In Search of the Castaways; or the Children of Captain Grant

CHAPTER IV A WAGER AND HOW DECIDED

ON the 7th of De­cem­ber, at three A. M., the DUN­CAN lay puff­ing out her smoke in the lit­tle har­bor ready to start, and a few min­utes af­ter­ward the an­chor was lift­ed, and the screw set in mo­tion. By eight o’clock, when the pas­sen­gers came on deck, the Am­ster­dam Is­land had al­most dis­ap­peared from view be­hind the mists of the hori­zon. This was the last halt­ing-​place on the route, and noth­ing now was be­tween them and the Aus­tralian coast but three thou­sand miles’ dis­tance. Should the west wind con­tin­ue but a dozen days longer, and the sea re­main fa­vor­able, the yacht would have reached the end of her voy­age.

Mary Grant and her broth­er could not gaze with­out emo­tion at the waves through which the DUN­CAN was speed­ing her course, when they thought that these very same waves must have dashed against the prow of the BRI­TAN­NIA but a few days be­fore her ship­wreck. Here, per­haps, Cap­tain Grant, with a dis­abled ship and di­min­ished crew, had strug­gled against the tremen­dous hur­ri­canes of the In­di­an Ocean, and felt him­self driv­en to­ward the coast with ir­re­sistible force. The Cap­tain point­ed out to Mary the dif­fer­ent cur­rents on the ship’s chart, and ex­plained to her their con­stant di­rec­tion. Among oth­ers there was one run­ning straight to the Aus­tralian con­ti­nent, and its ac­tion is equal­ly felt in the At­lantic and Pa­cif­ic. It was doubt­less against this that the BRI­TAN­NIA, dis­mast­ed and rud­der­less, had been un­able to con­tend, and con­se­quent­ly been dashed against the coast, and bro­ken in pieces.

A dif­fi­cul­ty about this, how­ev­er, pre­sent­ed it­self. The last in­tel­li­gence of Cap­tain Grant was from Callao on the 30th of May, 1862, as ap­peared in the _Mer­can­tile and Ship­ping Gazette_. “How then was it pos­si­ble that on the 7th of June, on­ly eight days af­ter leav­ing the shores of Pe­ru, that the BRI­TAN­NIA could have found her­self in the In­di­an Ocean? But to this, Pa­ganel, who was con­sult­ed on the sub­ject, found a very plau­si­ble so­lu­tion.

It was one evening, about six days af­ter their leav­ing Am­ster­dam Is­land, when they were all chat­ting to­geth­er on the poop, that the above-​named dif­fi­cul­ty was stat­ed by Gle­nar­van. Pa­ganel made no re­ply, but went and fetched the doc­ument. Af­ter pe­rus­ing it, he still re­mained silent, sim­ply shrug­ging his shoul­ders, as if ashamed of trou­bling him­self about such a tri­fle.

“Come, my good friend,” said Gle­nar­van, “at least give us an an­swer.”

“No,” replied Pa­ganel, “I’ll mere­ly ask a ques­tion for Cap­tain John to an­swer.”

“And what is it, Mon­sieur Pa­ganel?” said John Man­gles.

“Could a quick ship make the dis­tance in a month over that part of the Pa­cif­ic Ocean which lies be­tween Amer­ica and Aus­tralia?”

“Yes, by mak­ing two hun­dred miles in twen­ty-​four hours.”

“Would that be an ex­traor­di­nary rate of speed?”

“Not at all; sail­ing clip­pers of­ten go faster.”

“Well, then, in­stead of ‘7 June’ on this doc­ument, sup­pose that one fig­ure has been de­stroyed by the sea-​wa­ter, and read ‘17 June’ or ‘27 June,’ and all is ex­plained.”

“That’s to say,” replied La­dy He­le­na, “that be­tween the 31st of May and the 27th of June–“

“Cap­tain Grant could have crossed the Pa­cif­ic and found him­self in the In­di­an Ocean.”

Pa­ganel’s the­ory met with uni­ver­sal ac­cep­tance.

“That’s one more point cleared up,” said Gle­nar­van. “Thanks to our friend, all that re­mains to be done now is to get to Aus­tralia, and look out for traces of the wreck on the west­ern coast.”

“Or the east­ern?” said John Man­gles.

“In­deed, John, you may be right, for there is noth­ing in the doc­ument to in­di­cate which shore was the scene of the catas­tro­phe, and both points of the con­ti­nent crossed by the 37th par­al­lel, must, there­fore, be ex­plored.”

“Then, my Lord, it is doubt­ful, af­ter all,” said Mary.

“Oh no, Miss Mary,” John Man­gles has­tened to re­ply, see­ing the young girl’s ap­pre­hen­sion. “His Lord­ship will please to con­sid­er that if Cap­tain Grant had gained the shore on the east of Aus­tralia, he would al­most im­me­di­ate­ly have found refuge and as­sis­tance. The whole of that coast is En­glish, we might say, peo­pled with colonists. The crew of the BRI­TAN­NIA could not have gone ten miles with­out meet­ing a fel­low-​coun­try­man.”

“I am quite of your opin­ion, Cap­tain John,” said Pa­ganel. “On the east­ern coast Har­ry Grant would not on­ly have found an En­glish colony eas­ily, but he would cer­tain­ly have met with some means of trans­port back to Eu­rope.”

“And he would not have found the same re­sources on the side we are mak­ing for?” asked La­dy He­le­na.

“No, madam,” replied Pa­ganel; “it is a desert coast, with no com­mu­ni­ca­tion be­tween it and Mel­bourne or Ade­laide. If the BRI­TAN­NIA was wrecked on those rocky shores, she was as much cut off from all chance of help as if she had been lost on the in­hos­pitable shores of Africa.”

“But what has be­come of my fa­ther there, then, all these two years?” asked Mary Grant.

“My dear Mary,” replied Pa­ganel, “you have not the least doubt, have you, that Cap­tain Grant reached the Aus­tralian con­ti­nent af­ter his ship­wreck?”

“No, Mon­sieur Pa­ganel.”

“Well, grant­ing that, what be­came of him? The sup­po­si­tions we might make are not nu­mer­ous. They are con­fined to three. Ei­ther Har­ry Grant and his com­pan­ions have found their way to the En­glish colonies, or they have fall­en in­to the hands of the na­tives, or they are lost in the im­mense wilds of Aus­tralia.”

“Go on, Pa­ganel,” said Lord Gle­nar­van, as the learned French­man made a pause.

“The first hy­poth­esis I re­ject, then, to be­gin with, for Har­ry Grant could not have reached the En­glish colonies, or long ago he would have been back with his chil­dren in the good town of Dundee.”

“Poor fa­ther,” mur­mured Mary, “away from us for two whole years.”

“Hush, Mary,” said Robert, “Mon­sieur Pa­ganel will tell us.”

“Alas! my boy, I can­not. All that I af­firm is, that Cap­tain Grant is in the hands of the na­tives.”

“But these na­tives,” said La­dy He­le­na, hasti­ly, “are they–“

“Re­as­sure your­self, madam,” said Pa­ganel, di­vin­ing her thoughts. “The abo­rig­ines of Aus­tralia are low enough in the scale of hu­man in­tel­li­gence, and most de­grad­ed and un­civ­ilized, but they are mild and gen­tle in dis­po­si­tion, and not san­guinary like their New Zealand neigh­bors. Though they may be pris­on­ers, their lives have nev­er been threat­ened, you may be sure. All trav­el­ers are unan­imous in declar­ing that the Aus­tralian na­tives ab­hor shed­ding blood, and many a time they have found in them faith­ful al­lies in re­pelling the at­tacks of evil-​dis­posed con­victs far more cru­el­ly in­clined.”

“You hear what Mon­sieur Pa­ganel tells us, Mary,” said La­dy He­le­na turn­ing to the young girl. “If your fa­ther is in the hands of the na­tives, which seems prob­able from the doc­ument, we shall find him.”

“And what if he is lost in that im­mense coun­try?” asked Mary.

“Well, we’ll find him still,” ex­claimed Pa­ganel, in a con­fi­dent tone. “Won’t we, friends?”

“Most cer­tain­ly,” replied Gle­nar­van; and anx­ious to give a less gloomy turn to the con­ver­sa­tion, he added–

“But I won’t ad­mit the sup­po­si­tion of his be­ing lost, not for an in­stant.”

“Nei­ther will I,” said Pa­ganel.

“Is Aus­tralia a big place?” in­quired Robert.

“Aus­tralia, my boy, is about as large as four-​fifths of Eu­rope. It has some­where about 775,000 HECTARES.”

“So much as that?” said the Ma­jor.

“Yes, Mc­Nabbs, al­most to a yard’s breadth. Don’t you think now it has a right to be called a con­ti­nent?”

“I do, cer­tain­ly.”

“I may add,” con­tin­ued the SA­VANT, “that there are but few ac­counts of trav­el­ers be­ing lost in this im­mense coun­try. In­deed, I be­lieve Le­ichardt is the on­ly one of whose fate we are ig­no­rant, and some time be­fore my de­par­ture I learned from the Ge­ograph­ical So­ci­ety that Mcin­tyre had strong hopes of hav­ing dis­cov­ered traces of him.”

“The whole of Aus­tralia, then, is not yet ex­plored?” asked La­dy He­le­na.

“No, madam, but very lit­tle of it. This con­ti­nent is not much bet­ter known than the in­te­ri­or of Africa, and yet it is from no lack of en­ter­pris­ing trav­el­ers. From 1606 to 1862, more than fifty have been en­gaged in ex­plor­ing along the coast and in the in­te­ri­or.”

“Oh, fifty!” ex­claimed Mc­Nabbs in­cred­ulous­ly.

“No, no,” ob­ject­ed the Ma­jor; “that is go­ing too far.”

“And I might go far­ther, Mc­Nabbs,” replied the ge­og­ra­pher, im­pa­tient of con­tra­dic­tion.

“Yes, Mc­Nabbs, quite that num­ber.”

“Far­ther still, Pa­ganel.”

“If you doubt me, I can give you the names.”

“Oh, oh,” said the Ma­jor, cool­ly. “That’s just like you SA­VANTS. You stick at noth­ing.”

“Ma­jor, will you bet your Pur­dy-​Moore ri­fle against my tele­scope?”

“Why not, Pa­ganel, if it would give you any plea­sure.”

“Done, Ma­jor!” ex­claimed Pa­ganel. “You may say good-​by to your ri­fle, for it will nev­er shoot an­oth­er chamois or fox un­less I lend it to you, which I shall al­ways be hap­py to do, by the by.”

“And when­ev­er you re­quire the use of your tele­scope, Pa­ganel, I shall be equal­ly oblig­ing,” replied the Ma­jor, grave­ly.

“Let us be­gin, then; and ladies and gen­tle­men, you shall be our ju­ry. Robert, you must keep count.”

This was agreed up­on, and Pa­ganel forth­with com­menced.

“Mnemosyne! God­dess of Mem­ory, chaste moth­er of the Mus­es!” he ex­claimed, “in­spire thy faith­ful ser­vant and fer­vent wor­shiper! Two hun­dred and fifty-​eight years ago, my friends, Aus­tralia was un­known. Strong sus­pi­cions were en­ter­tained of the ex­is­tence of a great south­ern con­ti­nent. In the li­brary of your British Mu­se­um, Gle­nar­van, there are two charts, the date of which is 1550, which men­tion a coun­try south of Asia, called by the Por­tuguese Great Ja­va. But these charts are not suf­fi­cient­ly au­then­tic. In the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, in 1606, Quiros, a Span­ish nav­iga­tor, dis­cov­ered a coun­try which he named Aus­tralia de Es­pir­itu San­to. Some au­thors imag­ine that this was the New He­brides group, and not Aus­tralia. I am not go­ing to dis­cuss the ques­tion, how­ev­er. Count Quiros, Robert, and let us pass on to an­oth­er.”

“ONE,” said Robert.

“In that same year, Louis Vas de Tor­res, the sec­ond in com­mand of the fleet of Quiros, pushed fur­ther south. But it is to Theodore Her­toge, a Dutch­man, that the hon­or of the great dis­cov­ery be­longs. He touched the west­ern coast of Aus­tralia in 25 de­grees lat­itude, and called it Een­dracht, af­ter his ves­sel. From this time nav­iga­tors in­creased. In 1618, Zeachen dis­cov­ered the north­ern parts of the coast, and called them Arn­heim and Diemen. In 1618, Jan Edels went along the west­ern coast, and chris­tened it by his own name. In 1622, Leuwin went down as far as the cape which be­came his name­sake.” And so Pa­ganel con­tin­ued with name af­ter name un­til his hear­ers cried for mer­cy.

“Stop, Pa­ganel,” said Gle­nar­van, laugh­ing hearti­ly, “don’t quite crush poor Mc­Nabbs. Be gen­er­ous; he owns he is van­quished.”

“And what about the ri­fle?” asked the ge­og­ra­pher, tri­umphant­ly.

“It is yours, Pa­ganel,” replied the Ma­jor, “and I am very sor­ry for it; but your mem­ory might gain an ar­mory by such feats.”

“It is cer­tain­ly im­pos­si­ble to be bet­ter ac­quaint­ed with Aus­tralia; not the least name, not even the most tri­fling fact–“

“As to the most tri­fling fact, I don’t know about that,” said the Ma­jor, shak­ing his head.

“What do you mean, Mc­Nabbs?” ex­claimed Pa­ganel.

“Sim­ply that per­haps all the in­ci­dents con­nect­ed with the dis­cov­ery of Aus­tralia may not be known to you.”

“Just fan­cy,” re­tort­ed Pa­ganel, throw­ing back his head proud­ly.

“Come now. If I name one fact you don’t know, will you give me back my ri­fle?” said Mc­Nabbs.

“On the spot, Ma­jor.”

“Very well, it’s a bar­gain, then.”

“Yes, a bar­gain; that’s set­tled.”

“All right. Well now, Pa­ganel, do you know how it is that Aus­tralia does not be­long to France?”

“But it seems to me–“

“Or, at any rate, do you know what’s the rea­son the En­glish give?” asked the Ma­jor.

“No,” replied Pa­ganel, with an air of vex­ation.

“Just be­cause Cap­tain Baudin, who was by no means a timid man, was so afraid in 1802, of the croak­ing of the Aus­tralian frogs, that he raised his an­chor with all pos­si­ble speed, and quit­ted the coast, nev­er to re­turn.”

“What!” ex­claimed Pa­ganel. “Do they ac­tu­al­ly give that ver­sion of it in Eng­land? But it is just a bad joke.”

“Bad enough, cer­tain­ly, but still it is his­to­ry in the Unit­ed King­dom.”

“It’s an in­sult!” ex­claimed the pa­tri­ot­ic ge­og­ra­pher; “and they re­late that grave­ly?”

“I must own it is the case,” replied Gle­nar­van, amidst a gen­er­al out­burst of laugh­ter. “Do you mean to say you have nev­er heard of it be­fore?”

“Nev­er! But I protest against it. Be­sides, the En­glish call us ‘frog-​eaters.’ Now, in gen­er­al, peo­ple are not afraid of what they eat.”

“It is said, though, for all that,” replied Mc­Nabbs. So the Ma­jor kept his fa­mous ri­fle af­ter all.