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On the 31st of January, four days after starting, the brig had not done two-thirds of the distance between Australia and New Zealand. The captain seldom showed himself, for which no one was sorry. No one would have complained if he had passed all his time in his cabin, but for the fact that the brutal captain was every day under the influence of gin or brandy. His sailors willingly followed his example.
“If you think it would be for the general good, John,” said McNabbs, “you should not hesitate to take the command of the vessel. When we get to Auckland the drunken imbecile can resume his command, and then he is at liberty to wreck himself.”
“All that is very true, Mr. McNabbs, and if it is absolutely necessary I will do it.”
“Could you direct the course?” asked Paganel.
“That would be difficult,” replied John. “Would you believe it that there is not a chart on board?”
“Is that so?”
“It is indeed.”
On the 2d of February, six days from starting, the wind was fair and blew steadily from the southwest; but the currents were against the ship’s course.
Lord Glenarvan could not stay in one place. All day long, even all night, regardless of the torrents of rain and the dashing waves, he stayed on the poop. His eyes wandered ceaselessly over the blank horizon.
John came up to him and said, “Your Lordship is looking out for land?”
Glenarvan shook his head in dissent.
“What then, my Lord?”
“My yacht! The Duncan,” said Glenarvan, hotly. “It is here, John; I am certain of it, on the track of vessels between Australia and New Zealand.”
“God keep us from such a meeting!”
“Why, John?”
“Your Lordship forgets our position. Ben Joyce has shown us that he does not stop at a crime! Our lives would be worth little. We would fight to the death, of course, but after that! Think of Lady Glenarvan; think of Mary Grant!”
“Poor girls!” murmured Glenarvan. “John, my heart is broken; I feel that Heaven itself is against us. It terrifies me!”
Two hours passed; the sea was rising. The brig was struck violently. About half-past eleven, John Mangles and Wilson, who stayed on deck, were suddenly struck by an unusual noise.
Their nautical instincts awoke. John seized the sailor’s hand. “The reef!” said he.
“Yes,” said Wilson; “the waves breaking on the bank.”
At this moment, the captain of the brig, comprehending the danger, lost his head. He was drunk. His sailors could not understand his orders. John Mangles came forward.
The prompt maneuver of John Mangles succeeded in keeping the brig off the breakers. The wind blew them strongly toward the east, and at every lurch they might strike.
It was a moment of inexpressible anxiety. The roaring of the sea was like the voice of monsters. Wilson and Mulrady hung to the wheel with all their weight.
A high wave caught the brig below, carried it up on the reefs, where it struck with great violence. The brig rose twice, and then lay motionless, heeled over on her port side at an angle of 30 degrees.
The glass of the skylight had been smashed to powder. The passengers rushed out. But the waves were sweeping the deck from one side to the other, and they dared not stay there.
The captain ran up and down the deck like a maniac. His crew broached a cask of brandy, and began to drink. “I am ruined! I am lost!” the captain would cry, as he ran from side to side.
John Mangles did not waste time on him. He thought no more of these drunken rascals, and waited impatiently for the dawn. The ship was now quite motionless. The sea became gradually calmer. The wind fell. At daybreak John examined the landing-place; the yawl, which was now their only boat, would carry the crew and the passengers.
Toward four o’clock the dawn appeared in the east. John returned to the deck. The horizon was veiled with a curtain of fog. Black reefs rose out of the waters. But there was the land, less than nine miles off.
“Land!” cried John Mangles.
His companions, aroused by his voice, rushed to the poop, and gazed in silence at the coast.
“Where is the captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“I do not know, my Lord,” replied John Mangles.
“Where are the sailors?”
“Invisible, like himself.”
“Probably dead drunk, like himself,” added McNabbs.
Mulrady and Wilson went down to the forecastle, and two minutes after they returned. The place was empty! They found no trace of the captain nor his sailors.
“What! No one?” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Everything is possible,” replied John Mangles, who was getting uneasy. “To the boat!”
Wilson and Mulrady followed to launch the yawl. The yawl was gone.
The captain and his crew, taking advantage of the darkness of night and the sleep of the passengers, had fled with the only boat. There could be no doubt about it. The captain had been the first to quit the ship.
“The cowards are off!” said John Mangles. “Well, my Lord, so much the better.”
“What is to be done?” asked Glenarvan.
John was anxious to reach the land. He proposed to construct a raft strong enough to carry the passengers, and a sufficient quantity of provisions, to the coast of New Zealand.
There was no time for discussion, and they had made considerable progress when night came and interrupted them.
“What is there so formidable in New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“The savages,” said Paganel.
“The savages!” repeated Glenarvan. “Can we not avoid them by keeping to the shore? But in any case what have we to fear?”
Paganel shook his head. “The New Zealanders are a powerful race, who are rebelling against English rule, who fight the invaders, and often beat them, and who always eat them!”
“Cannibals!” exclaimed Robert, “Cannibals?” Then they heard him whisper, “My sister! Lady Helena.”
“Don’t frighten yourself, my boy,” said Glenarvan; “our friend Paganel exaggerates.”
“Far from it,” rejoined Paganel. “Robert has shown himself a man, and I do not conceal the truth from him.”
Paganel was right. Cannibalism has become a fixed fact in New Zealand. In the eyes of the Maories, nothing is more natural than to eat one another. The missionaries often questioned them about cannibalism. They asked them why they devoured their brothers; to which the chiefs made answer that fish eat fish, dogs eat men, men eat dogs, and dogs eat one another. Even the Maori mythology has a legend of a god who ate another god; and with such a precedent, who could resist eating his neighbor? In eating a dead enemy they consume his spiritual being, and so inherit his soul, his strength and his bravery.
Paganel’s facts were indisputable. The cruelty of the New Zealanders was beyond a doubt, therefore it was dangerous to land. But what to do?
“When shall we get away?” asked Glenarvan.
“Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,” replied John Mangles. “The tide will then turn and carry us to land.”
Next day, February 5, at eight o’clock, the raft was finished. John had given all his attention to the building of this structure. What was needed was a strong, manageable raft, that would resist the force of the waves during a passage of nine miles.
“Are we ready?” asked John.
“All ready, captain,” answered Wilson.
“All aboard!” cried John.
At noon they were five miles from shore. At ten o’clock, a shock was felt. The raft stood still. It had landed on a sand-bank.
Glenarvan, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady, jumped into the water. The raft was firmly moored to the nearest rocks. The ladies were carried to land, and soon the whole party, with their arms and provisions, were finally landed on these much dreaded New Zealand shores.
Glenarvan would have liked to start without an hour’s delay, and follow the coast to Auckland. But since the morning heavy clouds had been gathering, and toward eleven o’clock, the vapors condensed into violent rain, so that instead of starting they had to look for shelter.
Toward noon the wind freshened, and increased the force of the storm.
On the 7th of February, at six o’clock in the morning, the signal for departure was given by Glenarvan. During the night the rain had ceased. The sky was veiled with light gray clouds, which moderated the heat of the sun, and allowed the travelers to venture on a journey by day.
Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty miles; it was an eight days’ journey if they made ten miles a day. The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions, commenced to follow the shore.
The country looked like an immense prairie, and promised an easy walk. But the travelers were undeceived when they came to the edge of this verdant plain. The grass gave way to a low scrub of small bushes bearing little white flowers, mixed with innumerable tall ferns. They had to cut a path across the plain, and this was a matter of some difficulty. After a fourteen miles’ march, they might well think of resting.
They sought repose beneath magnificent pines. They had plenty of rugs which make good beds. Glenarvan took every possible precaution for the night. His companions and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two, till daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a potent preservation from wild beasts, but New Zealand has neither tiger, nor lion, nor bear, nor any wild animal.
The night passed pleasantly. The Maories, these ferocious cannibals, whom Paganel particularly dreaded, had not yet appeared.
The party pursued their way without fatigue along the banks of the Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not a trace of natives, nor any track that could betray the existence of man.
At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily accomplished. According to the map, two or three days would then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between them and the capital.
“Therefore,” said Glenarvan, “we shall be obliged to camp during the night once more.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but I hope for the last time.”
Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to fall.
At eight o’clock the little troop arrived at the point where the Waipa loses itself in the Waikato, with a moaning sound of meeting waves.
“There is the Waikato!” cried Paganel, “and the road to Auckland is along its right bank.”
“We shall see that tomorrow,” said the Major, “Let us camp here. Let us have supper and then get some sleep.”
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