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

CHAPTER VI A DREADED COUNTRY

PA­GANEL’S facts were in­dis­putable. The cru­el­ty of the New Zealan­ders was be­yond a doubt, there­fore it was dan­ger­ous to land. But had the dan­ger been a hun­dred­fold greater, it had to be faced. John Man­gles felt the ne­ces­si­ty of leav­ing with­out de­lay a ves­sel doomed to cer­tain and speedy de­struc­tion. There were two dan­gers, one cer­tain and the oth­er prob­able, but no one could hes­itate be­tween them.

As to their chance of be­ing picked up by a pass­ing ves­sel, they could not rea­son­ably hope for it. The MAC­QUAR­IE was not in the track of ships bound to New Zealand. They keep fur­ther north for Auck­land, fur­ther south for New Ply­mouth, and the ship had struck just be­tween these two points, on the desert re­gion of the shores of Ika-​na-​Mani, a dan­ger­ous, dif­fi­cult coast, and in­fest­ed by des­per­ate char­ac­ters.

“When shall we get away?” asked Gle­nar­van.

“To-​mor­row morn­ing at ten o’clock,” replied John Man­gles. “The tide will then turn and car­ry us to land.”

Next day, Febru­ary 5, at eight o’clock, the raft was fin­ished. John had giv­en all his at­ten­tion to the build­ing of this struc­ture. The fore­yard, which did very well for moor­ing the an­chors, was quite in­ad­equate to the trans­port of pas­sen­gers and pro­vi­sions. What was need­ed was a strong, man­age­able raft, that would re­sist the force of the waves dur­ing a pas­sage of nine miles. Noth­ing but the masts could sup­ply suit­able ma­te­ri­als.

Wil­son and Mul­rady set to work; the rig­ging was cut clear, and the main­mast, chopped away at the base, fell over the star­board rail, which crashed un­der its weight. The MAC­QUAR­IE was thus razed like a pon­toon.

When the low­er mast, the top­masts, and the roy­als were sawn and split, the prin­ci­pal pieces of the raft were ready. They were then joined to the frag­ments of the fore­mast and the whole was fas­tened se­cure­ly to­geth­er. John took the pre­cau­tion to place in the in­ter­stices half a dozen emp­ty bar­rels, which would raise the struc­ture above the lev­el of the wa­ter. On this strong foun­da­tion, Wil­son laid a kind of floor in open work, made of the grat­ings off the hatch­es. The spray could then dash on the raft with­out stay­ing there, and the pas­sen­gers would be kept dry. In ad­di­tion to this, the hose-​pipes firm­ly lashed to­geth­er formed a kind of cir­cu­lar bar­ri­er which pro­tect­ed the deck from the waves.

That morn­ing, John see­ing that the wind was in their fa­vor, rigged up the roy­al-​yard in the mid­dle of the raft as a mast. It was stayed with shrouds, and car­ried a makeshift sail. A large broad-​blad­ed oar was fixed be­hind to act as a rud­der in case the wind was suf­fi­cient to re­quire it. The great­est pains had been ex­pend­ed on strength­en­ing the raft to re­sist the force of the waves, but the ques­tion re­mained whether, in the event of a change of wind, they could steer, or in­deed, whether they could hope ev­er to reach the land.

At nine o’clock they be­gan to load. First came the pro­vi­sions, in quan­ti­ty suf­fi­cient to last till they should reach Auck­land, for they could not count on the pro­duc­tions of this bar­ren re­gion.

Ol­bi­nett’s stores fur­nished some pre­served meat which re­mained of the pur­chase made for their voy­age in the MAC­QUAR­IE. This was but a scanty re­source. They had to fall back on the coarse viands of the ship; sea bis­cuits of in­fe­ri­or qual­ity, and two casks of salt fish. The stew­ard was quite crest­fall­en.

These pro­vi­sions were put in her­met­ical­ly sealed cas­es, staunch and safe from sea wa­ter, and then low­ered on to the raft and strong­ly lashed to the foot of the mast. The arms and am­mu­ni­tion were piled in a dry cor­ner. For­tu­nate­ly the trav­el­ers were well armed with car­bines and re­volvers.

A hold­ing an­chor was al­so put on board in case John should be un­able to make the land in one tide, and would have to seek moor­ings.

At ten o’clock the tide turned. The breeze blew gen­tly from the north­west, and a slight swell rocked the frail craft.

“Are we ready?” asked John.

“All ready, cap­tain,” an­swered Wil­son.

“All aboard!” cried John.

La­dy He­le­na and Mary Grant de­scend­ed by a rope lad­der, and took their sta­tion at the foot of the mast on the cas­es of pro­vi­sions, their com­pan­ions near them. Wil­son took the helm. John stood by the tack­le, and Mul­rady cut the line which held the raft to the ship’s side.

The sail was spread, and the frail struc­ture com­menced its progress to­ward the land, aid­ed by wind and tide. The coast was about nine miles off, a dis­tance that a boat with good oars would have ac­com­plished in three hours. But with a raft al­lowance must be made. If the wind held, they might reach the land in one tide. But if the breeze died away, the ebb would car­ry them away from the shore, and they would be com­pelled to an­chor and wait for the next tide, a se­ri­ous con­sid­er­ation, and one that filled John Man­gles with anx­iety.

Still he hoped to suc­ceed. The wind fresh­ened. The tide had turned at ten o’clock, and by three they must ei­ther make the land or an­chor to save them­selves from be­ing car­ried out to sea. They made a good start. Lit­tle by lit­tle the black line of the reefs and the yel­low banks of sand dis­ap­peared un­der the swelling tide. Ex­treme watch­ful­ness and per­fect skill were nec­es­sary to avoid these sub­merged rocks, and steer a bark that did not read­ily an­swer to the helm, and that con­stant­ly broke off.

At noon they were still five miles from shore. A tol­er­ably clear sky al­lowed them to make out the prin­ci­pal fea­tures of the land. In the north­east rose a moun­tain about 2,300 feet high, whose sharply de­fined out­line was ex­act­ly like the grin­ning face of a mon­key turned to­ward the sky. It was Piron­gia, which the map gave as ex­act­ly on the 38th par­al­lel.

At half-​past twelve, Pa­ganel re­marked that all the rocks had dis­ap­peared un­der the ris­ing tide.

“All but one,” an­swered La­dy He­le­na.

“Which, Madam?” asked Pa­ganel.

“There,” replied she, point­ing to a black speck a mile off.

“Yes, in­deed,” said Pa­ganel. “Let us try to as­cer­tain its po­si­tion, so as not to get too near it, for the sea will soon con­ceal it.”

“It is ex­act­ly in a line with the north­ern slope of the moun­tain,” said John Man­gles. “Wil­son, mind you give it a wide berth.”

“Yes, cap­tain,” an­swered the sailor, throw­ing his whole weight on the great oar that steered the raft.

In half an hour they had made half a mile. But, strange to say, the black point still rose above the waves.

John looked at­ten­tive­ly, and in or­der to make it out, bor­rowed Pa­ganel’s tele­scope.

“That is no reef,” said he, af­ter a mo­ment; “it is some­thing float­ing, which ris­es and falls with the swell.”

“Is it part of the mast of the MAC­QUAR­IE?” asked La­dy He­le­na.

“No,” said Gle­nar­van, “none of her tim­bers could have come so far.”

“Stay!” said John Man­gles; “I know it! It is the boat.”

“The ship’s boat?” ex­claimed Gle­nar­van.

“Yes, my lord. The ship’s boat, keel up.”

“The un­for­tu­nate crea­tures,” cried La­dy He­le­na, “they have per­ished!”

“Yes, Madam,” replied John Man­gles, “they must have per­ished, for in the midst of these break­ers in a heavy swell on that pitchy night, they ran to cer­tain death.”

For a few min­utes the pas­sen­gers were silent. They gazed at the frail craft as they drew near it. It must ev­ident­ly have cap­sized about four miles from the shore, and not one of the crew could have es­caped.

“But this boat may be of use to us,” said Gle­nar­van.

“That is true,” an­swered John Man­gles. “Keep her up, Wil­son.”

The di­rec­tion was slight­ly changed, but the breeze fell grad­ual­ly, and it was two hours be­fore they reached the boat.

Mul­rady, sta­tioned for­ward, fend­ed off the blow, and the yawl was drawn along­side.

“Emp­ty?” asked John Man­gles.

“Yes, cap­tain,” an­swered the sailor, “the boat is emp­ty. and all its seams are open. It is of no use to us.”

“No use at all?” said Mc­Nabbs.

“None at all,” said John Man­gles.

“It is good for noth­ing but to burn.”

“I re­gret it,” said Pa­ganel, “for the yawl might have tak­en us to Auck­land.”

“We must bear our fate, Mon­sieur Pa­ganel,” replied John Man­gles. “But, for my part, in such a stormy sea I pre­fer our raft to that crazy boat. A very slight shock would be enough to break her up. There­fore, my lord, we have noth­ing to de­tain us fur­ther.”

“As you think best, John.”

“On then, Wil­son,” said John, “and bear straight for the land.”

There was still an hour be­fore the turn of the tide. In that time they might make two miles. But the wind soon fell al­most en­tire­ly, and the raft be­came near­ly mo­tion­less, and soon be­gan to drift to sea­ward un­der the in­flu­ence of the ebb-​tide.

John did not hes­itate a mo­ment.

“Let go the an­chor,” said he.

Mul­rady, who stood to ex­ecute this or­der, let go the an­chor in five fath­oms wa­ter. The raft backed about two fath­oms on the line, which was then at full stretch. The sail was tak­en in, and ev­ery­thing made snug for a te­dious pe­ri­od of in­ac­tion.

The re­turn­ing tide would not oc­cur till nine o’clock in the evening; and as John Man­gles did not care to go on in the dark, the an­chor­age was for the night, or at least till five o’clock in the morn­ing, land be­ing in sight at a dis­tance of less than three miles.

A con­sid­er­able swell raised the waves, and seemed to set in con­tin­uous­ly to­ward the coast, and per­ceiv­ing this, Gle­nar­van asked John why he did not take ad­van­tage of this swell to get near­er to the land.

“Your Lord­ship is de­ceived by an op­ti­cal il­lu­sion,” said the young cap­tain. “Al­though the swell seems to car­ry the waves land­ward, it does not re­al­ly move at all. It is mere un­du­lat­ing molec­ular mo­tion, noth­ing more. Throw a piece of wood over­board and you will see that it will re­main quite sta­tion­ary ex­cept as the tide af­fects it. There is noth­ing for it but pa­tience.”

“And din­ner,” said the Ma­jor.

Ol­bi­nett un­packed some dried meat and a dozen bis­cuits. The stew­ard blushed as he prof­fered the mea­ger bill of fare. But it was re­ceived with a good grace, even by the ladies, who, how­ev­er, had not much ap­petite, ow­ing to the vi­olent mo­tion.

This mo­tion, pro­duced by the jerk­ing of the raft on the ca­ble, while she lay head on to the sea, was very se­vere and fa­tigu­ing. The blows of the short, tum­bling seas were as se­vere as if she had been strik­ing on a sub­merged rock. Some­times it was hard to be­lieve that she was not aground. The ca­ble strained vi­olent­ly, and ev­ery half hour John had to take in a fath­om to ease it. With­out this pre­cau­tion it would cer­tain­ly have giv­en way, and the raft must have drift­ed to de­struc­tion.

John’s anx­iety may eas­ily be un­der­stood. His ca­ble might break, or his an­chor lose its hold, and in ei­ther case the dan­ger was im­mi­nent.

Night drew on; the sun’s disc, en­larged by re­frac­tion, was dip­ping blood-​red be­low the hori­zon. The dis­tant waves glit­tered in the west, and sparkled like sheets of liq­uid sil­ver. Noth­ing was to be seen in that di­rec­tion but sky and wa­ter, ex­cept one sharply-​de­fined ob­ject, the hull of the MAC­QUAR­IE mo­tion­less on her rocky bed.

The short twi­light post­poned the dark­ness on­ly by a few min­utes, and soon the coast out­line, which bound­ed the view on the east and north, was lost in dark­ness.

The ship­wrecked par­ty were in an ag­oniz­ing sit­ua­tion on their nar­row raft, and over­tak­en by the shades of night.

Some of the par­ty fell in­to a trou­bled sleep, a prey to evil dreams; oth­ers could not close an eye. When the day dawned, the whole par­ty were worn out with fa­tigue.

With the ris­ing tide the wind blew again to­ward the land. It was six o’clock in the morn­ing, and there was no time to lose. John ar­ranged ev­ery­thing for re­sum­ing their voy­age, and then he or­dered the an­chor to be weighed. But the an­chor flukes had been so imbed­ded in the sand by the re­peat­ed jerks of the ca­ble, that with­out a wind­lass it was im­pos­si­ble to de­tach it, even with the tack­le which Wil­son had im­pro­vised.

Half an hour was lost in vain ef­forts. John, im­pa­tient of de­lay, cut the rope, thus sac­ri­fic­ing his an­chor, and al­so the pos­si­bil­ity of an­chor­ing again if this tide failed to car­ry them to land. But he de­cid­ed that fur­ther de­lay was not to be thought of, and an ax-​blow com­mit­ted the raft to the mer­cy of the wind, as­sist­ed by a cur­rent of two knots an hour.

The sail was spread. They drift­ed slow­ly to­ward the land, which rose in gray, hazy mass­es, on a back­ground of sky il­lu­mined by the ris­ing sun. The reef was dex­ter­ous­ly avoid­ed and dou­bled, but with the fit­ful breeze the raft could not get near the shore. What toil and pain to reach a coast so full of dan­ger when at­tained.

At nine o’clock, the land was less than a mile off. It was a steeply-​shelv­ing shore, fringed with break­ers; a prac­ti­ca­ble land­ing-​place had to be dis­cov­ered.

Grad­ual­ly the breeze grew fainter, and then ceased en-

V. IV Verne tire­ly. The sail flapped idly against the mast, and John had it furled. The tide alone car­ried the raft to the shore, but steer­ing had be­come im­pos­si­ble, and its pas­sage was im­ped­ed by im­mense bands of FU­CUS.

At ten o’clock John found him­self al­most at a stand-​still, not three ca­bles’ lengths from the shore. Hav­ing lost their an­chor, they were at the mer­cy of the ebb-​tide.

John clenched his hands; he was racked with anx­iety, and cast fren­zied glances to­ward this in­ac­ces­si­ble shore.

In the midst of his per­plex­ities, a shock was felt. The raft stood still. It had land­ed on a sand-​bank, twen­ty-​five fath­oms from the coast.

Gle­nar­van, Robert, Wil­son, and Mul­rady, jumped in­to the wa­ter. The raft was firm­ly moored to the near­est rocks. The ladies were car­ried to land with­out wet­ting a fold of their dress­es, and soon the whole par­ty, with their arms and pro­vi­sions, were fi­nal­ly land­ed on these much dread­ed New Zealand shores.