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

An artist was the English brother, without fortune – almost without name. Many other circumstances relating to him had come to the knowledge of Jessuron; among the rest, that the proud Custos knew little about his poor English relatives, cared less, and scarcely kept up correspondence with them.

In what way could this knowledge interest Jacob Jessuron? – for it did.

Thus, then: it was known to him that Loftus Vaughan had never been married to the quadroon Quasheba. That circumstance, however, would have signified little, had Quasheba been a white woman, or even a “quinteroon [547] ” – in Jamaica termed a mustee , and by some fanciful plagiarists, of late, pedantically styled “octoroon” – a title which, it may here be stated, has no existence except in the romantic brains of these second-hand litterateurs [548] .

We repeat it – had the slave Quasheba been either a white woman, or even a mustee , the fact of a marriage, or no marriage, would have signified little – so far as regarded the succession of her offspring to the estates of the father. It is true that, if not married, the daughter would, by the laws of Jamaica – as by those of other lands – still have been illegitimate ; but for all that, she could have inherited her father’s property, if left to her by will : since in Jamaica no entail existed.

As things stood, however, the case was widely, and for the Lilly Quasheba – Kate Vaughan – dangerously different. Her mother was only a quadroon ; and, married or unmarried, she, the daughter, could not inherit – even by will – beyond the paltry legacy of 2000 pounds currency, or 1500 pounds sterling!

Kate Vaughan was herself only a mustee – still wanting one step farther from slavery to bring her within the protecting pale of freedom and the enjoyment of its favours.

No will that Loftus Vaughan could decree, no testamentary disposition he might make, could render his daughter his devisee – his heiress.

He might will his property to anybody he pleased: so long as that anybody was a so-called white ; but, failing to make such testament, his estate of Mount Welcome, with all he possessed besides, must fall to the next of his own kin – in short, to his nephew Herbert.

Was there no remedy for this unspeakable dilemma? No means by which his own daughter might be saved from disinheritance?

There was. A special act might be obtained from the Assembly of the Island.

Loftus Vaughan knew the remedy, and fully intended to adopt it. Every day was he designing to set out for Spanish Town – the capital – to obtain the special act ; and every day was the journey put off.

It was the execution of this design that the Jew Jessuron of all things dreaded most; and to prevent it was the object of his visit to the temple of Obi.

Why he dreaded it scarce needs explanation.

Should Loftus Vaughan fail in his intent, Herbert Vaughan would be the heir of Mount Welcome; and Herbert’s heart was in the keeping of Judith Jessuron.

So fondly believed the Jewess; and, with her assurance of the fact, so also the Jew.

The love-spell woven by Judith had been the first step towards securing the grand inheritance. The second was to be the death-spell , administered by Chakra and his acolyte.

Chapter 26

The Death-Spell

On the night after that on which Chakra had given reception to Jessuron, and about the same hour, the Coromantee was at home in his hut, engaged in some operation of a nature apparently important: since it engrossed his whole attention.

A fire was burning in the middle of the floor, in a rude, extemporised furnace, constructed with four large stones, so placed as to inclose a small quadrangle.

The fuel with which this fire was fed, although giving out a great quantity of smoke, burnt also with a bright, clear flame. It was not wood, but consisted of a number of black agglutinated masses, bearing a resemblance to peat or coal.

A stranger to Jamaica might have been puzzled to make out what it was; though a denizen of the Island could have told at a glance, that the dark-coloured pieces piled upon the fire were fragments detached from the nests of the Duck-ants; which, often as large as hogsheads, may be seen adhering to the trees of a tropical forest.

As the smoke emitted by this fuel is less painful to the eyes than that of a wood fire, and yet more efficacious in clearing out the mosquitoes – that plague of a southern clime – it may be supposed that the Coromantee had chosen it on that account. Whether or not, it served his purpose well.

A small iron pot, without crook or crane, rested upon the stones of the furnace; and the anxious glances with which the negro regarded its simmering contents – now stirring them a little, now lifting a portion in his wooden spoon, and carefully scrutinising it under the light of the lamp – told that the concoction in which he was engaged was of a chemical , rather than culinary nature. As he bent over the fire – like a he-Hecate [549] stirring her witches’ cauldron – his earnest yet stealthy manner, combined with his cat-like movements and furtive glances, betrayed some devilish design.

This idea was strengthened on looking at the objects that lay near to his hand – some portions of which had been already consigned to the pot. A cutacoo rested upon the floor, containing plants of several species; among which a botanist could have recognised the branched calalue , the dumb-cane, and various other herbs and roots of noxious fame. Conspicuous was the “Savannah flower,” with its tortuous stem and golden corolla – a true dogbane, and one of the most potent of vegetable poisons.

By its side could be seen its antidote – the curious nuts of the “nhandiroba”: for the myal-man could cure as well as kill , whenever it became his interest to do so.

Drawing from such a larder, it was plain that he was not engaged in the preparation of his supper. Poisons, not provisions, were the ingredients of the pot.

The specific he was now concocting was from various sources, but chiefly from the sap of the Savannah flower. It was the spell of Obeah !

For whom was the Coromantee preparing this precious hell-broth?

His mutterings as he stooped over the pot revealed the name of his intended victim.

“You may be ’trong, Cussus Vaugh’n – dat I doan deny; but, by de power ob Obeah, you soon shake in you shoes. Obeah! Ha! ha! ha! Dat do fo’ de know-nuffin’ niggas. My Obeah am de Sabbana flower, de branch calalue, and the allimgator apple – dem’s de ’pell mo’ powerful dan Obi hisseff – dem’s de stuff dat gib de shibberin’ body and de staggerin’ limbs to de enemies ob Chakra. Whugh!”

Once more dipping the spoon into the pot, and skimming up a portion of the boiling liquid, he bent forward to examine it.

“’T am done!” he exclaimed. “Jess de right colour – jess de right tickness. Now fo’ bottle de licka!”

Saying this, he lifted the pot from the fire; and after first pouring the “liquor” into a calabash, and leaving it for some moments to cool, he transferred it to the rum-bottle – long since emptied of its original contents.

Having carefully pressed in the cork, he set the bottle to one side – not in concealment, but as if intended for use at no very distant time.

Then, having gathered up his scattered pharmacopoeia [550] , and deposited the whole collection in the cutacoo, he stepped into the door way of the hut, and, with a hand on each post, stood in an attitude to listen.

It was evident he expected some visitor; and who it was to be was revealed by the muttered soliloquy in which he continued to indulge. The slave Cynthia was to give him another séance .