Н. Самуэльян - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

Smythje 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 Mr Smythje 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 colour. 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 ( chilabothrus inornatus ).

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 Smythje, 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 colour, and proved, upon inspection, to be one of Mr Smythje’s boots, still incased 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 “drooked” and bedraggled, offered but a poor chance for the garnishing of his game-bag.

Smythje, however, too well contented 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 Quaco, 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!

Chapter 7

Quashie in a Quandary

During all this time, where was Quashie?

Mr Smythje 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 dead-wood 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 darkey would see to them.

In this conjecture Mr Smythje hit the nail upon the head – at least so far as regarded the brandy-flask. It was by seeing too well to it, that Quashie 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 buckra had not been twenty minutes out of his presence, when Quashie, 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 Smythje 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 towards tranquillity – 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 Smythje’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.

Quashie, 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 buckra’s brandy; and as the temporary courage with which it had inspired him was now quite gone, he dreaded an encounter with the white “gemman.” 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 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!