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

The exclamation of the myal-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.

“Hash you a glass among your belongingsh?” inquired the Jew, looking around the hovel.

“No; dis yeer do?” asked his host, presenting a small calabash with a handle.

“Fush rate. Thish liquor drinksh goot out of anything. I had it from Capten Showler on hish lasht voyage. Jesh taste it, good Shakra, before we begins bishness.”

A grunt from the negro announced his willing assent to the proposal.

“Whugh!” he ejaculated, after swallowing the allowance poured out for him into the calabash.

“Ach! goot it ish!” 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 shtrange news, if you hashn’t already heard it, Shakra? Who dosh you think ish dead?”

“Ha!” exclaimed the myal-man, his eye suddenly lighting up with a gleam of ferocious joy; “he gone dead, am he?”

“Who? I hashen’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 wash sick – you knew Justish Bailey wash sick, an’ not likely to get over it . Well – he hashen’t, poor man! – he’s dead and in hish coffin by thish time: he breathed hish lasht yesterdays.”

A loud and highly-aspirated “Whugh!” was the only answer made by the myal-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 ish very shtrange,” continued the penn-keeper, in the same tone of affected simplicity; “so short a time shince Mishter Ridgely died. Two of the three shustices that sat on your trial, goot Shakra. It looksh ash if Providensh had a hand in it – it dosh!”

“Or de Dibbil, mo’ like, maybe?” rejoined Chakra, with a significant leer.

“Yesh – Gott or the Devil – one or t’other. Well, Shakra, you hash had your refenge, whichever hash helped you to it. Two of your enemies ish not likely to trouble you again; and ash for the third – ”

“Nor he berry long, I’se speck’,” interrupted the negro, with a significant grin.

“What you shay?” exclaimed the Jew, in an earnest undertone. “Hash you heard anythings? Hash the wench been to see you?”

“All right ’bout her, Massr Jake.”

“Goot – she hash been?”

“Jess leab dis place ’bout quar’r ob an hour ’go.”

“And she saysh she will help you to set the obeah-shpell for him?”

“Hab no fear – she do all dat. Obi had spell oba her, dat make her do mose anythin – ah! any thin’ in de worl’ – satin shoo. Obi all-powerful wi’ dat gal.”

“Yesh, yesh!” assented the Jew; “I knowsh all that. And if Obi wash to fail,” added he, doubtingly, “you hash a drink, goot Shakra – I know you hash a drink, ash potent as Obi or any other of your gotsh.”

A glance of mutual intelligence passed between the two.

“How long dosh it take your shpell to work?” inquired the penn-keeper, after an interval of silence, in which he seemed to be making some calculation.

“Dat,” replied the negro, “dat depend altogedder on de saccomstance ob how long de spell am wanted to work. Ef ’im wanted, Chakra make ’im in tree day fotch de ’trongest indiwiddible cla out o’ ’im boots; or in tree hour he do same – but ob coorse dat ud be too soon fo’ be safe. A spell of tree hours too ’trong. Dat not Obi work – ’im look berry like pisen.”

“Poison – yesh, yesh, it would.”

“Tree day too short – tree week am de correct time. Den de spell work ’zackly like fever ob de typos. Nobody had s’picion ’bout ’um.”

“Three weeks, you shay? And no symptoms to make schandal? You’re shure that ish sufficient? Remember, Shakra; the Cushtos ish a strong man – strong ash a bull.”

“No mar’r ’bout dat. Ef he ’trong as de bull, in dat period ob time he grow weak as de new-drop calf – I’se be boun’ he ’taggering Bob long ’fore dat. You say de word, Massr Jake. Obi no like to nigga. Nigga only brack man: he no get pay fo’ ’im work. Obi ’zemble buckra man. He no work ’less him pay.”

“Yesh – yesh! dat ish only shust and fair. Obi should be paid; but shay, goot Shakra! how much ish his prishe for a shpell of thish kind?”

“Ef he hab no interest hisseff in de workin’ ob de ’pell, he want a hunder poun’. When he hab interest, das different – den he take fifty.”

“Fifty poundsh! That ish big monish, good Shakra! In thish case Obi hash an interest – more ash anybody elshe. He hash an enemy, and wants refenge. Ish that not true, goot Shakra!”

“Das da troof. Chakra no go fo’ deny ’im. But das jess why Obi ’sent do dat leetle chore fo’ fifty poun’. Obi enemy big buckra – ’trong as you hab jess say – berry diff’cult fo’ ’pell ’im. Any odder myal-man charge de full hunder poun’. Fack, no odder able do de job – no odder but ole Chakra hab dat power.”

“Shay no more about the prishe. Fifty poundsh be it. Here’sh half down.” The tempter tossed a purse containing coin into the outstretched palm of the obeah-man. “All I shtipulate for ish, that in three weeks you earn the other half; and then we shall both be shquare with the Cushtos Vochan – for I hash my refenge to shatisfy ash well as you, Shakra.”

“Nuff sed, Massr Jake. ’Fore tree day de ’pell sha’ be put on. You back come to de Duppy Hole tree night from dis, you hear how ’im work. Whugh!”

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 Obi having conducted his fellow-conspirator across the lagoon, returned to his temple, and set himself assiduously to finish what was left of the liquor.

“Whugh!” ejaculated he, in one of the pauses that occurred between two vigorous pulls at the bottle; “ole villum Jew wuss dan Chakra – wuss dan de Debbil hisseff! Doan’ know why he want rebbenge. Das nuffin’ to me. I want rebbenge, an’, by de great Accompong! I’se a g’wine to hab it! Ef dis gal proob true, as de odder’s did – she muss proob true – in tree week de proud, fat buckra jussis dat condemn me to dat Jumbé Rock – ‘Cussos rodelorum,’ as de call ’im – won’t hab no more flesh on ’im bones dan de ’keleton he tink wa’ myen. And den, when ’im die – ah! den, affer ’im die, de daughter ob dat Quasheba dat twenty year ’go ’corn de lub ob de Coromantee for dat ob de yellow Maroon – maybe her dauter, de Lilly Quasheba, sleep in de arms ob Chakra de myal-man! Whugh!”

As the minister of Obi gave utterance to this hypothetical threat, a lurid light glared un in his sunken eyes, while his white, sharklike 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 Coromantee 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!