Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader

“Ho! uncle Ole; here’s a business. Sich a to do—wounds, blood, and murder! or at least an attempt at it;—the whole settlement in arms, and the parson sends for you to take command!”

“What means the boy?” exclaimed Ole Thorwald, who, in virtue of his having once been a private in a regiment of militia, had been appointed to the chief command of the military department of the settlement. This consisted of about thirty white men, armed with fourteen fowling-pieces, twenty daggers, fifteen swords, and eight cavalry pistols; and about two hundred native Christians, who, when the assaults of their unconverted brethren were made, armed themselves—as they were wont to do in days gone by—with formidable clubs, stone hatchets, and spears. “What means the boy!” exclaimed Ole, laying down a book which he had been reading, and thrusting his spectacles up on his broad bald forehead.

“Exactly what the boy says,” replied Master Corrie.

“Then add something more to it, pray.”

Thorwald said this in a mild tone, but he suddenly seized the handle of an old pewter mug which the lad knew, from experience, would certainly reach his head before he could gain the door if he did not behave; so he became polite, and condescended to explain his errand more fully.

“So, so,” observed the descendant of the sea-kings, as he rose and slowly buckled on a huge old cavalry sabre, “there is double mischief brewing this time. Well, we shall see—we shall see. Go, Corrie, my boy, and rouse up Terrence and Hugh and—”

“The whole army, in short,” cried the boy, hastily—“you’re so awfully slow, uncle, you should have been born in the last century, I think.”

Farther remark was cut short by the sudden discharge of the pewter mug, which, however, fell harmlessly on the panel of the closing door as the impertinent Corrie sped forth to call the settlement to arms.

Chapter Six
Suspicions allayed and re-awakened

Gascoyne, followed by his man Jo Bumpus, sped over the rugged mountains and descended the slopes on the opposite side of the island soon after nightfall, and long before Captain Montague, in his large and well-manned boat, could pull half way round in the direction of the sequestered bay where the Foam lay quietly at anchor.

There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the glassy sea, as the captain of the sandal-wood trader reached the shore and uttered a low cry like the hoot of an owl. The cry was instantly replied to, and in a few minutes a boat crept noiselessly towards the shore, seeming, in the uncertain light, more like a shadow than a reality. It was rowed by a single man. When within a few yards of the shore, the oars ceased to move, and the deep stillness of the night was scarcely broken by the low voice of surly Dick demanding—“Who goes there?”

“All right, pull in,” replied Gascoyne, whose deep bass voice sounded sepulchral in the almost unearthly stillness. It was one of those dark oppressively quiet nights which make one feel a powerful sensation of loneliness, and a peculiar disinclination, by word or act, to disturb the prevailing quiescence of nature—such a night as suggests the idea of a coming storm to those who are at sea, or of impending evil to those on land.

“Is the mate aboard?” inquired Gascoyne.

“He is, sir.”

“Are any of the hands on shore?”

“More than half of ’em, sir.”

Nothing more was said; and in a few minutes Gascoyne was slowly pacing the quarter-deck of his little vessel in earnest consultation with his first mate. There seemed to be some difference of opinion between the captain and his officer, for their words, which at first were low, at length became audible.

“I tell you, Manton, it won’t do,” said Gascoyne, sternly.

“I can only suggest what I believe to be for the good of the ship,” replied the other, coldly. “Even if you succeed in your attempt, you will be certain to lose some of our hands; for although the best of them are on shore, the commander of the Talisman will think those that remain too numerous for a sandal-wood trader, and you are aware that we are sufficiently short-handed in such dangerous seas.”

The latter part of this speech was uttered in a slightly sarcastic tone.

“What would you have me do, then?” demanded Gascoyne, whose usual decision of character seemed to have deserted him under the influence of conflicting feelings, which, the first mate could plainly perceive, agitated the breast of his commander, but which he could by no means account for. Certainly he had no sympathy with them, for Manton’s was a hard, stern nature—not given to the melting mood.

“Do?” exclaimed the mate vehemently, “I would mount the red, and get out the sweeps. An hour’s pull will place the schooner on the other side of the reef. A shot from Long Tom will sink the best boat in the service of his Britannic Majesty, and we could be off and away with the land breeze before morning.”

“What! sink a man-of-war’s boat!” exclaimed Gascoyne; “why, that would make them set us down as pirates at once, and we should have to run the gauntlet of half the British navy before this time next year.”

Manton received this remark with a loud laugh, which harshly disturbed the silence of the night.

“That is true,” said he, “yet I scarcely expected to see Captain Gascoyne shew the white feather.”

“Possibly not,” retorted the other, grimly; “yet methinks that he who counsels flight shews more of the white feather than he who would shove his head into the very jaws of the lion. It won’t do, Manton; I have my own reasons for remaining here. The white lady must in the meantime smile on the British commander. Besides, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to do all this and get our fellows on board again before morning. The land-breeze will serve to fill the sails of the Talisman just as well as those of the Foam; and they’re sure to trip their anchor to-night, for, you’ll scarcely believe it, this mad little fellow Montague actually suspects me to be the pirate Durward!”

Again the harsh laugh of Manton disturbed the peaceful calm, and this time he was joined by Gascoyne, who seemed at length to have overcome the objections of his mate, for their tones again sank into inaudible whispers.

Shortly after this conversation the moon broke out from behind a bank of clouds, and shone brightly down on land and sea, throwing into bold relief the precipices, pinnacles, and gorges of the one, and covering the other with rippling streaks of silver. About the same time the oars of the man-of-war’s boat were heard, and in less than half an hour Captain Montague ascended the side of the Foam, where, to his great surprise, he was politely received by Gascoyne.

“Captain Gascoyne has reason to be proud of his pedestrian powers,” said the young commander; “he must have had urgent reason for making such good use of his legs since we last met.”

“To do the honours of his own ship, when he expects a visit from a British officer, is surely sufficient reason to induce a poor skipper to take an extra walk of a fine evening,” replied Gascoyne, blandly. “Besides, I know that men-of-war are apt to take a fancy to the crews of merchantmen sometimes, and I thought my presence might be necessary here to-night.”

“How?” exclaimed Montague, quickly. “Do you fancy that your single arm, stout though it be, could avail to prevent this evil that you dread if I think proper to act according to established usage in time of war.”

“Nay, that were extreme vanity indeed,” returned the other, “but I would fain hope that the explanations which I can give of the danger of our peculiar trade, and the necessity we have for a strong crew, will induce Captain Montague to forego his undoubted privilege and right on this occasion.”

“I’m not sure of that,” replied Montague, “it will depend much on your explanations being satisfactory. How many men have you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“So many! that is much more than enough to work so small a vessel.”

“But not more than enough to defend my vessel from a swarm of bloody savages.”

“Perhaps not,” returned Montague, on whom the urbanity and candour of the captain of the Foam were beginning to have a softening influence. “You have no objection to let me see your papers, and examine your ship, I suppose.”

“None in the world,” replied Gascoyne, smiling, “and if I had, it would make little difference, I should imagine, to one who is so well able to insist on having his will obeyed.”—(He glanced at the boat full of armed men as he spoke.)—“Pray, come below with me.”

In the examination that ensued Captain Montague was exceedingly strict, although the strength of his first suspicions had been somewhat abated by the truthful tone and aspect of Gascoyne, and the apparent reasonableness of all he said; but he failed to detect anything in the papers, or in the general arrangements of the Foam, that could warrant his treating her otherwise than as an honest trader.

“So,” said he, on returning to the deck; “this is the counterpart of the noted pirate, is it? You must pardon my having suspected you, sir, of being this same Durward, sailing under false colours. Come, let me see the points of difference between you, else if we happen to meet on the high seas I may chance to make an unfortunate hole in your timbers.”

“The sides of my schooner are altogether black, as you see,” returned Gascoyne. “I have already explained that a narrow streak of red distinguishes the pirate, and this fair lady” (leading Montague to the bow) “guides the Foam over the waves with smiling countenance, while a scarlet griffin is the more appropriate figurehead of Durward’s vessel.”

As he spoke, the low boom of a far distant gun was heard. Montague started, and glanced inquiringly in the face of his companion, whose looks expressed a slight degree of surprise.

“What was that, think you?” said Montague, after a momentary pause.

“The commander of the Talisman ought, I think, to be the best judge of the sound of his own guns.”

“True,” returned the young officer, somewhat disconcerted; “but you forget that I am not familiar with the eruptions of those volcanic mountains of yours; and, at so great a distance from my ship, with such hills of rock and lava between us, I may well be excused feeling a little doubt as to the bark of my own bull-dogs. But that signal betokens something unusual. I must shorten my visit to you, I fear.”

“Pray do not mention it,” said Gascoyne, with a peculiar smile; “under the circumstances I am bound to excuse you.”

“But,” continued Montague, with emphasis, “I should be sorry indeed to part without some little memorial of my visit. Be so good as to order your men to come aft.”

“By all means,” said Gascoyne, giving the requisite order promptly, for, having sent all his best men on shore, he did not much mind the loss one or two of those that remained.

When they were mustered, the British commander inspected them carefully, and then he singled out surly Dick, and ordered him into the boat. A slight frown rested for a moment on Gascoyne’s countenance, as he observed the look of ill-concealed triumph with which the man obeyed the order. The expression of surly Dick, however, was instantly exchanged for one of dismay as his captain strode up to him, and looked in his face for one moment with a piercing glance, at the same time thrusting his left hand into the breast of his red shirt.

“Goodbye,” he said, suddenly, in a cheerful tone, extending his right hand and grasping that of the sailor. “Goodbye, lad; if you serve the king as well as you have served me, he’ll have reason to be proud of you.”

Gascoyne turned on his heel, and the man slunk into the boat with an aspect very unlike that of a bold British seaman.

“Here is another man I want,” said Montague, laying his hand on the shoulder of John Bumpus.

“I trust, sir, that you will not take that man,” said Gascoyne earnestly. “I cannot afford to lose him; I would rather you should take any three of the others.”

“Your liberality leads me to think that you could without much difficulty supply the place of the men I take—but three are too many. I shall be satisfied with this one. Go into the boat, my lad.”

Poor John Bumpus, whose heart had been captivated by the beauties of the island, obeyed the order with a rueful countenance; and Gascoyne bit his lip and turned aside to conceal his anger. In two minutes more the boat rowed away from the schooner’s side.

Not a word was spoken by any one in the boat until a mile had separated it from the schooner. They had just turned a point which shut the vessel out of view, when surly Dick suddenly recovered his self-possession and his tongue, and, starting up in an excited manner, exclaimed to Montague—

“The schooner you have just left, sir, is a pirate. I tell the truth, though I should swing for it.”

The crew of the boat ceased rowing, and glanced at each other in surprise on hearing this.

“Ha! say you so,” exclaimed Montague, quickly.

“It’s a fact, sir; ask my comrade there, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”

“He’ll do nothin’ o’ the sort,” sharply returned honest Bumpus, who, having been only a short time previously engaged by Gascoyne, could perceive neither pleasure nor justice in the idea of being hanged for a pirate, and who attributed Dick’s speech to an ill-natured desire to get his late commander into trouble.

“Which of you am I to believe?” said Montague, hastily.

“W’ich ever you please,” observed Bumpus, with an air of indifference.

“It’s no business o’ mine,” said Dick, sulkily; “if you choose to let the blackguard escape, that’s your own look out.”

“Silence, you scoundrel,” cried Montague, who was as much nettled by a feeling of uncertainty how to act as by the impertinence of the man.

Before he could decide as to the course he ought to pursue, the report of one of the guns of his own vessel boomed loud and distinct in the distance. It was almost immediately followed by another.

“Ha! that settles the question; give way, my lads, give way.”

In another moment the boat was cleaving her way swiftly through the dark water in the direction of the Talisman.

Chapter Seven
Master Corrie caught napping—Snakes in the grass

The Sabbath morning which succeeded the events we have just narrated dawned on the settlement of Sandy Cove in unclouded splendour, and the deep repose of nature was still unbroken by the angry passions and the violent strife of man, although from the active preparations of the previous night it might have been expected that those who dwelt on the island would not have an opportunity of enjoying the rest of that day.

Everything in and about the settlement was eminently suggestive of peace. The cattle lay sleepily in the shade of the trees; the sea was still calm like glass. Men had ceased from their daily toil; and the only sounds that broke the quiet of the morning were the chattering of the parrots and other birds in the cocoanut groves; and the cries of seafowl, as they circled in the air, or dropt on the surface of the sea in quest of fish.

The British frigate lay at anchor in the same place which she had hitherto occupied, and the Foam still floated in the sequestered bay on the other side of the island. In neither vessel was there the slightest symptom of preparation; and to one who knew not the true state of matters, the idea of war being about to break forth was the last that would have occurred.

But this deceitful quiet was only the calm that precedes the storm. On every hand men were busily engaged in making preparation to break that Sabbath day in the most frightful manner, or were calmly, but resolutely, awaiting attack. On board the ship-of-war, indeed, there was little doing, for, her business being to fight, she was always in a state of readiness for action. Her signal guns, fired the previous night, had recalled Montague to tell him of the threatened attack by the savages. A few brief orders were given, and they were prepared for whatever might occur. In the village, too, the arrangements to repel attack having been made, white men and native converts alike rested with their arms placed in convenient proximity to their hands.

In a wild and densely-wooded part of the island, far removed from those portions which we have yet had occasion to describe, a band of fiendish-looking men were making arrangements for one of those unprovoked assaults which savages are so prone to make on those who settle near them.

They were all of them in a state of almost complete nudity, but the complicated tattooing on their dark skins gave them the appearance of being more clothed than they really were. Their arms consisted chiefly of enormous clubs of hardwood, spears, and bows; and, in order to facilitate their escape should they chance to be grasped in a hand-to-hand conflict, they had covered their bodies with oil, which glistened in the sunshine as they moved about their village.

Conspicuous among these truly savage warriors was the form of Keona, with his right arm bound up in a sort of sling. Pain and disappointed revenge had rendered this man’s face more than usually diabolical as he went about among his fellows, inciting them to revenge the insult and injury done to them through his person by the whites. There was some reluctance, however, on the part of a few of the chiefs to renew a war that had been terminated, or rather, been slumbering, only for a few months.

Keona’s influence, too, was not great among his kindred, and had it not been that one or two influential chiefs sided with him, his own efforts to relight the still smoking torch of war would have been unavailing.

As it was, the natives soon worked themselves up into a sufficiently excited state to engage in any desperate expedition. It was while all this was doing in the native camp, that Keona, having gone to the nearest mountain top to observe what was going on in the settlement, had fallen in with and been chased by some of those men belonging to the Foam, who had been sent on shore to escape being pressed into the service of the king of England.

The solitary exception to this general state of preparation for war was the household of Frederick Mason. Having taken such precautionary steps the night before as he deemed expedient, and having consulted with Ole Thorwald, the general commanding, who had posted scouts in all the mountain passes, and had seen the war-canoes drawn up in a row on the strand, the pastor retired to his study and spent the greater part of the night in preparing to preach the gospel of peace on the morrow, and in committing the care of his flock and his household to Him who is the “God of battles” as well as the “Prince of peace.”

It is not to be supposed that Mr Mason contemplated the probable renewal of hostilities without great anxiety. For himself, we need scarcely say, he had no fears, but his heart sank when he thought of his gentle Alice falling into the hands of savages. As the night passed away without any alarms, his anxiety began to subside, and when Sunday morning dawned, he lay down on a couch to snatch a few hours’ repose before the labours of the day began.

The first object that greeted the pastor’s eyes on awaking in the morning was a black visage, and a pair of glittering eyes gazing at him through the half open door with an expression of the utmost astonishment.

He leaped up with lightning, speed and darted towards the intruder, but checked himself suddenly and smiled, as poor Poopy uttered a scream, and, falling on her knees, implored for mercy.

“My poor girl, I fear I have frightened you by my violence,” said he, sitting down on his couch and yawning sleepily; “but I was dreaming, Poopy; and when I saw your black face peeping at me, I took you at first for one of the wild fellows on the other side of the mountains. You have come to sweep and arrange my study, I suppose.”

“Why, mass’r, you no hab go to bed yet,” said Poopy, still feeling and expressing surprise at her master’s unwonted irregularity. “Is you ill?”

“Not at all, my good girl, only a little tired. It is not a time for me to take much rest when the savages are said to be about to attack us.”

“When is they coming?” inquired the girl, meekly. The pastor smiled as he replied,—“That is best known to themselves, Poopy. Do you think it likely that murderers or thieves would send to let us know when they were coming?”

“Hee! hee!” laughed Poopy, with an immense display of teeth and gums.

“Is Alice awake?” inquired Mr Mason.

“No, her be sound ’sleep wid her two eye shut tight up, dis fashion, and her mout’ wide open—so.”

The representations of Alice’s condition, as given by her maid, although hideously unlike the beautiful object they were meant to call up to the father’s mind, were sufficiently expressive and comprehensible.

“Go wake her, my girl, and let us have breakfast as soon as you can. Has Will Corrie been here this morning?”

“Hims bin here all night,” replied the girl, with a broad grin—(and the breadth of Poopy’s broad grin was almost appalling!)

“What mean you? has he slept in this house all night?”

“Yes—eh! no,” said Poopy.

“Yes, no,” exclaimed Mr Mason. “Come, Poopy, don’t be stupid, explain yourself.”

“Hee! hee! hee! yes, ho! ho!” laughed Poopy, as if the idea of explaining herself was about the richest joke she had listened to since she was born. “Hee! hee! me no can ’splain, but you com here and see.”

So saying, she conducted her wondering master to the front door of the cottage, where, across the threshold, directly under the porch, lay the form of the redoubted Corrie, fast asleep, and armed to the teeth!

In order to explain the cause of this remarkable apparition, we think it justifiable to state to the reader, in confidence, that young Master Corrie was deeply in love with the fair Alice. With all his reckless drollery of disposition, the boy was intensely romantic and enthusiastic; and, feeling that the unsettled condition of the times endangered the welfare of his lady-love, he resolved, like a true knight, to arm himself and guard the threshold of her door with his own body.

In the deep silence of the night he buckled on a sabre, the blade of which, by reason of its having been broken, was barely eight inches long, and the hilt whereof was battered and rusty. He also stuck a huge brass-mounted cavalry pistol in his belt, in the virtue of which he had great faith, having only two days before shot with it a green-headed parrot at a distance of two yards. The distance was not great, to be sure, but it was enough for his purpose—intending, as he did, to meet his foe, when the moment of action should come, in close conflict, and thrust the muzzle of his weapon down the said foe’s throat before condescending to draw the trigger.

Thus prepared for the worst, he sallied out on tiptoe, intending to mount guard at the missionary’s door, and return to his own proper couch before the break of day.

But alas for poor Corrie’s powers of endurance! no sooner had he extended his chubby form on the door-mat, earnestly wishing, but not expecting, that Alice would come out and find him there, than he fell fast asleep, while engaged in the hopeless task of counting the starry host—a duty which he had imposed on himself in the hope that he might thereby be kept awake. Once asleep he slept on, as a matter of course, with his broad little chest heaving gently; his round little visage beaming upwards like a terrestrial moon; his left arm under his head in lieu of a pillow, (by consequence of which it was fast asleep also,) and his right hand grasping the hilt of the broken sabre.

As for Corrie’s prostrate body affording protection to Alice—the entire savage population might have stepped across it, one by one, and might have stepped back again, bearing away into slavery the fair maiden, with her father and all the household furniture to boot, without in the least disturbing the deep slumbers of the youthful knight. At least we may safely come to this conclusion from the fact that Mr Mason shook him, first gently and then violently, for full five minutes before he could get him to speak; and even then he only gave utterance, in very sleepy tones, and half-formed words, to the remark—

“Oh! don’ borer me. It aint b’kfust-t’m’ yet?”

“Ho! Corrie, Corrie,” shouted Mr Mason, giving the victim a shake that threatened to dislocate his neck, “get up, my boy—rouse up!”

“Hallo! hy! murder! Come on you vill— eh! Mr Mason—I beg pardon, sir,” stammered Corrie, as he at length became aware of his condition, and blushed deeply; “I—I really, Mr Mason, I merely came to watch while you were all asleep, as there are savages about, you know—and ha! ha! ha!—oh! dear me!” (Corrie exploded at this point, unable to contain himself at the sight of the missionary’s gaze of astonishment,) “Wot a sight for a Sunday mornin’ too!”

The hilarity of the boy was catching, for at this point a vociferous “hee! hee!” burst from the sable Poopy; the clear laugh of Alice, too, came ringing through the passage, and Mr Mason himself finally joined in the chorus.

“Come, sir knight,” exclaimed the latter, on recovering his gravity, “this is no guise for a respectable man to be seen in on Sunday morning; come in and lay down your arms. You have done very well as a soldier for this occasion; let us see if you can do your duty equally well as a church-officer. Have you the keys.”

“No, they are at home.”

“Then run and get them, my boy, and leave your pistol behind you. I dare say the savages won’t attack during the daytime.”

Corrie did as he was desired, and the pastor went, after breakfast, to spend a short time with Alice on a neighbouring eminence, from which could be obtained a fine view of the settlement, with its little church and the calm bay on which floated the frigate, sheltered by the encircling coral reef from the swell of the ocean.

Here it was Mr Mason’s wont to saunter with Alice every Sunday morning, to read a chapter of the Bible together, and converse about that happy land where one so dear to both of them now dwelt with their Saviour. Here, also, the child’s maid was sometimes privileged to join them. On this particular morning, however, they were not the only spectators of the beautiful view from that hill, for, closely hidden in the bushes—not fifty yards from the spot where they sat—lay a band of armed savages who had escaped the vigilance of the scouts, and had come by an unguarded pass to the settlement.

They might easily have slain or secured the missionary and his household without alarming the people in the village, but their plan of attack forbade such a premature proceeding. The trio therefore finished their chapter and their morning prayer undisturbed, little dreaming of the number of glittering eyes that watched their proceedings.