daylight to-morrow how to get ourselves out.”
Glenarvan acted on their advice, and came to a halt. Night came on
rapidly after a brief twilight, but the heat did not withdraw with the
light. Stifling vapors filled the air, and occasionally bright flashes
of lightning, the reflections of a distant storm, lighted up the sky
with a fiery glare. Arrangements were made for the night immediately.
They did the best they could with the sunk wagon, and the tent was
pitched beneath the shelter of the great trees; and if the rain did not
come, they had not much to complain about.
Ayrton succeeded, though with some difficulty, in extricating the three
bullocks. These courageous beasts were engulfed up to their flanks. The
quartermaster turned them out with the four horses, and allowed no one
but himself to see after their pasturage. He always executed his task
wisely, and this evening Glenarvan noticed he redoubled his care, for
which he took occasion to thank him, the preservation of the team being
of supreme importance.
Meantime, the travelers were dispatching a hasty supper. Fatigue and
heat destroy appetite, and sleep was needed more than food. Lady Helena
and Miss Grant speedily bade the company good-night, and retired. Their
companions soon stretched themselves under the tent or outside under the
trees, which is no great hardship in this salubrious climate.
Gradually they all fell into a heavy sleep. The darkness deepened owing
to a thick current of clouds which overspread the sky. There was not a
breath of wind. The silence of night was only interrupted by the cries
of the “morepork” in the minor key, like the mournful cuckoos of Europe.
Towards eleven o’clock, after a wretched, heavy, unrefreshing sleep, the
Major woke. His half-closed eyes were struck with a faint light running
among the great trees. It looked like a white sheet, and glittered like
a lake, and McNabbs thought at first it was the commencement of a fire.
He started up, and went toward the wood; but what was his surprise to
perceive a purely natural phenomenon! Before him lay an immense bed of
mushrooms, which emitted a phosphorescent light. The luminous spores of
the cryptograms shone in the darkness with intensity.
The Major, who had no selfishness about him, was going to waken Paganel,
that he might see this phenomenon with his own eyes, when something
occurred which arrested him. This phosphorescent light illumined the
distance half a mile, and McNabbs fancied he saw a shadow pass across
the edge of it. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was it some hallucination?
McNabbs lay down on the ground, and, after a close scrutiny, he could
distinctly see several men stooping down and lifting themselves up
alternately, as if they were looking on the ground for recent marks.
The Major resolved to find out what these fellows were about, and
without the least hesitation or so much as arousing his companions,
crept along, lying flat on the ground, like a savage on the prairies,
completely hidden among the long grass.
CHAPTER XVI A STARTLING DISCOVERY
IT was a frightful night. At two A. M. the rain began to fall in
torrents from the stormy clouds, and continued till daybreak. The tent
became an insufficient shelter. Glenarvan and his companions took refuge
in the wagon; they did not sleep, but talked of one thing and another.
The Major alone, whose brief absence had not been noticed, contented
himself with being a silent listener. There was reason to fear that if
the storm lasted longer the Snowy River would overflow its banks,
which would be a very unlucky thing for the wagon, stuck fast as it was
already in the soft ground. Mulrady, Ayrton and Mangles went several
times to ascertain the height of the water, and came back dripping from
head to foot.
At last day appeared; the rain ceased, but sunlight could not break
through the thick clouds. Large patches of yellowish water--muddy,
dirty ponds indeed they were--covered the ground. A hot steam rose from
the soaking earth, and saturated the atmosphere with unhealthy humidity.
Glenarvan’s first concern was the wagon; this was the main thing in his
eyes. They examined the ponderous vehicle, and found it sunk in the
mud in a deep hollow in the stiff clay. The forepart had disappeared
completely, and the hind part up to the axle. It would be a hard job to
get the heavy conveyance out, and would need the united strength of men,
bullocks, and horses.
“At any rate, we must make haste,” said John Mangles. “If the clay
dries, it will make our task still more difficult.”
“Let us be quick, then,” replied Ayrton.
Glenarvan, his two sailors, John Mangles, and Ayrton went off at
once into the wood, where the animals had passed the night. It was a
gloomy-looking forest of tall gum-trees; nothing but dead trees, with
wide spaces between, which had been barked for ages, or rather skinned
like the cork-oak at harvest time. A miserable network of bare branches
was seen above two hundred feet high in the air. Not a bird built its
nest in these aerial skeletons; not a leaf trembled on the dry branches,
which rattled together like bones. To what cataclysm is this phenomenon
to be attributed, so frequent in Australia, entire forests struck dead
by some epidemic; no one knows; neither the oldest natives, nor their
ancestors who have lain long buried in the groves of the dead, have ever
seen them green.
Glenarvan as he went along kept his eye fixed on the gray sky, on which
the smallest branch of the gum-trees was sharply defined. Ayrton was
astonished not to discover the horses and bullocks where he had left
them the preceding night. They could not have wandered far with the
hobbles on their legs.
They looked over the wood, but saw no signs of them, and Ayrton returned
to the banks of the river, where magnificent mimosas were growing.
He gave a cry well known to his team, but there was no reply. The
quartermaster seemed uneasy, and his companions looked at him with
disappointed faces. An hour had passed in vain endeavors, and Glenarvan
was about to go back to the wagon, when a neigh struck on his ear, and
immediately after a bellow.
“They are there!” cried John Mangles, slipping between the tall
branches of gastrolobium, which grew high enough to hide a whole flock.
Glenarvan, Mulrady, and Ayrton darted after him, and speedily shared his
stupefaction at the spectacle which met their gaze.
Two bullocks and three horses lay stretched on the ground, struck
down like the rest. Their bodies were already cold, and a flock of
half-starved looking ravens croaking among the mimosas were watching the
unexpected prey. Glenarvan and his party gazed at each other and Wilson
could not keep back the oath that rose to his lips.
“What do you mean, Wilson?” said Glenarvan, with difficulty controlling
himself. “Ayrton, bring away the bullock and the horse we have left;
they will have to serve us now.”
“If the wagon were not sunk in the mud,” said John Mangles, “these
two animals, by making short journeys, would be able to take us to the
coast; so we must get the vehicle out, cost what it may.”
“We will try, John,” replied Glenarvan. “Let us go back now, or they
will be uneasy at our long absence.”
Ayrton removed the hobbles from the bullock and Mulrady from the horse,
and they began to return to the encampment, following the winding margin
of the river. In half an hour they rejoined Paganel, and McNabbs, and
the ladies, and told them of this fresh disaster.
“Upon my honor, Ayrton,” the Major could not help saying, “it is a pity
that you hadn’t had the shoeing of all our beasts when we forded the
Wimerra.”
“Why, sir?” asked Ayrton.
“Because out of all our horses only the one your blacksmith had in his
hands has escaped the common fate.”
“That’s true,” said John Mangles. “It’s strange it happens so.”
“A mere chance, and nothing more,” replied the quartermaster, looking
firmly at the Major.
Major McNabbs bit his lips as if to keep back something he was about to
say. Glenarvan and the rest waited for him to speak out his thoughts,
but the Major was silent, and went up to the wagon, which Ayrton was
examining.
“What was he going to say. Mangles?” asked Glenarvan.
“I don’t know,” replied the young captain; “but the Major is not at all
a man to speak without reason.”
“No, John,” said Lady Helena. “McNabbs must have suspicions about
Ayrton.”
“Suspicions!” exclaimed Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.
“And what can they be?” asked Glenarvan. “Does he suppose him capable
of having killed our horses and bullocks? And for what purpose? Is not
Ayrton’s interest identical with our own?”
“You are right, dear Edward,” said Lady Helena! “and what is more, the
quartermaster has given us incontestable proofs of his devotion ever
since the commencement of the journey.”
“Certainly he has,” replied Mangles; “but still, what could the Major
mean? I wish he would speak his mind plainly out.”
“Does he suppose him acting in concert with the convicts?” asked
Paganel, imprudently.
“What convicts?” said Miss Grant.
“Monsieur Paganel is making a mistake,” replied John Mangles, instantly.
“He knows very well there are no convicts in the province of Victoria.”
“Ah, that is true,” returned Paganel, trying to get out of his unlucky
speech. “Whatever had I got in my head? Convicts! who ever heard
of convicts being in Australia? Besides, they would scarcely have
disembarked before they would turn into good, honest men. The climate,
you know, Miss Mary, the regenerative climate--”
Here the poor SAVANT stuck fast, unable to get further, like the wagon
in the mud. Lady Helena looked at him in surprise, which quite deprived
him of his remaining -sang-froid;- but seeing his embarrassment, she
took Mary away to the side of the tent, where M. Olbinett was laying out
an elaborate breakfast.
“I deserve to be transported myself,” said Paganel, woefully.
“I think so,” said Glenarvan.
And after this grave reply, which completely overwhelmed the worthy
geographer, Glenarvan and John Mangles went toward the wagon.
They found Ayrton and the two sailors doing their best to get it out of
the deep ruts, and the bullock and horse, yoked together, were straining
every muscle. Wilson and Mulrady were pushing the wheels, and the
quartermaster urging on the team with voice and goad; but the heavy
vehicle did not stir, the clay, already dry, held it as firmly as if
sealed by some hydraulic cement.
John Mangles had the clay watered to loosen it, but it was of no use.
After renewed vigorous efforts, men and animals stopped. Unless the
vehicle was taken to pieces, it would be impossible to extricate it from
the mud; but they had no tools for the purpose, and could not attempt
such a task.
However, Ayrton, who was for conquering this obstacle at all costs, was
about to commence afresh, when Glenarvan stopped him by saying: “Enough,
Ayrton, enough. We must husband the strength of our remaining horse
and bullock. If we are obliged to continue our journey on foot, the one
animal can carry the ladies and the other the provisions. They may thus
still be of great service to us.”
“Very well, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, un-yoking the exhausted
beasts.
“Now, friends,” added Glenarvan, “let us return to the encampment and
deliberately examine our situation, and determine on our course of
action.”
After a tolerably good breakfast to make up for their bad night, the
discussion was opened, and every one of the party was asked to give his
opinion. The first point was to ascertain their exact position, and this
was referred to Paganel, who informed them, with his customary rigorous
accuracy, that the expedition had been stopped on the 37th parallel, in
longitude 147 degrees 53 minutes, on the banks of the Snowy River.
“What is the exact longitude of Twofold Bay?” asked Glenarvan.
“One hundred and fifty degrees,” replied Paganel; “two degrees seven
minutes distant from this, and that is equal to seventy-five miles.”
“And Melbourne is?”
“Two hundred miles off at least.”
“Very good. Our position being then settled, what is best to do?”
The response was unanimous to get to the coast without delay. Lady
Helena and Mary Grant undertook to go five miles a day. The courageous
ladies did not shrink, if necessary, from walking the whole distance
between the Snowy River and Twofold Bay.
“You are a brave traveling companion, dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan.
“But are we sure of finding at the bay all we want when we get there?”
“Without the least doubt,” replied Paganel. “Eden is a municipality
which already numbers many years in existence; its port must have
frequent communication with Melbourne. I suppose even at Delegete, on
the Victoria frontier, thirty-five miles from here, we might revictual
our expedition, and find fresh means of transport.”
“And the DUNCAN?” asked Ayrton. “Don’t you think it advisable to send
for her to come to the bay?”
“What do you think, John?” said Glenarvan.
“I don’t think your lordship should be in any hurry about it,” replied
the young captain, after brief reflection. “There will be time enough to
give orders to Tom Austin, and summon him to the coast.”
“That’s quite certain,” added Paganel.
“You see,” said John, “in four or five days we shall reach Eden.”
“Four or five days!” repeated Ayrton, shaking his head; “say fifteen or
twenty, Captain, if you don’t want to repent your mistake when it is too
late.”
“Fifteen or twenty days to go seventy-five miles?” cried Glenarvan.
“At the least, my Lord. You are going to traverse the most difficult
portion of Victoria, a desert, where everything is wanting, the
squatters say; plains covered with scrub, where is no beaten track
and no stations. You will have to walk hatchet or torch in hand, and,
believe me, that’s not quick work.”
Ayrton had spoken in a firm tone, and Paganel, at whom all the others
looked inquiringly, nodded his head in token of his agreement in opinion
with the quartermaster.
But John Mangles said, “Well, admitting these difficulties, in fifteen
days at most your Lordship can send orders to the DUNCAN.”
“I have to add,” said Ayrton, “that the principal difficulties are not
the obstacles in the road, but the Snowy River has to be crossed, and
most probably we must wait till the water goes down.”
“Wait!” cried John. “Is there no ford?”
“I think not,” replied Ayrton. “This morning I was looking for some
practical crossing, but could not find any. It is unusual to meet with
such a tumultuous river at this time of the year, and it is a fatality
against which I am powerless.”
“Is this Snowy River wide?” asked Lady Helena.
“Wide and deep, Madam,” replied Ayrton; “a mile wide, with an impetuous
current. A good swimmer could not go over without danger.”
“Let us build a boat then,” said Robert, who never stuck at anything.
“We have only to cut down a tree and hollow it out, and get in and be
off.”
“He’s going ahead, this boy of Captain Grant’s!” said Paganel.
“And he’s right,” returned John Mangles. “We shall be forced to come to
that, and I think it is useless to waste our time in idle discussion.”
“What do you think of it, Ayrton?” asked Glenarvan seriously.
“I think, my Lord, that a month hence, unless some help arrives, we
shall find ourselves still on the banks of the Snowy.”
“Well, then, have you any better plan to propose?” said John Mangles,
somewhat impatiently.
“Yes, that the DUNCAN should leave Melbourne, and go to the east coast.”
“Oh, always the same story! And how could her presence at the bay
facilitate our means of getting there?”
Ayrton waited an instant before answering, and then said, rather
evasively: “I have no wish to obtrude my opinions. What I do is for
our common good, and I am ready to start the moment his honor gives the
signal.” And he crossed his arms and was silent.
“That is no reply, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us your plan, and we
will discuss it. What is it you propose?”
Ayrton replied in a calm tone of assurance: “I propose that we should
not venture beyond the Snowy in our present condition. It is here we
must wait till help comes, and this help can only come from the DUNCAN.
Let us camp here, where we have provisions, and let one of us take your
orders to Tom Austin to go on to Twofold Bay.”
This unexpected proposition was greeted with astonishment, and by John
Mangles with openly-expressed opposition.
“Meantime,” continued Ayrton, “either the river will get lower, and
allow us to ford it, or we shall have time to make a canoe. This is the
plan I submit for your Lordship’s approval.”
“Well, Ayrton,” replied Glenarvan, “your plan is worthy of serious
consideration. The worst thing about it is the delay it would cause; but
it would save us great fatigue, and perhaps danger. What do you think of
it, friends?”
“Speak your mind, McNabbs,” said Lady Helena. “Since the beginning of
the discussion you have been only a listener, and very sparing of your
words.”
“Since you ask my advice,” said the Major, “I will give it you frankly.
I think Ayrton has spoken wisely and well, and I side with him.”
Such a reply was hardly looked for, as hitherto the Major had been
strongly opposed to Ayrton’s project. Ayrton himself was surprised, and
gave a hasty glance at the Major. However, Paganel, Lady Helena, and the
sailors were all of the same way of thinking; and since McNabbs had come
over to his opinion, Glenarvan decided that the quartermaster’s plan
should be adopted in principle.
“And now, John,” he added, “don’t you think yourself it would be prudent
to encamp here, on the banks of the river Snowy, till we can get some
means of conveyance.”
“Yes,” replied John Mangles, “if our messenger can get across the Snowy
when we cannot.”
All eyes were turned on the quartermaster, who said, with the air of
a man who knew what he was about: “The messenger will not cross the
river.”
“Indeed!” said John Mangles.
“He will simply go back to the Lucknow Road which leads straight to
Melbourne.”
“Go two hundred and fifty miles on foot!” cried the young Captain.
“On horseback,” replied Ayrton. “There is one horse sound enough at
present. It will only be an affair of four days. Allow the DUNCAN two
days more to get to the bay and twenty hours to get back to the camp,
and in a week the messenger can be back with the entire crew of the
vessel.”
The Major nodded approvingly as Ayrton spoke, to the profound
astonishment of John Mangles; but as every one was in favor of the plan
all there was to do was to carry it out as quickly as possible.
“Now, then, friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must settle who is to be our
messenger. It will be a fatiguing, perilous mission. I would not conceal
the fact from you. Who is disposed, then, to sacrifice himself for his
companions and carry our instructions to Melbourne?”
Wilson and Mulrady, and also Paganel, John Mangles and Robert instantly
offered their services. John particularly insisted that he should be
intrusted with the business; but Ayrton, who had been silent till that
moment, now said: “With your Honor’s permission I will go myself. I
am accustomed to all the country round. Many a time I have been across
worse parts. I can go through where another would stick. I ask then, for
the good of all, that I may be sent to Melbourne. A word from you will
accredit me with your chief officer, and in six days I guarantee the
DUNCAN shall be in Twofold Bay.”
“That’s well spoken,” replied Glenarvan. “You are a clever, daring
fellow, and you will succeed.”
It was quite evident the quartermaster was the fittest man for the
mission. All the rest withdrew from the competition. John Mangles made
this one last objection, that the presence of Ayrton was necessary to
discover traces of the BRITANNIA or Harry Grant. But the Major justly
observed that the expedition would remain on the banks of the Snowy till
the return of Ayrton, that they had no idea of resuming their search
without him, and that consequently his absence would not in the least
prejudice the Captain’s interests.
“Well, go, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Be as quick as you can, and come
back by Eden to our camp.”
A gleam of satisfaction shot across the quartermaster’s face. He
turned away his head, but not before John Mangles caught the look and
instinctively felt his old distrust of Ayrton revive.
The quartermaster made immediate preparations for departure, assisted
by the two sailors, one of whom saw to the horse and the other to the
provisions. Glenarvan, meantime, wrote his letter for Tom Austin. He
ordered his chief officer to repair without delay to Twofold Bay. He
introduced the quartermaster to him as a man worthy of all confidence.
On arriving at the coast, Tom was to dispatch a detachment of sailors
from the yacht under his orders.
Glenarvan was just at this part of his letter, when McNabbs, who was
following him with his eyes, asked him in a singular tone, how he wrote
Ayrton’s name.
“Why, as it is pronounced, of course,” replied Glenarvan.
“It is a mistake,” replied the Major quietly. “He pronounces it AYRTON,
but he writes it -Ben Joyce!-”
CHAPTER XVII THE PLOT UNVEILED
THE revelation of Tom Ayrton’s name was like a clap of thunder. Ayrton
had started up quickly and grasped his revolver. A report was heard, and
Glenarvan fell wounded by a ball. Gunshots resounded at the same time
outside.
John Mangles and the sailors, after their first surprise, would have
seized Ben Joyce; but the bold convict had already disappeared and
rejoined his gang scattered among the gum-trees.
The tent was no shelter against the balls. It was necessary to beat a
retreat. Glenarvan was slightly wounded, but could stand up.
“To the wagon--to the wagon!” cried John Mangles, dragging Lady Helena
and Mary Grant along, who were soon in safety behind the thick curtains.
John and the Major, and Paganel and the sailors seized their carbines in
readiness to repulse the convicts. Glenarvan and Robert went in beside
the ladies, while Olbinett rushed to the common defense.
These events occurred with the rapidity of lightning. John Mangles
watched the skirts of the wood attentively. The reports had ceased
suddenly on the arrival of Ben Joyce; profound silence had succeeded the
noisy fusillade. A few wreaths of white smoke were still curling
over the tops of the gum trees. The tall tufts of gastrolobium were
motionless. All signs of attack had disappeared.
The Major and John Mangles examined the wood closely as far as the
great trees; the place was abandoned. Numerous footmarks were there and
several half-burned caps were lying smoking on the ground. The Major,
like a prudent man, extinguished these carefully, for a spark would be
enough to kindle a tremendous conflagration in this forest of dry trees.
“The convicts have disappeared!” said John Mangles.
“Yes,” replied the Major; “and the disappearance of them makes me
uneasy. I prefer seeing them face to face. Better to meet a tiger on the
plain than a serpent in the grass. Let us beat the bushes all round the
wagon.”
The Major and John hunted all round the country, but there was not a
convict to be seen from the edge of the wood right down to the river.
Ben Joyce and his gang seemed to have flown away like a flock of
marauding birds. It was too sudden a disappearance to let the travelers
feel perfectly safe; consequently they resolved to keep a sharp lookout.
The wagon, a regular fortress buried in mud, was made the center of
the camp, and two men mounted guard round it, who were relieved hour by
hour.
The first care of Lady Helena and Mary was to dress Glenarvan’s wound.
Lady Helena rushed toward him in terror, as he fell down struck by Ben
Joyce’s ball. Controlling her agony, the courageous woman helped her
husband into the wagon. Then his shoulder was bared, and the Major
found, on examination, that the ball had only gone into the flesh, and
there was no internal lesion. Neither bone nor muscle appeared to be
injured. The wound bled profusely, but Glenarvan could use his fingers
and forearm; and consequently there was no occasion for any uneasiness
about the issue. As soon as his shoulder was dressed, he would not
allow any more fuss to be made about himself, but at once entered on the
business in hand.
All the party, except Mulrady and Wilson, who were on guard, were
brought into the wagon, and the Major was asked to explain how this
DENOUEMENT had come about.
Before commencing his recital, he told Lady Helena about the escape of
the convicts at Perth, and their appearance in Victoria; as also their
complicity in the railway catastrophe. He handed her the -Australian and
New Zealand Gazette- they had bought in Seymour, and added that a reward
had been offered by the police for the apprehension of Ben Joyce, a
redoubtable bandit, who had become a noted character during the last
eighteen months, for doing deeds of villainy and crime.
But how had McNabbs found out that Ayrton and Ben Joyce were one and
the same individual? This was the mystery to be unraveled, and the Major
soon explained it.
Ever since their first meeting, McNabbs had felt an instinctive distrust
of the quartermaster. Two or three insignificant facts, a hasty glance
exchanged between him and the blacksmith at the Wimerra River, his
unwillingness to cross towns and villages, his persistence about getting
the DUNCAN summoned to the coast, the strange death of the animals
entrusted to his care, and, lastly, a want of frankness in all
his behavior--all these details combined had awakened the Major’s
suspicions.
However, he could not have brought any direct accusation against him
till the events of the preceding evening had occurred. He then told of
his experience.
McNabbs, slipping between the tall shrubs, got within reach of the
suspicious shadows he had noticed about half a mile away from the
encampment. The phosphorescent furze emitted a faint light, by which he
could discern three men examining marks on the ground, and one of the
three was the blacksmith of Black Point.
“‘It is them!’ said one of the men. ‘Yes,’ replied another, ‘there is
the trefoil on the mark of the horseshoe. It has been like that since
the Wimerra.’ ‘All the horses are dead.’ ‘The poison is not far off.’
‘There is enough to kill a regiment of cavalry.’ ‘A useful plant this
gastrolobium.’
“I heard them say this to each other, and then they were quite silent;
but I did not know enough yet, so I followed them. Soon the conversation
began again. ‘He is a clever fellow, this Ben Joyce,’ said the
blacksmith. ‘A capital quartermaster, with his invention of shipwreck.’
‘If his project succeeds, it will be a stroke of fortune.’ ‘He is a very
devil, is this Ayrton.’ ‘Call him Ben Joyce, for he has well earned his
name.’ And then the scoundrels left the forest.
“I had all the information I wanted now, and came back to the camp quite
convinced, begging Paganel’s pardon, that Australia does not reform
criminals.”
This was all the Major’s story, and his companions sat silently thinking
over it.
“Then Ayrton has dragged us here,” said Glenarvan, pale with anger, “on
purpose to rob and assassinate us.”
“For nothing else,” replied the Major; “and ever since we left the
Wimerra, his gang has been on our track and spying on us, waiting for a
favorable opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“Then the wretch was never one of the sailors on the BRITANNIA; he had
stolen the name of Ayrton and the shipping papers.”
They were all looking at McNabbs for an answer, for he must have put the
question to himself already.
“There is no great certainty about the matter,” he replied, in his usual
calm voice; “but in my opinion the man’s name is really Ayrton. Ben
Joyce is his -nom de guerre-. It is an incontestible fact that he knew
Harry Grant, and also that he was quartermaster on the BRITANNIA. These
facts were proved by the minute details given us by Ayrton, and are
corroborated by the conversation between the convicts, which I repeated
to you. We need not lose ourselves in vain conjectures, but consider it
as certain that Ben Joyce is Ayrton, and that Ayrton is Ben Joyce; that
is to say, one of the crew of the BRITANNIA has turned leader of the
convict gang.”
The explanations of McNabbs were accepted without discussion.
“Now, then,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell us how and why Harry Grant’s
quartermaster comes to be in Australia?”
“How, I don’t know,” replied McNabbs; “and the police declare they are
as ignorant on the subject as myself. Why, it is impossible to say; that
is a mystery which the future may explain.”
“The police are not even aware of Ayrton’s identity with Ben Joyce,”
said John Mangles.
“You are right, John,” replied the Major, “and this circumstance would
throw light on their search.”
“Then, I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “the wicked wretch had got work on
Paddy O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intent?”
“There is not the least doubt of it. He was planning some evil design
against the Irishman, when a better chance presented itself. Chance
led us into his presence. He heard Paganel’s story and all about
the shipwreck, and the audacious fellow determined to act his part
immediately. The expedition was decided on. At the Wimerra he found
means of communicating with one of his gang, the blacksmith of Black
Point, and left traces of our journey which might be easily recognized.
The gang followed us. A poisonous plant enabled them gradually to kill
our bullocks and horses. At the right moment he sunk us in the marshes
of the Snowy, and gave us into the hands of his gang.”
Such was the history of Ben Joyce. The Major had shown him up in his
character--a bold and formidable criminal. His manifestly evil designs
called for the utmost vigilance on the part of Glenarvan. Happily the
unmasked bandit was less to be feared than the traitor.
But one serious consequence must come out of this revelation; no one
had thought of it yet except Mary Grant. John Mangles was the first to
notice her pale, despairing face; he understood what was passing in her
mind at a glance.
“Miss Mary! Miss Mary!” he cried; “you are crying!”
“Crying, my child!” said Lady Helena.
“My father, madam, my father!” replied the poor girl.
She could say no more, but the truth flashed on every mind. They all
knew the cause of her grief, and why tears fell from her eyes and her
father’s name came to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery had destroyed all hope; the convict
had invented a shipwreck to entrap Glenarvan. In the conversation
overheard by McNabbs, the convicts had plainly said that the BRITANNIA
had never been wrecked on the rocks in Twofold Bay. Harry Grant had
never set foot on the Australian continent!
A second time they had been sent on the wrong track by an erroneous
interpretation of the document. Gloomy silence fell on the whole party
at the sight of the children’s sorrow, and no one could find a cheering
word to say. Robert was crying in his sister’s arms. Paganel muttered
in a tone of vexation: “That unlucky document! It may boast of having
half-crazed a dozen peoples’ wits!” The worthy geographer was in such a
rage with himself, that he struck his forehead as if he would smash it
in.
Glenarvan went out to Mulrady and Wilson, who were keeping watch.
Profound silence reigned over the plain between the wood and the
river. Ben Joyce and his band must be at considerable distance, for the
atmosphere was in such a state of complete torpor that the slightest
sound would have been heard. It was evident, from the flocks of birds
on the lower branches of the trees, and the kangaroos feeding quietly
on the young shoots, and a couple of emus whose confiding heads passed
between the great clumps of bushes, that those peaceful solitudes were
untroubled by the presence of human beings.
“You have neither seen nor heard anything for the last hour?” said
Glenarvan to the two sailors.
“Nothing whatever, your honor,” replied Wilson. “The convicts must be
miles away from here.”
“They were not in numbers enough to attack us, I suppose,” added
Mulrady. “Ben Joyce will have gone to recruit his party, with some
bandits like himself, among the bush-rangers who may be lurking about
the foot of the Alps.”
“That is probably the case, Mulrady,” replied Glenarvan. “The rascals
are cowards; they know we are armed, and well armed too. Perhaps they
are waiting for nightfall to commence the attack. We must redouble our
watchfulness. Oh, if we could only get out of this bog, and down the
coast; but this swollen river bars our passage. I would pay its weight
in gold for a raft which would carry us over to the other side.”
“Why does not your honor give orders for a raft to be constructed? We
have plenty of wood.”
“No, Wilson,” replied Glenarvan; “this Snowy is not a river, it is an
impassable torrent.”
John Mangles, the Major, and Paganel just then came out of the wagon
on purpose to examine the state of the river. They found it still so
swollen by the heavy rain that the water was a foot above the level. It
formed an impetuous current, like the American rapids. To venture over
that foaming current and that rushing flood, broken into a thousand
eddies and hollows and gulfs, was impossible.
John Mangles declared the passage impracticable. “But we must not stay
here,” he added, “without attempting anything. What we were going to do
before Ayrton’s treachery is still more necessary now.”
“What do you mean, John?” asked Glenarvan.
“I mean that our need is urgent, and that since we cannot go to Twofold
Bay, we must go to Melbourne. We have still one horse. Give it to me, my
Lord, and I will go to Melbourne.”
“But that will be a dangerous venture, John,” said Glenarvan. “Not to
speak of the perils of a journey of two hundred miles over an unknown
country, the road and the by-ways will be guarded by the accomplices of
Ben Joyce.”
“I know it, my Lord, but I know also that things can’t stay long as they
are; Ayrton only asked a week’s absence to fetch the crew of the DUNCAN,
and I will be back to the Snowy River in six days. Well, my Lord, what
are your commands?”
“Before Glenarvan decides,” said Paganel, “I must make an observation.
That some one must go to Melbourne is evident, but that John Mangles
should be the one to expose himself to the risk, cannot be. He is
the captain of the DUNCAN, and must be careful of his life. I will go
instead.”
“That is all very well, Paganel,” said the Major; “but why should you be
the one to go?”
“Are we not here?” said Mulrady and Wilson.
“And do you think,” replied McNabbs, “that a journey of two hundred
miles on horseback frightens me.”
“Friends,” said Glenarvan, “one of us must go, so let it be decided by
drawing lots. Write all our names, Paganel.”
“Not yours, my Lord,” said John Mangles.
“And why not?”
“What! separate you from Lady Helena, and before your wound is healed,
too!”
“Glenarvan,” said Paganel, “you cannot leave the expedition.”
“No,” added the Major. “Your place is here, Edward, you ought not to
go.”
“Danger is involved in it,” said Glenarvan, “and I will take my share
along with the rest. Write the names, Paganel, and put mine among them,
and I hope the lot may fall on me.”
His will was obeyed. The names were written, and the lots drawn. Fate
fixed on Mulrady. The brave sailor shouted hurrah! and said: “My Lord,
I am ready to start.” Glenarvan pressed his hand, and then went back to
the wagon, leaving John Mangles and the Major on watch.
Lady Helena was informed of the determination to send a message to
Melbourne, and that they had drawn lots who should go, and Mulrady had
been chosen. Lady Helena said a few kind words to the brave sailor,
which went straight to his heart. Fate could hardly have chosen a better
man, for he was not only brave and intelligent, but robust and superior
to all fatigue.
Mulrady’s departure was fixed for eight o’clock, immediately after
the short twilight. Wilson undertook to get the horse ready. He had a
project in his head of changing the horse’s left shoe, for one off the
horses that had died in the night. This would prevent the convicts from
tracking Mulrady, or following him, as they were not mounted.
While Wilson was arranging this, Glenarvan got his letter ready for Tom
Austin, but his wounded arm troubled him, and he asked Paganel to write
it for him. The SAVANT was so absorbed in one fixed idea that he seemed
hardly to know what he was about. In all this succession of vexations,
it must be said the document was always uppermost in Paganel’s mind. He
was always worrying himself about each word, trying to discover some new
meaning, and losing the wrong interpretation of it, and going over and
over himself in perplexities.
He did not hear Glenarvan when he first spoke, but on the request being
made a second time, he said: “Ah, very well. I’m ready.”
While he spoke he was mechanically getting paper from his note-book. He
tore a blank page off, and sat down pencil in hand to write.
Glenarvan began to dictate as follows: “Order to Tom Austin, Chief
Officer, to get to sea without delay, and bring the DUNCAN to--”
Paganel was just finishing the last word, when his eye chanced to fall
on the -Australian and New Zealand Gazette- lying on the ground. The
paper was so folded that only the last two syllables of the title were
visible. Paganel’s pencil stopped, and he seemed to become oblivious of
Glenarvan and the letter entirely, till his friends called out: “Come,
Paganel!”
“Ah!” said the geographer, with a loud exclamation.
“What is the matter?” asked the Major.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied Paganel. Then he muttered to himself,
“-Aland! aland! aland!-”
He had got up and seized the newspaper. He shook it in his efforts to
keep back the words that involuntarily rose to his lips.
Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him in astonishment,
at a loss to understand this unaccountable agitation. Paganel looked as
if a sudden fit of insanity had come over him. But his excitement did
not last. He became by degrees calmer. The gleam of joy that shone in
his eyes died away. He sat down again, and said quietly:
“When you please, my Lord, I am ready.” Glenarvan resumed his dictation
at once, and the letter was soon completed. It read as follows: “Order
to Tom Austin to go to sea without delay; and take the DUNCAN to
Melbourne by the 37th degree of latitude to the eastern coast of
Australia.”
“Of Australia?” said Paganel. “Ah yes! of Australia.”
Then he finished the letter, and gave it to Glenarvan to sign, who went
through the necessary formality as well as he could, and closed and
sealed the letter. Paganel, whose hand still trembled with emotion,
directed it thus: “Tom Austin, Chief Officer on board the Yacht DUNCAN,
Melbourne.”
Then he got up and went out of the wagon, gesticulating and repeating
the incomprehensible words:
“Aland aland! aland!”
CHAPTER XVIII FOUR DAYS OF ANGUISH
THE rest of the day passed on without any further incident. All the
preparations for Mulrady’s journey were completed, and the brave sailor
rejoiced in being able to give his Lordship this proof of devotion.
Paganel had recovered his usual -sang-froid- and manners. His look,
indeed, betrayed his preoccupation, but he seemed resolved to keep it
secret. No doubt he had strong reasons for this course of action, for
the Major heard him repeating, like a man struggling with himself: “No,
no, they would not believe it; and, besides, what good would it be? It
is too late!”
Having taken this resolution, he busied himself with giving Mulrady the
necessary directions for getting to Melbourne, and showed him his way on
the map. All the TRACKS, that is to say, paths through the prairie, came
out on the road to Lucknow. This road, after running right down to the
coast took a sudden bend in the direction of Melbourne. This was the
route that must be followed steadily, for it would not do to attempt a
short cut across an almost unknown country. Nothing, consequently, could
be more simple. Mulrady could not lose his way.
As to dangers, there were none after he had gone a few miles beyond the
encampment, out of the reach of Ben Joyce and his gang. Once past their
hiding place, Mulrady was certain of soon being able to outdistance the
convicts, and execute his important mission successfully.
At six o’clock they all dined together. The rain was falling in
torrents. The tent was not protection enough, and the whole party had
to take refuge in the wagon. This was a sure refuge. The clay kept
it firmly imbedded in the soil, like a fortress resting on sure
foundations. The arsenal was composed of seven carbines and seven
revolvers, and could stand a pretty long siege, for they had plenty of
ammunition and provisions. But before six days were over, the DUNCAN
would anchor in Twofold Bay, and twenty-four hours after her crew would
reach the other shore of the Snowy River; and should the passage still
remain impracticable, the convicts at any rate would be forced to retire
before the increased strength. But all depended on Mulrady’s success in
his perilous enterprise.
At eight o’clock it got very dark; now was the time to start. The
horse prepared for Mulrady was brought out. His feet, by way of extra
precaution, were wrapped round with cloths, so that they could not make
the least noise on the ground. The animal seemed tired, and yet the
safety of all depended on his strength and surefootedness. The Major
advised Mulrady to let him go gently as soon as he got past the
convicts. Better delay half-a-day than not arrive safely.
John Mangles gave his sailor a revolver, which he had loaded with the
utmost care. This is a formidable weapon in the hand of a man who does
not tremble, for six shots fired in a few seconds would easily clear a
road infested with criminals. Mulrady seated himself in the saddle ready
to start.
“Here is the letter you are to give to Tom Austin,” said Glenarvan.
“Don’t let him lose an hour. He is to sail for Twofold Bay at once; and
if he does not find us there, if we have not managed to cross the Snowy,
let him come on to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and God be
with you.”
He shook hands with him, and bade him good-by; and so did Lady Helena
and Mary Grant. A more timorous man than the sailor would have shrunk
back a little from setting out on such a dark, raining night on an
errand so full of danger, across vast unknown wilds. But his farewells
were calmly spoken, and he speedily disappeared down a path which
skirted the wood.
At the same moment the gusts of wind redoubled their violence. The high
branches of the eucalyptus clattered together noisily, and bough after
bough fell on the wet ground. More than one great tree, with no living
sap, but still standing hitherto, fell with a crash during this storm.
The wind howled amid the cracking wood, and mingled its moans with the
ominous roaring of the rain. The heavy clouds, driving along toward the
east, hung on the ground like rays of vapor, and deep, cheerless gloom
intensified the horrors of the night.
The travelers went back into the wagon immediately Mulrady had gone.
Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan and Paganel occupied the first
compartment, which had been hermetically closed. The second was occupied
by Olbinett, Wilson and Robert. The Major and John Mangles were on duty
outside. This precaution was necessary, for an attack on the part of the
convicts would be easy enough, and therefore probable enough.
The two faithful guardians kept close watch, bearing philosophically the
rain and wind that beat on their faces. They tried to pierce through the
darkness so favorable to ambushes, for nothing could be heard but the
noise of the tempest, the sough of the wind, the rattling branches,
falling trees, and roaring of the unchained waters.
At times the wind would cease for a few moments, as if to take breath.
Nothing was audible but the moan of the Snowy River, as it flowed
between the motionless reeds and the dark curtain of gum trees. The
silence seemed deeper in these momentary lulls, and the Major and John
Mangles listened attentively.
During one of these calms a sharp whistle reached them. John Mangles
went hurriedly up to the Major. “You heard that?” he asked.
“Yes,” said McNabbs. “Is it man or beast?”
“A man,” replied John Mangles.
And then both listened. The mysterious whistle was repeated, and
answered by a kind of report, but almost indistinguishable, for the
storm was raging with renewed violence. McNabbs and John Mangles could
not hear themselves speak. They went for comfort under the shelter of
the wagon.
At this moment the leather curtains were raised and Glenarvan rejoined
his two companions. He too had heard this ill-boding whistle, and the
report which echoed under the tilt. “Which way was it?” asked he.
“There,” said John, pointing to the dark track in the direction taken by
Mulrady.
“How far?”
“The wind brought it; I should think, three or four miles, at least.”
“Come,” said Glenarvan, putting his gun on his shoulder.
“No,” said the Major. “It is a decoy to get us away from the wagon.”
“But if Mulrady has even now fallen beneath the blows of these rascals?”
exclaimed Glenarvan, seizing McNabbs by the hand.
“We shall know by to-morrow,” said the Major, coolly, determined to
prevent Glenarvan from taking a step which was equally rash and futile.
“You cannot leave the camp, my Lord,” said John. “I will go alone.”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” cried McNabbs, energetically. “Do you
want to have us killed one by one to diminish our force, and put us at
the mercy of these wretches? If Mulrady has fallen a victim to them, it
is a misfortune that must not be repeated. Mulrady was sent, chosen by
chance. If the lot had fallen to me, I should have gone as he did; but I
should neither have asked nor expected assistance.”
In restraining Glenarvan and John Mangles, the Major was right in every
aspect of the case. To attempt to follow the sailor, to run in the
darkness of night among the convicts in their leafy ambush was madness,
and more than that--it was useless. Glenarvan’s party was not so
numerous that it could afford to sacrifice another member of it.
Still Glenarvan seemed as if he could not yield; his hand was always on
his carbine. He wandered about the wagon, and bent a listening ear to
the faintest sound. The thought that one of his men was perhaps mortally
wounded, abandoned to his fate, calling in vain on those for whose sake
he had gone forth, was a torture to him. McNabbs was not sure that he
should be able to restrain him, or if Glenarvan, carried away by his
feelings, would not run into the arms of Ben Joyce.
“Edward,” said he, “be calm. Listen to me as a friend. Think of Lady
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