On the particular day of which we are writing, Alice Mason felt an unusual depression of spirits. She had been told by her father of the intended departure of the widow and her son, and had been warned not to mention it to any one. In consequence of this, the poor child was debarred her usual consolation of pouring her grief into the black bosom of Poopy. It naturally followed, therefore, that she sought her next favourite—the tree.
Here, to her surprise and comfort, she found Corrie seated on one of its roots, with his head resting on the stem, and his hands clasped before him. His general appearance was that of a human being in the depths of woe. On observing Alice, he started up, and assuming a cheerful look, ran to meet her.
“Oh! I’m so glad to find you here, Corrie,” cried Alice, hastening forward, “I’m in such distress! Do you know that— Oh! — I forgot; papa said I was to tell nobody about it!”
“Don’t let that trouble you, Alice,” said Corrie, as they sat down together under the tree. “I know what you were about to say—Henry and his mother are going away.”
“How do you know that? I thought it was a great secret!”
“So it is, a tremendous secret,” rejoined Corrie, with a look that was intended to be very mysterious; “and I know it, because I’ve been let into the secret for reasons which I cannot tell even to you. But there is another secret which you don’t know yet, and which will surprise you perhaps. I am going away, too!”
“You,” exclaimed the little girl, her eyes dilating to their full size.
“Ay, me!”
“You’re jesting, Corrie.”
“Am I? I wish I was; but it’s a fact.”
“But where are you going to?” said Alice, her eyes filling with tears.
“I don’t know.”
“Corrie!”
“I tell you, I don’t know; and if I did know, I couldn’t tell. Listen, Alice, I will tell you as much as I am permitted to let out.”
The boy became extremely solemn at this point, took the little girl’s hand, and gazed into her face as he spoke.
“You must know,” he began, “that Henry and his mother and I go away to-night—”
“To-night?” cried Alice, quickly.
“To-night,” repeated the boy. “Bumpus and Jakolu go with us. I have said that I don’t know where we are going to, but I am pretty safe in assuring you that we are going somewhere. Why we are going, I am forbidden to tell—divulge, I think Henry called it, but what that means I don’t know. I can only guess it’s another word for tell, and yet it can’t be that either, for you can speak of telling lies, but you can’t speak of divulging them. However, that don’t matter. But I’m not forbidden to tell you why I am going away. In the first place, then, I’m going to seek my fortune! Where I’m to find it remains to be seen. The only thing I know is, that I mean to find it somewhere or other, and then,” (here Corrie became very impressive,) “come back and live beside you and your father, not to speak of Poopy and Toozle.”
Alice smiled sadly at this. Corrie looked graver than ever, and went on—
“Meanwhile, during my absence, I will write letters to you, and you’ll write ditto to me. I am going away because I ought to go and be doing something for myself. You know quite well that I would rather stop beside you than go anywhere in this wide world, Alice; but that would be stupid. I’m getting to be a man now, and mustn’t go on shewin’ the weaknesses of a boy. In the second, or third, place—I forget which, but no matter—I am going with Henry because I could not go with a better man; and in the fourth—if it’s not the fifth—place, I’m going because Uncle Ole Thorwald has long wished me to go to sea, and, to tell you the truth, I would have gone long ago had it not been for you, Alice. There’s only one thing that bothers me.” Here Corrie looked at his fair companion with a perplexed air.
“What is that?” asked Alice, sympathetically.
“It is that I must go without saying good-bye to Uncle Ole. I’m very sorry about it. It will look so ungrateful to him; but it can’t be helped.”
“Why not?” inquired Alice. “If he has often said he wished you to go to sea, would he not be delighted to hear that you are going?”
“Yes; but he must not know that I am going to-night, and with Henry Stuart.”
“Why not?”
“Ah! that’s the point. Mystery! Alice—mystery! What a world of mystery this is!” observed the precocious Corrie, shaking his head with profound solemnity. “I’ve been involved, (I think that’s the word,) rolled up, drowned, and buried in mystery for more than three weeks, and I’m beginning to fear that I’ll never again git into the unmysteriously happy state in which I lived before this abominable man-of-war came to the island. No Alice, I dare not say anything more on that point even to you just now. But won’t I give it you all in my first letter? and won’t you open your eyes just until they look like two blue saucers?”
Further conversation between the friends was interrupted at this point by the inrushing of Toozle, followed up by Poopy, and, a short time after, by Mr Mason, who took Alice away with him, and left poor Corrie disconsolate.
While this was going on, John Bumpus was fulfilling his mission to Ole Thorwald.
He found that obstinate individual in his own parlour, deep in the investigation of the state of his books of business, which had been allowed to fall into arrear during his absence.
“Come in, Bumpus. So I hear you were half-hanged when we were away.”
Ole wheeled round on his stool and hooked his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest as he said this, leaned his back against his desk, and regarded the seaman with a facetious look.
“Half-hanged, indeed,” said Bumpus, indignantly. “I was more than half—three-quarters at least. Why, the worst of it’s over w’en the rope’s round your neck.”
“That is a matter which you can’t speak to, John Bumpus, seeing that you’ve never gone beyond the putting of the rope round your neck.”
“Well, I’m content with wot I does happen to know about it,” remarked Jo, making a wry face; “an’ I hope that I’ll never git the chance of knowin’ more. But I comed here on business, Mr Thorwald,” (here John became mysterious and put his finger to his lips.) “I’ve comed here, Mr Thorwald, to—split.”
As Ole did not quite understand the meaning of this word, and did not believe that the seaman actually meant to rend himself from head to foot, he said— “Why, Bumpus, what d’ye mean?”
“I mean as how that I’ve comed to split on my comrades—w’ich means, I’m goin’ to tell upon ’em.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Ole, eyeing the man with a look of distrust.
“Yes,” pursued Bumpus, “I’m willin’ to tell ye all about it, and prevent his escape, if you’ll only promise, on yer word as a gin’lmun, that ye won’t tell nobody else, but six niggers, who are more than enough to sarve your turn.”
“Prevent whose escape?” said Thorwald with an excited look.
“Gascoyne’s.”
Ole jumped off his stool and hit his left palm a sounding blow with his right fist.
“I knew it!” he exclaimed, staring into the face of the seaman. “I was sure of it! I said it! But how d’ye know, my man?”
“Ah! I’ll not say another word if ye don’t promise to let me go free, and only take six niggers with ye.”
“Well, Bumpus, I do promise, on the word of a true Norseman, which is much better than that of a gentleman, that no harm shall come to you if you tell me all you know of this matter. But I will promise nothing more; because if you won’t tell me, you have told me enough to enable me to take such measures as will prevent Gascoyne from escaping.”
“No, ye can’t prevent it,” said Bumpus, with an air of indifference. “If ye don’t choose to come to my way o’ thinkin’, ye can take yer own coorse. But, let me tell you, there’s more people on the island that will take Gascoyne’s part than ye think of. There’s the whole crew of the Talisman, whose cap’n he saved, and a lot besides; an’ if ye do come to a fight about it, ye’ll have a pretty tough scrimmage. Ther’ll be blood spilt, Mr Thorwald, an’ it was partly to prevent that as I comed here for. But you know best. You better take yer own way, an I’ll take mine.”
The cool impudence, of manner with which John Bumpus said this had its effect on Ole, who, although fond enough of fighting against enemies, had no sort of desire to fight against friends, especially for the sake of a pirate.
“Come, Bumpus,” said he, “you and I understand each other. Let us talk the thing over calmly. I’ve quite as much objection to see unnecessary bloodshed as you have. We have had enough of that lately. Tell me what you know, and I promise to do what you recommend as far as I can in reason.”
“Do you promise to let no one else know wot I tell ye?”
“I do.”
“An’ d’ye promise to take no more than six niggers to prewent this escape?”
“Will six be enough?”
“Plenty; but, if that bothers ye, say twelve; I’m not partic’lar—say twelve. That’s more than enough, for they’ll only have four to fight with.”
“Well, I promise that too.”
“Good. Now I’ll tell ye all about it,” said Bumpus. “You see, although I’m splittin’, I don’t want to get my friends into trouble, and so I got you to promise; an’ I trust to yer word, Mr Thorwald—you bein’ a gen’lmun. This is how it is. Young Henry Stuart thinks that although Gascoyne is a pirate, or, rather, was a pirate, he don’t deserve to be hanged. ’Cause why? Firstly, he never committed no murder; secondly, he saved the lives o’ some of your people—Alice Mason among the rest; and, thirdly, he’s an old friend o’ the family as has done ’em good sarvice long ago. So Henry’s made up his mind that, as Gascoyne’s sure to be hanged if he’s tried, it’s his duty to prewent that there from happenin’ of. Now, ye see, Gascoyne is quite willin’ to escape—”
“Hah! the villain!” exclaimed Ole; “I was sure of that. I knew well enough that all his smooth-tongued humility was hypocrisy. I’m sorry for Henry, and don’t wish to thwart him; but it’s clearly my duty to prevent this escape if I can.”
“So I think, sir,” said Bumpus; “so I think. That’s just w’at I said to myself w’en I made up my mind for to split. Gascoyne bein’ willin’ then, Henry has bribed the jailer, and he intends to open the jail door for him at twelve o’clock this night, and he’ll know w’at to do with his legs w’en he’s got ’em free.”
“But how am I to prevent his escape if I do not set a strong guard over the prison?” exclaimed Ole, in an excited manner. “If he once gets into the mountains I might as well try to catch a hare.”
“All fair and softly, Mr Thorwald. Don’t take on so. It ain’t two o’clock yet; we’ve lots o’ time. Henry has arranged to get a boat ready for him. At twelve o’clock to-night the doors will be opened and he’ll start for the boat. It will lie concealed among the rocks off the Long Point. There’s no mistakin’ the spot, just west of the village; an’ if you place your niggers there you’ll have as good a chance as need be to nab ’em. Indeed, there’s two boats to be in waitin’ for the pirate captain and his friends—set ’em up!”
“And where is the second boat to be hidden?” asked Ole.
“I’m not sure of the exact spot, but it can’t be very far off from the tother, cer’nly not a hundred miles,” said Bumpus with a grin. “Now, wot I want is, that if ye get hold of the pirate ye’ll be content, an’ not go an’ peach on Henry an’ his comrades. They’ll be so ashamed o’ themselves at bein’ nabbed in the wery act that they’ll give it up as a bad job. Besides, ye can then go an’ give him in charge of Capting Montague. But if ye try to prewent the escape bein’ attempted, Henry will take the bloody way of it—for I tell you his birse is up, an’ no mistake.”
“How many men are to be with Gascoyne?” asked Thorwald, who, had he not been naturally a stupid man, must have easily seen through this clumsy attempt to blind him.
“Just four,” answered Bumpus; “an’ I’m to be one of ’em.”
“Well, Bumpus, I’ll take your advice. I shall be at the Long Point before twelve, with a dozen niggers, and I’ll count on you lending us a hand.”
“No, ye mustn’t count on that, Mr Thorwald. Surely it’s enough if I run away and leave the others to fight.”
“Very well, do as you please,” said Thorwald, with a look of contempt.
“Good day, Mr Thorwald. You’ll be sure to be there?”
“Trust me.”
“An’ you’ll not say a word about it to nobody?”
“Not a syllable.”
“That’s all square. You’ll see the boat w’en ye git there, and as long as ye see that boat yer all right. Good day, sir.”
John Bumpus left Thorwald’s house chuckling, and wended his way to the widow’s cottage, whistling the “Groves of Blarney.”
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