Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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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