FOR two hours the OMBU navigated the immense lake without reaching
_terra firma_. The flames which were devouring it had gradually died
out. The chief danger of their frightful passage was thus removed, and
the Major went the length of saying, that he should not be surprised if
they were saved after all.
The direction of the current remained unchanged, always running from
southwest to northeast. Profound darkness had again set in, only
illumined here and there by a parting flash of lightning. The storm was
nearly over. The rain had given place to light mists, which a breath
of wind dispersed, and the heavy masses of cloud had separated, and now
streaked the sky in long bands.
The OMBU was borne onward so rapidly by the impetuous torrent, that
anyone might have supposed some powerful locomotive engine was hidden in
its trunk. It seemed likely enough they might continue drifting in this
way for days. About three o’clock in the morning, however, the Major
noticed that the roots were beginning to graze the ground occasionally,
and by sounding the depth of the water with a long branch, Tom Austin
found that they were getting on rising ground. Twenty minutes afterward,
the OMBU stopped short with a violent jolt.
“Land! land!” shouted Paganel, in a ringing tone.
The extremity of the calcined bough had struck some hillock, and never
were sailors more glad; the rock to them was the port.
Already Robert and Wilson had leaped on to the solid plateau with a
loud, joyful hurrah! when a well-known whistle was heard. The gallop of
a horse resounded over the plain, and the tall form of Thalcave emerged
from the darkness.
“Thalcave! Thalcave!” they all cried with one voice.
“Amigos!” replied the Patagonian, who had been waiting for the travelers
here in the same place where the current had landed himself.
As he spoke he lifted up Robert in his arms, and hugged him to his
breast, never imagining that Paganel was hanging on to him. A general
and hearty hand-shaking followed, and everyone rejoiced at seeing their
faithful guide again. Then the Patagonian led the way into the HANGAR of
a deserted ESTANCIA, where there was a good, blazing fire to warm them,
and a substantial meal of fine, juicy slices of venison soon broiling,
of which they did not leave a crumb. When their minds had calmed down
a little, and they were able to reflect on the dangers they had come
through from flood, and fire, and alligators, they could scarcely
believe they had escaped.
Thalcave, in a few words, gave Paganel an account of himself since they
parted, entirely ascribing his deliverance to his intrepid horse. Then
Paganel tried to make him understand their new interpretation of the
document, and the consequent hopes they were indulging. Whether the
Indian actually understood his ingenious hypothesis was a question; but
he saw that they were glad and confident, and that was enough for him.
As can easily be imagined, after their compulsory rest on the OMBU, the
travelers were up betimes and ready to start. At eight o’clock they
set off. No means of transport being procurable so far south, they were
compelled to walk. However, it was not more than forty miles now that
they had to go, and Thaouka would not refuse to give a lift occasionally
to a tired pedestrian, or even to a couple at a pinch. In thirty-six
hours they might reach the shores of the Atlantic.
The low-lying tract of marshy ground, still under water, soon lay
behind them, as Thalcave led them upward to the higher plains. Here
the Argentine territory resumed its monotonous aspect. A few clumps of
trees, planted by European hands, might chance to be visible among the
pasturage, but quite as rarely as in Tandil and Tapalquem Sierras. The
native trees are only found on the edge of long prairies and about Cape
Corrientes.
Next day, though still fifteen miles distant, the proximity of the ocean
was sensibly felt. The VIRAZON, a peculiar wind, which blows regularly
half of the day and night, bent down the heads of the tall grasses.
Thinly planted woods rose to view, and small tree-like mimosas, bushes
of acacia, and tufts of CURRA-MANTEL. Here and there, shining like
pieces of broken glass, were salinous lagoons, which increased the
difficulty of the journey as the travelers had to wind round them to
get past. They pushed on as quickly as possible, hoping to reach Lake
Salado, on the shores of the ocean, the same day; and at 8 P. M., when
they found themselves in front of the sand hills two hundred feet high,
which skirt the coast, they were all tolerably tired. But when the long
murmur of the distant ocean fell on their ears, the exhausted men forgot
their fatigue, and ran up the sandhills with surprising agility. But it
was getting quite dark already, and their eager gaze could discover
no traces of the DUNCAN on the gloomy expanse of water that met their
sight.
“But she is there, for all that,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “waiting for us,
and running alongside.”
“We shall see her to-morrow,” replied McNabbs.
Tom Austin hailed the invisible yacht, but there was no response. The
wind was very high and the sea rough. The clouds were scudding along
from the west, and the spray of the waves dashed up even to the
sand-hills. It was little wonder, then, if the man on the look-out could
neither hear nor make himself heard, supposing the DUNCAN were there.
There was no shelter on the coast for her, neither bay nor cove, nor
port; not so much as a creek. The shore was composed of sand-banks which
ran out into the sea, and were more dangerous to approach than
rocky shoals. The sand-banks irritate the waves, and make the sea so
particularly rough, that in heavy weather vessels that run aground there
are invariably dashed to pieces.
Though, then, the DUNCAN would keep far away from such a coast, John
Mangles is a prudent captain to get near. Tom Austin, however, was of
the opinion that she would be able to keep five miles out.
The Major advised his impatient relative to restrain himself to
circumstances. Since there was no means of dissipating the darkness,
what was the use of straining his eyes by vainly endeavoring to pierce
through it.
He set to work immediately to prepare the night’s encampment beneath the
shelter of the sand-hills; the last provisions supplied the last meal,
and afterward, each, following the Major’s example, scooped out a hole
in the sand, which made a comfortable enough bed, and then covered
himself with the soft material up to his chin, and fell into a heavy
sleep.
But Glenarvan kept watch. There was still a stiff breeze of wind, and
the ocean had not recovered its equilibrium after the recent storm. The
waves, at all times tumultuous, now broke over the sand-banks with a
noise like thunder. Glenarvan could not rest, knowing the DUNCAN was
so near him. As to supposing she had not arrived at the appointed
rendezvous, that was out of the question. Glenarvan had left the Bay
of Talcahuano on the 14th of October, and arrived on the shores of the
Atlantic on the 12th of November. He had taken thirty days to cross
Chili, the Cordilleras, the Pampas, and the Argentine plains, giving the
DUNCAN ample time to double Cape Horn, and arrive on the opposite side.
For such a fast runner there were no impediments. Certainly the storm
had been very violent, and its fury must have been terrible on such a
vast battlefield as the Atlantic, but the yacht was a good ship, and
the captain was a good sailor. He was bound to be there, and he would be
there.
These reflections, however, did not calm Glenarvan. When the heart
and the reason are struggling, it is generally the heart that wins the
mastery. The laird of Malcolm Castle felt the presence of loved ones
about him in the darkness as he wandered up and down the lonely strand.
He gazed, and listened, and even fancied he caught occasional glimpses
of a faint light.
“I am not mistaken,” he said to himself; “I saw a ship’s light, one of
the lights on the DUNCAN! Oh! why can’t I see in the dark?”
All at once the thought rushed across him that Paganel said he was a
nyctalope, and could see at night. He must go and wake him.
The learned geographer was sleeping as sound as a mole. A strong arm
pulled him up out of the sand and made him call out:
“Who goes there?”
“It is I, Paganel.”
“Who?”
“Glenarvan. Come, I need your eyes.”
“My eyes,” replied Paganel, rubbing them vigorously.
“Yes, I need your eyes to make out the DUNCAN in this darkness, so
come.”
“Confound the nyctalopia!” said Paganel, inwardly, though delighted to
be of any service to his friend.
He got up and shook his stiffened limbs, and stretching and yawning as
most people do when roused from sleep, followed Glenarvan to the beach.
Glenarvan begged him to examine the distant horizon across the sea,
which he did most conscientiously for some minutes.
“Well, do you see nothing?” asked Glenarvan.
“Not a thing. Even a cat couldn’t see two steps before her.”
“Look for a red light or a green one--her larboard or starboard light.”
“I see neither a red nor a green light, all is pitch dark,” replied
Paganel, his eyes involuntarily beginning to close.
For half an hour he followed his impatient friend, mechanically letting
his head frequently drop on his chest, and raising it again with a
start. At last he neither answered nor spoke, and he reeled about like a
drunken man. Glenarvan looked at him, and found he was sound asleep!
Without attempting to wake him, he took his arm, led him back to his
hole, and buried him again comfortably.
At dawn next morning, all the slumberers started to their feet and
rushed to the shore, shouting “Hurrah, hurrah!” as Lord Glenarvan’s loud
cry, “The DUNCAN, the DUNCAN!” broke upon his ear.
There she was, five miles out, her courses carefully reefed, and her
steam half up. Her smoke was lost in the morning mist. The sea was so
violent that a vessel of her tonnage could not have ventured safely
nearer the sand-banks.
Glenarvan, by the aid of Paganel’s telescope, closely observed the
movements of the yacht. It was evident that John Mangles had not
perceived his passengers, for he continued his course as before.
But at this very moment Thalcave fired his carbine in the direction of
the yacht. They listened and looked, but no signal of recognition was
returned. A second and a third time the Indian fired, awakening the
echoes among the sand-hills.
At last a white smoke was seen issuing from the side of the yacht.
“They see us!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “That’s the cannon of the DUNCAN.”
A few seconds, and the heavy boom of the cannon came across the water
and died away on the shore. The sails were instantly altered, and the
steam got up, so as to get as near the coast as possible.
Presently, through the glass, they saw a boat lowered.
“Lady Helena will not be able to come,” said Tom Austin. “It is too
rough.”
“Nor John Mangles,” added McNabbs; “he cannot leave the ship.”
“My sister, my sister!” cried Robert, stretching out his arms toward the
yacht, which was now rolling violently.
“Oh, how I wish I could get on board!” said Glenarvan.
“Patience, Edward! you will be there in a couple of hours,” replied the
Major.
Two hours! But it was impossible for a boat--a six-oared one--to come
and go in a shorter space of time.
Glenarvan went back to Thalcave, who stood beside Thaouka, with his arms
crossed, looking quietly at the troubled waves.
Glenarvan took his hand, and pointing to the yacht, said: “Come!”
The Indian gently shook his head.
“Come, friend,” repeated Glenarvan.
“No,” said Thalcave, gently. “Here is Thaouka, and there--the Pampas,”
he added, embracing with a passionate gesture the wide-stretching
prairies.
Glenarvan understood his refusal. He knew that the Indian would never
forsake the prairie, where the bones of his fathers were whitening, and
he knew the religious attachment of these sons of the desert for their
native land. He did not urge Thalcave longer, therefore, but simply
pressed his hand. Nor could he find it in his heart to insist, when the
Indian, smiling as usual, would not accept the price of his services,
pushing back the money, and saying:
“For the sake of friendship.”
Glenarvan could not reply; but he wished at least, to leave the brave
fellow some souvenir of his European friends. What was there to give,
however? Arms, horses, everything had been destroyed in the unfortunate
inundation, and his friends were no richer than himself.
He was quite at a loss how to show his recognition of the
disinterestedness of this noble guide, when a happy thought struck
him. He had an exquisite portrait of Lady Helena in his pocket, a
CHEF-D’OEUVRE of Lawrence. This he drew out, and offered to Thalcave,
simply saying:
“My wife.”
The Indian gazed at it with a softened eye, and said:
“Good and beautiful.”
Then Robert, and Paganel, and the Major, and the rest, exchanged
touching farewells with the faithful Patagonian. Thalcave embraced them
each, and pressed them to his broad chest. Paganel made him accept a map
of South America and the two oceans, which he had often seen the Indian
looking at with interest. It was the most precious thing the geographer
possessed. As for Robert, he had only caresses to bestow, and these he
lavished on his friend, not forgetting to give a share to Thaouka.
The boat from the DUNCAN was now fast approaching, and in another minute
had glided into a narrow channel between the sand-banks, and run ashore.
“My wife?” were Glenarvan’s first words.
“My sister?” said Robert.
“Lady Helena and Miss Grant are waiting for you on board,” replied the
coxswain; “but lose no time your honor, we have not a minute, for the
tide is beginning to ebb already.”
The last kindly adieux were spoken, and Thalcave accompanied his friends
to the boat, which had been pushed back into the water. Just as Robert
was going to step in, the Indian took him in his arms, and gazed
tenderly into his face. Then he said:
“Now go. You are a man.”
“Good-by, good-by, friend!” said Glenarvan, once more.
“Shall we never see each other again?” Paganel called out.
“_Quien sabe?_” (Who knows?) replied Thalcave, lifting his arms toward
heaven.
These were the Indian’s last words, dying away on the breeze, as the
boat receded gradually from the shore. For a long time, his dark,
motionless SILHOUETTE stood out against the sky, through the white,
dashing spray of the waves. Then by degrees his tall form began to
diminish in size, till at last his friends of a day lost sight of him
altogether.
An hour afterward Robert was the first to leap on board the DUNCAN. He
flung his arms round Mary’s neck, amid the loud, joyous hurrahs of the
crew on the yacht.
Thus the journey across South America was accomplished, the given line
of march being scrupulously adhered to throughout.
Neither mountains nor rivers had made the travelers change their course;
and though they had not had to encounter any ill-will from men, their
generous intrepidity had been often enough roughly put to the proof by
the fury of the unchained elements.
END OF BOOK ONE
*****
IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS
OR THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT
AUSTRALIA
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CHAPTER I A NEW DESTINATION
FOR the first few moments the joy of reunion completely filled the
hearts. Lord Glenarvan had taken care that the ill-success of their
expedition should not throw a gloom over the pleasure of meeting, his
very first words being:
“Cheer up, friends, cheer up! Captain Grant is not with us, but we have
a certainty of finding him!”
Only such an assurance as this would have restored hope to those on
board the DUNCAN. Lady Helena and Mary Grant had been sorely tried by
the suspense, as they stood on the poop waiting for the arrival of the
boat, and trying to count the number of its passengers. Alternate hope
and fear agitated the bosom of poor Mary. Sometimes she fancied she
could see her father, Harry Grant, and sometimes she gave way to
despair. Her heart throbbed violently; she could not speak, and indeed
could scarcely stand. Lady Helena put her arm round her waist to support
her, but the captain, John Mangles, who stood close beside them spoke no
encouraging word, for his practiced eye saw plainly that the captain was
not there.
“He is there! He is coming! Oh, father!” exclaimed the young girl. But
as the boat came nearer, her illusion was dispelled; all hope forsook
her, and she would have sunk in despair, but for the reassuring voice of
Glenarvan.
After their mutual embraces were over, Lady Helena, and Mary Grant,
and John Mangles, were informed of the principal incidents of the
expedition, and especially of the new interpretation of the document,
due to the sagacity of Jacques Paganel. His Lordship also spoke in the
most eulogistic terms of Robert, of whom Mary might well be proud. His
courage and devotion, and the dangers he had run, were all shown up in
strong relief by his patron, till the modest boy did not know which
way to look, and was obliged to hide his burning cheeks in his sister’s
arms.
“No need to blush, Robert,” said John Mangles. “Your conduct has been
worthy of your name.” And he leaned over the boy and pressed his lips on
his cheek, still wet with Mary’s tears.
The Major and Paganel, it need hardly be said, came in for their due
share of welcome, and Lady Helena only regretted she could not shake
hands with the brave and generous Thalcave. McNabbs soon slipped away
to his cabin, and began to shave himself as coolly and composedly as
possible; while Paganel flew here and there, like a bee sipping the
sweets of compliments and smiles. He wanted to embrace everyone on board
the yacht, and beginning with Lady Helena and Mary Grant, wound up
with M. Olbinett, the steward, who could only acknowledge so polite an
attention by announcing that breakfast was ready.
“Breakfast!” exclaimed Paganel.
“Yes, Monsieur Paganel.”
“A real breakfast, on a real table, with a cloth and napkins?”
“Certainly, Monsieur Paganel.”
“And we shall neither have CHARQUI, nor hard eggs, nor fillets of
ostrich?”
“Oh, Monsieur,” said Olbinett in an aggrieved tone.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, my friend,” said the geographer
smiling. “But for a month that has been our usual bill of fare, and when
we dined we stretched ourselves full length on the ground, unless we
sat astride on the trees. Consequently, the meal you have just announced
seemed to me like a dream, or fiction, or chimera.”
“Well, Monsieur Paganel, come along and let us prove its reality,” said
Lady Helena, who could not help laughing.
“Take my arm,” replied the gallant geographer.
“Has his Lordship any orders to give me about the DUNCAN?” asked John
Mangles.
“After breakfast, John,” replied Glenarvan, “we’ll discuss the program
of our new expedition _en famille_.”
M. Olbinett’s breakfast seemed quite a FETE to the hungry guests. It
was pronounced excellent, and even superior to the festivities of the
Pampas. Paganel was helped twice to each dish, through “absence of
mind,” he said.
This unlucky word reminded Lady Helena of the amiable Frenchman’s
propensity, and made her ask if he had ever fallen into his old habits
while they were away. The Major and Glenarvan exchanged smiling glances,
and Paganel burst out laughing, and protested on his honor that he would
never be caught tripping again once more during the whole voyage. After
this prelude, he gave an amusing recital of his disastrous mistake in
learning Spanish, and his profound study of Camoens. “After all,” he
added, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I don’t regret the
mistake.”
“Why not, my worthy friend?” asked the Major.
“Because I not only know Spanish, but Portuguese. I can speak two
languages instead of one.”
“Upon my word, I never thought of that,” said McNabbs. “My compliments,
Paganel--my sincere compliments.”
But Paganel was too busily engaged with his knife and fork to lose a
single mouthful, though he did his best to eat and talk at the same
time. He was so much taken up with his plate, however, that one little
fact quite escaped his observation, though Glenarvan noticed it at once.
This was, that John Mangles had grown particularly attentive to Mary
Grant. A significant glance from Lady Helena told him, moreover, how
affairs stood, and inspired him with affectionate sympathy for the young
lovers; but nothing of this was apparent in his manner to John, for his
next question was what sort of a voyage he had made.
“We could not have had a better; but I must apprise your Lordship that I
did not go through the Straits of Magellan again.”
“What! you doubled Cape Horn, and I was not there!” exclaimed Paganel.
“Hang yourself!” said the Major.
“Selfish fellow! you advise me to do that because you want my rope,”
retorted the geographer.
“Well, you see, my dear Paganel, unless you have the gift of ubiquity
you can’t be in two places at once. While you were scouring the pampas
you could not be doubling Cape Horn.”
“That doesn’t prevent my regretting it,” replied Paganel.
Here the subject dropped, and John continued his account of his voyage.
On arriving at Cape Pilares he had found the winds dead against him, and
therefore made for the south, coasting along the Desolation Isle, and
after going as far as the sixty-seventh degree southern latitude, had
doubled Cape Horn, passed by Terra del Fuego and the Straits of
Lemaire, keeping close to the Patagonian shore. At Cape Corrientes they
encountered the terrible storm which had handled the travelers across
the pampas so roughly, but the yacht had borne it bravely, and for the
last three days had stood right out to sea, till the welcome
signal-gun of the expedition was heard announcing the arrival of the
anxiously-looked-for party. “It was only justice,” the captain added,
“that he should mention the intrepid bearing of Lady Helena and Mary
Grant throughout the whole hurricane. They had not shown the least fear,
unless for their friends, who might possibly be exposed to the fury of
the tempest.”
After John Mangles had finished his narrative, Glenarvan turned to Mary
and said; “My dear Miss Mary, the captain has been doing homage to your
noble qualities, and I am glad to think you are not unhappy on board his
ship.”
“How could I be?” replied Mary naively, looking at Lady Helena, and at
the young captain too, likely enough.
“Oh, my sister is very fond of you, Mr. John, and so am I,” exclaimed
Robert.
“And so am I of you, my dear boy,” returned the captain, a little
abashed by Robert’s innocent avowal, which had kindled a faint blush on
Mary’s cheek. Then he managed to turn the conversation to safer topics
by saying: “And now that your Lordship has heard all about the doings of
the DUNCAN, perhaps you will give us some details of your own journey,
and tell us more about the exploits of our young hero.”
Nothing could be more agreeable than such a recital to Lady Helena and
Mary Grant; and accordingly Lord Glenarvan hastened to satisfy their
curiosity--going over incident by incident, the entire march from
one ocean to another, the pass of the Andes, the earthquake, the
disappearance of Robert, his capture by the condor, Thalcave’s
providential shot, the episode of the red wolves, the devotion of
the young lad, Sergeant Manuel, the inundations, the caimans, the
waterspout, the night on the Atlantic shore--all these details, amusing
or terrible, excited by turns laughter and horror in the listeners.
Often and often Robert came in for caresses from his sister and Lady
Helena. Never was a boy so much embraced, or by such enthusiastic
friends.
“And now, friends,” added Lord Glenarvan, when he had finished his
narrative, “we must think of the present. The past is gone, but the
future is ours. Let us come back to Captain Harry Grant.”
As soon as breakfast was over they all went into Lord Glenarvan’s
private cabin and seated themselves round a table covered with charts
and plans, to talk over the matter fully.
“My dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan, “I told you, when we came on
board a little while ago, that though we had not brought back Captain
Grant, our hope of finding him was stronger than ever. The result of
our journey across America is this: We have reached the conviction,
or rather absolute certainty, that the shipwreck never occurred on the
shores of the Atlantic nor Pacific. The natural inference is that,
as far as regards Patagonia, our interpretation of the document was
erroneous. Most fortunately, our friend Paganel, in a happy moment of
inspiration, discovered the mistake. He has proved clearly that we have
been on the wrong track, and so explained the document that all doubt
whatever is removed from our minds. However, as the document is in
French, I will ask Paganel to go over it for your benefit.”
The learned geographer, thus called upon, executed his task in the
most convincing manner, descanting on the syllables GONIE and INDI, and
extracting AUSTRALIA out of AUSTRAL. He pointed out that Captain Grant,
on leaving the coast of Peru to return to Europe, might have been
carried away with his disabled ship by the southern currents of the
Pacific right to the shores of Australia, and his hypotheses were so
ingenious and his deductions so subtle that even the matter-of-fact
John Mangles, a difficult judge, and most unlikely to be led away by any
flights of imagination, was completely satisfied.
At the conclusion of Paganel’s dissertation, Glenarvan announced that
the DUNCAN would sail immediately for Australia.
But before the decisive orders were given, McNabbs asked for a few
minutes’ hearing.
“Say away, McNabbs,” replied Glenarvan.
“I have no intention of weakening the arguments of my friend Paganel,
and still less of refuting them. I consider them wise and weighty, and
deserving our attention, and think them justly entitled to form the
basis of our future researches. But still I should like them to
be submitted to a final examination, in order to make their worth
incontestable and uncontested.”
“Go on, Major,” said Paganel; “I am ready to answer all your questions.”
“They are simple enough, as you will see. Five months ago, when we left
the Clyde, we had studied these same documents, and their interpretation
then appeared quite plain. No other coast but the western coast of
Patagonia could possibly, we thought, have been the scene of the
shipwreck. We had not even the shadow of a doubt on the subject.”
“That’s true,” replied Glenarvan.
“A little later,” continued the Major, “when a providential fit of
absence of mind came over Paganel, and brought him on board the yacht,
the documents were submitted to him and he approved our plan of search
most unreservedly.”
“I do not deny it,” said Paganel.
“And yet we were mistaken,” resumed the Major.
“Yes, we were mistaken,” returned Paganel; “but it is only human to make
a mistake, while to persist in it, a man must be a fool.”
“Stop, Paganel, don’t excite yourself; I don’t mean to say that we
should prolong our search in America.”
“What is it, then, that you want?” asked Glenarvan.
“A confession, nothing more. A confession that Australia now as
evidently appears to be the theater of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA as
America did before.”
“We confess it willingly,” replied Paganel.
“Very well, then, since that is the case, my advice is not to let your
imagination rely on successive and contradictory evidence. Who knows
whether after Australia some other country may not appear with equal
certainty to be the place, and we may have to recommence our search?”
Glenarvan and Paganel looked at each other silently, struck by the
justice of these remarks.
“I should like you, therefore,” continued the Major, “before we actually
start for Australia, to make one more examination of the documents.
Here they are, and here are the charts. Let us take up each point in
succession through which the 37th parallel passes, and see if we come
across any other country which would agree with the precise indications
of the document.”
“Nothing can be more easily and quickly done,” replied Paganel; “for
countries are not very numerous in this latitude, happily.”
“Well, look,” said the Major, displaying an English planisphere on the
plan of Mercator’s Chart, and presenting the appearance of a terrestrial
globe.
He placed it before Lady Helena, and then they all stood round, so as to
be able to follow the argument of Paganel.
“As I have said already,” resumed the learned geographer, “after having
crossed South America, the 37th degree of latitude cuts the islands of
Tristan d’Acunha. Now I maintain that none of the words of the document
could relate to these islands.”
The documents were examined with the most minute care, and the
conclusion unanimously reached was that these islands were entirely out
of the question.
“Let us go on then,” resumed Paganel. “After leaving the Atlantic, we
pass two degrees below the Cape of Good Hope, and into the Indian Ocean.
Only one group of islands is found on this route, the Amsterdam Isles.
Now, then, we must examine these as we did the Tristan d’Acunha group.”
After a close survey, the Amsterdam Isles were rejected in their turn.
Not a single word, or part of a word, French, English or German, could
apply to this group in the Indian Ocean.
“Now we come to Australia,” continued Paganel.
“The 37th parallel touches this continent at Cape Bernouilli, and leaves
it at Twofold Bay. You will agree with me that, without straining the
text, the English word STRA and the French one AUSTRAL may relate to
Australia. The thing is too plain to need proof.”
The conclusion of Paganel met with unanimous approval; every probability
was in his favor.
“And where is the next point?” asked McNabbs.
“That is easily answered. After leaving Twofold Bay, we cross an arm of
the sea which extends to New Zealand. Here I must call your attention
to the fact that the French word CONTIN means a continent, irrefragably.
Captain Grant could not, then, have found refuge in New Zealand, which
is only an island. However that may be though, examine and compare, and
go over and over each word, and see if, by any possibility, they can be
made to fit this new country.”
“In no way whatever,” replied John Mangles, after a minute investigation
of the documents and the planisphere.
“No,” chimed in all the rest, and even the Major himself, “it cannot
apply to New Zealand.”
“Now,” went on Paganel, “in all this immense space between this large
island and the American coast, there is only one solitary barren little
island crossed by the 37th parallel.”
“And what is its name,” asked the Major.
“Here it is, marked in the map. It is Maria Theresa--a name of which
there is not a single trace in either of the three documents.”
“Not the slightest,” said Glenarvan.
“I leave you, then, my friends, to decide whether all these
probabilities, not to say certainties, are not in favor of the
Australian continent.”
“Evidently,” replied the captain and all the others.
“Well, then, John,” said Glenarvan, “the next question is, have you
provisions and coal enough?”
“Yes, your honor, I took in an ample store at Talcahuano, and, besides,
we can easily replenish our stock of coal at Cape Town.”
“Well, then, give orders.”
“Let me make one more observation,” interrupted McNabbs.
“Go on then.”
“Whatever likelihood of success Australia may offer us, wouldn’t it be
advisable to stop a day or two at the Tristan d’Acunha Isles and the
Amsterdam? They lie in our route, and would not take us the least out of
the way. Then we should be able to ascertain if the BRITANNIA had left
any traces of her shipwreck there?”
“Incredulous Major!” exclaimed Paganel, “he still sticks to his idea.”
“I stick to this any way, that I don’t want to have to retrace our
steps, supposing that Australia should disappoint our sanguine hopes.”
“It seems to me a good precaution,” replied Glenarvan.
“And I’m not the one to dissuade you from it,” returned Paganel; “quite
the contrary.”
“Steer straight for Tristan d’Acunha.”
“Immediately, your Honor,” replied the captain, going on deck, while
Robert and Mary Grant overwhelmed Lord Glenarvan with their grateful
thanks.
Shortly after, the DUNCAN had left the American coast, and was running
eastward, her sharp keel rapidly cutting her way through the waves of
the Atlantic Ocean.
CHAPTER II TRISTAN D’ACUNHA AND THE ISLE OF AMSTERDAM
IF the yacht had followed the line of the equator, the 196 degrees which
separate Australia from America, or, more correctly, Cape Bernouilli
from Cape Corrientes, would have been equal to 11,760 geographical
miles; but along the 37th parallel these same degrees, owing to the form
of the earth, only represent 9,480 miles. From the American coast to
Tristan d’Acunha is reckoned 2,100 miles--a distance which John Mangles
hoped to clear in ten days, if east winds did not retard the motion of
the yacht. But he was not long uneasy on that score, for toward evening
the breeze sensibly lulled and then changed altogether, giving the
DUNCAN a fair field on a calm sea for displaying her incomparable
qualities as a sailor.
The passengers had fallen back into their ordinary ship life, and it
hardly seemed as if they really could have been absent a whole month.
Instead of the Pacific, the Atlantic stretched itself out before them,
and there was scarcely a shade of difference in the waves of the two
oceans. The elements, after having handled them so roughly, seemed now
disposed to favor them to the utmost. The sea was tranquil, and the
wind kept in the right quarter, so that the yacht could spread all her
canvas, and lend its aid, if needed to the indefatigable steam stored up
in the boiler.
Under such conditions, the voyage was safely and rapidly accomplished.
Their confidence increased as they found themselves nearer the
Australian coast. They began to talk of Captain Grant as if the yacht
were going to take him on board at a given port. His cabin was got
ready, and berths for the men. This cabin was next to the famous _number
six_, which Paganel had taken possession of instead of the one he had
booked on the SCOTIA. It had been till now occupied by M. Olbinett, who
vacated it for the expected guest. Mary took great delight in arranging
it with her own hands, and adorning it for the reception of the loved
inmate.
The learned geographer kept himself closely shut up. He was working away
from morning till night at a work entitled “Sublime Impressions of a
Geographer in the Argentine Pampas,” and they could hear him repeating
elegant periods aloud before committing them to the white pages of his
day-book; and more than once, unfaithful to Clio, the muse of history,
he invoked in his transports the divine Calliope, the muse of epic
poetry.
Paganel made no secret of it either. The chaste daughters of Apollo
willingly left the slopes of Helicon and Parnassus at his call. Lady
Helena paid him sincere compliments on his mythological visitants, and
so did the Major, though he could not forbear adding:
“But mind no fits of absence of mind, my dear Paganel; and if you take a
fancy to learn Australian, don’t go and study it in a Chinese grammar.”
Things went on perfectly smoothly on board. Lady Helena and Lord
Glenarvan found leisure to watch John Mangles’ growing attachment to
Mary Grant. There was nothing to be said against it, and, indeed, since
John remained silent, it was best to take no notice of it.
“What will Captain Grant think?” Lord Glenarvan asked his wife one day.
“He’ll think John is worthy of Mary, my dear Edward, and he’ll think
right.”
Meanwhile, the yacht was making rapid progress. Five days after losing
sight of Cape Corrientes, on the 16th of November, they fell in with
fine westerly breezes, and the DUNCAN might almost have dispensed with
her screw altogether, for she flew over the water like a bird, spreading
all her sails to catch the breeze, as if she were running a race with
the Royal Thames Club yachts.
Next day, the ocean appeared covered with immense seaweeds, looking like
a great pond choked up with the DEBRIS of trees and plants torn off the
neighboring continents. Commander Murray had specially pointed them out
to the attention of navigators. The DUNCAN appeared to glide over a
long prairie, which Paganel justly compared to the Pampas, and her speed
slackened a little.
Twenty-four hours after, at break of day, the man on the look-out was
heard calling out, “Land ahead!”
“In what direction?” asked Tom Austin, who was on watch.
“Leeward!” was the reply.
This exciting cry brought everyone speedily on deck. Soon a telescope
made its appearance, followed by Jacques Paganel. The learned geographer
pointed the instrument in the direction indicated, but could see nothing
that resembled land.
“Look in the clouds,” said John Mangles.
“Ah, now I do see a sort of peak, but very indistinctly.”
“It is Tristan d’Acunha,” replied John Mangles.
“Then, if my memory serves me right, we must be eighty miles from it,
for the peak of Tristan, seven thousand feet high, is visible at that
distance.”
“That’s it, precisely.”
Some hours later, the sharp, lofty crags of the group of islands stood
out clearly on the horizon. The conical peak of Tristan looked black
against the bright sky, which seemed all ablaze with the splendor of the
rising sun. Soon the principal island stood out from the rocky mass, at
the summit of a triangle inclining toward the northeast.
Tristan d’Acunha is situated in 37 degrees 8’ of southern latitude,
and 10 degrees 44’ of longitude west of the meridian at Greenwich.
Inaccessible Island is eighteen miles to the southwest and Nightingale
Island is ten miles to the southeast, and this completes the little
solitary group of islets in the Atlantic Ocean. Toward noon, the two
principal landmarks, by which the group is recognized were sighted, and
at 3 P. M. the DUNCAN entered Falmouth Bay in Tristan d’Acunha.
Several whaling vessels were lying quietly at anchor there, for the
coast abounds in seals and other marine animals.
John Mangle’s first care was to find good anchorage, and then all the
passengers, both ladies and gentlemen, got into the long boat and were
rowed ashore. They stepped out on a beach covered with fine black sand,
the impalpable DEBRIS of the calcined rocks of the island.
Tristan d’Acunha is the capital of the group, and consists of a little
village, lying in the heart of the bay, and watered by a noisy, rapid
stream. It contained about fifty houses, tolerably clean, and disposed
with geometrical regularity. Behind this miniature town there lay 1,500
hectares of meadow land, bounded by an embankment of lava. Above this
embankment, the conical peak rose 7,000 feet high.
Lord Glenarvan was received by a governor supplied from the English
colony at the Cape. He inquired at once respecting Harry Grant and the
BRITANNIA, and found the names entirely unknown. The Tristan d’Acunha
Isles are out of the route of ships, and consequently little frequented.
Since the wreck of the _Blendon Hall_ in 1821, on the rocks of
Inaccessible Island, two vessels have stranded on the chief island--the
PRIMANGUET in 1845, and the three-mast American, PHILADELPHIA, in 1857.
These three events comprise the whole catalogue of maritime disasters in
the annals of the Acunhas.
Lord Glenarvan did not expect to glean any information, and only asked
by the way of duty. He even sent the boats to make the circuit of the
island, the entire extent of which was not more than seventeen miles at
most.
In the interim the passengers walked about the village. The population
does not exceed 150 inhabitants, and consists of English and Americans,
married to negroes and Cape Hottentots, who might bear away the palm
for ugliness. The children of these heterogeneous households are very
disagreeable compounds of Saxon stiffness and African blackness.
It was nearly nightfall before the party returned to the yacht,
chattering and admiring the natural riches displayed on all sides, for
even close to the streets of the capital, fields of wheat and maize were
waving, and crops of vegetables, imported forty years before; and in the
environs of the village, herds of cattle and sheep were feeding.
The boats returned to the DUNCAN about the same time as Lord Glenarvan.
They had made the circuit of the entire island in a few hours, but
without coming across the least trace of the BRITANNIA. The only result
of this voyage of circumnavigation was to strike out the name of Isle
Tristan from the program of search.
CHAPTER III CAPE TOWN AND M. VIOT
As John Mangles intended to put in at the Cape of Good Hope for coals,
he was obliged to deviate a little from the 37th parallel, and go two
degrees north. In less than six days he cleared the thirteen hundred
miles which separate the point of Africa from Tristan d’Acunha, and
on the 24th of November, at 3 P. M. the Table Mountain was sighted. At
eight o’clock they entered the bay, and cast anchor in the port of Cape
Town. They sailed away next morning at daybreak.
Between the Cape and Amsterdam Island there is a distance of 2,900
miles, but with a good sea and favoring breeze, this was only a ten
day’s voyage. The elements were now no longer at war with the travelers,
as on their journey across the Pampas--air and water seemed in league
to help them forward.
“Ah! the sea! the sea!” exclaimed Paganel, “it is the field _par
excellence_ for the exercise of human energies, and the ship is the true
vehicle of civilization. Think, my friends, if the globe had been only
an immense continent, the thousandth part of it would still be unknown
to us, even in this nineteenth century. See how it is in the interior
of great countries. In the steppes of Siberia, in the plains of Central
Asia, in the deserts of Africa, in the prairies of America, in the
immense wilds of Australia, in the icy solitudes of the Poles, man
scarcely dares to venture; the most daring shrinks back, the most
courageous succumbs. They cannot penetrate them; the means of transport
are insufficient, and the heat and disease, and savage disposition of
the natives, are impassable obstacles. Twenty miles of desert separate
men more than five hundred miles of ocean.”
Paganel spoke with such warmth that even the Major had nothing to say
against this panegyric of the ocean. Indeed, if the finding of Harry
Grant had involved following a parallel across continents instead of
oceans, the enterprise could not have been attempted; but the sea was
there ready to carry the travelers from one country to another, and
on the 6th of December, at the first streak of day, they saw a fresh
mountain apparently emerging from the bosom of the waves.
This was Amsterdam Island, situated in 37 degrees 47 minutes latitude
and 77 degrees 24 minutes longitude, the high cone of which in clear
weather is visible fifty miles off. At eight o’clock, its form,
indistinct though it still was, seemed almost a reproduction of
Teneriffe.
“And consequently it must resemble Tristan d’Acunha,” observed
Glenarvan.
“A very wise conclusion,” said Paganel, “according to the
geometrographic axiom that two islands resembling a third must have a
common likeness. I will only add that, like Tristan d’Acunha, Amsterdam
Island is equally rich in seals and Robinsons.”
“There are Robinsons everywhere, then?” said Lady Helena.
“Indeed, Madam,” replied Paganel, “I know few islands without some
tale of the kind appertaining to them, and the romance of your immortal
countryman, Daniel Defoe, has been often enough realized before his
day.”
“Monsieur Paganel,” said Mary, “may I ask you a question?”
“Two if you like, my dear young lady, and I promise to answer them.”
“Well, then, I want to know if you would be very much frightened at the
idea of being cast away alone on a desert island.”
“I?” exclaimed Paganel.
“Come now, my good fellow,” said the Major, “don’t go and tell us that
it is your most cherished desire.”
“I don’t pretend it is that, but still, after all, such an adventure
would not be very unpleasant to me. I should begin a new life; I should
hunt and fish; I should choose a grotto for my domicile in Winter and a
tree in Summer. I should make storehouses for my harvests: in one word,
I should colonize my island.”
“All by yourself?”
“All by myself if I was obliged. Besides, are we ever obliged? Cannot
one find friends among the animals, and choose some tame kid or eloquent
parrot or amiable monkey? And if a lucky chance should send one a
companion like the faithful Friday, what more is needed? Two friends on
a rock, there is happiness. Suppose now, the Major and I--”
“Thank you,” replied the Major, interrupting him; “I have no inclination
in that line, and should make a very poor Robinson Crusoe.”
“My dear Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena, “you are letting your
imagination run away with you, as usual. But the dream is very different
from the reality. You are thinking of an imaginary Robinson’s life,
thrown on a picked island and treated like a spoiled child by nature.
You only see the sunny side.”
“What, madam! You don’t believe a man could be happy on a desert
island?”
“I do not. Man is made for society and not for solitude, and solitude
can only engender despair. It is a question of time. At the outset it is
quite possible that material wants and the very necessities of existence
may engross the poor shipwrecked fellow, just snatched from the waves;
but afterward, when he feels himself alone, far from his fellow men,
without any hope of seeing country and friends again, what must he
think, what must he suffer? His little island is all his world. The
whole human race is shut up in himself, and when death comes, which
utter loneliness will make terrible, he will be like the last man on the
last day of the world. Believe me, Monsieur Paganel, such a man is not
to be envied.”
Paganel gave in, though regretfully, to the arguments of Lady Helena,
and still kept up a discussion on the advantages and disadvantages of
Isolation, till the very moment the DUNCAN dropped anchor about a mile
off Amsterdam Island.
This lonely group in the Indian Ocean consists of two distinct islands,
thirty-three miles apart, and situated exactly on the meridian of the
Indian peninsula. To the north is Amsterdam Island, and to the south St.
Paul; but they have been often confounded by geographers and navigators.
At the time of the DUNCAN’S visit to the island, the population
consisted of three people, a Frenchman and two mulattoes, all three
employed by the merchant proprietor. Paganel was delighted to shake
hands with a countryman in the person of good old Monsieur Viot. He
was far advanced in years, but did the honors of the place with much
politeness. It was a happy day for him when these kindly strangers
touched at his island, for St. Peter’s was only frequented by
seal-fishers, and now and then a whaler, the crews of which are usually
rough, coarse men.
M. Viot presented his subjects, the two mulattoes. They composed the
whole living population of the island, except a few wild boars in the
interior and myriads of penguins. The little house where the three
solitary men lived was in the heart of a natural bay on the southeast,
formed by the crumbling away of a portion of the mountain.
Twice over in the early part of the century, Amsterdam Island became the
country of deserted sailors, providentially saved from misery and death;
but since these events no vessel had been lost on its coast. Had any
shipwreck occurred, some fragments must have been thrown on the sandy
shore, and any poor sufferers from it would have found their way to M.
Viot’s fishing-huts. The old man had been long on the island, and had
never been called upon to exercise such hospitality. Of the BRITANNIA
and Captain Grant he knew nothing, but he was certain that the disaster
had not happened on Amsterdam Island, nor on the islet called St. Paul,
for whalers and fishing-vessels went there constantly, and must have
heard of it.
Glenarvan was neither surprised nor vexed at the reply; indeed, his
object in asking was rather to establish the fact that Captain Grant had
not been there than that he had. This done, they were ready to proceed
on their voyage next day.
They rambled about the island till evening, as its appearance was very
inviting. Its FAUNA and FLORA, however, were poor in the extreme. The
only specimens of quadrupeds, birds, fish and cetacea were a few wild
boars, stormy petrels, albatrosses, perch and seals. Here and there
thermal springs and chalybeate waters escaped from the black lava, and
thin dark vapors rose above the volcanic soil. Some of these springs
were very hot. John Mangles held his thermometer in one of them, and
found the temperature was 176 degrees Fahrenheit. Fish caught in the sea
a few yards off, cooked in five minutes in these all but boiling waters,
a fact which made Paganel resolve not to attempt to bathe in them.
Toward evening, after a long promenade, Glenarvan and his party bade
adieu to the good old M. Viot, and returned to the yacht, wishing him
all the happiness possible on his desert island, and receiving in return
the old man’s blessing on their expedition.
CHAPTER IV A WAGER AND HOW DECIDED
ON the 7th of December, at three A. M., the DUNCAN lay puffing out her
smoke in the little harbor ready to start, and a few minutes afterward
the anchor was lifted, and the screw set in motion. By eight o’clock,
when the passengers came on deck, the Amsterdam Island had almost
disappeared from view behind the mists of the horizon. This was the last
halting-place on the route, and nothing now was between them and the
Australian coast but three thousand miles’ distance. Should the west
wind continue but a dozen days longer, and the sea remain favorable, the
yacht would have reached the end of her voyage.
Mary Grant and her brother could not gaze without emotion at the waves
through which the DUNCAN was speeding her course, when they thought that
these very same waves must have dashed against the prow of the BRITANNIA
but a few days before her shipwreck. Here, perhaps, Captain Grant,
with a disabled ship and diminished crew, had struggled against the
tremendous hurricanes of the Indian Ocean, and felt himself driven
toward the coast with irresistible force. The Captain pointed out to
Mary the different currents on the ship’s chart, and explained to her
their constant direction. Among others there was one running straight to
the Australian continent, and its action is equally felt in the Atlantic
and Pacific. It was doubtless against this that the BRITANNIA, dismasted
and rudderless, had been unable to contend, and consequently been dashed
against the coast, and broken in pieces.
A difficulty about this, however, presented itself. The last
intelligence of Captain Grant was from Callao on the 30th of May, 1862,
as appeared in the _Mercantile and Shipping Gazette_. “How then was
it possible that on the 7th of June, only eight days after leaving
the shores of Peru, that the BRITANNIA could have found herself in the
Indian Ocean?” But to this, Paganel, who was consulted on the subject,
found a very plausible solution.
It was one evening, about six days after their leaving Amsterdam Island,
when they were all chatting together on the poop, that the above-named
difficulty was stated by Glenarvan. Paganel made no reply, but went
and fetched the document. After perusing it, he still remained silent,
simply shrugging his shoulders, as if ashamed of troubling himself about
such a trifle.
“Come, my good friend,” said Glenarvan, “at least give us an answer.”
“No,” replied Paganel, “I’ll merely ask a question for Captain John to
answer.”
“And what is it, Monsieur Paganel?” said John Mangles.
“Could a quick ship make the distance in a month over that part of the
Pacific Ocean which lies between America and Australia?”
“Yes, by making two hundred miles in twenty-four hours.”
“Would that be an extraordinary rate of speed?”
“Not at all; sailing clippers often go faster.”
“Well, then, instead of ‘7 June’ on this document, suppose that one
figure has been destroyed by the sea-water, and read ‘17 June’ or ‘27
June,’ and all is explained.”
“That’s to say,” replied Lady Helena, “that between the 31st of May and
the 27th of June--”
“Captain Grant could have crossed the Pacific and found himself in the
Indian Ocean.”
Paganel’s theory met with universal acceptance.
“That’s one more point cleared up,” said Glenarvan. “Thanks to our
friend, all that remains to be done now is to get to Australia, and look
out for traces of the wreck on the western coast.”
“Or the eastern?” said John Mangles.
“Indeed, John, you may be right, for there is nothing in the document to
indicate which shore was the scene of the catastrophe, and both points
of the continent crossed by the 37th parallel, must, therefore, be
explored.”
“Then, my Lord, it is doubtful, after all,” said Mary.
“Oh no, Miss Mary,” John Mangles hastened to reply, seeing the young
girl’s apprehension. “His Lordship will please to consider that if
Captain Grant had gained the shore on the east of Australia, he would
almost immediately have found refuge and assistance. The whole of that
coast is English, we might say, peopled with colonists. The crew of
the BRITANNIA could not have gone ten miles without meeting a
fellow-countryman.”
“I am quite of your opinion, Captain John,” said Paganel. “On the
eastern coast Harry Grant would not only have found an English colony
easily, but he would certainly have met with some means of transport
back to Europe.”
“And he would not have found the same resources on the side we are
making for?” asked Lady Helena.
“No, madam,” replied Paganel; “it is a desert coast, with no
communication between it and Melbourne or Adelaide. If the BRITANNIA was
wrecked on those rocky shores, she was as much cut off from all chance
of help as if she had been lost on the inhospitable shores of Africa.”
“But what has become of my father there, then, all these two years?”
asked Mary Grant.
“My dear Mary,” replied Paganel, “you have not the least doubt, have
you, that Captain Grant reached the Australian continent after his
shipwreck?”
“No, Monsieur Paganel.”
“Well, granting that, what became of him? The suppositions we might make
are not numerous. They are confined to three. Either Harry Grant and his
companions have found their way to the English colonies, or they have
fallen into the hands of the natives, or they are lost in the immense
wilds of Australia.”
“Go on, Paganel,” said Lord Glenarvan, as the learned Frenchman made a
pause.
“The first hypothesis I reject, then, to begin with, for Harry Grant
could not have reached the English colonies, or long ago he would have
been back with his children in the good town of Dundee.”
“Poor father,” murmured Mary, “away from us for two whole years.”
“Hush, Mary,” said Robert, “Monsieur Paganel will tell us.”
“Alas! my boy, I cannot. All that I affirm is, that Captain Grant is in
the hands of the natives.”
“But these natives,” said Lady Helena, hastily, “are they--”
“Reassure yourself, madam,” said Paganel, divining her thoughts.
“The aborigines of Australia are low enough in the scale of human
intelligence, and most degraded and uncivilized, but they are mild
and gentle in disposition, and not sanguinary like their New Zealand
neighbors. Though they may be prisoners, their lives have never been
threatened, you may be sure. All travelers are unanimous in declaring
that the Australian natives abhor shedding blood, and many a time
they have found in them faithful allies in repelling the attacks of
evil-disposed convicts far more cruelly inclined.”
“You hear what Monsieur Paganel tells us, Mary,” said Lady Helena
turning to the young girl. “If your father is in the hands of the
natives, which seems probable from the document, we shall find him.”
“And what if he is lost in that immense country?” asked Mary.
“Well, we’ll find him still,” exclaimed Paganel, in a confident tone.
“Won’t we, friends?”
“Most certainly,” replied Glenarvan; and anxious to give a less gloomy
turn to the conversation, he added--
“But I won’t admit the supposition of his being lost, not for an
instant.”
“Neither will I,” said Paganel.
“Is Australia a big place?” inquired Robert.
“Australia, my boy, is about as large as four-fifths of Europe. It has
somewhere about 775,000 HECTARES.”
“So much as that?” said the Major.
“Yes, McNabbs, almost to a yard’s breadth. Don’t you think now it has a
right to be called a continent?”
“I do, certainly.”
“I may add,” continued the SAVANT, “that there are but few accounts
of travelers being lost in this immense country. Indeed, I believe
Leichardt is the only one of whose fate we are ignorant, and some
time before my departure I learned from the Geographical Society that
Mcintyre had strong hopes of having discovered traces of him.”
“The whole of Australia, then, is not yet explored?” asked Lady Helena.
“No, madam, but very little of it. This continent is not much better
known than the interior of Africa, and yet it is from no lack of
enterprising travelers. From 1606 to 1862, more than fifty have been
engaged in exploring along the coast and in the interior.”
“Oh, fifty!” exclaimed McNabbs incredulously.
“No, no,” objected the Major; “that is going too far.”
“And I might go farther, McNabbs,” replied the geographer, impatient of
contradiction.
“Yes, McNabbs, quite that number.”
“Farther still, Paganel.”
“If you doubt me, I can give you the names.”
“Oh, oh,” said the Major, coolly. “That’s just like you SAVANTS. You
stick at nothing.”
“Major, will you bet your Purdy-Moore rifle against my telescope?”
“Why not, Paganel, if it would give you any pleasure.”
“Done, Major!” exclaimed Paganel. “You may say good-by to your rifle,
for it will never shoot another chamois or fox unless I lend it to you,
which I shall always be happy to do, by the by.”
“And whenever you require the use of your telescope, Paganel, I shall be
equally obliging,” replied the Major, gravely.
“Let us begin, then; and ladies and gentlemen, you shall be our jury.
Robert, you must keep count.”
This was agreed upon, and Paganel forthwith commenced.
“Mnemosyne! Goddess of Memory, chaste mother of the Muses!” he
exclaimed, “inspire thy faithful servant and fervent worshiper! Two
hundred and fifty-eight years ago, my friends, Australia was unknown.
Strong suspicions were entertained of the existence of a great southern
continent. In the library of your British Museum, Glenarvan, there are
two charts, the date of which is 1550, which mention a country south
of Asia, called by the Portuguese Great Java. But these charts are not
sufficiently authentic. In the seventeenth century, in 1606, Quiros,
a Spanish navigator, discovered a country which he named Australia de
Espiritu Santo. Some authors imagine that this was the New Hebrides
group, and not Australia. I am not going to discuss the question,
however. Count Quiros, Robert, and let us pass on to another.”
“ONE,” said Robert.
“In that same year, Louis Vas de Torres, the second in command of the
fleet of Quiros, pushed further south. But it is to Theodore Hertoge, a
Dutchman, that the honor of the great discovery belongs. He touched
the western coast of Australia in 25 degrees latitude, and called it
Eendracht, after his vessel. From this time navigators increased. In
1618, Zeachen discovered the northern parts of the coast, and called
them Arnheim and Diemen. In 1618, Jan Edels went along the western
coast, and christened it by his own name. In 1622, Leuwin went down as
far as the cape which became his namesake.” And so Paganel continued
with name after name until his hearers cried for mercy.
“Stop, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, laughing heartily, “don’t quite crush
poor McNabbs. Be generous; he owns he is vanquished.”
“And what about the rifle?” asked the geographer, triumphantly.
“It is yours, Paganel,” replied the Major, “and I am very sorry for it;
but your memory might gain an armory by such feats.”
“It is certainly impossible to be better acquainted with Australia; not
the least name, not even the most trifling fact--”
“As to the most trifling fact, I don’t know about that,” said the Major,
shaking his head.
“What do you mean, McNabbs?” exclaimed Paganel.
“Simply that perhaps all the incidents connected with the discovery of
Australia may not be known to you.”
“Just fancy,” retorted Paganel, throwing back his head proudly.
“Come now. If I name one fact you don’t know, will you give me back my
rifle?” said McNabbs.
“On the spot, Major.”
“Very well, it’s a bargain, then.”
“Yes, a bargain; that’s settled.”
“All right. Well now, Paganel, do you know how it is that Australia does
not belong to France?”
“But it seems to me--”
“Or, at any rate, do you know what’s the reason the English give?” asked
the Major.
“No,” replied Paganel, with an air of vexation.
“Just because Captain Baudin, who was by no means a timid man, was so
afraid in 1802, of the croaking of the Australian frogs, that he raised
his anchor with all possible speed, and quitted the coast, never to
return.”
“What!” exclaimed Paganel. “Do they actually give that version of it in
England? But it is just a bad joke.”
“Bad enough, certainly, but still it is history in the United Kingdom.”
“It’s an insult!” exclaimed the patriotic geographer; “and they relate
that gravely?”
“I must own it is the case,” replied Glenarvan, amidst a general
outburst of laughter. “Do you mean to say you have never heard of it
before?”
“Never! But I protest against it. Besides, the English call us
‘frog-eaters.’ Now, in general, people are not afraid of what they eat.”
“It is said, though, for all that,” replied McNabbs. So the Major kept
his famous rifle after all.
CHAPTER V THE STORM ON THE INDIAN OCEAN
Two days after this conversation, John Mangles announced that the DUNCAN
was in longitude 113 degrees 37 minutes, and the passengers found on
consulting the chart that consequently Cape Bernouilli could not be more
than five degrees off. They must be sailing then in that part of the
Indian Ocean which washed the Australian continent, and in four days
might hope to see Cape Bernouilli appear on the horizon.
Hitherto the yacht had been favored by a strong westerly breeze, but now
there were evident signs that a calm was impending, and on the 13th
of December the wind fell entirely; as the sailors say, there was not
enough to fill a cap.
There was no saying how long this state of the atmosphere might last.
But for the powerful propeller the yacht would have been obliged to lie
motionless as a log. The young captain was very much annoyed, however,
at the prospect of emptying his coal-bunkers, for he had covered his
ship with canvas, intending to take advantage of the slightest breeze.
“After all, though,” said Glenarvan, with whom he was talking over the
subject, “it is better to have no wind than a contrary one.”
“Your Lordship is right,” replied John Mangles; “but the fact is these
sudden calms bring change of weather, and this is why I dread them. We
are close on the trade winds, and if we get them ever so little in our
teeth, it will delay us greatly.”
“Well, John, what if it does? It will only make our voyage a little
longer.”
“Yes, if it does not bring a storm with it.”
“Do you mean to say you think we are going to have bad weather?” replied
Glenarvan, examining the sky, which from horizon to zenith seemed
absolutely cloudless.
“I do,” returned the captain. “I may say so to your Lordship, but I
should not like to alarm Lady Glenarvan or Miss Grant.”
“You are acting wisely; but what makes you uneasy?”
“Sure indications of a storm. Don’t trust, my Lord, to the appearance of
the sky. Nothing is more deceitful. For the last two days the barometer
has been falling in a most ominous manner, and is now at 27 degrees.
This is a warning I dare not neglect, for there is nothing I dread more
than storms in the Southern Seas; I have had a taste of them already.
The vapors which become condensed in the immense glaciers at the
South Pole produce a current of air of extreme violence. This causes
a struggle between the polar and equatorial winds, which results in
cyclones, tornadoes, and all those multiplied varieties of tempest
against which a ship is no match.”
“Well, John,” said Glenarvan, “the DUNCAN is a good ship, and her
captain is a brave sailor. Let the storm come, we’ll meet it!”
John Mangles remained on deck the whole night, for though as yet the
sky was still unclouded, he had such faith in his weather-glass, that
he took every precaution that prudence could suggest. About 11 P. M. the
sky began to darken in the south, and the crew were called up, and all
the sails hauled in, except the foresail, brigantine, top-sail, and
jib-boom. At midnight the wind freshened, and before long the cracking
of the masts, and the rattling of the cordage, and groaning of the
timbers, awakened the passengers, who speedily made their appearance on
deck--at least Paganel, Glenarvan, the Major and Robert.
“Is it the hurricane?” asked Glenarvan quietly.
“Not yet,” replied the captain; “but it is close at hand.”
And he went on giving his orders to the men, and doing his best to make
ready for the storm, standing, like an officer commanding a breach, with
his face to the wind, and his gaze fixed on the troubled sky. The glass
had fallen to 26 degrees, and the hand pointed to tempest.
It was one o’clock in the morning when Lady Helena and Miss Grant
ventured upstairs on deck. But they no sooner made their appearance
than the captain hurried toward them, and begged them to go below again
immediately. The waves were already beginning to dash over the side of
the ship, and the sea might any moment sweep right over her from stem
to stern. The noise of the warring elements was so great that his words
were scarcely audible, but Lady Helena took advantage of a sudden lull
to ask if there was any danger.
“None whatever,” replied John Mangles; “but you cannot remain on deck,
madam, no more can Miss Mary.”
The ladies could not disobey an order that seemed almost an entreaty,
and they returned to their cabin. At the same moment the wind redoubled
its fury, making the masts bend beneath the weight of the sails, and
completely lifting up the yacht.
“Haul up the foresail!” shouted the captain. “Lower the topsail and
jib-boom!”
Glenarvan and his companions stood silently gazing at the struggle
between their good ship and the waves, lost in wondering and
half-terrified admiration at the spectacle.
Just then, a dull hissing was heard above the noise of the elements.
The steam was escaping violently, not by the funnel, but from the
safety-valves of the boiler; the alarm whistle sounded unnaturally loud,
and the yacht made a frightful pitch, overturning Wilson, who was at
the wheel, by an unexpected blow from the tiller. The DUNCAN no longer
obeyed the helm.
“What is the matter?” cried the captain, rushing on the bridge.
“The ship is heeling over on her side,” replied Wilson.
“The engine! the engine!” shouted the engineer.
Away rushed John to the engine-room. A cloud of steam filled the room.
The pistons were motionless in their cylinders, and they were apparently
powerless, and the engine-driver, fearing for his boilers, was letting
off the steam.
“What’s wrong?” asked the captain.
“The propeller is bent or entangled,” was the reply. “It’s not acting at
all.”
“Can’t you extricate it?”
“It is impossible.”
An accident like this could not be remedied, and John’s only resource
was to fall back on his sails, and seek to make an auxiliary of his most
powerful enemy, the wind. He went up again on deck, and after explaining
in a few words to Lord Glenarvan how things stood, begged him to retire
to his cabin, with the rest of the passengers. But Glenarvan wished to
remain above.
“No, your Lordship,” said the captain in a firm tone, “I must be alone
with my men. Go into the saloon. The vessel will have a hard fight with
the waves, and they would sweep you over without mercy.”
“But we might be a help.”
“Go in, my Lord, go in. I must indeed insist on it. There are times when
I must be master on board, and retire you must.”
Their situation must indeed be desperate for John Mangles to speak in
such authoritative language. Glenarvan was wise enough to understand
this, and felt he must set an example in obedience. He therefore quitted
the deck immediately with his three companions, and rejoined the
ladies, who were anxiously watching the DENOUEMENT of this war with the
elements.
“He’s an energetic fellow, this brave John of mine!” said Lord
Glenarvan, as he entered the saloon.
“That he is,” replied Paganel. “He reminds me of your great
Shakespeare’s boatswain in the ‘Tempest,’ who says to the king on board:
‘Hence! What care these roarers for the name of king? To cabin! Silence!
Trouble us not.’”
However, John Mangles did not lose a second in extricating his ship
from the peril in which she was placed by the condition of her screw
propeller. He resolved to rely on the mainsail for keeping in the right
route as far as possible, and to brace the yards obliquely, so as not to
present a direct front to the storm. The yacht turned about like a swift
horse that feels the spur, and presented a broadside to the billows. The
only question was, how long would she hold out with so little sail, and
what sail could resist such violence for any length of time. The great
advantage of keeping up the mainsail was that it presented to the waves
only the most solid portions of the yacht, and kept her in the right
course. Still it involved some peril, for the vessel might get engulfed
between the waves, and not be able to raise herself. But Mangles felt
there was no alternative, and all he could do was to keep the crew
ready to alter the sail at any moment, and stay in the shrouds himself
watching the tempest.
The remainder of the night was spent in this manner, and it was hoped
that morning would bring a calm. But this was a delusive hope. At 8 A.
M. the wind had increased to a hurricane.
John said nothing, but he trembled for his ship, and those on board.
The DUNCAN made a frightful plunge forward, and for an instant the
men thought she would never rise again. Already they had seized their
hatchets to cut away the shrouds from the mainmast, but the next minute
the sails were torn away by the tempest, and had flown off like gigantic
albatrosses.
The yacht had risen once more, but she found herself at the mercy of
the waves entirely now, with nothing to steady or direct her, and was
so fearfully pitched and tossed about that every moment the captain
expected the masts would break short off. John had no resource but to
put up a forestaysail, and run before the gale. But this was no easy
task. Twenty times over he had all his work to begin again, and it was
3 P. M. before his attempt succeeded. A mere shred of canvas though
it was, it was enough to drive the DUNCAN forward with inconceivable
rapidity to the northeast, of course in the same direction as the
hurricane. Swiftness was their only chance of safety. Sometimes she
would get in advance of the waves which carried her along, and cutting
through them with her sharp prow, bury herself in their depths. At
others, she would keep pace with them, and make such enormous leaps that
there was imminent danger of her being pitched over on her side, and
then again, every now and then the storm-driven sea would out-distance
the yacht, and the angry billows would sweep over the deck from stem to
stern with tremendous violence.
In this alarming situation and amid dreadful alternations of hope and
despair, the 12th of December passed away, and the ensuing night, John
Mangles never left his post, not even to take food. Though his impassive
face betrayed no symptoms of fear, he was tortured with anxiety, and his
steady gaze was fixed on the north, as if trying to pierce through the
thick mists that enshrouded it.
There was, indeed, great cause for fear. The DUNCAN was out of her
course, and rushing toward the Australian coast with a speed which
nothing could lessen. To John Mangles it seemed as if a thunderbolt
were driving them along. Every instant he expected the yacht would dash
against some rock, for he reckoned the coast could not be more than
twelve miles off, and better far be in mid ocean exposed to all its fury
than too near land.
John Mangles went to find Glenarvan, and had a private talk with him
about their situation, telling him frankly the true state of affairs,
stating the case with all the coolness of a sailor prepared for anything
and everything and he wound up by saying he might, perhaps, be obliged
to cast the yacht on shore.
“To save the lives of those on board, my Lord,” he added.
“Do it then, John,” replied Lord Glenarvan.
“And Lady Helena, Miss Grant?”
“I will tell them at the last moment when all hope of keeping out at sea
is over. You will let me know?”
“I will, my Lord.”
Glenarvan rejoined his companions, who felt they were in imminent
danger, though no word was spoken on the subject. Both ladies displayed
great courage, fully equal to any of the party. Paganel descanted in
the most inopportune manner about the direction of atmospheric currents,
making interesting comparisons, between tornadoes, cyclones, and
rectilinear tempests. The Major calmly awaited the end with the fatalism
of a Mussulman.
About eleven o’clock, the hurricane appeared to decrease slightly. The
damp mist began to clear away, and a sudden gleam of light revealed a
low-lying shore about six miles distant. They were driving right down on
it. Enormous breakers fifty feet high were dashing over it, and the fact
of their height showed John there must be solid ground before they could
make such a rebound.
“Those are sand-banks,” he said to Austin.
“I think they are,” replied the mate.
“We are in God’s hands,” said John. “If we cannot find any opening for
the yacht, and if she doesn’t find the way in herself, we are lost.”
“The tide is high at present, it is just possible we may ride over those
sand-banks.”
“But just see those breakers. What ship could stand them. Let us invoke
divine aid, Austin!”
Meanwhile the DUNCAN was speeding on at a frightful rate. Soon she was
within two miles of the sand-banks, which were still veiled from time to
time in thick mist. But John fancied he could see beyond the breakers
a quiet basin, where the DUNCAN would be in comparative safety. But how
could she reach it?
All the passengers were summoned on deck, for now that the hour of
shipwreck was at hand, the captain did not wish anyone to be shut up in
his cabin.
“John!” said Glenarvan in a low voice to the captain, “I will try to
save my wife or perish with her. I put Miss Grant in your charge.”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied John Mangles, raising Glenarvan’s hand to his
moistened eyes.
The yacht was only a few cables’ lengths from the sandbanks. The tide
was high, and no doubt there was abundance of water to float the ship
over the dangerous bar; but these terrific breakers alternately lifting
her up and then leaving her almost dry, would infallibly make her graze
the sand-banks.
Was there no means of calming this angry sea? A last expedient struck
the captain. “The oil, my lads!” he exclaimed. “Bring the oil here!”
The crew caught at the idea immediately; this was a plan that had been
successfully tried already. The fury of the waves had been allayed
before this time by covering them with a sheet of oil. Its effect is
immediate, but very temporary. The moment after a ship has passed over
the smooth surface, the sea redoubles its violence, and woe to the bark
that follows. The casks of seal-oil were forthwith hauled up, for danger
seemed to have given the men double strength. A few hatchet blows soon
knocked in the heads, and they were then hung over the larboard and
starboard.
“Be ready!” shouted John, looking out for a favorable moment.
In twenty seconds the yacht reached the bar. Now was the time. “Pour
out!” cried the captain, “and God prosper it!”
The barrels were turned upside down, and instantly a sheet of oil
covered the whole surface of the water. The billows fell as if by magic,
the whole foaming sea seemed leveled, and the DUNCAN flew over its
tranquil bosom into a quiet basin beyond the formidable bar; but almost
the same minute the ocean burst forth again with all its fury, and the
towering breakers dashed over the bar with increased violence.
CHAPTER VI A HOSPITABLE COLONIST
THE captain’s first care was to anchor his vessel securely. He found
excellent moorage in five fathoms’ depth of water, with a solid bottom
of hard granite, which afforded a firm hold. There was no danger now of
either being driven away or stranded at low water. After so many hours
of danger, the DUNCAN found herself in a sort of creek, sheltered by a
high circular point from the winds outside in the open sea.
Lord Glenarvan grasped John Mangles’ hand, and simply said: “Thank you,
John.”
This was all, but John felt it ample recompense. Glenarvan kept to
himself the secret of his anxiety, and neither Lady Helena, nor Mary,
nor Robert suspected the grave perils they had just escaped.
One important fact had to be ascertained. On what part of the coast had
the tempest thrown them? How far must they go to regain the parallel.
At what distance S. W. was Cape Bernouilli? This was soon determined by
taking the position of the ship, and it was found that she had scarcely
deviated two degrees from the route. They were in longitude 36 degrees
12 minutes, and latitude 32 degrees 67 minutes, at Cape Catastrophe,
three hundred miles from Cape Bernouilli. The nearest port was Adelaide,
the Capital of Southern Australia.
Could the DUNCAN be repaired there? This was the question. The extent
of the injuries must first be ascertained, and in order to do this he
ordered some of the men to dive down below the stern. Their report
was that one of the branches of the screw was bent, and had got jammed
against the stern post, which of course prevented all possibility of
rotation. This was a serious damage, so serious as to require more
skilful workmen than could be found in Adelaide.
After mature reflection, Lord Glenarvan and John Mangles came to the
determination to sail round the Australian coast, stopping at Cape
Bernouilli, and continuing their route south as far as Melbourne,
where the DUNCAN could speedily be put right. This effected, they would
proceed to cruise along the eastern coast to complete their search for
the BRITANNIA.
This decision was unanimously approved, and it was agreed that they
should start with the first fair wind. They had not to wait long for
the same night the hurricane had ceased entirely, and there was only a
manageable breeze from the S. W. Preparations for sailing were instantly
commenced, and at four o’clock in the morning the crew lifted the
anchors, and got under way with fresh canvas outspread, and a wind
blowing right for the Australian shores.
Two hours afterward Cape Catastrophe was out of sight. In the evening
they doubled Cape Borda, and came alongside Kangaroo Island. This is the
largest of the Australian islands, and a great hiding place for runaway
convicts. Its appearance was enchanting. The stratified rocks on the
shore were richly carpeted with verdure, and innumerable kangaroos were
jumping over the woods and plains, just as at the time of its discovery
in 1802. Next day, boats were sent ashore to examine the coast minutely,
as they were now on the 36th parallel, and between that and the 38th
Glenarvan wished to leave no part unexplored.
The boats had hard, rough work of it now, but the men never complained.
Glenarvan and his inseparable companion, Paganel, and young Robert
generally accompanied them. But all this painstaking exploration came
to nothing. Not a trace of the shipwreck could be seen anywhere. The
Australian shores revealed no more than the Patagonian. However, it was
not time yet to lose hope altogether, for they had not reached the exact
point indicated by the document.
On the 20th of December, they arrived off Cape Bernouilli, which
terminates Lacepede Bay, and yet not a vestige of the BRITANNIA had been
discovered. Still this was not surprising, as it was two years since the
occurrence of the catastrophe, and the sea might, and indeed must, have
scattered and destroyed whatever fragments of the brig had remained.
Besides, the natives who scent a wreck as the vultures do a dead body,
would have pounced upon it and carried off the smaller DEBRIS. There was
no doubt whatever Harry Grant and his companions had been made prisoners
the moment the waves threw them on the shore, and been dragged away into
the interior of the continent.
But if so, what becomes of Paganel’s ingenious hypothesis about the
document? viz., that it had been thrown into a river and carried by a
current into the sea. That was a plausible enough theory in Patagonia,
but not in the part of Australia intersected by the 37th parallel.
Besides the Patagonian rivers, the Rio Colorado and the Rio Negro, flow
into the sea along deserted solitudes, uninhabited and uninhabitable;
while, on the contrary, the principal rivers of Australia--the Murray,
the Yarrow, the Torrens, the Darling--all connected with each other,
throw themselves into the ocean by well-frequented routes, and their
mouths are ports of great activity. What likelihood, consequently, would
there be that a fragile bottle would ever find its way along such busy
thoroughfares right out into the Indian Ocean?
Paganel himself saw the impossibility of it, and confessed to the Major,
who raised a discussion on the subject, that his hypothesis would be
altogether illogical in Australia. It was evident that the degrees given
related to the place where the BRITANNIA was actually shipwrecked and
not the place of captivity, and that the bottle therefore had been
thrown into the sea on the western coast of the continent.
However, as Glenarvan justly remarked, this did not alter the fact
of Captain Grant’s captivity in the least degree, though there was no
reason now for prosecuting the search for him along the 37th parallel,
more than any other. It followed, consequently, that if no traces of the
BRITANNIA were discovered at Cape Bernouilli, the only thing to be done
was to return to Europe. Lord Glenarvan would have been unsuccessful,
but he would have done his duty courageously and conscientiously.
But the young Grants did not feel disheartened. They had long since said
to themselves that the question of their father’s deliverance was about
to be finally settled. Irrevocably, indeed, they might consider it, for
as Paganel had judiciously demonstrated, if the wreck had occurred on
the eastern side, the survivors would have found their way back to their
own country long since.
“Hope on! Hope on, Mary!” said Lady Helena to the young girl, as they
neared the shore; “God’s hand will still lead us.”
“Yes, Miss Mary,” said Captain John. “Man’s extremity is God’s
opportunity. When one way is hedged up another is sure to open.”
“God grant it,” replied Mary.
Land was quite close now. The cape ran out two miles into the sea, and
terminated in a gentle slope, and the boat glided easily into a sort
of natural creek between coral banks in a state of formation, which in
course of time would be a belt of coral reefs round the southern
point of the Australian coast. Even now they were quite sufficiently
formidable to destroy the keel of a ship, and the BRITANNIA might likely
enough have been dashed to pieces on them.
The passengers landed without the least difficulty on an absolutely
desert shore. Cliffs composed of beds of strata made a coast line sixty
to eighty feet high, which it would have been difficult to scale without
ladders or cramp-irons. John Mangles happened to discover a natural
breach about half a mile south. Part of the cliff had been partially
beaten down, no doubt, by the sea in some equinoctial gale. Through this
opening the whole party passed and reached the top of the cliff by a
pretty steep path. Robert climbed like a young cat, and was the first on
the summit, to the despair of Paganel, who was quite ashamed to see his
long legs, forty years old, out-distanced by a young urchin of twelve.
However, he was far ahead of the Major, who gave himself no concern on
the subject.
They were all soon assembled on the lofty crags, and from this elevation
could command a view of the whole plain below. It appeared entirely
uncultivated, and covered with shrubs and bushes. Glenarvan thought it
resembled some glens in the lowlands of Scotland, and Paganel fancied
it like some barren parts of Britanny. But along the coast the country
appeared to be inhabited, and significant signs of industry revealed the
presence of civilized men, not savages.
“A mill!” exclaimed Robert.
And, sure enough, in the distance the long sails of a mill appeared,
apparently about three miles off.
“It certainly is a windmill,” said Paganel, after examining the object
in question through his telescope.
“Let us go to it, then,” said Glenarvan.
Away they started, and, after walking about half an hour, the country
began to assume a new aspect, suddenly changing its sterility for
cultivation. Instead of bushes, quick-set hedges met the eye, inclosing
recent clearings. Several bullocks and about half a dozen horses
were feeding in meadows, surrounded by acacias supplied from the vast
plantations of Kangaroo Island. Gradually fields covered with cereals
came in sight, whole acres covered with bristling ears of corn,
hay-ricks in the shape of large bee-hives, blooming orchards, a fine
garden worthy of Horace, in which the useful and agreeable were blended;
then came sheds; commons wisely distributed, and last of all, a plain
comfortable dwelling-house, crowned by a joyous-sounding mill, and
fanned and shaded by its long sails as they kept constantly moving
round.
Just at that moment a pleasant-faced man, about fifty years of age,
came out of the house, warned, by the loud barking of four dogs, of the
arrival of strangers. He was followed by five handsome strapping lads,
his sons, and their mother, a fine tall woman. There was no mistaking
the little group. This was a perfect type of the Irish colonist--a man
who, weary of the miseries of his country, had come, with his family, to
seek fortune and happiness beyond the seas.
Before Glenarvan and his party had time to reach the house and present
themselves in due form, they heard the cordial words: “Strangers!
welcome to the house of Paddy O’Moore!”
“You are Irish,” said Glenarvan, “if I am not mistaken,” warmly grasping
the outstretched hand of the colonist.
“I was,” replied Paddy O’Moore, “but now I am Australian. Come in,
gentlemen, whoever you may be, this house is yours.”
It was impossible not to accept an invitation given with such grace.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were led in by Mrs. O’Moore, while the
gentlemen were assisted by his sturdy sons to disencumber themselves of
their fire-arms.
An immense hall, light and airy, occupied the ground floor of the house,
which was built of strong planks laid horizontally. A few wooden benches
fastened against the gaily-colored walls, about ten stools, two oak
chests on tin mugs, a large long table where twenty guests could sit
comfortably, composed the furniture, which looked in perfect keeping
with the solid house and robust inmates.
The noonday meal was spread; the soup tureen was smoking between roast
beef and a leg of mutton, surrounded by large plates of olives, grapes,
and oranges. The necessary was there and there was no lack of the
superfluous. The host and hostess were so pleasant, and the big table,
with its abundant fare, looked so inviting, that it would have been
ungracious not to have seated themselves. The farm servants, on equal
footing with their master, were already in their places to take their
share of the meal. Paddy O’Moore pointed to the seats reserved for the
strangers, and said to Glenarvan:
“I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting for us!” replied Glenarvan in a tone of surprise.
“I am always waiting for those who come,” said the Irishman; and then,
in a solemn voice, while the family and domestics reverently stood, he
repeated the BENEDICITE.
Dinner followed immediately, during which an animated conversation was
kept up on all sides. From Scotch to Irish is but a handsbreadth. The
Tweed, several fathoms wide, digs a deeper trench between Scotland and
England than the twenty leagues of Irish Channel, which separates Old
Caledonia from the Emerald Isle. Paddy O’Moore related his history. It
was that of all emigrants driven by misfortune from their own country.
Many come to seek fortunes who only find trouble and sorrow, and then
they throw the blame on chance, and forget the true cause is their
own idleness and vice and want of commonsense. Whoever is sober and
industrious, honest and economical, gets on.
Such a one had been and was Paddy O’Moore. He left Dundalk, where he
was starving, and came with his family to Australia, landed at Adelaide,
where, refusing employment as a miner, he got engaged on a farm, and two
months afterward commenced clearing ground on his own account.
The whole territory of South Australia is divided into lots, each
containing eighty acres, and these are granted to colonists by the
government. Any industrious man, by proper cultivation, can not only get
a living out of his lot, but lay by pounds 80 a year.
Paddy O’Moore knew this. He profited by his own former experience, and
laid by every penny he could till he had saved enough to purchase new
lots. His family prospered, and his farm also. The Irish peasant became
a landed proprietor, and though his little estate had only been under
cultivation for two years, he had five hundred acres cleared by his own
hands, and five hundred head of cattle. He was his own master, after
having been a serf in Europe, and as independent as one can be in the
freest country in the world.
His guests congratulated him heartily as he ended his narration; and
Paddy O’Moore no doubt expected confidence for confidence, but he waited
in vain. However, he was one of those discreet people who can say,
“I tell you who I am, but I don’t ask who you are.” Glenarvan’s great
object was to get information about the BRITANNIA, and like a man who
goes right to the point, he began at once to interrogate O’Moore as to
whether he had heard of the shipwreck.
The reply of the Irishman was not favorable; he had never heard the
vessel mentioned. For two years, at least, no ship had been wrecked
on that coast, neither above nor below the Cape. Now, the date of
the catastrophe was within two years. He could, therefore, declare
positively that the survivors of the wreck had not been thrown on that
part of the western shore. “Now, my Lord,” he added, “may I ask what
interest you have in making the inquiry?”
This pointed question elicited in reply the whole history of the
expedition. Glenarvan related the discovery of the document, and the
various attempts that had been made to follow up the precise indications
given of the whereabouts of the unfortunate captives; and he concluded
his account by expressing his doubt whether they should ever find the
Captain after all.
His dispirited tone made a painful impression on the minds of his
auditors. Robert and Mary could not keep back their tears, and Paganel
had not a word of hope or comfort to give them. John Mangles was grieved
to the heart, though he, too, was beginning to yield to the feeling
of hopelessness which had crept over the rest, when suddenly the whole
party were electrified by hearing a voice exclaim: “My Lord, praise
and thank God! if Captain Grant is alive, he is on this Australian
continent.”
CHAPTER VII THE QUARTERMASTER OF THE “BRITANNIA”
THE surprise caused by these words cannot be described. Glenarvan sprang
to his feet, and pushing back his seat, exclaimed: “Who spoke?”
“I did,” said one of the servants, at the far end of the table.
“You, Ayrton!” replied his master, not less bewildered than Glenarvan.
“Yes, it was I,” rejoined Ayrton in a firm tone, though somewhat
agitated voice. “A Scotchman like yourself, my Lord, and one of the
shipwrecked crew of the BRITANNIA.”
The effect of such a declaration may be imagined. Mary Grant fell back,
half-fainting, in Lady Helena’s arms, overcome by joyful emotion, and
Robert, and Mangles, and Paganel started up and toward the man that
Paddy O’Moore had addressed as AYRTON. He was a coarse-looking fellow,
about forty-five years of age, with very bright eyes, though half-hidden
beneath thick, overhanging brows. In spite of extreme leanness there was
an air of unusual strength about him. He seemed all bone and nerves, or,
to use a Scotch expression, as if he had not wasted time in making fat.
He was broad-shouldered and of middle height, and though his features
were coarse, his face was so full of intelligence and energy and
decision, that he gave one a favorable impression. The interest he
excited was still further heightened by the marks of recent suffering
imprinted on his countenance. It was evident that he had endured long
and severe hardships, and that he had borne them bravely and come off
victor.
“You are one of the shipwrecked sailors of the BRITANNIA?” was
Glenarvan’s first question.
“Yes, my Lord; Captain Grant’s quartermaster.”
“And saved with him after the shipwreck?”
“No, my Lord, no. I was separated from him at that terrible moment, for
I was swept off the deck as the ship struck.”
“Then you are not one of the two sailors mentioned in the document?”
“No; I was not aware of the existence of the document. The captain must
have thrown it into the sea when I was no longer on board.”
“But the captain? What about the captain?”
“I believed he had perished; gone down with all his crew. I imagined
myself the sole survivor.”
“But you said just now, Captain Grant was living.”
“No, I said, ‘_if the captain is living_.’”
“And you added, ‘_he is on the Australian continent_.’”
“And, indeed, he cannot be anywhere else.”
“Then you don’t know where he is?”
“No, my Lord. I say again, I supposed he was buried beneath the waves,
or dashed to pieces against the rocks. It was from you I learned that he
was still alive.”
“What then do you know?”
“Simply this--if Captain Grant is alive, he is in Australia.”
“Where did the shipwreck occur?” asked Major McNabbs.
This should have been the first question, but in the excitement caused
by the unexpected incident, Glenarvan cared more to know where the
captain was, than where the BRITANNIA had been lost. After the Major’s
inquiry, however, Glenarvan’s examination proceeded more logically, and
before long all the details of the event stood out clearly before the
minds of the company.
To the question put by the Major, Ayrton replied:
“When I was swept off the forecastle, when I was hauling in the
jib-boom, the BRITANNIA was running right on the Australian coast. She
was not more than two cables’ length from it and consequently she must
have struck just there.”
“In latitude 37 degrees?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, in latitude 37 degrees.”
“On the west coast?”
“No, on the east coast,” was the prompt reply.
“And at what date?”
“It was on the night of the 27th of June, 1862.”
“Exactly, just exactly,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“You see, then, my Lord,” continued Ayrton, “I might justly say, _If
Captain Grant_ is alive, he is on the Australian continent, and it is
useless looking for him anywhere else.”
“And we will look for him there, and find him too, and save him,”
exclaimed Paganel. “Ah, precious document,” he added, with perfect
NAIVETE, “you must own you have fallen into the hands of uncommonly
shrewd people.”
But, doubtless, nobody heard his flattering words, for Glenarvan and
Lady Helena, and Mary Grant, and Robert, were too much engrossed with
Ayrton to listen to anyone else. They pressed round him and grasped his
hands. It seemed as if this man’s presence was the sure pledge of
Harry Grant’s deliverance. If this sailor had escaped the perils of the
shipwreck, why should not the captain? Ayrton was quite sanguine as to
his existence; but on what part of the continent he was to be found,
that he could not say. The replies the man gave to the thousand
questions that assailed him on all sides were remarkably intelligent and
exact. All the while he spake, Mary held one of his hands in hers.
This sailor was a companion of her father’s, one of the crew of the
BRITANNIA. He had lived with Harry Grant, crossed the seas with him and
shared his dangers. Mary could not keep her eyes off his face, rough and
homely though it was, and she wept for joy.
Up to this time no one had ever thought of doubting either the veracity
or identity of the quartermaster; but the Major, and perhaps John
Mangles, now began to ask themselves if this Ayrton’s word was to
be absolutely believed. There was something suspicious about this
unexpected meeting. Certainly the man had mentioned facts and dates
which corresponded, and the minuteness of his details was most striking.
Still exactness of details was no positive proof. Indeed, it has
been noticed that a falsehood has sometimes gained ground by being
exceedingly particular in minutiae. McNabbs, therefore, prudently
refrained from committing himself by expressing any opinion.
John Mangles, however, was soon convinced when he heard Ayrton speak to
the young girl about her father. He knew Mary and Robert quite well. He
had seen them in Glasgow when the ship sailed. He remembered them at
the farewell breakfast given on board the BRITANNIA to the captain’s
friends, at which Sheriff Mcintyre was present. Robert, then a boy of
ten years old, had been given into his charge, and he ran away and tried
to climb the rigging.
“Yes, that I did, it is quite right,” said Robert.
He went on to mention several other trifling incidents, without
attaching the importance to them that John Mangles did, and when he
stopped Mary Grant said, in her soft voice: “Oh, go on, Mr. Ayrton, tell
us more about our father.”
The quartermaster did his best to satisfy the poor girl, and Glenarvan
did not interrupt him, though a score of questions far more important
crowded into his mind. Lady Helena made him look at Mary’s beaming face,
and the words he was about to utter remained unspoken.
Ayrton gave an account of the BRITANNIA’S voyage across the Pacific.
Mary knew most of it before, as news of the ship had come regularly up
to the month of May, 1862. In the course of the year Harry Grant had
touched at all the principal ports. He had been to the Hebrides, to New
Guinea, New Zealand, and New Caledonia, and had succeeded in finding an
important point on the western coast of Papua, where the establishment
of a Scotch colony seemed to him easy, and its prosperity certain.
A good port on the Molucca and Philippine route must attract ships,
especially when the opening of the Suez Canal would have supplanted the
Cape route. Harry Grant was one of those who appreciated the great work
of M. De Lesseps, and would not allow political rivalries to interfere
with international interests.
After reconnoitering Papua, the BRITANNIA went to provision herself at
Callao, and left that port on the 30th of May, 1862, to return to Europe
by the Indian Ocean and the Cape. Three weeks afterward, his vessel was
disabled by a fearful storm in which they were caught, and obliged to
cut away the masts. A leak sprang in the hold, and could not be stopped.
The crew were too exhausted to work the pumps, and for eight days the
BRITANNIA was tossed about in the hurricane like a shuttlecock. She had
six feet of water in her hold, and was gradually sinking. The boats had
been all carried away by the tempest; death stared them in the face,
when, on the night of the 22d of June, as Paganel had rightly supposed,
they came in sight of the eastern coast of Australia.
The ship soon neared the shore, and presently dashed violently against
it. Ayrton was swept off by a wave, and thrown among the breakers, where
he lost consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself in the hands
of natives, who dragged him away into the interior of the country.
Since that time he had never heard the BRITANNIA’s name mentioned, and
reasonably enough came to the conclusion that she had gone down with all
hands off the dangerous reefs of Twofold Bay.
This ended Ayrton’s recital, and more than once sorrowful exclamations
were evoked by the story. The Major could not, in common justice, doubt
its authenticity. The sailor was then asked to narrate his own personal
history, which was short and simple enough. He had been carried by a
tribe of natives four hundred miles north of the 37th parallel. He
spent a miserable existence there--not that he was ill-treated, but the
natives themselves lived miserably. He passed two long years of painful
slavery among them, but always cherished in his heart the hope of one
day regaining his freedom, and watching for the slightest opportunity
that might turn up, though he knew that his flight would be attended
with innumerable dangers.
At length one night in October, 1864, he managed to escape the vigilance
of the natives, and took refuge in the depths of immense forests. For
a whole month he subsisted on roots, edible ferns and mimosa gums,
wandering through vast solitudes, guiding himself by the sun during
the day and by the stars at night. He went on, though often almost
despairingly, through bogs and rivers, and across mountains, till he had
traversed the whole of the uninhabited part of the continent, where only
a few bold travelers have ventured; and at last, in an exhausted and
all but dying condition, he reached the hospitable dwelling of Paddy
O’Moore, where he said he had found a happy home in exchange for his
labor.
“And if Ayrton speaks well of me,” said the Irish settler, when the
narrative ended, “I have nothing but good to say of him. He is an
honest, intelligent fellow and a good worker; and as long as he pleases,
Paddy O’Moore’s house shall be his.”
Ayrton thanked him by a gesture, and waited silently for any fresh
question that might be put to him, though he thought to himself that he
surely must have satisfied all legitimate curiosity. What could remain
to be said that he had not said a hundred times already. Glenarvan
was just about to open a discussion about their future plan of action,
profiting by this rencontre with Ayrton, and by the information he had
given them, when Major McNabbs, addressing the sailor said, “You were
quartermaster, you say, on the BRITANNIA?”
“Yes,” replied Ayrton, without the least hesitation.
But as if conscious that a certain feeling of mistrust, however slight,
had prompted the inquiry, he added, “I have my shipping papers with me;
I saved them from the wreck.”
He left the room immediately to fetch his official document, and, though
hardly absent a minute, Paddy O’Moore managed to say, “My Lord, you
may trust Ayrton; I vouch for his being an honest man. He has been two
months now in my service, and I have never had once to find fault with
him. I knew all this story of his shipwreck and his captivity. He is a
true man, worthy of your entire confidence.”
Glenarvan was on the point of replying that he had never doubted his
good faith, when the man came in and brought his engagement written out
in due form. It was a paper signed by the shipowners and Captain Grant.
Mary recognized her father’s writing at once. It was to certify that
“Tom Ayrton, able-bodied seaman, was engaged as quartermaster on board
the three-mast vessel, the BRITANNIA, Glasgow.”
There could not possibly be the least doubt now of Ayrton’s identity,
for it would have been difficult to account for his possession of the
document if he were not the man named in it.
“Now then,” said Glenarvan, “I wish to ask everyone’s opinion as to what
is best to be done. Your advice, Ayrton, will be particularly valuable,
and I shall be much obliged if you would let us have it.”
After a few minutes’ thought, Ayrton replied--“I thank you, my Lord, for
the confidence you show towards me, and I hope to prove worthy of it. I
have some knowledge of the country, and the habits of the natives, and
if I can be of any service to you--”
“Most certainly you can,” interrupted Glenarvan.
“I think with you,” resumed Ayrton, “that the captain and his two
sailors have escaped alive from the wreck, but since they have not found
their way to the English settlement, nor been seen any where, I have
no doubt that their fate has been similar to my own, and that they are
prisoners in the hands of some of the native tribes.”
“That’s exactly what I have always argued,” said Paganel. “The
shipwrecked men were taken prisoners, as they feared. But must we
conclude without question that, like yourself, they have been dragged
away north of the 37th parallel?”
“I should suppose so, sir; for hostile tribes would hardly remain
anywhere near the districts under the British rule.”
“That will complicate our search,” said Glenarvan, somewhat
disconcerted. “How can we possibly find traces of the captives in the
heart of so vast a continent?”
No one replied, though Lady Helena’s questioning glances at her
companions seemed to press for an answer. Paganel even was silent. His
ingenuity for once was at fault. John Mangles paced the cabin with great
strides, as if he fancied himself on the deck of his ship, evidently
quite nonplussed.
“And you, Mr. Ayrton,” said Lady Helena at last, “what would you do?”
“Madam,” replied Ayrton, readily enough, “I should re-embark in the
DUNCAN, and go right to the scene of the catastrophe. There I should
be guided by circumstances, and by any chance indications we might
discover.”
“Very good,” returned Glenarvan; “but we must wait till the DUNCAN is
repaired.”
“Ah, she has been injured then?” said Ayrton.
“Yes,” replied Mangles.
“To any serious extent?”
“No; but such injuries as require more skilful workmanship than we have
on board. One of the branches of the screw is twisted, and we cannot get
it repaired nearer than Melbourne.”
“Well, let the ship go to Melbourne then,” said Paganel, “and we will go
without her to Twofold Bay.”
“And how?” asked Mangles.
“By crossing Australia as we crossed America, keeping along the 37th
parallel.”
“But the DUNCAN?” repeated Ayrton, as if particularly anxious on that
score.
“The DUNCAN can rejoin us, or we can rejoin her, as the case may be.
Should we discover Captain Grant in the course of our journey, we can
all return together to Melbourne. If we have to go on to the coast,
on the contrary, then the DUNCAN can come to us there. Who has any
objection to make? Have you, Major?”
“No, not if there is a practicable route across Australia.”
“So practicable, that I propose Lady Helena and Miss Grant should
accompany us.”
“Are you speaking seriously?” asked Glenarvan.
“Perfectly so, my Lord. It is a journey of 350 miles, not more. If we go
twelve miles a day it will barely take us a month, just long enough
to put the vessel in trim. If we had to cross the continent in a lower
latitude, at its wildest part, and traverse immense deserts, where
there is no water and where the heat is tropical, and go where the most
adventurous travelers have never yet ventured, that would be a different
matter. But the 37th parallel cuts only through the province of
Victoria, quite an English country, with roads and railways, and well
populated almost everywhere. It is a journey you might make, almost, in
a chaise, though a wagon would be better. It is a mere trip from London
to Edinburgh, nothing more.”
“What about wild beasts, though?” asked Glenarvan, anxious to go into
all the difficulties of the proposal.
“There are no wild beasts in Australia.”
“And how about the savages?”
“There are no savages in this latitude, and if there were, they are not
cruel, like the New Zealanders.”
“And the convicts?”
“There are no convicts in the southern provinces, only in the eastern
colonies. The province of Victoria not only refused to admit them, but
passed a law to prevent any ticket-of-leave men from other provinces
from entering her territories. This very year the Government threatened
to withdraw its subsidy from the Peninsular Company if their vessels
continued to take in coal in those western parts of Australia
where convicts are admitted. What! Don’t you know that, and you an
Englishman?”
“In the first place, I beg leave to say I am not an Englishman,” replied
Glenarvan.
“What M. Paganel says is perfectly correct,” said Paddy O’Moore. “Not
only the province of Victoria, but also Southern Australia, Queensland,
and even Tasmania, have agreed to expel convicts from their territories.
Ever since I have been on this farm, I have never heard of one in this
Province.”
“And I can speak for myself. I have never come across one.”
“You see then, friends,” went on Jacques Paganel, “there are few if
any savages, no ferocious animals, no convicts, and there are not many
countries of Europe for which you can say as much. Well, will you go?”
“What do you think, Helena?” asked Glenarvan.
“What we all think, dear Edward,” replied Lady Helena, turning toward
her companions; “let us be off at once.”
CHAPTER VIII PREPARATION FOR THE JOURNEY
GLENARVAN never lost much time between adopting an idea and carrying it
out. As soon as he consented to Paganel’s proposition, he gave immediate
orders to make arrangements for the journey with as little delay as
possible. The time of starting was fixed for the 22d of December, the
next day but one.
What results might not come out of this journey. The presence of Harry
Grant had become an indisputable fact, and the chances of finding him
had increased. Not that anyone expected to discover the captain exactly
on the 37th parallel, which they intended strictly to follow, but they
might come upon his track, and at all events, they were going to the
actual spot where the wreck had occurred. That was the principal point.
Besides, if Ayrton consented to join them and act as their guide through
the forests of the province of Victoria and right to the eastern coast,
they would have a fresh chance of success. Glenarvan was sensible of
this, and asked his host whether he would have any great objection to
his asking Ayrton to accompany them, for he felt particularly desirous
of securing the assistance of Harry Grant’s old companion.
Paddy O’Moore consented, though he would regret the loss of his
excellent servant.
“Well, then, Ayrton, will you come with us in our search expedition?”
Ayrton did not reply immediately. He even showed signs of hesitation;
but at last, after due reflection, said, “Yes, my Lord, I will go with
you, and if I can not take you to Captain Grant, I can at least take you
to the very place where his ship struck.”
“Thanks, Ayrton.”
“One question, my Lord.”
“Well?”
“Where will you meet the DUNCAN again?”
“At Melbourne, unless we traverse the whole continent from coast to
coast.”
“But the captain?”
“The captain will await my instructions in the port of Melbourne.”
“You may depend on me then, my Lord.”
“I will, Ayrton.”
The quartermaster was warmly thanked by the passengers of the DUNCAN,
and the children loaded him with caresses. Everyone rejoiced in his
decision except the Irishman, who lost in him an intelligent and
faithful helper. But Paddy understood the importance Glenarvan attached
to the presence of the man, and submitted. The whole party then returned
to the ship, after arranging a rendezvous with Ayrton, and ordering him
to procure the necessary means of conveyance across the country.
When John Mangles supported the proposition of Paganel, he took for
granted that he should accompany the expedition. He began to speak
to Glenarvan at once about it, and adduced all sorts of arguments to
advance his cause--his devotion to Lady Helena and his Lordship, how
useful could he be in organizing the party, and how useless on board
the DUNCAN; everything, in fact, but the main reason, and that he had no
need to bring forward.
“I’ll only ask you one question, John,” said Glenarvan. “Have you entire
confidence in your chief officer?”
“Absolute,” replied Mangles, “Tom Austin is a good sailor. He will
take the ship to her destination, see that the repairs are skilfully
executed, and bring her back on the appointed day. Tom is a slave to
duty and discipline. Never would he take it upon himself to alter or
retard the execution of an order. Your Lordship may rely on him as on
myself.”
“Very well then, John,” replied Glenarvan. “You shall go with us, for it
would be advisable,” he added, smiling, “that you should be there when
we find Mary Grant’s father.”
“Oh! your Lordship,” murmured John, turning pale. He could say no more,
but grasped Lord Glenarvan’s hand.
Next day, John Mangles and the ship’s carpenter, accompanied by sailors
carrying provisions, went back to Paddy O’Moore’s house to consult the
Irishman about the best method of transport. All the family met him,
ready to give their best help. Ayrton was there, and gave the benefit of
his experience.
On one point both he and Paddy agreed, that the journey should be made
in a bullock-wagon by the ladies, and that the gentlemen should ride on
horseback. Paddy could furnish both bullocks and vehicle. The vehicle
was a cart twenty feet long, covered over by a tilt, and resting on four
large wheels without spokes or felloes, or iron tires--in a word, plain
wooden discs. The front and hinder part were connected by means of a
rude mechanical contrivance, which did not allow of the vehicle turning
quickly. There was a pole in front thirty-five feet long, to which the
bullocks were to be yoked in couples. These animals were able to draw
both with head and neck, as their yoke was fastened on the nape of the
neck, and to this a collar was attached by an iron peg. It required
great skill to drive such a long, narrow, shaky concern, and to guide
such a team by a goad; but Ayrton had served his apprenticeship to it on
the Irishman’s farm, and Paddy could answer for his competency. The role
of conductor was therefore assigned to him.
There were no springs to the wagon, and, consequently, it was not likely
to be very comfortable; but, such as it was, they had to take it. But if
the rough construction could not be altered, John Mangles resolved that
the interior should be made as easy as possible. His first care was to
divide it into two compartments by a wooden partition. The back one
was intended for the provisions and luggage, and M. Olbinett’s portable
kitchen. The front was set apart especially for the ladies, and, under
the carpenter’s hands, was to be speedily converted into a comfortable
room, covered with a thick carpet, and fitted up with a toilet table
and two couches. Thick leather curtains shut in this apartment, and
protected the occupants from the chilliness of the nights. In case of
necessity, the gentlemen might shelter themselves here, when the violent
rains came on, but a tent was to be their usual resting-place when the
caravan camped for the night. John Mangles exercised all his ingenuity
in furnishing the small space with everything that the two ladies could
possibly require, and he succeeded so well, that neither Lady Helena nor
Mary had much reason to regret leaving their cosy cabins on board the
DUNCAN.
For the rest of the party, the preparations were soon made, for they
needed much less. Strong horses were provided for Lord Glenarvan,
Paganel, Robert Grant, McNabbs, and John Mangles; also for the two
sailors, Wilson and Mulrady, who were to accompany their captain.
Ayrton’s place was, of course, to be in front of the wagon, and M.
Olbinett, who did not much care for equitation, was to make room for
himself among the baggage. Horses and bullocks were grazing in the
Irishman’s meadows, ready to fetch at a moment’s notice.
After all arrangements were made, and the carpenter set to work, John
Mangles escorted the Irishman and his family back to the vessel, for
Paddy wished to return the visit of Lord Glenarvan. Ayrton thought
proper to go too, and about four o’clock the party came over the side of
the DUNCAN.
They were received with open arms. Glenarvan would not be outstripped in
politeness, and invited his visitors to stop and dine. His hospitality
was willingly accepted. Paddy was quite amazed at the splendor of the
saloon, and was loud in admiration of the fitting up of the cabins, and
the carpets and hangings, as well as of the polished maple-wood of the
upper deck. Ayrton’s approbation was much less hearty, for he considered
it mere costly superfluity.