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

CHAPTER XVII AYRTON’S OBSTINACY

AYR­TON came. He crossed the deck with a con­fi­dent tread, and mount­ed the steps to the poop. His eyes were gloomy, his teeth set, his fists clenched con­vul­sive­ly. His ap­pear­ance be­trayed nei­ther ef­fron­tery nor timid­ity. When he found him­self in the pres­ence of Lord Gle­nar­van he fold­ed his arms and await­ed the ques­tions calm­ly and silent­ly.

“Ayr­ton,” said Gle­nar­van, “here we are then, you and us, on this very DUN­CAN that you wished to de­liv­er in­to the hands of the con­victs of Ben Joyce.”

The lips of the quar­ter­mas­ter trem­bled slight­ly and a quick flush suf­fused his im­pas­sive fea­tures. Not the flush of re­morse, but of shame at fail­ure. On this yacht which he thought he was to com­mand as mas­ter, he was a pris­on­er, and his fate was about to be de­cid­ed in a few sec­onds.

How­ev­er, he made no re­ply. Gle­nar­van wait­ed pa­tient­ly. But Ayr­ton per­sist­ed in keep­ing ab­so­lute si­lence.

“Speak, Ayr­ton, what have you to say?” re­sumed Gle­nar­van.

Ayr­ton hes­itat­ed, the wrin­kles in his fore­head deep­ened, and at length he said in calm voice:

“I have noth­ing to say, my Lord. I have been fool enough to al­low my­self to be caught. Act as you please.”

Then he turned his eyes away to­ward the coast which lay on the west, and af­fect­ed pro­found in­dif­fer­ence to what was pass­ing around him. One would have thought him a stranger to the whole af­fair. But Gle­nar­van was de­ter­mined to be pa­tient. Pow­er­ful mo­tives urged him to find out cer­tain de­tails con­cern­ing the mys­te­ri­ous life of Ayr­ton, es­pe­cial­ly those which re­lat­ed to Har­ry Grant and the BRI­TAN­NIA. He there­fore re­sumed his in­ter­ro­ga­tions, speak­ing with ex­treme gen­tle­ness and firm­ly re­strain­ing his vi­olent ir­ri­ta­tion against him.

“I think, Ayr­ton,” he went on, “that you will not refuse to re­ply to cer­tain ques­tions that I wish to put to you; and, first of all, ought I to call you Ayr­ton or Ben Joyce? Are you, or are you not, the quar­ter­mas­ter of the BRI­TAN­NIA?”

Ayr­ton re­mained im­pas­sive, gaz­ing at the coast, deaf to ev­ery ques­tion.

Gle­nar­van’s eyes kin­dled, as he said again:

“Will you tell me how you left the BRI­TAN­NIA, and why you are in Aus­tralia?”

The same si­lence, the same im­pas­si­bil­ity.

“Lis­ten to me, Ayr­ton,” con­tin­ued Gle­nar­van; “it is to your in­ter­est to speak. Frank­ness is the on­ly re­source left to you, and it may stand you in good stead. For the last time, I ask you, will you re­ply to my ques­tions?”

Ayr­ton turned his head to­ward Gle­nar­van, and looked in­to his eyes.

“My Lord,” he said, “it is not for me to an­swer. Jus­tice may wit­ness against me, but I am not go­ing to wit­ness against my­self.”

“Proof will be easy,” said Gle­nar­van.

“Easy, my Lord,” re­peat­ed Ayr­ton, in a mock­ing tone. “Your hon­or makes rather a bold as­ser­tion there, it seems to me. For my own part, I ven­ture to af­firm that the best judge in the Tem­ple would be puz­zled what to make of me. Who will say why I came to Aus­tralia, when Cap­tain Grant is not here to tell? Who will prove that I am the Ben Joyce plac­ard­ed by the po­lice, when the po­lice have nev­er had me in their hands, and my com­pan­ions are at lib­er­ty? Who can dam­age me ex­cept your­self, by bring­ing for­ward a sin­gle crime against me, or even a blame­able ac­tion? Who will af­firm that I in­tend­ed to take pos­ses­sion of this ship and de­liv­er it in­to the hands of the con­victs? No one, I tell you, no one. You have your sus­pi­cions, but you need cer­tain­ties to con­demn a man, and cer­tain­ties you have none. Un­til there is a proof to the con­trary, I am Ayr­ton, quar­ter­mas­ter of the BRI­TAN­NIA.”

Ayr­ton had be­come an­imat­ed while he was speak­ing, but soon re­lapsed in­to his for­mer in­dif­fer­ence.

He, no doubt, ex­pect­ed that his re­ply would close the ex­am­ina­tion, but Gle­nar­van com­menced again, and said:

“Ayr­ton, I am not a Crown pros­ecu­tor charged with your in­dict­ment. That is no busi­ness of mine. It is im­por­tant that our re­spec­tive sit­ua­tions should be clear­ly de­fined. I am not ask­ing you any­thing that could com­pro­mise you. That is for jus­tice to do. But you know what I am search­ing for, and a sin­gle word may put me on the track I have lost. Will you speak?”

Ayr­ton shook his head like a man de­ter­mined to be silent.

“Will you tell me where Cap­tain Grant is?” asked Gle­nar­van.

“No, my Lord,” replied Ayr­ton.

“Will you tell me where the BRI­TAN­NIA was wrecked?”

“No, nei­ther the one nor the oth­er.”

“Ayr­ton,” said Gle­nar­van, in al­most be­seech­ing tones, “if you know where Har­ry Grant is, will you, at least, tell his poor chil­dren, who are wait­ing for you to speak the word?”

Ayr­ton hes­itat­ed. His fea­tures con­tract­ed, and he mut­tered in a low voice, “I can­not, my Lord.”

Then he added with ve­he­mence, as if re­proach­ing him­self for a mo­men­tary weak­ness:

“No, I will not speak. Have me hanged, if you choose.”

“Hanged!” ex­claimed Gle­nar­van, over­come by a sud­den feel­ing of anger.

But im­me­di­ate­ly mas­ter­ing him­self, he added in a grave voice:

“Ayr­ton, there is nei­ther judge nor ex­ecu­tion­er here. At the first port we touch at, you will be giv­en up in­to the hands of the En­glish au­thor­ities.”

“That is what I de­mand,” was the quar­ter­mas­ter’s re­ply.

Then he turned away and qui­et­ly walked back to his cab­in, which served as his prison. Two sailors kept guard at the door, with or­ders to watch his slight­est move­ment. The wit­ness­es of this ex­am­ina­tion re­tired from the scene in­dig­nant and de­spair­ing.

As Gle­nar­van could make no way against Ayr­ton’s ob­sti­na­cy, what was to be done now? Plain­ly no course re­mained but to car­ry out the plan formed at Eden, of re­turn­ing to Eu­rope and giv­ing up for the time this un­suc­cess­ful en­ter­prise, for the traces of the BRI­TAN­NIA seemed ir­re­vo­ca­bly lost, and the doc­ument did not ap­pear to al­low any fresh in­ter­pre­ta­tion. On the 37th par­al­lel there was not even an­oth­er coun­try, and the DUN­CAN had on­ly to turn and go back.

Af­ter Gle­nar­van had con­sult­ed his friends, he talked over the ques­tion of re­turn­ing, more par­tic­ular­ly with the cap­tain. John ex­am­ined the coal bunkers, and found there was on­ly enough to last fif­teen days longer at the out­side. It was nec­es­sary, there­fore, to put in at the near­est port for a fresh sup­ply.

John pro­posed that he should steer for the Bay of Talc­ahuano, where the DUN­CAN had once be­fore been re­vict­ualed be­fore she com­menced her voy­age of cir­cum­nav­iga­tion. It was a di­rect route across, and lay ex­act­ly along the 37th par­al­lel. From thence the yacht, be­ing am­ply pro­vi­sioned, might go south, dou­ble Cape Horn, and get back to Scot­land by the At­lantic route.

This plan was adopt­ed, and or­ders were giv­en to the en­gi­neer to get up the steam. Half an hour af­ter­ward the beak-​head of the yacht was turned to­ward Talc­ahuano, over a sea wor­thy of be­ing called the Pa­cif­ic, and at six P. M. the last moun­tains of New Zealand had dis­ap­peared in warm, hazy mist on the hori­zon.

The re­turn voy­age was fair­ly com­menced. A sad voy­age, for the coura­geous search­ing par­ty to come back to the port with­out bring­ing home Har­ry Grant with them! The crew, so joy­ous at de­par­ture and so hope­ful, were com­ing back to Eu­rope de­feat­ed and dis­cour­aged. There was not one among the brave fel­lows whose heart did not swell at the thought of see­ing his own coun­try once more; and yet there was not one among them ei­ther who would not have been will­ing to brave the per­ils of the sea for a long time still if they could but find Cap­tain Grant.

Con­se­quent­ly, the hur­rahs which greet­ed the re­turn of Lord Gle­nar­van to the yacht soon gave place to de­jec­tion. In­stead of the close in­ter­course which had for­mer­ly ex­ist­ed among the pas­sen­gers, and the live­ly con­ver­sa­tions which had cheered the voy­age, each one kept apart from the oth­ers in the soli­tude of his own cab­in, and it was sel­dom that any­one ap­peared on the deck of the DUN­CAN.

Pa­ganel, who gen­er­al­ly shared in an ex­ag­ger­at­ed form the feel­ings of those about him, whether painful or joy­ous– a man who could have in­vent­ed hope if nec­es­sary–even Pa­ganel was gloomy and tac­iturn. He was sel­dom vis­ible; his nat­ural lo­quaci­ty and French vi­vac­ity gave place to si­lence and de­jec­tion. He seemed even more down­heart­ed than his com­pan­ions. If Gle­nar­van spoke at all of re­new­ing the search, he shook his head like a man who has giv­en up all hope, and whose con­vic­tions con­cern­ing the fate of the ship­wrecked men ap­peared set­tled. It was quite ev­ident he be­lieved them ir­re­vo­ca­bly lost.

And yet there was a man on board who could have spo­ken the de­ci­sive word, and re­fused to break his si­lence. This was Ayr­ton. There was no doubt the fel­low knew, if not the present where­abouts of the cap­tain, at least the place of ship­wreck. But it was ev­ident that were Grant found, he would be a wit­ness against him. Hence his per­sis­tent si­lence, which gave rise to great in­dig­na­tion on board, es­pe­cial­ly among the crew, who would have liked to deal sum­mar­ily with him.

Gle­nar­van re­peat­ed­ly re­newed his at­tempts with the quar­ter­mas­ter, but promis­es and threats were alike use­less. Ayr­ton’s ob­sti­na­cy was so great, and so in­ex­pli­ca­ble, that the Ma­jor be­gan to be­lieve he had noth­ing to re­veal. His opin­ion was shared, more­over, by the ge­og­ra­pher, as it cor­rob­orat­ed his own no­tion about Har­ry Grant.

But if Ayr­ton knew noth­ing, why did he not con­fess his ig­no­rance? It could not be turned against him. His si­lence in­creased the dif­fi­cul­ty of form­ing any new plan. Was the pres­ence of the quar­ter­mas­ter on the Aus­tralian con­ti­nent a proof of Har­ry Grant’s be­ing there? It was set­tled that they must get this in­for­ma­tion out of Ayr­ton.

La­dy He­le­na, see­ing her hus­band’s ill-​suc­cess, asked his per­mis­sion to try her pow­ers against the ob­sti­na­cy of the quar­ter­mas­ter. When a man had failed, a wom­an per­haps, with her gen­tler in­flu­ence, might suc­ceed. Is there not a con­stant rep­eti­tion go­ing on of the sto­ry of the fa­ble where the storm, blow as it will, can­not tear the cloak from the shoul­ders of the trav­el­er, while the first warm rays of sun­shine make him throw it off im­me­di­ate­ly?

Gle­nar­van, know­ing his young wife’s good sense, al­lowed her to act as she pleased.

The same day (the 5th of March), Ayr­ton was con­duct­ed to La­dy He­le­na’s sa­loon. Mary Grant was to be present at the in­ter­view, for the in­flu­ence of the young girl might be con­sid­er­able, and La­dy He­le­na would not lose any chance of suc­cess.

For a whole hour the two ladies were clos­et­ed with the quar­ter­mas­ter, but noth­ing tran­spired about their in­ter­view. What had been said, what ar­gu­ments they used to win the se­cret from the con­vict, or what ques­tions were asked, re­mained un­known; but when they left Ayr­ton, they did not seem to have suc­ceed­ed, as the ex­pres­sion on their faces de­not­ed dis­cour­age­ment.

In con­se­quence of this, when the quar­ter­mas­ter was be­ing tak­en back to his cab­in, the sailors met him with vi­olent men­aces. He took no no­tice ex­cept by shrug­ging his shoul­ders, which so in­creased their rage, that John Man­gles and Gle­nar­van had to in­ter­fere, and could on­ly re­press it with dif­fi­cul­ty.

But La­dy He­le­na would not own her­self van­quished. She re­solved to strug­gle to the last with this piti­less man, and went next day her­self to his cab­in to avoid ex­pos­ing him again to the vin­dic­tive­ness of the crew.

The good and gen­tle Scotch­wom­an stayed alone with the con­vict lead­er for two long hours. Gle­nar­van in a state of ex­treme ner­vous anx­iety, re­mained out­side the cab­in, al­ter­nate­ly re­solved to ex­haust com­plete­ly this last chance of suc­cess, al­ter­nate­ly re­solved to rush in and snatch his wife from so painful a sit­ua­tion.

But this time when La­dy He­le­na reap­peared, her look was full of hope. Had she suc­ceed­ed in ex­tract­ing the se­cret, and awak­en­ing in that adamant heart a last faint touch of pity?

Mc­Nabbs, who first saw her, could not re­strain a ges­ture of in­creduli­ty.

How­ev­er the re­port soon spread among the sailors that the quar­ter­mas­ter had yield­ed to the per­sua­sions of La­dy He­le­na. The ef­fect was elec­tri­cal. The en­tire crew as­sem­bled on deck far quick­er than Tom Austin’s whis­tle could have brought them to­geth­er.

Gle­nar­van had has­tened up to his wife and ea­ger­ly asked:

“Has he spo­ken?”

“No,” replied La­dy He­le­na, “but he has yield­ed to my en­treaties, and wish­es to see you.”

“Ah, dear He­le­na, you have suc­ceed­ed!”

“I hope so, Ed­ward.”

“Have you made him any promise that I must rat­ify?”

“On­ly one; that you will do all in your pow­er to mit­igate his pun­ish­ment.”

“Very well, dear He­le­na. Let Ayr­ton come im­me­di­ate­ly.”

La­dy He­le­na re­tired to her cab­in with Mary Grant, and the quar­ter­mas­ter was brought in­to the sa­loon where Lord Gle­nar­van was ex­pect­ing him.