Chapter XIX
The Coup de Théâtre¹

It became a terrible night. At two o’clock in the morning a torrential rain began to fall from the stormy clouds, and continued until dawn. The tent was insufficient shelter so Glenarvan and his companions took refuge in the wagon. They didn’t sleep, but talked of one thing or another. The Major, whose brief absence had not been noticed, contented himself with being a silent listener. The downpour continued through the night. There was reason to fear that if the storm lasted much longer the Snowy River would overflow its banks, which would be a very bad thing for the wagon, stuck in the soft ground. Mulrady, Ayrton, and Mangles went to check the rising water level several times, and came back dripping from head to toe.

Finally, dawn came. The rain ceased, but the sunlight couldn’t break through the thick clouds. Large puddles of yellowish water — muddy, dirty ponds — covered the ground. A warm mist rose from the soaked earth, and saturated the atmosphere with unhealthy humidity.

Glenarvan’s first concern was the wagon. This was the most important thing in his eyes. They examined the heavy vehicle, and found it sunk in the ground in a deep hollow in the stiff clay. The front wheelset had disappeared almost entirely, and the rear was buried nearly up to the axle. It would be difficult to remove the heavy conveyance, and it would need the united strength of men, oxen, and horses.

“At any rate, we must hurry,” said John Mangles. “If the clay dries, it will make our task still more difficult.”

“Let us be quick, then,” said Ayrton.

Glenarvan, his two sailors, John Mangles, and Ayrton entered the woods where the animals had passed the night.

It was a tall forest of sinister looking gum trees, all dead. The widely spaced trees had been barked for ages, or rather skinned like the cork-oak at harvest time. A miserable network of bare branches could be seen two hundred feet overhead. Not a bird built its nest in these aerial skeletons; not a leaf trembled on the dry branches, which rattled like a jumble of bones. No one knows what causes these cataclysms, so frequent in Australia, in which entire forests are struck dead in some epidemic. Not even the oldest natives, nor their ancestors who have long lain buried in the groves of the dead, have ever seen them green.

As he walked, Glenarvan kept his eye on the grey sky, against which the smallest branch of the gum trees was sharply defined. Ayrton was astonished to not find the horses and oxen where he had left them the night before, but they could not have wandered far with the hobbles on their legs.

They looked through the wood, but found no signs of them. Ayrton returned to the beautiful, mimosa lined banks of the Snowy River. He gave a cry, well known to his team, but there was no reply. The quartermaster seemed uneasy, and his companions looked at each other with disappointed faces.

They searched in vain for an hour, and Glenarvan was about to go back to the wagon, when he heard the neighing of a horse, followed by a bellow.

“They are there!” cried John Mangles, slipping between tall clumps of Gastrolobium, which grew high enough to hide a whole herd.

Glenarvan, Mulrady, and Ayrton darted after him, and soon shared his stupefaction at the spectacle which met their gaze.

Three bullocks and three horses lay stretched on the ground, struck down like the others. Their bodies were already cold, and a flock of skinny crows croaking among the mimosas were watching the unexpected feast. Glenarvan and his party gazed at each other, and Wilson could not keep back the curse that rose to his lips.

“Enough of that, Wilson,” said Glenarvan, barely containing himself. “We can’t do anything about it. Ayrton, bring away the ox and the horse we have left. They will have to serve us now.”

“If the wagon were not bogged down,” said John Mangles, “these two animals could be enough to take us to the coast, if we go in small stages. But we must at all costs free the damn wagon.”

“We will try, John,” said Glenarvan. “Let’s go back to the camp. They must be getting worried about our long absence.”

Ayrton removed the hobbles from the ox and Mulrady from the horse, and they returned along the winding bank of the river.

In half an hour they rejoined Paganel, MacNabbs, and the ladies, and told them of this fresh disaster.

“Upon my honour, Ayrton,” the Major could not help saying, “it is a pity that you didn’t see to the shoeing of all our horses when we forded the Wimmera.”

“Why, sir?” asked Ayrton.

“Because out of all our horses, only the one your blacksmith had in his hands has escaped the common fate.”

“That’s true,” said John Mangles. “It’s a strange coincidence.”

“A mere chance, and nothing more,” said the quartermaster. He stared at the Major for a moment, before walking toward the wagon.

Major MacNabbs squeezed his lips as if to keep back something he was about to say. Glenarvan, Mangles, and Lady Helena seemed to be waiting for him to complete his thought, but the Major fell silent, and walked to the wagon, which Ayrton was examining.

“What did he want to say?” Glenarvan asked John Mangles.

“I don’t know,” replied the young captain. “But the Major is not at all a man to speak without reason.”

“No, John,” said Lady Helena. “MacNabbs must have some suspicions about Ayrton.”

“Suspicions?” asked Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.

“What can they be?” asked Glenarvan. “Does he suppose he could have killed our horses and oxen? For what purpose? Aren't Ayrton’s interests the same as ours?”

“You are right, dear Edward,” said Lady Helena. “And what is more, the quartermaster has given us incontestable proofs of his devotion ever since the commencement of the journey.”

“No doubt,” said Mangles. “But what could the Major mean? I wish he would speak his mind plainly. I’d like to have a clear heart on this matter.”

“Does he suppose him to be acting in concert with the convicts?” asked Paganel, imprudently.

“What convicts?” said Miss Grant.

“Monsieur Paganel is making a mistake,” said John Mangles, quickly. “He knows very well there are no convicts in the province of Victoria.”

“Ah, parbleu vrai!” said Paganel, who would have liked to withdraw his words. “Où diable was my head? Who has ever heard of convicts being in Australia? Besides, they would scarcely have disembarked before they would turn into good, honest men. The climate, you know, Miss Mary, the moralistic climate…”

The poor scientist, wishing to repair his mistake, was — like the wagon — bogging himself deeper down. Lady Helena’s look at him took whatever was left of his composure, but not wanting to embarrass him further, she took Mary away to the side of the tent, where Mr. Olbinett was busy setting the lunch according to all the rules of his art.

“I deserve to be transported,” said Paganel, woefully.

“I agree,” said Glenarvan.

And after this reply, made with a gravity which completely overwhelmed the worthy geographer, Glenarvan and John Mangles went toward the wagon.

They found Ayrton and the two sailors working to get it out of the deep rut. The ox and horse, harnessed side by side, were straining with every muscle. The traces were stretched to breaking; their collars threatened to break with the effort. Wilson and Mulrady were pushing the wheels, and the quartermaster urging on the team with voice and goad. The heavy vehicle did not move. The clay, already dry, held it as firmly as if sealed by some hydraulic cement.

John Mangles watered the clay to loosen it, but it was of no use. The wagon remained motionless. After repeated efforts, men and animals stopped. Unless the vehicle was taken to pieces, it would be impossible to extricate it from the mud. But they didn’t have the necessary tools to undertake such a task.

Ayrton, who wanted to overcome this obstacle at all costs, was was going to try again, when Glenarvan stopped him.

“Enough, Ayrton, enough,” he said. “We must spare the horse and ox we have left. If we are obliged to continue our journey on foot, one can carry the ladies and the other the provisions. They may thus still be of use to us.”

“Very well, My Lord,” said the quartermaster, unyoking the exhausted animals.

“Now, friends,” added Glenarvan, “let’s return to the camp. Let us deliberate on our options, evaluate their pro et contra, and determine our course of action.”

A few moments later the party was recovering from their bad night with a good breakfast, and the discussion was opened. Everyone was asked to give his opinion.

The first question was to determine their exact position, and this was naturally put to Paganel, who informed them, with his accustomed rigorous accuracy, that the expedition had been stopped on the 37th parallel, in longitude 148° 26′, on the banks of the Snowy River.

“What is the exact longitude of Twofold Bay?” asked Glenarvan.

“150°,” said Paganel.

“And how far is that 1° 34′”

“Eighty-five miles.”²

“And Melbourne is…?”

“Two hundred miles, at least.”

“Very good,” said Glenarvan. “Our position being settled, what should be done?”

The response was unanimous: get to the coast without delay. Lady Helena and Mary Grant pledged to travel five miles a day. The brave women were not afraid to walk, if necessary, the whole distance between the Snowy River and Twofold Bay.

“You are a valiant travelling companion, dear Helena,” said Lord Glenarvan. “But are we sure of finding the resources we need at the bay when we get there?”

“Without a doubt,” said Paganel. “Eden is a well established town that is many years old, and its port must have frequent communication with Melbourne. I suppose that even at Delegate, on the Victoria frontier, thirty miles from here, we might resupply our expedition, and find fresh means of transport.”

“And the Duncan?” asked Ayrton. “Don’t you think it advisable to send for her to come to the bay?”

“What do you think, John?” said Glenarvan.

The young captain thought for a moment before speaking. “I don’t think Your Honour should be in any hurry about it. There will be time enough to give orders to Tom Austin, and summon him to the coast.”

“That’s quite certain,” added Paganel.

“You see,” said John, “it should only take four of five days to reach Eden.”

“Four or five days!” said Ayrton, shaking his head. “Say more like fifteen or twenty, Captain, if you don’t want to regret your mistake later.”

“Fifteen or twenty days to go eighty-five miles?” cried Glenarvan.

“At least, My Lord. You are going to cross the most difficult portion of Victoria, a desert, where the squatters say everything is lacking. Plains covered with scrub, where there are no cleared tracks and no one has been able to found a station. You will have to walk with the axe or torch in hand, and, believe me, that’s not a fast way to travel.”

Ayrton had spoken firmly, and Paganel, at whom all the others looked inquiringly, nodded his head in token of his agreement in opinion with the quartermaster.

“Well, admitting these difficulties,” said John Mangles, “in fifteen days at most your Lordship can send orders to the Duncan.”

“I have to add,” said Ayrton, “that the principal obstacle will not come from the lack of a road, but the Snowy itself has to be crossed, and most likely we must wait until the water goes down.”

“What?” cried John. “Is there no ford?”

“I don’t think so,” said Ayrton. “I looked this morning for some practicable crossing, but could not find any. It is unusual to meet with such a torrential river at this time of the year, but it is a chance against which I am powerless.”

“Is this Snowy very wide?” asked Lady Helena.

“Wide and deep enough, Madame,” replied Ayrton. “Three hundred feet³, but with a dangerous current. A good swimmer could not cross it safely.”

“Let’s build a boat then,” said Robert, who believed he could do anything. “We have only to cut down a tree and hollow it out, get in it, and be off.”

“Bright lad, this boy of Captain Grant’s!” said Paganel.

“And he’s right,” said John Mangles. “We will be forced to come to that. I think it is useless to waste our time in idle discussions.”

“What do you think, Ayrton?” asked Glenarvan.

“I think, My Lord, that a month hence, unless some help arrives, we shall find ourselves still on the banks of the Snowy.”

“Well, then, do you have a better plan?” asked a somewhat exasperated John Mangles.

“Yes, that the Duncan should leave Melbourne, and go to the east coast.”

“Oh, always the Duncan! And how could her presence at the bay make it easier for us to get there?”

Ayrton waited an instant before answering, and then said, rather evasively “I have no wish to impose my opinions. What I do is in the interest of all, and I am ready to leave the moment his Honour gives the signal.” And he crossed his arms and was silent.

“That is not an answer, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us your plan, and we will discuss it. What do you propose?”

Ayrton replied, in a calm assured voice. “I propose that we should not venture beyond the Snowy in our present condition. It is here we must wait for help, and this help can only come from the Duncan. Let us camp here, where we have provisions, and let one of us take your orders to Tom Austin to go to Twofold Bay.”

This unexpected proposition was greeted with astonishment, and John Mangles did not conceal his antipathy to the idea.

“Meanwhile,” said Ayrton, “either the river will lower and allow us to ford it, or we shall have time to make a canoe. This is the plan I submit for your Lordship’s approval.”

“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Your idea deserves to be taken seriously. Its greatest fault is to cause a delay, but it would save us great fatigue, and perhaps danger. What do you think of it, friends?”

“What do you say, MacNabbs?” asked Lady Helena, “Since the beginning of the discussion you have been content to listen, and have been very stingy with your words.”

“Since you ask my advice,” said the Major, “I will give it you very frankly. It seems to me that Ayrton has spoken as a wise and prudent man, and I agree with his proposal.”

This was an unexpected response, as the Major had been strongly opposed to Ayrton’s proposal, before now. Ayrton himself was surprised, and gave a hasty glance at the Major. Once MacNabbs had endorsed the plan, Paganel, Lady Helena, and the sailors were very quick to agree, as well.

Glenarvan declared that the quartermaster’s plan should be adopted in principle.

“And now, John,” he added, “don’t you think it would be prudent to camp here, on the banks of the river, while waiting for the means of transport.”

“Yes,” replied John Mangles, “if our messenger can get across the Snowy when we cannot.”

All eyes were turned on the quartermaster, who answered with a smile. “The messenger will not cross the river.”

“Ah!” said John Mangles.

“He will simply go back to the Lucknow road, which leads straight to Melbourne.”

“Two hundred and fifty miles on foot!” cried the young captain.

“On horseback,” said Ayrton. “We still have a healthy horse. It should only only take four days to reach Melbourne. Allow the Duncan two days reach Twofold Bay and two to four days⁴ to get back to the camp, and in little more than a week the messenger can be back with the ship’s crew.”

The Major nodded approvingly, as Ayrton spoke, to the profound astonishment of John Mangles. But as everyone was in favour of the quartermaster’s plan, all there was to do was to carry it out as quickly as possible.

“Now then, friends,” said Glenarvan. “It remains to choose our messenger. I do not wish to hide that it will be a difficult and perilous mission. Who will devote himself to his companions, and carry our instructions to Melbourne?”

Wilson, Mulrady, Paganel, John Mangles, and even Robert, instantly offered their services. John particularly insisted that he should be entrusted with the mission.

Ayrton, who had been silent until now said “With your Honour’s permission, I will go myself. I am accustomed to this country. I have traversed more difficult areas many times. I can get through, where another would be stopped. I ask then, for the good of all, that I may be sent to Melbourne. A word from you will accredit me to your second, and in six days I will be sure to bring the Duncan to Twofold Bay.”

“Well spoken,” said Glenarvan. “You are an intelligent and brave man, Ayrton, and I am sure you will succeed.”

The quartermaster was obviously better able than anyone else to fulfill this difficult task. Everyone understood and withdrew.

John Mangles made one last objection, saying that Ayrton was needed to discover traces of the Britannia or Harry Grant. But the Major remarked that the expedition would remain on the banks of the Snowy until Ayrton returned, that they had no intention of resuming their search without him, and that consequently his absence would not in the least prejudice the captain’s interests.

“Go well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “Be as quick as you can, and come back via Eden to our Snowy camp.”

A flash of satisfaction shot across the quartermaster’s face. He turned his head away, but not before John Mangles had caught the look, and instinctively felt his old distrust of Ayrton revive.

The quartermaster made immediate preparations for departure, assisted by the two sailors, one of whom saw to the horse and the other to the provisions. Glenarvan, meantime, wrote his letter for Tom Austin.

He ordered the Duncan’s second to go to Twofold Bay without delay. He recommended the quartermaster to him as a man he could trust. On arriving at the coast, Tom was to dispatch a detachment of sailors from the yacht under Ayrton’s orders…

Glenarvan was just at this passage of his letter, when MacNabbs, who was following him with his eyes, asked him in a strange tone how he wrote Ayrton’s name.

“Why, as it is pronounced, of course,” replied Glenarvan.

“That’s a mistake,” said the Major quietly. “He pronounces it ‘Ayrton,’ but he writes it ‘Ben Joyce!’”

1. A French expression meaning a spectacular turn of events — DAS

2. 35 leagues (140 kilometres — DAS)
The Hetzel text has the distance given to Twofold Bay with three incompatible numbers. A longitude of 147° 53′, a distance of 75 miles, and the footnote which gives that as 37 leagues. Of these three, it’s the footnote version which most closely corresponds with the actual location of the Snowy River. I have adjusted all three, as well as the distance to Delegate, to match reality — DAS

3. Verne has the Snowy River being a mile wide here, which is about twenty times broader than it actually is, so I’m just going with the flood and the current being enough of a barrier to them attempting a crossing — DAS

4. Verne has the trip from Twofold Bay to the Snowy as taking twenty-four hours, which given the difficulties of the trip already described is ridiculously optimistic — DAS