The handspike fell within a yard of Gascoyne, who, keeping up his supposed character, made a wild splash with his arms and dived like a genuine monster of the deep. Swimming under water as vigorously as he could, he endeavoured to gain the other side of the vessel before he came up; but, finding that this was impossible, he turned on his back and allowed himself to rise gently until nothing but his face appeared above the surface. By this means he was enabled to draw a full breath, and then, causing himself to sink, he swam under water to the other side of the schooner and rose under her quarter.

Here he paused a minute to breathe, then glided with noiseless strokes to the main chains, which he seized hold of, and, under their shelter, listened intently for at least five minutes.

Not a sound was to be heard on board save the footstep of the solitary watchman who slowly paced the deck, and now and then beguiled the tedium of his vigil by humming a snatch of a sea song.

Gascoyne now felt assured that the crew were ashore enjoying themselves, (as they were wont to do,) in one of the artificial caverns where their goods were concealed. He knew, from his own former experience, that they felt quite secure when once at anchor in the harbour of the Isle of Palms; it was therefore probable that all of them had gone ashore except this man who had been left to take care of the vessel.

Gascoyne now drew himself slowly up into the chains, and remained there for a few seconds in a stooping position, keeping his head below the level of the bulwarks while he squeezed the water out of his lower garments. This done, he waited until the man on deck came close to where he stood, when he sprang on him with the agility of a tiger, threw him down, and placed his hand on his mouth.

“It will be your wisest course to be still, my man,” said Gascoyne, sternly. “You know who I am, and you know what I can do when occasion requires. If you shout when I remove my hand from your mouth you die.”

The man seemed to be quite aware of the hopelessness of his case, for he quietly submitted to have his mouth bound with a handkerchief and his hands and feet tied with cords. A few seconds sufficed to accomplish this, after which Gascoyne took him up in his arms as if he had been a child, carried him below, and laid him on one of the cabin lockers. Then, dragging a sheet off one of the beds, he sprang up on deck and waved it over the stern.

“That’s the signal for me,” said Corrie, who had watched for it eagerly—“now, uncle Ole, mind you obey orders—you’re rather inclined to be mutinous, and that won’t pay to-night. If you don’t look out, Gascoyne will pitch into you, old boy.”

Master Corrie indulged in these impertinent remarks while he was stripping off his jacket and shirt. The exasperated Thorwald attempted to seize him by the neck and shake him, but Corrie flung his jacket in his face, and sprang down the beach like a squirrel. He had wisdom enough, however, to say and do all this in the quietest possible manner, and when he entered the sea he did so with as much caution as Gascoyne himself had done, insomuch that he seemed to melt away like a mischievous sprite.

In a few minutes he was alongside of the Foam; caught a rope that was thrown to him, and quickly stood on the deck.

“Well done, Corrie. Clamber over the stern, and slide down by that rope into the little boat that floats there. Take one of the oars, which you will find muffled, and scull to the shore and bring off Thorwald and his men. And, hark ’ee, boy, bring off my shirt and boots. Now, look alive; your friend Henry Stuart’s life may depend on it.”

“Henry’s life!” exclaimed Corrie in amazement.

“Come, no questions. His life may depend on your promptitude.”

Corrie wanted no stronger motive for speed. In a state of surprise mingled with anxious forebodings, he leaped over the stern and was gone in a moment.

The distance between the shore and the schooner being very short, the boat was quickly alongside, and the party, under stout Ole Thorwald, took possession of their prize. Meanwhile Gascoyne had set the jib and fore-topsail, which latter had been left hanging loose from the yard, so that by hauling out the sheets slowly and with great care, the thing was done without noise. The cable was then cut, the boat manned, and the Foam glided out of the bay like a phantom ship.

The moment she got beyond the shelter of the palms her sails filled, and in a few minutes she was rushing through the water at the rate of ten or eleven knots an hour.

Gascoyne stood at the helm and guided her through the intricacies of the dangerous coast with consummate skill, until he reached the bay where the wrecked ship lay. Here he lay to, and sent the boat ashore for the party that had been left at the tent. They were waiting anxiously for his return; great therefore was their astonishment when he sent a message inviting them to go on board the Foam.

The instant they embarked Gascoyne put about, and, ordering the mainsail to be hoisted and one of the reefs to be shaken out of the topsail, ran round to windward of the island, with the foam flying in great masses on either side of the schooner, which lay over so much before the gale that it was scarcely possible to stand on the deck.

The manner in which the pirate captain now acted was calculated to fill the hearts of those whose lives seemed to hang in his hands with alarm if not dismay. His spirit seemed to be stirred within him. There was indeed no anger either in his looks or tones, but there was a stern fixedness of purpose in his manner and aspect which aroused, yet repelled, the curiosity of those around him. Even Ole Thorwald and Montague agreed that it was best to let him alone, for although they might overcome his great physical force by the united strength of numbers, the result would certainly be disastrous, as he was the only one who knew the locality.

On reaching the windward side of the island he threw the schooner up into the wind, and ordered the large boat to be hoisted out and put in the water, Gascoyne issued his commands in a quick loud voice, and Ole shook his head as if he felt that this overbearing manner proved what he had expected, namely, that when the pirate got aboard his own vessel he would come out in his true colours.

Whatever men felt or thought, there was no hesitation in rendering prompt obedience to that voice. The large boat was hoisted off the brass pivot gun amidships and lowered into the water. Then Gascoyne gave the helm to one of the men, with directions to hold it exactly as it then lay, and, hurrying down below, speedily returned, to the astonishment of every one, with a man in his arms.

“Now, Connway,” said Gascoyne, as he cut the cords that bound the man and removed the handkerchief from his mouth, “I’m a man of few words, and to-night have less time than usual to speak. I set you free. Get into that boat—one oar will suffice to guide it—the wind will drive it to the island. I send it as a parting gift to Manton and my former associates. It is large enough to hold them all. Tell them that I repent of my sins, and the sooner they do the same the better. I cannot now undo the evil I have done them. I can only furnish the means of escape, so that they may have time and opportunity to mend their ways, and, hark ’ee, the sooner they leave this plane the better. It will no longer be a safe retreat. Farewell!”

While he was speaking he led the man by the arm to the side of the schooner, and constrained him to get into the boat. As he uttered the last word he cut the rope that held it, and let it drop astern.

Gascoyne immediately resumed his place at the helm, and once more the schooner was running through the water, almost gunwale under, towards the place where the Wasp had been wrecked.

Without uttering a word of explanation, and apparently forgetful of every one near him, the pirate continued during the remainder of that night to steer the Foam out and in among the roaring breakers, as if he were trying how near he could venture to the jaws of destruction without actually plunging into them. As the night wore on the sky cleared up, and the scene of foaming desolation that was presented by the breakers in the midst of which they flew, was almost enough to appal the stoutest heart.

The crew looked on in moody silence. They knew that their lives were imperilled, but they felt that they had no resource. No one dared to address the silent, stern man who stood like an iron statue at the helm the whole of that night. Towards morning, he steered out from among the dangerous coral reefs and ran south, straight before the wind.

Then Corrie summoned up courage, and, going aft to Gascoyne, looked up in his face and said—

“You’re searching for Henry, I think?”

“Yes, boy. I am,” answered the pirate, and a gleam of kindliness crossed his face for a moment, but it was quickly chased away by a look of deep anxiety, and Corrie retired.

Now that the danger of the night was over, all the people on board became anxious to save Henry or ascertain his fate; but although they searched the ocean far and wide, they saw not a vestige of him or of the Wasp. During this period Gascoyne acted like a bewildered man. He never quitted the helm, night nor day. He only ate a biscuit now and then when it was brought to him, and he did not answer when he was spoken to.

Every one felt sympathy with the man who seemed to mourn so deeply for the lost youth.

At last Montague went up to him and said in a gentle voice—

“I fear that Henry is gone.”

Gascoyne started as if a sword had pierced him. For one moment he looked fiercely in the young captain’s face; then an expression of the deepest sadness overspread his countenance as he said—

“Do you think there is no hope?”

“None,” said Montague. “I grieve to give pain to one who seems to have been an intimate friend of the lad.”

“He was the son of my oldest and best friend. What would you advise, Mr Montague?”

“I think—that is to say, don’t you think—that it would be as well to put about now?”

Gascoyne’s head dropped on his chest, and for some moments he stood speechless, while his strong hands played nervously with the tiller that they had held so long and so firmly. At last he looked up and said, in a low voice— “I resign the schooner into your hands, Mr Montague.”

Then he went slowly below, and shut himself up in his cabin.

Montague at once put down the helm, and, pointing the schooner’s prow northward, steered for the harbour of Sandy Cove.

Chapter Twenty Five
Surly Dick—The Rescue

We must turn aside here for a short time to follow the fortunes of the Talisman.

When that vessel went in chase of the Foam, after her daring passage across the reefs, she managed to keep her in view until the island was out of sight astern. Then the increasing darkness caused by the squall hid the two vessels from each other, and before the storm passed away the superior sailing qualities of the Foam carried her far beyond the reach of the cruiser.

But Mr Mulroy was not a man to be easily baffled. He resolved to continue the chase, and, supposing that his commander must have got safely to the shore, he made up his mind to proceed southward for a short time, thinking it probable that the pirate would run for the shelter of those remote islands which he knew were seldom visited by merchant ships. The importance of keeping the chase in view as long as possible, and following it up without delay, he felt it would be accepted as a sufficient excuse by Montague for not putting back to take him on board.

The squalls which happened to prevail at that time drove the Talisman farther south than her first lieutenant had intended to go, and she failed to fall in with the pirate schooner. Mulroy cruised far and wide for fully a week; then he gave up the chase as hopeless. Two days after the breaking of the storm that wrecked the Wasp, the Talisman’s prow was turned northward towards Sandy Cove.

It was the close of a calm beautiful evening when this was done. A gentle breeze fanned the topsails, although it failed to ruffle the sea.

“I don’t like to be baffled in this way,” said Mulroy to the second lieutenant, as they paced the quarterdeck together.

“It is very unfortunate,” returned the other. “Would it not be as well to examine the man called Surly Dick before leaving these waters? You know he let out that there is some island hereabouts at which the pirates are wont to rendezvous. Perhaps by threats, if not by persuasion, he may be induced to tell us where it lies.”

“True. I had forgotten that fellow altogether. Let him be sent for.”

In a few minutes Surly Dick stepped on the quarter-deck and touched his cap. He did not appear to have grown less surly since his introduction on board the frigate. Discipline had evidently a souring effect on his temper.

“Your late comrades have escaped me,” said the first lieutenant, “but you may depend upon it I will catch the villains in the long run.”

“It’ll be a pretty long run before you do,” remarked the man, sulkily.

Mulroy looked sternly at him. “You forget,” said he, “that you are a prisoner. Let me advise you to be at least civil in your manner and tone. Whether the run shall be a long or a short one remains to be seen. One thing is pretty certain, namely, that your own run of life will be a very short one. You know the usual doom of a pirate when he is caught.”

Surly Dick moved uneasily. “I was made a pirate against my will,” said he, in a still more sulky tone and disrespectful manner.

“You will find it difficult to prove that,” returned Mulroy. “Meanwhile I shall put you in irons and treat you as you deserve until I can place you in the hands of the civil authorities.”

Surly Dick stood first on one leg and then on the other; moved his fingers about nervously, and glanced in the lieutenant’s face furtively. It was evident that he was ill at ease.

“I never committed murder, sir,” said he in an improved tone. “It wasn’t allowed on board of the Avenger, sir. It’s a hard case that a fellow should be made a pirate by force, and then be scragged for it, though he’s done none o’ the bloody work.”

“This may be true,” rejoined the lieutenant, “but as I have said, you will find it difficult to convince your judges of it. But you will receive a fair trial. There is one thing, however, that will stand in your favour, and that is a full and free confession. If you make this, and give me all the information you can in order to bring your late comrades to justice, your judges will perhaps be disposed to view your case leniently.”

“Wot more can I confess, sir,” said Dick, beginning to look a little more interested. “I’ve already confessed that I wos made a pirate against my will, and that I’ve never done no murder—though I have plundered a little, just like the rest. As for helpin’ to bring my comrades to justice, I only wish as I know’d how, and I’d do it right off, I would.”

Surly Dick’s expression of countenance when he said this, was a sufficient guarantee that he was in earnest.

“There is an island somewhere hereabouts,” said the lieutenant, “where the pirates are in the habit of hiding sometimes, is there not?”

Surly Dick looked at his questioner slyly as he replied— “There is, sir.”

“Do you not think it very likely that they may have run there now—that they may be there at this moment?”

“It’s oncommom likely,” replied Dick with a grin. “Can you direct me how to steer, in order to reach that island?”

Surly Dick’s aspect changed. He became morose again, and looked silently at his feet for a few moments, as if he were debating something in his own mind. He was in truth perplexed; for, while he was extremely anxious to bring his hated comrades to justice, he was by no means so anxious to let the lieutenant into the secret of the treasures contained in the caverns of the Isle of Palms, all of which he knew would be at once swept hopelessly beyond his grasp if they should be discovered. He also reflected that if he could only manage to get his late companions comfortably hanged, and himself set free for having turned King’s evidence against them, he could return to the island and abstract the wealth it contained by degrees. The brilliant prospect thus opened up to him was somewhat marred, however, by the consideration that some of the pirates might make a confession and let this secret be known, in which case his golden dreams would vanish. The difficulty of making up his mind was so great that he continued for some time to twist his fingers and move his feet uneasily in silence.

Mulroy observed the pirate’s indecision, and although he knew not its cause to the full extent, he was sufficiently acquainted with human nature to know that now was the moment to overcome the man, if he was to be overcome at all.

“Well, well,” he said, carelessly, “I’m sorry to see you throw away your only chance. As for the information you refuse to give, I can do without it. Perhaps I may find some of your late comrades when we make the island, who will stand witness against you. That will do, my man, you may go. Mr Geoffrey,” (turning to a midshipman,) “will you accompany that pirate forward and see that he is put in irons.”

“But you don’t know where the island is,” said Surly Dick, anxiously, as the lieutenant was turning away.

Mulroy turned back— “No,” said he, “but you ought to know that when a seaman is aware of the existence of an island, and knows that he is near it, a short time will suffice to enable him to find it.”

Again he was about to turn away when Dick cried out— “Stay, sir, will you stand by me if I shew you the way?”

“I will not deceive you,” said Mulroy, bluntly. “If you shew me how to steer for this island, and assist me in every way that you can to catch these villains, I will report what you have done, and the judges at your trial will give what weight they please to the facts; but if you suppose that I will plead for such a rascal as you are, you very much mistake me.”

A look of deep hatred settled on the pirate’s countenance as he said briefly— “Well, I’ll shew you how to steer.”

Accordingly Surly Dick, after being shewn a chart, and being made aware of the exact position of the ship, ordered the course to be altered to “north-half-east.” As this was almost dead in the eye of the light breeze that was blowing, the Talisman had to proceed on her course by the slow process of tacking.

While she was in the act of putting about on one of these tacks, the look-out reported “a boat on the lee bow.”

“Boat on the lee bow!” was passed from mouth to mouth, and the order was immediately given to let the frigate fall off. In another minute, instead of ploughing her way slowly and doggedly to windward, the Talisman ran swiftly before the breeze towards a dark object which at a distance resembled a boat with a mast and a small flag flying from it.

“It is a raft, I think,” observed the second lieutenant, as he adjusted the telescope more perfectly.

“You are right, and I think there is someone on it,” said Mulroy. “I see something like a man lying on it, but whether he is dead or alive I cannot say. There is a flag, undoubtedly—but no one waves a handkerchief or a rag of any kind. Surely, if a living being occupied the raft he would have seen the ship by this time. Stay, he moves! No; it must have been imagination. I fear that he is dead, poor fellow. Stand by to lower a boat.”

The lieutenant spoke in a sad voice, for he felt convinced that he had come too late to the aid of some unfortunate who had died in perhaps the most miserable manner in which man can perish.

Henry Stuart did indeed lie on the raft a dead man to all appearance. Towards the evening of his third day, he had suffered very severely from the pangs of hunger. Long and earnestly had he gazed round the horizon, but no sail appeared. He felt that his end was approaching, and in a fit of despair and increasing weakness, he fell on his face in a state of half consciousness. Then he began to pray, and, gradually, he fell into a troubled slumber.

It was while he was in this condition, that the Talisman hove in sight. Henry had frequently fallen into this species of sleep during the last few hours, but he never continued in it long, for the pains of thirst as well as hunger now racked his frame. Nevertheless, he was not much reduced in strength or vigour. A long slow process of dying would have still lain before the poor youth, had it been his lot to perish on that raft.

A delightful dream came over him as he lay. A rich banquet was spread before him. With wolfish desire he grasped the food, and ate as he never ate before. Oh! it was a rare feast that! Each morsel was delicious; each draught was nectar. But he could not devour enough. There was a strange feeling in him that he could by no means eat to satisfaction.

While he was thus feasting in dreams the Talisman drew near. Her bulwarks were crowded with faces gazing earnestly at the bit of red rag that fluttered in the breeze and the pile of loose spars on the man’s form lay extended and motionless.

Suddenly Henry awoke with a start, to find that his rich banquet was a terrible delusion! that he was starving to death—and that a large ship was hove-to within a few yards of him!

Starting up on his knees, he uttered a wild shriek. Then, as the truth entered his soul, he raised his hand and gave a faint cheer.

The revulsion of feeling in the crew of the Talisman was overpowering—a long, loud, tremendous cheer burst from every heart!

“Lower away!” was shouted to the men who stood at the fall-tackles of the boat!

As the familiar sounds broke on Henry’s ear, he leaped to his feet, and waving his hand above his head, again attempted to cheer; but his voice failed him. Staggering backwards, he fell fainting into the sea.

Almost at the same instant, a man leaped from the bulwark of the frigate, and swam vigorously towards the raft. It was Richard Price, the boatswain of the frigate. He reached Henry before the boat did, and, grasping his inanimate form, supported him until it came up and rescued them both. A few minutes later Henry Stuart was restored to consciousness, and the surgeon of the frigate was ministering to him such restoratives as his condition seemed to require.