Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader Part 43

For a long time Gascoyne sat in deep silence as if he were following out the train of thought which had been suggested by the last words.

Presently his ideas again found vent in muttered speech.

"In my pride I have said that there is no G.o.d. I don't think I ever believed that; but I tried to believe it, for I knew that my deeds were evil. Surely my own words will condemn me, for I have said that I think myself a fool, and does not the Bible say that `the fool hath said in his heart there is no G.o.d?' Ay, I remember it well. The words were printed in my brain when I learnt the Psalms of David at my mother's knee, long, long ago. My mother! what bitter years have pa.s.sed since that day! How little did ye dream, mother, that your child would come to _this_. G.o.d help me!"

The pirate relapsed into silence, and a low groan escaped him. But his thoughts seemed too powerful to be restrained within his breast, for they soon broke forth again in words.

"Your two texts have come true, pastor Mason. You did not mean them for me, but _they were sent_ to me. `There is no rest, saith my G.o.d, to the wicked.' No rest! I have not known rest since I was a boy. `Be sure your sin shall find you out.' I laughed at these words once; they laugh at _me_ now. I have found them out to be true--and found it out too late. Too late! _Is_ it too late? If these words be true, are not all the words of G.o.d equally true? `The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from _all_ sin.' That was what you said, pastor Mason, on that Sunday morning when the savages were stealing down on us. It gave me comfort then, but, ah me! it seems to give me no comfort now. Oh!

that I had resisted the tempter when he _first_ came to me! Strange! I often heard this said long, long ago; but I laughed at it--not in scorn, no, it was in easy indifference. I did not believe it had anything to do with me. And now, I suppose, if I were to stand in the public streets and cry that I had been mistaken, with all the fervour of a bursting heart, men would laugh at me in an easy way--as I did then.

"I don't fear death. I have often faced it, and I don't remember ever feeling afraid of death. Yet I shrink from death _now_. Why is this?

What a mystery my thoughts and feelings are to me. I know not what to think. But it will soon be over, for I feel certain that I shall be doomed to die. G.o.d help me!"

Gascoyne again became silent. When he had remained thus a few minutes his attention was roused by the sound of footsteps and of whispering voices close under his window. Presently the key was put in the lock, the heavy bolt shot back, and the door creaked on its hinges as it opened slowly.

Gascoyne knew by the sound that several men entered the cell, but as they carried no light he could not tell how many there were. He was of course surprised at a visit at such an unusual hour, as well as at the stealthy manner in which his visitors entered; but having made up his mind to submit quietly to whatever was in store for him, and knowing that he could not hope for much tenderness at the hands of the inhabitants of Sandy Cove, he was not greatly disturbed. Still, he would not have been human had not his pulse quickened under the influence of a strong desire to spring up and defend himself.

The door of the cell was shut and locked as quietly as it had been opened; then followed the sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

"Is that you, jailer?" demanded Gascoyne.

"Ye'll know that time enough," answered a gruff voice that was not unfamiliar to the prisoner's ear.

The others who had entered along with this man did not move from the door--at least, if they did so, there was no sound of footsteps. The man who had spoken went to the window and spread a thick cloth over it.

Gascoyne could see this, because there was sufficient light outside to make the arms of the man dimly visible as he raised them up to accomplish his object. The cell was thus rendered, if possible, more impenetrably dark than before.

"Now, pirate," said the man, turning round, and suddenly flas.h.i.+ng a dark lantern full on the stern face of the prisoner, "you and I will have a little conva.r.s.e together--by yer leave or without yer leave. In case there might be pryin' eyes about, I've closed the porthole, d'ye see."

Gascoyne listened to this familiar style of address in surprise, but did not suffer his features to betray any emotion whatever. The lantern which the seaman (for such he evidently was) carried in his hand threw a strong light wherever its front was turned, but left every other part of the cell in partial darkness. The reflected light was, however, quite sufficient to enable the prisoner to see that his visitor was a short, thick-set man, of great physical strength, and that three men of unusual size and strength stood against the wall, in the deep shadow of a recess, with their straw hats pulled very much over their eyes.

"Now, Mister Gascoyne," began the seaman, sitting down on the edge of the small table beside the low pallet, and raising the lantern a little, while he gazed earnestly into the prisoner's face, "I've reason to believe--"

"Ha! you are the boatswain of the _Talisman_," exclaimed Gascoyne, as the light reflected from his own countenance irradiated that of d.i.c.k Price, whom, of course, he had seen frequently while they were on board the frigate together.

"No, mister pirate," said d.i.c.k; "I am _not_ the bo's'n of the _Talisman_, else I shouldn't be here this night. I _wos_ the bo's'n of that unfortunate frigate, but I is so no longer."

d.i.c.k said this in a melancholy tone, and thereafter meditated for a few moments in silence.

"No," he resumed with a heavy sigh, "the _Talisman's_ blow'd up, an' her bo's'n's out on the spree--so to speak,--though it ain't a cheerful spree by no means. But to come back to the pint, (w'ich wos wot the clergyman said w'en he'd got so far away from the pint that he never _did_ get back to it,) as I wos sayin', or was agoin' to say w'en you prewented me, I've reason to b'lieve you're agoin' to try for to make yer escape."

"You are mistaken, my man," said Gascoyne, with a sad smile; "nothing is farther from my thoughts."

"I don't know how far it's from yer thoughts," said d.i.c.k, sternly, "but it's pretty close to your intentions, so I'm told."

"Indeed you are mistaken," replied Gascoyne. "If Captain Montague has sent you here to mount guard he has only deprived you of a night's rest needlessly. If I had intended to make my escape I would not have given myself up."

"I don't know that--I'm not so sure o' that," rejoined the boatswain stoutly. "You're said to be a obstinate feller, and there's no sayin'

what a obstinate feller won't do or will do. But I didn't come here for to argify the question with _you_, Mister Gascoyne. Wot I com'd here for wos to do my duty, so, now, I'm agoing to do it."

Gascoyne, who was amused in spite of himself by the manner of the man, merely smiled and awaited in silence the pleasure of his eccentric visitor.

d.i.c.k now set down the lantern, went to the door and returned with a coil of stout rope.

"You see," observed the boatswain, as he busied himself in uncoiling and making a running noose on the rope, "I'm ordered to prewent you from carryin' out your intentions--wotiver these may be--by puttin' a coil or two o' this here rope round you. Now, wot I've got to ask of you is-- Will ye submit peaceable like to have it done?"

"Surely this is heaping unnecessary indignity upon me?" exclaimed Gascoyne, flus.h.i.+ng crimson with anger.

"It _may_ be unnecessary, but it's got to be done," returned d.i.c.k, with cool decision, as he placed the end of a knot between his powerful teeth, and drew it tight. "Besides, Mister Gascoyne, a pirate must expect indignities to be heaped upon him. However, I'll heap as few as possible on ye in the discharge of my duty."

Gascoyne had started to his feet, but he sat down abashed on being thus reminded of his deserts.

"True," said he; "true. I will submit."

He added in his mind, "I deserve this;" but nothing more escaped his lips, while he stood up and permitted the boatswain to pa.s.s the cord round his arms, and lash them firmly to his sides.

Having bound him in a peculiarly tight and nautical manner, d.i.c.k once more went to his accomplices at the door, and returned with a hammer and chisel, and a large stone. The latter he placed on the table, and, directing Gascoyne to raise his arms--which were not secured below the elbows--and place his manacles on the stone, he cut them asunder with a few powerful blows, and removed them.

"The darbies ain't o' no use, you see, as we ye got you all safe with the ropes. Now, Mister Gascoyne, I'm agoin' to heap one more indignity on ye. I'm sorry to do it, d'ye see; but I'm bound for to obey orders.

You'll be so good as to sit down on the bed, for I ain't quite so long as you--though I won't say that I'm not about as broad--and let me tie this napkin over yer mouth."

"Why?" exclaimed Gascoyne, again starting and looking fiercely at the boatswain; "this, at least, must be unnecessary. I have said that I am willing to submit quietly to whatever the law condemns me. You don't take me for a woman or a child, that will be apt to cry out when hurt?"

"Certainly not; but as I'm goin' to take ye away out o' this here limbo, it is needful that I should prewent you from lettin' people know that yer goin' on your travels; for I've heerd say there's some o' yer friends as is plottin' to help you to escape."

"Have I not said already that I do not wish to escape, and therefore will not take advantage of any opportunity afforded me by my friends?-- Friends! I have no friends! Even those whom I thought were my friends have not been near my prison all this day."

Gascoyne said this bitterly, and in great anger.

"Hus.h.!.+" exclaimed d.i.c.k; "not quite so loud, mister pirate. You see there _is_ some reason in my puttin' this on your mouth. It'll be as well to let me do it quietly, else I'll have to get a little help."

He pointed to the three stout men who stood motionless and silent in the dark recess.

"Oh, it was cowardly of you to bind my arms before you told me this,"

said Gascoyne, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. "If my hands were free now--"

He checked himself by a powerful effort, and crushed back the boastful defiance which rose to his lips.

"Now, I'll tell ye wot it is, Mister Gascoyne," said d.i.c.k Price, "I do believe yer not such a bad feller as they say ye are, an' I'm disposed to be marciful to ye. If ye'll give me your word of honour that you'll not holler out, and that you'll go with us peaceably, and do wot yer bid, I'll not trouble you with the napkin, nor bind ye up more than I've done already. But," (here d.i.c.k spoke in tones that could not be misunderstood,) "if ye won't give me that promise, I'll gag ye and bind ye neck and heels, and we'll carry ye out o' this shoulder high. Now, wot say ye to that?"

Gascoyne had calmed his feelings while the boatswain was speaking. He even smiled when he replied--"How can you ask me to give my word of honour? What honour has a pirate to boast of, think you?"

"Not much, pr'aps," said d.i.c.k; "howsomdever, I'll be content with wot's left of it; and if there ain't none, why, then, give us yer word. It'll do as well."

"After all, it matters little what is done with me," said Gascoyne, in a resigned voice. "I am a fool to resist thus. You need not fear that I will offer any further resistance, my man. Do your duty, whitever that may be."

"That won't do," said d.i.c.k, stoutly; "ye must promise not to holler out."

"I promise," said Gascoyne, sternly. "Pray cease this trifling, and if it is not inconsistent with your duty, let me know where I am to be taken to."