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
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