Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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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