WILL HALLEY and his crew, taking advantage of the night and the passengers’ sleep, had fled with the only boat left. They could not doubt it. This captain, who was in duty bound to be the last on board, had been the first to leave.
“The rascals have fled,” said Captain Mangles. “Well, so much the better, my lord. We are spared so many disagreeable scenes.”
“I agree with you,” replied Glenarvan. “Besides, there is a better captain on board, yourself, and courageous seamen, your companions. Command us; we are ready to obey you.”
All endorsed Glenarvan’s words, and, ranged along the deck, they stood ready for the young captain’s orders.
“What is to be done?” asked Glenarvan.
John cast a glance over the ocean, looked at the shattered masts of the brig, and, after a few moments’ reflection, said:
“We have two ways, my lord, of extricating ourselves from this situation: either to raise the vessel and put her to sea, or reach the coast on a raft, which can be easily constructed.”
“If the vessel can be raised, let us raise it,” replied Glenarvan. “That is the best plan, is it not?”
“Yes, my lord; for, once ashore, what would become of us without means of transport?”
“Let us avoid the coast,” added Paganel. “We must beware of New Zealand.”
“All the more so, as we have gone considerably astray,” continued Captain Mangles. “Halley’s carelessness has carried us to the south, that is evident. At noon I will take an observation; and if, as I presume, we are below Auckland, I will try to sail the Macquarie up along the coast.”
“But the injuries of the brig?” inquired Lady Helena.
“I do not think they are serious, madam,” replied Captain Mangles. “I shall rig a jury-mast at the bows; and we shall sail slowly, it is true, but still we shall go where we wish. If, unfortunately, the hull is stove in, or if the ship cannot be extricated, we must gain the coast, and travel by land to Auckland.”
“Let us examine the state of the vessel, then,” said the major. “This is of the first importance.”
Glenarvan, the captain, and Mulready opened the main scuttle, and went down into the hold. About two hundred tons of tanned hides were there, very badly stowed away; but they could draw them aside without much difficulty, by means of the main-stay tackling, and they at once threw overboard part of this ballast so as to lighten the ship.
After three hours of hard labor, they could see the bottom timbers. Two seams in the larboard planking had sprung open as far up as the channel wales. As the Macquarie lay over on her starboard beams, her opposite side was raised, and the defective seams were out of water. Wilson hastened, therefore, to tighten the joints with oakum, over which he carefully nailed a copper plate. On sounding they found less than two feet of water in the hold, which the pumps could easily exhaust, and thus relieve the ship. After his examination of the hull, the captain perceived that it had been little injured in stranding. It was probable that a part of the false keel would remain in the sand, but they could pass over it.
Wilson, after inspecting the interior of the brig, dived, in order to determine her position on the reef. The Macquarie was turned towards the northwest, and lay on a very shelving, slimy sand-bar. The lower end of her prow and two-thirds of her keel were deeply imbedded in the sand. The rest, as far as the stern, floated where the water was five fathoms deep. The rudder was not, therefore, confined, but worked freely. The captain considered it useless to lighten her, as he hoped they would be ready to make use of her at the earliest opportunity. The tides of the Pacific are not very strong, but he relied upon their influence to float the brig, which had stranded an hour before high water. The only point was to extricate her, which would be a long and painful task.
“To work!” cried the captain.
His improvised sailors were ready. He ordered them to reef the sails. The major, Robert, and Paganel, under Wilson’s direction, climbed the maintop. The top-sail, swelled by the wind, would have prevented the extrication of the ship, and it was necessary to reef it, which was done as well as possible. At last, after much labor, severe to unaccustomed hands, the maintop-gallant was taken down. Young Robert, nimble as a cat, and bold as a cabin-boy, had rendered important services in this difficult operation.
It was now advisable to cast one anchor, perhaps two, at the stern of the vessel in the line of the keel. The effect of this would be to haul the Macquarie around into deep water. There is no difficulty in doing this when you have a boat, but here all the boats were gone, and something else must be supplied.
Glenarvan was familiar enough with the sea to understand the necessity of these arrangements. One anchor was to be cast to prevent the ship from stranding at low water.
“But what shall we do without a boat?” asked he of the captain.
“We will use the remains of the mizen-mast and the empty casks,” was the reply. “It will be a difficult, but not impossible task, for the Macquarie’s anchors are small. Once cast however, if they do not drag, I shall be encouraged.”
“Very well, let us lose no time.”
To accomplish their object, all were summoned on deck; each took part in the work. The rigging that still confined the mizen-mast was cut away, so that the maintop could be easily withdrawn. Out of this platform Captain Mangles designed to make a raft. He supported it by means of empty casks, and rendered it capable of carrying the anchors. A rudder was fastened to it, which enabled them to steer the concern.
This labor was half accomplished when the sun neared the meridian. The captain left Glenarvan to follow out his instructions, and turned his attention to determining his position, which was very important. Fortunately, he had found in Will Halley’s cabin a Nautical Almanac and a sextant, with which he was able to take an observation. By consulting the map Paganel had bought at Eden, he saw that they had been wrecked at the mouth of Aotea Bay, above Cahua Point, on the shores of the province of Auckland. As the city was on the thirty-seventh parallel, the Macquarie had been carried a considerable distance out of her course. It was, therefore, necessary to sail northward to reach the capital of New Zealand.
“A journey of not more than twenty-five miles,” said Glenarvan. “It is nothing.”
“What is nothing at sea will be long and difficult on land,” replied Paganel.
“Well, then,” said Captain Mangles, “let us do all in our power to float the Macquarie.”
This question being settled, their labors were resumed. It was high water, but they could not take advantage of it, since the anchors were not yet moored. Yet the captain watched the ship with some anxiety. Would she float with the tide? This point would soon be decided.
They waited. Several cracks were heard, caused either by a rising or starting of the keel. Great reliance had been placed upon the tide, but the brig did not stir.
The work was continued, and the raft was soon ready. The small anchor was put on board, and the captain and Wilson embarked, after mooring a small cable at the stern. The ebb-tide made them drift, and they therefore anchored, half a cable’s length distant, in ten fathoms of water. The bottom afforded a firm hold.
The great anchor now remained. They lowered it with difficulty, transported it on the raft, and soon it was moored behind the other; the captain and his men returning to the vessel, and waiting for high water, which would be early in the morning. It was now six o’clock in the evening. The young captain complimented his sailors, and told Paganel that, with the aid of courage and good discipline, he might one day become quartermaster.
Meantime, Mr. Olbinett, after assisting in different operations, had returned to the kitchen, and prepared a very comforting and seasonable repast. The crew were tempted by a keen appetite, which was abundantly satisfied, and each felt himself invigorated for fresh exertions.
After dinner, Captain Mangles took a final precaution to insure the success of his experiment. He threw overboard a great part of the merchandise to lighten the brig; but the remainder of the ballast, the heavy spars, the spare yards, and a few tons of pig-iron, were carried to the stern, to aid by their weight in liberating the keel. Wilson and Mulready likewise rolled to the same place a number of casks filled with water. Midnight arrived before these labors were completed.
But at this hour the breeze subsided, and only a few capricious ripples stirred the surface of the water. Looking towards the horizon, the captain observed that the wind was changing from southwest to northwest. A sailor could not be mistaken in the peculiar arrangement and color of the clouds. He accordingly informed Glenarvan of these indications, and proposed to defer their work till the next day.
“And these are my reasons,” said he. “First, we are very much fatigued, and all our strength is necessary to free the vessel. Then, when this is accomplished, how can we sail among the dangerous breakers, and in such profound darkness? Moreover, another reason induces me to wait. The wind promises to aid us, and I desire to profit by it, and am in hopes that it will drift the old hull out when the tide raises her. To-morrow, if I am not mistaken, the breeze will blow from the northwest. We will set the main-sails, and they will help to raise the brig.”
These reasons were decisive. Glenarvan and Paganel, the most impatient on board, yielded, and the work was suspended.
The night passed favorably, and day appeared. Their captain’s predictions were realized. The wind blew from the northwest, and continued to freshen. The crew were summoned. It was nine o’clock. Four hours were still to elapse before it would be high water, and that time was not lost. The laborers renewed their efforts with very good success.
Meantime the tide rose. The surface of the sea was agitated into ripples, and the points of the rocks gradually disappeared, like marine animals returning to their native element. The time for the final attempt approached. A feverish impatience thrilled all minds. No one spoke. Each gazed at the captain, and awaited his orders. He was leaning over the stern-railing, watching the water, and casting an uneasy glance towards the cables.
At last the tide reached its height. The experiment must now be made without delay. The main-sails were set, and the mast was bent with the force of the wind.
“To the windlass!” cried the captain.
Glenarvan, Mulready, and Robert on one side, and Paganel, the major, and Olbinett on the other, bore down upon the handles that moved the machine. At the same time the captain and Wilson added their efforts to those of their companions.
“Down! down!” cried the young captain; “all together!”
The cables were stretched taut under the powerful action of the windlass. The anchors held fast, and did not drag. But they must be quick, for high tide lasts only a few moments, and the water would not be long in lowering.
They redoubled their efforts. The wind blew violently, and forced the sails against the mast. A few tremors were felt in the hull, and the brig seemed on the point of rising. Perhaps a little more power would suffice to draw her from the sand.
“Helena! Mary!” cried Glenarvan.
The two ladies came and joined their efforts to those of their companions. A final crack was heard, but that was all! The experiment had failed. The tide was already beginning to ebb, and it was evident that, even with the aid of wind and tide, this insufficient crew could not float their ship.
As their first plan had failed, it was necessary to have recourse to the second without delay. It was plain that they could not raise the Macquarie, and that the only way was to abandon her. To wait on board for the uncertain arrival of assistance would have been folly and madness.
The captain therefore proposed to construct a raft strong enough to convey the passengers and a sufficient quantity of provisions to the New Zealand coast. It was not a time for discussion, but for action. The work was accordingly begun, and considerably advanced when night interrupted them.
In the evening, after supper, while Lady Helena and Mary Grant were reposing in their berths, Paganel and his friends conversed seriously as they paced the deck. The geographer had asked Captain Mangles whether the raft could not follow the coast as far as Auckland, instead of landing the passengers at once. The captain replied that it would be impossible with such a rude craft.
“And could we have done with the boat what we cannot do with the raft?”
“Yes, candidly speaking, we could,” was the reply; “but with the necessity of sailing by day and anchoring by night.”
“Then these wretches, who have abandoned us——”
“Oh,” said Captain Mangles, “they were drunk, and in the profound darkness I fear they have paid for their cowardly desertion with their lives.”
“So much the worse for them,” continued Paganel; “and for us, too, as this boat would have been useful.”
“What do you mean, Paganel?” said Glenarvan. “The raft will take us ashore.”
“That is precisely what I would avoid,” replied the geographer.
“What! can a journey of not more than twenty miles terrify us, after what has been done on the Pampas and in Australia?”
“My friends,” resumed Paganel, “I do not doubt your courage, nor that of our fair companions. Twenty miles is nothing in any other country except New Zealand. Here, however, anything is better than venturing upon these treacherous shores.”
“Anything is better than exposing yourself to certain death on a wrecked vessel,” returned Captain Mangles.
“What have we to fear in New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“The savages!” replied Paganel.
“The savages?” said Glenarvan. “Can we not avoid them by following the coast? Besides, an attack from a few wretches cannot intimidate ten well-armed and determined Europeans.”
“It is not a question of wretches,” rejoined Paganel. “The New Zealanders form terrible tribes that struggle against the English government, fight with invaders, frequently conquer them, and always eat them.”
“Cannibals! cannibals!” cried Robert; and then he murmured, as though afraid to give full utterance to the words, “My sister! Lady Helena!”
“Never fear, my boy!” said Glenarvan; “our friend Paganel exaggerates.”
“I do not exaggerate,” replied Paganel. “With these New Zealanders war is what the sports of the chase are to civilized nations; and the game they hunt for they feast upon.”
“Paganel,” said the major, “this may be all very true, but have you forgotten the introduction of Christianity? has it not destroyed these anthropophagous habits?”
“No, it has not,” was the prompt reply. “The records are yet fresh of ministers who have gone out to proclaim Christianity and have fallen victims to the murderous and cannibal instincts of those to whom they preached. Not long since, in the year 1864, one of these clergymen was seized by the chiefs, was hung to the tree, was tantalized and tortured to his last moments; and then, whilst some tore his body to pieces, others devoured the various members. No, the Maoris are still cannibals, and will remain so for some time to come.”
But Paganel was on this point a pessimist, contrary to his usual characteristic.