Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader by R. M. Ballantyne (best ereader for textbooks TXT) 📖

“The what?” inquired Alice.

“The Grampus—the man, at least, whom I call the Grampus, and who calls hisself Jo Bumpus.”

“I did not hear such names mentioned, but Henry spoke of a wounded nigger.”

“Ay, they’re all a set of false rascals together,” said Corrie.

“Niggers ob dis here settlement is good mans, ebery von,” said Poopy, promptly.

“Hallo! Kickup, wot’s wrong? I never heard ye say so much at one time since I came to this place.”

“Niggers is good peepils,” reiterated the girl.

“So they are, Puppy, and you’re the best of ’em; but I was speakin’ of the fellers on the other side of the island, d’ye see?”

“Hee! hee!” ejaculated the girl.

“Well, but what makes you so anxious?” said Alice, looking earnestly into the boy’s face.

Corrie laid his hand on her head and stroked her fair hair as he replied—

“This is a serious matter, Alice; I must go at once and see your father about it.”

He rose with an air of importance, as if about to leave the kitchen.

“Oh! but please don’t go till you have told me what it is; I’m so frightened,” said Alice; “do stay and tell me about it before you go to papa.”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” said the boy, sitting down again. “You must know, then, that it’s reported there are pirates on the island.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Alice.

“D’ye know what pirates are, Puppy?”

“Hee! hee!” answered the girl.

“I do believe she don’t know nothin’,” said the boy, looking at her with an air of compassion “wot a sad thing it is to belong to a lower species of human natur! Well, I s’pose it can’t be helped. A pirate, Kickup, is a sea-robber. D’ye understand?”

“Ho! ho!”

“Ay, I thought so. Well, Alice, I am told that there’s been a lot o’ them landed on the island and took to chasin’ and killin’ the niggers, and Henry was all but killed by one o’ the niggers this very morning, an’ was saved by a big feller that’s a mystery to me, and by the Grampus, who is the best feller I ever met—a regular trump he is; and there’s all sorts o’ doubts, and fears, and rumours, and things of that sort, with a captain of the British navy, that you and I have read so much about, trying to find this pirate out, and suspectin’ everybody he meets is him. I only hope he won’t take it into his stupid head to mistake me for him—not so unlikely a thing after all.” And the youthful Corrie shook his head with much gravity, as he surveyed his rotund little legs complacently.

“What are you laughing at?” he added, suddenly, on observing that a bright smile had overspread Alice’s face.

“At the idea of you being taken for a pirate,” said the child.

“Hee! hee! ho! ho!” remarked Poopy.

“Silence, you lump of black putty!” thundered the aspiring youth.

“Come, don’t be cross to my maid,” said Alice, quickly.

Corrie laughed, and was about to continue his discourse on the events and rumours of the day, when Mr Mason’s voice was heard the other end of the house.

“Ho! Corrie.”

“That’s me,” cried the boy, promptly springing up and rushing out of the room.

“Here, my boy, I thought I heard your voice. I want you to go a message for me. Run down, like a good lad, to Ole Thorwald and tell him to come up here as soon as he conveniently can. There are matters to consult about which will not brook delay.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Corrie, sailor fashion, as he touched his forelock and bounded from the room.

“Off on pressing business,” cried the sanguine youth, as he dashed through the kitchen, frightening Alice, and throwing Toozle into convulsions of delight—“horribly important business that ‘won’t brook delay;’ but what brook means is more than I can guess.”

Before the sentence was finished, Corrie was far down the hill, leaping over every obstacle like a deer. On passing through a small field he observed a native bending down, as if picking weeds, with his back towards him. Going softly up behind, he hit the semi-naked savage a sounding slap, and exclaimed, as he passed on, “Hallo! Jackolu, important business, my boy—hurrah!”

The native to whom this rough salutation was given, was a tall stalwart young fellow who had for some years been one of the best behaved and most active members of Frederick Mason’s dark-skinned congregation. He stood erect for some time, with a broad grin on his swarthy face, and a twinkle in his eye, as he gazed after the young hopeful, muttering to himself, “Ho! yes—bery wicked boy dat, bery; but hims capital chap for all dat.”

A few minutes later, Master Corrie burst in upon the sturdy middle-aged merchant, named Ole Thorwald, a Norwegian who had resided much in England, and spoke the English language well, and who prided himself on being entitled to claim descent from the old Norwegian sea-kings. This man was uncle and protector to Corrie.

“Ho! uncle Ole; here’s a business. Sich a to do—wounds, blood, and murder! or at least an attempt at it;—the whole settlement in arms, and the parson sends for you to take command!”

“What means the boy?” exclaimed Ole Thorwald, who, in virtue of his having once been a private in a regiment of militia, had been appointed to the chief command of the military department of the settlement. This consisted of about thirty white men, armed with fourteen fowling-pieces, twenty daggers, fifteen swords, and eight cavalry pistols; and about two hundred native Christians, who, when the assaults of their unconverted brethren were made, armed themselves—as they were wont to do in days gone by—with formidable clubs, stone hatchets, and spears. “What means the boy!” exclaimed Ole, laying down a book which he had been reading, and thrusting his spectacles up on his broad bald forehead.

“Exactly what the boy says,” replied Master Corrie.

“Then add something more to it, pray.”

Thorwald said this in a mild tone, but he suddenly seized the handle of an old pewter mug which the lad knew, from experience, would certainly reach his head before he could gain the door if he did not behave; so he became polite, and condescended to explain his errand more fully.

“So, so,” observed the descendant of the sea-kings, as he rose and slowly buckled on a huge old cavalry sabre, “there is double mischief brewing this time. Well, we shall see—we shall see. Go, Corrie, my boy, and rouse up Terrence and Hugh and—”

“The whole army, in short,” cried the boy, hastily—“you’re so awfully slow, uncle, you should have been born in the last century, I think.”

Farther remark was cut short by the sudden discharge of the pewter mug, which, however, fell harmlessly on the panel of the closing door as the impertinent Corrie sped forth to call the settlement to arms.