Chapter IV
The Breakers

Their slow voyage continued. On February 2^nd, six days after her departure, the Macquarie still hadn’t raised the shores of New Zealand. The wind was fair, from the southwest; but the currents were against them, and the brig hardly made any headway. The hard, stormy sea strained her rigging; her frame creaked, and she rose painfully from the troughs of the waves. Her badly managed shrouds and stays left play in the masts, which shook violently with every roll.

Very fortunately, Will Halley, as a man in no hurry, did not crowd on more sails, because if he had, all the rigging would inevitably have come down. John Mangles hoped that this wretched carcass would reach port without any mishap, but he suffered to see his companions so poorly installed aboard this brig.

Neither Lady Helena, nor Mary Grant complained, though continual rain forced them to stay in the deckhouse. There, the lack of air and the rolling of the ship made life miserable. They often came out onto the deck to brave the inclement weather until the unbearable squalls forced them below again. They returned to the small cabin more suited to lodge goods than passengers, and especially not ladies.

Their friends tried to distract them. Paganel passed the time with his stories, but he did not succeed much. Indeed, his stories of past visitors to New Zealand further demoralized them. As much as the geographer’s essays on the Pampas or Australia had been interesting, his stories of New Zealand left his audience indifferent and cold. Moreover, they were not approaching this sinister country voluntarily, with hope and enthusiasm, but under the pressure of necessity.

Of all the Macquarie’s passengers, the most unhappy was Lord Glenarvan. He was rarely seen in the deckhouse. He could not settle down. His nervous, over-excited nature did not accommodate itself to imprisonment between four narrow walls. He remained on deck, day and night, without concern for the torrents of rain or the high seas. Sometimes leaning on the rail, sometimes walking with feverish agitation, his eyes stared incessantly at the sea. He scanned the horizon with his telescope whenever the weather cleared enough to permit it. He seemed to question the silent waves. He would have torn away the mist that veiled the horizon with a gesture, if he could. He could not resign himself, and his face was full of pain. He was an energetic man, hitherto happy and powerful, to whom power and happiness were suddenly wanting.

John Mangles endured the harsh weather by his side. Whenever a break in the weather permitted, Glenarvan scanned the horizon with more obstinate stubbornness.

“Your Honour seeks the land?” asked John.

Glenarvan shook his head, no.

“Nevertheless,” said the young captain, “you must be getting tired of this brig. We should have seen the lights of Auckland thirty-six hours ago.“

Glenarvan did not answer. He was still staring, and for a minute his telescope remained fixed on the horizon to the windward side of the ship.

“The land is not on this side,” said John Mangles. “Your Honour should look to starboard.”

“Why, John?” asked Glenarvan. “It’s not the land that I am looking for!”

“What are you looking for, My Lord?”

“My yacht! My Duncan!” said Glenarvan angrily. “She must be there, in these parts, skimming these seas, doing the sinister job of pirate! She is there, I tell you. There, John, on this shipping lane, between Australia and New Zealand! And I have a feeling that we will meet her!”

“God preserve us from that meeting, My Lord!”

“Why, John?”

“Your Honour forgets our situation! What could we do on this brig, if the Duncan gave us the chase? We could not even run away!”

“Flee, John?”

“Yes, My Lord, though it would be in vain! We would be caught, delivered to the mercy of those wretches, and Ben Joyce has shown that he does not back away from any crime. Our lives would be worth nothing! We would defend ourselves to the death, but then what? Think of Lady Glenarvan, My Lord! Think of Mary Grant!”

“Poor women!” murmured Glenarvan. “John, my heart is broken, and sometimes I feel despair invade it. It seems to me that new catastrophes are waiting for us, that Heaven has declared itself against us! I am afraid!”

“You, My Lord?”

“Not for myself, John, but for those I love. For those you love too!”

“Don’t worry, My Lord,” replied the young captain. “We must not fear! The Macquarie sails badly, but she sails. Will Halley is a dumb ass, but I’m here, and if the approach to the shore seems dangerous to me, I’ll bring the ship back off. On that issue there is little or no danger. But God forbid we should find ourselves side by side with the Duncan. If Your Honour seeks to to sight her, it should only be so we can avoid her!”

John Mangles was right. Meeting of the Duncan would have been fatal to Macquarie. Such a meeting was to be feared in these narrow seas that pirates travelled without risk. That day, at least, the yacht did not appear, and the sixth night since their departure from Twofold Bay came, without the worst fears of John Mangles materializing.

But it was a terrible night. The darkness came on suddenly at seven o’clock in the evening. The sky was very threatening. A sailor’s instinct overcame Will Halley’s stupidity and drunkenness. He left his cabin, rubbing his eyes, and shaking his big red head. He took a deep breath, as another would have swallowed a glass of water to recover, and he examined the masts. The wind was freshening, and turning a quarter to the west, carrying them directly toward the New Zealand coast.

Will Halley loudly called his men, had the topgallants reefed, and set the night’s sails. John Mangles silently approved. He had given up talking to this rude sailor, but neither he, nor Glenarvan, left the deck. Two hours later, a strong breeze broke out. Will Halley added another reef to his topsail. The maneuver would have been difficult for five men if the Macquarie had not carried a double yard in the American style. It was enough to bring down the upper yard so that the topsail could be reduced to its smallest size.

Two hours passed. The sea was getting higher. The Macquarie was shaking to her bilges enough to make one think her keel was scrapping on the rocks. It was not the case, but her heavy hull struggled to rise up the waves. And crashing down into the troughs, the sea swept over her deck. The longboat, hanging from the port davits, disappeared with a wave washing over the deck.

John Mangles did not stop being worried. Any other ship would have played with these waves, but this heavy boat was in danger of sinking. The deck was filling with each dive, and the water wasn’t draining quickly enough through the scuppers. This could sink the ship. It would have been wise to break the bulwarks with an axe, in order to facilitate the draining of the deck, but Will Halley refused to take this precaution.

A greater danger threatened the Macquarie, and it was too late to prevent it. About half-past eleven John Mangles and Wilson, standing on the leeward side, were struck by an unusual sound. Their seafaring instinct awoke. John grabbed the sailor’s hand.

“The surf!” he said

“Yes,” said Wilson. “The waves are breaking on a bank.”

“Not more than two cables away?”¹

“At most! We’re near the shore!”

John leaned over the bulwarks, looked at the dark waves and exclaimed “The lead! Wilson! The lead!”

The master, posted at the front, did not seem to suspect his position. Wilson seized the lead line coiled in its pail, and rushed into the foresail stays. He threw the lead; the rope ran out between his fingers. At the third knot, the lead stopped.

“Three fathoms!” shouted Wilson.

“Captain!” said John, running to Will Halley. “We’re on breakers!”

He didn’t wait wait to see Will Halley shrug in response. He rushed to the rudder, to put the helm hard over, while Wilson, releasing the lead, hauled on the sheets of the main topsail to luff the ship. John pushed the in-comprehending man who was on the helm away from it with a sharp blow.

“Into the wind! Let loose! Let loose!” cried the young captain, maneuvering to turn away from the reefs.

For half a minute, the brig’s starboard side ran parallel to the shore, and despite the darkness of the night, John saw a roaring line whitening four fathoms from the ship.

Will Halley, becoming aware of this imminent danger, lost his head. His barely sober sailors could not understand his orders. His incoherent words, his contradictory orders, showed that the stupid drunkard had lost all self-control. He was surprised by his proximity to the land, which lay eight miles to leeward, when he had thought it was thirty or forty. The currents had thrown him off his usual course, and caught this miserable routinist off guard.

John Mangles’ quick maneuver had pushed Macquarie away from the breakers, but John did not know his position. Maybe he was in a tight channel between reefs. The wind was full in the west, and with every pitch they might run aground.

The sound of the surf redoubled off the starboard bow. They had to luff again. John put the tiller hard over. The breakers multiplied under the brig’s bow. They had to turn into the wind to get back out to sea. Could they do it in a poorly balanced ship, under reduced sails? It was uncertain, but it had to be tried.

“Hard over!” shouted John Mangles to Wilson.

The Macquarie was approaching the new line of reefs. Soon, the sea foamed over the submerged rocks.

It was a moment of inexpressible anguish. The foam brightened the waves with phosphorescence. The sea was screaming, as if she possessed the voice of the ancient sirens brought to life from pagan mythology. Wilson and Mulrady added their weight to the tiller. They pushed it to its stops.

Suddenly, they felt a shock. The Macquarie had struck a rock. The bobstay² broke, compromising the stability of the foremast. Could they complete the tack without further damage?

No, for the wind suddenly calmed, and the ship fell back to the leeward. Its turn was stopped. A high wave lifted her up, carried her further onto the reefs, and she fell back with extreme violence. The foremast came down with all its rigging. The brig shuddered twice and then remained motionless, listing thirty-five degrees to starboard.

The porthole windows shattered. The passengers rushed outside. But the waves swept the deck from one end to the other, and they could not remain there without danger. John Mangles, knowing the ship was firmly embedded in the sand, begged them to go back into the deckhouse.

“The truth, John?” asked Glenarvan calmly.

“The truth, My Lord,” said John Mangles, “is that we will not sink. As for being demolished by the sea, that’s another question, but we have time to take counsel.”

“Is it midnight?”

“Yes, My Lord, and we must wait for the day.”

“Can we not put to sea in the boat?”

“Not in these waves, in the dark. It is impossible! And besides, where would we land?”

“Alright, John, we’ll wait until daylight.”

Halley was running about the deck of his ship like a madman. His sailors who had recovered somewhat from their stupor, smashed open a barrel of brandy and began to drink. John foresaw that their drunkenness could soon bring terrible scenes. He could not count on the master to hold them back. That wretch tore his hair and wrung his hands. He thought only of his cargo, which was not insured.

“I am ruined! I am lost!” he cried, running from one side of the deck to the other.

John Mangles scarcely thought of consoling him. He ordered his companions to arm themselves, and stand ready to repulse the sailors, who were gorging themselves with brandy, and uttering terrible blasphemies.

“The first of these wretches who approaches the cabin,” said the Major calmly, “I will shoot like a dog.”

The sailors no doubt saw that the passengers were determined to hold them in check, for after a few attempts at plunder, they disappeared. John Mangles no longer worried about the drunkards, and waited impatiently for the day.

The ship was absolutely motionless. The sea slowly calmed. The wind was falling. The hull could resist for a few more hours. At sunrise, John would examine the shore. If it had an easy landing, the dinghy, now the only boat on board, could be used to transport the crew and passengers. It would take at least three trips, because it had room for only four people. As for the longboat, it had been carried away by the sea.

While thinking about the dangers of his situation, John Mangles leaned on the deckhouse, listening to the sounds of the surf. He sought to pierce the deep darkness. He wondered how far they were from the land, both desired, and feared. Breakers often extend several leagues from a coast. Could the frail little dinghy withstand a long crossing?

While John thought on, hoping for a little light in the dark sky, the ladies, confident in his word, rested in their berths. The immobility of the brig assured them of a few hours of tranquility. Glenarvan, John, and their companions no longer heard the cries of the dead drunk crew, who also seemed to be recovering with a quick sleep. By one o’clock in the morning a profound silence reigned aboard this brig, itself asleep on its bed of sand.

Around four o’clock, the first gleaming appeared in the east. The clouds shone slightly under the pale glow of dawn. John went back onto the deck. A curtain of mist hung on the horizon. Some indistinct contours floated above the morning fog. A slight swell still agitated the sea around them, but the waves of the open sea were lost amidst thick, motionless clouds.

John waited. The light grew gradually, the horizon became red. The curtain slowly lifted from the vast backdrop. Black reefs jutted out of the water. Then, a shoreline appeared as a strip of foam. A luminous point shone like a lighthouse as the tip of a peak was lit by the still invisible disc of the rising sun. The land was there, less than nine miles off.

“Land!” called John Mangles.

His companions, awakened by his voice, rushed to the deck of the brig, and silently watched the coast which was revealing itself on the horizon. Hospitable or fatal, it must become their place of refuge.

“Where is Will Halley?” asked Glenarvan.

“I do not know, My Lord,” answered John Mangles.

“And his sailors?”

“Missing, like him.”

“And like him, drunk, no doubt,” said MacNabbs.

“Look for them!” said Glenarvan. “We can not abandon them on this ship.”

Mulrady and Wilson went down to the crew quarters in the forecastle, and were back within two minutes. They were empty. They searched the rest of the brig, from the steerage, to the hold. They found neither Will Halley, nor his sailors.

“What! Nobody?” asked Glenarvan.

“Have they fallen into the sea?” asked Paganel.

“Anything’s possible,” said John Mangles, very concerned about this disappearance. He headed toward the stern. “Let’s get to the boat.”

Wilson and Mulrady followed to help him with the boat. But the dinghy was gone.

1. One cable is 100 fathoms, so two cables would be about 400 yards/metres — DAS

2. A stay underneath the bowsprit, to counteract the upward tension on the bowsprit from the jibs and forestay — DAS