Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader
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In the midst of this the pirate captain, as might have been expected, performed a prominent part. His great physical strength enabled him to act with a degree of vigour that rendered his aid most valuable. He wrought with the energy of a huge mechanical power, and with a quick promptitude of perception and a ready change of action which is denied to mere, mechanism. He tore down the bulk-heads that rendered it difficult to get at the place where the fire was; he hurled bucket after bucket of water on the glowing mass, and rushed, amid clouds of hot steam and suffocating smoke, with piles of wet blankets to smother it out.
Montague and he wrought together. The young captain issued his orders as calmly as if there were no danger, yet with a promptitude and vigour that inspired his men with confidence. Gascoyne’s voice was never heard. He obeyed orders and acted as circumstances required, but he did not presume, as men are too apt to do on such occasions, to give orders and advice when there was a legitimate commander. Only once or twice were the deep tones of his bass voice heard, when he called for more water, or warned the more daring among the men when danger from falling timber threatened them.
But all this availed not to check the flames. The men were quickly driven upon deck, and it soon became evident that the vessel must perish. The fire burst through the hatchways, and in a short time began to leap up the rigging.
It now became necessary to make arrangements for the saving of the crew.
“Nothing more can be done, Mr Mulroy,” said Montague, in a calm voice that accorded ill with the state of his mind. “Get the boats ready, and order the men to assemble on the quarter-deck.”
“If we were only nearer the island,” said Gascoyne in a low tone, as if he were talking to himself, “we might run her on the reef, and the breakers would soon put out the fire.”
“That would be little consolation to me,” said Montague, with a bitter smile. “Lower the boats, Mr Mulroy. The Foam has observed our condition, I see; let them row to it. I will go in the gig.”
The first lieutenant hastened to obey the order, and the men embarked in the boats, lighted by the flames, which were now roaring high up the masts.
Meanwhile, the man who had been the cause of all this was rushing about the deck, a furious maniac. He had wrought at the fire almost as fiercely as Gascoyne himself, and now that all hope was past, he continued, despite the orders of Montague to the contrary, to draw water and rush with bucket after bucket into the midst of the roaring flames. At last he disappeared, no one knew where, and no one cared, for in such a scene he was soon forgotten.
The last man left the ship when the heat on the poop became so great that it was scarcely possible to stand there. Still Montague and Gascoyne stood side by side near the taffrail, and the gig with her crew floated just below them. The last boatful of men pulled away from the burning vessel, and then Montague turned with a deep sigh and said—
“Now, Mr Gascoyne, get into the boat. I must be the last man to quit the ship.”
Without a word Gascoyne swung himself over the stern, and, sliding down by a rope, dropped into the boat. Montague followed, and they rowed away.
Just at that moment Surly Dick sprang on the bulwarks, and holding on by the mizzen-shrouds took off his hat and cheered.
“Ha! ha!” he shrieked, with a fiendish laugh, “I’ve escaped you, have I? escaped you—hurrah!” and with another wild shriek he leaped on the hot deck, and, seizing a bucket, resumed his self-imposed duty of deluging the fire with water.
“Pull, pull, lads! we can’t leave the miserable man to perish,” cried Montague, starting up, while the men rowed after the frigate with their utmost might. But in vain. Already she was far from them, and ever increased the distance as she ran before the gale.
As long as the ship lasted the poor maniac was seen diligently pursuing his work—stopping now and then to spring on the bulwarks and give another cheer.
At last the blazing vessel left boats and schooner far behind, and the flames rose in great flakes and tongues above her top-masts, while the smoke rolled in dense black volumes away to leeward.
While the awe-stricken crew watched her there came a sudden flash of bright white flame, as if a volcano had leaped out of the ocean. The powder-magazine had caught. It was followed by a roaring crash that seemed to rend the very heavens. A thick darkness settled over the scene—and the vessel that a few hours before had been a noble frigate, was scattered on the ocean a mass of blackened ruins.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Pacific is not always calm, but neither is it always stormy. We think it necessary to make this latter observation, because the succession of short-lived gales and squalls which have been prominently and unavoidably brought forward in our tale might lead the reader to deem the name of this ocean inappropriate.
Although the sea was not quite so still now, owing to the swell caused by the recent gale, it was quite as glassy as it was then. The sun, too, was as hot and the sky as brilliant, but the aspect of the Foam was much changed. The deep quiet was gone. Crowded on every part of the deck, and even down in her hold, were the crew of the man-of-war, lolling about listlessly and sadly, or conversing with grave looks about the catastrophe which had deprived them so suddenly of their floating home.
Gascoyne and Henry leaned over the stern in order to avoid being overheard by those around them, and conversed in low tones.
“But why not attempt to escape?” said the latter, in reply to some observation made by his companion.
“Because I am pledged to give myself up to justice.”
“No; not to justice,” replied the youth, quickly. “You said you would give yourself up to me and Mr Mason. I for one won’t act the part of a—a—”
“Thief-catcher,” suggested Gascoyne.
“Well, put it so if you will; and I am certain that the missionary will not have anything to do with your capture. He will say that the officers of justice are bound to attend to such matters. It would be perfectly right in you to try to escape.”
“Ah! Henry, your feelings have warped your judgment,” said Gascoyne, shaking his head. “It is strange how men will prevaricate and deceive themselves when they want to reason themselves into a wrong course or out of a right one. But what you or Mr Mason think or will do has nothing to do with my course of action.”
“But the law holds, if I mistake not, that a man is not bound to criminate himself,” said Henry.
“I know not and care not what the law of man holds,” replied the other, sadly. “I have forfeited my life to my country, and I am willing to lay it down.”
“Nay, not your life,” said Henry; “you have done no murder.”
“Well, then, at least my liberty is forfeited. I shall leave it to those who judge me whether my life shall be taken or no. I sometimes wish that I could get away to some distant part of the world, and there, by living the life of an honest man, try to undo, if possible, a little of what I have done. But, woe’s me, wishes and regrets come too late. No, I must be content to reap what I have sown.”
“They will be certain to hang you,” said the youth, bitterly.
“I think it likely they will,” replied his companion.
“And would you call that justice?” asked Henry, sharply. “Whatever punishment you may deserve, you do not deserve to die. You know well enough that your own word will go for nothing, and no one else can bear witness in your favour. You will be regarded simply as a notorious pirate. Even if some of the people whose lives you have spared while taking their goods should turn up, their testimony could not prove that you had not murdered others; so your fate is certain if you go to trial. Have you any right, then, to compass your own death by thus giving yourself up?”
“Ah! boy, your logic is not sound.”
“But answer my question,” said the youth, testily, “Henry, plead with me no longer,” said Gascoyne, in a deep, stern tone. “My mind is made up. I have spent many years in dishonesty and self-deception. It is perhaps possible that by a life devoted to doing good, I might in the long run benefit men more than I have damaged them. This is just possible, I say, though I doubt it; but I have promised to give myself up whenever this cruise is at an end, and I won’t break the last promise I am likely to give in this world; so do not attempt to turn me, boy.”
Henry made no reply, but his knitted brows and compressed lips shewed that a struggle was going on within him. Suddenly he stood erect, and said firmly—
“Be it so, Gascoyne. I will hold you to your promise. You shall not escape me!”
With this somewhat singular reply, Henry left his surprised companion and mingled with the crowd of men who stood on the quarter-deck.
A light breeze had now sprung up, and the Foam was gliding rapidly towards the island. Gascoyne’s deep voice was still heard at intervals issuing a word of command; for, as he knew the reefs better than any one else on board, Montague had intrusted him with the pilotage of the vessel into harbour.
When they had passed the barrier-reef, and were sailing over the calm waters of the enclosed lagoon in the direction of Sandy Cove, the young officer went up to the pirate captain with a perplexed air and a degree of hesitation that was very foreign to his character.
Gascoyne flushed deeply when he observed him. “I know what you would say to me,” he said, quickly. “You have a duty to perform. I am ready.”
“Gascoyne,” said Montague, with deep earnestness of tone and manner, “I would willingly spare you this, but, as you say, I have a duty to perform. I would, with all my heart, that it had fallen to other hands. Believe me, I appreciate what you have done within the last few days, and I believe what you have said in regard to yourself and your career. All this, you may depend upon it, will operate powerfully with your judges. But you know I cannot permit you to quit this vessel a free man.”
“I know it,” said Gascoyne, calmly.
“And—and—” (here Montague stammered and came to an abrupt pause.)
“Say on, Captain Montague. I appreciate your generosity in feeling for me thus; but I am prepared to meet whatever awaits me.”
“It is necessary,” resumed Montague, “that you should be manacled before I take you on shore.”
Gascoyne started. He had not thought of this. He had not fully realised the fact that he was to be deprived of his liberty so soon. In the merited indignity which was now to be put upon him, he recognised the opening act of the tragedy which was to terminate with his life.
“Be it so,” he said, lowering his head and sitting down on a carronade, in order to avoid the gaze of those who surrounded him.
While this was being done, the youthful Corrie was in the fore-part of the schooner whispering eagerly to Alice and Poopy.
“O Alice, I’ve seen him!” exclaimed the lad.
“Seen who?” inquired Alice, raising her pretty little eyebrows just the smallest morsel.
“Why, the boatswain of the Talisman, Dick Price, you know, who jumped overboard to save Henry when he fell off the raft. Come, I’ll point him out.”
So saying, Corrie edged his way through the crowd until he could see the windlass. Here, seated on a mass of chain cable, sat a remarkably rugged specimen of the British boatswain. He was extremely short, excessively broad, uncommonly jovial, and remarkably hairy. He wore his round hat so far on the back of his head that it was a marvel how it managed to hang there, and smoked a pipe so black that the most powerful imagination could hardly conceive of its ever having been white, and so short that it seemed all head and no stem.
“That’s him!” said Corrie, eagerly.
“Oh! is it?” replied Alice, with much interest.
“Hee! hee!” observed Poopy.
“Stand by to let go the anchor,” shouted Montague.
Instantly bustle and noise prevailed everywhere. The crew of the lost frigate had started up on hearing the order, but having no stations to run to, they expended the energy that had been awakened in shuffling about and opening an animated conversation in under tones.
Soon the schooner swept round the point that had hitherto shut out the view of Sandy Cove, and a few minutes later the rattling of the chain announced that the voyage of the Foam had terminated.
Immediately after, a boat was lowered, and Gascoyne was conveyed by a party of marines to the shore, and lodged in the prison which had been but recently occupied by our friend John Bumpus.
Mrs Stuart had purposely kept out of the way when she heard of the arrival of the Foam. She knew Gascoyne so well that she felt sure he would succeed in recapturing his schooner. But she also knew that in doing this he would necessarily release Montague from his captivity, in which case it was certain that the pirate captain, having promised to give himself up, would be led on shore a prisoner. She could not bear to witness this; but no sooner did she hear of his being lodged in jail than she prepared to visit him.
As she was about to issue from her cottage, Henry met her and clasped her in his arms. The meeting would have doubtless been a warmer one had the mother known what a narrow escape her son had so recently had. But Mrs Stuart was accustomed to part from Henry for weeks at a time, and regarded this return in much the same light as former homecomings, except in so far as he had news of their lost friends to give her. She welcomed him therefore with a kiss and a glad smile, and then hurried him into the house to inquire about the result of the voyage.
“I have already heard of your success in finding Alice and our friends. Come, tell me more.”
“Have you heard how nearly I was lost, mother?”
“Lost!” exclaimed the widow in surprise; “no, I have heard nothing of that.”
Henry rapidly narrated his escape from the wreck of the Wasp, and then, looking earnestly in his mother’s anxious face he said, slowly—
“But you do not ask for Gascoyne, mother. Do you know that he is now in the jail?”
The widow looked perplexed. “I know it,” said she. “I was just going to see him when you came in.”
“Ah! mother,” said Henry, reproachfully, “why did you not tell me sooner about Gascoyne? I—”
He was interrupted here by Corrie and Alice rushing into the room, the latter of whom threw herself into the widow’s arms and burst into tears, while Master Corrie indulged in some eccentric bounds and cheers by way of relieving his feelings. For some time Henry allowed them to talk eagerly to each other; then he told Corrie and Alice that he had something of importance to say to his mother, and led her into an adjoining room.
Corrie had overheard the words spoken by Henry just as he entered, and great was his curiosity to know what was the mystery connected with the pirate captain. This curiosity was intensified when he heard a half-suppressed shriek in the room where mother and son were closeted. For one moment he was tempted to place his ear to the key-hole! But a blush covered his fat cheeks at the very thought of acting such a disgraceful part. Like a wise fellow he did not give the tempter a second opportunity, but, seizing the hand of his companion, said—
“Come along, Alice, we’ll go seek for Bumpus.”
Half-an-hour afterwards the widow stood at the jail door. The jailer was an intimate friend, and considerately retired during the interview.
“O Gascoyne, has it come to this?” She sat down beside the pirate, and grasped one of his manacled hands in both of hers.
“Even so, Mary, my hour has come. I do not complain of my doom. I have brought it on myself.”
“But why not try to escape?” said Mrs Stuart, earnestly. “There are some here who could aid you.”
Here the widow attempted to reason with Gascoyne, as her son had done before, but with similar want of success. Gascoyne remained immovable. He did indeed betray deep emotion while the woman reasoned with him, in tones of intense earnestness; but he would not change his mind. He said that if Montague, as the representative of the law, would set him free in consideration of what he had recently done, he would accept of liberty; but nothing would induce him to attempt to escape.
Leaving him in this mood, Mrs Stuart hurried to the cottage where Montague had taken up his abode.
The young captain received her kindly. Having learned from Corrie all about the friendship that existed between the widow and Gascoyne, he listened with the utmost consideration to her.
“It is impossible,” said he, shaking his head; “I cannot set him free.”
“Do his late services weigh nothing with you?” pleaded the widow.
“My dear madam,” replied Montague, sorrowfully, “you forget that I am not his judge. I have no right to weigh the circumstances of his case. He is a convicted and self-acknowledged pirate. My only duty is to convey him to England and hand him over to the officers of justice. I sympathise with you, indeed I do, for you seem to take his case to heart very much, but I cannot help you. I must do my duty. The Foam will be ready for sea in a few days, in it I shall convey Gascoyne to England.”
“O Mr Montague, I do take his case to heart, as you say, and no one on this earth has more cause to do so. Will it interest you more in Gascoyne, and induce you to use your influence in his favour, if I tell you that—that—he is my husband?”
“Your husband!” cried Montague, springing up and pacing the apartment with rapid strides.
“Ay,” said Mrs Stuart, mournfully, covering her face with her hands; “I had hoped that this secret would die with me and him, but in the hope that it may help, ever so little, to save his life, I have revealed it to you.”
“Believe me, the secret shall be safe in my keeping,” said Montague, tenderly, as he sat down again and drew his chair near to that of Mrs Stuart. “But, alas! I do not see how it is possible for me to help your husband. I will use my utmost influence to mitigate his sentence, but I cannot, I dare not set him free.”
The poor woman sat pale and motionless while the captain said this. She began to perceive that all hope was gone, and felt despair settling down on her heart.
“What will be his doom,” said she, in a husky voice, “if his life is spared?”
“I do not know. At least I am not certain. My knowledge of criminal law is very slight, but I should suppose it would be transportation for—”
Montague hesitated, and could not find it in his heart to add the word “life.”
Without uttering a word Mrs Stuart rose, and, staggering from the room, hastened with a quick unsteady step towards her own cottage.
Chapter Twenty Eight
A Peculiar Confidant—More Difficulties, And Various Plans To Overcome Them
When Alice Mason was a little child, there was a certain tree near her father’s house to which, in her hours of sorrow, she was wont to run and tell it all the grief of her overflowing heart. She firmly believed that this tree heard and understood and sympathised with all that she said. There was a hole in the stem into which she was wont to pour her complaints, and when she had thus unburthened her heart to her silent confidant she felt comforted, as one feels when a human friend has shared one’s sorrows.
When the child became older, and her sorrows were heavier and, perhaps, more real, her well-nurtured mind began to rise to a higher source for comfort. Habit and inclination led her indeed to the same tree, but when she kneeled upon its roots and leaned against its stem, she poured out her heart into the bosom of Him who is ever present, and who can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities.
Almost immediately after landing on the island Alice sought the umbrageous shelter of her old friend and favourite, and on her knees thanked God for restoring her to her father and her home.
To the same place the missionary directed his steps, for he knew it well, and doubtless expected to find his daughter there.
“Alice, dear, I have good news to tell you,” said the missionary, sitting down beside her.
“I know what it is!” cried Alice, eagerly.
“What do you think it is, my pet?”
“Gascoyne is to be forgiven! am I right?”
Mr Mason shook his head sadly—“No, that is not what I have to tell you. Poor fellow, I would that I had some good news to give you about him; but I fear there is no hope for him—I mean as regards his being pardoned by man.”
Alice sighed, and her face expressed the deepest tenderness and sympathy.
“Why do you take so great an interest in this man, dear?” said her father.
“Because Mary Stuart loves him, and I love Mary Stuart. And Corrie seemed to like him, too, since he has come to know him better. Besides, has he not saved my life, and Captain Montague’s, and Corrie’s? Corrie tells me that he is very sorry for the wicked things he has done, and he thinks that if his life is spared he will become a good man. Has he been very wicked, papa?”
“Yes, very wicked. He has robbed many people of their goods, and has burnt and sunk their vessels.”
Alice looked horrified.
“But,” continued her father, “I am convinced of the truth of his statement—that he has never shed human blood. Nevertheless, he has been very wicked, and the fact that he has such a powerful will, such commanding and agreeable manners, only makes his guilt the greater, for there is less excuse for his having devoted such powers and qualities to the service of Satan. I fear that his judges will not take into account his recent good deeds and his penitence. They will not pardon him.”
“Father,” said Alice, earnestly, “God pardons the chief of sinners—why will not man do so?”
The missionary was somewhat perplexed as to how he should reply to such a difficult question.
“My child,” said he, “the law of God and the law of man must be obeyed, or the punishment must be inflicted on the disobedient—both laws are alike in this respect. In the case of God’s law, Jesus Christ our Lord obeyed it, bore the punishment for us, and set our souls free. But in the case of man’s law, who is to bear Gascoyne’s punishment and set him free?”
As poor Alice could not answer this, she cast down her tearful eyes, sighed again, and looked more miserable than ever.
“But come, my pet,” resumed Mr Mason, “you must guess again. It is really good news—try.”
“I can’t,” said Alice, looking up in her father’s face with animation and shaking her head; “I never could guess anything rightly.”
“What would you think the best thing that could happen?” said her father.
The child looked intently at the ground for a few seconds and pursed her rosy little mouth, while the smallest possible frown—the result of intellectual exertion—knitted her fair brow.
“The best thing that could happen,” said she, slowly, “would be that all the whole world should become good.”
“Well done, Alice!” exclaimed her father, laughing; “you have certainly taken the widest possible view of the subject. But you have soared a little too high; yet you have not altogether missed the mark. What would you say if the chiefs of the heathen village were to cast their idols into the fire, and ask me to come over and teach them how to become Christians?”
“Oh! have they really done this?” cried Alice in eager surprise.
“Indeed they have. I have just seen and had a talk with some of their chief men, and have promised to go over to their village to-morrow. I came up here just to tell you this, and to say that your friend the widow will take care of you while I am away.”
“And shall we have no more wars—no more of these terrible deeds of blood?” inquired the child, while a shudder passed through her frame at the recollection of what she had heard and seen during her short life on that island.
“I trust not, my lamb. I believe that God has heard our prayers, and that the Prince of Peace will henceforth rule in this place. But I must go and prepare for this work. Come, will you go with me?”
“Leave me here for a little, papa; I wish to think it over all alone.”
Kissing her forehead, the missionary left her. When he was out of sight the little girl sat down, and, nestling between two great roots of her favourite tree, laid her head against the stem and shut her eyes.