“To the windlass!” cried the captain.
Glenarvan, Mulready, and Robert on one side, and Paganel, the major, and Olbinett on the other, bore down upon the handles that moved the machine. At the same time the captain and Wilson added their efforts to those of their companions.
“Down! down!” cried the young captain; “all together!”
The cables were stretched taut under the powerful action of the windlass. The anchors held fast, and did not drag. But they must be quick, for high tide lasts only a few moments, and the water would not be long in lowering.
They redoubled their efforts. The wind blew violently, and forced the sails against the mast. A few tremors were felt in the hull, and the brig seemed on the point of rising. Perhaps a little more power would suffice to draw her from the sand.
“Helena! Mary!” cried Glenarvan.
The two ladies came and joined their efforts to those of their companions. A final crack was heard, but that was all! The experiment had failed. The tide was already beginning to ebb, and it was evident that, even with the aid of wind and tide, this insufficient crew could not float their ship.
As their first plan had failed, it was necessary to have recourse to the second without delay. It was plain that they could not raise the Macquarie, and that the only way was to abandon her. To wait on board for the uncertain arrival of assistance would have been folly and madness.
The captain therefore proposed to construct a raft strong enough to convey the passengers and a sufficient quantity of provisions to the New Zealand coast. It was not a time for discussion, but for action. The work was accordingly begun, and considerably advanced when night interrupted them.
In the evening, after supper, while Lady Helena and Mary Grant were reposing in their berths, Paganel and his friends conversed seriously as they paced the deck. The geographer had asked Captain Mangles whether the raft could not follow the coast as far as Auckland, instead of landing the passengers at once. The captain replied that it would be impossible with such a rude craft.
“And could we have done with the boat what we cannot do with the raft?”
“Yes, candidly speaking, we could,” was the reply; “but with the necessity of sailing by day and anchoring by night.”
“Then these wretches, who have abandoned us—”
“Oh,” said Captain Mangles, “they were drunk, and in the profound darkness I fear they have paid for their cowardly desertion with their lives.”
“So much the worse for them,” continued Paganel; “and for us, too, as this boat would have been useful.”
“What do you mean, Paganel?” said Glenarvan. “The raft will take us ashore.”
“That is precisely what I would avoid,” replied the geographer.
“What! can a journey of not more than twenty miles terrify us, after what has been done on the Pampas and in Australia?”
“My friends,” resumed Paganel, “I do not doubt your courage, nor that of our fair companions. Twenty miles is nothing in any other country except New Zealand. Here, however, anything is better than venturing upon these treacherous shores.”
“Anything is better than exposing yourself to certain death on a wrecked vessel,” returned Captain Mangles.
“What have we to fear in New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.
“The savages!” replied Paganel.
“The savages?” said Glenarvan. “Can we not avoid them by following the coast? Besides, an attack from a few wretches cannot intimidate ten well-armed and determined Europeans.”
“It is not a question of wretches,” rejoined Paganel. “The New Zealanders form terrible tribes that struggle against the English government, fight with invaders, frequently conquer them, and always eat them.”
“Cannibals! cannibals!” cried Robert; and then he murmured, as though afraid to give full utterance to the words, “My sister! Lady Helena!”
“Never fear, my boy!” said Glenarvan; “our friend Paganel exaggerates.”
“I do not exaggerate,” replied Paganel. “With these New Zealanders war is what the sports of the chase are to civilized nations; and the game they hunt for they feast upon.”
“Paganel,” said the major, “this may be all very true, but have you forgotten the introduction of Christianity? has it not destroyed these anthropophagous habits?”
“No, it has not,” was the prompt reply. “The records are yet fresh of ministers who have gone out to proclaim Christianity and have fallen victims to the murderous and cannibal instincts of those to whom they preached. Not long since, in the year 1864, one of these clergymen was seized by the chiefs, was hung to the tree, was tantalized and tortured to his last moments; and then, whilst some tore his body to pieces, others devoured the various members. No, the Maoris are still cannibals, and will remain so for some time to come.”
But Paganel was on this point a pessimist, contrary to his usual characteristic.
XLVII
A Dreaded Country
What Paganel had stated was indisputable. The cruelty of the New Zealanders could not be doubted. There was, therefore, danger in landing. But if the danger had been a hundred times greater, it must have been faced. Captain Mangles felt the necessity of leaving this vessel, which would soon break up. Between two perils, one certain, the other only probable, there was no possible hesitation.
As for the chance of being picked up by some passing ship, they could not reasonably rely upon it, for the Macquarie was out of the course usually taken in going to New Zealand. The shipwreck had happened on the desert shores of Ika-Na-Maoui.
“When shall we start?” asked Glenarvan.
“Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock,” replied Captain Mangles. “The tide will begin to rise then, and will carry us ashore.”
Early the next day the raft was finished. The captain had given his entire attention to its construction. They needed a steady and manageable craft, and one capable of resisting the waves for a voyage of nine miles. The masts of the brig could alone
