Hope had regained the mastery in all hearts. The intrepid travelers
forgot the past, forgot the future, to enjoy the present delight! And
yet the task before them was not an easy one--to gain some European
outpost in the midst of this unknown country. But Kai-Koumou once off
their track, they thought themselves safe from all the savages in New
Zealand.
A whole day had to elapse before they could make a start, and they
employed it in arranging a plan of flight. Paganel had treasured up his
map of New Zealand, and on it could trace out the best roads.
After discussion, the fugitives resolved to make for the Bay of Plenty,
towards the east. The region was unknown, but apparently desert. The
travelers, who from their past experience, had learned to make light of
physical difficulties, feared nothing but meeting Maories. At any
cost they wanted to avoid them and gain the east coast, where the
missionaries had several stations. That part of the country had hitherto
escaped the horrors of war, and the natives were not in the habit of
scouring the country.
As to the distance that separated Lake Taupo from the Bay of Plenty,
they calculated it about a hundred miles. Ten days’ march at ten miles a
day, could be done, not without fatigue, but none of the party gave that
a thought. If they could only reach the mission stations they could rest
there while waiting for a favorable opportunity to get to Auckland, for
that was the point they desired to reach.
This question settled, they resumed their watch of the native
proceedings, and continued so doing till evening fell. Not a solitary
native remained at the foot of the mountain, and when darkness set in
over the Taupo valleys, not a fire indicated the presence of the Maories
at the base. The road was free.
At nine o’clock, the night being unusually dark, Glenarvan gave the
order to start. His companions and he, armed and equipped at the expense
of Kara-Tete, began cautiously to descend the slopes of Maunganamu, John
Mangles and Wilson leading the way, eyes and ears on the alert. They
stopped at the slightest sound, they started at every passing cloud.
They slid rather than walked down the spur, that their figures might
be lost in the dark mass of the mountain. At two hundred feet below the
summit, John Mangles and his sailors reached the dangerous ridge that
had been so obstinately defended by the natives. If by ill luck the
Maories, more cunning than the fugitives, had only pretended to retreat;
if they were not really duped by the volcanic phenomenon, this was the
spot where their presence would be betrayed. Glenarvan could not but
shudder, in spite of his confidence, and in spite of the jokes of
Paganel. The fate of the whole party would hang in the balance for the
ten minutes required to pass along that ridge. He felt the beating of
Lady Helena’s heart, as she clung to his arm.
He had no thought of turning back. Neither had John. The young captain,
followed closely by the whole party, and protected by the intense
darkness, crept along the ridge, stopping when some loose stone rolled
to the bottom. If the savages were still in the ambush below, these
unusual sounds might provoke from both sides a dangerous fusillade.
But speed was impossible in their serpent-like progress down this
sloping crest. When John Mangles had reached the lowest point, he was
scarcely twenty-five feet from the plateau, where the natives were
encamped the night before, and then the ridge rose again pretty steeply
toward a wood for about a quarter of a mile.
All this lower part was crossed without molestation, and they commenced
the ascent in silence. The clump of bush was invisible, though they
knew it was there, and but for the possibility of an ambush, Glenarvan
counted on being safe when the party arrived at that point. But he
observed that after this point, they were no longer protected by the
taboo. The ascending ridge belonged not to Maunganamu, but to the
mountain system of the eastern side of Lake Taupo, so that they had not
only pistol shots, but hand-to-hand fighting to fear. For ten minutes,
the little band ascended by insensible degrees toward the higher
table-land. John could not discern the dark wood, but he knew it ought
to be within two hundred feet. Suddenly he stopped; almost retreated. He
fancied he heard something in the darkness; his stoppage interrupted the
march of those behind.
He remained motionless long enough to alarm his companions. They waited
with unspeakable anxiety, wondering if they were doomed to retrace their
steps, and return to the summit of Maunganamu.
But John, finding that the noise was not repeated, resumed the ascent of
the narrow path of the ridge. Soon they perceived the shadowy outline of
the wood showing faintly through the darkness. A few steps more and they
were hid from sight in the thick foliage of the trees.
CHAPTER XV FROM PERIL TO SAFETY
THE night favored their escape, and prudence urged them to lose no time
in getting away from the fatal neighborhood of Lake Taupo. Paganel took
the post of leader, and his wonderful instinct shone out anew in this
difficult mountain journey. His nyctalopia was a great advantage, his
cat-like sight enabling him to distinguish the smallest object in the
deepest gloom.
For three hours they walked on without halting along the far-reaching
slope of the eastern side. Paganel kept a little to the southeast, in
order to make use of a narrow passage between the Kaimanawa and the
Wahiti Ranges, through which the road from Hawkes’ Bay to Auckland
passes. Once through that gorge, his plan was to keep off the road,
and, under the shelter of the high ranges, march to the coast across the
inhabited regions of the province.
At nine o’clock in the morning, they had made twelve miles in twelve
hours. The courageous women could not be pressed further, and, besides,
the locality was suitable for camping. The fugitives had reached the
pass that separates the two chains. Paganel, map in hand, made a loop
toward the northeast, and at ten o’clock the little party reached a sort
of redan, formed by a projecting rock.
The provisions were brought out, and justice was done to their meal.
Mary Grant and the Major, who had not thought highly of the edible fern
till then, now ate of it heartily.
The halt lasted till two o’clock in the afternoon, then they resumed
their journey; and in the evening they stopped eight miles from the
mountains, and required no persuasion to sleep in the open air.
Next day was one of serious difficulties. Their route lay across this
wondrous region of volcanic lakes, geysers, and solfataras, which
extended to the east of the Wahiti Ranges. It is a country more pleasant
for the eye to ramble over, than for the limbs. Every quarter of a mile
they had to turn aside or go around for some obstacle, and thus incurred
great fatigue; but what a strange sight met their eyes! What infinite
variety nature lavishes on her great panoramas!
On this vast extent of twenty miles square, the subterranean forces had
a field for the display of all their varied effects. Salt springs, of
singular transparency, peopled by myriads of insects, sprang up from
thickets of tea-tree scrub. They diffused a powerful odor of burnt
powder, and scattered on the ground a white sediment like dazzling snow.
The limpid waters were nearly at boiling point, while some neighboring
springs spread out like sheets of glass. Gigantic tree-ferns grew beside
them, in conditions analogous to those of the Silurian vegetation.
On every side jets of water rose like park fountains, out of a sea of
vapor; some of them continuous, others intermittent, as if a capricious
Pluto controlled their movements. They rose like an amphitheater on
natural terraces; their waters gradually flowed together under folds of
white smoke, and corroding the edges of the semi-transparent steps
of this gigantic staircase. They fed whole lakes with their boiling
torrents.
Farther still, beyond the hot springs and tumultuous geysers, came the
solfataras. The ground looked as if covered with large pustules. These
were slumbering craters full of cracks and fissures from which rose
various gases. The air was saturated with the acrid and unpleasant
odor of sulphurous acid. The ground was encrusted with sulphur
and crystalline concretions. All this incalculable wealth had been
accumulating for centuries, and if the sulphur beds of Sicily should
ever be exhausted, it is here, in this little known district of New
Zealand, that supplies must be sought.
The fatigue in traveling in such a country as this will be best
understood. Camping was very difficult, and the sportsmen of the party
shot nothing worthy of Olbinett’s skill; so that they had generally to
content themselves with fern and sweet potato--a poor diet which was
scarcely sufficient to recruit the exhausted strength of the little
party, who were all anxious to escape from this barren region.
But four days at least must elapse before they could hope to leave it.
On February 23, at a distance of fifty miles from Maunganamu, Glenarvan
called a halt, and camped at the foot of a nameless mountain, marked on
Paganel’s map. The wooded plains stretched away from sight, and great
forests appeared on the horizon.
That day McNabbs and Robert killed three kiwis, which filled the chief
place on their table, not for long, however, for in a few moments they
were all consumed from the beaks to the claws.
At dessert, between the potatoes and sweet potatoes, Paganel moved a
resolution which was carried with enthusiasm. He proposed to give the
name of Glenarvan to this unnamed mountain, which rose 3,000 feet high,
and then was lost in the clouds, and he printed carefully on his map the
name of the Scottish nobleman.
It would be idle to narrate all the monotonous and uninteresting
details of the rest of the journey. Only two or three occurrences of any
importance took place on the way from the lakes to the Pacific Ocean.
The march was all day long across forests and plains. John took
observations of the sun and stars. Neither heat nor rain increased the
discomfort of the journey, but the travelers were so reduced by the
trials they had undergone, that they made very slow progress; and they
longed to arrive at the mission station.
They still chatted, but the conversation had ceased to be general.
The little party broke up into groups, attracted to each other, not by
narrow sympathies, but by a more personal communion of ideas.
Glenarvan generally walked alone; his mind seemed to recur to his
unfortunate crew, as he drew nearer to the sea. He apparently lost sight
of the dangers which lay before them on their way to Auckland, in the
thought of his massacred men; the horrible picture haunted him.
Harry Grant was never spoken of; they were no longer in a position to
make any effort on his behalf. If his name was uttered at all, it was
between his daughter and John Mangles.
John had never reminded Mary of what she had said to him on that last
night at Ware-Atoua. He was too wise to take advantage of a word spoken
in a moment of despair. When he mentioned Captain Grant, John always
spoke of further search. He assured Mary that Lord Glenarvan would
re-embark in the enterprise. He persistently returned to the fact that
the authenticity of the document was indisputable, and that therefore
Harry Grant was somewhere to be found, and that they would find him, if
they had to try all over the world. Mary drank in his words, and she and
John, united by the same thought, cherished the same hope. Often Lady
Helena joined in the conversation; but she did not participate in their
illusions, though she refrained from chilling their enthusiasm.
McNabbs, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady kept up their hunting parties,
without going far from the rest, and each one furnished his QUOTA of
game.
Paganel, arrayed in his flax mat, kept himself aloof, in a silent and
pensive mood.
And yet, it is only justice to say, in spite of the general rule that,
in the midst of trials, dangers, fatigues, and privations, the most
amiable dispositions become ruffled and embittered, all our travelers
were united, devoted, ready to die for one another.
On the 25th of February, their progress was stopped by a river which
answered to the Wakari on Paganel’s map, and was easily forded. For two
days plains of low scrub succeeded each other without interruption. Half
the distance from Lake Taupo to the coast had been traversed without
accident, though not without fatigue.
Then the scene changed to immense and interminable forests, which
reminded them of Australia, but here the kauri took the place of the
eucalyptus. Although their enthusiasm had been incessantly called forth
during their four months’ journey, Glenarvan and his companions were
compelled to admire and wonder at those gigantic pines, worthy rivals of
the Cedars of Lebanon, and the “Mammoth trees” of California. The kauris
measured a hundred feet high, before the ramification of the branches.
They grew in isolated clumps, and the forest was not composed of trees,
but of innumerable groups of trees, which spread their green canopies in
the air two hundred feet from the ground.
Some of these pines, still young, about a hundred years old, resembled
the red pine of Europe. They had a dark crown surmounted by a dark
conical shoot. Their older brethren, five or six hundred years of age,
formed great green pavilions supported on the inextricable network of
their branches. These patriarchs of the New Zealand forest measured
fifty yards in circumference, and the united arms of all the travelers
could not embrace the giant trunk.
For three days the little party made their way under these vast arches,
over a clayey soil which the foot of man had never trod. They knew this
by the quantity of resinous gum that lay in heaps at the foot of the
trees, and which would have lasted for native exportation many years.
The sportsmen found whole coveys of the kiwi, which are scarce in
districts frequented by the Maories; the native dogs drive them away to
the shelter of these inaccessible forests. They were an abundant source
of nourishing food to our travelers.
Paganel also had the good fortune to espy, in a thicket, a pair of
gigantic birds; his instinct as a naturalist was awakened. He called his
companions, and in spite of their fatigue, the Major, Robert, and he set
off on the track of these animals.
His curiosity was excusable, for he had recognized, or thought he
had recognized, these birds as “moas” belonging to the species of
“dinornis,” which many naturalists class with the extinct birds. This,
if Paganel was right, would confirm the opinion of Dr. Hochstetter and
other travelers on the present existence of the wingless giants of New
Zealand.
These moas which Paganel was chasing, the contemporaries of the
Megatherium and the Pterodactyles, must have been eighteen feet
high. They were huge ostriches, timid too, for they fled with extreme
rapidity. But no shot could stay their course. After a few minutes of
chase, these fleet-footed moas disappeared among the tall trees, and the
sportsmen lost their powder and their pains.
That evening, March 1, Glenarvan and his companions, emerging at last
from the immense kauri-forest, camped at the foot of Mount Ikirangi,
whose summit rose five thousand five hundred feet into the air. At this
point they had traveled a hundred miles from Maunganamu, and the
shore was still thirty miles away. John Mangles had calculated on
accomplishing the whole journey in ten days, but he did not foresee the
physical difficulties of the country.
On the whole, owing to the circuits, the obstacles, and the imperfect
observations, the journey had been extended by fully one-fifth, and now
that they had reached Mount Ikirangi, they were quite worn out.
Two long days of walking were still to be accomplished, during which
time all their activity and vigilance would be required, for their way
was through a district often frequented by the natives. The little party
conquered their weariness, and set out next morning at daybreak.
Between Mount Ikirangi which was left to the right, and Mount Hardy
whose summit rose on the left to a height of 3,700 feet, the journey was
very trying; for about ten miles the bush was a tangle of “supple-jack,”
a kind of flexible rope, appropriately called “stifling-creeper,” that
caught the feet at every step. For two days, they had to cut their
way with an ax through this thousand-headed hydra. Hunting became
impossible, and the sportsmen failed in their accustomed tribute. The
provisions were almost exhausted, and there was no means of renewing
them; their thirst was increasing by fatigue, and there was no water
wherewith to quench it.
The sufferings of Glenarvan and his party became terrible, and for the
first time their moral energy threatened to give way. They no longer
walked, they dragged themselves along, soulless bodies, animated only
by the instinct of self-preservation which survives every other feeling,
and in this melancholy plight they reached Point Lottin on the shores of
the Pacific.
Here they saw several deserted huts, the ruins of a village lately
destroyed by the war, abandoned fields, and everywhere signs of pillage
and incendiary fires.
They were toiling painfully along the shore, when they saw, at a
distance of about a mile, a band of natives, who rushed toward them
brandishing their weapons. Glenarvan, hemmed in by the sea, could not
fly, and summoning all his remaining strength he was about to meet the
attack, when John Mangles cried:
“A boat! a boat!”
And there, twenty paces off, a canoe with six oars lay on the beach. To
launch it, jump in and fly from the dangerous shore, was only a minute’s
work. John Mangles, McNabbs, Wilson and Mulrady took the oars; Glenarvan
the helm; the two women, Robert and Olbinett stretched themselves beside
him. In ten minutes the canoe was a quarter of a mile from the shore.
The sea was calm. The fugitives were silent. But John, who did not
want to get too far from land, was about to give the order to go up the
coast, when he suddenly stopped rowing.
He saw three canoes coming out from behind Point Lottin and evidently
about to give chase.
“Out to sea! Out to sea!” he exclaimed. “Better to drown if we must!”
The canoe went fast under her four rowers. For half an hour she kept
her distance; but the poor exhausted fellows grew weaker, and the three
pursuing boats began to gain sensibly on them. At this moment, scarcely
two miles lay between them. It was impossible to avoid the attack of the
natives, who were already preparing to fire their long guns.
What was Glenarvan about?--standing up in the stern he was looking
toward the horizon for some chimerical help. What did he hope for? What
did he wish? Had he a presentiment?
In a moment his eyes gleamed, his hand pointed out into the distance.
“A ship! a ship!” he cried. “My friends, row! row hard!”
Not one of the rowers turned his head--not an oar-stroke must be lost.
Paganel alone rose, and turned his telescope to the point indicated.
“Yes,” said he, “a ship! a steamer! they are under full steam! they are
coming to us! Found now, brave comrades!”
The fugitives summoned new energy, and for another half hour, keeping
their distance, they rowed with hasty strokes. The steamer came nearer
and nearer. They made out her two masts, bare of sails, and the great
volumes of black smoke. Glenarvan, handing the tiller to Robert, seized
Paganel’s glass, and watched the movements of the steamer.
John Mangles and his companions were lost in wonder when they saw
Glenarvan’s features contract and grow pale, and the glass drop from his
hands. One word explained it.
“The DUNCAN!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “The DUNCAN, and the convicts!”
“The DUNCAN!” cried John, letting go his oar and rising.
“Yes, death on all sides!” murmured Glenarvan, crushed by despair.
It was indeed the yacht, they could not mistake her--the yacht and her
bandit crew!
The major could scarcely restrain himself from cursing their destiny.
The canoe was meantime standing still. Where should they go? Whither
fly? What choice was there between the convicts and the savages?
A shot was fired from the nearest of the native boats, and the ball
struck Wilson’s oar.
A few strokes then carried the canoe nearer to the DUNCAN.
The yacht was coming down at full speed, and was not more than half a
mile off.
John Mangles, between two enemies, did not know what to advise, whither
to fly! The two poor ladies on their knees, prayed in their agony.
The savages kept up a running fire, and shots were raining round the
canoe, when suddenly a loud report was heard, and a ball from the
yacht’s cannon passed over their heads, and now the boat remained
motionless between the DUNCAN and the native canoes.
John Mangles, frenzied with despair, seized his ax. He was about to
scuttle the boat and sink it with his unfortunate companions, when a cry
from Robert arrested his arm.
“Tom Austin! Tom Austin!” the lad shouted. “He is on board! I see him!
He knows us! He is waving his hat.”
The ax hung useless in John’s hand.
A second ball whistled over his head, and cut in two the nearest of the
three native boats, while a loud hurrah burst forth on board the DUNCAN.
The savages took flight, fled and regained the shore.
“Come on, Tom, come on!” cried John Mangles in a joyous voice.
And a few minutes after, the ten fugitives, how, they knew not, were all
safe on board the DUNCAN.
CHAPTER XVI WHY THE “DUNCAN” WENT TO NEW ZEALAND
IT would be vain to attempt to depict the feelings of Glenarvan and his
friends when the songs of old Scotia fell on their ears. The moment they
set foot on the deck of the DUNCAN, the piper blew his bagpipes, and
commenced the national pibroch of the Malcolm clan, while loud hurrahs
rent the air.
Glenarvan and his whole party, even the Major himself, were crying and
embracing each other. They were delirious with joy. The geographer was
absolutely mad. He frisked about, telescope in hand, pointing it at the
last canoe approaching the shore.
But at the sight of Glenarvan and his companions, with their clothing in
rags, and thin, haggard faces, bearing marks of horrible sufferings,
the crew ceased their noisy demonstrations. These were specters who had
returned--not the bright, adventurous travelers who had left the yacht
three months before, so full of hope! Chance, and chance only, had
brought them back to the deck of the yacht they never thought to see
again. And in what a state of exhaustion and feebleness. But before
thinking of fatigue, or attending to the imperious demands of hunger and
thirst, Glenarvan questioned Tom Austin about his being on this coast.
Why had the DUNCAN come to the eastern coast of New Zealand? How was
it not in the hands of Ben Joyce? By what providential fatality had God
brought them in the track of the fugitives?
Why? how? and for what purpose? Tom was stormed with questions on all
sides. The old sailor did not know which to listen to first, and at last
resolved to hear nobody but Glenarvan, and to answer nobody but him.
“But the convicts?” inquired Glenarvan. “What did you do with them?”
“The convicts?” replied Tom, with the air of a man who does not in the
least understand what he is being asked.
“Yes, the wretches who attacked the yacht.”
“What yacht? Your Honor’s?”
“Why, of course, Tom. The DUNCAN, and Ben Joyce, who came on board.”
“I don’t know this Ben Joyce, and have never seen him.”
“Never seen him!” exclaimed Paganel, stupefied at the old sailor’s
replies. “Then pray tell me, Tom, how it is that the DUNCAN is cruising
at this moment on the coast of New Zealand?”
But if Glenarvan and his friends were totally at a loss to understand
the bewilderment of the old sailor, what was their amazement when he
replied in a calm voice:
“The DUNCAN is cruising here by your Honor’s orders.”
“By my orders?” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord. I only acted in obedience to the instructions sent in
your letter of January fourteenth.”
“My letter! my letter!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
The ten travelers pressed closer round Tom Austin, devouring him with
their eyes. The letter dated from Snowy River had reached the DUNCAN,
then.
“Let us come to explanations, pray, for it seems to me I am dreaming.
You received a letter, Tom?”
“Yes, a letter from your Honor.”
“At Melbourne?”
“At Melbourne, just as our repairs were completed.”
“And this letter?”
“It was not written by you, but bore your signature, my Lord.”
“Just so; my letter was brought by a convict called Ben Joyce.”
“No, by a sailor called Ayrton, a quartermaster on the BRITANNIA.”
“Yes, Ayrton or Ben Joyce, one and the same individual. Well, and what
were the contents of this letter?”
“It contained orders to leave Melbourne without delay, and go and cruise
on the eastern coast of--”
“Australia!” said Glenarvan with such vehemence that the old sailor was
somewhat disconcerted.
“Of Australia?” repeated Tom, opening his eyes. “No, but New Zealand.”
“Australia, Tom! Australia!” they all cried with one voice.
Austin’s head began to feel in a whirl. Glenarvan spoke with such
assurance that he thought after all he must have made a mistake in
reading the letter. Could a faithful, exact old servant like himself
have been guilty of such a thing! He turned red and looked quite
disturbed.
“Never mind, Tom,” said Lady Helena. “God so willed it.”
“But, no, madam, pardon me,” replied old Tom. “No, it is impossible, I
was not mistaken. Ayrton read the letter as I did, and it was he, on the
contrary, who wished to bring me to the Australian coast.”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, Ayrton himself. He insisted it was a mistake: that you meant to
order me to Twofold Bay.”
“Have you the letter still, Tom?” asked the Major, extremely interested
in this mystery.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Austin. “I’ll go and fetch it.”
He ran at once to his cabin in the forecastle. During his momentary
absence they gazed at each other in silence, all but the Major, who
crossed his arms and said:
“Well, now, Paganel, you must own this would be going a little too far.”
“What?” growled Paganel, looking like a gigantic note of interrogation,
with his spectacles on his forehead and his stooping back.
Austin returned directly with the letter written by Paganel and signed
by Glenarvan.
“Will your Honor read it?” he said, handing it to him.
Glenarvan took the letter and read as follows:
“Order to Tom Austin to put out to sea without delay, and to take the
Duncan, by latitude 37 degrees to the eastern coast of New Zealand!”
“New Zealand!” cried Paganel, leaping up.
And he seized the letter from Glenarvan, rubbed his eyes, pushed down
his spectacles on his nose, and read it for himself.
“New Zealand!” he repeated in an indescribable tone, letting the order
slip between his fingers.
That same moment he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round
found himself face to face with the Major, who said in a grave tone:
“Well, my good Paganel, after all, it is a lucky thing you did not send
the DUNCAN to Cochin China!”
This pleasantry finished the poor geographer. The crew burst out into
loud Homeric laughter. Paganel ran about like a madman, seized his head
with both hands and tore his hair. He neither knew what he was doing nor
what he wanted to do. He rushed down the poop stairs mechanically and
paced the deck, nodding to himself and going straight before without aim
or object till he reached the forecastle. There his feet got entangled
in a coil of rope. He stumbled and fell, accidentally catching hold of a
rope with both hands in his fall.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion was heard. The forecastle gun had gone
off, riddling the quiet calm of the waves with a volley of small shot.
The unfortunate Paganel had caught hold of the cord of the loaded gun.
The geographer was thrown down the forecastle ladder and disappeared
below.
A cry of terror succeeded the surprise produced by the explosion.
Everybody thought something terrible must have happened. The sailors
rushed between decks and lifted up Paganel, almost bent double. The
geographer uttered no sound.
They carried his long body onto the poop. His companions were in
despair. The Major, who was always the surgeon on great occasions, began
to strip the unfortunate that he might dress his wounds; but he had
scarcely put his hands on the dying man when he started up as if touched
by an electrical machine.
“Never! never!” he exclaimed, and pulling his ragged coat tightly round
him, he began buttoning it up in a strangely excited manner.
“But, Paganel,” began the Major.
“No, I tell you!”
“I must examine--”
“You shall not examine.”
“You may perhaps have broken--” continued McNabbs.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, getting up on his long legs, “but what I have
broken the carpenter can mend.”
“What is it, then?”
“There.”
Bursts of laughter from the crew greeted this speech. Paganel’s friends
were quite reassured about him now. They were satisfied that he had come
off safe and sound from his adventure with the forecastle gun.
“At any rate,” thought the Major, “the geographer is wonderfully
bashful.”
But now Paganel was recovered a little, he had to reply to a question he
could not escape.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “tell us frankly all about it. I own
that your blunder was providential. It is sure and certain that but for
you the DUNCAN would have fallen into the hands of the convicts; but for
you we should have been recaptured by the Maories. But for my sake tell
me by what supernatural aberration of mind you were induced to write New
Zealand instead of Australia?”
“Well, upon my oath,” said Paganel, “it is--”
But the same instant his eyes fell on Mary and Robert Grant, and he
stopped short and then went on:
“What would you have me say, my dear Glenarvan? I am mad, I am an idiot,
an incorrigible fellow, and I shall live and die the most terrible
absent man. I can’t change my skin.”
“Unless you get flayed alive.”
“Get flayed alive!” cried the geographer, with a furious look. “Is that
a personal allusion?”
“An allusion to what?” asked McNabbs, quietly. This was all that passed.
The mystery of the DUNCAN’S presence on the coast was explained, and
all that the travelers thought about now was to get back to their
comfortable cabins, and to have breakfast.
However, Glenarvan and John Mangles stayed behind with Tom Austin after
the others had retired. They wished to put some further questions to
him.
“Now, then, old Austin,” said Glenarvan, “tell me, didn’t it strike you
as strange to be ordered to go and cruise on the coast of New Zealand?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Tom. “I was very much surprised, but it is
not my custom to discuss any orders I receive, and I obeyed. Could I
do otherwise? If some catastrophe had occurred through not carrying out
your injunctions to the letter, should not I have been to blame? Would
you have acted differently, captain?”
“No, Tom,” replied John Mangles.
“But what did you think?” asked Glenarvan.
“I thought, your Honor, that in the interest of Harry Grant, it was
necessary to go where I was told to go. I thought that in consequence of
fresh arrangements, you were to sail over to New Zealand, and that I was
to wait for you on the east coast of the island. Moreover, on leaving
Melbourne, I kept our destination a secret, and the crew only knew it
when we were right out at sea, and the Australian continent was finally
out of sight. But one circumstance occurred which greatly perplexed me.”
“What was it, Tom?” asked Glenarvan.
“Just this, that when the quartermaster of the BRITANNIA heard our
destination--”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan. “Then he is on board?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Ayrton here?” repeated Glenarvan, looking at John Mangles.
“God has so willed!” said the young captain.
In an instant, like lightning, Ayrton’s conduct, his long-planned
treachery, Glenarvan’s wound, Mulrady’s assassination, the sufferings of
the expedition in the marshes of the Snowy River, the whole past life of
the miscreant, flashed before the eyes of the two men. And now, by the
strangest concourse of events, the convict was in their power.
“Where is he?” asked Glenarvan eagerly.
“In a cabin in the forecastle, and under guard.”
“Why was he imprisoned?”
“Because when Ayrton heard the vessel was going to New Zealand, he was
in a fury; because he tried to force me to alter the course of the ship;
because he threatened me; and, last of all, because he incited my men
to mutiny. I saw clearly he was a dangerous individual, and I must take
precautions against him.”
“And since then?”
“Since then he has remained in his cabin without attempting to go out.”
“That’s well, Tom.”
Just at this moment Glenarvan and John Mangles were summoned to the
saloon where breakfast, which they so sorely needed, was awaiting them.
They seated themselves at the table and spoke no more of Ayrton.
But after the meal was over, and the guests were refreshed and
invigorated, and they all went upon deck, Glenarvan acquainted them with
the fact of the quartermaster’s presence on board, and at the same time
announced his intention of having him brought before them.
“May I beg to be excused from being present at his examination?” said
Lady Helena. “I confess, dear Edward, it would be extremely painful for
me to see the wretched man.”
“He must be confronted with us, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan; “I beg
you will stay. Ben Joyce must see all his victims face to face.”
Lady Helena yielded to his wish. Mary Grant sat beside her, near
Glenarvan. All the others formed a group round them, the whole party
that had been compromised so seriously by the treachery of the convict.
The crew of the yacht, without understanding the gravity of the
situation, kept profound silence.
“Bring Ayrton here,” said Glenarvan.
CHAPTER XVII AYRTON’S OBSTINACY
AYRTON came. He crossed the deck with a confident tread, and mounted
the steps to the poop. His eyes were gloomy, his teeth set, his fists
clenched convulsively. His appearance betrayed neither effrontery nor
timidity. When he found himself in the presence of Lord Glenarvan he
folded his arms and awaited the questions calmly and silently.
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “here we are then, you and us, on this very
DUNCAN that you wished to deliver into the hands of the convicts of Ben
Joyce.”
The lips of the quartermaster trembled slightly and a quick flush
suffused his impassive features. Not the flush of remorse, but of shame
at failure. On this yacht which he thought he was to command as master,
he was a prisoner, and his fate was about to be decided in a few
seconds.
However, he made no reply. Glenarvan waited patiently. But Ayrton
persisted in keeping absolute silence.
“Speak, Ayrton, what have you to say?” resumed Glenarvan.
Ayrton hesitated, the wrinkles in his forehead deepened, and at length
he said in calm voice:
“I have nothing to say, my Lord. I have been fool enough to allow myself
to be caught. Act as you please.”
Then he turned his eyes away toward the coast which lay on the west, and
affected profound indifference to what was passing around him. One
would have thought him a stranger to the whole affair. But Glenarvan was
determined to be patient. Powerful motives urged him to find out certain
details concerning the mysterious life of Ayrton, especially those
which related to Harry Grant and the BRITANNIA. He therefore resumed his
interrogations, speaking with extreme gentleness and firmly restraining
his violent irritation against him.
“I think, Ayrton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to reply to
certain questions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought
I to call you Ayrton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the
quartermaster of the BRITANNIA?”
Ayrton remained impassive, gazing at the coast, deaf to every question.
Glenarvan’s eyes kindled, as he said again:
“Will you tell me how you left the BRITANNIA, and why you are in
Australia?”
The same silence, the same impassibility.
“Listen to me, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan; “it is to your interest to
speak. Frankness is the only resource left to you, and it may stand
you in good stead. For the last time, I ask you, will you reply to my
questions?”
Ayrton turned his head toward Glenarvan, and looked into his eyes.
“My Lord,” he said, “it is not for me to answer. Justice may witness
against me, but I am not going to witness against myself.”
“Proof will be easy,” said Glenarvan.
“Easy, my Lord,” repeated Ayrton, in a mocking tone. “Your honor makes
rather a bold assertion there, it seems to me. For my own part, I
venture to affirm that the best judge in the Temple would be puzzled
what to make of me. Who will say why I came to Australia, when Captain
Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce
placarded by the police, when the police have never had me in their
hands, and my companions are at liberty? Who can damage me except
yourself, by bringing forward a single crime against me, or even a
blameable action? Who will affirm that I intended to take possession of
this ship and deliver it into the hands of the convicts? No one, I
tell you, no one. You have your suspicions, but you need certainties to
condemn a man, and certainties you have none. Until there is a proof to
the contrary, I am Ayrton, quartermaster of the BRITANNIA.”
Ayrton had become animated while he was speaking, but soon relapsed into
his former indifference.
He, no doubt, expected that his reply would close the examination, but
Glenarvan commenced again, and said:
“Ayrton, I am not a Crown prosecutor charged with your indictment. That
is no business of mine. It is important that our respective situations
should be clearly defined. I am not asking you anything that could
compromise you. That is for justice to do. But you know what I am
searching for, and a single word may put me on the track I have lost.
Will you speak?”
Ayrton shook his head like a man determined to be silent.
“Will you tell me where Captain Grant is?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Will you tell me where the BRITANNIA was wrecked?”
“No, neither the one nor the other.”
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, in almost beseeching tones, “if you know where
Harry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor children, who are
waiting for you to speak the word?”
Ayrton hesitated. His features contracted, and he muttered in a low
voice, “I cannot, my Lord.”
Then he added with vehemence, as if reproaching himself for a momentary
weakness:
“No, I will not speak. Have me hanged, if you choose.”
“Hanged!” exclaimed Glenarvan, overcome by a sudden feeling of anger.
But immediately mastering himself, he added in a grave voice:
“Ayrton, there is neither judge nor executioner here. At the first
port we touch at, you will be given up into the hands of the English
authorities.”
“That is what I demand,” was the quartermaster’s reply.
Then he turned away and quietly walked back to his cabin, which served
as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with orders to watch
his slightest movement. The witnesses of this examination retired from
the scene indignant and despairing.
As Glenarvan could make no way against Ayrton’s obstinacy, what was to
be done now? Plainly no course remained but to carry out the plan
formed at Eden, of returning to Europe and giving up for the time
this unsuccessful enterprise, for the traces of the BRITANNIA seemed
irrevocably lost, and the document did not appear to allow any fresh
interpretation. On the 37th parallel there was not even another country,
and the DUNCAN had only to turn and go back.
After Glenarvan had consulted his friends, he talked over the question
of returning, more particularly with the captain. John examined the coal
bunkers, and found there was only enough to last fifteen days longer at
the outside. It was necessary, therefore, to put in at the nearest port
for a fresh supply.
John proposed that he should steer for the Bay of Talcahuano, where the
DUNCAN had once before been revictualed before she commenced her voyage
of circumnavigation. It was a direct route across, and lay exactly along
the 37th parallel. From thence the yacht, being amply provisioned, might
go south, double Cape Horn, and get back to Scotland by the Atlantic
route.
This plan was adopted, and orders were given to the engineer to get up
the steam. Half an hour afterward the beak-head of the yacht was turned
toward Talcahuano, over a sea worthy of being called the Pacific, and
at six P. M. the last mountains of New Zealand had disappeared in warm,
hazy mist on the horizon.
The return voyage was fairly commenced. A sad voyage, for the courageous
searching party to come back to the port without bringing home Harry
Grant with them! The crew, so joyous at departure and so hopeful, were
coming back to Europe defeated and discouraged. There was not one among
the brave fellows whose heart did not swell at the thought of seeing his
own country once more; and yet there was not one among them either who
would not have been willing to brave the perils of the sea for a long
time still if they could but find Captain Grant.
Consequently, the hurrahs which greeted the return of Lord Glenarvan to
the yacht soon gave place to dejection. Instead of the close intercourse
which had formerly existed among the passengers, and the lively
conversations which had cheered the voyage, each one kept apart from the
others in the solitude of his own cabin, and it was seldom that anyone
appeared on the deck of the DUNCAN.
Paganel, who generally shared in an exaggerated form the feelings
of those about him, whether painful or joyous--a man who could have
invented hope if necessary--even Paganel was gloomy and taciturn. He was
seldom visible; his natural loquacity and French vivacity gave place
to silence and dejection. He seemed even more downhearted than his
companions. If Glenarvan spoke at all of renewing the search, he shook
his head like a man who has given up all hope, and whose convictions
concerning the fate of the shipwrecked men appeared settled. It was
quite evident he believed them irrevocably lost.
And yet there was a man on board who could have spoken the decisive
word, and refused to break his silence. This was Ayrton. There was no
doubt the fellow knew, if not the present whereabouts of the captain, at
least the place of shipwreck. But it was evident that were Grant found,
he would be a witness against him. Hence his persistent silence, which
gave rise to great indignation on board, especially among the crew, who
would have liked to deal summarily with him.
Glenarvan repeatedly renewed his attempts with the quartermaster, but
promises and threats were alike useless. Ayrton’s obstinacy was so
great, and so inexplicable, that the Major began to believe he had
nothing to reveal. His opinion was shared, moreover, by the geographer,
as it corroborated his own notion about Harry Grant.
But if Ayrton knew nothing, why did he not confess his ignorance? It
could not be turned against him. His silence increased the difficulty
of forming any new plan. Was the presence of the quartermaster on
the Australian continent a proof of Harry Grant’s being there? It was
settled that they must get this information out of Ayrton.
Lady Helena, seeing her husband’s ill-success, asked his permission to
try her powers against the obstinacy of the quartermaster. When a man
had failed, a woman perhaps, with her gentler influence, might succeed.
Is there not a constant repetition going on of the story of the fable
where the storm, blow as it will, cannot tear the cloak from the
shoulders of the traveler, while the first warm rays of sunshine make
him throw it off immediately?
Glenarvan, knowing his young wife’s good sense, allowed her to act as
she pleased.
The same day (the 5th of March), Ayrton was conducted to Lady Helena’s
saloon. Mary Grant was to be present at the interview, for the influence
of the young girl might be considerable, and Lady Helena would not lose
any chance of success.
For a whole hour the two ladies were closeted with the quartermaster,
but nothing transpired about their interview. What had been said,
what arguments they used to win the secret from the convict, or what
questions were asked, remained unknown; but when they left Ayrton, they
did not seem to have succeeded, as the expression on their faces denoted
discouragement.
In consequence of this, when the quartermaster was being taken back to
his cabin, the sailors met him with violent menaces. He took no notice
except by shrugging his shoulders, which so increased their rage, that
John Mangles and Glenarvan had to interfere, and could only repress it
with difficulty.
But Lady Helena would not own herself vanquished. She resolved to
struggle to the last with this pitiless man, and went next day herself
to his cabin to avoid exposing him again to the vindictiveness of the
crew.
The good and gentle Scotchwoman stayed alone with the convict leader
for two long hours. Glenarvan in a state of extreme nervous anxiety,
remained outside the cabin, alternately resolved to exhaust completely
this last chance of success, alternately resolved to rush in and snatch
his wife from so painful a situation.
But this time when Lady Helena reappeared, her look was full of hope.
Had she succeeded in extracting the secret, and awakening in that
adamant heart a last faint touch of pity?
McNabbs, who first saw her, could not restrain a gesture of incredulity.
However the report soon spread among the sailors that the quartermaster
had yielded to the persuasions of Lady Helena. The effect was
electrical. The entire crew assembled on deck far quicker than Tom
Austin’s whistle could have brought them together.
Glenarvan had hastened up to his wife and eagerly asked:
“Has he spoken?”
“No,” replied Lady Helena, “but he has yielded to my entreaties, and
wishes to see you.”
“Ah, dear Helena, you have succeeded!”
“I hope so, Edward.”
“Have you made him any promise that I must ratify?”
“Only one; that you will do all in your power to mitigate his
punishment.”
“Very well, dear Helena. Let Ayrton come immediately.”
Lady Helena retired to her cabin with Mary Grant, and the quartermaster
was brought into the saloon where Lord Glenarvan was expecting him.
CHAPTER XVIII A DISCOURAGING CONFESSION
As soon as the quartermaster was brought into the presence of Lord
Glenarvan, his keepers withdrew.
“You wanted to speak to me, Ayrton?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
“Did you wish for a private interview?”
“Yes, but I think if Major McNabbs and Mr. Paganel were present it would
be better.”
“For whom?”
“For myself.”
Ayrton spoke quite calmly and firmly. Glenarvan looked at him for an
instant, and then sent to summon McNabbs and Paganel, who came at once.
“We are all ready to listen to you,” said Glenarvan, when his two
friends had taken their place at the saloon table.
Ayrton collected himself, for an instant, and then said:
“My Lord, it is usual for witnesses to be present at every contract or
transaction between two parties. That is why I desire the presence of
Messrs. Paganel and McNabbs, for it is, properly speaking, a bargain
which I propose to make.”
Glenarvan, accustomed to Ayrton’s ways, exhibited no surprise, though
any bargaining between this man and himself seemed strange.
“What is the bargain?” he said.
“This,” replied Ayrton. “You wish to obtain from me certain facts which
may be useful to you. I wish to obtain from you certain advantages which
would be valuable to me. It is giving for giving, my Lord. Do you agree
to this or not?”
“What are the facts?” asked Paganel eagerly.
“No,” said Glenarvan. “What are the advantages?”
Ayrton bowed in token that he understood Glenarvan’s distinction.
“These,” he said, “are the advantages I ask. It is still your intention,
I suppose, to deliver me up to the English authorities?”
“Yes, Ayrton, it is only justice.”
“I don’t say it is not,” replied the quartermaster quietly. “Then of
course you would never consent to set me at liberty.”
Glenarvan hesitated before replying to a question so plainly put. On the
answer he gave, perhaps the fate of Harry Grant might depend!
However, a feeling of duty toward human justice compelled him to say:
“No, Ayrton, I cannot set you at liberty.”
“I do not ask it,” said the quartermaster proudly.
“Then, what is it you want?”
“A middle place, my Lord, between the gibbet that awaits me and the
liberty which you cannot grant me.”
“And that is--”
“To allow me to be left on one of the uninhabited islands of the
Pacific, with such things as are absolute necessaries. I will manage as
best I can, and will repent if I have time.”
Glenarvan, quite unprepared for such a proposal, looked at his two
friends in silence. But after a brief reflection, he replied:
“Ayrton, if I agree to your request, you will tell me all I have an
interest in knowing.”
“Yes, my Lord, that is to say, all I know about Captain Grant and the
BRITANNIA.”
“The whole truth?”
“The whole.”
“But what guarantee have I?”
“Oh, I see what you are uneasy about. You need a guarantee for me, for
the truth of a criminal. That’s natural. But what can you have under the
circumstances. There is no help for it, you must either take my offer or
leave it.”
“I will trust to you, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, simply.
“And you do right, my Lord. Besides, if I deceive you, vengeance is in
your own power.”
“How?”
“You can come and take me again from where you left me, as I shall have
no means of getting away from the island.”
Ayrton had an answer for everything. He anticipated the difficulties
and furnished unanswerable arguments against himself. It was evident he
intended to affect perfect good faith in the business. It was impossible
to show more complete confidence. And yet he was prepared to go still
further in disinterestedness.
“My Lord and gentlemen,” he added, “I wish to convince you of the fact
that I am playing cards on the table. I have no wish to deceive you, and
I am going to give you a fresh proof of my sincerity in this matter. I
deal frankly with you, because I reckon on your honor.”
“Speak, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“My Lord, I have not your promise yet to accede to my proposal, and yet
I do not scruple to tell you that I know very little about Harry Grant.”
“Very little,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, the details I am in a position to give you relate to
myself. They are entirely personal, and will not do much to help you to
recover the lost traces of Captain Grant.”
Keen disappointment was depicted on the faces of Glenarvan and the
Major. They thought the quartermaster in the possession of an important
secret, and he declared that his communications would be very nearly
barren. Paganel’s countenance remained unmoved.
Somehow or other, this avowal of Ayrton, and surrender of himself, so to
speak, unconditionally, singularly touched his auditors, especially when
the quartermaster added:
“So I tell you beforehand, the bargain will be more to my profit than
yours.”
“It does not signify,” replied Glenarvan. “I accept your proposal,
Ayrton. I give you my word to land you on one of the islands of the
Pacific Ocean.”
“All right, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
Was this strange man glad of this decision? One might have doubted it,
for his impassive countenance betokened no emotion whatever. It seemed
as if he were acting for someone else rather than himself.
“I am ready to answer,” he said.
“We have no questions to put to you,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us all you
know, Ayrton, and begin by declaring who you are.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Ayrton, “I am really Tom Ayrton, the quartermaster
of the BRITANNIA. I left Glasgow on Harry Grant’s ship on the 12th of
March, 1861. For fourteen months I cruised with him in the Pacific in
search of an advantageous spot for founding a Scotch colony. Harry Grant
was the man to carry out grand projects, but serious disputes often
arose between us. His temper and mine could not agree. I cannot bend,
and with Harry Grant, when once his resolution is taken, any resistance
is impossible, my Lord. He has an iron will both for himself and others.
“But in spite of that, I dared to rebel, and I tried to get the crew to
join me, and to take possession of the vessel. Whether I was to blame
or not is of no consequence. Be that as it may, Harry Grant had no
scruples, and on the 8th of April, 1862, he left me behind on the west
coast of Australia.”
“Of Australia!” said the Major, interrupting Ayrton in his narrative.
“Then of course you had quitted the BRITANNIA before she touched at
Callao, which was her last date?”
“Yes,” replied the quartermaster, “for the BRITANNIA did not touch
there while I was on board. And how I came to speak of Callao at Paddy
O’Moore’s farm was that I learned the circumstances from your recital.”
“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“I found myself abandoned on a nearly desert coast, but only forty miles
from the penal settlement at Perth, the capital of Western Australia. As
I was wandering there along the shore, I met a band of convicts who had
just escaped, and I joined myself to them. You will dispense, my
Lord, with any account of my life for two years and a half. This much,
however, I must tell you, that I became the leader of the gang, under
the name of Ben Joyce. In September, 1864, I introduced myself at the
Irish farm, where I engaged myself as a servant in my real name, Ayrton.
I waited there till I should get some chance of seizing a ship. This was
my one idea. Two months afterward the DUNCAN arrived. During your visit
to the farm you related Captain Grant’s history, and I learned then
facts of which I was not previously aware--that the BRITANNIA had
touched at Callao, and that her latest news was dated June, 1862, two
months after my disembarkation, and also about the document and the loss
of the ship somewhere along the 37th parallel; and, lastly, the
strong reasons you had for supposing Harry Grant was on the Australian
continent. Without the least hesitation I determined to appropriate the
DUNCAN, a matchless vessel, able to outdistance the swiftest ships in
the British Navy. But serious injuries had to be repaired. I therefore
let it go to Melbourne, and joined myself to you in my true character
as quartermaster, offering to guide you to the scene of the shipwreck,
fictitiously placed by me on the east coast of Australia. It was in this
way, followed or sometimes preceded by my gang of convicts, I directed
your expedition toward the province of Victoria. My men committed a
bootless crime at Camden Bridge; since the DUNCAN, if brought to the
coast, could not escape me, and with the yacht once mine, I was master
of the ocean. I led you in this way unsuspectingly as far as the Snowy
River. The horses and bullocks dropped dead one by one, poisoned by the
gastrolobium. I dragged the wagon into the marshes, where it got half
buried. At my instance--but you know the rest, my Lord, and you may be
sure that but for the blunder of Mr. Paganel, I should now command the
DUNCAN. Such is my history, gentlemen. My disclosures, unfortunately,
cannot put you on the track of Harry Grant, and you perceive that you
have made but a poor bargain by coming to my terms.”
The quartermaster said no more, but crossed his arms in his usual
fashion and waited. Glenarvan and his friends kept silence. They felt
that this strange criminal had spoken the whole truth. He had only
missed his coveted prize, the DUNCAN, through a cause independent of
his will. His accomplices had gone to Twofold Bay, as was proved by
the convict blouse found by Glenarvan. Faithful to the orders of
their chief, they had kept watch on the yacht, and at length, weary of
waiting, had returned to the old haunt of robbers and incendiaries in
the country parts of New South Wales.
The Major put the first question, his object being to verify the dates
of the BRITANNIA.
“You are sure then,” he said, “that it was on the 8th of April you were
left on the west coast of Australia?”
“On that very day,” replied Ayrton.
“And do you know what projects Harry Grant had in view at the time?”
“In an indefinite way I do.”
“Say all you can, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “the least indication may set
us in the right course.”
“I only know this much, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, “that
Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. Now, as this part of the
programme was not carried out while I was on board, it is not impossible
that on leaving Callao the BRITANNIA went to reconnoiter New Zealand.
This would agree with the date assigned by the document to the
shipwreck--the 27th of June, 1862.”
“Clearly,” said Paganel.
“But,” objected Glenarvan, “there is nothing in the fragmentary words in
the document that could apply to New Zealand.”
“That I cannot answer,” said the quartermaster.
“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “you have kept your word, and I will
keep mine. We have to decide now on what island of the Pacific Ocean you
are to be left?”
“It matters little, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Return to your cabin,” said Glenarvan, “and wait our decision.”
The quartermaster withdrew, guarded by the two sailors.
“That villain might have been a man,” said the Major.
“Yes,” returned Glenarvan; “he is a strong, clear-headed fellow. Why was
it that he must needs turn his powers to such evil account?”
“But Harry Grant?”
“I must fear he is irrevocably lost. Poor children! Who can tell them
where their father is?”
“I can!” replied Paganel. “Yes; I can!” One could not help remarking
that the geographer, so loquacious and impatient usually, had scarcely
spoken during Ayrton’s examination. He listened without opening his
mouth. But this speech of his now was worth many others, and it made
Glenarvan spring to his feet, crying out: “You, Paganel! you know where
Captain Grant is?”
“Yes, as far as can be known.”
“How do you know?”
“From that infernal document.”
“Ah!” said the Major, in a tone of the most profound incredulity.
“Hear me first, and shrug your shoulders afterward,” said Paganel. “I
did not speak sooner, because you would not have believed me. Besides,
it was useless; and I only speak to-day because Ayrton’s opinion just
supports my own.”
“Then it is New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“Listen and judge,” replied Paganel. “It is not without reason, or,
rather, I had a reason for making the blunder which has saved our
lives. When I was in the very act of writing the letter to Glenarvan’s
dictation, the word ZEALAND was swimming in my brain. This is why. You
remember we were in the wagon. McNabbs had just apprised Lady Helena
about the convicts; he had given her the number of the _Australian and
New Zealand Gazette_ which contained the account of the catastrophe at
Camden Bridge. Now, just as I was writing, the newspaper was lying on
the ground, folded in such a manner that only two syllables of the
title were visible; these two syllables were ALAND. What a sudden light
flashed on my mind. ALAND was one of the words in the English document,
one that hitherto we had translated _a terre_, and which must have been
the termination of the proper noun, ZEALAND.”
“Indeed!” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, with profound conviction; “this meaning
had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my wits were exercised
naturally on the French document, as it was most complete, and in that
this important word was wanting.”
“Oh, oh!” said the Major; “your imagination goes too far, Paganel; and
you forget your former deductions.”
“Go on, Major; I am ready to answer you.”
“Well, then, what do you make of your word AUSTRA?”
“What it was at first. It merely means southern countries.”
“Well, and this syllable, INDI, which was first the root of the INDIANS,
and second the root of the word _indigenes?_”
“Well, the third and last time,” replied Paganel, “it will be the first
syllable of the word INDIGENCE.”
“And CONTIN?” cried McNabbs. “Does that still mean CONTINENT?”
“No; since New Zealand is only an island.”
“What then?” asked Glenarvan.
“My dear lord,” replied Paganel, “I am going to translate the document
according to my third interpretation, and you shall judge. I only make
two observations beforehand. First, forget as much as possible preceding
interpretations, and divest your mind of all preconceived notions.
Second, certain parts may appear to you strained, and it is possible
that I translate them badly; but they are of no importance; among
others, the word AGONIE, which chokes me; but I cannot find any other
explanation. Besides, my interpretation was founded on the French
document; and don’t forget it was written by an Englishman, who could
not be familiar with the idioms of the French language. Now then, having
said this much, I will begin.”
And slowly articulating each syllable, he repeated the following
sentences:
“LE 27th JUIN, 1862, _le trois-mats Britannia_, de _Glasgow, a sombre_
apres une longue AGONIE dans les mers AUSTRALES sur les cotes de la
Nouvelle ZELANDE--in English _Zealand. Deux matelots_ et le _Capitaine
Grant_ ont pu y ABORDER. La CONTINUellement en PRoie a une CRUELle
INDIgence, ils ont _jete ce document_ par--_de lon_gitude ET 37 degrees
11’ de LATItude. _Venex a leur_ secours, ou ils sont PERDUS!” (On the
27th of June, 1865, the three-mast vessel BRITANNIA, of Glasgow, has
foundered after a long AGOnie in the Southern Seas, on the coast of
New Zealand. Two sailors and Captain Grant have succeeded in landing.
Continually a prey to cruel indigence, they have thrown this document
into the sea in--longitude and 37 degrees 11’ latitude. Come to their
help, or they are lost.)
Paganel stopped. His interpretation was admissible. But precisely
because it appeared as likely as the preceding, it might be as false.
Glenarvan and the Major did not then try and discuss it. However,
since no traces of the BRITANNIA had yet been met with, either on the
Patagonian or Australian coasts, at the points where these countries are
crossed by the 37th parallel, the chances were in favor of New Zealand.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell me why you have kept this
interpretation secret for nearly two months?”
“Because I did not wish to buoy you up again with vain hopes. Besides,
we were going to Auckland, to the very spot indicated by the latitude of
the document.”
“But since then, when we were dragged out of the route, why did you not
speak?”
“Because, however just the interpretation, it could do nothing for the
deliverance of the captain.”
“Why not, Paganel?”
“Because, admitting that the captain was wrecked on the New Zealand
coast, now that two years have passed and he has not reappeared, he must
have perished by shipwreck or by the New Zealanders.”
“Then you are of the opinion,” said Glenarvan, “that--”
“That vestiges of the wreck might be found; but that the survivors of
the BRITANNIA have, beyond doubt, perished.”
“Keep all this silent, friends,” said Glenarvan, “and let me choose
a fitting moment to communicate these sad tidings to Captain Grant’s
children.”
CHAPTER XIX A CRY IN THE NIGHT
THE crew soon heard that no light had been thrown on the situation
of Captain Grant by the revelations of Ayrton, and it caused profound
disappointment among them, for they had counted on the quartermaster,
and the quartermaster knew nothing which could put the DUNCAN on the
right track.
The yacht therefore continued her course. They had yet to select the
island for Ayrton’s banishment.
Paganel and John Mangles consulted the charts on board, and exactly
on the 37th parallel found a little isle marked by the name of Maria
Theresa, a sunken rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, 3,500 miles
from the American coast, and 1,500 miles from New Zealand. The nearest
land on the north was the Archipelago of Pomotou, under the protectorate
of France; on the south there was nothing but the eternal ice-belt of
the Polar Sea. No ship would come to reconnoiter this solitary isle. No
echoes from the world would ever reach it. The storm birds only would
rest awhile on it during their long flight, and in many charts the rock
was not even marked.
If ever complete isolation was to be found on earth, it was on this
little out-of-the-way island. Ayrton was informed of its situation, and
expressed his willingness to live there apart from his fellows. The head
of the vessel was in consequence turned toward it immediately.
Two days later, at two o’clock, the man on watch signaled land on the
horizon. This was Maria Theresa, a low, elongated island, scarcely
raised above the waves, and looking like an enormous whale. It was still
thirty miles distant from the yacht, whose stem was rapidly cutting her
way over the water at the rate of sixteen knots an hour.
Gradually the form of the island grew more distinct on the horizon. The
orb of day sinking in the west, threw up its peculiar outlines in sharp
relief. A few peaks of no great elevation stood out here and there,
tipped with sunlight. At five o’clock John Mangles could discern a light
smoke rising from it.
“Is it a volcano?” he asked of Paganel, who was gazing at this new land
through his telescope.
“I don’t know what to think,” replied the geographer; “Maria Theresa
is a spot little known; nevertheless, it would not be surprising if its
origin were due to some submarine upheaval, and consequently it may be
volcanic.”
“But in that case,” said Glenarvan, “is there not reason to fear that if
an eruption produced it, an eruption may carry it away?”
“That is not possible,” replied Paganel. “We know of its existence for
several centuries, which is our security. When the Isle Julia emerged
from the Mediterranean, it did not remain long above the waves, and
disappeared a few months after its birth.”
“Very good,” said Glenarvan. “Do you think, John, we can get there
to-night?”
“No, your honor, I must not risk the DUNCAN in the dark, for I am
unacquainted with the coast. I will keep under steam, but go very
slowly, and to-morrow, at daybreak, we can send off a boat.”
At eight o’clock in the evening, Maria Theresa, though five miles to
leeward, appeared only an elongated shadow, scarcely visible. The DUNCAN
was always getting nearer.
At nine o’clock, a bright glare became visible, and flames shot up
through the darkness. The light was steady and continued.
“That confirms the supposition of a volcano,” said Paganel, observing it
attentively.
“Yet,” replied John Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the
noise which always accompanies an eruption, and the east wind brings no
sound whatever to our ear.”
“That’s true,” said Paganel. “It is a volcano that blazes, but does
not speak. The gleam seems intermittent too, sometimes, like that of a
lighthouse.”
“You are right,” said John Mangles, “and yet we are not on a lighted
coast.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “another fire? On the shore this time! Look! It
moves! It has changed its place!”
John was not mistaken. A fresh fire had appeared, which seemed to die
out now and then, and suddenly flare up again.
“Is the island inhabited then?” said Glenarvan.
“By savages, evidently,” replied Paganel.
“But in that case, we cannot leave the quartermaster there.”
“No,” replied the Major, “he would be too bad a gift even to bestow on
savages.”
“We must find some other uninhabited island,” said Glenarvan, who could
not help smiling at the delicacy of McNabbs. “I promised Ayrton his
life, and I mean to keep my promise.”
“At all events, don’t let us trust them,” added Paganel. “The New
Zealanders have the barbarous custom of deceiving ships by moving
lights, like the wreckers on the Cornish coast in former times. Now the
natives of Maria Theresa may have heard of this proceeding.”
“Keep her off a point,” called out John to the man at the helm.
“To-morrow at sunrise we shall know what we’re about.”
At eleven o’clock, the passengers and John Mangles retired to their
cabins. In the forepart of the yacht the man on watch was pacing the
deck, while aft, there was no one but the man at the wheel.
At this moment Mary Grant and Robert came on the poop.
The two children of the captain, leaning over the rail, gazed sadly at
the phosphorescent waves and the luminous wake of the DUNCAN. Mary was
thinking of her brother’s future, and Robert of his sister’s. Their
father was uppermost in the minds of both. Was this idolized parent
still in existence? Must they give him up? But no, for what would life
be without him? What would become of them without him? What would have
become of them already, but for Lord Glenarvan and Lady Helena?
The young boy, old above his years through trouble, divined the thoughts
that troubled his sister, and taking her hand in his own, said, “Mary,
we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father gave us. Keep
your courage up and no matter what befalls you, let us show this
obstinate courage which can rise above everything. Up to this time,
sister, you have been working for me, it is my turn now, and I will work
for you.”
“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.
“I must tell you something,” resumed Robert. “You mustn’t be vexed,
Mary!”
“Why should I be vexed, my child?”
“And you will let me do it?”
“What do you mean?” said Mary, getting uneasy.
“Sister, I am going to be a sailor!”
“You are going to leave me!” cried the young girl, pressing her
brother’s hand.
“Yes, sister; I want to be a sailor, like my father and Captain John.
Mary, dear Mary, Captain John has not lost all hope, he says. You have
confidence in his devotion to us, and so have I. He is going to make a
grand sailor out of me some day, he has promised me he will; and then
we are going to look for our father together. Tell me you are willing,
sister mine. What our father would have done for us it is our duty,
mine, at least, to do for him. My life has one purpose to which it
should be entirely consecrated--that is to search, and never cease
searching for my father, who would never have given us up. Ah, Mary, how
good our father was!”
“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, he was
already a glory to our country, and that he would have been numbered
among our great men if fate had not arrested his course.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Robert.
Mary put her arm around the boy, and hugged him fondly as he felt her
tears fall on his forehead.
“Mary, Mary!” he cried, “it doesn’t matter what our friends say, I still
hope, and will always hope. A man like my father doesn’t die till he has
finished his work.”
Mary Grant could not reply. Sobs choked her voice. A thousand feelings
struggled in her breast at the news that fresh attempts were about to be
made to recover Harry Grant, and that the devotion of the captain was so
unbounded.
“And does Mr. John still hope?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Robert. “He is a brother that will never forsake us,
never! I will be a sailor, you’ll say yes, won’t you, sister? And let me
join him in looking for my father. I am sure you are willing.”
“Yes, I am willing,” said Mary. “But the separation!” she murmured.
“You will not be alone, Mary, I know that. My friend John told me so.
Lady Helena will not let you leave her. You are a woman; you can and
should accept her kindness. To refuse would be ungrateful, but a man, my
father has said a hundred times, must make his own way.”
“But what will become of our own dear home in Dundee, so full of
memories?”
“We will keep it, little sister! All that is settled, and settled so
well, by our friend John, and also by Lord Glenarvan. He is to keep you
at Malcolm Castle as if you were his daughter. My Lord told my friend
John so, and he told me. You will be at home there, and have someone to
speak to about our father, while you are waiting till John and I bring
him back to you some day. Ah! what a grand day that will be!” exclaimed
Robert, his face glowing with enthusiasm.
“My boy, my brother,” replied Mary, “how happy my father would be if he
could hear you. How much you are like him, dear Robert, like our dear,
dear father. When you grow up you’ll be just himself.”
“I hope I may,” said Robert, blushing with filial and sacred pride.
“But how shall we requite Lord and Lady Glenarvan?” said Mary Grant.
“Oh, that will not be difficult,” replied Robert, with boyish
confidence. “We will love and revere them, and we will tell them so; and
we will give them plenty of kisses, and some day, when we can get the
chance, we will die for them.”
“We’ll live for them, on the contrary,” replied the young girl, covering
her brother’s forehead with kisses. “They will like that better, and so
shall I.”
The two children then relapsed into silence, gazing out into the dark
night, and giving way to long reveries, interrupted occasionally by a
question or remark from one to the other. A long swell undulated the
surface of the calm sea, and the screw turned up a luminous furrow in
the darkness.
A strange and altogether supernatural incident now occurred. The brother
and sister, by some of those magnetic communications which link souls
mysteriously together, were the subjects at the same time and the same
instant of the same hallucination.
Out of the midst of these waves, with their alternations of light
and shadow, a deep plaintive voice sent up a cry, the tones of which
thrilled through every fiber of their being.
“Come! come!” were the words which fell on their ears.
They both started up and leaned over the railing, and peered into the
gloom with questioning eyes.
“Mary, you heard that? You heard that?” cried Robert.
But they saw nothing but the long shadow that stretched before them.
“Robert,” said Mary, pale with emotion, “I thought--yes, I thought as
you did, that--We must both be ill with fever, Robert.”
A second time the cry reached them, and this time the illusion was so
great, that they both exclaimed simultaneously, “My father! My father!”
It was too much for Mary. Overcome with emotion, she fell fainting into
Robert’s arms.
“Help!” shouted Robert. “My sister! my father! Help! Help!”
The man at the wheel darted forward to lift up the girl. The sailors on
watch ran to assist, and John Mangles, Lady Helena, and Glenarvan were
hastily roused from sleep.
“My sister is dying, and my father is there!” exclaimed Robert, pointing
to the waves.
They were wholly at a loss to understand him.
“Yes!” he repeated, “my father is there! I heard my father’s voice; Mary
heard it too!”
Just at this moment, Mary Grant recovering consciousness, but wandering
and excited, called out, “My father! my father is there!”
And the poor girl started up, and leaning over the side of the yacht,
wanted to throw herself into the sea.
“My Lord--Lady Helena!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “I tell you
my father is there! I can declare that I heard his voice come out of the
waves like a wail, as if it were a last adieu.”
The young girl went off again into convulsions and spasms, which became
so violent that she had to be carried to her cabin, where Lady Helena
lavished every care on her. Robert kept on repeating, “My father! my
father is there! I am sure of it, my Lord!”
The spectators of this painful scene saw that the captain’s children
were laboring under an hallucination. But how were they to be
undeceived?
Glenarvan made an attempt, however. He took Robert’s hand, and said,
“You say you heard your father’s voice, my dear boy?”
“Yes, my Lord; there, in the middle of the waves. He cried out, ‘Come!
come!’”
“And did you recognize his voice?”
“Yes, I recognized it immediately. Yes, yes; I can swear to it! My
sister heard it, and recognized it as well. How could we both be
deceived? My Lord, do let us go to my father’s help. A boat! a boat!”
Glenarvan saw it was impossible to undeceive the poor boy, but he tried
once more by saying to the man at the wheel:
“Hawkins, you were at the wheel, were you not, when Miss Mary was so
strangely attacked?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Hawkins.
“And you heard nothing, and saw nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Now Robert, see?”
“If it had been Hawkins’s father,” returned the boy, with indomitable
energy, “Hawkins would not say he had heard nothing. It was my father,
my lord! my father.”
Sobs choked his voice; he became pale and silent, and presently fell
down insensible, like his sister.
Glenarvan had him carried to his bed, where he lay in a deep swoon.
“Poor orphans,” said John Mangles. “It is a terrible trial they have to
bear!”
“Yes,” said Glenarvan; “excessive grief has produced the same
hallucination in both of them, and at the same time.”
“In both of them!” muttered Paganel; “that’s strange, and pure science
would say inadmissible.”
He leaned over the side of the vessel, and listened attentively, making
a sign to the rest to keep still.
But profound silence reigned around. Paganel shouted his loudest. No
response came.
“It is strange,” repeated the geographer, going back to his cabin.
“Close sympathy in thought and grief does not suffice to explain this
phenomenon.”
Next day, March 4, at 5 A. M., at dawn, the passengers, including Mary
and Robert, who would not stay behind, were all assembled on the poop,
each one eager to examine the land they had only caught a glimpse of the
night before.
The yacht was coasting along the island at the distance of about a mile,
and its smallest details could be seen by the eye.
Suddenly Robert gave a loud cry, and exclaimed he could see two men
running about and gesticulating, and a third was waving a flag.
“The Union Jack,” said John Mangles, who had caught up a spy-glass.
“True enough,” said Paganel, turning sharply round toward Robert.
“My Lord,” said Robert, trembling with emotion, “if you don’t want me to
swim to the shore, let a boat be lowered. Oh, my Lord, I implore you to
let me be the first to land.”
No one dared to speak. What! on this little isle, crossed by the 37th
parallel, there were three men, shipwrecked Englishmen! Instantaneously
everyone thought of the voice heard by Robert and Mary the preceding
night. The children were right, perhaps, in the affirmation. The sound
of a voice might have reached them, but this voice--was it their
father’s? No, alas, most assuredly no. And as they thought of the
dreadful disappointment that awaited them, they trembled lest this new
trial should crush them completely. But who could stop them from going
on shore? Lord Glenarvan had not the heart to do it.
“Lower a boat,” he called out.
Another minute and the boat was ready. The two children of Captain
Grant, Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel, rushed into it, and six
sailors, who rowed so vigorously that they were presently almost close
to the shore.
At ten fathoms’ distance a piercing cry broke from Mary’s lips.
“My father!” she exclaimed.
A man was standing on the beach, between two others. His tall, powerful
form, and his physiognomy, with its mingled expression of boldness and
gentleness, bore a resemblance both to Mary and Robert. This was indeed
the man the children had so often described. Their hearts had not
deceived them. This was their father, Captain Grant!
The captain had heard Mary’s cry, for he held out his arms, and fell
flat on the sand, as if struck by a thunderbolt.
CHAPTER XX CAPTAIN GRANT’S STORY
JOY does not kill, for both father and children recovered before they
had reached the yacht. The scene which followed, who can describe?
Language fails. The whole crew wept aloud at the sight of these three
clasped together in a close, silent embrace.
The moment Harry Grant came on deck, he knelt down reverently. The pious
Scotchman’s first act on touching the yacht, which to him was the soil
of his native land, was to return thanks to the God of his deliverance.
Then, turning to Lady Helena and Lord Glenarvan, and his companions,
he thanked them in broken words, for his heart was too full to speak.
During the short passage from the isle to the yacht, his children had
given him a brief sketch of the DUNCAN’S history.
What an immense debt he owed to this noble lady and her friends!
From Lord Glenarvan, down to the lowest sailor on board, how all had
struggled and suffered for him! Harry Grant expressed his gratitude with
such simplicity and nobleness, his manly face suffused with pure and
sweet emotion, that the whole crew felt amply recompensed for the trials
they had undergone. Even the impassable Major himself felt a tear steal
down his cheek in spite of all his self-command; while the good, simple
Paganel cried like a child who does not care who sees his tears.
Harry Grant could not take his eyes off his daughter. He thought her
beautiful, charming; and he not only said so to himself, but repeated it
aloud, and appealed to Lady Helena for confirmation of his opinion,
as if to convince himself that he was not blinded by his paternal
affection. His boy, too, came in for admiration. “How he has grown!
he is a man!” was his delighted exclamation. And he covered the two
children so dear to him with the kisses he had been heaping up for them
during his two years of absence.
Robert then presented all his friends successively, and found means
always to vary the formula of introduction, though he had to say the
same thing about each. The fact was, each and all had been perfect in
the children’s eyes.
John Mangles blushed like a child when his turn came, and his voice
trembled as he spoke to Mary’s father.
Lady Helena gave Captain Grant a narrative of the voyage, and made
him proud of his son and daughter. She told him of the young hero’s
exploits, and how the lad had already paid back part of the paternal
debt to Lord Glenarvan. John Mangles sang Mary’s praises in such terms,
that Harry Grant, acting on a hint from Lady Helena, put his daughter’s
hand into that of the brave young captain, and turning to Lord and Lady
Glenarvan, said: “My Lord, and you, Madam, also give your blessing to
our children.”
When everything had been said and re-said over and over again, Glenarvan
informed Harry Grant about Ayrton. Grant confirmed the quartermaster’s
confession as far as his disembarkation on the coast of Australia was
concerned.
“He is an intelligent, intrepid man,” he added, “whose passions have led
him astray. May reflection and repentance bring him to a better mind!”
But before Ayrton was transferred, Harry Grant wished to do the honors
of his rock to his friends. He invited them to visit his wooden house,
and dine with him in Robinson Crusoe fashion.
Glenarvan and his friends accepted the invitation most willingly. Robert
and Mary were eagerly longing to see the solitary house where their
father had so often wept at the thought of them. A boat was manned, and
the Captain and his two children, Lord and Lady Glenarvan, the Major,
John Mangles, and Paganel, landed on the shores of the island.
A few hours sufficed to explore the whole domain of Harry Grant. It
was in fact the summit of a submarine mountain, a plateau composed of
basaltic rocks and volcanic DEBRIS. During the geological epochs of
the earth, this mountain had gradually emerged from the depths of the
Pacific, through the action of the subterranean fires, but for ages back
the volcano had been a peaceful mountain, and the filled-up crater, an
island rising out of the liquid plain. Then soil formed. The vegetable
kingdom took possession of this new land. Several whalers landed
domestic animals there in passing; goats and pigs, which multiplied and
ran wild, and the three kingdoms of nature were now displayed on this
island, sunk in mid ocean.
When the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA took refuge there, the
hand of man began to organize the efforts of nature. In two years and
a half, Harry Grant and his two sailors had metamorphosed the island.
Several acres of well-cultivated land were stocked with vegetables of
excellent quality.
The house was shaded by luxuriant gum-trees. The magnificent ocean
stretched before the windows, sparkling in the sunlight. Harry Grant
had the table placed beneath the grand trees, and all the guests seated
themselves. A hind quarter of a goat, nardou bread, several bowls of
milk, two or three roots of wild endive, and pure fresh water, composed
the simple repast, worthy of the shepherds of Arcadia.
Paganel was enchanted. His old fancies about Robinson Crusoe revived in
full force. “He is not at all to be pitied, that scoundrel, Ayrton!” he
exclaimed, enthusiastically. “This little isle is just a paradise!”
“Yes,” replied Harry Grant, “a paradise to these poor, shipwrecked
fellows that Heaven had pity on, but I am sorry that Maria Theresa was
not an extensive and fertile island, with a river instead of a stream,
and a port instead of a tiny bay exposed to the open sea.”
“And why, captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“Because I should have made it the foundation of the colony with which I
mean to dower Scotland.”
“Ah, Captain Grant, you have not given up the project, then, which made
you so popular in our old country?”
“No, my Lord, and God has only saved me through your efforts that I
might accomplish my task. My poor brothers in old Caledonia, all who are
needy must have a refuge provided for them in another land against their
misery, and my dear country must have a colony of her own, for herself
alone, somewhere in these seas, where she may find that independence and
comfort she so lacks in Europe.”
“Ah, that is very true, Captain Grant,” said Lady Helena. “This is a
grand project of yours, and worthy of a noble heart. But this little
isle--”
“No, madam, it is a rock only fit at most to support a few settlers;
while what we need is a vast country, whose virgin soil abounds in
untouched stores of wealth,” replied the captain.
“Well, captain,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “the future is ours, and this
country we will seek for together.”
And the two brave Scotchmen joined hands in a hearty grip and so sealed
the compact.
A general wish was expressed to hear, while they were on the island, the
account of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA, and of the two years spent by
the survivors in this very place. Harry Grant was delighted to gratify
their curiosity, and commenced his narration forthwith.
“My story,” he said, “is that of all the Robinson Crusoes cast upon an
island, with only God and themselves to rely on, and feeling it a duty
to struggle for life with the elements.
“It was during the night of the 26th or 27th of June, 1862, that the
BRITANNIA, disabled by a six days’ storm, struck against the rocks of
Maria Theresa. The sea was mountains high, and lifeboats were useless.
My unfortunate crew all perished, except Bob Learce and Joe Bell, who
with myself managed to reach shore after twenty unsuccessful attempts.
“The land which received us was only an uninhabited island, two miles
broad and five long, with about thirty trees in the interior, a few
meadows, and a brook of fresh water, which fortunately never dried up.
Alone with my sailors, in this corner of the globe, I did not despair.
I put my trust in God, and accustomed myself to struggle resolutely for
existence. Bob and Joe, my brave companions in misfortune, my friends,
seconded me energetically.
“We began like the fictitious Robinson Crusoe of Defoe, our model,
by collecting the planks of the ship, the tools, a little powder, and
firearms, and a bag of precious seeds. The first few days were painful
enough, but hunting and fishing soon afforded us a sure supply of food,
for wild goats were in abundance in the interior of the island, and
marine animals abounded on the coast. By degrees we fell into regular
ways and habits of life.
“I had saved my instruments from the wreck, and knew exactly the
position of the island. I found we were out of the route of vessels, and
could not be rescued unless by some providential chance. I accepted
our trying lot composedly, always thinking, however, of my dear ones,
remembering them every day in my prayers, though never hoping to see
them again.
“However, we toiled on resolutely, and before long several acres of land
were sown with the seed off the BRITANNIA; potatoes, endive, sorrel, and
other vegetables besides, gave wholesome variety to our daily fare.
We caught some young kids, which soon grew quite tame. We had milk and
butter. The nardou, which grew abundantly in dried up creeks, supplied
us with tolerably substantial bread, and we had no longer any fears for
our material life.
“We had built a log hut with the DEBRIS of the BRITANNIA, and this was
covered over with sail cloth, carefully tarred over, and beneath this
secure shelter the rainy season passed comfortably. Many a plan was
discussed here, and many a dream indulged in, the brightest of which is
this day realized.
“I had at first the idea of trying to brave the perils of the ocean in a
canoe made out of the spars of the ship, but 1,500 miles lay between us
and the nearest coast, that is to say the islands of the Archipelago
of Pomotou. No boat could have stood so long a voyage. I therefore
relinquished my scheme, and looked for no deliverance except from a
divine hand.
“Ah, my poor children! how often we have stood on the top of the rocks
and watched the few vessels passing in the distance far out at sea.
During the whole period of our exile only two or three vessels appeared
on the horizon, and those only to disappear again immediately. Two years
and a half were spent in this manner. We gave up hoping, but yet did not
despair. At last, early yesterday morning, when I was standing on the
highest peak of the island, I noticed a light smoke rising in the west.
It increased, and soon a ship appeared in sight. It seemed to be coming
toward us. But would it not rather steer clear of an island where there
was no harbor.
“Ah, what a day of agony that was! My heart was almost bursting. My
comrades kindled a fire on one of the peaks. Night came on, but no
signal came from the yacht. Deliverance was there, however. Were we to
see it vanish from our eyes?
“I hesitated no longer. The darkness was growing deeper. The ship might
double the island during the night. I jumped into the sea, and attempted
to make my way toward it. Hope trebled my strength, I cleft the waves
with superhuman vigor, and had got so near the yacht that I was scarcely
thirty fathoms off, when it tacked about.
“This provoked me to the despairing cry, which only my two children
heard. It was no illusion.
“Then I came back to the shore, exhausted and overcome with emotion and
fatigue. My two sailors received me half dead. It was a horrible night
this last we spent on the island, and we believed ourselves abandoned
forever, when day dawned, and there was the yacht sailing nearly
alongside, under easy steam. Your boat was lowered--we were saved--and,
oh, wonder of Divine goodness, my children, my beloved children, were
there holding out their arms to me!”
Robert and Mary almost smothered their father with kisses and caresses
as he ended his narrative.
It was now for the first time that the captain heard that he owed his
deliverance to the somewhat hieroglyphical document which he had placed
in a bottle and confined to the mercy of the ocean.
But what were Jacques Paganel’s thoughts during Captain Grant’s recital?
The worthy geographer was turning over in his brain for the thousandth
time the words of the document. He pondered his three successive
interpretations, all of which had proved false. How had this island,
called Maria Theresa, been indicated in the papers originally?
At last Paganel could contain himself no longer, and seizing Harry
Grant’s hand, he exclaimed:
“Captain! will you tell me at last what really was in your
indecipherable document?”
A general curiosity was excited by this question of the geographer,
for the enigma which had been for nine months a mystery was about to be
explained.
“Well, captain,” repeated Paganel, “do you remember the precise words of
the document?”
“Exactly,” replied Harry Grant; “and not a day has passed without my
recalling to memory words with which our last hopes were linked.”
“And what are they, captain?” asked Glenarvan. “Speak, for our _amour
propre_ is wounded to the quick!”
“I am ready to satisfy you,” replied Harry Grant; “but, you know, to
multiply the chances of safety, I had inclosed three documents in the
bottle, in three different languages. Which is it you wish to hear?”
“They are not identical, then?” cried Paganel.
“Yes, they are, almost to a word.”
“Well, then, let us have the French document,” replied Glenarvan. “That
is the one that is most respected by the waves, and the one on which our
interpretations have been mostly founded.”
“My Lord, I will give it you word for word,” replied Harry Grant.
“LE 27 JUIN, 1862, _le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, s’est perdu a
quinze cents lieues de la Patagonie, dans l’hemisphere austral. Partes a
terre, deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont atteint l’ile Tabor_--”
“Oh!” exclaimed Paganel.
“LA,” continued Harry Grant, “_continuellement en proie a une cruelle
indigence, ils ont jete ce document par_ 153 degrees _de longitude et_
37 degrees 11’ _de latitude. Venes a leur secours, ou ils sont perdus_.”
At the name of Tabor, Paganel had started up hastily, and now being
unable to restrain himself longer, he called out:
“How can it be Isle Tabor? Why, this is Maria Theresa!”
“Undoubtedly, Monsieur Paganel,” replied Harry Grant. “It is Maria
Theresa on the English and German charts, but is named Tabor on the
French ones!”
At this moment a vigorous thump on Paganel’s shoulder almost bent him
double. Truth obliges us to say it was the Major that dealt the blow,
though strangely contrary to his usual strict politeness.
“Geographer!” said McNabbs, in a tone of the most supreme contempt.
But Paganel had not even felt the Major’s hand. What was that compared
to the geographical blow which had stunned him?
He had been gradually getting nearer the truth, however, as he learned
from Captain Grant. He had almost entirely deciphered the indecipherable
document. The names Patagonia, Australia, New Zealand, had appeared to
him in turn with absolute certainty. CONTIN, at first CONTINENT, had
gradually reached its true meaning, _continuelle. Indi_ had successively
signified _indiens, indigenes_, and at last the right word was
found--INDIGENCE. But one mutilated word, ABOR, had baffled the
geographer’s sagacity. Paganel had persisted in making it the root of
the verb ABORDER, and it turned out to be a proper name, the French name
of the Isle Tabor, the isle which had been a refuge for the shipwrecked
sailors of the BRITANNIA. It was difficult to avoid falling into the
error, however, for on the English planispheres on the DUNCAN, the
little isle was marked Maria Theresa.
“No matter?” cried Paganel, tearing his hair; “I ought not to have
forgotten its double appellation. It is an unpardonable mistake, one
unworthy of a secretary of the Geographical Society. I am disgraced!”
“Come, come, Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena; “moderate your grief.”
“No, madam, no; I am a mere ass!”
“And not even a learned one!” added the Major, by way of consolation.
When the meal was over, Harry Grant put everything in order in his
house. He took nothing away, wishing the guilty to inherit the riches
of the innocent. Then they returned to the vessel, and, as Glenarvan
had determined to start the same day, he gave immediate orders for the
disembarkation of the quartermaster. Ayrton was brought up on the poop,
and found himself face to face with Harry Grant.
“It is I, Ayrton!” said Grant
“Yes, it is you, captain,” replied Ayrton, without the least sign of
surprise at Harry Grant’s recovery. “Well, I am not sorry to see you
again in good health.”
“It seems, Ayrton, that I made a mistake in landing you on an inhabited
coast.”
“It seems so, captain.”
“You are going to take my place on this uninhabited island. May Heaven
give you repentance!”
“Amen,” said Ayrton, calmly.
Glenarvan then addressed the quartermaster.
“It is still your wish, then, Ayrton, to be left behind?”
“Yes, my Lord!”
“And Isle Tabor meets your wishes?”
“Perfectly.”
“Now then, listen to my last words, Ayrton. You will be cut off here
from all the world, and no communication with your fellows is possible.
Miracles are rare, and you will not be able to quit this isle. You will
be alone, with no eye upon you but that of God, who reads the deepest
secrets of the heart; but you will be neither lost nor forsaken, as
Captain Grant was. Unworthy as you are of anyone’s remembrance, you will
not be dropped out of recollection. I know where you are, Ayrton; I know
where to find you--I shall never forget.”
“God keep your Honor,” was all Ayrton’s reply.
These were the final words exchanged between Glenarvan and the
quartermaster. The boat was ready and Ayrton got into it.
John Mangles had previously conveyed to the island several cases of
preserved food, besides clothing, and tools and firearms, and a supply
of powder and shot. The quartermaster could commence a new life of
honest labor. Nothing was lacking, not even books; among others, the
Bible, so dear to English hearts.
The parting hour had come. The crew and all the passengers were
assembled on deck. More than one felt his heart swell with emotion. Mary
Grant and Lady Helena could not restrain their feelings.
“Must it be done?” said the young wife to her husband. “Must the poor
man be left there?”
“He must, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “It is in expiation of his
crimes.”
At that moment the boat, in charge of John Mangles, turned away. Ayrton,
who remained standing, and still unmoved, took off his cap and bowed
gravely.
Glenarvan uncovered, and all the crew followed his example, as if
in presence of a man who was about to die, and the boat went off in
profound silence.
On reaching land, Ayrton jumped on the sandy shore, and the boat
returned to the yacht. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and
from the poop the passengers could see the quartermaster gazing at the
ship, standing with folded arms on a rock, motionless as a statue.
“Shall we set sail, my Lord?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, John,” replied Glenarvan, hastily, more moved than he cared to
show.
“Go on!” shouted John to the engineer.
The steam hissed and puffed out, the screw began to stir the waves, and
by eight o’clock the last peaks of Isle Tabor disappeared in the shadows
of the night.
CHAPTER XXI PAGANEL’S LAST ENTANGLEMENT
ON the 19th of March, eleven days after leaving the island, the DUNCAN
sighted the American coast, and next day dropped anchor in the bay of
Talcahuano. They had come back again after a voyage of five months,
during which, and keeping strictly along the 37th parallel, they had
gone round the world. The passengers in this memorable expedition,
unprecedented in the annals of the Travelers’ Club, had visited Chili,
the Pampas, the Argentine Republic, the Atlantic, the island of Tristan
d’Acunha, the Indian Ocean, Amsterdam Island, Australia, New Zealand,
Isle Tabor, and the Pacific. Their search had not been fruitless, for
they were bringing back the survivors of the shipwrecked BRITANNIA.
Not one of the brave Scots who set out at the summons of their chief,
but could answer to their names; all were returning to their old Scotia.
As soon as the DUNCAN had re-provisioned, she sailed along the coast
of Patagonia, doubled Cape Horn, and made a swift run up the Atlantic
Ocean. No voyage could be more devoid of incident. The yacht was simply
carrying home a cargo of happiness. There was no secret now on board,
not even John Mangles’s attachment to Mary Grant.
Yes, there was one mystery still, which greatly excited McNabbs’s
curiosity. Why was it that Paganel remained always hermetically fastened
up in his clothes, with a big comforter round his throat and up to his
very ears? The Major was burning with desire to know the reason of
this singular fashion. But in spite of interrogations, allusions, and
suspicions on the part of McNabbs, Paganel would not unbutton.
Not even when the DUNCAN crossed the line, and the heat was so great
that the seams of the deck were melting. “He is so DISTRAIT that
he thinks he is at St. Petersburg,” said the Major, when he saw the
geographer wrapped in an immense great-coat, as if the mercury had been
frozen in the thermometer.
At last on the 9th of May, fifty-three days from the time of leaving
Talcahuano, John Mangles sighted the lights of Cape Clear. The yacht
entered St. George’s Channel, crossed the Irish Sea, and on the 10th
of May reached the Firth of Clyde. At 11 o’clock she dropped anchor off
Dunbarton, and at 2 P.M. the passengers arrived at Malcolm Castle amidst
the enthusiastic cheering of the Highlanders.
As fate would have it then, Harry Grant and his two companions were
saved. John Mangles wedded Mary Grant in the old cathedral of St. Mungo,
and Mr. Paxton, the same clergyman who had prayed nine months before for
the deliverance of the father, now blessed the marriage of his daughter
and his deliverer. Robert was to become a sailor like Harry Grant and
John Mangles, and take part with them in the captain’s grand projects,
under the auspices of Lord Glenarvan.
But fate also decreed that Paganel was not to die a bachelor? Probably
so.
The fact was, the learned geographer after his heroic exploits, could
not escape celebrity. His blunders made quite a FURORE among the
fashionables of Scotland, and he was overwhelmed with courtesies.
It was then that an amiable lady, about thirty years of age, in fact,
a cousin of McNabbs, a little eccentric herself, but good and still
charming, fell in love with the geographer’s oddities, and offered
him her hand. Forty thousand pounds went with it, but that was not
mentioned.
Paganel was far from being insensible to the sentiments of Miss
Arabella, but yet he did not dare to speak. It was the Major who was the
medium of communication between these two souls, evidently made for
each other. He even told Paganel that his marriage was the last freak
he would be able to allow himself. Paganel was in a great state of
embarrassment, but strangely enough could not make up his mind to speak
the fatal word.
“Does not Miss Arabella please you then?” asked McNabbs.
“Oh, Major, she is charming,” exclaimed Paganel, “a thousand times too
charming, and if I must tell you all, she would please me better if she
were less so. I wish she had a defect!”
“Be easy on that score,” replied the Major, “she has, and more than one.
The most perfect woman in the world has always her quota. So, Paganel,
it is settled then, I suppose?”
“I dare not.”
“Come, now, my learned friend, what makes you hesitate?”
“I am unworthy of Miss Arabella,” was the invariable reply of the
geographer. And to this he would stick.
At last, one day being fairly driven in a corner by the intractable
Major, he ended by confiding to him, under the seal of secrecy, a
certain peculiarity which would facilitate his apprehension should the
police ever be on his track.
“Bah!” said the Major.
“It is really as I tell you,” replied Paganel.
“What does it matter, my worthy friend?”
“Do you think so, Major?”
“On the contrary, it only makes you more uncommon. It adds to your
personal merits. It is the very thing to make you the nonpareil husband
that Arabella dreams about.”
And the Major with imperturbable gravity left Paganel in a state of the
utmost disquietude.
A short conversation ensued between McNabbs and Miss Arabella. A
fortnight afterwards, the marriage was celebrated in grand style in
the chapel of Malcolm Castle. Paganel looked magnificent, but closely
buttoned up, and Miss Arabella was arrayed in splendor.
And this secret of the geographer would have been forever buried in
oblivion, if the Major had not mentioned it to Glenarvan, and he could
not hide it from Lady Helena, who gave a hint to Mrs. Mangles. To make
a long story short, it got in the end to M. Olbinett’s ears, and soon
became noised abroad.
Jacques Paganel, during his three days’ captivity among the Maories, had
been tattooed from the feet to the shoulders, and he bore on his chest a
heraldic kiwi with outspread wings, which was biting at his heart.
This was the only adventure of his grand voyage that Paganel could never
get over, and he always bore a grudge to New Zealand on account of
it. It was for this reason too, that, notwithstanding solicitation and
regrets, he never would return to France. He dreaded lest he should
expose the whole Geographical Society in his person to the jests
of caricaturists and low newspapers, by their secretary coming back
tattooed.
The return of the captain to Scotland was a national event, and Harry
Grant was soon the most popular man in old Caledonia. His son Robert
became a sailor like himself and Captain Mangles, and under the
patronage of Lord Glenarvan they resumed the project of founding a
Scotch colony in the Southern Seas.
Transcribers Note: I have made the following changes to the text:
PAGE LINE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO
5 31 drank drunk
13 22 shores. shores.”
13 27 Lady Glenarvan. Lord Glenarvan.
16 29 up ,Halbert.” up, Halbert.”
25 13 _sang froid_. SANG-FROID.
25 26 maneuvring maneuvering
31 12 unmistakingly unmistakably
34 19 Celedonian Caledonian
36 27 France. France.”
40 28 occular ocular
51 38 exceptions exception
52 6 prisoniers, prisonniers,
53 34 reconnoitred reconnoitered
54 38 Corientes Corrientes
56 10 Colts Colt’s
63 32 have attempted would have attempted
67 30 Mount Blanc. Mont Blanc.
67 36 Nevados Nevadas
62 38 impassible.” impassable.”
83 20 returns returned
83 38 Cameans, Camoens,
87 12 Argentile Argentine
96 25 sore of sort of
98 26 had drank had drunk
99 18 Vantana, Ventana,
100 21 drank drunk
102 19 minute’s minutes’
103 29 comrades’ comrade’s
104 21 them. them.”
104 24 _rio a ramada_ _rio a ramada_
109 21 time. time.”
110 34 wolf wolf;
112 33 never! never!”
113 38 RAMADO, RAMADA,
116 13 drank drunk
116 15 nandou NANDOU
118 30 estancias, ESTANCIAS,
120 28 TOLDERAI, TOLDERIA,
133 28 fugitive fugitives
134 21 tumultous tumultuous
135 21 hilgueros, HILGUEROS,
144 1 thegonie, theogonie,
144 30 Glascow Glasgow
144 36 prisoniers prisonniers
144 39 aplied applied
147 15 sub-species. sub-species.”
152 4 aproaching approaching
153 17 mation. mation.”
156 36 terra firma. _terra firma_.
159 1 Glenarvan. Glenarvan,
176 40 Mangle’s Mangles’
178 16 DEBRIS DEBRIS
180 8 ports port
187 33 Purday-Moore Purdy-Moore
190 5 longtitude longitude
191 37 warning warring
193 10 DENOUEMENT DENOUEMENT
195 19 rectillinear rectilinear
196 31 Pour “Pour
199 20 shipwrecked. shipwrecked
200 33 Britany. Britanny.
202 24 handsbreath. handsbreadth.
205 16 kow know
205 39 37 degrees” 37 degrees.”
206 42 Glasglow Glasgow
214 41 ROLE role
218 10 mounteback’s mountebank’s
219 18 day’s days’
222 13 monothremes; monotremes;
223 21 mleancholy melancholy
232 35 Glenarvan, Glenarvan
234 32 able but ible but
243 10 Pomoton?” Pomotou?”
243 37 Britanic Britannic
249 6 McNabb’s McNabbs
250 24 midst. mist.
251 40 but “but
253 29 terrestial terrestrial
256 11 his oasis, this oasis,
261 28 continuel continual
268 33 alluvion, alluvium,
271 26 aerial aerial
272 3 wagan, wagon,
272 7 gastralobium, gastrolobium,
272 34 Wimmero.” Wimmera.”
273 37 _sang _sang-
273 41 wo- woe-
274 40 two “two
280 11 disapepared. disappeared.
281 6 DENOUEMENT DENOUEMENT
281 13 Joye, Joyce,
282 29 It it It is
284 9 sorrrow, sorrow,
284 23 eurus emus
287 35 37 degree 37th degree
288 15 _sang froid_ _sang-froid_
312 29 wretches?” wretches!”
314 24 impassible. impassive.
316 41 fancy. fancy.”
326 35 impossisble impossible
327 41 him. him.”
335 27 patience. patience.”
339 15 1864. 1864.”
339 41 Tarankai Taranaki
340 10 Taranak Taranaki
341 15 Taranki Taranaki
347 11 Waikato?” Waikato!”
347 18 buscuit biscuit
348 30 irrefragable irrefragible
348 37 musquito. mosquito.
350 35 Adressing Addressing
352 42 lines of line of
356 41 Tohongo, Tohonga,
357 8 tuers tures
360 24 McNabb’s McNabbs’
364 20 orgie orgy
374 5 piron- Piron-
378 36 Ikana-Mani Ika-na-Mani
386 41 soup ,which soup, which
395 10 “moas’ “moas”
402 14 exciting excited
418 13 JUIN ,1862 JUIN, 1862
On page 390 I have omitted the following redundant line 40,
which properly begins page 391, as in the original text:
and his wonderful instinct shone out anew in this difficult
In addition, I have made the following changes to the chapter headings
and running heads:
PAGE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO
24 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
25 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
27 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
35 JAQUES JACQUES
37 JAQUES JACQUES
204 BRITANNIA “BRITANNIA”
398 DUNCAN “DUNCAN”
End of Project Gutenberg’s In Search of the Castaways, by Jules Verne