Part 6 (1/2)
”At the idea of you being taken for a pirate,” said the child.
”Hee! hee! ho! ho!” remarked p.o.o.py.
”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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 st.u.r.dy 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 ent.i.tled 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 a.s.saults 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.
CHAPTER SIX.
SUSPICIONS ALLAYED AND RE-AWAKENED.
Gascoyne, followed by his man Jo b.u.mpus, sped over the rugged mountains and descended the slopes on the opposite side of the island soon after nightfall, and long before Captain Montague, in his large and well-manned boat, could pull half way round in the direction of the sequestered bay where the _Foam_ lay quietly at anchor.
There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the gla.s.sy sea, as the captain of the sandal-wood trader reached the sh.o.r.e and uttered a low cry like the hoot of an owl. The cry was instantly replied to, and in a few minutes a boat crept noiselessly towards the sh.o.r.e, seeming, in the uncertain light, more like a shadow than a reality. It was rowed by a single man. When within a few yards of the sh.o.r.e, the oars ceased to move, and the deep stillness of the night was scarcely broken by the low voice of surly d.i.c.k demanding--”Who goes there?”
”All right, pull in,” replied Gascoyne, whose deep ba.s.s voice sounded sepulchral in the almost unearthly stillness. It was one of those dark oppressively quiet nights which make one feel a powerful sensation of loneliness, and a peculiar disinclination, by word or act, to disturb the prevailing quiescence of nature--such a night as suggests the idea of a coming storm to those who are at sea, or of impending evil to those on land.