When Alice Mason was a little child, there was a certain tree near her father’s house to which, in her hours of sorrow, she was wont to run and tell it all the grief of her overflowing heart. She firmly believed that this tree heard and understood and sympathised with all that she said. There was a hole in the stem into which she was wont to pour her complaints, and when she had thus unburthened her heart to her silent confidant she felt comforted, as one feels when a human friend has shared one’s sorrows.
When the child became older, and her sorrows were heavier and, perhaps, more real, her well-nurtured mind began to rise to a higher source for comfort. Habit and inclination led her indeed to the same tree, but when she kneeled upon its roots and leaned against its stem, she poured out her heart into the bosom of Him who is ever present, and who can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities.
Almost immediately after landing on the island Alice sought the umbrageous shelter of her old friend and favourite, and on her knees thanked God for restoring her to her father and her home.
To the same place the missionary directed his steps, for he knew it well, and doubtless expected to find his daughter there.
“Alice, dear, I have good news to tell you,” said the missionary, sitting down beside her.
“I know what it is!” cried Alice, eagerly.
“What do you think it is, my pet?”
“Gascoyne is to be forgiven! am I right?”
Mr Mason shook his head sadly—“No, that is not what I have to tell you. Poor fellow, I would that I had some good news to give you about him; but I fear there is no hope for him—I mean as regards his being pardoned by man.”
Alice sighed, and her face expressed the deepest tenderness and sympathy.
“Why do you take so great an interest in this man, dear?” said her father.
“Because Mary Stuart loves him, and I love Mary Stuart. And Corrie seemed to like him, too, since he has come to know him better. Besides, has he not saved my life, and Captain Montague’s, and Corrie’s? Corrie tells me that he is very sorry for the wicked things he has done, and he thinks that if his life is spared he will become a good man. Has he been very wicked, papa?”
“Yes, very wicked. He has robbed many people of their goods, and has burnt and sunk their vessels.”
Alice looked horrified.
“But,” continued her father, “I am convinced of the truth of his statement—that he has never shed human blood. Nevertheless, he has been very wicked, and the fact that he has such a powerful will, such commanding and agreeable manners, only makes his guilt the greater, for there is less excuse for his having devoted such powers and qualities to the service of Satan. I fear that his judges will not take into account his recent good deeds and his penitence. They will not pardon him.”
“Father,” said Alice, earnestly, “God pardons the chief of sinners—why will not man do so?”
The missionary was somewhat perplexed as to how he should reply to such a difficult question.
“My child,” said he, “the law of God and the law of man must be obeyed, or the punishment must be inflicted on the disobedient—both laws are alike in this respect. In the case of God’s law, Jesus Christ our Lord obeyed it, bore the punishment for us, and set our souls free. But in the case of man’s law, who is to bear Gascoyne’s punishment and set him free?”
As poor Alice could not answer this, she cast down her tearful eyes, sighed again, and looked more miserable than ever.
“But come, my pet,” resumed Mr Mason, “you must guess again. It is really good news—try.”
“I can’t,” said Alice, looking up in her father’s face with animation and shaking her head; “I never could guess anything rightly.”
“What would you think the best thing that could happen?” said her father.
The child looked intently at the ground for a few seconds and pursed her rosy little mouth, while the smallest possible frown—the result of intellectual exertion—knitted her fair brow.
“The best thing that could happen,” said she, slowly, “would be that all the whole world should become good.”
“Well done, Alice!” exclaimed her father, laughing; “you have certainly taken the widest possible view of the subject. But you have soared a little too high; yet you have not altogether missed the mark. What would you say if the chiefs of the heathen village were to cast their idols into the fire, and ask me to come over and teach them how to become Christians?”
“Oh! have they really done this?” cried Alice in eager surprise.
“Indeed they have. I have just seen and had a talk with some of their chief men, and have promised to go over to their village to-morrow. I came up here just to tell you this, and to say that your friend the widow will take care of you while I am away.”
“And shall we have no more wars—no more of these terrible deeds of blood?” inquired the child, while a shudder passed through her frame at the recollection of what she had heard and seen during her short life on that island.
“I trust not, my lamb. I believe that God has heard our prayers, and that the Prince of Peace will henceforth rule in this place. But I must go and prepare for this work. Come, will you go with me?”
“Leave me here for a little, papa; I wish to think it over all alone.”
Kissing her forehead, the missionary left her. When he was out of sight the little girl sat down, and, nestling between two great roots of her favourite tree, laid her head against the stem and shut her eyes.
But poor Alice was not left long to her solitary meditations. There was a peculiarly attractive power about her which drew other creatures around her wherever she might chance to be.
The first individual who broke in upon her was that animated piece of ragged door-mat, Toozle. This imbecile little dog was not possessed of much delicacy of feeling, having been absent on a private excursion of his own into the mountain when the schooner arrived, he only became aware of the return of his lost, loved, and deeply-regretted mistress, when he came back from his trip. The first thing that told him of her presence was his own nose, the black point of which protruded with difficulty a quarter of an inch beyond the mass of matting which totally extinguished his eyes, and, indeed, every other portion of his head.
Coming down the hill immediately behind Sandy Cove at a breakneck scramble, Toozle happened to cross the path by which his mistress had ascended to her tree. The instant he did so, he came to a halt so sudden that one might have fancied he had been shot. In another moment he was rushing up the hill in wild excitement, giving an occasional yelp of mingled surprise and joy as he went along. The footsteps led him a little beyond the tree and then turned down towards it, so that he had the benefit of the descent in making the final onset.
The moment he came in sight of Alice he began to bark and yelp in such an eager way that the sounds produced might be described as an intermittent scream. He charged at once with characteristic want of consideration, and, plunging headlong into Alice’s bosom, sought to cover her face with kisses—i.e., with licks, that being the well-known canine method of doing the thing.
“O Toozle, how glad, glad, glad, I am to see you, my own darling Toozle!” cried Alice, actually shedding tears.
Toozle screamed with delight. It was almost too much for him. Again and again he attempted to lick her face, a familiarity which Alice gently declined to permit, so he was obliged to content himself with her hand.
It has often struck us as surprising, that little dogs—usually so intelligent and apt to learn in other matters—should be so dull of apprehension in this. Toozle had the experience of a lifetime to convince him that Alice objected to have her face licked, and would on no account permit it, although she was extremely liberal in regard to her hands; but Toozle ignored the authority of experience. He was at this time a dog of mature years, but his determination to kiss Alice was as strong as it had been when, in the tender years of infancy, he had entertained the mistaken belief that she was his own mother.
He watched every unguarded moment to thrust forward his black, not to say impertinent, little snout; and, although often reproved, he still remained unconvinced, resolutely returned to the charge, and was not a bit ashamed of himself.
On the present occasion Toozle behaved like a canine lunatic, and Alice was beginning to think of exercising a little tender violence in order to restrain his superabundant glee, when another individual appeared on the scene, and for a time, at least, relieved her.
The second comer was our dark friend, Kekupoopi. She by some mischance had got separated from her young mistress, and immediately went in search of her. She found her at once of course, for, as water finds its level, so love finds its object without much loss of time.
“O Toozle; hee! hee! am dat you?” exclaimed Poopy, who was as much delighted in her way to see the dog as Alice had been.
Toozle was, in his way, as much delighted to see Poopy as he had been to see Alice—no, we are wrong, not quite so much as that, but still extremely glad to see her, and evinced his joy by extravagant sounds and actions. He also evinced his scorn for the opinion that some foolish persons hold, namely, that black people are not as good as white, by rushing into Poopy’s arms and attempting to lick her black face as he had tried to do to Alice. As the dark-skinned girl had no objection, (for tastes differ, you see,) and received the caresses with a quiet “Hee! hee!” Toozle was extremely gratified.
Now it happened that Jo Bumpus, oppressed with a feeling of concern for his former captain, and with a feeling of doubt as to the stirring events in which he was an actor being waking realities, had wandered up the mountain-side in order to indulge in profound philosophical reflections.
Happening to hear the noise caused by the joyful meeting which we have just described, he turned aside to see what all the “row” could be about, and thus came unexpectedly on Alice and her friends.
About the same time it chanced, (for things sometimes do happen by chance in a very remarkable way,) it chanced that Will Corrie, being also much depressed about Gascoyne, resolved to take into his confidence Dick Price the boatswain, with whom during their short voyage together he had become intimate.
He found that worthy seated on a cask at the end of the rude pile of coral rocks that formed the quay of Sandy Cove, surrounded by some of his shipmates, all of whom, as well as himself, were smoking their pipes and discussing things in general.
Corrie went forward and pulled Dick by the sleeve.
“Hallo! boy, what d’ye want with me?” said the boatswain.
“I want to speak to you.”
“Well, lad, fire away.”
“Yes, but I want you to come with me,” said the boy, with an anxious and rather mysterious look.
“Very good!—heave ahead,” said the boatswain, getting up, and following Corrie with a peculiarly nautical roll.
After he had been led through the settlement and a considerable way up the mountain in silence, the boatswain suddenly stopped, and said—“Hallo! hold on; my timbers won’t stand much more o’ this sort o’ thing. I was built for navigatin’ the seas,—I was not for cruisin’ on the land. We’re far enough out of ear-shot, I s’pose, in this here bit of a plantation. Come, what have ye got to say to me? You ain’t a-goin’ to tell me the Freemasons’ word, are ye? For, if so, don’t trouble yourself, I wouldn’t listen to it on no account w’atever. It’s too mysterious that is for me.”
“Dick Price,” said Corrie, looking up in the face of the seaman, with a serious expression that was not often seen on his round countenance, “you’re a man.”
The boatswain looked down at the youthful visage in some surprise.
“Well, I s’pose I am,” said he, stroking his beard complacently.
“And you know what it is to be misunderstood, misjudged, don’t you?”
“Well, now I come to think on it, I believe I have had that misfortune—specially w’en I’ve ordered the powder-monkies to make less noise, for them younkers never do seem to understand me. As for misjudgin’, I’ve often an’ over again heard ’em say I was the crossest feller they ever did meet with, but they never was more out in their reckoning.”
Corrie did not smile; he did not betray the smallest symptom of power either to appreciate or to indulge in jocularity at that moment. But feeling that it was useless to appeal to the former experience of the boatswain, he changed his plan of attack.
“Dick Price,” said he, “it’s a hard case for an innocent man to be hanged.”
“So it is, boy,—oncommon hard. I once know’d a poor feller as was hanged for murderin’ his old grandmother. It was afterwards found out that he’d never done the deed; but he was the most incorrigible thief and poacher in the whole place, so it warn’t such a mistake after all.”
“Dick Price,” said Corrie, gravely, at the same time laying his hand impressively on his companion’s arm, “I’m a tremendous joker—awful fond o’ fun and skylarkin’.”
“’Pon my word, lad, if you hadn’t said so yourself, I’d scarce have believed it. You don’t look like it just now, by no manner o’ means.”
“But I am though,” continued Corrie; “and I tell you that in order to shew you that I am very, very much in earnest at this moment; and that you must give your mind to what I’ve got to say.”
The boatswain was impressed by the fervour of the boy. He looked at him in surprise for a few seconds, then nodded his head, and said, “Fire away!”
“You know that Gascoyne is in prison!” said Corrie.
“In course I does. That’s one rascally pirate less on the seas, anyhow.”
“He’s not so bad as you think, Dick.”
“Whew!” whistled the boatswain. “You’re a friend of his, are ye?”
“No; not a friend, but neither am I an enemy. You know he saved my life, and the lives of two of my friends, and of your own captain, too.”
“Well, there’s no denying that; but he must have been the means of takin’ away more lives than what he has saved.”
“No, he hasn’t,” cried Corrie, eagerly. “That’s it, that’s just the point; he has saved more than he ever took away, and he’s sorry for what he has done; yet they’re going to hang him. Now, I say, that’s sinful—it’s not just. It shan’t be done if I can prevent it; and you must help me to get him out of this scrape—you must indeed, Dick Price.”
The boatswain was quite taken aback. He opened his eyes wide with surprise, and putting his head to one side, gazed earnestly and long at the boy as if he had been a rare old painting.
Before he could reply, the furious barking of a dog attracted Corrie’s attention. He knew it to be the voice of Toozle. Being well acquainted with the locality of Alice’s tree, he at once concluded that she was there, and knowing that she would certainly side with him, and that the side she took must necessarily be the winning side, he resolved to bring Dick Price within the fascination of her influence.
“Come, follow me,” said he; “we’ll talk it over with a friend of mine.”
The seaman followed the boy obediently, and in a few minutes stood beside Alice.
Corrie had expected to find her there, but he had not counted on meeting with Poopy and Jo Bumpus.
“Hallo! Grampus, is that you?”
“Wot! Corrie, my boy, is it yourself? Give us your flipper, small though it be. I didn’t think I’d niver see ye agin, lad.”
“No more did I, Grampus; it was very nearly all up with us.”
“Ah! my boy,” said Bumpus, becoming suddenly very grave, “you’ve no notion how near it was all up with me. Why, you won’t believe it—I was all but scragged.”
“Dear me! what is scragged?” inquired Alice.
“You don’t mean for to say you don’t know?” exclaimed Bumpus.
“No, indeed, I don’t.”
“Why, it means bein’ hanged. I was so near hanged, just a day or two back, that I’ve had an ’orrible pain in my neck ever since at the bare thought of it! But who’s your friend?” said Bumpus, turning to the boatswain.
“Oh! I forgot him—he’s the boatswain of the Talisman. Dick Price, this is my friend, John Bumpus.”
“Glad to know you, Dick Price.”
“Same to you, and luck, John Bumpus.”
The two sea-dogs joined their enormous palms, and shook hands cordially.
After these two had indulged in a little desultory conversation, Will Corrie, who, meanwhile, consulted with Alice in an undertone, brought them back to the point that was uppermost in his mind.
“Now,” said he, “it comes to this,—we must not let Gascoyne be hanged.”
“Why, Corrie,” cried Bumpus, in surprise, “that’s the very thing I was a-thinkin’ of w’en I comed up here and found Miss Alice under the tree.”
“I am glad to hear that, Jo; it’s what has been on my own mind all the morning. But Dick Price here is not convinced that he deserves to escape. Now; you tell him all you know about Gascoyne, and I’ll tell him all I know, and if he don’t believe us, Alice and Poopy will tell him all they know, and if that won’t do, you and I will take him up by the legs and pitch him into the sea!”
“That bein’ how the case stands—fire away,” said Dick Price with a grin, sitting down on the grass and busily filling his pipe.
Dick was not so hard to be convinced as Corrie had feared. The glowing eulogiums of Bumpus, and the earnest pleadings of Alice, won him over very soon. He finally agreed to become one of the conspirators.
“But how is the thing to be done?” asked Corrie in some perplexity.
“Ah! that’s the pint,” observed Dick, looking profoundly wise.
“Nothin’ easier,” said Bumpus, whose pipe was by this time keeping pace with that of his new friend. “The case is as clear as mud. Here’s how it is. Gascoyne is in limbo; well, we are out of limbo. Good. Then, all we’ve got for to do is to break into limbo and shove Gascoyne out of limbo, and help him to escape. It’s all square, you see, lads.”
“Not so square as you seem to think,” said Henry Stuart, who at that moment stepped from behind the stem of the tree, which had prevented the party from observing his approach.
“Why not?” said Bumpus, making room for the young man to sit beside Alice, on the grass.
“Because,” said Henry, “Gascoyne won’t agree to escape.”
“Not agree for to escape!”
“No. If the prison door were opened at this moment, he would not walk out.”
Bumpus became very grave, and shook his head. “Are ye sartin sure o’ this?” said he.
“Quite sure,” replied Henry, who now detailed part of his recent conversation with the pirate captain.
“Then it’s all up with him!” said Bumpus; “and the pirate will meet his doom, as I once hear’d a feller say in a play—though I little thought to see it acted in reality.”
“So he will,” added Dick Price.
Corrie’s countenance fell, and Alice grew pale. Even Poopy and Toozle looked a little depressed.
“No, it is not all up with him,” cried Henry Stuart, energetically. “I have a plan in my head which I think will succeed, but I must have assistance. It won’t do, however, to discuss this before our young friends. I must beg of Alice and Poopy to leave us. I do not mean to say I could not trust you, Alice, but the plan must be made known only to those who have to act in this matter. Rest assured, dear child, that I shall do my best to make it successful.”
Alice sprang up at once. “My father told me to follow him some time ago,” said she. “I have been too long of doing so already. I do hope that you will succeed.”
So saying, and with a cheerful “Good-bye!” the little girl ran down the mountain-side, closely followed by Toozle and Poopy.
As soon as she was gone, Henry turned to his companions and unfolded to them his plan—the details and carrying out of which, however, we must reserve for another chapter.
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