Chapter VII: Part 7

The last word was uttered so loud as to reach the ear of the runaway.

"Yah! Foolah, Foolah!" he exclaimed, turning his eyes appealingly upon his captor. "No slave--no slave!" added he, striking his hand upon his breast as he repeated the words.

"Slave! no slave!" echoed the Maroon, with a start of surprise; "that's English enough. They've taught him the ugly word."

"Foolah me--no slave!" again exclaimed the youth, with a similar gesture to that he had already made.

"Something curious in this," muttered the Maroon, musingly. "What can he mean by saying he is no slave--for that is certainly what he is trying to say? Slave he must be; else how did he get here? I've heard that a cargo has been just landed, and that the old Jew got most or all of them. This young fellow must be one of that lot. Very likely he's picked up the words aboard ship. Perhaps he is speaking of what he was in his own country. Ah, poor devil! he'll soon find the difference here!

"_Santos Dios_!" continued the Maroon, after a pause, in which he had been silently regarding the countenance of the newly-arrived African. "It's a shame to make a slave of such as he--a hundred times more like a freeman than his master. Poor fellow! it's a hard row he'll have to hoe. I feel more than half-tempted to risk it, and save him from such a fate."

As this half-determination passed through the mind of the Maroon, a noble and proud expression came over his features.

"If they had not seen him in my possession;" he continued to reflect; "but the overseer and those Spanish poltroons know all, and will--Well, let them!--at all events I shall not take him back till I've seen Yola. No doubt she can talk to him. If he's Foolah she can. We'll hear what he's got to say, and what this `no slave' means."

On saying this, the speaker turned his eyes upward; and appeared for some moments to scan the sun.

"Good," he exclaimed. "It is near the hour. I may expect her at any moment. Oh! I must have him out of sight, and these dead dogs, too, or my timid pet will be frayed. There's been so much doing about here-- blood and fire--she will scarcely know the old trysting-place. Hark you, Foolah! Come this way, and squat yourself in here till I call you out again."

To the runaway the gestures of his captor were more intelligible than his words. He understood by them that he was required to conceal himself between the buttresses of the _ceiba_; and, rising from the log, he readily obeyed the requisition.

The Maroon captain seized the tail of one of the dead bloodhounds; and, after trailing the carcase for some distance across the glade, flung it into a covert of bushes.

Returning to the _ceiba_, in a similar manner he removed the other; and then, once more cautioning the runaway to remain silent in his concealment, he awaited the approach of her who had given him assignation.

Volume One, Chapter XXXV.

A LOVE SCENE UNDER THE CEIBA.

The lover who is beloved need never fear disappointment. True to her tryst, and punctual to the time, did the expected sweetheart make her appearance within the glade.

With shy but graceful mien, she advanced towards the _ceiba_, and with sufficient firmness of step to show that she came not in doubt. A smile, confident and slightly coquettish, dancing in her dark eyes, and playing upon her prettily-curved lips, told of a love already plighted-- at the same time betokening full faith in the vows that had been exchanged.

Cubina stepped forth to receive her; and the lovers met in the open ground, at some distance from the tree. Their demeanour at meeting told that it was not their first assignation; but that ofttimes before had they been together in that same rendezvous.

The presence of the runaway--not seen, however, from the spot--did not hinder Cubina from saluting his sweetheart with a kiss, nor prevent him from folding her for a short moment in his arms.

That spasm of exquisite pleasure passed, the dialogue began.

The girl spoke first.

"Oh, Cubina! news I have tell."

"Come, my love--what news? Ah! you are looking grave, Yola; your news is not very joyful, I fear?"

"No, not joyful--bad news."

"Let me hear them, love. Something Cynthy has been saying to you? You shouldn't heed what that girl says."

"No, Cubina, I no care what her me tell. I her know, wicked, bad girl. Not Cynthy say that thing me trouble now. Missa Kate me tell."

"Ah! something Miss Vaughan has told you? I wouldn't look for bad news from her. But what is it, dear Yola? Maybe, after all, it's nothing?"

"Ah! yes, Cubina, something. I fear me keep from you long, long time."

"Keep you from me! Surely Miss Vaughan don't object to your meeting me?"

"No--not that. Something I fear me hinder from be--."

"Be what?" inquired the lover, seeing that his sweetheart hesitated to pronounce some word, the thought of which was causing her to blush. "Come, dear Yola, don't fear to tell _me_. You know we're engaged. There should be no secret between us. What were you going to say?"

In a low, murmured voice, and looking lovingly in his eyes as she spoke, the girl pronounced the word "marry."

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed the lover, in a confident tone. "I think nothing can occur to hinder that--at least, for a very long time. I have now nearly a hundred pounds laid by, and a lucky capture I've just made this morning will help still further to make up that sum. Surely the Custos will not require more than a hundred pounds; though if you were once mine," continued the speaker, casting a look of smiling fondness upon his sweetheart's face, "all the money in the world wouldn't tempt me to part with you. I hope," added he, speaking in a jocular air, "a hundred pounds will be enough to make you _my slave_?"

"You slave, Cubina?"

"Yes, Yola, as I am yours now."

"Ah--that way, Yola yours; yours ever--evermore."

"I will believe you, dear girl," rejoined the lover, gazing, with a gratified look, in the face of his beloved. "I am very happy to think that in that way you are mine; and that I have, as you assure me, your heart and soul. But, dearest Yola, so long as another is the owner of your body--not with the right, but the powder to do, ay--indeed, almost as he might please--for who can hinder these proud planters from committing crimes of which they are their own judges? Ah! Yola, girl, it is fearful to reflect on their wicked doings. This very morning I have come across a sample of their cruelty; and when I think of you being in the power of one, it makes me feel as if every hour was a day until I can obtain your freedom. I am always in fear lest something may happen to hinder me.

"Just to-day I am in high hopes," continued the lover, evincing the truth of his words by a pleasant smile. "I have succeeded in raising nearly the hundred pounds; and the bounty I expect to receive for the runaway I have caught will make it quite that."

The girl returned no reply to this speech of her lover, but stood gazing upon him silently, and as if half reproachfully. Something of this kind he read, or fancied he read, in her looks.

"What, Yola, you are not satisfied with what I have said? You reproach me? Ah! true. I confess it is not a very creditable way of procuring your purchase-money. _Maldito_! what can I do? We Maroons have no other way of raising money, except by hunting the wild hogs, and selling their barbecued flesh. But that barely gives us a living. _Crambo_! I could never have got together a hundred pounds in that way. So do not reproach me, dear Yola, for what I've done. I assure you it goes against my grain, this man-hunting business. As for the young fellow I caught this morning, I'd risk a good real rather than give him up--if it wasn't for the purpose of procuring your freedom. For that I must have the hundred pounds, which it is to be hoped will be enough to satisfy your master."

"All, Cubina!" replied his slave-love, with a sigh, "that the bad news I you bring. Hundred pound no more enough. Only two days go, he have him offer twice so much for poor slave Yola."

"Two hundred pounds offered for _you_!" exclaimed the Maroon, with a start of surprise, his brow becoming suddenly clouded. "Is that what you mean, Yola?"

"Ah, yes!" answered the slave, repeating her sad sigh.

"And who--who is he?" demanded the lover, in a quick earnest tone, at the same time that a gleam of jealous thought flashed from his dark eyes, like forked lightning across a clouded sky.

He knew that no man would have bid two hundred pounds for a slave--even for Yola--without some wicked motive. The girl's beauty, combined with the extravagant offer, would have suggested the motive to one disinterested in her fate. How much more was it calculated to arouse the suspicions of a lover!

"A white man," continued he, without waiting for the reply to his first question. "I need not ask that. But tell me, Yola, who is he that's so desirous of becoming your owner. You know, I suppose."

"Missa Kate me tell all. He Jew--wicked white man! Same who me take from big ship; and me first sell Massa Vaughan."

"Ha!" sharply ejaculated the lover, "that old wretch it is? Wicked white man you may well call him. I know the old villain well. _Crambo_! what can he want with her?" muttered the Maroon, musingly, but with a troubled mien. "Some vile purpose, to a certainty? Oh, sure!" Then once more addressing himself to his slave sweetheart--

"You are certain, Yola, the old Jew made this offer?"

"So me say young missa."

"Two hundred pounds! And Mr Vaughan refused it?"

"Missa Kate no allow Massa Vaughan me sell. She say `Never!' Ah! young missa! she good for say so! No matter what money he give, she never let wicked white man buy Yola. She so say many time."

"Miss Kate said this? Then she is good, she is generous! It must have been her doing, else the Custos would never have refused such a tempting offer. Two hundred pounds! It is a large sum. Well, I must begin again. I must work night and day to get it. And then, if they should refuse _me_! Ha! what then?"

The speaker paused, not as if expecting a reply from her who stood by his side, but rather from his own thoughts.

"Never mind!" continued he, his countenance assuming an expression partly hopeful, partly reckless. "Have no fear of the future, Yola. Worst come worst, you shall yet be mine. Ay, dearest, you shall share my mountain home, though I may have to make it the home of an outlaw!"

"Oh!" exclaimed the young girl, slightly frayed by the wild look and words of her lover, her _eye_ at the same instant falling upon the red pool where the hounds had been slain. "Blood, Cubina?"

"Only that of some animals--a wild boar and two dogs--just killed there. Don't let that frighten you, pet. You must be brave, my Yola; since you are to be the wife of a Maroon! Ours is a life of many dangers."

"With you Yola no fear. She go any where--far over the mountains--to Jumbe Rock--anywhere you her take, Cubina."

"Thanks, dearest! Maybe, some day, we may be forced to go far over the mountains--in _flight, too_, Yola. But we shall try to avoid that. If your master will only act right, there will be no need. If not, then you will fly with me--will you not?"

"What Cubina do, Yola do same; where he go, she go."

The passionate promise was sealed by a kiss, followed by an interval of sacred silence.

"Enough, then!" said the lover, after the pause had passed. "As a last resource, we can do that. But we shall hope for the best; and, maybe, some good fortune may befall. My followers are true, and would help me; but, alas! all are poor hunters, like myself. Well, it may take some time before I can call you my own fearlessly, in the face of the world-- longer, maybe, than I expected. Never mind for that; we can meet often. And now, dear Yola, listen to what I am going to say to you--listen, and keep it in your mind! If ever a white man insults you--you know what I mean?--if you are in danger of such a thing--as you would have been, were old Jessuron to become your master--ay, and who knows how, where, or when?--well, then, fly to this glade, and wait here for me. If I do not come, some one will. Every day I shall send one of my people to this place. Don't fear to run away. Though I may not care to get into trouble about a common slave, I shall risk all to protect you-- yes, my life, dearest Yola!"

"Oh, Cubina!" exclaimed the girl, in passionate admiration. "Oh, brave, beauty Cubina! you not fear danger?"

"There is no great danger in it," returned the Maroon, in a confident tone. "If I had made up my mind to run away with you, I could soon take you beyond the reach of pursuit. In the _Black Grounds_ we could live without fear of the tyranny of white men. But I don't want to be hunted like a wild hog. I would rather you should become mine by honest means--that is, I would rather buy you, as I intend to do; and then we may settle down near the plantations, and live without apprehension. Perhaps, after all, the Custos may not be so hard with me as with the old Jew--who knows? Your young mistress is kind, you have told me: she may do something to favour our plans."

"True, Cubina--she me love; she say never me part."

"That is well; she means, she would not part with you against your will. But if I offer to buy you, it would be a different thing. Perhaps you might let her know all, after a while. But I have something to learn first, and I don't wish you to tell her till then. So keep our secret, dear Yola, for a little longer.

"And now," continued the Maroon, changing his tone, and turning towards the _ceiba_ as he spoke, "I've got something to show you. Did you ever see a runaway?"

"Runaway!" said the girl; "no, Cubina--never."

"Well, my love, there's one not far off; he that I said I had captured this morning--only a little while ago. And I'll tell you why I've kept him here: because I fancied that he was like yourself, Yola."

"Like me?"

"Yes; and that is why I felt for the poor fellow something like pity: since it is to this cruel old Jew he belongs. From what I can make out, he must be one of your people; and I'm curious to know what account he will give of himself."

"He Foolah, you think?" inquired the African maiden, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at the anticipation of seeing one of her own race.

"Yes; I am as good as sure of that. In fact, he has called himself a Foolah several times, though I can't make out what he says. If he is one of your tribe, you will be able to talk to him. There he is!"

Cubina had by this time conducted his sweetheart round the tree, to that side on which the runaway was concealed between the two spurs.

The young man was still crouching within the angle, close up to the trunk of the _ceiba_. The moment the two figures came in front of him, and his eyes fell upon the face of the girl, he sprang to his feet, uttering a cry of wild joy. Like an echo, Yola repeated the cry; and then both pronouncing some hurried phrases in an unknown tongue, rushed together, and became folded in a mutual embrace!

Cubina stood transfixed to the spot. Surprise--something more--held him speechless. He could only think:--

"She knows him! Perhaps her lover in her own land!"

A keen pang of jealousy accompanied the thought.

Rankling it remained in the breast of the Maroon, till Yola, untwining her arms from the fond embrace, and pointing to him who had received it, pronounced the tranquillising words:--

"_My brother_!"

END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume Two, Chapter I.

SMYTHJE IN SHOOTING COSTUME.

Several days had elapsed since that on which Mr Montagu Smythje became the guest of Mount Welcome; and during the time neither pains nor expense had been spared in his entertainment. Horses were kept for his riding--a carriage for his driving--dinners had been got up--and company invited to meet him. The best society of the Bay and the neighbouring plantations had been already introduced to the rich English exquisite-- the owner of one great sugar estate, and, as society began to hear it whispered, the prospective possessor of another.

The matrimonial projects of the worthy Custos--that had been suspected from the first--soon became the subject of much discussion.

It may be mentioned--though it is scarce necessary--that in his designs upon Smythje, Mr Vaughan was not left all the field to himself. There were other parents in the planter fraternity of the neighbourhood blessed with good-looking daughters; and many of them, both fathers and mothers, had fixed their eyes on the lord of Montagu Castle as a very eligible sample for a son-in-law. Each of these aspiring couples gave a grand dinner; and, in turn, trotted out their innocent lambs in presence of the British "lion."

The exquisite smiled amiably upon all their efforts--adopting his distinguished position as a matter of course.

Thus merrily passed the first fortnight of Smythje's sojourn in Jamaica.

On a pleasant morning near the end of this fortnight, in one of the largest bed-chambers of Mount Welcome house--that consecrated to the reception of distinguished strangers--Mr Smythje might have been seen in front of his mirror. He was engaged in the occupation of dressing himself--or, to speak more correctly, permitting himself to be dressed by his _valet de chambre_.

In the extensive wardrobe of the London exquisite there were dresses for all purposes and every occasion: suits for morning, dinner, and evening; one for riding, and one for driving; a shooting dress, and one for the nobler sport of the _chasse au cheval_; a dress for boating, _a la matelot_; and a grand _costume de bal_.

On the occasion in question, Mr Smythje's august person was being enveloped in his shooting dress; and, although a West India sportsman or an English squire would have smiled derisively at such a "rig," the Cockney regarded it with complacency as being "just the thing."

It consisted of a French tunic-shaped coatee of green silk velvet, trimmed with fur; a helmet-shaped hunting-cap to match; and a purple waistcoat underneath, embroidered with cord of gold bullion.

Instead of breeches and top-boots, Mr Smythje fancied he had improved upon the costume, by encasing his limbs in long trousers. These were of dressed fawn-skin, of a straw colour, and soft as the finest chamois leather. They fitted tightly around the legs, notwithstanding that the wearer was rather deficient in that quarter. Moreover, they were strapped at the bottoms, over a pair of brightly-shining lacquered boots--another error at which a true sportsman would have smiled.

Mr Smythje, however, was well satisfied with the style of his dress: as appeared from the conversation carried on between him and his valet Thoms, while the latter was making him ready for the field.

"'Pon honaw! a demmed becoming costume!" exclaimed he, surveying himself from head to foot in the mirror. "Dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?"

"Pe Cod! it's all that, yer honner!" replied Thoms, with just enough of an Irish accent to show that he was a Welshman.

The object, for which Mr Smythje was thus having his person apparelled, was a shooting excursion to the hills, which he designed making, in order to vary his pleasures by committing havoc among the ramier pigeons and wild guinea-fowl which, he had been told, abounded there.

The projected expedition was not any grand affair by appointment--merely an ordinary, improvised thing. The sportsman intended going alone--as the Custos on that day had some important business at the Bay; and Mr Smythje, by a ramble through the neighbouring woods, fancied he might kill the time between breakfast and dinner pleasantly enough. This was all that was intended; and a darkey to guide him all that was needed.

"Weally!" resumed the exquisite, after some moments spent in enthusiastic admiration of his person, "weally, Thoms, these Queeole queetyaws are chawming--positively chawming! Nothing in the theataw or opwa at all to compare with them. Such lovely eyes! such divine figaws! and such easy conquests! Ba Jawve! I can count a dozen alweady! Haw, haw!" added he, with a self-gratulatory giggle, "it's but natywal that-- dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?"

"Parfectly natyeral, your honner," replied Thoms, "considherin' yer honner's good looks."

"Aw haw! that's it, Thoms--that's it. They can't wesist."

Either the lady-killer was not content with his twelve easy conquests, and wished to have the number more complete by making it "the baker's dozen"--either this, or he was uncertain about his victory over one of the twelve--as would appear by the dialogue that followed between him and his confidential man.

"Hark yaw, Thoms!" said he, approaching the valet in a more serious way; "yaw are an exceedingly intelligent fellaw--yaw are, 'pon honnaw."

"Thank yer honner. It's keepin' yer honner's company has made me so."

"Nevaw mind--nevaw mind what--but I have observed yaw intelligence."

"It's at yer honner's humble sendee."

"Ve-well, Thoms; ve-well! I want you to employ it."

"In what way, yer honner? anything yer honner may desire me to do."

"Yaw know the niggaw girl--the bwown girl with the tawban, I mean?"

"Miss Vaghan's waitin'-maid?"

"Exactly--ya-as. Yolaw, or something of the sawt, is the queetyaw's name."

"Yis--Yowla; that's her name, yer honner."

"Well, Thoms, I pwesume you have excellent oppwotunities of holding convawsation with haw--the niggaw, I mean?"

"Plenty of oppurtunity, yer honner. I've talked with her scores of times."

"Good. Now, the next time yaw talk with haw, Thoms, I want you to pump haw."

"Pump her! what's that, yer honner?"

"Why, dwaw something out of haw!"

"Feth! I don't understan' yer honner."

"Not undawstand! yaw are stoopid, Thoms."

"Keeping yer honner's company--"

"What, fellaw? keeping my company make yaw stoopid?"

"No, yer honner; ye didn't hear me out. I was goin' to say, that keeping yer honner's company would soon take that out o' me."

"Haw--haw--that's diffwent altogethaw. Well, listen now, and I'll make yaw undawstand me. I want you to talk with this Yolaw, and dwaw some seek wets out of haw."

"Oah!" answered Thoms, dwelling a long time upon the syllable, and placing his forefinger along the side of his nose. "_Now_ I comprehend yer honner."

"All wight--all wight."

"I'll manage that, don't fear me; but what sort of saycrets does yer honner want me to draw out af her?"

"I want yaw to find out what she says about _me_--not the niggaw, but haw mistwess."

"What the negur says about her mistress?"

"Thoms, yaw are intolawably stoopid this mawning. Not at all--not at all; but what haw mistress says about _me--me_."

"Oh! fwhat Miss Vaghan says about yer honner?"

"Pwecisely."

"Faith! I'll find that out--ivery word af it."

"If yaw do, Thoms, I shall be your debtaw faw a guinea."

"A guinea, yer honner!"

"Ya-as; and if yaw execute yaw commission clevawly, I shall make it two--two guineas, do yaw heaw?"

"Never fear, yer honner. I'll get it out of the negur, if I should have to pull the tongue from between thim shinin' teeth af hers!"

"No, Thoms--no, my good fellaw! There must be no woodness. Wemember, we are guests heaw, and Mount Welcome is not an hotel. Yaw must work by stwategy, not stwength, as Shakespeaw or some other of those skwibbling fellaws has said. No doubt stwategy will win the day."

And with this ambiguous observation--ambiguous as to whether it referred to the issue of Thoms's embassy, or his own success in the wooing of Miss Vaughan--Mr Montagu Smythje closed the conversation.

Thoms now gave the last touch to the sportsman's toilet, by setting the hunting-cap on his head, and hanging numerous belts over his shoulders-- among which were included a shot-pouch, a copper powder-horn, a pewter drinking flask with its cup, and a hunting-knife in its leathern sheath.

Thus equipped, the sportsman strode stiffly from the apartment; and wended his way towards the great hall, evidently with the design of encountering the fair Kate, and exhibiting himself in his killing costume.

Volume Two, Chapter II.

A COCKNEY SPORTSMAN.

That he had obtained the interview he sought, and that its result had gratified him, might be inferred from the complacent smile that played upon his countenance as he sallied forth from the house. Moreover, in crossing the two or three hundred yards of open ground which separated the dwelling from the wooded slope of the ridge, he walked with an exalted, gingerly step--occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, as if conscious of being observed.

He _was_ observed. Two faces could be seen at a window, one of which Mr Smythje knew to be that of Kate Vaughan. The other, of darker hue, was the face of the maid Yola.

Both were set in smiles. It did not matter to Mr Smythje whether the maid smiled or not; but he fondly fancied he could distinguish a pleased expression on the countenance of the mistress. He was at too great a distance to be certain; but he had little doubt of its being a look of intense admiration that was following him through his fine paces.

Had he been near enough to translate the expression more truly, he might have doubted whether he was the object of so much admiration; and had the remark made by Yola to her mistress reached his ear, with the clear ringing laughter it called forth, his doubts would have had a melancholy confirmation.

"He berry gran', missa!" said the maid. "He like cock-a-benny turned yellow-tail!"--a plantation proverb, which, translated into plain English, means, that the coarse and despised little fish, the "cock-a-benny," had become metamorphosed into the splendid and esteemed species known among the negroes as the "yellow-tail."

As the sportsman neither heard the remark nor the laugh it elicited, he was enabled to carry his self-esteem into the woods unhurt and undiminished.

At his heels walked an attendant--a negro boy, whose sole costume consisted of an Osnaburgh shirt, with a huge game-bag slung over his shoulders, and hanging down to his hams. It was the veritable Quashie, post-boy, horseboy, and factotum.

Quashie's duties on the present occasion were to guide the English buckra to the best shooting ground among the hills, and carry the game when killed. As there was no dog--pigeon and pintado shooting not requiring the aid of this sagacious animal--Quashie was to act also as finder and retriever.

For a full mile over hill and dale, through "brake, brush, and scaur," tramped the ardent sportsman--his Ethiopian attendant, keeping like a shadow at his heels. Still not a head of game had as yet been bagged. Ramiers were scarce and shy, and as for the beautiful speckled hen--the exotic _Numida meleagris_--not as much as the crest of one could be seen. Their shrill skreek, like the filing of a frame saw, could be occasionally heard afar off; and the hope of getting sight of one enticed the sportsman still further into the forest.

Another mile was passed over, and another hour spent, almost equally unfruitful in events. A few ramiers had been sighted and shot at; but the thick corselet of feathers, that covers the bold breasts of these beautiful birds, seemed impenetrable to the shot of a gun; at least, they proved so to the double-barrelled "Manton" of the London sportsman.

Another mile traversed--another hour spent--still nothing bagged!

His want of success did not hinder the sportsman from growing hungry; and, at the end of his third mile, he began to feel a certain void about the epigastric region that called for viands. He knew that the bag which Quashie carried contained a luncheon that had been carefully provided and packed by the major-domo of Mount Welcome. It was time to examine this luncheon; and, seating himself under the shadow of a spreading tree, he directed the darkey to draw it forth.

Nothing loth was Quashie to respond to this request; for the weight of the bag, which he had been wincing under for some hours, and its distended sides, promised pickings for himself--after the grand buckra should satisfy his hunger.

Certainly, there appeared enough for both, and to spare: for on "gutting" the game-bag, a whole capon was turned out upon the grass, with sundry slices of bread, ham, and tongue, and all the paraphernalia of salt, pepper, and mustard.

A bottle of--claret was found at the bottom of the bag; which, in addition to the flask of _eau de vie_ that the sportsman himself carried, and which he now laid aside to disencumber him, was liquid enough to wash down the savoury solids which the thoughtful steward had provided.

A knife and fork were also turned out; and, as Mr Montagu Smythje was more habile in the handling of these weapons than he was in the use of a gun, in a trice the capon was cut into convenient pieces. In an equally short space of time, many of these pieces had disappeared between his teeth, in company with sundry slices of the ham and tongue.

Quashie was not invited to partake; but sat near the grand buckra's feet, wistfully watching his movements, as a dog would his master similarly occupied.

As the masticatory powers of the Cockney sportsman appeared to be of no mean order, Quashie's look began to betray astonishment, mingled with a growing dread that the "oughts" he might be called upon to eat would be neither very numerous nor very bulky. Half the capon had already disappeared, with a large proportion of the odd slices of ham and tongue!

"I b'lieve de dam buckra glutton za gwine eat 'um all up--ebbery bit!" was Quashie's mental, and not very good-humoured, soliloquy. "Ay, an' drink 'um up too--ebbery drop!" continued he, in thought, as he saw Mr Smythje quaff off a full cup of the claret without taking the vessel from his lips.

Shortly after, another cup was poured into the same capacious funnel: for the exercise he had undergone, combined with the warmth of the day, had rendered the sportsman _drouthy_.

To the great chagrin of Quashie, and the no small mortification of Smythje himself, a worse misfortune than that of its being drunk befell the remainder of the claret. On setting down the bottle, after filling his cup for the second time, the sportsman had performed the act in an unskilful manner. The consequence was that the bottle, losing its balance, toppled over; and the _balance_ of the claret trickled out upon the grass.

Both Quashie's temper and patience were put to a severe test; but the buckra's appetite being at length appeased, the _debris_ of the feast-- still a considerable quantity--remained to Quashie's share; and he was directed to fall to and make his best of it.

The darkey was not slow in complying with the order; and, from the manner in which he went to work, it was evident, that unless Mr Smythje should make better shooting after luncheon than he had done before it, the game-bag would go back to the house much lighter than it had left it.

While Quashie was masticating his meal, the refreshed sportsman--his spirits elevated by the claret he had quaffed--bethought him of taking a stroll by himself. There was no time to be wasted--as the contingency of having to return to Mount Welcome with an empty bag had already begun to suggest itself; and after the sanguine expectations which his grand sporting costume must have given rise to--assisted by some little bravado he had indulged in while leave-taking--his failing to fulfil these expectations could not be otherwise than humiliating.

He resolved, therefore, to return to his shooting with a more serious earnestness, and, if possible, make up for the deficiencies of the morning.

Slinging on his horn and pouch, and laying hold of his gun, the sportsman once more started off, leaving his retriever busily employed in polishing off the "drumsticks" of the capon.

Volume Two, Chapter III.

STALKING A TURKEY.

It almost seemed as if the divine patron of the chase--the good Saint Hubert--had regarded the spilt wine as an oblation to himself, and, in return, had consented to give the sportsman success.

Scarce had the latter advanced two hundred yards from the spot where he had lunched, when his eyes were gratified by the spectacle of a large, fine-looking bird, perched upon the top of a tree stump.

At first he believed it to be a guinea-hen, but its dusk colour--it was brownish-black--forbade that supposition. It had a naked head and neck, just like a turkey; and in several other respects it resembled this well-known bird.

"A tawkey it is!" exclaimed Smythje, after scanning it a little. "A wild tawkey, by Jawve!"

The London exquisite had heard, somehow or somewhere, that the wild turkey was indigenous to America, and, of course, also to Jamaica--since Jamaica is part of America.

However erroneous the deduction, the reasoning satisfied Smythje; and, firmly convinced that he saw before him a wild turkey, he determined on taking measures to _circumvent_ it.

The stump upon which the bird was perched, stood upon the edge of an opening, about a hundred yards from the spot where Smythje first came in sight of it.

To insure success, the sportsman dropped upon his knees, and crawled forward impressively, but with due caution. If he could only make thirty yards in advance, he knew his gun was good for the other seventy.

In fine, after considerable damage done to his fawn-skin trousers, the thirty yards were accomplished, and still the turkey remained upon its perch.

The gun was brought to bear upon the bird; Joe Manton did the work; and, simultaneously with the "bang," the turkey was seen to tumble over, disappearing as it did so from the top of the stump.

The overjoyed sportsman hastened forward to secure his game; and soon arrived at the spot where he expected to find it.

To his surprise it was not there!

Had it taken to wing and escaped?

Impossible! He had seen it fall, and without a flutter. It must have been shot quite dead? It could not have come to life again?

He searched all about--going round the stump at least a dozen times, and carefully scrutinising every inch of the ground for a score of yards on each side--but no turkey could be found!

Had the unlucky sportsman been at all doubtful of the fact of his having killed the bird, he would have given up the search in despair. But upon this point he was as certain as of his own existence; and it was that which rendered him so pertinacious in his endeavours to find it. He was determined to leave neither stick nor stone unturned; and, to aid him in the prosecution of his search, he called loudly for his retriever Quashie.

But to his repeated calls no Quashie came; and Mr Smythje was forced to the conclusion that the darkey had either gone to sleep, or had strayed away from the spot where he had left him.

He had some thoughts of going back to look for Quashie; but, while he was meditating on the matter, an idea occurred to him, which promised to explain the mysterious disappearance of the bird.

The stump upon which the "turkey" had been perched could scarcely have been termed a _stump_. It was rather the trunk of a large tree, that had been abruptly broken off below the limbs, and still stood some fifteen or twenty feet in height, erect and massive as the tower of some ruined castle. Though quite a dead-wood, and without any branches of its own, it was, nevertheless, garnished with verdure. A complete matting of vines that grew around its roots, and parasites that sprang from its decaying sides, inclosed it with a tortuous trellis-work--so that only near its top could the shape of the old tree be distinguished.

At first the sportsman supposed that his game had dropped down among the ragged shrubbery; and he searched the whole of this with elaborate minuteness, but in vain.

It now occurred to him--and this was the idea that promised the _eclaircissement_ spoken of--that the bird had _not_ fallen from the stump, but had dropped dead upon the top of it, and there might still be lying!

The dead-wood, which, at its broken summit, appeared to be some five or six feet in diameter, rendered this conjecture probable enough; and Smythje resolved upon putting it to the proof, by climbing to the top. He would have appointed Quashie to the performance of this feat; but Quashie _non esset inventus_.

Several thick, cable-like vines, that struggled up to the summit, promised an easy means of ascent; and, although the Cockney could climb about as dexterously as a shod cat, he fancied there could be no great difficulty in attaining the top of the dead-wood.

Throwing aside his gun, he entered enthusiastically upon the attempt.

The feat was not so easy of performance but that it cost him an exertion. Stimulated, however, by the desire to _retrieve_ his game and the reflections about the game-bag, already alluded to, he put forth his utmost energies, and succeeded in reaching the summit.

His conjecture proved correct. There lay the bird--not _on_ the stump, but _in_ it--at the bottom of a large cylinder-shaped concavity, which opened several feet down into the heart of the dead-wood. There it was, dead as the tree itself.

The sportsman could not restrain himself from uttering a cry of joy--as he saw his fine game at length secure within his reach.

It proved not exactly within his reach, however: as, upon kneeling down and stretching his arm to its full length, he found that he could not touch the bird, even with the tips of his fingers.

That signified little. It would only be necessary for him to descend into the cavity, and this he could easily do: as it was wide enough, and not over four feet in depth.

Without further reflection, he rose to his feet again and leaped down into the hole.

It would have been a wiser act if he had remembered the prudent counsel of the paternal frog, and looked before leaping. That was one of the most unfortunate leaps Mr Smythje had ever made in his life. The brown surface upon which the bird lay, and which looked so deceptively solid, was nothing more than a mass of rotten heartwood, honeycombed with long decay. So flimsy was it in structure, that though supporting a dead bird, it gave way under the weight of a living man; and the lord of Montagu Castle shot as rapidly out of sight as if he had leaped feet foremost from the mainyard of the _Sea Nymph_ into the deepest soundings of the Atlantic!

Volume Two, Chapter IV.

SMYTHJE EMBARRASSED BY HIS BOOTS.

Rapid as was the pitch, and dark the abyss into which it was made, the sportsman was not killed. Neither was he much hurt: for the "punk" through which he had pitched, though not firm enough to support him, had offered some resistance to the velocity of his descent; and towards the bottom he had settled down more gradually.

But though neither killed nor yet stunned by the fall, he was for awhile as completely deprived of his senses as if he had been both. Surprise had bereft him not only of the power of speech, but of thought as well; and for some moments he was as quiet as Jack, after being jerked into his box.

After a time, however, feeling that, though badly scared, he was not much hurt, his consciousness began to return to him; and he made a scramble to recover his legs: for in going down, he had somehow got doubled up in a sort of tailor-fashion.

He found his feet after an effort; and, as he saw that light came from above, he raised his eyes in that direction.

It took him some time to make out the exact character of the place in which he was: for a thick "stoor" was swimming around him, that not only impeded his sight, but having entered his mouth and nostrils, had inducted him into a violent fit of sneezing.

The dust however gradually thinned away; and Smythje was enabled to "define his position."

Above his head was a clear circular patch, which he knew to be the sky; whilst all around him was a dark brown wall, rising many feet beyond the reach of his outstretched arms. He became conscious that he was standing in the concavity of a huge upright cylinder, with a surface of corrugated rotten wood circling all around him.

As his senses grew clearer--along with the atmosphere--he arrived at a better understanding of the mishap that had befallen him. He did not, at first, regard it in the light of a _misfortune_--at least, not a very heavy one--and he was rather disposed to laugh at it as a ludicrous adventure.

It was not till he began to think of climbing out, and had actually made the attempt, that he became aware of a difficulty hitherto unsuspected; and the contemplation of which at once inspired him with a feeling of alarm.

A second attempt to get out was unsuccessful as the first; a third equally so; a fourth had no better issue; a fifth was alike a failure; and after the sixth, he sank down upon the rotten rubbish in a state bordering on despair.

Well might he have exclaimed,

"_Facilis descensus Averni, sed revocare gradum_."

But the mind of Mr Smythje was now under the influence of an indescribable awe, which excluded all thoughts of the classic.

When reflection came to his aid, it was only to make more certain the fearful reality of his situation. The more he reflected upon it, the more he became convinced of the peril into which his rash leap had precipitated him.

It was not simply a slight mishap--a ludicrous adventure--he no longer saw it in that light. Neither was it a mere misfortune; but a positive danger--the danger of his life.

Yes, his life was most certainly in danger; and he was not slow in arriving at this knowledge. The chain of inductive reasoning that led to it was but too palpably clear--every link of it--from premisses to conclusion. If he could not help himself out of the prison, in which by his unlucky leap he had incarcerated himself, who was to help him?

Hope could not long dwell upon Quashie. The darkey had been left some distance off; and since he had not answered to his calls, he must be asleep or straying. In either case--or even if awake and still on the ground of the bivouac--what chances would Quashie have of finding him?

Who was to find him, if not Quashie? Ah! who else? Who was likely to come that way?

Not a soul! The tree that contained him stood in the midst of a wild tract--a solitary forest all around--no roads, no paths--he had observed none. He might be there for a month without a human being approaching the place; and a week would be enough to finish him! Yes, in one week, perhaps far less, he might expect to die of starvation! The prospect was appalling.

And it so appalled him, that again his mind gave way under it, and relapsed into the stupor of despondence.

It is not natural that one should sink at once into utter despair, without making an extreme effort. The instinct of self-preservation-- common to the lowest animals--will nerve even the weakest spirit of man. That of Montagu Smythje was none of the strongest, and had given way at the first shock; but, after a time, a reaction arose, stimulating him to make a fresh effort for his life.

Once more starting to his feet, he attempted to scale the steep walls that encircled him; but the attempt, as before, proved a failure.

In this last trial, however, he discovered that his exertions were greatly hindered by three special _impedimenta_--the tight fawn-skin trousers that, moistened with perspiration, clung closely around his legs; his boots; but, above all, the straps that bound boots and trousers together.

To get rid of these obstacles became his next thought; and the execution of such a design might appear easy enough.

On trial, however, it proved a most difficult undertaking.

From the confined space in which he stood, he could not get into a stooping attitude, so as to reach down to the straps and unbutton them; and so long as these remained buttoned, it was impossible to take off the boots. He could squat down tailor-fashion, as he had already done; but, in that posture the straps became so tightened, that to unbutton them was clearly out of the question. The delicate fingers of the dandy were unequal to the effort.

"Necessity is the mother of invention." This adage held good in Smythje's case: for it just then occurred to him to unfasten his _suspenders_ instead of his straps, and divest himself of his under garments all at once!

For this purpose he rose to his feet; but in doing so, a better idea suggested itself: to cut off his fawn-skin inexpressibles just above the knees, and thus free boots, straps, and pantaloon bottoms all together!

He had left his hunting-knife by his brandy-flask, and both on the ground of the bivouac. Fortunately, however, a penknife, which he carried in his waistcoat pocket, would answer even better; and, drawing it forth, he proceeded to execute his design.

A cross section of the fawn-skins, just above the knees, was at once made; and then--by the alternate application of toe to heel--boots, trouser-bottoms, and all, were cast simultaneously, and Smythje stood in his stockings!

He did not remain long inactive. Danger urged him to exert himself; and once more he essayed to scale the walls of his tree-prison.

Alas! after many efforts--many oft-repeated, but unsuccessful clamberings--he was forced back to the appalling conviction that the thing was impossible.

He could get up within about four feet of the orifice; but there the surface, which had been long open to the atmosphere, was worn so smooth by the weather--besides being still wet and slippery from late rains-- that he could find no holding place upon it; and at every endeavour to grasp the rotten wood, he lost his balance, and fell backward to the bottom.

These falls frequently stunned him, almost knocking the breath out of his body. They were from a considerable height--ten or twelve feet-- and, but for the soft rubbish below, that modified the shock as he came down, one such descent would have been sufficient to cripple him for life.

Once more his spirit sank within him. Once more Smythje yielded to despair.

Volume Two, Chapter V.

A TROPIC SHOWER.

When reflection again favoured the unfortunate man--which it did after a short time had passed over--his thoughts took a new turn.

He made no further attempt at climbing out. Repeated trials had fully convinced him of the impracticability of that; and he was now satisfied that his only hope lay in the chance of Quashie or some one else coming that way.

It is true that this chance appeared grievously doubtful. Even should one pass near the dead-wood, how was he to know that he, Smythje, was inside it? Who would suspect that the old tree was hollow? and, least of all, that a human being was inclosed within its cylindrical cell-- buried alive, as it were, in this erect wooden sarcophagus?

A person passing might see the gun lying upon the ground outside; but that would be no clue to the whereabouts of its owner.

After all, some one _might_ be passing, and as he could not be _seen_, his only hope lay in making himself _heard_.

The moment this thought came into his mind, he commenced crying out at the highest pitch of his voice.

He regretted that he had not done so before: since some one might have passed in the interim.

After falling in, he had shouted several times during the moments of his first surprise: but while making his attempts to clamber out, he had desisted--the earnestness of his exertions having reduced him to silence.

Now that he comprehended the necessity of making a noise, he determined to make up for his former remissness; and he continued to send forth scream after scream with all the power of his lungs, at intervals varying his voice from an abrupt sharp screech, to the more prolonged and dismal monotone of a groan.

For nearly an hour did he continue this melancholy _cavatina_, without receiving any response beyond the echoes of his own voice, which reverberated through the concavity in hollow, sepulchral tones--a mournful monologue of alternate groanings and howlings, interrupted at intervals as the utterer paused to listen for a response.

But none came. No change took place in his situation, except one that was calculated to make it still more deplorable and forlorn. As if his lugubrious appeals had invoked the demon of the storm, the sky above became suddenly overcast with heavy black clouds; from which came pouring rain, such as might have fallen during the forty days of the deluge!

It was one of those tropic showers, where the water gushes from the sky, not in single, isolated drops, but in long, continuous streams; as if heavens canopy was one great shower-bath, of which the string had been jerked and tied down.

Though well sheltered from wind, the unfortunate Smythje had no roof--no cover of any kind--to shield him from the rain, which came down upon his devoted head, as though the spout of a pump had been directed into the hollow of the dead-wood. Indeed, the funnel-shaped orifice, which was wider than the rest of the concavity, aided in conducting a larger quantity of rain into it; and, but that the water found means of escape, by percolating through the mass of dry rubbish below, Mr Smythje might have been in danger of a more sudden death than by starvation: since, as he himself afterwards asserted, there fell sufficient water to have "dwowned" him.

If not drowned, however, he was well _douched_. There was not a stitch of clothing upon his person that was not wetted through and through: the silk velvet shooting-coat, the purple vest, and what remained of the fawn-skin trousers, all were alike soaked and saturated. Even his whiskers had parted with their crisp rigidity; the curls had come out of the tails of his moustaches; his hair had lost its amplitude; and all-- hair, whiskers, and moustaches--hung dripping and draggled.

In that melancholy image of manhood that stood shivering in the hollow tree, it would have required a quick imagination to have recognised Mr Montagu Smythje, the _debonnaire_ sportsman of the morning.

Lugubrious as were his looks, they were nothing to compare with his thoughts. There were moments when he felt angry--angry at his ill-fortune--angry at Quashie--angry at Mr Vaughan, for having provided an attendant so inattentive to his duties. There were moments when he felt spiteful enough to swear. Yes, in that fearful crisis, Smythje _swore_--the owner of Mount Welcome and Quashie being alternately the object of his abjurations. Jamaica, too, came in for a share of his spite--its pigeons and guinea-hens, its trees, and, above all, its wild turkeys!

"The howwid Island!" he cried, in his anguish; "would to ma Makeaw I had nevaw set foot on its shaws!"

What, at that moment, would he not have given to be once more in his "deaw metwopolis?" Gladly would he have exchanged his tree-prison for a chamber in the King's Bench--for a corner in the meanest cell which the Old Bailey could have afforded him!

Poor Smythje! he had not yet reached the climax of his sorrows. A new suffering was in store for him--one in comparison with which all he had undergone was but a mild endurance. It was only when that slimy thing came crawling over his feet, and began to entwine itself round his ankles--its cold clammy touch painfully perceptible through his silk stockings--it was only then that he felt something like a sensation of real horror!

He was on his legs at the moment; and instantly sprang upward, as if coals had been suddenly applied to the soles of his feet. But springing upward did not avail him, since it only resulted in his dropping down again on the same spot; and, as he did so, he felt writhing beneath his feet the slippery form of a _serpent_!

Volume Two, Chapter VI.

A DANGEROUS DANCE.