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

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There was not a moment to lose. The captain carried a short carbine in
his hand, with which he took aim at the savage,--going down on one knee
to make a surer shot, for the carbine of those days was not to be
depended on at a distance much beyond a hundred yards; and as the actors
in this scene were separated by even more than that distance, there was
a considerable chance of missing the savage and hitting the young man.

This, however, was not a moment to calculate chances. The captain pulled
the trigger, and the crash of the shot was followed by a howl from the
savage, as his uplifted arm dropped to his side, and the spear fell
across the face of the sleeper. Henry instantly awoke, and sprang up
with the agility of a panther. Before he could observe what had
occurred, Keona leaped into the bushes disappeared. Henry at once
bounded after him; and the captain, giving vent to a lusty cheer,
rushed across the beach, and sprang into the forest, closely followed by
surly Diet and John Bumpus, whose united cheers of excitement and shouts
of defiance awoke the echoes of the place with clamorous discords.

CHAPTER III.

A BOUGH WALK ENLIVENED BY RAMBLING TALK--BUMPUS IS "AGREEABLE."

It is said, in the proverbial philosophy of nautical men, that "a stern
chase is a long one." The present instance was an exception to the
general rule. Keona was wounded. Young Stuart was fleet as the antelope,
and strong as a young lion. In these circumstances it is not surprising
that, after a run of less than a quarter of a mile, he succeeded in
laying his hands on the neck of the savage and hurling him to the
ground, where he lay panting and helpless, looking up in the face of his
conqueror with an expression of hopeless despair; for savages and wicked
men generally are wont to judge of others by themselves, and to expect
to receive such treatment from their enemies as they themselves would in
similar circumstances accord.

The fear of instant death was before his eyes, and the teeth of Keona
chattered in his head, while his face grew more hideous than ever, by
reason of its becoming livid.

His fears were groundless. Henry Stuart was not a savage. He was humane
by nature; and, in addition to this, he had been trained under the
influence of that Book which teaches us that the most philosophical,
because the most effective, method of procedure in this world is to
"overcome evil with good."

"So you scoundrel," said Henry, placing his knee on Keona's chest, and
compressing his throat with his left hand, while with his right he drew
forth a long glittering knife, and raised it in the air,--"so you are
not satisfied with what I gave you the last time we met, but you must
need take the trouble to cross my path a second time, and get a taste of
cold steel, must you?"

Although Keona could speak no English, he understood it sufficiently to
appreciate the drift of the youth's words, even though he had failed to
comprehend the meaning of the angry frown and the glittering knife. But,
however much, he might have wished to reply to the question, Henry took
care to render the attempt impossible, by compressing his windpipe until
he became blue in the face, and then black. At the same time, he let the
sharp point of his knife touch the skin just over the region of the
heart.

Having thus convinced his vanquished foe that death was at the door, he
suddenly relaxed his iron grip, arose, sheathed his knife, and bade the
savage get up. The miserable creature did so, with some difficulty, just
as the captain and his men arrived on the scene.

"Well met, Henry," cried the former, extending his hand to the youth;
"had I been a moment later, my lad, I fear that your life's blood would
have been on the sea-shore."

"Then it was you who fired the shot, Captain Gascoyne? This is the
second time I have to thank you for saving my life," said the young man,
returning the grasp of the captain's hand.

"Truly, it is but a small matter to have to thank me for. Doubtless, if
my stout man John Bumpus had carried the carbine, he would have done you
as good service. And methinks, Henry, that you would have preferred to
owe your life to either of my men rather than to me, if I may judge by
your looks."

"You should not judge by looks, captain," replied the youth
quickly,--"especially the looks of a man who has just had a hand-to-hand
tussle with a savage. But, to tell the plain truth, Captain Gascoyne, I
would indeed rather have had to thank your worthy man John Bumpus than
yourself for coming to my aid; for although I owe you no grudge, and do
not count you an enemy, I had rather see your back than your face; and
you know the reason why."

"You give me credit, boy, for more knowledge than I possess," replied
Gascoyne, while an angry frown gathered for a moment on his brow, but
passed away almost as quickly as it came. "I know not the cause of your
unreasonable dislike to one who has never done you an injury."

"Never done me an injury!" cried Henry, starting and turning with a look
of passion on his companion; then, checking himself by a strong effort,
he added, in a milder tone, "But a truce to such talk; and I ask your
forgiveness for my sharp words just after your rendering me such good
service in the hour of need. You and I differ in our notions on one or
two points--that is all; there is no need for quarreling. See, here is a
note from my mother, who sent me to the bay to meet you."

During this colloquy, Dick and Bumpus had mounted guard over the wounded
savage, just out of ear-shot of their captain.

Neither of the sailors ventured to hold their prisoner, because they
deemed it an unmanly advantage to take of one who was so completely (as
they imagined) in their power. They kept a watchful eye on him, however;
and while they affected an easy indifference of attitude, held
themselves in readiness to pounce upon him if he should attempt to
escape. But nothing seemed farther from the mind of Keona than such an
attempt. He appeared to be thoroughly exhausted by his recent struggle
and loss of blood, and his body was bent as if he were about to sink
down to the ground. There was, however, a peculiar glance in his dark
eyes that induced John Bumpus to be more on his guard than appearances
seemed to warrant.

While Gascoyne was reading the letter to which we have referred, Keona
suddenly placed his left leg behind surly Dick, and, with his unwounded
fist, hit that morose individual such a tremendous back-handed blow on
the nose that he instantly measured his length on the ground. John
Bumpus made a sudden plunge at the savage on seeing this, but the latter
ducked his head, passed like an eel under the very arms of the sailor,
and went off into the forest like a deer.

"Hold!" shouted Captain Gascoyne, as John turned, in a state of mingled
amazement and anger, to pursue. "Hold on, Bumpus; let the miserable
rascal go."

John stopped, looked over his shoulder, hesitated, and finally came
back, with a rolling air of nautical indifference, and his hands thrust
into his breeches pockets.

"You know best, capting," said he; "but I think it a pity to let sich a
dirty varmint go clear off, to dodge about in the bushes, and mayhap
treat us to a poisoned arrow, or a spear thrust on the sly.
Howsomedever, it ain't no consarn wotever to Jo Bumpus. How's your beak,
Dick, my boy?"

"None the better for your askin'," replied the surly mariner, who was
tenderly stroking the injured member of his face with the fingers of
both hands.

"Come, Dick, it is none the worse of being inquired after," said Henry,
laughing. "But 'tis as well to let the fellow go. He knows best how to
cure his wound, by the application of a few simples; and by thus making
off has relieved us of the trouble and responsibility of trying our
hands at civilized doctoring. Besides, John Bumpus (if that's your
name,--though I do think your father might have found you a better),
your long legs would never have brought you within a mile of the
savage."

"Young man," retorted Jo, gravely, "I'd have you to know that the family
of the Bumpuses is an old and a honorable one. They comed over with the
Conkerer to Ireland, where they picked up a deal o' their good manners,
after which they settled at last on their own estates in Yorkshire.
Though they _have_ comed down in the world, and the last of the
Bumpuses--that's me--is takin' a pleasure-trip round the world before
the mast, I won't stand by and hear my name made game of, d'ye see: and
I'd have ye to know, further, my buck, that the Bumpuses has a pecooliar
gift for fightin'; and although you _are_ a strappin' young feller,
you'd better not cause me for to prove that you're conkerable."

Having delivered himself of this oration, the last of the Bumpuses
frowned portentously on the youth who had dared to risk his anger, and
turning with a bland smile to surly Dick, asked him "if his beak was any
better _now_."

"There seems to be bad news in the letter, I think," observed Henry, as
Captain Gascoyne perused the epistle with evident signs of displeasure.

"Bad enough in these times of war, boy," replied the other, folding the
note and placing it in a pouch inside the breast of his flannel shirt.
"It seems that that pestiferous British frigate, the Talisman, lies at
anchor in the bay on the other side of the island."

"Nothing in that to cause uneasiness to an honest trader," said Henry,
leading the way up the steep path by which he had descended from the
mountain region of the interior.

"That speech only shows your ignorance of the usages of ships-of-war.
Know you not that the nature of the trade in which I am engaged requires
me to be strong-handed, and that the opinion of a commander in the
British navy as to how many hands are sufficient for the navigation of a
trading-schooner does not accord with mine?--a difference of opinion
which may possibly result in his relieving me of a few of my best men
when I can ill afford to spare them. And, by the way," said Gascoyne,
pausing as they gained the brow of an eminence that commanded a view of
the rich woodland on one side and the sea on the other, "I had better
take precautions against such a mischance. Here, Dick" (taking the man
aside and whispering to him), "go back to the schooner, my lad, and tell
the mate to send ten of the best hands ashore with provisions and arms.
Let them squat where they choose on land, only let them see to it that
they keep well out of sight and hearing until I want them. And now,
Master Henry, lead the way; John Bumpus and I will follow at your heel
like a couple of faithful dogs."

The scene through which young Henry Stuart now led his seafaring
companions was of that rich, varied, and beautiful character which is
strikingly characteristic of those islands of the Pacific which owe
their origin to volcanic agency. Unlike the low coral islets, this
island presented every variety of the boldest mountain scenery, and yet,
like them, it displayed all the gorgeous beauty of a rich tropical
vegetation. In some places the ground had been cracked and riven into
great fissures and uncouth caverns of the wildest description, by
volcanoes apparently long since extinct. In others the landscape
presented the soft beauty of undulating, grove-like scenery, in which,
amid a profusion of bright green herbage, there rose conspicuous the
tall stems and waving plumes of the cocoanut palm; the superb and
umbrageous ko-a, with its laurel-green leaves and sweet blossoms; the
_kukui_, or candlenut tree; the fragrant sandal-wood, and a variety of
other trees and shrubs for which there are no English names.

Hundreds of green paroquets with blue heads and red breasts,
turtle-doves, wood-pigeons, and other birds enlivened the groves with
sound, if not with melody, and the various lakelets and pools were alive
with wild ducks and water-hens.

The route by which the party traveled led them first across a country of
varied and beautiful aspect; then it conducted them into wild mountain
fastnesses, among which they clambered, at times with considerable
difficulty. Ere long they passed into a dreary region where the ancient
fires that upheaved the island from the deep seemed to have scorched
the land into a condition of perpetual desolation. Blackened and bare
lava rocks, steep volcanic ridges and gorges, irregular truncated cones,
deep-mouthed caves and fissures, overhanging arches, natural bridges,
great tunnels and ravines, surrounded them on every side, and so
concealed the softer features of the country that it was scarcely
possible to believe in the reality of the verdant region out of which
they had just passed. In another hour this chaotic scenery was left
behind; the highest ridge of the mountains was crossed, and the
travelers began to descend the green slopes on the other side of the
island. These slopes terminated in a beach of white sand, while beyond
lay the calm waters of the enclosed lagoon, the coral reef with its
breakers, and the mighty sea.

"'Tis a pretty spot?" said Henry, interrogatively, as the party halted
on the edge of a precipice, whence they obtained an uninterrupted view
of the whole of that side of the island.

"Ay, pretty enough," replied Gascoyne, in a somewhat sad tone of voice:
"I had hoped to have led a quiet life here once, but that was not to be.
How say you, Bumpus; could you make up your mind to cast anchor here for
a year or so?"

"Wot's that you say, capting?" inquired honest John, who was evidently
lost in admiration of the magnificent scene that lay spread out before
him.

"I ask if you have no objection to come to an anchor here for a time,"
repeated the captain.

"Objection! I'll tell ye wot it is, capting, I never seed sich a place
afore in all my born days. Why, it's a slice out o' paradise. I do
believe if Adam and Eve wos here they'd think they'd got back again
into Eden. It's more beautifuller than the blue ocean, by a long chalk;
an' if you wants a feller that's handy at a'most anything after a
fashion,--a jack-of-all-trades and master of-none (except seamanship,
which ain't o' no use here),--Jo Bumpus is your man!"

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Jo," said Henry, laughing, "for we are
greatly in need of white men of your stamp in these times, when the
savages are so fierce against each other that they are like to eat us up
altogether, merely by way of keeping their hands in practise."

"_White_ men of my stamp!" remarked Bumpus, surveying complacently his
deeply-bronzed hands, which were only a shade darker than his visage;
"well, I would like to know what ye call black if I'm a white man."

"Blood, and not skin, is what stamps the color of the man, Jo. If it
were agreeable to Captain Gascoyne to let you off your engagement to
him, I think I could make it worth your while to engage with me, and
would find you plenty of work of all kinds, including a little of that
same fighting for which the Bumpuses are said to be so famous."

"Gentlemen," said Jo, gravely, "I am agreeable to become a good and
chattel for this occasion only, as the playbills say, and hold myself up
to the highest bidder."

"Nay, you are sold to me, Bumpus," said Gascoyne, "and must do as I bid
you."

"Wery good, then bid away as fast as you like."

"Come, captain, don't be hard," said Henry: "what will you take for
him?"

"I cannot afford to sell him at any price," replied the other, "for I
have brought him here expressly as a gift to a certain Mary Stuart,
queen of women, if not of Scotland,--a widow who dwells in Sandy
Cove--"

"What, my mother?" interrupted Henry, while a shade of displeasure
crossed his countenance at what he deemed the insolent familiarity with
which Gascoyne mentioned her name.

"The same. On my last visit I promised to get her a man-servant who
could do her some service in keeping off the savages when they take a
fancy to trouble the settlement; and if Bumpus is willing to try his
luck on shore, I promise him he'll find her a good mistress, and her
house pleasant quarters."

"So," exclaimed the stout seaman, stopping short in his rolling walk,
and gazing earnestly into his captain's face, "I'm to be sold to a
woman?"

"With your own consent entirely, Master Bumpus," said Gascoyne, with a
smile.

"Come, Jo," cried. Henry, gaily, "I see you like the prospect, and feel
assured that you and; I shall be good friends. Give us your flipper, my
boy!"

John Bumpus allowed the youth to seize and shake a "flipper," which
would have done credit to a walrus, both in regard to shape and size.
After a short pause he said, "Whether you and me shall be good friends,
young man, depends entirely on the respect which you show to the family
of the Bumpuses--said family havin' comed over to Ireland with the
Conkerer in the year--, ah! I misremember the year, but that don't
matter, bein' a subject of no consarn wotiver, 'xcept to schoolboys
who'll get their licks if they can't tell, and sarve 'em right too. But
if you're willin' I'm agreeable, and there's an end o' the whole
affair."

So saying, John Bumpus suffered a bland smile to light up his ruddy
countenance, and resumed his march in the "wake," as he expressed it, of
his companions.

Half an hour later they arrived at Sandy Cove, a small native settlement
and mission station, and were soon seated at the hospitable board of
Widow Stuart.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MISSIONARY--SUSPICIONS, SURPRISES, AND SURMISES.

Sandy Cove was a small settlement, inhabited partly by native converts
to Christianity, and partly by a few European traders, who, having found
that the place was in the usual track of South-Sea whalers, and
frequently visited by that class of vessels as well as by other ships,
had established several stores or trading-houses, and had taken up their
permanent abode there.

The island was one of those the natives of which were early induced to
agree to the introduction of the gospel. At the time of which we write,
it was in that transition state which renders the work of the missionary
one of anxiety, toil, and extreme danger, as well as one of love.

But the Rev. Frederick Mason was a man eminently fitted to fill the post
which he had selected as his sphere of labor. Bold and manly in the
extreme, he was more like a soldier in outward aspect than a missionary.
Yet the gentleness of the lamb dwelt in his breast and beamed in his
eye; and to a naturally indomitable and enthusiastic disposition was
added burning zeal in the cause of his beloved Master.

Six years previous to the opening of our tale, he had come to Sandy Cove
with his wife and child, the latter a girl of six years of age at that
time. In one year death bereaved the missionary of his wife, and, about
the same time, war broke out in the island between the chiefs who clung
to the idolatrous rites and bloody practises peculiar to the inhabitants
of the South Sea Islands, and those chiefs who were inclined to favor
Christianity. This war continued to rage more or less violently for
several years, frequently slumbering, sometimes breaking out with sudden
violence, like the fitful eruptions of the still unextinct volcanoes in
those distant, regions.

During all this period of bloodshed and alarms, the missionary stuck to
his post. The obstinacy of hatred was being gradually overcome by the
superior pertinacity of zeal in a good cause, and the invariable
practise--so incomprehensible to the savage mind--of returning good for
evil. The result was that the Sabbath bell still sent its tinkling sound
over the verdant slopes above Sandy Cove, and the hymn of praise still
arose, morning and evening, from the little church, which, composed
partly of wood, partly of coral rock, had been erected under the eye,
and, to a large extent, by the hands, of the missionary.

But false friends within the camp were more dangerous and troublesome to
Mr. Mason than avowed enemies without. Some of the European traders,
especially, who settled on the island a few years after the missionary
had made it habitable, were the worst foes he had to contend with.

In the same vessel that brought the missionary to the island, there came
a widow, Mrs. Stuart, with her son Henry, then a stout lad of thirteen.
The widow was not, however, a member of the missionary's household. She
came there to settle with her son, who soon built her a
rudely-constructed but sufficiently habitable hut, which, in after
years, was inclosed, and greatly improved; so that it at last assumed
the dimensions of a rambling picturesque cottage, whitewashed,
brilliant, and neat in its setting of bright green.

The widow, although not an official assistant to the missionary, was
nevertheless a most efficient one. She taught in his schools, being
familiar with the native tongue; and, when the settlement grew in
numbers, both of white and black, she became known as the good angel of
the place,--the one who was ever ready with sympathy for the sorrowful,
and comfort for the dying. She was fair and fragile, and had been
exceedingly beautiful; but care had stamped his mark deeply in her brow.
Neither care nor time, however, could mar the noble outline of her fine
features, or equal the love that beamed in her gentle eyes.

The widow was a great mystery to the gossips of Sandy Cove; for there
are gossips even in the most distant isles of the sea. Some men (we
refer, of course, to white men) thought that she must have been the wife
of an admiral at least, and had fallen into distressed circumstances,
and gone to these islands to hide her poverty. Others said she was a
female Jesuit in disguise, sent there to counteract the preaching of the
gospel by the missionary. A few even ventured to hint their opinion that
she was an outlaw, "or something of that sort," and shrewdly suspected
that Mr. Mason knew more about her than he was pleased to tell. But no
one, either by word or look, had ever ventured to express an opinion of
any kind to herself, or in the hearing of her son. The latter, indeed,
displayed such uncommon breadth of shoulders, and such unusual
development of muscle, that it was seldom necessary for him--even in
those savage regions and wild times--to display anything else in order
to make men respectful.

While our three friends were doing justice to the bacon and breadfruit
set before them by Widow Stuart, the widow herself was endeavoring to
repress some strong feeling, which caused her breast to heave more than
once, and induced her to turn to some trifling piece of household duty
to conceal her emotion. These symptoms were not lost upon her son, whose
suspicions and anger had been aroused by the familiarity of Gascoyne.
Making some excuse for leaving the room, towards the conclusion of the
meal, he followed his mother to an outhouse, whither she had gone to
fetch some fresh milk.

"Mother," said Henry, respectfully, yet with an unwonted touch of
sternness in his voice; "there is some mystery connected with this man
Gascoyne that I feel convinced you can clear up--"

"Dear Henry," interrupted the widow, and her cheek grew pale as she
spoke, "do not, I beseech you, press me on this subject. I cannot clear
it up."

"Say you _will_ not, mother," answered Henry, in a tone of
disappointment.

"I would if I dared," continued the widow. "The time may come when I--"

"But why not now," urged the youth, hastily. "I am old enough, surely,
to be trusted. During the four visits this man has paid to us, I have
observed a degree of familiarity on his part which no man has a right to
exhibit towards you; and which, did I not see that you permit it, no
man would _dare_ to show. Why do you allow him to call you 'Mary?' No
one else in the settlement does so."

"He is a very old friend," replied the widow, sadly. "I have known him
from childhood. We were playmates long ago."

"Humph, that's some sort of reason, no doubt; but you don't appear to
like him, and his presence always seems to give you pain. Why do you
suffer yourself to be annoyed by him? Only say the word, mother, and
I'll kick him out of the house, neck and crop--"

"Hush, boy; you are too violent."

"Too violent! Why, it would make a coward violent to see his mother
tormented as you are by this fellow, and not to be allowed to put a stop
to it. I suspect--"

"Henry," said the widow, again interrupting her exasperated son, "do you
think your mother would do what is wrong?"

"Mother," exclaimed the youth, seizing her hand, and kissing her brow
almost violently, "I would as soon think that the angels above would do
wrong; but I firmly believe that you are suffering wrong to be done _to
you_; and--just listen to the fellow! I do not believe he's howling for
more bacon at this moment!"

There could be no doubt whatever about the fact; for just then the deep
tones of Gascoyne's voice rang through the cottage, as he reiterated the
name of the widow, who hastened away, followed by her son. Henry
scarcely took the trouble to conceal the frown that darkened his brow as
he re-entered the apartment where his companions were seated.

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