Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader by R. M. Ballantyne (guided reading books txt) 📕

insisted. The widow protested. The settlers threatened force. Upon this the widow reasoned with them; besought them to remember that the missionary would be back in a day or two, and that it would be well to have his advice before they did anything, and finally agreed to give up her charge on receiving a promise that he should have a fair trial.

Bumpus was accordingly bound with ropes, led in triumph through the village, and placed in a strong wooden building which was used as the jail of the place.

The trial that followed was a mere mockery. The leading spirits of it were those who had been styled by Mr Mason, “enemies within the camp.” They elected themselves to the offices of prosecutor and judge as well as taking the trouble to act the part of jurymen and witnesses.

Poor John Bumpus’s doom was sealed before the trial began. They had prejudged the case, and only went through the form to ease their own consciences and to fulfil their promise to the widow.

It was in vain that Bumpus asserted, with a bold, honest countenance, that he was not a pirate; that he never had been, and never would be a pirate; that he did not believe the Foam was a pirate—though he was free to confess its crew “wos bad enough for anything a’most;” that he had been hired in South America (where he had been shipwrecked) by Captain Gascoyne, the sandal-wood trader; that he had made the voyage straight from that coast to this island without meeting a single sail; and that he had never seen a shot fired or a cutlass drawn aboard the schooner.

To all this there was but one coarsely-expressed answer—“It is a lie!” Jo had no proof to give of the truth of what he said, so he was condemned to be hanged by the neck till he should be dead; and as his judges were afraid that the return of the Wasp might interfere with their proceedings, it was arranged that he should be executed on the following day at noon!

It must not be imagined that, in a Christian village such as we have described, there was no one who felt that this trial was too hastily gone into, and too violently conducted. But those who were inclined to take a merciful view of the case, and who pled for delay, were chiefly natives, while the violent party was composed of most of the ill-disposed European settlers.

The natives had been so much accustomed to put confidence in the wisdom of the white men since their conversion to Christianity, that they felt unable to cope with them on this occasion, so that Bumpus, after being condemned, was led away to his prison, and left alone to his own reflections.

It chanced that there was one friend left, unintentionally, in the cell with the condemned man. This was none other than our friend Toozle, the mass of ragged door-mat on which Alice doted so fondly. This little dog had, during the course of the events which have taken so long to recount, done nothing worthy of being recorded. He had, indeed, been much in every one’s way, when no one had had time or inclination to take notice of him. He had, being an affectionate dog, and desirous of much sympathy, courted attention frequently, and had received many kicks and severe rebuffs for his pains, and he had also, being a tender-hearted dog, howled dreadfully when he lost his young mistress; but he had not in any way promoted the interests of humanity or advanced the ends of justice. Hence our long silence in regard to him.

Recollecting that he had witnessed evidences of a friendly relation subsisting between Alice and Bumpus, Toozle straightway sought to pour the overflowing love and sorrow of his large little heart into the bosom of that supposed pirate. His advances were well received, and from that hour he followed the seaman like his shadow. He shared his prison with him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the widow’s cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep in deep humility when he was neglected.

Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him, when they were adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as was clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woe-begone cast of his ragged countenance,—but we are anticipating.

It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.

Toozle sat at his feet looking up in his face sympathetically.

“No, I don’t believe it’s possible,” said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning. “It’s a joke, that’s wot it is. Ain’t it, Toozle, my boy?”

Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, a’s plainly as if he had spoken, “Yes, of course it is—an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man.”

“Ah! you’re a funny dog,” continued Bumpus, “but you don’t know wot it is to be hanged, my boy. Hanged! why it’s agin all laws o’ justice, moral an’ otherwise, it is. But I’m dreamin’, yes, it’s dreamin’ I am—but I don’t think I ever did dream that I thought I was dreamin’ an’ yet wasn’t quite sure. Really it’s perplexin’, to say the least on it. Ain’t it, Toozle?”

Toozle wagged his tail.

“Ah, here comes my imaginary jailer to let me out o’ this here abominably real-lookin’ imaginary lockup. Hang Jo Bumpus! why it’s—”

Before Jo could find words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of such a murderous intention, the door opened and a surly-looking man—a European settler—entered with his breakfast. This meal consisted of a baked breadfruit and a can of water.

“Ha! you’ve come to let me out, have you?” cried Jo, in a tone of forced pleasantry, which was anything but cheerful.

“Have I, though!” said the man, setting down the food on a small deal table that stood at the head of the bedstead; “don’t think it, my man; your time’s up in another two hours—hallo! where got ye the dog?”

“It came in with me last night—to keep me company, I fancy, which is more than the human dogs o’ this murderin’ place had the civility to do.”

“If it had know’d you was a murderin’ pirate,” retorted the jailer, “it would ha’ thought twice before it would ha’ chose you for a comrade.”

“Come, now,” said Bumpus, in a remonstrative tone, “you don’t really b’lieve I’m a pirate, do you?”

“In coorse I do.”

“Well, now, that’s xtraor’nary. Does everybody else think that too?”

“Everybody.”

“An’ am I really goin’ to be hanged?”

“Till you’re dead as mutton.”

“That’s entertainin’, ain’t it, Toozle?” cried poor Bumpus with a laugh of desperation, for he found it utterly impossible to persuade himself to believe in the reality of his awful position.

As he said nothing more, the jailer went away, and Bumpus, after heaving two or three very deep sighs, attempted to partake of his meagre breakfast. The effort was a vain one. The bite stuck in his throat, so he washed it down with a gulp of water, and, for the first time in his life, made up his mind to go without his breakfast.

A little before twelve o’clock the door again opened, and the surly jailer entered bearing a halter, and accompanied by six stout men. The irons were now removed from Bumpus’s wrists, and his arms pinioned behind his back. Being almost stupified with amazement at his position, he submitted without a struggle.

“I say, friends,” he at last exclaimed, “would any amount of oaths took before a maginstrate convince ye that I’m not a pirate, but a true-blue seaman?”

“If you were to swear from this time till doomsday it would make no difference. You admit that you were one of the Foam’s crew. We now know that the Foam and the Avenger are the same schooner. Birds of a feather flock together. A pirate would swear anything to save his life. Come, time’s up.”

Bumpus bent his head for a minute. The truth forced itself upon him now in all its dread reality. But no unmanly terrors filled his breast at that moment. The fear of man or of violent death was a sensation which the seaman never knew. The feeling of the huge injustice that was about to be done filled him with generous indignation; the blood rushed to his temples, and, with a bound like a tiger, he leaped out of the jailer’s grasp, hurling him to the ground in the act.

With the strength almost of a Samson he wrestled with his cords for a few seconds; but they were new and strong. He failed to burst them. In another moment he was overpowered by the six men who guarded him. True to his principles, he did his utmost to escape. Strong in the faith that while there is life there is hope, he did not cease to struggle, like a chained giant, until he was placed under the limb of the fatal tree which had been selected, and round which an immense crowd of natives and white settlers had gathered.

During the previous night the widow Stuart had striven to save the man whom she knew to be honest, for Gascoyne had explained to her all about his being engaged in his service. But those to whom she appealed, even on her knees, were immovable. They considered the proof of the man’s guilt quite conclusive, and regarded the widow’s intercession as the mere weakness of a tender-hearted woman.

On the following morning, and again beside the fatal tree itself, the widow pled for the man’s life with all her powers of eloquence, but in vain. When all hope appeared to have passed away, she could not stand to witness so horrible a murder. She fled to her cottage, and, throwing herself on her bed, burst into an agony of tears and prayer.

But there were some among the European settlers there who, now that things had come to a point, felt ill at ease, and would fain have washed their hands of the whole affair. Others there were who judged the man from his countenance and his acts, not from circumstances. These remonstrated even to the last, and advised delay. But the half dozen who were set upon the man’s death—not to gratify a thirst for blood, but to execute due justice on a pirate whom they abhorred—were influential and violent, men. They silenced all opposition at last, and John Bumpus finally had the noose put round, his neck.

“O Susan, Susan,” cried the poor man in an agony of intense feeling, “it’s little ye thought your Jo would come to such an end as this when ye last sot eyes on him—an’ sweet blue eyes they wos, too!”

There was something ludicrous as well as pathetic in this cry. It did more for him than the most eloquent pleading could have done. Man, in a crowd, is an unstable being. At any moment he will veer right round and run in an opposite direction. The idea that the condemned man had a Susan who would mourn over his untimely end, touched a cord in the hearts of many among the crowd. The reference to her sweet blue eyes at such a moment raised a smile, and an extremely dismal but opportune howl from poor Toozle raised a laugh.

Bumpus started and looked sternly on the crowd.

“You may think me a pirate,” said he, “but I know enough of the feelin’s of honest men to expect no mercy from those wot