FOUR DAYS OF ANGUISH.
The rest of the day passed without any other incident. Everything was
ready for the departure of Mulready, who was happy to give his master
this proof of his devotion.
Paganel had regained his coolness and accustomed manners. His look
still indicated an uneasy state of mind, but he appeared decided to
keep his secret. He had doubtless strong reasons for acting thus,
for the major overheard him repeating these words, like a man who is
struggling with himself:
"No, no! they would not believe me! And, besides what use is it? It is
too late!"
[Illustration: "Adieu, my lord," said he, in a calm voice, and soon
disappeared by a path along the edge of the wood.]
This resolution taken, he occupied himself with giving Mulready the
necessary directions for reaching Melbourne, and, with the map before
him, marked out his course. All the trails of the prairie converged
towards the Lucknow road, which, after extending straight southward to
the coast, suddenly turned in the direction towards Melbourne. It was
simply necessary to follow this, and not attempt to cross the unknown
country. Mulready could not, therefore, go astray. As for dangers, they
lay only a few miles beyond the encampment, where Ben Joyce and his
band were probably lying in wait. This point once passed, Mulready was
sure he could easily distance the convicts and accomplish his important
mission.
At six o'clock supper was eaten in common. A heavy rain was falling.
The tent no longer afforded sufficient shelter, and each had taken
refuge in the cart, which was a safe retreat. The sticky clay held
it in its place as firm as a fort on its foundations. The fire-arms
consisted of seven rifles and seven revolvers, and thus enabled
them to sustain a long siege, for neither ammunition nor provisions
were wanting. In six days the Duncan would anchor in Twofold Bay.
Twenty-four hours after, her crew would reach the opposite bank of
the river; and, if the passage was not then practicable, at least the
convicts would be compelled to retreat before superior forces. But,
first of all, it was necessary that Mulready should succeed in his
enterprise.
At eight o'clock the darkness became intense. It was the time to start.
The horse was brought out. His feet had been muffled; as an additional
precaution, and made no sound. The animal seemed fatigued, but upon
his surefootedness and endurance depended the safety of all. The
major advised the sailor to spare his beast as soon as he was out of
reach of the convicts. It was better to lose half a day and reach his
destination safely. Captain Mangles gave him a revolver, which he had
loaded with the greatest care. Mulready mounted.
[Sidenote: A GLOOMY PROSPECT.]
"Here is the letter which you are to take to Tom Austin," said
Glenarvan. "Let him not lose an hour, but start for Twofold Bay; and,
if he does not find us there, if we have not crossed the river, let him
come to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and may God guide
you!"
Glenarvan, Lady Helena, Mary Grant, all clasped Mulready's hand. This
departure on a dark and stormy night, over a road beset with dangers,
across the unknown stretches of a desert, would have appalled a heart
less courageous than that of the sailor.
"Adieu, my lord," said he, in a calm voice, and soon disappeared by a
path along the edge of the wood.
At that moment the tempest redoubled its violence. The lofty branches
of the trees shook dismally in the darkness. You could hear the fall of
the dry twigs on the drenched earth. More than one giant tree, whose
sap was gone, but which had stood till then, fell during this terrible
hurricane. The wind roared amid the cracking of the trees and mingled
its mournful sounds with the rushing of the river. The heavy clouds
that chased across the sky poured forth masses of mist, while a dismal
darkness increased still more the horrors of the night.
The travelers, after Mulready's departure, ensconced themselves in the
cart. Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan, and Paganel occupied the
front compartment, which had been made water-tight. In the rear part
Olbinett, Wilson, and Robert had found a sufficient shelter, while the
major and Captain Mangles were on guard without. This precaution was
necessary, for an attack by the convicts was easy and possible.
These two faithful guardians, therefore, took turns and philosophically
received the blasts that blew sharply in their faces. They strove to
pierce with their eyes the shades so favorable for an ambuscade, for
the ear could detect nothing amid the din of the storm, the roaring of
the wind, the rattling of the branches, the fall of trees, and the
rushing of the impetuous waters.
In the mean time there were several lulls in the fury of the tempest,
the wind ceasing as if to take breath. The river only moaned adown
the motionless reeds and the black curtain of the gum-trees, and the
silence seemed more profound during these momentary rests. The major
and Captain Mangles now listened attentively. During one of these
intervals a sharp whistle reached their ears.
The captain hastened to the major. "Did you hear anything?" asked he.
"Yes," replied MacNabb. "Was it a man or an animal?"
"A man," said the captain.
They both listened again. The mysterious whistle was suddenly repeated,
and something like a report followed it, but almost inaudibly, for the
storm just then broke forth with renewed violence. They could not hear
themselves talk, and took their stations to leeward of the cart.
At this moment the leathern curtains were raised, and Glenarvan joined
his two companions. He likewise had heard the suspicious whistle, and
the report.
"From what direction?" he asked.
"Yonder," said the captain, pointing to the dark line, towards which
Mulready had gone.
"How far?"
"The wind carried it," was the reply. "It must be three miles distant
at least."
"Let us go!" said Glenarvan, throwing his rifle over his shoulder.
"No," interposed the major; "it is a decoy to entice us away from the
cart."
"But if Mulready has fallen beneath the shots of these wretches!"
continued Glenarvan, seizing MacNabb's hand.
"We shall know to-morrow," replied the latter, firmly determined to
prevent Glenarvan from committing a useless imprudence.
[Sidenote: A CRY IN THE NIGHT.]
"You cannot leave the encampment, my lord," said Captain Mangles; "I
will go alone."
"No!" cried MacNabb, with energy. "Will you have us, then, perish
singly, diminish our numbers, and be left to the mercy of these
criminals? If Mulready has been their victim, it is a calamity that we
must not repeat a second time. He has gone according to lot. If the lot
had chosen me, I should have gone like him, but should neither have
asked nor expected any assistance."
In restraining Glenarvan and Captain Mangles the major was right from
every point of view. To attempt to reach the sailor, to go on such
a dark night to meet the convicts, ambuscaded in some coppice, was
useless madness. Glenarvan's little party did not number enough men to
sacrifice any more.
However, Glenarvan seemed unwilling to yield to these reasons. His
hand played nervously with his rifle. He walked to and fro around the
cart; he listened to the least sound; he strove to pierce the dismal
obscurity. The thought that one of his friends was mortally wounded,
helplessly abandoned, calling in vain upon those for whose sake he
had sacrificed himself, tortured him. MacNabb feared that he should
not succeed in restraining him, that Glenarvan, carried away by his
feelings, would cast himself into the power of Ben Joyce.
"Edward," said he, "be calm; listen to a friend; think of Lady Helena,
Mary Grant, all who remain! Besides, where will you go? Where find
Mulready? He was attacked two miles distant at least. On what road?
What path take?"
At this very moment, as if in answer to the major, a cry of distress
was heard.
"Listen!" said Glenarvan.
The cry came from the very direction whence the report had sounded, but
less than a quarter of a mile distant. Glenarvan, pushing back MacNabb,
was advancing along the path, when, not far from the cart, these words
were uttered:
"Help! help!"
It was a plaintive and despairing voice. Captain Mangles and the major
rushed towards it. In a few moments they perceived, on the edge of
the coppice, a human form that was dragging itself along and groaning
piteously. It was Mulready, wounded and half dead. When his companions
raised him, they felt their hands dabbling in blood. The rain now
increased, and the wind howled through the branches of the dead trees.
In the midst of these terrific gusts, Glenarvan, the major, and the
captain bore the body of Mulready.
On arriving at the cart, Paganel, Robert, Wilson, and Olbinett came
out, and Lady Helena gave up her room to the poor sailor. The major
took off Mulready's vest, wet with blood and rain. He discovered the
wound. It was a poniard stab, which the unfortunate had received in his
right side.
MacNabb dressed it skillfully. Whether the weapon had reached the vital
parts, he could not say. A stream of bright-red blood spurted forth,
while the paleness and the swoon of the wounded man proved that he had
been seriously injured. The major accordingly placed upon the opening
of the wound, after first washing it with fresh water, a thick wad of
tinder, and then a few layers of lint, confined by a bandage, and thus
succeeded in stopping the hemorrhage. The patient was then laid on his
side, his head and breast raised, and Lady Helena gave him a refreshing
draught.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, the wounded man, who had been
motionless till then, made a movement. His eyes half opened, his lips
murmured disconnected words, and the major, putting down his ear, heard
him say:
"My lord--the letter--Ben Joyce----"
[Sidenote: A DAY OF DOUBT.]
The major repeated these words, and glanced at his companions. What did
Mulready mean? Ben Joyce had attacked the sailor, but why? Was it not
simply for the purpose of preventing him from reaching the Duncan? This
letter--Glenarvan examined the sailor's pockets. The letter addressed
to Tom Austin was gone.
The night passed in anxiety and anguish. They feared every moment that
the wounded man would die. A burning fever consumed him. Lady Helena
and Mary Grant, as though his sisters, did not leave him; never was
patient better nursed, or by more tender hands.
Day appeared. The rain had ceased. Heavy clouds still rolled along
the vault of the sky, and the earth was strewn with the fragments of
branches. The clay, soaked by floods of water, had yielded; and the
sides of the cart became unsteady, but sank no deeper.
Captain Mangles, Paganel, and Glenarvan took a tour of exploration
around the camp. They traversed the path still marked with blood, but
found no trace of Ben Joyce or his band. They went to the place where
the attack had been made. Here two corpses lay on the ground, shot
by Mulready. One was the farrier of Black Point. His face, which had
mortified, was a horrible sight.
Glenarvan did not pursue his investigations farther, prudence
forbidding. He therefore returned to the cart, much alarmed by the
seriousness of the situation.
"We cannot think of sending another messenger to Melbourne," said he.
"But we must," replied Captain Mangles; "and I will make the attempt,
since my sailor has failed."
"No, John. You have not even a horse to carry you these two hundred
miles."
Indeed, Mulready's horse, the only one that remained, had not
reappeared. Had he fallen beneath the shots of the murderers? Was he
running wild over the desert? Had the convicts captured him?
[Illustration: In the midst of these terrific gusts, Glenarvan, the
major, and the captain bore the body of Mulready.]
[Sidenote: RESOLUTION, AND RECOVERY.]
"Whatever happens," continued Glenarvan, "we will separate no more.
Let us wait eight or fifteen days, till the waters of the river resume
their natural level. We will then reach Twofold Bay by short journeys,
and from there send to the Duncan by a surer way the order to sail for
the coast."
"This is the only feasible plan," replied Paganel.
"Well, then, my friends," resumed Glenarvan, "no more separation! A
man risks too much to venture alone across this desert, infested with
bandits. And now may God save our poor sailor and protect ourselves!"
Glenarvan was right in both resolves, first to forbid any single
attempt to cross the plains, and next to wait patiently on the banks
of the river for a practicable passage. Scarcely thirty-five miles
separated them from Delegete, the first frontier town of New South
Wales, where they would find means of reaching Twofold Bay. From this
point he could telegraph his orders to the Duncan.
These measures were wise, but they had been adopted rather tardily. If
they had not sent Mulready with the letter, what misfortunes would have
been avoided, not to speak of the attack upon the sailor!
On arriving at the camp, Glenarvan found his companions less anxious;
they seemed to have regained hope.
"He is better!" cried Robert, running to meet him.
"Mulready?"
"Yes, Edward," replied Lady Helena. "A reaction has taken place. The
major is more encouraged. Our sailor will live."
"Where is MacNabb?" asked Glenarvan.
"With him. Mulready wished to speak with him. We must not disturb them."
Indeed, within an hour the wounded man had rallied from his swoon, and
the fever had diminished. But the sailor's first care, on recovering
memory and speech was to ask for Lord Glenarvan, or, in his absence,
the major MacNabb, seeing him so feeble, would have forbidden all
conversation; but Mulready insisted with such energy that he was forced
to yield. The interview had already lasted some time, and they were
only waiting for the major's report.
Soon the curtains of the cart moved, and he appeared. He joined his
friends at the foot of a gum-tree. His face, usually so calm, betokened
a serious anxiety. When his eyes encountered Lady Helena and the young
girl, they expressed a deep sadness. Glenarvan questioned him, and
learned what the sailor had related.
On leaving the encampment, Mulready had followed one of the paths
indicated by Paganel. He hastened, as much at least as the darkness of
the night permitted him. According to his estimate, he had traveled a
distance of about two miles, when several men--five, he thought--sprang
to his horse's head. The animal reared. Mulready seized his revolver
and fired. He thought that two of his assailants fell. By the flash of
the report, he recognized Ben Joyce, but that was all. He had not time
to fully discharge his weapon. A violent blow was struck upon his right
side, which brought him to the ground. However, he had not yet lost
consciousness. The assassins believed him dead. He felt them search
him. Then a conversation ensued. "I have the letter," said one of them.
"Give it to me," replied Ben Joyce; "and now the Duncan is ours!"
At this point in the story Glenarvan could not restrain a cry.
MacNabb continued:
[Sidenote: A HOPELESS CHANCE.]
"'Now, you others,' said Ben Joyce, 'catch the horse. In two days I
shall be on board the Duncan, and in six at Twofold Bay. There is the
place of meeting. The lord's party will be still fast in the marshes
of the Snowy. Cross the river at Kemple Pier bridge, go to the coast,
and wait for me. I will find means to bring you on board. With the
crew once at sea, and a vessel like the Duncan, we shall be masters
of the Indian Ocean.' 'Hurrah for Ben Joyce!' cried the convicts.
Mulready's horse was then led up, and Ben Joyce disappeared at a gallop
on the Lucknow road, while the band proceeded southeastward to the
Snowy River. Mulready, although severely wounded, had strength to drag
himself within two hundred paces of the encampment, where we picked him
up almost dead. This," added MacNabb, "is Mulready's sad story. You
understand now why the courageous sailor wished so much to speak."
This revelation terrified all.
"Pirates! pirates!" cried Glenarvan. "My crew massacred, my Duncan in
the hands of these bandits!"
"Yes, for Ben Joyce will surprise the vessel," replied the major, "and
then----"
"Well, we must reach the coast before these wretches," said Paganel.
"But how cross the Snowy?" asked Wilson.
"Like them," answered Glenarvan. "They will cross Kemple Pier bridge,
and we will do the same."
"But what will become of Mulready?" inquired Lady Helena.
"We will take turns in carrying him. Shall I give up my defenceless
crew to Ben Joyce's band?"
The plan of crossing Kemple Pier bridge was practicable, but perilous.
The convicts might locate themselves at this point to defend it. It
would be at least thirty against seven! But there are moments when we
do not think of these things, when we must advance at all hazards.
"My lord," said Captain Mangles, at length, "before risking our
last chance, before venturing towards the bridge, it is prudent to
reconnoitre it first. I will undertake this."
"I will accompany you, captain," replied Paganel.
[Sidenote: THE BURNED BRIDGE.]
This proposal was accepted, and the captain and Paganel prepared to
start immediately. They were to follow along the bank of the river till
they came to the place indicated by Ben Joyce, and keep out of sight
of the convicts, who were probably lying in wait. These two courageous
men accordingly, well furnished with arms and provisions, set out, and
soon disappeared among the tall rushes of the river.
[Illustration: The animal reared. Mulready seized his revolver and
fired.]
All day the little party waited for them. At evening they had not yet
returned, and great fears were entertained. At last, about eleven
o'clock, Wilson announced their approach. They arrived, worn out with
the fatigues of a six-mile journey.
"The bridge? Is it there?" asked Glenarvan, rushing to meet them.
"Yes, a bridge of rushes," said Captain Mangles. "The convicts passed,
it is true, but----"
"But what?" cried Glenarvan, who foresaw a new calamity.
"They burned it after their passage," replied Paganel.