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 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, 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 _seance_.
"Time dat yella wench wa' come. Muss be nigh twelve ob de night. Maybe
she hab call, an' a no hear her, fo' de noise ob dat catrack? A bess go
down b'low. Like nuf a fine her da!"
As he was stepping across the threshold to put this design into
execution, a cry, uttered in the shrill treble of a woman's voice--and
just audible through the soughing sound of the cataract--came from the
cliff above.
"Da's de wench!" muttered the myal-man, as he heard it. "A make sartin
shoo she'd come. Lub lead woman troo fire an' water--lead um to de
Debbil. Seed de time dat ar' yella' gal temp' dis chile. No care now.
But one Chakra ebber care 'brace in dese arms. Her he clasp only once,
he content--he willen' den fo' die. Augh!"
As the Coromantee uttered the impassioned ejaculation, he strode outward
from the door, and walked with nervous and hurried step--like one urged
on by the prospect of soon achieving some horrible but heartfelt purpose
he had been long contemplating from a distance.
Volume Two, Chapter XXVII.