"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 'xtror'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 meager 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 stupefied 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 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 plead 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 chord 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 you can. I am ready—Stay! one moment more. I had almost 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; and if I had taken her advice to let alone havin' to do with all sandal-wood traders, I'd never ha' bin in such a fix as I am this day. I want to send it 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.
"Aye! aye! let's hear what he has got to That's it: speak up, Dan!"
The youth, whose dark olive complexion proclaimed him to be a half-caste, and whose language showed 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 show 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 sandal-wood 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 Schooner fome
"my