“What, then, would you advise?” asked Montague.
“If a British officer can put himself under a simple trading skipper,” said Gascoyne, “I may perhaps shew what ought to be done in this emergency.”
“I can co-operate with any one who proves himself worthy of confidence,” retorted Montague, sharply.
“Well, then,” continued the other, “it is in vain to think of doing any good by a disorderly chase into mountains like these. I would advise that our forces be divided into three. One band under Mr Thorwald should go round by the Goat’s Pass, to which I will guide him, and cut off the retreat of the savages there. Another party under my friend Henry Stuart should give chase in the direction in which little Alice seems to have been taken, and a third party, consisting of his Majesty’s vessel the Talisman, and crew, should proceed round to the north side of the island and bombard the native village.”
“The Goat’s Pass,” growled Thorwald, “sounds unpleasantly rugged and steep in the ears of a man of my weight and years, Mister Gascoyne. But if there’s no easier style of work to be done, I fancy I must be content with what falls to my lot?”
“And, truly,” added Montague, “methinks you might have assigned me a more useful, as well as more congenial occupation than the bombardment of a mud village full of women and children—for I doubt not that every able-bodied man has left it, to go on this expedition.”
“You will not find the Goat’s Pass so bad as you think, good Thorwald,” returned Gascoyne, “for I propose that the Talisman or her boats should convey you and your men to the foot of it, after which your course will be indeed rugged, but it will be short;—merely to scale the face of a precipice that would frighten a goat to think of and then a plain descent into the valley where, I doubt not, these villains will be found in force; and where, certainly, they will not look for the appearance of a stout generalissimo of half savage troops. As for the bombarding of a mud village, Mr Montague, I should have expected a well-trained British officer ready to do his duty whether that duty were agreeable or otherwise.”
“My duty, certainly,” interrupted the young captain, hotly, “but I have yet to learn that your orders constitute my duty.”
The bland smile with which Gascoyne listened to this tended rather to irritate than to soothe Montague’s feelings; but he curbed the passion which stirred his breast, while the other went on—
“No doubt the bombarding of a defenceless village is not pleasant work, but the result will be important, for it will cause the whole army of savages to rush to the protection of their women and children; thereby disconcerting their plans—supposing them to have any—and enabling us to attack them while assembled in force. It is the nature of savages to scatter, and so to puzzle trained forces,—and no doubt those of his Majesty are well trained. But ‘one touch of nature makes the whole world kin,’ says a great authority; and it is wonderful how useful a knowledge of the various touches of nature is in the art of war. It may not have occurred to Mr Montague that savages have a tendency to love and protect their wives and children as well as civilised men, and that—”