“Does he suppose him acting in concert with the convicts?” asked

Paganel, imprudently.

“What convicts?” said Miss Grant.

“Monsieur Paganel is making a mistake,” replied John Mangles, instantly.

“He knows very well there are no convicts in the province of Victoria.”

“Ah, that is true,” returned Paganel, trying to get out of his unlucky

speech. “Whatever had I got in my head? Convicts! who ever heard

of convicts being in Australia? Besides, they would scarcely have

disembarked before they would turn into good, honest men. The climate,

you know, Miss Mary, the regenerative climate--”

Here the poor SAVANT stuck fast, unable to get further, like the wagon

in the mud. Lady Helena looked at him in surprise, which quite deprived

him of his remaining _sang-froid;_ but seeing his embarrassment, she

took Mary away to the side of the tent, where M. Olbinett was laying out

an elaborate breakfast.

“I deserve to be transported myself,” said Paganel, woefully.

“I think so,” said Glenarvan.

And after this grave reply, which completely overwhelmed the worthy

geographer, Glenarvan and John Mangles went toward the wagon.

They found Ayrton and the two sailors doing their best to get it out of

the deep ruts, and the bullock and horse, yoked together, were straining

every muscle. Wilson and Mulrady were pushing the wheels, and the

quartermaster urging on the team with voice and goad; but the heavy

vehicle did not stir, the clay, already dry, held it as firmly as if

sealed by some hydraulic cement.

John Mangles had the clay watered to loosen it, but it was of no use.

After renewed vigorous efforts, men and animals stopped. Unless the

vehicle was taken to pieces, it would be impossible to extricate it from

the mud; but they had no tools for the purpose, and could not attempt

such a task.

However, Ayrton, who was for conquering this obstacle at all costs, was

about to commence afresh, when Glenarvan stopped him by saying: “Enough,

Ayrton, enough. We must husband the strength of our remaining horse

and bullock. If we are obliged to continue our journey on foot, the one

animal can carry the ladies and the other the provisions. They may thus

still be of great service to us.”

“Very well, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, un-yoking the exhausted

beasts.

“Now, friends,” added Glenarvan, “let us return to the encampment and

deliberately examine our situation, and determine on our course of

action.”

After a tolerably good breakfast to make up for their bad night, the

discussion was opened, and every one of the party was asked to give his

opinion. The first point was to ascertain their exact position, and this

was referred to Paganel, who informed them, with his customary rigorous

accuracy, that the expedition had been stopped on the 37th parallel, in

longitude 147 degrees 53 minutes, on the banks of the Snowy River.

“What is the exact longitude of Twofold Bay?” asked Glenarvan.

“One hundred and fifty degrees,” replied Paganel; “two degrees seven

minutes distant from this, and that is equal to seventy-five miles.”

“And Melbourne is?”

“Two hundred miles off at least.”

“Very good. Our position being then settled, what is best to do?”

The response was unanimous to get to the coast without delay. Lady

Helena and Mary Grant undertook to go five miles a day. The courageous

ladies did not shrink, if necessary, from walking the whole distance

between the Snowy River and Twofold Bay.

“You are a brave traveling companion, dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan.

“But are we sure of finding at the bay all we want when we get there?”

“Without the least doubt,” replied Paganel. “Eden is a municipality

which already numbers many years in existence; its port must have

frequent communication with Melbourne. I suppose even at Delegete, on

the Victoria frontier, thirty-five miles from here, we might revictual

our expedition, and find fresh means of transport.”

“And the DUNCAN?” asked Ayrton. “Don’t you think it advisable to send

for her to come to the bay?”

“What do you think, John?” said Glenarvan.

“I don’t think your lordship should be in any hurry about it,” replied

the young captain, after brief reflection. “There will be time enough to

give orders to Tom Austin, and summon him to the coast.”

“That’s quite certain,” added Paganel.

“You see,” said John, “in four or five days we shall reach Eden.”

“Four or five days!” repeated Ayrton, shaking his head; “say fifteen or

twenty, Captain, if you don’t want to repent your mistake when it is too

late.”

“Fifteen or twenty days to go seventy-five miles?” cried Glenarvan.

“At the least, my Lord. You are going to traverse the most difficult

portion of Victoria, a desert, where everything is wanting, the

squatters say; plains covered with scrub, where is no beaten track

and no stations. You will have to walk hatchet or torch in hand, and,

believe me, that’s not quick work.”

Ayrton had spoken in a firm tone, and Paganel, at whom all the others

looked inquiringly, nodded his head in token of his agreement in opinion

with the quartermaster.

But John Mangles said, “Well, admitting these difficulties, in fifteen

days at most your Lordship can send orders to the DUNCAN.”

“I have to add,” said Ayrton, “that the principal difficulties are not

the obstacles in the road, but the Snowy River has to be crossed, and

most probably we must wait till the water goes down.”

“Wait!” cried John. “Is there no ford?”

“I think not,” replied Ayrton. “This morning I was looking for some

practical crossing, but could not find any. It is unusual to meet with

such a tumultuous river at this time of the year, and it is a fatality

against which I am powerless.”

“Is this Snowy River wide?” asked Lady Helena.

“Wide and deep, Madam,” replied Ayrton; “a mile wide, with an impetuous

current. A good swimmer could not go over without danger.”

“Let us build a boat then,” said Robert, who never stuck at anything.

“We have only to cut down a tree and hollow it out, and get in and be

off.”

“He’s going ahead, this boy of Captain Grant’s!” said Paganel.

“And he’s right,” returned John Mangles. “We shall be forced to come to

that, and I think it is useless to waste our time in idle discussion.”

“What do you think of it, Ayrton?” asked Glenarvan seriously.

“I think, my Lord, that a month hence, unless some help arrives, we

shall find ourselves still on the banks of the Snowy.”

“Well, then, have you any better plan to propose?” said John Mangles,

somewhat impatiently.

“Yes, that the DUNCAN should leave Melbourne, and go to the east coast.”

“Oh, always the same story! And how could her presence at the bay

facilitate our means of getting there?”

Ayrton waited an instant before answering, and then said, rather

evasively: “I have no wish to obtrude my opinions. What I do is for

our common good, and I am ready to start the moment his honor gives the

signal.” And he crossed his arms and was silent.

“That is no reply, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us your plan, and we

will discuss it. What is it you propose?”

Ayrton replied in a calm tone of assurance: “I propose that we should

not venture beyond the Snowy in our present condition. It is here we

must wait till help comes, and this help can only come from the DUNCAN.

Let us camp here, where we have provisions, and let one of us take your

orders to Tom Austin to go on to Twofold Bay.”

This unexpected proposition was greeted with astonishment, and by John

Mangles with openly-expressed opposition.

“Meantime,” continued Ayrton, “either the river will get lower, and

allow us to ford it, or we shall have time to make a canoe. This is the

plan I submit for your Lordship’s approval.”

“Well, Ayrton,” replied Glenarvan, “your plan is worthy of serious

consideration. The worst thing about it is the delay it would cause; but

it would save us great fatigue, and perhaps danger. What do you think of

it, friends?”

“Speak your mind, McNabbs,” said Lady Helena. “Since the beginning of

the discussion you have been only a listener, and very sparing of your

words.”

“Since you ask my advice,” said the Major, “I will give it you frankly.

I think Ayrton has spoken wisely and well, and I side with him.”

Such a reply was hardly looked for, as hitherto the Major had been

strongly opposed to Ayrton’s project. Ayrton himself was surprised, and

gave a hasty glance at the Major. However, Paganel, Lady Helena, and the

sailors were all of the same way of thinking; and since McNabbs had come

over to his opinion, Glenarvan decided that the quartermaster’s plan

should be adopted in principle.

“And now, John,” he added, “don’t you think yourself it would be prudent

to encamp here, on the banks of the river Snowy, till we can get some

means of conveyance.”

“Yes,” replied John Mangles, “if our messenger can get across the Snowy

when we cannot.”

All eyes were turned on the quartermaster, who said, with the air of

a man who knew what he was about: “The messenger will not cross the

river.”

“Indeed!” said John Mangles.

“He will simply go back to the Lucknow Road which leads straight to

Melbourne.”

“Go two hundred and fifty miles on foot!” cried the young Captain.

“On horseback,” replied Ayrton. “There is one horse sound enough at

present. It will only be an affair of four days. Allow the DUNCAN two

days more to get to the bay and twenty hours to get back to the camp,

and in a week the messenger can be back with the entire crew of the

vessel.”

The Major nodded approvingly as Ayrton spoke, to the profound

astonishment of John Mangles; but as every one was in favor of the plan

all there was to do was to carry it out as quickly as possible.

“Now, then, friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must settle who is to be our

messenger. It will be a fatiguing, perilous mission. I would not conceal

the fact from you. Who is disposed, then, to sacrifice himself for his

companions and carry our instructions to Melbourne?”

Wilson and Mulrady, and also Paganel, John Mangles and Robert instantly

offered their services. John particularly insisted that he should be

intrusted with the business; but Ayrton, who had been silent till that

moment, now said: “With your Honor’s permission I will go myself. I

am accustomed to all the country round. Many a time I have been across

worse parts. I can go through where another would stick. I ask then, for

the good of all, that I may be sent to Melbourne. A word from you will

accredit me with your chief officer, and in six days I guarantee the

DUNCAN shall be in Twofold Bay.”

“That’s well spoken,” replied Glenarvan. “You are a clever, daring

fellow, and you will succeed.”

It was quite evident the quartermaster was the fittest man for the

mission. All the rest withdrew from the competition. John Mangles made

this one last objection, that the presence of Ayrton was necessary to

discover traces of the BRITANNIA or Harry Grant. But the Major justly

observed that the expedition would remain on the banks of the Snowy till

the return of Ayrton, that they had no idea of resuming their search

without him, and that consequently his absence would not in the least

prejudice the Captain’s interests.

“Well, go, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Be as quick as you can, and come

back by Eden to our camp.”

A gleam of satisfaction shot across the quartermaster’s face. He

turned away his head, but not before John Mangles caught the look and

instinctively felt his old distrust of Ayrton revive.

The quartermaster made immediate preparations for departure, assisted

by the two sailors, one of whom saw to the horse and the other to the

provisions. Glenarvan, meantime, wrote his letter for Tom Austin. He

ordered his chief officer to repair without delay to Twofold Bay. He

introduced the quartermaster to him as a man worthy of all confidence.

On arriving at the coast, Tom was to dispatch a detachment of sailors

from the yacht under his orders.

Glenarvan was just at this part of his letter, when McNabbs, who was

following him with his eyes, asked him in a singular tone, how he wrote

Ayrton’s name.

“Why, as it is pronounced, of course,” replied Glenarvan.

“It is a mistake,” replied the Major quietly. “He pronounces it AYRTON,

but he writes it _Ben Joyce!_”

CHAPTER XVII THE PLOT UNVEILED

THE revelation of Tom Ayrton’s name was like a clap of thunder. Ayrton

had started up quickly and grasped his revolver. A report was heard, and

Glenarvan fell wounded by a ball. Gunshots resounded at the same time

outside.

John Mangles and the sailors, after their first surprise, would have

seized Ben Joyce; but the bold convict had already disappeared and

rejoined his gang scattered among the gum-trees.

The tent was no shelter against the balls. It was necessary to beat a

retreat. Glenarvan was slightly wounded, but could stand up.

“To the wagon--to the wagon!” cried John Mangles, dragging Lady Helena

and Mary Grant along, who were soon in safety behind the thick curtains.

John and the Major, and Paganel and the sailors seized their carbines in

readiness to repulse the convicts. Glenarvan and Robert went in beside

the ladies, while Olbinett rushed to the common defense.

These events occurred with the rapidity of lightning. John Mangles

watched the skirts of the wood attentively. The reports had ceased

suddenly on the arrival of Ben Joyce; profound silence had succeeded the

noisy fusillade. A few wreaths of white smoke were still curling

over the tops of the gum trees. The tall tufts of gastrolobium were

motionless. All signs of attack had disappeared.

The Major and John Mangles examined the wood closely as far as the

great trees; the place was abandoned. Numerous footmarks were there and

several half-burned caps were lying smoking on the ground. The Major,

like a prudent man, extinguished these carefully, for a spark would be

enough to kindle a tremendous conflagration in this forest of dry trees.

“The convicts have disappeared!” said John Mangles.

“Yes,” replied the Major; “and the disappearance of them makes me

uneasy. I prefer seeing them face to face. Better to meet a tiger on the

plain than a serpent in the grass. Let us beat the bushes all round the

wagon.”

The Major and John hunted all round the country, but there was not a

convict to be seen from the edge of the wood right down to the river.

Ben Joyce and his gang seemed to have flown away like a flock of

marauding birds. It was too sudden a disappearance to let the travelers

feel perfectly safe; consequently they resolved to keep a sharp lookout.

The wagon, a regular fortress buried in mud, was made the center of

the camp, and two men mounted guard round it, who were relieved hour by

hour.

The first care of Lady Helena and Mary was to dress Glenarvan’s wound.

Lady Helena rushed toward him in terror, as he fell down struck by Ben

Joyce’s ball. Controlling her agony, the courageous woman helped her

husband into the wagon. Then his shoulder was bared, and the Major

found, on examination, that the ball had only gone into the flesh, and

there was no internal lesion. Neither bone nor muscle appeared to be

injured. The wound bled profusely, but Glenarvan could use his fingers

and forearm; and consequently there was no occasion for any uneasiness

about the issue. As soon as his shoulder was dressed, he would not

allow any more fuss to be made about himself, but at once entered on the

business in hand.

All the party, except Mulrady and Wilson, who were on guard, were

brought into the wagon, and the Major was asked to explain how this

DENOUEMENT had come about.

Before commencing his recital, he told Lady Helena about the escape of

the convicts at Perth, and their appearance in Victoria; as also their

complicity in the railway catastrophe. He handed her the _Australian and

New Zealand Gazette_ they had bought in Seymour, and added that a reward

had been offered by the police for the apprehension of Ben Joyce, a

redoubtable bandit, who had become a noted character during the last

eighteen months, for doing deeds of villainy and crime.

But how had McNabbs found out that Ayrton and Ben Joyce were one and

the same individual? This was the mystery to be unraveled, and the Major

soon explained it.

Ever since their first meeting, McNabbs had felt an instinctive distrust

of the quartermaster. Two or three insignificant facts, a hasty glance

exchanged between him and the blacksmith at the Wimerra River, his

unwillingness to cross towns and villages, his persistence about getting

the DUNCAN summoned to the coast, the strange death of the animals

entrusted to his care, and, lastly, a want of frankness in all

his behavior--all these details combined had awakened the Major’s

suspicions.

However, he could not have brought any direct accusation against him

till the events of the preceding evening had occurred. He then told of

his experience.

McNabbs, slipping between the tall shrubs, got within reach of the

suspicious shadows he had noticed about half a mile away from the

encampment. The phosphorescent furze emitted a faint light, by which he

could discern three men examining marks on the ground, and one of the

three was the blacksmith of Black Point.

“‘It is them!’ said one of the men. ‘Yes,’ replied another, ‘there is

the trefoil on the mark of the horseshoe. It has been like that since

the Wimerra.’ ‘All the horses are dead.’ ‘The poison is not far off.’

‘There is enough to kill a regiment of cavalry.’ ‘A useful plant this

gastrolobium.’

“I heard them say this to each other, and then they were quite silent;

but I did not know enough yet, so I followed them. Soon the conversation

began again. ‘He is a clever fellow, this Ben Joyce,’ said the

blacksmith. ‘A capital quartermaster, with his invention of shipwreck.’

‘If his project succeeds, it will be a stroke of fortune.’ ‘He is a very

devil, is this Ayrton.’ ‘Call him Ben Joyce, for he has well earned his

name.’ And then the scoundrels left the forest.

“I had all the information I wanted now, and came back to the camp quite

convinced, begging Paganel’s pardon, that Australia does not reform

criminals.”

This was all the Major’s story, and his companions sat silently thinking

over it.

“Then Ayrton has dragged us here,” said Glenarvan, pale with anger, “on

purpose to rob and assassinate us.”

“For nothing else,” replied the Major; “and ever since we left the

Wimerra, his gang has been on our track and spying on us, waiting for a

favorable opportunity.”

“Yes.”

“Then the wretch was never one of the sailors on the BRITANNIA; he had

stolen the name of Ayrton and the shipping papers.”

They were all looking at McNabbs for an answer, for he must have put the

question to himself already.

“There is no great certainty about the matter,” he replied, in his usual

calm voice; “but in my opinion the man’s name is really Ayrton. Ben

Joyce is his _nom de guerre_. It is an incontestible fact that he knew

Harry Grant, and also that he was quartermaster on the BRITANNIA. These

facts were proved by the minute details given us by Ayrton, and are

corroborated by the conversation between the convicts, which I repeated

to you. We need not lose ourselves in vain conjectures, but consider it

as certain that Ben Joyce is Ayrton, and that Ayrton is Ben Joyce; that

is to say, one of the crew of the BRITANNIA has turned leader of the

convict gang.”

The explanations of McNabbs were accepted without discussion.

“Now, then,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell us how and why Harry Grant’s

quartermaster comes to be in Australia?”

“How, I don’t know,” replied McNabbs; “and the police declare they are

as ignorant on the subject as myself. Why, it is impossible to say; that

is a mystery which the future may explain.”

“The police are not even aware of Ayrton’s identity with Ben Joyce,”

said John Mangles.

“You are right, John,” replied the Major, “and this circumstance would

throw light on their search.”

“Then, I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “the wicked wretch had got work on

Paddy O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intent?”

“There is not the least doubt of it. He was planning some evil design

against the Irishman, when a better chance presented itself. Chance

led us into his presence. He heard Paganel’s story and all about

the shipwreck, and the audacious fellow determined to act his part

immediately. The expedition was decided on. At the Wimerra he found

means of communicating with one of his gang, the blacksmith of Black

Point, and left traces of our journey which might be easily recognized.

The gang followed us. A poisonous plant enabled them gradually to kill

our bullocks and horses. At the right moment he sunk us in the marshes

of the Snowy, and gave us into the hands of his gang.”

Such was the history of Ben Joyce. The Major had shown him up in his

character--a bold and formidable criminal. His manifestly evil designs

called for the utmost vigilance on the part of Glenarvan. Happily the

unmasked bandit was less to be feared than the traitor.

But one serious consequence must come out of this revelation; no one

had thought of it yet except Mary Grant. John Mangles was the first to

notice her pale, despairing face; he understood what was passing in her

mind at a glance.

“Miss Mary! Miss Mary!” he cried; “you are crying!”

“Crying, my child!” said Lady Helena.

“My father, madam, my father!” replied the poor girl.

She could say no more, but the truth flashed on every mind. They all

knew the cause of her grief, and why tears fell from her eyes and her

father’s name came to her lips.

The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery had destroyed all hope; the convict

had invented a shipwreck to entrap Glenarvan. In the conversation

overheard by McNabbs, the convicts had plainly said that the BRITANNIA

had never been wrecked on the rocks in Twofold Bay. Harry Grant had

never set foot on the Australian continent!

A second time they had been sent on the wrong track by an erroneous

interpretation of the document. Gloomy silence fell on the whole party

at the sight of the children’s sorrow, and no one could find a cheering

word to say. Robert was crying in his sister’s arms. Paganel muttered

in a tone of vexation: “That unlucky document! It may boast of having

half-crazed a dozen peoples’ wits!” The worthy geographer was in such a

rage with himself, that he struck his forehead as if he would smash it

in.

Glenarvan went out to Mulrady and Wilson, who were keeping watch.

Profound silence reigned over the plain between the wood and the

river. Ben Joyce and his band must be at considerable distance, for the

atmosphere was in such a state of complete torpor that the slightest

sound would have been heard. It was evident, from the flocks of birds

on the lower branches of the trees, and the kangaroos feeding quietly

on the young shoots, and a couple of emus whose confiding heads passed

between the great clumps of bushes, that those peaceful solitudes were

untroubled by the presence of human beings.

“You have neither seen nor heard anything for the last hour?” said

Glenarvan to the two sailors.

“Nothing whatever, your honor,” replied Wilson. “The convicts must be

miles away from here.”

“They were not in numbers enough to attack us, I suppose,” added

Mulrady. “Ben Joyce will have gone to recruit his party, with some

bandits like himself, among the bush-rangers who may be lurking about

the foot of the Alps.”

“That is probably the case, Mulrady,” replied Glenarvan. “The rascals

are cowards; they know we are armed, and well armed too. Perhaps they

are waiting for nightfall to commence the attack. We must redouble our

watchfulness. Oh, if we could only get out of this bog, and down the

coast; but this swollen river bars our passage. I would pay its weight

in gold for a raft which would carry us over to the other side.”

“Why does not your honor give orders for a raft to be constructed? We

have plenty of wood.”

“No, Wilson,” replied Glenarvan; “this Snowy is not a river, it is an

impassable torrent.”

John Mangles, the Major, and Paganel just then came out of the wagon

on purpose to examine the state of the river. They found it still so

swollen by the heavy rain that the water was a foot above the level. It

formed an impetuous current, like the American rapids. To venture over

that foaming current and that rushing flood, broken into a thousand

eddies and hollows and gulfs, was impossible.

John Mangles declared the passage impracticable. “But we must not stay

here,” he added, “without attempting anything. What we were going to do

before Ayrton’s treachery is still more necessary now.”

“What do you mean, John?” asked Glenarvan.

“I mean that our need is urgent, and that since we cannot go to Twofold

Bay, we must go to Melbourne. We have still one horse. Give it to me, my

Lord, and I will go to Melbourne.”

“But that will be a dangerous venture, John,” said Glenarvan. “Not to

speak of the perils of a journey of two hundred miles over an unknown

country, the road and the by-ways will be guarded by the accomplices of

Ben Joyce.”

“I know it, my Lord, but I know also that things can’t stay long as they

are; Ayrton only asked a week’s absence to fetch the crew of the DUNCAN,

and I will be back to the Snowy River in six days. Well, my Lord, what

are your commands?”

“Before Glenarvan decides,” said Paganel, “I must make an observation.

That some one must go to Melbourne is evident, but that John Mangles

should be the one to expose himself to the risk, cannot be. He is

the captain of the DUNCAN, and must be careful of his life. I will go

instead.”

“That is all very well, Paganel,” said the Major; “but why should you be

the one to go?”

“Are we not here?” said Mulrady and Wilson.

“And do you think,” replied McNabbs, “that a journey of two hundred

miles on horseback frightens me.”

“Friends,” said Glenarvan, “one of us must go, so let it be decided by

drawing lots. Write all our names, Paganel.”

“Not yours, my Lord,” said John Mangles.

“And why not?”

“What! separate you from Lady Helena, and before your wound is healed,

too!”

“Glenarvan,” said Paganel, “you cannot leave the expedition.”

“No,” added the Major. “Your place is here, Edward, you ought not to

go.”

“Danger is involved in it,” said Glenarvan, “and I will take my share

along with the rest. Write the names, Paganel, and put mine among them,

and I hope the lot may fall on me.”

His will was obeyed. The names were written, and the lots drawn. Fate

fixed on Mulrady. The brave sailor shouted hurrah! and said: “My Lord,

I am ready to start.” Glenarvan pressed his hand, and then went back to

the wagon, leaving John Mangles and the Major on watch.

Lady Helena was informed of the determination to send a message to

Melbourne, and that they had drawn lots who should go, and Mulrady had

been chosen. Lady Helena said a few kind words to the brave sailor,

which went straight to his heart. Fate could hardly have chosen a better

man, for he was not only brave and intelligent, but robust and superior

to all fatigue.

Mulrady’s departure was fixed for eight o’clock, immediately after

the short twilight. Wilson undertook to get the horse ready. He had a

project in his head of changing the horse’s left shoe, for one off the

horses that had died in the night. This would prevent the convicts from

tracking Mulrady, or following him, as they were not mounted.

While Wilson was arranging this, Glenarvan got his letter ready for Tom

Austin, but his wounded arm troubled him, and he asked Paganel to write

it for him. The SAVANT was so absorbed in one fixed idea that he seemed

hardly to know what he was about. In all this succession of vexations,

it must be said the document was always uppermost in Paganel’s mind. He

was always worrying himself about each word, trying to discover some new

meaning, and losing the wrong interpretation of it, and going over and

over himself in perplexities.

He did not hear Glenarvan when he first spoke, but on the request being

made a second time, he said: “Ah, very well. I’m ready.”

While he spoke he was mechanically getting paper from his note-book. He

tore a blank page off, and sat down pencil in hand to write.

Glenarvan began to dictate as follows: “Order to Tom Austin, Chief

Officer, to get to sea without delay, and bring the DUNCAN to--”

Paganel was just finishing the last word, when his eye chanced to fall

on the _Australian and New Zealand Gazette_ lying on the ground. The

paper was so folded that only the last two syllables of the title were

visible. Paganel’s pencil stopped, and he seemed to become oblivious of

Glenarvan and the letter entirely, till his friends called out: “Come,

Paganel!”

“Ah!” said the geographer, with a loud exclamation.

“What is the matter?” asked the Major.

“Nothing, nothing,” replied Paganel. Then he muttered to himself,

“_Aland! aland! aland!_”

He had got up and seized the newspaper. He shook it in his efforts to

keep back the words that involuntarily rose to his lips.

Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him in astonishment,

at a loss to understand this unaccountable agitation. Paganel looked as

if a sudden fit of insanity had come over him. But his excitement did

not last. He became by degrees calmer. The gleam of joy that shone in

his eyes died away. He sat down again, and said quietly:

“When you please, my Lord, I am ready.” Glenarvan resumed his dictation

at once, and the letter was soon completed. It read as follows: “Order

to Tom Austin to go to sea without delay; and take the DUNCAN to

Melbourne by the 37th degree of latitude to the eastern coast of

Australia.”

“Of Australia?” said Paganel. “Ah yes! of Australia.”

Then he finished the letter, and gave it to Glenarvan to sign, who went

through the necessary formality as well as he could, and closed and

sealed the letter. Paganel, whose hand still trembled with emotion,

directed it thus: “Tom Austin, Chief Officer on board the Yacht DUNCAN,

Melbourne.”

Then he got up and went out of the wagon, gesticulating and repeating

the incomprehensible words:

“Aland aland! aland!”

CHAPTER XVIII FOUR DAYS OF ANGUISH

THE rest of the day passed on without any further incident. All the

preparations for Mulrady’s journey were completed, and the brave sailor

rejoiced in being able to give his Lordship this proof of devotion.

Paganel had recovered his usual _sang-froid_ and manners. His look,

indeed, betrayed his preoccupation, but he seemed resolved to keep it

secret. No doubt he had strong reasons for this course of action, for

the Major heard him repeating, like a man struggling with himself: “No,

no, they would not believe it; and, besides, what good would it be? It

is too late!”

Having taken this resolution, he busied himself with giving Mulrady the

necessary directions for getting to Melbourne, and showed him his way on

the map. All the TRACKS, that is to say, paths through the prairie, came

out on the road to Lucknow. This road, after running right down to the

coast took a sudden bend in the direction of Melbourne. This was the

route that must be followed steadily, for it would not do to attempt a

short cut across an almost unknown country. Nothing, consequently, could

be more simple. Mulrady could not lose his way.

As to dangers, there were none after he had gone a few miles beyond the

encampment, out of the reach of Ben Joyce and his gang. Once past their

hiding place, Mulrady was certain of soon being able to outdistance the

convicts, and execute his important mission successfully.

At six o’clock they all dined together. The rain was falling in

torrents. The tent was not protection enough, and the whole party had

to take refuge in the wagon. This was a sure refuge. The clay kept

it firmly imbedded in the soil, like a fortress resting on sure

foundations. The arsenal was composed of seven carbines and seven

revolvers, and could stand a pretty long siege, for they had plenty of

ammunition and provisions. But before six days were over, the DUNCAN

would anchor in Twofold Bay, and twenty-four hours after her crew would

reach the other shore of the Snowy River; and should the passage still

remain impracticable, the convicts at any rate would be forced to retire

before the increased strength. But all depended on Mulrady’s success in

his perilous enterprise.

At eight o’clock it got very dark; now was the time to start. The

horse prepared for Mulrady was brought out. His feet, by way of extra

precaution, were wrapped round with cloths, so that they could not make

the least noise on the ground. The animal seemed tired, and yet the

safety of all depended on his strength and surefootedness. The Major

advised Mulrady to let him go gently as soon as he got past the

convicts. Better delay half-a-day than not arrive safely.

John Mangles gave his sailor a revolver, which he had loaded with the

utmost care. This is a formidable weapon in the hand of a man who does

not tremble, for six shots fired in a few seconds would easily clear a

road infested with criminals. Mulrady seated himself in the saddle ready

to start.

“Here is the letter you are to give to Tom Austin,” said Glenarvan.

“Don’t let him lose an hour. He is to sail for Twofold Bay at once; and

if he does not find us there, if we have not managed to cross the Snowy,

let him come on to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and God be

with you.”

He shook hands with him, and bade him good-by; and so did Lady Helena

and Mary Grant. A more timorous man than the sailor would have shrunk

back a little from setting out on such a dark, raining night on an

errand so full of danger, across vast unknown wilds. But his farewells

were calmly spoken, and he speedily disappeared down a path which

skirted the wood.

At the same moment the gusts of wind redoubled their violence. The high

branches of the eucalyptus clattered together noisily, and bough after

bough fell on the wet ground. More than one great tree, with no living

sap, but still standing hitherto, fell with a crash during this storm.

The wind howled amid the cracking wood, and mingled its moans with the

ominous roaring of the rain. The heavy clouds, driving along toward the

east, hung on the ground like rays of vapor, and deep, cheerless gloom

intensified the horrors of the night.

The travelers went back into the wagon immediately Mulrady had gone.

Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan and Paganel occupied the first

compartment, which had been hermetically closed. The second was occupied

by Olbinett, Wilson and Robert. The Major and John Mangles were on duty

outside. This precaution was necessary, for an attack on the part of the

convicts would be easy enough, and therefore probable enough.

The two faithful guardians kept close watch, bearing philosophically the

rain and wind that beat on their faces. They tried to pierce through the

darkness so favorable to ambushes, for nothing could be heard but the

noise of the tempest, the sough of the wind, the rattling branches,

falling trees, and roaring of the unchained waters.

At times the wind would cease for a few moments, as if to take breath.

Nothing was audible but the moan of the Snowy River, as it flowed

between the motionless reeds and the dark curtain of gum trees. The

silence seemed deeper in these momentary lulls, and the Major and John

Mangles listened attentively.

During one of these calms a sharp whistle reached them. John Mangles

went hurriedly up to the Major. “You heard that?” he asked.

“Yes,” said McNabbs. “Is it man or beast?”

“A man,” replied John Mangles.

And then both listened. The mysterious whistle was repeated, and

answered by a kind of report, but almost indistinguishable, for the

storm was raging with renewed violence. McNabbs and John Mangles could

not hear themselves speak. They went for comfort under the shelter of

the wagon.

At this moment the leather curtains were raised and Glenarvan rejoined

his two companions. He too had heard this ill-boding whistle, and the

report which echoed under the tilt. “Which way was it?” asked he.

“There,” said John, pointing to the dark track in the direction taken by

Mulrady.

“How far?”

“The wind brought it; I should think, three or four miles, at least.”

“Come,” said Glenarvan, putting his gun on his shoulder.

“No,” said the Major. “It is a decoy to get us away from the wagon.”

“But if Mulrady has even now fallen beneath the blows of these rascals?”

exclaimed Glenarvan, seizing McNabbs by the hand.

“We shall know by to-morrow,” said the Major, coolly, determined to

prevent Glenarvan from taking a step which was equally rash and futile.

“You cannot leave the camp, my Lord,” said John. “I will go alone.”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” cried McNabbs, energetically. “Do you

want to have us killed one by one to diminish our force, and put us at

the mercy of these wretches? If Mulrady has fallen a victim to them, it

is a misfortune that must not be repeated. Mulrady was sent, chosen by

chance. If the lot had fallen to me, I should have gone as he did; but I

should neither have asked nor expected assistance.”

In restraining Glenarvan and John Mangles, the Major was right in every

aspect of the case. To attempt to follow the sailor, to run in the

darkness of night among the convicts in their leafy ambush was madness,

and more than that--it was useless. Glenarvan’s party was not so

numerous that it could afford to sacrifice another member of it.

Still Glenarvan seemed as if he could not yield; his hand was always on

his carbine. He wandered about the wagon, and bent a listening ear to

the faintest sound. The thought that one of his men was perhaps mortally

wounded, abandoned to his fate, calling in vain on those for whose sake

he had gone forth, was a torture to him. McNabbs was not sure that he

should be able to restrain him, or if Glenarvan, carried away by his

feelings, would not run into the arms of Ben Joyce.

“Edward,” said he, “be calm. Listen to me as a friend. Think of Lady

Helena, of Mary Grant, of all who are left. And, besides, where would

you go? Where would you find Mulrady? He must have been attacked two

miles off. In what direction? Which track would you follow?”

At that very moment, as if to answer the Major, a cry of distress was

heard.

“Listen!” said Glenarvan.

This cry came from the same quarter as the report, but less than a

quarter of a mile off.

Glenarvan, repulsing McNabbs, was already on the track, when at three

hundred paces from the wagon they heard the exclamation: “Help! help!”

The voice was plaintive and despairing. John Mangles and the Major

sprang toward the spot. A few seconds after they perceived among

the scrub a human form dragging itself along the ground and uttering

mournful groans. It was Mulrady, wounded, apparently dying; and when his

companions raised him they felt their hands bathed in blood.

The rain came down with redoubled violence, and the wind raged among the

branches of the dead trees. In the pelting storm, Glenarvan, the Major

and John Mangles transported the body of Mulrady.

On their arrival everyone got up. Paganel, Robert, Wilson and Olbinett

left the wagon, and Lady Helena gave up her compartment to poor Mulrady.

The Major removed the poor fellow’s flannel shirt, which was dripping

with blood and rain. He soon found the wound; it was a stab in the right

side.

McNabbs dressed it with great skill. He could not tell whether the

weapon had touched any vital part. An intermittent jet of scarlet blood

flowed from it; the patient’s paleness and weakness showed that he was

seriously injured. The Major washed the wound first with fresh water and

then closed the orifice; after this he put on a thick pad of lint, and

then folds of scraped linen held firmly in place with a bandage. He

succeeded in stopping the hemorrhage. Mulrady was laid on his side, with

his head and chest well raised, and Lady Helena succeeded in making him

swallow a few drops of water.

After about a quarter of an hour, the wounded man, who till then had

lain motionless, made a slight movement. His eyes unclosed, his lips

muttered incoherent words, and the Major, bending toward him, heard him

repeating: “My Lord--the letter--Ben Joyce.”

The Major repeated these words, and looked at his companions. What did

Mulrady mean? Ben Joyce had been the attacking party, of course; but

why? Surely for the express purpose of intercepting him, and preventing

his arrival at the DUNCAN. This letter--

Glenarvan searched Mulrady’s pockets. The letter addressed to Tom Austin

was gone!

The night wore away amid anxiety and distress; every moment, they

feared, would be poor Mulrady’s last. He suffered from acute fever. The

Sisters of Charity, Lady Helena and Mary Grant, never left him. Never

was patient so well tended, nor by such sympathetic hands.

Day came, and the rain had ceased. Great clouds filled the sky still;

the ground was strewn with broken branches; the marly soil, soaked by

the torrents of rain, had yielded still more; the approaches to the

wagon became difficult, but it could not sink any deeper.

John Mangles, Paganel, and Glenarvan went, as soon as it was light

enough, to reconnoiter in the neighborhood of the encampment. They

revisited the track, which was still stained with blood. They saw no

vestige of Ben Joyce, nor of his band. They penetrated as far as the

scene of the attack. Here two corpses lay on the ground, struck down

by Mulrady’s bullets. One was the blacksmith of Blackpoint. His face,

already changed by death, was a dreadful spectacle. Glenarvan searched

no further. Prudence forbade him to wander from the camp. He returned to

the wagon, deeply absorbed by the critical position of affairs.

“We must not think of sending another messenger to Melbourne,” said he.

“But we must,” said John Mangles; “and I must try to pass where my

sailor could not succeed.”

“No, John! it is out of the question. You have not even a horse for the

journey, which is full two hundred miles!”

This was true, for Mulrady’s horse, the only one that remained, had

not returned. Had he fallen during the attack on his rider, or was he

straying in the bush, or had the convicts carried him off?

“Come what will,” replied Glenarvan, “we will not separate again. Let us

wait a week, or a fortnight, till the Snowy falls to its normal level.

We can then reach Twofold Bay by short stages, and from there we can

send on to the DUNCAN, by a safer channel, the order to meet us.”

“That seems the only plan,” said Paganel.

“Therefore, my friends,” rejoined Glenarvan, “no more parting. It is too

great a risk for one man to venture alone into a robber-haunted waste.

And now, may God save our poor sailor, and protect the rest of us!”

Glenarvan was right in both points; first in prohibiting all isolated

attempts, and second, in deciding to wait till the passage of the Snowy

River was practicable. He was scarcely thirty miles from Delegete, the

first frontier village of New South Wales, where he would easily find

the means of transport to Twofold Bay, and from there he could telegraph

to Melbourne his orders about the DUNCAN.

These measures were wise, but how late! If Glenarvan had not sent

Mulrady to Lucknow what misfortunes would have been averted, not to

speak of the assassination of the sailor!

When he reached the camp he found his companions in better spirits. They

seemed more hopeful than before. “He is better! he is better!” cried

Robert, running out to meet Lord Glenarvan.

“Mulrady?--”

“Yes, Edward,” answered Lady Helena. “A reaction has set in. The Major

is more confident. Our sailor will live.”

“Where is McNabbs?” asked Glenarvan.

“With him. Mulrady wanted to speak to him, and they must not be

disturbed.”

He then learned that about an hour since, the wounded man had awakened

from his lethargy, and the fever had abated. But the first thing he did

on recovering his memory and speech was to ask for Lord Glenarvan, or,

failing him, the Major. McNabbs seeing him so weak, would have forbidden

any conversation; but Mulrady insisted with such energy that the Major

had to give in. The interview had already lasted some minutes when

Glenarvan returned. There was nothing for it but to await the return of

McNabbs.

Presently the leather curtains of the wagon moved, and the Major

appeared. He rejoined his friends at the foot of a gum-tree, where the

tent was placed. His face, usually so stolid, showed that something

disturbed him. When his eyes fell on Lady Helena and the young girl, his

glance was full of sorrow.

Glenarvan questioned him, and extracted the following information: When

he left the camp Mulrady followed one of the paths indicated by Paganel.

He made as good speed as the darkness of the night would allow. He

reckoned that he had gone about two miles when several men--five, he

thought--sprang to his horse’s head. The animal reared; Mulrady seized

his revolver and fired. He thought he saw two of his assailants fall. By

the flash he recognized Ben Joyce. But that was all. He had not time to

fire all the barrels. He felt a violent blow on his side and was thrown

to the ground.

Still he did not lose consciousness. The murderers thought he was dead.

He felt them search his pockets, and then heard one of them say: “I have

the letter.”

“Give it to me,” returned Ben Joyce, “and now the DUNCAN is ours.”

At this point of the story, Glenarvan could not help uttering a cry.

McNabbs continued: “‘Now you fellows,’ added Ben Joyce, ‘catch the

horse. In two days I shall be on board the DUNCAN, and in six I shall

reach Twofold Bay. This is to be the rendezvous. My Lord and his party

will be still stuck in the marshes of the Snowy River. Cross the river

at the bridge of Kemple Pier, proceed to the coast, and wait for me. I

will easily manage to get you on board. Once at sea in a craft like

the DUNCAN, we shall be masters of the Indian Ocean.’ ‘Hurrah for Ben

Joyce!’ cried the convicts. Mulrady’s horse was brought, and Ben Joyce

disappeared, galloping on the Lucknow Road, while the band took the road

southeast of the Snowy River. Mulrady, though severely wounded, had the

strength to drag himself to within three hundred paces from the camp,

whence we found him almost dead. There,” said McNabbs, “is the history

of Mulrady; and now you can understand why the brave fellow was so

determined to speak.”

This revelation terrified Glenarvan and the rest of the party.

“Pirates! pirates!” cried Glenarvan. “My crew massacred! my DUNCAN in

the hands of these bandits!”

“Yes, for Ben Joyce will surprise the ship,” said the Major, “and

then--”

“Well, we must get to the coast first,” said Paganel.

“But how are we to cross the Snowy River?” said Wilson.

“As they will,” replied Glenarvan. “They are to cross at Kemple Pier

Bridge, and so will we.”

“But about Mulrady?” asked Lady Helena.

“We will carry him; we will have relays. Can I leave my crew to the

mercy of Ben Joyce and his gang?”

To cross the Snowy River at Kemple Pier was practicable, but dangerous.

The convicts might entrench themselves at that point, and defend it.

They were at least thirty against seven! But there are moments when

people do not deliberate, or when they have no choice but to go on.

“My Lord,” said John Mangles, “before we throw away our chance, before

venturing to this bridge, we ought to reconnoiter, and I will undertake

it.”

“I will go with you, John,” said Paganel.

This proposal was agreed to, and John Mangles and Paganel prepared to

start immediately. They were to follow the course of the Snowy River,

follow its banks till they reached the place indicated by Ben Joyce,

and especially they were to keep out of sight of the convicts, who were

probably scouring the bush.

So the two brave comrades started, well provisioned and well armed, and

were soon out of sight as they threaded their way among the tall reeds

by the river. The rest anxiously awaited their return all day. Evening

came, and still the scouts did not return. They began to be seriously

alarmed. At last, toward eleven o’clock, Wilson announced their arrival.

Paganel and John Mangles were worn out with the fatigues of a ten-mile

walk.

“Well, what about the bridge? Did you find it?” asked Glenarvan, with

impetuous eagerness.

“Yes, a bridge of supple-jacks,” said John Mangles. “The convicts passed

over, but--”

“But what?” said Glenarvan, who foreboded some new misfortune.

“They burned it after they passed!” said Paganel.

CHAPTER XIX HELPLESS AND HOPELESS

IT was not a time for despair, but action. The bridge at Kemple Pier

was destroyed, but the Snowy River must be crossed, come what might, and

they must reach Twofold Bay before Ben Joyce and his gang, so, instead

of wasting time in empty words, the next day (the 16th of January) John

Mangles and Glenarvan went down to examine the river, and arrange for

the passage over.

The swollen and tumultuous waters had not gone down the least. They

rushed on with indescribable fury. It would be risking life to battle

with them. Glenarvan stood gazing with folded arms and downcast face.

“Would you like me to try and swim across?” said John Mangles.

“No, John, no!” said Lord Glenarvan, holding back the bold, daring young

fellow, “let us wait.”

And they both returned to the camp. The day passed in the most intense

anxiety. Ten times Lord Glenarvan went to look at the river, trying to

invent some bold way of getting over; but in vain. Had a torrent of lava

rushed between the shores, it could not have been more impassable.

During these long wasted hours, Lady Helena, under the Major’s advice,

was nursing Mulrady with the utmost skill. The sailor felt a throb

of returning life. McNabbs ventured to affirm that no vital part was

injured. Loss of blood accounted for the patient’s extreme exhaustion.

The wound once closed and the hemorrhage stopped, time and rest would

be all that was needed to complete his cure. Lady Helena had insisted on

giving up the first compartment of the wagon to him, which greatly

tried his modesty. The poor fellow’s greatest trouble was the delay

his condition might cause Glenarvan, and he made him promise that they

should leave him in the camp under Wilson’s care, should the passage of

the river become practicable.

But, unfortunately, no passage was practicable, either that day or the

next (January 17); Glenarvan was in despair. Lady Helena and the Major

vainly tried to calm him, and preached patience.

Patience, indeed, when perhaps at this very moment Ben Joyce was

boarding the yacht; when the DUNCAN, loosing from her moorings, was

getting up steam to reach the fatal coast, and each hour was bringing

her nearer.

John Mangles felt in his own breast all that Glenarvan was suffering.

He determined to conquer the difficulty at any price, and constructed

a canoe in the Australian manner, with large sheets of bark of the

gum-trees. These sheets were kept together by bars of wood, and formed

a very fragile boat. The captain and the sailor made a trial trip in

it during the day. All that skill, and strength, and tact, and courage

could do they did; but they were scarcely in the current before they

were upside down, and nearly paid with their lives for the dangerous

experiment. The boat disappeared, dragged down by the eddy. John Mangles

and Wilson had not gone ten fathoms, and the river was a mile broad, and

swollen by the heavy rains and melted snows.

Thus passed the 19th and 20th of January. The Major and Glenarvan went

five miles up the river in search of a favorable passage, but everywhere

they found the same roaring, rushing, impetuous torrent. The whole

southern slope of the Australian Alps poured its liquid masses into this

single bed.

All hope of saving the DUNCAN was now at an end. Five days had elapsed

since the departure of Ben Joyce. The yacht must be at this moment at

the coast, and in the hands of the convicts.

However, it was impossible that this state of things could last. The

temporary influx would soon be exhausted, and the violence also. Indeed,

on the morning of the 21st, Paganel announced that the water was already

lower. “What does it matter now?” said Glenarvan. “It is too late!”

“That is no reason for our staying longer here,” said the Major.

“Certainly not,” replied John Mangles. “Perhaps tomorrow the river may

be practicable.”

“And will that save my unhappy men?” cried Glenarvan.

“Will your Lordship listen to me?” returned John Mangles. “I know Tom

Austin. He would execute your orders, and set out as soon as departure

was possible. But who knows whether the DUNCAN was ready and her injury

repaired on the arrival of Ben Joyce. And suppose the yacht could not go

to sea; suppose there was a delay of a day, or two days.”

“You are right, John,” replied Glenarvan. “We must get to Twofold Bay;

we are only thirty-five miles from Delegete.”

“Yes,” added Paganel, “and that’s a town where we shall find rapid means

of conveyance. Who knows whether we shan’t arrive in time to prevent a

catastrophe.”

“Let us start,” cried Glenarvan.

John Mangles and Wilson instantly set to work to construct a canoe of

larger dimensions. Experience had proved that the bark was powerless

against the violence of the torrent, and John accordingly felled some of

the gum-trees, and made a rude but solid raft with the trunks. It was

a long task, and the day had gone before the work was ended. It was

completed next morning.

By this time the waters had visibly diminished; the torrent had once

more become a river, though a very rapid one, it is true. However, by

pursuing a zigzag course, and overcoming it to a certain extent, John

hoped to reach the opposite shore. At half-past twelve, they embarked

provisions enough for a couple of days. The remainder was left with the

wagon and the tent. Mulrady was doing well enough to be carried over;

his convalescence was rapid.

At one o’clock, they all seated themselves on the raft, still moored

to the shore. John Mangles had installed himself at the starboard,

and entrusted to Wilson a sort of oar to steady the raft against the

current, and lessen the leeway. He took his own stand at the back, to

steer by means of a large scull; but, notwithstanding their efforts,

Wilson and John Mangles soon found themselves in an inverse position,

which made the action of the oars impossible.

There was no help for it; they could do nothing to arrest the gyratory

movement of the raft; it turned round with dizzying rapidity, and

drifted out of its course. John Mangles stood with pale face and set

teeth, gazing at the whirling current.

However, the raft had reached the middle of the river, about half a mile

from the starting point. Here the current was extremely strong, and

this broke the whirling eddy, and gave the raft some stability. John

and Wilson seized their oars again, and managed to push it in an oblique

direction. This brought them nearer to the left shore. They were not

more than fifty fathoms from it, when Wilson’s oar snapped short off,

and the raft, no longer supported, was dragged away. John tried to

resist at the risk of breaking his own oar, too, and Wilson, with

bleeding hands, seconded his efforts with all his might.

At last they succeeded, and the raft, after a passage of more than half

an hour, struck against the steep bank of the opposite shore. The shock

was so violent that the logs became disunited, the cords broke, and the

water bubbled up between. The travelers had barely time to catch hold

of the steep bank. They dragged out Mulrady and the two dripping ladies.

Everyone was safe; but the provisions and firearms, except the carbine

of the Major, went drifting down with the DEBRIS of the raft.

The river was crossed. The little company found themselves almost

without provisions, thirty-five miles from Delegete, in the midst of the

unknown deserts of the Victoria frontier. Neither settlers nor squatters

were to be met with; it was entirely uninhabited, unless by ferocious

bushrangers and bandits.

They resolved to set off without delay. Mulrady saw clearly that he

would be a great drag on them, and he begged to be allowed to remain,

and even to remain alone, till assistance could be sent from Delegete.

Glenarvan refused. It would be three days before he could reach

Delegete, and five the shore--that is to say, the 26th of January. Now,

as the DUNCAN had left Melbourne on the 16th, what difference would a

few days’ delay make?

“No, my friend,” he said, “I will not leave anyone behind. We will make

a litter and carry you in turn.”

The litter was made of boughs of eucalyptus covered with branches; and,

whether he would or not, Mulrady was obliged to take his place on it.

Glenarvan would be the first to carry his sailor. He took hold of one

end and Wilson of the other, and all set off.

What a sad spectacle, and how lamentably was this expedition to end

which had commenced so well. They were no longer in search of Harry

Grant. This continent, where he was not, and never had been, threatened

to prove fatal to those who sought him. And when these intrepid

countrymen of his should reach the shore, they would find the DUNCAN

waiting to take them home again. The first day passed silently and

painfully. Every ten minutes the litter changed bearers. All the

sailor’s comrades took their share in this task without murmuring,

though the fatigue was augmented by the great heat.

In the evening, after a journey of only five miles, they camped under

the gum-trees. The small store of provisions saved from the raft

composed the evening meal. But all they had to depend upon now was the

Major’s carbine.

It was a dark, rainy night, and morning seemed as if it would never

dawn. They set off again, but the Major could not find a chance of

firing a shot. This fatal region was only a desert, unfrequented even by

animals. Fortunately, Robert discovered a bustard’s nest with a dozen

of large eggs in it, which Olbinett cooked on hot cinders. These, with a

few roots of purslain which were growing at the bottom of a ravine, were

all the breakfast of the 22d.

The route now became extremely difficult. The sandy plains were

bristling with SPINIFEX, a prickly plant, which is called in Melbourne

the porcupine. It tears the clothing to rags, and makes the legs bleed.

The courageous ladies never complained, but footed it bravely, setting

an example, and encouraging one and another by word or look.

They stopped in the evening at Mount Bulla Bulla, on the edge of the

Jungalla Creek. The supper would have been very scant, if McNabbs had

not killed a large rat, the _mus conditor_, which is highly spoken of

as an article of diet. Olbinett roasted it, and it would have been

pronounced even superior to its reputation had it equaled the sheep

in size. They were obliged to be content with it, however, and it was

devoured to the bones.

On the 23d the weary but still energetic travelers started off again.

After having gone round the foot of the mountain, they crossed the long

prairies where the grass seemed made of whalebone. It was a tangle of

darts, a medley of sharp little sticks, and a path had to be cut through

either with the hatchet or fire.

That morning there was not even a question of breakfast. Nothing could

be more barren than this region strewn with pieces of quartz. Not only

hunger, but thirst began to assail the travelers. A burning atmosphere

heightened their discomfort. Glenarvan and his friends could only go

half a mile an hour. Should this lack of food and water continue till

evening, they would all sink on the road, never to rise again.

But when everything fails a man, and he finds himself without resources,

at the very moment when he feels he must give up, then Providence steps

in. Water presented itself in the CEPHALOTES, a species of cup-shaped

flower, filled with refreshing liquid, which hung from the branches of

coralliform-shaped bushes. They all quenched their thirst with these,

and felt new life returning.

The only food they could find was the same as the natives were forced

to subsist upon, when they could find neither game, nor serpents, nor

insects. Paganel discovered in the dry bed of a creek, a plant whose

excellent properties had been frequently described by one of his

colleagues in the Geographical Society.

It was the NARDOU, a cryptogamous plant of the family Marsilacea, and

the same which kept Burke and King alive in the deserts of the interior.

Under its leaves, which resembled those of the trefoil, there were dried

sporules as large as a lentil, and these sporules, when crushed between

two stones, made a sort of flour. This was converted into coarse bread,

which stilled the pangs of hunger at least. There was a great abundance

of this plant growing in the district, and Olbinett gathered a large

supply, so that they were sure of food for several days.

The next day, the 24th, Mulrady was able to walk part of the way. His

wound was entirely cicatrized. The town of Delegete was not more than

ten miles off, and that evening they camped in longitude 140 degrees, on

the very frontier of New South Wales.

For some hours, a fine but penetrating rain had been falling. There

would have been no shelter from this, if by chance John Mangles had not

discovered a sawyer’s hut, deserted and dilapidated to a degree. But

with this miserable cabin they were obliged to be content. Wilson wanted

to kindle a fire to prepare the NARDOU bread, and he went out to pick up

the dead wood scattered all over the ground. But he found it would

not light, the great quantity of albuminous matter which it contained

prevented all combustion. This is the incombustible wood put down by

Paganel in his list of Australian products.

They had to dispense with fire, and consequently with food too, and

sleep in their wet clothes, while the laughing jackasses, concealed in

the high branches, seemed to ridicule the poor unfortunates. However,

Glenarvan was nearly at the end of his sufferings. It was time. The two

young ladies were making heroic efforts, but their strength was hourly

decreasing. They dragged themselves along, almost unable to walk.

Next morning they started at daybreak. At 11 A. M. Delegete came in

sight in the county of Wellesley, and fifty miles from Twofold Bay.

Means of conveyance were quickly procured here. Hope returned to

Glenarvan as they approached the coast. Perhaps there might have been

some slight delay, and after all they might get there before the arrival

of the DUNCAN. In twenty-four hours they would reach the bay.

At noon, after a comfortable meal, all the travelers installed in a

mail-coach, drawn by five strong horses, left Delegete at a gallop. The

postilions, stimulated by a promise of a princely DOUCEUR, drove rapidly

along over a well-kept road. They did not lose a minute in changing

horses, which took place every ten miles. It seemed as if they were

infected with Glenarvan’s zeal. All that day, and night, too, they

traveled on at the rate of six miles an hour.

In the morning at sunrise, a dull murmur fell on their ears, and

announced their approach to the Indian Ocean. They required to go round

the bay to gain the coast at the 37th parallel, the exact point where

Tom Austin was to wait their arrival.

When the sea appeared, all eyes anxiously gazed at the offing. Was the

DUNCAN, by a miracle of Providence, there running close to the shore,

as a month ago, when they crossed Cape Corrientes, they had found her on

the Argentine coast? They saw nothing. Sky and earth mingled in the same

horizon. Not a sail enlivened the vast stretch of ocean.

One hope still remained. Perhaps Tom Austin had thought it his duty to

cast anchor in Twofold Bay, for the sea was heavy, and a ship would not

dare to venture near the shore. “To Eden!” cried Glenarvan. Immediately

the mail-coach resumed the route round the bay, toward the little town

of Eden, five miles distant. The postilions stopped not far from the

lighthouse, which marks the entrance of the port. Several vessels were

moored in the roadstead, but none of them bore the flag of Malcolm.

Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel got out of the coach, and rushed

to the custom-house, to inquire about the arrival of vessels within the

last few days.

No ship had touched the bay for a week.

“Perhaps the yacht has not started,” Glenarvan said, a sudden revulsion

of feeling lifting him from despair. “Perhaps we have arrived first.”

John Mangles shook his head. He knew Tom Austin. His first mate would

not delay the execution of an order for ten days.

“I must know at all events how they stand,” said Glenarvan. “Better

certainty than doubt.”

A quarter of an hour afterward a telegram was sent to the syndicate of

shipbrokers in Melbourne. The whole party then repaired to the Victoria

Hotel.

At 2 P.M. the following telegraphic reply was received: “LORD GLENARVAN,

Eden.

“Twofold Bay.

“The DUNCAN left on the 16th current. Destination unknown. J. ANDREWS,

S. B.”

The telegram dropped from Glenarvan’s hands.

There was no doubt now. The good, honest Scotch yacht was now a pirate

ship in the hands of Ben Joyce!

So ended this journey across Australia, which had commenced under

circumstances so favorable. All trace of Captain Grant and his

shipwrecked men seemed to be irrevocably lost. This ill success had cost

the loss of a ship’s crew. Lord Glenarvan had been vanquished in the

strife; and the courageous searchers, whom the unfriendly elements

of the Pampas had been unable to check, had been conquered on the

Australian shore by the perversity of man.

END OF BOOK TWO

IN SEARCH OF THE CASTAWAYS

OR THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT

NEW ZEALAND

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CHAPTER I A ROUGH CAPTAIN

IF ever the searchers after Captain Grant were tempted to despair,

surely it was at this moment when all their hopes were destroyed at

a blow. Toward what quarter of the world should they direct their

endeavors? How were they to explore new countries? The DUNCAN was no

longer available, and even an immediate return to their own land was out

of the question. Thus the enterprise of these generous Scots had failed!

Failed! a despairing word that finds no echo in a brave soul; and

yet under the repeated blows of adverse fate, Glenarvan himself was

compelled to acknowledge his inability to prosecute his devoted efforts.

Mary Grant at this crisis nerved herself to the resolution never to

utter the name of her father. She suppressed her own anguish, when

she thought of the unfortunate crew who had perished. The daughter

was merged in the friend, and she now took upon her to console Lady

Glenarvan, who till now had been her faithful comforter. She was the

first to speak of returning to Scotland. John Mangles was filled with

admiration at seeing her so courageous and so resigned. He wanted to say

a word further in the Captain’s interest, but Mary stopped him with a

glance, and afterward said to him: “No, Mr. John, we must think of those

who ventured their lives. Lord Glenarvan must return to Europe!”

“You are right, Miss Mary,” answered John Mangles; “he must. Beside, the

English authorities must be informed of the fate of the DUNCAN. But do

not despair. Rather than abandon our search I will resume it alone! I

will either find Captain Grant or perish in the attempt!”

It was a serious undertaking to which John Mangles bound himself; Mary

accepted, and gave her hand to the young captain, as if to ratify

the treaty. On John Mangles’ side it was a life’s devotion; on Mary’s

undying gratitude.

During that day, their departure was finally arranged; they resolved to

reach Melbourne without delay. Next day John went to inquire about the

ships ready to sail. He expected to find frequent communication between

Eden and Victoria.

He was disappointed; ships were scarce. Three or four vessels, anchored

in Twofold Bay, constituted the mercantile fleet of the place; none of

them were bound for Melbourne, nor Sydney, nor Point de Galle, at any

of which ports Glenarvan would have found ships loading for England. In

fact, the Peninsular and Oriental Company has a regular line of packets

between these points and England.

Under these circumstances, what was to be done? Waiting for a ship might

be a tedious affair, for Twofold Bay is not much frequented. Numbers

of ships pass by without touching. After due reflection and discussion,

Glenarvan had nearly decided to follow the coast road to Sydney, when

Paganel made an unexpected proposition.

The geographer had visited Twofold Bay on his own account, and was aware

that there were no means of transport for Sydney or Melbourne. But

of the three vessels anchored in the roadstead one was loading for

Auckland, the capital of the northern island of New Zealand. Paganel’s

proposal was to take the ship in question, and get to Auckland, whence

it would be easy to return to Europe by the boats of the Peninsular and

Oriental Company.

This proposition was taken into serious consideration. Paganel on this

occasion dispensed with the volley of arguments he generally indulged

in. He confined himself to the bare proposition, adding that the voyage

to New Zealand was only five or six days--the distance, in fact, being

only about a thousand miles.

By a singular coincidence Auckland is situated on the self-same

parallel--the thirty-seventh--which the explorers had perseveringly

followed since they left the coast of Araucania. Paganel might fairly

have used this as an argument in favor of his scheme; in fact, it was a

natural opportunity of visiting the shores of New Zealand.

But Paganel did not lay stress on this argument. After two mistakes, he

probably hesitated to attempt a third interpretation of the document.

Besides, what could he make of it? It said positively that a “continent”

had served as a refuge for Captain Grant, not an island. Now, New

Zealand was nothing but an island. This seemed decisive. Whether, for

this reason, or for some other, Paganel did not connect any idea of

further search with this proposition of reaching Auckland. He merely

observed that regular communication existed between that point and Great

Britain, and that it was easy to take advantage of it.

John Mangles supported Paganel’s proposal. He advised its adoption,

as it was hopeless to await the problematical arrival of a vessel in

Twofold Bay. But before coming to any decision, he thought it best

to visit the ship mentioned by the geographer. Glenarvan, the Major,

Paganel, Robert, and Mangles himself, took a boat, and a few strokes

brought them alongside the ship anchored two cables’ length from the

quay.

It was a brig of 150 tons, named the MACQUARIE. It was engaged in the

coasting trade between the various ports of Australia and New Zealand.

The captain, or rather the “master,” received his visitors gruffly

enough. They perceived that they had to do with a man of no education,

and whose manners were in no degree superior to those of the five

sailors of his crew. With a coarse, red face, thick hands, and a broken

nose, blind of an eye, and his lips stained with the pipe, Will Halley

was a sadly brutal looking person. But they had no choice, and for so

short a voyage it was not necessary to be very particular.

“What do you want?” asked Will Halley, when the strangers stepped on the

poop of his ship.

“The captain,” answered John Mangles.

“I am the captain,” said Halley. “What else do you want?”

“The MACQUARIE is loading for Auckland, I believe?”

“Yes. What else?”

“What does she carry?”

“Everything salable and purchasable. What else?”

“When does she sail?”

“To-morrow at the mid-day tide. What else?”

“Does she take passengers?”

“That depends on who the passengers are, and whether they are satisfied

with the ship’s mess.”

“They would bring their own provisions.”

“What else?”

“What else?”

“Yes. How many are there?”

“Nine; two of them are ladies.”

“I have no cabins.”

“We will manage with such space as may be left at their disposal.”

“What else?”

“Do you agree?” said John Mangles, who was not in the least put out by

the captain’s peculiarities.

“We’ll see,” said the master of the MACQUARIE.

Will Halley took two or three turns on the poop, making it resound with

iron-heeled boots, and then he turned abruptly to John Mangles.

“What would you pay?” said he.

“What do you ask?” replied John.

“Fifty pounds.”

Glenarvan looked consent.

“Very good! Fifty pounds,” replied John Mangles.

“But passage only,” added Halley.

“Yes, passage only.”

“Food extra.”

“Extra.”

“Agreed. And now,” said Will, putting out his hand, “what about the

deposit money?”

“Here is half of the passage-money, twenty-five pounds,” said Mangles,

counting out the sum to the master.

“All aboard to-morrow,” said he, “before noon. Whether or no, I weigh

anchor.”

“We will be punctual.”

This said, Glenarvan, the Major, Robert, Paganel, and John Mangles left

the ship, Halley not so much as touching the oilskin that adorned his

red locks.

“What a brute,” exclaimed John.

“He will do,” answered Paganel. “He is a regular sea-wolf.”

“A downright bear!” added the Major.

“I fancy,” said John Mangles, “that the said bear has dealt in human

flesh in his time.”

“What matter?” answered Glenarvan, “as long as he commands the

MACQUARIE, and the MACQUARIE goes to New Zealand. From Twofold Bay to

Auckland we shall not see much of him; after Auckland we shall see him

no more.”

Lady Helena and Mary Grant were delighted to hear that their departure

was arranged for to-morrow. Glenarvan warned them that the MACQUARIE was

inferior in comfort to the DUNCAN. But after what they had gone through,

they were indifferent to trifling annoyances. Wilson was told off to

arrange the accommodation on board the MACQUARIE. Under his busy brush

and broom things soon changed their aspect.

Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, and let the sailor have his way.

Glenarvan and his party gave him no concern. He neither knew, nor cared

to know, their names. His new freight represented fifty pounds, and he

rated it far below the two hundred tons of cured hides which were stowed

away in his hold. Skins first, men after. He was a merchant. As to his

sailor qualification, he was said to be skillful enough in navigating

these seas, whose reefs make them very dangerous.

As the day drew to a close, Glenarvan had a desire to go again to the

point on the coast cut by the 37th parallel. Two motives prompted him.

He wanted to examine once more the presumed scene of the wreck. Ayrton

had certainly been quartermaster on the BRITANNIA, and the BRITANNIA

might have been lost on this part of the Australian coast; on the east

coast if not on the west. It would not do to leave without thorough

investigation, a locality which they were never to revisit.

And then, failing the BRITANNIA, the DUNCAN certainly had fallen into

the hands of the convicts. Perhaps there had been a fight? There might

yet be found on the coast traces of a struggle, a last resistance. If

the crew had perished among the waves, the waves probably had thrown

some bodies on the shore.

Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful John, went to carry out the final

search. The landlord of the Victoria Hotel lent them two horses, and

they set out on the northern road that skirts Twofold Bay.

It was a melancholy journey. Glenarvan and Captain John trotted along

without speaking, but they understood each other. The same thoughts,

the same anguish harrowed both their hearts. They looked at the sea-worn

rocks; they needed no words of question or answer. John’s well-tried

zeal and intelligence were a guarantee that every point was scrupulously

examined, the least likely places, as well as the sloping beaches and

sandy plains where even the slight tides of the Pacific might have

thrown some fragments of wreck. But no indication was seen that could

suggest further search in that quarter--all trace of the wreck escaped

them still.

As to the DUNCAN, no trace either. All that part of Australia, bordering

the ocean, was desert.

Still John Mangles discovered on the skirts of the shore evident

traces of camping, remains of fires recently kindled under solitary

Myall-trees. Had a tribe of wandering blacks passed that way lately? No,

for Glenarvan saw a token which furnished incontestable proof that the

convicts had frequented that part of the coast.

This token was a grey and yellow garment worn and patched, an ill-omened

rag thrown down at the foot of a tree. It bore the convict’s original

number at the Perth Penitentiary. The felon was not there, but his

filthy garments betrayed his passage. This livery of crime, after having

clothed some miscreant, was now decaying on this desert shore.

“You see, John,” said Glenarvan, “the convicts got as far as here! and

our poor comrades of the DUNCAN--”

“Yes,” said John, in a low voice, “they never landed, they perished!”

“Those wretches!” cried Glenarvan. “If ever they fall into my hands I

will avenge my crew--”

Grief had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For some minutes he gazed

at the expanse before him, as if taking a last look at some ship

disappearing in the distance. Then his eyes became dim; he recovered

himself in a moment, and without a word or look, set off at a gallop

toward Eden.

The wanderers passed their last evening sadly enough. Their thoughts

recalled all the misfortunes they had encountered in this country.

They remembered how full of well-warranted hope they had been at Cape

Bernouilli, and how cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay!

Paganel was full of feverish agitation. John Mangles, who had watched

him since the affair at Snowy River, felt that the geographer was

hesitating whether to speak or not to speak. A thousand times he had

pressed him with questions, and failed in obtaining an answer.

But that evening, John, in lighting him to his room, asked him why he

was so nervous.

“Friend John,” said Paganel, evasively, “I am not more nervous to-night

than I always am.”

“Mr. Paganel,” answered John, “you have a secret that chokes you.”

“Well!” cried the geographer, gesticulating, “what can I do? It is

stronger than I!”

“What is stronger?”

“My joy on the one hand, my despair on the other.”

“You rejoice and despair at the same time!”

“Yes; at the idea of visiting New Zealand.”

“Why! have you any trace?” asked John, eagerly. “Have you recovered the

lost tracks?”

“No, friend John. No one returns from New Zealand; but still--you

know human nature. All we want to nourish hope is breath. My device is

‘_Spiro spero_,’ and it is the best motto in the world!”

CHAPTER II NAVIGATORS AND THEIR DISCOVERIES

NEXT day, the 27th of January, the passengers of the MACQUARIE were

installed on board the brig. Will Halley had not offered his cabin to

his lady passengers. This omission was the less to be deplored, for the

den was worthy of the bear.

At half past twelve the anchor was weighed, having been loosed from its

holding-ground with some difficulty. A moderate breeze was blowing from

the southwest. The sails were gradually unfurled; the five hands made

slow work. Wilson offered to assist the crew; but Halley begged him

to be quiet and not to interfere with what did not concern him. He was

accustomed to manage his own affairs, and required neither assistance

nor advice.

This was aimed at John Mangles, who had smiled at the clumsiness of

some maneuver. John took the hint, but mentally resolved that he would

nevertheless hold himself in readiness in case the incapacity of the

crew should endanger the safety of the vessel.

However, in time, the sails were adjusted by the five sailors, aided by

the stimulus of the captain’s oaths. The MACQUARIE stood out to sea on

the larboard tack, under all her lower sails, topsails, topgallants,

cross-jack, and jib. By and by, the other sails were hoisted. But in

spite of this additional canvas the brig made very little way. Her

rounded bow, the width of her hold, and her heavy stern, made her a bad

sailor, the perfect type of a wooden shoe.

They had to make the best of it. Happily, five days, or, at most, six,

would take them to Auckland, no matter how bad a sailor the MACQUARIE

was.

At seven o’clock in the evening the Australian coast and the lighthouse

of the port of Eden had faded out of sight. The ship labored on the

lumpy sea, and rolled heavily in the trough of the waves. The passengers

below suffered a good deal from this motion. But it was impossible to

stay on deck, as it rained violently. Thus they were condemned to close

imprisonment.

Each one of them was lost in his own reflections. Words were few. Now

and then Lady Helena and Miss Grant exchanged a few syllables. Glenarvan

was restless; he went in and out, while the Major was impassive. John

Mangles, followed by Robert, went on the poop from time to time, to

look at the weather. Paganel sat in his corner, muttering vague and

incoherent words.

What was the worthy geographer thinking of? Of New Zealand, the country

to which destiny was leading him. He went mentally over all his history;

he called to mind the scenes of the past in that ill-omened country.

But in all that history was there a fact, was there a solitary incident

that could justify the discoverers of these islands in considering them

as “a continent.” Could a modern geographer or a sailor concede to them

such a designation. Paganel was always revolving the meaning of the

document. He was possessed with the idea; it became his ruling thought.

After Patagonia, after Australia, his imagination, allured by a name,

flew to New Zealand. But in that direction, one point, and only one,

stood in his way.

“_Contin--contin_,” he repeated, “that must mean continent!”

And then he resumed his mental retrospect of the navigators who made

known to us these two great islands of the Southern Sea.

It was on the 13th of December, 1642, that the Dutch navigator Tasman,

after discovering Van Diemen’s Land, sighted the unknown shores of New

Zealand. He coasted along for several days, and on the 17th of December

his ships penetrated into a large bay, which, terminating in a narrow

strait, separated the two islands.

The northern island was called by the natives Ikana-Mani, a word

which signifies the fish of Mani. The southern island was called

Tavai-Pouna-Mou, “the whale that yields the green-stones.”

Abel Tasman sent his boats on shore, and they returned accompanied by

two canoes and a noisy company of natives. These savages were middle

height, of brown or yellow complexion, angular bones, harsh voices, and

black hair, which was dressed in the Japanese manner, and surmounted by

a tall white feather.

This first interview between Europeans and aborigines seemed to promise

amicable and lasting intercourse. But the next day, when one of Tasman’s

boats was looking for an anchorage nearer to the land, seven canoes,

manned by a great number of natives, attacked them fiercely. The boat

capsized and filled. The quartermaster in command was instantly

struck with a badly-sharpened spear, and fell into the sea. Of his six

companions four were killed; the other two and the quartermaster were

able to swim to the ships, and were picked up and recovered.

After this sad occurrence Tasman set sail, confining his revenge to

giving the natives a few musket-shots, which probably did not reach

them. He left this bay--which still bears the name of Massacre

Bay--followed the western coast, and on the 5th of January, anchored

near the northern-most point. Here the violence of the surf, as well as

the unfriendly attitude of the natives, prevented his obtaining water,

and he finally quitted these shores, giving them the name Staten-land or

the Land of the States, in honor of the States-General.

The Dutch navigator concluded that these islands were adjacent to the

islands of the same name on the east of Terra del Fuego, at the southern

point of the American continent. He thought he had found “the Great

Southern Continent.”

“But,” said Paganel to himself, “what a seventeenth century sailor might

call a ‘continent’ would never stand for one with a nineteenth century

man. No such mistake can be supposed! No! there is something here that

baffles me.”

CHAPTER III THE MARTYR-ROLL OF NAVIGATORS

ON the 31st of January, four days after starting, the MACQUARIE had not

done two-thirds of the distance between Australia and New Zealand. Will

Halley took very little heed to the working of the ship; he let things

take their chance. He seldom showed himself, for which no one was sorry.

No one would have complained if he had passed all his time in his

cabin, but for the fact that the brutal captain was every day under the

influence of gin or brandy. His sailors willingly followed his example,

and no ship ever sailed more entirely depending on Providence than the

MACQUARIE did from Twofold Bay.

This unpardonable carelessness obliged John Mangles to keep a watchful

eye ever open. Mulrady and Wilson more than once brought round the

helm when some careless steering threatened to throw the ship on her

beam-ends. Often Will Halley would interfere and abuse the two sailors

with a volley of oaths. The latter, in their impatience, would have

liked nothing better than to bind this drunken captain, and lower him

into the hold, for the rest of the voyage. But John Mangles succeeded,

after some persuasion, in calming their well-grounded indignation.

Still, the position of things filled him with anxiety; but, for fear

of alarming Glenarvan, he spoke only to Paganel or the Major. McNabbs

recommended the same course as Mulrady and Wilson.

“If you think it would be for the general good, John,” said McNabbs,

“you should not hesitate to take the command of the vessel. When we get

to Auckland the drunken imbecile can resume his command, and then he is

at liberty to wreck himself, if that is his fancy.”

“All that is very true, Mr. McNabbs, and if it is absolutely necessary I

will do it. As long as we are on open sea, a careful lookout is enough;

my sailors and I are watching on the poop; but when we get near the

coast, I confess I shall be uneasy if Halley does not come to his

senses.”

“Could not you direct the course?” asked Paganel.

“That would be difficult,” replied John. “Would you believe it that

there is not a chart on board?”

“Is that so?”

“It is indeed. The MACQUARIE only does a coasting trade between Eden

and Auckland, and Halley is so at home in these waters that he takes no

observations.”

“I suppose he thinks the ship knows the way, and steers herself.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed John Mangles; “I do not believe in ships that steer

themselves; and if Halley is drunk when we get among soundings, he will

get us all into trouble.”

“Let us hope,” said Paganel, “that the neighborhood of land will bring

him to his senses.”

“Well, then,” said McNabbs, “if needs were, you could not sail the

MACQUARIE into Auckland?”

“Without a chart of the coast, certainly not. The coast is very

dangerous. It is a series of shallow fiords as irregular and capricious

as the fiords of Norway. There are many reefs, and it requires great

experience to avoid them. The strongest ship would be lost if her keel

struck one of those rocks that are submerged but a few feet below the

water.”

“In that case those on board would have to take refuge on the coast.”

“If there was time.”

“A terrible extremity,” said Paganel, “for they are not hospitable

shores, and the dangers of the land are not less appalling than the

dangers of the sea.”

“You refer to the Maories, Monsieur Paganel?” asked John Mangles.

“Yes, my friend. They have a bad name in these waters. It is not a

matter of timid or brutish Australians, but of an intelligent and

sanguinary race, cannibals greedy of human flesh, man-eaters to whom we

should look in vain for pity.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed the Major, “if Captain Grant had been wrecked on

the coast of New Zealand, you would dissuade us from looking for him.”

“Oh, you might search on the coasts,” replied the geographer, “because

you might find traces of the BRITANNIA, but not in the interior, for it

would be perfectly useless. Every European who ventures into these fatal

districts falls into the hands of the Maories, and a prisoner in the

hands of the Maories is a lost man. I have urged my friends to cross the

Pampas, to toil over the plains of Australia, but I will never lure them

into the mazes of the New Zealand forest. May heaven be our guide,

and keep us from ever being thrown within the power of those fierce

natives!”

CHAPTER IV THE WRECK OF THE “MACQUARIE”

STILL this wearisome voyage dragged on. On the 2d of February, six days

from starting, the MACQUARIE had not yet made a nearer acquaintance

with the shores of Auckland. The wind was fair, nevertheless, and blew

steadily from the southwest; but the currents were against the ship’s

course, and she scarcely made any way. The heavy, lumpy sea strained her

cordage, her timbers creaked, and she labored painfully in the trough of

the sea. Her standing rigging was so out of order that it allowed play

to the masts, which were violently shaken at every roll of the sea.

Fortunately, Will Halley was not a man in a hurry, and did not use a

press of canvas, or his masts would inevitably have come down. John

Mangles therefore hoped that the wretched hull would reach port without

accident; but it grieved him that his companions should have to suffer

so much discomfort from the defective arrangements of the brig.

But neither Lady Helena nor Mary Grant uttered a word of complaint,

though the continuous rain obliged them to stay below, where the want

of air and the violence of the motion were painfully felt. They often

braved the weather, and went on the poop till driven down again by the

force of a sudden squall. Then they returned to the narrow space, fitter

for stowing cargo than accommodating passengers, especially ladies.

Their friends did their best to amuse them. Paganel tried to beguile the

time with his stories, but it was a hopeless case. Their minds were so

distracted at this change of route as to be quite unhinged. Much as they

had been interested in his dissertation on the Pampas, or Australia, his

lectures on New Zealand fell on cold and indifferent ears. Besides,

they were going to this new and ill-reputed country without enthusiasm,

without conviction, not even of their own free will, but solely at the

bidding of destiny.

Of all the passengers on board the MACQUARIE, the most to be pitied was

Lord Glenarvan. He was rarely to be seen below. He could not stay in

one place. His nervous organization, highly excited, could not submit to

confinement between four narrow bulkheads. All day long, even all night,

regardless of the torrents of rain and the dashing waves, he stayed on

the poop, sometimes leaning on the rail, sometimes walking to and fro

in feverish agitation. His eyes wandered ceaselessly over the blank

horizon. He scanned it eagerly during every short interval of clear

weather. It seemed as if he sought to question the voiceless waters; he

longed to tear away the veil of fog and vapor that obscured his view. He

could not be resigned, and his features expressed the bitterness of his

grief. He was a man of energy, till now happy and powerful, and deprived

in a moment of power and happiness. John Mangles bore him company, and

endured with him the inclemency of the weather. On this day Glenarvan

looked more anxiously than ever at each point where a break in the mist

enabled him to do so. John came up to him and said, “Your Lordship is

looking out for land?”

Glenarvan shook his head in dissent.

“And yet,” said the young captain, “you must be longing to quit this

vessel. We ought to have seen the lights of Auckland thirty-six hours

ago.”

Glenarvan made no reply. He still looked, and for a moment his glass was

pointed toward the horizon to windward.

“The land is not on that side, my Lord,” said John Mangles. “Look more

to starboard.”

“Why, John?” replied Glenarvan. “I am not looking for the land.”

“What then, my Lord?”

“My yacht! the DUNCAN,” said Glenarvan, hotly. “It must be here on these

coasts, skimming these very waves, playing the vile part of a pirate!

It is here, John; I am certain of it, on the track of vessels between

Australia and New Zealand; and I have a presentiment that we shall fall

in with her.”

“God keep us from such a meeting!”

“Why, John?”

“Your Lordship forgets our position. What could we do in this ship if

the DUNCAN gave chase. We could not even fly!”

“Fly, John?”

“Yes, my Lord; we should try in vain! We should be taken, delivered up

to the mercy of those wretches, and Ben Joyce has shown us that he does

not stop at a crime! Our lives would be worth little. We would fight to

the death, of course, but after that! Think of Lady Glenarvan; think of

Mary Grant!”

“Poor girls!” murmured Glenarvan. “John, my heart is broken; and

sometimes despair nearly masters me. I feel as if fresh misfortunes

awaited us, and that Heaven itself is against us. It terrifies me!”

“You, my Lord?”

“Not for myself, John, but for those I love--whom you love, also.”

“Keep up your heart, my Lord,” said the young captain. “We must not

look out for troubles. The MACQUARIE sails badly, but she makes some way

nevertheless. Will Halley is a brute, but I am keeping my eyes open, and

if the coast looks dangerous, I will put the ship’s head to sea again.

So that, on that score, there is little or no danger. But as to getting

alongside the DUNCAN! God forbid! And if your Lordship is bent on

looking out for her, let it be in order to give her a wide berth.”

John Mangles was right. An encounter with the DUNCAN would have

been fatal to the MACQUARIE. There was every reason to fear such an

engagement in these narrow seas, in which pirates could ply their trade

without risk. However, for that day at least, the yacht did not appear,

and the sixth night from their departure from Twofold Bay came, without

the fears of John Mangles being realized.

But that night was to be a night of terrors. Darkness came on almost

suddenly at seven o’clock in the evening; the sky was very threatening.

The sailor instinct rose above the stupefaction of the drunkard and

roused Will Halley. He left his cabin, rubbed his eyes, and shook his

great red head. Then he drew a great deep breath of air, as other people

swallow a draught of water to revive themselves. He examined the masts.

The wind freshened, and veering a point more to the westward, blew right

for the New Zealand coast.

[illustration omitted] [page intentionally blank]

Will Halley, with many an oath, called his men, tightened his topmast

cordage, and made all snug for the night. John Mangles approved in

silence. He had ceased to hold any conversation with the coarse seaman;

but neither Glenarvan nor he left the poop. Two hours after a stiff

breeze came on. Will Halley took in the lower reef of his topsails. The

maneuver would have been a difficult job for five men if the MACQUARIE

had not carried a double yard, on the American plan. In fact, they had

only to lower the upper yard to bring the sail to its smallest size.

Two hours passed; the sea was rising. The MACQUARIE was struck so

violently that it seemed as if her keel had touched the rocks. There was

no real danger, but the heavy vessel did not rise easily to the waves.

By and by the returning waves would break over the deck in great masses.

The boat was washed out of the davits by the force of the water.

John Mangles never released his watch. Any other ship would have made no

account of a sea like this; but with this heavy craft there was a danger

of sinking by the bow, for the deck was filled at every lurch, and the

sheet of water not being able to escape quickly by the scuppers, might

submerge the ship. It would have been the wisest plan to prepare for

emergency by knocking out the bulwarks with an ax to facilitate their

escape, but Halley refused to take this precaution.

But a greater danger was at hand, and one that it was too late to

prevent. About half-past eleven, John Mangles and Wilson, who stayed

on deck throughout the gale, were suddenly struck by an unusual noise.

Their nautical instincts awoke. John seized the sailor’s hand. “The

reef!” said he.

“Yes,” said Wilson; “the waves breaking on the bank.”

“Not more than two cables’ length off?”

“At farthest? The land is there!”

John leaned over the side, gazed into the dark water, and called out,

“Wilson, the lead!”

The master, posted forward, seemed to have no idea of his position.

Wilson seized the lead-line, sprang to the fore-chains, and threw the

lead; the rope ran out between his fingers, at the third knot the lead

stopped.

“Three fathoms,” cried Wilson.

“Captain,” said John, running to Will Halley, “we are on the breakers.”

Whether or not he saw Halley shrug his shoulders is of very little

importance. But he hurried to the helm, put it hard down, while Wilson,

leaving the line, hauled at the main-topsail brace to bring the ship to

the wind. The man who was steering received a smart blow, and could not

comprehend the sudden attack.

“Let her go! Let her go!” said the young captain, working her to get

away from the reefs.

For half a minute the starboard side of the vessel was turned toward

them, and, in spite of the darkness, John could discern a line of foam

which moaned and gleamed four fathoms away.

At this moment, Will Halley, comprehending the danger, lost his head.

His sailors, hardly sobered, could not understand his orders. His

incoherent words, his contradictory orders showed that this stupid

sot had quite lost his self-control. He was taken by surprise at the

proximity of the land, which was eight miles off, when he thought it

was thirty or forty miles off. The currents had thrown him out of his

habitual track, and this miserable slave of routine was left quite

helpless.

Still the prompt maneuver of John Mangles succeeded in keeping the

MACQUARIE off the breakers. But John did not know the position. For

anything he could tell he was girdled in by reefs. The wind blew them

strongly toward the east, and at every lurch they might strike.

In fact, the sound of the reef soon redoubled on the starboard side of

the bow. They must luff again. John put the helm down again and brought

her up. The breakers increased under the bow of the vessel, and it was

necessary to put her about to regain the open sea. Whether she would

be able to go about under shortened sail, and badly trimmed as she was,

remained to be seen, but there was nothing else to be done.

“Helm hard down!” cried Mangles to Wilson.

The MACQUARIE began to near the new line of reefs: in another moment

the waves were seen dashing on submerged rocks. It was a moment of

inexpressible anxiety. The spray was luminous, just as if lit up by

sudden phosphorescence. The roaring of the sea was like the voice of

those ancient Tritons whom poetic mythology endowed with life. Wilson

and Mulrady hung to the wheel with all their weight. Some cordage gave

way, which endangered the foremast. It seemed doubtful whether she would

go about without further damage.

Suddenly the wind fell and the vessel fell back, and turning her became

hopeless. A high wave caught her below, carried her up on the reefs,

where she struck with great violence. The foremast came down with all

the fore-rigging. The brig rose twice, and then lay motionless, heeled

over on her port side at an angle of 30 degrees.

The glass of the skylight had been smashed to powder. The passengers

rushed out. But the waves were sweeping the deck from one side to the

other, and they dared not stay there. John Mangles, knowing the ship

to be safely lodged in the sand, begged them to return to their own

quarters.

“Tell me the truth, John,” said Glenarvan, calmly.

“The truth, my Lord, is that we are at a standstill. Whether the sea

will devour us is another question; but we have time to consider.”

“It is midnight?”

“Yes, my Lord, and we must wait for the day.”

“Can we not lower the boat?”

“In such a sea, and in the dark, it is impossible. And, besides, where

could we land?”

“Well, then, John, let us wait for the daylight.”

Will Halley, however, ran up and down the deck like a maniac. His crew

had recovered their senses, and now broached a cask of brandy, and began

to drink. John foresaw that if they became drunk, terrible scenes would

ensue.

The captain could not be relied on to restrain them; the wretched man

tore his hair and wrung his hands. His whole thought was his uninsured

cargo. “I am ruined! I am lost!” he would cry, as he ran from side to

side.

John Mangles did not waste time on him. He armed his two companions,

and they all held themselves in readiness to resist the sailors who were

filling themselves with brandy, seasoned with fearful blasphemies.

“The first of these wretches that comes near the ladies, I will shoot

like a dog,” said the Major, quietly.

The sailors doubtless saw that the passengers were determined to hold

their own, for after some attempts at pillage, they disappeared to their

own quarters. John Mangles thought no more of these drunken rascals, and

waited impatiently for the dawn. The ship was now quite motionless. The

sea became gradually calmer. The wind fell. The hull would be safe for

some hours yet. At daybreak John examined the landing-place; the yawl,

which was now their only boat, would carry the crew and the passengers.

It would have to make three trips at least, as it could only hold four.

As he was leaning on the skylight, thinking over the situation of

affairs, John Mangles could hear the roaring of the surf. He tried to

pierce the darkness. He wondered how far it was to the land they longed

for no less than dreaded. A reef sometimes extends for miles along the

coast. Could their fragile boat hold out on a long trip?

While John was thus ruminating and longing for a little light from the

murky sky, the ladies, relying on him, slept in their little berths.

The stationary attitude of the brig insured them some hours of repose.

Glenarvan, John, and their companions, no longer disturbed by the noise

of the crew who were now wrapped in a drunken sleep, also refreshed

themselves by a short nap, and a profound silence reigned on board the

ship, herself slumbering peacefully on her bed of sand.

Toward four o’clock the first peep of dawn appeared in the east. The

clouds were dimly defined by the pale light of the dawn. John returned

to the deck. The horizon was veiled with a curtain of fog. Some faint

outlines were shadowed in the mist, but at a considerable height. A

slight swell still agitated the sea, but the more distant waves were

undistinguishable in a motionless bank of clouds.

John waited. The light gradually increased, and the horizon acquired

a rosy hue. The curtain slowly rose over the vast watery stage. Black

reefs rose out of the waters. Then a line became defined on the belt of

foam, and there gleamed a luminous beacon-light point behind a low hill

which concealed the scarcely risen sun. There was the land, less than

nine miles off.

“Land ho!” cried John Mangles.

His companions, aroused by his voice, rushed to the poop, and gazed in

silence at the coast whose outline lay on the horizon. Whether they were

received as friends or enemies, that coast must be their refuge.

“Where is Halley?” asked Glenarvan.

“I do not know, my Lord,” replied John Mangles.

“Where are the sailors?”

“Invisible, like himself.”

“Probably dead drunk, like himself,” added McNabbs.

“Let them be called,” said Glenarvan, “we cannot leave them on the

ship.”

Mulrady and Wilson went down to the forecastle, and two minutes after

they returned. The place was empty! They then searched between decks,

and then the hold. But found no trace of Will Halley nor his sailors.

“What! no one?” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Could they have fallen into the sea?” asked Paganel.

“Everything is possible,” replied John Mangles, who was getting uneasy.

Then turning toward the stern: “To the boat!” said he.

Wilson and Mulrady followed to launch the yawl. The yawl was gone.

CHAPTER V CANNIBALS

WILL HALLEY and his crew, taking advantage of the darkness of night and

the sleep of the passengers, had fled with the only boat. There could be

no doubt about it. The captain, whose duty would have kept him on board

to the last, had been the first to quit the ship.

“The cowards are off!” said John Mangles. “Well, my Lord, so much the

better. They have spared us some trying scenes.”

“No doubt,” said Glenarvan; “besides we have a captain of our own, and

courageous, if unskillful sailors, your companions, John. Say the word,

and we are ready to obey.”

The Major, Paganel, Robert, Wilson, Mulrady, Olbinett himself, applauded

Glenarvan’s speech, and ranged themselves on the deck, ready to execute

their captain’s orders.

“What is to be done?” asked Glenarvan.

It was evident that raising the MACQUARIE was out of the question, and

no less evident that she must be abandoned. Waiting on board for succor

that might never come, would have been imprudence and folly. Before the

arrival of a chance vessel on the scene, the MACQUARIE would have

broken up. The next storm, or even a high tide raised by the winds from

seaward, would roll it on the sands, break it up into splinters, and

scatter them on the shore. John was anxious to reach the land before

this inevitable consummation.

He proposed to construct a raft strong enough to carry the passengers,

and a sufficient quantity of provisions, to the coast of New Zealand.

There was no time for discussion, the work was to be set about at once,

and they had made considerable progress when night came and interrupted

them.

Toward eight o’clock in the evening, after supper, while Lady Helena and

Mary Grant slept in their berths, Paganel and his friends conversed on

serious matters as they walked up and down the deck. Robert had chosen

to stay with them. The brave boy listened with all his ears, ready to be

of use, and willing to enlist in any perilous adventure.

Paganel asked John Mangles whether the raft could not follow the coast

as far as Auckland, instead of landing its freight on the coast.

John replied that the voyage was impossible with such an unmanageable

craft.

“And what we cannot do on a raft could have been done in the ship’s

boat?”

“Yes, if necessary,” answered John; “but we should have had to sail by

day and anchor at night.”

“Then those wretches who abandoned us--”

“Oh, as for them,” said John, “they were drunk, and in the darkness I

have no doubt they paid for their cowardice with their lives.”

“So much the worse for them and for us,” replied Paganel; “for the boat

would have been very useful to us.”

“What would you have, Paganel? The raft will bring us to the shore,”

said Glenarvan.

“The very thing I would fain avoid,” exclaimed the geographer.

“What! do you think another twenty miles after crossing the Pampas and

Australia, can have any terrors for us, hardened as we are to fatigue?”

“My friend,” replied Paganel, “I do not call in question our courage nor

the bravery of our friends. Twenty miles would be nothing in any other

country than New Zealand. You cannot suspect me of faint-heartedness. I

was the first to persuade you to cross America and Australia. But here

the case is different. I repeat, anything is better than to venture into

this treacherous country.”

“Anything is better, in my judgment,” said John Mangles, “than braving

certain destruction on a stranded vessel.”

“What is there so formidable in New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.

“The savages,” said Paganel.

“The savages!” repeated Glenarvan. “Can we not avoid them by keeping to

the shore? But in any case what have we to fear? Surely, two resolute

and well-armed Europeans need not give a thought to an attack by a

handful of miserable beings.”

Paganel shook his head. “In this case there are no miserable beings to

contend with. The New Zealanders are a powerful race, who are rebelling

against English rule, who fight the invaders, and often beat them, and

who always eat them!”

“Cannibals!” exclaimed Robert, “cannibals?” Then they heard him whisper,

“My sister! Lady Helena.”

“Don’t frighten yourself, my boy,” said Glenarvan; “our friend Paganel

exaggerates.”

“Far from it,” rejoined Paganel. “Robert has shown himself a man, and I

treat him as such, in not concealing the truth from him.”

Paganel was right. Cannibalism has become a fixed fact in New Zealand,

as it is in the Fijis and in Torres Strait. Superstition is no doubt

partly to blame, but cannibalism is certainly owing to the fact that

there are moments when game is scarce and hunger great. The savages

began by eating human flesh to appease the demands of an appetite rarely

satiated; subsequently the priests regulated and satisfied the monstrous

custom. What was a meal, was raised to the dignity of a ceremony, that

is all.

Besides, in the eyes of the Maories, nothing is more natural than to eat

one another. The missionaries often questioned them about cannibalism.

They asked them why they devoured their brothers; to which the chiefs

made answer that fish eat fish, dogs eat men, men eat dogs, and dogs

eat one another. Even the Maori mythology has a legend of a god who

ate another god; and with such a precedent, who could resist eating his

neighbor?

Another strange notion is, that in eating a dead enemy they consume his

spiritual being, and so inherit his soul, his strength and his bravery,

which they hold are specially lodged in the brain. This accounts for the

fact that the brain figures in their feasts as the choicest delicacy,

and is offered to the most honored guest.

But while he acknowledged all this, Paganel maintained, not without a

show of reason, that sensuality, and especially hunger, was the first

cause of cannibalism among the New Zealanders, and not only among the

Polynesian races, but also among the savages of Europe.

“For,” said he, “cannibalism was long prevalent among the ancestors of

the most civilized people, and especially (if the Major will not think

me personal) among the Scotch.”

“Really,” said McNabbs.

“Yes, Major,” replied Paganel. “If you read certain passages of Saint

Jerome, on the Atticoli of Scotland, you will see what he thought of

your forefathers. And without going so far back as historic times, under

the reign of Elizabeth, when Shakespeare was dreaming out his Shy-lock,

a Scotch bandit, Sawney Bean, was executed for the crime of cannibalism.

Was it religion that prompted him to cannibalism? No! it was hunger.”

“Hunger?” said John Mangles.

“Hunger!” repeated Paganel; “but, above all, the necessity of the

carnivorous appetite of replacing the bodily waste, by the azote

contained in animal tissues. The lungs are satisfied with a provision

of vegetable and farinaceous food. But to be strong and active the body

must be supplied with those plastic elements that renew the muscles.

Until the Maories become members of the Vegetarian Association they will

eat meat, and human flesh as meat.”

“Why not animal flesh?” asked Glenarvan.

“Because they have no animals,” replied Paganel; “and that ought to be

taken into account, not to extenuate, but to explain, their cannibal

habits. Quadrupeds, and even birds, are rare on these inhospitable

shores, so that the Maories have always eaten human flesh. There are

even ‘man-eating seasons,’ as there are in civilized countries hunting

seasons. Then begin the great wars, and whole tribes are served up on

the tables of the conquerors.”

“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, “according to your mode of reasoning,

Paganel, cannibalism will not cease in New Zealand until her pastures

teem with sheep and oxen.”

“Evidently, my dear Lord; and even then it will take years to wean them

from Maori flesh, which they prefer to all others; for the children

will still have a relish for what their fathers so highly appreciated.

According to them it tastes like pork, with even more flavor. As to

white men’s flesh, they do not like it so well, because the whites eat

salt with their food, which gives a peculiar flavor, not to the taste of

connoisseurs.”

“They are dainty,” said the Major. “But, black or white, do they eat it

raw, or cook it?”

“Why, what is that to you, Mr. McNabbs?” cried Robert.

“What is that to me!” exclaimed the Major, earnestly. “If I am to make a

meal for a cannibal, I should prefer being cooked.”

“Why?”

“Because then I should be sure of not being eaten alive!”

“Very good. Major,” said Paganel; “but suppose they cooked you alive?”

“The fact is,” answered the Major, “I would not give half-a-crown for

the choice!”

“Well, McNabbs, if it will comfort you--you may as well be told--the

New Zealanders do not eat flesh without cooking or smoking it. They are

very clever and experienced in cookery. For my part, I very much dislike

the idea of being eaten! The idea of ending one’s life in the maw of a

savage! bah!”

“The conclusion of all,” said John Mangles, “is that we must not fall

into their hands. Let us hope that one day Christianity will abolish all

these monstrous customs.”

“Yes, we must hope so,” replied Paganel; “but, believe me, a savage who

has tasted human flesh, is not easily persuaded to forego it. I will

relate two facts which prove it.”

“By all means let us have the facts, Paganel,” said Glenarvan.

“The first is narrated in the chronicles of the Jesuit Society in

Brazil. A Portuguese missionary was one day visiting an old Brazilian

woman who was very ill. She had only a few days to live. The Jesuit

inculcated the truths of religion, which the dying woman accepted,

without objection. Then having attended to her spiritual wants, he

bethought himself of her bodily needs, and offered her some European

delicacies. ‘Alas,’ said she, ‘my digestion is too weak to bear any kind

of food. There is only one thing I could fancy, and nobody here could

get it for me.’ ‘What is it?’ asked the Jesuit. ‘Ah! my son,’ said she,

‘it is the hand of a little boy! I feel as if I should enjoy munching

the little bones!’”

“Horrid! but I wonder is it so very nice?” said Robert.

“My second tale will answer you, my boy,” said Paganel: “One day

a missionary was reproving a cannibal for the horrible custom, so

abhorrent to God’s laws, of eating human flesh! ‘And beside,’ said he,

‘it must be so nasty!’ ‘Oh, father,’ said the savage, looking greedily

at the missionary, ‘say that God forbids it! That is a reason for what

you tell us. But don’t say it is nasty! If you had only tasted it!’”

CHAPTER VI A DREADED COUNTRY

PAGANEL’S facts were indisputable. The cruelty of the New Zealanders was

beyond a doubt, therefore it was dangerous to land. But had the danger

been a hundredfold greater, it had to be faced. John Mangles felt the

necessity of leaving without delay a vessel doomed to certain and speedy

destruction. There were two dangers, one certain and the other probable,

but no one could hesitate between them.

As to their chance of being picked up by a passing vessel, they could

not reasonably hope for it. The MACQUARIE was not in the track of ships

bound to New Zealand. They keep further north for Auckland, further

south for New Plymouth, and the ship had struck just between these two

points, on the desert region of the shores of Ika-na-Mani, a dangerous,

difficult coast, and infested by desperate characters.

“When shall we get away?” asked Glenarvan.

“To-morrow morning at ten o’clock,” replied John Mangles. “The tide will

then turn and carry us to land.”

Next day, February 5, at eight o’clock, the raft was finished. John had

given all his attention to the building of this structure. The foreyard,

which did very well for mooring the anchors, was quite inadequate to the

transport of passengers and provisions. What was needed was a strong,

manageable raft, that would resist the force of the waves during a

passage of nine miles. Nothing but the masts could supply suitable

materials.

Wilson and Mulrady set to work; the rigging was cut clear, and the

mainmast, chopped away at the base, fell over the starboard rail, which

crashed under its weight. The MACQUARIE was thus razed like a pontoon.