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

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.

Chapter 8

A Scarcity of Trousers

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.

His guide could do nothing for him. In the line of inexpressibles Quaco was no better provided than himself.

Verily, the prospect was appalling!

Could he reach the house, and steal to his own chamber unseen? What chance was there of his doing so?

On reflection, not much. Mount Welcome, like all other mansions in Jamaica, was a cage – open on every side. It was almost beyond the bounds of probability that he could enter the house unobserved.

Still, he could try, and on the success of that trial rested his only hope. Oh, for that grand secret known only to the jealous Juno – the secret of rendering one’s-self invisible! What would Smythje not have given for a ten minutes’ hire of that Carthaginian [521] cloud?

The thought was really in his mind; for Smythje, like all young Englishmen of good family, had studied the classics.

The idea, moreover, proved suggestive. If there was no probability of being provided with the nimbus of Juno, there was the possibility of shadowing himself under the nimbus of night. Darkness once on, he might enter the house, reach his chamber unperceived, and thus escape the unpleasant exposure he so much dreaded.

Smythje stopped, looked at his guide, looked at the sun, and lastly at his naked knees – now, from the enfeebled state of his limbs, oscillating towards each other.

Mount Welcome was in sight. The guide was about to leave him; and, therefore, in whatever way he might choose to act, there would be no witness.

Just then the Maroon made his adieus, and the ci-devant sportsman was left to himself.

Once more he scanned the sun, and consulted his watch. In two hours it would be twilight. The crepusculous interval would enable him to approach the house; and in the first moments of darkness – before the lamps were lit – he might enter unobserved – or, at all events, his plight might not very plainly be perceived.

The scheme was feasible, and having determined to adopt it, Smythje cowered down in the covert, and awaited the setting of the sun.

He counted the hours, the half-hours, and minutes – he listened to the voices coming up from the negro village – he watched the bright-winged birds that fluttered among the branches overhead, and envied them their complete plumage.

Notwithstanding many rare sights and sweet sounds that reached him, the two hours spent in his secret lair were not passed pleasantly – solicitude about the success of his scheme robbing him of all zest for the enjoyment of that fair scene that surrounded him.