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

“Dat am berry near de troof,” observed the negro, with a thoughtful air.

“Little dosh the Cushtos think,” continued Jessuron, without heeding the interpolation, “that thish young fellow, whosh a-helpin’ him to conshpire againsht me, is a sort of a son to hish consheited 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, Cubina, the Maroon. But his mother, who or what she had been, he had never known.

Was it possible, then, that the quadroon, Quasheba – of whose fame he, too, had heard – was it true she was his own mother? That “Lilly Quasheba,” the beautiful, the accomplished daughter of the Custos Vaughan, 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 musht put the shpell on him , too,” said the Jew; “for heesh the principal in thish plot againsht me. Even if the Cushtos wash out of the way, thish Captain Cubina will go to some other magistrate to carry out hish design. There will be plenty to help him. You musht shpell him , and soon ash you can, Shakra. There’sh no time to lose – not a minnit, s’help me!”

“A do wha a can, Massr Jake; but a mout’s well tell ye, that it a’nt so easy to put de spell on a Maroon. It coss me more’n twenty year to put de obeah on him ole fadder, and I’se a been tryin’ um on dis young Cubina fo’ some time – ebber since him fadder die. A hate de young un, same a hated de ole un. You knows why a hate boaf.”

“I knowsh all that – I knowsh all that.”

“Wa, den! a do ma bess. Dat ar m’latta gib me no hope. She soon ’dminster de spell ef she hab chance – kase she think um de lub drink. She no hab chance, fo’ Cubina he no let her come nigh o’ him. Nebba mind: Chakra he find oppotunity some day; ’fore long he put de death-spell on de son ob dat quaderoom.”

“Perhaps not so soon!” was the mental rejoinder of him who listened to this confident declaration.

“It’sh less matter about him than the other!” cried the Jew, giving way to a fresh burst of rage. “S’help me! the Cushtos is going to shlip out of my fingers – the eshtate – all! Ach!” he ejaculated, as his disappointment came more palpably before him, “you hash played me false, Shakra! I b’lief you’ve been playin’ 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-à-vis in a threatening attitude.

“No, Massr Jake,” replied the myal-man, without altering the air of obeisance he had hitherto assumed, – “no – nuffin ob dat – anyhow, I’se can say dar’s nuffin ob dat. You yaseff sabbey well ’nuff a hab as good reezun as you to make de spell work, an’ I tell you it shall work !”

“Yesh! when too late – too late! I don’t care then. If the Cushtos get to Spanish Town – if he procuresh the shpecial act, I’m a ruined Shew! I don’t care a shtraw if the death-shpell wash put on myshelf! 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 which was stimulating the Jew was still unknown to his fellow-conspirator.

“I tell you,” resumed Jessuron, still in threatening speech, “I believe you hash been fooling me, Shakra! You hash some interest of your own – perhaps, with thish Lilly Quasheba. Ha! never mind! I tell you thish time – I tell you, Shakra, if the shpell dosh fail – yesh, if it fail, and the Cushtos reach the capital – where he ish going – I tell you, Shakra, you may look out for shqualls! You loosh your monish I promised you. Ay, you may loosh your life ash well. I hash only to shay a word, and the Duppy’s Hole will be searched by the houndsh of the law. Now will you do your besht to keep the Cushtos from reaching the capital of the Island?”

As Jessuron 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 sound 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, Massr Jake,” said the myal-man, in conclusion, “by de great Accompong, a do ma bess. Ef de Cussus ’trive ’scape, den you do wid ole Chakra whasomediver you hab mind to. ’Liver him up, ef you like! Ha! de Cussus no ’scape. Dis night Cynthy hab take bottle in her basket of de ’trongest kind. It do de bizness in ’bout twenty-fo’ hour. Daat am de true death-spell . Whugh!”

“In twenty-four hours? You ish shure, Shakra? you ish shure?”

“Shoo’ as a ’m now in de Duppy Hole, Massr Jake. Doan’ you hab no mo’ doubt ob ole Chakra. He hab no lub fo’ Cussus Va’ghan mo’ dan youseff. P’raps he lub de Cussus’ dau’ter, but dat am berry diffrent sort ob ’fecshun. Whugh!”

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.

Cubina 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 re-ascended the tree stairway, and stood once more on the summit of the cliff.

On emerging from the Duppy’s Hole, the penn-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.