CHAPTER II
NAVIGATORS AND THEIR DISCOVERIES
NEXT day, the 27th of January, the passengers of the
Macquarie were installed on board the brig. Will Halley
had not offered his cabin to his lady passengers. This omission was the less to
be deplored, for the den was worthy of
the bear.
At half past twelve the anchor was weighed, having been
loosed from its holding-ground with some difficulty. A
moderate breeze was blowing from the southwest. The
sails were gradually unfurled; the five hands made slow
work. Wilson offered to assist the crew; but Halley begged
him to be quiet and not to interfere with what did not concern him. He was
accustomed to manage his own affairs,
and required neither assistance nor advice.
This was aimed at John Mangles, who had smiled at the
clumsiness of some maneuver. John took the hint, but
mentally resolved that he would nevertheless hold himself in
readiness in case the incapacity of the crew should endanger
the safety of the vessel.
However, in time, the sails were adjusted by the five
sailors, aided by the stimulus of the captain's oaths. The
Macquarie stood out to sea on the larboard tack, under all
her lower sails, topsails, topgallants, cross-jack, and jib. By
and by, the other sails were hoisted. But in spite of this
additional canvas the brig made very little way. Her
rounded bow, the width of her hold, and her heavy stern,
made her a bad sailor, the perfect type of a wooden shoe.
They had to make the best of it. Happily, five days, or,
at most, six, would take them to Auckland, no matter how
bad a sailor the Macquarie was.
At seven o'clock in the evening the Australian coast and
the lighthouse of the port of Eden had faded out of sight.
The ship labored on the lumpy sea, and rolled heavily in the
trough of the waves. The passengers below suffered a good
deal from this motion. But it was impossible to stay on
deck, as it rained violently. Thus they were condemned to
close imprisonment.
Each one of them was lost in his own reflections. Words
were few. Now and then Lady Helena and Miss Grant
exchanged a few syllables. Glenarvan was restless; he went
in and out, while the Major was impassive. John Mangles,
followed by Robert, went on the poop from time to time, to
look at the weather. Paganel sat in his corner, muttering
vague and incoherent words.
What was the worthy geographer thinking of? Of New
Zealand, the country to which destiny was leading him. He
went mentally over all his history; he called to mind the
scenes of the past in that ill-omened country.
But in all that history was there a fact, was there a
solitary incident that could justify the discoverers of these
islands in considering them as "a continent." Could a
modern geographer or a sailor concede to them such a
designation. Paganel was always revolving the meaning of
the document. He was possessed with the idea; it became
his ruling thought. After Patagonia, after Australia, his
imagination, allured by a name, flew to New Zealand. But
in that direction, one point, and only one, stood in his way.
"Contin —contin," he repeated, "that must mean continent!"
And then he resumed his mental retrospect of the navigators who made
known to us these two great islands of the
Southern Sea.
It was on the 13th of December, 1642, that the Dutch
navigator Tasman, after discovering Van Diemen's Land,
sighted the unknown shores of New Zealand. He coasted
along for several days, and on the 17th of December his
ships penetrated into a large bay, which, terminating in a
narrow strait, separated the two islands.
The northern island was called by the natives IkanaMani, a word which
signifies the fish of Mani. The southern island was called Tavai-Pouna-Mou, "the
whale that
yields the green-stones."
Abel Tasman sent his boats on shore, and they returned
accompanied by two canoes and a noisy company of natives.
These savages were middle height, of brown or yellow complexion, angular bones,
harsh voices, and black hair, which
was dressed in the Japanese manner, and surmounted by a
tall white feather.
This first interview between Europeans and aborigines
seemed to promise amicable and lasting intercourse. But
the next day, when one of Tasman's boats was looking for
an anchorage nearer to the land, seven canoes, manned by
a great number of natives, attacked them fiercely. The boat
capsized and filled. The quartermaster in command was instantly struck with a
badly-sharpened spear, and fell into the
sea. Of his six companions four were killed; the other two
and the quartermaster were able to swim to the ships, and
were picked up and recovered.
After this sad occurrence Tasman set sail, confining his
revenge to giving the natives a few musket-shots, which
probably did not reach them. He left this bay — which still
bears the name of Massacre Bay — followed the western
coast, and on the 5th of January, anchored near the northern-most point. Here
the violence of the surf, as well as
the unfriendly attitude of the natives, prevented his obtaining water, and he
finally quitted these shores, giving them
the name Staten-land or the Land of the States, in honor of
the States-General.
The Dutch navigator concluded that these islands were
adjacent to the islands of the same name on the east of
Terra del Fuego, at the southern point of the American con
tinent. He thought he had found "the Great Southern
Continent."
"But," said Paganel to himself, "what a seventeenth century sailor might
call a 'continent' would never stand for
one with a nineteenth century man. No such mistake can
be supposed! No! there is something here that baffles me."