The Maroon by Thomas Mayne Reid — Free Audiobook

1 001 - Volume 1 Chapter 1 - A Jamaica Sugar Estate 11:57

A JAMAICA SUGAR ESTATE. A sugar estate, and one of the finest in the land of springs, is that of Mount Welcome. It is situated about ten miles from Montego Bay, in a broad valley between two rounded ridges. These ridges, after running parallel for more than a mile, and gradually increasing in elevation, at length converge with an inward sweep. At their point of convergence, Rising abruptly into a stupendous hill that fairly merits the name which it bears upon the estate, the mountain. Both the ridges are wooded, almost down to their bases. The woods, which consist of shining pimento trees, ending on each side in groves and island copses, pleasantly interspersed over a park like Greensward. The great house, or buff, of the estate stands under the foot of the mountain, just at the point of union between the two ridges where a natural table or platform, elevated several feet above the level of the valley, had offered a tempting sight to the builder.

In architectural style, it is not very different from other houses of its kind. The well-known planter's dwelling of the West Indies. One story, the lower one, of course, is of strong stonemason work, the second, and only other, being simply a wooden frame, roofed with shingles. The side and end walls of this second story cannot with propriety be termed walls, since most part of them Are occupied by a continuous line of Venetian shutters, the jealousies of Jamaica. These impart a singular cage-like appearance to the house, at the same time contributing to its coolness, a quality of primary importance in a tropical climate. Outside in the front center, a flight of broad stone steps resting upon arched mason work.

And bordered by strong iron balustrades, conducts to the level of the second story, the real dwelling house, since the ground floor is entirely occupied by storerooms and other offices. The entrance door is from the landing of the aforesaid escalier, and conducts at once into the hall, a spacious apartment of crucifix shape. Running clear across the building from side to side and end to end. The current of air admitted by the open jalousies, passing constantly through this apartment, renders it at all times delightfully cool, while the latticework serves to mellow the glare of light, which under the sky of the tropics is almost as disagreeable as the heat. An uncarpeted floor This great hall is the principal apartment of the dwelling.

It is dining and drawing-room in one, where sideboards and chef-haneers may be seen in juxtaposition with lounge chairs, faux-teals and ottomans, a grand chandelier in the center, The bedchambers occupy the square spaces to one side of the cross, and these also have their jalousied windows to admit the air and exclude as much as possible the sultry rays of the sun.

In Mount Wellcome House, as in other country mansions of Jamaica, a stranger would remark, A want of correspondence between the dwelling itself and the furniture which it contains. The former might be regarded as slight and even flimsy, but it is this very character which renders it appropriate to the climate, and hence the absence of substantiality or costliness in the style and materials of the building. The furniture, on the other hand, the solid tables of mahogany, And other ornamental woods, the shining carved sideboards, the profuse show of silver and cut glass that rests upon them, the elegant couches and chairs, the glittering lamps and candelabras, all combine to prove that the quasi-meanness of the Jamaica planter's establishment extends no farther than to the walls of his house.

If the case be a cheap one, The jewels contained in it are of the costliest kind. Outside the great house of Mount Welcome looks grand enough. Its broad façade, in which the deep green of the Jalices contrasts pleasantly with the white of the surrounding walls, the massive stone stairway in front, the wooded mountain sweeping up and forming a background of variegated green. The noble avenue of nearly a mile in length, with its double rows of tamarins and cocoa-palms leading up in front from the lower end of the valley, all contribute to produce a picture of almost palatial grandeur. Nor does a nearer view detract from the splendor of this picture. The platform on which the house is built affords space for a large garden and shrubbery.

Extending rearward to the mountain foot, from which they are separated by a high wall of stone. The mountain is a conspicuous feature of the landscape, not so much from its height, for there are others of equal elevation near to it, and further off, though still within sight, many still higher. Even the famed Blue Peak is visible. Towering hundreds of feet above the surrounding summits. Nor is it conspicuous from being isolated. On the contrary, it is only a spur of that vast elevated chain of hills, that separated by deep gorge-like valleys, and soaring thousands of feet above the level of the Caribbean Sea, is known as the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. Covering almost the entire area of the island, Which is thus broken into an endless succession of gigantic corrugations.

Jamaica presents a surface, rough and irregular, as the crumplings under a cabbage leaf. And Land of Mountains would be a title as appropriate as its ancient Indian appellation, the Land of Fountains. The hill which overlooks the estate of Mount Wellcome is less than 2,000 feet above sea level. But what renders it remarkable is the geometrical regularity of its outlines, and still more, its singularly shaped summit. Viewed from the valley below, it presents the appearance of an exact and somewhat acute cone, up to within about fifty yards of its top. There this sloping outline ends, the line on each side thence trending vertically and abruptly terminating, In general appearance, this truncated summit is not unlike that of the famed Cofre de Pirote of Mexico.

The sloping sides of the mountain are densely wooded, especially that fronting the valley of Mount Wellcome, towards which is presented a broad-frowning façade, thickly clothed with a forest that appears primeval. Alone at its top is it treeless, bare and bald, as the crown of a Franciscan friar. There stands the square, coffer-like summit, a mass of solid rock, which repels the approach of the vegetable giants that crowd closely around its face, some of them stretching out their huge arms, as if to strangle or embrace it. One tree alone has succeeded in scaling its steep rampart-like wall. A noble palm, the Areca, has accomplished this feat, and stands conspicuously upon the table top, its flumed leaves waving haughtily aloft, like a triumphal banner planted upon the parapet of some conquered castle.

The summit rock presents a singular appearance. Its seamed and scarred surface is mottled with a dark glaze, which during the sunlight, and even under the mellower beams of the moon, gives forth a coruscation, as if the light were reflected from scale armor. To the denizens of the valley below, it is known as the Jambé Rock, a name characteristic of the superstitious ideas attached to it. Though constantly before their eyes, and accessible by an hour's climbing up the forest path, there is not a negro on the estate of Mount Welcome, nor on any other, for miles around, that would venture alone to visit the Jambay Rock. And to most, if not all of them, the top of this mountain is as much of a terra incognita as the summit of Chimborazo.

I am speaking of a period more than a half a century ago. At that time the terror that was attached to the Jambé Rock did not altogether owe its origin to a mere superstition. It had been partly inspired by the remembrance of a horrid history. The rock had been the scene of an execution, which for cruel and cold-blooded barbarity rather deserves to be called a crime. That table summit Like the bloodstained temples of the Moctezumas, had been used as an altar upon which a human sacrifice had been offered up. Not in times long past, neither by the sanguinary priesthood of Azteca, but by men of white skin and European race. Their victim, a black and an African. This incident Illustrating Jamaica justice during the dark days of slavery deserves to be given in detail.

2 002 - Volume 1 Chapter 2 - A Myal Man 12:46

The Maroon, by Thomas Mayne Reed. Volume One, Chapter Two, The Myel Man. In the West Indies, a few years previous to the Emancipation, there was much agitation on the subject of Obeahism. The practice of this horrid art had become appallingly common, so common that upon almost every extensive estate in the island there was a professor of it. In other words, an Obeah Man. Professor, though often used in speaking of these charlatans, is not a correct title. To have professed it, at least in the hearing of the whites, would have been attended with peril, since it was punishable by the death penalty. Practitioner is a more appropriate appellation. These mysterious doctors were almost always men, very rarely women, and usually natives of Africa.

Universally were they persons of advanced age and hideous aspect, the uglier the more successful in the pursuit of their criminal calling. There was a class of them distinguished as myal men, Whose chief distinction consisted in their being able to restore life to a dead body. Such was the belief of their ignorant fellow-slaves, who little suspected that the defunct subject had been all the while only dormant, his death-like slumber secretly brought about by the Maial man himself, assisted by a prescription of the branched Callaloo, A species of Calatium. I cannot here enter into an explanation of the mysteries of Obi, which are simple enough when understood. I have met it in every land where it has been my lot to travel, and although it holds a more conspicuous place in the social life of the savage, it is also found in the bylanes of civilization.

The reader, who may have been mystified about its meaning, will perhaps understand what it is when I tell him that the Obeah Man of the West Indies is simply the counterpart of the Medicine Man of the North American Indians, the Pai Uche of the South, the Rainmaker of the Cape, the Fetish Man of the Guinea Coast, and known by as many other titles as there are tribes of uncivilized men.

It is the first dawning of religion on the soul of the savage. But even when its malignant spirit has become changed to a purer aspiration after eternal life, it lingers amidst the haunts of ignorance, Its original form almost unaltered. Witchcraft. To the statement above made, that on every large plantation there was an Obia man, the estate of Mount Welcome was no exception. It, too, was blessed, or rather cursed, by a follower of the art, an old Coromante Negro. Chakra. By name. A man whose fell and ferocious aspect could not have failed to make him one of the most popular of its practitioners. Such, to his misfortune, had he become. He had long been suspected of having poisoned his master, the former owner of the estate, who had made an abrupt and mysterious exit from the world.

The fate of this man, however, was not much lamented, as he bore the reputation of being a cruel slave-master. The present proprietor of Mount Wellcome had least reason to regret it, since it gave him possession of an estate he had long coveted. It was greater chagrin to him that since entering upon the enjoyment of the property, Several of his most valuable slaves had terminated their existence suddenly, and in a manner which could only be accounted for by the supposition that Obi had accomplished their destruction. Chakra, the Myal man, was suspected of causing their deaths. He was arraigned and brought to trial. His judges were three, three justices of the neighborhood. For that number was sufficient to pass the death sentence upon a slave.

The president of the court was the man's own master, Loftus Vaughan, Esquire, Proprietor of Mount Welcome, and Custis Rotulorum of the precinct. The substance of the crime charged against Chakra was practicing the arts of Obi, The charge had no reference to the death of his former master. The proofs were not very clear, but were deemed sufficiently so by the court to warrant a conviction. Strange to say that of the three justices, the man's own master, the president of the court, appeared the most anxious to bring the trial to this termination. So anxious, indeed, that he used every effort to overrule the opinions of the other two, his superior position as Kostos giving him a certain power of controlling the decision.

One of them had actually pronounced in favor of an acquittal, but after a whispering consultation with the Kostos, he retracted his former opinion, and gave his vote for the verdict. There was a rumor at this time that Loftus Vaughan, in this trial, was actuated by meaner motives than either a stern love of justice or the desire to put down the practice of Obi. There was a whisper abroad of some secrets, family secrets, with which the Coromanti had become acquainted, some strange transaction, Of which he was the sole living witness, and of such a character that even the testimony of a negro would have been an inconvenience. And it was suspected that this, and not Obiaism, was the crime for which Chakra had to answer with his life.

Whether this was true or not, the Coromante was condemned to die. The trial was not more irregular than the mode of execution, which these irresponsible justices thought fit to decree. It was almost as whimsical as it was cruel toward the wretched criminal. He was to be taken to the top of the Jumbi Rock, chained to the palm-tree, and there, left to perish. It may be asked why this singular mode of execution was selected. Why was he not hanged upon the scaffold, or burnt at the stake, a custom not unusual with condemned criminals of his kind? The answer is easy. As already stated, at this particular period, much unpleasant feeling prevailed on the subject of Obeahism. In almost every district, mysterious deaths had occurred, and were occurring, not only of the black slaves, but of the white masters, and even mistresses, all attributed to the baneful influence of Obi.

The African demon was ubiquitous, but invisible. Everywhere could be witnessed his skeleton hand upon the wall, But nowhere himself. It had become necessary to make a conspicuous example of his worshippers. The voice of all planterdom called for it, and the myal man, Chakra, was selected for that example, in the belief that his fearful fate would terrify the votaries of the vile superstition to their very heart's core. The Jumbi Rock suggested itself as the most appropriate place for the execution of the Coromante. The terrors with which the place was already invested, added to those now to be inspired by the fearful form of punishment of which it was to be the scene, would exert a beneficial effect on the superstitious understandings of the slaves.

and forever destroy their belief in Obeah and Oboni. Under this belief was the Maial man escorted up to the summit of the Jumbe Rock, and, like a modern Prometheus, chained there. No guards were placed near him. None were required to stay by the spot. His chains, and the terror inspired by the act, were deemed sufficient to prevent any interference with his fate. In a few days, thirst and hunger, aided by the vultures, would perform the final and fatal ceremony, as surely as the rope of the hangman or the axe of the executioner. It was long before Loftus Vaughan ascended the mountain, To ascertain the fate of the unfortunate negro, his Cisdivant slave. When, stimulated by curiosity, and, perhaps, a motive still stronger, he, at length, climbed to the top of the Jumby Rock.

His hopes and expectations were alike confirmed. A skeleton, picked clean by the John Crows, hung, Suspended to the stem of the tree. A rusty chain, warped around the bones, kept the skeleton in place. Laftus Vaughan had no inclination to dwell long upon the spot. To him the sight was fearful. One glance, and he hurried away. But far more fearful, far more terrifying, was that which he saw Or fancied, he saw, in passing homeward down the forest path, either the ghost of the Mayal man or the man himself. End of section two. Read by Kerry Adams. Your book voice at Mesa, Arizona, on the 10th of May, 20, 22.

3 003 - Volume 1 Chapter 3 - A Jamaica Dejeuner 11:07

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Volume One, Chapter Three. A Jamaica de Gena.

On a tranquil morning in the fair month of May, fair in Jamaica as elsewhere on the earth, a large bell ringing in the great hall of Mount Welcome announced the hour of breakfast. As yet, there were no guests around the table, nor in the hall, only the black and colored domestics, who, to the number of half a dozen, had just come up from the kitchen with trays and dishes containing the viands that were to compose the meal. Though but two chairs were placed by the table, and the disposition of the plates, knives, and forks indicated that it had been set for only that number of guests, the profusion of dishes thickly covering the snow-white damask cloth might have led to the belief that a large party was expected.

It was emphatically a déjeuner à la fourchette. There were cutlets plain and with sauce piquant, cavished fish, entrees of deviled fowl and duck, broiled salmon and the like. These hors d'oeuvres were placed around the table while a cold ham on one dish and a tongue on another occupied the center. Of bread kind there were mealy yams, some mashed with milk and butter. But that a splendid silver tea service and a large glittering urn were conspicuous, the spread might have been mistaken for a dinner rather than a matutinal meal. The hour, 9 o'clock a.m., also precluded the idea of its being dinner. Whoever were to be the guests at this table, it was intended they should fare sumptuously. So did they every day of their lives, for there was nothing occasional on that morning's meal.

Both the style and the profuseness were of diurnal occurrence, the mode of Jamaica. Soon after the tones of the bell had ceased to vibrate through the hall, they for whom the summons was intended made their appearance. Entering from opposite sides, not together, but one coming in a little before the other. The first was a gentleman of somewhat over-middle age, of a hale-complexioned and fall-portly form. He was dressed in a suit of nankeens, jacket and trousers, both of ample make, the former open in front, and displaying a shirt of finest white linen. The broad Plates of which were uncovered by any vest. A wide, turned-down collar was folded back, exhibiting a full development of throat, which, with the broad jaws of rhodi hue, appeared clean and freshly shaven.

From a fob, in the waistband of his trousers hung a massive gold chain, with a bunch of seals and watchkeys at one end, while at the other was an immense chronometer watch. Of the old-fashioned guinea gold, with white dial, upon which the black figures were conspicuously painted. The watch itself could be seen, as, on entering, the wearer had drawn it out of its fob, with a view of ascertaining whether his servants were punctual to the minute, for the gentleman in question was very martinate in such matters. Loftus Von, Esquire, proprietor of Mount Welcome. Justice of the Peace and Costus Rotulorum was the man thus characterized. After casting a scrutinizing glance at the display of Valiance, and apparently satisfied with what he saw, the master of Mount Welcome seated himself before the table, his face beaming with a smile of pleasant anticipation.

He had scarce taken his seat when a fair apparition appeared entering from the further end of the hall, a young, virgin-like creature, looking as fresh and roseate as the first rays of the aurora. She was habited in a dress, or rather an undress, of purest white, a morning wrapper of fine lawn that, fitting closely behind, displayed the waving contour of her back. In front, the dress fell in loose folds, scarce, however, concealing the full, bold outlines of her bosom, and then draped gracefully downward, so low as to leave nothing visible but the tips of a pair of tiny satin slippers, alternately showing themselves like white mice as the young girl glided over the polished surface of the floor.

Her throat, full and finely rounded, The flower was encircled with a string of amber beads, and a crimson blossom, the beautiful bell of the quamuclid, glittered amidst the ample folds of her hair. This, of a rich chestnut color, was parted on her forehead and carried in a curving sweep over the cheeks that rivaled the radiance of the flower. It would have required an experienced eye. One well acquainted with the physiological characteristics of the race, to have told that the young girl was not of the purest Caucasian blood. And yet, the slight undulation of the hair, a rotund rather than oval face, eyes of darkest umber, with the light gleaming perpetually in the pupils, a singular picture-like expression in the coloring of the cheeks, were all characteristics that proclaimed the presence of the song Millet.

Slight indeed was the taint, and it seems like profanation to employ the phrase when speaking of a creature so beautifully fair, for beautifully fair was the daughter of Loftus Von. She was his only daughter, the only member of his family, for the proprietor of Mount Welcome was a widower. On entering the hall, the young girl did not proceed directly to seat herself, but, gliding behind the chair occupied by her father, she flung her arms around his neck and imprinted a kiss upon his forehead. It was her usual matutinal salute, and proved that, on that morning, they had met for the first time. Not that it was the first appearance of either, for both had been much earlier abroad, up with the sun, Indeed, as is the universal custom in Jamaica.

Mr. Brown had entered the hall from the front door, and the broad-brimmed leghorn hat and cane, carried in his hand, told that he had been out for a walk, perhaps to inspect the labor going on at the works, or ascertain the progress made in the cultivation of his extensive cane fields. His daughter, on the contrary, might have been seen entering the house some half-hour before in riding costume, hat, habit, and whip, proving that her morning exercise had been taken on horseback. After saluting her father as described, the young girl took her seat in front of the coffee urn and commenced performing the duties of the table. In this, she was assisted by a girl apparently of her own age, But of widely different appearance.

Her waiting maid it was, who, having entered at the same time, had taken her station behind the chair of her mistress. There was something strikingly peculiar in the aspect of this personage, as well in her figure as in the color of her skin. She was of that slender classic shape which we find in antique sculptures. Like the forms of the Hindu women, Known in England as Ayaz, and differing altogether from the negro outline, her complexion, too, was not that of a Negress, still less of a mulatta or a quadroon. It was an admixture of black and red, resulting in a chestnut or mahogany color, which, with the deep damask tincture upon her cheeks, produced an impression not unpleasing. Nor were the features at all of a negro type.

On the contrary, far removed from it, the lips were thin, the face oval, and the nose of an aquiline shape. Such features as may be traced on Egyptian sculptured stones, or may be seen in living forms in the lands of the Arab. Her hair was not woolly, though it differed altogether from the hair of a European. It was straight and yet black, yet scarcely reaching to her shoulders. Not that it had been shortened by the scissors, for it appeared to be at its fullest growth, and, hanging, as it did, loosely over her ears, it imparted a youthful appearance to the brown-skinned damsel. The girl was far from ill-looking, and, to an eye accustomed to her style, She may have appeared even handsome. Her elegant shape, exposed by the extreme scantiness of her costume, a sleeveless robe with a madras' kerchief worn aletok upon her head, her graceful attitudes, which seemed natural to her, either when in motion or standing poised behind the chair of her mistress, the quick glance of her fine, fiery eyes.

And the pearl-like whiteness of her teeth all contributed to make up a picture that was far from commonplace. This young girl was a slave, the slave Yola.

4 004 - Volume 1 Chapter 4 - Two Letters 16:20

The Maroon. By Thomas Main-Reed. Volume 1. Chapter 4. Two Letters.

Instead of standing in the middle of the floor, the breakfast table had been placed close to the front window, in order that, with the jealousies thrown open, the fresh air might be more freely felt, while at the same time a view could be obtained of the landscape outside. A splendid view it was, comprising the valley with its long, palm-shaded avenue, a reach of the Montego River, The roofs and spires of the town, the shipping in the bay and roadstead, the bay itself, and the blue Caribbean beyond. Striking as was this landscape, Mr. Vaughan just then showed no inclination to look upon it. He was too busily occupied with the rich viands upon the table, and when he at length found time to glance over the window sill, His glance extended no further than to the Negro gang at work among the Canes, to see if his drivers were doing their duty.

The eyes of Miss Vaughan were oftener directed to the outside view. It was at this hour that one of the servants usually returned from Montego Bay, bringing the letters from the post office. There was nothing in her manner. That betrayed any particular anxiety about his arrival. But simply that lively interest which young ladies in all countries feel when expecting the postman, hoping for one of those little letters of twelve sheets with closely written and crossed lines most difficult to decipher and yet, to them, more interesting than even the pages of the newest novel. Very soon a dark object of rudely centurion form appeared coming along the avenue, and, shortly after, an imp-like negro lad upon the back of a rough pony galloped up to the front entrance.

This was Quashie, the postboy of Mount Welcome. If Miss Vaughan expected a billet, she was doomed to disappointment. There were only two letters in the bag. with the newspaper, and all three were for the custos himself. All bore the English postmark, and the superscription of one of the letters was by him at once recognized, a pleasant smile stealing over his features as he broke open the seal.

A few moments sufficed to make him master of its contents when the smile increased to a look of vivid gratification, and Rising from his chair, he paced for some time back and forward, snapping his fingers and ejaculating, Good! Good! I thought so.

His daughter regarded this behavior with surprise. Gravity was her father's habit, at times amounting to austerity. Such an exhibition of gaiety was rare with Loftus Vaughan. Some pleasing news, Papa. Yes, you little rogue. Very. May I not hear it? Yes. No. No. Not yet a while. Papa, it is cruel of you to keep it from me. I promise I shall share your joy. Ah, you will when you hear the news. That is, if you're not a little simpleton, Kate. Aye. A simpleton, papa? I shall not be called so. Why, you'll be a simpleton if you don't be joyful, when you—oh, never mind, child, I'll tell you all about it, by and by. Good, good," continued he, in a state of ecstatic frenzy. I thought so. I knew he would come.

Then you expect someone, papa? I do. Guess who it is?

How could I? You know I am unacquainted with your English friends. Not with their names. You have heard their names, and seen letters from some of them. Oh, yes. I often hear you speak of one, Mr. Smythier. A very odd name it is. I wouldn't be called Smythier for the world. Ta-ta, child. Smythe here is a very pretty name, especially with Montague before it. Montague is magnificent. Besides, Mr. Smythe here is the owner of Montague Castle. Oh, papa, how can that make his name sound any better? Is it he whom you expect? Yes, dear. He writes to say that he will come by the next ship. The Seenenth, she is called. She was to sail a week after the letter was written, so that we may look out for his arrival in a few days.

God, I must prepare for him. You know Montague Castle is out of repair. He is to be my guest. And hark you, Catherine," continued the planter, once more seating himself at the table and bending towards his daughter, so that his sotto voce might not be overheard. By the domestics, you must do your best to entertain this young stranger. He is said to be an accomplished gentleman, and I know he is your rich one. It is to my interest to be friendly with him," added Mr. Vaughan in a still lower tone of voice, and as if in soliloquy but loud enough for his daughter to hear what was said. Was the reply. How could I be otherwise than polite to him? If only for your sake! If only for your own, said the father, interrupting her and accompanying the remark with a sly look and laugh.

But dear Catherine, continued he, we shall find time to talk of this again. I must read the other letter. Who on earth could it be from? God! I never saw the writing before.

The announcement of the projected visit of Mr. Montague Smythia, with the trumpet-like flourish of his many accomplishments, which Kate Vaughan had not now listened to for the first time, appeared to produce in the heart of the young lady no very vivid emotions of pleasure. She received it with perfect indifference, not saying to care much one way or the other. If there was a balance, it was rather against him, for it so chanced that much of what she had heard in relation to this gentleman was not at all calculated to prepossess her in his favor. She had heard that he was an exquisite—a fop, in fact—perhaps of all other characters the one most repulsive to a young Creole. Notwithstanding the natural disposition of these to become enamored of fine personal appearance, it must be accompanied by certain qualities of mind, if not of the highest morality, or even intellectuality, yet differing altogether from the frivolous accomplishments of mere dandyism.

Nature that inspires the Creole maiden to give her whole heart away. And without any reserve, has also taught her to bestow it with judgment. Instinct warns her not to lay her precious offering upon an altar, unworthy of the sacrifice. There was another circumstance calculated to beget within the heart of Kate Vaughan a certain feeling of repulsion towards the lord of Montague Castle, and that was the conduct of her own father. In regard to this matter, from time to time, when speaking of Mr. Montague Smythier, he had made use of certain expressions and innuendos which, though couched in ambiguous language, his daughter very easily comprehended. The heart of a woman is quick, as it is subtle, in the understanding of all that relates to the disposal of itself.

And this even at the earliest age of maidenhood. It is prone to repel any effort to guide it from its natural inclinings, or rob it of its right to choose. Mr. Brown, in his ignorance of these rather recondite truths, was erecting a barrier to his own designs, all the while that he fancied he was successfully clearing the track of presumptive obstructions and making the path smooth. And easy. At matchmaking he was likely to prove a bungler, for it was evident that matchmaking was in his mind. Never saw their handwriting before, said he in repetition, as he broke open the seal of the second episode. If the contents of the first had filled him with joy, those of the second produced an effect directly opposite.

exclaimed he, crushing the letter as he finished reading it, and once more nervously springing to his feet. Dead or living, that ill brother of mine seems as it created to be a curse to me, while alive, always wanting money, and now, now that he is dead, sending his son. He'd never to dwell like himself to trouble and, perhaps, disgrace me. To your father, said the young girl, startled. More by his wild demeanor than what he was saying, for the words were muttered in a low voice, and rather in soliloquy, as the other letter brought unpleasant news. Ah! that it has! You may read it yourself.

And once more seating himself, he tossed the unwelcome episode across the table, and recommenced eating with apparent veracity, as if by that means To tranquilize his perturbed spirit. Kate took up the rejected letter, and, smoothing out the paper, ran her eye over the contents. The perusal did not require much time, for considering the letter had made such a long journey, its contents were of the shortest.

London, June 10th, 1885 Dear Uncle, I have to renounce to you the melancholy intelligence that your brother, my dear father, is no more. His last words were that I should go over to you, and, acting in accordance with his wish, I have taken passage for Jamaica. The ship is the sea nymph, and is to sail upon the eighteenth instant. I do not know how long we shall be at sea. But I hope it will prove a short voyage. As poor father's effects were all taken by the sheriff's officer, I am compelled, for want of money, to take passage in the steerage, which I have been told is anything but a luxurious mode of traveling. But I am young and strong, and no doubt shall be able to endure it. Yours affectionately, Herbert Vaughan.

Whatever effect the reading of the letter may have had upon Kate Vaughan, it certainly did not produce indignation. On the contrary, an expression of sympathy stole over her face as she mastered the contents or the episode. And on finishing it, the phrase, poor fellow, dropped as involuntarily and just audibly from her lips. Not that she knew anything of Herbert Vaughan more than the name, And that he was her cousin. But the word cousin has an attractive sound, especially in the ears of young people, equaling in interest, at times even surpassing, that of a sister or brother. Though uttered, as we have said, in a tone almost inaudible, the words reached the ears of her father. With a glance of displeasure.

I'm surprised, Kate, to hear you speak, in that strain of one you know nothing about, one who has done nothing to deserve your compassion, an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, just as his father was before him, and only to think of it, coming over here a steerage passenger, in the very same ship, with Mr. Montague's mouth here. Death! What a disgrace! Mr. Smythe will be certain to know who he is, though he is not likely to associate with such canaia. He cannot fail to notice the fellow, however, and when he sees him here, will be sure to remember him. I must take some steps to prevent that. Poor fellow, indeed. Yes, poor enough, but not in that sense. Like his father, I suppose, who filled his life away among Paintbrushes and palettes, instead of following some profitable employment, and all for the sake of being called an artist.

Poor fiddlestick. Bah! Don't let me hear you talk in that strain again.

And as Mr. Vaughan ended his ill-natured harangue, he tore the wrapper off the newspaper and endeavored, among its contents, to distract his mind from dwelling longer on the unpleasant theme. Either of the episode or him who had written it. The young girl, abashed and disconcerted by the unusual violence of the rebuke, sat with downcast eyes and without making any reply. The red color had deepened upon her cheeks and mounted to her forehead. But notwithstanding the outrage done to her feelings, it was easy to see that the sympathy she had expressed for her poor But unknown cousin was felt as sensibly as ever. So far from having stifled or extinguished it, the behavior of her father was more likely to have given it increase and strength.

For the adage of the stolen waters is still true, and the forbidden fruit is as tempting now as upon the morning of creation, as it was in the beginning. So. Will it ever be?

5 005 - Volume 1 Chapter 5 - The Slaver 10:39

V.

The Maroon. Volume One, Chapter Five. The Slaver. A hot west Indian sun was rapidly declining towards the Caribbean Sea, as if hastening to cool his fiery orb in the blue water, when a ship that had rounded Pedro Point in the island of Jamaica was seen standing eastward for Montego Bay. She was a three-masted vessel, a barque, as could be told by the latine rig of her meissen mast. and apparently of some three or four hundred tons burden. As she was running under one of the gentlest of breezes, all her canvas was spread, and the weather-worn appearance of her sails denoted that she was making land at the termination of a long ocean voyage. This was further manifest by the faded paint upon her sides, and the dark Dirt-coloured blotches that marked the position of her horse-holes and scuppers.

Besides the private ensign that streamed, pennant-like from her peak, another trailed over her taffrail, which unfolded by the motion of the vessel, displayed a blue starry field with white and crimson stripes. In this case, the flag was appropriate. that is, in its stripes and their color. Though justly vaunted as the flag of the free, here was it covering a cargo of slaves. The ship was a slaver. After getting fairly inside the bay, but still at a long distance from the town, she was observed suddenly to tack, and, instead of continuing on towards the harbor, Head for a point on the southern side, where the shore was uninhabited and solitary. On arriving within a mile of the land, she took in sail until every inch of canvas was furrowed upon her yards.

Then the sharp rattling of the chain, as it dragged through the iron ring of the horse-hole, announced the dropping of an anchor. In a few moments after the ship swung round, and drifting till the chain-cable became taut, lay motionless upon the water. The object for which the slaver had thus anchored short of the harbour will be learned by our going aboard of her. Though this was a privilege not granted to the idle or curious, only the initiated were permitted to witness the spectacle of which her decks now became the theatre. Only those who had an interest in the disposal of her cargo. Viewed from a distance, the slaver lay apparently inert, but for all that a scene of active life was passing upon her deck, a scene of rare and painful interest.

She carried a cargo of two hundred human beings, bales, according to the phraseology of the slave trader. These bales were not exactly alike. It was, as her skipper jocularly styled it, an assorted cargo, that is, one shipped on different points of the African coast, and consequently, embracing many distinct varieties of the Ethiopian race. There was the tawny but intelligent Mandigal, and by his side, the Joloff of Ebon Hue. There, the fierce and warlike Coromante along the docile and submissive Pawpaw, the yellow Ebo with the visage of a baboon, wretched and desponding, face to face with the cannibal Moko, or chain wrist to wrist with the lighthearted native of Congo and Angola. None, however, appeared of light heart on board the slaver.

The horrors of the Middle Passage had equally affected them all, until the dancing Congolese and the Lekumi, prone to suicide, seemed equally to suffer from dejection. The bright picture that now presented itself before their eyes, a landscape gleaming with all the gay colors of tropical vegetation, was viewed by them with very different emotions. Some seemed to regard it with indifference. Others, it reminded of their own African homes, from which they had been dragged by rude and ruffian men. While not a few gazed upon the scene with feelings of keen apprehension, believing it to be the dreaded Kumi, the land of the gigantic cannibals, and that they had been brought thither to be eaten, Reflection might have convinced them that this would scarcely be the intention of the Tobindu, those white tyrants who had carried them across the ocean.

The hard, unhusked rice and coarse maize corn, their only food during the voyage, were not viands likely to fatten them for the feast of anthropophagy. And their once smooth and shining skins now exhibited a dry, shriveled appearance from the surface coating of dandruff and the scars of the hideous Craw-Craw. The blacks among them, by the hardships of that fearful voyage, had turned ashy-gray and the yellows of a sickly and bilious hue. Males and females, For there were many of the latter, appeared to have been alike the objects of ill-usage, the victims of a starved stomach and a stifled atmosphere. Some half-dozen of the latter, seen in the presence of the cabin, presented a different aspect.

These were young girls, Picked from the common crowd on account of the superiority of their personal charms, and the flaunting vestments that adorned their bodies, contrasting with the complete nudity of their fellow-voyagers, told too plainly why they had been thus distinguished. A horrid contrast, wantonness in the midst of woe. On the quarter-deck stood the slave-skipper. A tall, lathe individual of sallow hue, and beside him his mate, a dark-bearded ruffian. While a score of light stamp, but lower grade, acting under their orders, were distributed in different parts of the ship. These last, as they tramped to and fro over the deck, might be heard at intervals, giving utterance to profane oaths.

As often laying violent hands upon one or other of their unfortunate captives, apparently out of the sheer wantonness of cruelty. Immediately after the anchor had been dropped, and the ropes belayed and coiled in their places, a new scene of this disgusting drama was entered upon. The living bells, hitherto restrained below, were now ordered, or rather driven upon deck, not all at once, but in lots of three or four at a time. Each individual, as he came up the hatchway, was rudely seized by a sailor, who stood by with a soft brush in his hand and a pail at his feet, the latter containing a black composition of gunpowder, lemon juice, and palm oil. Of this mixture, The unresisting captive received a coating, which by the hand of another sailor was rubbed into the skin, and then polished with a dandy brush, until the saber epidermis glistened like a newly blackened boot.

A strange operation it might have appeared to those who saw it, had they not been initiated into its object and meaning. But to the spectators there, Presented was no uncommon sight. It was not the first time those unfeeling men had assisted at the spectacle of blackbells being made ready for the market. One after another were the dark-skinned victims of human cupidity brought from below, and submitted to this demoniac anointment, to which one and all yielded with an appearance of patient resonation, like sheep under the hands of the shearer. In the looks of many of them could be detected the traces of that apprehension felt in the first hours of their captivity, and which had not yet forsaken them.

Might not this process be a prelude to some fearful sacrifice? Even the females were not exempted from this disgusting desecration of God's image. And they, too, one after another, were passed through the hands of the rough operators, with an accompaniment of brutal jests and peals of ribald laughter.

6 006 - Volume 1 Chapter 6 - Jowler and Jessuron 8:21

Almost on the same instant that the slave bark Had dropped anchor, a small boat shot out of the silent shore, which, as soon as it got fairly clear of the land, could be seen to be steering in the direction of the newly anchored vessel. There were three men in the boat, two of whom were plying the oars. These were both black men, naked, with the exception of dirty white trousers covering their limbs. and coarse palm leaf hats upon their heads. The third occupant of the skiff, for such was the character of the boat, was a white or more properly a whitish man. He was seated in the stern sheets with a tiller-rope in each hand, and steering the craft as his elbows held a kimbo, and the occasional motion of his arms testified.

He bore not the slightest resemblance to the oarsman, either in the color of his skin or the costume that covered it. Indeed, it would not have been easy to have found his counterpart anywhere, either on land or at sea. He appeared to be about sixty years old. He might have been more or less, and had once been white. But long exposure to a West Indian sun, combined with the numerous dirt, bedaubed creases and furrows in his skin, had darkened his complexion to the hue of leaf tobacco. His features, naturally, of an angular shape, had become so narrowed and sharpened by age as to leave scarce anything in front, and to get a view of his face It was necessary to step to one side and scan it on profil.

Thus viewed, there was a breadth enough and features of the most prominent character, including a nose like the claw of a lobster, a sharp projecting chin with deep embayment between marking the locality of the lips, the outline of all suggesting a great resemblance to the profile of a parrot. But still greater to that of a Jew, for such, in reality, was its type. When the mouth was open in a smile, a rare occurrence, however, only two teeth would be detected within, standing far apart, like two sentinels guarding the approach to the dark cavern within. This singular countenance was Lighted up by a pair of black watery orbs that glistened like the eyes of an otter and eternally glistened, except when their owner was asleep, a condition in which it was said he was rarely or never caught.

The natural blackness of his eyes was rendered deeper by contrast with long white eyebrows running more than halfway around them and meeting over the narrow ridge of the nose. Here upon the head there was none, that is, none that was visible, a skullcap of whitish cotton stuff covering the whole crown and coming down over both ears. Over this was a white beaver hat, whose worn nap and broken edges told of long service. A pair of large green goggles, resting on the humped bridge of his nose, protected his eyes. from the sun, though they might perhaps have been worn for another purpose, to conceal the villainous expression of the orbs that sparkled beneath them. A sky-blue cloth coat, whitened by long wear with metal buttons, once bright now changed to the hue of bronze, small clothes of buff cursimer glistening with grease, Long stockings and tarnished top boots made up the costume of this unique individual.

A large blue cotton umbrella rested upon his knees, as both hands were occupied in steering the skiff. The portrait here given, or perhaps it should be styled, profile, is that of Jacob Gesseron. The slave merchant, an Israelite of Germanic breed, but one in whom it would not have been truth to say, there was no guile. The two oarsmen were simply his slaves. The little craft had put out from the shore from a secluded spot at a distance from town, but still within view of it. It was evidently making for the newly anchored bark. And evidently rowed at its best speed. Indeed, the steersman appeared to be urging his blacks to the exertion of their utmost strength. From time to time he was seen to twist his body half around and look towards the town, as though he expected or dreaded to see a rival boat coming from that quarter, and was desirous to reach the bark ahead of her.

If such was his design, it proved successful. Although his little skiff was a considerable time in traversing the distance from shore to ship, a distance of at least a mile, he arrived at the point of his destination without any other boat making its appearance. was pulled up under the labored quarter of the bark. "'Ayeye,' responded a voice from above. "'Is that Captain Schaller? I hear you.' "'Hiloo! Who's there?' interrogated someone on the quarter-deck. And the moment after, the sallow face of Captain Aminadab Jowler presented itself at the gangway. "'Ah, Mr. Jesseron.' That you, eh? Determined to have fust peep at my blackies? Well, fust, Kim. Fust served. That's my rule. Glad to see you, old fella.

How do you?

Fust rate. Fust rate. I hopshed. You're the same yourself, Captain Schowler. How ish you for cargo? Fine, old boy. Got a prime lot this time. All sizes, colors, and sexes, too. Ha-ha. You can pick and choose to suit yourself. I reckon, come, climb aboard, and squint your eye over him. The slave merchant, thus invited, caught hold of the rope ladder, let down for his accommodation, and scrambling up the ship's side with the agility of an old ape, stepped Upon the deck of the slaver, after some moments spent in handshaking and other forms of gratulation, proving that the trader and merchant were old friends, and as thick as two thieves could possibly be, the latter fixed the goggles more firmly on the ridge of his nose and commenced his inspection of the cargo.

7 007 - Volume 1 Chapter 7 - The Foolah Prince 16:46

Of the Maroon.

Read by Tom Freya. The Maroon. by Thomas Main Read. Volume One, Chapter Seven. The Fula Prince.

On the quarter-deck of the slaver and near the companion stood a man of unique appearance, differing not only from the whites who composed the crew, but also from the blacks and browns who constituted the cargo. His costume, attitude, and some other trivial circumstances proclaimed him as belonging neither to one nor the other. He had just stepped up from the cabin, and was lingering upon the quarter-deck. Having the entree of the first, and the privilege of remaining upon the second, he could not be one of the bales of this human merchandise. And yet, Both costume and complexion forbade the supposition that he was of the slaver's crew. Both denoted an African origin, though his features were not of a marked African type.

Rather were they Asiatic or, more correctly, Arabian, but in some respects differing also from Arab features. In truth, they were almost European. But the complexion again negatived the idea that the individual in question belonged to any of the nationalities of Europe. His hue was that of a light Florentine bronze, with a tinge of chestnut. He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years of age, with a person well proportioned, and possessing the following characteristics. A fine arched eyebrow, Spanning an eye full and rotund, a nose slightly aquiline, thin, well-modeled lips, white teeth, whiter from contrast with the dark shading on the upper lip, and, over all, an ample chevalier of jet-black hair, slightly curling, but not at all woolly.

In nothing did he differ more from the dark-skinned helots of the hold than in his costume. While none of these had any clothing upon their bodies, or, next to none, he, on the contrary, was splendidly apparelled, his face, throat, arms, and limbs, from the knee to the ankle, being the only parts not covered by a garment. A sort of sleeveless tunic of yellow satin, with a skirt that just reached below his knees. The head was bound around his waist by a scarf of crimson china crepe, the ends of which, hanging still lower, were adorned with a fringe work of gold. Over the left shoulder rested loosely another scarf of blue burnous cloth, concealing the arm over which it hung, while half hidden beneath its draping could be perceived a scimitar in its richly chased scabbard, with a hilt of carved ivory.

A turban on the head, and sandals of Kordofan leather upon the feet completed his costume. Notwithstanding the Asiatic character of the dress, and the resemblance of the wearer to those East Indians known as Laskars, he was a true African, though not of the type which we usually associate with the word, and which suggests a certain Negroism of features. He was one of a people entirely distinct from the Negro, the great nation of the Fulahs, Falatas, that race of shepherd warriors whose country extends from the confines of Darfur to the shores of the Atlantic, the lords of Succotu and Timbuktu, those fanatic followers of the false prophet who conspired the death of La Ing and murdered Mungo Park upon the Quora.

Of such race was the individual who stood on the quarter-deck of the slaver. He was not alone. Three or four others were around him, who also differed from the wretched creatures in the hold. But their dresses of more common material, as well as other circumstances, told that they were his inferiors in rank, in short, his attendants. The humble mien with which they regarded him And the watchful attention to his every look and gesture proclaimed the habitual obedience to which they were accustomed. While the turbans which they wore, and their mode of salutation, the salam, told of an obeisance, oriental and slavish, to the richness of the young man's attire was added a certain haughtiness of mind that proclaimed him a person of rank.

Perhaps the chieftain of some African tribe. And such in reality he was, a Foula Prince, from the banks of the Senegal. There neither his presence nor appearance would have attracted more than passing observation, but here, on the western side of the Atlantic, on board a slave ship, both required explanation. It was evident that he was not in the same category with his unfortunate countrymen, between decks, doomed to perpetual captivity. There were no signs that he had been treated as a captive, but the contrary. How, then, was his presence on board the slave-bark to be accounted for? Was he a passenger? In what relationship did he stand to the people who surrounded him? Such Though differently worded, were the interrogatories put by the slave-merchant as, returning from the fore-deck after completing his inspection of the cargo, his eyes for the first time fell upon the young Falata.

"'Bless me stars, Captain Schaller!' he cried, holding up both hands and looking with astonishment at the turbaned individuals on the quarter-deck. "'Bless me stars!' he repeated. What is your dish? Sa'elp my God, dish fellows are not slaves, are they? No, Mr. Jesseron, no. They ain't slaves. Not all of them ain't. That here fine fellow in silk and satin heir of a owner of slaves hisself. He heir a prince. What does you say, Captain Showler? A prince? Ye ain't astonished at that, are ye? "'Tain't the first time I've had an African prince for a passenger. "'This year's His Royal Highness the Prince Singes, "'son of the Grand Sultan of Futa Toro. "'The other fellows you say there, by him are his attendants, "'courtiers as waits on him.

"'That with the yellow turban's gold stick, "'him in blue's silver stick, "'and to other fellows' groom, a de-chamber, I suppose.'" "'Sultan of Foutatoro!' exclaimed the slave merchant, still holding up the blue umbrella in surprise. "'King of the Cannibal Islands!' "'Aha! A good shouk!' "'Captain Shower, but serious, my friend, what for hash you've tricked them out in this way? They won't fetch a joey more in the market for all these fine feathers!' "'See us, Mr. Gesseron. They're not for the market. I swear to you the feller's a real African prince.' "'African fiddlestick!' echoed the slave merchant with an incredulous shrug. "'Come, worthy cap'n. What's yer the masquerade about?' "'Not a bit of that, old feller.

Sure ye the niggers a prince, and my passenger nothing more or less.' "'Sh'a help you got, is it so?' "'So help me that,' emphatically replied the skipper. "'It's just as I've told you, Mr. Jesseron.' "'Bless me soul, a passenger, you shay?' "'Yes, and he's paid his passage, too, like a prince, as he is. "'But what's his business here in Jamaica?' "'Ah, that's altogether a curious story, Mr. Jesseron.' "'You'll hardly guess his business, I reckon. Lash hear it, friend Schowler. Well, then, the story is this. Bout twelve months ago an army of Mindigoes attacked the town of old Futataro, and, mong other plunder, carried off one of his daughters, own sister to the young feller you see there. They sold her to a West India trader, who, in course—' Brought the girl over here to some of the islands.

Which one ain't known? Old Futatoro, like the rest of them, thinks the slaves are all fetched to one place, and as he's half beside himself, bout the loss of this girl. She wore his favorite, and a sort of a court bell among them. He sent the brother to search her out, and get her back. From whoever has purchased her on this side, there's the whole story for you. The expression that had been gathering on the continents of the Jew, while this relation was being made to him, indicated something more than a common interest in the tale, something beyond mere curiosity. At the same time he seemed as if trying to conceal any outward sign of emotion, by preserving As much as possible, the rigidity of his features.

"'Bless my soul!' he exclaimed, as the skipper had concluded. "'As I live, a wonderful story. But how is he ever to find his sister? He might as well look for a needle in a haystack.' "'Well, that's true enough,' replied the slave skipper. "'As for that,' he added, with an air of stoical indifference. "'Tain't no business of mine. My affair he's been to carry the young feller across the Atlantic, and I'm willing to take him back on the same terms, and at the same price, if he can pay it.' "'Did he pay yous a good price?' inquired the Jew, with evident interest, in the answer. "'He paid like a prince, as I've told you. Do you see that batch of yellow bandicoes by the windlass yonder?' Yes, yes, forty there air, all told.

When? Twenty on him I'm to have for fetching him across. Cheap enough, ain't it? Dirt-cheap, friend shaller. The other twenty? They are his'n. He's brought em with him to swap for his sister, when he finds her. Ah, yes, if he finds the girl. In course, if he finds her. "'Ach!' exclaimed the Jew, with a significant shrug of his shoulders. "'That will not be an easy business, Captain Showler. "'By Christopher Columbus, old fellow,' said the trader, apparently struck with an idea. "'Now I think of it you might gee him some help in the finding of her. "'I know no man more likely than yourself to be able to pilot him. "'You know everybody in the island, I reckon.' No doubt he will pay you well for your trouble.

I'm rather anxious he should succeed. King Foutatoro is one of my best sources of supply, and if the girl could be found and took back, I know the old nigger would do the handsome to me on my next trip to the coast. Well, worthy captain, I don't know that there's any hope, and won't hold out any to his royal highness. To the prince. I'm not as able to get about as I used to was, but I'll try my best for you. As you say, I might do something towards putting him in the way. Well, we'll talk it over, but let us first settle our other business, or all the world will be aboard. Twenty, you say, are his? Twenty of them Eremandigo's, as she anything besides. In cash? No, not a red cent. Men and women are the dollars of his country.

He has the four attendants, you see. They are his slaves like the others. Twenty-four then in all. Bless my soul! What a lucky fellow ish this prince. Maybe I can do something for him, but we can talk it over in the cabin, and I'm ready for something to drink, worthy showler. "'Ah!' he exclaimed, as on turning round he perceived the group of girls before mentioned. "'Blesh my soul! Some likely wenches, just the sort for chambermaids,' added he, with a villainously significant look. "'How many of that kind has you got, good showler?' "'About a dozen,' jocularly responded the skipper. "'Some splendid breeders among them.' If you want any for that business. I may, I may, Gad. It's a valuable cargo.

One thing with another. Well, let us go below, added he, turning towards the companion. What's in your locker? I must have a drink before I can do business. Likely wenches. Gad, a valuable cargo. Smacking his lips and snapping his fingers as he talked. The old reprobate descended the companion stairway, the captain of the slaver following close behind him. We know not, except by implication, the details of the bargaining that took place below. The negotiation was a secret one, as became the nature of any transaction between two such characters as a slave-dealer and a slave-stealer. It resulted, however, in the purchase of the whole cargo, and in so short a time that just as the sun sank into the sea the gig, cutter, and long-boat of the slaver were lowered into the water, and under the darkness of the night the bales were transported to the shore, and landed in the little cove whence the skiff of the slave-merchant had put out.

Amongst them were the twenty Mandingoes. The attendants of the prince and the wenches, designed for improving the breed on Jesseron's plantation, for the slave merchant was also a land proprietor and planter. The skiff was seen returning to the shore, a cable's length in the wake of the other boats. Now, however, a fourth personage appeared in it, seated in the stern, face to face with the owner. The gaily-coloured costume, even in the darkness, shining over the calm shadowy surface of the sea, rendered it easy to recognize this individual as the Fula Prince. The wolf and the lamb were sailing in the same boat.

8 008 - Volume 1 Chapter 8 - A Handsome Offer 13:44

8. A Handsome Offer. Read by Tom Freya.

On the day after the slave-ship had landed her cargo, and at an early hour in the morning Mr. Vaughan, looking from the front window of his house, perceived a solitary horseman approaching by the long avenue. As the stranger drew nearer, the animal he bestrode appeared gradually to transform itself into a mule, and the rider was seen to be an old gentleman in a blue coat. With metal buttons and ample outside pockets, under which were britches and top boots, both sullied by long wear. A damaged brown beaver hat upon his head, with the edge of a white cotton skull cap showing beneath it, green goggles upon the nose, and a large blue umbrella, instead of a whip, grasped in the right hand. enabled Mr.

Brown to identify one of his nearest neighbors, the pen-keeper Jacob Jesseron, who, among other livestock, was also known as an extensive speculator in slaves. The old Jew, muttered Mr. Brown, with an accent that betokened a certain degree of discontent. What can he want at this early hour? Some slave stock for sale, I suppose. "'That looked like a trader I saw yesterday in the offing, and he's sure to have had a lot or two out of her. Well, he won't find a market here. Fortunately, I'm stocked. "'Mornin', Mr. Jesseron,' continued he, hailing his visitor as the latter dismounted by the bottom of the stairway. "'As usual, you are early abroad. Business, eh?' "'Ach, yes, Mr. Volcan.' "'Bisnis must be minded.

A poor man like me can't afford to sleep late. These hard times! Ha! Ha! Poor man, indeed! That's a capital joke, Mr. Jesseron. Come in. Have you breakfasted?' "'Yes, thanks, Mr. Vulcan,' replied the Jew as he climbed up the steps. "'I always breakfast at six.' "'Oh, that is early. A glass of swizzle, then.' "'Thanks, Mr. Vulcan. You is very kind. A glass of swizzle will be better as anything else. It's warm this morning.' The swizzle, a mixture of rum, sugar, water, and lime juice, was found in a large punch bowl that stood upon the sideboard, with a silver ladle resting across the rim, and glasses set around it. This is a standing drink in the dwelling of a Jamaica planter. A fountain that may be said never to go dry or, at all events, renewed as soon as exhausted.

Stepping up to the sideboard, where he was attended to by a black butler, the pen-keeper briskly quaffed off a tumbler of the swizzle. And then, smacking his lips and adding the observation, "'Tlich good!' he returned towards the window. where a chair had been placed for him beside the one already occupied by his host. The visitor removed his beaver hat, though the white skull-cap, not even clean, was still permitted to keep its place upon his head. Mr. Vaughan was a man possessed of considerable courtesy, or, at least, an affectation of it. He remained silent, therefore, politely waiting for his guest to initiate the conversation. "'Well, Mr. Volkin,' began the Jew, "'I has come over to see you on a small business.

A very small business it is. Scarcely worth troubling you about.' Here the speaker hesitated, as if to put some proposition into shape. "'Some black stock for sale, eh?' I think I've heard that a cargo came in yesterday. You got part, I suppose. Yes, yes. I bought a small lot, a very small lot. I hadn't the moneyish to buy more. So help me, got, the slaves is getting so dear as I can't afford to buy. This talk about stopping the trade is like to ruin us all. Don't you think so, Mr. Volkhaan? Oh, as for that you needn't fear. If the British government should pass the bill, the law will be only a dead letter. They could never guard the whole of the African coast. No, nor that of Jamaica, neither.

I think, Mr. Jesseron, you would still contrive to land a few bales, eh? Ach, no, Mr. Volcan. Dear, oh, dear, no. I shouldn't venture against the laws. If the trade is to be stopped, I must give up the business. Slaves would be too dear for a poor Jewish man like me to deal in. So help me. Yes, they're too dear as it is. Oh, that's all nonsense about their getting dearer. It's very well for you to talk so, Mr. Jesseron. You have some to sell, I presume. Not now, Mr. Volcan, not now. Possible. I may have a small lot to dispose in a day or two, but just now I haven't a single head ready for the market. This morning I want to buy, instead of shell. To buy? From me, do you mean? Yes, Mr. Volkan, if you're disposed to shell.

Come, that's something new, neighbor Jesseron. I know you're always ready for a trade. But this is the first time I have ever heard of you buying slaves on a plantation. Well, the truth is, Mr. Volcan, I hash a customer, who wants a likely wench for waiting at his table. There's none among my stock. He thinks good enough for his purpose. I was thinking you hash got one. If you could spare her, that would suit him nicely. Which do you mean? I mean that young Fula wench Ash sold you last year. Jush after crop time. Oh, the girl Yola. Yes. I think that was her name. Ash, you had her dirt sheep. I don't mind giving you something on your bargain. Say ten pounds, currency. Puh! Puh! Puh! replied the planter with a deprecating shrug.

That would never do, even if I meant to sell the girl. But I have no wish to part with her. She twenty, then. Nor twice twenty, neighbor. I wouldn't under any circumstances take less than two hundred pounds for that girl. She has turned out a most valuable servant. Two hundred pounds, interrupted the Jew, starting up in his chair. Mr. Volcan. There's not a black wench in the island worth half the money. Two hundred pounds. Bless my soul, that is a price. I wish I could sell some of my stock at that price. I'd be glad to give any two I hash for two hundred pounds. Why, Mr. Jesseron, I thought you said, just now, slaves were getting very dear. Dear, yes, but that is doublish dear. S'ha'help me gott?

You don't mean it, Mr. Volcan. But I do mean it, and even if you were to offer me two hundred—don't shea more about it, said the slave-merchant, hurriedly interrupting the hypothetical speech. Don't shea more. I agree's to give it. Two hundred pounds. Bless my stars! It'll make a bankrupt of me. No, it will not do that, since I cannot agree to take it. Not take two hundred pounds? No, nor twice that sum. God help us! Mr. Volkhan, you is surely shaken. Why would you not take two hundred? I hashed the money in my pocket. I am sorry to disappoint you, neighbor. But the fact is I could not sell the girl Yola at any price without the consent of my daughter, to whom I have given her. Miss Bocan? Yes.

She is her maid, and I know that my daughter is very fond of her. It is not likely she would consent to the girl's being sold. But, Mr. Bocan, you surely don't let your daughter shant between you and a good bargain. Two hundred pounds is big money, big money, cash toos. The wench is not worth half as much, and for my shelf I wouldn't give half, but I don't want to disappoint a good customer who's not so particular as to price. Your customer fancies the girl, eh? said Mr. Vaughan, glancing significantly at his guest. "'She is very good-looking, no wonder. But, if that be the reason for his wanting to buy her, I may as well tell you. I should myself not be inclined to part with her. And, as for my daughter, if she suspected such a purpose, all the money you've got, Mr.

Jesseron, wouldn't reach the price of Viola.' "'Sha help me got, Mr. Volcan. You're mistaken.' The customer I speak of never shet his eyes on a wench. The customer I speak of never shet his eyes on the wench. It's only a waiting-maid he wants for his table, and I thought of her, as she's just what he describes. How do you know that Miss Volkin might not consent to let her go? I promise to get her another young girl, ish good or better, ash Yola." Well, replied the planter after a moment's reflection, and apparently tempted by the handsome offer, since you seem so determined upon buying the wench, I'll consult my daughter about it, but I can hold out very little hope of success. I know that she likes this young foola.

I have heard that the girl was some king's daughter in her own country. And I am as good as certain Kate won't consent to her being sold. Not if you wished it, Mr. Volcan? Oh, if I insisted upon it, of course. But I give my daughter a promise not to part with the girl against her wish. And I never break my word, Mr. Jesseron. Not to my own child. With this rather affected profession, the planner walked out of the room. Leaving the slave merchant to his reflections. May the diffel strike me dead if that man isn't mad, soliloquized the Jew, when left to himself. Stark, staring mad. Refuse two hundred pounds for a sea wench as brown as a coconut. Bless me stars. As I told you, Mr. Jesseron, said the planter re-entering the hall, My daughter is inexorable.

Yola cannot be sold. Good morning, Mr. Volcan," said the slave merchant, taking up his hat and umbrella, and making for the door. Good morning, sir. I hash no other business to-day. Then, putting on his hat and grasping his umbrella, with an air of spitefulness he was unable to conceal, he hurried down the stone steps. scrambled upon the back of his mule, and rode away in sullen silence. Unusually free with his money this morning, the planter said, looking after him. Some shabby scheme, I have no doubt. Well, I suppose I have thwarted it. Besides, I am glad of an opportunity of disobliging the old curmudgeon. Many's the time he has done as much for me.

9 009 - Volume 1 Chapter 9 - Judith Jessuron 16:39

The Maroon by Thomas Maine Reed. Chapter Nine. Judith Jesseron.

In the most unamiable of tempers did the slave speculator ride back down the avenue. So out of sorts was he, at the result of his interview, that he did not think of unfolding his blue umbrella to protect himself from the hot rays of the sun, now striking vertically downward. On the contrary, he used the parapleg for a very different purpose, every now and then belaboring the ribs of his mule with it, as if to rid himself of his spleen by venting it on the innocent mongrel. Nor did he go in silence, although he was alone. In a kind of involuntary soliloquy he kept muttering, as he rode on, Long strings out of phrases denunciatory of the host whose roof he had just quitted. The daughter, too, of that host came in for a share of his muttered denunciations, which at times assumed the form of a menace.

Part of what he said was spoken distinctly and with emphasis.

I flingish back to you. Got for dampsh. There was a time when you would be glad for my two hundred pounds, not for any monish. Boss, Grand Lady, Miss Kate, Miss Quashby. Ha! I knowish a thing. I knows a little thing. Some day, maybe, yourself sell for less ash two hundred pounds. Ach! I not grudge twice the monish to see that day. The dust off my shoes to both of you, he repeated as he cleared the gate entrance, is off your grounds now, and if I hash you here, I say. I say you something of my mind. Something ash make you sell your wench for less as two hundred pounds. I do so. Sometime, please, Gott. Ach." Uttering this last exclamation with a prolonged aspirate, he raised himself erect in his stirrups, and half turning his mule, Shook his umbrella in a threatening manner towards Mount Welcome, his eye accompanying the action with a glance that expressed some secret but vindictive determination.

As he faced back into the road, another personage appeared upon the scene, a female equestrian, who, trotting briskly up, turned her horse and rode along by his side. She was a young girl, or rather a young woman, a bright, beautiful creature, who appeared an angel by the side of that demon-like old man. She had evidently been waiting for him at the turning of the road, and the air of easy familiarity, with the absence of any salutation as they met, told that they had not long been separated. Who was this charming equestrian? A stranger would have asked this question while his eye rested upon the object of it with mingled feelings of wonder and admiration. Admiration at such rare beauty. Wonder at beholding it in such rude companionship.

It was a beauty that need not be painted in detail. The far head of noble arch. The scimitar-shaped eyebrows of ebon blackness, the dark brown flashing pupils, the piquant prominence of the nose with its spiral curving nostrils, were all characteristics of Hebraic beauty, a shrine before which both Muslim and Christian have ofttimes bent the knee in humblest adoration. Twenty cycles have rolled past. Twenty centuries of outrage, calumny, and wrong, housed in low haunts, pillaged and persecuted, oft-driven to desperation, rendered roofless and homeless. Still, amid all, and in spite of all, lovely are Judah's dark-eyed daughters, fair as when they dance to the music of cymbal and timbrel, or To the accompaniment of the golden-stringed harp, sang the lays of a happier time.

Here in a new world, and canopied under an occidental sky, had sprung up a varied type of Jewish beauty, for never was daughter of Judah lovelier than the daughter of Jacob Jesseron, she who was now riding by his side. A singular contrast did they present as they rode together, this fair maid and that harsh-featured ugly old man, unlike as the rose to its parent thorn. Sad are we to say that the contrast was only physical morally. It was like father, like daughter. In external form, Judith Jesseron was an angel, in spirit. And we say it with regret. She was the child of her father, devilish as he. A failure, said this fair she, taking the initiative. Pa, I needn't have asked you. It's clear enough from your looks.

Though, Sertes, that beautiful continence of yours is not very legible index to your thoughts. What say Vanity Vaughan? Will he sell the girl? No, as I expected. So help me, he won't. How much did you bid for her? Ach, ish a shame to tell you, shooteth. Come, old rabbi, you needn't be backward before me. How much? Two hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds? Well, that is a high figure, if what you've told me be true. His own daughter isn't worth so much. Hush, Judith, dear, don't speak of that, for your life don't speak of it. You may spoil some planche I hash about her. Have no fear, good father. I never spoiled any plan of yours yet, have I? No, no, you hash been a good child, my daughter, a good child, so help me God.

You hash. But tell me, why would the custos not sell? He likes money almost as well as yourself. Two hundred pounds is a large price for this copper-colored wench, quite double what she's worth. Ach, shooteth, dear, it was not Volk on his shelf that refused it. Who, then? This very daughter you speak of? She? exclaimed the young Jewess, with a curl of the lip and a contemptuous twist of her beautiful nostril, that all at once changed her beauty into very ugliness. She, you say? I wonder what next? The conceited mustee? Herself no better than a slave. Stop! Stop! Shooteth! interrupted the Jew with a look of uneasiness. Keep that to your shelf, my child. She know more about it. At least not now.

Not now. The trees may have ears. The burst of angry passion hindered the fair Judith from making rejoinder, and for some moments father and daughter rode on in silence. The latter was the first to recommence the conversation. You are foolish, good father, said she. Absurdly foolish. Why, Judith? Why? In offering to buy this girl at all? Ay, what would you say? inquired the old Jew, as if the interrogatory had been an echo to his own thoughts. What would you say? I would say that you are silly, old Rabbi Jacob. And that's what I do say. Shmysho, what does you mean, Judith? Why, dear and worthy papa, you're not always so dull of comprehension. Answer me, what do you want the Fula for? Ach, you know what I wants her for.

This prince will give his twenty mandingos for her. There is no doubt but that she's his sister. Twenty good strong mandingos, worth twenty hundred pounds. Bless my soul. It's a fortune. Well, and if it is a fortune, what then? If it ish, by our fathers. You talk of twenty hundred pounds as if money was dirt. My worthy parent, you misunderstand me. Misunderstand you, shooteth? You do. I have more respect for twenty hundred pounds than you give me credit for. "'So much as that I advise you to get it.' "'Get it?' "'Why, daughter, that is shoost what I am trying to do.' "'Aye, and you've gone about it in such a foolish fashion that you run a great risk of losing it. "'And how would you have me go about it, mine shoodeth?' "'By taking it.' The slave merchant suddenly jerked upon the bridle.

And pulled his mule to a stand, as he did so darting towards his daughter, a look half-puzzled, half-penetrating. Good father, Jacob, continued she, halting at the same time. You are not wont to be so dull-witted. While waiting for you at the gate of this pompous sugar planter, I could not help reflecting, and my reflections led me to ask the question. What on earth had taken you to this house? And what answer did you find, Judith? Oh, not much. Only that you went upon a very idle errand. Yes, it has been an idle errand. I did not get what I went for. And what matters if you didn't? Matter shit? Twenty Mandingos matters a great deal, twenty hundred pounds currency. That is what it matters, Judith, mine darling.

Not the pairing of a Mandingo's toenail, my paternal friend. Hach! What say you, mine wise Judith? What say I? Simply that these Mandingos might as well have been yours without all this trouble. They may be yet, I, and their master, too, if you desire to have a prince for your slave. I do. Speak out, Judith. I don't understand you. You will presently. Didn't you say just now that Captain Jowler has reasons for not coming ashore? Captain Showler? He would rather land in the cannibal islands than in Montego Bay. Well, Judith, Rabbi Jesseron, you weary my patience. For the Fula Prince, as you say he is, you are answerable only to Captain Jaller. Captain Jaller comes not ashore. True. It is true, assented the Jew, with a gesture that signified his comprehension of these preliminary premises.

Who, then? is to hinder you from doing as you please in the matter of these Mandingos. Wonderful Shuddith! exclaimed the father, throwing up his arms and turning upon his daughter a look of enthusiastic admiration. Wonderful Shuddith! Just the very thing! Bless my soul, and I never thought of it. Well, father, luckily it's not too late. I have been thinking of it. I knew very well that Kate Vaughn would not part with the girl Yola. I told you she wouldn't. But, by the by, I hope you've said nothing of what you wanted her for. If you have, not a word, Judith, not a word. Then no one need be a word to the wiser. As to Captain Jowler. Schowler daren't show his face in the bay. That's why he landed his cargo on the coast.

Besides, there was an understanding between him and me. He doesn't care what is done with the prince, not he. Anyhow, he'll be gone away in twenty-four hours. Then in twenty-four hours the Mandingoes may be yours. Prince, attendants, and all. But time is precious, Papa. We had better hasten home at once, and strip His Royal Highness of those fine feathers before some of our curious neighbors come in and see them. People will talk scandal, you know. As for our worthy overseer, ah, Ravener, he knows all about it. I wash obliged to tell him ash we landed. Of course you were. And it will cost you a mandingo or two to keep his tongue tied. That it will. For the rest, there need be no difficulty. It won't matter what these savages may say for themselves.

Fortunately, there's no scandal in a black man's tongue. Wonderful, Shudith, again exclaimed the admiring parent. My precious daughter. You are worth your weight in golden guinish. Twenty-four slaves for nothing, and one of them a born prince. Two thousand currency, bless my soul. It is a splendid profit, worth a whole year's spying and shelling." And with this honest reflection, the slave merchant hammered his mule into a trot. And followed his precious Shooteth, who had already given the whip to her horse, and was riding rapidly homeward.

10 010 - Volume 1 Chapter 10 - The Sea Nymph 19:23

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed The Sea Nymph On the third day after the slaver had cast anchor in the Bay of Montego, A large, square-rigged vessel made her appearance in the offing, and, heading shoreward, with all sail set, stood boldly in for the harbor. The Union Jack of England, spread to the breeze, floated freely above her taffrail, and various boxes, bales, trunks, and portmanteaus that could be seen on her deck, brought up for the vacation as well as the frank. The manly countenance of the sailors who composed her crew proclaimed the ship to be an honest trader. The lettering upon her stern thought that she was the sea nymph of Liverpool.

Though freighted with a cargo of merchandise, and in reality a merchantman, the presence of board of several individuals in the custom of landsmen denoted that the synaph also accommodated passengers.

The majority of these were West India planters, with their families returning from a visit to the mother country, their sons, perhaps, after graduating at an English university, and their daughters on having received their final polish at some fashionable metropolitan seminary.

Here and there, an attorney, a constituent element of West Indian society, though not necessarily, as the title suggests, A real limb of the law. Of the latter, there might have been one or two, with a like number of unpracticed disciples of Aesculapius, both lawyer and doctor bent on seeking fortune, and with fair prospects of finding it in a land notorious for crime as unwholesome in crime. This, with a sprinkling of nondescripts, made up the list of the synims caving passengers. Among these nondescripts was one of peculiarities sufficiently distinctive to attract attention. A single glance at this personage satisfied you that you looked upon a London Cockney, at the same time a West End exquisite of the very purest water.

He was a young man who had just passed the 21st anniversary of his birth, although the indulgence of youthful dissipation had already brushed The freshness from his features, giving them the stamp of greater age. In complexion, he was fair, preeminently so, with hair of a light yellowish hue that presented the appearance of having been artificial. The whiskers and moustache were nearly of the same color, both evidently cultivated with an elaborate acidity.

The eyebrows were also of the lightest shade, but the hue of the eyes was not so easily told, since one of them was kept habitually closed, while a glancing lens in a frame of tortoise shell hindered a fair view of the other. Through the glass, however, it appeared of a greenish-grey, undecidedly piggish. The features of this individual were regular enough, though without any striking character, and of a caste rather effeminate than vulgar. Their prevailing expression was that of a certain superciliousness, at times extending to an affectation of Sardinism.

The dress of the young man was in correspondence with the foppery exhibited in the perfumed locks and eyeglass. It consisted of of a sort of broadcloth, of a very light draught, with a cape that the scars covered the shoulders, a white beaver hat, vest and pants of spotless half-kerseemir, kid gloves on his hands, and boots, blight as lacquer could make them on his feet. These items of apparel, made in a style of fashion and worn with an air of Savoie affair, loudly proclaimed the London Faux of the time.

The affected role in which the gentleman spoke, whenever he, condescendent to hold communion with his fellow passengers, confirmed this character.

Notwithstanding a certain ill-disguised contempt with which he was regarded by some of his fellow voyagers, not a few treated him with a marked deference, and the obeisance paid him by the steward and cabin voice of the synaph gave evidence of his capability to bestow a liberal largesse. And such capability did he possess, for Mr. Montawe Smidje, the individual in question, was a youth of good family and fortune. The latter, consisting of a magnificent sugar estate in Jamaica, left him by a deceased relative to visit which was the object of his voyage.

The estate he had never seen. As this was his first trip across the Atlantic, but he had no reason to doubt the existence of the property. The handsome income which it had afforded him during several years of his minority, and which had enabled him to live in magnificent style in the most fashionable circles of London society, was a substantial proof that Montagu Castle, such was the name of the state, was something more than a castle in the air. During his minority, the estate had been managed by a trustee resident in the island, one Mr. Brown, himself a sugar planter, whose plantation adjoined that of Montagu Castle. Mr. Smithye had not come over the water with any intention of setting upon his Jamaican estate.

Such an idea, to use his own phraseology. Never enter, my friend. To exchange London and its precious for a residence among these hot-air niggers, they are no. I could never think of such a voluntary banishment. That would be a vow, a decided vow. A more trip to see something of the tropics, of which I've heard such extraordinary stories. Have a look at my sugar plantation, and to them niggers. Besides, After such fashion did Mr. Montague Smidje explain the purpose of his voyage to such of his fellow passengers as chance to take an interest in it.

There were but few travelers in the steerage of the Sinif. They who are compelled to adopt that irksome mode of voyaging across the Atlantic have but leader errand to the West Indies, or elsewhere to tropical lands, where labor is monopolized by the theus and sinews of the slave. Only three or four of this class had found accommodation on board the Senev, and yet among these humble voyagers was one destined to play a conspicuous part in our story. The individual in question was a young man, in appearance of the same age as Mr. Montauwes Midye, though differing from the latter in almost everything else. In stature, he was what is termed middle height, with limbs well set and rounded, denoting activity and strength.

His complexion, though not what is termed brunette, was dark for a native of Britain, though such was he. His features were nobly defined, and his whole countenance sufficiently striking to attract the attention of even an indifferent observer. Dark brown eyes and hair of light color curling jauntily over his cheeks were characteristic points of gracefulness, and, take him all in all, he was what might justly be pronounced a handsome young fellow. The garments he wore were his best. Put on for the first time during the voyage, and for the grand occasion of landing. A dark blue tunic frock, faced with black braid, skirting down over a pair of close-fitting tights and Hessian boots, gave him a rather distan-ge air, notwithstanding a little thread-bearishness apparent along the seams.

The occupation in which the young man was engaged betrayed a certain degree of refinement. Standing near the windlass in the blank leaf of a book, which appeared to be his journal, he was sketching the harbor into which the ship was about to enter, and the drawing exhibited no inconsiderable degree of artistic skill. For all that, the sketcher was not a professional artist. Professionally, indeed, and to his misfortune, he was nothing. A poor scholar. Without trick or trade by which he might earn a livelihood, he had come out to the West Indies, as young men go to other colonies, with that sort of indefinite hope that fortune, in some way or other, might prove kinder abroad than she had been at home.

Whatever hopes of success the young colonists might have entertained, they were evidently neither zen-guen nor continuous. Though naturally of a cheerful spirit, as his countenance indicated, a close observer might have detected a shadow stealing over it at intervals. As the sheep drew near to the shore, he closed the book and stood scanning the gorgeous picture of tropical scenery. Now, for the first time this close to his eyes.

Despite the pleasant emotions, Which so fair a scene was calculated to call forth, his countenance betrayed anxiety, perhaps a doubt, as to whether a welcome awaited him in that lovely land upon which he was looking.

Only a few moments had he been thus occupied, when a strange voice falling upon his ear caused him to turn towards the speaker, in whom he recognized the distinguished cabin passenger. Mr. Montauwes Midye.

As this gentleman had voyaged all the way from Liverpool to Jamaica, without once venturing to set his foot across the line which separates the sacred precincts of the quarter from the more plebeian forward deck, his presence by the windlass might have been a matter of surprise. A circumstance, however, explained it. It was the last hour of the voyage. The Synymph was just heading into the harbour, and the passengers of all degrees had rushed forward in order to obtain a better view of the glorious landscape unfolding itself before their eyes. Notwithstanding his often expressed antipathy to the abominable smell of taw, it was but natural that Mr. Smidje should yield to the general curiosity and gore forward among the rest.

Having gained An elevated standpoint upon the top of the windlass, he had adjusted the glass to his eye and commenced ogling the landscape, now near enough for its details to be distinguished.

Not for long, however, did Mr. Smith-Yay remain silent. He was not one of a Saturnine habit. The first scene was inspiring him with a poetical fervor, which soon found expression in characteristic speech.

The person thus appealed to chance to be the young steerage passenger, who, during the long voyage, had abstained from going above of the main mast with as much a scrupulousness As Mr. Smidje had observed about venturing forward. Hence, it was that the voice of the exquisite was as strange to him, as if he had never set eyes on that illustrious personage. On perceiving that the speech was meant for himself, he was at first a little nettled at its patronizing tone, but the feeling of irritation soon passed away, and he fixed his eyes upon the speaker, with a good-humored Though somewhat contentious expression. Oh, indeed. I've often observed you from the quarterdeck. Bah, Yahweh! Yes, a very strange individual, incomprehensibly strange.

May I ask pardon the liberty? What is bringing yao out here to Jamaica, I mean?

That, replied the steerage passenger, again somewhat nettled at their other free style of interrogation, which is bringing yourself the good ship Sinemf. Ah, ah, indeed good, very good, but, my dear sir, that is not what I meant. No? No, I ask yao. I meant what business brings you here. Perhaps you have some profession? No, not any, replied the young man, taking his inclination to retaliate the impertinent style of his interrogator. A trade, then? I am sorry to say I have not even a trade. No profession? No trade? What did you see that you are intent doing in Jamaica? Perhaps... You expect the situation of Wunkkeeper, an apprentice, or Nigga to Reba? Neither, I believe, requires much experience, as I am told the bookkeeper has positively no books to keep, and surely any fellow, however ignorant, might not have a nigga.

Is that your expectation, my worthy friend? I have no expectation. One way or another," replied the young man, in a tone of careless indifference. As to the business I may follow out here in Jamaica, that, I suppose, will depend on the will of another. Another? Ah, who, Bray? My uncle. Ah, indeed, you have an uncle in Jamaica, then. I have, if he be still alive. Ah, ah. You are not sure of that interesting fact? Perhaps you have not heard from him lately? Not for years, replied the young steerage passenger, his poor prospects now having caused him to relinquish the satirical tone which he had assumed. Not for years, repeated he, though I've written him to say that I should come by this ship. Very strange, and pray.

May I ask what business your uncle follows? He's a planter, I believe. A sugar planter? Yes, he was so when we last heard from him. Or then, perhaps he's with a proprietor? In that case, he may find something for your to do. Better than a nigger to even. Make your his overseer. May I know your name? Quite welcome to it. Bon is my name. Bon repeated the exquisite, in a tone that betrayed some newly awakened interest. Bon? Did I understand Yao to say? Herbert Bon, replied the young man, with firmer emphasis. And Yao uncle's name? He is also called Bon. He is my father's brother, or rather was. My father is dead. Not Walthus Bond, Esquire, or Mount Welcome? Yes, Walthus Bond, my uncle is so called, and Mount Welcome is, I believe, the name of his state.

Very strange, incomprehensibly strange. Do you know, my young fellow, that Yao and I appear to be making fog the same part? Walthus Bond of Mount Welcome. Dear me, how does it strange if you and I should be gassed under the same roof? The remark was accompanied by a supercilious glance that did not escape the observation of the young steerage passenger. It was this glance that gave the true signification to the words, which Herbert won. He was on the point of making an angry rejoinder, when the exquisite turned abruptly away, as he parted, drawling out some words of leap-taking with the presumptive conjecture that they might meet again. Herbert Bond stood for a moment looking after him, an expression of high contempt curling upon his lip.

Only for a short while, however, did this show itself. And then, his countenance resuming its habitual expression of good nature. He descended into the steerage to prepare his somewhat scanty baggage for the debarkation.

11 011 - Volume 1 Chapter 11 - Loftus Vaughan on the Look-out 15:04

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read.

Section 11. Loftus Vaughan, On the Lookout.

Every day after that on which he had received the two English letters, and almost every hour during daylight, might Loftus Vaughan have been seen, telescope in hand, at one of the front windows of his house, sweeping with his glass the roadstead and offing of Montego Bay. The object of this telescopic observation The reason was that he might decry the sea-nymph before she had entered the harbor, in order that his carriage should be at the port to receive the distinguished smithy on the moment of his landing. At this period there were no steamers trading across the Atlantic, punctual to a day and almost to an hour, though the letter of advice had been written several days. Before that on which the sea-nymph was to sail, there could be no calculation made upon such uncertain data as winds and waves, and the ship which carried Montague-Smithy might arrive at any hour.

That some distinguished guest was expected was a fact that had become well known to every domestic in the establishment of Mount Welcome. Every day saw some article. Or articles of costly furniture brought home from the bay, and the chambers of the great house were being freshly decorated to receive them. The house wenches and other indoor servants were furnished with new dresses, some even with liveries, an unusual piece of finery in Jamaica, while shoes and stockings were forced upon feet that perhaps had never felt Such impedimenta before, and whose owners would have been only too glad to have escaped the torture of wearing them. It need scarcely be said that the planter was undergoing all this extravagant expenditure for the reception of Mr.

Montague Smythe, and him alone. Had it been only his nephew that was expected, no such continuous lookout would have been kept. And no such preparations made to do him honor on his arrival. Neither do Mr. Vaughan's motives require explanation. The reader will air this have surmised them. He was the father of a daughter ready at any moment for marriage. Mr. Montague Smythe was, in his eyes, not only an eligible, but a highly desirable specimen for a son-in-law. The young man was possessed of a splendid property. As Mr. Vaughan well knew, for the worthy planter was not only Custis Rotolorum, but for many long years had been Custis of Montague Castle, and could tell its value to a shilling currency.

It lay contiguous to his own. He had looked with a longing eye upon its broad acres and black retainers, until he had become imbued with a desire, amounting indeed to a passion, to possess it. If not in his own right, at least in that of his daughter. The union of the two estates, Mount Welcome and Montague Castle, would make a magnificent domain, one of the richest in the island. To accomplish this object had long been the wish of Loftus Vaughan. It had grown and grown upon him, till it had become the most cherished purpose of his heart. Let us not conceal a really credible motive that Mr. Vaughan had for desiring this union. He had been too long in Jamaica to be ignorant of the true social position of his daughter.

However beautiful and accomplished Kate Vaughan was, however much her father loved her, and to do him justice his paternal affection was of the strongest, he knew that her mother was a quadroon, and she only a mustee. No matter how little trace there might be of the taint, however imperceptible to the outward eye, he knew that between her and the young gentlemen of his acquaintance, that is, those who would have been eligible, there was still enough to erect a certain social barrier. He knew, moreover, that young Englishmen, especially on their first arrival, make light of this barrier. In fact, altogether disregarded, until corrupted by the society of the island. In his matchmaking designs, the Jamaica planter was not more of a sinner than hundreds of other parents, both at home and abroad, and there is this much in his favor, that perhaps his affection for his daughter, and the desire of ennobling her, for by such an alliance, Would the taint be extinguished?

Were the chief motives for the conduct he was pursuing in regard to Montague Smiley? So far Mr. Vaughan's conduct may be excused, but unfortunately the studied courtesy with which he was preparing to receive the Lord of Montague Castle presented a damaging contrast to the discourtesy he had designed for his kinsmen. In the latter case both his acts and intentions were Paltry beyond parallel. The announcement in the nephew's letter that he had taken a steerage passage had been to his uncle a source of bitter chagrin. Not that he would have cared a whit about the thing had the young fellow voyaged in any other vessel than the sea-nymph, and had he travelled unrecognized. What troubled Mr. Vaughan was the fear that the relationship Might become known to Mr.

Montague Smythe, and thus create in the mind of the latter a suspicion of his, the planter's, respectability. The dread of this exposé so preyed upon Mr. Vaughan's mind that had it been possible he would have denied the relationship altogether. He had conceived a hope that this recognition might not take place during the voyage. Building his hope on the character of the aristocratic Cockney, which he knew to be a type of supercilious pride, confiding in the faith that nothing might transpire on board ship to make Mr. Smythe acquainted with the connection, he was determined there should be no chance on shore. To preclude the possibility of such a thing, he had conceived a design as childish as it was cruel.

His nephew was to be kept out of the way. The plan of action he had traced out long before the arrival of the sea-niff. Mr. Montague Smythe was to be met at the landing, and at once hurried off to Mount Welcome. Herbert Vaughan was likewise to be conducted thither, but not direct. A different means of transport was to be provided for him. And on his arrival within the bounds of the plantation, he was to be taken by a private road to the house of the overseer, which stood in a secluded corner of the valley, nearly half a mile distant from the bluff. Here he was to remain as the guest of the latter, until such time as his uncle could find a way of disposing of him, either by procuring some employment for him at Montego Bay, Or the situation of bookkeeper on some distant plantation.

With this ingenious contrivance did Mr. Vaughn await the arrival of his guests.

It was upon the third day after receiving his letters of advice, and near the hour of noon, that the planter playing as usual with his telescope, perceived in the offing of Montego Bay, and standing in for the port, a large A square-rigged vessel, a ship. It might be the sea nymph, and it might not, but taking into consideration some circumstances known to Mr. Brown, the probabilities were that it was the expected vessel. Whether or no, the planter was determined that the program he had so ingeniously sketched out should not be spoiled by any mismanagement in the performance. And its execution was ordered upon the instant. Bells were rung for a general muster of the domestics. A horn was sounded to summon the overseer.

And in less than half an hour afterwards, the family baroque, a handsome equipage, drawn by a pair of splendidly caparizant horses, was on the road to the bay, with the overseer on horseback, riding as an escort behind it. In rear of this went a wagon, to which eight large oxen were attached, and behind the wagon appeared an escort, sui generis, a rough negro boy, mounted on the shaggiest of steeds, who was no other than the postboy already mentioned, the identical Quashie. Quashie was not on his usual diurnal duty. His present errand was one of a far more important character, and the duty confided to him of an exceedingly delicate nature. At this hour the great hall of Mount Welcome exhibited a scene that to the eye of a stranger to West Indian customs might have appeared curious enough.

Scattered over the floor at certain distances from each other were some six or eight negro girls. Or wenches, as they are called, most of them being of the younger brood of the plantation blacks. All were down on their knees, each one having by her side, and within reach of her hand, an orange freshly cut in halves, some beeswax, and a portion of the fibrous pericarp of a coconut. The floor itself was without carpet of any kind, but instead of being of plain deal, It presented a mosaic of hardwoods of different colors, among which might be recognized the mahogany and heartwood, the breadnut and bully tree. To give the tessellated surface a polish was the business of the dark damsels on their knees, and for that purpose were the oranges and cocoa husks provided.

To an islander this site was one of common, indeed daily occurrence. The luster of this hall floor is a matter of pride with the Jamaican planter, as much so as the quality or pattern of his drawing-room carpet to a householder at home. And every day, and at the same hour, the dark-skinned housemaids make their appearance, whose gloss had been tarnished by the rebels of the preceding night. The hour set apart for this quaint custom is just before laying the cloth for dinner, about three or four o'clock, and that she may not sully the polish while carrying in the dishes, the barefooted Abigail adopts a plan that deserves mention on account of its originality. Having provided herself with two small pieces of linen or cotton cloth, she spreads them out upon the floor.

And then places a foot upon each. As the toes of a West Indian house wench are almost as prehensile as her fingers, she finds no difficulty in cramping the cloth and holding it between the big toe and its nearest neighbor. And with this simple chasseur, she is enabled to slide over the floor without in the least degree smouching its claws, or leaving any sign of her passage. While such a busy scene was transpiring in the great hall of Mount Wellcome, one of a different character, but of equal activity, was going on in the kitchen. This office stood a little apart from the main dwelling, communicating with its lower story by a covered gallery. Along this passage, black and yellow wenches could be seen constantly going and returning.

Each with her load, a haunch of venison, a ham of the wild hog, a turtle, ramier pigeons, and mountain crabs, all on their way to the spit, the stew pan, or the chafing dish. A similar sight might have been witnessed at Mount Welcome any other day in the year, but perhaps with a less abundant variety in the materials. And with not half so much movement among the staff of wenches pertaining to the cuisine, whose excited manner in the performance of their specific duties testified, as much as the variety of luxuries lying around, that on this particular day a repast of the most sumptuous kind was expected from their skill. Their master did not leave these preparations to be made without his own personal surveillance.

From the time that the ship had been described, he was everywhere—in the stable to look after the sable grooms, in the kitchen to instruct the cooks, in the great hall to inspect the polishing of the floor, and at last, on the landing outside standing, telescope to his eye. And looking down the long avenue, where the carriage containing his distinguished visitor might at any moment be expected to make its appearance.

12 012 - Volume 1 Chapter 12 - Kate and Yola 14:11

Rodriguez. The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Kate and Yola.

Occupying one corner of the mansion of Mount Welcome, That which was farthest removed from the din and clangor of the kitchen was a small chamber, richly and elegantly furnished. The light was admitted into it on two sides through lattice windows that, when open, left a free passage from the floor to a little balcony outside, with which each of the windows was provided. One of these windows looked out to the rearward, commanding a view of the garden. And the wooded steep beyond. The other opened to the left side of the house, upon the shrubbery grounds that extended in that direction as far as the foot of the ridge. Even had there been no one within this little chamber, the style and character of its furniture would have told that the person to whom it appertained was of the gentler sex.

In one corner stood a bed with carved posts of yellow lance wood. From which hung what at first sight might have been taken for white muslin curtains, but which, on closer scrutiny, could be seen to be the gauze-like netting of a mosquito bar. The size of the bed told that it was intended for but one individual. Its habitual occupant was therefore unmarried. In the bay of one of the windows stood a dressing table of papier-mâché, inlaid with mother of pearl. And upon this was placed a mirror of circular shape on a stand of the finest Spanish mahogany. In front of the mirror was a variety of objects of different forms, among which might be noticed the usual implements of the toilet, which, with many of those eccentric little articles of Lux and Virtue, that bespeak the refined presence of woman.

Other pieces of furniture in the room were three or four Chinese chairs. A small marketery table, a workbox of tortoise-shell veneer on a pedestal of like material, and a little cabinet of ebony wood richly inlaid with wool. There was neither mantle nor fireplace, the climate of eternal summer precluding all necessity for such fixtures. The window curtains were of a thin, transparent muslin, with a pattern of pink flowering woven into the stuff. And bordered with a fringe of alternate pink and white tassels. A breeze, laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, lowing in through the open latticework of the jalousies, kept these light hangings almost continually in motion, imparting an aspect of coolness to the chamber.

This was further heightened by the glossy smoothness of the hardwood floor, which glistened underfoot like a mirror. No one could have glanced into this little apartment without being struck with its costly yet chaste adornment. Rich and elegant, however, as was the case, it was no more than worthy of the jewel which it was accustomed to contain. It was the bedroom and boudoir of Lily Kwasheba, the heiress presumptive of Mount Welcom. But few were ever favored with a glance into that luxurious chamber. It was a sacred precinct. Into which curious eyes were not permitted to penetrate. Its polished floor was not to be trodden by vulgar feet. With the exception of her father, no man had ever intruded into that virgin shrine.

And he, only on rare and extraordinary occasions. Even to the domestics, it was not of free access. Only one, besides its mistress, could enter it unbidden. Her brown-skinned handmaid, Yola. On that same day, shortly after the ringing of the bells had announced the arrival of the English ship, and while the dusky domestics were engaged, as described, in their anti-prandial preparations, two individuals occupied the chamber in question. One was the young lady to whom the apartment pertained, the other her maid. They were in different attitudes, the mistress seated upon one of the Chinese chairs in front of the window. While the maid was standing behind, occupied in arranging her mistress's hair.

The girl was just entering upon her task, if we may so designate that which many might have deemed a pleasure. Already, the complicated machinery of combs and hairpins lay strewed over the table, and the long chestnut-colored tresses hung in luxuriant confusion around those shoulders of snow, in whose velvet-like epidermis There appeared no trace of the taint. Involuntarily, the maid ceased from her task and stood gazing upon her young mistress with a look of instinctive admiration. Oh, beautiful, exclaimed she in a low murmured voice. You beautiful, missa. Tut, Yola, tis only flattery of you to say so. You are as beautiful as I. Only your beauty is of a different order. No doubt, in your country, you would be a great belle.

Ah, Missa, you belle anywhere. Black man, white man, all think you beautiful. All the same. Thank you, Yola. But I shouldn't particularly desire to be the object of such universal admiration. For my part, I don't know one male biped in whose eyes I care to appear attractive. Perhaps Missa no so say. When come young Bakra from English country? Which Bakra? There are two of them expected from the English country. Yola now here to come. Masa she hears speak of one, only one. Oh, you've heard speak of one only. Did you hear his name mentioned? Yes, he Grand Man, Great Lord, Sultan of Mongu. He have other name. Yola hear it. But she knows sabi speak it.

I don't wonder at that. It's as much as I sabi myself to pronounce that second name, which I presume to be Smidgey. Is that the name you heard? That it, Misa. He very fine gentleman. He beauty man. Masa, he so tell master trusty. Ah, Yola, your master is a man. And men are not always the best judges of one another's looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongu, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as Papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another bakra that is expected? No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of. This same one of Mongu castle. A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole.

As she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet. It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicions of her father's plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it. The maid was still gazing upon her. When all at once the dark Arab-like features of the ladder assumed the changed expression, the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her. "'Ala!' ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress. "'Well, Yola?' said the ladder, attracted by the exclamation and looking up.

"'Why do you call upon Ala? Has anything occurred to you?' Oh, Beauty Misa, you so like one man. I like a man. I resemble a man. Is that what you mean? Yes, Misa, never see it before. You very, very like. Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me. He, man of the mountains, maroon. Oh, worse and worse. I resemble a maroon. Gracious me. Surely you are jesting, Yola. Oh, Misa, he beauty man. Brown black eyes that glance like the firefly in the wood. Eyes like yours. Berry like you eyes, Misa. Come, silly girl," said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real. Do you know that it is very naughty of you to compare me to a man, much more to a maroon?

Oh, Missa Kate, he beauty man, very beauty man. That I doubt very much, but even were it so, you should not speak of his resembling me. Me pardon, Missa. I no more so say. No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask Papa to sell you. This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker's thoughts. "'Bye-bye, Yola,' continued the young lady. "'I could get a good prize for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?' "'Misa Kate, I no-no. Allah forbid me you ever leave. If you no more my Misa, I care no more live.' "'Thanks, Yola,' said the young Creole." Evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken.

Be not afraid of my parting with you, as proof that I shall not. I refuse the very large sum. How much, can you guess? Ah, Missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you force leave, I be no more happy in this world. Well, there is one who thinks you're worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you. Who, Missa? Why, he who sold you to Papa, Mr. Jessram. Ala, help poor Yola! Oh, Missa Kate, he bad master, he very wicked man. Yola die, kubina kill her. Yola herself kill, rather than she go back to Jew slave dealer. Good Missa, beauty Missa. You no-sell, you poor slave. The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.

Don't fear my selling you, said the young lady motioning the supplant to rise to her feet. Least of all to him, whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that, but tell me. What name was that you pronounced just now? Kubina? Was it not? Yes, Misa, Kubina. And pray who is Kubina? The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-colored cheeks. Oh, never mind, said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. If there's any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer. Misa. From you, Yola no have secret. Kubina, he mountain man, maroon. What? Is he the maroon I am supposed to resemble? True, Nisa, he same.

Oh, I see how it is. I suppose that accounts for you thinking me beautiful. This Kubina, no doubt, is a sweetheart of yours? Yola lowered her eyes without making reply. The crimson appeared in deeper tint through the chestnut. You need not answer, Gadiola, said the young Creole, with a significant smile. I know what your answer ought to be, if you were to speak your mind. I think I have heard of this cabina. Have a care, my girl. These maroons are a very different sort of men from the colored people on the plantations. Like me, he is.

And the young beauty glanced coyly at the mirror. Well, Yola, I'm not angry with you, since it is your sweetheart with whom I am compared. Love, they say, is a wonderful beautifier. No doubt, Master Kubina is, in your eyes, a perfect endemion. Come, girl, added she, coquettishly tossing the chestnut tresses over her shoulders of ivory. I fear we have been wasting time. If I'm not ready to receive this grand guest, I'll get into trouble with Papa. Go on. And tricked me out in a style becoming the mistress of Mount Welcome. With a peal of merry laughter at the air of grandeur she had thus jestingly assumed, the young lady bent down her head, submitting her magnificent chevalure to the manipulation of her maid.

13 013 - Volume 1 Chapter 13 - Quashie 10:12

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Chapter 13 Quashie. In less than half an hour after the brief conversation between Mr. Montague Smythegee and the young steerage passenger, the sea-nymph had gotten warped into port, and was lying alongside the wharf. A gangway plank was stretched from the shore, and over this men and women, of all shades of color, from blond ebony black, and of as many different callings, came crowding aboard. While the passengers, sick of the ship and everything belonging to her, hastened to get on shore. Half-naked porters, black, brown, and yellow, commenced wrangling over the luggage, dragging trunks, boxes, and bags in every direction but the right one, and clambering their gumbo jargon with a volubility that resembled the jabbering of apes.

On the wharf appeared a number of wheeled vehicles, that had evidently been awaiting the arrival of the ship. Not hackneys, as would have been the case in a European port, but private carriages, some of them handsome curacles drawn by a pair and driven by black jesus in livery. Others only gigs with a single horse, or two-wheelers of even an inferior description, according to the wealth or style of the individual. For whose transport each had been brought to the port. Wagons, too, with teams of oxen, some having eight in the yoke, stood near the landing-place, waiting for baggage. The naked black drivers lounging silently by the animals, or occasionally calling them by their names, and talking to them, just as if their speeches had been understood.

Among the different carriages ranged along the wharf, A handsome barouche appeared conspicuous. It was attached to a pair of cream-colored horses, splendidly comparisoned. A mulatto coachman sat upon the box, shining in a livery of lightest green, with yellow facings, while a footman, in garments of like hue, attended at the carriage step, holding the door for someone to get in. Herbert Vaughn, standing on the foredeck of the sea-nymph, As yet undecided as to whether he should then go ashore, had noticed this magnificent equipage. He was still gazing upon it when his attention was attracted to two gentlemen, who, having walked direct from the vessel, had just arrived by the side of the carriage.

A white servant followed them, and behind were two negro attendants carrying a number of parcels of light luggage. One of the gentlemen and the white servant were easily recognized by Herbert. They were Mr. Montague Smythgee and his valet. Herbert now recalled the odd expression made use of, but the moment before by his fellow-passenger, that he was co-signed to the proprietor of Mount Welcome. The carriage having received Mr. Montague Smythgee, and the footman having mounted the box, leaving the rumble to the English valet, was driven off at full speed, the second gentleman, who appeared to be an overseer, following on horseback as an escort. Herbert watched the receding vehicle until a turn in the road hit it from his view, and then, dropping his eyes towards the deck, he stood for some moments in a reflective attitude, revolving in his mind some thoughts that were far from agreeable.

No one there to meet him. And bid him welcome. The countenance of the young adventurer became clouded under the influence of this thought, and he stood silently, gazing upon the deck with eyes that saw not. "'S'uh," said a negro boy, at this moment stepping up and interrupting his reflections. "'Ha!' rejoined Herbert, looking up and perceiving with some surprise that the darky was regarding him with a fixed stare. What might you want, my lad? If it be money, I have none to give you. Money, sa. Where a fo'kwashi want money? He do a massa bid. Young Buckra, ready go now. Ready to go? Where? What mean you, boy? Go for the great house. Great house? Of what great house are you speaking? Moun welcome, sa.

Masser Van. You for Masser Van, sa. What? exclaimed Herbert, in surprise, at the same time scanning the darky from head to foot. How do you know that, my boy? Quashie know dat well nuff. Cap'n o'b da big ship, o'b'er sea say so. O'b'er sea point out young Bukra from de Waugh. He sent Quashie fetch young Bukra to Mount Welcome. Ready to go now, sir. You are from Mount Welcome, then? "'Ya, sa, me hoss-boy da, an' pos-boy. Fetch pony for young English pukra. Oba see he bring be roosh for grand English pukra. Baggage dey go in de ox-wagon. Where is your pony? Up yana, sa, on de waff, sa. Ready go, sa?" "'All right,' said Herbert, now comprehending the situation of affairs." Shoulder that portmanteau, and toss it into the wagon.

Which road am I to take? Can't miss a road, sir. Straight up da ribber. Till you come to de crossing. Dar you take de road dat don't lead to de left. You soon see, Mount Welcome, sir. How far is it? Bout seven or eight mile. Sir, reach da long for sundown. Pony go like de berry-lightnin'. "'Shall ye no keep to de left by de crossing?' Thus instructed the young steerage passenger took his departure from the ship, after bidding adieu to the friendly Tars, who had treated him so handsomely during his irksome voyage. With his gun, a single-barreled fouling-piece, on his shoulder, he strode over the platform and up the wooden wharf. Then, detaching the pony from the wheel of the ox-wagon, to which it had been tied, he threw himself into the saddle and trotted off along the road pointed out as the one that would conduct him to Mount Welcome.

The excitement produced by the sudden change from ship to shore, the stir of the streets through which he had to pass, the novel sights and sounds that at every step saluted his eyes and ears, hindered Herbert Vaughan from thinking of anything that concerned himself. Only for a short time, however, was his mind thus distracted from dwelling on his own affairs. Before he had ridden far, the road, hitherto bordered by houses, entered under a dark canopy of forest foliage, and the young traveller all at once found himself surrounded by a perfect solitude. Under the sombre shadow of the trees his spirit soon returned to its former gloomy forebodings. And riding more slowly over a stretch of the road, where the ground was wet and boggy, he fell into a train of thoughts that were anything but pleasant.

The subject of his reflections may be easily guessed. He had not failed to notice, how could he, the distinction made between himself and his fellow-voyager. While a splendid equipage had been waiting for the latter, and his landing had been made a sort of ovation, How different was the means of transport provided for him? By the memory of my father, muttered he, as he rode on, it is an insult I shall not overlook, an insult to him more than to myself. But for the fulfillment of his dying wish, I should not go one step farther, and as he said this, he drew his rough roadster to a halt, as if half resolved to put his hypothetical threat into practice. Perhaps, he continued, again moving forward with a more hopeful air, perhaps there may be some mistake.

But no, he added with a strong emphasis on the negative monosyllable, there can be none. This shallow fop is a young man of fortune. I a child of misfortune. And he smiled bitterly at the antithesis he had drawn. That Is the reason why such a distinction has been made between us? Be it so. He continued, after a pause. Poor as I am, this churlish relative will find me as proud as himself. I shall return him scorn for scorn. I shall demand an explanation of his behavior, and the sooner I have it the better, as if stimulated by a sense of outrage. As also by a half-formed purpose of retaliation, the young adventurer gave the whip to his shaggy steed, and dashed onward at full gallop.

14 014 - Volume 1 Chapter 14 - Travelling at the Tail 12:53

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed TRAVELING AT THE TALE For nearly an hour did the cob continue its gallop, without pause or slacking. The road was a wide one, much tracked by wheels, and, as it ran in a direct course, the rider took it for granted he was keeping the right path. Now and then he caught a glimpse of water through the trees, no doubt the river mentioned in the directions given him by the darky. The crossing at length came in sight, causing him to desist from his rapid pace, in order that he might ford the stream. There was no appearance of a bridge. The water, however, was only knee-deep, and without hesitation the pony plunged in and waded over. Herbert halted on the opposite bank, for there appeared in front of him a dilemma.

The road forked. The negro boy had warned him of this. Telling him at the same time to take the one that didn't lead to Dalef. But instead of two times, to the fork, there were three. Here was a puzzle. It was easy enough to know which of the three not to take. The one that did lead to Dalef. But which of the other two was to be chosen was the point that appeared to present a difficulty in the solution. Both were playing good roads. And each as likely as the other to be the one which would conduct him to Mount Welcome. Had his rider left the pony to its own guidance, perhaps it would have chosen the right road. In all likelihood he would have done so in the end. But, before determining on any particular line of action, he thought it better to look for the wheel tracks of the carriage that he knew must have passed in advance of him.

While thus cogitating the silence occasioned by his momentary halt, was all at once interrupted by a voice that sounded at his very side, and the tones of which he fancied were not new to him. On suddenly turning in the saddle, and looking in the direction whence the voice appeared to proceed, what was his astonishment on beholding the negro boy, the veritable Quashy? Da, sir! "'Das, Doc Crossan, me tell you about. You no take by de left. Dat lead to old Jewpen. Nor de right. He go to Mongue Castle. De middle Massa Van Road. He go straight in a mount welcome.' The young traveller sat for some moments without speaking, or making reply in any way, surprised as by a spell holding him silent. He had left the boy on the forward deck of the ship, to look after his luggage, and he had seen him, he could almost swear to it, still on board, as he rode away from the wharf.

Moreover, he had ridden a stretch of many miles, most of the way at full gallop, and all of it at a pace with which no pedestrian could possibly have kept up. How, then, was he to account for the lad's presence upon the spot? This was the first question that occurred to him, and which he put to the darky, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak. "'Quash ye father young Bukhra? At him bony heels!' The answer went but a short way towards enlightening the young Bukhra, since he still believed it utterly impossible for any human being to have travelled as fast as he had ridden. The pony's heels. What? My black skin. You mean to say you have run all the way after me from the landing place?

Ya, sir. That hab Quashy do. But I saw you on board the ship as I started off. How on earth could you have overtaken me? Ya, Massa. That was easy enough. Young Bukhra, he start off. Quashy, he put him pork mantle into Oxwagon, and then he follow. Bukhra he go slow at first. Quashy soon catch up, and den easy run, long wit da pony. Not much in dat, sir. Not much. Why, you imp of darkness. I've been riding at a rate of ten miles an hour, and how you've kept up with me is beyond my comprehension. Well, you're a noble runner, that I will say. I'd back you at a foot race against all comers, whether black ones or white ones. The middle road, you say? Ya, sah. Dat de way to Mount Welcome. You soon deed de big gate ob de plantation.

Herbert headed his roadster in a direction indicated, and moved onward along the path, his thoughts still dwelling on the odd incident. He had proceeded but a few lengths of his pony when he was tempted to look back, partly to ascertain if Quashie was still following him. and partly with the intention of putting a query to this singular escort. A fresh surprise was in store for him. The darky was nowhere to be seen, neither to the right nor the left, nor yet in the rear. Was he visible? Where the deuce can the boy have gone? inquired Herbert involuntarily, at the same time scanning the underwood on both sides of the road. that appeared to come out of the ground close behind, while at the same instant the brown mop of Quashie, just visible over the crew of the Cob, proclaimed his whereabouts.

How the boy had been able to keep up with the pony was at length explained. He had been holding on to its tail. There was something so ludicrous in the sight that the young Englishman forgot for a moment the grave thoughts that had been harassing him. and once more checking his steed into a halt gave utterance to roars of laughter. The darky joined in his mirth with a grin that extended his mouth from ear to ear, though he was utterly unconscious of what the young Bukhra was laughing at. He could not see anything comic in a custom which he was almost daily in the habit of practicing, for it was not the first time Quashay had traveled at the tail of a horse. Journeying about half a mile further along the main road, the entrance gate of Mount Welcome was reached.

There was no lodge, only a pair of grand stone piers, with a wing of strong mason-work on each flank, and a massive folding gate between them. From the directions Herbert had already received, he might have known this to be the entrance to his uncle's plantation. But Quashie, still clinging to the pony's tail, Removed all doubt by crying out, "'Dasty gate, buckra, gentlemen! Dasty way, fo' m'welcome!' On passing through the gateway, the mansion itself came in sight, its white walls and green jalousies shining conspicuously at the extreme end of the long avenue, which last, with its bordering rows of palms and tamarinds, gave to the approach An air of aristocratic grandeur. Herbert had been prepared for something of this kind.

He had heard at home that his father's brother was a man of great wealth, and this was nearly all his father had himself known respecting him. The equipage which had transported his more favored fellow-voyager, and which had passed over the same road about an hour before him, also gave evidence of the grand style in which his uncle lived. The mansion now before his eyes was in correspondence with what he had heard and seen. There could be no doubt that his uncle was one of the grandees of the island. The reflection gave him less pleasure than pain. His pride had been already wounded, and as he looked up the noble avenue, He was oppressed with a presentment that some even greater humiliation was in store for him.

"'Tell me, Quashy,' said he, after a spell of painful reflection, "'was it your master himself who gave you directions about conducting me to Mount Welcome, or did you have your orders from the overseer? "'Massar know me speak about you, sir. I no hear him say nothing.' "'The overseer, then?' Ya, sa, de Obasya. What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can, and I may make you a present one of these days. Gory, Maserbukra. I tell you all, he say. Zackly as he say em. Quashy, say he. Quashy, he say. You go down board de big ship. You see dat air, young Bukra. Dat war yourself, sa. "'You fetch him up to the ox-wagon. You fetch him baggage too. You mount him on Cocoa. These deponeys name.

And then you fetch him home to my house.' "'That's all he say. Every word.' "'To his house? Mount Welcome, you mean? No, young Buckridge, em'en. To the Obeseah own house. And now we just got to the road that lead there. This way, sir.' "'Dis way.' The darky pointed to a by-road that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods. Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise. "'Dis way, sir,' repeated the boy. "'Yan is de obeseer's house. See what de smoke rise, just oba de big trees? What do you mean, my good fellow?' What have I to do with the overseer's house? We's a gwenda, sa. Who, you?

Both, sa. And Koko too. Have you taken leave of your senses, you imp of darkness? No, sa. Quashy only do what him bid. Da obesey a Quashy bid futch young Bukhra to him house. Dis year's da way. I tell you, boy, you must be mistaken. Is it to Mount Welcome I am going? My uncle's house, up yonder? No, Bukra genman, me no mistake. Doe oba say you bery particular bout dat same. He tell me you no for de great house, de buff. He say me fach you to him own house. Are you sure of that? Herbert, as he put this in derogatory, leaned forward in the saddle, and listened attentively for the reply. Lor, Bukra genman! "'I's a sure of it, as de son am in de Ebensdar. I swar it, if you like.' On hearing this positive affirmation, the young Englishman sat for a moment, as if wrapped in a profound and painful reverie.

His breast rose and fell as though some terrible truth was breaking upon him, which he was endeavouring to disbelieve. At this moment Quashie caught the rein of the bridle. and was about to lead the pony into the by-path. No, shouted the rider, in a voice loud and angry. Let go, boy, let go, or I'll give you the whip. This is my way. Then, wrenching the rein from the grasp of his sable guide, he headed the pony back into the main avenue. Then, laying on the lash with all his might, he pressed forward, at full gallop. In the direction of the Great House.

15 015 - Volume 1 Chapter 15 - A Slippery Floor 15:27

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed Chapter Fifteen. A Slippery Floor.

The carriage conveying Mr. Montague Smythegee from Montague Bay to Mount Welcome passed up the avenue and arrived at the Great House, just one hour before Herbert Vaughan, mounted on his rough roadster and guided by Quashie, made his appearance at the entrance gate of the plantation. Mr. Smythejee had arrived at half-past three p.m., four was the regular dining hour at Mount Welcome, so that there was just neat time for the valet to unpack the ample valises and portmanteus and dress his master for the table. It had been the aim of Mr. Vaughan to make the introduction of Mr. Smythejee to his daughter as effective as possible. He was sage enough to know the power of first appearances. For this reason he had managed to keep them apart until the moment of meeting at the dinner table, when both should appear under the advantage of a full dress.

So far as the impression to be made on Mr. Smythgee was concerned, Mr. Vaughan's scheme was perfectly successful. His daughter really appeared superb. Radiant as the crimson quamaclit that glistened amidst the plaits of her hair, graceful as nature and elegant as art, could make her.

The heart of the Cockney felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, that the true sentiment of admiration which beauty, combined with virgin modesty, is almost certain to inspire. For a moment the remembrance of the ballet girl And the lewd recollections of the bagneo were obliterated, and a graver and nobler inspiration took their place. Even vulgar Loftusvahn had skill enough to note this effect. But how long it would last, how long the plant of a pure passion would flourish in that uncongenial soil, was a question which required an abler psychologist than Loftusvahn to determine. The sugar-planter congratulated himself upon his success. Smythgee was smitten, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Had the calculating father been equally anxious to perceive a reciprocity of this fine first impression, he would have been doomed to a disappointment.

As certainly as that of Mr. Smythgee was a sentiment of admiration, so certainly was that of Kate Vaughan. A feeling of degoo, or at least of indifference. In truth, the Londoner had made a most unfortunate debut. A contratemp had occurred in the ceremony of introduction, just at the crisis moment when all eyes are sharply set, and all ears acutely bent in mutual reconnaissance. Mr. Vaughan had committed a grand error in causing the presentation to take place in the Grand Hall. Ice itself was not more slippery than its floor. The consequence was unavoidable, and the Cockney, essaying one of his most graceful attitudes, fell flat on his face at the feet of her he simply intended to have saluted.

In that fall he had lost everything. Every chance of winning Kate Vaughan's heart—a thousand acts of gracefulness, a thousand deeds of heroism—would not have set him up again after that unfortunate fall. It was clear paraphrase of the downfall of Humpty Dumpty, the restoration alike hopeless, alike impossible. Mr. Montague Smythegee was too well stocked with self-complacency. To suffer much embarrassment from a lapis so trifling a character. His valet had him up upon his feet in a trice, and with a haw-haw and the remark that the floor was, "'Damn slip away!' He crept cautiously to his chair and seated himself. Though the Londondor had been all his life accustomed to dining well, he could not help indulging in some surprise.

at the plentiful and luxurious repast that was placed before him. Perhaps in no part of the world does the table groan under a greater load of rich viands than in the West Indian Islands. In the prosperous times of sugar-planting, a Jamaican dinner was deserving of the name of feast. Turtle was the common soup, and the most sumptuous dishes were arranged thickly over the board. Even the ordinary every-day dessert was a spread worthy of Apicius. And the wines, instead of those dull twin poisons, port and sherry, were south-side Madeira, champagne, claret, and sparkling hock, all quaffed in copious flagons, plenteous as small beer. These were glorious times for the white-skinned oligarchy of the Sugar Islands.

The days of revel and rollicky living, before the wedge of Wilberforce, split the dark pedestal which propped up their pomp and prosperity. A dinner of this good old-fashioned style had Loftus Vaughan prepared for his English quest. Behind the chairs appeared troops of colored attendants, gliding silently over the smooth floor. A constant stream of domestics poured in and out of the hall, Fetching and removing the dishes and plates, or carrying the wine decanters in silver coolers, young girls of various shades of complexion, some nearly white, stood at intervals around the table, fanning the guests with long peacock plumes, and filling the great hall with an artificial current of delicious coolness.

Montague Smaichy was delighted, even in his dear Metwapolis. He had never dined so luxuriously. "'Splendid! Splendid! Ponhoa! A dinner fit for a prince!' he exclaimed in compliment to his entertainer. The savoury dishes were partaken of and removed, and the table arranged for dessert, exhibited that gorgeous profusion which a tropic clime can alone produce. where almost every odor of the botanical world supplies some fruit or berry of rarest excellence. Alone in the intertropical regions of the New World may such variety be seen. A dessert table upon which Pomona appears to have poured forth her golden cornu copae. The cloth having been removed from the highly polished table, the sparkling decanters were once more passed round.

In honor of his guest, the planter had already made free with his own wines, all of which were of most excellent quality. Loftus Vaughan was at that moment at a maximum of enjoyment. Just at that very moment, however, a cloud was making its appearance on the edge of the sky. It was a very little cloud, and still very far off. But for all that... A careful observer could have seen that its shadow became reflected on the brow of the planter. Literally speaking, this cloud was an object on the earth, of shape half-human, half-equine, that appeared near the extreme end of the long avenue, moving towards the house. When first seen by Loftusvahn, it was still distant, though not so far off, but that, with the naked eye, He could distinguish a man on horseback.

From that moment he might have been observed to turn about in his chair, at short intervals, casting uneasy glances upon the centaurian form that was gradually growing bigger as it advanced. For a time the expression on the face of Mr. Vaughan was far from being a marked one. The looks that conveyed it were furtive, and might have passed unnoticed by the superficial observer. They had, in fact, escaped the notice both of his daughter and his guest, and it was not until after the horseman had made halt at the entrance of the by-path, and was seen coming on for the house, that the attention of either was drawn to the singular behavior of Mr. Vaughan. Then, however, his nervous anxiety had become so undisguisedly patent as to elicit from Miss Vaughan An ejaculation of alarm, while the cockney involuntarily exclaimed, Bless my soul, adding to the interrogatory, Anything wrong, sir?

Oh, nothing, stammered the planter, only, only a little surprise, that's all. Surprise, Papa? What has caused it? Oh, see, yonder is someone on horseback, a man. A young man. I declare it is our own pony he is riding, and that is Quashie running behind him. How very amusing. Papa, what is it all about? Tut, sit down, child, commanded the father, in a tone of nervous perplexity. Sit down, I say. Whoever it be, it will be time enough to know when he arrives. Kate! Kate! "'Tis not well-bred of you to interrupt our dessert. Mr. Smythegee, glass of Madeira with you, sir." "'Plessio,' answered the exquisite, turning once more to the table and occupying himself with the decanter. Cade obeyed the command with a look that expressed both reluctance and surprise.

She was slightly awed, too, not so much by the words. As the severe glance that accompanied them, she made no reply, but sat gazing with a mystified air in the face of her father, who, hobnobbing with his guest, affected not to notice her. The pony and his rider were no longer visible, as they were now too close to the house to be seen over the sill of the window. But the clattering hoofs could be heard, the sound coming nearer and nearer. Mr. Vaughn was endeavoring to appear collected, and to say something, but his sang-froid was assumed and unnatural, and being unable to keep up the conversation, an ominous silence succeeded. The sound of the hoofs ceased to be heard. The pony, having arrived under the windows, had been brought to a halt.

Then there were voices, earnest and rather loud. They were succeeded by the noise of footsteps on the stone stairway. Someone was coming up the steps. Mr. Vaughn looked aghast. All his fine plans were about to be frustrated. There was a hitch in the program. Quashie had failed in the performance of his part. Aha! ejaculated the planner with returning delight. As the smooth, trim countenance of his overseer made its appearance above the landing. Mr. Trustee wishes to speak with me. Your pardon, Mr. Smythegee, only for one moment. Mr. Vaughan rose from the seat and hastened, as if wishing to meet the overseer, before the latter could enter the room. Trustee, however, had already stepped inside the doorway, had bluntly declared his errand.

In soto voce, it is true, but still not low enough to hinder a part of his communication from being heard. Among the words, the phrase, your nephew, reached the ears of Kate, at that moment keenly bent to catch every sound. The reply was also partially heard, though delivered in a low and apparently tremulous voice. Show him, summer-house, garden. Tell him to wait. There, presently. Mr. Vaughn turned back to the table with a half-satisfied air. He was fancying that he had escaped from his dilemma, at least for the time. But the expression which he perceived on the countenance of his daughter restored his suspicions that all was not right. Scarce a second was he left in doubt, for almost on the instant Kate cried out in a tone of pleased surprise.

Oh, Papa, what do I hear? Did not Mr. Trusty say something about your nephew? After all, has Cousin come? Is it he who— Kate, my child, quickly interrupted her father, and appearing not to have understood her interrogatory, you may retire to your room. Mr. Smythegee and I would like to have our cigar. And the smoke of tobacco don't agree with you. Go, child. Go. The young girl instantly rose from her chair and hastened to obey the command, notwithstanding the protestations of Mr. Smythegee, who looked as if he would have much preferred her company to the cigar. But her father hurriedly repeated the, Go, child. Go. Accompanying the words with another of those severe glances which had already awed and mystified her.

Before she had passed fairly out of the great hall, however, her thoughts reverted to the unanswered interrogatory, and as she crossed the threshold of her chamber she was heard muttering to herself, I wonder if cousin become.

16 016 - Volume 1 Chapter 16 - The Kiosk 10:44

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Chapter 16. The Kiosk. A portion of the level platform on which Mount Welcome was built extended to the rear of the dwelling, and was occupied, as already described, by a garden filled with rare and beautiful plants. Near the midst of this garden, and about a dozen paces from the house, stood a small detached building, a summer house. The materials of which were ornamental woods of various kinds, all natives of the island, famed for such products. The pieces composing this summer house, or kiosk, as it was habitually called, had all been cut and carved with skillful care. And the whole structure had been designed as a representation of a miniature temple, with a cupola upon its top, surmounted by a gilded and glittering vein.

Inside there were neither stairs nor partitions, the whole space being taken up by a single apartment. There were no glass windows, but all around the walls were open, or closed only with Venetian blinds, the laths of which were of the finest mahogany. A Chinese mat covered the floor, and a rustic table of bamboo cane pieces With some half-dozen chairs of like manufacture, constituted the principal part of the furniture. On the aforesaid table stood an inkstand of silver, elaborately chased, with plume pens pertaining to it. Some writing paper lay beside it, and on a silver tray there were wafers, red sealing-wax, and a signet seal. An escretois stood on one side, And two or three dozen volumes placed upon the top of this, with a like number thrown carelessly on chairs, formed the Library of Mount Welcome.

Some magazines and journals lay upon the center table, and a box of the best Havanas, open and half-used, showed that the summer-house served occasionally for a smoking-room. It was sometimes styled the Library. Though its purposes were many, Mr. Vaughan at times used it for the reception of visitors, such as might have come upon errands of business, such in short, as were not deemed worthy of being introduced to the company of the Grand Hall. Just at the moment when Kate Vaughan quitted the dinner table, a young man was shown into the detached apartment, Mr. Trustee, the overseer, acting as his chaperone.

It is not necessary to say that this young man was Herbert Vaughn. How he came to be conducted thither is easily explained. On learning from Quashie the destination designed for him, aggrieved and angry at the revelation, he had hurried in hot haste up to the house. To Mr. Trusty, who was keeping guard at the bottom of the stairway, he had announced his relationship with Mr. Vaughn. and demanded an interview, making his requisition in such energetic terms as to disturb the habitual sang-froid of the overseer, and compel him to the instantaneous delivery of his message. Indeed, so indignant did Herbert feel that he would have mounted the steps and entered the house without further parley, had not Mr.

Trustee put forth his blandest entreaties. to prevent such a terrible catastrophe. "'Patience, my good sir,' urged the overseer, interposing himself between the newcomer and the stairway. "'Mr. Vaughn will see you presently, not just this moment. He is engaged, company with him. The family's at dinner.' So far from soothing the chafed spirit of the young man, the announcement was only a new mortification. At dinner and with company. The cabin passenger, of course. The ward. Not even a relative. While he, the nephew. No dinner for him. In truth, Herbert recognized in the incident a fresh outrage. With an effort he gave up the idea of ascending the stairs. Poor though he was, he was nevertheless a gentleman.

And good breeding stepped in to restrain him from this unbidden intrusion. Though more than ever did he feel convinced that an insult was put upon him, and one that almost appeared premeditated. He stood balancing in his mind whether he should turn upon his heel and depart from his uncle's house without entering it. A feather would have brought down the scale. The feather fell on the negative side. and decided him to remain. On being conducted into the summer-house and left to himself, he showed no wish to be seated, but paced the little apartment backward and forward in a state of nervous agitation. He took but slight heed of aught that was there. He was in no mood for minutely observing, though he could not help noticing the luxurious elegance that surrounded him.

The grandeur of the great house itself, the splendid potter and garden filled with plants and flowers of exquisite beauty and fragrant perfume. These fine sights, however, instead of soothing his chafed spirit, only made him more bitterly sensible of his own poor fortunes, and the immeasurable distance that separated him from his proud, rich uncle. Through the open sides of the kiosk he merely glanced hastily at the grounds, and then his eyes became bent upon the great house, directed habitually toward an entrance at the back that, by a flight of steps, conducted into the garden. By this entrance he expected his uncle would come out, and in angry impatience did he await his coming. Had he seen the beautiful eyes that were at that moment Tenderly gazing upon him from behind the latticework of the opposite window, perhaps the sight would have gone far toward soothing his irate soul.

But he saw them not. The jalousies were closed, and though from the shadowy interior of the chamber the kiosk and its occupant were in full view, the young Englishman had no suspicion that he was at that moment the object of observation. Perhaps of admiration, by a pair of the loveliest eyes in the island of Jamaica. After turning, for the twentieth time, across the floor, at each turn, scanning the stairs with fresh impatience, he somewhat spitefully laid hold of a book and opened it, in the hope of being able to kill time over its pages. The volume which came into his hands, by chance, he had not chosen it. But was little calculated to tranquilize his troubled spirit. It was a digest of the statues of Jamaica relating to slavery, the famous or rather infamous Black Code of the Island.

There he read that a man might mutilate his own image in the person of a fellow man, torture him, even to death, and escape with the punishment of a paltry fine, that a man with a black skin Or even white, if at all tainted with African blood, could hold no real estate, no office of trust, could give no evidence in a court of law, not even had he been witness of the crime of murder, that such a man must not keep or ride a horse, must not carry a gun or other weapon of defense, must not defend himself when assaulted, must not defend wife, sister, or daughter. Even when ruffian hands were tearing them from him for the most unholy of purposes. In short, that a man of color must do nothing to make himself different from a docile and submissive brute.

To the young Englishman fresh from a Christian land, at that period ringing with the eloquent denunciations of a Wilberforce and the philanthropic appeals of a Clarkson, The perusal of this exorable statute-book, instead of producing tranquillity, only infused fresh bitterness into his soul, and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, he flung the detestable volume back to its place. At that moment, just as he had reached the maximum of reckless defiance, a noise was heard in the direction of the great house. and the door of the stair landing was seen to turn on its hinges. Of course, he expected to see a surly old uncle, and was resolved to be as surly as he. On the contrary, and to his pleased surprise, he beheld in the doorway a beautiful young girl, bending her eyes upon him with an affectionate look and as if courting recognition.

A sudden revulsion of feeling passed through his whole frame, his countenance changed its angry expression to one of admiration, and, unable to utter a word, he remained silently gazing on this lovely apparition.

17 017 - Volume 1 Chapter 17 - A Bold Resolve 9:35

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. A bold resolve.

Far better would it have been for Mr. Vaughan, at least for the success of his schemes, had he adopted an honorable course with his nephew, and at once introduced him, openly and above board, to his table, his daughter, and his aristocratic guest. Had he known before dinner what he was made aware of in less than five minutes after it, he would. In all likelihood have adopted this course. It would have spared him the chagrin he was made to feel on Mr. Smythgee reporting to him the encounter he had had on board ship, which the latter proceeded to do, the moment after Kate had been so unceremoniously dismissed from the hall. Smythgee had also overheard the communication of the overseer, the word nephew, at least, and this recalled to his mind, Not without some unpleasant remembrance of the satire from which he had suffered, the steerage passenger, who had treated him so brusquely on board the sea-nymph.

The miserable bubble was burst, and the onus of a somewhat bungling explanation was put upon the shoulders of the pompous planter, into whose heart a bitter drop of gall was infused by the disclosure. As the deception could be sustained no longer, The relationship was necessarily acknowledged, but the spark of ire thus introduced boded a still more unwelcome reception to the unlucky nephew. The planter partially cleared himself of the scrape by a false representation. In other words, he told a lie, and in saying that his nephew had not been expected, Smythe G. knew it was a lie, but said nothing, and the subject was allowed to drop. Loftus Vaughan was a common man, and the course he had followed, shallow and self-defeating, was proof of an intellect as low as its morality.

By his shabby treatment of his nephew, he was investing that young man with a romantic interest in the eyes of his daughter, that perhaps might never have been felt, or, at all events, not so readily. Misfortune, especially that which springs from persecution, is a grand suggester of sympathy. That is, when the appeal is made to noble hearts, and the heart of Kate Vaughan was of this quality. Moreover, this surreptitious dealing with the poor relative, smuggling him into the house like a bale of contraband goods, was sufficient of itself to pique the curiosity of whom it was meant to mystify. So far as Kate Vaughan was concerned, That very effect it produced, for, on leaving the dining-room, from which, to say the truth, she was only too happy to escape, the young girl glided at once to that window that opened out upon the garden, and, parting the lattice with her fingers, looked eagerly through.

In the brief undertone that had passed between her father and the overseer, she had heard the command, "'Show him to the summer-house!' She knew that the summer-house was within view of her chamber window. She was curious to see what in all her life she had never beheld—a cousin. Her curiosity was not balked. On looking through the lattice, her cousin was before her eyes, pacing the little apartment as described. With his braided frock buttoned tightly over his breast, glittering Hessian boots on his well-turned limbs, his neat three-cornered hat set lightly over his brown curls, he was not a sight likely to terrify a young girl, least of all a cousin. Even the bold, somewhat fierce expression upon his countenance, at that moment reflecting the angry emotions that were stirring within him, did not.

In the eyes of the young Creole detract from the beauty of the face she saw before her. What impression did the sight produce? Certainly not terror, certainly not dislike. On the contrary she appeared gratified by it. Else why did she continue her gaze, and gaze so earnestly? Why became her eyes filled with fire and fixed as by some fascination? Why did her young bosom heave and fall, as if some new undefinable emotion was for the first time germinating within it? For some moments she remained in the same attitude, gazing steadfastly and silent. Then, without turning, their escape from her lips low murmured, and as if by an involuntary effort, the interrogatory, Is he not beautiful?" "'Beautiful, missa,' repeated the maid, who had not yet beheld the object for whom this admiration was met.

"'Who beautiful?' "'Who? My cousin, Yola.' "'Your cousin? What cousin, young missa?' "'Look yonder, and see. That's my cousin. I see a man.' "'Ah! And saw you ever such a man?' "'True, missa, never see man look so.' He's surely angry, missa. Angry? Very angry. He go back, he go forward, like hyena, in a cage. He is only impatient at being kept waiting. My word! I think he looks all the better for it. Ah! See how his eye flashes? Oh, Iola, how handsome he is! How different from the young men of the island! Is he not a beautiful fellow? He curled hair like Kubina. Kubina! This Kubina must be a very proteus, as well as an Adonis. Do you see any other resemblance, except in the hair? If so, my cousin may, perhaps, resemble me.

Kubina much darker in the color of him skin, missa. That is not unlikely. Kubina same size, same shape, exactly same shape. Then I should say that Kubina is a good shape, for, if I know anything of what a man ought to be, that cousin of mine is the correct thing. See those arms! They look as if he could drag down that great tamarind with them. Gracious me! He appears as if he intended doing it. Surely he must be very impatient. And after his coming so far, for Papa to keep him waiting in this fashion, I really think I should go down to him myself. What is your opinion, Yola? Would it be wrong for me to go and speak with him? He is my cousin. What am cousin, Missa? Why, cousin is... is something like a brother, only not exactly.

That is, not quite the same thing. Brother. "'Oh, Missa, if he Yola brother, she him speak, she care not who be angry.' "'True, Yola, and if he were my brother, alas, I have none. I should do the same without hesitation. But with a cousin, that's different. Besides, Papa don't like this cousin of mine, for some reason or another. I wonder what he can have against him. I can't see.' And surely it can be no reason for my not liking him. And surely his being my cousin is just why I should go down and talk to him. Besides, continued the young girl, speaking to herself rather than to the maid, he appears very, very impatient. Papa may keep him waiting, who knows how long, since he is so taken up with this Mr.

Montague, what's his name? Well, I may be doing wrong. Perhaps Papa will be angry. Perhaps he won't know anything about it. Right or wrong, I'll go. I shall go. So saying, the young creole snatched a scarf from the fruitail, flung it over her shoulders, and, gliding from the chamber, tripped silently along the passage that conducted towards the rear of the dwelling.

18 018 - Volume 1 Chapter 18 - The Encounter of the Cousins 8:18

Rodriguez. The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. The Encounter of the Cousins. Opening the door and passing out. Kate Vaughn paused timidly upon the top of the stairway that let down into the garden. Her steps were stayed by a feeling of bashful reserve that was struggling to restrain her from carrying out a resolve somewhat hastily formed. Her hesitancy was but the matter of a moment, for on the next, her resolution having become fixed, she descended the stairs and advanced blushingly towards the kiosk. Herbert had not quite recovered from surprise at the unexpected apparition, when he was saluted by the endearing interrogatory. Are you my cousin? The question, so naively put, remained for a moment unanswered, for the tone of kindness in which it was spoken had caused him a fresh surprise, and he was too much confused to make answer.

He soon found speech, however, for the hypothetical reply. If you are the daughter of Mr. Loftus Vaughan, I am, then I am proud of calling myself your cousin. I am Herbert Vaughan, from England. Still under the influence of the slight which he believed had been put upon him, Herbert made this announcement with a certain stiffness of manner which the young girl could not fail to notice. It produced a momentary incongeniality. That was in danger of degenerating into a positive coolness, and Kate, who had come forth under the promptings of an affectionate instinct, trembled under a repulse, the cause of which she could not comprehend. It did not, however, hinder her from courteously rejoining. We were expecting you, as father had received your letter, but not today.

Papa said not before tomorrow. Permit me, cousin, to welcome you to Jamaica. Herbert bowed profoundly. Again, the young Creole felt her warm impulses painfully checked, and, blushing with embarrassment, she stood in an attitude of indecision. Herbert, whose heart had been melting like snow under a tropic sun, now became sensible that he was committing a rudeness, which, so far from being natural to him, Was costing him a struggle to counterfeit. Why should the sins of the father be visited on the child, and such a child? With a reflection kindred to this, the young man hastened to change his attitude of cold reserve. Thanks for your kind welcome, said he, now speaking in a tone of affectionate frankness.

But, fair cousin, you have not told me your name. Catherine. Though I am usually addressed by the shorter synonym, Kate. Catherine. That is a family name with us. My father's mother, and your father's two, our grandmama, was a Catherine. Was it also your mother's name? No, my mother was called Kwashi-ba. Kwashi-ba. That is a very singular name. Do you think so, cousin? I am sometimes called Kwashi-ba myself. Only by the old people of the plantation who knew my mother. Lily Kwashiba, they call me. Papa does not like it, and forbids them. Was your mother an Englishwoman? Oh no, she was born in Jamaica, and died while I was very young. Too young to remember her. Indeed, cousin, I may say I never knew what it was to have a mother.

Nor I much, cousin Kate. My mother also died early. But are you my only cousin? No sisters nor brothers? Not one. I wish I had sisters and brothers. Why do you wish that? Oh, how can you ask such a question? For companions, of course. Fair cousin, I should think you would find companions enough in this beautiful island.

Enough, perhaps, but none whom I like, at least not as I think I should like a sister or brother. Indeed," added the young girl in a reflective tone, I sometimes feel lonely enough. Ah, perhaps now that we are to have guests, it will be different. Mr. Smudgy is very amusing. Mr. Smudgy? Who is he? What? You do not know Mr. Smudgy? I thought that you and he came over in the same ship. Papa said so, and that you are not to be here until tomorrow. I think you have taken him by surprise in coming today. But why did you not ride out with Mr. Smaiji? He arrived here only one hour before you and has just dined with us. I have left the table this moment for Papa and him to have their cigars. But bless me, cousin.

Pardon me for not asking. Perhaps you have not dined yet? No, replied Herbert in a tone that expressed chagrin. Nor am I likely to dine here today. The storm of queries with which, in the simplicity of her heart, the young Creole thus assailed him, once more brought back that train of bitter reflections, from which her fair presence and sweet converse had for the moment rescued him, hence the character of his reply. And why? Cousin Herbert, ashy, with a marked air of surprise. If you have not dined, it is not too late. Why not here? Because, and the young man drew himself proudly up, I prefer going without dinner to dining where I am not welcome. In mild welcome, it seems, I am not welcome. Oh, cousin, the words and the appealing accent.

Were alike interrupted. The door upon the landing turned upon its hinge, and Loftus Vaughn appeared in the doorway. Your father? My father. Kate! cried the planter in a tone that bespoke displeasure. Mr. Smidgey would like to hear you play upon the harp. I have been looking for you in your room and all over the house. What are you doing out there? The language was coarse and common. The manner that of a vulgar man flushed with wine. Oh, Papa! Cousin Herbert is here. He is waiting to see you. Come you here, then. Come at once. Mr. Smudgy is waiting for you. And with this imperious rejoinder, Mr. Vaughn re-entered the house. Cousin, I must leave you. Yes, I perceive it. One more worthy than I claims your company.

Go. Mr. Smidgey is impatient. It is Papa. Kate! Kate! Are you coming? Haste, girl! Haste, I say! Go, Miss Vaughn. Farewell. Miss Vaughn? Farewell? Mystified and distressed by those strange-sounding words, the young girl stood for some seconds undecided, but the voice of her father again came ringing along the corridor. Now in tones irate and commanding, obedience could no longer be delayed, and with a half-puzzled, half-reproachful glance at her cousin, she reluctantly parted from his presence.

19 019 - Volume 1 Chapter 19 - A Surly Reception 13:48

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter 19. A SURLY RECEPTION After the young Creole had disappeared within the entrance, Herbert remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act. He no longer needed an interview with his uncle for the sake of having an explanation. This new slight had crowned his convictions that he was there an unwelcome guest. And no possible apology could now retrieve the ill-treatment he had experienced. He would have walked off on the instant without a word, but, stung to the quick by the series of insults he had received, the instinct of retaliation had sprung up within him, and determined him to stay, at all events, until he could meet his relative face to face.

And reproach him with his unnatural conduct. He was recklessly indifferent as to the result. With this object he continued in the kiosk, his patience being now baited with the prospect of that slight satisfaction. He knew that his uncle might not care much for what he should say. It was not likely such a nature would be affected by reproach. Nevertheless, The proud young man could not resist the temptation of giving words to his defiance, as the only means of mollifying the mortification he so keenly felt. The tones of a harp, vibrating through the far interior of the dwelling, faintly reached the kiosk, but they fell on his ear without any soothing effect. Rather did they add to his irritation, for he could almost fancy the music was meant To mock him in his misery.

But no, on second thoughts, that could not be. Surely that sweet strain was not intended to tantalize him. He caught the air. It was one equally appropriate to the instrument and to his own situation. It was the exile of Aaron. Presently a voice was heard accompanying the music. A woman's voice, easily recognizable as that of Kate Vaughn. He listened attentively. At intervals he could hear the words, now like his own thoughts. "'Sad is my fate,' said the heartbroken stranger. "'The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee. But I have no refuge from famine and danger.' A home and a country remain not to me. Perhaps the singer intended it as a song of sympathy for him. It certainly exerted an influence over his spirits, melting him to a degree of tenderness.

Not for long, however, did this feeling continue, as the last notes of the lay died away in the distant corridor. The rough baritones of the planter and his quest were heard joining in loud laughter, perhaps some joke, at the expense of himself, the poor exile. Shortly after a heavy footstep echoed along the passage. The door opened, and Herbert perceived it was his uncle, who had at length found time to honor him with an interview. Though so joyous but the moment before, All traces of mirth had disappeared from the continents of Loftus Vaughan, when he presented himself before the eyes of his nephew. His face, habitually red, was fired with the wine he had been drinking to the hue of scarlet.

Nevertheless, an ominous mottling of a darker color upon his broad, massive brow foretold the ungracious reception his relative Was likely to have at his hands. His first words were uttered in a tone of insolent coolness. So, you are my brother's son, are you? There was no extending of the hand, no gesture, not even a smile of welcome. Herbert checked his anger and simply answered, I believe so. And pray, sir, what errand has brought you out to Jamaica? If you have received my letter, as I presumed you have, it will have answered that question. Oh, indeed," exclaimed Mr. Brown, with an attempt at cynicism, but evidently taken down by the unexpected style of the reply. And what, may I ask, do you purpose doing here?

Have not the slightest idea, answered Herbert, with a provoking air of independence. Have you any profession? Unfortunately, not any. Any trade? I suppose not. Your suppositions are perfectly correct. Then, sir, how do you expect to get your bread? Earn it, the best way I can. Beg it, more likely, as your father before you, all his life begging it, and from me. In that respect I shall not resemble him. You would be the last man I should think of begging from. Sedef, sirrah, you are impertinent. This is fine language to me, after the disgrace you have already brought upon me. Disgrace? Yes, sir, disgrace. Coming out here as a pauper, in the steerage of a ship. You must needs boast of your relationship, letting all the world know that you are my nephew.

"'Boast of the relationship,' repeated Herbert, with a smile of contempt. "'Ha! Ha! Ha! I suppose you refer to my having answered a question asked me by this pretty jack-a-box you are playing with.' "'Boast of it, indeed. Had I known you then as well as I do now, I should have been ashamed to acknowledge it.' "'After that, sir,' shouted Mr. Vaughn, Turning purple with rage. After that, sir, no more words. You shall leave my house this minute. I had intended to have left it some minutes sooner. I only stayed to have an opportunity of telling you what I think of you. What is that, sir? What is that? The angry youth had summoned to the top of his tongue a few of the strongest epithets he could think of.

And was about to hurl them into his uncle's teeth, when, on glancing up, he caught sight of an object that caused him to change his intention. It was the beautiful face of the young Creole that appeared through the half-open lattice of the window opposite. She was gazing down upon him and his uncle, and listening to the dialogue with an anguished expression of countenance. He is her father, muttered Herbert to himself. For her sake I shall not say the words. And without making any reply to the last interrogatory of his uncle, he strode out of the kiosk and was walking away. Stay, sir, cried the planter, somewhat taken aback by the turn things had taken. A word before you go, if you are going.

Herbert turned upon his heel and listened. Your letter informs me that you are without funds. It shall not be said that a relative of Loftus Vaughan left his house penniless and unprovided. In this purse there are twenty pounds currency of the island. Take it, but on the condition that you say nothing of what has occurred here, and furthermore that you keep to yourself that you are the nephew of Loftus Vaughan. Without saying a word, Herbert took the proffered purse. But in the next moment, the chink of the gold pieces was heard upon the gravel walk as he dashed the bag at the feet of his uncle. Then, turning to the astonished planter and measuring him with a look that scorned all patronage, he faced once more to the path and walked proudly away.

The angry Be gone, sir," vociferated after him, was only addressed to his back, and was altogether unheeded. Perhaps it was even unheard, for the expression in the eyes of the young man told that at that moment his attention was occupied elsewhere. As he walked towards the house with the design of going round it to get upon the front avenue, his glance was directed upwards. To the window where that beautiful face had been just seen. The lattice was now closed, and he endeavored to pierce the somber shadows behind it. The face was no longer there. No eyes met his.

He glanced back towards the kiosk to see if he might linger a moment. His uncle was in a bent attitude, gathering the scattered pieces of gold. In this position the shrubbery concealed him. Herbert was about to glide nearer to the window and summon his cousin by name, when he heard his own pronounced in a soft whisper and with the endearing prefix cousin. Distinctly he heard, "'Cousin Herbert,' as if spoken round the angle of the building. He hastened thither. For that was his proper path by which to arrive at the front of the house. On turning the wall he looked up. He saw that another window opened from the same chamber. Thence came the sweet summons, and there appeared the fair face for which he was searching.

"'Oh, Cousin Herbert, do not go in anger. Papa has done wrong, very wrong, I know.' But he has been taking much wine. He is not—' Good cousin, you will pardon him?' Herbert was about to make reply, when the young Creole continued. "'You said in your letter you had no money. You have refused, Father's. You will not refuse mine? It is very little. It is all I have. Take it.' A bright object glistened before his eyes, and fell with a metallic chink.

He looked down. A small silk purse containing coin with a blue ribbon attached was seen lying upon the ground. The young man raised it, and holding it in one hand, hesitated for a moment, as if he had thoughts of accepting it. It was not that, however, but another thought that was passing in his mind. His resolve was soon taken. "'Thanks,' said he. "'Thanks, Cousin Kate,' he added with increasing warmth. "'You have meant kindly, and though we may never meet again—' "'Oh, say not so,' interrupted the young girl with an appealing look. "'Yes,' continued he, "'it is probable we never shall. "'Here there is no home for me. I must go hence. "'But wherever I may go—' I shall not soon forget this kindness.

I may never have an opportunity of repaying it. You are beyond the necessity of ought that a humble relative could do for you. But remember, Kate Vaughn, should you ever stand in need of a strong arm and a stout heart, there is one of your name who will not fail you." Thanks, he repeated. Detaching the ribbon from the bag and flinging the ladder, with its contents, back through the open window. Then, fastening the ribbon to the breast button of his coat, he added, I shall feel richer with the possession of this token than with all the wealth of your father's estate. Farewell, and God bless you, my generous cousin. Before the young Creole could repeat her offer, Or, at another word of counsel or consolation, he had turned the angle of the building and passed out of sight.

20 020 - Volume 1 Chapter 20 - The Jew's Penn 17:28

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Read.

Chapter 20 The Jew's Pen.

While these scenes were transpiring upon the plantation of Mound Welcome, others of a still more exciting nature were being enacted on that which adjoined it, the property of Jacob Jesseron, a slave merchant and pen-keeper. Besides a barracoon in the bay, where his slaves were usually exposed for sale, The Jew was owner of a large plantation in the country, on which he habitually resided. It lay contiguous to the estate of the Kustos Von, separated from the latter by one of the wooded ridges already mentioned as abounding the valley of Mount Welcome. Like the latter, it had once been a sugar estate, and an extensive one. But that was before Jesseron became its owner. Now it was in the condition termed Ruinate.

The fields where the golden cane had waved in the tropic breeze were choked up by a tangled second growth, restoring them almost to their primitive wildness. With that quickness characteristic of equatorial vegetation, huge trees had already sprung up and stood thickly over the ground, logwoods, breadnuts, cotton. And calabash trees which, with their pendant parasites, almost usurped dominion over the soil. Here and there, where the field still remained open, instead of cultivation, there appeared only the wild nursery of nature, glades mottled with flowering weeds, as the Mexican horn poppy, swallow warts, West Indian vervains, and small passiflorae. At intervals, where the underwood permitted them to peep out, might be seen stretches of dry wall or stone fence, without mortar or cement, mostly tumbled down, the ruins thickly trellised with creeping plants.

As Convovoole, Serious, and Aristolochia, Cleome, with a cheerful blossoming lantana, and spreading over all, Like the web of a gigantic spider, the yellow leafless stems of the American daughter. In the midst of this domain, almost reconquered by nature, stood the great house, except in size no longer deserving the appellation. It consisted rather of a pile than a single building, the old sugarworks having been joined under the same roof with the dwelling. And negro cabins, stables, offices, all enclosed within an immense high wall, that gave to the place the air of a penitentiary or barrack, rather than that of a country mansion. The enclosure was a modern construction, an afterthought, designed for a purpose very different from that of sugar-making.

Garden there was none. Though evidence that there had been was seen everywhere around the building. In the trees that stood bloomed. Some loaded with delicious fruits, others with clustering flowers, shedding their incense on the air. Half-wild grew citrons, and avocado, pears, sop, and custard apples, mangoes, guavas, and pawpaws. While the crown-like tops of cocoa palms Soared high above the humble denizens of this wild orchard, their recurrent fronds drooping, as in sorrow, at the desolation that surrounded them. Close to the building stood several huge trees, whose tortuous limbs, now leafless, rendered it easy to identify them. They were the giants of the West Indian forest, the silk cotton tree, Eryodendron and Fratuasum.

The limbs of these vegetable monsters, each itself as large as an ordinary tree, were loaded with parasites of many species, among which might be distinguished ragged cactiacae, with various species of wild pines, from the noble Varecia to the hoary, beard-like Spanish moss, Whose long streaming festoons waved like winding sheets in the breeze, an appropriate draping for the ivory of the black vultures, John Crows, that might at all times be seen seated in solemn silence upon the topmost branches. In the olden time this plantation had borne the name of Happy Valley, but during the ownership of Jesseron this designation perhaps deemed inappropriate. Had been generally dropped, and the place was never spoken of by any other name than that of the Jew's Pen.

Into a Pen, grazing farm, Jesseron had changed it, and it served well enough for the purpose, many of the old sugar fields, now overgrown by the valuable Guinea grass, affording excellent pasturage for horses and cattle. In breeding and rearing the former for the use of the sugar estates, and fattening the latter for the beef markets of the bay, the industrious Israelite had discovered a road to riches as short as that he had been traveling in the capacity of a slave-driver. And of late years he had come to regard the latter only as a secondary calling. In his old age, Jesseron had become ambitious of social distinction. And for this reason was desirous of sinking the slave merchant in the more respectable profession of pen-keeper.

He had even succeeded so far in his views as to have himself appointed a justice of the peace, an office that in Jamaica, as elsewhere, is more distinctive of wealth than respectability. In addition to pen-keeper, The Jew was also an extensive spice-cultivator, or rather spice-gatherer. For the indigenous pimento forests that covered the hills upon his estate required no cultivation, nothing further than to collect the aromatic berries and cure them on the barbacoa. Though changed from a plantation to a pen, The estate of Jacob Jeceron was not less a scene of active industrial life. In the fields adjacent to the house, and through the glades of guinea grass, horses and half-wild cattle might be seen in turns, neighing and bellowing, pursued by mounted herdsmen, black and half-naked.

Among the groves of pimento on the hills Gangs of Negro wenches could be heard screaming and chattering continually as they picked the allspice berries from the branches or, with the field baskets poised on their heads, marched in long chanting files towards the barbacoa. Outside the gate entrance upon the broad avenue leading to the main road, Negro horse-tamers might every day be seen. Giving their first lessons to rough colts, fresh caught from the pastures. While inside the grand enclosure, fat oxen were being slaughtered to supply the markets of the bay, huge gaunt dogs holding carnival over the offal. While black butchers, naked to the waist, their brown arms reeking with red gore, stalked over the ground, brandishing blood-stained blades, Such scenes might be witnessed diurnally on the estate of Jacob Jesseron, but on the day succeeding that on which the slave merchant had made his unsuccessful errand to Mount Welcome, a spectacle of a somewhat rarer kind was about to be exhibited at the pen.

The scene chosen for this exhibition was an inner enclosure, or courtyard. Contiguous to the dwelling, the great house itself forming one side of this court and opening upon it by a broad veranda of a dingy, dilapidated appearance. Vis-a-vis with the dwelling was another large building which shut in the opposite side of the court, the two being connected by high massive walls that completed the quadrangle. A strong double gate opening near the center of one of these walls was the way out, that is, to the larger enclosure of the cattle pen.

From the absence of chimneys and windows, as well as from its plain style of architecture, the building that stood opposite the dwelling house might have been taken for some large granary or barn. But a peep into its interior at once controverted this idea. Inside could be seen groups of human beings, of all colors, from ebony black to jaundice yellow, in all attitudes, seated, standing, or lying upon the floor, and not a few of them, in pairs, manacled to one another. Their attitudes were not more various than the expressions upon their faces. Some looked sad and sullen, some glanced fearfully around, as if waking from horrid dreams, and under the belief that they were realities, others wore the vacant stare of idiocy.

While here and there a group, apparently regardless of past, present, or future, chattered in their barbaric language, with an air of gaiety that bespoke the most philosophic insouciance. The building that contained them was the Barracoon, the storehouse of the slave merchant. Its occupants were his stores. The stock had been just replenished by the cargo of the slave ship, though there were also some old bales on hand, and these were in the act of entertaining the newcomers and initiating them into the ways of the place. Their means of showing hospitality had been limited. As testified by the empty calabashes and clean-scraped wooden platters that lay scattered over the floor. Not a grain of rice, not a spoonful of the pepper-pot, not a slice of plantain was left.

The emptiness of the vessel showed that the rations had been as short as the viands were coarse and common. Outside in the yard were many groups. Happier to escape from the stifled atmosphere of their crowded quarters, though that was freedom when compared with the tween decks of the Middle Passage. Each group was gathered round some old hand, some compatriot who had preceded them across the Great Sea, and who himself, initiated into slavery under a western sky, was giving them some notions of what they had to expect. Eager looks of all from time to time directed towards the veranda, told that they were awaiting some event of more than ordinary interest. There were white men in the courtyard, three of them.

Two were of dark complexion, so swarth that many of the colored slaves were as fair-skinned as they. These two men were lounging by the stairway of the veranda. One of them seated upon the steps. Both were sparely clad in check shirts and trousers, having broad-brimmed palmetto hats on their heads, and rough buskins on their feet and ankles. Each carried a long rapier-like blade, a machete, hanging over his hip in its leathern sheath, while a brace of fierce dogs looped in cotton-rope leashes. Attached to belts worn round their waists, crouched upon the ground at their feet. The faces of these men were clean-shaven, a pointed chin-tuft or bijote, alone being left, and the hair on the heads of both was close, cropped.

Their sharp angular features were thus fully displayed, denoting a high order of intelligence, which might have produced a pleasing effect. But for the pronounced expression of cruelty which accompanied it. The explanations that from time to time escaped from their lips, with the few words of conversation that passed between them, bespoke them of Spanish race. Their costume, their arms and accoutrements, their comrades, the fierce dogs, plainly proclaimed their calling, as well as the country from whence they came. They were Cacadores de Negros, Negro hunters from the island of Cuba. The third white man who appeared in the courtyard differed essentially from these, not so much in color, for he was also of swarth complexion, but in size, costume, and calling.

A pair of horse-skin riding-boots reached up to his thighs, on the heels of which appeared heavy spurs, With Rowles three inches in diameter, a sort of monkey jacket with thick cloth, notwithstanding its unsuitableness to the climate, hung down to his hips, under which appeared a waistcoat of scarlet plush, with tarnished metal buttons, and a wool comforter of the same flaming color. Crowning all was a felt hat, which, like the other articles of his dress, Gave evidence of exposure to all weathers, sun and rain, storm and tornado. A thick shock of curling hair, so dark in color as to pass for black. A heavy beard, jet black, and running most of the way round his mouth. Amber-colored eyes with a sinister shining light that never seemed to pale.

Lips of an unnatural redness gleaming through the black beard. And a nose of aquiline oblique were the points in the personal appearance of this man that most prominently presented themselves. The effect of this combination was to impress you with the conviction that the individual in question belonged to the same nationality as the proprietor of the pen. Such was in reality the case, for the bearded man was another of the race of Abraham. And one of its least amiable specimens. His name was Ravener. His calling that of Overseer. He was the Overseer of Jesseron. The symbol of his profession he carried under his arm, a huge cart-whip. He had it by him at all hours, by night as by day. For by night as by day was he accustomed to make use of it.

And the victims of this long lash were neither oxen nor horses. They were men and women. No sparing use made he of this hideous implement. Crack! Crack! was it heard from morn to eve. Crack! Crack! from eve to midnight, if need be, from midnight to morning again. For some said that the overseer of Jesseron never slept. Crack! Crack! Did he go through the courtyard, apparently proud of exhibiting his power before the newly arrived negroes, here and there swinging his long bitter lash among the groups, as if to break up and scatter them in sheer wantonness.

21 021 - Volume 1 Chapter 21 - A Fiery Baptism 14:45

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Chapter Twenty-One. A Fiery Baptism. It was about twelve o'clock in the day. Jesseron and his daughter had just stepped forth into the veranda, and taken their stand by the balustrade, looking down into the court. The countenance of both betrayed a certain degree of solicitude, as they had come out to be witnesses to some spectacle of more than common interest. The house wenches and other domestics, trooping behind them with curious looks, showed that some rare scene was to be enacted. A small iron furnace filled with live coals had been placed in the courtyard near the bottom of the steps. Three or four sullen-looking men, blacks and mulattoes, stood around it in lounging attitudes.

One of these stooped over the furnace. Turning in the fire what appeared to be a soldering iron, or some other instrument of abrasure. It was not that, however, as the spectators well knew, all who beheld it recognized the dreaded branding iron, for every one present, the whites and newly arrived Africans excepted, had ere now felt its hot seething fire in their flesh. These last had already learnt what was preparing for them, and most of them stood regarding the preparations with looks of silent awe. Some Coromontes there were among the number, who looked on with reckless indifference, chatting as gaily, and at intervals laughing as loudly, as if they awaited the beginning of some merry game.

Little cared these courageous sons of Ethiopia, Whose sable skins bore scars of many a native fray, little cared they for the scorching of that simple brand. It was not long before the inhuman spectacle commenced. The entrance of Jesseron and his daughter was the clue to begin, and the bearded overseer, who was master of the ceremonies, had only been waiting till these should make their appearance. The man, from experience, knew that his master always gave his personal superintendence when such a scene was to be enacted. He knew, moreover, that his master's daughter was equally accustomed to assist at these interesting ceremonies. "'Go on, Mr. Ravener,' cried the Jew on reaching the front of the veranda.

"'Deesh, first,' he added, pointing towards a group of Ebbos. who stood trembling with apprehension in one corner of the yard. At a sign from the overseer, who was one of the taciturn sort, a number of old negroes, evidently used to the business, laid hands upon the ebos and led them up to the furnace. As the victims were brought near to the fire and saw the red iron glowing amid the coals, fear became strongly depicted upon their faces. and their frame shook with a convulsive terror. Some of them, the younger ones, screamed aloud, and would have rushed away from the spot, had they not been held in the grasp of the attendants. Their appeals, made by the most pitiful looks and gestures, were answered only by unfeeling jeers and shouts of laughter, in which the old Jew himself joined, in which, incredible to relate, joined his beautiful daughter.

Nor was it a mere smile which appeared on the face of the fair Judith. Clear laughter rang from her lips, exhibiting her regular rows of ivory-light teeth, as if some fiend had assumed the form of an angel. The ebos were led forward, and held firmly by the assistants, while their breasts were presented to receive the brand. The red-hot iron flashed for a moment in the eyes of each, and then fell with a dull clap upon the clammy skin. Smoke ascended with a hiss, till the court became filled with the smell of roasting flesh. A struggle, some wild cries, and the operation was over. The slave was marked with those indelible initials, to be carried with him to his grave. One by one the poor beings received this terrible baptism and were led away from the ground.

A batch of pawpaws, from the Widaw country, came next. They were brought up one by one like the Ebbos, but altogether unlike these was their behavior. They neither gave way to extreme fear, nor yet displayed extraordinary courage. They appeared to submit with a sort of docile resignation, as though they regarded it in the light of a destiny or duty. The operation of branding them was a short work, and afforded no mirth to the bystanders, since there was no ludicrous display of terror to laugh at. This facile disposition rendered the Ouida the most valuable of slaves.

A group of Coromantes were now to undergo the fiery ordeal. These bold and warlike indigenes of Africa evinced by their attitudes and actions, the possession of a moral nature altogether different from that of Pawpaw or Ebo. Instead of waiting to be led forward, each stepped boldly up, as he did so bearing his breast to receive the red brand. At which he glanced with an air of lordly contempt. One young fellow even seized the iron from the grasp of the operator, and, turning it in his hand, struck the stamp firmly against his breast, where he held it until the seething flesh told that a deep imprint had been made. Then, flinging the instrument back into the furnace, he strode away from the spot with the air of a triumphant gladiator.

At this moment there occurred a pause in the proceedings, not as if the drama had ended, but only an act. Another was yet to come. Ravener stepped up to the veranda, in front of the place where Jesseron and his daughter stood. With the former, or indeed with both, he communicated in a voice just audible, not as if with any design of concealing what he said. But because there was no necessity for loud talking. The two man-hunters were the only persons there he might have had any care to be cautious about. But these were at that moment busy with their dogs, and not heeding aught that was going on. Branding a batch of negroes was no new sight to them, and they were spectators, merely from having, at the moment, nothing better to do.

"'Which next?' was the question put by Ravener to the Jew. "'The Mandingos?' "'Either them or the Prince,' replied Jesseron. "'It don't matter which ish marked first.' "'Oh, the Prince first, by all means,' suggested the amiable Judith, with a smile of satisfaction. "'Bring him out first, Mr. Ravener.' I'm curious to see how His Royal Highness will stand fire. The overseer made no reply, but, taking the wish of the young lady as a command, proceeded to obey it. Stepping across the court he opened a door that led into a room, separate from that in which the slaves had been lodged. The overseer entered the room, and in a few minutes came out again, bringing with him an individual who, by his dress, It might have been difficult to recognize as the young Falada seen on board the slaver, but whose noble mane still rendered it possible to identify him, for it was he.

Changed indeed was his costume. The turban was gone, the rich silken tunic, the sandals and scimitar. All his finery had been stripped off. and in its place appeared a coarse Osnaburg shirt and trousers, the dress of a plantation negro. He looked wretched, but not crestfallen. No doubt he had by this time learnt, or suspected, the fate that was in store for him. But for all that his features exhibited the proud air of a prince, and the glances which he cast upon the overseer by his side But oftener upon Jesseron, whose instrument he knew the other to be, were those of concentrated anger and defiance. Not a word escaped his lips, either of protest or reproach. This had all passed before, when the first rude assault had been made upon him, to deprive him of his garments and the adornments of his person.

The hour of recrimination was past. He knew he had no alternative but submission, and he was submitting, though in angry and sullen silence. He had no idea of what was now designed for him. He had been shut up in a windowless room and saw nothing of the spectacle that had just passed. Some new outrage he anticipated, but of what nature he could not guess. He was not allowed to remain long in ignorance. Ravener, roughly grasping him by the wrist, led him up to the furnace. The iron by this time was ready, glowing red-hot among the coals. The operator stood watching for the signal to use it, and on its being given, he seized the instrument in his grasp and poised it aloft. The prince now perceived the intention.

but shrank not at the sight. His eyes were not upon the iron, but, gleaming with a fire like that of the furnace itself, were directed upon the face of the old Jew, at intervals upon that of the angel-like demon at his side. The Jew alone shrank from the glance. His daughter returned it with a mocking imperpetibility. In another instant the red brand hissed. as it burnt into the flesh of the phalata's bosom. Prince Singais was the slave of Jacob Jezeron. As if the terrible reality had now for the first time burst upon him, the young man sprang forward with a cry, and before anyone could oppose his progress, he had bounded up the steps and entered the veranda. Then, gliding along the gallery, To the spot occupied by Jesseron and his daughter, he launched himself forward upon the Jew.

As he clutched the ladder by the throat, both came together to the ground and rolled over and over in the writhings of a desperate struggle. Fortunate it was for the slave merchant that his victim had been disarmed, else that moment would have been fatal to him. As it was, he came very near being strangled. And had it not been for Ravener and the two Spaniards, who hastened to his rescue, the betrayal of the Fula Prince would have been the last treason of his life. Overpowered by numbers, Singes was at length secured, and the throat of the slave merchant was extricated from his deathlike clutch. "'Kill him!' cried the Jew, as soon as he found breath to speak. "'No, don't kill him yet!' added he, correcting himself.

Not Joush yet, till I punish him for it, and if I don't punish him, ach! Flog the savage, shouted the beautiful Judith. Make an example of him, Mr. Ravener, else those others will be rising upon us in the same style. Yesh, flog him. That'll do to begin with. Flog him now, good Ravener. Give him a hundred lashes this minute. "'Aye, aye,' responded the overseer, dragging the victim down the steps. "'I'll give him his full dose. Never fear you.' Ravener was as good as his word. The spectacle that followed was even more horrible to behold than that which had been described, for the punishment of the lash is among the most fearful of exhibitions. The young Fula was tied to a post, One that stood there for the purpose.

A strong headman wielded the cruel quirt, and as the last stripe was administered, completing that horrid hundred, the poor victim sank, fainting against the blood-stained stake. The occupants of the veranda showed not the slightest signs of having been moved to pity by this horrid spectacle. On the contrary, Both father and daughter seemed to draw delight from it, and, instead of retiring when the fearful scene was over, both, seemingly with perfect unconcern, remained to witness the finale of the day's work, the marking of the Mandingoes.

22 022 - Volume 1 Chapter 22 - A Couch of Silk-Cotton 10:42

The Maroon, Section 22. CHAPTER XXII. A couch of silk cotton. On parting from the presence of his fair cousin, and at the same time from the house of his inhospitable relative, Herbert Vaughn struck off through the shrubbery that stretched toward the ridge on the right. Notwithstanding the storm that was raging in his breast, a reflection had occurred to him, which hindered him from going by the main avenue. Suffering from a keen sense of humiliation, he had no desire to meet with any of his uncle's people, since the very slaves seemed to be privy to his false position. Still less desirous was he of being observed, while making the long traverse of the avenue, by eyes that might be directed upon him from the windows of the great house.

On reaching the limits of the level platform, He leaped a low wall that separated the shrubbery from the outer fields, and then, under cover of the pimento groves, commenced ascending the slope of the ridge. For some time the conflicting emotions that were stirring in his soul hindered him from anything like tranquil reflection. Conflicting, I say, for two very opposite sentiments had been aroused by the two individuals, With whom he had just held interview. Opposite as darkness from light, as sorrow from joy, perhaps as hate from love. The conflict might have lasted longer, had there been an opportunity to give way to idle emotions. But there was not. The young man felt too forlorn and friendless to indulge in the luxury of passionate thought.

And on this account, The sooner did the storm subside. On reaching the crest of the ridge, and before plunging into the deep forest that stretched away on the other side, he endeavored, through an opening in the trees, to catch a view of those white walls and green jalousies. In that glance there was more of regretfulness than anger, an expression of despair, such as may have appeared on the face of the fallen angel. When gazing back over the golden palings of paradise. As the young man turned away and entered under the somber shadows of the forest, the expression of despair seemed to become deeper and darker. To make Montego Bay, to seek in it such humble home as might offer, to wait there till his poorly stocked poor man too, now on its way to Mount Welcome, should be returned to him.

These were the simple plans that suggested themselves. His mind was still too much on the rack to permit his dwelling upon any ulterior purpose. He walked on through the woods without taking much heed as to the direction in which he was going. Anyone who could have seen him just then might be supposed that he had lost his way and was wandering. It was not so, however. He knew or believed that, by keeping to the left of his former course, he would get out upon the main road by which he had reached the entrance gate of Mount Welcome. In any case, he could not fail to find the river he had already crossed, and by following it downward he would in time arrive at the town. With this confidence, false as it may have been, he was not wandering, only absorbed in thought.

In common parlance, absent-minded. But this absence of mind lasted so long that it led to the result it resembled. He lost his way, in reality. The trees hindered him from seeing the sun, now low down. But even if a view of the golden orb had been afforded him, it would have served no purpose. Since, on riding out to Mount Welcome, He had taken no note of the relative directions between it and the bay. He was not much disconcerted by the discovery that he had lost himself. The reflection that in Montego Bay he would be no better off hindered him from greatly regretting the circumstance. He had not the means to command the shelter of a roof, even in the midst of a whole city full. And the chances were he might find none better than that which was above him at the moment, the spreading fronds of a gigantic cotton tree.

At the time that this reflection crossed his mind, the sun had gone quite down, for the cotton tree stood upon the edge of an opening where he could see the sky above him, and he perceived that it was already tinged with the purple of twilight. To find his way in the darkness would be no longer possible, and he resolved for that night to accept the hospitality of the Siba. It had even spread a couch for him, for the seed capsules had burst upon its branches, and the pale brown staple thickly covered the ground beneath, offering a couch that, under the canopy of a West Indian summer sky, was sufficiently luxuriant. Was there a supper as well? Herbert looked around. He was hungry. Not a morsel had he eaten since breakfast, only a piece of mess pork and a brown wormy biscuit, on parting from the ship.

Hunger had already made itself felt. During his wanderings, having his gun with him, he had looked out for game. Had any appeared he was too good a sportsman to have let it escape. But none had shown itself, neither beast nor bird. The woods seemed deserted as himself. He could hear the voices of birds, all strange to his ear. He could see bright-winged creatures fluttering amongst the leaves, but none near enough for the range of his fowling piece. Now that he had come to a halt, and having nothing better to do, he took his stand. Watching the open glade. Perhaps some bird might yet show itself passing from tree to tree, or flying about in pursuit of prey. It was the hour for owls. He felt hungry enough to eat one.

Neither owl nor night-jar came in sight, but his attention was attracted to an object edible as either. And which promised to relieve him from the pangs he was suffering. Close by the cotton tree stood another giant of the forest, rivaling the former in height, but differing from it as an arrow from its bow. Straight as a lance it rose to the height of a hundred feet. It was branchless as a column of polished malachite or marble, up to its high summit, where its long green fronds Radiating outward, drooped gracefully over like a circlet of reflexed ostrich plumes. A child could have told it to be a palm, but Herbert knew more. He had heard of the noble mountain cabbage of Jamaica, the kingly Areca oridoxia.

He knew that in the center of that circlet of far-stretching fronds, in that crown, there was a jewel that had often proved more precious than gems or gold. For often it had been the means of saving human life. How was this jewel to be obtained? Like all crowns it was placed high, far above the reach of ordinary mortals. Young and active though he was, and a climber at school, he could never swarm up that tall, smooth shaft. Without a ladder a hundred feet in length it would not be possible to reach its summit. But see! The palm-tree stands not alone. A great black liana stretches tortuously from the earth up to the crown, where its head is buried among the tufted leaves, as if it were some huge dragon in the act of devouring its victim.

Herbert stood for a moment reconnoitring the grand stay cable, that, trailing from the summit of the palm, offered, as it were, a natural ladder for ascending it. Hunger stimulated him to the attempt, and, resting his gun against the trunk of the Siba, he commenced climbing upward. Without much difficulty he succeeded in reaching the top and making his way among the huge pin-eye of the leaves, each in itself a leaf of many feet in length. He arrived at the youngest of them all, that still enfolded in the envelope of the bud. and which was the object for which he had climbed. With his knife he separated this summit leaf from the stem, flung it to the earth, and then, descending to the bottom of the tree, made his supper upon the raw but sweet and succulent shoots of the mountain cabbage.

Supper over, he collected a quantity of the strewn fleece of the silk cotton, And placing it between two of the great buttress-like root spurs of the tree, constructed for himself a couch, on which, but for some hard thoughts within, he might have slept as softly and soundly as upon a bed of eider.

23 023 - Volume 1 Chapter 23 - A Tree Fountain 10:35

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter 23. The Tree Fountain. That he did not sleep soundly may be attributed solely to his anxieties about the morrow, for the night was mild throughout, and the composition of his improvised couch kept him sufficiently warm. His cares, however, had rendered his spirit restless. They were vivid enough to act even upon his dreams, which several times during the night awoke him. And again, finally, just after the break of day. This time on opening his eyes, he perceived that the glade was filled with soft blue light, and the quivering fronds of the cabbage palm, just visible from where he lay, had caught the first trembling rays of the sun. Only there and among the summit branches of the seba, far overtopping the spray of the surrounding forest, Was the sun yet visible?

Everything else was tinted with the blue-gray of the morning twilight. He could sleep no longer, and rose from his forest lair, intending to make an immediate departure from the spot. He had no toilet to trouble him, nothing to do, further than brush off the silken floss of the tree cotton, shoulder his gun, and go. He felt hunger. Even more than on the preceding night, and although the raw mountain cabbage offered no very tempting dejoiner, he determined before starting to make another meal upon it, remembering and very wisely acting upon the adage of a bird in the hand. There was plenty left from the supper to serve him for breakfast, and Once more making a vigorous onslaught on the chow de Pamiste, he succeeded in appeasing his hunger.

But another appetite far more unpleasant to bear now assailed him. In truth, it had assailed him long before, but had been gradually growing stronger, until it was now almost unendurable. It was the kindred appetite thirst. Which the cabbage palm, instead of relieving, had from a certain acridity, in its juice, only sharpened till the pain amounted almost to torture. The sufferer would have struck off into the woods in search of water. He had seen none in his wanderings. Still, he had hopes of being able to find the river. He would have started at once. But for an idea he had conceived that there was water near the spot where he had slept. Where? He had observed neither stream nor spring, pond nor river, and yet he fancied he had seen water.

In fact, he felt sure of it. In a very singular situation he had seen it. So thought he at the time, since it was over his head in the cotton tree. On the previous evening, while upon the crown of the cabbage palm, he had glanced slantingly across among the branches of the ceba. This, as with all great trees in the tropical forests, was loaded with parasites, vryceus, long ragged-looking cacti, bromelias, epiphytical orchids, and the like, tilansias too. Of the kind known as wild pines grew in the forks, or on the upper surface of the great limbs, flourishing as luxuriantly as if their roots rested in the richest soil. Among them was conspicuous the most magnificent of the genus, the noble Tilansia lingulata, with its spike of gorgeous crimson flowers projecting from the midst of its broad sheathing leaves.

It was in the concavities of these huge leaves that Herbert had observed something which did not belong to the plant, something he believed to be water. It would cost but a few seconds' time to confirm or refute this belief, a climb among the branches of the ceba. Another huge parasite, from the same root as the former, trended torturously up to the limbs of the silk cotton tree, Here and there touching and twisting around them. Its diagonal direction rendered ease of the scent, and Herbert, impelled by his desire to drink, commenced climbing it. Ere long he had succeeded in reaching a main fork of the Siba, where nestled one of the largest of the wild pines. He had not been deceived. In a hollow formed by one of its huge ventricose leaves was the natural reservoir he had noticed, the gathering of dew and rain, which the rays of the sun could never reach.

At his approach the green hyla sprang out from this aerial pool, and leaping frog-like from leaf to leaf, guarded against falling by the clammy sponge disks of its feet. Soon disappeared amid the foliage. It was this singular creature whose voice Herbert had been hearing throughout the live-long night, and which, in constant chorus with others of its kind, had recalled to his memory the groaning and working of the sea-nymph in a storm. The presence of the tree-toad in this its natural haunt did not deter the young man from drinking. Raging thirst has no scruples, and bending over one of the leaves of the Tillandsia, he placed his lips to the cool water and freely quaffed it. The labor of scrambling up the liana had taken away his breath, to some extent fatigued him.

Instead, therefore, of descending at once, Which he knew would cost him an effort equal to that of the ascent, he determined to rest for a few minutes upon the large limb of the seba on which he had seated himself. Well, muttered he in satisfied soliloquy, if the people of this island have proved inhospitable, I can't say the same of its trees. Here are two of them, almost the first I have encountered. They have yielded me the three necessities of life—meat, drink, and lodging. Lodging, too, with an excellent bed, a thing not so common in many a human hostelry. What more is wanted? Under such a sky as this, who need care to have walls around, or a roof over him? Verily to sleep here, sub-Jove, is rather a luxury than an inconvenience, and verily— Continued he, were it not that I should feel rather lonely, and that man is designed to be a social animal, I might pass my whole life in these glorious woods, without work or care of any kind.

No doubt there is game, and I was told at home there are no game laws, so I might poach at pleasure. Ha! Game? What do I see? A deer? No. A hog? Yes, hog it is, but such a singular fellow, prick ears, red bristles, long legs and tusks. A boar. And why not a wild boar? There was no reason why it should not be, since it was one. A wild boar of the Jamaica forest, a true descendant of the Canarian hog, transported thither by the Spaniards. The young Englishman, never having seen a wild boar in its native haunts, put the question conjecturally. But a moment's observation of the animal convinced him that his conjecture was correct. The short upright ears, the long head, hams, and legs, the shaggy neck and frontlet, the foxy red color, the thick short step as it moved onward, all these points Combined with a certain savage air, which Herbert noticed at a glance, satisfied him that the animal under his eyes was not one of the domestic breed, but a genuine wild hog of the woods.

The grunt, too, which the creature uttered as it moved across the glade, short, sharp, and fierce, had but slight resemblance to the squeaking sounds of the farmyard. A wild boar. Beyond a doubt. On perceiving this noble head of game, and so near him, Herbert's first reflection was one of extreme regret. How unlucky that he should be up in the tree, with his gun upon the ground. It was very tantalizing, but the young man saw it would be impossible to get possession of his gun without giving the alarm. To attempt descending from the tree, or even make a movement upon the branch, would be sufficient to send the boar scampering from the spot, of course never to be seen more. Conscious of this, Herbert preferred remaining upon his perch, the silent specter of a scene of wild nature, to which chance had so oddly introduced him.

24 024 - Volume 1 Chapter 24 - The Hog-Hunter 11:02

Of the Maroon. This is a LibriVox recording. LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To learn more, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Tom Freya. The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Chapter Twenty-Four. The Hog Hunter.

The boar had stopped over the debris of Herbert's breakfast, some fragments of the mountain cabbage which had been left upon the ground. Switching his feathered tail and uttering a short grunt, expressive of satisfaction, the animal proceeded to snap up the scattered pieces, crunching them between his formidable grinders. All of a sudden, the tranquil tableau became transformed into a scene of a more exciting nature. As Herbert continued to gaze, he saw the boar suddenly make a start, jerk his muzzle high in the air, at the same instant uttering a peculiar cry. It was a cry of alarm, mingled with angry menace, as testified by the bristles upon his back, which had suddenly shot up into an erect spinous mane.

Herbert looked for the enemy. None was in sight, at least to his eyes. The boar, however, had either seen or heard something, for he was evidently upon the strain to spring off. Just then a loud report reverberated through the glade, a bullet hissed through the air, and the animal, with a shrill scream, turned over upon its back, the blood spouting from a wound in its thigh. In an instant it was on its feet again. But rage appeared to hinder it from attempting flight. It retreated only a few paces, taking its stand between two of the buttresses of the Siba, on the very spot where the young Englishman had passed the night. There, protected on both flanks and in the rear, and uttering fierce grunts of defiance, it stood, as if awaiting an enemy.

Soon after, a man emerged from the Underwood, armed with what appeared to be a straight sword or cutlass. In a dozen quick strides he crossed the glade, and, having reached the roots of the cotton tree, became engaged in a deadly struggle with the wounded boar. Notwithstanding the damage done to it, the creature was still a formidable antagonist, and it required all the address of the hunter. "'Have I, although he appeared to be, to avoid contact with his terrible tusks. Each alternatively charged upon the other, the hunter endeavoring to thrust the quadruped with his long blade, while the boar, in its turn, would repeatedly rush towards its antagonist, suddenly rear itself upon its hind legs, and strike upwards with its armed and grinning muzzle.

It was one of the four legs of the animal that had been broken by the shot, but the wound, although greatly disabling it, did not hinder it from making a protracted and desperate defense. The spurs of the cotton tree rising on each side proved its best protectors, hindering its assailant from turning its flanks and piercing it in the side. The combat, therefore, was face to face, and the blade of the hunter, repeatedly thrust forward, as often glanced harmlessly from the hard skull, glinted with a metallic ring against the tusks of the boar. For several minutes did this singular contest continue, the young Englishman all the while watching it with lively interest, but without giving the slightest signs of his being a spectator.

Indeed, the scene was so exciting, and had come under his eyes so unexpectedly, that he was for a time held speechless by sheer surprise. After a while the struggle between biped and quadruped was brought to a termination. The former, who appeared to possess all the craft of his calling, put in practice a ruse. That enabled him to give his antagonist the coup de grace. It was a feat, however, accompanied by no slight danger, and so adroitly did the hunter perform it as to create within the mind of his spectator, himself a sportsman, both surprise and admiration. Thus was the feat accomplished. In charging forward upon his human adversary, the boar had incautiously ventured beyond the flanking buttresses of the tree.

In fact, the hunter had enticed the animal outward, by making a feint of retreating from the contest. Just then, and before the brute could divine his intention, the hunter rushed forward, and throwing all his strength into the effort, sprang high into the air. Quite clearing the quadruped, he alighted in the angle form by the converging spurs of the tree. The boar had now lost his position of defense, though that of the hunter for the moment appeared desperate. He had calculated his chances, however, for before the enraged animal, hindered by its hanging limb, could face round to assail him, He had lunged out with his long blade and buried it up to the hilt between the creature's ribs. With a shrill scream the boar fell prostrate to the earth, the red stream from his side spurting over and spoiling the improvised mattress of cotton tree flock upon which the young Englishman had passed the night.

Up to this moment the latter had done nothing, either by word or gesture. To make known his presence. He was about to descend and congratulate the hunter for the performance of a feat that had filled him with admiration. A fancy passing through his mind at the moment determined him to remain where he was a little longer. And in obedience to this fancy, he sat gazing down upon the successful sportsman at the bottom of the tree. To say the least, the appearance presented by this individual was singular, especially so in the eyes of an Englishman unacquainted with West Indian characters and costumes. But in addition to picturesqueness of attire, there was something in the carriage and features of the man that could not fail to make a remarkable impression upon the beholder.

This impression was decidedly pleasing. Though the face that produced it was not that of a white man, neither was it the face of a black man, nor yet the yellow continents of the mulatto. It was a shade lighter than the last, with a dash of crimson in the cheeks. It was this coloring of the cheeks, perhaps, combined with a well-rounded sparkling iris that imparted the agreeable expression. The man was young. Herbert Vaughn might have guessed him about his own age, without being many months astray. And in point of size and shape, there was no great dissimilitude between them. In the color of their hair, complexion, and features, there was no resemblance whatever. While the face of the young Englishman was of the oval type, that of the West Indian hunter was rotund.

A prominent well-cut chin, however, hindered it from degenerating into any expression of feebleness. On the contrary, firmness was the prevailing cast of the features, and the hold, swelling throat, was a true physical index of daring. The complexion of the hunter betokened a sang-mélie between African and Caucasian, which was further confirmed by the slight crisping that appeared among the jet-black curls of hair thickly covering his head. The luxuriance of these curls was partly kept in check by a headdress that Herbert Vaughan would have been less surprised to see in some country of the East, for at the first glance He had mistaken it for a turban. On closer examination, however, it proved to be a brilliant kerchief, the madras check, ingeniously folded around the forehead so as to sit coquettishly over the crown, with the knot a little to one side.

It was a toque, not a turban. The other articles of dress worn by the young hunter were an outer coat or shirt. of sky-blue cotton-aid, cut somewhat blouse fashion. An undershirt of fine white linen ruffled and open at the breast, trousers of the same material as the coat, and buff-colored boots of roughly clean cow skin. There were straps and strings over both shoulders, all crossing each other on the breast. From the two that hung to the right side were suspended a powder horn and skin shot pouch. On the same side hung a large calabash canteen, covered with a strong network of some forest wythe to protect it from injury. Under the left arm was a carved and curving cow's horn, evidently not for holding powder, since it was open at both ends.

Below this, against his hip, rested a black leathern sheath, the receptacle of that long blade still reeking with the blood of the boar. This weapon was the machete, half-sword, half-hunting knife, which, with its straight short blade and half-like hilt of grayish horn, is to be found in every cottage of Spanish America, from California to the land of ire. Even where the Spaniards have been, but are no longer, as in Jamaica, the universal machete may be seen in the hands of hunter and peasant, a relic of the conqueror colonists.

25 025 - Volume 1 Chapter 25 - The Runaway 9:10

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter 25. The Runaway. Up to the moment that the boar was laid prostrate upon the ground, he and the toke had been kept too well employed with his fierce game to find time for looking at anything else. It was only after dealing the death blow to his adversary that he was able to stand erect and take a survey around him. In an instant his eye fell upon the gun of the young Englishman, and then The white pieces of palm cabbage upon which the boar had been browsing. "'Ho!' exclaimed he, still gasping for breath, but with a look that betrayed surprise. "'A gun? Whose? Some runaway slave who has stolen his master's fouling piece? Nothing more likely. But why has he left the piece behind him?

And what has started him away from here? Surely not the boar.' He must have been gone before the animal got up. Crambo! A richer prize than the porker. If I could only have set eyes on him, I wonder in which direction he has tracked it. Hish! What do I see? The runaway! Yes! Yes, it is he! Coming back for his gun? Crambo! This is unexpected luck. So early in the morning. A slave-capture. A bounty. As the hunter hurriedly muttered these concluding phrases, he glided with stealthily tread between the two buttresses, and, having placed himself in the extreme angle of their convergence, remained perfectly still, as if to await the approach of someone who was advancing towards the tree. Herbert from his perch.

Had a full view of the newcomer thus announced. A young man of a copper-red color, with straight black hair, shaggily tossed and pulled over his forehead, as if someone had been tearing it from his head. His face, too, a fine one, notwithstanding its mahogany color, appeared freshly lacerated, and his whole body bore the marks of inhuman abuse. The coarse and long crimson-colored stripes running across his back looked like the imprints of an ensanguined lash. The attitude in which he was advancing was as peculiar as his costume. When Herbert first set eyes on him, he was crawling upon his hands and knees, yet going with considerable speed. This led to the belief that his bent position was assumed rather with a view towards concealment, than from the inability to walk erect.

This belief was soon after confirmed, for on entering the glade the young man rose to his feet and trotted on, but still with body bent, toward the seba. What could he want there? Was he making for the huge tree as a haven of safety from some deadly pursuers? Herbert fancied so. The hunter believed he was coming back for his gun, having no suspicion that the real owner of the piece was just over his head. Both remained silent, though from motives having no similitude to each other. In a few seconds' time the fugitive, for his actions proved him one, had reached the bottom of the tree. Showing himself round the buttress and stepping in front of the newcomer. You are a runaway, my prisoner. The fugitive dropped upon his knees, crossed his arms over his breast, and uttered some phrases in an unknown tongue, amongst which Herbert could distinguish the word Allah.

His captor appeared equally at fault about the meaning of the words. But neither the attitude of the speaker, nor the expression upon his countenance, could be mistaken. It was an appeal for mercy. "'Cramble!' exclaimed the hunter, bending forward and gazing for a moment at the breast of the runaway, on which the letters J.J. were conspicuously branded. "'With that tattoo on your skin, I don't wonder you've given leg bale to your master. Poor devil!' They've tattooed you still more brutally upon the back. As he said this, speaking rather to himself than to the wretched creature that knelt before him, the hunter stretched forth his hand, raised the shirt from the shoulders of the runaway, and gazed for a while upon his naked back.

The skin was covered with purple whales, crossing each other like the arteries in an anatomic plate. God of the Christian! exclaimed the yellow hunter, with evident indignation at the sight. If this be your decree, then give me the fetish of my African ancestors. But no, added he after a pause, J.J. is not a Christian. He cares for no god. The soliloquy of the hunter was here interrupted by a second speech from the supplicant, spoken in the same unknown tongue. This time the gesture signified that it was an appeal for protection against some enemy in the rear, for the sympathetic looks of his captor had evidently won the confidence of the fugitive. They are after you. No doubt of it," said the hunter.

Well, let them come, whoever are your pursuers. This time they have lost their chance, and the bounty is mine, not theirs. Poor devil. It goes against my grain to deliver you up, and were it not for the law that binds me, I should scorn their paltry reward. Hark! Yonder they come. Dogs as I'm a man. Yes, it's the bay of a bloodhound, those villainous man-hunters of Batabano. I knew old Jesseron had them in his pay. Here, my poor fellow, in here. And the hunter half-lead, half-dragged the fugitive over the carcass of the wild boar, placing him between the buttresses of the Siba. Stand close in to the angle, he continued. Leave me to guard the front. Here's your gun. I see it's loaded. I hope you know how to use it.

Don't fire till you're sure of hitting. We'll need both blade and shot to save ourselves from these Spanish dogs. That will make no distinction between you and me. Not they. Crambo! There they come! The words had scarce issued from the speaker's lips when two large dogs broke, with a swishing noise out of the bushes on the opposite side of the glade, evidently running on the trail of the fugitive. The crimson color of their muzzles showed that they had been baited with blood. Which, darkening as it dried, rendered more conspicuous the white fang-like teeth within their jaws. They were half hound, half mastiff, but ran as true-bred hounds on a fresh trail. No trail could have been fresher than that of the flogged fugitive, and in a few seconds after entering the glade, the hounds had got up to the seba, in front of the triangular chamber in which stood the runaway and his protector.

These dogs have no instinct of self-preservation, only an instinct to discover and destroy. Without stopping to bark or bay, without even slackening their pace, both dashed onward, bounding into the air as they launched themselves upon the supposed objects of their pursuit. The first only impaled himself on the outstretched machete of the yellow hunter. And as the animal came down to the earth, it was to utter the last howl of its existence. The other, springing towards the naked fugitive, received the contents of the fouling piece, and, like the first, rolled lifeless upon the earth.

26 026 - Volume 1 Chapter 26 - A Combat Declined 11:18

The spectator in the tree began to fancy that he was dreaming. Within the short space of twenty minutes he had been the witness of a greater number of exciting events than he might have seen in his own land during the same number of years. And yet he had not witnessed the finale of the drama. The gestures of the runaway and the speeches of his captor had already warned him that there was another act to come, and from the attitudes of both, it was evident that this act would be performed on the same stage, without any change of scene. As yet, the young Englishman saw no particular reason why he should cease to be a spectator and become an actor. In this West Indian drama, that the yellow hunter should kill a wild boar, capture a runaway slave, and afterwards shield both his captive and himself from a brace of bloodhounds by killing the fierce brutes was no affair of his.

The only vine that concerned him Was the unceremonious use that had been made of his fouling peace, but it is scarce necessary to say that Herbert Vaughn, had he been asked, would have freely lent the peace for such a purpose. Nothing, however, had yet transpired to tempt him from a strict neutrality, and, until something should, he determined to preserve the passive attitude he had hitherto held. Scarce had he come to this determination, When three new actors appeared on the scene. One, the foremost, and apparently the leader, was a tall, black-bearded man in a red plush waistcoat and high-topped horse-skin boots. The other two were lean, lithe-looking fellows in striped shirt and trousers, each wearing broad-brimmed palm-leaf hats that shadowed their sharp Spanish physiognomies.

The bearded man was armed with gun and pistols. The others appeared to be without firearms of any kind, but each carried in his hand a long rapier-like blade, the sheath of which hung dangling from his hip. It was the machete, the same kind of weapon as that which the yellow hunter had, but the moment before, so skillfully wielded. On perceiving the tableau under the tree, the three newcomers halted. And with no slight surprise depicted in their looks, the men of Spanish face appeared more especially astonished, indignation mingling with their surprise, when they beheld in that grouping of figures the bodies of their own bloodhounds stretched dead upon the sward. The bearded man, who, as we have said, appeared to be the leader, was the first to give speech to the sentiment that animated all three.

"'What game's this?' he cried, his face turning purple with rage. "'Who are you that has dared to interfere with our pursuit? Carajo! He's killed our dogs?' vociferated one of the Spaniards. "'Demonios! You'll pay for this with your lives,' added the other, raising his machete in menace. "'And what if I have killed your dogs?' rejoined the yellow hunter with an air of sang-froid. Which won the silent applause of the spectator. What if I have? If I had not killed them, they would have killed me. No, said one of the Spaniards. They would not have touched you. Carambo! They were too well trained for that. They were after him. Why did you put yourself in the way to protect him? It's no business of yours.

There, my worthy friend, you are mistaken. replied he, in the toke, with a significant sneer. It is my business to protect him, my interest too, since he is my captive. You're captive, exclaimed one of the men with a glance of concern. Certainly he is my captive, and it was my interest not to let the dogs destroy him. Dead, I should only have got two pounds currency for his head. Living, he is worth twice that, and mileage money to boot. Though I'm sorry to see, by the J.J. on his breast, that the mileage money won't amount to much. Now, what more have you to say, my worthy gentleman? Only this, cried the man with the black beard, that we listen to no such nonsense as that there. Whoever you may be, I don't care.

I suspect who you are. But that don't hinder me from telling you. You've no business to meddle in this affair. This runaway slave belongs to Jacob Jesseron. I'm his overseer. He's been taken on Jesseron's own ground. Therefore you can't claim the captive, nor yet the bounty. So you'll have to give him up to us. Carambo, si, vociferated both the Spaniards in a breath. At the same time that the three advanced towards the runway, the bearded overseer pistol in hand and his two comrades with their machetes drawn and ready to be used. "'Come on, then,' cried the hunter in a taunting tone as he spoke, making signs to the runaway to stand to his defense. "'Come on, but remember, the first that lays hand upon him is a dead man.' There are three of you, and we are but two, one already half dead with your inhuman cruelty.

Three against two? That's not a fair fight," cried the young Englishman, dropping down from the tree and ranging himself on the weaker side. Perhaps it'll be a better match now, added he, taking a pistol from under the breast of his coat and cocking it as he did so, evidently with the intention of using it. Should the affair be carried further. And who are you, sir? demanded the overseer, with as much arrogance as he could throw into his manner. Who, sir, may I inquire, is the white man who thus places himself in opposition to the laws of the island? You know the penalty, sir, and by my word you shall pay it. If I have committed a breach of the laws. replied Herbert. I presume I shall have to answer for it, but I have yet to learn what law I have broken, and I don't choose that you shall be my judge.

You are aiding the escape of a slave. That's not true, interrupted the yellow hunter. The slave is already captured. He could not have escaped, and this young gentleman, who is as much a stranger to me as to you, I am sure— had no intention of assisting him to escape. Bah! exclaimed the overseer. We care not for your talk. We deny your right to capture him, and you had no business to interfere. We had already tracked him down with the dogs, and should have had him without any help from you. He is our prize. Therefore, and I again, demand of you to give him up. Indeed, sneeringly responded the yellow hunter. I make the demand, continued the other, without noticing the sneer. In the name of Jacob Jesseron, whose overseer I've told you I am.

Perhaps, were you Jacob Jesseron himself, I might resist your demand, rejoined the hunter coolly and without any appearance of braggadocio. You refuse to surrender him, then. Said the overseer, as if making his final overture. I do, was the firm reply. Enough! You shall repent this, and you, sir, continued the deputy of Jesseron, turning a fierce look upon Herbert, you shall answer before a magistrate for the part it has pleased you to play in this transaction. A pretty white man, you, for the island of Jamaica. A few more of your sort, and we'll have a nice time with our niggers. Don't fear, mister, you'll see me again." I have no particular desire, rejoined Herbert. For certainly, continued he with provoking jocularity, an uglier-looking face than yours I have never set eyes upon, and it could be no pleasure to me to look upon it again.

You'll repent that insult before you're a month older. Curse me if you don't. And with this characteristic menace, the ruffian turned and walked sullenly away. Caspita, cried one of the Spaniards as the two hastened to follow their leader. My brave dogs! Ah, demonio! You shall pay dearly for them. Two hundred pesos each. Not a quartito less. Not a quartito for either. Responded the yellow hunter with a mocking laugh. Haven't I proved that they are not worth it? With all your boasting of what your bloodhounds could do, look at them now. Vaya, my fine fellows, go back to your own country and hunt runaway negroes there. Here you must leave that game to those who know how to manage it. The Maroons.

Herbert observed that the hunter, on pronouncing these last words, drew himself up with an air of majestic pride, as he did so, glancing scornfully towards the crestfallen Cacadoris. An angry, C-R-I, simultaneously hissed from the lips of both, was the only reply made by the two Spaniards, who, at the same instant, turned their backs upon the Siba. And followed their leader across the glade.

27 027 - Volume 1 Chapter 27 - The Maroons 10:20

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter 27. The Maroons. As soon as they were gone out of sight, the hunter turned towards Herbert, his eyes sparkling with gratitude. Master, said he, making a low obeisance as he spoke. After that, words are but a poor way of offering thanks. If the brave white gentleman who has risked his life for a colored outcast will let me know his name, it will not be forgotten by Kubina, the Maroon. Kubina the Maroon, struck by the oddness of the name and title, as he had already been by the appearance and behavior of him who bore them, Herbert repeated the phrase mechanically, rather than otherwise. Yes, that is my name, master. The young Englishman, though not yet enlightened as to the odd appellation, was too well-bred to press for an explanation.

Pardon me, said he. "'For not directly replying to your request, I am an Englishman. My name, Vaughn, Herbert Vaughn. By that name, Master, I take you have relatives in the island. The owner of Mount Welcome Estate is my uncle. Ah, then, sir, anything a poor maroon hunter could do for you would not be much. All the same, you have my thanks, and if, but, Master..." Continued the speaker, suddenly changing his tone, as if in obedience to some instinct of curiosity. May I make bold to ask why you are afoot so early? The sun is not yet ten minutes above the trees, and Mount Welcome is three miles distant. You must have tracked it here in the dark. No easy matter, through these tangled woods. I pass the night here, replied the Englishman, smiling.

That was my bed. Where the boar is now sleeping. Then the gun is yours, not his? The hunter nodded interrogatively toward the runaway, who, standing some paces off, was regarding both the speakers with glances of gratitude, not, however, unmingled with some signs of uneasiness. Yes, it is my gun. I am very glad the piece was not empty. Since it enabled him to destroy the fierce brute that would otherwise have had him by the throat, wretched as the poor fellow appears, he handled his weapon well. What is he, and what have they been doing to him? Ah, Master Vaughn, by those two questions it is easy to tell you are a stranger to the island. I think I can answer both, though I never saw the young man before.

Poor wretch! The answers are written out upon his skin, in letters that don't require much scholarship to read. Those upon his breast tell that he's a slave, the slave of J.J., Jacob Jesseron. You'll excuse me from giving my opinion of him. What have they done to you, my poor fellow? asked Herbert of the runaway, his compassion hindering him from waiting for the more roundabout explanation of the maroon. The blood-bedaub creature, perceiving that the speech was addressed to him, made a long rejoinder, but in a tongue unknown both to the hunter and Herbert. The latter could distinguish two words that he heard before, Fula and Ala, both of which occurred repeatedly in the speech. It's no use asking him, Master Vaughan.

Like yourself he's a stranger to the island, though, as you see, They've already initiated him into some of its ways. Those brands upon his breast are nearly fresh, as you may tell by the red skin around the letters. He's just been landed from Africa, it appears. As for the marks upon his back, those have been made by a plaything. The white planters and their overseers in these parts are rather too fond of using the cart whip. They've been flogging the poor devil. And Crambo, they've given it to him thick and sharp. As the maroon made this remark, he raised the bloodstained shirt, exposing to view that back so terribly reticulated. The sight was sickening. Herbert could not bear to gaze upon it, but averted his eyes on the instant.

From Africa, you say? He has not got negro features. As to his features that don't signify, there are many African tribes who are not negro-featured. I can tell from his that he is a fula. I hear him use the word as he talks. "'Yoy, fula, fula!' cried the runaway upon hearing pronounce the name of his people. And then he continued in a strain of the same language, accompanied by much gesticulation. I wish I knew his lingo." Said the hunter. I know he's a foola. It is some reason why I should take an interest in him, and maybe, if only for that, I might—the speaker paused as if he had been talking to himself, and then continued the soliloquy only in thought. After a pause he resumed speech. Crambo!

Very little would tempt me not to restore him to his master. And must you? I must. "'We Maroons are bound by a treaty to deliver up all runaways we may take, and if we fail to do so, that is, when it is known. But these villains of old Jesseron know I have him.' "'You will receive a bounty,' you say? "'Yes. They will try to deprive me of that. But it isn't the bounty would tempt me in this case. There is something about this young fellow. My word!' He is like her. Aye, as if he were her brother. This last speech was delivered in siloquy. Like her? Like whom? demanded Herbert with a puzzled look. Your pardon, replied the hunter. I was struck with a resemblance between this poor fellow and one whom I know.

But, Master Vaughn, he continued as if wishing to change the subject. You have not said how you came to be all night in the woods. You were hunting yesterday and lost your way. True, I lost my way, but not exactly while hunting. Perhaps that is all the sort of breakfast you have had. And the maroon pointed to some pieces of the palm cabbage that still lay on the turf. I have supped and breakfasted upon it, replied Herbert. I had climbed the tree for water. When the boar came up to break his fast upon what remained of it. The maroon smiled at this explanation of some circumstances by which even he had been mystified. Well, said he, if you were not anxious to return at once to Mount Welcome, and will give me five minutes' time, I think I can provide you something better than raw cabbage.

I am not particularly in a hurry about getting back to Mount Welcome. Perhaps I may never go back. These words, combined with the air of the young Englishman as he uttered them, did not escape the notice of the intelligent Maroon. Something strange in this young man's history, said he to himself, though he had the delicacy not to demand an explanation of the ambiguous speech just made. Well, it's not my affair, I suppose. Then, addressing himself to Herbert, he said aloud, Do you agree, Master Vaughn, to eat a forest breakfast of my providing? Indeed, with pleasure, answered Herbert. Then I must ring for my servants. As he said this, the hunter raised his curved horn to his lips and blew a long, tremulous blast.

That should procure us company and something to eat, Master, said he, allowing the horn to drop back to its place. Hark! He continued, the instant after. There are some of my fellows. I thought they could not be far off. As he spoke, the sound of a horn was heard reverberating through the woods, and then another, and another, until nearly a dozen could be distinguished, yet all in different directions. They were evidently answers to the signal he had sounded. So, Master Vaughn, he resumed with an air expressive of triumph, though in a restrained and modest way. You see, these vultures would not have had it all their own way. My hawks were too near for that. Not the less am I beholden to you, Master Vaughn.

I did not think it worth while to call my people. I knew the poltroons would not venture beyond a little swaggering talk. See, they come. Who? The Maroons! Herbert heard a rustling among the bushes on the opposite side of the glade, and at the same time about a dozen armed men emerged from the Underwood and advanced rapidly towards the Siba.

28 028 - Volume 1 Chapter 28 - A Forest Breakfast 16:21

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter 28. A Forest Breakfast.

The young Englishman gazed upon the advancing troop with keen curiosity. There were about a dozen of them, all black men, or nearly all, only one or two of them showing any admixture of color. There was not a dwarfish or deformed figure in the party. On the contrary, every man of them possessed a tall, stalwart form, strong, muscular limbs, a skin shining with health. An eye sparkling with a vigorous brilliance that betokened an innate sense of freedom and independence. Their erect upright carriage and free forward step confirmed the belief, which Herbert had already formed, that these black men were not bondsmen. There was nothing of the slave either in their looks or gestures. But for the color of their skins, he would never have thought of associating such men with the idea of slavery.

Armed as they were with long knives and guns, some of them with stout spears, they could not be slaves. Besides, their equipments told that they were hunters and warriors if need be. All of them had horns with pouches suspended over their shoulders, and each was provided with a netted calabash for water, like that of the yellow hunter already described. A few carried an equipment altogether different, consisting of a small panier of wythework, or palm fiber neatly woven. It rested upon the back, where it was held in place by a band of palm sinnet, crossing the breast, And another brought over the forehead, which thus sustained a portion of the weight. This panier was the cut-a-coo, the depository of their provisions, and of such articles as were required in their wild forest rambles.

With regard to their costume, that was bizarre, though not unpicturesque. No two were dressed alike. Though there was a certain idiosyncrasy in their attire, which proclaimed them all of one following. The toked bandana was the most common headdress, a few having palm-leaf hats. Only some of them had a shirt with sleeves, others wanted a complete pair of trousers, and one or two were naked from the waist upward, and from the thighs downward. The white cotton loincloth being the unique and only garment. All of them had their feet and ankles covered, as the stony and thorny paths they were accustomed to tread rendered necessary. The chashure was the same withal, and appeared to be a tight-fitting jackboot of some species of raw hide, without seam or stitching of any kind.

The reddish bristles standing thinly over its surface proclaimed the character of the material. It was the skin of the wild hog, the hind leg of a boar, drawn upon the foot while fresh and warm, as it dries, tightening over the instep and ankle like an elastic stocking. A little trimming with the knife is all that is necessary for this ready-made moccasin. And once on... It is never taken off till the wearing of the sole renders necessary a refit. Drawing on his boots, therefore, is no part of the diurnal duties of a Jamaica hog hunter. I have said that Herbert Vaughn regarded the newcomers with a feeling of curiosity, as well as surprise. It was no wonder he did so. The mode in which they had been summoned into his presence, their echo-like answers to the horn's signal, and their prompt, almost instantaneous appearance, formed a series of incidents that more resembled what might have been witnessed upon the stage of a theatre than in real life.

And had the yellow hunter been a white man, and he and his followers clad in Lincoln green, the young Englishman might have fancied himself in Sherwood Forest. With bold Robin, Reed de Vivas, and his merry men mustering around him. This white gentleman has not eaten breakfast, said Kubina to his followers as they came up. Well, Quacko, what have you got in your katakus? The individual thus appealed to was a jet-black negro of large dimensions, with a grave yet quizzical cast of countenance. He appeared to be a sort of lieutenant. Perhaps the little John of the party. "'Well, worthy cap'n,' answered he, saluting the yellow hunter with a somewhat awkward grace. "'I believe there's enough, one thing with another, that be if the gentleman has got a good appetite and's not too nice about what he eats.' "'What is there?

Let me see,' interrupted Kubina, as he proceeded to inspect the panniers. "'A ham of wild hog barbecued,' continued he, turning out the contents of the cuttacoo. "'Well, that to begin with. The white gentry are rather partial to our barbecued hog. What else?' "'A brace of soldier crabs. So far, good. Ah, better still, a pair of ramir pigeons. And a wild guinea fowl. Who carries the coffee and sugar? Here, Captain.' cried another of the Katakou men, throwing his panier to the ground and drawing out several bags which contained the necessary materials for coffee-making. A fire, and be quick, commanded Kubina. At the word given a tinder was struck, dry leaves and branches quickly collected, and a sparkling, crackling fire soon blazed upon the ground.

Over this was erected a crane. Resting horizontally on two forked sticks, which soon carried a brace of iron pots suspended in the blaze. With so many cooks, the process of preparing the meat for the pots was very short and quick. The pigeons and guinea fowl were singed as fast as feathers would burn, and then, being drawn and quartered, were flung in torn fragments into the largest of the pots. The soldier crabs shared the same fate. and some pieces of the wild hog ham. A handful of salt was added, water, a few slices of plantain, eidos, kalalu, and red capis cum, all of which ingredients were supplied from the cuttacous. A strong fire of dried faggots soon brought the pot to a furious boil, and the lieutenant Quaco, who appeared also to act as chef de cuisine, After repeatedly testing the contents, at length declared that the pepper pot was ready for serving up.

Dishes, bowls, cups, and platters made their appearance, all being shells of the calabash, of different shapes. As soon as Herbert and the captain were helped to the choicest portions of the savory stew, the remainder was distributed among the men. Who, seating themselves in groups over the ground, proceeded to discuss the well-known viand with an avidity that showed it was also their breakfast. The pepper pot was not the sole dish of the dejoiner. Pork steaks cut from the carcass of the freshly slain boar were added, while plantains and cocoa fingers, roasted in the ashes, contributed a substitute for bread. Not to be despisingly spoken of. The second pot boiling over the fire contained the coffee, which quaffed from the calabashes tasted as fine as if sipped out of cups of the purest sevret porcelain.

In this alfresco feast the poor captive was not forgotten, but was supplied among the rest, the colossal quokko administering to his once with an air of quizzical compassion. The young Englishman desired enlightenment about the character of his hosts, but delicacy forbade any direct inquiries. Could they be robbers, brigands with black skins? Their arms and accoutrements gave color to the supposition. Maroons, they called themselves, but the name was new, and helped not Herbert in his perplexity. If robbers, thought he, they are the gentlest of their calling. Breakfast over, the maroons gathered up their traps and prepared to depart from the spot. Already the wild boar had been butchered, cut up into portable flitches, and packed away in the cuttacous.

The whales upon the back of the runaway had been anointed by the hand of Quaco with some balsamic serrate. And, by gestures, the unfortunate youth was made to understand that he was to accompany the party. Instead of objecting to this, his eyes sparkled with a vivid joy. From the courtesy he had already received at their hands, he could not augur evil. The Maroons, out of respect to their chief, whom they appeared to treat with submissive deference, had moved some distance away, leaving Captain Kubina alone with his English guest. The latter, with his gun shouldered, stood ready to depart. "'You are a stranger in the island?' asked the maroon, half interrogatively. "'I fancy you have not been living long with your uncle.' "'No,' answered Herbert.

"'I never saw my uncle before yesterday afternoon.' "'Crambo!' exclaimed the hunter-captain in some surprise. "'You have just arrived, then?' "'In that case, Master Vaughn!' And that is why I have made bold to ask you. You will scarce be able to find your way back to Mount Welcome. One of my people will go with you. No, thank you. I think I can manage it alone. Herbert hesitated to say that he was not going to Mount Welcome. It is a crooked path, urged the maroon, though straight enough to one who knows it. You need not take the guide so far as the great house. Though Mr. Vaughn, I believe, does not object to our people going on his grounds, as some other planters do, you can leave the man when you get within sight of the place.

Without a guide, I fear you will not be able to find the path." "'In truth, Captain Kubina,' said Herbert, no longer caring what idea his words might communicate to his maroon acquaintance, I don't wish to find the path you speak of. I'm not going that way." Not to mount welcome? No. The maroon remained for a moment silent, while a puzzled expression played over his features. Only arrived yesterday, out all night in the woods. Not going back. Something strange in all this. Such were the quick reflections that passed through his mind. He had already noticed an air of distraction, of dejection, too, in the countenance of the stranger. What could it mean? The gay ribbon knotted in the buttonhole of his coat.

What could that mean? Captain Kubina was of the age, and perhaps just then in the very temper, to observe all matters that appeared indications of a certain soft sentiment, and both the blue ribbon and the thoughtful attitude were of that signification. He knew something of the white denizens of Mount Wellcome. More perhaps of those with a colored skin. Could the odd behavior of the young Englishman be attributed to some family difficulty that might have arisen there? The Maroon mentally answered this interrogatory for himself, with the reflection that something of the kind had occurred. Perhaps Captain Kubina was not merely guessing. Perhaps he had already listened to some whisper of plantation gossip.

For electricity itself can scarce travel faster than news in the Negro Quarter. If the hunter-captain had any suspicions as to the real position of his woodland guest, he was polite enough not to express them. On the contrary, he waived the opportunity given him by Herbert's ambiguous rejoinder, and simply said, If you are going elsewhere, you will need a guide all the same. This glade is surrounded by a wide stretch of tangled woods. There is no good path leading anywhere. You are very kind, answered Herbert, touched by the delicate solicitude of this man with the colored skin. I wish to reach Montego Bay, and if one of your men would set me on the main road, I should certainly feel under great obligations.

As to rewarding him for his trouble, beyond thanking him. I am sorry to say that circumstances just now have placed it out of my power. Master Vaughn, said the maroon, smiling courteously as he spoke, were you not a stranger to us and our customs, I should feel offended. You speak as if you expected me to present you with a bill for your breakfast. You seem to forget that, scarce an hour ago. You threw yourself before the muzzle of a pistol to protect the life of a maroon, a poor outcast mulatto of the mountains. And now, but I forgive you, you know me not. Pardon me, Captain Kubina, I assure you. Say no more. I know your English heart. Master, still uncorrupted by vile prejudices of caste and color, long may it remain so.

And whether Captain Kubina may ever see you again, remember that up yonder in the blue mountain, the maroon pointed as he spoke, to the purple outline of a mountain ridge, just visible over the tops of the trees. Up yonder dwells a man, a colored man, it is true, but one whose heart beats with gratitude perhaps as truly as that of the whitest. And should you ever feel the fancy to honor that man with a visit, Under his humble roof you will find both a friend and a welcome." "'Thanks,' cried the young Englishman, stirred to enthusiasm by the free friendship of the yellow hunter. "'I may some day avail myself of your hospitable offer. Farewell.' "'Farewell,' responded the maroon, eagerly grasping the hand which Herbert had held out to him.

"'Quacko!' he cried. Calling to his lieutenant, Conduct this man to the main road that leads to the bay. Farewell, Master Vaughan, and may fortune favor you.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed Chapter 29. Quacko.

It was not without regret that Herbert parted with this new friend, and a long time was he following upon the heels of Quacko, before he ceased to reflect on the circumstances that had led to his making so singular an acquaintance. Quokko, being one of the taciturn sort, made no attempt to interrupt Herbert's meditations until the two had walked together for more than a mile. Then, however, some matter upon his mind brought the guide to a halt and the commencement of a conversation. Two tracks from here, Bukhra. We can follow either, but dis to de right am de shortest, de best road, too. Why not take it, then? Oh, a master! There may be reasons. What for avoiding it? Yah, replied Quokko in a thoughtful, drawling tone.

What reasons, friend? Don't you see the roof of a house just over the tops of them pawpaws? Yes, what of that? That's the barracoon. The barracoon? Yah! The pen of the Jew, Jesron. And what if it be? Ach, Bakra, what if it be? If we take the path to the right, we must pass the Jew's house, and some of his people are sure to see us. That John Crowe's a justice of the peace, and we may get into trouble. Oh, about the fare of the runway, you mean? Your captain said he belonged to Mr. Jesseron. As much bout the dogs as the man. Captain had a right to claim the runaway as his catch, but these Spanish cusses'll make a muss bout thar dogs. They say our captain killed them out of spite, that they'll swar to.

Since it's well known we mountaine men don't like such interlopers here. Meddling with our business. But neither you nor I killed the dogs. All buckra, all the same. You helped. Your gun helped kill them. Besides, you hindered the John Crows from pecking the hawk. For what I have done I am not afraid to answer before a justice, be it this Mr. Jesseron or any other," said the young Englishman. Conscious of having acted rightly in the part he had taken in the quarrel. Not much justice to be expected from Justice Jesseron, Master. My advice be to keep out of the hands of justice as long as we can, and that we can only do by taking the road to the left. Will it be much out of our way? asked Herbert, not caring too greatly in convenience himself for the reasons set forth by his sable guide.

Nothing to signify, answered Quaco, though not speaking very truthfully, for the path he intended to take was really much longer than the one leading to Jesseron's house. In that case, assented Herbert, take which way you please. Without further parley, Quokko strode forward on the path branching to the left, as before silently followed by him who he was guiding. The track they had taken ran entirely through the woods, in some places very difficult to traverse, on account of the thorny thickets as well as the unevenness of the ground, which caused the path to be constantly ascending or trending rapidly downward. At length, however, they arrived at the summit of a high ridge, and were moving onwards amidst groves of pimento, more open than the forest from which they had emerged.

From the top of the ridge Herbert saw a large house shining against the burdened background of the landscape, which he at once recognized as the mansion of Mount Welcome. They were not going towards the house, but in a diagonal direction, which would bring them out on the avenue near the entrance gate. Herbert called out to his guide to make halt. The young man did not like the idea of entering upon the avenue, lest he might encounter some of his uncle's people, a circumstance which he should not wish to have reported at the great house. He therefore requested Quocco to conduct him by some way lying more to the right, so that he might reach the main road without being seen from Mount Welcome.

The guide yielded compliance, though not without a little grumbling reluctance, as he turned off muttering some words about giving, as wide a berth as possible to the old Jew-pen. He obliqued, however, into a new direction. And after another traverse through the woods, Herbert had the satisfaction of finding himself on the main road leading to Montego Bay. The young Englishman had no farther need of a guide, and Quocco was just on the point of taking leave of him, when at that moment a party of horsemen suddenly made appearance round the bend in the road. There were six or seven in all. And they were riding forward at a rapid pace, as if bent upon some serious business. At the first sight of these strangers, Quocco shot like an arrow into the Underwood, calling upon the Bukhra to follow his example.

Herbert, however, disdaining to hide himself, remained standing in the middle of the road. Seeing his determination, Quocco returned to his side. As he did so, clamorously protesting against the imprudence of his protege. Don't like their looks, muttered the maroon, as he glanced apprehensively toward the horsemen. It might be, by the great a compong it is. That harpy Rabiner, the overseer of Jesron. Golly, Buckra, we's in for it. No use trying to scape him now. As Quokko finished speaking, the horsemen rode forward on the ground, one and all halting as they came to the spot where the pedestrians were standing. "'Here's our fellow,' cried the bearded man at their head, whom Herbert easily identified.

"'Just dropped upon him, like a duck upon a June bug. Now, Mr. Tharpy, do your duty. We'll hear what this young gentleman's got to say before the justice.'" "'I arrest you, sir,' said the person appealed to as Mr. Tharpy. "'I am head constable of the parish. I arrest you in the name of the law.' "'On what charge?' demanded Herbert indignantly. "'Mr. Ravener here will bring the charge. I've got nothing to do with that part of it. You must come before the nearest justice. I reckon the highest justice from here is the custos' bond.' This half interrogatory of the constable was addressed not to Herbert, but to his own followers. Though it was spoken rather in an undertone, the young man heard it with sufficient distinctness, and with very little complacency.

To be carried back into the presence of his uncle, whom he had so lately defied, and in the character of a felon, To be brought under such humiliating circumstances before the eyes of his fair cousin, before the eyeglass of his late fellow-passenger, was a prospect that could not fail to be unpleasant. It was a sort of relief, therefore, when Ravener, who appeared to use some guiding influence over the constable and his posse comitatus, Overruled the suggestion that Mr. Vaughn was the nearest magistrate and claimed that honor for Jacob Jesseron, Esquire of the Happy Valley. After some discussion between the parties upon this moot legal point, the overseer's opinion was adopted, and it was determined that the case should be carried before Justice Jesseron.

Both Herbert and his guide were then formally arrested in the name of the king, and marched off in custody, not without some very vociferous protestations on the part of Guaco, with a long string of threats that he would some day make both constable and overseer pay for this outrage upon the person of a free Maroon.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Chapter 30. A Jamaica Justice.

Jesseron Esquire held court in the veranda of his dingy dwelling-house, where we have already seen him assisting at a different spectacle. He was now seated, with a small table before him, covered with a piece of green baize, and carrying a gold snuff-box, an inkstand, pens, and some sheets of paper. A book or two lay upon the table, one of which, by the lettering upon its cover, proclaimed its title and character, The Jamaica Justice. It was bound in black leather, a color sufficiently emblematic of the chief subject on which it treated. For more than four-fifths of the laws and regulations it contained, Related to creatures with black skins. The Justice was in full costume, as the occasion required.

That is, he wore his best blue body coat with gilt buttons, his drab small clothes and top boots. The brownish beaver had been laid aside, as the sanctity of Justice requires even the Judge's head to be uncovered. But the white cotton skull-cap still remained upon his cranium, justice in Jamaica not being so rigorous as to exact its removal. With the spectacles well set upon his nose, and his thin face screwed into an expression of pompous importance, Squire Jesseron sate behind his bench, waiting till the parties to the suit should get well into their places. He was sole justice present, but of course it was merely a preliminary inquiry before a magistrate. To have tried a white criminal on the serious charge brought against Herbert Vaughan would have required a fuller bench, at least three magistrates, and one of them a custos.

Jesseron's power could go no farther than to commit the presumed criminal to prison. until a more formal process should be organized against him. Herbert had been brought up in front of the table, his captor, the constable, and one or two of the posse standing behind him. On the right side appeared Ravener, backed by the two Spanish cacadoris, the last-mentioned worthies no longer, as had formerly been their constant custom attended by their canine companions. Cuoco had been left in the yard below, unguarded, since there was in reality no charge against him. There was one other witness to this magisterial trial, the daughter of the justice himself. Yes, the fair Judith was present, as on all important occasions, but this time not conspicuously so.

On the contrary, she was seated in a window that opened on the veranda, her beautiful face half concealed behind the netted fringe work of the curtains. The position enabled her to observe what was passing, without formally exposing her own person to view. Her face was not altogether hidden, and her white shining forehead and dark lustrous eyes gleaming through the gauzy muslin that veiled them, only appeared more piquantly attractive. It was evident from her actions that the gentle Judith had no intention of remaining unseen. There were several rather good-looking men in the party that accompanied the constable, young planners he had picked up by the way, and who desired nothing better than a lark of this kind.

From the moment that these had entered the courtyard, The fair mistress of the mansion had remained almost constantly by the window. It was only, however, after the people had got grouped in the gallery, that she took her seat behind the curtain, and entered upon a more minute inspection of their faces and persons. She was not long engaged in this game, when a change might have been observed passing over her continents. At first her eyes had wandered from face to face with rather a sneering, cynical expression, such as the Jewess well knew how to put on. All at once, however, her gaze became fixed, and the contemptuous smile gradually gave place to a look of more serious regard. By following the direction of her eyes the object of this regard could easily be discovered.

It was the prisoner at the bar. What was the meaning of that gaze? Sympathy for the accused? She knew why the young man was there. Ravener had already informed her father of all that had transpired, and the daughter had heard the tale. Was it a generous pity for the position in which this unknown youth was placed? That was now stirring within the breast of the fair Judith, and had produced that sudden change in the expression of her countenance, hers was hardly the soul for such a sentiment. Certainly, however, she was actuated by some motive different from the common, for as the trial progressed she no longer looked stealthily from behind the curtain, but having drawn it to one side, She directed her full glance on the stranger, and kept her eyes fixed upon him, apparently regardless of any observation which her conduct might call forth.

Her father, whose back was towards her, saw nothing of this, though it was not unnoticed by the others. The young Englishman, though little disposed at that moment to the contemplation of aught beyond his own unpleasant He was in that position, could not help observing the beautiful face directly opposite to where he stood, nor did he fail to notice the peculiar glances with which he was being regarded. Was the old man before whom he stood on trial the father of that fair creature at the window? Such was his interrogative reflection, as he glanced inquiringly from one to the other. Some time had been occupied by the overseer in telling his story, to substantiate the charge he had made. That done, the prisoner was put upon his defense.

"'Young man,' said the Justice, "'you have heard what this witness alleges against you. What has you to say in your defense? And first tell us, what's your name?' Herbert Vaughn. Jezeron readjusted his spectacles and looked at the prisoner with some show of surprise. The bystanders, stolid constable and all, seemed a little startled. Guaco, whose colossal form rose above the railings in the background, uttered a grunt of satisfaction on hearing the young man's name, which he had not known before. A name all-powerful in the district being that Of the mighty Custos himself. There was one upon whom the words appeared to produce an impression different from that of mere surprise. A glance of anger shot from the dark eyes of the Jewess as she heard it pronounced, and the look of sympathy for the moment disappeared.

Evidently, to her, the name was distasteful.

Might you be any kinchman of Mr. Volcan of Mount Welcome?" His nephew was the laconic reply. Ah, his nephew! Bless me, is that true? This announcement, as testified by his speech, produced a sudden commotion in the mind of the Jew Justice, from some little that was known of his secret hostility towards his neighbor of Mount Welcome. Ravener knew more than a little. It might have been expected that the discovery of the relationship of the prisoner would have put him in high glee, to be sitting in judgment upon the near kinsmen of the Custos. Accused of a serious crime, too, was a proud position for Jacob Jesseron, who could remember many a slight he had received from the haughty lord of Mount Welcome.

What a splendid revanche! Certainly the manner of the justice on learning who was before him seemed to indicate that such were his reflections. He rubbed his skinny hands together, helped himself from his gold snuff-box, gleefully smiled from behind his glasses, which were once more shifted upon the sharp ridge of his nose, and then, bending his face forward over the table, He remained for some moments smiling, but silent and thoughtful, as if considering how he should proceed. After a time he raised his eyes and freshly scrutinized the prisoner, who had already returned an affirmative answer to his last query. "'Bless my soul! I never knew that Mr. Vaughn had a nephew. You are from England, young man?' "'Has your uncle any more English nephews?' "'Not that I am aware of,' replied Herbert frankly.

"'I believe I am his only relative of that kind, in England at least.' The proviso in this reply betrayed a significant fact, that the young man was not very well acquainted with the family affairs of his colonial kinsmen." The astute justice did not fail to notice this deficiency in his nephew's knowledge. "'How long has she been in Jamaica?' asked he, as if endeavouring to arrive at an explanation of some point that was puzzling him. "'At night, and part of two days, in all about twenty-four hours,' replied Herbert, with scrupulous exactness, "'Bless my soul!' Again exclaimed the Justice, only twenty-four hours. It is a wonder you're not at your uncle's house. You hash been there? Oh, yes, answered Herbert carelessly.

You come to stay at Mount Welcome, I sh'pose? Herbert made no reply to this interrogatory. Do you sleep there last night? Excuse me, young man, for asking the question. But as a magistrate—' You are perfectly welcome to the answer, Your Worship,' said Herbert, laying a satirical emphasis on the titular phrase. I did not sleep there last night. Where did you sleep, then? In the woods," answered Herbert. Mashesh! exclaimed the Jew Justice, raising his spectacles in surprise. In the woods, you shay! In the woods—' reaffirmed the young man, under a tree and a very good bed I found it. He added jocosely, and did your uncle know of this? I suppose my uncle knew nothing about it, and as little did he care, replied Herbert, with a reckless indifference as to what answer he gave.

The bitter emphasis on the last words, with the tone in which they were delivered, did not escape the observation of Jesseron. A suspicion had arisen in his mind that there was something amiss in the relationship between the young man and his uncle, to the comprehension of which the answer of the former, aided by a knowledge of the character and affairs of the latter, was gradually giving him a clue. A secret joy sparkled in his sunken eyes. As he listened to that last answer given. All at once he discontinued the direct examination of the prisoner, and signing to Ravener and the constable to come near, he became engaged with these two worthies in a whispering conversation. What passed between the trio the young Englishman could not tell, nor indeed anyone else who chanced to be present.

The result, however, Was to Herbert as pleasant as unexpected. When Jesseron again returned to address him, a complete change appeared to have taken place in his manner. And instead of the frowning justice, Herbert now saw before him a man who appeared more in the character of a friendly protector, bland, smiling, almost obsequious. Master Volcan. said he, rising from his magisterial seat and extending his hand to the prisoner. You will excuse the rough treatment you hash from these people. It is a great crime in this country helping a runaway slave to escape, but as you hash just landed, and cannot be expected to know our statutes, the law deals mercifully with a first. "'Besides in this instance the runaway, who ish one of my own slaves, did not escape.

He ish in the hands of the Maroons, and will soon be brought in. The punishment I inflict upon you, and I shall insist upon it being carried out, ish that you eats your dinner with me, and I think that ish punishment enough. Mr. Ravener." added he, calling to his overseer, and at the same time pointing to Quocco. Take that good fellow and see that he ish cared for. Now, Maester Vaucon, please to step inside and allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Judith.

It would have been contrary to all human nature had Herbert Vaughan not felt gratified at the pleasant turn. which this disagreeable affair had taken, and perhaps this gratification was enhanced at the prospect of the proposed introduction. Indeed, no man, however cold his nature, could have looked upon those lovely eyes, so long wistfully watching him from the window, without wishing a nearer acquaintance with her owner. The angry glance had been evanescent. It was gone long before the conclusion of the trial scene, and as the young Englishman, in obedience to the invitation of his si-devant judge, stepped across the verandah, the fair face retreating from the window, was suffused with the sweetest and most sympathetic of smiles.

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Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed Chapter Thirty-One. An Unexpected Patron.

Thus had the chapter of accidents that conducted Herbert Vaughan to the pen of Jacob Jesseron been brought to a very unexpected termination. But the end was not yet. There was more to come, much more. Herbert was surprised at the turn things had taken. The only explanation he could think of was, That it was to his uncle's name he was indebted for the honors that were being done to him, a mere neighborly feeling of the pen-keeper for the great sugar-planter. They are friends, thought Herbert, and this kindness to me is the offspring of that friendship. The reflection did not give him pleasure, but the contrary. He felt himself in an awkward position. The recipient of a hospitality not meant for himself, but rather for one who had injured him, and who, although his own relative, he now regarded as his enemy.

His uncle would hear of it, no doubt soon, and would be able to accuse him of taking advantage of his name. The thought caused Herbert a feeling of uneasiness. Perhaps he would have cared less had there been no one but his uncle to be cognizant of the false position. But there was. His short and troubled visit to Mount Welcome had made Herbert Vaughan acquainted with one whose remembrance was likely for a long time to exert an influence over his thoughts. Even though lips as red and eyes, perhaps, as brilliant as hers, We're now smiling courteously upon him.

The memory of his cousin Kate was still mellow. He could fancy her soft, sweet voice, yet ringing in his ears. The warm glow of her virgin presence seemed hanging like a halo around him, all urging him to preserve the heroism of his character, if only for the sake of standing well in her estimation. Influenced by these considerations, he resolved to throw off the mask with which circumstances had momentarily invested him, and declare the true position in which he stood to his haughty relative. It was not until the conclusion of the dinner, after the daughter of his host had retired smilingly from the table, that the young Englishman unburdened himself. Then, perhaps a little prompted by the wine, He made a full confession of the disagreeable circumstances existing between himself and the master of Mount Welcome.

Was it the wine, somewhat freely pressed upon him, that hindered him from perceiving the displeasure which his communication had produced upon his hearer? Was there any show of displeasure? If there was, Herbert did not perceive it. On the contrary, had the young man been closely observant, he might have noticed an effect of altogether an opposite character. He might have seen those deep, dark, Israeli eyes sparkling with joy at the revelation he had made. "'I am exceedingly sorry, young Master Volkan,' said the Jew after his surprise at Herbert's revelations had apparently subsided. "'Exceedingly sorry, Aish.' "'To hear that you and your uncle are not on good terms. Ah, well, we must hope for the best.

And as I am one of Mr. Volcan's humble friends, possibly I might do something to reconcile your little quarrel. Do you not intend going back to Mount Welcome?' "'Never. After what has passed, never. Ah, you must not be too revengeful.' Mr. Volkhan is a proud man. I must say he has behaved badly, very badly. But still, he is your uncle. He has not acted as such. That is true, very true. This fine gentleman you speak of, still, that is no reason why Mr. Volkhan should treat his own nephew so shabby. Well, well, I am sorry. "'Exceedingly sorry, but Master Herbert,' continued the pen-keeper, interrogating his guest with evident interest, "'What does you intend to do? I suppose you hash money of your own?' "'I am sorry to say, Mr.

Jezeron, I have not.' "'No money at all?' "'Not a shilling,' affirmed Herbert with a careless laugh. "'That ish bad.' Where does you think of going, since you say you will not return to Mount Welcome?" Well," said Herbert, still preserving his air of jocularity, I was making for the port again, when your worthy overseer and his friends intercepted me. Luckily, I may say, since, but for their intervention, I should in all likelihood have gone without dinner to-day. At all events I should not have dined so sumptuously. A wretched dinner, Master Vulcan. A miserable dinner to what your uncle could have given you. I'm but a poor humble man compared with the Kostos. But what I hash is at your service any time.

Thanks," said Herbert. I know not, Mr. Jesseron, how I shall ever repay you for your hospitality. I must not tax it any longer, however. I see by the sun. It is time I should be making for the bay." As Herbert spoke, he was rising to take his departure. Stop! Stop! cried his host, pushing him back into his chair. Not tonight, Master Volkan. Not this night. I can't promise you as fine a bed as you shmight get at Mount Welcome, but I think I can give you a better as you shleep in last night. You must stay with us this night, and Judith will make you some music. Don't say a word. I takish no refusal." The offer was a tempting one, and after some further pressure Herbert acquiesced in it. He was partly influenced to stay where he was by the poor prospect of a lodging which the Bay afforded him, and, perhaps, a little from a desire to hear the promised music.

The conversation was continued by his host putting some further interrogatories. How did Herbert intend to employ himself in the Bay? What prospect had he of employment? And in what line? I fear not much in any line, replied the young man, answering both questions in one, and in a tone of sarcastic despondence. Has you no profession? Alas, no, replied Herbert. It was intended by my father I should have one, but he died before my education was completed, and my college, as is too often the case, has taught me little more than a knowledge of dead languages. No use, no use whatever, rejoined the intelligent Israelite. I can draw a landscape, pursued the young man modestly, or paint a portrait tolerably well, I believe.

My father himself taught me these accomplishments. Ah, Master Volkan! Neither ish of the slightest use here in Jamaica. If you could paint a house or a wagon or a shopkeeper's sign, it would bring you more money than to make the likenesses of every face in the island. What sayish you to the situation of bookkeeper? Unfortunately, I know nothing of accounts. The very useful science of bookkeeping I have not been taught. "'Ha! ha!' replied Jesseron, with an encouraging chuckle. "'You ish what we in Jamaica call Green Master Vulcan. You mustn't know that a bookkeeper here has no books to keep. He does not even put a pen to paper.' "'How is that, Mr. Jesseron? I have heard the statement before, though I did not comprehend what was meant by it.' Then I must explain, Master Volkan.

There is a law here which makes all proprietors of slaves keep a white man on his estate for every fifty blacks. A very silly law it is, but it is a law. These white supernumeraries are called bookkeepers. Though, as I have told you, they keeps no books. Now you understand what it means. Then what duties do they perform? Oh, that depends on circumstances. Some look after the slaves, and some do this, and some that. But, egad, now I think of it, Master Vokan, I am myself in need of a bookkeeper. I have just bought a new lot of blacks, and I must not break the law. "'I am used to give my bookkeepers fifty pounds a year, currency, but if you would be content to accept such a berth, I would make the salary, on account of your uncle, a hundred pounds a year.

You would also be found in everything else.' "'What does you say, Master Volkan?' "'This unexpected proposal on the part of the pen-keeper.' Caused his guest to hesitate and reflect. Not long, however, his forlorn, homeless situation presented itself too forcibly to his mind to keep him long in doubt as to what answer he should make. Suffice it to say that the offer, which to the young Englishman appeared only too generous, was accepted. And from that hour the Happy Valley became his home.

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Of the Maroon. The Maroon. by Thomas Main, Read. Chapter 32. The Plotting Parent.

Jacob Jesseron was never known to be generous without expecting some reward. Never did he fling out a sprat without the expectation of catching a salmon. What object had he in view in thus becoming the patron and protector Of the young Englishman, an outcast adventurer, apparently incapable of making him any return. Why such liberal conditions unasked, and to all appearance unmerited? For, to say the truth, Herbert Vaughn was not the stuff for a slave-driver, a term almost synonymous with that of bookkeeper. No doubt the Jew had some deep scheme. But in this, as in most other matters, he kept his counsel to himself. Even his precious Judith was but half-initiated into his designs upon this special subject, though a conversation which occurred between father and daughter had placed before the latter some data calculated to assist her in guessing at them.

The date of this dialogue was upon the morning after Herbert's arrival at the pen. Show the young man every kindness, shooteth dear. Don't spare pains to pliege him. Why, particularly him, my worthy parent. Hush, mein shooteth, speak low, for the luff of got. Don't let him hear you talk in that style. These young Englishmen are not used to our ways. I hash a reason for being friendly to him. What, because he is the nephew of Vanity Vaan? Is that your reason, Rabbi? I shay, speak low. He's in his sleeping room and may hear you. A single word like that, you shay, might spoil all my plans. Well, father, I'll talk in whispers if you like. But what are your plans? You'll let me know them, I suppose.

I will, shooteth, but not shust now. I hash an idea, mine daughter, a grand idea it ish, and if all goes right, you, shooteth, will be the richest woman in Jamaica. Oh, I have no objection to that, to be the richest woman in Jamaica with a prince for my footman. Who won't envy Judith Jesseron, the daughter of the slave merchant? Stay! A word about that Judith, dear. In his prescience we must say as little as possible upon the subject of slaves. He mustn't see no slave whipping here, at least till he gets used to it. Ravener must be told to behave himself. "'I know'sh of more than one young Englishman's who's left his place jush for that very thing. He needn't go among the field-handsh at all.

I'll take care of that. But, dearest Shooteth, everything depends on you, and I know'sh you can, if you will. Can what, worthy father, make this young fellow satisfied to stay with us?' The look which accompanied these words betokened some other meaning than what they might have literally conveyed. Well, replied Judith, affecting to understand them literally, I fancy there will not be much difficulty about that. If he's as poor as you say, he'll only be too well pleased to get a good situation and keep it too, I should think. I sh'not so sure about that. He's a young man of a proud spirit, that ish proved by hish leaving his uncle as he has done, without a shilling in hish pocket, and then to defy the kushtos face to face.

Bless my soul! What a foolish young fellow he ish! He must be managed, shooteth, dear, he must be managed, and you're shust the one to do it. Why, father, to hear you talk, one would think that this poor young Englishman was a rich sugar estate, to be managed, for some grand profit. Aha! exclaimed the other, interrupting her. Maybe-ish, maybe-ish a rich sugar estate. We-shee, we-shee. Now, had it been the grand quest of Mount Welcome, Continued Judith, without heeding the interruption. Had it been this Lord of Montague Castle that you wished me to manage—at the word the Jewess smiled significantly—I might have come nearer comprehending you. Ah, there is no chance there, no chance whatever shooteth.

No chance of what? abruptly inquired the Jewess. Why, no chance of— That ish. Come, worthy rabbi, speak out. You needn't be afraid to tell me of what you're thinking. I know it already. Of what wash I thinking, shooteth? The father put this question rather with a view to escape from an explanation. The daughter instantaneously answered. You were thinking, and I suppose still are, that I, your daughter, the child of an old nigger-dealer as you are, would have no chance with this aristocratic stranger who has arrived, this Mr. Montague Smythche. That's your thought, Jacob Jesseron. Well, shooteth dear, you know he is to be the guest of the Kushtos, and the Kushtos "'Ash-eye-hash reason to know, hash an eye on him for his own daughter.

Miss Vokan is thought a great bell, and it would be no use for us to aspire.' "'She is a bell,' exclaimed the Jewess, with a proud toss of her head, and a slight up-turning of her beautiful spiral nostril. She was not the bell of the last ball at the bay. Not she, indeed. And as for aspiring—' The daughter of a slave-dealer is at least equal to the daughter of a slave. Maybe a slave herself. Hush, Judith! Not a word about that, not a whisper in the hearing of this young man. You know he is her cousin. Hush! I don't care if he was her brother," rejoined the Jewess, still speaking in a tone of spiteful indignation. For Kate Vaughan's beauty was Judith Jesseron's especial fiend. And if he were her brother, continued she, I'd treat him worse than I intend to do.

Fortunately for him he's only her cousin. And as he has quarreled with them all, I suppose, has he said anything of her? The interrogatory was put as if suggested by some sudden thought. And the questioner seemed to wait with considerable anxiety for the answer. Of his cousin Kate, you mean? Why, who should I mean? demanded Judith bluntly. There is no other she in Mound Welcome the young fellow is likely to be talking about. Nor you, either, unless, indeed, you've still got that copper-colored wench in your head. Of course it's Kate Vaughn, I mean. What says he of her? He must have seen her, short as his visit seems to have been, and if so, you must have talked about her last night, since you sat late enough to have discussed the whole scandal of the island.

With all this freedom of verbiage, the Jewish seemed not to lose sight of the original interrogatory. And her frequent repetition of it was rather intended to conceal the interest with which she looked for an answer. If her words did not betray that interest, her looks certainly did. For as she bent forward to listen, a skilled observer might have detected in her eyes that sort of solitude which springs from a heart where the love-passion is just beginning to develop itself. Budding, but not yet blooming. "'True, shooteth, true,' admitted the slave merchant, thus bantered by his own bold offspring. The young man did speak of his cousin, for I hash a wish to know what was his opinion of her, and asked him.

I was in hopes he had quarrelled with her too, but ach, no he hasn't, he hasn't.'" What might that signify to you? Mach! Mach! Daughter shooteth a great deal. You're a mysterious old man, Father Jacob, and, though I've been studying you for nearly a score of years, I don't half understand you yet. But what did he say of Kate Vaughan? He saw her, I suppose. Yesh! He had an interview with her. He says she behaved very kind to him. He's not angry with her. She'll help me, no. This information appeared to produce no very pleasant impression upon the Jewess, who, with her eyes downcast upon the floor, remained for some moments in a thoughtful attitude. Father, she said, in a tone half serious, half in simplicity, the young fellow has got a bit of blue ribbon in his buttonhole.

"'You have noticed it, I suppose.' "'I am curious to know what he means by wearing that. Is it in order, or what? Did he tell you?' "'No, I noticed it. But as he she'd nothings about it, I did not ask him. It is no order, nothing of the kind. His father was only a poor artist.' "'I wonder where he procured that piece of ribbon.' Said Judith, speaking in a low tone, and half in soliloquy. You can ask him for yourself, Judith. There ish no harm in that. No, not I, answered Judith, suddenly changing countenance, as if ashamed of having shown the weakness of curiosity. What care I for him, or his ribbon? No matter for that, Judith dear, no matter for that. If you can make him care for you, care for me, what, father, do you want him to fall in love with me?

Jush that, jush so. For what reason, pray? Don't ask, no. I hash a purpose. You shall know it in good time, shooteth. You make him in love with you, over head and ears, if you like. The counsel did not appear averse to her who received it. Anything but displeasure was in her looks as she listened to it. But what? asked she, after a reflective pause, and laughing as she spake. What if, in luring him, I should myself fall into the lure? They say that the tarantula is sometimes taken in its own trap. If you succeed in catching your fly, "'Mine good spider shooteth. That won't signify. So much the better ish that. But first catch your fly. Don't let go the strings of your heart till you hast secured his, and then you may do as you please about falling in love with him.

Hush! I hear him coming from his chamber. Now shooteth dear, show him every respect." Shower on him your shweedest of smiles. And terminating the dialogue with this parental injunction, Jacob Jesseron walked off to conduct his guest into the great hall. Ah, worthy father," said Judith, looking after him with a singular expression upon her countenance, for once you may find me a dutiful daughter, though not for you or your purpose. Whatever that may be, I have my suspicion of what it is. No, not for that either. Grand destiny as it might be deemed. There is something grander still. A passion perilous to play with. And just for that peril shall I play with it. Ha! He comes. How proud his step! He looks the master, and yon old Israelite his overseer, his bookkeeper.

Ha! Ha! Ach! she exclaimed, suddenly checking her laughter, and changing her smile to a frown. The ribbon! He wears it still! What can it mean? No matter now, ere long I shall unravel the skein of its silken mystery, even if this heart should be torn in the attempt.

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Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Chapter 33. Another of the Same. "'You have sent for me, Papa?' said Kate, entering the great hall in obedience to a summons from her father. "'Yes, Catherine,' replied Mr. Vaughan in a tone of unwanted gravity. The grave tone was not needed. The Catherine was enough to tell Kate that her father was in one of his serious moods. For it was only when in this vein that he ever pronounced her baptismal name in full. Sit down here, he proceeded, pointing to a foot in front of where he was himself seated. Sit down, my daughter, and listen. I have something of importance to say to you. The young lady obeyed in silence, and not without a little of that reluctant gaucherie.

which patients display when seating themselves in front of a physician, or a naughty child composing itself to listen to the parental lecture. The natural gaiety of Lily Kwasheba was not easily restrained, and though the unusual gravity depicted in her father's face might have checked it, the formality with which he was initiating the interview had an opposite effect. At the corners of her pretty little mouth might have been observed something that resembled a smile. Her father did observe something that resembled it. "'Come, Catherine,' said he reprovingly, "'I have called you out to talk over a serious matter. I expect you to listen seriously, as becomes the subject. Oh, Papa, how can I be serious till I know the subject?' You are not ill, I hope.

Tut. No, no. It has nothing to do with my health, which, thank Providence, is good enough. Nor yours neither. It is our wealth, not our health, that is concerned. Our wealth, Catherine. The last phrase was uttered with emphasis, and in a confidential way, as if to enlist his daughter's sympathies upon the subject. Our wealth, Papa? I hope nothing has happened. You have had no losses. No, child," replied Mr. Brown, now speaking in a fond parental tone, nothing of the sort, thanks to fortune, and perhaps a little to my own prudence. It is not losses I am thinking about, but gains. Gains! Aye, gains! Gains, Catherine, which you can assist me in obtaining. "'I, Papa? How could I assist you? I know nothing of business.

I am sure I know nothing. Business? Ha, ha! It's not business, Kate. The part which you will have to play will be one of pleasure. I hope so, at least.' "'Pray tell me what it is, Papa. I am sure I'm fond of pleasure at all times. Everybody knows that.' "'Catherine,' said her father. Once more, more adopting the grave tone. Do you know how old you are? Certainly, Papa. At least what I've been told. Eighteen. Just past last birthday. And do you know what young girls should, and generally do, think about when they come to be of that age? Kate either affected or felt profound ignorance of the answer she was expected to make. Come. Said Mr. Brown banteringly. You know what I mean, Catherine. Indeed, Papa, I do not.

You know I keep no secrets from you. You taught me not. If I had any, I would tell them to you. I know you're a good girl, Kate. I know you would. But that is a sort of secret I should hardly expect you to declare, even to me, your father. "'Pray, what is it, Papa?' "'Why, at your age, Kate, most girls, and it is but right and natural they should, take to thinking about a young man.' "'Oh, that is what you mean. Then I can answer you, Papa, that I have taken to thinking about one.' "'Ha!' ejaculated Mr. Vaughn, in a tone of pleased surprise. "'You have, have you?' "'Yes, indeed.' answered Kate, with an air of the most innocent naivete. I have been thinking of one, and so much that he is scarce ever out of my mind.

Ha! said the Kustos, repeating his exclamation of surprise, and rather taken aback by the confession so unexpectedly candid. Since how long has this been, my child? Since how long? rejoined Kate musingly. "'Yes, when did you first begin to think of this young man?' "'Oh, the day before yesterday, after dinner, ever since I first saw him, Father.' "'At dinner you first saw him,' said Mr. Vaughn, correcting his daughter. "'But no matter for that,' he continued, gleefully rubbing his hands together, and not noticing the puzzled expression upon Kate's countenance. "'It might be that you did not think of him in the first moments of your introduction. It's not often people do. A little bashfulness has to be got over.

And so then, Kate, you like him now. You think you like him now?' "'Oh, Father, you may be sure I do, better than anyone I ever saw, excepting yourself, dear Papa.' "'Ah, my little chit!' That's a different sort of liking, altogether different. The one's love, the other is but filial affection, each very well in its place. Now, as you're a good girl, Kate, I have a bit of pleasant news for you. What is it, Papa? I don't know whether I should tell you or not, said the Kustos, playfully patting his daughter upon the cheek. "'At least not now, I think. It might make you too happy. "'Oh, Papa, I have told you what you wished me, and I see it has made you happy. Surely you will not conceal what you say will do the same for me?' "'What is the news?' "'Listen then, Kate.' Mr.

Vaughn bending forward as if to make his communication more impressive, pronounced in a whisper, "'He reciprocates your feeling. He likes you.' "'Father, I fear he does not,' said the young Creole, with a serious air. "'He does, I tell you so, girl. He's over head and ears in love with you. I know it. In fact, I saw it from the first minute. A blind man might have perceived it. But then a blind man can see better than a young lady that's in love.

Loftus Vaughn laughed long and loudly at the jest he had so unexpectedly perpetrated, for at that moment he was in the very mood for merriment. His dearest dream was about to be realized. Montague Smythegee was in love with his daughter. That he knew before. Now his daughter had more than half admitted, in fact quite confessed, that she liked Smythegee. And what was liking but love? Yes, Kate," said he as soon as his exultation had to some extent subsided. You are blind, you little silly, else you might have seen it before. His behavior would show how much he cares for you. Ah, father, I think that his behavior would rather show that he cares not for either of us. He is too proud to care for anyone.

What? Too proud? Nonsense! It's only his way. Surely he has not shown anything of that to you, Kate. I cannot blame him, continued the young girl, still speaking in a serious tone. The fault was not his. Your treatment of him, father. You must not be angry at me for telling you of it. Now that I know all, dear Papa, Was it not enough to make him act as he has done? My treatment of him? cried the Kustos, with a self-justifying but puzzled look. Why, child, you rave! I could not treat him better. If I was to try ever so. I have done everything to entertain him and make him feel at home here. As to what he has done, it's all nonsense about his pride. At least with us he has shown nothing of the kind.

On the contrary, he is acting admirably throughout the whole matter. Certainly no man could behave with more politeness to you than Mr. Smythegee is doing. Mr. Smythegee. The entrance of this gentleman, at the moment, prevented Mr. Vaughan from noticing the effect which the mention of his name had produced, an unexpected effect. As might have been seen by the expression which Kate's features had suddenly assumed. But for that interruption, hindering the éclair-hissement, which no doubt his daughter would on the instant have made, Mr. Vaughan might have sat down to breakfast with his appetite considerably impaired. His guest, requiring all his attention, caused him to withdraw suddenly from the dialogue.

And he appeared neither to have heard the exclamatory repetition of Smythegee's name, nor the words uttered by Kate in a lower tone as she turned towards the table. I thought it was Herbert.

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The Maroon by Thomas Mayne Reed. Chapter 34. A Sweetheart Expected. The departure of the young Englishman, under the conduct of Quacko, was a signal for the black band to disperse. At a word from their chief, they broke up into knots of two or three individuals each, and went off in different directions, disappearing amid the underwood as silently as they had emerged from it. Cubina alone remained in the glade, the captured runaway cowering upon a log beside him. For some minutes the maroon captain stood resting upon his gun, which one of his followers had brought up, his eyes fixed upon the captive. He appeared to be meditating what course he should pursue in relation to the unfortunate slave.

and the shadow upon his countenance told that some thought was troubling him. The maroon captain felt himself in a dilemma. His duty was in conflict with his desires. From the first the face of the captive had interested him, and now that he had time to scan it more narrowly and observe its noble features, the idea of delivering him up to such a cruel master As he, whose initials he bore upon his breast, became all the more repugnant. Duty demanded him to do so. It was the law of the land, one of the terms of the treaty by which the Maroons were bound, and disobedience to that law would be certain to meet with punishment stringent and severe. True, there was a time when a Maroon captain would have held obedience to this law more lightly, but that was before the conquest of the Trelawney town, or rather its traitorous betrayal, followed by the basest banishment recorded among men.

That betrayal had brought about a change. The Maroons, who had avoided the forced exile, had still remained in the mountain fastnesses. Though preserving their independence, were no longer a powerful people, only a mere remnant, whose weakness rendered them amenable, not only to the laws of the island, but to the tyranny and caprice of such plantar justices as might choose to persecute them. Such was the position of Kubina and his little band, who had established themselves in the mountains of Trelawney. With the maroon captain, therefore, it was a necessity as well as a duty to deliver up the runaway captive. Failing to do so, he would place his own liberty in peril. He knew this without the threat which Ravener had fulminated in such positive terms.

His interest also lay in the line of his duty. This also he could understand. The captive was a prize for which he would be entitled to claim a reward—the bounty. Not for a moment was he detained by this last consideration. The prospect of the reward would have had no weight with him whatever. It would not even have cost him a reflection. But that, just then, and for a very singular purpose, Kubina required money. This purpose was revealed in a soliloquy that at that moment escaped from his lips. "'Crambo,' he muttered, using an exclamation of the Spanish tongue, still found in a corrupted form among the maroons. "'If it wasn't that I have to make up the purchase-money of Yola! Por Dios! He is as like to Yola as if he was her brother.' I warrant he is of the same nation, perhaps of her tribe.

Two or three times he has pronounced the word Fula. Besides, his color, his shape, his hair, all like hers. No doubt of it. He's a Fula. The last word was uttered so loud as to reach the ear of the runaway. Yah, Fula, Fula! He exclaimed, turning his eyes appealingly upon his captor. No slave! No slave! added he, striking his hand upon his breast as he repeated the words. Slave! No slave! echoed the maroon, with a start of surprise. That's English enough. They've taught him the ugly word. Foul ami! No slave! Again exclaimed the youth, with a similar gesture to that he had already made. "'Something curious in this,' muttered the maroon musingly. "'What can he mean by saying he is no slave? For that is certainly what he is trying to say.

Slave he must be, else how did he get here?' "'I've heard that a cargo has been just landed.' and that the old Jew got most or all of them. This young fellow must be one of that lot. Very likely he's picked up the words aboard ship. Perhaps he is speaking of what he was in his own country. Ah, poor devil! He'll soon find the difference here. Santos Dios, continued the maroon. after a pause in which he had been silently regarding the countenance of the newly-arrived African. It's a shame to make a slave of such as he, a hundred times more like a freeman than his master. Poor fellow! It's a hard row he'll have to hoe. I feel more than half tempted to risk it, and save him from such a fate. As this half-determination passed through the mind of the maroon, a noble and proud expression came over his features.

If they had not seen him in my possession, he continued to reflect. But the overseer and those Spanish poltroons know all, and will—well, let them. At all events I shall not take him back till I have seen Yola. No doubt she can talk to him. If he's Fula, she can. We'll hear what he's got to say, and what this no slave means. On saying this the speaker turned his eyes upward, and appeared for some moments to scan the sun. "'Good!' he exclaimed. "'It is near the hour. I may expect her at any moment. Oh, I must have him out of sight.' And these dead dogs, too, or my timid pet will be frayed. There's been so much doing about here, blood and fire. She will scarcely know the old trysting place. Hark you, Fula!

Come this way, and squat yourself in here till I call you out again. To the runaway the gestures of his captor were more intelligible than his words. He understood by them. That he was required to conceal himself between the buttresses of the Siba, and, rising from the log, he readily obeyed the requisition. The maroon captain seized the tail of one of the dead bloodhounds, and after trailing the carcass for some distance across the glade, flung it into a covert of bushes. Returning to the Siba in a similar manner, he removed the other. And then, once more cautioning the runaway to remain silent in his concealment, he awaited the approach of her who had given him assignation.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter Thirty-Five. A Love Scene Under the Siba The lover who is beloved need never fear disappointment. True to her tryst, and punctual to the time, did the expected sweetheart make her appearance within the glade. With shy but graceful mane she advanced toward the Siba, and with sufficient firmness of step to show that she came not in doubt. A smile, confident and slightly coquettish, dancing in her dark eyes and playing upon her prettily curved lips, told of a love already plighted, at the same time betokening full faith in the vows that had been exchanged. Kubina stepped forth to receive her, and the lovers met in the open ground, at some distance from the tree.

Their demeanour at meeting Told that it was not their first assignation, but that oft-times before had they been together in that same rendezvous. The presence of the runaway, not seen, however, from the spot, did not hinder Kubina from saluting his sweetheart with a kiss, nor prevent him from folding her for a short moment in his arms. That spasm of exquisite pleasure passed. The dialogue began. The girl spoke first. "'Oh, Kubina, news I have tell.' "'Come, my love, what news?' "'Ah, you are looking grave, Yola. Your news is not very joyful, I fear.' "'No, not joyful. Bad news.' "'Let me hear them, love. Something Cynthia has been saying to you. You shouldn't heed what that girl says.' "'No, Kubina.

I no care what her me tell. I her know. Wicked, bad girl. Not Cynthia say that bring me trouble now. Missa Kate me tell.' "'Ah, something Miss Vaughn has told you. I wouldn't look for bad news from her. But what is it, dear Yola? Maybe after all it's nothing.' "'Ah, yes, Kubina, something.' "'I fear me keep from you long, long time.' "'Keep you from me?' "'Surely Miss Fawn don't object to your meeting me.' "'No, not that. Something I fear me hinder from be—' "'Be what?' inquired the lover, seeing that his sweetheart hesitated to pronounce some word, the thought of which was causing her to blush. "'Come, dear Yola, don't fear to tell me.' "'You know we're engaged. There should be no secret between us.

What were you going to say?' In a low, murmured voice, and looking lovingly in his eyes as she spoke, the girl pronounced the word Mary. "'Ho! Ho!' exclaimed the lover, in a confident tone. "'I think nothing can occur to hinder that, at least for a very long time.' I have now nearly a hundred pounds laid by, and a lucky capture I have just made this morning will help still further to make up that sum. Surely the Cousteau's will not require more than a hundred pounds. Though if you were once mine," continued the speaker, casting a look of smiling fondness upon his sweetheart's face, all the money in the world wouldn't tempt me to part with you. "'I hope,' he added, speaking in a jocular air, "'a hundred pounds will be enough to make you my slave.' "'You slave, Kubina?' "'Yes, Yola, I am yours now.' "'Ah!

That way! Yola yours! Yours ever! Evermore!' "'I will believe you, dear girl,' rejoined the lover, gazing with a gratified look. in the face of his beloved. I am very happy to think that in that way you are mine, and that I have, as you assure me, your heart and soul. But, dearest Yola, so long as another is the owner of your body, not with the right but the powder to do, aye, indeed, almost as he might please. For who can hinder these proud planters from committing crimes of which they are their own judges? Ah, Yola girl, it is fearful to reflect on their wicked doings. This very morning I have come across a sample of their cruelty, and when I think of you being in the power of one, it makes me feel as if every hour was a day until I can obtain your freedom.

I am always in fear, lest something may happen to hinder me. Just to-day I am in high hopes," continued the lover, evincing the truth of his words by a pleasant smile. I have succeeded in raising nearly the hundred pounds, and the bounty I expect to receive for the runaway I have caught will make it quite that. The girl returned no reply to this speech of her lover. But stood gazing upon him silently, as if half reproachfully. Something of this kind he read, or fancied he read, in her looks. What, Yola, you are not satisfied with what I have said? You reproach me? Ah, true. I confess it is not a very creditable way of procuring your purchase money. Maldito! What can I do? "'We maroons have no other way of raising money, except by hunting the wild hogs and selling their barbecued flesh.

But that barely gives us a living. Crambo! I could never have got together a hundred pounds in that way. So do not reproach me, dear Yola, for what I have done. I assure you it goes against my grain, this man-hunting business. As for the young fellow I caught this morning—' I'd risk a good reel, rather than give him up, if it wasn't for the purpose of procuring your freedom. For that I must have the hundred pounds, which it is to be hoped will be enough to satisfy your master." "'All Kubina,' replied his slave-love with a sigh, "'that the bad news I you bring. Hundred pound no more enough.'" Only two days ago he have him offered twice so much for poor slave Yola. "'Two hundred pounds offered for you?' exclaimed the maroon.

With a start of surprise, his brow becoming suddenly clouded. "'Is that what you mean, Yola?' "'Ah, yes,' answered the slave, repeating her sad sigh. "'And who—who is he?' demanded the lover in a quick, earnest tone. At the same time that a gleam of jealous thought flashed from his dark eyes, like forked lightning across a clouded sky. He knew that no man would have bid two hundred pounds for a slave, even for Yola, without some wicked motive. The girl's beauty, combined with the extravagant offer, would have suggested the motive to one disinterested in her fate. How much more was it calculated to arouse the suspicions of a lover? A white man, continued he, without waiting for the reply to his first question.

I need not ask that. But tell me, Yola, who is he that's so desirous of becoming your owner? You know, I suppose. Missa Kate, me tell all. He Jew, wicked white man, same who me take from big ship. "'And me first sell Massavon.' "'Ha!' sharply ejaculated the lover. "'That old wretch it is? Wicked white man, you may well call him. I know the old villain well. Crambo, what can he want with her?' muttered the maroon musingly, but with a troubled mane. "'Some vile purpose to a certainty? Oh, sure!' Then once more addressing himself to his slave sweetheart. You are certain, Yola, the old Jew made this offer? So me say, young Missa. Two hundred pounds! And Mr. Vaughan refused it? Missa Kate no allow, Massa Vaughan me sell.

She say never. Ah, young Missa, she good for say so, no matter what money he give. She never let wicked white man buy Yola. She so say many time. Miss Kate said this? Then she is good. She is generous. It must have been her doing, else the Cousteaux would never have refused such a tempting offer. Two hundred pounds! It is a large sum. Well, I must begin again. I must work night and day to get it. And then if they should refuse me—ha! What then? The speaker paused, not as if expecting a reply from her who stood by his side, but rather from his own thoughts. Never mind, continued he, his countenance assuming an expression partly hopeful, partly reckless. Have no fear of the future, Yola. Worst come worst, you shall yet be mine.

Ay, dearest— "'You shall share my mountain home, though I may have to make it the home of an outlaw.' "'Oh!' exclaimed a young girl, slightly frayed by the wild look and words of her lover, her eye at the same instant falling upon the red pool where the hounds had been slain. "'Blood? Kubina?' "'Only that of some animals, a wild boar and two dogs, just killed there. Don't let that frighten you, pet.' "'You must be brave, my Yola, since you are to be the wife of a maroon. Ours is a life of many dangers. With you, Yola, no fear. She go anywhere, far over the mountains, to Jumba Rock, anywhere you her take, Kubina. Thanks, dearest. Maybe some day we may be forced to go far over the mountains, in flight, too, Yola.' But we shall try to avoid that.

If your master will only act right, there will be no need. If not, then you will fly with me. Will you not? What Kubina do, Yola do same. Where he go, she go. The passionate promise was sealed by a kiss, followed by an interval of sacred silence. Enough, then, said the lover. After the pause had passed, as a last resource we can do that. But we shall hope for the best, and maybe some good fortune may befall. My followers are true, and would help me. But alas, all are poor hunters like myself. Well, it may take some time before I can call you my own fearlessly, in the face of the world. Longer, maybe, than I expected. Never mind for that. We can meet often. And now, dear Yola, listen to what I'm going to say to you.

Listen, and keep it in your mind. If ever a white man insults you, you know what I mean? If you are in danger of such a thing, as you would have been were old Jesseron to become your master. "'Ay, and who knows how, where, or when. Well then, fly to this glade, and wait here for me. If I do not come, someone will. Every day I shall send one of my people to this place. Don't fear to run away. Though I may not care to get into trouble about a common slave, I shall risk all to protect you. Yes, my life." Dearest Yola. "'Oh, Kubina!' exclaimed the girl, in passionate admiration. "'Oh, brave beauty, Kubina! You not fear danger?' "'There is no great danger in it,' returned the maroon, in a confident tone.

"'If I had made up my mind to run away with you, I could soon take you beyond the reach of pursuit.' In the black grounds we could live without fear of the tyranny of white men. But I don't want to be hunted like a wild dog. I would rather you should become mine by honest means. That is, I would rather buy you, as I intend to do. And then we may settle down near the plantations, and live without apprehension. Perhaps, after all, the Coustos may not be so hard with me. "'As with the old Jew, who knows? Your young mistress is kind, you have told me. She may do something to favour our plans.' "'True, Kubina. She me love. She say never me part.' "'That is, well. She means she would not part with you against your will.

But if I offer to buy you, it would be a different thing.' Perhaps you might let her know all, after a while. But I have something to learn first, and I don't wish you to tell her till then. So keep our secret, dear Yola, for a little longer."

And now, continued the maroon, changing his tone, and turning towards the Siba as he spoke, I've got something to show you. Did you ever see a runaway? Runaway! Said the girl. No, Kubina, never. Well, my love, there's one not far off. He that I said I had captured this morning, only a little while ago. And I'll tell you why I've kept him here. Because I fancied that he was like yourself, Yola. Like me? Yes. And that is why I felt for the poor fellow something like pity. "'Since it is to this cruel old Jew he belongs, from what I can make out he must be one of your people, and I am curious to know what account he will give of himself.' "'He, Fula, you think?' inquired the African maiden, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at the anticipation of seeing one of her own race.

"'Yes, I am good as sure of that.' In fact, he has called himself a Fula several times, though I can't make out what he says. If he is one of your tribe, you will be able to talk to him. There he is. Kubina had by this time conducted his sweetheart round the tree, to that side on which the runaway was concealed between the two spurs. The young man was still crouching within the angle, close up to the trunk of the Siba. The moment the two figures came in front of him and his eyes fell upon the face of the girl, he sprang to his feet, uttering a cry of wild joy. Like an echo, Yola repeated the cry, and then both pronouncing some hurried phrases in an unknown tongue, rushed together and became folded in a mutual embrace.

Kubina stood transfixed to the spot. Surprise! Something more held him speechless. He could only think. She knows him. Perhaps her lover in her own land. A keen pang of jealousy accompanied the thought. Rankling it remained in the breast of the maroon, till Yola, untwining her arms from the fond embrace and pointing to him who had received it, pronounced the tranquilizing words.

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Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed Volume Two. Chapter One. Smythe Gee in Shooting Costume.

Several days had elapsed since that on which Mr. Montague Smythe Gee became the guest of Mount Welcome. And during the time neither pains nor expense had been spared in his entertainment. Horses were kept for his riding, a carriage for his driving. Dinners had been got up. And company invited to meet him. The best society of the bay and the neighboring plantations had been already introduced to the rich English exquisite, the owner of one great sugar estate, and, as society began to hear it whispered, the prospective possessor of another. The matrimonial projects of the worthy custos that had been suspected from the first Soon became the subject of much discussion. It may be mentioned, though it is scarce necessary, that in his designs upon Smith G., Mr.

Vaughan was not left all the field to himself. There were other parents in the planter fraternity of the neighborhood, blessed with good-looking daughters, and many of them, both fathers and mothers, that fixed their eyes on the lord of Montague Castle. As a very eligible sample for a son-in-law. Each of these aspiring couples gave a grand dinner, and in turn trotted out their innocent lambs in presence of the British Lion. The exquisites smiled amiably upon all their efforts, adopting his distinguished position as a matter of course. Thus merrily passed the first fortnight of Smythegee's sojourn in Jamaica.

On a pleasant morning near the end of this fortnight, in one of the largest bedchambers of Mount Welcome House, that consecrated to the reception of distinguished strangers, Mr. Smythegee might have been seen in front of his mirror. He was engaged in the occupation of dressing himself, or— To speak more correctly, permitting himself to be dressed by his valet de chamber. In the extensive wardrobe of the London exquisite there were dresses for all purposes and every occasion. Suits for morning, dinner, and evening. One for riding and one for driving. A shooting dress, and one for the nobler sport of Chaisao Cheval. A dress for boating. Alameda, and a grand costume de bal. On the occasion in question Mr.

Smythgee's August person was being enveloped in his shooting dress, and although the West India sportsman or an English squire would have smiled derisively at such a rig, the Cockney regarded it with complacency as being just the thing. It consisted of a French tunic-shaped cotee of green silk velvet, trimmed with fur, a helmet-shaped hunting cap to match, and a purple waistcoat underneath, embroidered with cord of gold bullion. Instead of breeches and top boots, Mr. Smith G. fancied he had improved upon the costume by encasing his limbs in long trousers. These were of dressed fawn skin, of a straw color, and soft as the finest chamois leather. They fitted tightly around the legs, notwithstanding that the wearer was rather deficient in that quarter.

Moreover, they were strapped at the bottoms over a pair of brightly shining lacquered boots, another error at which a true sportsman would have smiled. Mr. Smythejee, however, was well satisfied with the style of his dress, as appeared from the conversation carried on between him and his valet, Toms, while the latter was making him ready for the field. "'Pon! Honnah! A damned becoming costume!' exclaimed he, surveying himself from head to foot in the mirror. "'Don't you think so, Toms?' "'Picod, it's all that, your honour,' replied Toms with just enough of an Irish accent to show that he was a Welshman. The object for which Mr. Smythegee was thus having his person apparelled was a shooting excursion to the hills, which he designed making, in order to vary his pleasures by committing havoc among the Ramir pigeons, and wild guinea-fowl which, he had been told, Abounded there.

The projected expedition was not any grand affair by appointment, merely an ordinary improvised thing. The sportsman intended going alone, as the Kustos on that day had some important business at the bay, and Mr. Smythegee, by a ramble through the neighboring woods, fancied he might kill the time between breakfast and dinner pleasantly enough. This was all that was intended. and a darky to guide him all that was needed. Wheelie, resumed the exquisite after some moments spent in enthusiastic admiration of his person. Wheelie, Toms, these Keeho Kweetaws are charming, positively charming. Nothing in the Theta or Opua at all to compare with them. Such lovely eyes, such divine figures. And such easy conquests.

"'By Jove, I can count a dozen al'wedy.' "'Ha! ha!' added he, with a self-gradulatory giggle. "'It's but Natwell, Nat. Don't you think so, Toms?' "'Parfickly natural, your honour,' replied Toms, "'considerin' your honour's good looks. "'Ah! ha! that's it, Toms, that's it. We can't wezist.' Either the lady-killer was not content with his twelve easy conquests, and wished to have the number more complete by making it the baker's dozen, either this, or he was uncertain about his victory over one of the twelve, as would appear by the dialogue that followed between him and his confidential man. "'Hawk ya, Toms,' said he, approaching the valet in a more serious way. "'You are an exceedingly intelligent fellow.

You are panhana.' "'Thank your honour. It's keeping your honour's company has made me so.' "'Never mind, never mind that. But I have observed your intelligence. It's at your honour's humble Sunday.' "'Ve well, Toms, ve well.' "'I want you to employ it.' "'In what way, your honour?' Anything your honour may desire me to do? You know the nigger girl, the brown girl with the Tobin, I mean. Miss Vaughn's wedding maid? Exactly, yes. Yola, or something of the sort, is the quitta's name. Yes, Yala. That's her name, your honour. Well, Toms, I presume you have excellent opportunities of— "'Holding conversation with her. The nigger, I mean.' "'Plenty of opportunity, Your Honor. I've talked with her scores of times.' "'Good.

Now the next time you'll talk with her. Tums, I want you to pump her.' "'Pump her? What's that, Your Honor?' "'Why, draw something out of her.' "'Fifth, I don't understand, Your Honor. Not understand.' "'You are stupid, Toms. Keeping your honour's company—' "'What, fella? Keeping my company make you stupid?' "'No, your honour, ye didn't hear me out. I was going to say that keeping your honour's company would soon take that out of me. Ha! Ha! Ha! That's different altogether.' "'Well, listen now, and I'll make you understand me. I want you to talk to this Yola.' and draw some secrets out of her.

Oh, answered Toms, dwelling a long time upon the syllable, and placing his forefinger along the side of his nose. Now I comprehend, your honour. All wight, all wight. I'll manage that, don't fear me. But what sort of secrets do your honour want me to draw out of her? "'I want you to find out what she says about me, not the nigger, but her mistress.' "'What the nigger says about her mistress? Tom, you are intolerably stupid this morning.' "'Not at all, not at all. But what her mistress says about me, me, oh, what Miss Vaughan says about your honour.' "'Precisely.' "'Faith!' I'll find that out, if'ry word hath it. If you do, Toms, I shall be your deptah for a guinea. A guinea, Your Honor. Ah, yes.

And if you execute your commission cleverly, I shall make it two, two guineas, do you hear? Never fear, Your Honor, I'll get it out of the nigger. If I should have to pull the tongue from between them shining teeth of hers. No, Toms, no, my good fella. There must be no woodness, remember. We are guests here. And Mount Welcome is not a hotel. You must work by strategy, not strength. As Shakespeare or some other of those squibbling fellas has said, no doubt strategy will win the day. And with this ambiguous observation, Ambiguous as to whether it referred to the issue of Tom's Embassy, or his own success in the wooing of Miss Vaughan, Mr. Montague Smythegee closed the conversation. Tom's now gave the last touch to the sportsman's toilet, by setting the hunting cap on his head, and hanging numerous belts over his shoulders, among which included a shot pouch, a copper powder horn, a pewter drinking flask with its cup.

and a hunting knife in its leathern sheath. Thus equipped, the sportsman strode stiffly from the apartment and wended his way towards the great hall, evidently with the design of encountering the fair Kate, and exhibiting himself in his killing costume.

37 037 - Volume 2 Chapter 2 - A Cockney Sportsman 10:19

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Two. Chapter Two.

That he had obtained the interview he sought, and that its result had gratified him, might be inferred from the complacent smile that played upon his countenance as he sallied forth from the house. Moreover, in crossing the two or three hundred yards of open ground which separated the dwelling from the wooded slope of the ridge, He walked with an exalted, gingerly step, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, as if conscious of being observed. He was observed. Two faces could be seen at a window, one of which Mr. Smythe G. knew to be that of Kate Vaughn. The other, of darker hue, was the face of the maid, Yola. Both were set in smiles. It did not matter to Mr. Smythegee whether the maid smiled or not, but he fondly fancied he could distinguish a pleased expression on the countenance of the mistress.

He was at too great a distance to be certain, but he had little doubt of its being a look of intense admiration that was following him through his fine paces. Had he been near enough to translate the expression more truly, He might have doubted whether he was the object of so much admiration, and had the remark made by Yola to her mistress reached his ear, with the clear ringing laughter it called forth, his doubts would have had a melancholy confirmation. "'He bery grand, missa,' said the maid. "'He like cock a benny turned yellowtail.' A plantation proverb which translated into plain English means, That the coarse and despised little fish, the cockabanny, had become metamorphosed into the splendid and esteemed species known among the Negroes as the yellow tail.

As the sportsman neither heard the remark nor the laugh it elicited, he was enabled to carry his self-esteem into the woods unhurt and undiminished. At his heels walked an attendant, a Negro boy. Whose sole costume consisted of an Asnabur shirt, with a huge game bag slung over his shoulders, and hanging down to his hams, it was the veritable Quashy, post-boy, horse-boy, and Fectotum. Quashy's duties on the present occasion were to guide the English Bukhra to the best shooting ground among the hills, and carry the game when killed. As there was no dog, pigeon, and pintado shooting not requiring the aid of this sagacious animal, Quashie was to act also as finder and retriever. For a full mile over hill and dale, through brake, brush, and scour, trampled the ardent sportsman, his Ethiopian attendant keeping like a shadow at his heels.

Still not a head of game had as yet been bagged. Ramirez was scarce and shy. And as for the beautiful speckled hen, the exotic Numida maligris, not as much as the crest of one, could be seen. Their shrill shriek, like the filing of a frame saw, could be occasionally heard afar off, and the hope of getting sight of one enticed the sportsman still further into the forest. Another mile was passed over. And another hour spent, almost equally unfruitful in events. A few Ramirs had been sighted and shot at, but the thick corslet of feathers that covers the bold breasts of these beautiful birds seemed impenetrable to the shot of a gun. At least they proved so to the double-barrelled manton of the London sportsman.

Another mile traversed, another hour spent. Still nothing bagged. His want of success did not hinder the sportsman from growing hungry, and at the end of his third mile he began to feel a certain void about the epigastric region that called for viands. He knew that the bag which Quashie carried contained a luncheon that had been carefully provided and packed by the major-domo of Mount Welcome. It was time to examine this luncheon, and, seating himself under the shadow of a spreading tree, he directed the darky to draw it forth. Nothing Loth was quashy to respond to this request, for the weight of the bag, which he had been wincing under for some hours, and its distended sides, promised pickings for himself, after the Grand Bukhra should satisfy his hunger.

Certainly there appeared enough for both, and to spare, for on glutting the game-bag a whole caipon was turned out upon the grass, with sundry slices of bread, ham, and tongue, and all the paraphernalia of salt, pepper, and mustard. A bottle of claret was found at the bottom of the bag, which, in addition to the flask of eau de vie that the sportsman himself carried, and which he now laid aside to disencumber him, was liquid enough to wash down the savoury solids which the thoughtful steward had provided. A knife and fork were also turned out, and as Mr. Montague Smythji was more habile in the handling of these weapons than he was in the use of a gun, in a trice the capon was cut into convenient pieces.

In an equally short space of time, many of these pieces had disappeared between his teeth, in company with sundry slices of the ham and tongue. Quashy was not invited to partake, but sat near the Grand Bukhra's feet, wistfully watching his movements, as a dog would his master similarly occupied. As the massacatory powers of the Cockney sportsman appeared to be of no mean order, Quashy's look began to betray astonishment, mingled with a growing dread that the aughts he might be called upon to eat would be neither very numerous nor very bulky. Half the capon had already disappeared, with a large proportion of the odd slices of ham and tongue. "'I believe the damn Buchra glutton is a-going to eat him all up, every bit.' was Quashy's mental and not very good-humoured soliloquy.

"'Aye, and drink em up too, ebery drop,' continued he in thought, as he saw Mr. Smythegee quaff off a full cup of the claret without taking the vessel from his lips. Shortly after another cup was poured into the same capacious funnel, for the exercise he had undergone, combined with the warmth of the day, Had rendered the sportsman drouthy. To the great chagrin of Quashy, and, the no small mortification of Smythejee himself, a worse misfortune than that of its being drunk befell the remainder of the claret. On setting down the bottle, after filling his cup for the second time, the sportsman had performed the act in an unskillful manner. The consequence was the bottle losing its balance toppled over, and the balance of the claret trickled out upon the grass.

Both Quashy's temper and patience were put to a severe test, but the Bukhra's appetite being at length appeased, the debris of the feast, still a considerable quantity, remained to Quashy's share, and he was directed to fall to and make his best of it. The darky was not slow in complying with the order, and from the manner in which he went to work it was evident that unless Mr. Smythgee should make better shooting after luncheon than he had done before it, the game-bag would go back to the house much lighter than it had left. While Quashie was masticating his meal, the refreshed sportsman, his spirits elevated by the claret he had quaffed, bethought him of taking a stroll by himself. There was no time to be wasted, as the contingency of having to return to Mount Welcome with an empty bag had already begun to suggest itself.

And after the sanguine expectations which his grand sporting costume must have given rise to, assisted by some little bravado he had indulged in while leave-taking, his failing to fulfil these expectations Could not be otherwise then humiliating. He resolved, therefore, to return to his shooting with a more serious earnestness, and, if possible, make up for the deficiencies of the morning. Slinging on his horn and pouch, and laying hold of his gun, the sportsman once more started off, leaving his retriever busily employed in polishing off the drumsticks of the capon.

38 038 - Volume 2 Chapter 3 - Stalking a Turkey 8:51

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed Volume Two, Chapter Three. STALKING A TURKEY.

It almost seemed as if the divine patron of the chase, the good St. Hubert, had regarded the spilt wine as an oblation to himself, and in return had consented to give the sportsman success. Scarce had the latter advanced two hundred yards from the spot where he had lunched. When his eyes were gratified by the spectacle of a large, fine-looking bird perched upon the top of a tree stump. At first he believed it to be a guinea hen, but its dusk color, it was brownish-black, forbade that supposition. It had a naked head and neck, just like a turkey, and in several other respects it resembled this well-known bird. A talkie it is! exclaimed Smythegee, after scanning it a little. A wild talkie! By Jove!

The London Exquisite had heard, somehow or somewhere, that the wild turkey was indigenous to America, and of course also to Jamaica, since Jamaica is part of America. However erroneous the deduction, the reasoning satisfied Smythegee, and firmly convinced that he saw before him a wild turkey. He determined on taking measures to circumvent it. The stump upon which the bird was perched stood upon the edge of an opening, about a hundred yards from the spot where Smythgee first came in sight of it. To ensure success, the sportsman dropped upon his knees and crawled forward impressively, but with due caution. If he could only make thirty yards in advance, He knew his gun was good for the other seventy.

In fine, after considerable damage done to his fawn-skin trousers, the thirty yards were accomplished, and still the turkey remained upon its perch. The gun was brought to bear upon the bird. Joe Manton did the work, and simultaneously with the bang the turkey was seen to tumble over. Disappearing as it did so from the top of the stump. The overjoyed sportsman hastened forward to secure his game, and soon arrived at the spot where he expected to find it. To his surprise it was not there. Had it taken to wing and escaped? Impossible. He had seen it fall, and without a flutter. It must have been shot quite dead. It could not have come to life again. He searched all about, going round the stump at least a dozen times, and carefully scrutinizing every inch of the ground for a score of yards on each side.

But no turkey could be found. Had the unlucky sportsman been at all doubtful of the fact of his having killed the bird, he would have given up the search in despair. But upon this point he was as certain as of his own existence, and it was that which rendered him so pertinacious in his endeavours to find it. He was determined to leave neither stick nor stone unturned, and to aid him in the prosecution of his search. He called loudly for his retriever, Quashy. But to his repeated calls no Quashy came, and Mr. Smythejee was forced to the conclusion That the darky had either gone to sleep, or had strayed away from the spot where he had left him. He had some thoughts of going back to look for Quashy, but while he was meditating on the matter, an idea occurred to him, which promised to explain the mysterious disappearance of the bird.

The stump upon which the turkey had been perched could scarcely have been termed a stump. It was rather the trunk of a large tree. that had been abruptly broken off below the limbs, and still stood some fifteen or twenty feet in height, erect and massive as the tower of some ruined castle. Though quite a dead wood, and without any branches of its own, it was, nevertheless, garnished with verdure. A complete matting of vines that grew around its root, and parasites that sprang from its decaying sides, enclosed it with a tortuous trellis-work, so that only near its top could the shape of the old tree be distinguished. At first the sportsman supposed that his game had dropped down among the ragged shrubbery, and he searched the whole of this with elaborate minuteness, but in vain.

It now occurred to him, and this was the idea that promised the éclaircissement spoken of. That the bird had not fallen from the stump, but had dropped dead upon the top of it, and there might still be lying. The dead wood, which, at its broken summit, appeared to be some five or six feet in diameter, rendered this conjecture probable enough, and Smythe G. resolved upon putting it to the proof by climbing to the top. He would have appointed Quashy to the performance of this feat, but Quashy... Nani set inventus. Several thick, cable-like vines that struggled up to the summit promised an easy means of ascent, and although the cockney could climb about as dexterously as a shod cat, he fancied there could be no great difficulty in attaining the top of the dead wood.

Throwing aside his gun, he entered enthusiastically upon the attempt. The feat was not so easy of performance, but that it cost him an exertion. Stimulated, however, by the desire to retrieve his game and the reflections about the game bag already alluded to, he put forth his utmost energies, and succeeded in reaching the summit. His conjecture proved correct. There lay the bird, not on the stump, but in it. At the bottom of a very large cylinder-shaped concavity, which opened several feet down into the heart of the dead wood. There it was, dead as the tree itself. The sportsman could not restrain himself from uttering a cry of joy, as he saw his fine game at length secure within his reach. It proved not exactly within his reach, however.

As upon kneeling down and stretching his arm to its full length, he found that he could not touch the bird, even with the tips of his fingers. That signified little. It would only be necessary for him to descend into the cavity, and this he could easily do, as it was wide enough and not over four feet in depth. Without further reflection he rose to his feet again and leaped down into the hole. It would have been a wiser act if he had remembered the prudent counsel of the paternal frog, and looked before leaping. That was one of the most unfortunate leaps Mr. Smythegee had ever made in his life. The brown surface upon which the bird lay, and which looked so deceptively solid, was nothing more than a mass of rotten heartwood, honeycombed with long decay.

So flimsy was it in structure, that though supporting a dead bird, it gave way under the weight of a living man, and the Lord of Montague Castle shot as rapidly out of sight as if he had leaped feet foremost from the maniard of the sea nymph into the deepest soundings of the Atlantic.

39 039 - Volume 2 Chapter 4 - Smythje Embarrassed by his Boots 10:20

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter Four. Smythe G. embarrassed by his boots. Rapid as was the pitch, and dark the abyss into which it was made, the sportsman was not killed. Neither was he much hurt, for the punk through which he had pitched, though not firm enough to support him, had offered some resistance to the velocity of his descent, and towards the bottom he had settled down more gradually. But though neither killed nor yet stunned by the fall, he was for a while as completely deprived of his senses as if he had been both. Surprise had bereft him not only of the power of speech, but of thought as well, and for some moments he was as quiet as Jack, after being jerked into his box.

After a time, however, feeling that, though badly scarred, he was not much hurt, His consciousness began to return to him, and he made a scramble to recover his legs, for in going down he had somehow got doubled up in a sort of tailor fashion. He found his feet after an effort, and, as he saw that light came from above, he raised his eyes in that direction. It took him some time to make out the exact character of the place in which he was. For a thick store was swimming around him that not only impeded his sight, but having entered his mouth and nostrils, had inducted him into a violent fit of sneezing. The dust, however, gradually thinned away, and Smythe G. was unable to define his position.

Above his head was a clear circular patch, which he knew to be the sky. Whilst all around him was a dark brown wall, rising many feet beyond the reach of his outstretched arms, he became conscious that he was standing in the concavity of a huge, upright cylinder, with a surface of corrugated rotten wood circling all around him. As his senses grew clearer, along with the atmosphere, He arrived at a better understanding of the mishap that had befallen him. He did not at first regard it in the light of a misfortune, at least not a very heavy one, and he was rather disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous adventure. It was not till he began to think of climbing out, and had actually made the attempt, that he became aware of a difficulty hitherto unsuspected.

And the contemplation of which at once inspired him with a feeling of alarm. A second attempt to get out was unsuccessful as the first. A third equally so. A fourth had no better issue. A fifth was alike a failure. And after the sixth he sank down upon the rotten rubbish in a state bordering on despair. Well might he have exclaimed. "'Facilus Descendus Averni,' said Revocati Gratum." But the mind of Mr. Smythegee was now under the influence of an indescribable awe, which excluded all thoughts of the classic. When reflection came to his aid, it was only to make more certain the fearful reality of his situation. The more he reflected upon it, the more he became convinced of the peril into which his rash leap had precipitated him.

It was not simply a slight mishap, a ludicrous adventure. He no longer saw it in that light. Neither was it a mere misfortune, but a positive danger, the danger of his life. Yes, his life was most certainly in danger, and he was not slow in arriving at this knowledge. The chain of inductive reasoning that led to it was but too palpably clear. Every link of it, from premises to conclusion. If he could not help himself out of the prison, in which by his unlucky leap he had incarcerated himself, who was to help him? Hope could not long dwell upon Quashie. The darky had been left some distance off, and since he had not answered to his calls, he must be asleep or straying, in either case, or even if awake and still on the ground of the bivouac.

What chances would Quashie have of finding him? Who was to find him if not Quashie? Ah, who else? Who was likely to come that way? Not a soul. The tree that contained him stood in the midst of a wild tract, a solitary forest all around. No roads, no paths. He had observed none. He might be there for a month without a human being approaching the place. And a week would be enough to finish him. Yes, in one week, perhaps far less, he might expect to die of starvation. The prospect was appalling, and it so appalled him that again his mind gave way under it, and relapsed into a stupor of despondence. It is not natural that one should sink at once into utter despair, without making an extreme effort.

The instinct of self-preservation Common to the lowest animals, will nerve even the weakest spirit of man. That of Montague Smythji was none of the strongest, and had given way at the first shock. But after a time a reaction arose, stimulating him to make a fresh effort for his life. Once more starting to his feet, he attempted to scale the steep walls that encircled him. But the attempt, as before, Proved a failure. In this last trial, however, he discovered that his exertions were greatly hindered by three special impedimenta. The tight fawn skin trousers that moistened with perparation clung closely around his legs, his boots, but above all, the straps that bound boots and trousers together.

To get rid of these obstacles became his next thought. And the execution of such a design might appear easy enough. On trial, however, it proved a most difficult undertaking. From the confined space in which he stood, he could not get into a stooping attitude, so as to reach down to the straps and unbutton them. And so long as these remained buttoned, it was impossible to take off the boots. He could squat down, tailor fashion. As he had already done, but in that posture the straps became so tightened that to unbutton them was clearly out of the question. The delicate fingers of the dandy were unequal to the effort. Necessity is the mother of invention. This adage held good in Smythji's case, for it just then occurred to him to unfasten his suspenders instead of his straps.

And divest himself of his undergarments all at once. For this purpose he rose to his feet, but in doing so a better idea suggested itself, to cut off his fawn skin, inexpressibles just above the knees, and thus free boots, straps, and pantaloon bottoms altogether. He had left his hunting knife by his brandy flask, and both on the ground of the bivouac. Fortunately, however, a penknife, which he carried in his waistcoat pocket, would answer even better, and drawing it forth, he proceeded to execute his design. A cross-section of the fawn skins just above the knees was at once made, and then, by the alternate application of toe to heel, boots, trousers, bottoms, and all were cast simultaneously.

And Smythe G. stood in his stockings. He did not remain long inactive. Danger urged him to exert himself, and once more he essayed to scale the walls of his tree prison. Alas, after many efforts, many oft-repeated, but unsuccessful clamorings, he was forced back to the appalling conviction that the thing was impossible. He could get up within about four feet of the orifice, but there the surface, which had long been open to the atmosphere, was worn so smooth by the weather, besides being still wet and slippery from late rains, that he could find no holding place upon it, and at every endeavor to grasp the rotten wood, he lost his balance and fell backward to the bottom. These falls frequently stunned him.

Almost knocking the breath out of his body. But they were from a considerable height, ten or twelve feet, and but for the soft rubbish below, that modified the shock as he came down, one such descent would have been sufficient to cripple him for life. Once more his spirit sank within him. Once more Smythe G. yielded to despair.

40 040 - Volume 2 Chapter 5 - A Tropic Shower 7:56

Of the Maroon. A Tropic Shower. When reflection again favored the unfortunate man, which it did after a short time had passed over, his thoughts took a new turn. He made no further attempt at climbing out. Repeated trials had fully convinced him of the impracticability of that, and he was now satisfied that his only hope lay in the chance of Quashie. Or someone else coming that way? It is true that this chance appeared grievously doubtful. Even should one pass near the dead wood, how was he to know that he, Smythe G., was inside it? Who would suspect that the old tree was hollow? And, least of all, that a human being was enclosed within its cylindrical cell, buried alive, as it were. In this erect wooden sarcophagus.

A person passing might see the gun lying upon the ground outside, but that would be no clue to the whereabouts of its owner. After all, someone might be passing, and as he could not be seen, his only hope lay in making himself heard. The moment this thought came into his mind he commenced crying out at the highest pitch of his voice. He regretted that he had not done so before, since someone might have passed in the interim. After falling in he had shouted several times during the moments of his first surprise, but, while making his attempts to clamber out, he had desisted, the earnestness of his exertions having reduced him to silence. Now that he had comprehended the necessity of making a noise, He determined to make up for his former remissness, and he continued to send forth scream after scream with all the power of his lungs, at intervals varying his voice from an abrupt sharp screech to the more prolonged and dismal monotone of a groan.

For nearly an hour did he continue this melancholy cavatina, without receiving any response beyond the echoes of his own voice. Which reverberated through the concavity in hollow, sepulchral tones. A mournful monologue of alternate groanings and howlings interrupted at intervals as the utterer paused to listen for a response. But none came. No change took place in his situation, except one that was calculated to make it still more deplorable and forlorn. As if his lugubrious appeals had invoked the demon of the storm. The sky above became suddenly overcast with heavy black clouds, from which came pouring rain, such as might have fallen during the forty days of the deluge. It was one of those tropic showers, where the water gushed from the sky, not in single, isolated drops.

But in long, continuous streams, as if heaven's canopy was one great shower-bath, of which the string had been jerked and tied down. Though well sheltered from wind, the unfortunate Smythjee had no roof, no cover of any kind, to shield him from the rain, which came down upon his devoted head, as though the spout of a pump had been directed into the hollow of the dead wood. Indeed, the funnel-shaped orifice, which was wider than the rest of the concavity, aided in conducting a larger quantity of rain into it, and, but that the water found means of escape, by percolating through the mass of dry rubbish below, Mr. Smythegee might have been in danger of a more sudden death than by starvation, since, as he himself afterwards asserted, There fell sufficient water to have dwound him.

If not drowned, however, he was well douched. There was not a stitch of clothing upon his person that was not wetted through and through. The silk velvet shooting coat, the purple vest, and what remained of the fawn-skin trousers, all were alike soaked and saturated. Even his whiskers had parted with their crisp rigidity. The curls had come out of the tails of his mustaches, his hair had lost its amplitude, and all hair, whiskers, and mustaches hung dripping and draggled. In that melancholy image of manhood that stood shivering in the hollow tree, it would have required a quick imagination to have recognized Mr. Montague Smythegee, the debonair sportsman of the morning. Lugubrious as were his looks, they were nothing to compare with his thoughts.

There were moments when he felt angry, angry at his ill fortune, angry at Quashie, angry at Mr. Vaughn for having provided an attendant so inattentive to his duties. There were moments when he felt spiteful enough to swear. Yes, in that fearful crisis, Smythe G. swore. The owner of Mount Welcome and Quashy being alternately the object of his abjurations. Jamaica, too, came in for a share of his spite, its pigeons and guinea hens, its trees, and, above all, its wild turkeys. "'The Howard Island,' he cried in his anguish. "'Would to my maker. I had never set foot on its shores.' What at that moment would he not have given to be once more in his Dia Metropolis? Gladly would he have exchanged his tree prison for a chamber in the King's bench, for a corner in the meanest cell which the old Bailey could have afforded him.

Poor Smythegee! He had not yet reached the climax of his sorrows. A new suffering was in store for him. One in comparison with which all he had undergone was but a mild endurance. It was only when that slimy thing came crawling over his feet and began to entwine itself around his ankles, its cold, clammy touch painfully perceptible through his silk stockings. It was only then that he felt something like a sensation of real horror. He was on his legs at the moment, and instantly sprang upward, as if coals had been suddenly applied to the soles of his feet. But springing upward did not avail him, since it only resulted in his dropping down again on the same spot, and as he did so, he felt writhing beneath his feet the slippery form of a serpent.

41 041 - Volume 2 Chapter 6 - A Dangerous Dance 11:47

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Two, Chapter Six. A Dangerous Dance. Beyond the shadow of a doubt was Smythe standing upon a snake, or rather, dancing upon one. For as he felt the scaly creature crawling and writhing under his feet with a strong, muscular action, It was contrary to human nature that he should remain at rest upon such a perilous pedestal. For some moments he hopped about upon this dangerous dais, expecting every instant to feel the sharp sting of a bite. Anyone who could have looked on him at that crisis would have seen a face white with horror, eyes starting from their watery sockets. And dripping hair and whiskers doing their best to stand on end. Through his dark sky of dread, a gleam of light flashed upon his spirit.

He remembered having heard that in Jamaica there is no poisonous serpent. It was but a spark of consolation. If the reptile could not sting, it could bite. And being such an enormous creature as to cover with its coils the whole floor of his cylindric chamber, its bite should be a formidable one. Perhaps after all it was not a single snake, perhaps there was a whole family of serpents, crawling one over another, and wreathing fantastic figures of eight beneath his feet. If so, and this was probable enough, He might be bitten by all, repeatedly bitten, torn to pieces, devoured.

What matter whether they were poisonous or not, he might as well perish from their fangs as by their teeth. Fortunate it was for Smythe that the snakes, for his conjecture that there were more than one, was correct. Fortunate for him that they were still half asleep. Else the danger he dreaded might have come to pass. As it was, the whole band of reptiles had just been aroused from a state of torpidity, the wash of cold rain having reached them in their crushed cave, and scattered the mutual coil in which they had been cozily slumbering. Still only half awakened, in the confusion of their ideas, they could not distinguish friend from foe. And to this was Mr. Smythjee's indebted for the circumstance that his skin, even his silk stockings, still remained intact.

Notwithstanding this, his dread remained undiminished, and incited him to a fresh effort at escape. Only one mode suggested itself, to clamber up the chimney as far as he could go. And by that means get out of reach of the reptiles. On conceiving this new design, he sprang upward, shaking the serpent coils from his feet, and after a few seconds of scratching and scrambling, he arrived at an elevation of some ten feet from the bottom of the tree. Here a slight projection offered a tolerable support for his posteriors, and, setting his toes well against the opposite side, He did his very best to sustain himself in position. It was an irksome effort, and could not have lasted long. As to his consternation, he soon discovered.

His strength would soon give way, his toes become cramped and nerveless, and then, losing his hold, he must inevitably drop down among the monsters below, who, perhaps, in a second collision with him, Would be less charry about using their teeth. The prospect of such a terrible fate stimulated him to put forth all his energies in preserving his balance and his place, at the same time that it drew from him cries of the keenest anguish. His cries at this crisis proved his salvation. His strength was well-nigh exhausted, and he was on the point of letting go, when just then... An object came before his upturned eyes that determined him to hold on a little longer, even should his toes be torn out of their joints.

Above him, and half filling the orifice of the hollow, appeared an enormous head, with a face black as a rebus, and two yellowish-white eyes shining in the midst of it. No other feature was at first seen. But presently a double row of great white teeth appeared, gleaming between a pair of freshly opened purplish lips of a massive cartilaginous structure. In the confusion of his senses Smythji was, for the moment, inclined to believe himself between two demons, one below in the shape of a monstrous serpent, and the other above him in human form. For the grinning white teeth and yellow eyeballs rolling in sockets of sable ground presented an appearance sufficiently demoniac. Of the two demons, however, he preferred the company of the one who bore something of his own shape.

And when a huge black arm, like the trunk of a young tree, with the hand of a titan attached to it, was stretched down to him, he did not decline to take it. But eagerly clutching at the gigantic paw thus proffered, he felt himself raised upward, as lightly as if elevated upon the extremity of a seesaw. In another instant he found himself upon the summit of the dead wood, his deliverer standing by his side. So much light rushing all at once into the eyes of the rescued Smythji, instead of enabling him to see distinctly, quite blinded him. And it was only by the touch that he knew a man was by his side who, the next moment, lifting him with one arm, carried him down to the bottom of the tree, with as much apparent facility as if he, Smythegee, had been a little infant.

On reaching the ground Smythegee's eyes had become sufficiently strengthened to bear the light, and then he saw in full length The individual who had rescued him from his perilous dilemma. He was a jet-black negro of colossal size, nearly naked, with a number of straps and strings passing over his shoulders, to which were suspended horns, bullet pouches, and other accoutrements of a more mysterious kind. His headdress was equally odd as the rest of his costume. And consisted simply of the crown of an old beaver hat, with the brim closely trimmed off just above the ears. This gave a ludicrocomic expression to the face, which, though black as ebony, was otherwise not disagreeable. Still, there was a wild look about the man which, combined with his gigantic size, Was calculated to impress one with the idea of his being no ordinary character.

Nor was he, for the deliverer of Mr. Smythegee was no other than our old acquaintance, Kwako. Smythegee knew nothing of the Maroon. It might be a robber into whose hands he had fallen, but even so the Cockney was no longer in a condition to be frightened. All fear had been scared out of him by his adventure with the snakes, and perceiving from his amiable smiles that his deliverer meant him no harm, he proceeded to give the latter a full account of all that had befallen him. As soon as the sportsman had finished his narrative, Quaco, without saying a word, scrambled back to the summit of the dead wood. Fastening a cord which he carried up with him, Around the top of the stump, he fearlessly let himself down into the dark, snake-tenanted chamber, which Dr.

Smythe G. had been so glad to get out of. He had not been more than half a minute out of sight when a glittering object was seen projected above the top of the stump. It was of serpent form and bright yellow color. Wriggling and writhing it hung. For a moment suspended in the air, and then, yielding to the laws of gravitation, it came down with a thump upon the turf. Its large size and its lines of black and gold rendered it easy of identification as the Yellow Snake of Jamaica. Kyla Bothrus Einernatus. Scarce had it touched the ground when a second and similar projectile was ejected from the hollow stump. And then a third, and another, and yet another, until no less than a dozen of these hideous reptiles lay scattered over the grass.

To the no small consternation of Smythegee, who, however, took care to keep well out of their reach. After the dead wood had been delivered of its last snake, an object of a far different character was seen to issue forth in a similar manner. It was a misshapen mass of a dirty buff color, and proved upon inspection to be one of Mr. Smythegee's boots, still encased in its fawn skin covering. Its mate soon followed, and then the wild turkey. Which had led the sportsman into his deplorable dilemma, and which now, with half its plumage gone and the other half drooped and bedraggled, offered but a poor chance for the garnishing of his game bag. Smythe G., however, too well contended at escaping with his life, thought no more of his game bag, nor of anything else but getting back to Mount Welcome by the shortest route possible.

His boots being restored to him, he lost no time in drawing them on, leaving the bottoms of his trousers in the companionship of the worthless turkey, which Quacko, better acquainted with the ornithology of Jamaica, on coming out of the hollow tree, assured him was, after all, no turkey, but only a turkey buzzard, a John Crow, in short, a stinking vulture.

42 042 - Volume 2 Chapter 7 - Quashie in a Quandry 12:12

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter Seven. Quashy in a Quandary During all this time, where was Quashy? Mr. Smythegee did not know, and no longer did he care. Too glad to get away from the scene of his unpleasant adventure, he made no inquiry about his negligent squire, nor did he even think of going back to the place where he had left him. His deliverer had offered himself as a guide. And the road by which he conducted the sportsman from the Deadwood led in quite another direction. As to the empty game bag left with Quashie, it made no difference what became of that. And for the hunting knife and brandy flask, no doubt the darky would see to them. In this conjecture Mr. Smythe G.

hit the nail upon the head, at least so far as regarded the brandy flask. It was by seeing too well to it that Quashy had lost all sight of everything else, not only of the duties he had been appointed to perform, but of the whole earth and everything upon it. The Bukhra had not been twenty minutes out of his presence when Quashy, by repeated application of the brandy flask to his lips, brought his optical organs into such a condition. That he could not have told the difference between a turkey and a turkey buzzard any more than Mr. Smythegee himself. The drinking of the eau de vie had an effect upon the negro the very reverse of what it would have had upon an Irishman. Instead of making him noisy and quarrelsome, it produced a tendency toward tranquility.

So much so that Quashie, in less than five minutes after his last suck at the flask, coggled over upon the grass and fell fast asleep. So soundly slept he that not only did he fail to hear the report of Smythe G.'s gun, but the discharge of a whole battery of field pieces close to his ear would not, at that moment, have awakened him. It is scarce possible to say how long Quashie would have continued in this state of half-sleep, half-inebriety, had he been left undisturbed, nor was he restored to consciousness by human agency or living creature of any kind. That which brought him to himself, waking and at the same time partially sobering him, was the rain, which descending like a cold shower bath on his semi-naked skin, Caused him to start to his feet.

Quashy, however, had enjoyed more than an hour's sleep before the rain began to fall, and this may account for the eau de vie having in some measure lost its influence when he awoke. He was sensible that he had done wrong in drinking the Buchra's brandy, and as the temporary courage with which it had inspired him was now quite gone, He dreaded an encounter with the white Gemmin. He would have shunned it, had he known how, but he knew very well that to slink home by himself would bring down upon him the wrath of Massa, at Mount Welcome, pretty sure to be accompanied by a couple of dozen from the cart-whip. After a while's reflection, he concluded that his most prudent plan would be to wait for the young Bukra's return.

And tell him the best tale he could. To say he had been searching for him, and that was how he had spent the time, was the story that suggested itself to the troubled imagination of Quashy. To account for the disappearance of the cognac, for he had drunk every drop of it, the darky had bethought him another little bit of fabrication, suggested no doubt by the mischance that had befallen the bottle of claret. He intended to tell the Grand Buckrah that thrape it down his throat if need be, that he, the Buckrah, had left out the stopper of the flask, and that the brandy had followed the example set by the heel-tap of wine. Thus fortified with a plausible story, Quashie awaited the return of the sportsman.

The sky cleared after a time, but no Buckrah came. Nor yet, after a considerable spell of fine weather had transpired, did he make his appearance. Quashie became impatient and slightly anxious. Perhaps the English gemman had lost himself in the woods. And if so, what would be done to him, the guide? Massivan would be sure to punish him. In fancy, he could hear the crack of the cart whip resounding afar off over the hills. After waiting a while longer, he determined to put an end to his anxiety by going in search of the sportsman, and taking up the empty bag along with the equally empty flask and hunting knife he set forth. He had seen Mr. Smythe G. go towards the glade, and so far he could follow his trail, but once arrived at the open ground he was completely at fault.

He had not the slightest idea of what direction to take. After pausing to reflect, he took the right, that which would conduct him to the deadwood, which was visible from the point where he had entered the glade. It was not altogether accident that conducted him thither, but rather that in that direction he heard, or fancied he'd heard, voices. As he drew near to the decapitated tree, a glittering object on the ground caught his eye. He halted, thinking it might be a snake, a creature of which most plantation negroes have a wholesome dread. On scrutinizing the object more closely, Quashie was surprised to perceive that the glittering object was a gun, and on a still nearer acquaintance with it, He saw that it was the gun of the Buckra sportsman.

It was lying upon the grass near the bottom of the dead wood. What was it doing there? Where was the Buckra himself? Had some accident happened to him? Why had he abandoned his gun? Had he shot himself? Or had somebody else shot him? Just at that moment the most lugubrious of sounds fell upon Quashy's ear. It was a groan, long-drawn and hollow, as if some tortured spirit was about taking its departure from the earth. It resembled the voice of a man, as of someone speaking from the interior of a tomb. The darky stood horrified, his black epidermis turning to an ashy-gray color, quick as the change of a chameleon. He would have taken to his heels, but a thought restrained him. It might be the buckra, still alive and in trouble.

In that case, Quashie would be punished for deserting him. The voice appeared to issue from behind the dead wood. Whoever uttered it must be there. Perhaps the sportsman lay wounded upon the other side. Quashie screwed up his courage as high as it would go, and commenced moving round to the other side of the stump. He proceeded cautiously, stepped By step, scrutinizing the ground as he went. He reached the other side. He looked all over the place. Nobody there, neither dead nor wounded. There were no bushes to conceal an object so large as the body of a man, at least not within twenty yards of the stump. The groan could not have come from a greater distance. Nor yet could a man be hidden under the trellis of climbing plants that clung around the underwood.

Quashie had still enough courage left to peep among them and see. There was nobody there. At this moment a second groan sounded in the darky's ear, increasing his terror. It was just such a one as the first, long, protracted, and sepricall. As if issuing from the bottom of a well. Again it came from behind the stump, but this time from the side which he had just left, and where he had seen no one. Had the wounded man crawled round to the other side, while he, Quashie, was proceeding in the opposite direction? This was the thought that occurred to him, and to determine the point, he passed back to the side whence he had come, this time going more rapidly. Lest the mysterious moaner might again escape him.

On reaching the spot from which he had originally set out, he was more surprised than ever. Not a soul was to be seen. The gun still lay in its place as he had left it. No one appeared to have touched it. No one was there. Again the voice, this time, however, in a shrill treble and more resembling a shriek. It gave Quashie a fresh start, while the perspiration spurted out from his forehead and ran down his cheeks like huge tears. The shriek, however, was more human-like, more in the voice of a man, and this gave the darky sufficient courage to stand his ground a little longer. He had no doubt but that the voice came from the other side of the dead wood, and once more he assayed to get his eyes upon the utterer.

Still in the belief that the individual, whoever it was, and for whatever purpose, was dodging around the tree, Quashie now started forward with a determination not to stop till he had run the dodger to earth. For this purpose he commenced circling around the stump, going first at a trot, but hearing now and then the groans and shrieks, and always on the opposite side, he increased his pace. Until he ran with all the speed in his power. He kept up this exercise till he had made several turns around the tree, when at length he became convinced that no human being could be running before him without his seeing him. The conviction brought him to an abrupt halt, followed by a quick reflection. If not a human being, it must be a dupie, or de-debel himself.

The evidence that it was one or the other had now become overpowering. Quashy could resist it no longer. Doopee! Jumba! De Deboe! cried he, as with chattering teeth and eyeballs protruding from their sockets, he shot off from the stump and streaked it in the direction of Mount Welcome, as fast as a pair of trembling limbs were capable of carrying him.

43 043 - Volume 2 Chapter 8 - A Scarcity of Trousers 10:26

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Two. Chapter Eight. A Scarcity of Trousers. Following his gigantic guide, Mr. Smythe G. trudged unhappily homeward. How different his craven, crestfallen look from the swell, swaggering sportsman of the morning, while the condition of his person was not more dilapidated than that of his spirit. It was no longer the disgrace of returning with an empty game-bag, but the chagrin which he expected to have to undergo, presenting himself at Mount Welcome in the pickle in which his adventure had left him. He was now even in a more ludicrous plight than when Quokko had extracted him from the hollow tree. For the rain, that had long since ceased, Had been succeeded by a blazing hot sun, and the atmosphere acting upon what remained of his wet fawn-skin trousers caused them to shrink until the ragged edges had crept up to mid-thigh, thus leaving a large section of thin, knock-kneed legs between them and the tops of his boots.

In truth, the sportsman had become the beau-ideal of a guy. And, more than half conscious of this fact, he would at that moment have given the situation of bookkeeper on his estate to any individual who should have presented him with a pair of pantaloons. His guide could do nothing for him. In the line of inexpressibles, Guaco was no better provided than himself. Verily, the prospect was appalling. Could he reach the house and steal to his own chamber, unseen? What chance was there of his doing so? On reflection, not much. Mount Welcome, like all other mansions in Jamaica, was a cage, open on every side. It was almost beyond the bounds of probability that he could enter the house, unobserved.

Still, he could try, and on the success of that trial rested his only hope. Oh, for that grand secret known only to the jealous Juno, the secret of rendering oneself invisible! What would Smythegee not have given for ten minutes higher of that Carthaginian cloud? The thought was really in his mind, for Smythegee, like all young Englishmen of good family, had studied the classics. The idea, moreover, proved suggestive. If there was no probability of being provided with the Nimbus of Juno, there was the possibility of shadowing himself under the Nimbus of Night. Darkness once on, he might enter the house, reach his chamber unperceived, and thus escape the unpleasant exposure he so much dreaded.

Smytheji stopped, looked at his guide, looked at the sun, and lastly at his naked knees. Now from the enfeebled state of his limbs, oscillating towards each other. Mount Welcome was in sight. The guide was about to leave him, and therefore, in whatever way he might choose to act, there would be no witness. Just then the Maroon made his adieu, and a C. de Vente sportsman was left to himself. Once more he scanned the sun and consulted his watch. In two hours it would be twilight. The crepusculous interval would enable him to approach the house, and in the first moments of darkness, before the lamps were lit, he might enter unobserved, or at all events his plight might not very plainly be perceived.

The scheme was feasible, and having determined to adopt it, Smythji cowered down in the covert and awaited the setting of the sun. He counted the hours, the half-hours and minutes. He listened to the voices coming up from the Negro village. He watched the bright-winged birds that fluttered among the branches overhead, and envied them their complete plumage. Notwithstanding many rare sights and sweet sounds that reached him, the two hours spent in his secret lair were not passed pleasantly. Solicitude about the success of his scheme robbing him of all zest for the enjoyment of that fair scene that surrounded him. The hour of action drew nigh. The sun went down over the opposite ridge where lay Montague Castle, his own domain.

The twilight, like a purple curtain, was gently drawn over the valley of Mount Welcome. It was time to start. Smythegy rose to his feet, and after making a reconnaissance of the ground before him, set off in the direction of the house. He aimed at keeping as much as possible under cover of the woods, and this he was unable to do, the pimento groves on that side stretching down to the shrubbery that surrounded the dwelling. He had got past the negro village, keeping it upon his right, without being observed. To both the quarter and the sugar-works he gave as wide a berth as the nature of the ground would permit. He succeeded in reaching the platform on which the house stood, so far unperceived.

But the moment of peril was not yet past. The dangerous ground still lay before him, and had still to be traversed. This was the open parterre in front of the house. For it was to the front. That the path had conducted him. It was dusk, and no one appeared. At least he could see no one, either on the stair landing or in the windows of the great hall. So far, good. A rush for the open doorway and then on to his own chamber, where Toms would soon clothe him in a more becoming costume. He started to make the rush and had succeeded in getting halfway across the parterre, when, all at once, a crowd of people carrying large flaming torches above their heads appeared, coming from the rear of the dwelling.

They were the domestics in some field hands of the plantation, with Trusty, the overseer, at their head. One might have fancied that they were setting out upon some ceremonious procession, but their hurried advance, and the presence of Quashie trotting in the lead, proclaimed a different purpose. Smythji divined their errand. They were going in search of himself. The sight filled him with despair. The torchbearers had anticipated him. They had already reached the front of the house, and the glare of their great flambeau illuminated every object, as if a new sun had suddenly shot up athwart the sky. There was no chance of successfully running the gauntlet under that bright flame. Smythejee saw not the slightest.

He stopped in his tracks. He would have retreated back among the bushes. And there awaited the departure of the torchbearers, but he feared that his retrograde movement would attract their eyes upon him, and then all would be over, his adventure terminating in the most undesirable manner. Instead of retreating, therefore, he stood where he had stopped, fixed and immobile, as if pinned to the spot. At that moment, two figures appeared on the top of the stairway. In the brilliant light easily recognizable as the planter and his daughter. The maid Yola was behind them. Mr. Vaughn had come out to give some directions about the search. All three stood facing the crowd of torchbearers, and of course fronting towards Smythe G.

The planter was just opening his lips to speak, when a cry from the maid echoed by her young mistress interrupted him. The sharp eyes of the Fula had fallen upon Smythegee, whose waned white face, shining under the light of the lynx, resembled those of the statues that were set over the parterre. Smythegee was among the shrubbery, and as the girl knew that no statue stood there, the unexpected apparition had elicited her cry of alarm. All eyes were instantly turned upon the spot, while the torchbearers, with trusty at their head, hurried towards it. There was no chance of escape. The unfortunate sportsman was discovered and brought broadly into the light, under the fierce battery of eyes, among others, the eyes of his lady-love that, instead of expressing sympathy for his forlorn condition, Appeared rather to sparkle with satirical delight.

It was a terrible catastrophe to be contemplated in such a plight, and Smythe Gee, hurrying through the crowd, lost no time in withdrawing from observation by betaking himself to his chamber, where, under the consolatory encouragement of the sympathizing Toms, he was soon rendered presentable.

44 044 - Volume 2 Chapter 9 - Herbert in the Happy Valley 15:52

Of The Maroon. This is a LibriVox recording.

All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or, to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Tom Freya. The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 2. Chapter Nine. Herbert in the Happy Valley.

Inappropriate as Jacob Jesseron's neighbors may have deemed the title of his estate, the Happy Valley, Herbert Vaughan had no reason to regard it as a misnomer. From the hour in which he entered upon his situation of bookkeeper, it was a round of pleasures, rather than duties, that he found himself called upon to fulfill. And his new life, so far from being laboriously spent, was one continued scene, or series of scenes of positive pastime. Instead of keeping books or looking after slaves, or, in short, doing anything that might be deemed useful, most of his time was spent in excursions that had no other object than recreation or amusement. Drives to the bay, in which he was accompanied by Jesseron himself, and introduced to his mercantile acquaintances, visits to neighboring pens and plantations with the beautiful Judith, in which he was made acquainted with her circle, fishing parties upon the water, and picnics in the woods.

All these were afforded him without stint. He was furnished with a fine horse to ride, dogs and equipments for the chase, everything, in short, calculated to afford him the life of a gentleman of elegant leisure. A half-year's salary had been advanced to him unasked, thus delicately giving him the means of replenishing his wardrobe, and enabling him to appear in proper costume for every occasion. Certainly the prospects of the poor steerage passenger seemed to have undergone a change for the better. Through the generosity of his unexpected patron, he was playing a role at the Jew's pen, not unlike that which his fellow-voyager was at that very time performing at Mount Wellcome. And as there was not much difference in the social rank of the respective circles in which they were each revolving, it was by no means improbable that the two might meet again, and upon a more equal footing than formerly.

To do Herbert Vaughn justice it should be stated that he was more surprised than gratified by the luxurious life he was leading. There was something rather extraordinary in the generous patronage of the Jew. Something that puzzled him not a little. How was he to account for such kind hospitality? Thus, for days after Herbert Vaughan had made the Happy Valley his home, matters moved on smoothly enough to the superficial observer. Slight incongruities that did occur from time to time were ingeniously explained, and the young Englishman, unsuspicious of any evil design, With the exception of the unwanted hospitality that was being bestowed upon himself, saw nothing extraordinary in the circumstances that surrounded him.

Had he been less the honored guest of Israelitish ghost, perhaps his perceptions might have been more scrupulous and discriminative. But the Arabs have a proverb. It is not human nature to speak ill of the horse that has borne one out of danger, and human nature in the East is but the counterpart of its homonym in the West. Noble as was the nature of the young Englishman, still was it human. And to have spoken ill of the bridge that had carried him safely over, and from that desolate shore on which he had late been stranded, would have argued a nature something more than human. If he entertained any suspicion of his patron's integrity, he zealously kept it to himself, not with any idea of surrendering either his independence or self-respect, but to wait the development of the somewhat inexplicable courtesy of which he was the recipient.

This courtesy was not confined to his Hebrew host. As Herbert had long been aware, his daughter exercised it in an equal degree, and far more gracefully. Indeed, among other transformations that had been remarked as occurring in the Happy Valley, the spirit of the fair Jewess seemed also to have sustained a remarkable change. Though upon occasions the proud imperious temper would manifest itself, More generally now was Judith in a sentimental vein, at times approaching to sadness. There were other times when the old spitefulness would show itself. Then the spiral nostrils would curl with contempt, and the dark Israelitish eyes flash with malignant fire. Happily, these rather ungraceful exhibitions, like the tornadoes of her native land, were rare.

For a certain name, the cause that called them forth was but rarely pronounced in her hearing. Kate Vaughan was the name. Judith's dislike for the young Creole had originated in a mere rivalry of charms. Both enjoyed a widespread reputation for beauty oft descanted upon, and often compared by the idle gallants of the bay. These discussions and comparisons reached the ears of the Jewess, and to her chagrin the decisions were not always in her favour, hence the origin of her enmity. Hitherto it had been only envy, and, with the toss of the head, and a slight curl of the nostril, the unpleasant theme would be dismissed. Of late, however, a stronger emotion than envy had begun to exhibit itself. And whenever the name of Kate Vaughan was introduced into the conversation, no matter how incidentally or undesigned, the eye of the Jewess would light up with a jealous fire, her lip quiver as if muttering curses, and she, who but the moment before seemed a very angel, would become all at once transformed into the semblance of a demon.

The behaviour of the Jewess admits of easy explanation. She was in love, and with Herbert Vaughan. At first the motive had been part vanity, part coquetry, blended, however, with some serious admiration. Mingled also with this was a desire to vex Kate Vaughan, for from the first she had suspected rivalry in that quarter. Even though she had been made aware of the very short interview between the cousins, she could not feel satisfied with that something had passed between them. And there was that bit of ribbon, which Herbert still cherished, and of the symbolism of which she had vainly endeavoured to obtain a solution. Her suspicions did not die out, as might be supposed they would. in the absence of any demonstration on Herbert's part towards his cousin.

On the contrary, they only grew stronger as her own interest in the young Englishman increased. For when she could not understand how a young girl, Kate Vaughan or any other, could have looked upon the man who had impressed her without being herself impressed. And she had become impressed by him, not gradually, but rapidly and profoundly, until her love had grown into a fierce passion, such as the tigress might be suspected of conceiving for her tawny mate. Herbert Vaughn had passed scarce a week under the roof of the Jew's mansion, when its mistress was in love with him, to the ends of her fingers, to the very extreme of jealousy. As for the object of this fervent passion, The young man was at this time altogether unable to analyze his own feelings.

It is true that the imperious spirit of the Jewess, aided by her endless wiles, had gained a certain ascendancy over him, but not so as to obliterate the image that had recently become impressed upon his heart. In the short interview which he had had with his cousin Kate, Herbert Vaughan had looked, for the first time in his life, on one whom to look at was to love. The blue-eyed belle of his native village, the pretty barmaid at the inn, the sweet-faced chorister in the church, with other boyish fancies, already half obliterated by two months of absence, were swept instantaneously into the dustbin of oblivion, By that lovely apparition, he was face to face with a woman worthy of his love. Intuitively and at the first glance he had felt this, and still more was he impressed with it, as he pronounced those warm words on his painful parting, hence the chivalric refusal of the purse and the preference of a piece of ribbon.

Not that he had any reason to regard the latter as a love-token. He knew that the kind words that had been spoken in that short but stormy interview, as well as the offer of gold that had ended it, were but the promptings of a pitying heart, and rather a negation of love than a sign of its existence. Glad as he might have been to have regarded the piece of ribbon as a gage d'amour, he could only prize it as a souvenir of friendship. of no longer signification than the purse to which it had belonged, or the gold treasure which that purse had contained. Though sensible that he had no claim upon his cousin beyond that of kinship, though not a word had been spoken by her to show that she felt for him any other kind of regard, Herbert, strange enough, had conceived a hope that some day or other— A more endearing relationship might exist between them.

Not for long was he cheered by this sweet expectancy. It was too transitory to stand the test of time. As day succeeded day, rumors reached him of the gay scenes that were transpiring at Mount Welcome. Especially was he informed of the contentedness of his cousin Kate in the society of the new companion. which her father had provided for her. The effect of this information was a gradual but grievous extinction of the slight hope which Herbert had conceived. The circumstances with which chance had now surrounded him may have rendered these regrets less painful. Though his cousin cared not for him, he had no reason to feel forsaken or forlorn. By his side, and almost constantly by his side, was beauty of no common brilliance, showering smiles upon him of no ordinary attractiveness.

Had he been the recipient of those smiles only one day sooner, before the image of Kate Vaughan had made that slight impression upon his heart, he might the more readily have yielded to their influence. And perhaps, on the other hand, Could he have known now his image had fallen upon her heart, and made lodgment there, he might have offered a sterner resistance to the siren seductions with which he was now beset. But lovers' hearts are not things of glass, and though at times they resemble mirrors, mentally reflecting each other, too often, by the ruling of contrarieties, do the mirrors become reversed? and with the reflecting images facing darkly inward. In such a dilemma was the heart of Herbert Vaughan.

No wonder he found a difficulty in effecting its analysis. In a condition somewhat similar to Herbert's was the heart of his cousin. Though hers was easier to analyze, it was simply trembling under the influence of a first and virgin love. Two forms had been presented to it in the same hour. Both in the blush of youthful manhood, one a distinguished gentleman, the other an humble adventurer. The former had the additional advantage and priority of introduction. The latter was not even introduced. But the favorite does not always win. The earliest on the course may be the latest in the race. And though the heart of the young creole on its pure virgin page Had received love's image at first sight, it was not that of him who first presented himself to make the impression.

Nor was she kept in ignorance of outward events. Her maid Yola was the medium by which she was acquainted with them. Through this medium she had heard of Herbert's proximity, of his happiness and prosperity. The news would have given her joy, but that she had heard he was too happy. Strange that this should be a cause of bitterness. The thoughts that succeeded, the hopes and fears, the dark doubts by day and by night, the dreams, often delusively bright, need not be detailed. There are none who have not known a first love, few who have not felt this chequered alternation of emotions. As for the distinguished Schmythgee, he was not always in one mind, He, too, was troubled with an alternation of hopes and fears.

The former, however, generally predominated, and for the most part he felt in his spirit the proud confidence of a conqueror. Often, with Tom's as his audience, might Smythegee be heard exultingly repeating the dispatch of Caesar. Veni, vidi, vici.

45 045 - Volume 2 Chapter 10 - In Search of Justice 11:20

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Chapter 10. In Search of Justice. The mutual spite between planter and pen-keeper was of old standing, dating in fact from the first acquaintance with each other. Some sharp practice between them, in the sale and purchase of slaves, had given origin to it, and circumstances were always occurring to hinder it from dying out. This was more especially the case since the Jew, by the purchase of the Happy Valley estate, had become the contiguous neighbor, and, in point of wealth, almost the rival, of the proprietor of Mount Welcome. On the side of the Kustos there had been for some time passed another feeling mixed up with his antipathy to his Israelitish neighbor. A vague sense of fear.

This was of modern origin, dating from a period subsequent to the execution of Chakra, the Myo-Man, and begotten of some remarks which, as reported to Mr. Vaughan, the Jew had made in connection with that ugly incident. If nothing had of late transpired to increase this fear on the part of the Kustos, a circumstance had arisen to strengthen his hostility. The protection which had been given to his discarded nephew, and the parade which his neighbour was making of him, had proved to the custos a scandal of the most irksome kind, and almost every day was he made aware of some unpleasant bit of gossip connected with the affair. So irritated had he become with rumours constantly reaching him That his hatred for the Jew had grown stronger than ever before, and he would have given a dozen hogsheads of his best muscovado to anyone who would have provided him with the means of humiliating the detested pen-keeper.

Just at this crisis, chance or fortune stepped in to favor him, apparently offering the very opportunity he desired. and in a way that, instead of costing him a dozen hogsheads of sugar, was likely to put far more than that amount of property into his pocket. It was the day before that on which Smythgee had dropped into the dead wood. Pecustos was in his kiosk alone, smoking a plantation cigar, and conning over the statues of the Black Code. A favorite study with him. Just at that moment Mr. Trusty's shadow was projected into the summer-house. "'Well, Trusty, what is it?' "'There's a man below, wants to see your worship.' "'On what business, pray?' "'Don't know,' answered the laconic overseer.

"'He won't tell. Says it's important.' "'And can only communicate to yourself.' "'What sort of man is he, negro or white?' "'Neither, your worship. He's a clear mulatto. I've seen him about before. He's one of the maroons that have their settlement over among the Trelawney hills. He calls himself Cubina.' "'Ah,' said the custos, showing a slight emotion as the name was pronounced. Kubina. Kubina. I've heard the name. I fancy I've seen the man, at a distance. Young fellow, isn't he? Very young, though they say he's the captain of the Trelawney band. What on earth can the maroon want with me? muttered Mr. Vaughan, half to himself. He hasn't brought in any runaways, has he? No, answered the overseer.

"'Thanks to your worship's good management, we haven't had any of late, not since that old schemer Chakra was put out of the way.' "'Thanks to your good management, Mr. Trustee,' said the planter, returning his overseer's compliment, not without a show of nervous uneasiness, which the reference to Chakra had called forth. "'Then it's nothing of that kind, you think?' He hastily added, as if desirous of changing the theme. "'No, your worship, it cannot be. There's not a runaway upon my list,' replied Trusty with an air of triumph. "'Gad! I'm glad to hear it,' said the Custos, rubbing his hands together as an expression of his contentment. "'Well,' I suppose the young fellow has come to consult me in my magisterial capacity.

In some scape, no doubt. These maroons are always getting themselves into trouble with our planters. I wonder who he's come to complain about. Well, that much I think I can tell you," rejoined the overseer, evidently knowing more of the maroon's errand than he had yet admitted. For Mr. Trustee was a true disciple of the secretive school. If I should be allowed to make a guess, Your Worship, I should say it is something relating to our neighbor of the Happy Valley. What? The Jew? Jacob Jesseron, Esquire. You think so, Trustee? inquired Mr. Vaughan, with an earnest and gratified look. Has the young fellow said anything? No. answered the overseer. It's not anything he has said. I heard something a day or two ago about a runaway the maroons have got among them.

A slave belonging to the Jew. It appears they don't want to give him up. Whom did you hear it from? Why, not exactly from anyone, your worship. I should rather say I overheard it. Quite by accident. One of the Trelawney maroons, a big fellow that comes down here occasionally after Black Bette, was telling her something. I was passing Bette's cabin and heard him talking about this runaway. Don't want to give him up. And for what reason do they refuse? Can't tell, Your Worship. I could only make out part of the conversation. So you think it's about that young fellow has come? "'I think it's likely, Your Worship. He's close, however, and I couldn't get a word out of him, out his business. He says he must see you.' "'All right, then.

You can show him in here, and hark ye, Mr. Trustee, see Black Bet, and get what you can out of her. This is an interesting matter. A maroon refusing to deliver up a runaway. There must be something in it.' Perhaps the mulatto would tell me all about it, but whether he does or not you may see, bet. You can promise her a new gown, or whatever you like. Show the young fellow up at once. I am ready to receive him. Mr. Trustee bowed, and walked off in the direction of the works, where the maroon had remained in waiting. While the custos, composing himself into an official attitude, awaited the approach of his visitor. "'I'd give a good round sum,' solilogized he. "'To learn that the old rascal has got into some scrape with these maroon fellows.

I shouldn't wonder,' he added, in gleeful anticipation. "'I shouldn't wonder. I know they don't much like him. Less since he's taken the Spaniards into his pay.' And I suspect he's been engaged in some underhand transactions of late. He's been growing grander every day, and nobody knows where all the money comes from. Maybe Master Maroon has a tale to tell, and if it's against Jesseron, I'll take care he has an opportunity of telling it. Ah, here he comes. Egad, a fine-looking fellow. So, so. This is the young man that my daughter jokes Yola about. Well, I don't wonder the Fula should have taken a fancy to him. But I must see that he doesn't make a fool of her. These maroons are dangerous dogs among the women of the plantations, and Yola, whether a princess or not, in her own country princess.

Well, at all events the wench is no common nigger, and it won't do for Master Maroon to be humbugging her. I shall lecture him about it, now that I've got him here. By this time the Maroon captain, equipped just as we have seen him in the forest, had arrived in front of the kiosk, and making a deferential bow, though without taking off his hat, which— Being the toked kerchief, could not conveniently be removed, stood waiting for the custos to address him. The planter remained for a considerable time, without vouchsafing further speech than the mechanical salutation. Good morning. There was something in the physiognomy of his visitor that had evidently made an unpleasant impression upon him, and the gaze with which he regarded the latter.

was one which bespoke some feeling different from that of mere curiosity or admiration. Whatever the feeling was, he seemed desirous of suppressing it, and, making an effort to that effect, appeared to succeed. For the shadow that for an instant had shown itself on his countenance cleared away, and with a magisterial but courteous smile he commenced the conversation.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter 11. Magistrate and Maroon. Well, young man, continued the Kustos, in an affable tone, you, I believe, are one of the maroons of Trelawney? Yes, worship, bluntly rejoined Kubina. The captain of a town, are you not? Only a few families, worship. Ours is a small settlement. And your name is? Kubina. I've heard the name, said the Kustos. "'I think,' added he, with a significant smile, "'we have a young girl here on the plantation who knows you.' Kubina blushed as he stammered out an affirmative. "'Oh, that's all right,' said the planter encouragingly. "'So long as there's no harm meant, there's no harm done. Mr. Trustee tells me you have business with me.

Is it about that?' "'About what, Your Worship?' inquired the maroon, a little taken by surprise at the question so unexpectedly put to him. "'About your sweetheart? My sweetheart, worship?' "'Ay. Yola. Is she not your sweetheart?' "'Well, Mr. Vaughn,' rejoined the maroon, "'I'm not going to deny that something has passed between me and the young girl. But it wasn't exactly about her I've come to see you.' Though now, being here, I might as well talk about that matter, too, if it so please, Your Worship. Very good, Captain Kubina. I'm ready to hear what you have to say. Go on. Well then, Your Worship, the truth is, I want to buy Iola. What? Buy your own sweetheart? Just so, Worship. Of course, as soon as she would be mine, I'd set her free.

That is, you would change the bonds she now wears for the bonds of matrimony. Ha, ha, ha! Is that it, Captain Kubina? And the custos laughed at the conceit he had so neatly expressed. Something of that sort, Your Worship, replied the maroon, slightly participating in the worthy magistrate's mirth. And do you think Yola desires to become Mrs. Kubina? "'If I didn't think so, Your Worship, I wouldn't propose to buy her. It would be nothing to me to own the girl if she wasn't agreeable.' "'She is agreeable, then?' "'Well, Worship, I think so.' "'Not that she don't like the young mistress that owns her at present. But you see, Your Worship, but—' "'But there's somebody she likes better than her mistress.' "'And that's yourself, Mr.

Kubina?' "'Well, you see, Worship, that's a different sort of liking and—' "'True enough, true enough,' interrupted Mr. Vaughn, as if wishing to come to the end of the conversation, at least upon that particular topic. "'Well, Captain Kubina,' he added, "'suppose I was willing to part with Eola. How much could you afford to give for her?' Mind you, I don't say I am willing, for after all the girl belongs to my daughter, and she would have something to say in the matter. Ah, sir," exclaimed Kubina, in a tone of tender confidence, Miss Vaughn is good and generous. I've often heard say so. I am sure she would never stand in the way of Yola's being happy. Oh! You think it would make Yola happy, do you?

I hope so, Your Worship," answered the maroon, modestly dropping his eyelids as he made the reply. After all, said the planter, it would be a matter of business. My daughter, even if she wished it, could not afford to part with the girl for less than the market price, which in Yola's case would be a large one. How much do you suppose I have been offered for her? I've heard two hundred pounds, your worship. Just so, and I refuse that, too. Maybe, Mr. Vaughn, you would not have refused it from another, from me, for instance. I don't know about that. But could you raise that large sum? Not just now, your worship. I am sorry to say I could not. I had scraped together as good as a hundred, thinking that would be enough, when to my sorrow I learnt I had only got half way.

But if your worship will only allow me time, I think I can manage, in a month or two, to get the other hundred, and then? Then, worthy captain, it will be time to talk about buying Yola. Meanwhile, I can promise you that she shan't be sold to anybody else. "'Will that satisfy you?' "'Oh, thank you, Your Worship. It is very kind of you, Mr. Vaughn. I'll not fail to be grateful, so long as Yola—' "'Yola will be safe enough in my daughter's keeping. But now, my young fellow, since you say this was not exactly the business that brought you here—you have some other, I suppose. Pray, tell me what it is.' The custos, as he made this request, set himself to listen in a more attentive attitude than he had yet assumed.

"'Well, your worship,' proceeded Cubina, "'I have come over to ask you for some advice about a matter I have with Mr. Jesseron. He as keeps pen close by here.' Mr. Vaughan became doubly attentive, asked he in a simple phrase. Lest any circumlocution might distract the speaker from his voluntary declaration. It's an ugly business, your worship, and I wouldn't bother about it but that the poor young fellow who's been robbed out of his rights turns out to be neither more nor less than the brother of Yola herself. It's a queer story altogether, and if it wasn't the old Jew that's done the thing, one could hardly believe it. "'What thing? Pray be explicit, my friend. Well, Your Worship, if you'll have patience to hear me, I'll tell you the whole story from beginning to end.

That is, as far as it has gone. For it ain't ended yet.' "'Go on,' commanded the Custos. "'I'll hear it patiently. And don't be afraid, Mr. Kubina,' added he encouragingly. "'Tell me all you know, every circumstance.' If it's a case for justice, I'll promise you justice shall be done. And with this magisterial commonplace, Bacustos resumed his attitude of extreme attention. I'll make no secrets, your worship, whether it gets me into trouble or no. I'll tell you all, leastwise, all that's come to my knowledge. And with this proviso, The maroon captain proceeded to detail the circumstances connected with the capture of the runaway, the singular encounter between brother and sister, and the mutual recognition that followed.

Then afterwards the disclosures made by the young man, how he was an African prince, how he had been sent in search of his sister, the ransom he had brought with him, his landing from the ship. Consigned by Captain Jowler to the care of Jesseron. His treatment and betrayal by the Jew. The branding of his person and robbing him of his property. His escape from the pen. His capture by Kubina, already described. And finally, his detention by the latter, in spite of several messages and menaces sent by the Jew to deliver him up. Good. cried Loftus Vaughan, starting from his chair, and evidently delighted by the recital, somewhat dramatically delivered by the maroon. A melodrama, I declare, wanting only one act to complete it.

Egad, I shall feel inclined to be one of the actors before it's played out. Ho! exclaimed he, as if some thought had suddenly struck him. This may explain why the old rascal wanted to buy the wench, though I don't clearly see his purpose in that. It'll come clear yet, no doubt. Then addressing himself once more to the maroon. Twenty-four Mandingoes, you say? Twenty-four belong to the prince? Yes, your worship. Twenty regular slaves and four others that were his personal attendants. There were more of the slaves, but these were the lawful property of the captain, the price paid for bringing him over. And they were all carried to the Jew's pen, all of them, with the others. The whole cargo was taken there.

The Jew bought all. There were some Coromantes among them, and one of my men, Quocco, who had talked with these, heard enough to confirm the young man's story. What a pity, now, that black tongues can't wag to any purpose. Their talk goes for nothing, but I'll see what may be done without it." "'Did your prince ascertain the name of the captain that brought him over?' inquired the magistrate, after considering a minute. "'Oh, yes, your worship. Jowler,' he was called. "'He trades upon the Gambia, where the prince's father lives.'" The young man knows him well. I think I know something of him, too—that same jowler. I should like to lay my hands upon him, for something else than this—a precious scamp.

After all, it wouldn't help our case if we had him. No doubt the two set their heads together in the business, and there's only one story between them. "'What are we to do for a white witness?' continued the magistrate, speaking rather to himself than his visitor. "'That, I fear, will be a fatal difficulty. Stay.' "'Ravener, you say, Jesseron's overseer. Was that the landing of the cargo?' "'Oh, yes, your worship. That individual took an active part in the whole transaction.' It was he who stripped the prints of his clothes and took all his jewellery away from him. Jewellery, too? Crambo, yes. He had many valuable things. Jowler kept most of his plunder aboard ship. A robbery! Egad! A wholesale robbery!

Well, Captain Kubina! proceeded the custos, changing his tone to one of more businesslike import. I promise you that this shall not be passed over. I don't yet clearly see what course we may have to take. There are many difficulties in a prosecution of this kind. We'll have trouble about the testimony, especially since Mr. Jesseron is a magistrate himself. Never mind about that. Justice shall be done. Even were he the highest in the land. But there can be no move made just yet. It will be a month before the Assize court meets at Savannah, and that is where we must go with it. Meanwhile, not a word to anyone, not a whisper of what you know. I promise that, Your Worship. You must keep the Fula Prince where you have him.

Don't on any account deliver him up. I'll see that you're protected in holding him. Considering the case, it's not likely the Jew will go to extremities with you. He has a glass house over his head, and will wear to throw stones. So you've not much to fear." And now, young man, added the custos, changing his tone to one that showed how friendly he could be to him who had imparted such gratifying intelligence. If all goes well you'll not have much difficulty in making up the hundred pounds for the purchase of your sweetheart. Remember that." "'Thanks, worthy Kustos,' said Kubina, bowing gratefully. "'I shall depend upon your promise. You may, and now. Go quietly home, and wait till I send for you.

I shall see my lawyer to-morrow.

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Of The Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter Twelve. The Smythegee Eclipse. The celebrated eclipse of Columbus, by which that shrewd navigator so advantageously deluded the simple savages of Don Christopher's Cove, is not the only one for which the island of Jamaica should be famous. It is my duty to introduce another. Which, if not worthy of being recorded upon the page of history, deserves at least a chapter in our romance. The eclipse in question, though not so important in its results as that which favored the great world-finder, was nevertheless of considerable interest, more especially to some of the dramatis personae of our tale. Whose fortunes it influenced in no slight degree.

Occurring about two weeks after the arrival of the distinguished Smythgee, it seemed as if the sun had specially extinguished himself for the occasion. As part of appropriate climax to the round of brilliant feties and entertainments, of which the Lord Montague Castle had been the recipient, It deserves, therefore, to be designated the Smythgee Eclipse. On the day before that, on which the obscuration of the sun was expected to take place, the Cockney had conceived a brilliant design, that of viewing the eclipse from the top of the mountain, from the summit of the Jumba Rock. There was something daringly original in this design, and for that Had Smythegee adopted it? Kate Vaughn was to be his companion.

He had asked, and of course obtained, Mr. Vaughn's consent, and hers also, of course. For Kate had found of late, more than ever, that her father's will was to be her law.

Smythegee was not without a purpose in the proposed ascent to the natural observatory of the Jumba Rock. In that hour when all the earth would be in Chiaro Oscuro, as if shrouded under the pall of infinity, in that dark and solemn hour Smytheji had determined upon popping the question. Why he has selected such a place and time, both preeminently somber, must for ever remain a mystery. He may have been under an impression that the poetical reputation of the place Combined with the romantic solemnity of the scene and the hour, might exercise a dissolving influence over the heart of the young Creole, and incline her to an affirmative answer, or perhaps as he was to theatrical contrivances, he may have drawn his idea from something he had seen upon the stage, and chosen his climax accordingly.

Some two hours before the expected contact between the limbs of the two great luminaries, in time to allow of leisurely walking, Smytheji started out for the Jumbi Rock, of course accompanied by Kate Vaughan. Attendance there were none, for the exquisite, on such an occasion, preferred being alone. and had so signified, declining the sable escort which his host had provided. The morning was one of the fairest. The sun was still shining brightly. Not a speck could be distinguished upon the azure arch of a West Indian sky, and the scenes through which the path conducted Mr. Smythejee and his fair companion were among the loveliest to be found in the domain of nature. Around the dwelling of Mount Welcome, in its gardens in Potel, the eye delighted to dwell upon a variety of vegetable forms, both indigenous and exotic, some planted for shade, some for the beauty of their blossoms, and others for their fruit.

There could be seen the genep, the tamarind of oriental fame, palms of several species, the native pawpaw, and the curious trumpet-tree. Distinguished for their floral beauties were the cordilla, the oleander, and the South Sea Rose, the grand magnolia, and the perfumed Persian lilac. Bearing luscious fruits were the cashew, the mango, and Malay apple, the sap, the guaba, with every variety of the citron tribe, as oranges, lemons, limes, and the huge Shattuck. Climbing the standard trunks and twining around the branches were parasites of many species, rare and beautiful flowering plants, and the wax-like Hoya carnosa, the crimson Quamaclit, Barcevolas, Ipomias, and other magnificent orchids. It was a scene to stir the soul of a botanist to enthusiastic admiration, resembling a vast botanical garden, some grand house of palms having for its roof the azure canopy of heaven.

To the eyes of the young Creole, all her life accustomed to look upon those fair vegetable forms, there was nothing in the sight of them to beget astonishment. And the Cockney cared but little for trees. His late adventure had cured him of all inclination for a forest life, and in his eyes a cabbage palm was of no more interest than a cabbage. Smythegee, however, was not unmusical. Constant attendance at the opera had, to some extent, attuned his soul to song, and he could not help expressing some surprise at the melody of the Western songsters, So much misrepresented and maligned. In truth, upon that morning, they appeared to be giving one of their grandest concerts. In the garden groves could be heard the clear voice of the banana bird, like the tones of the clarinet, mingled with the warbling tones of the blue quit.

There, too, could be seen the tiny vervain hummingbird, seated upon the summit of a tall mango tree, Trilling out its attenuated and fairy-like lay, with as much enthusiastic energy as if its little soul was poured forth in the song. In the dark mountain woods could be heard other songsters, the glass-eye merle singing his rich and long-continued strain, and at intervals the wild plaintive cry of the solitaire, littered in sweet but solemn notes. Like the cadence-chaunting of a psalm, in perfect keeping with the solitude which this singular songster affects. Above all could be distinguished the powerful voice of the new-world nightingale, the farm-famed mockbird, excelling all the other music of the groves, except when at intervals the rare maybird condescended to fling his melody upon the breeze.

When the mock bird himself would instantly interrupt his lay and become a listener. Add to these sounds the humming of bees, the continuous skirkling of grasshoppers, lizards, and cicadas, the metallic cluckling of tree-frogs, the rustling of the breeze among the lanculate leaves of the tall bamboos, and the sighing of a cascade among the distant hills. Add these. And you may have some idea of the commingling of sounds that saluted the ear of Mr. Montague Smythegee, as, with his fair companion, he ascended the mountain slope. Cheerful as were the birds and brisk the bees, Smythegee appeared cheerful and brisk as they. He was gay both in spirits and costume. Toms had equipped him in one of his favorite suits.

And his spirits were elevated by the prospect of his grand love triumph. On arriving at the bottom of the ravine which conducted to the summit of the rock, Smythe G. showed his courage, by boldly advancing to scale the steep path. He would have offered a hand to assist his companion, but in the difficult ascent he found full occupation for both, and in this ungallant manner Was he compelled to climb upward? Kate, however, who was accustomed to the path, and could possibly have given him assistance, found no difficulty in following, and in a few seconds both had arrived on the summit of the rock, and stood under the shadow of the palm. The skeleton form, once chained to the tree, was no longer there to fray them.

It had been mysteriously removed. Mr. Smythegee consulted his repeater. They had arrived just in the nick of time. In five minutes the eclipse would commence, and the disks of the two great heavenly orbs would appear in contrast. It was not this crisis, however, that Smythegee had chosen the cue to his important speech, nor yet the moment of deepest darkness. But just when the sun should begin to reappear, and by his renewed brightening symbolize the state of the lover's own feelings, he had prepared some pretty speeches which he meant to repeat by way of ushering in the declaration. How his own heart might be compared to the sun, now burning with passion, now darkened by deep despair, then once more brightening up, with rekindled hope, at the prospect of Kate making him the happiest of mortals.

He had prepared them of Pit-a-Pat, the night before, and gone over them with toms in the morning. He had rehearsed them more than a dozen times, ending with a dress rehearsal just before starting out. Unless the eclipse should in some way deprive him of the use of his tongue, There could be no danger of his breaking down. With perfect confidence, therefore, in his speech-making, and equally confident of the issue, the romantic Smythegee restored his repeater to its fob, and with sunglass in hand, awaited the coming on of the eclipse.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two Chapter Thirteen. A Proposal Postponed. Slowly, silently, and still unseen, stole the soft luminary of night towards her burning god, till a slight shadow on his lower limb betokened the contact. "'The equips is commencing,' said Smythe-gee, holding the glass to his eye. "'The sun and moon are just kissing, like two lovers. How pretty it is! Don't you think so, Fayah Kate?' Rather a distant kiss for lovers, I should say, some ninety-odd millions of miles between them. Ha! ha! Very good, very good indeed! And in that sort of thing, distance don't lend enchantment to the view. Much better to be near, just as you and I are at this moment. Don't you think so, fair Kate?

That depends upon circumstances. Whether the love be reciprocal. Wee-siple-cow. Yes. Too enough. Tha is something in that. A great deal, I should think, Mr. Smythe-gee. For instance, were I a man, and my sweetheart was frowning on me, as yonder moon seems to be upon his majesty the sun, I should keep my distance, though it were ninety millions of miles. Had Mr. Smythe-shee at that moment only removed the glass from his eye and turned towards his sweetheart, he might have read in her looks that the speech just made possessed a significance, altogether different from the interpretation which it pleased him to put upon it. Ha! ha! very pretty of you! But you must remember that yonder moon has two faces, and that she resembles the quita, called woman.

Her white face is turned toward the sun, and no doubt she is at this moment smiling upon the fella. Her frowns, you see, are for us, and all the West of mankind. Therefore she resembles a devoted quicha. "'Don't you think so, fair Kate?' Kate was compelled to smile, and for a short moment regarded Smythe G. with a glance which might have been mistaken for admiration. In the analogy which the exquisite had drawn there was a scintillation of intellect, the more striking that it was not expected from such a source." Withal, the glance was rather indicative of surprise than admiration, though Smytheji evidently interpreted it for the latter, his self-esteem assisting him to the interpretation. Before she could make reply, he repeated the interrogatory.

"'Oh, yes,' answered she, the smile disappearing from her countenance. "'I can well imagine, Mr. Smytheji, that your simile is just.' I should think that a woman who loves devotedly would not bestow her smiles on any other than him she loves, and though he were distant as yonder sun, in her heart she would smile on him all the same. The young creole as she spoke lowered her eyes, no longer regarding the eclipse, but as if involuntarily directing her glance downward. Ah, yes. Continued she in thought, and even if alike impossible for them ever to meet, still would her smiles be his. Ah, yes. For some seconds she remained silent and abstracted. Smythe-G, attracted by the altered tone of her voice, had taken the telescope from his eye and turned towards her.

Observing this abstracted air, which she had often before remarked, He did not think of attributing it to any other cause than that which his vanity had already divined. Kate Vaughan was in love, and with whom but himself. His sympathetic soul was ready to give way, and he was almost on the point of departing from the program which he had so ingeniously traced out. But the remembrance of the pretty speeches he had rehearsed with Tom's, and the thought That any deviation from the original design would deprive him of the pleasure of witnessing the effects which they must undoubtedly produce restrained him from a premature declaration, and he remained silent. It did not hinder him from some unspoken reflections.

Poor Kweecha! Evidently suffering! Neither distance nor absence can make the slightest impression upon her love. Not the slightest. By Jove! I feel more than half inclined to break the spell, to revive her from her misery. But no, it would never do. I must resist the temptation. A little more suffering can do no harm, since the situation of the creature resembles the proverb, the darkest hour is that which is nearest the day. And with this fanciful similitude before his mind, the sympathetic and self-denying lover concluded his string of complacent reflections, and returning the glass to his eye, once more occupied himself in ogling the eclipse. The young Creole, seeing him thus engaged, withdrew to one side, and placing herself on the very edge of the cliff, stood gazing outward and downward.

It was evident that the grand celestial phenomenon had no attraction for her. She cared neither to look upon the sun, nor the moon, nor the stars that would soon be visible in the fast-darkening sky. Her eyes, like her thoughts, were turned upon the earth. And as the penumbra began to cast its purple shadow over the fair face of nature, so could a cloud be seen overspreading her beautiful countenance. There was now deep silence below and around. In a few seconds of time a complete change had taken place. The uttering of the forest was no longer heard. The birds had suddenly ceased their songs. And if their voices came up at intervals, it was in screams and cries that denoted fear. Insects and reptiles had become silent, under the influence of a like alarm.

The more melancholy sounds alone continued, the sighing of the trees and the sough of the distant waterfall. This transformation reminded Kate Vaughan of the change which had taken place in her own heart. Almost equally rapid had it been, the result of only a few days, or perhaps only hours, for the once gay girl had become of late habitually grave and taciturn. Well might she compare her thoughts to the forest sounds, the cheerful and musical were gone. Those that were melancholy alone remained. For this change there was a cause. Not very different from that which Smythegee had divined. He was right in assigning it to that passion, the most powerful that can dwell in a woman's heart. Only as to his object did Mr.

Smythegee labor under a misconception. His self-conceit had guided him to a very erroneous conjecture. Could he have divined the thoughts at that moment passing in the mind of his companion? It would have completely cured him of the conceit that he was the maker of that melancholy. The mansion of Mount Wellcome was in sight, gaily glittering amidst the gorgeous groves. It was not upon it that the eyes of Kate Vaughan were bent, but upon a sombre pile, shadowed by great cotton-trees, that lay in the adjoining valley. Her heart was with her eyes. Happy Valley, soliloquized she, her thoughts occasionally escaping in low murmur from her lips. Happy for him, no doubt. There has he found a welcome and a home denied him by those whose duty it was to have offered both.

There has he found hospitality among strangers, and there, too—the young girl paused, as if unwilling to give words to the thought. That had shaped itself in her mind. No, continued she, unable to avoid the painful reflection. I need not shut my eyes upon the truth. It is true what I have been told. Very true, I am sure. There has he found one to whom he has given his heart. A sigh of deep anguish succeeded the thought. Ah! she exclaimed, resuming the sad soliloquy. He promised me a strong arm and a stout heart, if I should ever need them. Ah, me! Promise now bitter to be remembered, no longer possible to be kept. And the ribbon he was to prize so highly, which gave me such joy as he said it.

Only another promise broken. Poor little souvenir! No doubt long ere this, cast aside and forgotten. Ah, me! Again the sigh interrupted the soliloquy. After a time it proceeded. We may never meet more. These were almost his last words. Alas, too prophetic! Better now we never should. Better this, then, to meet him, with her by his side, Judith Jeseron, his wife. His wife! Oh! The last exclamation was uttered aloud, and with an undisguised accent of anguish. Smythegee heard it, and started as he did so, letting the sun-glass fall from his fingers. Looking around he perceived his companion standing apart, unheeding as she was, unheeded, with head slightly drooping, and eyes turned downward upon the rock, Her face still bearing the expression of a profound anguish which her thoughts had called forth.

The heart of Smythegee melted within him. He knew her complaint. He knew its cure. The remedy was in his hands. Was it right any longer to withhold it? A word from him in that sad face would be instantly suffused with smiles. Should that word be spoken or postponed? Spoken, prompted humanity. Spoken, echoed Smythe G.'s sympathetic heart. Yes, perish the cue and the climax. Perish the fine speech and the rehearsal with Tom's. Perish everything, to relieve the dea quita from the agony she is suffering. With this noble resolve, the confident lover stepped up to the side of his beloved. Leaving a distance of some three feet between them, his movements were, those of a man about entering upon, the performance of some ceremonial of the grandest importance.

And to Mr. Smythegee, in reality, it was so. The look of surprise with which the young Creole regarded him neither deterred him from proceeding, nor in any wise interfered with the air of solemn gravity. Which his countenance had all at once assumed. Bending one knee down upon the rock where he had dropped the glass, and placing his left hand over the region of his heart, while with the right he had raised his hat some six inches above his perfumed curls, there and then he was about to unburden himself of that speech, studied for the occasion, committed to Smythegee's memory. and more than a dozen times delivered in the hearing of Tom's. There and then he was on the eve of offering to Kate Vaughan his hand, his heart, his whole love and estate, when just at this formidable crisis the head and shoulders of a man appeared above the edge of the rock, and behind a black-plumed beaver hat.

Shadowing the face of a beautiful woman. Herbert Vaughn. Judith Jesseron.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed Volume Two, Chapter Fourteen. The Obscuration. Interwupted! exclaimed Smythejee, briskly restoring his person to its erect position. What an infernal haw! he continued, drawing out his handkerchief, and dusting the knee on which he had been kneeling. I wonder who are the intruders? Ah! Ah! "'It's the young fellow, your cousin? Surely it is. And a—a pretty girl with him—a deuced pretty girl. By Jove!' A satirical titter, loud enough to be termed a laugh, was heard issuing from between the white teeth of the Jewess. It somehow discomfited Smythe G. Since he knew that the satire could only be pointed at the ridiculous tableau just broken up, and of which he had himself been the conspicuous figure.

His sang-froid, however, did not quite forsake him, for the Cockney possessed considerable presence of mind, the offspring of an infinite superciliousness. This at the moment came to his relief. Bringing with it an idea that promised to rescue him from his embarrassment. The spyglass lying upon the rock suggested the idea. Dropping back upon his knee, in an attitude similar to that from which he had just arisen, he took up the telescope, and once more rising to his feet, presented it to Kate Vaughn, as she stood bent and blushing. The ruse was well intended, and not badly executed, but Mr. Smythejee had to deal with one as cunning as himself. It was of no use endeavoring to throw dust in the keen, quick eyes of Judith Jesseron, and the laugh was repeated, only in a louder and more quizzical tone.

It ended in Smythejee himself joining in the laughter, which, under the circumstances, was the very best course he could have pursued. Notwithstanding the absurdity of the situation, Herbert did not seem to share in his companion's mirth. On the contrary, a shadow was visible upon his brow, not that produced by the gradually deepening twilight of the eclipse, but one that had spread suddenly over his face at sight of the kneeling Smythegee. Miss Vaughan! pronounced the Jewess, springing lightly upon the rock and, with a nod of recognition, advancing towards the young Creole and her companion. An unexpected pleasure, this. I hope we are not intruding. Not at all. Nothing of the sort. I assure you," replied Smythegee, with one of his profoundest bows.

Mr. Smythegee. Miss Jesseron. Interposed Kate, performing the duty of introduction with dignified but courteous politeness. "'We have climbed up to view this eclipse,' continued Judith. "'The same errand as yourself, I presume,' added she, with a glance of quizzical malignity directed towards Kate. "'Ah, yes, certainly,' stammered out Smith G. As if slightly confused by the innuendo of the interrogative. That is precisely the purpose which brought us here, to view this celestial phenomenon from the Jumbiwak. A splendid observatory it is, by Job. You have had the advantage of us," rejoined Judith. I feared we should arrive too late. Perhaps we are soon enough. The satirical tone and glance were reiterated.

Perhaps Kate Vaughn did not perceive the meaning of this ambiguous interrogatory, though addressed to her even more pointedly than the former. At all events she did not reply to it. Her eyes and thoughts were elsewhere. "'Quite in time, Miss Jesseron,' answered Smytheji. The equip is forced by assuming a most interesting phase. In a few minutes the sun will be in Penumbra. If y'all will step this way, y'all may get a better standing place. Permit me to offer y'all the telescope." "'Ah, ha!' continued he, addressing himself to Herbert, who had just come forward. "'Ah, how do, my friend?' Happy to have the pleasure of meeting you again. As he said this he held out his hand, with a single finger projecting beyond the others.

Herbert, though declining the proffered finger, returned the salutation with sufficient courtesy, and Smytheji, turning aside to attend upon Judith, escorted her to that edge of the platform facing towards the eclipse. By this withdrawal Perhaps little regretted by either of the cousins, they were left alone. A bow, somewhat stiff and formal, was the only salutation that had yet passed between them, and even for some seconds after the others had gone aside, they remained without speaking to each other. Herbert was the first to break the embarrassing silence. Miss Vaughn, said he. Endeavoring to conceal the emotion which, however, his trembling voice betrayed. I fear our presence here will be considered an intrusion.

I would have retired, but that my companion willed it otherwise. Miss Vaughn? mentally repeated the young Creole, as the phrase fell strangely upon her ear, prompting her, perhaps, to a very different rejoinder from that. She would otherwise have made. Since you could not follow your own inclination, perhaps it was wiser for you to remain. Your presence here, so far as I am concerned, is no intrusion, I assure you. As for my companion, he appears satisfied enough, does he not? The rapid exchange of words, with an occasional cochinacea-tion, heard from the other side of the rock. told that a gay conversation was going on between Smythegee and the Jewess. I regret that our arrival should have led even to your temporary separation.

Shall I take Mr. Smythegee's place and permit him to rejoin you?" The reply was calculated to widen the breach between the two cousins. It was indebted for its character to the interpretation which Herbert had placed upon Kate's last interrogatory. Certainly. If it would be more agreeable to you to do so, retorted Kate, in a tone of defiant bitterness. Here a pause occurred in the conversation, which from the first had been carried on defiance against defiance. It was Herbert's turn to speak, but the challenge conveyed in Kate's last words placed him in a position where it was not easy to make an appropriate rejoinder. And he remained silent. It was now the crisis of the eclipse, the moment of deepest darkness.

The sun's disk had become completely obscured by the opaque orb of the night, and the earth lay lurid under the somber shadow. Stars appeared in the sky to show that the universe still existed, and those voices of the forest heard only in nocturnal hours. Came peeling up the summit of the rock, a testimony that terrestrial nature was not yet extinct. It was equally a crisis between two loving hearts. Though standing near, those wild words had outlawed them from each other, far more than if ten thousand miles extended between them. The darkness without was not to the darkness within. In the sky there were stars to delight the eye. From the forest came sounds to solace the soul, but no star illumined the horizon of their hearts with its ray of hope.

No sound of joy cheered the silent gloom that bitterly embraced them. For some minutes not a word was exchanged between the cousins, nor spoken either to those who were their sharers in the spectacle. These, too, were silent. The solemnity of the scene had made its impression upon all, and, against the dark background of the sky, the figures of all four appeared in somber silhouette, motionless as the rock on which they stood. Thus for some minutes stood Herbert and Kate without exchanging word or thought. Side by side they were, so near and so silent that each might have heard the breathing of the other. The situation was one of painful embarrassment, and might have been still more so, but for the eclipse, which, just then complete, shrouded both in the deep obscurity of its shadow, and hindered them from observing one another.

Only for a short while did the darkness continue, the eclipse soon reassuming the character of a penumbra. One by one the stars disappeared from the canopy of the sky, now hastening to recover its azure blue. The creatures of darkness, wondering at the premature return of day, sank cowering into a terrified silence, and the God of the heavens, coming forth triumphantly from the cloud that had for a short while concealed him, once more poured his joyous effulgence upon the earth. The redawning of the light showed the cousins still standing in the same relative position, unchanged as to their attitudes. During the interval of darkness Herbert had neither stirred nor spoken, and after the harsh rejoinder to which, in the bitterness of her peak, the young Creole had given words, it was not her place to continue the conversation.

Pain though Herbert was by his cousin's reply, he nevertheless remembered his indebtedness to her. The vows he had made, the proud proffer at parting. Was he now to repudiate the debt of gratitude and prove faithless to his promise? Was he to pluck from his breast that silken souvenir still sheltering there, though in secret and unseen? True, it was but the memorial of an act of friendship, of mere cousinly kindness. He had never had reason to regard it in any other light. Now, more than ever, he was sure it had no higher signification. She had never said she loved him, never said a word that could give him the right to reproach her. On her side there was no repudiation, since there had been no compromise.

It was unjust to condemn her, cruel to defy her, as he had done. That she loved another? Was that a crime? Herbert now knew that she loved another, was as sure of it as that he stood upon the Jumbo Rock. That interrupted tableau had left him no loop to hang a doubt on. The relative position of the parties proclaimed the purpose, a proposal. The kneeling lover may not have obtained his answer, but who could doubt that that answer was to have been? The situation itself proclaimed consent. Bitter as were these reflections, Herbert made an effort to subdue them. He resolved, if possible, to stifle his spleen, and upon the ruin of his hopes, restore that relationship. The only one that could now exist between himself and his cousin.

Friendship. With a superhuman effort he succeeded, and this triumph of virtue over spite, backed by the strongest inclinings of the heart, for a moment solaced his spirit and rendered it calmer. Alas! that such triumph can be only temporary. The struggle upon which he was entering was one in which no man has ever succeeded. Love, undenied, may end in friendship, but love thwarted or unreciprocated never. Now, where the swift roan cleaves its way between heights that appear as lovers who have parted, In hate whose mining depths so intervene, that they can meet no more, though broken-hearted. Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, love was the very root of the fond rage, which blighted their life's bloom.

Herbert Vaughan was perhaps too young, too inexperienced in the affairs of the heart, to have ever realized the sentiment so expressed. Else would he have desisted from his idle attempt, and surrendered himself at once to the despair that was certain to succeed it. Innocent, perhaps happily so, of the knowledge of these recondite truths, he yielded to the nobler resolve, ignorant of the utter impracticability of its execution.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Two. Chapter 15. An Encounter of Eyes While Herbert Vaughn was making these reflections, the light began to redawn, gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of the young girl. Both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the change. It even startled him. Before and during the unhappy dialogue, he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference. All were gone. Kate's eye still sparkled. But with a milder light, a uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them of their roses, and the proud expression had entirely disappeared, replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.

Withal, the face was lovely as ever, lovelier, thought Herbert. Why that sudden transformation? What had caused it? Whence sprang that painful thought? That was betraying itself in the pale cheek and lips compressed and quivering. Was it the happiness of another that was making that misery? Smythe G. seemed happy, very happy, to judge from his oft-repeated, Ha! Ha!

Was this the cause of that expression of extreme sadness that displayed itself on the continents of his cousin? So did Herbert interpret it. Making a fresh effort to subdue within himself the same spirit which he believed to be actuating her, he remained silent, though unable to withdraw his glance from that lorn but lovely face. While still gazing upon it, a sigh escaped him. It could scarce have been heard by her who stood nearest, nor hers by him. For she had also sighed. And at the same instant of time, perhaps both were moved by some secret sympathetic instinct. Herbert had succeeded in obtaining another momentary triumph over his emotions, and was once more on the eve of uttering words of friendship, when the young girl looked up and reciprocated his gaze.

It was the first time during the interview their eyes had met. For up to that moment Kate had only regarded her cousin with furtive glances. For some seconds they stood face to face, each gazing into the eyes of the other, as if both were the victims of some irresistible fascination. Not a word passed between them. Their very breathing was stilled. Both seemed to consider the time too important for speech, for they were seeking in one another's eyes Those faithful mirrors of the soul, those truest interpreters of the heart, the solution of that, the most interesting enigma of their existence. This silent interrogation was instinctive as mutual, uncorrupted by a shadow of coquetry. It was bold and reckless as innocence itself, unregarding outward observation.

What cared they for the eclipse? What for the sun or the moon, or the waning stars? What for the universe itself? Less, far less for those human forms that chanced to be so near them. Drew they gratification from that mutual gaze? They must, else why did they continue it? Not for long, not for long were they allowed. An eye was upon them, the eye of that beautiful demon. Ah, fair Judith, thy flirtation has proved a failure. The ruse has recoiled upon thyself. The golden sunlight once more fell upon the Jumba rock, revealing the forms of four individuals, all youthful, all in love, though only two were beloved. The returning light brought no joy to Judith Jesseron. It revealed to her that glance of mutual fascination which, with a quick sharp cry, she had interrupted.

A better embarrassment seemed all at once to have seized upon her proud spirit and dragged it into the dust. Skilled in the silent language of the eyes, she had read in those of Herbert Vaughn, as he bent them upon his cousin, an expression that stung her. Even to the utterance of a scream. From that moment the flirtation with Smythji ceased, and the Cockney exquisite was forsaken, in the most unceremonious manner, left to continue his telescopic observations alone. The conversation was no longer dasy-das, but at once changed to a trio, and finally restored to its original quartet. Soon, however, to be broken up by an abrupt separation of the parties. The Jewess was the first to propose departure, the first to make it.

She descended upon the Jumba rock in a less lively mood than that in which she had climbed up to it, inwardly anathematizing the eclipse and the fortune that had guided her to the choice of such an ill-starred observatory. Perhaps, had the interview been prolonged, the cousins might have separated with a better understanding of each other than was expressed in that cold ceremonious adieu with which they parted. Smytheji and Kate Vaughan were once more alone upon the summit of the rock, and the supercilious lover was now free to continue the declaration. One might suppose that he would have instantly dropped back upon his knees and finished the performance so vexitiously interrupted. Not so, however.

The spirit of Smythe G.'s dream seemed equally to have undergone a change, as if he, too, had seen something. His air of high confidence had departed, as also the climax on which he had counted. For the sun's disk was now quite clear of the eclipse, and the pretty speeches intended for an interior time would now have been pointless and inappropriate. Whether it was this that influenced him, or a presentment that the offer of his heart and hand might just then stand some chance of a rejection, can never be known, since Smythe G., who alone could divulge it. has left no record of the reason. Certain it is, however, that the proposal did not take place on the Jamba Rock on the day of the eclipse, but was postponed sine d to some future occasion.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two. Chapter 16. As if the eclipse had not been a sufficient climax to the round, a feat-tess got up for the express amusement of Mr. Smythe G. Only a few days, or rather nights, after, still another was inaugurated to do honor to this young British lion. Unlike the eclipse, it was a terrestrial phenomenon. One of the most popular sublunary entertainments, a ball, a complimentary ball, Mr. Smythe G., the recipient of the compliment. Montego Bay was to be the place which, notwithstanding its provinciality, had long been celebrated for its brilliant assemblies, from the time that Fandango's were danced by the old Spanish pork butchers, Down to that hour when Mr.

Montague Smythgee had condescended to honor its salons by the introduction of some very fashionable steps from the world's metropolis. The hall was to be a grand affair, one of the grandest ever given in the Bay, and all planterdom was expected to be present. Of course, Kate Vaughan would be there. And so, too, the Kustos himself. Mr. Smythjee would be the hero of the night, and as much surrounded by the fairest of the fair, hedged in by a galaxy of beautiful bells, and beset by an army of matchmaking parents, all seeking success with as much eagerness as Loftus Vaughan himself. Under these circumstances it would be but simple prudence that Kate should be there to look after him, for the worthy Custos was not unacquainted with the adage that the sweetest-smelling flower is that nearest the nose.

Mr. Vaughan would have rejoiced at the opportunity thus offered of letting all the Monde of Jamaica know the relationship in which he stood. And was likely to stand to the distinguished individual to whom the entertainment was dedicated. He had no doubt but that Kate would be chosen as the conspicuous partner, for well knew he the condition of Mr. Smythegee's mind upon that subject. To him the latter had made no secret of his affections, and the cunning custos Who had been all along warily watching the development of the passion, now knew to a certainty that the heart of Montague's lord was not only smitten with his daughter, but was irretrievably lost, so far as such a heart could suffer love's perdition.

No doubt then, Mr. Brown would have looked forward to the Smythe G Ball with pleasant anticipation, as likely to afford him a social triumph. But for a little circumstance that had lately come to his knowledge, it was the incident which had transpired on the Jumba Rock, the meeting between his daughter and nephew on the day of the eclipse. The Custos had been the more particular in obtaining the details of that interview from his presumptive son-in-law, on account of a suspicion that had arisen in his mind as to the inclinings of his daughter's heart. Something she had said, during the first days after Herbert's brusque dismissal from Mount Welcome, some sympathetic expressions she had made use of, unguarded and overheard, He was sufficiently annoyed about Kate having met Herbert on the Jumba Rock, and believed it quite possible that the latter had come there in the hope of encountering his cousin.

In Mount Welcome, the name of Herbert Vaughn was no longer heard. Even Kate, Whether it was that she had grown more sage, for she had been chided more than once for introducing it into the conversation, or whether she had ceased to think of him, even she never pronounced his name. For all that Mr. Vaughan was still vexed with some lingering suspicion that in that direction lurked danger, and this determined him to prevent, as far as possible, Any further interview between his daughter and nephew? After the encounter on the Jamba Rock, he had taken his daughter to task upon this subject, and using the full stretch of parental authority, compelled her to a solemn promise, that she was not again to speak to her cousin, nor even acknowledge his presence.

It was a hard promise for the poor girl to make. Perhaps it would have been still harder had she known Herbert's disposition towards her. There can be no doubt that her father, in extracting this promise, had in view the event about to take place, the Grand Smythgee Ball. There an encounter between the cousins was not only possible, but probable. So much so as to render Mr. Vaughn apprehensive. Judith Jesseron was sure to be present, perhaps the Jew himself, and Herbert, of course. The nephew was now cordially disliked, stung by the defiant speeches which the young man had made on the day of his arrival. His uncle even detested him, for the proud planter was himself too poor in spirit to admire this quality in anyone else.

The custos had heard all about the hospitality which his neighbor was extending to Herbert, and the kindnesses which the patron was lavishing upon his protege. Though not a little mystified by what was going on, he availed himself of the ordinary explanation, that it was done to vex himself. And if so, the stratagem of the Jew was proving perfectly successful. For vexed was Mr. Vaughan to his very heart's core. The night of the Smythe G Ball came round in due course. The grand ballroom of the bay was decorated as became the occasion. Flags, festoons, and devices hung around the walls, and over the doorway a large transparency, supported by the loyal emblems of the Union Jack and banner of St.

George, and surmounted by the colonial colors. Proclaimed in letters of eighteen inches diameter, Welcome to Smythe G. The hour arrived, the band shortly after. Close followed by strings of carriages of every kind current in the island, containing scores, aye, hundreds of dancers. Twenty miles was nothing to go to a Jamaica ball. The Grand Barouche of Loftus Vaughan arrived with the rest. Only fashionably behind time, bringing the Custos himself, his truly beautiful daughter, but above all, as before all perhaps should have been mentioned, the hero of the night. Welcome to Smythe G. How his proud heart swelled with triumph under the magnificent ruffles of his shirt, as he caught sight of the flattering transparency.

Hal conquering his smile as he turned towards Cade Vaughan to note the effect which it would not fail to produce. Welcome to Smythe G., peeled from a hundred pairs of lips as the carriage drove up to the door, and then a loud cheer followed the words of greeting, and then the distinguished stranger was ushered into the hall room, and after remaining a few moments in a conspicuous position, The sign of shore of at least two hundred pairs of eyes, the great man set the example by pairing off with a partner. The hand struck up, and the dancing began. It need scarce be said who was Smythegee's first partner. Kate Vaughn, of course. The Custos had taken care of that. Smythegee looked superb. Toms had been at him all the afternoon.

His hay-colored hair was in full curl, his whiskers an amplious bush, his mustache crimped spirally at the points, and his cheek pinked with just the slightest tinting of vermilion. Arrived a little late. The Jewess had not appeared in the first set. In the waltz she was conspicuous, not from her dress of rich purple velvet, not from the splendid tiara of pearls that glistened against the background of her glossy raven hair, not from the dazzling whiteness of her teeth that gleamed between lips like curved and parted rose leaves, not from the damask tinting of her cheeks, nor the liquid light. That flashed incessantly from her black Israelitish eyes. Not from any of these was she conspicuous, but from all combined into one, and composing a grand and imperious picture.

It was a picture upon which more than one eye gazed with admiration, and more than one continued to gaze. The partner of Judith was not unworthy to embrace such beauty. She was in the arms of a young man, a stranger to most in the room. But the glances bestowed upon him by bright eyes, some interrogative, some furtive, some openly admiring, promised him an easy introduction to anyone he might fancy to know. Not that this stranger appeared to be conceitedly conscious. Of the graces which nature had so lavishly bestowed upon him, or even sensible of the good fortune that had given him such a partner. On the contrary, he was dancing with despondency in his look, and a cloud upon his brow that even the exciting whirl of the waltz was failing to dissipate.

The partner of Judith Jesseron was Herbert Vaughan. A ballroom may be likened to a kaleidoscope, The personages are the same, their relative positions constantly changing. Design it or not, either during the dance or the interregnum, one time or another, you will find yourself face-to-face or side-by-side with every individual in the room. So in the ballroom of Montego Bay came face-to-face two sets of waltzers, Smythe G. and Kate, Herbert and Judith. The situation arose as they were resting from the dizzy whirl of a waltz. Smythe G. bent profoundly towards the door. Judith, with an imperious sweep, returned the salutation. Herbert bowed to his cousin, with a half-doubting, half-appealing glance.

But the nod received in return was so slight, so distant, that even the keen-eyed Custos, closely watching every movement of the quartet, Failed to perceive it. Poor Kate. She knew that the parental eye severely set was upon her. She remembered that painful promise. Not a word passed between the parties. Scarce a moment stood they together. Herbert, stung by Kate's salutation, unexpectedly cold, almost insultingly distant, Warped his arm around the waist of his willing partner, and spun off through the unobservant crowd. Though often again upon that same night, Smythe G. and Kate, Herbert, and the Jewess were respectively partners, so often as to lead to general observation, never again did the four stand vis-a-vis or side by side.

Whenever Chance threatened to bring them together, design or something like it, Stepped in to thwart the approximation. Almost all the night did Herbert dance with the Jewess, no longer with despondency in his look, but with the semblance of a gay and reckless joy. Never had Judith received from the young Englishman such ardent attention, and for the first time since their introduction to each other did she feel conscious of something Like a correspondence to her own fierce love. For the moment her proud, cruel heart became dissolved to a true feminine tenderness, and in the spiral undulations of the waltz, as she coiled round the robust form of her partner, her cheek rested upon his shoulder, as if laid there to expire in the agony of an exquisite bliss.

She stayed not to question the cause of Herbert's devotedness. Her own heart, blinded by love and yearning for reciprocity, threw open its portals to receive the passion without challenge or scrutiny, without knowing whether it was real or only apparent. A wild anguish would she have experienced at that moment? Could she have divined what was passing in Herbert's mind? Little did she suspect that his devotedness to her It was only a demonstration intended to act upon another. Little dreamt she that real love for another was the cause and origin of that counterfeit that was deceiving herself. Happily for her heart's peace, she knew not this. Herbert alone knew it. As the kaleidoscope evolved the dazzling dancers one after another, often did the face of Kate Vaughn flit before the eyes of her cousin.

And his before her eyes. On such occasions the glance hastily exchanged was one of defiant indifference, for both were playing at peaks. The cold salutation had given him the cue, ignorant as he was of its cause. She had begun the game only a little later, on observing the attitude of extreme contentment which Herbert had assumed towards his companion. She knew not that it was studied. Her skill in coquetry, although sufficient for the pretence of indifference, was not deep enough to discern it in him, and both were now behaving as if each believed the love of the other beyond all hope. Before abandoning the ballroom, this belief, erroneous as it might be on both sides, received further confirmation.

A circumstance arose that strengthened it to a full and perfect conviction. From the gossip of a crowded ballroom, many a secret may be learnt. When the supper champagne has untied the tongue, and dancers begin to fancy each other deaf, he who silently threads his way, or stands still among the crowd, may catch many a sentence not intended to be overheard, and often least of all by himself. Many an involuntary eavesdropper has fallen into this catastrophe. At least two instances occurred at the Smythe G. Hall, and to the two individuals in whom, perhaps, we are most interested, Herbert and Kate Vaughn. Herbert for a moment was alone. Judith, not that she had tired of her partner, but perhaps only to save appearances, was dancing with another.

It was not Smythe G. Whom all the evening she had studiously avoided. She remembered the incident on the Jumba Rock, and feared that dancing with him might conduct to a similar disposition of partners as that which had occurred on the day of the eclipse. It was not flirtation in any way. On that night Judith had no need. Confident in her success with Herbert, she was contented. And cared not to do anything that might hazard a rupture of the blissful chain she believed she had woven around him. Herbert was standing alone in the crowd. Two young planters were near him, engaged in conversation. They had mixed their liquor, and therefore talked loud. Herbert could not help hearing what they talked of, and, having heard, could not help heeding it.

He was interested in the subject, though not from its singularity, for it was the common topic of the ballroom, and had been throughout the night. The theme was Smythe G., and coupled with his name was that of Kate Vaughan. On hearing these names, Herbert was no longer an involuntary listener. He strained his ears to catch every word. He had not heard the beginning of the dialogue, but the introduction was easily inferred. When is it to come off? inquired the least knowing of the planters, from him who was imparting the information. No time fixed yet, was the reply. At least, none has been mentioned. Soon, I suppose. There'll be a grand spread upon the occasion. Breakfast, dinner, supper, and ball, no doubt.

Sure to be all that, the custos is not the man to let the ceremony pass without all the eclat. Honeymoon tour afterwards? Of course. He takes her to London. I believe they are to reside there. Mr. Smythe G. don't much relish our colonial life. He misses the opera? A pity, since it'll make one beautiful woman less in the island. Well, all I've got to say is that Loth Vaughn has sold his nigger well. Oh, for shame to use such a word in speaking of the beautiful, the accomplished Miss Vaughn. Come, Thorndyke, I'm shocked at you. Thorndyke, by the expression, had hazarded the punching of his head, not by his companion, but by a stranger who stood near. Herbert curbed his indignation. Kate cared not for him.

Perhaps she would not have accepted him even as her champion. Almost at that same moment, Kate, too, was listening to a dialogue painfully analogous. Smythe G. could not dance all the night with her. Too many claimed the honor of his partnership, and for a set or two, she had been forsaken by him, left under the guardianship of the watchful custos. "'Who can he be?' inquired one of the two gentle gossips within earshot of Kate. "'A young Englishman, I've heard, a relative of Vons of Mount Welcome, though for some reason not acknowledged by the custos.' "'That bold girl appears willing enough to acknowledge him. Who is she?' "'A Missa Jesseron. She is the daughter of the old Jew pen-keeper.' Who used to deal largely in blacks.

Fah! She is behaving as if she belonged to a... The last word was whispered, and Kate did not hear it. True enough, asserted the other, but as they are engaged, that, I take it, is nobody's business but their own. He's a stranger in the island, and don't know much about certain people's position, I suppose. A pity. He seems a nice sort of a young fellow. But as he makes his bed, so let him lie. If report speaks true of Miss Judith Jesseron, he'll find no bed of roses there. What causes merriment to one may make another miserable. This was true of the words last spoken. From the speaker and her companion, they elicited a laugh. From Kate Vaughn, they drew a sigh, deep and sad. She left the ball with a bleeding heart.

Lost. Lost forever, murmured she, as she laid her cheek upon a sleepless pillow. One, triumphantly exclaimed Judith Jesseron, flinging her majestic form on a couch. Herbert Vaughn is mine. Lost. Lost forever, soliloquized Herbert, as he closed the door of his solitary sleeping room. "'One!' cried the victorious Smythe G, entering his elegant bedchamber and, in the favour of his enthusiasm, dropping his metropolitan patois. Kate Vaughan is mine."

52 052 - Volume 2 Chapter 17 - After the Ball 11:19

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Two, Chapter Seventeen. After the Ball.

The time was rapidly drawing nigh when the ambitious scheme of the Custos Bon was either to be crowned with success, or end in failure. Of the latter he had little apprehension, though Smythe G., having lost the opportunity of the eclipse, had not yet declared himself. Mr. Vaughan knew it was his intention to do so on an early occasion. Indeed, the declaration was only postponed by the advice of the custodes himself, whose counsel had been sought by his intended son-in-law. Not that Mr. Vaughan had any fear of Cates giving a negative answer. The stern father knew that he had his daughter too well in hand for that. His wish would be her will. On that point, was he determined, and it was less the fear of a refusal than some other circumstances that had hindered him from bringing the matter earlier to a crisis.

As for Smythe G., he never dreamt of a rejection. Kate's behavior at the ball had confirmed him in the belief that she was entirely his own. And that without him her future existence would be one of misery. Her pale cheek and sad, thoughtful air, as she appeared next morning at the breakfast table, told him too plainly that she would never be happy under any other name than that of Mrs. Smythe G. Again upon that morning it occurred to him that the proposal should be made. It would be an appropriate finale. To the fete day of the preceding night, his brow still glowing with the laurels that had bedecked it, like a second Antony, he would approach his Cleopatra, triumphantly irresistible. After breakfast Mr.

Smythe G. drew the Custos into a corner, and once more expressed his solicitude to become his son-in-law. Whether because Kate's behavior at the ball had also impressed Mr. Vaughn with the appropriateness of the time, or for some other reason, Smythe G. found him agreeable. Only first the father desired to have a few words with his daughter, in order to prepare her for the distinguished honor of which she was so soon to be the recipient. Kate had gone out into the kiosk. There Mr. Vaughn sought her. to bring about the proposed preliminary interview. Smythe G. also stepped into the garden, but instead of going near the summer house, he sauntered along the walks at a distance, occasionally plucking a flower or chasing the butterflies, bright and gay as his own thoughts.

Kate's countenance still preserved the air of melancholy that had clouded it all the morning. And the approach of the custos did nothing to dissipate it. On the contrary, its shadows became deeper, as if the ponderous presence of her father, coming between her and the sun, was about to shut out the little light left shining in her heart. From what she had heard that morning, she presumed that the time had arrived when she must either submit to the wishes of her father, And resign herself to an unhappy fate, or, by disobedience, brave his anger, and perhaps she knew not what. She only knew that she did not like Mr. Smythe G., and never could. She did not hate the man. She did not detest him. Her feeling towards him was that of indifference, slightly tinctured with contempt.

Harmless, she deemed him. No doubt a harmless husband he would make, but that was not the sort to suit the taste of the young Creole. Far different was the hero of her heart. Neither the lover nor his prospective father-in-law could have chosen a time more opportune for making their approaches, although at that time Kate Vaughn felt towards Smythe G. more indifference, perhaps more contempt, than she had ever done. At that very hour she was wavering in the intention, hitherto cherished, of refusing him. Though both lover and father had erroneously interpreted her air of dejection, it was nevertheless in their favor. It was not love for Smythe G. under which she was suffering, but despair of this passion for another.

And in that despair lay the hope, the only hope. Of the Lord of Montague Castle. It was a despair not unmingled with pique, with anger, that proud rage, which painfully wringing the heart prompts it to desperate resolves, even to the utter annihilation of all future hope, as if happiness could be obtained by destroying the happiness of the one only being who could give it. Yes, the heart of Kate Vaughn had reached, or almost reached, that fearful phase of our moral nature, when love, convinced of its unrequital, seeks solace in revenge. The Smythe G. Ball, which had crowned the hopes of him to whom the compliment was given, had been fatal to those of Kate Vaughn. Certain it was that she had conceived hopes that pointed to Herbert Vaughn.

Love could scarce have been kindled without them. They were founded upon those fond words spoken at their first parting. Slight as was the foundation, up to that night had they endured, for she had treasured and cherished them, in spite of absence, of calumny, and false report. True, as time passed, they had waxed fainter, with longer intervals of doubt. Until the day in which had occurred the unexpected incident of their meeting upon the Jumbi Rock. Then they had become revived, and since then they had lived with more or less intermission until that fatal night, the night of the Smythe G. Ball, when they were doomed to utter extinction. All night long he had come but once near her. Only that once, by the mere chance of changing positions.

And that bow, that single salutation, friendly as it might have been deemed, she could only remember as being cold, almost cynical. She did not think how cold and distant had been her own, at least, how much so it must have appeared to him. Though her eyes had often sought him in the crowd, and often found him, she did not know that his were equally following her, and equally as often fixed upon her. Both were ignorant of this mutual espionage, for each had studiously declined responding to the glance of the other. Nevermore that night had he come near. Never again had he shown a desire or made an attempt to address her, though opportunities there were, many, when no paternal eye was upon her to prevent an interview.

All night long had his attentions been occupied by another, apparently engrossed, and that other, a bold, beautiful woman, just such an one as Herbert might love. He loves her. I'm sure he loves her. Was the reflection that passed often and painfully through the thoughts of Kate Vaughan, as she swept her eye across that crowded ballroom. And then came the climax, that half-whispered gossip that reached her ear, falling upon it like a knell of death. They were to be married. They were already betrothed. It needed no more. In that moment the hopes of the young Creole were crushed. So cruelly, so completely, that in the dark future before her no gleam of light arose to resuscitate them. No wonder the morning sun shone upon a pale cheek.

No wonder that an air of deep dejection saked upon the countenance of Kate Vaughn. In this melancholy mood did the father find his daughter on entering the kiosk. She made no attempt to conceal it. Not even with a counterfeit of a smile. Rather, with a frown did she receive him, and in her eyes might have been detected the slightest scintillation of anger, whether or not he was its object. It is possible that just then the thought was passing through her mind that but for him her destiny might have been different. But for him... Herbert Vaughan, not Montague Smythegee, might have been on the eve of offering for her hand, which would then have gone with her heart. Now, in the contingency of her consenting to the proposal she expected, would she and Herbert be separated, and for ever?

Nevermore was she to experience that supreme happiness, the supremest known upon earth, and perhaps Equalling the joys of heaven itself, never more could she indulge in that sweet, delicious dream, a virgin's love, with the hope of its being returned. Her love might remain like a flower that had lost its perfume, only to shed it on the solitary air. No more a sweet passion, but a barren, bitter thought, without hope to cheer it till the end of time. Ah, Kostos von, proud, foolish parent, could you have known how you were aiding to destroy the happiness of your child? How you were contributing to crush that young heart? You would have approached less cheerfully to complete the ceremony of its sacrifice.

53 053 - Volume 2 Chapter 18 - Paving the Way 20:07

The Maroon by Thomas Maine Read. Volume Two, Chapter Eighteen. Paving the Way.

Catherine, gravely began the father on stepping inside the kiosk. Father. The parental appellative was pronounced in a low murmur, the speaker not uplifting her eyes from the object upon which she had been gazing. The object was a small silken purse that lay upon the table. Stringless it was, though the broken strands of a blue ribbon attached to it showed that it had not always been so. Loftus Vaughan knew not the history of that purse, neither why it lay there, what had stripped it of its string. Or why his daughter was so sadly gazing upon it. This last circumstance he noticed on entering the kiosk.

Ah, your pretty purse, said he, taking it up and examining it more minutely. Someone has torn the string from it. A pity. Who can have done it? Little did he care for an answer. As little did he suspect that the rape of that bit of ribbon had ought to do with his daughter's dejection, which he had observed throughout the morning. The surprise he had expressed and the question put were only intended to initiate the more serious conversation he was about to introduce. "'Oh, Papa, it don't signify," said Kate, avoiding a direct answer. "'Tis but a bit of ribbon." I can easily replace it by another. Ah, Kate, you may easily replace the ribbon upon the purse, but not so easily that piece of mine which parted from your bosom at the same time.

When that string was torn, torn, too, were the strings of your heart. Some such reflection must have passed through her mind as she made the reply, for the shadow visibly deepened over her countenance. Mr. Vaughn pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the latticework and perceiving Smythegee in chase of the butterflies, endeavored to draw his daughter's attention to that sportive gentleman. This was the more easily done, as Mr. Smythegee was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen. "'I'd be a butterfly,' sang Smythegee. Born in a bower, where lilies and roses and violence meet, sporting forever from flower to flower, and... And then, as if to contradict this pleasant routine of insect life, he was at that instant seen seizing a splendid Vanessa, and crushing the frail creature between his kid-gloved fingers.

Isn't he a superb fellow? Said Mr. Vaughn, first gazing enthusiastically on Smythe G., and then fixing his eyes upon his daughter to note the character of the reply. I suppose he must be, Papa, since everybody says so. There was no enthusiasm in Kate's answer, nothing to encourage the Kustos. Don't you think so, Kate? This was coming more directly to the point. But the response proved equally evasive. You think so, Papa, and that should do for both of us. The melodious voice of Smythe G. again interrupted the dialogue and turned it into a new channel. Smythe G. singing. I'd never languish for wealth nor for power. I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet. Ah, Mr. Smythe G., exclaimed Acustos. In a kind of soliloquy, though meant for the ear of Kate.

You have no need to sigh for them. You have them. Five hundred of them. And beauties, too. Wealth and power, indeed. You needn't languish for either one or the other. The estate of Montague Castle provides you with both, my boy. Smythe G. still chantant. Those who have wealth may be watchful and wary. Power, alas, naught but misery brings. Do you hear that, Kate? What fine sentiments he utters. Very fine and apropos to the occasion, replied Kate sarcastically. They are not his, however, but no doubt he feels them, and that's just as good. "'A splendid property,' continued Mr. Vaughn, returning to what interested him more than the sentiments of the song, and not heeding the sarcasm conveyed in the speech of his daughter.

"'A splendid property,' I tell you, and with mine joined to it. "'We'll make the grandest establishment in the island.' "'The island,' did I say? "'In the West Indies, aye.'" In the Western world. Do you hear that, my daughter? I do, Papa, replied the young Creole. But you speak as if the two estates were to be joined together. Does Mr. Smytheji intend to purchase Mount Welcome, or you Montague Castle? These questions were asked with an air of simplicity evidently assumed. In truth, the interrogator knew well enough to what the conversation was tending. And, impatient with the ambiguity, every moment growing more painful to her, desired to bring it to its crisis. Mr. Vaughn was equally desirous of arriving at the same result, as testified by his reply.

"'Ah, Kate, you little rogue,' said he, looking gratified at the opening thus made for him. "'Egad! You've just hit the nail on the head. You've guessed right.' Only that we are both to be buyers. Mr. Smythe G. is to purchase Mount Welcome, and what do you suppose he is to pay for it? Guess that. Indeed, Father, I cannot. How should I know? I am sure I do not. Only this I know, that I am sorry you should think of parting with Mount Welcome. I, for one, shall be loath to leave it. Though I do not expect now ever to be happy here, I think I should not be happier anywhere else. Mr. Vaughn was too much wound up in the threat of his own thoughts to notice the emphasis on the word now, or the double meaning of his daughter's words.

Ha, ha, ha," laughed he. Mr. Smythegee's purchase won't dispossess us of Mount Welcome. Don't be afraid of that little Kate. But come. Try and guess the price he is to pay. Father, I need not try. I am sure I could not guess it, not within thousands of pounds. Not a thousand pounds, no, not one pound, unless his great big heart weighs that much, and his generous hand thrown into the scale. For that, Catherine, that is the price he is to pay. Mr. Brown wound up his speech with a significant glance and a triumphant gesture, expressive of astonishment at his own eloquence. He looked for a response, one that would reciprocate his smiles and joyful intelligence he fancied himself to have communicated.

He looked in vain. Notwithstanding the perspicuity of his explanation, Kate obstinately refused to comprehend it. Her reply was provokingly a shirking of the question. His heart and his hand, you say? Neither seem very heavy. But is it not very little for an estate, where there are many hands and many hearts, too? To whom does he intend to give his? You have not let me know that, Papa. I shall let you know now, replied the father, his voice changing to a more serious tone. As if a little nettled by Kate's evident design to misunderstand him. I shall let you know, by telling you what I intend to give him for Montague Castle. I told you we were both to be buyers in this transaction. It is a fair exchange, Kate, hand for hand and heart for heart.

Mr. Smythe G. freely gives his, and I give yours. Mine? "'Aye, yours. Surely, Kate, I have not made a mistake. Surely you are agreeable to the exchange.' "'Father,' said the young girl, speaking in a tone of womanly gravity, "'there can be no exchange of hearts between Mr. Smythe G. and myself. He may have given his to me. I know not, nor do I care. But I will not deceive you, Father. My heart—' He can never have. It is not in my power to give it to him. Nonsense, exclaimed Mr. Vaughn, startled by this unexpected declaration. You are deceiving yourself, my child, when you talk thus. I do not see how you can fail to like Mr. Smythe G. So generous, so accomplished, so handsome as he is. Come, you are only jesting, Kate.

"'Do you like him?' "'You do not hate him.' "'No, no, I do not hate him. Why should I? Mr. Smythe has done nothing to offend me. I believe he is very honorable.' "'Why, that is almost saying that you like him,' rejoined the father, in a tone of returning gratification. "'Liking is not love,' murmured Kate, as if speaking to herself. "'It may turn to it.' Said the Custos encouragingly, it often does, especially when two people become man and wife. Besides, it's not always best for young married folks to be too fond of each other at first. As my old spelling book used to say, hot love soon grows cold. Never fear, Kate, you'll get to like Mr. Smythe G. well enough when you come to be the mistress of Montague Castle and take rank.

As the grandest lady of the island, won't that be happiness, little Kate? Ah, thought the young Creole, a cabin shared with him would be greater happiness, far, far greater. It is needless to say that the him to whom the thought pointed was not Smythegee. As Mrs. Montague Smythegee. Proceeded the Custos with a design of painting the future prospects of his daughter in still more glowing tints. You will have troops of friends, the highest in the land, and remember, my child, it is not so note. You know it, Catherine? These last words were pronounced in a tone suggestive of some secret understanding between father and daughter. Whether the speech produced the desired effect, He who made it did not stay to perceive, but continued on in the same breath to finish the rose-colored picture he had essayed to paint.

Yes, my little Kate, you will be the observed of all observers, the cynosure of every eye. As the poets say, horses, slaves, dresses, carriages at will. You will make a grand tour to London. "'Egad! I feel like going myself. In the great metropolis you will hobnob with lords and ladies. Visit the operas and balls, where you will be a bell, my girl. A bell, do you hear? Everyone will be talking of Mrs. Montague Smythji. How do you like it now?' "'Ah, Papa,' replied the young Creole, evidently unmoved by these promises of pomp and grandeur. I should not like it at all. I am sure I should not. I never cared for such things. You know I do not. They cannot give happiness, at least not to me. I should never be happy away from our own home.

What pleasure should I have in a great city? None, I am sure, but quite the contrary. I should miss our grand mountains and woods, our beautiful trees with their gay perfume blossoms, our bright-winged birds with their sweet songs. Operas and balls. I dislike balls. And to be the belle of one, Papa, I detest the word. Kate at that moment was thinking of the Smythe G. Ball and its disagreeable souvenirs. Perhaps the more disagreeable that, oftener than once, during the night she had heard the phrase, Belle of the Ball, applied to one who had aided in the desolation of her heart. Oh, you will get over that dislike, returned Mr. Vaughan, once you go into fashionable society. Most young ladies do.

There's no harm in balls. After a girl gets married and her husband goes with her to take care of her, no harm whatever. But now, Kate, continued the Kustos, betraying a certain degree of nervous impatience, we must come to an understanding. Mr. Smythe G. is waiting. For what is he waiting, Papa? Tut-tut, child. Said Mr. Vaughn, slightly irritated by his daughter's apparent incapacity to comprehend him. Surely you know. Have I not as good as told you? Mr. Smythe G. is going to, to offer you his heart and hand, and to ask yours in return. That is what he's waiting to do. You will not refuse him. You cannot. You must not. Loftus Vaughan would have spoken more gracefully had he omitted the last phrase.

It had the sound of a command with an implied threat, and jarring upon the ear of her to whom it was addressed, might have roused a spirit of rebellion. It is just possible that such would have been its effect, had it been spoken on the evening before the Smythejibaw, instead of the morning after. The incidents occurring there had extinguished all hope in the breast of the young Creole that she should ever share happiness with Herbert Vaughn, had at the same time destroyed any thought of resistance to the will of her father, and, with a sort of apathetic despair, she submitted herself to the sacrifice which her father had determined she should make. "'I have told you the truth,' said she." Gazing fixedly in his face, as if to impress him with the idleness of the arguments he had been using.

I cannot give Mr. Smythe my heart. I shall tell him the same. No! No! hastily rejoined the importunate parent. You must do nothing of the kind. Give him your hand, and say nothing about your heart, that you can bestow afterwards, when you are safe married. "'Never, never,' said the young girl, sighing sadly as she spoke. "'I cannot practice that deception. No, father, not even for you. Mr. Smythe-G shall know all, and if he choose to accept my hand without my heart—' "'Then you promise to give him your hand?' interrupted the Kustos, overjoyed at this hypothetical consent. "'It is you who give it, not I, father.' "'Enough!' cried Mr. Vaughn, hastily turning his eyes to the garden, as if to search for the insect hunter.

I shall give it, continued he, and this very minute. Mr. Smythegee. Smythegee, standing close by the kiosk, on the qui vive of expectation, promptly responded to the summons, and in two seconds of time appeared in the open doorway. Mr. Smythegee, sir. Said the custos, putting on an air of pompous solemnity befitting the occasion. You have asked for my daughter's hand in marriage, and, sir, I am happy to inform you that she has consented to your becoming my son-in-law. I am proud of the honor, sir. Here Mr. Vaughn pause to get breath. Ah! Ah! stammered Mr. Smythegee. This is a great happiness, very great indeed, quite unexpected. I am sure, Miss Vaughn, I never dweemped of such happiness was in store for me.

Now, my children, playfully interrupted the custos, covering Smythe G.'s embarrassment by the interruption, I have bestowed you upon one another, and with my blessing I leave you to yourselves. So saying, the gratified father stepped forth from the kiosk, and wending his way along the walk, disappeared around an angle of the house. We shall not intrude upon the lovers thus left alone, nor repeat a single word of what passed between them. Suffice it to say that when Smythe G. came out of that same kiosk, his air was rather tranquil than triumphant. A portion of the shadow that had been observed upon Kate's countenance seemed to have been transmitted to his. Well? Anxiously inquired the intended father-in-law.

Ah, all right, betrothed. You is strange, though, inexplicably strange. How strange? demanded Mr. Vaughn. Ah, very mild. I expected how to go into hysterics. By Jove, no, she received my declamation as cool as a cucumber. She had done more than that. She had given him a hand without a heart. And Smythe G. knew it, for Kate Vaughn had kept her promise.

54 054 - Volume 2 Chapter 19 - The Duppy's Hole 14:22

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Two, Chapter Nineteen. The Duppy's Hole.

On the flank of the mountain that frowned towards the Happy Valley, and not far from the Jumba Rock, a spring gushed forth. So copious was it as to merit the name of Fountain. In its descent down the slope, it was joined by others. And soon became a torrent, leaping from ledge to ledge and foaming as it followed its onward course. About halfway between the summit and base of the mountain, a deep longitudinal hollow lay in its track, into which the stream was precipitated in a clear, curving cascade. This singular hollow resembled the crater of an extinct volcano. In the circumstance that on all sides it was surrounded by a precipice facing inward, and rising two hundred feet sheer from the level below.

It was not of circular shape, however, as craters generally are, but of the form of a ship, the stream falling in over the poop, and afterwards escaping through a narrow cleft at the bow. Preserving the simile of a ship, It may be stated that the channel ran directly fore and aft, bisecting the bottom of the valley, an area of several acres, into two equal parts. But in consequence of an obstruction at its exit, the stream formed a lagoon, or dam, flooding the whole of the foredeck, while the main and quarterdecks were covered with a growth of indigenous timber trees of appearance primeval. The water on leaving the lagoon made its escape below, through a gorge black and narrow, bounded on each side by the same beedling cliffs that surrounded the valley.

At the lower end of this gorge was a second waterfall, where the stream again pitched over a precipice of several hundred feet in height, and thence traversing the slope of the mountain, ended in becoming a tributary of the Montego River. The upper cascade precipitated itself upon a bed of grim black boulders, through the midst of which the froth-crested water seethed swiftly onward to the lagoon below.

Above these boulders hung continuously a cloud of white vapor, like steam ascending out of some gigantic cauldron. When the sun was upon that side of the mountain, An iris might be seen shining amidst the fleece-like vapor. But rare was the eye that beheld this beautiful phenomenon. For the duppy's hole, in Negro parlance, the appellation of the place, shared the reputation of the Jumba rock, and few were the Negroes who would have ventured to approach, even to the edge of this cavernous abysm. Few those who would have dared to descend into it. Indeed, something more than superstitious terror might have hindered the execution of this last project, since a descent into the Duppy's Hole appeared an impossibility.

On the beetling cliffs that encompassed it, there was neither path nor pass, not a ledge on which the foot might have rested with safety. Only at one point, and that where the precipice rose over the lagoon, might a descent have been made. By means of some stunted trees that, rooting in the clefts of the rock, formed a straggling screen up the face of the cliff. At this point an agile individual might possibly have scrambled down, but the damned water, dark and deep, would have hindered him from reaching the quarter-deck of this ship-shaped ravine, unless by swimming, and this, the suck of the current towards the gorge below, It was evident that someone had tempted this peril, for on scrutinizing the straggling trees upon the cliff, a sort of stairway could be distinguished, the outstanding stems serving as steps, with the parasitical creepers connecting them together.

Moreover, at certain times, a tiny string of smoke might have been seen ascending out of the duppy's hole. Which, after curling diffusely over the tops of the tall trees, would dissolve itself and become invisible.

Only one standing upon the cliff above, and parting the foliage that screened it to its very brink, could have seen this smoke. And, if only superficially observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a stray waif of the fog. That floated above the waterfall near which it rose. Closely scrutinized, however, its blue color and soft, filmy haze rendered it recognizable as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must have been made by human hands. Any day might it have been seen, and three times a day, at morning, noon, and evening, as if the fire had been kindled for the purposes of cooking the three regular meals, The diurnal appearance of this smoke proved the presence of a human being within the Duppy's Hole.

One, at least, disregarding the superstitious terror attached to the place, had made it his home. By exploring the valley, other evidences of human presence might have been found. Under the branches of a large tree, standing by the edge of the lagoon, And from which the silvery Tillandsia fell in festoons to the surface of the water, a small canoe of rude construction could be seen, a foot or two of its stem protruding from the moss. A piece of twisted wythe attaching it to the tree told that it had not drifted there by accident, but was moored by someone who meant to return to it. From the edge of the lagoon to the upper end of the valley, the ground, as already stated, was covered with the thick growth of forest timber, where the eye of the botanical observer might distinguish, from their forms and foliage, many of those magnificent indigenous trees for which the silva of Jamaica has long been celebrated.

There stood the gigantic cedrella. And its kindred, the bastard cedar, with elm-like leaves, the mountain mayhoe, the tropic birch, and the world-known mahogany. Here and there, the lance-like combs of bamboos might be seen shooting up over the tops of the decotylodons, or forming a fringe along the cliffs above, intermingled with trumpet trees, with their singular peltate leaves. And tall tree ferns, whose delicate lace-like fronds formed a netted tracery against the blue background of the sky. In the rich soil of the valley flourished luxuriantly the noble cabbage palm, the prince of the Jamaica forest, while by its side, claiming admiration for the massive grandeur of its form, stood the patriarch of West Indian trees, the Grand Seba.

The hoary Spanish moss that drooped from its spreading branches forming an appropriate beard for this venerable giant. Every tree had its parasites, not a single species, but in hundreds, and of as many grotesque shapes, some twining around the trunks and boughs like huge snakes or cables, some seated upon the limbs or in the forking of the branches. And others hanging suspended from the topmost twigs, like streamers from the rigging of a ship. Many of these, trailing from tree to tree, were loaded with clusters of the most brilliant flowers, thus uniting the forest into one continuous arbor. Close under the cliff and near where the cascade came tumbling down from the rocks stood a tree that deserves particular mention.

It was a seba of enormous dimensions, with a buttress trunk that covered a surface of more than fifty feet in diameter. Its vast bowl, rising nearly to the brow of the cliff, extended horizontally over an area on which five hundred men could have conveniently encamped, while the profuse growth of Spanish moss clustering upon its branches, rather than its own sparse foliage, Would have shaded them from the sun, completely shutting out the view overhead. Not from any of these circumstances was the tree distinguished from others of its kind frequently met with in the mountain forests of Jamaica. What rendered it distinct from those around was that between two of the great spurs extending outwards from its trunk, an object appeared which indicated the presence of a man.

This object was a hut, constructed in the most simple fashion, having for its side walls the plate-like buttresses already mentioned, while in front a stockade of bamboo stems completed the enclosure. In the center of the stockade a narrow space had been left open for the entrance, which could be closed when occasion required, By a door of split bamboos that hung lightly upon its hinges of withe. In front the roof trended downward from the main trunk of the tree, following the slope of the spurs to a height of some six feet from the ground. Its construction was of the simplest kind, being only a few poles laid transversely, and over these a thatch of the long pinnate leaves of the cabbage palm.

The hut inside was of triangular shape, and of no inconsiderable size, since the converging spurs forming its side walls extended full twelve feet outwards from the tree. No doubt it was large enough for whoever occupied it, and the platform of bamboo canes, intended as a bedstead, From its narrowness showed that only one person was accustomed to pass the night under the shelter of its roof. That this person was a man could be told by the presence of some articles of male attire lying upon this rude couch, where also lay a strip of coarse rush matting and an old tattered blanket, evidently the sole stock of bedding which the hut contained. The furniture was scanty as simple. The cane platform already mentioned appeared to do duty also as a table and chair, and with the exception of an old tin kettle, some calabash bowls and platters, nothing else could be seen that might be termed a utensil.

There were articles, however, of a different character, and plenty of them, but these were neither simple nor uses easily understood. Against the walls hung a variety of singular objects, some of them of ludicrous and some of horrid aspect. Among the latter could be observed the skin of the dreaded gallowasp, the two-headed snake, the skull and tusks of a savage boar, dried specimens of the ugly gecko lizard, enormous bats with human-like faces, and other like hideous creatures. Little bags suspended from the rafters contained articles of still more mysterious import. Balls of whitish-colored clay, the claws of the great-eared owl, parrots' beaks and feathers, the teeth of cats, alligators, and the native agouti, pieces of rag and broken glass, with a score of like odds and ends, forming a medley as miscellaneous as unintelligible.

In one corner was a wicker basket, the cuttacoo, filled with roots and plants of several different species, among which might be identified the dangerous dumb cane, the savanna flower, and other symbols of a suspicious character. Entering this hut and observing the singular collection of specimens which it contained, a stranger to the island of Jamaica would have been puzzled to explain their presence and purpose. Not so one acquainted with the forms of the serpent worship of Ethiopia, the creed of the Coromantes. The grotesque objects were but symbols of the African fetish. The hut was a temple of Obi, in plainer terms, the dwelling of an Obi-A man.

55 055 - Volume 2 Chapter 20 - Chakra, the Myal-Man 12:03

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter 20. Chakra, the Mayo Man.

The sun was just going down to his bed in the blue Caribbean, and tinting with a carmine-colored light the glistening surface of the Jamba rock, when a human figure was seen ascending the mountain path that led to that noted summit. Notwithstanding the gloom of the indigenous forest, Every moment becoming more obscure under the fast-deepening twilight, it could be easily seen that the figure was that of a woman, while the buff complexion of her face and naked throat, of her gloveless hands, and shoeless and stockingless feet and ankles proclaimed her a woman of color, a mulatta.

Her costume was in keeping with her cast. A frock of cotton print of flaunting pattern, half open at the breast, a toke of madras kerchief of gaudy hues. These were all she wore, excepting the chemise of scarcely white calico, whose embroidered border showed through the opening of her dress. She was a woman of large form and bold, passionate physiognomy, possessing a countenance not altogether unlovely. Though lacking in delicacy of feature, its beauty, such as it was, being of a purely sensual character. Whatever she was on, both her step and glance bespoke courageous resolve. It argued courage, her being upon the mountain, and so near the Jumba rock, at that unusual hour. But there are passions stronger than fear.

Even the terror of the supernatural fades from the heart that is benighted with love, or wrung by jealousy. Perhaps this one wanderer of the forest path was the victim of one or the other. A certain expression of nervous anxiety, at times becoming more anguished, would have argued the latter to be the passion which was uppermost in her mind. Love should have looked more gentle. And hopeful. Though it was evident that her errand was not one of ordinary business, there was nothing about her to portray its exact purpose. A basket of palm wickerwork, suspended over her wrist, appeared to be filled with provisions. The half-closed lid permitting to be seen inside, a congrease of yams, plantains, tomatoes, and cappus comes.

While the legs of a guinea fowl protruded from the opening. This might have argued a certain purpose, an errand to market, but the unusual hour, the direction taken, and above all, the air and bearing of the mulata, as she strode up the mountain path, forbade the supposition that she was going to market. The Jumba Rock was not a likely place to find sail or a basket of provisions. After all, she was not bound thither. On arriving within sight of the summit, she paused upon the path, and after looking around for a minute or two, as if making a reconnaissance, she faced to the left, and advanced diagonally across the flank of the mountain. Her turning aside from the Jumba Rock could not have been from fear, for the direction she was now following would carry her to a place Equally dreaded by the superstitious, the duppy's hole.

That she was proceeding to this place was evident. There was no distinct path leading thither, but the directness of her course and the confidence with which she kept it told that she must have gone over the ground before. Forcing her way through the tangle of vines and branches, she strode courageously onward. Until at length she arrived on the edge of the cliff that hemmed in the cavernous hollow. The point where she reached it was just above the gorge, the place where the tree stairway led down to the lagoon. From her actions it was evident that the way was known to her, and that she meditated a descent into the bottom of the valley. That she knew she could accomplish this feat of herself, and expected someone to come to her assistance, It was also evident from her proceeding to make a signal as soon as she arrived upon the edge of the cliff.

Drawing from the bosom of her dress a small white kerchief, she spread it open upon the branch of a tree that grew conspicuously over the precipice, and then, resting her hand against the trunk, she stood gazing with a fixed and earnest look upon the water below. In the twilight, now fast darkening down, even the white kerchief might have remained unnoticed. The woman, however, appeared to have no apprehension upon this head. Her gaze was expectant and full of confidence, as if the signal had been a preconcerted one, and she was conscious that the individual for whom it was intended would be on the lookout. Forewarned or not, She was not disappointed. Scarce five minutes had transpired from the hanging out of the handkerchief when a canoe was seen shooting out from under the moss-garnished trees that fringed the upper edge of the lagoon, and making for the bottom of the cliff, beneath the spot where she stood.

A single individual occupied the canoe, who, even under the somber shadow of the twilight, Appeared to be a man of dread aspect. He was a negro of gigantic size, though that might not have appeared as he sat squatted in the canoe, but for the extreme breadth of his shoulders, between which was set a huge head, almost necklace. His back was bent like a bow, presenting an enormous hunch, partly the effect of advanced age, and partly From natural malformation.

His attitude in the canoe gave him a double stoop, so that as he leaned forward to the paddle, his face was turned downward, as if he was regarding some object in the bottom of the craft. His long, ape-like arms enabled him to reach over the gunwale without bending much to either side, and only with these did he appear to make any exertion. His body remaining perfectly immobile. The dress of this individual was at the same time grotesque and savage. The only part of it which belonged to civilized fashion was a pair of wide trousers or drawers, of course Ostnerberg linen, such as are worn by the field hands on a sugar plantation. Their dirty yellowish shoe told that they had long been strangers to the laundry.

While several crimson-colored blotches upon them proclaimed that their last wedding had been with blood, not water. A sort of karos, or cloak, made out of the skins of the uttea and hung over his shoulders, was the only other garment he wore. This fashioned round his thick short neck by a piece of leathern thong, covered the whole of his body down to the hams. The Osnaberg drawers continuing the costume thence to his ankles. His feet were bare. Nor needed they any protection from shoes, the soles being thickly covered with a horn-like callosity, which extended from the ball of the great toe to the broad heel, far protruding backward. The headdress was equally bizarre. It was a sort of cap constructed out of the skin of some wild animal.

And fitting closely, exhibited, in all its phrenological fullness, the huge negro cranium which it covered. There was no brim, but, in its place, the dried and stuffed skin of the great yellow snake was wreathed around the temples, with the head of the reptile in front, and two sparkling pebbles set in the sockets of its eyes to give it the appearance of life. The countenance of the Negro did not need this terrific adornment to inspire those who beheld it with fear. The sullen glare of his deep-set eyeballs, the broad, gaping nostrils, the teeth filed to a point and gleaming shark-like behind his purple lips, the red tattooing upon his cheeks and broad chest, the latter exposed by the action of his arms, all combined in making a picture That needed no reptiliform addition to render it hideous enough for the most horrid of purposes.

It seemed to terrify even the wild denizens of the Ptuppy's Hole. The heron, crouching in the sedge, flapped up with an affrighted cry, and the flamingo, spreading her scarlet wings, rose screaming over the cliffs and flew far away. Even the woman who awaited him, hold as she may have been, and voluntary as her rendezvous appeared to be, could not help shuddering as the canoe drew near. And for a moment she appeared irresolute, as to whether she should trust herself in such uncanny company. Her resolution, however, stimulated by some strong passion, soon returned. And as the canoe swept in among the bushes at the bottom of the cliff, and she heard the voice of its occupants summoning her to descend, she plucked the signal from the tree, fixed the basket firmly over her arm, and commenced letting herself down through the tangle of branches.

The canoe reappeared upon the open water, returning across the lagoon. The mulatta woman was seated in the stern. The man, as before, plying the paddle, but now exerting all his strength to prevent the light craft from being carried down by the current that could be heard hissing and groaning through the gorge below. On getting back under the tree from which he had started, the negro quartered the canoe to one of the branches, and then, scrambling upon shore, followed by the woman, He walked on towards the temple of Obi, of which he was himself both oracle and priest.

56 056 - Volume 2 Chapter 21 - The Resurrection 12:47

The Resurrection. Arrived at the cotton tree hut, the meowman, for such was the negro. Dive that once into the open door, his broad and hunched shoulders scarce clearing the aperture. In a tone rather of command than request, he directed the woman to enter. The mulata appeared to hesitate. Inside, the place was dark as Euribus, though without it was not very different. The shadow of the Saba, with its dense shrouding of moss, interrupted every ray of moonlight. Now glistening among the tops of the trees, the negro noticed her hesitation. "'Come in,' cried he, repeating his command in the same gruff voice. "'You me, Sabby. What fo' you fear?' "'I's not afraid, Chakra,' replied the woman, though the trembling of her voice contradicted the assertion.

"'Only,' she added, still hesitating, "'it's so dark in there.'" "'Well then, you stay outside,' said the other, relenting. "'You stay dar. Way you is. Assume tracolite.' A fumbling was heard, and then the chink of steel against Flint, followed by fiery sparks. A piece of punk was set ablaze, and from this flame was communicated to a sort of lamp, composed of the carapace of a turtle, filled with wild hogs' lard. And having a wick twisted out of the down of the cotton tree. Now come on in, Cynthia. Resumed the negro, placing the lamp upon the floor. What? You tell Friurd? You the daughter of Juno Vaughn. You mutter no fear, old Chakra. She no fear the devil. Cynthia thus addressed might have thought that between the dread of these two personages, There was not much to choose, for the devil himself could hardly have appeared in more hideous guise than the human being who stood before her.

"'Oh, Chakra," she said as she stepped inside the door and caught sight of the weird-looking garniture of the walls. "'Woman may well be afraid. "'Tis am a fearful place." "'Not so fearful as de Jumbe Rock,' was the reply of the mailman." Accompanied by a significant glance and something between a smile and a grin. True, said the Mulata, gradually recovering her self-possession. True. You have because you say so, Chakra. That's a fact, Senti. But tell me, good Chakra, continued the Mulata, giving way to a woman's feeling curiosity. How did you ever escape from the Jumbe Rock? The folks said it was your skeleton that was up there, chained to the palm tree.

The folks peaked the truth. My skeleton it was, just as they say. The woman turned upon the speaker, a glance in which astonishment was mingled with fear, the latter predominating. Your skeleton? she muttered interrogatively. Them same old bones. The coat, the ribs, the jinks, drum ticks and all. Golly, gal, Sinty, that there purse astonish you. What foe? Nothin' in that. You sabby ol' Chakra? You know he meowmin'. Don't care who know now, so long they believe him dead. What foe meowmin' if he no bring the dead to life again? Bishu, Chakra know die hisself, so long he knows how to bring dead body to life. Oh, Chakra know all that. They no kill him, never. Neither the white folk nor the black folk.

They may shoot him. I'm with gun, they may hang him. I'm by the neck. They may cut off from head. He come to life again, like the blue lizard and the glass snake. They did try to kill him, you know. They tarve him till he did die of hunger, and thus. The John Crow done pick out his eyes and tear the flesh from old niggas' body. Leave nothing but the bare bones. Ha! Shocker Lib yet. He had new bones, new flesh. Golly, you see him? He trung. He fat. As ever. He wa- And as the hideous Negro uttered his exalting laugh, he threw up his arms and turned his eyes toward his own person, as if appealing to it for proof of the resurrection he professed to have accomplished. The woman looked as if petrified by the recital, every word of which she appeared implicitly to believe.

She was much too terrified to speak and remain silent. Apparently cowering under the influence of a supernatural awe. The Meowman perceived the advantage he had gained, and seeing that the curiosity of his listener was satisfied. For she had not the slightest desire to hear more about that matter. He adroitly changed the subject to one of a more natural character. You brought the basket of Whittle Sinty? Yes, Chakra, there. Golly, I'm very good. Guinea hand and plenty of vegetable for the pepper pot. Anything for a drink, gal? I haven't forgotten that, I hope. The drink and the most particular of all. I've not forgotten it, Chakra. There's a bottle of rum. You'll find it in the bottom of the basket.

I had a deal trouble steal it. Who you teal him from? Why, master, who else? He have grown very particular of late, carries all the keys himself, and won't let us colored folk go near the storeroom, as if we were all teaving cats. Never mind, never you mind, Sinty. Maybe Chakra watch him. Bye-bye. Why now? added he, drawing the bottle of rum out of the basket, and holding it up to the light. Debuchrapeacher said that toe and water him sweet. I pose tolling rum follow the same exception. I see if them do. So saying, the Negro drew out the stopper, raised the bottle to his lips, and buried the neck up to the swell between his capacious jaws. A series of clucks proclaimed the passage of the liquor over his palate, and not until he had swallowed half a pint of the fiery fluid did he withdraw the neck of the bottle from between his teeth.

Whoa! He exclaimed with an aspirate that resembled the snort of a startled hog. Whoa, he repeated, stroking his abdomen with his huge paw. The Booker preacher may talk about them tolling water, but give me tolling rum. You good gal, Sinti. You very good gal. F'o fetch old chakra this nice basket of wittley, sometime very hungry. He need em' all. "'I promise to bring more whenever I can get away from the buff.' "'That's right, my pickany.' "'And now, gal,' continued he, changing his tone and regarding the mulata with a look of interrogation, "'Wafo you want to see me this night? You have some pupos particular?' "'That's so eh, gal?' The mulata stood hesitating. There are certain secrets which women avow with reluctance.

Often with repugnance, her love is one, and of this she cares to make confession, only to him who has the right to hear it. Hence Cynthia's silent and hesitating attitude. "'Wafo' you no'peat?" asked the grim confessor. "'Shoo' you no'ha' feel o'boe chakra?" "'You no' need fo' tell him. He know you secret already. You lub' Kubina." The capon, old Baroon. That truth, eh? It is true, Chakra. I shall conceal nothing from you. Better not, cause you can't conceal nothing from old Chakra. He know everything. Little bird tell him. What now? What next? You think Kabuna know love you?

I'm sure of it, replied the Mulata, her bold countenance relaxing into an anguished expression. I once thought he loved me. Now I no's think so.

You think him love some other gal? I'm sure of it. Oh, I have reason. Who am this other? Yola. Yola? That air name sound new to me. Where'd she long to? She belongs to Mount Welcome. She Miss Kate's maid. "'Liliqua Sheba. I call that young lady,' muttered the meowman with a knowing grin. "'But this Yola?' he added. "'Where's she come from? I never heard no name of foe.' "'Oh, true, Chakra. I did not think of telling you. She was brought from the Jew and fetched home since you. That is, after you left the plantation.' "'After I left the plantation to die on the Jumbe Rock.' That's what you mean, Cynthia. Yes, she came soon after. So you think of being a lover? I do. And she's supplicative fiction?

Ah, surely. How could she help do that?

The interrogatory betrayed the speaker's belief that the Maroon Captain was irresistible.

What then? What do you want me to do, gal? You want revenge on Kubina, cause he ab trade you? You want me put the death pill on him? Oh no, no, not that, Chakra. But love of heaven, not that. Then you want the love spell? Ah, if he could be me, love me again. He did once. That is, I thought he did. Is it possible, good Chakra, to make him love me again? "'All thing possible, the old Chakra. And prove that,' continued he with a determined air. "'He promised put the love spell on Kubina.' "'Oh, thanks, thanks,' cried the woman, stretching out her hands and speaking in a tone of fervent gratitude. "'What can I do for you, Chakra? I bring you everything, you ask. I steal rum, I steal wine. I come every night with something you like to eat.' "'Well, Sinti—' That very kind of you, but you must do more than that.

Anything you ask, what more?

You must yourself help in this bell. It'd take both of you and me to bring that boat. Only tell me what to do, and trust me, Chakra, I shall follow your advice. Well, then listen. I tell you all about it, but sit down on the bedstead there. It takes some time. The woman, thus directed, took her seat upon the bamboo couch and remained silent and attentive, watching every movement of her hideous companion. And not without some misgivings as to the compact which was about to be entered into between them.

57 057 - Volume 2 Chapter 22 - The Love-Spell 7:32

The Maroon, The Love Spell. The countenance of the mileman had assumed an air of solemnity That betokened serious determination, and the mulatta felt the pre-sentiment that, in return for his services, something was about to be demanded of her, something more than a payment in meat and drink. His mysterious behavior as he passed around the hut, now stopping before one of the grotesque objects that adorned the wall, Now fumbling among the little bags and baskets as if in search of some particular charm, his movements made in solemn silence, only broken by the melancholy sighing of the cataract without. All this was producing on the mind of the mulata an unpleasant impression, and despite her natural courage, sustained as it was by the burning passion that devoured her.

She was fast giving way to an indefinable fear. The priest of Obi, after appearing to have worshipped each fetish in turn, at length transferred his devotions to the rum bottle, perhaps the most potent god in his whole pantheon.

Taking another protracted potation, followed by the customary, he restored the bottle to its place, and then... Seating himself upon a huge turtle-shell that formed part of the plenishing of his temple, he commenced giving his devotee her lesson of instructions.

First, then, said he, to put the love spell on anybody, either a man or a woman, it am necessary at the same time to have the obeah spell go along with it. What? exclaimed his listener, exhibiting a degree of alarm. The Obea spell? On Kubina, do you mean? No, not on him. That's not a necessary consequence. But for Kubina can be made love you, somebody else must be made sick. Who? quickly inquired the Mulata, her mind at the moment reverting to one whom she might have wished to be the invalid. Who you think for? Who your greatest enemy you wish makes sick? Yola, answered the woman in a low, muttered voice, and with only a moment of hesitation.

Won't do, won't do. Must be man. And more than that, must be free man. Nigga slave won't do. Oh, be God, tell me. So, just now, Bukerman too, it must be. If Bukerman have to obey a pal, Kubina, he take the love spell to wrong. He love you hard as old Mew can kick. Oh, if he would, exclaimed the passionate Mulata in an ecstasy of delightful expectation, I shall do anything for that. Anything. Then you must help out. Put the obeah spell on some of the white folk. You have Bukhra and me? Chakra have the same. Who? inquired the woman, reflectingly. Who? No need to tell who Chakra enemy, you enemy too. Who fooled you long time ago? Who abused you when you were young girl? No need to tell you that, Cynthia Vaughn.

The mulata turned her eyes upon the speaker with a significant expression. Some old memories seemed resuscitated by his words. Evidently, anything but a pleasant one. Masa Loftus, she said in a half whisper. Sartain Chu, Masa Loftus, Dater Bakra, you enemy and mine both. And you would set the obeyer fo' him. said the negro, finishing the interrogatory, which the other had hesitated to pronounce. The woman remained without making answer, and as if buried in reflection, the expression upon her features was not one of repentance. Must be him, continued the tempter, as if to win her more completely to his dark project. No udder do so well. O be god say so must be de planter o my welcome. If Cabena will but love me, I care not who, rejoined the mulatto with an air of reckless determination.

Nuff said, resumed the mileman. De obeys spell shall be set on de proud Buchra. Loftus von and you, Sinty, must assist in de working o de charm. "'How can I assist?' inquired the woman, in a voice whose trembling told of a slight irresolution. "'How, Chakra?' "'That you be told, by-bye. Not this night. De pal take time. God o' be he no act all at once. Not even for old Chakra. You come gain when I leave de signal for yon on de trumpet tree.' Till then you keep dark bout all these dang. You want ob de few that know old Chakra still live. Others know ob de old mileman in de mask, but very few eber see him face, and never suspect him who he be. Das all right. You tell who be de mileman in them, then.

Ah, never, Chakra. interrupted his listener. Never. You better not. You tell that, Cinthi. You soon feel the obeah spell on yourself. Now, gal, continued the negro, rising from his seat and motioning the mulata to do the same, time for you to go. I specs one udder soon. No do for you be caught here when that udder come. Take your basket and follow me. So saying, he emptied the basket of his heterogeneous contents and handing it to its owner, conducted her out of the hut.

58 058 - Volume 2 Chapter 23 - Chakra Redivivus 13:05

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter 23. Chakra Redivivas.

The scene that had thus transpired in the depths of the Duppy's Hole requires some explanation. The dialogue which Cynthia had held with the hideous camarante, though couched in ambiguous phrase, clearly indicated an intention to assassinate the Custos Von, and, by a mode which these arch-conspirators figuratively, almost facetiously termed, the Obea spell. In the diabolical design, the woman appeared to be acting rather as co-adjutor than conspirator, and her motive for taking part in the plot, though wicked enough, presents in the language of French law one or two extenuating circumstances. A word or two of the Mulattas history will make her motive understood, though her conversation may have already declared it with sufficient distinctness.

Cynthia was a slave on the plantation of Mount Welcome, one of the house wenches, or domestics belonging to the mansion, and of which, in a large establishment like that of Custis Vaughan, there's usually a numerous troupe. The girl in earlier life had been gifted with good looks, nor could it be said that they were yet gone. Though hers was a beauty that no longer presented in the charm of innocent girlhood, But rather the sensualistic attractions of a bold and abandoned woman. Had Cynthia been other than a slave, that is, had she lived in other lands, her story might have been different. But in that, her native country, and under conditions of bondage that extended alike to body and soul, her fair looks had proved only a fatal gift.

With no motive to tread the paths of virtue, with a thousand temptations to stray from it. Cynthia, like, it is sad to say, too many of her race, had wandered into ways of wantonness. It might be, as Chakra had obscurely hinted, that the slave had been abused. Wherever lay the blame, she had, at all events, become abandoned. Whether loving them or not, Cynthia had, in her time, been honored with more than one admirer. But there was one on whom she had at length fixed her affections, or more properly, her passions, to a degree of permanence that promised to end only with her life. This one was the young Maroon Captain Cubina, and although it was a love of comparatively recent origin, it had already reached the extreme of passion.

So fierce and reckless had it grown on the part of the wretched woman. That she was ready for anything that promised to procure her its requital, ready for even the nefarious purpose of chakra. To do Kubina justice, this love of the slave Cynthia was not reciprocated. To the Levites and light speeches habitually indulged in by the Maroons in their intercourse with the plantation people, Kubina was a singular exception. And Cynthia's statement that he had once returned her love, somewhat doubtingly delivered, had no other foundation than her own groundless conjectures, in which the wish was father to the thought. Some friendly words may have been passed between the Maroon and Mulata, for they had often met upon their mutual wanderings.

But the latter, in mistaking them for words of love, had sadly for herself misconceived their meaning. Of late, her passion had become fiercer than ever since jealousy had arisen to stimulate it. Jealousy of Cubina with Yola. The meeting and subsequent correspondence of the Maroon with the Fula Maiden were events of still more recent date, but already had Cynthia seen or heard enough to produce the conviction that in Yola she had found a rival. With the passionate Sang-Malay Jealousy. She was appointed to revenge, and she had begun to indulge in dark projects of this nature, just at that time when Chakra chanced to throw his shadow across her path. Cynthia was one of those slaves known as Night Rangers.

She was in the habit of making occasional and nocturnal excursions through the woods for many purposes, but of late, principally in the hope of meeting Kubina, And satisfying herself in regard to a suspicion she had conceived of meeting occurring between him and Yola. In one of these expeditions, she had encountered a man whose appearance filled her with terror, and very naturally, since, as she at first supposed, it was not a man, but a ghost that she saw, the ghost of Chakra, the mileman. That it was the duppy of old Chakra. Cynthia had on sight firmly believed, and might have continued longer in that belief had she been permitted to make her escape from the spot, as she was fast hastening to do.

But the long, ape-like arms of the mileman flung around her on the instant, restrained her flight until she became convinced that it was not Chakra's ghost, but Chakra himself, who had so rudely embraced her. It was not altogether by chance this encounter had occurred, at least on the part of Chakra. He had been looking out for Cynthia for some time before. He wanted her for a purpose. The mulatta made no revelation of what she had seen. With all his ugliness, the mileman had been the friend of her mother, had often dandled her, Cynthia, upon his knees. But the tongue of Juno's daughter was held silent by stronger ties than those of affection. Fear was one, but there was also another. If Chakra wanted Cynthia for a purpose, a quick instinct told her she might stand in need of him.

He was just the instrument by which to accomplish that revenge of which she was already dreaming. On the instant, Mulata and Myelman became allies. This mutual confidence had been but very recently established. Only a few days, or rather nights, before that on which Cynthia had given Chakra this, her first seance in the temple of Obi. The purpose for which the milemen wanted the mulata, or one purpose at least, has been sufficiently set forth in the dialogues occurring between them. It required her assistance to put the Obea spell upon the planter, the Loftus Vaughan. The character of Cynthia Which Chakra well understood, with the opportunities she had, in her capacity of housemaid, promised to provide the assassin with an agency of the most effective kind, and the pretended love spell he was to work upon Kubina had given him a talisman, by which his agent was but too easily induced to undertake the execution of his diabolical design.

Among many other performances of a like kind, it was part of Chakra's program, some day or other, to put the death spell upon the Maroon himself, to obey a young Kubina. As it was suspected, he had the old Kubina, the father, after twenty years of temptation. It was but the want of opportunity that had hindered him from having long before accomplished his nefarious project upon the son as upon the father. In satisfaction of a revenue so old as to be anterior to the birth of Kubina himself, though associated with that event. Of course, this design was not revealed to Cynthia. His motive for conspiring the death of Loftus Vaughan was without any mystery whatever, and this, perhaps more than any other of his crimes, either purposed or committed, might plead extenuating circumstances.

His cruel condemnation And subsequent exposure upon the Jumbe Rock was a stimulus sufficient to have excited to revenge a gentler nature than that of Chakra, the Camaranti. It needs scarce be said that it had stimulated his to the deadliest degree. The resurrection of the mileman may appear a mystery, as it did to the slave Cynthia. There was one individual, however, who understood its character. Not to an African god was the priest of Obi indebted for his resuscitation, but to an Israelitish man, to Jacob Jezeron. But it was a simple trick, that of substituting a carcass, afterward to become a skeleton for the presumed dead body of the mileman. The barracoon of the slave merchant generally had such a commodity in stock.

If not, Jesseron would not have scrupled to manufacture one for the occasion. Humanity had nothing to do in supplying of this proxy. Had there been no other motive than that to actuate the Jew, the chakra might have rotted under the shadow of the cabbage palm. But Jesseron had his purpose for saving the life of the condemned criminal. More than one, perhaps, and he had saved it since his resurrection. Chakra had pursued his iniquitous calling with even more energy than of old, but now in the most secret and surreptitious manner. He had not been long in re-establishing a system of confederates under the auspices of a new name, but only at night, and with disguised form and masked face, did he give his clients rendezvous.

Never in the duppy's hole. For few were sufficiently initiated into the mysteries of Myalism to be introduced to its temple in that secure retreat. Although the Confederates of the Obeah Man rarely revealed the secret of his whereabouts, even his victims dreading to divulge it, Chakra knew the necessity of keeping as much as possible and perdu, and no outlaw with halter around his neck. Could have been more cautious in his outgoings and incomings. He knew that his life was forfeit on the old judgment. And though he had once escaped execution, he might not be so fortunate upon a second occasion. If recaptured, some surer motive death would be provided, a rope instead of a chain, and in place of being fastened to the trunk of a tree, He would be pretty certain of being suspended by the neck to the branch of one.

Knowing all this, Chakra Redivivus trod the forest paths with caution, and was especially shy of the plantation of Mount Welcome.

Around the sides of the mountain, he had little to fear. The reputation of the Jumbe Rock, as well as that of Duppie's Hole. Kept the proximity of these noted places clear of all dark-skinned stragglers, and there Chakra had the heat to himself. Upon dark nights, however, like the wolf, he could prowl at pleasure and with comparative safety, especially upon the outskirts of the more remote plantations. The little intercourse allowed between the slaves of distant estates making acquaintanceship among them a rare exception. It was chiefly upon these distant estates that Chakra held communication with his confederates and clients. It was now more than a year since he had made his pretended resurrection, and yet so cautiously had he crawled about that only a few individuals were aware of the fact of his still being alive.

Others had seen his ghost. Several Negroes of Mount Wellcome Plantation would have sworn to having met the W of old Chakra. While traveling through the woods at night, and the sight had cured these witnesses of their propensity for midnight wandering.

59 059 - Volume 2 Chapter 24 - The Bargain of Obeah 17:09

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume 2, Chapter 24. The Bargain of Obeah. For a while after the departure of Cynthia, the temple of Obe remained untenanted except by its dumb deities, its priests having gone to ferry his neophyte across the lagoon. In a few minutes he returned alone, having left the mulatta to make her way up the cliff and homeward to Mount Welcome. Where she belonged. It was evident that the visit of the mulatta had given him gratification. Even in the dim light of his lard lamp, an expression of demonic joy could be distinguished upon his ferocious visage, as he re-entered the hut. One dead, cried he, in an exulting tone, another upon him, Death-bed, and now de-third.

The lass, and was of em all. Ha, ha, ha. He soon feel the vengeance of Chakra, the Mayo Man. Thrice did the wild maniac-like laugh peel from under the spreading limbs of the Siba, reverberating with an unearthly echo against the cliffs that hemmed in the Duppy's Hole. It startled the denizens of the dark lagoon, and like echoes. Came ringing up the ravine the scream of the crane, and the piercing cry of the wood ibis. These sounds had scarce died away when one of the somewhat different intonation was heard from above. It resembled a shriek, or rather as if someone had whistled through his fingers. Whoever gave utterance to the sound was upon the top of the cliff, just over the hut. Chakra was not startled.

He knew it was a signal, and that it was given by the guest he was expecting. "'Dusty old Jew,' muttered he, taking the rum bottle and concealing it under the bedstead. "'You stay dar till I want ye again,' added he, addressing himself in a confidential tone to this, the object of his greatest adoration. "'Now for the nigger dealer.' I sa' have news for him. I'll tackle him in de ribs like a old guana lizard. Not de Chakra care for him, no, only on de voyage. Both am sailing in de same boat. Da he go again." This last exclamation referred to a repetition of the signal heard further down, as if he who was sounding it was advancing along the cliff. Towards the gorge at the lower end. A third call proceeded from that point where the tree stairway scaled the precipice, indicating to Chakra that his visitor was there awaiting him.

Without further delay, the ferryman, Grim Charan himself, returned to his canoe and once more paddled it across the lagoon. While Chakra was thus occupied, a man could be seen descending the cliff, through the tangle of climbing plants, who, on the arrival of the canoe at the bottom, was standing, half concealed among the bushes, ready to step into it. The moon shone upon a blue body-coat, with bright buttons, upon a brown beaver hat and white skull cap, upon tarnished top-boots. Green goggles and an enormous umbrella. Chakra did not need to scan the sharp, Israelitish features of the man to ascertain who he was. Jacob Jesseron was there by appointment, and the mild man knew both his presence and his purpose.

Not a word of recognition passed between the two, nor sign. Only a caution from Chakra. As the Jew, swinging by a branch, let himself down into the canoe. Tap in lightly, Massa Jake, and doon push da canoe down treem. Tam Jess as much as I can do to keep de ol' craft out ob de eddy. If she get down dere, den it be all up with both of us. Bless my soul, do you shay, shaw? Rejoined the Jew, glancing towards the gorge, and shivering as he listened to the hoarse groaning of the water among the grim rocks. "'Sir, help me! I didn't know it was dangerous. Don't fear, Chakra! I step in ash-light, asher-feather!' So saying, the Jew dropped his umbrella into the bottom of the boat, and then let himself down upon the top of it.

With as much gentleness as if he was descending upon a basket of eggs, the ferryman, seeing his freight safely aboard, paddled back to the mooring place, and, having secured his craft as before, conducted his visitor up the valley in the direction of the hut. On entering the temple of Obi, Jezeron, unlike the devotee who had just left it, Showed no signs either of surprise or fear at its fantastic adornments. It was evident he had worshipped there before. Nor did he evince a special veneration for the shrine, but, seating himself familiarly on the bamboo bedstead, uttered as he did so a sonorous ach, which appeared as if intended to express satisfaction. At the same time he drew from the ample pocket of his coat a shining object which, when held before the lamp, appeared to be a bottle.

The label seen upon its side, with a symbolical bunch of grapes, proved it to be a bottle of cognac. The exclamation of the mile-man, which the sight of the label had instantaneously elicited, proved that on his side equal satisfaction existed. At this mode of initiating an interview. "'Has you a glass among your belongings?' inquired the Jew, looking around the hovel. "'No, dis here do?' asked his host, presenting a small calabash with a handle. "'Fush, right! Dish liquor drinks good out of anything. I had it from Captain Schaller on his last voyage. Just taste it, good chakra.' Before we begin business. A grunt from the Negro announced his willingness to assent to the proposal.

He ejaculated, after swallowing the allowance poured out for him into the calabash.

said his guest, on quaffing off a like quantity. And then the bottle and gourd being set on one side, the two queer characters entered into the field of free conversation. In this the Jew took the initiative. I hash news for you, said he. Very strange news. If you hash'n't already heard it, Chakra, who dushu think is sh dead? Ha! exclaimed the mild man, his eyes suddenly lighting up with a gleam of ferocious joy. He gone dead, am he? Who? I hasn't told you, rejoined the Jew, his features assuming an expression of mock surprise. But true, he continued after a pause, true, you knew he was sick. You knew Justice Bailey was sick, and not likely to get over it. "'Well, he hasn't, poor man. He's dead and in his coffin by this time.

He breathed his last yesterdays.' A loud and highly aspirated, "'Whoa!' was the only answer made by the mile-man. The utterance was not meant to convey any melancholy impression. On the contrary, by its peculiar intonation, It indicated as much satisfaction as any amount of words could have expressed. It is very strange, continued the pen-keeper, in the same tone of affected simplicity. So short a time since Mr. Ridgely died, two of the three justices sat on your trial, good chakra. It lookish as if Providence has a hand in it, it does. Or the dibble, more like maybe. Rejoined Chakra with a significant leer. Yesh, got or the devil, one or t'other. Well, Chakra, you has had your revenge, whichever has helped you do it.

Two of your enemies ish not likely to trouble you again, and ash for the third. Nor he very long, I speck, interrupted the negro with a significant grin. What you say? exclaimed the Jew in an earnest undertone. Has you heard any things? Has the wretch been to see you? All right, about her master Jake. Good she has been. Just leave this place about quarter of an hour ago, and she says she will help you to set the O.B.R. spell for him. Have no fear she do all that. O.B. had spell over to her. "'That make her do most'n anything. Anything in de world. Satin shoe. Obi all-powerful wit dat girl.' "'Yes, yes,' assented the Jew. "'I know shaw that. And if Obi washed to fail,' added he doubtingly. "'You hash a drink, good chakra.

I know you hash a drink. As potent as Obi or any other of your gotch.' A glance of mutual intelligence passed between the two. How long does it take your spell to work? inquired the pen-keeper, after an interval of silence, in which he seemed to be making some calculation. Dat, replied the negro, dat depend altogether on de circumstance of how long de spell am wanted to work. If him wanted, chakra make him in tree day. Fartch de stongest indivibable claw out of him boots. Or in tree hour he do same. But ob course dat ud be too soon fo' be safe. A spell of tree hours too stong. Dat not obiwork. He look berry like pyson. Poison? Yes, yes, it would. Tree day too short. Tree week am de correct time.

Then the spell works exactly like fever of the typos. Nobody has spishin' bout him. Three weeks, you say? And no symptoms to make scandal? You're sure that ish sufficient? Remember, Chakra, the custos ish a strong man, strong as a bull. No more about that. If he strong as the bull. In that period of time he grow weak as the new drop-calf. I said be going, he triggerin' Bob long for that. You say the word, Massa Jake. Obi no like to nigger. Nigger only brack man. He no git pay for him work. Obi's emble Buchra man. He no work less him pay. Yes, yes, that ish only shust and fair. Obi should be paid, but she good chakra. How much is she a price for a spell of this kind? If he have no interest hisself in the working of the spell, he want a hundred pound.

When he have interest, that's different. Then he take fifty. Fifty pounds. That is big money. Good chakra. In this case, Obi has an interest. More as anybody else. He has an enemy and wants revenge. Isn't that not true, good chakra? That's the truth. Chakra no go for deny him. But that's just why Obi sent to do that little chore for fifty pound. Obi enemy Big Bukhra, strong as you have just say, very difficult to pail him. Very difficult for him. Any other myo man charge the four hundred pound. Fact no other able do the job. No other but old chakra have that power. Say no more about the price. Fifty poundish be it. Here is half down. The tempter tossed a purse containing coin into the outstretched palm of the obia man.

All I stipulate for ish. That in three weeks you earn the other half, and then we shall both be square with the Kushtos Volkhan. For I hash my revenge to shatify ash well as you, Chakra. Nuff said, Master Jake. For tree day the spell shall be put on. You back come to the dumpy hole. Tree night from this you hear how him work. The gourd-shell was again brought into requisition, and after a parting kiss at the cognac, the heel-tap of which remained in the hut, the precious pair emerged into the open air. The priest of Obai, having conducted his fellow conspirator across the lagoon, returned to his temple, and set himself assiduously to finish what was left of the liquor. ejaculated he in one of the pauses that occurred between two vigorous pulls of the bottle.

Old Willem Jew was done Chakra, was done de devil hisself. Don't one know why he want revenge. Das nothing to me. I want revenge, and by de great Akkapang, I's a-going to have it. If this gal prove true, as de others did. She must prove true in three weeks. The proud fat Buchra justice that condemned me to that Jumbarock, Cossus Rodolorum, as they call him, won't have no more flesh on him bones than the skeleton he think were mine. And then when him die, ah, then, after him die, the daughter of that Quashiba. That twenty year ago corned the love of the Kuramanti, for that of the yellow maroon, maybe her daughter, the lily Kwashiba, sleep in the arms of Chakra, the Mayo man. As the minister of Obie gave utterance to this hypothetical threat, a lurid light glared on his sunken eyes.

While his white shark-like teeth were displayed in an exulting grin, hideous as if the demon himself were smiling over some monstrous menace. Both cognac and rum bottle were repeatedly tasted, until the strong frame of the Coramante gave way to the stronger spirit of the alcohol, and, muttering fearful threats in his gumbo jargon, he at length sank unconscious on the floor. There, under the light of the lard-lamp, now flickering feebly, he lay like some hideous satyr, whom Bacchus, by an angry blow, had felled prostrate to the earth.

60 060 - Volume 2 Chapter 25 - The Mysterious Motive 9:00

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two. Chapter 25. The Mysterious Motive.

The original motive of the Maiel Man, in conspiring the death of the Kustos-Van, would have been strong enough to urge him on without this new instigation. As we have seen, it was one of deadly revenge, simple and easily understood. Not so easily understood was that which actuated the Jew. On the contrary, so secretly had he conceived his purposes that no living man, not even Chakra himself, had been made privy to them. Up to this moment they may have appeared mysterious, and the time has arrived when it becomes necessary to reveal them. The explanation will show them to be only natural. Only in keeping with the character of this crooked and cruel old man. It is scarce necessary to say that Jacob Jesseron was no type of his race, nor, indeed, of any race.

A German Jew by birth, it was not necessarily this that made him either slave-dealer or slave-stealer. Christians have taken their full share in both branches of the nefarious trade. And equally with Jews and Mohammedans have they been guilty of its most hideous enormities. It was not, therefore, because Jacob Jesseron chanced to be a Jew, that he was a trafficker in human flesh and blood. Any more than that, he was a villainous man, but because he was Jacob Jesseron, a representative of neither race nor nation, but simply a character sui generis. Without dwelling upon his general demerits, let us return to the more particular theme of the motives which were instigating him to make a victim of his neighbor, Vaughan, a death victim.

For his conversation with Chakra showed that this was the very starting point of his intentions. In the first place, he was well acquainted with the domestic history of the planter, at least with that portion of it. That had transpired subsequent to the latter's coming into possession of Mount Welcome. He knew something of Mr. Vaughan previously, while the latter was manager of the Montague Castle estate. But it was only after the custos had become his nearer neighbor, by removal to his present residence, that the Jews' knowledge of him and his private affairs had become intimate and accurate. This knowledge he had obtained in various ways, partly by opportunities of social intercourse, never very cordial, partly through business transactions, and perhaps more than all, at least, as regarded some of the more secret passages of Mr.

Vaughan's history from the mild man Chakra. Notwithstanding his grotesque hiddiness, the Coramante was gifted with a rare, though dangerous, intelligence. He was Ufet to everything that had occurred upon the plantation of Mount Welcome for a past period of nearly forty years. As already hinted, he knew too much, and it was this inconvenient omniscience that had caused him to be consigned to the Jumba Rock. For more than one purpose had the Jew made use of the Maio man, and if the latter was at present assisting him in his dark design, it was not the first by many, both deep and dark, in which Chakra had lent him a hand. Their secret partnership had been of long duration. The Jew's knowledge of the affairs of Loftus Vaughan extended to many facts unknown even to Chakra.

One of these was that his neighbor was blessed with an English brother, who had an only son. An artist was the English brother. Without fortune, almost without name, many other circumstances relating to him had come to the knowledge of Jesseron. Among the rest, that the proud Custos knew little about his poor English relatives, cared less, and scarcely kept up correspondence with them. In what way could this knowledge interest Jacob Jesseron? For it did. Thus, then, it was known to him that Loftus Vaughan had never been married to the Quadroon Quashiba. That circumstance, however, would have signified little had Quashiba been a white woman or even a Quinteroon, in Jamaica termed a mustee, and by some fanciful plagiarists of late, Pedantically styled Octoroon, a title which, it may here be stated, has no existence except in the romantic brains of these second-hand literatures.

We repeat it. Had the slave Koshiba been either a white woman or even a mustee, the fact of a marriage or no marriage would have signified little, so far as regarded the succession of her offspring to the estates of the father. It is true that if not married, the daughter would, by laws of Jamaica, as by those of other lands, still have been illegitimate. But for all that, she could have inherited her father's property, if left to her by will, since in Jamaica no entail existed. As things stood, however, the case was widely, and for the Lily Kashiba, Kate Vaughan, Dangerously different. Her mother was only a quadroon, and married or unmarried she, the daughter, could not inherit, even by will, beyond the paltry legacy of two thousand pounds currency, or fifteen hundred pounds sterling.

Kate Vaughan was herself only a must-e, still wanting one step farther from slavery to bring her within the protecting pale of freedom, and The enjoyment of its favors. No will that Loftus Vaughan could decree, no testamentary disposition he might make, could render his daughter his devisee, his heiress. He might will his property to anybody he pleased, so long as that anybody was a so-called white. But, failing to make such testament, his estate of Mount Welcome with all he possessed besides. Must fall to the next of his own kin, in short, to his nephew, Herbert. Was there no remedy for this unspeakable dilemma? No means by which his own daughter might be saved from disinheritance? There was.

A special act might be obtained from the assembly of the island. Loftus Vaughan knew the remedy, and fully intended to adopt it. Every day was he designing to set out for Spanish Town, the capital, to obtain the special act, and every day was the journey put off. It was the execution of this design that the Jew Jeseran, of all things dreaded most, and, to prevent it, was the object of his visit to the Temple of Obie. Why he dreaded it scarce needs explanation. Should Loftus Vaughn fail in his intent, Herbert Vaughn would be the heir of Mount Welcome, and Herbert's heart was in the keeping of Judith Jesseron. So fondly believed the Jewess, and with her assurance of the fact, so also the Jew. The love spell woven by Judith had been the first step towards securing the grand inheritance.

The second It was to be the death spell administered by Chakra and his acolyte.

61 061 - Volume 2 Chapter 26 - The Death Spell 7:35

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main, read. Volume Two. Chapter Twenty-Six. The Death Spell.

On the night after that on which Chakra had given reception to Jesseron, and about the same hour, the Kormanti was at home in his hut, engaged in some operation of a nature apparently important, since it engrossed his whole attention. A fire was burning in the middle of the floor in a rude, extemporized furnace, constructed with four large stones, so placed as to enclose a small quadrangle. The fuel with which this fire was fed, although giving out a great quantity of smoke, burnt also with a bright, clear flame. It was not wood, but consisted of a number of black, agglutinated masses. Bearing a resemblance to peat or coal. A stranger to Jamaica might have been puzzled to make out what it was, though a denizen of the island could have told at a glance that the dark-colored pieces piled upon the fire were fragments detached from the nests of the duck ants, which, often as large as hogsheads, may be seen adhering to the trees of a tropical forest.

As the smoke emitted by this fuel is less painful to the eyes than that of a wood fire, and yet more efficacious in clearing out the mosquitoes, that plague of a southern clime, it may be supposed that the Cormante had chosen it on that account, whether or not it served his purpose well. A small iron pot without crook or crane rested upon the stones of the furnace. And the anxious glances with which the negro regarded its simmering contents, now stirring them a little, now lifting a portion in his wooden spoon, and carefully scrutinizing it under the light of the lamp, told that the concoction in which he was engaged was of a chemical rather than culinary nature. As he bent over the fire, like a he-hecate, stirring her witch's cauldron, his earnest yet stealthy manner Combined with his cat-like movements and furtive glances, betrayed some devilish design.

This idea was strengthened on looking at the objects that lay near to his hand, some portions of which had been already consigned to the pot. A cuttacoo rested upon the floor, containing plants of several species, among which a botanist could have recognized the branched callaloo, the dumb cane. And various other herbs and roots of noxious fame. Conspicuous was the savanna flower, with its tortuous stem and golden corolla, a true dogbane, and one of the most potent of vegetable poisons. By its side could be seen its antidote, the curious nuts of the Nahandaroba. For the mild man could cure as well as kill, whenever it became his interest to do so. Drawing from such larder, it was plain that he was not engaged in the preparation of his supper.

Poisons, not provisions, were the ingredients of the pot. The specific he was now concocting was from various sources, but chiefly from the sap of the savanna flower. It was the spell of Obia. For whom was the Coromante preparing this precious hell broth? His mutterings as he stooped over the pot revealed the name of his intended victim. You may be strong, Cushesvahn. That I don't deny, but by the power of Obia, you soon shake in your shoals. Obia, ha, ha, ha. That do for the known-nothing niggers. My Obia am the sabana flower, the branch callaloo, and the alumgator apple. Dems the pale mo' powerful than Obi hisself. Dems the stuff that gib the shibberin' body and the staggerin' limbs to the enemies of Chakra.

Once more dipping the spoon into the pot and skimming up a portion of the boiling liquid, he bent forward to examine it. It am done, he exclaimed. Just the right color. Just the right thickness. Now for bottle de liquor. Saying this, he lifted the pot from the fire, and after first pouring the liquor into a calabash and leaving it for some moments to cool, he transferred it to the rum bottle, long since emptied of its original contents. Having carefully pressed in the cork, he set the bottle to one side, not in concealment, but as if intended for use at no very distant time. Then, having gathered up his scattered pharmacopoeia and deposited the whole collection in the cuttacoo, he stepped into the doorway of the hut, and with a hand on each post, stood in an attitude to listen.

It was evident he expected some visitor, and who it was to be was revealed by the muttered soliloquy in which he continued to indulge. The slave Cynthia was to give him another seance. Time that yellow wench will come. Must be nigh twelve of the night. Maybe she have call, and no hear her, for the noise of that cat-track. Best go down below, like nuff find her da. As he was stepping across the threshold to put this design into execution, a cry uttered in the shrill treble of a woman's voice, and just audible through the sowing sound. Of the cataract came from the cliff above. Dusty wench, muttered the mile-man as he heard it. A make-sotten shoo she'd come. Lub-blade woman shoo fire and water.

Lead em to dee devil. Seed dee time dat our yella gale tempt dis chile. No care now, but one chakra ever care brace in dis arms. Her he clasp only once. He content, he will in den fo die. As the Kuramante muttered the impassioned ejaculation, he strode outward from the door, and walked with a nervous and hurried step, like one urged on by the prospect of soon achieving some horrible but heartfelt purpose he had been long contemplating from a distance.

62 062 - Volume 2 Chapter 27 - The Invocation of Accompong 14:26

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Volume Two, Chapter Twenty-Seven. The Invocation of a Kampong.

The canoe soon made its trip and returned with Cynthia seated in the stern, as upon the occasion of her former visit she carried a basket upon her arm, filled with comestibles, and not forgetting the precious bottle of rum. As before she followed the mile-man to his hut, this time entering with more confidence and seating herself unbidden upon the side of the bamboo bedstead. Still she was not without some feeling of fear, as testified by a slight trembling that might be observed when her eyes rested upon the freshly filled bottle that stood in a conspicuous place. The look which she turned upon it Told that she possessed some previous information as to the nature of its contents, or perhaps she had only a suspicion.

"'Das debato fo' you," said the mile-man, noticing her glance. "'And dis hee,' continued he, drawing the other out of Cynthia's basket, "'dis hee am de wanfo'—he was about to add me." But before he could pass the word out of his mouth, he had got the neck of the rum bottle into it, and the gluck-gluck of the descending fluid was substituted for the personal pronoun. The usual wuh wound up the operation clearing the Coramante's throat, and then, by a gesture, he gave Cynthia to understand that he was ready to proceed. With the more serious business of the interview. That bottle, said he, pointing to the one that contained his decoction, am de obia, pal. It make Kubina lub you, while dar's a tough of wool on de top of him head.

Dat long nuff, I reckon, for when I'm go bald, you no care for him lub. Is that the love spell you spoke of? inquired the mulatta. With an ambiguous expression of countenance, in which Hope appeared struggling with doubt. The love spell? No, not exactly that. The love spell am different. It am ob the nature ob anointment. Here, I's got him in this cocoa shell. As Chakras said this, he raised his hand and drew out from a cranny in the thatch about three-quarters of the shell. Of a cocoa nut, inside which, instead of its white coagulum, appeared a carrot-colored paste, resembling the pulp of the sapatamami, for this, in reality, it was. Das de lub mixtur, continued the obia man, in a triumphant tone.

Das for Kubina. Ah, Kubina is to take that? Sure he am. He must take him. "'A'gibit him, and den he go mad for you. You he lub, and he lub you. Like two turtle dove in de pring time. Ha'ah!" "'Good Chakra. You are sure it will do, Kubina, no harm?' The query proved that the jealousy of the mulatta had not yet reached the point of revenge. "'No,' responded the negro. "'Do him good, n' nothin' else. Now, Cynthia gal.' Continued he, turning his eyes upon the bottle. Das for the old cusses of the mound welcome. Take em, put em in your basket. The woman obeyed, though her fingers trembled as she touched the bottle that contained the mysterious medicine. And what am I to do with it, Chakra? she asked, irresolutely.

Why you do? I told you already why you do. You give to Masa, you enemy and Mayan. But what is it? Why you ask that? I told you, it am de obia, pal. Oh Chakra, is it poison? No, you fool. If to a pizzen, then it kill de Buckra right off. It no kill him. It only make him sick. And then, prehap, it make him die long time atlerwood. Das no pizzen. You fuse, gib him? The woman appeared to hesitate. As if some sparks of a better nature were rising within her soul. If there were such sparks, only for a short while were they allowed to shine. You fuse, Gibum? repeated the tempter, hastening to extinguish them. If you fuse, I no put de love spell on Kobina. More'n dat, I set de obia for you, you yourself.

Oh no, no, Chakra, cried she. Cowering before the Coromante, I not refuse. I give it. Anything you command me. There now, that sensible abuse, Cynthia. Now I give you the instruction how for the minister dispel. Listen, and member everything I go pick you. As the hideous sorcerer said this, he sat down in front of his neophyte, fixing his eyes upon hers. As if the better to impress his words upon her memory. "'Foss and foremost den. De gran bukra ob moun welcome. Ebr'y night fo' he go bed. Hab' glass ob rum punch. I know he used hab. He so till, eh?' "'Yes, he does,' mechanically answered the mulatta. "'Very likely dat e'er am one ob de habits, neither bukra nor black man.' "'Am like break off.

Every night, shoo?' "'Yes, every night. One glass. Sometimes two.' "'Garry. F' twa me. Me hab two. Not sometime, but alway. Cep when I make me um tree. Ha ha ha. Very well, that's all right. And now, gal, who mix de punch fo' him? You used do dat yourself, Cynthia.' "'It is still my business.' I make it for him every night. Good. That's just the thing. Now we know how set the spell of the Obeah. You see this here? I am the claw of the mountain crab. You see the cratch, dar, inside of the machine? Well, up to that mark it holds just the exact quantum. Every night you make the punch, you fill up dar out of this bottle. "'You pour in de glass, fuss de sugar and lemon, den de water, den de rum, which am stronger den de water, and after dat de pell out of dis bottle, which am de strongest of dem all.

You member all I have tell you?' "'I shall remember it,' rejoined the woman, with a firmness of voice partly assumed, for she dreaded to show any sign of irresolution. If you no do, then the spell turn round and work he work in yourself. When the Obi-Wanth gins he no top till he have him victim, now a go for evoke the god Akampung. He come whenever Chakra call. He make appearance in the form of the Catrack, out Yana. "'Aphidat no more to him lay, not till one be promised for the sacrifice. You say, In-ha. The god must not see no woman. You listen. You hear him voice.' Rising with a mysterious air, and taking down from its peg an old palm-leaf wallet that appeared to contain some heavy article, the mild man stepped out of the hut, closing the door behind him.

Lest, as he informed the mulatta in sotto voce, the god might set his eyes on her and get into a rage. Cynthia seemed to consider the precautions scarce sufficient, for the moment the door was closed, in order to make herself still more secure against being seen, she glided up to the light and extinguished it. Then, groping her way back to the bedstead, she staggered down upon it. And sate shivering with apprehension. As the mild man had enjoined upon her, she listened, and, as he had promised her, she heard, if not the voice of Akampang, sounds that were worthy of having proceed from the throat of that Ethiopian divinity. At first a voice reached her which she knew to be human, since it was the voice of Chakra himself.

It was uttered nevertheless, In strange and unnatural tones that at each moment kept changing, now it came ringing through the interstices of the bamboos in a kind of long-drawn solo, as if the mile-man was initiating his ceremonies with the verse of a psalm. Then the chaunt became quicker, by a sort of crescendo movement, and the song appeared transformed into a recitative. Next were heard sounds of a very different intonation, resembling the shrill, harsh call of a cow horn or conch shell, and gradually dying off into a prolonged bass, like the groaning of a cracked trombone. After this had continued for some moments, there ensued a dialogue in which the listener could recognize only one of the voices as that of Chakra.

Whose could be the other? It could only be that of a Kampang. The god was upon the ground. Cynthia trembled as she thought how very near he was, how lucky she had blown out the light. With the lamp still burning, she must have been seen, for both Chakra and the deity were just outside the door, and so near that she could not only hear their voices with distinctness. But the very words that were spoken. Some of these were in an unknown tongue, and she could not understand them. Others were in English, or rather its synonym in the form of a Negro Patois. These last she comprehended, and their signification was not of a character to tranquilize her thoughts, but the contrary. Chakra chantant. Open the bottle.

Draw de cork. De pelle he work, de pelle he work. De Bukra man must die. Must die, repeated the akampang, in a voice that sounded as if from the interior of an empty hogshead. De yella gal, she gib him drink. It make him sick. It make him shrink. It send him to him grave. Him grave. Came the response of a compong. And if the yellow girl refuse, she tap into the buckra's shoes and fill the buckra's tomb. Buckra's tomb, echoed the African god in a sonorous and emphatic voice that told there was no alternative to the fate thus hypothetically proclaimed. There was a short interval of silence, and then the shrill, conch-like sound was again heard. As before, followed by the long-drawn bass. This was the exorcism of the god, as the same sounds previously heard had been his invocation.

It was also the finale of the ceremony, since the moment after Chakra pushed open the door and stood in the entrance of the hut. Why you blow out de light? But no matter fa light, it's all oba. Did you hear the god peek? I did, murmured the mulatta, still trembling at what she had heard. You hear wa him say? Yes, yes. Denny speak de truth. Nuffin' more than that. You take heed, I advise you as you friend. You go true with de pale. Now I'm gone. "'Else you life not worth so much, trash, ob de sugarcane. "'I say no more, every night in am foo's class. "'De fool ob de crabclaw, up to de mark. "'Now, gal, come, lon.' The last command was the more readily obeyed, since Cynthia was but too glad to get away from a place whose terrors had so severely tested her courage.

Taking up the basket in which the bottle containing the dangerous decoction had been already placed, she glided out of the hut and once more followed the Coramante to his canoe.

63 063 - Volume 2 Chapter 28 - Midnight Wanderers 18:28

The Maroon By Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter Twenty-eight. Midnight Wanderers.

Once more under the seba, that gigantic trysting tree, stood the maroon and his mistress, not as before in the bright noonday sun, but near the mid-hour of the night. The Fula had dared the dangers of the forest to meet her beloved Kubina.

And there were dangers in that forest, more to be dreaded than fierce beasts or ravenous reptiles, more to be dreaded than the tusks of the wild boar or the teeth of the scaly alligator. There were monsters in human form far more fearful to be encountered, and at that moment not very distant from the spot where the lovers had made their rendezvous. Love wrecks little of dangers. Kubina knew of none, and in Yola's belief there was no danger while Kubina was near. The moon was in high heaven, full, calm, and clear. Her beams filled the glade with a silvery effulgence. It was a moonlight that almost rivaled the brightness of day. The flowers over the earth and the blossoms upon the trees Appeared full-blown, as if they had opened their petals to drink in the delightful dew.

Born upon the soft, silent breeze, the nocturnal sounds of the forest fell with a tremulous cadence upon the ear, while the nightingale of the West, as if proud of the superiority of her counterfeit notes, in turns imitated them all. The lover stood in shadow. But it was the shadow of the Siba. There was none in their hearts, and had the moonlight at that moment fallen upon their faces, no trace of a cloud could have been detected there. It was a happy meeting, one of the happiest they had yet enjoyed. Each had brought good news to the other. Kubina, that the brother of his beloved, was still safe under his protection. Safe and well. Yola. That her young mistress had promised to bestow upon her her freedom.

Within the few days since they had last met, many things had transpired to interest both. Each had a tale to tell. Yola related how the story of her brother's misfortunes, though strictly kept from the servants at Mount Welcome, had been told to her mistress. How Miss Vaughan, on hearing it, Had requested her father to grant her, Yola's, manumission, and how the custos had consented to the request. Conditionally, however, her free papers were to be dated from a certain day, that on which Kate Vaughan was to become a bride, but that day was supposed not to be far distant. It was joyous news for the Maroon. He might keep his hundred pounds for the plenishing of his mountain home. This piece of intelligence might have taken Kubina more by surprise, but for the understanding that now existed between him and Acastos, whom he had of late frequently visited, certain conditions had become established between the magistrate and the maroon, which rendered the latter less apprehensive about the future.

Mr. Brown had made some promises to himself in regard to the manumission of Iola. It is true, these had also been conditional, and their performance was to depend, to a great degree, on the success of the prosecution to be instituted against the Jew. But with the custos himself as a prosecutor, Kubina felt sanguine that the conditions would be accomplished. These were the circumstances to be kept secret. Even to his sweetheart the lover was not permitted to impart the knowledge of this affair. Only did he make known to her that steps were being taken to cause the restitution of her brother's property. But how, where, and when could not be divulged until the day when war should be openly declared against the enemy.

So had the custos commanded. Kubina, nevertheless, could not help being gratified by the intelligence which Jola had conveyed to him. The promise of Miss Vaughn had but one condition, her bridal day, and that was definite and certain. Ah, said Kubina, turning with a proud look towards his sweetheart, it will be a happy day for all. No, not for all. Added he, his face suddenly assuming an expression of sadness. Not for all. There is one I fear to whom that day will not bring happiness. I know one too, Kubina, rejoined the girl, her countenance appearing to reflect the expression that had come over his. Oh, you know it too? Miss Vaughn has told you then, I suppose? I hope she does not boast of it.

What she boasts of, Kubina? Why, of breaking his heart. As you would do mine if you were to marry somebody else. Poor young fellow, Crambo. If I'm not mistaken, it will be a sad day for him. The girl looked up in puzzled surprise. Sad day for him? No, Kubina. He very happy. For her. Poor Missa. That day be sad. "'Vaiate! What do you mean, Yola?' "'No more than I say, Kubina. Missa K'd be very unhappy that day she married Mr. Mangu. She very so now.' "'What?' exclaimed Kubina, suddenly placing himself in an attitude of unusual attention. "'Do I understand you to say that Miss Vaughn don't wish to marry this Mr. Smythe-gee?' "'She no love him, Kubina.' Why she wish marry him, then? Ah! Significantly ejaculated the maroon, while an expression of joy came over his countenance.

What makes you think she don't love him? Have you a reason, Yola? Missa me say so. She me tell everything, Kubina. You are sure she has said that she don't love him? She laugh at him. She no care for him. Girl no love wants she laugh at, never. Vaya! I hope you will never laugh at me then. But say, dearest, do you know why she was going to marry Mr. Smythe-G? Massa her make marry. He, Mr. Mangu, very, very rich. He great planter. That why she him go to marry. Ho! Ho! thoughtfully ejaculated the captain of maroons. I suspected there was some compulsion, continued he, not speaking to his companion but muttering the words to himself. Can you tell me, Yola, he asked, turning again to his sweetheart, do you know why your mistress does not like this grand gentleman?

Has she told you for any reason? Very good reason, Kubina. She another love. That why she Mangu not like. Ah, she's in love with somebody else. Have you heard who it is, Yola? Oh, yes. You know him yourself. He miss a Kate's cousin. She him love. Her cousin? Herbert Vaughn? Yes, he named Herbert. He come once, never more come. No matter. She love him first time. She him love evermore. Same are you, Kubina. I love you first time. All the same, forever. You are sure of all this, inquired Kubina, in his anxiety to know more, resisting the temptation to reciprocate the endearing speech. You are sure Miss Vaughn loves her cousin Herbert? Sure, Kubina. Misses say so many, many time. She have very much grief for him.

She hear he marry one fine, bad lady. "'You know old Jew Jesron, his daughter he go marry.' "'I have heard so,' rejoined Kubina, evidently keeping back from his sweetheart a more definite knowledge of the subject which he himself possessed. "'I have heard so, after all,' he continued, speaking reflectingly. "'It might not happen. Neither of these marriages. There's a proverb, Yola, I've heard among the white folks.' Many a slip between the cup and the lip. I hope it won't be true of you and me, but it might come to pass between young Master Vaughn and Miss Jesseron. Who knows? I know something. Poor Dios. You've given me good news, I think, for somebody. But tell me, Yola, have you heard them say when your mistress and this great gentleman are to be married?

Massa, he say soon. He tell Missa Kate he go great journey. When he come back they get married. He, Missa Kate, say so yesterday. The Custos going a journey? Have you heard where? Spanish town, Missa me tell, a great city far away. I wonder what that can be for, said Kubina to himself in a conjectural way. Well, Yola, he added after a pause, and speaking more earnestly. Listen to me. As soon as Mr. Vaughn has set out on this journey, you come to me. Perhaps I may have a message for your mistress. Have you heard when he intends to take the road? He go morrow morning. Ah, so soon. Well, so much the better for us, and maybe for somebody else. You must meet me here tomorrow night. Tell your mistress it concerns herself.

No, don't tell her. He added, correcting himself, she will let you come without that excuse. Besides, it might be that... never mind. Come anyhow, I shall be waiting for you at this same hour. Yola gave her willing promise to keep an appointment so according to her inclinations. For some time longer the lovers conversed, imparting to each other the ordinary news of life, the details of common things. To be at length succeeded by words only of love, of far, far deeper interest. Kubina swore eternal truth, by the trees around, by the sky above, by the bright moon and the blue heavens. He had done the same a score of times, and as often had he been believed. But lovers never tire of such vows, neither of hearing nor repeating them.

The African maiden answered with promises of faithfulness, alike free, alike fervent. She no longer sighed for her Gambian home, no more mourned the fate that had torn her from a court to consign her to slavery. The dark hours of her life seemed to have ended, and her future, as her present, was full of hope and bliss. For more than an hour did the enamored pair indulge in this sweet converse. They were about to close it with a parting kiss. The maroon stood with his strong arms tenderly entwined around the waist of his mistress, who willingly yielded to the embrace. Her slender form, under the shadow of the Siba, looked like the statue of some Egyptian maiden in bronze antique. The adieu had been spoken more than once, but still the lovers lingered, as if loath to give the parting kiss.

There had been more than one, but not that which was to end the interview. Ere their lips had met to achieve it, the design was interrupted. Voices fell upon their ears, and two forms emerging into the moonlight at the lower end of the glade, rapidly advanced in the direction of the Siba. As if by communication instinct, Kubina and his mistress stepped silently and simultaneously back. Retiring together between the buttresses of the tree. There it was dark enough for concealment. Only an eye bent on purpose scrutiny could have detected their presence. The forms drew near. They were those of a man and a woman. The moonlight shining full upon them rendered them easy of recognition. But their voices had already declared their identity.

Both the intruders were known to both the lovers. They were the Jew, Jesseron, and the slave, Cynthia. "'Crambo,' muttered the maroon, as he saw who they were. What on earth can they be doing together, at this time of night and here, so far away from any house? Maldito! Some wicked business, I warrant." By this time the brace of midnight strollers had got opposite to the tree, and the Jew was delivering himself of a speech, which was plainly heard by those who stood concealed in its shadow. Now, Synthi, good wench, you ha'n't said yet why he ha'n't sent for me. Do you know what it ish for? I don't, Mas'a Jesron, unless it be—unless what, wench? "'Something about the news I took him afore I come to you, when I went with his basket of provisions.

Aha! You took him some noosh. What noosh, girl? Only that Massa Vaughn am going away in the morning.' "'Bless my shoal!' exclaimed the Jew, suddenly stopping in his tracks and turning towards the mulata with a look of troubled surprise. "'Bless my shoal!' You don't say that, does you? They say so at the buff, Master Jesseron. Besides, I know myself he's a-goin. I help pack him shirts in the traveling valise. He's a-goin, a horse-a-back. But where, wench, where? gasped the Jew in hurried and anxious speech. They say to Panishtown, other side of the island. Spanish town? Ach, cried the pen-keeper. In a tone betokening that the words had conveyed some very unwelcome intelligence. Spanish town! So help me!

It ish! I knew it! I knew it! Ach! And as he repeated the aspirated ejaculation, he struck his umbrella fiercely into the ground, as if to render more emphatic the chagrin that had been communicated by the answer. Only for a few seconds did he make pause upon the spot. "'Come on,' cried he to his companion, hurriedly moving off from the tree. "'Come on, wench. If that's the case, as you say, there's no time to be lost. Not a minute shall help me.' And with this elegant reflection he ended the brief dialogue, and strode swiftly and silently onward across the glade. The woman following close upon his heels. "'Daminios,' muttered the maroon, as they went off. "'That John Crow and his pretty partner are on some ugly errand, I fear.

"'It appears to be the custos they're conspiring against. "'Crambo! I wonder what they are after with him. "'What can the old Jew have to do with his going to Spanish Town? "'I must follow them and see if I can discover.' There appears to be some scheme brewing that bodes no good to Mr. Vaughn. Where can they be gadding to at this time of night? From the Jew's pen instead of towards it." These interrogative reflections the maroon made to himself, then turning once more to his sweetheart with a gesture that declared his intention to be gone, he said, "'We must part, Yola, and this instant love.' "'Else I may lose their trail. Adieu! Adieu!' And with a quick kiss and equally hurried embrace, the lovers separated, Yola returning to Mount Welcome by a path well known to her, while the maroon glided off on the track taken by the pen-keeper and his female companion.

64 064 - Volume 2 Chapter 29 - Tracking the Strollers 7:48

Of The Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Volume 2, Chapter 29. Tracking the Strollers The maroon was but a few moments in recovering the spore of the two nocturnal strollers. There was a path that led up the hills in the direction of the Jumba Rock. It was a mere cattle track, used only very occasionally by bipeds. Being the only path that went that way in judging Marober, That neither the Jew nor his follower would be likely to traverse the thicket at random, Cubina concluded that they had gone by this path. Throwing himself upon it and advancing with a quick but silent step, he soon recovered sight of them. The shade of the gigantic trees, it was a primeval forest through which they were passing, was favorable to his design.

And without much risk of being seen, he was able to keep them in view and almost within earshot. At that moment the mind of the Jew was too preoccupied to be suspicious, and the mulatta was not likely to trouble her thoughts about whether they were followed or not. Had she known, however, had she even suspected, that her steps were dogged, and by Kubina, the maroon. It would no doubt have sharpened her senses. They appeared to be making for the Jumba Rock, mentally soliloquized Kubina, as they commenced ascending the slope of the mountain. Crambo! That is odd enough. What do they intend to do there at this hour of the night, or at any hour, I might say. And who's the he that's been sending for Jesseron?

She took him a provision basket. By that, it ought to be some runaway. But what has the old Jew to do with a runaway? To get out of his bed at this time of the night and tramp it three miles through the woods? For that matter, they say he don't sleep much anyhow, and like the owl, night's his favorite time, I suppose. Something's being cooked for the Kustos. For that girl's a very devil. Not that I should care about him or what happened to him at any other time. He's not much and is only helping me in that matter because he hates the other. No matter for him. But from what Yolas told me, I'd go to the world's end for his daughter. Ha! I may do her a service yet. Valgamidios, what's up now? They've stopped.

The Jew and his companion, about a hundred yards ahead, had suddenly come to a stand. They appeared to be scrutinizing the path. Kubina, crouching in the shadow of the bushes, stopped likewise and waited for the others to advance. They did so after a short interval, hastening on as before, but in a smitely divergent direction. Not for the Jumbarock, but the Duppy's Hole. I remember now. The path forks up yonder. They've taken that which goes to the hole. Well, it don't help me to comprehend their purpose a bit clearer. Karai! Karai! That's Duppy's Hole! Didn't some of my fellows tell me they've heard strange noises there lately? Quacko is ready to swear he saw the ghost of the old mile-man Chakra.

Standing upon the edge of the cliff. They're going there, as sure as my name is Kubina. And with this conjectural reflection, the maroon forsook the shadow under which he had been sheltering, and flitted forward along the path. Another five hundred yards further on, his conjecture was confirmed. The parties dogged by him had reached the edge of the precipice that frowned down upon the duppy's hole. And there, halted. Kubina also made stop, as before concealing himself within the black shadow of the bushes. He had scarcely crouched down when his ears were saluted by a shrill whistle, not made by the lips, but proceeding from some instrument, as a reed or a common dog-call. It was plainly a signal, sounded either by Cynthia or the Jew.

Kubina could not tell which. Only once was it given, and there was no answer, for that similar sound that came like an echo from the far forest was a counterfeit. It was the mimic note of the mock bird. Kubina, skilled in these voices of the night, knew this, and paid no heed to the distant sound. His whole attention was absorbed in watching the movements of the two individuals still standing upon the edge of the cliff. The white sky was beyond them, against which he could see their dark silhouettes outlined with perfect distinctness. After about a minute's time he saw them once more in motion, and then both appeared to vanish from his view, not wasting into the air. But sinking into the ground, as if a trap door had admitted them to the interior of the earth.

He saw this without much surprise. He knew they must have gone down the precipice. But how they had performed this feat was something that did surprise him a little. It was but a short spell of astonishment. In a score of seconds he stood upon the edge of the precipice, at the spot where they had disappeared. He looked down. He could trace, though dimly, a means of descent among the waddle of boughs and corrugated creepers that clasped the façade of the cliff. Even under the fantastic gleam of the moon, he could see that human hands had helped the construction of this natural ladder. He stayed not to scrutinize it. An object of greater interest challenged his glance. On the disk of the lagoon, in the moonlight, A sheet of silver, like a mirror in its frame of dark mahogany, moved a thing of sharp elliptical shape, a canoe, midships of the craft.

A form was crouching. Was it human or demon? The aspect was demon, the shape scarce human. Long ape-like arms, a hunched back, teeth gleaming in the moonlight like the incisors of a shark. Features everything but human to one who had not seen them before. Kubina had seen them before. To him, though not familiar, they were known. If not the ghost of Chakra, he saw Chakra himself.

65 065 - Volume 2 Chapter 30 - Cynthia in the Way 11:36

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed Volume Two. Chapter Thirty. Cynthia in the Way.

The heart of the young Maroon, though by nature bold and brave, was for a moment impressed with fear. He had known the mild man of Mount Welcome, never very intimately, but enough to identify his person. Indeed, once seen, Chakra was a man to be remembered. Kubina had, like everyone else for miles around, heard of the trial of the Kuramanti conjurer and his condemnation to exposure on the Jumba rock. The peculiar mode of his execution, the cruel sentence, the celebrity of the scene where the criminal had been compelled to pass the last miserable hours of his existence, all combined to render his death even more notorious than his life. And few there were in the western end of the island who had not heard of the mild man of Mount Welcome, and the singular mode of atonement that justice had demanded him to make for his crimes.

In common with others, Kubina believed him dead. No wonder, then, that the heart of the Maroon should for a moment misgive him on seeing Chakra seated in a canoe. And paddling himself across the calm surface of the lagoon. Under any circumstances, the sight of the Coromante was not calculated to beget confidence in the beholder. But his unexpected appearance just then produced within the mind of the Maroon a feeling somewhat stronger than astonishment, and for some seconds he stood upon the cliff, overcome by a feeling of awe. Very soon, however, he remembered the statement which his lieutenant had made, and which Kwako had put in the form of an asseveration. Kwako, like most of his color, a firm believer in Duppy and Jumba, had believed it to be Chakra's ghost he had seen, and under the terror with which the sight had inspired him, instead of making an attempt to pursue the apparition, and prove whether it was flesh and blood, Or only empty air, he had used his utmost speed to get away from the spot, leaving the mile-man's ghost full master of the ground.

Kubina, less given to superstitious inclinings, only for a moment permitted himself to be mystified with the idea of a duppy. Guaco's experience, along with the presence of the pen-keeper and his companion, there evidently for a purpose, guided him to the conclusion that what he saw in the canoe was no spiritual chakra, but chakra in the flesh. How the Coromanti came to be still living and moving, the Maroon could not so easily comprehend. But Kubina possessed acute reasoning powers, and the presence of the Jew, evidently in rapport with the restored conjurer, went far towards explaining the mystery of the latter's resurrection. Satisfied that he saw Chakra himself, the maroon placed himself in a position to watch the movements both of the men in the canoe and those who had summoned him across the lagoon.

In another moment the canoe was lost sight of. It had passed under the bushes and the bottom of the cliff. Where it was now visible from above. Voices now ascended, which could be heard, but not distinctly. Kubina could just distinguish three voices taking part in the conversation, Chakras, the Jews, and at longer intervals the shrill treble of the slave, Cynthia. He bent his ear and listened with keen attention, in hopes of hearing what they said. He could only catch an occasional word. The roar of the cascade rising along the voices hindered him from hearing them distinctly, and notwithstanding his earnest desire to do so, he was unable to make out the matter of the conversation. Only for a short while was he kept waiting.

The trialogue came to a close, followed by a brief interval of silence. At the end of which the canoe once more made its appearance upon the open water of the lagoon. Two persons only were in it, Chakra and the Jew. Cynthia had stayed by the bottom of the cliff. Kubina made this observation with some chagrin. It was a circumstance that promised to frustrate the design he had suddenly conceived of following the mild man to his lair. This he desired to do in order to make himself acquainted with the hiding-place of the remarkable runaway.

That it was down in the Duppy's Hole there could be no doubt, and therefore the Maroon might at any time find him there. This reflection would have contented him, but, on seeing the Jew ferried across the lagoon, he conjectured that he and Chakra were bent upon the completion of some horrid plot. Which, by following, he, Kubina, might overhear and, perhaps, be enabled to counteract. The maroon was aware of the difficulty of descending into the duppy's hole. He knew there was but one way, by the bushes that clustered along the face of the cliff at his feet. Once, while on the chase, he and his followers, aided by a rope ladder, had gone down. And in search of the game, had explored the wooded covert beyond.

At that time, however, Chakra had not been executed, and the hunter had found no trace of human presence in the solitary place. He knew that he could follow the canoe by swimming, as in this way he had crossed before. But now that Cynthia barred the way, it would be impossible for him to reach the water unobserved. To follow the conspirators further was out of the question. His chance was cut off by the interposition of the mulatta. He could only remain on the cliff and await their return. He was reflecting upon what course to pursue when a rustling sound reached him from below. It was made by someone moving among the bushes that grew against the face of the precipice. He caught one of the branches and, supporting himself by it, craned his neck over the cliff.

His eye fell upon the brilliant checker of a bandana, visible among the leaves. It was the toke upon the head of Cynthia. It was in motion, and he could see that she was ascending by the tree stairway he had already observed. Without staying to witness the ascent, he turned back into the underwood by the side of the path, and, crouching down, He waited to see what the woman intended doing. Perhaps her part in the performance had been played out, at least for that night, and she was on her way homeward. That was what Kubina conjectured, as well as just what he would have wished. His conjecture proved correct. The mulatta on mounting to the crest of the cliff stopped only for a moment. To adjust upon her arm a basket she had brought up, from the half-open lid of which protruded the neck of a bottle.

Then, casting her eyes forward, she struck off into the shadowy forest path, and was soon out of sight. The moment after she had passed him the maroon glided silently forward to the edge of the cliff, and commenced descending the stair. Such feat was nothing to him. And in a few seconds he had reached the edge of the lagoon. Here he paused, to make sure that the canoe had arrived at its destination, and that its late occupants had disembarked from it. After a moment spent in this reconnaissance, looking sharply and listening with all his ears, he became satisfied that the coast was clear, and letting himself stealthily into the water, he swam for the opposite shore of the lagoon. Upon only about two-thirds of the surface of the lagoon did the moonlight fall, the cliff casting its shadow upon the other third.

Keeping within the boundaries of this shadow and swimming as silently as a fish, Kubina succeeded in reaching the opposite shore, without perceiving any sign that he had been observed. Under the heavy timber with which the upper half of the ravine was covered, The darkness was as deep as if not a ray of moonlight came down from the sky. Only on the stream itself, and here and there, through a break in the umbrageous forest, could the moonbeams reach the surface of the earth. Elsewhere, from cliff to cliff, the obscurity was complete. Kubina conjectured, and correctly, that there was a path leading from the anchorage of the canoe. And to find this was his first purpose. Keeping around the edge of the lagoon he soon came upon the craft, empty and anchored under a tree.

The moonlight entering here from the open water showed him the embouchure of the path, where it entered the underwood, and without losing a moment's time he commenced moving along it. Silently as a caddy stole onward, at intervals pausing to listen. But he could only hear the hissing sound of the upper cascade to which he was now making approach. There was a space in front of the waterfall where the trees stood thinly, and this opening was soon reached. On arriving at its edge, the maroon again stopped to reconnoitre. Scarcely a second of time did he need to pause. Light flashed in his eyes through the interstices of what appeared to be a sort of grating. It was the bamboo door of the Obia hut.

Voices, too, reverberated through the bars. Within were the men upon whom it was his purpose to play eavesdropper. In another instant Kubina was cowering under the cotton tree, close up to the doorpost.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two. Chapter Thirty-One. Strange Disclosures.

The two plotters were plavering loud enough. In that place there was no need, at least, so thought they, for restrained speech, and the listener could have heard every word but for the hoarse hissing of the cataract. This at times hindered him from distinguishing what was said, and only in detached portions could he pick up the thread of the discourse. Enough, however, heard he, to cause him astonishment, the greatest of all, that in the island of Jamaica, or upon the earth, existed two such villains as Chakra, the Coromanti, and Jesseron, the Jew.

He could see the conspirators as well as hear them. The chinks between the bamboos enabled him to obtain a view of both. The Jew, slightly blown with his long walk against the hill, had dropped into a sitting attitude upon the truck-like bedstead, while the Coramante stood before him, leaning against the buttress of the tree, which formed one side of his dwelling. The conversation had commenced before Kubina came up. It could not have proceeded far. The lard lamp seemed recently lit. Besides, the maroon knew that he had been only a few minutes behind them. The plot, therefore, whatever it was, had not yet made much progress. So reasoned the listener, but it soon appeared that it was the continuation of a plot, and not its first conception.

To which he was to become privy, a plot so demoniac as to include murder in its design. The Jew, when Kubina first got eyes on him, appeared as if he had just given utterance to some angry speech. His dark, weasel-like orbs were sparkling in their sunken sockets with a fiendish light. The goggles were off, and the eyes could be seen. In his right hand the eternal umbrella was grasped, with a firm clutch, as if held in menace. Chakra, on the other hand, appeared cowed and pleading, though almost twice the size and apparently twice the strength of the old Israelite, he looked at that moment as if in fear of him. "'Gory, Master Jake,' said he in an appealing tone. However, while I to know the cusses worn a-goin' so soon, and never speared of that, and you never told me you wanted the Obie a spell to work faster than war safe.

If an' I didn't know that, I could a-fucked the damn cusses out of him boots in the shake of the cat's tail. That could a-did." With an air of unmistakable chagrin. He's going to slip us. So help me, he will. Now, when I once more ash ever, the spell upon him. He's heard something from this girl, Cynthia, of a conspiracy against myself. She's heard them plotting in the summer-house, in the Kushto's garden. What day plot gain you, Master Jack? Whom day dat go plotting? The Kushtovs is one. The other ish that scamp son of Kubina, the Maroon, the young Kubina. You know shim? That same I know well nuff. Ah, the proud Kushtovs don't know, though he hash his suspicions, that his wife Kushiba wash the mistress of a Maroon, and she luff the mulatto better as ever she luffed.

Vantity's Vulcan! Ha, ha, ha! That am very near the truth, observed the negro, with a thoughtful air. Little does the Kustos think, continued Jesseron, without heeding the interpolation, that this young fellow, Hozha helping him to conspire against me, is a sort of a son to his conceited worship. Ha, ha, ha! It was startling intelligence for the listener outside the door. It was the first intimation the young Maroon ever had as to who was his mother. Some vague hints had been conveyed to him in early childhood, but his memory recalled them only as dreams, and he himself had never allowed them expression. His father he had known well, called, as himself, Kubina, the Maroon. But his mother, who or what she had been, he had never known.

Was it possible, then, that the quadroon, Koshiba, of whose fame he too had heard, was it true she was his own mother? That Lily Koshiba, the beautiful, the accomplished daughter of the Kushtos-Bahn, was his half-sister? He could not doubt it. The conversation that followed put him in possession of further details, and more ample proofs. Besides, such relationships were too common in the island of Jamaica to make them matter either of singularity or surprise. Notwithstanding, the listener was filled with astonishment. Far more than that, for the revelation was one to stir his soul to emotions, of the strangest and strongest kind. New thoughts sprang up at the announcement. New vistas opened before the horoscope of his future.

New ties were established within his heart, hitherto unfelt and unknown. Stifling his new sprung emotions as well as he was able, promising them indulgence at some other time, he re-bent his ear to listen. He heard enough to satisfy him that he had a sister, a half-sister, it is true, but still a sister. The next point determined on between the conspirators was equally calculated to startle and astonish him. It was no less than a design to render that sister brotherless. You must put the spell on him, too," said the Jew. For he's the principal in this plot against me. Even if the kushtos wash out the way, this cap'n Kubina will go to some other magistrate to carry out his design. There will be plenty to help him.

You must spell him, and shun as you can, Chakra. There's no time to lose. Not a minute shall help me. I do what I can, Master Jake. But mout's well tell ye. That is ain't no so easy to put de spell on a maroon. It cost me more'n twenty year to put de obia on him old father, and I's a been trying um on his dis young Cobina for some time, ever since him father die. I hate de young un. Same as hated de old un. You know why I hate both. I know sh'all that, I know sh'all that. Why then, I do my best. Da'ar Malata give me no hope. She soon minister de spell, ef she hab chance, case she think I'm de lub drink. She no hab chance, for Kopina he no let her come nigh o' him. Never mind. Chakra he find opportunity some day.

For long he put de death spell on de son of dat quadrum. Perhaps not so soon, was the mental rejoiner of him who listened to this confident declaration. It is less matter about him than the other, cried the Jew, giving way to a fresh burst of rage. So help me, the kushtos is going to slip out of my fingers. The estate, all, ah! He ejaculated as his disappointment became more palpably before him. You hash played me false, Chakra. I belief you'd been playing me false. As the Jew gave utterance to this conjectural speech, he started to his feet, taking a tighter hold upon his umbrella and standing before his vis-a-vis in a threatening attitude. No, Massajake. replied the mild man, without altering the air of obeisance he had hitherto assumed.

No, nothing of dat, anyhow. Eyes can see dar's nothing of dat. You, yes of Sebi, well, nuff, I hab as good reason as you to make dispel work, and I tell you it shall work. Yesh, when too late, too late. I don't care then. If the custos get to Spanish Town, if he procures the special act, I may ruin shoe. I don't care a straw if the death spell wash put on my shelf, I don't. This speech was rather a soliloquy than addressed to Chakra, who listened to it without clearly comprehending its import. For the chief motive, Was stimulating the Jew, was still unknown to this fellow conspirator. I tell you, resumed Jesseron, still in threatening speech, I believe you hash been fooling me, Chakra. You hash some interest of your own, perhaps with a dish lili kwashiba.

Ha! Never mind. I tell you this time, I tell you, Chakra. If the spell does fail, yes, if it fail, and the kushtos reach the capital where he is going, I tell you, Chakra, you may look out for squalls. You'll loose your money, I promised you. Aye, you may loose your life, as well. I hash only to shea a word, and the duppy's hoe will be searched by the hounds of the law. Now will you do your best to keep the Kushtos from reaching the capital of the island? As Jesseron finished the speech containing this conditional threat, he moved in the direction of the door, apparently with the intention of taking his departure. The Maroon, perceiving the movement, stepped further back into the shadow of the cotton tree, taking care to conceal himself effectually.

This change of position prevented him from hearing what subsequently passed between the two conspirators. Some more conversation there was on both sides, an interchange of it, which lasted for several minutes. But although the listener could hear the sounds of their voices, he was unable to make out the words spoken by either. What was said by the Jew was principally a repetition of his menace. In terms the most emphatic he could employ, while Chakra, with equal emphasis, repeated his promises to accomplish the nefarious purpose already agreed upon between them. "'A promise, Maser Jake,' said the mild man in conclusion, "'by de great Akampang I do my best. If de Cussus tribe scape, den you do wid' old Chakra.' "'What's some diva you have mind to?

Liver him up, if you like. Ha! De cuss a snowscape. Dis night's synthy hab take bottle in her basket of de strongest kind. It do de business in about twenty-four hour. Dat am de true death spell. Rah! In twenty-four hours. You ish sure, Chakra? You ish sure? Sure as a min de duppy hole, Massa Jake." Doin' you have no more doubt of the Chakra. He have no love fo' Cushishvahn more than yourself. Perhaps he love the Cushish daughter, but damn him very different sort of a fiction. What? With this speech of fiendish signification, the dialogue ended, and the Jew was seen stepping outside, followed by his confederate. Both walked away from the spot. Chakra taking the lead, the maroon closely watching their movements.

On reaching the canoe the conspirators stepped aboard, and the craft was paddled over the lagoon. Kubina waited for its return, and then, seeing Chakra safe within his hut, he hastened back to the water, and as before, swimming under the shadow of the rock, he reascended the tree stairway and stood once more. on the summit of the cliff.

67 067 - Volume 2 Chapter 32 - A Stormy Scene 11:52

Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume two, chapter thirty-two. A Stormy Scene On emerging from the duppy's hole, the pen-keeper tracked it, as straight as the path would permit him, towards his own home. He walked with hurried steps, as if he had some purpose before him beyond that of going to bed. Late as was the hour, or early, it should rather be said, since it was getting on for daybreak, in the eye of the old Israelite. There was no sign of sleepiness, but on the contrary a wide-awake expression that betokened his intention to accomplish some desired object before retiring to rest. The mutterings which fell from his lips as he moved onward among the trees told that his discontent still continued.

Chakra's assurances that had, for the moment, partially removed his ill-humor On reflection failed to satisfy him. More than once before the mild man had given his promises which he had failed in keeping, and so might it be with the promise of the death spell. With this thought was revived in full vigor the apprehension that his enemy might escape, and consequently his deep-conceived scheme would result in an ignominious failure. The measures which the mile-man had taken for administering the spell medicine, that bottle of strong waters which Cynthia carried home in her basket, had been revealed to the Jew. The revelation had been made, as suited the subject, in a low tone of voice, and it was this part of the dialogue between the two conspirators which Kubina had not heard.

But the Coromante might be mistaken in his skill. The prescription might fail in producing the desired effect. The slave might not find the opportunity to administer it. Considering the early hour at which the traveler was to start, Jesseron knew the hour. Cynthia might not have a chance to give the medicine. Or, afraid by contemplation of the fearful consequence, Which she now knew would follow almost instantaneously upon the act, she might in the end shy from the dangerous duty. The intended victim might, in the meantime, have become suspicious of the mixtures prepared by the mulatta, and declined to drink the deadly draught. There were many chances that the Kustos might escape. There ish many a schlip between the cup and the lipsh.

muttered the wicked old man, quoting one of his favorite proverbs. Ah, that is true, he added, with bitter emphasis, as the probabilities of failure passed more palpably before his mind. So help me, he continued, in an attempt at self-consolation. I shall not be deprived of my revenge. That is certain, whether he goes to Spanish town or stays at home. He exclaimed, again changing his tone to one of chagrin. What does that signify, beside the other? If he could be stopped, it was a grand destiny for mine Shudith, for myself, me, old Sheik of Shesheron, Mount Welcome Wash mine. It must belong to this young fellow. He belongs to Shudith. Shudith belongs to me. What a pity if my scheme is to fail, after all I has done to make it succeed.

If it fail, he continued, the probabilities of failure presenting a new phase to him. If it fail, I am a ruined man, I am. Shooteth may want to marry this young fellow. I believe she loves him. I'm afeard she does. And... He hasn't a worth of the shoe she stands in. Bless my soul. I must try to prevent it. It mustn't go no further till I'm sure of the kustos. Not a step, not a step. She must be seen. And this very night, yes, I must see Judith before I sleep." Urged on by the desire of the interview thus announced, The Jew hastened his steps, and soon arrived under the shadow of the dark pile that constituted his dwelling. Admitted by the black porter at the gate, for that of the courtyard or slave enclosure was always kept locked, he mounted the wooden steps and stole as silently along the veranda as if he had been a stranger in the house instead of its owner.

His object in this stealthy movement Appeared to be to avoid disturbing someone who slept in a hammock near one end of the long gallery. It was towards the other end, however, that he went, in the direction of a chamber through the lattice window of which a light was streaming. It was the sleeping apartment of the Jewess. On arriving opposite the door he knocked, not loudly, at the same time pronouncing in a half whisper the name. "'Shudeth.' "'That you, Rabbi?' inquired a voice from within, while a footstep passing across the floor told either that the Jewess had not yet sought her couch, or had sought, and again forsaken it. The door was opened, and the worthy father of this wakeful daughter passed inside.

"'Well,' said she as he entered, "'I won't inquire what errand you've been on.' My good Papa Jesseron, some slave speculation, I suppose. But what have I to do with it, that you should compel me to sit up for you till this time of the night? It's now near morning, and I am precious sleepy, I can tell you. Ach, Judith, dear," replied the father, everything is going wrong. She'll help me everything. Well. One might think so from that doleful fizz of yours. What's troubling you now, my worthy parent? Ach, Judith, don't distress me by your speeches. I hash something of importance to say to you before I go asleep. Say it quick, then, for I want to go to sleep myself. What is it? Pray. Well, Judith, dear, it is this.

You mustn't trifle any more with this young fellow. What young fellow do you mean, my good man? Volcan. Of course, Master Volcan. Ho, ho! You've changed your tune. What's this about? I hash reason, Judith. I hash reason. Who said I was trifling with him? Not I, father. Anything but that, I can assure you. That ish not what I mean, Judith. "'Well, then, what do you mean, old gentleman? Come now, make yourself intelligible.' "'I mean this, Judith. You mustn't let things go any further with the young fellow, that ish, just now, till I knows something more about him. I thought he was going to be like, you know, I thought that, mine daughter, but I has found out this very night that perhaps—' He may never be worth a shingle shilling, and therefore, Judith, you couldn't think of marrying him, and mustn't think of it till we know sh'more about him."

"'Father,' replied the Jewess, at once throwing aside her habitual badinage, and assuming a serious tone, "'is it too late? Did I not tell you that the tarantula might get caught in its own trap? The proverb has proved true. I am that unhappy spider. You don't say so, Judith, inquired the father with a look of alarm. Oh, do! Yonder sleeps the fly! And the speaker pointed along the gallery in the direction of the hammock, secure from any harm I can ever do him, and were he as poor as he appears to be, as humble as the lowest slave on your estate, he is rich enough for me. "'Ah, it will be his fault, not mine, if he do not become my husband.' The proud, determined tone in which the Jewess spoke was only modified as she uttered the last words.

The conjunctive form of the closing speech, with a certain duplexity of expression upon her countenance, showed that she was not yet sure of the heart of Herbert Vaughan. Notwithstanding his attentions at the ball, Notwithstanding much that had since occurred, there appeared to be a doubt, a trace of distrust, that still lingered. "'Never, Judith,' cried the father, in a tone of determined authority. "'You mustn't think of it. You shall never marry a pauper, never.' "'Pauper him as much as you like, father. He won't care for that any more than I do. I shall disinherit you, Judith.' Said the Jew, giving way to a feeling of spiteful resentment. As you like about that, too, disinherit me at your pleasure.

But remember, old man, it was you who began this game, you who sent me to playing it, and if you are in danger of losing your stake, whatever it may be, I tell you you're in danger of losing me, that is, if he... The hypothetical thought, whatever it was, that at this crisis crossed the mind of the Jewess was evidently one that caused her pain, as could be seen by the dark shadow that came mantling over her beautiful brow. Whether or not she would have finished the speech is uncertain. She was not permitted to proceed. The angry father interrupted her. Go to sleep. This I promise you, and shall help me I keepish my promise. If this pauper is to be a pauper, he never marries you with my consent, and without my consent he never touches a shilling of my monish.

You understand that, Judith?" And without waiting to hear the reply, which was quite as defiant as his own declaration, the Jew hurried out of his daughter's chamber. And shuffled off along the veranda.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Two, Chapter Thirty-Three. Where Next?

The maroon, after mounting to the summit of the cliff, paused for some moments to reflect upon a course of action. In his bosom were many new emotions, springing from the strange revelations to which he had just listened. His mind was in such a state of chaotic confusion That it required some time to determine what he ought to do next, or whither he should go. The thought that thrilled him most was that which related to the discovery of his maternal relationship to Miss Vaughan. But this matter, however strange it was, required no immediate action to be taken on his part, and though the semi-fraternal affection now felt for the first time Strengthened the romantic friendship with which he had conceived for the young lady, whom he had now seen several times.

Still, from what he had overheard of the scheme of the conspirators, his new discovered sister did not appear to be in any danger. At least, not just then, though some horrid hints darkly thrown out by Chakra pointed to a probable peril at some future time. That her father was in danger, Cubina could not doubt. Some demoniac plot had been prepared for the Kustos, which had to deprive him even of life, and from what the Maroon could make out of the half-heard conversation of the conspirators, action was to be taken upon it, so early as the following morning. Mr. Vaughan intended a journey. Yola had herself told him so, and the confabulation between Jeseran and Chakra confirmed it. Cynthia had been their informant, and it was evident that upon that very night she had brought the news from Mount Welcome.

Evident also that the piece of intelligence thus conveyed had taken both the conspirators by surprise. Causing them to hasten the denouement of some devilish plan that before that night had not been quite ripe for execution. All this was clear enough to the mind of the Maroon. Equally clear was it that the plan was no other than an atrocious plot to murder the proprietor of Mount Welcome, and that poison was the safe, silent weapon to be used. For Kubina was not unacquainted with the signification of the death spell of Obia. Before that night, he had reason to believe that his own father had fallen by that secret shaft, and reason to suspect that Chakra had shot it. What he had just heard confirmed his belief, and but that he saw the necessity of hastening to the rescue of the threatened Kustos, and knew moreover That he could now find Chakra at any time, he would in all probability have avenged his father's death before leaving the Duppy's hole.

The young Maroon, however, was a man of mild character, combining prudence with an extreme sang-froid, that hindered him from bringing any event to a hasty or ambiguous ending, though leaving Chakra for the time, He had determined soon to return to him. The resurrection of the mild man, though it at first very naturally astonished him, had soon ceased to be a mystery to the mind of the Maroon. In fact, the presence of the Jew had at once explained the whole thing. Kubina conjectured, and correctly, That Jesseron had released the condemned criminal from his chains and substituted the body of some dead negro afterwards to become the representative of Chakra Skeleton. For this, the Jew, well known for wickedness, might have many motives.

The Maroon did not stay to speculate upon them. His thoughts were directed to the present and future rather than the past. To the rescue of the Kustos, over whom a fearful fate seemed to impend. It not be denied that Kubina felt a certain friendship for the planter of Mount Welcome. Heretofore it had not been of a very ardent character, but the relations lately established between him and the Kustos, in prospect of the process to be taken against their common enemy, the pen-keeper, Had, of course, occasioned a fellow-feeling between them. The revelations of that night had strengthened the interest which the maroon had begun to feel for Mr. Vaughan, and it is not to be wondered at that he now felt an honest desire to save the father of her, whom he was henceforth to regard as his own sister.

To this end, then, were his thoughts directed. He stayed not long to speculate upon the motives either of Chakra or Jesseron, those of the mile-man he could guess to a certainty. Revenge for the sentence that exposed him to that fearful fate on the Jumba rock. The motives of the Jew were less transparent. His deepest did not appear in the confabulation Kobina had overheard. Even Chakra did not know it. It might be fear of the approaching trial. Which by some means the Jew had become apprised of. But no, on reflection Kobina saw it could not be that, for the conversation of the conspirators betrayed that their plot had been anterior to any information which the Jew could have had of the design of the Kostos.

It could not be that. No matter what. Mr. Vaughan, the father of the generous young lady, she who had promised to make him a present of his beloved bride, and who now provided to be his own stepsister, her father was in danger. Not a moment was to be lost. With regard to motives, measures must be taken to avert that danger and punish the miscreants who designed it. For some minutes Kubina remained on the spot. Reflecting upon what step should be first taken. Should he go direct to Mount Welcome, and warn the Kostos by reporting to him what he had heard? That was the first idea that presented itself to his mind. But at that hour Mr. Vaughan would be abed, and he, a maroon, might not be admitted, unless indeed he could show, by pleading the urgency of his errand, Good cause for arousing the custos from his slumber.

This, undoubtedly, would he have done, had he known that the scheme of the conspirators had been definitely arranged. But, as already stated, he had not heard Chakra's concluding speech, referring to Cynthia and the bottle of strong medicine, and all the rest only pointed vaguely at some measures to be taken for frustrating the expedition to Spanish town. It would be time enough, thought he, to meet these measures by going to Mount Welcome in the morning. He could get there before Mr. Brown should start upon his journey. He could go at any early hour, but one when his appearance would not give cause for any unnecessary remark. It did not occur to him to reflect that the time of the traveller's departure from Mount Welcome Of which Kubina had not been apprised, might be anterior to that of his arrival there.

The Maroon, thinking that the great Custos was not likely to inconvenience himself by early rising, had no apprehension of missing him by being himself too late. With this confidence, then, he resolved to postpone his visit to Mount Welcome until some hour after daybreak. And in the meantime to carry out the preliminaries of a program referring to a very different affair, and which had been traced out the day before. The first scene in this program was to be a meeting with Herbert Vaughan. It had been appointed to take place between them on the following morning, and on the same spot where the two young men had first encountered one another, in the glade. Under the great Siba. The interview was of Herbert's own seeking, for, although neither had seen the other since the day on which the runaway had been rescued, some items of intelligence had passed between them, Kwako acting as the medium of their correspondence.

Herbert had an object in seeking the interview. He desired a conference with Kubina in hopes of obtaining from him An explanation of more than one circumstance that had lately arisen to puzzle and perplex him. His patron's suspicious story about the Red Runaway was one of these circumstances. Herbert had heard from Quocco that the slave was still staying with the Maroons in their mountain town, and had been adopted into their little community, in fact, had himself become a Maroon. This did not correspond with the account given by Jesseron. Of course, Quocco could not state the reasons. The secrecy enjoined by the custos kept Kubina's tongue tied upon that theme, and his own men knew nothing of the design which their captain had conceived against the Jew.

This was not the only matter which mystified the young Englishman, and which he was in hopes of having cleared up.

His own position at the Pen, of late developing itself in a manner to surprise and startle him, also needed elucidation. There was no one near of whom he could ask a question in regard to it, and never in his life did he stand more in need of a confidant. In this dilemma he had thought of his old acquaintance, the maroon captain, The intelligent mulatta appeared to be the very man. Herbert remembered the promise made at parting, his own conditional acceptance of it, which now appeared prophetic, since the contingency then expressed had come to pass. He had need to avail himself of the friendly proffer, and for that purpose he had made the appointment under the Siba. Equally desirous was the Maroon to meet with the young Englishman.

He had preserved a grateful recollection of his generous interference in what appeared a very unequal combat. And, so far from having lost sight of his noble ally, he had been keeping him in mind, after a fashion that was calculated to show the deep gratitude with which Herbert's conduct had inspired him. He longed for an opportunity of giving renewed expression to his gratitude, but he had other reasons for wishing to see the young Englishman just then, and the meeting with. Yola, on that same night, had an object somewhat different from the mere repetition of love vows, already pronounced over and over again upon a score of distinct occasions. Now that the night had nearly passed and that the morning was nigh, the Maroon, instead of returning to his mountain home, decided on going back to the glen and spending the few hours of interval under the shadow of the Siba.

Indeed, the time would not allow of his returning home. A little after sunrise was the appointed time for the meeting with Herbert Vaughan. Before that hour should arrive, he could scarce reach his own town and get back again. The thing, therefore, was not to be thought of. To sleep under a tree, or on one, was no new thing for Kubina. It would never occur to him to consider such a couch as inconvenient. In his hog-hunting excursions, often continuing for days and even weeks, He was accustomed to repose upon the cold ground, upon the swirl of withered leaves, upon the naked rock, anywhere. Not much did it matter to a maroon to be sheltered by a roof, not much, whether a tree shadowed his slumbers or whether on his grassy couch she saw shining over him the starry canopy of the sky.

These were but the circumstances of his everyday life. Having come to the conclusion that his best plan would be to pass the remaining hours of the night under the Siba, he made no further delay by the Duppy's Hole. But turning into the path that led down the slope, he proceeded back towards the glade. He moved down the mountain road slowly, and with some degree of circumspection. He went slowly because there was no need for haste. It would be several hours before the young Englishman should be abroad. But, as already stated, a little after sunrise was the time agreed upon through the messenger Quocco. There was no particular reason for Cabina's being in a hurry to get to the glade, unless he wished to have more time for his nap under the tree.

For sleep, however, he had not but little relish just then. Wild thoughts, consequent on the strange disclosures he had listened to, were passing through his mind, and these were sufficient to deprive him even of the power of sleep. He moved onward with circumspection from a different motive. He knew that Jesseron, in returning to his pen, must have taken the same path. Should the latter be loitering, since he had only started but a few minutes before, Kubina might overtake him, and he had no wish to see any more of the Jew for that night, or, at all events, to be himself seen by the latter. To avoid all chance of an encounter, he stopped at intervals and reconnoitred the wood ahead of him. He arrived in the glade without seeing either Jew, Christian, or living being of any kind.

The penkeeper had passed through a good while before. Kubina could tell this by an observation which he made on coming out into the open ground. A mock bird, perched on a low tree that stood directly by the path, was singing with all its might. The maroon had heard its melody long before entering the glade. Had anyone passed recently, the bird would have forsaken its perch, as it did on the approach of Kubina himself. On reaching the rendezvous his first concern was to kindle a fire. Sleep in a wet shirt was not to be thought of, and every stitch upon his body had been soaked in swimming the lagoon. Otherwise it would not have mattered about a fire. He had nothing to cook upon it, nor was he hungry, having already eaten his supper.

Kindled by a woodman's skill a fire soon blazed up. And the hunter stood erect beside it, turning himself at intervals to dry his garments, still dripping with water. He was soon smoking all over like freshly slaked lime. And in order to pass the time more pleasantly, he commenced smoking in another sense, the Nicotian, his pipe and tobacco pouch affording him an opportunity for this indulgence. Possibly the nicotine may have stimulated his reflective powers, for he had not taken more than a dozen puffs at his pipe, when a sudden and somewhat uneasy movement seemed to say that some new reflection had occurred to him. Simultaneous with the movement, a muttered soliloquy escaped from his lips. "'Crambo!' exclaimed he, giving utterance to his favorite shilabeth.

Say he should come an hour after sunrise, at least another we should be in getting to Mount Welcome. Poor Dios! It may be too late then. Who knows what time the custos may fancy to set out? He added, after a pause, I did not think of that. How stupid of me not to have asked Iola. Crambo! he again exclaimed, after another interval passed in silent reflection. It won't do to leave things to chance, where a man's life is in danger. Who knows what scheme these John Crows have contrived? I couldn't hear the whole of the palaver. If Master Vaughn was only here, we might go to Mount Welcome at once. Whatever quarrel he may have with the uncle, he won't wish to let him be murdered. No likelihood of that.

Besides... The young fellow's interference in this matter, if I mistake not, would be likely to make all right between them. I'd like that, both for his sake and hers. Ah, hers especially, after what Yola's told me. Santa Vargen. Wouldn't that be a disappointment to the old dog of a Jew? Never mind. I'll put a spark in his powder before he's many days older. The young Englishman must know all. I'll tell him all. And after that, if he consents to become the son-in-law of Jacob Jesseron, he would deserve a dog's—'Bah! It cannot be. I won't believe it, till he tells me so himself, and then—'Poor Dios!' exclaimed he, suddenly interrupting the above train of reflections and passing to another. It won't do for me to stay here till he comes, two hours after sunrise, and the custos might be cold.

I'll go down to the Jew's pen at once, and hang about till I see young Vaughn. He'll be stirring about daybreak, and that'll save an hour anyhow. A word with him, and we can soon cross to Mount Welcome. In obedience to the thought, and without staying to complete the drying of his habiliments, The maroon stepped out from the glade, and turning into the track, little used, that led towards the Happy Valley, proceeded in that direction.

69 069 - Volume 2 Chapter 34 - A Dark Compact 10:05

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Chapter 34. A Dark Compact.

On closing so abruptly the stormy dialogue with his daughter, Jesseron proceeded to his own sleeping apartment, like the others, opening upon the veranda. Before entering the room, he glanced along the gallery towards the suspended hammock. In that hammock slept Herbert Vaughn. His long sea voyage had accustomed him to the use of a swing couch, even to a liking for it, and as the night was warm he had preferred the hammock to his bed in the contiguous chamber. Jesseron had a fear that the angry conversation might have been overheard by the occupant of the hammock, for in the excitement of temper neither he nor Judith had observed the precaution of speaking low. The hammock hung motionless, oscillating scarcely an inch, and this only under the influence of the night breeze that blew gently along the veranda.

Its occupant appeared to be in the middle of a profound slumber. Satisfied of this, the Jew returned to his own chamber. There was no light, and on entering he sat down in the darkness. The moon shining in through the window gave him light enough to discover a chair, and into that he had flung himself instead of seeking his couch. For a time he displayed no intention either of undressing or betaking himself to bed, but remained in the high-backed chair in which he had seated himself, buried in some reflection, silent as profound. We are permitted to know his thoughts. "'So help me. She'll marry him,' was that which came uppermost. "'She will. So help me,' continued he, repeating the reflection in an altered form.

"'S'fight of all I can say or do to prevent her, she is a very defile when rashed, and she'll have her own way, she will.' Ach, what ish to be done? What ish to be done? Here a pause occurred in the reflections, while the Jew with puzzled brain was groping for an answer to his mental interrogatory. It ish of no useh, he continued after a time, the expression on his face showing that he had not yet received a definite reply. It's no useh to oppose her. She'd run away with this young man, to a certainty. I might lock her up, but that is no good. She'd contrive to escape sometime. I couldn't always keep her under lock and key. No. No. It is impossible. And if she marries him without the money, without the great sugar estate, bless me, that is ruin.

It must not be. If she marries him, she mustn't marry Mount Welcome. She mustn't. She mustn't. But how is it to be? How is she to be made their heir? Again the Jew appeared to puzzle his brains for an answer to this last interrogatory. Ah! he exclaimed aloud, at the time starting from his chair, as if the solution had discovered itself. "'I hash it! I hash it! The Spaniards! I hash it!' "'Yes,' he continued, striking the ferrule of his umbrella against the floor. "'These are the very fellows for the shab, worth a score of Chakra's spells, and his bottles to boot. There is no fear that their medicine will fail. So help me, no. Now, as I think of it,' continued he, That is to plan the very best.

There is no other safe and sure like that ish. Ha! Kushtos! You shan't escape yet. Ha! Shooteth mine girl. You ish welcome to your way. You shall have the young man after all." On giving utterance to these ambiguous speeches, the Jew dropped back into his chair. And sat for some minutes in silent but earnest meditation. The matter of his meditation may be known by the act that followed. There isn't an hour to be lost, muttered he, starting to his feet and hurriedly making for the door. No, not as much as a minute. I must see them now. The kustos is to start at sunrise. The wench has said it. "'They'll just have time to get upon his track. So help me,' he added, opening the door and glancing up at the sky.

"'As I live, it is most sunrise now,' sticking his beaver firmly upon his head and taking a fresh clutch of the everlasting umbrella." He rushed rapidly out of the veranda, crossed the courtyard, re-passed the porter at his own gate, and then, traversing the little enclosure outside, stood in the open fields. He did not stand long, only to look around him and see that the ground was clear of stragglers. Satisfied on this head, he proceeded onward. At the distance of some three or four hundred yards from the outside stockade stood a detached cabin, more than half hidden among the trees. Towards this he directed his steps. Five minutes sufficed for him to reach it, and on arriving at the door he knocked upon it with the butt of his umbrella.

"'Kianess?' spoke a voice from within. "'It is me, Manuel, me, Cheshiron.' replied the Jew. It's the Dueno, master, was heard muttering one of the Spaniards to the other, for the cabin was the dwelling of these notable negro hunters. Carajo! What does the old ladron want at this hour? interrogated the first speaker in his own tongue, which he knew was not understood by the Jew. Maldito! added he in a grumbling voice. It's not very pleasant to be waked up in this fashion. Besides, I was dreaming of that yellow skin that killed my dogs. I thought I had my machete up to the hilt in his carcass. What a pity I was only dreaming it. Ta-ta," interrupted the other. Be silent, Andre. The old gonadero is impatient.

Vamos. I'm coming, Senor Don Jacob. Make haste, then. Answered the Jew from without, I hash important business with both of you. At this moment the door opened, and he who answered to the name of Manuel appeared in the doorway. Without waiting for an invitation, Jesseron stepped inside the cabin. Does your business require a candle, senor? inquired the Spaniard. No, no. answered the Jew quickly and impressively, as if to prevent the striking of a light. It is only talk. We can do it in the darkness. And darkness, black and profound, was most appropriate to the conversation that followed. Its theme was murder, the murder of Loftus Vaughan. The plan proposed was for the two Spaniards, fit instruments for such purpose, To waylay the custos upon the road, in some dark defile of the forest, anywhere, it mattered not, so long as it was on this side of the Spanish town.

Fifty pounds apiche, good island currency, was the reward promised, offered and accepted. Jesseron instructed his brace of entrepreneurs in all the details of the plan. He had learned from Cynthia. That the Custos intended to take the southern road, calling at Savannah-la-Mer. It was a roundabout way to the capital, but Jesseron had his suspicions why that route had been chosen. He knew that Savannah was the assized town of Cornwall, and the Custos might have business there relating to himself, Prince Singes, and his two dozen Mandingoes. It was not necessary to instruct the Kakadoris in these multifarious matters. There was no time to spend on any other than the details of their murderous plan, and these were made known to them with the rapidity of rapine itself.

In less than twenty minutes from the time he had entered the cabin the Jew issued out again and walked back with joyous main and agile step towards his dark dwelling.

70 070 - Volume 2 Chapter 35 - Stalking the Sleeper 13:55

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Stalking the sleeper.

On arriving near the precincts of the pen, moved forward with increased caution. He knew that the pen-keeper was accustomed to keep dogs and night-watchers around his enclosure, not only to prevent the cattle and other quadruples from straying, but also the black bipeds that filled his barracoons. The maroon was conscious. Moreover, that his own attitude towards the slave-merchant was, at this time, one of extreme hostility. His refusal to restore the runway had been a declaration of open war between them, and the steps he had since taken in conjunction with the Custos, which he now knew to be no longer a secret to the slave-stealer, Could not otherwise than render him an object of the Jew's most bitter hatred.

Knowing all this, he felt the necessity of caution in approaching the place. For should the pen-keeper's people find him prowling about the premises, they would be certain to capture him if they could, and carry him before Jacob Jeseran, J. P., where he might expect to be treated to a little justice's justice. With this prospect before him, in the event of being detected, he approached the Jew's dwelling as cautiously as if he had been a burglar about to break into it. It was towards the back of the house that he was advancing from the fields, or rather the side of it, opposite to that. on which lay the cattle and slave enclosures. He had made a short circuit to approach by this side, conjecturing that the others would be more likely to be guarded by the slave and cattle watchers.

The fields, half returned to the condition of a forest, rendered it easy to advance under cover. A thick second growth of logwood, Breadnut and Calabash trees covered the ground, and nearer the walls the old garden. Now Runet still displayed a provision of fruit trees growing in wild luxuriance, such as guavas, mangoes, pawpaws, orange and lemon, sobs, custard apples, the aque, and avocado pear. Here and there, a cocoa palm raised its toothed crown far above the topmost spray of the humbler fruit trees, its long feathery fronds gently oscillating under the silent zephyrs of the night. On getting within about a hundred yards of the house, Cubina formed the intention not to go any nearer just then.

The plan he had traced out was to station himself in some position where he could command a view of the veranda, or as much of it as it was possible to see from one place. There he would remain until daybreak. His conjecture was that Hubert Vaughan would make his appearance As soon as the day broke, and this was all the more probable on account of his engagement with the Maroon himself. The protégé of Jesserine would show himself in the veranda on leaving his chamber. He could not do otherwise, since all the sleeping rooms and Cubina knew this, open outward upon the gallery. Once seen, a signal by some means by Cubina showing himself outside, or calling the young Englishman by name, would bring about the desired interview and hasten the execution of the project which the Maroon had conceived.

A slight elevation of the ground Caused by the crumbling ruins of an old wall, furnished the vendette station desired, and the maroon mounted upon this took his stand to watch the veranda. He could see the long gallery from end to end on two sides of the dwelling, and he knew that it extended no farther. Though the house glistened under a clear moonlight, The veranda itself was in shade, as was also the courtyard in front, the old grey pile projecting its sombre shadow beyond the walls that surrounded it. At the end, however, the moonbeams slanting diagonally from the sky poured their light upon the floor of the veranda, there duplicating the strong Bar-like railing with which the gallery was enclosed.

The maroon had not been many minutes upon the stand he had taken, when an object in the verandah arrested his attention. As his eye became more accustomed to the shadowy darkness inside, He was able to make out something that resembled a hammock, suspended crosswise, and at some height above the balustrade of the veranda. It was near that end where the moonlight fell upon the floor. As the moon continued to sink lower in the sky, her beams were flung farther along the gallery. And the object which had attracted the attention of Cubina came more into the light. It was a hammock, and evidently occupied. The top cordage told that someone was inside it. If it should be the young Englishman himself was the conjectural reflection of Cubina.

If so, it might be possible to communicate with him at once. and saved the necessity of waiting till daybreak. How was the maroon to be satisfied that it was he? It might be someone else. It might be Ravener, the overseer, and Cubina desired no conversation with him. What step could he take to solve this uncertainty? As the maroon was casting about for some scheme that would enable him to discover who was the occupant of the hammock. He noticed that the moonbeams had now crept nearly up to it, and in a few minutes more would be shining full upon it. He could already perceive, though very dimly, the face and part of the form of the sleeper inside. Could he only get to some elevated position a little nearer to the house, He might be able to make out who it was.

He scanned the ground with a quick glance. A position sufficiently elevated presented itself, but one not so easy to be reached. A cocoa-nut palm stood near the wall, whose crest of radiating fronds overlooked the veranda, drooping towards it. Could he but reach this tree unobserved, and climb up to its crown, he might command a close view of him who slept in the swinging couch. A second sufficed to determine him, and, crawling silently forward, he clasped the stem of the cocoa tree and swarmed upward. The feat was nothing to Cubina, who could climb like a squirrel. On reaching the summit of the palm, he placed himself in the center of its leafy ground, where he had the veranda directly under his eyes, and so near that he could almost have sprung into it.

The hammock was within ten feet of him, in a downward direction. He could have pitched his tobacco pipe upon the face of the sleeper. The moonlight was now full upon it. It was the face of Hubert Vaughan. Cubina recognized it at the first glance, and he was reflecting how he could awake the young Englishman without causing an alarm, when he heard a door turn upon its hinges. The sound came up from the courtyard. And on looking in that direction, Yvina saw that the gate leading out to the cattle enclosure was in the act of being open. Presently, a man passed through, entering from the outside, and the gate, by some other person unseen, was closed behind him. He who had entered walked directly towards the dwelling, and Mounting the steps, made his way into the veranda.

While crossing the courtyard, the moonlight, for a moment, fell upon his face, discovering to Cubina the sinister incontinence of the Jew. "'I must have passed him on the path,' reflected the maroon. "'But no, that couldn't be,' he added, correcting himself. I saw his return track in the mud hole just by. He must have got here before me. Like enough, he's been back and out again on some other dark business. Crambo. It's true enough what I've heard say of him, that he hardly ever goes to sleep. Our people have met him in the woods at all hours of the night. I can understand it now that I know the partner he's got up there. For Dios, to think of Chakra being still alive. The maroon paused in his reflections, and kept his eyes sharply bent upon the shadowy form that, like a spirit of darkness, was silently flinting through the corridor.

He was in hopes that the Jew would soon retire to his chamber. So long as the lather remained outside, there was not the slightest chance for Kubina to communicate with the occupant of the hammock without being observed. Worse than that, the Maroon was now in danger of being himself seen. Exposed as he was upon the cocoa, with nothing to shelter him from observation but its few straggling fronds, he ran every risk of his presence being detected. It was just a question of whether the Jew might have occasion to look upwards. If so, he could scarce fail to perceive the dark silhouette of a man Outlined as it was against the light blue of the sky. That would be a discovery of which Kubina dreaded the consequences, and with reason.

It might not only frustrate the intended interview with a young Englishman, but might end in his own capture and detection. The last, a contingency especially to be avoided. Under this apprehension, the maroon stirred neither hand nor foot, but kept himself silent and rigid. In this attitude of immobility, he looked like some statue placed in a sedentary posture upon the summit of a Corinthian column, the crushed crocus represented by the fronds of the palm tree. Seventy.

71 071 - Volume 2 Chapter 36 - A Mission for the Man-Hunters 8:43

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed.

Volume 2, Chapter 36. A Mission for the Manhunters. Kubina for some time preserved his constrained position. He dared not derange it, since the Jew still stayed in the shadowy corridor, sometimes moving about, but more generally standing at the head of the wooden stairway and looking across the courtyard towards the gate through which he had come in. It seemed as if he was expecting someone to enter after him. This conjecture of Kubina's proved correct. The great gate was heard once more turning on its hinges, and after a word or two spoken by the black porter outside, and answered by a voice of different tone, two men were seen stepping inside the court. As they passed under the moonlight, Cubina recognized them.

Their lithe, supple forms, and swarthy angular lineaments enabled him to identify the Cuban Casadores. They walked straight up to the stairway, at the bottom of which they stopped. The Jew, on seeing them inside the gate, had gone back into a room that opened upon the veranda. He was gone but for an instant, and, coming out again, he returned to the top of the stairway. One of the Spaniards, stepping up, reached out, and received something from his hand. What it was Kubina could not have told but for the words of the Jew that accompanied the action. "'There's the flask,' said he. "'It is the best brandy in Shemaka. And now,' he continued in an accent of earnest appeal, "'my good fellish, you hasn't a minute to spare.

Remember the big money's here to gain, and don't let this runaway escape.'" "'No fear about that, Señor Don Jacob,' replied he who received the flask. "'Caray! He'll have long legs to get out of our way, once we're well on the trail of him.' And without further dialogue or delay, the Casador descended the stair, rejoined his comrade, and both hurriedly recrossing the courtyard, disappeared through the door by which they had entered. An expedition after some poor slave! muttered Cubina to himself. I hope the scoundrels won't catch him anyhow, and I pity him if they do. After all, there are no great hands at the business, spite of their braggadocio. With this professional reflection, the maroon once more bent his eyes upon the form that remained in the shadow of the veranda.

Surely, conjectured he, the old John Crow will now go to his roost? Or has he more of the like business on hand? Till he's out of that, I can't make a move. I dursent stir, not for the life of me. To the joy of Kubina, the Jew at that moment stepped back into his chamber, the door of which had been left standing open. Good, mentally ejaculated the maroon. I hope he'll stay in his hole now that he's in it. I don't want to see any more of him this night. "'Crumble!' As the exclamation indicated, the congratulatory speech was cut short by the reappearance of the Jew, not in his blue body-coat as before, but wrapped in a sort of gabardine, or ample dressing-gown, the skirts of which fell down to his feet.

His hat had been removed, though the skull-cap, of dirty whitish hue, still clung around his temples, for it was never doffed." To the consternation of Kubina, he came out, dragging a chair after him, as if he meant to place it in the veranda and take a seat upon it. And this was precisely his intention, for, after drying the chair, a high-backed one, out into the middle of the gallery, he planted it firmly upon the floor and then dropped down into it. The moment after, Kubina saw sparks, accompanied by a sound that indicated the concussion of flint and steel. The Jew was striking a light. For what purpose? The smell of burning tobacco borne along the gallery and ascending to Kubina's nostrils upon the summit of the palm answered that question.

A red coal could be seen gleaming between the nose and chin of the Israelite. He was smoking a cigar. Kubina saw this with chagrin. How long would the operation last? Half an hour, an hour perhaps? Aye, maybe till daybreak, now not very distant. The situation had changed for the worse. The Maroon could not make the slightest move towards the awakening of Herbert. He dared not shift his own position, lest his presence should be betrayed to the Jew. He dared not stir upon the tree, much less come down from it. He saw that he was in a fix, but there was no help for it. He must wait till the Jew had finished his cigar, though there was no certainty that even that would bring the séance to a termination.

Summoning all the patience he could command, he kept his perch silent and motionless, though anxious and suffering from chagrin. For a long hour at least did he continue in this desperate dilemma, until his limbs ached underneath him, and his composure was well-nigh exhausted. Still the Jew stuck to his chair as if glued to the seat, silent and motionless as Kubina himself. The latter fancied that not only a first cigar, but a second, and perhaps a third, had been lighted and smoked. But in the sombre shadow in which the smoker sat, he could not be certain how many. More than one, however, from the time spent in the operation, for during the full period of an hour a red coal could be seen glowing at the tip of that aquiline proboscis.

Kubina now perceived what troubled him exceedingly, the blue dawn breaking over the tops of the trees. By slightly turning his head, he could see the golden gleam of sunlight tinting the summit of the Jumbe Rock. Grombo! What was to be done? So ran his reflections. If he stayed there much longer, he might be sure of being discovered. The slaves would soon be starting to their work. The overseer and drivers would soon be out and about. One or other could not fail to see him upon the tree. He would be lucky now to escape himself without thinking any longer of the hammock or him who slept within its tight-drawn meshes. While considering how he might slip unperceived from the tree, he glanced once more towards the occupant of the chair.

The gradually brightening dawn, which had been filling him with apprehension, now favored him. It enabled him to perceive that the Jew was asleep. With his head thrown back against the sloping upholstery, Jesseron had at last surrendered to the powerful divinity of dreams. His goggles were off, and Kubina could see that the wrinkled lids were closed over his sunken orbs. Undoubtedly he was asleep. His whole attitude confirmed it. His legs lay loosely over the front of the chair, his arms hung down at the sides, and the blue umbrella rested upon the floor at his feet. This last evidence of somnolency was not even counterbalanced by the stump of a cigar burnt close and still sticking between his teeth.

72 072 - Volume 3 Chapter 1 - A Starling Summons 8:50

A Startling Summons On the part of Kobena, it was now a struggle. Between Prudence had a desire to carry out his original program, whether he should not go off alone, or still try to communicate with the sleeper in the hammock. In the former case he could return to the glade, and there await the coming of Herbert Vaughn, as at first fixed. But by so doing, at least two hours would be lost. And even then, would the young Englishman be punctual to his appointment? Even against his inclination, something might occur to cause delay, a thing all the more probable considering the circumstances that surrounded him, considering the irregularity of events in the domicile where he dwelt. But even a delay of two hours, in that interval, Loftus Vaughan might have ceased to live.

These thoughts coursed quickly through the mind of the Maroon. Accustomed as it was to perceptions almost intuitive, he saw that he must either go by himself to Mount Welcome, or awake the sleeper at once. Perhaps he would have decided on the former course, but that he had other motives for an interview with Herbert Vaughan, almost as immediate in their necessity as that which related to the safety of the custos. He had as yet no reason to believe that the peril in which the planter stood was so proximate as it really was, for it never occurred to him that the departure of the two Spaniards had any other object than that which related to their calling, the capture of some runaway slave. Had he suspected the design of the two ruffians?

Had he known the mission of murder on which the slave merchant had dispatched them? He would scarce have stayed for aught else than to have provided the means of intercepting their design.

In the dark about all this, he did not believe there was such necessity for extreme haste, though he knew something was on foot against the Kustos, which would not allow of much loss of time. At that moment the occupant of the hammock turned over with a yawn. He's going to awake, thought Kobina. Now is my time. To the disappointment of the maroon, the limbs of the speaker again became relaxed, and he returned to a slumber profound as before. What a pity, murmured the maroon. If I could only speak a word. But no. Yonder John Crow is more like to hear it than he. I shall throw something down into the hammock. Maybe that will awake him. Kubina drew out his tobacco pipe. It was the only thing he could think of at the moment, and guiding his arm with a good aim, he pitched it into the hammock.

It fell upon the breast of the sleeper. It was too light. It awoke him not. Crombo. He sleeps like an owl at noontide. What can I do to make him feel me? If I throw down my machete, I shall lose the weapon, and who knows, I may not need it before I'm out of this scrape. Ah! One of these coconuts will do. That, I dare say, will be heavy enough to startle him. Saying this, the maroon bent forward. And extending his arm through the fronds beneath him, detached one of the gigantic nuts from the tree. Poising it for a moment to secure the proper direction, he flung the ponderous fruit upon the breast of Herbert. Fortunately, the sides of the hammock hindered it from falling upon the floor, else the concussion might also have awakened the sleeper in the chair.

With a start the young Englishman awoke, at the same time raising himself upon his elbow. Herbert Vaughn was not one of the exclamatory kind, or he might have cried out. He did not, however, though the sight of the huge brown pericarp lying between his legs caused him considerable surprise. Where, in the name of Ceres and Pomona, "'Did you rain down from?' muttered he, at the same time turning his eyes up for an answer to his classical interrogatory. In the gray light he perceived the palm, its tall column rising majestically above him. He knew the tree well, every inch of its outlines, but the dark silhouette on its top, the form of a human being couchant and crouching, that was strange to him.

The light, however, Was now sufficiently strong to enable him to distinguish not only the form, but the face and features of this C. de Vente entertainer under the greenwood tree, the maroon captain, Kobina. Before he could say a word to express his astonishment, a gesture followed by a muttered speech from the maroon enjoined him to silence. Hush! Not a word, Master Vaughn. spoke the latter, in a half whisper, at the same time that he glanced significantly along the corridor. Slip out of your hammock, get your hat, and follow me into the forest. I have news for you. Important. Life and death. Steal out and for your life. Don't let him see you. Who? inquired Herbert, also speaking in a whisper.

Look yonder. Said the maroon, pointing to the sleeper in the chair. All right, well? Meet me in the glade. Come at once, not a minute to be lost. Those who should be dear to you are in danger. I shall come, said Herbert, making a motion to extricate himself from the hammock. Enough, I must be done. You will find me under the cotton tree. As he said this, the maroon forsook his seat, so long and irksomely preserved, and sliding down the slender trunk of the palm, like a sailor descending the mainstay of his ship, he struck off at a trot, and soon disappeared amid the second growth of the old sugar plantation. Herbert Vaughn was not slow to follow upon his track. Some disclosures of recent occurrence, so recent as the day preceding, Had prepared him for a somewhat bizarre finale to the fine life he had of late been leading.

And he looked to the maroon for enlightenment. But that strange speech of Kubina stimulated him more than all. Those who should be dear to you are in danger. There was but one being in the world entitled to this description. Kate Vaughan. Could it be she? Herbert stayed not to reflect. His hat and cloak hung in the chamber close by, and in two seconds of time both were upon him. Another second sufficed to give him possession of his gun. He was too active, too reckless, to care for a stairway that moment, or at that height from the ground, too prudent to descend by that which there was in front. Though guarded only by a sleeper, laying his leg over the balustrade, he leaped to the earth below, and following the path taken by the maroon, like him, was soon lost among the second growth of the runate garden.

73 073 - Volume 3 Chapter 2 - Blue Dick 8:39

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Blue Dick In making his hurried departure from the Happy Valley, Herbert Vaughan narrowly escaped observation. A delay of ten minutes longer would have led to his design being interrupted, or at all events to his being questioned as to the object of his early excursion, and in all probability followed and watched. He had scarce passed out of sight of the pen when he heard the jangling tones of the swing-bell, harshly reverberating upon the still air of the morning. The sounds did not startle him. He knew it was not an alarm, only the plantation bell, summoning the slaves to enter upon their daily toil.

Knowing that it must have awakened the sleeper in the chair, he congratulated himself on his good luck at getting away before the signal had been sounded, at the same time that it caused him to quicken his steps. "'Towards the rendezvous given by the maroon.'" Kubina, though, from a greater distance, had also heard the bell, and had in a similar manner interpreted the signal, though with a greater degree of uneasiness as to the effect it might have produced. He, too, had conjectured that the sounds must have awakened the sleeper in the chair.

Both had reasoned correctly. At the first ding-dong of the bell, the Jew had been startled. From his cat-like slumber, and rising erect in his seat, he glanced uneasily around him. "'Bless my soul,' he exclaimed, spitting out the bit of burnt cigar that clung adheringly to his lips. "'It is broad daylight. I must have been asleep more as two hours. "'Ach! These are times for a man to keep awake. The kustos should be on the road by this.' And if these Spanish hunters do their business as cleverly as they has promised, he'll sleep sound this night, as ever he has done before. Bless my soul," he again exclaimed, with an accent that betokened a change in the tenor of his thoughts. Suppose they make bungle in the business.

Suppose they should get caught in the act.

What would be the result of that? There is danger. Strike me dead if there isn't. Bless me. I never thought of it," continued he after some moments spent in reflection of an apparently anxious kind. They might turn kingish evidence and implicate me, me, Ashustus, to save themselves. They'd be likely to do as much as that. Yes, and even if they don't get taken in the act, still there is danger. Emmanuel has a tongue as long as his machete. He's a prattling fool. I must take care to get him out of the island, both of them, as soon as I can." In his apprehensions the Jew no longer included Chakra. For he was now under the belief that the dark deed would be accomplished by the Spanish assassins, and that to steal, not poison, would the custos yield up his life.

Even should Cynthia have succeeded in administering the deadly dose, a probability on which he no longer needed to rely, even should the custos succumb to poison, the mild man was not to be feared. There was no danger of such a Confederate declaring himself. As for Cynthia, the Jew had never dealt directly with her, and therefore she was without power to implicate him in the hellish contract. "'I must take some steps,' said he, rising from his chair and making a feint, towards retiring to his chamber, as if to adjust his dress. "'What is best to be done, let me think,' he added. Pausing near the door and standing in an attitude of reflection. Yes. Yes, that's it. I must send a messenger to Mount Welcome.

Someone can go on an excuse of business. It'll look strange, since we're such bad neighbors of late. No matter for that. The Kustos is gone, I hope, and Raffiner can send the messenger to Mr. Trusty. That will bring us news. Here, Raffner, continued he, calling to his overseer, who cartwhip in hand was moving through the court below. I want ye, Mr. Raffner. Raffner, uttering a grunt to signify that he had heard the summons, stepped up to the stairway of the veranda and stood silently waiting to know for what he was wanted. "'Has she any business about which you could send a messenger to Mr. Trustee—to Mount Welcome, I mean? Hmm. There's business aplenty for that. Them consarned hogs of the Custos has got into our corn patch up the valley and played pitch-and-toss with the young plants.

Ye must get damages for it. That ish right. That ish right. Hmmph." "'You won't say it's right when you've seen the mess they've made.' "'We'll have a sorry show at crop time, I tell ye.' "'Never mind that. We'll have an action.' "'I sheen not let it pass. But joosh now. I hash out the business on hand. You send a messenger to Mr. Trustee and tell him about it, and harkish you, Mr. Raffiner.' I want this messenger to be discreet. I want him to find out whether the Kustos is at home. Without making a direct asking about it, I have heard that he is going on a shirny, and I want to know if he has set out yet. You understand me?" All right, I'll send a fellow that'll get an answer to that question without asking it.

Blue Dick can do that. Ah, true, Blue Dick is the one. And harkish you, Mr. Raffiner, tell him to try if he can see the mulatto wench, Sinti. What is he to say to her? He is to tell her to come over here. If she has an opportunity, I want to speak with her. But mind you, Mr. Raffiner, Dick is to be careful what he sayeth and doeth. He must talk with the girl only in whispers. I'll instruct him in all that," replied the overseer, in a tone of confidence. You want him to go now? This minute, this very minute. "'I has a reason for being in a hurry. Send him off as soon as you can.' Raffiner, without further parley, walked off to dispatch his messenger, and a few minutes after he had gone out of the court, that yellow-complected mercury known by the subroquette of Blue Dick was seen streaking it along the path which conducted from the Jew's pen to the mansion of Mount Welcome.

74 074 - Volume 3 Chapter 3 - The Mysterious Absence 13:15

The Mysterious Absence.

The brief conversation between Jesseron and his overseer had taken place so de voce, as it was not desirable that it should be overheard by anyone, much less by the nephew of him who was its chief subject, and who was supposed to be suspended in a hammock not ten paces from the spot. The hammock, however, was not visible from the front stairway. Being hung in that part of the veranda that extended along the other side of the house. On the departure of Ravener from his presence, the Jew proceeded with his original intention to put his person in order for the day. His toilette did not take long. After a brief absence within his room, he reappeared on the gallery in the same pocketed blue coat, breeches, and tops.

That served him for all purposes and occasions. The coat was buttoned over his breast, the whitey-brown beaver once more upon his head, and the goggles adjusted on the knife-back ridge of his nose. It was evident he intended a stroll. This was all the more certain, as he had regained the umbrella, which had dropped from him during sleep, and holding it in his grasp, stood by the top of the stairway as if on the eve of setting forth. Whither was he going? For what purpose so early? His muttered soliloquy declared his design. It must be to-day, yes. I must get them married this very day, and before any news can come. The report of the Kushto's death Might spoil all my plans. Who knowish what the young man might do, if he hash only a hint of his good luck?

After all, maybe. Shouldeth ish not so sure of him. She hash said something last night. Ah! It must be this day. It is no use going to the rector of the parish. He ish the custod's friend. And might make some objection. That won't do, so help me know. I must go to the other. He's poor, and won't stand shilly-shally. Besides, he's not would be shoost as hard to loose as if it was tied by the Bishop of Shemaka. He'll do. And if he won't, then I knowish one who will. For manish. Aye, anything from Monish. After this soliloquy he was about setting foot upon one of the steps with the intention of descending, when a thought appeared to strike him, and turning away from the stair, he walked with shuffling gentleness along the gallery towards that part of the veranda where the hammock was suspended.

I suppose the young gentleman is still asleep. Gentleman, indeed. Now he's all that. Or will be the next time he goes to sleep. Well, if he ish, I mustn't disturb him. Rich gentlemen mustn't have their slumbers interrupted. The exclamation escaped from his lips, as on rounding the angle of the veranda, He came within sight of the hammock. "'Tish! Empty!' "'I declare, he's early astir in his room, I suppose.' Son's ceremony the Jew kept on along the gallery until he had arrived in front of his bookkeeper's private apartment. There he stopped, looking inward. The door was ajar, almost wide open. He could see the greater portion of the interior through the door, the rest of it through the jalousies.

There was no one in the room, either sitting, standing, or moving about. Master Volcan, are you there? The interrogatory was put rather by way of confirming his observation, for he saw that there was no one inside. Where are you, Master Herbert? Continued he, repeating the interrogatory in an altered form, at the same time cranning his neck into the apartment and glancing all around it. Hesh, I live. It's empty, like the hammock. He must have gone out. Yes, his hat's not here, his cloak's not here, and I see no gun. He always kept his gun, just there. How has she passed me without my hearing his foot? I sleep so ash I can hear a cat stealing over the floor. Has she gone by the stairway at all?

Ash I live, no. Bless my soul. There's a track where somebody must have shumped over the railing down into the garden. Help me. "'It's his track. There's no one but him to have made it. What the devil ish the young fellow after this morning? I hope there ish nothing wrong in it.' On missing the young Englishman out of his hammock and room, the pen-keeper felt at first no particular uneasiness. His protege had gone, no doubt, gone out for a stroll in the woods. He had taken his gun along with him to have a shot at some early bird looking for the early worm. He had done so many a time before, though never at so early an hour. The hour, however, was not enough of itself to cause any surprise to his patron, nor even the fact of his having leaped over the veranda railing.

He might have seen the owner of the house asleep in his chair, Near the head of the stairway and not wishing to disturb him, had chosen the other mode of exit. There was nothing in all this to cause uneasiness. Nor would the Jew have thought anything of it, had it not been for some other circumstances which quickly came under his notice, guiding him to the suspicion that something might be amiss. The first of these circumstances was that Herbert, Although having taken his gun along with him, had left behind his shot belt and powder flask. Both were there in his room, hanging upon their peg. They did not escape the sharp glance of the Jew, who at once began to draw conclusions from their presence.

If the young man had gone out on a shooting excursion, it was strange that he did not take his ammunition along with him. Perhaps, however, he had seen some sort of game near the house, and in his hurry to get a shot at it, had gone off hastily, trusting to the two charges which his gun contained. In that case, he would not go far, and in a few minutes might be expected back. A few minutes passed, and a great many minutes, until a full hour had transpired. And still nothing was heard or seen of the bookkeeper, though messengers had been dispatched in search of him, and had quartered all the ground for half a mile around the precincts of the Pen. Jesseron, whose matutional visit to the minister had been postponed by the occurrence, began to look grave.

It is strange, said he, speaking to his daughter. Who had now arisen and was far from appearing cheerful, strange, he should go abroad in this fashion, without saying a word to either of us. Judith made no reply, though her silence could not conceal a certain degree of chagrin, from which she was evidently suffering. Perhaps she had even more reason than the rabbi to suspect there was something amiss. Certainly something disagreeable, a misunderstanding, at least, had arisen between her and Herbert on the preceding day. Her speech had already given some slight hint of it, but much more her manner, which on the night before, and now unmistakably in the morning, betrayed a mixture of melancholy and suppressed indignation.

It did not add to the equanimity of her temper, when the house wench Who was unslinging the hammock in which Herbert had slept, announced it to contain two articles scarce to be expected in such a place—a coconut and a tobacco pipe. The pipe could not have belonged to Herbert Vaughn. He never smoked a pipe. And as for the coconut, it had evidently been plucked from the tree standing near. The trunk of the palm exhibited scratches as if someone had climbed up it, and above could be seen the freshly torn peduncle, where the fruit had been wrenched from its stalk. What should Herbert Vaughn have been doing up the palm tree, flinging coconuts into his own couch? His unaccountable absence was becoming surrounded by circumstances still more mysterious.

One of the cattle herds, who had been sent in search of him, now coming in, announced a new fact of further significance. In the patch of muddy soil outside the garden wall, the herd had discovered the bookkeeper's track going up towards the hills, and near it, on the same path the footprint of another man, who must have gone over the ground twice, returning as he had come. The cattle-herd, though of sable skin, was a skilled tracker. His word might be trusted. It was trusted and produced an unpleasant impression, both on Jesseron and Judith, an impression more unpleasant as time passed, and the bookkeeper was still unreturned. The father fumed and fretted. He did more, he threatened. The young Englishman was his debtor.

Not only for a profuse hospitality, but for money advanced. Was he going to prove ungrateful, a defaulter? Ah! Little had that pecuniary obligation to do with the chagrin that was vexing the Jew, Jesseron, far less with those emotions, like the waves of a stormy sea that had begun to agitate the breast of his daughter, and which every slight circumstance, like a strong wind, was lashing into fury and foam.

Blue Dick came back. He had executed his errand adroitly. The custos were gone upon a journey. He had started exactly at the hour of daybreak. "'Gut,' said Jesseron, "'but where is his sh-nephew?' Blue Dick had seen Cynthia and whispered a word in her ear. As the overseer had instructed him, she would come over to the pen as soon as she could find an opportunity for absence from Mount Welcome. "'Gut,' answered the Jew, "'but where is Master Volkan? Where hast he betaken himself?' "'Where?' mentally interrogated Judith, as the noonday sun saw the black clouds coursing over her brow.

75 075 - Volume 3 Chapter 4 - A Shadowed Spirit 9:47

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume III.

Chapter IV. A shadowed spirit. The sun was just beginning to re-guild the glittering flanks of the Jumba rock, his rays not yet having reached the valley below, when lights streaming through the jalous windows of Mount Welcome proclaimed that the inmates of the mansion were already astir. Lights shone through the lattices of several distinct windows, One from the Kusto's sleeping room, another from the apartment of Lili Kwashiba, while a brilliant stream, pouring through the jalousies in front, betokened that the chandelier was burning in the great hall. From Smythe G.'s chamber alone came no sign, either of light or life. The windows were dark, the curtains close-drawn. Its occupant was asleep.

Yes, though others were stirring around him, the aristocratic Smythejee was still sleeping as soundly and silently as if dead, perhaps dreaming of the fair Quio Quichas and his twelve conquests, now happily extended to the desired baker's dozen by the successful declaration of yesterday. Though a light still burned in the sleeping apartment of the Kustos, and also in that of Kate, Neither father nor daughter were in their own rooms. Both were in the great hall, seated by a table on which, even at this early hour, breakfast had been spread. It was not the regular matutinal meal, as certain circumstances showed. Mr. Vaughan only was eating, while Cade appeared to be present merely for the purpose of pouring out his coffee and otherwise attending upon him.

The costume in which the custos appeared differed from his everyday wear. It was that of a man about to set forth upon a journey, in short, a traveling costume. A sword-out of strong material, with ample outside pockets, boots reaching above his knees, a belt with pistol holsters around his waist, a guard against any chance encounter with runaway negroes, a felt hat, Lying on a chair beside him, and a camlet cloak hanging over the back of the same chair, all proclaimed the purpose of a journey, and one about to be entered upon within a few minutes of time. A pair of large silver spurs buckled over his boots, told also the mode of travel intended. It was to be on horseback. This was further manifested by the fact that two horses were at that moment standing at the bottom of the stone stairs outside, their forms dimly visible through the blue dawn.

Both were saddled, bridled, and equipped, with a black groom by their side, holding them in hand, himself in travelling toggery. Valises buckled upon the croup, and saddlebags suspended across the cantle showed that the travelers were to carry their luggage along with them. The object of the intended journey is already known. Mr. Vaughan was about to put into execution a design long delayed to perform a duty which he owed to his daughter, and which, if left unaccomplished, would seriously imperil the prosperity and happiness of her future life. He was about proceeding to the capital of the island, to obtain from the assembly that special act of grace which they alone could give, and which would free his daughter from those degrading disabilities the black code had inflicted upon all her unfortunate race.

Six lines from the assembly, with the governor's signature attached, though it might not extinguish the taint, Nor the taunt of malevolent lips would, nevertheless, remove all obstacles to hereditament, and Kate Vaughan could then become the heiress to her own father's property, without fear of failure. To sue for this act and obtain it was the purpose of that journey upon which Loftus Vaughan was now on the eve of setting forth. He had no apprehension of a failure. Had he been only a bookkeeper or small tradesman, he might have been less sanguine of success. But custos of an important precinct, with scores of friends in the assembly, he knew that he would only have to ask, and it would be given him.

For all that he was not setting out in very high spirits. The unpleasant prospect of having such a long and arduous journey to make was a source of vexation to him, for the Custos liked an easy life and hated the fatigue of travel. But there was something besides that dispirited him, for some days past he had found his health giving way. He had lost appetite and was rapidly losing flesh. A constant and burning thirst had seized upon him, which, from morning to night, he was continually trying to quench. The plantation doctor was puzzled with the symptoms, and his prescriptions had failed in giving relief. Indeed, so obstinate and death-like was the disease becoming, that the sufferer would have given up his intention of going to Spanish Town, at least till a more fitting time, but...

For a hope that in the capital some experienced physician might be found who would comprehend his malady and cure it. Indulging in this hope, he was determined to set forth at all hazards. There was still another incubus upon his spirits, and one, perhaps, that weighed upon them more heavily than aught else. Ever since the death of Chakra, or rather since the glimpse he had got of Chakra's ghost, A sort of supernatural dread had taken possession of the mind of Loftus Vaughan. Often had he speculated on that fearful phenomenon, and wondered what it could have been, had he alone witnessed the apparition, he might have got over the awe it had occasioned him. For then— Could he have attributed it to an illusion of the senses, a mere freak of his imagination, excited, as it was at the time, by the spectacle on the Jumba rock?

But Trusty had seen the ghost, too, and Trusty's mind was not one of the imaginative kind. Besides, how could both be deluded by the same fancy, and at the same instant of time? Turn the thing in his own mind as he might, there was something that still remained inexplicable, something that caused the heart of the Kustos to tingle with fear every time that he thought of Chakra and his ghost. This intermittent awe had oppressed him ever since the day of his visit to the Jamba Rock. That day described. For he never went a second time. Nor yet did he afterwards care to venture alone upon the wooded mountain. He dreaded a second encounter with that weird apparition. In time, perhaps, the fear would have died out, and in fact was dying out, the intervals during which it was not felt becoming gradually more extended.

Loftus Vaughan, though he could never have forgotten the mild man, Nor the terrible incidents of his death might have ceased to trouble himself with the aughts about Chakra's ghost, but for a circumstance that was reported to him on the day that Smythji sank into the dead wood. On the afternoon of that day, as Quashie was making his way homeward toward the forest and over the hills, the darky declared that, on passing near a noted spot called the Duppy's Hole, He had seen the ghosts of all the chakras. Quashie, on reaching home, announced the fact, with chattering teeth and eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, and, though the loudish boy was only laughed at by his fellow slaves, the statement made a most painful impression on the mind of his master, restoring it to the state of habitual terror that had formerly held possession of it.

And from which it had become only partially relieved. The circumstance related by Quashy, still fresh in the thoughts of the Custos, had contributed not a little to increase that feeling of dejection and discouragement, under which he suffered at the moment of setting out upon his proposed expedition.

76 076 - Volume 3 Chapter 5 - The Stirrup-Cup 7:10

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Volume 3, Chapter 5. The Stirrup Cup. If Loftus Vaughan was in low spirits, not more joyful seemed his daughter, as she assisted at that early dejoiner. On the contrary, a certain sadness overspread the countenance of the young Creole, as if reflected from the spirit of her father. A stranger to the circumstances that surrounded her might have fancied that it was sympathy at seeing him so dull and downcast. Mingled with the natural regret she might have at his leaving home, and fopped so lone an absence. But one who scrutinized more closely could not fail to note in their fair features an expression of sadness that must have sprung from a different and deeper source.

The purpose of their father's journey may, in part, explain the melancholy that marked the manner of the young Creole. She knew that purpose. She had learned it from her father's lips, though only on the evening before. Then, for the first time in her life, she was made acquainted with those adverse circumstances that related to her birth and parentage. For up to that hour, she had remained ignorant of her position, socially as well as legally. Then, for the first time, It was fully explained to her her own true status in the social scale, the disabilities and degradation under which she suffered. It was to remove these disabilities and wipe out, as it were, the degradation that her father was now going forth.

The young girl did not fail to feel gratitude, but perhaps the feeling might have been stronger had her father taken less trouble to make her sensible of the service he was about to perform, using it as a lever to remove that reluctance to the union with Smythe G., which still lingered. During the few minutes that Mr. Vaughn was engaged in eating his breakfast, not many words passed between them. The viands, luxurious enough, were scarce more than tasted. The intended traveler had no appetite for the solids with which the table was spread, and seemed to care only for drink. After quaffing off several cups of coffee solely from a desire to quench thirst, and without eating bread or anything else along with it, he rose from the table and prepared to take his departure.

Mr. Trustee entering announced that the horses and the attendant groom were ready and waiting outside. The custos donned his traveling hat, and with the assistance of Kate and her maid Yola, put on his sleeved cloak, as the air of the early morning was raw and cold. While these final preparations were being made, a mulatta woman was seen moving about the room. At times acting as an attendant upon the table, at other times standing silently in the background. She was the slave, Cynthia. In the behavior of this woman there was something peculiar. There was a certain amount of nervous agitation in her manner as she moved about. And even, and anon, she was seen to make short traverses to different parts of the room, apparently without errand or object.

Her steps, too, were stealthy, her glances unsteady and furtive. All this would have been apparent enough to a suspicious person, but none of the three present appeared to notice it. The swizzled bull stood on the sideboard. While breakfast was being placed on the table, Cynthia had been seen refilling the bowl with this delicious drink, which she had mixed in an outside chamber. Someone asked her why she was performing that, her diurnal duty, at so early an hour, especially as Master would be gone before the time of swizzle-drinking should arrive, usually during the hotter hours of the day. Perhaps Massa liked drink of swizzle for he go. was the explanatory reply vouchsafed by Cynthia. The girl made a successful conjecture.

Just as the Custos was about to step outside for the purpose of descending the stairway, a fit of choking thirst once more came upon him, and he called for drink. "'Massa like glass of swizzle?' inquired Cynthia, stepping up to his side. "'I've mixed for massa some berry good.' Added she, with impressive earnestness. Yes, girl, replied her master. That's the best thing I can take. Bring me a large goblet of it. He had scarce time to turn around, before the goblet was presented to him, full to the brim. He did not see that the slave's hand trembled as she held it up, nor yet that her eyes were averted, as if to hinder them from beholding some fearful sight. His thirst prevented him from seeing anything but that which promised to assuage it.

He caught hold of the goblet and gulped down the whole of its contents without once removing it from his lips. "'You've overrated its quality, girl,' said he, returning her the glass. "'Doesn't seem at all good. There's a bitterish taste about it, but I suppose it's my palate that's out of order.' And one shouldn't be particular about the stirrup cup. With this melancholy attempt at appearing gay, Loftus Von bade adieu to his daughter, and, climbing into the saddle, rode off upon his journey. Ah, Custos Von, that stirrup cup was the last you were ever destined to drink. In the sparkling swizzle was an infusion of the baneful savanna flower. In that deep draft, you had introduced into your veins one of the deadliest of vegetable poisons.

Chakra's prophecy will soon be fulfilled. The death spell will now quickly do its work. In twenty-four hours, you will be a corpse.

77 077 - Volume 3 Chapter 6 - The Horn Signal 12:19

The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Three. Chapter Six. The Horn Signal. Kubina, on getting clear of the pen-keeper's precincts, lost little time in returning to the glade, and having once more reached the seba, seated himself on a log to await the arrival of the young Englishman. For some minutes he remained in this attitude, though every moment becoming more fidgety, as he perceived that time was passing. And no one came. He had not even a pipe to soothe his impatience, for it had been left in the hammock into which he had cast it from the cocoa. Before many minutes had passed, however, a pipe would have been to little purpose in restraining his nervous excitement, for the non-appearance of the young Englishman began to cause him serious uneasiness.

What could be detaining him? Had the Jew been awakened? And was he by some means or other hindering Herbert from coming out? There was no reason that Kubina could think of why the young man should be ten minutes later than himself in reaching the Siba. Five minutes, even the half of it, might have sufficed for him to robe himself in such garments as were needed. And then, what was to prevent him from following immediately? Surely the appeal that had been made to him, the danger hinted at to those dear to him, the necessity for haste, spoken in unmistakable terms, surely all this would be sufficient to attract him to the forest, without a moment's hesitation. Why, then, was he delaying? The Maroon could not make it out, unless under the disagreeable supposition That the Jew no longer slept, and was intercepting his egress.

What if Herbert might have lost his way in proceeding towards the rendezvous? The path was by no means plain, but the contrary. It was a mere cattle track, little used by men. Besides, there were others of the same, scores of them trending in all directions, crossing and converging with this very one. The half-wild steers and colts of the penkeeper ranged the thickets at will. Their tracks were everywhere, and it would require a person skilled in woodcraft and acquainted with the lay of the country to follow any particular path. It was likely enough that the young Englishman had strayed. Just then these reflections occurred to Kubina. He chided himself for not thinking of it sooner. He should have stayed by the pen, waited for Herbert to come out, and then taken the road along with him.

Not to think of that, Crambo! How very stupid of me! muttered the maroon, pacing nervously to and fro, for his impatience had long since started him up from the log. Like enough, he's lost his way. I shall go back along the path. Perhaps I may find him. At all events, if he's taken the right road, I must meet him. And as he said this, he glided rapidly across the glade, taking the back track towards the pen. The conjecture that Herbert had strayed was perfectly correct. The young Englishman had never revisited the scene of his singular adventure since the day that introduced him to the acquaintance of so many queer people. Not but that he had felt the inclination amounting almost to a desire to do so, and more than once had he been upon the eve of satisfying this inclination, but otherwise occupied, the opportunity had not offered itself.

Not greatly proficient in forest lore, as Kubina had also rightly conjectured, especially in that of the West Indian forest, He had strayed from the true path almost upon the instant of entering upon it, and was at that very moment wandering through the woods in search of the glade where grew the gigantic cotton tree. No doubt, in the course of time, he might have found it, or perhaps stumbled upon it by chance, for, made aware, by the earnest invitation he had received, that time was of consequence. He was quartering the ground in every direction, with the rapidity of a young pointer in his first season with the gun. Meanwhile the maroon glided rapidly back along the path leading to the pen, without seeing aught either of the Englishman or his track.

He re-entered the ruined fields of the old sugar estate, and continued on till within sight of the house. Still unsuccessful in his search. Proceeding with caution, he stepped over the dilapidated wall of the old orchard. Caution was now of extreme necessity. It was broad day, and but for the cover which the undergrowth afforded him, he could not have gone a step further without the risk of being seen from the house. He reached the ruin from which he had before commanded a view of the veranda. And once more stealing a glance over its top, he obtained a full view of the long, rambling corridor. Jesseron was in it, not as when last seen asleep in his armchair, but on foot, and hurrying to and fro with quick step and excited mane.

His black, bearded overseer was standing by the stair, as if listening to some orders which the Jew was issuing. The hammock was still hanging in its place, but its collapsed sides showed that it was empty. Kubina could see that, but no signs of its late occupant, neither in the gallery nor about the buildings. If still there, he must be in some of the rooms. But that one which opened nearest the hammock, and which Kubina conjectured to be his bedroom, appeared to be unoccupied. Its door stood ajar. And no one seemed to be inside. The maroon was considering whether he should stay a while longer upon the spot, and watch the movements of the two men, when it occurred to him that if the young man had gone out and up the right path, he must have crossed a track of muddy ground just outside the garden wall.

Being so near the house, and in the expectation of seeing something there to explain Herbert's delay, He had not stayed to examine this on his second approach. Crouching cautiously among the trees, he now returned to it, and almost at the first glance his eye revealed to him the truth. A fresh footprint was in the mud, with its heel to the house and its toe pointing to the path. It was not his own. It must be that of the young Englishman. He traced the tracks as far as they could be distinguished, but that was only to the edge of the damp earth. Beyond the ground was dry and firm, covered with a close-cropped carpet of grass, upon which the hoof of a horse could scarcely have left an impression.

The tracks, however, on leaving the moist ground, appeared as if trending towards the proper path, and Kobina felt convinced that, for some distance at least, The young Englishman had gone towards the glade. That he was no longer by the house was sufficiently certain, and equally so that he had kept his promise and followed Kubina into the woods. But where was he now? He may have reached the glade in my absence, and be now waiting for me, was the reflection of the maroon. Stimulated by this, as well as by the chagrin which his mischances or mismanagement were causing him, he started back along the path at a run, as if struggling in a match against time. Far quicker than before he reached the glade, but, as before, he found it untenanted.

No Englishman was under the Siba, no human being in sight. As soon as he had fairly recovered breath, he bethought him of shouting. His voice might be of avail in guiding the wanderer to the glade, for Cabina now felt convinced that the young Englishman was straying, perhaps wandering through the woods at no great distance from the spot. His shouts might be heard, and although the stranger might not recognize the voice, the circumstances were such That he might understand the object for which it was put forth. Kubina shouted, first at a moderate pitch, then hallooed with all the strength of his lungs. No answer. save the wood echoes. Again and again, still no response. "'Cramble!' exclaimed he, suddenly thinking of a better means of making his presence known.

He may hear my horn. He may remember that, and know it. If he's anywhere within a mile, I'll make him hear it. The maroon raised the horn to his lips, and blew a long, loud blast, then another, and another. There was a response to that signal, but not such as the young Englishman might have been expected to make. Three shrill bugle-blasts. Born back upon the breeze, seemed the echoes of his own. But the maroon knew they were not. On hearing them, he let the horn drop to his side, and stood in an attitude to listen. Another, this time a single wind, came from the direction of the former. "'Three and one,' muttered the maroon. "'It's Quaco. He needn't have sounded the last, for I could tell his tongue from a thousand.' He's on his way back from Savannah-la-Mer, though I didn't expect him to return so soon.

So much the better. I may want him." On finishing the muttered soliloquy, the maroon captain stood as if considering. "'Crambo!' he muttered after a pause, and in a tone of vexation. "'What has become of this young fellow? I must sound again, lest Quocco's horn may have misled him.'" This time, Lieutenant, hold your tongue. So saying and speaking as if he, the Lieutenant, was by his side, he raised the horn once more to his lips, and blew a single blast, giving it an intonation quite different from the others. After an interval of silence he repeated the call, in notes exactly similar, and then, after another pause, once again. To none of these signals did the tongue of Kwako make reply, but shortly after that Worthy responded to the original summons by presenting himself in propria persona.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Reed. Volume Three. CHAPTER VII. QUACCO'S QUEER ENCOUNTER.

Quaco came into the glade carrying a large bundle upon his back, under which he had trudged all the way from Savannah Lamar. He was naked to the breechcloth, accepting the hogskin greaves upon his shanks and the old brimless hat upon his head. This, however, was all the costume Quaco ever wore. All indeed that he owned, for notwithstanding that he was the lieutenant, his uniform was no better than that of the meanest private of the band. His captain therefore exhibited no surprise at the scantiness of Kwako's clothing, but what did surprise Kubina was the air with which he entered the glade, and some other circumstances that at once arrested his attention. The skin of the Colossus was covered with a white sweat that appeared to be oozing from every pore of his dark epidermis.

This might have been occasioned by his long walk, the last hour of it under a broiling sun and carrying weight as he was, for the bag upon his back appeared a fifty-pounder at least, to say nothing of a large musket balanced upon the top of it. None of these circumstances, however, would account for that inexplicable expression upon his countenance—the wild rolling of his yellow eyeballs, the quick, hurried step, and uncouth gesticulations by which he was signalizing his approach. Though, as already stated, they had arrested the attention of his superior, the latter accustomed to a certain reserve in the presence of his followers, Pretended not to notice them. As his lieutenant came up, he simply said, "'I am glad you are come, Guaco.' "'And I'm glad, Cap'n Kubina.

I've found ye har. War hurrying home fast as my legs could carry me, expecting to find ye thar.' "'Ha,' said Kubina. "'Some news, I suppose. Have you met anyone in the woods, that young Englishman from the Jew's pen? I'm expecting him here.' He appears to have missed the way. Hadn't seen no Englishman, Cap'n. Cus of Vaughan, am that. I's a met him. Crambo, cried Kubina, starting as he uttered the exclamation, you've met Custos Vaughan? When and where? When dis mornin'. Where? About four mile beyond the crossin' on the Carrion Crow Road. That's where I met him. The emphasis upon the last word struck upon the ear of Kubina. It seemed to imply that Quaco, on his route, had encountered others. "'Anybody else did you meet?' he inquired hurriedly, and with evident anxiety as to the answer.

"'Yas, Cap'n,' drawled out the lieutenant, with a coolness strongly in contrast with his excited manner on entering the glade. But Quacko saw that his superior was waiting for the coming of the young Englishman, and that he need not hurry the communication he was about to make. "'Yes, I met old Plute, the head driver at Mount Welcome. He was riding alongside of the Cussles, by way of his escort.' "'Nobody else?' "'Not just then,' answered Quacko, evidently holding back the most interesting items of news he had to communicate. Not just then, Cap'n Kubina. But afterwards? Speak out, Quacko. Did you meet anyone going on the same road? The command, with the impatient gesture that accompanied it, brought Quacko to a quicker confession than he might have volunteered.

I met Cap'n Kubina, said he, his cheeks bulging with the importance of the communication he was about to make. While his eyes rolled like twin jelly-balls in their sockets. I met next not a man, but a ghost. A ghost, said Kubina incredulously. A duppy? A swar by the great Akampang, same as I saw before, the ghosts of old Chakra. The maroon captain again made a start, which his lieutenant attributed to the surprise at the announcement he had made. Kubina did not undeceive him as to the cause. "'And where?' interrogated he, in hurried phrase. "'Where did you meet the ghost?' "'I didn't exactly meet it,' answered Kwako. "'I need seated on the road afore me, about a hundred yards or daraway. I were near enough to be sure of it.

And it was Chakra's ghost, just as I seed them together day, up there by the dupie hole.'" The old villain can't sleep in his grave. He's about these woods yet. How far was it from where you met Mr. Vaughn? Not a great way, Cap'n. Bout a quarter a mile, I should think. Soon as it spied me, it took to the bushes, and I see'd no more on it. It was outer daylight, and the cocks had crowed. I heard him crowin' at old Jobson's plantation close by, and maybe— That sent the duppy of Scutland into the river. We must wait no longer for this young man. We must be gone from here, Quacko. And as Kubina expressed this intention, he appeared about to move away from the spot. Stop, Cap'n, said Quacko, interrupting with a gesture that showed he had something more to communicate.

You ha'nt heard all. I met more of him. More of whom? The same queer sort. But two mile adder I'd pass the place where I see Dduppy, the old mile-man. Who do you think I met next?" "'Who?' inquired Kubina, half-guessing at the answer. "'Dem devil's kind. Like enough company for Dduppy, dem damn Spaniards of de Jews' pen.' "'Ah, maldito!' cried the maroon captain, in a voice of alarm, at the same time making a gesture. As if a light had suddenly broken upon him. The Spaniards, you say? They, too, after him. Come, Quacko, down with that bundle. Throw it in the bush anywhere. There's not a moment to be lost. I understand the series of encounters you have had upon the road. Luckily, I've brought my gun, and you yours.

We may meet them both before night. Down with the bundle, and follow me. "'Stop and take me with you,' cried a voice from the edge of the glade. "'I have a gun, too.' And at that same moment the young Englishman, with his gun upon his shoulder, was seen emerging from the Underwood and making towards the Siba.

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An Uncle in Danger.

You appear to be in great haste, Captain Kubina, said Herbert, advancing in double-quick time. May I know what's the matter? Anything amiss? Amiss, Master Vaughn. Much, indeed. But we shouldn't stand to talk. We must take the road to Savannah, and at once. What? You want me to go to Savannah? I'm with you for any reasonable adventure, but my time's not exactly my own, and I must first have a reason for such a journey. A good reason, Master Vaughn. Your uncle, the Custos, is in trouble. Ah, exclaimed the young Englishman, with an air of disappointment. Not so good a reason as you may think, Captain. Was it he you meant when you said just now, the one who should be dear to me was in danger? It was, answered Kubina.

Captain Kubina, said Herbert, speaking with a certain air of indifference, this uncle of mine but little deserves my interference. But his life's in danger, urged the maroon, interrupting Herbert in his explanation. Ah, ejaculated the nephew. "'Do you say that? If his life's in danger, then?' "'Yes,' said the Maroon, again interrupting him. "'And others, too, may be in peril from the same enemy. Yourself, perhaps, Master Vaughn. Aye, and maybe those that might be dear to you as yourself.' "'Ha!' exclaimed Herbert, this time in a very different tone of voice. "'You have some evil tidings, Captain.' Pray tell me, all at once. Not now, Master Vaughan, not now. There's not a moment to be wasted in talk.

We must take the route at once. I shall tell you as we go along." Agreed, then, cried Herbert. If it's a life and death matter, I'm with you. Even to Savannah. No bookkeeping today, Master Jish Saran, and—the speaker only mentally pronounced the name— Judith may well spare me for one day, especially for such a purpose as the saving of lives. All right, I'm with you, Captain Cubina. Vamos, cried the maroon, hastily moving off. For one of horses we must make our legs do double-quick time. These skulking scoundrels have sadly got the start of us. And saying this, he struck into the uphill path, followed by Herbert. The taciturn lieutenant, no longer embarrassed by his bundle, keeping close in the rear.

The path Kubina had chosen appeared to conduct to Mount Welcome. You're not going there, required Herbert in a significant way, at the same time stopping and appealing to his conductor for an answer. It had just occurred to the nephew that a visit to his uncle's house might place him in a position both unpleasant and embarrassing. No, answered the maroon. There is no longer any need for us to go to the house. Since the custos has left it long hours ago, we could learn nothing there more than I know already. Besides, it's half a mile out of her way. We should lose time, and that's the most important of all. We shall presently turn out of this path into one that leads over the mountain by the Jumba Rock.

That's the shortest way to the Savannah Road. Vamos! With this wind-up to his speech, the maroon again moved on, and Herbert, his mind now at rest, strode silently after. Up to this time the young Englishman had received no explanation of the object of the journey he was in the act of undertaking, nor had he asked any. The information, though as yet only covertly conveyed, that those dear to him were in danger, was motive enough for trusting the Maroon. Before long, however, it occurred to him that he ought to be informed of the nature of that danger, over whom it impended, And what was the signification of the step they were now taking to avert it? These questions he put to his conductor as they hastened together along the path.

In hurried phrase the Maroon made known to him much, though not all, of what he himself knew of the position of affairs, more especially of the peril in which the custodes appeared to be placed. He gave an account of his own descent into the Duppy's Hole, of the conversation he had overheard there, and, though still ignorant of the motives, stated his suspicions of the murderous plot in which Herbert's own employer was playing a principal part. It is needless to say that the young Englishman was astounded by these revelations. Perhaps he would have been still more astonished, but That the development of these wicked dealings was only a confirmation of a whole series of suspicious circumstances that for some days before had been constantly coming under his notice, and for which he had been vainly seeking an explanation.

From that moment all thoughts of returning to dwell under the roof of Jacob Jezeron vanished from his mind. To partake of the hospitality of such a man, a murderer, at least by intent, was completely out of the question. He had once perceived that his fine, sinecure situation must be given up, and, despite the scandal his desertion might bring about, he could never again make his home in the Happy Valley. Even the fascinations of the fair Judith would not be strong enough to attract him thither. Kubina listened to these resolves, and apparently with great satisfaction. But the Maroon had not yet made known to Herbert many other secrets, of which he had become the depository, and some of which might be to the young Englishman of extremist interest.

The communication of these he reserved to a future opportunity, when time might not be so pressing. Herbert Vaughn, now apprised of the peril in which his uncle stood, for the time forgot all else, and only thought of pressing onward to his aid. Injuries and insults appeared alike forgotten and forgiven, even that which had stung him more sharply than all, the cold, chilling bow at the smithee ball. Beyond the Jumba Rock, and at no great distance from the by-path by which they were travelling, Lay the proper country of the Maroons. By winding a horn, it might have been heard by some of the band, who at that hour would no doubt be engaged in their usual occupation, hunting the wild hog. Kubina knew this, and on arriving at that point on the path nearest to his town, he halted and stood for a moment, reflecting.

Then, as if deeming himself sufficiently strong in the companionship of the robust young Englishman and the redoubtable lieutenant, he gave up the idea of calling any of them to his assistance, and once more moved forward along the route towards the Savannah Road.

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The Maroon By Thomas Main Read. Volume Three, Chapter Nine. An Equestrian Excursion. Throughout the day the pen-keeper kept to his pen. The unexplained absence of his protege rendered it prudent to postpone his proposed visit to the minister. Besides, Cynthia was expected. From the mulatta he hoped to obtain much information. Her knowledge of events must be fresher than even that of Chakra, else would he have gone up to the Duppy's Hole to consult the Oracle of Obi. Cynthia would be likely to know all. She could at least tell him whether the spell had been administered, how, and when. These were facts worth knowing, and Jesseron stayed at home to await the advent of Cynthia. Not so, Judith. Devoured by spleen, inaction was too irksome.

She could not content herself in the house, and resolved to seek outside, if not solace, at least distraction to her thoughts. Shortly after breakfast she ordered her steed to be saddled, and prepared to set forth. Strange it was that he should be absent himself on that day above any other. Just after his uncle had departed on a journey. That was strange. Judith summoned the herdsman who had discovered the tracks in the mud. You are sure it was the track of young Master Vaughan you saw? Sarton sure, Missa Jesseron. One a bemoire. And the other? What was it like? Was it also the track of a man? Ya, Missa. "'Twer a man's track, leastwise I nebber seed a woman track big as dat air, sotten de soul dat make it were de foot ob a man, though it warn't a boot ob a gentleman like young Massa Vaughn."

Whip in hand the Jewess stood reflecting. A messenger, might it be? From whom, if not from Kate Vaughn? With whom else was he acquainted? Such strange conditions of relationship. The mysterious mode by which the messenger must have approached him. For fresh mud upon the bark of the tree told that he who had climbed up must have been the same who had made the footmarks by the garden wall. The articles found in the hammock had been flung down to awake and warn the sleeper. Clearly a secret message delivered by a crafty messenger. Clearly a surreptitious departure. And the motive for all this? No common one? It could not be. No errand after game. The fouling piece was gone, but that was no evidence of an intention to spend the day in sporting.

Herbert was in the habit of taking his gun whenever he strolled out into the fields or forest, but the other and necessary paraphernalia had been left behind. A shooting excursion? Nothing of the sort. A messenger with a love message, a summons willingly accepted, promptly responded to. Oh, if it be, cried the proud, passionate woman, as she sprang upon the back of her steed, if it be I shall know it, I shall have revenge. The horse came in for a share of this jealous indignation, a spiteful cut of the whip. And a fierce dig from her spurred heel set the animal in rapid motion, his head toward the hills. Judith Jesseron was a splendid equestrian, and could manage a horse as well as the best breaker about her father's pen.

In the saddle, she was something to be seen and admired, her brilliant beauty, enhanced by the charm of excitement. Exhibiting itself in the heightened color of her cheeks and the stronger flashing of her dark Jewish eyes. The outline of her form was equally attractive, of full womanly development, and poised in the saddle with an air of piquant abandon, it illustrated the curve of Hogarth in all its luxuriant gracefulness. Such a spectacle was calculated to elicit something more than ordinary admiration, and it required a heart already preoccupied to resist its fascinations. If Herbert Vaughn had escaped them, it could only have been from having his heart thus defended from a danger that few men might have tempted with a chance of safety.

Galloping across the old garden with a single leap, she cleared the ruined wall, and arriving at the spot where were still to be seen those telltale tracks, she reined up and leaned over to examine them. Yes, that was his track. His small foot was easily distinguished. The other? There it was, the footprint of a negro, pegged brogans. White men do not wear them. Some of the slave people of Mount Welcome? But why twice back and forward? Was not once sufficient? Had there been a double message? There might have been a warning, and afterwards an appointment. Perhaps to meet in the forest? Perhaps at that moment? The bitter conjecture brought her reflections to an abrupt ending, and once more plying whip and spur, The jealous equestrian dashed rapidly on, up the sloping path that trended toward the hills.

The purpose of this expedition on the part of the Jewess was altogether indefinite. It simply sprang from that nervous impatience that would not permit her to rest, a faint hope that during her ride she might discover some clue to the mysterious disappearance. Wretchedness might be the reward of that ride. No matter, uncertainty was unendurable. She did not go exactly in the direction of Mount Welcome, though thither went her thoughts. She had never been a guest of the Kustos, and therefore had no colorable excuse for presenting herself at the mansion, else she would have ridden direct to it. Her design was different. Though she might not approach the house, she could reconnoiter it from a distance, and this had she determined upon doing.

She had fixed upon the Jumba Rock as the best point of observation. She knew that its summit commanded a bird's-eye view of Mount Welcome Estate, lying under the mountain like a spread map, and that any movement by the mansion, or in the surrounding enclosures, might be minutely marked. Especially with the aid of a powerful vanyette, with which she had taken the precaution to provide herself. With this intent did she head her horse towards the Jumba rock, urging the animal with fierce, fearless energy up the difficult acclivity of the mountain.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Volume Three, Chapter Ten. Smytheji among the Statues.

At that hour, when the heart of Judith Jesseron was alternately torn by the passions of love and jealousy, a passion equally profound, though apparently more tranquil, was burning in the breast of Lily Kwashiba, inspired by the same object, Herbert Vaughan. In vain had the young Creole endeavored to think indifferently of her cousin. In vain had she striven to reconcile her love with what her father had taught her to deem her duty, and think differently of Mr. Smythegee, in vain. The effort only ended in a result the very opposite to that intended, in strengthening her passion for the former and weakening her regard for the latter. And thus must it ever be with the heart's inclinings, as well as its disinclinings.

Curbed or opposed, it is but its instinct in both cases to rebel. From that hour in which Kate had yielded to the will of her father, and consented to become the wife of Montague Smythji, she felt more sensibly than ever the sacrifice she was about to make. But there were none to step forth and save her, no strong hand and stout heart to rescue her from her painful position. It had now become a compromise, and in summoning all the strength of her soul, she awaited the unhappy issue with such resignation as she could command. She had but one thought to cheer her, if cheer it could be called. She had not sacrificed her filial affection. She had performed the wishes of her father, that father who, however harsh she might be to others, had been ever kind and affectionate to her.

Now more than ever did she feel impressed with his kindness when she considered the errand on which he had gone forth. Though thus resigned, or trying to feel so, she could neither stifle her passion for Herbert Nor conceal the melancholy which its hopelessness occasioned. And during all that morning, after her father had left her, the shadow appeared upon her countenance with more than its wonted darkness. Her lover, that is, her fiancé, for Smythe G. now stood to her in that relationship, did not fail to observe her unusual melancholy, though failing to attribute it to the true cause. It was natural that the young lady should feel sad at the absence of her worthy parent, who for many years had never been separated from her beyond the period of a few hours' duration, or at most, a single day.

She would soon get used to it, and then all would be right again. With some such reflections, Did Smythegee account for the abstraction which he had observed in the behavior of his betrothed? During all the mourning he had been assiduous in his attentions, more than wantedly so. He had been left by the custos in a proud position, that of protector, and he was desirous of showing how worthy he was of the trust reposed in him. Alas! In the opinion of Kate, he was by far too assiduous. The protégé felt importuned, and his most well-meant intentions had the effect only to weary her. Too glad would she have been to be left alone to her sighs and her sadness. Shortly after breakfast, Smythejee proposed a stroll, a short one.

He had no zest for toilsome excursions, and since the day of his shooting adventure, No zeal again to attempt any distant traverse of the forest. The stroll was only to extend to the shrubbery and among the statues set there. The weather was temptingly fine. There was no reason why Kate Vaughn should refuse, and with a mechanical error, she acceded to the proposal. Smythji discussed the statues. Drawing largely from the stock of classic lore which his university had afforded him, dilating more especially on those of Venus, Cupid, and Cleopatra, all suggestive of the tender sentiments that were stirring within his own romantic bosom, and to which, more than once, he took occasion to allude. Though narrowly did he watch to see what effect his fine speeches were producing, He failed to perceive any that gave him gratification.

The countenance of his companion obstinately preserved that air of preoccupation that had been visible upon it all the morning. In the midst of one of his scholastic dissertations, the classical exquisite was interrupted by the advent of his valet. Toms, who appeared coming from the house with the air of a servant, who brings a message for his master. The message was declared, a gentleman friend of Mr. Smythe G., for he had now many such in the island, had called to see him, no particular business, merely a call of compliment. The name was given. It was one which should be honored by a polite reception, else the proud owner of Montague Castle might have declined leaving the company in which he was upon.

So trivial a purpose. But the visitor was one of note, a particular friend, too. Miss Vaughn would not deem him rude, leaving her only for a moment. By no means, said Kate, with a free haste that almost said as much as that. She was only too glad to get quit of him. Smitegy followed his valet into the house, and the young Creole was left among the statues alone, herself. The fairest shape in all that classical collection.

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Of the Maroon.

Read by Tom Freya. The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed Volume Three, Chapter Eleven. A Strange Determination.

For some moments after Smythegee was gone, Kate Vaughan remained where he had left her, silent and motionless as the sculptured marbles by her side. Niobe was near, and, as if by accident, the eyes of the young Creole turned upon the statue of the weeping daughter of Dione. Ah, muttered she, struck with a strange thought, unhappy mother of a murdered offspring, if thy sadness was hard to endure as mine, thy punishment must have been a pleasure. Would that I, like thee, were suddenly turned into stone. Ah, me. And finishing her apostrophe with a profound sigh, she stood for some time silently gazing upon the statue. After a while her thoughts underwent some change, and along with it her eyes wandered away from the statues and the shrubbery.

Her glance was turned upward, towards the mountain, and rested upon its summit, the jumb of rock now glittering gaily under the full sheen of the sunlight. There, soliloquized she in a low murmur, upon that rock, and there only have I felt one hour of true happiness, that happiness of which I have read in books of romance, without believing in, but which I now know to be real, to gaze into the eyes of him you love, and think, as I then thought, that you are loved in return. Oh, it was bliss. It was bliss. The remembrance of that brief interview with her cousin, for it was to that her words referred, came so forcibly before the mind of the impassioned young Creole as to stifle her utterance, and for a moment or two she was silent.

Again she continued. An hour, have I said? Ah, scarce a minute did the sweet delusion last, but had I my choice. I would rather live that minute over again than all the rest of my past life, certainly than all of it that is to come. Again she paused in her speech, still gazing upon the rock whose sparkling surface seemed purposely presented to her eyes as if to cheer her heart with the sweet souvenir it recalled. Oh, I wonder, she exclaimed at length. I wonder how it would be, were I but up there again, to stand on the spot where I stood. Could I fancy him as then, beside me? Could I recall the look he gave me, and my own sweet thoughts as I returned it? Oh, it would be like some delicious dream.

Passion again called for a pause, but soon after her reflections found speech. And why should I not indulge in it? Why not? What harm can it do me? Even if the souvenir should bring sadness, it cannot add to that which now overwhelms me. No, I need not fear to tempt the trial, and I shall. This very hour shall I go up and stand upon that same spot. There shall I invoke the past, and give to memory, to fancy, its fullest play. I need not fear. There will be no witness but the heaven above and the God who dwells in it. A like witness to the sacrifice of a broken heart, made in the fulfillment of my duty. On completing this impassioned speech, the young girl raised a kerchief of white cambric, which she carried in her hand, and hastily adjusting it over the luxuriant plaits of her hair.

Glided towards the rear of the mansion. She did not turn aside to enter the house, nor even to warn anyone of her sudden determination, but, hastening on, soon reached the back of the garden. There a small wicket gave her egress into the woods, a path from that point trending in traverses, zigzag fashion up the mountain slope. It was the same path she had followed upon the day of the eclipse, but how different were the thoughts that now hesitated her bosom from those she had indulged in upon that memorable occasion. Even then, it is true, her spirits were far from being cheerful, but still there was hope ahead. She had not then arrived at the full knowledge of Herbert's indifference towards her, of his determination towards her more fortunate rival.

The circumstances that had since transpired, the scenes that had come under her own observation, the rumors heard and too substantially confirmed, all had combined to extinguish that little gleam of hope so faint and feebly flickering. Indeed, there was upon that very morning a new thought in her mind, calculated still further to render her sad and humiliated. The revelations which her father had made before starting on his journey, the admissions as to the inferiority of her race and contingently of her social rank, which he had been compelled to make, had produced, and no wonder, a painful impression upon the spirits of the Quinteroon. She could not help asking herself whether Herbert's disregard of her had ought to do with this.

Was it possible that her own cousin was slighting her on account of this social distinction? Did he, too, feel shy of the taint? More than once during that day had she mentally put these interrogatories without being able to determine whether they merited a negative or affirmative answer. And what was her errand now? To resuscitate within her soul the memory of one moment of bliss? To weave still more inextricably around her heart the spell that was threatening to strangle it, to stifle the happiness of her whole life. But that was already gone. There could be no daring now, no danger worth dread. The zigzag path she ascended with free step and air undaunted, her fair bright form gleaming meteor-like amid the dark green foliage of the forest.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3, Chapter 12. A jealous reconnaissance.

The ravine leading up the rear of the Jumba Rock, the only way by which its summit could be reached, though easily scaled by a pedestrian, was not practicable for a person on horseback. On reaching the base of the cliff, the jealous equestrian dismounted, made fast her bridle to the branch of a tree, And after unbuckling the little spur and removing it from her heel, continued the ascent, appeed. Arrived at the summit she took her stand near the edge of the platform, in a position that commanded an unbroken view of the mansion of Mount Welcome, its shrubberies and surroundings. Satisfied with the situation, she instantly commenced her reconnaissance. She did not at first make use of her lorgnette.

Any human figures that might be moving around the house could be seen by the naked eye. It would be time enough to use the magnifying lens, should there be a difficulty of identifying them. For some moments after she had taken her stand, no one made appearance near or around the dwelling. A complete tranquility reigned over the spot. A pedaxous deer, skipping over the lawn, Some pea-fowl moving amidst the shubbery of the parterre, their purple gorgets gaily glittering in the sun, were the only objects animate that could be seen near the house. Farther off in the fields, gangs of negroes were at work among the cane, with what appeared to be a white overseer moving in their midst. These had no interest for the observer upon the rock, and her eye, scarce resting on them for a second, returned to scan the enclosed space approximate to the dwelling, in the hope of their seeing something, form, incident, or scene, that might give her some clue to the mystery of the morning.

In respect to the former she was not disappointed. Forms, scenes, and incidents were all offered in succession, and though they did but little to elucidate the enigma which had carried her to that aerial post of observation, They had the effect of calming, to some extent, the jealous thought that was distressing her. First she saw a gentleman and a lady step out from the house and take their stand among the statues. At the sight she felt a slight flutter of uneasiness, until through the lignette she looked upon hay-colored hair and whiskers, enabling her to identify the owner as Smythe G. This gave her a species of contentment, and her jealous spirit was still further tranquilized when the glass revealed to her the features of Kate Vaughn, overspread with an expression of extreme sadness.

Good, muttered the delighted spy. That tells a tale. She cannot have seen him? Surely not, or she would not be looking so woebegone. At this moment another figure was seen approaching across the parterre, towards the two who stood among the statues. It was that of a man in a dark dress. Herbert Vaughn wore that color. With a fresh flutter of uneasiness, the lagnette was carried back to the eye. Bah! It is not he. A fellow with a common face, a servant, I suppose. Very likely the valet I've heard of. He has brought some message from the house. They're going in again. No, only the master. She stays. Odd enough he should leave her alone. So much for your politeness, Mr. Montague Smythe J. And with a sneering laugh as she pronounced the name, the fair spy again took the glass from her eye and appeared for a moment to give way to the gratification which she had drawn.

From what she had succeeded in observing. Certainly there were no signs of the presence of Herbert Vaughan about the precincts of Mount Welcome, nor anything to indicate that he had an interview with his cousin. If so, it must have ended just as the Jewess might have wished, since the expression observable on the countenance of Kate showed anything but the traces of a reconciliation. Pleased to contemplate her in this melancholy mood, Her jealous rival again raised the glass to her eye. Ha! she exclaimed on the instant. Whatever is the nigger doing in front of the statue? She appears to be talking to it. An interesting dialogue, I do declare. Ha! ha! ha! Perhaps she is worshipping it. Ha! ha!

She seems as much statue as it. Patience upon a monument smiling. Ha! ha! ha! Ah, now, resumed the hilarious observer, still gazing through the glass, she turns from the statue. As I live, she is looking up this way. She cannot see me? No, not with the naked eye. Besides, there is only my head and hat above the edge of the rock. She won't make them out. How steadfastly she looks this way. A smile upon her face. That or something like it. One might fancy she was thinking of that pretty scene up here, the interesting tableau, Smytheji on his knee. Ha, ha, ha. Ah, what now? she continued, interrogatively, at the same time suddenly ceasing from her laughter as she saw the young Creole adjust the scarf over her head and glide towards the back of the house.

What can it mean? She appears bent on an excursion. Alone, too. Yes. Alone as if she intended it. See? She passes the house with stealthy step, looks towards it, as if fearing someone to come forth and interrupt her. Through the garden, through the gate and the wall. She's coming up the mountain. As the Jewess made this observation, she stepped a pace forward upon the rock, to gain a better view. The lagnette. Tremble as she held it to her eye. Her whole frame was quivering with emotion. Up the mountain, muttered she. Yes, up the mountain. And for what purpose? To meet Herbert Vaughn? A half-suppressed scream accompanied the thought, while the glass, lowered by her side, seemed ready to fall from her fingers.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main. Read. Volume 3, Chapter 13. A Spy in Ambush You have seen a proud bird, whose wing has been broken by the fatal bullet, drop helpless to the earth. So fell the heart of Judith Jesseron from the high confidence that but the moment before had been buoying it up. The sight of Kate Vaughan coming up the mountain path at once robbed it of exultation, even of contentment. What errand could the young Creole have up there, unless that of an assignation? And with whom? But the man who was so mysteriously missing. Her surreptitious departure from the dwelling, the time chosen when Smythe G. was out of the way, Her quick gait and backward glances as she stole through the shrubbery all indicated a fear of being seen and followed.

And why should she fear either, if bent upon an ordinary errand? Mr. Smythegee was not her father, nor as yet her husband. Why should she care to conceal her intentions from him, unless indeed they were clandestine? And pointing to that very purpose which the jealous Jewess had conjectured, a rendezvous with Herbert Vaughn. Judith felt convinced of it so fully that as soon as she saw the young Creole fairly started up the sloping path, she glided to the rear edge of the platform and looked down, expecting to see the other party to the assignation. True, she saw no one. But this did little to still the agitation now vibrating through every nerve of her body. He was not in sight, but that signified not.

Perhaps he was at that moment within hearing, and might be seen, but for the forest screen that covered the façade of the mountain. Where was it they're designed to meet? Where had they named their appointment? Judith did not doubt that there was design. Jealousy did not stay to ask the question. She was convinced that an arrangement had been made, and on that very morning, what else could be the meaning of the double message? First, to demand a meeting. Secondly, to appoint the place. Yes, that would explain the repetition of those footmarks that had gone twice to and fro. What spot had they chosen for the scene of their clandestine encounter? A sudden apprehension seized upon the spy. She might lose sight of them, and then they would enjoy their meeting in secret and uninterrupted.

By heavens that must not be. Her spirit, now roused to the extreme pitch of jealousy, cared not for consequences. End as the scene might. She was resolved on its interruption. The only chance of discovering the place of assignation would be to keep Kate Vaughn in sight. Perhaps Herbert was already there, waiting for her. He would be there. The lover is always first upon the ground. Obedient to this thought, the Jewess rushed back across the platform and once more directed her glance down the mountain. She saw what she looked for, the snow-white snood, easily distinguishable among the dark green foliage, now hidden as the wearer walked under the tall trees, again appearing at the open angles where the road zigzagged.

Most of the path could be seen from the summit of the rock, for although rarely used, it had once been cleared by the axe, and formed an open tract. Through the timber, narrow but perceptible from above. Judith, still marking the movements of the kerchief, swept the path with her glance and her glass, up to the point where it reached the base of the rock and ran round to the rear. Repeatedly she scanned the track, far in advance of the climber, expecting to see someone appear. Herbert Vaughn, of course. If aught showed among the trees, a bird fluttering in the foliage, frayed by the approach of the gentle intruder, the heart of the jealous Jewess experienced a fresh spasm of pain. Though certain she was soon to see it, she dreaded to behold the first blush of that clandestine encounter, to see them come together, perhaps rush into each other's arms, their lips meeting in the kiss of mutual love.

Oh, agony unendurable! As she surmised the scene before her fancy, for a moment her proud spirit shrank, quailed, and cowed within her, and her form of bold, noble development shook like a fragile reed.

Up the steep, with springy step, climbed the young creole, lightly as a bird upon the wing. Unconscious that she was observed, and of all others, by the rival she had most reason to dread. After completing the numerous windings of the path, she at length arrived within some twenty paces of the rock, where the road turned round to the rear. She knew the way, and without pausing, kept on until she stood within the embrasure of the sloping ravine. Up to this point, The Jewess had marked her every movement, watching her along the way. Not without some surprise had she perceived her intention to climb the Jumba rock, which by the direction she had taken was now evident. The surprise soon passed, however, with a quick reflection.

The summit of the rock, that place already hallowed by a love scene, was the spot chosen for the meeting. On discovering Kate's determination to ascend the rock, which she had now divined by seeing her pass round to the rear, the Jewess stayed no longer upon the platform. That would have necessarily led to an encounter between the two. Not that Judith would have shunned it, however awkward, however contretiempo. It was not from any feeling of delicacy that she determined on leaving the place. On the contrary, the action that followed betrayed a motive of a very opposite character. Just where the ravine debouched upward on the platform, a lateral cleft open to one side. Its bottom was but a few feet below the summit level, covered with a thick growth of evergreen bushes whose tops, rising to an equal height with the table above, Completely filled the hollow with their dense frondage.

The quick eye of Judith Jesseron at once detected the convenience of this covert. There concealed, she could see without being seen. From under the grim shadow of those dark evergreens, she could behold what was like enough to wring her heart. Though she was now reckless of the result. Watching her opportunity when the eyes of the young Creole were turned downwards, she glided into the lateral ravine and concealed herself behind the curtain of leaves. Cowering within the covert, she awaited the ascent of her rival. Amidst the tumult of her emotions, there was no chance to reason calmly. Suspicion of Herbert's perfidy For it is not to be denied that the young man had shown her attentions or, at all events, had passively permitted her to think so.

Suspicion of his faithlessness had now become certainty. There could be no mistake about the intended meeting between him and his cousin, at least so Judith, blinded by her passions, believed. There was Kate coming upon the ground, and Herbert. He would soon be after. Strange he had not arrived first, but that had not much significance. He could not be far off, and no doubt would be there in good time, perhaps overtake his sweetheart, ere she could reach the summit of the rock. Thus ran the reflections of the rival. She listened for Herbert's voice, expecting every moment to hear him hailing from below. She cast listless glances down the ravine, in the belief she should presently see him following frantically upon the footsteps of his cousin, and chiding himself for not being foremost at the tryst.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Volume Three, Chapter Fourteen. A Fell Purpose Defeated. Judith had as yet traced out no definite plan of action, trusting to circumstances to suggest what course she should pursue. Only on one thing had she come to a determination, to permit both to pass up on the rock before showing herself. She resolved, as long as possible, to restrain her instinct of revenge. She would see them meet, be witness of their mutual endearments, be sure of it, and then would be her time to launch forth into the full torrent of recrimination. Something of this kind was the course she had shaped out for herself, still, but vaguely, still dependent on chance. The young Creole, little suspecting the proximity of her spiteful rival, ascended the ravine, close passing the spot where the ladder was concealed.

Altogether unconscious of being observed, she stepped lightly upon the platform, and crossing over, stopped near the opposite edge, precisely upon the spot where she had stood during the eclipse, hallowed by such sweet remembrance. Undoing the slight knot that had confined her kerchief under her chin, and holding it in both hands so as to shade her eyes from the sun, she stood for some time gazing into the valley below, not the one where lay the mansion of her father, but that in which dwelt a relative still dearer. As before, her eyes were bent upon the pen, that somber pile which, despite the dim shadows that surrounded it, Seemed to her the brightest spot upon the earth. The sun in the sky above was nothing in brightness to the light that circled there, the light of Herbert's love.

What would she not have given to have lived in that light? What to have been that favorite who now basked in it? Would that I could see him once again, she murmured, before that hour when we must meet no more. For then even the thought would be a crime. If I could only see him once, only speak with him, I feel as if I should tell him all. Though he cannot love me, I am sure he would pity me. Even that, it seems to me, would soothe. It could not cure. Oh, why did he upon this very spot, why those glances I can never forget? I can see them now. His eyes as they were then, gazing into mine, as if something passed between us, something that sank into the very depths of my soul. Oh, Herbert, why did you so regard me?

But for that it might have passed, but now, never. Ah, Herbert, Herbert. In her anguish the young Creole pronounced the last words aloud. Only the name was heard by Judith Jesseron, but they fell upon her ear with fearful effect, piercing through her heart like a poisoned arrow. If she had any doubts about the purpose of Kate's presence, that word had decided them. The Creole had now declared it with her own tongue. On the instant a thought, dread, and desire Commenced taking shape in the heart of the jealous woman. She felt her bosom stirred to a purpose bold and black as hell itself. That purpose was nothing less than the destruction of her rival, the death of Kate Vaughn. The circumstances suggested the mode.

The young Creole was standing upon the escarpment of the cliff, scarce three feet from its edge. A slight push from behind would project her into eternity. Not much risk either in the committal of the crime. The bushes below would conceal her body, at least for a length of time, and when found, what would be the verdict? What could it be but philo de se?

The circumstances would give color to this surmise. Even her own father might fancy it. As the consequence of his forcing her to be wedded against her will. Besides, had she not stolen surreptitiously from the house, taking advantage of an opportunity when no eye was upon her? Other circumstances equally favored the chances of safety. No one seemed to know that Kate had come up to the Jumba Rock, and not a soul could be aware that she, Judith, was there. For she had neither passed nor met anyone by the way. No eye was likely to be witness of the act. Even though the forms of the actors might be described from the valley below, it would be at too great a distance for anyone to distinguish the character of the proceeding.

Besides, it was one chance in a thousand if any eye should be accidentally turned toward the summit of the mountain. At that hour, the black laborers in the fields were too busy with their task to be allowed the freedom of gazing idly upon the Jumba rock. With a fearful rapidity coursed these thoughts through the mind of the intending murderess, each adding fresh strength to her horrible purpose, and causing it to culminate towards the point of execution. Her jealousy had long since become a strong passion to which she had freely abandoned her soul. Already was it yearning for revenge, and now that an opportunity seemed to offer for gratifying it, she could no longer restrain herself. The chance was too tempting.

The demoniac desire became uncontrollable. Casting a glance down the ravine to make sure that no one came that way, and another towards Kate to see that her face was still turned away, Judith stole softly out of the bushes and mounted upon the rock. Silently, as treads the tigress approaching her prey, did she advance across the platform towards the spot where stood her intended victim. Utterly unconscious of the dread danger that was so nigh. Was there no voice to warn her? There was. The voice of Smythe-gee. Ah-ha! Dear Kate, that you up there on the walk? Ah, by Jove, what a precious chase I've had after you. There isn't a breath left in my body.

Judith heard the voice, and, like a cheated tigress, was about to retreat to her lair, when Kate, half-facing about, compelled her to keep her ground. With the suddenness of a thought, she had changed her terrific attitude, and, as the eyes of the Creole rested upon her, she was standing with her arms hanging negligently downward, in the position of one who had just stepped forward upon the spot. Kate beheld her with surprise, not unmixed with alarm, for the wild look that still lingered in the eye of the disappointed and balked murderess could not escape observation. Before either could say a word, the voice of Smythejee was again heard speaking from below. Deo Aquecha, I am coming. I shall pleasantly be up.

Continued he, his voice constantly changing its direction, proclaiming that he continued to advance round the rock towards the ravine in the rear. I beg your pardon, Miss Vaughn, said the Jewess with a sweeping curtsy and a cynical glance towards Kate. Most emphatically, I beg your pardon, the second time I have intruded upon you in this delightful place. I assure you my presence here is altogether an accident, and to prove that I have no desire to interfere, I shall bid you a very good morning. So saying, the daughter of Jacob Jesseron turned towards the downward path, and had disappeared from the platform before Kate could command words to express either her astonishment or indignation. Gass, smithy, breathless, on reaching the platform.

Had your company up here? Surely I saw someone going out from the Wavin, a lady in a whiting dress. Miss Jesseron has been here. Ah, Miss Jesseron, that very remarkable Queecher, going to be Maui to the... your cousin? Tis reported. By Jove she'll make the young fellow a fine wife, if she don't want too much of her own way. Ha! Ha! What do y'all think about it, dear Kate? I have no thoughts about it, Mr. Smythegee. Pray let us return home. Smythegee might have noticed, though without comprehending it, the anguished tone in which these words were uttered. Ah, very well. "'Am ready to go back, but dear Kate, what a whomp you are, to be sure. You thought to play me a twick, like the young bride in the mist to a bow.

Ha, ha. Very amusing. Never mind. You are not so unfortunate as that fair creature was. I saw your white scarf amid the green tweez.' And that guided me to ya segwit hiding place. Ha! Ha! Little suspected Smythegee how very near had been his affianced to a fate as unfortunate as that of the bride of Lovell. As little as Kate that Smythegee had been her preserver.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. Volume Three, Chapter Fifteen, Cynthia's Report.

Cynthia was not slow in responding to the summons of the Jew, who possessed an influence over her which, if not so powerful, was also less mysterious than that wielded by the mild man, since it was the power of money. The mulatta liked money, as most people do. And for the same reason as most, because it afforded the means for indulging in dissipation, which with Cynthia was a habit. Very easily did she find an opportunity for paying a visit to the pen, the more easily that her master was absent. But even had he been at home, she would have had but little difficulty in framing an excuse, or rather, she would have gone without one. In the days of which we write, slavery had assumed a very altered phase in the West Indies, more especially in the island of Jamaica.

The voices of Wilbur Force and Clarkson had already reached the remotest corners of the island, and the plantation Negroes were beginning to hear the first mutterings of the emancipation. The slave trade was doomed. And it was expected that the doom of slavery itself would soon be declared. The black bondsman had become emboldened by the prospect, and there was no longer that abject submission to the wanton will of the master and the whip of the driver, which had existed of yore. It was not uncommon for slaves to take leave of absence without asking it, often remaining absent for days. Returning without fear of chastisement, and sometimes staying away altogether. Plantation revolts had become common, frequently ending in incendiarism and other scenes of the most sanguinary character.

And more than one brand of runaways had established themselves in the remote fastness of the mountains, where, in defiance of the authorities, And despite the preventative service, somewhat negligently performed by their prototypes, the Maroons, they preserved a rude independence, partly sustained by pilfering and partly by freebooting of a bolder kind. These runaways were in effect playing a role, in complete imitation of what at an earlier period had been the meteor of the original Maroons. While, as already stated, Maroons themselves, employed upon the sage but infamous principle of, set a thief to catch a thief, had now become the detective police of the island. Under such conditions of slavery, the bold Cynthia was not the woman to trouble herself about asking leave of absence, nor to be deterred by any slight circumstance from taking it.

Therefore, at an early hour of the day, almost on the heels of Blue Dick, the messenger, she made her appearance at the pen. Her conference, with Jesseron, though it threw no light either on the whereabouts of the missing bookkeeper or on the cause of his absence, was not without interest to the Jew, since it revealed facts that gave him some comfort. He had already learnt from Blue Dick that the Custos had started on his journey, and from Cynthia he now ascertained the additional fact that before starting he had taken the spell. It had been administered in his stirrup cup of swizzle. This intelligence was the more gratifying, in view of the apprehensions which the Jew was beginning to feel in regard to his Spanish employees.

If the spell should do its work as quickly as Chakra had said, these worries would be anticipated in the performance of their dangerous duty. Another important fact was communicated by Cynthia. She had seen Chakra that morning, just after her master had taken his departure. There had been an arrangement between her and the mile-man to meet at their usual trysting place. Contingent on the setting out of the Kustos. As this contingency had transpired, of course the meeting had taken place, its object being that Cynthia might inform Chakra of such events as might occur previous to the departure. Cynthia did not know for certain that Chakra had followed the Kustos. The mile-man had not told her of his intention to do so.

But she fully believed he had. Something he had let fall during their conference guided her to this belief. Besides, on leaving her, Chakra, instead of returning towards his haunt in the Duppy's Hole, had gone off along the road in the direction of Savannah. This was the substance of Cynthia's report, and having been well rewarded for the communication, The mulatta returned to Mount Welcome. Notwithstanding the gratification which her news afforded, it was far from tranquilizing the spirit of Jacob Jesseron. The absence of Herbert Vaughn still continued, still unexplained, and as the hours passed and the night drew near, without any signs of his return, Jesseron, and it may be said Judith as well, became more and more uneasy about his disappearance.

Judith was puzzled as well as pained. Her suspicion that Herbert had had an appointment with his cousin Kate had been somewhat shaken by what she had seen, as well as what she had not seen, for on leaving the Jumba Rock she had not ridden directly home. Instead of doing so, she had lingered for a length of time around the summit of the mountain. Expecting Herbert to show himself. As she had neither encountered him nor any traces of him, she was only too happy to conclude that her surmises about the meeting were, after all, but fancy. And that no assignation had been intended. Kate's coming up to the Jumba Rock was a little queer, but then Smythejee had followed her, and Judith had not heard that part of the conversation.

Which told that his being there was only an accident. The accident of having discovered the retreat to which the young Creole had betaken herself. These considerations had the effect of soothing the jealous spirit of the Jewess, but only to a very slight extent. For Herbert's absence was ominous, the more so, thought Judith, as she remembered a conversation that had lately passed between them. Nor did she feel any repentance for the dark deed she had designed, and would certainly have executed, but for the well-timed appearance of Smythe G. upon the scene. The words which had fallen from the lips of Kate Vaughan had been a sufficient clue to her reflections, and though he whose name she had mentioned was not present in person, the Jewess did not doubt that he, and only he, Was the subject of that soliloquy.

There might have been remorse for the deed, had it been accomplished, but there was no repentance for the design. Jealousy, bitter as ever in the breast of Judith, forbade this. Judith's return did not make the matter any clearer to Jesseron. She had no story to tell, except that which she deemed it more prudent to keep to herself. Her not having encountered Herbert during her ride only rendered his absence more difficult of explanation.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Volume Three, Chapter Sixteen. A Day of Conjectures. Toward sunset a fresh inspection was made of the tracks, Jesseron going in person to examine them. The skilled herdsman was again questioned. And on this occasion a fresh fact was elicited, or rather a conjecture, which the man had not made before. Since he had not noticed the circumstance on which he rested it. It was some peculiarity in the sole of the shoe that had made the strange track, and which guided the herdsman to guess who was the owner. In scouring the forest paths in search of his cattle, he had observed that footmark before, or one very like it. If it'd be de same massa, remarked he, in reply to the cross-questioning of the Jew.

Then I knows who owns that foot. It longs to that heir cap'n of maroons. Cubina? Ah, that's just the berry man. The Jew listened to this conjecture with marked inquietude, which was increased as another circumstance was brought to his knowledge, that Quaco, the maroon, who had been arrested along with Herbert on the day of his first appearance at the Pen, Had been lately seen in communication with the latter, and apparently in a clandestine manner, Blue Dick was the authority for this piece of incidental intelligence. The penkeeper's suspicions had pointed to Kubina at an earlier hour of the day. These circumstances strengthened them. It needed but another link to complete the chain of evidence.

And this was found in the tobacco pipe left in the hammock. A rather unique implement, with an iron bowl and a stem made out of the shank bone of an ibis. On being shown the pipe, the herdsman recognized it on sight. It was the cutty of Captain Kubina. More than once had he met the maroon with the identical instrument between his teeth. Jesseron doubted no longer that Kubina had been the abductor of his bookkeeper, nor Judith either, for the Jewess had taken part in the analytical process that guided to this conclusion. Judith was rather gratified at the result. She was glad it was no worse. Perhaps after all the young Englishman had only gone on a visit to the Maroon, with whom she knew him to be acquainted.

For Judith had been informed of all the circumstances connected with their first encounter. What was more natural than a sort of attachment between them, resulting from such an odd introduction? Curiosity may have induced Herbert to accompany the Maroon to his mountain home, and this was sufficient to explain his absence. True, there were circumstances not so easily explained. The presence of the maroon at the pen, his track twice to and fro, the hurried departure of Herbert, without any previous notice either to herself or to her father. All these circumstances were suspicious, and the spirit of the jealous Judith, though partially tranquilized by a knowledge of the new facts that had come to light, was nevertheless not quite relieved from its perplexity.

The same knowledge had produced an effect on the spirit of her worthy parent altogether different. So far from being gratified by the idea that his bookkeeper was in the company of the maroon captain, he was exceedingly annoyed by it. He at once remembered how pointedly Herbert had put certain questions to him in relation to the fate of the flogged runaway, the prince. He remembered also his own evasive answers, and he now foresaw that in the case of the questioner being in the company of Kubina, the latter would give him a very different account of the transaction. In fact, such a statement as could not fail to bring about the most crooked consequences. Once in the possession of those damning facts, The young Englishman, of whose good moral principles the old Jew had become cognizant, would be less likely to relish him, Jeseran, for a father-in-law.

Such an awkward affair coming to his knowledge might have the effect not only to alienate his much-coveted friendship, his equally solicited love, but to drive him altogether from a house whose hospitality he might deem suspicious. Was it possible that this very result had already arisen? Was the whole scheme of the penkeeper to prove a failure? Had murder, the blackest of all crimes, been committed in vain? There was but little doubt left on the mind of Jacob Jesseron that the deed was now done, whether by the poison of Chakra or the steel of the Kakadouris. So far as Custos himself was concerned, that part of the program would, by this time, be complete, or so near its completion that no act of the instigator could stay its execution.

How, when, and where was it done? And had it been done in vain? During the early part of that same night, and on through the midnight hours, Thus interrogatively reflected the Jew. He slept not, for only in short spells of unquiet slumber, taken in his chair, as on the night before in the open veranda. It was care, not conscience, that kept him awake, apprehension of the future rather than remorse for the past. After midnight and near morning a thought became uncontrollable. A desire to be satisfied, if not about the last of these interrogatories, at least in relation to the former. In all likelihood Chakra would, by that time, have returned. Would be found in his lair in the duppy's hole? Why he had followed the custodes, Jesseron could not tell.

He could only guess at the motive. Perhaps he, Chakra, Was in fear that his spell might not be sufficient, and, failing, he might find an opportunity to strengthen it? Or was it that he wished to be witness to the final scene, to exult over his hated enemy in the last hour of life? Knowing, as the Jew did, the circumstances that had long existed between the two men, their mutual malice, Chakra's deadly purposes of vengeance, This conjecture was far from improbable. It was the true one, though he also gave thought to another, that perhaps the mild man had followed his victim for the purpose of tendering him. To ascertain that he had succeeded in the preliminary step, that of murdering him, the Jew forsook his chair couch, and having habited himself for a nocturnal excursion, Proceeded in the direction of the Duppy's Hole.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3, Chapter 17. The Sick Traveller.

After passing beyond the precincts of his own plantation, and transversing for some distance a by-road known as the Carrion Crow, Mr. Vaughan at length reached the main highway, which runs between Montego Bay on the north and Savannah La Mer on the southern side of the island. Here, facing southward, he continued his route, Savannah-la-Mer being the place where he intended to terminate his journey on horseback. Thence he could proceed by sea to the harbor of Kingston, or the Old Harbor, or some other of the points having easy communication with the capital. The more common route of travel from the neighborhood of Montego Bay to Spanish Town When it is desired to make the journey by land, is by the northern road to Foulmouth Harbor, and thence by St.

Anne's and across the island. The southern road is also traveled at times without the necessity of going to the Port of Savannah, by La Covia, and the parish of St. Elizabeth. But Mr. Vaughan preferred the easier mode of transit, on board ship. And knowing that coasting vessels were at all times trading from Savannah to the ports on the southern side, he anticipated no difficulty in obtaining a passage to Kingston. This was one reason why he directed his course to the seaport of Savannah. He had another motive for visiting this place, and one that influenced him to an equal or greater extent. Savannah La Mer. As already stated, was the assize town of the western district of the island, otherwise the county of Cornwall, including under its jurisdiction the five great parishes of St.

James, Hanover, Westmoreland, Trelawney, and St. Elizabeth, and consequently the town of Montego Bay. Thus constituted, Savannah was the seat of justice. Where all plaintes of importance must be preferred. The process which Mr. Vaughan was about to institute against the Jew was one for the consideration of a full court of assize. A surreptitious seizure of twenty-four slaves was no small matter, and the charge would amount to something more than that of mere malversation. Loftus Vaughan had not yet decided on the exact terms in which the accusation was to be made. But the Assize town, being not only the seat of justice, but the headquarters of the legal knowledge of the county, he anticipated finding there the counsel he required.

This, then, was his chief reason for traveling to Spanish town via Savannah La Mer. For such a short distance, a journey that might be done in a day, a single attendant sufficed. Had he designed taking the land route to the capital, then it would have been different. Following the fashion of the island, a troop of horses, with a numerous escort of servants, would have accompanied the great Kustos.

The day turned out to be one of the hottest, especially after the hour of noon. And the concentrated rays of the sun glaring down upon the white chalky road over which the traveler was compelled to pass rendered the journey not only disagreeable but irksome. Added to this the Custos, not very well on leaving home, had been getting worse every hour. Notwithstanding the heat he was twice attacked by a severe chill.

Each time succeeded by its opposite extreme of burning fever, accompanied by thirst he knew no quenching. These attacks had also for their concomitants bitter nausea, vomiting, and a tendency towards cramp or tetanus. Long before night, the traveler would have stopped had he found a hospitable roof to shelter him. In the early part of the day, he had passed through the more settled districts of the country, where plantations were numerous, but then, not being so ill, he had declined making halt, having called only at one or two places to obtain drink, and replenish the water canteen carried by his attendant. It was only late in the afternoon that the symptoms of his disease became specially alarming.

And then he was passing through an uninhabited portion of the country, a wild corner of Westmoreland Parish, where not a house was to be met with for miles alone, the highway. Beyond this tract and a few miles further on the road, he would reach the Grand Sugar Estate of Content. There he might anticipate a distinguished reception, since the proprietor of the plantation, Besides being noted for his profuse hospitality, was his own personal friend. It had been the design of the traveler before starting out to make content the halfway house of his journey. By stopping there for the night, still desirous of carrying out this design, he pushed on, notwithstanding the extreme debility that had seized upon his frame, and which rendered riding upon horseback.

An exceedingly painful operation. So painful did it become that every now and then he was compelled to bring his horse to a halt and remain at rest till his nerves acquired strength for a fresh spell of exertion. Thus delayed, it was sunset when he came in sight of the content. He did get sight of it from a hill, on top of which he had arrived just as the sun was sinking. Into the Caribbean Sea, over the far headland of Point Negra E. In a broad valley below, filled with the purple haze of twilight, he could see the planter's dwelling, surrounded by its extensive sugarworks and picturesque rows of negro cabins, so near that he could distinguish the din of industry and the hum of cheerful voices, borne upward on the buoyant air.

Anne could see the forms of men and women clad in their light-colored costumes, flitting in mazy movement about the precincts of the place. The Custos gazed upon the sight with dizzy glance. The sounds fell confusedly on his ear, as the ship-break sailor who sees land without the hope of ever reaching it, so looked Loftus Vaughan upon the valley of content. For any chance of his reaching it that night, without being carried thither, there was none, no more than if it had been a hundred miles distant, at the extreme end of the island. He could ride no further. He could no longer keep the saddle, and, slipping out of it, he tottered into the arms of his attendant. Close by the roadside and half hidden by the trees appeared a hut.

Surrounded by a kind of rude enclosure that had once been the garden or provision ground of a negro, both hut and garden were ruinate. The former deserted, the latter overgrown with that luxuriant vegetation which, in tropic soil, a single season suffices to bring forth. Into this hovel the custos was conducted, or rather carried. For he was now unable even to walk. A sort of platform or banquette of bamboos, the usual couch of the negro cabin, stood in one corner, a fixture seldom or never removed on the abandonment of such a dwelling. Upon this the Kustos was laid, with a horse blanket spread beneath, and his camlet cloak thrown over him. More drink was administered. And then the attendant, by command of the invalid himself, mounted one of the horses and galloped off to content.

Loftus Vaughan was alone.

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Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3, Chapter 18. A Hideous Intruder.

Loftus Vaughn was not long alone, though the company that came first to intrude on the solitude that surrounded him was such as no man, either living or dying, would desire to see by his bedside. The black groom had galloped off for help. And ere the sound of his horse's hoofs had ceased to reverberate through the unclayed chinks of the cabin, the shadow of a human form, projected through the open doorway, was flung darkly upon the floor. The sick man stretched upon the cane couch, suffering extreme pain and giving way to it by incessant groaning. Nevertheless, he saw the shadow as it fell upon the floor, and this... With the sudden darkening of the door, admonished him that someone was outside and about to enter.

It might be supposed that the presence of any living being would at that moment have pleased him, as a relief to that lugubrious loneliness that surrounded him, and perhaps the presence of a living being would have produced that effect. But in that shadow which had fallen across the floor, the sick man saw, or fancied he saw, The form of one who should have been long since dead. The form of Chakra, the mile-man. The shadow was defined and distinct. The hut faced westward. There were no trees before the door. Nothing to intercept the rays of the now sinking sun that covered the ground with a reddish glare. Nothing save that sinister silhouette, which certainly seemed to betray the presence of Chakra.

Or a duplication of his ghost, of late so often seen. The sick man was too terrified to speak, too horrified to think. It scarce added to his agony when, instead of his shadow, the mild man himself, in his own proper and hideous aspect, appeared within the doorway and without pause stepped forward upon the floor. Loftus Vaughn could no longer doubt the identity of the man who had made this ill-timed intrusion. Dizzy, though his sight was, from a disordered brain, and dim as it had been rapidly becoming, it was yet clear enough to enable him to see that the form which stood before him was no fantasy, no spirit of the other world, but one of this. One as wicked as could well be found amid the phalanx of the fiends of darkness.

He had no longer either fancy or fear about Chakra's ghost. It was Chakra self, he saw. An apparition far more to be dreaded. The scream that escaped from the lips of Loftus Vaughn announced the climax of his horror. On uttering it, he made an effort to rise to his feet. As if with the intention of escaping from the hut, but finally overpowered by his own feebleness, and partly yielding to a gesture of menace made by the mile-man, and which told him that his retreat was intercepted, he sank back upon the banquet in a paralysis of despair. Ah! shouted Chakra, as he placed himself between the dying man and the door. No use, Fortryscape. No use, what's some davor. If ye were able to get way from here, you no go fur.

For you walk hundred yard, you fall down in your track. Like dewdrop, Cath. No use, you old fool. Another shriek was the only reply which the enfeebled man could make. Ha, ha, ha, vociferated Chakra. Showing his shark-like teeth in a fiendish laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Shriek away, Cussis Bahan. Shriek till you bust your windpipe. Chakra tell you it no use. De death pell am pon you. It am in you. And just when dat our sunab cease shine upon de floor, you go join you two brada justices in de utter world. "'What you no fine buckra no better than Brackman? Day gone afore. Both go by the death-pell. Chakrasen you jest the same, only he you keep for the lass. Cause you the grand cussus, and he keep him best victim for the lass.

The devil him better like that way." "'Mercy! Mercy!' cried the dying man. Ha, ha, ha, scornfully answered Chakra. What fo' you cry mercy? Do you gib mercy to de ol' maio man? When you im chain up dar to de cabbage tree? You show no mercy den. Chakra show none now. You got die. Oh, Chakra, good Chakra, cried the Kustos, raising himself upon the couch and extending his arms in a passionate appeal. Save me. Save my life, and I will give you whatever you wish. Your freedom. Money. Ha! interrupted Chakra, in a tone of triumphant exultation. Give me freedom, would you? You give me that already? You money this higher nigger don't care about, not this shell of a cocoa. He have plenty money. He get what he want for the love spell.

And the death spell. What? The only thing you have that he care about, you no can give. Chakra take that out you gibbin'. What? mechanically asked the dying man, fixing his eyes upon the face of Chakra with a look of dread import. Lily Quashiba, cried the monster in a loud voice, and leering horridly as he pronounced the name. Lili Quashiba, he repeated, as if doubly to enjoy the fearful effect which his words were producing. The daughter of the Quaderum. Das only fair, Cassus, continued he in a mocking tone. You had the mother yourself, that is, after the Maroon. You know that. I am only turning and turning about. Now you go die. Chakra, he come in fo' de daughter. Ha, ha, ha. Wah! he exclaimed, suddenly changing his tone and bending down over the form of the custos, now prostrate upon the couch.

Wah! I believe de Buckra gone dead. He was dead. On hearing the name Lily-Kwashiba, accompanied by such a fearful threat, a wild cry had escaped from his lips. It was the last utterance of his life. On giving tongue to it, he had fallen back upon the bamboo bedstead, mechanically drawing the cloak over his face, as if to shut out some horrid sight. And while the mild man gloating over him was endeavoring to procrastinate his pangs, the poison had completed its purpose. Chakra, extending one of his long arms, Raised the fold from off his face, and holding it up, gazed for a moment upon the features of his hated foe, now rigid, blanched, and bloodless. Then, as if himself becoming frightened at the form and presence of death, the savage miscreant dropped the cover quickly to its place, rose from his stooping position, and stole stealthily from the hut.

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Of the Maroon.

Read by Tom Freya. The Maroon. By Thomas Main Read. Volume 3. Chapter 19. Two Speculative Travelers The sun was sinking out of sight into the bosom of the blue Caribbean, and the twilight, long since extended over the valley below, was now spreading its purple robe around the summit of the hill, on which stood the hut. The shadows by the huge forest trees were being exchanged for the more somber shadows of the coming night, and the outlines of the hovel, now a house of death, were gradually becoming obliterated by the crepusculous obscurity. Inside that deserted dwelling, tenanted only by the dead, Reigned stillness, solemn and profound, the silence of death itself. Outside were sounds such as suited the solemnity of the scene, the mournful Lu-Hua of the eared owl, who had already commenced quartering the isles of the forest, while from the heaven above came the wild wail of the Po-Tu.

As the bird went across the fast darkening sky in search of its insect prey. To these lugubrious utterances there was one solitary exception. More cheerful was the chomping of the steel bit, proceeding from the horse that had been left tied to the tree, and the quick, impatient stroke of his hoof, as the animal fretted under the stings of the mosquitoes, Becoming more bitter as the darkness descended. The body of Loftus Von lay upon the bamboo bedstead, just as Chakra had left it. No hand had been there to smooth that rude pillow, no friendly finger to close those eyes that were open, and saw not, those orbs glassed and coldly glaring from their sunken sockets. As yet the attendant had not returned with that succor which would come too late.

Nor was it possible for him to get back in much less than an hour. Content, though in actual distance scarcely a mile from the hut, was full five in point of time. The slope of the mountain road was at an angle with the horizon of at least fifty degrees. There could be no rapid riding on that road, neither up nor down, upon the most urgent errand, and the black groom was not going to risk life by a broken neck, even to save the life of a custod. It would be a full hour, then, before the man would return, as yet only twenty minutes had passed, and forty more were to come. But it was not fated that even for those forty minutes the body of Kustos Van should be permitted to rest in peace. Twenty minutes had scarcely elapsed after Chakra had stolen away from the side of the corpse, when there came others to disturb it, and with a rude violence almost sufficient to arouse it from the slumber of death.

Had Chakra on leaving the hut? Only taking the main road back to Montego Bay, and that was the direction in which he intended going, he would have met two strange men, not so strange but that they were known to him, but strange enough to attest to the attention of an ordinary traveller. But among the proclivities of the mile-man and that of travelling along main roads was one in which he did not indulge. Except under the most unavoidable circumstances. Following his usual practice, as soon as he had cleared the precincts of the Negro cabin, he struck off into a by-path leading through the bushes, and by so doing lost the opportunity of an encounter with two individuals, who, although of a different nationality, were as great villains as himself.

The brace of worthies thus described are already known. They were the man-hunters of Jacob Gesseron, Manuel and Andres, Caccadores de Cimarrones, from the island of Cuba. With the object for which they were journeying along the Savannah Road, the reader is equally all fate. Gesseron's talk with them, on starting them off, As plainly proclaimed the vile intent of his two truculent tools. All day long had these human bloodhounds been following upon the track of the Kustos, now nearer to him, now further off, according to the halts which the traveler had made, and the relative speed of horseman and pedestrian. More than once had they sighted their intended victim afar off on the white dusty road.

But the presence of the stout negro attendant, as well as the broad open daylight, had deterred them from proceeding in their nefarious purpose, and they had postponed its execution till that time which gives opportunity to the assassin, the going down of the sun. This hour had at length arrived. And just as the real murderer was hastening away from the hut, the intending assassins were hurrying towards it, with all the speed in their power. Carambo! exclaimed he who was the older, and in consequence the leader of the two. I shouldn't be surprised, Andres, if the Ingenero was to slip out of our clutches tonight. Not far beyond lies content. Owner of that Ingenio is a friend of his. You remember Senor Jacob said he would like to put up there for the night?

Yes, replied Andres. The old Julio was particular about that. Well, if he gets there before we can overhaul him, there'll be nothing done tonight. We must take our chance on the road between that and Savannah. Carajo! Responded Andres, with somewhat spiteful emphasis, if it wasn't for them ugly pistols he carries and that big buck nigger by his side, we might have stopped his breath before this. Supposing he gets to Savano before we can have a talk with him. What then, compadre? Then, answered he thus godfatherly addressed, then our lines won't lie in pleasant places. Savannah's a big city, and it isn't so easy to murder a man in the street of a town as among these trees. People prowling about have tongues, where the trees haven't.

And fifty pounds Jamaica money ain't much for killing a man, more especially a custos, as they call him. Carajo. We must take care. Or... We may get our necks twisted for this simple trick. These custoses are like our alcaldes. Kill one, and a dozen others will spring up to prosecute you. But what? inquired Andres, who, although the younger of the two, appeared to be gifted with a greater degree of prudence than his companion. What if we don't find a chance, even in Savannah? Then... replied the other. We stand a good chance of losing our fifty pounds, shabby currency as it is. How that, Manuel? How that? Why, because the Ingeniero, once in Savannah, will take ship and travel by sea. The Dueno said so.

We may bid adieu to him, for I wouldn't make another sea voyage for five times fifty pounds. That we had from Barabano was enough to last me for my life. Carajo! I thought it was the vomito prieto that had seized upon me, but for the fear of another such puking spell, I'd have gone home with the rest, instead of staying in this nest of Jews and nigger drivers. And now I'm ever to get back to Barabano, let alone making a voyage. For the purpose of... The Cubano refrained from finishing his speech, not from any delicacy he had about declaring the purpose, but because he knew that the declaration would be supererogatory to an associate who already comprehended it. In that case, counseled the more sagacious Andres, we must finish our business before Savannah comes in sight.

Perhaps, compadre... By pushing on rapidly now, we may overtake the party before they get anchored in content. You're right, hombre. You're right about that. Let us, as you say, push on. And if it suits you as it does me, let our motto be, Noche o Nunca, this night or never.

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The Maroon. By Thomas Main Read. Volume 3, Chapter 20. No Blood.

The sun had already hidden his red disk under the sea horizon when the man-hunters mounted the hill and approached the hut where Kostos Bon had been compelled to make halt, and in which he was now lying lifeless.

Manuel, said Andres, as they came within sight of the hovel, and at the same instant saw the horse standing tied to the tree. Un cavallo! Saddled, bridled, and with alfuryas. A traveller's horse, rejoined Manuel.

And that very traveller we've been tracking? Yes, it's the horse of the great Alcadi of Mount Welcome. Don't you remember when we saw them before us at midday that one of the horses was a bay and the other a gray? There's the gray, and it was on that very animal the custos was riding. Quite true, compadre. But where's the other? Maybe among the trees or tied round the other side of the hut. The riders must be inside. Both, do you think, Manuel? Of course both. Though where Blackskin's horse can be is more than I can say. Carambo! What's halted them here? There's nobody lives in the ranché. I know that. I came this way about a week ago, and it had no tenant then. Besides, the ingenue where he was to put up for the night is just below.

What in the name of St. Mary has stopped them here? "'Por Dios, compadre,' said the younger of the two cacciadores, looking significantly at the saddlebag still hanging over the cantle of the Castosa's saddle. There ought to be something valuable in those alphorias. Caval, you're right, but we mustn't think of that just yet, camarado." After the other's done, then we shall have the opportunity. I wonder whether they're both inside. It's very odd we don't see the Negro's horse. Ha! rejoined Andres, apparently struck with an idea. What if he's gone on to the plantation for some purpose? Suppose an accident has happened to the Kostos' steed, or Karai. Suppose he's himself taken sick. You remember the man we met, who told us about them ugly pistols?

He said that one of the travelers, the white man, looked sick. Didn't the fellow say he saw him puking? Por Dios, he did. As you say, there may be something in it. If black skin's out of the way, now's our time. For there is more to be feared from that big buck nigger than his master. When it comes to a struggle. If it should prove that the Custos is sick, I hope it is so. He won't be in a condition to make much use of his weapons. And Carambo. We must get hold of them before he knows what we're after. Hadn't we better go round first? counseled the sagacious Andres. Let us explore the back of the hut and see whether the other horse is there. If he's not... Then certainly the Negro's gone off on some errand.

We can steal through the bushes to the other side, and get right up to the walls without any danger of being seen. That's our plan, Camerado. Let's lose no time then, for if it be so that black skin's abroad, we're in luck. We mayn't find such another chance, not between here and the world's end. Follow me, hombre. And set down your feet as if you were stepping upon eggs with young birds in them. Vamos. So saying the chief of the two Casadores skulked in among the trees, closely followed by his companion. After making a circuit through the underwood, the assassins stole silently in towards the back of the hovel. They saw no other horse, only the gray. Which stood tied to the tree in front. The bay was gone, and in all probability his rider.

Andres already congratulated himself upon his conjecture being correct. The negro had ridden off upon some errand. This was put beyond all doubt by their perceiving the fresh tracks of a horse leading away from the hut, along the road toward Content. The hoof prints were so plain as to be visible at some distance. The turf on the road edge was torn up, and deeply indented, where the negro groom had urged his horse into a gallop. The assassins saw this even without returning to the road, and were now satisfied that the attendant was gone away. It only remained to make sure that the traveler himself was inside the hut. Creeping cautiously up to the wall, the Casadores peeped through the unclayed chinks of the cabin.

At first the darkness inside hindered them from distinguishing any object in particular. Presently, as their eyes grew more accustomed to the obscurity, they succeeded in making out the bamboo bedstead in the corner, with something that resembled the figure of a man stretched lengthwise upon it. A dark cloak covered the form, the face as well, but the feet, booted and spurred protruding from under the cover, told that it was a man who was lying in that outstretched attitude, the man who was to be murdered. He appeared to be sound asleep. There was no motion perceptible, not even as much as would indicate that he breathed. Lying on the floor at some distance from the couch, Was a hat, and beside it a pair of pistols in their holsters, as if the traveler had unbuckled them from his belt and flung them down before going to sleep.

Even if awake he could scarce get hold of the pistols before his assailants could spring upon him. The assassins looked towards one another with a significant glance. The fates appeared to favor their attempt. And as both on the instant were actuated by the same sanguinary instinct, they leaped simultaneously to their feet, drew their sharp machetes, and rushed together through the doorway. "'Motello! Matello!' "'Kill him!' cried both, in the same voice, each with a view of encouraging the other. And as they uttered the cruel cry, they buried the blades in the body of the unresisting traveller. Stabbing it repeatedly through the cloak. Convinced that they had finished their bloody work, the murderers were about to rush out again, probably with an eye to the saddlebags outside, when it occurred to them as strange that the victim of their hired villainy should have kept so quiet.

In their frenzied excitement, while dealing what they supposed to be his death blows, They had not stopped to notice anything odd in the behavior of the man whom they were murdering. Now that the deed was done, and they could reflect more coolly, a sudden surprise seized upon them, springing from the circumstance that the wretched man had made not the slightest motion, had neither stirred nor cried out. Perhaps the first stab had gone right through his heart. For it was so intended by Andres who had given it. But even that does not produce instantaneous death, and the manhunters knew it. Besides, on the blade of Andres' machete, as well as that of his comrade, there was no blood. It was very strange.

Could the cloak or undergarments have wiped it off? Partially they might, but not altogether. Their blades were wet. But not with blood. Of that they showed scarce sustain. It's a queer thing, comrade, exclaimed Manuel. I could almost fancy. Vaya! Lift the cloak, and let's have a look at him. The other, stepping closer to the couch, stooped forward, and raised the fold of the camlet from the face of the murdered man. As he did so, his hand came in contact with the cold skin, while his glance fell upon the siphoned features of a corpse, upon eyes whose dull blank film showed that the light had long since forsaken them. The assassin stayed not for a second look. With a cry of terror, he let go the garment and rushed towards the door, followed by his equally terrified companion.

In another moment both would have escaped outside and perhaps have taken the back track, without thinking any more about the saddlebags. But, just as Andres had set foot upon the door sill, he saw before him something that caused him to pull up, and with a precipitancy that brought his comrade with a violent concussion against his back. The something which had led to this sudden interruption was the presence of three men, standing in a triangular row, scarce five paces from the door. Each was holding a gun in such position that its dark hollow tube was visible to the eyes of the assassin, pointing directly upon himself. The three men were of three distinct colors, white, yellow, and black. All three known to the manhunter and his companion.

They were Herbert Vaughn, Kubina, captain of Maroons, and Quaco, his lieutenant.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Volume Three, Chapter Twenty-One. The Capture of the Casadores The Black, though presumably the lowest in rank, was the first to break speech. "'No, ye don't,' cried he, moving his musket up and down, while still keeping it leveled upon the foremost of the Casadores. "'No, Mr. Jack Spaniard. "'Not a foot you'd set outside that door till we see what you've been a-doin' within there. Steady now, or there's an ounce of lead into your garlicky inside. Steady!' "'Surrender,' commanded Kubina, in a firm, authoritative voice, and with a threatening gesture, which, though less demonstrative than that of his lieutenant, was equally indicative of determination. Drop your machetes, and yield at once.

Resistance will only cost you your lives." Come, my Spanish worthies," said Herbert. You know me. I advise you to do as you bid. If there's nothing against you, I promise no harm. Ha! War heals, he continued, in sharp haste, observing that the Spaniards were looking over their shoulders, as if intending to escape by the back of the hut. Don't attempt to run away. You'll be caught, no matter how fast you go. I've got two barrels here, and each is good for a bird on the wing. Show your backs, and they'll be preciously peppered. I promise you." Carrajo, hissed the older of the Casadores. What did you want with us? Aye, added the other, in a tone of innocent reproach. What have we been doing to make all this fanfaron about?

What have you been doing? rejoined the maroon captain. That's just what we desire to know, and are determined upon knowing. There is nothing to be known, answered the man, speaking with an air of assumed simplicity. At the least, nothing that's very particular. We were on our way to Savannah, me and my comrade here. "'Stat your palaver,' cried Guaco, becoming impatient, and pushing the muzzle of his musket within an inch of the Spaniard's ribs. "'Did ye hear the cap'n tell ye to drop your toastin' forks and surrender? Down with him this minute, I say, and do your jaw-wagon atterwoods.' Thus threatened either with a poke in the ribs or perhaps a bullet between them, Andres sulkily let fall his machete upon the floor, an action that was instantly imitated by his senior and superior.

Now, my braves, proceeded the black lieutenant, still holding his huge gun to the Spaniard's breast, lest ye mount be wotten to gee us leg bale, you must submit to be trust a trifle. Down upon your behinds, both of ye. And keep that way till I get the cords and skewers ready. The Casadores perfectly understood the order, and perceiving that there was no chance for disobedience, squatted down upon the floor, each on the spot where he had been standing. Cuoco now picked up the two machetes, placing them beyond the reach of their C. de Bont owners, then handing his great gun over to the care of Cubina. Who with Herbert was left to guard the prisoners, he walked off to a short distance among the trees.

Presently he returned, trailing after him a long, creeping plant that resembled a piece of cord, and carrying two short sticks, each about three feet in length. All this was accomplished with as much celerity, and in as brief a space of time, As if he had simply taken the articles from an adjacent storeroom. Meanwhile, Kubina and Herbert had kept their guns still pointed upon the two Casadores. For it was evident that the villains were most eager to get off. And as it was now nearly night, had the least chance been allowed them, they might have succeeded in escaping through the darkness. Their captors were determined they should have no chance. For although neither Herbert nor Cubina could see into the obscure interior of the cabin, and were as yet ignorant of the fearful spectacle that there awaited them, they had reason to suspect that the Spaniards had either intended some dark deed, or had already committed it.

They had learnt something along the road of the progress of the Casadores, and their mode of journeying, which to more than one whom they met, Had appeared mysterious. The horse standing tied to the tree, comparisoned as he was for travel. That was the most suspicious circumstance of all. Though none of the three pursuers recognized the animal as belonging to Kostos-Van, as soon as they set eyes upon it, they had felt a presentiment that they had arrived too late. The wild haste with which the Spaniards were rushing from the cabin when intercepted at the door almost confirmed their unpleasant foreboding, and before any of the three had entered the hut, they were half prepared to find that it contained a corpse, perhaps more than one, for the disappearance of Pluto was not yet explained.

Habiu, in handling cordage of all kinds, more especially the many sorts of supple wives with which the trees of a Jamaica forest are laced together, soon tied the two Spaniards wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle, as tightly as could have been done by the most accomplished jailer. A long practice in binding runaway blacks had made Guaco an expert in that department, which indeed Constitutes part of the professional training of a maroon. The captors had already entered within the cabin, now dark as death itself. For some moments they stood upon the floor, their eyes endeavoring to read the gloom around them. Silent they stood, so still that they could hear their own breathing, with that of the two prisoners upon the floor.

At length in the corner they could dimly make out something like the form of a man lying stretched upon a low bedstead. Guaco, though not without some trepidation, approached it. Stooping down, he applied his hand to it with cautious touch. A man, muttered he, either asleep or dead. Dead, he ejaculated the instant after. As in groping about his fingers chanced to fall upon the chill forehead. Dead and cold. Kubina and Herbert, stepping forward and stooping over the corpse, verified the assertion of Guaco. Whose body was it? It might not be that of Loftus Vaughan. It might be the black attendant, Pluto. No, it was not a black man. It needed no light to show that. The touch of the hair was sufficient to tell that a white man lay dead upon the couch.

Catch me one of those cacullos, said the maroon captain, speaking to his lieutenant. Guaco stepped outside the hut. Low down along the verge of the forest were flitting little sparks that appeared to be a galaxy of stars in motion. These were the lampradi, or small fireflies. It was not with these Guaco had to do. Here and there, at longer intervals, could be seen much larger sparks of a golden green color. It was the great winged beetle, the Cacuyo, Phyrophorus nectilicus, that emitted this lovely light. Doffing his old hat crown, Guaco used it as an insect net, and after a few strokes succeeded in capturing a Cacuyo. With this he returned into the hut, and crossing over, held it near the head of the corpse.

He did not content himself with the gold-green light which the insect admits from the two eye-like tubercles on its thorax. The forest craft of guaco enabled him to produce a brighter and better. Holding open the elytra with his fingers, then bending back the abdomen with his thumb. He exposed that oval disk of orange light, only seen when the insect is on the wing. A circle of a yard in diameter was illuminated by the phosphoric glow. In that circle was the face of a dead man, and sufficiently bright was the lamp of the kakuyo, to enable the spectators to identify the ghastly lineaments of those of the custo spawn.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3, Chapter 22, A Double Murder None of the three started or felt surprise. That had been gradually passing, for before this their presentiment had become almost a conviction. Kwako simply uttered one of those exclamations that proclaim a climax. Kubina felt chagrined, disappointed in more ways than one. While Herbert gave way to grief, though less than he might have done, had his relative more deserved his sorrow. It was natural they should inquire into the circumstances of the Custos' death. Now firmly believing he had been murdered, and by the quesadores, they proceeded to make an examination of the body. Mystery of mysteries, a dozen stabs by some sharp instrument, and no blood.

Wounds through the breast, the abdomen, the heart, all clean-cut punctures and yet no gore, no extravasation. Who gave the stabs? You did this, you wenches, cried Herbert, turning fiercely upon the employees of Jesseron. Carumbo! Why should we do such a thing, master? innocently inquired Andres. The Alcalde was dead before we came up. Spanish palaver, cried Quaco. Look at these blades, he continued taking up the two machetes. They're wet now. Taint blood exactly, but something. See? he exclaimed. Holding his cocuyo over the wounds and presenting one of the machetes to the light. They fit to these holes like a cork to a bottle. Twere they that made them, nothing but they, and you did it, ye ugly skinks.

By the Virgin, Senor Cuoco, replied Andres. You wrong us. I'll swear on the holy evangelists. We didn't kill this alcalde. Kostos, I mean. Karambo, no. We were as much surprised as any of you when we came in here and found him lying dead, just as he is now. There was an air of sincerity in the declaration of the wench that rendered it difficult to believe in his guilt. That is, the guilt of him and his companion as the real murderers. Though their intention to have been so was clear enough to Kubina. "'Grombo! Why did you stab him?' said he to the two prisoners. "'You need not deny that you did that.' "'Seor Capitan,' answered the crafty Andres, who in all delicate questions appeared to be spokesman.

"'We won't deny that. It is true. I confess it with shame.' That we did run our blades once or twice through the body. A dozen times, you John Crow, corrected Cuoco. Well, Señor Cuoco, continued the Spaniard, I won't be particular about the number. There may have been a thrust or two less or more. It was all a whim of my comrade Manuel here. A little bit of a wager between us. A wager? For what? asked Herbert. Well, you see, Master, we'd been journeying, as I've said already, to Savannah. We saw the horse-tide outside this little rancho, and thought we would go in and see who was inside. Carambo! What should we see but the body of a dead man lying stretched out on the bamboos? Santissima! Senores!

We were as much startled as you. Terribly surprised, I suppose, sarcastically spoke Cubina. Nearly out of our senses, I assure you, senor. Go on, you wench, commanded Herbert. Let us hear what tale you have to tell. Well, said the Casadori, resuming his narration, after a while we got a little over our fright, as one naturally does, you know. And then Manuel says to me, Andres. What is it, Manuel? said I. Do you think, said he, that blood would run out of a dead body? Certainly not, said I. Not a drop. I'll bet you five pesos it will, challenged my camarado. Done, said I. And then to settle the thing we, I acknowledge it, did run our machetes through the body of the custos. Of course, we could do him no harm then.

Monsters, exclaimed Herbert. It was almost as bad as killing him. What a horrid tale! You wretches! Notwithstanding its ingenuity, it'll not save your necks from a halter. Oh, senorito, said Andres appealingly, we've done nothing to deserve that. I can assure you we were both right sorry for what we've done. Ain't you sorry, Manuel?" "'Kadai, that I am," earnestly answered Manuel. "'We both regretted it afterwards,' continued Andres. "'And to make up for what we had done, we took the cloak and spread it decently over the body, in order that the poor alcalde should rest in peace.' "'Liar!' cried Quaco. Throwing the light of his cocuyo on the corpse. You did no such thing. You stabbed him through the cloak.

Look there. And as Cuoco gave this indignant denial, he pointed to the cuts in the cloth to prove the falsehood of the Spaniard's statement. Karai, stammered out the confounded Andres. Sure enough there's a cut or two. Oh, now I recollect. We first covered him up. It was after we did that. We then made the bet, didn't we, Manuel? Manuel's reply was not heard, for at that instant the hoofstrokes of horses were heard in front of the hut, and the shadowy forms of two horsemen could be distinguished just outside the doorway. It was the black groom, who had returned from content, accompanied by the overseer of the estate. Shortly after, a number of Negroes appeared on foot, carrying a stretcher. Their purpose was to convey the sick man to content.

Circumstances had occurred to make a change in the character of their duty.

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Of the Maroon. The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Three. Chapter 23 Chakra on the Backtrack Of the three magistrates who condemned the Kuramanti, one had been slumbering in his grave for six months, the second about that number of days, and the third, the great Kustos himself, was now a corpse. Of all three had the mild man been the murderer, though in the case of the first two, There had been no suspicion of foul play, or at least, not enough to challenge inquest or investigation. Both had died of lingering diseases, bearing a certain resemblance to each other, and, though partaking very much of the nature of a wasting, intermittent fever, yet exhibiting symptoms that were new and strange, so strange as to baffle the skill of the Jamaican disciples.

Of Aesculapius. About the death of either one Chakra had not felt the slightest apprehension, nor would he even had an investigation arisen. In neither murder had his hand appeared. Both had been accomplished by the invisible agency of Obi, that at this period held mysterious existence on every plantation in the island. With the assassination of the Kustos, however, It was different. Circumstances had caused that event to be hurried, and there was danger, as Chakra himself had admitted, that the spell of Obi might be mistaken for a spell of poison. A death so sudden and by natural causes inexplicable would, undoubtedly, provoke speculation and lead to the opening and examining of the body. Chakra knew that inside would be found something stronger than even the sap of the savanna flower or the branched callaloo, and that in all probability the malady to which the Kustos had succumbed would be pronounced murder.

With this upon his mind he was not without apprehension, his fears pointing to Cynthia. Not that he suspected the honesty of his confederate. But only that her consistency might be too weak to withstand the cross-questioning of a coroner. Fearing this, he had scarce got out of sight of the custos corpse before he commenced contriving how Cynthia's tongue could be tied. In other words, how the mulatta was to be made away with. Upon this design his thoughts were, for the moment, bent. He had less, if any, apprehension. About his other accomplice in the crime, he fancied that Jesseron was himself too deeply dyed to point out the spots upon his fellow conspirator, and this rendered him confident of secrecy on the part of the Jew.

Neither did he dwell long upon the danger to be apprehended from Cynthia, and so trivial a matter as the silencing of her tongue soon became obliterated or blended with another. And far more important project to the execution of which he was now hastening. On leaving the hut where lay the dead body of his victim, he had taken to by-paths and bushes. Only for a short time did he keep to these. The twilight rapidly darkening into night left the highway free to him. And availing himself of this privilege, he returned to it, showing by his hurried steps As he regained the road, that he was glad to escape from a circuitous path. His face once more set towards the Trelawney Hills, he walked in silence and with a rapidity scarce credible.

His long ape-like legs split trestle fashion to the center of his body, enabling him to glide over the ground almost as fast as a mule could mince. Whenever anyone appeared upon the road before him, he adopted his customary plan of betaking himself to the bushes until they had passed. But when travelers chanced to be going the same way, which more than once did happen, he avoided an encounter by making a circuit through the woods and coming out far ahead of them.

The trouble thus taken to gain time As well as the earnest manner with which the Milo man was hastening forward, proved that the crime just committed was not the crisis of Chakra's villainies, but that some other evil purpose. To him, of equal or greater import, was yet before him, and soon to be achieved or at least attempted. Following back the main route between Savannah Le Mar and the bay, he at length arrived at the Carrion Crow Road, and after traversing this for some distance, came within view of the Jamba Rock, now glancing with vitreous sheen in the clear moonlight. Almost as soon as he had caught sight of the well-known landmark, he forsook the road and struck off into a by-path. That led through the woods.

This path, trending diagonally up the side of the Jamba mountain, and passing near the base of the rock, was the same which Herbert Vaughan and the two Maroons had traversed on their way from the Happy Valley on that same morning. Chakra, however, knew nothing of this, nor ought either of the design or expedition of Kubina and his comrades. Equally ignorant was he of the errand on which Jesseron had dispatched his Cuban emissaries, by way of having his bow twice stringed. The Curamante, fancying himself the only player in that game of murder, had no idea that there were others interested in it as much as he, and although once or twice during the day he had seen men moving suspiciously behind him along the road, It had never occurred to him who they were, much less that they had been deputed to complete his own job, should the spell fail to prove sufficiently potent.

A somewhat long detour, which he had taken after leaving the hut, had brought him out on the main road behind both parties, and thus had he remained ignorant of their proximity. At the same time that he had himself escaped the observation, both of the villains who intended to assassinate the Kustos, and of the men who were pressing forward to save him. Still continuing his rapid stride, Chakra climbed the mountain slope with the agility of one accustomed to the most difficult paths. On arriving under the Jumba rock, he halted. Not with any intention of remaining there, but only to consider. He looked up towards the summit of the cliff, in whose dark shadow he was standing. And then, raising his eyes still higher, he gazed for a short while upon the sky.

His glance betrayed that interrogative scrutiny characteristic of one who, not being furnished with a watch, endeavors to ascertain the time. Chakra needed no watch. By day the sun was sufficient to inform him of the hour. By night the stars, which were old and familiar acquaintances. The sinking of Orion towards the silvered surface of the sea told him that in two hours, or thereabout, no stars would be seen. Won't do, won't do. By the time I get to the duppy hole for the lamp, and then back to the rock for fix'em, it won't do. Adam and his men the better part of an hour for they could climb up a year, and then it might be daylight. That won't do no how. Must be done in the night, else we get followed.

And the duppy hole no longer safe treat for Chakra. Mustn't risk that whatsoever ado.

He continued, after reflecting a moment and with a look of villainous chagrin overspreading his countenance. Damn a piece of cuss crooked luck for me. No be a here about two hours sooner. That would've been sufficient to get him all up in time. "'And there would then have been gobs of time to accomplish the whole business.' "'Neba mind,' cried he after a pause, and rousing himself from the attitude of reflection. "'Neba mind, ye old Coramante fool. More a night do just as well. Then there be plenty of time. Tain't like they get the dead corpus of the Cousis back to debuff a four-two-tree day.' And if that ere nigger fuch de news, it do no harm. Maybe no good, in de fusion it make bout de place.

Neba mind, it will be all right for morrow night. For this time of de mornin', de lily Kushiba, de beautiful daughter of dat proud quadrum, she sleep in de brace of old Chakra de Mayo Man. Two hour for day, added he, after a longer pause, in which he appeared to gloat over his fiendish expectations. Two hour! I's just hab time go down to the Jew pen, and then back to the duppy hole for daylight. That old sinner, he want know what's been done, and I want get the balance of that fifty pound. I must stand need of the money, now as a gwin to have a wife, and take to the keeping of the establishment. Ha, ha, ha! And as he gave utterance to the laugh, the prospective bridegroom once more put his hideous form in motion, and followed the path leading to the Jew's pen.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3. Chapter Twenty-Four. The Vigil of Love and the Vigil of Jealousy.

Yola, true to her tryst, set forth to meet her beloved Maroon. The hour of midnight was the time that had been appointed, but, in order to secure punctuality, she took her departure from Mount Welcome long before that hour. Leaving herself ample time to reach the rendezvous. Of late, these after-night expeditions had become known to Miss Vaughan, and their object as well. To her young mistress, the Fula maiden had confessed her penchant for Kubina, her belief of its being reciprocated, in short, had told the whole story of her love. Common reports spoke well of the young maroon captain, Yola Warmly, and as everything contributed to proclaim his intentions honorable, Miss Vaughn made no objection to his meetings with her maid.

There was something in her own sentiments to incline her to this liberal line of conduct. The young Creole could sympathize with hearts that truly loved, all the better that, by experience, Her own heart had learnt the bitterness of being thwarted. At all times, therefore, so far as she was concerned, the brown-skinned sweetheart of Kubina had free leave to meet her lover. On that particular night, permission was granted to the maid more freely than ever, since, for a certain reason, the mistress herself desired the interview to take place. The reason may be guessed without difficulty. On the previous night Kubina had thrown out a hint, which his sweetheart had communicated to her mistress. She had spoken of some news he might have that would interest the latter, and although there was nothing definite in that, still the hint had led to an indulgence in speculations.

Vague as dreams, it is true, but tinged with a certain sweetness. Kate knew something of the romantic friendship that had been established between Herbert and Kubina. Yola had long ago told her of this, as well as the incident that had given origin to it. Perhaps that knowledge may explain the interest, almost amounting to anxiety, that she now felt to ascertain the nature of the communication which the Maroon had hypothetically promised to make. It was only in the afternoon of the day, after the excursion to the Jumba Rock, that the maid had imparted this piece of intelligence to her mistress, and the altered demeanor of the latter during the rest of the evening proved how interesting it must have been to her.

Her anxiety was scarce of the sorrowful kind, but rather tinged with an air of cheerfulness. As if some secret instinct had infused into her spirit a certain buoyancy, as if on the dark horizon of her future there was still lingering, or had suddenly arisen, a faint ray of hope. Yola had not told all she knew. She said nothing of certain surmises that had escaped the lips of Kubina. With a woman's tact, she perceived that these, being only conjectural, Might excite false hopes in the breast of her young mistress, for whom the girl felt a true affection. In fear of this, she kept back the illusion to the marriage of Herbert and Judith, and its probable failure, which Kubina had so emphatically illustrated by a proverb.

Yola intended this reserve to be only temporary, only until after her next meeting with her lover. From which she hoped to return with the fuller power of explaining it. Neither had she made known to her mistress the circumstance of having seen Cynthia in company with the Jew, and the conference that had occurred between them, overheard by herself and Cupina, much less the suspicions to which the latter had given expression. Under the apprehension that a knowledge of these strange facts and suspicions might trouble her young mistress, she had withheld them. The young Creole had not retired to rest when Yola took her departure from the house, nor yet for long after. Anxious to know the result of the interview between her maid and the maroon, she remained awake within her chamber, burning the midnight lamp.

Far into the hours of mourning.

Notwithstanding the more than permission that had been accorded to her, the princess slave stole softly from the house, passing the precincts of the mansion, and traversing the grounds outside with considerable caution. This party arose from the habit of that half-barbaric life, to which, in her own country, And from earliest childhood she had been accustomed. But there was also perhaps some suspicion of present danger or, at all events, that fear of interruption natural to one on the way to keep an appointment of the kind towards which she was now betaking herself. From whatever motive sprung her cautious behavior, it was not sufficient to prevent her departure from being observed. Nor did it enable her to perceive that thing of woman's shape that, like an evil shadow, flitted after her across the fields, and went following her along the forest path.

Whenever she turned it also turned, only not preserving an erect bearing, nor going in the same continuous gait, but every now and then pausing upon the path, sometimes in crouched attitude, As if seeking concealment under the shadow of the bushes, then gliding rapidly onward to make stop as before. After having got beyond the surroundings of the house, in some distance into the pimento forest, the Fula walked with more freedom, as if no longer fearing interruption. She was, therefore, less likely to perceive that ill-omened shadow that still continued on her track. Following as before by a series of progressive traverses, and in death-like silence. On reaching the glade, the young girl advanced toward the Siba, and took her stand within its shadow, on a spot in her eyes, hallowed down to earth's profound and up to heaven.

She merely glanced round to satisfy herself that Kubina was not there. She scarce expected him yet. The hour, though late, was earlier than the time appointed. It had not yet gone twelve, else she would have heard the plantation clock announcing it. Allowing her eyes to drop to the ground at her feet, she stood for some minutes buried in a reverie of reflection, a sweet reverie, as befitted her situation of pleasant expectancy. She was startled from this abstraction by the behavior of a bird, a scarlet tonnager, that rose fluttering and frightened out of a small clump of bushes, about ten paces from the seba, and in which it had been reposing. The bird, uttering a cry of alarm, forsook the shelter and flew off into the forest.

Yola could see nothing that should have caused the creature to make so abrupt a departure from its roosting place. Her own presence could scarce have been the cause, since she had been some minutes upon the ground and standing in tranquil pose. Some of its natural enemies had frayed the bird, perhaps a rat, an owl, or a serpent. Thus reasoned she, and was so satisfied. If instead of contending herself with this conjecture, she had stepped ten paces forward and looked into the little copes, she would have seen there something very different from any of the three creatures her fancy had conjured up. She would have seen the form of a woman, crouching within the shadow, with features set in suppressed rage, and eyes glowing indignantly upon herself.

Easily, too, would she have recognized the face as that of her fellow slave, Cynthia. But she saw it not, though Cynthia saw her, though for hours did the two remain in this singular juxtaposition, one occupied with the vigil of love, the other absorbed in the vigil of jealousy. For long hours did the Fula maid wait for the coming of her beloved Kubina. Her ear keenly bent to catch any sound that might announce his approach, her bosom every moment becoming more and more a prey to painful impatience. Equally long stayed the spy in her place of concealment, equally suffering torture from jealous imaginings. To both it was a relief when a footstep upon the path and a rustling of branches proclaimed the approach of someone towards the spot.

It was but a momentary relief, mocking the anticipations of both, thwarting the joy of the one and the vengeful design of the other. Instead of the expected lover, a very different personage made his appearance, and almost at the same instant another coming from the opposite side. Both at the same time advanced towards the middle of the glade, and without exchanging a word, stopped face to face near the Siba, as if they had met by appointment. They were out in the open ground and under the full light of the moon. Both were men, and the faces of both could be distinctly seen. Yola knew only one of them. And the sight of him hindered her from staying to look upon the other. She merely glanced at a countenance that was fearful, though not more fearful to her than the one she had already recognized, and which had once determined her to get away from the ground.

Keeping the great trunk between herself and the newcomers, and retreating silently under its shadow, she glided back into the underwood of the forest. And was soon far from the presence of the two intruders, who had brought her long and vain vigil to such an unsatisfactory termination. Cynthia could not have followed her example, even had she been so inclined. The two men had stopped within six paces of the spot in which she lay concealed. On every side of it, the ground was clear of cover. With the moon shining full upon it, a cat could not have crept out of the copse without attracting the attention of one or the other. Cynthia knew both the men, was the confederate of both, though not without fearing them.

At first sight of them she would have discovered herself, but disliked to come under the observation of her rival.

Afterwards, when the two men had entered into conversation, she was held in her place by a dread of a different kind. She had already overheard part of what they were saying, and she feared they might punish her for eavesdropping, involuntary though it was. Better for Cynthia had she then declared herself, but dreaming not of discovery, or the fearful fate that might be involved in it. She determined to be still, and listen to the dark dialogue to its ending.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3, Chapter 25. Cynthia in Trouble.

The two men who had thus interrupted the silent tableau by the Siba tree were Jacob Jeseron and Chakra the Coromante. Just at the time that Chakra departed from the Jumbarach to pay his nocturnal visit to the Jew, The latter was leaving his pen to honor the Coromante with a similar call. As both were traveling the same path, and in adverse directions, it was more than probable, a necessity in fact, that each should meet the other before reaching the end of his journey. Also, as the glade where stood the great Siba was on the same path, and midway between the Jumba rock and the Jews' pen, It was natural this encounter should take place not far from that noted trysting place. In effect it occurred within the glade, the two men having entered it almost at the same instant of time.

The Jew had got first into the open ground, and was first seen. The mile-man might have had these advantages had he wished. He had been the first to arrive on the edge of the opening, but... True to his instinct of caution, he had kept under cover until making a reconnaissance, in which he saw and recognized his advancing vis-à-vis. They met near the middle of the glade, just outside the shadow of the great tree, stopping face to face when within a pace or two of each other. Not the slightest salutation was exchanged between the two men. Any more than if they had been two tigers who had just come together in the jungle. The secret compact between them precluded the necessity for compliment or palaver.

Each understood the other, and not a word was spoken to introduce the dialogue, except that which was pertinent to the business between them. Well, good chakra, you hash news for me? interrogated the Jew. Taking the initiative in the conversation, you hash been in the direction of Savannah? Ish all right on the road? Whuh! vociferated the mile-man, throwing out his breast and jerking up his shoulders with an air of triumphant importance. All right, eh? Well, not exactly on the road, but by de side of dat same, dar lie a corp. Which by this time oughter be as cold as the heart of the watermelon. And tiff as, tiff as, as the skeleton of old chakra. Ha, ha, ha. And the speaker uttered a peal of fierce laughter at the simile he had so much difficulty in conceiving, but which, when found, recalled the sweet triumph of his vengeance.

Bless my soul. Then it ish all over? That's all over. It's a be-bound. And the spell did it? There was no need? With a start, the Jew paused in his speech, as if about to say something he had not intended, and which had been very near escaping him. There was no need? No need for you to have gone after? This was evidently not the question originally upon his tongue. "'No need,' repeated Chakra, a little puzzled at the interrogatory. "'No need so far as dat war concerned. "'Ab cooste pal did de work, as it knowed it would, "'and jes as I told you it would. "'Twain't for dat went arter. "'But a purpose of my own. "'Who to ye, Master Jake, did I work on arter?' "'Good Chakra.' I wasn't quite sure till now.

The wench synthi thought as how you had followed the kushtos. Wuh! That ere girl talk too much. She hab her tongue top for long. She must hab her tongue top. Else she gets both of us in trouble. Never mind. I'll make that all right, too. By and by. Now, Master Jake, I want that utter twenty-five pound. The job am finished, and the work am done. Now's the time for the pay. That ish right, Chakra. I hashed a manish here in red gold. There it ish. As the Jew said this, he passed a bag containing gold into the hands of Chakra. You'll find it ish all counted correct. Twenty-five pounds, currency. Fifty pounds altogether, ash agreed. A deal of money, a great deal of money. So help me. Chakra made no reply to this significant insinuation, but, taking the bag, deposited it in the lining of his skin, Karos.

As he did so, giving utterance to his favorite ejaculation, Wuh, the meaning of which varied according to the accentuation given to it. And now, good Chakra. Continued the Jew. I hash more work for you. There is another spell wanted, for which you shall have another fifty pounds. But first tell me, hash you seen any one to-day on your travels? Seed any one, eh? Well, dat am a question, Masser Jake. A seed a good ween on me travels. More'n seed me, I's be bound. But as you seen anyone as you know, sartain a did de Cossus for one, though by de galleys a hardly would a knowed him. He was so forgone, more as to be bone. He am almost as much a skeleton as old Chakra hisself. Ha, ha, ha. Anyone else that you hash a knowledge of?

No, nobody. Neary one, as I know anything bout seppin' the Cush's attendant. I seed other men on the road, but they were far off, and to keep them far off as I could. Ah, yes, there was one who'd come near, most too near, him I knowed. That was one of them air Trelawney Maroon, Quacko, they call him. Only Quacko, you say. You has seen nothing of his cap'n Kubina, nor of a young white gentleman'sh along with him? Neither de one nor de tutter ob dem two people. Wafo you ask dat, Masser Jake? I hash a good reason, Chakra. The young fellow I speak of ish a bookkeeper of mine. He hash left the pen this very morning. I don't know for why or whither he ish gone, but I has a reason to think he ish in company of Cap'n Cobina.

Maybe not, and maybe he'll be back again, but it looks suspicious. If he's gone for good, the spell will be all for nothingsh. So help me for nothingsh. That's a pity. I'm sorry for that, Master Jake. I hope he no gone. Whether or not I mustn't go to sleep about it, there is another spell that will be more needed now is ever. Diobie am ready. Who do you want him set for next? For this rascal, Kubina. Ah, that are in welcome. Di got him best to pay him. He has trouble for me. It is not like to come so soon now, as the custos is out of the way, but who knows how soon? Better as the spell should be set at once. So, good Chakra, if you can manage to do for Kubina in as short a time as you has done the custos, there is another fifty pounds ready for you.

I'll do my best, Massa Jake, to earn you money. I'll do my best, de best can do no mo'. That ish true, good chakra. Don't you think this wench, Synthi, can help you? Not a bit of help from dat quarter not worth a trough for Pellencubina. He no let da mulatta come nigh o' him for no consideration. He's sick of de sight of her. Besides dat gal, she know too much now. She wan' up these days fuch de white folk to de duppy hole. Dat neba do. No furwer use now. She hab serv her turn, and must be got rid of. Must go long wi' de others, long wi' de Cussus. Das my way. De only way keep a woman tongue tied, am to top em waggin' altogether.

After uttering the implied threat, the monster stood silent a moment, as if reflecting upon some mode by which he could make away with the life of the mulatta. You think, Chakra, you ish likely to find somebody else to assist you? Never fear, Master Jake. Lib dat to ol' Chakra, ol' Chakra and ol' Obi. Dey do dis' biznesh widout help from any udder. Fifty pounds, then, Chakra. I'd give twice the money. Yes, so help me, ten times the money. If I knew it was all right with young Volkan. Ah, where is she gone? The expression of bitter chagrin, almost anguish, with which the villainous old Jew, for at least the tenth time on that day, repeated this interrogative formula, told that Of all the matters upon his mind, the absence of his bookkeeper was the one uppermost, and deemed by him of most importance.

"'Bless my soul,' continued he, lifting his umbrella high in air, and continuing to hold it up, "'Bless my soul! If he ish gone for gut, I shall have all this trouble for nothing, all the cr-cr-inconvenience.'" It was crime he was about to have said, but he changed the word, not from any delicacy in the presence of Chakra, but rather to still a shuddering within himself, to which the thought had given rise. "'Neber mind, Massa Jake,' said his Confederate encouragingly. "'You have got rid of an enemy, same's myself. That am something anyhow, and I promise you soon get shot a-bon-a-lar.'" And I promised you soon get shot about one otter. Go at once bout that berry business. Yes, yes. Soon, good chakra, soon as you can.

I won't keep you any longer. It is near daylight. I must go back and get some sleep. Sure, help me. I has not had a wink this night. I can't sleep so long as he's not found. I must go home and see if there is any noosh of him. So saying and turning on his heel, without good night or any other parting salutation, the Jew strode abstractedly off, leaving Chakra where he stood.

97 097 - Volume 3 Chapter 26 - A Fatal Sneeze 8:27

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume 3. Chapter 26. A Fatal Squeeze. Whaa! ejaculated the Coramante, as soon as his Confederate was out of hearing. Dar's something heavy on de mind of dat ere old Jew. Something wuss dan de death of de Cussisvahn. Wonder now what em be all about. Bout dis yore bookkeeper, I knows it am. But what bout him? I all found out for am many hour older. That'll do. Gollies, I must go and get some sleep, too. Am just like de Jew Massif. Hadn't had ne'er a wink dis' night, nor de' night fore neither, nor don't expect it de' half of a wink morrow night. That will be night of all udder. Morrow night, if all ting go well. Chakra, he no sleep him lone. He sleep no more by hisself.

He had for him bedfellow the beauty of all the island of Jamaica. He sleep with the lily. Ere the full name of the victim threatened with this horrid fate had passed from his lips, the menace of the mild man was interrupted. The interruption was caused by a sound proceeding from the little clump of bushes close to where Chakra stood. It sounded exactly as if someone had sneezed, for it was that in reality. Cynthia had sneezed. She had not done so intentionally, far from it. After what she had heard, it was not likely she would have uttered any sound to proclaim her presence. At that instant she would have given all she possessed in the world, all she ever hoped to possess, even the love of Kubina, to have been miles from the spot, within the safe kitchen of Mount Welcome, anywhere but where she then was.

Long before the conversation between the Jew and Chakra had come to a close, she had made up her mind never to see the mile-man again, never willingly. Now an encounter appeared inevitable. He must have heard the sneeze. The wretched woman reasoned all right. He had heard it. A fierce, wha, was the ejaculation it called forth in response, and then the mild man, turning suddenly in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded, stood for a short time silent and listening. By golly! Said he, speaking aloud, that air sound very like a knees. Some of them da'a trees have been a' takin' snuff. I'd just like know what sort of varmint made that obstropolis noise. Want a bush? That's sartain. Nor yet was it a bird.

What then? It want a'all unlike the sneeze of the nigger wench. But what would a wench be a-doing in there? That's what puzzles me. Lookie here," added he, raising his voice, and addressing himself to whoever or whatever might have produced the noise. Let's hear that again. Whomsoever you be, take another pince of this snuff. Louder this time, so I can tell whether you am a man or whether you be feminine. He waited for a while to see if his speech would elicit a response, but none came. Within the copse all remained silent, as if no living thing was sheltered under its somber shadows. "'You want knees again,' continued he, seeing there was no reply. "'Den by golly I make you. If you am what I speck you is, somebody hid in dar to listen.

No snake.' Can a sneeze dat way no yet a lizard? You must be either man, woman, or child. And ef you be, and hab heard what's been say, by de great a compong, you life no be worth. Ha, ha. As he entered upon this last paragraph of his apostrophe, he had commenced moving towards the copes, which was only six paces from his starting point. Before the speech was completed, he had passed in among the bushes, and bending them over with his long ape-like arms, was scrutinizing the ground underneath. The exclamation was called forth by his perceiving the form of a woman in a crouching attitude within the shadow. In another instant he had seized the woman by the shoulder. And with a quick wrench jerked her into an erect position.

"'Cinthy!' he exclaimed, as the light fell upon the countenance of the mulatta. "'Yes, Chakra,' cried the woman, screaming ere she spoke. "'It's me! It's me!' "'What? What do you do here? You be a-listenin'? "'What foe you listen?' "'Oh, Chakra, I did not intend it. I came here—' How long you been here? Tell that quick. Oh, Chakra, I came. You high for we came in the glade? Needn't ask that. You no could get higher atterward. You hear all been said? You must have hear it. Oh, Chakra, I couldn't help it. I would have gone. Then you never hear not a word more. Won't do let you go now. You come here. You stay here. You never go out of this spot.

And giving to the monosyllable an asperd of fierceness that caused it to sound more like the utterance of a wild beast than a human being, the monster threw out his long dark arms and rushed towards his intended victim. In another instant his long, muscular fingers were clutched round the throat of the mulatta. Clamping it with the tightness and tenacity of an iron garrote. The wretched creature could make no resistance against such a formidable and ferocious antagonist. She tried to speak. She could not even scream. Chikara! Dear Chakara! Came forth in a prolonged thoracic utterance, and this was the last articulation of her life. After that there was a gurgling in her throat, the death rattle as the fingers relaxed their long-continued clutch, and the body, with a sudden sound, fell back among the bushes.

"'You lie da,' said the murderer, on seeing that his horrid work was complete. "'Dar you tell no tale. Now for de duppy hole, and a good long sleep.'" To fresh me for the work of the morrow night.

And turning away from the image of death he had just finished fashioning, the fearful Coromante pulled the skirts of his skin mantle around him and strode out of the glade, with as much composure as if meditating upon some abstruse chapter in the ethics of Obi.

98 098 - Volume 3 Chapter 27 - Chakra Trimming his Lamp 10:32

The Maroon By Thomas Main, Read. Volume 3, Chapter 27. Chakra Trimming His Lamp Day was dawning when the tiger Chakra returned to his lair in the duppy's hole. With him night was day, and the dawn of the morn the twilight of evening. He was hungry. Having eaten only a morsel of food since starting out on his awful errand, just twenty-four hours ago. The remains of a pepper pot, still unemptied from the iron skillet in which it had been cooked, stood in a corner of the hut. To warm it up would require time, and the kindling of a fire. He was too much fatigued to be fastidious, and drawing the skillet from its corner, He scooped up the stew and ate it cold. Finally, before retiring to rest, he introduced into his stomach something calculated to warm the cold pepper pot, the heel tap of a bottle of rum that remained over from the preceding night, and then flinging himself upon the bamboo bedstead, so heavily that the frail reeds scrunched under his weight.

He sank into a profound slumber. He lay upon his hunched back, his face turned upward. A protuberance of the trunk of the tree, of larger dimensions than that upon his own person, served him for a bolster. A few handfuls of the silk cotton laid loosely upon it, constituting his pillow. With his long arms extended loosely by his side, one of them hanging over until the murderous fingers rested upon the floor, and his large mouth, widely agape, displaying a double serrature of pointed shining teeth, he looked more like some slumbering ogre than a human being. His sleep could not be sweet. It was far from being silent. From his broad, compressed nostrils came a sonorous snoring, causing the cartilage to heave outward, accompanied by a gurgling emission through his throat that resembled the breathing of a hippopotamus.

The slumbered Chakra throughout the live-long day, dreaming of many crimes committed, or perhaps only of that, the sweetest crime of all, which was yet in abeyance. It was near night when he awoke. The sun had gone down. At least he was no longer visible from the bottom of the duppy's hole, though some red rays, tinting the tops of the trees upon the summit of the cliff, told that the orb of day was still above the horizon. Extended on his couch, Chakra saw not this. His hut was dark, the door being shut close. But through the interstices of the bamboos he could see to some distance outside, and perceived that twilight was fast deepening among the trees. The cry of the bittern, coming up from the lagoon, the shriek of the potu, heard through the sow of the cataract, and the hoot of the great-eared owl.

All three true voices of the night. Reaching his ears admonished him that his hour of action had arrived. Springing from his couch and giving utterance to his favorite ejaculation, he set about preparing himself for the adventure of the night. His first thought was about something to eat, and his eyes fell upon the skillet, standing where he had left it, near the middle of the floor. It still contained a quantity of the miscellaneous stew, enough for a meal. "'Won do eat em' cold,' he muttered, proceeding to kindle a fire, not fo' de second time. "'Give me de auger chills, it would. Must fortify de belly with something warm, else no be fit to do de work that am to be done.' The kindling of the fire, the warming up of the pepper pot.

And its subsequent consumption were three operations that did not take chakra any very great amount of time. They were all over just as the darkness of night descended over the earth. Now fo' get ready de signal, solilichized he, moving about over the floor of his hut, and looking into crannies and corners as if in search of some object. As de good luck habit. There be no moon to-night leastways till atter midnight. Atter den, a dawn, care she shine as bright as de sun iself. There be plenty of dark fo' Adam to see de signal, and plenty fo' de utter business at Mount Welcome. There'll be light nuff bout dat air, fo' we take sleep of de place. Won't dat be a blaze? "'Would have a put there our telegraph lamp,' said he, still searching around the hut.

"'He's a forgot all about what it am, so long since I used the darn thing. Must be under the bed. Yeah, here it am.' As he said this, he drew from under the bamboo bedstead a gourd shell, of nearly egg shape, but of the dimensions of a large melon. It had a long, tapering shank, part of the fruit itself, where the pericap narrowed toward its peduncle, and through this a string had been passed, by which the gourd could be suspended upon a peg. Holding it by the handle he raised the shell to the light of his lard lamp, already kindled, and stood for some time silently inspecting it. The gourd was not perfect. That is, it was no longer a mere empty shell, but a manufactured article containing within a most singular apparatus.

On one side appeared a hole, several inches in diameter, and cut in a shape nearly pyramidal, the base being above the thick end of the oval, and the apex, somewhat blunt or truncated, extending towards the shank. Up to the level of the opening the shell was filled with lard, in the middle of which appeared a wick of silk cotton staple, and behind this were two hits of broken looking-glass, set slanting to each other. The whole apparatus bore some resemblance to a reflecting lamp, and that was in reality the purpose for which the rude contrivance had been constructed. After a careful examination, its owner appeared to be satisfied that it was in good order, and having trimmed it by adding a little fresh lard and straightening up the wick, he set the lamp aside and proceeded with the preparation of some other paraphernalia necessary for the night's expedition.

A stick some four feet in length and a piece of strong cord were the next articles procured, and these were also put on one side. To these succeeded a long-bladed knife and a stout pistol, with flintlock, which the Coramante loaded and primed with great care. Both were stuck behind a belt which he had already buckled around his ribs, under the skin caros. "'A don't-ticipate,' said he, as he armed himself with these formidable weapons, "'there a-goin be much need for either of them. "'Dar ain't nobody down there, am like show-fight. "'Dar-der-grand-bukhra, ab-late come to Mount Welcome, "'dee say he be fraid of dee shadow ab-danger, "'and as fo dee brack folks, "'dee look up dee's weapon be sufficient fo dem.'" If that won't do, then throw off my mask.

The sight of old chakra that drive him into fits, that send ebby nigger on the plantation into the middle of next week.

Another weapon appeared to be wanting, in the shape of a large black bottle containing rum. With this the Camerante soon supplied himself, drawing one out from its secret hiding place. And holding it before the light to make sure that it was full. "'Dis bottle,' said he as he thrust it into a pouch on his carous, "'I hab kep for di special occasion. It am di best weapon fo' mi poppus. When dem fellers git dar dose of di rum, dar be no back out in dem den. Golly,' he added, glancing out, and seeing that it was now quite dark." I must be gone for Ohio. By dem time old Adam sees de Telumgraf and gets cross dem air mountains, it be late enough for de business to begin. Finishing with this reflection, the sable conjurer took up his telegraphic apparatus and, stepping over the threshold, hurried away from the hut.

99 099 - Volume 3 Chapter 28 - Setting the Signal 9:31

The Maroon. By Thomas Main Read. Volume 3. Chapter 28. Setting the Signal.

The short tropic twilight had passed, and night had descended upon the island of Jamaica. It promised to be a night of deepest darkness. The moon would not rise before midnight, and even then she might not be seen.

As the canopy was covered with a thick curtain of black cumulus clouds, through which neither star nor speck of blue sky was visible. Alike lay valleys and mountains shrouded in amorphous darkness, and even the Jumba Rock, the highest and most conspicuous summit for miles around, was wrapped in complete obscurity. Its vitreous flanks no longer sparkled in the light, since there was none, and its dark mass was so dimly outlined against the equally somber background of the sky as to be invisible from the valley below. The form of a man, groping his way up the narrow ravine that debauched upon the summit of the rock, could not have been distinguished. Much less the black hue of his skin, the deformity that marked his figure, or the hideous aspect of his countenance.

And yet a man so characterized climbed up there about half an hour after the going down of the sun.

It need scarce be said that the man was Chakra, the Kuramanti. Who else would be seeking the Jumba rock at that hour? What was his errand up there? Let the sequel declare.

On setting foot upon the platform, he undid the knot that fastened the skin mantle over his shoulders, and then, taking off the garment, he spread it out upon the rock. The stick he had brought up with him he placed along one edge, and there made it fast with some pieces of string. When this was accomplished, he lifted both stick and cloak from the rock, and, proceeding to the palm, he laid the stick transversely across the stem, at about the height of his own hand, and then lashed it fast to the tree.

The kairos now hung down the stem in a spread position, the transverse stick keeping it extended to its full width. While arranging it thus, Chakra evidently had an eye to the direction, that is, the plain represented by the spread garment had one face fronting the valley of Mount Welcome, and the cultivated lowlands between that and Montego Bay, while the reverse side was turned towards the black grounds of Trelawney, a tract of wild country in which not a single estate, plantation, or pen Had been established, and where no such thing as a white settlement existed. In this solitude, however, there were black colonies of a peculiar kind, for that was the favorite haunt of the absconded slave, the lurking place of the outlaw, the retreat of the runaway.

There even might the assassin find an asylum secure from the pursuit of justice. There had he found it, for among those dark, forest-clad mountains more than one murderer made his dwelling. Robbers there were many, even existing in organized bands and holding the authorities of the island at defiance. All these circumstances were known to Chakra. And some of the robbers, too, were known to him, some of the fiercest who followed that free calling. It was to communicate with one of these bands that the preparations of the mild man were being made. Chakra was preparing the signal. Satisfied that the skin cloak was extended in the proper direction, the Kuramanti next took up his reflector lamp. And having attached it against that side of the carross facing towards the mountains, he took out his flint, steel and tinder, and after striking a light, set the wick on fire.

In an instant the lamp burned brightly, and the light, reflected from the bits of looking-glass, might have been seen from the back country to the distance of many miles, while at the same time It was completely screened from any eye looking from the side of the plantations. The projecting edges of the calabash hindered the rays from passing to either side, while the interposed disk of the spread karos further prevented the sheen that otherwise might have betrayed the presence of the signal. It was not meant for the eyes of honest men in the direction of Montego Bay, but for those of the robbers among the far hills of Trelawney. "'Just dee sword ob' night foe dem see it,' muttered the mile-man, as with folded arms foe stood contemplating the light.

Dee sky, brack as dee devil's pitch-pot. O'le Adam he sure hab's summon on dee look-out." "'Dee shore see him soon.' Chakra never looked more hideous than at that moment. That to some extent aided in concealing his deformity of scant shirt, of coarse crimson flannel, alone covering the hunch, most part of his body naked, exposing to the strong light of the reflector his black corrugated skin. The aspect of his ferocious features compressed by the snake-encircled turban upon his temples. The long-bladed knife and pistol, appearing in his waist belt, all combined to produce a fearful picture, that could not fail to strike terror into whoever should have the misfortune to behold it. Standing immovable under the glare of the lamp, his misshapen figure projected across the surface of the summit platform.

He might easily have been mistaken for a personification. Of the fiend, that African fiend, after whom the rock had been named. In this situation he remained, observing perfect silence, and with his eyes eagerly bent upon the distant mountains, dimly discernible through the deep obscurity of the night. Only for a few minutes was this silence preserved, and the attitude of repose in which he had placed himself. "'Wuh!' he exclaimed, dropping his arms out of their fold, as if to set about some action. "'I knowed they'd would soon see him. Yanner go de answer.' As he spoke, a bright light was seen suddenly blazing up on the top of a distant eminence, which was suddenly extinguished. After a short interval another, exactly similar, appeared in the same place.

And in a similar manner went out again, and then, when an equal interval had elapsed, a third. All three resembled flashes produced by powder ignited in a loose heap. The moment the third response had been given to his signal, the Coromante stepped up to his reflector and blew out the light. Apostrophizing the lamp. "'Dar am some danger keepin' you dar. Beside, it am gettin' cold up here. I want my old cloak.' So saying, he took down the reflector and after it the karras, and separating the latter from the piece of stick, he once more suspended the garment around his shoulders. This done, he moved forward to the front of the platform. And dropping his legs over, sat down upon the edge of the rock.

100 100 - Volume 3 Chapter 29 - The Cry of the Solitaire 13:04

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume Three, Chapter Twenty-Nine. The Cry of the Solitaire.

From the spot where he had seated himself, the mansion of Mount Welcome was in view. That is, it would have been, had it been daytime, or even a moonlight night. As it was, however, darkness veiled the whole valley under its opaque shadows. And the situation of the house could only have been guessed at, had it not been for the light streaming through the jalouseed windows. These revealed its position to the eyes of the Coramante. More than one window showed light, several that were side by side giving out a strong glare. These Chakra knew to be the side windows of the great hall, or drawing room. Its front windows could not be seen from the Jumba Rock, since they faced towards the valley and not to the mountain.

The mile-man knew all this. Of forty years, residence on the estate of Mount Welcome had rendered perfectly accurate his knowledge of the topography of the place. So much light shining out suggested the idea of cheerfulness, as if company were entertained within.

Ejaculated Chakra as his eye caught the lights. Don't look very much like they were grievin'. They can't have heard of that fair yet. Perhaps they have take the body to the plantation of content. Little they know down there what's been done. Little they dream that the proud master of that air buff am just at this minute a cold corpus. That's no house of morning.

There's feasin' goin' on, da. I'll be bound. Never mind, never mind. Patience, old nigger. Maybe you come in for share of them whittle before it gets cold. "'And maybe you have share of the dishes on which de widdle am saved up, de forks and de spoons, and de silver-plate, generumly. Dat will be a haul.

But what care I for de forks and de spoons? Nuffin. Dar's but one ting I care fo, and dat am more than silver, more than gold, more than moun' whelm itself.'" That am the lily kwashiba.

I have lub her for many long year. Lub her more'n ever. Yes, I lub her with the whole trinkth of my soul. Once I get that beautiful gal in these arms, I no care for the forks and the spoons. Old Adam be welcome take all them rubbish. No. Continued he, after a pause, apparently relenting of his liberality. That no do neither. I soon need both the forks and the spoons. I'll want him for the housekeeping. I'll want the silver and the gold to buy other thing. Must have my share, long with the rest. What am the best place take my wife to? muttered the intended husband, continuing the same strain of reflections. Must leave the duppy hole. That place no longer safe. Too near the old plantation. Bound to be a devil of a rumpus after she carried away.

That are if they believe she am carried away. Guess I know the way make them believe different. Never mind. I know how managed that. At this moment the reflections of the Coromante were interrupted by a sound that caused him to draw his legs up on the rock and assume an attitude as if about to spring to his feet. At the repetition of the sound he started up and rapidly recrossed to the opposite side. At the point where the upward path debauched upon the platform, he stopped to listen. For the third time the sound was repeated. There was nothing strange in it, at least to ears familiar with the voices of a Jamaica forest. It was the call of a common yet peculiar bird, the solitaire. The one thing strange was to hear it at that hour of the night.

It was not the time when the soft and flute-like note of the solitaire should fall upon the ear of the forest wonderer. Hearing it at that hour was by no means strange to Chakra. It was not that which had startled him from his seat and caused him to cross quickly to the other side of the platform. On the contrary, it was because he knew that what he had heard was not the note of the solitaire, but a counterfeit call from his confederate, Adam. Chakra's private slogan was different. More mournful and less musical. It was an imitation of that melancholy utterance heard at night from the sedgy shores of the dark lagoon, the cry of the wailing bittern. With a small reed applied to his lips, the Coromante produced an exact imitation of this cry, and then remained silent, awaiting the result.

At the bottom of the ravine could be heard a murmur of voices. As if several men were together, talking in guarded tones. Following this came a sound of scratching against the stones, and a rustling of branches, each moment becoming more distinct. Shortly after, the form of a man emerged out of the shadowy clef. Stepping cautiously upon the platform, another followed, and another, until six in all stood upon the summit of the rock.

"'That you, brother Adam," said Chakra, stepping forward to receive the first who presented himself at the head of the sloping path. "'Ya, ya, am it Chakra?' "'That same old nigger.' "'All right, comrade. "'We've see your signal as soon as it war hoisted. "'We want long a-comin', war we? "'Very quick.' "'I didn't spec you for half an hour more.' Well, now we are here. What's the game? I hope there's a good big stake to play for. Our stock of stuff wants replenishing very badly. We haven't had the chance of a job for more than a month. We are most in want of widdles." "'Widdles!' exclaimed the mile-man, laying a scornful emphasis on the word. "'There's a thing for you to do this night that'll give ye more than widdle.'" "'It give you wealth.

Every one of ye. What?' "'Good,' ejaculated Adam, simultaneously with a chorus of like exclamations. "'Glad to hear that air bit o' intelligence.' "'Am it that air little job you speak me bout last time I see you? That it, o' humpy?' "'That same,' laconically answered Chakra. "'Only was this difference,' added he. "'That a call on the big job instead of the little one.' "'Big or little,' rejoined the other. "'We've come ready to do it. You see we have.' The speaker, who appeared to be the leader of the party who accompanied him, pointed to the others as he made this remark. The hint was scarce regarded by Chakra. Notwithstanding the murky gloom that enveloped the forms of Adam and his companions, The mild man could see that they were all armed and equipped, though in the most varied and uncouth fashions.

The weapons of no two were alike. One carried an old musket, red with rust, another a fouling piece in like condition. Others were provided with pistols, and nearly all had long knives or machetes. Thus provided. It was scarce probable that the job for whose execution Chakra had summoned them could be one of a pacific character. Had a light been thrown upon the group that surrounded Chakra, it would have revealed a collection of faces, each provided with a set of features, but little less sinister than those of Chakra himself. Not one of them would have been found a line indicative of either peace or mercy. For it was the band of the black robber Adam, celebrated as the most notorious cutthroats in the island.

Chakr expressed no surprise at seeing them armed, nor felt any. He had expected it, and the flourish which their leader had made of this fact was only intended to make manifest that they were ready for the ordinary requirements of their vocation. Eagerly willing were they for the extremist action, but in order to make more certain of their compliance, Chakra thought it prudent to ply them with a little rum. My friends," said he, in an affectionate tone, you have had the fatigue of a long walk through the darkness of the night. I have got here a little drop of something that's very good for keep the cold out of you. Suppose we all take a wet from dis bottle. To this proposition there was a general assent, expressed in varied phraseology.

There was no teetotaler in that crowd of worthies. Chakra had not thought of providing himself with either drinking cup or calabash, but the want was scarcely felt. The robbers each in turn refreshed himself directly from the neck of the bottle, until the rum ran out. Well, oh, Humpy," said Adam, drawing Chakra aside and speaking in that familiar phrase that betokened a thickness of thieves between them. I suppose the chants you spoke bout hab come round at last. Das a fact, brother Adam, it hab come now. De great Bukhra gone from home? He gone from home, and gone to home. Ha, ha! Come, dat's a riddle. What do you mean by gone to home? To him long home, that's what I mean. Ha! exclaimed Adam.

You don't say the cussles. Never mind about the cussles now, brother Adam. That you know all about afterwards. It am the cussles a silver plate that concern you now, and there's no time to waste in Palaverin. By the time we gets down there, And puts on de masks. De'll be a-going to bed. Better de was gone to bed, but at dat time, you see, de moon ud be up, and for all dees clouds mout shine out. Dat, as you know, won't neba do. We must tisipate de risin' ob de moon. True nuff. All right, I'm ready, and so are de rest. Den follow me, all of you. We can plan de mode of attack as we travel long, plenty ob time fo' dat. When we find out how de land lie down below, follow me. And with this injunction, the Coromante commenced descending the ravine, followed by Adam and his band of burglars.

101 101 - Volume 3 Chapter 30 - A Sad Procession 8:34

A Sad Procession.

On that same evening, about half an hour before sunset, a singular procession was seen moving along the Carrion Crow Road, in the direction of Mount Welcome. Its slow progress, with the staid looks and gestures of those who composed the procession, Betokened it to be one of a melancholy nature. A rude litter carried upon the shoulders of four men confirmed this impression. More especially when the eye rested upon a human form stretched along the litter, and which could easily be identified as a dead body, notwithstanding the camlet cloak that covered it. There were ten individuals forming this funeral cortege, though all were not mourners. Two were on horseback, a little in advance of the rest.

Four followed, carrying the litter. While close behind these came four others, two and two, the foremost pair being lashed arm in arm to one another, each also with his hands tied behind his back. And both evidently prisoners. The two that brought up the rear appeared to be guarding them. The individuals composing this mournful procession may be easily identified. The two riding in advance were Herbert Vaughan and the Maroon Captain. The horses they bestrode, being the same that had passed over that road the day before, Carrying the custos and his negro attendant. The prisoners were the Spanish Casadores, their guards, Cuoco, and the before-mentioned attendant, while the four men bearing the body were slaves belonging to the plantation of content.

It need scarce be added that the corpse, stretched stark and stiff upon the litter, was all that remained of the Grand Custos Vaan. Strictly describing them, not one of the procession party could be called a mourner. None of them had any reason to be greatly aggrieved by the fate that had befallen the owner of Mount Welcome, not even his relative. Notwithstanding this absence of a cause for grief, the faces of all, the prisoners excepted, wore a look of decent gravity becoming the occasion. Perhaps the nephew would have more keenly felt the situation, for now that his uncle was no more, every spark of hostility had become extinguished. Perhaps he might even have mourned, but for certain circumstances that had just come to his knowledge, and which had the effect not only to counteract within his heart all tendency towards sorrow, but also to overpower it with joy.

It was only with an effort, therefore, that he could preserve upon his features that expression of sadness due to the melancholy position in which he was placed. Despite the presence of death, his heart was at that moment filled with a secret satisfaction, so sweet that he could not deny himself its indulgence. The source of this satisfaction may be easily traced. It will be found in the information communicated to him by the maroon captain. During their journey of the preceding day, their vigil of the night, and, still further, their long, slow march of that morning, Kubina had made known to him many circumstances of which he had been hitherto ignorant. Among other items of intelligence, one of the most interesting that language could have imparted.

It need scarce be said what this was. It may be guessed at by recalling the conversation between the Maroon and his mistress, Yola, occurring at the last tryst under the Siba, that part of it which related to the lily kwashiba. Though Kubina's knowledge was only second-hand, it was sufficiently definite to inspire Herbert with hope, something more than hope. And hence, that secret joy whose outward manifestation he found it difficult to suppress. Every word of the conversation that had passed between the Maroon and his mistress, every word that referred to her mistress, Kubina had been compelled to repeat over and over again, till Herbert knew it as well as if he had been present during the dialogue.

No wonder he was not in a condition to feel very profoundly for the sad fate that had befallen his uncle, hitherto only known to him as a relative harsh and hostile. Other secrets had Kubina disclosed to him. Among the rest, the true character of his patron, Jesseron, which Herbert had already begun to suspect, and which was now revealed to him in all its hideous wickedness. The history of the Fula Prince, hitherto unknown to Herbert, besides his own experiences during the last twenty-four hours, was sufficient to confirm any suspicion that might point to Jacob Jesseron. Though it was plain that the two prisoners in the custody of Cuoco had not actually assassinated the custos, it was equally clear that such had been their intention, anticipated by a death of another kind.

This both Kubina and Herbert conjectured to have proceeded from the same hand, the hand of Herbert's si devant host. The phrase is appropriate. Long before Herbert had heard one half of Kubina's disclosures, he had resolved never more voluntarily to set foot in the Happy Valley, much less return to seek shelter under the roof of Jesseron. If he should hereafter have ought to do with the Israelite, it would be in the course of justice, as avenger of the death of his murdered relative. That Loftus Vaughan was the victim of assassination neither he nor the Maroon for a moment doubted. The conversation which the latter had listened to between Chakra and the Jew, and which unfortunately at the time he had not clearly comprehended, was no longer mysterious.

Only its motive remained so. The deed itself had now furnished the terrible interpretation. Neither Herbert nor Kubina had any idea of permitting the matter to drop. An event of such fearful significance called for the fullest investigation, and they were now proceeding with the preliminary step, carrying the body to Mount Welcome, in order that the authorities might be called together and an inquest instituted. How different were the feelings of Herbert from those he experienced on his former and first approach to the mansion of his haughty relative? He was now the victim of emotions so varied and mingled as to defy description.

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The Maroon By Thomas Main Read. Volume Three, Chapter Thirty-One. The Abduction.

To Chakra viewing them from the summit of the Jumba Rock, the well-lighted windows of Mount Welcome had proclaimed the presence of company within the mansion. In this, however, the Kuramante was mistaken. In the past, such an appearance might have had that signification. Or up to a very late period, that is, up to the date of the arrival of the distinguished Smythe G. Since the latter had become the guest of Mount Welcome, however, the illumination of the mansion with chandelier and candelabra was not only not unusual, but had been the nightly practice. This was Mr. Vaughan's pleasure. Which in his absence the house steward had injunctions to carry out. The grand hall was only lit up as usual, its lustrous floor glistening in a brilliant light, while the profusion of cut glass and silver plate sparkled upon the sideboards, loudly proclaiming the opulence of the platter.

There was no strange company present, none expected, no one who did not belong to the family. Except Mr. Smythgee, and he would scarcely be considered a stranger. Rather might he be regarded, for the time at least, as the master of the mansion, since in that charge had the custos left him. The only individuals occupying this splendid apartment were Smythgee and the young mistress of Mount Welcome, both yet ignorant of what had occurred upon the Savannah Road, that fearful event. Which had left Kate Vaughan a fatherless orphan, at the same time depriving her of the proud title we have just bestowed upon her. Yola, her attendant, went and came at intervals, and Toms occasionally presented himself in the apartment in obedience to a summons from his master.

Notwithstanding the absence of company, Smythe G. was in full evening dress, body coat, breeches, Silk stockings and pumps with silver buckles. It was his custom to dress, or be dressed, every evening, a custom so scrupulously observed that had there been no one in the house except the negro domestics of the establishment, Smythji would have appeared in full fashionable costume all the same. With him the exigencies of fashion were as rigorous as to a holy friar would be the observances of his religion. The gentleman was in high spirits, merry indeed, and strange to say, his companion was less melancholy than of late. No doubt this had given him his cue for mirth. Why she had been enabled to escape from her habitual dejection was not known to Smythegee.

But he was fain to attribute the improvement in her spirits to the near prospect of that pleasant ceremony, which in a few days must indubitably take place. In a week, or a fortnight at most, Mr. Vaughan might be expected back, and then it was understood by all, tacitly by the young lady herself, that the union of Mount Welcome and Montague Castle should be no longer delayed. Smytheche had even begun to talk of the wedding trousseau, of the honeymoon tour, which was to extend to the grand metropolis, and as Kate, at his request, seated herself to the harp, suggesting a musical conversation, he commenced enlarging upon the theme of the grand apoi, and its attractions, so dear and delightful to himself.

This sort of talk, upon other occasions, had invariably the effect of making his listener more sad. But, strange to say, on that evening, it produced no such disagreeable consequence. Kate's fingers flitted over the strings of the instrument, drawing music from them that was far from melancholy. In truth, the young Creole was not listening to the Colour de Rosé, descriptions of the metropolis. And its apwa, which Smythji was so strenuously endeavoring to impart to her. Though seated by the harp, and striking mechanically upon its strings, she was dwelling upon thoughts of a far different character, thoughts that suggested by some further intelligence which Yola had communicated to her, and which was the true source of that joy, perhaps but a transitory gleam.

That overspread her countenance. Little did Kate Vaughn suspect that the corpse of her father, lying cold and lifeless upon a stretcher, and surrounded by strange mourners, was at that moment scarce five miles distant from where she sat, and slowly approaching the now masterless mansion of Mount Welcome. Little did she suspect, while making that music for Smytheji, That from another direction, monsters in human form were moving towards that mansion, their dark shadows projected across the glare of the window lights, now stationary, now flitting stealthily onward, at each progressive movement drawing nearer and nearer to the walls. She saw not these shadowy demon-like men, had no suspicion either of their approach or intent.

An intent which comprehended robbery, rapine of a far more fearful kind, murder if need be. Neither its mistress, neither Smythe G., nor anyone else of Mount Welcome saw or suspected this mysterious circumvallation until the movement had been successfully executed. Not a word of warning, not a sign or gesture. Was given to the occupants of the apartment until, with wild unearthly yells, half a dozen fiend-like forms, men of horrid aspect, some with black masks, others with naked visage, even more hideous to behold, burst into the grand hall and commenced the work of pillage. One of gigantic size, masked from crown to throat, And wrapped in an ample covering of skin, though not sufficient to conceal the deformity of a hunched back, rushed directly up to where the fair musician was seated, and, dashing the harp to one side, seized upon her wrist before she could disengage herself from her chair.

Whoa! came the ejaculation and loud aspirate from behind the mask. I's got ye at last. My little Quashiba. Adders many de ye a been longin' for hab ye. Efty quateroom, ya mutter. She capin' corn me. I za take care o de daughter. Doin' get ye same chance. You come long wi' me. And as the ravisher pronounced these words, he commenced dragging his shrieking victim across the room towards the stair entrance. Smythegee's half-irresolute interposition was of no avail. With one sweep of his long, flail-like arm, he in the skin cloak sent the exquisite sprawling upon the floor. The terrified Cockney no longer thought of resistance, but after scrambling a while over the polished planks at length succeeded in gaining his feet.

Then, without waiting to receive a second knockdown, He shot out through the open doorway, and descending the stone stairs, in a couple of skips, disappeared in the darkness below. Meanwhile, the alarm had been communicated to the kitchen and all over the house. Shouts of surprise were succeeded by screams of terror. The domestics came running in from all directions, but a shot or two from the muskets and pistols of the black burglars Fired for the purpose of increasing the confusion, scattered the whole establishment of servants, toms among the rest, and sent them in full flight towards the sugarworks and Negro village beyond. In less than a score of seconds, Adam and his confederates had the mansion to themselves.

It was but the work of a few minutes to fling open the buffet and sideboards and plunder them of their most valuable contents. In less than a quarter of an hour, the black burglars had finished their job and were ready to depart. While his Confederates were thus engaged, Chakra had secured his victim at the bottom of the front stairway, where he was impatiently awaiting the completion of the pillage. Though determined upon having his share of the booty, he cared less for that than for the gratification of that wicked desire that had so long possessed his savage soul, so long by circumstances restrained. Notwithstanding his eagerness for this demoniac indulgence, he still possessed a certain degree of prudence.

As soon as Adam and his associates made their appearance, loaded with spoils, He placed his prisoner under the charge of one of the robbers and, commanding the others to follow him, rapidly reascended the stairway and once more entered the plundered apartment. In an incredibly short space of time, the harp, the chairs, the ottomans and other articles of light furniture were piled up in the middle of the floor. The jalousies were wrenched from their fastenings, flung upon the heap. And then set on fire. Quick as tinder the dry wood blazed up, and in five minutes the noble mansion of Mount Wellcome was in flames. In five minutes more, under the red glare, flung far out into the distant fields, the robbers were seen, slowly and laboriously seeking concealment within the shadows beyond.

Six of them burdened with shining utensils that gave back the gleam of the blazing mansion, while the seventh, the most formidable figure of all, carried in his arms an object of a far different kind, the body of a beautiful woman, the fainting form of Lily Kwashi-bah.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read.

Volume 3. Chapter 32. Burglars, Robbers, Murderers.

In solemn pace the procession which accompanied the corpse of Cousteau's Vaughan moved silently along the lonely road. The Jumba rock was now in sight, encarnened by the last rays of the sinking sun. Beyond lay Mount Welcome, a house to which the sad courtage was about to carry the queue for wailing and desolation. Ah, little dreamt they who composed it, that the demon was already there before them, if not of death, of a doom equally dark. Could Herbert only have known that at that moment the beautiful being he loved with his whole heart And now more than ever, she who loved him was struggling in the arms. No matter, the terrible truth will reach him but too soon. It will meet him on his way.

In another hour the sweet dreams in which, throughout that long day he has been indulging, will meet with a dread dissipation. At a turning of the road there stood several gigantic trees. Offering a grand canopy of foliage. Under these the party halted, by the joint command of Herbert and Kubina, who at the same moment dismounted from their horses. It was not the shade that had tempted them, for the sun had now gone down, nor yet that the bearers might obtain rest. The men were strong, and the wasted form was far from being a heavy burden. It was not for that reason that the halt had been ordered, but on account of a thought that had suggested itself to Herbert, and which was approved of by Kubina.

It was the apprehension of the dread impression which their arrival might produce at Mount Welcome, of course, on whose father's corpse they were carrying. They had stopped to consider what was best to be done. A plan soon suggested itself. A messenger could be sent forward upon one of the horses to communicate the sad tidings to Trusty, the overseer, and through him the melancholy news might be more gradually made known to her whom it most concerned. Herbert would have gone himself, but was hindered by certain delicate considerations based on the conflicting emotions that were stirring within him. It mattered little who should bear the melancholy tidings to trustee, and the negro attendant was finally chosen.

The man received his instructions and, having mounted his own horse, rode off at such speed as the darkness, now down upon the earth, would permit. For another hour the party remained in the place where they had halted, to give time for the messenger to execute his commission. Then, once more taking the road, they moved forward at a slow pace, Herbert alongside Kubina, now afoot, and leading the horse upon which he had hitherto ridden. Quoco alone guarded the prisoners, a duty to which the maroon lieutenant was quite equal, and which he had rendered the more easy of accomplishment by pressing into his service a piece of rope. Attached round the neck of the one that was nearest, and which held halter fashion in his hand, enabled him to prevent either of them from straying in the darkness.

Neither, however, made any attempt to escape, knowing, as both did, that the slightest movement in that direction would cost them a thwack from the stout cudgel, an additional implement carried in the hands of Kwako. In this way the cortege had proceeded for some half-mile or so beyond its last resting place, when it was again brought to a halt by the orders of those in the lead. The cause of this interruption was declared to all of the party at once. All heard the hoof-strokes of a horse coming rapidly along the road, and from the opposite direction to that in which they were moving. Going as he appeared to be at full gallop, in five minutes more or in half the time, the horsemen should be in their midst.

Was he a stranger, or could it be their own messenger coming back? He had not been directed to return. It was deemed sufficient for him to see Mr. Trustee and make known the news which he had been entrusted to communicate. It was not without a feeling of surprise, therefore, as the horsemen dashed forward upon the ground and pulled up in front of the procession, that Herbert and Kubina recognized the returned attendant. He left them no time to speculate on the mystery of his reappearance, the white froth upon the flanks of his steed, shining through the gloom, told of fast riding. While the stammering and terrified accents in which the man proclaimed the purpose of his return rendered more startling the news he had come to communicate.

Mount Welcome was, at that moment, attacked by a band of burglars, robbers, and murderers. There were men in masks and men without them, equally terrible to look upon. They were plundering the Great Hall. Had murdered Mr. Smythegee, were ill-treating the young mistress of the mansion, and firing guns and pistols at every one who came in their way. The messenger had not stayed to see Mr. Trustee. He had learned all this from the domestics, who were hurrying in flight from the mansion. Confounded by the shouting and shots he had himself heard, and thinking that the likeliest chance of assistance Would be found in the party he had just left, and which he believed to be much nearer, he had galloped back along the road.

These were the main facts of the attendant's story, not communicated, however, with any regard to sequence, but in the most incoherent manner, and liberally interspersed with exclamations of alarm. It was a fearful tale. And fell with a terrible effect upon the ears of those to whom it was told, Herbert and Kubina. Burglars, robbers, murderers. Mr. Smythejee killed. The young mistress of Mount Welcome in the act of being abused? And Yola? She, too. Quacko, cried the maroon captain, rushing to the rear and addressing himself to his lieutenant. Think you our men can hear us from here? Sound your horn on the instant. Your blast is stronger than mine. There is trouble at Mount Welcome. We may need every man of them.

Quick! Quick! The devil! cried Quacko, dropping his hold off the halter and raising the horn to his mouth. I'll make them here, if they're in the island of Jamaica. You keep your ground, ye pair of John Crows. He added, as he held the horn an inch or two from his lips, if either of you budge a foot out of your places, I'll send a brace of bullets through your stinking carcages and stop you that-a-way. See if I don't. And with this emphatic admonition, the Colossus applied the horn to his mouth and blew a blast that might have been heard for miles. In echoes it rang from the sides of the Jumba Rock, and from many a peak lying far beyond. So loud and shrill rang it that one might almost have believed in Kwako's affirmation that it could be heard to the extremities of the island.

At all events it was heard by some not so far off, for scarce had its echoes ceased to reverberate, when a half-dozen similar sounds proceeding from different directions, and apparently from different distances, came back in response. Kubina waited not to hear their repetition. "'Enough!' cried he. "'There are half a dozen of them anyhow. That will no doubt be enough.' You, Quacko, stay here till they come up, and then follow to Mount Welcome. Sound again to direct them, and see that these two murderous villains don't escape you. Hadn't I better put a brace of bullets through them? naively inquired Quacko. It'll save trouble if I do that. What do you say, Cap'n Kubina? No, no, Quacko. Justice will settle accounts with them.

Bring them along with you. And follow as soon as our men get up. Before Quokko could offer any further suggestions, the maroon captain had mounted the messenger's horse, Herbert having already leaped into the saddle of the other, and both, without further speech, rode forward as fast as their steeds could carry them.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed Volume Three, Chapter Thirty-Three. Dread Conjectures.

Observing a profound silence, the two young men pressed forward. Neither liked to put question to the other. Each dreaded the answer the other might make. Each was thinking only of the danger of her who was dearest to him. They urged on their steeds with equal eagerness, for both were alike interested in the denouement of the dreadful drama at that moment being enacted at the mansion of Mount Welcome. Their reflections were similar, and similarly painful. They might be too late. There they could arrive upon the scene, the stage might be deserted, the tragedy played out, the players gone. It needed not these thoughts to stimulate them to increase speed. They were already riding as if life or death rested on the issue.

They had neared the flank of the Jumba Mountain, and were heading for the ridge that separated the estates of Montague Castle and Mount Welcome. At this point the road debauched from the forest, and the ridge came in sight. At the same instant a cry escaped from the lips of Kubina, as with a quick wrench he drew his horse to a halt. Herbert echoed the cry of his comrade, at the same time imitating his action. Neither thought of questioning the other, both had halted under the same impulse. The evil omen had been seen simultaneously by both. Over the summit of the ridge, A yellow light glared halo-like against the sky. Fire! exclaimed Cubina, just over Mount Welcome. Santa Madre! The mansion is in flames!

Oh, heavens! cried Herbert. We shall be too late. Not another word passed between the two horsemen. Stirred by the same instinct, they renewed their gallop, and silently, side by side, urged their horses up the hill. In a few minutes they had attained the summit of the ridge, whence they could command a full view of the valley of Mount Welcome. The mansion was in flames. There was no further utterance of surprise that was past. It was scarce a conjecture which Kubina had pronounced on seeing that glare against the sky, but a conviction. And the crackling sounds which had assailed their ears as they were riding upward to the crest of the ridge fully confirmed the event before their eyes looked on the fire itself.

There was no more mansion of Mount Welcome. In its place a blazing pile, a broad sheet of flame rising in gigantic jets to the sky. Crowned with huge sparks and murky smoke, and accompanied by a continuous roaring and crackling of timbers, as if fiends were firing a feu de joie in the celebration of some terrible holocaust. Too late! Too late! muttered both the horsemen in the same breath, and then, with despair on their faces and black fear in their hearts, they once more gave rain to their steeds. And riding recklessly down the slope, galloped on towards the conflagration. In a few seconds' time they had crossed the enclosures and halted in front of the blazing pile, as near to it as their frayed steeds would consent to carry them.

Both at the same instant sprang from their saddles, and with guns grasped and ready to defend themselves against whatever enemy, approached nearer and nearer to the building. No one appeared in front of the house. They hurried round to the rear. No one was there. Equally deserted were the grounds in the garden. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, not a voice to be heard except their own, as they called aloud, and this only feebly, through the hissing and roaring of the flames. Back and forth rushed the two men in eager haste, going round and round the house, and exploring every spot that might be expected to conceal either fiend or foe. But in spite of their most eager search, and the constant summons of their shouts, not a creature appeared, and no response reached them.

For a moment they paused to consider. It was evident the conflagration had been going on for some time. The upper story, which was but a framework of light timber, was now nearly consumed, and only the stonework below left standing. Over this the larger beams had fallen, no longer emitting flame, but lying transversely upon each other, charred, red, and smoldering. On finding no one near the dwelling, Kubina and Herbert made for the works. These were all standing untouched, and it was evident that no attempt had been made to fire them. Only the mansion had been given to the flames. On arriving among the outbuildings the two men again raised their voices, but, as before, without receiving a reply.

Here everything was dark and silent as the tomb. A silence more impressive by contrast with the awe-inspiring sounds of the conflagration raging at a distance. Neither in the curing house nor the mill nor the mash house nor the stable could anyone be discovered. Not an individual to be seen, not a voice to respond to their oft-repeated halloos. On rushed they to the Negro cabins. Surely there someone would be found. All could not have fled through fear of the robber band. As the two men turned in the direction of the Negro village, a figure started up in the path, having just emerged out of the bushes. In that semblance to the imp of darkness, seen under the distant glare of the conflagration, Herbert recognized his old acquaintance, Quashie.

Quashie had already identified him. Oh, young Masser! cried the darky as he rose to his feet. The buff a-blazin' it be all burn up. Crombo, tell us something we don't know, impatiently demanded Kubina. Who has set it on fire? Do you know that? Did you see the incendiaries? hurriedly added Herbert. See who, Massa? Those who set the house on fire, inquired Herbert, still speaking with anxious haste. Yes, Masser, I see them. When they first rush up the front stairway. Well, speak quickly. Who and what were they? What were they like? Law, Masser, they were like so many devils. They were nigger men, and some had masks on their faces. Folks say it war the maroon of the mountains. Black bet she deny dat, and say no.

She say twar some robbers of de mountains, and dat de come fo' carry off. Your young mistress, Miss Vaughn? Where? Where? interrupted Herbert, gasping out the unfinished interrogatory. And Yola, my lad, have you seen her? added Kubina. No genlums, replied Quashy. I seen neither de young missa nor de brown gal Yola. They war both up in the great hall. I no go up there myself. I se'fear they'd kill this chile if he go up there. I stayed down below till I see Mr. Maithji a-comin' down the stair. Lor, how did he streak it down them there stone step? He runnin' under the arch below. I guess he go hide there. Then I took to me a-heels long with the older folk. And we all go hide in de bushes. Masa Tom and de house people, dey all run fo' de woods.

Dey none o' dem neba come back yet. Oh, heavens! exclaimed Herbert in a voice of anguish. Can it be possible? You are sure, said he, once more appealing to the darky, you are sure you saw nothing of your young mistress, nor of Yola? Asked the maroon, equally as distressed as his companion. I declare I didn't, neither of them too, emphatically exclaimed Quashy. See in yonder, he added, pointing towards the burning pile and speaking in an accent of alarm. Golly, they ain't gone way yet, de robbers, de robbers. Herbert and Kubina, who, while in conversation with Quashy, Had been standing with their backs towards the fire, faced suddenly around. As they did so, they perceived several dark forms moving between them and the bright background of the flames, their shadows projected in gigantic outlines up to the spot where the spectator stood.

There were about half a dozen in all, just about the number at which Quashie had roughly estimated the incendiaries. Both sprang forward, regardless of consequences, resolved upon knowing the worst, and if their apprehensions should prove true, determined upon death or vengeance.

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The Maroon By Thomas Main Read. Volume Three, Chapter Thirty-Four. Smythe G. Still Living.

With their pieces cocked and ready for instant execution, Kubina and Herbert were pressing to get within range, when the notes of a horn, sounded by one of the men before the fire, came swelling upon their ears. The sounds were reassuring. Kubina knew the signal of his lieutenant, and they were now near enough to recognize the colossal Quaco standing in the glare of red light, surrounded by some half-dozen of his comrades. Quaco had left the corpse upon the road, and the prisoners well guarded by a couple of his followers. And thinking he might be wanted at Mount Welcome, Had harried forward close upon the heels of the horsemen. This accession of strength might have proved useful had the enemy been upon the ground.

Where were the robbers? The Ascendiaries? Perhaps the murderers? Where was Miss Vaughn? Where? The Maid Yola. Had they escaped among the domestics, or—the alternative thought was too horrible for utterance— If either Herbert nor Kubina could trust themselves to give speech to it. Only in their minds did the interrogatory shape itself, had they perished in the flames. Fearful as was the thought, it could not fail to be entertained, and in the solemn silence which the reflection produced, all stood hopelessly gazing upon the ruthless fire That was fast reducing the noble mansion to a shapeless and smoldering ruin. At that moment the stillness was interrupted by a voice proceeding from an unexpected quarter.

It appeared to come from out of the great arched vault, under the stone stairway. From a corner shrouded in comparative darkness, it was partly an exclamation, partly a groan. Guaco was the first to seek an explanation. Seizing a faggot that still flared, he rushed under the archway, regardless of the scorching heat. Herbert and Kubina quickly followed, and all three stood within the vault. Guaco waved the torch in front of his body to illuminate the place. The eyes of all three simultaneously rested upon an object that, at any other time, Might have elicited from them peals of laughter. In the corner of the vault stood a half hog's head, or large tub, its head covered with a heavy lid. Near the upper edge a square hole had been sawed out, so that a hand containing a quart measure might be inserted, without the necessity of raising the lid.

Inside and directly opposite this opening appeared the face of a man. With ample whiskers and mustaches, with face, despite the bedopment of something that resembled treacle or tar, was at once identified as that of the aristocratic Smythji. Mr. Mythji, cried Quashie, who had followed the others under the archway. I seed him. Fact, ma friends, it's nobody else but myself. interrupted the ludicrous image within the hog's head as soon as he recognized his ancient deliverer, Quokko. "'Ah, took refuge here from those hardwood wabbers. Be so good as waze the lid, and permit me to get out of this queer situation. I was afraid I should be drowned. By Jove, ah, believe its twinkle.'" Guaco, endeavoring to suppress his laughter, lost no time in throwing up the lid and extracting the sufferer from his sweet, though unpleasant position.

For it was in reality a hogshead of molasses into which the terrified Smythegee had soused himself, and in which, during the continuance of the tragedy enacted over his head, he had remained buried up to the neck. Placed upright upon his legs on the flagged floor of the vault, glistening from neck to heel with a thick coat of the slimy treacle, the proud proprietor of Montague Castle presented even a more ludicrous appearance than when Guaco had last seen him upon the summit of the hollow stump. The latter recalling this scene to memory, and unrestrained by other sentiments, Could no longer restrain himself from giving way to loud laughter, in which Quashie, equally free from sorrow, took part.

With Herbert and Kubina it was not the moment for mirth, and as soon as Smythegee had been fairly deposited on his feet, both eagerly questioned him as to the circumstances that had transpired. Smythegee admitted having fled, At the same time making an awkward attempt to justify himself. According to his own account, and the statement was perfectly true, it was not till after he had been overpowered and struck down that he betook himself to flight. How could he do otherwise? His antagonist was a giant, a man of vast magnitude and strength. A-ha would quiche! Continued Smythe-gee, a creature with long arms and a deformity, and a protuberance upon his shoulders, like a haunch of a Dwama dolly. And what of Kate, my cousin?

cried Herbert, interrupting the exquisite with contemptuous impatience. Oh, oh, yes! Your cousin, my Pa Kate. I fear the robbers have borne her off, and I know she was brought outside. I heard her scream out as they were dragging her down the stwa-stwa-stwa-stwa. Thank heaven, then, exclaimed Herbert. Thank heaven she still lives. Kubina had not waited for the whole of Smythegee's explanation. The description of the robber had given him his cue, and rushing outside he blew a single blast upon his horn, the assembly of his band. The maroons who had scattered around the ruin instantly obeyed the signal and soon stood mustard on the spot.

I know the wild boar that has been making this havoc. I know where the monster makes his den. Crumble. Ere an hour passes over his head, he shall answer for this villainy with his accursed life. Follow me.

106 106 - Volume 3 Chapter 35 - On the Track of the Destroyer 7:46

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Volume three. Chapter 35. On the Track of the Destroyer.

As Kubina pronounced this command, he faced toward the mountain, and was hastening to gain the wicked in the garden wall. When an object came before his eyes that caused him to halt, amidst the gloom it was a sight that gave him joy. He was not the only one to whom it brought gladness. Among the Maroons that had come with Guaco was one who had been suffering anguish equally with Herbert and Kubina, the one who had equal cause for grief, if not for the loss of sweetheart or cousin, for that which should be dear as either a sister. A sister for whose sake he had crossed the wide ocean, had been sold into slavery, robbed by ruthless men, branded as a felon, Chastised by the cruel scourge, had suffered every indignity which man could put on a man.

In this individual may be identified the young Fula Prince, the unfortunate Singhe. What was it that gave Kubina joy, shared thus by Singhe? It may be easily guessed it was the sight of a female form, recognized by both. The sweetheart of the one, the sister of the other, Yola. The girl was at that moment seen coming through the wicked gate. Once inside, she made no stop, but hastened across the garden towards the group of men. In another instant, she was standing between her brother and lover, sharing the embrace of both. Her story was soon told. And by all listened to with breathless attention. By Herbert Vaughan with emotions that wrung blood drops from his heart. It was short, but far too long for the impatience of apprehension and revenge.

The girl had been in one of the chambers as the robbers entered the great hall. Regardless of consequences, she had rushed out among them. Like Smythejee, she had been struck down and lay for some minutes insensible, unconscious of what was transpiring. When her senses returned and she could look around her, she perceived that her young mistress was no longer in the room. The monsters were at that moment in the act of setting fire to the mansion. A scream outside directed her. She recognized the voice of her mistress. Springing to her feet, she glided through the open door and down the stairway. The robbers were too much occupied, some with their booty, others with their scheme of incendiarism.

They either did not observe or did not think it worthwhile, further to molest her. On getting outside, she saw her young mistress borne off in the arms of a huge, misshapen man. He wore a mask over his face. But for all this, she could tell that it was the same individual she had seen upon the preceding night in company with the Jew. The masked man, whose attention seemed wholly engrossed by his precious prize, went off alone, leaving the others to continue their work of plunder and devastation. The African maid in her native land habituated to similar scenes, with a quick instinct perceived the impossibility of rescuing her mistress at that moment. And, abandoning the idea of making an idle attempt, she determined to follow and ascertain to what place the robber was taking her.

She might then return to Mount Welcome and guide those who would be sent upon the pursuit. Gliding silently along the path, and taking care not to show herself, she had kept the robber in view, without losing sight of him for a moment. The darkness was in her favor, as also the sloping path, enabling her to see from below, while she was herself in little danger of being seen. In this way had she followed the robber up the declivity of the mountain, And in an oblique direction across it, still keeping close behind him, when all at once, and to her astonishment, she saw him suddenly disappear into the earth, bearing her young mistress upon his arm, like some monstrous fiend of the other world, who had stolen a sweet image of this, and was carrying her to his dread home in the regions of darkness.

Notwithstanding the supernatural fear with which the sudden disappearance had inspired her, the bold maiden was not deterred from proceeding to the spot. Both her terror and astonishment were in the same degree modified when she looked over a cliff, and saw the sheen of water at the bottom of a dark abysm, yawning beneath her feet. In the dim light she could trace something like a means of descent down the face of the cliff, and this at once dispelled all idea of the supernatural. She made no attempt to follow further. She had seen enough to enable her to guide the pursuit, and, instantly turning back upon the path, she hastened down the declivity of the mountain. She was thinking of Kubina and his maroons, How soon her courageous sweetheart with his brave band would have rescued her unfortunate mistress, when at that moment, in the light of the flickering fire, she recognized the very image that was occupying her thoughts.

Her story was communicated in hurried phase to Kobina and his comrades, who, without losing a moment of time, passed through the wicked gate, and with all the speed in their power, Commenced ascending the mountain road. Yola remained behind with Quashy and the other domestics, who were now flocking around the great fire, looking like specters in the flickering light. Kubina required no guide to conduct him. Forewarned by that wild conversation he had overheard, as well as by the events of the preceding day, he had already surmised the author of that hellish deed. More than surmised it, he was satisfied that, whatever head had planned, the hand that had perpetrated it was that of Chakra, the Koromanti.

107 107 - Volume 3 Chapter 36 - Too Late 9:48

The Maroon by Thomas Main. Read. Volume 3, Chapter 36. Too late.

Eager as hounds upon a fresh trail, quick as young, strong limbs could carry them, pressed the pursuers up the steep path that led to the duppy's hole. Words could but feebly express the agony rankling in the heart of Herbert Vaughn. He knew not chakra in person, but a full description of him, morally as well as physically. Had been imparted to him by Kubina on the day before. It was not strange he should tremble with fear for the fate of her, who was now in the power of a monster so fell and fiend-like. Not strange that his soul should be filled with anguish. That conditional phrase, we may be too late, spoken as he urged his horse along the road, repeated as he came within sight of the burning mansion.

Once more found utterance on his lips, but now more emphatically and with far more fearful significance. His was a situation to stir the soul to its profoundest depths. Even had the victim of the vile abduction been no more than his cousin, he could not have failed to feel keenly the danger that threatened her. But now that he viewed Kate Vaughan in another and very different light, Certain from the Cubina had told him that she reciprocated his love, under the influence of this sentiment his distress was tenfold greater. So late, too, had he become possessed of that knowledge, so sweet had been the ecstasy it produced, that the sudden revulsion was all the more dreadful to endure. While murmuring the words, we may be too late.

He dare scarce trust himself to give thought to the form of danger whose dread was thus hypothetically predicted. Kubina, though, perhaps, a little less anxious than before, was equally earnest in the pursuit, and indeed every one of the maroon band showed, to some extent, the feelings of painful apprehension that actuated their leader, whom they knew to be the friend of the young Englishman. No one showed a disposition to lag. All were alike eager to aid in the rescue of the unfortunate young lady, known to most of them and honored by those to whom she was known. The horses had been left behind. On the steep and tangled path they would have been only an encumbrance. Perhaps never before, by man on foot, had the path been traversed in so short a space of time.

There was no delay on account of the darkness, as if by divine favor the moon had opportunely arisen, just as they were passing through the wicked gate, and by her light they were able to proceed without pause or interruption. No stop was made anywhere, till the pursuers stood upon the edge of the duppy cliff, and looked down into that dark abysm. Where they hoped to find the spoiler and his victim. Scarce a moment there, either. One after another they descended the tree stairway, Kubina going first, Herbert next, the others following, with like rapidity. With the instinct of trained hunters, all made the descent in silence. Only on arriving at the bottom of the cliff did an exclamation escape from the lips of their chief.

Kubina. The sight of a canoe, drawn up under the bushes, had elicited this exclamation, which expressed surprise mingled with disappointment. Herbert saw the canoe almost at the same instant of time, but without drawing the inference that had caused Kubina to utter that cry, he turned to the latter for an explanation. The canoe. whispered Kubina, pointing down to the little craft half hidden under the leafy branches. I see it, said Herbert, also speaking in a whisper. What does it signify? They have gone out again. Oh, heavens! cried Herbert, in an accent of anguish, the more expressive from the low tone in which the words were uttered. If that be so, then we are too late. She is lost. Lost. Patience, comrade.

Perhaps it is only Chakra himself who has gone out, or maybe some one of the robbers who have been helping him, and who may be expected to return again. In any case, we must search the valley and make sure. Step into the canoe. You can't swim in your clothes. Why, my fellows are not embarrassed in that way. Here, Guaco. Get your guns aboard this cockle shell, and all of you take to the water. Swim silently, no splashing, do you hear? Keep close under the cliff. Swim within the shadow and straight for the other side. Without more delay, the guns were passed from hand to hand until all were deposited in the canoe. Kubina and Herbert had already stepped into the frail craft, the former taking possession of the paddle.

In another instant, the new vessel shot out from the bushes and glided silently under the shadow of the cliff. Some half-dozen human forms, their heads just appearing above the surface of the water, followed in its wake, swimming with as little noise as if they had been a brood of beavers. There was no need to direct the canoe to its old landing place under the tree. Kubina knew that this had been chosen for concealment. Instead of going thither, he made for the nearest point of the opposite shore. On touching land, he stepped out, making a sign to his fellow voyager to imitate his example. The maroons waited out the moment after. And once more getting hold of their guns, followed their captain and his companion, already on their route to the upper cascade.

There was no path from the point where they had landed, and for some time they struggled through a thicket almost impervious. There was no danger, however, of losing the way. The sound of the falling water was an infallible guide, for Kubina well remembered the proximity of the hut to the upper cascade, and it was for this point they were making. As they advanced the Underwood became easier to traverse, and they were enabled to proceed more rapidly. There was something lugubrious in the sound of the cataract. Kubina was painfully impressed by it. And equally so his companion. It sounded ominous in the ears of both, and it was easy to fancy sighs of distress, wild wailing of a woman's voice, mingling with the hoarser tones of the tarant.

They reached at length the edge of the opening that extended for some distance beyond the branches of the cotton tree. The hut was before their eyes. A light was shining through the open door. It cast its reflection across the ground shadowed by the great tree, till it met the surface silvered by the moon. Though faint and apparently flickering, the light gave joy to the eyes that beheld it. It was evidence that the hut was occupied. Who but Chakra could be there? And if Chakra, there too must be his victim. Oh, was she his victim? Had the rescue arrived too late? Kubina's bosom was filled with sad forebodings. Herbert's heart was on fire. It was with difficulty that either could control his emotion to approach with that caution that prudence required.

Making a sign to his followers to stay among the trees, the maroon captain, with Herbert by his side, crept up towards the cotton tree. Having got fairly under its shadow, they rose to their feet, and with the silence of disembodied spirits, glided close up to the entrance of the hut. In another instant the silence was broken by both. A simultaneous cry escaped them as they arrived in front of the open door and looked in. It was a cry that expressed the extreme of disappointment. The hovel was empty.

108 108 - Volume 3 Chapter 37 - The Corpse of a Cousin 8:39

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Volume Three, Chapter Thirty-Seven. The Corpse of a Cousin.

Yes, the temple of Obi was untenanted, save by those dumb deities that grinned grotesquely around its walls. To ascertain this fact, it was not necessary to enter within the shrine of the Coromante Pantheon. Nevertheless, Kubina and Herbert As if moved by a mechanical impulse, rushed inside the door. They looked around with inquiring glances. There were signs of late occupation. The lighted lamp was of itself sufficient evidence of this. Who, save Chakra, could have lit it? It was a lamp of lard, burning in the carapace of a tortoise. It could not have been longer a light. Since but little of the lard was consumed. There was no doubt that Chakra had been there, with his captive. That added nothing to the knowledge they possessed already, since Yola had witnessed their descent into the duppy's hole.

But why had the robber so suddenly forsaken this apparently safe retreat? That the lamp was left burning betokened a hasty departure, and whither could he have gone? Oh, where? Oh, where? Distractedly interrogated Herbert. Kubina could make no answer. He was equally astonished at not finding the Coromante within his hut. Had he once more gone out from the duppy's hole? The position of the canoe gave color to this conjecture. But why should he have done so? Had he caught sight of that agile girl gliding like a shadow after him? And, becoming suspicious that his retreat might be discovered, had he forsaken it for some other at a greater distance from the scene of his crime? In any case, why should he have left in such haste, not staying to put out the light, much less to carry with him his peculiar penates?

After all, thought Kubina, he may still be in the duppy's hole. The canoe may have been used by someone else, some Confederate. Chakra might have seen his pursuers crossing the lagoon, or heard them advancing through the thicket and, taking his captive along with him, may have hastily retreated into some dark recess among the trees. His sudden abandonment of the hovel rendered this view of the case the more probable. Quick as came the thought, Kobina once more rushed out of the hut, and summoning his men around him, directed them to procure torches and search every corner of the wood. Kwako was dispatched back to the canoe, with orders to stay by it and prevent any chance of escape in that direction.

While the Maroons proceeded to procure the torchwood, their chief, accompanied by Herbert, Commenced quartering the open ground in search of any trace which Chakra might have left. By the edge of the water, where the trees stood thinly, the moon afforded ample light to favor the investigation. On advancing towards the cascade, an object came under the eyes of Kubina that caused him to utter with quick ejaculation. It was something white that lay by the side of the cauldron. Into which the stream was precipitated. Within the pool itself were broad flakes of white foam floating upon the water. But this was not in the water, but above it, on one of the boulders. Herbert had seen the white object at the same instant of time, and both simultaneously ran forward to examine it.

A scarf! It bore evidence of ill usage. It was tossed and torn, as if it had fallen from someone who had been struggling. Neither could identify the scarf, but neither doubted to whom it had belonged. Its quality declared it to have been the property of a lady. Who else could have owned it but she for whom they were in search? Kubina appeared to pay less attention to the scarf than to the place in which it lay. It was close up to the cliff, on the very edge of the pool into which the stream was projected. Behind this pool and under the curved sheets of the falling water, a sort of ledge ran across, by which one could pass under the cascade. Kubina knew this, for while on his hunting excursions he had gone under it.

He knew, moreover, That halfway across, there was a large cave or grotto in the cliff, several feet above the water in the pool. As the scarf was found lying upon the ledge that conducted to this grotto, the circumstance caused the maroon to remember it. At the same time that it guided him to the conjecture, the chakra might be there. Alarmed by their approach, there was nothing more likely than for the Coromante to have chosen the cave for his place of retreat, the last place where anyone, not aware of its existence, would have thought of looking for him. These reflections cost Cubine scarce two seconds of time. Quick as the conjecture had shaped itself, he ran back to the hut, and seizing a torch, Which one of his men had prepared, he hurried back towards the Cascade.

Then, signing to Herbert and one or two others to follow him, he glided under the canopy of falling waters. He proceeded not rashly, but with due caution. There might be others within the cave besides Chakra. His robber Confederates might be there, and these the Maroon knew to be desperate characters, men of forfeit lives. Who would die before suffering themselves to be captured. With his drawn machete in one hand and the torch in the other, Kubina advanced silently and stealthily towards the entrance of the grotto. Herbert was close behind, grasping his double-barreled gun in readiness to fire, in case resistance should be offered from within. Holding the torch in advance of him, Kubina entered first, though Herbert, anxious and eager, was close upon his heels.

The glare of the torch was reflected back from a thousand sparkling stalactites, and for a while the sight of both was bewildered. Soon, however, their eyes became accustomed to the dazzling coruscation. And then a white object lying along the floor of the cave, seen by both at the same instant, caused them to utter a simultaneous cry, as they did so, turning to each other with looks of the most painful despair. Between two large masses of stalagmite was the body of a woman, robed in white. It was lying upon its back, stretched out to its full length, motionless. Apparently dead. They needed not to pass the torch over that pale face to identify it. It was not necessary to scrutinize those waned silent features.

On first beholding the prostrate form, too easily had Herbert rushed to the sad conclusion that it was the corpse of his cousin.

109 109 - Volume 3 Chapter 38 - The Sleep-Spell 13:27

The Maroon by Thomas Main, read. Volume Three, Chapter Thirty-eight, The Sleep Spell.

During all this time, where was Chakra? As soon as he had seen the mansion of Mount Welcome fairly given to the flames, the Coromante, burying its young mistress in his arms, hurried away from the spot. Outside the garden wicket he made stop, only for a moment. Which was spent in a hasty consultation with the chief of the black bandits. In the brief dialogue which there took place between them, Adam was enjoined to carry the whole of the booty to his mountain home, where Chakra promised in due time to join him. The Kuramanti had no intention to resign his share of the spoils, but just then he was in no mood for making the division. He was at that moment under the influence of a passion stronger than the love of plunder.

Adam was only too eager to accede to these terms, and the Confederates parted company, the robber and his followers at once shouldering their booty and setting out for their forest dwelling among the far mountains of Trelawney. Like the tiger who has killed his prey and not daring to devour it on the spot, Bears it to his jungle covert. So Chakra, half-digging, half-carrying Kate Vaughn, proceeded up the mountain path in the direction of Duppy's Hole. Lifeless as the victim of the ferocious beast appeared the form of Lily Kwashiba, hanging supple and unconscious over the arm of the human monster, equally ferocious. Her screams no longer fell upon the ear. Her terror had exhausted her strength.

Sin Cope, resembling death, had succeeded. It continued, happily for her, during the whole of the transit up the mountain. The wild forest path had no terrors for her, neither to descent into the dank solitudes of the Duppy's Hole. In the traverse over that dark lagoon, she was not frightened by the scream of the startled nightbird, nor the threatening roar of the close cataract. She knew no fear. From the moment she was earned away in the arms of a hideous monster, on a path lighted by the blaze of the roof under which she had been born and reared, she experienced no feeling of any kind, until she awoke to consciousness in a rude triangular hut, lit by a feeble lamp, whose glare fell upon a face hitherto well known, the face of Chakra, the mild man.

His mask had been removed. The Coromante stood before her in all his deformity, of soul as of person. Terror could go no further. It had already produced its ultimate effect. Under such circumstances, reproach would have been idle. Indignation would only have been answered by brutal scorn. Though she might not clearly comprehend her situation, the young Creole did not think she was dreaming. No dream could be so horrid as that, and yet it was difficult to believe that such a fearful scene could be real. Oh, God, it was real. Chakra stood before her. His harsh voice was ringing in her ears. Its tone was mocking and exultant. She was upon the bamboo bedstead where the mild man had placed her. She had lain there until, on her senses returning, she discovered who was her companion.

Then had she started up, not to her feet for the interposition of the Coramante had hindered her from assuming an erect position, but to an attitude half reclining, half threatening escape. In this attitude was she held, partly through fear, partly by the hopelessness of any attempt to change it. The Coromante stood in front of her. His attitude? Was it one of menace? No, not a threat throughout, he, neither by word nor gesture. On the contrary, he was all softness, all suppliance, a wooer. He was bending before her, repeating vows of love. Oh, heavens, more fearful than threats of vengeance. It was a terrible tableau. This paraphrase of the beast on his knees before beauty. The young girl was too terrified to make reply.

She did not even listen to the disgusting speeches addressed to her. She was scarce more conscious than during the period of her sin cope. After a time the Coramante appeared to lose patience. His unnatural passion chafed against restraint. He began to perceive the hopelessness of his horrid suit. It was in vain to indulge in that delirious dream of love, in the hope of its being reciprocated, a hope with which even satyrs are said to have been inspired. The repellent attitude of her, the object of his demoniac adoration, the evident Degau, too plainly expressed in her frightened features, showed Chakra how vain was his wooing. With a sudden gesture he desisted. Raising himself into an attitude of determination that bespoke some dreadful design.

Who knows what? A shrill whistle peeling from without prevented its accomplishment or, at all events, stayed it for the time. "'Tam dee signal ob dee old Jew,' muttered he, evidently annoyed by the interruption. Why he want dis time ob dee night? Pose it's something bout dat ere lost bookkeeper." Wah! I know nothing about him. There am again, and for the tree time. That signify he am in a hurry. What's that? Fourth time. Then there be some trouble, satin. Must go to him, must go. He never sound the signal for time, lest there be something desperate, caution for to do. Wonder what he want. Never mind. Lily Quashiba, added he, once more addressing his speech to his mute companion, don't fix yourself about this interruption.

The business tween you and me'll keep till it gets back. And then, perhaps, I no find you so optin' it. You come, you tae out here, you must no be seen in das part ob de world. As he said this, he seized the unresisting girl by the wrist, and was about leading her out of the hut. Ha! he exclaimed, suddenly stopping to reflect. That won't do neither. The old Jew mustn't know she hae no account. She mout run back into shanty. Darfer she must be tied, and then she mout cream so he hear her. Darfer she must be gagged. Still holding her wrist in his grasp, he looked around the hut as if in search of the means to put this design into execution. Ha! he ejaculated, as if inspired by some new thought.

What have I been bothering my brains about? There's a better plan than either tying or gagging. Better than both put together. The sleeping draf. Das the berry ting keep her quiet. Where's de bottle, I wonder? Darum be. With this he stretched forth his disengaged hand and drew something out of a sort of pocket cut in the palm-leaf thatch. It appeared to be a long, narrow vial, filled with a dark-colored fluid and tightly corked. Now, young missa. Said he, drawing out the cork with his teeth, and placing himself as if intending to administer a draft to his terrified patient. You take a suck out of this hair bottle. Don't be feared. He'd do no harm. He'd do you good, make you feel very comfortable.

Is it be bowin', drink? The poor girl instinctively drew back, but the monster, letting go of her wrist, caught hold of her by the hair. And twisting her luxuriant tresses around his bony fingers, held her head as firmly as if in a vice. Then, with the other hand, he inserted the neck of the vial between her lips, and, forcing it through her teeth, poured a portion of the liquid down her throat. There was no attempt to scream, scarce any at resistance, on the part of the young Creole. Almost freely did she swallow the draught. So prostrate was her spirit at that moment that she would scarce have cared to refuse it, even had she known it to be poison. And not unlike to poison was the effect it produced, equally quick in subduing the senses, for what chakra had thus administered was the juice of the Kalaloo, the most powerful of narcotics.

In a few seconds after the fluid had passed her lips, The face of the young girl became overspread with a deathlike pallor. All through her frame ran a gentle, tremulous quivering that bespoke the sudden relaxation of the muscles. Her lithe limbs gave way beneath her, and she would have sunk down upon the floor, but for the supporting arm of the weird conjurer who had caused this singular collapse. Into his arms she sank. Evidently insensible, with a semblance rather of death than of sleep. Now then, muttered the mile-man, with no signal of astonishment at the phenomenon far from being strange to him, since it was to that same sleeping spell he was indebted for his professional reputation. Now then, my sweet lily, you sleep quiet enough till I want you wake again.

Not here. Howsome Deva. You must take you nap in the open air. I must put you where the old Jew no see you, or maybe he want you for himself. Come long this way. And thus, idly apostrophizing his unconscious victim, he lifted her in both arms and carried her out of the hut. Outside he paused, looking around. As if searching for some place in which to deposit his burden. The moon was now above the horizon, and her beams were beginning to be reflected feebly, even through the somber solitude of the duppy's hole. A clump of low bushes growing just outside the canopy of the cotton tree appeared to offer a place of concealment, and Chakra was proceeding towards them. When his eye fell upon the cascade, And, as if suddenly changing his design, he turned out of his former direction, and proceeded towards the waterfall.

On getting close up to the cliff over which the stream was precipitated, he paused for an instant on the edge of the seething cauldron. Then, taking a fresh hold of the white wan form that lay helpless over his arm, he glided behind the sheet of foaming water. And suddenly disappeared from the sight, like a river demon of eld, bearing off to his subaquacious cavern some beautiful victim, whom he had succeeded in enforcing to his haunt, and entrancing into the slumber more fatal than death. In a few seconds the hideous hunchback reappeared upon the bank, no longer embarrassed by his burden, and hearing the whistle once more, Scurling along the cliffs, he faced downstream and walked rapidly in the direction of his canoe.

110 110 - Volume 3 Chapter 39 - A New Job for Chakra 8:59

A new job for Chakra.

Chakra on reaching the crest of the cliff. Found Jacob Jesseron in a state of impatience bordering upon torment. The Jew was striding back and forth among the trees, at intervals striking the ground with his umbrella and giving utterance to his favorite exclamatory phrases, Blesh my soul, and Blesh me, with unusual volubility. Now and then also could be heard the Teutonic ejaculation. Ach! Proving that his soul was under the influence of some unpleasant passion that was vexing him to torture. "'Was de trouble, Mazer Jake?' inquired the mild man, scrambling over the edge of the rock. "'Dar something go wrong?' "'A pose from de way you have sound de signal. I hear de whistle for time.' "'There is something wrong, a great deal is wrong.

There is.' What has kept you, Chakra? he added, with a show of vexation. Golly, Master Jake, I were asleep. Does what delayed me. How then has she heard the signal four times? The query appeared slightly to puzzle Chakra. Oh, uh, the signal four times, stammered he, after a pause of reflection. "'Why, you see, I hear the first time in my sleep. Then the second time he wake me. The third I got to my feet, and when the fourth.' The Jew either satisfied with the explanation, or too much hurried to hear the end of it, interrupted Chakra at the fourth. "'It ish no time to talk on Mount Welcome-ish, in flames. You know that, I suppose.' Chakra hesitated, as if considering whether to make a negative or affirmative reply.

Of course you knows it. I needn't have asked. Who was it? Adam has been there. Was it him? Old Adam have a hand in dat'er business, I believe. You knows it, Chakra, and I knows another that has a hand in it. That is not my business. "'Nor what I has come here about. There is worse than that.' "'Wuss, ma' said Jake,' inquired the mild man with an air of feigned surprise. "'It might have been real.' "'Wuss than that?' "'Hob the young man no come back.' "'Ach! That is nothings. There is far worse. There is danger. Help me, there is.' "'Danger?' "'Where from, Master Jake?' "'First tell me where is Adam now? I want him, and all his fellers.' "'He am gone back to the mountains.' "'Ach, gone back, you say.

How long is he gone? Can you overtake him, Chakra?' "'Possibly I'm out. They won't travel fast. They am too heavy load for dat.' "'But what for you want old Adam, Master Jake?' "'Bishness of the greatest importance. It is life and death. Blue Dick hath been over to Mount Welcome. He hath heard strange things. Ach, terrible news! A messenger who came in from the Sathana Road hath brought the news of many disagreeable things. Among the rest did my Spaniards.' "'Have been made prisoners by Kubina, and this ungrateful villain of a Vulcan. They're accused of murdering the Kustos. Bless my soul.' "'What harm that do you, Master Jake? Was the danger?' "'Danger! Does you not see it, Chakra? If these hunters is brought to trial, you suppose they would hold their tongues?

So help me know.' They will turn stage evidence, and then I should be exposed, arrested, ruined. Oh, why has I ever trusted these clumsy fellows with the business of such importance? They am clumsy fellows, just as you say, Master Jake. Ach, it's too late to speak of regrets. It is necessary to take some steps to prevent this terrible misfortune. You must go after Adam and find him this instant. This instant, Chakra. All right, Master Jake. I'll do whatever you bid me. Never fear. I'll soon track up at him. But what do you want me to say to the old nigger when I have found him? You needn't say anything, only bring him back with you to the Shumbi Rock. I shall wait there for you till you come.

Don't keep me long in suspense, Chakra. Make all the speed in your power. "'If you don't get back before sunrise, all will be lost. I'll be ruined. I will, so help me.' "'Nimber fear, Master Jake. I won't lose a minute. I don't think that there old nigger's got far away just yet. I'll soon overtake him. I'll go at him at once, wah!' As Chakra uttered the exclamation, he turned on his heel. and was about to start up the mountain in the direction of the Jumbi Rock, near which he would have to pass on his way towards the haunt of the black robbers. "'Stay!' cried the Jew. "'I's going with you as far as the Jumbi Rock. "'I may as well wait there as anywhere else. "'It is no use my going home now.

"'Help me.' I cannot rest till this thing is settled, and now, when I think of it, you may as well let Adam know for what he is wanted, so as he may come prepared. Say to him he is to go straight to Mount Welcome, that is, where it used to be. He is not to show himself there, but proceeds along the road till he meets the Kustos body. And them that is with it. Then he is to find some way to rescue the Spaniards, and let them escape to me. You mustn't go along with Adam and his men, else they may spoil all. He must bring his fellows well-armed. You may stand in need of them all. The messenger said there were some negroes from the estate of content. These won't signify. They will all run away as soon as you show yourselves, but the others may be inclined to make fight.

There is Kubina and the young rascal of an Englishman, besides that giant Kwako, and the messenger himself. You thinkest you can manage them, Chakra? Sure of debt. You must take them by ambuscade. Perhaps we kill some of them. "'As many as you like. Only make sure to get the Spaniards off. But no great harm to kill them, too. Ought to fool they have made of themselves. Letten them fellers take them prisoner that-a-way. Hoo-ah! No, no, gotchakra, we mustn't kill our fringe. We may need them again. You may promise, Atom, good pay for the shub.'" "'I don't care for the cost, so long as it's cleverly done.' "'All right, Master Jake. Leave that to me and Adam. We do the ting cleverly enough. Ice be bound.' And with this assurance, Chakra rode off up the mountain, the Jew having set the example by starting forward in advance of him."

111 111 - Volume 3 Chapter 40 - Dead, or Asleep? 10:34

Section 111 On beholding what he believed to be the dead body of his cousin, The grief of Herbert Vaughn proclaimed itself in a wild cry, in tones of the bitterest agony. He flung his gun upon the rock, knelt down by the side of the corpse, raised her head upon his arm, and gazing upon that face, a death beautiful as ever, drew it nearer to his own, kissed the cold, unconscious lips, kissed them again and again, as though he had hopes that the warmth of his love might Reanimate the fair form over which he was bending. For some time his frenzied caresses were continued, their fervor unchecked by the presence of his rude companions who stood around. Respecting the sanctity of his grief, all observed a solemn silence.

Nor word nor sound escaped the lips of anyone. Sobs alone proceeded from Kubina. The maroon had also caused a sorrow at that sad spectacle, but these were not heard. They were drowned by a more powerful voice, the melancholy monotone of the cataract. They had been speaking incessantly since the creation of the world. It was a long time before the heart of Herbert consented to his discontinuing those cold but sweet kisses, the first he had ever had. The last he was destined to have from those pale lips, long before he could withdraw his supporting arm from beneath that beautiful head, whose shining tresses lay disheveled along the rock. The torch held in the hand of Kobina was burning at its base.

Only when worn by its flickering light did the chief mourner rise once more to his feet, and then making a feeble signal to those who stood around, He moved in solemn silence towards the entrance of the grotto. His gesture was understood and promptly obeyed. By the authority of his greater grief, he had become master of the mournful ceremonies now to be observed. The maroons quietly, crossing their arms under the inanimate form, raised it from the rock, and following him, who had given them their silent direction, they bore it to the hut. They're placing it upon the cane couch. With instinctive delicacy, all retired upon the completion of their task, leaving Herbert and Kubina alone with the body.

An interval elapsed before either essayed to speak. Both were under the influence of a profound grief that almost stifled reflection. Kubina was the first to have other thoughts. And to give expression to them. Santa Virgin, said he, in a husky voice with emotion. I know not how she has died, unless the sight of Chakra has killed her. It was enough to have done it. The suggestive speech received no other answer than a groan. If the monster, continued the maroon, had used other violence, I see no trace of it. There was no wound, no appearance of anything that should have produced death. Poor young creature! There's something dark inside her lips, but it's not blood. "'Oh, God!' cried Herbert, interrupting the speaker with a fresh paroxysm of grief.

Two corpses to be carried home to the same house, father and daughter on the same day, in the same hour, both victims of villainy." Oh, God! Both victims of the same villain, I have my belief, rejoined Covina, the same hand that has laid low the custos, if I mistake not, has been at the bottom of this horrible crime. Chakra is but the weapon. Another has dealt the blow. You know who, Master Vaughn? Herbert was hindered from making reply. A dark form appearing in the door distracted the attention of both from the theme of their conversation. Quokko had heard the melancholy tidings, and, relieved from his duty by the canoe, had hurried back to the hut. He it was who now appeared in the doorway, filling it from post to post, from step to lintel.

Neither his chief nor Herbert offered any remark. Quokko's presence did not surprise them. It was natural he should come to the hut, if only to satisfy his curiosity. Waited with their sorrow, neither took any notice of his arrival, nor of his movements after he had entered the hut, which he did without waiting to be invited. Having stepped inside, the colossus stood for some moments by the couch, gazing down upon the sweet silent face. Even on his features was depicted an expression of sorrow. Gradually this became more subdued, or rather appeared to undergo a total change, slowly but surely altering to an expression of cheerfulness. Slight at first and imperceptible on account of the large scale upon which Kwako's features were formed, the expression was every moment becoming more pronounced, until at length it attracted the notice of the others, Notwithstanding the abstraction caused by their poignant grief.

Both observed it at the same instant, and to both it caused a feeling of annoyance, amounting almost to indignation. "'Lieutenant,' said Kubina, addressing his subaltern, in a tone of reproach, "'it is not exactly the time for being gay. May I ask you what is making you smile, while others around you are overwhelmed with sorrow?' "'Why, Cap'n,' rejoined Quokko, "'I can't see what you're all aggrievin' bout. "'Can't be the Kustos, "'since, certainly, "'you've got over-grievin' for him "'long afore this.' The reply, grotesque in character and almost jovial in the manner of its delivery, could not fail still further to astonish those to whom it was addressed. Both started on hearing it. And for some moments bent their eyes on the speaker, in an expression of wonder mingled with indignation.

Had Quacko gone mad? In the presence of death, sir, said the young maroon captain, directing a severe glance upon his lieutenant, you might lay aside that merry mood too common with you. It ill becomes you. Death, do you say, Cap'n? interrupted Quacko. Who's gone dead here? There was no reply to his abrupt interrogatory. Those to whom it was addressed were too much taken by surprise to say a word. "'If you mean the young buckra woman,' continued Kwako, "'I'd give all the barbecued hog I ever owned, never to be more dead than she just now.'" "'Dead? Indeed. Nonsense, Dad. She only sleep.'" Herbert and Cabina started from their seats, each uttering a cry of astonishment, in which might be detected the accents of hope.

"'Who's got a piece of looking-glass?' continued Quokko, turning his glance interrogatively around the hut. "'Good,' he exclaimed, as the sparkle of a piece of broken mirror came under his eyes. "'Here's the thing itself.' "'Now looky here,' resumed he. Taking the bit of glass from the place where it had been deposited, and rubbing its surface with a piece of rag. You see there's ne'er a speck upon it. The others, still held silence by surprise, made answer only by nodding their assent. "'Wall, now,' continued Quokko, "'watch me a bit.' Placing the smooth surface of the mirror to the mute lips, he held it there for a minute or more, and then turning he raised it up. And held it close to the light of the lamp.

"'You see?' he cried triumphantly, pointing to a white filmy bloom that appeared upon the glass, partially obscuring its sheen. "'That's her breath. She no gone dead. Else how she ha' breath!' His listeners were too excited to make reply. Only by exclamations did they signify their assent to the truth of his hypothesis. exclaimed Quokko, suddenly dropping the bit of glass and clutching hold of a vial that lay upon the floor, now for the first time noticed. What we got here? continued he, drawing the cork with his teeth and thrusting the neck of it up his wide nostril. Sleep and draff, I thought so. So this is the spell that's put the young buckra lady to rest. Well, there's another that'll wake her, if I can only find it.

It's bound be here. Somewhere's about, and if I can get my claws on it, I'll make this here creature talk to ye in less than ten minutes." So saying, the Colossus commenced searching around the hut, looking into the numerous chinks and crannies with which both walls and roof were provided. Restrained by surprise, blended with hopeful anticipation, Neither Herbert nor Cobino offered to interrupt his actions, by word or gesture. Both remained in their respective places, silently but anxiously awaiting the event.

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To Herbert Vaughan, it was a moment of tumultuous emotions. Joy springing up in the midst of utter woe. That his cousin still breathed, he could not doubt. That she lived he was only too ready to believe. Though mystified beyond measure by what appeared the perfect semblance of death, the words of Quokko had given him some clue to a remarkable mystery, at the same time inspiring him with the belief that in that motionless form the soul was yet present. Her breathing upon the mirror. The mystery to which Cuoco's speeches had introduced him was that of myelism. In this the maroon lieutenant claimed to have skill almost equaling the regular professors of the art. In addition to being Cubina's deputy on all important occasions, Cuoco was the doctor of the band, and in his medical experience he had picked up some knowledge of the system of Obea.

More especially of the trick by which, in the belief of the ignorant, a dead body can be brought to life again—that dread secret of the Coromanti charlatan, known in the West Indies as Maialism. Only a sleep spell, said Quacko, still continuing his speech. Nothing more than that—a draft given her by the Maial doctor. I know it well enough. And I knows what'll make it all right again. Though without it, she'd come to herself. Aha! Hyal it is. Hyal's the antidote. A small bottle glistened between his fingers, which in another instant was uncorked and brought in contact with his nostrils. Yes, dis is the stuff that's a-goin' to counteract that spell. In less than ten minutes' time, You'll see her wake up, brisk as ever she's been in her life.

Now, young master, if you just hold up the young lady's head while I spill a drop or two down her throat, it must go down to do her good. Herbert, with joyful willingness, obeyed the request, and the beautiful head once more received the support of his arm. Quokko, with all the gentleness of which his huge coarse fingers were capable, Parted the pale lips, and inserting the neck of the vial, poured out a portion of its contents into the mouth of the sleeper. This done, he held the bottle for some minutes to her nostrils, and then laying it aside, he commenced chafing her hands between his own broad, corrugated palms. With heart wildly beating, and eyes alternately scanning the face of Cuoco and the countenance of the silent sleeper, Herbert made no effort to conceal his terrible solicitude.

It would have been far more terrible but for the confident manner of the negro and the triumphant tone in which he predicted the result. Scarce five minutes had elapsed from the time of administering the antidote. To Herbert they appeared fifty, when the bosom of the sleeper was seen to swell upward, at the same time that a sigh just audible escaped from her lips. Herbert could no longer restrain his emotions. With a cry of supreme joy, he bent his face nearer to that of the young girl, and pressed her lips to his, at the same time gently murmuring her name. "'Be quiet, young master,' cautioned Quocco, "'else you may keep her longer from waking up. "'Have patience. Leave the antidote to do its work.' Herbert thus counseled, He resumed his former attitude and remained silently but earnestly gazing upon the beautiful face, already showing signs of reanimation.

As Kwako had predicted, the anecdote was not long in manifesting its effects. The bosom of the young girl began to rise and fall in quick spasmodic motion, showing that respiration was struggling to return, while at shorter intervals, sighs escaped her. Audible even amidst the sounds, so similar, heard from without. Gradually the undulations of the chest became more regular and prolonged, and the lips moved in soft murmuring, as when one is endeavoring to hold converse in a dream. Each instant these utterances became more distinct. Words could be distinguished, and among others, one that filled the heart of Herbert With happiness indescribable. His own name. Despite the prudent counsel of Quokko, he could no longer restrain himself, but once more, imprinting a fervent kiss upon the lips of his beloved cousin, responded to her muttering by loudly pronouncing her name, coupled with words of love and exclamations of encouragement.

As if his voice had broken the charm. Dispelling the morphine from out her veins, the eyes of the young girl all at once opened. The long, crescent-shaped lashes displayed through their parting, those orbs of lovely light, brown as the berry of the Theobroma and soft as the eyes of a dove. At first their expression was dreamy, unconscious, as if they shone without seeing. Looking without recognizing. Gradually this appearance became changed. The spark of recognition betrayed itself, fast spreading over pupil and iris, until at length it kindled into the full flame of consciousness. Close to hers was the face of which she had been dreaming. Looking into hers were those eyes she had beheld in her sleep, and with that same glance With which in her waking hours they had once regarded her, that glance so fondly remembered.

Again it was fixed upon her, but no longer in silence and unexplained. Now it was accompanied by words of love, by phrases of endearment, spoken with all the wild abandon of an impassioned heart. "'Herbert, cousin!' she exclaimed, as soon as speech was restored to her. It is you. Where am I? No matter. Since you are by me, it is your arm that is around me. Yes, dearest cousin, never more depart from this sweet embrace. Oh, speak to me. Tell me that you live. Live? Ah, you thought me dead. I thought so myself. That horrid monster, he is gone. I see him not here. Oh, I am saved. It is you, Herbert, you who have delivered me from worse than death? Mine is not the merit, cousin, the brave man by my side.

It is he to whom we are both indebted for this deliverance. Kubina and Yola? Poor Yola! She, too, has escaped. Oh, it is a fearful thing I cannot comprehend. Dearest cousin, Think not of it now. In time you shall understand all. Know that you are safe, that all danger is past. My poor father, if he knew! Chakra alive, that fearful monster! Herbert was silent, Kubina at the same time, withdrawing from the hut to give some orders to his followers. Ah, cousin, what is that upon your breast? inquired the young girl, innocently touching the object with her fingers. Is it not the ribbon you took from my purse? Have you been wearing it all this time? Ever since that hour? O Kate, no longer can I conceal the truth.

I love you. I love you. I have heard, but tell me, dearest cousin, with your own lips declare it. Do you return, my love? I do. I do. Once more Herbert kissed the lips that had given utterance to the thrilling declaration. In that kiss, two loving souls were sealed forever.

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The Rescue On starting off from the Duppy's Hole, it had been the intention of the Jew To wait by the base of the Jambé Rock for the return of Chakra with the robbers. Before arriving at the rock, a better plan presented itself. In the absence of Chakra, which might be a prolonged one, it occurred to him that he might profitably pass the interval of time by making a reconnaissance of Mount Welcome and its precincts. Before parting from Chakra, therefore, A new place of rendezvous was arranged between them, at a particular place upon the mountain slope, only a short distance from the rear of the garden. The point being settled, Chakra continued on after the home returning bandits, while his fellow conspirator, facing down the mountain, proceeded towards the valley of Mount Welcome.

He soon came upon the path habitually used in the ascent and descent of the mountain. Only for a short distance did he follow it, however. He conjectured that a pursuit would be already set on foot, and apprehensive of encountering the pursuers, he preferred making his approach to the house by working his way through the woods, where no path existed. By this means he should advance more slowly. But with greater safety. Favored by an occasional flash from the smoldering fires, seen at intervals through the trees, he had no difficulty in guiding himself in the right direction. In due time he arrived at the rearward of the garden.

Crouching behind the wall, and looking cautiously over its top, he could command a full view of the grounds. No longer containing a grand house, but only a smoldering mass of half-consumed timbers. There were still flames springing up amidst the smoke to reveal to the eyes of Jesseron a terrible tableau. Under the light could be seen a number of human figures, grouped around an object resembling a rude beer. On this lay the body of a white man, whose ghastly visage, ghastlier, Under the glare of the unnatural light, betokened it to be a corpse. A white man stood beside it, bent over the body, and looking thoughtfully on the face. Jesseron recognized in this individual the overseer of the estate.

The others were blacks, both men and women, easily known as the domestics and field slaves of the plantation. A short distance from these was another group. Smaller in individual numbers, but equally conspicuous.

Two men lay along the grass, in attitudes that showed them to be fast bound. They were white men, in colonial phraseology, though their complexions of dark olive were but a shade or two lighter than those of the Negroes who surrounded them. As his own employees, the Cuban Cacadors. Some three or four black men stood around them, apparently acting as guards. The costume, arms, and accoutrements of these last, but quite as much their bold upright bearing, proclaimed them to be men of a different caste from the Negroes who encompassed the corpse. They were the Maroons. Whom Kwako had left in charge of the prisoners. As soon as Jesseron had finished making these observations, he returned to the place of rendezvous, where he was soon joined by Chakra and the robbers.

The latter, on their homeward route, having halted for a rest not far beyond the Jambé rock, were there overtaken by the Maial man and brought instantaneously back. The report of Jesseron was delivered to Chakra, who, along with Adam and his followers, advanced to the garden wall, and became himself a spectator of the scene already described. The circumstances suggested the necessity of immediate action. It was evident that Kubina and the main body of the Maroons had gone off in pursuit of the incendiaries at once. No account was made of the presence of the plantation negroes, and the weak guard of the maroons that had been left could be easily overpowered. Such were the reflections of Chakra and Adam, acted upon almost as soon as conceived, and leaving Jesseron to await their return.

They and their followers crept forward through the shrubbery of the garden. A volley from their guns fired from an ambush was heard shortly after. It caused most of the Maroon Guard to fall dead by the side of their prisoners, at the same time putting to flight the people of the plantation with their overseer at their head. Nothing then remained but to relieve the captives from their courts, and this being readily accomplished, both robbers and cacadors Retreated up the mountain. On nearing the Jambé Rock, the Confederates once more separated. Adam and his followers continued on towards their mountain home, while Chakra, accompanied by the Jew, and followed by Manuel and Andres, proceeded in the direction of the Duppy's Hole.

It was the design of Jezeron that the two Kubanas Should remain in their safe asylum, as guests of the Coromanti, until such time as he might find an opportunity for shipping them back to the country whence they had come. Chakra's consent to this arrangement had not yet been obtained, and it was to this end that the Jew was now on his errand. For the second time that night, to the somber solitude of the Duppy's Hole.

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The midnight hour had passed. Ere the lovers forsook the solitude of Duppy's whole. From mingled motives, Herbert had lingered on that wild spot. He feared the dread development, which he knew must take place, on their return to Mount Welcome. What a terrible blow to that young bosom! Now, in the full enjoyment of earth's supremest happiness, he knew the fatal truth could no longer be concealed. Nevertheless, He was desirous of keeping it back as long as possible, at least until his cousin had further recovered from the shock which her spirit had that night sustained. In concert with Kavina, he had spent some time in reflecting how this temporary concealment might be effected. Only one way suggested itself, to conduct his cousin to the house of the overseer, there to remain Until, as she might suppose, her rather could receive the news of the conflagration that had occurred and return home again.

The young girl knew that the mansion was burnt down. Its blaze was before her eyes when they ceased to see, lightening her ravisher along the forest path. The roof that had sheltered her childhood was a ruin. She knew all that. It was therefore but natural that a temporary home should be sought elsewhere, and in the house of the overseer. She could have no suspicion of any design in their taking her thither. Neither Herbert nor Cabina knew whether the corpse of the Custos had yet reached its destination. Quocco, unhurriedly parting with it, had given no orders, either to the bearers of the Maroons, Left in charge of the two prisoners, to move forward. The funeral cortege might still be upon the road where it had been left by Herbert and Cabina.

If so, it might be possible for them to pass the ruined dwelling and reach the house of the overseer without any news of the assassination being communicated to her, the only one likely to be profoundly affected by that dread disaster. Once under the roof of Mr. Trusty, means could be taken to keep silent the tongues of those who should be brought in contact with her. Such was the scheme, hastily concerted between Herbert and Cobina, and which they now proceeded to execute by conducting the young Creole out of the Duppy's hole and commencing their descent towards the valley of Mount Welcome. Only the two accompanied her. The Maroons under their lieutenant, Quacko, remained behind, and for an important purpose the capturing of Chakra.

Kubina would himself have stayed, but for a certain impatience once more to enjoy the company of his beloved Yola, who had been left among the other domestics of the desolated establishment. The Maroon captain had perfect confidence, both in the skill of his lieutenant, And the courage of his followers. He could trust them for an affair like that. And as he parted from the duppy's hole, he had very little doubt that by daybreak, or perhaps before that time, Chakra would be the captive of Kwako. Slowly Herbert and his cousin moved down the mountain. The moon, now shining sweetly onto the perfumed path, favored their descent. But there was no need. No desire for haste. Kubina kept ahead, to secure them from surprise or danger.

The young girl walked side by side with Herbert, leaning upon his arm, that strong arm, once so freely and affectionately promised. The time had arrived when that offer was accepted and welcomed. A proud time for the young Englishman, a happy time, as he walked on. Thrilled by the touch of that round arm softly pressing his own, at times more heavily leaning upon him, not from any physical weakness on the part of his companion, but rather out of the pure fondness of her affection. The strength of the young Creole had become almost restored, the effects of the narcotic having completely disappeared. She had also recovered from the frustration of spirit. Which it had produced, perhaps all the sooner from the cheering presence of him who was by her side.

The terrible sufferings she had endured were succeeded by a happiness, tranquil and profound. She now knew that Herbert loved her. More than once within the hour had he given her that sweet assurance. On her part there was no coyness. Not a shadow of coca tree. She had responded to his vows by a full, free surrender of her heart. And her hand, was it still free? Herbert sought an answer to this question as they passed onward, only indirectly, and with all the delicacy that circumstances would permit. Was it true, what he had heard, that a promise had been given to Smitey? With downcast eyes, the young girl remained for some moments without vouchsaving any reply. Her trembling arm betrayed the painful struggle that was agitating her bosom.

Presently the storm appeared to have partially subsided. Her features became fixed, as if she had resolved upon a confession, and in a firm but low murmured voice she made answer. A promise. Yes, Herbert, rung from me in my darkest hour. Then, when I thought you cared not for me, when I heard that you also had made such a promise to another—O Herbert, O cousin, believe me, it was against my will. It was forced from me by threats, by appeals. Then it is not binding, eagerly interrupted the lover. There was no oath. No betrothal between you. Even if there had been. Even if there had been, cried the young girl, repeating his words, the hot creole blood mounting suddenly to her cheeks, while her eyes expressed a certain determination.

There was no oath. Even if there had been, it could no longer bind me. No. After what has occurred this night. In the hour of danger deserted by him, no, no, after that I could never consent to be the wife of Mr. Smythe, rather suffer the charge of perjury, from which my own conscience would absolve me, than to fulfill that promise. Rather shall I submit to the disinheritance which my father threatens, and which, upon his return, he will doubtless execute. Yes, death itself, rather than become the wife of a coward. How little danger of that disinheritance, thought Herbert. How shall I tell the fearful tidings? How revealed to her that she is at this moment the mistress of Mount Welcome. Not yet.

Not yet. For a while the young woman remained silent, scarce knowing how to continue the conversation. She noticed his air of thoughtful abstraction. It guided her to unpleasant conjectures. "'Cousin, are you angry with me for what I have said? Do you blame me?' "'No, no,' cried Herbert, impressively. "'Far from it. By the conduct of this man—woman, I shall call him—were it not for disgracing the name by his behavior to you.'" You would be released from the most solemn of oaths, much more a mere promise given against your will. It was not of that I was thinking. Of what, Herbert? As she put this question, she leaned towards him and gazed into his eyes with a look of troubled inquiry. The young man was puzzled for a reply.

His thoughtful silence was evidently causing her uneasiness. That each moment increased. Her glances betokened some painful suspicion. She did not wait for his answer, but in a voice that trembled, put an additional interrogative. Have you made a promise? To whom? Oh, Herbert, do not ask me to pronounce the name. You must know to whom I allude. Herbert was relieved by the interrogatory. It changed the current of his thoughts. At the same time giving him a cue for something to say. Ha, ha! laughed he. I think, cousin, I comprehend you. A promise indeed. Nothing of the sort. I assure you. Though since you have been good enough to make confession, neither shall I conceal what has passed between her, to whom you refer, and myself.

There was no love between us. At least none upon my side, I can assure you, cousin. But I will confess that, stung by what I fancied was your coldness to me, misled by a thousand reports, now happily found to be false. I had nearly committed myself to the speaking of a word which, no doubt, I should have brewed throughout all the rest of my life. Thank fortune! Circumstances have saved me. "'Saved us both, may I say.' "'Oh, happiness, Herbert! Herbert! Then you will be mine, mine only!' Yielding to the promptings of an all-absorbing passion, the young Creole gave utterance to this bold interrogatory. "'Dearest Kate,' replied the lover, half delirious with joy, "'my heart is yours, all yours.' My hand, O cousin, I scarce dare to offer it.

You are rich, grand, and I, I, poor, penniless, even without a home. Alas, Herbert, you know not. Were I rich ten times as rich as you, believe me you would be welcome to all. But no, perhaps I may be poor as yourself. Ah, me, you do not know, but you shall. I shall conceal nothing. Know then, dearest cousin, that my mother was a quadroon, and I am only a mustee. I cannot inherit my father's property except by will, and not even that till an act is obtained from the assembly. That is the errand upon which my father is gone. But whether he succeed or not matters not now. Too surely will he disinherit me, for never shall I consent to become the wife of the man he has commanded me to marry. Never!

O cousin," called Herbert, enraptured by the emphatic tone in which she had declared her determination, if you consent to be mine, I care not for your riches. Your heart is the wealth I covet. That will be enough for me. What matters it even should we both be poor? I am young, I can work, I can strive. We may yet find friends, or if not, we can do without them. Be mine. Yours for any fate, for life, Herbert for life.

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The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. An Orphan.

These utterances of love exchanged between the two cousins The night were suddenly interrupted. Sounds of woe broke upon the stillness of the night, and in the same place as before. They had arrived within view of what was once the mansion of Mount Welcome. Through the foliage that fringed the path, they could see glancing some remnants of red light, here and there flickering into a faint blaze. Now and then, as they descended the slope, They had heard the crash of falling timbers as they gave way under the wasting fire. A murmur of human voices, too, had reached their ears, but only as of men engaged in an ordinary conversation, or at all events not exhibiting excitement beyond what might be expected at the finale of such an event as had there transpired.

All at once. Abruptly breaking upon this comparative tranquility, at the same time interrupting the dialogue of the lovers, were heard utterances of a far different import—the cries of men, the screaming of women, shots, and loud shouting. All these sounds appeared to proceed from the spot that but a few hours before had echoed to the clangor of a chorus equally diabolical in its accents. Kubina, who had been moving some paces in advance, sprang instantly back upon the path, and with troubled look, stopped in front of the lovers. "'What can it mean?' asked Herbert, equally showing signs of apprehension. "'The robbers, Master Vaughn, they have returned. But for what purpose I cannot guess. It must be they.

I know that voice, louder than the rest.' Do you hear it? "'Tis the voice of the brigand Adam. Crombo! I'll silence it some day ere long, maybe this very night. Hark! There's another, still louder and wilder. Ho! that, too, I can distinguish. It's the hellish shriek of Chakra." But why should they have come again? They took everything a robber would care for. What can have brought them back? There is nothing. There is, cried Kubina, with a quick gesture, as though the solution had just then presented itself to his mind. There is Yola. As he said this, he faced around, as if about to rush towards the fray, still strepitant, its noise rather on the increase. For an instant he appeared to be undecided.

Though not from any fear of going forward. No, it was another thought that had caused that indecision, which was soon made manifest by these words. Master Herbert Vaughn, he exclaimed in a tone of appeal, I have helped you to rescue your sweetheart. Mine is in danger. The young Englishman stood in no need of this appeal. Already he had disengaged his arm from that of his cousin. And stood ready for action. "'Oh, Herbert!' cried the young girl, in wild accents of distress. "'There is fearful danger. Oh, you must not go. Oh, do not leave me!' Kubina looked as if regretting the challenge he had thrown out. "'Perhaps you had better not,' said he, with no sarcasm meant by the words. "'There is danger.

But you must not share it. Your life now belongs to another.' I did not think of that, Master Vaughan. In the eyes of that other, replied Herbert, my life would be worthless, as it would be to myself were I to play the poltroon. Brave Cobina, I cannot fail you now. Dear Kate, it is Yola who is in danger, Yola to whom we are both indebted. But for her I should not have known that you love me. And then we should both— "'Ah, Yola in danger,' interrupted the young Creole, her affection for her maid half stifling the fear for her beloved. "'Oh, Herbert, go if you will, but let me go with you. I should die if you returned not. Yes, yes, if death comes to you, it should be mine also. Herbert, do not leave me behind.

Only for a moment, Kate.' I shall soon return. Fear not! With right on our side, the brave Kubina and I can conquer a score of these black robbers. We shall be back before you can count a hundred. There, conceal yourself in these bushes, and wait for our coming. I shall call out for you. Behind the bushes you will be safe. Not a word, not a movement, till you hear me calling your name." As he uttered these admonitions, the brave young man Gently guided his cousin into the thicket, causing her to kneel down in a shaded covert. He imprinted a hurried kiss upon her forehead, and then hastily moving her, followed Kubina towards the fight. In a few seconds they ran down to the garden wall, and passed rapidly through the wicket gate, which they found standing open, on through the garden, and straight towards the place from which they imagined the sounds had proceeded.

Strange enough, these had ceased as abruptly as they had risen, the cries of the men, the screaming of the women, the shots, and the loud shouting. All as if by a simultaneous signal had become silent, as though the earth had opened and swallowed not only the noises, but those who had been causing them. Unheeding the change, Herbert and Cobina kept on. Nor came to a stop until they had passed the smoking remains of the mansion, and stood upon the platform that fronted it. There halted they. There was still some fitful light from the burning beams, but the beams of the moon told a truer tale. They illumined a tableau significant as terrible. Near this spot was a stretcher, on which lay the corpse of a white man, half uncovered.

Ghastly as death could make it, close to it were three others, corpses like itself, only that they were those of men with a black epidermis. Herbert easily identified the first. It had been his companion on that day's journey. It was the corpse of his uncle. As easily did Cobina recognize the others, they were or had been men of his own band, the Maroons, left by Quacko. To guard the prisoners. The prisoners! Where were they? Escaped. It took Kubina but little time to resolve the mystery. To the practiced eye of one who had tied up many a black runaway, there was no difficulty in interpreting the sign they presented to his view. A tangle of ropes and sticks brought to mind the contrivances of Kwako for securing his captives.

They lay upon the trodden ground, cast away. And forsaken. The Cacadors had escaped. The affair had been a rescue. Rather relieved by this conjecture, which soon assumed the form of a conviction, Herbert and Cabina were about returning to the place where they had left the young Creole, whom they supposed to be still awaiting them. But they had not calculated on the bravery of love, much less upon its recklessness. As they faced towards the dark declivity of the mountain, a form like a white-robed sylph was seen flitting athwart the trunks of the trees, descending towards the garden wall. On it glided, on and downward, as the snow-plumed gull in its graceful parabola. Neither was mystified by this apparition.

At a glance they both recognized the form with its soft white drapery. Floating around it, love could no longer endure that anxious suspense. The young Creole had forsaken her shelter, to share the danger of him she adored. Before either could interfere, to prevent the catastrophe, she had passed through the wicket, a way better known to her than to them, and came gliding across the garden up to the spot where they stood. An exclamation of joy announced her perception that her lover was still unharmed. Quick as an echo, a second exclamation escaped from her lips, but one of a far different intonation. It was a cry of wildest despair, the utterance of one who suddenly knew herself to be an orphan.

Her eyes had fallen upon the corpse of her father.

116 116 - Volume 3 Chapter 45 - An Involuntary Suicide 12:04

An Involuntary Suicide. On seeing the dead body of her father, Kate Vaughn sank to the earth beside it. Not unconsciously, but on her knees, and in an agony of grief, bending over it. She kissed the cold, speechless lips, her sobs and wilder ejaculations following each other in rapid succession. Only the face of the corpse was uncovered. The camlet cloak still shrouded the body and its gaping but bloodless wounds. She saw not these and made no inquiry as to the cause of her father's death. The wasted features, now livid, recalled the disease under which he had been suffering, previous to his departure. It was to that he had succumbed. So reasoned she. Herbert made no attempt to undeceive her.

It was not the time to enter into details of the sad incident that had transpired. The most mournful chapter of the story was now known. The rest need scarce be told. Kate Vaughan was fatherless. Without uttering a word, not even those phrases of consolation, so customary on such occasions, and withal so idle, the young man wound his arms round the waist of his cousin, gently raised her to an erect attitude, and supported her away from the spot. He passed slowly towards the rear of the ruined dwelling. There was still enough light emitted from the calcined embers to make plain the path. Enough to show that the little summer-house in the garden still stood there, in its shining entirety. Its distance from the dwelling-house had saved it from the conflagration.

Into this Herbert conducted his protege, and after placing her on a settee of bamboos, which the kiosk contained, seated himself in a chair beside her. Yola, who had once more appeared upon the scene, followed them. And flinging herself on the floor, at her young mistress's feet, remained gazing upon her with sympathetic looks that evinced the affectionate devotion of the Fula Madam. Kubina had gone in search of the overseer, and such of the domestics as might still have concealed themselves within a reasonable distance, the Maroon might have acted with more caution, seeing that the second attack of the robbers had unexpectedly been made. But he had no fear of their coming again. The escape of the prisoners explained their second appearance, the sole object of which had been to rescue the Cacodores.

For a while the three individuals in the kiosk appeared to be the only living forms that remained by the desolated mansion of Mount Welcome. The return of the robbers had produced even a more vivid feeling of a fright than their first appearance, and the people of the plantation White, as well as black, had betaken themselves to places of concealment, more permanent than before. The whites, overseer, bookkeepers, and all, believing it to be an insurrection of the slaves, had forsaken the plantation altogether, and fled towards Montego Bay. Among these panic-struck fugitives, or rather at the head of them, was the late distinguished guest of Mount Welcome, Mr. Montague Smythie. On being left alone, after the departure of the pursuing party, he had made a rapid retreat towards the stables, and thereby the assistance of Quashie had succeeded in providing himself with a saddled horse.

Not even staying to divest himself of his sacchariferous envelope, he had mounted and ridden atop speed for the port, announcing his fixed determination to take the first ship That should sail for his Dea Metropolis. Smythe had seen enough of Jamaica, and its Queo-Quitas, and more than enough of its Howwood Niggas. Kubina, returning with Quashie, who again imp-like, had started up in his path, the only living being the Maroon could discover, announced the fact that Mr. Smythe was no longer on the ground. From those who occupied the kiosk, The intelligence elicited no response. Notwithstanding the many jealous pangs he had caused Herbert Vaughn, and the important part he had played in the history of the young Creole's life, the great lord of Montague Castle was no longer regarded even as a unit in the situation.

Neither spoke of him, neither gave a thought to him. With perfect indifference, both Herbert and his cousin listened to the report that he was no longer on the ground. But there was at that very moment one upon the ground who might have been better spared, one whose proximity was a thousand times more perilous than that of the harmless Smythe. As we have said, Kubina had no apprehensions about the return of the robbers, but there was a danger near, and equally to be dreaded, a danger of which neither he nor any of the others could have had even the slightest suspicion. The Maroon had delivered his report at the kiosk, and with Quashie attending on him, had gone back to the spot where the dead body still rested.

He had gone thither to ascertain which of his own men had fallen in the late struggle, and also the better to acquaint himself with the direction which the robbers might have taken. Just as he had turned his back upon the kiosk, a human figure, gliding so softly, That it might have been mistaken for a shadow, passed through the wicket gate in the rear of the garden, and with stealthy step advanced in the direction of the summer-house. Notwithstanding an ample cloak in which the figure was enveloped, its contour could be distinguished as that of a woman, one of boldly developed form. The blaze of the still-burning timbers was no longer constant. At intervals some piece, losing its equilibrium under the effect of the consuming fire, would fall with a crushing sound, to be followed by a fresh glare of light, which would continue for a longer or shorter period of time, according to the circumstances that created it.

Just as the silent figure approaching along the path had arrived within a few paces of the summer-house, One of these sudden coruscations arose, lighting up not only the interior of the summer-house, but the whole enclosure to its furthest limits. Under the light, had anyone been looking rearwards across the garden, they would have beheld a beautiful face, beautiful yet disfigured by an expression of mingled rage and pain, that rendered it even hideous. It was the face Of Judith Jesseron. It is not necessary to explain why she was there. The fire of jealousy was still burning in her breast, more ferociously, more bitterly than ever.

In another instant she had placed herself in a position that commanded a view of the interior of the kiosk. What she saw there was not calculated to extinguish the fearful fire that consumed her. On the contrary, Like the collision of the falling timbers, it had the effect of stirring it to increased strength and fierceness. Kate Vaughan had raised herself from her reclining position and was sitting upright on the bamboo settee. Herbert was by her side, also seated. Their bodies were in contact, the arm of the young man softly encircling the waist of his cousin. It would have been evident to the most uninterested observer That their hearts were equally on rapport. That between them was a tie, the strongest on earth, the tie of mutual love.

It needed no reasoning on the part of Judith Jesseron to arrive at this conclusion. The tableau was typical. It was a picture that required no explanation. Nor did she who looked upon it ask for any. She did not even stay to notice the brown-skinned damsel, who seemed to be guarding the entrance of the kiosk. But springing past her, she stood in a defiant attitude in the presence of the lovers. "'Herbert Vaughn,' cried she, in a tone of bitter abandonment, "'traitor, perjured villain, you have been false to me.' "'It is not true, Judith Jesseron,' cried the young man. interrupting her, and as soon as he had recovered from his surprise, springing to his feet. It is not true. I—I never intended.

Ha! screamed the Jewess, her rage apparently becoming more fierce at the attempted explanation. Never intended what? Never intended to marry you. I never gave you promise. False! cried Judith, once more interrupting him. No matter now, it is all past, and since you never intended to marry me, she at least will never be your wife. The action that followed rendered the menace of the madwoman too easily intelligible. As she gave utterance to it, she passed her hand under the mantle in which her figure was enveloped, and as she drew it forth again, a shining object appeared between her fingers. It was a pistol, with silver sheen and ivory handle, small but large enough to take life at such close quarters.

It was presented as soon as drawn, but not at Herbert Vaughan. It was towards his companion that its muzzle was pointed. Scarce a second passed before the report was heard, and for a time the kiosk was filled with smoke. When this cleared away, And the shining light once more penetrated the apartment. A woman was seen extended on the floor, her form quivering in the last throes of life. In another instant it was motionless, a corpse. The shot had proved fatal. But the victim was not Kate Vaughan, but Judith Jesseron. The transposition was due to the Fula maid. Seeing the life of her mistress in such imminent peril, She had sprung up from her seat by the door, and, bounding forward with the subtle quickness of a cheetah, had seized the wrist of the intended murderess, with the intention of averting her aim, and in doing so had directed it upon herself.

It was by accident, therefore, and not from design on the part of Yola, that Judith Jesseron thus terminated her life by an involuntary suicide.

117 117 - Volume 3 Chapter 46 - Quaco in Ambush 6:10

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read. Quokko in Ambush The Maroon captain, before leaving the Duppy's hole, had given official orders to his lieutenant. About the capture of Chakra. There could no longer be any question of the absence of the mile-man from his haunt. The maroons had continued their search after the discovery in the cave, still thinking that he might be concealed somewhere in the wood. The bushes were well beaten, the trees where it was possible for a man to have climbed were all scrutinized, and the search had ended without their finding any other trace of the Coromantee. Then what had been already discovered? Beyond doubt Chakra had gone abroad, though in what direction, no one could guess, and to have attempted tracking him at night, and through a pathless forest, would have been labor lost.

The correct scheme for capturing him was for the Maroons to remain in the Duppy's Hole against his return, and by keeping an embouscade until he should have recrossed the lagoon, They would have him, as it were, in a trap. This was the plan chosen, with the execution of which Cuoco was entrusted. Indeed, the initiatory steps had been taken already, for ever since the search by torchlight had been abandoned, Cuoco and his men had been placed in ambush. Cubina perceived the error he had committed in causing the search to be made. Chakra might have been upon the cliff above, where he could not have failed to see the light of the torches. If so, there would not be the slightest hope of his returning for that night.

After witnessing such an invasion of his secret haunt, his caution would be upon the Quivive, enough to hinder him from venturing down into the duppy's hole, notwithstanding the attractive lure he had there left behind him. Kubina thus reflected with regret, with chagrin, the capture of chakra had now become an object of primary importance. After all, the apprehension that he had seen the torches, or in any way become aware of the intrusion of strangers upon his solitary domain, may have been an idle one. If so, then he would be certain to come back. The presence of his prisoner was earnest of his return. And at no distant period of time. To make sure of his capture, the maroon captain had himself planned the ambush.

Cuoco and his men were placed under the great tree, where the mile-man was accustomed to moor his craft. Some of them were stationed on the tree, among its branches, with the design that they should drop upon the shoulders of the Coromante as soon as he should arrive at his anchorage. The canoe itself was to be left at the bottom of the stairway, after being taken thither by the maroon captain and his two companions on their departure from the place. All this was done as designed. Before parting from the canoe, Kubina had taken the precaution to place it in the exact position in which it had been left by Chakra, so that the latter could have no suspicions that the craft had been used during his absence.

These arrangements having been completed, Cuoco and his comrades, Chinquays among the number, from their station by the edge of the lagoon, with eyes bent alternately upon the water and the face of the cliff, awaited the coming of the Coromantee. The Maroons were armed with guns, loaded and primed, not that they intended to kill Chakra. On the contrary, Cobina's orders were to capture him. Criminal as was the outlawed Mayal man, it was not their province to decide upon his criminality, at least not so far as to the depriving him of his life. Free as was the license enjoyed by these mountain rovers, there were laws around them by which even they were bound to abide. Besides, there would be no danger of his escaping from the punishment that was his due.

They knew the Chakra's capture Would be but the prelude to his execution. They had a different reason for being attentive to their arms. It was just possible that Coromante might not return alone. They knew he had been in the company of others, Adam and his band of desperate robbers. These Confederates might come back along with him. In that case, the quiet scheme of their capture might be transformed into a sanguinary encounter. It was not necessary all should keep awake. One half of the little band were appointed sentinels, while the others went to sleep. The lieutenant himself was among the number of those who were entitled to the latter privilege, since for two days and nights he had scarce slept a wink.

Speedily surrendering himself to the drowsy god, Quaco indulged in a profound slumber, snoring in such fashion That but for the louder intonation of the waters surging through the gorge below, his huge nostrils would have betrayed his presence to the expected chakra, even before the latter should have set foot in his canoe. As it was, however, the roaring of the cataract quite drowned the nasal music of the sleeping quokko, and his companions suffered him to snore on.

118 118 - Volume 3 Chapter 47 - The Doom of Destiny 10:15

The Maroon by Thomas Main-Reed. The Doom of Destiny.

Until Daybreak. Was Quacko permitted to continue his snoring and his slumber? Up to that time no chakra appeared, but just as the red aurora began to tinge the tops of the forest trees, a dark form was distinguished upon the summit of the cliff, just over the tree stairway. It had scarce made its appearance, when another was seen coming forward by its side, and in the rear of both, another, and then a fourth. All four halted for a moment upon the brow of the precipice. Whether they were in conversation could not be told. Likely they were, but their voices could not be heard above the mutterings of the moving water. Presently he who had first made his appearance commenced descending the cliff, followed by the others, apparently in the same order in which they had arrived upon its edge.

Chinquays had already shaken Cuoco from his slumbers. The other sleepers had also been aroused by their companions, and perceiving the numbers of the enemy, had grasped their guns with a firmer hold. Though the day had now dawned, none of the four shadowy figures outlined against the facade of the cliff could be identified. The dark rock and the bramble hindered them from being fairly seen. Not even when they had reached the bottom of the stair could they be recognized, for there also the frontage afforded them cover. It was only after the two foremosts had entered the canoe, and the craft was seen gliding out into the open water, that Kwako could tell who were the two individuals, thus seeking the solitude of the duppy's hole.

"'Chakra," said he in a whisper to Chinquays. "'Tother? Prince." If my eyes don't bamboozle me, it's your old acquaintance, the pen-keeper. To the philata this piece of information was superfluous. He had already recognized the well-known features of the man who had so deeply injured him. The memory of all his wrongs rushed into his heart, accompanied by a thirst for vengeance, keen, irresistible. With a wild cry, and before Quocco could interpose, He raised his piece and fired. The young African was a marksman of unerring aim, and but for the upraised arm of Kwako that had disturbed the level of that deadly tube, the hours of Jacob Jesseron would have been numbered. And numbered they were, despite the interruption, despite the accident that guided that leaden missile far wide of its mark.

Destiny had determined upon having its victim. Neither of the occupants of the canoe appeared to have been wounded, but as the smoke cleared away, it could be seen that the shot had not passed them without effect. Chakra's hands were empty. The paddle had been struck by the bullet, and carried clean out of them, was now seen on the surface of the water fast gliding towards the gorge. A shrill cry escaped from the lips of the Coromante. He alone understood the danger to which this accident had exposed him. He alone knew of the world that threatened to overwhelm both himself and his companion. Instantly he threw himself upon his knees, and with an arm extended on each side of the canoe, and his body bent down to the gunwale, he commenced heating the water with his broad palms.

His aim was to prevent the craft from being drawn into the center of the current. For some moments this strange struggle was kept up, the canoe just holding its own, making way neither upwards nor downwards. The Maroons watched the movement with mute surprise, and no doubt would have continued to do so, but that the two men left by the bottom of the stairway, perhaps stirred by a like curiosity, The Jack Spaniards, cried Quocco, surprised beyond measure at the sight of the Sea-de-Van prisoners. They have got loose from our guard. Fire upon them, comrades. Don't let them escape a second time. The Stentorian voice of the Maroon Lieutenant. Audible above all other sounds, had once awakened the Cacodors to a sense of their dangerous situation, and like a brace of baboons, they commenced sprawling up the tangled stairway.

Too late had they taken their resolution. Before they had got a third of the way to the summit, half a dozen triggers were pulled, and their bodies, one after the other, fell with a heavy plunge into the water below. Meanwhile Chakra, in the canoe, Had kept up his life-and-death struggle, now going against the current, and now the watery element appearing to prevail. For the moment the Maroons could not have decided that strife. They were engaged in reloading their guns, and the Coromante was left free to continue his struggles without interruption. Chakra's bitterest enemies could scarce have desired to bring that scene to a speedy termination. No avenger need have wished his victim in a more terrible situation than were he and his confederate at that moment.

The former, acting under the instinct of self-preservation, had not yet given way to despair, while the terrified look of the latter, who appeared to have already succumbed to it, might have restrained his deadliest foe from interference. Between the long sinewy arms of Chakra, And the strength of the current, it was difficult to decide which would conquer. For many minutes the forces appeared to be equally balanced, but the strength of the man was declining, while that of the element remained the same. In the end the waters must prevail. Chakra at length appeared to become convinced of this, and cast round him a glance of mingled inquiry and despair.

At that moment, an idea seemed to strike him, some thought, perhaps, that promised him a chance of escape. All at once, he desisted from his hopeless efforts to stay the canoe, as if some resolution had suddenly become fixed, and turning towards his companion, he bent down, apparently with the intention of whispering to him. His wild, dark look, however, declared his design to be far different. When fairly within reach, he threw out his long arms with a sudden jerk, and clutching the Jew by both shoulders, drew him up into his embrace like some gigantic spider seizing upon its prey. Suddenly changing his hold, he grasped an arm and limb, and raising the body high in air, with an immense muscular effort, he projected it clear over the gunnel of the canoe.

One shriek from the Jew, emitted in the extremist accent of grief, was heard simultaneously with the plunge, and then the body of the unfortunate man disappeared beneath the dark waters of the lagoon. His hat and umbrella alone floated on the surface, both rapidly carried along by the current. The wretched creature rose again, but not to discover any chance of saving himself from destruction. The only gratification he could have drawn from his temporary emergence was to perceive that his false confederate must perish as well as himself. Chakra had hoped that by lightening the canoe he might contend more successfully with the current, but it soon became evident that his hopes would prove vain.

In disembarrassing himself of his compagnon du voyage, he had lost way, and before he could recover it, The canoe was sucked into a charybdis, from which even the power of the paddle could not have extricated it. In less than ten seconds the craft entered the embouchure of the gorge, gliding downward with the velocity of an arrow. It was but a despairing effort on the part of its occupant to seize upon a tree that grew horizontally from the rocks. Though in his despair Chakra clutched it, Even had the bush been firmly rooted, his strength would not have sustained him against the fierce, restless flood. But it was not. The roots gave way, and in another instant the Coromantee and his canoe were precipitated and hundred feet sheer among the black rocks below.

His Confederate had preceded him only by two seconds of time, and the dead bodies of both came once more in close contact, circling round and round amidst the frothy spume that creamed over the cauldron below.

119 119 - Volume 3 Chapter 48 - Conclusion 15:52

The Maroon by Thomas Main Read Conclusion On the morning that succeeded the occurrence of these tragic events, One entering at the great gate of Mount Welcome Estate, and directing his eye up the long palm-shaded avenue, would have beheld but a mass of black, smoking ruins. On any other morning, twelve months after, the eye of a person looking in the same direction would have been gladdened by a sight far different, smiling in all its splendor, at the end of that vegetable vista. Once more could be seen the proud mansion of Mount Welcome, renascent in every respect, its stone stairway still standing, its white walls and green jalouseed windows looking as if they had sprung, phoenix-like, from the flames, every item of the architecture so closely in imitation of the former structure that even the eye of an old acquaintance could have detected no trace of the transformation.

Outside, everything appeared as before. It was only upon entering the mansion that you might receive a change, and this chiefly relating to its occupancy and ownership. Instead of a stout, red-faced, and somewhat plebeian personage of over forty years old, you would see in the present proprietor of Mount Welcome a youth of noble mean, by age scarce claiming the privileges of manhood. But in aspect and demeanour, Evidently fit for the performance of its duties, deserving to be the master of that aristocratic mansion. Near him—oh, certain to be near him—there is one upon whom the eye rests with still greater interest, one who had graced the old mansion, yet more gracing the new, the daughter of its former proprietor, the wife of its present one.

She has not even changed her name. Only her condition. Lily Quashiba is no longer Miss, but Mrs. Vaughan. Both these personages may be seen seated in that great hall, with floor as smooth and furniture as resplendent as ever. It is the hour after breakfast, and also, as of yore, the hour when the post may be expected, not that either cared to look abroad for that diurnal messenger. More welcome to those around when Hyman has not yet wound his golden chain. Equally indifferent were those two happy individuals to the actions of the outside world. Neither cared for its news. Their love, still in the fresh flush of its honeymoon, was world enough for them. And what interest could either feel in the arrival of the male?

But the post has no respect either for indifference or anxiety. It is transmitted alike to the grave and the gay. It brings joy to the heart heavy-laden, and sorrow to that which the moment before its arrival may have been bounding with bliss. In that great hall in the mansion of Mount Welcome there were two bosoms brimful of bliss, and a feeling near akin to it. Nay, why should we say akin to it? Since they were two hearts in the enjoyment of a mutual love, if that be not bliss, there is no other, either on earth or in heaven. Without any attempt at concealment, the eyes of both betrayed their mutual delight. Gazing on each other, in sweet reciprocal admiration, they saw not the dark form, rudely centurion, that approached.

Up the long avenue. Had they seen it, it would have created no surprise. It was only the post-boy, Quashie, on his shabby cob, returning from the bay. After this speculative peroration, the reader may be apprehensive of some dire developments springing from the letter-bag slung over the shoulders of the darky. Nothing of the kind. It was a letter. But not one that might be unwelcome. But for the postmark it might have remained for hours unopened. But the impress was peculiar. It was African. The letter was stamped with the name of a port near the mouth of the Gambia. It was addressed to Herbert Vaughan Esquire, Mount Welcome, Jamaica. The young planter broke the seal and rapidly ran over the contents of the letter.

"'From your brother Kubina,' said he. Though he knew that he imparted no information by this, he writes to say he is coming back again to Jamaica. "'Oh, I'm so glad of that. I knew he would never live contented among those wild people, notwithstanding he has been made a prince over them, but Yola. She comes with him, of course. It's not likely he would leave her behind.'" She longs for her island home again. I don't wonder, dearest Kate. There's one spot on the earth hallowed beyond all others, the spot where heart meets heart in the free confession of a mutual love. No wonder the African maiden should desire to return to it. Human nature is everywhere the same. To me, this island is the Elysium of Earth.

Ah, to me also. On giving utterance to this mutual confession, the young husband and wife bent towards each other, and pressed lips as fervently as if they had never been married. After this fond embrace, Herbert continued the reading of the letter. Your brother wants to know whether he can either become our tenant or purchase that piece of land that lies beyond the Jambay Rock. The old king has given him a capital to start with, and he wants to turn coffee planter. I'm glad he has such intentions. Then he will settle down and be near us. He must not be permitted to purchase it. We shall present it to him. Since we have enough without it, what do you say, Kate?" "'It is yours, not mine, to give.' "'Ah,' returned the young wife in a tone of playful reproach, "'do not distress me with those sad souvenirs.

You know that I gave it to you when I might have believed myself its mistress. And stay, dearest. Do not you distress me by such an appeal. You were its rightful owner, and should have been.' Even had we not become joint proprietors, I could never have thought of dispossessing you. Say, then, that the land shall be Cubina's. A repetition of that sweet embrace pronounced the consent of both to the proposal of Cubina. Herbert resumed the reading of the letter. Good heavens! cried he, on finishing its perusal. What a singular story! The captain of the slaver, who brought Yola's brother over to Jamaica, has been back again to the coast. What a terrible retaliation! What, dear Herbert? Only that they have eaten him.

Oh, merciful Father! Sad and terrible, though it be, it is true. El Scobina would not have written it. Hear what he says. Jowler! That was the name of the slaver's captain, presented himself before Ol' Fula Futa in search of a fresh cargo of slaves. The king, already apprised of the skipper's treason to Chingwes, instantly ordered him to be seized, and without trial or other formality caused him to be chopped to pieces upon the spot. He was afterwards cooked and eaten at the grand national feast. Which was held on the celebration of my nuptials with the Princess Yola. Crambo! It was a painful scene, and one might have felt sympathy for the unfortunate wretch, had he been anything else than a dealer in human flesh.

But under that reflection I stood by without feeling any great desire to interfere in his behalf. In fact, my Philata father-in-law was so furious I could not have saved the wretch from a fate which, after all, was perhaps not more than he deserved, and to which no doubt the poor victims he had carried across the Atlantic would have been only too glad to have seen him consigned. It is well," said Kate, with a thoughtful air, that Cobina has determined upon leaving a land where I fear such scenes are too common. "'I shall be so happy to see them both once more in our dear, beautiful island. And you, Herbert, I'm sure, will rejoice at their return?' "'Most certainly I shall.' "'Ah, Kate, did it ever occur to you how much we are indebted to them?' "'Often, Herbert, often.

And were it not that I am a firm believer in destiny, I should fancy that but for them—' "'Nonsense, Kate!' Playfully interrupted the young husband. None of your Creole suspicions. There is no such thing as destiny. It was not that which ruled my heart to believe you the fairest thing in creation, but because you are so. Don't be ungenerous to Covina and Yola. Give them all the credit that is due to them. Say frankly, love, that but for them— You might have become Mrs. Smythe. And I—I—O, Herbert, speak not of the past. Let that be buried in oblivion, since our present is everything we can desire. Agreed. But for all that, dearest, do not let us forget the gratitude we owe to Covina and his dark-skinned bride.

And to prove it to them, I propose something more than giving them the piece of land. Let us build them a house upon it, so that upon their arrival they may have a roof to shelter them. Oh, that would be a pleasant surprise for them. Then we shall bring it about. What a lovely morning! Don't you think so, Kate?" As Herbert put this interrogatory, he glanced out through the open jalousies. There was nothing particularly fine about the morning, at least for Jamaica, but Kate saw with Herbert's eyes. And just then, to the eyes of both, everything appeared color de rose. Indeed, a beautiful morning, answered the young wife, glancing inquiringly towards her husband. What say you, then, to a little excursion?

Apeed. I should be delighted, Herbert. Where do you think of going? Guess now. No, you must tell me. You forget. According to Creole custom, our honeymoon is to last for twelve months. Until that be terminated, you are to be the master, sweet Kate. Where would you most like to go? I have no choice, Herbert. Anywhere. In your company it is all the same to me. You must decide. Well then, dearest, since you leave it to me, I declare for the Jumbe Rock. Its summit overlooks the piece of land we intend presenting to our brother Kubina. While we are there, we can select the site for his house. Is it agreeable to you?" Dearest Herbert replied the young wife, entwining her arm around that of her husband's and gazing fondly into his eyes, the very place I was thinking of.

Why of it? Tell me, Kate. Shame, Herbert, must I tell you. You know that I have told you before. Tell me again. It gives me pleasure to hear you speak of that hour. Hour? Scarce a minute was it, and yet a minute worth all the rest of my life, a minute in which I learnt that the language of your eyes was truer than that of your tongue. But for that belief, Herbert, I might indeed have yielded to despair. The memory of that sweet glance haunted me, sustained me through all. Despite all, I continued to hope. And I too, Kate. That remembrance is as dear to me as it can be to you. Let us seek the hallowed spot. An hour after, and they stood upon the Jambay Rock. On that spot so consecrated in their hearts, Herbert appeared to have forgotten his purpose.

Not a word was said about Cubina, or the site of his dwelling. Not a word of the happy valley, or the unpleasant recollections it was calculated to call up. All the past appeared to be forgotten, except that one sweet scene. And on this were concentrated the thoughts of both their words as well. "'And you loved me then,' inquired he, "'only to enjoy the luxury of an affirmative answer. "'You loved me then. "'Oh, Herbert, how could I help loving you?' "'Your eyes were so beautiful then.' "'What? Are they not so now?' "'How cruel to ask the question. "'Ah, far more beautiful now.' Then I beheld them only with anticipation. Now I look into them with a consciousness of possession. That moment was pleasure.

This is ecstasy. The last word was perfectly appropriate, not a shade too strong to express the mutual feeling that existed between Herbert Vaughn and his cousin-wife. As their rounded arms became entwined, and their young bosoms pressed fondly together, both believed that even in this unhappy world ecstasy may exist.

queue_music Chapters 119