In Search of the Castaways, page 32
part #5 of Voyages Extraordinaires Series
It was a brig of two hundred and fifty tons, called the Macquarie, which traded between the different ports of Australia and New Zealand. The captain, or rather the “master,” received his visitors very gruffly. They saw that they had to deal with an uneducated man, whose manners were not different from those of the five sailors of his crew. A coarse red face, big hands, a flat nose, a blinded eye, lips blackened by his pipe, and a specially brutish appearance, made Will Halley a very forbidding character. But they had no choice, and for a voyage of a few days there was no need to be very particular.
“What do you want?” asked Will Halley, as the strangers reached the deck of his vessel.
“The captain,” replied Mangles.
“I am he,” said Halley. “What then?”
“The Macquarie is loading for Auckland?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“What does she carry?”
“Anything that is bought or sold.”
“When does she sail?”
“Tomorrow, at the noon tide.”
“Would she take passengers?”
“That depends upon the passengers, and whether they would be satisfied with the ship’s mess.”
“They would take their own provisions.”
“Well, how many are there?”
“Nine—two of them ladies.”
“I have no cabins.”
“We will arrange a place for their exclusive use.”
“What then?”
“Do you accept?” asked Captain Mangles, who was not embarrassed by this curtness.
“I must see,” replied the master of the Macquarie. He took a turn or two, striking the deck with his heavy, hobnailed boots; then, turning to Captain Mangles, said:
“What do you pay?”
“What do you ask?” was the reply.
“Fifty pounds.”
Glenarvan nodded assent.
“Very well! Fifty pounds.”
“But the passage in cash!” added Halley.
“In cash.”
“Food separate?”
“Separate.”
“Agreed. Well?” said Will Halley, holding out his hand.
“What?”
“The advance-money.”
“Here is half the fare—twenty-five pounds,” said Captain Mangles, counting out the sum, which the master pocketed without saying “thank you.”
“Be on board tomorrow,” said he. “Whether you are here or not, I shall weigh anchor.”
“We will be here.”
Thereupon Glenarvan, the major, Robert, Paganel, and Captain Mangles left the vessel, without Will Halley’s having so much as touched the brim of his hat.
“What a stupid fellow!” was their first remark.
“Well, I like him,” replied Paganel. “He is a real sea-wolf.”
“A real bear!” remarked the major.
“And I imagine,” added Captain Mangles, “that this bear has at some time traded in human flesh.”
“What matter,” replied Glenarvan, “so long as he commands the Macquarie, which goes to New Zealand? We shall see very little of him on the voyage.”
Lady Helena and Mary Grant were very much pleased to know that they were to start the next day. Glenarvan observed, however, that the Macquarie could not equal the Duncan for comfort; but, after so many hardships, they were not likely to be overcome by trifles. Mr. Olbinett was requested to take charge of the provisions. The poor man, since the loss of the Duncan, had often lamented the unhappy fate of his wife, who had remained on board, and would be, consequently, the victim of the convicts’ brutality. However, he fulfilled his duties as steward with his accustomed zeal, and their food might yet consist of dishes that were never seen on the ship’s table.
In the meantime the major discounted at a money-changer’s some drafts that Glenarvan had on the Union Bank of Melbourne. As for Paganel, he procured an excellent map of New Zealand.
Mulready was now quite well. He scarcely felt his wound, which had so nearly proved fatal. A few hours at sea would complete his recovery.
Wilson went on board first, charged with arranging the passengers’ quarters. Under his vigorous use of the brush and broom the aspect of things was greatly changed. Will Halley shrugged his shoulders, but allowed the sailor to do as he pleased. As for Glenarvan and his friends, he scarcely noticed them; he did not even know their names, nor did he care to. This increase of cargo was worth fifty pounds to him, but he valued it less than the two hundred tons of tanned leather with which his hold was crowded—the skins first, and the passengers next. He was a real trader; and by his nautical ability he passed for a good navigator of these seas, rendered so very dangerous by the coral reefs.
During the afternoon, Glenarvan wished to visit once more the supposed place of the shipwreck. Ayrton had certainly been the quartermaster of the Britannia, and the vessel might really have been lost on that part of the coast. And there, at all events, the Duncan had fallen into the hands of the convicts. Had there been a fight? Perhaps they would find on the beach traces of a struggle. If the crew had perished in the waves, would not the bodies have been cast ashore?
Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful captain, undertook this examination. The landlord of Victoria Hotel furnished them with two horses, and they set out. But it was a sad journey. They rode in silence. The same thoughts, the same anxieties, tortured the mind of each. They gazed at the rocks worn by the sea. They had no need to question or answer; no sign of the Duncan could be found—the whole coast was bare.
Captain Mangles, however, found on the margin of the shore evident signs of an encampment, the remains of fires recently kindled beneath the few trees. Had a wandering tribe of natives passed there within a few days? No, for an object struck Glenarvan’s eye, which proved incontestably that the convicts had visited that part of the coast.
It was a gray and yellow jacket, worn and patched, left at the foot of a tree. It bore a number and badge of the Perth penitentiary. The convict was no longer there, but his cast-off garment betrayed him.
“You see, John,” said Glenarvan, “the convicts have been here! And our poor comrades of the Duncan—”
“Yes,” replied the captain, in a low voice, “they have certainly been landed, and have perished!”
“The wretches!” cried Glenarvan. “If they ever fall into my hands, I will avenge my crew!”
Grief and exposure had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For several moments he gazed at the vast expanse of water, seeking perhaps to discern some ship in the dim distance. Then his eyes relaxed their fierceness, he regained his composure, and, without adding a word or making a sign, took the road to Eden.
Only one duty remained to be fulfilled—to inform the constable of the events that had just transpired, which was done the same evening. The magistrate, Thomas Banks, could scarcely conceal his satisfaction at making out the official record. He was simply delighted at the departure of Ben Joyce and his band. The whole village shared his joy. The convicts had left Australia because of a new crime; but, at all events, they had gone. This important news was immediately telegraphed to the authorities of Melbourne and Sydney.
Having accomplished his object, Glenarvan returned to the Victoria Hotel. The travelers passed this last evening in Australia in sadness. Their thoughts wandered over this country, so fertile in misfortunes. They recalled the hopes they had reasonably conceived at Cape Bernouilli, now so cruelly disappointed at Twofold Bay.
Paganel was a prey to a feverish agitation. Captain Mangles, who had watched him since the incident at Snowy River, many times pressed him with questions which Paganel did not answer. But that evening, as he went with him to his chamber, the captain asked him why he was so nervous.
“My friend,” replied Paganel evasively, “I am no more nervous than usual.”
“Mr. Paganel, you have a secret that troubles you.”
“Well, as you will,” cried the geographer; “it is stronger than I.”
“What is stronger than you?”
“My joy on the one hand, and my despair on the other.”
“You are joyful and despairing at the same time?”
“Yes; joyful and despairing at visiting New Zealand.”
“Have you any news?” asked Captain Mangles. “Have you discovered the lost trail?”
“No, friend. People never return from New Zealand! But yet—well, you know human nature. As long as we breathe we can hope; and my motto is ‘dum spiro, spero,’ which is the best in the world.”
XLV
The Wreck of the Macquarie
The next day the travelers were installed on board the Macquarie. Will Halley had not offered the ladies his cabin, which was not to be regretted, as the lair was only fit for the brute.
At noon they made ready to take the flood-tide. The anchor was weighed. A moderate breeze blew from the southwest. The sails were gradually set, but the five men worked slowly. At last, incited by the oaths of the skipper, they accomplished their task. But in spite of her spread of canvas the brig scarcely advanced. Yet, however poorly she sailed, in five or six days they hoped to reach the harbor of Auckland. At seven o’clock in the evening they lost sight of the shores of Australia, and the lighthouse at Eden. The sea was rough, and the vessel labored heavily in the trough of the waves. The passengers found their situation very uncomfortable; but, as they could not remain on deck, they were forced to submit to confinement.
That evening conversation very naturally turned upon the land to which they were now sailing, its discovery and colonization; and just as naturally all turned to Paganel as to a bookcase, for some information thereon. It was very readily accessible, although evidently to the geographer’s mind there was something of a painful character connected with the name, the impression, and the very thoughts of New Zealand and its Maori inhabitants.
“Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena, “have your friends, the English, been the only ones to search out this island?”
“By no means, madam,” was the prompt reply. “On the contrary, they have come second, nay, third, in the race; only,” and he looked half roguishly and half maliciously, “they stayed when they came.”
And then he told them of its first discovery by Abel Tasman, the Dutch navigator, in 1642; that, when first he landed, there seemed to be amicable feelings expressed by the islanders toward himself, a number of them coming back to his ship, and being apparently well pleased to cultivate intercourse. But on the next day, as he sent his boat to find good anchorage nearer to the shore, seven canoes of the islanders attacked it most violently and suddenly, causing it to capsize, and so vigorously assailing its occupants with their pikes that it was with difficulty any of them were able to swim back to their ship, leaving those of their companions who were not drowned to be butchered by the natives.
Paganel also told, at great length, the tales of many of the sad incidents which from time to time have marked even the commercial intercourse between the European and the Maori; as, for instance, the sad tale of conflict and bloodshed connected with the death of Captain Marion, a French navigator, in 1772. He had landed near the spot where Surville had ill-treated some of the natives and traitorously seized a son of the chief, Takouri, who yet appeared to welcome this next French visitant, though remembering none the less the terrible duty of vengeance which is felt by the Maori to be so binding.
For a long time the cloak of friendship was worn by the natives, the more thoroughly to lull the suspicions of the whites, and to entice a larger number on shore; in which endeavor they succeeded only too well. The French ships being greatly out of repair, Marion was induced to fell timber at some distance in the interior, and to establish in this occupation a great number of his men, going frequently to them, and remaining with them and the apparently friendly chiefs.
On one of these occasions the Maoris fulfilled their revengeful project with a terrible satisfaction to themselves. Only one man, of all those in the interior, managed to escape, the commander himself falling a prey to their vengeance. They then endeavored to kill the second in command, who, with several others, was nearer to the shore. These, of course, at once started for their boats; breathless, they reached them, hotly pursued to the water’s edge by the insatiate savages. Then, safe themselves, the French marksmen picked off the chief, and the previous exultation of the aborigines was, even in the hour of their triumph, turned to lamentation, coupled with wonder at the terrible power of the white man’s fire-barrel.
All this and much more did the geographer narrate; but it must be confessed that he neither spoke, nor did they listen, with the complacency evinced in his previous tales. Besides, their surroundings were at the time uncomfortable, and the first prognostications of a speedy passage were not likely to be verified.
Unfortunately, this painful voyage was prolonged. Six days after her departure, the Macquarie had not descried the shores of Auckland. The wind was fair, however, and still blew from the southwest; but nevertheless the brig did not make much headway. The sea was rough, the rigging creaked, the ribs cracked, and the vessel rode the waves with difficulty.
Fortunately, Will Halley, like a man who was in no hurry, did not crowd on sail, or his masts would inevitably have snapped. Captain Mangles hoped, therefore, that this clumsy craft would reach its destination in safety; still, he was pained to see his companions on board in such miserable quarters.
But neither Lady Helena nor Mary Grant complained, although the continual rain kept them confined, and the want of air and rolling of the ship seriously incommoded them. Their friends sought to divert them, and Paganel strove to while the time with his stories, but did not succeed so well as previously.
Of all the passengers, the one most to be pitied was Lord Glenarvan. They rarely saw him below; he could not keep still. His nervous and excitable nature would not submit to an imprisonment between four wooden walls. Day and night, heedless of the torrents of rain and the dashing spray of the sea, he remained on deck, sometimes bending over the rail, sometimes pacing up and down with feverish agitation. His eyes gazed continually into space, and, during the brief lulls, his glass persistently surveyed the horizon. He seemed to question the mute waves; the mist that veiled the sky, the masses of vapor, he would have penetrated with a glance; he could not be resigned, and his countenance betokened an acute grief. The power and hopefulness of this man, hitherto so energetic and courageous, had suddenly failed.
Captain Mangles seldom left him, but at his side endured the severity of the storm. That day, Glenarvan, wherever there was an opening in the mist, scanned the horizon with the utmost persistency. The young captain approached him.
“Is your lordship looking for land?” he asked.
Glenarvan shook his head.
“It will yet be some time before we leave the brig. We ought to have sighted Auckland light thirty-six hours ago.”
Glenarvan did not answer. He still gazed, and for a moment his glass was pointed towards the horizon to windward of the vessel.
“The land is not on that side,” said Captain Mangles. “Your lordship should look towards the starboard.”
“Why, John?” replied Glenarvan. “It is not the land that I am seeking.”
“What is it, my lord?”
“My yacht, my Duncan! She must be here, in these regions, plowing these seas, in that dreadful employment of a pirate. She is here, I tell you, John, on this course between Australia and New Zealand! I have a presentiment that we shall meet her!”
“God preserve us from such a meeting, my lord!”
“Why, John?”
“Your lordship forgets our situation. What could we do on this brig, if the Duncan should give us chase? We could not escape.”
“Escape, John?”
“Yes, my lord. We should try in vain. We should be captured, at the mercy of the wretches. Ben Joyce has shown that he does not hesitate at a crime. I should sell my life dearly. We would defend ourselves to the last extremity. Well! But, then, think of Lady Helena and Mary Grant!”
“Poor women!” murmured Glenarvan. “John, my heart is broken, and sometimes I feel as if despair had invaded it. It seems to me as if new calamities awaited us, as if Heaven had decreed against us! I am afraid!”
“You, my lord?”
“Not for myself, John, but for those whom I love, and whom you love also.”
“Take courage, my lord,” replied the young captain. “We need no longer fear. The Macquarie is a poor sailer, but still she sails. Will Halley is a brutish creature; but I am here, and if the approach to the land seems to me dangerous I shall take the ship to sea again. Therefore from this quarter there is little or no danger. But as for meeting the Duncan, God preserve us, and enable us to escape!”
Captain Mangles was right. To encounter the Duncan would be fatal to the Macquarie, and this misfortune was to be feared in these retired seas, where pirates could roam without danger. However, that day, at least, the Duncan did not appear, and the sixth night since their departure from Twofold Bay arrived without Captain Mangles’s fears being realized.
But that night was destined to be one of terror. Darkness set in almost instantaneously towards evening; the sky was very threatening. Even Will Halley, whose sense of danger was superior to the brutishness of intoxication, was startled by these warning signs. He left his cabin, rubbing his eyes and shaking his great red head. Then he drew a long breath, and examined the masts. The wind was fresh, and was blowing strong towards the New Zealand coast.
Captain Halley summoned his men, with many oaths, and ordered them to reef the topsails. Captain Mangles approved in silence. He had given up remonstrating with this coarse seaman; but neither he nor Glenarvan left the deck.
