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.”
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