The Pacific is not always calm, but neither is it always stormy. We think it necessary to make this latter observation, because the succession of short-lived gales and squalls which have been prominently and unavoidably brought forward in our tale might lead the reader to deem the name of this ocean inappropriate.
Although the sea was not quite so still now, owing to the swell caused by the recent gale, it was quite as glassy as it was then. The sun, too, was as hot and the sky as brilliant, but the aspect of the Foam was much changed. The deep quiet was gone. Crowded on every part of the deck, and even down in her hold, were the crew of the man-of-war, lolling about listlessly and sadly, or conversing with grave looks about the catastrophe which had deprived them so suddenly of their floating home.
Gascoyne and Henry leaned over the stern in order to avoid being overheard by those around them, and conversed in low tones.
“But why not attempt to escape?” said the latter, in reply to some observation made by his companion.
“Because I am pledged to give myself up to justice.”
“No; not to justice,” replied the youth, quickly. “You said you would give yourself up to me and Mr Mason. I for one won’t act the part of a—a—”
“Thief-catcher,” suggested Gascoyne.
“Well, put it so if you will; and I am certain that the missionary will not have anything to do with your capture. He will say that the officers of justice are bound to attend to such matters. It would be perfectly right in you to try to escape.”
“Ah! Henry, your feelings have warped your judgment,” said Gascoyne, shaking his head. “It is strange how men will prevaricate and deceive themselves when they want to reason themselves into a wrong course or out of a right one. But what you or Mr Mason think or will do has nothing to do with my course of action.”
“But the law holds, if I mistake not, that a man is not bound to criminate himself,” said Henry.
“I know not and care not what the law of man holds,” replied the other, sadly. “I have forfeited my life to my country, and I am willing to lay it down.”
“Nay, not your life,” said Henry; “you have done no murder.”
“Well, then, at least my liberty is forfeited. I shall leave it to those who judge me whether my life shall be taken or no. I sometimes wish that I could get away to some distant part of the world, and there, by living the life of an honest man, try to undo, if possible, a little of what I have done. But, woe’s me, wishes and regrets come too late. No, I must be content to reap what I have sown.”
“They will be certain to hang you,” said the youth, bitterly.
“I think it likely they will,” replied his companion.
“And would you call that justice?” asked Henry, sharply. “Whatever punishment you may deserve, you do not deserve to die. You know well enough that your own word will go for nothing, and no one else can bear witness in your favour. You will be regarded simply as a notorious pirate. Even if some of the people whose lives you have spared while taking their goods should turn up, their testimony could not prove that you had not murdered others; so your fate is certain if you go to trial. Have you any right, then, to compass your own death by thus giving yourself up?”
“Ah! boy, your logic is not sound.”
“But answer my question,” said the youth, testily, “Henry, plead with me no longer,” said Gascoyne, in a deep, stern tone. “My mind is made up. I have spent many years in dishonesty and self-deception. It is perhaps possible that by a life devoted to doing good, I might in the long run benefit men more than I have damaged them. This is just possible, I say, though I doubt it; but I have promised to give myself up whenever this cruise is at an end, and I won’t break the last promise I am likely to give in this world; so do not attempt to turn me, boy.”
Henry made no reply, but his knitted brows and compressed lips shewed that a struggle was going on within him. Suddenly he stood erect, and said firmly—
“Be it so, Gascoyne. I will hold you to your promise. You shall not escape me!”
With this somewhat singular reply, Henry left his surprised companion and mingled with the crowd of men who stood on the quarter-deck.
A light breeze had now sprung up, and the Foam was gliding rapidly towards the island. Gascoyne’s deep voice was still heard at intervals issuing a word of command; for, as he knew the reefs better than any one else on board, Montague had intrusted him with the pilotage of the vessel into harbour.
When they had passed the barrier-reef, and were sailing over the calm waters of the enclosed lagoon in the direction of Sandy Cove, the young officer went up to the pirate captain with a perplexed air and a degree of hesitation that was very foreign to his character.
Gascoyne flushed deeply when he observed him. “I know what you would say to me,” he said, quickly. “You have a duty to perform. I am ready.”
“Gascoyne,” said Montague, with deep earnestness of tone and manner, “I would willingly spare you this, but, as you say, I have a duty to perform. I would, with all my heart, that it had fallen to other hands. Believe me, I appreciate what you have done within the last few days, and I believe what you have said in regard to yourself and your career. All this, you may depend upon it, will operate powerfully with your judges. But you know I cannot permit you to quit this vessel a free man.”
“I know it,” said Gascoyne, calmly.
“And—and—” (here Montague stammered and came to an abrupt pause.)
“Say on, Captain Montague. I appreciate your generosity in feeling for me thus; but I am prepared to meet whatever awaits me.”
“It is necessary,” resumed Montague, “that you should be manacled before I take you on shore.”
Gascoyne started. He had not thought of this. He had not fully realised the fact that he was to be deprived of his liberty so soon. In the merited indignity which was now to be put upon him, he recognised the opening act of the tragedy which was to terminate with his life.
“Be it so,” he said, lowering his head and sitting down on a carronade, in order to avoid the gaze of those who surrounded him.
While this was being done, the youthful Corrie was in the fore-part of the schooner whispering eagerly to Alice and Poopy.
“O Alice, I’ve seen him!” exclaimed the lad.
“Seen who?” inquired Alice, raising her pretty little eyebrows just the smallest morsel.
“Why, the boatswain of the Talisman, Dick Price, you know, who jumped overboard to save Henry when he fell off the raft. Come, I’ll point him out.”
So saying, Corrie edged his way through the crowd until he could see the windlass. Here, seated on a mass of chain cable, sat a remarkably rugged specimen of the British boatswain. He was extremely short, excessively broad, uncommonly jovial, and remarkably hairy. He wore his round hat so far on the back of his head that it was a marvel how it managed to hang there, and smoked a pipe so black that the most powerful imagination could hard............