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

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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 plead 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 chord 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 you can. I am ready--Stay! one moment more. I had almost 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; and if I had taken her advice to let
alone havin' to do with all sandal-wood traders, I'd never ha' bin in
such a fix as I am this day. I want to send it 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.

"Aye! aye! let's hear what he has got to That's it: speak up, Dan!"

The youth, whose dark olive complexion proclaimed him to be a
half-caste, and whose language showed 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 show 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 to
_hear_ the 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 sandal-wood 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, 11th April, 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 give _verbatim et
literatim:_

"Peelers farm near
Sanfransko Aprile 11

"For
John bumpuss,
aboord the Schooner fome

"my darlin Jo,

"ever sins you towld me yisterday that youd bin an gaged yerself
into the fome, my mind has been 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 sandle-wood skooners. the Haf ov thems pirits
and The other hafs no better, whats wus is that my owld master was
drownded in wan, or out o wan, but shure its All the Saim. down he
wint and that wos the Endd.

"now Deer jo dont go to say in that skooner i beseech ye, jo. Ye
towld me that ye liked the looks o the cappen and 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 cmunishakens Krupt yer maners, i misrember it, but ye
no wot id be sayin' to ye.

"o jo Dont 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
Bumpus _is not_ a 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 forever!"

"Hurrah!" from some of the wild spirits of the crowd. "Go on, Burke,"
from others.

"Yes, wot I say is--Justice forever! Fair play an' no favor: _that's_
wot 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?--aye, that's the word, a
forgery? (Hear! hear!), got up apurpose 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 not _look_ like a forgery," said Dan, holding up the letter and
pointing to the writing. "I leave it to yourselves to say if it _sounds_
like a forgery--"

"I don't care a farthin' dip for yer _looks_ and _sounds_," cried Burke,
interrupting the other. "No man is goin' for to tell me that anybody can
trust to _looks_ and _sounds_. Why, I've know'd the greatest villain
that ever chewed the end of a smuggled cigar _look_ as 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 bade 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 postmark 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.

"Postmarks! wot do I care for postmarks? Can't a man forge a postmark as
easy as any other mark?"

"Ah! that's true," from a voice in the crowd.

"No, not so easily as _any_ other 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 it _was_ a 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,
postmark 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 the 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; aye, _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' yer biggest men, black or white,
before me, an' if I don't show 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 yer _not_ born to be hanged!"

CHAPTER XXII.

THE RENDEZVOUS--AN EPISODE--PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES--OTHER MATTERS.

About five or six days' sail from the scene of our tale there lies one
of those small rocks or islets with which the breast of the Pacific is
in many places thickly studded.

It is a lonely coral isle, far removed from any of its fellows, and
presenting none of those grand features which characterize the island on
which the settlement of Sandy Cove was situated. In no part does it rise
more than thirty feet above the level of the sea; in most places it is
little more than a few feet above it. The coral reefs around it are
numerous; and as many of them rise to within a few feet of the surface,
the navigation in its neighborhood is dangerous in the extreme.

At the time of which we write, the vegetation of the isle was not very
luxuriant. Only a few clusters of cocoanut palms grew here and there
over its otherwise barren surface. In this respect it did not resemble
most of the other islands of the Pacific. Owing partly to its being out
of the usual course of ships, and partly to the dangerous reefs already
referred to, the spot was never approached by vessels, or, if a ship
happened to be driven towards it, she got out of its way as speedily as
possible.

This was the rendezvous of the pirates, and was named by them the Isle
of Palms.

Here, in caverns hollowed out of the coral rock, Gascoyne had been wont
to secrete such goods and stores as were necessary for the maintenance
of his piratical course of life; and to this lone spot did Manton convey
his prisoners after getting rid of his former commander. Towards this
spot, also, did Gascoyne turn the prow of the cutter Wasp in pursuit of
his mutinous first mate.

Manton, for reasons best known to himself (certainly not from goodness
of heart), was kind to his captives to the extent of simply letting them
alone. He declined to hold any intercourse whatever with Captain
Montague, and forbade him to speak with the men upon pain of being
confined to his berth. The young people were allowed to do as they
pleased, so long as they kept out of the way.

On reaching the Isle of Palms the pirates at once proceeded to take in
those stores of which they stood in need. The harbor into which the
schooner ran was a narrow bay, on the shores of which the palm trees
grew sufficiently high to prevent her masts being seen from the other
side of the island. Here the captives were landed; but as Manton did not
wish them to witness his proceedings, he sent them across the islet
under the escort of a party who conveyed them to the shores of a small
bay. On the rocks in this bay lay the wreck of what once had been a
noble ship. It was now completely dismantled. Her hull was stove in by
the rocks. Her masts and yards were gone, with the exception of their
stumps and the lower part of the main-mast, to which the mainyard still
hung with a ragged portion of the mainsail attached to it.

A feeling of depression filled the breast of Montague and his
companions as they came in sight of this wreck, and the former attempted
to obtain some information in regard to her from his conductors; but
they sternly bade him ask no questions. Some time afterwards he heard
the story of this vessel's fate. We shall record it here.

Not many months prior to the date of our tale, the Avenger happened to
have occasion to run down to the Isle of Palms. Gascoyne was absent at
the time. He had been landed at Sandy Cove, and had ordered Manton to go
to the rendezvous for supplies. On nearing the isle a storm arose. The
wind was fair, however, and the schooner ran for her destination under
close-reefed sails. Just before reaching it they fell in with a large
full-rigged ship, which, on sighting the schooner, ran up her flag
half-mast high, as a signal of distress. She had sprung a leak, and was
sinking.

Had the weather been calmer, the pirates would have at once boarded the
vessel and carried her as a prize into the harbor; but the sea ran so
high that this was impossible. Manton therefore ran down as close to the
side of the merchantman (for such she seemed to be) as enabled him to
hail her through the speaking-trumpet. When sufficiently near he
demanded her name and destination.

"The Brilliant, from Liverpool, bound for the Sandwich Islands. And
you?"

"The Foam--from the Feejees--for Calcutta. What's wrong with you?"

"Sprung a leak; is there anchorage in the bay?" sang out the captain of
the merchantman.

"No; it's too shoal for a big ship. Bear away round to the other side of
the island. You'll find good holding ground there. I'll show you the
way."

The pirate accordingly conducted the unsuspecting stranger away from the
only safe harbor in the island, and led him through a complete labyrinth
of reefs and rocks, to the bay on the other side, in which he knew full
well there was scarcely enough of water to float his own little
schooner.

With perfect confidence in his guide, the unfortunate captain of the
merchantman followed until both vessels were in the comparatively still
and sheltered waters of the bay. Here Manton suddenly put down the helm,
brought his vessel up to the wind, and allowed the stranger to pass in.

"Hold on about sixty fathoms further, and then let go your anchor," he
shouted, as the ship went steadily on to her doom.

"Aye, aye, and thank'ee," cried the captain, who had already taken in
nearly all sail and was quite prepared to anchor.

But Manton knew that before twenty fathoms more should be passed over by
the ship she would run straight on a coral reef, which rose to within
about five feet of the surface of the sea. In an exposed place this reef
would have formed a line of breakers; but in its sheltered position the
water gave no indication of its existence. The gale, though not blowing
direct into the bay, entered it in a sufficiently straight line to carry
the ship onward with great speed, notwithstanding the reduction made in
her canvas.

"Stand by to let go the anchor," cried her captain.

That was his last order. Scarcely had the words passed his lips when the
ship struck with a shock that caused her to quiver like a leaf from
stem to stern. All the top-masts with their yards and rigging went over
the side, and in one instant the fine vessel was a total wreck.

The rest of the story is soon told. The pirates, showing their true
colors, ran alongside and took possession without opposition; for the
crew of the merchantman were so overwhelmed by the suddenness and
appalling nature of the calamity that had befallen them that they had no
heart to resist.

Of course it was out of the question that the crew of the Brilliant
could be allowed to remain on the island. Some of the pirates suggested
that they should be put on a raft, towed to leeward of the island, and,
when out of sight of it, be cast adrift to float about until they should
be picked up or get blown on one of the numerous islands that lay to the
southward of the rendezvous. Manton and Scraggs advocated this plan, but
the better-disposed among the men protested against such needless
cruelty, and suggested that it would be better to put them into the
long-boat of the ship, bandage their eyes, then tow them out of sight of
land, and cast them loose to steer where they pleased.

This plan was adopted and carried into execution. Then the pirates
returned, and at their leisure unloaded and secured the cargo of their
prize. It was richer than they had anticipated, being a miscellaneous
cargo of valuable commodities for the trading stores of some of the
South Sea merchants and settlers.

The joy felt by the pirates on making this discovery was all the benefit
that was ever derived from these ill-gotten gains by any one of those
who had a hand in that dastardly deed. Long before they had an
opportunity of removing the goods thus acquired, the career of the
Avenger had terminated. But we must not anticipate our story.

On a green knoll near the margin of this bay, and in full view of the
wreck, a rude tent or hut was constructed by the pirates out of part of
an old sail which had been washed ashore from the wreck, and some broken
spars. A small cask of biscuit and two or three blankets were placed in
it, and here the captives were left to do as they pleased until such
time as Manton chose to send for them. The only piece of advice that was
given to them by their surly jailer was that they should not on any
pretense whatsoever cross the island to the bay in which the schooner
lay at anchor.

"If ye do," said the man who was the last of the party to quit them,
"ye'll wish ye hadn't--that's all. Take my advice, and keep yer
kooriosity in yer breeches pockets."

With this caution they were left to their own devices and meditations.

It was a lovely, calm evening, at sunset, when our four unfortunate
friends were thus left alone in these strange circumstances. The effect
of their forlorn condition was very different on each. Poopy flung
herself down on the ground, inside the tent, and began to sob; Alice sat
down beside her, and wept silently; whilst Montague, forgetting his own
sorrows in his pity for the poor young creatures who had been thus
strangely linked to him in affliction, sat down opposite to Alice, and
sought to comfort her.

Will Corrie, feeling that he could do nothing to cheer his companions in
the circumstances, and being unable to sit still, rose, and going out at
the end of the tent, both sides of which were open, stood leaning on a
pole, and contemplated the scene before him.

In a small creek, or indentation of the shore, close to the knoll on
which the tent stood, two of the pirates were working at a boat which
lay there. Corrie could not at first understand what they were about;
but he was soon enlightened; for, after hauling the boat as far out of
the water as they could, they left her there, and followed, their
comrades to the other side of the island, carrying the oars along with
them.

The spirit that dwelt in Corrie's breast was a very peculiar one. Up to
this point in his misfortunes the poor boy had been subdued,--overwhelmed
by the suddenness and the terrible nature of the calamity that had
befallen him, or, rather, that had befallen Alice; for, to do him
justice, he only thought of her. Indeed, he carried this feeling so far
that he had honestly confessed to himself, in a mental soliloquy, the
night on which he had been captured, he did not care one straw for
himself, or Poopy, or Captain Montague; that his whole and sole distress
of mind and body was owing to the grief into which Alice had been
plunged. He had made an attempt to comfort her one night on the voyage
to the Isle of Palms, when she and Poopy and he were left alone
together; but he failed. After one or two efforts he ended by bursting
into tears, and then, choking himself violently with his own hands, said
that he was ashamed of himself, that he wasn't crying for himself but
for her (Alice), and that he hoped she wouldn't think the worse of him
for being so like a baby. Here he turned to Poopy, and in a most
unreasonable manner began to scold her for being at the bottom of the
whole mischief, in the middle of which he broke off, said that he
believed himself to be mad, and vowed he would blow out his own brains
first, and those of all the pirates afterwards. Whereupon he choked,
sobbed again, and rushed out of the cabin as if he really meant to
execute his last awful threat.

But poor Corrie only rushed away to hide from Alice the irrepressible
emotions that nearly burst his heart. Yes, Corrie was thoroughly subdued
by grief. But the spring was not broken; it was only crushed flat by the
weight of sorrow that lay like a millstone on his youthful bosom.

The first thing that set his active brain agoing once more--thereby
overturning the weight of sorrow and causing the spring of his peculiar
spirit to rebound--was the sight of the two pirates hauling up the boat
and carrying off the oars.

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