Томас Майн Рид - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

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 countenance of the mulatto. It was a shade lighter than the last, with a dash of crimson in the cheeks. It was this colouring of the cheeks, perhaps, combined with a well-rounded, sparkling iris, that imparted the agreeable expression.

The man was young. Herbert Vaughan 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 colour 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-mêlé 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 head-dress 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 cottonade, cut somewhat blouse-fashion; an under-shirt of fine white linen, ruffled and open at the breast; trousers of the same material as the coat; and buff coloured boots of roughly-cleaned cowskin. 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 withe 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 haft-like hilt of greyish horn, is to be found in every cottage of Spanish America, from California to the “Land of Eire [492].” Even where the Spaniards have been, but are no longer – as in Jamaica – the universal macheté may be seen in the hands of hunter and peasant – a relic of the conqueror colonists.

Up to the moment that the boar was laid prostrate upon the ground, he in the toque had been kept too well employed with his fierce game to find time for looking at anything else. It was only after dealing the deathblow 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.

“Hoh!” 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 fowling-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 [493]!”

As the hunter hurriedly muttered these concluding phrases, he glided with stealthy 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 some one who was advancing towards the tree.

Herbert, from his perch, had a full view of the new comer thus announced.

A young man of a copper red colour, with straight black hair, shaggily tossed and pulled over his forehead, as if some one had been tearing it from his head! His face, too – a fine one, notwithstanding its mahogany colour – appeared freshly lacerated; and his whole body bore the marks of inhuman abuse. The coarse cotton shirt that covered his shoulders was blotched with blood; and long, crimson-coloured 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 – towards the ceiba .

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.

“Halt!” cried the hunter, showing himself round the buttress, and stepping in front of the new comer. “You are a runaway, and 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.

“ Crambo !” 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-bail 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 wales, crossing each other like the arteries in an anatomic plate!