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

CHAPTER VIII PREPARATION FOR THE JOURNEY

GLE­NAR­VAN nev­er lost much time be­tween adopt­ing an idea and car­ry­ing it out. As soon as he con­sent­ed to Pa­ganel’s propo­si­tion, he gave im­me­di­ate or­ders to make ar­range­ments for the jour­ney with as lit­tle de­lay as pos­si­ble. The time of start­ing was fixed for the 22d of De­cem­ber, the next day but one.

What re­sults might not come out of this jour­ney. The pres­ence of Har­ry Grant had be­come an in­dis­putable fact, and the chances of find­ing him had in­creased. Not that any­one ex­pect­ed to dis­cov­er the cap­tain ex­act­ly on the 37th par­al­lel, which they in­tend­ed strict­ly to fol­low, but they might come up­on his track, and at all events, they were go­ing to the ac­tu­al spot where the wreck had oc­curred. That was the prin­ci­pal point.

Be­sides, if Ayr­ton con­sent­ed to join them and act as their guide through the forests of the province of Vic­to­ria and right to the east­ern coast, they would have a fresh chance of suc­cess. Gle­nar­van was sen­si­ble of this, and asked his host whether he would have any great ob­jec­tion to his ask­ing Ayr­ton to ac­com­pa­ny them, for he felt par­tic­ular­ly de­sirous of se­cur­ing the as­sis­tance of Har­ry Grant’s old com­pan­ion.

Pad­dy O’Moore con­sent­ed, though he would re­gret the loss of his ex­cel­lent ser­vant.

“Well, then, Ayr­ton, will you come with us in our search ex­pe­di­tion?”

Ayr­ton did not re­ply im­me­di­ate­ly. He even showed signs of hes­ita­tion; but at last, af­ter due re­flec­tion, said, “Yes, my Lord, I will go with you, and if I can not take you to Cap­tain Grant, I can at least take you to the very place where his ship struck.”

“Thanks, Ayr­ton.”

“One ques­tion, my Lord.”

“Well?”

“Where will you meet the DUN­CAN again?”

“At Mel­bourne, un­less we tra­verse the whole con­ti­nent from coast to coast.”

“But the cap­tain?”

“The cap­tain will await my in­struc­tions in the port of Mel­bourne.”

“You may de­pend on me then, my Lord.”

“I will, Ayr­ton.”

The quar­ter­mas­ter was warm­ly thanked by the pas­sen­gers of the DUN­CAN, and the chil­dren load­ed him with ca­ress­es. Ev­ery­one re­joiced in his de­ci­sion ex­cept the Irish­man, who lost in him an in­tel­li­gent and faith­ful helper. But Pad­dy un­der­stood the im­por­tance Gle­nar­van at­tached to the pres­ence of the man, and sub­mit­ted. The whole par­ty then re­turned to the ship, af­ter ar­rang­ing a ren­dezvous with Ayr­ton, and or­der­ing him to pro­cure the nec­es­sary means of con­veyance across the coun­try.

When John Man­gles sup­port­ed the propo­si­tion of Pa­ganel, he took for grant­ed that he should ac­com­pa­ny the ex­pe­di­tion. He be­gan to speak to Gle­nar­van at once about it, and ad­duced all sorts of ar­gu­ments to ad­vance his cause–his de­vo­tion to La­dy He­le­na and his Lord­ship, how use­ful could he be in or­ga­niz­ing the par­ty, and how use­less on board the DUN­CAN; ev­ery­thing, in fact, but the main rea­son, and that he had no need to bring for­ward.

“I’ll on­ly ask you one ques­tion, John,” said Gle­nar­van. “Have you en­tire con­fi­dence in your chief of­fi­cer?”

“Ab­so­lute,” replied Man­gles, “Tom Austin is a good sailor. He will take the ship to her des­ti­na­tion, see that the re­pairs are skil­ful­ly ex­ecut­ed, and bring her back on the ap­point­ed day. Tom is a slave to du­ty and dis­ci­pline. Nev­er would he take it up­on him­self to al­ter or re­tard the ex­ecu­tion of an or­der. Your Lord­ship may re­ly on him as on my­self.”

“Very well then, John,” replied Gle­nar­van. “You shall go with us, for it would be ad­vis­able,” he added, smil­ing, “that you should be there when we find Mary Grant’s fa­ther.”

“Oh! your Lord­ship,” mur­mured John, turn­ing pale. He could say no more, but grasped Lord Gle­nar­van’s hand.

Next day, John Man­gles and the ship’s car­pen­ter, ac­com­pa­nied by sailors car­ry­ing pro­vi­sions, went back to Pad­dy O’Moore’s house to con­sult the Irish­man about the best method of trans­port. All the fam­ily met him, ready to give their best help. Ayr­ton was there, and gave the ben­efit of his ex­pe­ri­ence.

On one point both he and Pad­dy agreed, that the jour­ney should be made in a bul­lock-​wag­on by the ladies, and that the gen­tle­men should ride on horse­back. Pad­dy could fur­nish both bul­locks and ve­hi­cle. The ve­hi­cle was a cart twen­ty feet long, cov­ered over by a tilt, and rest­ing on four large wheels with­out spokes or fel­loes, or iron tires– in a word, plain wood­en discs. The front and hin­der part were con­nect­ed by means of a rude me­chan­ical con­trivance, which did not al­low of the ve­hi­cle turn­ing quick­ly. There was a pole in front thir­ty-​five feet long, to which the bul­locks were to be yoked in cou­ples. These an­imals were able to draw both with head and neck, as their yoke was fas­tened on the nape of the neck, and to this a col­lar was at­tached by an iron peg. It re­quired great skill to drive such a long, nar­row, shaky con­cern, and to guide such a team by a goad; but Ayr­ton had served his ap­pren­tice­ship to it on the Irish­man’s farm, and Pad­dy could an­swer for his com-​pe­ten­cy. The role of con­duc­tor was there­fore as­signed to him.

There were no springs to the wag­on, and, con­se­quent­ly, it was not like­ly to be very com­fort­able; but, such as it was, they had to take it. But if the rough con­struc­tion could not be al­tered, John Man­gles re­solved that the in­te­ri­or should be made as easy as pos­si­ble. His first care was to di­vide it in­to two com­part­ments by a wood­en par­ti­tion. The back one was in­tend­ed for the pro­vi­sions and lug­gage, and M. Ol­bi­nett’s portable kitchen. The front was set apart es­pe­cial­ly for the ladies, and, un­der the car­pen­ter’s hands, was to be speed­ily con­vert­ed in­to a com­fort­able room, cov­ered with a thick car­pet, and fit­ted up with a toi­let ta­ble and two couch­es. Thick leather cur­tains shut in this apart­ment, and pro­tect­ed the oc­cu­pants from the chill­iness of the nights. In case of ne­ces­si­ty, the gen­tle­men might shel­ter them­selves here, when the vi­olent rains came on, but a tent was to be their usu­al rest­ing-​place when the car­avan camped for the night. John Man­gles ex­er­cised all his in­ge­nu­ity in fur­nish­ing the small space with ev­ery­thing that the two ladies could pos­si­bly re­quire, and he suc­ceed­ed so well, that nei­ther La­dy He­le­na nor Mary had much rea­son to re­gret leav­ing their cosy cab­ins on board the DUN­CAN.

For the rest of the par­ty, the prepa­ra­tions were soon made, for they need­ed much less. Strong hors­es were pro­vid­ed for Lord Gle­nar­van, Pa­ganel, Robert Grant, Mc­Nabbs, and John Man­gles; al­so for the two sailors, Wil­son and Mul­rady, who were to ac­com­pa­ny their cap­tain. Ayr­ton’s place was, of course, to be in front of the wag­on, and M. Ol­bi­nett, who did not much care for eq­ui­tation, was to make room for him­self among the bag­gage. Hors­es and bul­locks were graz­ing in the Irish­man’s mead­ows, ready to fetch at a mo­ment’s no­tice.

Af­ter all ar­range­ments were made, and the car­pen­ter set to work, John Man­gles es­cort­ed the Irish­man and his fam­ily back to the ves­sel, for Pad­dy wished to re­turn the vis­it of Lord Gle­nar­van. Ayr­ton thought prop­er to go too, and about four o’clock the par­ty came over the side of the DUN­CAN.

They were re­ceived with open arms. Gle­nar­van would not be out­stripped in po­lite­ness, and in­vit­ed his vis­itors to stop and dine. His hos­pi­tal­ity was will­ing­ly ac­cept­ed. Pad­dy was quite amazed at the splen­dor of the sa­loon, and was loud in ad­mi­ra­tion of the fit­ting up of the cab­ins, and the car­pets and hang­ings, as well as of the pol­ished maple-​wood of the up­per deck. Ayr­ton’s ap­pro­ba­tion was much less hearty, for he con­sid­ered it mere cost­ly su­per­fluity.

But when he ex­am­ined the yacht with a sailor’s eye, the quar­ter­mas­ter of the BRI­TAN­NIA was as en­thu­si­as­tic about it as Pad­dy. He went down in­to the hold, in­spect­ed the screw de­part­ment and the en­gine-​room, ex­am­in­ing the en­gine thor­ough­ly, and in­quired about its pow­er and con­sump­tion. He ex­plored the coal-​bunkers, the store-​room, the pow­der-​store, and ar­mory, in which last he seemed to be par­tic­ular­ly at­tract­ed by a can­non mount­ed on the fore­cas­tle. Gle­nar­van saw he had to do with a man who un­der­stood such mat­ters, as was ev­ident from his ques­tions. Ayr­ton con­clud­ed his in­ves­ti­ga­tions by a sur­vey of the masts and rig­ging.

“You have a fine ves­sel, my Lord,” he said af­ter his cu­rios­ity was sat­is­fied.

“A good one, and that is best,” replied Gle­nar­van.

“And what is her ton­nage?”

“Two hun­dred and ten tons.”

“I don’t think I am far out,” con­tin­ued Ayr­ton, “in judg­ing her speed at fif­teen knots. I should say she could do that eas­ily.”

“Say sev­en­teen,” put in John Man­gles, “and you’ve hit the mark.”

“Sev­en­teen!” ex­claimed the quar­ter­mas­ter. “Why, not a man-​of-​war– not the best among them, I mean–could chase her!”

“Not one,” replied Man­gles. “The DUN­CAN is a reg­ular rac­ing yacht, and would nev­er let her­self be beat­en.”

“Even at sail­ing?” asked Ayr­ton.

“Even at sail­ing.”

“Well, my Lord, and you too, cap­tain,” re­turned Ayr­ton, “al­low a sailor who knows what a ship is worth, to com­pli­ment you on yours.”

“Stay on board of her, then, Ayr­ton,” said Gle­nar­van; “it rests with your­self to call it yours.”

“I will think of it, my Lord,” was all Ayr­ton’s re­ply.

Just then M. Ol­bi­nett came to an­nounce din­ner, and his Lord­ship re­paired with his guests to the sa­loon.

“That Ayr­ton is an in­tel­li­gent man,” said Pa­ganel to the Ma­jor.

“Too in­tel­li­gent!” mut­tered Mc­Nabbs, who, with­out any ap­par­ent rea­son, had tak­en a great dis­like to the face and man­ners of the quar­ter­mas­ter.

Dur­ing the din­ner, Ayr­ton gave some in­ter­est­ing de­tails about the Aus­tralian con­ti­nent, which he knew per­fect­ly. He asked how many sailors were go­ing to ac­com­pa­ny the ex­pe­di­tion, and seemed as­ton­ished to hear that on­ly two were go­ing. He ad­vised Gle­nar­van to take all his best men, and even urged him to do it, which ad­vice, by the way, ought to have re­moved the Ma­jor’s sus­pi­cion.

“But,” said Gle­nar­van, “our jour­ney is not dan­ger­ous, is it?”

“Not at all,” replied Ayr­ton, quick­ly.

“Well then, we’ll have all the men we can on board. Hands will be want­ed to work the ship, and to help in the re­pairs. Be­sides, it is of the ut­most im­por­tance that she should meet us to the very day, at what­ev­er place may be ul­ti­mate­ly se­lect­ed. Con­se­quent­ly, we must not lessen her crew.”

Ayr­ton said noth­ing more, as if con­vinced his Lord­ship was right.

When evening came, Scotch and Irish sep­arat­ed. Ayr­ton and Pad­dy O’Moore and fam­ily re­turned home. Hors­es and wag­ons were to be ready the next day, and eight o’clock in the morn­ing was fixed for start­ing.

La­dy He­le­na and Mary Grant soon made their prepa­ra­tions. They had less to do than Jacques Pa­ganel, for he spent half the night in ar­rang­ing, and wip­ing, and rub­bing up the lens­es of his tele­scope. Of course, next morn­ing he slept on till the Ma­jor’s sten­to­ri­an voice roused him.

The lug­gage was al­ready con­veyed to the farm, thanks to John Man­gles, and a boat was wait­ing to take the pas­sen­gers. They were soon seat­ed, and the young cap­tain gave his fi­nal or­ders to Tom Austin, his chief of­fi­cer. He im­pressed up­on him that he was to wait at Mel­bourne for Lord Gle­nar­van’s com­mands, and to obey them scrupu­lous­ly, what­ev­er they might be.

The old sailor told John he might re­ly on him, and, in the name of the men, begged to of­fer his Lord­ship their best wish­es for the suc­cess of this new ex­pe­di­tion.

A storm of hur­rahs burst forth from the yacht as the boat rowed off. In ten min­utes the shore was reached, and a quar­ter of an hour af­ter­ward the Irish­man’s farm. All was ready. La­dy He­le­na was en­chant­ed with her in­stal­la­tion. The huge char­iot, with its prim­itive wheels and mas­sive planks, pleased her par­tic­ular­ly. The six bul­locks, yoked in pairs, had a pa­tri­ar­chal air about them which took her fan­cy. Ayr­ton, goad in hand, stood wait­ing the or­ders of this new mas­ter.

“My word,” said Pa­ganel, “this is a fa­mous ve­hi­cle; it beats all the mail-​coach­es in the world. I don’t know a bet­ter fash­ion of trav­el­ing than in a moun­te­bank’s car­avan– a mov­able house, which goes or stops wher­ev­er you please. What can one wish bet­ter? The Sama­ra­tians un­der­stood that, and nev­er trav­eled in any oth­er way.”

“Mon­sieur Pa­ganel,” said La­dy He­le­na, “I hope I shall have the plea­sure of see­ing you in my SA­LONS.”

“As­sured­ly, madam, I should count it an hon­or. Have you fixed the day?”

“I shall be at home ev­ery day to my friends,” replied La­dy He­le­na; “and you are–“

“The most de­vot­ed among them all,” in­ter­rupt­ed Pa­ganel, gai­ly.

These mu­tu­al com­pli­ments were in­ter­rupt­ed by the ar­rival of the sev­en hors­es, sad­dled and ready. They were brought by Pad­dy’s sons, and Lord Gle­nar­van paid the sum stip­ulat­ed for his var­ious pur­chas­es, adding his cor­dial thanks, which the wor­thy Irish­man val­ued at least as much as his gold­en guineas.

The sig­nal was giv­en to start, and La­dy He­le­na and Mary took their places in the re­served com­part­ment. Ayr­ton seat­ed him­self in front, and Ol­bi­nett scram­bled in among the lug­gage. The rest of the par­ty, well armed with car­bines and re­volvers, mount­ed their hors­es. Ayr­ton gave a pe­cu­liar cry, and his team set off. The wag­on shook and the planks creaked, and the axles grat­ed in the naves of the wheels; and be­fore long the hos­pitable farm of the Irish­man was out of sight.