In Search of the
Castaways
or
The Children of Captain Grant
South America
CHAPTER I THE SHARK
ON the 26th of July, 1864, a magnificent yacht was steaming
along the North Channel at full speed, with a strong breeze blowing from the
N. E. The Union Jack was flying at the mizzen-mast, and a blue standard
bearing the initials E. G., embroidered in gold, and surmounted by a ducal
coronet, floated from the topgallant head of the main-mast. The name of the
yacht was the DUNCAN, and the owner was Lord Glenarvan, one of the sixteen
Scotch peers who sit in the Upper House, and the most distinguished member
of the Royal Thames Yacht Club, so famous throughout the United Kingdom.
Lord Edward Glenarvan was on board with his young wife, Lady
Helena, and one of his cousins, Major McNabbs.
The DUNCAN was newly built, and had been making a trial trip
a few miles outside the Firth of Clyde. She was returning to Glasgow, and
the Isle of Arran already loomed in the distance, when the sailor on watch
caught sight of an enormous fish sporting in the wake of the ship. Lord
Edward, who was immediately apprised of the fact, came up on the poop a few
minutes after with his cousin, and asked John Mangles, the captain, what
sort of an animal he thought it was.
"Well, since your Lordship asks my opinion," said Mangles,
"I think it is a shark, and a fine large one too."
"A shark on these shores!"
"There is nothing at all improbable in that," returned the
captain. "This fish belongs to a species that is found in all latitudes and
in all seas. It is the 'balance-fish,' or hammer-headed shark, if I am not
much mistaken. But if your Lordship has no objections, and it would give the
smallest pleasure to Lady Helena to see a novelty in the way of fishing,
we'll soon haul up the monster and find out what it really is."
"What do you say, McNabbs? Shall we try to catch it?" asked
Lord Glenarvan.
"If you like; it's all one to me," was his cousin's cool
reply.
"The more of those terrible creatures that are killed the
better, at all events," said John Mangles, "so let's seize the chance, and
it will not only give us a little diversion, but be doing a good action."
"Very well, set to work, then," said Glenarvan.
Lady Helena soon joined her husband on deck, quite charmed
at the prospect of such exciting sport. The sea was splendid, and every
movement of the shark was distinctly visible. In obedience to the captain's
orders, the sailors threw a strong rope over the starboard side of the
yacht, with a big hook at the end of it, concealed in a thick lump of bacon.
The bait took at once, though the shark was full fifty yards distant. He
began to make rapidly for the yacht, beating the waves violently with his
fins, and keeping his tail in a perfectly straight line. As he got nearer,
his great projecting eyes could be seen inflamed with greed, and his gaping
jaws with their quadruple row of teeth. His head was large, and shaped like
a double hammer at the end of a handle. John Mangles was right. This was
evidently a balance-fish— the most voracious of all the SQUALIDAE species.
The passengers and sailors on the yacht were watching all
the animal's movements with the liveliest interest. He soon came within
reach of the bait, turned over on his back to make a good dart at it, and in
a second bacon and contents had disappeared. He had hooked himself now, as
the tremendous jerk he gave the cable proved, and the sailors began to haul
in the monster by means of tackle attached to the mainyard. He struggled
desperately, but his captors were prepared for his violence, and had a long
rope ready with a slip knot, which caught his tail and rendered him
powerless at once. In a few minutes more he was hoisted up over the side of
the yacht and thrown on the deck. A man came forward immediately, hatchet in
hand, and approaching him cautiously, with one powerful stroke cut off his
tail.
This ended the business, for there was no longer any fear of
the shark. But, though the sailors' vengeance was satisfied, their curiosity
was not; they knew the brute had no very delicate appetite, and the contents
of his stomach might be worth investigation. This is the common practice on
all ships when a shark is captured, but Lady Glenarvan declined to be
present at such a disgusting exploration, and withdrew to the cabin again.
The fish was still breathing; it measured ten feet in length, and weighed
more than six hundred pounds. This was nothing extraordinary, for though the
hammer-headed shark is not classed among the most gigantic of the species,
it is always reckoned among the most formidable.
The huge brute was soon ripped up in a very unceremonious
fashion. The hook had fixed right in the stomach, which was found to be
absolutely empty, and the disappointed sailors were just going to throw the
remains overboard, when the boatswain's attention was attracted by some
large object sticking fast in one of the viscera.
"I say! what's this?" he exclaimed.
"That!" replied one of the sailors, "why, it's a piece of
rock the beast swallowed by way of ballast."
"It's just a bottle, neither more nor less, that the fellow
has got in his inside, and couldn't digest," said another of the crew.
"Hold your tongues, all of you!" said Tom Austin, the mate
of the DUNCAN. "Don't you see the animal has been such an inveterate tippler
that he has not only drunk the wine, but swallowed the bottle?"
"What!" said Lord Glenarvan. "Do you mean to say it is a
bottle that the shark has got in his stomach."
"Ay, it is a bottle, most certainly," replied the boatswain,
"but not just from the cellar."
"Well, Tom, be careful how you take it out," said Lord
Glenarvan, "for bottles found in the sea often contain precious documents."
"Do you think this does?" said Major McNabbs, incredulously.
"It possibly may, at any rate."
"Oh! I'm not saying it doesn't. There may perhaps be some
secret in it," returned the Major.
"That's just what we're to see," said his cousin. "Well,
Tom."
"Here it is," said the mate, holding up a shapeless lump he
had managed to pull out, though with some difficulty.
"Get the filthy thing washed then, and bring it to the
cabin."
Tom obeyed, and in a few minutes brought in the bottle and
laid it on the table, at which Lord Glenarvan and the Major were sitting
ready with the captain, and, of course Lady Helena, for women, they say, are
always a little curious. Everything is an event at sea. For a moment they
all sat silent, gazing at this frail relic, wondering if it told the tale of
sad disaster, or brought some trifling message from a frolic-loving sailor,
who had flung it into the sea to amuse himself when he had nothing better to
do.
However, the only way to know was to examine the bottle, and
Glenarvan set to work without further delay, so carefully and minutely, that
he might have been taken for a coroner making an inquest.
He commenced by a close inspection of the outside.
The neck was long and slender, and round the thick rim there
was still an end of wire hanging, though eaten away with rust.
The sides were very thick, and strong enough to bear great pressure.
It was evidently of Champagne origin, and the Major said immediately,
"That's one of our Clicquot's bottles."
Nobody contradicted him, as he was supposed to know; but
Lady Helena exclaimed, "What does it matter about the bottle, if we don't
know where it comes from?"
"We shall know that, too, presently, and we may affirm this
much already— it comes from a long way off. Look at those petrifactions all
over it, these different substances almost turned to mineral, we might say,
through the action of the salt water! This waif had been tossing about in
the ocean a long time before the shark swallowed it."
"I quite agree with you," said McNabbs. "I dare say this
frail concern has made a long voyage, protected by this strong covering."
"But I want to know where from?" said Lady Glenarvan.
"Wait a little, dear Helena, wait; we must have patience
with bottles; but if I am not much mistaken, this one will answer all our
questions," replied her husband, beginning to scrape away the hard
substances round the neck. Soon the cork made its appearance, but much
damaged by the water.
"That's vexing," said Lord Edward, "for if papers are
inside, they'll be in a pretty state!"
"It's to be feared they will," said the Major.
"But it is a lucky thing the shark swallowed them, I must
say," added Glenarvan, "for the bottle would have sunk to the bottom before
long with such a cork as this."
"That's true enough," replied John Mangles, "and yet it
would have been better to have fished them up in the open sea. Then we might
have found out the road they had come by taking the exact latitude and
longitude, and studying the atmospheric and submarine currents; but with
such a postman as a shark, that goes against wind and tide, there's no clew
whatever to the starting-point."
"We shall see," said Glenarvan, gently taking out the cork.
A strong odor of salt water pervaded the whole saloon, and Lady Helena asked
impatiently: "Well, what is there?"
"I was right!" exclaimed Glenarvan. "I see papers inside.
But I fear it will be impossible to remove them," he added, "for they appear
to have rotted with the damp, and are sticking to the sides of the bottle."
"Break it," said the Major.
"I would rather preserve the whole if I could."
"No doubt you would," said Lady Helena; "but the contents
are more valuable than the bottle, and we had better sacrifice the one than
the other."
"If your Lordship would simply break off the neck, I think
we might easily withdraw the papers," suggested John Mangles.
"Try it, Edward, try it," said Lady Helena.
Lord Glenarvan was very unwilling, but he found there was no
alternative; the precious bottle must be broken. They had to get a hammer
before this could be done, though, for the stony material had acquired the
hardness of granite. A few sharp strokes, however, soon shivered it to
fragments, many of which had pieces of paper sticking to them. These were
carefully removed by Lord Glenarvan, and separated and spread out on the
table before the eager gaze of his wife and friends.
CHAPTER II THE THREE DOCUMENTS
ALL that could be discovered,
however, on these pieces of paper was a few words here and there, the
remainder of the lines being almost completely obliterated by the action of
the water. Lord Glenarvan examined them attentively for a few minutes,
turning them over on all sides, holding them up to the light, and trying to
decipher the least scrap of writing, while the others looked on with anxious
eyes. At last he said: "There are three distinct documents here, apparently
copies of the same document in three different languages. Here is one in
English, one in French, and one in German."
"But can you make any sense out of them?" asked Lady Helena.
"That's hard to say, my dear Helena, the words are quite
incomplete."
"Perhaps the one may supplement the other," suggested Major
McNabbs.
"Very likely they will," said the captain. "It is impossible
that the very same words should have been effaced in each document, and by
putting the scraps together we might gather some intelligible meaning out of
them."
"That's what we will do," rejoined Lord Glenarvan; "but let
us proceed methodically. Here is the English document first."
All that remained of it was the following:
62 Bri gow
sink stra
aland
skipp Gr
that monit of long
and ssistance
lost
"There's not much to be made out of that," said the Major,
looking disappointed.
"No, but it is good English anyhow," returned the captain.
"There's no doubt of it," said Glenarvan. "The words SINK,
ALAND, LOST are entire; SKIPP is evidently part of the word SKIPPER, and
that's what they call ship captains often in England. There seems a Mr. Gr.
mentioned, and that most likely is the captain of the shipwrecked vessel."
"Well, come, we have made out a good deal already," said
Lady Helena.
"Yes, but unfortunately there are whole lines wanting," said
the Major, "and we have neither the name of the ship nor the place where she
was shipwrecked."
"We'll get that by and by," said Edward.
"Oh, yes; there is no doubt of it," replied the Major, who
always echoed his neighbor's opinion. "But how?"
"By comparing one document with the other."
"Let us try them," said his wife.
The second piece of paper was even more destroyed than the
first; only a few scattered words remained here and there.
It ran as follows:
7 Juni Glas
zwei atrosen
graus
bringt ihnen
"This is written in German," said John Mangles the moment he
looked at it.
"And you understand that language, don't you?" asked Lord
Glenarvan.
"Perfectly."
"Come, then, tell us the meaning of these words."
The captain examined the document carefully, and said:
"Well, here's the date of the occurrence first: 7 Juni means
June 7; and if we put that before the figures 62 we have in the other
document, it gives us the exact date, 7th of June, 1862."
"Capital!" exclaimed Lady Helena. "Go on, John!"
"On the same line," resumed the young captain, "there is the
syllable GLAS and if we add that to the GOW we found in the English paper,
we get the whole word GLASGOW at once. The documents evidently refer to some
ship that sailed out of the port of Glasgow." "That is my opinion, too,"
said the Major.
"The second line is completely effaced," continued the
Captain; "but here are two important words on the third. There is ZWEI,
which means TWO, and ATROSEN or MATROSEN, the German for SAILORS."
"Then I suppose it is about a captain and two sailors," said
Lady Helena.
"It seems so," replied Lord Glenarvan.
"I must confess, your Lordship, that the next word puzzles
me. I can make nothing of it. Perhaps the third document may throw some
light on it. The last two words are plain enough. BRINGT IHNEN means BRING
THEM; and, if you recollect, in the English paper we had SSISTANCE, so by
putting the parts together, it reads thus, I think: 'BRING THEM
ASSISTANCE.'"
"Yes, that must be it," replied Lord Glenarvan. "But where
are the poor fellows? We have not the slightest indication of the place,
meantime, nor of where the catastrophe happened."
"Perhaps the French copy will be more explicit," suggested
Lady Helena.
"Here it is, then," said Lord Glenarvan, "and that is in a
language we all know."
The words it contained were these:
troi ats tannia
gonie austral
abor
contin pr cruel indi
jete ongit
et 37 degrees 11" LAT
"There are figures!" exclaimed Lady Helena. "Look!"
"Let us go steadily to work," said Lord Glenarvan, "and
begin at the beginning. I think we can make out from the incomplete words in
the first line that a three-mast vessel is in question, and there is little
doubt about the name; we get that from the fragments of the other papers; it
is the BRITANNIA. As to the next two words, GONIE and AUSTRAL, it is only
AUSTRAL that has any meaning to us."
"But that is a valuable scrap of information," said John
Mangles.
"The shipwreck occurred in the southern hemisphere."
"That's a wide world," said the Major.
"Well, we'll go on," resumed Glenarvan. "Here is the word
ABOR; that is clearly the root of the verb ABORDER. The poor men have landed
somewhere; but where? CONTIN—does that mean continent? CRUEL!"
"CRUEL!" interrupted John Mangles. "I see now what GRAUS is
part of in the second document. It is GRAUSAM, the word in German for
CRUEL!"
"Let's go on," said Lord Glenarvan, becoming quite excited
over his task, as the incomplete words began to fill up and develop their
meaning. "INDI,—is it India where they have been shipwrecked? And what can
this word ONGIT be part of? Ah! I see—it is LONGITUDE; and here is the
latitude, 37 degrees 11". That is the precise indication at last, then!"
"But we haven't the longitude," objected McNabbs.
"But we can't get everything, my dear Major; and it is
something at all events, to have the exact latitude. The French document is
decidedly the most complete of the three; but it is plain enough that each
is the literal translation of the other, for they all contain exactly the
same number of lines. What we have to do now is to put together all the
words we have found, and translate them into one language, and try to
ascertain their most probable and logical sense."
"Well, what language shall we choose?" asked the Major.
"I think we had better keep to the French, since that was
the most complete document of the three."
"Your Lordship is right," said John Mangles, "and besides,
we're all familiar with the language."
"Very well, then, I'll set to work."
In a few minutes he had written as follows:
7 Juin 1862 trois-mats Britannia Glasgow
sombre gonie austral
a terre deux matelots
capitaine Gr abor
contin pr cruel indi
jete ce document de longitude
et 37 degrees 11" de latitude Portez-leur secours
perdus.
[7th of June, 1862 three-mast BRITANNIA Glasgow] foundered
gonie southern on the coast two sailors Gr Captain landed contin pr cruel
indi thrown this document in longitude and 37 degrees 11" latitude Bring
them assistance lost
Just at that moment one of the
sailors came to inform the captain that they were about entering the Firth
of Clyde, and to ask what were his orders.
"What are your Lordship's intentions?" said John Mangles,
addressing Lord Glenarvan.
"To get to Dunbarton as quickly as possible, John; and Lady
Helena will return to Malcolm Castle, while I go on to London and lay this
document before the Admiralty."
The sailor received orders accordingly, and went out to
deliver them to the mate.
"Now, friends," said Lord Glenarvan, "let us go on with our
investigations, for we are on the track of a great catastrophe, and the
lives of several human beings depend on our sagacity. We must give our whole
minds to the solution of this enigma."
"First of all, there are three very distinct things to be
considered in this document—the things we know, the things we may
conjecture, the things we do not know."
"What are those we know? We know that on the 7th of June a
three-mast vessel, the BRITANNIA of Glasgow, foundered; that two sailors and
the captain threw this document into the sea in 37 degrees 11" latitude, and
they entreat help."
"Exactly so," said the Major.
"What are those now we may conjecture?" continued Glenarvan.
"That the shipwreck occurred in the southern seas; and here I would draw
your attention at once to the incomplete word GONIE. Doesn't the name of the
country strike you even in the mere mention of it?"
"Patagonia!" exclaimed Lady Helena.
"Undoubtedly."
"But is Patagonia crossed by the 37th parallel?" asked the
Major.
"That is easily ascertained," said the captain, opening a
map of
South America. "Yes, it is; Patagonia just touches the 37th parallel.
It cuts through Araucania, goes along over the Pampas to the north,
and loses itself in the Atlantic."
"Well, let us proceed then with our conjectures. The two
sailors and the captain LAND—land where? CONTIN—on a continent; on a
continent, mark you, not an island. What becomes of them? There are two
letters here providentially which give a clew to their fate—PR, that must
mean prisoners, and CRUEL INDIAN is evidently the meaning of the next two
words. These unfortunate men are captives in the hands of cruel Indians.
Don't you see it? Don't the words seem to come of themselves, and fill up
the blanks? Isn't the document quite clear now? Isn't the sense
self-evident?"
Glenarvan spoke in a tone of absolute conviction, and his
enthusiastic confidence appeared contagious, for the others all exclaimed,
too, "Yes, it is evident, quite evident!"
After an instant, Lord Edward said again, "To my own mind
the hypothesis is so plausible, that I have no doubt whatever the event
occurred on the coast of Patagonia, but still I will have inquiries made in
Glasgow, as to the destination of the BRITANNIA, and we shall know if it is
possible she could have been wrecked on those shores."
"Oh, there's no need to send so far to find out that," said
John Mangles. "I have the Mercantile and Shipping Gazette here, and
we'll see the name on the list, and all about it."
"Do look at once, then," said Lord Glenarvan.
The file of papers for the year 1862 was soon brought, and
John began to turn over the leaves rapidly, running down each page with his
eye in search of the name required. But his quest was not long, for in a few
minutes he called out: "I've got it! 'May 30, 1862, Peru-Callao, with cargo
for Glasgow, the BRITANNIA, Captain Grant.'"
"Grant!" exclaimed Lord Glenarvan. "That is the adventurous
Scotchman that attempted to found a new Scotland on the shores of the
Pacific."
"Yes," rejoined John Mangles, "it is the very man. He sailed
from Glasgow in the BRITANNIA in 1861, and has not been heard of since."
"There isn't a doubt of it, not a shadow of doubt," repeated
Lord Glenarvan. "It is just that same Captain Grant. The BRITANNIA left
Callao on the 30th of May, and on the 7th of June, a week afterward, she is
lost on the coast of Patagonia. The few broken disjointed words we find in
these documents tell us the whole story. You see, friends, our conjectures
hit the mark very well; we know all now except one thing, and that is the
longitude."
"That is not needed now, we know the country. With the
latitude alone,
I would engage to go right to the place where the wreck happened."
"Then have we really all the particulars now?" asked Lady
Helena.
"All, dear Helena; I can fill up every one of these blanks
the sea has made in the document as easily as if Captain Grant were
dictating to me."
And he took up the pen, and dashed off the following lines
immediately: "On the 7th of June, 1862, the three-mast vessel, BRITANNIA, of
Glasgow, has sunk on the coast of Patagonia, in the southern hemisphere.
Making for the shore, two sailors and Captain Grant are about to land on the
continent, where they will be taken prisoners by cruel Indians. They have
thrown this document into the sea, in longitude and latitude 37 degrees 11".
Bring them assistance, or they are lost."
"Capital! capital! dear Edward," said Lady Helena. "If those
poor creatures ever see their native land again, it is you they will have to
thank for it."
"And they will see it again," returned Lord Glenarvan; "the
statement is too explicit, and clear, and certain for England to hesitate
about going to the aid of her three sons cast away on a desert coast. What
she has done for Franklin and so many others, she will do to-day for these
poor shipwrecked fellows of the BRITANNIA."
"Most likely the unfortunate men have families who mourn
their loss. Perhaps this ill-fated Captain Grant had a wife and children,"
suggested Lady Helena.
"Very true, my dear, and I'll not forget to let them know
that there is still hope. But now, friends, we had better go up on deck, as
the boat must be getting near the harbor."
A carriage and post-horses waited there, in readiness to
convey Lady Helena and Major McNabbs to Malcolm Castle, and Lord Glenarvan
bade adieu to his young wife, and jumped into the express train for Glasgow.
But before starting he confided an important missive to a
swifter agent than himself, and a few minutes afterward it flashed along the
electric wire to London, to appear next day in the Times and Morning
Chronicle in the following words: "For information respecting the fate
of the three-mast vessel BRITANNIA, of Glasgow, Captain Grant, apply to Lord
Glenarvan, Malcolm Castle, Luss, Dumbartonshire, Scotland."
CHAPTER III THE CAPTAIN'S CHILDREN
LORD GLENARVAN'S fortune was
enormous, and he spent it entirely in doing good. His kindheartedness was
even greater than his generosity, for the one knew no bounds, while the
other, of necessity, had its limits. As Lord of Luss and "laird" of Malcolm,
he represented his county in the House of Lords; but, with his Jacobite
ideas, he did not care much for the favor of the House of Hanover, and he
was looked upon coldly by the State party in England, because of the
tenacity with which he clung to the traditions of his forefathers, and his
energetic resistance to the political encroachments of Southerners. And yet
he was not a man behind the times, and there was nothing little or
narrow-minded about him; but while always keeping open his ancestral county
to progress, he was a true Scotchman at heart, and it was for the honor of
Scotland that he competed in the yacht races of the Royal Thames Yacht Club.
Edward Glenarvan was thirty-two years of age. He was tall in
person, and had rather stern features; but there was an exceeding sweetness
in his look, and a stamp of Highland poetry about his whole bearing. He was
known to be brave to excess, and full of daring and chivalry— a Fer-gus of
the nineteenth century; but his goodness excelled every other quality, and
he was more charitable than St. Martin himself, for he would have given the
whole of his cloak to any of the poor Highlanders.
He had scarcely been married three months, and his bride was
Miss Helena Tuffnell, the daughter of William Tuffnell, the great traveler,
one of the many victims of geographical science and of the passion for
discovery. Miss Helena did not belong to a noble family, but she was Scotch,
and that was better than all nobility in the eyes of Lord Glenarvan; and she
was, moreover, a charming, high-souled, religious young woman.
Lord Glenarvan did not forget that his wife was the daughter
of a great traveler, and he thought it likely that she would inherit her
father's predilections. He had the DUNCAN built expressly that he might take
his bride to the most beautiful lands in the world, and complete their
honeymoon by sailing up the Mediterranean, and through the clustering
islands of the Archipelago.
However, Lord Glenarvan had gone now to London. The lives of
the shipwrecked men were at stake, and Lady Helena was too much concerned
herself about them to grudge her husband's temporary absence. A telegram
next day gave hope of his speedy return, but in the evening a letter
apprised her of the difficulties his proposition had met with, and the
morning after brought another, in which he openly expressed his
dissatisfaction with the Admiralty.
Lady Helena began to get anxious as the day wore on. In the
evening, when she was sitting alone in her room, Mr. Halbert, the house
steward, came in and asked if she would see a young girl and boy that wanted
to speak to Lord Glenarvan.
"Some of the country people?" asked Lady Helena.
"No, madame," replied the steward, "I do not know them at
all.
They came by rail to Balloch, and walked the rest of the way to Luss."
"Tell them to come up, Halbert."
In a few minutes a girl and boy were shown in. They were
evidently brother and sister, for the resemblance was unmistakable. The girl
was about sixteen years of age; her tired pretty face, and sorrowful eyes,
and resigned but courageous look, as well as her neat though poor attire,
made a favorable impression. The boy she held by the hand was about twelve,
but his face expressed such determination, that he appeared quite his
sister's protector.
The girl seemed too shy to utter a word at first, but Lady
Helena quickly relieved her embarrassment by saying, with an encouraging
smile: "You wish to speak to me, I think?"
"No," replied the boy, in a decided tone; "not to you, but
to Lord Glenarvan."
V. IV Verne
"Excuse him, ma'am," said the girl, with a look at her
brother.
"Lord Glenarvan is not at the castle just now," returned
Lady Helena; "but I am his wife, and if I can do anything for you—"
"You are Lady Glenarvan?" interrupted the girl.
"I am."
"The wife of Lord Glenarvan, of Malcolm Castle, that put an
announcement in the TIMES about the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA?"
"Yes, yes," said Lady Helena, eagerly; "and you?"
"I am Miss Grant, ma'am, and this is my brother."
"Miss Grant, Miss Grant!" exclaimed Lady Helena, drawing the
young girl toward her, and taking both her hands and kissing the boy's rosy
cheeks.
"What is it you know, ma'am, about the shipwreck? Tell me,
is my father living? Shall we ever see him again? Oh, tell me," said the
girl, earnestly.
"My dear child," replied Lady Helena. "Heaven forbid that I
should answer you lightly such a question; I would not delude you with vain
hopes."
"Oh, tell me all, tell me all, ma'am. I'm proof against
sorrow.
I can bear to hear anything."
"My poor child, there is but a faint hope; but with the help
of almighty Heaven it is just possible you may one day see your father once
more."
The girl burst into tears, and Robert seized Lady
Glenarvan's hand and covered it with kisses.
As soon as they grew calmer they asked a complete string of
questions, and Lady Helena recounted the whole story of the document,
telling them that their father had been wrecked on the coast of Patagonia,
and that he and two sailors, the sole survivors, appeared to have reached
the shore, and had written an appeal for help in three languages and
committed it to the care of the waves.
During the recital, Robert Grant was devouring the speaker
with his eyes, and hanging on her lips. His childish imagination evidently
retraced all the scenes of his father's shipwreck. He saw him on the deck of
the BRITANNIA, and then struggling with the billows, then clinging to the
rocks, and lying at length exhausted on the beach.
More than once he cried out, "Oh, papa! my poor papa!" and
pressed close to his sister.
Miss Grant sat silent and motionless, with clasped hands,
and all she said when the narration ended, was: "Oh, ma'am, the paper,
please!"
"I have not it now, my dear child," replied Lady Helena.
"You haven't it?"
"No. Lord Glenarvan was obliged to take it to London, for
the sake of your father; but I have told you all it contained, word for
word, and how we managed to make out the complete sense from the fragments
of words left—all except the longitude, unfortunately."
"We can do without that," said the boy.
"Yes, Mr. Robert," rejoined Lady Helena, smiling at the
child's decided tone. "And so you see, Miss Grant, you know the smallest
details now just as well as I do."
"Yes, ma'am, but I should like to have seen my father's
writing."
"Well, to-morrow, perhaps, to-morrow, Lord Glenarvan will be
back. My husband determined to lay the document before the Lords of the
Admiralty, to induce them to send out a ship immediately in search of
Captain Grant."
"Is it possible, ma'am," exclaimed the girl, "that you have
done that for us?"
"Yes, my dear Miss Grant, and I am expecting Lord Glenarvan
back every minute now."
"Oh, ma'am! Heaven bless you and Lord Glenarvan," said the
young girl, fervently, overcome with grateful emotion."
"My dear girl, we deserve no thanks; anyone in our place
would have done the same. I only trust the hopes we are leading you to
entertain may be realized, but till my husband returns, you will remain at
the Castle."
"Oh, no, ma'am. I could not abuse the sympathy you show to
strangers."
"Strangers, dear child!" interrupted Lady Helena; "you and
your brother are not strangers in this house, and I should like Lord
Glenarvan to be able on his arrival to tell the children of Captain Grant
himself, what is going to be done to rescue their father."
It was impossible to refuse an invitation given with such
heart, and Miss Grant and her brother consented to stay till Lord Glenarvan
returned.
CHAPTER IV LADY GLENARVAN'S
PROPOSAL
LADY HELENA thought it best to say
nothing to the children about the fears Lord Glenarvan had expressed in his
letters respecting the decisions of the Lords of the Admiralty with regard
to the document. Nor did she mention the probable captivity of Captain Grant
among the Indians of South America. Why sadden the poor children, and damp
their newly cherished hopes? It would not in the least alter the actual
state of the case; so not a word was said, and after answering all Miss
Grant's questions, Lady Helena began to interrogate in her turn, asking her
about her past life and her present circumstances.
It was a touching, simple story she heard in reply, and one
which increased her sympathy for the young girl.
Mary and Robert were the captain's only children. Harry
Grant lost his wife when Robert was born, and during his long voyages he
left his little ones in charge of his cousin, a good old lady. Captain Grant
was a fearless sailor. He not only thoroughly understood navigation, but
commerce also—a two-fold qualification eminently useful to skippers in the
merchant service. He lived in Dundee, in Perthshire, Scotland. His father, a
minister of St. Katrine's Church, had given him a thorough education, as he
believed that could never hurt anybody.
Harry's voyages were prosperous from the first, and a few
years after
Robert was born, he found himself possessed of a considerable fortune.
It was then that he projected the grand scheme which made
him popular in Scotland. Like Glenarvan, and a few noble families in the
Lowlands, he had no heart for the union with England. In his eyes the
interests of his country were not identified with those of the Anglo-Saxons,
and to give scope for personal development, he resolved to found an immense
Scotch colony on one of the ocean continents. Possibly he might have thought
that some day they would achieve their independence, as the United States
did—an example doubtless to be followed eventually by Australia and India.
But whatever might be his secret motives, such was his dream of
colonization. But, as is easily understood, the Government opposed his
plans, and put difficulties enough in his way to have killed an ordinary
man. But Harry would not be beaten. He appealed to the patriotism of his
countrymen, placed his fortune at the service of the cause, built a ship,
and manned it with a picked crew, and leaving his children to the care of
his old cousin set off to explore the great islands of the Pacific. This was
in 1861, and for twelve months, or up to May, 1862, letters were regularly
received from him, but no tidings whatever had come since his departure from
Callao, in June, and the name of the BRITANNIA never appeared in the
Shipping List.
Just at this juncture the old cousin died, and Harry Grant's
two children were left alone in the world.
Mary Grant was then only fourteen, but she resolved to face
her situation bravely, and to devote herself entirely to her little brother,
who was still a mere child. By dint of close economy, combined with tact and
prudence, she managed to support and educate him, working day and night,
denying herself everything, that she might give him all he needed, watching
over him and caring for him like a mother.
The two children were living in this touching manner in
Dundee, struggling patiently and courageously with their poverty. Mary
thought only of her brother, and indulged in dreams of a prosperous future
for him. She had long given up all hope of the BRITANNIA, and was fully
persuaded that her father was dead. What, then, was her emotion when she
accidentally saw the notice in the TIMES!
She never hesitated for an instant as to the course she
should adopt, but determined to go to Dumbartonshire immediately, to learn
the best and worst. Even if she were to be told that her father's lifeless
body had been found on a distant shore, or in the bottom of some abandoned
ship, it would be a relief from incessant doubt and torturing suspense.
She told her brother about the advertisement, and the two
children started off together that same day for Perth, where they took the
train, and arrived in the evening at Malcolm Castle.
Such was Mary Grant's sorrowful story, and she recounted it
in so simple and unaffected a manner, that it was evident she never thought
her conduct had been that of a heroine through those long trying years. But
Lady Helena thought it for her, and more than once she put her arms round
both the children, and could not restrain her tears.
As for Robert, he seemed to have heard these particulars for
the first time. All the while his sister was speaking, he gazed at her with
wide-open eyes, only knowing now how much she had done and suffered for him;
and, as she ended, he flung himself on her neck, and exclaimed, "Oh, mamma!
My dear little mamma!"
It was quite dark by this time, and Lady Helena made the
children go to bed, for she knew they must be tired after their journey.
They were soon both sound asleep, dreaming of happy days.
After they had retired. Lady Helena sent for Major McNabbs,
and told him the incidents of the evening.
"That Mary Grant must be a brave girl," said the Major.
"I only hope my husband will succeed, for the poor
children's sake," said his cousin. "It would be terrible for them if he did
not."
"He will be sure to succeed, or the Lords of the Admiralty
must have hearts harder than Portland stone."
But, notwithstanding McNabbs's assurance, Lady Helena passed
the night in great anxiety, and could not close her eyes.
Mary Grant and her brother were up very early next morning,
and were walking about in the courtyard when they heard the sound of a
carriage approaching. It was Lord Glenarvan; and, almost immediately, Lady
Helena and the Major came out to meet him.
Lady Helena flew toward her husband the moment he alighted;
but he embraced her silently, and looked gloomy and disappointed— indeed,
even furious.
"Well, Edward?" she said; "tell me."
"Well, Helena, dear; those people have no heart!"
"They have refused?"
"Yes. They have refused me a ship! They talked of the
millions that had been wasted in search for Franklin, and declared the
document was obscure and unintelligible. And, then, they said it was two
years now since they were cast away, and there was little chance of finding
them. Besides, they would have it that the Indians, who made them prisoners,
would have dragged them into the interior, and it was impossible, they said,
to hunt all through Patagonia for three men—three Scotchmen; that the search
would be vain and perilous, and cost more lives than it saved. In short,
they assigned all the reasons that people invent who have made up their
minds to refuse. The truth is, they remembered Captain Grant's projects, and
that is the secret of the whole affair. So the poor fellow is lost for
ever."
"My father! my poor father!" cried Mary Grant, throwing
herself on her knees before Lord Glenarvan, who exclaimed in amazement:
"Your father? What? Is this Miss—"
"Yes, Edward," said Lady Helena; "this is Miss Mary Grant
and her brother, the two children condemned to orphanage by the cruel
Admiralty!"
"Oh! Miss Grant," said Lord Glenarvan, raising the young
girl, "if I had known of your presence—"
He said no more, and there was a painful silence in the
courtyard, broken only by sobs. No one spoke, but the very attitude of both
servants and masters spoke their indignation at the conduct of the English
Government.
At last the Major said, addressing Lord Glenarvan: "Then you
have no hope whatever?"
"None," was the reply.
"Very well, then," exclaimed little Robert, "I'll go and
speak to those people myself, and we'll see if they—" He did not complete
his sentence, for his sister stopped him; but his clenched fists showed his
intentions were the reverse of pacific.
"No, Robert," said Mary Grant, "we will thank this noble
lord and lady for what they have done for us, and never cease to think of
them with gratitude; and then we'll both go together."
"Mary!" said Lady Helena, in a tone of surprise.
"Go where?" asked Lord Glenarvan.
"I am going to throw myself at the Queen's feet, and we
shall see if she will turn a deaf ear to the prayers of two children, who
implore their father's life."
Lord Glenarvan shook his head; not that he doubted the kind
heart of her Majesty, but he knew Mary would never gain access to her.
Suppliants but too rarely reach the steps of a throne; it seems as if royal
palaces had the same inscription on their doors that the English have on
their ships: Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the
wheel.
Lady Glenarvan understood what was passing in her husband's
mind, and she felt the young girl's attempt would be useless, and only
plunge the poor children in deeper despair. Suddenly, a grand, generous
purpose fired her soul, and she called out: "Mary Grant! wait, my child, and
listen to what I'm going to say."
Mary had just taken her brother by the hand, and turned to
go away; but she stepped back at Lady Helena's bidding.
The young wife went up to her husband, and said, with tears
in her eyes, though her voice was firm, and her face beamed with animation:
"Edward, when Captain Grant wrote that letter and threw it into the sea, he
committed it to the care of God. God has sent it to us—to us! Undoubtedly
God intends us to undertake the rescue of these poor men."
"What do you mean, Helena?"
"I mean this, that we ought to think ourselves fortunate if
we can begin our married life with a good action. Well, you know, Edward,
that to please me you planned a pleasure trip; but what could give us such
genuine pleasure, or be so useful, as to save those unfortunate fellows,
cast off by their country?"
"Helena!" exclaimed Lord Glenarvan.
"Yes, Edward, you understand me. The DUNCAN is a good strong
ship, she can venture in the Southern Seas, or go round the world if
necessary. Let us go, Edward; let us start off and search for Captain
Grant!"
Lord Glenarvan made no reply to this bold proposition, but
smiled, and, holding out his arms, drew his wife into a close, fond embrace.
Mary and Robert seized her hands, and covered them with kisses; and the
servants who thronged the courtyard, and had been witnesses of this touching
scene, shouted with one voice, "Hurrah for the Lady of Luss. Three cheers
for Lord and Lady Glenarvan!"
CHAPTER V THE DEPARTURE OF THE
"DUNCAN"
WE have said already that Lady
Helena was a brave, generous woman, and what she had just done proved it
in-disputably. Her husband had good reason to be proud of such a wife, one
who could understand and enter into all his views. The idea of going to
Captain Grant's rescue had occurred to him in London when his request was
refused, and he would have anticipated Lady Helena, only he could not bear
the thought of parting from her. But now that she herself proposed to go,
all hesitation was at an end. The servants of the Castle had hailed the
project with loud acclamations— for it was to save their brothers—Scotchmen,
like themselves— and Lord Glenarvan cordially joined his cheers with theirs,
for the Lady of Luss.
The departure once resolved upon, there was not an hour to
be lost. A telegram was dispatched to John Mangles the very same day,
conveying Lord Glenarvan's orders to take the DUNCAN immediately to Glasgow,
and to make preparations for a voyage to the Southern Seas, and possibly
round the world, for Lady Helena was right in her opinion that the yacht
might safely attempt the circumnavigation of the globe, if necessary.
The DUNCAN was a steam yacht of the finest description. She
was 210 tons burden—much larger than any of the first vessels that touched
the shores of the New World, for the largest of the four ships that sailed
with Columbus was only 70 tons. She had two masts and all the sails and
rigging of an ordinary clipper, which would enable her to take advantage of
every favorable wind, though her chief reliance was on her mechanical power.
The engine, which was constructed on a new system, was a high-pressure one,
of 160-horse power, and put in motion a double screw. This gave the yacht
such swiftness that during her trial trip in the Firth of Clyde, she made
seventeen miles an hour, a higher speed than any vessel had yet attained. No
alterations were consequently needed in the DUNCAN herself; John Mangles had
only to attend to her interior arrangements.
His first care was to enlarge the bunkers to carry as much
coal as possible, for it is difficult to get fresh supplies en route.
He had to do the same with the store-rooms, and managed so well that he
succeeded in laying in provisions enough for two years. There was abundance
of money at his command, and enough remained to buy a cannon, on a pivot
carriage, which he mounted on the forecastle. There was no knowing what
might happen, and it is always well to be able to send a good round bullet
flying four miles off.
John Mangles understood his business. Though he was only the
captain of a pleasure yacht, he was one of the best skippers in Glasgow. He
was thirty years of age, and his countenance expressed both courage and
goodness, if the features were somewhat coarse. He had been brought up at
the castle by the Glenarvan family, and had turned out a capital sailor,
having already given proof, in some of his long voyages, of his skill and
energy and sang-froid. When Lord Glenarvan offered him the command of
the DUNCAN, he accepted it with right good will, for he loved the master of
Malcolm Castle, like a brother, and had hitherto vainly sought some
opportunity of showing his devotion.
Tom Austin, the mate, was an old sailor, worthy of all
confidence. The crew, consisting of twenty-five men, including the captain
and chief officer, were all from Dumbartonshire, experienced sailors, and
all belonging to the Glenarvan estate; in fact, it was a regular clan, and
they did not forget to carry with them the traditional bagpipes. Lord
Glenarvan had in them a band of trusty fellows, skilled in their calling,
devoted to himself, full of courage, and as practiced in handling fire-arms
as in the maneuvering of a ship; a valiant little troop, ready to follow him
any where, even in the most dangerous expeditions. When the crew heard
whither they were bound, they could not restrain their enthusiasm, and the
rocks of Dumbarton rang again with their joyous outbursts of cheers.
But while John Mangles made the stowage and provisioning of
the yacht his chief business, he did not forget to fit up the rooms of Lord
and Lady Glenarvan for a long voyage. He had also to get cabins ready for
the children of Captain Grant, as Lady Helena could not refuse Mary's
request to accompany her.
As for young Robert, he would have smuggled himself in
somewhere in the hold of the DUNCAN rather than be left behind. He would
willingly have gone as cabin-boy, like Nelson. It was impossible to resist a
little fellow like that, and, indeed, no one tried. He would not even go as
a passenger, but must serve in some capacity, as cabin-boy, apprentice or
sailor, he did not care which, so he was put in charge of John Mangles, to
be properly trained for his vocation.
"And I hope he won't spare me the 'cat-o-nine-tails' if I
don't do properly," said Robert.
"Rest easy on that score, my boy," said Lord Glenarvan,
gravely; he did not add, that this mode of punishment was forbidden on board
the DUNCAN, and moreover, was quite unnecessary.
To complete the roll of passengers, we must name Major
McNabbs. The Major was about fifty years of age, with a calm face and
regular features—a man who did whatever he was told, of an excellent,
indeed, a perfect temper; modest, silent, peaceable, and amiable, agreeing
with everybody on every subject, never discussing, never disputing, never
getting angry. He wouldn't move a step quicker, or slower, whether he walked
upstairs to bed or mounted a breach. Nothing could excite him, nothing could
disturb him, not even a cannon ball, and no doubt he will die without ever
having known even a passing feeling of irritation.
This man was endowed in an eminent degree, not only with
ordinary animal courage, that physical bravery of the battle-field, which is
solely due to muscular energy, but he had what is far nobler— moral courage,
firmness of soul. If he had any fault it was his being so intensely Scotch
from top to toe, a Caledonian of the Caledonians, an obstinate stickler for
all the ancient customs of his country. This was the reason he would never
serve in England, and he gained his rank of Major in the 42nd regiment, the
Highland Black Watch, composed entirely of Scotch noblemen.
As a cousin of Glenarvan, he lived in Malcolm Castle, and as
a major he went as a matter of course with the DUNCAN.
Such, then, was the PERSONNEL of this yacht, so unexpectedly
called to make one of the most wonderful voyages of modern times. From the
hour she reached the steamboat quay at Glasgow, she completely monopolized
the public attention. A considerable crowd visited her every day, and the
DUNCAN was the one topic of interest and conversation, to the great vexation
of the different captains in the port, among others of Captain Burton, in
command of the SCOTIA, a magnificent steamer lying close beside her, and
bound for Calcutta. Considering her size, the SCOTIA might justly look upon
the DUNCAN as a mere fly-boat, and yet this pleasure yacht of Lord Glenarvan
was quite the center of attraction, and the excitement about her daily
increased.
The DUNCAN was to sail out with the tide at three o'clock on
the morning of the 25th of August. But before starting, a touching ceremony
was witnessed by the good people of Glasgow. At eight o'clock the night
before, Lord Glenarvan and his friends, and the entire crew, from the
stokers to the captain, all who were to take part in this self-sacrificing
voyage, left the yacht and repaired to St. Mungo's, the ancient cathedral of
the city. This venerable edifice, so marvelously described by Walter Scott,
remains intact amid the ruins made by the Reformation; and it was there,
beneath its lofty arches, in the grand nave, in the presence of an immense
crowd, and surrounded by tombs as thickly set as in a cemetery, that they
all assembled to implore the blessing of Heaven on their expedition, and to
put themselves under the protection of Providence. The Rev. Mr. Morton
conducted the service, and when he had ended and pronounced the benediction,
a young girl's voice broke the solemn silence that followed. It was Mary
Grant who poured out her heart to God in prayer for her benefactors, while
grateful happy tears streamed down her cheeks, and almost choked her
utterance. The vast assembly dispersed under the influence of deep emotion,
and at ten o'clock the passengers and crew returned on board the vessel.
CHAPTER VI AN UNEXPECTED PASSENGER
THE ladies passed the whole of the
first day of the voyage in their berths, for there was a heavy swell in the
sea, and toward evening the wind blew pretty fresh, and the DUNCAN tossed
and pitched considerably.
But the morning after, the wind changed, and the captain
ordered the men to put up the foresail, and brigantine and foretopsail,
which greatly lessened the rolling of the vessel. Lady Helena and Mary Grant
were able to come on deck at daybreak, where they found Lord Glenarvan,
Major McNabbs and the captain.
"And how do you stand the sea, Miss Mary?" said Lord
Glenarvan.
"Pretty well, my Lord. I am not very much inconvenienced by
it.
Besides I shall get used to it."
"And our young Robert!"
"Oh, as for Robert," said the captain, "whenever he is not
poking about down below in the engine-room, he is perched somewhere aloft
among the rigging. A youngster like that laughs at sea-sickness. Why, look
at him this very moment! Do you see him?"
The captain pointed toward the foremast, and sure enough
there was Robert, hanging on the yards of the topgallant mast, a hundred
feet above in the air. Mary involuntarily gave a start, but the captain
said:
"Oh, don't be afraid, Miss Mary; he is all right, take my
word for it; I'll have a capital sailor to present to Captain Grant before
long, for we'll find the worthy captain, depend upon it."
"Heaven grant it, Mr. John," replied the young girl.
"My dear child," said Lord Glenarvan, "there is something so
providential in the whole affair, that we have every reason to hope. We are
not going, we are led; we are not searching, we are guided. And then see all
the brave men that have enlisted in the service of the good cause. We shall
not only succeed in our enterprise, but there will be little difficulty in
it. I promised Lady Helena a pleasure trip, and I am much mistaken if I
don't keep my word."
"Edward," said his wife, "you are the best of men."
"Not at all," was the reply; "but I have the best of crews
and the best of ships. You don't admire the DUNCAN, I suppose, Miss Mary?"
"On the contrary, my lord, I do admire her, and I'm a
connoisseur in ships," returned the young girl.
"Indeed!"
"Yes. I have played all my life on my father's ships.
He should have made me a sailor, for I dare say, at a push,
I could reef a sail or plait a gasket easily enough."
"Do you say so, miss?" exclaimed John Mangles.
"If you talk like that you and John will be great friends,
for he can't think any calling is equal to that of a seaman; he can't fancy
any other, even for a woman. Isn't it true, John?"
"Quite so," said the captain, "and yet, your Lordship, I
must confess that Miss Grant is more in her place on the poop than reefing a
topsail. But for all that, I am quite flattered by her remarks."
"And especially when she admires the DUNCAN," replied
Glenarvan.
"Well, really," said Lady Glenarvan, "you are so proud of
your yacht that you make me wish to look all over it; and I should like to
go down and see how our brave men are lodged."
"Their quarters are first-rate," replied John, "they are as
comfortable as if they were at home."
"And they really are at home, my dear Helena," said Lord
Glenarvan. "This yacht is a portion of our old Caledonia, a fragment of
Dumbartonshire, making a voyage by special favor, so that in a manner we are
still in our own country. The DUNCAN is Malcolm Castle, and the ocean is
Loch Lomond."
"Very well, dear Edward, do the honors of the Castle then."
"At your service, madam; but let me tell Olbinett first."
The steward of the yacht was an excellent maitre d'hotel,
and might have been French for his airs of importance, but for all that he
discharged his functions with zeal and intelligence.
"Olbinett," said his master, as he appeared in answer to his
summons, "we are going to have a turn before breakfast. I hope we shall find
it ready when we come back."
He said this just as if it had been a walk to Tarbert or
Loch Katrine they were going, and the steward bowed with perfect gravity in
reply.
"Are you coming with us, Major?" asked Lady Helena.
"If you command me," replied McNabbs.
"Oh!" said Lord Glenarvan; "the Major is absorbed in his
cigar; "you mustn't tear him from it. He is an inveterate smoker, Miss Mary,
I can tell you. He is always smoking, even while he sleeps."
The Major gave an assenting nod, and Lord Glenarvan and his
party went below.
McNabbs remained alone, talking to himself, as was his
habit, and was soon enveloped in still thicker clouds of smoke. He stood
motionless, watching the track of the yacht. After some minutes of this
silent contemplation he turned round, and suddenly found himself face to
face with a new comer. Certainly, if any thing could have surprised him,
this RENCONTRE would, for he had never seen the stranger in his life before.
He was a tall, thin, withered-looking man, about forty years
of age, and resembled a long nail with a big head. His head was large and
massive, his forehead high, his chin very marked. His eyes were concealed by
enormous round spectacles, and in his look was that peculiar indecision
which is common to nyctalopes, or people who have a peculiar construction of
the eye, which makes the sight imperfect in the day and better at night. It
was evident from his physiognomy that he was a lively, intelligent man; he
had not the crabbed expression of those grave individuals who never laugh on
principle, and cover their emptiness with a mask of seriousness. He looked
far from that. His careless, good-humored air, and easy, unceremonious
manners, showed plainly that he knew how to take men and things on their
bright side. But though he had not yet opened his mouth, he gave one the
impression of being a great talker, and moreover, one of those absent folks
who neither see though they are looking, nor hear though they are listening.
He wore a traveling cap, and strong, low, yellow boots with leather gaiters.
His pantaloons and jacket were of brown velvet, and their innumerable
pockets were stuffed with note-books, memorandum-books, account-books,
pocket-books, and a thousand other things equally cumbersome and useless,
not to mention a telescope in addition, which he carried in a shoulder-belt.
The stranger's excitement was a strong contrast to the
Major's placidity. He walked round McNabbs, looking at him and questioning
him with his eyes without eliciting one remark from the imperturbable
Scotchman, or awakening his curiosity in the least, to know where he came
from, and where he was going, and how he had got on board the DUNCAN.
Finding all his efforts baffled by the Major's indifference,
the mysterious passenger seized his telescope, drew it out to its fullest
extent, about four feet, and began gazing at the horizon, standing
motionless with his legs wide apart. His examination lasted some few
minutes, and then he lowered the glass, set it up on deck, and leaned on it
as if it had been a walking-stick. Of course, his weight shut up the
instrument immediately by pushing the different parts one into the other,
and so suddenly, that he fell full length on deck, and lay sprawling at the
foot of the mainmast.
Any one else but the Major would have smiled, at least, at
such a ludicrous sight; but McNabbs never moved a muscle of his face.
This was too much for the stranger, and he called out, with
an unmistakably foreign accent:
"Steward!"
He waited a minute, but nobody appeared, and he called
again, still louder, "Steward!"
Mr. Olbinett chanced to be passing that minute on his way
from the galley, and what was his astonishment at hearing himself addressed
like this by a lanky individual of whom he had no knowledge whatever.
"Where can he have come from? Who is he?" he thought to
himself.
"He can not possibly be one of Lord Glenarvan's friends?"
However, he went up on the poop, and approached the unknown
personage, who accosted him with the inquiry, "Are you the steward of this
vessel? "
"Yes, sir," replied Olbinett; "but I have not the honor of—"
"I am the passenger in cabin Number 6."
"Number 6!" repeated the steward.
"Certainly; and your name, what is it?"
"Olbinett."
"Well, Olbinett, my friend, we must think of breakfast, and
that pretty quickly. It is thirty-six hours since I have had anything to
eat, or rather thirty-six hours that I have been asleep— pardonable enough
in a man who came all the way, without stopping, from Paris to Glasgow. What
is the breakfast hour?"
"Nine o'clock," replied Olbinett, mechanically.
The stranger tried to pull out his watch to see the time;
but it was not till he had rummaged through the ninth pocket that he found
it.
"Ah, well," he said, "it is only eight o'clock at present.
Fetch me a glass of sherry and a biscuit while I am waiting, for I am
actually falling through sheer inanition."
Olbinett heard him without understanding what he meant for
the voluble stranger kept on talking incessantly, flying from one subject to
another.
"The captain? Isn't the captain up yet? And the chief
officer? What is he doing? Is he asleep still? It is fine weather,
fortunately, and the wind is favorable, and the ship goes all alone."
Just at that moment John Mangles appeared at the top of the
stairs.
"Here is the captain!" said Olbinett.
"Ah! delighted, Captain Burton, delighted to make your
acquaintance," exclaimed the unknown.
John Mangles stood stupefied, as much at seeing the stranger
on board as at hearing himself called "Captain Burton."
But the new comer went on in the most affable manner.
"Allow me to shake hands with you, sir; and if I did not do
so yesterday evening, it was only because I did not wish to be troublesome
when you were starting. But to-day, captain, it gives me great pleasure to
begin my intercourse with you."
John Mangles opened his eyes as wide as possible, and stood
staring at Olbinett and the stranger alternately.
But without waiting for a reply, the rattling fellow
continued:
"Now the introduction is made, my dear captain, we are old
friends.
Let's have a little talk, and tell me how you like the SCOTIA?"
"What do you mean by the SCOTIA?" put in John Mangles at
last.
"By the SCOTIA? Why, the ship we're on, of course—a good
ship that has been commended to me, not only for its physical qualities, but
also for the moral qualities of its commander, the brave Captain Burton. You
will be some relation of the famous African traveler of that name. A daring
man he was, sir. I offer you my congratulations."
"Sir," interrupted John. "I am not only no relation of
Burton the great traveler, but I am not even Captain Burton."
V. IV Verne
"Ah, is that so? It is Mr. Burdness, the chief officer, that
I am talking to at present."
"Mr. Burdness!" repeated John Mangles, beginning to suspect
how the matter stood. Only he asked himself whether the man was mad, or some
heedless rattle pate? He was beginning to explain the case in a categorical
manner, when Lord Glenarvan and his party came up on the poop. The stranger
caught sight of them directly, and exclaimed:
"Ah! the passengers, the passengers! I hope you are going to
introduce me to them, Mr. Burdness!"
But he could not wait for any one's intervention, and going
up to them with perfect ease and grace, said, bowing to Miss Grant,
"Madame;" then to Lady Helena, with another bow, "Miss;" and to Lord
Glenarvan, "Sir."
Here John Mangles interrupted him, and said, "Lord
Glenarvan."
"My Lord," continued the unknown, "I beg pardon for
presenting myself to you, but at sea it is well to relax the strict rules of
etiquette a little. I hope we shall soon become acquainted with each other,
and that the company of these ladies will make our voyage in the SCOTIA
appear as short as agreeable."
Lady Helena and Miss Grant were too astonished to be able to
utter a single word. The presence of this intruder on the poop of the DUNCAN
was perfectly inexplicable.
Lord Glenarvan was more collected, and said, "Sir, to whom
have I the honor of speaking?"
"To Jacques Eliacin Francois Marie Paganel, Secretary of the
Geographical Society of Paris, Corresponding Member of the Societies of
Berlin, Bombay, Darmstadt, Leipsic, London, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and New
York; Honorary Member of the Royal Geographical and Ethnographical Institute
of the East Indies; who, after having spent twenty years of his life in
geographical work in the study, wishes to see active service, and is on his
way to India to gain for the science what information he can by following up
the footsteps of great travelers."
CHAPTER VII JACQUES PAGANEL IS
UNDECEIVED
THE Secretary of the Geographical
Society was evidently an amiable personage, for all this was said in a most
charming manner. Lord Glenarvan knew quite well who he was now, for he had
often heard Paganel spoken of, and was aware of his merits. His geographical
works, his papers on modern discoveries, inserted in the reports of the
Society, and his world-wide correspondence, gave him a most distinguished
place among the LITERATI of France.
Lord Glenarvan could not but welcome such a guest, and shook
hands cordially.
"And now that our introductions are over," he added, "you
will allow me,
Monsieur Paganel, to ask you a question?"
"Twenty, my Lord, " replied Paganel; "it will always be a
pleasure to converse with you."
"Was it last evening that you came on board this vessel?"
"Yes, my Lord, about 8 o'clock. I jumped into a cab at the
Caledonian Railway, and from the cab into the SCOTIA, where I had booked my
cabin before I left Paris. It was a dark night, and I saw no one on board,
so I found cabin No. 6, and went to my berth immediately, for I had heard
that the best way to prevent sea-sickness is to go to bed as soon as you
start, and not to stir for the first few days; and, moreover, I had been
traveling for thirty hours. So I tucked myself in, and slept
conscientiously, I assure you, for thirty-six hours."
Paganel's listeners understood the whole mystery, now, of
his presence on the DUNCAN. The French traveler had mistaken his vessel, and
gone on board while the crew were attending the service at St. Mungo's. All
was explained. But what would the learned geographer say, when he heard the
name and destination of the ship, in which he had taken passage?
"Then it is Calcutta, M. Paganel, that you have chosen as
your point of departure on your travels?"
"Yes, my Lord, to see India has been a cherished purpose
with me all my life. It will be the realization of my fondest dreams, to
find myself in the country of elephants and Thugs."
"Then it would be by no means a matter of indifference to
you, to visit another country instead."
"No, my Lord; indeed it would be very disagreeable, for I
have letters from Lord Somerset, the Governor-General, and also a commission
to execute for the Geographical Society."
"Ah, you have a commission."
"Yes, I have to attempt a curious and important journey, the
plan of which has been drawn up by my learned friend and colleague, M.
Vivien de Saint Martin. I am to pursue the track of the Schlaginweit
Brothers; and Colonels Waugh and Webb, and Hodgson; and Huc and Gabet, the
missionaries; and Moorecroft and M. Jules Remy, and so many celebrated
travelers. I mean to try and succeed where Krick, the missionary so
unfortunately failed in 1846; in a word, I want to follow the course of the
river Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou, which waters Thibet for a distance of 1500
kilometres, flowing along the northern base of the Himalayas, and to find
out at last whether this river does not join itself to the Brahmapoutre in
the northeast of As-sam. The gold medal, my Lord, is promised to the
traveler who will succeed in ascertaining a fact which is one of the
greatest DESIDERATA to the geography of India."
Paganel was magnificent. He spoke with superb animation,
soaring away on the wings of imagination. It would have been as impossible
to stop him as to stop the Rhine at the Falls of Schaffhausen.
"Monsieur Jacques Paganel," said Lord Glenarvan, after a
brief pause, "that would certainly be a grand achievement, and you would
confer a great boon on science, but I should not like to allow you to be
laboring under a mistake any longer, and I must tell you, therefore, that
for the present at least, you must give up the pleasure of a visit to
India."
"Give it up. And why?"
"Because you are turning your back on the Indian peninsula."
"What! Captain Burton."
"I am not Captain Burton," said John Mangles.
"But the SCOTIA."
"This vessel is not the SCOTIA."
It would be impossible to depict the astonishment of
Paganel. He stared first at one and then at another in the utmost
bewilderment.
Lord Glenarvan was perfectly grave, and Lady Helena and Mary
showed their sympathy for his vexation by their looks. As for John Mangles,
he could not suppress a smile; but the Major appeared as unconcerned as
usual. At last the poor fellow shrugged his shoulders, pushed down his
spectacles over his nose and said:
"You are joking."
But just at that very moment his eye fell on the wheel of
the ship,
and he saw the two words on it:
Duncan.
Glasgow.
"The DUNCAN! the DUNCAN!" he exclaimed, with a cry of
despair, and forthwith rushed down the stairs, and away to his cabin.
As soon as the unfortunate SAVANT had disappeared, every
one, except the Major, broke out into such peals of laughter that the sound
reached the ears of the sailors in the forecastle. To mistake a railway or
to take the train to Edinburgh when you want to go to Dumbarton might
happen; but to mistake a ship and be sailing for Chili when you meant to go
to India— that is a blunder indeed!
"However," said Lord Glenarvan, "I am not much astonished at
it in Paganel. He is quite famous for such misadventures. One day he
published a celebrated map of America, and put Japan in it! But for all
that, he is distinguished for his learning, and he is one of the best
geographers in France."
"But what shall we do with the poor gentleman?" said Lady
Helena; "we can't take him with us to Patagonia."
"Why not?" replied McNabbs, gravely. "We are not responsible
for his heedless mistakes. Suppose he were in a railway train, would they
stop it for him?"
"No, but he would get out at the first station."
"Well, that is just what he can do here, too, if he likes;
he can disembark at the first place where we touch."
While they were talking, Paganel came up again on the poop,
looking very woebegone and crestfallen. He had been making inquiry about his
luggage, to assure himself that it was all on board, and kept repeating
incessantly the unlucky words, "The DUNCAN! the DUNCAN!"
He could find no others in his vocabulary. He paced
restlessly up and down; sometimes stopping to examine the sails, or gaze
inquiringly over the wide ocean, at the far horizon. At length he accosted
Lord Glenarvan once more, and said—
"And this DUNCAN—where is she going?"
"To America, Monsieur Paganel," was the reply.
"And to what particular part?"
"To Concepcion."
"To Chili! to Chili!" cried the unfortunate geographer. "And
my mission to India. But what will M. de Quatre-fages, the President of the
Central Commission, say? And M. d' Avezac? And M. Cortanbert? And M. Vivien
de Saint Martin? How shall I show my face at the SEANCES of the Society?"
"Come, Monsieur Paganel, don't despair. It can all be
managed; you will only have to put up with a little delay, which is
relatively of not much importance. The Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou will wait for you
still in the mountains of Thibet. We shall soon put in at Madeira, and you
will get a ship there to take you back to Europe."
"Thanks, my Lord. I suppose I must resign myself to it; but
people will say it is a most extraordinary adventure, and it is only to me
such things happen. And then, too, there is a cabin taken for me on board
the SCOTIA."
"Oh, as to the SCOTIA, you'll have to give that up
meantime."
"But the DUNCAN is a pleasure yacht, is it not?" began
Paganel again, after a fresh examination of the vessel.
"Yes, sir," said John Mangles, "and belongs to Lord
Glenarvan."
"Who begs you will draw freely on his hospitality," said
Lord Glenarvan.
"A thousand thanks, my Lord! I deeply feel your courtesy,
but allow me to make one observation: India is a fine country, and can offer
many a surprising marvel to travelers. These ladies, I suppose, have never
seen it. Well now, the man at the helm has only to give a turn at the wheel,
and the DUNCAN will sail as easily to Calcutta as to Concepcion; and since
it is only a pleasure trip that you are—"
His proposal was met by such grave, disapproving shakes of
the head, that he stopped short before the sentence was completed; and Lady
Helena said:
"Monsieur Paganel, if we were only on a pleasure trip, I
should reply, 'Let us all go to India together,' and I am sure Lord
Glenarvan would not object; but the DUNCAN is going to bring back
shipwrecked mariners who were cast away on the shores of Patagonia, and we
could not alter such a destination."
The Frenchman was soon put in possession of all the
circumstances of the case. He was no unmoved auditor, and when he heard of
Lady Helena's generous proposition, he could not help saying,
"Madame, permit me to express my admiration of your conduct
throughout— my unreserved admiration. Let your yacht continue her course. I
should reproach myself were I to cause a single day's delay."
"Will you join us in our search, then?" asked Lady Helena.
"It is impossible, madame. I must fulfill my mission. I
shall disembark at the first place you touch at, wherever it may be."
"That will be Madeira," said John Mangles.
"Madeira be it then. I shall only be 180 leagues from
Lisbon, and I shall wait there for some means of transport."
"Very well, Monsieur Paganel, it shall be as you wish; and,
for my own part, I am very glad to be able to offer you, meantime, a few
days' hospitality. I only hope you will not find our company too dull."
"Oh, my Lord," exclaimed Paganel, "I am but too happy to
have made a mistake which has turned out so agreeably. Still, it is a very
ridiculous plight for a man to be in, to find himself sailing to America
when he set out to go to the East Indies!"
But in spite of this melancholy reflection, the Frenchman
submitted gracefully to the compulsory delay. He made himself amiable and
merry, and even diverting, and enchanted the ladies with his good humor.
Before the end of the day he was friends with everybody. At his request, the
famous document was brought out. He studied it carefully and minutely for a
long time, and finally declared his opinion that no other interpretation of
it was possible. Mary Grant and her brother inspired him with the most
lively interest. He gave them great hope; indeed, the young girl could not
help smiling at his sanguine prediction of success, and this odd way of
foreseeing future events. But for his mission he would have made one of the
search party for Captain Grant, undoubtedly.
As for Lady Helena, when he heard that she was a daughter of
William Tuffnell, there was a perfect explosion of admiring epithets. He had
known her father, and what letters had passed between them when William
Tuffnell was a corresponding member of the Society! It was he himself that
had introduced him and M. Malte Brun. What a rencontre this was, and
what a pleasure to travel with the daughter of Tuffnell.
He wound up by asking permission to kiss her, which Lady
Helena granted, though it was, perhaps, a little improper.
CHAPTER VIII THE GEOGRAPHER'S
RESOLUTION
MEANTIME the yacht, favored by the
currents from the north of Africa, was making rapid progress toward the
equator. On the 30th of August they sighted the Madeira group of islands,
and Glenarvan, true to his promise, offered to put in there, and land his
new guest.
But Paganel said:
"My dear Lord, I won't stand on ceremony with you. Tell me,
did you intend to stop at Madeira before I came on board?"
"No," replied Glenarvan.
"Well, then, allow me to profit by my unlucky mistake.
Madeira is an island too well known to be of much interest now to a
geographer. Every thing about this group has been said and written already.
Besides, it is completely going down as far as wine growing is concerned.
Just imagine no vines to speak of being in Madeira! In 1813, 22,000 pipes of
wine were made there, and in 1845 the number fell to 2,669. It is a grievous
spectacle! If it is all the same to you, we might go on to the Canary Isles
instead."
"Certainly. It will not the least interfere with our route."
"I know it will not, my dear Lord. In the Canary Islands,
you see, there are three groups to study, besides the Peak of Teneriffe,
which I always wished to visit. This is an opportunity, and I should like to
avail myself of it, and make the ascent of the famous mountain while I am
waiting for a ship to take me back to Europe."
"As you please, my dear Paganel," said Lord Glenarvan,
though he could not help smiling; and no wonder, for these islands are
scarcely 250 miles from Madeira, a trifling distance for such a quick sailer
as the DUNCAN.
Next day, about 2 P. M., John Mangles and Paganel were
walking on the poop. The Frenchman was assailing his companion with all
sorts of questions about Chili, when all at once the captain interrupted
him, and pointing toward the southern horizon, said:
"Monsieur Paganel?"
"Yes, my dear Captain."
"Be so good as to look in this direction. Don't you see
anything?"
"Nothing."
"You're not looking in the right place. It is not on the
horizon, but above it in the clouds."
"In the clouds? I might well not see."
"There, there, by the upper end of the bowsprit."
"I see nothing."
"Then you don't want to see. Anyway, though we are forty
miles off, yet I tell you the Peak of Teneriffe is quite visible yonder
above the horizon."
But whether Paganel could not or would not see it then, two
hours later he was forced to yield to ocular evidence or own himself blind.
"You do see it at last, then," said John Mangles.
"Yes, yes, distinctly," replied Paganel, adding in a
disdainful tone, "and that's what they call the Peak of Teneriffe!"
"That's the Peak."
"It doesn't look much of a height."
"It is 11,000 feet, though, above the level of the sea."
"That is not equal to Mont Blanc."
"Likely enough, but when you come to ascend it, probably
you'll think it high enough."
"Oh, ascend it! ascend it, my dear captain! What would be
the good after Humboldt and Bonplan? That Humboldt was a great genius. He
made the ascent of this mountain, and has given a description of it which
leaves nothing unsaid. He tells us that it comprises five different
zones—the zone of the vines, the zone of the laurels, the zone of the pines,
the zone of the Alpine heaths, and, lastly, the zone of sterility. He set
his foot on the very summit, and found that there was not even room enough
to sit down. The view from the summit was very extensive, stretching over an
area equal to Spain. Then he went right down into the volcano, and examined
the extinct crater. What could I do, I should like you to tell me, after
that great man?"
"Well, certainly, there isn't much left to glean. That is
vexing, too, for you would find it dull work waiting for a vessel in the
Peak of Teneriffe."
"But, I say, Mangles, my dear fellow, are there no ports in
the Cape Verde Islands that we might touch at?"
"Oh, yes, nothing would be easier than putting you off at
Villa Praya."
"And then I should have one advantage, which is by no means
inconsiderable—I should find fellow-countrymen at Senegal, and that is not
far away from those islands. I am quite aware that the group is said to be
devoid of much interest, and wild, and unhealthy; but everything is curious
in the eyes of a geographer. Seeing is a science. There are people who do
not know how to use their eyes, and who travel about with as much
intelligence as a shell-fish. But that's not in my line, I assure you."
"Please yourself, Monsieur Paganel. I have no doubt
geographical science will be a gainer by your sojourn in the Cape Verde
Islands. We must go in there anyhow for coal, so your disembarkation will
not occasion the least delay."
The captain gave immediate orders for the yacht to continue
her route, steering to the west of the Canary group, and leaving Teneriffe
on her larboard. She made rapid progress, and passed the Tropic of Cancer on
the second of September at 5 A. M.
The weather now began to change, and the atmosphere became
damp and heavy. It was the rainy season, "le tempo das aguas," as the
Spanish call it, a trying season to travelers, but useful to the inhabitants
of the African Islands, who lack trees and consequently water. The rough
weather prevented the passengers from going on deck, but did not make the
conversation any less animated in the saloon.
On the 3d of September Paganel began to collect his luggage
to go on shore. The DUNCAN was already steaming among the Islands. She
passed Sal, a complete tomb of sand lying barren and desolate, and went on
among the vast coral reefs and athwart the Isle of St. Jacques, with its
long chain of basaltic mountains, till she entered the port of Villa Praya
and anchored in eight fathoms of water before the town. The weather was
frightful, and the surf excessively violent, though the bay was sheltered
from the sea winds. The rain fell in such torrents that the town was
scarcely visible through it. It rose on a plain in the form of a terrace,
buttressed on volcanic rocks three hundred feet high. The appearance of the
island through the thick veil of rain was mournful in the extreme.
Lady Helena could not go on shore as she had purposed;
indeed, even coaling was a difficult business, and the passengers had to
content themselves below the poop as best they might. Naturally enough, the
main topic of conversation was the weather. Everybody had something to say
about it except the Major, who surveyed the universal deluge with the utmost
indifference. Paganel walked up and down shaking his head.
"It is clear enough, Paganel," said Lord Glenarvan, "that
the elements are against you."
"I'll be even with them for all that," replied the
Frenchman.
"You could not face rain like that, Monsieur Paganel," said
Lady Helena.
"Oh, quite well, madam, as far as I myself am concerned.
It is for my luggage and instruments that I am afraid.
Everything will be ruined."
"The disembarking is the worst part of the business. Once at
Villa Praya you might manage to find pretty good quarters. They wouldn't be
over clean, and you might find the monkeys and pigs not always the most
agreeable companions. But travelers are not too particular, and, moreover,
in seven or eight months you would get a ship, I dare say, to take you back
to Europe."
"Seven or eight months!" exclaimed Paganel.
"At least. The Cape Verde Islands are not much frequented by
ships during the rainy season. But you can employ your time usefully. This
archipelago is still but little known."
"You can go up the large rivers," suggested Lady Helena.
"There are none, madam."
"Well, then, the small ones."
"There are none, madam."
"The running brooks, then."
"There are no brooks, either."
"You can console yourself with the forests if that's the
case," put in the Major.
"You can't make forests without trees, and there are no
trees."
"A charming country!" said the Major.
"Comfort yourself, my dear Paganel, you'll have the
mountains at any rate," said Glenarvan.
"Oh, they are neither lofty nor interesting, my Lord, and,
beside, they have been described already."
"Already!" said Lord Glenarvan.
"Yes, that is always my luck. At the Canary Islands, I saw
myself anticipated by Humboldt, and here by M. Charles Sainte-Claire
Deville, a geologist."
"Impossible!"
"It is too true," replied Paganel, in a doleful voice.
"Monsieur Deville was on board the government corvette, La Decidee, when she
touched at the Cape Verde Islands, and he explored the most interesting of
the group, and went to the top of the volcano in Isle Fogo. What is left for
me to do after him?"
"It is really a great pity," said Helena. "What will become
of you, Monsieur Paganel?"
Paganel remained silent.
"You would certainly have done much better to have landed at
Madeira, even though there had been no wine," said Glenarvan.
Still the learned secretary was silent.
"I should wait," said the Major, just as if he had said,
"I should not wait."
Paganel spoke again at length, and said:
"My dear Glenarvan, where do you mean to touch next?"
"At Concepcion."
"Plague it! That is a long way out of the road to India."
"Not it! From the moment you pass Cape Horn, you are getting
nearer to it."
"I doubt it much."
"Beside," resumed Lord Glenarvan, with perfect gravity,
"when people are going to the Indies it doesn't matter much whether it is to
the East or West."
"What! it does not matter much?"
"Without taking into account the fact that the inhabitants
of the Pampas in Patagonia are as much Indians as the natives of the
Punjaub."
"Well done, my Lord. That's a reason that would never have
entered my head!"
"And then, my dear Paganel, you can gain the gold medal
anyway. There is as much to be done, and sought, and investigated, and
discovered in the Cordilleras as in the mountains of Thibet."
"But the course of the Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou—what about that?"
"Go up the Rio Colorado instead. It is a river but little
known, and its course on the map is marked out too much according to the
fancy of geographers."
"I know it is, my dear Lord; they have made grave mistakes.
Oh, I make no question that the Geographical Society would have sent me to
Patagonia as soon as to India, if I had sent in a request to that effect.
But I never thought of it."
"Just like you."
"Come, Monsieur Paganel, will you go with us?" asked Lady
Helena, in her most winning tone.
"Madam, my mission?"
"We shall pass through the Straits of Magellan, I must tell
you," said Lord Glenarvan.
"My Lord, you are a tempter."
"Let me add, that we shall visit Port Famine."
"Port Famine!" exclaimed the Frenchman, besieged on all
sides.
"That famous port in French annals!"
"Think, too, Monsieur Paganel, that by taking part in our
enterprise, you will be linking France with Scotland."
"Undoubtedly."
"A geographer would be of much use to our expedition, and
what can be nobler than to bring science to the service of humanity?"
"That's well said, madam."
"Take my advice, then, and yield to chance, or rather
providence. Follow our example. It was providence that sent us the document,
and we set out in consequence. The same providence brought you on board the
DUNCAN. Don't leave her."
"Shall I say yes, my good friends? Come, now, tell me, you
want me very much to stay, don't you?" said Paganel.
"And you're dying to stay, now, aren't you, Paganel?"
returned Glenarvan.
"That's about it," confessed the learned geographer; "but I
was afraid it would be inconsiderate."
CHAPTER IX THROUGH THE STRAITS OF
MAGELLAN
THE joy on board was universal when
Paganel's resolution was made known.
Little Robert flung himself on his neck in such tumultuous
delight that he nearly threw the worthy secretary down, and made him say,
"Rude petit bonhomme. I'll teach him geography."
Robert bade fair to be an accomplished gentleman some day,
for John Mangles was to make a sailor of him, and the Major was to teach him
sang-froid, and Glenarvan and Lady Helena were to instil into him
courage and goodness and generosity, while Mary was to inspire him with
gratitude toward such instructors.
The DUNCAN soon finished taking in coal, and turned her back
on the dismal region. She fell in before long with the current from the
coast of Brazil, and on the 7th of September entered the Southern
hemisphere.
So far, then, the voyage had been made without difficulty.
Everybody was full of hope, for in this search for Captain Grant, each day
seemed to increase the probability of finding him. The captain was among the
most confident on board, but his confidence mainly arose from the longing
desire he had to see Miss Mary happy. He was smitten with quite a peculiar
interest for this young girl, and managed to conceal his sentiments so well
that everyone on board saw it except himself and Mary Grant.
As for the learned geographer, he was probably the happiest
man in all the southern hemisphere. He spent the whole day in studying maps,
which were spread out on the saloon table, to the great annoyance of M.
Olbinett, who could never get the cloth laid for meals, without disputes on
the subject. But all the passengers took his part except the Major, who was
perfectly indifferent about geographical questions, especially at
dinner-time. Paganel also came across a regular cargo of old books in the
chief officer's chest. They were in a very damaged condition, but among them
he raked out a few Spanish volumes, and determined forthwith to set to work
to master the language of Cer-vantes, as no one on board understood it, and
it would be helpful in their search along the Chilian coast. Thanks to his
taste for languages, he did not despair of being able to speak the language
fluently when they arrived at Concepcion. He studied it furiously, and kept
constantly muttering heterogeneous syllables.
He spent his leisure hours in teaching young Robert, and
instructed him in the history of the country they were so rapidly
approaching.
On the 25th of September, the yacht arrived off the Straits
of Magellan, and entered them without delay. This route is generally
preferred by steamers on their way to the Pacific Ocean. The exact length of
the straits is 372 miles. Ships of the largest tonnage find, throughout,
sufficient depth of water, even close to the shore, and there is a good
bottom everywhere, and abundance of fresh water, and rivers abounding in
fish, and forests in game, and plenty of safe and accessible harbors; in
fact a thousand things which are lacking in Strait Lemaire and Cape Horn,
with its terrible rocks, incessantly visited by hurricane and tempest.
For the first three or four hours—that is to say, for about
sixty to eighty miles, as far as Cape Gregory—the coast on either side was
low and sandy. Jacques Paganel would not lose a single point of view, nor a
single detail of the straits. It would scarcely take thirty-six hours to go
through them, and the moving panorama on both sides, seen in all the
clearness and glory of the light of a southern sun, was well worth the
trouble of looking at and admiring. On the Terra del Fuego side, a few
wretched-looking creatures were wandering about on the rocks, but on the
other side not a solitary inhabitant was visible.
Paganel was so vexed at not being able to catch a glimpse of
any Patagonians, that his companions were quite amused at him.
He would insist that Patagonia without Patagonians was not
Patagonia at all.
But Glenarvan replied:
"Patience, my worthy geographer. We shall see the
Patagonians yet."
"I am not sure of it."
"But there is such a people, anyhow," said Lady Helena.
"I doubt it much, madam, since I don't see them."
"But surely the very name Patagonia, which means 'great
feet' in Spanish, would not have been given to imaginary beings." "Oh, the
name is nothing," said Paganel, who was arguing simply for the sake of
arguing. "And besides, to speak the truth, we are not sure if that is their
name."
"What an idea!" exclaimed Glenarvan. "Did you know that,
Major?"
"No," replied McNabbs, "and wouldn't give a Scotch
pound-note for the information."
"You shall hear it, however, Major Indifferent. Though
Magellan called the natives Patagonians, the Fuegians called them Tiremenen,
the Chilians Caucalhues, the colonists of Carmen Tehuelches, the Araucans
Huiliches; Bougainville gives them the name of Chauha, and Falkner that of
Tehuelhets. The name they give themselves is Inaken. Now, tell me then, how
would you recognize them? Indeed, is it likely that a people with so many
names has any actual existence?"
"That's a queer argument, certainly," said Lady Helena.
"Well, let us admit it," said her husband, "but our friend
Paganel must own that even if there are doubts about the name of the race
there is none about their size."
"Indeed, I will never own anything so outrageous as that,"
replied Paganel.
"They are tall," said Glenarvan.
"I don't know that."
"Are they little, then?" asked Lady Helena.
"No one can affirm that they are."
"About the average, then?" said McNabbs.
"I don't know that either."
"That's going a little too far," said Glenarvan. "Travelers
who have seen them tell us."
"Travelers who have seen them," interrupted Paganel, "don't
agree at all in their accounts. Magellan said that his head scarcely reached
to their waist."
"Well, then, that proves."
"Yes, but Drake declares that the English are taller than
the tallest Patagonian?"
"Oh, the English—that may be," replied the Major,
disdainfully, "but we are talking of the Scotch."
"Cavendish assures us that they are tall and robust,"
continued Paganel. "Hawkins makes out they are giants. Lemaire and Shouten
declare that they are eleven feet high."
"These are all credible witnesses," said Glenarvan.
"Yes, quite as much as Wood, Narborough, and Falkner, who
say they are of medium stature. Again, Byron, Giraudais, Bougainville,
Wallis, and Carteret, declared that the Patagonians are six feet six inches
tall."
"But what is the truth, then, among all these
contradictions?" asked Lady Helena.
"Just this, madame; the Patagonians have short legs, and a
large bust; or by way of a joke we might say that these natives are six feet
high when they are sitting, and only five when they are standing."
"Bravo! my dear geographer," said Glenarvan. "That is very
well put."
"Unless the race has no existence, that would reconcile all
statements," returned Paganel. "But here is one consolation, at all events:
the Straits of Magellan are very magnificent, even without Patagonians."
Just at this moment the DUNCAN was rounding the peninsula of
Brunswick between splendid panoramas.
Seventy miles after doubling Cape Gregory, she left on her
starboard the penitentiary of Punta Arena. The church steeple and the
Chilian flag gleamed for an instant among the trees, and then the strait
wound on between huge granitic masses which had an imposing effect.
Cloud-capped mountains appeared, their heads white with eternal snows, and
their feet hid in immense forests. Toward the southwest, Mount Tarn rose
6,500 feet high. Night came
V. IV Verne on after a long lingering twilight, the light
insensibly melting away into soft shades. These brilliant constellations
began to bestud the sky, and the Southern Cross shone out. There were
numerous bays along the shore, easy of access, but the yacht did not drop
anchor in any; she continued her course fearlessly through the luminous
darkness. Presently ruins came in sight, crumbling buildings, which the
night invested with grandeur, the sad remains of a deserted settlement,
whose name will be an eternal protest against these fertile shores and
forests full of game. The DUNCAN was passing Fort Famine.
It was in that very spot that Sarmiento, a Spaniard, came in
1581, with four hundred emigrants, to establish a colony. He founded the
city of St. Philip, but the extreme severity of winter decimated the
inhabitants, and those who had struggled through the cold died subsequently
of starvation. Cavendish the Corsair discovered the last survivor dying of
hunger in the ruins.
After sailing along these deserted shores, the DUNCAN went
through a series of narrow passes, between forests of beech and ash and
birch, and at length doubled Cape Froward, still bristling with the ice of
the last winter. On the other side of the strait, in Terra del Fuego, stood
Mount Sarmiento, towering to a height of 6,000 feet, an enormous
accumulation of rocks, separated by bands of cloud, forming a sort of aerial
archipelago in the sky.
It is at Cape Froward that the American continent actually
terminates, for Cape Horn is nothing but a rock sunk in the sea in latitude
52 degrees. At Cape Momax the straits widened, and she was able to get round
Narborough Isles and advance in a more southerly direction, till at length
the rock of Cape Pilares, the extreme point of Desolation Island, came in
sight, thirty-six hours after entering the straits. Before her stem lay a
broad, open, sparkling ocean, which Jacques Paganel greeted with
enthusiastic gestures, feeling kindred emotions with those which stirred the
bosom of Ferdinand de Magellan himself, when the sails of his ship, the
TRINIDAD, first bent before the breeze from the great Pacific.
CHAPTER X THE COURSE DECIDED
A WEEK after they had doubled the
Cape Pilares, the DUNCAN steamed into the bay of Talcahuano, a magnificent
estuary, twelve miles long and nine broad. The weather was splendid. From
November to March the sky is always cloudless, and a constant south wind
prevails, as the coast is sheltered by the mountain range of the Andes. In
obedience to Lord Glenarvan's order, John Mangles had sailed as near the
archipelago of Chiloe as possible, and examined all the creeks and windings
of the coast, hoping to discover some traces of the shipwreck. A broken
spar, or any fragment of the vessel, would have put them in the right track;
but nothing whatever was visible, and the yacht continued her route, till
she dropped anchor at the port of Talcahuano, forty-two days from the time
she had sailed out of the fogs of the Clyde.
Glenarvan had a boat lowered immediately, and went on shore,
accompanied by Paganel. The learned geographer gladly availed himself of the
opportunity of making use of the language he had been studying so
conscientiously, but to his great amazement, found he could not make himself
understood by the people. "It is the accent I've not got," he said.
"Let us go to the Custom-house," replied Glenarvan.
They were informed on arriving there, by means of a few
English words, aided by expressive gestures, that the British Consul lived
at Concepcion, an hour's ride distant. Glenarvan found no difficulty in
procuring two fleet horses, and he and Paganel were soon within the walls of
the great city, due to the enterprising genius of Valdivia, the valiant
comrade of the Pizarros.
How it was shorn of its ancient splendor! Often pillaged by
the natives, burned in 1819, it lay in desolation and ruins, its walls still
blackened by the flames, scarcely numbering 8,000 inhabitants, and already
eclipsed by Talcahuano. The grass was growing in the streets, beneath the
lazy feet of the citizens, and all trade and business, indeed any
description of activity, was impossible. The notes of the mandolin resounded
from every balcony, and languishing songs floated on the breeze. Concepcion,
the ancient city of brave men, had become a village of women and children.
Lord Glenarvan felt no great desire to inquire into the causes of this
decay, though Paganel tried to draw him into a discussion on the subject. He
would not delay an instant, but went straight on to the house of Mr. Bentic,
her Majesty's Consul, who received them very courteously, and, on learning
their errand, undertook to make inquiries all along the coast.
But to the question whether a three-mast vessel, called the
BRITANNIA, had gone ashore either on the Chilian or Araucanian coast, he
gave a decided negative. No report of such an event had been made to him, or
any of the other consuls. Glenarvan, however, would not allow himself to be
disheartened; he went back to Talcahuano, and spared neither pains nor
expense to make a thorough investigation of the whole seaboard. But it was
all in vain. The most minute inquiries were fruitless, and Lord Glenarvan
returned to the yacht to report his ill success. Mary Grant and her brother
could not restrain their grief. Lady Helena did her best to comfort them by
loving caresses, while Jacques Paganel took up the document and began
studying it again. He had been poring over it for more than an hour when
Glenarvan interrupted him and said:
"Paganel! I appeal to your sagacity. Have we made an
erroneous interpretation of the document? Is there anything illogical about
the meaning?"
Paganel was silent, absorbed in reflection.
"Have we mistaken the place where the catastrophe occurred?"
continued Glenarvan. "Does not the name Patagonia seem apparent even to the
least clear-sighted individual?"
Paganel was still silent.
"Besides," said Glenarvan, "does not the word INDIEN prove
we are right?"
"Perfectly so," replied McNabbs.
"And is it not evident, then, that at the moment of writing
the words, the shipwrecked men were expecting to be made prisoners by the
Indians?"
"I take exception to that, my Lord," said Paganel; "and even
if your other conclusions are right, this, at least, seemed to me
irrational."
"What do you mean?" asked Lady Helena, while all eyes were
fixed on the geographer.
"I mean this," replied Paganel, "that Captain Grant is
now a prisoner among the Indians, and I further add that the document
states it unmistakably."
"Explain yourself, sir," said Mary Grant.
"Nothing is plainer, dear Mary. Instead of reading the
document seront prisonniers, read sont prisonniers, and the
whole thing is clear."
"But that is impossible," replied Lord Glenarvan.
"Impossible! and why, my noble friend?" asked Paganel,
smiling.
"Because the bottle could only have been thrown into the sea
just when the vessel went to pieces on the rocks, and consequently the
latitude and longitude given refer to the actual place of the shipwreck."
"There is no proof of that," replied Paganel, "and I see
nothing to preclude the supposition that the poor fellows were dragged into
the interior by the Indians, and sought to make known the place of their
captivity by means of this bottle."
"Except this fact, my dear Paganel, that there was no sea,
and therefore they could not have flung the bottle into it."
"Unless they flung it into rivers which ran into the sea,"
returned Paganel.
This reply was so unexpected, and yet so admissible, that it
made them all completely silent for a minute, though their beaming eyes
betrayed the rekindling of hope in their hearts. Lady Helena was the first
to speak.
"What an idea!" she exclaimed.
"And what a good idea," was Paganel's naive rejoinder to her
exclamation.
"What would you advise, then?" said Glenarvan.
"My advice is to follow the 37th parallel from the point
where it touches the American continent to where it dips into the Atlantic,
without deviating from it half a degree, and possibly in some part of its
course we shall fall in with the shipwrecked party."
"There is a poor chance of that," said the Major.
"Poor as it is," returned Paganel, "we ought not to lose it.
If I am right in my conjecture, that the bottle has been carried into the
sea on the bosom of some river, we cannot fail to find the track of the
prisoners. You can easily convince yourselves of this by looking at this map
of the country."
He unrolled a map of Chili and the Argentine provinces as he
spoke, and spread it out on the table.
"Just follow me for a moment," he said, "across the American
continent. Let us make a stride across the narrow strip of Chili, and over
the Cordilleras of the Andes, and get into the heart of the Pampas. Shall we
find any lack of rivers and streams and currents? No, for here are the Rio
Negro and Rio Colorado, and their tributaries intersected by the 37th
parallel, and any of them might have carried the bottle on its waters. Then,
perhaps, in the midst of a tribe in some Indian settlement on the shores of
these almost unknown rivers, those whom I may call my friends await some
providential intervention. Ought we to disappoint their hopes? Do you not
all agree with me that it is our duty to go along the line my finger is
pointing out at this moment on the map, and if after all we find I have been
mistaken, still to keep straight on and follow the 37th parallel till we
find those we seek, if even we go right round the world?"
His generous enthusiasm so touched his auditors that,
involuntarily, they rose to their feet and grasped his hands, while Robert
exclaimed as he devoured the map with his eyes:
"Yes, my father is there!"
"And where he is," replied Glenarvan, "we'll manage to go,
my boy, and find him. Nothing can be more logical than Paganel's theory, and
we must follow the course he points out without the least hesitation.
Captain Grant may have fallen into the hands of a numerous tribe, or his
captors may be but a handful. In the latter case we shall carry him off at
once, but in the event of the former, after we have reconnoitered the
situation, we must go back to the DUNCAN on the eastern coast and get to
Buenos Ayres, where we can soon organize a detachment of men, with Major
McNabbs at their head, strong enough to tackle all the Indians in the
Argentine provinces."
"That's capital, my Lord," said John Mangles, "and I may
add, that there is no danger whatever crossing the continent."
"Monsieur Paganel," asked Lady Helena, "you have no fear
then that if the poor fellows have fallen into the hands of the Indians
their lives at least have been spared."
"What a question? Why, madam, the Indians are not
anthropophagi! Far from it. One of my own countrymen, M. Guinnard,
associated with me in the Geographical Society, was three years a prisoner
among the Indians in the Pampas. He had to endure sufferings and
ill-treatment, but came off victorious at last. A European is a useful being
in these countries. The Indians know his value, and take care of him as if
he were some costly animal."
"There is not the least room then for hesitation," said Lord
Glenarvan. "Go we must, and as soon as possible. What route must we take?"
"One that is both easy and agreeable," replied Paganel.
"Rather mountainous at first, and then sloping gently down the eastern side
of the Andes into a smooth plain, turfed and graveled quite like a garden."
"Let us see the map?" said the Major.
"Here it is, my dear McNabbs. We shall go through the
capital of Araucania, and cut the Cordilleras by the pass of Antuco, leaving
the volcano on the south, and gliding gently down the mountain sides, past
the Neuquem and the Rio Colorado on to the Pampas, till we reach the Sierra
Tapalquen, from whence we shall see the frontier of the province of Buenos
Ayres. These we shall pass by, and cross over the Sierra Tandil, pursuing
our search to the very shores of the Atlantic, as far as Point Medano."
Paganel went through this programme of the expedition
without so much as a glance at the map. He was so posted up in the travels
of Frezier, Molina, Humboldt, Miers, and Orbigny, that he had the
geographical nomenclature at his fingers' ends, and could trust implicitly
to his never-failing memory.
"You see then, friend," he added, "that it is a straight
course. In thirty days we shall have gone over it, and gained the eastern
side before the DUNCAN, however little she may be delayed by the westerly
winds."
"Then the DUNCAN is to cruise between Corrientes and Cape
Saint Antonie," said John Mangles.
"Just so."
"And how is the expedition to be organized?" asked
Glenarvan.
"As simply as possible. All there is to be done is to
reconnoiter the situation of Captain Grant and not to come to gunshot with
the Indians. I think that Lord Glenarvan, our natural leader; the Major, who
would not yield his place to anybody; and your humble servant, Jacques
Paganel."
"And me," interrupted Robert.
"Robert, Robert!" exclaimed Mary.
"And why not?" returned Paganel. "Travels form the youthful
mind.
Yes, Robert, we four and three of the sailors."
"And does your Lordship mean to pass me by?" said John
Mangles, addressing his master.
"My dear John," replied Glenarvan, "we leave passengers on
board, those dearer to us than life, and who is to watch over them but the
devoted captain?"
"Then we can't accompany you?" said Lady Helena, while a
shade of sadness beclouded her eyes.
"My dear Helena, the journey will so soon be accomplished
that it will be but a brief separation, and—"
"Yes, dear, I understand, it is all right; and I do hope you
may succeed."
"Besides, you can hardly call it a journey," added Paganel.
"What is it, then?"
"It is just making a flying passage across the continent,
the way a good man goes through the world, doing all the good he can.
Transire beneficiendo—that is our motto."
This ended the discussion, if a conversation can be so
called, where all who take part in it are of the same opinion. Preparations
commenced the same day, but as secretly as possible to prevent the Indians
getting scent of it.
The day of departure was fixed for the 14th of October. The
sailors were all so eager to join the expedition that Glenarvan found the
only way to prevent jealousy among them was to draw lots who should go. This
was accordingly done, and fortune favored the chief officer, Tom Austin,
Wilson, a strong, jovial young fellow, and Mulrady, so good a boxer that he
might have entered the lists with Tom Sayers himself.
Glenarvan displayed the greatest activity about the
preparations, for he was anxious to be ready by the appointed day. John
Mangles was equally busy in coaling the vessel, that she might weigh anchor
at the same time. There was quite a rivalry between Glenarvan and the young
captain about getting first to the Argentine coast.
Both were ready on the 14th. The whole search party
assembled in the saloon to bid farewell to those who remained behind. The
DUNCAN was just about to get under way, and already the vibration of the
screw began to agitate the limpid waters of Talcahuano, Glenarvan, Paganel,
McNabbs, Robert Grant, Tom Austin, Wilson, and Mulrady, stood armed with
carbines and Colt's revolvers. Guides and mules awaited them at the landing
stairs of the harbor.
"It is time," said Lord Glenarvan at last.
"Go then, dear Edward," said Lady Helena, restraining her
emotion.
Lord Glenarvan clasped her closely to his breast for an
instant, and then turned away, while Robert flung his arms round Mary's
neck.
"And now, friends," said Paganel, "let's have one good
hearty shake of the hand all round, to last us till we get to the shores of
the Atlantic."
This was not much to ask, but he certainly got strong enough
grips to go some way towards satisfying his desire.
All went on deck now, and the seven explorers left the
vessel. They were soon on the quay, and as the yacht turned round to pursue
her course, she came so near where they stood, that Lady Helena could
exchange farewells once more.
"God help you!" she called out.
"Heaven will help us, madam," shouted Paganel, in reply,
"for you may be sure we'll help ourselves."
"Go on," sung out the captain to his engineer.
At the same moment Lord Glenarvan gave the signal to start,
and away went the mules along the coast, while the DUNCAN steamed out at
full speed toward the broad ocean.
CHAPTER XI TRAVELING IN CHILI
THE native troops organized by Lord
Glenarvan consisted of three men and a boy. The captain of the muleteers was
an Englishman, who had become naturalized through twenty years' residence in
the country. He made a livelihood by letting out mules to travelers, and
leading them over the difficult passes of the Cordilleras, after which he
gave them in charge of a BAQUEANO, or Argentine guide, to whom the route
through the Pampas was perfectly familiar. This Englishman had not so far
forgotten his mother tongue among mules and Indians that he could not
converse with his countrymen, and a lucky thing it was for them, as Lord
Glenarvan found it far easier to give orders than to see them executed,
Paganel was still unsuccessful in making himself understood.
The CATAPEZ, as he was called in Chilian, had two natives
called PEONS, and a boy about twelve years of age under him. The PEONS took
care of the baggage mules, and the boy led the MADRINA, a young mare adorned
with rattle and bells, which walked in front, followed by ten mules. The
travelers rode seven of these, and the CATAPEZ another. The remaining two
carried provisions and a few bales of goods, intended to secure the goodwill
of the Caciques of the plain. The PEONS walked, according to their usual
habit.
Every arrangement had been made to insure safety and speed,
for crossing the Andes is something more than an ordinary journey. It could
not be accomplished without the help of the hardy mules of the far-famed
Argentine breed. Those reared in the country are much superior to their
progenitors. They are not particular about their food, and only drink once a
day, and they can go with ease ten leagues in eight hours.
There are no inns along this road from one ocean to another.
The only viands on which travelers can regale themselves are dried meat,
rice seasoned with pimento, and such game as may be shot en route.
The torrents provide them with water in the mountains, and the rivulets in
the plains, which they improve by the addition of a few drops of rum, and
each man carries a supply of this in a bullock's horn, called CHIFFLE. They
have to be careful, however, not to indulge too freely in alcoholic drinks,
as the climate itself has a peculiarly exhilarating effect on the nervous
system. As for bedding, it is all contained in the saddle used by the
natives, called RECADO. This saddle is made of sheepskins, tanned on one
side and woolly on the other, fastened by gorgeous embroidered straps.
Wrapped in these warm coverings a traveler may sleep soundly, and brave
exposure to the damp nights.
Glenarvan, an experienced traveler, who knew how to adapt
himself to the customs of other countries, adopted the Chilian costume for
himself and his whole party. Paganel and Robert, both alike children, though
of different growth, were wild with delight as they inserted their heads in
the national PONCHO, an immense plaid with a hole in center, and their legs
in high leather boots. The mules were richly caparisoned, with the Arab bit
in their mouths, and long reins of plaited leather, which served as a whip;
the headstall of the bridle was decorated with metal ornaments, and the
ALFORJAS, double sacks of gay colored linen, containing the day's
provisions. Paganel, DISTRAIT as usual, was flung several times before he
succeeded in bestriding his good steed, but once in the saddle, his
inseparable telescope on his shoulder-belt, he held on well enough, keeping
his feet fast in the stirrups, and trusting entirely to the sagacity of his
beast. As for Robert, his first attempt at mounting was successful, and
proved that he had the making in him of an excellent horseman.
The weather was splendid when they started, the sky a deep
cloudless blue, and yet the atmosphere so tempered by the sea breezes as to
prevent any feeling of oppressive heat. They marched rapidly along the
winding shore of the bay of Talcahuano, in order to gain the extremity of
the parallel, thirty miles south. No one spoke much the first day, for the
smoke of the DUNCAN was still visible on the horizon, and the pain of
parting too keenly felt. Paganel talked to himself in Spanish, asking and
answering questions.
The CATAPEZ, moreover, was a taciturn man naturally, and had
not been rendered loquacious by his calling. He hardly spoke to his PEONS.
They understood their duties perfectly. If one of the mules stopped, they
urged it on with a guttural cry, and if that proved unavailing, a good-sized
pebble, thrown with unerring aim, soon cured the animal's obstinacy. If a
strap got loose, or a rein fell, a PEON came forward instantly, and throwing
off his poncho, flung it over his beast's head till the accident was
repaired and the march resumed.
The custom of the muleteers is to start immediately after
breakfast, about eight o'clock, and not to stop till they camp for the
night, about 4 P. M. Glenarvan fell in with the practice, and the first halt
was just as they arrived at Arauco, situated at the very extremity of the
bay. To find the extremity of the 37th degree of latitude, they would have
required to proceed as far as the Bay of Carnero, twenty miles further. But
the agents of Glenarvan had already scoured that part of the coast, and to
repeat the exploration would have been useless. It was, therefore, decided
that Arauco should be the point of departure, and they should keep on from
there toward the east in a straight line.
Since the weather was so favorable, and the whole party,
even Robert, were in perfect health, and altogether the journey had
commenced under such favorable auspices, it was deemed advisable to push
forward as quickly as possible. Accordingly, the next day they marched 35
miles or more, and encamped at nightfall on the banks of Rio Biobio. The
country still presented the same fertile aspect, and abounded in flowers,
but animals of any sort only came in sight occasionally, and there were no
birds visible, except a solitary heron or owl, and a thrush or grebe, flying
from the falcon. Human beings there were none, not a native appeared; not
even one of the GUASSOS, the degenerate offspring of Indians and Spaniards,
dashed across the plain like a shadow, his flying steed dripping with blood
from the cruel thrusts inflicted by the gigantic spurs of his master's naked
feet. It was absolutely impossible to make inquiries when there was no one
to address, and Lord Glenarvan came to the conclusion that Captain Grant
must have been dragged right over the Andes into the Pampas, and that it
would be useless to search for him elsewhere. The only thing to be done was
to wait patiently and press forward with all the speed in their power.
On the 17th they set out in the usual line of march, a line
which it was hard work for Robert to keep, his ardor constantly compelled
him to get ahead of the MADRINA, to the great despair of his mule. Nothing
but a sharp recall from Glenarvan kept the boy in proper order.
The country now became more diversified, and the rising
ground indicated their approach to a mountainous district. Rivers were more
numerous, and came rushing noisily down the slopes. Paganel consulted his
maps, and when he found any of those streams not marked, which often
happened, all the fire of a geographer burned in his veins, and he would
exclaim, with a charming air of vexation:
"A river which hasn't a name is like having no civil
standing.
It has no existence in the eye of geographical law."
He christened them forthwith, without the least hesitation,
and marked them down on the map, qualifying them with the most high-sounding
adjectives he could find in the Spanish language.
"What a language!" he said. "How full and sonorous it is! It
is like the metal church bells are made of—composed of seventy-eight parts
of copper and twenty-two of tin."
"But, I say, do you make any progress in it?" asked
Glenarvan.
"Most certainly, my dear Lord. Ah, if it wasn't the accent,
that wretched accent!"
And for want of better work, Paganel whiled away the time
along the road by practising the difficulties in pronunciation, repeating
all the break-jaw words he could, though still making geographical
observations. Any question about the country that Glenarvan might ask the
CATAPEZ was sure to be answered by the learned Frenchman before he could
reply, to the great astonishment of the guide, who gazed at him in
bewilderment.
About two o'clock that same day they came to a cross road,
and naturally enough Glenarvan inquired the name of it.
"It is the route from Yumbel to Los Angeles," said Paganel.
Glenarvan looked at the CATAPEZ, who replied:
"Quite right."
And then, turning toward the geographer, he added:
"You have traveled in these parts before, sir?"
"Oh, yes," said Paganel, quite gravely.
"On a mule?"
"No, in an easy chair."
The CATAPEZ could not make him out, but shrugged his
shoulders and resumed his post at the head of the party.
At five in the evening they stopped in a gorge of no great
depth, some miles above the little town of Loja, and encamped for the night
at the foot of the Sierras, the first steppes of the great Cordilleras.
CHAPTER XII ELEVEN THOUSAND FEET
ALOFT
NOTHING of importance had occurred
hitherto in the passage through Chili; but all the obstacles and
difficulties incident to a mountain journey were about to crowd on the
travelers now.
One important question had first to be settled. Which pass
would take them over the Andes, and yet not be out of their fixed route?
On questioning the CATAPEZ on the subject, he replied:
"There are only two practicable passes that I know of in
this part of the Cordilleras."
"The pass of Arica is one undoubtedly discovered by Valdivia
Mendoze," said Paganel.
"Just so."
"And that of Villarica is the other."
"Precisely."
"Well, my good fellow, both these passes have only one
fault; they take us too far out of our route, either north or south."
"Have you no other to propose?" asked the Major.
"Certainly," replied Paganel. "There is the pass of Antuco,
on the slope of the volcano, in latitude, 37 degrees 30' , or, in other
words, only half a degree out of our way."
"That would do, but are you acquainted with this pass of
Antuco, CATAPEZ?" said Glenarvan.
"Yes, your Lordship, I have been through it, but I did not
mention it, as no one goes that way but the Indian shepherds with the herds
of cattle."
"Oh, very well; if mares and sheep and oxen can go that way,
we can, so let's start at once."
The signal for departure was given immediately, and they
struck into the heart of the valley of Las Lejas, between great masses of
chalk crystal. From this point the pass began to be difficult, and even
dangerous. The angles of the declivities widened and the ledges narrowed,
and frightful precipices met their gaze. The mules went cautiously along,
keeping their heads near the ground, as if scenting the track. They marched
in file. Sometimes at a sudden bend of the road, the MADRINA would
disappear, and the little caravan had to guide themselves by the distant
tinkle of her bell. Often some capricious winding would bring the column in
two parallel lines, and the CATAPEZ could speak to his PEONS across a
crevasse not two fathoms wide, though two hundred deep, which made between
them an inseparable gulf.
Glenarvan followed his guide step by step. He saw that his
perplexity was increasing as the way became more difficult, but did not dare
to interrogate him, rightly enough, perhaps, thinking that both mules and
muleteers were very much governed by instinct, and it was best to trust to
them.
For about an hour longer the CATAPEZ kept wandering about
almost at haphazard, though always getting higher up the mountains. At last
he was obliged to stop short. They were in a narrow valley, one of those
gorges called by the Indians "quebrads," and on reaching the end, a wall of
porphyry rose perpendicularly before them, and barred further passage. The
CATAPEZ, after vain attempts at finding an opening, dismounted, crossed his
arms, and waited. Glenarvan went up to him and asked if he had lost his way.
"No, your Lordship," was the reply.
"But you are not in the pass of Antuco."
"We are."
"You are sure you are not mistaken?"
"I am not mistaken. See! there are the remains of a fire
left by the Indians, and there are the marks of the mares and the sheep."
"They must have gone on then."
"Yes, but no more will go; the last earthquake has made the
route impassable."
"To mules," said the Major, "but not to men."
"Ah, that's your concern; I have done all I could. My mules
and myself are at your service to try the other passes of the Cordilleras."
"And that would delay us?"
"Three days at least."
Glenarvan listened silently. He saw the CATAPEZ was right.
His mules could not go farther. When he talked of returning, however,
Glenarvan appealed to his companions and said:
"Will you go on in spite of all the difficulty?"
"We will follow your Lordship," replied Tom Austin.
"And even precede you," added Paganel. "What is it after
all? We have only to cross the top of the mountain chain, and once over,
nothing can be easier of descent than the slopes we shall find there. When
we get below, we shall find BAQUEANOS, Argentine shepherds, who will guide
us through the Pampas, and swift horses accustomed to gallop over the
plains. Let's go forward then, I say, and without a moment's hesitation."
"Forward!" they all exclaimed. "You will not go with us,
then?" said Glenarvan to the CATAPEZ.
"I am the muleteer," was the reply.
"As you please," said Glenarvan.
"We can do without him," said Paganel. "On the other side we
shall get back into the road to Antuco, and I'm quite sure I'll lead you to
the foot of the mountain as straight as the best guide in the Cordilleras."
Accordingly, Glenarvan settled accounts with the CATAPEZ,
and bade farewell to him and his PEONS and mules. The arms and instruments,
and a small stock of provisions were divided among the seven travelers, and
it was unanimously agreed that the ascent should recommence at once, and, if
necessary, should continue part of the night. There was a very steep winding
path on the left, which the mules never would have attempted. It was
toilsome work, but after two hours' exertion, and a great deal of roundabout
climbing, the little party found themselves once more in the pass of Antuco.
They were not far now from the highest peak of the
Cordilleras, but there was not the slightest trace of any beaten path. The
entire region had been overturned by recent shocks of earthquake, and all
they could do was to keep on climbing higher and higher. Paganel was rather
disconcerted at finding no way out to the other side of the chain, and laid
his account with having to undergo great fatigue before the topmost peaks of
the Andes could be reached, for their mean height is between eleven and
twelve thousand six hundred feet. Fortunately the weather was calm and the
sky clear, in addition to the season being favorable, but in Winter, from
May to October, such an ascent would have been impracticable. The intense
cold quickly kills travelers, and those who even manage to hold out against
it fall victims to the violence of the TEMPORALES, a sort of hurricane
peculiar to those regions, which yearly fills the abysses of the Cordilleras
with dead bodies.
They went on toiling steadily upward all night, hoisting
themselves up to almost inaccessible plateaux, and leaping over broad, deep
crevasses. They had no ropes, but arms linked in arms supplied the lack, and
shoulders served for ladders. The strength of Mulrady and the dexterity of
Wilson were taxed heavily now. These two brave Scots multiplied themselves,
so to speak. Many a time, but for their devotion and courage the small band
could not have gone on. Glenarvan never lost sight of young Robert, for his
age and vivacity made him imprudent. Paganel was a true Frenchman in his
impetuous ardor, and hurried furiously along. The Major, on the contrary,
only went as quick as was necessary, neither more nor less, climbing without
the least apparent exertion. Perhaps he hardly knew, indeed, that he was
climbing at all, or perhaps he fancied he was descending.
The whole aspect of the region had now completely changed.
Huge blocks of glittering ice, of a bluish tint on some of the declivities,
stood up on all sides, reflecting the early light of morn. The ascent became
very perilous. They were obliged to reconnoiter carefully before making a
single step, on account of the crevasses. Wilson took the lead, and tried
the ground with his feet. His companions followed exactly in his footprints,
lowering their voices to a whisper, as the least sound would disturb the
currents of air, and might cause the fall of the masses of snow suspended in
the air seven or eight hundred feet above their heads.
They had come now to the region of shrubs and bushes,
which, higher still, gave place to grasses and cacti.
At 11,000 feet all trace of vegetation had disappeared.
They had only stopped once, to rest and snatch a hurried meal to
V. IV Verne recruit their strength. With superhuman courage,
the ascent was then resumed amid increasing dangers and difficulties. They
were forced to bestride sharp peaks and leap over chasms so deep that they
did not dare to look down them. In many places wooden crosses marked the
scene of some great catastrophes.
About two o'clock they came to an immense barren plain,
without a sign of vegetation. The air was dry and the sky unclouded blue. At
this elevation rain is unknown, and vapors only condense into snow or hail.
Here and there peaks of porphyry or basalt pierced through the white
winding-sheet like the bones of a skeleton; and at intervals fragments of
quartz or gneiss, loosened by the action of the air, fell down with a faint,
dull sound, which in a denser atmosphere would have been almost
imperceptible.
However, in spite of their courage, the strength of the
little band was giving way. Glenarvan regretted they had gone so far into
the interior of the mountain when he saw how exhausted his men had become.
Young Robert held out manfully, but he could not go much farther.
At three o'clock Glenarvan stopped and said:
"We must rest."
He knew if he did not himself propose it, no one else would.
"Rest?" rejoined Paganel; "we have no place of shelter."
"It is absolutely necessary, however, if it were only for
Robert."
"No, no," said the courageous lad; "I can still walk; don't
stop."
"You shall be carried, my boy; but we must get to the other
side of the Cordilleras, cost what it may. There we may perhaps find some
hut to cover us. All I ask is a two hours' longer march."
"Are you all of the same opinion?" said Glenarvan.
"Yes," was the unanimous reply: and Mulrady added, "I'll
carry the boy."
The march eastward was forthwith resumed. They had a
frightful height to climb yet to gain the topmost peaks. The rarefaction of
the atmosphere produced that painful oppression known by the name of PUNA.
Drops of blood stood on the gums and lips, and respiration became hurried
and difficult. However strong the will of these brave men might be, the time
came at last when their physical powers failed, and vertigo, that terrible
malady in the mountains, destroyed not only their bodily strength but their
moral energy. Falls became frequent, and those who fell could not rise
again, but dragged themselves along on their knees.
But just as exhaustion was about to make short work of any
further ascent, and Glenarvan's heart began to sink as he thought of the
snow lying far as the eye could reach, and of the intense cold, and saw the
shadow of night fast overspreading the desolate peaks, and knew they had not
a roof to shelter them, suddenly the Major stopped and said, in a calm
voice, "A hut!"
CHAPTER XIII A SUDDEN DESCENT
ANYONE else but McNabbs might have
passed the hut a hundred times, and gone all round it, and even over it
without suspecting its existence. It was covered with snow, and scarcely
distinguishable from the surrounding rocks; but Wilson and Mulrady succeeded
in digging it out and clearing the opening after half an hour's hard work,
to the great joy of the whole party, who eagerly took possession of it.
They found it was a CASUCHA, constructed by the Indians,
made of ADOBES, a species of bricks baked in the sun. Its form was that of a
cube, 12 feet on each side, and it stood on a block of basalt. A stone stair
led up to the door, the only opening; and narrow as this door was, the
hurricane, and snow, and hail found their way in when the TEMPORALES were
unchained in the mountains.
Ten people could easily find room in it, and though the
walls might be none too water-tight in the rainy season, at this time of the
year, at any rate, it was sufficient protection against the intense cold,
which, according to the thermometer, was ten degrees below zero. Besides,
there was a sort of fireplace in it, with a chimney of bricks, badly enough
put together, certainly, but still it allowed of a fire being lighted.
"This will shelter us, at any rate," said Glenarvan, "even
if it is not very comfortable. Providence has led us to it, and we can only
be thankful."
"Why, it is a perfect palace, I call it," said Paganel; "we
only want flunkeys and courtiers. We shall do capital here."
"Especially when there is a good fire blazing on the hearth,
for we are quite as cold as we are hungry. For my part, I would rather see a
good faggot just now than a slice of venison."
"Well, Tom, we'll try and get some combustible or other,"
said Paganel.
"Combustibles on the top of the Cordilleras!" exclaimed
Mulrady, in a dubious tone.
"Since there is a chimney in the CASUCHA," said the Major,
"the probability is that we shall find something to burn in it."
"Our friend McNabbs is right," said Glenarvan. "Get
everything in readiness for supper, and I'll go out and turn woodcutter."
"Wilson and I will go with you," said Paganel.
"Do you want me?" asked Robert, getting up.
"No, my brave boy, rest yourself. You'll be a man, when
others are only children at your age," replied Glenarvan.
On reaching the little mound of porphyry, Glenarvan and his
two companions left the CASUCHA. In spite of the perfect calmness of the
atmosphere, the cold was stinging. Paganel consulted his barometer, and
found that the depression of the mercury corresponded to an elevation of
11,000 feet, only 910 meters lower than Mont Blanc. But if these mountains
had presented the difficulties of the giant of the Swiss Alps, not one of
the travelers could have crossed the great chain of the New World.
On reaching a little mound of porphyry, Glenarvan and
Paganel stopped to gaze about them and scan the horizon on all sides. They
were now on the summit of the Nevadas of the Cordilleras, and could see over
an area of forty miles. The valley of the Colorado was already sunk in
shadow, and night was fast drawing her mantle over the eastern slopes of the
Andes. The western side was illumined by the rays of the setting sun, and
peaks and glaciers flashed back his golden beams with dazzling radiance. On
the south the view was magnificent. Across the wild valley of the Torbido,
about two miles distant, rose the volcano of Antuco. The mountain roared
like some enormous monster, and vomited red smoke, mingled with torrents of
sooty flame. The surrounding peaks appeared on fire. Showers of red-hot
stones, clouds of reddish vapor and rockets of lava, all combined, presented
the appearance of glowing sparkling streams. The splendor of the spectacle
increased every instant as night deepened, and the whole sky became lighted
up with a dazzling reflection of the blazing crater, while the sun,
gradually becoming shorn of his sunset glories, disappeared like a star lost
in the distant darkness of the horizon.
Paganel and Glenarvan would have remained long enough gazing
at the sublime struggle between the fires of earth and heaven, if the more
practical Wilson had not reminded them of the business on hand. There was no
wood to be found, however, but fortunately the rocks were covered with a
poor, dry species of lichen. Of this they made an ample provision, as well
as of a plant called LLARETTA, the root of which burns tolerably well. This
precious combustible was carried back to the CASUCHA and heaped up on the
hearth. It was a difficult matter to kindle it, though, and still more to
keep it alight. The air was so rarefied that there was scarcely oxygen
enough in it to support combustion. At least, this was the reason assigned
by the Major.
"By way of compensation, however," he added, "water will
boil at less than 100 degrees heat. It will come to the point of ebullition
before 99 degrees."
McNabbs was right, as the thermometer proved, for it was
plunged into the
kettle when the water boiled, and the mercury only rose to 99 degrees.
Coffee was soon ready, and eagerly gulped down by everybody.
The dry meat certainly seemed poor fare, and Paganel couldn't help saying:
"I tell you what, some grilled llama wouldn't be bad with
this, would it? They say that the llama is substitute for the ox and the
sheep, and I should like to know if it is, in an alimentary respect."
"What!" replied the Major. "You're not content with your
supper, most learned Paganel."
"Enchanted with it, my brave Major; still I must confess I
should not say no to a dish of llama."
"You are a Sybarite."
"I plead guilty to the charge. But come, now, though you
call me that, you wouldn't sulk at a beefsteak yourself, would you?"
"Probably not."
"And if you were asked to lie in wait for a llama,
notwithstanding the cold and the darkness, you would do it without the least
hesitation?"
"Of course; and if it will give you the slightest pleasure—"
His companions had hardly time to thank him for his obliging
good nature, when distant and prolonged howls broke on their ear, plainly
not proceeding from one or two solitary animals, but from a whole troop, and
one, moreover, that was rapidly approaching.
Providence had sent them a supper, as well as led them to a
hut. This was the geographer's conclusion; but Glenarvan damped his joy
somewhat by remarking that the quadrupeds of the Cordilleras are never met
with in such a high latitude.
"Then where can these animals come from?" asked Tom Austin.
"Don't you hear them getting nearer!"
"An avalanche," suggested Mulrady.
"Impossible," returned Paganel. "That is regular howling."
"Let us go out and see," said Glenarvan.
"Yes, and be ready for hunting," replied McNabbs, arming
himself with his carbine.
They all rushed forthwith out of the CASUCHA. Night had
completely set in, dark and starry. The moon, now in her last quarter, had
not yet risen. The peaks on the north and east had disappeared from view,
and nothing was visible save the fantastic SILHOUETTE of some towering rocks
here and there. The howls, and clearly the howls of terrified animals, were
redoubled. They proceeded from that part of the Cordilleras which lay in
darkness. What could be going on there? Suddenly a furious avalanche came
down, an avalanche of living animals mad with fear. The whole plateau seemed
to tremble. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of these animals, and in
spite of the rarefied atmosphere, their noise was deafening. Were they wild
beasts from the Pampas, or herds of llamas and vicunas? Glenarvan, McNabbs,
Robert, Austin, and the two sailors, had just time to throw themselves flat
on the ground before they swept past like a whirlwind, only a few paces
distant. Paganel, who had remained standing, to take advantage of his
peculiar powers of sight, was knocked down in a twinkling. At the same
moment the report of firearms was heard. The Major had fired, and it seemed
to him that an animal had fallen close by, and that the whole herd, yelling
louder than ever, had rushed down and disappeared among the declivities
lighted up by the reflection of the volcano.
"Ah, I've got them," said a voice, the voice of Paganel.
"Got what?" asked Glenarvan.
"My spectacles," was the reply. "One might expect to lose
that much in such a tumult as this."
"You are not wounded, I hope?"
"No, only knocked down; but by what?"
"By this," replied the Major, holding up the animal he had
killed.
They all hastened eagerly into the hut, to examine McNabbs'
prize by the light of the fire.
It was a pretty creature, like a small camel without a hump.
The head was small and the body flattened, the legs were long and slender,
the skin fine, and the hair the color of cafe au lait.
Paganel had scarcely looked at it before he exclaimed, "A
guanaco!"
"What sort of an animal is that?" asked Glenarvan.
"One you can eat."
"And it is good savory meat, I assure you; a dish of
Olympus! I knew we should have fresh meat for supper, and such meat! But who
is going to cut up the beast?"
"I will," said Wilson.
"Well, I'll undertake to cook it," said Paganel.
"Can you cook, then, Monsieur Paganel?" asked Robert.
"I should think so, my boy. I'm a Frenchman, and in every
Frenchman there is a cook."
Five minutes afterward Paganel began to grill large slices
of venison on the embers made by the use of the LLARETTAS, and in about ten
minutes a dish was ready, which he served up to his companions by the
tempting name of guanaco cutlets. No one stood on ceremony, but fell to with
a hearty good will.
To the absolute stupefaction of the geographer, however, the
first mouthful was greeted with a general grimace, and such exclamations
as—"Tough!" "It is horrible." "It is not eatable."
The poor SAVANT was obliged to own that his cutlets could
not be relished, even by hungry men. They began to banter him about his
"Olympian dish," and indulge in jokes at his expense; but all he cared about
was to find out how it happened that the flesh of the guanaco, which was
certainly good and eatable food, had turned out so badly in his hands. At
last light broke in on him, and he called out:
"I see through it now! Yes, I see through it. I have found
out the secret now."
"The meat was too long kept, was it?" asked McNabbs,
quietly.
"No, but the meat had walked too much. How could I have
forgotten that?"
"What do you mean?" asked Tom Austin.
"I mean this: the guanaco is only good for eating when it is
killed in a state of rest. If it has been long hunted, and gone over much
ground before it is captured, it is no longer eatable. I can affirm the fact
by the mere taste, that this animal has come a great distance, and
consequently the whole herd has."
"You are certain of this?" asked Glenarvan.
"Absolutely certain."
"But what could have frightened the creatures so, and driven
them from their haunts, when they ought to have been quietly sleeping?"
"That's a question, my dear Glenarvan, I could not possibly
answer. Take my advice, and let us go to sleep without troubling our heads
about it. I say, Major, shall we go to sleep?"
"Yes, we'll go to sleep, Paganel."
Each one, thereupon, wrapped himself up in his poncho, and
the fire was made up for the night.
Loud snores in every tune and key soon resounded from all
sides of the hut, the deep bass contribution of Paganel completing the
harmony.
But Glenarvan could not sleep. Secret uneasiness kept him in
a continual state of wakefulness. His thoughts reverted involuntarily to
those frightened animals flying in one common direction, impelled by one
common terror. They could not be pursued by wild beasts, for at such an
elevation there were almost none to be met with, and of hunters still fewer.
What terror then could have driven them among the precipices of the Andes?
Glenarvan felt a presentiment of approaching danger.
But gradually he fell into a half-drowsy state, and his
apprehensions were lulled. Hope took the place of fear. He saw himself on
the morrow on the plains of the Andes, where the search would actually
commence, and perhaps success was close at hand. He thought of Captain Grant
and his two sailors, and their deliverance from cruel bondage. As these
visions passed rapidly through his mind, every now and then he was roused by
the crackling of the fire, or sparks flying out, or some little jet of flame
would suddenly flare up and illumine the faces of his slumbering companions.
Then his presentiments returned in greater strength than
before, and he listened anxiously to the sounds outside the hut.
At certain intervals he fancied he could hear rumbling
noises in the distance, dull and threatening like the mutter-ings of thunder
before a storm. There surely must be a storm raging down below at the foot
of the mountains. He got up and went out to see.
The moon was rising. The atmosphere was pure and calm. Not a
cloud visible either above or below. Here and there was a passing reflection
from the flames of Antuco, but neither storm nor lightning, and myriads of
bright stars studded the zenith. Still the rumbling noises continued. They
seemed to meet together and cross the chain of the Andes. Glenarvan returned
to the CASUCHA more uneasy than ever, questioning within himself as to the
connection between these sounds and the flight of the guanacos. He looked at
his watch and found the time was about two in the morning. As he had no
certainty, however, of any immediate danger, he did not wake his companions,
who were sleeping soundly after their fatigue, and after a little dozed off
himself, and slumbered heavily for some hours.
All of a sudden a violent crash made him start to his feet.
A deafening noise fell on his ear like the roar of artillery.
He felt the ground giving way beneath him, and the CASUCHA
rocked to and fro, and opened.
He shouted to his companions, but they were already awake,
and tumbling pell-mell over each other. They were being rapidly dragged down
a steep declivity. Day dawned and revealed a terrible scene. The form of the
mountains changed in an instant. Cones were cut off. Tottering peaks
disappeared as if some trap had opened at their base. Owing to a peculiar
phenomenon of the Cordilleras, an enormous mass, many miles in extent, had
been displaced entirely, and was speeding down toward the plain.
"An earthquake!" exclaimed Paganel. He was not mistaken. It
was one of those cataclysms frequent in Chili, and in this very region where
Copiapo had been twice destroyed, and Santiago four times laid in ruins in
fourteen years. This region of the globe is so underlaid with volcanic fires
and the volcanoes of recent origin are such insufficient safety valves for
the subterranean vapors, that shocks are of frequent occurrence, and are
called by the people TREMBLORES.
The plateau to which the seven men were clinging, holding on
by tufts of lichen, and giddy and terrified in the extreme, was rushing down
the declivity with the swiftness of an express, at the rate of fifty miles
an hour. Not a cry was possible, nor an attempt to get off or stop. They
could not even have heard themselves speak. The internal rumblings, the
crash of the avalanches, the fall of masses of granite and basalt, and the
whirlwind of pulverized snow, made all communication impossible. Sometimes
they went perfectly smoothly along without jolts or jerks, and sometimes on
the contrary, the plateau would reel and roll like a ship in a storm,
coasting past abysses in which fragments of the mountain were falling,
tearing up trees by the roots, and leveling, as if with the keen edge of an
immense scythe, every projection of the declivity.
How long this indescribable descent would last, no one could
calculate, nor what it would end in ultimately. None of the party knew
whether the rest were still alive, whether one or another were not already
lying in the depths of some abyss. Almost breathless with the swift motion,
frozen with the cold air, which pierced them through, and blinded with the
whirling snow, they gasped for breath, and became exhausted and nearly
inanimate, only retaining their hold of the rocks by a powerful instinct of
self-preservation. Suddenly a tremendous shock pitched them right off, and
sent them rolling to the very foot of the mountain. The plateau had stopped.
For some minutes no one stirred. At last one of the party
picked himself up, and stood on his feet, stunned by the shock, but still
firm on his legs. This was the Major. He shook off the blinding snow and
looked around him. His companions lay in a close circle like the shots from
a gun that has just been discharged, piled one on top of another.
The Major counted them. All were there except one—that one
was Robert Grant.
CHAPTER XIV PROVIDENTIALLY RESCUED
THE eastern side of the Cordilleras
of the Andes consists of a succession of lengthened declivities, which slope
down almost insensibly to the plain. The soil is carpeted with rich herbage,
and adorned with magnificent trees, among which, in great numbers, were
apple-trees, planted at the time of the conquest, and golden with fruit.
There were literally, perfect forests of these. This district was, in fact,
just a corner of fertile Normandy.
The sudden transition from a desert to an oasis, from snowy
peaks to verdant plains, from Winter to Summer, can not fail to strike the
traveler's eye.
The ground, moreover, had recovered its immobility. The
trembling had ceased, though there was little doubt the forces below the
surface were carrying on their devastating work further on, for shocks of
earthquake are always occurring in some part or other of the Andes. This
time the shock had been one of extreme violence. The outline of the
mountains was wholly altered, and the Pampas guides would have sought vainly
for the accustomed landmarks.
A magnificent day had dawned. The sun was just rising from
his ocean bed, and his bright rays streamed already over the Argentine
plains, and ran across to the Atlantic. It was about eight o'clock.
Lord Glenarvan and his companions were gradually restored to
animation by the Major's efforts. They had been completely stunned, but had
sustained no injury whatever. The descent of the Cordilleras was
accomplished; and as Dame Nature had conveyed them at her own expense, they
could only have praised her method of locomotion if one of their number, and
that one the feeblest and youngest, the child of the party, had not been
missing at the roll call.
The brave boy was beloved by everybody. Paganel was
particularly attached to him, and so was the Major, with all his apparent
coldness. As for Glenarvan, he was in absolute despair when he heard of his
disappearance, and pictured to himself the child lying in some deep abyss,
wildly crying for succor.
"We must go and look for him, and look till we find him," he
exclaimed, almost unable to keep back his tears. "We cannot leave him to his
fate. Every valley and precipice and abyss must be searched through and
through. I will have a rope fastened round my waist, and go down myself. I
insist upon it; you understand; I insist upon it. Heaven grant Robert may be
still alive! If we lose the boy, how could we ever dare to meet the father?
What right have we to save the captain at the cost of his son's life?"
Glenarvan's companions heard him in silence. He sought to
read hope in their eyes, but they did not venture to meet his gaze.
At last he said,
"Well, you hear what I say, but you make no response.
Do you mean to tell me that you have no hope—not the slightest?"
Again there was silence, till McNabbs asked:
"Which of you can recollect when Robert disappeared?"
No one could say.
"Well, then," resumed the Major, "you know this at any rate.
Who was the child beside during our descent of the Cordilleras?"
"Beside me," replied Wilson.
"Very well. Up to what moment did you see him beside you?
Try if you can remember."
"All that I can recollect is that Robert Grant was still by
my side, holding fast by a tuft of lichen, less than two minutes before the
shock which finished our descent."
"Less than two minutes? Mind what you are saying;
I dare say a minute seemed a very long time to you.
Are you sure you are not making a mistake?"
"I don't think I am. No; it was just about two minutes, as I
tell you."
"Very well, then; and was Robert on your right or left?"
"On my left. I remember that his poncho brushed past my
face."
"And with regard to us, how were you placed?"
"On the left also."
"Then Robert must have disappeared on this side," said the
Major, turning toward the mountain and pointing toward the right: "and I
should judge," he added, "considering the time that has elapsed, that the
spot where he fell is about two miles up. Between that height and the ground
is where we must search, dividing the different zones among us, and it is
there we shall find him."
Not another word was spoken. The six men commenced their
explorations, keeping constantly to the line they had made in their descent,
examining closely every fissure, and going into the very depths of the
abysses, choked up though they partly were with fragments of the plateau;
and more than one came out again with garments torn to rags, and feet and
hands bleeding. For many long hours these brave fellows continued their
search without dreaming of taking rest. But all in vain. The child had not
only met his death on the mountain, but found a grave which some enormous
rock had sealed forever.
About one o'clock, Glenarvan and his companions met again in
the valley.
Glenarvan was completely crushed with grief. He scarcely spoke.
The only words that escaped his lips amid his sighs were,
"I shall not go away! I shall not go away!"
No one of the party but could enter into his feeling, and
respect it.
"Let us wait," said Paganel to the Major and Tom Austin. "We
will take a little rest, and recruit our strength. We need it anyway, either
to prolong our search or continue our route."
"Yes; and, as Edward wishes it, we will rest. He has still
hope, but what is it he hopes?"
"Who knows!" said Tom Austin.
"Poor Robert!" replied Paganel, brushing away a tear.
The valley was thickly wooded, and the Major had no
difficulty in finding a suitable place of encampment. He chose a clump of
tall carob trees, under which they arranged their few belongings—few indeed,
for all they had were sundry wraps and fire-arms, and a little dried meat
and rice. Not far off there was a RIO, which supplied them with water,
though it was still somewhat muddy after the disturbance of the avalanche.
Mulrady soon had a fire lighted on the grass, and a warm refreshing beverage
to offer his master. But Glenarvan refused to touch it, and lay stretched on
his poncho in a state of absolute prostration.
So the day passed, and night came on, calm and peaceful as
the preceding had been. While his companions were lying motionless, though
wide awake, Glenarvan betook himself once more to the slopes of the
Cordilleras, listening intently in hope that some cry for help would fall
upon his ear. He ventured far up in spite of his being alone, straining his
ear with painful eagerness to catch the faintest sound, and calling aloud in
an agony of despair.
But he heard nothing save the beatings of his own heart,
though he wandered all night on the mountain. Sometimes the Major followed
him, and sometimes Paganel, ready to lend a helping hand among the slippery
peaks and dangerous precipices among which he was dragged by his rash and
useless imprudence. All his efforts were in vain, however, and to his
repeated cries of "Robert, Robert!" echo was the only response.
Day dawned, and it now became a matter of necessity to go
and bring back the poor Lord from the distant plateau, even against his
will. His despair was terrible. Who could dare to speak of quitting this
fatal valley? Yet provisions were done, and Argentine guides and horses were
not far off to lead them to the Pampas. To go back would be more difficult
than to go forward. Besides, the Atlantic Ocean was the appointed meeting
place with the DUNCAN. These were strong reasons against any long delay;
indeed it was best for all parties to continue the route as soon as
possible.
McNabbs undertook the task of rousing Lord Glenarvan from
his grief. For a long time his cousin seemed not to hear him. At last he
shook his head, and said, almost in-audibly:
"Did you say we must start?"
"Yes, we must start."
"Wait one hour longer."
"Yes, we'll wait another," replied the Major.
The hour slipped away, and again Glenarvan begged for longer
grace. To hear his imploring tones, one might have thought him a criminal
begging a respite. So the day passed on till it was almost noon. McNabbs
hesitated now no longer, but, acting on the advice of the rest, told his
cousin that start they must, for all their lives depended on prompt action.
"Yes, yes!" replied Glenarvan. "Let us start, let us start!"
But he spoke without looking at McNabbs. His gaze was fixed
intently on a certain dark speck in the heavens. Suddenly he exclaimed,
extending his arm, and keeping it motionless, as if petrified:
"There! there! Look! look!"
All eyes turned immediately in the direction indicated so
imperiously. The dark speck was increasing visibly. It was evidently some
bird hovering above them.
"A condor," said Paganel.
"Yes, a condor," replied Glenarvan. "Who knows? He is coming
down— he is gradually getting lower! Let us wait."
Paganel was not mistaken, it was assuredly a condor. This
magnificent bird is the king of the Southern Andes, and was formerly
worshiped by the Incas. It attains an extraordinary development in those
regions. Its strength is prodigious. It has frequently driven oxen over the
edge of precipices down into the depths of abysses. It seizes sheep, and
kids, and young calves, browsing on the plains, and carries them off to
inaccessible heights. It hovers in the air far beyond the utmost limits of
human sight, and its powers of vision are so great that it can discern the
smallest objects on the earth beneath.
What had this condor discovered then? Could it be the corpse
of Robert Grant? "Who knows?" repeated Glenarvan, keeping his eye immovably
fixed on the bird. The enormous creature was fast approaching, sometimes
hovering for awhile with outspread wings, and sometimes falling with the
swiftness of inert bodies in space. Presently he began to wheel round in
wide circles. They could see him distinctly. He measured more than fifteen
feet, and his powerful wings bore him along with scarcely the slightest
effort, for it is the prerogative of large birds to fly with calm majesty,
while insects have to beat their wings a thousand times a second.
The Major and Wilson had seized their carbines, but
Glenarvan stopped them by a gesture. The condor was encircling in his flight
a sort of inaccessible plateau about a quarter of a mile up the side of the
mountain. He wheeled round and round with dazzling rapidity, opening and
shutting his formidable claws, and shaking his cartilaginous carbuncle, or
comb.
"It is there, there!" exclaimed Glenarvan.
A sudden thought flashed across his mind, and with a
terrible cry, he called out, "Fire! fire! Oh, suppose Robert were still
alive! That bird."
But it was too late. The condor had dropped out of sight
behind the crags. Only a second passed, a second that seemed an age, and the
enormous bird reappeared, carrying a heavy load and flying at a slow rate.
A cry of horror rose on all sides. It was a human body the
condor had in his claws, dangling in the air, and apparently lifeless— it
was Robert Grant. The bird had seized him by his clothes, and had him
hanging already at least one hundred and fifty feet in the air. He had
caught sight of the travelers, and was flapping his wings violently,
endeavoring to escape with his heavy prey.
"Oh! would that Robert were dashed to pieces against the
rocks, rather than be a—"
He did not finish his sentence, but seizing Wilson's
carbine, took aim at the condor. His arm was too trembling, however, to keep
the weapon steady.
"Let me do it," said the Major. And with a calm eye, and
sure hands and motionless body, he aimed at the bird, now three hundred feet
above him in the air.
But before he had pulled the trigger the report of a gun
resounded from the bottom of the valley. A white smoke rose from between two
masses of basalt, and the condor, shot in the head, gradually turned over
and began to fall, supported by his great wings spread out like a parachute.
He had not let go his prey, but gently sank down with it on the ground,
about ten paces from the stream.
"We've got him, we've got him," shouted Glenarvan; and
without waiting to see where the shot so providentially came from, he rushed
toward the condor, followed by his companions.
When they reached the spot the bird was dead, and the body
of Robert was quite concealed beneath his mighty wings. Glenarvan flung
himself on the corpse, and dragging it from the condor's grasp, placed it
flat on the grass, and knelt down and put his ear to the heart.
But a wilder cry of joy never broke from human lips, than
Glenarvan uttered the next moment, as he started to his feet and exclaimed:
"He is alive! He is still alive!"
The boy's clothes were stripped off in an instant, and his
face bathed with cold water. He moved slightly, opened his eyes, looked
round and murmured, "Oh, my Lord! Is it you!" he said; "my father!"
Glenarvan could not reply. He was speechless with emotion,
and kneeling down by the side of the child so miraculously saved, burst into
tears.
CHAPTER XV THALCAVE
ROBERT had no sooner escaped one
terrible danger than he ran the risk of another scarcely less formidable. He
was almost torn to pieces by his friends, for the brave fellows were so
overjoyed at the sight of him, that in spite of his weak state, none of them
would be satisfied without
V. IV Verne giving him a hug. However, it seemed as if good
rough hugging did not hurt sick people; at any rate it did not hurt Robert,
but quite the contrary.
But the first joy of deliverance over, the next thought was
who was the deliverer? Of course it was the Major who suggested looking for
him, and he was not far off, for about fifty paces from the RIO a man of
very tall stature was seen standing motionless on the lowest crags at the
foot of the mountain. A long gun was lying at his feet.
He had broad shoulders, and long hair bound together with
leather thongs. He was over six feet in height. His bronzed face was red
between the eyes and mouth, black by the lower eyelids, and white on the
forehead. He wore the costume of the Patagonians on the frontiers,
consisting of a splendid cloak, ornamented with scarlet arabesques, made of
the skins of the guanaco, sewed together with ostrich tendons, and with the
silky wool turned up on the edge. Under this mantle was a garment of
fox-skin, fastened round the waist, and coming down to a point in front. A
little bag hung from his belt, containing colors for painting his face. His
boots were pieces of ox hide, fastened round the ankles by straps, across.
This Patagonian had a splendid face, indicating real
intelligence, notwithstanding the medley of colors by which it was
disfigured. His waiting attitude was full of dignity; indeed, to see him
standing grave and motionless on his pedestal of rocks, one might have taken
him for a statue of sang-froid.
As soon as the Major perceived him, he pointed him out to
Glenarvan, who ran toward him immediately. The Patagonian came two steps
forward to meet him, and Glenarvan caught hold of his hand and pressed it in
his own. It was impossible to mistake the meaning of the action, for the
noble face of the Scotch lord so beamed with gratitude that no words were
needed. The stranger bowed slightly in return, and said a few words that
neither Glenarvan nor the Major could understand.
The Patagonian surveyed them attentively for a few minutes,
and spoke again in another language. But this second idiom was no more
intelligible than the first. Certain words, however, caught Glenarvan's ear
as sounding like Spanish, a few sentences of which he could speak.
ESPANOL?" he asked.
The Patagonian nodded in reply, a movement of the head which
has an affirmative significance among all nations.
"That's good!" said the Major. "Our friend Paganel will be
the very man for him. It is lucky for us that he took it into his head to
learn Spanish."
Paganel was called forthwith. He came at once, and saluted
the stranger with all the grace of a Frenchman. But his compliments were
lost on the Patagonian, for he did not understand a single syllable.
However, on being told how things stood, he began in
Spanish, and opening his mouth as wide as he could, the better to
articulate, said:
"Vos sois um homen de bem." (You are a brave man.)
The native listened, but made no reply.
"He doesn't understand," said the geographer.
"Perhaps you haven't the right accent," suggested the Major.
"That's just it! Confound the accent!"
Once more Paganel repeated his compliment, but with no
better success.
"I'll change the phrase," he said; and in slow, deliberate
tones he went on, "Sam duvida um Patagao" (A Patagonian,
undoubtedly).
No response still.
"DIZEIME!" said Paganel (Answer me).
But no answer came.
"Vos compriendeis?" (Do you understand?) shouted
Paganel, at the very top of his voice, as if he would burst his throat.
Evidently the Indian did not understand, for he replied in
Spanish,
"No comprendo" (I do not understand).
It was Paganel's turn now to be amazed. He pushed his
spectacles right down over his nose, as if greatly irritated, and said,
"I'll be hanged if I can make out one word of his infernal
patois.
It is Araucanian, that's certain!"
"Not a bit of it!" said Glenarvan. "It was Spanish he
spoke."
And addressing the Patagonian, he repeated the word,
"ESPANOL?"
(Spanish?).
"Si, si" (yes, yes) replied the Indian.
Paganel's surprise became absolute stupefaction. The Major
and his cousin exchanged sly glances, and McNabbs said, mischievously, with
a look of fun on his face, "Ah, ah, my worthy friend; is this another of
your misadventures? You seem to have quite a monopoly of them."
"What!" said Paganel, pricking up his ear.
"Yes, it's clear enough the man speaks Spanish."
"He!"
"Yes, he certainly speaks Spanish. Perhaps it is some other
language you have been studying all this time instead of—"
But Paganel would not allow him to proceed. He shrugged his
shoulders, and said stiffly,
"You go a little too far, Major."
"Well, how is it that you don't understand him then?"
"Why, of course, because the man speaks badly," replied the
learned geographer, getting impatient.
"He speaks badly; that is to say, because you can't
understand him," returned the Major coolly.
"Come, come, McNabbs," put in Glenarvan, "your supposition
is quite inadmissable. However DISTRAIT our friend Paganel is, it is hardly
likely he would study one language for another."
"Well, Edward—or rather you, my good Paganel—explain it
then."
"I explain nothing. I give proof. Here is the book I use
daily, to practice myself in the difficulties of the Spanish language.
Examine it for yourself, Major," he said, handing him a volume in a very
ragged condition, which he had brought up, after a long rummage, from the
depths of one of his numerous pockets. "Now you can see whether I am
imposing on you," he continued, indignantly.
"And what's the name of this book?" asked the Major, as he
took it from his hand.
"The LUSIADES, an admirable epic, which—"
"The LUSIADES!" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Yes, my friend, the LUSIADES of the great Camoens, neither
more nor less."
"Camoens!" repeated Glenarvan; "but Paganel, my unfortunate
fellow, Camoens was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been learning
for the last six weeks!"
"Camoens! LUISADES! Portuguese!" Paganel could not say more.
He looked vexed, while his companions, who had all gathered round, broke out
in a furious burst of laughter.
The Indian never moved a muscle of his face. He quietly
awaited the explanation of this incomprehensible mirth.
"Fool, idiot, that I am!" at last uttered Paganel. "Is it
really a fact? You are not joking with me? It is what I have actually been
doing? Why, it is a second confusion of tongues, like Babel. Ah me!
alack-a-day! my friends, what is to become of me? To start for India and
arrive at Chili! To learn Spanish and talk Portuguese! Why, if I go on like
this, some day I shall be throwing myself out of the window instead of my
cigar!"
To hear Paganel bemoan his misadventures and see his comical
discomfiture, would have upset anyone's gravity. Besides, he set the example
himself, and said:
"Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you
can't laugh at me half as much as I laugh at myself!"
"But, I say," said the Major, after a minute, "this doesn't
alter the fact that we have no interpreter."
"Oh, don't distress yourself about that," replied Paganel,
"Portuguese and Spanish are so much alike that I made a mistake; but this
very resemblance will be a great help toward rectifying it. In a very short
time I shall be able to thank the Patagonian in the language he speaks so
well."
Paganel was right. He soon managed to exchange a few words
with the stranger, and found out even that his name was Thalcave, a word
that signified in Araucanian, "The Thunderer." This surname had, no doubt,
come from his skill in handling fire-arms.
But what rejoiced Glenarvan most was to learn that he was a
guide by occupation, and, moreover, a guide across the Pampas. To his mind,
the meeting with him was so providential, that he could not doubt now of the
success of their enterprise. The deliverance of Captain Grant seemed an
accomplished fact.
When the party went back to Robert, the boy held out his
arms to the Patagonian, who silently laid his hand on his head, and
proceeded to examine him with the greatest care, gently feeling each of his
aching limbs. Then he went down to the RIO, and gathered a few handfuls of
wild celery, which grew on the banks, with which he rubbed the child's body
all over. He handled him with the most exquisite delicacy, and his treatment
so revived the lad's strength, that it was soon evident that a few hours'
rest would set him all right.
It was accordingly decided that they should encamp for the
rest of the day and the ensuing night. Two grave questions, moreover, had to
be settled: where to get food, and means of transport. Provisions and mules
were both lacking. Happily, they had Thalcave, however, a practised guide,
and one of the most intelligent of his class. He undertook to find all that
was needed, and offered to take him to a TOLDERIA of Indians, not further
than four miles off at most, where he could get supplies of all he wanted.
This proposition was partly made by gestures, and partly by a few Spanish
words which Paganel managed to make out. His offer was accepted, and
Glenarvan and his learned friend started off with him at once.
They walked at a good pace for an hour and a half, and had
to make great strides to keep up with the giant Thalcave. The road lay
through a beautiful fertile region, abounding in rich pasturages; where a
hundred thousand cattle might have fed comfortably. Large ponds, connected
by an inextricable labyrinth of RIOS, amply watered these plains and
produced their greenness. Swans with black heads were disporting in the
water, disputing possession with the numerous intruders which gamboled over
the LLANOS. The feathered tribes were of most brilliant plumage, and of
marvelous variety and deafening noise. The isacus, a graceful sort of dove
with gray feathers streaked with white, and the yellow cardinals, were
flitting about in the trees like moving flowers; while overhead pigeons,
sparrows, chingolos, bulgueros, and mongitas, were flying swiftly along,
rending the air with their piercing cries.
Paganel's admiration increased with every step, and he had
nearly exhausted his vocabulary of adjectives by his loud exclamations, to
the astonishment of the Patagonian, to whom the birds, and the swans, and
the prairies were every day things. The learned geographer was so lost in
delight, that he seemed hardly to have started before they came in sight of
the Indian camp, or TOLDERIA, situated in the heart of a valley.
About thirty nomadic Indians were living there in rude
cabins made of branches, pasturing immense herds of milch cows, sheep, oxen,
and horses. They went from one prairie to another, always finding a
well-spread table for their four-footed guests.
These nomads were a hybrid type of Araucans, Pehu-enches,
and Aucas. They were Ando-Peruvians, of an olive tint, of medium stature and
massive form, with a low forehead, almost circular face, thin lips, high
cheekbones, effeminate features, and cold expression. As a whole, they are
about the least interesting of the Indians. However, it was their herds
Glenarvan wanted, not themselves. As long as he could get beef and horses,
he cared for nothing else.
Thalcave did the bargaining. It did not take long. In
exchange for seven ready saddled horses of the Argentine breed, 100 pounds
of CHARQUI, or dried meat, several measures of rice, and leather bottles for
water, the Indians agreed to take twenty ounces of gold as they could not
get wine or rum, which they would have preferred, though they were perfectly
acquainted with the value of gold. Glenarvan wished to purchase an eighth
horse for the Patagonian, but he gave him to understand that it would be
useless.
They got back to the camp in less than half an hour, and
were hailed with acclamations by the whole party or rather the provisions
and horses were. They were all hungry, and ate heartily of the welcome
viands. Robert took a little food with the rest. He was fast recovering
strength. The close of the day was spent in complete repose and pleasant
talk about the dear absent ones.
Paganel never quitted the Indian's side. It was not that he
was so glad to see a real Patagonian, by whom he looked a perfect pigmy— a
Patagonian who might have almost rivaled the Emperor Maximii, and that Congo
negro seen by the learned Van der Brock, both eight feet high; but he caught
up Spanish phrases from the Indian and studied the language without a book
this time, gesticulating at a great rate all the grand sonorous words that
fell on his ear.
"If I don't catch the accent," he said to the Major, "it
won't be my fault; but who would have said to me that it was a Patagonian
who would teach me Spanish one day?"
CHAPTER XVI THE NEWS OF THE LOST
CAPTAIN
NEXT day, the 22d of October, at
eight o'clock in the morning, Thalcave gave the signal for departure.
Between the 22d and 42d degrees the Argentine soil slopes eastward, and all
the travelers had to do was to follow the slope right down to the sea.
Glenarvan had supposed Thalcave's refusal of a horse was
that he preferred walking, as some guides do, but he was mistaken, for just
as they were ready, the Patagonian gave a peculiar whistle, and immediately
a magnificent steed of the pure Argentine breed came bounding out of a grove
close by, at his master's call. Both in form and color the animal was of
perfect beauty. The Major, who was a thorough judge of all the good points
of a horse, was loud in admiration of this sample of the Pampas breed, and
considered that, in many respects, he greatly resembled an English hunter.
This splendid creature was called "Thaouka," a word in Patagonia which means
bird, and he well deserved the name.
Thalcave was a consummate horseman, and to see him on his
prancing steed was a sight worth looking at. The saddle was adapted to the
two hunting weapons in common use on the Argentine plains—the BOLAS and the
LAZO. The BOLAS consists of three balls fastened together by a strap of
leather, attached to the front of the RECADO. The Indians fling them often
at the distance of a hundred feet from the animal or enemy of which they are
in pursuit, and with such precision that they catch round their legs and
throw them down in an instant. It is a formidable weapon in their hands, and
one they handle with surprising skill. The LAZO is always retained in the
hand. It is simply a rope, thirty feet long, made of tightly twisted
leather, with a slip knot at the end, which passes through an iron ring.
This noose was thrown by the right hand, while the left keeps fast hold of
the rope, the other end of which is fastened to the saddle. A long carbine,
in the shoulder belt completed the accouterments of the Patagonian.
He took his place at the head of the party, quite
unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, and they set off, going
alternately at a gallop and walking pace, for the "trot" seemed altogether
unknown to them. Robert proved to be a bold rider, and completely reassured
Glenarvan as to his ability to keep his seat.
The Pampas commenced at the very foot of the Cordilleras.
They may be divided into three parts. The first extends from the chain of
the Andes, and stretches over an extent of 250 miles covered with stunted
trees and bushes; the second 450 miles is clothed with magnificent herbage,
and stops about 180 miles from Buenos Ayres; from this point to the sea, the
foot of the traveler treads over immense prairies of lucerne and thistles,
which constitute the third division of the Pampas.
On issuing from the gorges of the Cordilleras, Glenarvan and
his band came first to plains of sand, called MEDANOS, lying in ridges like
waves of the sea, and so extremely fine that the least breath of wind
agitated the light particles, and sent them flying in clouds, which rose and
fell like water-spouts. It was a spectacle which caused both pleasure and
pain, for nothing could be more curious than to see the said water-spouts
wandering over the plain, coming in contact and mingling with each other,
and falling and rising in wild confusion; but, on the other hand, nothing
could be more disagreeable than the dust which was thrown off by these
innumerable MEDANOS, which was so impalpable that close one's eyes as they
might, it found its way through the lids.
This phenomenon lasted the greater part of the day. The
travelers made good progress, however, and about four o'clock the
Cordilleras lay full forty miles behind them, the dark outlines being
already almost lost in the evening mists. They were all somewhat fatigued
with the journey, and glad enough to halt for the night on the banks of the
Neuquem, called Ramid, or Comoe by certain geographers, a troubled,
turbulent rapid flowing between high red banks.
No incident of any importance occurred that night or the
following day. They rode well and fast, finding the ground firm, and the
temperature bearable. Toward noon, however, the sun's rays were extremely
scorching, and when evening came, a bar of clouds streaked the southwest
horizon—a sure sign of a change in the weather. The Patagonian pointed it
out to the geographer, who replied:
"Yes, I know;" and turning to his companions, added, "see, a
change of weather is coming! We are going to have a taste of PAMPERO."
And he went on to explain that this PAMPERO is very common
in the Argentine plains. It is an extremely dry wind which blows from the
southwest. Thalcave was not mistaken, for the PAMPERO blew violently all
night, and was sufficiently trying to poor fellows only sheltered by their
ponchos. The horses lay down on the ground, and the men stretched themselves
beside them in a close group. Glenarvan was afraid they would be delayed by
the continuance of the hurricane, but Paganel was able to reassure him on
that score, after consulting his barometer.
"The PAMPERO generally brings a tempest which lasts three
days, and may be always foretold by the depression of the mercury," he said.
"But when the barometer rises, on the contrary, which is the case now, all
we need expect is a few violent blasts. So you can make your mind easy, my
good friend; by sunrise the sky will be quite clear again."
"You talk like a book, Paganel," replied Glenarvan.
"And I am one; and what's more, you are welcome to turn over
my leaves whenever you like."
The book was right. At one o'clock the wind suddenly lulled,
and the weary men fell asleep and woke at daybreak, refreshed and
invigorated.
It was the 20th of October, and the tenth day since they had
left Talcahuano. They were still ninety miles from the point where the Rio
Colorado crosses the thirty-seventh parallel, that is to say, about two
days' journey. Glenarvan kept a sharp lookout for the appearance of any
Indians, intending to question them, through Thalcave, about Captain Grant,
as Paganel could not speak to him well enough for this. But the track they
were following was one little frequented by the natives, for the ordinary
routes across the Pampas lie further north. If by chance some nomadic
horseman came in sight far away, he was off again like a dart, not caring to
enter into conversation with strangers. To a solitary individual, a little
troop of eight men, all mounted and well armed, wore a suspicious aspect, so
that any intercourse either with honest men or even banditti, was almost
impossible.
Glenarvan was regretting this exceedingly, when he
unexpectedly met with a singular justification of his rendering of the
eventful document.
In pursuing the course the travelers had laid down for
themselves, they had several times crossed the routes over the plains in
common use, but had struck into none of them. Hitherto Thalcave had made no
remark about this. He understood quite well, however, that they were not
bound for any particular town, or village, or settlement. Every morning they
set out in a straight line toward the rising sun, and went on without the
least deviation. Moreover, it must have struck Thalcave that instead of
being the guide he was guided; yet, with true Indian reserve, he maintained
absolute silence. But on reaching a particular point, he checked his horse
suddenly, and said to Paganel:
"The Carmen route."
"Yes, my good Patagonian," replied Paganel in his best
Spanish; "the route from Carmen to Mendoza."
"We are not going to take it?"
"No," replied Paganel.
"Where are we going then?"
"Always to the east."
"That's going nowhere."
"Who knows?"
Thalcave was silent, and gazed at the geographer with an air
of profound surprise. He had no suspicion that Paganel was joking, for an
Indian is always grave.
"You are not going to Carmen, then?" he added, after a
moment's pause.
"No."
"Nor to Mendoza?"
"No, nor to Mendoza."
Just then Glenarvan came up to ask the reason of the
stoppage, and what he and Thalcave were discussing.
"He wanted to know whether we were going to Carmen or
Mendoza, and was very much surprised at my negative reply to both
questions."
"Well, certainly, it must seem strange to him."
"I think so. He says we are going nowhere."
"Well, Paganel, I wonder if it is possible to make him
understand the object of our expedition, and what our motive is for always
going east."
"That would be a difficult matter, for an Indian knows
nothing about degrees, and the finding of the document would appear to him a
mere fantastic story."
"Is it the story he would not understand, or the
storyteller?" said McNabbs, quietly
"Ah, McNabbs, I see you have small faith in my Spanish yet."
"Well, try it, my good friend."
"So I will."
And turning round to the Patagonian he began his narrative,
breaking down frequently for the want of a word, and the difficulty of
making certain details intelligible to a half-civilized Indian. It was quite
a sight to see the learned geographer. He gesticulated and articulated, and
so worked himself up over it, that the big drops of sweat fell in a cascade
down his forehead on to his chest. When his tongue failed, his arms were
called to aid. Paganel got down on the ground and traced a geographical map
on the sand, showing where the lines of latitude and longitude cross and
where the two oceans were, along which the Carmen route led. Thalcave looked
on composedly, without giving any indication of comprehending or not
comprehending.
The lesson had lasted half an hour, when the geographer left
off, wiped his streaming face, and waited for the Patagonian to speak.
"Does he understand?" said Glenarvan.
"That remains to be seen; but if he doesn't, I give it up,"
replied Paganel.
Thalcave neither stirred nor spoke. His eyes remained fixed
on the lines drawn on the sand, now becoming fast effaced by the wind.
"Well?" said Paganel to him at length.
The Patagonian seemed not to hear. Paganel fancied he could
detect an ironical smile already on the lips of the Major, and determined to
carry the day, was about to recommence his geographical illustrations, when
the Indian stopped him by a gesture, and said:
"You are in search of a prisoner?"
"Yes," replied Paganel.
"And just on this line between the setting and rising sun?"
added Thalcave, speaking in Indian fashion of the route from west to east.
"Yes, yes, that's it."
"And it's your God," continued the guide, "that has sent you
the secret of this prisoner on the waves."
"God himself."
"His will be accomplished then," replied the native almost
solemnly.
"We will march east, and if it needs be, to the sun."
Paganel, triumphing in his pupil, immediately translated his
replies to his companions, and exclaimed:
"What an intelligent race! All my explanations would have
been lost on nineteen in every twenty of the peasants in my own country."
Glenarvan requested him to ask the Patagonian if he had
heard of any foreigners who had fallen into the hands of the Indians of the
Pampas.
Paganel did so, and waited an answer.
"Perhaps I have."
The reply was no sooner translated than the Patagonian found
himself surrounded by the seven men questioning him with eager glances.
Paganel was so excited, he could hardly find words, and he gazed at the
grave Indian as if he could read the reply on his lips.
Each word spoken by Thalcave was instantly translated, so
that the whole party seemed to hear him speak in their mother tongue.
"And what about the prisoner?" asked Paganel.
"He was a foreigner."
"You have seen him?"
"No; but I have heard the Indian speak of him. He is brave;
he has the heart of a bull."
"The heart of a bull!" said Paganel. "Ah, this magnificent
Patagonian language. You understand him, my friends, he means a courageous
man."
"My father!" exclaimed Robert Grant, and, turning to
Paganel, he asked what the Spanish was for, "Is it my father."
"Es mio padre," replied the geographer.
Immediately taking Thalcave's hands in his own, the boy
said, in a soft tone:
"Es mio padre."
"Suo padre," replied the Patagonian, his face
lighting up.
He took the child in his arms, lifted him up on his horse,
and gazed at him with peculiar sympathy. His intelligent face was full of
quiet feeling.
But Paganel had not completed his interrogations. "This
prisoner, who was he? What was he doing? When had Thalcave heard of him?"
All these questions poured upon him at once.
He had not long to wait for an answer, and learned that the
European was a slave in one of the tribes that roamed the country between
the Colorado and the Rio Negro.
"But where was the last place he was in?"
"With the Cacique Calfoucoura."
"In the line we have been following?"
"Yes."
"And who is this Cacique?"
"The chief of the Poyuches Indians, a man with two tongues
and two hearts."
"That's to say false in speech and false in action," said
Paganel, after he had translated this beautiful figure of the Patagonian
language.
"And can we deliver our friend?" he added.
"You may if he is still in the hands of the Indians."
"And when did you last hear of him?"
"A long while ago; the sun has brought two summers since
then to the Pampas."
The joy of Glenarvan can not be described. This reply agreed
perfectly with the date of the document. But one question still remained for
him to put to Thalcave.
"You spoke of a prisoner," he said; "but were there not
three?"
"I don't know," said Thalcave.
"And you know nothing of his present situation?"
"Nothing."
This ended the conversation. It was quite possible that the
three men had become separated long ago; but still this much was certain,
that the Indians had spoken of a European that was in their power; and the
date of the captivity, and even the descriptive phrase about the captive,
evidently pointed to Harry Grant.
CHAPTER XVII A SERIOUS NECESSITY
THE Argentine Pampas extend from the
thirty-fourth to the fortieth degree of southern latitude. The word PAMPA,
of Araucanian origin, signifies grass plain, and justly applies to
the whole region. The mimosas growing on the western part, and the
substantial herbage on the eastern, give those plains a peculiar appearance.
The soil is composed of sand and red or yellow clay, and this is covered by
a layer of earth, in which the vegetation takes root. The geologist would
find rich treasures in the tertiary strata here, for it is full of
antediluvian remains—enormous bones, which the Indians attribute to some
gigantic race that lived in a past age.
The horses went on at a good pace through the thick
PAJA-BRAVA, the grass of the Pampas, par excellence, so high and
thick that the Indians find shelter in it from storms. At certain distances,
but increasingly seldom, there were wet, marshy spots, almost entirely under
water, where the willows grew, and a plant called the Gygnerium argenteum.
Here the horses drank their fill greedily, as if bent on quenching their
thirst for past, present and future. Thalcave went first to beat the bushes
and frighten away the cholinas, a most dangerous species of viper, the bite
of which kills an ox in less than an hour.
For two days they plodded steadily across this arid and
deserted plain.
The dry heat became severe. There were not only no RIOS,
but even the ponds dug out by the Indians were dried up.
As the drought seemed to increase with every mile, Paganel asked
Thalcave when he expected to come to water.
"At Lake Salinas," replied the Indian.
"And when shall we get there?"
"To-morrow evening."
When the Argentines travel in the Pampas they generally dig
wells, and find water a few feet below the surface. But the travelers could
not fall back on this resource, not having the necessary implements. They
were therefore obliged to husband the small provision of water they had
still left, and deal it out in rations, so that if no one had enough to
satisfy his thirst no one felt it too painful.
They halted at evening after a course of thirty miles and
eagerly looked forward to a good night's rest to compensate for the fatigue
of day. But their slumbers were invaded by a swarm of mosquitoes, which
allowed them no peace. Their presence indicated a change of wind which
shifted to the north. A south or southwest wind generally puts to flight
these little pests.
Even these petty ills of life could not ruffle the Major's
equanimity; but Paganel, on the contrary, was perfectly exasperated by such
trifling annoyances. He abused the poor mosquitoes desperately, and deplored
the lack of some acid lotion which would have eased the pain of their
stings. The Major did his best to console him by reminding him of the fact
that they had only to do with one species of insect, among the 300,000
naturalists reckon. He would listen to nothing, and got up in a very bad
temper.
He was quite willing to start at daybreak, however, for they
had to get to Lake Salinas before sundown. The horses were tired out and
dying for water, and though their riders had stinted themselves for their
sakes, still their ration was very insufficient. The drought was constantly
increasing, and the heat none the less for the wind being north, this wind
being the simoom of the Pampas.
There was a brief interruption this day to the monotony of
the journey. Mulrady, who was in front of the others, rode hastily back to
report the approach of a troop of Indians. The news was received with very
different feelings by Glenarvan and Thalcave. The Scotchman was glad of the
chance of gleaning some information about his shipwrecked countryman, while
the Patagonian hardly cared to encounter the nomadic Indians of the prairie,
knowing their bandit propensities. He rather sought to avoid them, and gave
orders to his party to have their arms in readiness for any trouble.
Presently the nomads came in sight, and the Patagonian was
reassured at finding they were only ten in number. They came within a
hundred yards of them, and stopped. This was near enough to observe them
distinctly. They were fine specimens of the native races, which had been
almost entirely swept away in 1833 by General Rosas, tall in stature, with
arched forehead and olive complexion. They were dressed in guanaco skins,
and carried lances twenty feet long, knives, slings, bolas, and lassos, and,
by their dexterity in the management of their horses, showed themselves to
be accomplished riders.
They appeared to have stopped for the purpose of holding a
council with each other, for they shouted and gesticulated at a great rate.
Glenarvan determined to go up to them; but he had no sooner moved forward
than the whole band wheeled round, and disappeared with incredible speed. It
would have been useless for the travelers to attempt to overtake them with
such wornout horses.
"The cowards!" exclaimed Paganel.
"They scampered off too quick for honest folks," said
McNabbs.
"Who are these Indians, Thalcave?" asked Paganel.
"Gauchos."
"The Gauchos!" cried Paganel; and, turning to his
companions, he added, "we need not have been so much on our guard; there was
nothing to fear."
"How is that?" asked McNabbs.
"Because the Gauchos are inoffensive peasants."
"You believe that, Paganel?"
"Certainly I do. They took us for robbers, and fled in
terror."
"I rather think they did not dare to attack us," replied
Glenarvan, much vexed at not being able to enter into some sort of
communication with those Indians, whatever they were.
"That's my opinion too," said the Major, "for if I am not
mistaken, instead of being harmless, the Gauchos are formidable out-and-out
bandits."
"The idea!" exclaimed Paganel.
And forthwith commenced a lively discussion of this
ethnological thesis— so lively that the Major became excited, and, quite
contrary to his usual suavity, said bluntly:
"I believe you are wrong, Paganel."
"Wrong?" replied Paganel.
"Yes. Thalcave took them for robbers, and he knows what he
is talking about."
"Well, Thalcave was mistaken this time," retorted Paganel,
somewhat sharply. "The Gauchos are agricul-turists and shepherds, and
nothing else, as I have stated in a pamphlet on the natives of the Pampas,
written by me, which has attracted some notice."
V. IV Verne
[illustration omitted] [page
intentionally blank]
"Well, well, you have committed an error, that's all,
Monsieur Paganel."
"What, Monsieur McNabbs! you tell me I have committed an
error?"
"An inadvertence, if you like, which you can put among the
ERRATA in the next edition."
Paganel, highly incensed at his geographical knowledge being
brought in question, and even jested about, allowed his ill-humor to get the
better of him, and said:
"Know, sir, that my books have no need of such ERRATA."
"Indeed! Well, on this occasion they have, at any rate,"
retorted McNabbs, quite as obstinate as his opponent.
"Sir, I think you are very annoying to-day."
"And I think you are very crabbed."
Glenarvan thought it was high time to interfere, for the
discussion was getting too hot, so he said:
"Come, now, there is no doubt one of you is very teasing and
the other is very crabbed, and I must say I am surprised at both of you."
The Patagonian, without understanding the cause, could see
that the two friends were quarreling. He began to smile, and said quietly:
"It's the north wind."
"The north wind," exclaimed Paganel; "what's the north wind
to do with it?"
"Ah, it is just that," said Glenarvan. "It's the north wind
that has put you in a bad temper. I have heard that, in South America, the
wind greatly irritates the nervous system."
"By St. Patrick, Edward you are right," said the Major,
laughing heartily.
But Paganel, in a towering rage, would not give up the
contest, and turned upon Glenarvan, whose intervention in this jesting
manner he resented.
"And so, my Lord, my nervous system is irritated?" he said.
"Yes, Paganel, it is the north wind—a wind which causes many
a crime in the Pampas, as the TRAMONTANE does in the Campagna of Rome."
"Crimes!" returned the geographer. "Do I look like a man
that would commit crimes?"
"That's not exactly what I said."
"Tell me at once that I want to assassinate you?"
"Well, I am really afraid," replied Glenarvan, bursting into
an uncontrollable fit of laughter, in which all others joined.
Paganel said no more, but went off in front alone, and came
back in a few minutes quite himself, as if he had completely forgotten his
grievance.
At eight o'clock in the evening, Thalcave, who was
considerably in advance of the rest, descried in the distance the
much-desired lake, and in less than a quarter of an hour they reached its
banks; but a grievous disappointment awaited them—the lake was dried up.
CHAPTER XVIII IN SEARCH OF WATER
LAKE SALINAS ends the string of
lagoons connected with the Sierras Ventana and Guamini. Numerous expeditions
were formerly made there from Buenos Ayres, to collect the salt deposited on
its banks, as the waters contain great quantities of chloride of sodium.
But when Thalcave spoke of the lake as supplying drinkable
water he was thinking of the RIOS of fresh water which run into it. Those
streams, however, were all dried up also; the burning sun had drunk up every
thing liquid, and the consternation of the travelers may be imagined at the
discovery.
Some action must be taken immediately, however; for what
little water still remained was almost bad, and could not quench thirst.
Hunger and fatigue were forgotten in the face of this imperious necessity. A
sort of leather tent, called a ROUKAH, which had been left by the natives,
afforded the party a temporary resting-place, and the weary horses stretched
themselves along the muddy banks, and tried to browse on the marine plants
and dry reeds they found there— nauseous to the taste as they must have
been.
As soon as the whole party were ensconced in the ROUKAH,
Paganel asked Thalcave what he thought was best to be done. A rapid
conversation followed, a few words of which were intelligible to Glenarvan.
Thalcave spoke calmly, but the lively Frenchman gesticulated enough for
both. After a little, Thalcave sat silent and folded his arms.
"What does he say?" asked Glenarvan. "I fancied he was
advising us to separate."
"Yes, into two parties. Those of us whose horses are so done
out with fatigue and thirst that they can scarcely drag one leg after the
other, are to continue the route as they best can, while the others, whose
steeds are fresher, are to push on in advance toward the river Guamini,
which throws itself into Lake San Lucas about thirty-one miles off. If there
should be water enough in the river, they are to wait on the banks till
their companions reach them; but should it be dried up, they will hasten
back and spare them a useless journey."
"And what will we do then?" asked Austin.
"Then we shall have to make up our minds to go seventy-two
miles south, as far as the commencement of the Sierra Ventana, where rivers
abound."
"It is wise counsel, and we will act upon it without loss of
time. My horse is in tolerable good trim, and I volunteer to accompany
Thalcave."
"Oh, my Lord, take me," said Robert, as if it were a
question of some pleasure party.
"But would you be able for it, my boy?"
"Oh, I have a fine beast, which just wants to have a gallop.
Please, my Lord, to take me."
"Come, then, my boy," said Glenarvan, delighted not to leave
Robert behind. "If we three don't manage to find out fresh water somewhere,"
he added, "we must be very stupid."
"Well, well, and what about me?" said Paganel.
"Oh, my dear Paganel, you must stay with the reserve corps,"
replied the Major. "You are too well acquainted with the 37th parallel and
the river Guamini and the whole Pampas for us to let you go. Neither
Mulrady, nor Wilson, nor myself would be able to rejoin Thalcave at the
given rendezvous, but we will put ourselves under the banner of the brave
Jacques Paganel with perfect confidence."
"I resign myself," said the geographer, much flattered at
having supreme command.
"But mind, Paganel, no distractions," added the Major.
"Don't you take us to the wrong place—to the borders of the Pacific, for
instance."
"Oh, you insufferable Major; it would serve you right,"
replied Paganel, laughing. "But how will you manage to understand what
Thalcave says, Glenarvan?" he continued.
"I suppose," replied Glenarvan, "the Patagonian and I won't
have much to talk about; besides, I know a few Spanish words, and, at a
pinch, I should not fear either making him understand me, or my
understanding him."
"Go, then, my worthy friend," said Paganel.
"We'll have supper first," rejoined Glenarvan, "and then
sleep, if we can, till it is starting time."
The supper was not very reviving without drink of any kind,
and they tried to make up for the lack of it by a good sleep. But Paganel
dreamed of water all night, of torrents and cascades, and rivers and ponds,
and streams and brooks—in fact, he had a complete nightmare.
Next morning, at six o'clock, the horses of Thalcave,
Glenarvan and Robert were got ready. Their last ration of water was given
them, and drunk with more avidity than satisfaction, for it was filthy,
disgusting stuff. The three travelers then jumped into their saddles, and
set off, shouting "Au revoir!" to their companions.
"Don't come back whatever you do," called Paganel after
them.
The Desertio de las Salinas, which they had to
traverse, is a dry plain, covered with stunted trees not above ten feet
high, and small mimosas, which the Indians call curra-mammel; and
JUMES, a bushy shrub, rich in soda. Here and there large spaces were covered
with salt, which sparkled in the sunlight with astonishing brilliancy. These
might easily have been taken for sheets of ice, had not the intense heat
forbidden the illusion; and the contrast these dazzling white sheets
presented to the dry, burned-up ground gave the desert a most peculiar
character. Eighty miles south, on the contrary, the Sierra Ventana, toward
which the travelers might possibly have to betake themselves should the
Guamini disappoint their hopes, the landscape was totally different. There
the fertility is splendid; the pasturage is incomparable. Unfortunately, to
reach them would necessitate a march of one hundred and thirty miles south;
and this was why Thalcave thought it best to go first to Guamini, as it was
not only much nearer, but also on the direct line of route.
The three horses went forward might and main, as if
instinctively knowing whither they were bound. Thaouka especially displayed
a courage that neither fatigue nor hunger could damp. He bounded like a bird
over the dried-up CANADAS and the bushes of CURRA-MAMMEL, his loud, joyous
neighing seeming to bode success to the search. The horses of Glenarvan and
Robert, though not so light-footed, felt the spur of his example, and
followed him bravely. Thalcave inspirited his companions as much as Thaouka
did his four-footed brethren. He sat motionless in the saddle, but often
turned his head to look at Robert, and ever and anon gave him a shout of
encouragement and approval, as he saw how well he rode. Certainly the boy
deserved praise, for he was fast becoming an excellent cavalier.
"Bravo! Robert," said Glenarvan. "Thalcave is evidently
congratulating you, my boy, and paying you compliments."
"What for, my Lord?"
"For your good horsemanship."
"I can hold firm on, that's all," replied Robert blushing
with pleasure at such an encomium.
"That is the principal thing, Robert; but you are too
modest.
I tell you that some day you will turn out an accomplished horseman."
"What would papa say to that?" said Robert, laughing.
"He wants me to be a sailor."
"The one won't hinder the other. If all cavaliers wouldn't
make good sailors, there is no reason why all sailors should not make good
horsemen. To keep one's footing on the yards must teach a man to hold on
firm; and as to managing the reins, and making a horse go through all sorts
of movements, that's easily acquired. Indeed, it comes naturally."
"Poor father," said Robert; "how he will thank you for
saving his life."
"You love him very much, Robert?"
"Yes, my Lord, dearly. He was so good to me and my sister.
We were his only thought: and whenever he came home from his voyages, we
were sure of some SOUVENIR from all the places he had been to; and, better
still, of loving words and caresses. Ah! if you knew him you would love him,
too. Mary is most like him. He has a soft voice, like hers. That's strange
for a sailor, isn't it?"
"Yes, Robert, very strange."
"I see him still," the boy went on, as if speaking to
himself. "Good, brave papa. He put me to sleep on his knee, crooning an old
Scotch ballad about the lochs of our country. The time sometimes comes back
to me, but very confused like. So it does to Mary, too. Ah, my Lord, how we
loved him. Well, I do think one needs to be little to love one's father like
that."
"Yes, and to be grown up, my child, to venerate him,"
replied Glenarvan, deeply touched by the boy's genuine affection.
During this conversation the horses had been slackening
speed, and were only walking now.
"You will find him?" said Robert again, after a few minutes'
silence.
"Yes, we'll find him," was Glenarvan's reply, "Thalcave has
set us on the track, and I have great confidence in him."
"Thalcave is a brave Indian, isn't he?" said the boy.
"That indeed he is."
"Do you know something, my Lord?"
"What is it, and then I will tell you?"
"That all the people you have with you are brave. Lady
Helena, whom I love so, and the Major, with his calm manner, and Captain
Mangles, and Monsieur Paganel, and all the sailors on the DUNCAN. How
courageous and devoted they are."
"Yes, my boy, I know that," replied Glenarvan.
"And do you know that you are the best of all."
"No, most certainly I don't know that."
"Well, it is time you did, my Lord," said the boy, seizing
his lordship's hand, and covering it with kisses.
Glenarvan shook his head, but said no more, as a gesture
from Thalcave made them spur on their horses and hurry forward.
But it was soon evident that, with the exception of Thaouka,
the wearied animals could not go quicker than a walking pace. At noon they
were obliged to let them rest for an hour. They could not go on at all, and
refused to eat the ALFAFARES, a poor, burnt-up sort of lucerne that grew
there.
Glenarvan began to be uneasy. Tokens of sterility were not
the least on the decrease, and the want of water might involve serious
calamities. Thalcave said nothing, thinking probably, that it would be time
enough to despair if the Guamini should be dried up—if, indeed, the heart of
an Indian can ever despair.
Spur and whip had both to be employed to induce the poor
animals to resume the route, and then they only crept along, for their
strength was gone.
Thaouka, indeed, could have galloped swiftly enough, and
reached the RIO in a few hours, but Thalcave would not leave his companions
behind, alone in the midst of a desert.
It was hard work, however, to get the animal to consent to
walk quietly. He kicked, and reared, and neighed violently, and was subdued
at last more by his master's voice than hand. Thalcave positively talked to
the beast, and Thaouka understood perfectly, though unable to reply, for,
after a great deal of arguing, the noble creature yielded, though he still
champed the bit.
Thalcave did not understand Thaouka, it turned out, though
Thaouka understood him. The intelligent animal felt humidity in the
atmosphere and drank it in with frenzy, moving and making a noise with his
tongue, as if taking deep draughts of some cool refreshing liquid. The
Patagonian could not mistake him now—water was not far off.
The two other horses seemed to catch their comrade's
meaning, and, inspired by his example, made a last effort, and galloped
forward after the Indian.
About three o'clock a white line appeared in a dip of the
road, and seemed to tremble in the sunlight.
"Water!" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Yes, yes! it is water!" shouted Robert.
They were right; and the horses knew it too, for there was
no need now to urge them on; they tore over the ground as if mad, and in a
few minutes had reached the river, and plunged in up to their chests.
Their masters had to go on too, whether they would or not
but they were so rejoiced at being able to quench their thirst, that this
compulsory bath was no grievance.
"Oh, how delicious this is!" exclaimed Robert, taking a deep
draught.
"Drink moderately, my boy," said Glenarvan; but he did not
set the example.
Thalcave drank very quietly, without hurrying himself,
taking small gulps, but "as long as a lazo," as the Patagonians say. He
seemed as if he were never going to leave off, and really there was some
danger of his swallowing up the whole river.
At last Glenarvan said:
"Well, our friends won't be disappointed this time; they
will be sure of finding clear, cool water when they get here— that is to
say, if Thalcave leaves any for them."
"But couldn't we go to meet them? It would spare them
several hours' suffering and anxiety."
"You're right my boy; but how could we carry them this
water? The leather bottles were left with Wilson. No; it is better for us to
wait for them as we agreed. They can't be here till about the middle of the
night, so the best thing we can do is to get a good bed and a good supper
ready for them."
Thalcave had not waited for Glenarvan's proposition to
prepare an encampment. He had been fortunate enough to discover on the banks
of the rio a ramada, a sort of enclosure, which had served as a fold
for flocks, and was shut in on three sides. A more suitable place could not
be found for their night's lodging, provided they had no fear of sleeping in
the open air beneath the star-lit heavens; and none of Thalcave's companions
had much solicitude on that score. Accordingly they took possession at once,
and stretched themselves at full length on the ground in the bright
sunshine, to dry their dripping garments.
"Well, now we've secured a lodging, we must think of
supper," said Glenarvan. "Our friends must not have reason to complain of
the couriers they sent to precede them; and if I am not much mistaken, they
will be very satisfied. It strikes me that an hour's shooting won't be lost
time. Are you ready, Robert?"
"Yes, my Lord," replied the boy, standing up, gun in hand.
Why Glenarvan proposed this was, that the banks of the
Guamini seemed to be the general rendezvous of all the game in the
surrounding plains. A sort of partridge peculiar to the Pampas, called
TINAMOUS; black wood-hens; a species of plover, called TERU-TERU; yellow
rays, and waterfowl with magnificent green plumage, rose in coveys. No
quadrupeds, however, were visible, but Thalcave pointed to the long grass
and thick brushwood, and gave his friends to understand they were lying
there in concealment.
Disdaining the feathered tribes when more substantial game
was at hand, the hunters' first shots were fired into the underwood.
Instantly there rose by the hundred roebucks and guanacos, like those that
had swept over them that terrible night on the Cordilleras, but the timid
creatures were so frightened that they were all out of gunshot in a
twinkling. The hunters were obliged to content themselves with humbler game,
though in an alimentary point of view nothing better could be wished. A
dozen of red partridges and rays were speedily brought down, and Glenarvan
also managed very cleverly to kill a TAY-TETRE, or peccary, a pachydermatous
animal, the flesh of which is excellent eating.
In less than half an hour the hunters had all the game they
required. Robert had killed a curious animal belonging to the order
EDENTATA, an armadillo, a sort of tatou, covered with a hard bony shell, in
movable pieces, and measuring a foot and a half long. It was very fat and
would make an excellent dish, the Patagonian said. Robert was very proud of
his success.
Thalcave did his part by capturing a NANDOU, a species of
ostrich, remarkable for its extreme swiftness.
There could be no entrapping such an animal, and the Indian
did not attempt it. He urged Thaouka to a gallop, and made a direct attack,
knowing that if the first aim missed the NANDOU would soon tire out horse
and rider by involving them in an inextricable labyrinth of windings. The
moment, therefore, that Thalcave got to a right distance, he flung his BOLAS
with such a powerful hand, and so skillfully, that he caught the bird round
the legs and paralyzed his efforts at once. In a few seconds it lay flat on
the ground.
The Indian had not made his capture for the mere pleasure
and glory of such a novel chase. The flesh of the NANDOU is highly esteemed,
and Thalcave felt bound to contribute his share of the common repast.
They returned to the RAMADA, bringing back the string of
partridges, the ostrich, the peccary, and the armadillo. The ostrich and the
peccary were prepared for cooking by divesting them of their tough skins,
and cutting them up into thin slices. As to the armadillo, he carries his
cooking apparatus with him, and all that had to be done was to place him in
his own shell over the glowing embers.
The substantial dishes were reserved for the night-comers,
and the three hunters contented themselves with devouring the partridges,
and washed down their meal with clear, fresh water, which was pronounced
superior to all the porter in the world, even to the famous Highland
USQUEBAUGH, or whisky.
The horses had not been overlooked. A large quantity of dry
fodder was discovered lying heaped up in the RAMADA, and this supplied them
amply with both food and bedding.
When all was ready the three companions wrapped themselves
in the ponchos, and stretched themselves on an eiderdown of ALFAFARES, the
usual bed of hunters on the Pampas.
CHAPTER XIX THE RED WOLVES
NIGHT came, but the orb of night was
invisible to the inhabitants of the earth, for she was just in her first
quarter. The dim light of the stars was all that illumined the plain. The
waters of the Guamini ran silently, like a sheet of oil over a surface of
marble. Birds, quadrupeds, and reptiles were resting motionless after the
fatigues of the day, and the silence of the desert brooded over the
far-spreading Pampas.
Glenarvan, Robert, and Thalcave, had followed the common
example, and lay in profound slumber on their soft couch of lucerne. The
worn-out horses had stretched themselves full length on the ground, except
Thaouka, who slept standing, true to his high blood, proud in repose as in
action, and ready to start at his master's call. Absolute silence reigned
within the inclosure, over which the dying embers of the fire shed a fitful
light.
However, the Indian's sleep did not last long; for about ten
o'clock he woke, sat up, and turned his ear toward the plain, listening
intently, with half-closed eyes. An uneasy look began to depict itself on
his usually impassive face. Had he caught scent of some party of Indian
marauders, or of jaguars, water tigers, and other terrible animals that
haunt the neighborhood of rivers? Apparently it was the latter, for he threw
a rapid glance on the combustible materials heaped up in the inclosure, and
the expression of anxiety on his countenance seemed to deepen. This was not
surprising, as the whole pile of ALFAFARES would soon burn out and could
only ward off the attacks of wild beasts for a brief interval.
There was nothing to be done in the circumstances but wait;
and wait he did, in a half-recumbent posture, his head leaning on his hands,
and his elbows on his knees, like a man roused suddenly from his night's
sleep.
A whole hour passed, and anyone except Thalcave would have
lain down again on his couch, reassured by the silence round him. But where
a stranger would have suspected nothing, the sharpened senses of the Indian
detected the approach of danger.
As he was thus watching and listening, Thaouka gave a low
neigh, and stretched his nostrils toward the entrance of the RAMADA.
This startled the Patagonian, and made him rise to his feet
at once.
"Thaouka scents an enemy," he said to himself, going toward
the opening, to make careful survey of the plains.
Silence still prevailed, but not tranquillity; for Thalcave
caught a glimpse of shadows moving noiselessly over the tufts of
CURRA-MAMMEL. Here and there luminous spots appeared, dying out and
rekindling constantly, in all directions, like fantastic lights dancing over
the surface of an immense lagoon. An inexperienced eye might have mistaken
them for fireflies, which shine at night in many parts of the Pampas; but
Thalcave was not deceived; he knew the enemies he had to deal with, and lost
no time in loading his carbine and taking up his post in front of the fence.
He did not wait long, for a strange cry—a confused sound of
barking and howling—broke over the Pampas, followed next instant by the
report of the carbine, which made the uproar a hundred times worse.
Glenarvan and Robert woke in alarm, and started to their
feet instantly.
"What is it?" exclaimed Robert.
"Is it the Indians?" asked Glenarvan.
"No," replied Thalcave, "the AGUARAS."
"AGUARAS?" said Robert, looking inquiringly at Glenarvan.
"Yes," replied Glenarvan, "the red wolves of the Pampas."
They seized their weapons at once, and stationed themselves
beside the Patagonian, who pointed toward the plain from whence the yelling
resounded.
Robert drew back involuntarily.
"You are not afraid of wolves, my boy?" said Glenarvan.
"No, my Lord," said the lad in a firm tone, "and moreover,
beside you I am afraid of nothing."
"So much the better. These AGUARAS are not very formidable
either; and if it were not for their number I should not give them a
thought."
"Never mind; we are all well armed; let them come."
"We'll certainly give them a warm reception," rejoined
Glenarvan.
His Lordship only spoke thus to reassure the child, for a
secret terror filled him at the sight of this legion of bloodthirsty animals
let loose on them at midnight.
There might possibly be some hundreds, and what could three
men do, even armed to the teeth, against such a multitude?
As soon as Thalcave said the word AGUARA, Glenarvan knew
that he meant the red wolf, for this is the name given to it by the Pampas
Indians. This voracious animal, called by naturalists the Canis jubatus,
is in shape like a large dog, and has the head of a fox. Its fur is a
reddish-cinnamon color, and there is a black mane all down the back. It is a
strong, nimble animal, generally inhabiting marshy places, and pursuing
aquatic animals by swimming, prowling about by night and sleeping during the
day. Its attacks are particularly dreaded at the ESTANCIAS, or sheep
stations, as it often commits considerable ravages, carrying off the finest
of the flock. Singly, the AGUARA is not much to be feared; but they
generally go in immense packs, and one had better have to deal with a jaguar
or cougar than with them.
Both from the noise of the howling and the multitude of
shadows leaping about, Glenarvan had a pretty good idea of the number of the
wolves, and he knew they had scented a good meal of human flesh or horse
flesh, and none of them would go back to their dens without a share. It was
certainly a very alarming situation to be in.
The assailants were gradually drawing closer. The horses
displayed signs of the liveliest terror, with the exception of Thaouka, who
stamped his foot, and tried to break loose and get out. His master could
only calm him by keeping up a low, continuous whistle.
Glenarvan and Robert had posted themselves so as to defend
the opening of the RAMADA. They were just going to fire into the nearest
ranks of the wolves when Thalcave lowered their weapons.
"What does Thalcave mean?" asked Robert.
"He forbids our firing."
"And why?"
"Perhaps he thinks it is not the right time."
But this was not the Indian's reason, and so Glenarvan saw
when he lifted the powder-flask, showed him it was nearly empty.
"What's wrong?" asked Robert.
"We must husband our ammunition," was the reply. "To-day's
shooting has cost us dear, and we are short of powder and shot. We can't
fire more than twenty times."
The boy made no reply, and Glenarvan asked him if he was
frightened.
"No, my Lord," he said.
"That's right," returned Glenarvan.
A fresh report resounded that instant. Thalcave had made
short work of one assailant more audacious than the rest, and the infuriated
pack had retreated to within a hundred steps of the inclosure.
On a sign from the Indian Glenarvan took his place, while
Thalcave went back into the inclosure and gathered up all the dried grass
and ALFAFARES, and, indeed, all the combustibles he could rake together, and
made a pile of them at the entrance. Into this he flung one of the
still-glowing embers, and soon the bright flames shot up into the dark
night. Glenarvan could now get a good glimpse of his antagonists, and saw
that it was impossible to exaggerate their numbers or their fury. The
barrier of fire just raised by Thalcave had redoubled their anger, though it
had cut off their approach. Several of them, however, urged on by the
hindmost ranks, pushed forward into the very flames, and burned their paws
for their pains.
From time to time another shot had to be fired,
notwithstanding the fire, to keep off the howling pack, and in the course of
an hour fifteen dead animals lay stretched on the prairie.
The situation of the besieged was, relatively speaking, less
dangerous now. As long as the powder lasted and the barrier of fire burned
on, there was no fear of being overmastered. But what was to be done
afterward, when both means of defense failed at once?
Glenarvan's heart swelled as he looked at Robert. He forgot
himself in thinking of this poor child, as he saw him showing a courage so
far above his years. Robert was pale, but he kept his gun steady, and stood
with firm foot ready to meet the attacks of the infuriated wolves.
However, after Glenarvan had calmly surveyed the actual
state of affairs, he determined to bring things to a crisis.
"In an hour's time," he said, "we shall neither have powder
nor fire.
It will never do to wait till then before we settle what to do."
Accordingly, he went up to Thalcave, and tried to talk to
him by the help of the few Spanish words his memory could muster, though
their conversation was often interrupted by one or the other having to fire
a shot.
It was no easy task for the two men to understand each
other, but, most fortunately, Glenarvan knew a great deal of the
peculiarities of the red wolf; otherwise he could never have interpreted the
Indian's words and gestures.
As it was, fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before he
could get any answer from Thalcave to tell Robert in reply to his inquiry.
"What does he say?"
"He says that at any price we must hold out till daybreak.
The AGUARA only prowls about at night, and goes back to his lair with the
first streak of dawn. It is a cowardly beast, that loves the darkness and
dreads the light—an owl on four feet."
"Very well, let us defend ourselves, then, till morning."
"Yes, my boy, and with knife-thrusts, when gun and shots
fail."
Already Thalcave had set the example, for whenever a wolf
came too near the burning pile, the long arm of the Patagonian dashed
through the flames and came out again reddened with blood.
But very soon this means of defense would be at an end.
About two o'clock, Thalcave flung his last armful of combustibles into the
fire, and barely enough powder remained to load a gun five times.
Glenarvan threw a sorrowful glance round him. He thought of
the lad standing there, and of his companions and those left behind, whom he
loved so dearly.
Robert was silent. Perhaps the danger seemed less imminent
to his imagination. But Glenarvan thought for him, and pictured to himself
the horrible fate that seemed to await him inevitably. Quite overcome by his
emotion, he took the child in his arms, and straining him convulsively to
his heart, pressed his lips on his forehead, while tears he could not
restrain streamed down his cheeks.
Robert looked up into his face with a smile, and said,
"I am not frightened."
"No, my child, no! and you are right. In two hours daybreak
will come, and we shall be saved. Bravo, Thalcave! my brave Patagonian!
Bravo!" he added as the Indian that moment leveled two enormous beasts who
endeavored to leap across the barrier of flames.
But the fire was fast dying out, and the DENOUEMENT of the
terrible drama was approaching. The flames got lower and lower. Once more
the shadows of night fell on the prairie, and the glaring eyes of the wolves
glowed like phosphorescent balls in the darkness. A few minutes longer, and
the whole pack would be in the inclosure.
Thalcave loaded his carbine for the last time, killed one
more enormous monster, and then folded his arms. His head sank on his chest,
and he appeared buried in deep thought. Was he planning some daring,
impossible, mad attempt to repulse the infuriated horde? Glenarvan did not
venture to ask.
At this very moment the wolves began to change their
tactics.
The deafening howls suddenly ceased: they seemed to be going away.
Gloomy silence spread over the prairie, and made Robert exclaim:
"They're gone!"
But Thalcave, guessing his meaning, shook his head. He knew
they would never relinquish their sure prey till daybreak made them hasten
back to their dens.
Still, their plan of attack had evidently been altered. They
no longer attempted to force the entrance, but their new maneuvers only
heightened the danger.
They had gone round the RAMADA, as by common consent, and
were trying to get in on the opposite side.
The next minute they heard their claws attacking the
moldering wood, and already formidable paws and hungry, savage jaws had
found their way through the palings. The terrified horses broke loose from
their halters and ran about the inclosure, mad with fear.
Glenarvan put his arms round the young lad, and resolved to
defend him as long as his life held out. Possibly he might have made a
useless attempt at flight when his eye fell on Thalcave.
The Indian had been stalking about the RAMADA like a stag,
when he suddenly stopped short, and going up to his horse, who was trembling
with impatience, began to saddle him with the most scrupulous care, without
forgetting a single strap or buckle. He seemed no longer to disturb himself
in the least about the wolves outside, though their yells had redoubled in
intensity. A dark suspicion crossed Glenarvan's mind as he watched him.
"He is going to desert us," he exclaimed at last, as he saw
him seize the reins, as if preparing to mount.
"He! never!" replied Robert. Instead of deserting them, the
truth was that the Indian was going to try and save his friends by
sacrificing himself.
Thaouka was ready, and stood champing his bit. He reared up,
and his splendid eyes flashed fire; he understood his master.
But just as the Patagonian caught hold of the horse's mane,
Glenarvan seized his arm with a convulsive grip, and said, pointing to the
open prairie.
"You are going away?"
V. IV Verne
"Yes," replied the Indian, understanding his gesture. Then
he said a few words in Spanish, which meant: "Thaouka; good horse; quick;
will draw all the wolves away after him."
"Oh, Thalcave," exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Quick, quick!" replied the Indian, while Glenarvan said, in
a broken, agitated voice to Robert:
"Robert, my child, do you hear him? He wants to sacrifice
himself for us. He wants to rush away over the Pampas, and turn off the
wolves from us by attracting them to himself."
"Friend Thalcave," returned Robert, throwing himself at the
feet of the Patagonian, "friend Thalcave, don't leave us!"
"No," said Glenarvan, "he shall not leave us."
And turning toward the Indian, he said, pointing to the
frightened horses,
"Let us go together."
"No," replied Thalcave, catching his meaning.
"Bad beasts; frightened; Thaouka, good horse."
"Be it so then!" returned Glenarvan. "Thalcave will not
leave you, Robert. He teaches me what I must do. It is for me to go, and for
him to stay by you."
Then seizing Thaouka's bridle, he said, "I am going,
Thalcave, not you."
"No," replied the Patagonian quietly.
"I am," exclaimed Glenarvan, snatching the bridle out of his
hands.
"I, myself! Save this boy, Thalcave! I commit him to you."
Glenarvan was so excited that he mixed up English words with
his Spanish. But what mattered the language at such a terrible moment. A
gesture was enough. The two men understood each other.
However, Thalcave would not give in, and though every
instant's delay but increased the danger, the discussion continued.
Neither Glenarvan nor Thalcave appeared inclined to yield.
The Indian had dragged his companion towards the entrance of the RAMADA, and
showed him the prairie, making him understand that now was the time when it
was clear from the wolves; but that not a moment was to be lost, for should
this maneuver not succeed, it would only render the situation of those left
behind more desperate. and that he knew his horse well enough to be able to
trust his wonderful lightness and swiftness to save them all. But Glenarvan
was blind and obstinate, and determined to sacrifice himself at all hazards,
when suddenly he felt himself violently pushed back. Thaouka pranced up, and
reared himself bolt upright on his hind legs, and made a bound over the
barrier of fire, while a clear, young voice called out:
"God save you, my lord."
But before either Thalcave or Glenarvan could get more than
a glimpse of the boy, holding on fast by Thaouka's mane, he was out of
sight.
"Robert! oh you unfortunate boy," cried Glenarvan.
But even Thalcave did not catch the words, for his voice was
drowned in the frightful uproar made by the wolves, who had dashed off at a
tremendous speed on the track of the horse.
Thalcave and Glenarvan rushed out of the RAMADA. Already the
plain had recovered its tranquillity, and all that could be seen of the red
wolves was a moving line far away in the distant darkness.
Glenarvan sank prostrate on the ground, and clasped his
hands despairingly. He looked at Thalcave, who smiled with his accustomed
calmness, and said:
"Thaouka, good horse. Brave boy. He will save himself!"
"And suppose he falls?" said Glenarvan.
"He'll not fall."
But notwithstanding Thalcave's assurances, poor Glenarvan
spent the rest of the night in torturing anxiety. He seemed quite insensible
now to the danger they had escaped through the departure of the wolves, and
would have hastened immediately after Robert if the Indian had not kept him
back by making him understand the impossibility of their horses overtaking
Thaouka; and also that boy and horse had outdistanced the wolves long since,
and that it would be useless going to look for them till daylight.
At four o'clock morning began to dawn. A pale glimmer
appeared in the horizon, and pearly drops of dew lay thick on the plain and
on the tall grass, already stirred by the breath of day.
The time for starting had arrived.
"Now!" cried Thalcave, "come."
Glenarvan made no reply, but took Robert's horse and sprung
into the saddle. Next minute both men were galloping at full speed toward
the west, in the line in which their companions ought to be advancing. They
dashed along at a prodigious rate for a full hour, dreading every minute to
come across the mangled corpse of Robert. Glenarvan had torn the flanks of
his horse with his spurs in his mad haste, when at last gun-shots were heard
in the distance at regular intervals, as if fired as a signal.
"There they are!" exclaimed Glenarvan; and both he and the
Indian urged on their steeds to a still quicker pace, till in a few minutes
more they came up to the little detachment conducted by Paganel. A cry broke
from Glenarvan's lips, for Robert was there, alive and well, still mounted
on the superb Thaouka, who neighed loudly with delight at the sight of his
master.
"Oh, my child, my child!" cried Glenarvan, with
indescribable tenderness in his tone.
Both he and Robert leaped to the ground, and flung
themselves into each other's arms. Then the Indian hugged the brave boy in
his arms.
"He is alive, he is alive," repeated Glenarvan again and
again.
"Yes," replied Robert; "and thanks to Thaouka."
This great recognition of his favorite's services was wholly
unexpected by the Indian, who was talking to him that minute, caressing and
speaking to him, as if human blood flowed in the veins of the proud
creature. Then turning to Paganel, he pointed to Robert, and said, "A
brave!" and employing the Indian metaphor, he added, "his spurs did not
tremble!"
But Glenarvan put his arms round the boy and said, "Why
wouldn't you let me or Thalcave run the risk of this last chance of
deliverance, my son?"
"My lord," replied the boy in tones of gratitude, "wasn't it
my place to do it? Thalcave has saved my life already, and you— you are
going to save my father."
CHAPTER XX STRANGE SIGNS
AFTER the first joy of the meeting
was over, Paganel and his party, except perhaps the Major, were only
conscious of one feeling— they were dying of thirst. Most fortunately for
them, the Guamini ran not far off, and about seven in the morning the little
troop reached the inclosure on its banks. The precincts were strewed with
the dead wolves, and judging from their numbers, it was evident how violent
the attack must have been, and how desperate the resistance.
As soon as the travelers had drunk their fill, they began to
demolish the breakfast prepared in the RAMADA, and did ample justice to the
extraordinary viands. The NANDOU fillets were pronounced first-rate, and the
armadillo was delicious.
"To eat moderately," said Paganel, "would be positive
ingratitude to Providence. We must eat immoderately."
And so they did, but were none the worse for it.
The water of the Guamini greatly aided digestion apparently.
Glenarvan, however, was not going to imitate Hannibal at
Capua, and at ten o'clock next morning gave the signal for starting. The
leathern bottles were filled with water, and the day's march commenced. The
horses were so well rested that they were quite fresh again, and kept up a
canter almost constantly. The country was not so parched up now, and
consequently less sterile, but still a desert. No incident occurred of any
importance during the 2d and 3d of November, and in the evening they reached
the boundary of the Pampas, and camped for the night on the frontiers of the
province of Buenos Ayres. Two-thirds of their journey was now accomplished.
It was twenty-two days since they left the Bay of Talcahuano, and they had
gone 450 miles.
Next morning they crossed the conventional line which
separates the Argentine plains from the region of the Pampas. It was here
that Thalcave hoped to meet the Caciques, in whose hands, he had no doubt,
Harry Grant and his men were prisoners.
From the time of leaving the Guamini, there was marked
change in the temperature, to the great relief of the travelers. It was much
cooler, thanks to the violent and cold winds from Patagonia, which
constantly agitate the atmospheric waves. Horses and men were glad enough of
this, after what they had suffered from the heat and drought, and they felt
animated with fresh ardor and confidence. But contrary to what Thalcave had
said, the whole district appeared uninhabited, or rather abandoned.
Their route often led past or went right through small
lagoons, sometimes of fresh water, sometimes of brackish. On the banks and
bushes about these, king-wrens were hopping about and larks singing joyously
in concert with the tangaras, the rivals in color of the brilliant humming
birds. On the thorny bushes the nests of the ANNUBIS swung to and fro in the
breeze like an Indian hammock; and on the shore magnificent flamingos
stalked in regular order like soldiers marching, and spread out their
flaming red wings. Their nests were seen in groups of thousands, forming a
complete town, about a foot high, and resembling a truncated cone in shape.
The flamingos did not disturb themselves in the least at the approach of the
travelers, but this did not suit Paganel.
"I have been very desirous a long time," he said to the
Major, "to see a flamingo flying."
"All right," replied McNabbs.
"Now while I have the opportunity, I should like to make the
most of it," continued Paganel.
"Very well; do it, Paganel."
"Come with me, then, Major, and you too Robert. I want
witnesses."
And all three went off towards the flamingos, leaving the
others to go on in advance.
As soon as they were near enough, Paganel fired, only
loading his gun, however, with powder, for he would not shed even the blood
of a bird uselessly. The shot made the whole assemblage fly away en masse,
while Paganel watched them attentively through his spectacles.
"Well, did you see them fly?" he asked the Major.
"Certainly I did," was the reply. "I could not help seeing
them, unless I had been blind."
"Well and did you think they resembled feathered arrows when
they were flying?"
"Not in the least."
"Not a bit," added Robert.
"I was sure of it," said the geographer, with a satisfied
air; "and yet the very proudest of modest men, my illustrious countryman,
Chateaubriand, made the inaccurate comparison. Oh, Robert, comparison is the
most dangerous figure in rhetoric that I know. Mind you avoid it all your
life, and only employ it in a last extremity."
"Are you satisfied with your experiment?" asked McNabbs.
"Delighted."
"And so am I. But we had better push on now, for your
illustrious
Chateaubriand has put us more than a mile behind."
On rejoining their companions, they found Glenarvan busily
engaged in conversation with the Indian, though apparently unable to make
him understand. Thalcave's gaze was fixed intently on the horizon, and his
face wore a puzzled expression.
The moment Paganel came in sight, Glenarvan called out:
"Come along, friend Paganel. Thalcave and I can't understand
each other at all."
After a few minute's talk with the Patagonian, the
interpreter turned to Glenarvan and said:
"Thalcave is quite astonished at the fact, and certainly it
is very strange that there are no Indians, nor even traces of any to be seen
in these plains, for they are generally thick with companies of them, either
driving along cattle stolen from the ESTANCIAS, or going to the Andes to
sell their zorillo cloths and plaited leather whips."
"And what does Thalcave think is the reason?"
"He does not know; he is amazed and that's all."
"But what description of Indians did he reckon on meeting in
this part of the Pampas?"
"Just the very ones who had the foreign prisoners in their
hands, the natives under the rule of the Caciques Calfoucoura, Catriel, or
Yanchetruz."
"Who are these Caciques?"
"Chiefs that were all powerful thirty years ago, before they
were driven beyond the sierras. Since then they have been reduced to
subjection as much as Indians can be, and they scour the plains of the
Pampas and the province of Buenos Ayres. I quite share Thalcave's surprise
at not discovering any traces of them in regions which they usually infest
as SALTEADORES, or bandits."
"And what must we do then?"
"I'll go and ask him," replied Paganel.
After a brief colloquy he returned and said:
"This is his advice, and very sensible it is, I think. He
says we had better continue our route to the east as far as Fort
Independence, and if we don't get news of Captain Grant there we shall hear,
at any rate, what has become of the Indians of the Argentine plains."
"Is Fort Independence far away?" asked Glenarvan.
"No, it is in the Sierra Tandil, a distance of about sixty
miles."
"And when shall we arrive?"
"The day after to-morrow, in the evening."
Glenarvan was considerably disconcerted by this
circumstance. Not to find an Indian where in general there were only too
many, was so unusual that there must be some grave cause for it; but worse
still if Harry Grant were a prisoner in the hands of any of those tribes,
had be been dragged away with them to the north or south? Glenarvan felt
that, cost what it might, they must not lose his track, and therefore
decided to follow the advice of Thalcave, and go to the village of Tandil.
They would find some one there to speak to, at all events.
About four o'clock in the evening a hill, which seemed a
mountain in so flat a country, was sighted in the distance. This was Sierra
Tapalquem, at the foot of which the travelers camped that night.
The passage in the morning over this sierra, was
accomplished without the slightest difficulty; after having crossed the
Cordillera of the Andes, it was easy work to ascend the gentle heights of
such a sierra as this. The horses scarcely slackened their speed. At noon
they passed the deserted fort of Tapalquem, the first of the chain of forts
which defend the southern frontiers from Indian marauders. But to the
increasing surprise of Thalcave, they did not come across even the shadow of
an Indian. About the middle of the day, however, three flying horsemen, well
mounted and well armed came in sight, gazed at them for an instant, and then
sped away with inconceivable rapidity. Glenarvan was furious.
"Gauchos," said the Patagonian, designating them by the name
which had caused such a fiery discussion between the Major and Paganel.
"Ah! the Gauchos," replied McNabbs. "Well, Paganel, the
north wind is not blowing to-day. What do you think of those fellows
yonder?"
"I think they look like regular bandits."
"And how far is it from looking to being, my good
geographer?"
"Only just a step, my dear Major."
Paganel's admission was received with a general laugh, which
did not in the least disconcert him. He went on talking about the Indians
however, and made this curious observation:
"I have read somewhere," he said, "that about the Arabs
there is a peculiar expression of ferocity in the mouth, while the eyes have
a kindly look. Now, in these American savages it is quite the reverse, for
the eye has a particularly villainous aspect."
No physiognomist by profession could have better
characterized the Indian race.
But desolate as the country appeared, Thalcave was on his
guard against surprises, and gave orders to his party to form themselves in
a close platoon. It was a useless precaution, however; for that same
evening, they camped for the night in an immense TOLDERIA, which they not
only found perfectly empty, but which the Patagonian declared, after he had
examined it all round, must have been uninhabited for a long time.
Next day, the first ESTANCIAS of the Sierra Tandil came in
sight. The ESTANCIAS are large cattle stations for breeding cattle; but
Thalcave resolved not to stop at any of them, but to go straight on to Fort
Independence. They passed several farms fortified by battlements and
surrounded by a deep moat, the principal building being encircled by a
terrace, from which the inhabitants could fire down on the marauders in the
plain. Glenarvan might, perhaps, have got some information at these houses,
but it was the surest plan to go straight on to the village of Tandil.
Accordingly they went on without stopping, fording the RIO of Los Huasos and
also the Chapaleofu, a few miles further on. Soon they were treading the
grassy slopes of the first ridges of the Sierra Tandil, and an hour
afterward the village appeared in the depths of a narrow gorge, and above it
towered the lofty battlements of Fort Independence.
CHAPTER XXI A FALSE TRAIL
THE Sierra Tandil rises a thousand
feet above the level of the sea. It is a primordial chain—that is to say,
anterior to all organic and metamorphic creation. It is formed of a
semi-circular ridge of gneiss hills, covered with fine short grass. The
district of Tandil, to which it has given its name, includes all the south
of the Province of Buenos Ayres, and terminates in a river which conveys
north all the RIOS that take their rise on its slopes.
After making a short ascent up the sierra, they reached the
postern gate, so carelessly guarded by an Argentine sentinel, that they
passed through without difficulty, a circumstance which betokened extreme
negligence or extreme security.
A few minutes afterward the Commandant appeared in person.
He was a vigorous man about fifty years of age, of military aspect, with
grayish hair, and an imperious eye, as far as one could see through the
clouds of tobacco smoke which escaped from his short pipe. His walk reminded
Paganel instantly of the old subalterns in his own country.
Thalcave was spokesman, and addressing the officer,
presented Lord Glenarvan and his companions. While he was speaking, the
Commandant kept staring fixedly at Paganel in rather an embarrassing manner.
The geographer could not understand what he meant by it, and was just about
to interrogate him, when the Commandant came forward, and seizing both his
hands in the most free-and-easy fashion, said in a joyous voice, in the
mother tongue of the geographer:
"A Frenchman!"
"Yes, a Frenchman," replied Paganel.
"Ah! delightful! Welcome, welcome. I am a Frenchman too," he
added, shaking Paganel's hand with such vigor as to be almost alarming.
"Is he a friend of yours, Paganel?" asked the Major.
"Yes," said Paganel, somewhat proudly. "One has friends in
every division of the globe."
After he had succeeded in disengaging his hand, though not
without difficulty, from the living vise in which it was held, a lively
conversation ensued. Glenarvan would fain have put in a word about the
business on hand, but the Commandant related his entire history, and was not
in a mood to stop till he had done. It was evident that the worthy man must
have left his native country many years back, for his mother tongue had
grown unfamiliar, and if he had not forgotten the words he certainly did not
remember how to put them together. He spoke more like a negro belonging to a
French colony.
The fact was that the Governor of Fort Independence was a
French sergeant, an old comrade of Parachapee. He had never left the fort
since it had been built in 1828; and, strange to say, he commanded it with
the consent of the Argentine Government. He was a man about fifty years of
age, a Basque by birth, and his name was Manuel Ipharaguerre, so that he was
almost a Spaniard. A year after his arrival in the country he was
naturalized, took service in the Argentine army, and married an Indian girl,
who was then nursing twin babies six months old— two boys, be it understood,
for the good wife of the Commandant would have never thought of presenting
her husband with girls. Manuel could not conceive of any state but a
military one, and he hoped in due time, with the help of God, to offer the
republic a whole company of young soldiers.
"You saw them. Charming! good soldiers are Jose, Juan, and
Miquele! Pepe, seven year old; Pepe can handle a gun."
Pepe, hearing himself complimented, brought his two little
feet together, and presented arms with perfect grace.
"He'll get on!" added the sergeant. "He'll be colonel-major
or brigadier-general some day."
Sergeant Manuel seemed so enchanted that it would have been
useless to express a contrary opinion, either to the profession of arms or
the probable future of his children. He was happy, and as Goethe says,
"Nothing that makes us happy is an illusion."
All this talk took up a quarter of an hour, to the great
astonishment of Thalcave. The Indian could not understand how so many words
could come out of one throat. No one interrupted the Sergeant, but all
things come to an end, and at last he was silent, but not till he had made
his guests enter his dwelling, and be presented to Madame Ipharaguerre.
Then, and not till then, did he ask his guests what had procured him the
honor of their visit. Now or never was the moment to explain, and Paganel,
seizing the chance at once, began an account of their journey across the
Pampas, and ended by inquiring the reason of the Indians having deserted the
country.
"Ah! there was no one!" replied the Sergeant, shrugging his
shoulders—"really no one, and us, too, our arms crossed! Nothing to do!"
"But why?"
"War."
"War?"
"Yes, civil war between the Paraguayans and Buenos Ayriens,"
replied the Sergeant.
"Well?"
"Well, Indians all in the north, in the rear of General
Flores.
Indian pillagers find pillage there."
"But where are the Caciques?"
"Caciques are with them."
"What! Catriel?"
"There is no Catriel."
"And Calfoucoura?"
"There is no Calfoucoura."
"And is there no Yanchetruz?"
"No; no Yanchetruz."
The reply was interpreted by Thalcave, who shook his head
and gave an approving look. The Patagonian was either unaware of, or had
forgotten that civil war was decimating the two parts of the republic—a war
which ultimately required the intervention of Brazil. The Indians have
everything to gain by these intestine strifes, and can not lose such fine
opportunities of plunder. There was no doubt the Sergeant was right in
assigning war then as the cause of the forsaken appearance of the plains.
But this circumstance upset all Glenarvan's projects, for if
Harry Grant was a prisoner in the hands of the Caciques, he must have been
dragged north with them. How and where should they ever find him if that
were the case? Should they attempt a perilous and almost useless journey to
the northern border of the Pampas? It was a serious question which would
need to be well talked over.
However, there was one inquiry more to make to the Sergeant;
and it was the Major who thought of it, for all the others looked at each
other in silence.
"Had the Sergeant heard whether any Europeans were prisoners
in the hands of the Caciques?"
Manuel looked thoughtful for a few minutes, like a man
trying to ransack his memory. At last he said:
"Yes."
"Ah!" said Glenarvan, catching at the fresh hope.
They all eagerly crowded round the Sergeant, exclaiming,
"Tell us, tell us."
"It was some years ago," replied Manuel. "Yes; all I heard
was that some Europeans were prisoners, but I never saw them."
"You are making a mistake," said Glenarvan. "It can't be
some years ago; the date of the shipwreck is explicitly given. The BRITANNIA
was wrecked in June, 1862. It is scarcely two years ago."
"Oh, more than that, my Lord."
"Impossible!" said Paganel.
"Oh, but it must be. It was when Pepe was born.
There were two prisoners."
"No, three!" said Glenarvan.
"Two!" replied the Sergeant, in a positive tone.
"Two?" echoed Glenarvan, much surprised. "Two Englishmen?"
"No, no. Who is talking of Englishmen? No; a Frenchman and
an Italian."
"An Italian who was massacred by the Poyuches?" exclaimed
Paganel.
"Yes; and I heard afterward that the Frenchman was saved."
"Saved!" exclaimed young Robert, his very life hanging on
the lips of the Sergeant.
Yes; delivered out of the hands of the Indians."
Paganel struck his forehead with an air of desperation, and
said at last,
"Ah! I understand. It is all clear now; everything is
explained."
"But what is it?" asked Glenarvan, with as much impatience.
"My friends," replied Paganel, taking both Robert's hands in
his own, "we must resign ourselves to a sad disaster. We have been on a
wrong track. The prisoner mentioned is not the captain at all, but one of my
own countrymen; and his companion, who was assassinated by the Poyuches, was
Marco Vazello. The Frenchman was dragged along by the cruel Indians several
times as far as the shores of the Colorado, but managed at length to make
his escape, and return to Colorado. Instead of following the track of Harry
Grant, we have fallen on that of young Guinnard."
This announcement was heard with profound silence. The
mistake was palpable. The details given by the Sergeant, the nationality of
the prisoner, the murder of his companions, his escape from the hands of the
Indians, all evidenced the fact. Glenarvan looked at Thalcave with a
crestfallen face, and the Indian, turning to the Sergeant, asked whether he
had never heard of three English captives.
"Never," replied Manuel. "They would have known of them at
Tandil, I am sure. No, it cannot be."
After this, there was nothing further to do at Fort
Independence but to shake hands with the Commandant, and thank him and take
leave.
Glenarvan was in despair at this complete overthrow of his
hopes, and Robert walked silently beside him, with his eyes full of tears.
Glenarvan could not find a word of comfort to say to him. Paganel
gesticulated and talked away to himself. The Major never opened his mouth,
nor Thalcave, whose amour propre, as an Indian, seemed quite wounded
by having allowed himself to go on a wrong scent. No one, however, would
have thought of reproaching him for an error so pardonable.
They went back to the FONDA, and had supper; but it was a
gloomy party that surrounded the table. It was not that any one of them
regretted the fatigue they had so heedlessly endured or the dangers they had
run, but they felt their hope of success was gone, for there was no chance
of coming across Captain Grant between the Sierra Tandil and the sea, as
Sergeant Manuel must have heard if any prisoners had fallen into the hands
of the Indians on the coast of the Atlantic. Any event of this nature would
have attracted the notice of the Indian traders who traffic between Tandil
and Carmen, at the mouth of the Rio Negro. The best thing to do now was to
get to the DUNCAN as quick as possible at the appointed rendezvous.
Paganel asked Glenarvan, however, to let him have the
document again, on the faith of which they had set out on so bootless a
search. He read it over and over, as if trying to extract some new meaning
out of it.
"Yet nothing can be clearer," said Glenarvan; "it gives the
date of the shipwreck, and the manner, and the place of the captivity in the
most categorical manner."
"That it does not—no, it does not!" exclaimed Paganel,
striking the table with his fist. "Since Harry Grant is not in the Pampas,
he is not in America; but where he is the document must say, and it shall
say, my friends, or my name is not Jacques Paganel any longer."
CHAPTER XXII THE FLOOD
A DISTANCE of 150 miles separates
Fort Independence from the shores of the Atlantic. Unless unexpected and
certainly improbable delays should occur, in four days Glenarvan would
rejoin the DUNCAN. But to return on board without Captain Grant, and after
having so completely failed in his search, was what he could not bring
himself to do. Consequently, when next day came, he gave no orders for
departure; the Major took it upon himself to have the horses saddled, and
make all preparations. Thanks to his activity, next morning at eight o'clock
the little troop was descending the grassy slopes of the Sierra.
Glenarvan, with Robert at his side, galloped along without
saying a word. His bold, determined nature made it impossible to take
failure quietly. His heart throbbed as if it would burst, and his head was
burning. Paganel, excited by the difficulty, was turning over and over the
words of the document, and trying to discover some new meaning. Thalcave was
perfectly silent, and left Thaouka to lead the way. The Major, always
confident, remained firm at his post, like a man on whom discouragement
takes no hold. Tom Austin and his two sailors shared the dejection of their
master. A timid rabbit happened to run across their path, and the
superstitious men looked at each other in dismay.
"A bad omen," said Wilson.
"Yes, in the Highlands," repeated Mulrady.
"What's bad in the Highlands is not better here," returned
Wilson sententiously.
Toward noon they had crossed the Sierra, and descended into
the undulating plains which extend to the sea. Limpid RIOS intersected these
plains, and lost themselves among the tall grasses. The ground had once more
become a dead level, the last mountains of the Pampas were passed, and a
long carpet of verdure unrolled itself over the monotonous prairie beneath
the horses' tread.
Hitherto the weather had been fine, but to-day the sky
presented anything but a reassuring appearance. The heavy vapors, generated
by the high temperature of the preceding days, hung in thick clouds, which
ere long would empty themselves in torrents of rain. Moreover, the vicinity
of the Atlantic, and the prevailing west wind, made the climate of this
district particularly damp. This was evident by the fertility and abundance
of the pasture and its dark color. However, the clouds remained unbroken for
the present, and in the evening, after a brisk gallop of forty miles, the
horses stopped on the brink of deep CANADAS, immense natural trenches filled
with water. No shelter was near, and ponchos had to serve both for tents and
coverlets as each man lay down and fell asleep beneath the threatening sky.
Next day the presence of water became still more sensibly
felt; it seemed to exude from every pore of the ground. Soon large ponds,
some just beginning to form, and some already deep, lay across the route to
the east. As long as they had only to deal with lagoons, circumscribed
pieces of water unencumbered with aquatic plants, the horses could get
through well enough, but when they encountered moving sloughs called
PENTANOS, it was harder work. Tall grass blocked them up, and they were
involved in the peril before they were aware.
These bogs had already proved fatal to more than one living
thing, for Robert, who had got a good bit ahead of the party, came rushing
back at full gallop, calling out:
"Monsieur Paganel, Monsieur Paganel, a forest of horns."
"What!" exclaimed the geographer; "you have found a forest
of horns?"
"Yes, yes, or at any rate a coppice."
"A coppice!" replied Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.
"My boy, you are dreaming."
"I am not dreaming, and you will see for yourself. Well,
this is a strange country. They sow horns, and they sprout up like wheat. I
wish I could get some of the seed."
"The boy is really speaking seriously," said the Major.
"Yes, Mr. Major, and you will soon see I am right."
The boy had not been mistaken, for presently they found
themselves in front of an immense field of horns, regularly planted and
stretching far out of sight. It was a complete copse, low and close packed,
but a strange sort.
"Well," said Robert.
"This is peculiar certainly," said Paganel, and he turned
round to question Thalcave on the subject.
"The horns come out of the ground," replied the Indian, "but
the oxen are down below."
"What!" exclaimed Paganel; "do you mean to say that a whole
herd was caught in that mud and buried alive?"
"Yes," said the Patagonian.
And so it was. An immense herd had been suffocated side by
side in this enormous bog, and this was not the first occurrence of the kind
which had taken place in the Argentine plains.
An hour afterward and the field of horns lay two miles
behind.
Thalcave was somewhat anxiously observing a state of things
which appeared to him unusual. He frequently stopped and raised himself on
his stirrups and looked
V. IV Verne around. His great height gave him a commanding
view of the whole horizon; but after a keen rapid survey, he quickly resumed
his seat and went on. About a mile further he stopped again, and leaving the
straight route, made a circuit of some miles north and south, and then
returned and fell back in his place at the head of the troop, without saying
a syllable as to what he hoped or feared. This strange behavior, several
times repeated, made Glenarvan very uneasy, and quite puzzled Paganel. At
last, at Glenarvan's request, he asked the Indian about it.
Thalcave replied that he was astonished to see the plains so
saturated with water. Never, to his knowledge, since he had followed the
calling of guide, had he found the ground in this soaking condition. Even in
the rainy season, the Argentine plains had always been passable.
"But what is the cause of this increasing humidity?" said
Paganel.
"I do not know, and what if I did?"
"Could it be owing to the RIOS of the Sierra being swollen
to overflowing by the heavy rains?"
"Sometimes they are."
"And is it the case now?"
"Perhaps."
Paganel was obliged to be content with this unsatisfactory
reply, and went back to Glenarvan to report the result of his conversation.
"And what does Thalcave advise us to do?" said Glenarvan.
Paganel went back to the guide and asked him.
"Go on fast," was the reply.
This was easier said than done. The horses soon tired of
treading over ground that gave way at every step. It sank each moment more
and more, till it seemed half under water.
They quickened their pace, but could not go fast enough to
escape the water, which rolled in great sheets at their feet. Before two
hours the cataracts of the sky opened and deluged the plain in true tropical
torrents of rain. Never was there a finer occasion for displaying
philosophic equanimity. There was no shelter, and nothing for it but to bear
it stolidly. The ponchos were streaming like the overflowing gutter-spouts
on the roof of a house, and the unfortunate horsemen had to submit to a
double bath, for their horses dashed up the water to their waists at every
step.
In this drenching, shivering state, and worn out with
fatigue, they came toward evening to a miserable RANCHO, which could only
have been called a shelter by people not very fastidious, and certainly only
travelers in extremity would even have entered it; but Glenarvan and his
companions had no choice, and were glad enough to burrow in this wretched
hovel, though it would have been despised by even a poor Indian of the
Pampas. A miserable fire of grass was kindled, which gave out more smoke
than heat, and was very difficult to keep alight, as the torrents of rain
which dashed against the ruined cabin outside found their way within and
fell down in large drops from the roof. Twenty times over the fire would
have been extinguished if Mulrady and Wilson had not kept off the water.
The supper was a dull meal, and neither appetizing nor
reviving. Only the Major seemed to eat with any relish. The impassive
McNabbs was superior to all circumstances. Paganel, Frenchman as he was,
tried to joke, but the attempt was a failure.
"My jests are damp," he said, "they miss fire."
The only consolation in such circumstances was to sleep, and
accordingly each one lay down and endeavored to find in slumber a temporary
forgetfulness of his discomforts and his fatigues. The night was stormy, and
the planks of the rancho cracked before the blast as if every instant they
would give way. The poor horses outside, exposed to all the inclemency of
the weather, were making piteous moans, and their masters were suffering
quite as much inside the ruined RANCHO. However, sleep overpowered them at
length. Robert was the first to close his eyes and lean his head against
Glenarvan's shoulder, and soon all the rest were soundly sleeping too under
the guardian eye of Heaven.
The night passed safely, and no one stirred till Thaouka
woke them by tapping vigorously against the RANCHO with his hoof. He knew it
was time to start, and at a push could give the signal as well as his
master. They owed the faithful creature too much to disobey him, and set off
immediately.
The rain had abated, but floods of water still covered the
ground. Paganel, on consulting his map, came to the conclusion that the RIOS
Grande and Vivarota, into which the water from the plains generally runs,
must have been united in one large bed several miles in extent.
Extreme haste was imperative, for all their lives depended
on it. Should the inundation increase, where could they find refuge? Not a
single elevated point was visible on the whole circle of the horizon, and on
such level plains water would sweep along with fearful rapidity.
The horses were spurred on to the utmost, and Thaouka led
the way, bounding over the water as if it had been his natural element.
Certainly he might justly have been called a sea-horse— better than many of
the amphibious animals who bear that name.
All of a sudden, about ten in the morning, Thaouka betrayed
symptoms of violent agitation. He kept turning round toward the south,
neighing continually, and snorting with wide open nostrils. He reared
violently, and Thalcave had some difficulty in keeping his seat. The foam
from his mouth was tinged with blood from the action of the bit, pulled
tightly by his master's strong hand, and yet the fiery animal would not be
still. Had he been free, his master knew he would have fled away to the
north as fast as his legs would have carried him.
"What is the matter with Thaouka?" asked Paganel. "Is he
bitten by the leeches? They are very voracious in the Argentine streams."
"No," replied the Indian.
"Is he frightened at something, then?"
"Yes, he scents danger."
"What danger?"
"I don't know."
But, though no danger was apparent to the eye, the ear could
catch the sound of a murmuring noise beyond the limits of the horizon, like
the coming in of the tide. Soon a confused sound was heard of bellowing and
neighing and bleating, and about a mile to the south immense flocks
appeared, rushing and tumbling over each other in the greatest disorder, as
they hurried pell-mell along with inconceivable rapidity. They raised such a
whirlwind of water in their course that it was impossible to distinguish
them clearly. A hundred whales of the largest size could hardly have dashed
up the ocean waves more violently.
"Anda, anda!" (quick, quick), shouted Thalcave, in a
voice like thunder.
"What is it, then?" asked Paganel.
"The rising," replied Thalcave.
"He means an inundation," exclaimed Paganel, flying with the
others after Thalcave, who had spurred on his horse toward the north.
It was high time, for about five miles south an immense
towering wave was seen advancing over the plain, and changing the whole
country into an ocean. The tall grass disappeared before it as if cut down
by a scythe, and clumps of mimosas were torn up and drifted about like
floating islands.
The wave was speeding on with the rapidity of a racehorse,
and the travelers fled before it like a cloud before a storm-wind. They
looked in vain for some harbor of refuge, and the terrified horses galloped
so wildly along that the riders could hardly keep their saddles.
"Anda, anda!" shouted Thalcave, and again they
spurred on the poor animals till the blood ran from their lacerated sides.
They stumbled every now and then over great cracks in the ground, or got
entangled in the hidden grass below the water. They fell, and were pulled up
only to fall again and again, and be pulled up again and again. The level of
the waters was sensibly rising, and less than two miles off the gigantic
wave reared its crested head.
For a quarter of an hour this supreme struggle with the most
terrible of elements lasted. The fugitives could not tell how far they had
gone, but, judging by the speed, the distance must have been considerable.
The poor horses, however, were breast-high in water now, and could only
advance with extreme difficulty. Glenarvan and Paganel, and, indeed, the
whole party, gave themselves up for lost, as the horses were fast getting
out of their depth, and six feet of water would be enough to drown them.
It would be impossible to tell the anguish of mind these
eight men endured; they felt their own impotence in the presence of these
cataclysms of nature so far beyond all human power. Their salvation did not
lie in their own hands.
Five minutes afterward, and the horses were swimming; the
current alone carried them along with tremendous force, and with a swiftness
equal to their fastest gallop; they must have gone fully twenty miles an
hour.
All hope of delivery seemed impossible, when the Major
suddenly called out:
"A tree!"
"A tree?" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Yes, there, there!" replied Thalcave, pointing with his
finger to a species of gigantic walnut-tree, which raised its solitary head
above the waters.
His companions needed no urging forward now; this tree, so
opportunely discovered, they must reach at all hazards. The horses very
likely might not be able to get to it, but, at all events, the men would,
the current bearing them right down to it.
Just at that moment Tom Austin's horse gave a smothered
neigh and disappeared. His master, freeing his feet from the stirrups, began
to swim vigorously.
"Hang on to my saddle," called Glenarvan.
"Thanks, your honor, but I have good stout arms."
"Robert, how is your horse going?" asked his Lordship,
turning to young Grant.
"Famously, my Lord, he swims like a fish."
"Lookout!" shouted the Major, in a stentorian voice.
The warning was scarcely spoken before the enormous billow,
a monstrous wave forty feet high, broke over the fugitives with a fearful
noise. Men and animals all disappeared in a whirl of foam; a liquid mass,
weighing several millions of tons, engulfed them in its seething waters.
When it had rolled on, the men reappeared on the surface,
and counted each other rapidly; but all the horses, except Thaouka, who
still bore his master, had gone down forever.
"Courage, courage," repeated Glenarvan, supporting Paganel
with one arm, and swimming with the other.
"I can manage, I can manage," said the worthy savant.
"I am even not sorry—"
But no one ever knew what he was not sorry about, for the
poor man was obliged to swallow down the rest of his sentence with half a
pint of muddy water. The Major advanced quietly, making regular strokes,
worthy of a master swimmer. The sailors took to the water like porpoises,
while Robert clung to Thaouka's mane, and was carried along with him. The
noble animal swam superbly, instinctively making for the tree in a straight
line.
The tree was only twenty fathoms off, and in a few minutes
was safely reached by the whole party; but for this refuge they must all
have perished in the flood.
The water had risen to the top of the trunk, just to where
the parent branches fork out. It was consequently, quite easy to clamber up
to it. Thalcave climbed up first, and got off his horse to hoist up Robert
and help the others. His powerful arms had soon placed all the exhausted
swimmers in a place of security.
But, meantime, Thaouka was being rapidly carried away by the
current. He turned his intelligent face toward his master, and, shaking his
long mane, neighed as if to summon him to his rescue.
"Are you going to forsake him, Thalcave?" asked Paganel.
"I!" replied the Indian, and forthwith he plunged down into
the tumultuous waters, and came up again ten fathoms off. A few instants
afterward his arms were round Thaouka's neck, and master and steed were
drifting together toward the misty horizon of the north.
CHAPTER XXIII A SINGULAR ABODE
THE tree on which Glenarvan and his
companions had just found refuge, resembled a walnut-tree, having the same
glossy foliage and rounded form. In reality, however, it was the OMBU, which
grows solitarily on the Argentine plains. The enormous and twisted trunk of
this tree is planted firmly in the soil, not only by its great roots, but
still more by its vigorous shoots, which fasten it down in the most
tenacious manner. This was how it stood proof against the shock of the
mighty billow.
This OMBU measured in height a hundred feet, and covered
with its shadow a circumference of one hundred and twenty yards. All this
scaffolding rested on three great boughs which sprang from the trunk. Two of
these rose almost perpendicularly, and supported the immense parasol of
foliage, the branches of which were so crossed and intertwined and
entangled, as if by the hand of a basket-maker, that they formed an
impenetrable shade. The third arm, on the contrary, stretched right out in a
horizontal position above the roaring waters, into which the lower leaves
dipped. There was no want of room in the interior of this gigantic tree, for
there were great gaps in the foliage, perfect glades, with air in abundance,
and freshness everywhere. To see the innumerable branches rising to the
clouds, and the creepers running from bough to bough, and attaching them
together while the sunlight glinted here and there among the leaves, one
might have called it a complete forest instead of a solitary tree sheltering
them all.
On the arrival of the fugitives a myriad of the feathered
tribes fled away into the topmost branches, protesting by their outcries
against this flagrant usurpation of their domicile. These birds, who
themselves had taken refuge in the solitary OMBU, were in hundreds,
comprising blackbirds, starlings, isacas, HILGUEROS, and especially the
pica-flor, humming-birds of most resplendent colors. When they flew away it
seemed as though a gust of wind had blown all the flowers off the tree.
Such was the asylum offered to the little band of Glenarvan.
Young Grant and the agile Wilson were scarcely perched on the tree before
they had climbed to the upper branches and put their heads through the leafy
dome to get a view of the vast horizon. The ocean made by the inundation
surrounded them on all sides, and, far as the eye could reach, seemed to
have no limits. Not a single tree was visible on the liquid plain; the OMBU
stood alone amid the rolling waters, and trembled before them. In the
distance, drifting from south to north, carried along by the impetuous
torrent, they saw trees torn up by the roots, twisted branches, roofs torn
off, destroyed RANCHOS, planks of sheds stolen by the deluge from ESTANCIAS,
carcasses of drowned animals, blood-stained skins, and on a shaky tree a
complete family of jaguars, howling and clutching hold of their frail raft.
Still farther away, a black spot almost invisible, already caught Wilson's
eye. It was Thalcave and his faithful Thaouka.
"Thalcave, Thalcave!" shouted Robert, stretching out his
hands toward the courageous Patagonian.
"He will save himself, Mr. Robert," replied Wilson; "we must
go down to his Lordship."
Next minute they had descended the three stages of boughs,
and landed safely on the top of the trunk, where they found Glenarvan,
Paganel, the Major, Austin, and Mulrady, sitting either astride or in some
position they found more comfortable. Wilson gave an account of their
investigations aloft, and all shared his opinion with respect to Thalcave.
The only question was whether it was Thalcave who would save Thaouka, or
Thaouka save Thalcave.
Their own situation meantime was much more alarming than
his. No doubt the tree would be able to resist the current, but the waters
might rise higher and higher, till the topmost branches were covered, for
the depression of the soil made this part of the plain a deep reservoir.
Glenarvan's first care, consequently, was to make notches by which to
ascertain the progress of the inundation. For the present it was stationary,
having apparently reached its height. This was reassuring.
"And now what are we going to do?" said Glenarvan.
"Make our nest, of course!" replied Paganel
"Make our nest!" exclaimed Robert.
"Certainly, my boy, and live the life of birds, since we
can't that of fishes."
"All very well, but who will fill our bills for us?" said
Glenarvan.
"I will," said the Major.
All eyes turned toward him immediately, and there he sat in
a natural arm-chair, formed of two elastic boughs, holding out his ALFORJAS
damp, but still intact.
"Oh, McNabbs, that's just like you," exclaimed Glenarvan,
"you think of everything even under circumstances which would drive all out
of your head."
"Since it was settled we were not going to be drowned,
I had no intention of starving of hunger."
"I should have thought of it, too," said Paganel, "but I am
so DISTRAIT."
"And what is in the ALFORJAS?" asked Tom Austin.
"Food enough to last seven men for two days," replied
McNabbs.
"And I hope the inundation will have gone down in
twenty-four hours," said Glenarvan.
"Or that we shall have found some way of regaining terra
firma," added Paganel.
"Our first business, then, now is to breakfast," said
Glenarvan.
"I suppose you mean after we have made ourselves dry,"
observed the Major.
"And where's the fire?" asked Wilson.
"We must make it," returned Paganel.
"Where?"
"On the top of the trunk, of course."
"And what with?"
"With the dead wood we cut off the tree."
"But how will you kindle it?" asked Glenarvan. "Our tinder
is just like wet sponge."
"We can dispense with it," replied Paganel. "We only want a
little dry moss and a ray of sunshine, and the lens of my telescope, and
you'll see what a fire I'll get to dry myself by. Who will go and cut wood
in the forest?"
"I will," said Robert.
And off he scampered like a young cat into the depths of the
foliage, followed by his friend Wilson. Paganel set to work to find dry
moss, and had soon gathered sufficient. This he laid on a bed of damp
leaves, just where the large branches began to fork out, forming a natural
hearth, where there was little fear of conflagration.
Robert and Wilson speedily reappeared, each with an armful
of dry wood, which they threw on the moss. By the help of the lens it was
easily kindled, for the sun was blazing overhead. In order to ensure a
proper draught, Paganel stood over the hearth with his long legs straddled
out in the Arab manner. Then stooping down and raising himself with a rapid
motion, he made a violent current of air with his poncho, which made the
wood take fire, and soon a bright flame roared in the improvised brasier.
After drying themselves, each in his own fashion, and hanging their ponchos
on the tree, where they were swung to and fro in the breeze, they
breakfasted, carefully however rationing out the provisions, for the morrow
had to be thought of; the immense basin might not empty so soon as Glenarvan
expected, and, anyway, the supply was very limited. The OMBU produced no
fruit, though fortunately, it would likely abound in fresh eggs, thanks to
the numerous nests stowed away among the leaves, not to speak of their
feathered proprietors. These resources were by no means to be despised.
The next business was to install themselves as comfortably
as they could, in prospect of a long stay.
"As the kitchen and dining-room are on the ground floor,"
said Paganel, "we must sleep on the first floor. The house is large, and as
the rent is not dear, we must not cramp ourselves for room. I can see up
yonder natural cradles, in which once safely tucked up we shall sleep as if
we were in the best beds in the world. We have nothing to fear. Besides, we
will watch, and we are numerous enough to repulse a fleet of Indians and
other wild animals."
"We only want fire-arms."
"I have my revolvers," said Glenarvan.
"And I have mine," replied Robert.
"But what's the good of them?" said Tom Austin, "unless
Monsieur Paganel can find out some way of making powder."
"We don't need it," replied McNabbs, exhibiting a powder
flask in a perfect state of preservation.
"Where did you get it from, Major," asked Paganel.
"From Thalcave. He thought it might be useful to us, and
gave it to me before he plunged into the water to save Thaouka."
"Generous, brave Indian!" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Yes," replied Tom Austin, "if all the Patagonians are cut
after the same pattern, I must compliment Patagonia."
"I protest against leaving out the horse," said Paganel. "He
is part and parcel of the Patagonian, and I'm much mistaken if we don't see
them again, the one on the other's back."
"What distance are we from the Atlantic?" asked the Major.
"About forty miles at the outside," replied Paganel; "and
now, friends, since this is Liberty Hall, I beg to take leave of you. I am
going to choose an observatory for myself up there, and by the help of my
telescope, let you know how things are going on in the world."
Forthwith the geographer set off, hoisting himself up very
cleverly from bough to bough, till he disappeared beyond the thick foliage.
His companions began to arrange the night quarters, and prepare their beds.
But this was neither a long nor difficult task, and very soon they resumed
their seats round the fire to have a talk.
As usual their theme was Captain Grant. In three days,
should the water subside, they would be on board the DUNCAN once more. But
Harry Grant and his two sailors, those poor shipwrecked fellows, would not
be with them. Indeed, it even seemed after this ill success and this useless
journey across America, that all chance of finding them was gone forever.
Where could they commence a fresh quest? What grief Lady Helena and Mary
Grant would feel on hearing there was no further hope.
"Poor sister!" said Robert. "It is all up with us."
For the first time Glenarvan could not find any comfort to
give him.
What could he say to the lad?
Had they not searched exactly where the document stated?
"And yet," he said, "this thirty-seventh degree of latitude
is not a mere figure, and that it applies to the shipwreck or captivity of
Harry Grant, is no mere guess or supposition. We read it with our own eyes."
"All very true, your Honor," replied Tom Austin, "and yet
our search has been unsuccessful."
"It is both a provoking and hopeless business," replied
Glenarvan.
"Provoking enough, certainly," said the Major, "but not
hopeless. It is precisely because we have an uncon-testable figure, provided
for us, that we should follow it up to the end."
"What do you mean?" asked Glenarvan. "What more can we do?"
"A very logical and simple thing, my dear Edward. When we go
on board the DUNCAN, turn her beak head to the east, and go right along the
thirty-seventh parallel till we come back to our starting point if
necessary."
"Do you suppose that I have not thought of that, Mr.
McNabbs?" replied Glenarvan. "Yes, a hundred times. But what chance is there
of success? To leave the American continent, wouldn't it be to go away from
the very spot indicated by Harry Grant, from this very Patagonia so
distinctly named in the document."
"And would you recommence your search in the Pampas, when
you have the certainty that the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA neither occurred
on the coasts of the Pacific nor the Atlantic?"
Glenarvan was silent.
"And however small the chance of finding Harry Grant by
following up the given parallel, ought we not to try?"
"I don't say no," replied Glenarvan.
"And are you not of my opinion, good friends," added the
Major, addressing the sailors.
"Entirely," said Tom Austin, while Mulrady and Wilson gave
an assenting nod.
"Listen to me, friends," said Glenarvan after a few minutes'
reflection; "and remember, Robert, this is a grave discussion. I will do my
utmost to find Captain Grant; I am pledged to it, and will devote my whole
life to the task if needs be. All Scotland would unite with me to save so
devoted a son as he has been to her. I too quite think with you that we must
follow the thirty-seventh parallel round the globe if necessary, however
slight our chance of finding him. But that is not the question we have to
settle. There is one much more important than that is—should we from this
time, and all together, give up our search on the American continent?"
No one made any reply. Each one seemed afraid to pronounce
the word.
"Well?" resumed Glenarvan, addressing himself especially to
the Major.
"My dear Edward," replied McNabbs, "it would be incurring
too great a responsibility for me to reply hic et nunc. It is a
question which requires reflection. I must know first, through which
countries the thirty-seventh parallel of southern latitude passes?"
"That's Paganel's business; he will tell you that," said
Glenarvan.
"Let's ask him, then," replied the Major.
But the learned geographer was nowhere to be seen. He was
hidden among the thick leafage of the OMBU, and they must call out if they
wanted him.
"Paganel, Paganel!" shouted Glenarvan.
"Here," replied a voice that seemed to come from the clouds.
"Where are you?"
"In my tower."
"What are you doing there?"
"Examining the wide horizon."
"Could you come down for a minute?"
"Do you want me?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"To know what countries the thirty-seventh parallel passes
through."
"That's easily said. I need not disturb myself to come down
for that."
"Very well, tell us now."
"Listen, then. After leaving America the thirty-seventh
parallel crosses the Atlantic Ocean."
"And then?"
"It encounters Isle Tristan d'Acunha."
"Yes."
"It goes on two degrees below the Cape of Good Hope."
"And afterwards?"
"Runs across the Indian Ocean, and just touches Isle St.
Pierre, in the Amsterdam group."
"Go on."
"It cuts Australia by the province of Victoria."
"And then."
"After leaving Australia in—"
This last sentence was not completed. Was the geographer
hesitating, or didn't he know what to say?
No; but a terrible cry resounded from the top of the tree.
Glenarvan and his friends turned pale and looked at each other.
What fresh catastrophe had happened now? Had the unfortunate
Paganel slipped his footing?
Already Wilson and Mulrady had rushed to his rescue when his
long body appeared tumbling down from branch to branch.
But was he living or dead, for his hands made no attempt to
seize anything to stop himself. A few minutes more, and he would have fallen
into the roaring waters had not the Major's strong arm barred his passage.
"Much obliged, McNabbs," said Paganel.
"How's this? What is the matter with you? What came over
you?
Another of your absent fits."
"Yes, yes," replied Paganel, in a voice almost inarticulate
with emotion.
"Yes, but this was something extraordinary."
"What was it?"
"I said we had made a mistake. We are making it still, and
have been all along."
"Explain yourself."
"Glenarvan, Major, Robert, my friends," exclaimed Paganel,
"all you that hear me, we are looking for Captain Grant where he is not to
be found."
"What do you say?" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Not only where he is not now, but where he has never been."
CHAPTER XXIV PAGANEL'S DISCLOSURE
PROFOUND astonishment greeted these
unexpected words of the learned geographer. What could he mean? Had he lost
his sense? He spoke with such conviction, however, that all eyes turned
toward Glenarvan, for Paganel's affirmation was a direct answer to his
question, but Glenarvan shook his head, and said nothing, though evidently
he was not inclined to favor his friend's views.
"Yes," began Paganel again, as soon as he had recovered
himself a little; "yes, we have gone a wrong track, and read on the document
what was never there."
"Explain yourself, Paganel," said the Major, "and more
calmly if you can."
"The thing is very simple, Major. Like you, I was in error;
like you, I had rushed at a false interpretation, until about an instant
ago, on the top of the tree, when I was answering your questions, just as I
pronounced the word 'Australia,' a sudden flash came across my mind, and the
document became clear as day."
"What!" exclaimed Glenarvan, "you mean to say that Harry
Grant—"
"I mean to say," replied Paganel, "that the word AUSTRAL
that occurs in the document is not a complete word, as we have supposed up
till now, but just the root of the word AUSTRALIE."
"Well, that would be strange," said the Major.
"Strange!" repeated Glenarvan, shrugging his shoulders; "it
is simply impossible."
"Impossible?" returned Paganel. "That is a word we don't
allow in France."
"What!" continued Glenarvan, in a tone of the most profound
incredulity, "you dare to contend, with the document in your hand, that the
shipwreck of the BRITANNIA happened on the shores of Australia."
"I am sure of it," replied Paganel.
"My conscience," exclaimed Glenarvan, "I must say I am
surprised at such a declaration from the Secretary of a Geographical
Society!"
"And why so?" said Paganel, touched in his weak point.
"Because, if you allow the word AUSTRALIE! you must also
allow the word INDIENS, and Indians are never seen there."
Paganel was not the least surprised at this rejoinder.
Doubtless he expected it, for he began to smile, and said:
"My dear Glenarvan, don't triumph over me too fast.
I am going to floor you completely, and never was an
Englishman more thoroughly defeated than you will be.
It will be the revenge for Cressy and Agincourt."
"I wish nothing better. Take your revenge, Paganel."
"Listen, then. In the text of the document, there is neither
mention of the Indians nor of Patagonia! The incomplete word INDI does not
mean INDIENS, but of course, INDIGENES, aborigines! Now, do you admit that
there are aborigines in Australia?"
"Bravo, Paganel!" said the Major.
"Well, do you agree to my interpretation, my dear Lord?"
asked the geographer again.
"Yes," replied Glenarvan, "if you will prove to me that the
fragment of a word GONIE, does not refer to the country of the Patagonians."
"Certainly it does not. It has nothing to do with
Patagonia," said Paganel. "Read it any way you please except that."
"How?"
"Cosmogonie, theogonie, agonie."
"AGONIE," said the Major.
"I don't care which," returned Paganel. "The word is quite
unimportant; I will not even try to find out its meaning. The main point is
that AUSTRAL means AUSTRALIE, and we must have gone blindly on a wrong track
not to have discovered the explanation at the very beginning, it was so
evident. If I had found the document myself, and my judgment had not been
misled by your interpretation, I should never have read it differently."
A burst of hurrahs, and congratulations, and compliments
followed Paganel's words. Austin and the sailors, and the Major and Robert,
most all overjoyed at this fresh hope, applauded him heartily; while even
Glenarvan, whose eyes were gradually getting open, was almost prepared to
give in.
"I only want to know one thing more, my dear Paganel," he
said, "and then I must bow to your perspicacity."
"What is it?"
"How will you group the words together according to your new
interpretation? How will the document read?"
"Easily enough answered. Here is the document," replied
Paganel, taking out the precious paper he had been studying so
conscientiously for the last few days.
For a few minutes there was complete silence, while the
worthy SAVANT took time to collect his thoughts before complying with his
lordship's request. Then putting his finger on the words, and emphasizing
some of them, he began as follows:
"'Le 7 juin 1862 le trois-mats Britannia de
Glasgow a sombre apres,'— put, if you please, 'deux jours, trois
jours,' or 'une longue agonie,' it doesn't signify, it is quite a
matter of indifference,—'sur les cotes de l'Australie. Se dirigeant a
terre, deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant vont essayer d'aborder,' or 'ont
aborde le continent ou ils seront,' or, 'sont prisonniers de cruels
indigenes. Ils ont jete ce documents,' etc. Is that clear?"
"Clear enough," replied Glenarvan, "if the word continent
can be applied to Australia, which is only an island."
"Make yourself easy about that, my dear Glenarvan; the best
geographers have agreed to call the island the Australian Continent."
V. IV Verne
"Then all I have now to say is, my friends," said Glenarvan,
"away to Australia, and may Heaven help us!"
"To Australia!" echoed his companions, with one voice.
"I tell you what, Paganel," added Glenarvan, "your being on
board the DUNCAN is a perfect providence."
"All right. Look on me as a messenger of providence, and let
us drop the subject."
So the conversation ended—a conversation which great results
were to follow; it completely changed the moral condition of the travelers;
it gave the clew of the labyrinth in which they had thought themselves
hopelessly entangled, and, amid their ruined projects, inspired them with
fresh hope. They could now quit the American Continent without the least
hesitation, and already their thoughts had flown to the Australias. In going
on board the DUNCAN again they would not bring despair with them, and Lady
Helena and Mary Grant would not have to mourn the irrevocable loss of
Captain Grant. This thought so filled them with joy that they forgot all the
dangers of their actual situation, and only regretted that they could not
start immediately.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and they
determined to have supper at six. Paganel wished to get up a splendid spread
in honor of the occasion, but as the materials were very scanty, he proposed
to Robert to go and hunt in the neighboring forest. Robert clapped his hands
at the idea, so they took Thalcave's powder flask, cleaned the revolvers and
loaded them with small shot, and set off.
"Don't go too far," said the Major, gravely, to the two
hunters.
After their departure, Glenarvan and McNabbs went down to
examine the state of the water by looking at the notches they had made on
the tree, and Wilson and Mulrady replenished the fire.
No sign of decrease appeared on the surface of the immense
lake, yet the flood seemed to have reached its maximum height; but the
violence with which it rushed from the south to north proved that the
equilibrium of the Argentine rivers was not restored. Before getting lower
the liquid mass must remain stationary, as in the case with the ocean before
the ebb tide commences.
While Glenarvan and his cousin were making these
observations, the report of firearms resounded frequently above their heads,
and the jubilant outcries of the two sportsmen—for Paganel was every whit as
much a child as Robert. They were having a fine time of it among the thick
leaves, judging by the peals of laughter which rang out in the boy's clear
treble voice and Paganel's deep bass. The chase was evidently successful,
and wonders in culinary art might be expected. Wilson had a good idea to
begin with, which he had skilfully carried out; for when Glenarvan came back
to the brasier, he found that the brave fellow had actually managed to
catch, with only a pin and a piece of string, several dozen small fish, as
delicate as smelts, called MOJARRAS, which were all jumping about in a fold
of his poncho, ready to be converted into an exquisite dish.
At the same moment the hunters reappeared. Paganel was
carefully carrying some black swallows' eggs, and a string of sparrows,
which he meant to serve up later under the name of field larks. Robert had
been clever enough to bring down several brace of HILGUEROS, small green and
yellow birds, which are excellent eating, and greatly in demand in the
Montevideo market. Paganel, who knew fifty ways of dressing eggs, was
obliged for this once to be content with simply hardening them on the hot
embers. But notwithstanding this, the viands at the meal were both dainty
and varied. The dried beef, hard eggs, grilled MOJARRAS, sparrows, and roast
HILGUEROS, made one of those gala feasts the memory of which is
imperishable.
The conversation was very animated. Many compliments were
paid Paganel on his twofold talents as hunter and cook, which the SAVANT
accepted with the modesty which characterizes true merit. Then he turned the
conversation on the peculiarities of the OMBU, under whose canopy they had
found shelter, and whose depths he declared were immense.
"Robert and I," he added, jestingly, "thought ourselves
hunting in the open forest. I was afraid, for the minute, we should lose
ourselves, for I could not find the road. The sun was sinking below the
horizon; I sought vainly for footmarks; I began to feel the sharp pangs of
hunger, and the gloomy depths of the forest resounded already with the roar
of wild beasts. No, not that; there are no wild beasts here, I am sorry to
say."
"What!" exclaimed Glenarvan, "you are sorry there are no
wild beasts?"
"Certainly I am."
"And yet we should have every reason to dread their
ferocity."
"Their ferocity is non-existent, scientifically speaking,"
replied the learned geographer.
"Now come, Paganel," said the Major, "you'll never make me
admit the utility of wild beasts. What good are they?"
"Why, Major," exclaimed Paganel, "for purposes of
classification into orders, and families, and species, and sub-species."
"A mighty advantage, certainly!" replied McNabbs, "I could
dispense with all that. If I had been one of Noah's companions at the time
of the deluge, I should most assuredly have hindered the imprudent patriarch
from putting in pairs of lions, and tigers, and panthers, and bears, and
such animals, for they are as malevolent as they are useless."
"You would have done that?" asked Paganel.
"Yes, I would."
"Well, you would have done wrong in a zoological point of
view," returned Paganel.
"But not in a humanitarian one," rejoined the Major.
"It is shocking!" replied Paganel. "Why, for my part, on the
contrary, I should have taken special care to preserve megatheriums and
pterodactyles, and all the antediluvian species of which we are
unfortunately deprived by his neglect."
"And I say," returned McNabbs, "that Noah did a very good
thing when he abandoned them to their fate—that is, if they lived in his
day."
"And I say he did a very bad thing," retorted Paganel, "and
he has justly merited the malediction of SAVANTS to the end of time!"
The rest of the party could not help laughing at hearing the
two friends disputing over old Noah. Contrary to all his principles, the
Major, who all his life had never disputed with anyone, was always sparring
with Paganel. The geographer seemed to have a peculiarly exciting effect on
him.
Glenarvan, as usual, always the peacemaker, interfered in
the debate, and said:
"Whether the loss of ferocious animals is to be regretted or
not, in a scientific point of view, there is no help for it now; we must be
content to do without them. Paganel can hardly expect to meet with wild
beasts in this aerial forest."
"Why not?" asked the geographer.
"Wild beasts on a tree!" exclaimed Tom Austin.
"Yes, undoubtedly. The American tiger, the jaguar, takes
refuge in the trees, when the chase gets too hot for him. It is quite
possible that one of these animals, surprised by the inundation, might have
climbed up into this OMBU, and be hiding now among its thick foliage."
"You haven't met any of them, at any rate, I suppose?" said
the Major.
"No," replied Paganel, "though we hunted all through the
wood. It is vexing, for it would have been a splendid chase. A jaguar is a
bloodthirsty, ferocious creature. He can twist the neck of a horse with a
single stroke of his paw. When he has once tasted human flesh he scents it
greedily. He likes to eat an Indian best, and next to him a negro, then a
mulatto, and last of all a white man."
"I am delighted to hear we come number four," said McNabbs.
"That only proves you are insipid," retorted Paganel, with
an air of disdain.
"I am delighted to be insipid," was the Major's reply.
"Well, it is humiliating enough," said the intractable
Paganel. "The white man proclaimed himself chief of the human race; but Mr.
Jaguar is of a different opinion it seems."
"Be that as it may, my brave Paganel, seeing there are
neither Indians, nor negroes, nor mulattoes among us,
I am quite rejoiced at the absence of your beloved jaguars.
Our situation is not so particularly agreeable."
"What! not agreeable!" exclaimed Paganel, jumping at the
word as likely to give a new turn to the conversation. "You are complaining
of your lot, Glenarvan."
"I should think so, indeed," replied Glenarvan. "Do you find
these uncomfortable hard branches very luxurious?"
"I have never been more comfortable, even in my study. We
live like the birds, we sing and fly about. I begin to believe men were
intended to live on trees."
"But they want wings," suggested the Major.
"They'll make them some day."
"And till then," put in Glenarvan, "with your leave, I
prefer the gravel of a park, or the floor of a house, or the deck of a ship,
to this aerial dwelling."
"We must take things as they come, Glenarvan," returned
Paganel. "If good, so much the better; if bad, never mind. Ah, I see you are
wishing you had all the comforts of Malcolm Castle."
"No, but—"
"I am quite certain Robert is perfectly happy," interrupted
Paganel, eager to insure one partisan at least.
"Yes, that I am!" exclaimed Robert, in a joyous tone.
"At his age it is quite natural," replied Glenarvan.
"And at mine, too," returned the geographer. "The fewer
one's comforts, the fewer one's needs; and the fewer one's needs, the
greater one's happiness."
"Now, now," said the Major, "here is Paganel running a tilt
against riches and gilt ceilings."
"No, McNabbs," replied the SAVANT, "I'm not; but if you
like, I'll tell you a little Arabian story that comes into my mind, very
APROPOS this minute."
"Oh, do, do," said Robert.
"And what is your story to prove, Paganel?" inquired the
Major.
"Much what all stories prove, my brave comrade."
"Not much then," rejoined McNabbs. "But go on, Scheherazade,
and tell us the story."
"There was once," said Paganel, "a son of the great
Haroun-al-Raschid, who was unhappy, and went to consult an old Dervish. The
old sage told him that happiness was a difficult thing to find in this
world. 'However,' he added, 'I know an infallible means of procuring your
happiness.' 'What is it?' asked the young Prince. 'It is to put the shirt of
a happy man on your shoulders.' Whereupon the Prince embraced the old man,
and set out at once to search for his talisman. He visited all the capital
cities in the world. He tried on the shirts of kings, and emperors, and
princes and nobles; but all in vain: he could not find a man among them that
was happy. Then he put on the shirts of artists, and warriors, and
merchants; but these were no better. By this time he had traveled a long
way, without finding what he sought. At last he began to despair of success,
and began sorrowfully to retrace his steps back to his father's palace, when
one day he heard an honest peasant singing so merrily as he drove the plow,
that he thought, 'Surely this man is happy, if there is such a thing as
happiness on earth.' Forthwith he accosted him, and said, 'Are you happy?'
'Yes,' was the reply. 'There is nothing you desire?' 'Nothing.' 'You would
not change your lot for that of a king?' 'Never!' 'Well, then, sell me your
shirt.' 'My shirt! I haven't one!'"
CHAPTER XXV BETWEEN FIRE AND WATER
BEFORE turning into "their nest," as
Paganel had called it, he, and Robert, and Glenarvan climbed up into the
observatory to have one more inspection of the liquid plain. It was about
nine o'clock; the sun had just sunk behind the glowing mists of the western
horizon.
The eastern horizon was gradually assuming a most stormy
aspect. A thick dark bar of cloud was rising higher and higher, and by
degrees extinguishing the stars. Before long half the sky was overspread.
Evidently motive power lay in the cloud itself, for there was not a breath
of wind. Absolute calm reigned in the atmosphere; not a leaf stirred on the
tree, not a ripple disturbed the surface of the water. There seemed to be
scarcely any air even, as though some vast pneumatic machine had rarefied
it. The entire atmosphere was charged to the utmost with electricity, the
presence of which sent a thrill through the whole nervous system of all
animated beings.
"We are going to have a storm," said Paganel.
"You're not afraid of thunder, are you, Robert?" asked
Glenarvan.
"No, my Lord!" exclaimed Robert. "Well, my boy, so much the
better, for a storm is not far off."
"And a violent one, too," added Paganel, "if I may judge by
the look of things."
"It is not the storm I care about," said Glenarvan, "so much
as the torrents of rain that will accompany it. We shall be soaked to the
skin. Whatever you may say, Paganel, a nest won't do for a man, and you will
learn that soon, to your cost."
"With the help of philosophy, it will," replied Paganel.
"Philosophy! that won't keep you from getting drenched."
"No, but it will warm you."
"Well," said Glenarvan, "we had better go down to our
friends, and advise them to wrap themselves up in their philosophy and their
ponchos as tightly as possible, and above all, to lay in a stock of
patience, for we shall need it before very long."
Glenarvan gave a last glance at the angry sky. The clouds
now covered it entirely; only a dim streak of light shone faintly in the
west. A dark shadow lay on the water, and it could hardly be distinguished
from the thick vapors above it. There was no sensation of light or sound.
All was darkness and silence around.
"Let us go down," said Glenarvan; "the thunder will soon
burst over us."
On returning to the bottom of the tree, they found
themselves, to their great surprise, in a sort of dim twilight, produced by
myriads of luminous specks which appeared buzzing confusedly over the
surface of the water.
"It is phosphorescence, I suppose," said Glenarvan.
"No, but phosphorescent insects, positive glow-worms, living
diamonds, which the ladies of Buenos Ayres convert into magnificent
ornaments."
"What!" exclaimed Robert, "those sparks flying about are
insects!"
"Yes, my boy."
Robert caught one in his hand, and found Paganel was right.
It was a kind of large drone, an inch long, and the Indians call it
"tuco-tuco." This curious specimen of the COLEOPTERA sheds its radiance from
two spots in the front of its breast-plate, and the light is sufficient to
read by. Holding his watch close to the insect, Paganel saw distinctly that
the time was 10 P. M.
On rejoining the Major and his three sailors, Glenarvan
warned them of the approaching storm, and advised them to secure themselves
in their beds of branches as firmly as possible, for there was no doubt that
after the first clap of thunder the wind would become unchained, and the
OMBU would be violently shaken. Though they could not defend themselves from
the waters above, they might at least keep out of the rushing current
beneath.
They wished one another "good-night," though hardly daring
to hope for it, and then each one rolled himself in his poncho and lay down
to sleep.
But the approach of the great phenomena of nature excites
vague uneasiness in the heart of every sentient being, even in the most
strong-minded. The whole party in the OMBU felt agitated and oppressed, and
not one of them could close his eyes. The first peal of thunder found them
wide awake. It occurred about 11 P. M., and sounded like a distant rolling.
Glenarvan ventured to creep out of the sheltering foliage, and made his way
to the extremity of the horizontal branch to take a look round.
The deep blackness of the night was already scarified with
sharp bright lines, which were reflected back by the water with unerring
exactness. The clouds had rent in many parts, but noiselessly, like some
soft cotton material. After attentively observing both the zenith and
horizon, Glenarvan went back to the center of the trunk.
"Well, Glenarvan, what's your report?" asked Paganel.
"I say it is beginning in good earnest, and if it goes on so
we shall have a terrible storm."
"So much the better," replied the enthusiastic Paganel; "I
should like a grand exhibition, since we can't run away."
"That's another of your theories," said the Major.
"And one of my best, McNabbs. I am of Glenarvan's opinion,
that the storm will be superb. Just a minute ago, when I was trying to
sleep, several facts occurred to my memory, that make me hope it will, for
we are in the region of great electrical tempests. For instance, I have read
somewhere, that in 1793, in this very province of Buenos Ayres, lightning
struck thirty-seven times during one single storm. My colleague, M. Martin
de Moussy, counted fifty-five minutes of uninterrupted rolling."
"Watch in hand?" asked the Major.
"Watch in hand. Only one thing makes me uneasy," added
Paganel, "if it is any use to be uneasy, and that is, that the culminating
point of this plain, is just this very OMBU where we are. A lightning
conductor would be very serviceable to us at present. For it is this tree
especially, among all that grow in the Pampas, that the thunder has a
particular affection for. Besides, I need not tell you, friend, that learned
men tell us never to take refuge under trees during a storm."
"Most seasonable advice, certainly, in our circumstances,"
said the Major.
"I must confess, Paganel," replied Glenarvan, "that you
might have chosen a better time for this reassuring information."
"Bah!" replied Paganel, "all times are good for getting
information.
Ha! now it's beginning."
Louder peals of thunder interrupted this inopportune
conversation, the violence increasing with the noise till the whole
atmosphere seemed to vibrate with rapid oscillations.
The incessant flashes of lightning took various forms. Some
darted down perpendicularly from the sky five or six times in the same place
in succession. Others would have excited the interest of a SAVANT to the
highest degree, for though Arago, in his curious statistics, only cites two
examples of forked lightning, it was visible here hundreds of times. Some of
the flashes branched out in a thousand different directions, making
coralliform zigzags, and threw out wonderful jets of arborescent light.
Soon the whole sky from east to north seemed supported by a
phosphoric band of intense brilliancy. This kept increasing by degrees till
it overspread the entire horizon, kindling the clouds which were faithfully
mirrored in the waters as if they were masses of combustible material,
beneath, and presented the appearance of an immense globe of fire, the
center of which was the OMBU.
Glenarvan and his companions gazed silently at this
terrifying spectacle. They could not make their voices heard, but the sheets
of white light which enwrapped them every now and then, revealed the face of
one and another, sometimes the calm features of the Major, sometimes the
eager, curious glance of Paganel, or the energetic face of Glenarvan, and at
others, the scared eyes of the terrified Robert, and the careless looks of
the sailors, investing them with a weird, spectral aspect.
However, as yet, no rain had fallen, and the wind had not
risen in the least. But this state of things was of short duration; before
long the cataracts of the sky burst forth, and came down in vertical
streams. As the large drops fell splashing into the lake, fiery sparks
seemed to fly out from the illuminated surface.
Was the rain the FINALE of the storm? If so, Glenarvan and
his companions would escape scot free, except for a few vigorous douche
baths. No. At the very height of this struggle of the electric forces of the
atmosphere, a large ball of fire appeared suddenly at the extremity of the
horizontal parent branch, as thick as a man's wrist, and surrounded with
black smoke. This ball, after turning round and round for a few seconds,
burst like a bombshell, and with so much noise that the explosion was
distinctly audible above the general FRACAS. A sulphurous smoke filled the
air, and complete silence reigned till the voice of Tom Austin was heard
shouting:
"The tree is on fire."
Tom was right. In a moment, as if some fireworks were being
ignited, the flame ran along the west side of the OMBU; the dead wood and
nests of dried grass, and the whole sap, which was of a spongy texture,
supplied food for its devouring activity.
The wind had risen now and fanned the flame. It was time to
flee, and Glenarvan and his party hurried away to the eastern side of their
refuge, which was meantime untouched by the fire. They were all silent,
troubled, and terrified, as they watched branch after branch shrivel, and
crack, and writhe in the flame like living serpents, and then drop into the
swollen torrent, still red and gleaming, as it was borne swiftly along on
the rapid current. The flames sometimes rose to a prodigious height, and
seemed almost lost in the atmosphere, and sometimes, beaten down by the
hurricane, closely enveloped the OMBU like a robe of Nessus. Terror seized
the entire group. They were almost suffocated with smoke, and scorched with
the unbearable heat, for the conflagration had already reached the lower
branches on their side of the OMBU. To extinguish it or check its progress
was impossible; and they saw themselves irrevocably condemned to a torturing
death, like the victims of Hindoo divinities.
At last, their situation was absolutely intolerable. Of the
two deaths staring them in the face, they had better choose the less cruel.
"To the water!" exclaimed Glenarvan.
Wilson, who was nearest the flames, had already plunged into
the lake, but next minute he screamed out in the most violent terror:
"Help! Help!"
Austin rushed toward him, and with the assistance of the
Major, dragged him up again on the tree.
"What's the matter?" they asked.
"Alligators! alligators!" replied Wilson.
The whole foot of the tree appeared to be surrounded by
these formidable animals of the Saurian order. By the glare of the flames,
they were immediately recognized by Paganel, as the ferocious species
peculiar to America, called CAIMANS in the Spanish territories. About ten of
them were there, lashing the water with their powerful tails, and attacking
the OMBU with the long teeth of their lower jaw.
At this sight the unfortunate men gave themselves up to be
lost. A frightful death was in store for them, since they must either be
devoured by the fire or by the caimans. Even the Major said, in a calm
voice:
"This is the beginning of the end, now."
There are circumstances in which men are powerless, when the
unchained elements can only be combated by other elements. Glenarvan gazed
with haggard looks at the fire and water leagued against him, hardly knowing
what deliverance to implore from Heaven.
The violence of the storm had abated, but it had developed
in the atmosphere a considerable quantity of vapors, to which electricity
was about to communicate immense force. An enormous water-spout was
gradually forming in the south— a cone of thick mists, but with the point at
the bottom, and base at the top, linking together the turbulent water and
the angry clouds. This meteor soon began to move forward, turning over and
over on itself with dizzy rapidity, and sweeping up into its center a column
of water from the lake, while its gyratory motions made all the surrounding
currents of air rush toward it.
A few seconds more, and the gigantic water-spout threw
itself on the OMBU, and caught it up in its whirl. The tree shook to its
roots. Glenarvan could fancy the caimans' teeth were tearing it up from the
soil; for as he and his companions held on, each clinging firmly to the
other, they felt the towering OMBU give way, and the next minute it fell
right over with a terrible hissing noise, as the flaming branches touched
the foaming water.
It was the work of an instant. Already the water-spout had
passed, to carry on its destructive work elsewhere. It seemed to empty the
lake in its passage, by continually drawing up the water into itself.
The OMBU now began to drift rapidly along, impelled by wind
and current. All the caimans had taken their departure, except one that was
crawling over the upturned roots, and coming toward the poor refugees with
wide open jaws. But Mulrady, seizing hold of a branch that was half-burned
off, struck the monster such a tremendous blow, that it fell back into the
torrent and disappeared, lashing the water with its formidable tail.
Glenarvan and his companions being thus delivered from the
voracious SAURIANS, stationed themselves on the branches windward of the
conflagration, while the OMBU sailed along like a blazing fire-ship through
the dark night, the flames spreading themselves round like sails before the
breath of the hurricane.
CHAPTER XXVI THE RETURN ON BOARD
FOR two hours the OMBU navigated the
immense lake without reaching terra firma. The flames which were
devouring it had gradually died out. The chief danger of their frightful
passage was thus removed, and the Major went the length of saying, that he
should not be surprised if they were saved after all.
The direction of the current remained unchanged, always
running from southwest to northeast. Profound darkness had again set in,
only illumined here and there by a parting flash of lightning. The storm was
nearly over. The rain had given place to light mists, which a breath of wind
dispersed, and the heavy masses of cloud had separated, and now streaked the
sky in long bands.
The OMBU was borne onward so rapidly by the impetuous
torrent, that anyone might have supposed some powerful locomotive engine was
hidden in its trunk. It seemed likely enough they might continue drifting in
this way for days. About three o'clock in the morning, however, the Major
noticed that the roots were beginning to graze the ground occasionally, and
by sounding the depth of the water with a long branch, Tom Austin found that
they were getting on rising ground. Twenty minutes afterward, the OMBU
stopped short with a violent jolt.
"Land! land!" shouted Paganel, in a ringing tone.
The extremity of the calcined bough had struck some hillock,
and never were sailors more glad; the rock to them was the port.
Already Robert and Wilson had leaped on to the solid plateau
with a loud, joyful hurrah! when a well-known whistle was heard. The gallop
of a horse resounded over the plain, and the tall form of Thalcave emerged
from the darkness.
"Thalcave! Thalcave!" they all cried with one voice.
"Amigos!" replied the Patagonian, who had been waiting for
the travelers here in the same place where the current had landed himself.
As he spoke he lifted up Robert in his arms, and hugged him
to his breast, never imagining that Paganel was hanging on to him. A general
and hearty hand-shaking followed, and everyone rejoiced at seeing their
faithful guide again. Then the Patagonian led the way into the HANGAR of a
deserted ESTANCIA, where there was a good, blazing fire to warm them, and a
substantial meal of fine, juicy slices of venison soon broiling, of which
they did not leave a crumb. When their minds had calmed down a little, and
they were able to reflect on the dangers they had come through from flood,
and fire, and alligators, they could scarcely believe they had escaped.
Thalcave, in a few words, gave Paganel an account of himself
since they parted, entirely ascribing his deliverance to his intrepid horse.
Then Paganel tried to make him understand their new interpretation of the
document, and the consequent hopes they were indulging. Whether the Indian
actually understood his ingenious hypothesis was a question; but he saw that
they were glad and confident, and that was enough for him.
As can easily be imagined, after their compulsory rest on
the OMBU, the travelers were up betimes and ready to start. At eight o'clock
they set off. No means of transport being procurable so far south, they were
compelled to walk. However, it was not more than forty miles now that they
had to go, and Thaouka would not refuse to give a lift occasionally to a
tired pedestrian, or even to a couple at a pinch. In thirty-six hours they
might reach the shores of the Atlantic.
The low-lying tract of marshy ground, still under water,
soon lay behind them, as Thalcave led them upward to the higher plains. Here
the Argentine territory resumed its monotonous aspect. A few clumps of
trees, planted by European hands, might chance to be visible among the
pasturage, but quite as rarely as in Tandil and Tapalquem Sierras. The
native trees are only found on the edge of long prairies and about Cape
Corrientes.
Next day, though still fifteen miles distant, the proximity
of the ocean was sensibly felt. The VIRAZON, a peculiar wind, which blows
regularly half of the day and night, bent down the heads of the tall
grasses. Thinly planted woods rose to view, and small tree-like mimosas,
bushes of acacia, and tufts of CURRA-MANTEL. Here and there, shining like
pieces of broken glass, were salinous lagoons, which increased the
difficulty of the journey as the travelers had to wind round them to get
past. They pushed on as quickly as possible, hoping to reach Lake Salado, on
the shores of the ocean, the same day; and at 8 P. M., when they found
themselves in front of the sand hills two hundred feet high, which skirt the
coast, they were all tolerably tired. But when the long murmur of the
distant ocean fell on their ears, the exhausted men forgot their fatigue,
and ran up the sandhills with surprising agility. But it was getting quite
dark already, and their eager gaze could discover no traces of the DUNCAN on
the gloomy expanse of water that met their sight.
"But she is there, for all that," exclaimed Glenarvan,
"waiting for us, and running alongside."
"We shall see her to-morrow," replied McNabbs.
Tom Austin hailed the invisible yacht, but there was no
response. The wind was very high and the sea rough. The clouds were scudding
along from the west, and the spray of the waves dashed up even to the
sand-hills. It was little wonder, then, if the man on the look-out could
neither hear nor make himself heard, supposing the DUNCAN were there. There
was no shelter on the coast for her, neither bay nor cove, nor port; not so
much as a creek. The shore was composed of sand-banks which ran out into the
sea, and were more dangerous to approach than rocky shoals. The sand-banks
irritate the waves, and make the sea so particularly rough, that in heavy
weather vessels that run aground there are invariably dashed to pieces.
Though, then, the DUNCAN would keep far away from such a
coast, John Mangles is a prudent captain to get near. Tom Austin, however,
was of the opinion that she would be able to keep five miles out.
The Major advised his impatient relative to restrain himself
to circumstances. Since there was no means of dissipating the darkness, what
was the use of straining his eyes by vainly endeavoring to pierce through
it.
He set to work immediately to prepare the night's encampment
beneath the shelter of the sand-hills; the last provisions supplied the last
meal, and afterward, each, following the Major's example, scooped out a hole
in the sand, which made a comfortable enough bed, and then covered himself
with the soft material up to his chin, and fell into a heavy sleep.
But Glenarvan kept watch. There was still a stiff breeze of
wind, and the ocean had not recovered its equilibrium after the recent
storm. The waves, at all times tumultuous, now broke over the sand-banks
with a noise like thunder. Glenarvan could not rest, knowing the DUNCAN was
so near him. As to supposing she had not arrived at the appointed
rendezvous, that was out of the question. Glenarvan had left the Bay of
Talcahuano on the 14th of October, and arrived on the shores of the Atlantic
on the 12th of November. He had taken thirty days to cross Chili, the
Cordilleras, the Pampas, and the Argentine plains, giving the DUNCAN ample
time to double Cape Horn, and arrive on the opposite side. For such a fast
runner there were no impediments. Certainly the storm had been very violent,
and its fury must have been terrible on such a vast battlefield as the
Atlantic, but the yacht was a good ship, and the captain was a good sailor.
He was bound to be there, and he would be there.
These reflections, however, did not calm Glenarvan. When the
heart and the reason are struggling, it is generally the heart that wins the
mastery. The laird of Malcolm Castle felt the presence of loved ones about
him in the darkness as he wandered up and down the lonely strand. He gazed,
and listened, and even fancied he caught occasional glimpses of a faint
light.
"I am not mistaken," he said to himself; "I saw a ship's
light, one of the lights on the DUNCAN! Oh! why can't I see in the dark?"
All at once the thought rushed across him that Paganel said
he was a nyctalope, and could see at night. He must go and wake him.
The learned geographer was sleeping as sound as a mole.
A strong arm pulled him up out of the sand and made him call out:
"Who goes there?"
"It is I, Paganel."
"Who?"
"Glenarvan. Come, I need your eyes."
"My eyes," replied Paganel, rubbing them vigorously.
"Yes, I need your eyes to make out the DUNCAN in this
darkness, so come."
"Confound the nyctalopia!" said Paganel, inwardly, though
delighted to be of any service to his friend.
He got up and shook his stiffened limbs, and stretching and
yawning as most people do when roused from sleep, followed Glenarvan to the
beach.
Glenarvan begged him to examine the distant horizon across
the sea, which he did most conscientiously for some minutes.
"Well, do you see nothing?" asked Glenarvan.
"Not a thing. Even a cat couldn't see two steps before her."
V. IV Verne
"Look for a red light or a green one—her larboard or
starboard light."
"I see neither a red nor a green light, all is pitch dark,"
replied Paganel, his eyes involuntarily beginning to close.
For half an hour he followed his impatient friend,
mechanically letting his head frequently drop on his chest, and raising it
again with a start. At last he neither answered nor spoke, and he reeled
about like a drunken man. Glenarvan looked at him, and found he was sound
asleep!
Without attempting to wake him, he took his arm, led him
back to his hole, and buried him again comfortably.
At dawn next morning, all the slumberers started to their
feet and rushed to the shore, shouting "Hurrah, hurrah!" as Lord Glenarvan's
loud cry, "The DUNCAN, the DUNCAN!" broke upon his ear.
There she was, five miles out, her courses carefully reefed,
and her steam half up. Her smoke was lost in the morning mist. The sea was
so violent that a vessel of her tonnage could not have ventured safely
nearer the sand-banks.
Glenarvan, by the aid of Paganel's telescope, closely
observed the movements of the yacht. It was evident that John Mangles had
not perceived his passengers, for he continued his course as before.
But at this very moment Thalcave fired his carbine in the
direction of the yacht. They listened and looked, but no signal of
recognition was returned. A second and a third time the Indian fired,
awakening the echoes among the sand-hills.
At last a white smoke was seen issuing from the side of the
yacht.
"They see us!" exclaimed Glenarvan. "That's the cannon of
the DUNCAN."
A few seconds, and the heavy boom of the cannon came across
the water and died away on the shore. The sails were instantly altered, and
the steam got up, so as to get as near the coast as possible.
Presently, through the glass, they saw a boat lowered.
"Lady Helena will not be able to come," said Tom Austin.
"It is too rough."
"Nor John Mangles," added McNabbs; "he cannot leave the
ship."
"My sister, my sister!" cried Robert, stretching out his
arms toward the yacht, which was now rolling violently.
"Oh, how I wish I could get on board!" said Glenarvan.
"Patience, Edward! you will be there in a couple of hours,"
replied the Major.
Two hours! But it was impossible for a boat—a six-oared one—
to come and go in a shorter space of time.
Glenarvan went back to Thalcave, who stood beside Thaouka,
with his arms crossed, looking quietly at the troubled waves.
Glenarvan took his hand, and pointing to the yacht, said:
"Come!"
The Indian gently shook his head.
"Come, friend," repeated Glenarvan.
"No," said Thalcave, gently. "Here is Thaouka, and there—
the Pampas," he added, embracing with a passionate gesture the
wide-stretching prairies.
Glenarvan understood his refusal. He knew that the Indian
would never forsake the prairie, where the bones of his fathers were
whitening, and he knew the religious attachment of these sons of the desert
for their native land. He did not urge Thalcave longer, therefore, but
simply pressed his hand. Nor could he find it in his heart to insist, when
the Indian, smiling as usual, would not accept the price of his services,
pushing back the money, and saying:
"For the sake of friendship."
Glenarvan could not reply; but he wished at least, to leave
the brave fellow some souvenir of his European friends. What was there to
give, however? Arms, horses, everything had been destroyed in the
unfortunate inundation, and his friends were no richer than himself.
He was quite at a loss how to show his recognition of the
disinterestedness of this noble guide, when a happy thought struck him. He
had an exquisite portrait of Lady Helena in his pocket, a CHEF-D'OEUVRE of
Lawrence. This he drew out, and offered to Thalcave, simply saying:
"My wife."
The Indian gazed at it with a softened eye, and said:
"Good and beautiful."
Then Robert, and Paganel, and the Major, and the rest,
exchanged touching farewells with the faithful Patagonian. Thalcave embraced
them each, and pressed them to his broad chest. Paganel made him accept a
map of South America and the two oceans, which he had often seen the Indian
looking at with interest. It was the most precious thing the geographer
possessed. As for Robert, he had only caresses to bestow, and these he
lavished on his friend, not forgetting to give a share to Thaouka.
The boat from the DUNCAN was now fast approaching, and in
another minute had glided into a narrow channel between the sand-banks, and
run ashore.
"My wife?" were Glenarvan's first words.
"My sister?" said Robert.
"Lady Helena and Miss Grant are waiting for you on board,"
replied the coxswain; "but lose no time your honor, we have not a minute,
for the tide is beginning to ebb already."
The last kindly adieux were spoken, and Thalcave accompanied
his friends to the boat, which had been pushed back into the water. Just as
Robert was going to step in, the Indian took him in his arms, and gazed
tenderly into his face. Then he said:
"Now go. You are a man."
"Good-by, good-by, friend!" said Glenarvan, once more.
"Shall we never see each other again?" Paganel called out.
"Quien sabe?" (Who knows?) replied Thalcave, lifting
his arms toward heaven.
These were the Indian's last words, dying away on the
breeze, as the boat receded gradually from the shore. For a long time, his
dark, motionless SILHOUETTE stood out against the sky, through the white,
dashing spray of the waves. Then by degrees his tall form began to diminish
in size, till at last his friends of a day lost sight of him altogether.
An hour afterward Robert was the first to leap on board the
DUNCAN. He flung his arms round Mary's neck, amid the loud, joyous hurrahs
of the crew on the yacht.
Thus the journey across South America was accomplished, the
given line of march being scrupulously adhered to throughout.
Neither mountains nor rivers had made the travelers change
their course; and though they had not had to encounter any ill-will from
men, their generous intrepidity had been often enough roughly put to the
proof by the fury of the unchained elements.
END OF BOOK ONE
In Search of the Castaways or The
Children of Captain Grant
Australia
[page intentionally blank]
In Search of the Castaways
Australia
CHAPTER I A NEW DESTINATION
FOR the first few moments the joy of
reunion completely filled the hearts. Lord Glenarvan had taken care that the
ill-success of their expedition should not throw a gloom over the pleasure
of meeting, his very first words being:
"Cheer up, friends, cheer up! Captain Grant is not with us,
but we have a certainty of finding him!"
Only such an assurance as this would have restored hope to
those on board the DUNCAN. Lady Helena and Mary Grant had been sorely tried
by the suspense, as they stood on the poop waiting for the arrival of the
boat, and trying to count the number of its passengers. Alternate hope and
fear agitated the bosom of poor Mary. Sometimes she fancied she could see
her father, Harry Grant, and sometimes she gave way to despair. Her heart
throbbed violently; she could not speak, and indeed could scarcely stand.
Lady Helena put her arm round her waist to support her, but the captain,
John Mangles, who stood close beside them spoke no encouraging word, for his
practiced eye saw plainly that the captain was not there.
"He is there! He is coming! Oh, father!" exclaimed the young
girl. But as the boat came nearer, her illusion was dispelled; all hope
forsook her, and she would have sunk in despair, but for the reassuring
voice of Glenarvan.
After their mutual embraces were over, Lady Helena, and Mary
Grant, and John Mangles, were informed of the principal incidents of the
expedition, and especially of the new interpretation of the document, due to
the sagacity of Jacques Paganel. His Lordship also spoke in the most
eulogistic terms of Robert, of whom Mary might well be proud. His courage
and devotion, and the dangers he had run, were all shown up in strong relief
by his patron, till the modest boy did not know which way to look, and was
obliged to hide his burning cheeks in his sister's arms.
"No need to blush, Robert," said John Mangles. "Your conduct
has been worthy of your name." And he leaned over the boy and pressed his
lips on his cheek, still wet with Mary's tears.
The Major and Paganel, it need hardly be said, came in for
their due share of welcome, and Lady Helena only regretted she could not
shake hands with the brave and generous Thalcave. McNabbs soon slipped away
to his cabin, and began to shave himself as coolly and composedly as
possible; while Paganel flew here and there, like a bee sipping the sweets
of compliments and smiles. He wanted to embrace everyone on board the yacht,
and beginning with Lady Helena and Mary Grant, wound up with M. Olbinett,
the steward, who could only acknowledge so polite an attention by announcing
that breakfast was ready.
"Breakfast!" exclaimed Paganel.
"Yes, Monsieur Paganel."
"A real breakfast, on a real table, with a cloth and
napkins?"
"Certainly, Monsieur Paganel."
"And we shall neither have CHARQUI, nor hard eggs, nor
fillets of ostrich?"
"Oh, Monsieur," said Olbinett in an aggrieved tone.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings, my friend," said the
geographer smiling. "But for a month that has been our usual bill of fare,
and when we dined we stretched ourselves full length on the ground, unless
we sat astride on the trees. Consequently, the meal you have just announced
seemed to me like a dream, or fiction, or chimera."
"Well, Monsieur Paganel, come along and let us prove its
reality," said Lady Helena, who could not help laughing.
"Take my arm," replied the gallant geographer.
"Has his Lordship any orders to give me about the DUNCAN?"
asked John Mangles.
"After breakfast, John," replied Glenarvan, "we'll discuss
the program of our new expedition en famille."
M. Olbinett's breakfast seemed quite a FETE to the hungry
guests. It was pronounced excellent, and even superior to the festivities of
the Pampas. Paganel was helped twice to each dish, through "absence of
mind," he said.
This unlucky word reminded Lady Helena of the amiable
Frenchman's propensity, and made her ask if he had ever fallen into his old
habits while they were away. The Major and Glenarvan exchanged smiling
glances, and Paganel burst out laughing, and protested on his honor that he
would never be caught tripping again once more during the whole voyage.
After this prelude, he gave an amusing recital of his disastrous mistake in
learning Spanish, and his profound study of Camoens. "After all," he added,
"it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I don't regret the mistake."
"Why not, my worthy friend?" asked the Major.
"Because I not only know Spanish, but Portuguese. I can
speak two languages instead of one."
"Upon my word, I never thought of that," said McNabbs. "My
compliments,
Paganel—my sincere compliments."
But Paganel was too busily engaged with his knife and fork
to lose a single mouthful, though he did his best to eat and talk at the
same time. He was so much taken up with his plate, however, that one little
fact quite escaped his observation, though Glenarvan noticed it at once.
This was, that John Mangles had grown particularly attentive to Mary Grant.
A significant glance from Lady Helena told him, moreover, how affairs stood,
and inspired him with affectionate sympathy for the young lovers; but
nothing of this was apparent in his manner to John, for his next question
was what sort of a voyage he had made.
"We could not have had a better; but I must apprise your
Lordship that I did not go through the Straits of Magellan again."
"What! you doubled Cape Horn, and I was not there!"
exclaimed Paganel.
"Hang yourself!" said the Major.
"Selfish fellow! you advise me to do that because you want
my rope," retorted the geographer.
"Well, you see, my dear Paganel, unless you have the gift of
ubiquity you can't be in two places at once. While you were scouring the
pampas you could not be doubling Cape Horn."
"That doesn't prevent my regretting it," replied Paganel.
Here the subject dropped, and John continued his account of
his voyage. On arriving at Cape Pilares he had found the winds dead against
him, and therefore made for the south, coasting along the Desolation Isle,
and after going as far as the sixty-seventh degree southern latitude, had
doubled Cape Horn, passed by Terra del Fuego and the Straits of Lemaire,
keeping close to the Patagonian shore. At Cape Corrientes they encountered
the terrible storm which had handled the travelers across the pampas so
roughly, but the yacht had borne it bravely, and for the last three days had
stood right out to sea, till the welcome signal-gun of the expedition was
heard announcing the arrival of the anxiously-looked-for party. "It was only
justice," the captain added, "that he should mention the intrepid bearing of
Lady Helena and Mary Grant throughout the whole hurricane. They had not
shown the least fear, unless for their friends, who might possibly be
exposed to the fury of the tempest."
After John Mangles had finished his narrative, Glenarvan
turned to Mary and said; "My dear Miss Mary, the captain has been doing
homage to your noble qualities, and I am glad to think you are not unhappy
on board his ship."
"How could I be?" replied Mary naively, looking at Lady
Helena, and at the young captain too, likely enough.
"Oh, my sister is very fond of you, Mr. John, and so am I,"
exclaimed Robert.
"And so am I of you, my dear boy," returned the captain, a
little abashed by Robert's innocent avowal, which had kindled a faint blush
on Mary's cheek. Then he managed to turn the conversation to safer topics by
saying: "And now that your Lordship has heard all about the doings of the
DUNCAN, perhaps you will give us some details of your own journey, and tell
us more about the exploits of our young hero."
Nothing could be more agreeable than such a recital to Lady
Helena and Mary Grant; and accordingly Lord Glenarvan hastened to satisfy
their curiosity—going over incident by incident, the entire march from one
ocean to another, the pass of the Andes, the earthquake, the disappearance
of Robert, his capture by the condor, Thalcave's providential shot, the
episode of the red wolves, the devotion of the young lad, Sergeant Manuel,
the inundations, the caimans, the waterspout, the night on the Atlantic
shore— all these details, amusing or terrible, excited by turns laughter and
horror in the listeners. Often and often Robert came in for caresses from
his sister and Lady Helena. Never was a boy so much embraced, or by such
enthusiastic friends.
"And now, friends," added Lord Glenarvan, when he had
finished his narrative, "we must think of the present. The past is gone, but
the future is ours. Let us come back to Captain Harry Grant."
As soon as breakfast was over they all went into Lord
Glenarvan's private cabin and seated themselves round a table covered with
charts and plans, to talk over the matter fully.
"My dear Helena," said Lord Glenarvan, "I told you, when we
came on board a little while ago, that though we had not brought back
Captain Grant, our hope of finding him was stronger than ever. The result of
our journey across America is this: We have reached the conviction, or
rather absolute certainty, that the shipwreck never occurred on the shores
of the Atlantic nor Pacific. The natural inference is that, as far as
regards Patagonia, our interpretation of the document was erroneous. Most
fortunately, our friend Paganel, in a happy moment of inspiration,
discovered the mistake. He has proved clearly that we have been on the wrong
track, and so explained the document that all doubt whatever is removed from
our minds. However, as the document is in French, I will ask Paganel to go
over it for your benefit."
The learned geographer, thus called upon, executed his task
in the most convincing manner, descanting on the syllables GONIE and INDI,
and extracting AUSTRALIA out of AUSTRAL. He pointed out that Captain Grant,
on leaving the coast of Peru to return to Europe, might have been carried
away with his disabled ship by the southern currents of the Pacific right to
the shores of Australia, and his hypotheses were so ingenious and his
deductions so subtle that even the matter-of-fact John Mangles, a difficult
judge, and most unlikely to be led away by any flights of imagination, was
completely satisfied.
At the conclusion of Paganel's dissertation, Glenarvan
announced that the DUNCAN would sail immediately for Australia.
But before the decisive orders were given, McNabbs asked for
a few minutes' hearing.
"Say away, McNabbs," replied Glenarvan.
"I have no intention of weakening the arguments of my friend
Paganel, and still less of refuting them. I consider them wise and weighty,
and deserving our attention, and think them justly entitled to form the
basis of our future researches. But still I should like them to be submitted
to a final examination, in order to make their worth incontestable and
uncontested."
"Go on, Major," said Paganel; "I am ready to answer all your
questions."
"They are simple enough, as you will see. Five months ago,
when we left the Clyde, we had studied these same documents, and their
interpretation then appeared quite plain. No other coast but the western
coast of Patagonia could possibly, we thought, have been the scene of the
shipwreck. We had not even the shadow of a doubt on the subject."
"That's true," replied Glenarvan.
"A little later," continued the Major, "when a providential
fit of absence of mind came over Paganel, and brought him on board the
yacht, the documents were submitted to him and he approved our plan of
search most unreservedly."
"I do not deny it," said Paganel.
"And yet we were mistaken," resumed the Major.
"Yes, we were mistaken," returned Paganel; "but it is only
human to make a mistake, while to persist in it, a man must be a fool."
"Stop, Paganel, don't excite yourself; I don't mean to say
that we should prolong our search in America."
"What is it, then, that you want?" asked Glenarvan.
"A confession, nothing more. A confession that Australia now
as evidently appears to be the theater of the shipwreck of the BRITANNIA as
America did before."
"We confess it willingly," replied Paganel.
"Very well, then, since that is the case, my advice is not
to let your imagination rely on successive and contradictory evidence. Who
knows whether after Australia some other country may not appear with equal
certainty to be the place, and we may have to recommence our search?"
Glenarvan and Paganel looked at each other silently, struck
by the justice of these remarks.
"I should like you, therefore," continued the Major, "before
we actually start for Australia, to make one more examination of the
documents. Here they are, and here are the charts. Let us take up each point
in succession through which the 37th parallel passes, and see if we come
across any other country which would agree with the precise indications of
the document."
"Nothing can be more easily and quickly done," replied
Paganel; "for countries are not very numerous in this latitude, happily."
"Well, look," said the Major, displaying an English
planisphere on the plan of Mercator's Chart, and presenting the appearance
of a terrestrial globe.
He placed it before Lady Helena, and then they all stood
round, so as to be able to follow the argument of Paganel.
"As I have said already," resumed the learned geographer,
"after having crossed South America, the 37th degree of latitude cuts the
islands of Tristan d'Acunha. Now I maintain that none of the words of the
document could relate to these islands."
The documents were examined with the most minute care, and
the conclusion unanimously reached was that these islands were entirely out
of the question.
"Let us go on then," resumed Paganel. "After leaving the
Atlantic, we pass two degrees below the Cape of Good Hope, and into the
Indian Ocean. Only one group of islands is found on this route, the
Amsterdam Isles. Now, then, we must examine these as we did the Tristan
d'Acunha group."
After a close survey, the Amsterdam Isles were rejected in
their turn. Not a single word, or part of a word, French, English or German,
could apply to this group in the Indian Ocean.
"Now we come to Australia," continued Paganel.
"The 37th parallel touches this continent at Cape
Bernouilli, and leaves it at Twofold Bay. You will agree with me that,
without straining the text, the English word STRA and the French one AUSTRAL
may relate to Australia. The thing is too plain to need proof."
The conclusion of Paganel met with unanimous approval; every
probability was in his favor.
"And where is the next point?" asked McNabbs.
"That is easily answered. After leaving Twofold Bay, we
cross an arm of the sea which extends to New Zealand. Here I must call your
attention to the fact that the French word CONTIN means a continent,
irrefragably. Captain Grant could not, then, have found refuge in New
Zealand, which is only an island. However that may be though, examine and
compare, and go over and over each word, and see if, by any possibility,
they can be made to fit this new country."
"In no way whatever," replied John Mangles, after a minute
investigation of the documents and the planisphere.
"No," chimed in all the rest, and even the Major himself,
"it cannot apply to New Zealand."
"Now," went on Paganel, "in all this immense space between
this large island and the American coast, there is only one solitary barren
little island crossed by the 37th parallel."
"And what is its name," asked the Major.
"Here it is, marked in the map. It is Maria Theresa—a name
of which there is not a single trace in either of the three documents."
"Not the slightest," said Glenarvan.
"I leave you, then, my friends, to decide whether all these
probabilities, not to say certainties, are not in favor of the Australian
continent."
"Evidently," replied the captain and all the others.
"Well, then, John," said Glenarvan, "the next question is,
have you provisions and coal enough?"
"Yes, your honor, I took in an ample store at Talcahuano,
and, besides, we can easily replenish our stock of coal at Cape Town."
"Well, then, give orders."
"Let me make one more observation," interrupted McNabbs.
"Go on then."
"Whatever likelihood of success Australia may offer us,
wouldn't it be advisable to stop a day or two at the Tristan d'Acunha Isles
and the Amsterdam? They lie in our route, and would not take us the least
out of the way. Then we should be able to ascertain if the BRITANNIA had
left any traces of her shipwreck there?"
"Incredulous Major!" exclaimed Paganel, "he still sticks to
his idea."
"I stick to this any way, that I don't want to have to
retrace our steps, supposing that Australia should disappoint our sanguine
hopes."
"It seems to me a good precaution," replied Glenarvan.
"And I'm not the one to dissuade you from it," returned
Paganel; "quite the contrary."
"Steer straight for Tristan d'Acunha."
"Immediately, your Honor," replied the captain, going on
deck, while Robert and Mary Grant overwhelmed Lord Glenarvan with their
grateful thanks.
Shortly after, the DUNCAN had left the American coast, and
was running eastward, her sharp keel rapidly cutting her way through the
waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
CHAPTER II TRISTAN D'ACUNHA AND THE
ISLE OF AMSTERDAM
IF the yacht had followed the line
of the equator, the 196 degrees which separate Australia from America, or,
more correctly, Cape Bernouilli from Cape Corrientes, would have been equal
to 11,760 geographical miles; but along the 37th parallel these same
degrees, owing to the form of the earth, only represent 9,480 miles. From
the American coast to Tristan d'Acunha is reckoned 2,100 miles— a distance
which John Mangles hoped to clear in ten days, if east winds did not retard
the motion of the yacht. But he was not long uneasy on that score, for
toward evening the breeze sensibly lulled and then changed altogether,
giving the DUNCAN a fair field on a calm sea for displaying her incomparable
qualities as a sailor.
The passengers had fallen back into their ordinary ship
life, and it hardly seemed as if they really could have been absent a whole
month. Instead of the Pacific, the Atlantic stretched itself out before
them, and there was scarcely a shade of difference in the waves of the two
oceans. The elements, after having handled them so roughly, seemed now
disposed to favor them to the utmost. The sea was tranquil, and the wind
kept in the right quarter, so that the yacht could spread all her canvas,
and lend its aid, if needed to the indefatigable steam stored up in the
boiler.
Under such conditions, the voyage was safely and rapidly
accomplished. Their confidence increased as they found themselves nearer the
Australian coast. They began to talk of Captain Grant as if the yacht were
going to take him on board at a given port. His cabin was got ready, and
berths for the men. This cabin was next to the famous number six,
which Paganel had taken possession of instead of the one he had booked on
the SCOTIA. It had been till now occupied by M. Olbinett, who vacated it for
the expected guest. Mary took great delight in arranging it with her own
hands, and adorning it for the reception of the loved inmate.
The learned geographer kept himself closely shut up. He was
working away from morning till night at a work entitled "Sublime Impressions
of a Geographer in the Argentine Pampas," and they could hear him repeating
elegant periods aloud before committing them to the white pages of his
day-book; and more than once, unfaithful to Clio, the muse of history, he
invoked in his transports the divine Calliope, the muse of epic poetry.
Paganel made no secret of it either. The chaste daughters of
Apollo willingly left the slopes of Helicon and Parnassus at his call. Lady
Helena paid him sincere compliments on his mythological visitants, and so
did the Major, though he could not forbear adding:
"But mind no fits of absence of mind, my dear Paganel; and
if you take a fancy to learn Australian, don't go and study it in a Chinese
grammar."
Things went on perfectly smoothly on board. Lady Helena and
Lord Glenarvan found leisure to watch John Mangles' growing attachment to
Mary Grant. There was nothing to be said against it, and, indeed, since John
remained silent, it was best to take no notice of it.
V. IV Verne
"What will Captain Grant think?" Lord Glenarvan asked his
wife one day.
"He'll think John is worthy of Mary, my dear Edward, and
he'll think right."
Meanwhile, the yacht was making rapid progress. Five days
after losing sight of Cape Corrientes, on the 16th of November, they fell in
with fine westerly breezes, and the DUNCAN might almost have dispensed with
her screw altogether, for she flew over the water like a bird, spreading all
her sails to catch the breeze, as if she were running a race with the Royal
Thames Club yachts.
Next day, the ocean appeared covered with immense seaweeds,
looking like a great pond choked up with the DEBRIS of trees and plants torn
off the neighboring continents. Commander Murray had specially pointed them
out to the attention of navigators. The DUNCAN appeared to glide over a long
prairie, which Paganel justly compared to the Pampas, and her speed
slackened a little.
Twenty-four hours after, at break of day, the man on the
look-out was heard calling out, "Land ahead!"
"In what direction?" asked Tom Austin, who was on watch.
"Leeward!" was the reply.
This exciting cry brought everyone speedily on deck. Soon a
telescope made its appearance, followed by Jacques Paganel. The learned
geographer pointed the instrument in the direction indicated, but could see
nothing that resembled land.
"Look in the clouds," said John Mangles.
"Ah, now I do see a sort of peak, but very indistinctly."
"It is Tristan d'Acunha," replied John Mangles.
"Then, if my memory serves me right, we must be eighty miles
from it, for the peak of Tristan, seven thousand feet high, is visible at
that distance."
"That's it, precisely."
Some hours later, the sharp, lofty crags of the group of
islands stood out clearly on the horizon. The conical peak of Tristan looked
black against the bright sky, which seemed all ablaze with the splendor of
the rising sun. Soon the principal island stood out from the rocky mass, at
the summit of a triangle inclining toward the northeast.
Tristan d'Acunha is situated in 37 degrees 8' of southern
latitude, and 10 degrees 44' of longitude west of the meridian at Greenwich.
Inaccessible Island is eighteen miles to the southwest and Nightingale
Island is ten miles to the southeast, and this completes the little solitary
group of islets in the Atlantic Ocean. Toward noon, the two principal
landmarks, by which the group is recognized were sighted, and at 3 P. M. the
DUNCAN entered Falmouth Bay in Tristan d'Acunha.
Several whaling vessels were lying quietly at anchor there,
for the coast abounds in seals and other marine animals.
John Mangle's first care was to find good anchorage, and
then all the passengers, both ladies and gentlemen, got into the long boat
and were rowed ashore. They stepped out on a beach covered with fine black
sand, the impalpable DEBRIS of the calcined rocks of the island.
Tristan d'Acunha is the capital of the group, and consists
of a little village, lying in the heart of the bay, and watered by a noisy,
rapid stream. It contained about fifty houses, tolerably clean, and disposed
with geometrical regularity. Behind this miniature town there lay 1,500
hectares of meadow land, bounded by an embankment of lava. Above this
embankment, the conical peak rose 7,000 feet high.
Lord Glenarvan was received by a governor supplied from the
English colony at the Cape. He inquired at once respecting Harry Grant and
the BRITANNIA, and found the names entirely unknown. The Tristan d'Acunha
Isles are out of the route of ships, and consequently little frequented.
Since the wreck of the Blendon Hall in 1821, on the rocks of
Inaccessible Island, two vessels have stranded on the chief island—the
PRIMANGUET in 1845, and the three-mast American, PHILADELPHIA, in 1857.
These three events comprise the whole catalogue of maritime disasters in the
annals of the Acunhas.
Lord Glenarvan did not expect to glean any information, and
only asked by the way of duty. He even sent the boats to make the circuit of
the island, the entire extent of which was not more than seventeen miles at
most.
In the interim the passengers walked about the village. The
population does not exceed 150 inhabitants, and consists of English and
Americans, married to negroes and Cape Hottentots, who might bear away the
palm for ugliness. The children of these heterogeneous households are very
disagreeable compounds of Saxon stiffness and African blackness.
It was nearly nightfall before the party returned to the
yacht, chattering and admiring the natural riches displayed on all sides,
for even close to the streets of the capital, fields of wheat and maize were
waving, and crops of vegetables, imported forty years before; and in the
environs of the village, herds of cattle and sheep were feeding.
The boats returned to the DUNCAN about the same time as Lord
Glenarvan. They had made the circuit of the entire island in a few hours,
but without coming across the least trace of the BRITANNIA. The only result
of this voyage of circumnavigation was to strike out the name of Isle
Tristan from the program of search.
CHAPTER III CAPE TOWN AND M. VIOT
As John Mangles intended to put in
at the Cape of Good Hope for coals, he was obliged to deviate a little from
the 37th parallel, and go two degrees north. In less than six days he
cleared the thirteen hundred miles which separate the point of Africa from
Tristan d'Acunha, and on the 24th of November, at 3 P. M. the Table Mountain
was sighted. At eight o'clock they entered the bay, and cast anchor in the
port of Cape Town. They sailed away next morning at daybreak.
Between the Cape and Amsterdam Island there is a distance of
2,900 miles, but with a good sea and favoring breeze, this was only a ten
day's voyage. The elements were now no longer at war with the travelers, as
on their journey across the Pampas— air and water seemed in league to help
them forward.
"Ah! the sea! the sea!" exclaimed Paganel, "it is the field
par excellence for the exercise of human energies, and the ship is
the true vehicle of civilization. Think, my friends, if the globe had been
only an immense continent, the thousandth part of it would still be unknown
to us, even in this nineteenth century. See how it is in the interior of
great countries. In the steppes of Siberia, in the plains of Central Asia,
in the deserts of Africa, in the prairies of America, in the immense wilds
of Australia, in the icy solitudes of the Poles, man scarcely dares to
venture; the most daring shrinks back, the most courageous succumbs. They
cannot penetrate them; the means of transport are insufficient, and the heat
and disease, and savage disposition of the natives, are impassable
obstacles. Twenty miles of desert separate men more than five hundred miles
of ocean."
Paganel spoke with such warmth that even the Major had
nothing to say against this panegyric of the ocean. Indeed, if the finding
of Harry Grant had involved following a parallel across continents instead
of oceans, the enterprise could not have been attempted; but the sea was
there ready to carry the travelers from one country to another, and on the
6th of December, at the first streak of day, they saw a fresh mountain
apparently emerging from the bosom of the waves.
This was Amsterdam Island, situated in 37 degrees 47 minutes
latitude and 77 degrees 24 minutes longitude, the high cone of which in
clear weather is visible fifty miles off. At eight o'clock, its form,
indistinct though it still was, seemed almost a reproduction of Teneriffe.
"And consequently it must resemble Tristan d'Acunha,"
observed Glenarvan.
"A very wise conclusion," said Paganel, "according to the
geometrographic axiom that two islands resembling a third must have a common
likeness. I will only add that, like Tristan d'Acunha, Amsterdam Island is
equally rich in seals and Robinsons."
"There are Robinsons everywhere, then?" said Lady Helena.
"Indeed, Madam," replied Paganel, "I know few islands
without some tale of the kind appertaining to them, and the romance of your
immortal countryman, Daniel Defoe, has been often enough realized before his
day."
"Monsieur Paganel," said Mary, "may I ask you a question?"
"Two if you like, my dear young lady, and I promise to
answer them."
"Well, then, I want to know if you would be very much
frightened at the idea of being cast away alone on a desert island."
"I?" exclaimed Paganel.
"Come now, my good fellow," said the Major, "don't go and
tell us that it is your most cherished desire."
"I don't pretend it is that, but still, after all, such an
adventure would not be very unpleasant to me. I should begin a new life; I
should hunt and fish; I should choose a grotto for my domicile in Winter and
a tree in Summer. I should make storehouses for my harvests: in one word, I
should colonize my island."
"All by yourself?"
"All by myself if I was obliged. Besides, are we ever
obliged? Cannot one find friends among the animals, and choose some tame kid
or eloquent parrot or amiable monkey? And if a lucky chance should send one
a companion like the faithful Friday, what more is needed? Two friends on a
rock, there is happiness. Suppose now, the Major and I—"
"Thank you," replied the Major, interrupting him; "I have no
inclination in that line, and should make a very poor Robinson Crusoe."
"My dear Monsieur Paganel," said Lady Helena, "you are
letting your imagination run away with you, as usual. But the dream is very
different from the reality. You are thinking of an imaginary Robinson's
life, thrown on a picked island and treated like a spoiled child by nature.
You only see the sunny side."
"What, madam! You don't believe a man could be happy on a
desert island?"
"I do not. Man is made for society and not for solitude, and
solitude can only engender despair. It is a question of time. At the outset
it is quite possible that material wants and the very necessities of
existence may engross the poor shipwrecked fellow, just snatched from the
waves; but afterward, when he feels himself alone, far from his fellow men,
without any hope of seeing country and friends again, what must he think,
what must he suffer? His little island is all his world. The whole human
race is shut up in himself, and when death comes, which utter loneliness
will make terrible, he will be like the last man on the last day of the
world. Believe me, Monsieur Paganel, such a man is not to be envied."
Paganel gave in, though regretfully, to the arguments of
Lady Helena, and still kept up a discussion on the advantages and
disadvantages of Isolation, till the very moment the DUNCAN dropped anchor
about a mile off Amsterdam Island.
This lonely group in the Indian Ocean consists of two
distinct islands, thirty-three miles apart, and situated exactly on the
meridian of the Indian peninsula. To the north is Amsterdam Island, and to
the south St. Paul; but they have been often confounded by geographers and
navigators.
At the time of the DUNCAN'S visit to the island, the
population consisted of three people, a Frenchman and two mulattoes, all
three employed by the merchant proprietor. Paganel was delighted to shake
hands with a countryman in the person of good old Monsieur Viot. He was far
advanced in years, but did the honors of the place with much politeness. It
was a happy day for him when these kindly strangers touched at his island,
for St. Peter's was only frequented by seal-fishers, and now and then a
whaler, the crews of which are usually rough, coarse men.
M. Viot presented his subjects, the two mulattoes. They
composed the whole living population of the island, except a few wild boars
in the interior and myriads of penguins. The little house where the three
solitary men lived was in the heart of a natural bay on the southeast,
formed by the crumbling away of a portion of the mountain.
Twice over in the early part of the century, Amsterdam
Island became the country of deserted sailors, providentially saved from
misery and death; but since these events no vessel had been lost on its
coast. Had any shipwreck occurred, some fragments must have been thrown on
the sandy shore, and any poor sufferers from it would have found their way
to M. Viot's fishing-huts. The old man had been long on the island, and had
never been called upon to exercise such hospitality. Of the BRITANNIA and
Captain Grant he knew nothing, but he was certain that the disaster had not
happened on Amsterdam Island, nor on the islet called St. Paul, for whalers
and fishing-vessels went there constantly, and must have heard of it.
Glenarvan was neither surprised nor vexed at the reply;
indeed, his object in asking was rather to establish the fact that Captain
Grant had not been there than that he had. This done, they were ready to
proceed on their voyage next day.
They rambled about the island till evening, as its
appearance was very inviting. Its FAUNA and FLORA, however, were poor in the
extreme. The only specimens of quadrupeds, birds, fish and cetacea were a
few wild boars, stormy petrels, albatrosses, perch and seals. Here and there
thermal springs and chalybeate waters escaped from the black lava, and thin
dark vapors rose above the volcanic soil. Some of these springs were very
hot. John Mangles held his thermometer in one of them, and found the
temperature was 176 degrees Fahrenheit. Fish caught in the sea a few yards
off, cooked in five minutes in these all but boiling waters, a fact which
made Paganel resolve not to attempt to bathe in them.
Toward evening, after a long promenade, Glenarvan and his
party bade adieu to the good old M. Viot, and returned to the yacht, wishing
him all the happiness possible on his desert island, and receiving in return
the old man's blessing on their expedition.
CHAPTER IV A WAGER AND HOW DECIDED
ON the 7th of December, at three A.
M., the DUNCAN lay puffing out her smoke in the little harbor ready to
start, and a few minutes afterward the anchor was lifted, and the screw set
in motion. By eight o'clock, when the passengers came on deck, the Amsterdam
Island had almost disappeared from view behind the mists of the horizon.
This was the last halting-place on the route, and nothing now was between
them and the Australian coast but three thousand miles' distance. Should the
west wind continue but a dozen days longer, and the sea remain favorable,
the yacht would have reached the end of her voyage.
Mary Grant and her brother could not gaze without emotion at
the waves through which the DUNCAN was speeding her course, when they
thought that these very same waves must have dashed against the prow of the
BRITANNIA but a few days before her shipwreck. Here, perhaps, Captain Grant,
with a disabled ship and diminished crew, had struggled against the
tremendous hurricanes of the Indian Ocean, and felt himself driven toward
the coast with irresistible force. The Captain pointed out to Mary the
different currents on the ship's chart, and explained to her their constant
direction. Among others there was one running straight to the Australian
continent, and its action is equally felt in the Atlantic and Pacific. It
was doubtless against this that the BRITANNIA, dismasted and rudderless, had
been unable to contend, and consequently been dashed against the coast, and
broken in pieces.
A difficulty about this, however, presented itself. The last
intelligence of Captain Grant was from Callao on the 30th of May, 1862, as
appeared in the Mercantile and Shipping Gazette. "How then was it
possible that on the 7th of June, only eight days after leaving the shores
of Peru, that the BRITANNIA could have found herself in the Indian Ocean?
But to this, Paganel, who was consulted on the subject, found a very
plausible solution.
It was one evening, about six days after their leaving
Amsterdam Island, when they were all chatting together on the poop, that the
above-named difficulty was stated by Glenarvan. Paganel made no reply, but
went and fetched the document. After perusing it, he still remained silent,
simply shrugging his shoulders, as if ashamed of troubling himself about
such a trifle.
"Come, my good friend," said Glenarvan, "at least give us an
answer."
"No," replied Paganel, "I'll merely ask a question for
Captain John to answer."
"And what is it, Monsieur Paganel?" said John Mangles.
"Could a quick ship make the distance in a month over that
part of the Pacific Ocean which lies between America and Australia?"
"Yes, by making two hundred miles in twenty-four hours."
"Would that be an extraordinary rate of speed?"
"Not at all; sailing clippers often go faster."
"Well, then, instead of '7 June' on this document, suppose
that one figure has been destroyed by the sea-water, and read '17 June' or
'27 June,' and all is explained."
"That's to say," replied Lady Helena, "that between the 31st
of May and the 27th of June—"
"Captain Grant could have crossed the Pacific and found
himself in the Indian Ocean."
Paganel's theory met with universal acceptance.
"That's one more point cleared up," said Glenarvan. "Thanks
to our friend, all that remains to be done now is to get to Australia, and
look out for traces of the wreck on the western coast."
"Or the eastern?" said John Mangles.
"Indeed, John, you may be right, for there is nothing in the
document to indicate which shore was the scene of the catastrophe, and both
points of the continent crossed by the 37th parallel, must, therefore, be
explored."
"Then, my Lord, it is doubtful, after all," said Mary.
"Oh no, Miss Mary," John Mangles hastened to reply, seeing
the young girl's apprehension. "His Lordship will please to consider that if
Captain Grant had gained the shore on the east of Australia, he would almost
immediately have found refuge and assistance. The whole of that coast is
English, we might say, peopled with colonists. The crew of the BRITANNIA
could not have gone ten miles without meeting a fellow-countryman."
"I am quite of your opinion, Captain John," said Paganel.
"On the eastern coast Harry Grant would not only have found an English
colony easily, but he would certainly have met with some means of transport
back to Europe."
"And he would not have found the same resources on the side
we are making for?" asked Lady Helena.
"No, madam," replied Paganel; "it is a desert coast, with no
communication between it and Melbourne or Adelaide. If the BRITANNIA was
wrecked on those rocky shores, she was as much cut off from all chance of
help as if she had been lost on the inhospitable shores of Africa."
"But what has become of my father there, then, all these two
years?" asked Mary Grant.
"My dear Mary," replied Paganel, "you have not the least
doubt, have you, that Captain Grant reached the Australian continent after
his shipwreck?"
"No, Monsieur Paganel."
"Well, granting that, what became of him? The suppositions
we might make are not numerous. They are confined to three. Either Harry
Grant and his companions have found their way to the English colonies, or
they have fallen into the hands of the natives, or they are lost in the
immense wilds of Australia."
"Go on, Paganel," said Lord Glenarvan, as the learned
Frenchman made a pause.
"The first hypothesis I reject, then, to begin with, for
Harry Grant could not have reached the English colonies, or long ago he
would have been back with his children in the good town of Dundee."
"Poor father," murmured Mary, "away from us for two whole
years."
"Hush, Mary," said Robert, "Monsieur Paganel will tell us."
"Alas! my boy, I cannot. All that I affirm is, that Captain
Grant is in the hands of the natives."
"But these natives," said Lady Helena, hastily, "are they—"
"Reassure yourself, madam," said Paganel, divining her
thoughts. "The aborigines of Australia are low enough in the scale of human
intelligence, and most degraded and uncivilized, but they are mild and
gentle in disposition, and not sanguinary like their New Zealand neighbors.
Though they may be prisoners, their lives have never been threatened, you
may be sure. All travelers are unanimous in declaring that the Australian
natives abhor shedding blood, and many a time they have found in them
faithful allies in repelling the attacks of evil-disposed convicts far more
cruelly inclined."
"You hear what Monsieur Paganel tells us, Mary," said Lady
Helena turning to the young girl. "If your father is in the hands of the
natives, which seems probable from the document, we shall find him."
"And what if he is lost in that immense country?" asked
Mary.
"Well, we'll find him still," exclaimed Paganel, in a
confident tone.
"Won't we, friends?"
"Most certainly," replied Glenarvan; and anxious to give a
less gloomy turn to the conversation, he added—
"But I won't admit the supposition of his being lost, not
for an instant."
"Neither will I," said Paganel.
"Is Australia a big place?" inquired Robert.
"Australia, my boy, is about as large as four-fifths of
Europe. It has somewhere about 775,000 HECTARES."
"So much as that?" said the Major.
"Yes, McNabbs, almost to a yard's breadth. Don't you think
now it has a right to be called a continent?"
"I do, certainly."
"I may add," continued the SAVANT, "that there are but few
accounts of travelers being lost in this immense country. Indeed, I believe
Leichardt is the only one of whose fate we are ignorant, and some time
before my departure I learned from the Geographical Society that Mcintyre
had strong hopes of having discovered traces of him."
"The whole of Australia, then, is not yet explored?" asked
Lady Helena.
"No, madam, but very little of it. This continent is not
much better known than the interior of Africa, and yet it is from no lack of
enterprising travelers. From 1606 to 1862, more than fifty have been engaged
in exploring along the coast and in the interior."
"Oh, fifty!" exclaimed McNabbs incredulously.
"No, no," objected the Major; "that is going too far."
"And I might go farther, McNabbs," replied the geographer,
impatient of contradiction.
"Yes, McNabbs, quite that number."
"Farther still, Paganel."
"If you doubt me, I can give you the names."
"Oh, oh," said the Major, coolly. "That's just like you
SAVANTS. You stick at nothing."
"Major, will you bet your Purdy-Moore rifle against my
telescope?"
"Why not, Paganel, if it would give you any pleasure."
"Done, Major!" exclaimed Paganel. "You may say good-by to
your rifle, for it will never shoot another chamois or fox unless I lend it
to you, which I shall always be happy to do, by the by."
"And whenever you require the use of your telescope,
Paganel, I shall be equally obliging," replied the Major, gravely.
"Let us begin, then; and ladies and gentlemen, you shall be
our jury.
Robert, you must keep count."
This was agreed upon, and Paganel forthwith commenced.
"Mnemosyne! Goddess of Memory, chaste mother of the Muses!"
he exclaimed, "inspire thy faithful servant and fervent worshiper! Two
hundred and fifty-eight years ago, my friends, Australia was unknown. Strong
suspicions were entertained of the existence of a great southern continent.
In the library of your British Museum, Glenarvan, there are two charts, the
date of which is 1550, which mention a country south of Asia, called by the
Portuguese Great Java. But these charts are not sufficiently authentic. In
the seventeenth century, in 1606, Quiros, a Spanish navigator, discovered a
country which he named Australia de Espiritu Santo. Some authors imagine
that this was the New Hebrides group, and not Australia. I am not going to
discuss the question, however. Count Quiros, Robert, and let us pass on to
another."
"ONE," said Robert.
"In that same year, Louis Vas de Torres, the second in
command of the fleet of Quiros, pushed further south. But it is to Theodore
Hertoge, a Dutchman, that the honor of the great discovery belongs. He
touched the western coast of Australia in 25 degrees latitude, and called it
Eendracht, after his vessel. From this time navigators increased. In 1618,
Zeachen discovered the northern parts of the coast, and called them Arnheim
and Diemen. In 1618, Jan Edels went along the western coast, and christened
it by his own name. In 1622, Leuwin went down as far as the cape which
became his namesake." And so Paganel continued with name after name until
his hearers cried for mercy.
"Stop, Paganel," said Glenarvan, laughing heartily, "don't
quite crush poor McNabbs. Be generous; he owns he is vanquished."
"And what about the rifle?" asked the geographer,
triumphantly.
"It is yours, Paganel," replied the Major, "and I am very
sorry for it; but your memory might gain an armory by such feats."
"It is certainly impossible to be better acquainted with
Australia; not the least name, not even the most trifling fact—"
"As to the most trifling fact, I don't know about that,"
said the Major, shaking his head.
"What do you mean, McNabbs?" exclaimed Paganel.
"Simply that perhaps all the incidents connected with the
discovery of Australia may not be known to you."
"Just fancy," retorted Paganel, throwing back his head
proudly.
"Come now. If I name one fact you don't know, will you give
me back my rifle?" said McNabbs.
"On the spot, Major."
"Very well, it's a bargain, then."
"Yes, a bargain; that's settled."
"All right. Well now, Paganel, do you know how it is that
Australia does not belong to France?"
"But it seems to me—"
"Or, at any rate, do you know what's the reason the English
give?" asked the Major.
"No," replied Paganel, with an air of vexation.
"Just because Captain Baudin, who was by no means a timid
man, was so afraid in 1802, of the croaking of the Australian frogs, that he
raised his anchor with all possible speed, and quitted the coast, never to
return."
"What!" exclaimed Paganel. "Do they actually give that
version of it in England? But it is just a bad joke."
"Bad enough, certainly, but still it is history in the
United Kingdom."
"It's an insult!" exclaimed the patriotic geographer; "and
they relate that gravely?"
"I must own it is the case," replied Glenarvan, amidst a
general outburst of laughter. "Do you mean to say you have never heard of it
before?"
"Never! But I protest against it. Besides, the English call
us 'frog-eaters.' Now, in general, people are not afraid of what they eat."
"It is said, though, for all that," replied McNabbs. So the
Major kept his famous rifle after all.
CHAPTER V THE STORM ON THE INDIAN
OCEAN
Two days after this conversation,
John Mangles announced that the DUNCAN was in longitude 113 degrees 37
minutes, and the passengers found on consulting the chart that consequently
Cape Bernouilli could not be more than five degrees off. They must be
sailing then in that part of the Indian Ocean which washed the Australian
continent, and in four days might hope to see Cape Bernouilli appear on the
horizon.
Hitherto the yacht had been favored by a strong westerly
breeze, but now there were evident signs that a calm was impending, and on
the 13th of December the wind fell entirely; as the sailors say, there was
not enough to fill a cap.
There was no saying how long this state of the atmosphere
might last. But for the powerful propeller the yacht would have been obliged
to lie motionless as a log. The young captain was very much annoyed,
however, at the prospect of emptying his coal-bunkers, for he had covered
his ship with canvas, intending to take advantage of the slightest breeze.
"After all, though," said Glenarvan, with whom he was
talking over the subject, "it is better to have no wind than a contrary
one."
"Your Lordship is right," replied John Mangles; "but the
fact is these sudden calms bring change of weather, and this is why I dread
them. We are close on the trade winds, and if we get them ever so little in
our teeth, it will delay us greatly."
"Well, John, what if it does? It will only make our voyage a
little longer."
"Yes, if it does not bring a storm with it."
"Do you mean to say you think we are going to have bad
weather?" replied Glenarvan, examining the sky, which from horizon to zenith
seemed absolutely cloudless.
"I do," returned the captain. "I may say so to your
Lordship, but I should not like to alarm Lady Glenarvan or Miss Grant."
"You are acting wisely; but what makes you uneasy?"
"Sure indications of a storm. Don't trust, my Lord, to the
appearance of the sky. Nothing is more deceitful. For the last two days the
barometer has been falling in a most ominous manner, and is now at 27
degrees. This is a warning I dare not neglect, for there is nothing I dread
more than storms in the Southern Seas; I have had a taste of them already.
The vapors which become condensed in the immense glaciers at the South Pole
produce a current of air of extreme violence. This causes a struggle between
the polar and equatorial winds, which results in cyclones, tornadoes, and
all those multiplied varieties of tempest against which a ship is no match."
"Well, John," said Glenarvan, "the DUNCAN is a good ship,
and her captain is a brave sailor. Let the storm come, we'll meet it!"
John Mangles remained on deck the whole night, for though as
yet the sky was still unclouded, he had such faith in his weather-glass,
that he took every precaution that prudence could suggest. About 11 P. M.
the sky began to darken in the south, and the crew were called up, and all
the sails hauled in, except the foresail, brigantine, top-sail, and
jib-boom. At midnight the wind freshened, and before long the cracking of
the masts, and the rattling of the cordage, and groaning of the timbers,
awakened the passengers, who speedily made their appearance on deck— at
least Paganel, Glenarvan, the Major and Robert.
"Is it the hurricane?" asked Glenarvan quietly.
"Not yet," replied the captain; "but it is close at hand."
And he went on giving his orders to the men, and doing his
best to make ready for the storm, standing, like an officer commanding a
breach, with his face to the wind, and his gaze fixed on the troubled sky.
The glass had fallen to 26 degrees, and the hand pointed to tempest.
It was one o'clock in the morning when Lady Helena and Miss
Grant ventured upstairs on deck. But they no sooner made their appearance
than the captain hurried toward them, and begged them to go below again
immediately. The waves were already beginning to dash over the side of the
ship, and the sea might any moment sweep right over her from stem to stern.
The noise of the warring elements was so great that his words were scarcely
audible, but Lady Helena took advantage of a sudden lull to ask if there was
any danger.
"None whatever," replied John Mangles; "but you cannot
remain on deck, madam, no more can Miss Mary."
The ladies could not disobey an order that seemed almost an
entreaty, and they returned to their cabin. At the same moment the wind
redoubled its fury, making the masts bend beneath the weight of the sails,
and completely lifting up the yacht.
"Haul up the foresail!" shouted the captain. "Lower the
topsail and jib-boom!"
Glenarvan and his companions stood silently gazing at the
struggle between their good ship and the waves, lost in wondering and
half-terrified admiration at the spectacle.
Just then, a dull hissing was heard above the noise of the
elements. The steam was escaping violently, not by the funnel, but from the
safety-valves of the boiler; the alarm whistle sounded unnaturally loud, and
the yacht made a frightful pitch, overturning Wilson, who was at the wheel,
by an unexpected blow from the tiller. The DUNCAN no longer obeyed the helm.
"What is the matter?" cried the captain, rushing on the
bridge.
"The ship is heeling over on her side," replied Wilson.
"The engine! the engine!" shouted the engineer.
Away rushed John to the engine-room. A cloud of steam filled
the room. The pistons were motionless in their cylinders, and they were
apparently powerless, and the engine-driver, fearing for his boilers, was
letting off the steam.
"What's wrong?" asked the captain.
"The propeller is bent or entangled," was the reply.
"It's not acting at all."
"Can't you extricate it?"
"It is impossible."
An accident like this could not be remedied, and John's only
resource was to fall back on his sails, and seek to make an auxiliary of his
most powerful enemy, the wind. He went up again on deck, and after
explaining in a few words to Lord Glenarvan how things stood, begged him to
retire to his cabin, with the rest of the passengers. But Glenarvan wished
to remain above.
"No, your Lordship," said the captain in a firm tone,
"I must be alone with my men. Go into the saloon.
The vessel will have a hard fight with the waves, and they
would sweep you over without mercy."
V. IV Verne
"But we might be a help."
"Go in, my Lord, go in. I must indeed insist on it.
There are times when I must be master on board, and retire you must."
Their situation must indeed be desperate for John Mangles to
speak in such authoritative language. Glenarvan was wise enough to
understand this, and felt he must set an example in obedience. He therefore
quitted the deck immediately with his three companions, and rejoined the
ladies, who were anxiously watching the DENOUEMENT of this war with the
elements.
"He's an energetic fellow, this brave John of mine!" said
Lord Glenarvan, as he entered the saloon.
"That he is," replied Paganel. "He reminds me of your great
Shakespeare's boatswain in the 'Tempest,' who says to the king
on board: 'Hence! What care these roarers for the name of king?
To cabin! Silence! Trouble us not.'"
However, John Mangles did not lose a second in extricating
his ship from the peril in which she was placed by the condition of her
screw propeller. He resolved to rely on the mainsail for keeping in the
right route as far as possible, and to brace the yards obliquely, so as not
to present a direct front to the storm. The yacht turned about like a swift
horse that feels the spur, and presented a broadside to the billows. The
only question was, how long would she hold out with so little sail, and what
sail could resist such violence for any length of time. The great advantage
of keeping up the mainsail was that it presented to the waves only the most
solid portions of the yacht, and kept her in the right course. Still it
involved some peril, for the vessel might get engulfed between the waves,
and not be able to raise herself. But Mangles felt there was no alternative,
and all he could do was to keep the crew ready to alter the sail at any
moment, and stay in the shrouds himself watching the tempest.
The remainder of the night was spent in this manner, and it
was hoped that morning would bring a calm. But this was a delusive hope. At
8 A. M. the wind had increased to a hurricane.
John said nothing, but he trembled for his ship, and those
on board. The DUNCAN made a frightful plunge forward, and for an instant the
men thought she would never rise again. Already they had seized their
hatchets to cut away the shrouds from the mainmast, but the next minute the
sails were torn away by the tempest, and had flown off like gigantic
albatrosses.
The yacht had risen once more, but she found herself at the
mercy of the waves entirely now, with nothing to steady or direct her, and
was so fearfully pitched and tossed about that every moment the captain
expected the masts would break short off. John had no resource but to put up
a forestaysail, and run before the gale. But this was no easy task. Twenty
times over he had all his work to begin again, and it was 3 P. M. before his
attempt succeeded. A mere shred of canvas though it was, it was enough to
drive the DUNCAN forward with inconceivable rapidity to the northeast, of
course in the same direction as the hurricane. Swiftness was their only
chance of safety. Sometimes she would get in advance of the waves which
carried her along, and cutting through them with her sharp prow, bury
herself in their depths. At others, she would keep pace with them, and make
such enormous leaps that there was imminent danger of her being pitched over
on her side, and then again, every now and then the storm-driven sea would
out-distance the yacht, and the angry billows would sweep over the deck from
stem to stern with tremendous violence.
In this alarming situation and amid dreadful alternations of
hope and despair, the 12th of December passed away, and the ensuing night,
John Mangles never left his post, not even to take food. Though his
impassive face betrayed no symptoms of fear, he was tortured with anxiety,
and his steady gaze was fixed on the north, as if trying to pierce through
the thick mists that enshrouded it.
There was, indeed, great cause for fear. The DUNCAN was out
of her course, and rushing toward the Australian coast with a speed which
nothing could lessen. To John Mangles it seemed as if a thunderbolt were
driving them along. Every instant he expected the yacht would dash against
some rock, for he reckoned the coast could not be more than twelve miles
off, and better far be in mid ocean exposed to all its fury than too near
land.
John Mangles went to find Glenarvan, and had a private talk
with him about their situation, telling him frankly the true state of
affairs, stating the case with all the coolness of a sailor prepared for
anything and everything and he wound up by saying he might, perhaps, be
obliged to cast the yacht on shore.
"To save the lives of those on board, my Lord," he added.
"Do it then, John," replied Lord Glenarvan.
"And Lady Helena, Miss Grant?"
"I will tell them at the last moment when all hope of
keeping out at sea is over. You will let me know?"
"I will, my Lord."
Glenarvan rejoined his companions, who felt they were in
imminent danger, though no word was spoken on the subject. Both ladies
displayed great courage, fully equal to any of the party. Paganel descanted
in the most inopportune manner about the direction of atmospheric currents,
making interesting comparisons, between tornadoes, cyclones, and rectilinear
tempests. The Major calmly awaited the end with the fatalism of a Mussulman.
About eleven o'clock, the hurricane appeared to decrease
slightly. The damp mist began to clear away, and a sudden gleam of light
revealed a low-lying shore about six miles distant. They were driving right
down on it. Enormous breakers fifty feet high were dashing over it, and the
fact of their height showed John there must be solid ground before they
could make such a rebound.
"Those are sand-banks," he said to Austin.
"I think they are," replied the mate.
"We are in God's hands," said John. "If we cannot find any
opening for the yacht, and if she doesn't find the way in herself, we are
lost."
"The tide is high at present, it is just possible we may
ride over those sand-banks."
"But just see those breakers. What ship could stand them.
Let us invoke divine aid, Austin!"
Meanwhile the DUNCAN was speeding on at a frightful rate.
Soon she was within two miles of the sand-banks, which were still veiled
from time to time in thick mist. But John fancied he could see beyond the
breakers a quiet basin, where the DUNCAN would be in comparative safety. But
how could she reach it?
All the passengers were summoned on deck, for now that the
hour of shipwreck was at hand, the captain did not wish anyone to be shut up
in his cabin.
"John!" said Glenarvan in a low voice to the captain, "I
will try to save my wife or perish with her. I put Miss Grant in your
charge."
"Yes, my Lord," replied John Mangles, raising Glenarvan's
hand to his moistened eyes.
The yacht was only a few cables' lengths from the sandbanks.
The tide was high, and no doubt there was abundance of water to float the
ship over the dangerous bar; but these terrific breakers alternately lifting
her up and then leaving her almost dry, would infallibly make her graze the
sand-banks.
Was there no means of calming this angry sea? A last
expedient struck the captain. "The oil, my lads!" he exclaimed. "Bring the
oil here!"
The crew caught at the idea immediately; this was a plan
that had been successfully tried already. The fury of the waves had been
allayed before this time by covering them with a sheet of oil. Its effect is
immediate, but very temporary. The moment after a ship has passed over the
smooth surface, the sea redoubles its violence, and woe to the bark that
follows. The casks of seal-oil were forthwith hauled up, for danger seemed
to have given the men double strength. A few hatchet blows soon knocked in
the heads, and they were then hung over the larboard and starboard.
"Be ready!" shouted John, looking out for a favorable
moment.
In twenty seconds the yacht reached the bar. Now was the
time.
"Pour out!" cried the captain, "and God prosper it!"
The barrels were turned upside down, and instantly a sheet
of oil covered the whole surface of the water. The billows fell as if by
magic, the whole foaming sea seemed leveled, and the DUNCAN flew over its
tranquil bosom into a quiet basin beyond the formidable bar; but almost the
same minute the ocean burst forth again with all its fury, and the towering
breakers dashed over the bar with increased violence.
CHAPTER VI A HOSPITABLE COLONIST
THE captain's first care was to
anchor his vessel securely. He found excellent moorage in five fathoms'
depth of water, with a solid bottom of hard granite, which afforded a firm
hold. There was no danger now of either being driven away or stranded at low
water. After so many hours of danger, the DUNCAN found herself in a sort of
creek, sheltered by a high circular point from the winds outside in the open
sea.
Lord Glenarvan grasped John Mangles' hand, and simply said:
"Thank you, John."
This was all, but John felt it ample recompense. Glenarvan
kept to himself the secret of his anxiety, and neither Lady Helena, nor
Mary, nor Robert suspected the grave perils they had just escaped.
One important fact had to be ascertained. On what part of
the coast had the tempest thrown them? How far must they go to regain the
parallel. At what distance S. W. was Cape Bernouilli? This was soon
determined by taking the position of the ship, and it was found that she had
scarcely deviated two degrees from the route. They were in longitude 36
degrees 12 minutes, and latitude 32 degrees 67 minutes, at Cape Catastrophe,
three hundred miles from Cape Bernouilli. The nearest port was Adelaide, the
Capital of Southern Australia.
Could the DUNCAN be repaired there? This was the question.
The extent of the injuries must first be ascertained, and in order to do
this he ordered some of the men to dive down below the stern. Their report
was that one of the branches of the screw was bent, and had got jammed
against the stern post, which of course prevented all possibility of
rotation. This was a serious damage, so serious as to require more skilful
workmen than could be found in Adelaide.
After mature reflection, Lord Glenarvan and John Mangles
came to the determination to sail round the Australian coast, stopping at
Cape Bernouilli, and continuing their route south as far as Melbourne, where
the DUNCAN could speedily be put right. This effected, they would proceed to
cruise along the eastern coast to complete their search for the BRITANNIA.
This decision was unanimously approved, and it was agreed
that they should start with the first fair wind. They had not to wait long
for the same night the hurricane had ceased entirely, and there was only a
manageable breeze from the S. W. Preparations for sailing were instantly
commenced, and at four o'clock in the morning the crew lifted the anchors,
and got under way with fresh canvas outspread, and a wind blowing right for
the Australian shores.
Two hours afterward Cape Catastrophe was out of sight. In
the evening they doubled Cape Borda, and came alongside Kangaroo Island.
This is the largest of the Australian islands, and a great hiding place for
runaway convicts. Its appearance was enchanting. The stratified rocks on the
shore were richly carpeted with verdure, and innumerable kangaroos were
jumping over the woods and plains, just as at the time of its discovery in
1802. Next day, boats were sent ashore to examine the coast minutely, as
they were now on the 36th parallel, and between that and the 38th Glenarvan
wished to leave no part unexplored.
The boats had hard, rough work of it now, but the men never
complained. Glenarvan and his inseparable companion, Paganel, and young
Robert generally accompanied them. But all this painstaking exploration came
to nothing. Not a trace of the shipwreck could be seen anywhere. The
Australian shores revealed no more than the Patagonian. However, it was not
time yet to lose hope altogether, for they had not reached the exact point
indicated by the document.
On the 20th of December, they arrived off Cape Bernouilli,
which terminates Lacepede Bay, and yet not a vestige of the BRITANNIA had
been discovered. Still this was not surprising, as it was two years since
the occurrence of the catastrophe, and the sea might, and indeed must, have
scattered and destroyed whatever fragments of the brig had remained.
Besides, the natives who scent a wreck as the vultures do a dead body, would
have pounced upon it and carried off the smaller DEBRIS. There was no doubt
whatever Harry Grant and his companions had been made prisoners the moment
the waves threw them on the shore, and been dragged away into the interior
of the continent.
But if so, what becomes of Paganel's ingenious hypothesis
about the document? viz., that it had been thrown into a river and carried
by a current into the sea. That was a plausible enough theory in Patagonia,
but not in the part of Australia intersected by the 37th parallel. Besides
the Patagonian rivers, the Rio Colorado and the Rio Negro, flow into the sea
along deserted solitudes, uninhabited and uninhabitable; while, on the
contrary, the principal rivers of Australia—the Murray, the Yarrow, the
Torrens, the Darling—all connected with each other, throw themselves into
the ocean by well-frequented routes, and their mouths are ports of great
activity. What likelihood, consequently, would there be that a fragile
bottle would ever find its way along such busy thoroughfares right out into
the Indian Ocean?
Paganel himself saw the impossibility of it, and confessed
to the Major, who raised a discussion on the subject, that his hypothesis
would be altogether illogical in Australia. It was evident that the degrees
given related to the place where the BRITANNIA was actually shipwrecked and
not the place of captivity, and that the bottle therefore had been thrown
into the sea on the western coast of the continent.
However, as Glenarvan justly remarked, this did not alter
the fact of Captain Grant's captivity in the least degree, though there was
no reason now for prosecuting the search for him along the 37th parallel,
more than any other. It followed, consequently, that if no traces of the
BRITANNIA were discovered at Cape Bernouilli, the only thing to be done was
to return to Europe. Lord Glenarvan would have been unsuccessful, but he
would have done his duty courageously and conscientiously.
But the young Grants did not feel disheartened. They had
long since said to themselves that the question of their father's
deliverance was about to be finally settled. Irrevocably, indeed, they might
consider it, for as Paganel had judiciously demonstrated, if the wreck had
occurred on the eastern side, the survivors would have found their way back
to their own country long since.
"Hope on! Hope on, Mary!" said Lady Helena to the young
girl, as they neared the shore; "God's hand will still lead us."
"Yes, Miss Mary," said Captain John. "Man's extremity is
God's opportunity. When one way is hedged up another is sure to open."
"God grant it," replied Mary.
Land was quite close now. The cape ran out two miles into
the sea, and terminated in a gentle slope, and the boat glided easily into a
sort of natural creek between coral banks in a state of formation, which in
course of time would be a belt of coral reefs round the southern point of
the Australian coast. Even now they were quite sufficiently formidable to
destroy the keel of a ship, and the BRITANNIA might likely enough have been
dashed to pieces on them.
The passengers landed without the least difficulty on an
absolutely desert shore. Cliffs composed of beds of strata made a coast line
sixty to eighty feet high, which it would have been difficult to scale
without ladders or cramp-irons. John Mangles happened to discover a natural
breach about half a mile south. Part of the cliff had been partially beaten
down, no doubt, by the sea in some equinoctial gale. Through this opening
the whole party passed and reached the top of the cliff by a pretty steep
path. Robert climbed like a young cat, and was the first on the summit, to
the despair of Paganel, who was quite ashamed to see his long legs, forty
years old, out-distanced by a young urchin of twelve. However, he was far
ahead of the Major, who gave himself no concern on the subject.
They were all soon assembled on the lofty crags, and from
this elevation could command a view of the whole plain below. It appeared
entirely uncultivated, and covered with shrubs and bushes. Glenarvan thought
it resembled some glens in the lowlands of Scotland, and Paganel fancied it
like some barren parts of Britanny. But along the coast the country appeared
to be inhabited, and significant signs of industry revealed the presence of
civilized men, not savages.
"A mill!" exclaimed Robert.
And, sure enough, in the distance the long sails of a mill
appeared, apparently about three miles off.
"It certainly is a windmill," said Paganel, after examining
the object in question through his telescope.
"Let us go to it, then," said Glenarvan.
Away they started, and, after walking about half an hour,
the country began to assume a new aspect, suddenly changing its sterility
for cultivation. Instead of bushes, quick-set hedges met the eye, inclosing
recent clearings. Several bullocks and about half a dozen horses were
feeding in meadows, surrounded by acacias supplied from the vast plantations
of Kangaroo Island. Gradually fields covered with cereals came in sight,
whole acres covered with bristling ears of corn, hay-ricks in the shape of
large bee-hives, blooming orchards, a fine garden worthy of Horace, in which
the useful and agreeable were blended; then came sheds; commons wisely
distributed, and last of all, a plain comfortable dwelling-house, crowned by
a joyous-sounding mill, and fanned and shaded by its long sails as they kept
constantly moving round.
Just at that moment a pleasant-faced man, about fifty years
of age, came out of the house, warned, by the loud barking of four dogs, of
the arrival of strangers. He was followed by five handsome strapping lads,
his sons, and their mother, a fine tall woman. There was no mistaking the
little group. This was a perfect type of the Irish colonist—a man who, weary
of the miseries of his country, had come, with his family, to seek fortune
and happiness beyond the seas.
Before Glenarvan and his party had time to reach the house
and present themselves in due form, they heard the cordial words:
"Strangers! welcome to the house of Paddy O'Moore!"
"You are Irish," said Glenarvan, "if I am not mistaken,"
warmly grasping the outstretched hand of the colonist.
"I was," replied Paddy O'Moore, "but now I am Australian.
Come in, gentlemen, whoever you may be, this house is yours."
It was impossible not to accept an invitation given with
such grace. Lady Helena and Mary Grant were led in by Mrs. O'Moore, while
the gentlemen were assisted by his sturdy sons to disencumber themselves of
their fire-arms.
An immense hall, light and airy, occupied the ground floor
of the house, which was built of strong planks laid horizontally. A few
wooden benches fastened against the gaily-colored walls, about ten stools,
two oak chests on tin mugs, a large long table where twenty guests could sit
comfortably, composed the furniture, which looked in perfect keeping with
the solid house and robust inmates.
The noonday meal was spread; the soup tureen was smoking
between roast beef and a leg of mutton, surrounded by large plates of
olives, grapes, and oranges. The necessary was there and there was no lack
of the superfluous. The host and hostess were so pleasant, and the big
table, with its abundant fare, looked so inviting, that it would have been
ungracious not to have seated themselves. The farm servants, on equal
footing with their master, were already in their places to take their share
of the meal. Paddy O'Moore pointed to the seats reserved for the strangers,
and said to Glenarvan:
"I was waiting for you."
"Waiting for us!" replied Glenarvan in a tone of surprise.
"I am always waiting for those who come," said the Irishman;
and then, in a solemn voice, while the family and domestics reverently
stood, he repeated the BENEDICITE.
Dinner followed immediately, during which an animated
conversation was kept up on all sides. From Scotch to Irish is but a
handsbreadth. The Tweed, several fathoms wide, digs a deeper trench between
Scotland and England than the twenty leagues of Irish Channel, which
separates Old Caledonia from the Emerald Isle. Paddy O'Moore related his
history. It was that of all emigrants driven by misfortune from their own
country. Many come to seek fortunes who only find trouble and sorrow, and
then they throw the blame on chance, and forget the true cause is their own
idleness and vice and want of commonsense. Whoever is sober and industrious,
honest and economical, gets on.
Such a one had been and was Paddy O'Moore. He left Dundalk,
where he was starving, and came with his family to Australia, landed at
Adelaide, where, refusing employment as a miner, he got engaged on a farm,
and two months afterward commenced clearing ground on his own account.
The whole territory of South Australia is divided into lots,
each containing eighty acres, and these are granted to colonists by the
government. Any industrious man, by proper cultivation, can not only get a
living out of his lot, but lay by pounds 80 a year.
Paddy O'Moore knew this. He profited by his own former
experience, and laid by every penny he could till he had saved enough to
purchase new lots. His family prospered, and his farm also. The Irish
peasant became a landed proprietor, and though his little estate had only
been under cultivation for two years, he had five hundred acres cleared by
his own hands, and five hundred head of cattle. He was his own master, after
having been a serf in Europe, and as independent as one can be in the freest
country in the world.
His guests congratulated him heartily as he ended his
narration; and Paddy O'Moore no doubt expected confidence for confidence,
but he waited in vain. However, he was one of those discreet people who can
say, "I tell you who I am, but I don't ask who you are." Glenarvan's great
object was to get information about the BRITANNIA, and like a man who goes
right to the point, he began at once to interrogate O'Moore as to whether he
had heard of the shipwreck.
The reply of the Irishman was not favorable; he had never
heard the vessel mentioned. For two years, at least, no ship had been
wrecked on that coast, neither above nor below the Cape. Now, the date of
the catastrophe was within two years. He could, therefore, declare
positively that the survivors of the wreck had not been thrown on that part
of the western shore. Now, my Lord," he added, "may I ask what interest you
have in making the inquiry?"
This pointed question elicited in reply the whole history of
the expedition. Glenarvan related the discovery of the document, and the
various attempts that had been made to follow up the precise indications
given of the whereabouts of the unfortunate captives; and he concluded his
account by expressing his doubt whether they should ever find the Captain
after all.
His dispirited tone made a painful impression on the minds
of his auditors. Robert and Mary could not keep back their tears, and
Paganel had not a word of hope or comfort to give them. John Mangles was
grieved to the heart, though he, too, was beginning to yield to the feeling
of hopelessness which had crept over the rest, when suddenly the whole party
were electrified by hearing a voice exclaim: "My Lord, praise and thank God!
if Captain Grant is alive, he is on this Australian continent."
CHAPTER VII THE QUARTERMASTER OF
THE "BRITANNIA"
THE surprise caused by these words
cannot be described.
Glenarvan sprang to his feet, and pushing back his seat, exclaimed:
"Who spoke?"
"I did," said one of the servants, at the far end of the
table.
"You, Ayrton!" replied his master, not less bewildered than
Glenarvan.
"Yes, it was I," rejoined Ayrton in a firm tone, though
somewhat agitated voice. "A Scotchman like yourself, my Lord, and one of the
shipwrecked crew of the BRITANNIA."
The effect of such a declaration may be imagined. Mary Grant
fell back, half-fainting, in Lady Helena's arms, overcome by joyful emotion,
and Robert, and Mangles, and Paganel started up and toward the man that
Paddy O'Moore had addressed as AYRTON. He was a coarse-looking fellow, about
forty-five years of age, with very bright eyes, though half-hidden beneath
thick, overhanging brows. In spite of extreme leanness there was an air of
unusual strength about him. He seemed all bone and nerves, or, to use a
Scotch expression, as if he had not wasted time in making fat. He was
broad-shouldered and of middle height, and though his features were coarse,
his face was so full of intelligence and energy and decision, that he gave
one a favorable impression. The interest he excited was still further
heightened by the marks of recent suffering imprinted on his countenance. It
was evident that he had endured long and severe hardships, and that he had
borne them bravely and come off victor.
"You are one of the shipwrecked sailors of the BRITANNIA?"
was Glenarvan's first question.
"Yes, my Lord; Captain Grant's quartermaster."
"And saved with him after the shipwreck?"
"No, my Lord, no. I was separated from him at that terrible
moment, for I was swept off the deck as the ship struck."
"Then you are not one of the two sailors mentioned in the
document?"
"No; I was not aware of the existence of the document. The
captain must have thrown it into the sea when I was no longer on board."
"But the captain? What about the captain?"
"I believed he had perished; gone down with all his crew.
I imagined myself the sole survivor."
"But you said just now, Captain Grant was living."
"No, I said, 'if the captain is living.'"
"And you added, 'he is on the Australian continent.'"
"And, indeed, he cannot be anywhere else."
"Then you don't know where he is?"
"No, my Lord. I say again, I supposed he was buried beneath
the waves, or dashed to pieces against the rocks. It was from you I learned
that he was still alive."
"What then do you know?"
"Simply this—if Captain Grant is alive, he is in Australia."
"Where did the shipwreck occur?" asked Major McNabbs.
This should have been the first question, but in the
excitement caused by the unexpected incident, Glenarvan cared more to know
where the captain was, than where the BRITANNIA had been lost. After the
Major's inquiry, however, Glenarvan's examination proceeded more logically,
and before long all the details of the event stood out clearly before the
minds of the company.
To the question put by the Major, Ayrton replied:
"When I was swept off the forecastle, when I was hauling in
the jib-boom, the BRITANNIA was running right on the Australian coast. She
was not more than two cables' length from it and consequently she must have
struck just there."
"In latitude 37 degrees?" asked John Mangles.
"Yes, in latitude 37 degrees."
"On the west coast?"
"No, on the east coast," was the prompt reply.
"And at what date?"
"It was on the night of the 27th of June, 1862."
"Exactly, just exactly," exclaimed Glenarvan.
"You see, then, my Lord," continued Ayrton, "I might justly
say, If Captain Grant is alive, he is on the Australian continent,
and it is useless looking for him anywhere else."
"And we will look for him there, and find him too, and save
him," exclaimed Paganel. "Ah, precious document," he added, with perfect
NAIVETE, "you must own you have fallen into the hands of uncommonly shrewd
people."
But, doubtless, nobody heard his flattering words, for
Glenarvan and Lady Helena, and Mary Grant, and Robert, were too much
engrossed with Ayrton to listen to anyone else. They pressed round him and
grasped his hands. It seemed as if this man's presence was the sure pledge
of Harry Grant's deliverance. If this sailor had escaped the perils of the
shipwreck, why should not the captain? Ayrton was quite sanguine as to his
existence; but on what part of the continent he was to be found, that he
could not say. The replies the man gave to the thousand questions that
assailed him on all sides were remarkably intelligent and exact. All the
while he spake, Mary held one of his hands in hers. This sailor was a
companion of her father's, one of the crew of the BRITANNIA. He had lived
with Harry Grant, crossed the seas with him and shared his dangers. Mary
could not keep her eyes off his face, rough and homely though it was, and
she wept for joy.
Up to this time no one had ever thought of doubting either
the veracity or identity of the quartermaster; but the Major, and perhaps
John Mangles, now began to ask themselves if this Ayrton's word was to be
absolutely believed. There was something suspicious about this unexpected
meeting. Certainly the man had mentioned facts and dates which corresponded,
and the minuteness of his details was most striking. Still exactness of
details was no positive proof. Indeed, it has been noticed that a falsehood
has sometimes gained ground by being exceedingly particular in minutiae.
McNabbs, therefore, prudently refrained from committing himself by
expressing any opinion.
John Mangles, however, was soon convinced when he heard
Ayrton speak to the young girl about her father. He knew Mary and Robert
quite well. He had seen them in Glasgow when the ship sailed. He remembered
them at the farewell breakfast given on board the BRITANNIA to the captain's
friends, at which Sheriff Mcintyre was present. Robert, then a boy of ten
years old, had been given into his charge, and he ran away and tried to
climb the rigging.
"Yes, that I did, it is quite right," said Robert.
He went on to mention several other trifling incidents,
without attaching the importance to them that John Mangles did, and when he
stopped Mary Grant said, in her soft voice: "Oh, go on, Mr. Ayrton, tell us
more about our father."
The quartermaster did his best to satisfy the poor girl, and
Glenarvan did not interrupt him, though a score of questions far more
important crowded into his mind. Lady Helena made him look at Mary's beaming
face, and the words he was about to utter remained unspoken.
Ayrton gave an account of the BRITANNIA'S voyage across the
Pacific. Mary knew most of it before, as news of the ship had come regularly
up to the month of May, 1862. In the course of the year Harry Grant had
touched at all the principal ports. He had been to the Hebrides, to New
Guinea, New Zealand, and New Caledonia, and had succeeded in finding an
important point on the western coast of Papua, where the establishment of a
Scotch colony seemed to him easy, and its prosperity certain. A good port on
the Molucca and Philippine route must attract ships, especially when the
opening of the Suez Canal would have supplanted the Cape route. Harry Grant
was one of those who appreciated the great work of M. De Lesseps, and would
not allow political rivalries to interfere with international interests.
After reconnoitering Papua, the BRITANNIA went to provision
herself at Callao, and left that port on the 30th of May, 1862, to return to
Europe by the Indian Ocean and the Cape. Three weeks afterward, his vessel
was disabled by a fearful storm in which they were caught, and obliged to
cut away the masts. A leak sprang in the hold, and could not be stopped. The
crew were too exhausted to work the pumps, and for eight days the BRITANNIA
was tossed about in the hurricane like a shuttlecock. She had six feet of
water in her hold, and was gradually sinking. The boats had been all carried
away by the tempest; death stared them in the face, when, on the night of
the 22d of June, as Paganel had rightly supposed, they came in sight of the
eastern coast of Australia.
The ship soon neared the shore, and presently dashed
violently against it. Ayrton was swept off by a wave, and thrown among the
breakers, where he lost consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself
in the hands of natives, who dragged him away into the interior of the
country. Since that time he had never heard the BRITANNIA's name mentioned,
and reasonably enough came to the conclusion that she had gone down with all
hands off the dangerous reefs of Twofold Bay.
This ended Ayrton's recital, and more than once sorrowful
exclamations were evoked by the story. The Major could not, in common
justice, doubt its authenticity. The sailor was then asked to narrate his
own personal history, which was short and simple enough. He had been carried
by a tribe of natives four hundred miles north of the 37th parallel. He
spent a miserable existence there— not that he was ill-treated, but the
natives themselves lived miserably. He passed two long years of painful
slavery among them, but always cherished in his heart the hope of one day
regaining his freedom, and watching for the slightest opportunity that might
turn up, though he knew that his flight would be attended with innumerable
dangers.
At length one night in October, 1864, he managed to escape
the vigilance of the natives, and took refuge in the depths of immense
forests. For a whole month he subsisted on roots, edible ferns and mimosa
gums, wandering through vast solitudes, guiding himself by the sun during
the day and by the stars at night. He went on, though often almost
despairingly, through bogs and rivers, and across mountains, till he had
traversed the whole of the uninhabited part of the continent, where only a
few bold travelers have ventured; and at last, in an exhausted and all but
dying condition, he reached the hospitable dwelling of Paddy O'Moore, where
he said he had found a happy home in exchange for his labor.
"And if Ayrton speaks well of me," said the Irish settler,
when the narrative ended, "I have nothing but good to say of him. He is an
honest, intelligent fellow and a good
V. IV Verne worker; and as long as he pleases, Paddy
O'Moore's house shall be his."
Ayrton thanked him by a gesture, and waited silently for any
fresh question that might be put to him, though he thought to himself that
he surely must have satisfied all legitimate curiosity. What could remain to
be said that he had not said a hundred times already. Glenarvan was just
about to open a discussion about their future plan of action, profiting by
this rencontre with Ayrton, and by the information he had given them, when
Major McNabbs, addressing the sailor said, "You were quartermaster, you say,
on the BRITANNIA?"
"Yes," replied Ayrton, without the least hesitation.
But as if conscious that a certain feeling of mistrust,
however slight, had prompted the inquiry, he added, "I have my shipping
papers with me; I saved them from the wreck."
He left the room immediately to fetch his official document,
and, though hardly absent a minute, Paddy O'Moore managed to say, "My Lord,
you may trust Ayrton; I vouch for his being an honest man. He has been two
months now in my service, and I have never had once to find fault with him.
I knew all this story of his shipwreck and his captivity. He is a true man,
worthy of your entire confidence."
Glenarvan was on the point of replying that he had never
doubted his good faith, when the man came in and brought his engagement
written out in due form. It was a paper signed by the shipowners and Captain
Grant. Mary recognized her father's writing at once. It was to certify that
"Tom Ayrton, able-bodied seaman, was engaged as quartermaster on board the
three-mast vessel, the BRITANNIA, Glasgow."
There could not possibly be the least doubt now of Ayrton's
identity, for it would have been difficult to account for his possession of
the document if he were not the man named in it.
"Now then," said Glenarvan, "I wish to ask everyone's
opinion as to what is best to be done. Your advice, Ayrton, will be
particularly valuable, and I shall be much obliged if you would let us have
it."
After a few minutes' thought, Ayrton replied—"I thank you,
my Lord, for the confidence you show towards me, and I hope to prove worthy
of it. I have some knowledge of the country, and the habits of the natives,
and if I can be of any service to you—"
"Most certainly you can," interrupted Glenarvan.
"I think with you," resumed Ayrton, "that the captain and
his two sailors have escaped alive from the wreck, but since they have not
found their way to the English settlement, nor been seen any where, I have
no doubt that their fate has been similar to my own, and that they are
prisoners in the hands of some of the native tribes."
"That's exactly what I have always argued," said Paganel.
"The shipwrecked men were taken prisoners, as they feared.
But must we conclude without question that, like yourself,
they have been dragged away north of the 37th parallel?"
"I should suppose so, sir; for hostile tribes would hardly
remain anywhere near the districts under the British rule."
"That will complicate our search," said Glenarvan, somewhat
disconcerted. "How can we possibly find traces of the captives in the heart
of so vast a continent?"
No one replied, though Lady Helena's questioning glances at
her companions seemed to press for an answer. Paganel even was silent. His
ingenuity for once was at fault. John Mangles paced the cabin with great
strides, as if he fancied himself on the deck of his ship, evidently quite
nonplussed.
"And you, Mr. Ayrton," said Lady Helena at last, "what would
you do?"
"Madam," replied Ayrton, readily enough, "I should re-embark
in the DUNCAN, and go right to the scene of the catastrophe. There I should
be guided by circumstances, and by any chance indications we might
discover."
"Very good," returned Glenarvan; "but we must wait till the
DUNCAN is repaired."
"Ah, she has been injured then?" said Ayrton.
"Yes," replied Mangles.
"To any serious extent?"
"No; but such injuries as require more skilful workmanship
than we have on board. One of the branches of the screw is twisted, and we
cannot get it repaired nearer than Melbourne."
"Well, let the ship go to Melbourne then," said Paganel,
"and we will go without her to Twofold Bay."
"And how?" asked Mangles.
"By crossing Australia as we crossed America, keeping along
the 37th parallel."
"But the DUNCAN?" repeated Ayrton, as if particularly
anxious on that score.
"The DUNCAN can rejoin us, or we can rejoin her, as the case
may be. Should we discover Captain Grant in the course of our journey, we
can all return together to Melbourne. If we have to go on to the coast, on
the contrary, then the DUNCAN can come to us there. Who has any objection to
make? Have you, Major?"
"No, not if there is a practicable route across Australia."
"So practicable, that I propose Lady Helena and Miss Grant
should accompany us."
"Are you speaking seriously?" asked Glenarvan.
"Perfectly so, my Lord. It is a journey of 350 miles, not
more. If we go twelve miles a day it will barely take us a month, just long
enough to put the vessel in trim. If we had to cross the continent in a
lower latitude, at its wildest part, and traverse immense deserts, where
there is no water and where the heat is tropical, and go where the most
adventurous travelers have never yet ventured, that would be a different
matter. But the 37th parallel cuts only through the province of Victoria,
quite an English country, with roads and railways, and well populated almost
everywhere. It is a journey you might make, almost, in a chaise, though a
wagon would be better. It is a mere trip from London to Edinburgh, nothing
more."
"What about wild beasts, though?" asked Glenarvan, anxious
to go into all the difficulties of the proposal.
"There are no wild beasts in Australia."
"And how about the savages?"
"There are no savages in this latitude, and if there were,
they are not cruel, like the New Zealanders."
"And the convicts?"
"There are no convicts in the southern provinces, only in
the eastern colonies. The province of Victoria not only refused to admit
them, but passed a law to prevent any ticket-of-leave men from other
provinces from entering her territories. This very year the Government
threatened to withdraw its subsidy from the Peninsular Company if their
vessels continued to take in coal in those western parts of Australia where
convicts are admitted. What! Don't you know that, and you an Englishman?"
"In the first place, I beg leave to say I am not an
Englishman," replied Glenarvan.
"What M. Paganel says is perfectly correct," said Paddy
O'Moore. "Not only the province of Victoria, but also Southern Australia,
Queensland, and even Tasmania, have agreed to expel convicts from their
territories. Ever since I have been on this farm, I have never heard of one
in this Province."
"And I can speak for myself. I have never come across one."
"You see then, friends," went on Jacques Paganel, "there are
few if any savages, no ferocious animals, no convicts, and there are not
many countries of Europe for which you can say as much. Well, will you go?"
"What do you think, Helena?" asked Glenarvan.
"What we all think, dear Edward," replied Lady Helena,
turning toward her companions; "let us be off at once."
CHAPTER VIII PREPARATION FOR THE
JOURNEY
GLENARVAN never lost much time
between adopting an idea and carrying it out. As soon as he consented to
Paganel's proposition, he gave immediate orders to make arrangements for the
journey with as little delay as possible. The time of starting was fixed for
the 22d of December, the next day but one.
What results might not come out of this journey. The
presence of Harry Grant had become an indisputable fact, and the chances of
finding him had increased. Not that anyone expected to discover the captain
exactly on the 37th parallel, which they intended strictly to follow, but
they might come upon his track, and at all events, they were going to the
actual spot where the wreck had occurred. That was the principal point.
Besides, if Ayrton consented to join them and act as their
guide through the forests of the province of Victoria and right to the
eastern coast, they would have a fresh chance of success. Glenarvan was
sensible of this, and asked his host whether he would have any great
objection to his asking Ayrton to accompany them, for he felt particularly
desirous of securing the assistance of Harry Grant's old companion.
Paddy O'Moore consented, though he would regret the loss of
his excellent servant.
"Well, then, Ayrton, will you come with us in our search
expedition?"
Ayrton did not reply immediately. He even showed signs of
hesitation; but at last, after due reflection, said, "Yes, my Lord, I will
go with you, and if I can not take you to Captain Grant, I can at least take
you to the very place where his ship struck."
"Thanks, Ayrton."
"One question, my Lord."
"Well?"
"Where will you meet the DUNCAN again?"
"At Melbourne, unless we traverse the whole continent from
coast to coast."
"But the captain?"
"The captain will await my instructions in the port of
Melbourne."
"You may depend on me then, my Lord."
"I will, Ayrton."
The quartermaster was warmly thanked by the passengers of
the DUNCAN, and the children loaded him with caresses. Everyone rejoiced in
his decision except the Irishman, who lost in him an intelligent and
faithful helper. But Paddy understood the importance Glenarvan attached to
the presence of the man, and submitted. The whole party then returned to the
ship, after arranging a rendezvous with Ayrton, and ordering him to procure
the necessary means of conveyance across the country.
When John Mangles supported the proposition of Paganel, he
took for granted that he should accompany the expedition. He began to speak
to Glenarvan at once about it, and adduced all sorts of arguments to advance
his cause—his devotion to Lady Helena and his Lordship, how useful could he
be in organizing the party, and how useless on board the DUNCAN; everything,
in fact, but the main reason, and that he had no need to bring forward.
"I'll only ask you one question, John," said Glenarvan.
"Have you entire confidence in your chief officer?"
"Absolute," replied Mangles, "Tom Austin is a good sailor.
He will take the ship to her destination, see that the repairs are skilfully
executed, and bring her back on the appointed day. Tom is a slave to duty
and discipline. Never would he take it upon himself to alter or retard the
execution of an order. Your Lordship may rely on him as on myself."
"Very well then, John," replied Glenarvan. "You shall go
with us, for it would be advisable," he added, smiling, "that you should be
there when we find Mary Grant's father."
"Oh! your Lordship," murmured John, turning pale. He could
say no more, but grasped Lord Glenarvan's hand.
Next day, John Mangles and the ship's carpenter, accompanied
by sailors carrying provisions, went back to Paddy O'Moore's house to
consult the Irishman about the best method of transport. All the family met
him, ready to give their best help. Ayrton was there, and gave the benefit
of his experience.
On one point both he and Paddy agreed, that the journey
should be made in a bullock-wagon by the ladies, and that the gentlemen
should ride on horseback. Paddy could furnish both bullocks and vehicle. The
vehicle was a cart twenty feet long, covered over by a tilt, and resting on
four large wheels without spokes or felloes, or iron tires— in a word, plain
wooden discs. The front and hinder part were connected by means of a rude
mechanical contrivance, which did not allow of the vehicle turning quickly.
There was a pole in front thirty-five feet long, to which the bullocks were
to be yoked in couples. These animals were able to draw both with head and
neck, as their yoke was fastened on the nape of the neck, and to this a
collar was attached by an iron peg. It required great skill to drive such a
long, narrow, shaky concern, and to guide such a team by a goad; but Ayrton
had served his apprenticeship to it on the Irishman's farm, and Paddy could
answer for his com-petency. The role of conductor was therefore assigned to
him.
There were no springs to the wagon, and, consequently, it
was not likely to be very comfortable; but, such as it was, they had to take
it. But if the rough construction could not be altered, John Mangles
resolved that the interior should be made as easy as possible. His first
care was to divide it into two compartments by a wooden partition. The back
one was intended for the provisions and luggage, and M. Olbinett's portable
kitchen. The front was set apart especially for the ladies, and, under the
carpenter's hands, was to be speedily converted into a comfortable room,
covered with a thick carpet, and fitted up with a toilet table and two
couches. Thick leather curtains shut in this apartment, and protected the
occupants from the chilliness of the nights. In case of necessity, the
gentlemen might shelter themselves here, when the violent rains came on, but
a tent was to be their usual resting-place when the caravan camped for the
night. John Mangles exercised all his ingenuity in furnishing the small
space with everything that the two ladies could possibly require, and he
succeeded so well, that neither Lady Helena nor Mary had much reason to
regret leaving their cosy cabins on board the DUNCAN.
For the rest of the party, the preparations were soon made,
for they needed much less. Strong horses were provided for Lord Glenarvan,
Paganel, Robert Grant, McNabbs, and John Mangles; also for the two sailors,
Wilson and Mulrady, who were to accompany their captain. Ayrton's place was,
of course, to be in front of the wagon, and M. Olbinett, who did not much
care for equitation, was to make room for himself among the baggage. Horses
and bullocks were grazing in the Irishman's meadows, ready to fetch at a
moment's notice.
After all arrangements were made, and the carpenter set to
work, John Mangles escorted the Irishman and his family back to the vessel,
for Paddy wished to return the visit of Lord Glenarvan. Ayrton thought
proper to go too, and about four o'clock the party came over the side of the
DUNCAN.
They were received with open arms. Glenarvan would not be
outstripped in politeness, and invited his visitors to stop and dine. His
hospitality was willingly accepted. Paddy was quite amazed at the splendor
of the saloon, and was loud in admiration of the fitting up of the cabins,
and the carpets and hangings, as well as of the polished maple-wood of the
upper deck. Ayrton's approbation was much less hearty, for he considered it
mere costly superfluity.
But when he examined the yacht with a sailor's eye, the
quartermaster of the BRITANNIA was as enthusiastic about it as Paddy. He
went down into the hold, inspected the screw department and the engine-room,
examining the engine thoroughly, and inquired about its power and
consumption. He explored the coal-bunkers, the store-room, the powder-store,
and armory, in which last he seemed to be particularly attracted by a cannon
mounted on the forecastle. Glenarvan saw he had to do with a man who
understood such matters, as was evident from his questions. Ayrton concluded
his investigations by a survey of the masts and rigging.
"You have a fine vessel, my Lord," he said after his
curiosity was satisfied.
"A good one, and that is best," replied Glenarvan.
"And what is her tonnage?"
"Two hundred and ten tons."
"I don't think I am far out," continued Ayrton, "in judging
her speed at fifteen knots. I should say she could do that easily."
"Say seventeen," put in John Mangles, "and you've hit the
mark."
"Seventeen!" exclaimed the quartermaster. "Why, not a
man-of-war— not the best among them, I mean—could chase her!"
"Not one," replied Mangles. "The DUNCAN is a regular racing
yacht, and would never let herself be beaten."
"Even at sailing?" asked Ayrton.
"Even at sailing."
"Well, my Lord, and you too, captain," returned Ayrton,
"allow a sailor who knows what a ship is worth, to compliment you on yours."
"Stay on board of her, then, Ayrton," said Glenarvan; "it
rests with yourself to call it yours."
"I will think of it, my Lord," was all Ayrton's reply.
Just then M. Olbinett came to announce dinner, and his
Lordship repaired with his guests to the saloon.
"That Ayrton is an intelligent man," said Paganel to the
Major.
"Too intelligent!" muttered McNabbs, who, without any
apparent reason, had taken a great dislike to the face and manners of the
quartermaster.
During the dinner, Ayrton gave some interesting details
about the Australian continent, which he knew perfectly. He asked how many
sailors were going to accompany the expedition, and seemed astonished to
hear that only two were going. He advised Glenarvan to take all his best
men, and even urged him to do it, which advice, by the way, ought to have
removed the Major's suspicion.
"But," said Glenarvan, "our journey is not dangerous, is
it?"
"Not at all," replied Ayrton, quickly.
"Well then, we'll have all the men we can on board.
Hands will be wanted to work the ship, and to help in the repairs.
Besides, it is of the utmost importance that she should meet us
to the very day, at whatever place may be ultimately selected.
Consequently, we must not lessen her crew."
Ayrton said nothing more, as if convinced his Lordship was
right.
When evening came, Scotch and Irish separated.
Ayrton and Paddy O'Moore and family returned home.
Horses and wagons were to be ready the next day, and eight
o'clock in the morning was fixed for starting.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant soon made their preparations.
They had less to do than Jacques Paganel, for he spent half the night in
arranging, and wiping, and rubbing up the lenses of his telescope. Of
course, next morning he slept on till the Major's stentorian voice roused
him.
The luggage was already conveyed to the farm, thanks to John
Mangles, and a boat was waiting to take the passengers. They were soon
seated, and the young captain gave his final orders to Tom Austin, his chief
officer. He impressed upon him that he was to wait at Melbourne for Lord
Glenarvan's commands, and to obey them scrupulously, whatever they might be.
The old sailor told John he might rely on him, and, in the
name of the men, begged to offer his Lordship their best wishes for the
success of this new expedition.
A storm of hurrahs burst forth from the yacht as the boat
rowed off. In ten minutes the shore was reached, and a quarter of an hour
afterward the Irishman's farm. All was ready. Lady Helena was enchanted with
her installation. The huge chariot, with its primitive wheels and massive
planks, pleased her particularly. The six bullocks, yoked in pairs, had a
patriarchal air about them which took her fancy. Ayrton, goad in hand, stood
waiting the orders of this new master.
"My word," said Paganel, "this is a famous vehicle; it beats
all the mail-coaches in the world. I don't know a better fashion of
traveling than in a mountebank's caravan— a movable house, which goes or
stops wherever you please. What can one wish better? The Samaratians
understood that, and never traveled in any other way."
"Monsieur Paganel," said Lady Helena, "I hope I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you in my SALONS."
"Assuredly, madam, I should count it an honor. Have you
fixed the day?"
"I shall be at home every day to my friends," replied Lady
Helena; "and you are—"
"The most devoted among them all," interrupted Paganel,
gaily.
These mutual compliments were interrupted by the arrival of
the seven horses, saddled and ready. They were brought by Paddy's sons, and
Lord Glenarvan paid the sum stipulated for his various purchases, adding his
cordial thanks, which the worthy Irishman valued at least as much as his
golden guineas.
The signal was given to start, and Lady Helena and Mary took
their places in the reserved compartment. Ayrton seated himself in front,
and Olbinett scrambled in among the luggage. The rest of the party, well
armed with carbines and revolvers, mounted their horses. Ayrton gave a
peculiar cry, and his team set off. The wagon shook and the planks creaked,
and the axles grated in the naves of the wheels; and before long the
hospitable farm of the Irishman was out of sight.
CHAPTER IX A COUNTRY OF PARADOXES
IT was the 23d of December, 1864, a
dull, damp, dreary month in the northern hemisphere; but on the Australian
continent it might be called June. The hottest season of the year had
already commenced, and the sun's rays were almost tropical, when Lord
Glenarvan started on his new expedition.
Most fortunately the 37th parallel did not cross the immense
deserts, inaccessible regions, which have cost many martyrs to science
already. Glenarvan could never have encountered them. He had only to do with
the southern part of Australia—viz., with a narrow portion of the province
of Adelaide, with the whole of Victoria, and with the top of the reversed
triangle which forms New South Wales.
It is scarcely sixty-two miles from Cape Bernouilli to the
frontiers of Victoria. It was not above a two days' march, and Ayrton
reckoned on their sleeping next night at Apsley, the most westerly town of
Victoria.
The commencement of a journey is always marked by ardor,
both in the horses and the horsemen. This is well enough in the horsemen,
but if the horses are to go far, their speed must be moderated and their
strength husbanded. It was, therefore, fixed that the average journey every
day should not be more than from twenty-five to thirty miles.
Besides, the pace of the horses must be regulated by the
slower pace of the bullocks, truly mechanical engines which lose in time
what they gain in power. The wagon, with its passengers and provisions, was
the very center of the caravan, the moving fortress. The horsemen might act
as scouts, but must never be far away from it.
As no special marching order had been agreed upon, everybody
was at liberty to follow his inclinations within certain limits. The hunters
could scour the plain, amiable folks could talk to the fair occupants of the
wagon, and philosophers could philosophize. Paganel, who was all three
combined, had to be and was everywhere at once.
The march across Adelaide presented nothing of any
particular interest. A succession of low hills rich in dust, a long stretch
of what they call in Australia "bush," several prairies covered with a small
prickly bush, considered a great dainty by the ovine tribe, embraced many
miles. Here and there they noticed a species of sheep peculiar to New
Holland— sheep with pig's heads, feeding between the posts of the telegraph
line recently made between Adelaide and the coast.
Up to this time there had been a singular resemblance in the
country to the monotonous plains of the Argentine Pampas. There was the same
grassy flat soil, the same sharply-defined horizon against the sky. McNabbs
declared they had never changed countries; but Paganel told him to wait, and
he would soon see a difference. And on the faith of this assurance marvelous
things were expected by the whole party.
In this fashion, after a march of sixty miles in two days,
the caravan reached the parish of Apsley, the first town in the Province of
Victoria in the Wimerra district.
The wagon was put up at the Crown Inn. Supper was soon
smoking on the table. It consisted solely of mutton served up in various
ways.
They all ate heartily, but talked more than they ate,
eagerly asking Paganel questions about the wonders of the country they were
just beginning to traverse. The amiable geographer needed no pressing, and
told them first that this part of it was called Australia Felix.
"Wrongly named!" he continued. "It had better have been
called rich, for it is true of countries, as individuals, that riches do not
make happiness. Thanks to her gold mines, Australia has been abandoned to
wild devastating adventurers. You will come across them when we reach the
gold fields."
"Is not the colony of Victoria of but a recent origin?"
asked Lady Glenarvan.
"Yes, madam, it only numbers thirty years of existence.
It was on the 6th of June, 1835, on a Tuesday—"
"At a quarter past seven in the evening," put in the Major,
who delighted in teasing the Frenchman about his precise dates.
"No, at ten minutes past seven," replied the geographer,
gravely, "that Batman and Falckner first began a settlement at Port Phillip,
the bay on which the large city of Melbourne now stands. For fifteen years
the colony was part of New South Wales, and recognized Sydney as the
capital; but in 1851, she was declared independent, and took the name of
Victoria."
"And has greatly increased in prosperity since then,
I believe," said Glenarvan.
"Judge for yourself, my noble friend," replied Paganel.
"Here are the numbers given by the last statistics; and let McNabbs say as
he likes, I know nothing more eloquent than statistics."
"Go on," said the Major.
"Well, then, in 1836, the colony of Port Phillip had 224
inhabitants. To-day the province of Victoria numbers 550,000. Seven millions
of vines produce annually 121,- 000 gallons of wine. There are 103,000
horses spreading over the plains, and 675,272 horned cattle graze in her
wide-stretching pastures."
"Is there not also a certain number of pigs?" inquired
McNabbs.
"Yes, Major, 79,625."
"And how many sheep?"
"7,115,943, McNabbs."
"Including the one we are eating at this moment."
"No, without counting that, since it is three parts
devoured."
"Bravo, Monsieur Paganel," exclaimed Lady Helena, laughing
heartily. "It must be owned you are posted up in geographical questions, and
my cousin McNabbs need not try and find you tripping."
"It is my calling, Madam, to know this sort of thing, and to
give you the benefit of my information when you please. You may therefore
believe me when I tell you that wonderful things are in store for you in
this strange country."
"It does not look like it at present," said McNabbs, on
purpose to tease Paganel.
"Just wait, impatient Major," was his rejoinder. "You have
hardly put your foot on the frontier, when you turn round and abuse it.
Well, I say and say again, and will always maintain that this is the most
curious country on the earth. Its formation, and nature, and products, and
climate, and even its future disappearance have amazed, and are now amazing,
and will amaze, all the SAVANTS in the world. Think, my friends, of a
continent, the margin of which, instead of the center, rose out of the waves
originally like a gigantic ring, which encloses, perhaps, in its center, a
sea partly evaporated, the waves of which are drying up daily; where
humidity does not exist either in the air or in the soil; where the trees
lose their bark every year, instead of their leaves; where the leaves
present their sides to the sun and not their face, and consequently give no
shade; where the wood is often incombustible, where good-sized stones are
dissolved by the rain; where the forests are low and the grasses gigantic;
where the animals are strange; where quadrupeds have beaks, like the
echidna, or ornithorhynchus, and naturalists have been obliged to create a
special order for them, called monotremes; where the kangaroos leap on
unequal legs, and sheep have pigs' heads; where foxes fly about from tree to
tree; where the swans are black; where rats make nests; where the bower-bird
opens her reception-rooms to receive visits from her feathered friends;
where the birds astonish the imagination by the variety of their notes and
their aptness; where one bird serves for a clock, and another makes a sound
like a postilion cracking of a whip, and a third imitates a knife-grinder,
and a fourth the motion of a pendulum; where one laughs when the sun rises,
and another cries when the sun sets! Oh, strange, illogical country, land of
paradoxes and anomalies, if ever there was one on earth—the learned botanist
Grimard was right when he said, 'There is that Australia, a sort of parody,
or rather a defiance of universal laws in the face of the rest of the
world.'"
Paganel's tirade was poured forth in the most impetuous
manner, and seemed as if it were never coming to an end. The eloquent
secretary of the Geographical Society was no longer master of himself. He
went on and on, gesticulating furiously, and brandishing his fork to the
imminent danger of his neighbors. But at last his voice was drowned in a
thunder of applause, and he managed to stop.
Certainly after such an enumeration of Australian
peculiarities, he might have been left in peace but the Major said in the
coolest tone possible: "And is that all, Paganel?"
"No, indeed not," rejoined the Frenchman, with renewed
vehemence.
"What!" exclaimed Lady Helena; "there are more wonders still
in Australia?"
"Yes, Madam, its climate. It is even stranger than its
productions."
"Is it possible?" they all said.
"I am not speaking of the hygienic qualities of the
climate," continued Paganel, "rich as it is in oxygen and poor in azote.
There are no damp winds, because the trade winds blow regularly on the
coasts, and most diseases are unknown, from typhus to measles, and chronic
affections."
"Still, that is no small advantage," said Glenarvan.
"No doubt; but I am not referring to that, but to one
quality it has which is incomparable."
"And what is that?"
"You will never believe me."
"Yes, we will," exclaimed his auditors, their curiosity
aroused by this preamble.
"Well, it is—"
"It is what?"
"It is a moral regeneration."
"A moral regeneration?"
"Yes," replied the SAVANT, in a tone of conviction. "Here
metals do not get rust on them by exposure to the air, nor men. Here the
pure, dry atmosphere whitens everything rapidly, both linen and souls. The
virtue of the climate must have been well known in England when they
determined to send their criminals here to be reformed."
"What! do you mean to say the climate has really any such
influence?" said Lady Helena.
"Yes, Madam, both on animals and men."
"You are not joking, Monsieur Paganel?"
"I am not, Madam. The horses and the cattle here are of
incomparable docility. You see it?"
"It is impossible!"
"But it is a fact. And the convicts transported into this
reviving, salubrious air, become regenerated in a few years. Philanthropists
know this. In Australia all natures grow better."
"But what is to become of you then, Monsieur Paganel, in
this privileged country—you who are so good already?" said Lady Helena.
"What will you turn out?"
"Excellent, Madam, just excellent, and that's all."
CHAPTER X AN ACCIDENT
THE next day, the 24th of December,
they started at daybreak. The heat was already considerable, but not
unbearable, and the road was smooth and good, and allowed the cavalcade to
make speedy progress. In the evening they camped on the banks of the White
Lake, the waters of which are brackish and undrinkable.
Jacques Paganel was obliged to own that the name of this
lake was a complete misnomer, for the waters were no more white than the
Black Sea is black, or the Red Sea red, or the Yellow River yellow, or the
Blue Mountains blue. However, he argued and disputed the point with all the
amour propre of a geographer, but his reasoning made no impression.
M. Olbinett prepared the evening meal with his accustomed
punctuality, and after this was dispatched, the travelers disposed
themselves for the night in the wagon and in the tent, and were soon
sleeping soundly, notwithstanding the melancholy howling of the "dingoes,"
the jackals of Australia.
A magnificent plain, thickly covered with chrysanthemums,
stretched out beyond the lake, and Glenarvan and his friends would gladly
have explored its beauties when they awoke next morning, but they had to
start. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible but one stretch of
prairie, enameled with flower, in all the freshness and abundance of spring.
The blue flowers of the slender-leaved flax, combined with the bright hues
of the scarlet acanthus, a flower peculiar to the country.
A few cassowaries were bounding over the plain, but it was
impossible to get near them. The Major was fortunate enough, however, to hit
one very rare animal with a ball in the leg. This was the jabiru, a species
which is fast disappearing, the gigantic crane of the English colonies. This
winged creature was five feet high, and his wide, conical, extremely pointed
beak, measured eighteen inches in length. The violet and purple tints of his
head contrasted vividly with the glossy green of his neck, and the dazzling
whiteness of his throat, and the bright red of his long legs. Nature seems
to have exhausted in its favor all the primitive colors on her palette.
V. IV Verne
Great admiration was bestowed on this bird, and the Major's
spoil would have borne the honors of the day, had not Robert come across an
animal a few miles further on, and bravely killed it. It was a shapeless
creature, half porcupine, half ant-eater, a sort of unfinished animal
belonging to the first stage of creation. A long glutinous extensible tongue
hung out of his jaws in search of the ants, which formed its principal food.
"It is an echidna," said Paganel. "Have you ever seen such a
creature?"
"It is horrible," replied Glenarvan.
"Horrible enough, but curious, and, what's more, peculiar to
Australia. One might search for it in vain in any other part of the world."
Naturally enough, the geographer wished to preserve this
interesting specimen of monotremata, and wanted to stow it away in the
luggage; but M. Olbinett resented the idea so indignantly, that the SAVANT
was obliged to abandon his project.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, John Mangles descried
an enormous column of smoke about three miles off, gradually overspreading
the whole horizon. What could be the cause of this phenomenon? Paganel was
inclined to think it was some description of meteor, and his lively
imagination was already in search of an explanation, when Ayrton cut short
all his conjectures summarily, by announcing that the cloud of dust was
caused by a drove of cattle on the road.
The quartermaster proved right, for as the cloud came
nearer, quite a chorus of bleatings and neighings, and bel-lowings escaped
from it, mingled with the loud tones of a human voice, in the shape of
cries, and whistles, and vo-ciferations.
Presently a man came out of the
cloud. This was the leader-in-chief of the four-footed army. Glenarvan
advanced toward him, and friendly relations were speedily established
between them. The leader, or to give him his proper designation, the
stock-keeper, was part owner of the drove. His name was Sam Machell, and he
was on his way from the eastern provinces to Portland Bay.
The drove numbered 12,075 head in all, or l,000 bullocks,
11,000 sheep, and 75 horses. All these had been bought in the Blue Mountains
in a poor, lean condition, and were going to be fatted up on the rich
pasture lands of Southern Australia, and sold again at a great profit. Sam
Machell expected to get pounds 2 on each bullock, and 10s. on every sheep,
which would bring him in pounds 3,750. This was doing good business; but
what patience and energy were required to conduct such a restive, stubborn
lot to their destination, and what fatigues must have to be endured. Truly
the gain was hardly earned.
Sam Machell told his history in a few words, while the drove
continued their march among the groves of mimosas. Lady Helena and Mary and
the rest of the party seated themselves under the shade of a wide-spreading
gum-tree, and listened to his recital.
It was seven months since Sam Machell had started. He had
gone at the rate of ten miles a day, and his interminable journey would last
three months longer. His assistants in the laborious task comprised twenty
dogs and thirty men, five of whom were blacks, and very serviceable in
tracking up any strayed beasts. Six wagons made the rear-guard. All the men
were armed with stockwhips, the handles of which are eighteen inches long,
and the lash nine feet, and they move about among the ranks, bringing
refractory animals back into order, while the dogs, the light cavalry of the
regiment, preserved discipline in the wings.
The travelers were struck with the admirable arrangement of
the drove. The different stock were kept apart, for wild sheep and bullocks
would not have got on together at all. The bullocks would never have grazed
where the sheep had passed along, and consequently they had to go first,
divided into two battalions. Five regiments of sheep followed, in charge of
twenty men, and last of all came the horses.
Sam Machell drew the attention of his auditors to the fact
that the real guides of the drove were neither the men nor the dogs, but the
oxen themselves, beasts of superior intelligence, recognized as leaders by
their congenitors. They advanced in front with perfect gravity, choosing the
best route by instinct, and fully alive to their claim to respect. Indeed,
they were obliged to be studied and humored in everything, for the whole
drove obeyed them implicitly. If they took it into their heads to stop, it
was a matter of necessity to yield to their good pleasure, for not a single
animal would move a step till these leaders gave the signal to set off.
Sundry details, added by the stock-keeper, completed the
history of this expedition, worthy of being written, if not commended by
Xenophon himself. As long as the troop marched over the plains it was well
enough, there was little difficulty or fatigue. The animals fed as they went
along, and slaked their thirst at the numerous creeks that watered the
plains, sleeping at night and making good progress in the day, always
obedient and tractable to the dogs. But when they had to go through great
forests and groves of eucalyptus and mimosas, the difficulties increased.
Platoons, battalions and regiments got all mixed together or scattered, and
it was a work of time to collect them again. Should a "leader" unfortunately
go astray, he had to be found, cost what it might, on pain of a general
disbandment, and the blacks were often long days in quest of him, before
their search was successful. During the heavy rains the lazy beasts refused
to stir, and when violent storms chanced to occur, the creatures became
almost mad with terror, and were seized with a wild, disorderly panic.
However, by dint of energy and ambition, the stock-keeper
triumphed over these difficulties, incessantly renewed though they were. He
kept steadily on; mile after mile of plains and woods, and mountains, lay
behind. But in addition to all his other qualities, there was one higher
than all that he specially needed when they came to rivers. This was
patience—patience that could stand any trial, and not only could hold out
for hours and days, but for weeks. The stock-keeper would be himself forced
to wait on the banks of a stream that might have been crossed at once. There
was nothing to hinder but the obstinacy of the herd. The bullocks would
taste the water and turn back. The sheep fled in all directions, afraid to
brave the liquid element. The stock-keeper hoped when night came he might
manage them better, but they still refused to go forward. The rams were
dragged in by force, but the sheep would not follow. They tried what thirst
would do, by keeping them without drink for several days, but when they were
brought to the river again, they simply quenched their thirst, and declined
a more intimate acquaintance with the water. The next expedient employed was
to carry all the lambs over, hoping the mothers would be drawn after them,
moved by their cries. But the lambs might bleat as pitifully as they liked,
the mothers never stirred. Sometimes this state of affairs would last a
whole month, and the stock-keeper would be driven to his wits' end by his
bleating, bellowing, neighing army. Then all of a sudden, one fine day,
without rhyme or reason, a detachment would take it into their heads to make
a start across, and the only difficulty now was to keep the whole herd from
rushing helter-skelter after them. The wildest confusion set in among the
ranks, and numbers of the animals were drowned in the passage.
Such was the narrative of Sam Machell. During its recital, a
considerable part of the troop had filed past in good order. It was time for
him to return to his place at their head, that he might be able to choose
the best pasturage. Taking leave of Lord Glenarvan, he sprang on a capital
horse of the native breed, that one of his men held waiting for him, and
after shaking hands cordially with everybody all round, took his departure.
A few minutes later, nothing was visible of the stock-keeper and his troop
but a cloud of dust.
The wagon resumed its course in the opposite direction, and
did not stop again till they halted for the night at the foot of Mount
Talbot.
Paganel made the judicious observation that it was the 25th
of December, the Christmas Day so dear to English hearts. But the steward
had not forgotten it, and an appetizing meal was soon ready under the tent,
for which he deserved and received warm compliments from the guests. Indeed,
M. Olbinett had quite excelled himself on this occasion. He produced from
his stores such an array of European dishes as is seldom seen in the
Australian desert. Reindeer hams, slices of salt beef, smoked salmon, oat
cakes, and barley meal scones; tea ad libitum, and whisky in
abundance, and several bottles of port, composed this astonishing meal. The
little party might have thought themselves in the grand dining-hall of
Malcolm Castle, in the heart of the Highlands of Scotland.
The next day, at 11 A. M., the wagon reached the banks of
the Wimerra on the 143d meridian.
The river, half a mile in width, wound its limpid course
between tall rows of gum-trees and acacias. Magnificent specimens of the
MYRTACEA, among others, the metroside-ros speciosa, fifteen feet
high, with long drooping branches, adorned with red flowers. Thousands of
birds, the lories, and greenfinches, and gold-winged pigeons, not to speak
of the noisy paroquets, flew about in the green branches. Below, on the
bosom of the water, were a couple of shy and unapproachable black swans.
This rara avis of the Australian rivers soon disappeared among the
windings of the Wimerra, which water the charming landscape in the most
capricious manner.
The wagon stopped on a grassy bank, the long fringes of
which dipped in the rapid current. There was neither raft nor bridge, but
cross over they must. Ayrton looked about for a practicable ford. About a
quarter of a mile up the water seemed shallower, and it was here they
determined to try to pass over. The soundings in different parts showed a
depth of three feet only, so that the wagon might safely enough venture.
"I suppose there is no other way of fording the river?" said
Glenarvan to the quartermaster.
"No, my Lord; but the passage does not seem dangerous.
We shall manage it."
"Shall Lady Glenarvan and Miss Grant get out of the wagon?"
"Not at all. My bullocks are surefooted, and you may rely on
me for keeping them straight."
"Very well, Ayrton; I can trust you."
The horsemen surrounded the ponderous vehicle, and all
stepped boldly into the current. Generally, when wagons have to ford rivers,
they have empty casks slung all round them, to keep them floating on the
water; but they had no such swimming belt with them on this occasion, and
they could only depend on the sagacity of the animals and the prudence of
Ayrton, who directed the team. The Major and the two sailors were some feet
in advance. Glenarvan and John Mangles went at the sides of the wagon, ready
to lend any assistance the fair travelers might require, and Paganel and
Robert brought up the rear.
All went well till they reached the middle of the Wimerra,
but then the hollow deepened, and the water rose to the middle of the
wheels. The bullocks were in danger of losing their footing, and dragging
with them the oscillating vehicle. Ayrton devoted himself to his task
courageously. He jumped into the water, and hanging on by the bullocks'
horns, dragged them back into the right course.
Suddenly the wagon made a jolt that it was impossible to
prevent; a crack was heard, and the vehicle began to lean over in a most
precarious manner. The water now rose to the ladies' feet; the whole concern
began to float, though John Mangles and Lord Glenarvan hung on to the side.
It was an anxious moment.
Fortunately a vigorous effort drove the wagon toward the
opposite shore, and the bank began to slope upward, so that the horses and
bullocks were able to regain their footing, and soon the whole party found
themselves on the other side, glad enough, though wet enough too.
The fore part of the wagon, however, was broken by the jolt,
and Glenarvan's horse had lost a shoe.
This was an accident that needed to be promptly repaired.
They looked at each other hardly knowing what to do, till Ayrton proposed he
should go to Black Point Station, twenty miles further north, and bring back
a blacksmith with him.
"Yes, go, my good fellow," said Glenarvan. "How long will it
take you to get there and back?"
"About fifteen hours," replied Ayrton, "but not longer."
"Start at once, then, and we will camp here, on the banks of
the Wimerra, till you return."
CHAPTER XI CRIME OR CALAMITY
IT was not without apprehension that
the Major saw Ayrton quit the Wimerra camp to go and look for a blacksmith
at the Black Point Station. But he did not breathe a word of his private
misgivings, and contented himself with watching the neighborhood of the
river; nothing disturbed the repose of those tranquil glades, and after a
short night the sun reappeared on the horizon.
As to Glenarvan, his only fear was lest Ayrton should return
alone.
If they fail to find a workman, the wagon could not resume the journey.
This might end in a delay of many days, and Glenarvan, impatient to
succeed, could brook no delay, in his eagerness to attain his object.
Ayrton luckily had lost neither his time nor his trouble. He
appeared next morning at daybreak, accompanied by a man who gave himself out
as the blacksmith from BlackPoint Station. He was a powerful fellow, and
tall, but his features were of a low, brutal type, which did not prepossess
anyone in his favor. But that was nothing, provided he knew his business. He
scarcely spoke, and certainly he did not waste his breath in useless words.
"Is he a good workman?" said John Mangles to the
quartermaster.
"I know no more about him than you do, captain," said
Ayrton.
"But we shall see."
The blacksmith set to work. Evidently that was his trade, as
they could plainly see from the way he set about repairing the forepart of
the wagon. He worked skilfully and with uncommon energy. The Major observed
that the flesh of his wrists was deeply furrowed, showing a ring of
extravasated blood. It was the mark of a recent injury, which the sleeve of
an old woolen shirt could not conceal. McNabbs questioned the blacksmith
about those sores which looked so painful. The man continued his work
without answering. Two hours more and the damage the carriage had sustained
was made good. As to Glenarvan's horse, it was soon disposed of. The
blacksmith had had the forethought to bring the shoes with him. These shoes
had a peculiarity which did not escape the Major; it was a trefoil clumsily
cut on the back part. McNabbs pointed it out to Ayrton.
"It is the Black-Point brand," said the quartermaster. "That
enables them to track any horses that may stray from the station, and
prevents their being mixed with other herds."
The horse was soon shod. The blacksmith claimed his wage,
and went off without uttering four words.
Half an hour later, the travelers were on the road. Beyond
the grove of mimosas was a stretch of sparsely timbered country, which quite
deserved its name of "open plain." Some fragments of quartz and ferruginous
rock lay among the scrub and the tall grass, where numerous flocks were
feeding. Some miles farther the wheels of the wagon plowed deep into the
alluvial soil, where irregular creeks murmured in their beds, half hidden
among giant reeds. By-and-by they skirted vast salt lakes, rapidly
evaporating. The journey was accomplished without trouble, and, indeed,
without fatigue.
Lady Helena invited the horsemen of the party to pay her a
visit in turns, as her reception-room was but small, and in pleasant
converse with this amiable woman they forgot the fatigue of their day's
ride.
Lady Helena, seconded by Miss Mary, did the honors of their
ambulatory house with perfect grace. John Mangles was not forgotten in these
daily invitations, and his somewhat serious conversation was not unpleasing.
The party crossed, in a diagonal direction, the mail-coach
road from Crowland to Horsham, which was a very dusty one, and little used
by pedestrians.
The spurs of some low hills were skirted at the boundary of
Talbot County, and in the evening the travelers reached a point about three
miles from Maryborough. The fine rain was falling, which, in any other
country, would have soaked the ground; but here the air absorbed the
moisture so wonderfully that the camp did not suffer in the least.
Next day, the 29th of December, the march was delayed
somewhat by a succession of little hills, resembling a miniature
Switzerland. It was a constant repetition of up and down hill, and many a
jolt besides, all of which were scarcely pleasant. The travelers walked part
of the way, and thought it no hardship.
At eleven o'clock they arrived at Carisbrook, rather an
important municipality. Ayrton was for passing outside the town without
going through it, in order, he said, to save time. Glenarvan concurred with
him, but Paganel, always eager for novelties, was for visiting Carisbrook.
They gave him his way, and the wagon went on slowly.
Paganel, as was his custom, took Robert with him. His visit
to the town was very short, but it sufficed to give him an exact idea of
Australian towns. There was a bank, a court-house, a market, a church, and a
hundred or so of brick houses, all exactly alike. The whole town was laid
out in squares, crossed with parallel streets in the English fashion.
Nothing could be more simple, nothing less attractive. As the town grows,
they lengthen the streets as we lengthen the trousers of a growing child,
and thus the original symmetry is undisturbed.
Carisbrook was full of activity, a remarkable feature in
these towns of yesterday. It seems in Australia as if towns shot up like
trees, owing to the heat of the sun. Men of business were hurrying along the
streets; gold buyers were hastening to meet the in-coming escort; the
precious metal, guarded by the local police, was coming from the mines at
Bendigo and Mount Alexander. All the little world was so absorbed in its own
interests, that the strangers passed unobserved amid the laborious
inhabitants.
After an hour devoted to visiting Carisbrook, the two
visitors rejoined their companions, and crossed a highly cultivated
district. Long stretches of prairie, known as the "Low Level Plains," next
met their gaze, dotted with countless sheep, and shepherds' huts. And then
came a sandy tract, without any transition, but with the abruptness of
change so characteristic of Australian scenery. Mount Simpson and Mount
Terrengower marked the southern point where the boundary of the Loddon
district cuts the 144th meridian.
As yet they had not met with any of the aboriginal tribes
living in the savage state. Glenarvan wondered if the Australians were
wanting in Australia, as the Indians had been wanting in the Pampas of the
Argentine district; but Paganel told him that, in that latitude, the natives
frequented chiefly the Murray Plains, about one hundred miles to the
eastward.
"We are now approaching the gold district," said he, "in a
day or two we shall cross the rich region of Mount Alexander. It was here
that the swarm of diggers alighted in 1852; the natives had to fly to the
interior. We are in civilized districts without seeing any sign of it; but
our road will, before the day is over, cross the railway which connects the
Murray with the sea. Well, I must confess, a railway in Australia does seem
to me an astonishing thing!"
"And pray, why, Paganel?" said Glenarvan.
"Why? because it jars on one's ideas. Oh! I know you English
are so used to colonizing distant possessions. You, who have electric
telegraphs and universal exhibitions in New Zealand, you think it is all
quite natural. But it dumb-founders the mind of a Frenchman like myself, and
confuses all one's notions of Australia!"
"Because you look at the past, and not at the present," said
John Mangles.
A loud whistle interrupted the discussion. The party were
within a mile of the railway. Quite a number of persons were hastening
toward the railway bridge. The people from the neighboring stations left
their houses, and the shepherds their flocks, and crowded the approaches to
the railway. Every now and then there was a shout, "The railway! the
railway!"
Something serious must have occurred to produce such an
agitation.
Perhaps some terrible accident.
Glenarvan, followed by the rest, urged on his horse. In a
few minutes he arrived at Camden Bridge and then he became aware of the
cause of such an excitement.
A fearful accident had occurred; not a collision, but a
train had gone off the line, and then there had been a fall. The affair
recalled the worst disasters of American railways. The river crossed by the
railway was full of broken carriages and the engine. Whether the weight of
the train had been too much for the bridge, or whether the train had gone
off the rails, the fact remained that five carriages out of six fell into
the bed of the Loddon, dragged down by the locomotive. The sixth carriage,
miraculously preserved by the breaking of the coupling chain, remained on
the rails, six feet from the abyss. Below nothing was discernible but a
melancholy heap of twisted and blackened axles, shattered wagons, bent
rails, charred sleepers; the boiler, burst by the shock, had scattered its
plates to enormous distances. From this shapeless mass of ruins flames and
black smoke still rose. After the fearful fall came fire, more fearful
still! Great tracks of blood, scattered limbs, charred trunks of bodies,
showed here and there; none could guess how many victims lay dead and
mangled under those ruins.
Glenarvan, Paganel, the Major, Mangles, mixing with the
crowd, heard the current talk. Everyone tried to account for the accident,
while doing his utmost to save what could be saved.
"The bridge must have broken," said one.
"Not a bit of it. The bridge is whole enough; they must have
forgotten to close it to let the train pass. That is all."
It was, in fact, a swing bridge, which opened for the
convenience of the boats. Had the guard, by an unpardonable oversight,
omitted to close it for the passage of the train, so that the train, coming
on at full speed, was precipitated into the Loddon? This hypothesis seemed
very admissible; for although one-half of the bridge lay beneath the ruins
of the train, the other half, drawn up to the opposite shore, hung, still
unharmed, by its chains. No one could doubt that an oversight on the part of
the guard had caused the catastrophe.
The accident had occurred in the night, to the express train
which left Melbourne at 11:45 in the evening. About a quarter past three in
the morning, twenty-five minutes after leaving Castlemaine, it arrived at
Camden Bridge, where the terrible disaster befell. The passengers and guards
of the last and only remaining carriage at once tried to obtain help. But
the telegraph, whose posts were lying on the ground, could not be worked. It
was three hours before the authorities from Castlemaine reached the scene of
the accident, and it was six o'clock in the morning when the salvage party
was organized, under the direction of Mr. Mitchell, the surveyor-general of
the colony, and a detachment of police, commanded by an inspector. The
squatters and their "hands" lent their aid, and directed their efforts first
to extinguishing the fire which raged in the ruined heap with unconquerable
violence. A few unrecognizable bodies lay on the slope of the embankment,
but from that blazing mass no living thing could be saved. The fire had done
its work too speedily. Of the passengers ten only survived—those in the last
carriage. The railway authorities sent a locomotive to bring them back to
Castlemaine.
Lord Glenarvan, having introduced himself to the
surveyor-general, entered into conversation with him and the inspector of
police. The latter was a tall, thin man, im-perturbably cool, and, whatever
he may have felt, allowed no trace of it to appear on his features. He
contemplated this calamity as a mathematician does a problem; he was seeking
to solve it, and to find the unknown; and when Glenarvan observed, "This is
a great misfortune," he quietly replied, "Better than that, my Lord."
"Better than that?" cried Glenarvan. "I do not understand
you."
"It is better than a misfortune, it is a crime!" he replied,
in the same quiet tone.
Glenarvan looked inquiringly at Mr. Mitchell for a solution.
"Yes, my Lord," replied the surveyor-general, "our inquiries have resulted
in the conclusion that the catastrophe is the result of a crime. The last
luggage-van has been robbed. The surviving passengers were attacked by a
gang of five or six villains. The bridge was intentionally opened, and not
left open by the negligence of the guard; and connecting with this fact the
guard's disappearance, we may conclude that the wretched fellow was an
accomplice of these ruffians."
The police-officer shook his head at this inference.
"You do not agree with me?" said Mr. Mitchell.
"No, not as to the complicity of the guard."
"Well, but granting that complicity, we may attribute the
crime to the natives who haunt the Murray. Without him the blacks could
never have opened a swing-bridge; they know nothing of its mechanism."
"Exactly so," said the police-inspector.
"Well," added Mr. Mitchell, "we have the evidence of a
boatman whose boat passed Camden Bridge at 10:40 P. M., that the bridge was
properly shut after he passed."
"True."
"Well, after that I cannot see any doubt as to the
complicity of the guard."
The police-officer shook his head gently, but continuously.
"Then you don't attribute the crime to the natives?"
"Not at all."
"To whom then?"
Just at this moment a noise was heard from about half a mile
up the river. A crowd had gathered, and quickly increased. They soon reached
the station, and in their midst were two men carrying a corpse. It was the
body of the guard, quite cold, stabbed to the heart. The murderers had no
doubt hoped, by dragging their victim to a distance, that the police would
be put on a wrong scent in their first inquiries. This discovery, at any
rate, justified the doubts of the police-inspector. The poor blacks had had
no hand in the matter.
"Those who dealt that blow," said he, "were already well
used to this little instrument"; and so saying he produced a pair of
"darbies," a kind of handcuff made of a double ring of iron secured by a
lock. "I shall soon have the pleasure of presenting them with these
bracelets as a New Year's gift."
"Then you suspect—"
"Some folks who came out free in Her Majesty's ships."
"What! convicts?" cried Paganel, who recognized the formula
employed in the Australian colonies.
"I thought," said Glenarvan, "convicts had no right in the
province of Victoria."
"Bah!" said the inspector, "if they have no right, they take
it! They escape sometimes, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, this lot have
come straight from Perth, and, take my word for it, they will soon be there
again."
Mr. Mitchell nodded acquiescence in the words of the
police-inspector. At this moment the wagon arrived at the level crossing of
the railway. Glenarvan wished to spare the ladies the horrible spectacle at
Camden Bridge. He took courteous leave of the surveyor-general, and made a
sign to the rest to follow him. "There is no reason," said he, "for delaying
our journey."
When they reached the wagon, Glenarvan merely mentioned to
Lady Helena that there had been a railway accident, without a hint of the
crime that had played so great a part in it; neither did he make mention of
the presence of a band of convicts in the neighborhood, reserving that piece
of information solely for Ayrton's ear. The little procession now crossed
the railway some two hundred yards below the bridge, and then resumed their
eastward course.
CHAPTER XII TOLINE OF THE LACHLAN
ABOUT two miles from the railway,
the plain terminated in a range of low hills, and it was not long before the
wagon entered a succession of narrow gorges and capricious windings, out of
which it emerged into a most charming region, where grand trees, not closely
planted, but in scattered groups, were growing with absolutely tropical
luxuriance. As the party drove on they stumbled upon a little native boy
lying fast asleep beneath the shade of a magnificent banksia. He was dressed
in European garb, and seemed about eight years of age. There was no
mistaking the characteristic features of his race; the crisped hair, the
nearly black skin, the flattened nose, the thick lips, the unusual length of
the arms, immediately classed him among the aborigines of the interior. But
a degree of intelligence appeared in his face that showed some educational
influences must have been at work on his savage, untamed nature.
Lady Helena, whose interest was greatly excited by this
spectacle, got out of the wagon, followed by Mary, and presently the whole
company surrounded the peaceful little sleeper. "Poor child!" said Mary
Grant. "Is he lost, I wonder, in this desert?"
"I suppose," said Lady Helena, "he has come a long way to
visit this part. No doubt some he loves are here."
"But he can't be left here," added Robert. "We must—"
His compassionate sentence remained unfinished, for, just at
that moment the child turned over in his sleep, and, to the extreme surprise
of everybody, there was a large label on his shoulders, on which the
following was written:
TOLINE.
To be conducted to Echuca.
Care of Jeffries Smith, Railway Porter.
Prepaid.
"That's the English all over!"
exclaimed Paganel. "They send off a child just as they would luggage, and
book him like a parcel. I heard it was done, certainly; but I could not
believe it before."
"Poor child!" said Lady Helena. "Could he have been in the
train that got off the line at Camden Bridge? Perhaps his parents are
killed, and he is left alone in the world!"
"I don't think so, madam," replied John Mangles. "That card
rather goes to prove he was traveling alone."
"He is waking up!" said Mary.
And so he was. His eyes slowly opened and then closed again,
pained by the glare of light. But Lady Helena took his hand, and he jumped
up at once and looked about him in bewilderment at the sight of so many
strangers. He seemed half frightened at first, but the presence of Lady
Helena reassured him. "Do you understand English, my little man?" asked the
young lady.
"I understand it and speak it," replied the child in fluent
enough English, but with a marked accent. His pronunciation was like a
Frenchman's.
"What is your name?" asked Lady Helena.
"Toline," replied the little native.
"Toline!" exclaimed Paganel. "Ah! I think that means 'bark
of a tree' in Australian."
Toline nodded, and looked again at the travelers.
"Where do you come from?" inquired Lady Helena.
"From Melbourne, by the railway from Sandhurst."
"Were you in the accident at Camden Bridge?" said Glenarvan.
"Yes, sir," was Toline's reply; "but the God of the Bible
protected me."
"Are you traveling alone?"
"Yes, alone; the Reverend Paxton put me in charge of
Jeffries Smith; but unfortunately the poor man was killed."
"And you did not know any one else on the train?"
"No one, madam; but God watches over children and never
forsakes them."
Toline said this in soft, quiet tones, which went to the
heart. When he mentioned the name of God his voice was grave and his eyes
beamed with all the fervor that animated his young soul.
This religious enthusiasm at so tender an age was easily
explained. The child was one of the aborigines baptized by the English
missionaries, and trained by them in all the rigid principles of the
Methodist Church. His calm replies, proper behavior, and even his somber
garb made him look like a little reverend already.
But where was he going all alone in these solitudes and why
had he left
Camden Bridge? Lady Helena asked him about this.
"I was returning to my tribe in the Lachlan," he replied.
"I wished to see my family again."
"Are they Australians?" inquired John Mangles.
"Yes, Australians of the Lachlan," replied Toline.
"Have you a father and mother?" said Robert Grant.
"Yes, my brother," replied Toline, holding out his hand to
little Grant. Robert was so touched by the word brother that he kissed the
black child, and they were friends forthwith.
The whole party were so interested in these replies of the
little Australian savage that they all sat round him in a listening group.
But the sun had meantime sunk behind the tall trees, and as a few miles
would not greatly retard their progress, and the spot they were in would be
suitable for a halt, Glenarvan gave orders to prepare their camp for the
night at once. Ayrton unfastened the bullocks and turned them out to feed at
will. The tent was pitched, and Olbinett got the supper ready. Toline
consented, after some difficulty, to share it, though he was hungry enough.
He took his seat beside Robert, who chose out all the titbits for his new
friend. Toline accepted them with a shy grace that was very charming.
The conversation with him, however, was still kept up, for
everyone felt an interest in the child, and wanted to talk to him and hear
his history. It was simple enough. He was one of the poor native children
confided to the care of charitable societies by the neighboring tribes. The
Australian aborigines are gentle and inoffensive, never exhibiting the
fierce hatred toward their conquerors which characterizes the New
Zealanders, and possibly a few of the races of Northern Australia. They
often go to the large towns, such as Adelaide, Sydney and Melbourne, and
walk about in very primitive costume. They go to barter their few articles
of industry, hunting and fishing implements, weapons, etc., and some of the
chiefs, from pecuniary motives, no doubt, willingly leave their children to
profit by the advantages of a gratuitous education in English.
V. IV Verne
This was how Toline's parents had acted. They were true
Australian savages living in the Lachlan, a vast region lying beyond the
Murray. The child had been in Melbourne five years, and during that time had
never once seen any of his own people. And yet the imperishable feeling of
kindred was still so strong in his heart that he had dared to brave this
journey over the wilds to visit his tribe once more, scattered though
perchance it might be, and his family, even should he find it decimated.
"And after you have kissed your parents, are you coming back
to Melbourne?" asked Lady Glenarvan.
"Yes, Madam," replied Toline, looking at the lady with a
loving expression.
"And what are you going to be some day?" she continued.
"I am going to snatch my brothers from misery and ignorance.
I am going to teach them, to bring them to know and love God. I am going to
be a missionary."
Words like those, spoken with such animation from a child of
only eight years, might have provoked a smile in light, scoffing auditors,
but they were understood and appreciated by the grave Scotch, who admired
the courage of this young disciple, already armed for the battle. Even
Paganel was stirred to the depths of his heart, and felt his warmer sympathy
awakened for the poor child.
To speak the truth, up to that moment he did not care much
for a savage in European attire. He had not come to Australia to see
Australians in coats and trousers. He preferred them simply tattooed, and
this conventional dress jarred on his preconceived notions. But the child's
genuine religious fervor won him over completely. Indeed, the wind-up of the
conversation converted the worthy geographer into his best friend.
It was in reply to a question Lady Helena had asked, that
Toline said he was studying at the Normal School in Melbourne, and that the
principal was the Reverend Mr. Paxton.
"And what do they teach you?" she went on to say.
"They teach me the Bible, and mathematics, and geography."
Paganel pricked up his ears at this, and said, "Indeed,
geography!"
"Yes, sir," said Toline; "and I had the first prize for
geography before the Christmas holidays."
"You had the first prize for geography, my boy?"
"Yes, sir. Here it is," returned Toline, pulling a book out
of his pocket.
It was a bible, 32mo size, and well bound. On the first page
was written the words: "Normal School, Melbourne. First Prize for Geography.
Toline of the Lachlan."
Paganel was beside himself. An Australian well versed in
geography. This was marvelous, and he could not help kissing Toline on both
cheeks, just as if he had been the Reverend Mr. Paxton himself, on the day
of the distribution of prizes. Paganel need not have been so amazed at this
circumstance, however, for it is frequent enough in Australian schools. The
little savages are very quick in learning geography. They learn it eagerly,
and on the other hand, are perfectly averse to the science of arithmetic.
Toline could not understand this outburst of affection on
the part of the Frenchman, and looked so puzzled that Lady Helena thought
she had better inform him that Paganel was a celebrated geographer and a
distinguished professor on occasion.
"A professor of geography!" cried Toline. "Oh, sir, do
question me!"
"Question you? Well, I'd like nothing better. Indeed, I was
going to do it without your leave. I should very much like to see how they
teach geography in the Normal School of Melbourne."
"And suppose Toline trips you up, Paganel!" said McNabbs.
"What a likely idea!" exclaimed the geographer. "Trip up the
Secretary of the Geographical Society of France."
Their examination then commenced, after Paganel had settled
his spectacles firmly on his nose, drawn himself up to his full height, and
put on a solemn voice becoming to a professor.
"Pupil Toline, stand up."
As Toline was already standing, he could not get any higher,
but he waited modestly for the geographer's questions.
"Pupil Toline, what are the five divisions of the globe?"
"Oceanica, Asia, Africa, America, and Europe."
"Perfectly so. Now we'll take Oceanica first; where are we
at this moment? What are the principal divisions?"
"Australia, belonging to the English; New Zealand, belonging
to the English; Tasmania, belonging to the English. The islands of Chatham,
Auckland, Macquarie, Kermadec, Makin, Maraki, are also belonging to the
English."
"Very good, and New Caledonia, the Sandwich Islands, the
Mendana, the Pomotou?"
"They are islands under the Protectorate of Great Britain."
"What!" cried Paganel, "under the Protectorate of Great
Britain. I rather think on the contrary, that France—"
"France," said the child, with an astonished look.
"Well, well," said Paganel; "is that what they teach you in
the Melbourne Normal School?"
"Yes, sir. Isn't it right?"
"Oh, yes, yes, perfectly right. All Oceanica belongs to the
English. That's an understood thing. Go on."
Paganel's face betrayed both surprise and annoyance, to the
great delight of the Major.
"Let us go on to Asia," said the geographer.
"Asia," replied Toline, "is an immense country.
Capital—Calcutta. Chief Towns—Bombay, Madras, Calicut, Aden,
Malacca, Singapore, Pegu, Colombo. The Lacca-dive Islands,
the Maldives, the Chagos, etc., belonging to the English."
"Very good, pupil Toline. And now for Africa."
"Africa comprises two chief colonies—the Cape on the south,
capital Capetown; and on the west the English settlements, chief city,
Sierra Leone."
"Capital!" said Paganel, beginning to enter into this
perfectly taught but Anglo-colored fanciful geography. "As to Algeria,
Morocco, Egypt—they are all struck out of the Britannic cities."
"Let us pass on, pray, to America."
"It is divided," said Toline, promptly, "into North and
South America. The former belongs to the English in Canada, New Brunswick,
New Scotland, and the United States, under the government of President
Johnson."
"President Johnson," cried Paganel, "the successor of the
great and good Lincoln, assassinated by a mad fanatic of the slave party.
Capital; nothing could be better. And as to South America, with its Guiana,
its archipelago of South Shetland, its Georgia, Jamaica, Trinidad, etc.,
that belongs to the English, too! Well, I'll not be the one to dispute that
point! But, Toline, I should like to know your opinion of Europe, or rather
your professor's."
"Europe?" said Toline not at all understanding Paganel's
excitement.
"Yes, Europe! Who does Europe belong to?"
"Why, to the English," replied Toline, as if the fact was
quite settled.
"I much doubt it," returned Paganel. "But how's that,
Toline, for I want to know that?"
"England, Ireland, Scotland, Malta, Jersey and Guern-sey,
the Ionian Islands, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, and the Orkneys."
"Yes, yes, my lad; but there are other states you forgot to
mention."
"What are they?" replied the child, not the least
disconcerted.
"Spain, Russia, Austria, Prussia, France," answered Paganel.
"They are provinces, not states," said Toline.
"Well, that beats all!" exclaimed Paganel, tearing off his
spectacles.
"Yes," continued the child. "Spain—capital, Gibraltar."
"Admirable! perfect! sublime! And France, for I am French,
and I should like to know to whom I belong."
"France," said Toline, quietly, "is an English province;
chief city, Calais."
"Calais!" cried Paganel. "So you think Calais still belongs
to the English?"
"Certainly."
"And that it is the capital of France?"
"Yes, sir; and it is there that the Governor, Lord
Napo-leon, lives."
This was too much for Paganel's risible faculties. He burst
out laughing. Toline did not know what to make of him. He had done his best
to answer every question put to him. But the singularity of the answers were
not his blame; indeed, he never imagined anything singular about them.
However, he took it all quietly, and waited for the professor to recover
himself. These peals of laughter were quite incomprehensible to him.
"You see," said Major McNabbs, laughing, "I was right.
The pupil could enlighten you after all."
"Most assuredly, friend Major," replied the geographer. "So
that's the way they teach geography in Melbourne! They do it well, these
professors in the Normal School! Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Oceanica,
the whole world belongs to the English. My conscience! with such an
ingenious education it is no wonder the natives submit. Ah, well, Toline, my
boy, does the moon belong to England, too?"
"She will, some day," replied the young savage, gravely.
This was the climax. Paganel could not stand any more. He
was obliged to go away and take his laugh out, for he was actually exploding
with mirth, and he went fully a quarter of a mile from the encampment before
his equilibrium was restored.
Meanwhile, Glenarvan looked up a geography they had brought
among their books. It was "Richardson's Compendium," a work in great repute
in England, and more in agreement with modern science than the manual in use
in the Normal School in Melbourne.
"Here, my child," he said to Toline, "take this book and
keep it. You have a few wrong ideas about geography, which it would be well
for you to rectify. I will give you this as a keepsake from me."
Toline took the book silently; but, after examining it
attentively, he shook his head with an air of incredulity, and could not
even make up his mind to put it in his pocket.
By this time night had closed in; it was 10 P. M. and time
to think of rest, if they were to start betimes next day. Robert offered his
friend Toline half his bed, and the little fellow accepted it. Lady Helena
and Mary Grant withdrew to the wagon, and the others lay down in the tent,
Paganel's merry peals still mingling with the low, sweet song of the wild
magpie.
But in the morning at six o'clock, when the sunshine wakened
the sleepers,
they looked in vain for the little Australian. Toline had disappeared.
Was he in haste to get to the Lachlan district? or was he hurt by
Paganel's laughter? No one could say.
But when Lady Helena opened her eyes she discovered a fresh
branch of mimosa leaves lying across her, and Paganel found a book in his
vest pocket, which turned out to be "Richardson's Geography."
CHAPTER XIII A WARNING
ON the 2d of January, at sunrise,
the travelers forded the Colban and the Caupespe rivers. The half of their
journey was now accomplished. In fifteen days more, should their journey
continue to be prosperous, the little party would reach Twofold Bay.
They were all in good health. All that Paganel said of the
hygienic qualities of the climate was realized. There was little or no
humidity, and the heat was quite bearable. Neither horses nor bullocks could
complain of it any more than human beings. The order of the march had been
changed in one respect since the affair of Camden Bridge. That criminal
catastrophe on the railway made Ayrton take sundry precautions, which had
hitherto been unnecessary. The hunters never lost sight of the wagon, and
whenever they camped, one was always placed on watch. Morning and evening
the firearms were primed afresh. It was certain that a gang of ruffians was
prowling about the country, and though there was no cause for actual fear,
it was well to be ready for whatever might happen.
It need hardly be said these precautions were adopted
without the knowledge of Lady Helena and Mary Grant, as Lord Glenarvan did
not wish to alarm them.
They were by no means unnecessary, however, for any
imprudence or carelessness might have cost the travelers dear. Others beside
Glenarvan were on their guard. In lonely settlements and on stations, the
inhabitants and the squatters prepared carefully against any attack or
surprise. Houses are closed at nightfall; the dogs let loose inside the
fences, barked at the slightest sound. Not a single shepherd on horseback
gathered his numerous flocks together at close of day, without having a
carbine slung from his saddle.
The outrage at Camden Bridge was the reason for all this,
and many a colonist fastened himself in with bolts and bars now at dusk, who
used to sleep with open doors and windows.
The Government itself displayed zeal and prudence,
especially in the Post-office department. On this very day, just as
Glenarvan and his party were on their way from Kilmore to Heathcote, the
mail dashed by at full speed; but though the horses were at a gallop,
Glenarvan caught sight of the glittering weapons of the mounted police that
rode by its side, as they swept past in a cloud of dust. The travelers might
have fancied themselves back in those lawless times when the discovery of
the first gold-fields deluged the Australian continent with the scum of
Europe.
A mile beyond the road to Kilmore, the wagon, for the first
time since leaving Cape Bernouilli, struck into one of those forests of
gigantic trees which extend over a super-fices of several degrees. A cry of
admiration escaped the travelers at the sight of the eucalyptus trees, two
hundred feet high, with tough bark five inches thick. The trunks, measuring
twenty feet round, and furrowed with foamy streaks of an odorous resin, rose
one hundred and fifty feet above the soil. Not a branch, not a twig, not a
stray shoot, not even a knot, spoilt the regularity of their outline. They
could not have come out smoother from the hands of a turner. They stood like
pillars all molded exactly alike, and could be counted by hundreds. At an
enormous height they spread out in chaplets of branches, rounded and adorned
at their extremity with alternate leaves. At the axle of these leaves
solitary flowers drooped down, the calyx of which resembles an inverted urn.
Under this leafy dome, which never lost its greenness, the
air circulated freely, and dried up the dampness of the ground. Horses,
cattle, and wagon could easily pass between the trees, for they were
standing in wide rows, and parceled out like a wood that was being felled.
This was neither like the densely-packed woods choked up with brambles, nor
the virgin forest barricaded with the trunks of fallen trees, and overgrown
with inextricable tangles of creepers, where only iron and fire could open
up a track. A grassy carpet at the foot of the trees, and a canopy of
verdure above, long perspectives of bold colors, little shade, little
freshness at all, a peculiar light, as if the rays came through a thin veil,
dappled lights and shades sharply reflected on the ground, made up a whole,
and constituted a peculiar spectacle rich in novel effects. The forests of
the Oceanic continent do not in the least resemble the forests of the New
World; and the Eucalyptus, the "Tara" of the aborigines, belonging to the
family of MYRTACEA, the different varieties of which can hardly be
enumerated, is the tree par excellence of the Australian flora.
The reason of the shade not being deep, nor the darkness
profound, under these domes of verdure, was that these trees presented a
curious anomaly in the disposition of the leaves. Instead of presenting
their broad surface to the sunlight, only the side is turned. Only the
profile of the leaves is seen in this singular foliage. Consequently the
sun's rays slant down them to the earth, as if through the open slants of a
Venetian blind.
Glenarvan expressed his surprise at this circumstance, and
wondered what could be the cause of it. Paganel, who was never at a loss for
an answer, immediately replied:
"What astonishes me is not the caprice of nature. She knows
what she is about, but botanists don't always know what they are saying.
Nature made no mistake in giving this peculiar foliage to the tree, but men
have erred in calling them EUCALYPTUS."
"What does the word mean?" asked Mary Grant.
"It comes from a Greek word, meaning I cover well.
They took care to commit the mistake in Greek, that it might not be so
self-evident, for anyone can see that the ecualyptus covers badly."
"I agree with you there," said Glenarvan; "but now tell us,
Paganel, how it is that the leaves grow in this fashion?"
"From a purely physical cause, friends," said Paganel, "and
one that you will easily understand. In this country where the air is dry
and rain seldom falls, and the ground is parched, the trees have no need of
wind or sun. Moisture lacking, sap is lacking also. Hence these narrow
leaves, which seek to defend themselves against the light, and prevent too
great evaporation. This is why they present the profile and not the face to
the sun's rays. There is nothing more intelligent than a leaf."
"And nothing more selfish," added the Major. "These only
thought of themselves, and not at all of travelers."
Everyone inclined to the opinion of McNabbs except Paganel,
who congratulated himself on walking under shadeless trees, though all the
time he was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. However, this
disposition of foliage was certainly to be regretted, for the journey
through the forest was often long and painful, as the traveler had no
protection whatever against the sun's fierce rays.
The whole of this day the wagon continued to roll along
through interminable rows of eucalyptus, without meeting either quadruped or
native. A few cockatoos lived in the tops of the trees, but at such a height
they could scarcely be distinguished, and their noisy chatter was changed
into an imperceptible murmur. Occasionally a swarm of par-roquets flew along
a distant path, and lighted it up for an instant with gay colors; but
otherwise, solemn silence reigned in this vast green temple, and the tramp
of the horses, a few words exchanged with each other by the riders, the
grinding noise of the wheels, and from time to time a cry from Ayrton to
stir up his lazy team, were the only sounds which disturbed this immense
solitude.
When night came they camped at the foot of some eucalyptus,
which bore marks of a comparatively recent fire. They looked like tall
factory chimneys, for the flame had completely hollowed them out their whole
length. With the thick bark still covering them, they looked none the worse.
However, this bad habit of squatters or natives will end in the destruction
of these magnificent trees, and they will disappear like the cedars of
Lebanon, those world monuments burnt by unlucky camp fires.
Olbinett, acting on Paganel's advice, lighted his fire to
prepare supper in one of these tubular trunks. He found it drew capitally,
and the smoke was lost in the dark foliage above. The requisite precautions
were taken for the night, and Ayrton, Mulrady, Wilson and John Mangles
undertook in turn to keep watch until sunrise.
On the 3d of January, all day long, they came to nothing but
the same symmetrical avenues of trees; it seemed as if they never were going
to end. However, toward evening the ranks of trees began to thin, and on a
little plain a few miles off an assemblage of regular houses.
"Seymour!" cried Paganel; "that is the last town we come to
in the province of Victoria."
"Is it an important one?" asked Lady Helena.
"It is a mere village, madam, but on the way to become a
municipality."
"Shall we find a respectable hotel there?" asked Glenarvan.
"I hope so," replied Paganel.
"Very well; let us get on to the town, for our fair
travelers, with all their courage, will not be sorry, I fancy, to have a
good night's rest."
"My dear Edward, Mary and I will accept it gladly, but only
on the condition that it will cause no delay, or take us the least out of
the road."
"It will do neither," replied Lord Glenarvan. "Besides, our
bullocks are fatigued, and we will start to-morrow at daybreak."
It was now nine o'clock; the moon was just beginning to
rise, but her rays were only slanting yet, and lost in the mist. It was
gradually getting dark when the little party entered the wide streets of
Seymour, under Paganel's guidance, who seemed always to know what he had
never seen; but his instinct led him right, and he walked straight to
Campbell's North British Hotel.
The Major without even leaving the hotel, was soon aware
that fear absorbed the inhabitants of the little town. Ten minutes'
conversation with Dickson, the loquacious landlord, made him completely
acquainted with the actual state of affairs; but he never breathed a word to
any one.
When supper was over, though, and Lady Glenarvan, and Mary,
and Robert had retired, the Major detained his companions a little, and
said, "They have found out the perpetrators of the crime on the Sandhurst
railroad."
"And are they arrested?" asked Ayrton, eagerly.
"No," replied McNabbs, without apparently noticing the
EMPRESSMENT of the quartermaster—an EMPRESSMENT which, moreover, was
reasonable enough under the circumstances.
"So much the worse," replied Ayrton.
"Well," said Glenarvan, "who are the authors of the crime?"
"Read," replied the Major, offering Glenarvan a copy of the
Australian and New Zealand Gazette, "and you will see that the
inspector of the police was not mistaken."
Glenarvan read aloud the following message:
SYDNEY, Jan. 2, 1866.
It will be remembered that on the
night of the 29th or 30th of last December there was an accident at Camden
Bridge, five miles beyond the station at Castlemaine, on the railway from
Melbourne to Sandhurst. The night express, 11.45, dashing along at full
speed, was precipitated into the Loddon River.
Camden Bridge had been left open. The numerous robberies
committed after the accident, the body of the guard picked up about half a
mile from Camden Bridge, proved that this catastrophe was the result of a
crime.
Indeed, the coroner's inquest decided that the crime must be
attributed to the band of convicts which escaped six months ago from the
Penitentiary at Perth, Western Australia, just as they were about to be
transferred to Norfolk Island.
The gang numbers twenty-nine men; they are under the command
of a certain Ben Joyce, a criminal of the most dangerous class, who arrived
in Australia a few months ago, by what ship is not known, and who has
hitherto succeeded in evading the hands of justice.
The inhabitants of towns, colonists and squatters at
stations, are hereby cautioned to be on their guard, and to communicate to
the Surveyor-General any information that may aid his search. J. P.
MITCHELL, S. G.
When Glenarvan had finished reading
this article, McNabbs turned to the geographer and said, "You see, Paganel,
there can be convicts in Australia."
"Escaped convicts, that is evident," replied Paganel, "but
not regularly transported criminals. Those fellows have no business here."
"Well, they are here, at any rate," said Glenarvan; "but I
don't suppose the fact need materially alter our arrangements. What do you
think, John?"
John Mangles did not reply immediately; he hesitated between
the sorrow it would cause the two children to give up the search, and the
fear of compromising the expedition.
"If Lady Glenarvan, and Miss Grant were not with us," he
said,
"I should not give myself much concern about these wretches."
Glenarvan understood him and added, "Of course I need not
say that it is not a question of giving up our task; but would it perhaps be
prudent, for the sake of our companions, to rejoin the DUNCAN at Melbourne,
and proceed with our search for traces of Harry Grant on the eastern side.
What do you think of it, McNabbs?"
"Before I give my opinion," replied the Major, "I should
like to hear Ayrton's."
At this direct appeal, the quartermaster looked at
Glenarvan, and said, "I think we are two hundred miles from Melbourne, and
that the danger, if it exists, is as great on the route to the south as on
the route to the east. Both are little frequented, and both will serve us.
Besides, I do not think that thirty scoundrels can frighten eight
well-armed, determined men. My advice, then, is to go forward."
"And good advice too, Ayrton," replied Paganel. "By going on
we may come across the traces of Captain Grant. In returning south, on the
contrary, we turn our backs to them. I think with you, then, and I don't
care a snap for these escaped fellows. A brave man wouldn't care a bit for
them!"
Upon this they agreed with the one voice to follow their
original programme.
"Just one thing, my Lord," said Ayrton, when they were about
to separate.
"Say on, Ayrton."
"Wouldn't it be advisable to send orders to the DUNCAN to be
at the coast?"
"What good would that be," replied John Mangles. "When we
reach Twofold Bay it will be time enough for that. If any unexpected event
should oblige us to go to Melbourne, we might be sorry not to find the
DUNCAN there. Besides, her injuries can not be repaired yet. For these
reasons, then, I think it would be better to wait."
"All right," said Ayrton, and forbore to press the matter
further.
CHAPTER XIV WEALTH IN THE
WILDERNESS
ON January 6, at 7 A. M., after a
tranquil night passed in longitude 146 degrees 15", the travelers continued
their journey across the vast district. They directed their course steadily
toward the rising sun, and made a straight line across the plain. Twice over
they came upon the traces of squatters going toward the north, and their
different footprints became confused, and Glenarvan's horse no longer left
on the dust the Blackpoint mark, recognizable by its double shamrock.
The plain was furrowed in some places by fantastic winding
creeks surrounded by box, and whose waters were rather temporary than
permanent. They originated in the slopes of the Buffalo Ranges, a chain of
mountains of moderate height, the undulating line of which was visible on
the horizon. It was resolved to camp there the same night. Ayrton goaded on
his team, and after a journey of thirty-five miles, the bullocks arrived,
somewhat fatigued. The tent was pitched beneath the great trees, and as
night had drawn on supper was served as quickly as possible, for all the
party cared more for sleeping than eating, after such a day's march.
Paganel who had the first watch did not lie down, but
shouldered his rifle and walked up and down before the camp, to keep himself
from going to sleep. In spite of the absence of the moon, the night was
almost luminous with the light of the southern constellations. The SAVANT
amused himself with reading the great book of the firmament, a book which is
always open, and full of interest to those who can read it. The profound
silence of sleeping nature was only interrupted by the clanking of the
hobbles on the horses' feet.
Paganel was engrossed in his astronomical meditations, and
thinking more about the celestial than the terrestrial world, when a distant
sound aroused him from his reverie. He listened attentively, and to his
great amaze, fancied he heard the sounds of a piano. He could not be
mistaken, for he distinctly heard chords struck.
"A piano in the wilds!" said Paganel to himself.
"I can never believe it is that."
It certainly was very surprising, but Paganel found it
easier to believe it was some Australian bird imitating the sounds of a
Pleyel or Erard, as others do the sounds of a clock or mill. But at this
very moment, the notes of a clear ringing voice rose on the air. The PIANIST
was accompanied by singing. Still Paganel was unwilling to be convinced.
However, next minute he was forced to admit the fact, for there fell on his
ear the sublime strains of Mozart's "Il mio tesoro tanto" from Don Juan.
"Well, now," said the geographer to himself, "let the
Australian birds be as queer as they may, and even granting the paroquets
are the most musical in the world, they can't sing Mozart!"
He listened to the sublime inspiration of the great master
to the end. The effect of this soft melody on the still clear night was
indescribable. Paganel remained as if spellbound for a time; the voice
ceased and all was silence. When Wilson came to relieve the watch, he found
the geographer plunged into a deep reverie. Paganel made no remark, however,
to the sailor, but reserved his information for Glenarvan in the morning,
and went into the tent to bed.
Next day, they were all aroused from sleep by the sudden
loud barking of dogs, Glenarvan got up forthwith. Two magnificent pointers,
admirable specimens of English hunting dogs, were bounding in front of the
little wood, into which they had retreated at the approach of the travelers,
redoubling their clamor.
"There is some station in this desert, then," said
Glenarvan, "and hunters too, for these are regular setters."
Paganel was just about to recount his nocturnal experiences,
when two young men appeared, mounted on horses of the most perfect breed,
true "hunters."
The two gentlemen dressed in elegant hunting costume,
stopped at the sight of the little group camping in gipsy fashion. They
looked as if they wondered what could bring an armed party there, but when
they saw the ladies get out of the wagon, they dismounted instantly, and
went toward them hat in hand. Lord Glenarvan came to meet them, and, as a
stranger, announced his name and rank.
The gentlemen bowed, and the elder of them said, "My Lord,
will not these ladies and yourself and friends honor us by resting a little
beneath our roof?"
"Mr.—," began Glenarvan.
"Michael and Sandy Patterson are our names, proprietors of
Hottam Station. Our house is scarcely a quarter of a mile distant."
"Gentlemen," replied Glenarvan, "I should not like to abuse
such kindly-offered hospitality."
"My Lord," returned Michael Patterson, "by accepting it you
will confer a favor on poor exiles, who will be only too happy to do the
honors of the wilds."
Glenarvan bowed in token of acquiescence.
"Sir," said Paganel, addressing Michael Patterson, "if it is
not an impudent question, may I ask whether it was you that sung an air from
the divine Mozart last night?"
"It was, sir," replied the stranger, "and my cousin Sandy
accompanied me."
"Well, sir," replied Paganel, holding out his hand to the
young man, "receive the sincere compliments of a Frenchman, who is a
passionate admirer of this music."
Michael grasped his hand cordially, and then pointing out
the road to take, set off, accompanied by the ladies and Lord Glenarvan and
his friends, for the station. The horses and the camp were left to the care
of Ayrton and the sailors.
Hottam Station was truly a magnificent establishment, kept
as scrupulously in order as an English park. Immense meadows, enclosed in
gray fences, stretched away out of sight. In these, thousands of bullocks
and millions of sheep were grazing, tended by numerous shepherds, and still
more numerous dogs. The crack of the stock-whip mingled continually with the
barking of the "collies" and the bellowing and bleating of the cattle and
sheep.
Toward the east there was a boundary of myalls and
gum-trees, beyond which rose Mount Hottam, its imposing peak towering 7,500
feet high. Long avenues of green trees were visible on all sides. Here and
there was a thick clump of "grass trees," tall bushes ten feet high, like
the dwarf palm, quite lost in their crown of long narrow leaves. The air was
balmy and odorous with the perfume of scented laurels, whose white blossoms,
now in full bloom, distilled on the breeze the finest aromatic perfume.
To these charming groups of native trees were added
transplantations from European climates. The peach, pear, and apple trees
were there, the fig, the orange, and even the oak, to the rapturous delight
of the travelers, who greeted them with loud hurrahs! But astonished as the
travelers were to find themselves walking beneath the shadow of the trees of
their own native land, they were still more so at the sight of the birds
that flew about in the branches— the "satin bird," with its silky plumage,
and the "king-honeysuckers," with their plumage of gold and black velvet.
For the first time, too, they saw here the "Lyre" bird, the
tail of which resembles in form the graceful instrument of Orpheus. It flew
about among the tree ferns, and when its tail struck the branches, they were
almost surprised not to hear the harmonious strains that inspired Amphion to
rebuild the walls of Thebes. Paganel had a great desire to play on it.
However, Lord Glenarvan was not satisfied with admiring the
fairy-like wonders of this oasis, improvised in the Australian desert. He
was listening to the history of the young gentlemen. In England, in the
midst of civilized countries, the new comer acquaints his host whence he
comes and whither he is going; but here, by a refinement of delicacy,
Michael and Sandy Patterson thought it a duty to make themselves known to
the strangers who were about to receive their hospitality.
Michael and Sandy Patterson were the sons of London bankers.
When they were twenty years of age, the head of their family said,
"Here are some thousands, young men. Go to a distant colony;
and start some useful settlement there. Learn to know life by labor.
If you succeed, so much the better. If you fail, it won't matter much.
We shall not regret the money which makes you men."
The two young men obeyed. They chose the colony of Victoria
in Australia, as the field for sowing the paternal bank-notes, and had no
reason to repent the selection. At the end of three years the establishment
was flourishing. In Victoria, New South Wales, and Southern Australia, there
are more than three thousand stations, some belonging to squatters who rear
cattle, and others to settlers who farm the ground. Till the arrival of the
two Pattersons, the largest establishment of this sort was that of Mr.
Jamieson, which covered an area of seventy-five miles, with a frontage of
about eight miles along the Peron, one of the affluents of the Darling.
Now Hottam Station bore the palm for business and extent.
The young men were both squatters and settlers. They managed their immense
property with rare ability and uncommon energy.
The station was far removed from the chief towns in the
V. IV Verne midst of the unfrequented districts of the
Murray. It occupied a long wide space of five leagues in extent, lying
between the Buffalo Ranges and Mount Hottam. At the two angles north of this
vast quadrilateral, Mount Aberdeen rose on the left, and the peaks of High
Barven on the right. Winding, beautiful streams were not wanting, thanks to
the creeks and affluents of the Oven's River, which throws itself at the
north into the bed of the Murray. Consequently they were equally successful
in cattle breeding and farming. Ten thousand acres of ground, admirably
cultivated, produced harvests of native productions and exotics, and several
millions of animals fattened in the fertile pastures. The products of Hottam
Station fetched the very highest price in the markets of Castlemaine and
Melbourne.
Michael and Sandy Patterson had just concluded these details
of their busy life, when their dwelling came in sight, at the extremity of
the avenue of the oaks.
It was a charming house, built of wood and brick, hidden in
groves of emerophilis. Nothing at all, however, belonging to a station was
visible—neither sheds, nor stables, nor cart-houses. All these
out-buildings, a perfect village, comprising more than twenty huts and
houses, were about a quarter of a mile off in the heart of a little valley.
Electric communication was established between this village and the master's
house, which, far removed from all noise, seemed buried in a forest of
exotic trees.
At Sandy Patterson's bidding, a sumptuous breakfast was
served in less than a quarter of an hour. The wines and viands were of the
finest quality; but what pleased the guests most of all in the midst of
these refinements of opulence, was the joy of the young squatters in
offering them this splendid hospitality.
It was not long before they were told the history of the
expedition, and had their liveliest interest awakened for its success. They
spoke hopefully to the young Grants, and Michael said: "Harry Grant has
evidently fallen into the hands of natives, since he has not turned up at
any of the settlements on the coast. He knows his position exactly, as the
document proves, and the reason he did not reach some English colony is that
he must have been taken prisoner by the savages the moment he landed!"
"That is precisely what befell his quartermaster, Ayrton,"
said John Mangles.
"But you, gentlemen, then, have never heard the catastrophe
of the BRITANNIA, mentioned?" inquired Lady Helena.
"Never, Madam," replied Michael.
"And what treatment, in your opinion, has Captain Grant met
with among the natives?"
"The Australians are not cruel, Madam," replied the young
squatter, "and Miss Grant may be easy on that score. There have been many
instances of the gentleness of their nature, and some Europeans have lived a
long time among them without having the least cause to complain of their
brutality."
"King, among others, the sole survivor of the Burke
expedition," put in Paganel.
"And not only that bold explorer," returned Sandy, "but also
an English soldier named Buckley, who deserted at Port Philip in 1803, and
who was welcomed by the natives, and lived thirty-three years among them."
"And more recently," added Michael," one of the last numbers
of the AUSTRALASIA informs us that a certain Morrilli has just been restored
to his countrymen after sixteen years of slavery. His story is exactly
similar to the captain's, for it was at the very time of his shipwreck in
the PRUVIENNE, in 1846, that he was made prisoner by the natives, and
dragged away into the interior of the continent. I therefore think you have
reason to hope still."
The young squatter's words caused great joy to his auditors.
They completely corroborated the opinions of Paganel and Ayrton.
The conversation turned on the convicts after the ladies had
left the table. The squatters had heard of the catastrophe at Camden Bridge,
but felt no uneasiness about the escaped gang. It was not a station, with
more than a hundred men on it, that they would dare to attack. Besides, they
would never go into the deserts of the Murray, where they could find no
booty, nor near the colonies of New South Wales, where the roads were too
well watched. Ayrton had said this too.
Glenarvan could not refuse the request of his amiable hosts,
to spend the whole day at the station. It was twelve hours' delay, but also
twelve hours' rest, and both horses and bullocks would be the better for the
comfortable quarters they would find there. This was accordingly agreed
upon, and the young squatters sketched out a programme of the day's
amusements, which was adopted eagerly.
At noon, seven vigorous hunters were before the door. An
elegant brake was intended for the ladies, in which the coachman could
exhibit his skill in driving four-in-hand. The cavalcade set off preceded by
huntsmen, and armed with first-rate rifles, followed by a pack of pointers
barking joyously as they bounded through the bushes. For four hours the
hunting party wandered through the paths and avenues of the park, which was
as large as a small German state. The Reuiss-Schleitz, or Saxe-Coburg Gotha,
would have gone inside it comfortably. Few people were to be met in it
certainly, but sheep in abundance. As for game, there was a complete
preserve awaiting the hunters. The noisy reports of guns were soon heard on
all sides. Little Robert did wonders in company with Major McNabbs. The
daring boy, in spite of his sister's injunctions, was always in front, and
the first to fire. But John Mangles promised to watch over him, and Mary
felt less uneasy.
During this BATTUE they killed certain animals peculiar to
the country, the very names of which were unknown to Paganel; among others
the "wombat" and the "bandicoot." The wombat is an herbivorous animal, which
burrows in the ground like a badger. It is as large as a sheep, and the
flesh is excellent.
The bandicoot is a species of marsupial animal which could
outwit the European fox, and give him lessons in pillaging poultry yards. It
was a repulsive-looking animal, a foot and a half long, but, as Paganel
chanced to kill it, of course he thought it charming.
"An adorable creature," he called it.
But the most interesting event of the day, by far, was the
kangaroo hunt. About four o'clock, the dogs roused a troop of these curious
marsupials. The little ones retreated precipitately into the maternal pouch,
and all the troop decamped in file. Nothing could be more astonishing than
the enormous bounds of the kangaroo. The hind legs of the animal are twice
as long as the front ones, and unbend like a spring. At the head of the
flying troop was a male five feet high, a magnificent specimen of the
macropus giganteus, an "old man," as the bushmen say.
For four or five miles the chase was vigorously pursued. The
kangaroos showed no signs of weariness, and the dogs, who had reason enough
to fear their strong paws and sharp nails, did not care to approach them.
But at last, worn out with the race, the troop stopped, and the "old man"
leaned against the trunk of a tree, ready to defend himself. One of the
pointers, carried away by excitement, went up to him. Next minute the
unfortunate beast leaped into the air, and fell down again completely ripped
up.
The whole pack, indeed, would have had little chance with
these powerful marsupia. They had to dispatch the fellow with rifles.
Nothing but balls could bring down the gigantic animal.
Just at this moment, Robert was well nigh the victim of his
own imprudence. To make sure of his aim, he had approached too near the
kangaroo, and the animal leaped upon him immediately. Robert gave a loud cry
and fell. Mary Grant saw it all from the brake, and in an agony of terror,
speechless and almost unable even to see, stretched out her arms toward her
little brother. No one dared to fire, for fear of wounding the child.
But John Mangles opened his hunting knife, and at the risk
of being ripped up himself, sprang at the animal, and plunged it into his
heart. The beast dropped forward, and Robert rose unhurt. Next minute he was
in his sister's arms.
"Thank you, Mr. John, thank you!" she said, holding out her
hand to the young captain.
"I had pledged myself for his safety," was all John said,
taking her trembling fingers into his own.
This occurrence ended the sport. The band of marsupia
had disappeared after the death of their leader.
The hunting party returned home, bringing their game with them.
It was then six o'clock. A magnificent dinner was ready.
Among other things, there was one dish that was a great success.
It was kangaroo-tail soup, prepared in the native manner.
Next morning very early, they took leave of the young
squatters, with hearty thanks and a positive promise from them of a visit to
Malcolm Castle when they should return to Europe.
Then the wagon began to move away, round the foot of Mount
Hottam, and soon the hospitable dwelling disappeared from the sight of the
travelers like some brief vision which had come and gone.
For five miles further, the horses were still treading the
station lands. It was not till nine o'clock that they had passed the last
fence, and entered the almost unknown districts of the province of Victoria.
CHAPTER XV SUSPICIOUS OCCURRENCES
AN immense barrier lay across the
route to the southeast. It was the Australian Alps, a vast fortification,
the fantastic curtain of which extended 1,500 miles, and pierced the clouds
at the height of 4,000 feet.
The cloudy sky only allowed the heat to reach the ground
through a close veil of mist. The temperature was just bearable, but the
road was toilsome from its uneven character. The extumescences on the plain
became more and more marked. Several mounds planted with green young gum
trees appeared here and there. Further on these protuberances rising
sharply, formed the first steps of the great Alps. From this time their
course was a continual ascent, as was soon evident in the strain it made on
the bullocks to drag along the cumbrous wagon. Their yoke creaked, they
breathed heavily, and the muscles of their houghs were stretched as if they
would burst. The planks of the vehicle groaned at the unexpected jolts,
which Ayrton with all his skill could not prevent. The ladies bore their
share of discomfort bravely.
John Mangles and his two sailors acted as scouts, and went
about a hundred steps in advance. They found out practical paths, or passes,
indeed they might be called, for these projections of the ground were like
so many rocks, between which the wagon had to steer carefully. It required
absolute navigation to find a safe way over the billowy region.
It was a difficult and often perilous task. Many a time
Wilson's hatchet was obliged to open a passage through thick tangles of
shrubs. The damp argillaceous soil gave way under their feet. The route was
indefinitely prolonged owing to the insurmountable obstacles, huge blocks of
granite, deep ravines, suspected lagoons, which obliged them to make a
thousand detours. When night came they found they had only gone over half a
degree. They camped at the foot of the Alps, on the banks of the creek of
Cobongra, on the edge of a little plain, covered with little shrubs four
feet high, with bright red leaves which gladdened the eye.
"We shall have hard work to get over," said Glenarvan,
looking at the chain of mountains, the outlines of which were fast fading
away in the deepening darkness. "The very name Alps gives plenty of room for
reflection."
"It is not quite so big as it sounds, my dear Glenarvan.
Don't suppose you have a whole Switzerland to traverse. In Australia there
are the Grampians, the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Blue Mountains, as in Europe
and America, but in miniature. This simply implies either that the
imagination of geographers is not infinite, or that their vocabulary of
proper names is very poor."
"Then these Australian Alps," said Lord Glenarvan, "are—"
"Mere pocket mountains," put in Paganel; "we shall get over
them without knowing it."
"Speak for yourself," said the Major. "It would certainly
take a very absent man who could cross over a chain of mountains and not
know it."
"Absent! But I am not an absent man now. I appeal to the
ladies. Since ever I set foot on the Australian continent, have I been once
at fault? Can you reproach me with a single blunder?"
"Not one. Monsieur Paganel," said Mary Grant. "You are now
the most perfect of men."
"Too perfect," added Lady Helena, laughing; "your blunders
suited you admirably."
"Didn't they, Madam? If I have no faults now, I shall soon
get like everybody else. I hope then I shall make some outrageous mistake
before long, which will give you a good laugh. You see, unless I make
mistakes, it seems to me I fail in my vocation."
Next day, the 9th of January, notwithstanding the assurances
of the confident geographer, it was not without great difficulty that the
little troop made its way through the Alpine pass. They were obliged to go
at a venture, and enter the depths of narrow gorges without any certainty of
an outlet. Ayrton would doubtless have found himself very much embarrassed
if a little inn, a miserable public house, had not suddenly presented
itself.
"My goodness!" cried Paganel, "the landlord of this inn
won't make his fortune in a place like this. What is the use of it here?"
"To give us the information we want about the route,"
replied Glenarvan. "Let us go in."
Glenarvan, followed by Ayrton, entered the inn forthwith.
The landlord of the "Bush Inn," as it was called, was a coarse man with an
ill-tempered face, who must have considered himself his principal customer
for the gin, brandy and whisky he had to sell. He seldom saw any one but the
squatters and rovers. He answered all the questions put to him in a surly
tone. But his replies sufficed to make the route clear to Ayrton, and that
was all that was wanted. Glenarvan rewarded him with a handful of silver for
his trouble, and was about to leave the tavern, when a placard against the
wall arrested his attention.
It was a police notice, and announcing the escape of the
convicts from Perth, and offering a reward for the capture of Ben Joyce of
pounds 100 sterling.
"He's a fellow that's worth hanging, and no mistake," said
Glenarvan to the quartermaster.
"And worth capturing still more. But what a sum to offer!
He is not worth it!"
"I don't feel very sure of the innkeeper though, in spite of
the notice," said Glenarvan.
"No more do I," replied Ayrton.
They went back to the wagon, toward the point where the
route to Lucknow stopped. A narrow path wound away from this which led
across the chain in a slanting direction. They had commenced the ascent.
It was hard work. More than once both the ladies and
gentlemen had to get down and walk. They were obliged to help to push round
the wheels of the heavy vehicle, and to support it frequently in dangerous
declivities, to unhar-ness the bullocks when the team could not go well
round sharp turnings, prop up the wagon when it threatened to roll back, and
more than once Ayrton had to reinforce his bullocks by harnessing the
horses, although they were tired out already with dragging themselves along.
Whether it was this prolonged fatigue, or from some other
cause altogether, was not known, but one of the horses sank suddenly,
without the slightest symptom of illness. It was Mulrady's horse that fell,
and on attempting to pull it up, the animal was found to be dead. Ayrton
examined it immediately, but was quite at a loss to account for the
disaster.
"The beast must have broken some blood vessels," said
Glenarvan.
"Evidently," replied Ayrton.
"Take my horse, Mulrady," added Glenarvan. "I will join Lady
Helena in the wagon."
Mulrady obeyed, and the little party continued their
fatiguing ascent, leaving the carcass of the dead animal to the ravens.
The Australian Alps are of no great thickness, and the base
is not more than eight miles wide. Consequently if the pass chosen by Ayrton
came out on the eastern side, they might hope to get over the high barrier
within forty-eight hours more. The difficulty of the route would then be
surmounted, and they would only have to get to the sea.
During the 18th the travelers reached the top-most point of
the pass, about 2,000 feet high. They found themselves on an open plateau,
with nothing to intercept the view. Toward the north the quiet waters of
Lake Omco, all alive with aquatic birds, and beyond this lay the vast plains
of the Murray. To the south were the wide spreading plains of Gippsland,
with its abundant gold-fields and tall forests. There nature was still
mistress of the products and water, and great trees where the woodman's ax
was as yet unknown, and the squatters, then five in number, could not
struggle against her. It seemed as if this chain of the Alps separated two
different countries, one of which had retained its primitive wildness. The
sun went down, and a few solitary rays piercing the rosy clouds, lighted up
the Murray district, leaving Gippsland in deep shadow, as if night had
suddenly fallen on the whole region. The contrast was presented very vividly
to the spectators placed between these two countries so divided, and some
emotion filled the minds of the travelers, as they contemplated the almost
unknown district they were about to traverse right to the frontiers of
Victoria.
They camped on the plateau that night, and next day the
descent commenced. It was tolerably rapid. A hailstorm of extreme violence
assailed the travelers, and obliged them to seek a shelter among the rocks.
It was not hail-stones, but regular lumps of ice, as large as one's hand,
which fell from the stormy clouds. A waterspout could not have come down
with more violence, and sundry big bruises warned Paganel and Robert to
retreat. The wagon was riddled in several places, and few coverings would
have held out against those sharp icicles, some of which had fastened
themselves into the trunks of the trees. It was impossible to go on till
this tremendous shower was over, unless the travelers wished to be stoned.
It lasted about an hour, and then the march commenced anew over slanting
rocks still slippery after the hail.
Toward evening the wagon, very much shaken and disjointed in
several parts, but still standing firm on its wooden disks, came down the
last slopes of the Alps, among great isolated pines. The passage ended in
the plains of Gippsland. The chain of the Alps was safely passed, and the
usual arrangements were made for the nightly encampment.
On the 21st, at daybreak, the journey was resumed with an
ardor which never relaxed. Everyone was eager to reach the goal—that is to
say the Pacific Ocean—at that part where the wreck of the BRITANNIA had
occurred. Nothing could be done in the lonely wilds of Gippsland, and Ayrton
urged Lord Glenarvan to send orders at once for the DUNCAN to repair to the
coast, in order to have at hand all means of research. He thought it would
certainly be advisable to take advantage of the Lucknow route to Melbourne.
If they waited it would be difficult to find any way of direct communication
with the capital.
This advice seemed good, and Paganel recommended that they
should act upon it. He also thought that the presence of the yacht would be
very useful, and he added, that if the Lucknow road was once passed, it
would be impossible to communicate with Melbourne.
Glenarvan was undecided what to do, and perhaps he would
have yielded to Ayrton's arguments, if the Major had not combated this
decision vigorously. He maintained that the presence of Ayrton was necessary
to the expedition, that he would know the country about the coast, and that
if any chance should put them on the track of Harry Grant, the quartermaster
would be better able to follow it up than any one else, and, finally, that
he alone could point out the exact spot where the shipwreck occurred.
McNabbs voted therefore for the continuation of the voyage,
without making the least change in their programme. John Mangles was of the
same opinion. The young captain said even that orders would reach the DUNCAN
more easily from Twofold Bay, than if a message was sent two hundred miles
over a wild country.
His counsel prevailed. It was decided that they should wait
till they came to Twofold Bay. The Major watched Ayrton narrowly, and
noticed his disappointed look. But he said nothing, keeping his
observations, as usual, to himself.
The plains which lay at the foot of the Australian Alps were
level, but slightly inclined toward the east. Great clumps of mimosas and
eucalyptus, and various odorous gum-trees, broke the uniform monotony here
and there. The gastrolobium grandiflorum covered the ground, with its
bushes covered with gay flowers. Several unimportant creeks, mere streams
full of little rushes, and half covered up with orchids, often interrupted
the route. They had to ford these. Flocks of bustards and emus fled at the
approach of the travelers. Below the shrubs, kangaroos were leaping and
springing like dancing jacks. But the hunters of the party were not thinking
much of the sport, and the horses little needed any additional fatigue.
Moreover, a sultry heat oppressed the plain. The atmosphere
was completely saturated with electricity, and its influence was felt by men
and beasts. They just dragged themselves along, and cared for nothing else.
The silence was only interrupted by the cries of Ayrton urging on his
burdened team.
From noon to two o'clock they went through a curious forest
of ferns, which would have excited the admiration of less weary travelers.
These plants in full flower measured thirty feet in height. Horses and
riders passed easily beneath their drooping leaves, and sometimes the spurs
would clash against the woody stems. Beneath these immovable parasols there
was a refreshing coolness which every one appreciated. Jacques Paganel,
always demonstrative, gave such deep sighs of satisfaction that the
paroquets and cockatoos flew out in alarm, making a deafening chorus of
noisy chatter.
The geographer was going on with his sighs and jubilations
with the utmost coolness, when his companions suddenly saw him reel forward,
and he and his horse fell down in a lump. Was it giddiness, or worse still,
suffocation, caused by the high temperature? They ran to him, exclaiming:
"Paganel! Paganel! what is the matter?"
"Just this. I have no horse, now!" he replied, disengaging
his feet from the stirrups.
"What! your horse?"
"Dead like Mulrady's, as if a thunderbolt had struck him."
Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Wilson examined the animal; and
found
Paganel was right. His horse had been suddenly struck dead.
"That is strange," said John.
"Very strange, truly," muttered the Major.
Glenarvan was greatly disturbed by this fresh accident. He
could not get a fresh horse in the desert, and if an epidemic was going to
seize their steeds, they would be seriously embarrassed how to proceed.
Before the close of the day, it seemed as if the word
epidemic was really going to be justified. A third horse, Wilson's, fell
dead, and what was, perhaps equally disastrous, one of the bullocks also.
The means of traction and transport were now reduced to three bullocks and
four horses.
The situation became grave. The unmounted horsemen might
walk, of course, as many squatters had done already; but if they abandoned
the wagon, what would the ladies do? Could they go over the one hundred and
twenty miles which lay between them and Twofold Bay? John Mangles and Lord
Glenarvan examined the surviving horses with great uneasiness, but there was
not the slightest symptom of illness or feebleness in them. The animals were
in perfect health, and bravely bearing the fatigues of the voyage. This
somewhat reassured Glenarvan, and made him hope the malady would strike no
more victims. Ayrton agreed with him, but was unable to find the least
solution of the mystery.
They went on again, the wagon serving, from time to time, as
a house of rest for the pedestrians. In the evening, after a march of only
ten miles, the signal to halt was given, and the tent pitched. The night
passed without inconvenience beneath a vast mass of bushy ferns, under which
enormous bats, properly called flying foxes, were flapping about.
The next day's journey was good; there were no new
calamities. The health of the expedition remained satisfactory; horses and
cattle did their task cheerily. Lady Helena's drawing-room was very lively,
thanks to the number of visitors. M. Olbinett busied himself in passing
round refreshments which were very acceptable in such hot weather. Half a
barrel of Scotch ale was sent in bodily. Barclay and Co. was declared to be
the greatest man in Great Britain, even above Wellington, who could never
have manufactured such good beer. This was a Scotch estimate. Jacques
Paganel drank largely, and discoursed still more de omni re scibili.
A day so well commenced seemed as if it could not but end
well; they had gone fifteen good miles, and managed to get over a pretty
hilly district where the soil was reddish. There was every reason to hope
they might camp that same night on the banks of the Snowy River, an
important river which throws itself into the Pacific, south of Victoria.
Already the wheels of the wagon were making deep ruts on the
wide plains, covered with blackish alluvium, as it passed on between tufts
of luxuriant grass and fresh fields of gastrolobium. As evening came on, a
white mist on the horizon marked the course of the Snowy River. Several
additional miles were got over, and a forest of tall trees came in sight at
a bend of the road, behind a gentle eminence. Ayrton turned his team a
little toward the great trunks, lost in shadow, and he had got to the skirts
of the wood, about half-a-mile from the river, when the wagon suddenly sank
up to the middle of the wheels.
"Stop!" he called out to the horsemen following him.
"What is wrong?" inquired Glenarvan.
"We have stuck in the mud," replied Ayrton.
He tried to stimulate the bullocks to a fresh effort by
voice and goad, but the animals were buried half-way up their legs, and
could not stir.
"Let us camp here," suggested John Mangles.
"It would certainly be the best place," said Ayrton. "We
shall see by daylight to-morrow how to get ourselves out."
Glenarvan acted on their advice, and came to a halt. Night
came on rapidly after a brief twilight, but the heat did not withdraw with
the light. Stifling vapors filled the air, and occasionally bright flashes
of lightning, the reflections of a distant storm, lighted up the sky with a
fiery glare. Arrangements were made for the night immediately. They did the
best they could with the sunk wagon, and the tent was pitched beneath the
shelter of the great trees; and if the rain did not come, they had not much
to complain about.
Ayrton succeeded, though with some difficulty, in
extricating the three bullocks. These courageous beasts were engulfed up to
their flanks. The quartermaster turned them out with the four horses, and
allowed no one but himself to see after their pasturage. He always executed
his task wisely, and this evening Glenarvan noticed he redoubled his care,
for which he took occasion to thank him, the preservation of the team being
of supreme importance.
Meantime, the travelers were dispatching a hasty supper.
Fatigue and heat destroy appetite, and sleep was needed more than food. Lady
Helena and Miss Grant speedily bade the company good-night, and retired.
Their companions soon stretched themselves under the tent or outside under
the trees, which is no great hardship in this salubrious climate.
Gradually they all fell into a heavy sleep. The darkness
deepened owing to a thick current of clouds which overspread the sky. There
was not a breath of wind. The silence of night was only interrupted by the
cries of the "morepork" in the minor key, like the mournful cuckoos of
Europe.
Towards eleven o'clock, after a wretched, heavy,
unre-freshing sleep, the Major woke. His half-closed eyes were struck with a
faint light running among the great trees. It looked like a white sheet, and
glittered like a lake, and McNabbs thought at first it was the commencement
of a fire.
He started up, and went toward the wood; but what was his
surprise to perceive a purely natural phenomenon! Before him lay an immense
bed of mushrooms, which emitted a phosphorescent light. The luminous spores
of the cryptograms shone in the darkness with intensity.
The Major, who had no selfishness about him, was going to
waken Paganel, that he might see this phenomenon with his own eyes, when
something occurred which arrested him. This phosphorescent light illumined
the distance half a mile, and McNabbs fancied he saw a shadow pass across
the edge of it. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was it some hallucination?
McNabbs lay down on the ground, and, after a close scrutiny,
he could distinctly see several men stooping down and lifting themselves up
alternately, as if they were looking on the ground for recent marks.
The Major resolved to find out what these fellows were
about, and without the least hesitation or so much as arousing his
companions, crept along, lying flat on the ground, like a savage on the
prairies, completely hidden among the long grass.
CHAPTER XVI A STARTLING DISCOVERY
IT was a frightful night. At two A.
M. the rain began to fall in torrents from the stormy clouds, and continued
till daybreak. The tent became an insufficient shelter. Glenarvan and his
companions took refuge in the wagon; they did not sleep, but talked of one
thing and another. The Major alone, whose brief absence had not been
noticed, contented himself with being a silent listener. There was reason to
fear that if the storm lasted longer the Snowy River would overflow its
banks, which would be a very unlucky thing for the wagon, stuck fast as it
was already in the soft ground. Mulrady, Ayrton and Mangles went several
times to ascertain the height of the water, and came back dripping from head
to foot.
At last day appeared; the rain ceased, but sunlight could
not break through the thick clouds. Large patches of yellowish water— muddy,
dirty ponds indeed they were—covered the ground. A hot steam rose from the
soaking earth, and saturated the atmosphere with unhealthy humidity.
Glenarvan's first concern was the wagon; this was the main
thing in his eyes. They examined the ponderous vehicle, and found it sunk in
the mud in a deep hollow in the stiff clay. The forepart had disappeared
completely, and the hind part up to the axle. It would be a hard job to get
the heavy conveyance out, and would need the united strength of men,
bullocks, and horses.
"At any rate, we must make haste," said John Mangles. "If
the clay dries, it will make our task still more difficult."
"Let us be quick, then," replied Ayrton.
Glenarvan, his two sailors, John Mangles, and Ayrton went
off at once into the wood, where the animals had passed the night. It was a
gloomy-looking forest of tall gum-trees; nothing but dead trees, with wide
spaces between, which had been barked for ages, or rather skinned like the
cork-oak at harvest time. A miserable network of bare branches was seen
above two hundred feet high in the air. Not a bird built its nest in these
aerial skeletons; not a leaf trembled on the dry branches, which rattled
together like bones. To what cataclysm is this phenomenon to be attributed,
so frequent in Australia, entire forests struck dead by some epidemic; no
one knows; neither the oldest natives, nor their ancestors who have lain
long buried in the groves of the dead, have ever seen them green.
Glenarvan as he went along kept his eye fixed on the gray
sky, on which the smallest branch of the gum-trees was sharply defined.
Ayrton was astonished not to discover the horses and bullocks where he had
left them the preceding night. They could not have wandered far with the
hobbles on their legs.
They looked over the wood, but saw no signs of them, and
Ayrton returned to the banks of the river, where magnificent mimosas were
growing. He gave a cry well known to his team, but there was no reply. The
quartermaster seemed uneasy, and his companions looked at him with
disappointed faces. An hour had passed in vain endeavors, and Glenarvan was
about to go back to the wagon, when a neigh struck on his ear, and
immediately after a bellow.
"They are there!" cried John Mangles, slipping between the
tall branches of gastrolobium, which grew high enough to hide a whole flock.
Glenarvan, Mulrady, and Ayrton darted after him, and speedily shared his
stupefaction at the spectacle which met their gaze.
Two bullocks and three horses lay stretched on the ground,
struck down like the rest. Their bodies were already cold, and a flock of
half-starved looking ravens croaking among the mimosas were watching the
unexpected prey. Glenarvan and his party gazed at each other and Wilson
could not keep back the oath that rose to his lips.
"What do you mean, Wilson?" said Glenarvan, with difficulty
controlling himself. "Ayrton, bring away the bullock and the horse we have
left; they will have to serve us now."
"If the wagon were not sunk in the mud," said John Mangles,
"these two animals, by making short journeys, would be able to take us to
the coast; so we must get the vehicle out, cost what it may."
"We will try, John," replied Glenarvan. "Let us go back now,
or they will be uneasy at our long absence."
Ayrton removed the hobbles from the bullock and Mulrady from
the horse, and they began to return to the encampment, following the winding
margin of the river. In half an hour they rejoined Paganel, and McNabbs, and
the ladies, and told them of this fresh disaster.
"Upon my honor, Ayrton," the Major could not help saying,
"it is a pity that you hadn't had the shoeing of all our beasts when we
forded the Wimerra."
"Why, sir?" asked Ayrton.
"Because out of all our horses only the one your blacksmith
had in his hands has escaped the common fate."
"That's true," said John Mangles. "It's strange it happens
so."
"A mere chance, and nothing more," replied the
quartermaster, looking firmly at the Major.
Major McNabbs bit his lips as if to keep back something
V. IV Verne he was about to say. Glenarvan and the rest
waited for him to speak out his thoughts, but the Major was silent, and went
up to the wagon, which Ayrton was examining.
"What was he going to say. Mangles?" asked Glenarvan.
"I don't know," replied the young captain; "but the Major is
not at all a man to speak without reason."
"No, John," said Lady Helena. "McNabbs must have suspicions
about Ayrton."
"Suspicions!" exclaimed Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.
"And what can they be?" asked Glenarvan. "Does he suppose
him capable of having killed our horses and bullocks? And for what purpose?
Is not Ayrton's interest identical with our own?"
"You are right, dear Edward," said Lady Helena! "and what is
more, the quartermaster has given us incontestable proofs of his devotion
ever since the commencement of the journey."
"Certainly he has," replied Mangles; "but still, what could
the Major mean? I wish he would speak his mind plainly out."
"Does he suppose him acting in concert with the convicts?"
asked Paganel, imprudently.
"What convicts?" said Miss Grant.
"Monsieur Paganel is making a mistake," replied John
Mangles, instantly.
"He knows very well there are no convicts in the province of Victoria."
"Ah, that is true," returned Paganel, trying to get out of
his unlucky speech. "Whatever had I got in my head? Convicts! who ever heard
of convicts being in Australia? Besides, they would scarcely have
disembarked before they would turn into good, honest men. The climate, you
know, Miss Mary, the regenerative climate—"
Here the poor SAVANT stuck fast, unable to get further, like
the wagon in the mud. Lady Helena looked at him in surprise, which quite
deprived him of his remaining sang-froid; but seeing his
embarrassment, she took Mary away to the side of the tent, where M. Olbinett
was laying out an elaborate breakfast.
"I deserve to be transported myself," said Paganel,
woefully.
"I think so," said Glenarvan.
And after this grave reply, which completely overwhelmed the
worthy geographer, Glenarvan and John Mangles went toward the wagon.
They found Ayrton and the two sailors doing their best to
get it out of the deep ruts, and the bullock and horse, yoked together, were
straining every muscle. Wilson and Mulrady were pushing the wheels, and the
quartermaster urging on the team with voice and goad; but the heavy vehicle
did not stir, the clay, already dry, held it as firmly as if sealed by some
hydraulic cement.
John Mangles had the clay watered to loosen it, but it was
of no use. After renewed vigorous efforts, men and animals stopped. Unless
the vehicle was taken to pieces, it would be impossible to extricate it from
the mud; but they had no tools for the purpose, and could not attempt such a
task.
However, Ayrton, who was for conquering this obstacle at all
costs, was about to commence afresh, when Glenarvan stopped him by saying:
"Enough, Ayrton, enough. We must husband the strength of our remaining horse
and bullock. If we are obliged to continue our journey on foot, the one
animal can carry the ladies and the other the provisions. They may thus
still be of great service to us."
"Very well, my Lord," replied the quartermaster, un-yoking
the exhausted beasts.
"Now, friends," added Glenarvan, "let us return to the
encampment and deliberately examine our situation, and determine on our
course of action."
After a tolerably good breakfast to make up for their bad
night, the discussion was opened, and every one of the party was asked to
give his opinion. The first point was to ascertain their exact position, and
this was referred to Paganel, who informed them, with his customary rigorous
accuracy, that the expedition had been stopped on the 37th parallel, in
longitude 147 degrees 53 minutes, on the banks of the Snowy River.
"What is the exact longitude of Twofold Bay?" asked
Glenarvan.
"One hundred and fifty degrees," replied Paganel; "two
degrees seven minutes distant from this, and that is equal to seventy-five
miles."
"And Melbourne is?"
"Two hundred miles off at least."
"Very good. Our position being then settled, what is best to
do?"
The response was unanimous to get to the coast without
delay.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant undertook to go five miles a day.
The courageous ladies did not shrink, if necessary, from walking
the whole distance between the Snowy River and Twofold Bay.
"You are a brave traveling companion, dear Helena," said
Lord Glenarvan. "But are we sure of finding at the bay all we want when we
get there?"
"Without the least doubt," replied Paganel. "Eden is a
municipality which already numbers many years in existence; its port must
have frequent communication with Melbourne. I suppose even at Delegete, on
the Victoria frontier, thirty-five miles from here, we might revictual our
expedition, and find fresh means of transport."
"And the DUNCAN?" asked Ayrton. "Don't you think it
advisable to send for her to come to the bay?"
"What do you think, John?" said Glenarvan.
"I don't think your lordship should be in any hurry about
it," replied the young captain, after brief reflection. "There will be time
enough to give orders to Tom Austin, and summon him to the coast."
"That's quite certain," added Paganel.
"You see," said John, "in four or five days we shall reach
Eden."
"Four or five days!" repeated Ayrton, shaking his head; "say
fifteen or twenty, Captain, if you don't want to repent your mistake when it
is too late."
"Fifteen or twenty days to go seventy-five miles?" cried
Glenarvan.
"At the least, my Lord. You are going to traverse the most
difficult portion of Victoria, a desert, where everything is wanting, the
squatters say; plains covered with scrub, where is no beaten track and no
stations. You will have to walk hatchet or torch in hand, and, believe me,
that's not quick work."
Ayrton had spoken in a firm tone, and Paganel, at whom all
the others looked inquiringly, nodded his head in token of his agreement in
opinion with the quartermaster.
But John Mangles said, "Well, admitting these difficulties,
in fifteen days at most your Lordship can send orders to the DUNCAN."
"I have to add," said Ayrton, "that the principal
difficulties are not the obstacles in the road, but the Snowy River has to
be crossed, and most probably we must wait till the water goes down."
"Wait!" cried John. "Is there no ford?"
"I think not," replied Ayrton. "This morning I was looking
for some practical crossing, but could not find any. It is unusual to meet
with such a tumultuous river at this time of the year, and it is a fatality
against which I am powerless."
"Is this Snowy River wide?" asked Lady Helena.
"Wide and deep, Madam," replied Ayrton; "a mile wide, with
an impetuous current. A good swimmer could not go over without danger."
"Let us build a boat then," said Robert, who never stuck at
anything. "We have only to cut down a tree and hollow it out, and get in and
be off."
"He's going ahead, this boy of Captain Grant's!" said
Paganel.
"And he's right," returned John Mangles. "We shall be forced
to come to that, and I think it is useless to waste our time in idle
discussion."
"What do you think of it, Ayrton?" asked Glenarvan
seriously.
"I think, my Lord, that a month hence, unless some help
arrives, we shall find ourselves still on the banks of the Snowy."
"Well, then, have you any better plan to propose?" said John
Mangles, somewhat impatiently.
"Yes, that the DUNCAN should leave Melbourne, and go to the
east coast."
"Oh, always the same story! And how could her presence at
the bay facilitate our means of getting there?"
Ayrton waited an instant before answering, and then said,
rather evasively: "I have no wish to obtrude my opinions. What I do is for
our common good, and I am ready to start the moment his honor gives the
signal." And he crossed his arms and was silent.
"That is no reply, Ayrton," said Glenarvan. "Tell us your
plan, and we will discuss it. What is it you propose?"
Ayrton replied in a calm tone of assurance: "I propose that
we should not venture beyond the Snowy in our present condition. It is here
we must wait till help comes, and this help can only come from the DUNCAN.
Let us camp here, where we have provisions, and let one of us take your
orders to Tom Austin to go on to Twofold Bay."
This unexpected proposition was greeted with astonishment,
and by John Mangles with openly-expressed opposition.
"Meantime," continued Ayrton, "either the river will get
lower, and allow us to ford it, or we shall have time to make a canoe. This
is the plan I submit for your Lordship's approval."
"Well, Ayrton," replied Glenarvan, "your plan is worthy of
serious consideration. The worst thing about it is the delay it would cause;
but it would save us great fatigue, and perhaps danger. What do you think of
it, friends?"
"Speak your mind, McNabbs," said Lady Helena. "Since the
beginning of the discussion you have been only a listener, and very sparing
of your words."
"Since you ask my advice," said the Major, "I will give it
you frankly.
I think Ayrton has spoken wisely and well, and I side with him."
Such a reply was hardly looked for, as hitherto the Major
had been strongly opposed to Ayrton's project. Ayrton himself was surprised,
and gave a hasty glance at the Major. However, Paganel, Lady Helena, and the
sailors were all of the same way of thinking; and since McNabbs had come
over to his opinion, Glenarvan decided that the quartermaster's plan should
be adopted in principle.
"And now, John," he added, "don't you think yourself it
would be prudent to encamp here, on the banks of the river Snowy, till we
can get some means of conveyance."
"Yes," replied John Mangles, "if our messenger can get
across the Snowy when we cannot."
All eyes were turned on the quartermaster, who said, with
the air of a man who knew what he was about: "The messenger will not cross
the river."
"Indeed!" said John Mangles.
"He will simply go back to the Lucknow Road which leads
straight to Melbourne."
"Go two hundred and fifty miles on foot!" cried the young
Captain.
"On horseback," replied Ayrton. "There is one horse sound
enough at present. It will only be an affair of four days. Allow the DUNCAN
two days more to get to the bay and twenty hours to get back to the camp,
and in a week the messenger can be back with the entire crew of the vessel."
The Major nodded approvingly as Ayrton spoke, to the
profound astonishment of John Mangles; but as every one was in favor of the
plan all there was to do was to carry it out as quickly as possible.
"Now, then, friends," said Glenarvan, "we must settle who is
to be our messenger. It will be a fatiguing, perilous mission. I would not
conceal the fact from you. Who is disposed, then, to sacrifice himself for
his companions and carry our instructions to Melbourne?"
Wilson and Mulrady, and also Paganel, John Mangles and
Robert instantly offered their services. John particularly insisted that he
should be intrusted with the business; but Ayrton, who had been silent till
that moment, now said: "With your Honor's permission I will go myself. I am
accustomed to all the country round. Many a time I have been across worse
parts. I can go through where another would stick. I ask then, for the good
of all, that I may be sent to Melbourne. A word from you will accredit me
with your chief officer, and in six days I guarantee the DUNCAN shall be in
Twofold Bay."
"That's well spoken," replied Glenarvan. "You are a clever,
daring fellow, and you will succeed."
It was quite evident the quartermaster was the fittest man
for the mission. All the rest withdrew from the competition. John Mangles
made this one last objection, that the presence of Ayrton was necessary to
discover traces of the BRITANNIA or Harry Grant. But the Major justly
observed that the expedition would remain on the banks of the Snowy till the
return of Ayrton, that they had no idea of resuming their search without
him, and that consequently his absence would not in the least prejudice the
Captain's interests.
"Well, go, Ayrton," said Glenarvan. "Be as quick as you can,
and come back by Eden to our camp."
A gleam of satisfaction shot across the quartermaster's
face. He turned away his head, but not before John Mangles caught the look
and instinctively felt his old distrust of Ayrton revive.
The quartermaster made immediate preparations for departure,
assisted by the two sailors, one of whom saw to the horse and the other to
the provisions. Glenarvan, meantime, wrote his letter for Tom Austin. He
ordered his chief officer to repair without delay to Twofold Bay. He
introduced the quartermaster to him as a man worthy of all confidence. On
arriving at the coast, Tom was to dispatch a detachment of sailors from the
yacht under his orders.
Glenarvan was just at this part of his letter, when McNabbs,
who was following him with his eyes, asked him in a singular tone, how he
wrote Ayrton's name.
"Why, as it is pronounced, of course," replied Glenarvan.
"It is a mistake," replied the Major quietly. "He pronounces
it AYRTON, but he writes it Ben Joyce!"
CHAPTER XVII THE PLOT UNVEILED
THE revelation of Tom Ayrton's name
was like a clap of thunder.
Ayrton had started up quickly and grasped his revolver.
A report was heard, and Glenarvan fell wounded by a ball.
Gunshots resounded at the same time outside.
John Mangles and the sailors, after their first surprise,
would have seized Ben Joyce; but the bold convict had already disappeared
and rejoined his gang scattered among the gum-trees.
The tent was no shelter against the balls. It was necessary
to beat a retreat. Glenarvan was slightly wounded, but could stand up.
"To the wagon—to the wagon!" cried John Mangles, dragging
Lady Helena and Mary Grant along, who were soon in safety behind the thick
curtains.
John and the Major, and Paganel and the sailors seized their
carbines in readiness to repulse the convicts. Glenarvan and Robert went in
beside the ladies, while Olbinett rushed to the common defense.
These events occurred with the rapidity of lightning. John
Mangles watched the skirts of the wood attentively. The reports had ceased
suddenly on the arrival of Ben Joyce; profound silence had succeeded the
noisy fusillade. A few wreaths of white smoke were still curling over the
tops of the gum trees. The tall tufts of gastrolobium were motionless. All
signs of attack had disappeared.
The Major and John Mangles examined the wood closely as far
as the great trees; the place was abandoned. Numerous footmarks were there
and several half-burned caps were lying smoking on the ground. The Major,
like a prudent man, extinguished these carefully, for a spark would be
enough to kindle a tremendous conflagration in this forest of dry trees.
"The convicts have disappeared!" said John Mangles.
"Yes," replied the Major; "and the disappearance of them
makes me uneasy. I prefer seeing them face to face.
Better to meet a tiger on the plain than a serpent in the grass.
Let us beat the bushes all round the wagon."
The Major and John hunted all round the country, but there
was not a convict to be seen from the edge of the wood right down to the
river. Ben Joyce and his gang seemed to have flown away like a flock of
marauding birds. It was too sudden a disappearance to let the travelers feel
perfectly safe; consequently they resolved to keep a sharp lookout. The
wagon, a regular fortress buried in mud, was made the center of the camp,
and two men mounted guard round it, who were relieved hour by hour.
The first care of Lady Helena and Mary was to dress
Glenarvan's wound. Lady Helena rushed toward him in terror, as he fell down
struck by Ben Joyce's ball. Controlling her agony, the courageous woman
helped her husband into the wagon. Then his shoulder was bared, and the
Major found, on examination, that the ball had only gone into the flesh, and
there was no internal lesion. Neither bone nor muscle appeared to be
injured. The wound bled profusely, but Glenarvan could use his fingers and
forearm; and consequently there was no occasion for any uneasiness about the
issue. As soon as his shoulder was dressed, he would not allow any more fuss
to be made about himself, but at once entered on the business in hand.
All the party, except Mulrady and Wilson, who were on guard,
were brought into the wagon, and the Major was asked to explain how this
DENOUEMENT had come about.
Before commencing his recital, he told Lady Helena about the
escape of the convicts at Perth, and their appearance in Victoria; as also
their complicity in the railway catastrophe. He handed her the Australian
and New Zealand Gazette they had bought in Seymour, and added that a
reward had been offered by the police for the apprehension of Ben Joyce, a
redoubtable bandit, who had become a noted character during the last
eighteen months, for doing deeds of villainy and crime.
But how had McNabbs found out that Ayrton and Ben Joyce were
one and the same individual? This was the mystery to be unraveled, and the
Major soon explained it.
Ever since their first meeting, McNabbs had felt an
instinctive distrust of the quartermaster. Two or three insignificant facts,
a hasty glance exchanged between him and the blacksmith at the Wimerra
River, his unwillingness to cross towns and villages, his persistence about
getting the DUNCAN summoned to the coast, the strange death of the animals
entrusted to his care, and, lastly, a want of frankness in all his
behavior—all these details combined had awakened the Major's suspicions.
However, he could not have brought any direct accusation
against him till the events of the preceding evening had occurred. He then
told of his experience.
McNabbs, slipping between the tall shrubs, got within reach
of the suspicious shadows he had noticed about half a mile away from the
encampment. The phosphorescent furze emitted a faint light, by which he
could discern three men examining marks on the ground, and one of the three
was the blacksmith of Black Point.
"'It is them!' said one of the men. 'Yes,' replied another,
'there is the trefoil on the mark of the horseshoe. It has been like that
since the Wimerra.' 'All the horses are dead.' 'The poison is not far off.'
'There is enough to kill a regiment of cavalry.' 'A useful plant this
gastrolobium.'
"I heard them say this to each other, and then they were
quite silent; but I did not know enough yet, so I followed them. Soon the
conversation began again. 'He is a clever fellow, this Ben Joyce,' said the
blacksmith. 'A capital quartermaster, with his invention of shipwreck.' 'If
his project succeeds, it will be a stroke of fortune.' 'He is a very devil,
is this Ayrton.' 'Call him Ben Joyce, for he has well earned his name.' And
then the scoundrels left the forest.
"I had all the information I wanted now, and came back to
the camp quite convinced, begging Paganel's pardon, that Australia does not
reform criminals."
This was all the Major's story, and his companions sat
silently thinking over it.
"Then Ayrton has dragged us here," said Glenarvan, pale with
anger, "on purpose to rob and assassinate us."
"For nothing else," replied the Major; "and ever since we
left the Wimerra, his gang has been on our track and spying on us, waiting
for a favorable opportunity."
"Yes."
"Then the wretch was never one of the sailors on the
BRITANNIA; he had stolen the name of Ayrton and the shipping papers."
They were all looking at McNabbs for an answer, for he must
have put the question to himself already.
"There is no great certainty about the matter," he replied,
in his usual calm voice; "but in my opinion the man's name is really Ayrton.
Ben Joyce is his nom de guerre. It is an incontestible fact that he
knew Harry Grant, and also that he was quartermaster on the BRITANNIA. These
facts were proved by the minute details given us by Ayrton, and are
corroborated by the conversation between the convicts, which I repeated to
you. We need not lose ourselves in vain conjectures, but consider it as
certain that Ben Joyce is Ayrton, and that Ayrton is Ben Joyce; that is to
say, one of the crew of the BRITANNIA has turned leader of the convict
gang."
The explanations of McNabbs were accepted without
discussion.
"Now, then," said Glenarvan, "will you tell us how and why
Harry Grant's quartermaster comes to be in Australia?"
"How, I don't know," replied McNabbs; "and the police
declare they are as ignorant on the subject as myself. Why, it is impossible
to say; that is a mystery which the future may explain."
"The police are not even aware of Ayrton's identity with Ben
Joyce," said John Mangles.
"You are right, John," replied the Major, "and this
circumstance would throw light on their search."
"Then, I suppose," said Lady Helena, "the wicked wretch had
got work on Paddy O'Moore's farm with a criminal intent?"
"There is not the least doubt of it. He was planning some
evil design against the Irishman, when a better chance presented itself.
Chance led us into his presence. He heard Paganel's story and all about the
shipwreck, and the audacious fellow determined to act his part immediately.
The expedition was decided on. At the Wimerra he found means of
communicating with one of his gang, the blacksmith of Black Point, and left
traces of our journey which might be easily recognized. The gang followed
us. A poisonous plant enabled them gradually to kill our bullocks and
horses. At the right moment he sunk us in the marshes of the Snowy, and gave
us into the hands of his gang."
Such was the history of Ben Joyce. The Major had shown him
up in his character—a bold and formidable criminal. His manifestly evil
designs called for the utmost vigilance on the part of Glenarvan. Happily
the unmasked bandit was less to be feared than the traitor.
But one serious consequence must come out of this
revelation; no one had thought of it yet except Mary Grant. John Mangles was
the first to notice her pale, despairing face; he understood what was
passing in her mind at a glance.
"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" he cried; "you are crying!"
"Crying, my child!" said Lady Helena.
"My father, madam, my father!" replied the poor girl.
She could say no more, but the truth flashed on every mind.
They all knew the cause of her grief, and why tears fell from her eyes and
her father's name came to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton's treachery had destroyed all hope;
the convict had invented a shipwreck to entrap Glenarvan. In the
conversation overheard by McNabbs, the convicts had plainly said that the
BRITANNIA had never been wrecked on the rocks in Twofold Bay. Harry Grant
had never set foot on the Australian continent!
A second time they had been sent on the wrong track by an
erroneous interpretation of the document. Gloomy silence fell on the whole
party at the sight of the children's sorrow, and no one could find a
cheering word to say. Robert was crying in his sister's arms. Paganel
muttered in a tone of vexation: "That unlucky document! It may boast of
having half-crazed a dozen peoples' wits!" The worthy geographer was in such
a rage with himself, that he struck his forehead as if he would smash it in.
Glenarvan went out to Mulrady and Wilson, who were keeping
watch. Profound silence reigned over the plain between the wood and the
river. Ben Joyce and his band must be at considerable distance, for the
atmosphere was in such a state of complete torpor that the slightest sound
would have been heard. It was evident, from the flocks of birds on the lower
branches of the trees, and the kangaroos feeding quietly on the young
shoots, and a couple of emus whose confiding heads passed between the great
clumps of bushes, that those peaceful solitudes were untroubled by the
presence of human beings.
"You have neither seen nor heard anything for the last
hour?" said Glenarvan to the two sailors.
"Nothing whatever, your honor," replied Wilson. "The
convicts must be miles away from here."
"They were not in numbers enough to attack us, I suppose,"
added Mulrady. "Ben Joyce will have gone to recruit his party, with some
bandits like himself, among the bush-rangers who may be lurking about the
foot of the Alps."
"That is probably the case, Mulrady," replied Glenarvan.
"The rascals are cowards; they know we are armed, and well armed too.
Perhaps they are waiting for nightfall to commence the attack. We must
redouble our watchfulness. Oh, if we could only get out of this bog, and
down the coast; but this swollen river bars our passage. I would pay its
weight in gold for a raft which would carry us over to the other side."
"Why does not your honor give orders for a raft to be
constructed?
We have plenty of wood."
"No, Wilson," replied Glenarvan; "this Snowy is not a river,
it is an impassable torrent."
John Mangles, the Major, and Paganel just then came out of
the wagon on purpose to examine the state of the river. They found it still
so swollen by the heavy rain that the water was a foot above the level. It
formed an impetuous current, like the American rapids. To venture over that
foaming current and that rushing flood, broken into a thousand eddies and
hollows and gulfs, was impossible.
John Mangles declared the passage impracticable. "But we
must not stay here," he added, "without attempting anything. What we were
going to do before Ayrton's treachery is still more necessary now."
"What do you mean, John?" asked Glenarvan.
"I mean that our need is urgent, and that since we cannot go
to Twofold Bay, we must go to Melbourne. We have still one horse. Give it to
me, my Lord, and I will go to Melbourne."
"But that will be a dangerous venture, John," said
Glenarvan. "Not to speak of the perils of a journey of two hundred miles
over an unknown country, the road and the by-ways will be guarded by the
accomplices of Ben Joyce."
"I know it, my Lord, but I know also that things can't stay
long as they are; Ayrton only asked a week's absence to fetch the crew of
the DUNCAN, and I will be back to the Snowy River in six days. Well, my
Lord, what are your commands?"
"Before Glenarvan decides," said Paganel, "I must make an
observation.
That some one must go to Melbourne is evident, but that John Mangles
should be the one to expose himself to the risk, cannot be.
He is the captain of the DUNCAN, and must be careful of his life.
I will go instead."
"That is all very well, Paganel," said the Major; "but why
should you be the one to go?"
"Are we not here?" said Mulrady and Wilson.
"And do you think," replied McNabbs, "that a journey of two
hundred miles on horseback frightens me."
"Friends," said Glenarvan, "one of us must go, so let it be
decided by drawing lots. Write all our names, Paganel."
"Not yours, my Lord," said John Mangles.
"And why not?"
"What! separate you from Lady Helena, and before your wound
is healed, too!"
"Glenarvan," said Paganel, "you cannot leave the
expedition."
"No," added the Major. "Your place is here, Edward, you
ought not to go."
"Danger is involved in it," said Glenarvan, "and I will take
my share along with the rest. Write the names, Paganel, and put mine among
them, and I hope the lot may fall on me."
His will was obeyed. The names were written, and the lots
drawn.
Fate fixed on Mulrady. The brave sailor shouted hurrah! and said:
"My Lord, I am ready to start." Glenarvan pressed his hand, and then
went back to the wagon, leaving John Mangles and the Major on watch.
Lady Helena was informed of the determination to send a
message to Melbourne, and that they had drawn lots who should go, and
Mulrady had been chosen. Lady Helena said a few kind words to the brave
sailor, which went straight to his heart. Fate could hardly have chosen a
better man, for he was not only brave and intelligent, but robust and
superior to all fatigue.
Mulrady's departure was fixed for eight o'clock, immediately
after the short twilight. Wilson undertook to get the horse ready. He had a
project in his head of changing the horse's left shoe, for one off the
horses that had died in the night. This would prevent the convicts from
tracking Mulrady, or following him, as they were not mounted.
While Wilson was arranging this, Glenarvan got his letter
ready for Tom Austin, but his wounded arm troubled him, and he asked Paganel
to write it for him. The SAVANT was so absorbed in one fixed idea that he
seemed hardly to know what he was about. In all this succession of
vexations, it must be said the document was always uppermost in Paganel's
mind. He was always worrying himself about each word, trying to discover
some new meaning, and losing the wrong interpretation of it, and going over
and over himself in perplexities.
He did not hear Glenarvan when he first spoke, but on the
request being made a second time, he said: "Ah, very well. I'm ready."
While he spoke he was mechanically getting paper from his
note-book.
He tore a blank page off, and sat down pencil in hand to write.
Glenarvan began to dictate as follows: "Order to Tom Austin,
Chief Officer, to get to sea without delay, and bring the DUNCAN to—"
Paganel was just finishing the last word, when his eye
chanced to fall on the Australian and New Zealand Gazette lying on
the ground. The paper was so folded that only the last two syllables of the
title were visible. Paganel's pencil stopped, and he seemed to become
oblivious of Glenarvan and the letter entirely, till his friends called out:
"Come, Paganel!"
"Ah!" said the geographer, with a loud exclamation.
"What is the matter?" asked the Major.
"Nothing, nothing," replied Paganel. Then he muttered to
himself, "Aland! aland! aland!"
He had got up and seized the newspaper. He shook it in his
efforts to keep back the words that involuntarily rose to his lips.
Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him in
astonishment,
at a loss to understand this unaccountable agitation.
Paganel looked as if a sudden fit of insanity had come over him.
But his excitement did not last. He became by degrees calmer.
The gleam of joy that shone in his eyes died away.
He sat down again, and said quietly:
"When you please, my Lord, I am ready." Glenarvan resumed
his dictation at once, and the letter was soon completed. It read as
follows: "Order to Tom Austin to go to sea without delay; and take the
DUNCAN to Melbourne by the 37th degree of latitude to the eastern coast of
Australia."
"Of Australia?" said Paganel. "Ah yes! of Australia."
Then he finished the letter, and gave it to Glenarvan to
sign, who went through the necessary formality as well as he could, and
closed and sealed the letter. Paganel, whose hand still trembled with
emotion, directed it thus: "Tom Austin, Chief Officer on board the Yacht
DUNCAN, Melbourne."
Then he got up and went out of the wagon, gesticulating and
repeating the incomprehensible words:
"Aland aland! aland!"
CHAPTER XVIII FOUR DAYS OF ANGUISH
THE rest of the day passed on
without any further incident. All the preparations for Mulrady's journey
were completed, and the brave sailor rejoiced in being able to give his
Lordship this proof of devotion.
Paganel had recovered his usual sang-froid and
manners. His look, indeed, betrayed his preoccupation, but he seemed
resolved to keep it secret. No doubt he had strong reasons for this course
of action, for the Major heard him repeating, like a man struggling with
himself: "No, no, they would not believe it; and, besides, what good would
it be? It is too late!"
Having taken this resolution, he busied himself with giving
Mulrady the necessary directions for getting to Melbourne, and showed him
his way on the map. All the TRACKS, that is to say, paths through the
prairie, came out on the road to Lucknow. This road, after running right
down to the coast took a sudden bend in the direction of Melbourne. This was
the route that must be followed steadily, for it would not do to attempt a
short cut across an almost unknown country. Nothing, consequently, could be
more simple. Mulrady could not lose his way.
As to dangers, there were none after he had gone a few miles
beyond the encampment, out of the reach of Ben Joyce and his gang. Once past
their hiding place, Mulrady was certain of soon being able to outdistance
the convicts, and execute his important mission successfully.
At six o'clock they all dined together. The rain was falling
in torrents. The tent was not protection enough, and the whole party had to
take refuge in the wagon. This was a sure refuge. The clay kept it firmly
imbedded in the soil, like a fortress resting on sure foundations. The
arsenal was composed of seven carbines and seven revolvers, and could stand
a pretty long siege, for they had plenty of ammunition and provisions. But
before six days were over, the DUNCAN would anchor in Twofold Bay, and
twenty-four hours after her crew would reach the other shore of the Snowy
River; and should the passage still remain impracticable, the convicts at
any rate would be forced to retire before the increased strength. But all
depended on Mulrady's success in his perilous enterprise.
At eight o'clock it got very dark; now was the time to
start. The horse prepared for Mulrady was brought out. His feet, by way of
extra precaution, were wrapped round with cloths, so that they could not
make the least noise on the ground. The animal seemed tired, and yet the
safety of all depended on his strength and surefootedness. The Major advised
Mulrady to let him go gently as soon as he got past the convicts. Better
delay half-a-day than not arrive safely.
John Mangles gave his sailor a revolver, which he had loaded
with the utmost care. This is a formidable weapon in the hand of a man who
does not tremble, for six shots fired in a few seconds would easily clear a
road infested with criminals. Mulrady seated himself in the saddle ready to
start.
"Here is the letter you are to give to Tom Austin," said
Glenarvan. "Don't let him lose an hour. He is to sail for Twofold Bay at
once; and if he does not find us there, if we have not managed to cross the
Snowy, let him come on to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and God
be with you."
He shook hands with him, and bade him good-by; and so did
Lady Helena and Mary Grant. A more timorous man than the sailor would have
shrunk back a little from setting out on such a dark, raining night on an
errand so full of danger, across vast unknown wilds. But his farewells were
calmly spoken, and he speedily disappeared down a path which skirted the
wood.
At the same moment the gusts of wind redoubled their
violence. The high branches of the eucalyptus clattered together noisily,
and bough after bough fell on the wet ground. More than one great tree, with
no living sap, but still standing hitherto, fell with a crash during this
storm. The wind howled amid the cracking wood, and mingled its moans with
the ominous roaring of the rain. The heavy clouds, driving along toward the
east, hung on the ground like rays of vapor, and deep, cheerless gloom
intensified the horrors of the night.
The travelers went back into the wagon immediately Mulrady
had gone. Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan and Paganel occupied the first
compartment, which had been hermetically closed. The second was occupied by
Olbinett, Wilson and Robert. The Major and John Mangles were on duty
outside. This precaution was necessary, for an attack on the part of the
convicts would be easy enough, and therefore probable enough.
The two faithful guardians kept close watch, bearing
philosophically the rain and wind that beat on their faces. They tried to
pierce through the darkness so favorable to ambushes, for nothing could be
heard but the noise of the tempest, the sough of the wind, the rattling
branches, falling trees, and roaring of the unchained waters.
At times the wind would cease for a few moments, as if to
take breath. Nothing was audible but the moan of the Snowy River, as it
flowed between the motionless reeds and the dark curtain of gum trees. The
silence seemed deeper in these momentary lulls, and the Major and John
Mangles listened attentively.
During one of these calms a sharp whistle reached them. John
Mangles went hurriedly up to the Major. "You heard that?" he asked.
"Yes," said McNabbs. "Is it man or beast?"
"A man," replied John Mangles.
And then both listened. The mysterious whistle was repeated,
and answered by a kind of report, but almost indistinguishable, for the
storm was raging with renewed violence. McNabbs and John Mangles could not
hear themselves speak. They went for comfort under the shelter of the wagon.
At this moment the leather curtains were raised and
Glenarvan rejoined his two companions. He too had heard this ill-boding
whistle, and the report which echoed under the tilt. "Which way was it?"
asked he.
"There," said John, pointing to the dark track in the
direction taken by Mulrady.
"How far?"
"The wind brought it; I should think, three or four miles,
at least."
"Come," said Glenarvan, putting his gun on his shoulder.
"No," said the Major. "It is a decoy to get us away from the
wagon."
"But if Mulrady has even now fallen beneath the blows of
these rascals?" exclaimed Glenarvan, seizing McNabbs by the hand.
"We shall know by to-morrow," said the Major, coolly,
determined to prevent Glenarvan from taking a step which was equally rash
and futile.
"You cannot leave the camp, my Lord," said John. "I will go
alone."
"You will do nothing of the kind!" cried McNabbs,
energetically. "Do you want to have us killed one by one to diminish our
force, and put us at the mercy of these wretches? If Mulrady has fallen a
victim to them, it is a misfortune that must not be repeated. Mulrady was
sent, chosen by chance. If the lot had fallen to me, I should have gone as
he did; but I should neither have asked nor expected assistance."
In restraining Glenarvan and John Mangles, the Major was
right in every aspect of the case. To attempt to follow the sailor, to run
in the darkness of night among the convicts in their leafy ambush was
madness, and more than that—it was useless. Glenarvan's party was not so
numerous that it could afford to sacrifice another member of it.
Still Glenarvan seemed as if he could not yield; his hand
was always on his carbine. He wandered about the wagon, and bent a listening
ear to the faintest sound. The thought that one of his men was perhaps
mortally wounded, abandoned to his fate, calling in vain on those for whose
sake he had gone forth, was a torture to him. McNabbs was not sure that he
should be able to restrain him, or if Glenarvan, carried away by his
feelings, would not run into the arms of Ben Joyce.
"Edward," said he, "be calm. Listen to me as a friend.
Think of Lady Helena, of Mary Grant, of all who are left.
And, besides, where would you go? Where would you
find Mulrady? He must have been attacked two miles off.
In what direction? Which track would you follow?"
At that very moment, as if to answer the Major, a cry of
distress was heard.
"Listen!" said Glenarvan.
This cry came from the same quarter as the report, but less
than a quarter of a mile off.
Glenarvan, repulsing McNabbs, was already on the track, when
at three hundred paces from the wagon they heard the exclamation: "Help!
help!"
The voice was plaintive and despairing. John Mangles and the
Major sprang toward the spot. A few seconds after they perceived among the
scrub a human form dragging itself along the ground and uttering mournful
groans. It was Mulrady, wounded, apparently dying; and when his companions
raised him they felt their hands bathed in blood.
The rain came down with redoubled violence, and the wind
raged among the branches of the dead trees. In the pelting storm, Glenarvan,
the Major and John Mangles transported the body of Mulrady.
On their arrival everyone got up. Paganel, Robert, Wilson
and Olbinett left the wagon, and Lady Helena gave up her compartment to poor
Mulrady. The Major removed the poor fellow's flannel shirt, which was
dripping with blood and rain. He soon found the wound; it was a stab in the
right side.
McNabbs dressed it with great skill. He could not tell
whether the weapon had touched any vital part. An intermittent jet of
scarlet blood flowed from it; the patient's paleness and weakness showed
that he was seriously injured. The Major washed the wound first with fresh
water and then closed the orifice; after this he put on a thick pad of lint,
and then folds of scraped linen held firmly in place with a bandage. He
succeeded in stopping the hemorrhage. Mulrady was laid on his side, with his
head and chest well raised, and Lady Helena succeeded in making him swallow
a few drops of water.
After about a quarter of an hour, the wounded man, who till
then had lain motionless, made a slight movement. His eyes unclosed, his
lips muttered incoherent words, and the Major, bending toward him, heard him
repeating: "My Lord—the letter—Ben Joyce."
The Major repeated these words, and looked at his
companions. What did Mulrady mean? Ben Joyce had been the attacking party,
of course; but why? Surely for the express purpose of intercepting him, and
preventing his arrival at the DUNCAN. This letter—
Glenarvan searched Mulrady's pockets. The letter addressed
to Tom Austin was gone!
The night wore away amid anxiety and distress; every moment,
they feared,
would be poor Mulrady's last. He suffered from acute fever.
The Sisters of Charity, Lady Helena and Mary Grant, never left him.
Never was patient so well tended, nor by such sympathetic hands.
Day came, and the rain had ceased. Great clouds filled the
sky still; the ground was strewn with broken branches; the marly soil,
soaked by the torrents of rain, had yielded still more; the approaches to
the wagon became difficult, but it could not sink any deeper.
John Mangles, Paganel, and Glenarvan went, as soon as it was
light enough, to reconnoiter in the neighborhood of the encampment. They
revisited the track, which was still stained with blood. They saw no vestige
of Ben Joyce, nor of his band. They penetrated as far as the scene of the
attack. Here two corpses lay on the ground, struck down by Mulrady's
bullets. One was the blacksmith of Blackpoint. His face, already changed by
death, was a dreadful spectacle. Glenarvan searched no further. Prudence
forbade him to wander from the camp. He returned to the wagon, deeply
absorbed by the critical position of affairs.
"We must not think of sending another messenger to
Melbourne," said he.
"But we must," said John Mangles; "and I must try to pass
where my sailor could not succeed."
"No, John! it is out of the question. You have not even a
horse for the journey, which is full two hundred miles!"
This was true, for Mulrady's horse, the only one that
remained, had not returned. Had he fallen during the attack on his rider, or
was he straying in the bush, or had the convicts carried him off?
"Come what will," replied Glenarvan, "we will not separate
again. Let us wait a week, or a fortnight, till the Snowy falls to its
normal level. We can then reach Twofold Bay by short stages, and from there
we can send on to the DUNCAN, by a safer channel, the order to meet us."
"That seems the only plan," said Paganel.
"Therefore, my friends," rejoined Glenarvan, "no more
parting. It is too great a risk for one man to venture alone into a
robber-haunted waste. And now, may God save our poor sailor, and protect the
rest of us!"
Glenarvan was right in both points; first in prohibiting all
isolated attempts, and second, in deciding to wait till the passage of the
Snowy River was practicable. He was scarcely thirty miles from Delegete, the
first frontier village of New South Wales, where he would easily find the
means of transport to Twofold Bay, and from there he could telegraph to
Melbourne his orders about the DUNCAN.
These measures were wise, but how late! If Glenarvan had not
sent Mulrady to Lucknow what misfortunes would have been averted, not to
speak of the assassination of the sailor!
When he reached the camp he found his companions in better
spirits. They seemed more hopeful than before. "He is better! he is better!"
cried Robert, running out to meet Lord Glenarvan.
"Mulrady?—"
"Yes, Edward," answered Lady Helena. "A reaction has set in.
The Major is more confident. Our sailor will live."
"Where is McNabbs?" asked Glenarvan.
"With him. Mulrady wanted to speak to him, and they must not
be disturbed."
He then learned that about an hour since, the wounded man
had awakened from his lethargy, and the fever had abated. But the first
thing he did on recovering his memory and speech was to ask for Lord
Glenarvan, or, failing him, the Major. McNabbs seeing him so weak, would
have forbidden any conversation; but Mulrady insisted with such energy that
the Major had to give in. The interview had already lasted some minutes when
Glenarvan returned. There was nothing for it but to await the return of
McNabbs.
Presently the leather curtains of the wagon moved, and the
Major appeared. He rejoined his friends at the foot of a gum-tree, where the
tent was placed. His face, usually so stolid, showed that something
disturbed him. When his eyes fell on Lady Helena and the young girl, his
glance was full of sorrow.
Glenarvan questioned him, and extracted the following
information: When he left the camp Mulrady followed one of the paths
indicated by Paganel. He made as good speed as the darkness of the night
would allow. He reckoned that he had gone about two miles when several
men—five, he thought—sprang to his horse's head. The animal reared; Mulrady
seized his revolver and fired. He thought he saw two of his assailants fall.
By the flash he recognized Ben Joyce. But that was all. He had not time to
fire all the barrels. He felt a violent blow on his side and was thrown to
the ground.
Still he did not lose consciousness. The murderers thought
he was dead.
He felt them search his pockets, and then heard one of them say:
"I have the letter."
"Give it to me," returned Ben Joyce, "and now the DUNCAN is
ours."
At this point of the story, Glenarvan could not help
uttering a cry.
McNabbs continued: "'Now you fellows,' added Ben Joyce,
'catch the horse. In two days I shall be on board the DUNCAN, and in six I
shall reach Twofold Bay. This is to be the rendezvous. My Lord and his party
will be still stuck in the marshes of the Snowy River. Cross the river at
the bridge of Kemple Pier, proceed to the coast, and wait for me. I will
easily manage to get you on board. Once at sea in a craft like the DUNCAN,
we shall be masters of the Indian Ocean.' 'Hurrah for Ben Joyce!' cried the
convicts. Mulrady's horse was brought, and Ben Joyce disappeared, galloping
on the Lucknow Road, while the band took the road southeast of the Snowy
River. Mulrady, though severely wounded, had the strength to drag himself to
within three hundred paces from the camp, whence we found him almost dead.
There," said McNabbs, "is the history of Mulrady; and now you can understand
why the brave fellow was so determined to speak."
This revelation terrified Glenarvan and the rest of the
party.
"Pirates! pirates!" cried Glenarvan. "My crew massacred! my
DUNCAN in the hands of these bandits!"
"Yes, for Ben Joyce will surprise the ship," said the Major,
"and then—"
"Well, we must get to the coast first," said Paganel.
"But how are we to cross the Snowy River?" said Wilson.
"As they will," replied Glenarvan. "They are to cross at
Kemple Pier Bridge, and so will we."
"But about Mulrady?" asked Lady Helena.
"We will carry him; we will have relays. Can I leave my crew
to the mercy of Ben Joyce and his gang?"
To cross the Snowy River at Kemple Pier was practicable, but
dangerous.
The convicts might entrench themselves at that point, and defend it.
They were at least thirty against seven! But there are moments when
people do not deliberate, or when they have no choice but to go on.
"My Lord," said John Mangles, "before we throw away our
chance, before venturing to this bridge, we ought to reconnoiter, and I will
undertake it."
"I will go with you, John," said Paganel.
This proposal was agreed to, and John Mangles and Paganel
prepared to start immediately. They were to follow the course of the Snowy
River, follow its banks till they reached the place indicated by Ben Joyce,
and especially they were to keep out of sight of the convicts, who were
probably scouring the bush.
So the two brave comrades started, well provisioned and well
armed, and were soon out of sight as they threaded their way among the tall
reeds by the river. The rest anxiously awaited their return all day. Evening
came, and still the scouts did not return. They began to be seriously
alarmed. At last, toward eleven o'clock, Wilson announced their arrival.
Paganel and John Mangles were worn out with the fatigues of a ten-mile walk.
"Well, what about the bridge? Did you find it?" asked
Glenarvan, with impetuous eagerness.
"Yes, a bridge of supple-jacks," said John Mangles. "The
convicts passed over, but—"
"But what?" said Glenarvan, who foreboded some new
misfortune.
"They burned it after they passed!" said Paganel.
CHAPTER XIX HELPLESS AND HOPELESS
IT was not a time for despair, but
action. The bridge at Kemple Pier was destroyed, but the Snowy River must be
crossed, come what might, and they must reach Twofold Bay before Ben Joyce
and his gang, so, instead of wasting time in empty words, the next day (the
16th of January) John Mangles and Glenarvan went down to examine the river,
and arrange for the passage over.
The swollen and tumultuous waters had not gone down the
least. They rushed on with indescribable fury. It would be risking life to
battle with them. Glenarvan stood gazing with folded arms and downcast face.
"Would you like me to try and swim across?" said John
Mangles.
"No, John, no!" said Lord Glenarvan, holding back the bold,
daring young fellow, "let us wait."
And they both returned to the camp. The day passed in the
most intense anxiety. Ten times Lord Glenarvan went to look at the river,
trying to invent some bold way of getting over; but in vain. Had a torrent
of lava rushed between the shores, it could not have been more impassable.
During these long wasted hours, Lady Helena, under the
Major's advice, was nursing Mulrady with the utmost skill. The sailor felt a
throb of returning life. McNabbs ventured to affirm that no vital part was
injured. Loss of blood accounted for the patient's extreme exhaustion. The
wound once closed and the hemorrhage stopped, time and rest would be all
that was needed to complete his cure. Lady Helena had insisted on giving up
the first compartment of the wagon to him, which greatly tried his modesty.
The poor fellow's greatest trouble was the delay his condition might cause
Glenarvan, and he made him promise that they should leave him in the camp
under Wilson's care, should the passage of the river become practicable.
But, unfortunately, no passage was practicable, either that
day or the next (January 17); Glenarvan was in despair. Lady Helena and the
Major vainly tried to calm him, and preached patience.
Patience, indeed, when perhaps at this very moment Ben Joyce
was boarding the yacht; when the DUNCAN, loosing from her moorings, was
getting up steam to reach the fatal coast, and each hour was bringing her
nearer.
John Mangles felt in his own breast all that Glenarvan was
suffering. He determined to conquer the difficulty at any price, and
constructed a canoe in the Australian manner, with large sheets of bark of
the gum-trees. These sheets were kept together by bars of wood, and formed a
very fragile boat. The captain and the sailor made a trial trip in it during
the day. All that skill, and strength, and tact, and courage could do they
did; but they were scarcely in the current before they were upside down, and
nearly paid with their lives for the dangerous experiment. The boat
disappeared, dragged down by the eddy. John Mangles and Wilson had not gone
ten fathoms, and the river was a mile broad, and swollen by the heavy rains
and melted snows.
Thus passed the 19th and 20th of January. The Major and
Glenarvan went five miles up the river in search of a favorable passage, but
everywhere they found the same roaring, rushing, impetuous torrent. The
whole southern slope of the Australian Alps poured its liquid masses into
this single bed.
All hope of saving the DUNCAN was now at an end. Five days
had elapsed since the departure of Ben Joyce. The yacht must be at this
moment at the coast, and in the hands of the convicts.
However, it was impossible that this state of things could
last. The temporary influx would soon be exhausted, and the violence also.
Indeed, on the morning of the 21st, Paganel announced that the water was
already lower. "What does it matter now?" said Glenarvan. "It is too late!"
"That is no reason for our staying longer here," said the
Major.
"Certainly not," replied John Mangles. "Perhaps tomorrow the
river may be practicable."
"And will that save my unhappy men?" cried Glenarvan.
"Will your Lordship listen to me?" returned John Mangles. "I
know Tom Austin. He would execute your orders, and set out as soon as
departure was possible. But who knows whether the DUNCAN was ready and her
injury repaired on the arrival of Ben Joyce. And suppose the
V. IV Verne yacht could not go to sea; suppose there was a
delay of a day, or two days."
"You are right, John," replied Glenarvan. "We must get to
Twofold Bay; we are only thirty-five miles from Delegete."
"Yes," added Paganel, "and that's a town where we shall find
rapid means of conveyance. Who knows whether we shan't arrive in time to
prevent a catastrophe."
"Let us start," cried Glenarvan.
John Mangles and Wilson instantly set to work to construct a
canoe of larger dimensions. Experience had proved that the bark was
powerless against the violence of the torrent, and John accordingly felled
some of the gum-trees, and made a rude but solid raft with the trunks. It
was a long task, and the day had gone before the work was ended. It was
completed next morning.
By this time the waters had visibly diminished; the torrent
had once more become a river, though a very rapid one, it is true. However,
by pursuing a zigzag course, and overcoming it to a certain extent, John
hoped to reach the opposite shore. At half-past twelve, they embarked
provisions enough for a couple of days. The remainder was left with the
wagon and the tent. Mulrady was doing well enough to be carried over; his
convalescence was rapid.
At one o'clock, they all seated themselves on the raft,
still moored to the shore. John Mangles had installed himself at the
starboard, and entrusted to Wilson a sort of oar to steady the raft against
the current, and lessen the leeway. He took his own stand at the back, to
steer by means of a large scull; but, notwithstanding their efforts, Wilson
and John Mangles soon found themselves in an inverse position, which made
the action of the oars impossible.
There was no help for it; they could do nothing to arrest
the gyratory movement of the raft; it turned round with dizzying rapidity,
and drifted out of its course. John Mangles stood with pale face and set
teeth, gazing at the whirling current.
However, the raft had reached the middle of the river, about
half a mile from the starting point. Here the current was extremely strong,
and this broke the whirling eddy, and gave the raft some stability. John and
Wilson seized their oars again, and managed to push it in an oblique
direction. This brought them nearer to the left shore. They were not more
than fifty fathoms from it, when Wilson's oar snapped short off, and the
raft, no longer supported, was dragged away. John tried to resist at the
risk of breaking his own oar, too, and Wilson, with bleeding hands, seconded
his efforts with all his might.
At last they succeeded, and the raft, after a passage of
more than half an hour, struck against the steep bank of the opposite shore.
The shock was so violent that the logs became disunited, the cords broke,
and the water bubbled up between. The travelers had barely time to catch
hold of the steep bank. They dragged out Mulrady and the two dripping
ladies. Everyone was safe; but the provisions and firearms, except the
carbine of the Major, went drifting down with the DEBRIS of the raft.
The river was crossed. The little company found themselves
almost without provisions, thirty-five miles from Delegete, in the midst of
the unknown deserts of the Victoria frontier. Neither settlers nor squatters
were to be met with; it was entirely uninhabited, unless by ferocious
bushrangers and bandits.
They resolved to set off without delay. Mulrady saw clearly
that he would be a great drag on them, and he begged to be allowed to
remain, and even to remain alone, till assistance could be sent from
Delegete.
Glenarvan refused. It would be three days before he could
reach Delegete, and five the shore—that is to say, the 26th of January. Now,
as the DUNCAN had left Melbourne on the 16th, what difference would a few
days' delay make?
"No, my friend," he said, "I will not leave anyone behind.
We will make a litter and carry you in turn."
The litter was made of boughs of eucalyptus covered with
branches; and, whether he would or not, Mulrady was obliged to take his
place on it. Glenarvan would be the first to carry his sailor. He took hold
of one end and Wilson of the other, and all set off.
What a sad spectacle, and how lamentably was this expedition
to end which had commenced so well. They were no longer in search of Harry
Grant. This continent, where he was not, and never had been, threatened to
prove fatal to those who sought him. And when these intrepid countrymen of
his should reach the shore, they would find the DUNCAN waiting to take them
home again. The first day passed silently and painfully. Every ten minutes
the litter changed bearers. All the sailor's comrades took their share in
this task without murmuring, though the fatigue was augmented by the great
heat.
In the evening, after a journey of only five miles, they
camped under the gum-trees. The small store of provisions saved from the
raft composed the evening meal. But all they had to depend upon now was the
Major's carbine.
It was a dark, rainy night, and morning seemed as if it
would never dawn. They set off again, but the Major could not find a chance
of firing a shot. This fatal region was only a desert, unfrequented even by
animals. Fortunately, Robert discovered a bustard's nest with a dozen of
large eggs in it, which Olbinett cooked on hot cinders. These, with a few
roots of purslain which were growing at the bottom of a ravine, were all the
breakfast of the 22d.
The route now became extremely difficult. The sandy plains
were bristling with SPINIFEX, a prickly plant, which is called in Melbourne
the porcupine. It tears the clothing to rags, and makes the legs bleed. The
courageous ladies never complained, but footed it bravely, setting an
example, and encouraging one and another by word or look.
They stopped in the evening at Mount Bulla Bulla, on the
edge of the Jungalla Creek. The supper would have been very scant, if
McNabbs had not killed a large rat, the mus conditor, which is highly
spoken of as an article of diet. Olbinett roasted it, and it would have been
pronounced even superior to its reputation had it equaled the sheep in size.
They were obliged to be content with it, however, and it was devoured to the
bones.
On the 23d the weary but still energetic travelers started
off again. After having gone round the foot of the mountain, they crossed
the long prairies where the grass seemed made of whalebone. It was a tangle
of darts, a medley of sharp little sticks, and a path had to be cut through
either with the hatchet or fire.
That morning there was not even a question of breakfast.
Nothing could be more barren than this region strewn with pieces of quartz.
Not only hunger, but thirst began to assail the travelers. A burning
atmosphere heightened their discomfort. Glenarvan and his friends could only
go half a mile an hour. Should this lack of food and water continue till
evening, they would all sink on the road, never to rise again.
But when everything fails a man, and he finds himself
without resources, at the very moment when he feels he must give up, then
Providence steps in. Water presented itself in the CEPHALOTES, a species of
cup-shaped flower, filled with refreshing liquid, which hung from the
branches of coralliform-shaped bushes. They all quenched their thirst with
these, and felt new life returning.
The only food they could find was the same as the natives
were forced to subsist upon, when they could find neither game, nor
serpents, nor insects. Paganel discovered in the dry bed of a creek, a plant
whose excellent properties had been frequently described by one of his
colleagues in the Geographical Society.
It was the NARDOU, a cryptogamous plant of the family
Marsilacea, and the same which kept Burke and King alive in the deserts of
the interior. Under its leaves, which resembled those of the trefoil, there
were dried sporules as large as a lentil, and these sporules, when crushed
between two stones, made a sort of flour. This was converted into coarse
bread, which stilled the pangs of hunger at least. There was a great
abundance of this plant growing in the district, and Olbinett gathered a
large supply, so that they were sure of food for several days.
The next day, the 24th, Mulrady was able to walk part of the
way. His wound was entirely cicatrized. The town of Delegete was not more
than ten miles off, and that evening they camped in longitude 140 degrees,
on the very frontier of New South Wales.
For some hours, a fine but penetrating rain had been
falling. There would have been no shelter from this, if by chance John
Mangles had not discovered a sawyer's hut, deserted and dilapidated to a
degree. But with this miserable cabin they were obliged to be content.
Wilson wanted to kindle a fire to prepare the NARDOU bread, and he went out
to pick up the dead wood scattered all over the ground. But he found it
would not light, the great quantity of albuminous matter which it contained
prevented all combustion. This is the incombustible wood put down by Paganel
in his list of Australian products.
They had to dispense with fire, and consequently with food
too, and sleep in their wet clothes, while the laughing jackasses, concealed
in the high branches, seemed to ridicule the poor unfortunates. However,
Glenarvan was nearly at the end of his sufferings. It was time. The two
young ladies were making heroic efforts, but their strength was hourly
decreasing. They dragged themselves along, almost unable to walk.
Next morning they started at daybreak. At 11 A. M. Delegete
came in sight in the county of Wellesley, and fifty miles from Twofold Bay.
Means of conveyance were quickly procured here. Hope
returned to Glenarvan as they approached the coast. Perhaps there might have
been some slight delay, and after all they might get there before the
arrival of the DUNCAN. In twenty-four hours they would reach the bay.
At noon, after a comfortable meal, all the travelers
installed in a mail-coach, drawn by five strong horses, left Delegete at a
gallop. The postilions, stimulated by a promise of a princely DOUCEUR, drove
rapidly along over a well-kept road. They did not lose a minute in changing
horses, which took place every ten miles. It seemed as if they were infected
with Glenarvan's zeal. All that day, and night, too, they traveled on at the
rate of six miles an hour.
In the morning at sunrise, a dull murmur fell on their ears,
and announced their approach to the Indian Ocean. They required to go round
the bay to gain the coast at the 37th parallel, the exact point where Tom
Austin was to wait their arrival.
When the sea appeared, all eyes anxiously gazed at the
offing.
Was the DUNCAN, by a miracle of Providence, there running
close to the shore, as a month ago, when they crossed
Cape Corrientes, they had found her on the Argentine coast?
They saw nothing. Sky and earth mingled in the same horizon.
Not a sail enlivened the vast stretch of ocean.
One hope still remained. Perhaps Tom Austin had thought it
his duty to cast anchor in Twofold Bay, for the sea was heavy, and a ship
would not dare to venture near the shore. "To Eden!" cried Glenarvan.
Immediately the mail-coach resumed the route round the bay, toward the
little town of Eden, five miles distant. The postilions stopped not far from
the lighthouse, which marks the entrance of the port. Several vessels were
moored in the roadstead, but none of them bore the flag of Malcolm.
Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel got out of the coach,
and rushed to the custom-house, to inquire about the arrival of vessels
within the last few days.
No ship had touched the bay for a week.
"Perhaps the yacht has not started," Glenarvan said, a
sudden revulsion of feeling lifting him from despair. "Perhaps we have
arrived first."
John Mangles shook his head. He knew Tom Austin. His first
mate would not delay the execution of an order for ten days.
"I must know at all events how they stand," said Glenarvan.
"Better certainty than doubt."
A quarter of an hour afterward a telegram was sent to the
syndicate of shipbrokers in Melbourne. The whole party then repaired to the
Victoria Hotel.
At 2 P.M. the following telegraphic reply was received:
"LORD GLENARVAN, Eden.
"Twofold Bay.
"The DUNCAN left on the 16th current. Destination unknown.
J. ANDREWS, S. B."
The telegram dropped from
Glenarvan's hands.
There was no doubt now. The good, honest Scotch yacht was
now a pirate ship in the hands of Ben Joyce!
So ended this journey across Australia, which had commenced
under circumstances so favorable. All trace of Captain Grant and his
shipwrecked men seemed to be irrevocably lost. This ill success had cost the
loss of a ship's crew. Lord Glenarvan had been vanquished in the strife; and
the courageous searchers, whom the unfriendly elements of the Pampas had
been unable to check, had been conquered on the Australian shore by the
perversity of man.
END OF BOOK TWO
In Search of the Castaways or The
Children of Captain Grant
New Zealand
[page intentionally blank]
In Search of the Castaways
New Zealand
CHAPTER I A ROUGH CAPTAIN
IF ever the searchers after Captain
Grant were tempted to despair, surely it was at this moment when all their
hopes were destroyed at a blow. Toward what quarter of the world should they
direct their endeavors? How were they to explore new countries? The DUNCAN
was no longer available, and even an immediate return to their own land was
out of the question. Thus the enterprise of these generous Scots had failed!
Failed! a despairing word that finds no echo in a brave soul; and yet under
the repeated blows of adverse fate, Glenarvan himself was compelled to
acknowledge his inability to prosecute his devoted efforts.
Mary Grant at this crisis nerved herself to the resolution
never to utter the name of her father. She suppressed her own anguish, when
she thought of the unfortunate crew who had perished. The daughter was
merged in the friend, and she now took upon her to console Lady Glenarvan,
who till now had been her faithful comforter. She was the first to speak of
returning to Scotland. John Mangles was filled with admiration at seeing her
so courageous and so resigned. He wanted to say a word further in the
Captain's interest, but Mary stopped him with a glance, and afterward said
to him: "No, Mr. John, we must think of those who ventured their lives. Lord
Glenarvan must return to Europe!"
"You are right, Miss Mary," answered John Mangles; "he must.
Beside, the English authorities must be informed of the fate of the DUNCAN.
But do not despair. Rather than abandon our search I will resume it alone! I
will either find Captain Grant or perish in the attempt!"
It was a serious undertaking to which John Mangles bound
himself; Mary accepted, and gave her hand to the young captain, as if to
ratify the treaty. On John Mangles' side it was a life's devotion; on Mary's
undying gratitude.
During that day, their departure was finally arranged;
they resolved to reach Melbourne without delay.
Next day John went to inquire about the ships ready to sail.
He expected to find frequent communication between Eden and Victoria.
He was disappointed; ships were scarce. Three or four
vessels, anchored in Twofold Bay, constituted the mercantile fleet of the
place; none of them were bound for Melbourne, nor Sydney, nor Point de
Galle, at any of which ports Glenarvan would have found ships loading for
England. In fact, the Peninsular and Oriental Company has a regular line of
packets between these points and England.
Under these circumstances, what was to be done? Waiting for
a ship might be a tedious affair, for Twofold Bay is not much frequented.
Numbers of ships pass by without touching. After due reflection and
discussion, Glenarvan had nearly decided to follow the coast road to Sydney,
when Paganel made an unexpected proposition.
The geographer had visited Twofold Bay on his own account,
and was aware that there were no means of transport for Sydney or Melbourne.
But of the three vessels anchored in the roadstead one was loading for
Auckland, the capital of the northern island of New Zealand. Paganel's
proposal was to take the ship in question, and get to Auckland, whence it
would be easy to return to Europe by the boats of the Peninsular and
Oriental Company.
This proposition was taken into serious consideration.
Paganel on this occasion dispensed with the volley of arguments he generally
indulged in. He confined himself to the bare proposition, adding that the
voyage to New Zealand was only five or six days— the distance, in fact,
being only about a thousand miles.
By a singular coincidence Auckland is situated on the
self-same parallel— the thirty-seventh—which the explorers had perseveringly
followed since they left the coast of Araucania. Paganel might fairly have
used this as an argument in favor of his scheme; in fact, it was a natural
opportunity of visiting the shores of New Zealand.
But Paganel did not lay stress on this argument. After two
mistakes, he probably hesitated to attempt a third interpretation of the
document. Besides, what could he make of it? It said positively that a
"continent" had served as a refuge for Captain Grant, not an island. Now,
New Zealand was nothing but an island. This seemed decisive. Whether, for
this reason, or for some other, Paganel did not connect any idea of further
search with this proposition of reaching Auckland. He merely observed that
regular communication existed between that point and Great Britain, and that
it was easy to take advantage of it.
John Mangles supported Paganel's proposal. He advised its
adoption, as it was hopeless to await the problematical arrival of a vessel
in Twofold Bay. But before coming to any decision, he thought it best to
visit the ship mentioned by the geographer. Glenarvan, the Major, Paganel,
Robert, and Mangles himself, took a boat, and a few strokes brought them
alongside the ship anchored two cables' length from the quay.
It was a brig of 150 tons, named the MACQUARIE. It was
engaged in the coasting trade between the various ports of Australia and New
Zealand. The captain, or rather the "master," received his visitors gruffly
enough. They perceived that they had to do with a man of no education, and
whose manners were in no degree superior to those of the five sailors of his
crew. With a coarse, red face, thick hands, and a broken nose, blind of an
eye, and his lips stained with the pipe, Will Halley was a sadly brutal
looking person. But they had no choice, and for so short a voyage it was not
necessary to be very particular.
"What do you want?" asked Will Halley, when the strangers
stepped on the poop of his ship.
"The captain," answered John Mangles.
"I am the captain," said Halley. "What else do you want?"
"The MACQUARIE is loading for Auckland, I believe?"
"Yes. What else?"
"What does she carry?"
"Everything salable and purchasable. What else?"
"When does she sail?"
"To-morrow at the mid-day tide. What else?"
"Does she take passengers?"
"That depends on who the passengers are, and whether they
are satisfied with the ship's mess."
"They would bring their own provisions."
"What else?"
"What else?"
"Yes. How many are there?"
"Nine; two of them are ladies."
"I have no cabins."
"We will manage with such space as may be left at their
disposal."
"What else?"
"Do you agree?" said John Mangles, who was not in the least
put out by the captain's peculiarities.
"We'll see," said the master of the MACQUARIE.
Will Halley took two or three turns on the poop, making it
resound with iron-heeled boots, and then he turned abruptly to John Mangles.
"What would you pay?" said he.
"What do you ask?" replied John.
"Fifty pounds."
Glenarvan looked consent.
"Very good! Fifty pounds," replied John Mangles.
"But passage only," added Halley.
"Yes, passage only."
"Food extra."
"Extra."
"Agreed. And now," said Will, putting out his hand, "what
about the deposit money?"
"Here is half of the passage-money, twenty-five pounds,"
said Mangles, counting out the sum to the master.
"All aboard to-morrow," said he, "before noon. Whether or
no,
I weigh anchor."
"We will be punctual."
This said, Glenarvan, the Major, Robert, Paganel, and John
Mangles left the ship, Halley not so much as touching the oilskin that
adorned his red locks.
"What a brute," exclaimed John.
"He will do," answered Paganel. "He is a regular sea-wolf."
"A downright bear!" added the Major.
"I fancy," said John Mangles, "that the said bear has dealt
in human flesh in his time."
"What matter?" answered Glenarvan, "as long as he commands
the MACQUARIE, and the MACQUARIE goes to New Zealand. From Twofold Bay to
Auckland we shall not see much of him; after Auckland we shall see him no
more."
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were delighted to hear that their
departure was arranged for to-morrow. Glenarvan warned them that the
MACQUARIE was inferior in comfort to the DUNCAN. But after what they had
gone through, they were indifferent to trifling annoyances. Wilson was told
off to arrange the accommodation on board the MACQUARIE. Under his busy
brush and broom things soon changed their aspect.
Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, and let the sailor have
his way. Glenarvan and his party gave him no concern. He neither knew, nor
cared to know, their names. His new freight represented fifty pounds, and he
rated it far below the two hundred tons of cured hides which were stowed
away in his hold. Skins first, men after. He was a merchant. As to his
sailor qualification, he was said to be skillful enough in navigating these
seas, whose reefs make them very dangerous.
As the day drew to a close, Glenarvan had a desire to go
again to the point on the coast cut by the 37th parallel. Two motives
prompted him. He wanted to examine once more the presumed scene of the
wreck. Ayrton had certainly been quartermaster on the BRITANNIA, and the
BRITANNIA might have been lost on this part of the Australian coast; on the
east coast if not on the west. It would not do to leave without thorough
investigation, a locality which they were never to revisit.
And then, failing the BRITANNIA, the DUNCAN certainly had
fallen into the hands of the convicts. Perhaps there had been a fight? There
might yet be found on the coast traces of a struggle, a last resistance. If
the crew had perished among the waves, the waves probably had thrown some
bodies on the shore.
Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful John, went to carry
out the final search. The landlord of the Victoria Hotel lent them two
horses, and they set out on the northern road that skirts Twofold Bay.
It was a melancholy journey. Glenarvan and Captain John
trotted along without speaking, but they understood each other. The same
thoughts, the same anguish harrowed both their hearts. They looked at the
sea-worn rocks; they needed no words of question or answer. John's
well-tried zeal and intelligence were a guarantee that every point was
scrupulously examined, the least likely places, as well as the sloping
beaches and sandy plains where even the slight tides of the Pacific might
have thrown some fragments of wreck. But no indication was seen that could
suggest further search in that quarter—all trace of the wreck escaped them
still.
As to the DUNCAN, no trace either. All that part of
Australia, bordering the ocean, was desert.
Still John Mangles discovered on the skirts of the shore
evident traces of camping, remains of fires recently kindled under solitary
Myall-trees. Had a tribe of wandering blacks passed that way lately? No, for
Glenarvan saw a token which furnished incontestable proof that the convicts
had frequented that part of the coast.
This token was a grey and yellow garment worn and patched,
an ill-omened rag thrown down at the foot of a tree. It bore the convict's
original number at the Perth Penitentiary. The felon was not there, but his
filthy garments betrayed his passage. This livery of crime, after having
clothed some miscreant, was now decaying on this desert shore.
"You see, John," said Glenarvan, "the convicts got as far as
here! and our poor comrades of the DUNCAN—"
"Yes," said John, in a low voice, "they never landed, they
perished!"
"Those wretches!" cried Glenarvan. "If ever they fall into
my hands
I will avenge my crew—"
Grief had hardened Glenarvan's features. For some minutes he
gazed at the expanse before him, as if taking a last look at some ship
disappearing in the distance. Then his eyes became dim; he recovered himself
in a moment, and without a word or look, set off at a gallop toward Eden.
The wanderers passed their last evening sadly enough. Their
thoughts
recalled all the misfortunes they had encountered in this country.
They remembered how full of well-warranted hope they had been at
Cape Bernouilli, and how cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay!
Paganel was full of feverish agitation. John Mangles, who
had watched him since the affair at Snowy River, felt that the geographer
was hesitating whether to speak or not to speak. A thousand times he had
pressed him with questions, and failed in obtaining an answer.
But that evening, John, in lighting him to his room, asked
him why he was so nervous.
"Friend John," said Paganel, evasively, "I am not more
nervous to-night than I always am."
"Mr. Paganel," answered John, "you have a secret that chokes
you."
"Well!" cried the geographer, gesticulating, "what can I do?
It is stronger than I!"
"What is stronger?"
"My joy on the one hand, my despair on the other."
"You rejoice and despair at the same time!"
"Yes; at the idea of visiting New Zealand."
"Why! have you any trace?" asked John, eagerly. "Have you
recovered the lost tracks?"
"No, friend John. No one returns from New Zealand; but
still— you know human nature. All we want to nourish hope is breath. My
device is 'Spiro spero,' and it is the best motto in the world!"
CHAPTER II NAVIGATORS AND THEIR
DISCOVERIES
NEXT day, the 27th of January, the
passengers of the MACQUARIE were installed on board the brig. Will Halley
had not offered his cabin to his lady passengers. This omission was the less
to be deplored, for the den was worthy of the bear.
At half past twelve the anchor was weighed, having been
loosed from its holding-ground with some difficulty. A moderate breeze was
blowing from the southwest. The sails were gradually unfurled; the five
hands made slow work. Wilson offered to assist the crew; but Halley begged
him to be quiet and not to interfere with what did not concern him. He was
accustomed to manage his own affairs, and required neither assistance nor
advice.
This was aimed at John Mangles, who had smiled at the
clumsiness of some maneuver. John took the hint, but mentally resolved that
he would nevertheless hold himself in readiness in case the incapacity of
the crew should endanger the safety of the vessel.
However, in time, the sails were adjusted by the five
sailors, aided by the stimulus of the captain's oaths. The MACQUARIE stood
out to sea on the larboard tack, under all her lower sails, topsails,
topgallants, cross-jack, and jib. By and by, the other sails were hoisted.
But in spite of this additional canvas the brig made very little way. Her
rounded bow, the width of her hold, and her heavy stern, made her a bad
sailor, the perfect type of a wooden shoe.
They had to make the best of it. Happily, five days, or, at
most, six, would take them to Auckland, no matter how bad a sailor the
MACQUARIE was.
At seven o'clock in the evening the Australian coast and the
lighthouse of the port of Eden had faded out of sight. The ship labored on
the lumpy sea, and rolled heavily in the trough of the waves. The passengers
below suffered a good deal from this motion. But it was impossible to stay
on deck, as it rained violently. Thus they were condemned to close
imprisonment.
Each one of them was lost in his own reflections. Words were
few. Now and then Lady Helena and Miss Grant exchanged a few syllables.
Glenarvan was restless; he went in and out, while the Major was impassive.
John Mangles, followed by Robert, went on the poop from time to time, to
look at the weather. Paganel sat in his corner, muttering vague and
incoherent words.
What was the worthy geographer thinking of? Of New Zealand,
the country to which destiny was leading him. He went mentally over all his
history; he called to mind the scenes of the past in that ill-omened
country.
But in all that history was there a fact, was there a
solitary incident that could justify the discoverers of these islands in
considering them as "a continent." Could a modern geographer or a sailor
concede to them such a designation. Paganel was always revolving the meaning
of the document. He was possessed with the idea; it became his ruling
thought. After Patagonia, after Australia, his imagination, allured by a
name, flew to New Zealand. But in that direction, one point, and only one,
stood in his way.
"Contin—contin," he repeated, "that must mean
continent!"
And then he resumed his mental retrospect of the navigators
who made known to us these two great islands of the Southern Sea.
It was on the 13th of December, 1642, that the Dutch
navigator Tasman, after discovering Van Diemen's Land, sighted the unknown
shores of New Zealand. He coasted along for several days, and on the 17th of
December his ships penetrated into a large bay, which, terminating in a
narrow strait, separated the two islands.
The northern island was called by the natives Ikana-Mani, a
word which signifies the fish of Mani. The southern island was called
Tavai-Pouna-Mou, "the whale that yields the green-stones."
Abel Tasman sent his boats on shore, and they returned
accompanied by two canoes and a noisy company of natives. These savages were
middle height, of brown or yellow complexion, angular bones, harsh voices,
and black hair, which was dressed in the Japanese manner, and surmounted by
a tall white feather.
This first interview between Europeans and aborigines seemed
to promise amicable and lasting intercourse. But the next day, when one of
Tasman's boats was looking for an anchorage nearer to the land, seven
canoes, manned by a great number of natives, attacked them fiercely. The
boat capsized and filled. The quartermaster in command was instantly struck
with a badly-sharpened spear, and fell into the sea. Of his six companions
four were killed; the other two and the quartermaster were able to swim to
the ships, and were picked up and recovered.
After this sad occurrence Tasman set sail, confining his
revenge to giving the natives a few musket-shots, which probably did not
reach them. He left this bay—which still bears the name of Massacre Bay—
followed the western coast, and on the 5th of January, anchored near the
northern-most point. Here the violence of the surf, as well as the
unfriendly attitude of the natives, prevented his obtaining water, and he
finally quitted these shores, giving them the name Staten-land or the Land
of the States, in honor of the States-General.
The Dutch navigator concluded that these islands were
adjacent to the islands of the same name on the east of Terra del Fuego, at
the southern point of the American continent. He thought he had found "the
Great Southern Continent."
"But," said Paganel to himself, "what a seventeenth century
sailor might call a 'continent' would never stand for one with a nineteenth
century man. No such mistake can be supposed! No! there is something here
that baffles me."
CHAPTER III THE MARTYR-ROLL OF
NAVIGATORS
ON the 31st of January, four days
after starting, the MACQUARIE had not done two-thirds of the distance
between Australia and New Zealand. Will Halley took very little heed to the
working of the ship; he let things take their chance. He seldom showed
himself, for which no one was sorry. No one would have complained if he had
passed all his time in his cabin, but for the fact that the brutal captain
was every day under the influence of gin or brandy. His sailors willingly
followed his example, and no ship ever sailed more entirely depending on
Providence than the MACQUARIE did from Twofold Bay.
This unpardonable carelessness obliged John Mangles to keep
a watchful eye ever open. Mulrady and Wilson more than once brought round
the helm when some careless steering threatened to throw the ship on her
beam-ends. Often Will Halley would interfere and abuse the two sailors with
a volley of oaths. The latter, in their impatience, would have liked nothing
better than to bind this drunken captain, and lower him into the hold, for
the rest of the voyage. But John Mangles succeeded, after some persuasion,
in calming their well-grounded indignation.
Still, the position of things filled him with anxiety; but,
for fear of alarming Glenarvan, he spoke only to Paganel or the Major.
McNabbs recommended the same course as Mulrady and Wilson.
"If you think it would be for the general good, John," said
McNabbs, "you should not hesitate to take the command of the vessel. When we
get to Auckland the drunken imbecile can resume his command, and then he is
at liberty to wreck himself, if that is his fancy."
"All that is very true, Mr. McNabbs, and if it is absolutely
necessary I will do it. As long as we are on open sea, a careful lookout is
enough; my sailors and I are watching on the poop; but when we get near the
coast, I confess I shall be uneasy if Halley does not come to his senses."
"Could not you direct the course?" asked Paganel.
"That would be difficult," replied John. "Would you believe
it that there is not a chart on board?"
"Is that so?"
"It is indeed. The MACQUARIE only does a coasting trade
between Eden and Auckland, and Halley is so at home in these waters that he
takes no observations."
"I suppose he thinks the ship knows the way, and steers
herself." "Ha! ha!" laughed John Mangles; "I do not believe in ships that
steer themselves; and if Halley is drunk when we get among soundings, he
will get us all into trouble."
"Let us hope," said Paganel, "that the neighborhood of land
will bring him to his senses."
"Well, then," said McNabbs, "if needs were, you could not
sail the MACQUARIE into Auckland?"
"Without a chart of the coast, certainly not. The coast is
very dangerous. It is a series of shallow fiords as irregular and capricious
as the fiords of Norway. There are many reefs, and it requires great
experience to avoid them. The strongest ship would be lost if her keel
struck one of those rocks that are submerged but a few feet below the
water."
"In that case those on board would have to take refuge on
the coast."
"If there was time."
"A terrible extremity," said Paganel, "for they are not
hospitable shores, and the dangers of the land are not less appalling than
the dangers of the sea."
"You refer to the Maories, Monsieur Paganel?" asked John
Mangles.
"Yes, my friend. They have a bad name in these waters. It is
not a matter of timid or brutish Australians, but of an intelligent and
sanguinary race, cannibals greedy of human flesh, man-eaters to whom we
should look in vain for pity."
"Well, then," exclaimed the Major, "if Captain Grant had
been wrecked on the coast of New Zealand, you would dissuade us from looking
for him."
"Oh, you might search on the coasts," replied the
geographer, "because you might find traces of the BRITANNIA, but not in the
interior, for it would be perfectly useless. Every European who ventures
into these fatal districts falls into the hands of the Maories, and a
prisoner in the hands of the Maories is a lost man. I have urged my friends
to cross the Pampas, to toil over the plains of Australia, but I will never
lure them into the mazes of the New Zealand forest. May heaven be our guide,
and keep us from ever being thrown within the power of those fierce
natives!"
CHAPTER IV THE WRECK OF THE
"MACQUARIE"
STILL this wearisome voyage dragged
on. On the 2d of February, six days from starting, the MACQUARIE had not yet
made a nearer acquaintance with the shores of Auckland. The wind was fair,
nevertheless, and blew steadily from the southwest; but the currents were
against the ship's course, and she scarcely made any way. The heavy, lumpy
sea strained her cordage, her timbers creaked, and she labored painfully in
the trough of the sea. Her standing rigging was so out of order that it
allowed play to the masts, which were violently shaken at every roll of the
sea.
Fortunately, Will Halley was not a man in a hurry, and did
not use a press of canvas, or his masts would inevitably have come down.
John Mangles therefore hoped that the wretched hull would reach port without
accident; but it grieved him that his companions should have to suffer so
much discomfort from the defective arrangements of the brig.
But neither Lady Helena nor Mary Grant uttered a word of
complaint, though the continuous rain obliged them to stay below, where the
want of air and the violence of the motion were painfully felt. They often
braved the weather, and went on the poop till driven down again by the force
of a sudden squall. Then they returned to the narrow space, fitter for
stowing cargo than accommodating passengers, especially ladies.
Their friends did their best to amuse them. Paganel tried to
beguile the time with his stories, but it was a hopeless case. Their minds
were so distracted at this change of route as to be quite unhinged. Much as
they had been interested in his dissertation on the Pampas, or Australia,
his lectures on New Zealand fell on cold and indifferent ears. Besides, they
were going to this new and ill-reputed country without enthusiasm, without
conviction, not even of their own free will, but solely at the bidding of
destiny.
Of all the passengers on board the MACQUARIE, the most to be
pitied was Lord Glenarvan. He was rarely to be seen below. He could not stay
in one place. His nervous organization, highly excited, could not submit to
confinement between four narrow bulkheads. All day long, even all night,
regardless of the torrents of rain and the dashing waves, he stayed on the
poop, sometimes leaning on the rail, sometimes walking to and fro in
feverish agitation. His eyes wandered ceaselessly over the blank horizon. He
scanned it eagerly during every short interval of clear weather. It seemed
as if he sought to question the voiceless waters; he longed to tear away the
veil of fog and vapor that obscured his view. He could not be resigned, and
his features expressed the bitterness of his grief. He was a man of energy,
till now happy and powerful, and deprived in a moment of power and
happiness. John Mangles bore him company, and endured with him the
inclemency of the weather. On this day Glenarvan looked more anxiously than
ever at each point where a break in the mist enabled him to do so. John came
up to him and said, "Your Lordship is looking out for land?"
Glenarvan shook his head in dissent.
"And yet," said the young captain, "you must be longing to
quit this vessel. We ought to have seen the lights of Auckland thirty-six
hours ago."
Glenarvan made no reply. He still looked, and for a moment
his glass was pointed toward the horizon to windward.
"The land is not on that side, my Lord," said John Mangles.
"Look more to starboard."
"Why, John?" replied Glenarvan. "I am not looking for the
land."
"What then, my Lord?"
"My yacht! the DUNCAN," said Glenarvan, hotly. "It must be
here on these coasts, skimming these very waves, playing the vile part of a
pirate! It is here, John; I am certain of it, on the track of vessels
between Australia and New Zealand; and I have a presentiment that we shall
fall in with her."
"God keep us from such a meeting!"
"Why, John?"
"Your Lordship forgets our position. What could we do in
this ship if the DUNCAN gave chase. We could not even fly!"
"Fly, John?"
"Yes, my Lord; we should try in vain! We should be taken,
delivered up to the mercy of those wretches, and Ben Joyce has shown us that
he does not stop at a crime! Our lives would be worth little. We would fight
to the death, of course, but after that! Think of Lady Glenarvan; think of
Mary Grant!"
"Poor girls!" murmured Glenarvan. "John, my heart is broken;
and sometimes despair nearly masters me. I feel as if fresh misfortunes
awaited us, and that Heaven itself is against us. It terrifies me!"
"You, my Lord?"
"Not for myself, John, but for those I love—whom you love,
also."
"Keep up your heart, my Lord," said the young captain. "We
must not look out for troubles. The MACQUARIE sails badly, but she makes
some way nevertheless. Will Halley is a brute, but I am keeping my eyes
open, and if the coast looks dangerous, I will put the ship's head to sea
again. So that, on that score, there is little or no danger. But as to
getting alongside the DUNCAN! God forbid! And if your Lordship is bent on
looking out for her, let it be in order to give her a wide berth."
John Mangles was right. An encounter with the DUNCAN would
have been fatal to the MACQUARIE. There was every reason to fear such an
engagement in these narrow seas, in which pirates could ply their trade
without risk. However, for that day at least, the yacht did not appear, and
the sixth night from their departure from Twofold Bay came, without the
fears of John Mangles being realized.
But that night was to be a night of terrors. Darkness came
on almost suddenly at seven o'clock in the evening;
V. IV Verne
[illustration omitted] [page
intentionally blank] the sky was very threatening. The sailor instinct rose
above the stupefaction of the drunkard and roused Will Halley. He left his
cabin, rubbed his eyes, and shook his great red head. Then he drew a great
deep breath of air, as other people swallow a draught of water to revive
themselves. He examined the masts. The wind freshened, and veering a point
more to the westward, blew right for the New Zealand coast.
Will Halley, with many an oath, called his men, tightened
his topmast cordage, and made all snug for the night. John Mangles approved
in silence. He had ceased to hold any conversation with the coarse seaman;
but neither Glenarvan nor he left the poop. Two hours after a stiff breeze
came on. Will Halley took in the lower reef of his topsails. The maneuver
would have been a difficult job for five men if the MACQUARIE had not
carried a double yard, on the American plan. In fact, they had only to lower
the upper yard to bring the sail to its smallest size.
Two hours passed; the sea was rising. The MACQUARIE was
struck so violently that it seemed as if her keel had touched the rocks.
There was no real danger, but the heavy vessel did not rise easily to the
waves. By and by the returning waves would break over the deck in great
masses. The boat was washed out of the davits by the force of the water.
John Mangles never released his watch. Any other ship would
have made no account of a sea like this; but with this heavy craft there was
a danger of sinking by the bow, for the deck was filled at every lurch, and
the sheet of water not being able to escape quickly by the scuppers, might
submerge the ship. It would have been the wisest plan to prepare for
emergency by knocking out the bulwarks with an ax to facilitate their
escape, but Halley refused to take this precaution.
But a greater danger was at hand, and one that it was too
late to prevent. About half-past eleven, John Mangles and Wilson, who stayed
on deck throughout the gale, were suddenly struck by an unusual noise. Their
nautical instincts awoke. John seized the sailor's hand. "The reef!" said
he.
"Yes," said Wilson; "the waves breaking on the bank."
"Not more than two cables' length off?"
"At farthest? The land is there!"
John leaned over the side, gazed into the dark water, and
called out,
"Wilson, the lead!"
The master, posted forward, seemed to have no idea of his
position. Wilson seized the lead-line, sprang to the fore-chains, and threw
the lead; the rope ran out between his fingers, at the third knot the lead
stopped.
"Three fathoms," cried Wilson.
"Captain," said John, running to Will Halley, "we are on the
breakers."
Whether or not he saw Halley shrug his shoulders is of very
little importance. But he hurried to the helm, put it hard down, while
Wilson, leaving the line, hauled at the main-topsail brace to bring the ship
to the wind. The man who was steering received a smart blow, and could not
comprehend the sudden attack.
"Let her go! Let her go!" said the young captain, working
her to get away from the reefs.
For half a minute the starboard side of the vessel was
turned toward them, and, in spite of the darkness, John could discern a line
of foam which moaned and gleamed four fathoms away.
At this moment, Will Halley, comprehending the danger, lost
his head. His sailors, hardly sobered, could not understand his orders. His
incoherent words, his contradictory orders showed that this stupid sot had
quite lost his self-control. He was taken by surprise at the proximity of
the land, which was eight miles off, when he thought it was thirty or forty
miles off. The currents had thrown him out of his habitual track, and this
miserable slave of routine was left quite helpless.
Still the prompt maneuver of John Mangles succeeded in
keeping the MACQUARIE off the breakers. But John did not know the position.
For anything he could tell he was girdled in by reefs. The wind blew them
strongly toward the east, and at every lurch they might strike.
In fact, the sound of the reef soon redoubled on the
starboard side of the bow. They must luff again. John put the helm down
again and brought her up. The breakers increased under the bow of the
vessel, and it was necessary to put her about to regain the open sea.
Whether she would be able to go about under shortened sail, and badly
trimmed as she was, remained to be seen, but there was nothing else to be
done.
"Helm hard down!" cried Mangles to Wilson.
The MACQUARIE began to near the new line of reefs:
in another moment the waves were seen dashing on submerged rocks.
It was a moment of inexpressible anxiety. The spray
was luminous, just as if lit up by sudden phosphorescence.
The roaring of the sea was like the voice of those ancient
Tritons whom poetic mythology endowed with life.
Wilson and Mulrady hung to the wheel with all their weight.
Some cordage gave way, which endangered the foremast.
It seemed doubtful whether she would go about without further damage.
Suddenly the wind fell and the vessel fell back, and turning
her became hopeless. A high wave caught her below, carried her up on the
reefs, where she struck with great violence. The foremast came down with all
the fore-rigging. The brig rose twice, and then lay motionless, heeled over
on her port side at an angle of 30 degrees.
The glass of the skylight had been smashed to powder. The
passengers rushed out. But the waves were sweeping the deck from one side to
the other, and they dared not stay there. John Mangles, knowing the ship to
be safely lodged in the sand, begged them to return to their own quarters.
"Tell me the truth, John," said Glenarvan, calmly.
"The truth, my Lord, is that we are at a standstill. Whether
the sea will devour us is another question; but we have time to consider."
"It is midnight?"
"Yes, my Lord, and we must wait for the day."
"Can we not lower the boat?"
"In such a sea, and in the dark, it is impossible.
And, besides, where could we land?"
"Well, then, John, let us wait for the daylight."
Will Halley, however, ran up and down the deck like a
maniac. His crew had recovered their senses, and now broached a cask of
brandy, and began to drink. John foresaw that if they became drunk, terrible
scenes would ensue.
The captain could not be relied on to restrain them;
the wretched man tore his hair and wrung his hands.
His whole thought was his uninsured cargo. "I am ruined!
I am lost!" he would cry, as he ran from side to side.
John Mangles did not waste time on him. He armed his two
companions, and they all held themselves in readiness to resist the sailors
who were filling themselves with brandy, seasoned with fearful blasphemies.
"The first of these wretches that comes near the ladies,
I will shoot like a dog," said the Major, quietly.
The sailors doubtless saw that the passengers were
determined to hold their own, for after some attempts at pillage, they
disappeared to their own quarters. John Mangles thought no more of these
drunken rascals, and waited impatiently for the dawn. The ship was now quite
motionless. The sea became gradually calmer. The wind fell. The hull would
be safe for some hours yet. At daybreak John examined the landing-place; the
yawl, which was now their only boat, would carry the crew and the
passengers. It would have to make three trips at least, as it could only
hold four.
As he was leaning on the skylight, thinking over the
situation of affairs, John Mangles could hear the roaring of the surf. He
tried to pierce the darkness. He wondered how far it was to the land they
longed for no less than dreaded. A reef sometimes extends for miles along
the coast. Could their fragile boat hold out on a long trip?
While John was thus ruminating and longing for a little
light from the murky sky, the ladies, relying on him, slept in their little
berths. The stationary attitude of the brig insured them some hours of
repose. Glenarvan, John, and their companions, no longer disturbed by the
noise of the crew who were now wrapped in a drunken sleep, also refreshed
themselves by a short nap, and a profound silence reigned on board the ship,
herself slumbering peacefully on her bed of sand.
Toward four o'clock the first peep of dawn appeared in the
east. The clouds were dimly defined by the pale light of the dawn. John
returned to the deck. The horizon was veiled with a curtain of fog. Some
faint outlines were shadowed in the mist, but at a considerable height. A
slight swell still agitated the sea, but the more distant waves were
undistinguishable in a motionless bank of clouds.
John waited. The light gradually increased, and the horizon
acquired a rosy hue. The curtain slowly rose over the vast watery stage.
Black reefs rose out of the waters. Then a line became defined on the belt
of foam, and there gleamed a luminous beacon-light point behind a low hill
which concealed the scarcely risen sun. There was the land, less than nine
miles off.
"Land ho!" cried John Mangles.
His companions, aroused by his voice, rushed to the poop,
and gazed in silence at the coast whose outline lay on the horizon. Whether
they were received as friends or enemies, that coast must be their refuge.
"Where is Halley?" asked Glenarvan.
"I do not know, my Lord," replied John Mangles.
"Where are the sailors?"
"Invisible, like himself."
"Probably dead drunk, like himself," added McNabbs.
"Let them be called," said Glenarvan, "we cannot leave them
on the ship."
Mulrady and Wilson went down to the forecastle, and two
minutes after they returned. The place was empty!
They then searched between decks, and then the hold.
But found no trace of Will Halley nor his sailors.
"What! no one?" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Could they have fallen into the sea?" asked Paganel.
"Everything is possible," replied John Mangles, who was
getting uneasy.
Then turning toward the stern: "To the boat!" said he.
Wilson and Mulrady followed to launch the yawl. The yawl was
gone.
CHAPTER V CANNIBALS
WILL HALLEY and his crew, taking
advantage of the darkness of night and the sleep of the passengers, had fled
with the only boat. There could be no doubt about it. The captain, whose
duty would have kept him on board to the last, had been the first to quit
the ship.
"The cowards are off!" said John Mangles. "Well, my Lord, so
much the better. They have spared us some trying scenes."
"No doubt," said Glenarvan; "besides we have a captain of
our own, and courageous, if unskillful sailors, your companions, John. Say
the word, and we are ready to obey."
The Major, Paganel, Robert, Wilson, Mulrady, Olbinett
himself, applauded Glenarvan's speech, and ranged themselves on the deck,
ready to execute their captain's orders.
"What is to be done?" asked Glenarvan.
It was evident that raising the MACQUARIE was out of the
question, and no less evident that she must be abandoned. Waiting on board
for succor that might never come, would have been imprudence and folly.
Before the arrival of a chance vessel on the scene, the MACQUARIE would have
broken up. The next storm, or even a high tide raised by the winds from
seaward, would roll it on the sands, break it up into splinters, and scatter
them on the shore. John was anxious to reach the land before this inevitable
consummation.
He proposed to construct a raft strong enough to carry the
passengers, and a sufficient quantity of provisions, to the coast of New
Zealand.
There was no time for discussion, the work was to be set
about at once, and they had made considerable progress when night came and
interrupted them.
Toward eight o'clock in the evening, after supper, while
Lady Helena and Mary Grant slept in their berths, Paganel and his friends
conversed on serious matters as they walked up and down the deck. Robert had
chosen to stay with them. The brave boy listened with all his ears, ready to
be of use, and willing to enlist in any perilous adventure.
Paganel asked John Mangles whether the raft could not follow
the coast as far as Auckland, instead of landing its freight on the coast.
John replied that the voyage was impossible with such an
unmanageable craft.
"And what we cannot do on a raft could have been done in the
ship's boat?"
"Yes, if necessary," answered John; "but we should have had
to sail by day and anchor at night."
"Then those wretches who abandoned us—"
"Oh, as for them," said John, "they were drunk, and in the
darkness
I have no doubt they paid for their cowardice with their lives."
"So much the worse for them and for us," replied Paganel;
"for the boat would have been very useful to us."
"What would you have, Paganel? The raft will bring us to the
shore," said Glenarvan.
"The very thing I would fain avoid," exclaimed the
geographer.
"What! do you think another twenty miles after crossing the
Pampas and Australia, can have any terrors for us, hardened as we are to
fatigue?"
"My friend," replied Paganel, "I do not call in question our
courage nor the bravery of our friends. Twenty miles would be nothing in any
other country than New Zealand. You cannot suspect me of faint-heartedness.
I was the first to persuade you to cross America and Australia. But here the
case is different. I repeat, anything is better than to venture into this
treacherous country."
"Anything is better, in my judgment," said John Mangles,
"than braving certain destruction on a stranded vessel."
"What is there so formidable in New Zealand?" asked
Glenarvan.
"The savages," said Paganel.
"The savages!" repeated Glenarvan. "Can we not avoid them by
keeping to the shore? But in any case what have we to fear? Surely, two
resolute and well-armed Europeans need not give a thought to an attack by a
handful of miserable beings."
Paganel shook his head. "In this case there are no miserable
beings to contend with. The New Zealanders are a powerful race, who are
rebelling against English rule, who fight the invaders, and often beat them,
and who always eat them!"
"Cannibals!" exclaimed Robert, "cannibals?" Then they heard
him whisper,
"My sister! Lady Helena."
"Don't frighten yourself, my boy," said Glenarvan; "our
friend Paganel exaggerates."
"Far from it," rejoined Paganel. "Robert has shown himself a
man, and I treat him as such, in not concealing the truth from him."
Paganel was right. Cannibalism has become a fixed fact in
New Zealand, as it is in the Fijis and in Torres Strait. Superstition is no
doubt partly to blame, but cannibalism is certainly owing to the fact that
there are moments when game is scarce and hunger great. The savages began by
eating human flesh to appease the demands of an appetite rarely satiated;
subsequently the priests regulated and satisfied the monstrous custom. What
was a meal, was raised to the dignity of a ceremony, that is all.
Besides, in the eyes of the Maories, nothing is more natural
than to eat one another. The missionaries often questioned them about
cannibalism. They asked them why they devoured their brothers; to which the
chiefs made answer that fish eat fish, dogs eat men, men eat dogs, and dogs
eat one another. Even the Maori mythology has a legend of a god who ate
another god; and with such a precedent, who could resist eating his
neighbor?
Another strange notion is, that in eating a dead enemy they
consume his spiritual being, and so inherit his soul, his strength and his
bravery, which they hold are specially lodged in the brain. This accounts
for the fact that the brain figures in their feasts as the choicest
delicacy, and is offered to the most honored guest.
But while he acknowledged all this, Paganel maintained, not
without a show of reason, that sensuality, and especially hunger, was the
first cause of cannibalism among the New Zealanders, and not only among the
Polynesian races, but also among the savages of Europe.
"For," said he, "cannibalism was long prevalent among the
ancestors of the most civilized people, and especially (if the Major will
not think me personal) among the Scotch."
"Really," said McNabbs.
"Yes, Major," replied Paganel. "If you read certain passages
of Saint Jerome, on the Atticoli of Scotland, you will see what he thought
of your forefathers. And without going so far back as historic times, under
the reign of Elizabeth, when Shakespeare was dreaming out his Shy-lock, a
Scotch bandit, Sawney Bean, was executed for the crime of cannibalism. Was
it religion that prompted him to cannibalism? No! it was hunger."
"Hunger?" said John Mangles.
"Hunger!" repeated Paganel; "but, above all, the necessity
of the carnivorous appetite of replacing the bodily waste, by the azote
contained in animal tissues. The lungs are satisfied with a provision of
vegetable and farinaceous food. But to be strong and active the body must be
supplied with those plastic elements that renew the muscles. Until the
Maories become members of the Vegetarian Association they will eat meat, and
human flesh as meat."
"Why not animal flesh?" asked Glenarvan.
"Because they have no animals," replied Paganel; "and that
ought to be taken into account, not to extenuate, but to explain, their
cannibal habits. Quadrupeds, and even birds, are rare on these inhospitable
shores, so that the Maories have always eaten human flesh. There are even
'man-eating seasons,' as there are in civilized countries hunting seasons.
Then begin the great wars, and whole tribes are served up on the tables of
the conquerors."
"Well, then," said Glenarvan, "according to your mode of
reasoning, Paganel, cannibalism will not cease in New Zealand until her
pastures teem with sheep and oxen."
"Evidently, my dear Lord; and even then it will take years
to wean them from Maori flesh, which they prefer to all others; for the
children will still have a relish for what their fathers so highly
appreciated. According to them it tastes like pork, with even more flavor.
As to white men's flesh, they do not like it so well, because the whites eat
salt with their food, which gives a peculiar flavor, not to the taste of
connoisseurs."
"They are dainty," said the Major. "But, black or white, do
they eat it raw, or cook it?"
"Why, what is that to you, Mr. McNabbs?" cried Robert.
"What is that to me!" exclaimed the Major, earnestly. "If I
am to make a meal for a cannibal, I should prefer being cooked."
"Why?"
"Because then I should be sure of not being eaten alive!"
"Very good. Major," said Paganel; "but suppose they cooked
you alive?"
"The fact is," answered the Major, "I would not give
half-a-crown for the choice!"
"Well, McNabbs, if it will comfort you—you may as well be
told—
the New Zealanders do not eat flesh without cooking or smoking it.
They are very clever and experienced in cookery.
For my part, I very much dislike the idea of being eaten!
The idea of ending one's life in the maw of a savage! bah!"
"The conclusion of all," said John Mangles, "is that we must
not fall into their hands. Let us hope that one day Christianity will
abolish all these monstrous customs."
"Yes, we must hope so," replied Paganel; "but, believe me, a
savage who has tasted human flesh, is not easily persuaded to forego it. I
will relate two facts which prove it."
"By all means let us have the facts, Paganel," said
Glenarvan.
"The first is narrated in the chronicles of the Jesuit
Society in Brazil. A Portuguese missionary was one day visiting an old
Brazilian woman who was very ill. She had only a few days to live. The
Jesuit inculcated the truths of religion, which the dying woman accepted,
without objection. Then having attended to her spiritual wants, he bethought
himself of her bodily needs, and offered her some European delicacies.
'Alas,' said she, 'my digestion is too weak to bear any kind of food. There
is only one thing I could fancy, and nobody here could get it for me.' 'What
is it?' asked the Jesuit. 'Ah! my son,' said she, 'it is the hand of a
little boy! I feel as if I should enjoy munching the little bones!'"
"Horrid! but I wonder is it so very nice?" said Robert.
"My second tale will answer you, my boy," said Paganel: "One
day a missionary was reproving a cannibal for the horrible custom, so
abhorrent to God's laws, of eating human flesh! 'And beside,' said he, 'it
must be so nasty!' 'Oh, father,' said the savage, looking greedily at the
missionary, 'say that God forbids it! That is a reason for what you tell us.
But don't say it is nasty! If you had only tasted it!'"
CHAPTER VI A DREADED COUNTRY
PAGANEL'S facts were indisputable. The cruelty of the New
Zealanders was beyond a doubt, therefore it was dangerous to land. But had
the danger been a hundredfold greater, it had to be faced. John Mangles felt
the necessity of leaving without delay a vessel doomed to certain and speedy
destruction. There were two dangers, one certain and the other probable, but
no one could hesitate between them.
As to their chance of being picked up by a passing vessel,
they could not reasonably hope for it. The MACQUARIE was not in the track of
ships bound to New Zealand. They keep further north for Auckland, further
south for New Plymouth, and the ship had struck just between these two
points, on the desert region of the shores of Ika-na-Mani, a dangerous,
difficult coast, and infested by desperate characters.
"When shall we get away?" asked Glenarvan.
"To-morrow morning at ten o'clock," replied John Mangles.
"The tide will then turn and carry us to land."
Next day, February 5, at eight o'clock, the raft was
finished. John had given all his attention to the building of this
structure. The foreyard, which did very well for mooring the anchors, was
quite inadequate to the transport of passengers and provisions. What was
needed was a strong, manageable raft, that would resist the force of the
waves during a passage of nine miles. Nothing but the masts could supply
suitable materials.
Wilson and Mulrady set to work; the rigging was cut clear,
and the mainmast, chopped away at the base, fell over the starboard rail,
which crashed under its weight. The MACQUARIE was thus razed like a pontoon.
When the lower mast, the topmasts, and the royals were sawn
and split, the principal pieces of the raft were ready. They were then
joined to the fragments of the foremast and the whole was fastened securely
together. John took the precaution to place in the interstices half a dozen
empty barrels, which would raise the structure above the level of the water.
On this strong foundation, Wilson laid a kind of floor in open work, made of
the gratings off the hatches. The spray could then dash on the raft without
staying there, and the passengers would be kept dry. In addition to this,
the hose-pipes firmly lashed together formed a kind of circular barrier
which protected the deck from the waves.
That morning, John seeing that the wind was in their favor,
rigged up the royal-yard in the middle of the raft as a mast. It was stayed
with shrouds, and carried a makeshift sail. A large broad-bladed oar was
fixed behind to act as a rudder in case the wind was sufficient to require
it. The greatest pains had been expended on strengthening the raft to resist
the force of the waves, but the question remained whether, in the event of a
change of wind, they could steer, or indeed, whether they could hope ever to
reach the land.
At nine o'clock they began to load. First came the
provisions, in quantity sufficient to last till they should reach Auckland,
for they could not count on the productions of this barren region.
Olbinett's stores furnished some preserved meat which
remained of the purchase made for their voyage in the MACQUARIE. This was
but a scanty resource. They had to fall back on the coarse viands of the
ship; sea biscuits of inferior quality, and two casks of salt fish. The
steward was quite crestfallen.
These provisions were put in hermetically sealed cases,
staunch and safe from sea water, and then lowered on to the raft and
strongly lashed to the foot of the mast. The arms and ammunition were piled
in a dry corner. Fortunately the travelers were well armed with carbines and
revolvers.
A holding anchor was also put on board in case John should
be unable to make the land in one tide, and would have to seek moorings.
At ten o'clock the tide turned. The breeze blew gently from
the northwest, and a slight swell rocked the frail craft.
"Are we ready?" asked John.
"All ready, captain," answered Wilson.
"All aboard!" cried John.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant descended by a rope ladder, and
took their station at the foot of the mast on the cases of provisions, their
companions near them. Wilson took the helm. John stood by the tackle, and
Mulrady cut the line which held the raft to the ship's side.
The sail was spread, and the frail structure commenced its
progress toward the land, aided by wind and tide. The coast was about nine
miles off, a distance that a boat with good oars would have accomplished in
three hours. But with a raft allowance must be made. If the wind held, they
might reach the land in one tide. But if the breeze died away, the ebb would
carry them away from the shore, and they would be compelled to anchor and
wait for the next tide, a serious consideration, and one that filled John
Mangles with anxiety.
Still he hoped to succeed. The wind freshened. The tide had
turned at ten o'clock, and by three they must either make the land or anchor
to save themselves from being carried out to sea. They made a good start.
Little by little the black line of the reefs and the yellow banks of sand
disappeared under the swelling tide. Extreme watchfulness and perfect skill
were necessary to avoid these submerged rocks, and steer a bark that did not
readily answer to the helm, and that constantly broke off.
At noon they were still five miles from shore. A tolerably
clear sky allowed them to make out the principal features of the land. In
the northeast rose a mountain about 2,300 feet high, whose sharply defined
outline was exactly like the grinning face of a monkey turned toward the
sky. It was Pirongia, which the map gave as exactly on the 38th parallel.
At half-past twelve, Paganel remarked that all the rocks had
disappeared under the rising tide.
"All but one," answered Lady Helena.
"Which, Madam?" asked Paganel.
"There," replied she, pointing to a black speck a mile off.
"Yes, indeed," said Paganel. "Let us try to ascertain its
position, so as not to get too near it, for the sea will soon conceal it."
"It is exactly in a line with the northern slope of the
mountain," said John Mangles. "Wilson, mind you give it a wide berth."
"Yes, captain," answered the sailor, throwing his whole
weight on the great oar that steered the raft.
In half an hour they had made half a mile. But, strange to
say, the black point still rose above the waves.
John looked attentively, and in order to make it out,
borrowed Paganel's telescope.
"That is no reef," said he, after a moment; "it is something
floating, which rises and falls with the swell."
"Is it part of the mast of the MACQUARIE?" asked Lady
Helena.
"No," said Glenarvan, "none of her timbers could have come
so far."
"Stay!" said John Mangles; "I know it! It is the boat."
"The ship's boat?" exclaimed Glenarvan.
"Yes, my lord. The ship's boat, keel up."
"The unfortunate creatures," cried Lady Helena, "they have
perished!"
"Yes, Madam," replied John Mangles, "they must have
perished, for in the midst of these breakers in a heavy swell on that pitchy
night, they ran to certain death."
For a few minutes the passengers were silent.
They gazed at the frail craft as they drew near it.
It must evidently have capsized about four miles from the shore,
and not one of the crew could have escaped.
"But this boat may be of use to us," said Glenarvan.
"That is true," answered John Mangles. "Keep her up,
Wilson."
The direction was slightly changed, but the breeze fell
gradually, and it was two hours before they reached the boat.
Mulrady, stationed forward, fended off the blow, and the
yawl was drawn alongside.
"Empty?" asked John Mangles.
"Yes, captain," answered the sailor, "the boat is empty. and
all its seams are open. It is of no use to us."
"No use at all?" said McNabbs.
"None at all," said John Mangles.
"It is good for nothing but to burn."
"I regret it," said Paganel, "for the yawl might have taken
us to Auckland."
"We must bear our fate, Monsieur Paganel," replied John
Mangles.
"But, for my part, in such a stormy sea I prefer our raft to that
crazy boat. A very slight shock would be enough to break her up.
Therefore, my lord, we have nothing to detain us further."
"As you think best, John."
"On then, Wilson," said John, "and bear straight for the
land."
There was still an hour before the turn of the tide. In that
time they might make two miles. But the wind soon fell almost entirely, and
the raft became nearly motionless, and soon began to drift to seaward under
the influence of the ebb-tide.
John did not hesitate a moment.
"Let go the anchor," said he.
Mulrady, who stood to execute this order, let go the anchor
in five fathoms water. The raft backed about two fathoms on the line, which
was then at full stretch. The sail was taken in, and everything made snug
for a tedious period of inaction.
The returning tide would not occur till nine o'clock in the
evening; and as John Mangles did not care to go on in the dark, the
anchorage was for the night, or at least till five o'clock in the morning,
land being in sight at a distance of less than three miles.
A considerable swell raised the waves, and seemed to set in
continuously toward the coast, and perceiving this, Glenarvan asked John why
he did not take advantage of this swell to get nearer to the land.
"Your Lordship is deceived by an optical illusion," said the
young captain. "Although the swell seems to carry the waves landward, it
does not really move at all. It is mere undulating molecular motion, nothing
more. Throw a piece of wood overboard and you will see that it will remain
quite stationary except as the tide affects it. There is nothing for it but
patience."
"And dinner," said the Major.
Olbinett unpacked some dried meat and a dozen biscuits.
The steward blushed as he proffered the meager bill of fare.
But it was received with a good grace, even by the ladies,
who, however, had not much appetite, owing to the violent motion.
This motion, produced by the jerking of the raft on the
cable, while she lay head on to the sea, was very severe and fatiguing. The
blows of the short, tumbling seas were as severe as if she had been striking
on a submerged rock. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she was not
aground. The cable strained violently, and every half hour John had to take
in a fathom to ease it. Without this precaution it would certainly have
given way, and the raft must have drifted to destruction.
John's anxiety may easily be understood. His cable might
break, or his anchor lose its hold, and in either case the danger was
imminent.
Night drew on; the sun's disc, enlarged by refraction, was
dipping blood-red below the horizon. The distant waves glittered in the
west, and sparkled like sheets of liquid silver. Nothing was to be seen in
that direction but sky and water, except one sharply-defined object, the
hull of the MACQUARIE motionless on her rocky bed.
The short twilight postponed the darkness only by a few
minutes, and soon the coast outline, which bounded the view on the east and
north, was lost in darkness.
The shipwrecked party were in an agonizing situation on
their narrow raft, and overtaken by the shades of night.
Some of the party fell into a troubled sleep, a prey to evil
dreams; others could not close an eye. When the day dawned, the whole party
were worn out with fatigue.
With the rising tide the wind blew again toward the land. It
was six o'clock in the morning, and there was no time to lose. John arranged
everything for resuming their voyage, and then he ordered the anchor to be
weighed. But the anchor flukes had been so imbedded in the sand by the
repeated jerks of the cable, that without a windlass it was impossible to
detach it, even with the tackle which Wilson had improvised.
Half an hour was lost in vain efforts. John, impatient of
delay, cut the rope, thus sacrificing his anchor, and also the possibility
of anchoring again if this tide failed to carry them to land. But he decided
that further delay was not to be thought of, and an ax-blow committed the
raft to the mercy of the wind, assisted by a current of two knots an hour.
The sail was spread. They drifted slowly toward the land,
which rose in gray, hazy masses, on a background of sky illumined by the
rising sun. The reef was dexterously avoided and doubled, but with the
fitful breeze the raft could not get near the shore. What toil and pain to
reach a coast so full of danger when attained.
At nine o'clock, the land was less than a mile off. It was a
steeply-shelving shore, fringed with breakers; a practicable landing-place
had to be discovered.
Gradually the breeze grew fainter, and then ceased en-
V. IV Verne tirely. The sail flapped idly against the mast,
and John had it furled. The tide alone carried the raft to the shore, but
steering had become impossible, and its passage was impeded by immense bands
of FUCUS.
At ten o'clock John found himself almost at a stand-still,
not three cables' lengths from the shore. Having lost their anchor, they
were at the mercy of the ebb-tide.
John clenched his hands; he was racked with anxiety, and
cast frenzied glances toward this inaccessible shore.
In the midst of his perplexities, a shock was felt. The raft
stood still. It had landed on a sand-bank, twenty-five fathoms from the
coast.
Glenarvan, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady, jumped into the
water. The raft was firmly moored to the nearest rocks. The ladies were
carried to land without wetting a fold of their dresses, and soon the whole
party, with their arms and provisions, were finally landed on these much
dreaded New Zealand shores.
CHAPTER VII THE MAORI WAR
GLENARVAN would have liked to start
without an hour's delay, and follow the coast to Auckland. But since the
morning heavy clouds had been gathering, and toward eleven o'clock, after
the landing was effected, the vapors condensed into violent rain, so that
instead of starting they had to look for shelter.
Wilson was fortunate enough to discover what just suited
their wants: a grotto hollowed out by the sea in the basaltic rocks. Here
the travelers took shelter with their arms and provisions. In the cave they
found a ready-garnered store of dried sea-weed, which formed a convenient
couch; for fire, they lighted some wood near the mouth of the cavern, and
dried themselves as well as they could.
John hoped that the duration of this deluge of rain would be
in an inverse ratio to its violence, but he was doomed to disappointment.
Hours passed without any abatement of its fury. Toward noon the wind
freshened, and increased the force of the storm. The most patient of men
would have rebelled at such an untoward incident; but what could be done;
without any vehicle, they could not brave such a tempest; and, after all,
unless the natives appeared on the scene, a delay of twelve hours was not so
much consequence, as the journey to Auckland was only a matter of a few
days. During this involuntary halt, the conversation turned on the incidents
of the New Zealand war. But to understand and appreciate the critical
position into which these MACQUARIE passengers were thrown, something ought
to be known of the history of the struggle which had deluged the island of
Ika-na-Mani with blood.
Since the arrival of Abel Tasman in Cook's Strait, on the
16th of December, 1642, though the New Zealanders had often been visited by
European vessels, they had maintained their liberty in their several
islands. No European power had thought of taking possession of this
archipelago, which commands the whole Pacific Ocean. The missionaries
stationed at various points were the sole channels of Christian
civilization. Some of them, especially the Anglicans, prepared the minds of
the New Zealand chiefs for submitting to the English yoke. It was cleverly
managed, and these chiefs were influenced to sign a letter addressed to
Queen Victoria to ask her protection. But the most clearsighted of them saw
the folly of this step; and one of them, after having affixed his
tattoo-mark to the letter by way of signature, uttered these prophetic
words: "We have lost our country! henceforth it is not ours; soon the
stranger will come and take it, and we shall be his slaves."
And so it was; on January 29, 1840, the English corvette
HERALD arrived to claim possession.
From the year 1840, till the day the DUNCAN left the Clyde,
nothing had happened here that Paganel did not know and he was ready to
impart his information to his companions.
"Madam," said he, in answer to Lady Helena's questions, "I
must repeat what I had occasion to remark before, that the New Zealanders
are a courageous people, who yielded for a moment, but afterward fought foot
to foot against the English invaders. The Maori tribes are organized like
the old clans of Scotland. They are so many great families owning a chief,
who is very jealous of his prerogative. The men of this race are proud and
brave, one tribe tall, with straight hair, like the Maltese, or the Jews of
Bagdad; the other smaller, thickset like mulattoes, but robust, haughty, and
warlike. They had a famous chief, named Hihi, a real Vercingetorix, so that
you need not be astonished that the war with the English has become chronic
in the Northern Island, for in it is the famous tribe of the Waikatos, who
defend their lands under the leadership of William Thompson."
"But," said John Mangles, "are not the English in possession
of the principal points in New Zealand?"
"Certainly, dear John," replied Paganel. "After Captain
Hobson took formal possession, and became governor, nine colonies were
founded at various times between 1840 and 1862, in the most favorable
situations. These formed the nucleus of nine provinces, four in the North
Island and five in the southern island, with a total population of 184,346
inhabitants on the 30th of June, 1864."
"But what about this interminable war?" asked John Mangles.
"Well," said Paganel, "six long months have gone by since we
left Europe, and I cannot say what may have happened during that time, with
the exception of a few facts which I gathered from the newspapers of
Maryborough and Seymour during our Australian journey. At that time the
fighting was very lively in the Northern Island."
"And when did the war commence?" asked Mary Grant.
"Recommence, you mean, my dear young lady," replied Paganel;
"for there was an insurrection so far back as 1845. The present war began
toward the close of 1863; but long before that date the Maories were
occupied in making preparations to shake off the English yoke. The national
party among the natives carried on an active propaganda for the election of
a Maori ruler. The object was to make old Potatau king, and to fix as the
capital of the new kingdom his village, which lay between the Waikato and
Waipa Rivers. Potatau was an old man, remarkable rather for cunning than
bravery; but he had a Prime Minister who was both intelligent and energetic,
a descendant of the Ngatihahuas, who occupied the isthmus before the arrival
of the strangers. This minister, William Thompson, became the soul of the
War of Independence, and organized the Maori troops, with great skill. Under
this guidance a Taranaki chief gathered the scattered tribes around the same
flag; a Waikato chief formed a 'Land League,' intended to prevent the
natives from selling their land to the English Government, and warlike
feasts were held just as in civilized countries on the verge of revolution.
The English newspapers began to notice these alarming symptoms, and the
government became seriously disturbed at these 'Land League' proceedings. In
short, the train was laid, and the mine was ready to explode. Nothing was
wanted but the spark, or rather the shock of rival interests to produce the
spark.
"This shock took place in 1860, in the Taranaki province on
the southwest coast of Ika-na-Mani. A native had six hundred acres of land
in the neighborhood of New Plymouth. He sold them to the English Government;
but when the surveyor came to measure the purchased land, the chief Kingi
protested, and by the month of March he had made the six hundred acres in
question into a fortified camp, surrounded with high palisades. Some days
after Colonel Gold carried this fortress at the head of his troops, and that
day heard the first shot fired of the native war."
"Have the rebels been successful up to this time?"
"Yes, Madam, and the English themselves have often been
compelled to admire the courage and bravery of the New Zealanders. Their
mode of warfare is of the guerilla type; they form skirmishing parties, come
down in small detachments, and pillage the colonists' homes. General Cameron
had no easy time in the campaigns, during which every bush had to be
searched. In 1863, after a long and sanguinary struggle, the Maories were
entrenched in strong and fortified position on the Upper Waikato, at the end
of a chain of steep hills, and covered by three miles of forts. The native
prophets called on all the Maori population to defend the soil, and promised
the extermination of the pakekas, or white men. General Cameron had three
thousand volunteers at his disposal, and they gave no quarter to the Maories
after the barbarous murder of Captain Sprent. Several bloody engagements
took place; in some instances the fighting lasted twelve hours before the
Maories yielded to the English cannonade. The heart of the army was the
fierce Waikato tribe under William Thompson. This native general commanded
at the outset 2,500 warriors, afterward increased to 8,000. The men of
Shongi and Heki, two powerful chiefs, came to his assistance. The women took
their part in the most trying labors of this patriotic war. But right has
not always might. After severe struggles General Cameron succeeded in
subduing the Waikato district, but empty and depopulated, for the Maories
escaped in all directions. Some wonderful exploits were related. Four
hundred Maories who were shut up in the fortress of Orakau, besieged by
1,000 English, under Brigadier-General Carey, without water or provisions,
refused to surrender, but one day at noon cut their way through the then
decimated 40th Regiment, and escaped to the marshes."
"But," asked John Mangles, "did the submission of the
Waikato district put an end to this sanguinary war?"
"No, my friend," replied Paganel. "The English resolved to
march on Taranaki province and besiege Mataitawa, William Thompson's
fortress. But they did not carry it without great loss. Just as I was
leaving Paris, I heard that the Governor and the General had accepted the
submission of the Tauranga tribes, and left them in possession of
three-fourths of their lands. It was also rumored that the principal chief
of the rebellion, William Thompson, was inclined to surrender, but the
Australian papers have not confirmed this, but rather the contrary, and I
should not be surprised to find that at this moment the war is going on with
renewed vigor."
"Then, according to you, Paganel," said Glenarvan, "this
struggle is still going on in the provinces of Auckland and Taranaki?"
"I think so."
"This very province where the MACQUARIE'S wreck has
deposited us."
"Exactly. We have landed a few miles above Kawhia harbor,
where the Maori flag is probably still floating."
"Then our most prudent course would be to keep toward the
north," remarked Glenarvan.
"By far the most prudent," said Paganel. "The New Zealanders
are incensed against Europeans, and especially against the English.
Therefore let us avoid falling into their hands."
"We might have the good fortune to fall in with a detachment
of European troops," said Lady Helena.
"We may, Madam," replied the geographer; "but I do not
expect it. Detached parties do not like to go far into the country, where
the smallest tussock, the thinnest brushwood, may conceal an accomplished
marksman. I don't fancy we shall pick up an escort of the 40th Regiment. But
there are mission-stations on this west coast, and we shall be able to make
them our halting-places till we get to Auckland."
CHAPTER VIII ON THE ROAD TO
AUCKLAND
ON the 7th of February, at six
o'clock in the morning, the signal for departure was given by Glenarvan.
During the night the rain had ceased. The sky was veiled with light gray
clouds, which moderated the heat of the sun, and allowed the travelers to
venture on a journey by day.
Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty miles
between Point Kawhia and Auckland; it was an eight days' journey if they
made ten miles a day. But instead of following the windings of the coast, he
thought it better to make for a point thirty miles off, at the confluence of
the Waikato and the Waipa, at the village of Ngarnavahia. The "overland
track" passes that point, and is rather a path than a road, practicable for
the vehicles which go almost across the island, from Napier, in Hawke's Bay,
to Auckland. From this village it would be easy to reach Drury, and there
they could rest in an excellent hotel, highly recommended by Dr.
Hochstetter.
The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions,
commenced to follow the shore of Aotea Bay. From prudential motives they did
not allow themselves to straggle, and by instinct they kept a look-out over
the undulating plains to the eastward, ready with their loaded carbines.
Paganel, map in hand, took a professional pleasure in verifying the minutest
details.
The country looked like an immense prairie which faded into
distance, and promised an easy walk. But the travelers were undeceived when
they came to the edge of this verdant plain. The grass gave way to a low
scrub of small bushes bearing little white flowers, mixed with those
innumerable tall ferns with which the lands of New Zealand abound. They had
to cut a path across the plain, through these woody stems, and this was a
matter of some difficulty, but at eight o'clock in the evening the first
slopes of the Hakarihoata Ranges were turned, and the party camped
immediately. After a fourteen miles' march, they might well think of
resting.
Neither wagon or tent being available, they sought repose
beneath some magnificent Norfolk Island pines. They had plenty of rugs which
make good beds. Glenarvan took every possible precaution for the night. His
companions and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two, till
daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a potent preservation
from wild beasts, but New Zealand has neither tiger, nor lion, nor bear, nor
any wild animal, but the Maori adequately fills their place, and a fire
would only have served to attract this two-footed jaguar.
The night passed pleasantly with the exception of the attack
of the sand-flies, called by the natives, "ngamu," and the visit of the
audacious family of rats, who exercised their teeth on the provisions.
Next day, on the 8th of February, Paganel rose more
sanguine, and almost reconciled to the country. The Maories, whom he
particularly dreaded, had not yet appeared, and these ferocious cannibals
had not molested him even in his dreams. "I begin to think that our little
journey will end favorably. This evening we shall reach the confluence of
the Waipa and Waikato, and after that there is not much chance of meeting
natives on the way to Auckland."
"How far is it now," said Glenarvan, "to the confluence of
the Waipa and Waikato?"
"Fifteen miles; just about what we did yesterday."
"But we shall be terribly delayed if this interminable scrub
continues to obstruct our path."
"No," said Paganel, "we shall follow the banks of the Waipa,
and then we shall have no obstacle, but on the contrary, a very easy road."
"Well, then," said Glenarvan, seeing the ladies ready, "let
us make a start."
During the early part of the day, the thick brushwood
seriously impeded their progress. Neither wagon nor horses could have passed
where travelers passed, so that their Australian vehicle was but slightly
regretted. Until practicable wagon roads are cut through these forests of
scrub, New Zealand will only be accessible to foot passengers. The ferns,
whose name is legion, concur with the Maories in keeping strangers off the
lands.
The little party overcame many obstacles in crossing the
plains in which the Hakarihoata Ranges rise. But before noon they reached
the banks of the Waipa, and followed the northward course of the river.
The Major and Robert, without leaving their companions, shot
some snipe and partridge under the low shrubs of the plain. Olbinett, to
save time, plucked the birds as he went along.
Paganel was less absorbed by the culinary importance of the
game than by the desire of obtaining some bird peculiar to New Zealand. His
curiosity as a naturalist overcame his hunger as a traveler. He called to
mind the peculiarities of the "tui" of the natives, sometimes called the
mocking-bird from its incessant chuckle, and sometimes "the parson," in
allusion to the white cravat it wears over its black, cassock-like plumage.
"The tui," said Paganel to the Major, "grows so fat during
the Winter that it makes him ill, and prevents him from flying. Then he
tears his breast with his beak, to relieve himself of his fat, and so
becomes lighter. Does not that seem to you singular, McNabbs?"
"So singular that I don't believe a word of it," replied the
Major.
Paganel, to his great regret, could not find a single
specimen, or he might have shown the incredulous Major the bloody scars on
the breast. But he was more fortunate with a strange animal which, hunted by
men, cats and dogs, has fled toward the unoccupied country, and is fast
disappearing from the fauna of New Zealand. Robert, searching like a ferret,
came upon a nest made of interwoven roots, and in it a pair of birds
destitute of wings and tail, with four toes, a long snipe-like beak, and a
covering of white feathers over the whole body, singular creatures, which
seemed to connect the oviparous tribes with the mam-mifers.
It was the New Zealand "kiwi," the
Apteryx australis of naturalists, which lives with equal satisfaction
on larvae, insects, worms or seeds. This bird is peculiar to the country. It
has been introduced into very few of the zoological collections of Europe.
Its graceless shape and comical motions have always attracted the notice of
travelers, and during the great exploration of the Astrolabe and the Zelee,
Dumont d'Urville was principally charged by the Academy of Sciences to bring
back a specimen of these singular birds. But in spite of rewards offered to
the natives, he could not obtain a single specimen.
Paganel, who was elated at such a piece of luck, tied the
two birds together, and carried them along with the intention of presenting
them to the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris. "Presented by M. Jacques Paganel."
He mentally saw the flattering inscription on the handsomest cage in the
gardens. Sanguine geographer!
The party pursued their way without fatigue along the banks
of the Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not a trace of natives, nor
any track that could betray the existence of man. The stream was fringed
with tall bushes, or glided along sloping banks, so that nothing obstructed
the view of the low range of hills which closed the eastern end of the
valley. With their grotesque shapes, and their outlines lost in a deceptive
haze, they brought to mind giant animals, worthy of antediluvian times. They
might have been a herd of enormous whales, suddenly turned to stone. These
disrupted masses proclaimed their essentially volcanic character. New
Zealand is, in fact, a formation of recent plutonic origin. Its emergence
from the sea is constantly increasing. Some points are known to have risen
six feet in twenty years. Fire still runs across its center, shakes it,
convulses it, and finds an outlet in many places by the mouths of geysers
and the craters of volcanoes.
At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily
accomplished. According to the map which Paganel constantly referred to, the
confluence of the Waipa and Waikato ought to be reached about five miles
further on, and there the night halt could be made. Two or three days would
then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between them and the capital; and
if Glenarvan happened to fall in with the mail coach that plies between
Hawkes' Bay and Auckland twice a month, eight hours would be sufficient.
"Therefore," said Glenarvan, "we shall be obliged to camp
during the night once more."
"Yes," said Paganel, "but I hope for the last time."
"I am very glad to think so, for it is very trying for Lady
Helena and Mary Grant."
"And they never utter a murmur," added John Mangles. "But I
think
I heard you mention a village at the confluence of these rivers."
"Yes," said the geographer, "here it is, marked on
Johnston's map.
It is Ngarnavahia, two miles below the junction."
"Well, could we not stay there for the night? Lady Helena
and Miss Grant would not grudge two miles more to find a hotel even of a
humble character."
"A hotel!" cried Paganel, "a hotel in a Maori village! you
would not find an inn, not a tavern! This village will be a mere cluster of
huts, and so far from seeking rest there, my advice is that you give it a
wide berth."
"Your old fears, Paganel!" retorted Glenarvan.
"My dear Lord, where Maories are concerned, distrust is
safer than confidence. I do not know on what terms they are with the
English, whether the insurrection is suppressed or successful, or whether
indeed the war may not be going on with full vigor. Modesty apart, people
like us would be a prize, and I must say, I would rather forego a taste of
Maori hospitality. I think it certainly more prudent to avoid this village
of Ngarnavahia, to skirt it at a distance, so as to avoid all encounters
with the natives. When we reach Drury it will be another thing, and there
our brave ladies will be able to recruit their strength at their leisure."
This advice prevailed. Lady Helena preferred to pass another
night in the open air, and not to expose her companions to danger. Neither
Mary Grant or she wished to halt, and they continued their march along the
river.
Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to fall.
The sun, before disappearing below the western horizon, darted some bright
rays through an opening in the clouds. The distant eastern summits were
empurpled with the parting glories of the day. It was like a flying salute
addressed to the way-worn travelers.
Glenarvan and his friends hastened their steps, they knew
how short the twilight is in this high latitude, and how quickly the night
follows it. They were very anxious to reach the confluence of the two rivers
before the darkness overtook them. But a thick fog rose from the ground, and
made it very difficult to see the way.
Fortunately hearing stood them in the stead of sight;
shortly a nearer sound of water indicated that the confluence was at hand.
At eight o'clock the little troop arrived at the point where the Waipa loses
itself in the Waikato, with a moaning sound of meeting waves.
"There is the Waikato!" cried Paganel, "and the road to
Auckland is along its right bank."
"We shall see that to-morrow," said the Major, "Let us camp
here. It seems to me that that dark shadow is that of a little clump of
trees grown expressly to shelter us. Let us have supper and then get some
sleep."
"Supper by all means," said Paganel, "but no fire; nothing
but biscuit and dried meat. We have reached this spot incognito, let us try
and get away in the same manner. By good luck, the fog is in our favor."
The clump of trees was reached and all concurred in the wish
of the geographer. The cold supper was eaten without a sound, and presently
a profound sleep overcame the travelers, who were tolerably fatigued with
their fifteen miles' march.
CHAPTER IX INTRODUCTION TO THE
CANNIBALS
THE next morning at daybreak a thick
fog was clinging to the surface of the river. A portion of the vapors that
saturated the air were condensed by the cold, and lay as a dense cloud on
the water. But the rays of the sun soon broke through the watery mass and
melted it away.
A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with bushes,
projected into the uniting streams. The swifter waters of the Waipa rushed
against the current of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile before they
mingled with it; but the calm and majestic river soon quieted the noisy
stream and carried it off quietly in its course to the Pacific Ocean.
When the vapor disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the
current of the Waikato. It was a canoe seventy feet long, five broad, and
three deep; the prow raised like that of a Venetian gondola, and the whole
hollowed out of a trunk of a kahikatea. A bed of dry fern was laid at the
bottom. It was swiftly rowed by eight oars, and steered with a paddle by a
man seated in the stern.
This man was a tall Maori, about forty-five years of age,
broad-chested, muscular, with powerfully developed hands and feet. His
prominent and deeply-furrowed brow, his fierce look, and sinister
expression, gave him a formidable aspect.
Tattooing, or "moko," as the New Zealanders call it, is a
mark of great distinction. None is worthy of these honorary lines, who has
not distinguished himself in repeated fights. The slaves and the lower class
can not obtain this decoration. Chiefs of high position may be known by the
finish and precision and truth of the design, which sometimes covers their
whole bodies with the figures of animals. Some are found to undergo the
painful operation of "moko" five times. The more illustrious, the more
illustrated, is the rule of New Zealand.
Dumont D'Urville has given some curious details as to this
custom. He justly observes that "moko" is the counterpart of the armorial
bearings of which many families in Europe are so vain. But he remarks that
there is this difference: the armorial bearings of Europe are frequently a
proof only of the merits of the first who bore them, and are no certificate
of the merits of his descendants; while the individual coat-of-arms of the
Maori is an irrefragible proof that it was earned by the display of
extraordinary personal courage.
The practice of tattooing, independently of the
consideration it procures, has also a useful aspect. It gives the cu-taneous
system an increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemency of the
season and the incessant attacks of the mosquito.
As to the chief who was steering the canoe, there could be
no mistake. The sharpened albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer, had
five times scored his countenance. He was in his fifth edition, and betrayed
it in his haughty bearing.
His figure, draped in a large mat woven of "phormium"
trimmed with dogskins, was clothed with a pair of cotton drawers,
blood-stained from recent combats. From the pendant lobe of his ears hung
earrings of green jade, and round his neck a quivering necklace of
"pounamous," a kind of jade stone sacred among the New Zealanders. At his
side lay an English rifle, and a "patou-patou," a kind of two-headed ax of
an emerald color, and eighteen inches long. Beside him sat nine armed
warriors of inferior rank, ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering
from recent wounds. They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flax
mantles. Three savage-looking dogs lay at their feet. The eight rowers in
the prow seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief. They rowed
vigorously, and propelled the boat against the not very rapid current of the
Waikato, with extraordinary velocity.
In the center of this long canoe, with their feet tied
together, sat ten European prisoners closely packed together.
It was Glenarvan and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert,
Paganel, the Major, John Mangles, the steward, and the two sailors.
The night before, the little band had unwittingly, owing to
the mist, encamped in the midst of a numerous party of natives. Toward the
middle of the night they were surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners,
and carried on board the canoe. They had not been ill-treated, so far, but
all attempts at resistance had been vain. Their arms and ammunition were in
the hands of the savages, and they would soon have been targets for their
own balls.
They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the
natives, that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten
and decimated by the English troops, and were on their way back to the Upper
Waikato. The Maori chief, whose principal warriors had been picked off by
the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning to make a final appeal to
the tribes of the Waikato district, so that he might go to the aid of the
indomitable William Thompson, who was still holding his own against the
conquerors. The chief's name was "Kai-Koumou," a name of evil boding in the
native language, meaning "He who eats the limbs of his enemy." He was bold
and brave, but his cruelty was equally remarkable. No pity was to be
expected at his hands. His name was well known to the English soldiers, and
a price had been set on his head by the governor of New Zealand.
This terrible blow befell Glenarvan at the very moment when
he was about to reach the long-desired haven of Auckland, and so regain his
own country; but no one who looked at his cool, calm features, could have
guessed the anguish he endured. Glenarvan always rose to his misfortunes. He
felt that his part was to be the strength and the example of his wife and
companions; that he was the head and chief; ready to die for the rest if
circumstances required it. He was of a deeply religious turn of mind, and
never lost his trust in Providence nor his belief in the sacred character of
his enterprise. In the midst of this crowning peril he did not give way to
any feeling of regret at having been induced to venture into this country of
savages.
His companions were worthy of him; they entered into his
lofty views; and judging by their haughty demeanor, it would scarcely have
been supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe. With one
accord, and by Glenarvan's advice, they resolved to affect utter
indifference before the natives. It was the only way to impress these
ferocious natures. Savages in general, and particularly the Maories, have a
notion of dignity from which they never derogate. They respect, above all
things, coolness and courage. Glenarvan was aware that by this mode of
procedure, he and his companions would spare themselves needless
humiliation.
From the moment of embarking, the natives, who were very
taciturn, like all savages, had scarcely exchanged a word, but from the few
sentences they did utter, Glenarvan felt certain that the English language
was familiar to them. He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on
the fate that awaited them. Addressing himself to Kai-Koumou, he said in a
perfectly unconcerned voice:
"Where are we going, chief?"
Kai-Koumou looked coolly at him and made no answer.
"What are you going to do with us?" pursued Glenarvan.
A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kai-Koumou, and he
said in a deep voice:
"Exchange you, if your own people care to have you; eat you
if they don't."
Glenarvan asked no further questions; but hope revived in
his heart. He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of
the English, and that the natives would try to get them exchanged. So they
had a chance of salvation, and the case was not quite so desperate.
The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river. Paganel, whose
excitable temperament always rebounded from one extreme to the other, had
quite regained his spirits. He consoled himself that the natives were saving
them the trouble of the journey to the English outposts, and that was so
much gain. So he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the course of
the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province. Lady Helena and
Mary Grant, concealing their alarm, conversed in a low voice with Glenarvan,
and the keenest physiognomists would have failed to see any anxiety in their
faces.
The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand. It is to
the Maories what the Rhine is to the Germans, and the Danube to the Slavs.
In its course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Island,
from the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland. It gave its
name to all those indomitable tribes of the river district, which rose en
masse against the invaders.
The waters of this river are still almost strangers to any
craft but the native canoe. The most audacious tourist will scarcely venture
to invade these sacred shores; in fact, the Upper Waikato is sealed against
profane Europeans.
Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which
the natives regard this great arterial stream. He knew that the English and
German naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction with the
Waipa. He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kai-Koumou would carry his
captives? He could not have guessed, but for hearing the word "Taupo"
repeatedly uttered between the chief and his warriors. He consulted his map
and saw that "Taupo" was the name of a lake celebrated in geographical
annals, and lying in the most mountainous part of the island, at the
southern extremity of Auckland province. The Waikato passes through this
lake and then flows on for 120 miles.
CHAPTER X A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW
AN unfathomable gulf twenty-five
miles long, and twenty miles broad was produced, but long before historic
times, by the falling in of caverns among the trachytic lavas of the center
of the island. And these waters falling from the surrounding heights have
taken possession of this vast basin. The gulf has become a lake, but it is
also an abyss, and no lead-line has yet sounded its depths.
Such is the wondrous lake of Taupo, lying 1,250 feet above
the level of the sea, and in view of an amphitheater of mountains 2,400 feet
high. On the west are rocky peaks of great size; on the north lofty summits
clothed with low trees; on the east a broad beach with a road track, and
covered with pumice stones, which shimmer through the leafy screen of the
bushes; on the southern side rise volcanic cones behind a forest flat. Such
is the majestic frame that incloses this vast sheet of water whose roaring
tempests rival the cyclones of Ocean.
The whole region boils like an immense cauldron hung over
subterranean fires. The ground vibrates from the agitation of the central
furnace. Hot springs filter out everywhere. The crust of the earth cracks in
great rifts like a cake, too quickly baked.
About a quarter of a mile off, on a craggy spur of the
mountain stood a "pah," or Maori fortress. The prisoners, whose feet and
hands were liberated, were landed one by one, and conducted into it by the
warriors. The path which led up to the intrenchment, lay across fields of
"phormium" and a grove of beautiful trees, the "kai-kateas" with persistent
leaves and red berries; "dracaenas australis," the "ti-trees" of the
natives, whose crown is a graceful counterpart of the cabbage-palm, and
"huious," which are used to give a black dye to cloth. Large doves with
metallic sheen on their plumage, and a world of starlings with reddish
carmeles, flew away at the approach of the natives.
After a rather circuitous walk, Glenarvan and his party
arrived at the "pah."
The fortress was defended by an outer inclosure of strong
palisades, fifteen feet high; a second line of stakes; then a fence composed
of osiers, with loop-holes, inclosed
V. IV. Verne the inner space, that is the plateau of the
"pah," on which were erected the Maori buildings, and about forty huts
arranged symmetrically.
When the captives approached they were horror-struck at the
sight of the heads which adorned the posts of the inner circle. Lady Helena
and Mary Grant turned away their eyes more with disgust than with terror.
These heads were those of hostile chiefs who had fallen in battle, and whose
bodies had served to feed the conquerors. The geographer recognized that it
was so, from their eye sockets being hollow and deprived of eye-balls.
Glenarvan and his companions had taken in all this scene at
a glance. They stood near an empty house, waiting the pleasure of the chief,
and exposed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies
surrounded them, shaking their fists, howling and vociferating. Some English
words that escaped their coarse mouths left no doubt that they were
clamoring for immediate vengeance.
In the midst of all these cries and threats, Lady Helena,
tranquil to all outward seeming, affected an indifference she was far from
feeling. This courageous woman made heroic efforts to restrain herself, lest
she should disturb Glenarvan's coolness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink
within her, and John Mangles stood by ready to die in her behalf. His
companions bore the deluge of invectives each according to his disposition;
the Major with utter indifference, Paganel with exasperation that increased
every moment.
Glenarvan, to spare Lady Helena the attacks of these
witches, walked straight up to Kai-Koumou, and pointing to the hideous
group:
"Send them away," said he.
The Maori chief stared fixedly at his prisoner without
speaking; and then, with a nod, he silenced the noisy horde. Glenarvan
bowed, as a sign of thanks, and went slowly back to his place.
At this moment a hundred Maories were assembled in the
"pah," old men, full grown men, youths; the former were calm, but gloomy,
awaiting the orders of Kai-Koumou; the others gave themselves up to the most
violent sorrow, bewailing their parents and friends who had fallen in the
late engagements.
Kai-Koumou was the only one of all the chiefs that obeyed
the call of William Thompson, who had returned to the lake district, and he
was the first to announce to his tribe the defeat of the national
insurrection, beaten on the plains of the lower Waikato. Of the two hundred
warriors who, under his orders, hastened to the defence of the soil, one
hundred and fifty were missing on his return. Allowing for a number being
made prisoners by the invaders, how many must be lying on the field of
battle, never to return to the country of their ancestors!
This was the secret of the outburst of grief with which the
tribe saluted the arrival of Kai-Koumou. Up to that moment nothing had been
known of the last defeat, and the fatal news fell on them like a thunder
clap.
Among the savages, sorrow is always manifested by physical
signs; the parents and friends of deceased warriors, the women especially,
lacerated their faces and shoulders with sharpened shells. The blood spurted
out and blended with their tears. Deep wounds denoted great despair. The
unhappy Maories, bleeding and excited, were hideous to look upon.
There was another serious element in their grief. Not only
had they lost the relative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be
missing in the family mausoleum. In the Maori religion the possession of
these relics is regarded as indispensable to the destinies of the future
life; not the perishable flesh, but the bones, which are collected with the
greatest care, cleaned, scraped, polished, even varnished, and then
deposited in the "oudoupa," that is the "house of glory." These tombs are
adorned with wooden statues, representing with perfect exactness the tattoo
of the deceased. But now their tombs would be left empty, the religious
rites would be unsolemnized, and the bones that escaped the teeth of the
wild dog would whiten without burial on the field of battle.
Then the sorrowful chorus redoubled. The menaces of the
women were intensified by the imprecations of the men against the Europeans.
Abusive epithets were lavished, the accompanying gestures became more
violent. The howl was about to end in brutal action.
Kai-Koumou, fearing that he might be overpowered by the
fanatics of his tribe, conducted his prisoners to a sacred place, on an
abruptly raised plateau at the other end of the "pah." This hut rested
against a mound elevated a hundred feet above it, which formed the steep
outer buttress of the entrenchment. In this "Ware-Atoua," sacred house, the
priests or arikis taught the Maories about a Triune God, father, son, and
bird, or spirit. The large, well constructed hut, contained the sacred and
choice food which Maoui-Ranga-Rangui eats by the mouths of his priests.
In this place, and safe for the moment from the frenzied
natives, the captives lay down on the flax mats. Lady Helena was quite
exhausted, her moral energies prostrate, and she fell helpless into her
husband's arms.
Glenarvan pressed her to his bosom and said:
"Courage, my dear Helena; Heaven will not forsake us!"
Robert was scarcely in when he jumped on Wilson's shoulders,
and squeezed his head through a crevice left between the roof and the walls,
from which chaplets of amulets were hung. From that elevation he could see
the whole extent of the "pah," and as far as Kai-Koumou's house.
"They are all crowding round the chief," said he softly.
"They are throwing their arms about. . . . They are howling. . . .
. Kai-Koumou is trying to speak."
Then he was silent for a few minutes.
"Kai-Koumou is speaking. . . . The savages are quieter.
. . . . They are listening. . . . ."
"Evidently," said the Major, "this chief has a personal
interest in protecting us. He wants to exchange his prisoners for some
chiefs of his tribe! But will his warriors consent?"
"Yes! . . . They are listening. . . . . They have dispersed,
some are gone into their huts. . . . The others have left the intrenchment."
"Are you sure?" said the Major.
"Yes, Mr. McNabbs," replied Robert, "Kai-Koumou is left
alone with the warriors of his canoe. . . . . Oh! one of them is coming up
here. . . . ."
"Come down, Robert," said Glenarvan.
At this moment, Lady Helena who had risen, seized her
husband's arm.
"Edward," she said in a resolute tone, "neither Mary Grant
nor I must fall into the hands of these savages alive!"
And so saying, she handed Glenarvan a loaded revolver.
"Fire-arm!" exclaimed Glenarvan, with flashing eyes.
"Yes! the Maories do not search their prisoners. But,
Edward, this is for us, not for them."
Glenarvan slipped the revolver under his coat; at the same
moment the mat at the entrance was raised, and a native entered.
He motioned to the prisoners to follow him. Glenarvan and
the rest walked across the "pah" and stopped before Kai-Koumou. He was
surrounded by the principal warriors of his tribe, and among them the Maori
whose canoe joined that of the Kai-Koumou at the confluence of Pohain-henna,
on the Waikato. He was a man about forty years of age, powerfully built and
of fierce and cruel aspect. His name was Kara-Tete, meaning "the irascible"
in the native tongue. Kai-Koumou treated him with a certain tone of respect,
and by the fineness of his tattoo, it was easy to perceive that Kara-Tete
held a lofty position in the tribe, but a keen observer would have guessed
the feeling of rivalry that existed between these two chiefs. The Major
observed that the influence of Kara-Tete gave umbrage to Kai-Koumou. They
both ruled the Waikato tribes, and were equal in authority. During this
interview Kai-Koumou smiled, but his eyes betrayed a deep-seated enmity.
Kai-Koumou interrogated Glenarvan.
"You are English?" said he.
"Yes," replied Glenarvan, unhesitatingly, as his nationality
would facilitate the exchange.
"And your companions?" said Kai-Koumou.
"My companions are English like myself. We are shipwrecked
travelers, but it may be important to state that we have taken no part in
the war."
"That matters little!" was the brutal answer of Kara-Tete.
"Every Englishman is an enemy. Your people invaded our island!
They robbed our fields! they burned our villages!"
"They were wrong!" said Glenarvan, quietly. "I say so,
because I think it, not because I am in your power."
"Listen," said Kai-Koumou, "the Tohonga, the chief priest of
Noui-Atoua has fallen into the hands of your brethren; he is a prisoner
among the Pakekas. Our deity has commanded us to ransom him. For my own
part, I would rather have torn out your heart, I would have stuck your head,
and those of your companions, on the posts of that palisade. But Noui-Atoua
has spoken."
As he uttered these words, Kai-Koumou, who till now had been
quite unmoved, trembled with rage, and his features expressed intense
ferocity.
Then after a few minutes' interval he proceeded more calmly.
"Do you think the English will exchange you for our
Tohonga?"
Glenarvan hesitated, all the while watching the Maori chief.
"I do not know," said he, after a moment of silence.
"Speak," returned Kai-Koumou, "is your life worth that of
our Tohonga?"
"No," replied Glenarvan. "I am neither a chief nor a priest
among my own people."
Paganel, petrified at this reply, looked at Glenarvan in
amazement.
Kai-Koumou appeared equally astonished.
"You doubt it then?" said he.
"I do not know," replied Glenarvan.
"Your people will not accept you as an exchange for
Tohonga?"
"Me alone? no," repeated Glenarvan. "All of us perhaps they
might."
"Our Maori custom," replied Kai-Koumou, "is head for head."
"Offer first these ladies in exchange for your priest," said
Glenarvan, pointing to Lady Helena and Mary Grant.
Lady Helena was about to interrupt him. But the Major held
her back.
"Those two ladies," continued Glenarvan, bowing respectfully
toward Lady Helena and Mary Grant, "are personages of rank in their own
country."
The warrior gazed coldly at his prisoner. An evil smile
relaxed his lips for a moment; then he controlled himself, and in a voice of
ill-concealed anger:
"Do you hope to deceive Kai-Koumou with lying words,
accursed Pakeka? Can not the eyes of Kai-Koumou read hearts?"
And pointing to Lady Helena: "That is your wife?" he said.
"No! mine!" exclaimed Kara-Tete.
And then pushing his prisoners aside, he laid his hand on
the shoulder of Lady Helena, who turned pale at his touch.
"Edward!" cried the unfortunate woman in terror.
Glenarvan, without a word, raised his arm, a shot! and
Kara-Tete fell at his feet.
The sound brought a crowd of natives to the spot. A hundred
arms were ready, and Glenarvan's revolver was snatched from him.
Kai-Koumou glanced at Glenarvan with a curious expression:
then with one hand protecting Glenarvan, with the other he waved off the
crowd who were rushing on the party.
At last his voice was heard above the tumult.
"Taboo! Taboo!" he shouted.
At that word the crowd stood still before Glenarvan and his
companions, who for the time were preserved by a supernatural influence.
A few minutes after they were re-conducted to Ware-Atoua,
which was their prison. But Robert Grant and Paganel were not with them.
CHAPTER XI THE CHIEF'S FUNERAL
KAI-KOUMOU, as frequently happens
among the Maories, joined the title of ariki to that of tribal chief. He was
invested with the dignity of priest, and, as such, he had the power to throw
over persons or things the superstitious protection of the "taboo."
The "taboo," which is common to all the Polynesian races,
has the primary effect of isolating the "tabooed" person and preventing the
use of "tabooed" things. According to the Maori doctrine, anyone who laid
sacrilegious hands on what had been declared "taboo," would be punished with
death by the insulted deity, and even if the god delayed the vindication of
his power, the priests took care to accelerate his vengeance.
By the chiefs, the "taboo" is made a political engine,
except in some cases, for domestic reasons. For instance, a native is
tabooed for several days when his hair is cut; when he is tattooed; when he
is building a canoe, or a house; when he is seriously ill, and when he is
dead. If excessive consumption threatens to exterminate the fish of a river,
or ruin the early crop of sweet potatoes, these things are put under the
protection of the taboo. If a chief wishes to clear his house of hangers-on,
he taboos it; if an English trader displeases him he is tabooed. His
interdict has the effect of the old royal "veto."
If an object is tabooed, no one can touch it with impunity.
When a native is under the interdict, certain aliments are denied him for a
prescribed period. If he is relieved, as regards the severe diet, his slaves
feed him with the viands he is forbidden to touch with his hands; if he is
poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his mouth, like an
animal.
In short, the most trifling acts of the Maories are directed
and modified by this singular custom, the deity is brought into constant
contact with their daily life. The taboo has the same weight as a law; or
rather, the code of the Maories, indisputable and undisputed, is comprised
in the frequent applications of the taboo.
As to the prisoners confined in the Ware-Atoua, it was an
arbitrary taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the
natives, friends and partisans of Kai-Koumou, desisted at once on hearing
their chief's voice, and protected the captives from the rest.
Glenarvan cherished no illusive hopes as to his own fate;
nothing but his death could atone for the murder of a chief, and among these
people death was only the concluding act of a martyrdom of torture.
Glenarvan, therefore, was fully prepared to pay the penalty of the righteous
indignation that nerved his arm, but he hoped that the wrath of Kai-Koumou
would not extend beyond himself.
What a night he and his companions passed! Who could picture
their agonies or measure their sufferings? Robert and Paganel had not been
restored to them, but their fate was no doubtful matter. They were too
surely the first victims of the frenzied natives. Even McNabbs, who was
always sanguine, had abandoned hope. John Mangles was nearly frantic at the
sight of Mary Grant's despair at being separated from her brother. Glenarvan
pondered over the terrible request of Lady Helena, who preferred dying by
his hand to submitting to torture and slavery. How was he to summon the
terrible courage!
"And Mary? who has a right to strike her dead?" thought
John, whose heart was broken.
Escape was clearly impossible. Ten warriors, armed to the
teeth, kept watch at the door of Ware-Atoua.
The morning of February 13th arrived. No communication had
taken place between the natives and the "tabooed" prisoners. A limited
supply of provisions was in the house, which the unhappy inmates scarcely
touched. Misery deadened the pangs of hunger. The day passed without change,
and without hope; the funeral ceremonies of the dead chief would doubtless
be the signal for their execution.
Although Glenarvan did not conceal from himself the
probability that Kai-Koumou had given up all idea of exchange, the Major
still cherished a spark of hope.
"Who knows," said he, as he reminded Glenarvan of the effect
produced on the chief by the death of Kara-Tete—"who knows but that
Kai-Koumou, in his heart, is very much obliged to you?"
But even McNabbs' remarks failed to awaken hope in
Glenarvan's mind. The next day passed without any appearance of preparation
for their punishment; and this was the reason of the delay.
The Maories believe that for three days after death the soul
inhabits the body, and therefore, for three times twenty-four hours, the
corpse remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed. Till February
15th the "pah" was deserted.
John Mangles, hoisted on Wilson's shoulders, frequently
reconnoitered the outer defences. Not a single native was visible; only the
watchful sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Ware-Atoua.
But on the third day the huts opened; all the savages, men,
women, and children, in all several hundred Maories, assembled in the "pah,"
silent and calm.
Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and surrounded by the
principal chiefs of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above
the level, in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a
half circle some distance off, in dead silence.
At a sign from Kai-Koumou, a warrior bent his steps toward
Ware-Atoua.
"Remember," said Lady Helena to her husband. Glenarvan
pressed her to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangles, and
said hurriedly:
"Lord and Lady Glenarvan cannot but think if a wife may
claim death at her husband's hands, to escape a shameful life, a betrothed
wife may claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband, to escape the
same fate. John! at this last moment I ask you, have we not long been
betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady
Helena relies on Lord Glenarvan?"
"Mary!" cried the young captain in his despair. "Ah! dear
Mary—"
The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Kai-Koumou; the
two women were resigned to their fate; the men dissembled their sufferings
with superhuman effort.
They arrived in the presence of the Maori chief.
"You killed Kara-Tete," said he to Glenarvan.
"I did," answered Glenarvan.
"You die to-morrow at sunrise."
"Alone?" asked Glenarvan, with a beating heart.
"Oh! if our Tohonga's life was not more precious than
yours!" exclaimed Kai-Koumou, with a ferocious expression of regret.
At this moment there was a commotion among the natives.
Glenarvan looked quickly around; the crowd made way, and a warrior appeared
heated by running, and sinking with fatigue.
Kai-Koumou, as soon as he saw him, said in English,
evidently for the benefit of the captives:
"You come from the camp of the Pakekas?"
"Yes," answered the Maori.
"You have seen the prisoner, our Tohonga?"
"I have seen him."
"Alive?"
"Dead! English have shot him."
It was all over with Glenarvan and his companions.
"All!" cried Kai-Koumou; "you all die to-morrow at
daybreak."
Punishment fell on all indiscriminately. Lady Helena and
Mary Grant were grateful to Heaven for the boon.
The captives were not taken back to Ware-Atoua. They were
destined to attend the obsequies of the chief and the bloody rites that
accompanied them. A guard of natives conducted them to the foot of an
immense kauri, and then stood on guard without taking their eyes off the
prisoners.
The three prescribed days had elapsed since the death of
Kara-Tete, and the soul of the dead warrior had finally departed; so the
ceremonies commenced.
The body was laid on a small mound in the central enclosure.
It was clothed in a rich dress, and wrapped in a magnificent flax mat. His
head, adorned with feathers, was encircled with a crown of green leaves. His
face, arms, and chest had been rubbed with oil, and did not show any sign of
decay.
The parents and friends arrived at the foot of the mound,
and at a certain moment, as if the leader of an orchestra were leading a
funeral chant, there arose a great wail of tears, sighs, and sobs. They
lamented the deceased with a plaintive rhythm and doleful cadence. The
kinsmen beat their heads; the kinswomen tore their faces with their nails
and lavished more blood than tears. But these demonstrations were not
sufficient to propitiate the soul of the deceased, whose wrath might strike
the survivors of his tribe; and his warriors, as they could not recall him
to life, were anxious that he should have nothing to wish for in the other
world. The wife of Kara-Tete was not to be parted from him; indeed, she
would have refused to survive him. It was a custom, as well as a duty, and
Maori history has no lack of such sacrifices.
This woman came on the scene; she was still young. Her
disheveled hair flowed over her shoulders. Her sobs and cries filled the
air. Incoherent words, regrets, sobs, broken phrases in which she extolled
the virtues of the dead, alternated with her moans, and in a crowning
paroxysm of sorrow, she threw herself at the foot of the mound and beat her
head on the earth.
The Kai-Koumou drew near; suddenly the wretched victim rose;
but a violent blow from a "MERE," a kind of club brandished by the chief,
struck her to the ground; she fell senseless.
Horrible yells followed; a hundred arms threatened the
terror-stricken captives. But no one moved, for the funeral ceremonies were
not yet over.
The wife of Kara-Tete had joined her husband. The two bodies
lay stretched side by side. But in the future life, even the presence of his
faithful companion was not enough. Who would attend on them in the realm of
Noui-Atoua, if their slaves did not follow them into the other world.
Six unfortunate fellows were brought to the mound. They were
attendants whom the pitiless usages of war had reduced to slavery. During
the chief's lifetime they had borne the severest privations, and been
subjected to all kinds of ill-usage; they had been scantily fed, and
incessantly occupied like beasts of burden, and now, according to Maori
ideas, they were to resume to all eternity this life of bondage.
These poor creatures appeared quite resigned to their
destiny. They were not taken by surprise. Their unbound hands showed that
they met their fate without resistance.
Their death was speedy and not aggravated by tedious
suffering; torture was reserved for the authors of the murder, who, only
twenty paces off, averted their eyes from the horrible scene which was to
grow yet more horrible.
Six blows of the MERE, delivered by the hands of six
powerful warriors, felled the victims in the midst of a sea of blood.
This was the signal for a fearful scene of cannibalism. The
bodies of slaves are not protected by taboo like those of their masters.
They belong to the tribe; they were a sort of small change thrown among the
mourners, and the moment the sacrifice was over, the whole crowd, chiefs,
warriors, old men, women, children, without distinction of age, or sex, fell
upon the senseless remains with brutal appetite. Faster than a rapid pen
could describe it, the bodies, still reeking, were dismembered, divided, cut
up, not into morsels, but into crumbs. Of the two hundred Maories present
everyone obtained a share. They fought, they struggled, they quarreled over
the smallest fragment. The drops of hot blood splashed over these festive
monsters, and the whole of this detestable crew groveled under a rain of
blood. It was like the delirious fury of tigers fighting over their prey, or
like a circus where the wild beasts devour the deer. This scene ended, a
score of fires were lit at various points of the "pah"; the smell of charred
flesh polluted the air; and but for the fearful tumult of the festival, but
for the cries that emanated from these flesh-sated throats, the captives
might have heard the bones crunching under the teeth of the cannibals.
Glenarvan and his companions, breathless with horror, tried
to conceal this fearful scene from the eyes of the two poor ladies. They
understood then what fate awaited them next day at dawn, and also with what
cruel torture this death would be preceded. They were dumb with horror.
The funeral dances commenced. Strong liquors distilled from
the "piper excelsum" animated the intoxication of the natives. They had
nothing human left. It seemed possible that the "taboo" might be forgotten,
and they might rush upon the prisoners, who were already terrified at their
delirious gestures.
But Kai-Koumou had kept his own senses amidst the general
delirium. He allowed an hour for this orgy of blood to attain its maximum
and then cease, and the final scene of the obsequies was performed with the
accustomed ceremonial.
The corpses of Kara-Tete and his wife were raised, the limbs
were bent, and laid against the stomach according to the Maori usage; then
came the funeral, not the final interment, but a burial until the moment
when the earth had destroyed the flesh and nothing remained but the
skeleton.
The place of "oudoupa," or the tomb, had been chosen outside
the fortress, about two miles off at the top of a low hill called
Maunganamu, situated on the right bank of the lake, and to this spot the
body was to be taken. Two palanquins of a very primitive kind, hand-barrows,
in fact, were brought to the foot of the mound, and the corpses doubled up
so that they were sitting rather than lying, and their garments kept in
place by a band of hanes, were placed on them. Four warriors took up the
litters on their shoulders, and the whole tribe, repeating their funeral
chant, followed in procession to the place of sepulture.
The captives, still strictly guarded, saw the funeral
cortege leave the inner inclosure of the "pah"; then the chants and cries
grew fainter. For about half an hour the funeral procession remained out of
sight, in the hollow valley, and then came in sight again winding up the
mountain side; the distance gave a fantastic effect to the undulating
movement of this long serpentine column.
The tribe stopped at an elevation of about 800 feet, on the
summit of Maunganamu, where the burial place of Kara-Tete had been prepared.
An ordinary Maori would have had nothing but a hole and a heap of earth. But
a powerful and formidable chief destined to speedy deification, was honored
with a tomb worthy of his exploits.
The "oudoupa" had been fenced round, and posts, surmounted
with faces painted in red ochre, stood near the grave where the bodies were
to lie. The relatives had not forgotten that the "Waidoua," the spirit of
the dead, lives on mortal food, as the body did in this life. Therefore,
food was deposited in the inclosure as well as the arms and clothing of the
deceased. Nothing was omitted for comfort. The husband and wife were laid
side by side, then covered with earth and grass, after another series of
laments.
Then the procession wound slowly down the mountain, and
henceforth none dare ascend the slope of Maunganamu on pain of death, for it
was "tabooed," like Tongariro, where lie the ashes of a chief killed by an
earthquake in 1846.
CHAPTER XII STRANGELY LIBERATED
JUST as the sun was sinking beyond
Lake Taupo, behind the peaks of
Tuhahua and Pukepapu, the captives were conducted back to their prison.
They were not to leave it again till the tops of the Wahiti Ranges
were lit with the first fires of day.
They had one night in which to prepare for death. Overcome
as they were with horror and fatigue, they took their last meal together.
"We shall need all our strength," Glenarvan had said, "to
look death in the face. We must show these savages how Europeans can die."
The meal ended. Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer
aloud, her companions, bare-headed, repeated it after her. Who does not turn
his thoughts toward God in the hour of death? This done, the prisoners
embraced each other. Mary Grant and Helena, in a corner of the hut, lay down
on a mat. Sleep, which keeps all sorrow in abeyance, soon weighed down their
eyelids; they slept in each other's arms, overcome by exhaustion and
prolonged watching.
Then Glenarvan, taking his friends aside, said: "My dear
friends, our lives and the lives of these poor women are in God's hands. If
it is decreed that we die to-morrow, let us die bravely, like Christian men,
ready to appear without terror before the Supreme Judge. God, who reads our
hearts, knows that we had a noble end in view. If death awaits us instead of
success, it is by His will. Stern as the decree may seem, I will not repine.
But death here, means not death only, it means torture, insult, perhaps, and
here are two ladies—"
Glenarvan's voice, firm till now, faltered. He was silent a
moment, and having overcome his emotion, he said, addressing the young
captain:
"John, you have promised Mary what I promised Lady Helena.
What is your plan?"
"I believe," said John, "that in the sight of God I have a
right to fulfill that promise."
"Yes, John; but we are unarmed."
"No!" replied John, showing him a dagger. "I snatched it
from Kara-Tete when he fell at your feet. My Lord, whichever of us survives
the other will fulfill the wish of Lady Helena and Mary Grant."
After these words were said, a profound silence ensued.
At last the Major said: "My friends, keep that to the last moment.
I am not an advocate of irremediable measures."
"I did not speak for ourselves," said Glenarvan. "Be it as
it may,
we can face death! Had we been alone, I should ere now have cried,
'My friends, let us make an effort. Let us attack these wretches!'
But with these poor girls—"
At this moment John raised the mat, and counted twenty-five
natives keeping guard on the Ware-Atoua. A great fire had been lighted, and
its lurid glow threw into strong relief the irregular outlines of the "pah."
Some of the savages were sitting round the brazier; the others standing
motionless, their black outlines relieved against the clear background of
flame. But they all kept watchful guard on the hut confided to their care.
It has been said that between a vigilant jailer and a
prisoner who wishes to escape, the chances are in favor of the prisoner; the
fact is, the interest of the one is keener than that of the other. The
jailer may forget that he is on guard; the prisoner never forgets that he is
guarded. The captive thinks oftener of escaping than the jailer of
preventing his flight, and hence we hear of frequent and wonderful escapes.
But in the present instance hatred and revenge were the
jailers— not an indifferent warder; the prisoners were not bound, but it was
because bonds were useless when five-and-twenty men were watching the only
egress from the Ware-Atoua.
This house, with its back to the
rock which closed the fortress, was only accessible by a long, narrow
promontory which joined it in front to the plateau on which the "pah" was
erected. On its two other sides rose pointed rocks, which jutted out over an
abyss a hundred feet deep. On that side descent was impossible, and had it
been possible, the bottom was shut in by the enormous rock. The only outlet
was the regular door of the Ware-Atoua, and the Maories guarded the
promontory which united it to the "pah" like a drawbridge. All escape was
thus hopeless, and Glenarvan having tried the walls for the twentieth time,
was compelled to acknowledge that it was so.
The hours of this night, wretched as they were, slipped
away. Thick darkness had settled on the mountain. Neither moon nor stars
pierced the gloom. Some gusts of wind whistled by the sides of the "pah,"
and the posts of the house creaked: the fire outside revived with the puffs
of wind, and the flames sent fitful gleams into the interior of Ware-Atoua.
The group of prisoners was lit up for a moment; they were absorbed in their
last thoughts, and a deathlike silence reigned in the hut.
It might have been about four o'clock in the morning when
the Major's attention was called to a slight noise which seemed to come from
the foundation of the posts in the wall of the hut which abutted on the
rock. McNabbs was at first indifferent, but finding the noise continue, he
listened; then his curiosity was aroused, and he put his ear to the ground;
it sounded as if someone was scraping or hollowing out the ground outside.
As soon as he was sure of it, he crept over to Glenarvan and
John Mangles, and startling them from their melancholy thoughts, led them to
the end of the hut.
"Listen," said he, motioning them to stoop.
The scratching became more and more audible; they could hear
the little stones grate on a hard body and roll away.
"Some animal in his burrow," said John Mangles.
Glenarvan struck his forehead.
"Who knows?" said he, "it might be a man."
"Animal or man," answered the Major, "I will soon find out!"
Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all united
to dig through the wall—John with his dagger, the others with stones taken
from the ground, or with their nails, while Mulrady, stretched along the
ground, watched the native guard through a crevice of the matting.
These savages sitting motionless around the fire, suspected
nothing of what was going on twenty feet off.
The soil was light and friable, and below lay a bed of
silicious tufa; therefore, even without tools, the aperture deepened
quickly. It soon became evident that a man, or men, clinging to the sides of
the "pah," were cutting a passage into its exterior wall. What could be the
object? Did they know of the existence of the prisoners, or was it some
private enterprise that led to the undertaking?
The prisoners redoubled their efforts. Their fingers bled,
but still they worked on; after half an hour they had gone three feet deep;
they perceived by the increased sharpness of the sounds that only a thin
layer of earth prevented immediate communication.
Some minutes more passed, and the Major withdrew his hand
from the stroke of a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry.
John Mangles, inserting the blade of his poniard, avoided
the knife which now protruded above the soil, but seized the hand that
wielded it.
It was the hand of a woman or child, a European! On
V. IV Verne neither side had a word been uttered.
It was evidently the cue of both sides to be silent.
"Is it Robert?" whispered Glenarvan.
But softly as the name was breathed, Mary Grant, already
awakened by the sounds in the hut, slipped over toward Glenarvan, and
seizing the hand, all stained with earth, she covered it with kisses.
"My darling Robert," said she, never doubting, "it is you!
it is you!"
"Yes, little sister," said he, "it is I am here to save you
all; but be very silent."
"Brave lad!" repeated Glenarvan.
"Watch the savages outside," said Robert.
Mulrady, whose attention was distracted for a moment by the
appearance of the boy, resumed his post.
"It is all right," said he. "There are only four awake; the
rest are asleep."
A minute after, the hole was enlarged, and Robert passed
from the arms of his sister to those of Lady Helena. Round his body was
rolled a long coil of flax rope.
"My child, my child," murmured Lady Helena, "the savages did
not kill you!"
"No, madam," said he; "I do not know how it happened, but in
the scuffle I got away; I jumped the barrier; for two days I hid in the
bushes, to try and see you; while the tribe were busy with the chief's
funeral, I came and reconnoitered this side of the path, and I saw that I
could get to you. I stole this knife and rope out of the desert hut. The
tufts of bush and the branches made me a ladder, and I found a kind of
grotto already hollowed out in the rock under this hut; I had only to bore
some feet in soft earth, and here I am."
Twenty noiseless kisses were his reward.
"Let us be off!" said he, in a decided tone.
"Is Paganel below?" asked Glenarvan.
"Monsieur Paganel?" replied the boy, amazed.
"Yes; is he waiting for us?"
"No, my Lord; but is he not here?" inquired Robert.
"No, Robert!" answered Mary Grant.
"Why! have you not seen him?" asked Glenarvan. "Did you lose
each other in the confusion? Did you not get away together?"
"No, my Lord!" said Robert, taken aback by the disappearance
of his friend Paganel.
"Well, lose no more time," said the Major. "Wherever Paganel
is, he cannot be in worse plight than ourselves. Let us go."
Truly, the moments were precious. They had to fly. The
escape was not very difficult, except the twenty feet of perpendicular fall
outside the grotto.
After that the slope was practicable to the foot of the
mountain. From this point the prisoners could soon gain the lower valleys;
while the Maories, if they perceived the flight of the prisoners, would have
to make a long round to catch them, being unaware of the gallery between the
Ware-Atoua and the outer rock.
The escape was commenced, and every precaution was taken.
The captives passed one by one through the narrow passage into the grotto.
John Mangles, before leaving the hut, disposed of all the evidences of their
work, and in his turn slipped through the opening and let down over it the
mats of the house, so that the entrance to the gallery was quite concealed.
The next thing was to descend the vertical wall to the slope
below, and this would have been impracticable, but that Robert had brought
the flax rope, which was now unrolled and fixed to a projecting point of
rock, the end hanging over.
John Mangles, before his friends trusted themselves to this
flax rope, tried it; he did not think it very strong; and it was of
importance not to risk themselves imprudently, as a fall would be fatal.
"This rope," said he, "will only bear the weight of two
persons; therefore let us go in rotation. Lord and Lady Glenarvan first;
when they arrive at the bottom, three pulls at the rope will be a signal to
us to follow."
"I will go first," said Robert. "I discovered a deep hollow
at the foot of the slope where those who come down can conceal themselves
and wait for the rest."
"Go, my boy," said Glenarvan, pressing Robert's hand.
Robert disappeared through the opening out of the grotto. A
minute after, the three pulls at the cord informed them the boy had alighted
safely.
Glenarvan and Lady Helena immediately ventured out of the
grotto. The darkness was still very great, though some grayish streaks were
already visible on the eastern summits.
The biting cold of the morning revived the poor young lady.
She felt stronger and commenced her perilous descent.
Glenarvan first, then Lady Helena, let themselves down along
the rope, till they came to the spot where the perpendicular wall met the
top of the slope. Then Glenarvan going first and supporting his wife, began
to descend backward.
He felt for the tufts and grass and shrubs able to afford a
foothold; tried them and then placed Lady Helena's foot on them. Some birds,
suddenly awakened, flew away, uttering feeble cries, and the fugitives
trembled when a stone loosened from its bed rolled to the foot of the
mountain.
They had reached half-way down the slope, when a voice was
heard from the opening of the grotto.
"Stop!" whispered John Mangles.
Glenarvan, holding with one hand to a tuft of tetragonia,
with the other holding his wife, waited with breathless anxiety.
Wilson had had an alarm. Having heard some unusual noise
outside the Ware-Atoua, he went back into the hut and watched the Maories
from behind the mat. At a sign from him, John stopped Glenarvan.
One of the warriors on guard, startled by an unusual sound,
rose and drew nearer to the Ware-Atoua. He stood still about two paces from
the hut and listened with his head bent forward. He remained in that
attitude for a minute that seemed an hour, his ear intent, his eye peering
into the darkness. Then shaking his head like one who sees he is mistaken,
he went back to his companions, took an armful of dead wood, and threw it
into the smouldering fire, which immediately revived. His face was lighted
up by the flame, and was free from any look of doubt, and after having
glanced to where the first light of dawn whitened the eastern sky, stretched
himself near the fire to warm his stiffened limbs.
"All's well!" whispered Wilson.
John signaled to Glenarvan to resume his descent.
Glenarvan let himself gently down the slope; soon Lady
Helena and he landed on the narrow track where Robert waited for them.
The rope was shaken three times, and in his turn John
Mangles, preceding Mary Grant, followed in the dangerous route.
He arrived safely; he rejoined Lord and Lady Glenarvan in
the hollow mentioned by Robert.
Five minutes after, all the fugitives had safely escaped
from the Ware-Atoua, left their retreat, and keeping away from the inhabited
shores of the lakes, they plunged by narrow paths into the recesses of the
mountains.
They walked quickly, trying to avoid the points where they
might be seen from the pah. They were quite silent, and glided among the
bushes like shadows. Whither? Where chance led them, but at any rate they
were free.
Toward five o'clock, the day began to dawn, bluish clouds
marbled the upper stratum of clouds. The misty summits began to pierce the
morning mists. The orb of day was soon to appear, and instead of giving the
signal for their execution, would, on the contrary, announce their flight.
It was of vital importance that before the decisive moment
arrived they should put themselves beyond the reach of the savages, so as to
put them off their track. But their progress was slow, for the paths were
steep. Lady Glenarvan climbed the slopes, supported, not to say carried, by
Glenarvan, and Mary Grant leaned on the arm of John Mangles; Robert, radiant
with joy, triumphant at his success, led the march, and the two sailors
brought up the rear.
Another half an hour and the glorious sun would rise out of
the mists of the horizon. For half an hour the fugitives walked on as chance
led them. Paganel was not there to take the lead. He was now the object of
their anxiety, and whose absence was a black shadow between them and their
happiness. But they bore steadily eastward, as much as possible, and faced
the gorgeous morning light. Soon they had reached a height of 500 feet above
Lake Taupo, and the cold of the morning, increased by the altitude, was very
keen. Dim outlines of hills and mountains rose behind one another; but
Glenarvan only thought how best to get lost among them. Time enough by and
by to see about escaping from the labyrinth.
At last the sun appeared and sent his first rays on their
path.
Suddenly a terrific yell from a hundred throats rent the
air.
It came from the pah, whose direction Glenarvan did not know.
Besides, a thick veil of fog, which, spread at his feet,
prevented any distinct view of the valleys below.
But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been
discovered; and now the question was, would they be able to elude pursuit?
Had they been seen? Would not their track betray them?
At this moment the fog in the valley lifted, and enveloped
them for a moment in a damp mist, and at three hundred feet below they
perceived the swarming mass of frantic natives.
While they looked they were seen. Renewed howls broke forth,
mingled with the barking of dogs, and the whole tribe, after vainly trying
to scale the rock of Ware-Atoua, rushed out of the pah, and hastened by the
shortest paths in pursuit of the prisoners who were flying from their
vengeance.
CHAPTER XIII THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
THE summit of the mountain was still
a hundred feet above them. The fugitives were anxious to reach it that they
might continue their flight on the eastern slope out of the view of their
pursuers. They hoped then to find some practicable ridge that would allow of
a passage to the neighboring peaks that were thrown together in an
orographic maze, to which poor Paganel's genius would doubtless have found
the clew.
They hastened up the slope, spurred on by the loud cries
that drew nearer and nearer. The avenging crowd had already reached the foot
of the mountain.
"Courage! my friends," cried Glenarvan, urging his
companions by voice and look.
In less than five minutes they were at the top of the
mountain, and then they turned to judge of their position, and decide on a
route that would baffle their pursuers.
From their elevated position they could see over Lake Taupo,
which stretched toward the west in its setting of picturesque mountains. On
the north the peaks of Pirongia; on the south the burning crater of
Tongariro. But eastward nothing but the rocky barrier of peaks and ridges
that formed the Wahiti ranges, the great chain whose unbroken links stretch
from the East Cape to Cook's Straits. They had no alternative but to descend
the opposite slope and enter the narrow gorges, uncertain whether any outlet
existed.
Glenarvan could not prolong the halt for a moment.
Wearied as they might be, they must fly or be discovered.
"Let us go down!" cried he, "before our passage is cut off."
But just as the ladies had risen with a despairing effort,
McNabbs stopped them and said:
"Glenarvan, it is useless. Look!"
And then they all perceived the inexplicable change that had
taken place in the movements of the Maories.
Their pursuit had suddenly stopped. The ascent of the
mountain had ceased by an imperious command. The natives had paused in their
career, and surged like the sea waves against an opposing rock. All the
crowd, thirsting for blood, stood at the foot of the mountain yelling and
gesticulating, brandishing guns and hatchets, but not advancing a foot.
Their dogs, rooted to the spot like themselves, barked with rage.
What stayed them? What occult power controlled these
savages? The fugitives looked without understanding, fearing lest the charm
that enchained Kai-Koumou's tribe should be broken.
Suddenly John Mangles uttered an exclamation which attracted
the attention of his companions. He pointed to a little inclosure on the
summit of the cone.
"The tomb of Kara-Tete!" said Robert.
"Are you sure, Robert?" said Glenarvan.
"Yes, my Lord, it is the tomb; I recognize it."
Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme peak of
the mountain, freshly pa
