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.”
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.
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.”
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!’”
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.