Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader

“I don’t fear death. I have often faced it, and I don’t remember ever feeling afraid of death. Yet I shrink from death now. Why is this? What a mystery my thoughts and feelings are to me. I know not what to think. But it will soon be over, for I feel certain that I shall be doomed to die. God help me!”

Gascoyne again became silent. When he had remained thus a few minutes his attention was roused by the sound of footsteps and of whispering voices close under his window. Presently the key was put in the lock, the heavy bolt shot back, and the door creaked on its hinges as it opened slowly.

Gascoyne knew by the sound that several men entered the cell, but as they carried no light he could not tell how many there were. He was of course surprised at a visit at such an unusual hour, as well as at the stealthy manner in which his visitors entered; but having made up his mind to submit quietly to whatever was in store for him, and knowing that he could not hope for much tenderness at the hands of the inhabitants of Sandy Cove, he was not greatly disturbed. Still, he would not have been human had not his pulse quickened under the influence of a strong desire to spring up and defend himself.

The door of the cell was shut and locked as quietly as it had been opened; then followed the sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

“Is that you, jailer?” demanded Gascoyne.

“Ye’ll know that time enough,” answered a gruff voice that was not unfamiliar to the prisoner’s ear.

The others who had entered along with this man did not move from the door—at least, if they did so, there was no sound of footsteps. The man who had spoken went to the window and spread a thick cloth over it. Gascoyne could see this, because there was sufficient light outside to make the arms of the man dimly visible as he raised them up to accomplish his object. The cell was thus rendered, if possible, more impenetrably dark than before.

“Now, pirate,” said the man, turning round, and suddenly flashing a dark lantern full on the stern face of the prisoner, “you and I will have a little convarse together—by yer leave or without yer leave. In case there might be pryin’ eyes about, I’ve closed the porthole, d’ye see.”

Gascoyne listened to this familiar style of address in surprise, but did not suffer his features to betray any emotion whatever. The lantern which the seaman (for such he evidently was) carried in his hand threw a strong light wherever its front was turned, but left every other part of the cell in partial darkness. The reflected light was, however, quite sufficient to enable the prisoner to see that his visitor was a short, thick-set man, of great physical strength, and that three men of unusual size and strength stood against the wall, in the deep shadow of a recess, with their straw hats pulled very much over their eyes.

“Now, Mister Gascoyne,” began the seaman, sitting down on the edge of the small table beside the low pallet, and raising the lantern a little, while he gazed earnestly into the prisoner’s face, “I’ve reason to believe—”

“Ha! you are the boatswain of the Talisman,” exclaimed Gascoyne, as the light reflected from his own countenance irradiated that of Dick Price, whom, of course, he had seen frequently while they were on board the frigate together.

“No, mister pirate,” said Dick; “I am not the bo’s’n of the Talisman, else I shouldn’t be here this night. I wos the bo’s’n of that unfortunate frigate, but I is so no longer.”

Dick said this in a melancholy tone, and thereafter meditated for a few moments in silence.

“No,” he resumed with a heavy sigh, “the Talisman’s blow’d up, an’ her bo’s’n’s out on the spree—so to speak,—though it ain’t a cheerful spree by no means. But to come back to the pint, (w’ich wos wot the clergyman said w’en he’d got so far away from the pint that he never did get back to it,) as I wos sayin’, or was agoin’ to say w’en you prewented me, I’ve reason to b’lieve you’re agoin’ to try for to make yer escape.”

“You are mistaken, my man,” said Gascoyne, with a sad smile; “nothing is farther from my thoughts.”

“I don’t know how far it’s from yer thoughts,” said Dick, sternly, “but it’s pretty close to your intentions, so I’m told.”

“Indeed you are mistaken,” replied Gascoyne. “If Captain Montague has sent you here to mount guard he has only deprived you of a night’s rest needlessly. If I had intended to make my escape I would not have given myself up.”

“I don’t know that—I’m not so sure o’ that,” rejoined the boatswain stoutly. “You’re said to be a obstinate feller, and there’s no sayin’ what a obstinate feller won’t do or will do. But I didn’t come here for to argify the question with you, Mister Gascoyne. Wot I com’d here for wos to do my duty, so, now, I’m agoing to do it.”

Gascoyne, who was amused in spite of himself by the manner of the man, merely smiled and awaited in silence the pleasure of his eccentric visitor.

Dick now set down the lantern, went to the door and returned with a coil of stout rope.

“You see,” observed the boatswain, as he busied himself in uncoiling and making a running noose on the rope, “I’m ordered to prewent you from carryin’ out your intentions—wotiver these may be—by puttin’ a coil or two o’ this here rope round you. Now, wot I’ve got to ask of you is—Will ye submit peaceable like to have it done?”

“Surely this is heaping unnecessary indignity upon me?” exclaimed Gascoyne, flushing crimson with anger.

“It may be unnecessary, but it’s got to be done,” returned Dick, with cool decision, as he placed the end of a knot between his powerful teeth, and drew it tight. “Besides, Mister Gascoyne, a pirate must expect indignities to be heaped upon him. However, I’ll heap as few as possible on ye in the discharge of my duty.”

Gascoyne had started to his feet, but he sat down abashed on being thus reminded of his deserts.

“True,” said he; “true. I will submit.”

He added in his mind, “I deserve this;” but nothing more escaped his lips, while he stood up and permitted the boatswain to pass the cord round his arms, and lash them firmly to his sides.

Having bound him in a peculiarly tight and nautical manner, Dick once more went to his accomplices at the door, and returned with a hammer and chisel, and a large stone. The latter he placed on the table, and, directing Gascoyne to raise his arms—which were not secured below the elbows—and place his manacles on the stone, he cut them asunder with a few powerful blows, and removed them.

“The darbies ain’t o’ no use, you see, as we ye got you all safe with the ropes. Now, Mister Gascoyne, I’m agoin’ to heap one more indignity on ye. I’m sorry to do it, d’ye see; but I’m bound for to obey orders. You’ll be so good as to sit down on the bed, for I ain’t quite so long as you—though I won’t say that I’m not about as broad—and let me tie this napkin over yer mouth.”

“Why?” exclaimed Gascoyne, again starting and looking fiercely at the boatswain; “this, at least, must be unnecessary. I have said that I am willing to submit quietly to whatever the law condemns me. You don’t take me for a woman or a child, that will be apt to cry out when hurt?”

“Certainly not; but as I’m goin’ to take ye away out o’ this here limbo, it is needful that I should prewent you from lettin’ people know that yer goin’ on your travels; for I’ve heerd say there’s some o’ yer friends as is plottin’ to help you to escape.”

“Have I not said already that I do not wish to escape, and therefore will not take advantage of any opportunity afforded me by my friends?—Friends! I have no friends! Even those whom I thought were my friends have not been near my prison all this day.”

Gascoyne said this bitterly, and in great anger.

“Hush!” exclaimed Dick; “not quite so loud, mister pirate. You see there is some reason in my puttin’ this on your mouth. It’ll be as well to let me do it quietly, else I’ll have to get a little help.”

He pointed to the three stout men who stood motionless and silent in the dark recess.

“Oh, it was cowardly of you to bind my arms before you told me this,” said Gascoyne, with flashing eyes. “If my hands were free now—”

He checked himself by a powerful effort, and crushed back the boastful defiance which rose to his lips.

“Now, I’ll tell ye wot it is, Mister Gascoyne,” said Dick Price, “I do believe yer not such a bad feller as they say ye are, an’ I’m disposed to be marciful to ye. If ye’ll give me your word of honour that you’ll not holler out, and that you’ll go with us peaceably, and do wot yer bid, I’ll not trouble you with the napkin, nor bind ye up more than I’ve done already. But,” (here Dick spoke in tones that could not be misunderstood,) “if ye won’t give me that promise, I’ll gag ye and bind ye neck and heels, and we’ll carry ye out o’ this shoulder high. Now, wot say ye to that?”

Gascoyne had calmed his feelings while the boatswain was speaking. He even smiled when he replied— “How can you ask me to give my word of honour? What honour has a pirate to boast of, think you?”

“Not much, pr’aps,” said Dick; “howsomdever, I’ll be content with wot’s left of it; and if there ain’t none, why, then, give us yer word. It’ll do as well.”

“After all, it matters little what is done with me,” said Gascoyne, in a resigned voice. “I am a fool to resist thus. You need not fear that I will offer any further resistance, my man. Do your duty, whitever that may be.”

“That won’t do,” said Dick, stoutly; “ye must promise not to holler out.”

“I promise,” said Gascoyne, sternly. “Pray cease this trifling, and if it is not inconsistent with your duty, let me know where I am to be taken to.”

“That’s just wot I’m not allowed for to tell. But you’ll find it out in the coorse of time. Now, all that you’ve got to do is to walk by my side, and do wot I tell ye.”

The prisoner made no answer. He was evidently weary of the conversation, and his thoughts were already wandering on other subjects.

The door was now unlocked by one of the three men who stood near it. As its hinges creaked, Dick shut the lantern, and threw the cell at once into total darkness. Taking hold of Gascoyne’s wrist gently, as if to guide, not to force him away, he conducted him along the short passage that led to the outer door of the prison. This was opened, and the whole party stood in the open air.

Gascoyne looked with feelings of curiosity at the men who surrounded him, but the night was so intensely dark that their features were invisible. He could just discern the outlines of their figures, which were enveloped in large cloaks. He was on the point of speaking to them, when he remembered his promise to make no noise, so he restrained himself, and followed his guard in silence.

Dick and another man walked at his side—the rest followed in rear. Leading him round the out-skirts of the village, towards its northern extremity, Gascoyne’s conductors soon brought him to the beach, at a retired spot, where was a small bay. Here they were met by one whose stature proved him to be a boy. He glided up to Dick, who said in a low whisper—

“Is all ready?”

“All right,” replied the boy.

“The ooman aboard?”

“Ay.”

“Now, Mr Gascoyne,” said Dick, pointing to a large boat floating beside the rocks on which they stood, “you’ll be so good as to step into that ’ere boat, and sit down beside the individual you see a-sittin’ there in the stern-sheets.”

“Have you authority for what you do?” asked Gascoyne, hesitating.

“I have power to enforce wot I command,” said Dick, quietly. “Remember yer promise, mister pirate, else—”

Dick finished his sentence by pointing to the three men who stood near—still maintaining a silence worthy of Eastern mutes; and Gascoyne, feeling that he was completely in their power, stepped quickly into the boat, and sat down beside the “individual” referred to by Dick, who was so completely enveloped in the folds of a large cloak as to defy recognition. But the pirate captain was too much occupied with his own conflicting thoughts and feelings to bestow more than a passing glance on the person who sat at his side. Indeed it was not surprising that Gascoyne was greatly perplexed by all that was going on at that time; for he could not satisfactorily account to himself for the mystery and secrecy which his guards chose to maintain. If they were legitimate agents of the law, why these muffled oars with which they swept the boat across the lagoon, through the gap in the coral reef and out to sea? And if they were not agents of the law, who were they, and where were they conveying him?

The boat was a large one, half-decked, and fitted to stand a heavy sea and rough weather. It would have moved sluggishly through the water had not the four men who pulled the oars been possessed of more than average strength. As soon as they passed the barrier reef, the sails were hoisted, and Dick took the helm. The breeze was blowing fresh off the land, and the water rushed past the boat as she cut swiftly out to sea, leaving a track of white foam behind her. For a few minutes the mass of the island was dimly seen rising like a huge shade on the dark sky, but soon it melted away and nothing remained for the straining eyes to rest upon save the boat with its silent crew and the curling foam on the black sea.

“We’ve got him safe now, lads,” said Dick Price, speaking, for the first time that night, in unguarded tones, “you’d better do the deed. The sooner it’s done the better.”

While he was speaking one of the three men opened a large clasp knife and advanced towards Gascoyne.

“Father,” said Henry, cutting the rope that bound him, “you are free at last!”

Gascoyne started, but before he had time to utter the exclamation of surprise that sprang to his lips, his hand was seized by the muffled figure that sat at his side.

“Oh! Gascoyne, forgive us—forgive me!” said Mary Stuart in a trembling voice. “I did, indeed, know something of what they meant to do, but I knew nothing of the cruel violence that these bonds—”

“Violence!” cried Dick Price, “I put it to yourself, Mister Gascoyne, if I didn’t treat ye as if ye wos a lamb?”

“Wot a blissin’ it is for a man to git his mouth open agin, and let his breath go free,” cried Jo Bumpus, with a deep sigh. “Come, Corrie, give us a cheer—hip! hip! hip!—”

The cheer that followed was stirring and wonderfully harmonious, for it was given in a deep bass, and a shrill treble, with an intermediate baritone “Ho!” from Jakolu.

“I know it, Mary, I know it;” said Gascoyne, and there was a slight tremor in his deep voice as he drew his wife towards him, and laid her head upon his breast. “You have never done me an evil turn—you have done me nothing but good—since you were a little child. Heaven bless you, Mary!”

“Now, father,” said Henry, “I suppose you have no objection to make your escape?”

“No need to raise that question, lad,” said Gascoyne, with a perplexed smile. “I am not quite clear as to what my duty is now that I am free to go back and again give myself up.”

“Go back!—free!” exclaimed John Bumpus in a tone of withering sarcasm. “So, Mister Gascoyne, ye’ve got sich an oncommon cargo o’ conceit in ye yet, that you actually think ye could go back without so much as ‘By your leave!’”

While Jo was speaking he bared to the shoulder an arm that was the reverse of infantine, and, holding it up, said slowly—

“I’ve often had a sort o’ desire, d’ye see, to try whether this bit of a limb or the one that’s round Mrs Stuart’s waist is the strongest. Now if you have any desire to settle this question, just try to shove this boat’s head up into the wind—that’s all!”

This was said so emphatically by the pugnacious Bumpus that his companions laughed, and Corrie cheered in admiration.

“You see,” observed Henry, “you need not give yourself any concern as to this point, you have no option in the matter.”

“No, not a bit o’ poption in it wotiver—though wot that means I ain’t rightly sure,” said Dick Price.

“Perhaps I ought to exercise my parental authority over you, Henry,” said Gascoyne, “and command you to steer back to Sandy Cove.”

“But we wouldn’t let him, mister pirate,” said Dick Price, who, now that his difficult duties were over, was preparing to solace himself with a pipe; an example that was immediately followed by Bumpus, who backed his friend by adding—

“No more we would.”

“Nay, then, if Henry joins me,” said Gascoyne, “I think that we two will not have a bad chance against you three.”

“Come, that’s good! so I count for nothing,” exclaimed Corrie.

“Ha! stick up, lad,” observed Bumpus. “The niggers wot you pitched into at the mouth o’ yon cave didn’t think that—eh! didn’t they not?”

“Well, well, if Corrie sides with you I feel that my wisest course is to submit. And now, Henry,” said Gascoyne, resuming his wonted gravity of tone and demeanour, “sit down here and let me know where we are going to and what you mean to do. It is natural that I should feel curious on these points even although I have perfect confidence in you all.”

Henry obeyed, and their voices sank into low tones as they mingled in earnest converse about their future plans.

Thus did Gascoyne, with his family and friends, leave Sandy Cove in the dead of that dark night, and sail away over the wide waste of the great Pacific Ocean.

Reader, our tale is nearly told. Like a picture, it contains but a small portion of the career of those who have so long engaged your attention, and, I would fain hope, your sympathy. The life of man may be comprehensively epitomised almost to a point, or expanded out ad infinitum. He was born, he died, is its lowest term. Its highest is not definable.

Innumerable tomes, of encyclopaedic dimensions, could not contain, much less exhaust, an account of all that was said and done (and all that might be said about what was said and done) by our ci-devant sandal-wood trader and his friends. Yet there are main points, amid the little details of their career, which it would be unpardonable to pass over in silence. To these we shall briefly refer before letting the curtain fall.

There is a distant isle of the sea, a beautiful spot, an oceanic gem, which has been reclaimed by the Word of God, from those regions that have been justly styled “the dark places of the earth.” We will not mention its name; we will not even indicate its whereabout, lest we should furnish a clue to the unromantic myrmidons of the law, whose inflexible justice is only equalled by their pertinacity in tracking the criminal—to his lair!

On this beautiful isle, at the time of our tale, the churches and houses of Christian men had begun to rise. The natives had begun to cultivate the arts of civilisation, and to appreciate, in some degree, the inestimable blessings of Christianity. The plough had torn up the virgin soil, and the anchors of merchant-ships had begun to kiss the strand. The crimes peculiar to civilised men had not yet been developed. The place had all the romance and freshness of a flourishing infant colony.

Early one fine morning, a half-decked boat rowed into the harbour of this isle, and ran alongside the little quay, where the few natives who chanced to be lounging there were filled with admiration at the sight of five stalwart men who leaped upon the rocks, an active lad who held the boat steady, and a handsome middle-aged woman, who was assisted to land with much care by the tallest of her five companions.

There were a few small bales of merchandise in the boat. These being quickly tossed ashore, one of the natives was asked to shew the way to the nearest store, where they might be placed in safe keeping.

This done; the largest man of the party, who was clad in the rough garments of a merchant captain, offered his arm to the female, who was evidently his wife, and went off in search of the chief magistrate of the settlement, leaving his companions to look after the boat and smoke their pipes.

The handsome stranger introduced himself to the magistrate as Mr Stuart; stated that he intended to settle on the island as a general merchant, having brought a few bales of merchandise with him; that he had been bred an engineer and a shipwright, and meant also to work at his old trade, and concluded by asking for advice and general information in regard to the state of trade on the island.

After having obtained all the information on these subjects that the magistrate could give, insomuch that that functionary deemed him a perfect marvel of catechetical wisdom and agreeable address,—the stalwart stranger proceeded to inquire minutely into the state of religion and education among the natives and settlers, and finally left the charmed magistrate rejoicing in the belief that he was a most intelligent philanthropist, and would be an inestimable acquisition to the settlement.

A small trading store was soon built. The stranger was not a rich man. He began in a humble way, and sought to eke out his subsistence by doing the ordinary work of a wright. In this latter occupation he was ably assisted by his stout son, Henry; for the duties of the store were attended to chiefly by the lad Corrie, superintended by Mr Stuart.

The mysterious strangers were a source of much gossip and great speculation, of course, to the good people of Green Isle, (as we shall style this gem of the Pacific, in order to thwart the myrmidons of the law!) They found them so reserved and uncommunicative, however, on the subject of their personal affairs, that the most curious gossip in the settlement at last gave up speculating in despair.

In other respects, the new family were noted for kindliness and urbanity. Mrs Stuart, especially, became an intimate friend of the missionary who dwelt there, and one of his hardest-working parishioners. Mr Stuart also became his friend; but the stern gravity of countenance, and reserved, though perfectly well-bred and even kindly manner of the stranger forbade close intimacy. He was a most regular attender at church, not only on Sundays but at the weekly prayer-meetings and occasional festivals, and the missionary noticed that his Bible looked as if it were a well-thumbed one.

At first the two seamen, whom people soon found out, were named respectively Jo and Dick, wrought in the wright’s workshop, and at all kinds of miscellaneous jobs; besides making frequent and sometimes long voyages in their boat to the neighbouring islands. As time flew by things seemed to prosper with the merchant. The keel of a little schooner was laid. Father, and son, and seamen (as well as the native servant, who was called Jako) toiled at this vessel incessantly until she was finished—then, Henry was placed in command of her, Jo and Dick were appointed first and second mates, two or three natives completed the crew, and she went to sea under the somewhat peculiar name of the Avenger.

This seemed to be the first decided advance in the fortunes of the new family. Business increased in a wonderful way. The Avenger returned again and again to the Green Isle laden with rich and varied commodities for the successful merchant. In course of time the old store was taken down, and a new one built; the Avenger was sold, and a large brig purchased, the rather pretty name of which—“Evening Star”—was erased, and the mysterious word Avenger put in its place. Everything, in short, betokened that Mr Stuart was on the high road to fortune.

But there were some mysteries connected with the merchant which sorely puzzled the wisest heads in the place, and which would have puzzled still wiser heads had they been there. Although it soon became quite evident to the meanest capacity that Mr Stuart was the richest man on the island; yet he and his family continued to occupy the poor, shabby, little, ill-furnished cottage which they had erected with their own hands when they first landed, and although they sold the finest silks and brocades to the wives and daughters of the other wealthy settlers, they themselves wore only the plainest and most sombre fabrics that consisted with respectability.

People would have called them a family of misers, but for their goodness of character in other respects, and for the undeniable fact that they were by far the most liberal contributors to the church and to the poor—not only in their own island, but in all the other islands around them.