Chapter XXII. The Flood

A distance of 150 miles separates Fort Independence from the shores of the Atlantic. In four days Glenarvan would rejoin the Duncan. But to return on board without Captain Grant! Consequently, when next day came, Glenarvan gave no orders for departure; the Major took it upon himself to have the horses saddled, and make all preparations. Thanks to his activity, next morning at eight o’clock the little troop was descending the grassy slopes of the Sierra.

Glenarvan, with Robert at his side, galloped along without saying a word. His bold, determined nature made it impossible to take failure quietly. His heart throbbed, and his head was burning. Paganel, excited by the difficulty, was turning over and over the words of the document, and trying to discover some new meaning. Thalcave was perfectly silent. The Major, always confident, remained firm at his post. Tom Austin and his two sailors shared the dejection of their master.

A timid rabbit ran across their path, and the superstitious men looked at each other in dismay.

“A bad omen,” said Wilson.

“Yes, in the Highlands,” repeated Mulrady.

“What’s bad in the Highlands is not better here,” returned Wilson sententiously.

Toward noon they had crossed the Sierra, and descended into the plains which extend to the sea.

Robert, who had got a good bit ahead of the party, came rushing back at full gallop, calling out: “Monsieur Paganel, Monsieur Paganel, a forest of horns.”

“What!” exclaimed the geographer; “You have found a forest of horns? My boy, you are dreaming.”

“I am not dreaming, and you will see for yourself. Well, this is a strange country.”

“The boy is really speaking seriously,” said the Major.

“Yes, Mr. Major, and you will soon see I am right.”

The boy had not been mistaken, for presently they found themselves in front of an immense field of horns.

“The horns come out of the ground,” said the Indian, “but the oxen are down below.”

“What!” exclaimed Paganel. “Do you mean to say that a whole herd was caught in that mud and buried alive?”

“Yes,” said the Patagonian.

And so it was. An immense herd had been suffocated side by side in this enormous bog. An hour afterward and the field of horns lay two miles behind.

Thalcave was anxious. He frequently stopped and raised himself on his stirrups and looked around. This strange behavior, several times repeated, made Glenarvan very uneasy, and quite puzzled Paganel. At last, at Glenarvan’s request, he asked the Indian about it.

Thalcave replied that he was astonished to see the plains so saturated with water. Even in the rainy season, the Argentine plains had always been passable.

“But what is the cause of this increasing humidity?” said Paganel.

“I do not know.”

“And what does Thalcave advise us to do?” said Glenarvan.

Paganel went back to the guide and asked him.

“Go on fast,” was the reply.

This was easier said than done. They quickened their pace, but could not go fast enough to escape the water, which rolled in great sheets at their feet. Before two hours the sky opened and deluged the plain in true tropical torrents of rain. There was no shelter, and nothing for it but to bear it stolidly.

Worn out with fatigue, they came toward evening to a miserable rancho. The supper was a dull meal, and neither appetizing nor reviving. Only the Major seemed to eat with any relish. Paganel, Frenchman as he was, tried to joke, but the attempt was a failure.

All of a sudden, about ten in the morning, the Indian’s horse betrayed symptoms of violent agitation. It reared violently, and Thalcave had some difficulty in keeping its seat.

“What is the matter with your horse?” asked Paganel. “Is it frightened at something?”

“Yes, it scents danger.”

“What danger?”

“I don’t know.”

But, though no danger was apparent to the eye, the ear could catch the sound of a murmuring noise beyond the limits of the horizon, like the coming in of the tide. Soon a confused sound was heard of bellowing and neighing and bleating, and about a mile to the south immense flocks appeared, rushing and tumbling over each other in the greatest disorder.

“Anda, anda!” shouted Thalcave, in a voice like thunder.

“What is it, then?” asked Paganel.

“The rising,” replied Thalcave.

“He means an inundation,” exclaimed Paganel.

The wave was speeding on with the rapidity of a racehorse, and the travelers fled before it like a cloud before a storm-wind. They looked in vain for some harbor of refuge, and the terrified horses galloped so wildly along that the riders could hardly keep their saddles.

“Anda, anda!” shouted Thalcave, and again they spurred on the poor animals till the blood ran from their sides. The level of the waters was sensibly rising.

The poor horses were breast-high in water now, and could only advance with extreme difficulty. Five minutes afterward, and the horses were swimming; the current alone carried them along with tremendous force.

The Major suddenly called out:

“A tree!”

“A tree?” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Yes, there, there!” replied Thalcave, pointing with his finger to a gigantic walnut-tree, which raised its solitary head above the waters.

“Courage, courage,” repeated Glenarvan, supporting Paganel with one arm, and swimming with the other.

“I can manage, I can manage,” said the savant. “I am even not sorry—”

But no one ever knew what he was not sorry about, for the poor man swallowed down the rest of his sentence with half a pint of muddy water. The Major advanced quietly, he was a master swimmer.

In a few minutes, the tree was safely reached by the whole party. The water had risen to the top of the trunk. It was consequently, quite easy to clamber up to it. Thalcave climbed up first, and got off his horse to hoist up Robert and help the others. His powerful arms had soon placed all the exhausted swimmers in a place of security.

But, meantime, his horse was being rapidly carried away by the current. It turned its intelligent face toward his master, and, shaking his long mane, neighed as if to summon him to his rescue.

“Are you going to forsake him, Thalcave?” asked Paganel.

“I!” replied the Indian, and he plunged down into the tumultuous waters. A few instants afterward his arms were round his horse’s neck, and master and steed were drifting together toward the misty horizon of the north.

Chapter XXIII. A Singular Abode

The tree on which Glenarvan and his companions had just found refuge, had glossy foliage and rounded form. The enormous and twisted trunk of this tree was planted firmly in the soil, not only by its great roots, but still more by its vigorous shoots. This was how it stood proof against the shock of the mighty billow.

This tree measured in height a hundred feet, and covered with its shadow a circumference of one hundred and twenty yards. On the arrival of the fugitives a myriad of the birds fled away into the topmost branches. When they flew away it seemed as though a gust of wind had blown all the flowers off the tree.

Such was the asylum offered to the little band of Glenarvan. Young Grant and the agile Wilson climbed to the upper branches to get a view of the vast horizon. The ocean made by the inundation surrounded them on all sides, and, far as the eye could reach, seemed to have no limits. Not a single tree was visible on the liquid plain; their tree stood alone amid the rolling waters, and trembled before them. A black spot almost invisible caught Wilson’s eye. It was Thalcave and his faithful horse.

“Thalcave, Thalcave!” shouted Robert, stretching out his hands toward the courageous Patagonian.

“He will save himself, Mr. Robert,” replied Wilson; “we must go down to his Lordship.”

Next minute they had descended the three stages of boughs, and landed safely on the top of the trunk, where they found Glenarvan, Paganel, the Major, Austin, and Mulrady, sitting in some position they found more comfortable.

Their situation was alarming. No doubt the tree would be able to resist the current, but the waters might rise higher and higher.

“And now what are we going to do?” said Glenarvan.

“Make our nest, of course!” replied Paganel

“Make our nest!” exclaimed Robert.

“Certainly, my boy, and live the life of birds, since we can’t live the life of fishes.”

“All very well, but who will bring us food?” asked Glenarvan.

“I will,” said the Major.

All eyes turned toward him immediately, and there he sat in a natural arm-chair, formed of two elastic boughs, holding out their bags—damp, but still intact.

“Oh, McNabbs, that’s just like you,” exclaimed Glenarvan, “you think of everything.”

“I have no intention of starving of hunger.”

“And what is in the bags?” asked Tom Austin.

“Food enough to last seven men for two days,” replied McNabbs.

“Our first business now, then, is to breakfast,” said Glenarvan.

“I suppose you mean after we have made ourselves dry,” observed the Major.

“And where’s the fire?” asked Wilson.

“We must make it,” returned Paganel.

“Where?”

“On the top of the trunk, of course.”

“And what with?”

“With the dead wood we cut off the tree.”

“But how will you kindle it?” asked Glenarvan.

“We can dispense with it,” replied Paganel. “We only want a little dry moss and a ray of sunshine, and the lens of my telescope, and you’ll see what a fire I’ll get. Who will go and cut wood in the forest?”

“I will,” said Robert.

Paganel set to work to find dry moss, and had soon gathered sufficient. This he laid on a bed of damp leaves, just where the large branches began to fork out, forming a natural hearth.

Robert and Wilson speedily reappeared, each with an armful of dry wood, which they threw on the moss. By the help of the lens it was easily kindled, for the sun was blazing overhead.

“As the kitchen and dining-room are on the ground floor,” said Paganel, “we must sleep on the first floor. The house is large, and as the rent is low, we must not cramp ourselves for room. We have nothing to fear. Besides, we are numerous enough to repulse a fleet of Indians and other wild animals.”

“We only want fire-arms.”

“I have my revolvers,” said Glenarvan.

“And I have mine,” replied Robert.

“But what’s the good of them?” said Tom Austin, “unless Monsieur Paganel can find out some way of making powder.”

“We don’t need it,” replied McNabbs, exhibiting a powder flask.

“Where did you get it from, Major?” asked Paganel.

“From Thalcave. He thought it might be useful to us, and gave it to me before he plunged into the water to save his horse.”

“Generous, brave Indian!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

Very soon they resumed their seats round the fire to have a talk. As usual their theme was Captain Grant. In three days, should the water subside, they would be on board the Duncan once more. But Harry Grant and his two sailors, those poor shipwrecked fellows, would not be with them. Indeed, it even seemed after this useless journey across America, that all chance of finding them was gone forever.

“Poor sister!” said Robert.

Had they not searched exactly where the document stated?

“And yet,” said Glenarvan, “this thirty-seventh degree of latitude is not a mere figure, and it applies to the shipwreck or captivity of Harry Grant. We read it with our own eyes. What more can we do?”

“A very logical and simple thing, my dear Edward,” said McNabbs. “When we go on board the Duncan, turn its beak head to the east, and go right along the thirty-seventh parallel till we come back to our starting point if necessary.”

“Do you suppose that I have not thought of that, Mr. McNabbs?” replied Glenarvan. “Yes, a hundred times. But what chance is there of success? We shall go away from the very spot indicated by Harry Grant, from this very Patagonia so distinctly named in the document.”

Glenarvan was silent.

“Listen to me, friends,” said Glenarvan after a few minutes’ reflection; “I will do my best to find Captain Grant; I will devote my whole life to the task, if necessary. All Scotland would unite with me to save so devoted a son as he has been to it. I think that we must follow the thirty-seventh parallel round the globe if necessary. But should we give up our search on the American continent?”

No one made any reply. Each one seemed afraid to pronounce the word.

“Well?” resumed Glenarvan, addressing himself especially to the Major.

“My dear Edward,” replied McNabbs, “I must know first, through which countries the thirty-seventh parallel of southern latitude passes?”

“That’s Paganel’s business; he will tell you that,” said Glenarvan.

“Let’s ask him, then,” replied the Major.

But the learned geographer was hidden among the thick leafage.

“Paganel, Paganel!” shouted Glenarvan.

“Here,” replied a voice that seemed to come from the clouds.

“Where are you?”

“In my tower.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Examining the wide horizon.”

“Could you come down for a minute?”

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“To know what countries the thirty-seventh parallel passes through.”

“That’s easily said. I need not disturb myself to come down for that.”

“Very well, tell us now.”

“Listen, then. After leaving America the thirty-seventh parallel crosses the Atlantic Ocean.”

“And then?”

“It encounters Isle Tristan d’Acunha.”

“Yes.”

“It goes on two degrees below the Cape of Good Hope.”

“And afterwards?”

“Runs across the Indian Ocean, and just touches Isle St. Pierre.”

“Go on.”

“It cuts Australia by the province of Victoria.”

“And then.”

“After leaving Australia in—”

This last sentence was not completed. Was the geographer hesitating, or didn’t he know what to say? No; but a terrible cry resounded from the top of the tree. Glenarvan and his friends turned pale and looked at each other. What catastrophe had happened now?

Already Wilson and Mulrady had rushed to his rescue when his long body appeared tumbling down from branch to branch.

“What is the matter with you, Paganel?”

“Something extraordinary!”

“What was it?”

“I said we had made a mistake.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Glenarvan, Major, Robert, my friends,” exclaimed Paganel, “we are looking for Captain Grant where he is not to be found.”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Not only where he is not now, but where he has never been.”