EIGHT days after doubling Cape Pilares the Duncan entered at full speed the Bay of Talcahuana, a magnificent estuary, twelve miles long and nine broad. The weather was beautiful. Not a cloud is seen in the sky of this country from November to March, and the wind from the south blows continually along these coasts, which are protected by the chain of the Andes.
Captain Mangles, according to Lord Glenarvan’s orders, had kept close to the shore of the continent, examining the numerous wrecks that lined it. A waif, a broken spar, a piece of wood fashioned by the hand of man, might guide the Duncan to the scene of the shipwreck. But nothing was seen, and the yacht continued her course and anchored in the harbor of Talcahuana forty-two days after her departure from the waters of the Clyde.
Glenarvan at once lowered the boat, and, followed by Paganel, landed at the foot of the palisade. The learned geographer, profiting by the circumstance, would have made use of the language which he had studied so conscientiously; but, to his great astonishment, he could not make himself understood by the natives.
“The accent is what I need,” said he.
“Let us go to the Custom-house,” replied Glenarvan.
There they were informed by means of several English words, accompanied by expressive gestures, that the British consul resided at Concepcion. It was only an hour’s journey. Glenarvan easily found two good horses, and, a short time after, Paganel and he entered the walls of this great city, which was built by the enterprising genius of Valdivia, the valiant companion of Pizarro.
How greatly it had declined from its ancient splendor! Often pillaged by the natives, burnt in 1819, desolate, ruined, its walls still blackened with the flames of devastation, eclipsed by Talcahuana, it now scarcely numbered eight thousand souls. Under the feet of its idle inhabitants the streets had grown into prairies. There was no commerce, no activity, no business. The mandolin resounded from every balcony, languishing songs issued from the lattices of the windows, and Concepcion, the ancient city of men, had become a village of women and children.
Glenarvan appeared little desirous of seeking the causes of this decline—though Jacques Paganel attacked him on this subject—and, without losing an instant, betook himself to the house of J. R. Bentock, Esq., consul of Her Britannic Majesty. This individual received him very courteously, and when he learned the story of Captain Grant undertook to search along the entire coast.
The question whether the Britannia had been wrecked on the shores of Chili or Araucania was decided in the negative. No report of such an event had come either to the consul, or his colleagues in other parts of the country.
But Glenarvan was not discouraged. He returned to Talcahuana, and, sparing neither fatigue, trouble, or money, he sent men to the coast, but their search was in vain. The most minute inquiries among the people of the vicinity were of no avail. They were forced to conclude that the Britannia had left no trace of her shipwreck.
Glenarvan then informed his companions of the failure of his endeavors. Mary Grant and her brother could not restrain their grief. It was now six days since the arrival of the Duncan at Talcahuana. The passengers were together in the cabin. Lady Helena was consoling, not by her words—for what could she say?—but by her caresses, the two children of the captain. Jacques Paganel had taken up the document again, and was regarding it with earnest attention, as if he would have drawn from it new secrets. For an hour he had examined it thus, when Glenarvan, addressing him, said,—
“Paganel, I appeal to your sagacity. Is the interpretation we have made of this document incorrect? Is the sense of these words illogical?”
Paganel did not answer. He was reflecting.
“Are we mistaken as to the supposed scene of the shipwreck?” continued Glenarvan. “Does not the name Patagonia suggest itself at once to the mind?”
Paganel was still silent.
“In short,” said Glenarvan, “does not the word Indian justify us still more?”
“Perfectly,” replied MacNabb.
“And therefore, is it not evident that these shipwrecked men, when they wrote these lines, expected to be prisoners of the Indians?”
“There you are wrong, my dear lord,” said Paganel, at last; “and if your other conclusions are just, the last at least does not seem to me rational.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lady Helena, while all eyes were turned towards the geographer.
“I mean,” answered Paganel, emphasizing his words, “that Captain Grant is now prisoner of the Indians: and I will add that the document leaves no doubt on this point.”
“Explain yourself, sir,” said Miss Grant.
“Nothing is easier, my dear Mary. Instead of reading they will be prisoners, read they are prisoners, and all will be clear.”
“But that is impossible,” replied Glenarvan.
“Impossible? And why, my noble friend?” asked Paganel, smiling.
“Because the bottle must have been thrown when the vessel was breaking on the rocks. Hence the degrees of longitude and latitude apply to the very place of shipwreck.”
“Nothing proves it,” said Paganel, earnestly; “and I do not see why the shipwrecked sailors, after being carried by the Indians into the interior of the country, could not have sought to make known by means of this bottle the place of their captivity.”
“Simply, my dear Paganel, because to throw a bottle into the sea it is necessary, at least, that the sea should be before you.”
“Or, in the absence of the sea,” added Paganel, “the rivers which flow into it.”
An astonished silence followed this unexpected, yet reasonable, answer. By the flash that brightened the eyes of his hearers Paganel knew that each of them had conceived a new hope. Lady Helena was the first to resume the conversation.
“What an idea!” she exclaimed.
“What a good idea!” added the geographer, simply.
“Your advice then?” asked Glenarvan.
“My advice is to find the thirty-seventh parallel, just where it meets the American coast, and follow it, without deviating half a degree, to the point where it strikes the Atlantic. Perhaps we shall find on its course the survivors of the Britannia.”
“A feeble chance,” replied the major.
“However feeble it may be,” continued Paganel, “we ought not to neglect it. If I am right that this bottle reached the sea by following the current of a river, we cannot fail to come upon the traces of the prisoners. Look, my friends, look at the map of this country, and I will convince you beyond a doubt.”
So saying, Paganel spread out before them upon the table a large map of Chili and the Argentine Provinces. “Look,” said he, “and follow me in this passage across the American continent. Let us pass over the narrow strip of Chili and the Cordilleras of the Andes, and descend into the midst of the Pampas. Are rivers, streams, water-courses, wanting in these regions? No. Here are the Rio Negro, the Rio Colorado, and their affluents, cut by the thirty-seventh parallel, all of which might have served to transport the document. There, perhaps, in the midst of a tribe, in the hands of settled Indians, on the shores of these unknown rivers, in the gorges of the sierras, those whom I have the right to call our friends are awaiting an interposition of Providence. Ought we, then, to disappoint their hopes? Do you not think we should follow across these countries an unswerving course? And if, contrary to all expectation, I am still mistaken, is it not our duty to trace this parallel to the very end, and, if necessary, make upon it the tour of the world?”
These words, spoken with a noble enthusiasm, excited a deep emotion among Paganel’s hearers. All rose to shake hands with him.
“Yes, my father is there!” cried Robert Grant, devouring the map with his eyes.
“And wherever he is,” replied Glenarvan, “we shall find him, my child. Nothing is more consistent than our friend Paganel’s interpretation, and we must follow without hesitation the course he has indicated. Either Captain Grant is in the hands of countless Indians, or is prisoner in a feeble tribe. In the latter case, we will rescue him. In the former, after ascertaining his situation, we will join the Duncan on the eastern coast, sail to Buenos Ayres, and with a detachment, organized by the major, can overcome all the Indians of the Argentine Plains.”
“Yes, yes, your lordship,” answered Captain Mangles; “and I will add that this passage of the continent will be without peril.”
“Without peril, or fatigue,” continued Paganel. “How many have already accomplished it who had scarcely our means for success, and whose courage was not sustained by the grandeur of the undertaking!”
“Sir, sir,” exclaimed Mary Grant, in a voice broken with emotion, “how can I thank a devotion that exposes you to so many dangers?”
“Dangers!” cried Paganel. “Who uttered the word danger?”
“Not I!” replied Robert Grant, with flashing eye and determined look.
“Danger!” repeated Paganel; “does such a thing exist? Moreover, what is the question? A journey of scarcely three hundred and fifty leagues, since we shall proceed in a straight line; a journey which will be accomplished in a favorable latitude and climate; in short, a journey whose duration will be only a month at most. It is a mere walk.”
“Monsieur Paganel,” asked Lady Helena at last, “do you think that, if the shipwrecked sailors have fallen into the power of the Indians, their lives have been spared?”
“Certainly I do, madam. The Indians are not cannibals; far from that, one of my countrymen whom I knew in the Society was three years prisoner among the Indians of the Pampas. He suffered, was ill-treated, but at last gained the victory in this trying ordeal. A European is a useful person in these countries. The Indians know his value, and esteem him very highly.”
“Well then, there is no more hesitation,” said Glenarvan; “we must start, and that, too, without delay. What course shall we take?”
“An easy and agreeable one,” replied Paganel. “A few mountains to begin with; then a gentle descent on the eastern slope of the Andes; and at last a level, grassy, sandy plain, a real garden.”
“Let us see the map,” said the major.
“Here it is, my dear MacNabb. We shall begin at the end of the thirty-seventh parallel on the coast of Chili. After passing through the capital of Araucania, we shall strike the Cordilleras, and descending their steep declivities across the Rio Colorado, we shall reach the Pampas. Passing the frontiers of Buenos Ayres, we shall continue our search until we reach the shores of the Atlantic.”
Thus speaking and developing the programme of the expedition, Paganel did not even take the trouble to look at the map spread before him. And he had no need to; educated in the schools of Frézier, Molina, Humboldt, and Miers, his unerring memory could neither be deceived nor baffled. After finishing his plan, he added:
“Therefore, my dear friends, the course is straight. In thirty days we shall accomplish it, and arrive before the Duncan on the eastern shore, since the westerly winds will delay her progress.”
“The Duncan then,” said Captain Mangles, “will cross the thirty-seventh parallel between Cape Corrientes and Cape St. Antonio?”
“Exactly.”
“And whom would you constitute the members of such an expedition?” asked Glenarvan.
“The fewer the better. The only point is to ascertain the situation of Captain Grant, and not to engage in combat with the Indians. I think that Lord Glenarvan, as our chief, the major, who would yield his place to no one, your servant Jacques Paganel——”
“And I!” cried Robert Grant.
“Robert?” said Mary.
“And why not?” answered Paganel. “Travels develop youth. We four, then, and three sailors of the Duncan——”
“What,” exclaimed Captain Mangles, “your lordship does not intercede for me?”
“My dear fellow,” replied Glenarvan, “we shall leave the ladies on board, the dearest objects we have in the world. Who would watch over them, if not the devoted captain of the Duncan?”
“We cannot accompany you, then,” said Lady Helena, whose eyes were dimmed by a mist of sadness.
“My dear wife,” replied Glenarvan, “our journey will be performed with unusual rapidity, our separation will be short, and——”
“Yes, yes; I understand you,” answered Lady Helena. “Go, then, and may you succeed in your enterprise.”
“Besides, this is not a journey,” added Paganel.
“What is it, then?” asked Lady Helena.
“A passage, nothing more. We shall pass, that is all, like honest men, over the country and do all the good possible. ‘Transire benefaciendo’ is our motto.”
With these words the discussion ended. The preparations were begun that very day, and it was resolved to keep the expedition secret, in order not to alarm the Indians. The 14th of October was fixed for the day of departure.
When they came to choose the sailors who were to go, they all offered their services, and Glenarvan was forced to make a choice. He preferred to have them draw lots, that he might not mortify such brave men. This was accordingly done; and the mate, Tom Austin, Wilson, a powerful fellow, and Mulready, were the fortunate ones.
Lord Glenarvan had displayed great energy in his preparations, for he wished to be ready at the day appointed; and he was. Captain Mangles likewise supplied his ship with coal, that he might put to sea at any moment. He wished to gain the Argentine shore before the travelers. Hence there was a real rivalry between Glenarvan and the captain, which was of advantage to both.
At last, on the 14th of October, at the time agreed upon, every one was ready. At the moment of departure the passengers of the yacht assembled in the cabin. The Duncan was on the point of starting, and already her propeller was agitating the quiet waters of Talcahuana Bay. Glenarvan, Paganel, MacNabb, Robert Grant, Tom Austin, Wilson and Mulready, armed with carbines and Colt’s revolvers, were preparing to leave the vessel. Guides and mules were waiting for them on shore.
“It is time,” said Lord Glenarvan at last.
“Go, then, my husband!” replied Lady Helena, restraining her emotion.
He pressed her to his breast, while Robert threw himself upon the neck of his sister.
“And now, dear companions,” said Jacques Paganel, “one last clasp of the hand to last us till we reach the shores of the Atlantic.”
It was not asking much, but these were clasps which would strengthen the hopes of the worthy geographer.
They then returned to the deck, and the seven travelers left the vessel. They soon reached the wharf, which the yacht approached within less than half a cable’s length.
Lady Helena cried for the last time,—
“My friends, God help you!”
“And he will help us, madam,” answered Jacques Paganel; “for, I assure you, we shall help ourselves.”
“Forward!” shouted Captain Mangles to his engineer.
“En route!” returned Glenarvan; and at the same instant that the travelers, giving reins to their animals, followed the road along the shore, the Duncan started again at full speed on the highway of the ocean.