.”
“Wilson and I will go with you,” said Paganel.
“Do you want me?” asked Robert, getting up.
“No, my brave boy, rest yourself. You’ll be a man, when others are only
children at your age,” replied Glenarvan.
On reaching the little mound of porphyry, Glenarvan and his two
companions left the CASUCHA. In spite of the perfect calmness of the
atmosphere, the cold was stinging. Paganel consulted his barometer, and
found that the depression of the mercury corresponded to an elevation
of 11,000 feet, only 910 meters lower than Mont Blanc. But if these
mountains had presented the difficulties of the giant of the Swiss Alps,
not one of the travelers could have crossed the great chain of the New
World.
On reaching a little mound of porphyry, Glenarvan and Paganel stopped to
gaze about them and scan the horizon on all sides. They were now on the
summit of the Nevadas of the Cordilleras, and could see over an area of
forty miles. The valley of the Colorado was already sunk in shadow, and
night was fast drawing her mantle over the eastern slopes of the Andes.
The western side was illumined by the rays of the setting sun, and peaks
and glaciers flashed back his golden beams with dazzling radiance.
On the south the view was magnificent. Across the wild valley of the
Torbido, about two miles distant, rose the volcano of Antuco. The
mountain roared like some enormous monster, and vomited red smoke,
mingled with torrents of sooty flame. The surrounding peaks appeared on
fire. Showers of red-hot stones, clouds of reddish vapor and rockets
of lava, all combined, presented the appearance of glowing sparkling
streams. The splendor of the spectacle increased every instant as night
deepened, and the whole sky became lighted up with a dazzling reflection
of the blazing crater, while the sun, gradually becoming shorn of his
sunset glories, disappeared like a star lost in the distant darkness of
the horizon.
Paganel and Glenarvan would have remained long enough gazing at the
sublime struggle between the fires of earth and heaven, if the more
practical Wilson had not reminded them of the business on hand. There
was no wood to be found, however, but fortunately the rocks were
covered with a poor, dry species of lichen. Of this they made an ample
provision, as well as of a plant called LLARETTA, the root of which
burns tolerably well. This precious combustible was carried back to the
CASUCHA and heaped up on the hearth. It was a difficult matter to kindle
it, though, and still more to keep it alight. The air was so rarefied
that there was scarcely oxygen enough in it to support combustion. At
least, this was the reason assigned by the Major.
“By way of compensation, however,” he added, “water will boil at less
than 100 degrees heat. It will come to the point of ebullition before 99
degrees.”
McNabbs was right, as the thermometer proved, for it was plunged into
the kettle when the water boiled, and the mercury only rose to 99
degrees. Coffee was soon ready, and eagerly gulped down by everybody.
The dry meat certainly seemed poor fare, and Paganel couldn’t help
saying:
“I tell you what, some grilled llama wouldn’t be bad with this, would
it? They say that the llama is substitute for the ox and the sheep, and
I should like to know if it is, in an alimentary respect.”
“What!” replied the Major. “You’re not content with your supper, most
learned Paganel.”
“Enchanted with it, my brave Major; still I must confess I should not
say no to a dish of llama.”
“You are a Sybarite.”
“I plead guilty to the charge. But come, now, though you call me that,
you wouldn’t sulk at a beefsteak yourself, would you?”
“Probably not.”
“And if you were asked to lie in wait for a llama, notwithstanding the
cold and the darkness, you would do it without the least hesitation?”
“Of course; and if it will give you the slightest pleasure--”
His companions had hardly time to thank him for his obliging good
nature, when distant and prolonged howls broke on their ear, plainly not
proceeding from one or two solitary animals, but from a whole troop, and
one, moreover, that was rapidly approaching.
Providence had sent them a supper, as well as led them to a hut. This
was the geographer’s conclusion; but Glenarvan damped his joy somewhat
by remarking that the quadrupeds of the Cordilleras are never met with
in such a high latitude.
“Then where can these animals come from?” asked Tom Austin. “Don’t you
hear them getting nearer!”
“An avalanche,” suggested Mulrady.
“Impossible,” returned Paganel. “That is regular howling.”
“Let us go out and see,” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, and be ready for hunting,” replied McNabbs, arming himself with
his carbine.
They all rushed forthwith out of the CASUCHA. Night had completely set
in, dark and starry. The moon, now in her last quarter, had not yet
risen. The peaks on the north and east had disappeared from view, and
nothing was visible save the fantastic SILHOUETTE of some towering rocks
here and there. The howls, and clearly the howls of terrified animals,
were redoubled. They proceeded from that part of the Cordilleras which
lay in darkness. What could be going on there? Suddenly a furious
avalanche came down, an avalanche of living animals mad with fear. The
whole plateau seemed to tremble. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands,
of these animals, and in spite of the rarefied atmosphere, their noise
was deafening. Were they wild beasts from the Pampas, or herds of llamas
and vicunas? Glenarvan, McNabbs, Robert, Austin, and the two sailors,
had just time to throw themselves flat on the ground before they swept
past like a whirlwind, only a few paces distant. Paganel, who had
remained standing, to take advantage of his peculiar powers of sight,
was knocked down in a twinkling. At the same moment the report of
firearms was heard. The Major had fired, and it seemed to him that an
animal had fallen close by, and that the whole herd, yelling louder than
ever, had rushed down and disappeared among the declivities lighted up
by the reflection of the volcano.
“Ah, I’ve got them,” said a voice, the voice of Paganel.
“Got what?” asked Glenarvan.
“My spectacles,” was the reply. “One might expect to lose that much in
such a tumult as this.”
“You are not wounded, I hope?”
“No, only knocked down; but by what?”
“By this,” replied the Major, holding up the animal he had killed.
They all hastened eagerly into the hut, to examine McNabbs’ prize by the
light of the fire.
It was a pretty creature, like a small camel without a hump. The head
was small and the body flattened, the legs were long and slender, the
skin fine, and the hair the color of _cafe au lait_.
Paganel had scarcely looked at it before he exclaimed, “A guanaco!”
“What sort of an animal is that?” asked Glenarvan.
“One you can eat.”
“And it is good savory meat, I assure you; a dish of Olympus! I knew we
should have fresh meat for supper, and such meat! But who is going to
cut up the beast?”
“I will,” said Wilson.
“Well, I’ll undertake to cook it,” said Paganel.
“Can you cook, then, Monsieur Paganel?” asked Robert.
“I should think so, my boy. I’m a Frenchman, and in every Frenchman
there is a cook.”
Five minutes afterward Paganel began to grill large slices of venison on
the embers made by the use of the LLARETTAS, and in about ten minutes
a dish was ready, which he served up to his companions by the tempting
name of guanaco cutlets. No one stood on ceremony, but fell to with a
hearty good will.
To the absolute stupefaction of the geographer, however, the first
mouthful was greeted with a general grimace, and such exclamations
as--“Tough!” “It is horrible.” “It is not eatable.”
The poor SAVANT was obliged to own that his cutlets could not be
relished, even by hungry men. They began to banter him about his
“Olympian dish,” and indulge in jokes at his expense; but all he cared
about was to find out how it happened that the flesh of the guanaco,
which was certainly good and eatable food, had turned out so badly in
his hands. At last light broke in on him, and he called out:
“I see through it now! Yes, I see through it. I have found out the
secret now.”
“The meat was too long kept, was it?” asked McNabbs, quietly.
“No, but the meat had walked too much. How could I have forgotten that?”
“What do you mean?” asked Tom Austin.
“I mean this: the guanaco is only good for eating when it is killed in
a state of rest. If it has been long hunted, and gone over much ground
before it is captured, it is no longer eatable. I can affirm the fact
by the mere taste, that this animal has come a great distance, and
consequently the whole herd has.”
“You are certain of this?” asked Glenarvan.
“Absolutely certain.”
“But what could have frightened the creatures so, and driven them from
their haunts, when they ought to have been quietly sleeping?”
“That’s a question, my dear Glenarvan, I could not possibly answer. Take
my advice, and let us go to sleep without troubling our heads about it.
I say, Major, shall we go to sleep?”
“Yes, we’ll go to sleep, Paganel.”
Each one, thereupon, wrapped himself up in his poncho, and the fire was
made up for the night.
Loud snores in every tune and key soon resounded from all sides of the
hut, the deep bass contribution of Paganel completing the harmony.
But Glenarvan could not sleep. Secret uneasiness kept him in a continual
state of wakefulness. His thoughts reverted involuntarily to those
frightened animals flying in one common direction, impelled by one
common terror. They could not be pursued by wild beasts, for at such an
elevation there were almost none to be met with, and of hunters still
fewer. What terror then could have driven them among the precipices of
the Andes? Glenarvan felt a presentiment of approaching danger.
But gradually he fell into a half-drowsy state, and his apprehensions
were lulled. Hope took the place of fear. He saw himself on the morrow
on the plains of the Andes, where the search would actually commence,
and perhaps success was close at hand. He thought of Captain Grant and
his two sailors, and their deliverance from cruel bondage. As these
visions passed rapidly through his mind, every now and then he was
roused by the crackling of the fire, or sparks flying out, or some
little jet of flame would suddenly flare up and illumine the faces of
his slumbering companions.
Then his presentiments returned in greater strength than before, and he
listened anxiously to the sounds outside the hut.
At certain intervals he fancied he could hear rumbling noises in the
distance, dull and threatening like the mutter-ings of thunder before a
storm. There surely must be a storm raging down below at the foot of the
mountains. He got up and went out to see.
The moon was rising. The atmosphere was pure and calm. Not a cloud
visible either above or below. Here and there was a passing reflection
from the flames of Antuco, but neither storm nor lightning, and myriads
of bright stars studded the zenith. Still the rumbling noises continued.
They seemed to meet together and cross the chain of the Andes. Glenarvan
returned to the CASUCHA more uneasy than ever, questioning within
himself as to the connection between these sounds and the flight of the
guanacos. He looked at his watch and found the time was about two in the
morning. As he had no certainty, however, of any immediate danger,
he did not wake his companions, who were sleeping soundly after their
fatigue, and after a little dozed off himself, and slumbered heavily for
some hours.
All of a sudden a violent crash made him start to his feet. A deafening
noise fell on his ear like the roar of artillery. He felt the ground
giving way beneath him, and the CASUCHA rocked to and fro, and opened.
He shouted to his companions, but they were already awake, and tumbling
pell-mell over each other. They were being rapidly dragged down a steep
declivity. Day dawned and revealed a terrible scene. The form of the
mountains changed in an instant. Cones were cut off. Tottering peaks
disappeared as if some trap had opened at their base. Owing to a
peculiar phenomenon of the Cordilleras, an enormous mass, many miles in
extent, had been displaced entirely, and was speeding down toward the
plain.
“An earthquake!” exclaimed Paganel. He was not mistaken. It was one
of those cataclysms frequent in Chili, and in this very region where
Copiapo had been twice destroyed, and Santiago four times laid in
ruins in fourteen years. This region of the globe is so underlaid with
volcanic fires and the volcanoes of recent origin are such insufficient
safety valves for the subterranean vapors, that shocks are of frequent
occurrence, and are called by the people TREMBLORES.
The plateau to which the seven men were clinging, holding on by tufts
of lichen, and giddy and terrified in the extreme, was rushing down the
declivity with the swiftness of an express, at the rate of fifty miles
an hour. Not a cry was possible, nor an attempt to get off or stop. They
could not even have heard themselves speak. The internal rumblings, the
crash of the avalanches, the fall of masses of granite and basalt, and
the whirlwind of pulverized snow, made all communication impossible.
Sometimes they went perfectly smoothly along without jolts or jerks, and
sometimes on the contrary, the plateau would reel and roll like a ship
in a storm, coasting past abysses in which fragments of the mountain
were falling, tearing up trees by the roots, and leveling, as if with
the keen edge of an immense scythe, every projection of the declivity.
How long this indescribable descent would last, no one could calculate,
nor what it would end in ultimately. None of the party knew whether the
rest were still alive, whether one or another were not already lying
in the depths of some abyss. Almost breathless with the swift motion,
frozen with the cold air, which pierced them through, and blinded with
the whirling snow, they gasped for breath, and became exhausted and
nearly inanimate, only retaining their hold of the rocks by a powerful
instinct of self-preservation. Suddenly a tremendous shock pitched them
right off, and sent them rolling to the very foot of the mountain. The
plateau had stopped.
For some minutes no one stirred. At last one of the party picked himself
up, and stood on his feet, stunned by the shock, but still firm on his
legs. This was the Major. He shook off the blinding snow and looked
around him. His companions lay in a close circle like the shots from a
gun that has just been discharged, piled one on top of another.
The Major counted them. All were there except one--that one was Robert
Grant.
CHAPTER XIV PROVIDENTIALLY RESCUED
THE eastern side of the Cordilleras of the Andes consists of a
succession of lengthened declivities, which slope down almost insensibly
to the plain. The soil is carpeted with rich herbage, and adorned with
magnificent trees, among which, in great numbers, were apple-trees,
planted at the time of the conquest, and golden with fruit. There were
literally, perfect forests of these. This district was, in fact, just a
corner of fertile Normandy.
The sudden transition from a desert to an oasis, from snowy peaks
to verdant plains, from Winter to Summer, can not fail to strike the
traveler’s eye.
The ground, moreover, had recovered its immobility. The trembling had
ceased, though there was little doubt the forces below the surface were
carrying on their devastating work further on, for shocks of earthquake
are always occurring in some part or other of the Andes. This time the
shock had been one of extreme violence. The outline of the mountains was
wholly altered, and the Pampas guides would have sought vainly for the
accustomed landmarks.
A magnificent day had dawned. The sun was just rising from his ocean
bed, and his bright rays streamed already over the Argentine plains, and
ran across to the Atlantic. It was about eight o’clock.
Lord Glenarvan and his companions were gradually restored to animation
by the Major’s efforts. They had been completely stunned, but had
sustained no injury whatever. The descent of the Cordilleras was
accomplished; and as Dame Nature had conveyed them at her own expense,
they could only have praised her method of locomotion if one of their
number, and that one the feeblest and youngest, the child of the party,
had not been missing at the roll call.
The brave boy was beloved by everybody. Paganel was particularly
attached to him, and so was the Major, with all his apparent coldness.
As for Glenarvan, he was in absolute despair when he heard of his
disappearance, and pictured to himself the child lying in some deep
abyss, wildly crying for succor.
“We must go and look for him, and look till we find him,” he exclaimed,
almost unable to keep back his tears. “We cannot leave him to his
fate. Every valley and precipice and abyss must be searched through and
through. I will have a rope fastened round my waist, and go down myself.
I insist upon it; you understand; I insist upon it. Heaven grant Robert
may be still alive! If we lose the boy, how could we ever dare to meet
the father? What right have we to save the captain at the cost of his
son’s life?”
Glenarvan’s companions heard him in silence. He sought to read hope in
their eyes, but they did not venture to meet his gaze.
At last he said,
“Well, you hear what I say, but you make no response. Do you mean to
tell me that you have no hope--not the slightest?”
Again there was silence, till McNabbs asked:
“Which of you can recollect when Robert disappeared?”
No one could say.
“Well, then,” resumed the Major, “you know this at any rate. Who was the
child beside during our descent of the Cordilleras?”
“Beside me,” replied Wilson.
“Very well. Up to what moment did you see him beside you? Try if you can
remember.”
“All that I can recollect is that Robert Grant was still by my side,
holding fast by a tuft of lichen, less than two minutes before the shock
which finished our descent.”
“Less than two minutes? Mind what you are saying; I dare say a minute
seemed a very long time to you. Are you sure you are not making a
mistake?”
“I don’t think I am. No; it was just about two minutes, as I tell you.”
“Very well, then; and was Robert on your right or left?”
“On my left. I remember that his poncho brushed past my face.”
“And with regard to us, how were you placed?”
“On the left also.”
“Then Robert must have disappeared on this side,” said the Major,
turning toward the mountain and pointing toward the right: “and I should
judge,” he added, “considering the time that has elapsed, that the spot
where he fell is about two miles up. Between that height and the ground
is where we must search, dividing the different zones among us, and it
is there we shall find him.”
Not another word was spoken. The six men commenced their explorations,
keeping constantly to the line they had made in their descent, examining
closely every fissure, and going into the very depths of the abysses,
choked up though they partly were with fragments of the plateau; and
more than one came out again with garments torn to rags, and feet and
hands bleeding. For many long hours these brave fellows continued their
search without dreaming of taking rest. But all in vain. The child had
not only met his death on the mountain, but found a grave which some
enormous rock had sealed forever.
About one o’clock, Glenarvan and his companions met again in the valley.
Glenarvan was completely crushed with grief. He scarcely spoke. The only
words that escaped his lips amid his sighs were,
“I shall not go away! I shall not go away!”
No one of the party but could enter into his feeling, and respect it.
“Let us wait,” said Paganel to the Major and Tom Austin. “We will take
a little rest, and recruit our strength. We need it anyway, either to
prolong our search or continue our route.”
“Yes; and, as Edward wishes it, we will rest. He has still hope, but
what is it he hopes?”
“Who knows!” said Tom Austin.
“Poor Robert!” replied Paganel, brushing away a tear.
The valley was thickly wooded, and the Major had no difficulty in
finding a suitable place of encampment. He chose a clump of tall carob
trees, under which they arranged their few belongings--few indeed, for
all they had were sundry wraps and fire-arms, and a little dried meat
and rice. Not far off there was a RIO, which supplied them with
water, though it was still somewhat muddy after the disturbance of the
avalanche. Mulrady soon had a fire lighted on the grass, and a warm
refreshing beverage to offer his master. But Glenarvan refused to touch
it, and lay stretched on his poncho in a state of absolute prostration.
So the day passed, and night came on, calm and peaceful as the preceding
had been. While his companions were lying motionless, though wide awake,
Glenarvan betook himself once more to the slopes of the Cordilleras,
listening intently in hope that some cry for help would fall upon his
ear. He ventured far up in spite of his being alone, straining his ear
with painful eagerness to catch the faintest sound, and calling aloud in
an agony of despair.
But he heard nothing save the beatings of his own heart, though he
wandered all night on the mountain. Sometimes the Major followed him,
and sometimes Paganel, ready to lend a helping hand among the slippery
peaks and dangerous precipices among which he was dragged by his rash
and useless imprudence. All his efforts were in vain, however, and to
his repeated cries of “Robert, Robert!” echo was the only response.
Day dawned, and it now became a matter of necessity to go and bring
back the poor Lord from the distant plateau, even against his will. His
despair was terrible. Who could dare to speak of quitting this fatal
valley? Yet provisions were done, and Argentine guides and horses
were not far off to lead them to the Pampas. To go back would be more
difficult than to go forward. Besides, the Atlantic Ocean was the
appointed meeting place with the DUNCAN. These were strong reasons
against any long delay; indeed it was best for all parties to continue
the route as soon as possible.
McNabbs undertook the task of rousing Lord Glenarvan from his grief.
For a long time his cousin seemed not to hear him. At last he shook his
head, and said, almost in-audibly:
“Did you say we must start?”
“Yes, we must start.”
“Wait one hour longer.”
“Yes, we’ll wait another,” replied the Major.
The hour slipped away, and again Glenarvan begged for longer grace. To
hear his imploring tones, one might have thought him a criminal begging
a respite. So the day passed on till it was almost noon. McNabbs
hesitated now no longer, but, acting on the advice of the rest, told
his cousin that start they must, for all their lives depended on prompt
action.
“Yes, yes!” replied Glenarvan. “Let us start, let us start!”
But he spoke without looking at McNabbs. His gaze was fixed intently on
a certain dark speck in the heavens. Suddenly he exclaimed, extending
his arm, and keeping it motionless, as if petrified:
“There! there! Look! look!”
All eyes turned immediately in the direction indicated so imperiously.
The dark speck was increasing visibly. It was evidently some bird
hovering above them.
“A condor,” said Paganel.
“Yes, a condor,” replied Glenarvan. “Who knows? He is coming down--he
is gradually getting lower! Let us wait.”
Paganel was not mistaken, it was assuredly a condor. This magnificent
bird is the king of the Southern Andes, and was formerly worshiped by
the Incas. It attains an extraordinary development in those regions. Its
strength is prodigious. It has frequently driven oxen over the edge of
precipices down into the depths of abysses. It seizes sheep, and kids,
and young calves, browsing on the plains, and carries them off to
inaccessible heights. It hovers in the air far beyond the utmost limits
of human sight, and its powers of vision are so great that it can
discern the smallest objects on the earth beneath.
What had this condor discovered then? Could it be the corpse of Robert
Grant? “Who knows?” repeated Glenarvan, keeping his eye immovably fixed
on the bird. The enormous creature was fast approaching, sometimes
hovering for awhile with outspread wings, and sometimes falling with the
swiftness of inert bodies in space. Presently he began to wheel round
in wide circles. They could see him distinctly. He measured more than
fifteen feet, and his powerful wings bore him along with scarcely the
slightest effort, for it is the prerogative of large birds to fly with
calm majesty, while insects have to beat their wings a thousand times a
second.
The Major and Wilson had seized their carbines, but Glenarvan stopped
them by a gesture. The condor was encircling in his flight a sort
of inaccessible plateau about a quarter of a mile up the side of the
mountain. He wheeled round and round with dazzling rapidity, opening and
shutting his formidable claws, and shaking his cartilaginous carbuncle,
or comb.
“It is there, there!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
A sudden thought flashed across his mind, and with a terrible cry,
he called out, “Fire! fire! Oh, suppose Robert were still alive! That
bird.”
But it was too late. The condor had dropped out of sight behind the
crags. Only a second passed, a second that seemed an age, and the
enormous bird reappeared, carrying a heavy load and flying at a slow
rate.
A cry of horror rose on all sides. It was a human body the condor had in
his claws, dangling in the air, and apparently lifeless--it was Robert
Grant. The bird had seized him by his clothes, and had him hanging
already at least one hundred and fifty feet in the air. He had
caught sight of the travelers, and was flapping his wings violently,
endeavoring to escape with his heavy prey.
“Oh! would that Robert were dashed to pieces against the rocks, rather
than be a--”
He did not finish his sentence, but seizing Wilson’s carbine, took aim
at the condor. His arm was too trembling, however, to keep the weapon
steady.
“Let me do it,” said the Major. And with a calm eye, and sure hands and
motionless body, he aimed at the bird, now three hundred feet above him
in the air.
But before he had pulled the trigger the report of a gun resounded from
the bottom of the valley. A white smoke rose from between two masses
of basalt, and the condor, shot in the head, gradually turned over and
began to fall, supported by his great wings spread out like a parachute.
He had not let go his prey, but gently sank down with it on the ground,
about ten paces from the stream.
“We’ve got him, we’ve got him,” shouted Glenarvan; and without waiting
to see where the shot so providentially came from, he rushed toward the
condor, followed by his companions.
When they reached the spot the bird was dead, and the body of Robert was
quite concealed beneath his mighty wings. Glenarvan flung himself on the
corpse, and dragging it from the condor’s grasp, placed it flat on the
grass, and knelt down and put his ear to the heart.
But a wilder cry of joy never broke from human lips, than Glenarvan
uttered the next moment, as he started to his feet and exclaimed:
“He is alive! He is still alive!”
The boy’s clothes were stripped off in an instant, and his face bathed
with cold water. He moved slightly, opened his eyes, looked round and
murmured, “Oh, my Lord! Is it you!” he said; “my father!”
Glenarvan could not reply. He was speechless with emotion, and kneeling
down by the side of the child so miraculously saved, burst into tears.
CHAPTER XV THALCAVE
ROBERT had no sooner escaped one terrible danger than he ran the risk
of another scarcely less formidable. He was almost torn to pieces by his
friends, for the brave fellows were so overjoyed at the sight of him,
that in spite of his weak state, none of them would be satisfied without
giving him a hug. However, it seemed as if good rough hugging did not
hurt sick people; at any rate it did not hurt Robert, but quite the
contrary.
But the first joy of deliverance over, the next thought was who was the
deliverer? Of course it was the Major who suggested looking for him,
and he was not far off, for about fifty paces from the RIO a man of very
tall stature was seen standing motionless on the lowest crags at the
foot of the mountain. A long gun was lying at his feet.
He had broad shoulders, and long hair bound together with leather
thongs. He was over six feet in height. His bronzed face was red
between the eyes and mouth, black by the lower eyelids, and white on
the forehead. He wore the costume of the Patagonians on the frontiers,
consisting of a splendid cloak, ornamented with scarlet arabesques, made
of the skins of the guanaco, sewed together with ostrich tendons, and
with the silky wool turned up on the edge. Under this mantle was a
garment of fox-skin, fastened round the waist, and coming down to a
point in front. A little bag hung from his belt, containing colors for
painting his face. His boots were pieces of ox hide, fastened round the
ankles by straps, across.
This Patagonian had a splendid face, indicating real intelligence,
notwithstanding the medley of colors by which it was disfigured. His
waiting attitude was full of dignity; indeed, to see him standing grave
and motionless on his pedestal of rocks, one might have taken him for a
statue of _sang-froid_.
As soon as the Major perceived him, he pointed him out to Glenarvan,
who ran toward him immediately. The Patagonian came two steps forward
to meet him, and Glenarvan caught hold of his hand and pressed it in
his own. It was impossible to mistake the meaning of the action, for
the noble face of the Scotch lord so beamed with gratitude that no words
were needed. The stranger bowed slightly in return, and said a few words
that neither Glenarvan nor the Major could understand.
The Patagonian surveyed them attentively for a few minutes, and
spoke again in another language. But this second idiom was no more
intelligible than the first. Certain words, however, caught Glenarvan’s
ear as sounding like Spanish, a few sentences of which he could speak.
“ESPANOL?” he asked.
The Patagonian nodded in reply, a movement of the head which has an
affirmative significance among all nations.
“That’s good!” said the Major. “Our friend Paganel will be the very
man for him. It is lucky for us that he took it into his head to learn
Spanish.”
Paganel was called forthwith. He came at once, and saluted the stranger
with all the grace of a Frenchman. But his compliments were lost on the
Patagonian, for he did not understand a single syllable.
However, on being told how things stood, he began in Spanish, and
opening his mouth as wide as he could, the better to articulate, said:
“_Vos sois um homen de bem_.” (You are a brave man.)
The native listened, but made no reply.
“He doesn’t understand,” said the geographer.
“Perhaps you haven’t the right accent,” suggested the Major.
“That’s just it! Confound the accent!”
Once more Paganel repeated his compliment, but with no better success.
“I’ll change the phrase,” he said; and in slow, deliberate tones he went
on, “_Sam duvida um Patagao_” (A Patagonian, undoubtedly).
No response still.
“DIZEIME!” said Paganel (Answer me).
But no answer came.
“_Vos compriendeis?_” (Do you understand?) shouted Paganel, at the very
top of his voice, as if he would burst his throat.
Evidently the Indian did not understand, for he replied in Spanish,
“_No comprendo_” (I do not understand).
It was Paganel’s turn now to be amazed. He pushed his spectacles right
down over his nose, as if greatly irritated, and said,
“I’ll be hanged if I can make out one word of his infernal patois. It is
Araucanian, that’s certain!”
“Not a bit of it!” said Glenarvan. “It was Spanish he spoke.”
And addressing the Patagonian, he repeated the word, “ESPANOL?”
(Spanish?).
“_Si, si_” (yes, yes) replied the Indian.
Paganel’s surprise became absolute stupefaction. The Major and his
cousin exchanged sly glances, and McNabbs said, mischievously, with a
look of fun on his face, “Ah, ah, my worthy friend; is this another of
your misadventures? You seem to have quite a monopoly of them.”
“What!” said Paganel, pricking up his ear.
“Yes, it’s clear enough the man speaks Spanish.”
“He!”
“Yes, he certainly speaks Spanish. Perhaps it is some other language you
have been studying all this time instead of--”
But Paganel would not allow him to proceed. He shrugged his shoulders,
and said stiffly,
“You go a little too far, Major.”
“Well, how is it that you don’t understand him then?”
“Why, of course, because the man speaks badly,” replied the learned
geographer, getting impatient.
“He speaks badly; that is to say, because you can’t understand him,”
returned the Major coolly.
“Come, come, McNabbs,” put in Glenarvan, “your supposition is quite
inadmissable. However DISTRAIT our friend Paganel is, it is hardly
likely he would study one language for another.”
“Well, Edward--or rather you, my good Paganel--explain it then.”
“I explain nothing. I give proof. Here is the book I use daily, to
practice myself in the difficulties of the Spanish language. Examine
it for yourself, Major,” he said, handing him a volume in a very ragged
condition, which he had brought up, after a long rummage, from the
depths of one of his numerous pockets. “Now you can see whether I am
imposing on you,” he continued, indignantly.
“And what’s the name of this book?” asked the Major, as he took it from
his hand.
“The LUSIADES, an admirable epic, which--”
“The LUSIADES!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my friend, the LUSIADES of the great Camoens, neither more nor
less.”
“Camoens!” repeated Glenarvan; “but Paganel, my unfortunate fellow,
Camoens was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been learning for
the last six weeks!”
“Camoens! LUISADES! Portuguese!” Paganel could not say more. He looked
vexed, while his companions, who had all gathered round, broke out in a
furious burst of laughter.
The Indian never moved a muscle of his face. He quietly awaited the
explanation of this incomprehensible mirth.
“Fool, idiot, that I am!” at last uttered Paganel. “Is it really a fact?
You are not joking with me? It is what I have actually been doing? Why,
it is a second confusion of tongues, like Babel. Ah me! alack-a-day!
my friends, what is to become of me? To start for India and arrive at
Chili! To learn Spanish and talk Portuguese! Why, if I go on like this,
some day I shall be throwing myself out of the window instead of my
cigar!”
To hear Paganel bemoan his misadventures and see his comical
discomfiture, would have upset anyone’s gravity. Besides, he set the
example himself, and said:
“Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you can’t laugh at
me half as much as I laugh at myself!”
“But, I say,” said the Major, after a minute, “this doesn’t alter the
fact that we have no interpreter.”
“Oh, don’t distress yourself about that,” replied Paganel, “Portuguese
and Spanish are so much alike that I made a mistake; but this very
resemblance will be a great help toward rectifying it. In a very short
time I shall be able to thank the Patagonian in the language he speaks
so well.”
Paganel was right. He soon managed to exchange a few words with the
stranger, and found out even that his name was Thalcave, a word that
signified in Araucanian, “The Thunderer.” This surname had, no doubt,
come from his skill in handling fire-arms.
But what rejoiced Glenarvan most was to learn that he was a guide by
occupation, and, moreover, a guide across the Pampas. To his mind, the
meeting with him was so providential, that he could not doubt now of the
success of their enterprise. The deliverance of Captain Grant seemed an
accomplished fact.
When the party went back to Robert, the boy held out his arms to the
Patagonian, who silently laid his hand on his head, and proceeded to
examine him with the greatest care, gently feeling each of his aching
limbs. Then he went down to the RIO, and gathered a few handfuls of wild
celery, which grew on the banks, with which he rubbed the child’s body
all over. He handled him with the most exquisite delicacy, and his
treatment so revived the lad’s strength, that it was soon evident that a
few hours’ rest would set him all right.
It was accordingly decided that they should encamp for the rest of the
day and the ensuing night. Two grave questions, moreover, had to be
settled: where to get food, and means of transport. Provisions and mules
were both lacking. Happily, they had Thalcave, however, a practised
guide, and one of the most intelligent of his class. He undertook to
find all that was needed, and offered to take him to a TOLDERIA of
Indians, not further than four miles off at most, where he could get
supplies of all he wanted. This proposition was partly made by gestures,
and partly by a few Spanish words which Paganel managed to make out.
His offer was accepted, and Glenarvan and his learned friend started off
with him at once.
They walked at a good pace for an hour and a half, and had to make
great strides to keep up with the giant Thalcave. The road lay through a
beautiful fertile region, abounding in rich pasturages; where a hundred
thousand cattle might have fed comfortably. Large ponds, connected by an
inextricable labyrinth of RIOS, amply watered these plains and produced
their greenness. Swans with black heads were disporting in the water,
disputing possession with the numerous intruders which gamboled over
the LLANOS. The feathered tribes were of most brilliant plumage, and of
marvelous variety and deafening noise. The isacus, a graceful sort of
dove with gray feathers streaked with white, and the yellow cardinals,
were flitting about in the trees like moving flowers; while overhead
pigeons, sparrows, chingolos, bulgueros, and mongitas, were flying
swiftly along, rending the air with their piercing cries.
Paganel’s admiration increased with every step, and he had nearly
exhausted his vocabulary of adjectives by his loud exclamations, to the
astonishment of the Patagonian, to whom the birds, and the swans, and
the prairies were every day things. The learned geographer was so lost
in delight, that he seemed hardly to have started before they came
in sight of the Indian camp, or TOLDERIA, situated in the heart of a
valley.
About thirty nomadic Indians were living there in rude cabins made
of branches, pasturing immense herds of milch cows, sheep, oxen,
and horses. They went from one prairie to another, always finding a
well-spread table for their four-footed guests.
These nomads were a hybrid type of Araucans, Pehu-enches, and Aucas.
They were Ando-Peruvians, of an olive tint, of medium stature and
massive form, with a low forehead, almost circular face, thin lips, high
cheekbones, effeminate features, and cold expression. As a whole, they
are about the least interesting of the Indians. However, it was their
herds Glenarvan wanted, not themselves. As long as he could get beef and
horses, he cared for nothing else.
Thalcave did the bargaining. It did not take long. In exchange for seven
ready saddled horses of the Argentine breed, 100 pounds of CHARQUI, or
dried meat, several measures of rice, and leather bottles for water, the
Indians agreed to take twenty ounces of gold as they could not get wine
or rum, which they would have preferred, though they were perfectly
acquainted with the value of gold. Glenarvan wished to purchase an
eighth horse for the Patagonian, but he gave him to understand that it
would be useless.
They got back to the camp in less than half an hour, and were hailed
with acclamations by the whole party or rather the provisions and horses
were. They were all hungry, and ate heartily of the welcome viands.
Robert took a little food with the rest. He was fast recovering
strength. The close of the day was spent in complete repose and pleasant
talk about the dear absent ones.
Paganel never quitted the Indian’s side. It was not that he was so
glad to see a real Patagonian, by whom he looked a perfect pigmy--a
Patagonian who might have almost rivaled the Emperor Maximii, and that
Congo negro seen by the learned Van der Brock, both eight feet high; but
he caught up Spanish phrases from the Indian and studied the language
without a book this time, gesticulating at a great rate all the grand
sonorous words that fell on his ear.
“If I don’t catch the accent,” he said to the Major, “it won’t be my
fault; but who would have said to me that it was a Patagonian who would
teach me Spanish one day?”
CHAPTER XVI THE NEWS OF THE LOST CAPTAIN
NEXT day, the 22d of October, at eight o’clock in the morning, Thalcave
gave the signal for departure. Between the 22d and 42d degrees the
Argentine soil slopes eastward, and all the travelers had to do was to
follow the slope right down to the sea.
Glenarvan had supposed Thalcave’s refusal of a horse was that he
preferred walking, as some guides do, but he was mistaken, for just as
they were ready, the Patagonian gave a peculiar whistle, and immediately
a magnificent steed of the pure Argentine breed came bounding out of a
grove close by, at his master’s call. Both in form and color the animal
was of perfect beauty. The Major, who was a thorough judge of all the
good points of a horse, was loud in admiration of this sample of
the Pampas breed, and considered that, in many respects, he greatly
resembled an English hunter. This splendid creature was called
“Thaouka,” a word in Patagonia which means bird, and he well deserved
the name.
Thalcave was a consummate horseman, and to see him on his prancing steed
was a sight worth looking at. The saddle was adapted to the two hunting
weapons in common use on the Argentine plains--the BOLAS and the LAZO.
The BOLAS consists of three balls fastened together by a strap of
leather, attached to the front of the RECADO. The Indians fling them
often at the distance of a hundred feet from the animal or enemy of
which they are in pursuit, and with such precision that they catch round
their legs and throw them down in an instant. It is a formidable weapon
in their hands, and one they handle with surprising skill. The LAZO is
always retained in the hand. It is simply a rope, thirty feet long, made
of tightly twisted leather, with a slip knot at the end, which passes
through an iron ring. This noose was thrown by the right hand, while the
left keeps fast hold of the rope, the other end of which is fastened
to the saddle. A long carbine, in the shoulder belt completed the
accouterments of the Patagonian.
He took his place at the head of the party, quite unconscious of the
admiration he was exciting, and they set off, going alternately at a
gallop and walking pace, for the “trot” seemed altogether unknown
to them. Robert proved to be a bold rider, and completely reassured
Glenarvan as to his ability to keep his seat.
The Pampas commenced at the very foot of the Cordilleras. They may be
divided into three parts. The first extends from the chain of the Andes,
and stretches over an extent of 250 miles covered with stunted trees and
bushes; the second 450 miles is clothed with magnificent herbage, and
stops about 180 miles from Buenos Ayres; from this point to the sea,
the foot of the traveler treads over immense prairies of lucerne and
thistles, which constitute the third division of the Pampas.
On issuing from the gorges of the Cordilleras, Glenarvan and his band
came first to plains of sand, called MEDANOS, lying in ridges like waves
of the sea, and so extremely fine that the least breath of wind agitated
the light particles, and sent them flying in clouds, which rose and fell
like water-spouts. It was a spectacle which caused both pleasure
and pain, for nothing could be more curious than to see the said
water-spouts wandering over the plain, coming in contact and mingling
with each other, and falling and rising in wild confusion; but, on the
other hand, nothing could be more disagreeable than the dust which was
thrown off by these innumerable MEDANOS, which was so impalpable that
close one’s eyes as they might, it found its way through the lids.
This phenomenon lasted the greater part of the day. The travelers made
good progress, however, and about four o’clock the Cordilleras lay full
forty miles behind them, the dark outlines being already almost lost in
the evening mists. They were all somewhat fatigued with the journey, and
glad enough to halt for the night on the banks of the Neuquem, called
Ramid, or Comoe by certain geographers, a troubled, turbulent rapid
flowing between high red banks.
No incident of any importance occurred that night or the following day.
They rode well and fast, finding the ground firm, and the temperature
bearable. Toward noon, however, the sun’s rays were extremely scorching,
and when evening came, a bar of clouds streaked the southwest horizon--a
sure sign of a change in the weather. The Patagonian pointed it out to
the geographer, who replied:
“Yes, I know;” and turning to his companions, added, “see, a change of
weather is coming! We are going to have a taste of PAMPERO.”
And he went on to explain that this PAMPERO is very common in the
Argentine plains. It is an extremely dry wind which blows from the
southwest. Thalcave was not mistaken, for the PAMPERO blew violently
all night, and was sufficiently trying to poor fellows only sheltered by
their ponchos. The horses lay down on the ground, and the men stretched
themselves beside them in a close group. Glenarvan was afraid they would
be delayed by the continuance of the hurricane, but Paganel was able to
reassure him on that score, after consulting his barometer.
“The PAMPERO generally brings a tempest which lasts three days, and may
be always foretold by the depression of the mercury,” he said. “But when
the barometer rises, on the contrary, which is the case now, all we need
expect is a few violent blasts. So you can make your mind easy, my good
friend; by sunrise the sky will be quite clear again.”
“You talk like a book, Paganel,” replied Glenarvan.
“And I am one; and what’s more, you are welcome to turn over my leaves
whenever you like.”
The book was right. At one o’clock the wind suddenly lulled, and the
weary men fell asleep and woke at daybreak, refreshed and invigorated.
It was the 20th of October, and the tenth day since they had left
Talcahuano. They were still ninety miles from the point where the Rio
Colorado crosses the thirty-seventh parallel, that is to say, about two
days’ journey. Glenarvan kept a sharp lookout for the appearance of any
Indians, intending to question them, through Thalcave, about Captain
Grant, as Paganel could not speak to him well enough for this. But the
track they were following was one little frequented by the natives, for
the ordinary routes across the Pampas lie further north. If by chance
some nomadic horseman came in sight far away, he was off again like
a dart, not caring to enter into conversation with strangers. To a
solitary individual, a little troop of eight men, all mounted and well
armed, wore a suspicious aspect, so that any intercourse either with
honest men or even banditti, was almost impossible.
Glenarvan was regretting this exceedingly, when he unexpectedly met with
a singular justification of his rendering of the eventful document.
In pursuing the course the travelers had laid down for themselves, they
had several times crossed the routes over the plains in common use, but
had struck into none of them. Hitherto Thalcave had made no remark about
this. He understood quite well, however, that they were not bound for
any particular town, or village, or settlement. Every morning they set
out in a straight line toward the rising sun, and went on without the
least deviation. Moreover, it must have struck Thalcave that instead
of being the guide he was guided; yet, with true Indian reserve, he
maintained absolute silence. But on reaching a particular point, he
checked his horse suddenly, and said to Paganel:
“The Carmen route.”
“Yes, my good Patagonian,” replied Paganel in his best Spanish; “the
route from Carmen to Mendoza.”
“We are not going to take it?”
“No,” replied Paganel.
“Where are we going then?”
“Always to the east.”
“That’s going nowhere.”
“Who knows?”
Thalcave was silent, and gazed at the geographer with an air of profound
surprise. He had no suspicion that Paganel was joking, for an Indian is
always grave.
“You are not going to Carmen, then?” he added, after a moment’s pause.
“No.”
“Nor to Mendoza?”
“No, nor to Mendoza.”
Just then Glenarvan came up to ask the reason of the stoppage, and what
he and Thalcave were discussing.
“He wanted to know whether we were going to Carmen or Mendoza, and was
very much surprised at my negative reply to both questions.”
“Well, certainly, it must seem strange to him.”
“I think so. He says we are going nowhere.”
“Well, Paganel, I wonder if it is possible to make him understand the
object of our expedition, and what our motive is for always going east.”
“That would be a difficult matter, for an Indian knows nothing about
degrees, and the finding of the document would appear to him a mere
fantastic story.”
“Is it the story he would not understand, or the storyteller?” said
McNabbs, quietly.
“Ah, McNabbs, I see you have small faith in my Spanish yet.”
“Well, try it, my good friend.”
“So I will.”
And turning round to the Patagonian he began his narrative, breaking
down frequently for the want of a word, and the difficulty of making
certain details intelligible to a half-civilized Indian. It was quite
a sight to see the learned geographer. He gesticulated and articulated,
and so worked himself up over it, that the big drops of sweat fell in a
cascade down his forehead on to his chest. When his tongue failed, his
arms were called to aid. Paganel got down on the ground and traced a
geographical map on the sand, showing where the lines of latitude and
longitude cross and where the two oceans were, along which the Carmen
route led. Thalcave looked on composedly, without giving any indication
of comprehending or not comprehending.
The lesson had lasted half an hour, when the geographer left off, wiped
his streaming face, and waited for the Patagonian to speak.
“Does he understand?” said Glenarvan.
“That remains to be seen; but if he doesn’t, I give it up,” replied
Paganel.
Thalcave neither stirred nor spoke. His eyes remained fixed on the lines
drawn on the sand, now becoming fast effaced by the wind.
“Well?” said Paganel to him at length.
The Patagonian seemed not to hear. Paganel fancied he could detect an
ironical smile already on the lips of the Major, and determined to carry
the day, was about to recommence his geographical illustrations, when
the Indian stopped him by a gesture, and said:
“You are in search of a prisoner?”
“Yes,” replied Paganel.
“And just on this line between the setting and rising sun?” added
Thalcave, speaking in Indian fashion of the route from west to east.
“Yes, yes, that’s it.”
“And it’s your God,” continued the guide, “that has sent you the secret
of this prisoner on the waves.”
“God himself.”
“His will be accomplished then,” replied the native almost solemnly. “We
will march east, and if it needs be, to the sun.”
Paganel, triumphing in his pupil, immediately translated his replies to
his companions, and exclaimed:
“What an intelligent race! All my explanations would have been lost on
nineteen in every twenty of the peasants in my own country.”
Glenarvan requested him to ask the Patagonian if he had heard of any
foreigners who had fallen into the hands of the Indians of the Pampas.
Paganel did so, and waited an answer.
“Perhaps I have.”
The reply was no sooner translated than the Patagonian found himself
surrounded by the seven men questioning him with eager glances. Paganel
was so excited, he could hardly find words, and he gazed at the grave
Indian as if he could read the reply on his lips.
Each word spoken by Thalcave was instantly translated, so that the whole
party seemed to hear him speak in their mother tongue.
“And what about the prisoner?” asked Paganel.
“He was a foreigner.”
“You have seen him?”
“No; but I have heard the Indian speak of him. He is brave; he has the
heart of a bull.”
“The heart of a bull!” said Paganel. “Ah, this magnificent Patagonian
language. You understand him, my friends, he means a courageous man.”
“My father!” exclaimed Robert Grant, and, turning to Paganel, he asked
what the Spanish was for, “Is it my father.”
“_Es mio padre_,” replied the geographer.
Immediately taking Thalcave’s hands in his own, the boy said, in a soft
tone:
“_Es mio padre_.”
“_Suo padre_,” replied the Patagonian, his face lighting up.
He took the child in his arms, lifted him up on his horse, and gazed
at him with peculiar sympathy. His intelligent face was full of quiet
feeling.
But Paganel had not completed his interrogations. “This prisoner, who
was he? What was he doing? When had Thalcave heard of him?” All these
questions poured upon him at once.
He had not long to wait for an answer, and learned that the European
was a slave in one of the tribes that roamed the country between the
Colorado and the Rio Negro.
“But where was the last place he was in?”
“With the Cacique Calfoucoura.”
“In the line we have been following?”
“Yes.”
“And who is this Cacique?”
“The chief of the Poyuches Indians, a man with two tongues and two
hearts.”
“That’s to say false in speech and false in action,” said Paganel, after
he had translated this beautiful figure of the Patagonian language.
“And can we deliver our friend?” he added.
“You may if he is still in the hands of the Indians.”
“And when did you last hear of him?”
“A long while ago; the sun has brought two summers since then to the
Pampas.”
The joy of Glenarvan can not be described. This reply agreed perfectly
with the date of the document. But one question still remained for him
to put to Thalcave.
“You spoke of a prisoner,” he said; “but were there not three?”
“I don’t know,” said Thalcave.
“And you know nothing of his present situation?”
“Nothing.”
This ended the conversation. It was quite possible that the three men
had become separated long ago; but still this much was certain, that the
Indians had spoken of a European that was in their power; and the date
of the captivity, and even the descriptive phrase about the captive,
evidently pointed to Harry Grant.
CHAPTER XVII A SERIOUS NECESSITY
THE Argentine Pampas extend from the thirty-fourth to the fortieth
degree of southern latitude. The word PAMPA, of Araucanian origin,
signifies _grass plain_, and justly applies to the whole region. The
mimosas growing on the western part, and the substantial herbage on the
eastern, give those plains a peculiar appearance. The soil is composed
of sand and red or yellow clay, and this is covered by a layer of
earth, in which the vegetation takes root. The geologist would find rich
treasures in the tertiary strata here, for it is full of antediluvian
remains--enormous bones, which the Indians attribute to some gigantic
race that lived in a past age.
The horses went on at a good pace through the thick PAJA-BRAVA, the
grass of the Pampas, _par excellence_, so high and thick that the
Indians find shelter in it from storms. At certain distances, but
increasingly seldom, there were wet, marshy spots, almost entirely
under water, where the willows grew, and a plant called the _Gygnerium
argenteum_. Here the horses drank their fill greedily, as if bent on
quenching their thirst for past, present and future. Thalcave went first
to beat the bushes and frighten away the cholinas, a most dangerous
species of viper, the bite of which kills an ox in less than an hour.
For two days they plodded steadily across this arid and deserted plain.
The dry heat became severe. There were not only no RIOS, but even the
ponds dug out by the Indians were dried up. As the drought seemed to
increase with every mile, Paganel asked Thalcave when he expected to
come to water.
“At Lake Salinas,” replied the Indian.
“And when shall we get there?”
“To-morrow evening.”
When the Argentines travel in the Pampas they generally dig wells, and
find water a few feet below the surface. But the travelers could not
fall back on this resource, not having the necessary implements. They
were therefore obliged to husband the small provision of water they had
still left, and deal it out in rations, so that if no one had enough to
satisfy his thirst no one felt it too painful.
They halted at evening after a course of thirty miles and eagerly looked
forward to a good night’s rest to compensate for the fatigue of day. But
their slumbers were invaded by a swarm of mosquitoes, which allowed them
no peace. Their presence indicated a change of wind which shifted to the
north. A south or southwest wind generally puts to flight these little
pests.
Even these petty ills of life could not ruffle the Major’s equanimity;
but Paganel, on the contrary, was perfectly exasperated by such trifling
annoyances. He abused the poor mosquitoes desperately, and deplored
the lack of some acid lotion which would have eased the pain of their
stings. The Major did his best to console him by reminding him of the
fact that they had only to do with one species of insect, among the
300,000 naturalists reckon. He would listen to nothing, and got up in a
very bad temper.
He was quite willing to start at daybreak, however, for they had to get
to Lake Salinas before sundown. The horses were tired out and dying for
water, and though their riders had stinted themselves for their sakes,
still their ration was very insufficient. The drought was constantly
increasing, and the heat none the less for the wind being north, this
wind being the simoom of the Pampas.
There was a brief interruption this day to the monotony of the journey.
Mulrady, who was in front of the others, rode hastily back to report
the approach of a troop of Indians. The news was received with very
different feelings by Glenarvan and Thalcave. The Scotchman was glad
of the chance of gleaning some information about his shipwrecked
countryman, while the Patagonian hardly cared to encounter the nomadic
Indians of the prairie, knowing their bandit propensities. He rather
sought to avoid them, and gave orders to his party to have their arms in
readiness for any trouble.
Presently the nomads came in sight, and the Patagonian was reassured at
finding they were only ten in number. They came within a hundred yards
of them, and stopped. This was near enough to observe them distinctly.
They were fine specimens of the native races, which had been almost
entirely swept away in 1833 by General Rosas, tall in stature, with
arched forehead and olive complexion. They were dressed in guanaco
skins, and carried lances twenty feet long, knives, slings, bolas,
and lassos, and, by their dexterity in the management of their horses,
showed themselves to be accomplished riders.
They appeared to have stopped for the purpose of holding a council with
each other, for they shouted and gesticulated at a great rate. Glenarvan
determined to go up to them; but he had no sooner moved forward than
the whole band wheeled round, and disappeared with incredible speed. It
would have been useless for the travelers to attempt to overtake them
with such wornout horses.
“The cowards!” exclaimed Paganel.
“They scampered off too quick for honest folks,” said McNabbs.
“Who are these Indians, Thalcave?” asked Paganel.
“Gauchos.”
“The Gauchos!” cried Paganel; and, turning to his companions, he added,
“we need not have been so much on our guard; there was nothing to fear.”
“How is that?” asked McNabbs.
“Because the Gauchos are inoffensive peasants.”
“You believe that, Paganel?”
“Certainly I do. They took us for robbers, and fled in terror.”
“I rather think they did not dare to attack us,” replied Glenarvan, much
vexed at not being able to enter into some sort of communication with
those Indians, whatever they were.
“That’s my opinion too,” said the Major, “for if I am not mistaken,
instead of being harmless, the Gauchos are formidable out-and-out
bandits.”
“The idea!” exclaimed Paganel.
And forthwith commenced a lively discussion of this ethnological
thesis--so lively that the Major became excited, and, quite contrary to
his usual suavity, said bluntly:
“I believe you are wrong, Paganel.”
“Wrong?” replied Paganel.
“Yes. Thalcave took them for robbers, and he knows what he is talking
about.”
“Well, Thalcave was mistaken this time,” retorted Paganel, somewhat
sharply. “The Gauchos are agriculturists and shepherds, and nothing
else, as I have stated in a pamphlet on the natives of the Pampas,
written by me, which has attracted some notice.”
[illustration omitted] [page intentionally blank]
“Well, well, you have committed an error, that’s all, Monsieur Paganel.”
“What, Monsieur McNabbs! you tell me I have committed an error?”
“An inadvertence, if you like, which you can put among the ERRATA in the
next edition.”
Paganel, highly incensed at his geographical knowledge being brought in
question, and even jested about, allowed his ill-humor to get the better
of him, and said:
“Know, sir, that my books have no need of such ERRATA.”
“Indeed! Well, on this occasion they have, at any rate,” retorted
McNabbs, quite as obstinate as his opponent.
“Sir, I think you are very annoying to-day.”
“And I think you are very crabbed.”
Glenarvan thought it was high time to interfere, for the discussion was
getting too hot, so he said:
“Come, now, there is no doubt one of you is very teasing and the other
is very crabbed, and I must say I am surprised at both of you.”
The Patagonian, without understanding the cause, could see that the two
friends were quarreling. He began to smile, and said quietly:
“It’s the north wind.”
“The north wind,” exclaimed Paganel; “what’s the north wind to do with
it?”
“Ah, it is just that,” said Glenarvan. “It’s the north wind that has
put you in a bad temper. I have heard that, in South America, the wind
greatly irritates the nervous system.”
“By St. Patrick, Edward you are right,” said the Major, laughing
heartily.
But Paganel, in a towering rage, would not give up the contest, and
turned upon Glenarvan, whose intervention in this jesting manner he
resented.
“And so, my Lord, my nervous system is irritated?” he said.
“Yes, Paganel, it is the north wind--a wind which causes many a crime in
the Pampas, as the TRAMONTANE does in the Campagna of Rome.”
“Crimes!” returned the geographer. “Do I look like a man that would
commit crimes?”
“That’s not exactly what I said.”
“Tell me at once that I want to assassinate you?”
“Well, I am really afraid,” replied Glenarvan, bursting into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, in which all others joined.
Paganel said no more, but went off in front alone, and came back in
a few minutes quite himself, as if he had completely forgotten his
grievance.
At eight o’clock in the evening, Thalcave, who was considerably in
advance of the rest, descried in the distance the much-desired lake, and
in less than a quarter of an hour they reached its banks; but a grievous
disappointment awaited them--the lake was dried up.
CHAPTER XVIII IN SEARCH OF WATER
LAKE SALINAS ends the string of lagoons connected with the Sierras
Ventana and Guamini. Numerous expeditions were formerly made there from
Buenos Ayres, to collect the salt deposited on its banks, as the waters
contain great quantities of chloride of sodium.
But when Thalcave spoke of the lake as supplying drinkable water he was
thinking of the RIOS of fresh water which run into it. Those streams,
however, were all dried up also; the burning sun had drunk up every
thing liquid, and the consternation of the travelers may be imagined at
the discovery.
Some action must be taken immediately, however; for what little water
still remained was almost bad, and could not quench thirst. Hunger and
fatigue were forgotten in the face of this imperious necessity. A sort
of leather tent, called a ROUKAH, which had been left by the natives,
afforded the party a temporary resting-place, and the weary horses
stretched themselves along the muddy banks, and tried to browse on the
marine plants and dry reeds they found there--nauseous to the taste as
they must have been.
As soon as the whole party were ensconced in the ROUKAH, Paganel asked
Thalcave what he thought was best to be done. A rapid conversation
followed, a few words of which were intelligible to Glenarvan. Thalcave
spoke calmly, but the lively Frenchman gesticulated enough for both.
After a little, Thalcave sat silent and folded his arms.
“What does he say?” asked Glenarvan. “I fancied he was advising us to
separate.”
“Yes, into two parties. Those of us whose horses are so done out with
fatigue and thirst that they can scarcely drag one leg after the other,
are to continue the route as they best can, while the others, whose
steeds are fresher, are to push on in advance toward the river Guamini,
which throws itself into Lake San Lucas about thirty-one miles off. If
there should be water enough in the river, they are to wait on the banks
till their companions reach them; but should it be dried up, they will
hasten back and spare them a useless journey.”
“And what will we do then?” asked Austin.
“Then we shall have to make up our minds to go seventy-two miles south,
as far as the commencement of the Sierra Ventana, where rivers abound.”
“It is wise counsel, and we will act upon it without loss of time. My
horse is in tolerable good trim, and I volunteer to accompany Thalcave.”
“Oh, my Lord, take me,” said Robert, as if it were a question of some
pleasure party.
“But would you be able for it, my boy?”
“Oh, I have a fine beast, which just wants to have a gallop. Please, my
Lord, to take me.”
“Come, then, my boy,” said Glenarvan, delighted not to leave Robert
behind. “If we three don’t manage to find out fresh water somewhere,” he
added, “we must be very stupid.”
“Well, well, and what about me?” said Paganel.
“Oh, my dear Paganel, you must stay with the reserve corps,” replied the
Major. “You are too well acquainted with the 37th parallel and the river
Guamini and the whole Pampas for us to let you go. Neither Mulrady,
nor Wilson, nor myself would be able to rejoin Thalcave at the given
rendezvous, but we will put ourselves under the banner of the brave
Jacques Paganel with perfect confidence.”
“I resign myself,” said the geographer, much flattered at having supreme
command.
“But mind, Paganel, no distractions,” added the Major. “Don’t you take
us to the wrong place--to the borders of the Pacific, for instance.”
“Oh, you insufferable Major; it would serve you right,” replied Paganel,
laughing. “But how will you manage to understand what Thalcave says,
Glenarvan?” he continued.
“I suppose,” replied Glenarvan, “the Patagonian and I won’t have much
to talk about; besides, I know a few Spanish words, and, at a pinch,
I should not fear either making him understand me, or my understanding
him.”
“Go, then, my worthy friend,” said Paganel.
“We’ll have supper first,” rejoined Glenarvan, “and then sleep, if we
can, till it is starting time.”
The supper was not very reviving without drink of any kind, and they
tried to make up for the lack of it by a good sleep. But Paganel dreamed
of water all night, of torrents and cascades, and rivers and ponds, and
streams and brooks--in fact, he had a complete nightmare.
Next morning, at six o’clock, the horses of Thalcave, Glenarvan and
Robert were got ready. Their last ration of water was given them, and
drunk with more avidity than satisfaction, for it was filthy, disgusting
stuff. The three travelers then jumped into their saddles, and set off,
shouting “_Au revoir!_” to their companions.
“Don’t come back whatever you do,” called Paganel after them.
The _Desertio de las Salinas_, which they had to traverse, is a dry
plain, covered with stunted trees not above ten feet high, and small
mimosas, which the Indians call _curra-mammel;_ and JUMES, a bushy
shrub, rich in soda. Here and there large spaces were covered with salt,
which sparkled in the sunlight with astonishing brilliancy. These might
easily have been taken for sheets of ice, had not the intense heat
forbidden the illusion; and the contrast these dazzling white sheets
presented to the dry, burned-up ground gave the desert a most peculiar
character. Eighty miles south, on the contrary, the Sierra Ventana,
toward which the travelers might possibly have to betake themselves
should the Guamini disappoint their hopes, the landscape was
totally different. There the fertility is splendid; the pasturage is
incomparable. Unfortunately, to reach them would necessitate a march of
one hundred and thirty miles south; and this was why Thalcave thought it
best to go first to Guamini, as it was not only much nearer, but also on
the direct line of route.
The three horses went forward might and main, as if instinctively
knowing whither they were bound. Thaouka especially displayed a courage
that neither fatigue nor hunger could damp. He bounded like a bird over
the dried-up CANADAS and the bushes of CURRA-MAMMEL, his loud, joyous
neighing seeming to bode success to the search. The horses of Glenarvan
and Robert, though not so light-footed, felt the spur of his example,
and followed him bravely. Thalcave inspirited his companions as much as
Thaouka did his four-footed brethren. He sat motionless in the saddle,
but often turned his head to look at Robert, and ever and anon gave
him a shout of encouragement and approval, as he saw how well he rode.
Certainly the boy deserved praise, for he was fast becoming an excellent
cavalier.
“Bravo! Robert,” said Glenarvan. “Thalcave is evidently congratulating
you, my boy, and paying you compliments.”
“What for, my Lord?”
“For your good horsemanship.”
“I can hold firm on, that’s all,” replied Robert blushing with pleasure
at such an encomium.
“That is the principal thing, Robert; but you are too modest. I tell you
that some day you will turn out an accomplished horseman.”
“What would papa say to that?” said Robert, laughing. “He wants me to be
a sailor.”
“The one won’t hinder the other. If all cavaliers wouldn’t make good
sailors, there is no reason why all sailors should not make good
horsemen. To keep one’s footing on the yards must teach a man to hold
on firm; and as to managing the reins, and making a horse go through all
sorts of movements, that’s easily acquired. Indeed, it comes naturally.”
“Poor father,” said Robert; “how he will thank you for saving his life.”
“You love him very much, Robert?”
“Yes, my Lord, dearly. He was so good to me and my sister. We were his
only thought: and whenever he came home from his voyages, we were sure
of some SOUVENIR from all the places he had been to; and, better still,
of loving words and caresses. Ah! if you knew him you would love him,
too. Mary is most like him. He has a soft voice, like hers. That’s
strange for a sailor, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Robert, very strange.”
“I see him still,” the boy went on, as if speaking to himself. “Good,
brave papa. He put me to sleep on his knee, crooning an old Scotch
ballad about the lochs of our country. The time sometimes comes back to
me, but very confused like. So it does to Mary, too. Ah, my Lord, how we
loved him. Well, I do think one needs to be little to love one’s father
like that.”
“Yes, and to be grown up, my child, to venerate him,” replied Glenarvan,
deeply touched by the boy’s genuine affection.
During this conversation the horses had been slackening speed, and were
only walking now.
“You will find him?” said Robert again, after a few minutes’ silence.
“Yes, we’ll find him,” was Glenarvan’s reply, “Thalcave has set us on
the track, and I have great confidence in him.”
“Thalcave is a brave Indian, isn’t he?” said the boy.
“That indeed he is.”
“Do you know something, my Lord?”
“What is it, and then I will tell you?”
“That all the people you have with you are brave. Lady Helena, whom I
love so, and the Major, with his calm manner, and Captain Mangles, and
Monsieur Paganel, and all the sailors on the DUNCAN. How courageous and
devoted they are.”
“Yes, my boy, I know that,” replied Glenarvan.
“And do you know that you are the best of all.”
“No, most certainly I don’t know that.”
“Well, it is time you did, my Lord,” said the boy, seizing his
lordship’s hand, and covering it with kisses.
Glenarvan shook his head, but said no more, as a gesture from Thalcave
made them spur on their horses and hurry forward.
But it was soon evident that, with the exception of Thaouka, the wearied
animals could not go quicker than a walking pace. At noon they were
obliged to let them rest for an hour. They could not go on at all, and
refused to eat the ALFAFARES, a poor, burnt-up sort of lucerne that grew
there.
Glenarvan began to be uneasy. Tokens of sterility were not the least on
the decrease, and the want of water might involve serious calamities.
Thalcave said nothing, thinking probably, that it would be time enough
to despair if the Guamini should be dried up--if, indeed, the heart of
an Indian can ever despair.
Spur and whip had both to be employed to induce the poor animals to
resume the route, and then they only crept along, for their strength was
gone.
Thaouka, indeed, could have galloped swiftly enough, and reached the
RIO in a few hours, but Thalcave would not leave his companions behind,
alone in the midst of a desert.
It was hard work, however, to get the animal to consent to walk quietly.
He kicked, and reared, and neighed violently, and was subdued at last
more by his master’s voice than hand. Thalcave positively talked to the
beast, and Thaouka understood perfectly, though unable to reply, for,
after a great deal of arguing, the noble creature yielded, though he
still champed the bit.
Thalcave did not understand Thaouka, it turned out, though Thaouka
understood him. The intelligent animal felt humidity in the atmosphere
and drank it in with frenzy, moving and making a noise with his
tongue, as if taking deep draughts of some cool refreshing liquid. The
Patagonian could not mistake him now--water was not far off.
The two other horses seemed to catch their comrade’s meaning, and,
inspired by his example, made a last effort, and galloped forward after
the Indian.
About three o’clock a white line appeared in a dip of the road, and
seemed to tremble in the sunlight.
“Water!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, yes! it is water!” shouted Robert.
They were right; and the horses knew it too, for there was no need
now to urge them on; they tore over the ground as if mad, and in a few
minutes had reached the river, and plunged in up to their chests.
Their masters had to go on too, whether they would or not but they were
so rejoiced at being able to quench their thirst, that this compulsory
bath was no grievance.
“Oh, how delicious this is!” exclaimed Robert, taking a deep draught.
“Drink moderately, my boy,” said Glenarvan; but he did not set the
example.
Thalcave drank very quietly, without hurrying himself, taking small
gulps, but “as long as a lazo,” as the Patagonians say. He seemed as if
he were never going to leave off, and really there was some danger of
his swallowing up the whole river.
At last Glenarvan said:
“Well, our friends won’t be disappointed this time; they will be sure
of finding clear, cool water when they get here--that is to say, if
Thalcave leaves any for them.”
“But couldn’t we go to meet them? It would spare them several hours’
suffering and anxiety.”
“You’re right my boy; but how could we carry them this water? The
leather bottles were left with Wilson. No; it is better for us to wait
for them as we agreed. They can’t be here till about the middle of
the night, so the best thing we can do is to get a good bed and a good
supper ready for them.”
Thalcave had not waited for Glenarvan’s proposition to prepare an
encampment. He had been fortunate enough to discover on the banks of
the _rio a ramada_, a sort of enclosure, which had served as a fold for
flocks, and was shut in on three sides. A more suitable place could
not be found for their night’s lodging, provided they had no fear of
sleeping in the open air beneath the star-lit heavens; and none of
Thalcave’s companions had much solicitude on that score. Accordingly
they took possession at once, and stretched themselves at full length on
the ground in the bright sunshine, to dry their dripping garments.
“Well, now we’ve secured a lodging, we must think of supper,” said
Glenarvan. “Our friends must not have reason to complain of the couriers
they sent to precede them; and if I am not much mistaken, they will
be very satisfied. It strikes me that an hour’s shooting won’t be lost
time. Are you ready, Robert?”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the boy, standing up, gun in hand.
Why Glenarvan proposed this was, that the banks of the Guamini seemed to
be the general rendezvous of all the game in the surrounding plains.
A sort of partridge peculiar to the Pampas, called TINAMOUS; black
wood-hens; a species of plover, called TERU-TERU; yellow rays, and
waterfowl with magnificent green plumage, rose in coveys. No quadrupeds,
however, were visible, but Thalcave pointed to the long grass and thick
brushwood, and gave his friends to understand they were lying there in
concealment.
Disdaining the feathered tribes when more substantial game was at hand,
the hunters’ first shots were fired into the underwood. Instantly there
rose by the hundred roebucks and guanacos, like those that had swept
over them that terrible night on the Cordilleras, but the timid
creatures were so frightened that they were all out of gunshot in a
twinkling. The hunters were obliged to content themselves with humbler
game, though in an alimentary point of view nothing better could be
wished. A dozen of red partridges and rays were speedily brought
down, and Glenarvan also managed very cleverly to kill a TAY-TETRE,
or peccary, a pachydermatous animal, the flesh of which is excellent
eating.
In less than half an hour the hunters had all the game they required.
Robert had killed a curious animal belonging to the order EDENTATA, an
armadillo, a sort of tatou, covered with a hard bony shell, in movable
pieces, and measuring a foot and a half long. It was very fat and would
make an excellent dish, the Patagonian said. Robert was very proud of
his success.
Thalcave did his part by capturing a NANDOU, a species of ostrich,
remarkable for its extreme swiftness.
There could be no entrapping such an animal, and the Indian did not
attempt it. He urged Thaouka to a gallop, and made a direct attack,
knowing that if the first aim missed the NANDOU would soon tire out
horse and rider by involving them in an inextricable labyrinth of
windings. The moment, therefore, that Thalcave got to a right distance,
he flung his BOLAS with such a powerful hand, and so skillfully, that he
caught the bird round the legs and paralyzed his efforts at once. In a
few seconds it lay flat on the ground.
The Indian had not made his capture for the mere pleasure and glory
of such a novel chase. The flesh of the NANDOU is highly esteemed, and
Thalcave felt bound to contribute his share of the common repast.
They returned to the RAMADA, bringing back the string of partridges,
the ostrich, the peccary, and the armadillo. The ostrich and the peccary
were prepared for cooking by divesting them of their tough skins, and
cutting them up into thin slices. As to the armadillo, he carries his
cooking apparatus with him, and all that had to be done was to place him
in his own shell over the glowing embers.
The substantial dishes were reserved for the night-comers, and the three
hunters contented themselves with devouring the partridges, and washed
down their meal with clear, fresh water, which was pronounced superior
to all the porter in the world, even to the famous Highland USQUEBAUGH,
or whisky.
The horses had not been overlooked. A large quantity of dry fodder was
discovered lying heaped up in the RAMADA, and this supplied them amply
with both food and bedding.
When all was ready the three companions wrapped themselves in the
ponchos, and stretched themselves on an eiderdown of ALFAFARES, the
usual bed of hunters on the Pampas.
CHAPTER XIX THE RED WOLVES
NIGHT came, but the orb of night was invisible to the inhabitants of the
earth, for she was just in her first quarter. The dim light of the
stars was all that illumined the plain. The waters of the Guamini
ran silently, like a sheet of oil over a surface of marble. Birds,
quadrupeds, and reptiles were resting motionless after the fatigues of
the day, and the silence of the desert brooded over the far-spreading
Pampas.
Glenarvan, Robert, and Thalcave, had followed the common example, and
lay in profound slumber on their soft couch of lucerne. The worn-out
horses had stretched themselves full length on the ground, except
Thaouka, who slept standing, true to his high blood, proud in repose
as in action, and ready to start at his master’s call. Absolute silence
reigned within the inclosure, over which the dying embers of the fire
shed a fitful light.
However, the Indian’s sleep did not last long; for about ten o’clock he
woke, sat up, and turned his ear toward the plain, listening intently,
with half-closed eyes. An uneasy look began to depict itself on his
usually impassive face. Had he caught scent of some party of Indian
marauders, or of jaguars, water tigers, and other terrible animals that
haunt the neighborhood of rivers? Apparently it was the latter, for
he threw a rapid glance on the combustible materials heaped up in the
inclosure, and the expression of anxiety on his countenance seemed to
deepen. This was not surprising, as the whole pile of ALFAFARES would
soon burn out and could only ward off the attacks of wild beasts for a
brief interval.
There was nothing to be done in the circumstances but wait; and wait he
did, in a half-recumbent posture, his head leaning on his hands, and his
elbows on his knees, like a man roused suddenly from his night’s sleep.
A whole hour passed, and anyone except Thalcave would have lain down
again on his couch, reassured by the silence round him. But where a
stranger would have suspected nothing, the sharpened senses of the
Indian detected the approach of danger.
As he was thus watching and listening, Thaouka gave a low neigh, and
stretched his nostrils toward the entrance of the RAMADA.
This startled the Patagonian, and made him rise to his feet at once.
“Thaouka scents an enemy,” he said to himself, going toward the opening,
to make careful survey of the plains.
Silence still prevailed, but not tranquillity; for Thalcave caught a
glimpse of shadows moving noiselessly over the tufts of CURRA-MAMMEL.
Here and there luminous spots appeared, dying out and rekindling
constantly, in all directions, like fantastic lights dancing over the
surface of an immense lagoon. An inexperienced eye might have mistaken
them for fireflies, which shine at night in many parts of the Pampas;
but Thalcave was not deceived; he knew the enemies he had to deal with,
and lost no time in loading his carbine and taking up his post in front
of the fence.
He did not wait long, for a strange cry--a confused sound of barking and
howling--broke over the Pampas, followed next instant by the report of
the carbine, which made the uproar a hundred times worse.
Glenarvan and Robert woke in alarm, and started to their feet instantly.
“What is it?” exclaimed Robert.
“Is it the Indians?” asked Glenarvan.
“No,” replied Thalcave, “the AGUARAS.”
“AGUARAS?” said Robert, looking inquiringly at Glenarvan.
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, “the red wolves of the Pampas.”
They seized their weapons at once, and stationed themselves beside
the Patagonian, who pointed toward the plain from whence the yelling
resounded.
Robert drew back involuntarily.
“You are not afraid of wolves, my boy?” said Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” said the lad in a firm tone, “and moreover, beside you I
am afraid of nothing.”
“So much the better. These AGUARAS are not very formidable either; and
if it were not for their number I should not give them a thought.”
“Never mind; we are all well armed; let them come.”
“We’ll certainly give them a warm reception,” rejoined Glenarvan.
His Lordship only spoke thus to reassure the child, for a secret terror
filled him at the sight of this legion of bloodthirsty animals let loose
on them at midnight.
There might possibly be some hundreds, and what could three men do, even
armed to the teeth, against such a multitude?
As soon as Thalcave said the word AGUARA, Glenarvan knew that he meant
the red wolf, for this is the name given to it by the Pampas Indians.
This voracious animal, called by naturalists the _Canis jubatus_, is
in shape like a large dog, and has the head of a fox. Its fur is a
reddish-cinnamon color, and there is a black mane all down the back.
It is a strong, nimble animal, generally inhabiting marshy places,
and pursuing aquatic animals by swimming, prowling about by night and
sleeping during the day. Its attacks are particularly dreaded at the
ESTANCIAS, or sheep stations, as it often commits considerable ravages,
carrying off the finest of the flock. Singly, the AGUARA is not much to
be feared; but they generally go in immense packs, and one had better
have to deal with a jaguar or cougar than with them.
Both from the noise of the howling and the multitude of shadows leaping
about, Glenarvan had a pretty good idea of the number of the wolves, and
he knew they had scented a good meal of human flesh or horse flesh,
and none of them would go back to their dens without a share. It was
certainly a very alarming situation to be in.
The assailants were gradually drawing closer. The horses displayed signs
of the liveliest terror, with the exception of Thaouka, who stamped his
foot, and tried to break loose and get out. His master could only calm
him by keeping up a low, continuous whistle.
Glenarvan and Robert had posted themselves so as to defend the opening
of the RAMADA. They were just going to fire into the nearest ranks of
the wolves when Thalcave lowered their weapons.
“What does Thalcave mean?” asked Robert.
“He forbids our firing.”
“And why?”
“Perhaps he thinks it is not the right time.”
But this was not the Indian’s reason, and so Glenarvan saw when he
lifted the powder-flask, showed him it was nearly empty.
“What’s wrong?” asked Robert.
“We must husband our ammunition,” was the reply. “To-day’s shooting has
cost us dear, and we are short of powder and shot. We can’t fire more
than twenty times.”
The boy made no reply, and Glenarvan asked him if he was frightened.
“No, my Lord,” he said.
“That’s right,” returned Glenarvan.
A fresh report resounded that instant. Thalcave had made short work of
one assailant more audacious than the rest, and the infuriated pack had
retreated to within a hundred steps of the inclosure.
On a sign from the Indian Glenarvan took his place, while Thalcave
went back into the inclosure and gathered up all the dried grass and
ALFAFARES, and, indeed, all the combustibles he could rake together,
and made a pile of them at the entrance. Into this he flung one of the
still-glowing embers, and soon the bright flames shot up into the dark
night. Glenarvan could now get a good glimpse of his antagonists, and
saw that it was impossible to exaggerate their numbers or their fury.
The barrier of fire just raised by Thalcave had redoubled their anger,
though it had cut off their approach. Several of them, however, urged on
by the hindmost ranks, pushed forward into the very flames, and burned
their paws for their pains.
From time to time another shot had to be fired, notwithstanding the
fire, to keep off the howling pack, and in the course of an hour fifteen
dead animals lay stretched on the prairie.
The situation of the besieged was, relatively speaking, less dangerous
now. As long as the powder lasted and the barrier of fire burned
on, there was no fear of being overmastered. But what was to be done
afterward, when both means of defense failed at once?
Glenarvan’s heart swelled as he looked at Robert. He forgot himself
in thinking of this poor child, as he saw him showing a courage so far
above his years. Robert was pale, but he kept his gun steady, and stood
with firm foot ready to meet the attacks of the infuriated wolves.
However, after Glenarvan had calmly surveyed the actual state of
affairs, he determined to bring things to a crisis.
“In an hour’s time,” he said, “we shall neither have powder nor fire. It
will never do to wait till then before we settle what to do.”
Accordingly, he went up to Thalcave, and tried to talk to him by the
help of the few Spanish words his memory could muster, though their
conversation was often interrupted by one or the other having to fire a
shot.
It was no easy task for the two men to understand each other, but, most
fortunately, Glenarvan knew a great deal of the peculiarities of the red
wolf; otherwise he could never have interpreted the Indian’s words and
gestures.
As it was, fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before he could get any
answer from Thalcave to tell Robert in reply to his inquiry.
“What does he say?”
“He says that at any price we must hold out till daybreak. The AGUARA
only prowls about at night, and goes back to his lair with the first
streak of dawn. It is a cowardly beast, that loves the darkness and
dreads the light--an owl on four feet.”
“Very well, let us defend ourselves, then, till morning.”
“Yes, my boy, and with knife-thrusts, when gun and shots fail.”
Already Thalcave had set the example, for whenever a wolf came too near
the burning pile, the long arm of the Patagonian dashed through the
flames and came out again reddened with blood.
But very soon this means of defense would be at an end. About two
o’clock, Thalcave flung his last armful of combustibles into the fire,
and barely enough powder remained to load a gun five times.
Glenarvan threw a sorrowful glance round him. He thought of the lad
standing there, and of his companions and those left behind, whom he
loved so dearly.
Robert was silent. Perhaps the danger seemed less imminent to his
imagination. But Glenarvan thought for him, and pictured to himself the
horrible fate that seemed to await him inevitably. Quite overcome by his
emotion, he took the child in his arms, and straining him convulsively
to his heart, pressed his lips on his forehead, while tears he could not
restrain streamed down his cheeks.
Robert looked up into his face with a smile, and said, “I am not
frightened.”
“No, my child, no! and you are right. In two hours daybreak will come,
and we shall be saved. Bravo, Thalcave! my brave Patagonian! Bravo!”
he added as the Indian that moment leveled two enormous beasts who
endeavored to leap across the barrier of flames.
But the fire was fast dying out, and the DENOUEMENT of the terrible
drama was approaching. The flames got lower and lower. Once more the
shadows of night fell on the prairie, and the glaring eyes of the wolves
glowed like phosphorescent balls in the darkness. A few minutes longer,
and the whole pack would be in the inclosure.
Thalcave loaded his carbine for the last time, killed one more enormous
monster, and then folded his arms. His head sank on his chest, and
he appeared buried in deep thought. Was he planning some daring,
impossible, mad attempt to repulse the infuriated horde? Glenarvan did
not venture to ask.
At this very moment the wolves began to change their tactics. The
deafening howls suddenly ceased: they seemed to be going away. Gloomy
silence spread over the prairie, and made Robert exclaim:
“They’re gone!”
But Thalcave, guessing his meaning, shook his head. He knew they would
never relinquish their sure prey till daybreak made them hasten back to
their dens.
Still, their plan of attack had evidently been altered. They no longer
attempted to force the entrance, but their new maneuvers only heightened
the danger.
They had gone round the RAMADA, as by common consent, and were trying to
get in on the opposite side.
The next minute they heard their claws attacking the moldering wood,
and already formidable paws and hungry, savage jaws had found their way
through the palings. The terrified horses broke loose from their halters
and ran about the inclosure, mad with fear.
Glenarvan put his arms round the young lad, and resolved to defend him
as long as his life held out. Possibly he might have made a useless
attempt at flight when his eye fell on Thalcave.
The Indian had been stalking about the RAMADA like a stag, when he
suddenly stopped short, and going up to his horse, who was trembling
with impatience, began to saddle him with the most scrupulous care,
without forgetting a single strap or buckle. He seemed no longer to
disturb himself in the least about the wolves outside, though their
yells had redoubled in intensity. A dark suspicion crossed Glenarvan’s
mind as he watched him.
“He is going to desert us,” he exclaimed at last, as he saw him seize
the reins, as if preparing to mount.
“He! never!” replied Robert. Instead of deserting them, the truth was
that the Indian was going to try and save his friends by sacrificing
himself.
Thaouka was ready, and stood champing his bit. He reared up, and his
splendid eyes flashed fire; he understood his master.
But just as the Patagonian caught hold of the horse’s mane, Glenarvan
seized his arm with a convulsive grip, and said, pointing to the open
prairie.
“You are going away?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian, understanding his gesture. Then he said a few
words in Spanish, which meant: “_Thaouka; good horse; quick; will draw
all the wolves away after him_.”
“Oh, Thalcave,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Quick, quick!” replied the Indian, while Glenarvan said, in a broken,
agitated voice to Robert:
“Robert, my child, do you hear him? He wants to sacrifice himself for
us. He wants to rush away over the Pampas, and turn off the wolves from
us by attracting them to himself.”
“Friend Thalcave,” returned Robert, throwing himself at the feet of the
Patagonian, “friend Thalcave, don’t leave us!”
“No,” said Glenarvan, “he shall not leave us.”
And turning toward the Indian, he said, pointing to the frightened
horses, “Let us go together.”
“No,” replied Thalcave, catching his meaning. “Bad beasts; frightened;
Thaouka, good horse.”
“Be it so then!” returned Glenarvan. “Thalcave will not leave you,
Robert. He teaches me what I must do. It is for me to go, and for him to
stay by you.”
Then seizing Thaouka’s bridle, he said, “I am going, Thalcave, not you.”
“No,” replied the Patagonian quietly.
“I am,” exclaimed Glenarvan, snatching the bridle out of his hands. “I,
myself! Save this boy, Thalcave! I commit him to you.”
Glenarvan was so excited that he mixed up English words with his
Spanish. But what mattered the language at such a terrible moment. A
gesture was enough. The two men understood each other.
However, Thalcave would not give in, and though every instant’s delay
but increased the danger, the discussion continued.
Neither Glenarvan nor Thalcave appeared inclined to yield. The Indian
had dragged his companion towards the entrance of the RAMADA, and showed
him the prairie, making him understand that now was the time when it was
clear from the wolves; but that not a moment was to be lost, for should
this maneuver not succeed, it would only render the situation of those
left behind more desperate, and that he knew his horse well enough to
be able to trust his wonderful lightness and swiftness to save them
all. But Glenarvan was blind and obstinate, and determined to sacrifice
himself at all hazards, when suddenly he felt himself violently pushed
back. Thaouka pranced up, and reared himself bolt upright on his hind
legs, and made a bound over the barrier of fire, while a clear, young
voice called out:
“God save you, my lord.”
But before either Thalcave or Glenarvan could get more than a glimpse of
the boy, holding on fast by Thaouka’s mane, he was out of sight.
“Robert! oh you unfortunate boy,” cried Glenarvan.
But even Thalcave did not catch the words, for his voice was drowned
in the frightful uproar made by the wolves, who had dashed off at a
tremendous speed on the track of the horse.
Thalcave and Glenarvan rushed out of the RAMADA. Already the plain had
recovered its tranquillity, and all that could be seen of the red wolves
was a moving line far away in the distant darkness.
Glenarvan sank prostrate on the ground, and clasped his hands
despairingly. He looked at Thalcave, who smiled with his accustomed
calmness, and said:
“Thaouka, good horse. Brave boy. He will save himself!”
“And suppose he falls?” said Glenarvan.
“He’ll not fall.”
But notwithstanding Thalcave’s assurances, poor Glenarvan spent the rest
of the night in torturing anxiety. He seemed quite insensible now to the
danger they had escaped through the departure of the wolves, and would
have hastened immediately after Robert if the Indian had not kept
him back by making him understand the impossibility of their horses
overtaking Thaouka; and also that boy and horse had outdistanced the
wolves long since, and that it would be useless going to look for them
till daylight.
At four o’clock morning began to dawn. A pale glimmer appeared in the
horizon, and pearly drops of dew lay thick on the plain and on the tall
grass, already stirred by the breath of day.
The time for starting had arrived.
“Now!” cried Thalcave, “come.”
Glenarvan made no reply, but took Robert’s horse and sprung into the
saddle. Next minute both men were galloping at full speed toward the
west, in the line in which their companions ought to be advancing. They
dashed along at a prodigious rate for a full hour, dreading every minute
to come across the mangled corpse of Robert. Glenarvan had torn the
flanks of his horse with his spurs in his mad haste, when at last
gun-shots were heard in the distance at regular intervals, as if fired
as a signal.
“There they are!” exclaimed Glenarvan; and both he and the Indian urged
on their steeds to a still quicker pace, till in a few minutes more they
came up to the little detachment conducted by Paganel. A cry broke from
Glenarvan’s lips, for Robert was there, alive and well, still mounted on
the superb Thaouka, who neighed loudly with delight at the sight of his
master.
“Oh, my child, my child!” cried Glenarvan, with indescribable tenderness
in his tone.
Both he and Robert leaped to the ground, and flung themselves into each
other’s arms. Then the Indian hugged the brave boy in his arms.
“He is alive, he is alive,” repeated Glenarvan again and again.
“Yes,” replied Robert; “and thanks to Thaouka.”
This great recognition of his favorite’s services was wholly unexpected
by the Indian, who was talking to him that minute, caressing and
speaking to him, as if human blood flowed in the veins of the proud
creature. Then turning to Paganel, he pointed to Robert, and said, “A
brave!” and employing the Indian metaphor, he added, “his spurs did not
tremble!”
But Glenarvan put his arms round the boy and said, “Why wouldn’t you let
me or Thalcave run the risk of this last chance of deliverance, my son?”
“My lord,” replied the boy in tones of gratitude, “wasn’t it my place
to do it? Thalcave has saved my life already, and you--you are going to
save my father.”
CHAPTER XX STRANGE SIGNS
AFTER the first joy of the meeting was over, Paganel and his party,
except perhaps the Major, were only conscious of one feeling--they were
dying of thirst. Most fortunately for them, the Guamini ran not far off,
and about seven in the morning the little troop reached the inclosure on
its banks. The precincts were strewed with the dead wolves, and judging
from their numbers, it was evident how violent the attack must have
been, and how desperate the resistance.
As soon as the travelers had drunk their fill, they began to demolish
the breakfast prepared in the RAMADA, and did ample justice to the
extraordinary viands. The NANDOU fillets were pronounced first-rate, and
the armadillo was delicious.
“To eat moderately,” said Paganel, “would be positive ingratitude to
Providence. We must eat immoderately.”
And so they did, but were none the worse for it. The water of the
Guamini greatly aided digestion apparently.
Glenarvan, however, was not going to imitate Hannibal at Capua, and
at ten o’clock next morning gave the signal for starting. The leathern
bottles were filled with water, and the day’s march commenced. The
horses were so well rested that they were quite fresh again, and kept up
a canter almost constantly. The country was not so parched up now, and
consequently less sterile, but still a desert. No incident occurred of
any importance during the 2d and 3d of November, and in the evening
they reached the boundary of the Pampas, and camped for the night on the
frontiers of the province of Buenos Ayres. Two-thirds of their journey
was now accomplished. It was twenty-two days since they left the Bay of
Talcahuano, and they had gone 450 miles.
Next morning they crossed the conventional line which separates the
Argentine plains from the region of the Pampas. It was here that
Thalcave hoped to meet the Caciques, in whose hands, he had no doubt,
Harry Grant and his men were prisoners.
From the time of leaving the Guamini, there was marked change in the
temperature, to the great relief of the travelers. It was much cooler,
thanks to the violent and cold winds from Patagonia, which constantly
agitate the atmospheric waves. Horses and men were glad enough of this,
after what they had suffered from the heat and drought, and they felt
animated with fresh ardor and confidence. But contrary to what Thalcave
had said, the whole district appeared uninhabited, or rather abandoned.
Their route often led past or went right through small lagoons,
sometimes of fresh water, sometimes of brackish. On the banks and bushes
about these, king-wrens were hopping about and larks singing joyously in
concert with the tangaras, the rivals in color of the brilliant humming
birds. On the thorny bushes the nests of the ANNUBIS swung to and fro
in the breeze like an Indian hammock; and on the shore magnificent
flamingos stalked in regular order like soldiers marching, and spread
out their flaming red wings. Their nests were seen in groups of
thousands, forming a complete town, about a foot high, and resembling a
truncated cone in shape. The flamingos did not disturb themselves in the
least at the approach of the travelers, but this did not suit Paganel.
“I have been very desirous a long time,” he said to the Major, “to see a
flamingo flying.”
“All right,” replied McNabbs.
“Now while I have the opportunity, I should like to make the most of
it,” continued Paganel.
“Very well; do it, Paganel.”
“Come with me, then, Major, and you too Robert. I want witnesses.”
And all three went off towards the flamingos, leaving the others to go
on in advance.
As soon as they were near enough, Paganel fired, only loading his gun,
however, with powder, for he would not shed even the blood of a bird
uselessly. The shot made the whole assemblage fly away _en masse_, while
Paganel watched them attentively through his spectacles.
“Well, did you see them fly?” he asked the Major.
“Certainly I did,” was the reply. “I could not help seeing them, unless
I had been blind.”
“Well and did you think they resembled feathered arrows when they were
flying?”
“Not in the least.”
“Not a bit,” added Robert.
“I was sure of it,” said the geographer, with a satisfied air; “and
yet the very proudest of modest men, my illustrious countryman,
Chateaubriand, made the inaccurate comparison. Oh, Robert, comparison is
the most dangerous figure in rhetoric that I know. Mind you avoid it all
your life, and only employ it in a last extremity.”
“Are you satisfied with your experiment?” asked McNabbs.
“Delighted.”
“And so am I. But we had better push on now, for your illustrious
Chateaubriand has put us more than a mile behind.”
On rejoining their companions, they found Glenarvan busily engaged
in conversation with the Indian, though apparently unable to make him
understand. Thalcave’s gaze was fixed intently on the horizon, and his
face wore a puzzled expression.
The moment Paganel came in sight, Glenarvan called out:
“Come along, friend Paganel. Thalcave and I can’t understand each other
at all.”
After a few minute’s talk with the Patagonian, the interpreter turned to
Glenarvan and said:
“Thalcave is quite astonished at the fact, and certainly it is very
strange that there are no Indians, nor even traces of any to be seen
in these plains, for they are generally thick with companies of them,
either driving along cattle stolen from the ESTANCIAS, or going to the
Andes to sell their zorillo cloths and plaited leather whips.”
“And what does Thalcave think is the reason?”
“He does not know; he is amazed and that’s all.”
“But what description of Indians did he reckon on meeting in this part
of the Pampas?”
“Just the very ones who had the foreign prisoners in their hands,
the natives under the rule of the Caciques Calfoucoura, Catriel, or
Yanchetruz.”
“Who are these Caciques?”
“Chiefs that were all powerful thirty years ago, before they were driven
beyond the sierras. Since then they have been reduced to subjection as
much as Indians can be, and they scour the plains of the Pampas and
the province of Buenos Ayres. I quite share Thalcave’s surprise at not
discovering any traces of them in regions which they usually infest as
SALTEADORES, or bandits.”
“And what must we do then?”
“I’ll go and ask him,” replied Paganel.
After a brief colloquy he returned and said:
“This is his advice, and very sensible it is, I think. He says we had
better continue our route to the east as far as Fort Independence, and
if we don’t get news of Captain Grant there we shall hear, at any rate,
what has become of the Indians of the Argentine plains.”
“Is Fort Independence far away?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, it is in the Sierra Tandil, a distance of about sixty miles.”
“And when shall we arrive?”
“The day after to-morrow, in the evening.”
Glenarvan was considerably disconcerted by this circumstance. Not to
find an Indian where in general there were only too many, was so unusual
that there must be some grave cause for it; but worse still if Harry
Grant were a prisoner in the hands of any of those tribes, had he been
dragged away with them to the north or south? Glenarvan felt that, cost
what it might, they must not lose his track, and therefore decided to
follow the advice of Thalcave, and go to the village of Tandil. They
would find some one there to speak to, at all events.
About four o’clock in the evening a hill, which seemed a mountain in so
flat a country, was sighted in the distance. This was Sierra Tapalquem,
at the foot of which the travelers camped that night.
The passage in the morning over this sierra, was accomplished without
the slightest difficulty; after having crossed the Cordillera of the
Andes, it was easy work to ascend the gentle heights of such a sierra as
this. The horses scarcely slackened their speed. At noon they passed the
deserted fort of Tapalquem, the first of the chain of forts which defend
the southern frontiers from Indian marauders. But to the increasing
surprise of Thalcave, they did not come across even the shadow of an
Indian. About the middle of the day, however, three flying horsemen,
well mounted and well armed came in sight, gazed at them for an instant,
and then sped away with inconceivable rapidity. Glenarvan was furious.
“Gauchos,” said the Patagonian, designating them by the name which had
caused such a fiery discussion between the Major and Paganel.
“Ah! the Gauchos,” replied McNabbs. “Well, Paganel, the north wind is
not blowing to-day. What do you think of those fellows yonder?”
“I think they look like regular bandits.”
“And how far is it from looking to being, my good geographer?”
“Only just a step, my dear Major.”
Paganel’s admission was received with a general laugh, which did not in
the least disconcert him. He went on talking about the Indians however,
and made this curious observation:
“I have read somewhere,” he said, “that about the Arabs there is a
peculiar expression of ferocity in the mouth, while the eyes have a
kindly look. Now, in these American savages it is quite the reverse, for
the eye has a particularly villainous aspect.”
No physiognomist by profession could have better characterized the
Indian race.
But desolate as the country appeared, Thalcave was on his guard against
surprises, and gave orders to his party to form themselves in a close
platoon. It was a useless precaution, however; for that same evening,
they camped for the night in an immense TOLDERIA, which they not only
found perfectly empty, but which the Patagonian declared, after he had
examined it all round, must have been uninhabited for a long time.
Next day, the first ESTANCIAS of the Sierra Tandil came in sight. The
ESTANCIAS are large cattle stations for breeding cattle; but Thalcave
resolved not to stop at any of them, but to go straight on to Fort
Independence. They passed several farms fortified by battlements and
surrounded by a deep moat, the principal building being encircled by a
terrace, from which the inhabitants could fire down on the marauders in
the plain. Glenarvan might, perhaps, have got some information at these
houses, but it was the surest plan to go straight on to the village of
Tandil. Accordingly they went on without stopping, fording the RIO of
Los Huasos and also the Chapaleofu, a few miles further on. Soon they
were treading the grassy slopes of the first ridges of the Sierra
Tandil, and an hour afterward the village appeared in the depths of
a narrow gorge, and above it towered the lofty battlements of Fort
Independence.
CHAPTER XXI A FALSE TRAIL
THE Sierra Tandil rises a thousand feet above the level of the sea.
It is a primordial chain--that is to say, anterior to all organic and
metamorphic creation. It is formed of a semi-circular ridge of gneiss
hills, covered with fine short grass. The district of Tandil, to which
it has given its name, includes all the south of the Province of Buenos
Ayres, and terminates in a river which conveys north all the RIOS that
take their rise on its slopes.
After making a short ascent up the sierra, they reached the postern
gate, so carelessly guarded by an Argentine sentinel, that they passed
through without difficulty, a circumstance which betokened extreme
negligence or extreme security.
A few minutes afterward the Commandant appeared in person. He was a
vigorous man about fifty years of age, of military aspect, with grayish
hair, and an imperious eye, as far as one could see through the clouds
of tobacco smoke which escaped from his short pipe. His walk reminded
Paganel instantly of the old subalterns in his own country.
Thalcave was spokesman, and addressing the officer, presented Lord
Glenarvan and his companions. While he was speaking, the Commandant
kept staring fixedly at Paganel in rather an embarrassing manner. The
geographer could not understand what he meant by it, and was just about
to interrogate him, when the Commandant came forward, and seizing both
his hands in the most free-and-easy fashion, said in a joyous voice, in
the mother tongue of the geographer:
“A Frenchman!”
“Yes, a Frenchman,” replied Paganel.
“Ah! delightful! Welcome, welcome. I am a Frenchman too,” he added,
shaking Paganel’s hand with such vigor as to be almost alarming.
“Is he a friend of yours, Paganel?” asked the Major.
“Yes,” said Paganel, somewhat proudly. “One has friends in every
division of the globe.”
After he had succeeded in disengaging his hand, though not without
difficulty, from the living vise in which it was held, a lively
conversation ensued. Glenarvan would fain have put in a word about the
business on hand, but the Commandant related his entire history, and was
not in a mood to stop till he had done. It was evident that the worthy
man must have left his native country many years back, for his mother
tongue had grown unfamiliar, and if he had not forgotten the words he
certainly did not remember how to put them together. He spoke more like
a negro belonging to a French colony.
The fact was that the Governor of Fort Independence was a French
sergeant, an old comrade of Parachapee. He had never left the fort since
it had been built in 1828; and, strange to say, he commanded it with the
consent of the Argentine Government. He was a man about fifty years of
age, a Basque by birth, and his name was Manuel Ipharaguerre, so that
he was almost a Spaniard. A year after his arrival in the country he was
naturalized, took service in the Argentine army, and married an Indian
girl, who was then nursing twin babies six months old--two boys, be it
understood, for the good wife of the Commandant would have never thought
of presenting her husband with girls. Manuel could not conceive of any
state but a military one, and he hoped in due time, with the help of
God, to offer the republic a whole company of young soldiers.
“You saw them. Charming! good soldiers are Jose, Juan, and Miquele!
Pepe, seven year old; Pepe can handle a gun.”
Pepe, hearing himself complimented, brought his two little feet
together, and presented arms with perfect grace.
“He’ll get on!” added the sergeant. “He’ll be colonel-major or
brigadier-general some day.”
Sergeant Manuel seemed so enchanted that it would have been useless
to express a contrary opinion, either to the profession of arms or
the probable future of his children. He was happy, and as Goethe says,
“Nothing that makes us happy is an illusion.”
All this talk took up a quarter of an hour, to the great astonishment of
Thalcave. The Indian could not understand how so many words could come
out of one throat. No one interrupted the Sergeant, but all things
come to an end, and at last he was silent, but not till he had made
his guests enter his dwelling, and be presented to Madame Ipharaguerre.
Then, and not till then, did he ask his guests what had procured him
the honor of their visit. Now or never was the moment to explain, and
Paganel, seizing the chance at once, began an account of their journey
across the Pampas, and ended by inquiring the reason of the Indians
having deserted the country.
“Ah! there was no one!” replied the Sergeant, shrugging his
shoulders--“really no one, and us, too, our arms crossed! Nothing to
do!”
“But why?”
“War.”
“War?”
“Yes, civil war between the Paraguayans and Buenos Ayriens,” replied the
Sergeant.
“Well?”
“Well, Indians all in the north, in the rear of General Flores. Indian
pillagers find pillage there.”
“But where are the Caciques?”
“Caciques are with them.”
“What! Catriel?”
“There is no Catriel.”
“And Calfoucoura?”
“There is no Calfoucoura.”
“And is there no Yanchetruz?”
“No; no Yanchetruz.”
The reply was interpreted by Thalcave, who shook his head and gave an
approving look. The Patagonian was either unaware of, or had forgotten
that civil war was decimating the two parts of the republic--a war
which ultimately required the intervention of Brazil. The Indians have
everything to gain by these intestine strifes, and can not lose such
fine opportunities of plunder. There was no doubt the Sergeant was right
in assigning war then as the cause of the forsaken appearance of the
plains.
But this circumstance upset all Glenarvan’s projects, for if Harry Grant
was a prisoner in the hands of the Caciques, he must have been dragged
north with them. How and where should they ever find him if that were
the case? Should they attempt a perilous and almost useless journey to
the northern border of the Pampas? It was a serious question which would
need to be well talked over.
However, there was one inquiry more to make to the Sergeant; and it was
the Major who thought of it, for all the others looked at each other in
silence.
“Had the Sergeant heard whether any Europeans were prisoners in the
hands of the Caciques?”
Manuel looked thoughtful for a few minutes, like a man trying to ransack
his memory. At last he said:
“Yes.”
“Ah!” said Glenarvan, catching at the fresh hope.
They all eagerly crowded round the Sergeant, exclaiming,
“Tell us, tell us.”
“It was some years ago,” replied Manuel. “Yes; all I heard was that some
Europeans were prisoners, but I never saw them.”
“You are making a mistake,” said Glenarvan. “It can’t be some years ago;
the date of the shipwreck is explicitly given. The BRITANNIA was wrecked
in June, 1862. It is scarcely two years ago.”
“Oh, more than that, my Lord.”
“Impossible!” said Paganel.
“Oh, but it must be. It was when Pepe was born. There were two
prisoners.”
“No, three!” said Glenarvan.
“Two!” replied the Sergeant, in a positive tone.
“Two?” echoed Glenarvan, much surprised. “Two Englishmen?”
“No, no. Who is talking of Englishmen? No; a Frenchman and an Italian.”
“An Italian who was massacred by the Poyuches?” exclaimed Paganel.
“Yes; and I heard afterward that the Frenchman was saved.”
“Saved!” exclaimed young Robert, his very life hanging on the lips of
the Sergeant.
“Yes; delivered out of the hands of the Indians.”
Paganel struck his forehead with an air of desperation, and said at
last,
“Ah! I understand. It is all clear now; everything is explained.”
“But what is it?” asked Glenarvan, with as much impatience.
“My friends,” replied Paganel, taking both Robert’s hands in his own,
“we must resign ourselves to a sad disaster. We have been on a wrong
track. The prisoner mentioned is not the captain at all, but one of my
own countrymen; and his companion, who was assassinated by the Poyuches,
was Marco Vazello. The Frenchman was dragged along by the cruel Indians
several times as far as the shores of the Colorado, but managed at
length to make his escape, and return to Colorado. Instead of following
the track of Harry Grant, we have fallen on that of young Guinnard.”
This announcement was heard with profound silence. The mistake was
palpable. The details given by the Sergeant, the nationality of the
prisoner, the murder of his companions, his escape from the hands of
the Indians, all evidenced the fact. Glenarvan looked at Thalcave with a
crestfallen face, and the Indian, turning to the Sergeant, asked whether
he had never heard of three English captives.
“Never,” replied Manuel. “They would have known of them at Tandil, I am
sure. No, it cannot be.”
After this, there was nothing further to do at Fort Independence but to
shake hands with the Commandant, and thank him and take leave.
Glenarvan was in despair at this complete overthrow of his hopes,
and Robert walked silently beside him, with his eyes full of tears.
Glenarvan could not find a word of comfort to say to him. Paganel
gesticulated and talked away to himself. The Major never opened his
mouth, nor Thalcave, whose _amour propre_, as an Indian, seemed quite
wounded by having allowed himself to go on a wrong scent. No one,
however, would have thought of reproaching him for an error so
pardonable.
They went back to the FONDA, and had supper; but it was a gloomy party
that surrounded the table. It was not that any one of them regretted the
fatigue they had so heedlessly endured or the dangers they had run, but
they felt their hope of success was gone, for there was no chance of
coming across Captain Grant between the Sierra Tandil and the sea, as
Sergeant Manuel must have heard if any prisoners had fallen into the
hands of the Indians on the coast of the Atlantic. Any event of this
nature would have attracted the notice of the Indian traders who traffic
between Tandil and Carmen, at the mouth of the Rio Negro. The best thing
to do now was to get to the DUNCAN as quick as possible at the appointed
rendezvous.
Paganel asked Glenarvan, however, to let him have the document again, on
the faith of which they had set out on so bootless a search. He read it
over and over, as if trying to extract some new meaning out of it.
“Yet nothing can be clearer,” said Glenarvan; “it gives the date of the
shipwreck, and the manner, and the place of the captivity in the most
categorical manner.”
“That it does not--no, it does not!” exclaimed Paganel, striking the
table with his fist. “Since Harry Grant is not in the Pampas, he is not
in America; but where he is the document must say, and it shall say, my
friends, or my name is not Jacques Paganel any longer.”
CHAPTER XXII THE FLOOD
A DISTANCE of 150 miles separates Fort Independence from the shores of
the Atlantic. Unless unexpected and certainly improbable delays should
occur, in four days Glenarvan would rejoin the DUNCAN. But to return on
board without Captain Grant, and after having so completely failed in
his search, was what he could not bring himself to do. Consequently,
when next day came, he gave no orders for departure; the Major took
it upon himself to have the horses saddled, and make all preparations.
Thanks to his activity, next morning at eight o’clock the little troop
was descending the grassy slopes of the Sierra.
Glenarvan, with Robert at his side, galloped along without saying a
word. His bold, determined nature made it impossible to take failure
quietly. His heart throbbed as if it would burst, and his head was
burning. Paganel, excited by the difficulty, was turning over and over
the words of the document, and trying to discover some new meaning.
Thalcave was perfectly silent, and left Thaouka to lead the way. The
Major, always confident, remained firm at his post, like a man on whom
discouragement takes no hold. Tom Austin and his two sailors shared the
dejection of their master. A timid rabbit happened to run across their
path, and the superstitious men looked at each other in dismay.
“A bad omen,” said Wilson.
“Yes, in the Highlands,” repeated Mulrady.
“What’s bad in the Highlands is not better here,” returned Wilson
sententiously.
Toward noon they had crossed the Sierra, and descended into the
undulating plains which extend to the sea. Limpid RIOS intersected these
plains, and lost themselves among the tall grasses. The ground had once
more become a dead level, the last mountains of the Pampas were passed,
and a long carpet of verdure unrolled itself over the monotonous prairie
beneath the horses’ tread.
Hitherto the weather had been fine, but to-day the sky presented
anything but a reassuring appearance. The heavy vapors, generated by the
high temperature of the preceding days, hung in thick clouds, which ere
long would empty themselves in torrents of rain. Moreover, the vicinity
of the Atlantic, and the prevailing west wind, made the climate of
this district particularly damp. This was evident by the fertility
and abundance of the pasture and its dark color. However, the clouds
remained unbroken for the present, and in the evening, after a brisk
gallop of forty miles, the horses stopped on the brink of deep CANADAS,
immense natural trenches filled with water. No shelter was near, and
ponchos had to serve both for tents and coverlets as each man lay down
and fell asleep beneath the threatening sky.
Next day the presence of water became still more sensibly felt; it
seemed to exude from every pore of the ground. Soon large ponds, some
just beginning to form, and some already deep, lay across the route to
the east. As long as they had only to deal with lagoons, circumscribed
pieces of water unencumbered with aquatic plants, the horses could get
through well enough, but when they encountered moving sloughs called
PENTANOS, it was harder work. Tall grass blocked them up, and they were
involved in the peril before they were aware.
These bogs had already proved fatal to more than one living thing, for
Robert, who had got a good bit ahead of the party, came rushing back at
full gallop, calling out:
“Monsieur Paganel, Monsieur Paganel, a forest of horns.”
“What!” exclaimed the geographer; “you have found a forest of horns?”
“Yes, yes, or at any rate a coppice.”
“A coppice!” replied Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. “My boy, you are
dreaming.”
“I am not dreaming, and you will see for yourself. Well, this is a
strange country. They sow horns, and they sprout up like wheat. I wish I
could get some of the seed.”
“The boy is really speaking seriously,” said the Major.
“Yes, Mr. Major, and you will soon see I am right.”
The boy had not been mistaken, for presently they found themselves in
front of an immense field of horns, regularly planted and stretching
far out of sight. It was a complete copse, low and close packed, but a
strange sort.
“Well,” said Robert.
“This is peculiar certainly,” said Paganel, and he turned round to
question Thalcave on the subject.
“The horns come out of the ground,” replied the Indian, “but the oxen
are down below.”
“What!” exclaimed Paganel; “do you mean to say that a whole herd was
caught in that mud and buried alive?”
“Yes,” said the Patagonian.
And so it was. An immense herd had been suffocated side by side in this
enormous bog, and this was not the first occurrence of the kind which
had taken place in the Argentine plains.
An hour afterward and the field of horns lay two miles behind.
Thalcave was somewhat anxiously observing a state of things which
appeared to him unusual. He frequently stopped and raised himself on his
stirrups and looked around. His great height gave him a commanding view
of the whole horizon; but after a keen rapid survey, he quickly resumed
his seat and went on. About a mile further he stopped again, and leaving
the straight route, made a circuit of some miles north and south, and
then returned and fell back in his place at the head of the troop,
without saying a syllable as to what he hoped or feared. This strange
behavior, several times repeated, made Glenarvan very uneasy, and quite
puzzled Paganel. At last, at Glenarvan’s request, he asked the Indian
about it.
Thalcave replied that he was astonished to see the plains so saturated
with water. Never, to his knowledge, since he had followed the calling
of guide, had he found the ground in this soaking condition. Even in the
rainy season, the Argentine plains had always been passable.
“But what is the cause of this increasing humidity?” said Paganel.
“I do not know, and what if I did?”
“Could it be owing to the RIOS of the Sierra being swollen to
overflowing by the heavy rains?”
“Sometimes they are.”
“And is it the case now?”
“Perhaps.”
Paganel was obliged to be content with this unsatisfactory reply, and
went back to Glenarvan to report the result of his conversation.
“And what does Thalcave advise us to do?” said Glenarvan.
Paganel went back to the guide and asked him.
“Go on fast,” was the reply.
This was easier said than done. The horses soon tired of treading over
ground that gave way at every step. It sank each moment more and more,
till it seemed half under water.
They quickened their pace, but could not go fast enough to escape the
water, which rolled in great sheets at their feet. Before two hours
the cataracts of the sky opened and deluged the plain in true tropical
torrents of rain. Never was there a finer occasion for displaying
philosophic equanimity. There was no shelter, and nothing for it but
to bear it stolidly. The ponchos were streaming like the overflowing
gutter-spouts on the roof of a house, and the unfortunate horsemen had
to submit to a double bath, for their horses dashed up the water to
their waists at every step.
In this drenching, shivering state, and worn out with fatigue, they came
toward evening to a miserable RANCHO, which could only have been called
a shelter by people not very fastidious, and certainly only travelers in
extremity would even have entered it; but Glenarvan and his companions
had no choice, and were glad enough to burrow in this wretched hovel,
though it would have been despised by even a poor Indian of the Pampas.
A miserable fire of grass was kindled, which gave out more smoke than
heat, and was very difficult to keep alight, as the torrents of rain
which dashed against the ruined cabin outside found their way within and
fell down in large drops from the roof. Twenty times over the fire would
have been extinguished if Mulrady and Wilson had not kept off the water.
The supper was a dull meal, and neither appetizing nor reviving. Only
the Major seemed to eat with any relish. The impassive McNabbs was
superior to all circumstances. Paganel, Frenchman as he was, tried to
joke, but the attempt was a failure.
“My jests are damp,” he said, “they miss fire.”
The only consolation in such circumstances was to sleep, and accordingly
each one lay down and endeavored to find in slumber a temporary
forgetfulness of his discomforts and his fatigues. The night was stormy,
and the planks of the rancho cracked before the blast as if every
instant they would give way. The poor horses outside, exposed to all the
inclemency of the weather, were making piteous moans, and their masters
were suffering quite as much inside the ruined RANCHO. However, sleep
overpowered them at length. Robert was the first to close his eyes and
lean his head against Glenarvan’s shoulder, and soon all the rest were
soundly sleeping too under the guardian eye of Heaven.
The night passed safely, and no one stirred till Thaouka woke them by
tapping vigorously against the RANCHO with his hoof. He knew it was time
to start, and at a push could give the signal as well as his master.
They owed the faithful creature too much to disobey him, and set off
immediately.
The rain had abated, but floods of water still covered the ground.
Paganel, on consulting his map, came to the conclusion that the RIOS
Grande and Vivarota, into which the water from the plains generally
runs, must have been united in one large bed several miles in extent.
Extreme haste was imperative, for all their lives depended on it. Should
the inundation increase, where could they find refuge? Not a single
elevated point was visible on the whole circle of the horizon, and on
such level plains water would sweep along with fearful rapidity.
The horses were spurred on to the utmost, and Thaouka led the way,
bounding over the water as if it had been his natural element. Certainly
he might justly have been called a sea-horse--better than many of the
amphibious animals who bear that name.
All of a sudden, about ten in the morning, Thaouka betrayed symptoms
of violent agitation. He kept turning round toward the south, neighing
continually, and snorting with wide open nostrils. He reared violently,
and Thalcave had some difficulty in keeping his seat. The foam from his
mouth was tinged with blood from the action of the bit, pulled tightly
by his master’s strong hand, and yet the fiery animal would not be
still. Had he been free, his master knew he would have fled away to the
north as fast as his legs would have carried him.
“What is the matter with Thaouka?” asked Paganel. “Is he bitten by the
leeches? They are very voracious in the Argentine streams.”
“No,” replied the Indian.
“Is he frightened at something, then?”
“Yes, he scents danger.”
“What danger?”
“I don’t know.”
But, though no danger was apparent to the eye, the ear could catch the
sound of a murmuring noise beyond the limits of the horizon, like the
coming in of the tide. Soon a confused sound was heard of bellowing
and neighing and bleating, and about a mile to the south immense flocks
appeared, rushing and tumbling over each other in the greatest disorder,
as they hurried pell-mell along with inconceivable rapidity. They raised
such a whirlwind of water in their course that it was impossible to
distinguish them clearly. A hundred whales of the largest size could
hardly have dashed up the ocean waves more violently.
“_Anda, anda!_” (quick, quick), shouted Thalcave, in a voice like
thunder.
“What is it, then?” asked Paganel.
“The rising,” replied Thalcave.
“He means an inundation,” exclaimed Paganel, flying with the others
after Thalcave, who had spurred on his horse toward the north.
It was high time, for about five miles south an immense towering wave
was seen advancing over the plain, and changing the whole country into
an ocean. The tall grass disappeared before it as if cut down by a
scythe, and clumps of mimosas were torn up and drifted about like
floating islands.
The wave was speeding on with the rapidity of a racehorse, and the
travelers fled before it like a cloud before a storm-wind. They looked
in vain for some harbor of refuge, and the terrified horses galloped so
wildly along that the riders could hardly keep their saddles.
“_Anda, anda!_” shouted Thalcave, and again they spurred on the poor
animals till the blood ran from their lacerated sides. They stumbled
every now and then over great cracks in the ground, or got entangled in
the hidden grass below the water. They fell, and were pulled up only to
fall again and again, and be pulled up again and again. The level of
the waters was sensibly rising, and less than two miles off the gigantic
wave reared its crested head.
For a quarter of an hour this supreme struggle with the most terrible
of elements lasted. The fugitives could not tell how far they had gone,
but, judging by the speed, the distance must have been considerable.
The poor horses, however, were breast-high in water now, and could only
advance with extreme difficulty. Glenarvan and Paganel, and, indeed,
the whole party, gave themselves up for lost, as the horses were fast
getting out of their depth, and six feet of water would be enough to
drown them.
It would be impossible to tell the anguish of mind these eight men
endured; they felt their own impotence in the presence of these
cataclysms of nature so far beyond all human power. Their salvation did
not lie in their own hands.
Five minutes afterward, and the horses were swimming; the current alone
carried them along with tremendous force, and with a swiftness equal to
their fastest gallop; they must have gone fully twenty miles an hour.
All hope of delivery seemed impossible, when the Major suddenly called
out:
“A tree!”
“A tree?” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, there, there!” replied Thalcave, pointing with his finger to a
species of gigantic walnut-tree, which raised its solitary head above
the waters.
His companions needed no urging forward now; this tree, so opportunely
discovered, they must reach at all hazards. The horses very likely might
not be able to get to it, but, at all events, the men would, the current
bearing them right down to it.
Just at that moment Tom Austin’s horse gave a smothered neigh and
disappeared. His master, freeing his feet from the stirrups, began to
swim vigorously.
“Hang on to my saddle,” called Glenarvan.
“Thanks, your honor, but I have good stout arms.”
“Robert, how is your horse going?” asked his Lordship, turning to young
Grant.
“Famously, my Lord, he swims like a fish.”
“Lookout!” shouted the Major, in a stentorian voice.
The warning was scarcely spoken before the enormous billow, a monstrous
wave forty feet high, broke over the fugitives with a fearful noise. Men
and animals all disappeared in a whirl of foam; a liquid mass, weighing
several millions of tons, engulfed them in its seething waters.
When it had rolled on, the men reappeared on the surface, and counted
each other rapidly; but all the horses, except Thaouka, who still bore
his master, had gone down forever.
“Courage, courage,” repeated Glenarvan, supporting Paganel with one arm,
and swimming with the other.
“I can manage, I can manage,” said the worthy savant. “I am even not
sorry--”
But no one ever knew what he was not sorry about, for the poor man was
obliged to swallow down the rest of his sentence with half a pint of
muddy water. The Major advanced quietly, making regular strokes, worthy
of a master swimmer. The sailors took to the water like porpoises, while
Robert clung to Thaouka’s mane, and was carried along with him. The
noble animal swam superbly, instinctively making for the tree in a
straight line.
The tree was only twenty fathoms off, and in a few minutes was safely
reached by the whole party; but for this refuge they must all have
perished in the flood.
The water had risen to the top of the trunk, just to where the parent
branches fork out. It was consequently, quite easy to clamber up to it.
Thalcave climbed up first, and got off his horse to hoist up Robert and
help the others. His powerful arms had soon placed all the exhausted
swimmers in a place of security.
But, meantime, Thaouka was being rapidly carried away by the current.
He turned his intelligent face toward his master, and, shaking his long
mane, neighed as if to summon him to his rescue.
“Are you going to forsake him, Thalcave?” asked Paganel.
“I!” replied the Indian, and forthwith he plunged down into the
tumultuous waters, and came up again ten fathoms off. A few instants
afterward his arms were round Thaouka’s neck, and master and steed were
drifting together toward the misty horizon of the north.
CHAPTER XXIII A SINGULAR ABODE
THE tree on which Glenarvan and his companions had just found refuge,
resembled a walnut-tree, having the same glossy foliage and rounded
form. In reality, however, it was the OMBU, which grows solitarily on
the Argentine plains. The enormous and twisted trunk of this tree is
planted firmly in the soil, not only by its great roots, but still
more by its vigorous shoots, which fasten it down in the most tenacious
manner. This was how it stood proof against the shock of the mighty
billow.
This OMBU measured in height a hundred feet, and covered with its shadow
a circumference of one hundred and twenty yards. All this scaffolding
rested on three great boughs which sprang from the trunk. Two of these
rose almost perpendicularly, and supported the immense parasol of
foliage, the branches of which were so crossed and intertwined and
entangled, as if by the hand of a basket-maker, that they formed an
impenetrable shade. The third arm, on the contrary, stretched right out
in a horizontal position above the roaring waters, into which the
lower leaves dipped. There was no want of room in the interior of this
gigantic tree, for there were great gaps in the foliage, perfect glades,
with air in abundance, and freshness everywhere. To see the innumerable
branches rising to the clouds, and the creepers running from bough to
bough, and attaching them together while the sunlight glinted here
and there among the leaves, one might have called it a complete forest
instead of a solitary tree sheltering them all.
On the arrival of the fugitives a myriad of the feathered tribes fled
away into the topmost branches, protesting by their outcries against
this flagrant usurpation of their domicile. These birds, who themselves
had taken refuge in the solitary OMBU, were in hundreds, comprising
blackbirds, starlings, isacas, HILGUEROS, and especially the pica-flor,
humming-birds of most resplendent colors. When they flew away it seemed
as though a gust of wind had blown all the flowers off the tree.
Such was the asylum offered to the little band of Glenarvan. Young Grant
and the agile Wilson were scarcely perched on the tree before they had
climbed to the upper branches and put their heads through the leafy
dome to get a view of the vast horizon. The ocean made by the inundation
surrounded them on all sides, and, far as the eye could reach, seemed to
have no limits. Not a single tree was visible on the liquid plain; the
OMBU stood alone amid the rolling waters, and trembled before them.
In the distance, drifting from south to north, carried along by
the impetuous torrent, they saw trees torn up by the roots, twisted
branches, roofs torn off, destroyed RANCHOS, planks of sheds stolen by
the deluge from ESTANCIAS, carcasses of drowned animals, blood-stained
skins, and on a shaky tree a complete family of jaguars, howling and
clutching hold of their frail raft. Still farther away, a black spot
almost invisible, already caught Wilson’s eye. It was Thalcave and his
faithful Thaouka.
“Thalcave, Thalcave!” shouted Robert, stretching out his hands toward
the courageous Patagonian.
“He will save himself, Mr. Robert,” replied Wilson; “we must go down to
his Lordship.”
Next minute they had descended the three stages of boughs, and landed
safely on the top of the trunk, where they found Glenarvan, Paganel, the
Major, Austin, and Mulrady, sitting either astride or in some
position they found more comfortable. Wilson gave an account of their
investigations aloft, and all shared his opinion with respect to
Thalcave. The only question was whether it was Thalcave who would save
Thaouka, or Thaouka save Thalcave.
Their own situation meantime was much more alarming than his. No doubt
the tree would be able to resist the current, but the waters might
rise higher and higher, till the topmost branches were covered, for the
depression of the soil made this part of the plain a deep reservoir.
Glenarvan’s first care, consequently, was to make notches by which
to ascertain the progress of the inundation. For the present it was
stationary, having apparently reached its height. This was reassuring.
“And now what are we going to do?” said Glenarvan.
“Make our nest, of course!” replied Paganel
“Make our nest!” exclaimed Robert.
“Certainly, my boy, and live the life of birds, since we can’t that of
fishes.”
“All very well, but who will fill our bills for us?” said Glenarvan.
“I will,” said the Major.
All eyes turned toward him immediately, and there he sat in a natural
arm-chair, formed of two elastic boughs, holding out his ALFORJAS damp,
but still intact.
“Oh, McNabbs, that’s just like you,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “you think of
everything even under circumstances which would drive all out of your
head.”
“Since it was settled we were not going to be drowned, I had no
intention of starving of hunger.”
“I should have thought of it, too,” said Paganel, “but I am so
DISTRAIT.”
“And what is in the ALFORJAS?” asked Tom Austin.
“Food enough to last seven men for two days,” replied McNabbs.
“And I hope the inundation will have gone down in twenty-four hours,”
said Glenarvan.
“Or that we shall have found some way of regaining _terra firma_,” added
Paganel.
“Our first business, then, now is to breakfast,” said Glenarvan.
“I suppose you mean after we have made ourselves dry,” observed the
Major.
“And where’s the fire?” asked Wilson.
“We must make it,” returned Paganel.
“Where?”
“On the top of the trunk, of course.”
“And what with?”
“With the dead wood we cut off the tree.”
“But how will you kindle it?” asked Glenarvan. “Our tinder is just like
wet sponge.”
“We can dispense with it,” replied Paganel. “We only want a little dry
moss and a ray of sunshine, and the lens of my telescope, and you’ll see
what a fire I’ll get to dry myself by. Who will go and cut wood in the
forest?”
“I will,” said Robert.
And off he scampered like a young cat into the depths of the foliage,
followed by his friend Wilson. Paganel set to work to find dry moss, and
had soon gathered sufficient. This he laid on a bed of damp leaves, just
where the large branches began to fork out, forming a natural hearth,
where there was little fear of conflagration.
Robert and Wilson speedily reappeared, each with an armful of dry wood,
which they threw on the moss. By the help of the lens it was easily
kindled, for the sun was blazing overhead. In order to ensure a proper
draught, Paganel stood over the hearth with his long legs straddled out
in the Arab manner. Then stooping down and raising himself with a rapid
motion, he made a violent current of air with his poncho, which made
the wood take fire, and soon a bright flame roared in the improvised
brasier. After drying themselves, each in his own fashion, and hanging
their ponchos on the tree, where they were swung to and fro in
the breeze, they breakfasted, carefully however rationing out the
provisions, for the morrow had to be thought of; the immense basin might
not empty so soon as Glenarvan expected, and, anyway, the supply was
very limited. The OMBU produced no fruit, though fortunately, it would
likely abound in fresh eggs, thanks to the numerous nests stowed away
among the leaves, not to speak of their feathered proprietors. These
resources were by no means to be despised.
The next business was to install themselves as comfortably as they
could, in prospect of a long stay.
“As the kitchen and dining-room are on the ground floor,” said Paganel,
“we must sleep on the first floor. The house is large, and as the rent
is not dear, we must not cramp ourselves for room. I can see up yonder
natural cradles, in which once safely tucked up we shall sleep as if we
were in the best beds in the world. We have nothing to fear. Besides, we
will watch, and we are numerous enough to repulse a fleet of Indians and
other wild animals.”
“We only want fire-arms.”
“I have my revolvers,” said Glenarvan.
“And I have mine,” replied Robert.
“But what’s the good of them?” said Tom Austin, “unless Monsieur Paganel
can find out some way of making powder.”
“We don’t need it,” replied McNabbs, exhibiting a powder flask in a
perfect state of preservation.
“Where did you get it from, Major,” asked Paganel.
“From Thalcave. He thought it might be useful to us, and gave it to me
before he plunged into the water to save Thaouka.”
“Generous, brave Indian!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes,” replied Tom Austin, “if all the Patagonians are cut after the
same pattern, I must compliment Patagonia.”
“I protest against leaving out the horse,” said Paganel. “He is part
and parcel of the Patagonian, and I’m much mistaken if we don’t see them
again, the one on the other’s back.”
“What distance are we from the Atlantic?” asked the Major.
“About forty miles at the outside,” replied Paganel; “and now, friends,
since this is Liberty Hall, I beg to take leave of you. I am going
to choose an observatory for myself up there, and by the help of my
telescope, let you know how things are going on in the world.”
Forthwith the geographer set off, hoisting himself up very cleverly
from bough to bough, till he disappeared beyond the thick foliage. His
companions began to arrange the night quarters, and prepare their beds.
But this was neither a long nor difficult task, and very soon they
resumed their seats round the fire to have a talk.
As usual their theme was Captain Grant. In three days, should the water
subside, they would be on board the DUNCAN once more. But Harry Grant
and his two sailors, those poor shipwrecked fellows, would not be with
them. Indeed, it even seemed after this ill success and this useless
journey across America, that all chance of finding them was gone
forever. Where could they commence a fresh quest? What grief Lady Helena
and Mary Grant would feel on hearing there was no further hope.
“Poor sister!” said Robert. “It is all up with us.”
For the first time Glenarvan could not find any comfort to give him.
What could he say to the lad?
Had they not searched exactly where the document stated?
“And yet,” he said, “this thirty-seventh degree of latitude is not a
mere figure, and that it applies to the shipwreck or captivity of Harry
Grant, is no mere guess or supposition. We read it with our own eyes.”
“All very true, your Honor,” replied Tom Austin, “and yet our search has
been unsuccessful.”
“It is both a provoking and hopeless business,” replied Glenarvan.
“Provoking enough, certainly,” said the Major, “but not hopeless. It is
precisely because we have an uncontestable figure, provided for us, that
we should follow it up to the end.”
“What do you mean?” asked Glenarvan. “What more can we do?”
“A very logical and simple thing, my dear Edward. When we go on board
the DUNCAN, turn her beak head to the east, and go right along the
thirty-seventh parallel till we come back to our starting point if
necessary.”
“Do you suppose that I have not thought of that, Mr. McNabbs?” replied
Glenarvan. “Yes, a hundred times. But what chance is there of success?
To leave the American continent, wouldn’t it be to go away from the very
spot indicated by Harry Grant, from this very Patagonia so distinctly
named in the document.”
“And would you recommence your search in the Pampas, when you have the
certainty that the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA neither occurred on the
coasts of the Pacific nor the Atlantic?”
Glenarvan was silent.
“And however small the chance of finding Harry Grant by following up the
given parallel, ought we not to try?”
“I don’t say no,” replied Glenarvan.
“And are you not of my opinion, good friends,” added the Major,
addressing the sailors.
“Entirely,” said Tom Austin, while Mulrady and Wilson gave an assenting
nod.
“Listen to me, friends,” said Glenarvan after a few minutes’ reflection;
“and remember, Robert, this is a grave discussion. I will do my utmost
to find Captain Grant; I am pledged to it, and will devote my whole life
to the task if needs be. All Scotland would unite with me to save so
devoted a son as he has been to her. I too quite think with you that we
must follow the thirty-seventh parallel round the globe if necessary,
however slight our chance of finding him. But that is not the question
we have to settle. There is one much more important than that is--should
we from this time, and all together, give up our search on the American
continent?”
No one made any reply. Each one seemed afraid to pronounce the word.
“Well?” resumed Glenarvan, addressing himself especially to the Major.
“My dear Edward,” replied McNabbs, “it would be incurring too great a
responsibility for me to reply _hic et nunc_. It is a question which
requires reflection. I must know first, through which countries the
thirty-seventh parallel of southern latitude passes?”
“That’s Paganel’s business; he will tell you that,” said Glenarvan.
“Let’s ask him, then,” replied the Major.
But the learned geographer was nowhere to be seen. He was hidden among
the thick leafage of the OMBU, and they must call out if they wanted
him.
“Paganel, Paganel!” shouted Glenarvan.
“Here,” replied a voice that seemed to come from the clouds.
“Where are you?”
“In my tower.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Examining the wide horizon.”
“Could you come down for a minute?”
“Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To know what countries the thirty-seventh parallel passes through.”
“That’s easily said. I need not disturb myself to come down for that.”
“Very well, tell us now.”
“Listen, then. After leaving America the thirty-seventh parallel crosses
the Atlantic Ocean.”
“And then?”
“It encounters Isle Tristan d’Acunha.”
“Yes.”
“It goes on two degrees below the Cape of Good Hope.”
“And afterwards?”
“Runs across the Indian Ocean, and just touches Isle St. Pierre, in the
Amsterdam group.”
“Go on.”
“It cuts Australia by the province of Victoria.”
“And then.”
“After leaving Australia in--”
This last sentence was not completed. Was the geographer hesitating, or
didn’t he know what to say?
No; but a terrible cry resounded from the top of the tree. Glenarvan and
his friends turned pale and looked at each other. What fresh catastrophe
had happened now? Had the unfortunate Paganel slipped his footing?
Already Wilson and Mulrady had rushed to his rescue when his long body
appeared tumbling down from branch to branch.
But was he living or dead, for his hands made no attempt to seize
anything to stop himself. A few minutes more, and he would have fallen
into the roaring waters had not the Major’s strong arm barred his
passage.
“Much obliged, McNabbs,” said Paganel.
“How’s this? What is the matter with you? What came over you? Another of
your absent fits.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Paganel, in a voice almost inarticulate with
emotion. “Yes, but this was something extraordinary.”
“What was it?”
“I said we had made a mistake. We are making it still, and have been all
along.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Glenarvan, Major, Robert, my friends,” exclaimed Paganel, “all you that
hear me, we are looking for Captain Grant where he is not to be found.”
“What do you say?” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Not only where he is not now, but where he has never been.”
CHAPTER XXIV PAGANEL’S DISCLOSURE
PROFOUND astonishment greeted these unexpected words of the learned
geographer. What could he mean? Had he lost his sense? He spoke with
such conviction, however, that all eyes turned toward Glenarvan, for
Paganel’s affirmation was a direct answer to his question, but Glenarvan
shook his head, and said nothing, though evidently he was not inclined
to favor his friend’s views.
“Yes,” began Paganel again, as soon as he had recovered himself a
little; “yes, we have gone a wrong track, and read on the document what
was never there.”
“Explain yourself, Paganel,” said the Major, “and more calmly if you
can.”
“The thing is very simple, Major. Like you, I was in error; like you, I
had rushed at a false interpretation, until about an instant ago, on
the top of the tree, when I was answering your questions, just as I
pronounced the word ‘Australia,’ a sudden flash came across my mind, and
the document became clear as day.”
“What!” exclaimed Glenarvan, “you mean to say that Harry Grant--”
“I mean to say,” replied Paganel, “that the word AUSTRAL that occurs in
the document is not a complete word, as we have supposed up till now,
but just the root of the word AUSTRALIE.”
“Well, that would be strange,” said the Major.
“Strange!” repeated Glenarvan, shrugging his shoulders; “it is simply
impossible.”
“Impossible?” returned Paganel. “That is a word we don’t allow in
France.”
“What!” continued Glenarvan, in a tone of the most profound incredulity,
“you dare to contend, with the document in your hand, that the shipwreck
of the BRITANNIA happened on the shores of Australia.”
“I am sure of it,” replied Paganel.
“My conscience,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “I must say I am surprised at such
a declaration from the Secretary of a Geographical Society!”
“And why so?” said Paganel, touched in his weak point.
“Because, if you allow the word AUSTRALIE! you must also allow the word
INDIENS, and Indians are never seen there.”
Paganel was not the least surprised at this rejoinder. Doubtless he
expected it, for he began to smile, and said:
“My dear Glenarvan, don’t triumph over me too fast. I am going to floor
you completely, and never was an Englishman more thoroughly defeated
than you will be. It will be the revenge for Cressy and Agincourt.”
“I wish nothing better. Take your revenge, Paganel.”
“Listen, then. In the text of the document, there is neither mention
of the Indians nor of Patagonia! The incomplete word INDI does not mean
INDIENS, but of course, INDIGENES, aborigines! Now, do you admit that
there are aborigines in Australia?”
“Bravo, Paganel!” said the Major.
“Well, do you agree to my interpretation, my dear Lord?” asked the
geographer again.
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, “if you will prove to me that the fragment of
a word GONIE, does not refer to the country of the Patagonians.”
“Certainly it does not. It has nothing to do with Patagonia,” said
Paganel. “Read it any way you please except that.”
“How?”
“_Cosmogonie, theogonie, agonie_.”
“AGONIE,” said the Major.
“I don’t care which,” returned Paganel. “The word is quite unimportant;
I will not even try to find out its meaning. The main point is that
AUSTRAL means AUSTRALIE, and we must have gone blindly on a wrong track
not to have discovered the explanation at the very beginning, it was
so evident. If I had found the document myself, and my judgment had
not been misled by your interpretation, I should never have read it
differently.”
A burst of hurrahs, and congratulations, and compliments followed
Paganel’s words. Austin and the sailors, and the Major and Robert, most
all overjoyed at this fresh hope, applauded him heartily; while even
Glenarvan, whose eyes were gradually getting open, was almost prepared
to give in.
“I only want to know one thing more, my dear Paganel,” he said, “and
then I must bow to your perspicacity.”
“What is it?”
“How will you group the words together according to your new
interpretation? How will the document read?”
“Easily enough answered. Here is the document,” replied Paganel, taking
out the precious paper he had been studying so conscientiously for the
last few days.
For a few minutes there was complete silence, while the worthy SAVANT
took time to collect his thoughts before complying with his lordship’s
request. Then putting his finger on the words, and emphasizing some of
them, he began as follows:
“‘_Le 7 juin_ 1862 _le trois-mats Britannia de Glasgow a sombre
apres_,’--put, if you please, ‘_deux jours, trois jours_,’ or
‘_une longue agonie_,’ it doesn’t signify, it is quite a matter of
indifference,--‘_sur les cotes de l’Australie. Se dirigeant a terre,
deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant vont essayer d’aborder_,’ or ‘_ont
aborde le continent ou ils seront_,’ or, ‘_sont prisonniers de cruels
indigenes. Ils ont jete ce documents_,’ etc. Is that clear?”
“Clear enough,” replied Glenarvan, “if the word continent can be applied
to Australia, which is only an island.”
“Make yourself easy about that, my dear Glenarvan; the best geographers
have agreed to call the island the Australian Continent.”
“Then all I have now to say is, my friends,” said Glenarvan, “away to
Australia, and may Heaven help us!”
“To Australia!” echoed his companions, with one voice.
“I tell you what, Paganel,” added Glenarvan, “your being on board the
DUNCAN is a perfect providence.”
“All right. Look on me as a messenger of providence, and let us drop the
subject.”
So the conversation ended--a conversation which great results were to
follow; it completely changed the moral condition of the travelers;
it gave the clew of the labyrinth in which they had thought themselves
hopelessly entangled, and, amid their ruined projects, inspired them
with fresh hope. They could now quit the American Continent without
the least hesitation, and already their thoughts had flown to the
Australias. In going on board the DUNCAN again they would not bring
despair with them, and Lady Helena and Mary Grant would not have to
mourn the irrevocable loss of Captain Grant. This thought so filled them
with joy that they forgot all the dangers of their actual situation, and
only regretted that they could not start immediately.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and they determined to have
supper at six. Paganel wished to get up a splendid spread in honor of
the occasion, but as the materials were very scanty, he proposed to
Robert to go and hunt in the neighboring forest. Robert clapped his
hands at the idea, so they took Thalcave’s powder flask, cleaned the
revolvers and loaded them with small shot, and set off.
“Don’t go too far,” said the Major, gravely, to the two hunters.
After their departure, Glenarvan and McNabbs went down to examine the
state of the water by looking at the notches they had made on the tree,
and Wilson and Mulrady replenished the fire.
No sign of decrease appeared on the surface of the immense lake, yet the
flood seemed to have reached its maximum height; but the violence with
which it rushed from the south to north proved that the equilibrium of
the Argentine rivers was not restored. Before getting lower the liquid
mass must remain stationary, as in the case with the ocean before the
ebb tide commences.
While Glenarvan and his cousin were making these observations, the
report of firearms resounded frequently above their heads, and the
jubilant outcries of the two sportsmen--for Paganel was every whit as
much a child as Robert. They were having a fine time of it among the
thick leaves, judging by the peals of laughter which rang out in
the boy’s clear treble voice and Paganel’s deep bass. The chase was
evidently successful, and wonders in culinary art might be expected.
Wilson had a good idea to begin with, which he had skilfully carried
out; for when Glenarvan came back to the brasier, he found that the
brave fellow had actually managed to catch, with only a pin and a piece
of string, several dozen small fish, as delicate as smelts, called
MOJARRAS, which were all jumping about in a fold of his poncho, ready to
be converted into an exquisite dish.
At the same moment the hunters reappeared. Paganel was carefully
carrying some black swallows’ eggs, and a string of sparrows, which he
meant to serve up later under the name of field larks. Robert had been
clever enough to bring down several brace of HILGUEROS, small green and
yellow birds, which are excellent eating, and greatly in demand in the
Montevideo market. Paganel, who knew fifty ways of dressing eggs, was
obliged for this once to be content with simply hardening them on the
hot embers. But notwithstanding this, the viands at the meal were
both dainty and varied. The dried beef, hard eggs, grilled MOJARRAS,
sparrows, and roast HILGUEROS, made one of those gala feasts the memory
of which is imperishable.
The conversation was very animated. Many compliments were paid Paganel
on his twofold talents as hunter and cook, which the SAVANT accepted
with the modesty which characterizes true merit. Then he turned the
conversation on the peculiarities of the OMBU, under whose canopy they
had found shelter, and whose depths he declared were immense.
“Robert and I,” he added, jestingly, “thought ourselves hunting in the
open forest. I was afraid, for the minute, we should lose ourselves,
for I could not find the road. The sun was sinking below the horizon; I
sought vainly for footmarks; I began to feel the sharp pangs of hunger,
and the gloomy depths of the forest resounded already with the roar of
wild beasts. No, not that; there are no wild beasts here, I am sorry to
say.”
“What!” exclaimed Glenarvan, “you are sorry there are no wild beasts?”
“Certainly I am.”
“And yet we should have every reason to dread their ferocity.”
“Their ferocity is non-existent, scientifically speaking,” replied the
learned geographer.
“Now come, Paganel,” said the Major, “you’ll never make me admit the
utility of wild beasts. What good are they?”
“Why, Major,” exclaimed Paganel, “for purposes of classification into
orders, and families, and species, and sub-species.”
“A mighty advantage, certainly!” replied McNabbs, “I could dispense
with all that. If I had been one of Noah’s companions at the time of the
deluge, I should most assuredly have hindered the imprudent patriarch
from putting in pairs of lions, and tigers, and panthers, and bears, and
such animals, for they are as malevolent as they are useless.”
“You would have done that?” asked Paganel.
“Yes, I would.”
“Well, you would have done wrong in a zoological point of view,”
returned Paganel.
“But not in a humanitarian one,” rejoined the Major.
“It is shocking!” replied Paganel. “Why, for my part, on the contrary,
I should have taken special care to preserve megatheriums and
pterodactyles, and all the antediluvian species of which we are
unfortunately deprived by his neglect.”
“And I say,” returned McNabbs, “that Noah did a very good thing when he
abandoned them to their fate--that is, if they lived in his day.”
“And I say he did a very bad thing,” retorted Paganel, “and he has
justly merited the malediction of SAVANTS to the end of time!”
The rest of the party could not help laughing at hearing the two friends
disputing over old Noah. Contrary to all his principles, the Major, who
all his life had never disputed with anyone, was always sparring with
Paganel. The geographer seemed to have a peculiarly exciting effect on
him.
Glenarvan, as usual, always the peacemaker, interfered in the debate,
and said:
“Whether the loss of ferocious animals is to be regretted or not, in
a scientific point of view, there is no help for it now; we must be
content to do without them. Paganel can hardly expect to meet with wild
beasts in this aerial forest.”
“Why not?” asked the geographer.
“Wild beasts on a tree!” exclaimed Tom Austin.
“Yes, undoubtedly. The American tiger, the jaguar, takes refuge in the
trees, when the chase gets too hot for him. It is quite possible that
one of these animals, surprised by the inundation, might have climbed up
into this OMBU, and be hiding now among its thick foliage.”
“You haven’t met any of them, at any rate, I suppose?” said the Major.
“No,” replied Paganel, “though we hunted all through the wood. It
is vexing, for it would have been a splendid chase. A jaguar is a
bloodthirsty, ferocious creature. He can twist the neck of a horse
with a single stroke of his paw. When he has once tasted human flesh he
scents it greedily. He likes to eat an Indian best, and next to him a
negro, then a mulatto, and last of all a white man.”
“I am delighted to hear we come number four,” said McNabbs.
“That only proves you are insipid,” retorted Paganel, with an air of
disdain.
“I am delighted to be insipid,” was the Major’s reply.
“Well, it is humiliating enough,” said the intractable Paganel. “The
white man proclaimed himself chief of the human race; but Mr. Jaguar is
of a different opinion it seems.”
“Be that as it may, my brave Paganel, seeing there are neither Indians,
nor negroes, nor mulattoes among us, I am quite rejoiced at the
absence of your beloved jaguars. Our situation is not so particularly
agreeable.”
“What! not agreeable!” exclaimed Paganel, jumping at the word as likely
to give a new turn to the conversation. “You are complaining of your
lot, Glenarvan.”
“I should think so, indeed,” replied Glenarvan. “Do you find these
uncomfortable hard branches very luxurious?”
“I have never been more comfortable, even in my study. We live like the
birds, we sing and fly about. I begin to believe men were intended to
live on trees.”
“But they want wings,” suggested the Major.
“They’ll make them some day.”
“And till then,” put in Glenarvan, “with your leave, I prefer the gravel
of a park, or the floor of a house, or the deck of a ship, to this
aerial dwelling.”
“We must take things as they come, Glenarvan,” returned Paganel. “If
good, so much the better; if bad, never mind. Ah, I see you are wishing
you had all the comforts of Malcolm Castle.”
“No, but--”
“I am quite certain Robert is perfectly happy,” interrupted Paganel,
eager to insure one partisan at least.
“Yes, that I am!” exclaimed Robert, in a joyous tone.
“At his age it is quite natural,” replied Glenarvan.
“And at mine, too,” returned the geographer. “The fewer one’s comforts,
the fewer one’s needs; and the fewer one’s needs, the greater one’s
happiness.”
“Now, now,” said the Major, “here is Paganel running a tilt against
riches and gilt ceilings.”
“No, McNabbs,” replied the SAVANT, “I’m not; but if you like, I’ll tell
you a little Arabian story that comes into my mind, very APROPOS this
minute.”
“Oh, do, do,” said Robert.
“And what is your story to prove, Paganel?” inquired the Major.
“Much what all stories prove, my brave comrade.”
“Not much then,” rejoined McNabbs. “But go on, Scheherazade, and tell us
the story.”
“There was once,” said Paganel, “a son of the great Haroun-al-Raschid,
who was unhappy, and went to consult an old Dervish. The old sage
told him that happiness was a difficult thing to find in this world.
‘However,’ he added, ‘I know an infallible means of procuring your
happiness.’ ‘What is it?’ asked the young Prince. ‘It is to put the
shirt of a happy man on your shoulders.’ Whereupon the Prince embraced
the old man, and set out at once to search for his talisman. He visited
all the capital cities in the world. He tried on the shirts of kings,
and emperors, and princes and nobles; but all in vain: he could not find
a man among them that was happy. Then he put on the shirts of artists,
and warriors, and merchants; but these were no better. By this time
he had traveled a long way, without finding what he sought. At last he
began to despair of success, and began sorrowfully to retrace his steps
back to his father’s palace, when one day he heard an honest peasant
singing so merrily as he drove the plow, that he thought, ‘Surely this
man is happy, if there is such a thing as happiness on earth.’ Forthwith
he accosted him, and said, ‘Are you happy?’ ‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘There
is nothing you desire?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘You would not change your lot for
that of a king?’ ‘Never!’ ‘Well, then, sell me your shirt.’ ‘My shirt! I
haven’t one!’”
CHAPTER XXV BETWEEN FIRE AND WATER
BEFORE turning into “their nest,” as Paganel had called it, he, and
Robert, and Glenarvan climbed up into the observatory to have one more
inspection of the liquid plain. It was about nine o’clock; the sun had
just sunk behind the glowing mists of the western horizon.
The eastern horizon was gradually assuming a most stormy aspect. A
thick dark bar of cloud was rising higher and higher, and by degrees
extinguishing the stars. Before long half the sky was overspread.
Evidently motive power lay in the cloud itself, for there was not a
breath of wind. Absolute calm reigned in the atmosphere; not a leaf
stirred on the tree, not a ripple disturbed the surface of the water.
There seemed to be scarcely any air even, as though some vast pneumatic
machine had rarefied it. The entire atmosphere was charged to the utmost
with electricity, the presence of which sent a thrill through the whole
nervous system of all animated beings.
“We are going to have a storm,” said Paganel.
“You’re not afraid of thunder, are you, Robert?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord!” exclaimed Robert. “Well, my boy, so much the better, for
a storm is not far off.”
“And a violent one, too,” added Paganel, “if I may judge by the look of
things.”
“It is not the storm I care about,” said Glenarvan, “so much as the
torrents of rain that will accompany it. We shall be soaked to the skin.
Whatever you may say, Paganel, a nest won’t do for a man, and you will
learn that soon, to your cost.”
“With the help of philosophy, it will,” replied Paganel.
“Philosophy! that won’t keep you from getting drenched.”
“No, but it will warm you.”
“Well,” said Glenarvan, “we had better go down to our friends, and
advise them to wrap themselves up in their philosophy and their ponchos
as tightly as possible, and above all, to lay in a stock of patience,
for we shall need it before very long.”
Glenarvan gave a last glance at the angry sky. The clouds now covered it
entirely; only a dim streak of light shone faintly in the west. A dark
shadow lay on the water, and it could hardly be distinguished from the
thick vapors above it. There was no sensation of light or sound. All was
darkness and silence around.
“Let us go down,” said Glenarvan; “the thunder will soon burst over us.”
On returning to the bottom of the tree, they found themselves, to
their great surprise, in a sort of dim twilight, produced by myriads of
luminous specks which appeared buzzing confusedly over the surface of
the water.
“It is phosphorescence, I suppose,” said Glenarvan.
“No, but phosphorescent insects, positive glow-worms, living diamonds,
which the ladies of Buenos Ayres convert into magnificent ornaments.”
“What!” exclaimed Robert, “those sparks flying about are insects!”
“Yes, my boy.”
Robert caught one in his hand, and found Paganel was right. It was a
kind of large drone, an inch long, and the Indians call it “tuco-tuco.”
This curious specimen of the COLEOPTERA sheds its radiance from two
spots in the front of its breast-plate, and the light is sufficient to
read by. Holding his watch close to the insect, Paganel saw distinctly
that the time was 10 P. M.
On rejoining the Major and his three sailors, Glenarvan warned them of
the approaching storm, and advised them to secure themselves in their
beds of branches as firmly as possible, for there was no doubt that
after the first clap of thunder the wind would become unchained, and the
OMBU would be violently shaken. Though they could not defend themselves
from the waters above, they might at least keep out of the rushing
current beneath.
They wished one another “good-night,” though hardly daring to hope
for it, and then each one rolled himself in his poncho and lay down to
sleep.
But the approach of the great phenomena of nature excites vague
uneasiness in the heart of every sentient being, even in the most
strong-minded. The whole party in the OMBU felt agitated and oppressed,
and not one of them could close his eyes. The first peal of thunder
found them wide awake. It occurred about 11 P. M., and sounded like
a distant rolling. Glenarvan ventured to creep out of the sheltering
foliage, and made his way to the extremity of the horizontal branch to
take a look round.
The deep blackness of the night was already scarified with sharp bright
lines, which were reflected back by the water with unerring exactness.
The clouds had rent in many parts, but noiselessly, like some soft
cotton material. After attentively observing both the zenith and
horizon, Glenarvan went back to the center of the trunk.
“Well, Glenarvan, what’s your report?” asked Paganel.
“I say it is beginning in good earnest, and if it goes on so we shall
have a terrible storm.”
“So much the better,” replied the enthusiastic Paganel; “I should like a
grand exhibition, since we can’t run away.”
“That’s another of your theories,” said the Major.
“And one of my best, McNabbs. I am of Glenarvan’s opinion, that the
storm will be superb. Just a minute ago, when I was trying to sleep,
several facts occurred to my memory, that make me hope it will, for we
are in the region of great electrical tempests. For instance, I have
read somewhere, that in 1793, in this very province of Buenos Ayres,
lightning struck thirty-seven times during one single storm. My
colleague, M. Martin de Moussy, counted fifty-five minutes of
uninterrupted rolling.”
“Watch in hand?” asked the Major.
“Watch in hand. Only one thing makes me uneasy,” added Paganel, “if it
is any use to be uneasy, and that is, that the culminating point of this
plain, is just this very OMBU where we are. A lightning conductor would
be very serviceable to us at present. For it is this tree especially,
among all that grow in the Pampas, that the thunder has a particular
affection for. Besides, I need not tell you, friend, that learned men
tell us never to take refuge under trees during a storm.”
“Most seasonable advice, certainly, in our circumstances,” said the
Major.
“I must confess, Paganel,” replied Glenarvan, “that you might have
chosen a better time for this reassuring information.”
“Bah!” replied Paganel, “all times are good for getting information. Ha!
now it’s beginning.”
Louder peals of thunder interrupted this inopportune conversation, the
violence increasing with the noise till the whole atmosphere seemed to
vibrate with rapid oscillations.
The incessant flashes of lightning took various forms. Some darted down
perpendicularly from the sky five or six times in the same place in
succession. Others would have excited the interest of a SAVANT to the
highest degree, for though Arago, in his curious statistics, only cites
two examples of forked lightning, it was visible here hundreds of times.
Some of the flashes branched out in a thousand different directions,
making coralliform zigzags, and threw out wonderful jets of arborescent
light.
Soon the whole sky from east to north seemed supported by a phosphoric
band of intense brilliancy. This kept increasing by degrees till it
overspread the entire horizon, kindling the clouds which were faithfully
mirrored in the waters as if they were masses of combustible material,
beneath, and presented the appearance of an immense globe of fire, the
center of which was the OMBU.
Glenarvan and his companions gazed silently at this terrifying
spectacle. They could not make their voices heard, but the sheets of
white light which enwrapped them every now and then, revealed the face
of one and another, sometimes the calm features of the Major, sometimes
the eager, curious glance of Paganel, or the energetic face of
Glenarvan, and at others, the scared eyes of the terrified Robert, and
the careless looks of the sailors, investing them with a weird, spectral
aspect.
However, as yet, no rain had fallen, and the wind had not risen in the
least. But this state of things was of short duration; before long the
cataracts of the sky burst forth, and came down in vertical streams. As
the large drops fell splashing into the lake, fiery sparks seemed to fly
out from the illuminated surface.
Was the rain the FINALE of the storm? If so, Glenarvan and his
companions would escape scot free, except for a few vigorous douche
baths. No. At the very height of this struggle of the electric forces of
the atmosphere, a large ball of fire appeared suddenly at the extremity
of the horizontal parent branch, as thick as a man’s wrist, and
surrounded with black smoke. This ball, after turning round and round
for a few seconds, burst like a bombshell, and with so much noise
that the explosion was distinctly audible above the general FRACAS. A
sulphurous smoke filled the air, and complete silence reigned till the
voice of Tom Austin was heard shouting:
“The tree is on fire.”
Tom was right. In a moment, as if some fireworks were being ignited, the
flame ran along the west side of the OMBU; the dead wood and nests of
dried grass, and the whole sap, which was of a spongy texture, supplied
food for its devouring activity.
The wind had risen now and fanned the flame. It was time to flee,
and Glenarvan and his party hurried away to the eastern side of their
refuge, which was meantime untouched by the fire. They were all silent,
troubled, and terrified, as they watched branch after branch shrivel,
and crack, and writhe in the flame like living serpents, and then
drop into the swollen torrent, still red and gleaming, as it was borne
swiftly along on the rapid current. The flames sometimes rose to
a prodigious height, and seemed almost lost in the atmosphere, and
sometimes, beaten down by the hurricane, closely enveloped the OMBU
like a robe of Nessus. Terror seized the entire group. They were almost
suffocated with smoke, and scorched with the unbearable heat, for the
conflagration had already reached the lower branches on their side of
the OMBU. To extinguish it or check its progress was impossible; and
they saw themselves irrevocably condemned to a torturing death, like the
victims of Hindoo divinities.
At last, their situation was absolutely intolerable. Of the two deaths
staring them in the face, they had better choose the less cruel.
“To the water!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
Wilson, who was nearest the flames, had already plunged into the lake,
but next minute he screamed out in the most violent terror:
“Help! Help!”
Austin rushed toward him, and with the assistance of the Major, dragged
him up again on the tree.
“What’s the matter?” they asked.
“Alligators! alligators!” replied Wilson.
The whole foot of the tree appeared to be surrounded by these formidable
animals of the Saurian order. By the glare of the flames, they were
immediately recognized by Paganel, as the ferocious species peculiar to
America, called CAIMANS in the Spanish territories. About ten of them
were there, lashing the water with their powerful tails, and attacking
the OMBU with the long teeth of their lower jaw.
At this sight the unfortunate men gave themselves up to be lost.
A frightful death was in store for them, since they must either be
devoured by the fire or by the caimans. Even the Major said, in a calm
voice:
“This is the beginning of the end, now.”
There are circumstances in which men are powerless, when the unchained
elements can only be combated by other elements. Glenarvan gazed with
haggard looks at the fire and water leagued against him, hardly knowing
what deliverance to implore from Heaven.
The violence of the storm had abated, but it had developed in the
atmosphere a considerable quantity of vapors, to which electricity
was about to communicate immense force. An enormous water-spout was
gradually forming in the south--a cone of thick mists, but with the
point at the bottom, and base at the top, linking together the turbulent
water and the angry clouds. This meteor soon began to move forward,
turning over and over on itself with dizzy rapidity, and sweeping up
into its center a column of water from the lake, while its gyratory
motions made all the surrounding currents of air rush toward it.
A few seconds more, and the gigantic water-spout threw itself on the
OMBU, and caught it up in its whirl. The tree shook to its roots.
Glenarvan could fancy the caimans’ teeth were tearing it up from the
soil; for as he and his companions held on, each clinging firmly to the
other, they felt the towering OMBU give way, and the next minute it
fell right over with a terrible hissing noise, as the flaming branches
touched the foaming water.
It was the work of an instant. Already the water-spout had passed, to
carry on its destructive work elsewhere. It seemed to empty the lake in
its passage, by continually drawing up the water into itself.
The OMBU now began to drift rapidly along, impelled by wind and current.
All the caimans had taken their departure, except one that was crawling
over the upturned roots, and coming toward the poor refugees with wide
open jaws. But Mulrady, seizing hold of a branch that was half-burned
off, struck the monster such a tremendous blow, that it fell back into
the torrent and disappeared, lashing the water with its formidable tail.
Glenarvan and his companions being thus delivered from the voracious
SAURIANS, stationed themselves on the branches windward of the
conflagration, while the OMBU sailed along like a blazing fire-ship
through the dark night, the flames spreading themselves round like sails
before the breath of the hurricane.
CHAPTER XXVI THE RETURN ON BOARD
FOR two hours the OMBU navigated the immense lake without reaching
_terra firma_. The flames which were devouring it had gradually died
out. The chief danger of their frightful passage was thus removed, and
the Major went the length of saying, that he should not be surprised if
they were saved after all.
The direction of the current remained unchanged, always running from
southwest to northeast. Profound darkness had again set in, only
illumined here and there by a parting flash of lightning. The storm was
nearly over. The rain had given place to light mists, which a breath
of wind dispersed, and the heavy masses of cloud had separated, and now
streaked the sky in long bands.
The OMBU was borne onward so rapidly by the impetuous torrent, that
anyone might have supposed some powerful locomotive engine was hidden in
its trunk. It seemed likely enough they might continue drifting in this
way for days. About three o’clock in the morning, however, the Major
noticed that the roots were beginning to graze the ground occasionally,
and by sounding the depth of the water with a long branch, Tom Austin
found that they were getting on rising ground. Twenty minutes afterward,
the OMBU stopped short with a violent jolt.
“Land! land!” shouted Paganel, in a ringing tone.
The extremity of the calcined bough had struck some hillock, and never
were sailors more glad; the rock to them was the port.
Already Robert and Wilson had leaped on to the solid plateau with a
loud, joyful hurrah! when a well-known whistle was heard. The gallop of
a horse resounded over the plain, and the tall form of Thalcave emerged
from the darkness.
“Thalcave! Thalcave!” they all cried with one voice.
“Amigos!” replied the Patagonian, who had been waiting for the travelers
here in the same place where the current had landed himself.
As he spoke he lifted up Robert in his arms, and hugged him to his
breast, never imagining that Paganel was hanging on to him. A general
and hearty hand-shaking followed, and everyone rejoiced at seeing their
faithful guide again. Then the Patagonian led the way into the HANGAR of
a deserted ESTANCIA, where there was a good, blazing fire to warm them,
and a substantial meal of fine, juicy slices of venison soon broiling,
of which they did not leave a crumb. When their minds had calmed down
a little, and they were able to reflect on the dangers they had come
through from flood, and fire, and alligators, they could scarcely
believe they had escaped.
Thalcave, in a few words, gave Paganel an account of himself since they
parted, entirely ascribing his deliverance to his intrepid horse. Then
Paganel tried to make him understand their new interpretation of the
document, and the consequent hopes they were indulging. Whether the
Indian actually understood his ingenious hypothesis was a question; but
he saw that they were glad and confident, and that was enough for him.
As can easily be imagined, after their compulsory rest on the OMBU, the
travelers were up betimes and ready to start. At eight o’clock they
set off. No means of transport being procurable so far south, they were
compelled to walk. However, it was not more than forty miles now that
they had to go, and Thaouka would not refuse to give a lift occasionally
to a tired pedestrian, or even to a couple at a pinch. In thirty-six
hours they might reach the shores of the Atlantic.
The low-lying tract of marshy ground, still under water, soon lay
behind them, as Thalcave led them upward to the higher plains. Here
the Argentine territory resumed its monotonous aspect. A few clumps of
trees, planted by European hands, might chance to be visible among the
pasturage, but quite as rarely as in Tandil and Tapalquem Sierras. The
native trees are only found on the edge of long prairies and about Cape
Corrientes.
Next day, though still fifteen miles distant, the proximity of the ocean
was sensibly felt. The VIRAZON, a peculiar wind, which blows regularly
half of the day and night, bent down the heads of the tall grasses.
Thinly planted woods rose to view, and small tree-like mimosas, bushes
of acacia, and tufts of CURRA-MANTEL. Here and there, shining like
pieces of broken glass, were salinous lagoons, which increased the
difficulty of the journey as the travelers had to wind round them to
get past. They pushed on as quickly as possible, hoping to reach Lake
Salado, on the shores of the ocean, the same day; and at 8 P. M., when
they found themselves in front of the sand hills two hundred feet high,
which skirt the coast, they were all tolerably tired. But when the long
murmur of the distant ocean fell on their ears, the exhausted men forgot
their fatigue, and ran up the sandhills with surprising agility. But it
was getting quite dark already, and their eager gaze could discover
no traces of the DUNCAN on the gloomy expanse of water that met their
sight.
“But she is there, for all that,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “waiting for us,
and running alongside.”
“We shall see her to-morrow,” replied McNabbs.
Tom Austin hailed the invisible yacht, but there was no response. The
wind was very high and the sea rough. The clouds were scudding along
from the west, and the spray of the waves dashed up even to the
sand-hills. It was little wonder, then, if the man on the look-out could
neither hear nor make himself heard, supposing the DUNCAN were there.
There was no shelter on the coast for her, neither bay nor cove, nor
port; not so much as a creek. The shore was composed of sand-banks which
ran out into the sea, and were more dangerous to approach than
rocky shoals. The sand-banks irritate the waves, and make the sea so
particularly rough, that in heavy weather vessels that run aground there
are invariably dashed to pieces.
Though, then, the DUNCAN would keep far away from such a coast, John
Mangles is a prudent captain to get near. Tom Austin, however, was of
the opinion that she would be able to keep five miles out.
The Major advised his impatient relative to restrain himself to
circumstances. Since there was no means of dissipating the darkness,
what was the use of straining his eyes by vainly endeavoring to pierce
through it.
He set to work immediately to prepare the night’s encampment beneath the
shelter of the sand-hills; the last provisions supplied the last meal,
and afterward, each, following the Major’s example, scooped out a hole
in the sand, which made a comfortable enough bed, and then covered
himself with the soft material up to his chin, and fell into a heavy
sleep.
But Glenarvan kept watch. There was still a stiff breeze of wind, and
the ocean had not recovered its equilibrium after the recent storm. The
waves, at all times tumultuous, now broke over the sand-banks with a
noise like thunder. Glenarvan could not rest, knowing the DUNCAN was
so near him. As to supposing she had not arrived at the appointed
rendezvous, that was out of the question. Glenarvan had left the Bay
of Talcahuano on the 14th of October, and arrived on the shores of the
Atlantic on the 12th of November. He had taken thirty days to cross
Chili, the Cordilleras, the Pampas, and the Argentine plains, giving the
DUNCAN ample time to double Cape Horn, and arrive on the opposite side.
For such a fast runner there were no impediments. Certainly the storm
had been very violent, and its fury must have been terrible on such a
vast battlefield as the Atlantic, but the yacht was a good ship, and
the captain was a good sailor. He was bound to be there, and he would be
there.
These reflections, however, did not calm Glenarvan. When the heart
and the reason are struggling, it is generally the heart that wins the
mastery. The laird of Malcolm Castle felt the presence of loved ones
about him in the darkness as he wandered up and down the lonely strand.
He gazed, and listened, and even fancied he caught occasional glimpses
of a faint light.
“I am not mistaken,” he said to himself; “I saw a ship’s light, one of
the lights on the DUNCAN! Oh! why can’t I see in the dark?”
All at once the thought rushed across him that Paganel said he was a
nyctalope, and could see at night. He must go and wake him.
The learned geographer was sleeping as sound as a mole. A strong arm
pulled him up out of the sand and made him call out:
“Who goes there?”
“It is I, Paganel.”
“Who?”
“Glenarvan. Come, I need your eyes.”
“My eyes,” replied Paganel, rubbing them vigorously.
“Yes, I need your eyes to make out the DUNCAN in this darkness, so
come.”
“Confound the nyctalopia!” said Paganel, inwardly, though delighted to
be of any service to his friend.
He got up and shook his stiffened limbs, and stretching and yawning as
most people do when roused from sleep, followed Glenarvan to the beach.
Glenarvan begged him to examine the distant horizon across the sea,
which he did most conscientiously for some minutes.
“Well, do you see nothing?” asked Glenarvan.
“Not a thing. Even a cat couldn’t see two steps before her.”
“Look for a red light or a green one--her larboard or starboard light.”
“I see neither a red nor a green light, all is pitch dark,” replied
Paganel, his eyes involuntarily beginning to close.
For half an hour he followed his impatient friend, mechanically letting
his head frequently drop on his chest, and raising it again with a
start. At last he neither answered nor spoke, and he reeled about like a
drunken man. Glenarvan looked at him, and found he was sound asleep!
Without attempting to wake him, he took his arm, led him back to his
hole, and buried him again comfortably.
At dawn next morning, all the slumberers started to their feet and
rushed to the shore, shouting “Hurrah, hurrah!” as Lord Glenarvan’s loud
cry, “The DUNCAN, the DUNCAN!” broke upon his ear.
There she was, five miles out, her courses carefully reefed, and her
steam half up. Her smoke was lost in the morning mist. The sea was so
violent that a vessel of her tonnage could not have ventured safely
nearer the sand-banks.
Glenarvan, by the aid of Paganel’s telescope, closely observed the
movements of the yacht. It was evident that John Mangles had not
perceived his passengers, for he continued his course as before.
But at this very moment Thalcave fired his carbine in the direction of
the yacht. They listened and looked, but no signal of recognition was
returned. A second and a third time the Indian fired, awakening the
echoes among the sand-hills.
At last a white smoke was seen issuing from the side of the yacht.
“They see us!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “That’s the cannon of the DUNCAN.”
A few seconds, and the heavy boom of the cannon came across the water
and died away on the shore. The sails were instantly altered, and the
steam got up, so as to get as near the coast as possible.
Presently, through the glass, they saw a boat lowered.
“Lady Helena will not be able to come,” said Tom Austin. “It is too
rough.”
“Nor John Mangles,” added McNabbs; “he cannot leave the ship.”
“My sister, my sister!” cried Robert, stretching out his arms toward the
yacht, which was now rolling violently.
“Oh, how I wish I could get on board!” said Glenarvan.
“Patience, Edward! you will be there in a couple of hours,” replied the
Major.
Two hours! But it was impossible for a boat--a six-oared one--to come
and go in a shorter space of time.
Glenarvan went back to Thalcave, who stood beside Thaouka, with his arms
crossed, looking quietly at the troubled waves.
Glenarvan took his hand, and pointing to the yacht, said: “Come!”
The Indian gently shook his head.
“Come, friend,” repeated Glenarvan.
“No,” said Thalcave, gently. “Here is Thaouka, and there--the Pampas,”
he added, embracing with a passionate gesture the wide-stretching
prairies.
Glenarvan understood his refusal. He knew that the Indian would never
forsake the prairie, where the bones of his fathers were whitening, and
he knew the religious attachment of these sons of the desert for their
native land. He did not urge Thalcave longer, therefore, but simply
pressed his hand. Nor could he find it in his heart to insist, when the
Indian, smiling as usual, would not accept the price of his services,
pushing back the money, and saying:
“For the sake of friendship.”
Glenarvan could not reply; but he wished at least, to leave the brave
fellow some souvenir of his European friends. What was there to give,
however? Arms, horses, everything had been destroyed in the unfortunate
inundation, and his friends were no richer than himself.
He was quite at a loss how to show his recognition of the
disinterestedness of this noble guide, when a happy thought struck
him. He had an exquisite portrait of Lady Helena in his pocket, a
CHEF-D’OEUVRE of Lawrence. This he drew out, and offered to Thalcave,
simply saying:
“My wife.”
The Indian gazed at it with a softened eye, and said:
“Good and beautiful.”
Then Robert, and Paganel, and the Major, and the rest, exchanged
touching farewells with the faithful Patagonian. Thalcave embraced them
each, and pressed them to his broad chest. Paganel made him accept a map
of South America and the two oceans, which he had often seen the Indian
looking at with interest. It was the most precious thing the geographer
possessed. As for Robert, he had only caresses to bestow, and these he
lavished on his friend, not forgetting to give a share to Thaouka.
The boat from the DUNCAN was now fast approaching, and in another minute
had glided into a narrow channel between the sand-banks, and run ashore.
“My wife?” were Glenarvan’s first words.
“My sister?” said Robert.
“Lady Helena and Miss Grant are waiting for you on board,” replied the
coxswain; “but lose no time your honor, we have not a minute, for the
tide is beginning to ebb already.”
The last kindly adieux were spoken, and Thalcave accompanied his friends
to the boat, which had been pushed back into the water. Just as Robert
was going to step in, the Indian took him in his arms, and gazed
tenderly into his face. Then he said:
“Now go. You are a man.”
“Good-by, good-by, friend!” said Glenarvan, once more.
“Shall we never see each other again?” Paganel called out.
“_Quien sabe?_” (Who knows?) replied Thalcave, lifting his arms toward
heaven.
These were the Indian’s last words, dying away on the breeze, as the
boat receded gradually from the shore. For a long time, his dark,
motionless SILHOUETTE stood out against the sky, through the white,
dashing spray of the waves. Then by degrees his tall form began to
diminish in size, till at last his friends of a day lost sight of him
altogether.
An hour afterward Robert was the first to leap on board the DUNCAN. He
flung his arms round Mary’s neck, amid the loud, joyous hurrahs of the
crew on the yacht.
Thus the journey across South America was accomplished, the given line
of march being scrupulously adhered to throughout.
Neither mountains nor rivers had made the travelers change their course;
and though they had not had to encounter any ill-will from men, their
generous intrepidity had been often enough roughly put to the proof by
the fury of the unchained elements.
END OF BOOK ONE
*****
IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS
OR THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT
AUSTRALIA
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CHAPTER I A NEW DESTINATION
FOR the first few moments the joy of reunion completely filled the
hearts. Lord Glenarvan had taken care that the ill-success of their
expedition should not throw a gloom over the pleasure of meeting, his
very first words being:
“Cheer up, friends, cheer up! Captain Grant is not with us, but we have
a certainty of finding him!”
Only such an assurance as this would have restored hope to those on
board the DUNCAN. Lady Helena and Mary Grant had been sorely tried by
the suspense, as they stood on the poop waiting for the arrival of the
boat, and trying to count the number of its passengers. Alternate hope
and fear agitated the bosom of poor Mary. Sometimes she fancied she
could see her father, Harry Grant, and sometimes she gave way to
despair. Her heart throbbed violently; she could not speak, and indeed
could scarcely stand. Lady Helena put her arm round her waist to support
her, but the captain, John Mangles, who stood close beside them spoke no
encouraging word, for his practiced eye saw plainly that the captain was
not there.
“He is there! He is coming! Oh, father!” exclaimed the young girl. But
as the boat came nearer, her illusion was dispelled; all hope forsook
her, and she would have sunk in despair, but for the reassuring voice of
Glenarvan.
After their mutual embraces were over, Lady Helena, and Mary Grant,
and John Mangles, were informed of the principal incidents of the
expedition, and especially of the new interpretation of the document,
due to the sagacity of Jacques Paganel. His Lordship also spoke in the
most eulogistic terms of Robert, of whom Mary might well be proud. His
courage and devotion, and the dangers he had run, were all shown up in
strong relief by his patron, till the modest boy did not know which
way to look, and was obliged to hide his burning cheeks in his sister’s
arms.
“No need to blush, Robert,” said John Mangles. “Your conduct has been
worthy of your name.” And he leaned over the boy and pressed his lips on
his cheek, still wet with Mary’s tears.
The Major and Paganel, it need hardly be said, came in for their due
share of welcome, and Lady Helena only regretted she could not shake
hands with the brave and generous Thalcave. McNabbs soon slipped away
to his cabin, and began to shave himself as coolly and composedly as
possible; while Paganel flew here and there, like a bee sipping the
sweets of compliments and smiles. He wanted to embrace everyone on board
the yacht, and beginning with Lady Helena and Mary Grant, wound up
with M. Olbinett, the steward, who could only acknowledge so polite an
attention by announcing that breakfast was ready.
“Breakfast!” exclaimed Paganel.
“Yes, Monsieur Paganel.”
“A real breakfast, on a real table, with a cloth and napkins?”
“Certainly, Monsieur Paganel.”
“And we shall neither have CHARQUI, nor hard eggs, nor fillets of
ostrich?”
“Oh, Monsieur,” said Olbinett in an aggrieved tone.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, my friend,” said the geographer
smiling. “But for a month that has been our usual bill of fare, and when
we dined we stretched ourselves full length on the ground, unless we
sat astride on the trees. Consequently, the meal you have just announced
seemed to me like a dream, or fiction, or chimera.”
“Well, Monsieur Paganel, come along and let us prove its reality,” said
Lady Helena, who could not help laughing.
“Take my arm,” replied the gallant geographer.
“Has his Lordship any orders to give me about the DUNCAN?” asked John
Mangles.
“After breakfast, John,” replied Glenarvan, “we’ll discuss the program
of our new expedition _en famille_.”
M. Olbinett’s breakfast seemed quite a FETE to the hungry guests. It
was pronounced excellent, and even superior to the festivities of the
Pampas. Paganel was helped twice to each dish, through “absence of
mind,” he said.
This unlucky word reminded Lady Helena of the amiable Frenchman’s
propensity, and made her ask if he had ever fallen into his old habits
while they were away. The Major and Glenarvan exchanged smiling glances,
and Paganel burst out laughing, and protested on his honor that he would
never be caught tripping again once more during the whole voyage. After
this prelude, he gave an amusing recital of his disastrous mistake in
learning Spanish, and his profound study of Camoens. “After all,” he
added, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I don’t regret the
mistake.”
“Why not, my worthy friend?” asked the Major.
“Because I not only know Spanish, but Portuguese. I can speak two
languages instead of one.”
“Upon my word, I never thought of that,” said McNabbs. “My compliments,
Paganel--my sincere compliments.”
But Paganel was too busily engaged with his knife and fork to lose a
single mouthful, though he did his best to eat and talk at the same
time. He was so much taken up with his plate, however, that one little
fact quite escaped his observation, though Glenarvan noticed it at once.
This was, that John Mangles had grown particularly attentive to Mary
Grant. A significant glance from Lady Helena told him, moreover, how
affairs stood, and inspired him with affectionate sympathy for the young
lovers; but nothing of this was apparent in his manner to John, for his
next question was what sort of a voyage he had made.
“We could not have had a better; but I must apprise your Lordship that I
did not go through the Straits of Magellan again.”
“What! you doubled Cape Horn, and I was not there!” exclaimed Paganel.
“Hang yourself!” said the Major.
“Selfish fellow! you advise me to do that because you want my rope,”
retorted the geographer.
“Well, you see, my dear Paganel, unless you have the gift of ubiquity
you can’t be in two places at once. While you were scouring the pampas
you could not be doubling Cape Horn.”
“That doesn’t prevent my regretting it,” replied Paganel.
Here the subject dropped, and John continued his account of his voyage.
On arriving at Cape Pilares he had found the winds dead against him, and
therefore made for the south, coasting along the Desolation Isle, and
after going as far as the sixty-seventh degree southern latitude, had
doubled Cape Horn, passed by Terra del Fuego and the Straits of
Lemaire, keeping close to the Patagonian shore. At Cape Corrientes they
encountered the terrible storm which had handled the travelers across
the pampas so roughly, but the yacht had borne it bravely, and for the
last three days had stood right out to sea, till the welcome
signal-gun of the expedition was heard announcing the arrival of the
anxiously-looked-for party. “It was only justice,” the captain added,
“that he should mention the intrepid bearing of Lady Helena and Mary
Grant throughout the whole hurricane. They had not shown the least fear,
unless for their friends, who might possibly be exposed to the fury of
the tempest.”
After John Mangles had finished his narrative, Glenarvan turned to Mary
and said; “My dear Miss Mary, the captain has been doing homage to your
noble qualities, and I am glad to think you are not unhappy on board his
ship.”
“How could I be?” replied Mary naively, looking at Lady Helena, and at
the young captain too, likely enough.
“Oh, my sister is very fond of you, Mr. John, and so am I,” exclaimed
Robert.
“And so am I of you, my dear boy,” returned the captain, a little
abashed by Robert’s innocent avowal, which had kindled a faint blush on
Mary’s cheek. Then he managed to turn the conversation to safer topics
by saying: “And now that your Lordship has heard all about the doings of
the DUNCAN, perhaps you will give us some details of your own journey,
and tell us more about the exploits of our young hero.”
Nothing could be more agreeable than such a recital to Lady Helena and
Mary Grant; and accordingly Lord Glenarvan hastened to satisfy their
curiosity--going over incident by incident, the entire march from
one ocean to another, the pass of the Andes, the earthquake, the
disappearance of Robert, his capture by the condor, Thalcave’s
providential shot, the episode of the red wolves, the devotion of
the young lad, Sergeant Manuel, the inundations, the caimans, the
waterspout, the night on the Atlantic shore--all these details, amusing
or terrible, excited by turns laughter and horror in the listeners.
Often and often Robert came in for caresses from his sister and Lady
Helena. Never was a boy so much embraced, or by such enthusiastic
friends.
“And now, friends,” added Lord Glenarvan, when he had finished his
narrative, “we must think of the present. The past is gone, but the
future is ours. Let us come back to Captain Harry Grant.”
As soon as breakfast was over they all went into Lord Glenarvan’s
private cabin and seated themselves round a table covered with charts
and plans, to talk over the matter fully.
“My dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan, “I told you, when we came on
board a little while ago, that though we had not brought back Captain
Grant, our hope of finding him was stronger than ever. The result of
our journey across America is this: We have reached the conviction,
or rather absolute certainty, that the shipwreck never occurred on the
shores of the Atlantic nor Pacific. The natural inference is that,
as far as regards Patagonia, our interpretation of the document was
erroneous. Most fortunately, our friend Paganel, in a happy moment of
inspiration, discovered the mistake. He has proved clearly that we have
been on the wrong track, and so explained the document that all doubt
whatever is removed from our minds. However, as the document is in
French, I will ask Paganel to go over it for your benefit.”
The learned geographer, thus called upon, executed his task in the
most convincing manner, descanting on the syllables GONIE and INDI, and
extracting AUSTRALIA out of AUSTRAL. He pointed out that Captain Grant,
on leaving the coast of Peru to return to Europe, might have been
carried away with his disabled ship by the southern currents of the
Pacific right to the shores of Australia, and his hypotheses were so
ingenious and his deductions so subtle that even the matter-of-fact
John Mangles, a difficult judge, and most unlikely to be led away by any
flights of imagination, was completely satisfied.
At the conclusion of Paganel’s dissertation, Glenarvan announced that
the DUNCAN would sail immediately for Australia.
But before the decisive orders were given, McNabbs asked for a few
minutes’ hearing.
“Say away, McNabbs,” replied Glenarvan.
“I have no intention of weakening the arguments of my friend Paganel,
and still less of refuting them. I consider them wise and weighty, and
deserving our attention, and think them justly entitled to form the
basis of our future researches. But still I should like them to
be submitted to a final examination, in order to make their worth
incontestable and uncontested.”
“Go on, Major,” said Paganel; “I am ready to answer all your questions.”
“They are simple enough, as you will see. Five months ago, when we left
the Clyde, we had studied these same documents, and their interpretation
then appeared quite plain. No other coast but the western coast of
Patagonia could possibly, we thought, have been the scene of the
shipwreck. We had not even the shadow of a doubt on the subject.”
“That’s true,” replied Glenarvan.
“A little later,” continued the Major, “when a providential fit of
absence of mind came over Paganel, and brought him on board the yacht,
the documents were submitted to him and he approved our plan of search
most unreservedly.”
“I do not deny it,” said Paganel.
“And yet we were mistaken,” resumed the Major.
“Yes, we were mistaken,” returned Paganel; “but it is only human to make
a mistake, while to persist in it, a man must be a fool.”
“Stop, Paganel, don’t excite yourself; I don’t mean to say that we
should prolong our search in America.”
“What is it, then, that you want?” asked Glenarvan.
“A confession, nothing more. A confession that Australia now as
evidently appears to be the theater of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA as
America did before.”
“We confess it willingly,” replied Paganel.
“Very well, then, since that is the case, my advice is not to let your
imagination rely on successive and contradictory evidence. Who knows
whether after Australia some other country may not appear with equal
certainty to be the place, and we may have to recommence our search?”
Glenarvan and Paganel looked at each other silently, struck by the
justice of these remarks.
“I should like you, therefore,” continued the Major, “before we actually
start for Australia, to make one more examination of the documents.
Here they are, and here are the charts. Let us take up each point in
succession through which the 37th parallel passes, and see if we come
across any other country which would agree with the precise indications
of the document.”
“Nothing can be more easily and quickly done,” replied Paganel; “for
countries are not very numerous in this latitude, happily.”
“Well, look,” said the Major, displaying an English planisphere on the
plan of Mercator’s Chart, and presenting the appearance of a terrestrial
globe.
He placed it before Lady Helena, and then they all stood round, so as to
be able to follow the argument of Paganel.
“As I have said already,” resumed the learned geographer, “after having
crossed South America, the 37th degree of latitude cuts the islands of
Tristan d’Acunha. Now I maintain that none of the words of the document
could relate to these islands.”
The documents were examined with the most minute care, and the
conclusion unanimously reached was that these islands were entirely out
of the question.
“Let us go on then,” resumed Paganel. “After leaving the Atlantic, we
pass two degrees below the Cape of Good Hope, and into the Indian Ocean.
Only one group of islands is found on this route, the Amsterdam Isles.
Now, then, we must examine these as we did the Tristan d’Acunha group.”
After a close survey, the Amsterdam Isles were rejected in their turn.
Not a single word, or part of a word, French, English or German, could
apply to this group in the Indian Ocean.
“Now we come to Australia,” continued Paganel.
“The 37th parallel touches this continent at Cape Bernouilli, and leaves
it at Twofold Bay. You will agree with me that, without straining the
text, the English word STRA and the French one AUSTRAL may relate to
Australia. The thing is too plain to need proof.”
The conclusion of Paganel met with unanimous approval; every probability
was in his favor.
“And where is the next point?” asked McNabbs.
“That is easily answered. After leaving Twofold Bay, we cross an arm of
the sea which extends to New Zealand. Here I must call your attention
to the fact that the French word CONTIN means a continent, irrefragably.
Captain Grant could not, then, have found refuge in New Zealand, which
is only an island. However that may be though, examine and compare, and
go over and over each word, and see if, by any possibility, they can be
made to fit this new country.”
“In no way whatever,” replied John Mangles, after a minute investigation
of the documents and the planisphere.
“No,” chimed in all the rest, and even the Major himself, “it cannot
apply to New Zealand.”
“Now,” went on Paganel, “in all this immense space between this large
island and the American coast, there is only one solitary barren little
island crossed by the 37th parallel.”
“And what is its name,” asked the Major.
“Here it is, marked in the map. It is Maria Theresa--a name of which
there is not a single trace in either of the three documents.”
“Not the slightest,” said Glenarvan.
“I leave you, then, my friends, to decide whether all these
probabilities, not to say certainties, are not in favor of the
Australian continent.”
“Evidently,” replied the captain and all the others.
“Well, then, John,” said Glenarvan, “the next question is, have you
provisions and coal enough?”
“Yes, your honor, I took in an ample store at Talcahuano, and, besides,
we can easily replenish our stock of coal at Cape Town.”
“Well, then, give orders.”
“Let me make one more observation,” interrupted McNabbs.
“Go on then.”
“Whatever likelihood of success Australia may offer us, wouldn’t it be
advisable to stop a day or two at the Tristan d’Acunha Isles and the
Amsterdam? They lie in our route, and would not take us the least out of
the way. Then we should be able to ascertain if the BRITANNIA had left
any traces of her shipwreck there?”
“Incredulous Major!” exclaimed Paganel, “he still sticks to his idea.”
“I stick to this any way, that I don’t want to have to retrace our
steps, supposing that Australia should disappoint our sanguine hopes.”
“It seems to me a good precaution,” replied Glenarvan.
“And I’m not the one to dissuade you from it,” returned Paganel; “quite
the contrary.”
“Steer straight for Tristan d’Acunha.”
“Immediately, your Honor,” replied the captain, going on deck, while
Robert and Mary Grant overwhelmed Lord Glenarvan with their grateful
thanks.
Shortly after, the DUNCAN had left the American coast, and was running
eastward, her sharp keel rapidly cutting her way through the waves of
the Atlantic Ocean.
CHAPTER II TRISTAN D’ACUNHA AND THE ISLE OF AMSTERDAM
IF the yacht had followed the line of the equator, the 196 degrees which
separate Australia from America, or, more correctly, Cape Bernouilli
from Cape Corrientes, would have been equal to 11,760 geographical
miles; but along the 37th parallel these same degrees, owing to the form
of the earth, only represent 9,480 miles. From the American coast to
Tristan d’Acunha is reckoned 2,100 miles--a distance which John Mangles
hoped to clear in ten days, if east winds did not retard the motion of
the yacht. But he was not long uneasy on that score, for toward evening
the breeze sensibly lulled and then changed altogether, giving the
DUNCAN a fair field on a calm sea for displaying her incomparable
qualities as a sailor.
The passengers had fallen back into their ordinary ship life, and it
hardly seemed as if they really could have been absent a whole month.
Instead of the Pacific, the Atlantic stretched itself out before them,
and there was scarcely a shade of difference in the waves of the two
oceans. The elements, after having handled them so roughly, seemed now
disposed to favor them to the utmost. The sea was tranquil, and the
wind kept in the right quarter, so that the yacht could spread all her
canvas, and lend its aid, if needed to the indefatigable steam stored up
in the boiler.
Under such conditions, the voyage was safely and rapidly accomplished.
Their confidence increased as they found themselves nearer the
Australian coast. They began to talk of Captain Grant as if the yacht
were going to take him on board at a given port. His cabin was got
ready, and berths for the men. This cabin was next to the famous _number
six_, which Paganel had taken possession of instead of the one he had
booked on the SCOTIA. It had been till now occupied by M. Olbinett, who
vacated it for the expected guest. Mary took great delight in arranging
it with her own hands, and adorning it for the reception of the loved
inmate.
The learned geographer kept himself closely shut up. He was working away
from morning till night at a work entitled “Sublime Impressions of a
Geographer in the Argentine Pampas,” and they could hear him repeating
elegant periods aloud before committing them to the white pages of his
day-book; and more than once, unfaithful to Clio, the muse of history,
he invoked in his transports the divine Calliope, the muse of epic
poetry.
Paganel made no secret of it either. The chaste daughters of Apollo
willingly left the slopes of Helicon and Parnassus at his call. Lady
Helena paid him sincere compliments on his mythological visitants, and
so did the Major, though he could not forbear adding:
“But mind no fits of absence of mind, my dear Paganel; and if you take a
fancy to learn Australian, don’t go and study it in a Chinese grammar.”
Things went on perfectly smoothly on board. Lady Helena and Lord
Glenarvan found leisure to watch John Mangles’ growing attachment to
Mary Grant. There was nothing to be said against it, and, indeed, since
John remained silent, it was best to take no notice of it.
“What will Captain Grant think?” Lord Glenarvan asked his wife one day.
“He’ll think John is worthy of Mary, my dear Edward, and he’ll think
right.”
Meanwhile, the yacht was making rapid progress. Five days after losing
sight of Cape Corrientes, on the 16th of November, they fell in with
fine westerly breezes, and the DUNCAN might almost have dispensed with
her screw altogether, for she flew over the water like a bird, spreading
all her sails to catch the breeze, as if she were running a race with
the Royal Thames Club yachts.
Next day, the ocean appeared covered with immense seaweeds, looking like
a great pond choked up with the DEBRIS of trees and plants torn off the
neighboring continents. Commander Murray had specially pointed them out
to the attention of navigators. The DUNCAN appeared to glide over a
long prairie, which Paganel justly compared to the Pampas, and her speed
slackened a little.
Twenty-four hours after, at break of day, the man on the look-out was
heard calling out, “Land ahead!”
“In what direction?” asked Tom Austin, who was on watch.
“Leeward!” was the reply.
This exciting cry brought everyone speedily on deck. Soon a telescope
made its appearance, followed by Jacques Paganel. The learned geographer
pointed the instrument in the direction indicated, but could see nothing
that resembled land.
“Look in the clouds,” said John Mangles.
“Ah, now I do see a sort of peak, but very indistinctly.”
“It is Tristan d’Acunha,” replied John Mangles.
“Then, if my memory serves me right, we must be eighty miles from it,
for the peak of Tristan, seven thousand feet high, is visible at that
distance.”
“That’s it, precisely.”
Some hours later, the sharp, lofty crags of the group of islands stood
out clearly on the horizon. The conical peak of Tristan looked black
against the bright sky, which seemed all ablaze with the splendor of the
rising sun. Soon the principal island stood out from the rocky mass, at
the summit of a triangle inclining toward the northeast.
Tristan d’Acunha is situated in 37 degrees 8’ of southern latitude,
and 10 degrees 44’ of longitude west of the meridian at Greenwich.
Inaccessible Island is eighteen miles to the southwest and Nightingale
Island is ten miles to the southeast, and this completes the little
solitary group of islets in the Atlantic Ocean. Toward noon, the two
principal landmarks, by which the group is recognized were sighted, and
at 3 P. M. the DUNCAN entered Falmouth Bay in Tristan d’Acunha.
Several whaling vessels were lying quietly at anchor there, for the
coast abounds in seals and other marine animals.
John Mangle’s first care was to find good anchorage, and then all the
passengers, both ladies and gentlemen, got into the long boat and were
rowed ashore. They stepped out on a beach covered with fine black sand,
the impalpable DEBRIS of the calcined rocks of the island.
Tristan d’Acunha is the capital of the group, and consists of a little
village, lying in the heart of the bay, and watered by a noisy, rapid
stream. It contained about fifty houses, tolerably clean, and disposed
with geometrical regularity. Behind this miniature town there lay 1,500
hectares of meadow land, bounded by an embankment of lava. Above this
embankment, the conical peak rose 7,000 feet high.
Lord Glenarvan was received by a governor supplied from the English
colony at the Cape. He inquired at once respecting Harry Grant and the
BRITANNIA, and found the names entirely unknown. The Tristan d’Acunha
Isles are out of the route of ships, and consequently little frequented.
Since the wreck of the _Blendon Hall_ in 1821, on the rocks of
Inaccessible Island, two vessels have stranded on the chief island--the
PRIMANGUET in 1845, and the three-mast American, PHILADELPHIA, in 1857.
These three events comprise the whole catalogue of maritime disasters in
the annals of the Acunhas.
Lord Glenarvan did not expect to glean any information, and only asked
by the way of duty. He even sent the boats to make the circuit of the
island, the entire extent of which was not more than seventeen miles at
most.
In the interim the passengers walked about the village. The population
does not exceed 150 inhabitants, and consists of English and Americans,
married to negroes and Cape Hottentots, who might bear away the palm
for ugliness. The children of these heterogeneous households are very
disagreeable compounds of Saxon stiffness and African blackness.
It was nearly nightfall before the party returned to the yacht,
chattering and admiring the natural riches displayed on all sides, for
even close to the streets of the capital, fields of wheat and maize were
waving, and crops of vegetables, imported forty years before; and in the
environs of the village, herds of cattle and sheep were feeding.
The boats returned to the DUNCAN about the same time as Lord Glenarvan.
They had made the circuit of the entire island in a few hours, but
without coming across the least trace of the BRITANNIA. The only result
of this voyage of circumnavigation was to strike out the name of Isle
Tristan from the program of search.
CHAPTER III CAPE TOWN AND M. VIOT
As John Mangles intended to put in at the Cape of Good Hope for coals,
he was obliged to deviate a little from the 37th parallel, and go two
degrees north. In less than six days he cleared the thirteen hundred
miles which separate the point of Africa from Tristan d’Acunha, and
on the 24th of November, at 3 P. M. the Table Mountain was sighted. At
eight o’clock they entered the bay, and cast anchor in the port of Cape
Town. They sailed away next morning at daybreak.
Between the Cape and Amsterdam Island there is a distance of 2,900
miles, but with a good sea and favoring breeze, this was only a ten
day’s voyage. The elements were now no longer at war with the travelers,
as on their journey across the Pampas--air and water seemed in league
to help them forward.
“Ah! the sea! the sea!” exclaimed Paganel, “it is the field _par
excellence_ for the exercise of human energies, and the ship is the true
vehicle of civilization. Think, my friends, if the globe had been only
an immense continent, the thousandth part of it would still be unknown
to us, even in this nineteenth century. See how it is in the interior
of great countries. In the steppes of Siberia, in the plains of Central
Asia, in the deserts of Africa, in the prairies of America, in the
immense wilds of Australia, in the icy solitudes of the Poles, man
scarcely dares to venture; the most daring shrinks back, the most
courageous succumbs. They cannot penetrate them; the means of transport
are insufficient, and the heat and disease, and savage disposition of
the natives, are impassable obstacles. Twenty miles of desert separate
men more than five hundred miles of ocean.”
Paganel spoke with such warmth that even the Major had nothing to say
against this panegyric of the ocean. Indeed, if the finding of Harry
Grant had involved following a parallel across continents instead of
oceans, the enterprise could not have been attempted; but the sea was
there ready to carry the travelers from one country to another, and
on the 6th of December, at the first streak of day, they saw a fresh
mountain apparently emerging from the bosom of the waves.
This was Amsterdam Island, situated in 37 degrees 47 minutes latitude
and 77 degrees 24 minutes longitude, the high cone of which in clear
weather is visible fifty miles off. At eight o’clock, its form,
indistinct though it still was, seemed almost a reproduction of
Teneriffe.
“And consequently it must resemble Tristan d’Acunha,” observed
Glenarvan.
“A very wise conclusion,” said Paganel, “according to the
geometrographic axiom that two islands resembling a third must have a
common likeness. I will only add that, like Tristan d’Acunha, Amsterdam
Island is equally rich in seals and Robinsons.”
“There are Robinsons everywhere, then?” said Lady Helena.
“Indeed, Madam,” replied Paganel, “I know few islands without some
tale of the kind appertaining to them, and the romance of your immortal
countryman, Daniel Defoe, has been often enough realized before his
day.”
“Monsieur Paganel,” said Mary, “may I ask you a question?”
“Two if you like, my dear young lady, and I promise to answer them.”
“Well, then, I want to know if you would be very much frightened at the
idea of being cast away alone on a desert island.”
“I?” exclaimed Paganel.
“Come now, my good fellow,” said the Major, “don’t go and tell us that
it is your most cherished desire.”
“I don’t pretend it is that, but still, after all, such an adventure
would not be very unpleasant to me. I should begin a new life; I should
hunt and fish; I should choose a grotto for my domicile in Winter and a
tree in Summer. I should make storehouses for my harvests: in one word,
I should colonize my island.”
“All by yourself?”
“All by myself if I was obliged. Besides, are we ever obliged? Cannot
one find friends among the animals, and choose some tame kid or eloquent
parrot or amiable monkey? And if a lucky chance should send one a
companion like the faithful Friday, what more is needed? Two friends on
a rock, there is happiness. Suppose now, the Major and I--”
“Thank you,” replied the Major, interrupting him; “I have no inclination
in that line, and should make a very poor Robinson Crusoe.”
“My dear Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena, “you are letting your
imagination run away with you, as usual. But the dream is very different
from the reality. You are thinking of an imaginary Robinson’s life,
thrown on a picked island and treated like a spoiled child by nature.
You only see the sunny side.”
“What, madam! You don’t believe a man could be happy on a desert
island?”
“I do not. Man is made for society and not for solitude, and solitude
can only engender despair. It is a question of time. At the outset it is
quite possible that material wants and the very necessities of existence
may engross the poor shipwrecked fellow, just snatched from the waves;
but afterward, when he feels himself alone, far from his fellow men,
without any hope of seeing country and friends again, what must he
think, what must he suffer? His little island is all his world. The
whole human race is shut up in himself, and when death comes, which
utter loneliness will make terrible, he will be like the last man on the
last day of the world. Believe me, Monsieur Paganel, such a man is not
to be envied.”
Paganel gave in, though regretfully, to the arguments of Lady Helena,
and still kept up a discussion on the advantages and disadvantages of
Isolation, till the very moment the DUNCAN dropped anchor about a mile
off Amsterdam Island.
This lonely group in the Indian Ocean consists of two distinct islands,
thirty-three miles apart, and situated exactly on the meridian of the
Indian peninsula. To the north is Amsterdam Island, and to the south St.
Paul; but they have been often confounded by geographers and navigators.
At the time of the DUNCAN’S visit to the island, the population
consisted of three people, a Frenchman and two mulattoes, all three
employed by the merchant proprietor. Paganel was delighted to shake
hands with a countryman in the person of good old Monsieur Viot. He
was far advanced in years, but did the honors of the place with much
politeness. It was a happy day for him when these kindly strangers
touched at his island, for St. Peter’s was only frequented by
seal-fishers, and now and then a whaler, the crews of which are usually
rough, coarse men.
M. Viot presented his subjects, the two mulattoes. They composed the
whole living population of the island, except a few wild boars in the
interior and myriads of penguins. The little house where the three
solitary men lived was in the heart of a natural bay on the southeast,
formed by the crumbling away of a portion of the mountain.
Twice over in the early part of the century, Amsterdam Island became the
country of deserted sailors, providentially saved from misery and death;
but since these events no vessel had been lost on its coast. Had any
shipwreck occurred, some fragments must have been thrown on the sandy
shore, and any poor sufferers from it would have found their way to M.
Viot’s fishing-huts. The old man had been long on the island, and had
never been called upon to exercise such hospitality. Of the BRITANNIA
and Captain Grant he knew nothing, but he was certain that the disaster
had not happened on Amsterdam Island, nor on the islet called St. Paul,
for whalers and fishing-vessels went there constantly, and must have
heard of it.
Glenarvan was neither surprised nor vexed at the reply; indeed, his
object in asking was rather to establish the fact that Captain Grant had
not been there than that he had. This done, they were ready to proceed
on their voyage next day.
They rambled about the island till evening, as its appearance was very
inviting. Its FAUNA and FLORA, however, were poor in the extreme. The
only specimens of quadrupeds, birds, fish and cetacea were a few wild
boars, stormy petrels, albatrosses, perch and seals. Here and there
thermal springs and chalybeate waters escaped from the black lava, and
thin dark vapors rose above the volcanic soil. Some of these springs
were very hot. John Mangles held his thermometer in one of them, and
found the temperature was 176 degrees Fahrenheit. Fish caught in the sea
a few yards off, cooked in five minutes in these all but boiling waters,
a fact which made Paganel resolve not to attempt to bathe in them.
Toward evening, after a long promenade, Glenarvan and his party bade
adieu to the good old M. Viot, and returned to the yacht, wishing him
all the happiness possible on his desert island, and receiving in return
the old man’s blessing on their expedition.
CHAPTER IV A WAGER AND HOW DECIDED
ON the 7th of December, at three A. M., the DUNCAN lay puffing out her
smoke in the little harbor ready to start, and a few minutes afterward
the anchor was lifted, and the screw set in motion. By eight o’clock,
when the passengers came on deck, the Amsterdam Island had almost
disappeared from view behind the mists of the horizon. This was the last
halting-place on the route, and nothing now was between them and the
Australian coast but three thousand miles’ distance. Should the west
wind continue but a dozen days longer, and the sea remain favorable, the
yacht would have reached the end of her voyage.
Mary Grant and her brother could not gaze without emotion at the waves
through which the DUNCAN was speeding her course, when they thought that
these very same waves must have dashed against the prow of the BRITANNIA
but a few days before her shipwreck. Here, perhaps, Captain Grant,
with a disabled ship and diminished crew, had struggled against the
tremendous hurricanes of the Indian Ocean, and felt himself driven
toward the coast with irresistible force. The Captain pointed out to
Mary the different currents on the ship’s chart, and explained to her
their constant direction. Among others there was one running straight to
the Australian continent, and its action is equally felt in the Atlantic
and Pacific. It was doubtless against this that the BRITANNIA, dismasted
and rudderless, had been unable to contend, and consequently been dashed
against the coast, and broken in pieces.
A difficulty about this, however, presented itself. The last
intelligence of Captain Grant was from Callao on the 30th of May, 1862,
as appeared in the _Mercantile and Shipping Gazette_. “How then was
it possible that on the 7th of June, only eight days after leaving
the shores of Peru, that the BRITANNIA could have found herself in the
Indian Ocean?” But to this, Paganel, who was consulted on the subject,
found a very plausible solution.
It was one evening, about six days after their leaving Amsterdam Island,
when they were all chatting together on the poop, that the above-named
difficulty was stated by Glenarvan. Paganel made no reply, but went
and fetched the document. After perusing it, he still remained silent,
simply shrugging his shoulders, as if ashamed of troubling himself about
such a trifle.
“Come, my good friend,” said Glenarvan, “at least give us an answer.”
“No,” replied Paganel, “I’ll merely ask a question for Captain John to
answer.”
“And what is it, Monsieur Paganel?” said John Mangles.
“Could a quick ship make the distance in a month over that part of the
Pacific Ocean which lies between America and Australia?”
“Yes, by making two hundred miles in twenty-four hours.”
“Would that be an extraordinary rate of speed?”
“Not at all; sailing clippers often go faster.”
“Well, then, instead of ‘7 June’ on this document, suppose that one
figure has been destroyed by the sea-water, and read ‘17 June’ or ‘27
June,’ and all is explained.”
“That’s to say,” replied Lady Helena, “that between the 31st of May and
the 27th of June--”
“Captain Grant could have crossed the Pacific and found himself in the
Indian Ocean.”
Paganel’s theory met with universal acceptance.
“That’s one more point cleared up,” said Glenarvan. “Thanks to our
friend, all that remains to be done now is to get to Australia, and look
out for traces of the wreck on the western coast.”
“Or the eastern?” said John Mangles.
“Indeed, John, you may be right, for there is nothing in the document to
indicate which shore was the scene of the catastrophe, and both points
of the continent crossed by the 37th parallel, must, therefore, be
explored.”
“Then, my Lord, it is doubtful, after all,” said Mary.
“Oh no, Miss Mary,” John Mangles hastened to reply, seeing the young
girl’s apprehension. “His Lordship will please to consider that if
Captain Grant had gained the shore on the east of Australia, he would
almost immediately have found refuge and assistance. The whole of that
coast is English, we might say, peopled with colonists. The crew of
the BRITANNIA could not have gone ten miles without meeting a
fellow-countryman.”
“I am quite of your opinion, Captain John,” said Paganel. “On the
eastern coast Harry Grant would not only have found an English colony
easily, but he would certainly have met with some means of transport
back to Europe.”
“And he would not have found the same resources on the side we are
making for?” asked Lady Helena.
“No, madam,” replied Paganel; “it is a desert coast, with no
communication between it and Melbourne or Adelaide. If the BRITANNIA was
wrecked on those rocky shores, she was as much cut off from all chance
of help as if she had been lost on the inhospitable shores of Africa.”
“But what has become of my father there, then, all these two years?”
asked Mary Grant.
“My dear Mary,” replied Paganel, “you have not the least doubt, have
you, that Captain Grant reached the Australian continent after his
shipwreck?”
“No, Monsieur Paganel.”
“Well, granting that, what became of him? The suppositions we might make
are not numerous. They are confined to three. Either Harry Grant and his
companions have found their way to the English colonies, or they have
fallen into the hands of the natives, or they are lost in the immense
wilds of Australia.”
“Go on, Paganel,” said Lord Glenarvan, as the learned Frenchman made a
pause.
“The first hypothesis I reject, then, to begin with, for Harry Grant
could not have reached the English colonies, or long ago he would have
been back with his children in the good town of Dundee.”
“Poor father,” murmured Mary, “away from us for two whole years.”
“Hush, Mary,” said Robert, “Monsieur Paganel will tell us.”
“Alas! my boy, I cannot. All that I affirm is, that Captain Grant is in
the hands of the natives.”
“But these natives,” said Lady Helena, hastily, “are they--”
“Reassure yourself, madam,” said Paganel, divining her thoughts.
“The aborigines of Australia are low enough in the scale of human
intelligence, and most degraded and uncivilized, but they are mild
and gentle in disposition, and not sanguinary like their New Zealand
neighbors. Though they may be prisoners, their lives have never been
threatened, you may be sure. All travelers are unanimous in declaring
that the Australian natives abhor shedding blood, and many a time
they have found in them faithful allies in repelling the attacks of
evil-disposed convicts far more cruelly inclined.”
“You hear what Monsieur Paganel tells us, Mary,” said Lady Helena
turning to the young girl. “If your father is in the hands of the
natives, which seems probable from the document, we shall find him.”
“And what if he is lost in that immense country?” asked Mary.
“Well, we’ll find him still,” exclaimed Paganel, in a confident tone.
“Won’t we, friends?”
“Most certainly,” replied Glenarvan; and anxious to give a less gloomy
turn to the conversation, he added--
“But I won’t admit the supposition of his being lost, not for an
instant.”
“Neither will I,” said Paganel.
“Is Australia a big place?” inquired Robert.
“Australia, my boy, is about as large as four-fifths of Europe. It has
somewhere about 775,000 HECTARES.”
“So much as that?” said the Major.
“Yes, McNabbs, almost to a yard’s breadth. Don’t you think now it has a
right to be called a continent?”
“I do, certainly.”
“I may add,” continued the SAVANT, “that there are but few accounts
of travelers being lost in this immense country. Indeed, I believe
Leichardt is the only one of whose fate we are ignorant, and some
time before my departure I learned from the Geographical Society that
Mcintyre had strong hopes of having discovered traces of him.”
“The whole of Australia, then, is not yet explored?” asked Lady Helena.
“No, madam, but very little of it. This continent is not much better
known than the interior of Africa, and yet it is from no lack of
enterprising travelers. From 1606 to 1862, more than fifty have been
engaged in exploring along the coast and in the interior.”
“Oh, fifty!” exclaimed McNabbs incredulously.
“No, no,” objected the Major; “that is going too far.”
“And I might go farther, McNabbs,” replied the geographer, impatient of
contradiction.
“Yes, McNabbs, quite that number.”
“Farther still, Paganel.”
“If you doubt me, I can give you the names.”
“Oh, oh,” said the Major, coolly. “That’s just like you SAVANTS. You
stick at nothing.”
“Major, will you bet your Purdy-Moore rifle against my telescope?”
“Why not, Paganel, if it would give you any pleasure.”
“Done, Major!” exclaimed Paganel. “You may say good-by to your rifle,
for it will never shoot another chamois or fox unless I lend it to you,
which I shall always be happy to do, by the by.”
“And whenever you require the use of your telescope, Paganel, I shall be
equally obliging,” replied the Major, gravely.
“Let us begin, then; and ladies and gentlemen, you shall be our jury.
Robert, you must keep count.”
This was agreed upon, and Paganel forthwith commenced.
“Mnemosyne! Goddess of Memory, chaste mother of the Muses!” he
exclaimed, “inspire thy faithful servant and fervent worshiper! Two
hundred and fifty-eight years ago, my friends, Australia was unknown.
Strong suspicions were entertained of the existence of a great southern
continent. In the library of your British Museum, Glenarvan, there are
two charts, the date of which is 1550, which mention a country south
of Asia, called by the Portuguese Great Java. But these charts are not
sufficiently authentic. In the seventeenth century, in 1606, Quiros,
a Spanish navigator, discovered a country which he named Australia de
Espiritu Santo. Some authors imagine that this was the New Hebrides
group, and not Australia. I am not going to discuss the question,
however. Count Quiros, Robert, and let us pass on to another.”
“ONE,” said Robert.
“In that same year, Louis Vas de Torres, the second in command of the
fleet of Quiros, pushed further south. But it is to Theodore Hertoge, a
Dutchman, that the honor of the great discovery belongs. He touched
the western coast of Australia in 25 degrees latitude, and called it
Eendracht, after his vessel. From this time navigators increased. In
1618, Zeachen discovered the northern parts of the coast, and called
them Arnheim and Diemen. In 1618, Jan Edels went along the western
coast, and christened it by his own name. In 1622, Leuwin went down as
far as the cape which became his namesake.” And so Paganel continued
with name after name until his hearers cried for mercy.
“Stop, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, laughing heartily, “don’t quite crush
poor McNabbs. Be generous; he owns he is vanquished.”
“And what about the rifle?” asked the geographer, triumphantly.
“It is yours, Paganel,” replied the Major, “and I am very sorry for it;
but your memory might gain an armory by such feats.”
“It is certainly impossible to be better acquainted with Australia; not
the least name, not even the most trifling fact--”
“As to the most trifling fact, I don’t know about that,” said the Major,
shaking his head.
“What do you mean, McNabbs?” exclaimed Paganel.
“Simply that perhaps all the incidents connected with the discovery of
Australia may not be known to you.”
“Just fancy,” retorted Paganel, throwing back his head proudly.
“Come now. If I name one fact you don’t know, will you give me back my
rifle?” said McNabbs.
“On the spot, Major.”
“Very well, it’s a bargain, then.”
“Yes, a bargain; that’s settled.”
“All right. Well now, Paganel, do you know how it is that Australia does
not belong to France?”
“But it seems to me--”
“Or, at any rate, do you know what’s the reason the English give?” asked
the Major.
“No,” replied Paganel, with an air of vexation.
“Just because Captain Baudin, who was by no means a timid man, was so
afraid in 1802, of the croaking of the Australian frogs, that he raised
his anchor with all possible speed, and quitted the coast, never to
return.”
“What!” exclaimed Paganel. “Do they actually give that version of it in
England? But it is just a bad joke.”
“Bad enough, certainly, but still it is history in the United Kingdom.”
“It’s an insult!” exclaimed the patriotic geographer; “and they relate
that gravely?”
“I must own it is the case,” replied Glenarvan, amidst a general
outburst of laughter. “Do you mean to say you have never heard of it
before?”
“Never! But I protest against it. Besides, the English call us
‘frog-eaters.’ Now, in general, people are not afraid of what they eat.”
“It is said, though, for all that,” replied McNabbs. So the Major kept
his famous rifle after all.
CHAPTER V THE STORM ON THE INDIAN OCEAN
Two days after this conversation, John Mangles announced that the DUNCAN
was in longitude 113 degrees 37 minutes, and the passengers found on
consulting the chart that consequently Cape Bernouilli could not be more
than five degrees off. They must be sailing then in that part of the
Indian Ocean which washed the Australian continent, and in four days
might hope to see Cape Bernouilli appear on the horizon.
Hitherto the yacht had been favored by a strong westerly breeze, but now
there were evident signs that a calm was impending, and on the 13th
of December the wind fell entirely; as the sailors say, there was not
enough to fill a cap.
There was no saying how long this state of the atmosphere might last.
But for the powerful propeller the yacht would have been obliged to lie
motionless as a log. The young captain was very much annoyed, however,
at the prospect of emptying his coal-bunkers, for he had covered his
ship with canvas, intending to take advantage of the slightest breeze.
“After all, though,” said Glenarvan, with whom he was talking over the
subject, “it is better to have no wind than a contrary one.”
“Your Lordship is right,” replied John Mangles; “but the fact is these
sudden calms bring change of weather, and this is why I dread them. We
are close on the trade winds, and if we get them ever so little in our
teeth, it will delay us greatly.”
“Well, John, what if it does? It will only make our voyage a little
longer.”
“Yes, if it does not bring a storm with it.”
“Do you mean to say you think we are going to have bad weather?” replied
Glenarvan, examining the sky, which from horizon to zenith seemed
absolutely cloudless.
“I do,” returned the captain. “I may say so to your Lordship, but I
should not like to alarm Lady Glenarvan or Miss Grant.”
“You are acting wisely; but what makes you uneasy?”
“Sure indications of a storm. Don’t trust, my Lord, to the appearance of
the sky. Nothing is more deceitful. For the last two days the barometer
has been falling in a most ominous manner, and is now at 27 degrees.
This is a warning I dare not neglect, for there is nothing I dread more
than storms in the Southern Seas; I have had a taste of them already.
The vapors which become condensed in the immense glaciers at the
South Pole produce a current of air of extreme violence. This causes
a struggle between the polar and equatorial winds, which results in
cyclones, tornadoes, and all those multiplied varieties of tempest
against which a ship is no match.”
“Well, John,” said Glenarvan, “the DUNCAN is a good ship, and her
captain is a brave sailor. Let the storm come, we’ll meet it!”
John Mangles remained on deck the whole night, for though as yet the
sky was still unclouded, he had such faith in his weather-glass, that
he took every precaution that prudence could suggest. About 11 P. M. the
sky began to darken in the south, and the crew were called up, and all
the sails hauled in, except the foresail, brigantine, top-sail, and
jib-boom. At midnight the wind freshened, and before long the cracking
of the masts, and the rattling of the cordage, and groaning of the
timbers, awakened the passengers, who speedily made their appearance on
deck--at least Paganel, Glenarvan, the Major and Robert.
“Is it the hurricane?” asked Glenarvan quietly.
“Not yet,” replied the captain; “but it is close at hand.”
And he went on giving his orders to the men, and doing his best to make
ready for the storm, standing, like an officer commanding a breach, with
his face to the wind, and his gaze fixed on the troubled sky. The glass
had fallen to 26 degrees, and the hand pointed to tempest.
It was one o’clock in the morning when Lady Helena and Miss Grant
ventured upstairs on deck. But they no sooner made their appearance
than the captain hurried toward them, and begged them to go below again
immediately. The waves were already beginning to dash over the side of
the ship, and the sea might any moment sweep right over her from stem
to stern. The noise of the warring elements was so great that his words
were scarcely audible, but Lady Helena took advantage of a sudden lull
to ask if there was any danger.
“None whatever,” replied John Mangles; “but you cannot remain on deck,
madam, no more can Miss Mary.”
The ladies could not disobey an order that seemed almost an entreaty,
and they returned to their cabin. At the same moment the wind redoubled
its fury, making the masts bend beneath the weight of the sails, and
completely lifting up the yacht.
“Haul up the foresail!” shouted the captain. “Lower the topsail and
jib-boom!”
Glenarvan and his companions stood silently gazing at the struggle
between their good ship and the waves, lost in wondering and
half-terrified admiration at the spectacle.
Just then, a dull hissing was heard above the noise of the elements.
The steam was escaping violently, not by the funnel, but from the
safety-valves of the boiler; the alarm whistle sounded unnaturally loud,
and the yacht made a frightful pitch, overturning Wilson, who was at
the wheel, by an unexpected blow from the tiller. The DUNCAN no longer
obeyed the helm.
“What is the matter?” cried the captain, rushing on the bridge.
“The ship is heeling over on her side,” replied Wilson.
“The engine! the engine!” shouted the engineer.
Away rushed John to the engine-room. A cloud of steam filled the room.
The pistons were motionless in their cylinders, and they were apparently
powerless, and the engine-driver, fearing for his boilers, was letting
off the steam.
“What’s wrong?” asked the captain.
“The propeller is bent or entangled,” was the reply. “It’s not acting at
all.”
“Can’t you extricate it?”
“It is impossible.”
An accident like this could not be remedied, and John’s only resource
was to fall back on his sails, and seek to make an auxiliary of his most
powerful enemy, the wind. He went up again on deck, and after explaining
in a few words to Lord Glenarvan how things stood, begged him to retire
to his cabin, with the rest of the passengers. But Glenarvan wished to
remain above.
“No, your Lordship,” said the captain in a firm tone, “I must be alone
with my men. Go into the saloon. The vessel will have a hard fight with
the waves, and they would sweep you over without mercy.”
“But we might be a help.”
“Go in, my Lord, go in. I must indeed insist on it. There are times when
I must be master on board, and retire you must.”
Their situation must indeed be desperate for John Mangles to speak in
such authoritative language. Glenarvan was wise enough to understand
this, and felt he must set an example in obedience. He therefore quitted
the deck immediately with his three companions, and rejoined the
ladies, who were anxiously watching the DENOUEMENT of this war with the
elements.
“He’s an energetic fellow, this brave John of mine!” said Lord
Glenarvan, as he entered the saloon.
“That he is,” replied Paganel. “He reminds me of your great
Shakespeare’s boatswain in the ‘Tempest,’ who says to the king on board:
‘Hence! What care these roarers for the name of king? To cabin! Silence!
Trouble us not.’”
However, John Mangles did not lose a second in extricating his ship
from the peril in which she was placed by the condition of her screw
propeller. He resolved to rely on the mainsail for keeping in the right
route as far as possible, and to brace the yards obliquely, so as not to
present a direct front to the storm. The yacht turned about like a swift
horse that feels the spur, and presented a broadside to the billows. The
only question was, how long would she hold out with so little sail, and
what sail could resist such violence for any length of time. The great
advantage of keeping up the mainsail was that it presented to the waves
only the most solid portions of the yacht, and kept her in the right
course. Still it involved some peril, for the vessel might get engulfed
between the waves, and not be able to raise herself. But Mangles felt
there was no alternative, and all he could do was to keep the crew
ready to alter the sail at any moment, and stay in the shrouds himself
watching the tempest.
The remainder of the night was spent in this manner, and it was hoped
that morning would bring a calm. But this was a delusive hope. At 8 A.
M. the wind had increased to a hurricane.
John said nothing, but he trembled for his ship, and those on board.
The DUNCAN made a frightful plunge forward, and for an instant the
men thought she would never rise again. Already they had seized their
hatchets to cut away the shrouds from the mainmast, but the next minute
the sails were torn away by the tempest, and had flown off like gigantic
albatrosses.
The yacht had risen once more, but she found herself at the mercy of
the waves entirely now, with nothing to steady or direct her, and was
so fearfully pitched and tossed about that every moment the captain
expected the masts would break short off. John had no resource but to
put up a forestaysail, and run before the gale. But this was no easy
task. Twenty times over he had all his work to begin again, and it was
3 P. M. before his attempt succeeded. A mere shred of canvas though
it was, it was enough to drive the DUNCAN forward with inconceivable
rapidity to the northeast, of course in the same direction as the
hurricane. Swiftness was their only chance of safety. Sometimes she
would get in advance of the waves which carried her along, and cutting
through them with her sharp prow, bury herself in their depths. At
others, she would keep pace with them, and make such enormous leaps that
there was imminent danger of her being pitched over on her side, and
then again, every now and then the storm-driven sea would out-distance
the yacht, and the angry billows would sweep over the deck from stem to
stern with tremendous violence.
In this alarming situation and amid dreadful alternations of hope and
despair, the 12th of December passed away, and the ensuing night, John
Mangles never left his post, not even to take food. Though his impassive
face betrayed no symptoms of fear, he was tortured with anxiety, and his
steady gaze was fixed on the north, as if trying to pierce through the
thick mists that enshrouded it.
There was, indeed, great cause for fear. The DUNCAN was out of her
course, and rushing toward the Australian coast with a speed which
nothing could lessen. To John Mangles it seemed as if a thunderbolt
were driving them along. Every instant he expected the yacht would dash
against some rock, for he reckoned the coast could not be more than
twelve miles off, and better far be in mid ocean exposed to all its fury
than too near land.
John Mangles went to find Glenarvan, and had a private talk with him
about their situation, telling him frankly the true state of affairs,
stating the case with all the coolness of a sailor prepared for anything
and everything and he wound up by saying he might, perhaps, be obliged
to cast the yacht on shore.
“To save the lives of those on board, my Lord,” he added.
“Do it then, John,” replied Lord Glenarvan.
“And Lady Helena, Miss Grant?”
“I will tell them at the last moment when all hope of keeping out at sea
is over. You will let me know?”
“I will, my Lord.”
Glenarvan rejoined his companions, who felt they were in imminent
danger, though no word was spoken on the subject. Both ladies displayed
great courage, fully equal to any of the party. Paganel descanted in
the most inopportune manner about the direction of atmospheric currents,
making interesting comparisons, between tornadoes, cyclones, and
rectilinear tempests. The Major calmly awaited the end with the fatalism
of a Mussulman.
About eleven o’clock, the hurricane appeared to decrease slightly. The
damp mist began to clear away, and a sudden gleam of light revealed a
low-lying shore about six miles distant. They were driving right down on
it. Enormous breakers fifty feet high were dashing over it, and the fact
of their height showed John there must be solid ground before they could
make such a rebound.
“Those are sand-banks,” he said to Austin.
“I think they are,” replied the mate.
“We are in God’s hands,” said John. “If we cannot find any opening for
the yacht, and if she doesn’t find the way in herself, we are lost.”
“The tide is high at present, it is just possible we may ride over those
sand-banks.”
“But just see those breakers. What ship could stand them. Let us invoke
divine aid, Austin!”
Meanwhile the DUNCAN was speeding on at a frightful rate. Soon she was
within two miles of the sand-banks, which were still veiled from time to
time in thick mist. But John fancied he could see beyond the breakers
a quiet basin, where the DUNCAN would be in comparative safety. But how
could she reach it?
All the passengers were summoned on deck, for now that the hour of
shipwreck was at hand, the captain did not wish anyone to be shut up in
his cabin.
“John!” said Glenarvan in a low voice to the captain, “I will try to
save my wife or perish with her. I put Miss Grant in your charge.”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied John Mangles, raising Glenarvan’s hand to his
moistened eyes.
The yacht was only a few cables’ lengths from the sandbanks. The tide
was high, and no doubt there was abundance of water to float the ship
over the dangerous bar; but these terrific breakers alternately lifting
her up and then leaving her almost dry, would infallibly make her graze
the sand-banks.
Was there no means of calming this angry sea? A last expedient struck
the captain. “The oil, my lads!” he exclaimed. “Bring the oil here!”
The crew caught at the idea immediately; this was a plan that had been
successfully tried already. The fury of the waves had been allayed
before this time by covering them with a sheet of oil. Its effect is
immediate, but very temporary. The moment after a ship has passed over
the smooth surface, the sea redoubles its violence, and woe to the bark
that follows. The casks of seal-oil were forthwith hauled up, for danger
seemed to have given the men double strength. A few hatchet blows soon
knocked in the heads, and they were then hung over the larboard and
starboard.
“Be ready!” shouted John, looking out for a favorable moment.
In twenty seconds the yacht reached the bar. Now was the time. “Pour
out!” cried the captain, “and God prosper it!”
The barrels were turned upside down, and instantly a sheet of oil
covered the whole surface of the water. The billows fell as if by magic,
the whole foaming sea seemed leveled, and the DUNCAN flew over its
tranquil bosom into a quiet basin beyond the formidable bar; but almost
the same minute the ocean burst forth again with all its fury, and the
towering breakers dashed over the bar with increased violence.
CHAPTER VI A HOSPITABLE COLONIST
THE captain’s first care was to anchor his vessel securely. He found
excellent moorage in five fathoms’ depth of water, with a solid bottom
of hard granite, which afforded a firm hold. There was no danger now of
either being driven away or stranded at low water. After so many hours
of danger, the DUNCAN found herself in a sort of creek, sheltered by a
high circular point from the winds outside in the open sea.
Lord Glenarvan grasped John Mangles’ hand, and simply said: “Thank you,
John.”
This was all, but John felt it ample recompense. Glenarvan kept to
himself the secret of his anxiety, and neither Lady Helena, nor Mary,
nor Robert suspected the grave perils they had just escaped.
One important fact had to be ascertained. On what part of the coast had
the tempest thrown them? How far must they go to regain the parallel.
At what distance S. W. was Cape Bernouilli? This was soon determined by
taking the position of the ship, and it was found that she had scarcely
deviated two degrees from the route. They were in longitude 36 degrees
12 minutes, and latitude 32 degrees 67 minutes, at Cape Catastrophe,
three hundred miles from Cape Bernouilli. The nearest port was Adelaide,
the Capital of Southern Australia.
Could the DUNCAN be repaired there? This was the question. The extent
of the injuries must first be ascertained, and in order to do this he
ordered some of the men to dive down below the stern. Their report
was that one of the branches of the screw was bent, and had got jammed
against the stern post, which of course prevented all possibility of
rotation. This was a serious damage, so serious as to require more
skilful workmen than could be found in Adelaide.
After mature reflection, Lord Glenarvan and John Mangles came to the
determination to sail round the Australian coast, stopping at Cape
Bernouilli, and continuing their route south as far as Melbourne,
where the DUNCAN could speedily be put right. This effected, they would
proceed to cruise along the eastern coast to complete their search for
the BRITANNIA.
This decision was unanimously approved, and it was agreed that they
should start with the first fair wind. They had not to wait long for
the same night the hurricane had ceased entirely, and there was only a
manageable breeze from the S. W. Preparations for sailing were instantly
commenced, and at four o’clock in the morning the crew lifted the
anchors, and got under way with fresh canvas outspread, and a wind
blowing right for the Australian shores.
Two hours afterward Cape Catastrophe was out of sight. In the evening
they doubled Cape Borda, and came alongside Kangaroo Island. This is the
largest of the Australian islands, and a great hiding place for runaway
convicts. Its appearance was enchanting. The stratified rocks on the
shore were richly carpeted with verdure, and innumerable kangaroos were
jumping over the woods and plains, just as at the time of its discovery
in 1802. Next day, boats were sent ashore to examine the coast minutely,
as they were now on the 36th parallel, and between that and the 38th
Glenarvan wished to leave no part unexplored.
The boats had hard, rough work of it now, but the men never complained.
Glenarvan and his inseparable companion, Paganel, and young Robert
generally accompanied them. But all this painstaking exploration came
to nothing. Not a trace of the shipwreck could be seen anywhere. The
Australian shores revealed no more than the Patagonian. However, it was
not time yet to lose hope altogether, for they had not reached the exact
point indicated by the document.
On the 20th of December, they arrived off Cape Bernouilli, which
terminates Lacepede Bay, and yet not a vestige of the BRITANNIA had been
discovered. Still this was not surprising, as it was two years since the
occurrence of the catastrophe, and the sea might, and indeed must, have
scattered and destroyed whatever fragments of the brig had remained.
Besides, the natives who scent a wreck as the vultures do a dead body,
would have pounced upon it and carried off the smaller DEBRIS. There was
no doubt whatever Harry Grant and his companions had been made prisoners
the moment the waves threw them on the shore, and been dragged away into
the interior of the continent.
But if so, what becomes of Paganel’s ingenious hypothesis about the
document? viz., that it had been thrown into a river and carried by a
current into the sea. That was a plausible enough theory in Patagonia,
but not in the part of Australia intersected by the 37th parallel.
Besides the Patagonian rivers, the Rio Colorado and the Rio Negro, flow
into the sea along deserted solitudes, uninhabited and uninhabitable;
while, on the contrary, the principal rivers of Australia--the Murray,
the Yarrow, the Torrens, the Darling--all connected with each other,
throw themselves into the ocean by well-frequented routes, and their
mouths are ports of great activity. What likelihood, consequently, would
there be that a fragile bottle would ever find its way along such busy
thoroughfares right out into the Indian Ocean?
Paganel himself saw the impossibility of it, and confessed to the Major,
who raised a discussion on the subject, that his hypothesis would be
altogether illogical in Australia. It was evident that the degrees given
related to the place where the BRITANNIA was actually shipwrecked and
not the place of captivity, and that the bottle therefore had been
thrown into the sea on the western coast of the continent.
However, as Glenarvan justly remarked, this did not alter the fact
of Captain Grant’s captivity in the least degree, though there was no
reason now for prosecuting the search for him along the 37th parallel,
more than any other. It followed, consequently, that if no traces of the
BRITANNIA were discovered at Cape Bernouilli, the only thing to be done
was to return to Europe. Lord Glenarvan would have been unsuccessful,
but he would have done his duty courageously and conscientiously.
But the young Grants did not feel disheartened. They had long since said
to themselves that the question of their father’s deliverance was about
to be finally settled. Irrevocably, indeed, they might consider it, for
as Paganel had judiciously demonstrated, if the wreck had occurred on
the eastern side, the survivors would have found their way back to their
own country long since.
“Hope on! Hope on, Mary!” said Lady Helena to the young girl, as they
neared the shore; “God’s hand will still lead us.”
“Yes, Miss Mary,” said Captain John. “Man’s extremity is God’s
opportunity. When one way is hedged up another is sure to open.”
“God grant it,” replied Mary.
Land was quite close now. The cape ran out two miles into the sea, and
terminated in a gentle slope, and the boat glided easily into a sort
of natural creek between coral banks in a state of formation, which in
course of time would be a belt of coral reefs round the southern
point of the Australian coast. Even now they were quite sufficiently
formidable to destroy the keel of a ship, and the BRITANNIA might likely
enough have been dashed to pieces on them.
The passengers landed without the least difficulty on an absolutely
desert shore. Cliffs composed of beds of strata made a coast line sixty
to eighty feet high, which it would have been difficult to scale without
ladders or cramp-irons. John Mangles happened to discover a natural
breach about half a mile south. Part of the cliff had been partially
beaten down, no doubt, by the sea in some equinoctial gale. Through this
opening the whole party passed and reached the top of the cliff by a
pretty steep path. Robert climbed like a young cat, and was the first on
the summit, to the despair of Paganel, who was quite ashamed to see his
long legs, forty years old, out-distanced by a young urchin of twelve.
However, he was far ahead of the Major, who gave himself no concern on
the subject.
They were all soon assembled on the lofty crags, and from this elevation
could command a view of the whole plain below. It appeared entirely
uncultivated, and covered with shrubs and bushes. Glenarvan thought it
resembled some glens in the lowlands of Scotland, and Paganel fancied
it like some barren parts of Britanny. But along the coast the country
appeared to be inhabited, and significant signs of industry revealed the
presence of civilized men, not savages.
“A mill!” exclaimed Robert.
And, sure enough, in the distance the long sails of a mill appeared,
apparently about three miles off.
“It certainly is a windmill,” said Paganel, after examining the object
in question through his telescope.
“Let us go to it, then,” said Glenarvan.
Away they started, and, after walking about half an hour, the country
began to assume a new aspect, suddenly changing its sterility for
cultivation. Instead of bushes, quick-set hedges met the eye, inclosing
recent clearings. Several bullocks and about half a dozen horses
were feeding in meadows, surrounded by acacias supplied from the vast
plantations of Kangaroo Island. Gradually fields covered with cereals
came in sight, whole acres covered with bristling ears of corn,
hay-ricks in the shape of large bee-hives, blooming orchards, a fine
garden worthy of Horace, in which the useful and agreeable were blended;
then came sheds; commons wisely distributed, and last of all, a plain
comfortable dwelling-house, crowned by a joyous-sounding mill, and
fanned and shaded by its long sails as they kept constantly moving
round.
Just at that moment a pleasant-faced man, about fifty years of age,
came out of the house, warned, by the loud barking of four dogs, of the
arrival of strangers. He was followed by five handsome strapping lads,
his sons, and their mother, a fine tall woman. There was no mistaking
the little group. This was a perfect type of the Irish colonist--a man
who, weary of the miseries of his country, had come, with his family, to
seek fortune and happiness beyond the seas.
Before Glenarvan and his party had time to reach the house and present
themselves in due form, they heard the cordial words: “Strangers!
welcome to the house of Paddy O’Moore!”
“You are Irish,” said Glenarvan, “if I am not mistaken,” warmly grasping
the outstretched hand of the colonist.
“I was,” replied Paddy O’Moore, “but now I am Australian. Come in,
gentlemen, whoever you may be, this house is yours.”
It was impossible not to accept an invitation given with such grace.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were led in by Mrs. O’Moore, while the
gentlemen were assisted by his sturdy sons to disencumber themselves of
their fire-arms.
An immense hall, light and airy, occupied the ground floor of the house,
which was built of strong planks laid horizontally. A few wooden benches
fastened against the gaily-colored walls, about ten stools, two oak
chests on tin mugs, a large long table where twenty guests could sit
comfortably, composed the furniture, which looked in perfect keeping
with the solid house and robust inmates.
The noonday meal was spread; the soup tureen was smoking between roast
beef and a leg of mutton, surrounded by large plates of olives, grapes,
and oranges. The necessary was there and there was no lack of the
superfluous. The host and hostess were so pleasant, and the big table,
with its abundant fare, looked so inviting, that it would have been
ungracious not to have seated themselves. The farm servants, on equal
footing with their master, were already in their places to take their
share of the meal. Paddy O’Moore pointed to the seats reserved for the
strangers, and said to Glenarvan:
“I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting for us!” replied Glenarvan in a tone of surprise.
“I am always waiting for those who come,” said the Irishman; and then,
in a solemn voice, while the family and domestics reverently stood, he
repeated the BENEDICITE.
Dinner followed immediately, during which an animated conversation was
kept up on all sides. From Scotch to Irish is but a handsbreadth. The
Tweed, several fathoms wide, digs a deeper trench between Scotland and
England than the twenty leagues of Irish Channel, which separates Old
Caledonia from the Emerald Isle. Paddy O’Moore related his history. It
was that of all emigrants driven by misfortune from their own country.
Many come to seek fortunes who only find trouble and sorrow, and then
they throw the blame on chance, and forget the true cause is their
own idleness and vice and want of commonsense. Whoever is sober and
industrious, honest and economical, gets on.
Such a one had been and was Paddy O’Moore. He left Dundalk, where he
was starving, and came with his family to Australia, landed at Adelaide,
where, refusing employment as a miner, he got engaged on a farm, and two
months afterward commenced clearing ground on his own account.
The whole territory of South Australia is divided into lots, each
containing eighty acres, and these are granted to colonists by the
government. Any industrious man, by proper cultivation, can not only get
a living out of his lot, but lay by pounds 80 a year.
Paddy O’Moore knew this. He profited by his own former experience, and
laid by every penny he could till he had saved enough to purchase new
lots. His family prospered, and his farm also. The Irish peasant became
a landed proprietor, and though his little estate had only been under
cultivation for two years, he had five hundred acres cleared by his own
hands, and five hundred head of cattle. He was his own master, after
having been a serf in Europe, and as independent as one can be in the
freest country in the world.
His guests congratulated him heartily as he ended his narration; and
Paddy O’Moore no doubt expected confidence for confidence, but he waited
in vain. However, he was one of those discreet people who can say,
“I tell you who I am, but I don’t ask who you are.” Glenarvan’s great
object was to get information about the BRITANNIA, and like a man who
goes right to the point, he began at once to interrogate O’Moore as to
whether he had heard of the shipwreck.
The reply of the Irishman was not favorable; he had never heard the
vessel mentioned. For two years, at least, no ship had been wrecked
on that coast, neither above nor below the Cape. Now, the date of
the catastrophe was within two years. He could, therefore, declare
positively that the survivors of the wreck had not been thrown on that
part of the western shore. “Now, my Lord,” he added, “may I ask what
interest you have in making the inquiry?”
This pointed question elicited in reply the whole history of the
expedition. Glenarvan related the discovery of the document, and the
various attempts that had been made to follow up the precise indications
given of the whereabouts of the unfortunate captives; and he concluded
his account by expressing his doubt whether they should ever find the
Captain after all.
His dispirited tone made a painful impression on the minds of his
auditors. Robert and Mary could not keep back their tears, and Paganel
had not a word of hope or comfort to give them. John Mangles was grieved
to the heart, though he, too, was beginning to yield to the feeling
of hopelessness which had crept over the rest, when suddenly the whole
party were electrified by hearing a voice exclaim: “My Lord, praise
and thank God! if Captain Grant is alive, he is on this Australian
continent.”
CHAPTER VII THE QUARTERMASTER OF THE “BRITANNIA”
THE surprise caused by these words cannot be described. Glenarvan sprang
to his feet, and pushing back his seat, exclaimed: “Who spoke?”
“I did,” said one of the servants, at the far end of the table.
“You, Ayrton!” replied his master, not less bewildered than Glenarvan.
“Yes, it was I,” rejoined Ayrton in a firm tone, though somewhat
agitated voice. “A Scotchman like yourself, my Lord, and one of the
shipwrecked crew of the BRITANNIA.”
The effect of such a declaration may be imagined. Mary Grant fell back,
half-fainting, in Lady Helena’s arms, overcome by joyful emotion, and
Robert, and Mangles, and Paganel started up and toward the man that
Paddy O’Moore had addressed as AYRTON. He was a coarse-looking fellow,
about forty-five years of age, with very bright eyes, though half-hidden
beneath thick, overhanging brows. In spite of extreme leanness there was
an air of unusual strength about him. He seemed all bone and nerves, or,
to use a Scotch expression, as if he had not wasted time in making fat.
He was broad-shouldered and of middle height, and though his features
were coarse, his face was so full of intelligence and energy and
decision, that he gave one a favorable impression. The interest he
excited was still further heightened by the marks of recent suffering
imprinted on his countenance. It was evident that he had endured long
and severe hardships, and that he had borne them bravely and come off
victor.
“You are one of the shipwrecked sailors of the BRITANNIA?” was
Glenarvan’s first question.
“Yes, my Lord; Captain Grant’s quartermaster.”
“And saved with him after the shipwreck?”
“No, my Lord, no. I was separated from him at that terrible moment, for
I was swept off the deck as the ship struck.”
“Then you are not one of the two sailors mentioned in the document?”
“No; I was not aware of the existence of the document. The captain must
have thrown it into the sea when I was no longer on board.”
“But the captain? What about the captain?”
“I believed he had perished; gone down with all his crew. I imagined
myself the sole survivor.”
“But you said just now, Captain Grant was living.”
“No, I said, ‘_if the captain is living_.’”
“And you added, ‘_he is on the Australian continent_.’”
“And, indeed, he cannot be anywhere else.”
“Then you don’t know where he is?”
“No, my Lord. I say again, I supposed he was buried beneath the waves,
or dashed to pieces against the rocks. It was from you I learned that he
was still alive.”
“What then do you know?”
“Simply this--if Captain Grant is alive, he is in Australia.”
“Where did the shipwreck occur?” asked Major McNabbs.
This should have been the first question, but in the excitement caused
by the unexpected incident, Glenarvan cared more to know where the
captain was, than where the BRITANNIA had been lost. After the Major’s
inquiry, however, Glenarvan’s examination proceeded more logically, and
before long all the details of the event stood out clearly before the
minds of the company.
To the question put by the Major, Ayrton replied:
“When I was swept off the forecastle, when I was hauling in the
jib-boom, the BRITANNIA was running right on the Australian coast. She
was not more than two cables’ length from it and consequently she must
have struck just there.”
“In latitude 37 degrees?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, in latitude 37 degrees.”
“On the west coast?”
“No, on the east coast,” was the prompt reply.
“And at what date?”
“It was on the night of the 27th of June, 1862.”
“Exactly, just exactly,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“You see, then, my Lord,” continued Ayrton, “I might justly say, _If
Captain Grant_ is alive, he is on the Australian continent, and it is
useless looking for him anywhere else.”
“And we will look for him there, and find him too, and save him,”
exclaimed Paganel. “Ah, precious document,” he added, with perfect
NAIVETE, “you must own you have fallen into the hands of uncommonly
shrewd people.”
But, doubtless, nobody heard his flattering words, for Glenarvan and
Lady Helena, and Mary Grant, and Robert, were too much engrossed with
Ayrton to listen to anyone else. They pressed round him and grasped his
hands. It seemed as if this man’s presence was the sure pledge of
Harry Grant’s deliverance. If this sailor had escaped the perils of the
shipwreck, why should not the captain? Ayrton was quite sanguine as to
his existence; but on what part of the continent he was to be found,
that he could not say. The replies the man gave to the thousand
questions that assailed him on all sides were remarkably intelligent and
exact. All the while he spake, Mary held one of his hands in hers.
This sailor was a companion of her father’s, one of the crew of the
BRITANNIA. He had lived with Harry Grant, crossed the seas with him and
shared his dangers. Mary could not keep her eyes off his face, rough and
homely though it was, and she wept for joy.
Up to this time no one had ever thought of doubting either the veracity
or identity of the quartermaster; but the Major, and perhaps John
Mangles, now began to ask themselves if this Ayrton’s word was to
be absolutely believed. There was something suspicious about this
unexpected meeting. Certainly the man had mentioned facts and dates
which corresponded, and the minuteness of his details was most striking.
Still exactness of details was no positive proof. Indeed, it has
been noticed that a falsehood has sometimes gained ground by being
exceedingly particular in minutiae. McNabbs, therefore, prudently
refrained from committing himself by expressing any opinion.
John Mangles, however, was soon convinced when he heard Ayrton speak to
the young girl about her father. He knew Mary and Robert quite well. He
had seen them in Glasgow when the ship sailed. He remembered them at
the farewell breakfast given on board the BRITANNIA to the captain’s
friends, at which Sheriff Mcintyre was present. Robert, then a boy of
ten years old, had been given into his charge, and he ran away and tried
to climb the rigging.
“Yes, that I did, it is quite right,” said Robert.
He went on to mention several other trifling incidents, without
attaching the importance to them that John Mangles did, and when he
stopped Mary Grant said, in her soft voice: “Oh, go on, Mr. Ayrton, tell
us more about our father.”
The quartermaster did his best to satisfy the poor girl, and Glenarvan
did not interrupt him, though a score of questions far more important
crowded into his mind. Lady Helena made him look at Mary’s beaming face,
and the words he was about to utter remained unspoken.
Ayrton gave an account of the BRITANNIA’S voyage across the Pacific.
Mary knew most of it before, as news of the ship had come regularly up
to the month of May, 1862. In the course of the year Harry Grant had
touched at all the principal ports. He had been to the Hebrides, to New
Guinea, New Zealand, and New Caledonia, and had succeeded in finding an
important point on the western coast of Papua, where the establishment
of a Scotch colony seemed to him easy, and its prosperity certain.
A good port on the Molucca and Philippine route must attract ships,
especially when the opening of the Suez Canal would have supplanted the
Cape route. Harry Grant was one of those who appreciated the great work
of M. De Lesseps, and would not allow political rivalries to interfere
with international interests.
After reconnoitering Papua, the BRITANNIA went to provision herself at
Callao, and left that port on the 30th of May, 1862, to return to Europe
by the Indian Ocean and the Cape. Three weeks afterward, his vessel was
disabled by a fearful storm in which they were caught, and obliged to
cut away the masts. A leak sprang in the hold, and could not be stopped.
The crew were too exhausted to work the pumps, and for eight days the
BRITANNIA was tossed about in the hurricane like a shuttlecock. She had
six feet of water in her hold, and was gradually sinking. The boats had
been all carried away by the tempest; death stared them in the face,
when, on the night of the 22d of June, as Paganel had rightly supposed,
they came in sight of the eastern coast of Australia.
The ship soon neared the shore, and presently dashed violently against
it. Ayrton was swept off by a wave, and thrown among the breakers, where
he lost consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself in the hands
of natives, who dragged him away into the interior of the country.
Since that time he had never heard the BRITANNIA’s name mentioned, and
reasonably enough came to the conclusion that she had gone down with all
hands off the dangerous reefs of Twofold Bay.
This ended Ayrton’s recital, and more than once sorrowful exclamations
were evoked by the story. The Major could not, in common justice, doubt
its authenticity. The sailor was then asked to narrate his own personal
history, which was short and simple enough. He had been carried by a
tribe of natives four hundred miles north of the 37th parallel. He
spent a miserable existence there--not that he was ill-treated, but the
natives themselves lived miserably. He passed two long years of painful
slavery among them, but always cherished in his heart the hope of one
day regaining his freedom, and watching for the slightest opportunity
that might turn up, though he knew that his flight would be attended
with innumerable dangers.
At length one night in October, 1864, he managed to escape the vigilance
of the natives, and took refuge in the depths of immense forests. For
a whole month he subsisted on roots, edible ferns and mimosa gums,
wandering through vast solitudes, guiding himself by the sun during
the day and by the stars at night. He went on, though often almost
despairingly, through bogs and rivers, and across mountains, till he had
traversed the whole of the uninhabited part of the continent, where only
a few bold travelers have ventured; and at last, in an exhausted and
all but dying condition, he reached the hospitable dwelling of Paddy
O’Moore, where he said he had found a happy home in exchange for his
labor.
“And if Ayrton speaks well of me,” said the Irish settler, when the
narrative ended, “I have nothing but good to say of him. He is an
honest, intelligent fellow and a good worker; and as long as he pleases,
Paddy O’Moore’s house shall be his.”
Ayrton thanked him by a gesture, and waited silently for any fresh
question that might be put to him, though he thought to himself that he
surely must have satisfied all legitimate curiosity. What could remain
to be said that he had not said a hundred times already. Glenarvan
was just about to open a discussion about their future plan of action,
profiting by this rencontre with Ayrton, and by the information he had
given them, when Major McNabbs, addressing the sailor said, “You were
quartermaster, you say, on the BRITANNIA?”
“Yes,” replied Ayrton, without the least hesitation.
But as if conscious that a certain feeling of mistrust, however slight,
had prompted the inquiry, he added, “I have my shipping papers with me;
I saved them from the wreck.”
He left the room immediately to fetch his official document, and, though
hardly absent a minute, Paddy O’Moore managed to say, “My Lord, you
may trust Ayrton; I vouch for his being an honest man. He has been two
months now in my service, and I have never had once to find fault with
him. I knew all this story of his shipwreck and his captivity. He is a
true man, worthy of your entire confidence.”
Glenarvan was on the point of replying that he had never doubted his
good faith, when the man came in and brought his engagement written out
in due form. It was a paper signed by the shipowners and Captain Grant.
Mary recognized her father’s writing at once. It was to certify that
“Tom Ayrton, able-bodied seaman, was engaged as quartermaster on board
the three-mast vessel, the BRITANNIA, Glasgow.”
There could not possibly be the least doubt now of Ayrton’s identity,
for it would have been difficult to account for his possession of the
document if he were not the man named in it.
“Now then,” said Glenarvan, “I wish to ask everyone’s opinion as to what
is best to be done. Your advice, Ayrton, will be particularly valuable,
and I shall be much obliged if you would let us have it.”
After a few minutes’ thought, Ayrton replied--“I thank you, my Lord, for
the confidence you show towards me, and I hope to prove worthy of it. I
have some knowledge of the country, and the habits of the natives, and
if I can be of any service to you--”
“Most certainly you can,” interrupted Glenarvan.
“I think with you,” resumed Ayrton, “that the captain and his two
sailors have escaped alive from the wreck, but since they have not found
their way to the English settlement, nor been seen any where, I have
no doubt that their fate has been similar to my own, and that they are
prisoners in the hands of some of the native tribes.”
“That’s exactly what I have always argued,” said Paganel. “The
shipwrecked men were taken prisoners, as they feared. But must we
conclude without question that, like yourself, they have been dragged
away north of the 37th parallel?”
“I should suppose so, sir; for hostile tribes would hardly remain
anywhere near the districts under the British rule.”
“That will complicate our search,” said Glenarvan, somewhat
disconcerted. “How can we possibly find traces of the captives in the
heart of so vast a continent?”
No one replied, though Lady Helena’s questioning glances at her
companions seemed to press for an answer. Paganel even was silent. His
ingenuity for once was at fault. John Mangles paced the cabin with great
strides, as if he fancied himself on the deck of his ship, evidently
quite nonplussed.
“And you, Mr. Ayrton,” said Lady Helena at last, “what would you do?”
“Madam,” replied Ayrton, readily enough, “I should re-embark in the
DUNCAN, and go right to the scene of the catastrophe. There I should
be guided by circumstances, and by any chance indications we might
discover.”
“Very good,” returned Glenarvan; “but we must wait till the DUNCAN is
repaired.”
“Ah, she has been injured then?” said Ayrton.
“Yes,” replied Mangles.
“To any serious extent?”
“No; but such injuries as require more skilful workmanship than we have
on board. One of the branches of the screw is twisted, and we cannot get
it repaired nearer than Melbourne.”
“Well, let the ship go to Melbourne then,” said Paganel, “and we will go
without her to Twofold Bay.”
“And how?” asked Mangles.
“By crossing Australia as we crossed America, keeping along the 37th
parallel.”
“But the DUNCAN?” repeated Ayrton, as if particularly anxious on that
score.
“The DUNCAN can rejoin us, or we can rejoin her, as the case may be.
Should we discover Captain Grant in the course of our journey, we can
all return together to Melbourne. If we have to go on to the coast,
on the contrary, then the DUNCAN can come to us there. Who has any
objection to make? Have you, Major?”
“No, not if there is a practicable route across Australia.”
“So practicable, that I propose Lady Helena and Miss Grant should
accompany us.”
“Are you speaking seriously?” asked Glenarvan.
“Perfectly so, my Lord. It is a journey of 350 miles, not more. If we go
twelve miles a day it will barely take us a month, just long enough
to put the vessel in trim. If we had to cross the continent in a lower
latitude, at its wildest part, and traverse immense deserts, where
there is no water and where the heat is tropical, and go where the most
adventurous travelers have never yet ventured, that would be a different
matter. But the 37th parallel cuts only through the province of
Victoria, quite an English country, with roads and railways, and well
populated almost everywhere. It is a journey you might make, almost, in
a chaise, though a wagon would be better. It is a mere trip from London
to Edinburgh, nothing more.”
“What about wild beasts, though?” asked Glenarvan, anxious to go into
all the difficulties of the proposal.
“There are no wild beasts in Australia.”
“And how about the savages?”
“There are no savages in this latitude, and if there were, they are not
cruel, like the New Zealanders.”
“And the convicts?”
“There are no convicts in the southern provinces, only in the eastern
colonies. The province of Victoria not only refused to admit them, but
passed a law to prevent any ticket-of-leave men from other provinces
from entering her territories. This very year the Government threatened
to withdraw its subsidy from the Peninsular Company if their vessels
continued to take in coal in those western parts of Australia
where convicts are admitted. What! Don’t you know that, and you an
Englishman?”
“In the first place, I beg leave to say I am not an Englishman,” replied
Glenarvan.
“What M. Paganel says is perfectly correct,” said Paddy O’Moore. “Not
only the province of Victoria, but also Southern Australia, Queensland,
and even Tasmania, have agreed to expel convicts from their territories.
Ever since I have been on this farm, I have never heard of one in this
Province.”
“And I can speak for myself. I have never come across one.”
“You see then, friends,” went on Jacques Paganel, “there are few if
any savages, no ferocious animals, no convicts, and there are not many
countries of Europe for which you can say as much. Well, will you go?”
“What do you think, Helena?” asked Glenarvan.
“What we all think, dear Edward,” replied Lady Helena, turning toward
her companions; “let us be off at once.”
CHAPTER VIII PREPARATION FOR THE JOURNEY
GLENARVAN never lost much time between adopting an idea and carrying it
out. As soon as he consented to Paganel’s proposition, he gave immediate
orders to make arrangements for the journey with as little delay as
possible. The time of starting was fixed for the 22d of December, the
next day but one.
What results might not come out of this journey. The presence of Harry
Grant had become an indisputable fact, and the chances of finding him
had increased. Not that anyone expected to discover the captain exactly
on the 37th parallel, which they intended strictly to follow, but they
might come upon his track, and at all events, they were going to the
actual spot where the wreck had occurred. That was the principal point.
Besides, if Ayrton consented to join them and act as their guide through
the forests of the province of Victoria and right to the eastern coast,
they would have a fresh chance of success. Glenarvan was sensible of
this, and asked his host whether he would have any great objection to
his asking Ayrton to accompany them, for he felt particularly desirous
of securing the assistance of Harry Grant’s old companion.
Paddy O’Moore consented, though he would regret the loss of his
excellent servant.
“Well, then, Ayrton, will you come with us in our search expedition?”
Ayrton did not reply immediately. He even showed signs of hesitation;
but at last, after due reflection, said, “Yes, my Lord, I will go with
you, and if I can not take you to Captain Grant, I can at least take you
to the very place where his ship struck.”
“Thanks, Ayrton.”
“One question, my Lord.”
“Well?”
“Where will you meet the DUNCAN again?”
“At Melbourne, unless we traverse the whole continent from coast to
coast.”
“But the captain?”
“The captain will await my instructions in the port of Melbourne.”
“You may depend on me then, my Lord.”
“I will, Ayrton.”
The quartermaster was warmly thanked by the passengers of the DUNCAN,
and the children loaded him with caresses. Everyone rejoiced in his
decision except the Irishman, who lost in him an intelligent and
faithful helper. But Paddy understood the importance Glenarvan attached
to the presence of the man, and submitted. The whole party then returned
to the ship, after arranging a rendezvous with Ayrton, and ordering him
to procure the necessary means of conveyance across the country.
When John Mangles supported the proposition of Paganel, he took for
granted that he should accompany the expedition. He began to speak
to Glenarvan at once about it, and adduced all sorts of arguments to
advance his cause--his devotion to Lady Helena and his Lordship, how
useful could he be in organizing the party, and how useless on board
the DUNCAN; everything, in fact, but the main reason, and that he had no
need to bring forward.
“I’ll only ask you one question, John,” said Glenarvan. “Have you entire
confidence in your chief officer?”
“Absolute,” replied Mangles, “Tom Austin is a good sailor. He will
take the ship to her destination, see that the repairs are skilfully
executed, and bring her back on the appointed day. Tom is a slave to
duty and discipline. Never would he take it upon himself to alter or
retard the execution of an order. Your Lordship may rely on him as on
myself.”
“Very well then, John,” replied Glenarvan. “You shall go with us, for it
would be advisable,” he added, smiling, “that you should be there when
we find Mary Grant’s father.”
“Oh! your Lordship,” murmured John, turning pale. He could say no more,
but grasped Lord Glenarvan’s hand.
Next day, John Mangles and the ship’s carpenter, accompanied by sailors
carrying provisions, went back to Paddy O’Moore’s house to consult the
Irishman about the best method of transport. All the family met him,
ready to give their best help. Ayrton was there, and gave the benefit of
his experience.
On one point both he and Paddy agreed, that the journey should be made
in a bullock-wagon by the ladies, and that the gentlemen should ride on
horseback. Paddy could furnish both bullocks and vehicle. The vehicle
was a cart twenty feet long, covered over by a tilt, and resting on four
large wheels without spokes or felloes, or iron tires--in a word, plain
wooden discs. The front and hinder part were connected by means of a
rude mechanical contrivance, which did not allow of the vehicle turning
quickly. There was a pole in front thirty-five feet long, to which the
bullocks were to be yoked in couples. These animals were able to draw
both with head and neck, as their yoke was fastened on the nape of the
neck, and to this a collar was attached by an iron peg. It required
great skill to drive such a long, narrow, shaky concern, and to guide
such a team by a goad; but Ayrton had served his apprenticeship to it on
the Irishman’s farm, and Paddy could answer for his competency. The role
of conductor was therefore assigned to him.
There were no springs to the wagon, and, consequently, it was not likely
to be very comfortable; but, such as it was, they had to take it. But if
the rough construction could not be altered, John Mangles resolved that
the interior should be made as easy as possible. His first care was to
divide it into two compartments by a wooden partition. The back one
was intended for the provisions and luggage, and M. Olbinett’s portable
kitchen. The front was set apart especially for the ladies, and, under
the carpenter’s hands, was to be speedily converted into a comfortable
room, covered with a thick carpet, and fitted up with a toilet table
and two couches. Thick leather curtains shut in this apartment, and
protected the occupants from the chilliness of the nights. In case of
necessity, the gentlemen might shelter themselves here, when the violent
rains came on, but a tent was to be their usual resting-place when the
caravan camped for the night. John Mangles exercised all his ingenuity
in furnishing the small space with everything that the two ladies could
possibly require, and he succeeded so well, that neither Lady Helena nor
Mary had much reason to regret leaving their cosy cabins on board the
DUNCAN.
For the rest of the party, the preparations were soon made, for they
needed much less. Strong horses were provided for Lord Glenarvan,
Paganel, Robert Grant, McNabbs, and John Mangles; also for the two
sailors, Wilson and Mulrady, who were to accompany their captain.
Ayrton’s place was, of course, to be in front of the wagon, and M.
Olbinett, who did not much care for equitation, was to make room for
himself among the baggage. Horses and bullocks were grazing in the
Irishman’s meadows, ready to fetch at a moment’s notice.
After all arrangements were made, and the carpenter set to work, John
Mangles escorted the Irishman and his family back to the vessel, for
Paddy wished to return the visit of Lord Glenarvan. Ayrton thought
proper to go too, and about four o’clock the party came over the side of
the DUNCAN.
They were received with open arms. Glenarvan would not be outstripped in
politeness, and invited his visitors to stop and dine. His hospitality
was willingly accepted. Paddy was quite amazed at the splendor of the
saloon, and was loud in admiration of the fitting up of the cabins, and
the carpets and hangings, as well as of the polished maple-wood of the
upper deck. Ayrton’s approbation was much less hearty, for he considered
it mere costly superfluity.
But when he examined the yacht with a sailor’s eye, the quartermaster of
the BRITANNIA was as enthusiastic about it as Paddy. He went down into
the hold, inspected the screw department and the engine-room, examining
the engine thoroughly, and inquired about its power and consumption. He
explored the coal-bunkers, the store-room, the powder-store, and armory,
in which last he seemed to be particularly attracted by a cannon mounted
on the forecastle. Glenarvan saw he had to do with a man who understood
such matters, as was evident from his questions. Ayrton concluded his
investigations by a survey of the masts and rigging.
“You have a fine vessel, my Lord,” he said after his curiosity was
satisfied.
“A good one, and that is best,” replied Glenarvan.
“And what is her tonnage?”
“Two hundred and ten tons.”
“I don’t think I am far out,” continued Ayrton, “in judging her speed at
fifteen knots. I should say she could do that easily.”
“Say seventeen,” put in John Mangles, “and you’ve hit the mark.”
“Seventeen!” exclaimed the quartermaster. “Why, not a man-of-war--not
the best among them, I mean--could chase her!”
“Not one,” replied Mangles. “The DUNCAN is a regular racing yacht, and
would never let herself be beaten.”
“Even at sailing?” asked Ayrton.
“Even at sailing.”
“Well, my Lord, and you too, captain,” returned Ayrton, “allow a sailor
who knows what a ship is worth, to compliment you on yours.”
“Stay on board of her, then, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan; “it rests with
yourself to call it yours.”
“I will think of it, my Lord,” was all Ayrton’s reply.
Just then M. Olbinett came to announce dinner, and his Lordship repaired
with his guests to the saloon.
“That Ayrton is an intelligent man,” said Paganel to the Major.
“Too intelligent!” muttered McNabbs, who, without any apparent reason,
had taken a great dislike to the face and manners of the quartermaster.
During the dinner, Ayrton gave some interesting details about the
Australian continent, which he knew perfectly. He asked how many sailors
were going to accompany the expedition, and seemed astonished to hear
that only two were going. He advised Glenarvan to take all his best men,
and even urged him to do it, which advice, by the way, ought to have
removed the Major’s suspicion.
“But,” said Glenarvan, “our journey is not dangerous, is it?”
“Not at all,” replied Ayrton, quickly.
“Well then, we’ll have all the men we can on board. Hands will be wanted
to work the ship, and to help in the repairs. Besides, it is of the
utmost importance that she should meet us to the very day, at whatever
place may be ultimately selected. Consequently, we must not lessen her
crew.”
Ayrton said nothing more, as if convinced his Lordship was right.
When evening came, Scotch and Irish separated. Ayrton and Paddy O’Moore
and family returned home. Horses and wagons were to be ready the next
day, and eight o’clock in the morning was fixed for starting.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant soon made their preparations. They had less
to do than Jacques Paganel, for he spent half the night in arranging,
and wiping, and rubbing up the lenses of his telescope. Of course, next
morning he slept on till the Major’s stentorian voice roused him.
The luggage was already conveyed to the farm, thanks to John Mangles,
and a boat was waiting to take the passengers. They were soon seated,
and the young captain gave his final orders to Tom Austin, his chief
officer. He impressed upon him that he was to wait at Melbourne for Lord
Glenarvan’s commands, and to obey them scrupulously, whatever they might
be.
The old sailor told John he might rely on him, and, in the name of the
men, begged to offer his Lordship their best wishes for the success of
this new expedition.
A storm of hurrahs burst forth from the yacht as the boat rowed off. In
ten minutes the shore was reached, and a quarter of an hour afterward
the Irishman’s farm. All was ready. Lady Helena was enchanted with her
installation. The huge chariot, with its primitive wheels and massive
planks, pleased her particularly. The six bullocks, yoked in pairs, had
a patriarchal air about them which took her fancy. Ayrton, goad in hand,
stood waiting the orders of this new master.
“My word,” said Paganel, “this is a famous vehicle; it beats all the
mail-coaches in the world. I don’t know a better fashion of traveling
than in a mountebank’s caravan--a movable house, which goes or
stops wherever you please. What can one wish better? The Samaratians
understood that, and never traveled in any other way.”
“Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena, “I hope I shall have the pleasure
of seeing you in my SALONS.”
“Assuredly, madam, I should count it an honor. Have you fixed the day?”
“I shall be at home every day to my friends,” replied Lady Helena; “and
you are--”
“The most devoted among them all,” interrupted Paganel, gaily.
These mutual compliments were interrupted by the arrival of the seven
horses, saddled and ready. They were brought by Paddy’s sons, and Lord
Glenarvan paid the sum stipulated for his various purchases, adding his
cordial thanks, which the worthy Irishman valued at least as much as his
golden guineas.
The signal was given to start, and Lady Helena and Mary took their
places in the reserved compartment. Ayrton seated himself in front, and
Olbinett scrambled in among the luggage. The rest of the party, well
armed with carbines and revolvers, mounted their horses. Ayrton gave
a peculiar cry, and his team set off. The wagon shook and the planks
creaked, and the axles grated in the naves of the wheels; and before
long the hospitable farm of the Irishman was out of sight.
CHAPTER IX A COUNTRY OF PARADOXES
IT was the 23d of December, 1864, a dull, damp, dreary month in the
northern hemisphere; but on the Australian continent it might be called
June. The hottest season of the year had already commenced, and the
sun’s rays were almost tropical, when Lord Glenarvan started on his new
expedition.
Most fortunately the 37th parallel did not cross the immense deserts,
inaccessible regions, which have cost many martyrs to science already.
Glenarvan could never have encountered them. He had only to do with the
southern part of Australia--viz., with a narrow portion of the province
of Adelaide, with the whole of Victoria, and with the top of the
reversed triangle which forms New South Wales.
It is scarcely sixty-two miles from Cape Bernouilli to the frontiers
of Victoria. It was not above a two days’ march, and Ayrton reckoned on
their sleeping next night at Apsley, the most westerly town of Victoria.
The commencement of a journey is always marked by ardor, both in the
horses and the horsemen. This is well enough in the horsemen, but if the
horses are to go far, their speed must be moderated and their strength
husbanded. It was, therefore, fixed that the average journey every day
should not be more than from twenty-five to thirty miles.
Besides, the pace of the horses must be regulated by the slower pace of
the bullocks, truly mechanical engines which lose in time what they gain
in power. The wagon, with its passengers and provisions, was the very
center of the caravan, the moving fortress. The horsemen might act as
scouts, but must never be far away from it.
As no special marching order had been agreed upon, everybody was at
liberty to follow his inclinations within certain limits. The hunters
could scour the plain, amiable folks could talk to the fair occupants
of the wagon, and philosophers could philosophize. Paganel, who was all
three combined, had to be and was everywhere at once.
The march across Adelaide presented nothing of any particular interest.
A succession of low hills rich in dust, a long stretch of what they call
in Australia “bush,” several prairies covered with a small prickly bush,
considered a great dainty by the ovine tribe, embraced many miles. Here
and there they noticed a species of sheep peculiar to New
Holland--sheep with pig’s heads, feeding between the posts of the
telegraph line recently made between Adelaide and the coast.
Up to this time there had been a singular resemblance in the country to
the monotonous plains of the Argentine Pampas. There was the same grassy
flat soil, the same sharply-defined horizon against the sky. McNabbs
declared they had never changed countries; but Paganel told him to wait,
and he would soon see a difference. And on the faith of this assurance
marvelous things were expected by the whole party.
In this fashion, after a march of sixty miles in two days, the caravan
reached the parish of Apsley, the first town in the Province of Victoria
in the Wimerra district.
The wagon was put up at the Crown Inn. Supper was soon smoking on the
table. It consisted solely of mutton served up in various ways.
They all ate heartily, but talked more than they ate, eagerly asking
Paganel questions about the wonders of the country they were just
beginning to traverse. The amiable geographer needed no pressing, and
told them first that this part of it was called Australia Felix.
“Wrongly named!” he continued. “It had better have been called rich,
for it is true of countries, as individuals, that riches do not make
happiness. Thanks to her gold mines, Australia has been abandoned to
wild devastating adventurers. You will come across them when we reach
the gold fields.”
“Is not the colony of Victoria of but a recent origin?” asked Lady
Glenarvan.
“Yes, madam, it only numbers thirty years of existence. It was on the
6th of June, 1835, on a Tuesday--”
“At a quarter past seven in the evening,” put in the Major, who
delighted in teasing the Frenchman about his precise dates.
“No, at ten minutes past seven,” replied the geographer, gravely, “that
Batman and Falckner first began a settlement at Port Phillip, the bay
on which the large city of Melbourne now stands. For fifteen years
the colony was part of New South Wales, and recognized Sydney as the
capital; but in 1851, she was declared independent, and took the name of
Victoria.”
“And has greatly increased in prosperity since then, I believe,” said
Glenarvan.
“Judge for yourself, my noble friend,” replied Paganel. “Here are the
numbers given by the last statistics; and let McNabbs say as he likes, I
know nothing more eloquent than statistics.”
“Go on,” said the Major.
“Well, then, in 1836, the colony of Port Phillip had 224 inhabitants.
To-day the province of Victoria numbers 550,000. Seven millions of
vines produce annually 121,000 gallons of wine. There are 103,000
horses spreading over the plains, and 675,272 horned cattle graze in her
wide-stretching pastures.”
“Is there not also a certain number of pigs?” inquired McNabbs.
“Yes, Major, 79,625.”
“And how many sheep?”
“7,115,943, McNabbs.”
“Including the one we are eating at this moment.”
“No, without counting that, since it is three parts devoured.”
“Bravo, Monsieur Paganel,” exclaimed Lady Helena, laughing heartily. “It
must be owned you are posted up in geographical questions, and my cousin
McNabbs need not try and find you tripping.”
“It is my calling, Madam, to know this sort of thing, and to give you
the benefit of my information when you please. You may therefore believe
me when I tell you that wonderful things are in store for you in this
strange country.”
“It does not look like it at present,” said McNabbs, on purpose to tease
Paganel.
“Just wait, impatient Major,” was his rejoinder. “You have hardly put
your foot on the frontier, when you turn round and abuse it. Well, I say
and say again, and will always maintain that this is the most curious
country on the earth. Its formation, and nature, and products, and
climate, and even its future disappearance have amazed, and are now
amazing, and will amaze, all the SAVANTS in the world. Think, my
friends, of a continent, the margin of which, instead of the center,
rose out of the waves originally like a gigantic ring, which encloses,
perhaps, in its center, a sea partly evaporated, the waves of which are
drying up daily; where humidity does not exist either in the air or in
the soil; where the trees lose their bark every year, instead of their
leaves; where the leaves present their sides to the sun and not
their face, and consequently give no shade; where the wood is often
incombustible, where good-sized stones are dissolved by the rain; where
the forests are low and the grasses gigantic; where the animals
are strange; where quadrupeds have beaks, like the echidna, or
ornithorhynchus, and naturalists have been obliged to create a special
order for them, called monotremes; where the kangaroos leap on unequal
legs, and sheep have pigs’ heads; where foxes fly about from tree
to tree; where the swans are black; where rats make nests; where
the bower-bird opens her reception-rooms to receive visits from her
feathered friends; where the birds astonish the imagination by the
variety of their notes and their aptness; where one bird serves for a
clock, and another makes a sound like a postilion cracking of a whip,
and a third imitates a knife-grinder, and a fourth the motion of a
pendulum; where one laughs when the sun rises, and another cries when
the sun sets! Oh, strange, illogical country, land of paradoxes and
anomalies, if ever there was one on earth--the learned botanist Grimard
was right when he said, ‘There is that Australia, a sort of parody,
or rather a defiance of universal laws in the face of the rest of the
world.’”
Paganel’s tirade was poured forth in the most impetuous manner, and
seemed as if it were never coming to an end. The eloquent secretary of
the Geographical Society was no longer master of himself. He went on and
on, gesticulating furiously, and brandishing his fork to the imminent
danger of his neighbors. But at last his voice was drowned in a thunder
of applause, and he managed to stop.
Certainly after such an enumeration of Australian peculiarities, he
might have been left in peace but the Major said in the coolest tone
possible: “And is that all, Paganel?”
“No, indeed not,” rejoined the Frenchman, with renewed vehemence.
“What!” exclaimed Lady Helena; “there are more wonders still in
Australia?”
“Yes, Madam, its climate. It is even stranger than its productions.”
“Is it possible?” they all said.
“I am not speaking of the hygienic qualities of the climate,” continued
Paganel, “rich as it is in oxygen and poor in azote. There are no damp
winds, because the trade winds blow regularly on the coasts, and most
diseases are unknown, from typhus to measles, and chronic affections.”
“Still, that is no small advantage,” said Glenarvan.
“No doubt; but I am not referring to that, but to one quality it has
which is incomparable.”
“And what is that?”
“You will never believe me.”
“Yes, we will,” exclaimed his auditors, their curiosity aroused by this
preamble.
“Well, it is--”
“It is what?”
“It is a moral regeneration.”
“A moral regeneration?”
“Yes,” replied the SAVANT, in a tone of conviction. “Here metals do not
get rust on them by exposure to the air, nor men. Here the pure, dry
atmosphere whitens everything rapidly, both linen and souls. The virtue
of the climate must have been well known in England when they determined
to send their criminals here to be reformed.”
“What! do you mean to say the climate has really any such influence?”
said Lady Helena.
“Yes, Madam, both on animals and men.”
“You are not joking, Monsieur Paganel?”
“I am not, Madam. The horses and the cattle here are of incomparable
docility. You see it?”
“It is impossible!”
“But it is a fact. And the convicts transported into this reviving,
salubrious air, become regenerated in a few years. Philanthropists know
this. In Australia all natures grow better.”
“But what is to become of you then, Monsieur Paganel, in this privileged
country--you who are so good already?” said Lady Helena. “What will you
turn out?”
“Excellent, Madam, just excellent, and that’s all.”
CHAPTER X AN ACCIDENT
THE next day, the 24th of December, they started at daybreak. The heat
was already considerable, but not unbearable, and the road was smooth
and good, and allowed the cavalcade to make speedy progress. In the
evening they camped on the banks of the White Lake, the waters of which
are brackish and undrinkable.
Jacques Paganel was obliged to own that the name of this lake was a
complete misnomer, for the waters were no more white than the Black Sea
is black, or the Red Sea red, or the Yellow River yellow, or the Blue
Mountains blue. However, he argued and disputed the point with all the
_amour propre_ of a geographer, but his reasoning made no impression.
M. Olbinett prepared the evening meal with his accustomed punctuality,
and after this was dispatched, the travelers disposed themselves for
the night in the wagon and in the tent, and were soon sleeping soundly,
notwithstanding the melancholy howling of the “dingoes,” the jackals of
Australia.
A magnificent plain, thickly covered with chrysanthemums, stretched
out beyond the lake, and Glenarvan and his friends would gladly have
explored its beauties when they awoke next morning, but they had to
start. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible but one
stretch of prairie, enameled with flower, in all the freshness and
abundance of spring. The blue flowers of the slender-leaved flax,
combined with the bright hues of the scarlet acanthus, a flower peculiar
to the country.
A few cassowaries were bounding over the plain, but it was impossible to
get near them. The Major was fortunate enough, however, to hit one very
rare animal with a ball in the leg. This was the jabiru, a species which
is fast disappearing, the gigantic crane of the English colonies. This
winged creature was five feet high, and his wide, conical, extremely
pointed beak, measured eighteen inches in length. The violet and purple
tints of his head contrasted vividly with the glossy green of his neck,
and the dazzling whiteness of his throat, and the bright red of his
long legs. Nature seems to have exhausted in its favor all the primitive
colors on her palette.
Great admiration was bestowed on this bird, and the Major’s spoil would
have borne the honors of the day, had not Robert come across an animal
a few miles further on, and bravely killed it. It was a shapeless
creature, half porcupine, half ant-eater, a sort of unfinished animal
belonging to the first stage of creation. A long glutinous extensible
tongue hung out of his jaws in search of the ants, which formed its
principal food.
“It is an echidna,” said Paganel. “Have you ever seen such a creature?”
“It is horrible,” replied Glenarvan.
“Horrible enough, but curious, and, what’s more, peculiar to Australia.
One might search for it in vain in any other part of the world.”
Naturally enough, the geographer wished to preserve this interesting
specimen of monotremata, and wanted to stow it away in the luggage;
but M. Olbinett resented the idea so indignantly, that the SAVANT was
obliged to abandon his project.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, John Mangles descried an enormous
column of smoke about three miles off, gradually overspreading the
whole horizon. What could be the cause of this phenomenon? Paganel was
inclined to think it was some description of meteor, and his lively
imagination was already in search of an explanation, when Ayrton cut
short all his conjectures summarily, by announcing that the cloud of
dust was caused by a drove of cattle on the road.
The quartermaster proved right, for as the cloud came nearer, quite
a chorus of bleatings and neighings, and bel-lowings escaped from it,
mingled with the loud tones of a human voice, in the shape of cries, and
whistles, and vociferations.
Presently a man came out of the cloud. This was the leader-in-chief
of the four-footed army. Glenarvan advanced toward him, and friendly
relations were speedily established between them. The leader, or to
give him his proper designation, the stock-keeper, was part owner of the
drove. His name was Sam Machell, and he was on his way from the eastern
provinces to Portland Bay.
The drove numbered 12,075 head in all, or l,000 bullocks, 11,000 sheep,
and 75 horses. All these had been bought in the Blue Mountains in a
poor, lean condition, and were going to be fatted up on the rich pasture
lands of Southern Australia, and sold again at a great profit. Sam
Machell expected to get pounds 2 on each bullock, and 10s. on every
sheep, which would bring him in pounds 3,750. This was doing good
business; but what patience and energy were required to conduct such a
restive, stubborn lot to their destination, and what fatigues must have
to be endured. Truly the gain was hardly earned.
Sam Machell told his history in a few words, while the drove continued
their march among the groves of mimosas. Lady Helena and Mary and the
rest of the party seated themselves under the shade of a wide-spreading
gum-tree, and listened to his recital.
It was seven months since Sam Machell had started. He had gone at the
rate of ten miles a day, and his interminable journey would last three
months longer. His assistants in the laborious task comprised twenty
dogs and thirty men, five of whom were blacks, and very serviceable in
tracking up any strayed beasts. Six wagons made the rear-guard. All the
men were armed with stockwhips, the handles of which are eighteen inches
long, and the lash nine feet, and they move about among the ranks,
bringing refractory animals back into order, while the dogs, the light
cavalry of the regiment, preserved discipline in the wings.
The travelers were struck with the admirable arrangement of the drove.
The different stock were kept apart, for wild sheep and bullocks would
not have got on together at all. The bullocks would never have grazed
where the sheep had passed along, and consequently they had to go first,
divided into two battalions. Five regiments of sheep followed, in charge
of twenty men, and last of all came the horses.
Sam Machell drew the attention of his auditors to the fact that the
real guides of the drove were neither the men nor the dogs, but the oxen
themselves, beasts of superior intelligence, recognized as leaders by
their congenitors. They advanced in front with perfect gravity, choosing
the best route by instinct, and fully alive to their claim to respect.
Indeed, they were obliged to be studied and humored in everything, for
the whole drove obeyed them implicitly. If they took it into their heads
to stop, it was a matter of necessity to yield to their good pleasure,
for not a single animal would move a step till these leaders gave the
signal to set off.
Sundry details, added by the stock-keeper, completed the history of
this expedition, worthy of being written, if not commended by Xenophon
himself. As long as the troop marched over the plains it was well
enough, there was little difficulty or fatigue. The animals fed as they
went along, and slaked their thirst at the numerous creeks that watered
the plains, sleeping at night and making good progress in the day,
always obedient and tractable to the dogs. But when they had to
go through great forests and groves of eucalyptus and mimosas, the
difficulties increased. Platoons, battalions and regiments got all mixed
together or scattered, and it was a work of time to collect them again.
Should a “leader” unfortunately go astray, he had to be found, cost what
it might, on pain of a general disbandment, and the blacks were often
long days in quest of him, before their search was successful. During
the heavy rains the lazy beasts refused to stir, and when violent storms
chanced to occur, the creatures became almost mad with terror, and were
seized with a wild, disorderly panic.
However, by dint of energy and ambition, the stock-keeper triumphed
over these difficulties, incessantly renewed though they were. He kept
steadily on; mile after mile of plains and woods, and mountains, lay
behind. But in addition to all his other qualities, there was one higher
than all that he specially needed when they came to rivers. This was
patience--patience that could stand any trial, and not only could hold
out for hours and days, but for weeks. The stock-keeper would be himself
forced to wait on the banks of a stream that might have been crossed
at once. There was nothing to hinder but the obstinacy of the herd.
The bullocks would taste the water and turn back. The sheep fled in all
directions, afraid to brave the liquid element. The stock-keeper hoped
when night came he might manage them better, but they still refused to
go forward. The rams were dragged in by force, but the sheep would not
follow. They tried what thirst would do, by keeping them without drink
for several days, but when they were brought to the river again, they
simply quenched their thirst, and declined a more intimate acquaintance
with the water. The next expedient employed was to carry all the lambs
over, hoping the mothers would be drawn after them, moved by their
cries. But the lambs might bleat as pitifully as they liked, the mothers
never stirred. Sometimes this state of affairs would last a whole month,
and the stock-keeper would be driven to his wits’ end by his bleating,
bellowing, neighing army. Then all of a sudden, one fine day, without
rhyme or reason, a detachment would take it into their heads to make
a start across, and the only difficulty now was to keep the whole herd
from rushing helter-skelter after them. The wildest confusion set in
among the ranks, and numbers of the animals were drowned in the passage.
Such was the narrative of Sam Machell. During its recital, a
considerable part of the troop had filed past in good order. It was time
for him to return to his place at their head, that he might be able to
choose the best pasturage. Taking leave of Lord Glenarvan, he sprang on
a capital horse of the native breed, that one of his men held waiting
for him, and after shaking hands cordially with everybody all round,
took his departure. A few minutes later, nothing was visible of the
stock-keeper and his troop but a cloud of dust.
The wagon resumed its course in the opposite direction, and did not stop
again till they halted for the night at the foot of Mount Talbot.
Paganel made the judicious observation that it was the 25th of December,
the Christmas Day so dear to English hearts. But the steward had not
forgotten it, and an appetizing meal was soon ready under the tent, for
which he deserved and received warm compliments from the guests. Indeed,
M. Olbinett had quite excelled himself on this occasion. He produced
from his stores such an array of European dishes as is seldom seen
in the Australian desert. Reindeer hams, slices of salt beef, smoked
salmon, oat cakes, and barley meal scones; tea _ad libitum_, and whisky
in abundance, and several bottles of port, composed this astonishing
meal. The little party might have thought themselves in the grand
dining-hall of Malcolm Castle, in the heart of the Highlands of
Scotland.
The next day, at 11 A. M., the wagon reached the banks of the Wimerra on
the 143d meridian.
The river, half a mile in width, wound its limpid course between tall
rows of gum-trees and acacias. Magnificent specimens of the MYRTACEA,
among others, the _metroside-ros speciosa_, fifteen feet high, with long
drooping branches, adorned with red flowers. Thousands of birds, the
lories, and greenfinches, and gold-winged pigeons, not to speak of the
noisy paroquets, flew about in the green branches. Below, on the bosom
of the water, were a couple of shy and unapproachable black swans. This
_rara avis_ of the Australian rivers soon disappeared among the
windings of the Wimerra, which water the charming landscape in the most
capricious manner.
The wagon stopped on a grassy bank, the long fringes of which dipped
in the rapid current. There was neither raft nor bridge, but cross over
they must. Ayrton looked about for a practicable ford. About a quarter
of a mile up the water seemed shallower, and it was here they determined
to try to pass over. The soundings in different parts showed a depth of
three feet only, so that the wagon might safely enough venture.
“I suppose there is no other way of fording the river?” said Glenarvan
to the quartermaster.
“No, my Lord; but the passage does not seem dangerous. We shall manage
it.”
“Shall Lady Glenarvan and Miss Grant get out of the wagon?”
“Not at all. My bullocks are surefooted, and you may rely on me for
keeping them straight.”
“Very well, Ayrton; I can trust you.”
The horsemen surrounded the ponderous vehicle, and all stepped boldly
into the current. Generally, when wagons have to ford rivers, they have
empty casks slung all round them, to keep them floating on the water;
but they had no such swimming belt with them on this occasion, and they
could only depend on the sagacity of the animals and the prudence of
Ayrton, who directed the team. The Major and the two sailors were some
feet in advance. Glenarvan and John Mangles went at the sides of the
wagon, ready to lend any assistance the fair travelers might require,
and Paganel and Robert brought up the rear.
All went well till they reached the middle of the Wimerra, but then the
hollow deepened, and the water rose to the middle of the wheels. The
bullocks were in danger of losing their footing, and dragging with
them the oscillating vehicle. Ayrton devoted himself to his task
courageously. He jumped into the water, and hanging on by the bullocks’
horns, dragged them back into the right course.
Suddenly the wagon made a jolt that it was impossible to prevent; a
crack was heard, and the vehicle began to lean over in a most precarious
manner. The water now rose to the ladies’ feet; the whole concern began
to float, though John Mangles and Lord Glenarvan hung on to the side. It
was an anxious moment.
Fortunately a vigorous effort drove the wagon toward the opposite shore,
and the bank began to slope upward, so that the horses and bullocks were
able to regain their footing, and soon the whole party found themselves
on the other side, glad enough, though wet enough too.
The fore part of the wagon, however, was broken by the jolt, and
Glenarvan’s horse had lost a shoe.
This was an accident that needed to be promptly repaired. They looked at
each other hardly knowing what to do, till Ayrton proposed he should
go to Black Point Station, twenty miles further north, and bring back a
blacksmith with him.
“Yes, go, my good fellow,” said Glenarvan. “How long will it take you to
get there and back?”
“About fifteen hours,” replied Ayrton, “but not longer.”
“Start at once, then, and we will camp here, on the banks of the
Wimerra, till you return.”
CHAPTER XI CRIME OR CALAMITY
IT was not without apprehension that the Major saw Ayrton quit the
Wimerra camp to go and look for a blacksmith at the Black Point Station.
But he did not breathe a word of his private misgivings, and contented
himself with watching the neighborhood of the river; nothing disturbed
the repose of those tranquil glades, and after a short night the sun
reappeared on the horizon.
As to Glenarvan, his only fear was lest Ayrton should return alone. If
they fail to find a workman, the wagon could not resume the journey.
This might end in a delay of many days, and Glenarvan, impatient to
succeed, could brook no delay, in his eagerness to attain his object.
Ayrton luckily had lost neither his time nor his trouble. He appeared
next morning at daybreak, accompanied by a man who gave himself out as
the blacksmith from Black Point Station. He was a powerful fellow,
and tall, but his features were of a low, brutal type, which did not
prepossess anyone in his favor. But that was nothing, provided he knew
his business. He scarcely spoke, and certainly he did not waste his
breath in useless words.
“Is he a good workman?” said John Mangles to the quartermaster.
“I know no more about him than you do, captain,” said Ayrton. “But we
shall see.”
The blacksmith set to work. Evidently that was his trade, as they could
plainly see from the way he set about repairing the forepart of the
wagon. He worked skilfully and with uncommon energy. The Major observed
that the flesh of his wrists was deeply furrowed, showing a ring of
extravasated blood. It was the mark of a recent injury, which the
sleeve of an old woolen shirt could not conceal. McNabbs questioned the
blacksmith about those sores which looked so painful. The man continued
his work without answering. Two hours more and the damage the carriage
had sustained was made good. As to Glenarvan’s horse, it was soon
disposed of. The blacksmith had had the forethought to bring the shoes
with him. These shoes had a peculiarity which did not escape the Major;
it was a trefoil clumsily cut on the back part. McNabbs pointed it out
to Ayrton.
“It is the Black-Point brand,” said the quartermaster. “That enables
them to track any horses that may stray from the station, and prevents
their being mixed with other herds.”
The horse was soon shod. The blacksmith claimed his wage, and went off
without uttering four words.
Half an hour later, the travelers were on the road. Beyond the grove of
mimosas was a stretch of sparsely timbered country, which quite deserved
its name of “open plain.” Some fragments of quartz and ferruginous
rock lay among the scrub and the tall grass, where numerous flocks were
feeding. Some miles farther the wheels of the wagon plowed deep into
the alluvial soil, where irregular creeks murmured in their beds,
half hidden among giant reeds. By-and-by they skirted vast salt lakes,
rapidly evaporating. The journey was accomplished without trouble, and,
indeed, without fatigue.
Lady Helena invited the horsemen of the party to pay her a visit in
turns, as her reception-room was but small, and in pleasant converse
with this amiable woman they forgot the fatigue of their day’s ride.
Lady Helena, seconded by Miss Mary, did the honors of their ambulatory
house with perfect grace. John Mangles was not forgotten in these daily
invitations, and his somewhat serious conversation was not unpleasing.
The party crossed, in a diagonal direction, the mail-coach road from
Crowland to Horsham, which was a very dusty one, and little used by
pedestrians.
The spurs of some low hills were skirted at the boundary of Talbot
County, and in the evening the travelers reached a point about three
miles from Maryborough. The fine rain was falling, which, in any other
country, would have soaked the ground; but here the air absorbed the
moisture so wonderfully that the camp did not suffer in the least.
Next day, the 29th of December, the march was delayed somewhat by a
succession of little hills, resembling a miniature Switzerland. It was a
constant repetition of up and down hill, and many a jolt besides, all of
which were scarcely pleasant. The travelers walked part of the way, and
thought it no hardship.
At eleven o’clock they arrived at Carisbrook, rather an important
municipality. Ayrton was for passing outside the town without going
through it, in order, he said, to save time. Glenarvan concurred
with him, but Paganel, always eager for novelties, was for visiting
Carisbrook. They gave him his way, and the wagon went on slowly.
Paganel, as was his custom, took Robert with him. His visit to the town
was very short, but it sufficed to give him an exact idea of Australian
towns. There was a bank, a court-house, a market, a church, and a
hundred or so of brick houses, all exactly alike. The whole town was
laid out in squares, crossed with parallel streets in the English
fashion. Nothing could be more simple, nothing less attractive. As the
town grows, they lengthen the streets as we lengthen the trousers of a
growing child, and thus the original symmetry is undisturbed.
Carisbrook was full of activity, a remarkable feature in these towns of
yesterday. It seems in Australia as if towns shot up like trees, owing
to the heat of the sun. Men of business were hurrying along the streets;
gold buyers were hastening to meet the in-coming escort; the precious
metal, guarded by the local police, was coming from the mines at Bendigo
and Mount Alexander. All the little world was so absorbed in its own
interests, that the strangers passed unobserved amid the laborious
inhabitants.
After an hour devoted to visiting Carisbrook, the two visitors rejoined
their companions, and crossed a highly cultivated district. Long
stretches of prairie, known as the “Low Level Plains,” next met their
gaze, dotted with countless sheep, and shepherds’ huts. And then came a
sandy tract, without any transition, but with the abruptness of change
so characteristic of Australian scenery. Mount Simpson and Mount
Terrengower marked the southern point where the boundary of the Loddon
district cuts the 144th meridian.
As yet they had not met with any of the aboriginal tribes living in
the savage state. Glenarvan wondered if the Australians were wanting
in Australia, as the Indians had been wanting in the Pampas of the
Argentine district; but Paganel told him that, in that latitude, the
natives frequented chiefly the Murray Plains, about one hundred miles to
the eastward.
“We are now approaching the gold district,” said he, “in a day or two
we shall cross the rich region of Mount Alexander. It was here that
the swarm of diggers alighted in 1852; the natives had to fly to the
interior. We are in civilized districts without seeing any sign of
it; but our road will, before the day is over, cross the railway which
connects the Murray with the sea. Well, I must confess, a railway in
Australia does seem to me an astonishing thing!”
“And pray, why, Paganel?” said Glenarvan.
“Why? because it jars on one’s ideas. Oh! I know you English are so used
to colonizing distant possessions. You, who have electric telegraphs and
universal exhibitions in New Zealand, you think it is all quite natural.
But it dumb-founders the mind of a Frenchman like myself, and confuses
all one’s notions of Australia!”
“Because you look at the past, and not at the present,” said John
Mangles.
A loud whistle interrupted the discussion. The party were within a mile
of the railway. Quite a number of persons were hastening toward the
railway bridge. The people from the neighboring stations left their
houses, and the shepherds their flocks, and crowded the approaches to
the railway. Every now and then there was a shout, “The railway! the
railway!”
Something serious must have occurred to produce such an agitation.
Perhaps some terrible accident.
Glenarvan, followed by the rest, urged on his horse. In a few minutes he
arrived at Camden Bridge and then he became aware of the cause of such
an excitement.
A fearful accident had occurred; not a collision, but a train had gone
off the line, and then there had been a fall. The affair recalled the
worst disasters of American railways. The river crossed by the railway
was full of broken carriages and the engine. Whether the weight of the
train had been too much for the bridge, or whether the train had gone
off the rails, the fact remained that five carriages out of six fell
into the bed of the Loddon, dragged down by the locomotive. The sixth
carriage, miraculously preserved by the breaking of the coupling chain,
remained on the rails, six feet from the abyss. Below nothing was
discernible but a melancholy heap of twisted and blackened axles,
shattered wagons, bent rails, charred sleepers; the boiler, burst by
the shock, had scattered its plates to enormous distances. From this
shapeless mass of ruins flames and black smoke still rose. After the
fearful fall came fire, more fearful still! Great tracks of blood,
scattered limbs, charred trunks of bodies, showed here and there; none
could guess how many victims lay dead and mangled under those ruins.
Glenarvan, Paganel, the Major, Mangles, mixing with the crowd, heard the
current talk. Everyone tried to account for the accident, while doing
his utmost to save what could be saved.
“The bridge must have broken,” said one.
“Not a bit of it. The bridge is whole enough; they must have forgotten
to close it to let the train pass. That is all.”
It was, in fact, a swing bridge, which opened for the convenience of the
boats. Had the guard, by an unpardonable oversight, omitted to close
it for the passage of the train, so that the train, coming on at full
speed, was precipitated into the Loddon? This hypothesis seemed very
admissible; for although one-half of the bridge lay beneath the ruins of
the train, the other half, drawn up to the opposite shore, hung, still
unharmed, by its chains. No one could doubt that an oversight on the
part of the guard had caused the catastrophe.
The accident had occurred in the night, to the express train which left
Melbourne at 11:45 in the evening. About a quarter past three in the
morning, twenty-five minutes after leaving Castlemaine, it arrived at
Camden Bridge, where the terrible disaster befell. The passengers and
guards of the last and only remaining carriage at once tried to obtain
help. But the telegraph, whose posts were lying on the ground, could not
be worked. It was three hours before the authorities from Castlemaine
reached the scene of the accident, and it was six o’clock in the
morning when the salvage party was organized, under the direction of
Mr. Mitchell, the surveyor-general of the colony, and a detachment of
police, commanded by an inspector. The squatters and their “hands” lent
their aid, and directed their efforts first to extinguishing the fire
which raged in the ruined heap with unconquerable violence. A few
unrecognizable bodies lay on the slope of the embankment, but from that
blazing mass no living thing could be saved. The fire had done its work
too speedily. Of the passengers ten only survived--those in the last
carriage. The railway authorities sent a locomotive to bring them back
to Castlemaine.
Lord Glenarvan, having introduced himself to the surveyor-general,
entered into conversation with him and the inspector of police. The
latter was a tall, thin man, im-perturbably cool, and, whatever he
may have felt, allowed no trace of it to appear on his features. He
contemplated this calamity as a mathematician does a problem; he
was seeking to solve it, and to find the unknown; and when Glenarvan
observed, “This is a great misfortune,” he quietly replied, “Better than
that, my Lord.”
“Better than that?” cried Glenarvan. “I do not understand you.”
“It is better than a misfortune, it is a crime!” he replied, in the same
quiet tone.
Glenarvan looked inquiringly at Mr. Mitchell for a solution. “Yes, my
Lord,” replied the surveyor-general, “our inquiries have resulted in
the conclusion that the catastrophe is the result of a crime. The last
luggage-van has been robbed. The surviving passengers were attacked by
a gang of five or six villains. The bridge was intentionally opened, and
not left open by the negligence of the guard; and connecting with this
fact the guard’s disappearance, we may conclude that the wretched fellow
was an accomplice of these ruffians.”
The police-officer shook his head at this inference.
“You do not agree with me?” said Mr. Mitchell.
“No, not as to the complicity of the guard.”
“Well, but granting that complicity, we may attribute the crime to the
natives who haunt the Murray. Without him the blacks could never have
opened a swing-bridge; they know nothing of its mechanism.”
“Exactly so,” said the police-inspector.
“Well,” added Mr. Mitchell, “we have the evidence of a boatman whose
boat passed Camden Bridge at 10:40 P. M., that the bridge was properly
shut after he passed.”
“True.”
“Well, after that I cannot see any doubt as to the complicity of the
guard.”
The police-officer shook his head gently, but continuously.
“Then you don’t attribute the crime to the natives?”
“Not at all.”
“To whom then?”
Just at this moment a noise was heard from about half a mile up the
river. A crowd had gathered, and quickly increased. They soon reached
the station, and in their midst were two men carrying a corpse. It was
the body of the guard, quite cold, stabbed to the heart. The murderers
had no doubt hoped, by dragging their victim to a distance, that the
police would be put on a wrong scent in their first inquiries. This
discovery, at any rate, justified the doubts of the police-inspector.
The poor blacks had had no hand in the matter.
“Those who dealt that blow,” said he, “were already well used to this
little instrument”; and so saying he produced a pair of “darbies,” a
kind of handcuff made of a double ring of iron secured by a lock. “I
shall soon have the pleasure of presenting them with these bracelets as
a New Year’s gift.”
“Then you suspect--”
“Some folks who came out free in Her Majesty’s ships.”
“What! convicts?” cried Paganel, who recognized the formula employed in
the Australian colonies.
“I thought,” said Glenarvan, “convicts had no right in the province of
Victoria.”
“Bah!” said the inspector, “if they have no right, they take it! They
escape sometimes, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, this lot have come
straight from Perth, and, take my word for it, they will soon be there
again.”
Mr. Mitchell nodded acquiescence in the words of the police-inspector.
At this moment the wagon arrived at the level crossing of the railway.
Glenarvan wished to spare the ladies the horrible spectacle at Camden
Bridge. He took courteous leave of the surveyor-general, and made a sign
to the rest to follow him. “There is no reason,” said he, “for delaying
our journey.”
When they reached the wagon, Glenarvan merely mentioned to Lady Helena
that there had been a railway accident, without a hint of the crime that
had played so great a part in it; neither did he make mention of the
presence of a band of convicts in the neighborhood, reserving that
piece of information solely for Ayrton’s ear. The little procession now
crossed the railway some two hundred yards below the bridge, and then
resumed their eastward course.
CHAPTER XII TOLINE OF THE LACHLAN
ABOUT two miles from the railway, the plain terminated in a range of
low hills, and it was not long before the wagon entered a succession of
narrow gorges and capricious windings, out of which it emerged into a
most charming region, where grand trees, not closely planted, but in
scattered groups, were growing with absolutely tropical luxuriance. As
the party drove on they stumbled upon a little native boy lying fast
asleep beneath the shade of a magnificent banksia. He was dressed
in European garb, and seemed about eight years of age. There was no
mistaking the characteristic features of his race; the crisped hair,
the nearly black skin, the flattened nose, the thick lips, the unusual
length of the arms, immediately classed him among the aborigines of the
interior. But a degree of intelligence appeared in his face that showed
some educational influences must have been at work on his savage,
untamed nature.
Lady Helena, whose interest was greatly excited by this spectacle, got
out of the wagon, followed by Mary, and presently the whole company
surrounded the peaceful little sleeper. “Poor child!” said Mary Grant.
“Is he lost, I wonder, in this desert?”
“I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “he has come a long way to visit this
part. No doubt some he loves are here.”
“But he can’t be left here,” added Robert. “We must--”
His compassionate sentence remained unfinished, for, just at that moment
the child turned over in his sleep, and, to the extreme surprise of
everybody, there was a large label on his shoulders, on which the
following was written:
TOLINE.
To be conducted to Echuca.
Care of Jeffries Smith, Railway Porter.
Prepaid.
“That’s the English all over!” exclaimed Paganel. “They send off a child
just as they would luggage, and book him like a parcel. I heard it was
done, certainly; but I could not believe it before.”
“Poor child!” said Lady Helena. “Could he have been in the train that
got off the line at Camden Bridge? Perhaps his parents are killed, and
he is left alone in the world!”
“I don’t think so, madam,” replied John Mangles. “That card rather goes
to prove he was traveling alone.”
“He is waking up!” said Mary.
And so he was. His eyes slowly opened and then closed again, pained by
the glare of light. But Lady Helena took his hand, and he jumped up
at once and looked about him in bewilderment at the sight of so many
strangers. He seemed half frightened at first, but the presence of Lady
Helena reassured him. “Do you understand English, my little man?” asked
the young lady.
“I understand it and speak it,” replied the child in fluent enough
English, but with a marked accent. His pronunciation was like a
Frenchman’s.
“What is your name?” asked Lady Helena.
“Toline,” replied the little native.
“Toline!” exclaimed Paganel. “Ah! I think that means ‘bark of a tree’ in
Australian.”
Toline nodded, and looked again at the travelers.
“Where do you come from?” inquired Lady Helena.
“From Melbourne, by the railway from Sandhurst.”
“Were you in the accident at Camden Bridge?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, sir,” was Toline’s reply; “but the God of the Bible protected me.”
“Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes, alone; the Reverend Paxton put me in charge of Jeffries Smith; but
unfortunately the poor man was killed.”
“And you did not know any one else on the train?”
“No one, madam; but God watches over children and never forsakes them.”
Toline said this in soft, quiet tones, which went to the heart. When he
mentioned the name of God his voice was grave and his eyes beamed with
all the fervor that animated his young soul.
This religious enthusiasm at so tender an age was easily explained. The
child was one of the aborigines baptized by the English missionaries,
and trained by them in all the rigid principles of the Methodist Church.
His calm replies, proper behavior, and even his somber garb made him
look like a little reverend already.
But where was he going all alone in these solitudes and why had he left
Camden Bridge? Lady Helena asked him about this.
“I was returning to my tribe in the Lachlan,” he replied. “I wished to
see my family again.”
“Are they Australians?” inquired John Mangles.
“Yes, Australians of the Lachlan,” replied Toline.
“Have you a father and mother?” said Robert Grant.
“Yes, my brother,” replied Toline, holding out his hand to little Grant.
Robert was so touched by the word brother that he kissed the black
child, and they were friends forthwith.
The whole party were so interested in these replies of the little
Australian savage that they all sat round him in a listening group.
But the sun had meantime sunk behind the tall trees, and as a few miles
would not greatly retard their progress, and the spot they were in would
be suitable for a halt, Glenarvan gave orders to prepare their camp for
the night at once. Ayrton unfastened the bullocks and turned them out to
feed at will. The tent was pitched, and Olbinett got the supper ready.
Toline consented, after some difficulty, to share it, though he was
hungry enough. He took his seat beside Robert, who chose out all the
titbits for his new friend. Toline accepted them with a shy grace that
was very charming.
The conversation with him, however, was still kept up, for everyone
felt an interest in the child, and wanted to talk to him and hear his
history. It was simple enough. He was one of the poor native children
confided to the care of charitable societies by the neighboring tribes.
The Australian aborigines are gentle and inoffensive, never exhibiting
the fierce hatred toward their conquerors which characterizes the New
Zealanders, and possibly a few of the races of Northern Australia. They
often go to the large towns, such as Adelaide, Sydney and Melbourne,
and walk about in very primitive costume. They go to barter their few
articles of industry, hunting and fishing implements, weapons, etc., and
some of the chiefs, from pecuniary motives, no doubt, willingly leave
their children to profit by the advantages of a gratuitous education in
English.
This was how Toline’s parents had acted. They were true Australian
savages living in the Lachlan, a vast region lying beyond the Murray.
The child had been in Melbourne five years, and during that time had
never once seen any of his own people. And yet the imperishable feeling
of kindred was still so strong in his heart that he had dared to brave
this journey over the wilds to visit his tribe once more, scattered
though perchance it might be, and his family, even should he find it
decimated.
“And after you have kissed your parents, are you coming back to
Melbourne?” asked Lady Glenarvan.
“Yes, Madam,” replied Toline, looking at the lady with a loving
expression.
“And what are you going to be some day?” she continued.
“I am going to snatch my brothers from misery and ignorance. I am going
to teach them, to bring them to know and love God. I am going to be a
missionary.”
Words like those, spoken with such animation from a child of only eight
years, might have provoked a smile in light, scoffing auditors, but they
were understood and appreciated by the grave Scotch, who admired the
courage of this young disciple, already armed for the battle. Even
Paganel was stirred to the depths of his heart, and felt his warmer
sympathy awakened for the poor child.
To speak the truth, up to that moment he did not care much for a savage
in European attire. He had not come to Australia to see Australians
in coats and trousers. He preferred them simply tattooed, and this
conventional dress jarred on his preconceived notions. But the child’s
genuine religious fervor won him over completely. Indeed, the wind-up of
the conversation converted the worthy geographer into his best friend.
It was in reply to a question Lady Helena had asked, that Toline said he
was studying at the Normal School in Melbourne, and that the principal
was the Reverend Mr. Paxton.
“And what do they teach you?” she went on to say.
“They teach me the Bible, and mathematics, and geography.”
Paganel pricked up his ears at this, and said, “Indeed, geography!”
“Yes, sir,” said Toline; “and I had the first prize for geography before
the Christmas holidays.”
“You had the first prize for geography, my boy?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is,” returned Toline, pulling a book out of his
pocket.
It was a bible, 32mo size, and well bound. On the first page was written
the words: “Normal School, Melbourne. First Prize for Geography. Toline
of the Lachlan.”
Paganel was beside himself. An Australian well versed in geography. This
was marvelous, and he could not help kissing Toline on both cheeks, just
as if he had been the Reverend Mr. Paxton himself, on the day of the
distribution of prizes. Paganel need not have been so amazed at this
circumstance, however, for it is frequent enough in Australian schools.
The little savages are very quick in learning geography. They learn it
eagerly, and on the other hand, are perfectly averse to the science of
arithmetic.
Toline could not understand this outburst of affection on the part of
the Frenchman, and looked so puzzled that Lady Helena thought she
had better inform him that Paganel was a celebrated geographer and a
distinguished professor on occasion.
“A professor of geography!” cried Toline. “Oh, sir, do question me!”
“Question you? Well, I’d like nothing better. Indeed, I was going to
do it without your leave. I should very much like to see how they teach
geography in the Normal School of Melbourne.”
“And suppose Toline trips you up, Paganel!” said McNabbs.
“What a likely idea!” exclaimed the geographer. “Trip up the Secretary
of the Geographical Society of France.”
Their examination then commenced, after Paganel had settled his
spectacles firmly on his nose, drawn himself up to his full height, and
put on a solemn voice becoming to a professor.
“Pupil Toline, stand up.”
As Toline was already standing, he could not get any higher, but he
waited modestly for the geographer’s questions.
“Pupil Toline, what are the five divisions of the globe?”
“Oceanica, Asia, Africa, America, and Europe.”
“Perfectly so. Now we’ll take Oceanica first; where are we at this
moment? What are the principal divisions?”
“Australia, belonging to the English; New Zealand, belonging to the
English; Tasmania, belonging to the English. The islands of Chatham,
Auckland, Macquarie, Kermadec, Makin, Maraki, are also belonging to the
English.”
“Very good, and New Caledonia, the Sandwich Islands, the Mendana, the
Pomotou?”
“They are islands under the Protectorate of Great Britain.”
“What!” cried Paganel, “under the Protectorate of Great Britain. I
rather think on the contrary, that France--”
“France,” said the child, with an astonished look.
“Well, well,” said Paganel; “is that what they teach you in the
Melbourne Normal School?”
“Yes, sir. Isn’t it right?”
“Oh, yes, yes, perfectly right. All Oceanica belongs to the English.
That’s an understood thing. Go on.”
Paganel’s face betrayed both surprise and annoyance, to the great
delight of the Major.
“Let us go on to Asia,” said the geographer.
“Asia,” replied Toline, “is an immense country. Capital--Calcutta. Chief
Towns--Bombay, Madras, Calicut, Aden, Malacca, Singapore, Pegu, Colombo.
The Lacca-dive Islands, the Maldives, the Chagos, etc., belonging to the
English.”
“Very good, pupil Toline. And now for Africa.”
“Africa comprises two chief colonies--the Cape on the south, capital
Capetown; and on the west the English settlements, chief city, Sierra
Leone.”
“Capital!” said Paganel, beginning to enter into this perfectly
taught but Anglo-colored fanciful geography. “As to Algeria, Morocco,
Egypt--they are all struck out of the Britannic cities.”
“Let us pass on, pray, to America.”
“It is divided,” said Toline, promptly, “into North and South America.
The former belongs to the English in Canada, New Brunswick, New
Scotland, and the United States, under the government of President
Johnson.”
“President Johnson,” cried Paganel, “the successor of the great and
good Lincoln, assassinated by a mad fanatic of the slave party. Capital;
nothing could be better. And as to South America, with its Guiana, its
archipelago of South Shetland, its Georgia, Jamaica, Trinidad, etc.,
that belongs to the English, too! Well, I’ll not be the one to dispute
that point! But, Toline, I should like to know your opinion of Europe,
or rather your professor’s.”
“Europe?” said Toline not at all understanding Paganel’s excitement.
“Yes, Europe! Who does Europe belong to?”
“Why, to the English,” replied Toline, as if the fact was quite settled.
“I much doubt it,” returned Paganel. “But how’s that, Toline, for I want
to know that?”
“England, Ireland, Scotland, Malta, Jersey and Guern-sey, the Ionian
Islands, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, and the Orkneys.”
“Yes, yes, my lad; but there are other states you forgot to mention.”
“What are they?” replied the child, not the least disconcerted.
“Spain, Russia, Austria, Prussia, France,” answered Paganel.
“They are provinces, not states,” said Toline.
“Well, that beats all!” exclaimed Paganel, tearing off his spectacles.
“Yes,” continued the child. “Spain--capital, Gibraltar.”
“Admirable! perfect! sublime! And France, for I am French, and I should
like to know to whom I belong.”
“France,” said Toline, quietly, “is an English province; chief city,
Calais.”
“Calais!” cried Paganel. “So you think Calais still belongs to the
English?”
“Certainly.”
“And that it is the capital of France?”
“Yes, sir; and it is there that the Governor, Lord Napo-leon, lives.”
This was too much for Paganel’s risible faculties. He burst out
laughing. Toline did not know what to make of him. He had done his best
to answer every question put to him. But the singularity of the answers
were not his blame; indeed, he never imagined anything singular about
them. However, he took it all quietly, and waited for the professor to
recover himself. These peals of laughter were quite incomprehensible to
him.
“You see,” said Major McNabbs, laughing, “I was right. The pupil could
enlighten you after all.”
“Most assuredly, friend Major,” replied the geographer. “So that’s the
way they teach geography in Melbourne! They do it well, these professors
in the Normal School! Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Oceanica, the whole
world belongs to the English. My conscience! with such an ingenious
education it is no wonder the natives submit. Ah, well, Toline, my boy,
does the moon belong to England, too?”
“She will, some day,” replied the young savage, gravely.
This was the climax. Paganel could not stand any more. He was obliged
to go away and take his laugh out, for he was actually exploding with
mirth, and he went fully a quarter of a mile from the encampment before
his equilibrium was restored.
Meanwhile, Glenarvan looked up a geography they had brought among their
books. It was “Richardson’s Compendium,” a work in great repute in
England, and more in agreement with modern science than the manual in
use in the Normal School in Melbourne.
“Here, my child,” he said to Toline, “take this book and keep it. You
have a few wrong ideas about geography, which it would be well for you
to rectify. I will give you this as a keepsake from me.”
Toline took the book silently; but, after examining it attentively, he
shook his head with an air of incredulity, and could not even make up
his mind to put it in his pocket.
By this time night had closed in; it was 10 P. M. and time to think of
rest, if they were to start betimes next day. Robert offered his friend
Toline half his bed, and the little fellow accepted it. Lady Helena and
Mary Grant withdrew to the wagon, and the others lay down in the tent,
Paganel’s merry peals still mingling with the low, sweet song of the
wild magpie.
But in the morning at six o’clock, when the sunshine wakened the
sleepers, they looked in vain for the little Australian. Toline had
disappeared. Was he in haste to get to the Lachlan district? or was he
hurt by Paganel’s laughter? No one could say.
But when Lady Helena opened her eyes she discovered a fresh branch of
mimosa leaves lying across her, and Paganel found a book in his vest
pocket, which turned out to be “Richardson’s Geography.”
CHAPTER XIII A WARNING
ON the 2d of January, at sunrise, the travelers forded the Colban and
the Caupespe rivers. The half of their journey was now accomplished. In
fifteen days more, should their journey continue to be prosperous, the
little party would reach Twofold Bay.
They were all in good health. All that Paganel said of the hygienic
qualities of the climate was realized. There was little or no humidity,
and the heat was quite bearable. Neither horses nor bullocks could
complain of it any more than human beings. The order of the march had
been changed in one respect since the affair of Camden Bridge. That
criminal catastrophe on the railway made Ayrton take sundry precautions,
which had hitherto been unnecessary. The hunters never lost sight of the
wagon, and whenever they camped, one was always placed on watch. Morning
and evening the firearms were primed afresh. It was certain that a gang
of ruffians was prowling about the country, and though there was no
cause for actual fear, it was well to be ready for whatever might
happen.
It need hardly be said these precautions were adopted without the
knowledge of Lady Helena and Mary Grant, as Lord Glenarvan did not wish
to alarm them.
They were by no means unnecessary, however, for any imprudence or
carelessness might have cost the travelers dear. Others beside Glenarvan
were on their guard. In lonely settlements and on stations, the
inhabitants and the squatters prepared carefully against any attack or
surprise. Houses are closed at nightfall; the dogs let loose inside
the fences, barked at the slightest sound. Not a single shepherd on
horseback gathered his numerous flocks together at close of day, without
having a carbine slung from his saddle.
The outrage at Camden Bridge was the reason for all this, and many a
colonist fastened himself in with bolts and bars now at dusk, who used
to sleep with open doors and windows.
The Government itself displayed zeal and prudence, especially in the
Post-office department. On this very day, just as Glenarvan and his
party were on their way from Kilmore to Heathcote, the mail dashed by
at full speed; but though the horses were at a gallop, Glenarvan caught
sight of the glittering weapons of the mounted police that rode by its
side, as they swept past in a cloud of dust. The travelers might have
fancied themselves back in those lawless times when the discovery of
the first gold-fields deluged the Australian continent with the scum of
Europe.
A mile beyond the road to Kilmore, the wagon, for the first time since
leaving Cape Bernouilli, struck into one of those forests of gigantic
trees which extend over a super-fices of several degrees. A cry of
admiration escaped the travelers at the sight of the eucalyptus trees,
two hundred feet high, with tough bark five inches thick. The trunks,
measuring twenty feet round, and furrowed with foamy streaks of an
odorous resin, rose one hundred and fifty feet above the soil. Not
a branch, not a twig, not a stray shoot, not even a knot, spoilt the
regularity of their outline. They could not have come out smoother from
the hands of a turner. They stood like pillars all molded exactly alike,
and could be counted by hundreds. At an enormous height they spread out
in chaplets of branches, rounded and adorned at their extremity with
alternate leaves. At the axle of these leaves solitary flowers drooped
down, the calyx of which resembles an inverted urn.
Under this leafy dome, which never lost its greenness, the air
circulated freely, and dried up the dampness of the ground. Horses,
cattle, and wagon could easily pass between the trees, for they were
standing in wide rows, and parceled out like a wood that was being
felled. This was neither like the densely-packed woods choked up with
brambles, nor the virgin forest barricaded with the trunks of fallen
trees, and overgrown with inextricable tangles of creepers, where only
iron and fire could open up a track. A grassy carpet at the foot of the
trees, and a canopy of verdure above, long perspectives of bold colors,
little shade, little freshness at all, a peculiar light, as if the rays
came through a thin veil, dappled lights and shades sharply reflected on
the ground, made up a whole, and constituted a peculiar spectacle rich
in novel effects. The forests of the Oceanic continent do not in the
least resemble the forests of the New World; and the Eucalyptus, the
“Tara” of the aborigines, belonging to the family of MYRTACEA, the
different varieties of which can hardly be enumerated, is the tree _par
excellence_ of the Australian flora.
The reason of the shade not being deep, nor the darkness profound, under
these domes of verdure, was that these trees presented a curious anomaly
in the disposition of the leaves. Instead of presenting their broad
surface to the sunlight, only the side is turned. Only the profile of
the leaves is seen in this singular foliage. Consequently the sun’s
rays slant down them to the earth, as if through the open slants of a
Venetian blind.
Glenarvan expressed his surprise at this circumstance, and wondered
what could be the cause of it. Paganel, who was never at a loss for an
answer, immediately replied:
“What astonishes me is not the caprice of nature. She knows what she is
about, but botanists don’t always know what they are saying. Nature made
no mistake in giving this peculiar foliage to the tree, but men have
erred in calling them EUCALYPTUS.”
“What does the word mean?” asked Mary Grant.
“It comes from a Greek word, meaning I _cover well_. They took care to
commit the mistake in Greek, that it might not be so self-evident, for
anyone can see that the ecualyptus covers badly.”
“I agree with you there,” said Glenarvan; “but now tell us, Paganel, how
it is that the leaves grow in this fashion?”
“From a purely physical cause, friends,” said Paganel, “and one that you
will easily understand. In this country where the air is dry and rain
seldom falls, and the ground is parched, the trees have no need of
wind or sun. Moisture lacking, sap is lacking also. Hence these narrow
leaves, which seek to defend themselves against the light, and prevent
too great evaporation. This is why they present the profile and not the
face to the sun’s rays. There is nothing more intelligent than a leaf.”
“And nothing more selfish,” added the Major. “These only thought of
themselves, and not at all of travelers.”
Everyone inclined to the opinion of McNabbs except Paganel, who
congratulated himself on walking under shadeless trees, though all the
time he was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. However, this
disposition of foliage was certainly to be regretted, for the journey
through the forest was often long and painful, as the traveler had no
protection whatever against the sun’s fierce rays.
The whole of this day the wagon continued to roll along through
interminable rows of eucalyptus, without meeting either quadruped or
native. A few cockatoos lived in the tops of the trees, but at such a
height they could scarcely be distinguished, and their noisy chatter
was changed into an imperceptible murmur. Occasionally a swarm of
par-roquets flew along a distant path, and lighted it up for an instant
with gay colors; but otherwise, solemn silence reigned in this vast
green temple, and the tramp of the horses, a few words exchanged with
each other by the riders, the grinding noise of the wheels, and from
time to time a cry from Ayrton to stir up his lazy team, were the only
sounds which disturbed this immense solitude.
When night came they camped at the foot of some eucalyptus, which bore
marks of a comparatively recent fire. They looked like tall factory
chimneys, for the flame had completely hollowed them out their whole
length. With the thick bark still covering them, they looked none the
worse. However, this bad habit of squatters or natives will end in the
destruction of these magnificent trees, and they will disappear like the
cedars of Lebanon, those world monuments burnt by unlucky camp fires.
Olbinett, acting on Paganel’s advice, lighted his fire to prepare supper
in one of these tubular trunks. He found it drew capitally, and the
smoke was lost in the dark foliage above. The requisite precautions
were taken for the night, and Ayrton, Mulrady, Wilson and John Mangles
undertook in turn to keep watch until sunrise.
On the 3d of January, all day long, they came to nothing but the same
symmetrical avenues of trees; it seemed as if they never were going to
end. However, toward evening the ranks of trees began to thin, and on a
little plain a few miles off an assemblage of regular houses.
“Seymour!” cried Paganel; “that is the last town we come to in the
province of Victoria.”
“Is it an important one?” asked Lady Helena.
“It is a mere village, madam, but on the way to become a municipality.”
“Shall we find a respectable hotel there?” asked Glenarvan.
“I hope so,” replied Paganel.
“Very well; let us get on to the town, for our fair travelers, with all
their courage, will not be sorry, I fancy, to have a good night’s rest.”
“My dear Edward, Mary and I will accept it gladly, but only on the
condition that it will cause no delay, or take us the least out of the
road.”
“It will do neither,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “Besides, our bullocks are
fatigued, and we will start to-morrow at daybreak.”
It was now nine o’clock; the moon was just beginning to rise, but her
rays were only slanting yet, and lost in the mist. It was gradually
getting dark when the little party entered the wide streets of Seymour,
under Paganel’s guidance, who seemed always to know what he had
never seen; but his instinct led him right, and he walked straight to
Campbell’s North British Hotel.
The Major without even leaving the hotel, was soon aware that fear
absorbed the inhabitants of the little town. Ten minutes’ conversation
with Dickson, the loquacious landlord, made him completely acquainted
with the actual state of affairs; but he never breathed a word to any
one.
When supper was over, though, and Lady Glenarvan, and Mary, and Robert
had retired, the Major detained his companions a little, and said, “They
have found out the perpetrators of the crime on the Sandhurst railroad.”
“And are they arrested?” asked Ayrton, eagerly.
“No,” replied McNabbs, without apparently noticing the EMPRESSMENT of
the quartermaster--an EMPRESSMENT which, moreover, was reasonable enough
under the circumstances.
“So much the worse,” replied Ayrton.
“Well,” said Glenarvan, “who are the authors of the crime?”
“Read,” replied the Major, offering Glenarvan a copy of the _Australian
and New Zealand Gazette_, “and you will see that the inspector of the
police was not mistaken.”
Glenarvan read aloud the following message:
SYDNEY, Jan. 2, 1866.
It will be remembered that on the night of the 29th or 30th of last
December there was an accident at Camden Bridge, five miles beyond the
station at Castlemaine, on the railway from Melbourne to Sandhurst. The
night express, 11.45, dashing along at full speed, was precipitated into
the Loddon River.
Camden Bridge had been left open. The numerous robberies committed after
the accident, the body of the guard picked up about half a mile from
Camden Bridge, proved that this catastrophe was the result of a crime.
Indeed, the coroner’s inquest decided that the crime must be attributed
to the band of convicts which escaped six months ago from the
Penitentiary at Perth, Western Australia, just as they were about to be
transferred to Norfolk Island.
The gang numbers twenty-nine men; they are under the command of a
certain Ben Joyce, a criminal of the most dangerous class, who arrived
in Australia a few months ago, by what ship is not known, and who has
hitherto succeeded in evading the hands of justice.
The inhabitants of towns, colonists and squatters at stations, are
hereby cautioned to be on their guard, and to communicate to the
Surveyor-General any information that may aid his search. J. P.
MITCHELL, S. G.
When Glenarvan had finished reading this article, McNabbs turned to
the geographer and said, “You see, Paganel, there can be convicts in
Australia.”
“Escaped convicts, that is evident,” replied Paganel, “but not regularly
transported criminals. Those fellows have no business here.”
“Well, they are here, at any rate,” said Glenarvan; “but I don’t suppose
the fact need materially alter our arrangements. What do you think,
John?”
John Mangles did not reply immediately; he hesitated between the sorrow
it would cause the two children to give up the search, and the fear of
compromising the expedition.
“If Lady Glenarvan, and Miss Grant were not with us,” he said, “I should
not give myself much concern about these wretches.”
Glenarvan understood him and added, “Of course I need not say that it is
not a question of giving up our task; but would it perhaps be prudent,
for the sake of our companions, to rejoin the DUNCAN at Melbourne, and
proceed with our search for traces of Harry Grant on the eastern side.
What do you think of it, McNabbs?”
“Before I give my opinion,” replied the Major, “I should like to hear
Ayrton’s.”
At this direct appeal, the quartermaster looked at Glenarvan, and said,
“I think we are two hundred miles from Melbourne, and that the danger,
if it exists, is as great on the route to the south as on the route to
the east. Both are little frequented, and both will serve us. Besides,
I do not think that thirty scoundrels can frighten eight well-armed,
determined men. My advice, then, is to go forward.”
“And good advice too, Ayrton,” replied Paganel. “By going on we may come
across the traces of Captain Grant. In returning south, on the contrary,
we turn our backs to them. I think with you, then, and I don’t care
a snap for these escaped fellows. A brave man wouldn’t care a bit for
them!”
Upon this they agreed with the one voice to follow their original
programme.
“Just one thing, my Lord,” said Ayrton, when they were about to
separate.
“Say on, Ayrton.”
“Wouldn’t it be advisable to send orders to the DUNCAN to be at the
coast?”
“What good would that be,” replied John Mangles. “When we reach Twofold
Bay it will be time enough for that. If any unexpected event should
oblige us to go to Melbourne, we might be sorry not to find the DUNCAN
there. Besides, her injuries can not be repaired yet. For these reasons,
then, I think it would be better to wait.”
“All right,” said Ayrton, and forbore to press the matter further.
CHAPTER XIV WEALTH IN THE WILDERNESS
ON January 6, at 7 A. M., after a tranquil night passed in longitude
146 degrees 15”, the travelers continued their journey across the vast
district. They directed their course steadily toward the rising sun,
and made a straight line across the plain. Twice over they came upon
the traces of squatters going toward the north, and their different
footprints became confused, and Glenarvan’s horse no longer left on the
dust the Blackpoint mark, recognizable by its double shamrock.
The plain was furrowed in some places by fantastic winding creeks
surrounded by box, and whose waters were rather temporary than
permanent. They originated in the slopes of the Buffalo Ranges, a
chain of mountains of moderate height, the undulating line of which was
visible on the horizon. It was resolved to camp there the same night.
Ayrton goaded on his team, and after a journey of thirty-five miles, the
bullocks arrived, somewhat fatigued. The tent was pitched beneath the
great trees, and as night had drawn on supper was served as quickly as
possible, for all the party cared more for sleeping than eating, after
such a day’s march.
Paganel who had the first watch did not lie down, but shouldered his
rifle and walked up and down before the camp, to keep himself from going
to sleep. In spite of the absence of the moon, the night was almost
luminous with the light of the southern constellations. The SAVANT
amused himself with reading the great book of the firmament, a book
which is always open, and full of interest to those who can read it. The
profound silence of sleeping nature was only interrupted by the clanking
of the hobbles on the horses’ feet.
Paganel was engrossed in his astronomical meditations, and thinking more
about the celestial than the terrestrial world, when a distant sound
aroused him from his reverie. He listened attentively, and to his great
amaze, fancied he heard the sounds of a piano. He could not be mistaken,
for he distinctly heard chords struck.
“A piano in the wilds!” said Paganel to himself. “I can never believe it
is that.”
It certainly was very surprising, but Paganel found it easier to believe
it was some Australian bird imitating the sounds of a Pleyel or Erard,
as others do the sounds of a clock or mill. But at this very moment,
the notes of a clear ringing voice rose on the air. The PIANIST was
accompanied by singing. Still Paganel was unwilling to be convinced.
However, next minute he was forced to admit the fact, for there fell on
his ear the sublime strains of Mozart’s “Il mio tesoro tanto” from Don
Juan.
“Well, now,” said the geographer to himself, “let the Australian birds
be as queer as they may, and even granting the paroquets are the most
musical in the world, they can’t sing Mozart!”
He listened to the sublime inspiration of the great master to the
end. The effect of this soft melody on the still clear night was
indescribable. Paganel remained as if spellbound for a time; the voice
ceased and all was silence. When Wilson came to relieve the watch,
he found the geographer plunged into a deep reverie. Paganel made
no remark, however, to the sailor, but reserved his information for
Glenarvan in the morning, and went into the tent to bed.
Next day, they were all aroused from sleep by the sudden loud barking
of dogs, Glenarvan got up forthwith. Two magnificent pointers, admirable
specimens of English hunting dogs, were bounding in front of the little
wood, into which they had retreated at the approach of the travelers,
redoubling their clamor.
“There is some station in this desert, then,” said Glenarvan, “and
hunters too, for these are regular setters.”
Paganel was just about to recount his nocturnal experiences, when two
young men appeared, mounted on horses of the most perfect breed, true
“hunters.”
The two gentlemen dressed in elegant hunting costume, stopped at the
sight of the little group camping in gipsy fashion. They looked as if
they wondered what could bring an armed party there, but when they saw
the ladies get out of the wagon, they dismounted instantly, and went
toward them hat in hand. Lord Glenarvan came to meet them, and, as a
stranger, announced his name and rank.
The gentlemen bowed, and the elder of them said, “My Lord, will not
these ladies and yourself and friends honor us by resting a little
beneath our roof?”
“Mr.--,” began Glenarvan.
“Michael and Sandy Patterson are our names, proprietors of Hottam
Station. Our house is scarcely a quarter of a mile distant.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Glenarvan, “I should not like to abuse such
kindly-offered hospitality.”
“My Lord,” returned Michael Patterson, “by accepting it you will confer
a favor on poor exiles, who will be only too happy to do the honors of
the wilds.”
Glenarvan bowed in token of acquiescence.
“Sir,” said Paganel, addressing Michael Patterson, “if it is not an
impudent question, may I ask whether it was you that sung an air from
the divine Mozart last night?”
“It was, sir,” replied the stranger, “and my cousin Sandy accompanied
me.”
“Well, sir,” replied Paganel, holding out his hand to the young man,
“receive the sincere compliments of a Frenchman, who is a passionate
admirer of this music.”
Michael grasped his hand cordially, and then pointing out the road to
take, set off, accompanied by the ladies and Lord Glenarvan and his
friends, for the station. The horses and the camp were left to the care
of Ayrton and the sailors.
Hottam Station was truly a magnificent establishment, kept as
scrupulously in order as an English park. Immense meadows, enclosed
in gray fences, stretched away out of sight. In these, thousands
of bullocks and millions of sheep were grazing, tended by numerous
shepherds, and still more numerous dogs. The crack of the stock-whip
mingled continually with the barking of the “collies” and the bellowing
and bleating of the cattle and sheep.
Toward the east there was a boundary of myalls and gum-trees, beyond
which rose Mount Hottam, its imposing peak towering 7,500 feet high.
Long avenues of green trees were visible on all sides. Here and there
was a thick clump of “grass trees,” tall bushes ten feet high, like the
dwarf palm, quite lost in their crown of long narrow leaves. The air
was balmy and odorous with the perfume of scented laurels, whose white
blossoms, now in full bloom, distilled on the breeze the finest aromatic
perfume.
To these charming groups of native trees were added transplantations
from European climates. The peach, pear, and apple trees were there,
the fig, the orange, and even the oak, to the rapturous delight of the
travelers, who greeted them with loud hurrahs! But astonished as the
travelers were to find themselves walking beneath the shadow of the
trees of their own native land, they were still more so at the sight of
the birds that flew about in the branches--the “satin bird,” with its
silky plumage, and the “king-honeysuckers,” with their plumage of gold
and black velvet.
For the first time, too, they saw here the “Lyre” bird, the tail of
which resembles in form the graceful instrument of Orpheus. It flew
about among the tree ferns, and when its tail struck the branches, they
were almost surprised not to hear the harmonious strains that inspired
Amphion to rebuild the walls of Thebes. Paganel had a great desire to
play on it.
However, Lord Glenarvan was not satisfied with admiring the fairy-like
wonders of this oasis, improvised in the Australian desert. He was
listening to the history of the young gentlemen. In England, in the
midst of civilized countries, the new comer acquaints his host whence
he comes and whither he is going; but here, by a refinement of delicacy,
Michael and Sandy Patterson thought it a duty to make themselves known
to the strangers who were about to receive their hospitality.
Michael and Sandy Patterson were the sons of London bankers. When they
were twenty years of age, the head of their family said, “Here are some
thousands, young men. Go to a distant colony; and start some useful
settlement there. Learn to know life by labor. If you succeed, so much
the better. If you fail, it won’t matter much. We shall not regret the
money which makes you men.”
The two young men obeyed. They chose the colony of Victoria in
Australia, as the field for sowing the paternal bank-notes, and had
no reason to repent the selection. At the end of three years the
establishment was flourishing. In Victoria, New South Wales, and
Southern Australia, there are more than three thousand stations, some
belonging to squatters who rear cattle, and others to settlers who
farm the ground. Till the arrival of the two Pattersons, the largest
establishment of this sort was that of Mr. Jamieson, which covered an
area of seventy-five miles, with a frontage of about eight miles along
the Peron, one of the affluents of the Darling.
Now Hottam Station bore the palm for business and extent. The young men
were both squatters and settlers. They managed their immense property
with rare ability and uncommon energy.
The station was far removed from the chief towns in the midst of the
unfrequented districts of the Murray. It occupied a long wide space
of five leagues in extent, lying between the Buffalo Ranges and Mount
Hottam. At the two angles north of this vast quadrilateral, Mount
Aberdeen rose on the left, and the peaks of High Barven on the right.
Winding, beautiful streams were not wanting, thanks to the creeks and
affluents of the Oven’s River, which throws itself at the north into the
bed of the Murray. Consequently they were equally successful in
cattle breeding and farming. Ten thousand acres of ground, admirably
cultivated, produced harvests of native productions and exotics, and
several millions of animals fattened in the fertile pastures. The
products of Hottam Station fetched the very highest price in the markets
of Castlemaine and Melbourne.
Michael and Sandy Patterson had just concluded these details of their
busy life, when their dwelling came in sight, at the extremity of the
avenue of the oaks.
It was a charming house, built of wood and brick, hidden in groves
of emerophilis. Nothing at all, however, belonging to a station
was visible--neither sheds, nor stables, nor cart-houses. All these
out-buildings, a perfect village, comprising more than twenty huts and
houses, were about a quarter of a mile off in the heart of a little
valley. Electric communication was established between this village and
the master’s house, which, far removed from all noise, seemed buried in
a forest of exotic trees.
At Sandy Patterson’s bidding, a sumptuous breakfast was served in less
than a quarter of an hour. The wines and viands were of the finest
quality; but what pleased the guests most of all in the midst of these
refinements of opulence, was the joy of the young squatters in offering
them this splendid hospitality.
It was not long before they were told the history of the expedition,
and had their liveliest interest awakened for its success. They spoke
hopefully to the young Grants, and Michael said: “Harry Grant has
evidently fallen into the hands of natives, since he has not turned up
at any of the settlements on the coast. He knows his position exactly,
as the document proves, and the reason he did not reach some English
colony is that he must have been taken prisoner by the savages the
moment he landed!”
“That is precisely what befell his quartermaster, Ayrton,” said John
Mangles.
“But you, gentlemen, then, have never heard the catastrophe of the
BRITANNIA, mentioned?” inquired Lady Helena.
“Never, Madam,” replied Michael.
“And what treatment, in your opinion, has Captain Grant met with among
the natives?”
“The Australians are not cruel, Madam,” replied the young squatter, “and
Miss Grant may be easy on that score. There have been many instances
of the gentleness of their nature, and some Europeans have lived a long
time among them without having the least cause to complain of their
brutality.”
“King, among others, the sole survivor of the Burke expedition,” put in
Paganel.
“And not only that bold explorer,” returned Sandy, “but also an English
soldier named Buckley, who deserted at Port Philip in 1803, and who was
welcomed by the natives, and lived thirty-three years among them.”
“And more recently,” added Michael, “one of the last numbers of the
AUSTRALASIA informs us that a certain Morrilli has just been restored
to his countrymen after sixteen years of slavery. His story is exactly
similar to the captain’s, for it was at the very time of his shipwreck
in the PRUVIENNE, in 1846, that he was made prisoner by the natives, and
dragged away into the interior of the continent. I therefore think you
have reason to hope still.”
The young squatter’s words caused great joy to his auditors. They
completely corroborated the opinions of Paganel and Ayrton.
The conversation turned on the convicts after the ladies had left the
table. The squatters had heard of the catastrophe at Camden Bridge, but
felt no uneasiness about the escaped gang. It was not a station, with
more than a hundred men on it, that they would dare to attack. Besides,
they would never go into the deserts of the Murray, where they could
find no booty, nor near the colonies of New South Wales, where the roads
were too well watched. Ayrton had said this too.
Glenarvan could not refuse the request of his amiable hosts, to spend
the whole day at the station. It was twelve hours’ delay, but also
twelve hours’ rest, and both horses and bullocks would be the better
for the comfortable quarters they would find there. This was accordingly
agreed upon, and the young squatters sketched out a programme of the
day’s amusements, which was adopted eagerly.
At noon, seven vigorous hunters were before the door. An elegant brake
was intended for the ladies, in which the coachman could exhibit
his skill in driving four-in-hand. The cavalcade set off preceded
by huntsmen, and armed with first-rate rifles, followed by a pack of
pointers barking joyously as they bounded through the bushes. For four
hours the hunting party wandered through the paths and avenues of the
park, which was as large as a small German state. The Reuiss-Schleitz,
or Saxe-Coburg Gotha, would have gone inside it comfortably. Few people
were to be met in it certainly, but sheep in abundance. As for game,
there was a complete preserve awaiting the hunters. The noisy reports of
guns were soon heard on all sides. Little Robert did wonders in
company with Major McNabbs. The daring boy, in spite of his sister’s
injunctions, was always in front, and the first to fire. But John
Mangles promised to watch over him, and Mary felt less uneasy.
During this BATTUE they killed certain animals peculiar to the country,
the very names of which were unknown to Paganel; among others the
“wombat” and the “bandicoot.” The wombat is an herbivorous animal, which
burrows in the ground like a badger. It is as large as a sheep, and the
flesh is excellent.
The bandicoot is a species of marsupial animal which could outwit the
European fox, and give him lessons in pillaging poultry yards. It was
a repulsive-looking animal, a foot and a half long, but, as Paganel
chanced to kill it, of course he thought it charming.
“An adorable creature,” he called it.
But the most interesting event of the day, by far, was the kangaroo
hunt. About four o’clock, the dogs roused a troop of these curious
marsupials. The little ones retreated precipitately into the maternal
pouch, and all the troop decamped in file. Nothing could be more
astonishing than the enormous bounds of the kangaroo. The hind legs
of the animal are twice as long as the front ones, and unbend like a
spring. At the head of the flying troop was a male five feet high, a
magnificent specimen of the _macropus giganteus_, an “old man,” as the
bushmen say.
For four or five miles the chase was vigorously pursued. The kangaroos
showed no signs of weariness, and the dogs, who had reason enough to
fear their strong paws and sharp nails, did not care to approach them.
But at last, worn out with the race, the troop stopped, and the “old
man” leaned against the trunk of a tree, ready to defend himself. One
of the pointers, carried away by excitement, went up to him. Next
minute the unfortunate beast leaped into the air, and fell down again
completely ripped up.
The whole pack, indeed, would have had little chance with these powerful
marsupia. They had to dispatch the fellow with rifles. Nothing but balls
could bring down the gigantic animal.
Just at this moment, Robert was well nigh the victim of his own
imprudence. To make sure of his aim, he had approached too near the
kangaroo, and the animal leaped upon him immediately. Robert gave a loud
cry and fell. Mary Grant saw it all from the brake, and in an agony of
terror, speechless and almost unable even to see, stretched out her arms
toward her little brother. No one dared to fire, for fear of wounding
the child.
But John Mangles opened his hunting knife, and at the risk of being
ripped up himself, sprang at the animal, and plunged it into his heart.
The beast dropped forward, and Robert rose unhurt. Next minute he was in
his sister’s arms.
“Thank you, Mr. John, thank you!” she said, holding out her hand to the
young captain.
“I had pledged myself for his safety,” was all John said, taking her
trembling fingers into his own.
This occurrence ended the sport. The band of marsupia had disappeared
after the death of their leader. The hunting party returned home,
bringing their game with them. It was then six o’clock. A magnificent
dinner was ready. Among other things, there was one dish that was a
great success. It was kangaroo-tail soup, prepared in the native manner.
Next morning very early, they took leave of the young squatters, with
hearty thanks and a positive promise from them of a visit to Malcolm
Castle when they should return to Europe.
Then the wagon began to move away, round the foot of Mount Hottam, and
soon the hospitable dwelling disappeared from the sight of the travelers
like some brief vision which had come and gone.
For five miles further, the horses were still treading the station
lands. It was not till nine o’clock that they had passed the last fence,
and entered the almost unknown districts of the province of Victoria.
CHAPTER XV SUSPICIOUS OCCURRENCES
AN immense barrier lay across the route to the southeast. It was the
Australian Alps, a vast fortification, the fantastic curtain of which
extended 1,500 miles, and pierced the clouds at the height of 4,000
feet.
The cloudy sky only allowed the heat to reach the ground through a
close veil of mist. The temperature was just bearable, but the road
was toilsome from its uneven character. The extumescences on the plain
became more and more marked. Several mounds planted with green young
gum trees appeared here and there. Further on these protuberances rising
sharply, formed the first steps of the great Alps. From this time their
course was a continual ascent, as was soon evident in the strain it made
on the bullocks to drag along the cumbrous wagon. Their yoke creaked,
they breathed heavily, and the muscles of their houghs were stretched as
if they would burst. The planks of the vehicle groaned at the unexpected
jolts, which Ayrton with all his skill could not prevent. The ladies
bore their share of discomfort bravely.
John Mangles and his two sailors acted as scouts, and went about a
hundred steps in advance. They found out practical paths, or passes,
indeed they might be called, for these projections of the ground were
like so many rocks, between which the wagon had to steer carefully. It
required absolute navigation to find a safe way over the billowy region.
It was a difficult and often perilous task. Many a time Wilson’s hatchet
was obliged to open a passage through thick tangles of shrubs. The damp
argillaceous soil gave way under their feet. The route was indefinitely
prolonged owing to the insurmountable obstacles, huge blocks of granite,
deep ravines, suspected lagoons, which obliged them to make a thousand
detours. When night came they found they had only gone over half a
degree. They camped at the foot of the Alps, on the banks of the creek
of Cobongra, on the edge of a little plain, covered with little shrubs
four feet high, with bright red leaves which gladdened the eye.
“We shall have hard work to get over,” said Glenarvan, looking at the
chain of mountains, the outlines of which were fast fading away in
the deepening darkness. “The very name Alps gives plenty of room for
reflection.”
“It is not quite so big as it sounds, my dear Glenarvan. Don’t suppose
you have a whole Switzerland to traverse. In Australia there are the
Grampians, the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Blue Mountains, as in Europe
and America, but in miniature. This simply implies either that the
imagination of geographers is not infinite, or that their vocabulary of
proper names is very poor.”
“Then these Australian Alps,” said Lord Glenarvan, “are--”
“Mere pocket mountains,” put in Paganel; “we shall get over them without
knowing it.”
“Speak for yourself,” said the Major. “It would certainly take a very
absent man who could cross over a chain of mountains and not know it.”
“Absent! But I am not an absent man now. I appeal to the ladies. Since
ever I set foot on the Australian continent, have I been once at fault?
Can you reproach me with a single blunder?”
“Not one. Monsieur Paganel,” said Mary Grant. “You are now the most
perfect of men.”
“Too perfect,” added Lady Helena, laughing; “your blunders suited you
admirably.”
“Didn’t they, Madam? If I have no faults now, I shall soon get like
everybody else. I hope then I shall make some outrageous mistake before
long, which will give you a good laugh. You see, unless I make mistakes,
it seems to me I fail in my vocation.”
Next day, the 9th of January, notwithstanding the assurances of the
confident geographer, it was not without great difficulty that the
little troop made its way through the Alpine pass. They were obliged
to go at a venture, and enter the depths of narrow gorges without any
certainty of an outlet. Ayrton would doubtless have found himself very
much embarrassed if a little inn, a miserable public house, had not
suddenly presented itself.
“My goodness!” cried Paganel, “the landlord of this inn won’t make his
fortune in a place like this. What is the use of it here?”
“To give us the information we want about the route,” replied Glenarvan.
“Let us go in.”
Glenarvan, followed by Ayrton, entered the inn forthwith. The
landlord of the “Bush Inn,” as it was called, was a coarse man with
an ill-tempered face, who must have considered himself his principal
customer for the gin, brandy and whisky he had to sell. He seldom saw
any one but the squatters and rovers. He answered all the questions put
to him in a surly tone. But his replies sufficed to make the route clear
to Ayrton, and that was all that was wanted. Glenarvan rewarded him with
a handful of silver for his trouble, and was about to leave the tavern,
when a placard against the wall arrested his attention.
It was a police notice, and announcing the escape of the convicts from
Perth, and offering a reward for the capture of Ben Joyce of pounds 100
sterling.
“He’s a fellow that’s worth hanging, and no mistake,” said Glenarvan to
the quartermaster.
“And worth capturing still more. But what a sum to offer! He is not
worth it!”
“I don’t feel very sure of the innkeeper though, in spite of the
notice,” said Glenarvan.
“No more do I,” replied Ayrton.
They went back to the wagon, toward the point where the route to Lucknow
stopped. A narrow path wound away from this which led across the chain
in a slanting direction. They had commenced the ascent.
It was hard work. More than once both the ladies and gentlemen had to
get down and walk. They were obliged to help to push round the wheels
of the heavy vehicle, and to support it frequently in dangerous
declivities, to unharness the bullocks when the team could not go well
round sharp turnings, prop up the wagon when it threatened to roll back,
and more than once Ayrton had to reinforce his bullocks by harnessing
the horses, although they were tired out already with dragging
themselves along.
Whether it was this prolonged fatigue, or from some other cause
altogether, was not known, but one of the horses sank suddenly, without
the slightest symptom of illness. It was Mulrady’s horse that fell, and
on attempting to pull it up, the animal was found to be dead. Ayrton
examined it immediately, but was quite at a loss to account for the
disaster.
“The beast must have broken some blood vessels,” said Glenarvan.
“Evidently,” replied Ayrton.
“Take my horse, Mulrady,” added Glenarvan. “I will join Lady Helena in
the wagon.”
Mulrady obeyed, and the little party continued their fatiguing ascent,
leaving the carcass of the dead animal to the ravens.
The Australian Alps are of no great thickness, and the base is not more
than eight miles wide. Consequently if the pass chosen by Ayrton came
out on the eastern side, they might hope to get over the high barrier
within forty-eight hours more. The difficulty of the route would then be
surmounted, and they would only have to get to the sea.
During the 18th the travelers reached the top-most point of the pass,
about 2,000 feet high. They found themselves on an open plateau, with
nothing to intercept the view. Toward the north the quiet waters of Lake
Omco, all alive with aquatic birds, and beyond this lay the vast plains
of the Murray. To the south were the wide spreading plains of Gippsland,
with its abundant gold-fields and tall forests. There nature was still
mistress of the products and water, and great trees where the woodman’s
ax was as yet unknown, and the squatters, then five in number, could not
struggle against her. It seemed as if this chain of the Alps separated
two different countries, one of which had retained its primitive
wildness. The sun went down, and a few solitary rays piercing the
rosy clouds, lighted up the Murray district, leaving Gippsland in
deep shadow, as if night had suddenly fallen on the whole region. The
contrast was presented very vividly to the spectators placed between
these two countries so divided, and some emotion filled the minds of the
travelers, as they contemplated the almost unknown district they were
about to traverse right to the frontiers of Victoria.
They camped on the plateau that night, and next day the descent
commenced. It was tolerably rapid. A hailstorm of extreme violence
assailed the travelers, and obliged them to seek a shelter among the
rocks. It was not hail-stones, but regular lumps of ice, as large as
one’s hand, which fell from the stormy clouds. A waterspout could not
have come down with more violence, and sundry big bruises warned Paganel
and Robert to retreat. The wagon was riddled in several places, and few
coverings would have held out against those sharp icicles, some of which
had fastened themselves into the trunks of the trees. It was impossible
to go on till this tremendous shower was over, unless the travelers
wished to be stoned. It lasted about an hour, and then the march
commenced anew over slanting rocks still slippery after the hail.
Toward evening the wagon, very much shaken and disjointed in several
parts, but still standing firm on its wooden disks, came down the last
slopes of the Alps, among great isolated pines. The passage ended in the
plains of Gippsland. The chain of the Alps was safely passed, and the
usual arrangements were made for the nightly encampment.
On the 21st, at daybreak, the journey was resumed with an ardor which
never relaxed. Everyone was eager to reach the goal--that is to say
the Pacific Ocean--at that part where the wreck of the BRITANNIA had
occurred. Nothing could be done in the lonely wilds of Gippsland, and
Ayrton urged Lord Glenarvan to send orders at once for the DUNCAN to
repair to the coast, in order to have at hand all means of research. He
thought it would certainly be advisable to take advantage of the Lucknow
route to Melbourne. If they waited it would be difficult to find any way
of direct communication with the capital.
This advice seemed good, and Paganel recommended that they should act
upon it. He also thought that the presence of the yacht would be very
useful, and he added, that if the Lucknow road was once passed, it would
be impossible to communicate with Melbourne.
Glenarvan was undecided what to do, and perhaps he would have yielded
to Ayrton’s arguments, if the Major had not combated this decision
vigorously. He maintained that the presence of Ayrton was necessary to
the expedition, that he would know the country about the coast, and
that if any chance should put them on the track of Harry Grant, the
quartermaster would be better able to follow it up than any one else,
and, finally, that he alone could point out the exact spot where the
shipwreck occurred.
McNabbs voted therefore for the continuation of the voyage, without
making the least change in their programme. John Mangles was of the same
opinion. The young captain said even that orders would reach the DUNCAN
more easily from Twofold Bay, than if a message was sent two hundred
miles over a wild country.
His counsel prevailed. It was decided that they should wait till they
came to Twofold Bay. The Major watched Ayrton narrowly, and noticed his
disappointed look. But he said nothing, keeping his observations, as
usual, to himself.
The plains which lay at the foot of the Australian Alps were level,
but slightly inclined toward the east. Great clumps of mimosas and
eucalyptus, and various odorous gum-trees, broke the uniform monotony
here and there. The _gastrolobium grandiflorum_ covered the ground, with
its bushes covered with gay flowers. Several unimportant creeks, mere
streams full of little rushes, and half covered up with orchids, often
interrupted the route. They had to ford these. Flocks of bustards and
emus fled at the approach of the travelers. Below the shrubs, kangaroos
were leaping and springing like dancing jacks. But the hunters of the
party were not thinking much of the sport, and the horses little needed
any additional fatigue.
Moreover, a sultry heat oppressed the plain. The atmosphere was
completely saturated with electricity, and its influence was felt by men
and beasts. They just dragged themselves along, and cared for nothing
else. The silence was only interrupted by the cries of Ayrton urging on
his burdened team.
From noon to two o’clock they went through a curious forest of ferns,
which would have excited the admiration of less weary travelers. These
plants in full flower measured thirty feet in height. Horses and riders
passed easily beneath their drooping leaves, and sometimes the spurs
would clash against the woody stems. Beneath these immovable parasols
there was a refreshing coolness which every one appreciated. Jacques
Paganel, always demonstrative, gave such deep sighs of satisfaction that
the paroquets and cockatoos flew out in alarm, making a deafening chorus
of noisy chatter.
The geographer was going on with his sighs and jubilations with the
utmost coolness, when his companions suddenly saw him reel forward, and
he and his horse fell down in a lump. Was it giddiness, or worse
still, suffocation, caused by the high temperature? They ran to him,
exclaiming: “Paganel! Paganel! what is the matter?”
“Just this. I have no horse, now!” he replied, disengaging his feet from
the stirrups.
“What! your horse?”
“Dead like Mulrady’s, as if a thunderbolt had struck him.”
Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Wilson examined the animal; and found
Paganel was right. His horse had been suddenly struck dead.
“That is strange,” said John.
“Very strange, truly,” muttered the Major.
Glenarvan was greatly disturbed by this fresh accident. He could not get
a fresh horse in the desert, and if an epidemic was going to seize their
steeds, they would be seriously embarrassed how to proceed.
Before the close of the day, it seemed as if the word epidemic was
really going to be justified. A third horse, Wilson’s, fell dead, and
what was, perhaps equally disastrous, one of the bullocks also. The
means of traction and transport were now reduced to three bullocks and
four horses.
The situation became grave. The unmounted horsemen might walk, of
course, as many squatters had done already; but if they abandoned the
wagon, what would the ladies do? Could they go over the one hundred and
twenty miles which lay between them and Twofold Bay? John Mangles and
Lord Glenarvan examined the surviving horses with great uneasiness, but
there was not the slightest symptom of illness or feebleness in them.
The animals were in perfect health, and bravely bearing the fatigues
of the voyage. This somewhat reassured Glenarvan, and made him hope the
malady would strike no more victims. Ayrton agreed with him, but was
unable to find the least solution of the mystery.
They went on again, the wagon serving, from time to time, as a house
of rest for the pedestrians. In the evening, after a march of only ten
miles, the signal to halt was given, and the tent pitched. The night
passed without inconvenience beneath a vast mass of bushy ferns, under
which enormous bats, properly called flying foxes, were flapping about.
The next day’s journey was good; there were no new calamities. The
health of the expedition remained satisfactory; horses and cattle did
their task cheerily. Lady Helena’s drawing-room was very lively, thanks
to the number of visitors. M. Olbinett busied himself in passing round
refreshments which were very acceptable in such hot weather. Half a
barrel of Scotch ale was sent in bodily. Barclay and Co. was declared to
be the greatest man in Great Britain, even above Wellington, who could
never have manufactured such good beer. This was a Scotch estimate.
Jacques Paganel drank largely, and discoursed still more _de omni re
scibili_.
A day so well commenced seemed as if it could not but end well; they had
gone fifteen good miles, and managed to get over a pretty hilly district
where the soil was reddish. There was every reason to hope they might
camp that same night on the banks of the Snowy River, an important river
which throws itself into the Pacific, south of Victoria.
Already the wheels of the wagon were making deep ruts on the wide
plains, covered with blackish alluvium, as it passed on between tufts of
luxuriant grass and fresh fields of gastrolobium. As evening came on, a
white mist on the horizon marked the course of the Snowy River. Several
additional miles were got over, and a forest of tall trees came in sight
at a bend of the road, behind a gentle eminence. Ayrton turned his team
a little toward the great trunks, lost in shadow, and he had got to the
skirts of the wood, about half-a-mile from the river, when the wagon
suddenly sank up to the middle of the wheels.
“Stop!” he called out to the horsemen following him.
“What is wrong?” inquired Glenarvan.
“We have stuck in the mud,” replied Ayrton.
He tried to stimulate the bullocks to a fresh effort by voice and goad,
but the animals were buried half-way up their legs, and could not stir.
“Let us camp here,” suggested John Mangles.
“It would certainly be the best place,” said Ayrton. “We shall see by
daylight to-morrow how to get ourselves out.”
Glenarvan acted on their advice, and came to a halt. Night came on
rapidly after a brief twilight, but the heat did not withdraw with the
light. Stifling vapors filled the air, and occasionally bright flashes
of lightning, the reflections of a distant storm, lighted up the sky
with a fiery glare. Arrangements were made for the night immediately.
They did the best they could with the sunk wagon, and the tent was
pitched beneath the shelter of the great trees; and if the rain did not
come, they had not much to complain about.
Ayrton succeeded, though with some difficulty, in extricating the three
bullocks. These courageous beasts were engulfed up to their flanks. The
quartermaster turned them out with the four horses, and allowed no one
but himself to see after their pasturage. He always executed his task
wisely, and this evening Glenarvan noticed he redoubled his care, for
which he took occasion to thank him, the preservation of the team being
of supreme importance.
Meantime, the travelers were dispatching a hasty supper. Fatigue and
heat destroy appetite, and sleep was needed more than food. Lady Helena
and Miss Grant speedily bade the company good-night, and retired. Their
companions soon stretched themselves under the tent or outside under the
trees, which is no great hardship in this salubrious climate.
Gradually they all fell into a heavy sleep. The darkness deepened owing
to a thick current of clouds which overspread the sky. There was not a
breath of wind. The silence of night was only interrupted by the cries
of the “morepork” in the minor key, like the mournful cuckoos of Europe.
Towards eleven o’clock, after a wretched, heavy, unrefreshing sleep, the
Major woke. His half-closed eyes were struck with a faint light running
among the great trees. It looked like a white sheet, and glittered like
a lake, and McNabbs thought at first it was the commencement of a fire.
He started up, and went toward the wood; but what was his surprise to
perceive a purely natural phenomenon! Before him lay an immense bed of
mushrooms, which emitted a phosphorescent light. The luminous spores of
the cryptograms shone in the darkness with intensity.
The Major, who had no selfishness about him, was going to waken Paganel,
that he might see this phenomenon with his own eyes, when something
occurred which arrested him. This phosphorescent light illumined the
distance half a mile, and McNabbs fancied he saw a shadow pass across
the edge of it. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was it some hallucination?
McNabbs lay down on the ground, and, after a close scrutiny, he could
distinctly see several men stooping down and lifting themselves up
alternately, as if they were looking on the ground for recent marks.
The Major resolved to find out what these fellows were about, and
without the least hesitation or so much as arousing his companions,
crept along, lying flat on the ground, like a savage on the prairies,
completely hidden among the long grass.
CHAPTER XVI A STARTLING DISCOVERY
IT was a frightful night. At two A. M. the rain began to fall in
torrents from the stormy clouds, and continued till daybreak. The tent
became an insufficient shelter. Glenarvan and his companions took refuge
in the wagon; they did not sleep, but talked of one thing and another.
The Major alone, whose brief absence had not been noticed, contented
himself with being a silent listener. There was reason to fear that if
the storm lasted longer the Snowy River would overflow its banks,
which would be a very unlucky thing for the wagon, stuck fast as it was
already in the soft ground. Mulrady, Ayrton and Mangles went several
times to ascertain the height of the water, and came back dripping from
head to foot.
At last day appeared; the rain ceased, but sunlight could not break
through the thick clouds. Large patches of yellowish water--muddy,
dirty ponds indeed they were--covered the ground. A hot steam rose from
the soaking earth, and saturated the atmosphere with unhealthy humidity.
Glenarvan’s first concern was the wagon; this was the main thing in his
eyes. They examined the ponderous vehicle, and found it sunk in the
mud in a deep hollow in the stiff clay. The forepart had disappeared
completely, and the hind part up to the axle. It would be a hard job to
get the heavy conveyance out, and would need the united strength of men,
bullocks, and horses.
“At any rate, we must make haste,” said John Mangles. “If the clay
dries, it will make our task still more difficult.”
“Let us be quick, then,” replied Ayrton.
Glenarvan, his two sailors, John Mangles, and Ayrton went off at
once into the wood, where the animals had passed the night. It was a
gloomy-looking forest of tall gum-trees; nothing but dead trees, with
wide spaces between, which had been barked for ages, or rather skinned
like the cork-oak at harvest time. A miserable network of bare branches
was seen above two hundred feet high in the air. Not a bird built its
nest in these aerial skeletons; not a leaf trembled on the dry branches,
which rattled together like bones. To what cataclysm is this phenomenon
to be attributed, so frequent in Australia, entire forests struck dead
by some epidemic; no one knows; neither the oldest natives, nor their
ancestors who have lain long buried in the groves of the dead, have ever
seen them green.
Glenarvan as he went along kept his eye fixed on the gray sky, on which
the smallest branch of the gum-trees was sharply defined. Ayrton was
astonished not to discover the horses and bullocks where he had left
them the preceding night. They could not have wandered far with the
hobbles on their legs.
They looked over the wood, but saw no signs of them, and Ayrton returned
to the banks of the river, where magnificent mimosas were growing.
He gave a cry well known to his team, but there was no reply. The
quartermaster seemed uneasy, and his companions looked at him with
disappointed faces. An hour had passed in vain endeavors, and Glenarvan
was about to go back to the wagon, when a neigh struck on his ear, and
immediately after a bellow.
“They are there!” cried John Mangles, slipping between the tall
branches of gastrolobium, which grew high enough to hide a whole flock.
Glenarvan, Mulrady, and Ayrton darted after him, and speedily shared his
stupefaction at the spectacle which met their gaze.
Two bullocks and three horses lay stretched on the ground, struck
down like the rest. Their bodies were already cold, and a flock of
half-starved looking ravens croaking among the mimosas were watching the
unexpected prey. Glenarvan and his party gazed at each other and Wilson
could not keep back the oath that rose to his lips.
“What do you mean, Wilson?” said Glenarvan, with difficulty controlling
himself. “Ayrton, bring away the bullock and the horse we have left;
they will have to serve us now.”
“If the wagon were not sunk in the mud,” said John Mangles, “these
two animals, by making short journeys, would be able to take us to the
coast; so we must get the vehicle out, cost what it may.”
“We will try, John,” replied Glenarvan. “Let us go back now, or they
will be uneasy at our long absence.”
Ayrton removed the hobbles from the bullock and Mulrady from the horse,
and they began to return to the encampment, following the winding margin
of the river. In half an hour they rejoined Paganel, and McNabbs, and
the ladies, and told them of this fresh disaster.
“Upon my honor, Ayrton,” the Major could not help saying, “it is a pity
that you hadn’t had the shoeing of all our beasts when we forded the
Wimerra.”
“Why, sir?” asked Ayrton.
“Because out of all our horses only the one your blacksmith had in his
hands has escaped the common fate.”
“That’s true,” said John Mangles. “It’s strange it happens so.”
“A mere chance, and nothing more,” replied the quartermaster, looking
firmly at the Major.
Major McNabbs bit his lips as if to keep back something he was about to
say. Glenarvan and the rest waited for him to speak out his thoughts,
but the Major was silent, and went up to the wagon, which Ayrton was
examining.
“What was he going to say. Mangles?” asked Glenarvan.
“I don’t know,” replied the young captain; “but the Major is not at all
a man to speak without reason.”
“No, John,” said Lady Helena. “McNabbs must have suspicions about
Ayrton.”
“Suspicions!” exclaimed Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.
“And what can they be?” asked Glenarvan. “Does he suppose him capable
of having killed our horses and bullocks? And for what purpose? Is not
Ayrton’s interest identical with our own?”
“You are right, dear Edward,” said Lady Helena! “and what is more, the
quartermaster has given us incontestable proofs of his devotion ever
since the commencement of the journey.”
“Certainly he has,” replied Mangles; “but still, what could the Major
mean? I wish he would speak his mind plainly out.”
“Does he suppose him acting in concert with the convicts?” asked
Paganel, imprudently.
“What convicts?” said Miss Grant.
“Monsieur Paganel is making a mistake,” replied John Mangles, instantly.
“He knows very well there are no convicts in the province of Victoria.”
“Ah, that is true,” returned Paganel, trying to get out of his unlucky
speech. “Whatever had I got in my head? Convicts! who ever heard
of convicts being in Australia? Besides, they would scarcely have
disembarked before they would turn into good, honest men. The climate,
you know, Miss Mary, the regenerative climate--”
Here the poor SAVANT stuck fast, unable to get further, like the wagon
in the mud. Lady Helena looked at him in surprise, which quite deprived
him of his remaining _sang-froid;_ but seeing his embarrassment, she
took Mary away to the side of the tent, where M. Olbinett was laying out
an elaborate breakfast.
“I deserve to be transported myself,” said Paganel, woefully.
“I think so,” said Glenarvan.
And after this grave reply, which completely overwhelmed the worthy
geographer, Glenarvan and John Mangles went toward the wagon.
They found Ayrton and the two sailors doing their best to get it out of
the deep ruts, and the bullock and horse, yoked together, were straining
every muscle. Wilson and Mulrady were pushing the wheels, and the
quartermaster urging on the team with voice and goad; but the heavy
vehicle did not stir, the clay, already dry, held it as firmly as if
sealed by some hydraulic cement.
John Mangles had the clay watered to loosen it, but it was of no use.
After renewed vigorous efforts, men and animals stopped. Unless the
vehicle was taken to pieces, it would be impossible to extricate it from
the mud; but they had no tools for the purpose, and could not attempt
such a task.
However, Ayrton, who was for conquering this obstacle at all costs, was
about to commence afresh, when Glenarvan stopped him by saying: “Enough,
Ayrton, enough. We must husband the strength of our remaining horse
and bullock. If we are obliged to continue our journey on foot, the one
animal can carry the ladies and the other the provisions. They may thus
still be of great service to us.”
“Very well, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, un-yoking the exhausted
beasts.
“Now, friends,” added Glenarvan, “let us return to the encampment and
deliberately examine our situation, and determine on our course of
action.”
After a tolerably good breakfast to make up for their bad night, the
discussion was opened, and every one of the party was asked to give his
opinion. The first point was to ascertain their exact position, and this
was referred to Paganel, who informed them, with his customary rigorous
accuracy, that the expedition had been stopped on the 37th parallel, in
longitude 147 degrees 53 minutes, on the banks of the Snowy River.
“What is the exact longitude of Twofold Bay?” asked Glenarvan.
“One hundred and fifty degrees,” replied Paganel; “two degrees seven
minutes distant from this, and that is equal to seventy-five miles.”
“And Melbourne is?”
“Two hundred miles off at least.”
“Very good. Our position being then settled, what is best to do?”
The response was unanimous to get to the coast without delay. Lady
Helena and Mary Grant undertook to go five miles a day. The courageous
ladies did not shrink, if necessary, from walking the whole distance
between the Snowy River and Twofold Bay.
“You are a brave traveling companion, dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan.
“But are we sure of finding at the bay all we want when we get there?”
“Without the least doubt,” replied Paganel. “Eden is a municipality
which already numbers many years in existence; its port must have
frequent communication with Melbourne. I suppose even at Delegete, on
the Victoria frontier, thirty-five miles from here, we might revictual
our expedition, and find fresh means of transport.”
“And the DUNCAN?” asked Ayrton. “Don’t you think it advisable to send
for her to come to the bay?”
“What do you think, John?” said Glenarvan.
“I don’t think your lordship should be in any hurry about it,” replied
the young captain, after brief reflection. “There will be time enough to
give orders to Tom Austin, and summon him to the coast.”
“That’s quite certain,” added Paganel.
“You see,” said John, “in four or five days we shall reach Eden.”
“Four or five days!” repeated Ayrton, shaking his head; “say fifteen or
twenty, Captain, if you don’t want to repent your mistake when it is too
late.”
“Fifteen or twenty days to go seventy-five miles?” cried Glenarvan.
“At the least, my Lord. You are going to traverse the most difficult
portion of Victoria, a desert, where everything is wanting, the
squatters say; plains covered with scrub, where is no beaten track
and no stations. You will have to walk hatchet or torch in hand, and,
believe me, that’s not quick work.”
Ayrton had spoken in a firm tone, and Paganel, at whom all the others
looked inquiringly, nodded his head in token of his agreement in opinion
with the quartermaster.
But John Mangles said, “Well, admitting these difficulties, in fifteen
days at most your Lordship can send orders to the DUNCAN.”
“I have to add,” said Ayrton, “that the principal difficulties are not
the obstacles in the road, but the Snowy River has to be crossed, and
most probably we must wait till the water goes down.”
“Wait!” cried John. “Is there no ford?”
“I think not,” replied Ayrton. “This morning I was looking for some
practical crossing, but could not find any. It is unusual to meet with
such a tumultuous river at this time of the year, and it is a fatality
against which I am powerless.”
“Is this Snowy River wide?” asked Lady Helena.
“Wide and deep, Madam,” replied Ayrton; “a mile wide, with an impetuous
current. A good swimmer could not go over without danger.”
“Let us build a boat then,” said Robert, who never stuck at anything.
“We have only to cut down a tree and hollow it out, and get in and be
off.”
“He’s going ahead, this boy of Captain Grant’s!” said Paganel.
“And he’s right,” returned John Mangles. “We shall be forced to come to
that, and I think it is useless to waste our time in idle discussion.”
“What do you think of it, Ayrton?” asked Glenarvan seriously.
“I think, my Lord, that a month hence, unless some help arrives, we
shall find ourselves still on the banks of the Snowy.”
“Well, then, have you any better plan to propose?” said John Mangles,
somewhat impatiently.
“Yes, that the DUNCAN should leave Melbourne, and go to the east coast.”
“Oh, always the same story! And how could her presence at the bay
facilitate our means of getting there?”
Ayrton waited an instant before answering, and then said, rather
evasively: “I have no wish to obtrude my opinions. What I do is for
our common good, and I am ready to start the moment his honor gives the
signal.” And he crossed his arms and was silent.
“That is no reply, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us your plan, and we
will discuss it. What is it you propose?”
Ayrton replied in a calm tone of assurance: “I propose that we should
not venture beyond the Snowy in our present condition. It is here we
must wait till help comes, and this help can only come from the DUNCAN.
Let us camp here, where we have provisions, and let one of us take your
orders to Tom Austin to go on to Twofold Bay.”
This unexpected proposition was greeted with astonishment, and by John
Mangles with openly-expressed opposition.
“Meantime,” continued Ayrton, “either the river will get lower, and
allow us to ford it, or we shall have time to make a canoe. This is the
plan I submit for your Lordship’s approval.”
“Well, Ayrton,” replied Glenarvan, “your plan is worthy of serious
consideration. The worst thing about it is the delay it would cause; but
it would save us great fatigue, and perhaps danger. What do you think of
it, friends?”
“Speak your mind, McNabbs,” said Lady Helena. “Since the beginning of
the discussion you have been only a listener, and very sparing of your
words.”
“Since you ask my advice,” said the Major, “I will give it you frankly.
I think Ayrton has spoken wisely and well, and I side with him.”
Such a reply was hardly looked for, as hitherto the Major had been
strongly opposed to Ayrton’s project. Ayrton himself was surprised, and
gave a hasty glance at the Major. However, Paganel, Lady Helena, and the
sailors were all of the same way of thinking; and since McNabbs had come
over to his opinion, Glenarvan decided that the quartermaster’s plan
should be adopted in principle.
“And now, John,” he added, “don’t you think yourself it would be prudent
to encamp here, on the banks of the river Snowy, till we can get some
means of conveyance.”
“Yes,” replied John Mangles, “if our messenger can get across the Snowy
when we cannot.”
All eyes were turned on the quartermaster, who said, with the air of
a man who knew what he was about: “The messenger will not cross the
river.”
“Indeed!” said John Mangles.
“He will simply go back to the Lucknow Road which leads straight to
Melbourne.”
“Go two hundred and fifty miles on foot!” cried the young Captain.
“On horseback,” replied Ayrton. “There is one horse sound enough at
present. It will only be an affair of four days. Allow the DUNCAN two
days more to get to the bay and twenty hours to get back to the camp,
and in a week the messenger can be back with the entire crew of the
vessel.”
The Major nodded approvingly as Ayrton spoke, to the profound
astonishment of John Mangles; but as every one was in favor of the plan
all there was to do was to carry it out as quickly as possible.
“Now, then, friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must settle who is to be our
messenger. It will be a fatiguing, perilous mission. I would not conceal
the fact from you. Who is disposed, then, to sacrifice himself for his
companions and carry our instructions to Melbourne?”
Wilson and Mulrady, and also Paganel, John Mangles and Robert instantly
offered their services. John particularly insisted that he should be
intrusted with the business; but Ayrton, who had been silent till that
moment, now said: “With your Honor’s permission I will go myself. I
am accustomed to all the country round. Many a time I have been across
worse parts. I can go through where another would stick. I ask then, for
the good of all, that I may be sent to Melbourne. A word from you will
accredit me with your chief officer, and in six days I guarantee the
DUNCAN shall be in Twofold Bay.”
“That’s well spoken,” replied Glenarvan. “You are a clever, daring
fellow, and you will succeed.”
It was quite evident the quartermaster was the fittest man for the
mission. All the rest withdrew from the competition. John Mangles made
this one last objection, that the presence of Ayrton was necessary to
discover traces of the BRITANNIA or Harry Grant. But the Major justly
observed that the expedition would remain on the banks of the Snowy till
the return of Ayrton, that they had no idea of resuming their search
without him, and that consequently his absence would not in the least
prejudice the Captain’s interests.
“Well, go, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Be as quick as you can, and come
back by Eden to our camp.”
A gleam of satisfaction shot across the quartermaster’s face. He
turned away his head, but not before John Mangles caught the look and
instinctively felt his old distrust of Ayrton revive.
The quartermaster made immediate preparations for departure, assisted
by the two sailors, one of whom saw to the horse and the other to the
provisions. Glenarvan, meantime, wrote his letter for Tom Austin. He
ordered his chief officer to repair without delay to Twofold Bay. He
introduced the quartermaster to him as a man worthy of all confidence.
On arriving at the coast, Tom was to dispatch a detachment of sailors
from the yacht under his orders.
Glenarvan was just at this part of his letter, when McNabbs, who was
following him with his eyes, asked him in a singular tone, how he wrote
Ayrton’s name.
“Why, as it is pronounced, of course,” replied Glenarvan.
“It is a mistake,” replied the Major quietly. “He pronounces it AYRTON,
but he writes it _Ben Joyce!_”
CHAPTER XVII THE PLOT UNVEILED
THE revelation of Tom Ayrton’s name was like a clap of thunder. Ayrton
had started up quickly and grasped his revolver. A report was heard, and
Glenarvan fell wounded by a ball. Gunshots resounded at the same time
outside.
John Mangles and the sailors, after their first surprise, would have
seized Ben Joyce; but the bold convict had already disappeared and
rejoined his gang scattered among the gum-trees.
The tent was no shelter against the balls. It was necessary to beat a
retreat. Glenarvan was slightly wounded, but could stand up.
“To the wagon--to the wagon!” cried John Mangles, dragging Lady Helena
and Mary Grant along, who were soon in safety behind the thick curtains.
John and the Major, and Paganel and the sailors seized their carbines in
readiness to repulse the convicts. Glenarvan and Robert went in beside
the ladies, while Olbinett rushed to the common defense.
These events occurred with the rapidity of lightning. John Mangles
watched the skirts of the wood attentively. The reports had ceased
suddenly on the arrival of Ben Joyce; profound silence had succeeded the
noisy fusillade. A few wreaths of white smoke were still curling
over the tops of the gum trees. The tall tufts of gastrolobium were
motionless. All signs of attack had disappeared.
The Major and John Mangles examined the wood closely as far as the
great trees; the place was abandoned. Numerous footmarks were there and
several half-burned caps were lying smoking on the ground. The Major,
like a prudent man, extinguished these carefully, for a spark would be
enough to kindle a tremendous conflagration in this forest of dry trees.
“The convicts have disappeared!” said John Mangles.
“Yes,” replied the Major; “and the disappearance of them makes me
uneasy. I prefer seeing them face to face. Better to meet a tiger on the
plain than a serpent in the grass. Let us beat the bushes all round the
wagon.”
The Major and John hunted all round the country, but there was not a
convict to be seen from the edge of the wood right down to the river.
Ben Joyce and his gang seemed to have flown away like a flock of
marauding birds. It was too sudden a disappearance to let the travelers
feel perfectly safe; consequently they resolved to keep a sharp lookout.
The wagon, a regular fortress buried in mud, was made the center of
the camp, and two men mounted guard round it, who were relieved hour by
hour.
The first care of Lady Helena and Mary was to dress Glenarvan’s wound.
Lady Helena rushed toward him in terror, as he fell down struck by Ben
Joyce’s ball. Controlling her agony, the courageous woman helped her
husband into the wagon. Then his shoulder was bared, and the Major
found, on examination, that the ball had only gone into the flesh, and
there was no internal lesion. Neither bone nor muscle appeared to be
injured. The wound bled profusely, but Glenarvan could use his fingers
and forearm; and consequently there was no occasion for any uneasiness
about the issue. As soon as his shoulder was dressed, he would not
allow any more fuss to be made about himself, but at once entered on the
business in hand.
All the party, except Mulrady and Wilson, who were on guard, were
brought into the wagon, and the Major was asked to explain how this
DENOUEMENT had come about.
Before commencing his recital, he told Lady Helena about the escape of
the convicts at Perth, and their appearance in Victoria; as also their
complicity in the railway catastrophe. He handed her the _Australian and
New Zealand Gazette_ they had bought in Seymour, and added that a reward
had been offered by the police for the apprehension of Ben Joyce, a
redoubtable bandit, who had become a noted character during the last
eighteen months, for doing deeds of villainy and crime.
But how had McNabbs found out that Ayrton and Ben Joyce were one and
the same individual? This was the mystery to be unraveled, and the Major
soon explained it.
Ever since their first meeting, McNabbs had felt an instinctive distrust
of the quartermaster. Two or three insignificant facts, a hasty glance
exchanged between him and the blacksmith at the Wimerra River, his
unwillingness to cross towns and villages, his persistence about getting
the DUNCAN summoned to the coast, the strange death of the animals
entrusted to his care, and, lastly, a want of frankness in all
his behavior--all these details combined had awakened the Major’s
suspicions.
However, he could not have brought any direct accusation against him
till the events of the preceding evening had occurred. He then told of
his experience.
McNabbs, slipping between the tall shrubs, got within reach of the
suspicious shadows he had noticed about half a mile away from the
encampment. The phosphorescent furze emitted a faint light, by which he
could discern three men examining marks on the ground, and one of the
three was the blacksmith of Black Point.
“‘It is them!’ said one of the men. ‘Yes,’ replied another, ‘there is
the trefoil on the mark of the horseshoe. It has been like that since
the Wimerra.’ ‘All the horses are dead.’ ‘The poison is not far off.’
‘There is enough to kill a regiment of cavalry.’ ‘A useful plant this
gastrolobium.’
“I heard them say this to each other, and then they were quite silent;
but I did not know enough yet, so I followed them. Soon the conversation
began again. ‘He is a clever fellow, this Ben Joyce,’ said the
blacksmith. ‘A capital quartermaster, with his invention of shipwreck.’
‘If his project succeeds, it will be a stroke of fortune.’ ‘He is a very
devil, is this Ayrton.’ ‘Call him Ben Joyce, for he has well earned his
name.’ And then the scoundrels left the forest.
“I had all the information I wanted now, and came back to the camp quite
convinced, begging Paganel’s pardon, that Australia does not reform
criminals.”
This was all the Major’s story, and his companions sat silently thinking
over it.
“Then Ayrton has dragged us here,” said Glenarvan, pale with anger, “on
purpose to rob and assassinate us.”
“For nothing else,” replied the Major; “and ever since we left the
Wimerra, his gang has been on our track and spying on us, waiting for a
favorable opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“Then the wretch was never one of the sailors on the BRITANNIA; he had
stolen the name of Ayrton and the shipping papers.”
They were all looking at McNabbs for an answer, for he must have put the
question to himself already.
“There is no great certainty about the matter,” he replied, in his usual
calm voice; “but in my opinion the man’s name is really Ayrton. Ben
Joyce is his _nom de guerre_. It is an incontestible fact that he knew
Harry Grant, and also that he was quartermaster on the BRITANNIA. These
facts were proved by the minute details given us by Ayrton, and are
corroborated by the conversation between the convicts, which I repeated
to you. We need not lose ourselves in vain conjectures, but consider it
as certain that Ben Joyce is Ayrton, and that Ayrton is Ben Joyce; that
is to say, one of the crew of the BRITANNIA has turned leader of the
convict gang.”
The explanations of McNabbs were accepted without discussion.
“Now, then,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell us how and why Harry Grant’s
quartermaster comes to be in Australia?”
“How, I don’t know,” replied McNabbs; “and the police declare they are
as ignorant on the subject as myself. Why, it is impossible to say; that
is a mystery which the future may explain.”
“The police are not even aware of Ayrton’s identity with Ben Joyce,”
said John Mangles.
“You are right, John,” replied the Major, “and this circumstance would
throw light on their search.”
“Then, I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “the wicked wretch had got work on
Paddy O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intent?”
“There is not the least doubt of it. He was planning some evil design
against the Irishman, when a better chance presented itself. Chance
led us into his presence. He heard Paganel’s story and all about
the shipwreck, and the audacious fellow determined to act his part
immediately. The expedition was decided on. At the Wimerra he found
means of communicating with one of his gang, the blacksmith of Black
Point, and left traces of our journey which might be easily recognized.
The gang followed us. A poisonous plant enabled them gradually to kill
our bullocks and horses. At the right moment he sunk us in the marshes
of the Snowy, and gave us into the hands of his gang.”
Such was the history of Ben Joyce. The Major had shown him up in his
character--a bold and formidable criminal. His manifestly evil designs
called for the utmost vigilance on the part of Glenarvan. Happily the
unmasked bandit was less to be feared than the traitor.
But one serious consequence must come out of this revelation; no one
had thought of it yet except Mary Grant. John Mangles was the first to
notice her pale, despairing face; he understood what was passing in her
mind at a glance.
“Miss Mary! Miss Mary!” he cried; “you are crying!”
“Crying, my child!” said Lady Helena.
“My father, madam, my father!” replied the poor girl.
She could say no more, but the truth flashed on every mind. They all
knew the cause of her grief, and why tears fell from her eyes and her
father’s name came to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery had destroyed all hope; the convict
had invented a shipwreck to entrap Glenarvan. In the conversation
overheard by McNabbs, the convicts had plainly said that the BRITANNIA
had never been wrecked on the rocks in Twofold Bay. Harry Grant had
never set foot on the Australian continent!
A second time they had been sent on the wrong track by an erroneous
interpretation of the document. Gloomy silence fell on the whole party
at the sight of the children’s sorrow, and no one could find a cheering
word to say. Robert was crying in his sister’s arms. Paganel muttered
in a tone of vexation: “That unlucky document! It may boast of having
half-crazed a dozen peoples’ wits!” The worthy geographer was in such a
rage with himself, that he struck his forehead as if he would smash it
in.
Glenarvan went out to Mulrady and Wilson, who were keeping watch.
Profound silence reigned over the plain between the wood and the
river. Ben Joyce and his band must be at considerable distance, for the
atmosphere was in such a state of complete torpor that the slightest
sound would have been heard. It was evident, from the flocks of birds
on the lower branches of the trees, and the kangaroos feeding quietly
on the young shoots, and a couple of emus whose confiding heads passed
between the great clumps of bushes, that those peaceful solitudes were
untroubled by the presence of human beings.
“You have neither seen nor heard anything for the last hour?” said
Glenarvan to the two sailors.
“Nothing whatever, your honor,” replied Wilson. “The convicts must be
miles away from here.”
“They were not in numbers enough to attack us, I suppose,” added
Mulrady. “Ben Joyce will have gone to recruit his party, with some
bandits like himself, among the bush-rangers who may be lurking about
the foot of the Alps.”
“That is probably the case, Mulrady,” replied Glenarvan. “The rascals
are cowards; they know we are armed, and well armed too. Perhaps they
are waiting for nightfall to commence the attack. We must redouble our
watchfulness. Oh, if we could only get out of this bog, and down the
coast; but this swollen river bars our passage. I would pay its weight
in gold for a raft which would carry us over to the other side.”
“Why does not your honor give orders for a raft to be constructed? We
have plenty of wood.”
“No, Wilson,” replied Glenarvan; “this Snowy is not a river, it is an
impassable torrent.”
John Mangles, the Major, and Paganel just then came out of the wagon
on purpose to examine the state of the river. They found it still so
swollen by the heavy rain that the water was a foot above the level. It
formed an impetuous current, like the American rapids. To venture over
that foaming current and that rushing flood, broken into a thousand
eddies and hollows and gulfs, was impossible.
John Mangles declared the passage impracticable. “But we must not stay
here,” he added, “without attempting anything. What we were going to do
before Ayrton’s treachery is still more necessary now.”
“What do you mean, John?” asked Glenarvan.
“I mean that our need is urgent, and that since we cannot go to Twofold
Bay, we must go to Melbourne. We have still one horse. Give it to me, my
Lord, and I will go to Melbourne.”
“But that will be a dangerous venture, John,” said Glenarvan. “Not to
speak of the perils of a journey of two hundred miles over an unknown
country, the road and the by-ways will be guarded by the accomplices of
Ben Joyce.”
“I know it, my Lord, but I know also that things can’t stay long as they
are; Ayrton only asked a week’s absence to fetch the crew of the DUNCAN,
and I will be back to the Snowy River in six days. Well, my Lord, what
are your commands?”
“Before Glenarvan decides,” said Paganel, “I must make an observation.
That some one must go to Melbourne is evident, but that John Mangles
should be the one to expose himself to the risk, cannot be. He is
the captain of the DUNCAN, and must be careful of his life. I will go
instead.”
“That is all very well, Paganel,” said the Major; “but why should you be
the one to go?”
“Are we not here?” said Mulrady and Wilson.
“And do you think,” replied McNabbs, “that a journey of two hundred
miles on horseback frightens me.”
“Friends,” said Glenarvan, “one of us must go, so let it be decided by
drawing lots. Write all our names, Paganel.”
“Not yours, my Lord,” said John Mangles.
“And why not?”
“What! separate you from Lady Helena, and before your wound is healed,
too!”
“Glenarvan,” said Paganel, “you cannot leave the expedition.”
“No,” added the Major. “Your place is here, Edward, you ought not to
go.”
“Danger is involved in it,” said Glenarvan, “and I will take my share
along with the rest. Write the names, Paganel, and put mine among them,
and I hope the lot may fall on me.”
His will was obeyed. The names were written, and the lots drawn. Fate
fixed on Mulrady. The brave sailor shouted hurrah! and said: “My Lord,
I am ready to start.” Glenarvan pressed his hand, and then went back to
the wagon, leaving John Mangles and the Major on watch.
Lady Helena was informed of the determination to send a message to
Melbourne, and that they had drawn lots who should go, and Mulrady had
been chosen. Lady Helena said a few kind words to the brave sailor,
which went straight to his heart. Fate could hardly have chosen a better
man, for he was not only brave and intelligent, but robust and superior
to all fatigue.
Mulrady’s departure was fixed for eight o’clock, immediately after
the short twilight. Wilson undertook to get the horse ready. He had a
project in his head of changing the horse’s left shoe, for one off the
horses that had died in the night. This would prevent the convicts from
tracking Mulrady, or following him, as they were not mounted.
While Wilson was arranging this, Glenarvan got his letter ready for Tom
Austin, but his wounded arm troubled him, and he asked Paganel to write
it for him. The SAVANT was so absorbed in one fixed idea that he seemed
hardly to know what he was about. In all this succession of vexations,
it must be said the document was always uppermost in Paganel’s mind. He
was always worrying himself about each word, trying to discover some new
meaning, and losing the wrong interpretation of it, and going over and
over himself in perplexities.
He did not hear Glenarvan when he first spoke, but on the request being
made a second time, he said: “Ah, very well. I’m ready.”
While he spoke he was mechanically getting paper from his note-book. He
tore a blank page off, and sat down pencil in hand to write.
Glenarvan began to dictate as follows: “Order to Tom Austin, Chief
Officer, to get to sea without delay, and bring the DUNCAN to--”
Paganel was just finishing the last word, when his eye chanced to fall
on the _Australian and New Zealand Gazette_ lying on the ground. The
paper was so folded that only the last two syllables of the title were
visible. Paganel’s pencil stopped, and he seemed to become oblivious of
Glenarvan and the letter entirely, till his friends called out: “Come,
Paganel!”
“Ah!” said the geographer, with a loud exclamation.
“What is the matter?” asked the Major.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied Paganel. Then he muttered to himself,
“_Aland! aland! aland!_”
He had got up and seized the newspaper. He shook it in his efforts to
keep back the words that involuntarily rose to his lips.
Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him in astonishment,
at a loss to understand this unaccountable agitation. Paganel looked as
if a sudden fit of insanity had come over him. But his excitement did
not last. He became by degrees calmer. The gleam of joy that shone in
his eyes died away. He sat down again, and said quietly:
“When you please, my Lord, I am ready.” Glenarvan resumed his dictation
at once, and the letter was soon completed. It read as follows: “Order
to Tom Austin to go to sea without delay; and take the DUNCAN to
Melbourne by the 37th degree of latitude to the eastern coast of
Australia.”
“Of Australia?” said Paganel. “Ah yes! of Australia.”
Then he finished the letter, and gave it to Glenarvan to sign, who went
through the necessary formality as well as he could, and closed and
sealed the letter. Paganel, whose hand still trembled with emotion,
directed it thus: “Tom Austin, Chief Officer on board the Yacht DUNCAN,
Melbourne.”
Then he got up and went out of the wagon, gesticulating and repeating
the incomprehensible words:
“Aland aland! aland!”
CHAPTER XVIII FOUR DAYS OF ANGUISH
THE rest of the day passed on without any further incident. All the
preparations for Mulrady’s journey were completed, and the brave sailor
rejoiced in being able to give his Lordship this proof of devotion.
Paganel had recovered his usual _sang-froid_ and manners. His look,
indeed, betrayed his preoccupation, but he seemed resolved to keep it
secret. No doubt he had strong reasons for this course of action, for
the Major heard him repeating, like a man struggling with himself: “No,
no, they would not believe it; and, besides, what good would it be? It
is too late!”
Having taken this resolution, he busied himself with giving Mulrady the
necessary directions for getting to Melbourne, and showed him his way on
the map. All the TRACKS, that is to say, paths through the prairie, came
out on the road to Lucknow. This road, after running right down to the
coast took a sudden bend in the direction of Melbourne. This was the
route that must be followed steadily, for it would not do to attempt a
short cut across an almost unknown country. Nothing, consequently, could
be more simple. Mulrady could not lose his way.
As to dangers, there were none after he had gone a few miles beyond the
encampment, out of the reach of Ben Joyce and his gang. Once past their
hiding place, Mulrady was certain of soon being able to outdistance the
convicts, and execute his important mission successfully.
At six o’clock they all dined together. The rain was falling in
torrents. The tent was not protection enough, and the whole party had
to take refuge in the wagon. This was a sure refuge. The clay kept
it firmly imbedded in the soil, like a fortress resting on sure
foundations. The arsenal was composed of seven carbines and seven
revolvers, and could stand a pretty long siege, for they had plenty of
ammunition and provisions. But before six days were over, the DUNCAN
would anchor in Twofold Bay, and twenty-four hours after her crew would
reach the other shore of the Snowy River; and should the passage still
remain impracticable, the convicts at any rate would be forced to retire
before the increased strength. But all depended on Mulrady’s success in
his perilous enterprise.
At eight o’clock it got very dark; now was the time to start. The
horse prepared for Mulrady was brought out. His feet, by way of extra
precaution, were wrapped round with cloths, so that they could not make
the least noise on the ground. The animal seemed tired, and yet the
safety of all depended on his strength and surefootedness. The Major
advised Mulrady to let him go gently as soon as he got past the
convicts. Better delay half-a-day than not arrive safely.
John Mangles gave his sailor a revolver, which he had loaded with the
utmost care. This is a formidable weapon in the hand of a man who does
not tremble, for six shots fired in a few seconds would easily clear a
road infested with criminals. Mulrady seated himself in the saddle ready
to start.
“Here is the letter you are to give to Tom Austin,” said Glenarvan.
“Don’t let him lose an hour. He is to sail for Twofold Bay at once; and
if he does not find us there, if we have not managed to cross the Snowy,
let him come on to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and God be
with you.”
He shook hands with him, and bade him good-by; and so did Lady Helena
and Mary Grant. A more timorous man than the sailor would have shrunk
back a little from setting out on such a dark, raining night on an
errand so full of danger, across vast unknown wilds. But his farewells
were calmly spoken, and he speedily disappeared down a path which
skirted the wood.
At the same moment the gusts of wind redoubled their violence. The high
branches of the eucalyptus clattered together noisily, and bough after
bough fell on the wet ground. More than one great tree, with no living
sap, but still standing hitherto, fell with a crash during this storm.
The wind howled amid the cracking wood, and mingled its moans with the
ominous roaring of the rain. The heavy clouds, driving along toward the
east, hung on the ground like rays of vapor, and deep, cheerless gloom
intensified the horrors of the night.
The travelers went back into the wagon immediately Mulrady had gone.
Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan and Paganel occupied the first
compartment, which had been hermetically closed. The second was occupied
by Olbinett, Wilson and Robert. The Major and John Mangles were on duty
outside. This precaution was necessary, for an attack on the part of the
convicts would be easy enough, and therefore probable enough.
The two faithful guardians kept close watch, bearing philosophically the
rain and wind that beat on their faces. They tried to pierce through the
darkness so favorable to ambushes, for nothing could be heard but the
noise of the tempest, the sough of the wind, the rattling branches,
falling trees, and roaring of the unchained waters.
At times the wind would cease for a few moments, as if to take breath.
Nothing was audible but the moan of the Snowy River, as it flowed
between the motionless reeds and the dark curtain of gum trees. The
silence seemed deeper in these momentary lulls, and the Major and John
Mangles listened attentively.
During one of these calms a sharp whistle reached them. John Mangles
went hurriedly up to the Major. “You heard that?” he asked.
“Yes,” said McNabbs. “Is it man or beast?”
“A man,” replied John Mangles.
And then both listened. The mysterious whistle was repeated, and
answered by a kind of report, but almost indistinguishable, for the
storm was raging with renewed violence. McNabbs and John Mangles could
not hear themselves speak. They went for comfort under the shelter of
the wagon.
At this moment the leather curtains were raised and Glenarvan rejoined
his two companions. He too had heard this ill-boding whistle, and the
report which echoed under the tilt. “Which way was it?” asked he.
“There,” said John, pointing to the dark track in the direction taken by
Mulrady.
“How far?”
“The wind brought it; I should think, three or four miles, at least.”
“Come,” said Glenarvan, putting his gun on his shoulder.
“No,” said the Major. “It is a decoy to get us away from the wagon.”
“But if Mulrady has even now fallen beneath the blows of these rascals?”
exclaimed Glenarvan, seizing McNabbs by the hand.
“We shall know by to-morrow,” said the Major, coolly, determined to
prevent Glenarvan from taking a step which was equally rash and futile.
“You cannot leave the camp, my Lord,” said John. “I will go alone.”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” cried McNabbs, energetically. “Do you
want to have us killed one by one to diminish our force, and put us at
the mercy of these wretches? If Mulrady has fallen a victim to them, it
is a misfortune that must not be repeated. Mulrady was sent, chosen by
chance. If the lot had fallen to me, I should have gone as he did; but I
should neither have asked nor expected assistance.”
In restraining Glenarvan and John Mangles, the Major was right in every
aspect of the case. To attempt to follow the sailor, to run in the
darkness of night among the convicts in their leafy ambush was madness,
and more than that--it was useless. Glenarvan’s party was not so
numerous that it could afford to sacrifice another member of it.
Still Glenarvan seemed as if he could not yield; his hand was always on
his carbine. He wandered about the wagon, and bent a listening ear to
the faintest sound. The thought that one of his men was perhaps mortally
wounded, abandoned to his fate, calling in vain on those for whose sake
he had gone forth, was a torture to him. McNabbs was not sure that he
should be able to restrain him, or if Glenarvan, carried away by his
feelings, would not run into the arms of Ben Joyce.
“Edward,” said he, “be calm. Listen to me as a friend. Think of Lady
Helena, of Mary Grant, of all who are left. And, besides, where would
you go? Where would you find Mulrady? He must have been attacked two
miles off. In what direction? Which track would you follow?”
At that very moment, as if to answer the Major, a cry of distress was
heard.
“Listen!” said Glenarvan.
This cry came from the same quarter as the report, but less than a
quarter of a mile off.
Glenarvan, repulsing McNabbs, was already on the track, when at three
hundred paces from the wagon they heard the exclamation: “Help! help!”
The voice was plaintive and despairing. John Mangles and the Major
sprang toward the spot. A few seconds after they perceived among
the scrub a human form dragging itself along the ground and uttering
mournful groans. It was Mulrady, wounded, apparently dying; and when his
companions raised him they felt their hands bathed in blood.
The rain came down with redoubled violence, and the wind raged among the
branches of the dead trees. In the pelting storm, Glenarvan, the Major
and John Mangles transported the body of Mulrady.
On their arrival everyone got up. Paganel, Robert, Wilson and Olbinett
left the wagon, and Lady Helena gave up her compartment to poor Mulrady.
The Major removed the poor fellow’s flannel shirt, which was dripping
with blood and rain. He soon found the wound; it was a stab in the right
side.
McNabbs dressed it with great skill. He could not tell whether the
weapon had touched any vital part. An intermittent jet of scarlet blood
flowed from it; the patient’s paleness and weakness showed that he was
seriously injured. The Major washed the wound first with fresh water and
then closed the orifice; after this he put on a thick pad of lint, and
then folds of scraped linen held firmly in place with a bandage. He
succeeded in stopping the hemorrhage. Mulrady was laid on his side, with
his head and chest well raised, and Lady Helena succeeded in making him
swallow a few drops of water.
After about a quarter of an hour, the wounded man, who till then had
lain motionless, made a slight movement. His eyes unclosed, his lips
muttered incoherent words, and the Major, bending toward him, heard him
repeating: “My Lord--the letter--Ben Joyce.”
The Major repeated these words, and looked at his companions. What did
Mulrady mean? Ben Joyce had been the attacking party, of course; but
why? Surely for the express purpose of intercepting him, and preventing
his arrival at the DUNCAN. This letter--
Glenarvan searched Mulrady’s pockets. The letter addressed to Tom Austin
was gone!
The night wore away amid anxiety and distress; every moment, they
feared, would be poor Mulrady’s last. He suffered from acute fever. The
Sisters of Charity, Lady Helena and Mary Grant, never left him. Never
was patient so well tended, nor by such sympathetic hands.
Day came, and the rain had ceased. Great clouds filled the sky still;
the ground was strewn with broken branches; the marly soil, soaked by
the torrents of rain, had yielded still more; the approaches to the
wagon became difficult, but it could not sink any deeper.
John Mangles, Paganel, and Glenarvan went, as soon as it was light
enough, to reconnoiter in the neighborhood of the encampment. They
revisited the track, which was still stained with blood. They saw no
vestige of Ben Joyce, nor of his band. They penetrated as far as the
scene of the attack. Here two corpses lay on the ground, struck down
by Mulrady’s bullets. One was the blacksmith of Blackpoint. His face,
already changed by death, was a dreadful spectacle. Glenarvan searched
no further. Prudence forbade him to wander from the camp. He returned to
the wagon, deeply absorbed by the critical position of affairs.
“We must not think of sending another messenger to Melbourne,” said he.
“But we must,” said John Mangles; “and I must try to pass where my
sailor could not succeed.”
“No, John! it is out of the question. You have not even a horse for the
journey, which is full two hundred miles!”
This was true, for Mulrady’s horse, the only one that remained, had
not returned. Had he fallen during the attack on his rider, or was he
straying in the bush, or had the convicts carried him off?
“Come what will,” replied Glenarvan, “we will not separate again. Let us
wait a week, or a fortnight, till the Snowy falls to its normal level.
We can then reach Twofold Bay by short stages, and from there we can
send on to the DUNCAN, by a safer channel, the order to meet us.”
“That seems the only plan,” said Paganel.
“Therefore, my friends,” rejoined Glenarvan, “no more parting. It is too
great a risk for one man to venture alone into a robber-haunted waste.
And now, may God save our poor sailor, and protect the rest of us!”
Glenarvan was right in both points; first in prohibiting all isolated
attempts, and second, in deciding to wait till the passage of the Snowy
River was practicable. He was scarcely thirty miles from Delegete, the
first frontier village of New South Wales, where he would easily find
the means of transport to Twofold Bay, and from there he could telegraph
to Melbourne his orders about the DUNCAN.
These measures were wise, but how late! If Glenarvan had not sent
Mulrady to Lucknow what misfortunes would have been averted, not to
speak of the assassination of the sailor!
When he reached the camp he found his companions in better spirits. They
seemed more hopeful than before. “He is better! he is better!” cried
Robert, running out to meet Lord Glenarvan.
“Mulrady?--”
“Yes, Edward,” answered Lady Helena. “A reaction has set in. The Major
is more confident. Our sailor will live.”
“Where is McNabbs?” asked Glenarvan.
“With him. Mulrady wanted to speak to him, and they must not be
disturbed.”
He then learned that about an hour since, the wounded man had awakened
from his lethargy, and the fever had abated. But the first thing he did
on recovering his memory and speech was to ask for Lord Glenarvan, or,
failing him, the Major. McNabbs seeing him so weak, would have forbidden
any conversation; but Mulrady insisted with such energy that the Major
had to give in. The interview had already lasted some minutes when
Glenarvan returned. There was nothing for it but to await the return of
McNabbs.
Presently the leather curtains of the wagon moved, and the Major
appeared. He rejoined his friends at the foot of a gum-tree, where the
tent was placed. His face, usually so stolid, showed that something
disturbed him. When his eyes fell on Lady Helena and the young girl, his
glance was full of sorrow.
Glenarvan questioned him, and extracted the following information: When
he left the camp Mulrady followed one of the paths indicated by Paganel.
He made as good speed as the darkness of the night would allow. He
reckoned that he had gone about two miles when several men--five, he
thought--sprang to his horse’s head. The animal reared; Mulrady seized
his revolver and fired. He thought he saw two of his assailants fall. By
the flash he recognized Ben Joyce. But that was all. He had not time to
fire all the barrels. He felt a violent blow on his side and was thrown
to the ground.
Still he did not lose consciousness. The murderers thought he was dead.
He felt them search his pockets, and then heard one of them say: “I have
the letter.”
“Give it to me,” returned Ben Joyce, “and now the DUNCAN is ours.”
At this point of the story, Glenarvan could not help uttering a cry.
McNabbs continued: “‘Now you fellows,’ added Ben Joyce, ‘catch the
horse. In two days I shall be on board the DUNCAN, and in six I shall
reach Twofold Bay. This is to be the rendezvous. My Lord and his party
will be still stuck in the marshes of the Snowy River. Cross the river
at the bridge of Kemple Pier, proceed to the coast, and wait for me. I
will easily manage to get you on board. Once at sea in a craft like
the DUNCAN, we shall be masters of the Indian Ocean.’ ‘Hurrah for Ben
Joyce!’ cried the convicts. Mulrady’s horse was brought, and Ben Joyce
disappeared, galloping on the Lucknow Road, while the band took the road
southeast of the Snowy River. Mulrady, though severely wounded, had the
strength to drag himself to within three hundred paces from the camp,
whence we found him almost dead. There,” said McNabbs, “is the history
of Mulrady; and now you can understand why the brave fellow was so
determined to speak.”
This revelation terrified Glenarvan and the rest of the party.
“Pirates! pirates!” cried Glenarvan. “My crew massacred! my DUNCAN in
the hands of these bandits!”
“Yes, for Ben Joyce will surprise the ship,” said the Major, “and
then--”
“Well, we must get to the coast first,” said Paganel.
“But how are we to cross the Snowy River?” said Wilson.
“As they will,” replied Glenarvan. “They are to cross at Kemple Pier
Bridge, and so will we.”
“But about Mulrady?” asked Lady Helena.
“We will carry him; we will have relays. Can I leave my crew to the
mercy of Ben Joyce and his gang?”
To cross the Snowy River at Kemple Pier was practicable, but dangerous.
The convicts might entrench themselves at that point, and defend it.
They were at least thirty against seven! But there are moments when
people do not deliberate, or when they have no choice but to go on.
“My Lord,” said John Mangles, “before we throw away our chance, before
venturing to this bridge, we ought to reconnoiter, and I will undertake
it.”
“I will go with you, John,” said Paganel.
This proposal was agreed to, and John Mangles and Paganel prepared to
start immediately. They were to follow the course of the Snowy River,
follow its banks till they reached the place indicated by Ben Joyce,
and especially they were to keep out of sight of the convicts, who were
probably scouring the bush.
So the two brave comrades started, well provisioned and well armed, and
were soon out of sight as they threaded their way among the tall reeds
by the river. The rest anxiously awaited their return all day. Evening
came, and still the scouts did not return. They began to be seriously
alarmed. At last, toward eleven o’clock, Wilson announced their arrival.
Paganel and John Mangles were worn out with the fatigues of a ten-mile
walk.
“Well, what about the bridge? Did you find it?” asked Glenarvan, with
impetuous eagerness.
“Yes, a bridge of supple-jacks,” said John Mangles. “The convicts passed
over, but--”
“But what?” said Glenarvan, who foreboded some new misfortune.
“They burned it after they passed!” said Paganel.
CHAPTER XIX HELPLESS AND HOPELESS
IT was not a time for despair, but action. The bridge at Kemple Pier
was destroyed, but the Snowy River must be crossed, come what might, and
they must reach Twofold Bay before Ben Joyce and his gang, so, instead
of wasting time in empty words, the next day (the 16th of January) John
Mangles and Glenarvan went down to examine the river, and arrange for
the passage over.
The swollen and tumultuous waters had not gone down the least. They
rushed on with indescribable fury. It would be risking life to battle
with them. Glenarvan stood gazing with folded arms and downcast face.
“Would you like me to try and swim across?” said John Mangles.
“No, John, no!” said Lord Glenarvan, holding back the bold, daring young
fellow, “let us wait.”
And they both returned to the camp. The day passed in the most intense
anxiety. Ten times Lord Glenarvan went to look at the river, trying to
invent some bold way of getting over; but in vain. Had a torrent of lava
rushed between the shores, it could not have been more impassable.
During these long wasted hours, Lady Helena, under the Major’s advice,
was nursing Mulrady with the utmost skill. The sailor felt a throb
of returning life. McNabbs ventured to affirm that no vital part was
injured. Loss of blood accounted for the patient’s extreme exhaustion.
The wound once closed and the hemorrhage stopped, time and rest would
be all that was needed to complete his cure. Lady Helena had insisted on
giving up the first compartment of the wagon to him, which greatly
tried his modesty. The poor fellow’s greatest trouble was the delay
his condition might cause Glenarvan, and he made him promise that they
should leave him in the camp under Wilson’s care, should the passage of
the river become practicable.
But, unfortunately, no passage was practicable, either that day or the
next (January 17); Glenarvan was in despair. Lady Helena and the Major
vainly tried to calm him, and preached patience.
Patience, indeed, when perhaps at this very moment Ben Joyce was
boarding the yacht; when the DUNCAN, loosing from her moorings, was
getting up steam to reach the fatal coast, and each hour was bringing
her nearer.
John Mangles felt in his own breast all that Glenarvan was suffering.
He determined to conquer the difficulty at any price, and constructed
a canoe in the Australian manner, with large sheets of bark of the
gum-trees. These sheets were kept together by bars of wood, and formed
a very fragile boat. The captain and the sailor made a trial trip in
it during the day. All that skill, and strength, and tact, and courage
could do they did; but they were scarcely in the current before they
were upside down, and nearly paid with their lives for the dangerous
experiment. The boat disappeared, dragged down by the eddy. John Mangles
and Wilson had not gone ten fathoms, and the river was a mile broad, and
swollen by the heavy rains and melted snows.
Thus passed the 19th and 20th of January. The Major and Glenarvan went
five miles up the river in search of a favorable passage, but everywhere
they found the same roaring, rushing, impetuous torrent. The whole
southern slope of the Australian Alps poured its liquid masses into this
single bed.
All hope of saving the DUNCAN was now at an end. Five days had elapsed
since the departure of Ben Joyce. The yacht must be at this moment at
the coast, and in the hands of the convicts.
However, it was impossible that this state of things could last. The
temporary influx would soon be exhausted, and the violence also. Indeed,
on the morning of the 21st, Paganel announced that the water was already
lower. “What does it matter now?” said Glenarvan. “It is too late!”
“That is no reason for our staying longer here,” said the Major.
“Certainly not,” replied John Mangles. “Perhaps tomorrow the river may
be practicable.”
“And will that save my unhappy men?” cried Glenarvan.
“Will your Lordship listen to me?” returned John Mangles. “I know Tom
Austin. He would execute your orders, and set out as soon as departure
was possible. But who knows whether the DUNCAN was ready and her injury
repaired on the arrival of Ben Joyce. And suppose the yacht could not go
to sea; suppose there was a delay of a day, or two days.”
“You are right, John,” replied Glenarvan. “We must get to Twofold Bay;
we are only thirty-five miles from Delegete.”
“Yes,” added Paganel, “and that’s a town where we shall find rapid means
of conveyance. Who knows whether we shan’t arrive in time to prevent a
catastrophe.”
“Let us start,” cried Glenarvan.
John Mangles and Wilson instantly set to work to construct a canoe of
larger dimensions. Experience had proved that the bark was powerless
against the violence of the torrent, and John accordingly felled some of
the gum-trees, and made a rude but solid raft with the trunks. It was
a long task, and the day had gone before the work was ended. It was
completed next morning.
By this time the waters had visibly diminished; the torrent had once
more become a river, though a very rapid one, it is true. However, by
pursuing a zigzag course, and overcoming it to a certain extent, John
hoped to reach the opposite shore. At half-past twelve, they embarked
provisions enough for a couple of days. The remainder was left with the
wagon and the tent. Mulrady was doing well enough to be carried over;
his convalescence was rapid.
At one o’clock, they all seated themselves on the raft, still moored
to the shore. John Mangles had installed himself at the starboard,
and entrusted to Wilson a sort of oar to steady the raft against the
current, and lessen the leeway. He took his own stand at the back, to
steer by means of a large scull; but, notwithstanding their efforts,
Wilson and John Mangles soon found themselves in an inverse position,
which made the action of the oars impossible.
There was no help for it; they could do nothing to arrest the gyratory
movement of the raft; it turned round with dizzying rapidity, and
drifted out of its course. John Mangles stood with pale face and set
teeth, gazing at the whirling current.
However, the raft had reached the middle of the river, about half a mile
from the starting point. Here the current was extremely strong, and
this broke the whirling eddy, and gave the raft some stability. John
and Wilson seized their oars again, and managed to push it in an oblique
direction. This brought them nearer to the left shore. They were not
more than fifty fathoms from it, when Wilson’s oar snapped short off,
and the raft, no longer supported, was dragged away. John tried to
resist at the risk of breaking his own oar, too, and Wilson, with
bleeding hands, seconded his efforts with all his might.
At last they succeeded, and the raft, after a passage of more than half
an hour, struck against the steep bank of the opposite shore. The shock
was so violent that the logs became disunited, the cords broke, and the
water bubbled up between. The travelers had barely time to catch hold
of the steep bank. They dragged out Mulrady and the two dripping ladies.
Everyone was safe; but the provisions and firearms, except the carbine
of the Major, went drifting down with the DEBRIS of the raft.
The river was crossed. The little company found themselves almost
without provisions, thirty-five miles from Delegete, in the midst of the
unknown deserts of the Victoria frontier. Neither settlers nor squatters
were to be met with; it was entirely uninhabited, unless by ferocious
bushrangers and bandits.
They resolved to set off without delay. Mulrady saw clearly that he
would be a great drag on them, and he begged to be allowed to remain,
and even to remain alone, till assistance could be sent from Delegete.
Glenarvan refused. It would be three days before he could reach
Delegete, and five the shore--that is to say, the 26th of January. Now,
as the DUNCAN had left Melbourne on the 16th, what difference would a
few days’ delay make?
“No, my friend,” he said, “I will not leave anyone behind. We will make
a litter and carry you in turn.”
The litter was made of boughs of eucalyptus covered with branches; and,
whether he would or not, Mulrady was obliged to take his place on it.
Glenarvan would be the first to carry his sailor. He took hold of one
end and Wilson of the other, and all set off.
What a sad spectacle, and how lamentably was this expedition to end
which had commenced so well. They were no longer in search of Harry
Grant. This continent, where he was not, and never had been, threatened
to prove fatal to those who sought him. And when these intrepid
countrymen of his should reach the shore, they would find the DUNCAN
waiting to take them home again. The first day passed silently and
painfully. Every ten minutes the litter changed bearers. All the
sailor’s comrades took their share in this task without murmuring,
though the fatigue was augmented by the great heat.
In the evening, after a journey of only five miles, they camped under
the gum-trees. The small store of provisions saved from the raft
composed the evening meal. But all they had to depend upon now was the
Major’s carbine.
It was a dark, rainy night, and morning seemed as if it would never
dawn. They set off again, but the Major could not find a chance of
firing a shot. This fatal region was only a desert, unfrequented even by
animals. Fortunately, Robert discovered a bustard’s nest with a dozen
of large eggs in it, which Olbinett cooked on hot cinders. These, with a
few roots of purslain which were growing at the bottom of a ravine, were
all the breakfast of the 22d.
The route now became extremely difficult. The sandy plains were
bristling with SPINIFEX, a prickly plant, which is called in Melbourne
the porcupine. It tears the clothing to rags, and makes the legs bleed.
The courageous ladies never complained, but footed it bravely, setting
an example, and encouraging one and another by word or look.
They stopped in the evening at Mount Bulla Bulla, on the edge of the
Jungalla Creek. The supper would have been very scant, if McNabbs had
not killed a large rat, the _mus conditor_, which is highly spoken of
as an article of diet. Olbinett roasted it, and it would have been
pronounced even superior to its reputation had it equaled the sheep
in size. They were obliged to be content with it, however, and it was
devoured to the bones.
On the 23d the weary but still energetic travelers started off again.
After having gone round the foot of the mountain, they crossed the long
prairies where the grass seemed made of whalebone. It was a tangle of
darts, a medley of sharp little sticks, and a path had to be cut through
either with the hatchet or fire.
That morning there was not even a question of breakfast. Nothing could
be more barren than this region strewn with pieces of quartz. Not only
hunger, but thirst began to assail the travelers. A burning atmosphere
heightened their discomfort. Glenarvan and his friends could only go
half a mile an hour. Should this lack of food and water continue till
evening, they would all sink on the road, never to rise again.
But when everything fails a man, and he finds himself without resources,
at the very moment when he feels he must give up, then Providence steps
in. Water presented itself in the CEPHALOTES, a species of cup-shaped
flower, filled with refreshing liquid, which hung from the branches of
coralliform-shaped bushes. They all quenched their thirst with these,
and felt new life returning.
The only food they could find was the same as the natives were forced
to subsist upon, when they could find neither game, nor serpents, nor
insects. Paganel discovered in the dry bed of a creek, a plant whose
excellent properties had been frequently described by one of his
colleagues in the Geographical Society.
It was the NARDOU, a cryptogamous plant of the family Marsilacea, and
the same which kept Burke and King alive in the deserts of the interior.
Under its leaves, which resembled those of the trefoil, there were dried
sporules as large as a lentil, and these sporules, when crushed between
two stones, made a sort of flour. This was converted into coarse bread,
which stilled the pangs of hunger at least. There was a great abundance
of this plant growing in the district, and Olbinett gathered a large
supply, so that they were sure of food for several days.
The next day, the 24th, Mulrady was able to walk part of the way. His
wound was entirely cicatrized. The town of Delegete was not more than
ten miles off, and that evening they camped in longitude 140 degrees, on
the very frontier of New South Wales.
For some hours, a fine but penetrating rain had been falling. There
would have been no shelter from this, if by chance John Mangles had not
discovered a sawyer’s hut, deserted and dilapidated to a degree. But
with this miserable cabin they were obliged to be content. Wilson wanted
to kindle a fire to prepare the NARDOU bread, and he went out to pick up
the dead wood scattered all over the ground. But he found it would
not light, the great quantity of albuminous matter which it contained
prevented all combustion. This is the incombustible wood put down by
Paganel in his list of Australian products.
They had to dispense with fire, and consequently with food too, and
sleep in their wet clothes, while the laughing jackasses, concealed in
the high branches, seemed to ridicule the poor unfortunates. However,
Glenarvan was nearly at the end of his sufferings. It was time. The two
young ladies were making heroic efforts, but their strength was hourly
decreasing. They dragged themselves along, almost unable to walk.
Next morning they started at daybreak. At 11 A. M. Delegete came in
sight in the county of Wellesley, and fifty miles from Twofold Bay.
Means of conveyance were quickly procured here. Hope returned to
Glenarvan as they approached the coast. Perhaps there might have been
some slight delay, and after all they might get there before the arrival
of the DUNCAN. In twenty-four hours they would reach the bay.
At noon, after a comfortable meal, all the travelers installed in a
mail-coach, drawn by five strong horses, left Delegete at a gallop. The
postilions, stimulated by a promise of a princely DOUCEUR, drove rapidly
along over a well-kept road. They did not lose a minute in changing
horses, which took place every ten miles. It seemed as if they were
infected with Glenarvan’s zeal. All that day, and night, too, they
traveled on at the rate of six miles an hour.
In the morning at sunrise, a dull murmur fell on their ears, and
announced their approach to the Indian Ocean. They required to go round
the bay to gain the coast at the 37th parallel, the exact point where
Tom Austin was to wait their arrival.
When the sea appeared, all eyes anxiously gazed at the offing. Was the
DUNCAN, by a miracle of Providence, there running close to the shore,
as a month ago, when they crossed Cape Corrientes, they had found her on
the Argentine coast? They saw nothing. Sky and earth mingled in the same
horizon. Not a sail enlivened the vast stretch of ocean.
One hope still remained. Perhaps Tom Austin had thought it his duty to
cast anchor in Twofold Bay, for the sea was heavy, and a ship would not
dare to venture near the shore. “To Eden!” cried Glenarvan. Immediately
the mail-coach resumed the route round the bay, toward the little town
of Eden, five miles distant. The postilions stopped not far from the
lighthouse, which marks the entrance of the port. Several vessels were
moored in the roadstead, but none of them bore the flag of Malcolm.
Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel got out of the coach, and rushed
to the custom-house, to inquire about the arrival of vessels within the
last few days.
No ship had touched the bay for a week.
“Perhaps the yacht has not started,” Glenarvan said, a sudden revulsion
of feeling lifting him from despair. “Perhaps we have arrived first.”
John Mangles shook his head. He knew Tom Austin. His first mate would
not delay the execution of an order for ten days.
“I must know at all events how they stand,” said Glenarvan. “Better
certainty than doubt.”
A quarter of an hour afterward a telegram was sent to the syndicate of
shipbrokers in Melbourne. The whole party then repaired to the Victoria
Hotel.
At 2 P.M. the following telegraphic reply was received: “LORD GLENARVAN,
Eden.
“Twofold Bay.
“The DUNCAN left on the 16th current. Destination unknown. J. ANDREWS,
S. B.”
The telegram dropped from Glenarvan’s hands.
There was no doubt now. The good, honest Scotch yacht was now a pirate
ship in the hands of Ben Joyce!
So ended this journey across Australia, which had commenced under
circumstances so favorable. All trace of Captain Grant and his
shipwrecked men seemed to be irrevocably lost. This ill success had cost
the loss of a ship’s crew. Lord Glenarvan had been vanquished in the
strife; and the courageous searchers, whom the unfriendly elements
of the Pampas had been unable to check, had been conquered on the
Australian shore by the perversity of man.
END OF BOOK TWO
IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS
OR THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT
NEW ZEALAND
[page intentionally blank]
CHAPTER I A ROUGH CAPTAIN
IF ever the searchers after Captain Grant were tempted to despair,
surely it was at this moment when all their hopes were destroyed at
a blow. Toward what quarter of the world should they direct their
endeavors? How were they to explore new countries? The DUNCAN was no
longer available, and even an immediate return to their own land was out
of the question. Thus the enterprise of these generous Scots had failed!
Failed! a despairing word that finds no echo in a brave soul; and
yet under the repeated blows of adverse fate, Glenarvan himself was
compelled to acknowledge his inability to prosecute his devoted efforts.
Mary Grant at this crisis nerved herself to the resolution never to
utter the name of her father. She suppressed her own anguish, when
she thought of the unfortunate crew who had perished. The daughter
was merged in the friend, and she now took upon her to console Lady
Glenarvan, who till now had been her faithful comforter. She was the
first to speak of returning to Scotland. John Mangles was filled with
admiration at seeing her so courageous and so resigned. He wanted to say
a word further in the Captain’s interest, but Mary stopped him with a
glance, and afterward said to him: “No, Mr. John, we must think of those
who ventured their lives. Lord Glenarvan must return to Europe!”
“You are right, Miss Mary,” answered John Mangles; “he must. Beside, the
English authorities must be informed of the fate of the DUNCAN. But do
not despair. Rather than abandon our search I will resume it alone! I
will either find Captain Grant or perish in the attempt!”
It was a serious undertaking to which John Mangles bound himself; Mary
accepted, and gave her hand to the young captain, as if to ratify
the treaty. On John Mangles’ side it was a life’s devotion; on Mary’s
undying gratitude.
During that day, their departure was finally arranged; they resolved to
reach Melbourne without delay. Next day John went to inquire about the
ships ready to sail. He expected to find frequent communication between
Eden and Victoria.
He was disappointed; ships were scarce. Three or four vessels, anchored
in Twofold Bay, constituted the mercantile fleet of the place; none of
them were bound for Melbourne, nor Sydney, nor Point de Galle, at any
of which ports Glenarvan would have found ships loading for England. In
fact, the Peninsular and Oriental Company has a regular line of packets
between these points and England.
Under these circumstances, what was to be done? Waiting for a ship might
be a tedious affair, for Twofold Bay is not much frequented. Numbers
of ships pass by without touching. After due reflection and discussion,
Glenarvan had nearly decided to follow the coast road to Sydney, when
Paganel made an unexpected proposition.
The geographer had visited Twofold Bay on his own account, and was aware
that there were no means of transport for Sydney or Melbourne. But
of the three vessels anchored in the roadstead one was loading for
Auckland, the capital of the northern island of New Zealand. Paganel’s
proposal was to take the ship in question, and get to Auckland, whence
it would be easy to return to Europe by the boats of the Peninsular and
Oriental Company.
This proposition was taken into serious consideration. Paganel on this
occasion dispensed with the volley of arguments he generally indulged
in. He confined himself to the bare proposition, adding that the voyage
to New Zealand was only five or six days--the distance, in fact, being
only about a thousand miles.
By a singular coincidence Auckland is situated on the self-same
parallel--the thirty-seventh--which the explorers had perseveringly
followed since they left the coast of Araucania. Paganel might fairly
have used this as an argument in favor of his scheme; in fact, it was a
natural opportunity of visiting the shores of New Zealand.
But Paganel did not lay stress on this argument. After two mistakes, he
probably hesitated to attempt a third interpretation of the document.
Besides, what could he make of it? It said positively that a “continent”
had served as a refuge for Captain Grant, not an island. Now, New
Zealand was nothing but an island. This seemed decisive. Whether, for
this reason, or for some other, Paganel did not connect any idea of
further search with this proposition of reaching Auckland. He merely
observed that regular communication existed between that point and Great
Britain, and that it was easy to take advantage of it.
John Mangles supported Paganel’s proposal. He advised its adoption,
as it was hopeless to await the problematical arrival of a vessel in
Twofold Bay. But before coming to any decision, he thought it best
to visit the ship mentioned by the geographer. Glenarvan, the Major,
Paganel, Robert, and Mangles himself, took a boat, and a few strokes
brought them alongside the ship anchored two cables’ length from the
quay.
It was a brig of 150 tons, named the MACQUARIE. It was engaged in the
coasting trade between the various ports of Australia and New Zealand.
The captain, or rather the “master,” received his visitors gruffly
enough. They perceived that they had to do with a man of no education,
and whose manners were in no degree superior to those of the five
sailors of his crew. With a coarse, red face, thick hands, and a broken
nose, blind of an eye, and his lips stained with the pipe, Will Halley
was a sadly brutal looking person. But they had no choice, and for so
short a voyage it was not necessary to be very particular.
“What do you want?” asked Will Halley, when the strangers stepped on the
poop of his ship.
“The captain,” answered John Mangles.
“I am the captain,” said Halley. “What else do you want?”
“The MACQUARIE is loading for Auckland, I believe?”
“Yes. What else?”
“What does she carry?”
“Everything salable and purchasable. What else?”
“When does she sail?”
“To-morrow at the mid-day tide. What else?”
“Does she take passengers?”
“That depends on who the passengers are, and whether they are satisfied
with the ship’s mess.”
“They would bring their own provisions.”
“What else?”
“What else?”
“Yes. How many are there?”
“Nine; two of them are ladies.”
“I have no cabins.”
“We will manage with such space as may be left at their disposal.”
“What else?”
“Do you agree?” said John Mangles, who was not in the least put out by
the captain’s peculiarities.
“We’ll see,” said the master of the MACQUARIE.
Will Halley took two or three turns on the poop, making it resound with
iron-heeled boots, and then he turned abruptly to John Mangles.
“What would you pay?” said he.
“What do you ask?” replied John.
“Fifty pounds.”
Glenarvan looked consent.
“Very good! Fifty pounds,” replied John Mangles.
“But passage only,” added Halley.
“Yes, passage only.”
“Food extra.”
“Extra.”
“Agreed. And now,” said Will, putting out his hand, “what about the
deposit money?”
“Here is half of the passage-money, twenty-five pounds,” said Mangles,
counting out the sum to the master.
“All aboard to-morrow,” said he, “before noon. Whether or no, I weigh
anchor.”
“We will be punctual.”
This said, Glenarvan, the Major, Robert, Paganel, and John Mangles left
the ship, Halley not so much as touching the oilskin that adorned his
red locks.
“What a brute,” exclaimed John.
“He will do,” answered Paganel. “He is a regular sea-wolf.”
“A downright bear!” added the Major.
“I fancy,” said John Mangles, “that the said bear has dealt in human
flesh in his time.”
“What matter?” answered Glenarvan, “as long as he commands the
MACQUARIE, and the MACQUARIE goes to New Zealand. From Twofold Bay to
Auckland we shall not see much of him; after Auckland we shall see him
no more.”
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were delighted to hear that their departure
was arranged for to-morrow. Glenarvan warned them that the MACQUARIE was
inferior in comfort to the DUNCAN. But after what they had gone through,
they were indifferent to trifling annoyances. Wilson was told off to
arrange the accommodation on board the MACQUARIE. Under his busy brush
and broom things soon changed their aspect.
Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, and let the sailor have his way.
Glenarvan and his party gave him no concern. He neither knew, nor cared
to know, their names. His new freight represented fifty pounds, and he
rated it far below the two hundred tons of cured hides which were stowed
away in his hold. Skins first, men after. He was a merchant. As to his
sailor qualification, he was said to be skillful enough in navigating
these seas, whose reefs make them very dangerous.
As the day drew to a close, Glenarvan had a desire to go again to the
point on the coast cut by the 37th parallel. Two motives prompted him.
He wanted to examine once more the presumed scene of the wreck. Ayrton
had certainly been quartermaster on the BRITANNIA, and the BRITANNIA
might have been lost on this part of the Australian coast; on the east
coast if not on the west. It would not do to leave without thorough
investigation, a locality which they were never to revisit.
And then, failing the BRITANNIA, the DUNCAN certainly had fallen into
the hands of the convicts. Perhaps there had been a fight? There might
yet be found on the coast traces of a struggle, a last resistance. If
the crew had perished among the waves, the waves probably had thrown
some bodies on the shore.
Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful John, went to carry out the final
search. The landlord of the Victoria Hotel lent them two horses, and
they set out on the northern road that skirts Twofold Bay.
It was a melancholy journey. Glenarvan and Captain John trotted along
without speaking, but they understood each other. The same thoughts,
the same anguish harrowed both their hearts. They looked at the sea-worn
rocks; they needed no words of question or answer. John’s well-tried
zeal and intelligence were a guarantee that every point was scrupulously
examined, the least likely places, as well as the sloping beaches and
sandy plains where even the slight tides of the Pacific might have
thrown some fragments of wreck. But no indication was seen that could
suggest further search in that quarter--all trace of the wreck escaped
them still.
As to the DUNCAN, no trace either. All that part of Australia, bordering
the ocean, was desert.
Still John Mangles discovered on the skirts of the shore evident
traces of camping, remains of fires recently kindled under solitary
Myall-trees. Had a tribe of wandering blacks passed that way lately? No,
for Glenarvan saw a token which furnished incontestable proof that the
convicts had frequented that part of the coast.
This token was a grey and yellow garment worn and patched, an ill-omened
rag thrown down at the foot of a tree. It bore the convict’s original
number at the Perth Penitentiary. The felon was not there, but his
filthy garments betrayed his passage. This livery of crime, after having
clothed some miscreant, was now decaying on this desert shore.
“You see, John,” said Glenarvan, “the convicts got as far as here! and
our poor comrades of the DUNCAN--”
“Yes,” said John, in a low voice, “they never landed, they perished!”
“Those wretches!” cried Glenarvan. “If ever they fall into my hands I
will avenge my crew--”
Grief had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For some minutes he gazed
at the expanse before him, as if taking a last look at some ship
disappearing in the distance. Then his eyes became dim; he recovered
himself in a moment, and without a word or look, set off at a gallop
toward Eden.
The wanderers passed their last evening sadly enough. Their thoughts
recalled all the misfortunes they had encountered in this country.
They remembered how full of well-warranted hope they had been at Cape
Bernouilli, and how cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay!
Paganel was full of feverish agitation. John Mangles, who had watched
him since the affair at Snowy River, felt that the geographer was
hesitating whether to speak or not to speak. A thousand times he had
pressed him with questions, and failed in obtaining an answer.
But that evening, John, in lighting him to his room, asked him why he
was so nervous.
“Friend John,” said Paganel, evasively, “I am not more nervous to-night
than I always am.”
“Mr. Paganel,” answered John, “you have a secret that chokes you.”
“Well!” cried the geographer, gesticulating, “what can I do? It is
stronger than I!”
“What is stronger?”
“My joy on the one hand, my despair on the other.”
“You rejoice and despair at the same time!”
“Yes; at the idea of visiting New Zealand.”
“Why! have you any trace?” asked John, eagerly. “Have you recovered the
lost tracks?”
“No, friend John. No one returns from New Zealand; but still--you
know human nature. All we want to nourish hope is breath. My device is
‘_Spiro spero_,’ and it is the best motto in the world!”
CHAPTER II NAVIGATORS AND THEIR DISCOVERIES
NEXT day, the 27th of January, the passengers of the MACQUARIE were
installed on board the brig. Will Halley had not offered his cabin to
his lady passengers. This omission was the less to be deplored, for the
den was worthy of the bear.
At half past twelve the anchor was weighed, having been loosed from its
holding-ground with some difficulty. A moderate breeze was blowing from
the southwest. The sails were gradually unfurled; the five hands made
slow work. Wilson offered to assist the crew; but Halley begged him
to be quiet and not to interfere with what did not concern him. He was
accustomed to manage his own affairs, and required neither assistance
nor advice.
This was aimed at John Mangles, who had smiled at the clumsiness of
some maneuver. John took the hint, but mentally resolved that he would
nevertheless hold himself in readiness in case the incapacity of the
crew should endanger the safety of the vessel.
However, in time, the sails were adjusted by the five sailors, aided by
the stimulus of the captain’s oaths. The MACQUARIE stood out to sea on
the larboard tack, under all her lower sails, topsails, topgallants,
cross-jack, and jib. By and by, the other sails were hoisted. But in
spite of this additional canvas the brig made very little way. Her
rounded bow, the width of her hold, and her heavy stern, made her a bad
sailor, the perfect type of a wooden shoe.
They had to make the best of it. Happily, five days, or, at most, six,
would take them to Auckland, no matter how bad a sailor the MACQUARIE
was.
At seven o’clock in the evening the Australian coast and the lighthouse
of the port of Eden had faded out of sight. The ship labored on the
lumpy sea, and rolled heavily in the trough of the waves. The passengers
below suffered a good deal from this motion. But it was impossible to
stay on deck, as it rained violently. Thus they were condemned to close
imprisonment.
Each one of them was lost in his own reflections. Words were few. Now
and then Lady Helena and Miss Grant exchanged a few syllables. Glenarvan
was restless; he went in and out, while the Major was impassive. John
Mangles, followed by Robert, went on the poop from time to time, to
look at the weather. Paganel sat in his corner, muttering vague and
incoherent words.
What was the worthy geographer thinking of? Of New Zealand, the country
to which destiny was leading him. He went mentally over all his history;
he called to mind the scenes of the past in that ill-omened country.
But in all that history was there a fact, was there a solitary incident
that could justify the discoverers of these islands in considering them
as “a continent.” Could a modern geographer or a sailor concede to them
such a designation. Paganel was always revolving the meaning of the
document. He was possessed with the idea; it became his ruling thought.
After Patagonia, after Australia, his imagination, allured by a name,
flew to New Zealand. But in that direction, one point, and only one,
stood in his way.
“_Contin--contin_,” he repeated, “that must mean continent!”
And then he resumed his mental retrospect of the navigators who made
known to us these two great islands of the Southern Sea.
It was on the 13th of December, 1642, that the Dutch navigator Tasman,
after discovering Van Diemen’s Land, sighted the unknown shores of New
Zealand. He coasted along for several days, and on the 17th of December
his ships penetrated into a large bay, which, terminating in a narrow
strait, separated the two islands.
The northern island was called by the natives Ikana-Mani, a word
which signifies the fish of Mani. The southern island was called
Tavai-Pouna-Mou, “the whale that yields the green-stones.”
Abel Tasman sent his boats on shore, and they returned accompanied by
two canoes and a noisy company of natives. These savages were middle
height, of brown or yellow complexion, angular bones, harsh voices, and
black hair, which was dressed in the Japanese manner, and surmounted by
a tall white feather.
This first interview between Europeans and aborigines seemed to promise
amicable and lasting intercourse. But the next day, when one of Tasman’s
boats was looking for an anchorage nearer to the land, seven canoes,
manned by a great number of natives, attacked them fiercely. The boat
capsized and filled. The quartermaster in command was instantly
struck with a badly-sharpened spear, and fell into the sea. Of his six
companions four were killed; the other two and the quartermaster were
able to swim to the ships, and were picked up and recovered.
After this sad occurrence Tasman set sail, confining his revenge to
giving the natives a few musket-shots, which probably did not reach
them. He left this bay--which still bears the name of Massacre
Bay--followed the western coast, and on the 5th of January, anchored
near the northern-most point. Here the violence of the surf, as well as
the unfriendly attitude of the natives, prevented his obtaining water,
and he finally quitted these shores, giving them the name Staten-land or
the Land of the States, in honor of the States-General.
The Dutch navigator concluded that these islands were adjacent to the
islands of the same name on the east of Terra del Fuego, at the southern
point of the American continent. He thought he had found “the Great
Southern Continent.”
“But,” said Paganel to himself, “what a seventeenth century sailor might
call a ‘continent’ would never stand for one with a nineteenth century
man. No such mistake can be supposed! No! there is something here that
baffles me.”
CHAPTER III THE MARTYR-ROLL OF NAVIGATORS
ON the 31st of January, four days after starting, the MACQUARIE had not
done two-thirds of the distance between Australia and New Zealand. Will
Halley took very little heed to the working of the ship; he let things
take their chance. He seldom showed himself, for which no one was sorry.
No one would have complained if he had passed all his time in his
cabin, but for the fact that the brutal captain was every day under the
influence of gin or brandy. His sailors willingly followed his example,
and no ship ever sailed more entirely depending on Providence than the
MACQUARIE did from Twofold Bay.
This unpardonable carelessness obliged John Mangles to keep a watchful
eye ever open. Mulrady and Wilson more than once brought round the
helm when some careless steering threatened to throw the ship on her
beam-ends. Often Will Halley would interfere and abuse the two sailors
with a volley of oaths. The latter, in their impatience, would have
liked nothing better than to bind this drunken captain, and lower him
into the hold, for the rest of the voyage. But John Mangles succeeded,
after some persuasion, in calming their well-grounded indignation.
Still, the position of things filled him with anxiety; but, for fear
of alarming Glenarvan, he spoke only to Paganel or the Major. McNabbs
recommended the same course as Mulrady and Wilson.
“If you think it would be for the general good, John,” said McNabbs,
“you should not hesitate to take the command of the vessel. When we get
to Auckland the drunken imbecile can resume his command, and then he is
at liberty to wreck himself, if that is his fancy.”
“All that is very true, Mr. McNabbs, and if it is absolutely necessary I
will do it. As long as we are on open sea, a careful lookout is enough;
my sailors and I are watching on the poop; but when we get near the
coast, I confess I shall be uneasy if Halley does not come to his
senses.”
“Could not you direct the course?” asked Paganel.
“That would be difficult,” replied John. “Would you believe it that
there is not a chart on board?”
“Is that so?”
“It is indeed. The MACQUARIE only does a coasting trade between Eden
and Auckland, and Halley is so at home in these waters that he takes no
observations.”
“I suppose he thinks the ship knows the way, and steers herself.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed John Mangles; “I do not believe in ships that steer
themselves; and if Halley is drunk when we get among soundings, he will
get us all into trouble.”
“Let us hope,” said Paganel, “that the neighborhood of land will bring
him to his senses.”
“Well, then,” said McNabbs, “if needs were, you could not sail the
MACQUARIE into Auckland?”
“Without a chart of the coast, certainly not. The coast is very
dangerous. It is a series of shallow fiords as irregular and capricious
as the fiords of Norway. There are many reefs, and it requires great
experience to avoid them. The strongest ship would be lost if her keel
struck one of those rocks that are submerged but a few feet below the
water.”
“In that case those on board would have to take refuge on the coast.”
“If there was time.”
“A terrible extremity,” said Paganel, “for they are not hospitable
shores, and the dangers of the land are not less appalling than the
dangers of the sea.”
“You refer to the Maories, Monsieur Paganel?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, my friend. They have a bad name in these waters. It is not a
matter of timid or brutish Australians, but of an intelligent and
sanguinary race, cannibals greedy of human flesh, man-eaters to whom we
should look in vain for pity.”
“Well, then,” exclaimed the Major, “if Captain Grant had been wrecked on
the coast of New Zealand, you would dissuade us from looking for him.”
“Oh, you might search on the coasts,” replied the geographer, “because
you might find traces of the BRITANNIA, but not in the interior, for it
would be perfectly useless. Every European who ventures into these fatal
districts falls into the hands of the Maories, and a prisoner in the
hands of the Maories is a lost man. I have urged my friends to cross the
Pampas, to toil over the plains of Australia, but I will never lure them
into the mazes of the New Zealand forest. May heaven be our guide,
and keep us from ever being thrown within the power of those fierce
natives!”
CHAPTER IV THE WRECK OF THE “MACQUARIE”
STILL this wearisome voyage dragged on. On the 2d of February, six days
from starting, the MACQUARIE had not yet made a nearer acquaintance
with the shores of Auckland. The wind was fair, nevertheless, and blew
steadily from the southwest; but the currents were against the ship’s
course, and she scarcely made any way. The heavy, lumpy sea strained her
cordage, her timbers creaked, and she labored painfully in the trough of
the sea. Her standing rigging was so out of order that it allowed play
to the masts, which were violently shaken at every roll of the sea.
Fortunately, Will Halley was not a man in a hurry, and did not use a
press of canvas, or his masts would inevitably have come down. John
Mangles therefore hoped that the wretched hull would reach port without
accident; but it grieved him that his companions should have to suffer
so much discomfort from the defective arrangements of the brig.
But neither Lady Helena nor Mary Grant uttered a word of complaint,
though the continuous rain obliged them to stay below, where the want
of air and the violence of the motion were painfully felt. They often
braved the weather, and went on the poop till driven down again by the
force of a sudden squall. Then they returned to the narrow space, fitter
for stowing cargo than accommodating passengers, especially ladies.
Their friends did their best to amuse them. Paganel tried to beguile the
time with his stories, but it was a hopeless case. Their minds were so
distracted at this change of route as to be quite unhinged. Much as they
had been interested in his dissertation on the Pampas, or Australia, his
lectures on New Zealand fell on cold and indifferent ears. Besides,
they were going to this new and ill-reputed country without enthusiasm,
without conviction, not even of their own free will, but solely at the
bidding of destiny.
Of all the passengers on board the MACQUARIE, the most to be pitied was
Lord Glenarvan. He was rarely to be seen below. He could not stay in
one place. His nervous organization, highly excited, could not submit to
confinement between four narrow bulkheads. All day long, even all night,
regardless of the torrents of rain and the dashing waves, he stayed on
the poop, sometimes leaning on the rail, sometimes walking to and fro
in feverish agitation. His eyes wandered ceaselessly over the blank
horizon. He scanned it eagerly during every short interval of clear
weather. It seemed as if he sought to question the voiceless waters; he
longed to tear away the veil of fog and vapor that obscured his view. He
could not be resigned, and his features expressed the bitterness of his
grief. He was a man of energy, till now happy and powerful, and deprived
in a moment of power and happiness. John Mangles bore him company, and
endured with him the inclemency of the weather. On this day Glenarvan
looked more anxiously than ever at each point where a break in the mist
enabled him to do so. John came up to him and said, “Your Lordship is
looking out for land?”
Glenarvan shook his head in dissent.
“And yet,” said the young captain, “you must be longing to quit this
vessel. We ought to have seen the lights of Auckland thirty-six hours
ago.”
Glenarvan made no reply. He still looked, and for a moment his glass was
pointed toward the horizon to windward.
“The land is not on that side, my Lord,” said John Mangles. “Look more
to starboard.”
“Why, John?” replied Glenarvan. “I am not looking for the land.”
“What then, my Lord?”
“My yacht! the DUNCAN,” said Glenarvan, hotly. “It must be here on these
coasts, skimming these very waves, playing the vile part of a pirate!
It is here, John; I am certain of it, on the track of vessels between
Australia and New Zealand; and I have a presentiment that we shall fall
in with her.”
“God keep us from such a meeting!”
“Why, John?”
“Your Lordship forgets our position. What could we do in this ship if
the DUNCAN gave chase. We could not even fly!”
“Fly, John?”
“Yes, my Lord; we should try in vain! We should be taken, delivered up
to the mercy of those wretches, and Ben Joyce has shown us that he does
not stop at a crime! Our lives would be worth little. We would fight to
the death, of course, but after that! Think of Lady Glenarvan; think of
Mary Grant!”
“Poor girls!” murmured Glenarvan. “John, my heart is broken; and
sometimes despair nearly masters me. I feel as if fresh misfortunes
awaited us, and that Heaven itself is against us. It terrifies me!”
“You, my Lord?”
“Not for myself, John, but for those I love--whom you love, also.”
“Keep up your heart, my Lord,” said the young captain. “We must not
look out for troubles. The MACQUARIE sails badly, but she makes some way
nevertheless. Will Halley is a brute, but I am keeping my eyes open, and
if the coast looks dangerous, I will put the ship’s head to sea again.
So that, on that score, there is little or no danger. But as to getting
alongside the DUNCAN! God forbid! And if your Lordship is bent on
looking out for her, let it be in order to give her a wide berth.”
John Mangles was right. An encounter with the DUNCAN would have
been fatal to the MACQUARIE. There was every reason to fear such an
engagement in these narrow seas, in which pirates could ply their trade
without risk. However, for that day at least, the yacht did not appear,
and the sixth night from their departure from Twofold Bay came, without
the fears of John Mangles being realized.
But that night was to be a night of terrors. Darkness came on almost
suddenly at seven o’clock in the evening; the sky was very threatening.
The sailor instinct rose above the stupefaction of the drunkard and
roused Will Halley. He left his cabin, rubbed his eyes, and shook his
great red head. Then he drew a great deep breath of air, as other people
swallow a draught of water to revive themselves. He examined the masts.
The wind freshened, and veering a point more to the westward, blew right
for the New Zealand coast.
[illustration omitted] [page intentionally blank]
Will Halley, with many an oath, called his men, tightened his topmast
cordage, and made all snug for the night. John Mangles approved in
silence. He had ceased to hold any conversation with the coarse seaman;
but neither Glenarvan nor he left the poop. Two hours after a stiff
breeze came on. Will Halley took in the lower reef of his topsails. The
maneuver would have been a difficult job for five men if the MACQUARIE
had not carried a double yard, on the American plan. In fact, they had
only to lower the upper yard to bring the sail to its smallest size.
Two hours passed; the sea was rising. The MACQUARIE was struck so
violently that it seemed as if her keel had touched the rocks. There was
no real danger, but the heavy vessel did not rise easily to the waves.
By and by the returning waves would break over the deck in great masses.
The boat was washed out of the davits by the force of the water.
John Mangles never released his watch. Any other ship would have made no
account of a sea like this; but with this heavy craft there was a danger
of sinking by the bow, for the deck was filled at every lurch, and the
sheet of water not being able to escape quickly by the scuppers, might
submerge the ship. It would have been the wisest plan to prepare for
emergency by knocking out the bulwarks with an ax to facilitate their
escape, but Halley refused to take this precaution.
But a greater danger was at hand, and one that it was too late to
prevent. About half-past eleven, John Mangles and Wilson, who stayed
on deck throughout the gale, were suddenly struck by an unusual noise.
Their nautical instincts awoke. John seized the sailor’s hand. “The
reef!” said he.
“Yes,” said Wilson; “the waves breaking on the bank.”
“Not more than two cables’ length off?”
“At farthest? The land is there!”
John leaned over the side, gazed into the dark water, and called out,
“Wilson, the lead!”
The master, posted forward, seemed to have no idea of his position.
Wilson seized the lead-line, sprang to the fore-chains, and threw the
lead; the rope ran out between his fingers, at the third knot the lead
stopped.
“Three fathoms,” cried Wilson.
“Captain,” said John, running to Will Halley, “we are on the breakers.”
Whether or not he saw Halley shrug his shoulders is of very little
importance. But he hurried to the helm, put it hard down, while Wilson,
leaving the line, hauled at the main-topsail brace to bring the ship to
the wind. The man who was steering received a smart blow, and could not
comprehend the sudden attack.
“Let her go! Let her go!” said the young captain, working her to get
away from the reefs.
For half a minute the starboard side of the vessel was turned toward
them, and, in spite of the darkness, John could discern a line of foam
which moaned and gleamed four fathoms away.
At this moment, Will Halley, comprehending the danger, lost his head.
His sailors, hardly sobered, could not understand his orders. His
incoherent words, his contradictory orders showed that this stupid
sot had quite lost his self-control. He was taken by surprise at the
proximity of the land, which was eight miles off, when he thought it
was thirty or forty miles off. The currents had thrown him out of his
habitual track, and this miserable slave of routine was left quite
helpless.
Still the prompt maneuver of John Mangles succeeded in keeping the
MACQUARIE off the breakers. But John did not know the position. For
anything he could tell he was girdled in by reefs. The wind blew them
strongly toward the east, and at every lurch they might strike.
In fact, the sound of the reef soon redoubled on the starboard side of
the bow. They must luff again. John put the helm down again and brought
her up. The breakers increased under the bow of the vessel, and it was
necessary to put her about to regain the open sea. Whether she would
be able to go about under shortened sail, and badly trimmed as she was,
remained to be seen, but there was nothing else to be done.
“Helm hard down!” cried Mangles to Wilson.
The MACQUARIE began to near the new line of reefs: in another moment
the waves were seen dashing on submerged rocks. It was a moment of
inexpressible anxiety. The spray was luminous, just as if lit up by
sudden phosphorescence. The roaring of the sea was like the voice of
those ancient Tritons whom poetic mythology endowed with life. Wilson
and Mulrady hung to the wheel with all their weight. Some cordage gave
way, which endangered the foremast. It seemed doubtful whether she would
go about without further damage.
Suddenly the wind fell and the vessel fell back, and turning her became
hopeless. A high wave caught her below, carried her up on the reefs,
where she struck with great violence. The foremast came down with all
the fore-rigging. The brig rose twice, and then lay motionless, heeled
over on her port side at an angle of 30 degrees.
The glass of the skylight had been smashed to powder. The passengers
rushed out. But the waves were sweeping the deck from one side to the
other, and they dared not stay there. John Mangles, knowing the ship
to be safely lodged in the sand, begged them to return to their own
quarters.
“Tell me the truth, John,” said Glenarvan, calmly.
“The truth, my Lord, is that we are at a standstill. Whether the sea
will devour us is another question; but we have time to consider.”
“It is midnight?”
“Yes, my Lord, and we must wait for the day.”
“Can we not lower the boat?”
“In such a sea, and in the dark, it is impossible. And, besides, where
could we land?”
“Well, then, John, let us wait for the daylight.”
Will Halley, however, ran up and down the deck like a maniac. His crew
had recovered their senses, and now broached a cask of brandy, and began
to drink. John foresaw that if they became drunk, terrible scenes would
ensue.
The captain could not be relied on to restrain them; the wretched man
tore his hair and wrung his hands. His whole thought was his uninsured
cargo. “I am ruined! I am lost!” he would cry, as he ran from side to
side.
John Mangles did not waste time on him. He armed his two companions,
and they all held themselves in readiness to resist the sailors who were
filling themselves with brandy, seasoned with fearful blasphemies.
“The first of these wretches that comes near the ladies, I will shoot
like a dog,” said the Major, quietly.
The sailors doubtless saw that the passengers were determined to hold
their own, for after some attempts at pillage, they disappeared to their
own quarters. John Mangles thought no more of these drunken rascals, and
waited impatiently for the dawn. The ship was now quite motionless. The
sea became gradually calmer. The wind fell. The hull would be safe for
some hours yet. At daybreak John examined the landing-place; the yawl,
which was now their only boat, would carry the crew and the passengers.
It would have to make three trips at least, as it could only hold four.
As he was leaning on the skylight, thinking over the situation of
affairs, John Mangles could hear the roaring of the surf. He tried to
pierce the darkness. He wondered how far it was to the land they longed
for no less than dreaded. A reef sometimes extends for miles along the
coast. Could their fragile boat hold out on a long trip?
While John was thus ruminating and longing for a little light from the
murky sky, the ladies, relying on him, slept in their little berths.
The stationary attitude of the brig insured them some hours of repose.
Glenarvan, John, and their companions, no longer disturbed by the noise
of the crew who were now wrapped in a drunken sleep, also refreshed
themselves by a short nap, and a profound silence reigned on board the
ship, herself slumbering peacefully on her bed of sand.
Toward four o’clock the first peep of dawn appeared in the east. The
clouds were dimly defined by the pale light of the dawn. John returned
to the deck. The horizon was veiled with a curtain of fog. Some faint
outlines were shadowed in the mist, but at a considerable height. A
slight swell still agitated the sea, but the more distant waves were
undistinguishable in a motionless bank of clouds.
John waited. The light gradually increased, and the horizon acquired
a rosy hue. The curtain slowly rose over the vast watery stage. Black
reefs rose out of the waters. Then a line became defined on the belt of
foam, and there gleamed a luminous beacon-light point behind a low hill
which concealed the scarcely risen sun. There was the land, less than
nine miles off.
“Land ho!” cried John Mangles.
His companions, aroused by his voice, rushed to the poop, and gazed in
silence at the coast whose outline lay on the horizon. Whether they were
received as friends or enemies, that coast must be their refuge.
“Where is Halley?” asked Glenarvan.
“I do not know, my Lord,” replied John Mangles.
“Where are the sailors?”
“Invisible, like himself.”
“Probably dead drunk, like himself,” added McNabbs.
“Let them be called,” said Glenarvan, “we cannot leave them on the
ship.”
Mulrady and Wilson went down to the forecastle, and two minutes after
they returned. The place was empty! They then searched between decks,
and then the hold. But found no trace of Will Halley nor his sailors.
“What! no one?” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Could they have fallen into the sea?” asked Paganel.
“Everything is possible,” replied John Mangles, who was getting uneasy.
Then turning toward the stern: “To the boat!” said he.
Wilson and Mulrady followed to launch the yawl. The yawl was gone.
CHAPTER V CANNIBALS
WILL HALLEY and his crew, taking advantage of the darkness of night and
the sleep of the passengers, had fled with the only boat. There could be
no doubt about it. The captain, whose duty would have kept him on board
to the last, had been the first to quit the ship.
“The cowards are off!” said John Mangles. “Well, my Lord, so much the
better. They have spared us some trying scenes.”
“No doubt,” said Glenarvan; “besides we have a captain of our own, and
courageous, if unskillful sailors, your companions, John. Say the word,
and we are ready to obey.”
The Major, Paganel, Robert, Wilson, Mulrady, Olbinett himself, applauded
Glenarvan’s speech, and ranged themselves on the deck, ready to execute
their captain’s orders.
“What is to be done?” asked Glenarvan.
It was evident that raising the MACQUARIE was out of the question, and
no less evident that she must be abandoned. Waiting on board for succor
that might never come, would have been imprudence and folly. Before the
arrival of a chance vessel on the scene, the MACQUARIE would have
broken up. The next storm, or even a high tide raised by the winds from
seaward, would roll it on the sands, break it up into splinters, and
scatter them on the shore. John was anxious to reach the land before
this inevitable consummation.
He proposed to construct a raft strong enough to carry the passengers,
and a sufficient quantity of provisions, to the coast of New Zealand.
There was no time for discussion, the work was to be set about at once,
and they had made considerable progress when night came and interrupted
them.
Toward eight o’clock in the evening, after supper, while Lady Helena and
Mary Grant slept in their berths, Paganel and his friends conversed on
serious matters as they walked up and down the deck. Robert had chosen
to stay with them. The brave boy listened with all his ears, ready to be
of use, and willing to enlist in any perilous adventure.
Paganel asked John Mangles whether the raft could not follow the coast
as far as Auckland, instead of landing its freight on the coast.
John replied that the voyage was impossible with such an unmanageable
craft.
“And what we cannot do on a raft could have been done in the ship’s
boat?”
“Yes, if necessary,” answered John; “but we should have had to sail by
day and anchor at night.”
“Then those wretches who abandoned us--”
“Oh, as for them,” said John, “they were drunk, and in the darkness I
have no doubt they paid for their cowardice with their lives.”
“So much the worse for them and for us,” replied Paganel; “for the boat
would have been very useful to us.”
“What would you have, Paganel? The raft will bring us to the shore,”
said Glenarvan.
“The very thing I would fain avoid,” exclaimed the geographer.
“What! do you think another twenty miles after crossing the Pampas and
Australia, can have any terrors for us, hardened as we are to fatigue?”
“My friend,” replied Paganel, “I do not call in question our courage nor
the bravery of our friends. Twenty miles would be nothing in any other
country than New Zealand. You cannot suspect me of faint-heartedness. I
was the first to persuade you to cross America and Australia. But here
the case is different. I repeat, anything is better than to venture into
this treacherous country.”
“Anything is better, in my judgment,” said John Mangles, “than braving
certain destruction on a stranded vessel.”
“What is there so formidable in New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“The savages,” said Paganel.
“The savages!” repeated Glenarvan. “Can we not avoid them by keeping to
the shore? But in any case what have we to fear? Surely, two resolute
and well-armed Europeans need not give a thought to an attack by a
handful of miserable beings.”
Paganel shook his head. “In this case there are no miserable beings to
contend with. The New Zealanders are a powerful race, who are rebelling
against English rule, who fight the invaders, and often beat them, and
who always eat them!”
“Cannibals!” exclaimed Robert, “cannibals?” Then they heard him whisper,
“My sister! Lady Helena.”
“Don’t frighten yourself, my boy,” said Glenarvan; “our friend Paganel
exaggerates.”
“Far from it,” rejoined Paganel. “Robert has shown himself a man, and I
treat him as such, in not concealing the truth from him.”
Paganel was right. Cannibalism has become a fixed fact in New Zealand,
as it is in the Fijis and in Torres Strait. Superstition is no doubt
partly to blame, but cannibalism is certainly owing to the fact that
there are moments when game is scarce and hunger great. The savages
began by eating human flesh to appease the demands of an appetite rarely
satiated; subsequently the priests regulated and satisfied the monstrous
custom. What was a meal, was raised to the dignity of a ceremony, that
is all.
Besides, in the eyes of the Maories, nothing is more natural than to eat
one another. The missionaries often questioned them about cannibalism.
They asked them why they devoured their brothers; to which the chiefs
made answer that fish eat fish, dogs eat men, men eat dogs, and dogs
eat one another. Even the Maori mythology has a legend of a god who
ate another god; and with such a precedent, who could resist eating his
neighbor?
Another strange notion is, that in eating a dead enemy they consume his
spiritual being, and so inherit his soul, his strength and his bravery,
which they hold are specially lodged in the brain. This accounts for the
fact that the brain figures in their feasts as the choicest delicacy,
and is offered to the most honored guest.
But while he acknowledged all this, Paganel maintained, not without a
show of reason, that sensuality, and especially hunger, was the first
cause of cannibalism among the New Zealanders, and not only among the
Polynesian races, but also among the savages of Europe.
“For,” said he, “cannibalism was long prevalent among the ancestors of
the most civilized people, and especially (if the Major will not think
me personal) among the Scotch.”
“Really,” said McNabbs.
“Yes, Major,” replied Paganel. “If you read certain passages of Saint
Jerome, on the Atticoli of Scotland, you will see what he thought of
your forefathers. And without going so far back as historic times, under
the reign of Elizabeth, when Shakespeare was dreaming out his Shy-lock,
a Scotch bandit, Sawney Bean, was executed for the crime of cannibalism.
Was it religion that prompted him to cannibalism? No! it was hunger.”
“Hunger?” said John Mangles.
“Hunger!” repeated Paganel; “but, above all, the necessity of the
carnivorous appetite of replacing the bodily waste, by the azote
contained in animal tissues. The lungs are satisfied with a provision
of vegetable and farinaceous food. But to be strong and active the body
must be supplied with those plastic elements that renew the muscles.
Until the Maories become members of the Vegetarian Association they will
eat meat, and human flesh as meat.”
“Why not animal flesh?” asked Glenarvan.
“Because they have no animals,” replied Paganel; “and that ought to be
taken into account, not to extenuate, but to explain, their cannibal
habits. Quadrupeds, and even birds, are rare on these inhospitable
shores, so that the Maories have always eaten human flesh. There are
even ‘man-eating seasons,’ as there are in civilized countries hunting
seasons. Then begin the great wars, and whole tribes are served up on
the tables of the conquerors.”
“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, “according to your mode of reasoning,
Paganel, cannibalism will not cease in New Zealand until her pastures
teem with sheep and oxen.”
“Evidently, my dear Lord; and even then it will take years to wean them
from Maori flesh, which they prefer to all others; for the children
will still have a relish for what their fathers so highly appreciated.
According to them it tastes like pork, with even more flavor. As to
white men’s flesh, they do not like it so well, because the whites eat
salt with their food, which gives a peculiar flavor, not to the taste of
connoisseurs.”
“They are dainty,” said the Major. “But, black or white, do they eat it
raw, or cook it?”
“Why, what is that to you, Mr. McNabbs?” cried Robert.
“What is that to me!” exclaimed the Major, earnestly. “If I am to make a
meal for a cannibal, I should prefer being cooked.”
“Why?”
“Because then I should be sure of not being eaten alive!”
“Very good. Major,” said Paganel; “but suppose they cooked you alive?”
“The fact is,” answered the Major, “I would not give half-a-crown for
the choice!”
“Well, McNabbs, if it will comfort you--you may as well be told--the
New Zealanders do not eat flesh without cooking or smoking it. They are
very clever and experienced in cookery. For my part, I very much dislike
the idea of being eaten! The idea of ending one’s life in the maw of a
savage! bah!”
“The conclusion of all,” said John Mangles, “is that we must not fall
into their hands. Let us hope that one day Christianity will abolish all
these monstrous customs.”
“Yes, we must hope so,” replied Paganel; “but, believe me, a savage who
has tasted human flesh, is not easily persuaded to forego it. I will
relate two facts which prove it.”
“By all means let us have the facts, Paganel,” said Glenarvan.
“The first is narrated in the chronicles of the Jesuit Society in
Brazil. A Portuguese missionary was one day visiting an old Brazilian
woman who was very ill. She had only a few days to live. The Jesuit
inculcated the truths of religion, which the dying woman accepted,
without objection. Then having attended to her spiritual wants, he
bethought himself of her bodily needs, and offered her some European
delicacies. ‘Alas,’ said she, ‘my digestion is too weak to bear any kind
of food. There is only one thing I could fancy, and nobody here could
get it for me.’ ‘What is it?’ asked the Jesuit. ‘Ah! my son,’ said she,
‘it is the hand of a little boy! I feel as if I should enjoy munching
the little bones!’”
“Horrid! but I wonder is it so very nice?” said Robert.
“My second tale will answer you, my boy,” said Paganel: “One day
a missionary was reproving a cannibal for the horrible custom, so
abhorrent to God’s laws, of eating human flesh! ‘And beside,’ said he,
‘it must be so nasty!’ ‘Oh, father,’ said the savage, looking greedily
at the missionary, ‘say that God forbids it! That is a reason for what
you tell us. But don’t say it is nasty! If you had only tasted it!’”
CHAPTER VI A DREADED COUNTRY
PAGANEL’S facts were indisputable. The cruelty of the New Zealanders was
beyond a doubt, therefore it was dangerous to land. But had the danger
been a hundredfold greater, it had to be faced. John Mangles felt the
necessity of leaving without delay a vessel doomed to certain and speedy
destruction. There were two dangers, one certain and the other probable,
but no one could hesitate between them.
As to their chance of being picked up by a passing vessel, they could
not reasonably hope for it. The MACQUARIE was not in the track of ships
bound to New Zealand. They keep further north for Auckland, further
south for New Plymouth, and the ship had struck just between these two
points, on the desert region of the shores of Ika-na-Mani, a dangerous,
difficult coast, and infested by desperate characters.
“When shall we get away?” asked Glenarvan.
“To-morrow morning at ten o’clock,” replied John Mangles. “The tide will
then turn and carry us to land.”
Next day, February 5, at eight o’clock, the raft was finished. John had
given all his attention to the building of this structure. The foreyard,
which did very well for mooring the anchors, was quite inadequate to the
transport of passengers and provisions. What was needed was a strong,
manageable raft, that would resist the force of the waves during a
passage of nine miles. Nothing but the masts could supply suitable
materials.
Wilson and Mulrady set to work; the rigging was cut clear, and the
mainmast, chopped away at the base, fell over the starboard rail, which
crashed under its weight. The MACQUARIE was thus razed like a pontoon.
When the lower mast, the topmasts, and the royals were sawn and split,
the principal pieces of the raft were ready. They were then joined
to the fragments of the foremast and the whole was fastened securely
together. John took the precaution to place in the interstices half a
dozen empty barrels, which would raise the structure above the level
of the water. On this strong foundation, Wilson laid a kind of floor in
open work, made of the gratings off the hatches. The spray could then
dash on the raft without staying there, and the passengers would be kept
dry. In addition to this, the hose-pipes firmly lashed together formed a
kind of circular barrier which protected the deck from the waves.
That morning, John seeing that the wind was in their favor, rigged up
the royal-yard in the middle of the raft as a mast. It was stayed with
shrouds, and carried a makeshift sail. A large broad-bladed oar was
fixed behind to act as a rudder in case the wind was sufficient to
require it. The greatest pains had been expended on strengthening
the raft to resist the force of the waves, but the question remained
whether, in the event of a change of wind, they could steer, or indeed,
whether they could hope ever to reach the land.
At nine o’clock they began to load. First came the provisions, in
quantity sufficient to last till they should reach Auckland, for they
could not count on the productions of this barren region.
Olbinett’s stores furnished some preserved meat which remained of the
purchase made for their voyage in the MACQUARIE. This was but a scanty
resource. They had to fall back on the coarse viands of the ship; sea
biscuits of inferior quality, and two casks of salt fish. The steward
was quite crestfallen.
These provisions were put in hermetically sealed cases, staunch and safe
from sea water, and then lowered on to the raft and strongly lashed
to the foot of the mast. The arms and ammunition were piled in a dry
corner. Fortunately the travelers were well armed with carbines and
revolvers.
A holding anchor was also put on board in case John should be unable to
make the land in one tide, and would have to seek moorings.
At ten o’clock the tide turned. The breeze blew gently from the
northwest, and a slight swell rocked the frail craft.
“Are we ready?” asked John.
“All ready, captain,” answered Wilson.
“All aboard!” cried John.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant descended by a rope ladder, and took their
station at the foot of the mast on the cases of provisions, their
companions near them. Wilson took the helm. John stood by the tackle,
and Mulrady cut the line which held the raft to the ship’s side.
The sail was spread, and the frail structure commenced its progress
toward the land, aided by wind and tide. The coast was about nine miles
off, a distance that a boat with good oars would have accomplished in
three hours. But with a raft allowance must be made. If the wind held,
they might reach the land in one tide. But if the breeze died away, the
ebb would carry them away from the shore, and they would be compelled to
anchor and wait for the next tide, a serious consideration, and one that
filled John Mangles with anxiety.
Still he hoped to succeed. The wind freshened. The tide had turned at
ten o’clock, and by three they must either make the land or anchor to
save themselves from being carried out to sea. They made a good start.
Little by little the black line of the reefs and the yellow banks of
sand disappeared under the swelling tide. Extreme watchfulness and
perfect skill were necessary to avoid these submerged rocks, and steer a
bark that did not readily answer to the helm, and that constantly broke
off.
At noon they were still five miles from shore. A tolerably clear sky
allowed them to make out the principal features of the land. In the
northeast rose a mountain about 2,300 feet high, whose sharply defined
outline was exactly like the grinning face of a monkey turned toward
the sky. It was Pirongia, which the map gave as exactly on the 38th
parallel.
At half-past twelve, Paganel remarked that all the rocks had disappeared
under the rising tide.
“All but one,” answered Lady Helena.
“Which, Madam?” asked Paganel.
“There,” replied she, pointing to a black speck a mile off.
“Yes, indeed,” said Paganel. “Let us try to ascertain its position, so
as not to get too near it, for the sea will soon conceal it.”
“It is exactly in a line with the northern slope of the mountain,” said
John Mangles. “Wilson, mind you give it a wide berth.”
“Yes, captain,” answered the sailor, throwing his whole weight on the
great oar that steered the raft.
In half an hour they had made half a mile. But, strange to say, the
black point still rose above the waves.
John looked attentively, and in order to make it out, borrowed Paganel’s
telescope.
“That is no reef,” said he, after a moment; “it is something floating,
which rises and falls with the swell.”
“Is it part of the mast of the MACQUARIE?” asked Lady Helena.
“No,” said Glenarvan, “none of her timbers could have come so far.”
“Stay!” said John Mangles; “I know it! It is the boat.”
“The ship’s boat?” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my lord. The ship’s boat, keel up.”
“The unfortunate creatures,” cried Lady Helena, “they have perished!”
“Yes, Madam,” replied John Mangles, “they must have perished, for in the
midst of these breakers in a heavy swell on that pitchy night, they ran
to certain death.”
For a few minutes the passengers were silent. They gazed at the frail
craft as they drew near it. It must evidently have capsized about four
miles from the shore, and not one of the crew could have escaped.
“But this boat may be of use to us,” said Glenarvan.
“That is true,” answered John Mangles. “Keep her up, Wilson.”
The direction was slightly changed, but the breeze fell gradually, and
it was two hours before they reached the boat.
Mulrady, stationed forward, fended off the blow, and the yawl was drawn
alongside.
“Empty?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, captain,” answered the sailor, “the boat is empty, and all its
seams are open. It is of no use to us.”
“No use at all?” said McNabbs.
“None at all,” said John Mangles.
“It is good for nothing but to burn.”
“I regret it,” said Paganel, “for the yawl might have taken us to
Auckland.”
“We must bear our fate, Monsieur Paganel,” replied John Mangles. “But,
for my part, in such a stormy sea I prefer our raft to that crazy boat.
A very slight shock would be enough to break her up. Therefore, my lord,
we have nothing to detain us further.”
“As you think best, John.”
“On then, Wilson,” said John, “and bear straight for the land.”
There was still an hour before the turn of the tide. In that time they
might make two miles. But the wind soon fell almost entirely, and the
raft became nearly motionless, and soon began to drift to seaward under
the influence of the ebb-tide.
John did not hesitate a moment.
“Let go the anchor,” said he.
Mulrady, who stood to execute this order, let go the anchor in five
fathoms water. The raft backed about two fathoms on the line, which was
then at full stretch. The sail was taken in, and everything made snug
for a tedious period of inaction.
The returning tide would not occur till nine o’clock in the evening; and
as John Mangles did not care to go on in the dark, the anchorage was for
the night, or at least till five o’clock in the morning, land being in
sight at a distance of less than three miles.
A considerable swell raised the waves, and seemed to set in continuously
toward the coast, and perceiving this, Glenarvan asked John why he did
not take advantage of this swell to get nearer to the land.
“Your Lordship is deceived by an optical illusion,” said the young
captain. “Although the swell seems to carry the waves landward, it does
not really move at all. It is mere undulating molecular motion, nothing
more. Throw a piece of wood overboard and you will see that it will
remain quite stationary except as the tide affects it. There is nothing
for it but patience.”
“And dinner,” said the Major.
Olbinett unpacked some dried meat and a dozen biscuits. The steward
blushed as he proffered the meager bill of fare. But it was received
with a good grace, even by the ladies, who, however, had not much
appetite, owing to the violent motion.
This motion, produced by the jerking of the raft on the cable, while she
lay head on to the sea, was very severe and fatiguing. The blows of the
short, tumbling seas were as severe as if she had been striking on
a submerged rock. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she was not
aground. The cable strained violently, and every half hour John had to
take in a fathom to ease it. Without this precaution it would certainly
have given way, and the raft must have drifted to destruction.
John’s anxiety may easily be understood. His cable might break, or his
anchor lose its hold, and in either case the danger was imminent.
Night drew on; the sun’s disc, enlarged by refraction, was dipping
blood-red below the horizon. The distant waves glittered in the west,
and sparkled like sheets of liquid silver. Nothing was to be seen in
that direction but sky and water, except one sharply-defined object, the
hull of the MACQUARIE motionless on her rocky bed.
The short twilight postponed the darkness only by a few minutes, and
soon the coast outline, which bounded the view on the east and north,
was lost in darkness.
The shipwrecked party were in an agonizing situation on their narrow
raft, and overtaken by the shades of night.
Some of the party fell into a troubled sleep, a prey to evil dreams;
others could not close an eye. When the day dawned, the whole party were
worn out with fatigue.
With the rising tide the wind blew again toward the land. It was six
o’clock in the morning, and there was no time to lose. John arranged
everything for resuming their voyage, and then he ordered the anchor to
be weighed. But the anchor flukes had been so imbedded in the sand
by the repeated jerks of the cable, that without a windlass it
was impossible to detach it, even with the tackle which Wilson had
improvised.
Half an hour was lost in vain efforts. John, impatient of delay, cut the
rope, thus sacrificing his anchor, and also the possibility of anchoring
again if this tide failed to carry them to land. But he decided that
further delay was not to be thought of, and an ax-blow committed the
raft to the mercy of the wind, assisted by a current of two knots an
hour.
The sail was spread. They drifted slowly toward the land, which rose in
gray, hazy masses, on a background of sky illumined by the rising sun.
The reef was dexterously avoided and doubled, but with the fitful breeze
the raft could not get near the shore. What toil and pain to reach a
coast so full of danger when attained.
At nine o’clock, the land was less than a mile off. It was a
steeply-shelving shore, fringed with breakers; a practicable
landing-place had to be discovered.
Gradually the breeze grew fainter, and then ceased entirely. The sail
flapped idly against the mast, and John had it furled. The tide alone
carried the raft to the shore, but steering had become impossible, and
its passage was impeded by immense bands of FUCUS.
At ten o’clock John found himself almost at a stand-still, not three
cables’ lengths from the shore. Having lost their anchor, they were at
the mercy of the ebb-tide.
John clenched his hands; he was racked with anxiety, and cast frenzied
glances toward this inaccessible shore.
In the midst of his perplexities, a shock was felt. The raft stood
still. It had landed on a sand-bank, twenty-five fathoms from the coast.
Glenarvan, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady, jumped into the water. The raft
was firmly moored to the nearest rocks. The ladies were carried to land
without wetting a fold of their dresses, and soon the whole party, with
their arms and provisions, were finally landed on these much dreaded New
Zealand shores.
CHAPTER VII THE MAORI WAR
GLENARVAN would have liked to start without an hour’s delay, and follow
the coast to Auckland. But since the morning heavy clouds had been
gathering, and toward eleven o’clock, after the landing was effected,
the vapors condensed into violent rain, so that instead of starting they
had to look for shelter.
Wilson was fortunate enough to discover what just suited their wants: a
grotto hollowed out by the sea in the basaltic rocks. Here the travelers
took shelter with their arms and provisions. In the cave they found a
ready-garnered store of dried sea-weed, which formed a convenient couch;
for fire, they lighted some wood near the mouth of the cavern, and dried
themselves as well as they could.
John hoped that the duration of this deluge of rain would be in an
inverse ratio to its violence, but he was doomed to disappointment.
Hours passed without any abatement of its fury. Toward noon the wind
freshened, and increased the force of the storm. The most patient of
men would have rebelled at such an untoward incident; but what could
be done; without any vehicle, they could not brave such a tempest; and,
after all, unless the natives appeared on the scene, a delay of twelve
hours was not so much consequence, as the journey to Auckland was only
a matter of a few days. During this involuntary halt, the conversation
turned on the incidents of the New Zealand war. But to understand and
appreciate the critical position into which these MACQUARIE passengers
were thrown, something ought to be known of the history of the struggle
which had deluged the island of Ika-na-Mani with blood.
Since the arrival of Abel Tasman in Cook’s Strait, on the 16th of
December, 1642, though the New Zealanders had often been visited by
European vessels, they had maintained their liberty in their several
islands. No European power had thought of taking possession of this
archipelago, which commands the whole Pacific Ocean. The missionaries
stationed at various points were the sole channels of Christian
civilization. Some of them, especially the Anglicans, prepared the minds
of the New Zealand chiefs for submitting to the English yoke. It was
cleverly managed, and these chiefs were influenced to sign a letter
addressed to Queen Victoria to ask her protection. But the most
clearsighted of them saw the folly of this step; and one of them,
after having affixed his tattoo-mark to the letter by way of signature,
uttered these prophetic words: “We have lost our country! henceforth it
is not ours; soon the stranger will come and take it, and we shall be
his slaves.”
And so it was; on January 29, 1840, the English corvette HERALD arrived
to claim possession.
From the year 1840, till the day the DUNCAN left the Clyde, nothing had
happened here that Paganel did not know and he was ready to impart his
information to his companions.
“Madam,” said he, in answer to Lady Helena’s questions, “I must repeat
what I had occasion to remark before, that the New Zealanders are a
courageous people, who yielded for a moment, but afterward fought foot
to foot against the English invaders. The Maori tribes are organized
like the old clans of Scotland. They are so many great families owning a
chief, who is very jealous of his prerogative. The men of this race are
proud and brave, one tribe tall, with straight hair, like the Maltese,
or the Jews of Bagdad; the other smaller, thickset like mulattoes, but
robust, haughty, and warlike. They had a famous chief, named Hihi, a
real Vercingetorix, so that you need not be astonished that the war with
the English has become chronic in the Northern Island, for in it is
the famous tribe of the Waikatos, who defend their lands under the
leadership of William Thompson.”
“But,” said John Mangles, “are not the English in possession of the
principal points in New Zealand?”
“Certainly, dear John,” replied Paganel. “After Captain Hobson took
formal possession, and became governor, nine colonies were founded at
various times between 1840 and 1862, in the most favorable situations.
These formed the nucleus of nine provinces, four in the North Island
and five in the southern island, with a total population of 184,346
inhabitants on the 30th of June, 1864.”
“But what about this interminable war?” asked John Mangles.
“Well,” said Paganel, “six long months have gone by since we left
Europe, and I cannot say what may have happened during that time, with
the exception of a few facts which I gathered from the newspapers of
Maryborough and Seymour during our Australian journey. At that time the
fighting was very lively in the Northern Island.”
“And when did the war commence?” asked Mary Grant.
“Recommence, you mean, my dear young lady,” replied Paganel; “for there
was an insurrection so far back as 1845. The present war began toward
the close of 1863; but long before that date the Maories were occupied
in making preparations to shake off the English yoke. The national party
among the natives carried on an active propaganda for the election of a
Maori ruler. The object was to make old Potatau king, and to fix as the
capital of the new kingdom his village, which lay between the Waikato
and Waipa Rivers. Potatau was an old man, remarkable rather for cunning
than bravery; but he had a Prime Minister who was both intelligent and
energetic, a descendant of the Ngatihahuas, who occupied the isthmus
before the arrival of the strangers. This minister, William Thompson,
became the soul of the War of Independence, and organized the Maori
troops, with great skill. Under this guidance a Taranaki chief gathered
the scattered tribes around the same flag; a Waikato chief formed a
‘Land League,’ intended to prevent the natives from selling their land
to the English Government, and warlike feasts were held just as in
civilized countries on the verge of revolution. The English newspapers
began to notice these alarming symptoms, and the government became
seriously disturbed at these ‘Land League’ proceedings. In short, the
train was laid, and the mine was ready to explode. Nothing was wanted
but the spark, or rather the shock of rival interests to produce the
spark.
“This shock took place in 1860, in the Taranaki province on the
southwest coast of Ika-na-Mani. A native had six hundred acres of
land in the neighborhood of New Plymouth. He sold them to the English
Government; but when the surveyor came to measure the purchased land,
the chief Kingi protested, and by the month of March he had made the six
hundred acres in question into a fortified camp, surrounded with high
palisades. Some days after Colonel Gold carried this fortress at the
head of his troops, and that day heard the first shot fired of the
native war.”
“Have the rebels been successful up to this time?”
“Yes, Madam, and the English themselves have often been compelled to
admire the courage and bravery of the New Zealanders. Their mode of
warfare is of the guerilla type; they form skirmishing parties, come
down in small detachments, and pillage the colonists’ homes. General
Cameron had no easy time in the campaigns, during which every bush
had to be searched. In 1863, after a long and sanguinary struggle, the
Maories were entrenched in strong and fortified position on the Upper
Waikato, at the end of a chain of steep hills, and covered by three
miles of forts. The native prophets called on all the Maori population
to defend the soil, and promised the extermination of the pakekas,
or white men. General Cameron had three thousand volunteers at his
disposal, and they gave no quarter to the Maories after the barbarous
murder of Captain Sprent. Several bloody engagements took place; in some
instances the fighting lasted twelve hours before the Maories yielded
to the English cannonade. The heart of the army was the fierce Waikato
tribe under William Thompson. This native general commanded at the
outset 2,500 warriors, afterward increased to 8,000. The men of Shongi
and Heki, two powerful chiefs, came to his assistance. The women took
their part in the most trying labors of this patriotic war. But right
has not always might. After severe struggles General Cameron succeeded
in subduing the Waikato district, but empty and depopulated, for the
Maories escaped in all directions. Some wonderful exploits were related.
Four hundred Maories who were shut up in the fortress of Orakau,
besieged by 1,000 English, under Brigadier-General Carey, without water
or provisions, refused to surrender, but one day at noon cut their way
through the then decimated 40th Regiment, and escaped to the marshes.”
“But,” asked John Mangles, “did the submission of the Waikato district
put an end to this sanguinary war?”
“No, my friend,” replied Paganel. “The English resolved to march on
Taranaki province and besiege Mataitawa, William Thompson’s fortress.
But they did not carry it without great loss. Just as I was leaving
Paris, I heard that the Governor and the General had accepted the
submission of the Tauranga tribes, and left them in possession of
three-fourths of their lands. It was also rumored that the principal
chief of the rebellion, William Thompson, was inclined to surrender, but
the Australian papers have not confirmed this, but rather the contrary,
and I should not be surprised to find that at this moment the war is
going on with renewed vigor.”
“Then, according to you, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “this struggle is
still going on in the provinces of Auckland and Taranaki?”
“I think so.”
“This very province where the MACQUARIE’S wreck has deposited us.”
“Exactly. We have landed a few miles above Kawhia harbor, where the
Maori flag is probably still floating.”
“Then our most prudent course would be to keep toward the north,”
remarked Glenarvan.
“By far the most prudent,” said Paganel. “The New Zealanders are
incensed against Europeans, and especially against the English.
Therefore let us avoid falling into their hands.”
“We might have the good fortune to fall in with a detachment of European
troops,” said Lady Helena.
“We may, Madam,” replied the geographer; “but I do not expect it.
Detached parties do not like to go far into the country, where the
smallest tussock, the thinnest brushwood, may conceal an accomplished
marksman. I don’t fancy we shall pick up an escort of the 40th Regiment.
But there are mission-stations on this west coast, and we shall be able
to make them our halting-places till we get to Auckland.”
CHAPTER VIII ON THE ROAD TO AUCKLAND
ON the 7th of February, at six o’clock in the morning, the signal for
departure was given by Glenarvan. During the night the rain had ceased.
The sky was veiled with light gray clouds, which moderated the heat of
the sun, and allowed the travelers to venture on a journey by day.
Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty miles between Point
Kawhia and Auckland; it was an eight days’ journey if they made ten
miles a day. But instead of following the windings of the coast,
he thought it better to make for a point thirty miles off, at the
confluence of the Waikato and the Waipa, at the village of Ngarnavahia.
The “overland track” passes that point, and is rather a path than a
road, practicable for the vehicles which go almost across the island,
from Napier, in Hawke’s Bay, to Auckland. From this village it would be
easy to reach Drury, and there they could rest in an excellent hotel,
highly recommended by Dr. Hochstetter.
The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions, commenced to
follow the shore of Aotea Bay. From prudential motives they did not
allow themselves to straggle, and by instinct they kept a look-out over
the undulating plains to the eastward, ready with their loaded carbines.
Paganel, map in hand, took a professional pleasure in verifying the
minutest details.
The country looked like an immense prairie which faded into distance,
and promised an easy walk. But the travelers were undeceived when they
came to the edge of this verdant plain. The grass gave way to a low
scrub of small bushes bearing little white flowers, mixed with those
innumerable tall ferns with which the lands of New Zealand abound. They
had to cut a path across the plain, through these woody stems, and this
was a matter of some difficulty, but at eight o’clock in the evening the
first slopes of the Hakarihoata Ranges were turned, and the party camped
immediately. After a fourteen miles’ march, they might well think of
resting.
Neither wagon or tent being available, they sought repose beneath some
magnificent Norfolk Island pines. They had plenty of rugs which make
good beds. Glenarvan took every possible precaution for the night. His
companions and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two,
till daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a potent
preservation from wild beasts, but New Zealand has neither tiger, nor
lion, nor bear, nor any wild animal, but the Maori adequately fills
their place, and a fire would only have served to attract this
two-footed jaguar.
The night passed pleasantly with the exception of the attack of the
sand-flies, called by the natives, “ngamu,” and the visit of the
audacious family of rats, who exercised their teeth on the provisions.
Next day, on the 8th of February, Paganel rose more sanguine, and almost
reconciled to the country. The Maories, whom he particularly dreaded,
had not yet appeared, and these ferocious cannibals had not molested him
even in his dreams. “I begin to think that our little journey will end
favorably. This evening we shall reach the confluence of the Waipa and
Waikato, and after that there is not much chance of meeting natives on
the way to Auckland.”
“How far is it now,” said Glenarvan, “to the confluence of the Waipa and
Waikato?”
“Fifteen miles; just about what we did yesterday.”
“But we shall be terribly delayed if this interminable scrub continues
to obstruct our path.”
“No,” said Paganel, “we shall follow the banks of the Waipa, and then we
shall have no obstacle, but on the contrary, a very easy road.”
“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, seeing the ladies ready, “let us make a
start.”
During the early part of the day, the thick brushwood seriously impeded
their progress. Neither wagon nor horses could have passed where
travelers passed, so that their Australian vehicle was but slightly
regretted. Until practicable wagon roads are cut through these forests
of scrub, New Zealand will only be accessible to foot passengers.
The ferns, whose name is legion, concur with the Maories in keeping
strangers off the lands.
The little party overcame many obstacles in crossing the plains in which
the Hakarihoata Ranges rise. But before noon they reached the banks of
the Waipa, and followed the northward course of the river.
The Major and Robert, without leaving their companions, shot some snipe
and partridge under the low shrubs of the plain. Olbinett, to save time,
plucked the birds as he went along.
Paganel was less absorbed by the culinary importance of the game than by
the desire of obtaining some bird peculiar to New Zealand. His curiosity
as a naturalist overcame his hunger as a traveler. He called to mind
the peculiarities of the “tui” of the natives, sometimes called the
mocking-bird from its incessant chuckle, and sometimes “the parson,”
in allusion to the white cravat it wears over its black, cassock-like
plumage.
“The tui,” said Paganel to the Major, “grows so fat during the Winter
that it makes him ill, and prevents him from flying. Then he tears his
breast with his beak, to relieve himself of his fat, and so becomes
lighter. Does not that seem to you singular, McNabbs?”
“So singular that I don’t believe a word of it,” replied the Major.
Paganel, to his great regret, could not find a single specimen, or he
might have shown the incredulous Major the bloody scars on the breast.
But he was more fortunate with a strange animal which, hunted by men,
cats and dogs, has fled toward the unoccupied country, and is fast
disappearing from the fauna of New Zealand. Robert, searching like a
ferret, came upon a nest made of interwoven roots, and in it a pair of
birds destitute of wings and tail, with four toes, a long snipe-like
beak, and a covering of white feathers over the whole body, singular
creatures, which seemed to connect the oviparous tribes with the
mammifers.
It was the New Zealand “kiwi,” the _Apteryx australis_ of naturalists,
which lives with equal satisfaction on larvae, insects, worms or seeds.
This bird is peculiar to the country. It has been introduced into very
few of the zoological collections of Europe. Its graceless shape and
comical motions have always attracted the notice of travelers, and
during the great exploration of the Astrolabe and the Zelee, Dumont
d’Urville was principally charged by the Academy of Sciences to bring
back a specimen of these singular birds. But in spite of rewards offered
to the natives, he could not obtain a single specimen.
Paganel, who was elated at such a piece of luck, tied the two birds
together, and carried them along with the intention of presenting them
to the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris. “Presented by M. Jacques Paganel.”
He mentally saw the flattering inscription on the handsomest cage in the
gardens. Sanguine geographer!
The party pursued their way without fatigue along the banks of the
Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not a trace of natives, nor any
track that could betray the existence of man. The stream was fringed
with tall bushes, or glided along sloping banks, so that nothing
obstructed the view of the low range of hills which closed the eastern
end of the valley. With their grotesque shapes, and their outlines
lost in a deceptive haze, they brought to mind giant animals, worthy
of antediluvian times. They might have been a herd of enormous whales,
suddenly turned to stone. These disrupted masses proclaimed their
essentially volcanic character. New Zealand is, in fact, a formation
of recent plutonic origin. Its emergence from the sea is constantly
increasing. Some points are known to have risen six feet in twenty
years. Fire still runs across its center, shakes it, convulses it, and
finds an outlet in many places by the mouths of geysers and the craters
of volcanoes.
At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily accomplished.
According to the map which Paganel constantly referred to, the
confluence of the Waipa and Waikato ought to be reached about five miles
further on, and there the night halt could be made. Two or three days
would then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between them and the
capital; and if Glenarvan happened to fall in with the mail coach that
plies between Hawkes’ Bay and Auckland twice a month, eight hours would
be sufficient.
“Therefore,” said Glenarvan, “we shall be obliged to camp during the
night once more.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but I hope for the last time.”
“I am very glad to think so, for it is very trying for Lady Helena and
Mary Grant.”
“And they never utter a murmur,” added John Mangles. “But I think I
heard you mention a village at the confluence of these rivers.”
“Yes,” said the geographer, “here it is, marked on Johnston’s map. It is
Ngarnavahia, two miles below the junction.”
“Well, could we not stay there for the night? Lady Helena and Miss
Grant would not grudge two miles more to find a hotel even of a humble
character.”
“A hotel!” cried Paganel, “a hotel in a Maori village! you would not
find an inn, not a tavern! This village will be a mere cluster of huts,
and so far from seeking rest there, my advice is that you give it a wide
berth.”
“Your old fears, Paganel!” retorted Glenarvan.
“My dear Lord, where Maories are concerned, distrust is safer than
confidence. I do not know on what terms they are with the English,
whether the insurrection is suppressed or successful, or whether indeed
the war may not be going on with full vigor. Modesty apart, people like
us would be a prize, and I must say, I would rather forego a taste
of Maori hospitality. I think it certainly more prudent to avoid this
village of Ngarnavahia, to skirt it at a distance, so as to avoid all
encounters with the natives. When we reach Drury it will be another
thing, and there our brave ladies will be able to recruit their strength
at their leisure.”
This advice prevailed. Lady Helena preferred to pass another night in
the open air, and not to expose her companions to danger. Neither Mary
Grant or she wished to halt, and they continued their march along the
river.
Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to fall. The sun,
before disappearing below the western horizon, darted some bright rays
through an opening in the clouds. The distant eastern summits were
empurpled with the parting glories of the day. It was like a flying
salute addressed to the way-worn travelers.
Glenarvan and his friends hastened their steps, they knew how short the
twilight is in this high latitude, and how quickly the night follows it.
They were very anxious to reach the confluence of the two rivers before
the darkness overtook them. But a thick fog rose from the ground, and
made it very difficult to see the way.
Fortunately hearing stood them in the stead of sight; shortly a nearer
sound of water indicated that the confluence was at hand. At eight
o’clock the little troop arrived at the point where the Waipa loses
itself in the Waikato, with a moaning sound of meeting waves.
“There is the Waikato!” cried Paganel, “and the road to Auckland is
along its right bank.”
“We shall see that to-morrow,” said the Major, “Let us camp here. It
seems to me that that dark shadow is that of a little clump of trees
grown expressly to shelter us. Let us have supper and then get some
sleep.”
“Supper by all means,” said Paganel, “but no fire; nothing but biscuit
and dried meat. We have reached this spot incognito, let us try and get
away in the same manner. By good luck, the fog is in our favor.”
The clump of trees was reached and all concurred in the wish of the
geographer. The cold supper was eaten without a sound, and presently a
profound sleep overcame the travelers, who were tolerably fatigued with
their fifteen miles’ march.
CHAPTER IX INTRODUCTION TO THE CANNIBALS
THE next morning at daybreak a thick fog was clinging to the surface of
the river. A portion of the vapors that saturated the air were condensed
by the cold, and lay as a dense cloud on the water. But the rays of the
sun soon broke through the watery mass and melted it away.
A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with bushes, projected
into the uniting streams. The swifter waters of the Waipa rushed against
the current of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile before they mingled
with it; but the calm and majestic river soon quieted the noisy stream
and carried it off quietly in its course to the Pacific Ocean.
When the vapor disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the current of the
Waikato. It was a canoe seventy feet long, five broad, and three deep;
the prow raised like that of a Venetian gondola, and the whole hollowed
out of a trunk of a kahikatea. A bed of dry fern was laid at the bottom.
It was swiftly rowed by eight oars, and steered with a paddle by a man
seated in the stern.
This man was a tall Maori, about forty-five years of age, broad-chested,
muscular, with powerfully developed hands and feet. His prominent and
deeply-furrowed brow, his fierce look, and sinister expression, gave him
a formidable aspect.
Tattooing, or “moko,” as the New Zealanders call it, is a mark of
great distinction. None is worthy of these honorary lines, who has not
distinguished himself in repeated fights. The slaves and the lower class
can not obtain this decoration. Chiefs of high position may be known by
the finish and precision and truth of the design, which sometimes
covers their whole bodies with the figures of animals. Some are found
to undergo the painful operation of “moko” five times. The more
illustrious, the more illustrated, is the rule of New Zealand.
Dumont D’Urville has given some curious details as to this custom. He
justly observes that “moko” is the counterpart of the armorial bearings
of which many families in Europe are so vain. But he remarks that there
is this difference: the armorial bearings of Europe are frequently
a proof only of the merits of the first who bore them, and are no
certificate of the merits of his descendants; while the individual
coat-of-arms of the Maori is an irrefragible proof that it was earned by
the display of extraordinary personal courage.
The practice of tattooing, independently of the consideration it
procures, has also a useful aspect. It gives the cutaneous system an
increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemency of the season
and the incessant attacks of the mosquito.
As to the chief who was steering the canoe, there could be no mistake.
The sharpened albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer, had five times
scored his countenance. He was in his fifth edition, and betrayed it in
his haughty bearing.
His figure, draped in a large mat woven of “phormium” trimmed with
dogskins, was clothed with a pair of cotton drawers, blood-stained from
recent combats. From the pendant lobe of his ears hung earrings of green
jade, and round his neck a quivering necklace of “pounamous,” a kind of
jade stone sacred among the New Zealanders. At his side lay an English
rifle, and a “patou-patou,” a kind of two-headed ax of an emerald color,
and eighteen inches long. Beside him sat nine armed warriors of inferior
rank, ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering from recent
wounds. They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flax mantles. Three
savage-looking dogs lay at their feet. The eight rowers in the prow
seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief. They rowed vigorously, and
propelled the boat against the not very rapid current of the Waikato,
with extraordinary velocity.
In the center of this long canoe, with their feet tied together, sat ten
European prisoners closely packed together.
It was Glenarvan and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert, Paganel, the
Major, John Mangles, the steward, and the two sailors.
The night before, the little band had unwittingly, owing to the mist,
encamped in the midst of a numerous party of natives. Toward the middle
of the night they were surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners,
and carried on board the canoe. They had not been ill-treated, so far,
but all attempts at resistance had been vain. Their arms and ammunition
were in the hands of the savages, and they would soon have been targets
for their own balls.
They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the natives,
that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten and
decimated by the English troops, and were on their way back to the Upper
Waikato. The Maori chief, whose principal warriors had been picked off
by the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning to make a final
appeal to the tribes of the Waikato district, so that he might go to the
aid of the indomitable William Thompson, who was still holding his own
against the conquerors. The chief’s name was “Kai-Koumou,” a name of
evil boding in the native language, meaning “He who eats the limbs
of his enemy.” He was bold and brave, but his cruelty was equally
remarkable. No pity was to be expected at his hands. His name was well
known to the English soldiers, and a price had been set on his head by
the governor of New Zealand.
This terrible blow befell Glenarvan at the very moment when he was
about to reach the long-desired haven of Auckland, and so regain his own
country; but no one who looked at his cool, calm features, could
have guessed the anguish he endured. Glenarvan always rose to his
misfortunes. He felt that his part was to be the strength and the
example of his wife and companions; that he was the head and chief;
ready to die for the rest if circumstances required it. He was of a
deeply religious turn of mind, and never lost his trust in Providence
nor his belief in the sacred character of his enterprise. In the midst
of this crowning peril he did not give way to any feeling of regret at
having been induced to venture into this country of savages.
His companions were worthy of him; they entered into his lofty views;
and judging by their haughty demeanor, it would scarcely have been
supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe. With one
accord, and by Glenarvan’s advice, they resolved to affect utter
indifference before the natives. It was the only way to impress these
ferocious natures. Savages in general, and particularly the Maories,
have a notion of dignity from which they never derogate. They respect,
above all things, coolness and courage. Glenarvan was aware that by this
mode of procedure, he and his companions would spare themselves needless
humiliation.
From the moment of embarking, the natives, who were very taciturn, like
all savages, had scarcely exchanged a word, but from the few sentences
they did utter, Glenarvan felt certain that the English language was
familiar to them. He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on
the fate that awaited them. Addressing himself to Kai-Koumou, he said in
a perfectly unconcerned voice:
“Where are we going, chief?”
Kai-Koumou looked coolly at him and made no answer.
“What are you going to do with us?” pursued Glenarvan.
A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kai-Koumou, and he said in a
deep voice:
“Exchange you, if your own people care to have you; eat you if they
don’t.”
Glenarvan asked no further questions; but hope revived in his heart.
He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of the
English, and that the natives would try to get them exchanged. So they
had a chance of salvation, and the case was not quite so desperate.
The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river. Paganel, whose excitable
temperament always rebounded from one extreme to the other, had quite
regained his spirits. He consoled himself that the natives were saving
them the trouble of the journey to the English outposts, and that was
so much gain. So he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the
course of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant, concealing their alarm, conversed in a low
voice with Glenarvan, and the keenest physiognomists would have failed
to see any anxiety in their faces.
The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand. It is to the Maories
what the Rhine is to the Germans, and the Danube to the Slavs. In its
course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Island, from
the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland. It gave its name
to all those indomitable tribes of the river district, which rose _en
masse_ against the invaders.
The waters of this river are still almost strangers to any craft but the
native canoe. The most audacious tourist will scarcely venture to
invade these sacred shores; in fact, the Upper Waikato is sealed against
profane Europeans.
Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which the natives
regard this great arterial stream. He knew that the English and German
naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction with the
Waipa. He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kai-Koumou would carry
his captives? He could not have guessed, but for hearing the word
“Taupo” repeatedly uttered between the chief and his warriors. He
consulted his map and saw that “Taupo” was the name of a lake celebrated
in geographical annals, and lying in the most mountainous part of the
island, at the southern extremity of Auckland province. The Waikato
passes through this lake and then flows on for 120 miles.
CHAPTER X A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW
AN unfathomable gulf twenty-five miles long, and twenty miles broad was
produced, but long before historic times, by the falling in of caverns
among the trachytic lavas of the center of the island. And these waters
falling from the surrounding heights have taken possession of this
vast basin. The gulf has become a lake, but it is also an abyss, and no
lead-line has yet sounded its depths.
Such is the wondrous lake of Taupo, lying 1,250 feet above the level of
the sea, and in view of an amphitheater of mountains 2,400 feet high.
On the west are rocky peaks of great size; on the north lofty summits
clothed with low trees; on the east a broad beach with a road track, and
covered with pumice stones, which shimmer through the leafy screen of
the bushes; on the southern side rise volcanic cones behind a forest
flat. Such is the majestic frame that incloses this vast sheet of water
whose roaring tempests rival the cyclones of Ocean.
The whole region boils like an immense cauldron hung over subterranean
fires. The ground vibrates from the agitation of the central furnace.
Hot springs filter out everywhere. The crust of the earth cracks in
great rifts like a cake, too quickly baked.
About a quarter of a mile off, on a craggy spur of the mountain stood
a “pah,” or Maori fortress. The prisoners, whose feet and hands
were liberated, were landed one by one, and conducted into it by the
warriors. The path which led up to the intrenchment, lay across fields
of “phormium” and a grove of beautiful trees, the “kai-kateas” with
persistent leaves and red berries; “dracaenas australis,” the
“ti-trees” of the natives, whose crown is a graceful counterpart of the
cabbage-palm, and “huious,” which are used to give a black dye to
cloth. Large doves with metallic sheen on their plumage, and a world
of starlings with reddish carmeles, flew away at the approach of the
natives.
After a rather circuitous walk, Glenarvan and his party arrived at the
“pah.”
The fortress was defended by an outer inclosure of strong palisades,
fifteen feet high; a second line of stakes; then a fence composed of
osiers, with loop-holes, inclosed Verne the inner space, that is the
plateau of the “pah,” on which were erected the Maori buildings, and
about forty huts arranged symmetrically.
When the captives approached they were horror-struck at the sight of the
heads which adorned the posts of the inner circle. Lady Helena and Mary
Grant turned away their eyes more with disgust than with terror. These
heads were those of hostile chiefs who had fallen in battle, and whose
bodies had served to feed the conquerors. The geographer recognized
that it was so, from their eye sockets being hollow and deprived of
eye-balls.
Glenarvan and his companions had taken in all this scene at a glance.
They stood near an empty house, waiting the pleasure of the chief, and
exposed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies
surrounded them, shaking their fists, howling and vociferating. Some
English words that escaped their coarse mouths left no doubt that they
were clamoring for immediate vengeance.
In the midst of all these cries and threats, Lady Helena, tranquil to
all outward seeming, affected an indifference she was far from feeling.
This courageous woman made heroic efforts to restrain herself, lest she
should disturb Glenarvan’s coolness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink
within her, and John Mangles stood by ready to die in her behalf.
His companions bore the deluge of invectives each according to
his disposition; the Major with utter indifference, Paganel with
exasperation that increased every moment.
Glenarvan, to spare Lady Helena the attacks of these witches, walked
straight up to Kai-Koumou, and pointing to the hideous group:
“Send them away,” said he.
The Maori chief stared fixedly at his prisoner without speaking; and
then, with a nod, he silenced the noisy horde. Glenarvan bowed, as a
sign of thanks, and went slowly back to his place.
At this moment a hundred Maories were assembled in the “pah,” old men,
full grown men, youths; the former were calm, but gloomy, awaiting the
orders of Kai-Koumou; the others gave themselves up to the most violent
sorrow, bewailing their parents and friends who had fallen in the late
engagements.
Kai-Koumou was the only one of all the chiefs that obeyed the call of
William Thompson, who had returned to the lake district, and he was the
first to announce to his tribe the defeat of the national insurrection,
beaten on the plains of the lower Waikato. Of the two hundred warriors
who, under his orders, hastened to the defence of the soil, one hundred
and fifty were missing on his return. Allowing for a number being
made prisoners by the invaders, how many must be lying on the field of
battle, never to return to the country of their ancestors!
This was the secret of the outburst of grief with which the tribe
saluted the arrival of Kai-Koumou. Up to that moment nothing had been
known of the last defeat, and the fatal news fell on them like a thunder
clap.
Among the savages, sorrow is always manifested by physical signs;
the parents and friends of deceased warriors, the women especially,
lacerated their faces and shoulders with sharpened shells. The blood
spurted out and blended with their tears. Deep wounds denoted great
despair. The unhappy Maories, bleeding and excited, were hideous to look
upon.
There was another serious element in their grief. Not only had they lost
the relative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be missing
in the family mausoleum. In the Maori religion the possession of these
relics is regarded as indispensable to the destinies of the future life;
not the perishable flesh, but the bones, which are collected with the
greatest care, cleaned, scraped, polished, even varnished, and then
deposited in the “oudoupa,” that is the “house of glory.” These tombs
are adorned with wooden statues, representing with perfect exactness
the tattoo of the deceased. But now their tombs would be left empty, the
religious rites would be unsolemnized, and the bones that escaped
the teeth of the wild dog would whiten without burial on the field of
battle.
Then the sorrowful chorus redoubled. The menaces of the women were
intensified by the imprecations of the men against the Europeans.
Abusive epithets were lavished, the accompanying gestures became more
violent. The howl was about to end in brutal action.
Kai-Koumou, fearing that he might be overpowered by the fanatics of his
tribe, conducted his prisoners to a sacred place, on an abruptly raised
plateau at the other end of the “pah.” This hut rested against a mound
elevated a hundred feet above it, which formed the steep outer buttress
of the entrenchment. In this “Ware-Atoua,” sacred house, the priests or
arikis taught the Maories about a Triune God, father, son, and bird, or
spirit. The large, well constructed hut, contained the sacred and choice
food which Maoui-Ranga-Rangui eats by the mouths of his priests.
In this place, and safe for the moment from the frenzied natives, the
captives lay down on the flax mats. Lady Helena was quite exhausted, her
moral energies prostrate, and she fell helpless into her husband’s arms.
Glenarvan pressed her to his bosom and said:
“Courage, my dear Helena; Heaven will not forsake us!”
Robert was scarcely in when he jumped on Wilson’s shoulders, and
squeezed his head through a crevice left between the roof and the walls,
from which chaplets of amulets were hung. From that elevation he could
see the whole extent of the “pah,” and as far as Kai-Koumou’s house.
“They are all crowding round the chief,” said he softly. “They are
throwing their arms about. . . . They are howling. . . . . Kai-Koumou is
trying to speak.”
Then he was silent for a few minutes.
“Kai-Koumou is speaking. . . . The savages are quieter. . . . . They are
listening. . . . .”
“Evidently,” said the Major, “this chief has a personal interest in
protecting us. He wants to exchange his prisoners for some chiefs of his
tribe! But will his warriors consent?”
“Yes! . . . They are listening. . . . . They have dispersed, some are
gone into their huts. . . . The others have left the intrenchment.”
“Are you sure?” said the Major.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Robert, “Kai-Koumou is left alone with the
warriors of his canoe. . . . . Oh! one of them is coming up here. . . .
.”
“Come down, Robert,” said Glenarvan.
At this moment, Lady Helena who had risen, seized her husband’s arm.
“Edward,” she said in a resolute tone, “neither Mary Grant nor I must
fall into the hands of these savages alive!”
And so saying, she handed Glenarvan a loaded revolver.
“Fire-arm!” exclaimed Glenarvan, with flashing eyes.
“Yes! the Maories do not search their prisoners. But, Edward, this is
for us, not for them.”
Glenarvan slipped the revolver under his coat; at the same moment the
mat at the entrance was raised, and a native entered.
He motioned to the prisoners to follow him. Glenarvan and the rest
walked across the “pah” and stopped before Kai-Koumou. He was surrounded
by the principal warriors of his tribe, and among them the Maori whose
canoe joined that of the Kai-Koumou at the confluence of Pohain-henna,
on the Waikato. He was a man about forty years of age, powerfully built
and of fierce and cruel aspect. His name was Kara-Tete, meaning “the
irascible” in the native tongue. Kai-Koumou treated him with a certain
tone of respect, and by the fineness of his tattoo, it was easy to
perceive that Kara-Tete held a lofty position in the tribe, but a keen
observer would have guessed the feeling of rivalry that existed between
these two chiefs. The Major observed that the influence of Kara-Tete
gave umbrage to Kai-Koumou. They both ruled the Waikato tribes, and were
equal in authority. During this interview Kai-Koumou smiled, but his
eyes betrayed a deep-seated enmity.
Kai-Koumou interrogated Glenarvan.
“You are English?” said he.
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, unhesitatingly, as his nationality would
facilitate the exchange.
“And your companions?” said Kai-Koumou.
“My companions are English like myself. We are shipwrecked travelers,
but it may be important to state that we have taken no part in the war.”
“That matters little!” was the brutal answer of Kara-Tete. “Every
Englishman is an enemy. Your people invaded our island! They robbed our
fields! they burned our villages!”
“They were wrong!” said Glenarvan, quietly. “I say so, because I think
it, not because I am in your power.”
“Listen,” said Kai-Koumou, “the Tohonga, the chief priest of Noui-Atoua
has fallen into the hands of your brethren; he is a prisoner among the
Pakekas. Our deity has commanded us to ransom him. For my own part, I
would rather have torn out your heart, I would have stuck your head, and
those of your companions, on the posts of that palisade. But Noui-Atoua
has spoken.”
As he uttered these words, Kai-Koumou, who till now had been quite
unmoved, trembled with rage, and his features expressed intense
ferocity.
Then after a few minutes’ interval he proceeded more calmly.
“Do you think the English will exchange you for our Tohonga?”
Glenarvan hesitated, all the while watching the Maori chief.
“I do not know,” said he, after a moment of silence.
“Speak,” returned Kai-Koumou, “is your life worth that of our Tohonga?”
“No,” replied Glenarvan. “I am neither a chief nor a priest among my own
people.”
Paganel, petrified at this reply, looked at Glenarvan in amazement.
Kai-Koumou appeared equally astonished.
“You doubt it then?” said he.
“I do not know,” replied Glenarvan.
“Your people will not accept you as an exchange for Tohonga?”
“Me alone? no,” repeated Glenarvan. “All of us perhaps they might.”
“Our Maori custom,” replied Kai-Koumou, “is head for head.”
“Offer first these ladies in exchange for your priest,” said Glenarvan,
pointing to Lady Helena and Mary Grant.
Lady Helena was about to interrupt him. But the Major held her back.
“Those two ladies,” continued Glenarvan, bowing respectfully toward Lady
Helena and Mary Grant, “are personages of rank in their own country.”
The warrior gazed coldly at his prisoner. An evil smile relaxed his
lips for a moment; then he controlled himself, and in a voice of
ill-concealed anger:
“Do you hope to deceive Kai-Koumou with lying words, accursed Pakeka?
Can not the eyes of Kai-Koumou read hearts?”
And pointing to Lady Helena: “That is your wife?” he said.
“No! mine!” exclaimed Kara-Tete.
And then pushing his prisoners aside, he laid his hand on the shoulder
of Lady Helena, who turned pale at his touch.
“Edward!” cried the unfortunate woman in terror.
Glenarvan, without a word, raised his arm, a shot! and Kara-Tete fell at
his feet.
The sound brought a crowd of natives to the spot. A hundred arms were
ready, and Glenarvan’s revolver was snatched from him.
Kai-Koumou glanced at Glenarvan with a curious expression: then with
one hand protecting Glenarvan, with the other he waved off the crowd who
were rushing on the party.
At last his voice was heard above the tumult.
“Taboo! Taboo!” he shouted.
At that word the crowd stood still before Glenarvan and his companions,
who for the time were preserved by a supernatural influence.
A few minutes after they were re-conducted to Ware-Atoua, which was
their prison. But Robert Grant and Paganel were not with them.
CHAPTER XI THE CHIEF’S FUNERAL
KAI-KOUMOU, as frequently happens among the Maories, joined the title
of ariki to that of tribal chief. He was invested with the dignity of
priest, and, as such, he had the power to throw over persons or things
the superstitious protection of the “taboo.”
The “taboo,” which is common to all the Polynesian races, has the
primary effect of isolating the “tabooed” person and preventing the use
of “tabooed” things. According to the Maori doctrine, anyone who laid
sacrilegious hands on what had been declared “taboo,” would be punished
with death by the insulted deity, and even if the god delayed the
vindication of his power, the priests took care to accelerate his
vengeance.
By the chiefs, the “taboo” is made a political engine, except in some
cases, for domestic reasons. For instance, a native is tabooed for
several days when his hair is cut; when he is tattooed; when he is
building a canoe, or a house; when he is seriously ill, and when he is
dead. If excessive consumption threatens to exterminate the fish of a
river, or ruin the early crop of sweet potatoes, these things are put
under the protection of the taboo. If a chief wishes to clear his house
of hangers-on, he taboos it; if an English trader displeases him he is
tabooed. His interdict has the effect of the old royal “veto.”
If an object is tabooed, no one can touch it with impunity. When a
native is under the interdict, certain aliments are denied him for a
prescribed period. If he is relieved, as regards the severe diet, his
slaves feed him with the viands he is forbidden to touch with his hands;
if he is poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his
mouth, like an animal.
In short, the most trifling acts of the Maories are directed and
modified by this singular custom, the deity is brought into constant
contact with their daily life. The taboo has the same weight as a law;
or rather, the code of the Maories, indisputable and undisputed, is
comprised in the frequent applications of the taboo.
As to the prisoners confined in the Ware-Atoua, it was an arbitrary
taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the
natives, friends and partisans of Kai-Koumou, desisted at once on
hearing their chief’s voice, and protected the captives from the rest.
Glenarvan cherished no illusive hopes as to his own fate; nothing but
his death could atone for the murder of a chief, and among these people
death was only the concluding act of a martyrdom of torture. Glenarvan,
therefore, was fully prepared to pay the penalty of the righteous
indignation that nerved his arm, but he hoped that the wrath of
Kai-Koumou would not extend beyond himself.
What a night he and his companions passed! Who could picture their
agonies or measure their sufferings? Robert and Paganel had not been
restored to them, but their fate was no doubtful matter. They were too
surely the first victims of the frenzied natives. Even McNabbs, who was
always sanguine, had abandoned hope. John Mangles was nearly frantic at
the sight of Mary Grant’s despair at being separated from her brother.
Glenarvan pondered over the terrible request of Lady Helena, who
preferred dying by his hand to submitting to torture and slavery. How
was he to summon the terrible courage!
“And Mary? who has a right to strike her dead?” thought John, whose
heart was broken.
Escape was clearly impossible. Ten warriors, armed to the teeth, kept
watch at the door of Ware-Atoua.
The morning of February 13th arrived. No communication had taken place
between the natives and the “tabooed” prisoners. A limited supply of
provisions was in the house, which the unhappy inmates scarcely touched.
Misery deadened the pangs of hunger. The day passed without change, and
without hope; the funeral ceremonies of the dead chief would doubtless
be the signal for their execution.
Although Glenarvan did not conceal from himself the probability that
Kai-Koumou had given up all idea of exchange, the Major still cherished
a spark of hope.
“Who knows,” said he, as he reminded Glenarvan of the effect produced on
the chief by the death of Kara-Tete--“who knows but that Kai-Koumou, in
his heart, is very much obliged to you?”
But even McNabbs’ remarks failed to awaken hope in Glenarvan’s mind.
The next day passed without any appearance of preparation for their
punishment; and this was the reason of the delay.
The Maories believe that for three days after death the soul inhabits
the body, and therefore, for three times twenty-four hours, the corpse
remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed. Till February
15th the “pah” was deserted.
John Mangles, hoisted on Wilson’s shoulders, frequently reconnoitered
the outer defences. Not a single native was visible; only the watchful
sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Ware-Atoua.
But on the third day the huts opened; all the savages, men, women, and
children, in all several hundred Maories, assembled in the “pah,” silent
and calm.
Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and surrounded by the principal chiefs
of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above the level,
in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a half
circle some distance off, in dead silence.
At a sign from Kai-Koumou, a warrior bent his steps toward Ware-Atoua.
“Remember,” said Lady Helena to her husband. Glenarvan pressed her
to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangles, and said
hurriedly:
“Lord and Lady Glenarvan cannot but think if a wife may claim death at
her husband’s hands, to escape a shameful life, a betrothed wife may
claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband, to escape the
same fate. John! at this last moment I ask you, have we not long been
betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady
Helena relies on Lord Glenarvan?”
“Mary!” cried the young captain in his despair. “Ah! dear Mary--”
The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Kai-Koumou; the two women
were resigned to their fate; the men dissembled their sufferings with
superhuman effort.
They arrived in the presence of the Maori chief.
“You killed Kara-Tete,” said he to Glenarvan.
“I did,” answered Glenarvan.
“You die to-morrow at sunrise.”
“Alone?” asked Glenarvan, with a beating heart.
“Oh! if our Tohonga’s life was not more precious than yours!” exclaimed
Kai-Koumou, with a ferocious expression of regret.
At this moment there was a commotion among the natives. Glenarvan looked
quickly around; the crowd made way, and a warrior appeared heated by
running, and sinking with fatigue.
Kai-Koumou, as soon as he saw him, said in English, evidently for the
benefit of the captives:
“You come from the camp of the Pakekas?”
“Yes,” answered the Maori.
“You have seen the prisoner, our Tohonga?”
“I have seen him.”
“Alive?”
“Dead! English have shot him.”
It was all over with Glenarvan and his companions.
“All!” cried Kai-Koumou; “you all die to-morrow at daybreak.”
Punishment fell on all indiscriminately. Lady Helena and Mary Grant were
grateful to Heaven for the boon.
The captives were not taken back to Ware-Atoua. They were destined to
attend the obsequies of the chief and the bloody rites that accompanied
them. A guard of natives conducted them to the foot of an immense kauri,
and then stood on guard without taking their eyes off the prisoners.
The three prescribed days had elapsed since the death of Kara-Tete, and
the soul of the dead warrior had finally departed; so the ceremonies
commenced.
The body was laid on a small mound in the central enclosure. It was
clothed in a rich dress, and wrapped in a magnificent flax mat. His
head, adorned with feathers, was encircled with a crown of green leaves.
His face, arms, and chest had been rubbed with oil, and did not show any
sign of decay.
The parents and friends arrived at the foot of the mound, and at a
certain moment, as if the leader of an orchestra were leading a funeral
chant, there arose a great wail of tears, sighs, and sobs. They lamented
the deceased with a plaintive rhythm and doleful cadence. The kinsmen
beat their heads; the kinswomen tore their faces with their nails
and lavished more blood than tears. But these demonstrations were not
sufficient to propitiate the soul of the deceased, whose wrath might
strike the survivors of his tribe; and his warriors, as they could not
recall him to life, were anxious that he should have nothing to wish for
in the other world. The wife of Kara-Tete was not to be parted from him;
indeed, she would have refused to survive him. It was a custom, as well
as a duty, and Maori history has no lack of such sacrifices.
This woman came on the scene; she was still young. Her disheveled hair
flowed over her shoulders. Her sobs and cries filled the air. Incoherent
words, regrets, sobs, broken phrases in which she extolled the virtues
of the dead, alternated with her moans, and in a crowning paroxysm of
sorrow, she threw herself at the foot of the mound and beat her head on
the earth.
The Kai-Koumou drew near; suddenly the wretched victim rose; but a
violent blow from a “MERE,” a kind of club brandished by the chief,
struck her to the ground; she fell senseless.
Horrible yells followed; a hundred arms threatened the terror-stricken
captives. But no one moved, for the funeral ceremonies were not yet
over.
The wife of Kara-Tete had joined her husband. The two bodies lay
stretched side by side. But in the future life, even the presence of his
faithful companion was not enough. Who would attend on them in the realm
of Noui-Atoua, if their slaves did not follow them into the other world.
Six unfortunate fellows were brought to the mound. They were attendants
whom the pitiless usages of war had reduced to slavery. During the
chief’s lifetime they had borne the severest privations, and been
subjected to all kinds of ill-usage; they had been scantily fed, and
incessantly occupied like beasts of burden, and now, according to Maori
ideas, they were to resume to all eternity this life of bondage.
These poor creatures appeared quite resigned to their destiny. They were
not taken by surprise. Their unbound hands showed that they met their
fate without resistance.
Their death was speedy and not aggravated by tedious suffering; torture
was reserved for the authors of the murder, who, only twenty paces off,
averted their eyes from the horrible scene which was to grow yet more
horrible.
Six blows of the MERE, delivered by the hands of six powerful warriors,
felled the victims in the midst of a sea of blood.
This was the signal for a fearful scene of cannibalism. The bodies of
slaves are not protected by taboo like those of their masters. They
belong to the tribe; they were a sort of small change thrown among
the mourners, and the moment the sacrifice was over, the whole crowd,
chiefs, warriors, old men, women, children, without distinction of age,
or sex, fell upon the senseless remains with brutal appetite. Faster
than a rapid pen could describe it, the bodies, still reeking, were
dismembered, divided, cut up, not into morsels, but into crumbs. Of the
two hundred Maories present everyone obtained a share. They fought, they
struggled, they quarreled over the smallest fragment. The drops of
hot blood splashed over these festive monsters, and the whole of
this detestable crew groveled under a rain of blood. It was like the
delirious fury of tigers fighting over their prey, or like a circus
where the wild beasts devour the deer. This scene ended, a score of
fires were lit at various points of the “pah”; the smell of charred
flesh polluted the air; and but for the fearful tumult of the festival,
but for the cries that emanated from these flesh-sated throats, the
captives might have heard the bones crunching under the teeth of the
cannibals.
Glenarvan and his companions, breathless with horror, tried to conceal
this fearful scene from the eyes of the two poor ladies. They understood
then what fate awaited them next day at dawn, and also with what cruel
torture this death would be preceded. They were dumb with horror.
The funeral dances commenced. Strong liquors distilled from the “piper
excelsum” animated the intoxication of the natives. They had nothing
human left. It seemed possible that the “taboo” might be forgotten, and
they might rush upon the prisoners, who were already terrified at their
delirious gestures.
But Kai-Koumou had kept his own senses amidst the general delirium. He
allowed an hour for this orgy of blood to attain its maximum and then
cease, and the final scene of the obsequies was performed with the
accustomed ceremonial.
The corpses of Kara-Tete and his wife were raised, the limbs were bent,
and laid against the stomach according to the Maori usage; then came the
funeral, not the final interment, but a burial until the moment when the
earth had destroyed the flesh and nothing remained but the skeleton.
The place of “oudoupa,” or the tomb, had been chosen outside the
fortress, about two miles off at the top of a low hill called
Maunganamu, situated on the right bank of the lake, and to this spot
the body was to be taken. Two palanquins of a very primitive kind,
hand-barrows, in fact, were brought to the foot of the mound, and the
corpses doubled up so that they were sitting rather than lying, and
their garments kept in place by a band of hanes, were placed on them.
Four warriors took up the litters on their shoulders, and the whole
tribe, repeating their funeral chant, followed in procession to the
place of sepulture.
The captives, still strictly guarded, saw the funeral cortege leave the
inner inclosure of the “pah”; then the chants and cries grew fainter.
For about half an hour the funeral procession remained out of sight, in
the hollow valley, and then came in sight again winding up the mountain
side; the distance gave a fantastic effect to the undulating movement of
this long serpentine column.
The tribe stopped at an elevation of about 800 feet, on the summit of
Maunganamu, where the burial place of Kara-Tete had been prepared. An
ordinary Maori would have had nothing but a hole and a heap of earth.
But a powerful and formidable chief destined to speedy deification, was
honored with a tomb worthy of his exploits.
The “oudoupa” had been fenced round, and posts, surmounted with faces
painted in red ochre, stood near the grave where the bodies were to lie.
The relatives had not forgotten that the “Waidoua,” the spirit of the
dead, lives on mortal food, as the body did in this life. Therefore,
food was deposited in the inclosure as well as the arms and clothing of
the deceased. Nothing was omitted for comfort. The husband and wife
were laid side by side, then covered with earth and grass, after another
series of laments.
Then the procession wound slowly down the mountain, and henceforth
none dare ascend the slope of Maunganamu on pain of death, for it was
“tabooed,” like Tongariro, where lie the ashes of a chief killed by an
earthquake in 1846.
CHAPTER XII STRANGELY LIBERATED
JUST as the sun was sinking beyond Lake Taupo, behind the peaks of
Tuhahua and Pukepapu, the captives were conducted back to their prison.
They were not to leave it again till the tops of the Wahiti Ranges were
lit with the first fires of day.
They had one night in which to prepare for death. Overcome as they were
with horror and fatigue, they took their last meal together.
“We shall need all our strength,” Glenarvan had said, “to look death in
the face. We must show these savages how Europeans can die.”
The meal ended. Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer aloud, her
companions, bare-headed, repeated it after her. Who does not turn his
thoughts toward God in the hour of death? This done, the prisoners
embraced each other. Mary Grant and Helena, in a corner of the hut, lay
down on a mat. Sleep, which keeps all sorrow in abeyance, soon weighed
down their eyelids; they slept in each other’s arms, overcome by
exhaustion and prolonged watching.
Then Glenarvan, taking his friends aside, said: “My dear friends, our
lives and the lives of these poor women are in God’s hands. If it is
decreed that we die to-morrow, let us die bravely, like Christian men,
ready to appear without terror before the Supreme Judge. God, who reads
our hearts, knows that we had a noble end in view. If death awaits us
instead of success, it is by His will. Stern as the decree may seem, I
will not repine. But death here, means not death only, it means torture,
insult, perhaps, and here are two ladies--”
Glenarvan’s voice, firm till now, faltered. He was silent a moment, and
having overcome his emotion, he said, addressing the young captain:
“John, you have promised Mary what I promised Lady Helena. What is your
plan?”
“I believe,” said John, “that in the sight of God I have a right to
fulfill that promise.”
“Yes, John; but we are unarmed.”
“No!” replied John, showing him a dagger. “I snatched it from Kara-Tete
when he fell at your feet. My Lord, whichever of us survives the other
will fulfill the wish of Lady Helena and Mary Grant.”
After these words were said, a profound silence ensued. At last the
Major said: “My friends, keep that to the last moment. I am not an
advocate of irremediable measures.”
“I did not speak for ourselves,” said Glenarvan. “Be it as it may, we
can face death! Had we been alone, I should ere now have cried, ‘My
friends, let us make an effort. Let us attack these wretches!’ But with
these poor girls--”
At this moment John raised the mat, and counted twenty-five natives
keeping guard on the Ware-Atoua. A great fire had been lighted, and its
lurid glow threw into strong relief the irregular outlines of the “pah.”
Some of the savages were sitting round the brazier; the others standing
motionless, their black outlines relieved against the clear background
of flame. But they all kept watchful guard on the hut confided to their
care.
It has been said that between a vigilant jailer and a prisoner who
wishes to escape, the chances are in favor of the prisoner; the fact is,
the interest of the one is keener than that of the other. The jailer
may forget that he is on guard; the prisoner never forgets that he
is guarded. The captive thinks oftener of escaping than the jailer
of preventing his flight, and hence we hear of frequent and wonderful
escapes.
But in the present instance hatred and revenge were the jailers--not
an indifferent warder; the prisoners were not bound, but it was because
bonds were useless when five-and-twenty men were watching the only
egress from the Ware-Atoua.
This house, with its back to the rock which closed the fortress, was
only accessible by a long, narrow promontory which joined it in front to
the plateau on which the “pah” was erected. On its two other sides rose
pointed rocks, which jutted out over an abyss a hundred feet deep. On
that side descent was impossible, and had it been possible, the bottom
was shut in by the enormous rock. The only outlet was the regular door
of the Ware-Atoua, and the Maories guarded the promontory which united
it to the “pah” like a drawbridge. All escape was thus hopeless, and
Glenarvan having tried the walls for the twentieth time, was compelled
to acknowledge that it was so.
The hours of this night, wretched as they were, slipped away. Thick
darkness had settled on the mountain. Neither moon nor stars pierced the
gloom. Some gusts of wind whistled by the sides of the “pah,” and the
posts of the house creaked: the fire outside revived with the puffs of
wind, and the flames sent fitful gleams into the interior of Ware-Atoua.
The group of prisoners was lit up for a moment; they were absorbed in
their last thoughts, and a deathlike silence reigned in the hut.
It might have been about four o’clock in the morning when the Major’s
attention was called to a slight noise which seemed to come from the
foundation of the posts in the wall of the hut which abutted on the
rock. McNabbs was at first indifferent, but finding the noise continue,
he listened; then his curiosity was aroused, and he put his ear to
the ground; it sounded as if someone was scraping or hollowing out the
ground outside.
As soon as he was sure of it, he crept over to Glenarvan and John
Mangles, and startling them from their melancholy thoughts, led them to
the end of the hut.
“Listen,” said he, motioning them to stoop.
The scratching became more and more audible; they could hear the little
stones grate on a hard body and roll away.
“Some animal in his burrow,” said John Mangles.
Glenarvan struck his forehead.
“Who knows?” said he, “it might be a man.”
“Animal or man,” answered the Major, “I will soon find out!”
Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all united to dig
through the wall--John with his dagger, the others with stones taken
from the ground, or with their nails, while Mulrady, stretched along the
ground, watched the native guard through a crevice of the matting.
These savages sitting motionless around the fire, suspected nothing of
what was going on twenty feet off.
The soil was light and friable, and below lay a bed of silicious tufa;
therefore, even without tools, the aperture deepened quickly. It soon
became evident that a man, or men, clinging to the sides of the “pah,”
were cutting a passage into its exterior wall. What could be the object?
Did they know of the existence of the prisoners, or was it some private
enterprise that led to the undertaking?
The prisoners redoubled their efforts. Their fingers bled, but still
they worked on; after half an hour they had gone three feet deep; they
perceived by the increased sharpness of the sounds that only a thin
layer of earth prevented immediate communication.
Some minutes more passed, and the Major withdrew his hand from the
stroke of a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry.
John Mangles, inserting the blade of his poniard, avoided the knife
which now protruded above the soil, but seized the hand that wielded it.
It was the hand of a woman or child, a European! On neither side had a
word been uttered. It was evidently the cue of both sides to be silent.
“Is it Robert?” whispered Glenarvan.
But softly as the name was breathed, Mary Grant, already awakened by the
sounds in the hut, slipped over toward Glenarvan, and seizing the hand,
all stained with earth, she covered it with kisses.
“My darling Robert,” said she, never doubting, “it is you! it is you!”
“Yes, little sister,” said he, “it is I am here to save you all; but be
very silent.”
“Brave lad!” repeated Glenarvan.
“Watch the savages outside,” said Robert.
Mulrady, whose attention was distracted for a moment by the appearance
of the boy, resumed his post.
“It is all right,” said he. “There are only four awake; the rest are
asleep.”
A minute after, the hole was enlarged, and Robert passed from the arms
of his sister to those of Lady Helena. Round his body was rolled a long
coil of flax rope.
“My child, my child,” murmured Lady Helena, “the savages did not kill
you!”
“No, madam,” said he; “I do not know how it happened, but in the scuffle
I got away; I jumped the barrier; for two days I hid in the bushes, to
try and see you; while the tribe were busy with the chief’s funeral, I
came and reconnoitered this side of the path, and I saw that I could get
to you. I stole this knife and rope out of the desert hut. The tufts
of bush and the branches made me a ladder, and I found a kind of grotto
already hollowed out in the rock under this hut; I had only to bore some
feet in soft earth, and here I am.”
Twenty noiseless kisses were his reward.
“Let us be off!” said he, in a decided tone.
“Is Paganel below?” asked Glenarvan.
“Monsieur Paganel?” replied the boy, amazed.
“Yes; is he waiting for us?”
“No, my Lord; but is he not here?” inquired Robert.
“No, Robert!” answered Mary Grant.
“Why! have you not seen him?” asked Glenarvan. “Did you lose each other
in the confusion? Did you not get away together?”
“No, my Lord!” said Robert, taken aback by the disappearance of his
friend Paganel.
“Well, lose no more time,” said the Major. “Wherever Paganel is, he
cannot be in worse plight than ourselves. Let us go.”
Truly, the moments were precious. They had to fly. The escape was not
very difficult, except the twenty feet of perpendicular fall outside the
grotto.
After that the slope was practicable to the foot of the mountain. From
this point the prisoners could soon gain the lower valleys; while the
Maories, if they perceived the flight of the prisoners, would have to
make a long round to catch them, being unaware of the gallery between
the Ware-Atoua and the outer rock.
The escape was commenced, and every precaution was taken. The captives
passed one by one through the narrow passage into the grotto. John
Mangles, before leaving the hut, disposed of all the evidences of their
work, and in his turn slipped through the opening and let down over it
the mats of the house, so that the entrance to the gallery was quite
concealed.
The next thing was to descend the vertical wall to the slope below, and
this would have been impracticable, but that Robert had brought the flax
rope, which was now unrolled and fixed to a projecting point of rock,
the end hanging over.
John Mangles, before his friends trusted themselves to this flax rope,
tried it; he did not think it very strong; and it was of importance not
to risk themselves imprudently, as a fall would be fatal.
“This rope,” said he, “will only bear the weight of two persons;
therefore let us go in rotation. Lord and Lady Glenarvan first; when
they arrive at the bottom, three pulls at the rope will be a signal to
us to follow.”
“I will go first,” said Robert. “I discovered a deep hollow at the foot
of the slope where those who come down can conceal themselves and wait
for the rest.”
“Go, my boy,” said Glenarvan, pressing Robert’s hand.
Robert disappeared through the opening out of the grotto. A minute
after, the three pulls at the cord informed them the boy had alighted
safely.
Glenarvan and Lady Helena immediately ventured out of the grotto. The
darkness was still very great, though some grayish streaks were already
visible on the eastern summits.
The biting cold of the morning revived the poor young lady. She felt
stronger and commenced her perilous descent.
Glenarvan first, then Lady Helena, let themselves down along the rope,
till they came to the spot where the perpendicular wall met the top of
the slope. Then Glenarvan going first and supporting his wife, began to
descend backward.
He felt for the tufts and grass and shrubs able to afford a foothold;
tried them and then placed Lady Helena’s foot on them. Some birds,
suddenly awakened, flew away, uttering feeble cries, and the fugitives
trembled when a stone loosened from its bed rolled to the foot of the
mountain.
They had reached half-way down the slope, when a voice was heard from
the opening of the grotto.
“Stop!” whispered John Mangles.
Glenarvan, holding with one hand to a tuft of tetragonia, with the other
holding his wife, waited with breathless anxiety.
Wilson had had an alarm. Having heard some unusual noise outside the
Ware-Atoua, he went back into the hut and watched the Maories from
behind the mat. At a sign from him, John stopped Glenarvan.
One of the warriors on guard, startled by an unusual sound, rose and
drew nearer to the Ware-Atoua. He stood still about two paces from
the hut and listened with his head bent forward. He remained in that
attitude for a minute that seemed an hour, his ear intent, his eye
peering into the darkness. Then shaking his head like one who sees he is
mistaken, he went back to his companions, took an armful of dead wood,
and threw it into the smouldering fire, which immediately revived. His
face was lighted up by the flame, and was free from any look of doubt,
and after having glanced to where the first light of dawn whitened
the eastern sky, stretched himself near the fire to warm his stiffened
limbs.
“All’s well!” whispered Wilson.
John signaled to Glenarvan to resume his descent.
Glenarvan let himself gently down the slope; soon Lady Helena and he
landed on the narrow track where Robert waited for them.
The rope was shaken three times, and in his turn John Mangles, preceding
Mary Grant, followed in the dangerous route.
He arrived safely; he rejoined Lord and Lady Glenarvan in the hollow
mentioned by Robert.
Five minutes after, all the fugitives had safely escaped from the
Ware-Atoua, left their retreat, and keeping away from the inhabited
shores of the lakes, they plunged by narrow paths into the recesses of
the mountains.
They walked quickly, trying to avoid the points where they might be seen
from the pah. They were quite silent, and glided among the bushes like
shadows. Whither? Where chance led them, but at any rate they were free.
Toward five o’clock, the day began to dawn, bluish clouds marbled the
upper stratum of clouds. The misty summits began to pierce the morning
mists. The orb of day was soon to appear, and instead of giving the
signal for their execution, would, on the contrary, announce their
flight.
It was of vital importance that before the decisive moment arrived they
should put themselves beyond the reach of the savages, so as to put them
off their track. But their progress was slow, for the paths were steep.
Lady Glenarvan climbed the slopes, supported, not to say carried, by
Glenarvan, and Mary Grant leaned on the arm of John Mangles; Robert,
radiant with joy, triumphant at his success, led the march, and the two
sailors brought up the rear.
Another half an hour and the glorious sun would rise out of the mists
of the horizon. For half an hour the fugitives walked on as chance led
them. Paganel was not there to take the lead. He was now the object of
their anxiety, and whose absence was a black shadow between them and
their happiness. But they bore steadily eastward, as much as possible,
and faced the gorgeous morning light. Soon they had reached a height of
500 feet above Lake Taupo, and the cold of the morning, increased by the
altitude, was very keen. Dim outlines of hills and mountains rose behind
one another; but Glenarvan only thought how best to get lost among them.
Time enough by and by to see about escaping from the labyrinth.
At last the sun appeared and sent his first rays on their path.
Suddenly a terrific yell from a hundred throats rent the air. It came
from the pah, whose direction Glenarvan did not know. Besides, a thick
veil of fog, which, spread at his feet, prevented any distinct view of
the valleys below.
But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been discovered;
and now the question was, would they be able to elude pursuit? Had they
been seen? Would not their track betray them?
At this moment the fog in the valley lifted, and enveloped them for a
moment in a damp mist, and at three hundred feet below they perceived
the swarming mass of frantic natives.
While they looked they were seen. Renewed howls broke forth, mingled
with the barking of dogs, and the whole tribe, after vainly trying to
scale the rock of Ware-Atoua, rushed out of the pah, and hastened by the
shortest paths in pursuit of the prisoners who were flying from their
vengeance.
CHAPTER XIII THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
THE summit of the mountain was still a hundred feet above them. The
fugitives were anxious to reach it that they might continue their flight
on the eastern slope out of the view of their pursuers. They hoped then
to find some practicable ridge that would allow of a passage to the
neighboring peaks that were thrown together in an orographic maze, to
which poor Paganel’s genius would doubtless have found the clew.
They hastened up the slope, spurred on by the loud cries that drew
nearer and nearer. The avenging crowd had already reached the foot of
the mountain.
“Courage! my friends,” cried Glenarvan, urging his companions by voice
and look.
In less than five minutes they were at the top of the mountain, and then
they turned to judge of their position, and decide on a route that would
baffle their pursuers.
From their elevated position they could see over Lake Taupo, which
stretched toward the west in its setting of picturesque mountains. On
the north the peaks of Pirongia; on the south the burning crater of
Tongariro. But eastward nothing but the rocky barrier of peaks and
ridges that formed the Wahiti ranges, the great chain whose unbroken
links stretch from the East Cape to Cook’s Straits. They had no
alternative but to descend the opposite slope and enter the narrow
gorges, uncertain whether any outlet existed.
Glenarvan could not prolong the halt for a moment. Wearied as they might
be, they must fly or be discovered.
“Let us go down!” cried he, “before our passage is cut off.”
But just as the ladies had risen with a despairing effort, McNabbs
stopped them and said:
“Glenarvan, it is useless. Look!”
And then they all perceived the inexplicable change that had taken place
in the movements of the Maories.
Their pursuit had suddenly stopped. The ascent of the mountain had
ceased by an imperious command. The natives had paused in their career,
and surged like the sea waves against an opposing rock. All the crowd,
thirsting for blood, stood at the foot of the mountain yelling and
gesticulating, brandishing guns and hatchets, but not advancing a foot.
Their dogs, rooted to the spot like themselves, barked with rage.
What stayed them? What occult power controlled these savages? The
fugitives looked without understanding, fearing lest the charm that
enchained Kai-Koumou’s tribe should be broken.
Suddenly John Mangles uttered an exclamation which attracted the
attention of his companions. He pointed to a little inclosure on the
summit of the cone.
“The tomb of Kara-Tete!” said Robert.
“Are you sure, Robert?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, it is the tomb; I recognize it.”
Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme peak of the mountain,
freshly painted posts formed a small palisaded inclosure, and Glenarvan
too was convinced that it was the chief’s burial place. The chances of
their flight had led them to the crest of Maunganamu.
Glenarvan, followed by the rest, climbed to the foot of the tomb. A
large opening, covered with mats, led into it. Glenarvan was about to
invade the sanctity of the “oudoupa,” when he reeled backward.
“A savage!” said he.
“In the tomb?” inquired the Major.
“Yes, McNabbs.”
“No matter; go in.”
Glenarvan, the Major, Robert and John Mangles entered. There sat a
Maori, wrapped in a large flax mat; the darkness of the “oudoupa”
preventing them from distinguishing his features. He was very quiet, and
was eating his breakfast quite coolly.
Glenarvan was about to speak to him when the native forestalled him by
saying gayly and in good English:
“Sit down, my Lord; breakfast is ready.”
It was Paganel. At the sound of his voice they all rushed into the
“oudoupa,” and he was cordially embraced all round. Paganel was found
again. He was their salvation. They wanted to question him; to know how
and why he was here on the summit of Maunganamu; but Glenarvan stopped
this misplaced curiosity.
“The savages?” said he.
“The savages,” said Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. “I have a contempt
for those people! Come and look at them.”
They all followed Paganel out of the “oudoupa.” The Maories were still
in the same position round the base of the mountain, uttering fearful
cries.
“Shout! yell! till your lungs are gone, stupid wretches!” said Paganel.
“I dare you to come here!”
“But why?” said Glenarvan.
“Because the chief is buried here, and the tomb protects us, because the
mountain is tabooed.”
“Tabooed?”
“Yes, my friends! and that is why I took refuge here, as the malefactors
used to flee to the sanctuaries in the middle ages.”
“God be praised!” said Lady Helena, lifting her hands to heaven.
The fugitives were not yet out of danger, but they had a moment’s
respite, which was very welcome in their exhausted state.
Glenarvan was too much overcome to speak, and the Major nodded his head
with an air of perfect content.
“And now, my friends,” said Paganel, “if these brutes think to exercise
their patience on us, they are mistaken. In two days we shall be out of
their reach.”
“By flight!” said Glenarvan. “But how?”
“That I do not know,” answered Paganel, “but we shall manage it.”
And now everybody wanted to know about their friend’s adventures. They
were puzzled by the reserve of a man generally so talkative; on this
occasion they had to drag the words out of his mouth; usually he was a
ready story-teller, now he gave only evasive answers to the questions of
the rest.
“Paganel is another man!” thought McNabbs.
His face was really altered. He wrapped himself closely in his great
flax mat and seemed to deprecate observation. Everyone noticed his
embarrassment, when he was the subject of conversation, though nobody
appeared to remark it; when other topics were under discussion, Paganel
resumed his usual gayety.
Of his adventures all that could be extracted from him at this time was
as follows:
After the murder of Kara-Tete, Paganel took advantage, like Robert, of
the commotion among the natives, and got out of the inclosure. But less
fortunate than young Grant, he walked straight into a Maori camp, where
he met a tall, intelligent-looking chief, evidently of higher rank than
all the warriors of his tribe. The chief spoke excellent English, and he
saluted the new-comer by rubbing the end of his nose against the end of
the geographer’s nose.
Paganel wondered whether he was to consider himself a prisoner or not.
But perceiving that he could not stir without the polite escort of the
chief, he soon made up his mind on that point.
This chief, Hihi, or Sunbeam, was not a bad fellow. Paganel’s spectacles
and telescope seemed to give him a great idea of Paganel’s importance,
and he manifested great attachment to him, not only by kindness, but by
a strong flax rope, especially at night.
This lasted for three days; to the inquiry whether he was well treated,
he said “Yes and no!” without further answer; he was a prisoner, and
except that he expected immediate execution, his state seemed to him no
better than that in which he had left his unfortunate friends.
One night, however, he managed to break his rope and escape. He had seen
from afar the burial of the chief, and knew that he was buried on the
top of Maunganamu, and he was well acquainted with the fact that the
mountain would be therefore tabooed. He resolved to take refuge there,
being unwilling to leave the region where his companions were in
durance. He succeeded in his dangerous attempt, and had arrived the
previous night at the tomb of Kara-Tete, and there proposed to recruit
his strength while he waited in the hope that his friends might, by
Divine mercy, find the means of escape.
Such was Paganel’s story. Did he designedly conceal some incident of his
captivity? More than once his embarrassment led them to that conclusion.
But however that might be, he was heartily congratulated on all sides.
And then the present emergency came on for serious discussion. The
natives dare not climb Maunganamu, but they, of course, calculated that
hunger and thirst would restore them their prey. It was only a question
of time, and patience is one of the virtues of all savages. Glenarvan
was fully alive to the difficulty, but made up his mind to watch for
an opportunity, or make one. First of all he made a thorough survey of
Maunganamu, their present fortress; not for the purpose of defence, but
of escape. The Major, John, Robert, Paganel, and himself, made an exact
map of the mountain. They noted the direction, outlet and inclination of
the paths. The ridge, a mile in length, which united Maunganamu to the
Wahiti chain had a downward inclination. Its slope, narrow and jagged
though it was, appeared the only practicable route, if they made good
their escape at all. If they could do this without observation, under
cover of night, they might possibly reach the deep valleys of the Range
and put the Maories off the scent.
But there were dangers in this route; the last part of it was within
pistol shot of natives posted on the lower slopes. Already when they
ventured on the exposed part of the crest, they were saluted with a hail
of shot which did not reach them. Some gun wads, carried by the wind,
fell beside them; they were made of printed paper, which Paganel picked
up out of curiosity, and with some trouble deciphered.
“That is a good idea! My friends, do you know what those creatures use
for wads?”
“No, Paganel!” said Glenarvan.
“Pages of the Bible! If that is the use they make of the Holy Book, I
pity the missionaries! It will be rather difficult to establish a Maori
library.”
“And what text of scripture did they aim at us?”
“A message from God Himself!” exclaimed John Mangles, who was in the
act of reading the scorched fragment of paper. “It bids us hope in Him,”
added the young captain, firm in the faith of his Scotch convictions.
“Read it, John!” said Glenarvan.
And John read what the powder had left visible: “I will deliver him, for
he hath trusted in me.”
“My friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must carry these words of hope to our
dear, brave ladies. The sound will bring comfort to their hearts.”
Glenarvan and his companions hastened up the steep path to the cone, and
went toward the tomb. As they climbed they were astonished to perceive
every few moments a kind of vibration in the soil. It was not a movement
like earthquake, but that peculiar tremor that affects the metal of
a boiler under high pressure. It was clear the mountain was the outer
covering of a body of vapor, the product of subterranean fires.
This phenomenon of course excited no surprise in those that had just
traveled among the hot springs of the Waikato. They knew that the
central region of the Ika-na-Mani is essentially volcanic. It is a
sieve, whose interstices furnish a passage for the earth’s vapors in the
shape of boiling geysers and solfataras.
Paganel, who had already noticed this, called the attention of his
friends to the volcanic nature of the mountain. The peak of Maunganamu
was only one of the many cones which bristle on this part of the island.
It was a volcano of the future. A slight mechanical change would produce
a crater of eruption in these slopes, which consisted merely of whitish
silicious tufa.
“That may be,” said Glenarvan, “but we are in no more danger here than
standing by the boiler of the DUNCAN; this solid crust is like sheet
iron.”
“I agree with you,” added the Major, “but however good a boiler may be,
it bursts at last after too long service.”
“McNabbs,” said Paganel, “I have no fancy for staying on the cone. When
Providence points out a way, I will go at once.”
“I wish,” remarked John, “that Maunganamu could carry us himself, with
all the motive power that he has inside. It is too bad that millions
of horse-power should lie under our feet unavailable for our needs. Our
DUNCAN would carry us to the end of the world with the thousandth part
of it.”
The recollections of the DUNCAN evoked by John Mangles turned
Glenarvan’s thoughts into their saddest channel; for desperate as his
own case was he often forgot it, in vain regret at the fate of his crew.
His mind still dwelt on it when he reached the summit of Maunganamu and
met his companions in misfortune.
Lady Helena, when she saw Glenarvan, came forward to meet him.
“Dear Edward,” said she, “you have made up your mind? Are we to hope or
fear?”
“Hope, my dear Helena,” replied Glenarvan. “The natives will never
set foot on the mountain, and we shall have time to devise a plan of
escape.”
“More than that, madam, God himself has encouraged us to hope.”
And so saying, John Mangles handed to Lady Helena the fragment of paper
on which was legible the sacred words; and these young women, whose
trusting hearts were always open to observe Providential interpositions,
read in these words an indisputable sign of salvation.
“And now let us go to the ‘oudoupa!’” cried Paganel, in his gayest mood.
“It is our castle, our dining-room, our study! None can meddle with us
there! Ladies! allow me to do the honors of this charming abode.”
They followed Paganel, and when the savages saw them profaning anew the
tabooed burial place, they renewed their fire and their fearful yells,
the one as loud as the other. But fortunately the balls fell short of
our friends, though the cries reached them.
Lady Helena, Mary Grant, and their companions were quite relieved to
find that the Maories were more dominated by superstition than by anger,
and they entered the monument.
It was a palisade made of red-painted posts. Symbolic figures, tattooed
on the wood, set forth the rank and achievements of the deceased.
Strings of amulets, made of shells or cut stones, hung from one part to
another. In the interior, the ground was carpeted with green leaves,
and in the middle, a slight mound betokened the place of the newly made
grave. There lay the chief’s weapons, his guns loaded and capped, his
spear, his splendid ax of green jade, with a supply of powder and ball
for the happy hunting grounds.
“Quite an arsenal!” said Paganel, “of which we shall make a better use.
What ideas they have! Fancy carrying arms in the other world!”
“Well!” said the Major, “but these are English firearms.”
“No doubt,” replied Glenarvan, “and it is a very unwise practice to
give firearms to savages! They turn them against the invaders, naturally
enough. But at any rate, they will be very valuable to us.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but what is more useful still is the food and
water provided for Kara-Tete.”
Things had been handsomely done for the deceased chief; the amount of
provisions denoted their esteem for the departed. There was food enough
to sustain ten persons for fifteen days, or the dead man forever.
The vegetable aliments consisted of edible ferns, sweet potatoes, the
“convolvulus batatas,” which was indigenous, and the potato which had
been imported long before by the Europeans. Large jars contained pure
water, and a dozen baskets artistically plaited contained tablets of an
unknown green gum.
The fugitives were therefore provided for some days against hunger
and thirst, and they needed no persuasion to begin their attack on the
deceased chief’s stores. Glenarvan brought out the necessary quantity
and put them into Olbinett’s hands. The steward, who never could forget
his routine ideas, even in the most exceptional circumstances, thought
the meal a slender one. He did not know how to prepare the roots, and,
besides, had no fire.
But Paganel soon solved the difficulty by recommending him to bury
his fern roots and sweet potatoes in the soil. The temperature of the
surface stratum was very high, and a thermometer plunged into the soil
would have marked from 160 to 170 degrees; in fact, Olbinett narrowly
missed being scalded, for just as he had scooped a hole for the roots,
a jet of vapor sprang up and with a whistling sound rose six feet above
the ground.
The steward fell back in terror.
“Shut off steam!” cried the Major, running to close the hole with the
loose drift, while Paganel pondering on the singular phenomenon muttered
to himself:
“Let me see! ha! ha! Why not?”
“Are you hurt?” inquired McNabbs of Olbinett.
“No, Major,” said the steward, “but I did not expect--”
“That Providence would send you fire,” interrupted Paganel in a jovial
tone. “First the larder of Kara-Tete and then fire out of the ground!
Upon my word, this mountain is a paradise! I propose that we found a
colony, and cultivate the soil and settle here for life! We shall be the
Robinsons of Maunganamu. We should want for nothing.”
“If it is solid ground,” said John Mangles.
“Well! it is not a thing of yesterday,” said Paganel. “It has stood
against the internal fire for many a day, and will do so till we leave
it, at any rate.”
“Breakfast is ready,” announced Olbinett with as much dignity as if he
was in Malcolm Castle.
Without delay, the fugitives sat down near the palisade, and began one
of the many meals with which Providence had supplied them in critical
circumstances. Nobody was inclined to be fastidious, but opinions were
divided as regarded the edible fern. Some thought the flavor sweet and
agreeable, others pronounced it leathery, insipid, and resembling the
taste of gum. The sweet potatoes, cooked in the burning soil, were
excellent. The geographer remarked that Kara-Tete was not badly off
after all.
And now that their hunger was appeased, it was time to decide on their
plan of escape.
“So soon!” exclaimed Paganel in a piteous tone. “Would you quit the home
of delight so soon?”
“But, Monsieur Paganel,” interposed Lady Helena, “if this be Capua, you
dare not intend to imitate Hannibal!”
“Madam, I dare not contradict you, and if discussion is the order of the
day, let it proceed.”
“First,” said Glenarvan, “I think we ought to start before we are driven
to it by hunger. We are revived now, and ought to take advantage of it.
To-night we will try to reach the eastern valleys by crossing the cordon
of natives under cover of the darkness.”
“Excellent,” answered Paganel, “if the Maories allow us to pass.”
“And if not?” asked John Mangles.
“Then we will use our great resources,” said Paganel.
“But have we great resources?” inquired the Major.
“More than we can use!” replied Paganel, without any further
explanation.
And then they waited for the night.
The natives had not stirred. Their numbers seemed even greater, perhaps
owing to the influx of the stragglers of the tribe. Fires lighted at
intervals formed a girdle of flame round the base of the mountain, so
that when darkness fell, Maunganamu appeared to rise out of a great
brasier, and to hide its head in the thick darkness. Five hundred feet
below they could hear the hum and the cries of the enemy’s camp.
At nine o’clock the darkness being very intense, Glenarvan and John
Mangles went out to reconnoiter before embarking the whole party on this
critical journey. They made the descent noiselessly, and after about
ten minutes, arrived on the narrow ridge that crossed the native lines,
fifty feet above the camp.
All went well so far. The Maories, stretched beside the fires, did
not appear to observe the two fugitives. But in an instant a double
fusillade burst forth from both sides of the ridge.
“Back,” exclaimed Glenarvan; “those wretches have the eyes of cats and
the guns of riflemen!”
And they turned, and once more climbed the steep slope of the mountain,
and then hastened to their friends who had been alarmed at the firing.
Glenarvan’s hat was pierced by two balls, and they concluded that it was
out of the question to venture again on the ridge between two lines of
marksmen.
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Paganel, “and as we cannot elude their
vigilance, let me try my hand on them.”
The night was cold; but happily Kara-Tete had been furnished with his
best night gear, and the party wrapped themselves each in a warm flax
mantle, and protected by native superstition, slept quietly inside the
inclosure, on the warm ground, still violating with the violence of the
internal ebullition.
CHAPTER XIV A BOLD STRATAGEM
NEXT day, February 17th, the sun’s first rays awoke the sleepers of the
Maunganamu. The Maories had long since been astir, coming and going at
the foot of the mountain, without leaving their line of observation.
Furious clamor broke out when they saw the Europeans leave the sacred
place they had profaned.
Each of the party glanced first at the neighboring mountains, and at
the deep valleys still drowned in mist, and over Lake Taupo, which the
morning breeze ruffled slightly. And then all clustered round Paganel
eager to hear his project.
Paganel soon satisfied their curiosity. “My friends,” said he, “my
plan has one great recommendation; if it does not accomplish all that
I anticipate, we shall be no worse off than we are at present. But it
must, it will succeed.”
“And what is it?” asked McNabbs.
“It is this,” replied Paganel, “the superstition of the natives has
made this mountain a refuge for us, and we must take advantage of
their superstition to escape. If I can persuade Kai-Koumou that we have
expiated our profanation, that the wrath of the Deity has fallen on
us: in a word, that we have died a terrible death, do you think he will
leave the plateau of Maunganamu to return to his village?”
“Not a doubt of it,” said Glenarvan.
“And what is the horrible death you refer to?” asked Lady Helena.
“The death of the sacrilegious, my friends,” replied Paganel. “The
avenging flames are under our feet. Let us open a way for them!”
“What! make a volcano!” cried John Mangles.
“Yes, an impromptu volcano, whose fury we can regulate. There are plenty
of vapors ready to hand, and subterranean fires ready to issue forth. We
can have an eruption ready to order.”
“An excellent idea, Paganel; well conceived,” said the Major.
“You understand,” replied the geographer, “we are to pretend to fall
victims to the flames of the Maori Pluto, and to disappear spiritually
into the tomb of Kara-Tete. And stay there three, four, even five days
if necessary--that is to say, till the savages are convinced that we
have perished, and abandon their watch.”
“But,” said Miss Grant, “suppose they wish to be sure of our punishment,
and climb up here to see?”
“No, my dear Mary,” returned Paganel. “They will not do that. The
mountain is tabooed, and if it devoured its sacrilegious intruders, it
would only be more inviolably tabooed.”
“It is really a very clever plan,” said Glenarvan. “There is only one
chance against it; that is, if the savages prolong their watch at the
foot of Maunganamu, we may run short of provisions. But if we play our
game well there is not much fear of that.”
“And when shall we try this last chance?” asked Lady Helena.
“To-night,” rejoined Paganel, “when the darkness is the deepest.”
“Agreed,” said McNabbs; “Paganel, you are a genius! and I, who seldom
get up an enthusiasm, I answer for the success of your plan. Oh! those
villains! They shall have a little miracle that will put off their
conversion for another century. I hope the missionaries will forgive
us.”
The project of Paganel was therefore adopted, and certainly with the
superstitious ideas of the Maories there seemed good ground for hope.
But brilliant as the idea might be, the difficulty was in the _modus
operandi_. The volcano might devour the bold schemers, who offered it
a crater. Could they control and direct the eruption when they had
succeeded in letting loose its vapor and flames, and lava streams? The
entire cone might be engulfed. It was meddling with phenomena of which
nature herself has the absolute monopoly.
Paganel had thought of all this; but he intended to act prudently and
without pushing things to extremes. An appearance would be enough to
dupe the Maories, and there was no need for the terrible realities of an
eruption.
How long that day seemed. Each one of the party inwardly counted the
hours. All was made ready for flight. The oudoupa provisions were
divided and formed very portable packets. Some mats and firearms
completed their light equipment, all of which they took from the tomb
of the chief. It is needless to say that their preparations were made
within the inclosure, and that they were unseen by the savages.
At six o’clock the steward served up a refreshing meal. Where or when
they would eat in the valleys of the Ranges no one could foretell. So
that they had to take in supplies for the future. The principal dish was
composed of half a dozen rats, caught by Wilson and stewed. Lady Helena
and Mary Grant obstinately refused to taste this game, which is highly
esteemed by the natives; but the men enjoyed it like the real Maories.
The meat was excellent and savory, and the six devourers were devoured
down to the bones.
The evening twilight came on. The sun went down in a stormy-looking bank
of clouds. A few flashes of lightning glanced across the horizon and
distant thunder pealed through the darkened sky.
Paganel welcomed the storm, which was a valuable aid to his plans, and
completed his program. The savages are superstitiously affected by the
great phenomena of nature. The New Zealanders think that thunder is the
angry voice of Noui-Atoua, and lightning the fierce gleam of his eyes.
Thus their deity was coming personally to chastise the violators of the
taboo.
At eight o’clock, the summit of the Maunganamu was lost in portentous
darkness. The sky would supply a black background for the blaze which
Paganel was about to throw on it. The Maories could no longer see their
prisoners; and this was the moment for action. Speed was necessary.
Glenarvan, Paganel, McNabbs, Robert, the steward, and the two sailors,
all lent a hand.
The spot for the crater was chosen thirty paces from Kara-Tete’s tomb.
It was important to keep the oudoupa intact, for if it disappeared, the
taboo of the mountain would be nullified. At the spot mentioned Paganel
had noticed an enormous block of stone, round which the vapors played
with a certain degree of intensity. This block covered a small natural
crater hollowed in the cone, and by its own weight prevented the egress
of the subterranean fire. If they could move it from its socket, the
vapors and the lava would issue by the disencumbered opening.
The workers used as levers some posts taken from the interior of the
oudoupa, and they plied their tools vigorously against the rocky mass.
Under their united efforts the stone soon moved. They made a little
trench so that it might roll down the inclined plane. As they gradually
raised it, the vibrations under foot became more distinct. Dull roarings
of flame and the whistling sound of a furnace ran along under the thin
crust. The intrepid la-borers, veritable Cyclops handling Earth’s fires,
worked in silence; soon some fissures and jets of steam warned them that
their place was growing dangerous. But a crowning effort moved the mass
which rolled down and disappeared. Immediately the thin crust gave way.
A column of fire rushed to the sky with loud detonations, while streams
of boiling water and lava flowed toward the native camp and the lower
valleys.
All the cone trembled as if it was about to plunge into a fathomless
gulf.
Glenarvan and his companions had barely time to get out of the way; they
fled to the enclosure of the oudoupa, not without having been sprinkled
with water at 220 degrees. This water at first spread a smell like soup,
which soon changed into a strong odor of sulphur.
Then the mud, the lava, the volcanic stones, all spouted forth in
a torrent. Streams of fire furrowed the sides of Maunganamu. The
neighboring mountains were lit up by the glare; the dark valleys were
also filled with dazzling light.
All the savages had risen, howling under the pain inflicted by the
burning lava, which was bubbling and foaming in the midst of their camp.
Those whom the liquid fire had not touched fled to the surrounding
hills; then turned, and gazed in terror at this fearful phenomenon, this
volcano in which the anger of their deity would swallow up the profane
intruders on the sacred mountain. Now and then, when the roar of the
eruption became less violent, their cry was heard:
“Taboo! taboo! taboo!”
An enormous quantity of vapors, heated stones and lava was escaping
by this crater of Maunganamu. It was not a mere geyser like those that
girdle round Mount Hecla, in Iceland, it was itself a Hecla. All this
volcanic commotion was confined till then in the envelope of the cone,
because the safety valve of Tangariro was enough for its expansion; but
when this new issue was afforded, it rushed forth fiercely, and by the
laws of equilibrium, the other eruptions in the island must on that
night have lost their usual intensity.
An hour after this volcano burst upon the world, broad streams of lava
were running down its sides. Legions of rats came out of their holes,
and fled from the scene.
All night long, and fanned by the tempest in the upper sky, the crater
never ceased to pour forth its torrents with a violence that alarmed
Glenarvan. The eruption was breaking away the edges of the opening. The
prisoners, hidden behind the inclosure of stakes, watched the fearful
progress of the phenomenon.
Morning came. The fury of the volcano had not slackened. Thick yellowish
fumes were mixed with the flames; the lava torrents wound their
serpentine course in every direction.
Glenarvan watched with a beating heart, looking from all the interstices
of the palisaded enclosure, and observed the movements in the native
camp.
The Maories had fled to the neighboring ledges, out of the reach of the
volcano. Some corpses which lay at the foot of the cone, were charred by
the fire. Further off toward the “pah,” the lava had reached a group
of twenty huts, which were still smoking. The Maories, forming here
and there groups, contemplated the canopied summit of Maunganamu with
religious awe.
Kai-Koumou approached in the midst of his warriors, and Glenarvan
recognized him. The chief advanced to the foot of the hill, on the side
untouched by the lava, but he did not ascend the first ledge.
Standing there, with his arms stretched out like an exerciser, he made
some grimaces, whose meaning was obvious to the prisoners. As Paganel
had foreseen, Kai-Koumou launched on the avenging mountain a more
rigorous taboo.
Soon after the natives left their positions and followed the winding
paths that led toward the pah.
“They are going!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “They have left their posts! God
be praised! Our stratagem has succeeded! My dear Lady Helena, my brave
friends, we are all dead and buried! But this evening when night comes,
we shall rise and leave our tomb, and fly these barbarous tribes!”
It would be difficult to conceive of the joy that pervaded the oudoupa.
Hope had regained the mastery in all hearts. The intrepid travelers
forgot the past, forgot the future, to enjoy the present delight! And
yet the task before them was not an easy one--to gain some European
outpost in the midst of this unknown country. But Kai-Koumou once off
their track, they thought themselves safe from all the savages in New
Zealand.
A whole day had to elapse before they could make a start, and they
employed it in arranging a plan of flight. Paganel had treasured up his
map of New Zealand, and on it could trace out the best roads.
After discussion, the fugitives resolved to make for the Bay of Plenty,
towards the east. The region was unknown, but apparently desert. The
travelers, who from their past experience, had learned to make light of
physical difficulties, feared nothing but meeting Maories. At any
cost they wanted to avoid them and gain the east coast, where the
missionaries had several stations. That part of the country had hitherto
escaped the horrors of war, and the natives were not in the habit of
scouring the country.
As to the distance that separated Lake Taupo from the Bay of Plenty,
they calculated it about a hundred miles. Ten days’ march at ten miles a
day, could be done, not without fatigue, but none of the party gave that
a thought. If they could only reach the mission stations they could rest
there while waiting for a favorable opportunity to get to Auckland, for
that was the point they desired to reach.
This question settled, they resumed their watch of the native
proceedings, and continued so doing till evening fell. Not a solitary
native remained at the foot of the mountain, and when darkness set in
over the Taupo valleys, not a fire indicated the presence of the Maories
at the base. The road was free.
At nine o’clock, the night being unusually dark, Glenarvan gave the
order to start. His companions and he, armed and equipped at the expense
of Kara-Tete, began cautiously to descend the slopes of Maunganamu, John
Mangles and Wilson leading the way, eyes and ears on the alert. They
stopped at the slightest sound, they started at every passing cloud.
They slid rather than walked down the spur, that their figures might
be lost in the dark mass of the mountain. At two hundred feet below the
summit, John Mangles and his sailors reached the dangerous ridge that
had been so obstinately defended by the natives. If by ill luck the
Maories, more cunning than the fugitives, had only pretended to retreat;
if they were not really duped by the volcanic phenomenon, this was the
spot where their presence would be betrayed. Glenarvan could not but
shudder, in spite of his confidence, and in spite of the jokes of
Paganel. The fate of the whole party would hang in the balance for the
ten minutes required to pass along that ridge. He felt the beating of
Lady Helena’s heart, as she clung to his arm.
He had no thought of turning back. Neither had John. The young captain,
followed closely by the whole party, and protected by the intense
darkness, crept along the ridge, stopping when some loose stone rolled
to the bottom. If the savages were still in the ambush below, these
unusual sounds might provoke from both sides a dangerous fusillade.
But speed was impossible in their serpent-like progress down this
sloping crest. When John Mangles had reached the lowest point, he was
scarcely twenty-five feet from the plateau, where the natives were
encamped the night before, and then the ridge rose again pretty steeply
toward a wood for about a quarter of a mile.
All this lower part was crossed without molestation, and they commenced
the ascent in silence. The clump of bush was invisible, though they
knew it was there, and but for the possibility of an ambush, Glenarvan
counted on being safe when the party arrived at that point. But he
observed that after this point, they were no longer protected by the
taboo. The ascending ridge belonged not to Maunganamu, but to the
mountain system of the eastern side of Lake Taupo, so that they had not
only pistol shots, but hand-to-hand fighting to fear. For ten minutes,
the little band ascended by insensible degrees toward the higher
table-land. John could not discern the dark wood, but he knew it ought
to be within two hundred feet. Suddenly he stopped; almost retreated. He
fancied he heard something in the darkness; his stoppage interrupted the
march of those behind.
He remained motionless long enough to alarm his companions. They waited
with unspeakable anxiety, wondering if they were doomed to retrace their
steps, and return to the summit of Maunganamu.
But John, finding that the noise was not repeated, resumed the ascent of
the narrow path of the ridge. Soon they perceived the shadowy outline of
the wood showing faintly through the darkness. A few steps more and they
were hid from sight in the thick foliage of the trees.
CHAPTER XV FROM PERIL TO SAFETY
THE night favored their escape, and prudence urged them to lose no time
in getting away from the fatal neighborhood of Lake Taupo. Paganel took
the post of leader, and his wonderful instinct shone out anew in this
difficult mountain journey. His nyctalopia was a great advantage, his
cat-like sight enabling him to distinguish the smallest object in the
deepest gloom.
For three hours they walked on without halting along the far-reaching
slope of the eastern side. Paganel kept a little to the southeast, in
order to make use of a narrow passage between the Kaimanawa and the
Wahiti Ranges, through which the road from Hawkes’ Bay to Auckland
passes. Once through that gorge, his plan was to keep off the road,
and, under the shelter of the high ranges, march to the coast across the
inhabited regions of the province.
At nine o’clock in the morning, they had made twelve miles in twelve
hours. The courageous women could not be pressed further, and, besides,
the locality was suitable for camping. The fugitives had reached the
pass that separates the two chains. Paganel, map in hand, made a loop
toward the northeast, and at ten o’clock the little party reached a sort
of redan, formed by a projecting rock.
The provisions were brought out, and justice was done to their meal.
Mary Grant and the Major, who had not thought highly of the edible fern
till then, now ate of it heartily.
The halt lasted till two o’clock in the afternoon, then they resumed
their journey; and in the evening they stopped eight miles from the
mountains, and required no persuasion to sleep in the open air.
Next day was one of serious difficulties. Their route lay across this
wondrous region of volcanic lakes, geysers, and solfataras, which
extended to the east of the Wahiti Ranges. It is a country more pleasant
for the eye to ramble over, than for the limbs. Every quarter of a mile
they had to turn aside or go around for some obstacle, and thus incurred
great fatigue; but what a strange sight met their eyes! What infinite
variety nature lavishes on her great panoramas!
On this vast extent of twenty miles square, the subterranean forces had
a field for the display of all their varied effects. Salt springs, of
singular transparency, peopled by myriads of insects, sprang up from
thickets of tea-tree scrub. They diffused a powerful odor of burnt
powder, and scattered on the ground a white sediment like dazzling snow.
The limpid waters were nearly at boiling point, while some neighboring
springs spread out like sheets of glass. Gigantic tree-ferns grew beside
them, in conditions analogous to those of the Silurian vegetation.
On every side jets of water rose like park fountains, out of a sea of
vapor; some of them continuous, others intermittent, as if a capricious
Pluto controlled their movements. They rose like an amphitheater on
natural terraces; their waters gradually flowed together under folds of
white smoke, and corroding the edges of the semi-transparent steps
of this gigantic staircase. They fed whole lakes with their boiling
torrents.
Farther still, beyond the hot springs and tumultuous geysers, came the
solfataras. The ground looked as if covered with large pustules. These
were slumbering craters full of cracks and fissures from which rose
various gases. The air was saturated with the acrid and unpleasant
odor of sulphurous acid. The ground was encrusted with sulphur
and crystalline concretions. All this incalculable wealth had been
accumulating for centuries, and if the sulphur beds of Sicily should
ever be exhausted, it is here, in this little known district of New
Zealand, that supplies must be sought.
The fatigue in traveling in such a country as this will be best
understood. Camping was very difficult, and the sportsmen of the party
shot nothing worthy of Olbinett’s skill; so that they had generally to
content themselves with fern and sweet potato--a poor diet which was
scarcely sufficient to recruit the exhausted strength of the little
party, who were all anxious to escape from this barren region.
But four days at least must elapse before they could hope to leave it.
On February 23, at a distance of fifty miles from Maunganamu, Glenarvan
called a halt, and camped at the foot of a nameless mountain, marked on
Paganel’s map. The wooded plains stretched away from sight, and great
forests appeared on the horizon.
That day McNabbs and Robert killed three kiwis, which filled the chief
place on their table, not for long, however, for in a few moments they
were all consumed from the beaks to the claws.
At dessert, between the potatoes and sweet potatoes, Paganel moved a
resolution which was carried with enthusiasm. He proposed to give the
name of Glenarvan to this unnamed mountain, which rose 3,000 feet high,
and then was lost in the clouds, and he printed carefully on his map the
name of the Scottish nobleman.
It would be idle to narrate all the monotonous and uninteresting
details of the rest of the journey. Only two or three occurrences of any
importance took place on the way from the lakes to the Pacific Ocean.
The march was all day long across forests and plains. John took
observations of the sun and stars. Neither heat nor rain increased the
discomfort of the journey, but the travelers were so reduced by the
trials they had undergone, that they made very slow progress; and they
longed to arrive at the mission station.
They still chatted, but the conversation had ceased to be general.
The little party broke up into groups, attracted to each other, not by
narrow sympathies, but by a more personal communion of ideas.
Glenarvan generally walked alone; his mind seemed to recur to his
unfortunate crew, as he drew nearer to the sea. He apparently lost sight
of the dangers which lay before them on their way to Auckland, in the
thought of his massacred men; the horrible picture haunted him.
Harry Grant was never spoken of; they were no longer in a position to
make any effort on his behalf. If his name was uttered at all, it was
between his daughter and John Mangles.
John had never reminded Mary of what she had said to him on that last
night at Ware-Atoua. He was too wise to take advantage of a word spoken
in a moment of despair. When he mentioned Captain Grant, John always
spoke of further search. He assured Mary that Lord Glenarvan would
re-embark in the enterprise. He persistently returned to the fact that
the authenticity of the document was indisputable, and that therefore
Harry Grant was somewhere to be found, and that they would find him, if
they had to try all over the world. Mary drank in his words, and she and
John, united by the same thought, cherished the same hope. Often Lady
Helena joined in the conversation; but she did not participate in their
illusions, though she refrained from chilling their enthusiasm.
McNabbs, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady kept up their hunting parties,
without going far from the rest, and each one furnished his QUOTA of
game.
Paganel, arrayed in his flax mat, kept himself aloof, in a silent and
pensive mood.
And yet, it is only justice to say, in spite of the general rule that,
in the midst of trials, dangers, fatigues, and privations, the most
amiable dispositions become ruffled and embittered, all our travelers
were united, devoted, ready to die for one another.
On the 25th of February, their progress was stopped by a river which
answered to the Wakari on Paganel’s map, and was easily forded. For two
days plains of low scrub succeeded each other without interruption. Half
the distance from Lake Taupo to the coast had been traversed without
accident, though not without fatigue.
Then the scene changed to immense and interminable forests, which
reminded them of Australia, but here the kauri took the place of the
eucalyptus. Although their enthusiasm had been incessantly called forth
during their four months’ journey, Glenarvan and his companions were
compelled to admire and wonder at those gigantic pines, worthy rivals of
the Cedars of Lebanon, and the “Mammoth trees” of California. The kauris
measured a hundred feet high, before the ramification of the branches.
They grew in isolated clumps, and the forest was not composed of trees,
but of innumerable groups of trees, which spread their green canopies in
the air two hundred feet from the ground.
Some of these pines, still young, about a hundred years old, resembled
the red pine of Europe. They had a dark crown surmounted by a dark
conical shoot. Their older brethren, five or six hundred years of age,
formed great green pavilions supported on the inextricable network of
their branches. These patriarchs of the New Zealand forest measured
fifty yards in circumference, and the united arms of all the travelers
could not embrace the giant trunk.
For three days the little party made their way under these vast arches,
over a clayey soil which the foot of man had never trod. They knew this
by the quantity of resinous gum that lay in heaps at the foot of the
trees, and which would have lasted for native exportation many years.
The sportsmen found whole coveys of the kiwi, which are scarce in
districts frequented by the Maories; the native dogs drive them away to
the shelter of these inaccessible forests. They were an abundant source
of nourishing food to our travelers.
Paganel also had the good fortune to espy, in a thicket, a pair of
gigantic birds; his instinct as a naturalist was awakened. He called his
companions, and in spite of their fatigue, the Major, Robert, and he set
off on the track of these animals.
His curiosity was excusable, for he had recognized, or thought he
had recognized, these birds as “moas” belonging to the species of
“dinornis,” which many naturalists class with the extinct birds. This,
if Paganel was right, would confirm the opinion of Dr. Hochstetter and
other travelers on the present existence of the wingless giants of New
Zealand.
These moas which Paganel was chasing, the contemporaries of the
Megatherium and the Pterodactyles, must have been eighteen feet
high. They were huge ostriches, timid too, for they fled with extreme
rapidity. But no shot could stay their course. After a few minutes of
chase, these fleet-footed moas disappeared among the tall trees, and the
sportsmen lost their powder and their pains.
That evening, March 1, Glenarvan and his companions, emerging at last
from the immense kauri-forest, camped at the foot of Mount Ikirangi,
whose summit rose five thousand five hundred feet into the air. At this
point they had traveled a hundred miles from Maunganamu, and the
shore was still thirty miles away. John Mangles had calculated on
accomplishing the whole journey in ten days, but he did not foresee the
physical difficulties of the country.
On the whole, owing to the circuits, the obstacles, and the imperfect
observations, the journey had been extended by fully one-fifth, and now
that they had reached Mount Ikirangi, they were quite worn out.
Two long days of walking were still to be accomplished, during which
time all their activity and vigilance would be required, for their way
was through a district often frequented by the natives. The little party
conquered their weariness, and set out next morning at daybreak.
Between Mount Ikirangi which was left to the right, and Mount Hardy
whose summit rose on the left to a height of 3,700 feet, the journey was
very trying; for about ten miles the bush was a tangle of “supple-jack,”
a kind of flexible rope, appropriately called “stifling-creeper,” that
caught the feet at every step. For two days, they had to cut their
way with an ax through this thousand-headed hydra. Hunting became
impossible, and the sportsmen failed in their accustomed tribute. The
provisions were almost exhausted, and there was no means of renewing
them; their thirst was increasing by fatigue, and there was no water
wherewith to quench it.
The sufferings of Glenarvan and his party became terrible, and for the
first time their moral energy threatened to give way. They no longer
walked, they dragged themselves along, soulless bodies, animated only
by the instinct of self-preservation which survives every other feeling,
and in this melancholy plight they reached Point Lottin on the shores of
the Pacific.
Here they saw several deserted huts, the ruins of a village lately
destroyed by the war, abandoned fields, and everywhere signs of pillage
and incendiary fires.
They were toiling painfully along the shore, when they saw, at a
distance of about a mile, a band of natives, who rushed toward them
brandishing their weapons. Glenarvan, hemmed in by the sea, could not
fly, and summoning all his remaining strength he was about to meet the
attack, when John Mangles cried:
“A boat! a boat!”
And there, twenty paces off, a canoe with six oars lay on the beach. To
launch it, jump in and fly from the dangerous shore, was only a minute’s
work. John Mangles, McNabbs, Wilson and Mulrady took the oars; Glenarvan
the helm; the two women, Robert and Olbinett stretched themselves beside
him. In ten minutes the canoe was a quarter of a mile from the shore.
The sea was calm. The fugitives were silent. But John, who did not
want to get too far from land, was about to give the order to go up the
coast, when he suddenly stopped rowing.
He saw three canoes coming out from behind Point Lottin and evidently
about to give chase.
“Out to sea! Out to sea!” he exclaimed. “Better to drown if we must!”
The canoe went fast under her four rowers. For half an hour she kept
her distance; but the poor exhausted fellows grew weaker, and the three
pursuing boats began to gain sensibly on them. At this moment, scarcely
two miles lay between them. It was impossible to avoid the attack of the
natives, who were already preparing to fire their long guns.
What was Glenarvan about?--standing up in the stern he was looking
toward the horizon for some chimerical help. What did he hope for? What
did he wish? Had he a presentiment?
In a moment his eyes gleamed, his hand pointed out into the distance.
“A ship! a ship!” he cried. “My friends, row! row hard!”
Not one of the rowers turned his head--not an oar-stroke must be lost.
Paganel alone rose, and turned his telescope to the point indicated.
“Yes,” said he, “a ship! a steamer! they are under full steam! they are
coming to us! Found now, brave comrades!”
The fugitives summoned new energy, and for another half hour, keeping
their distance, they rowed with hasty strokes. The steamer came nearer
and nearer. They made out her two masts, bare of sails, and the great
volumes of black smoke. Glenarvan, handing the tiller to Robert, seized
Paganel’s glass, and watched the movements of the steamer.
John Mangles and his companions were lost in wonder when they saw
Glenarvan’s features contract and grow pale, and the glass drop from his
hands. One word explained it.
“The DUNCAN!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “The DUNCAN, and the convicts!”
“The DUNCAN!” cried John, letting go his oar and rising.
“Yes, death on all sides!” murmured Glenarvan, crushed by despair.
It was indeed the yacht, they could not mistake her--the yacht and her
bandit crew!
The major could scarcely restrain himself from cursing their destiny.
The canoe was meantime standing still. Where should they go? Whither
fly? What choice was there between the convicts and the savages?
A shot was fired from the nearest of the native boats, and the ball
struck Wilson’s oar.
A few strokes then carried the canoe nearer to the DUNCAN.
The yacht was coming down at full speed, and was not more than half a
mile off.
John Mangles, between two enemies, did not know what to advise, whither
to fly! The two poor ladies on their knees, prayed in their agony.
The savages kept up a running fire, and shots were raining round the
canoe, when suddenly a loud report was heard, and a ball from the
yacht’s cannon passed over their heads, and now the boat remained
motionless between the DUNCAN and the native canoes.
John Mangles, frenzied with despair, seized his ax. He was about to
scuttle the boat and sink it with his unfortunate companions, when a cry
from Robert arrested his arm.
“Tom Austin! Tom Austin!” the lad shouted. “He is on board! I see him!
He knows us! He is waving his hat.”
The ax hung useless in John’s hand.
A second ball whistled over his head, and cut in two the nearest of the
three native boats, while a loud hurrah burst forth on board the DUNCAN.
The savages took flight, fled and regained the shore.
“Come on, Tom, come on!” cried John Mangles in a joyous voice.
And a few minutes after, the ten fugitives, how, they knew not, were all
safe on board the DUNCAN.
CHAPTER XVI WHY THE “DUNCAN” WENT TO NEW ZEALAND
IT would be vain to attempt to depict the feelings of Glenarvan and his
friends when the songs of old Scotia fell on their ears. The moment they
set foot on the deck of the DUNCAN, the piper blew his bagpipes, and
commenced the national pibroch of the Malcolm clan, while loud hurrahs
rent the air.
Glenarvan and his whole party, even the Major himself, were crying and
embracing each other. They were delirious with joy. The geographer was
absolutely mad. He frisked about, telescope in hand, pointing it at the
last canoe approaching the shore.
But at the sight of Glenarvan and his companions, with their clothing in
rags, and thin, haggard faces, bearing marks of horrible sufferings,
the crew ceased their noisy demonstrations. These were specters who had
returned--not the bright, adventurous travelers who had left the yacht
three months before, so full of hope! Chance, and chance only, had
brought them back to the deck of the yacht they never thought to see
again. And in what a state of exhaustion and feebleness. But before
thinking of fatigue, or attending to the imperious demands of hunger and
thirst, Glenarvan questioned Tom Austin about his being on this coast.
Why had the DUNCAN come to the eastern coast of New Zealand? How was
it not in the hands of Ben Joyce? By what providential fatality had God
brought them in the track of the fugitives?
Why? how? and for what purpose? Tom was stormed with questions on all
sides. The old sailor did not know which to listen to first, and at last
resolved to hear nobody but Glenarvan, and to answer nobody but him.
“But the convicts?” inquired Glenarvan. “What did you do with them?”
“The convicts?” replied Tom, with the air of a man who does not in the
least understand what he is being asked.
“Yes, the wretches who attacked the yacht.”
“What yacht? Your Honor’s?”
“Why, of course, Tom. The DUNCAN, and Ben Joyce, who came on board.”
“I don’t know this Ben Joyce, and have never seen him.”
“Never seen him!” exclaimed Paganel, stupefied at the old sailor’s
replies. “Then pray tell me, Tom, how it is that the DUNCAN is cruising
at this moment on the coast of New Zealand?”
But if Glenarvan and his friends were totally at a loss to understand
the bewilderment of the old sailor, what was their amazement when he
replied in a calm voice:
“The DUNCAN is cruising here by your Honor’s orders.”
“By my orders?” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord. I only acted in obedience to the instructions sent in
your letter of January fourteenth.”
“My letter! my letter!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
The ten travelers pressed closer round Tom Austin, devouring him with
their eyes. The letter dated from Snowy River had reached the DUNCAN,
then.
“Let us come to explanations, pray, for it seems to me I am dreaming.
You received a letter, Tom?”
“Yes, a letter from your Honor.”
“At Melbourne?”
“At Melbourne, just as our repairs were completed.”
“And this letter?”
“It was not written by you, but bore your signature, my Lord.”
“Just so; my letter was brought by a convict called Ben Joyce.”
“No, by a sailor called Ayrton, a quartermaster on the BRITANNIA.”
“Yes, Ayrton or Ben Joyce, one and the same individual. Well, and what
were the contents of this letter?”
“It contained orders to leave Melbourne without delay, and go and cruise
on the eastern coast of--”
“Australia!” said Glenarvan with such vehemence that the old sailor was
somewhat disconcerted.
“Of Australia?” repeated Tom, opening his eyes. “No, but New Zealand.”
“Australia, Tom! Australia!” they all cried with one voice.
Austin’s head began to feel in a whirl. Glenarvan spoke with such
assurance that he thought after all he must have made a mistake in
reading the letter. Could a faithful, exact old servant like himself
have been guilty of such a thing! He turned red and looked quite
disturbed.
“Never mind, Tom,” said Lady Helena. “God so willed it.”
“But, no, madam, pardon me,” replied old Tom. “No, it is impossible, I
was not mistaken. Ayrton read the letter as I did, and it was he, on the
contrary, who wished to bring me to the Australian coast.”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, Ayrton himself. He insisted it was a mistake: that you meant to
order me to Twofold Bay.”
“Have you the letter still, Tom?” asked the Major, extremely interested
in this mystery.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Austin. “I’ll go and fetch it.”
He ran at once to his cabin in the forecastle. During his momentary
absence they gazed at each other in silence, all but the Major, who
crossed his arms and said:
“Well, now, Paganel, you must own this would be going a little too far.”
“What?” growled Paganel, looking like a gigantic note of interrogation,
with his spectacles on his forehead and his stooping back.
Austin returned directly with the letter written by Paganel and signed
by Glenarvan.
“Will your Honor read it?” he said, handing it to him.
Glenarvan took the letter and read as follows:
“Order to Tom Austin to put out to sea without delay, and to take the
Duncan, by latitude 37 degrees to the eastern coast of New Zealand!”
“New Zealand!” cried Paganel, leaping up.
And he seized the letter from Glenarvan, rubbed his eyes, pushed down
his spectacles on his nose, and read it for himself.
“New Zealand!” he repeated in an indescribable tone, letting the order
slip between his fingers.
That same moment he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round
found himself face to face with the Major, who said in a grave tone:
“Well, my good Paganel, after all, it is a lucky thing you did not send
the DUNCAN to Cochin China!”
This pleasantry finished the poor geographer. The crew burst out into
loud Homeric laughter. Paganel ran about like a madman, seized his head
with both hands and tore his hair. He neither knew what he was doing nor
what he wanted to do. He rushed down the poop stairs mechanically and
paced the deck, nodding to himself and going straight before without aim
or object till he reached the forecastle. There his feet got entangled
in a coil of rope. He stumbled and fell, accidentally catching hold of a
rope with both hands in his fall.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion was heard. The forecastle gun had gone
off, riddling the quiet calm of the waves with a volley of small shot.
The unfortunate Paganel had caught hold of the cord of the loaded gun.
The geographer was thrown down the forecastle ladder and disappeared
below.
A cry of terror succeeded the surprise produced by the explosion.
Everybody thought something terrible must have happened. The sailors
rushed between decks and lifted up Paganel, almost bent double. The
geographer uttered no sound.
They carried his long body onto the poop. His companions were in
despair. The Major, who was always the surgeon on great occasions, began
to strip the unfortunate that he might dress his wounds; but he had
scarcely put his hands on the dying man when he started up as if touched
by an electrical machine.
“Never! never!” he exclaimed, and pulling his ragged coat tightly round
him, he began buttoning it up in a strangely excited manner.
“But, Paganel,” began the Major.
“No, I tell you!”
“I must examine--”
“You shall not examine.”
“You may perhaps have broken--” continued McNabbs.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, getting up on his long legs, “but what I have
broken the carpenter can mend.”
“What is it, then?”
“There.”
Bursts of laughter from the crew greeted this speech. Paganel’s friends
were quite reassured about him now. They were satisfied that he had come
off safe and sound from his adventure with the forecastle gun.
“At any rate,” thought the Major, “the geographer is wonderfully
bashful.”
But now Paganel was recovered a little, he had to reply to a question he
could not escape.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “tell us frankly all about it. I own
that your blunder was providential. It is sure and certain that but for
you the DUNCAN would have fallen into the hands of the convicts; but for
you we should have been recaptured by the Maories. But for my sake tell
me by what supernatural aberration of mind you were induced to write New
Zealand instead of Australia?”
“Well, upon my oath,” said Paganel, “it is--”
But the same instant his eyes fell on Mary and Robert Grant, and he
stopped short and then went on:
“What would you have me say, my dear Glenarvan? I am mad, I am an idiot,
an incorrigible fellow, and I shall live and die the most terrible
absent man. I can’t change my skin.”
“Unless you get flayed alive.”
“Get flayed alive!” cried the geographer, with a furious look. “Is that
a personal allusion?”
“An allusion to what?” asked McNabbs, quietly. This was all that passed.
The mystery of the DUNCAN’S presence on the coast was explained, and
all that the travelers thought about now was to get back to their
comfortable cabins, and to have breakfast.
However, Glenarvan and John Mangles stayed behind with Tom Austin after
the others had retired. They wished to put some further questions to
him.
“Now, then, old Austin,” said Glenarvan, “tell me, didn’t it strike you
as strange to be ordered to go and cruise on the coast of New Zealand?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Tom. “I was very much surprised, but it is
not my custom to discuss any orders I receive, and I obeyed. Could I
do otherwise? If some catastrophe had occurred through not carrying out
your injunctions to the letter, should not I have been to blame? Would
you have acted differently, captain?”
“No, Tom,” replied John Mangles.
“But what did you think?” asked Glenarvan.
“I thought, your Honor, that in the interest of Harry Grant, it was
necessary to go where I was told to go. I thought that in consequence of
fresh arrangements, you were to sail over to New Zealand, and that I was
to wait for you on the east coast of the island. Moreover, on leaving
Melbourne, I kept our destination a secret, and the crew only knew it
when we were right out at sea, and the Australian continent was finally
out of sight. But one circumstance occurred which greatly perplexed me.”
“What was it, Tom?” asked Glenarvan.
“Just this, that when the quartermaster of the BRITANNIA heard our
destination--”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan. “Then he is on board?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Ayrton here?” repeated Glenarvan, looking at John Mangles.
“God has so willed!” said the young captain.
In an instant, like lightning, Ayrton’s conduct, his long-planned
treachery, Glenarvan’s wound, Mulrady’s assassination, the sufferings of
the expedition in the marshes of the Snowy River, the whole past life of
the miscreant, flashed before the eyes of the two men. And now, by the
strangest concourse of events, the convict was in their power.
“Where is he?” asked Glenarvan eagerly.
“In a cabin in the forecastle, and under guard.”
“Why was he imprisoned?”
“Because when Ayrton heard the vessel was going to New Zealand, he was
in a fury; because he tried to force me to alter the course of the ship;
because he threatened me; and, last of all, because he incited my men
to mutiny. I saw clearly he was a dangerous individual, and I must take
precautions against him.”
“And since then?”
“Since then he has remained in his cabin without attempting to go out.”
“That’s well, Tom.”
Just at this moment Glenarvan and John Mangles were summoned to the
saloon where breakfast, which they so sorely needed, was awaiting them.
They seated themselves at the table and spoke no more of Ayrton.
But after the meal was over, and the guests were refreshed and
invigorated, and they all went upon deck, Glenarvan acquainted them with
the fact of the quartermaster’s presence on board, and at the same time
announced his intention of having him brought before them.
“May I beg to be excused from being present at his examination?” said
Lady Helena. “I confess, dear Edward, it would be extremely painful for
me to see the wretched man.”
“He must be confronted with us, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan; “I beg
you will stay. Ben Joyce must see all his victims face to face.”
Lady Helena yielded to his wish. Mary Grant sat beside her, near
Glenarvan. All the others formed a group round them, the whole party
that had been compromised so seriously by the treachery of the convict.
The crew of the yacht, without understanding the gravity of the
situation, kept profound silence.
“Bring Ayrton here,” said Glenarvan.
CHAPTER XVII AYRTON’S OBSTINACY
AYRTON came. He crossed the deck with a confident tread, and mounted
the steps to the poop. His eyes were gloomy, his teeth set, his fists
clenched convulsively. His appearance betrayed neither effrontery nor
timidity. When he found himself in the presence of Lord Glenarvan he
folded his arms and awaited the questions calmly and silently.
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “here we are then, you and us, on this very
DUNCAN that you wished to deliver into the hands of the convicts of Ben
Joyce.”
The lips of the quartermaster trembled slightly and a quick flush
suffused his impassive features. Not the flush of remorse, but of shame
at failure. On this yacht which he thought he was to command as master,
he was a prisoner, and his fate was about to be decided in a few
seconds.
However, he made no reply. Glenarvan waited patiently. But Ayrton
persisted in keeping absolute silence.
“Speak, Ayrton, what have you to say?” resumed Glenarvan.
Ayrton hesitated, the wrinkles in his forehead deepened, and at length
he said in calm voice:
“I have nothing to say, my Lord. I have been fool enough to allow myself
to be caught. Act as you please.”
Then he turned his eyes away toward the coast which lay on the west, and
affected profound indifference to what was passing around him. One
would have thought him a stranger to the whole affair. But Glenarvan was
determined to be patient. Powerful motives urged him to find out certain
details concerning the mysterious life of Ayrton, especially those
which related to Harry Grant and the BRITANNIA. He therefore resumed his
interrogations, speaking with extreme gentleness and firmly restraining
his violent irritation against him.
“I think, Ayrton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to reply to
certain questions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought
I to call you Ayrton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the
quartermaster of the BRITANNIA?”
Ayrton remained impassive, gazing at the coast, deaf to every question.
Glenarvan’s eyes kindled, as he said again:
“Will you tell me how you left the BRITANNIA, and why you are in
Australia?”
The same silence, the same impassibility.
“Listen to me, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan; “it is to your interest to
speak. Frankness is the only resource left to you, and it may stand
you in good stead. For the last time, I ask you, will you reply to my
questions?”
Ayrton turned his head toward Glenarvan, and looked into his eyes.
“My Lord,” he said, “it is not for me to answer. Justice may witness
against me, but I am not going to witness against myself.”
“Proof will be easy,” said Glenarvan.
“Easy, my Lord,” repeated Ayrton, in a mocking tone. “Your honor makes
rather a bold assertion there, it seems to me. For my own part, I
venture to affirm that the best judge in the Temple would be puzzled
what to make of me. Who will say why I came to Australia, when Captain
Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce
placarded by the police, when the police have never had me in their
hands, and my companions are at liberty? Who can damage me except
yourself, by bringing forward a single crime against me, or even a
blameable action? Who will affirm that I intended to take possession of
this ship and deliver it into the hands of the convicts? No one, I
tell you, no one. You have your suspicions, but you need certainties to
condemn a man, and certainties you have none. Until there is a proof to
the contrary, I am Ayrton, quartermaster of the BRITANNIA.”
Ayrton had become animated while he was speaking, but soon relapsed into
his former indifference.
He, no doubt, expected that his reply would close the examination, but
Glenarvan commenced again, and said:
“Ayrton, I am not a Crown prosecutor charged with your indictment. That
is no business of mine. It is important that our respective situations
should be clearly defined. I am not asking you anything that could
compromise you. That is for justice to do. But you know what I am
searching for, and a single word may put me on the track I have lost.
Will you speak?”
Ayrton shook his head like a man determined to be silent.
“Will you tell me where Captain Grant is?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Will you tell me where the BRITANNIA was wrecked?”
“No, neither the one nor the other.”
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, in almost beseeching tones, “if you know where
Harry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor children, who are
waiting for you to speak the word?”
Ayrton hesitated. His features contracted, and he muttered in a low
voice, “I cannot, my Lord.”
Then he added with vehemence, as if reproaching himself for a momentary
weakness:
“No, I will not speak. Have me hanged, if you choose.”
“Hanged!” exclaimed Glenarvan, overcome by a sudden feeling of anger.
But immediately mastering himself, he added in a grave voice:
“Ayrton, there is neither judge nor executioner here. At the first
port we touch at, you will be given up into the hands of the English
authorities.”
“That is what I demand,” was the quartermaster’s reply.
Then he turned away and quietly walked back to his cabin, which served
as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with orders to watch
his slightest movement. The witnesses of this examination retired from
the scene indignant and despairing.
As Glenarvan could make no way against Ayrton’s obstinacy, what was to
be done now? Plainly no course remained but to carry out the plan
formed at Eden, of returning to Europe and giving up for the time
this unsuccessful enterprise, for the traces of the BRITANNIA seemed
irrevocably lost, and the document did not appear to allow any fresh
interpretation. On the 37th parallel there was not even another country,
and the DUNCAN had only to turn and go back.
After Glenarvan had consulted his friends, he talked over the question
of returning, more particularly with the captain. John examined the coal
bunkers, and found there was only enough to last fifteen days longer at
the outside. It was necessary, therefore, to put in at the nearest port
for a fresh supply.
John proposed that he should steer for the Bay of Talcahuano, where the
DUNCAN had once before been revictualed before she commenced her voyage
of circumnavigation. It was a direct route across, and lay exactly along
the 37th parallel. From thence the yacht, being amply provisioned, might
go south, double Cape Horn, and get back to Scotland by the Atlantic
route.
This plan was adopted, and orders were given to the engineer to get up
the steam. Half an hour afterward the beak-head of the yacht was turned
toward Talcahuano, over a sea worthy of being called the Pacific, and
at six P. M. the last mountains of New Zealand had disappeared in warm,
hazy mist on the horizon.
The return voyage was fairly commenced. A sad voyage, for the courageous
searching party to come back to the port without bringing home Harry
Grant with them! The crew, so joyous at departure and so hopeful, were
coming back to Europe defeated and discouraged. There was not one among
the brave fellows whose heart did not swell at the thought of seeing his
own country once more; and yet there was not one among them either who
would not have been willing to brave the perils of the sea for a long
time still if they could but find Captain Grant.
Consequently, the hurrahs which greeted the return of Lord Glenarvan to
the yacht soon gave place to dejection. Instead of the close intercourse
which had formerly existed among the passengers, and the lively
conversations which had cheered the voyage, each one kept apart from the
others in the solitude of his own cabin, and it was seldom that anyone
appeared on the deck of the DUNCAN.
Paganel, who generally shared in an exaggerated form the feelings
of those about him, whether painful or joyous--a man who could have
invented hope if necessary--even Paganel was gloomy and taciturn. He was
seldom visible; his natural loquacity and French vivacity gave place
to silence and dejection. He seemed even more downhearted than his
companions. If Glenarvan spoke at all of renewing the search, he shook
his head like a man who has given up all hope, and whose convictions
concerning the fate of the shipwrecked men appeared settled. It was
quite evident he believed them irrevocably lost.
And yet there was a man on board who could have spoken the decisive
word, and refused to break his silence. This was Ayrton. There was no
doubt the fellow knew, if not the present whereabouts of the captain, at
least the place of shipwreck. But it was evident that were Grant found,
he would be a witness against him. Hence his persistent silence, which
gave rise to great indignation on board, especially among the crew, who
would have liked to deal summarily with him.
Glenarvan repeatedly renewed his attempts with the quartermaster, but
promises and threats were alike useless. Ayrton’s obstinacy was so
great, and so inexplicable, that the Major began to believe he had
nothing to reveal. His opinion was shared, moreover, by the geographer,
as it corroborated his own notion about Harry Grant.
But if Ayrton knew nothing, why did he not confess his ignorance? It
could not be turned against him. His silence increased the difficulty
of forming any new plan. Was the presence of the quartermaster on
the Australian continent a proof of Harry Grant’s being there? It was
settled that they must get this information out of Ayrton.
Lady Helena, seeing her husband’s ill-success, asked his permission to
try her powers against the obstinacy of the quartermaster. When a man
had failed, a woman perhaps, with her gentler influence, might succeed.
Is there not a constant repetition going on of the story of the fable
where the storm, blow as it will, cannot tear the cloak from the
shoulders of the traveler, while the first warm rays of sunshine make
him throw it off immediately?
Glenarvan, knowing his young wife’s good sense, allowed her to act as
she pleased.
The same day (the 5th of March), Ayrton was conducted to Lady Helena’s
saloon. Mary Grant was to be present at the interview, for the influence
of the young girl might be considerable, and Lady Helena would not lose
any chance of success.
For a whole hour the two ladies were closeted with the quartermaster,
but nothing transpired about their interview. What had been said,
what arguments they used to win the secret from the convict, or what
questions were asked, remained unknown; but when they left Ayrton, they
did not seem to have succeeded, as the expression on their faces denoted
discouragement.
In consequence of this, when the quartermaster was being taken back to
his cabin, the sailors met him with violent menaces. He took no notice
except by shrugging his shoulders, which so increased their rage, that
John Mangles and Glenarvan had to interfere, and could only repress it
with difficulty.
But Lady Helena would not own herself vanquished. She resolved to
struggle to the last with this pitiless man, and went next day herself
to his cabin to avoid exposing him again to the vindictiveness of the
crew.
The good and gentle Scotchwoman stayed alone with the convict leader
for two long hours. Glenarvan in a state of extreme nervous anxiety,
remained outside the cabin, alternately resolved to exhaust completely
this last chance of success, alternately resolved to rush in and snatch
his wife from so painful a situation.
But this time when Lady Helena reappeared, her look was full of hope.
Had she succeeded in extracting the secret, and awakening in that
adamant heart a last faint touch of pity?
McNabbs, who first saw her, could not restrain a gesture of incredulity.
However the report soon spread among the sailors that the quartermaster
had yielded to the persuasions of Lady Helena. The effect was
electrical. The entire crew assembled on deck far quicker than Tom
Austin’s whistle could have brought them together.
Glenarvan had hastened up to his wife and eagerly asked:
“Has he spoken?”
“No,” replied Lady Helena, “but he has yielded to my entreaties, and
wishes to see you.”
“Ah, dear Helena, you have succeeded!”
“I hope so, Edward.”
“Have you made him any promise that I must ratify?”
“Only one; that you will do all in your power to mitigate his
punishment.”
“Very well, dear Helena. Let Ayrton come immediately.”
Lady Helena retired to her cabin with Mary Grant, and the quartermaster
was brought into the saloon where Lord Glenarvan was expecting him.
CHAPTER XVIII A DISCOURAGING CONFESSION
As soon as the quartermaster was brought into the presence of Lord
Glenarvan, his keepers withdrew.
“You wanted to speak to me, Ayrton?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
“Did you wish for a private interview?”
“Yes, but I think if Major McNabbs and Mr. Paganel were present it would
be better.”
“For whom?”
“For myself.”
Ayrton spoke quite calmly and firmly. Glenarvan looked at him for an
instant, and then sent to summon McNabbs and Paganel, who came at once.
“We are all ready to listen to you,” said Glenarvan, when his two
friends had taken their place at the saloon table.
Ayrton collected himself, for an instant, and then said:
“My Lord, it is usual for witnesses to be present at every contract or
transaction between two parties. That is why I desire the presence of
Messrs. Paganel and McNabbs, for it is, properly speaking, a bargain
which I propose to make.”
Glenarvan, accustomed to Ayrton’s ways, exhibited no surprise, though
any bargaining between this man and himself seemed strange.
“What is the bargain?” he said.
“This,” replied Ayrton. “You wish to obtain from me certain facts which
may be useful to you. I wish to obtain from you certain advantages which
would be valuable to me. It is giving for giving, my Lord. Do you agree
to this or not?”
“What are the facts?” asked Paganel eagerly.
“No,” said Glenarvan. “What are the advantages?”
Ayrton bowed in token that he understood Glenarvan’s distinction.
“These,” he said, “are the advantages I ask. It is still your intention,
I suppose, to deliver me up to the English authorities?”
“Yes, Ayrton, it is only justice.”
“I don’t say it is not,” replied the quartermaster quietly. “Then of
course you would never consent to set me at liberty.”
Glenarvan hesitated before replying to a question so plainly put. On the
answer he gave, perhaps the fate of Harry Grant might depend!
However, a feeling of duty toward human justice compelled him to say:
“No, Ayrton, I cannot set you at liberty.”
“I do not ask it,” said the quartermaster proudly.
“Then, what is it you want?”
“A middle place, my Lord, between the gibbet that awaits me and the
liberty which you cannot grant me.”
“And that is--”
“To allow me to be left on one of the uninhabited islands of the
Pacific, with such things as are absolute necessaries. I will manage as
best I can, and will repent if I have time.”
Glenarvan, quite unprepared for such a proposal, looked at his two
friends in silence. But after a brief reflection, he replied:
“Ayrton, if I agree to your request, you will tell me all I have an
interest in knowing.”
“Yes, my Lord, that is to say, all I know about Captain Grant and the
BRITANNIA.”
“The whole truth?”
“The whole.”
“But what guarantee have I?”
“Oh, I see what you are uneasy about. You need a guarantee for me, for
the truth of a criminal. That’s natural. But what can you have under the
circumstances. There is no help for it, you must either take my offer or
leave it.”
“I will trust to you, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, simply.
“And you do right, my Lord. Besides, if I deceive you, vengeance is in
your own power.”
“How?”
“You can come and take me again from where you left me, as I shall have
no means of getting away from the island.”
Ayrton had an answer for everything. He anticipated the difficulties
and furnished unanswerable arguments against himself. It was evident he
intended to affect perfect good faith in the business. It was impossible
to show more complete confidence. And yet he was prepared to go still
further in disinterestedness.
“My Lord and gentlemen,” he added, “I wish to convince you of the fact
that I am playing cards on the table. I have no wish to deceive you, and
I am going to give you a fresh proof of my sincerity in this matter. I
deal frankly with you, because I reckon on your honor.”
“Speak, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“My Lord, I have not your promise yet to accede to my proposal, and yet
I do not scruple to tell you that I know very little about Harry Grant.”
“Very little,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, the details I am in a position to give you relate to
myself. They are entirely personal, and will not do much to help you to
recover the lost traces of Captain Grant.”
Keen disappointment was depicted on the faces of Glenarvan and the
Major. They thought the quartermaster in the possession of an important
secret, and he declared that his communications would be very nearly
barren. Paganel’s countenance remained unmoved.
Somehow or other, this avowal of Ayrton, and surrender of himself, so to
speak, unconditionally, singularly touched his auditors, especially when
the quartermaster added:
“So I tell you beforehand, the bargain will be more to my profit than
yours.”
“It does not signify,” replied Glenarvan. “I accept your proposal,
Ayrton. I give you my word to land you on one of the islands of the
Pacific Ocean.”
“All right, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
Was this strange man glad of this decision? One might have doubted it,
for his impassive countenance betokened no emotion whatever. It seemed
as if he were acting for someone else rather than himself.
“I am ready to answer,” he said.
“We have no questions to put to you,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us all you
know, Ayrton, and begin by declaring who you are.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Ayrton, “I am really Tom Ayrton, the quartermaster
of the BRITANNIA. I left Glasgow on Harry Grant’s ship on the 12th of
March, 1861. For fourteen months I cruised with him in the Pacific in
search of an advantageous spot for founding a Scotch colony. Harry Grant
was the man to carry out grand projects, but serious disputes often
arose between us. His temper and mine could not agree. I cannot bend,
and with Harry Grant, when once his resolution is taken, any resistance
is impossible, my Lord. He has an iron will both for himself and others.
“But in spite of that, I dared to rebel, and I tried to get the crew to
join me, and to take possession of the vessel. Whether I was to blame
or not is of no consequence. Be that as it may, Harry Grant had no
scruples, and on the 8th of April, 1862, he left me behind on the west
coast of Australia.”
“Of Australia!” said the Major, interrupting Ayrton in his narrative.
“Then of course you had quitted the BRITANNIA before she touched at
Callao, which was her last date?”
“Yes,” replied the quartermaster, “for the BRITANNIA did not touch
there while I was on board. And how I came to speak of Callao at Paddy
O’Moore’s farm was that I learned the circumstances from your recital.”
“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“I found myself abandoned on a nearly desert coast, but only forty miles
from the penal settlement at Perth, the capital of Western Australia. As
I was wandering there along the shore, I met a band of convicts who had
just escaped, and I joined myself to them. You will dispense, my
Lord, with any account of my life for two years and a half. This much,
however, I must tell you, that I became the leader of the gang, under
the name of Ben Joyce. In September, 1864, I introduced myself at the
Irish farm, where I engaged myself as a servant in my real name, Ayrton.
I waited there till I should get some chance of seizing a ship. This was
my one idea. Two months afterward the DUNCAN arrived. During your visit
to the farm you related Captain Grant’s history, and I learned then
facts of which I was not previously aware--that the BRITANNIA had
touched at Callao, and that her latest news was dated June, 1862, two
months after my disembarkation, and also about the document and the loss
of the ship somewhere along the 37th parallel; and, lastly, the
strong reasons you had for supposing Harry Grant was on the Australian
continent. Without the least hesitation I determined to appropriate the
DUNCAN, a matchless vessel, able to outdistance the swiftest ships in
the British Navy. But serious injuries had to be repaired. I therefore
let it go to Melbourne, and joined myself to you in my true character
as quartermaster, offering to guide you to the scene of the shipwreck,
fictitiously placed by me on the east coast of Australia. It was in this
way, followed or sometimes preceded by my gang of convicts, I directed
your expedition toward the province of Victoria. My men committed a
bootless crime at Camden Bridge; since the DUNCAN, if brought to the
coast, could not escape me, and with the yacht once mine, I was master
of the ocean. I led you in this way unsuspectingly as far as the Snowy
River. The horses and bullocks dropped dead one by one, poisoned by the
gastrolobium. I dragged the wagon into the marshes, where it got half
buried. At my instance--but you know the rest, my Lord, and you may be
sure that but for the blunder of Mr. Paganel, I should now command the
DUNCAN. Such is my history, gentlemen. My disclosures, unfortunately,
cannot put you on the track of Harry Grant, and you perceive that you
have made but a poor bargain by coming to my terms.”
The quartermaster said no more, but crossed his arms in his usual
fashion and waited. Glenarvan and his friends kept silence. They felt
that this strange criminal had spoken the whole truth. He had only
missed his coveted prize, the DUNCAN, through a cause independent of
his will. His accomplices had gone to Twofold Bay, as was proved by
the convict blouse found by Glenarvan. Faithful to the orders of
their chief, they had kept watch on the yacht, and at length, weary of
waiting, had returned to the old haunt of robbers and incendiaries in
the country parts of New South Wales.
The Major put the first question, his object being to verify the dates
of the BRITANNIA.
“You are sure then,” he said, “that it was on the 8th of April you were
left on the west coast of Australia?”
“On that very day,” replied Ayrton.
“And do you know what projects Harry Grant had in view at the time?”
“In an indefinite way I do.”
“Say all you can, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “the least indication may set
us in the right course.”
“I only know this much, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, “that
Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. Now, as this part of the
programme was not carried out while I was on board, it is not impossible
that on leaving Callao the BRITANNIA went to reconnoiter New Zealand.
This would agree with the date assigned by the document to the
shipwreck--the 27th of June, 1862.”
“Clearly,” said Paganel.
“But,” objected Glenarvan, “there is nothing in the fragmentary words in
the document that could apply to New Zealand.”
“That I cannot answer,” said the quartermaster.
“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “you have kept your word, and I will
keep mine. We have to decide now on what island of the Pacific Ocean you
are to be left?”
“It matters little, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Return to your cabin,” said Glenarvan, “and wait our decision.”
The quartermaster withdrew, guarded by the two sailors.
“That villain might have been a man,” said the Major.
“Yes,” returned Glenarvan; “he is a strong, clear-headed fellow. Why was
it that he must needs turn his powers to such evil account?”
“But Harry Grant?”
“I must fear he is irrevocably lost. Poor children! Who can tell them
where their father is?”
“I can!” replied Paganel. “Yes; I can!” One could not help remarking
that the geographer, so loquacious and impatient usually, had scarcely
spoken during Ayrton’s examination. He listened without opening his
mouth. But this speech of his now was worth many others, and it made
Glenarvan spring to his feet, crying out: “You, Paganel! you know where
Captain Grant is?”
“Yes, as far as can be known.”
“How do you know?”
“From that infernal document.”
“Ah!” said the Major, in a tone of the most profound incredulity.
“Hear me first, and shrug your shoulders afterward,” said Paganel. “I
did not speak sooner, because you would not have believed me. Besides,
it was useless; and I only speak to-day because Ayrton’s opinion just
supports my own.”
“Then it is New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“Listen and judge,” replied Paganel. “It is not without reason, or,
rather, I had a reason for making the blunder which has saved our
lives. When I was in the very act of writing the letter to Glenarvan’s
dictation, the word ZEALAND was swimming in my brain. This is why. You
remember we were in the wagon. McNabbs had just apprised Lady Helena
about the convicts; he had given her the number of the _Australian and
New Zealand Gazette_ which contained the account of the catastrophe at
Camden Bridge. Now, just as I was writing, the newspaper was lying on
the ground, folded in such a manner that only two syllables of the
title were visible; these two syllables were ALAND. What a sudden light
flashed on my mind. ALAND was one of the words in the English document,
one that hitherto we had translated _a terre_, and which must have been
the termination of the proper noun, ZEALAND.”
“Indeed!” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, with profound conviction; “this meaning
had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my wits were exercised
naturally on the French document, as it was most complete, and in that
this important word was wanting.”
“Oh, oh!” said the Major; “your imagination goes too far, Paganel; and
you forget your former deductions.”
“Go on, Major; I am ready to answer you.”
“Well, then, what do you make of your word AUSTRA?”
“What it was at first. It merely means southern countries.”
“Well, and this syllable, INDI, which was first the root of the INDIANS,
and second the root of the word _indigenes?_”
“Well, the third and last time,” replied Paganel, “it will be the first
syllable of the word INDIGENCE.”
“And CONTIN?” cried McNabbs. “Does that still mean CONTINENT?”
“No; since New Zealand is only an island.”
“What then?” asked Glenarvan.
“My dear lord,” replied Paganel, “I am going to translate the document
according to my third interpretation, and you shall judge. I only make
two observations beforehand. First, forget as much as possible preceding
interpretations, and divest your mind of all preconceived notions.
Second, certain parts may appear to you strained, and it is possible
that I translate them badly; but they are of no importance; among
others, the word AGONIE, which chokes me; but I cannot find any other
explanation. Besides, my interpretation was founded on the French
document; and don’t forget it was written by an Englishman, who could
not be familiar with the idioms of the French language. Now then, having
said this much, I will begin.”
And slowly articulating each syllable, he repeated the following
sentences:
“LE 27th JUIN, 1862, _le trois-mats Britannia_, de _Glasgow, a sombre_
apres une longue AGONIE dans les mers AUSTRALES sur les cotes de la
Nouvelle ZELANDE--in English _Zealand. Deux matelots_ et le _Capitaine
Grant_ ont pu y ABORDER. La CONTINUellement en PRoie a une CRUELle
INDIgence, ils ont _jete ce document_ par--_de lon_gitude ET 37 degrees
11’ de LATItude. _Venex a leur_ secours, ou ils sont PERDUS!” (On the
27th of June, 1865, the three-mast vessel BRITANNIA, of Glasgow, has
foundered after a long AGOnie in the Southern Seas, on the coast of
New Zealand. Two sailors and Captain Grant have succeeded in landing.
Continually a prey to cruel indigence, they have thrown this document
into the sea in--longitude and 37 degrees 11’ latitude. Come to their
help, or they are lost.)
Paganel stopped. His interpretation was admissible. But precisely
because it appeared as likely as the preceding, it might be as false.
Glenarvan and the Major did not then try and discuss it. However,
since no traces of the BRITANNIA had yet been met with, either on the
Patagonian or Australian coasts, at the points where these countries are
crossed by the 37th parallel, the chances were in favor of New Zealand.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell me why you have kept this
interpretation secret for nearly two months?”
“Because I did not wish to buoy you up again with vain hopes. Besides,
we were going to Auckland, to the very spot indicated by the latitude of
the document.”
“But since then, when we were dragged out of the route, why did you not
speak?”
“Because, however just the interpretation, it could do nothing for the
deliverance of the captain.”
“Why not, Paganel?”
“Because, admitting that the captain was wrecked on the New Zealand
coast, now that two years have passed and he has not reappeared, he must
have perished by shipwreck or by the New Zealanders.”
“Then you are of the opinion,” said Glenarvan, “that--”
“That vestiges of the wreck might be found; but that the survivors of
the BRITANNIA have, beyond doubt, perished.”
“Keep all this silent, friends,” said Glenarvan, “and let me choose
a fitting moment to communicate these sad tidings to Captain Grant’s
children.”
CHAPTER XIX A CRY IN THE NIGHT
THE crew soon heard that no light had been thrown on the situation
of Captain Grant by the revelations of Ayrton, and it caused profound
disappointment among them, for they had counted on the quartermaster,
and the quartermaster knew nothing which could put the DUNCAN on the
right track.
The yacht therefore continued her course. They had yet to select the
island for Ayrton’s banishment.
Paganel and John Mangles consulted the charts on board, and exactly
on the 37th parallel found a little isle marked by the name of Maria
Theresa, a sunken rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, 3,500 miles
from the American coast, and 1,500 miles from New Zealand. The nearest
land on the north was the Archipelago of Pomotou, under the protectorate
of France; on the south there was nothing but the eternal ice-belt of
the Polar Sea. No ship would come to reconnoiter this solitary isle. No
echoes from the world would ever reach it. The storm birds only would
rest awhile on it during their long flight, and in many charts the rock
was not even marked.
If ever complete isolation was to be found on earth, it was on this
little out-of-the-way island. Ayrton was informed of its situation, and
expressed his willingness to live there apart from his fellows. The head
of the vessel was in consequence turned toward it immediately.
Two days later, at two o’clock, the man on watch signaled land on the
horizon. This was Maria Theresa, a low, elongated island, scarcely
raised above the waves, and looking like an enormous whale. It was still
thirty miles distant from the yacht, whose stem was rapidly cutting her
way over the water at the rate of sixteen knots an hour.
Gradually the form of the island grew more distinct on the horizon. The
orb of day sinking in the west, threw up its peculiar outlines in sharp
relief. A few peaks of no great elevation stood out here and there,
tipped with sunlight. At five o’clock John Mangles could discern a light
smoke rising from it.
“Is it a volcano?” he asked of Paganel, who was gazing at this new land
through his telescope.
“I don’t know what to think,” replied the geographer; “Maria Theresa
is a spot little known; nevertheless, it would not be surprising if its
origin were due to some submarine upheaval, and consequently it may be
volcanic.”
“But in that case,” said Glenarvan, “is there not reason to fear that if
an eruption produced it, an eruption may carry it away?”
“That is not possible,” replied Paganel. “We know of its existence for
several centuries, which is our security. When the Isle Julia emerged
from the Mediterranean, it did not remain long above the waves, and
disappeared a few months after its birth.”
“Very good,” said Glenarvan. “Do you think, John, we can get there
to-night?”
“No, your honor, I must not risk the DUNCAN in the dark, for I am
unacquainted with the coast. I will keep under steam, but go very
slowly, and to-morrow, at daybreak, we can send off a boat.”
At eight o’clock in the evening, Maria Theresa, though five miles to
leeward, appeared only an elongated shadow, scarcely visible. The DUNCAN
was always getting nearer.
At nine o’clock, a bright glare became visible, and flames shot up
through the darkness. The light was steady and continued.
“That confirms the supposition of a volcano,” said Paganel, observing it
attentively.
“Yet,” replied John Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the
noise which always accompanies an eruption, and the east wind brings no
sound whatever to our ear.”
“That’s true,” said Paganel. “It is a volcano that blazes, but does
not speak. The gleam seems intermittent too, sometimes, like that of a
lighthouse.”
“You are right,” said John Mangles, “and yet we are not on a lighted
coast.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “another fire? On the shore this time! Look! It
moves! It has changed its place!”
John was not mistaken. A fresh fire had appeared, which seemed to die
out now and then, and suddenly flare up again.
“Is the island inhabited then?” said Glenarvan.
“By savages, evidently,” replied Paganel.
“But in that case, we cannot leave the quartermaster there.”
“No,” replied the Major, “he would be too bad a gift even to bestow on
savages.”
“We must find some other uninhabited island,” said Glenarvan, who could
not help smiling at the delicacy of McNabbs. “I promised Ayrton his
life, and I mean to keep my promise.”
“At all events, don’t let us trust them,” added Paganel. “The New
Zealanders have the barbarous custom of deceiving ships by moving
lights, like the wreckers on the Cornish coast in former times. Now the
natives of Maria Theresa may have heard of this proceeding.”
“Keep her off a point,” called out John to the man at the helm.
“To-morrow at sunrise we shall know what we’re about.”
At eleven o’clock, the passengers and John Mangles retired to their
cabins. In the forepart of the yacht the man on watch was pacing the
deck, while aft, there was no one but the man at the wheel.
At this moment Mary Grant and Robert came on the poop.
The two children of the captain, leaning over the rail, gazed sadly at
the phosphorescent waves and the luminous wake of the DUNCAN. Mary was
thinking of her brother’s future, and Robert of his sister’s. Their
father was uppermost in the minds of both. Was this idolized parent
still in existence? Must they give him up? But no, for what would life
be without him? What would become of them without him? What would have
become of them already, but for Lord Glenarvan and Lady Helena?
The young boy, old above his years through trouble, divined the thoughts
that troubled his sister, and taking her hand in his own, said, “Mary,
we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father gave us. Keep
your courage up and no matter what befalls you, let us show this
obstinate courage which can rise above everything. Up to this time,
sister, you have been working for me, it is my turn now, and I will work
for you.”
“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.
“I must tell you something,” resumed Robert. “You mustn’t be vexed,
Mary!”
“Why should I be vexed, my child?”
“And you will let me do it?”
“What do you mean?” said Mary, getting uneasy.
“Sister, I am going to be a sailor!”
“You are going to leave me!” cried the young girl, pressing her
brother’s hand.
“Yes, sister; I want to be a sailor, like my father and Captain John.
Mary, dear Mary, Captain John has not lost all hope, he says. You have
confidence in his devotion to us, and so have I. He is going to make a
grand sailor out of me some day, he has promised me he will; and then
we are going to look for our father together. Tell me you are willing,
sister mine. What our father would have done for us it is our duty,
mine, at least, to do for him. My life has one purpose to which it
should be entirely consecrated--that is to search, and never cease
searching for my father, who would never have given us up. Ah, Mary, how
good our father was!”
“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, he was
already a glory to our country, and that he would have been numbered
among our great men if fate had not arrested his course.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Robert.
Mary put her arm around the boy, and hugged him fondly as he felt her
tears fall on his forehead.
“Mary, Mary!” he cried, “it doesn’t matter what our friends say, I still
hope, and will always hope. A man like my father doesn’t die till he has
finished his work.”
Mary Grant could not reply. Sobs choked her voice. A thousand feelings
struggled in her breast at the news that fresh attempts were about to be
made to recover Harry Grant, and that the devotion of the captain was so
unbounded.
“And does Mr. John still hope?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Robert. “He is a brother that will never forsake us,
never! I will be a sailor, you’ll say yes, won’t you, sister? And let me
join him in looking for my father. I am sure you are willing.”
“Yes, I am willing,” said Mary. “But the separation!” she murmured.
“You will not be alone, Mary, I know that. My friend John told me so.
Lady Helena will not let you leave her. You are a woman; you can and
should accept her kindness. To refuse would be ungrateful, but a man, my
father has said a hundred times, must make his own way.”
“But what will become of our own dear home in Dundee, so full of
memories?”
“We will keep it, little sister! All that is settled, and settled so
well, by our friend John, and also by Lord Glenarvan. He is to keep you
at Malcolm Castle as if you were his daughter. My Lord told my friend
John so, and he told me. You will be at home there, and have someone to
speak to about our father, while you are waiting till John and I bring
him back to you some day. Ah! what a grand day that will be!” exclaimed
Robert, his face glowing with enthusiasm.
“My boy, my brother,” replied Mary, “how happy my father would be if he
could hear you. How much you are like him, dear Robert, like our dear,
dear father. When you grow up you’ll be just himself.”
“I hope I may,” said Robert, blushing with filial and sacred pride.
“But how shall we requite Lord and Lady Glenarvan?” said Mary Grant.
“Oh, that will not be difficult,” replied Robert, with boyish
confidence. “We will love and revere them, and we will tell them so; and
we will give them plenty of kisses, and some day, when we can get the
chance, we will die for them.”
“We’ll live for them, on the contrary,” replied the young girl, covering
her brother’s forehead with kisses. “They will like that better, and so
shall I.”
The two children then relapsed into silence, gazing out into the dark
night, and giving way to long reveries, interrupted occasionally by a
question or remark from one to the other. A long swell undulated the
surface of the calm sea, and the screw turned up a luminous furrow in
the darkness.
A strange and altogether supernatural incident now occurred. The brother
and sister, by some of those magnetic communications which link souls
mysteriously together, were the subjects at the same time and the same
instant of the same hallucination.
Out of the midst of these waves, with their alternations of light
and shadow, a deep plaintive voice sent up a cry, the tones of which
thrilled through every fiber of their being.
“Come! come!” were the words which fell on their ears.
They both started up and leaned over the railing, and peered into the
gloom with questioning eyes.
“Mary, you heard that? You heard that?” cried Robert.
But they saw nothing but the long shadow that stretched before them.
“Robert,” said Mary, pale with emotion, “I thought--yes, I thought as
you did, that--We must both be ill with fever, Robert.”
A second time the cry reached them, and this time the illusion was so
great, that they both exclaimed simultaneously, “My father! My father!”
It was too much for Mary. Overcome with emotion, she fell fainting into
Robert’s arms.
“Help!” shouted Robert. “My sister! my father! Help! Help!”
The man at the wheel darted forward to lift up the girl. The sailors on
watch ran to assist, and John Mangles, Lady Helena, and Glenarvan were
hastily roused from sleep.
“My sister is dying, and my father is there!” exclaimed Robert, pointing
to the waves.
They were wholly at a loss to understand him.
“Yes!” he repeated, “my father is there! I heard my father’s voice; Mary
heard it too!”
Just at this moment, Mary Grant recovering consciousness, but wandering
and excited, called out, “My father! my father is there!”
And the poor girl started up, and leaning over the side of the yacht,
wanted to throw herself into the sea.
“My Lord--Lady Helena!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “I tell you
my father is there! I can declare that I heard his voice come out of the
waves like a wail, as if it were a last adieu.”
The young girl went off again into convulsions and spasms, which became
so violent that she had to be carried to her cabin, where Lady Helena
lavished every care on her. Robert kept on repeating, “My father! my
father is there! I am sure of it, my Lord!”
The spectators of this painful scene saw that the captain’s children
were laboring under an hallucination. But how were they to be
undeceived?
Glenarvan made an attempt, however. He took Robert’s hand, and said,
“You say you heard your father’s voice, my dear boy?”
“Yes, my Lord; there, in the middle of the waves. He cried out, ‘Come!
come!’”
“And did you recognize his voice?”
“Yes, I recognized it immediately. Yes, yes; I can swear to it! My
sister heard it, and recognized it as well. How could we both be
deceived? My Lord, do let us go to my father’s help. A boat! a boat!”
Glenarvan saw it was impossible to undeceive the poor boy, but he tried
once more by saying to the man at the wheel:
“Hawkins, you were at the wheel, were you not, when Miss Mary was so
strangely attacked?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Hawkins.
“And you heard nothing, and saw nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Now Robert, see?”
“If it had been Hawkins’s father,” returned the boy, with indomitable
energy, “Hawkins would not say he had heard nothing. It was my father,
my lord! my father.”
Sobs choked his voice; he became pale and silent, and presently fell
down insensible, like his sister.
Glenarvan had him carried to his bed, where he lay in a deep swoon.
“Poor orphans,” said John Mangles. “It is a terrible trial they have to
bear!”
“Yes,” said Glenarvan; “excessive grief has produced the same
hallucination in both of them, and at the same time.”
“In both of them!” muttered Paganel; “that’s strange, and pure science
would say inadmissible.”
He leaned over the side of the vessel, and listened attentively, making
a sign to the rest to keep still.
But profound silence reigned around. Paganel shouted his loudest. No
response came.
“It is strange,” repeated the geographer, going back to his cabin.
“Close sympathy in thought and grief does not suffice to explain this
phenomenon.”
Next day, March 4, at 5 A. M., at dawn, the passengers, including Mary
and Robert, who would not stay behind, were all assembled on the poop,
each one eager to examine the land they had only caught a glimpse of the
night before.
The yacht was coasting along the island at the distance of about a mile,
and its smallest details could be seen by the eye.
Suddenly Robert gave a loud cry, and exclaimed he could see two men
running about and gesticulating, and a third was waving a flag.
“The Union Jack,” said John Mangles, who had caught up a spy-glass.
“True enough,” said Paganel, turning sharply round toward Robert.
“My Lord,” said Robert, trembling with emotion, “if you don’t want me to
swim to the shore, let a boat be lowered. Oh, my Lord, I implore you to
let me be the first to land.”
No one dared to speak. What! on this little isle, crossed by the 37th
parallel, there were three men, shipwrecked Englishmen! Instantaneously
everyone thought of the voice heard by Robert and Mary the preceding
night. The children were right, perhaps, in the affirmation. The sound
of a voice might have reached them, but this voice--was it their
father’s? No, alas, most assuredly no. And as they thought of the
dreadful disappointment that awaited them, they trembled lest this new
trial should crush them completely. But who could stop them from going
on shore? Lord Glenarvan had not the heart to do it.
“Lower a boat,” he called out.
Another minute and the boat was ready. The two children of Captain
Grant, Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel, rushed into it, and six
sailors, who rowed so vigorously that they were presently almost close
to the shore.
At ten fathoms’ distance a piercing cry broke from Mary’s lips.
“My father!” she exclaimed.
A man was standing on the beach, between two others. His tall, powerful
form, and his physiognomy, with its mingled expression of boldness and
gentleness, bore a resemblance both to Mary and Robert. This was indeed
the man the children had so often described. Their hearts had not
deceived them. This was their father, Captain Grant!
The captain had heard Mary’s cry, for he held out his arms, and fell
flat on the sand, as if struck by a thunderbolt.
CHAPTER XX CAPTAIN GRANT’S STORY
JOY does not kill, for both father and children recovered before they
had reached the yacht. The scene which followed, who can describe?
Language fails. The whole crew wept aloud at the sight of these three
clasped together in a close, silent embrace.
The moment Harry Grant came on deck, he knelt down reverently. The pious
Scotchman’s first act on touching the yacht, which to him was the soil
of his native land, was to return thanks to the God of his deliverance.
Then, turning to Lady Helena and Lord Glenarvan, and his companions,
he thanked them in broken words, for his heart was too full to speak.
During the short passage from the isle to the yacht, his children had
given him a brief sketch of the DUNCAN’S history.
What an immense debt he owed to this noble lady and her friends!
From Lord Glenarvan, down to the lowest sailor on board, how all had
struggled and suffered for him! Harry Grant expressed his gratitude with
such simplicity and nobleness, his manly face suffused with pure and
sweet emotion, that the whole crew felt amply recompensed for the trials
they had undergone. Even the impassable Major himself felt a tear steal
down his cheek in spite of all his self-command; while the good, simple
Paganel cried like a child who does not care who sees his tears.
Harry Grant could not take his eyes off his daughter. He thought her
beautiful, charming; and he not only said so to himself, but repeated it
aloud, and appealed to Lady Helena for confirmation of his opinion,
as if to convince himself that he was not blinded by his paternal
affection. His boy, too, came in for admiration. “How he has grown!
he is a man!” was his delighted exclamation. And he covered the two
children so dear to him with the kisses he had been heaping up for them
during his two years of absence.
Robert then presented all his friends successively, and found means
always to vary the formula of introduction, though he had to say the
same thing about each. The fact was, each and all had been perfect in
the children’s eyes.
John Mangles blushed like a child when his turn came, and his voice
trembled as he spoke to Mary’s father.
Lady Helena gave Captain Grant a narrative of the voyage, and made
him proud of his son and daughter. She told him of the young hero’s
exploits, and how the lad had already paid back part of the paternal
debt to Lord Glenarvan. John Mangles sang Mary’s praises in such terms,
that Harry Grant, acting on a hint from Lady Helena, put his daughter’s
hand into that of the brave young captain, and turning to Lord and Lady
Glenarvan, said: “My Lord, and you, Madam, also give your blessing to
our children.”
When everything had been said and re-said over and over again, Glenarvan
informed Harry Grant about Ayrton. Grant confirmed the quartermaster’s
confession as far as his disembarkation on the coast of Australia was
concerned.
“He is an intelligent, intrepid man,” he added, “whose passions have led
him astray. May reflection and repentance bring him to a better mind!”
But before Ayrton was transferred, Harry Grant wished to do the honors
of his rock to his friends. He invited them to visit his wooden house,
and dine with him in Robinson Crusoe fashion.
Glenarvan and his friends accepted the invitation most willingly. Robert
and Mary were eagerly longing to see the solitary house where their
father had so often wept at the thought of them. A boat was manned, and
the Captain and his two children, Lord and Lady Glenarvan, the Major,
John Mangles, and Paganel, landed on the shores of the island.
A few hours sufficed to explore the whole domain of Harry Grant. It
was in fact the summit of a submarine mountain, a plateau composed of
basaltic rocks and volcanic DEBRIS. During the geological epochs of
the earth, this mountain had gradually emerged from the depths of the
Pacific, through the action of the subterranean fires, but for ages back
the volcano had been a peaceful mountain, and the filled-up crater, an
island rising out of the liquid plain. Then soil formed. The vegetable
kingdom took possession of this new land. Several whalers landed
domestic animals there in passing; goats and pigs, which multiplied and
ran wild, and the three kingdoms of nature were now displayed on this
island, sunk in mid ocean.
When the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA took refuge there, the
hand of man began to organize the efforts of nature. In two years and
a half, Harry Grant and his two sailors had metamorphosed the island.
Several acres of well-cultivated land were stocked with vegetables of
excellent quality.
The house was shaded by luxuriant gum-trees. The magnificent ocean
stretched before the windows, sparkling in the sunlight. Harry Grant
had the table placed beneath the grand trees, and all the guests seated
themselves. A hind quarter of a goat, nardou bread, several bowls of
milk, two or three roots of wild endive, and pure fresh water, composed
the simple repast, worthy of the shepherds of Arcadia.
Paganel was enchanted. His old fancies about Robinson Crusoe revived in
full force. “He is not at all to be pitied, that scoundrel, Ayrton!” he
exclaimed, enthusiastically. “This little isle is just a paradise!”
“Yes,” replied Harry Grant, “a paradise to these poor, shipwrecked
fellows that Heaven had pity on, but I am sorry that Maria Theresa was
not an extensive and fertile island, with a river instead of a stream,
and a port instead of a tiny bay exposed to the open sea.”
“And why, captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“Because I should have made it the foundation of the colony with which I
mean to dower Scotland.”
“Ah, Captain Grant, you have not given up the project, then, which made
you so popular in our old country?”
“No, my Lord, and God has only saved me through your efforts that I
might accomplish my task. My poor brothers in old Caledonia, all who are
needy must have a refuge provided for them in another land against their
misery, and my dear country must have a colony of her own, for herself
alone, somewhere in these seas, where she may find that independence and
comfort she so lacks in Europe.”
“Ah, that is very true, Captain Grant,” said Lady Helena. “This is a
grand project of yours, and worthy of a noble heart. But this little
isle--”
“No, madam, it is a rock only fit at most to support a few settlers;
while what we need is a vast country, whose virgin soil abounds in
untouched stores of wealth,” replied the captain.
“Well, captain,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “the future is ours, and this
country we will seek for together.”
And the two brave Scotchmen joined hands in a hearty grip and so sealed
the compact.
A general wish was expressed to hear, while they were on the island, the
account of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA, and of the two years spent by
the survivors in this very place. Harry Grant was delighted to gratify
their curiosity, and commenced his narration forthwith.
“My story,” he said, “is that of all the Robinson Crusoes cast upon an
island, with only God and themselves to rely on, and feeling it a duty
to struggle for life with the elements.
“It was during the night of the 26th or 27th of June, 1862, that the
BRITANNIA, disabled by a six days’ storm, struck against the rocks of
Maria Theresa. The sea was mountains high, and lifeboats were useless.
My unfortunate crew all perished, except Bob Learce and Joe Bell, who
with myself managed to reach shore after twenty unsuccessful attempts.
“The land which received us was only an uninhabited island, two miles
broad and five long, with about thirty trees in the interior, a few
meadows, and a brook of fresh water, which fortunately never dried up.
Alone with my sailors, in this corner of the globe, I did not despair.
I put my trust in God, and accustomed myself to struggle resolutely for
existence. Bob and Joe, my brave companions in misfortune, my friends,
seconded me energetically.
“We began like the fictitious Robinson Crusoe of Defoe, our model,
by collecting the planks of the ship, the tools, a little powder, and
firearms, and a bag of precious seeds. The first few days were painful
enough, but hunting and fishing soon afforded us a sure supply of food,
for wild goats were in abundance in the interior of the island, and
marine animals abounded on the coast. By degrees we fell into regular
ways and habits of life.
“I had saved my instruments from the wreck, and knew exactly the
position of the island. I found we were out of the route of vessels, and
could not be rescued unless by some providential chance. I accepted
our trying lot composedly, always thinking, however, of my dear ones,
remembering them every day in my prayers, though never hoping to see
them again.
“However, we toiled on resolutely, and before long several acres of land
were sown with the seed off the BRITANNIA; potatoes, endive, sorrel, and
other vegetables besides, gave wholesome variety to our daily fare.
We caught some young kids, which soon grew quite tame. We had milk and
butter. The nardou, which grew abundantly in dried up creeks, supplied
us with tolerably substantial bread, and we had no longer any fears for
our material life.
“We had built a log hut with the DEBRIS of the BRITANNIA, and this was
covered over with sail cloth, carefully tarred over, and beneath this
secure shelter the rainy season passed comfortably. Many a plan was
discussed here, and many a dream indulged in, the brightest of which is
this day realized.
“I had at first the idea of trying to brave the perils of the ocean in a
canoe made out of the spars of the ship, but 1,500 miles lay between us
and the nearest coast, that is to say the islands of the Archipelago
of Pomotou. No boat could have stood so long a voyage. I therefore
relinquished my scheme, and looked for no deliverance except from a
divine hand.
“Ah, my poor children! how often we have stood on the top of the rocks
and watched the few vessels passing in the distance far out at sea.
During the whole period of our exile only two or three vessels appeared
on the horizon, and those only to disappear again immediately. Two years
and a half were spent in this manner. We gave up hoping, but yet did not
despair. At last, early yesterday morning, when I was standing on the
highest peak of the island, I noticed a light smoke rising in the west.
It increased, and soon a ship appeared in sight. It seemed to be coming
toward us. But would it not rather steer clear of an island where there
was no harbor.
“Ah, what a day of agony that was! My heart was almost bursting. My
comrades kindled a fire on one of the peaks. Night came on, but no
signal came from the yacht. Deliverance was there, however. Were we to
see it vanish from our eyes?
“I hesitated no longer. The darkness was growing deeper. The ship might
double the island during the night. I jumped into the sea, and attempted
to make my way toward it. Hope trebled my strength, I cleft the waves
with superhuman vigor, and had got so near the yacht that I was scarcely
thirty fathoms off, when it tacked about.
“This provoked me to the despairing cry, which only my two children
heard. It was no illusion.
“Then I came back to the shore, exhausted and overcome with emotion and
fatigue. My two sailors received me half dead. It was a horrible night
this last we spent on the island, and we believed ourselves abandoned
forever, when day dawned, and there was the yacht sailing nearly
alongside, under easy steam. Your boat was lowered--we were saved--and,
oh, wonder of Divine goodness, my children, my beloved children, were
there holding out their arms to me!”
Robert and Mary almost smothered their father with kisses and caresses
as he ended his narrative.
It was now for the first time that the captain heard that he owed his
deliverance to the somewhat hieroglyphical document which he had placed
in a bottle and confined to the mercy of the ocean.
But what were Jacques Paganel’s thoughts during Captain Grant’s recital?
The worthy geographer was turning over in his brain for the thousandth
time the words of the document. He pondered his three successive
interpretations, all of which had proved false. How had this island,
called Maria Theresa, been indicated in the papers originally?
At last Paganel could contain himself no longer, and seizing Harry
Grant’s hand, he exclaimed:
“Captain! will you tell me at last what really was in your
indecipherable document?”
A general curiosity was excited by this question of the geographer,
for the enigma which had been for nine months a mystery was about to be
explained.
“Well, captain,” repeated Paganel, “do you remember the precise words of
the document?”
“Exactly,” replied Harry Grant; “and not a day has passed without my
recalling to memory words with which our last hopes were linked.”
“And what are they, captain?” asked Glenarvan. “Speak, for our _amour
propre_ is wounded to the quick!”
“I am ready to satisfy you,” replied Harry Grant; “but, you know, to
multiply the chances of safety, I had inclosed three documents in the
bottle, in three different languages. Which is it you wish to hear?”
“They are not identical, then?” cried Paganel.
“Yes, they are, almost to a word.”
“Well, then, let us have the French document,” replied Glenarvan. “That
is the one that is most respected by the waves, and the one on which our
interpretations have been mostly founded.”
“My Lord, I will give it you word for word,” replied Harry Grant.
“LE 27 JUIN, 1862, _le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, s’est perdu a
quinze cents lieues de la Patagonie, dans l’hemisphere austral. Partes a
terre, deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont atteint l’ile Tabor_--”
“Oh!” exclaimed Paganel.
“LA,” continued Harry Grant, “_continuellement en proie a une cruelle
indigence, ils ont jete ce document par_ 153 degrees _de longitude et_
37 degrees 11’ _de latitude. Venes a leur secours, ou ils sont perdus_.”
At the name of Tabor, Paganel had started up hastily, and now being
unable to restrain himself longer, he called out:
“How can it be Isle Tabor? Why, this is Maria Theresa!”
“Undoubtedly, Monsieur Paganel,” replied Harry Grant. “It is Maria
Theresa on the English and German charts, but is named Tabor on the
French ones!”
At this moment a vigorous thump on Paganel’s shoulder almost bent him
double. Truth obliges us to say it was the Major that dealt the blow,
though strangely contrary to his usual strict politeness.
“Geographer!” said McNabbs, in a tone of the most supreme contempt.
But Paganel had not even felt the Major’s hand. What was that compared
to the geographical blow which had stunned him?
He had been gradually getting nearer the truth, however, as he learned
from Captain Grant. He had almost entirely deciphered the indecipherable
document. The names Patagonia, Australia, New Zealand, had appeared to
him in turn with absolute certainty. CONTIN, at first CONTINENT, had
gradually reached its true meaning, _continuelle. Indi_ had successively
signified _indiens, indigenes_, and at last the right word was
found--INDIGENCE. But one mutilated word, ABOR, had baffled the
geographer’s sagacity. Paganel had persisted in making it the root of
the verb ABORDER, and it turned out to be a proper name, the French name
of the Isle Tabor, the isle which had been a refuge for the shipwrecked
sailors of the BRITANNIA. It was difficult to avoid falling into the
error, however, for on the English planispheres on the DUNCAN, the
little isle was marked Maria Theresa.
“No matter?” cried Paganel, tearing his hair; “I ought not to have
forgotten its double appellation. It is an unpardonable mistake, one
unworthy of a secretary of the Geographical Society. I am disgraced!”
“Come, come, Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena; “moderate your grief.”
“No, madam, no; I am a mere ass!”
“And not even a learned one!” added the Major, by way of consolation.
When the meal was over, Harry Grant put everything in order in his
house. He took nothing away, wishing the guilty to inherit the riches
of the innocent. Then they returned to the vessel, and, as Glenarvan
had determined to start the same day, he gave immediate orders for the
disembarkation of the quartermaster. Ayrton was brought up on the poop,
and found himself face to face with Harry Grant.
“It is I, Ayrton!” said Grant
“Yes, it is you, captain,” replied Ayrton, without the least sign of
surprise at Harry Grant’s recovery. “Well, I am not sorry to see you
again in good health.”
“It seems, Ayrton, that I made a mistake in landing you on an inhabited
coast.”
“It seems so, captain.”
“You are going to take my place on this uninhabited island. May Heaven
give you repentance!”
“Amen,” said Ayrton, calmly.
Glenarvan then addressed the quartermaster.
“It is still your wish, then, Ayrton, to be left behind?”
“Yes, my Lord!”
“And Isle Tabor meets your wishes?”
“Perfectly.”
“Now then, listen to my last words, Ayrton. You will be cut off here
from all the world, and no communication with your fellows is possible.
Miracles are rare, and you will not be able to quit this isle. You will
be alone, with no eye upon you but that of God, who reads the deepest
secrets of the heart; but you will be neither lost nor forsaken, as
Captain Grant was. Unworthy as you are of anyone’s remembrance, you will
not be dropped out of recollection. I know where you are, Ayrton; I know
where to find you--I shall never forget.”
“God keep your Honor,” was all Ayrton’s reply.
These were the final words exchanged between Glenarvan and the
quartermaster. The boat was ready and Ayrton got into it.
John Mangles had previously conveyed to the island several cases of
preserved food, besides clothing, and tools and firearms, and a supply
of powder and shot. The quartermaster could commence a new life of
honest labor. Nothing was lacking, not even books; among others, the
Bible, so dear to English hearts.
The parting hour had come. The crew and all the passengers were
assembled on deck. More than one felt his heart swell with emotion. Mary
Grant and Lady Helena could not restrain their feelings.
“Must it be done?” said the young wife to her husband. “Must the poor
man be left there?”
“He must, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “It is in expiation of his
crimes.”
At that moment the boat, in charge of John Mangles, turned away. Ayrton,
who remained standing, and still unmoved, took off his cap and bowed
gravely.
Glenarvan uncovered, and all the crew followed his example, as if
in presence of a man who was about to die, and the boat went off in
profound silence.
On reaching land, Ayrton jumped on the sandy shore, and the boat
returned to the yacht. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and
from the poop the passengers could see the quartermaster gazing at the
ship, standing with folded arms on a rock, motionless as a statue.
“Shall we set sail, my Lord?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, John,” replied Glenarvan, hastily, more moved than he cared to
show.
“Go on!” shouted John to the engineer.
The steam hissed and puffed out, the screw began to stir the waves, and
by eight o’clock the last peaks of Isle Tabor disappeared in the shadows
of the night.
CHAPTER XXI PAGANEL’S LAST ENTANGLEMENT
ON the 19th of March, eleven days after leaving the island, the DUNCAN
sighted the American coast, and next day dropped anchor in the bay of
Talcahuano. They had come back again after a voyage of five months,
during which, and keeping strictly along the 37th parallel, they had
gone round the world. The passengers in this memorable expedition,
unprecedented in the annals of the Travelers’ Club, had visited Chili,
the Pampas, the Argentine Republic, the Atlantic, the island of Tristan
d’Acunha, the Indian Ocean, Amsterdam Island, Australia, New Zealand,
Isle Tabor, and the Pacific. Their search had not been fruitless, for
they were bringing back the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA.
Not one of the brave Scots who set out at the summons of their chief,
but could answer to their names; all were returning to their old Scotia.
As soon as the DUNCAN had re-provisioned, she sailed along the coast
of Patagonia, doubled Cape Horn, and made a swift run up the Atlantic
Ocean. No voyage could be more devoid of incident. The yacht was simply
carrying home a cargo of happiness. There was no secret now on board,
not even John Mangles’s attachment to Mary Grant.
Yes, there was one mystery still, which greatly excited McNabbs’s
curiosity. Why was it that Paganel remained always hermetically fastened
up in his clothes, with a big comforter round his throat and up to his
very ears? The Major was burning with desire to know the reason of
this singular fashion. But in spite of interrogations, allusions, and
suspicions on the part of McNabbs, Paganel would not unbutton.
Not even when the DUNCAN crossed the line, and the heat was so great
that the seams of the deck were melting. “He is so DISTRAIT that
he thinks he is at St. Petersburg,” said the Major, when he saw the
geographer wrapped in an immense great-coat, as if the mercury had been
frozen in the thermometer.
At last on the 9th of May, fifty-three days from the time of leaving
Talcahuano, John Mangles sighted the lights of Cape Clear. The yacht
entered St. George’s Channel, crossed the Irish Sea, and on the 10th
of May reached the Firth of Clyde. At 11 o’clock she dropped anchor off
Dunbarton, and at 2 P.M. the passengers arrived at Malcolm Castle amidst
the enthusiastic cheering of the Highlanders.
As fate would have it then, Harry Grant and his two companions were
saved. John Mangles wedded Mary Grant in the old cathedral of St. Mungo,
and Mr. Paxton, the same clergyman who had prayed nine months before for
the deliverance of the father, now blessed the marriage of his daughter
and his deliverer. Robert was to become a sailor like Harry Grant and
John Mangles, and take part with them in the captain’s grand projects,
under the auspices of Lord Glenarvan.
But fate also decreed that Paganel was not to die a bachelor? Probably
so.
The fact was, the learned geographer after his heroic exploits, could
not escape celebrity. His blunders made quite a FURORE among the
fashionables of Scotland, and he was overwhelmed with courtesies.
It was then that an amiable lady, about thirty years of age, in fact,
a cousin of McNabbs, a little eccentric herself, but good and still
charming, fell in love with the geographer’s oddities, and offered
him her hand. Forty thousand pounds went with it, but that was not
mentioned.
Paganel was far from being insensible to the sentiments of Miss
Arabella, but yet he did not dare to speak. It was the Major who was the
medium of communication between these two souls, evidently made for
each other. He even told Paganel that his marriage was the last freak
he would be able to allow himself. Paganel was in a great state of
embarrassment, but strangely enough could not make up his mind to speak
the fatal word.
“Does not Miss Arabella please you then?” asked McNabbs.
“Oh, Major, she is charming,” exclaimed Paganel, “a thousand times too
charming, and if I must tell you all, she would please me better if she
were less so. I wish she had a defect!”
“Be easy on that score,” replied the Major, “she has, and more than one.
The most perfect woman in the world has always her quota. So, Paganel,
it is settled then, I suppose?”
“I dare not.”
“Come, now, my learned friend, what makes you hesitate?”
“I am unworthy of Miss Arabella,” was the invariable reply of the
geographer. And to this he would stick.
At last, one day being fairly driven in a corner by the intractable
Major, he ended by confiding to him, under the seal of secrecy, a
certain peculiarity which would facilitate his apprehension should the
police ever be on his track.
“Bah!” said the Major.
“It is really as I tell you,” replied Paganel.
“What does it matter, my worthy friend?”
“Do you think so, Major?”
“On the contrary, it only makes you more uncommon. It adds to your
personal merits. It is the very thing to make you the nonpareil husband
that Arabella dreams about.”
And the Major with imperturbable gravity left Paganel in a state of the
utmost disquietude.
A short conversation ensued between McNabbs and Miss Arabella. A
fortnight afterwards, the marriage was celebrated in grand style in
the chapel of Malcolm Castle. Paganel looked magnificent, but closely
buttoned up, and Miss Arabella was arrayed in splendor.
And this secret of the geographer would have been forever buried in
oblivion, if the Major had not mentioned it to Glenarvan, and he could
not hide it from Lady Helena, who gave a hint to Mrs. Mangles. To make
a long story short, it got in the end to M. Olbinett’s ears, and soon
became noised abroad.
Jacques Paganel, during his three days’ captivity among the Maories, had
been tattooed from the feet to the shoulders, and he bore on his chest a
heraldic kiwi with outspread wings, which was biting at his heart.
This was the only adventure of his grand voyage that Paganel could never
get over, and he always bore a grudge to New Zealand on account of
it. It was for this reason too, that, notwithstanding solicitation and
regrets, he never would return to France. He dreaded lest he should
expose the whole Geographical Society in his person to the jests
of caricaturists and low newspapers, by their secretary coming back
tattooed.
The return of the captain to Scotland was a national event, and Harry
Grant was soon the most popular man in old Caledonia. His son Robert
became a sailor like himself and Captain Mangles, and under the
patronage of Lord Glenarvan they resumed the project of founding a
Scotch colony in the Southern Seas.
Transcribers Note: I have made the following changes to the text:
PAGE LINE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO
5 31 drank drunk
13 22 shores. shores.”
13 27 Lady Glenarvan. Lord Glenarvan.
16 29 up ,Halbert.” up, Halbert.”
25 13 _sang froid_. SANG-FROID.
25 26 maneuvring maneuvering
31 12 unmistakingly unmistakably
34 19 Celedonian Caledonian
36 27 France. France.”
40 28 occular ocular
51 38 exceptions exception
52 6 prisoniers, prisonniers,
53 34 reconnoitred reconnoitered
54 38 Corientes Corrientes
56 10 Colts Colt’s
63 32 have attempted would have attempted
67 30 Mount Blanc. Mont Blanc.
67 36 Nevados Nevadas
62 38 impassible.” impassable.”
83 20 returns returned
83 38 Cameans, Camoens,
87 12 Argentile Argentine
96 25 sore of sort of
98 26 had drank had drunk
99 18 Vantana, Ventana,
100 21 drank drunk
102 19 minute’s minutes’
103 29 comrades’ comrade’s
104 21 them. them.”
104 24 _rio a ramada_ _rio a ramada_
109 21 time. time.”
110 34 wolf wolf;
112 33 never! never!”
113 38 RAMADO, RAMADA,
116 13 drank drunk
116 15 nandou NANDOU
118 30 estancias, ESTANCIAS,
120 28 TOLDERAI, TOLDERIA,
133 28 fugitive fugitives
134 21 tumultous tumultuous
135 21 hilgueros, HILGUEROS,
144 1 thegonie, theogonie,
144 30 Glascow Glasgow
144 36 prisoniers prisonniers
144 39 aplied applied
147 15 sub-species. sub-species.”
152 4 aproaching approaching
153 17 mation. mation.”
156 36 terra firma. _terra firma_.
159 1 Glenarvan. Glenarvan,
176 40 Mangle’s Mangles’
178 16 DEBRIS DEBRIS
180 8 ports port
187 33 Purday-Moore Purdy-Moore
190 5 longtitude longitude
191 37 warning warring
193 10 DENOUEMENT DENOUEMENT
195 19 rectillinear rectilinear
196 31 Pour “Pour
199 20 shipwrecked. shipwrecked
200 33 Britany. Britanny.
202 24 handsbreath. handsbreadth.
205 16 kow know
205 39 37 degrees” 37 degrees.”
206 42 Glasglow Glasgow
214 41 ROLE role
218 10 mounteback’s mountebank’s
219 18 day’s days’
222 13 monothremes; monotremes;
223 21 mleancholy melancholy
232 35 Glenarvan, Glenarvan
234 32 able but ible but
243 10 Pomoton?” Pomotou?”
243 37 Britanic Britannic
249 6 McNabb’s McNabbs
250 24 midst. mist.
251 40 but “but
253 29 terrestial terrestrial
256 11 his oasis, this oasis,
261 28 continuel continual
268 33 alluvion, alluvium,
271 26 aerial aerial
272 3 wagan, wagon,
272 7 gastralobium, gastrolobium,
272 34 Wimmero.” Wimmera.”
273 37 _sang _sang-
273 41 wo- woe-
274 40 two “two
280 11 disapepared. disappeared.
281 6 DENOUEMENT DENOUEMENT
281 13 Joye, Joyce,
282 29 It it It is
284 9 sorrrow, sorrow,
284 23 eurus emus
287 35 37 degree 37th degree
288 15 _sang froid_ _sang-froid_
312 29 wretches?” wretches!”
314 24 impassible. impassive.
316 41 fancy. fancy.”
326 35 impossisble impossible
327 41 him. him.”
335 27 patience. patience.”
339 15 1864. 1864.”
339 41 Tarankai Taranaki
340 10 Taranak Taranaki
341 15 Taranki Taranaki
347 11 Waikato?” Waikato!”
347 18 buscuit biscuit
348 30 irrefragable irrefragible
348 37 musquito. mosquito.
350 35 Adressing Addressing
352 42 lines of line of
356 41 Tohongo, Tohonga,
357 8 tuers tures
360 24 McNabb’s McNabbs’
364 20 orgie orgy
374 5 piron- Piron-
378 36 Ikana-Mani Ika-na-Mani
386 41 soup ,which soup, which
395 10 “moas’ “moas”
402 14 exciting excited
418 13 JUIN ,1862 JUIN, 1862
On page 390 I have omitted the following redundant line 40,
which properly begins page 391, as in the original text:
and his wonderful instinct shone out anew in this difficult
In addition, I have made the following changes to the chapter headings
and running heads:
PAGE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO
24 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
25 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
27 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
35 JAQUES JACQUES
37 JAQUES JACQUES
204 BRITANNIA “BRITANNIA”
398 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
