THE Duncan now had before her a broad stretch of ocean but little traversed by navigators. Between the shores of South America and the little speck in the ocean known by the name of Tristan d’Acunha, there was no probability of her meeting with any strange sail; and under some circumstances, or in some company, the days might have been monotonous and the hours might have hung wearily. But so ardent was the desire for success, and so accomplished, yet varied, were the characters of those who composed the little assembly, that the voyage on the South Atlantic, though devoid of striking incident, was by no means wanting in interest. Much of the time was spent on deck, where the ladies’ cabins were now located, Mary Grant especially training her hand, head, and heart in feeling, thought, and action. The geographer set to work on a composition entitled “Travels of a Geographer on the Argentine Pampas;” but many a blank page did he leave. The Scottish peer (when tired of examining for the thousandth time all that belonged to his yacht) could look at the books and documents which he had brought with him, intending to peruse them carefully. And as to the major he was never in company and never out of company; his cigar insured, nothing else was wanted.
Ever and anon many miles of the ocean would be covered by masses of sea-weed; these different species of algæ would afford subject for research; specimens must be preserved, authorities must be consulted, and as one result at least all would become wiser. Then a discussion would ensue on some geographical problem, and maps that were not attainable were of course appealed to by each disputant, though the subject in question was often of very trivial moment. It was in the midst of a debate of this kind, during the evening, that a sailor cried out,—
“Land ahead!”
“In what direction?” asked Paganel.
“To windward,” replied the sailor.
The landsmen’s eyes were strained, but to no purpose. The geographer’s telescope was brought into requisition, but with no avail. “I do not see the land,” said its owner.
“Look into the clouds,” said the captain.
“Ah!” replied Paganel, struck with the idea, and shortly with the reality also; for there was the barren mountain-top of Tristan d’Acunha.
“Then,” said he, “if I remember aright, we are eighty miles from it. Is not that the distance from which this mountain is visible?”
“Exactly so,” replied the captain.
A few hours brought them much nearer to the group of high and steep rocks, and at sunrise they saw the conical peak of Tristan, seemingly separated from all the rest of the rocky group, and reflecting the glory of the blue heavens and of the rising orb on the placid sea at its base.
There are three islets in this group,—Tristan d’Acunha, Inaccessible, and Rossignol; but it was only at the first of these that the Duncan called. Inquiry was made of the authorities (for these islets are governed by a British official from the Cape of Good Hope) if there were any tidings of the Britannia. But nothing was known of such a ship; they were told of the shipwrecks which had occurred, but there was nothing that afforded a clue to that which they sought. They spent some hours in examination of the fauna and flora, which were not very extensive. They saw and were seen by the sparse population that subsist here, and in the afternoon of the same day the yacht left the islands and islanders so rarely visited.
Whilst the passengers had been thus engaged, Lord Glenarvan had allowed his crew to employ their time advantageously to themselves in capturing some of the seals which are so plentiful in these latitudes. A few hours of their united toil resulted in the death of a large number of seals who were “caught napping,” and in the stowing away, for the profit of the crew when they should reach the Australian market, several barrels of the oil obtained from their carcases.
Still onward on the same parallel lay the course of the Duncan, towards the Isles of Amsterdam and St. Paul; and the same subjects of conversation, study, and speculation engaged them all, until, one morning, they espied the first mentioned island, far ahead; and as they drew nearer, a peak rose clearly before their vision which strongly reminded them of the Peak of Teneriffe they had beheld a few months before.
The Isle of Amsterdam or St. Peter, and the Isle of St. Paul, have been visited by very few, and but little is known of them. The latter is uninhabited; but our friends found a few voluntary exiles on the former island, who, by means of seal-fishing, eke out a scanty existence in this out-of-the-way spot. Here again inquiry was made, but in vain, for any information of the Britannia, her voyage, or her shipwreck. Neither on the Isle of Amsterdam nor on that of St. Paul, which the whalers and seal-fishers sometimes visit, had there been any trace of the catastrophe.
Desolate as these lonely islands appeared to our travelers, they still were not devoid of objects of interest. They were meagre enough in vegetation and in animal life; but there were warm springs which well repaid a visit. Captain Mangles found the temperature of their waters to be 166° Fahrenheit; and, inasmuch as this was sufficient to cook fish, Paganel decided that it was not necessary for him to bathe here “geographically.”
When they resumed their course, though many miles were before them, there was a growing sense of anticipation; they were not to pause again until the “Australian continent” was reached; and more and more did the conversation and discussions tend towards this continent as their subject. On one occasion so certain was Paganel as to the ease with which they would be able to pursue their search, when they arrived, that he asserted that more than fifty geographers had already made the course clear for them.
“What! fifty, do you say?” asked the major, with an air of doubt.
“Yes, MacNabb, decidedly,” said the geographer, piqued at the hesitancy to believe him.
“Impossible!” replied the major.
“Not at all; and if you doubt my veracity, I will cite their names.”
“Ah!” said the major, quietly, “you clever people stick at nothing.”
“Major,” said Paganel, “will you wager your rifle against my telescope that I cannot name at least fifty Australian explorers?”
“Of course, Paganel, if you like,” replied MacNabb, seeing that he could not now recede from his position without incurring the ridicule of the company.
“Well, then,” said Paganel to Lady Helena and Miss Grant, “come and be umpires, and Master Robert shall count for us.” And forthwith the learned geographer opened his budget, and poured forth the history of the discovery of Australia, with the names of its discoverers and the dates of their explorations, as fluently as though his sole calling in life was to be professor of Australian history. Rapidly he mentioned the first twenty who found or traversed the Austral shores; as rapidly did the names of the second score flow from his lips; and after the prescribed fifty had been enumerated, he kept on as though his list were inexhaustible.
“Enough, enough, Monsieur Paganel!” said Lady Helena. “You have shown that there is nothing, great or small, about Australia, of which you are ignorant.”
“Nay, madam,” said the geographer, with a bow.
Then, with a peculiar expression, he smiled as he said to the major, “We will talk about the rifle at another time.”