"So, you're to be hanged for a pirate, Jo Bumpus, ye are--that's
pleasant to think of anyhow."
Such was the remark which our stout seaman addressed to himself when he
awoke on the second morning after the departure of the _Wasp_. If the
thought was really as pleasant as he asserted it to be, his visage must
have been a bad index to the state of his mind; for at that particular
moment Jo looked uncommonly miserable.
The wonted good-humoured expression of his countenance had given place
to a gaze of stereotyped surprise and solemnity. Indeed Bumpus seemed
to have parted with much of his reason and all of his philosophy, for he
could say nothing else during at least half-an-hour after awaking except
the phrase--"So, you're going to be hanged for a pirate." His comments
on the phrase were, however, a little varied, though always brief--such
as--"Wot a sell! Who'd ha' thought it! It's a dream, it is, an
'orrible dream! _I_ don't believe it--who does? Wot'll your poor
mother say?"--and the like.
Bumpus had, unfortunately, good ground for making this statement.
After the cutter sailed it was discovered that Bumpus was concealed in
Mrs Stuart's cottage. This discovery had been the result of the
seaman's own recklessness and indiscretion; for when he ascertained that
he was to be kept a prisoner in the cottage until the return of the
_Wasp_, he at once made up his mind to submit with a good grace to what
could not be avoided. In order to prove that he was by no means cast
down, as well as to lighten the tedium of his confinement, Jo
entertained himself by singing snatches of sea songs--such as, "My tight
little craft,"--"A life on the stormy sea,"--"Oh! for a draught of the
howling blast," etcetera, all of which he delivered in a bass voice so
powerful that it caused the rafters of the widow's cottage to ring
again.
These melodious not to say thunderous sounds, also caused the ears of a
small native youth to tingle with curiosity. This urchin crept on his
brown little knees under the window of Bumpus's apartment, got on his
brown and dirty little tiptoes, placed his brown little hands on the
sill, hauled his brown and half-naked little body up by sheer force of
muscle, and peeped into the room with his large and staring brown eyes,
the whites of which were displayed to their full extent.
Jo was in the middle of an enthusiastic "oh!" when the urchin's head
appeared. Instead of expressing his passionate desire for a "draught of
the howling blast," he prolonged the "oh!" into a hideous yell, and
thrust his blazing face close to the window so suddenly that the boy let
go his hold, fell backwards, and rolled head over heels into a ditch,
out of which he scrambled with violent haste, and ran with the utmost
possible precipitancy to his native home on the sea-shore.
Here he related what he had seen to his father. The father went and
looked in upon Jo's solitude. He happened to have seen Bumpus during
the great fight and knew him to be one of the pirates. The village rose
_en masse_. Some of the worst characters in it stirred up the rest,
went to the widow's cottage, and demanded that the person of the pirate
should be delivered up.
The widow objected. The settlers 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 can laugh at a
fellow-creetur in such an hour. You had better get the murder over as
soon as ye can. I am ready--Stay! one moment more. I had a'most forgot
it. There's a letter here that I want one o' you to take charge of.
It's the last I ever got from my Susan, an' if I had taken her advice to
let alone havin' to do with all sandalwood traders, I'd never ha' bin in
such a fix as I am this day. I want it sent back to her with my
blessin' and a lock o' my hair. Is there an honest man among ye who'll
take in hand to do this for me?"
As he spoke, a young man, in a costume somewhat resembling that of a
sailor, pushed through the crowd, leaped upon the deal table on which Jo
stood, and removed the noose from his neck.
An exclamation of anger burst from those who surrounded the table, but a
sound something like applause broke from the crowd, and restrained any
attempt at violence. The young man at the same time held up his hand
and asked leave to address them.
"Ay! ay! let's hear what he has got to say. That's it; speak up, Dan!"
The youth, whose dark olive complexion proclaimed him to be a
half-caste, and whose language shewed that he had received at least the
rudiments of education, stretched out his hand and said--
"Friends, I do not stand here to interfere with justice. Those who seek
to give a pirate his just reward do well. But there has been doubt in
the minds of some that this man may not be a pirate. His own word is of
no value; but if I can bring forward anything to shew that perhaps his
word is true, then we have no right to hang him till we have given him a
longer trial."
"Hear! hear!" from the white men in the crowd, and "Ho! ho!" from the
natives.
Meanwhile the young man, or Dan, as some one called him, turned to
Bumpus and asked for the letter to which he had referred. Being
informed that it was in the inside pocket of his jacket, the youth put
his hand in and drew it forth.
"May I read it? Your life may depend on what I find here."
"Sartinly, by all manner of means," replied Jo, not a little surprised
at the turn affairs were taking.
Dan opened and perused the epistle for a few minutes, during which
intense silence was maintained in the crowd, as if they expected to
_hear_ the thoughts of the young man as they passed through his brain.
"Ha! I thought so," exclaimed Dan, looking up and again addressing the
crowd. "At the trial yesterday you heard this man say that he was
engaged at San Francisco by Gascoyne on the 12th of April last, and that
he believed the schooner to be a sandalwood trader when he shipped."
"Yes, yes, ho!" from the crowd.
"If this statement of his be true, then he was not a pirate when he
shipped, and he has not had much time to become one between that time
and this. The letter which I hold in my hand proves the truth of this
statement. It is dated San Francisco, 11th _April_, and is written in a
female hand. Listen, I will read it, and you shall judge for
yourselves."
The young man then read the following letter, which, being a peculiar as
well as an interesting specimen of a love-letter, we give _verbatim et
literatim_:--
"Peelers farm near Sanfransko Aprile 11.
"For John bumpuss, aboord the Skooner fome
"my darlin Jo,
"ever sins you towld me yisterday that youd bin an gaged yerself into
the fome, my mind has bin Onaisy. Ye no, darlint, from the our ye
cald me yer own Susan--in clare county More betoken--iv bin onaisy
about ye yer so bowld an Rekles, but this is wurst ov all. Iv no
noshun o them sandlewood skooners. The Haf ov thems pirits an The
other hafs no beter. Whats wus is that my owld master was drownded in
wan, or out o wan, but shure its All the Saim. Down he wint an that
wos the Endd.
"now Deer jo don't go to say in that skooner i beseech ye, jo. Ye
towld me that ye liked the looks o the cappen an haited the looks o
the Krew. Now deer, take warnin, think ov me. Think ov the words in
the coppie book weev writ so often together at owld makmahons skool,
eevil emunishakens Krupt yer maners, i misrember it, but ye no wot id
be sayin' to ye.
"o jo Don't go, but cum an see me as soon as iver ye can
"yours til deth.
"SUSAN.
"P.S. the piggs is quite livly but ther not so hansum heer as in the
owld country. Don't forgit to rite to your susan."
No one can conceive the indignation that swelled the broad chest of
honest John Bumpus when he listened to the laughter with which some
parts of this letter were received.
"Now," said Dan, "could any man want better proof than this that John
Bumpus _is not_ a pirate?"
This question was answered by a perfect yell from the crowd.
"Set him free; cut his cords!" cried a voice.
"Stop, friends," cried a big coarse-looking man, leaping on the table
and jostling Dan out of the way. "Not quite so fast. I don't pretend
to be a learned feller, and I can't make a speech with a buttery tongue
like Dan here. But wot I've got to say is--Justice for ever!"
"Hurrah!" from some of the wild spirits of the crowd. "Go on, Burke,"
from others.
"Yes, wot I say is--Justice for ever! Fair play an' no favour: _That's_
wot I say!"
Another cheer greeted the bold assertion of these noble sentiments.
"Now, here it is," continued Burke, becoming much excited, "wot's to
hinder that there letter bein' a forgery?--ay, that's the word, a
forgery? (Hear! hear!) got up a-purpose to bamboozle us chaps that
ain't lawyers. D'ye see?"
Burke glanced at Dan and smote his thigh triumphantly as he said this.
"It does not _look_ like a forgery," said Dan, holding up the letter and
pointing to the writing. "I leave it to yourselves to say if it
_sounds_ like a forgery--"
"I don't care a farthin' dip for yer _looks_ and _sounds_," cried Burke,
interrupting the other. "No man is goin' for to tell me that anybody
can trust to _looks_ and _sounds_. Why, I've know'd the greatest
villain that ever chewed the end of a smuggled cigar _look_ as innocent
as the babe unborn. An' is there a man here wot'll tell me he hasn't
often an' over again mistook the crack of a big gun for a clap o'
thunder?"
This was received with much approval by the crowd, which had evidently
more than half-forgotten the terrible purpose for which it had assembled
there, and was now much interested in what bid fair to be a keen
dispute. When the noise abated, Dan raised his voice and said--"If
Burke had not interrupted me, I was going to have said that another
thing which proves the letter to be no forgery is, that the post-mark of
San Francisco is on the back of it, with the date all right."
This statement delighted the crowd immensely, and caused Burke to look
disconcerted for a few seconds; he rallied, however, and returned to the
charge.
"Post-marks! wot do I care for post-marks? Can't a man forge a
post-mark as easy as any other mark?"
"Ah! that's true," from a voice in the crowd.
"No, not so easily as _any_ other mark," retorted Dan, "for it's made
with a kind of ink that's not sold in shops. Everything goes to prove
that the letter is no forgery. But, Mr Burke, will you answer me
this--if it _was_ a forgery, got up for the purpose of saving this man's
life, _at what time was it forged_? for Bumpus could not know that he
would ever need such a letter until yesterday afternoon, and between
that time and this there was but little time to forge a letter from San
Francisco, post-mark and all, and make it soiled and worn at the edges
like an old letter. (`Hear!' and sensation.) More than that," cried
Dan, waxing eager and earnest, "if it was a forgery, got up for this
purpose, _why was it not produced at the trial_? (`Hear! hear!' and
cheers!) And, last of all, why, if this forgery was so important to
him, did John Bumpus forget all about it until he stood on this table;
ay, _until the rope was round his neck_?"
A perfect storm of cheers and applause followed this last sentence, in
the midst of which there were cries of "You're floored, Burke! Hurrah
for Bumpus! Cut the ropes!"
But although John's life was now safe, his indignation at Susan's letter
having been laughed at was not altogether allayed.
"I'll tell ye wot it is," said he, the instant there was a lull in the
uproar of voices. "If you think that I'll stand here and see my Susan's
letter insulted before my eyes, you're very far out o' your reckoning.
Just cut them ropes an put any two o' ye'r biggest men, black or white,
before _me_, an' if I don't shew them a lot o' new stars as hasn't been
seed in no sky wotiver since Adam was a little boy, my name's--"
Up to this point Jo was heard, but the conclusion of his defiance was
drowned in roars of laughter.
"Cut the ropes," shouted the crowd.
Dan drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and with one stroke set Bumpus
free.
"Shoulder high," yelled a voice; "hurrah!"
A wild rush was made at the table. Jo's executioners were overturned
and trampled under foot, and the table, with himself and his young
advocate sprawling on it, was raised on the shoulders of the crowd and
borne off in triumph.
Half-an-hour later, Bumpus was set down at the widow's door. Mrs
Stuart received him with a scream of surprise and joy, for she had given
him up as a lost man.
"Now, then, Mrs Stuart," said Jo, throwing himself on a chair and
wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "don't make such a fuss about
me, like a good creetur. But do get me a bit o' bacon, and let's be
thankful that I'm here to eat it. Cut it fat, Mrs Stuart; cut it fat;
for it's wonderful wot a appetite I've got after such a mornin's work as
I've gone through. Well, well, after all that yer friends have said of
ye, Jo Bumpus, I do believe that yer _not_ born to be hanged?"