THE sound of the name of Ben Joyce fell upon the party like a thunderbolt. Ayrton suddenly sprang to his feet. In his hand was a revolver. A report was heard; and Glenarvan fell, struck by a bullet.
Before Captain Mangles and the sailors recovered from the surprise into which this unexpected turn of affairs had thrown them, the audacious convict had escaped, and joined his band, scattered along the edge of the wood of gum-trees.
The tent did not offer a sufficient shelter against the bullets, and it was clearly necessary to beat a retreat. Glenarvan, who was but slightly injured, had risen.
“To the cart! to the cart!” cried Captain Mangles, as he hurried on Lady Helena and Mary Grant, who were soon in safety behind its stout sides.
The captain, the major, Paganel, and the sailors then seized their rifles, and stood ready to repel the convicts. Glenarvan and Robert had joined the ladies, while Olbinett hastened to the common defence.
These events had transpired with the rapidity of lightning. Captain Mangles attentively watched the edge of the wood; but the reports suddenly ceased on the arrival of Ben Joyce, and a profound silence succeeded the noisy fusillade. A few wreaths of white smoke were still curling up between the branches of the gum-trees, but the tall tufts of gastrolobium were motionless and all signs of attack had disappeared.
The major and Captain Mangles extended their examinations as far as the great trees. The place was abandoned. Numerous footprints were seen, and a few half-burnt cartridges smoked on the ground. The major, like a prudent man, extinguished them, for a spark was enough to kindle a formidable conflagration in this forest of dry trees.
“The convicts have disappeared,” said Captain Mangles.
“Yes,” replied the major; “and this disappearance alarms me. I should prefer to meet them face to face. It is better to encounter a tiger in the open plain than a serpent in the grass. Let us search these bushes around the cart.”
The major and captain scoured the surrounding country. But from the edge of the wood to the banks of the Snowy they did not meet with a single convict. Ben Joyce’s band seemed to have flown away, like a flock of mischievous birds. This disappearance was too strange to inspire a perfect security. They therefore resolved to keep on the watch. The cart, which was a really immovable fortress, became the centre of the encampment, and two men kept guard, relieving each other every hour.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant’s first care had been to dress Glenarvan’s wound. At the very moment that her husband fell, from Ben Joyce’s bullet, in her terror she had rushed towards him. Then, controlling her emotion, this courageous woman had assisted Glenarvan to the cart. Here the shoulder of the wounded man was laid bare, and the major perceived that the ball had lacerated the flesh, causing no other injury. Neither bones nor large muscles seemed affected. The wound bled considerably, but Glenarvan, by moving the fingers of his hand and fore-arm, encouraged his friends to expect a favorable result. When his wound was dressed, he no longer desired any attention, and explanations followed. The travelers, except Wilson and Mulready, who were keeping guard outside, had taken seats as well as possible in the cart, and the major was requested to speak.
Before beginning his story, he informed Lady Helena of the escape of a band of convicts from Perth, their appearance in the province of Victoria, and their complicity in the railway disaster. He gave her the number of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette purchased at Seymour, and added that the police had set a price on the head of Ben Joyce, a formidable bandit, whom eighteen months of crime had given a wide-spread notoriety.
But how had MacNabb recognized this Ben Joyce in the quartermaster Ayrton? Here was the mystery that all wished to solve; and the major explained.
Since the day of his meeting with Ayrton he had suspected him. Two or three almost insignificant circumstances, a glance exchanged between the quartermaster and the farrier at Wimerra River, Ayrton’s hesitation to pass through the towns and villages, his strong wish to order the Duncan to the coast, the strange death of the animals confided to his care, and, finally, a want of frankness in his actions,—all these facts, gradually noticed, had roused the major’s suspicions.
However, he could form no direct accusation until the events that had transpired the preceding night. Gliding between the tall clumps of shrubbery, as was related in the previous chapter, he approached near the suspicious shadows that had attracted his attention half a mile from the encampment. The phosphorescent plants cast their pale rays through the darkness. Three men were examining some tracks on the ground, and among them he recognized the farrier of Black Point Station.
“Here they are,” said one.
“Yes,” replied another, “here is the trefoil of the hoofs again.”
“It has been like this since leaving the Wimerra.”
“All the horses are dead.”
“The poison is not far away.”
“There is enough here to settle an entire troop of cavalry. This gastrolobium is a useful plant.”
“Then they were silent,” added MacNabb, “and departed. I wanted to know more: I followed them. The conversation soon began again. ‘A cunning man, this Ben Joyce,’ said the farrier; ‘a famous quartermaster, with his invented shipwreck. If his plan succeeds, it will be a stroke of fortune. Devilish Ayrton! Call him Ben Joyce, for he has well earned his name.’ These rascals then left the wood of gum-trees. I knew what I wished, and returned to the encampment with the certainty that all the convicts in Australia are not reformed, in spite of Paganel’s arguments.”
“Then,” said Glenarvan, whose face was pale with anger, “Ayrton has brought us here to rob and assassinate us?”
“Yes,” replied the major.
“And, since leaving the Wimerra, his band has followed and watched us, waiting for a favorable opportunity?”
“Yes.”
“But this wretch is not, then, a sailor of the Britannia? He has stolen his name and contract?”
All eyes were turned towards MacNabb, who must have considered this matter.
“These,” replied he, in his calm voice, “are the proofs that can be derived from this obscure state of affairs. In my opinion this man’s real name is Ayrton. Ben Joyce is his fighting title. It is certain that he knows Harry Grant, and has been quartermaster on board the Britannia. These facts, proved already by the precise details given by Ayrton, are still further corroborated by the conversation of the convicts that I have related. Let us not, therefore, be led astray by vain conjectures, but only be certain that Ayrton is Ben Joyce, a sailor of the Britannia, now chief of a band of convicts.”
The major’s explanation was accepted as conclusive.
“Now,” replied Glenarvan, “will you tell me how and why Harry Grant’s quartermaster is in Australia?”
“How, I do not know,” said MacNabb; “and the police declare they know no more than I on the subject. Why, it is also impossible for me to say. Here is a mystery that the future will explain.”
“The police do not even know the identity of Ayrton and Ben Joyce,” said Captain Mangles.
“You are right, John,” replied the major; “and such information would be likely to facilitate their search.”
“This unfortunate, then,” remarked Lady Helena, “intruded into O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intention?”
“There is no doubt of it,” continued MacNabb. “He was meditating some hostile attack upon the Irishman, when a better opportunity was offered. Chance threw us in his way. He heard Glenarvan’s story of the shipwreck, and, like a bold man, he promptly decided to take part in the expedition. At the Wimerra he communicated with one of his friends, the farrier of Black Point, and thus left distinguishable traces of our course. His band followed us. A poisonous plant enabled him to gradually kill our oxen and horses. Then, at the proper moment, he entangled us in the marshes of the Snowy, and surrendered us to the convicts he commanded.”
Everything possible had been said concerning Ben Joyce. His past had just been reviewed by the major, and the wretch appeared as he was,—a bold and formidable criminal. His intentions had been clearly proved, and required, on the part of Glenarvan, extreme vigilance. Fortunately, there was less to fear from the detected bandit than the secret traitor.
But one serious fact appeared from this explanation. No one had yet thought of it; only Mary Grant, disregarding the past, looked forward to the future. Captain Mangles first saw her pale and disconsolate. He understood what was passing in her mind.
“Miss Mary!” cried he, “you are weeping!”
“What is the matter, my child?” asked Lady Helena.
“My father, madam, my father!” replied the young girl.
She could not continue. But a sudden revelation dawned on the mind of each. They comprehended Mary’s grief, why the tears flowed from her eyes, why the name of her father rose to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery destroyed all hope. The convict, to entice Glenarvan on, had invented a shipwreck. In their conversation, overheard by MacNabb, his accomplices had clearly confessed it. The Britannia had never been wrecked on the reefs of Twofold Bay! Harry Grant had never set foot on the Australian continent!
For the second time an erroneous interpretation of the document had set the searchers of the Britannia on a false trail. All, in the face of this situation and the grief of the two children, preserved a mournful silence. Who then could have found words of hope? Robert wept in his sister’s arms. Paganel murmured, in a voice of despair,—
“Ah, unlucky document! You can boast of having sorely puzzled the brains of a dozen brave people!”
And the worthy geographer was fairly furious against himself, and frantically beat his forehead.
In the mean time Glenarvan had joined Mulready and Wilson, who were on guard without. A deep silence reigned on the plain lying between the wood and the river. Heavy clouds covered the vault of the sky. In this deadened and torpid atmosphere the least sound would have been clearly transmitted; but nothing was heard. Ben Joyce and his band must have fled to a considerable distance; for flocks of birds that sported on the low branches of the trees, several kangaroos peacefully browsing on the young shoots, and a pair of cassowaries, whose unsuspecting heads were thrust between the tall bushes, proved that the presence of man did not disturb these peaceful solitudes.
“You have not seen nor heard anything for an hour?” inquired Glenarvan of the two sailors.
“Nothing, my lord,” replied Wilson. “The convicts must be several miles away.”
“They cannot have been in sufficient force to attack us,” added Mulready. “This Ben Joyce probably intended to recruit some bandits, like himself, among the bushrangers that wander at the foot of the Alps.”
“Very likely, Mulready,” replied Glenarvan. “These rascals are cowards. They know we are well armed, and are perhaps waiting for darkness to commence their attack. We must redouble our vigilance at nightfall. If we could only leave this marshy plain and pursue our journey towards the coast! But the swollen waters of the river bar our progress. I would pay its weight in gold for a raft that would transport us to the other side!”
“Why,” said Wilson, “does not your lordship give us the order to construct this raft? There is plenty of wood.”
“No, Wilson,” answered Glenarvan; “this Snowy is not a river, it is an impassable torrent.”
At this moment Captain Mangles, the major, and Paganel joined Glenarvan. They had been to examine the Snowy. The waters, swollen by the recent rains, had risen a foot above low-water mark, and formed an impetuous current. It was impossible to venture upon this roaring deluge, these rushing floods, broken into a thousand eddies by the depressions of the river-bed. Captain Mangles declared that the passage was impracticable.
“But,” added he, “we ought not to remain here without making any attempt. What we wished to do before Ayrton’s treason is still more necessary now.”
“What do you say, captain?” asked Glenarvan.
“I say that assistance is needed; and since we cannot go to Twofold Bay, we must go to Melbourne. One horse is left. Let your lordship give him to me, and I will go.”
“But it is a perilous venture, John,” said Glenarvan. “Aside from the dangers of this journey of two hundred miles across an unknown country, all the roads may be guarded by Ben Joyce’s accomplices.”
“I know it, my lord; but I know, too, that our situation cannot be prolonged. Ayrton only asked eight days’ absence to bring back the crew of the Duncan. But I will return in six days to the banks of the Snowy. What are your lordship’s orders?”
“Before Glenarvan speaks,” said Paganel, “I must make a remark. It is well that one of us should go to Melbourne, but not that these dangers should be incurred by Captain Mangles. He is the captain of the Duncan, and must not, therefore, expose himself. Allow me to go in his place.”
“Well said,” replied the major; “but why should it be you, Paganel?”
“Are we not here?” cried Wilson and Mulready.
“And do you believe,” continued MacNabb, “that I am afraid to make a journey of two hundred miles on horseback?”
“My friends,” said Glenarvan, “if one of us is to go to Melbourne, let fate decide. Paganel, write our names——”
“Not yours at least, my lord,” insisted Captain Mangles.
“And why?” asked Glenarvan.
“Separate you from Lady Helena, when your wound is not yet healed?”
“Glenarvan,” interposed Paganel, “you cannot leave the encampment.”
“No,” resumed the major; “your place is here. Edward, you must not go.”
“There are dangers to incur,” replied Glenarvan; “and I will not leave my part to others. Write, Paganel; let my name be mingled with those of my companions, and Heaven grant that it may be the first drawn.”
All yielded to this wish; and Glenarvan’s name was added to the others. They then proceeded to draw, and the lot fell upon Mulready. The brave sailor uttered a cry of joy.
“My lord, I am ready to go,” said he.
Glenarvan clasped his hand, and then turned towards the cart, leaving the major and Captain Mangles to guard the encampment. Lady Helena was at once informed of the decision taken to send a messenger to Melbourne, and of the result of the drawing by lot. She spoke words to Mulready that went to the heart of that noble sailor. They knew that he was brave, intelligent, hardy, and persevering. The lot could not have fallen better.
It was decided that Mulready should depart at eight o’clock, after the short twilight. Wilson charged himself with getting the horse ready. He took the precaution to change the tell-tale shoe that he wore on his left foot, and to replace it by one belonging to the horses that had died in the night. The convicts could not now track Mulready, or follow him, unless mounted.
While Wilson was occupied with these arrangements, Glenarvan was preparing the letter designed for Tom Austin; but his wounded arm disabled him, and he asked Paganel to write for him. The geographer, who seemed absorbed in one idea, was oblivious to what was passing around him. It must be confessed that Paganel, in all this succession of sad misfortunes, thought only of his false interpretation of the document. He turned the words about in every way to draw from them a new meaning, and remained wrapt in these meditations. Thus he did not hear Glenarvan’s request, and the latter was forced to repeat it.
“Very well,” replied Paganel; “I am ready.”
So saying, he mechanically produced his note-book. He tore out a blank page, and then, with his pencil in his hand, made ready to write. Glenarvan began to dictate the following instructions:
“Order for Tom Austin to put to sea, and bring the Duncan——”
Paganel had just finished this last word when his eyes fell upon the number of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette that lay upon the ground. The paper, being folded, only allowed him to see the two last syllables of its title. His pencil stopped, and he seemed to completely forget Glenarvan and his letter.
“Well, Paganel?” said Glenarvan.
“Ah!” continued the geographer, uttering a cry.
“What is the matter?” asked the major.
“Nothing! nothing!” replied Paganel. Then, in a lower tone, he repeated: “Aland! aland! aland!”
He had risen; he had seized the paper. He shook it, seeking to repress words ready to escape his lips. Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him without understanding this inexplicable agitation. Paganel was like a man whom a sudden frenzy has seized. But this state of nervous excitation did not last. He gradually grew calm. The joy that gleamed in his eyes died away, and, resuming his place, he said, in a quiet tone:
“When you wish, my lord, I am at your disposal.”
Glenarvan continued the dictation of his letter, which was distinctly worded as follows:
“Order for Tom Austin to put to sea, and bring the Duncan to the eastern coast of Australia.”
“Australia?” cried Paganel. “Ah, yes, Australia!”
The letter was now finished, and presented to Glenarvan for his signature, who, although affected by his recent wound, acquitted himself as well as possible of this formality. The note was then folded and sealed, while Paganel, with a hand that still trembled from excitement, wrote the following address:
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“Tom Austin |
Thereupon he left the cart, gesticulating, and repeating these incomprehensible words:
“Aland! aland! Zealand!”