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.”
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.”
“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 longitude 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.”