Jules Verne For Children: 16 Incredible Tales of Mystery, Courage & Adventure (Illustrated Edition). Jules Verne
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was loud in admiration of the fitting up of the cabins, and the carpets and hangings, as well as of the polished maple-wood of the upper deck. Ayrton’s approbation was much less hearty, for he considered it mere costly superfluity.
But when he examined the yacht with a sailor’s eye, the quartermaster of the BRITANNIA was as enthusiastic about it as Paddy. He went down into the hold, inspected the screw department and the engine-room, examining the engine thoroughly, and inquired about its power and consumption. He explored the coal-bunkers, the storeroom, the powder-store, and armory, in which last he seemed to be particularly attracted by a cannon mounted on the forecastle. Glenarvan saw he had to do with a man who understood such matters, as was evident from his questions. Ayrton concluded his investigations by a survey of the masts and rigging.
“You have a fine vessel, my Lord,” he said after his curiosity was satisfied.
“A good one, and that is best,” replied Glenarvan.
“And what is her tonnage?”
“Two hundred and ten tons.”
“I don’t think I am far out,” continued Ayrton, “in judging her speed at fifteen knots. I should say she could do that easily.”
“Say seventeen,” put in John Mangles, “and you’ve hit the mark.”
“Seventeen!” exclaimed the quartermaster. “Why, not a man-of-war— not the best among them, I mean—could chase her!”
“Not one,” replied Mangles. “The DUNCAN is a regular racing yacht, and would never let herself be beaten.”
“Even at sailing?” asked Ayrton.
“Even at sailing.”
“Well, my Lord, and you too, captain,” returned Ayrton, “allow a sailor who knows what a ship is worth, to compliment you on yours.”
“Stay on board of her, then, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan; “it rests with yourself to call it yours.”
“I will think of it, my Lord,” was all Ayrton’s reply.
Just then M. Olbinett came to announce dinner, and his Lordship repaired with his guests to the saloon.
“That Ayrton is an intelligent man,” said Paganel to the Major.
“Too intelligent!” muttered McNabbs, who, without any apparent reason, had taken a great dislike to the face and manners of the quartermaster.
During the dinner, Ayrton gave some interesting details about the Australian continent, which he knew perfectly. He asked how many sailors were going to accompany the expedition, and seemed astonished to hear that only two were going. He advised Glenarvan to take all his best men, and even urged him to do it, which advice, by the way, ought to have removed the Major’s suspicion.
“But,” said Glenarvan, “our journey is not dangerous, is it?”
“Not at all,” replied Ayrton, quickly.
“Well then, we’ll have all the men we can on board. Hands will be wanted to work the ship, and to help in the repairs. Besides, it is of the utmost importance that she should meet us to the very day, at whatever place may be ultimately selected. Consequently, we must not lessen her crew.”
Ayrton said nothing more, as if convinced his Lordship was right.
When evening came, Scotch and Irish separated. Ayrton and Paddy O’Moore and family returned home. Horses and wagons were to be ready the next day, and eight o’clock in the morning was fixed for starting.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant soon made their preparations. They had less to do than Jacques Paganel, for he spent half the night in arranging, and wiping, and rubbing up the lenses of his telescope. Of course, next morning he slept on till the Major’s stentorian voice roused him.
The luggage was already conveyed to the farm, thanks to John Mangles, and a boat was waiting to take the passengers. They were soon seated, and the young captain gave his final orders to Tom Austin, his chief officer. He impressed upon him that he was to wait at Melbourne for Lord Glenarvan’s commands, and to obey them scrupulously, whatever they might be.
The old sailor told John he might rely on him, and, in the name of the men, begged to offer his Lordship their best wishes for the success of this new expedition.
A storm of hurrahs burst forth from the yacht as the boat rowed off. In ten minutes the shore was reached, and a quarter of an hour afterward the Irishman’s farm. All was ready. Lady Helena was enchanted with her installation. The huge chariot, with its primitive wheels and massive planks, pleased her particularly. The six bullocks, yoked in pairs, had a patriarchal air about them which took her fancy. Ayrton, goad in hand, stood waiting the orders of this new master.
“My word,” said Paganel, “this is a famous vehicle; it beats all the mail-coaches in the world. I don’t know a better fashion of traveling than in a mountebank’s caravan— a movable house, which goes or stops wherever you please. What can one wish better? The Samaratians understood that, and never traveled in any other way.”
“Monsieur Paganel,” said Lady Helena, “I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in my SALONS.”
“Assuredly, madam, I should count it an honor. Have you fixed the day?”
“I shall be at home every day to my friends,” replied Lady Helena; “and you are—”
“The most devoted among them all,” interrupted Paganel, gaily.
These mutual compliments were interrupted by the arrival of the seven horses, saddled and ready. They were brought by Paddy’s sons, and Lord Glenarvan paid the sum stipulated for his various purchases, adding his cordial thanks, which the worthy Irishman valued at least as much as his golden guineas.
The signal was given to start, and Lady Helena and Mary took their places in the reserved compartment. Ayrton seated himself in front, and Olbinett scrambled in among the luggage. The rest of the party, well armed with carbines and revolvers, mounted their horses. Ayrton gave a peculiar cry, and his team set off. The wagon shook and the planks creaked, and the axles grated in the naves of the wheels; and before long the hospitable farm of the Irishman was out of sight.
CHAPTER IX
A Country of Paradoxes
IT was the 23d of December, 1864, a dull, damp, dreary month in the northern hemisphere; but on the Australian continent it might be called June. The hottest season of the year had already commenced, and the sun’s rays were almost tropical, when Lord Glenarvan started on his new expedition.
Most fortunately the 37th parallel did not cross the immense deserts, inaccessible regions, which have cost many martyrs to science already. Glenarvan could never have encountered them. He had only to do with the southern part of Australia—viz., with a narrow portion of the province of Adelaide, with the whole of Victoria, and with the top of the reversed triangle which forms New South Wales.
It is scarcely sixty-two miles from Cape Bernouilli to the frontiers of Victoria. It was not above a two days’ march, and Ayrton reckoned on their sleeping next night at Apsley, the most westerly town of Victoria.
The commencement of a journey is always marked by ardor, both in the horses and the horsemen. This is well enough in the horsemen, but if the horses are to go far, their speed must be moderated and their strength husbanded. It was, therefore, fixed that the average journey every day should not be more than from twenty-five to thirty miles.
Besides, the pace of the horses must be regulated by the slower pace of the bullocks, truly mechanical engines which lose in time what they gain in power. The wagon, with its passengers and provisions, was the very center of the caravan, the moving fortress. The horsemen might act as scouts, but must never be far away from it.
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