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The night favored their escape. At nine o’clock in the morning, they had made twelve miles in twelve hours. The fugitives had reached the pass that separates the two chains. In the evening they stopped eight miles from the mountains, and slept in the open air.
Next day was one of serious difficulties. Their route lay across this wondrous region of volcanic lakes and geysers. Every quarter of a mile they had to turn aside or go around for some obstacle, and thus incurred great fatigue.
For some days the little party made their way under vast arches, over a clayey soil. John Mangles had calculated on accomplishing the whole journey in ten days, but he did not foresee the physical difficulties of the country.
They were toiling painfully along the shore, when they saw, at a distance of about a mile, a band of natives, who rushed toward them brandishing their weapons. Glenarvan was about to meet the attack, when John Mangles cried: “A boat! A boat!”
And there, twenty paces off, a canoe with six oars lay on the beach. To launch it, jump in and fly from the dangerous shore, was only a minute’s work. John Mangles, McNabbs, Wilson and Mulrady took the oars; Glenarvan the helm; the two women, Robert and Olbinett stretched themselves beside him. In ten minutes the canoe was a quarter of a mile from the shore.
The sea was calm. The fugitives were silent. But John saw three canoes coming out.
“Out to sea! Out to sea!” he exclaimed. “Better to drown if we must!”
The canoe went fast under her four rowers. The poor exhausted fellows grew weaker, and the three pursuing boats began to gain sensibly on them. At this moment, scarcely two miles lay between them. It was impossible to avoid the attack of the natives, who were already preparing to fire their long guns.
Glenarvan was looking toward the horizon for some chimerical help. What did he hope for? What did he wish?
In a moment his eyes gleamed, his hand pointed out into the distance.
“A ship! A ship!” he cried. “My friends, row! Row hard!”
Paganel rose, and turned his telescope to the point indicated.
“Yes,” said he, “A ship! A steamer! They are under full steam! They are coming to us! Found now, brave comrades!”
Suddenly Glenarvan grew pale, and the glass drop from his hands. One word explained it.
“The Duncan!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “The Duncan, and the convicts!”
“The Duncan!” cried John, rising.
“Yes, death on all sides!” murmured Glenarvan, crushed by despair.
It was indeed the yacht, they could not mistake her—the yacht and its bandit crew!
The major could scarcely restrain himself from cursing their destiny.
The canoe was meantime standing still. Where should they go? What choice was there between the convicts and the savages?
A shot was fired from the nearest of the native boats, and the ball struck Wilson’s oar. A few strokes then carried the canoe nearer to the Duncan. The yacht was coming down at full speed.
John Mangles, between two enemies, did not know what to advise! The two poor ladies on their knees, prayed in their agony.
A loud report was heard, and a ball from the yacht’s cannon passed over their heads, and now the boat remained motionless between the Duncan and the native canoes.
John Mangles, frenzied with despair, seized his ax. But a cry from Robert arrested his arm.
“Tom Austin! Tom Austin!” the lad shouted. “He is on board! I see him! He knows us! He is waving his hat.”
“Come on, Tom, come on!” cried John Mangles in a joyous voice.
And a few minutes after, the ten fugitives were all safe on board the Duncan.
Glenarvan and his whole party, even the Major himself, were crying and embracing each other. They were delirious with joy. The geographer was absolutely mad!
Why had the Duncan come to the eastern coast of New Zealand? How was it not in the hands of Ben Joyce? Why? How? And for what purpose? Tom was stormed with questions on all sides. The old sailor did not know which to listen to first, and at last resolved to hear nobody but Glenarvan, and to answer nobody but him.
“But the convicts?” inquired Glenarvan. “What did you do with them?”
“The convicts?” replied Tom.
“Yes, the wretches who attacked the yacht.”
“What yacht? Your Honor’s?”
“Why, of course, Tom. The Duncan, and Ben Joyce, who came on board.”
“I don’t know this Ben Joyce, and have never seen him.”
“Never seen him!” exclaimed Paganel, stupefied at the old sailor’s replies. “Then tell me, Tom, how it is that the Duncan is cruising at this moment on the coast of New Zealand?”
“The Duncan is cruising here by your Honor’s orders.”
“By my orders?” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord. I only acted in obedience to the instructions sent in your letter of January fourteenth.”
“My letter! My letter!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
The ten travelers were devouring Tom Austin with their eyes. The letter dated from Snowy River had reached the Duncan, then.
“It seems to me I am dreaming. You received a letter, Tom?”
“Yes, a letter from your Honor.”
“At Melbourne?”
“At Melbourne, just as our repairs were completed.”
“And this letter?”
“It was not written by you, but bore your signature, my Lord.”
“Just so; my letter was brought by a convict called Ben Joyce.”
“No, by a sailor called Ayrton, a quartermaster on the Britannia.”
“Yes, Ayrton or Ben Joyce, one and the same individual. Well, and what were the contents of this letter?”
“It contained orders to leave Melbourne without delay, and go and cruise on the eastern coast of—”
“Australia!” said Glenarvan.
“Of Australia?” repeated Tom, opening his eyes. “No, but New Zealand.”
“Australia, Tom! Australia!” they all cried with one voice.
“Pardon me,” replied old Tom. “No, it is impossible, I was not mistaken. Ayrton read the letter as I did, and it was he, on the contrary, who wished to bring me to the Australian coast.”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, Ayrton himself. He insisted it was a mistake: that you meant to order me to Twofold Bay.”
“Have you the letter still, Tom?” asked the Major, extremely interested in this mystery.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Austin. “I’ll go and fetch it.”
He ran at once to his cabin in the forecastle. During his momentary absence they gazed at each other in silence, all but the Major, who crossed his arms and said:
“Well, now, Paganel …”
“What?” growled Paganel.
Austin returned directly with the letter written by Paganel and signed by Glenarvan.
“Will your Honor read it?” he said, handing it to him.
Glenarvan took the letter and read as follows:
“Order to Tom Austin to put out to sea without delay, and to take the Duncan, by latitude 37 degrees to the eastern coast of New Zealand!”
“New Zealand!” cried Paganel, leaping up. That same moment he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. The Major said in a grave tone:
“Well, my good Paganel, after all, it is a lucky thing you did not send the Duncan to China!”
All burst out into loud laughter. Paganel ran about like a madman, seized his head with both hands and tore his hair. He neither knew what he was doing nor what he wanted to do.
“My dear Glenarvan,” said Paganel, “I am mad, I am an idiot, an incorrigible fellow!”
“Now, then, Austin,” said Glenarvan, “tell me, didn’t it surprise you to be ordered to go and cruise on the coast of New Zealand?”
“Yes, your Honor,” replied Tom. “I was very much surprised, but it is not my custom to discuss any orders I receive, and I obeyed. Could I do otherwise? Would you have acted differently, captain?”
“No, Tom,” replied John Mangles.
“But what did you think?” asked Glenarvan.
“I thought, your Honor, that in the interest of Harry Grant, it was necessary to go where I was told to go. I thought that you were to sail over to New Zealand, and that I was to wait for you on the east coast of the island. Moreover, on leaving Melbourne, I kept our destination a secret. But one circumstance occurred which greatly perplexed me.”
“What was it, Tom?” asked Glenarvan.
“Just this, that when the quartermaster of the Britannia heard our destination—”
“Ayrton!” cried Glenarvan. “Then he is on board?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Where is he?” asked Glenarvan eagerly.
“In a cabin in the forecastle, and under guard.”
“Why was he imprisoned?”
“Because when Ayrton heard the vessel was going to New Zealand, he was in a fury; he tried to force me to alter the course of the ship and he threatened me. I had to take precautions against him.”
“And since then?”
“Since then he has remained in his cabin.”
“That’s well, Tom. Bring Ayrton here,” said Glenarvan.
Ayrton came. His eyes were gloomy, his fists clenched convulsively. When he found himself in the presence of Lord Glenarvan he folded his arms and awaited the questions calmly and silently.
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “here we are then, you and us, on this very Duncan that you wished to deliver into the hands of the convicts of Ben Joyce.”
The lips of the quartermaster trembled slightly. Not the flush of remorse. On this yacht which he thought he was to command as master, he was a prisoner, and his fate was about to be decided in a few seconds.
However, he made no reply. Glenarvan waited patiently. But Ayrton was silent.
“Speak, Ayrton, what have you to say?” resumed Glenarvan.
Ayrton hesitated, and at length he said in calm voice:
“I have nothing to say, my Lord. I have been fool enough to allow myself to be caught. Act as you please.”
Then he turned his eyes away toward the coast which lay on the west. But Glenarvan was determined to be patient.
“I think, Ayrton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to reply to certain questions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought I to call you Ayrton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the quartermaster of the Britannia?”
Ayrton remained impassive, gazing at the coast, deaf to every question.
Glenarvan said again: “Will you tell me how you left the Britannia, and why you are in Australia?”
The same silence, the same impassibility.
“Listen to me, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan; “it is to your interest to speak. For the last time, I ask you, will you reply to my questions?”
Ayrton turned his head toward Glenarvan, and looked into his eyes.
“My Lord,” he said, “justice may witness against me, but I am not going to witness against myself.”
“Proof will be easy,” said Glenarvan.
“Easy, my Lord,” repeated Ayrton, in a mocking tone. “Your honor makes rather a bold assertion there, it seems to me. Who will say why I came to Australia, when Captain Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce, when the police have never had me in their hands, and my companions are at liberty? Who will affirm that I intended to take possession of this ship and deliver it into the hands of the convicts? No one, I tell you, no one. You have your suspicions, but you need certainties to condemn a man, and certainties you have none. Until there is a proof to the contrary, I am Ayrton, quartermaster of the Britannia.”
Glenarvan commenced again, and said: “Ayrton, I am not a prosecutor. That is no business of mine. I am not asking you anything that could compromise you. That is for justice to do. But you know what I am searching for. Will you speak?”
Ayrton shook his head.
“Will you tell me where Captain Grant is?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” replied Ayrton.
“Will you tell me where the Britannia was wrecked?”
“No.”
“Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, “if you know where Harry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor children, who are waiting for you to speak the word?”
Ayrton hesitated. Then he muttered in a low voice, “I cannot, my Lord.”
Then he added with vehemence: “No, I will not speak.”
Glenarvan said in a grave voice: “Ayrton, at the first port we touch at, you will be given up into the hands of the English authorities.”
“That is what I demand,” was the quartermaster’s reply.
Then he turned away and quietly walked back to his cabin, which served as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with orders to watch his slightest movement.
So the traces of the Britannia seemed irrevocably lost, and the document did not appear to allow any fresh interpretation. On the 37th parallel there was not even another country, and the Duncan had only to turn and go back.
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