### Chapter XIX
A Bargain

As soon as the quartermaster was brought into the presence of Lord Glenarvan, his guards withdrew.

“Did you want to talk to me, Ayrton?” asked Glenarvan.

“Yes, my Lord,” said the quartermaster.

“To me alone?”

“Yes, but I think it would be better if Major MacNabbs and Mr. Paganel were present at the interview.”

“For who?”

“For me,” Ayrton said calmly.

Glenarvan stared at him; then he sent word to MacNabbs and Paganel, who came promptly at his invitation.

“We are listening,” said Glenarvan, as soon as his two friends were seated at the table in the saloon.

Ayrton stood for a moment and said “My Lord, it is customary for there to be witnesses to any contract or bargain between two parties. That’s why I asked for the presence of Messrs. Paganel and MacNabbs. Because it is, strictly speaking, a bargain that I have come to propose to you.”

Glenarvan, accustomed to Ayrton’s way, did not flinch, though any bargain between him and that man seemed strange.

“What is your proposal?” he said.

“Here it is,” answered Ayrton. “You wish to learn from me some details which may be useful to you. I want some reward that will be valuable to me. One for the other, my Lord. Does this suit you, or not?”

“What are the details?” asked Paganel.

“No,” said Glenarvan. “What is the reward?”

Ayrton, with a nod of his head, showed that he understood the distinction observed by Glenarvan.

“Here is the reward I demand,” he said. “You always intended to put me into the hands of the English authorities, my Lord?”

“Yes, Ayrton; that is only justice.”

“I do not dispute it,” said the quartermaster quietly. “So, you would not consent to give me back my freedom?”

Glenarvan hesitated before answering the question so clearly posed. His answer might decide Harry Grant’s fate; however, his duty to justice prevailed. “No, Ayrton, I can not set you free.”

“I do not ask for it,” said the quartermaster proudly.

“So, what do you want?”

“A compromise, my Lord, between the gallows waiting for me, and the liberty you can not grant me.”

“And that is…?”

“To abandon me with the necessities of life on one of the deserted islands of the Pacific. I’ll make out as best I can, and perhaps, in time, I’ll repent!”

Glenarvan, unprepared for this proposal, looked at his two friends, who remained silent. After thinking for a moment, he said “Ayrton, if I grant you your request, will you tell me everything I want to know?”

“Yes, my Lord. That is, all that I know about Captain Grant and the Britannia.”

“The whole truth?”

“Whole.”

“But what guarantee can you give?”

“Oh! I see what worries you, my Lord. You will have to trust the word of a villain, it is true! But what can you do? That is the way things stand. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll trust you, Ayrton,” Glenarvan said simply.

“And you will be right, my Lord. Besides, if I deceive you, you will always have the means to avenge yourself!”

“How?”

“By coming back to the island that I could not escape.”

Ayrton had an answer to everything. He was anticipating all objections; he was providing unanswerable arguments against himself. He appeared to treat his “bargain” with indisputable good faith. It was impossible to surrender with more perfect confidence. And yet he found a way to go even further in this path of disinterestedness.

“My Lord and gentlemen,” he added, “I want you to be convinced of this fact, because I am laying my cards on the table. I am not trying to deceive you, and will give you another proof of my sincerity in this affair. I can act frankly, because I can rely on your honesty.”

“Speak, Ayrton,” replied Glenarvan.

“My Lord, I have not yet your word to accede to my proposal, and yet I do not hesitate to tell you that I know very little about Harry Grant.”

“You know a few things!” said Glenarvan.

“Yes, my Lord. The details which I am able to communicate to you are pertinent to me, and my history, but they will not help to put you back on the trail you have lost.”

It was plain from their expressions that this revelation greatly disappointed Glenarvan and the Major. They believed the quartermaster possessed an important secret, and he stated that his revelations would be almost fruitless. As for Paganel, he remained impassive.

Be that as it may, Ayrton’s confession — freely given without any guarantee — particularly affected his hearers, especially when the quartermaster added “So, you are warned, my Lord: the bargain will be less advantageous for you, than for me.”

“It does not matter,” said Glenarvan. “I accept your proposal, Ayrton. You have my word to be landed on one of the islands of the Pacific Ocean.”

“Very well, my Lord,” said the quartermaster.

Was this strange man happy with this decision? It might have been doubted for his impassive expression betrayed no emotion. He seemed to be treating for someone other than himself.

“I’m ready to answer,” he said.

“We have no questions for you,” said Glenarvan. “Tell us what you know, Ayrton, starting by declaring who you are.”

“Gentlemen, I really am Tom Ayrton.”

“Gentlemen,” replied Ayrton, “I really am Tom Ayrton, the quartermaster of Britannia. I left Glasgow on Harry Grant’s ship on March 12th, 1861. For fourteen months we sailed together on the Pacific Seas, seeking some advantageous location to found a Scottish colony there. Harry Grant was a man who did great things, but often there were serious disagreements between us. We did not get along. I do not know how to bend, and with Harry Grant, when he has made up his mind, all resistance is futile, my Lord. This man has an iron will, both for himself and for others. I dared to revolt. I tried to drag the crew into my revolt and seize the ship. Whether I was wrong or not, it does not matter. Be that as it may, Harry Grant did not hesitate, and on April 8th, 1862, he landed me on the west coast of Australia.”

“On Australia,” said the Major, interrupting Ayrton’s story, “and consequently you left the Britannia before his stop at Callao, whence his latest news is dated?”

“Yes,” replied the quartermaster, “for the Britannia never stopped at Callao while I was on board. And if I told you about Callao at Paddy O’Moore’s farm, it’s because your story had given me that detail.”

“Go on, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan.

“So I found myself abandoned on an almost deserted coast, but only twenty miles from the penitentiary institutions of Perth, the capital of Western Australia. While wandering on the shore, I met a band of convicts who had just escaped. I joined them. You will exempt me, my Lord, from telling you my life for two and a half years. Just know that I became the leader of the escapees under the name of Ben Joyce. In September, 1864, I went to the Irish farm. I was admitted as a servant under my real name of Ayrton. I was waiting for the opportunity to seize a ship. It was my supreme goal. Two months later, the Duncan arrived.

“You told the whole story of Captain Grant during your visit to the farm, my Lord. I learned then what I did not know of the Britannia’s stop at Callao, her latest news dated June 1862 — two months after my landing — the matter of the document, the loss of the ship on a point of the 37th parallel, and finally, the reasons you had to look for Harry Grant on the Australian continent. I did not hesitate. I resolved to take possession of the Duncan: a marvellous ship that is faster than the finest vessels of the British navy.

“But she had serious damage to repair. So I let her go to Melbourne, and I gave myself to you in my true capacity of quartermaster, offering to guide you to the scene of a shipwreck that I fictitiously placed on the east coast of Australia. It was thus that, sometimes followed at a distance, and sometimes preceded by my band of convicts, I directed your expedition through the province of Victoria.

“My people committed a useless crime at Camden Bridge, since the Duncan — once at the coast — could not escape me, and with this yacht I would be the master of the ocean. I thereby drove you without distrust to the Snowy River. Horses and oxen gradually fell poisoned by the Gastrolobium. I mired the wagon in the marshes of the Snowy. At my insistence … but you know the rest, my Lord, and you can be sure that, without the distraction of Mr. Paganel, I would now command the Duncan. That is my story, gentlemen. Unfortunately, my revelations can not put you back on the trail of Harry Grant, and you see that by dealing with me you have made a bad bargain.”

The quartermaster fell silent, crossed his arms as usual, and waited. Glenarvan and his friends were silent. They felt that the whole truth had just been told by this strange miscreant. The capture of the Duncan had been thwarted only by a cause beyond his control. His accomplices had come to the shores of Twofold Bay, as shown by the convict shirt found by Glenarvan. There, faithful to their natures, they had tired of waiting for Ayrton, and had no doubt returned to their profession of plunderers and arsonists in the countryside of New South Wales. The Major asked the first questions, in order to specify the dates relative to the Britannia.

“So,” he asked the quartermaster, “it was on the 8th of April, 1862, that you were disembarked on the west coast of Australia?”

“Exactly,” Ayrton replied.

“And do you know what Harry Grant’s plans were?”

“In a vague way.”

“Tell us everything, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “The slightest clue may put us on the path.”

“Here is what I can tell you, my Lord,” said the quartermaster. “Captain Grant intended to visit New Zealand. This part of his programme was not executed during my stay on board. It would not be impossible, therefore, that the Britannia, on leaving Callao, could have come to reconnoitre the lands of New Zealand. This would agree with the date of June 27, 1862, assigned by the document to the sinking of the three-master.”

“Of course,” said Paganel.

“But,” said Glenarvan, “nothing in the remains of the words preserved on the document can apply to New Zealand.”

“I can not answer that,” said the quartermaster.

“Well, Ayrton,” said Glenarvan. “You have kept your word; I will keep mine. We will decide on which island of the Pacific Ocean you will be abandoned.”

“Oh! I do not care, my Lord,” said Ayrton.

“Go back to your cabin,” said Glenarvan, “and wait for our decision.”

The quartermaster retired under the guard of two sailors.

“This scoundrel could have been a man,” said the Major.

“Yes,” said Glenarvan. “He has a strong and intelligent nature! Why must his faculties have turned to evil!”

“But Harry Grant?”

“I’m afraid he’ll be lost forever! Poor children, who could tell them where their father is?”

“Me!” said Paganel. “Yes! Me.”

It must have been noticed that the geographer, usually so loquacious and impatient, had scarcely spoken during the interrogation of Ayrton. He listened without loosening his lips. But this last word which he pronounced was worth many others, and he startled Glenarvan.

“You!” he exclaimed. “You, Paganel? You know where Captain Grant is?”

“Yes, as far as one can know,” said the geographer.

“And how do you know?”

“By the eternal document.”

“Ha!” said the Major in the tone of the most perfect incredulity.

“Listen first, MacNabbs,” said Paganel, “You can shrug afterwards. I did not speak earlier because you would not have believed me. Then, it was useless. But if I decided to speak today, it is because Ayrton’s opinion has just come to support mine.”

“So … New Zealand?” asked Glenarvan.

“Listen and judge,” said Paganel. “It’s not without reason, or rather, it’s not without a reason, that I made the mistake that saved us. As I was writing the letter Glenarvan was dictating, the word ‘Zealand’ was working on my brain. Here’s why: you remember we were in the wagon. MacNabbs had just told Lady Helena the story of the convicts; he had given her the issue of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette on the Camden Bridge disaster. Now, as I was writing, the newspaper lay on the floor, and folded so that much of the title was concealed. What appeared before my eyes was ‘ealand.’ What an illumination that was in my mind! ‘e land’ appeared in the English document, which we had translated as have landed, or are landing, but it could also have been Zealand with the first and third letters obliterated.”fn1

“Huh!” said Glenarvan.

“Yes,” said Paganel, with profound conviction. “That interpretation had escaped me, and do you know why? Because my research was done naturally on the French document, more complete than the others, and where this important word is missing.”

“Oh! Oh!” said the Major. “You have too much imagination, Paganel, and you forget a little easily your previous deductions.”

“Go ahead, Major, I’m ready to answer you.”

“Then,” said MacNabbs, “what becomes of your word ‘austra’?”

“What we first thought: that it means southern.”

“Well. And what of the ‘indi’ syllable, which was at first the root of Indians, and then the root of natives?”

“Well, the third and last time,” replied Paganel, “it will be the first syllable of the word indigence!”

“And ‘contin’!” exclaimed MacNabbs. “Does it still mean a continent?”

“No, since New Zealand is only an island.”

“So…?” asked Glenarvan.

“My dear Lord,” said Paganel, “I will translate the document according to my third interpretation, and you will judge. I make only two observations: First, as far as possible, forget the preceding interpretations, and free your mind from all previous preconceptions. Second, certain passages may appear ‘forced’ to you, and it is possible that I translate them badly, but they have no importance. Among others the word ‘agonie’ which shocks me, but which I can not explain otherwise. Moreover, it is in the French document that word appears, and do not forget that it was written by an Englishman, to whom the idiomatic French might not be familiar. This posed, I begin.”

And Paganel, articulating each syllable slowly, recited the following:

“June 27, 1862, the three-master Britannia, of Glasgow, sank after a long agony in the southern seas, stranding two sailors and their skipper Harry Grant in New Zealand. Landed there, continually preyed upon by cruel poverty — ‘indigence’ in the French document —fn2 they threw this document into the sea at … of longitude and 37° 11′ of latitude. Bring them assistance, or they are lost.”

Paganel stopped. His interpretation was plausible. But precisely because it seemed as likely as the previous ones, it could also be false. Glenarvan and the Major did not seek to dispute it. However, since traces of the Britannia had not been found on the coasts of Patagonia, or the coasts of Australia, at the points where these two countries were crossed by the 37th parallel, the odds were in favour of New Zealand.

His friends were especially struck when Paganel remarked on this.

“Now, Paganel,” said Glenarvan. “Will you tell me why, for the last two months or so, you have kept this interpretation secret?”

“Because I did not want to give you any more false hopes. Besides, we were going to Auckland, precisely at the point indicated by the latitude of the document.”

“But since then, when we were dragged off of that path, why not talk?”

“It is because, valid as this interpretation may be, it can not contribute to Captain Grant’s salvation.”

“Why is that, Paganel?”

“Because, even if Captain Harry Grant was stranded in New Zealand, two years have passed without his reappearing. He must have been a victim of the shipwreck, or the Māori.”

“So, your opinion is?” asked Glenarvan.

“That we might perhaps find some remains of the sinking, but that the castaways of the Britannia are irrevocably lost!”

“Silence on all this, my friends,” said Glenarvan, “and let me choose when I will bear this sad news to Captain Grant’s children!”

fn1. This is more of me changing the interpretation to match the changes I made to the English version of the document, because Verne was once again having Paganel base his latest interpretation primarily on the French document (except for the ‘e land’ part) and excusing some of the dicier parts of his interpretation on it being written by an Englishman. Unfortunately this excuse doesn’t work so well for explaining the dubious grammar and wording of his original English version. — DAS

fn2. Verne again has Paganel do his interpretation in French, and rather than glossing ‘poverty’ as ‘indigence’ he glossed ‘Zélande’ as ‘Zealand.’ — DAS