THE rest of the day passed without any other incident. Everything was ready for the departure of Mulready, who was happy to give his master this proof of his devotion.
Paganel had regained his coolness and accustomed manners. His look still indicated an uneasy state of mind, but he appeared decided to keep his secret. He had doubtless strong reasons for acting thus, for the major overheard him repeating these words, like a man who is struggling with himself:
“No, no! they would not believe me! And, besides what use is it? It is too late!”
This resolution taken, he occupied himself with giving Mulready the necessary directions for reaching Melbourne, and, with the map before him, marked out his course. All the trails of the prairie converged towards the Lucknow road, which, after extending straight southward to the coast, suddenly turned in the direction towards Melbourne. It was simply necessary to follow this, and not attempt to cross the unknown country. Mulready could not, therefore, go astray. As for dangers, they lay only a few miles beyond the encampment, where Ben Joyce and his band were probably lying in wait. This point once passed, Mulready was sure he could easily distance the convicts and accomplish his important mission.
At six o’clock supper was eaten in common. A heavy rain was falling. The tent no longer afforded sufficient shelter, and each had taken refuge in the cart, which was a safe retreat. The sticky clay held it in its place as firm as a fort on its foundations. The fire-arms consisted of seven rifles and seven revolvers, and thus enabled them to sustain a long siege, for neither ammunition nor provisions were wanting. In six days the Duncan would anchor in Twofold Bay. Twenty-four hours after, her crew would reach the opposite bank of the river; and, if the passage was not then practicable, at least the convicts would be compelled to retreat before superior forces. But, first of all, it was necessary that Mulready should succeed in his enterprise.
At eight o’clock the darkness became intense. It was the time to start. The horse was brought out. His feet had been muffled; as an additional precaution, and made no sound. The animal seemed fatigued, but upon his surefootedness and endurance depended the safety of all. The major advised the sailor to spare his beast as soon as he was out of reach of the convicts. It was better to lose half a day and reach his destination safely. Captain Mangles gave him a revolver, which he had loaded with the greatest care. Mulready mounted.
“Here is the letter which you are to take to Tom Austin,” said Glenarvan. “Let him not lose an hour, but start for Twofold Bay; and, if he does not find us there, if we have not crossed the river, let him come to us without delay. Now go, my brave sailor, and may God guide you!”
Glenarvan, Lady Helena, Mary Grant, all clasped Mulready’s hand. This departure on a dark and stormy night, over a road beset with dangers, across the unknown stretches of a desert, would have appalled a heart less courageous than that of the sailor.
“Adieu, my lord,” said he, in a calm voice, and soon disappeared by a path along the edge of the wood.
At that moment the tempest redoubled its violence. The lofty branches of the trees shook dismally in the darkness. You could hear the fall of the dry twigs on the drenched earth. More than one giant tree, whose sap was gone, but which had stood till then, fell during this terrible hurricane. The wind roared amid the cracking of the trees and mingled its mournful sounds with the rushing of the river. The heavy clouds that chased across the sky poured forth masses of mist, while a dismal darkness increased still more the horrors of the night.
The travelers, after Mulready’s departure, ensconced themselves in the cart. Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Glenarvan, and Paganel occupied the front compartment, which had been made water-tight. In the rear part Olbinett, Wilson, and Robert had found a sufficient shelter, while the major and Captain Mangles were on guard without. This precaution was necessary, for an attack by the convicts was easy and possible.
These two faithful guardians, therefore, took turns and philosophically received the blasts that blew sharply in their faces. They strove to pierce with their eyes the shades so favorable for an ambuscade, for the ear could detect nothing amid the din of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the rattling of the branches, the fall of trees, and the rushing of the impetuous waters.
In the mean time there were several lulls in the fury of the tempest, the wind ceasing as if to take breath. The river only moaned adown the motionless reeds and the black curtain of the gum-trees, and the silence seemed more profound during these momentary rests. The major and Captain Mangles now listened attentively. During one of these intervals a sharp whistle reached their ears.
The captain hastened to the major. “Did you hear anything?” asked he.
“Yes,” replied MacNabb. “Was it a man or an animal?”
“A man,” said the captain.
They both listened again. The mysterious whistle was suddenly repeated, and something like a report followed it, but almost inaudibly, for the storm just then broke forth with renewed violence. They could not hear themselves talk, and took their stations to leeward of the cart.
At this moment the leathern curtains were raised, and Glenarvan joined his two companions. He likewise had heard the suspicious whistle, and the report.
“From what direction?” he asked.
“Yonder,” said the captain, pointing to the dark line, towards which Mulready had gone.
“How far?”
“The wind carried it,” was the reply. “It must be three miles distant at least.”
“Let us go!” said Glenarvan, throwing his rifle over his shoulder.
“No,” interposed the major; “it is a decoy to entice us away from the cart.”
“But if Mulready has fallen beneath the shots of these wretches!” continued Glenarvan, seizing MacNabb’s hand.
“We shall know to-morrow,” replied the latter, firmly determined to prevent Glenarvan from committing a useless imprudence.
“You cannot leave the encampment, my lord,” said Captain Mangles; “I will go alone.”
“No!” cried MacNabb, with energy. “Will you have us, then, perish singly, diminish our numbers, and be left to the mercy of these criminals? If Mulready has been their victim, it is a calamity that we must not repeat a second time. He has gone according to lot. If the lot had chosen me, I should have gone like him, but should neither have asked nor expected any assistance.”
In restraining Glenarvan and Captain Mangles the major was right from every point of view. To attempt to reach the sailor, to go on such a dark night to meet the convicts, ambuscaded in some coppice, was useless madness. Glenarvan’s little party did not number enough men to sacrifice any more.
However, Glenarvan seemed unwilling to yield to these reasons. His hand played nervously with his rifle. He walked to and fro around the cart; he listened to the least sound; he strove to pierce the dismal obscurity. The thought that one of his friends was mortally wounded, helplessly abandoned, calling in vain upon those for whose sake he had sacrificed himself, tortured him. MacNabb feared that he should not succeed in restraining him, that Glenarvan, carried away by his feelings, would cast himself into the power of Ben Joyce.
“Edward,” said he, “be calm; listen to a friend; think of Lady Helena, Mary Grant, all who remain! Besides, where will you go? Where find Mulready? He was attacked two miles distant at least. On what road? What path take?”
At this very moment, as if in answer to the major, a cry of distress was heard.
“Listen!” said Glenarvan.
The cry came from the very direction whence the report had sounded, but less than a quarter of a mile distant. Glenarvan, pushing back MacNabb, was advancing along the path, when, not far from the cart, these words were uttered:
“Help! help!”
It was a plaintive and despairing voice. Captain Mangles and the major rushed towards it. In a few moments they perceived, on the edge of the coppice, a human form that was dragging itself along and groaning piteously. It was Mulready, wounded and half dead. When his companions raised him, they felt their hands dabbling in blood. The rain now increased, and the wind howled through the branches of the dead trees. In the midst of these terrific gusts, Glenarvan, the major, and the captain bore the body of Mulready.
On arriving at the cart, Paganel, Robert, Wilson, and Olbinett came out, and Lady Helena gave up her room to the poor sailor. The major took off Mulready’s vest, wet with blood and rain. He discovered the wound. It was a poniard stab, which the unfortunate had received in his right side.
MacNabb dressed it skillfully. Whether the weapon had reached the vital parts, he could not say. A stream of bright-red blood spurted forth, while the paleness and the swoon of the wounded man proved that he had been seriously injured. The major accordingly placed upon the opening of the wound, after first washing it with fresh water, a thick wad of tinder, and then a few layers of lint, confined by a bandage, and thus succeeded in stopping the hemorrhage. The patient was then laid on his side, his head and breast raised, and Lady Helena gave him a refreshing draught.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, the wounded man, who had been motionless till then, made a movement. His eyes half opened, his lips murmured disconnected words, and the major, putting down his ear, heard him say:
“My lord—the letter—Ben Joyce——”
The major repeated these words, and glanced at his companions. What did Mulready mean? Ben Joyce had attacked the sailor, but why? Was it not simply for the purpose of preventing him from reaching the Duncan? This letter—Glenarvan examined the sailor’s pockets. The letter addressed to Tom Austin was gone.
The night passed in anxiety and anguish. They feared every moment that the wounded man would die. A burning fever consumed him. Lady Helena and Mary Grant, as though his sisters, did not leave him; never was patient better nursed, or by more tender hands.
Day appeared. The rain had ceased. Heavy clouds still rolled along the vault of the sky, and the earth was strewn with the fragments of branches. The clay, soaked by floods of water, had yielded; and the sides of the cart became unsteady, but sank no deeper.
Captain Mangles, Paganel, and Glenarvan took a tour of exploration around the camp. They traversed the path still marked with blood, but found no trace of Ben Joyce or his band. They went to the place where the attack had been made. Here two corpses lay on the ground, shot by Mulready. One was the farrier of Black Point. His face, which had mortified, was a horrible sight.
Glenarvan did not pursue his investigations farther, prudence forbidding. He therefore returned to the cart, much alarmed by the seriousness of the situation.
“We cannot think of sending another messenger to Melbourne,” said he.
“But we must,” replied Captain Mangles; “and I will make the attempt, since my sailor has failed.”
“No, John. You have not even a horse to carry you these two hundred miles.”
Indeed, Mulready’s horse, the only one that remained, had not reappeared. Had he fallen beneath the shots of the murderers? Was he running wild over the desert? Had the convicts captured him?
“Whatever happens,” continued Glenarvan, “we will separate no more. Let us wait eight or fifteen days, till the waters of the river resume their natural level. We will then reach Twofold Bay by short journeys, and from there send to the Duncan by a surer way the order to sail for the coast.”
“This is the only feasible plan,” replied Paganel.
“Well, then, my friends,” resumed Glenarvan, “no more separation! A man risks too much to venture alone across this desert, infested with bandits. And now may God save our poor sailor and protect ourselves!”
Glenarvan was right in both resolves, first to forbid any single attempt to cross the plains, and next to wait patiently on the banks of the river for a practicable passage. Scarcely thirty-five miles separated them from Delegete, the first frontier town of New South Wales, where they would find means of reaching Twofold Bay. From this point he could telegraph his orders to the Duncan.
These measures were wise, but they had been adopted rather tardily. If they had not sent Mulready with the letter, what misfortunes would have been avoided, not to speak of the attack upon the sailor!
On arriving at the camp, Glenarvan found his companions less anxious; they seemed to have regained hope.
“He is better!” cried Robert, running to meet him.
“Mulready?”
“Yes, Edward,” replied Lady Helena. “A reaction has taken place. The major is more encouraged. Our sailor will live.”
“Where is MacNabb?” asked Glenarvan.
“With him. Mulready wished to speak with him. We must not disturb them.”
Indeed, within an hour the wounded man had rallied from his swoon, and the fever had diminished. But the sailor’s first care, on recovering memory and speech was to ask for Lord Glenarvan, or, in his absence, the major MacNabb, seeing him so feeble, would have forbidden all conversation; but Mulready insisted with such energy that he was forced to yield. The interview had already lasted some time, and they were only waiting for the major’s report.
Soon the curtains of the cart moved, and he appeared. He joined his friends at the foot of a gum-tree. His face, usually so calm, betokened a serious anxiety. When his eyes encountered Lady Helena and the young girl, they expressed a deep sadness. Glenarvan questioned him, and learned what the sailor had related.
On leaving the encampment, Mulready had followed one of the paths indicated by Paganel. He hastened, as much at least as the darkness of the night permitted him. According to his estimate, he had traveled a distance of about two miles, when several men—five, he thought—sprang to his horse’s head. The animal reared. Mulready seized his revolver and fired. He thought that two of his assailants fell. By the flash of the report, he recognized Ben Joyce, but that was all. He had not time to fully discharge his weapon. A violent blow was struck upon his right side, which brought him to the ground. However, he had not yet lost consciousness. The assassins believed him dead. He felt them search him. Then a conversation ensued. “I have the letter,” said one of them. “Give it to me,” replied Ben Joyce; “and now the Duncan is ours!”
At this point in the story Glenarvan could not restrain a cry.
MacNabb continued:
“‘Now, you others,’ said Ben Joyce, ‘catch the horse. In two days I shall be on board the Duncan, and in six at Twofold Bay. There is the place of meeting. The lord’s party will be still fast in the marshes of the Snowy. Cross the river at Kemple Pier bridge, go to the coast, and wait for me. I will find means to bring you on board. With the crew once at sea, and a vessel like the Duncan, we shall be masters of the Indian Ocean.’ ‘Hurrah for Ben Joyce!’ cried the convicts. Mulready’s horse was then led up, and Ben Joyce disappeared at a gallop on the Lucknow road, while the band proceeded southeastward to the Snowy River. Mulready, although severely wounded, had strength to drag himself within two hundred paces of the encampment, where we picked him up almost dead. This,” added MacNabb, “is Mulready’s sad story. You understand now why the courageous sailor wished so much to speak.”
This revelation terrified all.
“Pirates! pirates!” cried Glenarvan. “My crew massacred, my Duncan in the hands of these bandits!”
“Yes, for Ben Joyce will surprise the vessel,” replied the major, “and then——”
“Well, we must reach the coast before these wretches,” said Paganel.
“But how cross the Snowy?” asked Wilson.
“Like them,” answered Glenarvan. “They will cross Kemple Pier bridge, and we will do the same.”
“But what will become of Mulready?” inquired Lady Helena.
“We will take turns in carrying him. Shall I give up my defenceless crew to Ben Joyce’s band?”
The plan of crossing Kemple Pier bridge was practicable, but perilous. The convicts might locate themselves at this point to defend it. It would be at least thirty against seven! But there are moments when we do not think of these things, when we must advance at all hazards.
“My lord,” said Captain Mangles, at length, “before risking our last chance, before venturing towards the bridge, it is prudent to reconnoitre it first. I will undertake this.”
“I will accompany you, captain,” replied Paganel.
This proposal was accepted, and the captain and Paganel prepared to start immediately. They were to follow along the bank of the river till they came to the place indicated by Ben Joyce, and keep out of sight of the convicts, who were probably lying in wait. These two courageous men accordingly, well furnished with arms and provisions, set out, and soon disappeared among the tall rushes of the river.
All day the little party waited for them. At evening they had not yet returned, and great fears were entertained. At last, about eleven o’clock, Wilson announced their approach. They arrived, worn out with the fatigues of a six-mile journey.
“The bridge? Is it there?” asked Glenarvan, rushing to meet them.
“Yes, a bridge of rushes,” said Captain Mangles. “The convicts passed, it is true, but——”
“But what?” cried Glenarvan, who foresaw a new calamity.
“They burned it after their passage,” replied Paganel.