Chapter Nineteen.Sorrow and Sympathy—The Widow Becomes a Pleader, and Her Son Engages in a Single Combat.There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable to bear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it;—times when the anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seems enshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine in mockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to Sandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home, gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well as its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by his lost child.It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the people of the settlement sympathised so deeply with their beloved pastor’s grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed, except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that there were other mourners there that night—that the recent battle had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in Sandy Cove.Motionless—hopeless—the missionary stood amid the charred beams and ashes, until the words “Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me,” descended on his soul like sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail. Mr Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, “There is comfort foryou, for where life is there is hope; but here there isdeath.”Again the word of God came to his memory, “Weep with them that weep.” Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the wounded.The cause of the pastor’s grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow itself was lightened by sympathy, and when he returned at a late hour to his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.The widow’s cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it Harry and his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for their expected guest.“Tom Armstrong will recover,” said the missionary, seating himself opposite the widow and speaking in a hurried excited tone. “His wound is a bad one given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. I wish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended to sooner he might have lived, but so much blood has been already lost that there is now no hope. Alas! for his little boy. He will be an orphan soon. Poor Harry’s wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband’s body is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to look upon, yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease to embrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will have to be comforted. At present she must be left with God. No human sympathy can avail just now, but she must be comforted when she will permit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, Mrs Stuart, won’t you?”As this was Mr Mason’s first meeting with the widow since the Sunday morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner shewed that he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood this, but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would not allow him to have his way.“But what of Alice?” she said, earnestly. “You do not mention her. Henry has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself—about Alice?”“Oh! what can I say?” cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep sob almost choked him.“Can you not say that she is in the hands of God—of a lovingFather?” said Mrs Stuart, tenderly.“Yes, yes, I can say that—I—have said that, but—but—”“I know what you would say,” interrupted the widow, “you would tell me that she is in the hands of pirates, ruthless villains who fear neither God nor man, and that, unless a miracle is wrought in her behalf, nothing can save her—”“Oh! spare me, Mary; why do you harrow my broken heart with such a picture?” cried Mr Mason, rising and pacing the room with quick unsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attempt to crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.“I speak thus,” said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and manner that almost startled her hearers, “because I wish to comfort you. Alice, you tell me, is on board theFoam—”“On board thepirate schooner!” cried Henry almost fiercely, for the youth, although as much distressed as Mr Mason, was not so resigned as he, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived so terribly by the pirate.“She is on board theFoam,” repeated the widow in a tone so stern that her hearers looked at her in surprise. “And is therefore in the hands of Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, Mr Mason, that she isperfectly safein the hands of Gascoyne.”“Of the pirate Durward!” said Henry, in a deep angry voice.“What ground have you for saying so?” asked the widow, quickly. “You only know him as Gascoyne the sandal-wood trader, the captain of theFoam. He has been suspected, it is true, but suspicion is not proof. His schooner has been fired into by a war vessel, he has returned the fire—any passionate man might be tempted to do that. His men have carried off some of our dear ones. That wastheirdoing—not his. He knew nothing of it.”“Mother, mother,” cried Henry, entreatingly, “don’t stand up in that way for a pirate; I can’t bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe the pirate schooner’s appearance in this room, and when he was attacked by theTalismandid he not shew out in his true colours, thereby proving that he is Durward the pirate?”The widow’s face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, like one who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, “That is notpositiveproof, Henry. Gascoyne may have had some good reason for deceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may have been a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to prevent Captain Montague from impressing his men.”“And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishing that end, mother?”“Mary,” said Mr Mason solemnly, as he seated himself at the table and looked earnestly in the widow’s face. “Your knowledge of this man and your manner of speaking about him surprises me. I have long thought that you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be so intimate; for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspicious character, to say the best of him; and althoughIknow that you think you are right in encouraging his visits, other people do not know that; they may judge you harshly. I do not wish to pry into secrets—but you have sought to comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in this man. Imustask what knowledge you have of him. How far are you aware of his character and employment? How do you know that he is so trustworthy?”An expression of deep grief rested on the widow’s countenance as she replied in a sad voice— “Iknowthat you may trust Gascoyne with your child. He is my oldest friend. I have known him since we were children. He saved my father’s life long, long ago, and helped to support my mother in her last years. Would you have me to forget all this because men say that he is a pirate?”“Why, mother,” cried Henry, “if you know so much about him youmustknow that, whatever he was in time past, he is the pirate Durward now.”“I donotknow that he is the pirate Durward!” said the widow in a voice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorely perplexed—yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would rather die than tell a deliberate falsehood.The missionary was also comforted, for although his judgment told him that the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, he was impressed by the thoroughly confident tone of the widow and felt relieved in spite of himself.Soon after this conversation was concluded the household retired to rest.Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of subdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid no attention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some of their native servants were moving about.But presently the sound of his mother’s voice induced him to listen more attentively. Then a voice replied, so low that he could with difficulty hear it at all. Its strength increased, however, and at last it broke forth in deep bass tones.Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged the front door of the house opened; and the speakers went out. A few seconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing; then, seizing a pistol, he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round he just caught sight of the skirts of a woman’s dress as they disappeared through the doorway of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poor native who had subsisted on the widow’s bounty until he died. The door was shut immediately after.Going swiftly but cautiously round by a back way, Henry approached the hut. Strange and conflicting feelings filled his breast. A blush of deep shame and self-abhorrence mantled on his cheek when it flashed across him that he was about to play the spy on his own mother. But there was no mistaking Gascoyne’s voice.How the supposed pirate had got there, and wherefore he was there, were matters that he did not think of or care about at that moment. There he was, so the young man resolved to secure him and hand him over to justices.Henry was too honourable to listen secretly to a conversation, whatever it might be, that was not intended for his ears. He resolved merely to peep in at one of the many chinks in the log hut for one moment to satisfy himself that Gascoyne really was there, and to observe his position. But as the latter now thought himself beyond the hearing of any one, he spoke in unguarded tones, and Henry heard a few words in spite of himself.Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld the stalwart form of the sandalwood trader standing on the hearth of the hut, which was almost unfurnished—a stool, a bench, an old chest, a table, and a chair, being all that it contained. His mother was seated at the table with her hands clasped before her, looking up at her companion.“Oh! why run so great a risk as this?” said she, earnestly.“I was born to run risks, I believe,” replied Gascoyne, in a sad low voice. “It matters not. My being on the island is the result of Manton’s villainy—my being here is for poor Henry’s sake and your own, as well as for the sake of Alice the missionary’s child. You have been upright, Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you. But for that I should have been lost long ago—”Henry heard no more. These words did indeed whet his curiosity to the utmost, but the shame of acting the part of an “eavesdropper” was so great that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back and pondered for a moment what he ought to do. The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne’s remark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofs that he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heart against him. He argued that the mere fact of the man giving his mother credit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was not sufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised against himself. Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother his opinion of her to her face. And to call him “poor Henry,” forsooth! This was not to be endured!Having thus wrought himself up to a sufficient degree of indignation, the young man went straight to the door, making considerable noise in order to prepare those within for his advent. He had expected to find it locked. In this he was mistaken. It yielded to a push.Throwing it wide open, Henry strode into the middle of the apartment, and, pointing the pistol at Gascoyne’s breast, exclaimed— “Pirate Durward, I arrest you in the king’s name!” At the first sound of her son’s approach, Mrs Stuart bent forward over the table with a groan, buried her face in her hands.Gascoyne received Henry’s speech at first with a frown and then with a smile.“You have taken a strange time and way to jest, Henry,” said he, crossing his arms on his broad chest and gazing fixedly in the youth’s face.“You will not throe me off my guard thus,” said Henry, sternly. “You are my prisoner. I know you to be a pirate. At any rate you will have to prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a free man. Mother, leave this place that I may lock the door upon him.”The widow did not move, but Gascoyne made a step towards her son.“Another step and I will fire. Your blood shall be on your own head, Gascoyne.”As Gascoyne still advanced, Henry pointed the pistol straight at his breast and pulled the trigger, but no report followed—the priming, indeed, flashed in the pan but that was all!With a cry of rage and defiance, Henry leaped upon Gascoyne like a young lion. He struck at him with the pistol, but the latter caught the weapon in his powerful hand, wrenched it from the youth’s grasp and flung it to the other end of the apartment.“You shall not escape me,” cried Henry; aiming a tremendous blow with his fist at Gascoyne’s face. It was parried, and the next moment the two closed in a deadly struggle.It was a terrible sight for the widow to witness, these two Herculean men exerting their great strength to the utmost in a hand-to-hand conflict in that small hut like two tigers in a cage.Henry, although nearly six feet in height, and proportionally broad and powerful, was much inferior to his gigantic antagonist; but to the superior size and physical force of the latter he opposed the lithe activity and the fervid energy of youth, so that to an unpractised eye it might have seemed doubtful at first which of the two men had the best chance.Straining his powers to the utmost, Henry attempted to lift his opponent off the ground and throw him. In this he was nearly successful. Gascoyne staggered, but recovered himself instantly. They did not move much from the centre of the room, nor was there much noise created during the conflict. It seemed too close—too full of concentrated energy—of heavy, prolonged straining—for much violent motion. The great veins in Gascoyne’s forehead stood out like knotted cords; yet there was no scowl or frown on his face. Henry’s brows, on the contrary, were gathered into a dark frown. His teeth were set, and his countenance flushed to deep red by exertion and passion.Strange to say, the widow made no effort to separate the combatants; neither did she attempt to move from her seat or give any alarm. She sat with her hands on the table clasped tightly together, gazing eagerly, anxiously, like a fascinated creature, at the wild struggle that was going on before her.Again and again Henry attempted, with all the fire of youth, to throw his adversary by one tremendous effort, but failed. Then he tried to fling him off, so as to have the power of using his fists or making an overwhelming rush. But Gascoyne held him in his strong arms like a vice. Several times he freed his right arm and attempted to plant a blow, but Gascoyne caught the blow in his hand, or seized the wrist and prevented its being delivered. In short, do what he would, Henry Stuart could neither free himself from the embrace of his enemy nor conquer him. Still he struggled on, for as this fact became more apparent the youth’s blood became hotter from mingled shame and anger.Both men soon began to shew symptoms of fatigue. It was not in the nature of things that two such frames, animated by such spirits, could prolong so exhausting a struggle. It was not doubtful now which of the two would come off victorious. During the whole course of the fight Gascoyne had acted entirely on, the defensive. A small knife or stiletto hung at his left side, but he never attempted to use it, and he never once tried to throw his adversary. In fact it now became evident, even to the widow’s perceptions, that the captain was actually playing with her son.All along, his countenance, though flushed and eager, exhibited no sign of passion. He seemed to act like a good-humoured man who had been foolishly assaulted by a headstrong boy, and who meant to keep him in play until he should tire him out.Just then the tinkling of a bell and other sounds of the people of the establishment beginning to move about were heard outside. Henry noticed this.“Hah!” he exclaimed, in a gasping voice, “I can at least hold you until help comes.”Gascoyne heard the sounds also. He said nothing, but he brought the strife to a swift termination. For the first time he bent his back like a man who exerts himself in earnest and lifted Henry completely off the ground. Throwing him on his back, he pressed him down with both arms so as to break from his grasp. No human muscles could resist the force applied. Slowly but surely the iron sinews of Henry’s arms straightened out, and the two were soon at arm’s length.But even Gascoyne’s strength could not unclasp the grip of the youth’s hands, until he placed his knee upon his chest; then, indeed, they were torn away.Of course, all this was not done without some violence, but it was still plain to the widow that Gascoyne was careful not to hurt his antagonist more than he could help.“Now, Henry, my lad,” said he, holding the youth down by the two arms, “I have given you a good deal of trouble this morning, and I mean to give you a little more. It does not just suit me at present to be tried for a pirate, so I mean to give you a race. You are reputed one of the best runners in the settlement. Well, I’ll give you a chance after me. If you overtake me, boy, I’ll give myself up to you without a struggle. But I suspect you’ll find me rather hard to catch!”As he uttered the last words he permitted Henry to rise. Ere the youth had quite gained his footing, he gave him a violent push and sent him staggering back against the wall. When Henry recovered his balance, Gascoyne was standing in the open doorway.“Now, lad, are you ready?” said he, a sort of wild smile lighting up his face.Henry was so taken aback by this conduct, as well as by the rough handling which he had just received, that he could not collect his thoughts for a few seconds; but when Gascoyne nodded gravely to his mother and walked quietly away, saying, “Goodbye, Mary,” the exasperated youth darted through the doorway like an arrow.If Henry Stuart’s rush may be compared to the flight of an arrow from a bow, not less appropriately may Gascoyne’s bound be likened to the leap of the bolt from a cross-bow. The two men sprang over the low fences that surrounded the cottage, leapt the rivulet that brawled down its steep course behind it, and coursed up the hill like mountain hares.The last that widow Stuart saw of them, as she gazed eagerly from the doorway of the hut, was, when Gascoyne’s figure was clearly defined against the sky as he leaped over a great chasm in the lava high up the mountain side. Henry followed almost instantly, and then both were hidden from view in the chaos of rocks and gorges that rose above the upper line of vegetation.It was a long and a severe chase that Henry had undertaken, and ably did his fleet foot sustain the credit which he had already gained. But Gascoyne’s foot was fleeter. Over every species of ground did the sandal-wood trader lead the youth that day. It seemed, in fact, as if a spirit of mischief had taken possession of Gascoyne, for his usually grave face was lighted up with a mingled expression of glee and ferocity. It changed, too, and wore a sad expression, at times, even when the man seemed to be running for his life.At last, after running until he had caused Henry to shew symptoms of fatigue, Gascoyne turned suddenly round, and, shouting “Good-bye, Henry, my lad!” went straight up the mountain and disappeared over the dividing ridge on the summit.Henry did not give in. The insult implied in the words renewed his strength. He tightened his belt as he ran, and rushed up the mountain almost as fast as Gascoyne had done, but when he leaped upon the ridge the fugitive had vanished!That he had secreted himself in one of the many gorges or caves with which the place abounded was quite clear, but it was equally clear that no one could track him out in such a place unless he were possessed of a dog’s nose. The youth did indeed attempt it, but, being convinced that he was only searching for what could not by any possibility be found, he soon gave it up and returned, disconsolate and crest-fallen, to the cottage.
There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable to bear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it;—times when the anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seems enshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine in mockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.
Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to Sandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home, gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well as its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by his lost child.
It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the people of the settlement sympathised so deeply with their beloved pastor’s grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed, except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that there were other mourners there that night—that the recent battle had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in Sandy Cove.
Motionless—hopeless—the missionary stood amid the charred beams and ashes, until the words “Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me,” descended on his soul like sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.
While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail. Mr Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, “There is comfort foryou, for where life is there is hope; but here there isdeath.”
Again the word of God came to his memory, “Weep with them that weep.” Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the wounded.
The cause of the pastor’s grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow itself was lightened by sympathy, and when he returned at a late hour to his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.
The widow’s cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it Harry and his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for their expected guest.
“Tom Armstrong will recover,” said the missionary, seating himself opposite the widow and speaking in a hurried excited tone. “His wound is a bad one given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. I wish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended to sooner he might have lived, but so much blood has been already lost that there is now no hope. Alas! for his little boy. He will be an orphan soon. Poor Harry’s wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband’s body is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to look upon, yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease to embrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will have to be comforted. At present she must be left with God. No human sympathy can avail just now, but she must be comforted when she will permit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, Mrs Stuart, won’t you?”
As this was Mr Mason’s first meeting with the widow since the Sunday morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner shewed that he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood this, but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would not allow him to have his way.
“But what of Alice?” she said, earnestly. “You do not mention her. Henry has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself—about Alice?”
“Oh! what can I say?” cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep sob almost choked him.
“Can you not say that she is in the hands of God—of a lovingFather?” said Mrs Stuart, tenderly.
“Yes, yes, I can say that—I—have said that, but—but—”
“I know what you would say,” interrupted the widow, “you would tell me that she is in the hands of pirates, ruthless villains who fear neither God nor man, and that, unless a miracle is wrought in her behalf, nothing can save her—”
“Oh! spare me, Mary; why do you harrow my broken heart with such a picture?” cried Mr Mason, rising and pacing the room with quick unsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attempt to crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.
“I speak thus,” said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and manner that almost startled her hearers, “because I wish to comfort you. Alice, you tell me, is on board theFoam—”
“On board thepirate schooner!” cried Henry almost fiercely, for the youth, although as much distressed as Mr Mason, was not so resigned as he, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived so terribly by the pirate.
“She is on board theFoam,” repeated the widow in a tone so stern that her hearers looked at her in surprise. “And is therefore in the hands of Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, Mr Mason, that she isperfectly safein the hands of Gascoyne.”
“Of the pirate Durward!” said Henry, in a deep angry voice.
“What ground have you for saying so?” asked the widow, quickly. “You only know him as Gascoyne the sandal-wood trader, the captain of theFoam. He has been suspected, it is true, but suspicion is not proof. His schooner has been fired into by a war vessel, he has returned the fire—any passionate man might be tempted to do that. His men have carried off some of our dear ones. That wastheirdoing—not his. He knew nothing of it.”
“Mother, mother,” cried Henry, entreatingly, “don’t stand up in that way for a pirate; I can’t bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe the pirate schooner’s appearance in this room, and when he was attacked by theTalismandid he not shew out in his true colours, thereby proving that he is Durward the pirate?”
The widow’s face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, like one who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, “That is notpositiveproof, Henry. Gascoyne may have had some good reason for deceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may have been a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to prevent Captain Montague from impressing his men.”
“And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishing that end, mother?”
“Mary,” said Mr Mason solemnly, as he seated himself at the table and looked earnestly in the widow’s face. “Your knowledge of this man and your manner of speaking about him surprises me. I have long thought that you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be so intimate; for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspicious character, to say the best of him; and althoughIknow that you think you are right in encouraging his visits, other people do not know that; they may judge you harshly. I do not wish to pry into secrets—but you have sought to comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in this man. Imustask what knowledge you have of him. How far are you aware of his character and employment? How do you know that he is so trustworthy?”
An expression of deep grief rested on the widow’s countenance as she replied in a sad voice— “Iknowthat you may trust Gascoyne with your child. He is my oldest friend. I have known him since we were children. He saved my father’s life long, long ago, and helped to support my mother in her last years. Would you have me to forget all this because men say that he is a pirate?”
“Why, mother,” cried Henry, “if you know so much about him youmustknow that, whatever he was in time past, he is the pirate Durward now.”
“I donotknow that he is the pirate Durward!” said the widow in a voice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorely perplexed—yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would rather die than tell a deliberate falsehood.
The missionary was also comforted, for although his judgment told him that the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, he was impressed by the thoroughly confident tone of the widow and felt relieved in spite of himself.
Soon after this conversation was concluded the household retired to rest.
Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of subdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid no attention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some of their native servants were moving about.
But presently the sound of his mother’s voice induced him to listen more attentively. Then a voice replied, so low that he could with difficulty hear it at all. Its strength increased, however, and at last it broke forth in deep bass tones.
Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged the front door of the house opened; and the speakers went out. A few seconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing; then, seizing a pistol, he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round he just caught sight of the skirts of a woman’s dress as they disappeared through the doorway of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poor native who had subsisted on the widow’s bounty until he died. The door was shut immediately after.
Going swiftly but cautiously round by a back way, Henry approached the hut. Strange and conflicting feelings filled his breast. A blush of deep shame and self-abhorrence mantled on his cheek when it flashed across him that he was about to play the spy on his own mother. But there was no mistaking Gascoyne’s voice.
How the supposed pirate had got there, and wherefore he was there, were matters that he did not think of or care about at that moment. There he was, so the young man resolved to secure him and hand him over to justices.
Henry was too honourable to listen secretly to a conversation, whatever it might be, that was not intended for his ears. He resolved merely to peep in at one of the many chinks in the log hut for one moment to satisfy himself that Gascoyne really was there, and to observe his position. But as the latter now thought himself beyond the hearing of any one, he spoke in unguarded tones, and Henry heard a few words in spite of himself.
Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld the stalwart form of the sandalwood trader standing on the hearth of the hut, which was almost unfurnished—a stool, a bench, an old chest, a table, and a chair, being all that it contained. His mother was seated at the table with her hands clasped before her, looking up at her companion.
“Oh! why run so great a risk as this?” said she, earnestly.
“I was born to run risks, I believe,” replied Gascoyne, in a sad low voice. “It matters not. My being on the island is the result of Manton’s villainy—my being here is for poor Henry’s sake and your own, as well as for the sake of Alice the missionary’s child. You have been upright, Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you. But for that I should have been lost long ago—”
Henry heard no more. These words did indeed whet his curiosity to the utmost, but the shame of acting the part of an “eavesdropper” was so great that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back and pondered for a moment what he ought to do. The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne’s remark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofs that he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heart against him. He argued that the mere fact of the man giving his mother credit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was not sufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised against himself. Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother his opinion of her to her face. And to call him “poor Henry,” forsooth! This was not to be endured!
Having thus wrought himself up to a sufficient degree of indignation, the young man went straight to the door, making considerable noise in order to prepare those within for his advent. He had expected to find it locked. In this he was mistaken. It yielded to a push.
Throwing it wide open, Henry strode into the middle of the apartment, and, pointing the pistol at Gascoyne’s breast, exclaimed— “Pirate Durward, I arrest you in the king’s name!” At the first sound of her son’s approach, Mrs Stuart bent forward over the table with a groan, buried her face in her hands.
Gascoyne received Henry’s speech at first with a frown and then with a smile.
“You have taken a strange time and way to jest, Henry,” said he, crossing his arms on his broad chest and gazing fixedly in the youth’s face.
“You will not throe me off my guard thus,” said Henry, sternly. “You are my prisoner. I know you to be a pirate. At any rate you will have to prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a free man. Mother, leave this place that I may lock the door upon him.”
The widow did not move, but Gascoyne made a step towards her son.
“Another step and I will fire. Your blood shall be on your own head, Gascoyne.”
As Gascoyne still advanced, Henry pointed the pistol straight at his breast and pulled the trigger, but no report followed—the priming, indeed, flashed in the pan but that was all!
With a cry of rage and defiance, Henry leaped upon Gascoyne like a young lion. He struck at him with the pistol, but the latter caught the weapon in his powerful hand, wrenched it from the youth’s grasp and flung it to the other end of the apartment.
“You shall not escape me,” cried Henry; aiming a tremendous blow with his fist at Gascoyne’s face. It was parried, and the next moment the two closed in a deadly struggle.
It was a terrible sight for the widow to witness, these two Herculean men exerting their great strength to the utmost in a hand-to-hand conflict in that small hut like two tigers in a cage.
Henry, although nearly six feet in height, and proportionally broad and powerful, was much inferior to his gigantic antagonist; but to the superior size and physical force of the latter he opposed the lithe activity and the fervid energy of youth, so that to an unpractised eye it might have seemed doubtful at first which of the two men had the best chance.
Straining his powers to the utmost, Henry attempted to lift his opponent off the ground and throw him. In this he was nearly successful. Gascoyne staggered, but recovered himself instantly. They did not move much from the centre of the room, nor was there much noise created during the conflict. It seemed too close—too full of concentrated energy—of heavy, prolonged straining—for much violent motion. The great veins in Gascoyne’s forehead stood out like knotted cords; yet there was no scowl or frown on his face. Henry’s brows, on the contrary, were gathered into a dark frown. His teeth were set, and his countenance flushed to deep red by exertion and passion.
Strange to say, the widow made no effort to separate the combatants; neither did she attempt to move from her seat or give any alarm. She sat with her hands on the table clasped tightly together, gazing eagerly, anxiously, like a fascinated creature, at the wild struggle that was going on before her.
Again and again Henry attempted, with all the fire of youth, to throw his adversary by one tremendous effort, but failed. Then he tried to fling him off, so as to have the power of using his fists or making an overwhelming rush. But Gascoyne held him in his strong arms like a vice. Several times he freed his right arm and attempted to plant a blow, but Gascoyne caught the blow in his hand, or seized the wrist and prevented its being delivered. In short, do what he would, Henry Stuart could neither free himself from the embrace of his enemy nor conquer him. Still he struggled on, for as this fact became more apparent the youth’s blood became hotter from mingled shame and anger.
Both men soon began to shew symptoms of fatigue. It was not in the nature of things that two such frames, animated by such spirits, could prolong so exhausting a struggle. It was not doubtful now which of the two would come off victorious. During the whole course of the fight Gascoyne had acted entirely on, the defensive. A small knife or stiletto hung at his left side, but he never attempted to use it, and he never once tried to throw his adversary. In fact it now became evident, even to the widow’s perceptions, that the captain was actually playing with her son.
All along, his countenance, though flushed and eager, exhibited no sign of passion. He seemed to act like a good-humoured man who had been foolishly assaulted by a headstrong boy, and who meant to keep him in play until he should tire him out.
Just then the tinkling of a bell and other sounds of the people of the establishment beginning to move about were heard outside. Henry noticed this.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, in a gasping voice, “I can at least hold you until help comes.”
Gascoyne heard the sounds also. He said nothing, but he brought the strife to a swift termination. For the first time he bent his back like a man who exerts himself in earnest and lifted Henry completely off the ground. Throwing him on his back, he pressed him down with both arms so as to break from his grasp. No human muscles could resist the force applied. Slowly but surely the iron sinews of Henry’s arms straightened out, and the two were soon at arm’s length.
But even Gascoyne’s strength could not unclasp the grip of the youth’s hands, until he placed his knee upon his chest; then, indeed, they were torn away.
Of course, all this was not done without some violence, but it was still plain to the widow that Gascoyne was careful not to hurt his antagonist more than he could help.
“Now, Henry, my lad,” said he, holding the youth down by the two arms, “I have given you a good deal of trouble this morning, and I mean to give you a little more. It does not just suit me at present to be tried for a pirate, so I mean to give you a race. You are reputed one of the best runners in the settlement. Well, I’ll give you a chance after me. If you overtake me, boy, I’ll give myself up to you without a struggle. But I suspect you’ll find me rather hard to catch!”
As he uttered the last words he permitted Henry to rise. Ere the youth had quite gained his footing, he gave him a violent push and sent him staggering back against the wall. When Henry recovered his balance, Gascoyne was standing in the open doorway.
“Now, lad, are you ready?” said he, a sort of wild smile lighting up his face.
Henry was so taken aback by this conduct, as well as by the rough handling which he had just received, that he could not collect his thoughts for a few seconds; but when Gascoyne nodded gravely to his mother and walked quietly away, saying, “Goodbye, Mary,” the exasperated youth darted through the doorway like an arrow.
If Henry Stuart’s rush may be compared to the flight of an arrow from a bow, not less appropriately may Gascoyne’s bound be likened to the leap of the bolt from a cross-bow. The two men sprang over the low fences that surrounded the cottage, leapt the rivulet that brawled down its steep course behind it, and coursed up the hill like mountain hares.
The last that widow Stuart saw of them, as she gazed eagerly from the doorway of the hut, was, when Gascoyne’s figure was clearly defined against the sky as he leaped over a great chasm in the lava high up the mountain side. Henry followed almost instantly, and then both were hidden from view in the chaos of rocks and gorges that rose above the upper line of vegetation.
It was a long and a severe chase that Henry had undertaken, and ably did his fleet foot sustain the credit which he had already gained. But Gascoyne’s foot was fleeter. Over every species of ground did the sandal-wood trader lead the youth that day. It seemed, in fact, as if a spirit of mischief had taken possession of Gascoyne, for his usually grave face was lighted up with a mingled expression of glee and ferocity. It changed, too, and wore a sad expression, at times, even when the man seemed to be running for his life.
At last, after running until he had caused Henry to shew symptoms of fatigue, Gascoyne turned suddenly round, and, shouting “Good-bye, Henry, my lad!” went straight up the mountain and disappeared over the dividing ridge on the summit.
Henry did not give in. The insult implied in the words renewed his strength. He tightened his belt as he ran, and rushed up the mountain almost as fast as Gascoyne had done, but when he leaped upon the ridge the fugitive had vanished!
That he had secreted himself in one of the many gorges or caves with which the place abounded was quite clear, but it was equally clear that no one could track him out in such a place unless he were possessed of a dog’s nose. The youth did indeed attempt it, but, being convinced that he was only searching for what could not by any possibility be found, he soon gave it up and returned, disconsolate and crest-fallen, to the cottage.
Chapter Twenty.Mysterious Consultations and Plans—Gascoyne Astonishes his Friends, and Makes an Unexpected Confession.“A pretty morning’s work I have made of it, mother,” said Henry, as he flung himself into a chair in the cottage parlour, on his return from the weary and fruitless chase which has just been recorded.The widow was pale and haggard, but she could not help smiling as she observed the look of extreme disappointment which rested on the countenance of her son.“True, Henry,” she replied, busying herself in preparing breakfast, “you have not been very successful, but you made a noble effort.”“Pshaw! a noble effort, indeed! Why, the man has foiled me in the two things in which I prided myself most—wrestling and running. I never saw such a greyhound in my life.”“He is a giant, my boy; few men could hope to overcome him.”“True, as regards wrestling, mother; I am not much ashamed of having been beaten by him at that; but running—that’s the sore point. Such a weight he is, and yet he took the north gully like a wild cat, and you know, mother, there are only two of us in Sandy Cove who can go over that gully. Ay, and he went a full yard farther than ever I did. I measured the leap as I came down. Really it is too bad to have been beaten so completely by a man who must be nearly double my age. But, after all, the worst of the whole affair is, that a pirate has escaped me after I actually had him in my arms! the villain!”“You do notknowthat he is a villain,” said the widow in a subdued tone.“You are right, mother,” said Henry, looking up from the plate of bacon, to which he had been devoting himself with much assiduity, and gazing earnestly into his mother’s face; “you are right, and, do you know, I feel inclined to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt, for to tell you the truth I have a sort of liking for him. If it had not been for the way in which he has treated you, and the suspicious character that he bears, I do believe I should have made a friend of him.”A look of evident pleasure crossed the widow’s face while her son spoke, but as that son’s eyes were once more riveted on the bacon, which his morning exercise rendered peculiarly attractive, he did not observe it.Just then the door opened, and Mr Mason entered. His face wore a dreadfully anxious expression.“Ha! I’m glad to see you, Henry,” said he; “of course you have not caught your man. I have been waiting anxiously for you to consult about our future proceedings. It is quite evident that the pirate schooner cannot be far off. Gascoyne must either have swam ashore, or been landed in a boat. In either case the schooner must have been within the reef at the time, and there has been little wind since the squall blew itself out yesterday.”“Quite enough, how ever, to blow such a light craft pretty far out to sea in a few hours,” said Henry, shaking his head.“No matter,” replied Mr Mason, with a sigh, “somethingmust be done at any rate, I have borrowed the carpenter’s small cutter, which is being now put in order for a voyage. Provisions and water for a few days are already on board, and I have come to ask you to take command of her, as you know something of navigation. I will go, of course, but will not take any management of the little craft, as I know nothing about the working of vessels.”“And where do you mean to go?” asked Henry.“That remains to be seen. I have some ideas running in my head, of course, but before letting you know them I wish to hear what you would advise.”“I would advise, in the first place, that you should provide one or two thorough sailors to manage the craft. By the way, that reminds me of Bumpus. What of him? Where is he? In the midst of all this bustle I have not had time for much thought, and it has only just occurred to me that if this schooner is really a pirate, and if Gascoyne turns out to be Durward, it follows that Bumpus is a pirate too, and ought to be dealt with accordingly.”“I have thought of that,” said Mr Mason, with a perplexed look, “and intended to speak to you on the subject, but events have crowded so fast upon each other of late that it has been driven out of my mind. No doubt, if theFoamand theAvengerare one and the same vessel, as seems too evident to leave much room for doubt, then Bumpus is a pirate, for he does not deny that he was one of the crew. But he acts strangely for a pirate. He seems as much at his ease amongst us as if he were the most innocent of men. Moreover, his looks seem to stamp him a thoroughly honest fellow. But, alas! one cannot depend on looks.”“But where is the man?” asked Henry.“He is asleep in the small closet off the kitchen,” said Mrs Stuart, “where he has been lying ever since you returned from the heathen village. Poor fellow, he sleeps heavily, and looks as if he had been hurt during all this fighting.”“Hurt! say you?” exclaimed Henry, laughing; “it is a miracle that he is now alive after the flight he took over the north cliff into the sea.”“Flight! over the north cliff!” echoed Mrs Stuart in surprise.“Ay, and a fearful plunge he had.” Here Henry detailed poor Jo’s misadventure. “And now,” said he, when he had finished, “I must lock his door and keep him in. The settlers have forgotten him in all this turmoil; but depend upon it if they see him they will string him up for a pirate to the first handy branch of a tree without giving him the benefit of a trial; and that would not be desirable.”“Yet you would have shot Gascoyne on mere suspicion without a thought of trial or justice,” said Mrs Stuart.“True, mother, but that was when I was seizing him, and in hot blood,” said Henry, in a subdued voice. “I was hasty there, no doubt. Lucky for us both that the pistol missed fire.”The widow looked as if she were about to reply, but checked herself.“Yes,” said Mr Mason, recurring to the former subject, “as we shall be away a few days, we must lock Bumpus up to keep him out of harm’s way. Meanwhile—”The missionary was interrupted here by the sudden opening of the door. An exclamation of surprise burst from the whole party as they sprang up, for Gascoyne strode into the room, locked the door, and taking out the key handed it to Henry, who stood staring at him in speechless amazement.“You are surprised to see me appear thus suddenly,” said he, “but the fact is that I came here this morning to fulfil a duty; and although Master Henry there has hindered me somewhat in carrying out my good intentions, I do not intend to allow him to frustrate me altogether.”“I do not mean to make a second attempt, Gascoyne, after what has occurred this morning,” said Henry, seating himself doggedly on his chair. “But it would be as well that you should observe that Mr Mason is a stout man, and, as we have seen, can act vigorously when occasion offers. Remember that we are two to one now.”“There will be no occasion for vigorous action, at least as regards me, if you will agree to forget your suspicions for a few minutes, and listen to what I have got to say. Meanwhile, in order to shew you how thoroughly in earnest I am, and how regardless of my personal safety, I render myself defenceless—thus.”Gascoyne pulled a brace of small pistols from their place of concealment beneath the breast of his shirt, and, drawing the knife that hung at his girdle, hurled them all through the open window into the garden. He then took a chair, planted it in the middle of the room, and sat down. The sadness of his deep voice did not change during the remainder of that interview. The bold look which usually characterised this peculiar man had given place to a grave expression of humility, which was occasionally varied by a troubled look.“Before stating what I have come for,” said Gascoyne, “I mean to make a confession. You have been right in your suspicions—I am Durward the pirate! Nay, do not shrink from me in that way, Mary. I have kept this secret from you long, because I feared to lose the old friendship that has existed between us since we were children. I have deceived you inthis thing only. I have taken advantage of your ignorance to make you suppose that I was merely a smuggler, and that, in consequence of being an outlaw, it was necessary for me to conceal my name and my movements. You have kept my secret, Mary, and have tried to win me back to honest ways, but you little knew the strength of the net I had wrapped around me. You did not know that I was a pirate!”Gascoyne paused, and bent his head as if in thought. The widow sat with clasped hands, gazing at him with a look of despair on her pale face. But she did not move or speak. The three listeners sat in perfect silence until the pirate chose to continue his confession.“Yes, I have been a pirate,” said he, “but I have not been the villain that men have painted me.” He looked steadily in the widow’s face as he said these words deliberately.“Do not try to palliate your conduct, Gascoyne,” said Mr Mason, earnestly. “The blackness of your sin is too great to be deepened or lightened by what men may have said of you. You are a pirate. Everypirate is a murderer.”“I am not a murderer,” said Gascoyne, slowly, in reply, but still fixing his gaze on the widow’s face, as if he addressed himself solely to her.“You may not have committed murder with your own hand,” said Mr Mason, “but the man who leads on others to commit the crime is a murderer in the eye of God’s law as well as in that of man.”“I never led on men to commit murder,” said Gascoyne, in the same tone and with the same steadfast gaze. “This hand is free from the stain of human blood. Do you believe me, Mary?”The widow did not answer. She sat like one bereft of all power of speech or motion.“I will explain,” resumed the pirate captain, drawing a long breath, and directing his looks to Henry now.“For reasons which it is not necessary that you should know, I resolved some years ago to become a pirate. I had been deceived—shamefully deceived and wronged—by wealthy and powerful men. I had appealed to the law of my country, and the law refused to right me. No, not the law, but those who sat on the judgment-seat to pervert the law. It matters not now; I was driven mad at the time, for the wrong done was not done so much to me as to those whom I loved. I vowed that I should be avenged.“I soon found men as mad as myself who only wanted a leader to guide them in order to run full swing to destruction. I seized theFoam, of which schooner I was mate, called her theAvenger, and became a pirate. No blood was shed when I seized the schooner. Before an opportunity occurred of trying my hand at this new profession, my anger had cooled. Irepentedof what I had done, but I was surrounded by men who were more bent on mischief than I was. I could not now draw back, but I modified my plan. I determined to become merely arobberand use the proceeds of my trade to indemnify those to whom injustice had been done. I thought at the time that there was some justice in this. I called myself in jest, a tax-gatherer of the sea. I ordered the men aft one day and explained to them my views. I said that I abhorred the name and the deeds of pirates, that I would only consent to command them if they agreed never to shed human blood except in fair and open fight.“They liked the idea. There were men among them who had never heartily agreed to the seizing of the schooner, and who would have left her if I would have allowed them; these were much relieved to hear my proposal. It was fixed that we shouldrob, but notmurder. Miserable fool that I was! I thought it was possible to go just so far and no farther into sin. I did not know at that time the strength of the fearful current into which I had plunged.“But we stuck to our principles. We never did commit murder. And as our appearance was always sufficient to cause the colours of any ship we ever came across to be hauled down at once, there has been no occasion for shedding blood, even in fair and open fight. Do you believe me, Mary?” said Gascoyne, pausing at this point.The widow was still silent, but a slight inclination of her head satisfied the pirate, who was about to resume, when Mr Mason said—“Gascoyne, do you call warfare in the cause of robbery by the name of ‘fair and open fight?’”“No, I do not. Yet there have been great generals and admirals in this world who have committed wholesale murder in this same cause, and whose names stand high in the roll of fame!”A look of scorn rested on the pirate’s face as he said this, but it passed away quickly.“You tell me that there were some of the men in the schooner whom you kept aboard against their will?” said Mr Mason. “Did it never occur to you, Gascoyne, that you may have been the murderer of thesoulsof these men?”The pirate made no reply for some time, and the troubled anxious look that had more than once crossed his face returned.“Yes,” said he at length, “I have thought of that. But it is done now and cannot be undone. I can do no more now than give myself up to justice. You see, I have thrown away my arms and stand here defenceless. But I did not come here to plead for mercy. I come to make to you all the reparation I can for the wrong I have done you. When that last act is completed, you may do with me what you please. I deserve to die, and I care not to live.”“O Gascoyne, speak not thus,” exclaimed the widow, earnestly. “However much and deeply you have sinned against man, if you have not taken life you do not deserve to die. Besides, there is a way of pardon open to the very chief of sinners.”“I know what you mean, Mary, I know what you mean; but — well, well, this is neither the time nor place to talk of such things. Your little girl, Mr Mason, is in the hands of the pirates.”“I know that,” said the missionary, wincing as if he had received a deep wound, “but she is not inyourpower now.”“More’s the pity; she would have been safer with me than with my first mate, who is the greatest villain afloat on the high seas. He does not like our milk-and-water style of robbing. He is an out-and-out pirate in heart, and has long desired to cut my throat. I have to thank him for being here to-night. Some of the crew who are like himself seized me while I was asleep, bound and gagged me, put me into a boat and rowed me ashore;—for we had easily escaped theTalismanin the squall, and doubling or our course came back here. The mate was anxious to clear off old scores by cutting my throat at once and pitching me into the sea. Luckily some of the men, not so bloodthirsty as he, objected to this, so I was landed and cast loose.”“But what of Alice?” cried Mr Mason, anxiously. “How can we save her?”“By taking my advice,” answered Gascoyne. “You have a small cutter at anchor off the creek at the foot of the hill. Put a few trusty men aboard of her, and I will guide you to the island where theAvengerhas been wont to fly when hard pressed.”“But how do you know that Manton will go there?” inquired Henry, eagerly.“Because he is short of powder, and all our stores are concealed there, besides much of our ill-gotten wealth.”“And how can you expect us to put ourselves so completely in your power?” said Mr Mason.“Because youmustdo so if you would save your child. She is safe now, I know, and will be until theAvengerleaves the island where our stores are concealed. If we do not save her before that happens,she is lost to you for ever!”“That no man can say. She is in the hands of God,” cried Mr Mason, fervently.“True, true,” said Gascoyne, musing. “But God does not work by miracles. We must be up and doing at once. I promise you that I shall be faithful, and that, after the work is done, I will give myself up to justice.”“May we trust him, mother?” said Henry.“You may trust him, my son,” replied the widow, in a tone of decision that satisfied Henry, while it called forth a look of gratitude from the pirate.The party now proceeded to arrange the details of their plan for the rescue of Alice and her companions. These were speedily settled, and Henry rose to go and put them in train. He turned the key of the door and was on the point of lifting the latch, when this was done for him by some one on the outside. He had just time to step back when the door flew open, and he stood face to face with Hugh Barnes the cooper.“Have you heard the news, Henry?—hallo!”This abrupt exclamation was caused by the sight of Gascoyne, who rose quietly the moment he heard the door open, and, turning his back towards it, walked slowly into a small apartment that opened off the widow’s parlour, and shut the door.“I say, Henry, who’s that big fellow?” said the cooper, casting a suspicious glance towards the little room into which he had disappeared.“He is afriendof mine,” replied Mrs Stuart, rising hastily, and welcoming her visitor.“Humph! it’s well he’s afriend,” said the man as he took a chair, “I shouldn’t like to have him for an enemy.”“But what is the news you were so anxious to tell us?” inquired Henry.“That Gascoyne, the pirate captain, has been seen on the island by some of the women, and there’s a regular hunt organising. Will you go with us?”“I have more important work to do, Hugh,” replied Henry, “besides, I want you to go with me on a hunt which I’ll tell you about if you’ll come with me to the creek.”“By all means, come along.”Henry and the cooper at once left the cottage. The latter was let into the secret, and prevailed on to form one of the crew of theWasp, as the little cutter was named. In the course of the afternoon everything was in readiness. Gascoyne waited till the dusk of the evening, and then embarked along with Ole Thorwald; that stout individual having insisted on being one of the party, despite the remonstrances of Mr Mason, who did not like to leave the settlement, even for a brief period, so completely deprived of all its leading men. But Ole entertained a suspicion that Gascoyne intended to give them the slip; and having privately made up his mind to prevent this he was not to be denied.The men who formed the crew—twelve in number—were selected from among those natives and settlers who were known never to have seen the pirate captain. They were chosen with a view to their fighting qualities, for Gascoyne and Henry were sufficient for the management of the little craft. There were no large guns on board, but all the men were well armed with cutlasses, muskets, and pistols.Thus equipped, theWaspstood out to sea with a light breeze, just as the moon rose on the coral reef and cast a shower of sparkling silver across the bay.
“A pretty morning’s work I have made of it, mother,” said Henry, as he flung himself into a chair in the cottage parlour, on his return from the weary and fruitless chase which has just been recorded.
The widow was pale and haggard, but she could not help smiling as she observed the look of extreme disappointment which rested on the countenance of her son.
“True, Henry,” she replied, busying herself in preparing breakfast, “you have not been very successful, but you made a noble effort.”
“Pshaw! a noble effort, indeed! Why, the man has foiled me in the two things in which I prided myself most—wrestling and running. I never saw such a greyhound in my life.”
“He is a giant, my boy; few men could hope to overcome him.”
“True, as regards wrestling, mother; I am not much ashamed of having been beaten by him at that; but running—that’s the sore point. Such a weight he is, and yet he took the north gully like a wild cat, and you know, mother, there are only two of us in Sandy Cove who can go over that gully. Ay, and he went a full yard farther than ever I did. I measured the leap as I came down. Really it is too bad to have been beaten so completely by a man who must be nearly double my age. But, after all, the worst of the whole affair is, that a pirate has escaped me after I actually had him in my arms! the villain!”
“You do notknowthat he is a villain,” said the widow in a subdued tone.
“You are right, mother,” said Henry, looking up from the plate of bacon, to which he had been devoting himself with much assiduity, and gazing earnestly into his mother’s face; “you are right, and, do you know, I feel inclined to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt, for to tell you the truth I have a sort of liking for him. If it had not been for the way in which he has treated you, and the suspicious character that he bears, I do believe I should have made a friend of him.”
A look of evident pleasure crossed the widow’s face while her son spoke, but as that son’s eyes were once more riveted on the bacon, which his morning exercise rendered peculiarly attractive, he did not observe it.
Just then the door opened, and Mr Mason entered. His face wore a dreadfully anxious expression.
“Ha! I’m glad to see you, Henry,” said he; “of course you have not caught your man. I have been waiting anxiously for you to consult about our future proceedings. It is quite evident that the pirate schooner cannot be far off. Gascoyne must either have swam ashore, or been landed in a boat. In either case the schooner must have been within the reef at the time, and there has been little wind since the squall blew itself out yesterday.”
“Quite enough, how ever, to blow such a light craft pretty far out to sea in a few hours,” said Henry, shaking his head.
“No matter,” replied Mr Mason, with a sigh, “somethingmust be done at any rate, I have borrowed the carpenter’s small cutter, which is being now put in order for a voyage. Provisions and water for a few days are already on board, and I have come to ask you to take command of her, as you know something of navigation. I will go, of course, but will not take any management of the little craft, as I know nothing about the working of vessels.”
“And where do you mean to go?” asked Henry.
“That remains to be seen. I have some ideas running in my head, of course, but before letting you know them I wish to hear what you would advise.”
“I would advise, in the first place, that you should provide one or two thorough sailors to manage the craft. By the way, that reminds me of Bumpus. What of him? Where is he? In the midst of all this bustle I have not had time for much thought, and it has only just occurred to me that if this schooner is really a pirate, and if Gascoyne turns out to be Durward, it follows that Bumpus is a pirate too, and ought to be dealt with accordingly.”
“I have thought of that,” said Mr Mason, with a perplexed look, “and intended to speak to you on the subject, but events have crowded so fast upon each other of late that it has been driven out of my mind. No doubt, if theFoamand theAvengerare one and the same vessel, as seems too evident to leave much room for doubt, then Bumpus is a pirate, for he does not deny that he was one of the crew. But he acts strangely for a pirate. He seems as much at his ease amongst us as if he were the most innocent of men. Moreover, his looks seem to stamp him a thoroughly honest fellow. But, alas! one cannot depend on looks.”
“But where is the man?” asked Henry.
“He is asleep in the small closet off the kitchen,” said Mrs Stuart, “where he has been lying ever since you returned from the heathen village. Poor fellow, he sleeps heavily, and looks as if he had been hurt during all this fighting.”
“Hurt! say you?” exclaimed Henry, laughing; “it is a miracle that he is now alive after the flight he took over the north cliff into the sea.”
“Flight! over the north cliff!” echoed Mrs Stuart in surprise.
“Ay, and a fearful plunge he had.” Here Henry detailed poor Jo’s misadventure. “And now,” said he, when he had finished, “I must lock his door and keep him in. The settlers have forgotten him in all this turmoil; but depend upon it if they see him they will string him up for a pirate to the first handy branch of a tree without giving him the benefit of a trial; and that would not be desirable.”
“Yet you would have shot Gascoyne on mere suspicion without a thought of trial or justice,” said Mrs Stuart.
“True, mother, but that was when I was seizing him, and in hot blood,” said Henry, in a subdued voice. “I was hasty there, no doubt. Lucky for us both that the pistol missed fire.”
The widow looked as if she were about to reply, but checked herself.
“Yes,” said Mr Mason, recurring to the former subject, “as we shall be away a few days, we must lock Bumpus up to keep him out of harm’s way. Meanwhile—”
The missionary was interrupted here by the sudden opening of the door. An exclamation of surprise burst from the whole party as they sprang up, for Gascoyne strode into the room, locked the door, and taking out the key handed it to Henry, who stood staring at him in speechless amazement.
“You are surprised to see me appear thus suddenly,” said he, “but the fact is that I came here this morning to fulfil a duty; and although Master Henry there has hindered me somewhat in carrying out my good intentions, I do not intend to allow him to frustrate me altogether.”
“I do not mean to make a second attempt, Gascoyne, after what has occurred this morning,” said Henry, seating himself doggedly on his chair. “But it would be as well that you should observe that Mr Mason is a stout man, and, as we have seen, can act vigorously when occasion offers. Remember that we are two to one now.”
“There will be no occasion for vigorous action, at least as regards me, if you will agree to forget your suspicions for a few minutes, and listen to what I have got to say. Meanwhile, in order to shew you how thoroughly in earnest I am, and how regardless of my personal safety, I render myself defenceless—thus.”
Gascoyne pulled a brace of small pistols from their place of concealment beneath the breast of his shirt, and, drawing the knife that hung at his girdle, hurled them all through the open window into the garden. He then took a chair, planted it in the middle of the room, and sat down. The sadness of his deep voice did not change during the remainder of that interview. The bold look which usually characterised this peculiar man had given place to a grave expression of humility, which was occasionally varied by a troubled look.
“Before stating what I have come for,” said Gascoyne, “I mean to make a confession. You have been right in your suspicions—I am Durward the pirate! Nay, do not shrink from me in that way, Mary. I have kept this secret from you long, because I feared to lose the old friendship that has existed between us since we were children. I have deceived you inthis thing only. I have taken advantage of your ignorance to make you suppose that I was merely a smuggler, and that, in consequence of being an outlaw, it was necessary for me to conceal my name and my movements. You have kept my secret, Mary, and have tried to win me back to honest ways, but you little knew the strength of the net I had wrapped around me. You did not know that I was a pirate!”
Gascoyne paused, and bent his head as if in thought. The widow sat with clasped hands, gazing at him with a look of despair on her pale face. But she did not move or speak. The three listeners sat in perfect silence until the pirate chose to continue his confession.
“Yes, I have been a pirate,” said he, “but I have not been the villain that men have painted me.” He looked steadily in the widow’s face as he said these words deliberately.
“Do not try to palliate your conduct, Gascoyne,” said Mr Mason, earnestly. “The blackness of your sin is too great to be deepened or lightened by what men may have said of you. You are a pirate. Everypirate is a murderer.”
“I am not a murderer,” said Gascoyne, slowly, in reply, but still fixing his gaze on the widow’s face, as if he addressed himself solely to her.
“You may not have committed murder with your own hand,” said Mr Mason, “but the man who leads on others to commit the crime is a murderer in the eye of God’s law as well as in that of man.”
“I never led on men to commit murder,” said Gascoyne, in the same tone and with the same steadfast gaze. “This hand is free from the stain of human blood. Do you believe me, Mary?”
The widow did not answer. She sat like one bereft of all power of speech or motion.
“I will explain,” resumed the pirate captain, drawing a long breath, and directing his looks to Henry now.
“For reasons which it is not necessary that you should know, I resolved some years ago to become a pirate. I had been deceived—shamefully deceived and wronged—by wealthy and powerful men. I had appealed to the law of my country, and the law refused to right me. No, not the law, but those who sat on the judgment-seat to pervert the law. It matters not now; I was driven mad at the time, for the wrong done was not done so much to me as to those whom I loved. I vowed that I should be avenged.
“I soon found men as mad as myself who only wanted a leader to guide them in order to run full swing to destruction. I seized theFoam, of which schooner I was mate, called her theAvenger, and became a pirate. No blood was shed when I seized the schooner. Before an opportunity occurred of trying my hand at this new profession, my anger had cooled. Irepentedof what I had done, but I was surrounded by men who were more bent on mischief than I was. I could not now draw back, but I modified my plan. I determined to become merely arobberand use the proceeds of my trade to indemnify those to whom injustice had been done. I thought at the time that there was some justice in this. I called myself in jest, a tax-gatherer of the sea. I ordered the men aft one day and explained to them my views. I said that I abhorred the name and the deeds of pirates, that I would only consent to command them if they agreed never to shed human blood except in fair and open fight.
“They liked the idea. There were men among them who had never heartily agreed to the seizing of the schooner, and who would have left her if I would have allowed them; these were much relieved to hear my proposal. It was fixed that we shouldrob, but notmurder. Miserable fool that I was! I thought it was possible to go just so far and no farther into sin. I did not know at that time the strength of the fearful current into which I had plunged.
“But we stuck to our principles. We never did commit murder. And as our appearance was always sufficient to cause the colours of any ship we ever came across to be hauled down at once, there has been no occasion for shedding blood, even in fair and open fight. Do you believe me, Mary?” said Gascoyne, pausing at this point.
The widow was still silent, but a slight inclination of her head satisfied the pirate, who was about to resume, when Mr Mason said—“Gascoyne, do you call warfare in the cause of robbery by the name of ‘fair and open fight?’”
“No, I do not. Yet there have been great generals and admirals in this world who have committed wholesale murder in this same cause, and whose names stand high in the roll of fame!”
A look of scorn rested on the pirate’s face as he said this, but it passed away quickly.
“You tell me that there were some of the men in the schooner whom you kept aboard against their will?” said Mr Mason. “Did it never occur to you, Gascoyne, that you may have been the murderer of thesoulsof these men?”
The pirate made no reply for some time, and the troubled anxious look that had more than once crossed his face returned.
“Yes,” said he at length, “I have thought of that. But it is done now and cannot be undone. I can do no more now than give myself up to justice. You see, I have thrown away my arms and stand here defenceless. But I did not come here to plead for mercy. I come to make to you all the reparation I can for the wrong I have done you. When that last act is completed, you may do with me what you please. I deserve to die, and I care not to live.”
“O Gascoyne, speak not thus,” exclaimed the widow, earnestly. “However much and deeply you have sinned against man, if you have not taken life you do not deserve to die. Besides, there is a way of pardon open to the very chief of sinners.”
“I know what you mean, Mary, I know what you mean; but — well, well, this is neither the time nor place to talk of such things. Your little girl, Mr Mason, is in the hands of the pirates.”
“I know that,” said the missionary, wincing as if he had received a deep wound, “but she is not inyourpower now.”
“More’s the pity; she would have been safer with me than with my first mate, who is the greatest villain afloat on the high seas. He does not like our milk-and-water style of robbing. He is an out-and-out pirate in heart, and has long desired to cut my throat. I have to thank him for being here to-night. Some of the crew who are like himself seized me while I was asleep, bound and gagged me, put me into a boat and rowed me ashore;—for we had easily escaped theTalismanin the squall, and doubling or our course came back here. The mate was anxious to clear off old scores by cutting my throat at once and pitching me into the sea. Luckily some of the men, not so bloodthirsty as he, objected to this, so I was landed and cast loose.”
“But what of Alice?” cried Mr Mason, anxiously. “How can we save her?”
“By taking my advice,” answered Gascoyne. “You have a small cutter at anchor off the creek at the foot of the hill. Put a few trusty men aboard of her, and I will guide you to the island where theAvengerhas been wont to fly when hard pressed.”
“But how do you know that Manton will go there?” inquired Henry, eagerly.
“Because he is short of powder, and all our stores are concealed there, besides much of our ill-gotten wealth.”
“And how can you expect us to put ourselves so completely in your power?” said Mr Mason.
“Because youmustdo so if you would save your child. She is safe now, I know, and will be until theAvengerleaves the island where our stores are concealed. If we do not save her before that happens,she is lost to you for ever!”
“That no man can say. She is in the hands of God,” cried Mr Mason, fervently.
“True, true,” said Gascoyne, musing. “But God does not work by miracles. We must be up and doing at once. I promise you that I shall be faithful, and that, after the work is done, I will give myself up to justice.”
“May we trust him, mother?” said Henry.
“You may trust him, my son,” replied the widow, in a tone of decision that satisfied Henry, while it called forth a look of gratitude from the pirate.
The party now proceeded to arrange the details of their plan for the rescue of Alice and her companions. These were speedily settled, and Henry rose to go and put them in train. He turned the key of the door and was on the point of lifting the latch, when this was done for him by some one on the outside. He had just time to step back when the door flew open, and he stood face to face with Hugh Barnes the cooper.
“Have you heard the news, Henry?—hallo!”
This abrupt exclamation was caused by the sight of Gascoyne, who rose quietly the moment he heard the door open, and, turning his back towards it, walked slowly into a small apartment that opened off the widow’s parlour, and shut the door.
“I say, Henry, who’s that big fellow?” said the cooper, casting a suspicious glance towards the little room into which he had disappeared.
“He is afriendof mine,” replied Mrs Stuart, rising hastily, and welcoming her visitor.
“Humph! it’s well he’s afriend,” said the man as he took a chair, “I shouldn’t like to have him for an enemy.”
“But what is the news you were so anxious to tell us?” inquired Henry.
“That Gascoyne, the pirate captain, has been seen on the island by some of the women, and there’s a regular hunt organising. Will you go with us?”
“I have more important work to do, Hugh,” replied Henry, “besides, I want you to go with me on a hunt which I’ll tell you about if you’ll come with me to the creek.”
“By all means, come along.”
Henry and the cooper at once left the cottage. The latter was let into the secret, and prevailed on to form one of the crew of theWasp, as the little cutter was named. In the course of the afternoon everything was in readiness. Gascoyne waited till the dusk of the evening, and then embarked along with Ole Thorwald; that stout individual having insisted on being one of the party, despite the remonstrances of Mr Mason, who did not like to leave the settlement, even for a brief period, so completely deprived of all its leading men. But Ole entertained a suspicion that Gascoyne intended to give them the slip; and having privately made up his mind to prevent this he was not to be denied.
The men who formed the crew—twelve in number—were selected from among those natives and settlers who were known never to have seen the pirate captain. They were chosen with a view to their fighting qualities, for Gascoyne and Henry were sufficient for the management of the little craft. There were no large guns on board, but all the men were well armed with cutlasses, muskets, and pistols.
Thus equipped, theWaspstood out to sea with a light breeze, just as the moon rose on the coral reef and cast a shower of sparkling silver across the bay.
Chapter Twenty One.A Terrible Doom for an Innocent Man.“So, you’re to be hanged for a pirate, Jo Bumpus, ye are—that’s pleasant to think of anyhow.”Such was the remark which our stout seaman addressed to himself when he awoke on the second morning after the departure of theWasp. If the thought was really as pleasant as he asserted it to be, his visage must have been a bad index to the state of his mind; for at that particular moment Jo looked uncommonly miserable.The wonted good-humoured expression of his countenance had given place to a gaze of stereotyped surprise and solemnity. Indeed Bumpus seemed to have parted with much of his reason and all of his philosophy, for he could say nothing else during at least half-an-hour after awaking except the phrase—“So, you’re going to be hanged for a pirate.” His comments on the phrase were, however, a little varied, though always brief—such as—“Wot a sell! Who’d ha’ thought it! It’s a dream, it is, an ’orrible dream!Idon’t believe it—who does? Wot’ll your poor mother say?”—and the like.Bumpus had, unfortunately, good ground for making this statement.After the cutter sailed it was discovered that Bumpus was concealed in Mrs Stuart’s cottage. This discovery had been the result of the seaman’s own recklessness and indiscretion; for when he ascertained that he was to be kept a prisoner in the cottage until the return of theWasp, he at once made up his mind to submit with a good grace to what could not be avoided. In order to prove that he was by no means cast down, as well as to lighten the tedium of his confinement, Jo entertained himself by singing snatches of sea songs—such as, “My tight little craft,”—“A life on the stormy sea,”—“Oh! for a draught of the howling blast,” etcetera, all of which he delivered in a bass voice so powerful that it caused the rafters of the widow’s cottage to ring again.These melodious not to say thunderous sounds, also caused the ears of a small native youth to tingle with curiosity. This urchin crept on his brown little knees under the window of Bumpus’s apartment, got on his brown and dirty little tiptoes, placed his brown little hands on the sill, hauled his brown and half-naked little body up by sheer force of muscle, and peeped into the room with his large and staring brown eyes, the whites of which were displayed to their full extent.Jo was in the middle of an enthusiastic “oh!” when the urchin’s head appeared. Instead of expressing his passionate desire for a “draught of the howling blast,” he prolonged the “oh!” into a hideous yell, and thrust his blazing face close to the window so suddenly that the boy let go his hold, fell backwards, and rolled head over heels into a ditch, out of which he scrambled with violent haste, and ran with the utmost possible precipitancy to his native home on the sea-shore.Here he related what he had seen to his father. The father went and looked in upon Jo’s solitude. He happened to have seen Bumpus during the great fight and knew him to be one of the pirates. The village roseen masse. Some of the worst characters in it stirred up the rest, went to the widow’s cottage, and demanded that the person of the pirate should be delivered up.The widow objected. The settlers insisted. The widow protested. The settlers threatened force. Upon this the widow reasoned with them; besought them to remember that the missionary would be back in a day or two, and that it would be well to have his advice before they did anything, and finally agreed to give up her charge on receiving a promise that he should have a fair trial.Bumpus was accordingly bound with ropes, led in triumph through the village, and placed in a strong wooden building which was used as the jail of the place.The trial that followed was a mere mockery. The leading spirits of it were those who had been styled by Mr Mason, “enemies within the camp.” They elected themselves to the offices of prosecutor and judge as well as taking the trouble to act the part of jurymen and witnesses.Poor John Bumpus’s doom was sealed before the trial began. They had prejudged the case, and only went through the form to ease their own consciences and to fulfil their promise to the widow.It was in vain that Bumpus asserted, with a bold, honest countenance, that he was not a pirate; that he never had been, and never would be a pirate; that he did not believe theFoamwas a pirate—though he was free to confess its crew “wosbad enough for anything a’most;” that he had been hired in South America (where he had been shipwrecked) by Captain Gascoyne, the sandal-wood trader; that he had made the voyage straight from that coast to this island without meeting a single sail; and that he had never seen a shot fired or a cutlass drawn aboard the schooner.To all this there was but one coarsely-expressed answer—“It is a lie!” Jo had no proof to give of the truth of what he said, so he was condemned to be hanged by the neck till he should be dead; and as his judges were afraid that the return of theWaspmight interfere with their proceedings, it was arranged that he should be executed on the following day at noon!It must not be imagined that, in a Christian village such as we have described, there was no one who felt that this trial was too hastily gone into, and too violently conducted. But those who were inclined to take a merciful view of the case, and who pled for delay, were chiefly natives, while the violent party was composed of most of the ill-disposed European settlers.The natives had been so much accustomed to put confidence in the wisdom of the white men since their conversion to Christianity, that they felt unable to cope with them on this occasion, so that Bumpus, after being condemned, was led away to his prison, and left alone to his own reflections.It chanced that there was one friend left, unintentionally, in the cell with the condemned man. This was none other than our friend Toozle, the mass of ragged door-mat on which Alice doted so fondly. This little dog had, during the course of the events which have taken so long to recount, done nothing worthy of being recorded. He had, indeed, been much in every one’s way, when no one had had time or inclination to take notice of him. He had, being an affectionate dog, and desirous of much sympathy, courted attention frequently, and had received many kicks and severe rebuffs for his pains, and he had also, being a tender-hearted dog, howled dreadfully when he lost his young mistress; but he had not in any way promoted the interests of humanity or advanced the ends of justice. Hence our long silence in regard to him.Recollecting that he had witnessed evidences of a friendly relation subsisting between Alice and Bumpus, Toozle straightway sought to pour the overflowing love and sorrow of his large little heart into the bosom of that supposed pirate. His advances were well received, and from that hour he followed the seaman like his shadow. He shared his prison with him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the widow’s cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep in deep humility when he was neglected.Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him, when they were adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as was clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woe-begone cast of his ragged countenance,—but we are anticipating.It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.Toozle sat at his feet looking up in his face sympathetically.“No, Idon’tbelieve it’s possible,” said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning. “It’s a joke, that’s wot it is. Ain’t it, Toozle, my boy?”Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, a’s plainly as if he had spoken, “Yes, of course it is—an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man.”“Ah! you’re a funny dog,” continued Bumpus, “but you don’t know wot it is to be hanged, my boy. Hanged! why it’s agin all laws o’ justice, moral an’ otherwise, it is. But I’m dreamin’, yes, it’s dreamin’ I am—but I don’t think I ever did dream that I thought I was dreamin’ an’ yet wasn’t quite sure. Really it’s perplexin’, to say the least on it. Ain’t it, Toozle?”Toozle wagged his tail.“Ah, here comes my imaginary jailer to let me out o’ this here abominably real-lookin’ imaginary lockup. Hang Jo Bumpus! why it’s—”Before Jo could find words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of such a murderous intention, the door opened and a surly-looking man—a European settler—entered with his breakfast. This meal consisted of a baked breadfruit and a can of water.“Ha! you’ve come to let me out, have you?” cried Jo, in a tone of forced pleasantry, which was anything but cheerful.“Have I, though!” said the man, setting down the food on a small deal table that stood at the head of the bedstead; “don’t think it, my man; your time’s up in another two hours—hallo! where got ye the dog?”“It came in with me last night—to keep me company, I fancy, which is more than the human dogs o’ this murderin’ place had the civility to do.”“If it had know’d you was a murderin’ pirate,” retorted the jailer, “it would ha’ thought twice before it would ha’ choseyoufor a comrade.”“Come, now,” said Bumpus, in a remonstrative tone, “you don’t really b’lieve I’m a pirate, do you?”“In coorse I do.”“Well, now, that’s xtraor’nary. Does everybody else think that too?”“Everybody.”“An’ am Ireallygoin’ to be hanged?”“Till you’re dead as mutton.”“That’s entertainin’, ain’t it, Toozle?” cried poor Bumpus with a laugh of desperation, for he found it utterly impossible to persuade himself to believe in the reality of his awful position.As he said nothing more, the jailer went away, and Bumpus, after heaving two or three very deep sighs, attempted to partake of his meagre breakfast. The effort was a vain one. The bite stuck in his throat, so he washed it down with a gulp of water, and, for the first time in his life, made up his mind to go without his breakfast.A little before twelve o’clock the door again opened, and the surly jailer entered bearing a halter, and accompanied by six stout men. The irons were now removed from Bumpus’s wrists, and his arms pinioned behind his back. Being almost stupified with amazement at his position, he submitted without a struggle.“I say, friends,” he at last exclaimed, “would any amount of oaths took before a maginstrate convince ye that I’m not a pirate, but a true-blue seaman?”“If you were to swear from this time till doomsday it would make no difference. You admit that you were one of theFoam’screw. We now know that theFoamand theAvengerare the same schooner. Birds of a feather flock together. A pirate would swear anything to save his life. Come, time’s up.”Bumpus bent his head for a minute. The truth forced itself upon him now in all its dread reality. But no unmanly terrors filled his breast at that moment. The fear of man or of violent death was a sensation which the seaman never knew. The feeling of the huge injustice that was about to be done filled him with generous indignation; the blood rushed to his temples, and, with a bound like a tiger, he leaped out of the jailer’s grasp, hurling him to the ground in the act.With the strength almost of a Samson he wrestled with his cords for a few seconds; but they were new and strong. He failed to burst them. In another moment he was overpowered by the six men who guarded him. True to his principles, he did his utmost to escape. Strong in the faith that while there is life there is hope, he did not cease to struggle, like a chained giant, until he was placed under the limb of the fatal tree which had been selected, and round which an immense crowd of natives and white settlers had gathered.During the previous night the widow Stuart had striven to save the man whom she knew to be honest, for Gascoyne had explained to her all about his being engaged in his service. But those to whom she appealed, even on her knees, were immovable. They considered the proof of the man’s guilt quite conclusive, and regarded the widow’s intercession as the mere weakness of a tender-hearted woman.On the following morning, and again beside the fatal tree itself, the widow pled for the man’s life with all her powers of eloquence, but in vain. When all hope appeared to have passed away, she could not stand to witness so horrible a murder. She fled to her cottage, and, throwing herself on her bed, burst into an agony of tears and prayer.But there were some among the European settlers there who, now that things had come to a point, felt ill at ease, and would fain have washed their hands of the whole affair. Others there were who judged the man from his countenance and his acts, not from circumstances. These remonstrated even to the last, and advised delay. But the half dozen who were set upon the man’s death—not to gratify a thirst for blood, but to execute due justice on a pirate whom they abhorred—were influential and violent, men. They silenced all opposition at last, and John Bumpus finally had the noose put round, his neck.“O Susan, Susan,” cried the poor man in an agony of intense feeling, “it’s little ye thought your Jo would come to such an end as this when ye last sot eyes on him—an’ sweet blue eyes they wos, too!”There was something ludicrous as well as pathetic in this cry. It did more for him than the most eloquent pleading could have done. Man, in a crowd, is an unstable being. At any moment he will veer right round and run in an opposite direction. The idea that the condemned man had a Susan who would mourn over his untimely end, touched a cord in the hearts of many among the crowd. The reference to her sweet blue eyes at such a moment raised a smile, and an extremely dismal but opportune howl from poor Toozle raised a laugh.Bumpus started and looked sternly on the crowd.“You may think me a pirate,” said he, “but I know enough of the feelin’s of honest men to expect no mercy from those wot can laugh at a fellow-creetur in such an hour. You had better get the murder over as soon as ye can. I am ready—Stay! one moment more. I had a’most forgot it. There’s a letter here that I want one o’ you to take charge of. It’s the last I ever got from my Susan, an’ if I had taken her advice to let alone havin’ to do with all sandalwood traders, I’d never ha’ bin in such a fix as I am this day. I want it sent back to her with my blessin’ and a lock o’ my hair. Is there an honest man among ye who’ll take in hand to do this for me?”As he spoke, a young man, in a costume somewhat resembling that of a sailor, pushed through the crowd, leaped upon the deal table on which Jo stood, and removed the noose from his neck.An exclamation of anger burst from those who surrounded the table, but a sound something like applause broke from the crowd, and restrained any attempt at violence. The young man at the same time held up his hand and asked leave to address them.“Ay! ay! let’s hear what he has got to say. That’s it; speak up, Dan!”The youth, whose dark olive complexion proclaimed him to be a half-caste, and whose language shewed that he had received at least the rudiments of education, stretched out his hand and said—“Friends, I do not stand here to interfere with justice. Those who seek to give a pirate his just reward do well. But there has been doubt in the minds of some that this man may not be a pirate. His own word is of no value; but if I can bring forward anything to shew that perhaps his word is true, then we have no right to hang him till we have given him a longer trial.”“Hear! hear!” from the white men in the crowd, and “Ho! ho!” from the natives.Meanwhile the young man, or Dan, as some one called him, turned to Bumpus and asked for the letter to which he had referred. Being informed that it was in the inside pocket of his jacket, the youth put his hand in and drew it forth.“May I read it? Your life may depend on what I find here.”“Sartinly, by all manner of means,” replied Jo, not a little surprised at the turn affairs were taking.Dan opened and perused the epistle for a few minutes, during which intense silence was maintained in the crowd, as if they expected tohearthe thoughts of the young man as they passed through his brain.“Ha! I thought so,” exclaimed Dan, looking up and again addressing the crowd. “At the trial yesterday you heard this man say that he was engaged at San Francisco by Gascoyne on the 12th of April last, and that he believed the schooner to be a sandalwood trader when he shipped.”“Yes, yes, ho!” from the crowd.“If this statement of his be true, then he was not a pirate when he shipped, and he has not had much time to become one between that time and this. The letter which I hold in my hand proves the truth of this statement. It is dated San Francisco, 11thApril, and is written in a female hand. Listen, I will read it, and you shall judge for yourselves.”The young man then read the following letter, which, being a peculiar as well as an interesting specimen of a love-letter, we giveverbatim et literatim:—“Peelers farm near Sanfransko Aprile 11.“For John bumpuss, aboord the Skooner fome“my darlin Jo,“ever sins you towld me yisterday that youd bin an gaged yerself into the fome, my mind has bin Onaisy. Ye no, darlint, from the our ye cald me yer own Susan—in clare county More betoken—iv bin onaisy about ye yer so bowld an Rekles, but this is wurst ov all. Iv no noshun o them sandlewood skooners. The Haf ov thems pirits an The other hafs no beter. Whats wus is that my owld master was drownded in wan, or out o wan, but shure its All the Saim. Down he wint an that wos the Endd.“now Deer jo don’t go to say in that skooner i beseech ye, jo. Ye towld me that ye liked the looks o the cappen an haited the looks o the Krew. Now deer, take warnin, think ov me. Think ov the words in the coppie book weev writ so often together at owld makmahons skool, eevil emunishakens Krupt yer maners, i misrember it, but ye no wot id be sayin’ to ye.“o jo Don’t go, but cum an see me as soon as iver ye can“yours til deth.“Susan.“P.S. the piggs is quite livly but ther not so hansum heer as in the owld country. Don’t forgit to rite to your susan.”No one can conceive the indignation that swelled the broad chest of honest John Bumpus when he listened to the laughter with which some parts of this letter were received.“Now,” said Dan, “could any man want better proof than this that John Bumpusis nota pirate?”This question was answered by a perfect yell from the crowd.“Set him free; cut his cords!” cried a voice.“Stop, friends,” cried a big coarse-looking man, leaping on the table and jostling Dan out of the way. “Not quite so fast. I don’t pretend to be a learned feller, and I can’t make a speech with a buttery tongue like Dan here. But wot I’ve got to say is—Justice for ever!”“Hurrah!” from some of the wild spirits of the crowd. “Go on, Burke,” from others.“Yes, wot I say is—Justice for ever! Fair play an’ no favour:That’swot I say!”Another cheer greeted the bold assertion of these noble sentiments.“Now, here it is,” continued Burke, becoming much excited, “wot’s to hinder that there letter bein’ a forgery?—ay, that’s the word, a forgery? (Hear! hear!) got up a-purpose to bamboozle us chaps that ain’t lawyers. D’ye see?”Burke glanced at Dan and smote his thigh triumphantly as he said this.“It does notlooklike a forgery,” said Dan, holding up the letter and pointing to the writing. “I leave it to yourselves to say if itsoundslike a forgery—”“I don’t care a farthin’ dip for yerlooksandsounds,” cried Burke, interrupting the other. “No man is goin’ for to tell me that anybody can trust tolooksandsounds. Why, I’ve know’d the greatest villain that ever chewed the end of a smuggled cigarlookas innocent as the babe unborn. An’ is there a man here wot’ll tell me he hasn’t often an’ over again mistook the crack of a big gun for a clap o’ thunder?”This was received with much approval by the crowd, which had evidently more than half-forgotten the terrible purpose for which it had assembled there, and was now much interested in what bid fair to be a keen dispute. When the noise abated, Dan raised his voice and said—“If Burke had not interrupted me, I was going to have said that another thing which proves the letter to be no forgery is, that the post-mark of San Francisco is on the back of it, with the date all right.”This statement delighted the crowd immensely, and caused Burke to look disconcerted for a few seconds; he rallied, however, and returned to the charge.“Post-marks! wot do I care for post-marks? Can’t a man forge a post-mark as easy as any other mark?”“Ah! that’s true,” from a voice in the crowd.“No, not so easily asanyother mark,” retorted Dan, “for it’s made with a kind of ink that’s not sold in shops. Everything goes to prove that the letter is no forgery. But, Mr Burke, will you answer me this—if itwasa forgery, got up for the purpose of saving this man’s life,at what time was it forged? for Bumpus could not know that he would ever need such a letter until yesterday afternoon, and between that time and this there was but little time to forge a letter from San Francisco, post-mark and all, and make it soiled and worn at the edges like an old letter. (‘Hear!’ and sensation.) More than that,” cried Dan, waxing eager and earnest, “if it was a forgery, got up for this purpose,why was it not produced at the trial? (‘Hear! hear!’ and cheers!) And, last of all, why, if this forgery was so important to him, did John Bumpus forget all about it until he stood on this table; ay,until the rope was round his neck?”A perfect storm of cheers and applause followed this last sentence, in the midst of which there were cries of “You’re floored, Burke! Hurrah for Bumpus! Cut the ropes!”But although John’s life was now safe, his indignation at Susan’s letter having been laughed at was not altogether allayed.“I’ll tell ye wot it is,” said he, the instant there was a lull in the uproar of voices. “If you think that I’ll stand here and see my Susan’s letter insulted before my eyes, you’re very far out o’ your reckoning. Just cut them ropes an put any two o’ ye’r biggest men, black or white, beforeme, an’ if I don’t shew them a lot o’ new stars as hasn’t been seed in no sky wotiver since Adam was a little boy, my name’s—”Up to this point Jo was heard, but the conclusion of his defiance was drowned in roars of laughter.“Cut the ropes,” shouted the crowd.Dan drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and with one stroke set Bumpus free.“Shoulder high,” yelled a voice; “hurrah!”A wild rush was made at the table. Jo’s executioners were overturned and trampled under foot, and the table, with himself and his young advocate sprawling on it, was raised on the shoulders of the crowd and borne off in triumph.Half-an-hour later, Bumpus was set down at the widow’s door. Mrs Stuart received him with a scream of surprise and joy, for she had given him up as a lost man.“Now, then, Mrs Stuart,” said Jo, throwing himself on a chair and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “don’t make such a fuss about me, like a good creetur. But do get me a bit o’ bacon, and let’s be thankful that I’m here to eat it. Cut it fat, Mrs Stuart; cut it fat; for it’s wonderful wot a appetite I’ve got after such a mornin’s work as I’ve gone through. Well, well, after all that yer friends have said of ye, Jo Bumpus, I do believe that yernotborn to be hanged?”
“So, you’re to be hanged for a pirate, Jo Bumpus, ye are—that’s pleasant to think of anyhow.”
Such was the remark which our stout seaman addressed to himself when he awoke on the second morning after the departure of theWasp. If the thought was really as pleasant as he asserted it to be, his visage must have been a bad index to the state of his mind; for at that particular moment Jo looked uncommonly miserable.
The wonted good-humoured expression of his countenance had given place to a gaze of stereotyped surprise and solemnity. Indeed Bumpus seemed to have parted with much of his reason and all of his philosophy, for he could say nothing else during at least half-an-hour after awaking except the phrase—“So, you’re going to be hanged for a pirate.” His comments on the phrase were, however, a little varied, though always brief—such as—“Wot a sell! Who’d ha’ thought it! It’s a dream, it is, an ’orrible dream!Idon’t believe it—who does? Wot’ll your poor mother say?”—and the like.
Bumpus had, unfortunately, good ground for making this statement.
After the cutter sailed it was discovered that Bumpus was concealed in Mrs Stuart’s cottage. This discovery had been the result of the seaman’s own recklessness and indiscretion; for when he ascertained that he was to be kept a prisoner in the cottage until the return of theWasp, he at once made up his mind to submit with a good grace to what could not be avoided. In order to prove that he was by no means cast down, as well as to lighten the tedium of his confinement, Jo entertained himself by singing snatches of sea songs—such as, “My tight little craft,”—“A life on the stormy sea,”—“Oh! for a draught of the howling blast,” etcetera, all of which he delivered in a bass voice so powerful that it caused the rafters of the widow’s cottage to ring again.
These melodious not to say thunderous sounds, also caused the ears of a small native youth to tingle with curiosity. This urchin crept on his brown little knees under the window of Bumpus’s apartment, got on his brown and dirty little tiptoes, placed his brown little hands on the sill, hauled his brown and half-naked little body up by sheer force of muscle, and peeped into the room with his large and staring brown eyes, the whites of which were displayed to their full extent.
Jo was in the middle of an enthusiastic “oh!” when the urchin’s head appeared. Instead of expressing his passionate desire for a “draught of the howling blast,” he prolonged the “oh!” into a hideous yell, and thrust his blazing face close to the window so suddenly that the boy let go his hold, fell backwards, and rolled head over heels into a ditch, out of which he scrambled with violent haste, and ran with the utmost possible precipitancy to his native home on the sea-shore.
Here he related what he had seen to his father. The father went and looked in upon Jo’s solitude. He happened to have seen Bumpus during the great fight and knew him to be one of the pirates. The village roseen masse. Some of the worst characters in it stirred up the rest, went to the widow’s cottage, and demanded that the person of the pirate should be delivered up.
The widow objected. The settlers insisted. The widow protested. The settlers threatened force. Upon this the widow reasoned with them; besought them to remember that the missionary would be back in a day or two, and that it would be well to have his advice before they did anything, and finally agreed to give up her charge on receiving a promise that he should have a fair trial.
Bumpus was accordingly bound with ropes, led in triumph through the village, and placed in a strong wooden building which was used as the jail of the place.
The trial that followed was a mere mockery. The leading spirits of it were those who had been styled by Mr Mason, “enemies within the camp.” They elected themselves to the offices of prosecutor and judge as well as taking the trouble to act the part of jurymen and witnesses.
Poor John Bumpus’s doom was sealed before the trial began. They had prejudged the case, and only went through the form to ease their own consciences and to fulfil their promise to the widow.
It was in vain that Bumpus asserted, with a bold, honest countenance, that he was not a pirate; that he never had been, and never would be a pirate; that he did not believe theFoamwas a pirate—though he was free to confess its crew “wosbad enough for anything a’most;” that he had been hired in South America (where he had been shipwrecked) by Captain Gascoyne, the sandal-wood trader; that he had made the voyage straight from that coast to this island without meeting a single sail; and that he had never seen a shot fired or a cutlass drawn aboard the schooner.
To all this there was but one coarsely-expressed answer—“It is a lie!” Jo had no proof to give of the truth of what he said, so he was condemned to be hanged by the neck till he should be dead; and as his judges were afraid that the return of theWaspmight interfere with their proceedings, it was arranged that he should be executed on the following day at noon!
It must not be imagined that, in a Christian village such as we have described, there was no one who felt that this trial was too hastily gone into, and too violently conducted. But those who were inclined to take a merciful view of the case, and who pled for delay, were chiefly natives, while the violent party was composed of most of the ill-disposed European settlers.
The natives had been so much accustomed to put confidence in the wisdom of the white men since their conversion to Christianity, that they felt unable to cope with them on this occasion, so that Bumpus, after being condemned, was led away to his prison, and left alone to his own reflections.
It chanced that there was one friend left, unintentionally, in the cell with the condemned man. This was none other than our friend Toozle, the mass of ragged door-mat on which Alice doted so fondly. This little dog had, during the course of the events which have taken so long to recount, done nothing worthy of being recorded. He had, indeed, been much in every one’s way, when no one had had time or inclination to take notice of him. He had, being an affectionate dog, and desirous of much sympathy, courted attention frequently, and had received many kicks and severe rebuffs for his pains, and he had also, being a tender-hearted dog, howled dreadfully when he lost his young mistress; but he had not in any way promoted the interests of humanity or advanced the ends of justice. Hence our long silence in regard to him.
Recollecting that he had witnessed evidences of a friendly relation subsisting between Alice and Bumpus, Toozle straightway sought to pour the overflowing love and sorrow of his large little heart into the bosom of that supposed pirate. His advances were well received, and from that hour he followed the seaman like his shadow. He shared his prison with him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the widow’s cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep in deep humility when he was neglected.
Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him, when they were adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as was clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woe-begone cast of his ragged countenance,—but we are anticipating.
It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.
Toozle sat at his feet looking up in his face sympathetically.
“No, Idon’tbelieve it’s possible,” said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning. “It’s a joke, that’s wot it is. Ain’t it, Toozle, my boy?”
Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, a’s plainly as if he had spoken, “Yes, of course it is—an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man.”
“Ah! you’re a funny dog,” continued Bumpus, “but you don’t know wot it is to be hanged, my boy. Hanged! why it’s agin all laws o’ justice, moral an’ otherwise, it is. But I’m dreamin’, yes, it’s dreamin’ I am—but I don’t think I ever did dream that I thought I was dreamin’ an’ yet wasn’t quite sure. Really it’s perplexin’, to say the least on it. Ain’t it, Toozle?”
Toozle wagged his tail.
“Ah, here comes my imaginary jailer to let me out o’ this here abominably real-lookin’ imaginary lockup. Hang Jo Bumpus! why it’s—”
Before Jo could find words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of such a murderous intention, the door opened and a surly-looking man—a European settler—entered with his breakfast. This meal consisted of a baked breadfruit and a can of water.
“Ha! you’ve come to let me out, have you?” cried Jo, in a tone of forced pleasantry, which was anything but cheerful.
“Have I, though!” said the man, setting down the food on a small deal table that stood at the head of the bedstead; “don’t think it, my man; your time’s up in another two hours—hallo! where got ye the dog?”
“It came in with me last night—to keep me company, I fancy, which is more than the human dogs o’ this murderin’ place had the civility to do.”
“If it had know’d you was a murderin’ pirate,” retorted the jailer, “it would ha’ thought twice before it would ha’ choseyoufor a comrade.”
“Come, now,” said Bumpus, in a remonstrative tone, “you don’t really b’lieve I’m a pirate, do you?”
“In coorse I do.”
“Well, now, that’s xtraor’nary. Does everybody else think that too?”
“Everybody.”
“An’ am Ireallygoin’ to be hanged?”
“Till you’re dead as mutton.”
“That’s entertainin’, ain’t it, Toozle?” cried poor Bumpus with a laugh of desperation, for he found it utterly impossible to persuade himself to believe in the reality of his awful position.
As he said nothing more, the jailer went away, and Bumpus, after heaving two or three very deep sighs, attempted to partake of his meagre breakfast. The effort was a vain one. The bite stuck in his throat, so he washed it down with a gulp of water, and, for the first time in his life, made up his mind to go without his breakfast.
A little before twelve o’clock the door again opened, and the surly jailer entered bearing a halter, and accompanied by six stout men. The irons were now removed from Bumpus’s wrists, and his arms pinioned behind his back. Being almost stupified with amazement at his position, he submitted without a struggle.
“I say, friends,” he at last exclaimed, “would any amount of oaths took before a maginstrate convince ye that I’m not a pirate, but a true-blue seaman?”
“If you were to swear from this time till doomsday it would make no difference. You admit that you were one of theFoam’screw. We now know that theFoamand theAvengerare the same schooner. Birds of a feather flock together. A pirate would swear anything to save his life. Come, time’s up.”
Bumpus bent his head for a minute. The truth forced itself upon him now in all its dread reality. But no unmanly terrors filled his breast at that moment. The fear of man or of violent death was a sensation which the seaman never knew. The feeling of the huge injustice that was about to be done filled him with generous indignation; the blood rushed to his temples, and, with a bound like a tiger, he leaped out of the jailer’s grasp, hurling him to the ground in the act.
With the strength almost of a Samson he wrestled with his cords for a few seconds; but they were new and strong. He failed to burst them. In another moment he was overpowered by the six men who guarded him. True to his principles, he did his utmost to escape. Strong in the faith that while there is life there is hope, he did not cease to struggle, like a chained giant, until he was placed under the limb of the fatal tree which had been selected, and round which an immense crowd of natives and white settlers had gathered.
During the previous night the widow Stuart had striven to save the man whom she knew to be honest, for Gascoyne had explained to her all about his being engaged in his service. But those to whom she appealed, even on her knees, were immovable. They considered the proof of the man’s guilt quite conclusive, and regarded the widow’s intercession as the mere weakness of a tender-hearted woman.
On the following morning, and again beside the fatal tree itself, the widow pled for the man’s life with all her powers of eloquence, but in vain. When all hope appeared to have passed away, she could not stand to witness so horrible a murder. She fled to her cottage, and, throwing herself on her bed, burst into an agony of tears and prayer.
But there were some among the European settlers there who, now that things had come to a point, felt ill at ease, and would fain have washed their hands of the whole affair. Others there were who judged the man from his countenance and his acts, not from circumstances. These remonstrated even to the last, and advised delay. But the half dozen who were set upon the man’s death—not to gratify a thirst for blood, but to execute due justice on a pirate whom they abhorred—were influential and violent, men. They silenced all opposition at last, and John Bumpus finally had the noose put round, his neck.
“O Susan, Susan,” cried the poor man in an agony of intense feeling, “it’s little ye thought your Jo would come to such an end as this when ye last sot eyes on him—an’ sweet blue eyes they wos, too!”
There was something ludicrous as well as pathetic in this cry. It did more for him than the most eloquent pleading could have done. Man, in a crowd, is an unstable being. At any moment he will veer right round and run in an opposite direction. The idea that the condemned man had a Susan who would mourn over his untimely end, touched a cord in the hearts of many among the crowd. The reference to her sweet blue eyes at such a moment raised a smile, and an extremely dismal but opportune howl from poor Toozle raised a laugh.
Bumpus started and looked sternly on the crowd.
“You may think me a pirate,” said he, “but I know enough of the feelin’s of honest men to expect no mercy from those wot can laugh at a fellow-creetur in such an hour. You had better get the murder over as soon as ye can. I am ready—Stay! one moment more. I had a’most forgot it. There’s a letter here that I want one o’ you to take charge of. It’s the last I ever got from my Susan, an’ if I had taken her advice to let alone havin’ to do with all sandalwood traders, I’d never ha’ bin in such a fix as I am this day. I want it sent back to her with my blessin’ and a lock o’ my hair. Is there an honest man among ye who’ll take in hand to do this for me?”
As he spoke, a young man, in a costume somewhat resembling that of a sailor, pushed through the crowd, leaped upon the deal table on which Jo stood, and removed the noose from his neck.
An exclamation of anger burst from those who surrounded the table, but a sound something like applause broke from the crowd, and restrained any attempt at violence. The young man at the same time held up his hand and asked leave to address them.
“Ay! ay! let’s hear what he has got to say. That’s it; speak up, Dan!”
The youth, whose dark olive complexion proclaimed him to be a half-caste, and whose language shewed that he had received at least the rudiments of education, stretched out his hand and said—
“Friends, I do not stand here to interfere with justice. Those who seek to give a pirate his just reward do well. But there has been doubt in the minds of some that this man may not be a pirate. His own word is of no value; but if I can bring forward anything to shew that perhaps his word is true, then we have no right to hang him till we have given him a longer trial.”
“Hear! hear!” from the white men in the crowd, and “Ho! ho!” from the natives.
Meanwhile the young man, or Dan, as some one called him, turned to Bumpus and asked for the letter to which he had referred. Being informed that it was in the inside pocket of his jacket, the youth put his hand in and drew it forth.
“May I read it? Your life may depend on what I find here.”
“Sartinly, by all manner of means,” replied Jo, not a little surprised at the turn affairs were taking.
Dan opened and perused the epistle for a few minutes, during which intense silence was maintained in the crowd, as if they expected tohearthe thoughts of the young man as they passed through his brain.
“Ha! I thought so,” exclaimed Dan, looking up and again addressing the crowd. “At the trial yesterday you heard this man say that he was engaged at San Francisco by Gascoyne on the 12th of April last, and that he believed the schooner to be a sandalwood trader when he shipped.”
“Yes, yes, ho!” from the crowd.
“If this statement of his be true, then he was not a pirate when he shipped, and he has not had much time to become one between that time and this. The letter which I hold in my hand proves the truth of this statement. It is dated San Francisco, 11thApril, and is written in a female hand. Listen, I will read it, and you shall judge for yourselves.”
The young man then read the following letter, which, being a peculiar as well as an interesting specimen of a love-letter, we giveverbatim et literatim:—
“Peelers farm near Sanfransko Aprile 11.“For John bumpuss, aboord the Skooner fome“my darlin Jo,“ever sins you towld me yisterday that youd bin an gaged yerself into the fome, my mind has bin Onaisy. Ye no, darlint, from the our ye cald me yer own Susan—in clare county More betoken—iv bin onaisy about ye yer so bowld an Rekles, but this is wurst ov all. Iv no noshun o them sandlewood skooners. The Haf ov thems pirits an The other hafs no beter. Whats wus is that my owld master was drownded in wan, or out o wan, but shure its All the Saim. Down he wint an that wos the Endd.“now Deer jo don’t go to say in that skooner i beseech ye, jo. Ye towld me that ye liked the looks o the cappen an haited the looks o the Krew. Now deer, take warnin, think ov me. Think ov the words in the coppie book weev writ so often together at owld makmahons skool, eevil emunishakens Krupt yer maners, i misrember it, but ye no wot id be sayin’ to ye.“o jo Don’t go, but cum an see me as soon as iver ye can“yours til deth.“Susan.“P.S. the piggs is quite livly but ther not so hansum heer as in the owld country. Don’t forgit to rite to your susan.”
“Peelers farm near Sanfransko Aprile 11.
“For John bumpuss, aboord the Skooner fome
“my darlin Jo,
“ever sins you towld me yisterday that youd bin an gaged yerself into the fome, my mind has bin Onaisy. Ye no, darlint, from the our ye cald me yer own Susan—in clare county More betoken—iv bin onaisy about ye yer so bowld an Rekles, but this is wurst ov all. Iv no noshun o them sandlewood skooners. The Haf ov thems pirits an The other hafs no beter. Whats wus is that my owld master was drownded in wan, or out o wan, but shure its All the Saim. Down he wint an that wos the Endd.
“now Deer jo don’t go to say in that skooner i beseech ye, jo. Ye towld me that ye liked the looks o the cappen an haited the looks o the Krew. Now deer, take warnin, think ov me. Think ov the words in the coppie book weev writ so often together at owld makmahons skool, eevil emunishakens Krupt yer maners, i misrember it, but ye no wot id be sayin’ to ye.
“o jo Don’t go, but cum an see me as soon as iver ye can
“yours til deth.
“Susan.
“P.S. the piggs is quite livly but ther not so hansum heer as in the owld country. Don’t forgit to rite to your susan.”
No one can conceive the indignation that swelled the broad chest of honest John Bumpus when he listened to the laughter with which some parts of this letter were received.
“Now,” said Dan, “could any man want better proof than this that John Bumpusis nota pirate?”
This question was answered by a perfect yell from the crowd.
“Set him free; cut his cords!” cried a voice.
“Stop, friends,” cried a big coarse-looking man, leaping on the table and jostling Dan out of the way. “Not quite so fast. I don’t pretend to be a learned feller, and I can’t make a speech with a buttery tongue like Dan here. But wot I’ve got to say is—Justice for ever!”
“Hurrah!” from some of the wild spirits of the crowd. “Go on, Burke,” from others.
“Yes, wot I say is—Justice for ever! Fair play an’ no favour:That’swot I say!”
Another cheer greeted the bold assertion of these noble sentiments.
“Now, here it is,” continued Burke, becoming much excited, “wot’s to hinder that there letter bein’ a forgery?—ay, that’s the word, a forgery? (Hear! hear!) got up a-purpose to bamboozle us chaps that ain’t lawyers. D’ye see?”
Burke glanced at Dan and smote his thigh triumphantly as he said this.
“It does notlooklike a forgery,” said Dan, holding up the letter and pointing to the writing. “I leave it to yourselves to say if itsoundslike a forgery—”
“I don’t care a farthin’ dip for yerlooksandsounds,” cried Burke, interrupting the other. “No man is goin’ for to tell me that anybody can trust tolooksandsounds. Why, I’ve know’d the greatest villain that ever chewed the end of a smuggled cigarlookas innocent as the babe unborn. An’ is there a man here wot’ll tell me he hasn’t often an’ over again mistook the crack of a big gun for a clap o’ thunder?”
This was received with much approval by the crowd, which had evidently more than half-forgotten the terrible purpose for which it had assembled there, and was now much interested in what bid fair to be a keen dispute. When the noise abated, Dan raised his voice and said—“If Burke had not interrupted me, I was going to have said that another thing which proves the letter to be no forgery is, that the post-mark of San Francisco is on the back of it, with the date all right.”
This statement delighted the crowd immensely, and caused Burke to look disconcerted for a few seconds; he rallied, however, and returned to the charge.
“Post-marks! wot do I care for post-marks? Can’t a man forge a post-mark as easy as any other mark?”
“Ah! that’s true,” from a voice in the crowd.
“No, not so easily asanyother mark,” retorted Dan, “for it’s made with a kind of ink that’s not sold in shops. Everything goes to prove that the letter is no forgery. But, Mr Burke, will you answer me this—if itwasa forgery, got up for the purpose of saving this man’s life,at what time was it forged? for Bumpus could not know that he would ever need such a letter until yesterday afternoon, and between that time and this there was but little time to forge a letter from San Francisco, post-mark and all, and make it soiled and worn at the edges like an old letter. (‘Hear!’ and sensation.) More than that,” cried Dan, waxing eager and earnest, “if it was a forgery, got up for this purpose,why was it not produced at the trial? (‘Hear! hear!’ and cheers!) And, last of all, why, if this forgery was so important to him, did John Bumpus forget all about it until he stood on this table; ay,until the rope was round his neck?”
A perfect storm of cheers and applause followed this last sentence, in the midst of which there were cries of “You’re floored, Burke! Hurrah for Bumpus! Cut the ropes!”
But although John’s life was now safe, his indignation at Susan’s letter having been laughed at was not altogether allayed.
“I’ll tell ye wot it is,” said he, the instant there was a lull in the uproar of voices. “If you think that I’ll stand here and see my Susan’s letter insulted before my eyes, you’re very far out o’ your reckoning. Just cut them ropes an put any two o’ ye’r biggest men, black or white, beforeme, an’ if I don’t shew them a lot o’ new stars as hasn’t been seed in no sky wotiver since Adam was a little boy, my name’s—”
Up to this point Jo was heard, but the conclusion of his defiance was drowned in roars of laughter.
“Cut the ropes,” shouted the crowd.
Dan drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and with one stroke set Bumpus free.
“Shoulder high,” yelled a voice; “hurrah!”
A wild rush was made at the table. Jo’s executioners were overturned and trampled under foot, and the table, with himself and his young advocate sprawling on it, was raised on the shoulders of the crowd and borne off in triumph.
Half-an-hour later, Bumpus was set down at the widow’s door. Mrs Stuart received him with a scream of surprise and joy, for she had given him up as a lost man.
“Now, then, Mrs Stuart,” said Jo, throwing himself on a chair and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “don’t make such a fuss about me, like a good creetur. But do get me a bit o’ bacon, and let’s be thankful that I’m here to eat it. Cut it fat, Mrs Stuart; cut it fat; for it’s wonderful wot a appetite I’ve got after such a mornin’s work as I’ve gone through. Well, well, after all that yer friends have said of ye, Jo Bumpus, I do believe that yernotborn to be hanged?”