Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader

Although Keona could speak no English, he understood it sufficiently to appreciate the drift of the youth’s words, even though he had failed to comprehend the meaning of the angry frown and the glittering knife. But, however much he might have wished to reply to the question, Henry took care to render the attempt impossible, by compressing his windpipe until he became blue in the face, and then black. At the same time, he let the sharp point of his knife touch the skin just over the region of the heart. Having thus convinced his vanquished foe that death was at the door, he suddenly relaxed his iron gripe; arose, sheathed his knife, and bade the savage get up.

The miserable creature did so, with some difficulty, just as the captain and his men arrived on the scene.

“Well met, Henry,” cried the former, extending his hand to the youth, “had I been a moment later, my lads I fear that your life’s blood would have been on the sea shore.”

“Then it was you who fired the shot, Captain Gascoyne? This is the second time I have to thank you for saving my life,” said the young man, returning the grasp of the captain’s hand.

“Truly, it is but a small matter to have to thank me for. Doubtless, if my stout man, John Bumpus, had carried the carbine, he would have done you as good service. And methinks, Henry, that you would have preferred to owe your life to either of my men, rather than to me, if I may judge by your looks.”

“You should not judge by looks, captain,” replied the youth quickly—“especially the looks of a man who has just had a hand to hand tussle with a savage. But, to tell the plain truth, Captain Gascoyne, I would indeed rather have had to thank your worthy man, John Bumpus, than yourself for coming to my aid, for although I owe you no grudge, and do not count you an enemy, I had rather see your back than your face—and you know the reason why.”

“You give me credit, boy, for more knowledge than I possess,” replied Gascoyne, while an angry frown gathered for a moment on his brow; but passed away almost as quickly as it came; “I know not the cause of your unreasonable dislike to one who has never done you an injury.”

“Never done me an injury!” cried Henry, starting and turning with a look of passion on his companion; then, checking himself by a strong effort, he added in a milder tone—“But a truce to such talk, and I ask your forgiveness for my sharp words just after your rendering me such good service in the hour of need. You and I differ in our notions on one or two points—that is all; there is no need for quarrelling. See, here is a note from my mother, who sent me to the bay to meet you.”

During this colloquy, Dick and Bumpus had mounted guard over the wounded savage, just out of ear-shot of their captain. Neither of the sailors ventured to hold their prisoner, because they deemed it an unmanly advantage to take of one who was so completely (as they imagined) in their power. They kept a watchful eye on him, however; and while they affected an easy indifference of attitude, held themselves in readiness to pounce upon him if he should attempt to escape. But nothing seemed farther from the mind of Keona than such an attempt. He appeared to be thoroughly exhausted by his recent struggle and loss of blood, and his body was bent as if he were about to sink down to the ground. There was, however, a peculiar glance in his dark eyes that induced John Bumpus to be more on his guard than appearances seemed to warrant.

While Gascoyne was reading the letter to which we have referred, Keona suddenly placed his left leg behind surly Dick, and, with his unwounded fist, hit that morose individual such a tremendous back-handed blow on the nose, that he instantly measured his length on the ground. John Bumpus made a sudden plunge at the savage on seeing this, but the latter ducked his head, passed like an eel under the very arms of the sailor, and went off into the forest like a deer.

“Hold!” shouted Captain Gascoyne, as John turned in a state of mingled amazement and anger to pursue. “Hold on, Bumpus, let the miserable rascal go.”

John stopped, looked over his shoulder, hesitated, and finally came back with a rolling air of nautical indifference, and his hands thrust into his breeches pockets.

“You know best, capting,” said he, “but I think it a pity to let sich a dirty varmint go clear off, to dodge about in the bushes, and mayhap treat us to a pisoned arrow, or a spear-thrust on the sly. Howsomedever, it aint no consarn wotever to Jo Bumpus. How’s your beak, Dick, my boy?”

“None the better for your askin’,” replied the surly mariner, who was tenderly stroking the injured member of his face with the fingers of both hands.

“Come, Dick, it is none the worse of being inquired after,” said Henry, laughing. “But ’tis as well to let the fellow go. He knows best how to cure his wound, by the application of a few simples, and by thus making off, has relieved us of the trouble and responsibility of trying our hands at civilised doctoring. Besides, John Bumpus, (if that’s your name,—though I do think your father might have found you a better,) your long legs would never have brought you within a mile of the savage.”

“Young man,” retorted Jo, gravely, “I’d have you to know that the family of the Bumpuses is an old and a honourable one. They comed over with the Conkerer to Ireland, where they picked up a deal o’ their good manners, after which they settled at last on their own estates in Yorkshire. Though they have comed down in the world, and the last of the Bumpuses—that’s me—is takin’ a pleasure trip round the world before the mast, I won’t stand by and hear my name made game of, d’ye see; and I’d have ye to know, farther, my buck, that the Bumpuses has a pecooliar gift for fightin’, and although you are a strappin’ young feller, you’d better not cause me for to prove that you’re conkerable.”

Having delivered himself of this oration, the last of the Bumpuses frowned portentously on the youth who had dared to risk his anger, and turning with a bland smile to surly Dick, asked him “if his beak was any better now.”

“There seems to be bad news in the letter, I think,” observed Henry, as Captain Gascoyne perused the epistle with evident signs of displeasure.

“Bad enough in these times of war, boy,” replied the other, folding the note and placing it in a pouch inside the breast of his flannel shirt. “It seems that that pestiferous British frigate the Talisman, lies at anchor in the bay, on the other side of the island.”

“Nothing in that to cause uneasiness to an honest trader,” said Henry, leading the way up the steep path by which he had descended from the mountain region of the interior.

“That speech only shews your ignorance of the usages of ships of war. Know you not that the nature of the trade in which I am engaged requires me to be strong-handed, and that the opinion of a commander in the British navy as to how many hands are sufficient for the navigation of a trading schooner does not accord with mine?—a difference of opinion which may possibly result in his relieving me of a few of my best men when I can ill afford to spare them. And, by the way,” said Gascoyne, pausing as they gained the brow of an eminence that commanded a view of the rich woodland on one side and the sea on the other, “I had better take precautions against such a mischance. Here, Dick,” (taking the man aside and whispering to him,) “go back to the schooner, my lad, and tell the mate to send ten of the best hands ashore with provisions and arms. Let them squat where they choose on land, only let them see to it that they keep well out of sight and hearing until I want them. And now, Master Henry, lead the way; John Bumpus and I will follow at your heel like a couple of faithful dogs.”

The scene through which young Henry Stuart now led his seafaring companions was of that rich, varied, and beautiful character which is strikingly characteristic of those islands of the Pacific which owe their origin to volcanic agency. Unlike the low coral islets, this island presented every variety of the boldest mountain scenery, and yet, like them, it displayed all the gorgeous beauty of a rich tropical vegetation. In some places the ground had been cracked and riven into great fissures and uncouth caverns of the wildest description, by volcanoes apparently long since extinct. In others the landscape presented the soft beauty of undulating grove-like scenery, in which, amid a profusion of bright green herbage, there rose conspicuous the tall stems and waving plumes of the cocoa-nut palm; the superb and umbrageous ko-a, with its laurel-green leaves and sweet blossoms; the kukui or candle-nut tree, the fragrant sandal-wood, and a variety of other trees and shrubs for which there are no English names.

Hundreds of green paroquets with blue heads and red breasts, turtle-doves, wood-pigeons, and other birds, enlivened the groves with sound, if not with melody, and the various lakelets and pools were alive with wild ducks and water-hens.

The route by which the party travelled, led them first across a country of varied and beautiful aspect; then it conducted them into wild mountain fastnesses, among which they clambered, at times with considerable difficulty. Ere long they passed into a dreary region where the ancient fires that upheaved the island from the deep seemed to have scorched the land into a condition of perpetual desolation. Blackened and bare lava rocks, steep volcanic ridges and gorges, irregular truncated coves, deep-mouthed caves and fissures, overhanging arches, natural bridges, great tunnels and ravines, surrounded them on every side, and so concealed the softer features of the country that it was scarcely possible to believe in the reality of the verdant region out of which they had just passed. In another hour this chaotic scenery was left behind; the highest ridge of the mountains was crossed, and the travellers began to descend the green slopes on the other side of the island. These slopes terminated in a beach of white sand, while beyond lay the calm waters of the enclosed lagoon, the coral reef with its breakers, and the mighty sea.

“’Tis a pretty spot?” said Henry, interrogatively, as the party halted on the edge of a precipice, whence they obtained an uninterrupted view of the whole of that side of the island.

“Ay, pretty enough,” replied Gascoyne in a somewhat sad tone of voice; “I had hoped to have led a quiet life here once,—but that was not to be. How say you, Bumpus; could you make up your mind to cast anchor here for a year or so?”

“Wot’s that you say, capting?” inquired honest John, who was evidently lost in admiration of the magnificent scene that lay spread out before him.

“I ask if you have no objection to come to an anchor here for a time,” repeated the captain.

“Objection! I’ll tell ye wot it is, capting, I never seed sich a place afore in all my born days. Why it’s a slice out o’ paradise. I do believe if Adam and Eve wos here they’d think they’d got back again into Eden. It’s more beautifuller than the blue ocean, by a long chalk, an’ if you wants a feller that’s handy at a’most anything after a fashion—a jack of all trades and master of none (except seamanship, which aint o’ no use here)—Jo Bumpus is your man!”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Jo,” said Henry, laughing, “for we are greatly in need of white men of your stamp in these times, when the savages are so fierce against each other that they are like to eat us up altogether, merely by way of keeping their hands in practice.”

“White men of my stamp!” remarked Bumpus, surveying complacently his deeply-bronzed hands, which were only a shade darker than his visage; “well, I would like to know what ye call black if I’m a white man.”

“Blood, and not skin, is what stamps the colour of the man, Jo. If it were agreeable to Captain Gascoyne to let you off your engagement to him, I think I could make it worth your while to engage with me, and would find you plenty of work of all kinds, including a little of that same fighting for which the Bumpuses are said to be so famous.”

“Gentlemen,” said Jo, gravely, “I’m agreeable to become a good and chattel for this occasion only, as the playbills say, and hold myself up to the highest bidder.”

“Nay, you are sold to me, Bumpus,” said Gascoyne, “and must do as I bid you.”

“Wery good, then bid away as fast as you like.”

“Come, captain, don’t be hard,” said Henry, “what will you take for him?”

“I cannot afford to sell him at any price?” replied the other, “for I have brought him here expressly as a gift to a certain Mary Stuart, queen of women, if not of Scotland—a widow who dwells in Sandy Cove.”

“What, my mother?” interrupted Henry, while a shade of displeasure crossed his countenance at what he deemed the insolent familiarity with which Gascoyne mentioned her name.

“The same. On my last visit I promised to get her a man-servant who could do her some service in keeping off the savages when they take a fancy to trouble the settlement; and if Bumpus is willing to try his luck on shore, I promise him he’ll find her a good mistress, and her house pleasant quarters.”

“So,” exclaimed the stout seaman, stopping short in his rolling walk, and gazing earnestly into his captain’s face, “I’m to be sold to a woman?”

“With your own consent entirely, Master Bumpus,” said Gascoyne with a smile.

“Come, Jo,” cried Henry, gaily, “I see you like the prospect, and feel assured that you and I shall be good friends. Give us your flipper, my boy!”

John Bumpus allowed the youth to seize and shake a “flipper,” which would have done credit to a walrus, both in regard to shape and size. After a short pause he said, “Whether you and me shall be good friends, young man, depends entirely on the respect which you shew to the family of the Bumpuses—said family havin’ comed over to Ireland with the Conkerer in the year, ah! I misremember the year, but that don’t matter; bein’ a subject of no consarn wotiver, ’xcept to schoolboys who’ll get their licks if they can’t tell, and sarve ’em right too. But if you’re willin’ I’m agreeable, and there’s an end o’ the whole affair.”

So saying, John Bumpus suffered a bland smile to light up his ruddy countenance, and resumed his march in the “wake,” as he expressed it, of his companions.

Half an hour later they arrived at Sandy Cove, a small native settlement and mission station, and were soon seated at the hospitable board of Widow Stuart.

Chapter Four

The Missionary—Suspicions, Surprises, and Surmises

Sandy Cove was a small settlement inhabited partly by native converts to Christianity, and partly by a few European traders, who, having found that the place was in the usual track of South Sea whalers, and frequently visited by that class of vessels as well as by other ships, had established several stores or trading houses, and had taken up their permanent abode there.

The island was one of those the natives of which were early induced to agree to the introduction of the gospel. At the time of which we write, it was in that transition state which renders the work of the missionary one of anxiety, toil, and extreme danger, as well as one of love.

But the Reverend Frederick Mason was a man eminently fitted to fill the post which he had selected as his sphere of labour. Bold and manly in the extreme, he was more like a soldier in outward aspect than a missionary. Yet the gentleness of the lamb dwelt in his breast and beamed in his eye; and to a naturally indomitable and enthusiastic disposition was added burning zeal in the cause of his beloved Master.

Six years previous to the opening of our tale, he had come to Sandy Cove with his wife and child, the latter a girl of six years of age at that time. In one year death bereaved the missionary of his wife, and, about the same time, war broke out in the island between the chiefs who clung to the idolatrous rites and bloody practices peculiar to the inhabitants of the South Sea islands, and those chiefs who were inclined to favour Christianity. This war continued to rage more or less violently for several years, frequently slumbering, sometimes breaking out with sudden violence, like the fitful eruptions of the still unextinct volcanoes in those distant regions.

During all this period of bloodshed and alarms, the missionary stuck to his post. The obstinacy of hatred was being gradually overcome by the superior pertinacity of zeal in a good cause, and the invariable practice—so incomprehensible to the savage mind—of returning good for evil; the result was, that the Sabbath bell still sent its tinkling sound over the verdant slopes above Sandy Cove, and the hymn of praise still arose, morning and evening, from the little church, which, composed partly of wood, partly of coral rock, had been erected under the eye, and, to a large extent, by the hands of the missionary.

But false friends within the camp were more dangerous and troublesome to Mr Mason than avowed enemies without. Some of the European traders, especially, who settled on the island a few years after the missionary had made it habitable, were the worst foes he had to contend with.

In the same vessel that brought the missionary to the island, there came a widow, Mrs Stuart, with her son Henry, then a stout lad of thirteen. The widow was not, however, a member of the missionary’s household. She came there to settle with her son, who soon built her a rudely constructed but sufficiently habitable hut, which, in after years, was enclosed, and greatly improved; so that it at last assumed the dimensions of a rambling picturesque cottage, whitewashed, brilliant, and neat in its setting of bright green.

The widow, although not an official assistant to the missionary, was nevertheless a most efficient one. She taught in his schools, being familiar with the native tongue; and, when the settlement grew in numbers, both of white and black, she became known as the good angel of the place—the one who was ever ready with sympathy for the sorrowful, and comfort for the dying. She was fair and fragile, and had been exceedingly beautiful; but care had stamped his mark deeply in her brow. Neither care nor time, however, could mar the noble outline of her fine features, or equal the love that beamed in her gentle eyes.

The widow was a great mystery to the gossips of Sandy Cove; for there are gossips even in the most distant isles of the sea! Some men (we refer, of course, to white men) thought that she must have been the wife of an admiral at least, and had fallen into distressed circumstances, and gone to these islands to hide her poverty. Others said she was a female Jesuit in disguise, sent there to counteract the preaching of the gospel by the missionary. A few even ventured to hint their opinion that she was an outlaw, “or something of that sort” and shrewdly suspected that Mr Mason knew more about her than he was pleased to tell. But no one, either by word or look, had ever ventured to express an opinion of any kind to herself, or in the hearing of her son; the latter, indeed, displayed such uncommon breadth of shoulders, and such unusual development of muscle, that it was seldom necessary for him—even in those savage regions and wild times—to display anything else, in order to make men respectful.

While our three friends were doing justice to the bacon and breadfruit set before them by Widow Stuart, the widow herself was endeavouring to repress some strong feeling, which caused her breast to heave more than once, and induced her to turn to some trifling piece of household duty to conceal her emotion. These symptoms were not lost upon her son, whose suspicions and anger had been aroused by the familiarity of Gascoyne. Making some excuse for leaving the room, towards the conclusion of the meal, he followed his mother to an outhouse, whither she had gone to fetch some fresh milk.

“Mother,” said Henry, respectfully, yet with an unwonted touch of sternness in his voice; “there is some mystery connected with this man Gascoyne that I feel convinced, you can clear up—”

“Dear Henry,” interrupted the widow, and her cheek grew pale as she spoke, “do not, I beseech you, press me on this subject. I cannot clear it up.”

“Say you will not, mother,” answered Henry, in a tone of disappointment.

“I would if I dared,” continued the widow. “The time may come when I—”

“But why not now,” urged the youth, hastily. “I am old enough, surely, to be trusted. During the four visits this man has paid to us, I have observed a degree of familiarity on his part which no man has a right to exhibit towards you; and which, did I not see that you permit it, no man would dare to shew. Why do you allow him to call you ‘Mary?’ No one else in the settlement does so.”

“He is a very old friend,” replied the widow, sadly. “I have known him from childhood. We were playmates long ago.”

“Humph! that’s some sort of reason, no doubt; but you don’t appear to like him, and his presence always seems to give you pain. Why do you suffer yourself to be annoyed by him? Only say the word, mother, and I’ll kick him out of the house, neck and crop—”

“Hush, boy; you are too violent.”

“Too violent! Why, it would make a coward violent, to see his mother tormented as you are by this fellow, and not be allowed to put a stop to it. I suspect—”

“Henry,” said the widow, again interrupting her exasperated son, “do you think your mother would do what is wrong?”

“Mother,” exclaimed the youth, seizing her hand, and kissing her brow almost violently, “I would as soon think that the angels above would do wrong; but I firmly believe that you are suffering wrong to be done to you; and—just listen to the fellow, I do believe he’s howling for more bacon at this moment!”

There could be no doubt whatever about the fact; for just then the deep tones of Gascoyne’s voice rang through the cottage, as he reiterated the name of the widow, who hastened away, followed by her son. Henry scarcely took the trouble to conceal the frown that darkened his brow as he re-entered the apartment where his companions were seated.

“Why, Mary, your bacon surpasses anything I have tasted for the last six months; let’s have another rasher, like a good woman. That mountain air sharpens the appetite amazingly; especially of men who are more accustomed to mount the rigging of a ship than the hills on shore. What say you, John Bumpus?”

John Bumpus could not at that moment say anything, in consequence of his mouth being so full of the bacon referred to, that there was no room for a single word to pass his lips. In the height of his good-humour, however, he did his best by signs to express his entire approval of the widow’s provender, and even attempted to speak. In so doing, he choked himself, and continued in convulsions for the next five minutes, to the immense delight of the captain, who vowed he had never before seen such a blue face in the whole course of his life.

While this scene was enacting, and ere Jo Bumpus had effectually wiped away the tears from his eyes, and cleared the bacon out of his windpipe, the door opened, and the commander of H.M.S. Talisman entered.

Edmund Montague was a young man to hold such a responsible position in the navy; but he was a bold, vigorous little Englishman—a sort of gentlemanly and well-educated John Bull terrier; of frank address, agreeable manners, and an utterly reckless temperament, which was qualified and curbed, however, by good sense, and hard-earned experience.

“Good day to you, Mrs Stuart; I trust you will forgive my abrupt intrusion, but urgent business must be my excuse. I have called to have a little further conversation with your son, respecting that rascally pirate who has given me so much trouble. If he will have the goodness to take a short walk with me, I shall be much indebted.”

“By all means,” said Henry, rising and putting on his cap.

“Perhaps,” said Gascoyne, as they were about to leave the room, “if the commander of the Talisman would condescend to take a little information from a stranger, he might learn something to the purpose regarding the pirate Durward; for he it is, I presume, of whom you are in search.”

“I shall be happy to gain information from any source,” replied Montague, eyeing the captain narrowly. “Are you a resident in this island?”

“No, I am not; my home is on the sea, and has been since I was a lad.”

“Ah! you have fallen in with this pirate then on your native ocean, I fancy, and have disagreeable cause to remember him, perchance,” said Montague, smiling. “Has he given you much trouble?”