Chapter I
The Macquarie

If the searchers for Captain Grant ever fully despaired of finding him, surely this was the moment. Where in the world should their next expedition take them? How were they to explore unknown countries? The Duncan was no longer in their possession, so they couldn’t even return immediately to Scotland. The undertaking of these generous Scots had failed. Failure! A sad word that finds no echo in a valiant soul, and yet, under the blows of fate, Glenarvan must have acknowledged his powerlessness to continue his quest of mercy.

Mary Grant had the courage, under the circumstances, not to speak of her father. She restrained her anxieties by thinking of the unfortunate crew that had just perished. The girl faded before the friend, and it was she who consoled Lady Glenarvan, after receiving so many consolations! She was the first to speak of returning to Scotland. To see her so courageous, so resigned, filled John Mangles with admiration. He wanted to give her one last word of hope for Captain Grant, but Mary stopped him with a look.

“No, Mr. John,” she said. “Let’s think of those others who have devoted themselves to the quest. Lord Glenarvan must return to Europe!”

“You are right, Miss Mary,” said John Mangles. “It must be done. It is also necessary to inform the English authorities of the fate of the Duncan. But do not give up hope. Rather than abandoning them, I will take up the search, alone. I will find Captain Grant, or I will die trying!”

It was a serious commitment that John Mangles made. Mary accepted it, and she held out her hand toward the young captain’s, as if to ratify the treaty. On John Mangles’s part, it was a dedication of his whole life. From Mary, undying gratitude.

It was decided that they would depart Eden, immediately. They resolved to reach Melbourne without delay. The next day, John went to inquire if any ships would be sailing, soon. He expected to find frequent communications between Eden and the capital of Victoria.

He was disappointed. Ships were scarce. Three or four ships, anchored in Twofold Bay, made up the entire merchant fleet of the place. None were sailing to Melbourne, Sydney, or Point de Galle, in Ceylon. From any of these ports, Glenarvan could expect to find ships taking passengers to Europe. Indeed, the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company has a regular service of steamers between these ports and England.

What was to be done in this situation? Wait for a ship? They could wait a long time, because Twofold Bay is little frequented. How many ships passed offshore and never come into the port?

After much thought and discussion, Glenarvan nearly decided to go to Sydney by road along the coast, when Paganel made a suggestion that no one expected.

The geographer had visited Twofold Bay, himself. He knew that no ships were sailing for Sydney or Melbourne. But of these three anchored ships, one was preparing to leave for Auckland, the capital of Te Ika-a-Māui, the northern island of New Zealand. Paganel proposed to take that ship to Auckland, whence it would be easy to return to Europe by the ships of the Peninsular Company.

This proposal was given serious consideration. Paganel, somewhat unusually for him, did not present a long list of arguments in favour of the idea. He confined himself to stating the fact, and adding that the crossing would not last more than five or six days. The distance from Australia to New Zealand is not much more than a thousand miles.¹

By a strange coincidence, Auckland was located precisely on the 37^th parallel which the searchers had been stubbornly following from the coast of Araucanía. The geographer might have fairly used this fact to bolster an argument that they should follow his suggestion. It presented a natural opportunity to visit New Zealand.

Paganel did not argue this advantage, however. After two successive disappointments, he did not want to risk presenting a third interpretation of the document. Besides, what could he argue? The document seemed clear that a continent served as Captain Grant’s refuge, not an island. And New Zealand was definitely an island. This seemed decisive. Be that as it may, whether for this reason, or another, Paganel did not attach any new idea of ​​exploration to his proposition of going to Auckland. He only remarked that regular communication existed between this point and Great Britain, and that it would be easy to take advantage of it.

John Mangles supported Paganel’s proposal. He advised its adoption, since it was impossible to say how long they’d have to wait for a ship at Twofold Bay. But before making any final commitment, he thought it proper to visit the ship indicated by the geographer. He took a boat with Glenarvan, Major MacNabbs, Paganel, and Robert, and in a few strokes of the oars, they docked at the ship anchored not far from the wharf.

It was a 250 tonne brig, named Macquarie. She was doing cabotage between the different ports of Australia and New Zealand. The captain, or, more rightly, the “master,” received his visitors rather roughly. They saw that they were dealing with an uneducated man. His manners did not distinguish him from the five sailors by his side. A big red face, thick hands, a crushed nose, a flattened eye, lips dirty with the pipe, with that brutal look, made Will Halley a sad figure. But they had little choice, and for a crossing of a few days, they wouldn’t be too particular.

“What do you all want?” Will Halley asked these strangers who were standing on the deck of his ship.

“The captain?” said John Mangles.

“It’s me,” said Halley. “Next?”

“Is the Macquarie sailing for Auckland?”

“Yes. Next?”

“What is she carrying?”

“Anything she can buy or sell. Next?”

“When does she sail?”

“Tomorrow. On the noon tide. Next?”

“Would she take passengers?”

“That depends on the passengers, and if they were satisfied with the ship’s mess.”

“They would bring their own provisions.”

“Next?”

“Next?”

“Yes. How many are they?”

“Nine, including two ladies.”

“I do not have cabins.”

“We will make do with whatever deck space you make available.”

“Next?”

“Do you accept?” asked John Mangles, refusing to be put off by the captain’s gruff manner.

“We’ll see,” said the master of the Macquarie.

Will Halley took a turn or two around the deck, clomping loudly in his heavy hobnailed boots. He turned back suddenly to John Mangles.

“What will you pay?”

“What are you asking?”

“Fifty pounds.”

Glenarvan nodded.

“Alright. Fifty pounds,” said John Mangles.

“That’s passage only,” said Will Halley.

“Only the passage.”

“Food’s extra.”

“Extra.”

“Agreed. Next?” Will held out his hand.

“Huh?”

“The deposit?”

“Here’s half the price, twenty-five pounds.” John Mangles counted out the sum for the master, who pocketed it without saying thank you.

“Be on board before noon, tomorrow,” he said. “Whether you’re here or not, I’m sailing.”

“We will be here.”

This said, Glenarvan, the Major, Robert, Paganel, and John Mangles left the deck, without Will Halley having even touched the watch cap² stuck to his red mop.

“What a lout!” said John.

“Well, I’m fine with him,” answered Paganel. “He’s a real sea dog.”

“A real bear!” said the Major.

“And I imagine,” said John Mangles, “that this bear must have trafficked human flesh, in his time.”

“What does it matter?” asked Glenarvan. “As long as he commands the Macquarie, and the Macquarie goes to New Zealand. From Twofold Bay to Auckland we will see little of him. After Auckland, we will see less.”

Lady Helena and Mary Grant were pleased to learn that the departure was set for the next day. Glenarvan pointed out that the Macquarie did not match the Duncan for comfort. But after so many trials, they were not women to trifle themselves over something so petty. Mr. Olbinett was requested to take care of the supplies. The poor man, since the loss of the Duncan, had often mourned that the unfortunate Mrs. Olbinett had remained on board, and, consequently, fallen victim with all the crew to the ferocity of the convicts. Despite this, he fulfilled his duties as a steward with his usual zeal, and the “food extra” consisted of selected provisions which were never usually included in the brig’s fare. In a few hours his arrangements were complete.

Meanwhile, the Major went to cash some drafts that Glenarvan had on the Melbourne Union Bank. He did not want to be devoid of gold, nor of arms and ammunition, so he renewed his arsenal. As for Paganel, he obtained an excellent map of New Zealand, published by Johnston of Edinburgh.

Mulrady was nearly fully recovered. He could barely feel the injury that had put his life in danger. A few hours at sea would complete his cure. He intended to treat himself with the breezes of the Pacific.

Wilson was responsible for the accommodation of the passengers on board the Macquarie. Under the strokes of his brush and broom, the deckhouse changed appearance. Will Halley, shrugging his shoulders, let the sailor do as he pleased. Of Glenarvan, and his companions, he cared little. He did not even know their names and did not care. This extra freight was worth fifty pounds to him, that’s all. He cared less about it than the two hundred barrels of tanned leathers that filled his hold. The skins first, then the passengers. He was a trader. As for his qualities as a sailor, he was well practiced in navigating these seas, made very dangerous by coral reefs.

As the day drew to a close, Glenarvan wanted to return to the point on the shore crossed by the 37^th parallel. He had two reasons to go there.

First, he wished to visit once more this presumed place of the shipwreck. Ayrton certainly had been the quartermaster of the Britannia, and the Britannia could have really been lost on the Australian coast. On the east coast, if not on the west. The site of the possible wreck should at least be examined, while he had the chance.

And even if there was no trace of the Britannia, there might be of the Duncan, from when she had fallen into the hands of the convicts. There may have been a fight. They might find traces of a struggle, of some last defence. If the crew had perished in the waves, perhaps the waves had cast up some bodies onto the shore.

Glenarvan, accompanied by his faithful John, performed this search. The master of the Victoria Hotel put two horses at their disposal, and they took the north road around Twofold Bay.

It was a sad exploration. Glenarvan and Captain John rode without speaking, but they understood each other. The same thoughts, and the same anxieties, tortured their minds. They looked at the rocks, gnawed by the sea. They did not need to question or answer one another.

John’s energy and intelligence ensured that every point of the shoreline was scrupulously explored. The smallest coves were carefully examined. The sloping beaches and sandy plateaus where the Pacific tides, however mediocre, could have thrown a wreck were investigated. But no clue was found that might provoke further searching in these parts.

No trace of a shipwreck was found.

Nor did they find any sign of the Duncan. All of this Australian coastline was deserted.

John Mangles did discover obvious traces of an encampment on the edge of the shore: remnants of fires recently lit under isolated myalls. Had a nomadic tribe of natives camped there for a few days? No, because Glenarvan found indisputable proof that the convicts had been on this part of the coast.

It was a grey and yellow tunic: worn, patched, a sinister rag left at the foot of a tree. It bore a registration number from Perth Penitentiary. The convicts were no longer there, but this sleazy castoff betrayed their passage. This livery of crime, after having dressed some wretch, was rotting on this deserted shore.

“See, John!” said Glenarvan. “The convicts have been here! And our poor comrades from Duncan…”

“Yes!” said John in a choked voice. “It is certain that they were not landed, that they perished!”

“Scum!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “If they ever fall into my hands, I will avenge my crew!”

The pain had hardened Glenarvan’s features. For a few minutes he stared intently at the immensity of the waves, perhaps seeking a ship on the distant horizon. Then his eyes softened, he became himself again, and, without adding a word or making a gesture, he set off at a gallop, back to Eden.

Only one formality remained to be fulfilled: the declaration to the constable of the events which had taken place. It was made that evening to Thomas Banks. This magistrate could scarcely conceal his satisfaction while writing down his minutes. He was delighted by the departure of Ben Joyce and his gang. The whole town shared his contentment. The convicts had left Australia — thanks to a new crime, it is true — but they had left. This important news was immediately telegraphed to the authorities in Melbourne and Sydney.

His declaration completed, Glenarvan returned to the Victoria Hotel. The travellers passed their last evening sadly. Their thoughts wandered over this fertile land of misery. They remembered so many hopes so legitimately conceived at Cape Bernouilli, and so cruelly broken at Twofold Bay!

Paganel was in a feverish state of agitation. John Mangles, who had watched him since the Snowy River incident, felt that the geographer both wanted, and did not want to talk. Many times he had pressed him with questions to which the other had not replied.

That night, accompanying him back to his room, John asked him why he was so nervous.

“John, my friend,” said Paganel, “I’m no more nervous than usual.”

“Monsieur Paganel,” said John, “you have a secret that stifles you!”

“Well, what can I do?” The geographer waved his arms in the air. “It is stronger than me!”

“What is stronger than you?”

“My joy on one side; my despair on the other.”

“You are happy and despair at the same time?”

“Yes, happy and despair to visit New Zealand.”

“Have you found some clue?” asked John Mangles eagerly. “Have you returned to the lost track?”

“No, friend John! There is no return from New Zealand! But, nevertheless … well, you know human nature! We just have to breathe to hope! And my motto is “spiro, spero,”³ which is worth all the most beautiful currencies in the world!”

1. About 400 leagues. (1,600 km — DAS)

2. A sort of oilcloth hat.

3. Latin: As I breath, I hope — DAS