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
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