Chapter XXXIII. Ayrton

Glenarvan sprang to his feet, and pushing back his seat, exclaimed: “Who spoke?”

“I did,” said one of the servants, at the far end of the table.

“You, Ayrton!” replied his master, not less bewildered than Glenarvan.

“Yes, it was I,” rejoined Ayrton in a firm tone. “A Scotchman like yourself, my Lord, and one of the shipwrecked crew of the Britannia.”

The effect of such a declaration may be imagined. Robert, and Mangles, and Paganel looked at the man that Paddy O’Moore had addressed as Ayrton. He was a fellow, about forty-five years of age, with very bright eyes, though half-hidden beneath thick, overhanging brows. In spite of extreme leanness there was an air of unusual strength about him. He seemed all bone and nerves.

He was broad-shouldered and of middle height, and though his features were coarse, his face was so full of intelligence and energy and decision, that he gave one a favorable impression. It was evident that he had endured long and severe hardships.

“You are one of the shipwrecked sailors of the Britannia?” was Glenarvan’s first question.

“Yes, my Lord; Captain Grant’s quartermaster.”

“And saved with him after the shipwreck?”

“No, my Lord, no. I was separated from him at that terrible moment, for I was swept off the deck as the ship struck.”

“Then you are not one of the two sailors mentioned in the document?”

“No; I was not aware of the existence of the document. The captain must have thrown it into the sea when I was no longer on board.”

“But the captain? What about the captain?”

“I believed he had perished; gone down with all his crew.”

“But you said just now, Captain Grant was living.”

“No, I said, ‘if the captain is living.’”

“And you added, ‘he is on the Australian continent.’”

“And, indeed, he cannot be anywhere else.”

“Then you don’t know where he is?”

“No, my Lord. I say again, I supposed he was buried beneath the waves, or dashed to pieces against the rocks. It was from you I learned that he was still alive.”

“What then do you know?”

“Simply this—if Captain Grant is alive, he is in Australia.”

“Where did the shipwreck occur?” asked Major McNabbs.

To the question put by the Major, Ayrton replied:

“When I was swept off the forecastle, the Britannia was running right on the Australian coast.”

“In latitude 37 degrees?” asked John Mangles.

“Yes, in latitude 37 degrees.”

“On the west coast?”

“No, on the east coast,” was the prompt reply.

“And at what date?”

“It was on the night of the 27th of June, 1862.”

“Exactly, just exactly,” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“You see, then, my Lord,” continued Ayrton, “I might justly say: If Captain Grant is alive, he is on the Australian continent, and it is useless looking for him anywhere else.”

Glenarvan and Lady Helena, and Mary Grant, and Robert pressed round Ayrton and grasped his hands. If this sailor had escaped the perils of the shipwreck, why should not the captain? The replies the man gave to the thousand were remarkably intelligent and exact. While he spoke, Mary held one of his hands in hers. This sailor was a companion of her father’s, one of the crew of the Britannia. He had lived with Harry Grant, crossed the seas with him and shared his dangers. Mary could not keep her eyes off his face, rough and homely though it was, and she wept for joy.

No one had ever thought of doubting either the veracity or identity of the quartermaster; but the Major, and perhaps John Mangles, now began to ask themselves if this Ayrton’s word was to be absolutely believed. There was something suspicious about this unexpected meeting. Certainly the man had mentioned facts and dates which corresponded, and the minuteness of his details was most striking. McNabbs, therefore, prudently refrained from committing himself by expressing any opinion.

John Mangles, however, was soon convinced when he heard Ayrton speak to the young girl about her father. He knew Mary and Robert quite well. He had seen them in Glasgow when the ship sailed. He remembered them at the farewell breakfast given on board the Britannia to the captain’s friends.

When he stopped Mary Grant said, in her soft voice: “Oh, go on, Mr. Ayrton, tell us more about our father.”

The quartermaster did his best to satisfy the poor girl, and Glenarvan did not interrupt him, though a score of questions far more important crowded into his mind.

Ayrton gave an account of the Britannia’s voyage across the Pacific. In the course of the year Harry Grant had touched at all the principal ports. Three weeks afterward, the vessel was disabled by a fearful storm in which they were caught, and obliged to cut away the masts. A leak sprang in the hold, and could not be stopped.

The ship soon neared the shore, and presently dashed violently against it. Ayrton was swept off by a wave, and thrown among the breakers, where he lost consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself in the hands of natives, who dragged him away into the interior of the country.

Since that time he had never heard the Britannia’s name mentioned.

The sailor had been carried by a tribe of natives four hundred miles north of the 37th parallel. He spent a miserable existence there. He passed two long years of painful slavery among them. In October, 1864, he managed to escape the vigilance of the natives, and took refuge in the depths of immense forests. At last, in an exhausted and dying condition, he reached the hospitable dwelling of Paddy O’Moore, where he said he had found a happy home in exchange for his labor.

“And if Ayrton speaks well of me,” said the Irish settler, when the narrative ended, “I have nothing but good to say of him. He is an honest, intelligent fellow and a good worker; and as long as he pleases, Paddy O’Moore’s house shall be his.”

Glenarvan was just about to open a discussion about their future plan of action, when Major McNabbs, addressing the sailor said,

“You were quartermaster, you say, on the Britannia?”

“Yes,” replied Ayrton, without the least hesitation. And he added, “I have my shipping papers with me; I saved them from the wreck.”

He left the room immediately to fetch his official document, and Paddy O’Moore said:

“My Lord, you may trust Ayrton; he is an honest man. I knew all this story of his shipwreck and his captivity. He is a true man, worthy of your entire confidence.”

Ayrton’s paper was signed by Captain Grant. Mary recognized her father’s writing at once. It was to certify that “Tom Ayrton, able-bodied seaman, was engaged as quartermaster on board the three-mast vessel, the Britannia, Glasgow.”

“Now then,” said Glenarvan, “I wish to ask everyone’s opinion as to what is best to be done. Your advice, Ayrton, will be particularly valuable.”

After a few minutes’ thought, Ayrton replied: “I thank you, my Lord, for the confidence you show towards me. I have some knowledge of the country, and the habits of the natives, and I have no doubt that their fate has been similar to my own, and that they are prisoners in the hands of some of the native tribes.”

“How can we possibly find traces of the captives,” said Glenarvan, “in the heart of so vast a continent?”

No one replied.

“Mr. Ayrton,” said Lady Helena at last, “what would you do?”

“Madam,” replied Ayrton, readily enough, “I should re-embark in the Duncan, and go right to the scene of the catastrophe.”

“Very good,” returned Glenarvan; “but we must wait till the Duncan is repaired.”

“Well, let the ship go to Melbourne then,” said Paganel, “and we will go without it.”

“And how?” asked Mangles.

“By crossing Australia as we crossed America, keeping along the 37th parallel.”

“But the Duncan?” repeated Ayrton, as if particularly anxious on that score.

“The Duncan can rejoin us, or we can rejoin it, as the case may be. If we discover Captain Grant in the course of our journey, we can all return together to Melbourne. Who has any objection to make? Have you, Major?”

“No, not if there is a practicable route across Australia.”

“So practicable, that I propose Lady Helena and Miss Grant should accompany us.”

“Are you speaking seriously?” asked Glenarvan.

“Perfectly so, my Lord. It is a journey of 350 miles, not more. If we go twelve miles a day it will barely take us a month. The 37th parallel cuts only through the province of Victoria, quite an English country, with roads and railways, and well populated almost everywhere. It is a mere trip from London to Edinburgh, nothing more.”

“What about wild beasts, though?” asked Glenarvan.

“There are no wild beasts in Australia.”

“And how about the savages?”

“There are no savages in this latitude, and if there were, they are not cruel, like the New Zealanders.”

“And the convicts?”

“There are no convicts in the southern provinces, only in the eastern colonies.”

“Ever since I have been on this farm,” said Paddy O’Moore. “I have never heard of any convicts in this Province.”

“And I have never come across one,” said Ayrton.

“What do you think, Helena?” asked Glenarvan.

“What we all think, dear Edward,” replied Lady Helena, turning toward her companions; “let us be off at once!”