AT sunrise the travelers left the gold regions and crossed the frontiers of the county of Talbot. Their line of travel now struck the dusty roads of the county of Dalhousie. Half the journey was accomplished. In fifteen days more of travel equally rapid the little party would reach the shores of Twofold Bay. Moreover, every one was in good health. Paganel’s assertions as to the salubrity of this climate were verified. There was little or no moisture, and the heat was quite endurable. Neither men nor animals complained.
Only one change had been made in the line of march since leaving Camden Bridge. The criminal disaster on the railway, when made known to Ayrton, had induced him to take precautions hitherto needless. The horsemen were not to lose sight of the cart. During the hours of encampment one of them was always on guard. Morning and evening the priming of the fire-arms was renewed. It was certain that a band of malefactors were scouring the country; and, although nothing gave cause for immediate suspicion, still it was necessary to be ready for any emergency.
In truth they had reason to act thus. An imprudence, or negligence even, might cost them dear. Glenarvan, moreover, was not alone in giving heed to this state of affairs. In the isolated towns and stations the inhabitants and squatters took precautions against any attack or surprise. The houses were closed at nightfall. The dogs were let loose within the palisades, and barked at the slightest alarm. There was not a shepherd, collecting his numerous flocks on horseback for the evening return, who did not carry a carbine suspended from the pommel of his saddle. The news of the crime committed at Camden Bridge was the reason for this excessive caution, and many a colonist who had formerly slept with open doors and windows now carefully locked his house at twilight.
After awhile, the cart entered a grove of giant trees, the finest they had hitherto seen. There was a cry of admiration at sight of the eucalyptuses, two hundred feet high, whose spongy bark was five inches in thickness. The trunks measured twenty feet in circumference, and were furrowed by streams of odorous sap. Not a branch, not a twig, not a wanton shoot, not even a knot, disfigured their perfect symmetry. They could not have issued smoother from the hand of the turner. They were like so many columns exactly mated, and could be counted by hundreds, spreading at a vast height into capitals of finely-shaped branches adorned with vertical leaves, from which hung solitary flowers, whose calices were like inverted urns.
Under this evergreen canopy the air circulated freely. A continual ventilation absorbed the moisture of the earth, and horses, herds of cattle, and carts could easily pass between these trees, which were widely separated and arranged in straight rows. It was neither a wood with thickets crowded and obstructed by brambles, nor a virgin forest barricaded with fallen trunks and entangled with inextricable parasites, where only axe and fire can clear a way for the pioneers. A carpet of herbage below, and a sheet of verdure above; long vistas of noble pillars; little shade or coolness; a peculiar light, like the rays that sift through a delicate tissue; shadows sharply defined upon the ground: all this constituted a strange sight. The forests of Oceanica are entirely different from those of the New World, and the eucalyptus—the “tara” of the aborigines—is the most perfect tree of the Australian flora.
The shade is not dense, nor the darkness profound, beneath these domes of verdure, owing to a strange peculiarity in the arrangement of the leaves of the eucalyptus. Not one presents its face to the sun, but only its sharp edge. The eye sees nothing but profiles in this singular foliage. Thus the rays of the sun glide to the earth as if they had passed between the slats of a window-blind.
Every one observed this and seemed surprised. Why this particular arrangement? This question was naturally addressed to Paganel, who replied like a man who is never at fault.
“What astonishes me,” said he, “is not the freak of nature, for she knows what she does; but botanists do not always know what they say. Nature was not mistaken in giving to these trees this singular foliage; but men are wrong in calling them eucalyptuses.”
“What does the word mean?” asked Mary Grant.
“It comes from the Greek words εῦ χαλύπτω, signifying I cover well. But you all see that the eucalyptus covers badly.”
“Just so, my dear Paganel,” replied Glenarvan; “and now tell us why the leaves grow thus.”
“In this country, where the air is dry,” said Paganel, “where rains are rare and the soil is parched, the trees need neither wind nor sun. Hence these narrow leaves seek to defend themselves against the elements and preserve themselves from too great an evaporation. They therefore present their edges, and not their faces, to the action of the solar rays. There is nothing more intelligent than a leaf.”
“Nor more selfish,” remarked the major. “They thought only of themselves, and not at all of travelers.”
The entire party was inclined to be of MacNabb’s opinion, except Paganel, who, as he wiped his face, congratulated himself upon traveling beneath these shadowless trees. However, this arrangement of foliage was to be regretted; for the journey through these forests is frequently very long and painful, since nothing protects the traveler from the heat of the sun.
All day long our travelers pursued their way under these interminable arches. They met neither quadruped nor human being. A few cockatoos inhabited the tops of the trees; but at that height they could scarcely be distinguished, and their chattering was an almost inaudible murmur. Sometimes a flock of parrots would shoot across a distant vista, illumining it with a rapid flash of variegated light. But generally a deep silence reigned in this vast temple of verdure, and the measured tread of the horses, a few words exchanged now and then in desultory conversation, the creaking of the cart-wheels, and from time to time a cry from Ayrton as he urged on his sluggish team, were the only sounds that disturbed this vast solitude.
At evening they encamped at the foot of some trees that bore the marks of a recent fire. They formed tall chimneys, as it were, for the flames had hollowed them out internally throughout their entire length. Having only this shell of bark remaining, they no longer suffered severely from this treatment. However, this lamentable habit of the squatters and natives will finally destroy these magnificent trees, and they will disappear like the cedars of Lebanon, so many centuries old, consumed by the careless fires of wandering encampments.
Olbinett, according to Paganel’s advice, kindled a fire in one of these tubular trunks. He obtained a draught at once, and the smoke soon disappeared in the dark mass of foliage. The necessary precautions were taken for the night, and Ayrton, Mulready, Wilson, and Captain Mangles watched by turns till sunrise.
During all the next day the interminable forest presented its long, monotonous avenues, till it seemed as if it would never end. Towards evening, however, the rows of trees became thinner; and a few miles farther on, upon a small plain, appeared a collection of regularly built houses.
“Seymour!” cried Paganel. “This is the last place we shall meet with before leaving the province of Victoria.”
“Is it an important town?” inquired Lady Helena.
“Madam,” replied he, “it is a simple parish that would like to become a municipality.”
“Shall we find a comfortable hotel?” asked Glenarvan.
“I hope so,” answered the geographer.
“Well, then, let us go into the town; for the ladies will not be sorry, I imagine, to rest here one night.”
“My dear Edward,” replied Lady Helena, “Mary and I accept; but on the condition that it shall cause no trouble or delay.”
“None at all,” said Lord Glenarvan. “Moreover, our oxen are fatigued. To-morrow we will start at break of day.”
It was now nine o’clock. The moon was approaching the horizon, and her rays were dimmed by the gathering mist. The darkness was increasing. The whole party, accordingly, entered the broad street of Seymour under the guidance of Paganel, who always seemed to be perfectly acquainted with what he had never seen. But his instinct directed him, and he went straight to Campbell’s North British Hotel. Horses and oxen were taken to the stable, the cart was put under the shed, and the travelers were conducted to quite comfortable apartments.
At ten o’clock the guests took their seats at a table, over which Olbinett had cast his experienced eye. Paganel had just explored the town, in company with Robert, and now related his nocturnal impressions in a very laconic style. He had seen absolutely nothing.
However, a man less absent-minded would have observed a certain excitement in the streets of Seymour. Groups were formed here and there, which gradually increased. People talked at the doors of the houses, and questioned each other with an air of anxiety. Various daily papers were read aloud, commented upon, and discussed. These signs, one might suppose, could not have escaped the most careless observer; Paganel, however, had suspected nothing.
The major, on the contrary, without even leaving the hotel, had ascertained the fears that were agitating the little community. Ten minutes’ conversation with the loquacious landlord had informed him; but he did not utter a word. Not until supper was over, and Lady Helena, Mary, and Robert had retired to their chambers, did the major say to his companions:
“They have traced the authors of the crime committed at Camden Bridge.”
“Have they been arrested?” asked Ayrton, quickly.
“No,” replied MacNabb, without seeming to notice the eagerness of the quartermaster.
“So much the worse,” added Ayrton.
“Well,” inquired Glenarvan, “to whom do they attribute the crime?”
“Read,” said the major, handing to Glenarvan a copy of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette, “and you will see that the police-officer was not mistaken.”
Glenarvan read aloud the following passage:
|
“Sydney, Jan. 2, 1865.—It will be remembered that on the night of December 29 an accident took place at Camden Bridge, five miles from Castlemaine Station, on the Melbourne and Sandhurst Railway, by which the night express was precipitated at full speed into the Lutton River. Numerous thefts committed after the accident, and the corpse of the guard found half a mile above, prove that it was the result of a crime; and, in accordance with the verdict at the inquest, this crime is to be attributed to a band of convicts who escaped, six months ago, from the Perth penitentiary, in Western Australia, as they were about to be transferred to Norfolk Island. These convicts are twenty-nine in number, and are commanded by a certain Ben Joyce, a dangerous criminal, who arrived in Australia several months ago in some way, and upon whom justice has not yet succeeded in laying hands. The inhabitants of the cities, and the colonists and squatters of the stations, are warned to be on their guard, and requested to send to the undersigned any information which may assist his investigations. “J. P. MITCHELL, Surveyor-General.” |
When Glenarvan had finished reading this article, MacNabb turned to the geographer and said:
“You see, Paganel, that there may yet be convicts in Australia.”
“Runaways there may be, of course,” replied Paganel, “but not those who have been transported and regularly received. These people have no right to be here.”
“Well, at any rate they are here,” continued Glenarvan; “but I do not suppose that their presence need cause us to change our plans or delay our journey. What do you think, captain?”
Captain Mangles did not answer immediately. He hesitated between the grief that the abandonment of the search would cause the two children, and the fear of compromising the safety of the party.
“If Lady Glenarvan and Miss Grant were not with us,” said he, “I should care very little for this band of wretches.”
Glenarvan understood him, and added:
“Of course it is not advisable to give up our undertaking; but perhaps it would be prudent for the sake of the ladies to join the Duncan at Melbourne, and continue our search for Captain Grant towards the east. What do you think, MacNabb?”
“Before replying,” said the major, “I should like to hear Ayrton’s opinion.”
The quartermaster, thus addressed, looked at Glenarvan.
“I think,” said he, “that, as we are two hundred miles from Melbourne, the danger, if there is any, is as great on the southern as on the eastern road. Both are little frequented, and one is as good as the other. Moreover, I do not think that thirty malefactors can intimidate eight well-armed and resolute men. Therefore, in the absence of better advice, I should go on.”
“Well said,” replied Paganel. “By continuing our course we shall cross Captain Grant’s track, while by returning to the south we should go directly away from it. I agree with you, therefore, and shall give myself no uneasiness about the runaway convicts.”
Thus the determination to make no change in the programme was unanimously approved of.
“One more remark, my lord,” said Ayrton, as they were about to separate.
“Speak.”
“Would it not be advisable to send an order to the Duncan to sail to the coast?”
“Why?” asked Captain Mangles. “It will be time enough to send the order when we arrive at Twofold Bay. If any unforeseen event should compel us to return to Melbourne, we might be sorry not to find the Duncan there. Moreover, her injuries cannot yet have been repaired. I think, therefore, that it would be better to wait.”
“Well,” replied Ayrton, without further remark.
The next day the little party, armed and ready for any emergency, left Seymour, and half an hour after re-entered the forest of eucalyptuses, which appeared again towards the east. Glenarvan would have preferred to travel in the open country, for a plain is less favorable to sudden attacks and ambuscades than a thick wood. But they had no alternative; and the cart kept on all day between the tall, monotonous trees, and at evening encamped on the borders of the district of Murray.
They were now setting foot on one of the least frequented portions of the Australian continent, a vast uninhabited region stretching away to the Australian Alps. At some future day its forests will be leveled, and the home of the colonist will stand where now all is desolation; but at present it is a desert. In this region is situated the so-styled “reserve for the blacks.” On these remote plains various spots have been set apart, where the aboriginal race can enjoy to the full the privilege of gradually becoming extinct. Though the white man is at perfect liberty to invade this “reserved” territory, yet the black may call it his own.
Paganel, who was in his element wherever statistics or history was concerned, went into full details respecting the native races. He gave a long account of the cruelties to which these unfortunate beings had been subjected at the hands of the early colonists, and showed how little had been done by the interference of the government. As a striking instance of the manner in which the aborigines melt away before the advance of civilization, he cited the case of Tasmania, which at the beginning of this century had five thousand native inhabitants, but in 1863 had only seven.
“Fifty years ago,” said he, “we should have met in our course many a tribe of natives; whereas thus far we have not seen even one. A century hence, the black race will have utterly disappeared from this continent.”
At that moment Robert, halting in front of a group of eucalyptuses, cried out:
“A monkey! there is a monkey!”
The cart was instantly stopped, and, looking in the direction indicated by the boy, our travellers saw a huge black form moving with astonishing agility from branch to branch, until it was lost from view in the depths of the grove.
“What sort of a monkey is that?” asked MacNabb.
“That monkey,” answered Paganel, “is a full-blooded Australian.”
Just then were heard sounds of voices at some little distance; the oxen were put in motion, and after proceeding a few hundred paces the party came suddenly upon an encampment of aborigines, consisting of some ten or twelve tents, made of strips of bark arranged in the manner of tiles, and giving shelter to their wretched inhabitants on only one side. Of these miserable beings there were about thirty, men, women, and children, dressed in ragged kangaroo-skins. Their first movement was one of flight; but a few words from Ayrton restored confidence, and they slowly approached the party of Europeans.
The major jocularly insisted that Robert was correct in saying that he had seen a monkey; but Lady Helena declined to accept his views, and, getting out of the cart, made friendly advances to these degraded beings, who seemed to look upon her as a divinity. Reassured by her gentle manner, they surrounded the travelers, and began to cast wishful glances at the provisions which the cart contained. Glenarvan, at the request of his wife, distributed a quantity of food among the hungry group.
After this had been dispatched, our friends were favored by their new acquaintances with a sham fight, which lasted about ten minutes, the women urging on the combatants and pretending to mutilate those who fell in the fray. Suddenly the excited crowd dropped their arms, and a profound silence succeeded to the din of war. A flight of cockatoos had made its appearance in the neighboring trees; and the opportunity to display their proficiency in the use of the boomerang was at once improved by the Australians. The skill manifested in the construction and use of this instrument served Lady Helena as a strong argument against the monkey theory, though the major pretended that he was not yet convinced.
Lord Glenarvan was now about to give the order to advance, when a native came running up with the news that he had discovered half a dozen cassowaries. The chase that followed, with the ingenious disguise assumed by the hunter, and the marvelous fidelity with which he imitated the movements and cries of the bird, was witnessed with interest by the travelers. Lady Helena adduced the skill displayed as a still further argument against the major’s theory; but the obstinate MacNabb declined to recede from his position, citing to his antagonist the statement of the negroes concerning the orang-outangs,—that they are negroes like themselves, only that they are too cunning to talk, for fear of being made to work.