“The Union Jack,” said John Mangles, who had caught up a spy-glass.
“True enough,” said Paganel, turning sharply round toward Robert.
“My Lord,” said Robert, trembling with emotion, “if you don’t want me to
swim to the shore, let a boat be lowered. Oh, my Lord, I implore you to
let me be the first to land.”
No one dared to speak. What! on this little isle, crossed by the 37th
parallel, there were three men, shipwrecked Englishmen! Instantaneously
everyone thought of the voice heard by Robert and Mary the preceding
night. The children were right, perhaps, in the affirmation. The sound
of a voice might have reached them, but this voice--was it their
father’s? No, alas, most assuredly no. And as they thought of the
dreadful disappointment that awaited them, they trembled lest this new
trial should crush them completely. But who could stop them from going
on shore? Lord Glenarvan had not the heart to do it.
“Lower a boat,” he called out.
Another minute and the boat was ready. The two children of Captain
Grant, Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel, rushed into it, and six
sailors, who rowed so vigorously that they were presently almost close
to the shore.
At ten fathoms’ distance a piercing cry broke from Mary’s lips.
“My father!” she exclaimed.
A man was standing on the beach, between two others. His tall, powerful
form, and his physiognomy, with its mingled expression of boldness and
gentleness, bore a resemblance both to Mary and Robert. This was indeed
the man the children had so often described. Their hearts had not
deceived them. This was their father, Captain Grant!
The captain had heard Mary’s cry, for he held out his arms, and fell
flat on the sand, as if struck by a thunderbolt.
CHAPTER XX CAPTAIN GRANT’S STORY
JOY does not kill, for both father and children recovered before they
had reached the yacht. The scene which followed, who can describe?
Language fails. The whole crew wept aloud at the sight of these three
clasped together in a close, silent embrace.
The moment Harry Grant came on deck, he knelt down reverently. The pious
Scotchman’s first act on touching the yacht, which to him was the soil
of his native land, was to return thanks to the God of his deliverance.
Then, turning to Lady Helena and Lord Glenarvan, and his companions,
he thanked them in broken words, for his heart was too full to speak.
During the short passage from the isle to the yacht, his children had
given him a brief sketch of the DUNCAN’S history.
What an immense debt he owed to this noble lady and her friends!
From Lord Glenarvan, down to the lowest sailor on board, how all had
struggled and suffered for him! Harry Grant expressed his gratitude with
such simplicity and nobleness, his manly face suffused with pure and
sweet emotion, that the whole crew felt amply recompensed for the trials
they had undergone. Even the impassable Major himself felt a tear steal
down his cheek in spite of all his self-command; while the good, simple
Paganel cried like a child who does not care who sees his tears.
Harry Grant could not take his eyes off his daughter. He thought her
beautiful, charming; and he not only said so to himself, but repeated it
aloud, and appealed to Lady Helena for confirmation of his opinion,
as if to convince himself that he was not blinded by his paternal
affection. His boy, too, came in for admiration. “How he has grown!
he is a man!” was his delighted exclamation. And he covered the two
children so dear to him with the kisses he had been heaping up for them
during his two years of absence.
Robert then presented all his friends successively, and found means
always to vary the formula of introduction, though he had to say the
same thing about each. The fact was, each and all had been perfect in
the children’s eyes.
John Mangles blushed like a child when his turn came, and his voice
trembled as he spoke to Mary’s father.
Lady Helena gave Captain Grant a narrative of the voyage, and made
him proud of his son and daughter. She told him of the young hero’s
exploits, and how the lad had already paid back part of the paternal
debt to Lord Glenarvan. John Mangles sang Mary’s praises in such terms,
that Harry Grant, acting on a hint from Lady Helena, put his daughter’s
hand into that of the brave young captain, and turning to Lord and Lady
Glenarvan, said: “My Lord, and you, Madam, also give your blessing to
our children.”
When everything had been said and re-said over and over again, Glenarvan
informed Harry Grant about Ayrton. Grant confirmed the quartermaster’s
confession as far as his disembarkation on the coast of Australia was
concerned.
“He is an intelligent, intrepid man,” he added, “whose passions have led
him astray. May reflection and repentance bring him to a better mind!”
But before Ayrton was transferred, Harry Grant wished to do the honors
of his rock to his friends. He invited them to visit his wooden house,
and dine with him in Robinson Crusoe fashion.
Glenarvan and his friends accepted the invitation most willingly. Robert
and Mary were eagerly longing to see the solitary house where their
father had so often wept at the thought of them. A boat was manned, and
the Captain and his two children, Lord and Lady Glenarvan, the Major,
John Mangles, and Paganel, landed on the shores of the island.
A few hours sufficed to explore the whole domain of Harry Grant. It
was in fact the summit of a submarine mountain, a plateau composed of
basaltic rocks and volcanic DEBRIS. During the geological epochs of
the earth, this mountain had gradually emerged from the depths of the
Pacific, through the action of the subterranean fires, but for ages back
the volcano had been a peaceful mountain, and the filled-up crater, an
island rising out of the liquid plain. Then soil formed. The vegetable
kingdom took possession of this new land. Several whalers landed
domestic animals there in passing; goats and pigs, which multiplied and
ran wild, and the three kingdoms of nature were now displayed on this
island, sunk in mid ocean.
When the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA took refuge there, the
hand of man began to organize the efforts of nature. In two years and
a half, Harry Grant and his two sailors had metamorphosed the island.
Several acres of well-cultivated land were stocked with vegetables of
excellent quality.
The house was shaded by luxuriant gum-trees. The magnificent ocean
stretched before the windows, sparkling in the sunlight. Harry Grant
had the table placed beneath the grand trees, and all the guests seated
themselves. A hind quarter of a goat, nardou bread, several bowls of
milk, two or three roots of wild endive, and pure fresh water, composed
the simple repast, worthy of the shepherds of Arcadia.
Paganel was enchanted. His old fancies about Robinson Crusoe revived in
full force. “He is not at all to be pitied, that scoundrel, Ayrton!” he
exclaimed, enthusiastically. “This little isle is just a paradise!”
“Yes,” replied Harry Grant, “a paradise to these poor, shipwrecked
fellows that Heaven had pity on, but I am sorry that Maria Theresa was
not an extensive and fertile island, with a river instead of a stream,
and a port instead of a tiny bay exposed to the open sea.”
“And why, captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“Because I should have made it the foundation of the colony with which I
mean to dower Scotland.”
“Ah, Captain Grant, you have not given up the project, then, which made
you so popular in our old country?”
“No, my Lord, and God has only saved me through your efforts that I
might accomplish my task. My poor brothers in old Caledonia, all who are
needy must have a refuge provided for them in another land against their
misery, and my dear country must have a colony of her own, for herself
alone, somewhere in these seas, where she may find that independence and
comfort she so lacks in Europe.”
“Ah, that is very true, Captain Grant,” said Lady Helena. “This is a
grand project of yours, and worthy of a noble heart. But this little
isle--”
“No, madam, it is a rock only fit at most to support a few settlers;
while what we need is a vast country, whose virgin soil abounds in
untouched stores of wealth,” replied the captain.
“Well, captain,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “the future is ours, and this
country we will seek for together.”
And the two brave Scotchmen joined hands in a hearty grip and so sealed
the compact.
A general wish was expressed to hear, while they were on the island, the
account of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA, and of the two years spent by
the survivors in this very place. Harry Grant was delighted to gratify
their curiosity, and commenced his narration forthwith.
“My story,” he said, “is that of all the Robinson Crusoes cast upon an
island, with only God and themselves to rely on, and feeling it a duty
to struggle for life with the elements.
“It was during the night of the 26th or 27th of June, 1862, that the
BRITANNIA, disabled by a six days’ storm, struck against the rocks of
Maria Theresa. The sea was mountains high, and lifeboats were useless.
My unfortunate crew all perished, except Bob Learce and Joe Bell, who
with myself managed to reach shore after twenty unsuccessful attempts.
“The land which received us was only an uninhabited island, two miles
broad and five long, with about thirty trees in the interior, a few
meadows, and a brook of fresh water, which fortunately never dried up.
Alone with my sailors, in this corner of the globe, I did not despair.
I put my trust in God, and accustomed myself to struggle resolutely for
existence. Bob and Joe, my brave companions in misfortune, my friends,
seconded me energetically.
“We began like the fictitious Robinson Crusoe of Defoe, our model,
by collecting the planks of the ship, the tools, a little powder, and
firearms, and a bag of precious seeds. The first few days were painful
enough, but hunting and fishing soon afforded us a sure supply of food,
for wild goats were in abundance in the interior of the island, and
marine animals abounded on the coast. By degrees we fell into regular
ways and habits of life.
“I had saved my instruments from the wreck, and knew exactly the
position of the island. I found we were out of the route of vessels, and
could not be rescued unless by some providential chance. I accepted
our trying lot composedly, always thinking, however, of my dear ones,
remembering them every day in my prayers, though never hoping to see
them again.
“However, we toiled on resolutely, and before long several acres of land
were sown with the seed off the BRITANNIA; potatoes, endive, sorrel, and
other vegetables besides, gave wholesome variety to our daily fare.
We caught some young kids, which soon grew quite tame. We had milk and
butter. The nardou, which grew abundantly in dried up creeks, supplied
us with tolerably substantial bread, and we had no longer any fears for
our material life.
“We had built a log hut with the DEBRIS of the BRITANNIA, and this was
covered over with sail cloth, carefully tarred over, and beneath this
secure shelter the rainy season passed comfortably. Many a plan was
discussed here, and many a dream indulged in, the brightest of which is
this day realized.
“I had at first the idea of trying to brave the perils of the ocean in a
canoe made out of the spars of the ship, but 1,500 miles lay between us
and the nearest coast, that is to say the islands of the Archipelago
of Pomotou. No boat could have stood so long a voyage. I therefore
relinquished my scheme, and looked for no deliverance except from a
divine hand.
“Ah, my poor children! how often we have stood on the top of the rocks
and watched the few vessels passing in the distance far out at sea.
During the whole period of our exile only two or three vessels appeared
on the horizon, and those only to disappear again immediately. Two years
and a half were spent in this manner. We gave up hoping, but yet did not
despair. At last, early yesterday morning, when I was standing on the
highest peak of the island, I noticed a light smoke rising in the west.
It increased, and soon a ship appeared in sight. It seemed to be coming
toward us. But would it not rather steer clear of an island where there
was no harbor.
“Ah, what a day of agony that was! My heart was almost bursting. My
comrades kindled a fire on one of the peaks. Night came on, but no
signal came from the yacht. Deliverance was there, however. Were we to
see it vanish from our eyes?
“I hesitated no longer. The darkness was growing deeper. The ship might
double the island during the night. I jumped into the sea, and attempted
to make my way toward it. Hope trebled my strength, I cleft the waves
with superhuman vigor, and had got so near the yacht that I was scarcely
thirty fathoms off, when it tacked about.
“This provoked me to the despairing cry, which only my two children
heard. It was no illusion.
“Then I came back to the shore, exhausted and overcome with emotion and
fatigue. My two sailors received me half dead. It was a horrible night
this last we spent on the island, and we believed ourselves abandoned
forever, when day dawned, and there was the yacht sailing nearly
alongside, under easy steam. Your boat was lowered--we were saved--and,
oh, wonder of Divine goodness, my children, my beloved children, were
there holding out their arms to me!”
Robert and Mary almost smothered their father with kisses and caresses
as he ended his narrative.
It was now for the first time that the captain heard that he owed his
deliverance to the somewhat hieroglyphical document which he had placed
in a bottle and confined to the mercy of the ocean.
But what were Jacques Paganel’s thoughts during Captain Grant’s recital?
The worthy geographer was turning over in his brain for the thousandth
time the words of the document. He pondered his three successive
interpretations, all of which had proved false. How had this island,
called Maria Theresa, been indicated in the papers originally?
At last Paganel could contain himself no longer, and seizing Harry
Grant’s hand, he exclaimed:
“Captain! will you tell me at last what really was in your
indecipherable document?”
A general curiosity was excited by this question of the geographer,
for the enigma which had been for nine months a mystery was about to be
explained.
“Well, captain,” repeated Paganel, “do you remember the precise words of
the document?”
“Exactly,” replied Harry Grant; “and not a day has passed without my
recalling to memory words with which our last hopes were linked.”
“And what are they, captain?” asked Glenarvan. “Speak, for our -amour
propre- is wounded to the quick!”
“I am ready to satisfy you,” replied Harry Grant; “but, you know, to
multiply the chances of safety, I had inclosed three documents in the
bottle, in three different languages. Which is it you wish to hear?”
“They are not identical, then?” cried Paganel.
“Yes, they are, almost to a word.”
“Well, then, let us have the French document,” replied Glenarvan. “That
is the one that is most respected by the waves, and the one on which our
interpretations have been mostly founded.”
“My Lord, I will give it you word for word,” replied Harry Grant.
“LE 27 JUIN, 1862, -le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, s’est perdu a
quinze cents lieues de la Patagonie, dans l’hemisphere austral. Partes a
terre, deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont atteint l’ile Tabor---”
“Oh!” exclaimed Paganel.
“LA,” continued Harry Grant, “-continuellement en proie a une cruelle
indigence, ils ont jete ce document par- 153 degrees -de longitude et-
37 degrees 11’ -de latitude. Venes a leur secours, ou ils sont perdus-.”
At the name of Tabor, Paganel had started up hastily, and now being
unable to restrain himself longer, he called out:
“How can it be Isle Tabor? Why, this is Maria Theresa!”
“Undoubtedly, Monsieur Paganel,” replied Harry Grant. “It is Maria
Theresa on the English and German charts, but is named Tabor on the
French ones!”
At this moment a vigorous thump on Paganel’s shoulder almost bent him
double. Truth obliges us to say it was the Major that dealt the blow,
though strangely contrary to his usual strict politeness.
“Geographer!” said McNabbs, in a tone of the most supreme contempt.
But Paganel had not even felt the Major’s hand. What was that compared
to the geographical blow which had stunned him?
He had been gradually getting nearer the truth, however, as he learned
from Captain Grant. He had almost entirely deciphered the indecipherable
document. The names Patagonia, Australia, New Zealand, had appeared to
him in turn with absolute certainty. CONTIN, at first CONTINENT, had
gradually reached its true meaning, -continuelle. Indi- had successively
signified -indiens, indigenes-, and at last the right word was
found--INDIGENCE. But one mutilated word, ABOR, had baffled the
geographer’s sagacity. Paganel had persisted in making it the root of
the verb ABORDER, and it turned out to be a proper name, the French name
of the Isle Tabor, the isle which had been a refuge for the shipwrecked
sailors of the BRITANNIA. It was difficult to avoid falling into the
error, however, for on the English planispheres on the DUNCAN, the
little isle was marked Maria Theresa.
“No matter?” cried Paganel, tearing his hair; “I ought not to have
forgotten its double appellation. It is an unpardonable mistake, one
unworthy of a secretary of the Geographical Society. I am disgraced!”
“Come, come, Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena; “moderate your grief.”
“No, madam, no; I am a mere ass!”
“And not even a learned one!” added the Major, by way of consolation.
When the meal was over, Harry Grant put everything in order in his
house. He took nothing away, wishing the guilty to inherit the riches
of the innocent. Then they returned to the vessel, and, as Glenarvan
had determined to start the same day, he gave immediate orders for the
disembarkation of the quartermaster. Ayrton was brought up on the poop,
and found himself face to face with Harry Grant.
“It is I, Ayrton!” said Grant
“Yes, it is you, captain,” replied Ayrton, without the least sign of
surprise at Harry Grant’s recovery. “Well, I am not sorry to see you
again in good health.”
“It seems, Ayrton, that I made a mistake in landing you on an inhabited
coast.”
“It seems so, captain.”
“You are going to take my place on this uninhabited island. May Heaven
give you repentance!”
“Amen,” said Ayrton, calmly.
Glenarvan then addressed the quartermaster.
“It is still your wish, then, Ayrton, to be left behind?”
“Yes, my Lord!”
“And Isle Tabor meets your wishes?”
“Perfectly.”
“Now then, listen to my last words, Ayrton. You will be cut off here
from all the world, and no communication with your fellows is possible.
Miracles are rare, and you will not be able to quit this isle. You will
be alone, with no eye upon you but that of God, who reads the deepest
secrets of the heart; but you will be neither lost nor forsaken, as
Captain Grant was. Unworthy as you are of anyone’s remembrance, you will
not be dropped out of recollection. I know where you are, Ayrton; I know
where to find you--I shall never forget.”
“God keep your Honor,” was all Ayrton’s reply.
These were the final words exchanged between Glenarvan and the
quartermaster. The boat was ready and Ayrton got into it.
John Mangles had previously conveyed to the island several cases of
preserved food, besides clothing, and tools and firearms, and a supply
of powder and shot. The quartermaster could commence a new life of
honest labor. Nothing was lacking, not even books; among others, the
Bible, so dear to English hearts.
The parting hour had come. The crew and all the passengers were
assembled on deck. More than one felt his heart swell with emotion. Mary
Grant and Lady Helena could not restrain their feelings.
“Must it be done?” said the young wife to her husband. “Must the poor
man be left there?”
“He must, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “It is in expiation of his
crimes.”
At that moment the boat, in charge of John Mangles, turned away. Ayrton,
who remained standing, and still unmoved, took off his cap and bowed
gravely.
Glenarvan uncovered, and all the crew followed his example, as if
in presence of a man who was about to die, and the boat went off in
profound silence.
On reaching land, Ayrton jumped on the sandy shore, and the boat
returned to the yacht. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and
from the poop the passengers could see the quartermaster gazing at the
ship, standing with folded arms on a rock, motionless as a statue.
“Shall we set sail, my Lord?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, John,” replied Glenarvan, hastily, more moved than he cared to
show.
“Go on!” shouted John to the engineer.
The steam hissed and puffed out, the screw began to stir the waves, and
by eight o’clock the last peaks of Isle Tabor disappeared in the shadows
of the night.
CHAPTER XXI PAGANEL’S LAST ENTANGLEMENT
ON the 19th of March, eleven days after leaving the island, the DUNCAN
sighted the American coast, and next day dropped anchor in the bay of
Talcahuano. They had come back again after a voyage of five months,
during which, and keeping strictly along the 37th parallel, they had
gone round the world. The passengers in this memorable expedition,
unprecedented in the annals of the Travelers’ Club, had visited Chili,
the Pampas, the Argentine Republic, the Atlantic, the island of Tristan
d’Acunha, the Indian Ocean, Amsterdam Island, Australia, New Zealand,
Isle Tabor, and the Pacific. Their search had not been fruitless, for
they were bringing back the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA.
Not one of the brave Scots who set out at the summons of their chief,
but could answer to their names; all were returning to their old Scotia.
As soon as the DUNCAN had re-provisioned, she sailed along the coast
of Patagonia, doubled Cape Horn, and made a swift run up the Atlantic
Ocean. No voyage could be more devoid of incident. The yacht was simply
carrying home a cargo of happiness. There was no secret now on board,
not even John Mangles’s attachment to Mary Grant.
Yes, there was one mystery still, which greatly excited McNabbs’s
curiosity. Why was it that Paganel remained always hermetically fastened
up in his clothes, with a big comforter round his throat and up to his
very ears? The Major was burning with desire to know the reason of
this singular fashion. But in spite of interrogations, allusions, and
suspicions on the part of McNabbs, Paganel would not unbutton.
Not even when the DUNCAN crossed the line, and the heat was so great
that the seams of the deck were melting. “He is so DISTRAIT that
he thinks he is at St. Petersburg,” said the Major, when he saw the
geographer wrapped in an immense great-coat, as if the mercury had been
frozen in the thermometer.
At last on the 9th of May, fifty-three days from the time of leaving
Talcahuano, John Mangles sighted the lights of Cape Clear. The yacht
entered St. George’s Channel, crossed the Irish Sea, and on the 10th
of May reached the Firth of Clyde. At 11 o’clock she dropped anchor off
Dunbarton, and at 2 P.M. the passengers arrived at Malcolm Castle amidst
the enthusiastic cheering of the Highlanders.
As fate would have it then, Harry Grant and his two companions were
saved. John Mangles wedded Mary Grant in the old cathedral of St. Mungo,
and Mr. Paxton, the same clergyman who had prayed nine months before for
the deliverance of the father, now blessed the marriage of his daughter
and his deliverer. Robert was to become a sailor like Harry Grant and
John Mangles, and take part with them in the captain’s grand projects,
under the auspices of Lord Glenarvan.
But fate also decreed that Paganel was not to die a bachelor? Probably
so.
The fact was, the learned geographer after his heroic exploits, could
not escape celebrity. His blunders made quite a FURORE among the
fashionables of Scotland, and he was overwhelmed with courtesies.
It was then that an amiable lady, about thirty years of age, in fact,
a cousin of McNabbs, a little eccentric herself, but good and still
charming, fell in love with the geographer’s oddities, and offered
him her hand. Forty thousand pounds went with it, but that was not
mentioned.
Paganel was far from being insensible to the sentiments of Miss
Arabella, but yet he did not dare to speak. It was the Major who was the
medium of communication between these two souls, evidently made for
each other. He even told Paganel that his marriage was the last freak
he would be able to allow himself. Paganel was in a great state of
embarrassment, but strangely enough could not make up his mind to speak
the fatal word.
“Does not Miss Arabella please you then?” asked McNabbs.
“Oh, Major, she is charming,” exclaimed Paganel, “a thousand times too
charming, and if I must tell you all, she would please me better if she
were less so. I wish she had a defect!”
“Be easy on that score,” replied the Major, “she has, and more than one.
The most perfect woman in the world has always her quota. So, Paganel,
it is settled then, I suppose?”
“I dare not.”
“Come, now, my learned friend, what makes you hesitate?”
“I am unworthy of Miss Arabella,” was the invariable reply of the
geographer. And to this he would stick.
At last, one day being fairly driven in a corner by the intractable
Major, he ended by confiding to him, under the seal of secrecy, a
certain peculiarity which would facilitate his apprehension should the
police ever be on his track.
“Bah!” said the Major.
“It is really as I tell you,” replied Paganel.
“What does it matter, my worthy friend?”
“Do you think so, Major?”
“On the contrary, it only makes you more uncommon. It adds to your
personal merits. It is the very thing to make you the nonpareil husband
that Arabella dreams about.”
And the Major with imperturbable gravity left Paganel in a state of the
utmost disquietude.
A short conversation ensued between McNabbs and Miss Arabella. A
fortnight afterwards, the marriage was celebrated in grand style in
the chapel of Malcolm Castle. Paganel looked magnificent, but closely
buttoned up, and Miss Arabella was arrayed in splendor.
And this secret of the geographer would have been forever buried in
oblivion, if the Major had not mentioned it to Glenarvan, and he could
not hide it from Lady Helena, who gave a hint to Mrs. Mangles. To make
a long story short, it got in the end to M. Olbinett’s ears, and soon
became noised abroad.
Jacques Paganel, during his three days’ captivity among the Maories, had
been tattooed from the feet to the shoulders, and he bore on his chest a
heraldic kiwi with outspread wings, which was biting at his heart.
This was the only adventure of his grand voyage that Paganel could never
get over, and he always bore a grudge to New Zealand on account of
it. It was for this reason too, that, notwithstanding solicitation and
regrets, he never would return to France. He dreaded lest he should
expose the whole Geographical Society in his person to the jests
of caricaturists and low newspapers, by their secretary coming back
tattooed.
The return of the captain to Scotland was a national event, and Harry
Grant was soon the most popular man in old Caledonia. His son Robert
became a sailor like himself and Captain Mangles, and under the
patronage of Lord Glenarvan they resumed the project of founding a
Scotch colony in the Southern Seas.
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583
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