Chapter XXXI. The Storm on the Indian Ocean

Two days after this conversation, John Mangles announced that the Duncan was in 113 degrees 37” longitude, and they were sailing that part of the Indian Ocean which washed the Australian continent.

But the captain was uneasy.

“I think our voyage may be a little longer,” he said.

“Do you mean to say you think we are going to have bad weather?” replied Glenarvan, examining the sky, which from horizon to zenith seemed absolutely cloudless.

“I do,” returned the captain. “I should not like to alarm Lady Glenarvan or Miss Grant.”

“You are acting wisely; but what makes you uneasy?”

“Sure indications of a storm. Don’t trust, my Lord, to the appearance of the sky. Nothing is more deceitful. I feel it.”

“Well, John,” said Glenarvan, “the Duncan is a good ship, and its captain is a brave sailor. Let the storm come, we’ll meet it!”

At midnight the wind freshened, and awakened the passengers, who speedily made their appearance on deck—at least Paganel, Glenarvan, the Major and Robert.

“Is it the hurricane?” asked Glenarvan quietly.

“Not yet,” replied the captain; “but it is close at hand.”

It was one o’clock in the morning when the waves were already beginning to dash over the side of the ship. The noise of the warring elements was so great that the captain’s words were scarcely audible, but Lady Helena took advantage of a sudden lull to ask if there was any danger.

“None whatever,” replied John Mangles, “but you cannot remain on deck, madam, no more can Miss Mary.”

Glenarvan and his companions stood silently gazing at the struggle between their good ship and the waves, lost in wondering and half-terrified admiration at the spectacle.

Just then, a dull hissing was heard. The yacht made a frightful pitch, overturning Wilson, who was at the wheel, by an unexpected blow. The Duncan no longer obeyed the helm.

“What is the matter?” cried the captain, rushing on the bridge.

“The ship is heeling over on the side,” replied Wilson.

“The engine! The engine!” shouted the engineer.

Away rushed John to the engine-room. A cloud of steam filled the room. The pistons were motionless in their cylinders, and they were apparently powerless.

“What’s wrong?” asked the captain.

“The propeller is not acting at all,” was the reply.

“Can’t you extricate it?”

“It is impossible.”

The captain went up again on deck, and after explaining in a few words to Lord Glenarvan how things stood, begged him to retire to his cabin, with the rest of the passengers. But Glenarvan wished to remain above.

“No, your Lordship,” said the captain in a firm tone, “I must be alone with my men. Go into the saloon.”

“But we might be a help.”

“Go in, my Lord, go in. I must indeed insist on it.”

Their situation must’ve indeed been desperate for John Mangles to speak in such authoritative language. Glenarvan was wise enough to understand this. He therefore quitted the deck immediately with his three companions, and rejoined the ladies.

In this alarming situation and amid dreadful alternations of hope and despair, the 12th of December passed away, and the ensuing night, John Mangles never left his post, not even to take food. He was tortured with anxiety, and his steady gaze was fixed on the north.

There was, indeed, great cause for fear. The Duncan was out of its course, and rushing toward the Australian coast with a speed which nothing could lessen. Every instant he expected the yacht would dash against some rock, for he reckoned the coast could not be more than twelve miles off.

John Mangles went to find Glenarvan, and had a private talk with him about their situation, telling him frankly the true state of affairs, and saying he might, perhaps, be obliged to cast the yacht on shore.

“To save the lives of those on board, my Lord,” he added.

“Do it then, John,” replied Lord Glenarvan.

“And Lady Helena, Miss Grant?”

“I will tell them at the last moment. You will let me know?”

“I will, my Lord.”

Glenarvan rejoined his companions, who felt they were in imminent danger, though no word was spoken on the subject. Both ladies displayed great courage.

About eleven o’clock, the hurricane appeared to decrease slightly.

“We are in God’s hands,” said John.

The Duncan was speeding on at a frightful rate. All the passengers were summoned on deck, for now that the hour of shipwreck was at hand.

“John!” said Glenarvan in a low voice to the captain, “I will try to save my wife or perish with her. I put Miss Grant in your charge.”

“Yes, my Lord,” replied John Mangles.

The tide was high, and no doubt there was abundance of water to float the ship over the dangerous bar. Was there no means of calming this angry sea?

“The oil, my lads!” exclaimed the captain. “Bring the oil here!”

This was a plan that had been successfully tried already. The captain wanted to cover the waves with a sheet of oil. Its effect is immediate, but very temporary. The moment after a ship has passed over the smooth surface, the sea redoubles its violence. The casks of seal-oil were brought, for danger seemed to have given the men double strength.

“Be ready!” shouted John, looking out for a favorable moment.

In twenty seconds the yacht reached the bar. Now was the time.

“Pour out!” cried the captain.

The barrels were turned upside down, and instantly a sheet of oil covered the whole surface of the water. The Duncan flew over its tranquil bosom into a quiet basin beyond the formidable bar; but almost the same minute the ocean burst forth again with all its fury.

Chapter XXXII. A Hospitable Colonist

There was no danger now of either being driven away or stranded at low water. After so many hours of danger, the Duncan found itself in a sort of creek.

Lord Glenarvan grasped John Mangles’ hand, and simply said: “Thank you, John.”

Neither Lady Helena, nor Mary, nor Robert suspected the grave perils they had just escaped.

One important fact had to be ascertained. On what part of the coast had the tempest thrown them? How far must they go to regain the parallel?

This was soon determined by taking the position of the ship, and it was found that it had scarcely deviated two degrees from the route. They were in longitude 36 degrees 12”, and latitude 32 degrees 67”, three hundred miles from Cape Bernouilli. The nearest port was Adelaide, the Capital of Southern Australia.

Could the Duncan be repaired there? This was the question. There was a serious damage, so serious as to require more skilful workmen than could be found in Adelaide.

After mature reflection, Lord Glenarvan and John Mangles came to the determination to sail round the Australian coast, stopping at Cape Bernouilli, and continuing their route south as far as Melbourne. So they would proceed to cruise along the eastern coast to complete their search for the Britannia.

This decision was unanimously approved, and it was agreed that they should start with the first fair wind. They had not to wait long for the same night the hurricane had ceased entirely, and at four o’clock in the morning the crew lifted the anchors, and got under way with fresh canvas outspread, and a wind blowing right for the Australian shores.

“Hope on! Hope on, Mary!” said Lady Helena to the young girl; “God’s hand will still lead us.”

Land was quite close now. The passengers landed without the least difficulty on an absolutely desert shore.

“A mill!” exclaimed Robert.

And, sure enough, in the distance the long sails of a mill appeared, apparently about three miles off.

“It certainly is a windmill,” said Paganel, after examining the object through his telescope.

“Let us go to it, then,” said Glenarvan.

Away they started, and, after walking about half an hour, the country suddenly changed its sterility for cultivation.

A pleasant-faced man, about fifty years of age, came out of the house, warned, by the loud barking of four dogs, of the arrival of strangers. He was followed by five handsome lads, his sons, and their mother, a fine tall woman. There was no mistaking the little group. This was a perfect type of the Irish colonist—a man who, weary of the miseries of his country, had come, with his family, to seek fortune and happiness beyond the seas.

They heard the cordial words:

“Strangers! Welcome to the house of Paddy O’Moore!”

“You are Irish,” said Glenarvan, “if I am not mistaken,” warmly grasping the outstretched hand of the colonist.

“I was,” replied Paddy O’Moore, “but now I am Australian. Come in, gentlemen, whoever you may be, this house is yours.”

It was impossible not to accept an invitation given with such grace.

An immense hall, light and airy, occupied the ground floor of the house. A few wooden benches fastened against the gaily-colored walls, about ten stools, two oak chests on tin mugs, a large long table where twenty guests could sit comfortably, composed the furniture.

The meal was spread; the soup tureen was smoking between roast beef and a leg of mutton, surrounded by large plates of olives, grapes, and oranges. The necessary was there and there was no lack of the superfluous. The host and hostess were so pleasant, and the big table, with its abundant fare, looked so inviting, that it would have been ungracious not to have seated themselves. Paddy O’Moore pointed to the seats reserved for the strangers, and said to Glenarvan:

“I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for us!” replied Glenarvan in a tone of surprise.

“I am always waiting for those who come,” said the Irishman; and then, in a solemn voice, while the family and domestics reverently stood, he repeated the prayer.

Dinner followed immediately, during which an animated conversation was kept up on all sides. Paddy O’Moore related his history. He was an emigrant driven by misfortune from his own country. He came with his family to Australia, landed at Adelaide, where he got engaged on a farm.

Glenarvan’s great object was to get information about the Britannia, and he began at once to interrogate O’Moore as to whether he had heard of the shipwreck.

The reply of the Irishman was not favorable; he had never heard the vessel mentioned. For two years, at least, no ship had been wrecked on that coast, neither above nor below the Cape. Now, the date of the catastrophe was within two years.

Robert and Mary could not keep back their tears, and Paganel had not a word of hope or comfort to give them. John Mangles was grieved to the heart, too, when suddenly the whole party heard a voice exclaim: “My Lord, praise and thank God! If Captain Grant is alive, he is on this Australian continent.”