Gascoyne, The Sandal Wood Trader by R. M. Ballantyne

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"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.

"Aye, 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 show you how
thoroughly in earnest I am, and how regardless of my personal safety, I
render myself defenseless--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 characterized 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 in
_this 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. Every
_pirate 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 the Foam, of
which schooner I was mate, called her the Avenger, 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.
_I repented_ of what I had done; but I was surrounded by men who were
more bent on mischief than I was. I could not draw back, but I modified
my plan. I determined to become merely a _robber_, and 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 should _rob_, but not _murder_. 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 colors 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 on 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 the _souls_ of
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 defenseless.
But I did not come here to plead for mercy. I came 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 in _your_ power 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 the Talisman in the squall, and,
doubling on 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 the Avenger has
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 you _must_ do so if you would save your child. She is safe now,
I know, and will be until the Avenger leaves the island where our stores
are concealed. If we do not save her before that happens, _she is lost
to you forever!_"

"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
parlor, 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 a _friend_ of mine," replied Mrs. Stuart, rising hastily, and
welcoming her visitor.

"Humph! it's well he's a _friend,_" 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 organizing. 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 the Wasp, as the
little cutter was named. In the course of the afternoon everything was
in readiness. Gascoyne waited till the dusk of 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, the Wasp stood 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 XXI.

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 the Wasp. 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 Joe looked uncommonly miserable.

The wonted good-humored 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! _I_ don'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 the
Wasp, 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!" etc.; 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 tip-toes, 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 rose _en
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 didn't believe the Foam was a pirate--though he was free
to confess its crew "_wos_ bad 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 the Wasp might interfere with
their proceeding, it was arranged that he should be I 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 plead 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 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
clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woebegone 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 down at his feet, looking up in his face sympathetically.

"No, I _don't_ believe 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, as 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 what 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' chose _you_ for 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 'xtror'nary. Does everybody else think that too?"

"Everybody."

"An' am I _really_ goin' 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 meager
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 stupefied 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 the Foam's crew. We now know
that the Foam and the Avenger are the same schooner. Birds of a feather
flock together. A pirate would swear anything save his life.
Come,--time's up."

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