Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader

This plan was adopted and carried into execution. Then the pirates returned, and at their leisure unloaded and secured the cargo of their prize. It was richer than they had anticipated, being a miscellaneous cargo of valuable commodities for the trading stores of some of the South Sea merchants and settlers.

The joy felt by the pirates on making this discovery, was all the benefit that was ever derived from these ill-gotten gains by any one of those who had a hand in that dastardly deed. Long before they had an opportunity of removing the goods thus acquired, the career of the Avenger had terminated. But we must not anticipate our story.

On a green knoll near the margin of this bay, and in full view of the wreck, a rude tent or hut was constructed by the pirates out of part of an old sail which had been washed ashore from the wreck, and some broken spars. A small cask of biscuit and two or three blankets were placed in it, and here the captives were left to do as they pleased until such time as Manton chose to send for them. The only piece of advice that was given to them by their surly jailer was, that they should not on any pretence whatever cross the island to the bay in which the schooner lay at anchor.

“If ye do,” said the man who was the last of the party to quit them, “ye’ll wish ye hadn’t—that’s all. Take my advice and keep yer kooriosity in yer breeches’ pockets.”

With this caution they were left to their own devices and meditations.

It was a lovely calm evening at sunset when our four unfortunate friends were thus left alone in these strange circumstances. The effect of their forlorn condition was very different on each. Poopy flung herself down on the ground, inside the tent, and began to sob; Alice sat down beside her, and wept silently; whilst Montague, forgetting his own sorrows in his pity for the poor young creatures who had been thus strangely linked to him in affliction, sat down opposite to Alice, and sought to comfort her.

Will Corrie, feeling that he could do nothing to cheer his companions in the circumstances, and being unable to sit still, rose, and going out at the end of the tent, both sides of which were open, stood leaning on a pole, and contemplated the scene before him.

In a small creek, or indentation of the shore, close to the knoll on which the tent stood, two of the pirates were working at a boat which lay there. Corrie could not at first understand what they were about, but he was soon enlightened, for, after hauling the boat as far out of the water as they could, they left her there, and followed their comrades to the other side of the island, carrying the oars along with them.

The spirit that dwelt in Corrie’s breast was a very peculiar one. Up to this point in his misfortunes the poor boy had been subdued—overwhelmed by the suddenness and the terrible nature of the calamity that had befallen him—or rather, that had befallen Alice, for, to do him justice, he only thought of her. Indeed, he carried this feeling so far that he had honestly confessed to himself, in a mental soliloquy, the night on which he had been captured, that he did not care one straw for himself, or Poopy, or Captain Montague—that his whole and sole distress of mind and body was owing to the grief into which Alice had been plunged. He had made an attempt to comfort her one night on the voyage to the Isle of Palms, when she and Poopy and he were left alone together; but he failed. After one or two efforts he ended by bursting into tears, and then, choking himself violently with his own hands, said that he was ashamed of himself, that he wasn’t crying for himself but for her, (Alice,) and that he hoped she wouldn’t think the worse of him for being so like a baby. Here he turned to Poopy, and in a most unreasonable manner began to scold her for being at the bottom of the whole mischief, in the middle of which he broke off, said that he believed himself to be mad, and vowed he would blow out his own brains first, and those of all the pirates afterwards. Whereupon he choked, sobbed again, and rushed out of the cabin as if he really meant to execute his last awful threat.

But poor Corrie only rushed away to hide from Alice the irrepressible emotions that nearly burst his heart. Yes, Corrie was thoroughly subdued by grief. But the spring was not broken, it was only crushed flat by the weight of sorrow that lay like a millstone on his youthful bosom.

The first thing that set his active brain a-going once more—thereby overturning the weight of sorrow and causing the spring of his peculiar spirit to rebound—was the sight of the two pirates hauling up the boat and carrying off the oars.

“Ha! that’s your game is it?” muttered the boy between his teeth, and grasping the pole with both hands as if he wished to squeeze his fingers into the wood. “You don’t want to give us a chance of escaping, don’t you, eh! is that it? You think that because we’re a small party, and the half of us females, that we’re cowed, and won’t think of trying any other way of escaping, do you? Oh yes, that’s what you think; you know it, you do, but you’re mistaken,” (he became terribly sarcastic and bitter at this point;) “you’ll find that you have got men to deal with, that you’ve not only caught a tartar, but two tartars—one o’ them being ten times tartarer than the other. Oh, if—”

“What’s all that you’re saying, Corrie?” said Montague, stepping out of the tent at that moment.

“O captain,” said the boy, vehemently, “I wish I were a giant!”

“Why so, lad?”

“Because then I would wade out to that wreck, clap my shoulder to her bow, shove her into deep water, carry you, and Alice, and Poopy aboard, haul out the main-mast by the roots, make an oar of it, and scull out to sea, havin’ previously fired off the biggest gun aboard of her, to let the pirates know what I was doing.”

Corrie’s spirit was in a tumultuous and very rebellious state. He was half inclined to indulge in hysterical weeping, and more than half disposed to give way to a burst of savage glee. He spoke with the mantling blood blazing in his fat cheeks, and his two eyes glittering like those of a basilisk. Montague could not repress a smile and a look of admiration as he said to our little hero—

“Why, Corrie, if you were a giant it would be much easier to go to the other side of the island, wring off the heads of all the pirates, and, carrying me on your shoulders, and Alice and Poopy in your coat-pockets, get safely aboard of the Foam, and ho! for Sandy Cove.”

“So it would,” said Corrie, gravely. “I did not think of that, and it would be a far pleasanter way than the other.”

“Ah! Corrie, I fear that you are a very bloodthirsty fellow.”

“Of course I am when I’ve pirates to deal with. I would kill them every man, without a thought.”

“No you wouldn’t, my boy. You couldn’t do it in cold blood, even although they are bad men.”

“I don’t know that,” said Corrie, dubiously. “I would do it without more feeling than I would have in killing a cat.”

“Did you ever kill a cat?” asked Montague.

“Never,” answered Corrie.

“Then how can you tell what your feelings would be if you were to attempt to do it. I remember once, when I was a boy, going out to hunt cats.”

“O Captain Montague, surely you never hunted cats,” exclaimed Alice, who came out of the tent with a very pale face, and uncommonly red eyes.

“Yes, indeed, I did once—but I never did it again. I caught one, a kitten, and set off with a number of boys to kill it; but as we went along it began to play with my neck-tie and to purr! Our hearts were softened, so we let it go. Ah! Corrie, my boy, never go hunting cats,” said Montague, earnestly.

“Did I say I was going to?” replied Corrie, indignantly.

Montague laughed, and so did Alice, at the fierce look the boy put on.

“Corrie,” said the former, “I’m sure that you would not kill a pirate in cold blood, any more than you would kill a kitten—would you?”

“I’m not sure o’ that,” said Corrie, half laughing, but still looking fierce. “In the first place, my blood is never cold when I’ve to do with pirates; and, in the second place, pirates are not innocent creatures covered with soft hair—and they don’t purr!”

This last remark set Alice into a fit of laughter, and drew a faint “Hee! hee!” from Poopy, who had been listening to the conversation behind the canvas of the tent.

Montague took advantage of this improved state of things. “Now, Alice,” said he, cheerfully, “do you and Poopy set about spreading our blanket-tablecloth and getting supper laid out. It is but a poor one,—hard biscuit and water,—but there is plenty of it, and, after all, that is the main thing. Meanwhile Corrie and I will saunter along shore and talk over our plans. Cheer up, my little girl, we will manage to give these pirates the slip somehow or other, you may depend upon it.”

“Corrie,” said Montague, when they were alone. “I have spoken cheeringly to Alice, because she is a little girl and needs comfort, but you and I know that our case is a desperate one, and it will require all our united wisdom and cleverness to effect our escape from these rascally pirates.”

The commander of the Talisman paused, and smiled in spite of himself at the idea of being placed in circumstances that constrained him to hold a consultation, in matters that might involve life and death, with a mere boy! But there was no help for it; besides, to say truth, the extraordinary energy and courage that had been displayed by the lad, combined with a considerable amount of innate sharpness in his character, tended to create a feeling that the consultation might not be altogether without advantage. At all events, it was better to talk over their desperate position even with a boy, than to confine his anxieties to his own breast.

But although Montague had seen enough of his young companion to convince him that he was an intelligent fellow, he was not prepared for the fertility of resource, the extremity of daring, and the ingenuity of device, that were exhibited by him in the course of that consultation.

To creep over in the dead of night, knife in hand, and attack the pirates while asleep, was one of the least startling of his daring propositions; and to swim out to the wreck, set her on fire, and get quietly on board the Avenger while all the amazed pirates should have rushed over to see what could have caused such a blaze, cut the cable and sail away, was among the least ingenious of his devices.

These two talked long and earnestly while the shades of evening were descending on the Isle of Palms—and in the earnestness of their talk, and the pressing urgency of their case, the man almost forgot that his companion was a boy, and the boy never for a moment doubted that he himself, in everything but years, was a man.

It was getting dark when they returned to the tent, where they found that Alice and Poopy had arranged their supper with the most scrupulous care and nicety. These too, with the happy buoyancy of extreme youth, had temporarily forgotten their position, and, when their male companions entered, were deeply engaged in a private game of a “tea party,” in which hard biscuit figured as bun, and water was made to do duty for tea. In this latter part of the game, by the way, the children did but carry out in jest a practice which is not altogether unknown in happier circumstances and in civilised society.

Chapter Twenty Three

Plans Partially Carried Out—The Cutter’s Fate—And A Serious Misfortune

The cutter was a fast sailer, and although the pirate schooner had left Sandy Cove nearly two days before her, the Wasp, having had a fair wind, followed close on her heels. The Avenger cast anchor in the harbour of the Isle of Palms on the morning of her fifth day out; the Wasp sighted the island on the evening of the same day.

It was not Gascoyne’s purpose to run down at once and have a hand to hand fight with his own men. He felt that his party was too weak for such an attempt, and resolved to accomplish by stratagem what he could not hope to compass by force. He therefore hove-to the instant the tops of the palm-trees appeared on the horizon, and waited till night should set in and favour his designs.

“What do you intend to do?” inquired Henry Stuart, who stood on the deck watching the sun as it sank into the ocean behind a mass of golden clouds, in which, however, there were some symptoms of stormy weather.

“I mean to wait till it is dark,” said Gascoyne, “and then run down and take possession of the schooner.”

Henry looked at the pirate captain in surprise, and not without distrust. Ole Thorwald, who was smoking his big German pipe with great energy, looked at him with undisguised uneasiness.

“You speak as if you had no doubt whatever of succeeding in this enterprise, Mr Gascoyne,” said the latter.

“I have no doubt,” replied Gascoyne.

“I do believe you’re right,” returned Thorwald, smoking furiously as he became more agitated. “I make no question but your villains will receive you with open arms. What guarantee have we, Mister Gascoyne, or Mister Durward, that we shall not be seized and made to walk the plank, or perform some similarly fantastic feat—in which, mayhap, our feet will have less to do with the performance than our necks—when you get into power?”

“You have no guarantee whatever,” returned Gascoyne, “except the word of a pirate!”

“You say truth,” cried Ole, springing up and pacing the deck with unwonted energy, while a troubled and somewhat fierce expression settled on his usually good-humoured countenance. “You say truth, and I think we have been ill-advised when we took this step—for my part, I regard myself as little better than a maniac for putting myself obstinately, not to say deliberately, into the very jaws of a lion, perhaps I should say a tiger. But mark my words, Gascoyne, alias Durward,” (here he stopped suddenly before the pirate, who was leaning in a careless attitude against the mast, and looked him full in the face,) “if you play us false, as I have no hesitation in saying I believe that you fully intend to do, your life will not be worth a pewter shilling.”

“I am yet in your power, Mr Thorwald,” said Gascoyne; “if your friends agree to it, I cannot prevent your putting about and returning to Sandy Cove. But in that case the missionary’s child will be lost!”

“I do not believe that my child’s safety is so entirely dependent on you,” said Mr Mason, who had listened in silence to the foregoing dialogue; “she is in the hands of that God on whom you have turned your back, and with whom all things are possible. But I feel disposed to trust you, Gascoyne, and I feel thus, because of what was said of you by Mrs Stuart, in whose good sense I place implicit confidence. I would advise Mr Thorwald to wait patiently until he sees more cause than he does at present for distrust.”

Gascoyne had turned round and, during the greater part of this speech, had gazed intently towards the horizon.

“We shall have rough weather to-night,” said he; “but our work will be done before it comes, I hope. Up with the helm now, Henry, and slack off the sheets; it is dark enough to allow us to creep in without being observed. Manton will of course be in the only harbour in the island; we must therefore go round to the other side and take the risk of running on the reefs.”

“Risk!” exclaimed Henry; “I thought you knew all the passages about the island?”

“So I do, lad—all the passages; but I don’t profess to know every rock and reef in the bottom of the sea. Our only chance is to make the island on the south side, where there are no passages at all except one that leads into a bay; but if we run into that, our masts will be seen against the southern sky, even from the harbour where the schooner lies. If we are seen, they will be prepared for us, in which case we shall have a desperate fight with little chance of success and the certainty of much bloodshed. We must therefore run straight for another part of the shore, not far from the bay I have referred to, and take our chance of striking. I think there is enough of water to float this little cutter over the reefs, but I am not sure.”

“Think! sure!” echoed Thorwald, in a tone of exasperated surprise; “and if we do strike, Mr Gascoyne, do you mean us to go beg for mercy at the hands of your men, or to swim back to Sandy Cove?”

“If we strike I shall take the boat, land with the men, and leave the cutter to her fate. The Avenger will suffice to take us back to Sandy Cove.”

Ole was rendered speechless by the coolness of this remark, so he relieved himself by tightening his belt and spouting forth volcanoes of smoke.

Meanwhile, the cutter had run to within a short distance of the island. The night was rendered doubly dark by the rapid spreading of those heavy clouds which indicated the approach of a squall, if not a storm.

“This is well,” said Gascoyne in a low tone to Henry Stuart, who stood near him; “the worse the storm is to-night the better for the success of our enterprise. Henry, lad, I’m sorry you think so badly of me.”

Henry was taken aback by this unexpected remark, which was made in a low sad tone.

“Can I think too badly of one who confesses himself to be a pirate?” said Henry.

“The confession is at least in my favour. I had no occasion to confess, nor to give myself up to you.”

“Give yourself up! It remains to be seen whether you mean to do that or not.”

“Do you not believe me, Henry? Do you not believe the account that I gave of myself to you and your mother?”

“How can I?” said the young man, hesitatingly.

“Your mother believed me.”

“Well, Gascoyne, to tell you the plain truth, I do feel more than half inclined to believe you; and I’m sorry for you—I am, from my soul. You might have led a different life—you might even do so yet.”

“You forget,” said Gascoyne, smiling sadly, “I have given myself up, and you are bound to prevent my escaping.”

Henry was perplexed by this reply. In the enthusiasm of his awakened pity he had for a moment forgotten the pirate in the penitent. Before he could reply, however, the cutter struck violently on a rock, and an exclamation of alarm and surprise burst from the crew, most of whom were assembled on deck.

“Silence!” cried Gascoyne in a deep sonorous tone, that was wonderfully different from that in which he had just been speaking to Henry; “get out the boat. Arm yourselves and jump in. There is no time to lose.”

“The cutter is hard and fast,” said Henry; “if this squall does not come on, or if it turns out to be a light one, we may get her off.”

“Perhaps we may, but I have little hope of that,” returned Gascoyne. “Now, lads, are you all in the boat? Come, Henry, get in at once.”

“I will remain here,” said Henry.

“For what end?” said Gascoyne, in surprise.

“The cutter belongs to a friend; I do not chose to forsake her in this off-hand manner.”

“But nothing can save her, Henry.”

“Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I will do what I can. She moves a little. If she is lifted over this reef while we are on shore, she will be carried out to sea and lost, and that must not be allowed. Leave me here till you land the men, and then send the boat back with two of them. We will put some of the cutter’s ballast into it and try to tow her off. It won’t take half-an-hour, and that will not interfere with your plans, I should think, for the whole night lies before us.”

Seeing that he was determined, Gascoyne agreed, and left the cutter, promising to send off the boat directly. But it took half-an-hour to row from the Wasp to the shore, and before the half of that time had elapsed, the storm which had been impending burst over the island.

It was much more violent than had been expected. The cutter was lifted over the reef by the first wave, and struck heavily as she slid into deep water. Then she rushed out to sea before the gale. Henry seized the helm and kept the little vessel right before the wind. He knew nothing of the sea around, and the intense darkness of the night prevented his seeing more than a dozen yards beyond the bow.

It was perhaps as well that he was kept in ignorance of what awaited him, for he was thus spared at least the anticipation of what appeared certain destruction. He fancied that the rock over which he had been carried was the outer reef of the island. In this he was mistaken. The whole sea around and beyond him was beset with reefs, which at that moment were covered with foam. Had daylight revealed the scene, he would have been appalled. As it was, he stood stoutly and hopefully to the helm while the cutter rushed wildly on her doom.

Suddenly she struck with terrific violence, and Henry was hurled to the deck. Leaping up, he sprang again to the helm and attempted to put about, but the shock had been so great that the whole framework of the little craft was dislocated. The fastenings of the rudder had been torn out, and she was unmanageable. The next wave lifted her over the reef and the gale swept her away.

Even then the hopes of the young man did not quite fail him. He believed that the last reef had now been passed, and that he would be driven out to the open sea, clear at least of immediate danger. It was a vain hope. In another moment the vessel struck for the third time, and the mast went over the side. Again and again she rose and fell with all her weight on the rocks. The last blow burst out her sides, and she fell to pieces, a total wreck, leaving Henry struggling with the waves.

He seized the first piece of wood that came in his way, and clung to it. For many hours he was driven about and tossed by the winds and waves until he began to feel utterly exhausted, but he clung to the spar with the tenacity of a drowning man. In those seas the water is not so cold as in our northern climes, so that men can remain in it for a great length of time without much injury. There are many instances of the South Sea Islanders having been wrecked in their canoes, and having spent not only hours but days in the water, clinging to broken pieces of wood, and swimming for many miles, pushing these before them.

When, therefore, the morning broke, and the bright sun, shone out, and the gale had subsided, Henry found himself still clinging to the spar, and although much weakened, still able to make some exertion to save himself.

On looking round he found that numerous pieces of the wreck floated near him, and that the portion to which he clung was the broken lower-mast. A large mass of the deck, with part of the gunwale attached to it, lay close beside, him, held to the mast by one of the shrouds. He at once swam to this, and found it sufficiently large to sustain his weight, though not large enough to enable him to get quite out of the water. While here, half-in and half-out of the water, his first act was to fall on his knees and thank God for sparing his life, and to pray for help in that hour of need.

Feeling that it would be impossible to exist much longer unless he could get quite out of the water so as to allow the sun to warm his chilled frame, he used what strength remained in him to drag towards him several spars that lay within his reach. These he found to be some of the rough timbers that had lain on the deck of the cutter to serve as spare masts and yards. They were, therefore, destitute of cordage, so that it was not possible to form a secure raft. Nevertheless, by piling them together on the top of the broken portion of the deck, he succeeded in constructing a platform which raised him completely out of the water.

The heat of the sun speedily dried his garments, and as the day wore on the sea went down sufficiently to render the keeping of his raft together a matter of less difficulty than it was at first. In trying to make some better arrangement of the spars on which he rested, he discovered the corner of a sail sticking between two of them. This he hauled out of the water, and found it to be a portion of the gaff. It was a fortunate discovery; because, in the event of long exposure, it would prove to be a most useful covering. Wringing it out, he spread it over the logs to dry.

The doing of all this occupied the shipwrecked youth so long, that it was nearly mid-day before he could sit down on his raft and think calmly over his position. Hunger now began to remind him that he was destitute of food; but Henry had been accustomed, while roaming among the mountains of his island home, to go fasting for long periods of time. The want of breakfast, therefore, did not inconvenience him much; but before he had remained inactive more than ten minutes, the want of sleep began to tell upon him. Gradually he felt completely overpowered by it. He laid his head on one of the spars at last, and resigned himself to an influence he could no longer resist.