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The revelation of Tom Ayrton’s name was like a clap of thunder. Ayrton had started up quickly and grasped his revolver. A report was heard, and Glenarvan fell wounded by a ball. Gunshots resounded at the same time outside.
John Mangles and the sailors, after their first surprise, would have seized Ben Joyce; but the bold convict had already disappeared and rejoined his gang scattered among the trees.
The tent was no shelter against the balls. Glenarvan was slightly wounded, but could stand up.
“To the wagon—to the wagon!” cried John Mangles, dragging Lady Helena and Mary Grant along, who were soon in safety behind the thick curtains.
John and the Major, and Paganel and the sailors seized their carbines in readiness to repulse the convicts. Glenarvan and Robert went in beside the ladies.
These events occurred with the rapidity of lightning. All signs of attack had disappeared.
The Major and John Mangles examined the wood; the place was abandoned.
“The convicts have disappeared!” said John Mangles.
“Yes,” replied the Major; “and the disappearance of them makes me uneasy. I prefer seeing them face to face. Better to meet a tiger on the plain than a serpent in the grass.”
The wagon, a fortress buried in mud, was made the center of the camp, and two men mounted guard round it.
The first care of Lady Helena and Mary was to dress Glenarvan’s wound. Lady Helena rushed toward him in terror. Controlling her agony, the courageous woman helped her husband into the wagon. The Major found, on examination, that the ball had only gone into the flesh, and there was no internal lesion. Neither bone nor muscle appeared to be injured. The wound bled profusely, but Glenarvan could use his fingers and forearm.
But how had McNabbs found out that Ayrton and Ben Joyce were one and the same individual? This was the mystery to be unraveled, and the Major soon explained it.
Ever since their first meeting, McNabbs had felt an instinctive distrust of the quartermaster. Two or three insignificant facts, a hasty glance exchanged between him and the blacksmith at the Wimerra River, his unwillingness to cross towns and villages, his persistence about getting the Duncan summoned to the coast, the strange death of the animals entrusted to his care—all these details combined had awakened the Major’s suspicions.
However, he could not have brought any direct accusation against him till the events of the preceding evening had occurred. McNabbs, slipping between the tall shrubs, could discern three men examining marks on the ground, and one of the three was the blacksmith of Black Point.
“‘It is them!’ said one of the men. ‘Yes,’ replied another, ‘there is the trefoil on the mark of the horseshoe.’ ‘All the horses are dead.’ ‘The poison is very good.’
“I heard them say this to each other, and then they were quite silent; but I did not know enough yet, so I followed them. Soon the conversation began again. ‘He is a clever fellow, this Ben Joyce,’ said the blacksmith. ‘A capital quartermaster, with his invention of shipwreck.’ ‘If his project succeeds, it will be a stroke of fortune.’ ‘He is a very devil, is this Ayrton.’ ‘Call him Ben Joyce, for he has well earned his name.’ And then the scoundrels left the forest.
“I had all the information I wanted now, and came back to the camp quite convinced, begging Paganel’s pardon, that Australia does not reform criminals.”
This was all the Major’s story, and his companions sat silently.
“Then Ayrton has dragged us here,” said Glenarvan, pale with anger, “on purpose to rob and assassinate us.”
“For nothing else,” replied the Major; “and his gang has been on our track and spying on us, waiting for a favorable opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“Then the wretch was never one of the sailors on the Britannia; he had stolen the name of Ayrton and the shipping papers.”
“There is no great certainty about the matter,” replied McNabbs, in his usual calm voice; “but in my opinion the man’s name is really Ayrton. Ben Joyce is his second name. He knew Harry Grant, and also that he was quartermaster on the Britannia. These facts were proved by the minute details given us by Ayrton. But consider it as certain that Ben Joyce is Ayrton, and that Ayrton is Ben Joyce; that is to say, one of the crew of the Britannia has turned leader of the convict gang.”
The explanations of McNabbs were accepted without discussion.
“Now, then,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell us how and why Harry Grant’s quartermaster comes to be in Australia?”
“How, I don’t know,” replied McNabbs; “that is a mystery which the future may explain.”
“Then, I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “the wicked wretch had got work on Paddy O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intent?”
“There is not the least doubt of it. He was planning some evil design against the Irishman, when a better chance presented itself. He heard Paganel’s story and all about the shipwreck, and the audacious fellow determined to act his part immediately. The expedition was decided on. He found means of communicating with one of his gang, the blacksmith of Black Point, and left traces of our journey which might be easily recognized. The gang followed us. A poisonous plant enabled them gradually to kill our bullocks and horses. At the right moment he sunk us in the marshes of the Snowy, and gave us into the hands of his gang.”
Such was the history of Ben Joyce. The Major had shown him as a bold and formidable criminal.
John Mangles noticed Mary Grant’s pale, despairing face.
“Miss Mary! Miss Mary!” he cried; “You are crying!”
“Crying, my child!” said Lady Helena.
“My father, madam, my father!” replied the poor girl.
She could say no more. They all knew the cause of her grief, and why tears fell from her eyes and her father’s name came to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery had destroyed all hope; the convict had invented a shipwreck to entrap Glenarvan. In the conversation overheard by McNabbs, the convicts had said that the Britannia had never been wrecked on the rocks in Twofold Bay. Harry Grant was not on the Australian continent!
“But we must not stay here,” said John Mangles, “What we were going to do before Ayrton’s treachery is still more necessary now.”
“What do you mean, John?” asked Glenarvan.
“I mean that our need is urgent, and that since we cannot go to Twofold Bay, we must go to Melbourne. We have still one horse. Give it to me, my Lord, and I will go to Melbourne.”
“But that will be a dangerous venture, John,” said Glenarvan.
“I know it, my Lord, and I will be back to the Snowy River in six days. Well, my Lord, what are your commands?”
The names were written, and the lots drawn. Fate fixed on Mulrady. The brave sailor shouted hurrah! and said: “My Lord, I am ready to start.” Glenarvan pressed his hand, and then went back to the wagon, leaving John Mangles and the Major on watch.
Mulrady’s departure was fixed for eight o’clock. Wilson had a project in his head of changing the horse’s left shoe. This would prevent the convicts from tracking Mulrady, or following him.
While Wilson was arranging this, Glenarvan got his letter ready for Tom Austin, but his wounded arm troubled him, and he asked Paganel to write it for him. The scientist was so absorbed in one fixed idea that he seemed hardly to know what he was about. He tore a blank page off, and sat down pencil in hand to write.
Glenarvan began to dictate as follows: “Order to Tom Austin, Chief Officer, to get to sea without delay, and bring the Duncan to—”
Paganel was just finishing the last word, when his eye chanced to fall on the Australian and New Zealand Gazette lying on the ground. The paper was so folded that only the last two syllables of the title were visible. Paganel’s pencil stopped, and he seemed to become oblivious of Glenarvan and the letter entirely, till his friends called out: “Come, Paganel!”
“Ah!” said the geographer, with a loud exclamation.
“What is the matter?” asked the Major.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied Paganel. Then he muttered to himself, “Aland! Aland! Aland!”
He had got up and seized the newspaper.
Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him in astonishment. But he sat down again, and said quietly: “When you please, my Lord, I am ready.”
Glenarvan resumed his dictation at once, and the letter was soon completed. It read as follows: “Order to Tom Austin to go to sea without delay; and take the Duncan to Melbourne by the 37th degree of latitude to the eastern coast of Australia.”
“Of Australia?” said Paganel. “Ah yes! Of Australia.”
Then he finished the letter, and gave it to Glenarvan to sign, who went through the necessary formality as well as he could, and closed and sealed the letter. Paganel, whose hand still trembled with emotion, directed it thus: “Tom Austin, Chief Officer on board the Yacht Duncan, Melbourne.”
Then he got up and went out of the wagon, gesticulating and repeating the words:
“Aland! Aland! Aland! Zealand!”
The rest of the day passed on without any further incident. All the preparations for Mulrady’s journey were completed, and the brave sailor was happy to give his Lordship this proof of devotion.
Paganel busied himself with giving Mulrady the necessary directions for getting to Melbourne, and showed him his way on the map.
At six o’clock they all dined together. The rain was falling in torrents. The tent was not protection enough, and the whole party had to take refuge in the wagon. This was a sure refuge. The clay kept it firmly imbedded in the soil, like a fortress resting on sure foundations. The arsenal was composed of seven carbines and seven revolvers, and could stand a pretty long siege, for they had plenty of ammunition and provisions.
At eight o’clock it got very dark; now was the time to start. Mulrady’s feet were wrapped round with cloths, so that they could not make the least noise on the ground. The horse seemed tired, and the safety of all depended on its strength and surefootedness.
John Mangles gave his sailor a revolver. This is a formidable weapon in the hand of a man who does not tremble. Mulrady seated himself in the saddle ready to start.
“Here is the letter you are to give to Tom Austin,” said Glenarvan. “Don’t let him lose an hour. He is to sail for Twofold Bay at once; and if he does not find us there, if we have not managed to cross the Snowy, let him come on to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and God be with you.”
He shook hands with him, and bade him good-bye; and so did Lady Helena and Mary Grant.
The travelers went back into the wagon immediately Mulrady had gone. Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan and Paganel occupied the first compartment, which had been hermetically closed. The second was occupied by Olbinett, Wilson and Robert. The Major and John Mangles were on duty outside.
A sharp whistle reached them. John Mangles went hurriedly up to the Major. “You heard that?” he asked.
“Yes,” said McNabbs. “Is it man or beast?”
“A man,” replied John Mangles.
And then both listened. The mysterious whistle was repeated. At that very moment a cry of distress was heard.
“Listen!” said Glenarvan.
Glenarvan, repulsing McNabbs, was already on the track, when they heard the exclamation: “Help! help!”
The voice was plaintive and despairing. John Mangles and the Major sprang toward the spot. A few seconds after they perceived a human form dragging itself along the ground and uttering mournful groans. It was Mulrady, wounded, apparently dying; and when his companions raised him they felt their hands bathed in blood.
The rain came down with redoubled violence. In the pelting storm, Glenarvan, the Major and John Mangles transported the body of Mulrady.
On their arrival everyone got up. Paganel, Robert, Wilson and Olbinett left the wagon, and Lady Helena gave up her compartment to poor Mulrady. The Major removed the poor fellow’s flannel shirt, which was dripping with blood and rain. He soon found the wound.
After about a quarter of an hour, the wounded man made a slight movement. His eyes unclosed, his lips muttered incoherent words, and the Major heard him repeating: “My Lord—the letter—Ben Joyce.”
The Major repeated these words, and looked at his companions. What did Mulrady mean? Ben Joyce had been the attacking party, of course; but why?
Glenarvan questioned him, and extracted the following information. When he left the camp Mulrady followed one of the paths indicated by Paganel. He had gone about two miles when several men—five, he thought—sprang to his horse’s head. The animal reared; Mulrady seized his revolver and fired. He thought he saw two of his assailants fall. By the flash he recognized Ben Joyce. But that was all. He felt a violent blow on his side and was thrown to the ground.
Still he did not lose consciousness. The murderers thought he was dead. He felt them search his pockets, and then heard one of them say: “I have the letter.”
“Give it to me,” returned Ben Joyce, “and now the Duncan is ours. Now you fellows, catch the horse. In two days I shall be on board the Duncan, and in six I shall reach Twofold Bay. My Lord and his party will be still stuck in the marshes of the Snowy River. Cross the river at the Kemple Pier Bridge, proceed to the coast, and wait for me. I will easily manage to get you on board. Once at sea in a craft like the Duncan, we shall be masters of the Indian Ocean.”
“Hurrah for Ben Joyce!” cried the convicts.
Mulrady’s horse was brought, and Ben Joyce disappeared. Mulrady, though severely wounded, had the strength to drag himself to within three hundred paces from the camp.
“Pirates! Pirates!” cried Glenarvan. “My Duncan in the hands of these bandits!”
“Well, we must get to the coast first,” said Paganel.
“But how are we to cross the Snowy River?” said Wilson.
“As they will,” replied Glenarvan. “They are to cross at Kemple Pier Bridge, and so will we.”
“But about Mulrady?” asked Lady Helena.
“We will carry him.”
To cross the Snowy River at Kemple Pier was practicable, but dangerous. The convicts might defend it. They were at least thirty against seven!
“My Lord,” said John Mangles, “before venturing to this bridge, we ought to reconnoiter, and I will undertake it.”
“I will go with you, John,” said Paganel.
John Mangles and Paganel prepared to start immediately. They were to follow the course of the Snowy River, follow its banks till they reached the place indicated by Ben Joyce.
The rest anxiously awaited their return all day. Evening came, and still the scouts did not return. At last, toward eleven o’clock, Wilson announced their arrival.
“Well, what about the bridge? Did you find it?” asked Glenarvan.
“Yes, a bridge of supple-jacks,” said John Mangles. “The convicts passed over, but—”
“But what?” said Glenarvan, who foreboded some new misfortune.
“They burned it after they passed!” said Paganel.
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