by Jules Verne
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 f
rom cursing their destiny.
The canoe was meantime standing still. Where should they go? Whither fly? What choice was there between the convicts and the savages?
A shot was fired from the nearest of the native boats, and the ball struck Wilson's oar.
A few strokes then carried the canoe nearer to the DUNCAN.
The yacht was coming down at full speed, and was not more than half a mile off.
John Mangles, between two enemies, did not know what to advise, whither to fly! The two poor ladies on their knees, prayed in their agony.
The savages kept up a running fire, and shots were raining round the canoe, when suddenly a loud report was heard, and a ball from the yacht's cannon passed over their heads, and now the boat remained motionless between the DUNCAN and the native canoes.
John Mangles, frenzied with despair, seized his ax. He was about to scuttle the boat and sink it with his unfortunate companions, when a cry from Robert arrested his arm.
"Tom Austin! Tom Austin!" the lad shouted. "He is on board! I see him! He knows us! He is waving his hat."
The ax hung useless in John's hand.
A second ball whistled over his head, and cut in two the nearest of the three native boats, while a loud hurrah burst forth on board the DUNCAN.
The savages took flight, fled and regained the shore.
"Come on, Tom, come on!" cried John Mangles in a joyous voice.
And a few minutes after, the ten fugitives, how, they knew not, were all safe on board the DUNCAN.
CHAPTER XVI WHY THE "DUNCAN" WENT TO NEW ZEALAND
IT would be vain to attempt to depict the feelings of Glenarvan and his friends when the songs of old Scotia fell on their ears. The moment they set foot on the deck of the DUNCAN, the piper blew his bagpipes, and commenced the national pibroch of the Malcolm clan, while loud hurrahs rent the air.
Glenarvan and his whole party, even the Major himself, were crying and embracing each other. They were delirious with joy. The geographer was absolutely mad. He frisked about, telescope in hand, pointing it at the last canoe approaching the shore.
But at the sight of Glenarvan and his companions, with their clothing in rags, and thin, haggard faces, bearing marks of horrible sufferings, the crew ceased their noisy demonstrations. These were specters who had returned--not the bright, adventurous travelers who had left the yacht three months before, so full of hope! Chance, and chance only, had brought them back to the deck of the yacht they never thought to see again. And in what a state of exhaustion and feebleness. But before thinking of fatigue, or attending to the imperious demands of hunger and thirst, Glenarvan questioned Tom Austin about his being on this coast.
Why had the DUNCAN come to the eastern coast of New Zealand? How was it not in the hands of Ben Joyce? By what providential fatality had God brought them in the track of the fugitives?
Why? how? and for what purpose? Tom was stormed with questions on all sides. The old sailor did not know which to listen to first, and at last resolved to hear nobody but Glenarvan, and to answer nobody but him.
"But the convicts?" inquired Glenarvan. "What did you do with them?"
"The convicts?" replied Tom, with the air of a man who does not in the least understand what he is being asked.
"Yes, the wretches who attacked the yacht."
"What yacht? Your Honor's?"
"Why, of course, Tom. The DUNCAN, and Ben Joyce, who came on board."
"I don't know this Ben Joyce, and have never seen him."
"Never seen him!" exclaimed Paganel, stupefied at the old sailor's replies. "Then pray tell me, Tom, how it is that the DUNCAN is cruising at this moment on the coast of New Zealand?"
But if Glenarvan and his friends were totally at a loss to understand the bewilderment of the old sailor, what was their amazement when he replied in a calm voice:
"The DUNCAN is cruising here by your Honor's orders."
"By my orders?" cried Glenarvan.
"Yes, my Lord. I only acted in obedience to the instructions sent in your letter of January fourteenth."
"My letter! my letter!" exclaimed Glenarvan.
The ten travelers pressed closer round Tom Austin, devouring him with their eyes. The letter dated from Snowy River had reached the DUNCAN, then.
"Let us come to explanations, pray, for it seems to me I am dreaming. You received a letter, Tom?"
"Yes, a letter from your Honor."
"At Melbourne?"
"At Melbourne, just as our repairs were completed."
"And this letter?"
"It was not written by you, but bore your signature, my Lord."
"Just so; my letter was brought by a convict called Ben Joyce."
"No, by a sailor called Ayrton, a quartermaster on the BRITANNIA."
"Yes, Ayrton or Ben Joyce, one and the same individual. Well, and what were the contents of this letter?"
"It contained orders to leave Melbourne without delay, and go and cruise on the eastern coast of--"
"Australia!" said Glenarvan with such vehemence that the old sailor was somewhat disconcerted.
"Of Australia?" repeated Tom, opening his eyes. "No, but New Zealand."
"Australia, Tom! Australia!" they all cried with one voice.
Austin's head began to feel in a whirl. Glenarvan spoke with such assurance that he thought after all he must have made a mistake in reading the letter. Could a faithful, exact old servant like himself have been guilty of such a thing! He turned red and looked quite disturbed.
"Never mind, Tom," said Lady Helena. "God so willed it."
"But, no, madam, pardon me," replied old Tom. "No, it is impossible, I was not mistaken. Ayrton read the letter as I did, and it was he, on the contrary, who wished to bring me to the Australian coast."
"Ayrton!" cried Glenarvan.
"Yes, Ayrton himself. He insisted it was a mistake: that you meant to order me to Twofold Bay."
"Have you the letter still, Tom?" asked the Major, extremely interested in this mystery.
"Yes, Mr. McNabbs," replied Austin. "I'll go and fetch it."
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."