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

CHAPTER III THE MARTYR-ROLL OF NAVIGATORS

ON the 31st of Jan­uary, four days af­ter start­ing, the MAC­QUAR­IE had not done two-​thirds of the dis­tance be­tween Aus­tralia and New Zealand. Will Hal­ley took very lit­tle heed to the work­ing of the ship; he let things take their chance. He sel­dom showed him­self, for which no one was sor­ry. No one would have com­plained if he had passed all his time in his cab­in, but for the fact that the bru­tal cap­tain was ev­ery day un­der the in­flu­ence of gin or brandy. His sailors will­ing­ly fol­lowed his ex­am­ple, and no ship ev­er sailed more en­tire­ly de­pend­ing on Prov­idence than the MAC­QUAR­IE did from Twofold Bay.

This un­par­don­able care­less­ness obliged John Man­gles to keep a watch­ful eye ev­er open. Mul­rady and Wil­son more than once brought round the helm when some care­less steer­ing threat­ened to throw the ship on her beam-​ends. Of­ten Will Hal­ley would in­ter­fere and abuse the two sailors with a vol­ley of oaths. The lat­ter, in their im­pa­tience, would have liked noth­ing bet­ter than to bind this drunk­en cap­tain, and low­er him in­to the hold, for the rest of the voy­age. But John Man­gles suc­ceed­ed, af­ter some per­sua­sion, in calm­ing their well-​ground­ed in­dig­na­tion.

Still, the po­si­tion of things filled him with anx­iety; but, for fear of alarm­ing Gle­nar­van, he spoke on­ly to Pa­ganel or the Ma­jor. Mc­Nabbs rec­om­mend­ed the same course as Mul­rady and Wil­son.

“If you think it would be for the gen­er­al good, John,” said Mc­Nabbs, “you should not hes­itate to take the com­mand of the ves­sel. When we get to Auck­land the drunk­en im­be­cile can re­sume his com­mand, and then he is at lib­er­ty to wreck him­self, if that is his fan­cy.”

“All that is very true, Mr. Mc­Nabbs, and if it is ab­so­lute­ly nec­es­sary I will do it. As long as we are on open sea, a care­ful look­out is enough; my sailors and I are watch­ing on the poop; but when we get near the coast, I con­fess I shall be un­easy if Hal­ley does not come to his sens­es.”

“Could not you di­rect the course?” asked Pa­ganel.

“That would be dif­fi­cult,” replied John. “Would you be­lieve it that there is not a chart on board?”

“Is that so?”

“It is in­deed. The MAC­QUAR­IE on­ly does a coast­ing trade be­tween Eden and Auck­land, and Hal­ley is so at home in these wa­ters that he takes no ob­ser­va­tions.”

“I sup­pose he thinks the ship knows the way, and steers her­self.” “Ha! ha!” laughed John Man­gles; “I do not be­lieve in ships that steer them­selves; and if Hal­ley is drunk when we get among sound­ings, he will get us all in­to trou­ble.”

“Let us hope,” said Pa­ganel, “that the neigh­bor­hood of land will bring him to his sens­es.”

“Well, then,” said Mc­Nabbs, “if needs were, you could not sail the MAC­QUAR­IE in­to Auck­land?”

“With­out a chart of the coast, cer­tain­ly not. The coast is very dan­ger­ous. It is a se­ries of shal­low fiords as ir­reg­ular and capri­cious as the fiords of Nor­way. There are many reefs, and it re­quires great ex­pe­ri­ence to avoid them. The strongest ship would be lost if her keel struck one of those rocks that are sub­merged but a few feet be­low the wa­ter.”

“In that case those on board would have to take refuge on the coast.”

“If there was time.”

“A ter­ri­ble ex­trem­ity,” said Pa­ganel, “for they are not hos­pitable shores, and the dan­gers of the land are not less ap­palling than the dan­gers of the sea.”

“You re­fer to the Maories, Mon­sieur Pa­ganel?” asked John Man­gles.

“Yes, my friend. They have a bad name in these wa­ters. It is not a mat­ter of timid or brutish Aus­tralians, but of an in­tel­li­gent and san­guinary race, can­ni­bals greedy of hu­man flesh, man-​eaters to whom we should look in vain for pity.”

“Well, then,” ex­claimed the Ma­jor, “if Cap­tain Grant had been wrecked on the coast of New Zealand, you would dis­suade us from look­ing for him.”

“Oh, you might search on the coasts,” replied the ge­og­ra­pher, “be­cause you might find traces of the BRI­TAN­NIA, but not in the in­te­ri­or, for it would be per­fect­ly use­less. Ev­ery Eu­ro­pean who ven­tures in­to these fa­tal dis­tricts falls in­to the hands of the Maories, and a pris­on­er in the hands of the Maories is a lost man. I have urged my friends to cross the Pam­pas, to toil over the plains of Aus­tralia, but I will nev­er lure them in­to the mazes of the New Zealand for­est. May heav­en be our guide, and keep us from ev­er be­ing thrown with­in the pow­er of those fierce na­tives!”