AS soon as the quartermaster was in Lord Glenarvan’s presence his custodians retired.
“You desired to speak to me, Ayrton?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my lord,” replied he.
“To me alone?”
“Yes; but I think that if Major MacNabb and Mr. Paganel were present at the interview it would be better.”
“For whom?”
“For me.”
Ayrton spoke calmly. Glenarvan gazed at him steadily, and then sent word to MacNabb and Paganel, who at once obeyed his summons.
“We are ready for you,” said Glenarvan, as soon as his two friends were seated at the cabin-table.
Ayrton reflected for a few moments, and then said:
“My lord, it is customary for witnesses to be present at every contract or negotiation between two parties. That is why I requested the presence of Mr. Paganel and Major MacNabb; for, properly speaking, this is a matter of business that I am going to propose to you.”
Glenarvan, who was accustomed to Ayrton’s manners, betrayed no surprise, although a matter of business between this man and himself seemed strange.
“What is this business?” said he.
“This is it,” replied Ayrton. “You desire to know from me certain circumstances which may be useful to you. I desire to obtain from you certain advantages which will be valuable to me. Now, I will make an exchange, my lord. Do you agree or not?”
“What are these circumstances?” asked Paganel, quickly.
“No,” corrected Glenarvan: “what are these advantages?”
Ayrton bowed, showing that he understood the distinction.
“These,” said he, “are the advantages for which I petition. You still intend, my lord, to deliver me into the hands of the English authorities?”
“Yes, Ayrton; it is only justice.”
“I do not deny it,” replied the quartermaster. “You would not consent, then, to set me at liberty?”
Glenarvan hesitated before answering a question so plainly asked. Perhaps the fate of Harry Grant depended upon what he was about to say. However, the feeling of duty towards humanity prevailed, and he said:
“No, Ayrton, I cannot set you at liberty.”
“I do not ask it,” replied the quartermaster, proudly.
“What do you wish, then?”
“An intermediate fate, my lord, between that which you think awaits me and the liberty that you cannot grant me.”
“And that is——?”
“To abandon me on one of the desert islands of the Pacific, with the principal necessaries of life. I will manage as I can, and repent, if I have time.”
Glenarvan, who was little prepared for this proposal, glanced at his two friends, who remained silent. After a few moments of reflection, he replied:
“Ayrton, if I grant your request, will you tell me all that it is for my interest to know?”
“Yes, my lord; that is to say, all that I know concerning Captain Grant and the Britannia.”
“The whole truth?”
“The whole.”
“But who will warrant——?”
“Oh, I see what troubles you, my lord. You do not like to trust to me,—to the word of a malefactor! That is right. But what can you do? The situation is thus. You have only to accept or refuse.”
“I will trust you, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan, simply.
“And you will be right, my lord. Moreover, if I deceive you, you will always have the power to revenge yourself.”
“How?”
“By recapturing me on this island, from which I shall not be able to escape.”
Ayrton had a reply for everything. He met all difficulties, and produced unanswerable arguments against himself. As was seen, he strove to treat in his business with good faith. It was impossible for a person to surrender with more perfect confidence, and yet he found means to advance still further in this disinterested course.
“My lord and gentlemen,” added he, “I desire that you should be convinced that I am honorable. I do not seek to deceive you, but am going to give you a new proof of my sincerity in this affair. I act frankly, because I rely upon your loyalty.”
“Go on, Ayrton,” replied Glenarvan.
“My lord, I have not yet your promise to agree to my proposition, and still I do not hesitate to tell you that I know little concerning Harry Grant.”
“Little!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, my lord; the circumstances that I am able to communicate to you are relative to myself. They are personal experiences, and will scarcely tend to put you on the track you have lost.”
A keen disappointment was manifest on the features of Glenarvan and the major. They had believed the quartermaster to possess an important secret, and yet he now confessed that his disclosures would be almost useless.
However that may be, this avowal of Ayrton, who surrendered himself without security, singularly affected his hearers, especially when he added, in conclusion:
“Thus you are forewarned, my lord, that the business will be less advantageous for you than for me.”
“No matter,” replied Glenarvan; “I accept your proposal, Ayrton. You have my word that you shall be landed at one of the islands of the Pacific.”
“Very well, my lord,” said he.
Was this strange man pleased with this decision? You might have doubted it, for his impassive countenance betrayed no emotion. He seemed as if acting for another more than for himself.
“I am ready to answer,” continued he.
“We have no questions to ask you,” rejoined Glenarvan. “Tell us what you know, Ayrton, and, in the first place, who you are.”
“Gentlemen,” replied he, “I am really Tom Ayrton, quartermaster of the Britannia. I left Glasgow in Captain Grant’s ship on the 12th of March, 1861. For fourteen months we traversed together the Pacific, seeking some favorable place to found a Scottish colony. Harry Grant was a man capable of performing great deeds, but frequently serious disputes arose between us. His character did not harmonize with mine. I could not yield; but with Harry Grant, when his resolution is taken, all resistance is impossible. He is like iron towards himself and others. However, I dared to mutiny, and attempted to involve the crew and gain possession of the vessel. Whether I did right or wrong is of little importance. However it may be, Captain Grant did not hesitate to land me, April 8, 1862, on the west coast of Australia.”
“Australia!” exclaimed the major, interrupting Ayrton’s story. “Then you left the Britannia before her arrival at Callao, where the last news of her was dated?”
“Yes,” replied the quartermaster; “for the Britannia never stopped at Callao while I was on board. If I spoke of Callao at O’Moore’s farm, it was your story that gave me this information.”
“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.
“I found myself, therefore, abandoned on an almost desert coast, but only twenty miles from the penitentiary of Perth, the capital of Western Australia. Wandering along the shore, I met a band of convicts who had just escaped. I joined them. You will spare me, my lord, the account of my life for two years and a half. It is enough to know that I became chief of the runaways, under the name of Ben Joyce. In the month of September, 1864, I made my appearance at the Irishman’s farm, and was received as a servant under my true name of Ayrton. Here I waited till an opportunity should be offered to gain possession of a vessel. This was my great object. Two months later the Duncan arrived. During your visit at the farm you related, my lord, the whole story of Captain Grant. I then learned what I had not known, the Britannia’s stoppage at Callao, the last news of her, dated June, 1862, two months after my abandonment, the finding of the document, the shipwreck of the vessel, and finally the important reasons you had for seeking Captain Grant in Australia. I did not hesitate, but resolved to appropriate the Duncan,—a marvelous ship, that would have distanced the best of the British navy. However, there were serious injuries to be repaired. I therefore let her start for Melbourne, and offered myself to you in my real character of quartermaster, volunteering to guide you to the scene of the shipwreck, which I falsely located on the eastern coast of Australia. Thus followed at a distance and sometimes preceded by my band of convicts, I conducted your party across the province of Victoria. My companions committed a useless crime at Camden Bridge, since the Duncan, once at Twofold Bay, could not have escaped me, and with it I should have been master of the ocean. I brought you thus unsuspectingly as far as the Snowy River. The horses and oxen fell dead one by one, poisoned by the gastrolobium. I entangled the cart in the marshes. At my suggestion——but you know the rest, my lord, and can be certain that, except for Mr. Paganel’s absent-mindedness, I should now be commander on board the Duncan. Such is my story, gentlemen. My disclosures, unfortunately, cannot set you on the track of Captain Grant, and you see that in dealing with me you have made a bad bargain.”
The quartermaster ceased, crossed his arms, according to his custom, and waited. Glenarvan and his friends were silent. They felt that this strange criminal had told the entire truth. The capture of the Duncan had only failed through a cause altogether beyond his control. His accomplices had reached Twofold Bay, as the convict’s blouse, found by Glenarvan, proved. There, faithful to the orders of their chief, they had lain in wait for the yacht, and at last, tired of watching, they had doubtless resumed their occupation of plunder and burning in the fields of New South Wales.
The major was the first to resume the examination, in order to determine the dates relative to the Britannia.
“It was the 8th of April, 1862, then, that you were landed on the west coast of Australia?” he asked of the quartermaster.
“Exactly,” replied Ayrton.
“And do you know what Captain Grant’s plans were then?”
“Vaguely.”
“Continue, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “The least sign may set us on the track.”
“What I can say is this, my lord. Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. But this part of his programme was not carried out while I was on board. The Britannia might, therefore, after leaving Callao, have gained the shores of New Zealand. This would agree with the date, June 27, 1862, given in the document as the time of the shipwreck.”
“Evidently,” remarked Paganel.
“But,” added Glenarvan, “there is nothing in these half-obliterated portions of the document which can apply to New Zealand.”
“That I cannot answer,” said the quartermaster.
“Well, Ayrton,” continued Glenarvan, “you have kept your word, and I will keep mine. We will decide on what island of the Pacific you shall be abandoned.”
“Oh, it matters little to me,” answered Ayrton.
“Return to your cabin now, and await our decision.”
The quartermaster retired, under guard of the two sailors.
“This villain might have been a great man,” observed the major.
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan. “He has a strong and self-reliant character. Why must his abilities be devoted to crime?”
“But Harry Grant?”
“I fear that he is forever lost! Poor children! who could tell them where their father is?”
“I!” cried Paganel.
As we have remarked, the geographer, although so loquacious and excitable usually, had scarcely spoken during Ayrton’s examination. He had listened in total silence. But this last word that he had uttered was worth more than all the others, and startled Glenarvan at once.
“You, Paganel!” he exclaimed; “do you know where Captain Grant is?”
“As well as can be known,” answered the geographer.
“And how do you know?”
“By that everlasting document.”
“Ah!” said the major, in a tone of the most thorough incredulity.
“Listen first, MacNabb, and shrug your shoulders afterwards. I did not speak before, because you would not have believed me. Besides, it was useless. But if I speak to-day, it is because Ayrton’s opinion corroborates mine.”
“Then New Zealand——?” asked Glenarvan.
“Hear and judge,” replied Paganel. “I did not commit the blunder that saved us, without reason. Just as I was writing that letter at Glenarvan’s dictation, the word Zealand was troubling my brain. You remember that we were in the cart. MacNabb had just told Lady Helena the story of the convicts, and had handed her the copy of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette. that gave an account of the accident at Camden Bridge. As I was writing, the paper lay on the ground, folded so that only two syllables of its title could be seen, and these were aland. What a light broke in upon my mind! ‘Aland’ was one of the very words in the English document,—a word that we had hitherto translated ashore, but which was the termination of the proper name Zealand.”
“Ha!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes,” continued Paganel, with profound conviction, “this interpretation had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my examinations were naturally confined more particularly to the French document, where this important word was wanting.”
“Ho! ho!” laughed the major, “that is too much imagination, Paganel. You forget your previous conclusions rather easily.”
“Well, major, I am ready to answer you.”
“Then what becomes of your word austral?”
“It is what it was at first. It simply means the southern (australes) countries.”
“Very well. But that word indi, that was first the root of Indians (indiens), and then of natives (indigènes)?”
“The third and last time, it shall be the first two syllables of the word indigence. (destitution).”
“And contin!” cried MacNabb; “does it still signify continent?”
“No, since New Zealand is only an island.”
“Then?” inquired Glenarvan.
“My dear lord,” replied Paganel, “I will translate the document for you, according to my third interpretation, and you shall judge. I only make two suggestions. First, forget as far as possible the previous interpretations; and next, although certain passages will seem to you forced, and I may translate them wrongly, still, remember that they have no special importance. Moreover, the French document serves as the basis of my interpretation, and you must consider that it was written by an Englishman who could not have been perfectly familiar with the idioms of our language.”
So saying, Paganel, slowly pronouncing each syllable, read the following:
“On the 27th of June, 1862, the brig Britannia, of Glasgow, foundered, after a long struggle (agonie), in the South (australes) Seas, on the coasts of New Zealand. Two sailors and Captain Grant succeeded in landing (aborder). Here, continually (continuellement) a prey (proie) to a cruel (cruelle) destitution (indigence), they cast this document into the sea, at longitude——and latitude 37° 11’. Come to their assistance, or they are lost.”
Paganel stopped. His interpretation was admissible. But, although it appeared as probable as the other, still it might be as false. Glenarvan and the major therefore no longer attempted to dispute it. However, since the traces of the Britannia had not been encountered on the coasts of Patagonia or Australia, the chances were in favor of New Zealand.
“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “will you tell me why, for about two months, you kept this interpretation secret?”
“Because I did not wish to give you vain hopes. Besides, we were going to Auckland, which is on the very latitude of the document.”
“But afterwards, when we were taken out of our course, why did you not speak?”
“Because, however just this interpretation may be, it cannot contribute to the captain’s rescue.”
“Why, Paganel?”
“Because, admitting that Captain Grant was wrecked on the coast of New Zealand, as long as he has not made his appearance for two years since the disaster, he must have fallen a victim to the sea or the savages.”
“Then your opinion is——?” asked Glenarvan.
“That we might perhaps find some traces of the shipwreck, but that the seamen of the Britannia have perished.”
“Keep all this silent, my friends,” replied Glenarvan, “and leave me to choose the time for telling this sad news to the children of Captain Grant.”