The raft was at length completed. It could doubtless sustain the shock of the surges; but could it be steered, and the coast be reached, if the wind should veer? This was a question only to be decided by trial.
At nine o’clock the loading began. The provisions were first put on board in sufficient quantities to last until the arrival at Auckland, for there could be no reliance upon the products of this dreaded country. Olbinett furnished some preserved meats, the remains of the Macquarie’s supplies. There was very little, however; and they were forced to depend upon the coarse fare of the mess, which consisted of very inferior ship-biscuits and two barrels of salt fish, greatly to the steward’s regret.
These stores were enclosed in sealed cans and then secured to the foot of the mast. The arms and ammunition were put in a safe and dry place. Fortunately, the travelers were well supplied with rifles and revolvers.
A small anchor was taken on board, in case they should reach the shore at low tide and be forced to anchor in the offing. Flood-tide soon began, the breeze blew gently from the northwest, and a slight swell agitated the surface of the sea.
“Are we ready?” asked Captain Mangles.
“All is ready, captain,” replied Wilson.
“Aboard, then!”
Lady Helena and Mary Grant descended the ship’s side by a clumsy rope-ladder, and took their seats at the foot of the mast near the cases of provisions, their companions around them. Wilson took the helm, the captain stationed himself at the sail-tackling, and Mulready cut the cable that confined the raft to the brig. The sail was spread, and they began to move towards the shore under the combined influence of wind and tide.
The coast was only nine miles distant—not a difficult voyage for a well-manned boat; but with the raft it was necessary to advance slowly. If the wind held out, they might perhaps reach land with this tide; but if there should be a calm, the ebb would carry them back, or they would be compelled to anchor and wait for the next tide.
However, Captain Mangles hoped to succeed. The wind freshened. As it had been flood now for some hours, they must either reach land soon, or anchor.
Fortune favored them. Gradually the black points of the rocks and the yellow sand of the bars disappeared beneath the waves; but great attention and extreme skill became necessary, in this dangerous neighborhood, to guide their unwieldy craft.
They were still five miles from shore. A clear sky enabled them to distinguish the principal features of the country. To the northeast rose a lofty mountain, whose outline was defined against the horizon in a very singular resemblance to the grinning profile of a monkey.
Paganel soon observed that all the sandbars had disappeared.
“Except one,” replied Lady Helena.
“Where?” asked Paganel.
“There,” said Lady Helena, pointing to a black speck a mile ahead.
“That is true,” answered Paganel. “Let us try to determine its position, that we may not run upon it when the tide covers it.”
“It is exactly at the northern projection of the mountain,” said Captain Mangles. “Wilson, bear away towards the offing.”
“Yes, captain,” replied the sailor, bearing with all his weight upon the steering oar.
They approached nearer; but, strange to say, the black point still rose above the water. The captain gazed at it attentively, and, to see better, employed Paganel’s telescope.
“It is not a rock,” said he, after a moment’s examination; “it is a floating object, that rises and falls with the swell.”
“Is it not a piece of the Macquarie’s mast?” asked Lady Helena.
“No,” replied Glenarvan; “no fragment could have drifted so far from the ship.”
“Wait!” cried Captain Mangles. “I recognize it. It is the boat.”
“The brig’s boat?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my lord, the brig’s boat, bottom upwards.”
“The unfortunate sailors!” exclaimed Lady Helena, “they have perished!”
“Yes, madam,” continued the captain; “and they might have foreseen it; for in the midst of these breakers, on a stormy sea, and in such profound darkness, they fled to certain death.”
“May Heaven have pity on them!” murmured Mary Grant.
For a few moments the passengers were silent. They gazed at this frail bark towards which they drew nearer and nearer. It had evidently capsized a considerable distance from land, and of those who embarked in it probably not one had survived.
“But this boat may be useful,” said Glenarvan.
“Certainly,” replied Captain Mangles. “Come about, Wilson.”
The direction of the raft was changed, but the wind subsided gradually, and it cost them much time to reach the boat. Mulready, standing at the bow, warded off the shock, and the yawl was drawn alongside.
“Empty?” asked Captain Mangles.
“Yes, captain,” replied the sailor, “the boat is empty, and her seams have started open. She is of no use to us.”
“Can we not save any part?” asked MacNabb.
“No,” answered the captain. “She is only fit to burn.”
“I am sorry,” said Paganel, “for the yawl might have taken us to Auckland.”
“We must be resigned, Mr. Paganel,” rejoined the captain. “Moreover, on such a rough sea, I prefer our raft to that frail conveyance. A slight shock would dash it in pieces! Therefore, my lord, we have nothing more to stay here for.”
“As you wish, John,” said Glenarvan.
“Forward, Wilson,” continued the young captain, “straight for the coast!”
The tide would yet flow for about an hour, and in this time they could accomplish a considerable distance. But soon the breeze subsided almost entirely, and the raft was motionless. Soon it even began to drift towards the open sea under the influence of the ebb.
The captain did not hesitate a moment.
“Anchor!” cried he.
Mulready, who was in an instant ready to execute this order, let fall the anchor, and the raft drifted till the cable was taut. The sail was reefed, and arrangements were made for a long detention. Indeed, the tide would not turn till late in the evening; and, as they did not care to sail in the dark, they anchored for the night in sight of land.
Quite a heavy
