THE summit of the mountain was still a hundred feet above them. The fugitives were anxious to reach it that they might continue their flight on the eastern slope out of the view of their pursuers. They hoped then to find some practicable ridge that would allow of a passage to the neighboring peaks that were thrown together in an orographic maze, to which poor Paganel’s genius would doubtless have found the clew.
They hastened up the slope, spurred on by the loud cries that drew nearer and nearer. The avenging crowd had already reached the foot of the mountain.
“Courage! my friends,” cried Glenarvan, urging his companions by voice and look.
In less than five minutes they were at the top of the mountain, and then they turned to judge of their position, and decide on a route that would baffle their pursuers.
From their elevated position they could see over Lake Taupo, which stretched toward the west in its setting of picturesque mountains. On the north the peaks of Pirongia; on the south the burning crater of Tongariro. But eastward nothing but the rocky barrier of peaks and ridges that formed the Wahiti ranges, the great chain whose unbroken links stretch from the East Cape to Cook’s Straits. They had no alternative but to descend the opposite slope and enter the narrow gorges, uncertain whether any outlet existed.
Glenarvan could not prolong the halt for a moment. Wearied as they might be, they must fly or be discovered.
“Let us go down!” cried he, “before our passage is cut off.”
But just as the ladies had risen with a despairing effort, McNabbs stopped them and said:
“Glenarvan, it is useless. Look!”
And then they all perceived the inexplicable change that had taken place in the movements of the Maories.
Their pursuit had suddenly stopped. The ascent of the mountain had ceased by an imperious command. The natives had paused in their career, and surged like the sea waves against an opposing rock. All the crowd, thirsting for blood, stood at the foot of the mountain yelling and gesticulating, brandishing guns and hatchets, but not advancing a foot. Their dogs, rooted to the spot like themselves, barked with rage.
What stayed them? What occult power controlled these savages? The fugitives looked without understanding, fearing lest the charm that enchained Kai-Koumou’s tribe should be broken.
Suddenly John Mangles uttered an exclamation which attracted the attention of his companions. He pointed to a little inclosure on the summit of the cone.
“The tomb of Kara-Tete!” said Robert.
“Are you sure, Robert?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, it is the tomb; I recognize it.”
Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme peak of the mountain, freshly painted posts formed a small palisaded inclosure, and Glenarvan too was convinced that it was the chief’s burial place. The chances of their flight had led them to the crest of Maunganamu.
Glenarvan, followed by the rest, climbed to the foot of the tomb. A large opening, covered with mats, led into it. Glenarvan was about to invade the sanctity of the “oudoupa,” when he reeled backward.
“A savage!” said he.
“In the tomb?” inquired the Major.
“Yes, McNabbs.”
“No matter; go in.”
Glenarvan, the Major, Robert and John Mangles entered. There sat a Maori, wrapped in a large flax mat; the darkness of the “oudoupa” preventing them from distinguishing his features. He was very quiet, and was eating his breakfast quite coolly.
Glenarvan was about to speak to him when the native forestalled him by saying gayly and in good English:
“Sit down, my Lord; breakfast is ready.”
It was Paganel. At the sound of his voice they all rushed into the “oudoupa,” and he was cordially embraced all round. Paganel was found again. He was their salvation. They wanted to question him; to know how and why he was here on the summit of Maunganamu; but Glenarvan stopped this misplaced curiosity.
“The savages?” said he.
“The savages,” said Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. “I have a contempt for those people! Come and look at them.”
They all followed Paganel out of the “oudoupa.” The Maories were still in the same position round the base of the mountain, uttering fearful cries.
“Shout! yell! till your lungs are gone, stupid wretches!” said Paganel. “I dare you to come here!”
“But why?” said Glenarvan.
“Because the chief is buried here, and the tomb protects us, because the mountain is tabooed.”
“Tabooed?”
“Yes, my friends! and that is why I took refuge here, as the malefactors used to flee to the sanctuaries in the middle ages.”
“God be praised!” said Lady Helena, lifting her hands to heaven.
The fugitives were not yet out of danger, but they had a moment’s respite, which was very welcome in their exhausted state.
Glenarvan was too much overcome to speak, and the Major nodded his head with an air of perfect content.
“And now, my friends,” said Paganel, “if these brutes think to exercise their patience on us, they are mistaken. In two days we shall be out of their reach.”
“By flight!” said Glenarvan. “But how?”
“That I do not know,” answered Paganel, “but we shall manage it.”
And now everybody wanted to know about their friend’s adventures. They were puzzled by the reserve of a man generally so talkative; on this occasion they had to drag the words out of his mouth; usually he was a ready story-teller, now he gave only evasive answers to the questions of the rest.
“Paganel is another man!” thought McNabbs.
His face was really altered. He wrapped himself closely in his great flax mat and seemed to deprecate observation. Everyone noticed his embarrassment, when he was the subject of conversation, though nobody appeared to remark it; when other topics were under discussion, Paganel resumed his usual gayety.
Of his adventures all that could be extracted from him at this time was as follows:
After the murder of Kara-Tete, Paganel took advantage, like Robert, of the commotion among the natives, and got out of the inclosure. But less fortunate than young Grant, he walked straight into a Maori camp, where he met a tall, intelligent-looking chief, evidently of higher rank than all the warriors of his tribe. The chief spoke excellent English, and he saluted the new-comer by rubbing the end of his nose against the end of the geographer’s nose.
Paganel wondered whether he was to consider himself a prisoner or not. But perceiving that he could not stir without the polite escort of the chief, he soon made up his mind on that point.
This chief, Hihi, or Sunbeam, was not a bad fellow. Paganel’s spectacles and telescope seemed to give him a great idea of Paganel’s importance, and he manifested great attachment to him, not only by kindness, but by a strong flax rope, especially at night.
This lasted for three days; to the inquiry whether he was well treated, he said “Yes and no!” without further answer; he was a prisoner, and except that he expected immediate execution, his state seemed to him no better than that in which he had left his unfortunate friends.
One night, however, he managed to break his rope and escape. He had seen from afar the burial of the chief, and knew that he was buried on the top of Maunganamu, and he was well acquainted with the fact that the mountain would be therefore tabooed. He resolved to take refuge there, being unwilling to leave the region where his companions were in durance. He succeeded in his dangerous attempt, and had arrived the previous night at the tomb of Kara-Tete, and there proposed to recruit his strength while he waited in the hope that his friends might, by Divine mercy, find the means of escape.
Such was Paganel’s story. Did he designedly conceal some incident of his captivity? More than once his embarrassment led them to that conclusion. But however that might be, he was heartily congratulated on all sides. And then the present emergency came on for serious discussion. The natives dare not climb Maunganamu, but they, of course, calculated that hunger and thirst would restore them their prey. It was only a question of time, and patience is one of the virtues of all savages. Glenarvan was fully alive to the difficulty, but made up his mind to watch for an opportunity, or make one. First of all he made a thorough survey of Maunganamu, their present fortress; not for the purpose of defence, but of escape. The Major, John, Robert, Paganel, and himself, made an exact map of the mountain. They noted the direction, outlet and inclination of the paths. The ridge, a mile in length, which united Maunganamu to the Wahiti chain had a downward inclination. Its slope, narrow and jagged though it was, appeared the only practicable route, if they made good their escape at all. If they could do this without observation, under cover of night, they might possibly reach the deep valleys of the Range and put the Maories off the scent.
But there were dangers in this route; the last part of it was within pistol shot of natives posted on the lower slopes. Already when they ventured on the exposed part of the crest, they were saluted with a hail of shot which did not reach them. Some gun wads, carried by the wind, fell beside them; they were made of printed paper, which Paganel picked up out of curiosity, and with some trouble deciphered.
“That is a good idea! My friends, do you know what those creatures use for wads?”
“No, Paganel!” said Glenarvan.
“Pages of the Bible! If that is the use they make of the Holy Book, I pity the missionaries! It will be rather difficult to establish a Maori library.”
“And what text of scripture did they aim at us?”
“A message from God Himself!” exclaimed John Mangles, who was in the act of reading the scorched fragment of paper. “It bids us hope in Him,” added the young captain, firm in the faith of his Scotch convictions.
“Read it, John!” said Glenarvan.
And John read what the powder had left visible: “I will deliver him, for he hath trusted in me.”
“My friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must carry these words of hope to our dear, brave ladies. The sound will bring comfort to their hearts.”
Glenarvan and his companions hastened up the steep path to the cone, and went toward the tomb. As they climbed they were astonished to perceive every few moments a kind of vibration in the soil. It was not a movement like earthquake, but that peculiar tremor that affects the metal of a boiler under high pressure. It was clear the mountain was the outer covering of a body of vapor, the product of subterranean fires.
This phenomenon of course excited no surprise in those that had just traveled among the hot springs of the Waikato. They knew that the central region of the Ika-na-Mani is essentially volcanic. It is a sieve, whose interstices furnish a passage for the earth’s vapors in the shape of boiling geysers and solfataras.
Paganel, who had already noticed this, called the attention of his friends to the volcanic nature of the mountain. The peak of Maunganamu was only one of the many cones which bristle on this part of the island. It was a volcano of the future. A slight mechanical change would produce a crater of eruption in these slopes, which consisted merely of whitish silicious tufa.
“That may be,” said Glenarvan, “but we are in no more danger here than standing by the boiler of the Duncan; this solid crust is like sheet iron.”
“I agree with you,” added the Major, “but however good a boiler may be, it bursts at last after too long service.”
“McNabbs,” said Paganel, “I have no fancy for staying on the cone. When Providence points out a way, I will go at once.”
“I wish,” remarked John, “that Maunganamu could carry us himself, with all the motive power that he has inside. It is too bad that millions of horse-power should lie under our feet unavailable for our needs. Our Duncan would carry us to the end of the world with the thousandth part of it.”
The recollections of the Duncan evoked by John Mangles turned Glenarvan’s thoughts into their saddest channel; for desperate as his own case was he often forgot it, in vain regret at the fate of his crew.
His mind still dwelt on it when he reached the summit of Maunganamu and met his companions in misfortune.
Lady Helena, when she saw Glenarvan, came forward to meet him.
“Dear Edward,” said she, “you have made up your mind? Are we to hope or fear?”
“Hope, my dear Helena,” replied Glenarvan. “The natives will never set foot on the mountain, and we shall have time to devise a plan of escape.”
“More than that, madam, God himself has encouraged us to hope.”
And so saying, John Mangles handed to Lady Helena the fragment of paper on which was legible the sacred words; and these young women, whose trusting hearts were always open to observe Providential interpositions, read in these words an indisputable sign of salvation.
“And now let us go to the ‘oudoupa!’” cried Paganel, in his gayest mood. “It is our castle, our dining-room, our study! None can meddle with us there! Ladies! allow me to do the honors of this charming abode.”
They followed Paganel, and when the savages saw them profaning anew the tabooed burial place, they renewed their fire and their fearful yells, the one as loud as the other. But fortunately the balls fell short of our friends, though the cries reached them.
Lady Helena, Mary Grant, and their companions were quite relieved to find that the Maories were more dominated by superstition than by anger, and they entered the monument.
It was a palisade made of red-painted posts. Symbolic figures, tattooed on the wood, set forth the rank and achievements of the deceased. Strings of amulets, made of shells or cut stones, hung from one part to another. In the interior, the ground was carpeted with green leaves, and in the middle, a slight mound betokened the place of the newly made grave. There lay the chief’s weapons, his guns loaded and capped, his spear, his splendid ax of green jade, with a supply of powder and ball for the happy hunting grounds.
“Quite an arsenal!” said Paganel, “of which we shall make a better use. What ideas they have! Fancy carrying arms in the other world!”
“Well!” said the Major, “but these are English firearms.”
“No doubt,” replied Glenarvan, “and it is a very unwise practice to give firearms to savages! They turn them against the invaders, naturally enough. But at any rate, they will be very valuable to us.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but what is more useful still is the food and water provided for Kara-Tete.”
Things had been handsomely done for the deceased chief; the amount of provisions denoted their esteem for the departed. There was food enough to sustain ten persons for fifteen days, or the dead man forever.
The vegetable aliments consisted of edible ferns, sweet potatoes, the “convolvulus batatas,” which was indigenous, and the potato which had been imported long before by the Europeans. Large jars contained pure water, and a dozen baskets artistically plaited contained tablets of an unknown green gum.
The fugitives were therefore provided for some days against hunger and thirst, and they needed no persuasion to begin their attack on the deceased chief’s stores. Glenarvan brought out the necessary quantity and put them into Olbinett’s hands. The steward, who never could forget his routine ideas, even in the most exceptional circumstances, thought the meal a slender one. He did not know how to prepare the roots, and, besides, had no fire.
But Paganel soon solved the difficulty by recommending him to bury his fern roots and sweet potatoes in the soil. The temperature of the surface stratum was very high, and a thermometer plunged into the soil would have marked from 160 to 170 degrees; in fact, Olbinett narrowly missed being scalded, for just as he had scooped a hole for the roots, a jet of vapor sprang up and with a whistling sound rose six feet above the ground.
The steward fell back in terror.
“Shut off steam!” cried the Major, running to close the hole with the loose drift, while Paganel pondering on the singular phenomenon muttered to himself:
“Let me see! ha! ha! Why not?”
“Are you hurt?” inquired McNabbs of Olbinett.
“No, Major,” said the steward, “but I did not expect —”
“That Providence would send you fire,” interrupted Paganel in a jovial tone. “First the larder of Kara-Tete and then fire out of the ground! Upon my word, this mountain is a paradise! I propose that we found a colony, and cultivate the soil and settle here for life! We shall be the Robinsons of Maunganamu. We should want for nothing.”
“If it is solid ground,” said John Mangles.
“Well! it is not a thing of yesterday,” said Paganel. “It has stood against the internal fire for many a day, and will do so till we leave it, at any rate.”
“Breakfast is ready,” announced Olbinett with as much dignity as if he was in Malcolm Castle.
Without delay, the fugitives sat down near the palisade, and began one of the many meals with which Providence had supplied them in critical circumstances. Nobody was inclined to be fastidious, but opinions were divided as regarded the edible fern. Some thought the flavor sweet and agreeable, others pronounced it leathery, insipid, and resembling the taste of gum. The sweet potatoes, cooked in the burning soil, were excellent. The geographer remarked that Kara-Tete was not badly off after all.
And now that their hunger was appeased, it was time to decide on their plan of escape.
“So soon!” exclaimed Paganel in a piteous tone. “Would you quit the home of delight so soon?”
“But, Monsieur Paganel,” interposed Lady Helena, “if this be Capua, you dare not intend to imitate Hannibal!”
“Madam, I dare not contradict you, and if discussion is the order of the day, let it proceed.”
“First,” said Glenarvan, “I think we ought to start before we are driven to it by hunger. We are revived now, and ought to take advantage of it. To-night we will try to reach the eastern valleys by crossing the cordon of natives under cover of the darkness.”
“Excellent,” answered Paganel, “if the Maories allow us to pass.”
“And if not?” asked John Mangles.
“Then we will use our great resources,” said Paganel.
“But have we great resources?” inquired the Major.
“More than we can use!” replied Paganel, without any further explanation.
And then they waited for the night.
The natives had not stirred. Their numbers seemed even greater, perhaps owing to the influx of the stragglers of the tribe. Fires lighted at intervals formed a girdle of flame round the base of the mountain, so that when darkness fell, Maunganamu appeared to rise out of a great brasier, and to hide its head in the thick darkness. Five hundred feet below they could hear the hum and the cries of the enemy’s camp.
At nine o’clock the darkness being very intense, Glenarvan and John Mangles went out to reconnoiter before embarking the whole party on this critical journey. They made the descent noiselessly, and after about ten minutes, arrived on the narrow ridge that crossed the native lines, fifty feet above the camp.
All went well so far. The Maories, stretched beside the fires, did not appear to observe the two fugitives. But in an instant a double fusillade burst forth from both sides of the ridge.
“Back,” exclaimed Glenarvan; “those wretches have the eyes of cats and the guns of riflemen!”
And they turned, and once more climbed the steep slope of the mountain, and then hastened to their friends who had been alarmed at the firing. Glenarvan’s hat was pierced by two balls, and they concluded that it was out of the question to venture again on the ridge between two lines of marksmen.
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Paganel, “and as we cannot elude their vigilance, let me try my hand on them.”
The night was cold; but happily Kara-Tete had been furnished with his best night gear, and the party wrapped themselves each in a warm flax mantle, and protected by native superstition, slept quietly inside the inclosure, on the warm ground, still violating with the violence of the internal ebullition.
NEXT day, February 17th, the sun’s first rays awoke the sleepers of the Maunganamu. The Maories had long since been astir, coming and going at the foot of the mountain, without leaving their line of observation. Furious clamor broke out when they saw the Europeans leave the sacred place they had profaned.
Each of the party glanced first at the neighboring mountains, and at the deep valleys still drowned in mist, and over Lake Taupo, which the morning breeze ruffled slightly. And then all clustered round Paganel eager to hear his project.
Paganel soon satisfied their curiosity. “My friends,” said he, “my plan has one great recommendation; if it does not accomplish all that I anticipate, we shall be no worse off than we are at present. But it must, it will succeed.”
“And what is it?” asked McNabbs.
“It is this,” replied Paganel, “the superstition of the natives has made this mountain a refuge for us, and we must take advantage of their superstition to escape. If I can persuade Kai-Koumou that we have expiated our profanation, that the wrath of the Deity has fallen on us: in a word, that we have died a terrible death, do you think he will leave the plateau of Maunganamu to return to his village?”
“Not a doubt of it,” said Glenarvan.
“And what is the horrible death you refer to?” asked Lady Helena.
“The death of the sacrilegious, my friends,” replied Paganel. “The avenging flames are under our feet. Let us open a way for them!”
“What! make a volcano!” cried John Mangles.
“Yes, an impromptu volcano, whose fury we can regulate. There are plenty of vapors ready to hand, and subterranean fires ready to issue forth. We can have an eruption ready to order.”
“An excellent idea, Paganel; well conceived,” said the Major.
“You understand,” replied the geographer, “we are to pretend to fall victims to the flames of the Maori Pluto, and to disappear spiritually into the tomb of Kara-Tete. And stay there three, four, even five days if necessary — that is to say, till the savages are convinced that we have perished, and abandon their watch.”
“But,” said Miss Grant, “suppose they wish to be sure of our punishment, and climb up here to see?”
“No, my dear Mary,” returned Paganel. “They will not do that. The mountain is tabooed, and if it devoured its sacrilegious intruders, it would only be more inviolably tabooed.”
“It is really a very clever plan,” said Glenarvan. “There is only one chance against it; that is, if the savages prolong their watch at the foot of Maunganamu, we may run short of provisions. But if we play our game well there is not much fear of that.”
“And when shall we try this last chance?” asked Lady Helena.
“To-night,” rejoined Paganel, “when the darkness is the deepest.”
“Agreed,” said McNabbs; “Paganel, you are a genius! and I, who seldom get up an enthusiasm, I answer for the success of your plan. Oh! those villains! They shall have a little miracle that will put off their conversion for
V. IV Verne another century. I hope the missionaries will forgive us.”
The project of Paganel was therefore adopted, and certainly with the superstitious ideas of the Maories there seemed good ground for hope. But brilliant as the idea might be, the difficulty was in the modus operandi. The volcano might devour the bold schemers, who offered it a crater. Could they control and direct the eruption when they had succeeded in letting loose its vapor and flames, and lava streams? The entire cone might be engulfed. It was meddling with phenomena of which nature herself has the absolute monopoly.
Paganel had thought of all this; but he intended to act prudently and without pushing things to extremes. An appearance would be enough to dupe the Maories, and there was no need for the terrible realities of an eruption.
How long that day seemed. Each one of the party inwardly counted the hours. All was made ready for flight. The oudoupa provisions were divided and formed very portable packets. Some mats and firearms completed their light equipment, all of which they took from the tomb of the chief. It is needless to say that their preparations were made within the inclosure, and that they were unseen by the savages.
At six o’clock the steward served up a refreshing meal. Where or when they would eat in the valleys of the Ranges no one could foretell. So that they had to take in supplies for the future. The principal dish was composed of half a dozen rats, caught by Wilson and stewed. Lady Helena and Mary Grant obstinately refused to taste this game, which is highly esteemed by the natives; but the men enjoyed it like the real Maories. The meat was excellent and savory, and the six devourers were devoured down to the bones.
The evening twilight came on. The sun went down in a stormy-looking bank of clouds. A few flashes of lightning glanced across the horizon and distant thunder pealed through the darkened sky.
Paganel welcomed the storm, which was a valuable aid to his plans, and completed his program. The savages are superstitiously affected by the great phenomena of nature. The New Zealanders think that thunder is the angry voice of Noui-Atoua, and lightning the fierce gleam of his eyes. Thus their deity was coming personally to chastise the violators of the taboo.
At eight o’clock, the summit of the Maunganamu was lost in portentous darkness. The sky would supply a black background for the blaze which Paganel was about to throw on it. The Maories could no longer see their prisoners; and this was the moment for action. Speed was necessary. Glenarvan, Paganel, McNabbs, Robert, the steward, and the two sailors, all lent a hand.
The spot for the crater was chosen thirty paces from Kara-Tete’s tomb. It was important to keep the oudoupa intact, for if it disappeared, the taboo of the mountain would be nullified. At the spot mentioned Paganel had noticed an enormous block of stone, round which the vapors played with a certain degree of intensity. This block covered a small natural crater hollowed in the cone, and by its own weight prevented the egress of the subterranean fire. If they could move it from its socket, the vapors and the lava would issue by the disencumbered opening.
The workers used as levers some posts taken from the interior of the oudoupa, and they plied their tools vigorously against the rocky mass. Under their united efforts the stone soon moved. They made a little trench so that it might roll down the inclined plane. As they gradually raised it, the vibrations under foot became more distinct. Dull roarings of flame and the whistling sound of a furnace ran along under the thin crust. The intrepid la-borers, veritable Cyclops handling Earth’s fires, worked in silence; soon some fissures and jets of steam warned them that their place was growing dangerous. But a crowning effort moved the mass which rolled down and disappeared. Immediately the thin crust gave way. A column of fire rushed to the sky with loud detonations, while streams of boiling water and lava flowed toward the native camp and the lower valleys.
All the cone trembled as if it was about to plunge into a fathomless gulf.
Glenarvan and his companions had barely time to get out of the way; they fled to the enclosure of the oudoupa, not without having been sprinkled with water at 220 degrees. This water at first spread a smell like soup, which soon changed into a strong odor of sulphur.
Then the mud, the lava, the volcanic stones, all spouted forth in a torrent. Streams of fire furrowed the sides of Maunganamu. The neighboring mountains were lit up by the glare; the dark valleys were also filled with dazzling light.
All the savages had risen, howling under the pain inflicted by the burning lava, which was bubbling and foaming in the midst of their camp.
Those whom the liquid fire had not touched fled to the surrounding hills; then turned, and gazed in terror at this fearful phenomenon, this volcano in which the anger of their deity would swallow up the profane intruders on the sacred mountain. Now and then, when the roar of the eruption became less violent, their cry was heard:
“Taboo! taboo! taboo!”
An enormous quantity of vapors, heated stones and lava was escaping by this crater of Maunganamu. It was not a mere geyser like those that girdle round Mount Hecla, in Iceland, it was itself a Hecla. All this volcanic commotion was confined till then in the envelope of the cone, because the safety valve of Tangariro was enough for its expansion; but when this new issue was afforded, it rushed forth fiercely, and by the laws of equilibrium, the other eruptions in the island must on that night have lost their usual intensity.
An hour after this volcano burst upon the world, broad streams of lava were running down its sides. Legions of rats came out of their holes, and fled from the scene.
All night long, and fanned by the tempest in the upper sky, the crater never ceased to pour forth its torrents with a violence that alarmed Glenarvan. The eruption was breaking away the edges of the opening. The prisoners. hidden behind the inclosure of stakes, watched the fearful progress of the phenomenon.
Morning came. The fury of the volcano had not slackened. Thick yellowish fumes were mixed with the flames; the lava torrents wound their serpentine course in every direction.
Glenarvan watched with a beating heart, looking from all the interstices of the palisaded enclosure, and observed the movements in the native camp.
The Maories had fled to the neighboring ledges, out of the reach of the volcano. Some corpses which lay at the foot of the cone, were charred by the fire. Further off toward the “pah,” the lava had reached a group of twenty huts, which were still smoking. The Maories, forming here and there groups, contemplated the canopied summit of Maunganamu with religious awe.
Kai-Koumou approached in the midst of his warriors, and Glenarvan recognized him. The chief advanced to the foot of the hill, on the side untouched by the lava, but he did not ascend the first ledge.
Standing there, with his arms stretched out like an ex-erciser, he made some grimaces, whose meaning was obvious to the prisoners. As Paganel had foreseen, Kai-Koumou launched on the avenging mountain a more rigorous taboo.
Soon after the natives left their positions and followed the winding paths that led toward the pah.
“They are going!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “They have left their posts! God be praised! Our stratagem has succeeded! My dear Lady Helena, my brave friends, we are all dead and buried! But this evening when night comes, we shall rise and leave our tomb, and fly these barbarous tribes!”
It would be difficult to conceive of the joy that pervaded the oudoupa. Hope had regained the mastery in all hearts. The intrepid travelers forgot the past, forgot the future, to enjoy the present delight! And yet the task before them was not an easy one — to gain some European outpost in the midst of this unknown country. But Kai-Koumou once off their track, they thought themselves safe from all the savages in New Zealand.
A whole day had to elapse before they could make a start, and they employed it in arranging a plan of flight. Paganel had treasured up his map of New Zealand, and on it could trace out the best roads.
After discussion, the fugitives resolved to make for the Bay of Plenty, towards the east. The region was unknown, but apparently desert. The travelers, who from their past experience, had learned to make light of physical difficulties, feared nothing but meeting Maories. At any cost they wanted to avoid them and gain the east coast, where the missionaries had several stations. That part of the country had hitherto escaped the horrors of war, and the natives were not in the habit of scouring the country.
As to the distance that separated Lake Taupo from the Bay of Plenty, they calculated it about a hundred miles. Ten days’ march at ten miles a day, could be done, not without fatigue, but none of the party gave that a thought. If they could only reach the mission stations they could rest there while waiting for a favorable opportunity to get to Auckland, for that was the point they desired to reach.
This question settled, they resumed their watch of the native proceedings, and continued so doing till evening fell. Not a solitary native remained at the foot of the mountain, and when darkness set in over the Taupo valleys, not a fire indicated the presence of the Maories at the base. The road was free.
At nine o’clock, the night being unusually dark, Glenarvan gave the order to start. His companions and he, armed and equipped at the expense of Kara-Tete, began cautiously to descend the slopes of Maunganamu, John Mangles and Wilson leading the way, eyes and ears on the alert. They stopped at the slightest sound, they started at every passing cloud. They slid rather than walked down the spur, that their figures might be lost in the dark mass of the mountain. At two hundred feet below the summit, John Mangles and his sailors reached the dangerous ridge that had been so obstinately defended by the natives. If by ill luck the Maories, more cunning than the fugitives, had only pretended to retreat; if they were not really duped by the volcanic phenomenon, this was the spot where their presence would be betrayed. Glenarvan could not but shudder, in spite of his confidence, and in spite of the jokes of Paganel. The fate of the whole party would hang in the balance for the ten minutes required to pass along that ridge. He felt the beating of Lady Helena’s heart, as she clung to his arm.
He had no thought of turning back. Neither had John. The young captain, followed closely by the whole party, and protected by the intense darkness, crept along the ridge, stopping when some loose stone rolled to the bottom. If the savages were still in the ambush below, these unusual sounds might provoke from both sides a dangerous fusillade.
But speed was impossible in their serpent-like progress down this sloping crest. When John Mangles had reached the lowest point, he was scarcely twenty-five feet from the plateau, where the natives were encamped the night before, and then the ridge rose again pretty steeply toward a wood for about a quarter of a mile.
All this lower part was crossed without molestation, and they commenced the ascent in silence. The clump of bush was invisible, though they knew it was there, and but for the possibility of an ambush, Glenarvan counted on being safe when the party arrived at that point. But he observed that after this point, they were no longer protected by the taboo. The ascending ridge belonged not to Maunganamu, but to the mountain system of the eastern side of Lake Taupo, so that they had not only pistol shots, but hand-to-hand fighting to fear. For ten minutes, the little band ascended by insensible degrees toward the higher table-land. John could not discern the dark wood, but he knew it ought to be within two hundred feet. Suddenly he stopped; almost retreated. He fancied he heard something in the darkness; his stoppage interrupted the march of those behind.
He remained motionless long enough to alarm his companions. They waited with unspeakable anxiety, wondering if they were doomed to retrace their steps, and return to the summit of Maunganamu.
But John, finding that the noise was not repeated, resumed the ascent of the narrow path of the ridge. Soon they perceived the shadowy outline of the wood showing faintly through the darkness. A few steps more and they were hid from sight in the thick foliage of the trees.
THE night favored their escape, and prudence urged them to lose no time in getting away from the fatal neighborhood of Lake Taupo. Paganel took the post of leader, and his wonderful instinct shone out anew in this difficult mountain journey. His nyctalopia was a great advantage, his cat-like sight enabling him to distinguish the smallest object in the deepest gloom.
For three hours they walked on without halting along the far-reaching slope of the eastern side. Paganel kept a little to the southeast, in order to make use of a narrow passage between the Kaimanawa and the Wahiti Ranges, through which the road from Hawkes’ Bay to Auckland passes. Once through that gorge, his plan was to keep off the road, and, under the shelter of the high ranges, march to the coast across the inhabited regions of the province.
At nine o’clock in the morning, they had made twelve miles in twelve hours. The courageous women could not be pressed further, and, besides, the locality was suitable for camping. The fugitives had reached the pass that separates the two chains. Paganel, map in hand, made a loop toward the northeast, and at ten o’clock the little party reached a sort of redan, formed by a projecting rock.
The provisions were brought out, and justice was done to their meal. Mary Grant and the Major, who had not thought highly of the edible fern till then, now ate of it heartily.
The halt lasted till two o’clock in the afternoon, then they resumed their journey; and in the evening they stopped eight miles from the mountains, and required no persuasion to sleep in the open air.
Next day was one of serious difficulties. Their route lay across this wondrous region of volcanic lakes, geysers, and solfataras, which extended to the east of the Wahiti Ranges. It is a country more pleasant for the eye to ramble over, than for the limbs. Every quarter of a mile they had to turn aside or go around for some obstacle, and thus incurred great fatigue; but what a strange sight met their eyes! What infinite variety nature lavishes on her great panoramas!
On this vast extent of twenty miles square, the subterranean forces had a field for the display of all their varied effects. Salt springs, of singular transparency, peopled by myriads of insects, sprang up from thickets of tea-tree scrub. They diffused a powerful odor of burnt powder, and scattered on the ground a white sediment like dazzling snow. The limpid waters were nearly at boiling point, while some neighboring springs spread out like sheets of glass. Gigantic tree-ferns grew beside them, in conditions analogous to those of the Silurian vegetation.
On every side jets of water rose like park fountains, out of a sea of vapor; some of them continuous, others intermittent, as if a capricious Pluto controlled their movements. They rose like an amphitheater on natural terraces; their waters gradually flowed together under folds of white smoke, and corroding the edges of the semi-transparent steps of this gigantic staircase. They fed whole lakes with their boiling torrents.
Farther still, beyond the hot springs and tumultuous geysers, came the solfataras. The ground looked as if covered with large pustules. These were slumbering craters full of cracks and fissures from which rose various gases. The air was saturated with the acrid and unpleasant odor of sulphurous acid. The ground was encrusted with sulphur and crystalline concretions. All this incalculable wealth had been accumulating for centuries, and if the sulphur beds of Sicily should ever be exhausted, it is here, in this little known district of New Zealand, that supplies must be sought.
The fatigue in traveling in such a country as this will be best understood. Camping was very difficult, and the sportsmen of the party shot nothing worthy of Olbinett’s skill; so that they had generally to content themselves with fern and sweet potato — a poor diet which was scarcely sufficient to recruit the exhausted strength of the little party, who were all anxious to escape from this barren region.
But four days at least must elapse before they could hope to leave it. On February 23, at a distance of fifty miles from Maunganamu, Glenarvan called a halt, and camped at the foot of a nameless mountain, marked on Paganel’s map. The wooded plains stretched away from sight, and great forests appeared on the horizon.
That day McNabbs and Robert killed three kiwis, which filled the chief place on their table, not for long, however, for in a few moments they were all consumed from the beaks to the claws.
At dessert, between the potatoes and sweet potatoes, Paganel moved a resolution which was carried with enthusiasm. He proposed to give the name of Glenarvan to this unnamed mountain, which rose 3,000 feet high, and then was lost in the clouds, and he printed carefully on his map the name of the Scottish nobleman.
It would be idle to narrate all the monotonous and uninteresting details of the rest of the journey. Only two or three occurrences of any importance took place on the way from the lakes to the Pacific Ocean. The march was all day long across forests and plains. John took observations of the sun and stars. Neither heat nor rain increased the discomfort of the journey, but the travelers were so reduced by the trials they had undergone, that they made very slow progress; and they longed to arrive at the mission station.
They still chatted, but the conversation had ceased to be general. The little party broke up into groups, attracted to each other, not by narrow sympathies, but by a more personal communion of ideas.
Glenarvan generally walked alone; his mind seemed to recur to his unfortunate crew, as he drew nearer to the sea. He apparently lost sight of the dangers which lay before them on their way to Auckland, in the thought of his massacred men; the horrible picture haunted him.
Harry Grant was never spoken of; they were no longer in a position to make any effort on his behalf. If his name was uttered at all, it was between his daughter and John Mangles.
John had never reminded Mary of what she had said to him on that last night at Ware-Atoua. He was too wise to take advantage of a word spoken in a moment of despair. When he mentioned Captain Grant, John always spoke of further search. He assured Mary that Lord Glenarvan would re-embark in the enterprise. He persistently returned to the fact that the authenticity of the document was indisputable, and that therefore Harry Grant was somewhere to be found, and that they would find him, if they had to try all over the world. Mary drank in his words, and she and John, united by the same thought, cherished the same hope. Often Lady Helena joined in the conversation; but she did not participate in their illusions, though she refrained from chilling their enthusiasm.
McNabbs, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady kept up their hunting parties, without going far from the rest, and each one furnished his QUOTA of game.
Paganel, arrayed in his flax mat, kept himself aloof, in a silent and pensive mood.
And yet, it is only justice to say, in spite of the general rule that, in the midst of trials, dangers, fatigues, and privations, the most amiable dispositions become ruffled and embittered, all our travelers were united, devoted, ready to die for one another.
On the 25th of February, their progress was stopped by a river which answered to the Wakari on Paganel’s map, and was easily forded. For two days plains of low scrub succeeded each other without interruption. Half the distance from Lake Taupo to the coast had been traversed without accident, though not without fatigue.
Then the scene changed to immense and interminable forests, which reminded them of Australia, but here the kauri took the place of the eucalyptus. Although their enthusiasm had been incessantly called forth during their four months’ journey, Glenarvan and his companions were compelled to admire and wonder at those gigantic pines, worthy rivals of the Cedars of Lebanon, and the “Mammoth trees” of California. The kauris measured a hundred feet high, before the ramification of the branches. They grew in isolated clumps, and the forest was not composed of trees, but of innumerable groups of trees, which spread their green canopies in the air two hundred feet from the ground.
Some of these pines, still young, about a hundred years old, resembled the red pine of Europe. They had a dark crown surmounted by a dark conical shoot. Their older brethren, five or six hundred years of age, formed great green pavilions supported on the inextricable network of their branches. These patriarchs of the New Zealand forest measured fifty yards in circumference, and the united arms of all the travelers could not embrace the giant trunk.
For three days the little party made their way under these vast arches, over a clayey soil which the foot of man had never trod. They knew this by the quantity of resinous gum that lay in heaps at the foot of the trees, and which would have lasted for native exportation many years.
The sportsmen found whole coveys of the kiwi, which are scarce in districts frequented by the Maories; the native dogs drive them away to the shelter of these inaccessible forests. They were an abundant source of nourishing food to our travelers.
Paganel also had the good fortune to espy, in a thicket, a pair of gigantic birds; his instinct as a naturalist was awakened. He called his companions, and in spite of their fatigue, the Major, Robert, and he set off on the track of these animals.
His curiosity was excusable, for he had recognized, or thought he had recognized, these birds as “moas” belonging to the species of “dinornis,” which many naturalists class with the extinct birds. This, if Paganel was right, would confirm the opinion of Dr. Hochstetter and other travelers on the present existence of the wingless giants of New Zealand.
These moas which Paganel was chasing, the contemporaries of the Megatherium and the Pterodactyles, must have been eighteen feet high. They were huge ostriches, timid too, for they fled with extreme rapidity. But no shot could stay their course. After a few minutes of chase, these fleet-footed moas disappeared among the tall trees, and the sportsmen lost their powder and their pains.
That evening, March 1, Glenarvan and his companions, emerging at last from the immense kauri-forest, camped at the foot of Mount Ikirangi, whose summit rose five thousand five hundred feet into the air. At this point they had traveled a hundred miles from Maunganamu, and the shore was still thirty miles away. John Mangles had calculated on accomplishing the whole journey in ten days, but he did not foresee the physical difficulties of the country.
On the whole, owing to the circuits, the obstacles, and the imperfect observations, the journey had been extended by fully one-fifth, and now that they had reached Mount Ikirangi, they were quite worn out.
Two long days of walking were still to be accomplished, during which time all their activity and vigilance would be required, for their way was through a district often frequented by the natives. The little party conquered their weariness, and set out next morning at daybreak.
Between Mount Ikirangi which was left to the right, and Mount Hardy whose summit rose on the left to a height of 3,700 feet, the journey was very trying; for about ten miles the bush was a tangle of “supple-jack,” a kind of flexible rope, appropriately called “stifling-creeper,” that caught the feet at every step. For two days, they had to cut their way with an ax through this thousand-headed hydra. Hunting became impossible, and the sportsmen failed in their accustomed tribute. The provisions were almost exhausted, and there was no means of renewing them; their thirst was increasing by fatigue, and there was no water wherewith to quench it.
The sufferings of Glenarvan and his party became terrible, and for the first time their moral energy threatened to give way. They no longer walked, they dragged themselves along, soulless bodies, animated only by the instinct of self-preservation which survives every other feeling, and in this melancholy plight they reached Point Lottin on the shores of the Pacific.
Here they saw several deserted huts, the ruins of a village lately destroyed by the war, abandoned fields, and everywhere signs of pillage and incendiary fires.
They were toiling painfully along the shore, when they saw, at a distance of about a mile, a band of natives, who rushed toward them brandishing their weapons. Glenarvan, hemmed in by the sea, could not fly, and summoning all his remaining strength he was about to meet the attack, when John Mangles cried:
“A boat! a boat!”
And there, twenty paces off, a canoe with six oars lay on the beach. To launch it, jump in and fly from the dangerous shore, was only a minute’s work. John Mangles, McNabbs, Wilson and Mulrady took the oars; Glenarvan the helm; the two women, Robert and Olbinett stretched themselves beside him. In ten minutes the canoe was a quarter of a mile from the shore. The sea was calm. The fugitives were silent. But John, who did not want to get too far from land, was about to give the order to go up the coast, when he suddenly stopped rowing.
He saw three canoes coming out from behind Point Lottin and evidently about to give chase.
“Out to sea! Out to sea!” he exclaimed. “Better to drown if we must!”
The canoe went fast under her four rowers. For half an hour she kept her distance; but the poor exhausted fellows grew weaker, and the three pursuing boats began to gain sensibly on them. At this moment, scarcely two miles lay between them. It was impossible to avoid the attack of the natives, who were already preparing to fire their long guns.
What was Glenarvan about?— standing up in the stern he was looking toward the horizon for some chimerical help. What did he hope for? What did he wish? Had he a presentiment?
In a moment his eyes gleamed, his hand pointed out into the distance.
“A ship! a ship!” he cried. “My friends, row! row hard!”
Not one of the rowers turned his head — not an oar-stroke must be lost. Paganel alone rose, and turned his telescope to the point indicated.
“Yes,” said he, “a ship! a steamer! they are under full steam! they are coming to us! Found now, brave comrades!”
The fugitives summoned new energy, and for another half hour, keeping their distance, they rowed with hasty strokes. The steamer came nearer and nearer. They made out her two masts, bare of sails, and the great volumes of black smoke. Glenarvan, handing the tiller to Robert, seized Paganel’s glass, and watched the movements of the steamer.
John Mangles and his companions were lost in wonder when they saw Glenarvan’s features contract and grow pale, and the glass drop from his hands. One word explained it.
“The Duncan!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “The DUNCAN, and the convicts!”
“The Duncan!” cried John, letting go his oar and rising.
“Yes, death on all sides!” murmured Glenarvan, crushed by despair.
It was indeed the yacht, they could not mistake her — the yacht and her bandit crew!
The major could scarcely restrain himself from cursing their destiny.
The canoe was meantime standing still. Where should they go? Whither fly? What choice was there between the convicts and the savages?
A shot was fired from the nearest of the native boats, and the ball struck Wilson’s oar.
A few strokes then carried the canoe nearer to the Duncan.
The yacht was coming down at full speed, and was not more than half a mile off.
John Mangles, between two enemies, did not know what to advise, whither to fly! The two poor ladies on their knees, prayed in their agony.
The savages kept up a running fire, and shots were raining round the canoe, when suddenly a loud report was heard, and a ball from the yacht’s cannon passed over their heads, and now the boat remained motionless between the Duncan and the native canoes.
John Mangles, frenzied with despair, seized his ax. He was about to scuttle the boat and sink it with his unfortunate companions, when a cry from Robert arrested his arm.
“Tom Austin! Tom Austin!” the lad shouted. “He is on board! I see him! He knows us! He is waving his hat.”
The ax hung useless in John’s hand.
A second ball whistled over his head, and cut in two the nearest of the three native boats, while a loud hurrah burst forth on board the Duncan.
The savages took flight, fled and regained the shore.
“Come on, Tom, come on!” cried John Mangles in a joyous voice.
And a few minutes after, the ten fugitives, how, they knew not, were all safe on board the Duncan.
IT would be vain to attempt to depict the feelings of Glenarvan and his friends when the songs of old Scotia fell on their ears. The moment they set foot on the deck of the Duncan, the piper blew his bagpipes, and commenced the national pibroch of the Malcolm clan, while loud hurrahs rent the air.
Glenarvan and his whole party, even the Major himself, were crying and embracing each other. They were delirious with joy. The geographer was absolutely mad. He frisked about, telescope in hand, pointing it at the last canoe approaching the shore.
But at the sight of Glenarvan and his companions, with their clothing in rags, and thin, haggard faces, bearing marks of horrible sufferings, the crew ceased their noisy demonstrations. These were specters who had returned — not the bright, adventurous travelers who had left the yacht three months before, so full of hope! Chance, and chance only, had brought them back to the deck of the yacht they never thought to see again. And in what a state of exhaustion and feebleness. But before thinking of fatigue, or attending to the imperious demands of hunger and thirst, Glenarvan questioned Tom Austin about his being on this coast.
Why had the Duncan come to the eastern coast of New Zealand? How was it not in the hands of Ben Joyce? By what providential fatality had God brought them in the track of the fugitives?
Why? how? and for what purpose? Tom was stormed with questions on all sides. The old sailor did not know which to listen to first, and at last resolved to hear nobody but Glenarvan, and to answer nobody but him.
“But the convicts?” inquired Glenarvan. “What did you do with them?”
“The convicts?” replied Tom, with the air of a man who does not in the least understand what he is being asked.
“Yes, the wretches who attacked the yacht.”
“What yacht? Your Honor’s?”
“Why, of course, Tom. The Duncan, and Ben Joyce, who came on board.”
“I don’t know this Ben Joyce, and have never seen him.”
“Never seen him!” exclaimed Paganel, stupefied at the old sailor’s replies. “Then pray tell me, Tom, how it is that the Duncan is cruising at this moment on the coast of New Zealand?”
But if Glenarvan and his friends were totally at a loss to understand the bewilderment of the old sailor, what was their amazement when he replied in a calm voice:
“The Duncan is cruising here by your Honor’s orders.”
“By my orders?” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord. I only acted in obedience to the instructions sent in your letter of January fourteenth.”
“My letter! my letter!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
The ten travelers pressed closer round Tom Austin, devouring him with their eyes. The letter dated from Snowy River had reached the Duncan, then.
“Let us come to explanations, pray, for it seems to me I am dreaming. You received a letter, Tom?”
“Yes, a letter from your Honor.”
“At Melbourne?”
“At Melbourne, just as our repairs were completed.”
“And this letter?”
“It was not written by you, but bore your signature, my Lord.”
“Just so; my letter was brought by a convict called Ben Joyce.”
“No, by a sailor called Ayrton, a quartermaster on the Britannia.”
“Yes, Ayrton or Ben Joyce, one and the same individual. Well, and what were the contents of this letter?”
“It contained orders to leave Melbourne without delay, and go and cruise on the eastern coast of —”
“Australia!” said Glenarvan with such vehemence that the old sailor was somewhat disconcerted.
“Of Australia?” repeated Tom, opening his eyes. “No, but New Zealand.”
“Australia, Tom! Australia!” they all cried with one voice.
Austin’s head began to feel in a whirl. Glenarvan spoke with such assurance that he thought after all he must have made a mistake in reading the letter. Could a faithful, exact old servant like himself have been guilty of such a thing! He turned red and looked quite disturbed.
“Never mind, Tom,” said Lady Helena. “God so willed it.”
“But, no, madam, pardon me,” replied old Tom. “No, it is impossible, I was not mistaken. Ayrton read the letter as I did, and it was he, on the contrary, who wished to bring me to the Australian coast.”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, Ayrton himself. He insisted it was a mistake: that you meant to order me to Twofold Bay.”
“Have you the letter still, Tom?” asked the Major, extremely interested in this mystery.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Austin. “I’ll go and fetch it.”
V. IV Verne
He ran at once to his cabin in the forecastle. During his momentary absence they gazed at each other in silence, all but the Major, who crossed his arms and said:
“Well, now, Paganel, you must own this would be going a little too far.”
“What?” growled Paganel, looking like a gigantic note of interrogation, with his spectacles on his forehead and his stooping back.
Austin returned directly with the letter written by Paganel and signed by Glenarvan.
“Will your Honor read it?” he said, handing it to him.
Glenarvan took the letter and read as follows:
“Order to Tom Austin to put out to sea without delay, and to take the Duncan, by latitude 37 degrees to the eastern coast of New Zealand!”
“New Zealand!” cried Paganel, leaping up.
And he seized the letter from Glenarvan, rubbed his eyes, pushed down his spectacles on his nose, and read it for himself.
“New Zealand!” he repeated in an indescribable tone, letting the order slip between his fingers.
That same moment he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round found himself face to face with the Major, who said in a grave tone:
“Well, my good Paganel, after all, it is a lucky thing you did not send the Duncan to Cochin China!”
This pleasantry finished the poor geographer. The crew burst out into loud Homeric laughter. Paganel ran about like a madman, seized his head with both hands and tore his hair. He neither knew what he was doing nor what he wanted to do. He rushed down the poop stairs mechanically and paced the deck, nodding to himself and going straight before without aim or object till he reached the forecastle. There his feet got entangled in a coil of rope. He stumbled and fell, accidentally catching hold of a rope with both hands in his fall.
Suddenly a tremendous explosion was heard. The forecastle gun had gone off, riddling the quiet calm of the waves with a volley of small shot. The unfortunate Paganel had caught hold of the cord of the loaded gun. The geographer was thrown down the forecastle ladder and disappeared below.
A cry of terror succeeded the surprise produced by the explosion. Everybody thought something terrible must have happened. The sailors rushed between decks and lifted up Paganel, almost bent double. The geographer uttered no sound.
They carried his long body onto the poop. His companions were in despair. The Major, who was always the surgeon on great occasions, began to strip the unfortunate that he might dress his wounds; but he had scarcely put his hands on the dying man when he started up as if touched by an electrical machine.
“Never! never!” he exclaimed, and pulling his ragged coat tightly round him, he began buttoning it up in a strangely excited manner.
“But, Paganel,” began the Major.
“No, I tell you!”
“I must examine —”
“You shall not examine.”
“You may perhaps have broken —” continued McNabbs.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, getting up on his long legs, “but what I have broken the carpenter can mend.”
“What is it, then?”
“There.”
Bursts of laughter from the crew greeted this speech. Paganel’s friends were quite reassured about him now. They were satisfied that he had come off safe and sound from his adventure with the forecastle gun.
“At any rate,” thought the Major, “the geographer is wonderfully bashful.”
But now Paganel was recovered a little, he had to reply to a question he could not escape.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “tell us frankly all about it. I own that your blunder was providential. It is sure and certain that but for you the Duncan would have fallen into the hands of the convicts; but for you we should have been recaptured by the Maories. But for my sake tell me by what supernatural aberration of mind you were induced to write New Zealand instead of Australia?”
“Well, upon my oath,” said Paganel, “it is —”
But the same instant his eyes fell on Mary and Robert Grant, and he stopped short and then went on:
“What would you have me say, my dear Glenarvan? I am mad, I am an idiot, an incorrigible fellow, and I shall live and die the most terrible absent man. I can’t change my skin.”
“Unless you get flayed alive.”
“Get flayed alive!” cried the geographer, with a furious look. “Is that a personal allusion?”
“An allusion to what?” asked McNabbs, quietly. This was all that passed. The mystery of the Duncan’S presence on the coast was explained, and all that the travelers thought about now was to get back to their comfortable cabins, and to have breakfast.
However, Glenarvan and John Mangles stayed behind with Tom Austin after the others had retired. They wished to put some further questions to him.
“Now, then, old Austin,” said Glenarvan, “tell me, didn’t it strike you as strange to be ordered to go and cruise on the coast of New Zealand?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Tom. “I was very much surprised, but it is not my custom to discuss any orders I receive, and I obeyed. Could I do otherwise? If some catastrophe had occurred through not carrying out your injunctions to the letter, should not I have been to blame? Would you have acted differently, captain?”
“No, Tom,” replied John Mangles.
“But what did you think?” asked Glenarvan.
“I thought, your Honor, that in the interest of Harry Grant, it was necessary to go where I was told to go. I thought that in consequence of fresh arrangements, you were to sail over to New Zealand, and that I was to wait for you on the east coast of the island. Moreover, on leaving Melbourne, I kept our destination a secret, and the crew only knew it when we were right out at sea, and the Australian continent was finally out of sight. But one circumstance occurred which greatly perplexed me.”
“What was it, Tom?” asked Glenarvan.
“Just this, that when the quartermaster of the Britannia heard our destination —”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan. “Then he is on board?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Ayrton here?” repeated Glenarvan, looking at John Mangles.
“God has so willed!” said the young captain.
In an instant, like lightning, Ayrton’s conduct, his long-planned treachery, Glenarvan’s wound, Mulrady’s assassination, the sufferings of the expedition in the marshes of the Snowy River, the whole past life of the miscreant, flashed before the eyes of the two men. And now, by the strangest concourse of events, the convict was in their power.
“Where is he?” asked Glenarvan eagerly.
“In a cabin in the forecastle, and under guard.”
“Why was he imprisoned?”
“Because when Ayrton heard the vessel was going to New Zealand, he was in a fury; because he tried to force me to alter the course of the ship; because he threatened me; and, last of all, because he incited my men to mutiny. I saw clearly he was a dangerous individual, and I must take precautions against him.”
“And since then?”
“Since then he has remained in his cabin without attempting to go out.”
“That’s well, Tom.”
Just at this moment Glenarvan and John Mangles were summoned to the saloon where breakfast, which they so sorely needed, was awaiting them. They seated themselves at the table and spoke no more of Ayrton.
But after the meal was over, and the guests were refreshed and invigorated, and they all went upon deck, Glenarvan acquainted them with the fact of the quartermaster’s presence on board, and at the same time announced his intention of having him brought before them.
“May I beg to be excused from being present at his examination?” said Lady Helena. “I confess, dear Edward, it would be extremely painful for me to see the wretched man.”
“He must be confronted with us, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan; “I beg you will stay. Ben Joyce must see all his victims face to face.”
Lady Helena yielded to his wish. Mary Grant sat beside her, near Glenarvan. All the others formed a group round them, the whole party that had been compromised so seriously by the treachery of the convict. The crew of the yacht, without understanding the gravity of the situation, kept profound silence.
“Bring Ayrton here,” said Glenarvan.
AYRTON came. He crossed the deck with a confident tread, and mounted the steps to the poop. His eyes were gloomy, his teeth set, his fists clenched convulsively. His appearance betrayed neither effrontery nor timidity. When he found himself in the presence of Lord Glenarvan he folded his arms and awaited the questions calmly and silently.
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “here we are then, you and us, on this very Duncan that you wished to deliver into the hands of the convicts of Ben Joyce.”
The lips of the quartermaster trembled slightly and a quick flush suffused his impassive features. Not the flush of remorse, but of shame at failure. On this yacht which he thought he was to command as master, he was a prisoner, and his fate was about to be decided in a few seconds.
However, he made no reply. Glenarvan waited patiently. But Ayrton persisted in keeping absolute silence.
“Speak, Ayrton, what have you to say?” resumed Glenarvan.
Ayrton hesitated, the wrinkles in his forehead deepened, and at length he said in calm voice:
“I have nothing to say, my Lord. I have been fool enough to allow myself to be caught. Act as you please.”
Then he turned his eyes away toward the coast which lay on the west, and affected profound indifference to what was passing around him. One would have thought him a stranger to the whole affair. But Glenarvan was determined to be patient. Powerful motives urged him to find out certain details concerning the mysterious life of Ayrton, especially those which related to Harry Grant and the Britannia. He therefore resumed his interrogations, speaking with extreme gentleness and firmly restraining his violent irritation against him.
“I think, Ayrton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to reply to certain questions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought I to call you Ayrton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the quartermaster of the Britannia?”
Ayrton remained impassive, gazing at the coast, deaf to every question.
Glenarvan’s eyes kindled, as he said again:
“Will you tell me how you left the Britannia, and why you are in Australia?”
The same silence, the same impassibility.
“Listen to me, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan; “it is to your interest to speak. Frankness is the only resource left to you, and it may stand you in good stead. For the last time, I ask you, will you reply to my questions?”
Ayrton turned his head toward Glenarvan, and looked into his eyes.
“My Lord,” he said, “it is not for me to answer. Justice may witness against me, but I am not going to witness against myself.”
“Proof will be easy,” said Glenarvan.
“Easy, my Lord,” repeated Ayrton, in a mocking tone. “Your honor makes rather a bold assertion there, it seems to me. For my own part, I venture to affirm that the best judge in the Temple would be puzzled what to make of me. Who will say why I came to Australia, when Captain Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce placarded by the police, when the police have never had me in their hands, and my companions are at liberty? Who can damage me except yourself, by bringing forward a single crime against me, or even a blameable action? Who will affirm that I intended to take possession of this ship and deliver it into the hands of the convicts? No one, I tell you, no one. You have your suspicions, but you need certainties to condemn a man, and certainties you have none. Until there is a proof to the contrary, I am Ayrton, quartermaster of the Britannia.”
Ayrton had become animated while he was speaking, but soon relapsed into his former indifference.
He, no doubt, expected that his reply would close the examination, but Glenarvan commenced again, and said:
“Ayrton, I am not a Crown prosecutor charged with your indictment. That is no business of mine. It is important that our respective situations should be clearly defined. I am not asking you anything that could compromise you. That is for justice to do. But you know what I am searching for, and a single word may put me on the track I have lost. Will you speak?”
Ayrton shook his head like a man determined to be silent.
“Will you tell me where Captain Grant is?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Will you tell me where the Britannia was wrecked?”
“No, neither the one nor the other.”
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, in almost beseeching tones, “if you know where Harry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor children, who are waiting for you to speak the word?”
Ayrton hesitated. His features contracted, and he muttered in a low voice, “I cannot, my Lord.”
Then he added with vehemence, as if reproaching himself for a momentary weakness:
“No, I will not speak. Have me hanged, if you choose.”
“Hanged!” exclaimed Glenarvan, overcome by a sudden feeling of anger.
But immediately mastering himself, he added in a grave voice:
“Ayrton, there is neither judge nor executioner here. At the first port we touch at, you will be given up into the hands of the English authorities.”
“That is what I demand,” was the quartermaster’s reply.
Then he turned away and quietly walked back to his cabin, which served as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with orders to watch his slightest movement. The witnesses of this examination retired from the scene indignant and despairing.
As Glenarvan could make no way against Ayrton’s obstinacy, what was to be done now? Plainly no course remained but to carry out the plan formed at Eden, of returning to Europe and giving up for the time this unsuccessful enterprise, for the traces of the Britannia seemed irrevocably lost, and the document did not appear to allow any fresh interpretation. On the 37th parallel there was not even another country, and the Duncan had only to turn and go back.
After Glenarvan had consulted his friends, he talked over the question of returning, more particularly with the captain. John examined the coal bunkers, and found there was only enough to last fifteen days longer at the outside. It was necessary, therefore, to put in at the nearest port for a fresh supply.
John proposed that he should steer for the Bay of Talcahuano, where the Duncan had once before been revictualed before she commenced her voyage of circumnavigation. It was a direct route across, and lay exactly along the 37th parallel. From thence the yacht, being amply provisioned, might go south, double Cape Horn, and get back to Scotland by the Atlantic route.
This plan was adopted, and orders were given to the engineer to get up the steam. Half an hour afterward the beak-head of the yacht was turned toward Talcahuano, over a sea worthy of being called the Pacific, and at six P. M. the last mountains of New Zealand had disappeared in warm, hazy mist on the horizon.
The return voyage was fairly commenced. A sad voyage, for the courageous searching party to come back to the port without bringing home Harry Grant with them! The crew, so joyous at departure and so hopeful, were coming back to Europe defeated and discouraged. There was not one among the brave fellows whose heart did not swell at the thought of seeing his own country once more; and yet there was not one among them either who would not have been willing to brave the perils of the sea for a long time still if they could but find Captain Grant.
Consequently, the hurrahs which greeted the return of Lord Glenarvan to the yacht soon gave place to dejection. Instead of the close intercourse which had formerly existed among the passengers, and the lively conversations which had cheered the voyage, each one kept apart from the others in the solitude of his own cabin, and it was seldom that anyone appeared on the deck of the Duncan.
Paganel, who generally shared in an exaggerated form the feelings of those about him, whether painful or joyous — a man who could have invented hope if necessary — even Paganel was gloomy and taciturn. He was seldom visible; his natural loquacity and French vivacity gave place to silence and dejection. He seemed even more downhearted than his companions. If Glenarvan spoke at all of renewing the search, he shook his head like a man who has given up all hope, and whose convictions concerning the fate of the shipwrecked men appeared settled. It was quite evident he believed them irrevocably lost.
And yet there was a man on board who could have spoken the decisive word, and refused to break his silence. This was Ayrton. There was no doubt the fellow knew, if not the present whereabouts of the captain, at least the place of shipwreck. But it was evident that were Grant found, he would be a witness against him. Hence his persistent silence, which gave rise to great indignation on board, especially among the crew, who would have liked to deal summarily with him.
Glenarvan repeatedly renewed his attempts with the quartermaster, but promises and threats were alike useless. Ayrton’s obstinacy was so great, and so inexplicable, that the Major began to believe he had nothing to reveal. His opinion was shared, moreover, by the geographer, as it corroborated his own notion about Harry Grant.
But if Ayrton knew nothing, why did he not confess his ignorance? It could not be turned against him. His silence increased the difficulty of forming any new plan. Was the presence of the quartermaster on the Australian continent a proof of Harry Grant’s being there? It was settled that they must get this information out of Ayrton.
Lady Helena, seeing her husband’s ill-success, asked his permission to try her powers against the obstinacy of the quartermaster. When a man had failed, a woman perhaps, with her gentler influence, might succeed. Is there not a constant repetition going on of the story of the fable where the storm, blow as it will, cannot tear the cloak from the shoulders of the traveler, while the first warm rays of sunshine make him throw it off immediately?
Glenarvan, knowing his young wife’s good sense, allowed her to act as she pleased.
The same day (the 5th of March), Ayrton was conducted to Lady Helena’s saloon. Mary Grant was to be present at the interview, for the influence of the young girl might be considerable, and Lady Helena would not lose any chance of success.
For a whole hour the two ladies were closeted with the quartermaster, but nothing transpired about their interview. What had been said, what arguments they used to win the secret from the convict, or what questions were asked, remained unknown; but when they left Ayrton, they did not seem to have succeeded, as the expression on their faces denoted discouragement.
In consequence of this, when the quartermaster was being taken back to his cabin, the sailors met him with violent menaces. He took no notice except by shrugging his shoulders, which so increased their rage, that John Mangles and Glenarvan had to interfere, and could only repress it with difficulty.
But Lady Helena would not own herself vanquished. She resolved to struggle to the last with this pitiless man, and went next day herself to his cabin to avoid exposing him again to the vindictiveness of the crew.
The good and gentle Scotchwoman stayed alone with the convict leader for two long hours. Glenarvan in a state of extreme nervous anxiety, remained outside the cabin, alternately resolved to exhaust completely this last chance of success, alternately resolved to rush in and snatch his wife from so painful a situation.
But this time when Lady Helena reappeared, her look was full of hope. Had she succeeded in extracting the secret, and awakening in that adamant heart a last faint touch of pity?
McNabbs, who first saw her, could not restrain a gesture of incredulity.
However the report soon spread among the sailors that the quartermaster had yielded to the persuasions of Lady Helena. The effect was electrical. The entire crew assembled on deck far quicker than Tom Austin’s whistle could have brought them together.
Glenarvan had hastened up to his wife and eagerly asked:
“Has he spoken?”
“No,” replied Lady Helena, “but he has yielded to my entreaties, and wishes to see you.”
“Ah, dear Helena, you have succeeded!”
“I hope so, Edward.”
“Have you made him any promise that I must ratify?”
“Only one; that you will do all in your power to mitigate his punishment.”
“Very well, dear Helena. Let Ayrton come immediately.”
Lady Helena retired to her cabin with Mary Grant, and the quartermaster was brought into the saloon where Lord Glenarvan was expecting him.
As soon as the quartermaster was brought into the presence of Lord Glenarvan, his keepers withdrew.
“You wanted to speak to me, Ayrton?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
“Did you wish for a private interview?”
“Yes, but I think if Major McNabbs and Mr. Paganel were present it would be better.”
“For whom?”
“For myself.”
Ayrton spoke quite calmly and firmly. Glenarvan looked at him for an instant, and then sent to summon McNabbs and Paganel, who came at once.
“We are all ready to listen to you,” said Glenarvan, when his two friends had taken their place at the saloon table.
Ayrton collected himself, for an instant, and then said:
“My Lord, it is usual for witnesses to be present at every contract or transaction between two parties. That is why I desire the presence of Messrs. Paganel and McNabbs, for it is, properly speaking, a bargain which I propose to make.”
Glenarvan, accustomed to Ayrton’s ways, exhibited no surprise, though any bargaining between this man and himself seemed strange.
“What is the bargain?” he said.
“This,” replied Ayrton. “You wish to obtain from me certain facts which may be useful to you. I wish to obtain from you certain advantages which would be valuable to me. It is giving for giving, my Lord. Do you agree to this or not?”
“What are the facts?” asked Paganel eagerly.
“No,” said Glenarvan. “What are the advantages?”
Ayrton bowed in token that he understood Glenarvan’s distinction.
“These,” he said, “are the advantages I ask. It is still your intention, I suppose, to deliver me up to the English authorities?”
“Yes, Ayrton, it is only justice.”
“I don’t say it is not,” replied the quartermaster quietly. “Then of course you would never consent to set me at liberty.”
Glenarvan hesitated before replying to a question so plainly put. On the answer he gave, perhaps the fate of Harry Grant might depend!
However, a feeling of duty toward human justice compelled him to say:
“No, Ayrton, I cannot set you at liberty.”
“I do not ask it,” said the quartermaster proudly.
“Then, what is it you want?”
“A middle place, my Lord, between the gibbet that awaits me and the liberty which you cannot grant me.”
“And that is —”
“To allow me to be left on one of the uninhabited islands of the Pacific, with such things as are absolute necessaries. I will manage as best I can, and will repent if I have time.”
Glenarvan, quite unprepared for such a proposal, looked at his two friends in silence. But after a brief reflection, he replied:
“Ayrton, if I agree to your request, you will tell me all I have an interest in knowing.”
“Yes, my Lord, that is to say, all I know about Captain Grant and the Britannia.”
“The whole truth?”
“The whole.”
“But what guarantee have I?”
“Oh, I see what you are uneasy about. You need a guarantee for me, for the truth of a criminal. That’s natural. But what can you have under the circumstances. There is no help for it, you must either take my offer or leave it.”
“I will trust to you, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, simply.
“And you do right, my Lord. Besides, if I deceive you, vengeance is in your own power.”
“How?”
“You can come and take me again from where you left me, as I shall have no means of getting away from the island.”
Ayrton had an answer for everything. He anticipated the difficulties and furnished unanswerable arguments against himself. It was evident he intended to affect perfect good faith in the business. It was impossible to show more complete confidence. And yet he was prepared to go still further in disinterestedness.
“My Lord and gentlemen,” he added, “I wish to convince you of the fact that I am playing cards on the table. I have no wish to deceive you, and I am going to give you a fresh proof of my sincerity in this matter. I deal frankly with you, because I reckon on your honor.”
“Speak, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“My Lord, I have not your promise yet to accede to my proposal, and yet I do not scruple to tell you that I know very little about Harry Grant.”
“Very little,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, the details I am in a position to give you relate to myself. They are entirely personal, and will not do much to help you to recover the lost traces of Captain Grant.”
Keen disappointment was depicted on the faces of Glenarvan and the Major. They thought the quartermaster in the possession of an important secret, and he declared that his communications would be very nearly barren. Paganel’s countenance remained unmoved.
Somehow or other, this avowal of Ayrton, and surrender of himself, so to speak, unconditionally, singularly touched his auditors, especially when the quartermaster added:
“So I tell you beforehand, the bargain will be more to my profit than yours.”
“It does not signify,” replied Glenarvan. “I accept your proposal, Ayrton. I give you my word to land you on one of the islands of the Pacific Ocean.”
“All right, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster.
Was this strange man glad of this decision? One might have doubted it, for his impassive countenance betokened no emotion whatever. It seemed as if he were acting for someone else rather than himself.
“I am ready to answer,” he said.
“We have no questions to put to you,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us all you know, Ayrton, and begin by declaring who you are.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Ayrton, “I am really Tom Ayrton, the quartermaster of the Britannia. I left Glasgow on Harry Grant’s ship on the 12th of March, 1861. For fourteen months I cruised with him in the Pacific in search of an advantageous spot for founding a Scotch colony. Harry Grant was the man to carry out grand projects, but serious disputes often arose between us. His temper and mine could not agree. I cannot bend, and with Harry Grant, when once his resolution is taken, any resistance is impossible, my Lord. He has an iron will both for himself and others.
“But in spite of that, I dared to rebel, and I tried to get the crew to join me, and to take possession of the vessel. Whether I was to blame or not is of no consequence. Be that as it may, Harry Grant had no scruples, and on the 8th of April, 1862, he left me behind on the west coast of Australia.”
“Of Australia!” said the Major, interrupting Ayrton in his narrative. “Then of course you had quitted the Britannia before she touched at Callao, which was her last date?”
“Yes,” replied the quartermaster, “for the Britannia did not touch there while I was on board. And how I came to speak of Callao at Paddy O’Moore’s farm was that I learned the circumstances from your recital.”
“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“I found myself abandoned on a nearly desert coast, but only forty miles from the penal settlement at Perth, the capital of Western Australia. As I was wandering there along the shore, I met a band of convicts who had just escaped, and I joined myself to them. You will dispense, my Lord, with any account of my life for two years and a half. This much, however, I must tell you, that I became the leader of the gang, under the name of Ben Joyce. In September, 1864, I introduced myself at the Irish farm, where I engaged myself as a servant in my real name, Ayrton. I waited there till I should get some chance of seizing a ship. This was my one idea. Two months afterward the Duncan arrived. During your visit to the farm you related Captain Grant’s history, and I learned then facts of which I was not previously aware — that the Britannia had touched at Callao, and that her latest news was dated June, 1862, two months after my disembarkation, and also about the document and the loss of the ship somewhere along the 37th parallel; and, lastly, the strong reasons you had for supposing Harry Grant was on the Australian continent. Without the least hesitation I determined to appropriate the Duncan, a matchless vessel, able to outdistance the swiftest ships in the British Navy. But serious injuries had to be repaired. I therefore let it go to Melbourne, and joined myself to you in my true character as quartermaster, offering to guide you to the scene of the shipwreck, fictitiously placed by me on the east coast of Australia. It was in this way, followed or sometimes preceded by my gang of convicts, I directed your expedition toward the province of Victoria. My men committed a bootless crime at Camden Bridge; since the Duncan, if brought to the coast, could not escape me, and with the yacht once mine, I was master of the ocean. I led you in this way unsuspectingly as far as the Snowy River. The horses and bullocks dropped dead one by one, poisoned by the gastrolobium. I dragged the wagon into the marshes, where it got half buried. At my instance — but you know the rest, my Lord, and you may be sure that but for the blunder of Mr. Paganel, I should now command the Duncan. Such is my history, gentlemen. My disclosures, unfortunately, cannot put you on the track of Harry Grant, and you perceive that you have made but a poor bargain by coming to my terms.”
The quartermaster said no more, but crossed his arms in his usual fashion and waited. Glenarvan and his friends kept silence. They felt that this strange criminal had spoken the whole truth. He had only missed his coveted prize, the Duncan, through a cause independent of his will. His accomplices had gone to Twofold Bay, as was proved by the convict blouse found by Glenarvan. Faithful to the orders of their chief, they had kept watch on the yacht, and at length, weary of waiting, had returned to the old haunt of robbers and incendiaries in the country parts of New South Wales.
The Major put the first question, his object being to verify the dates of the Britannia.
“You are sure then,” he said, “that it was on the 8th of April you were left on the west coast of Australia?”
“On that very day,” replied Ayrton.
“And do you know what projects Harry Grant had in view at the time?”
“In an indefinite way I do.”
“Say all you can, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “the least indication may set us in the right course.”
“I only know this much, my Lord,” replied the quartermaster, “that Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. Now, as this part of the programme was not carried out while I was on board, it is not impossible that on leaving Callao the Britannia went to reconnoiter New Zealand. This would agree with the date assigned by the document to the shipwreck — the 27th of June, 1862.”
“Clearly,” said Paganel.
“But,” objected Glenarvan, “there is nothing in the fragmentary words in the document that could apply to New Zealand.”
“That I cannot answer,” said the quartermaster.
“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “you have kept your word, and I will keep mine. We have to decide now on what island of the Pacific Ocean you are to be left?”
“It matters little, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Return to your cabin,” said Glenarvan, “and wait our decision.”
The quartermaster withdrew, guarded by the two sailors.
“That villain might have been a man,” said the Major.
“Yes,” returned Glenarvan; “he is a strong, clear-headed fellow. Why was it that he must needs turn his powers to such evil account?”
“But Harry Grant?”
“I must fear he is irrevocably lost. Poor children! Who can tell them where their father is?”
“I can!” replied Paganel. “Yes; I can!” One could not help remarking that the geographer, so loquacious and impatient usually, had scarcely spoken during Ayrton’s examination. He listened without opening his mouth. But this speech of his now was worth many others, and it made Glenarvan spring to his feet, crying out: “You, Paganel! you know where Captain Grant is?”
“Yes, as far as can be known.”
“How do you know?”
“From that infernal document.”
“Ah!” said the Major, in a tone of the most profound incredulity.
“Hear me first, and shrug your shoulders afterward,” said Paganel. “I did not speak sooner, because you would not have believed me. Besides, it was useless; and I only speak to-day because Ayrton’s opinion just supports my own.”
V. IV Verne
“Then it is New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“Listen and judge,” replied Paganel. “It is not without reason, or, rather, I had a reason for making the blunder which has saved our lives. When I was in the very act of writing the letter to Glenarvan’s dictation, the word ZEALAND was swimming in my brain. This is why. You remember we were in the wagon. McNabbs had just apprised Lady Helena about the convicts; he had given her the number of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette which contained the account of the catastrophe at Camden Bridge. Now, just as I was writing, the newspaper was lying on the ground, folded in such a manner that only two syllables of the title were visible; these two syllables were ALAND. What a sudden light flashed on my mind. ALAND was one of the words in the English document, one that hitherto we had translated a terre, and which must have been the termination of the proper noun, ZEALAND.”
“Indeed!” said Glenarvan.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, with profound conviction; “this meaning had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my wits were exercised naturally on the French document, as it was most complete, and in that this important word was wanting.”
“Oh, oh!” said the Major; “your imagination goes too far, Paganel; and you forget your former deductions.”
“Go on, Major; I am ready to answer you.”
“Well, then, what do you make of your word AUSTRA?”
“What it was at first. It merely means southern countries.”
“Well, and this syllable, INDI, which was first the root of the INDIANS, and second the root of the word indigenes?”
“Well, the third and last time,” replied Paganel, “it will be the first syllable of the word INDIGENCE.”
“And CONTIN?” cried McNabbs. “Does that still mean CONTINENT?”
“No; since New Zealand is only an island.”
“What then?” asked Glenarvan.
“My dear lord,” replied Paganel, “I am going to translate the document according to my third interpretation, and you shall judge. I only make two observations beforehand. First, forget as much as possible preceding interpretations, and divest your mind of all preconceived notions. Second, certain parts may appear to you strained, and it is possible that I translate them badly; but they are of no importance; among others, the word AGONIE, which chokes me; but I cannot find any other explanation. Besides, my interpretation was founded on the French document; and don’t forget it was written by an Englishman, who could not be familiar with the idioms of the French language. Now then, having said this much, I will begin.”
And slowly articulating each syllable, he repeated the following sentences:
“LE 27th JUIN, 1862, le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, a sombre apres une longue AGONIE dans les mers AUSTRALES sur les cotes de la Nouvelle ZELANDE— in English Zealand. Deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont pu y ABORDER. La CONTINUellement en PRoie a une CRUELle INDIgence, ils ont jete ce document par — de lon_gitude ET 37 degrees 11’ de LATItude. Venex a leur secours, ou ils sont PERDUS!” (On the 27th of June, 1865, the three-mast vessel Britannia, of Glasgow, has foundered after a long AGOnie in the Southern Seas, on the coast of New Zealand. Two sailors and Captain Grant have succeeded in landing. Continually a prey to cruel indigence, they have thrown this document into the sea in — longitude and 37 degrees 11’ latitude. Come to their help, or they are lost.)
Paganel stopped. His interpretation was admissible. But precisely because it appeared as likely as the preceding, it might be as false. Glenarvan and the Major did not then try and discuss it. However, since no traces of the Britannia had yet been met with, either on the Patagonian or Australian coasts, at the points where these countries are crossed by the 37th parallel, the chances were in favor of New Zealand.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell me why you have kept this interpretation secret for nearly two months?”
“Because I did not wish to buoy you up again with vain hopes. Besides, we were going to Auckland, to the very spot indicated by the latitude of the document.”
“But since then, when we were dragged out of the route, why did you not speak?”
“Because, however just the interpretation, it could do nothing for the deliverance of the captain.”
“Why not, Paganel?”
“Because, admitting that the captain was wrecked on the New Zealand coast, now that two years have passed and he has not reappeared, he must have perished by shipwreck or by the New Zealanders.”
“Then you are of the opinion,” said Glenarvan, “that —”
“That vestiges of the wreck might be found; but that the survivors of the Britannia have, beyond doubt, perished.”
“Keep all this silent, friends,” said Glenarvan, “and let me choose a fitting moment to communicate these sad tidings to Captain Grant’s children.”
THE crew soon heard that no light had been thrown on the situation of Captain Grant by the revelations of Ayrton, and it caused profound disappointment among them, for they had counted on the quartermaster, and the quartermaster knew nothing which could put the Duncan on the right track.
The yacht therefore continued her course. They had yet to select the island for Ayrton’s banishment.
Paganel and John Mangles consulted the charts on board, and exactly on the 37th parallel found a little isle marked by the name of Maria Theresa, a sunken rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, 3,500 miles from the American coast, and 1,500 miles from New Zealand. The nearest land on the north was the Archipelago of Pomotou, under the protectorate of France; on the south there was nothing but the eternal ice-belt of the Polar Sea. No ship would come to reconnoiter this solitary isle. No echoes from the world would ever reach it. The storm birds only would rest awhile on it during their long flight, and in many charts the rock was not even marked.
If ever complete isolation was to be found on earth, it was on this little out-of-the-way island. Ayrton was informed of its situation, and expressed his willingness to live there apart from his fellows. The head of the vessel was in consequence turned toward it immediately.
Two days later, at two o’clock, the man on watch signaled land on the horizon. This was Maria Theresa, a low, elongated island, scarcely raised above the waves, and looking like an enormous whale. It was still thirty miles distant from the yacht, whose stem was rapidly cutting her way over the water at the rate of sixteen knots an hour.
Gradually the form of the island grew more distinct on the horizon. The orb of day sinking in the west, threw up its peculiar outlines in sharp relief. A few peaks of no great elevation stood out here and there, tipped with sunlight. At five o’clock John Mangles could discern a light smoke rising from it.
“Is it a volcano?” he asked of Paganel, who was gazing at this new land through his telescope.
“I don’t know what to think,” replied the geographer; “Maria Theresa is a spot little known; nevertheless, it would not be surprising if its origin were due to some submarine upheaval, and consequently it may be volcanic.”
“But in that case,” said Glenarvan, “is there not reason to fear that if an eruption produced it, an eruption may carry it away?”
“That is not possible,” replied Paganel. “We know of its existence for several centuries, which is our security. When the Isle Julia emerged from the Mediterranean, it did not remain long above the waves, and disappeared a few months after its birth.”
“Very good,” said Glenarvan. “Do you think, John, we can get there to-night?”
“No, your honor, I must not risk the Duncan in the dark, for I am unacquainted with the coast. I will keep under steam, but go very slowly, and to-morrow, at daybreak, we can send off a boat.”
At eight o’clock in the evening, Maria Theresa, though five miles to leeward, appeared only an elongated shadow, scarcely visible. The Duncan was always getting nearer.
At nine o’clock, a bright glare became visible, and flames shot up through the darkness. The light was steady and continued.
“That confirms the supposition of a volcano,” said Paganel, observing it attentively.
“Yet,” replied John Mangles, “at this distance we ought to hear the noise which always accompanies an eruption, and the east wind brings no sound whatever to our ear.”
“That’s true,” said Paganel. “It is a volcano that blazes, but does not speak. The gleam seems intermittent too, sometimes, like that of a lighthouse.”
“You are right,” said John Mangles, “and yet we are not on a lighted coast.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “another fire? On the shore this time! Look! It moves! It has changed its place!”
John was not mistaken. A fresh fire had appeared, which seemed to die out now and then, and suddenly flare up again.
“Is the island inhabited then?” said Glenarvan.
“By savages, evidently,” replied Paganel.
“But in that case, we cannot leave the quartermaster there.”
“No,” replied the Major, “he would be too bad a gift even to bestow on savages.”
“We must find some other uninhabited island,” said Glenarvan, who could not help smiling at the delicacy of McNabbs. “I promised Ayrton his life, and I mean to keep my promise.”
“At all events, don’t let us trust them,” added Paganel. “The New Zealanders have the barbarous custom of deceiving ships by moving lights, like the wreckers on the Cornish coast in former times. Now the natives of Maria Theresa may have heard of this proceeding.”
“Keep her off a point,” called out John to the man at the helm. “To-morrow at sunrise we shall know what we’re about.”
At eleven o’clock, the passengers and John Mangles retired to their cabins. In the forepart of the yacht the man on watch was pacing the deck, while aft, there was no one but the man at the wheel.
At this moment Mary Grant and Robert came on the poop.
The two children of the captain, leaning over the rail, gazed sadly at the phosphorescent waves and the luminous wake of the Duncan. Mary was thinking of her brother’s future, and Robert of his sister’s. Their father was uppermost in the minds of both. Was this idolized parent still in existence? Must they give him up? But no, for what would life be without him? What would become of them without him? What would have become of them already, but for Lord Glenarvan and Lady Helena?
The young boy, old above his years through trouble, divined the thoughts that troubled his sister, and taking her hand in his own, said, “Mary, we must never despair. Remember the lessons our father gave us. Keep your courage up and no matter what befalls you, let us show this obstinate courage which can rise above everything. Up to this time, sister, you have been working for me, it is my turn now, and I will work for you.”
“Dear Robert!” replied the young girl.
“I must tell you something,” resumed Robert. “You mustn’t be vexed, Mary!”
“Why should I be vexed, my child?”
“And you will let me do it?”
“What do you mean?” said Mary, getting uneasy.
“Sister, I am going to be a sailor!”
“You are going to leave me!” cried the young girl, pressing her brother’s hand.
“Yes, sister; I want to be a sailor, like my father and Captain John. Mary, dear Mary, Captain John has not lost all hope, he says. You have confidence in his devotion to us, and so have I. He is going to make a grand sailor out of me some day, he has promised me he will; and then we are going to look for our father together. Tell me you are willing, sister mine. What our father would have done for us it is our duty, mine, at least, to do for him. My life has one purpose to which it should be entirely consecrated — that is to search, and never cease searching for my father, who would never have given us up. Ah, Mary, how good our father was!”
“And so noble, so generous!” added Mary. “Do you know, Robert, he was already a glory to our country, and that he would have been numbered among our great men if fate had not arrested his course.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Robert.
Mary put her arm around the boy, and hugged him fondly as he felt her tears fall on his forehead.
“Mary, Mary!” he cried, “it doesn’t matter what our friends say, I still hope, and will always hope. A man like my father doesn’t die till he has finished his work.”
Mary Grant could not reply. Sobs choked her voice. A thousand feelings struggled in her breast at the news that fresh attempts were about to be made to recover Harry Grant, and that the devotion of the captain was so unbounded.
“And does Mr. John still hope?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Robert. “He is a brother that will never forsake us, never! I will be a sailor, you’ll say yes, won’t you, sister? And let me join him in looking for my father. I am sure you are willing.”
“Yes, I am willing,” said Mary. “But the separation!” she murmured.
“You will not be alone, Mary, I know that. My friend John told me so. Lady Helena will not let you leave her. You are a woman; you can and should accept her kindness. To refuse would be ungrateful, but a man, my father has said a hundred times, must make his own way.”
“But what will become of our own dear home in Dundee, so full of memories?”
“We will keep it, little sister! All that is settled, and settled so well, by our friend John, and also by Lord Glenarvan. He is to keep you at Malcolm Castle as if you were his daughter. My Lord told my friend John so, and he told me. You will be at home there, and have someone to speak to about our father, while you are waiting till John and I bring him back to you some day. Ah! what a grand day that will be!” exclaimed Robert, his face glowing with enthusiasm.
“My boy, my brother,” replied Mary, “how happy my father would be if he could hear you. How much you are like him, dear Robert, like our dear, dear father. When you grow up you’ll be just himself.”
“I hope I may,” said Robert, blushing with filial and sacred pride.
“But how shall we requite Lord and Lady Glenarvan?” said Mary Grant.
“Oh, that will not be difficult,” replied Robert, with boyish confidence. “We will love and revere them, and we will tell them so; and we will give them plenty of kisses, and some day, when we can get the chance, we will die for them.”
“We’ll live for them, on the contrary,” replied the young girl, covering her brother’s forehead with kisses. “They will like that better, and so shall I.”
The two children then relapsed into silence, gazing out into the dark night, and giving way to long reveries, interrupted occasionally by a question or remark from one to the other. A long swell undulated the surface of the calm sea, and the screw turned up a luminous furrow in the darkness.
A strange and altogether supernatural incident now occurred. The brother and sister, by some of those magnetic communications which link souls mysteriously together, were the subjects at the same time and the same instant of the same hallucination.
Out of the midst of these waves, with their alternations of light and shadow, a deep plaintive voice sent up a cry, the tones of which thrilled through every fiber of their being.
“Come! come!” were the words which fell on their ears.
They both started up and leaned over the railing, and peered into the gloom with questioning eyes.
“Mary, you heard that? You heard that?” cried Robert.
But they saw nothing but the long shadow that stretched before them.
“Robert,” said Mary, pale with emotion, “I thought — yes, I thought as you did, that — We must both be ill with fever, Robert.”
A second time the cry reached them, and this time the illusion was so great, that they both exclaimed simultaneously, “My father! My father!”
It was too much for Mary. Overcome with emotion, she fell fainting into Robert’s arms.
“Help!” shouted Robert. “My sister! my father! Help! Help!”
The man at the wheel darted forward to lift up the girl. The sailors on watch ran to assist, and John Mangles, Lady Helena, and Glenarvan were hastily roused from sleep.
“My sister is dying, and my father is there!” exclaimed Robert, pointing to the waves.
They were wholly at a loss to understand him.
“Yes!” he repeated, “my father is there! I heard my father’s voice; Mary heard it too!”
Just at this moment, Mary Grant recovering consciousness, but wandering and excited, called out, “My father! my father is there!”
And the poor girl started up, and leaning over the side of the yacht, wanted to throw herself into the sea.
“My Lord — Lady Helena!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “I tell you my father is there! I can declare that I heard his voice come out of the waves like a wail, as if it were a last adieu.”
The young girl went off again into convulsions and spasms, which became so violent that she had to be carried to her cabin, where Lady Helena lavished every care on her. Robert kept on repeating, “My father! my father is there! I am sure of it, my Lord!”
The spectators of this painful scene saw that the captain’s children were laboring under an hallucination. But how were they to be undeceived?
Glenarvan made an attempt, however. He took Robert’s hand, and said, “You say you heard your father’s voice, my dear boy?”
“Yes, my Lord; there, in the middle of the waves. He cried out, ‘Come! come!’”
“And did you recognize his voice?”
“Yes, I recognized it immediately. Yes, yes; I can swear to it! My sister heard it, and recognized it as well. How could we both be deceived? My Lord, do let us go to my father’s help. A boat! a boat!”
Glenarvan saw it was impossible to undeceive the poor boy, but he tried once more by saying to the man at the wheel:
“Hawkins, you were at the wheel, were you not, when Miss Mary was so strangely attacked?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Hawkins.
“And you heard nothing, and saw nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Now Robert, see?”
“If it had been Hawkins’s father,” returned the boy, with indomitable energy, “Hawkins would not say he had heard nothing. It was my father, my lord! my father.”
Sobs choked his voice; he became pale and silent, and presently fell down insensible, like his sister.
Glenarvan had him carried to his bed, where he lay in a deep swoon.
“Poor orphans,” said John Mangles. “It is a terrible trial they have to bear!”
“Yes,” said Glenarvan; “excessive grief has produced the same hallucination in both of them, and at the same time.”
“In both of them!” muttered Paganel; “that’s strange, and pure science would say inadmissible.”
He leaned over the side of the vessel, and listened attentively, making a sign to the rest to keep still.
But profound silence reigned around. Paganel shouted his loudest. No response came.
“It is strange,” repeated the geographer, going back to his cabin. “Close sympathy in thought and grief does not suffice to explain this phenomenon.”
Next day, March 4, at 5 A. M., at dawn, the passengers, including Mary and Robert, who would not stay behind, were all assembled on the poop, each one eager to examine the land they had only caught a glimpse of the night before.
The yacht was coasting along the island at the distance of about a mile, and its smallest details could be seen by the eye.
Suddenly Robert gave a loud cry, and exclaimed he could see two men running about and gesticulating, and a third was waving a flag.
“The Union Jack,” said John Mangles, who had caught up a spy-glass.
“True enough,” said Paganel, turning sharply round toward Robert.
“My Lord,” said Robert, trembling with emotion, “if you don’t want me to swim to the shore, let a boat be lowered. Oh, my Lord, I implore you to let me be the first to land.”
No one dared to speak. What! on this little isle, crossed by the 37th parallel, there were three men, shipwrecked Englishmen! Instantaneously everyone thought of the voice heard by Robert and Mary the preceding night. The children were right, perhaps, in the affirmation. The sound of a voice might have reached them, but this voice — was it their father’s? No, alas, most assuredly no. And as they thought of the dreadful disappointment that awaited them, they trembled lest this new trial should crush them completely. But who could stop them from going on shore? Lord Glenarvan had not the heart to do it.
“Lower a boat,” he called out.
Another minute and the boat was ready. The two children of Captain Grant, Glenarvan, John Mangles, and Paganel, rushed into it, and six sailors, who rowed so vigorously that they were presently almost close to the shore.
At ten fathoms’ distance a piercing cry broke from Mary’s lips.
“My father!” she exclaimed.
A man was standing on the beach, between two others. His tall, powerful form, and his physiognomy, with its mingled expression of boldness and gentleness, bore a resemblance both to Mary and Robert. This was indeed the man the children had so often described. Their hearts had not deceived them. This was their father, Captain Grant!
The captain had heard Mary’s cry, for he held out his arms, and fell flat on the sand, as if struck by a thunderbolt.
JOY does not kill, for both father and children recovered before they had reached the yacht. The scene which followed, who can describe? Language fails. The whole crew wept aloud at the sight of these three clasped together in a close, silent embrace.
The moment Harry Grant came on deck, he knelt down reverently. The pious Scotchman’s first act on touching the yacht, which to him was the soil of his native land, was to return thanks to the God of his deliverance. Then, turning to Lady Helena and Lord Glenarvan, and his companions, he thanked them in broken words, for his heart was too full to speak. During the short passage from the isle to the yacht, his children had given him a brief sketch of the Duncan’S history.
What an immense debt he owed to this noble lady and her friends! From Lord Glenarvan, down to the lowest sailor on board, how all had struggled and suffered for him! Harry Grant expressed his gratitude with such simplicity and nobleness, his manly face suffused with pure and sweet emotion, that the whole crew felt amply recompensed for the trials they had undergone. Even the impassable Major himself felt a tear steal down his cheek in spite of all his self-command; while the good, simple Paganel cried like a child who does not care who sees his tears.
Harry Grant could not take his eyes off his daughter. He thought her beautiful, charming; and he not only said so to himself, but repeated it aloud, and appealed to Lady Helena for confirmation of his opinion, as if to convince himself that he was not blinded by his paternal affection. His boy, too, came in for admiration. “How he has grown! he is a man!” was his delighted exclamation. And he covered the two children so dear to him with the kisses he had been heaping up for them during his two years of absence.
Robert then presented all his friends successively, and found means always to vary the formula of introduction, though he had to say the same thing about each. The fact was, each and all had been perfect in the children’s eyes.
John Mangles blushed like a child when his turn came, and his voice trembled as he spoke to Mary’s father.
Lady Helena gave Captain Grant a narrative of the voyage, and made him proud of his son and daughter. She told him of the young hero’s exploits, and how the lad had already paid back part of the paternal debt to Lord Glenarvan. John Mangles sang Mary’s praises in such terms, that Harry Grant, acting on a hint from Lady Helena, put his daughter’s hand into that of the brave young captain, and turning to Lord and Lady Glenarvan, said: “My Lord, and you, Madam, also give your blessing to our children.”
When everything had been said and re-said over and over again, Glenarvan informed Harry Grant about Ayrton. Grant confirmed the quartermaster’s confession as far as his disembarkation on the coast of Australia was concerned.
“He is an intelligent, intrepid man,” he added, “whose passions have led him astray. May reflection and repentance bring him to a better mind!”
But before Ayrton was transferred, Harry Grant wished to do the honors of his rock to his friends. He invited them to visit his wooden house, and dine with him in Robinson Crusoe fashion.
Glenarvan and his friends accepted the invitation most willingly. Robert and Mary were eagerly longing to see the solitary house where their father had so often wept at the thought of them. A boat was manned, and the Captain and his two children, Lord and Lady Glenarvan, the Major, John Mangles, and Paganel, landed on the shores of the island.
A few hours sufficed to explore the whole domain of Harry Grant. It was in fact the summit of a submarine mountain, a plateau composed of basaltic rocks and volcanic DEBRIS. During the geological epochs of the earth, this mountain had gradually emerged from the depths of the Pacific, through the action of the subterranean fires, but for ages back the volcano had been a peaceful mountain, and the filled-up crater, an island rising out of the liquid plain. Then soil formed. The vegetable kingdom took possession of this new land. Several whalers landed domestic animals there in passing; goats and pigs, which multiplied and ran wild, and the three kingdoms of nature were now displayed on this island, sunk in mid ocean.
When the survivors of the shipwrecked Britannia took refuge there, the hand of man began to organize the efforts of nature. In two years and a half, Harry Grant and his two sailors had metamorphosed the island. Several acres of well-cultivated land were stocked with vegetables of excellent quality.
The house was shaded by luxuriant gum-trees. The magnificent ocean stretched before the windows, sparkling in the sunlight. Harry Grant had the table placed beneath the grand trees, and all the guests seated themselves. A hind quarter of a goat, nardou bread, several bowls of milk, two or three roots of wild endive, and pure fresh water, composed the simple repast, worthy of the shepherds of Arcadia.
Paganel was enchanted. His old fancies about Robinson Crusoe revived in full force. “He is not at all to be pitied, that scoundrel, Ayrton!” he exclaimed, enthusiastically. “This little isle is just a paradise!”
“Yes,” replied Harry Grant, “a paradise to these poor, shipwrecked fellows that Heaven had pity on, but I am sorry that Maria Theresa was not an extensive and fertile island, with a river instead of a stream, and a port instead of a tiny bay exposed to the open sea.”
“And why, captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“Because I should have made it the foundation of the colony with which I mean to dower Scotland.”
“Ah, Captain Grant, you have not given up the project, then, which made you so popular in our old country?”
“No, my Lord, and God has only saved me through your efforts that I might accomplish my task. My poor brothers in old Caledonia, all who are needy must have a refuge provided for them in another land against their misery, and my dear country must have a colony of her own, for herself alone, somewhere in these seas, where she may find that independence and comfort she so lacks in Europe.”
“Ah, that is very true, Captain Grant,” said Lady Helena. “This is a grand project of yours, and worthy of a noble heart. But this little isle —”
“No, madam, it is a rock only fit at most to support a few settlers; while what we need is a vast country, whose virgin soil abounds in untouched stores of wealth,” replied the captain.
“Well, captain,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “the future is ours, and this country we will seek for together.”
And the two brave Scotchmen joined hands in a hearty grip and so sealed the compact.
A general wish was expressed to hear, while they were on the island, the account of the shipwreck of the Britannia, and of the two years spent by the survivors in this very place. Harry Grant was delighted to gratify their curiosity, and commenced his narration forthwith.
“My story,” he said, “is that of all the Robinson Cru-soes cast upon an island, with only God and themselves to rely on, and feeling it a duty to struggle for life with the elements.
“It was during the night of the 26th or 27th of June, 1862, that the Britannia, disabled by a six days’ storm, struck against the rocks of Maria Theresa. The sea was mountains high, and lifeboats were useless. My unfortunate crew all perished, except Bob Learce and Joe Bell, who with myself managed to reach shore after twenty unsuccessful attempts.
“The land which received us was only an uninhabited island, two miles broad and five long, with about thirty trees in the interior, a few meadows, and a brook of fresh water, which fortunately never dried up. Alone with my sailors, in this corner of the globe, I did not despair. I put my trust in God, and accustomed myself to struggle resolutely for existence. Bob and Joe, my brave companions in misfortune, my friends, seconded me energetically.
“We began like the fictitious Robinson Crusoe of Defoe, our model, by collecting the planks of the ship, the tools, a little powder, and firearms, and a bag of precious seeds. The first few days were painful enough, but hunting and fishing soon afforded us a sure supply of food, for wild goats were in abundance in the interior of the island, and marine animals abounded on the coast. By degrees we fell into regular ways and habits of life.
“I had saved my instruments from the wreck, and knew exactly the position of the island. I found we were out of the route of vessels, and could not be rescued unless by some providential chance. I accepted our trying lot composedly, always thinking, however, of my dear ones, remembering them every day in my prayers, though never hoping to see them again.
“However, we toiled on resolutely, and before long several acres of land were sown with the seed off the Britannia; potatoes, endive, sorrel, and other vegetables besides, gave wholesome variety to our daily fare. We caught some young kids, which soon grew quite tame. We had milk and butter. The nardou, which grew abundantly in dried up creeks, supplied us with tolerably substantial bread, and we had no longer any fears for our material life.
“We had built a log hut with the DEBRIS of the Britannia, and this was covered over with sail cloth, carefully tarred over, and beneath this secure shelter the rainy season passed comfortably. Many a plan was discussed here, and many a dream indulged in, the brightest of which is this day realized.
“I had at first the idea of trying to brave the perils of the ocean in a canoe made out of the spars of the ship, but 1,500 miles lay between us and the nearest coast, that is to say the islands of the Archipelago of Pomotou. No boat could have stood so long a voyage. I therefore relinquished my scheme, and looked for no deliverance except from a divine hand.
“Ah, my poor children! how often we have stood on the top of the rocks and watched the few vessels passing in the distance far out at sea. During the whole period of our exile only two or three vessels appeared on the horizon, and those only to disappear again immediately. Two years and a half were spent in this manner. We gave up hoping, but yet did not despair. At last, early yesterday morning, when I was standing on the highest peak of the island, I noticed a light smoke rising in the west. It increased, and soon a ship appeared in sight. It seemed to be coming toward us. But would it not rather steer clear of an island where there was no harbor.
“Ah, what a day of agony that was! My heart was almost bursting. My comrades kindled a fire on one of the peaks. Night came on, but no signal came from the yacht. Deliverance was there, however. Were we to see it vanish from our eyes?
“I hesitated no longer. The darkness was growing deeper. The ship might double the island during the night. I jumped into the sea, and attempted to make my way toward it. Hope trebled my strength, I cleft the waves with superhuman vigor, and had got so near the yacht that I was scarcely thirty fathoms off, when it tacked about.
“This provoked me to the despairing cry, which only my two children heard. It was no illusion.
“Then I came back to the shore, exhausted and overcome with emotion and fatigue. My two sailors received me half dead. It was a horrible night this last we spent on the island, and we believed ourselves abandoned forever, when day dawned, and there was the yacht sailing nearly alongside, under easy steam. Your boat was lowered — we were saved — and, oh, wonder of Divine goodness, my children, my beloved children, were there holding out their arms to me!”
Robert and Mary almost smothered their father with kisses and caresses as he ended his narrative.
It was now for the first time that the captain heard that he owed his deliverance to the somewhat hieroglyphical
V. IV Verne document which he had placed in a bottle and confined to the mercy of the ocean.
But what were Jacques Paganel’s thoughts during Captain Grant’s recital? The worthy geographer was turning over in his brain for the thousandth time the words of the document. He pondered his three successive interpretations, all of which had proved false. How had this island, called Maria Theresa, been indicated in the papers originally?
At last Paganel could contain himself no longer, and seizing Harry Grant’s hand, he exclaimed:
“Captain! will you tell me at last what really was in your indecipherable document?”
A general curiosity was excited by this question of the geographer, for the enigma which had been for nine months a mystery was about to be explained.
“Well, captain,” repeated Paganel, “do you remember the precise words of the document?”
“Exactly,” replied Harry Grant; “and not a day has passed without my recalling to memory words with which our last hopes were linked.”
“And what are they, captain?” asked Glenarvan. “Speak, for our amour propre is wounded to the quick!”
“I am ready to satisfy you,” replied Harry Grant; “but, you know, to multiply the chances of safety, I had inclosed three documents in the bottle, in three different languages. Which is it you wish to hear?”
“They are not identical, then?” cried Paganel.
“Yes, they are, almost to a word.”
“Well, then, let us have the French document,” replied Glenarvan. “That is the one that is most respected by the waves, and the one on which our interpretations have been mostly founded.”
“My Lord, I will give it you word for word,” replied Harry Grant.
“LE 27 JUIN, 1862, le trois-mats Britannia, de Glasgow, s’est perdu a quinze cents lieues de la Patagonie, dans l’hemisphere austral. Partes a terre, deux matelots et le Capitaine Grant ont atteint l’ile Tabor —”
“Oh!” exclaimed Paganel.
“LA,” continued Harry Grant, “continuellement en proie a une cruelle indigence, ils ont jete ce document par 153 degrees de longitude et 37 degrees 11’ de latitude. Venes a leur secours, ou ils sont perdus.”
At the name of Tabor, Paganel had started up hastily, and now being unable to restrain himself longer, he called out:
“How can it be Isle Tabor? Why, this is Maria Theresa!”
“Undoubtedly, Monsieur Paganel,” replied Harry Grant. “It is Maria Theresa on the English and German charts, but is named Tabor on the French ones!”
At this moment a vigorous thump on Paganel’s shoulder almost bent him double. Truth obliges us to say it was the Major that dealt the blow, though strangely contrary to his usual strict politeness.
“Geographer!” said McNabbs, in a tone of the most supreme contempt.
But Paganel had not even felt the Major’s hand. What was that compared to the geographical blow which had stunned him?
He had been gradually getting nearer the truth, however, as he learned from Captain Grant. He had almost entirely deciphered the indecipherable document. The names Patagonia, Australia, New Zealand, had appeared to him in turn with absolute certainty. CONTIN, at first CONTINENT, had gradually reached its true meaning, continuelle. Indi had successively signified indiens, indigenes, and at last the right word was found — INDIGENCE. But one mutilated word, ABOR, had baffled the geographer’s sagacity. Paganel had persisted in making it the root of the verb ABORDER, and it turned out to be a proper name, the French name of the Isle Tabor, the isle which had been a refuge for the shipwrecked sailors of the Britannia. It was difficult to avoid falling into the error, however, for on the English planispheres on the Duncan, the little isle was marked Maria Theresa.
“No matter?” cried Paganel, tearing his hair; “I ought not to have forgotten its double appellation. It is an unpardonable mistake, one unworthy of a secretary of the Geographical Society. I am disgraced!”
“Come, come, Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena; “moderate your grief.”
“No, madam, no; I am a mere ass!”
“And not even a learned one!” added the Major, by way of consolation.
When the meal was over, Harry Grant put everything in order in his house. He took nothing away, wishing the guilty to inherit the riches of the innocent. Then they returned to the vessel, and, as Glenarvan had determined to start the same day, he gave immediate orders for the disembarkation of the quartermaster. Ayrton was brought up on the poop, and found himself face to face with Harry Grant.
“It is I, Ayrton!” said Grant
“Yes, it is you, captain,” replied Ayrton, without the least sign of surprise at Harry Grant’s recovery. “Well, I am not sorry to see you again in good health.”
“It seems, Ayrton, that I made a mistake in landing you on an inhabited coast.”
“It seems so, captain.”
“You are going to take my place on this uninhabited island. May Heaven give you repentance!”
“Amen,” said Ayrton, calmly.
Glenarvan then addressed the quartermaster.
“It is still your wish, then, Ayrton, to be left behind?”
“Yes, my Lord!”
“And Isle Tabor meets your wishes?”
“Perfectly.”
“Now then, listen to my last words, Ayrton. You will be cut off here from all the world, and no communication with your fellows is possible. Miracles are rare, and you will not be able to quit this isle. You will be alone, with no eye upon you but that of God, who reads the deepest secrets of the heart; but you will be neither lost nor forsaken, as Captain Grant was. Unworthy as you are of anyone’s remembrance, you will not be dropped out of recollection. I know where you are, Ayrton; I know where to find you — I shall never forget.”
“God keep your Honor,” was all Ayrton’s reply.
These were the final words exchanged between Glenarvan and the quartermaster. The boat was ready and Ayrton got into it.
John Mangles had previously conveyed to the island several cases of preserved food, besides clothing, and tools and firearms, and a supply of powder and shot. The quartermaster could commence a new life of honest labor. Nothing was lacking, not even books; among others, the Bible, so dear to English hearts.
The parting hour had come. The crew and all the passengers were assembled on deck. More than one felt his heart swell with emotion. Mary Grant and Lady Helena could not restrain their feelings.
“Must it be done?” said the young wife to her husband. “Must the poor man be left there?”
“He must, Helena,” replied Lord Glenarvan. “It is in expiation of his crimes.”
At that moment the boat, in charge of John Mangles, turned away. Ayrton, who remained standing, and still unmoved, took off his cap and bowed gravely.
Glenarvan uncovered, and all the crew followed his example, as if in presence of a man who was about to die, and the boat went off in profound silence.
On reaching land, Ayrton jumped on the sandy shore, and the boat returned to the yacht. It was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and from the poop the passengers could see the quartermaster gazing at the ship, standing with folded arms on a rock, motionless as a statue.
“Shall we set sail, my Lord?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, John,” replied Glenarvan, hastily, more moved than he cared to show.
“Go on!” shouted John to the engineer.
The steam hissed and puffed out, the screw began to stir the waves, and by eight o’clock the last peaks of Isle Tabor disappeared in the shadows of the night.
ON the 19th of March, eleven days after leaving the island, the Duncan sighted the American coast, and next day dropped anchor in the bay of Talcahuano. They had come back again after a voyage of five months, during which, and keeping strictly along the 37th parallel, they had gone round the world. The passengers in this memorable expedition, unprecedented in the annals of the Travelers’ Club, had visited Chili, the Pampas, the Argentine Republic, the Atlantic, the island of Tristan d’Acunha, the Indian Ocean, Amsterdam Island, Australia, New Zealand, Isle Tabor, and the Pacific. Their search had not been fruitless, for they were bringing back the survivors of the shipwrecked Britannia.
Not one of the brave Scots who set out at the summons of their chief, but could answer to their names; all were returning to their old Scotia.
As soon as the Duncan had re-provisioned, she sailed along the coast of Patagonia, doubled Cape Horn, and made a swift run up the Atlantic Ocean. No voyage could be more devoid of incident. The yacht was simply carrying home a cargo of happiness. There was no secret now on board, not even John Mangles’s attachment to Mary Grant.
Yes, there was one mystery still, which greatly excited McNabbs’s curiosity. Why was it that Paganel remained always hermetically fastened up in his clothes, with a big comforter round his throat and up to his very ears? The Major was burning with desire to know the reason of this singular fashion. But in spite of interrogations, allusions, and suspicions on the part of McNabbs, Paganel would not unbutton.
Not even when the Duncan crossed the line, and the heat was so great that the seams of the deck were melting. “He is so DISTRAIT that he thinks he is at St. Petersburg,” said the Major, when he saw the geographer wrapped in an immense great-coat, as if the mercury had been frozen in the thermometer.
At last on the 9th of May, fifty-three days from the time of leaving Talcahuano, John Mangles sighted the lights of Cape Clear. The yacht entered St. George’s Channel, crossed the Irish Sea, and on the 10th of May reached the Firth of Clyde. At 11 o’clock she dropped anchor off Dunbarton, and at 2 P.M. the passengers arrived at Malcolm Castle amidst the enthusiastic cheering of the Highlanders.
As fate would have it then, Harry Grant and his two companions were saved. John Mangles wedded Mary Grant in the old cathedral of St. Mungo, and Mr. Paxton, the same clergyman who had prayed nine months before for the deliverance of the father, now blessed the marriage of his daughter and his deliverer. Robert was to become a sailor like Harry Grant and John Mangles, and take part with them in the captain’s grand projects, under the auspices of Lord Glenarvan.
But fate also decreed that Paganel was not to die a bachelor? Probably so.
The fact was, the learned geographer after his heroic exploits, could not escape celebrity. His blunders made quite a FURORE among the fashionables of Scotland, and he was overwhelmed with courtesies.
It was then that an amiable lady, about thirty years of age, in fact, a cousin of McNabbs, a little eccentric herself, but good and still charming, fell in love with the geographer’s oddities, and offered him her hand. Forty thousand pounds went with it, but that was not mentioned.
Paganel was far from being insensible to the sentiments of Miss Arabella, but yet he did not dare to speak. It was the Major who was the medium of communication between these two souls, evidently made for each other. He even told Paganel that his marriage was the last freak he would be able to allow himself. Paganel was in a great state of embarrassment, but strangely enough could not make up his mind to speak the fatal word.
“Does not Miss Arabella please you then?” asked McNabbs.
“Oh, Major, she is charming,” exclaimed Paganel, “a thousand times too charming, and if I must tell you all, she would please me better if she were less so. I wish she had a defect!”
“Be easy on that score,” replied the Major, “she has, and more than one. The most perfect woman in the world has always her quota. So, Paganel, it is settled then, I suppose?”
“I dare not.”
“Come, now, my learned friend, what makes you hesitate?”
“I am unworthy of Miss Arabella,” was the invariable reply of the geographer. And to this he would stick.
At last, one day being fairly driven in a corner by the intractable Major, he ended by confiding to him, under the seal of secrecy, a certain peculiarity which would facilitate his apprehension should the police ever be on his track.
“Bah!” said the Major.
“It is really as I tell you,” replied Paganel.
“What does it matter, my worthy friend?”
“Do you think so, Major?”
“On the contrary, it only makes you more uncommon. It adds to your personal merits. It is the very thing to make you the nonpareil husband that Arabella dreams about.”
And the Major with imperturbable gravity left Paganel in a state of the utmost disquietude.
A short conversation ensued between McNabbs and Miss Arabella. A fortnight afterwards, the marriage was celebrated in grand style in the chapel of Malcolm Castle. Paganel looked magnificent, but closely buttoned up, and Miss Arabella was arrayed in splendor.
And this secret of the geographer would have been forever buried in oblivion, if the Major had not mentioned it to Glenarvan, and he could not hide it from Lady Helena, who gave a hint to Mrs. Mangles. To make a long story short, it got in the end to M. Olbinett’s ears, and soon became noised abroad.
Jacques Paganel, during his three days’ captivity among the Maories, had been tattooed from the feet to the shoulders, and he bore on his chest a heraldic kiwi with outspread wings, which was biting at his heart.
This was the only adventure of his grand voyage that Paganel could never get over, and he always bore a grudge to New Zealand on account of it. It was for this reason too, that, notwithstanding solicitation and regrets, he never would return to France. He dreaded lest he should expose the whole Geographical Society in his person to the jests of caricaturists and low newspapers, by their secretary coming back tattooed.
The return of the captain to Scotland was a national event, and Harry Grant was soon the most popular man in old Caledonia. His son Robert became a sailor like himself and Captain Mangles, and under the patronage of Lord Glenarvan they resumed the project of founding a Scotch colony in the Southern Seas.
The End