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

After a while’s reflection, he concluded that his most prudent plan would be to wait for the young buckra’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 Quashie.

To account for the disappearance of the cognac – for he had drunk every drop of it – the darkey had bethought him of another little bit of fabrication – suggested, no doubt, by the mischance that had befallen the bottle of claret. He intended to tell the grand buckra – and “thrape” it down his throat if need be – that he, the buckra, 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 buckra 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? Massa Vaughan 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 Smythje 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 dead-wood, 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 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 scrutinising 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 Quashie’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 some one speaking from the interior of a tomb!

The darkey stood horrified – his black epidermis turning to an ashy-grey colour, 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 he, 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, step by step, scrutinising 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 darkey’s ear, increasing his terror. It was just such a one as the first – long, protracted, and sepulchral, 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 darkey 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 essayed to get his eyes upon the utterer.

Still in the belief that the individual, whoever it was, and for whatever purpose, was dodging round 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 “duppy, or de debbil hisself!”

The evidence that it was one or the other had now become overpowering. Quashie could resist it no longer.

“Duppy! Jumbé! de debbil!” 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.

Following his gigantic guide, Mr Smythje 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 Quaco 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 book-keeper on his estate to any individual who should have presented him with a pair of pantaloons.