CHAPTER VIII
ON THE ROAD TO AUCKLAND
ON the 7th of February, at six o'clock in the morning,
the signal for departure was given by Glenarvan. During
the night the rain had ceased. The sky was veiled with light
gray clouds, which moderated the heat of the sun, and allowed the travelers to
venture on a journey by day.
Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty
miles between Point Kawhia and Auckland; it was an eight
days' journey if they made ten miles a day. But instead of
following the windings of the coast, he thought it better to
make for a point thirty miles off, at the confluence of the
Waikato and the Waipa, at the village of Ngarnavahia.
The "overland track" passes that point, and is rather a
path than a road, practicable for the vehicles which go almost across the
island, from Napier, in Hawke's Bay, to
Auckland. From this village it would be easy to reach
Drury, and there they could rest in an excellent hotel,
highly recommended by Dr. Hochstetter.
The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions,
commenced to follow the shore of Aotea Bay. From prudential motives they did not
allow themselves to straggle,
and by instinct they kept a look-out over the undulating
plains to the eastward, ready with their loaded carbines.
Paganel, map in hand, took a professional pleasure in verifying the minutest
details.
The country looked like an immense prairie which faded
into distance, and promised an easy walk. But the travelers
were undeceived when they came to the edge of this verdant
plain. The grass gave way to a low scrub of small bushes
bearing little white flowers, mixed with those innumerable
tall ferns with which the lands of New Zealand abound.
They had to cut a path across the plain, through these woody
stems, and this was a matter of some difficulty, but at eight
o'clock in the evening the first slopes of the Hakarihoata
Ranges were turned, and the party camped immediately.
After a fourteen miles' march, they might well think of
resting.
Neither wagon or tent being available, they sought repose
beneath some magnificent Norfolk Island pines. They had
plenty of rugs which make good beds. Glenarvan took
every possible precaution for the night. His companions
and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two, till
daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a
potent preservation from wild beasts, but New Zealand has
neither tiger, nor lion, nor bear, nor any wild animal, but
the Maori adequately fills their place, and a fire would only
have served to attract this two-footed jaguar.
The night passed pleasantly with the exception of the
attack of the sand-flies, called by the natives, "ngamu,"
and the visit of the audacious family of rats, who exercised
their teeth on the provisions.
Next day, on the 8th of February, Paganel rose more
sanguine, and almost reconciled to the country. The
Maories, whom he particularly dreaded, had not yet appeared, and these ferocious
cannibals had not molested him
even in his dreams. "I begin to think that our little journey will end
favorably. This evening we shall reach the
confluence of the Waipa and Waikato, and after that there
is not much chance of meeting natives on the way to
Auckland."
"How far is it now," said Glenarvan, "to the confluence
of the Waipa and Waikato?"
"Fifteen miles; just about what we did yesterday."
"But we shall be terribly delayed if this interminable
scrub continues to obstruct our path."
"No," said Paganel, "we shall follow the banks of the
Waipa, and then we shall have no obstacle, but on the contrary, a very easy
road."
"Well, then," said Glenarvan, seeing the ladies ready,
"let us make a start."
During the early part of the day, the thick brushwood
seriously impeded their progress. Neither wagon nor
horses could have passed where travelers passed, so that
their Australian vehicle was but slightly regretted. Until
practicable wagon roads are cut through these forests of
scrub, New Zealand will only be accessible to foot passengers. The ferns, whose
name is legion, concur with the
Maories in keeping strangers off the lands.
The little party overcame many obstacles in crossing the
plains in which the Hakarihoata Ranges rise. But before
noon they reached the banks of the Waipa, and followed the
northward course of the river.
The Major and Robert, without leaving their companions, shot some snipe
and partridge under the low shrubs
of the plain. Olbinett, to save time, plucked the birds as
he went along.
Paganel was less absorbed by the culinary importance of
the game than by the desire of obtaining some bird peculiar
to New Zealand. His curiosity as a naturalist overcame his
hunger as a traveler. He called to mind the peculiarities
of the "tui" of the natives, sometimes called the mockingbird from its incessant
chuckle, and sometimes "the parson," in allusion to the white cravat it wears
over its black,
cassock-like plumage.
"The tui," said Paganel to the Major, "grows so fat
during the Winter that it makes him ill, and prevents him
from flying. Then he tears his breast with his beak, to relieve himself of his
fat, and so becomes lighter. Does not
that seem to you singular, McNabbs?"
"So singular that I don't believe a word of it," replied
the Major.
Paganel, to his great regret, could not find a single specimen, or he
might have shown the incredulous Major the
bloody scars on the breast. But he was more fortunate
with a strange animal which, hunted by men, cats and dogs,
has fled toward the unoccupied country, and is fast disappearing from the fauna
of New Zealand. Robert, searching like a ferret, came upon a nest made of
interwoven
roots, and in it a pair of birds destitute of wings and tail,
with four toes, a long snipe-like beak, and a covering of
white feathers over the whole body, singular creatures,
which seemed to connect the oviparous tribes with the mammifers.
It was the New Zealand "kiwi," the Apteryx australis
of naturalists, which lives with equal satisfaction on larvæ,
insects, worms or seeds. This bird is peculiar to the coun
try. It has been introduced into very few of the zoölogical
collections of Europe. Its graceless shape and comical motions have always
attracted the notice of travelers, and
during the great exploration of the Astrolabe and the Zelee,
Dumont d'Urville was principally charged by the Academy
of Sciences to bring back a specimen of these singular birds.
But in spite of rewards offered to the natives, he could not
obtain a single specimen.
Paganel, who was elated at such a piece of luck, tied the
two birds together, and carried them along with the intention of presenting them
to the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris.
"Presented by M. Jacques Paganel." He mentally saw the
flattering inscription on the handsomest cage in the gardens. Sanguine
geographer!
The party pursued their way without fatigue along the
banks of the Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not
a trace of natives, nor any track that could betray the existence of man. The
stream was fringed with tall bushes,
or glided along sloping banks, so that nothing obstructed
the view of the low range of hills which closed the eastern
end of the valley. With their grotesque shapes, and their
outlines lost in a deceptive haze, they brought to mind
giant animals, worthy of antediluvian times. They might
have been a herd of enormous whales, suddenly turned to
stone. These disrupted masses proclaimed their essentially
volcanic character. New Zealand is, in fact, a formation
of recent plutonic origin. Its emergence from the sea is
constantly increasing. Some points are known to have
risen six feet in twenty years. Fire still runs across its
center, shakes it, convulses it, and finds an outlet in many
places by the mouths of geysers and the craters of volcanoes.
At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily accomplished.
According to the map which Paganel constantly referred to, the confluence of the
Waipa and
Waikato ought to be reached about five miles further on,
and there the night halt could be made. Two or three days
would then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between
them and the capital; and if Glenarvan happened to fall in
with the mail coach that plies between Hawkes' Bay and
Auckland twice a month, eight hours would be sufficient.
"Therefore," said Glenarvan, "we shall be obliged to
camp during the night once more."
"Yes," said Paganel, "but I hope for the last time."
"I am very glad to think so, for it is very trying for
Lady Helena and Mary Grant."
"And they never utter a murmur," added John Mangles.
"But I think I heard you mention a village at the confluence of these rivers."
"Yes," said the geographer, "here it is, marked on
Johnston's map. It is Ngarnavahia, two miles below the
junction."
"Well, could we not stay there for the night? Lady
Helena and Miss Grant would not grudge two miles more
to find a hotel even of a humble character."
"A hotel!" cried Paganel, "a hotel in a Maori village!
you would not find an inn, not a tavern! This village will
be a mere cluster of huts, and so far from seeking rest there,
my advice is that you give it a wide berth."
"Your old fears, Paganel!" retorted Glenarvan.
"My dear Lord, where Maories are concerned, distrust
is safer than confidence. I do not know on what terms
they are with the English, whether the insurrection is suppressed or successful,
or whether indeed the war may not
be going on with full vigor. Modesty apart, people like us
would be a prize, and I must say, I would rather forego
a taste of Maori hospitality. I think it certainly more prudent to avoid this
village of Ngarnavahia, to skirt it at a
distance, so as to avoid all encounters with the natives.
When we reach Drury it will be another thing, and there
our brave ladies will be able to recruit their strength at
their leisure."
This advice prevailed. Lady Helena preferred to pass
another night in the open air, and not to expose her companions to danger.
Neither Mary Grant or she wished to
halt, and they continued their march along the river.
Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to
fall. The sun, before disappearing below the western horizon, darted some bright
rays through an opening in the
clouds. The distant eastern summits were empurpled with
the parting glories of the day. It was like a flying salute
addressed to the way-worn travelers.
Glenarvan and his friends hastened their steps, they knew
how short the twilight is in this high latitude, and how
quickly the night follows it. They were very anxious to
reach the confluence of the two rivers before the darkness
overtook them. But a thick fog rose from the ground, and
made it very difficult to see the way.
Fortunately hearing stood them in the stead of sight;
shortly a nearer sound of water indicated that the confluence was at hand. At
eight o'clock the little troop arrived
at the point where the Waipa loses itself in the Waikato,
with a moaning sound of meeting waves.
"There is the Waikato!" cried Paganel, "and the road
to Auckland is along its right bank."
"We shall see that to-morrow," said the Major, "Let
us camp here. It seems to me that that dark shadow is
that of a little clump of trees grown expressly to shelter us.
Let us have supper and then get some sleep."
"Supper by all means," said Paganel, "but no fire;
nothing but biscuit and dried meat. We have reached this
spot incognito, let us try and get away in the same manner.
By good luck, the fog is in our favor."
The clump of trees was reached and all concurred in
the wish of the geographer. The cold supper was eaten
without a sound, and presently a profound sleep overcame
the travelers, who were tolerably fatigued with their fifteen
miles' march.