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!
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! Jumbe! 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.
Volume Two, Chapter VIII.