“UNDER THE GRAVE YOU DUG ARE GOLD AND PRECIOUS STONES.”
The creature, whatever it was, came at last, and so silently, too, that
Tom was startled. How his heart did beat! It was audible to himself, it
caused him even to shake, and he fancied he could even feel the branch
of the tree tremble under him.
The figure stood for fully a minute gazing down into the grave; then a
sigh escaped it, and descending into the hollow the operation of digging
was commenced with vigour. Not with the hands or claws, however, but
with a huge white shell; and it was the marks of this on the sides of
the excavation that had so alarmed poor Brandy.
The strength of the creature seemed enormous, and the grave got deeper
and deeper every minute. But in a short time the figure desisted, and
standing up wiped the perspiration from its brow. This was a very human
act, and went far to banish fear from Tom’s heart. Almost at the same
moment the creature turned its face up towards the moonlight, and Tom
was able to satisfy himself it was a man and nothing else.
He made up his mind for instant action now, and just as this skin-clad
savage had commenced to dig again he sprang lightly from the tree and
stood before him, revolver in hand.
An eldritch scream was the first result of this manœuvre of Tom’s, and
the wild man attempted to scramble from the grave.
“Hold, my friend!--hold!” cried Tom. “I am armed. You see my pistol. Do
not force me to fire.”
“Fire!--no, no, no!” was the reply in strangely broken and semi-guttural
English. “Fire me!--no, no! I surrend--I surrend--I prison--I prison--”
“Yes, you are my prisoner. But you have nothing to fear; only come along
with me to my hut. Promise me you will not run away, and I and my black
servant will do everything we can for your comfort.”
“You English? No, I fly not from Englishmen. I took
you--Spanish--Ecuador.”
The strange being was smiling now.
“O!” he continued, “I--happy.”
It was soon evident to Tom that this wild man was, like himself, a
Briton, but must have been so long a recluse that he had forgotten his
own language. This became more apparent every minute. Tom’s voice and
talking seemed to recall words and phrases to him, though for weeks
after their meeting the man could not finish any long word.
Great indeed was Brandy’s surprise and terror when Tom walked into the
hut in company with the very apparition they had both seen, and who had
clawed up the grave.
“Come, Brandy, boy, don’t stand and stare. This is an Englishman. He was
only afraid of us because he thought we were Spanish. Get us supper
quick, and get something nice while you are about it.”
Brandy took one more look at the wild man, then laughing heartily held
out his hand. This was cordially shaken, and thus friendly relations
between all three were speedily established. Nay, but between all four,
I should say; for Black Tom soon jumped on the stranger’s knee and gave
vent to his pleasure in a song.
“But,” said Brandy, “I take you for de debil at fust, sah. But now I’se
mistaken. Aha! O, golly! dere is one big load tumble off dis chile’s
liber. Aha! I not turn pale wid fear no more.”
And away bustled Brandy to get the supper ready.
The wild man ate what was placed before him almost ravenously, though
with little regard to table etiquette. Indeed, Tom half thought at one
time he wanted to take the food into a corner quietly and devour it as a
tiger does his prey.
He spoke scarcely a word all the time supper was being partaken of, but
he was evidently far from at ease. The wind had risen now and was
moaning drearily round the hut, and he started often and listened as if
he heard voices in it. When Brandy had cleared away he spoke at last.
“I--go--now,” he said with some hesitation, “to the woods.”
“No, no, no!” cried Tom. “My dear friend, you are safe here. Yonder on a
bed of grass you shall sleep. Nothing shall hurt you. To-morrow, or
rather to-day--for it is late--we will talk.”
And the strange wild man extended a sleepy hand to Tom, smoothed the
cat--a touch of nature not lost on Tom--and went and threw himself on
his bed, and almost immediately went sound asleep.
Before Brandy retired he advanced furtively and half fearfully to his
master, and pointing to the recumbent figure, “Marster,” he said, “he
safe--puffikly safe? And he not de debil--you is sure? Den I sleep. All
same, I pray some mo’.”
Both Brandy and Tom slept late. When they awoke they found the wild
man’s couch deserted. But he had not fled; he was outside lying under a
bush playing with the cat; and when Tom proposed an adjournment to the
lake for the purpose of ablution and a swim, he joyfully assented.
Tom was perfectly astonished at the wild man’s prowess in the water. He
had all the strength and agility of a seal.
After breakfast Tom and he went off for a walk in the woods. They went
not anywhere near the orange grove to-day. They passed over the hill
where the outlook station was.
“I see you often here,” said Tom’s companion.
“I wish you had revealed yourself sooner.”
“I was afraid. Say, will you come to my house?”
Tom looked at him just once. Yes, he could trust him. There was
something almost benevolent in the man’s face, wild though he was and
had been. His eye was a dark and kindly one, and strangely enough Tom
thought that he had seen someone like him somewhere. He was not old,
this wild man--probably but little older than Tom; and he was remarkably
handsome--every movement of his lithe body was as graceful and easy as
those of the jaguar.
“What shall I call you?” said Tom.
“My name is Yanakova.”
He led Tom through the woods and wilds for many miles, then into a close
dark bit of jungle near the top of a high hill. Here was a cave. It was
lined with skins and carpeted with skins--skins everywhere, indeed.
From the doorway of this strange dwelling, where the bushes were tied
back with a piece of thong, they could see the ocean spread blue and
beautiful far beneath them, the sea-beach with the white line of
breaking waters, and all the greenery of hills and dells, ending in the
dark and burned border around the sea.
Here the two new-made friends rested for nearly an hour, hardly
speaking, for the day was a drowsy one.
“My good Yanakova,” said Tom at last, “will you tell me your story? It
must be a strange one.”
“I’ll tell you my story,” said Yanakova with all the simplicity of a
little child. And he spoke as follows, though it would be impossible to
give the exact words, or even to describe the wild man’s method of
talking:--
“My story is a sad one. I will begin not at the beginning but the end of
it, when I met you. I took you for Spanish. Most of the Spanish I hate.
But I had one friend among them. He was governor of this island long,
long ago. We were convicts all, in number ten. The others had died or
been taken away. Then the government of Ecuador forgot us. Sometimes in
long intervals a ship would come, but not often. So the governor told
me. They came for tortoises, but the tortoises were nearly all killed;
then they came no more. But the convicts were bad; they rose one day and
killed my friend the governor and his children, I fought like a madman.
I loved the governor. But they left me for dead, and went away in a raft
from the island. I could not look at the settlement after that. I fled
to the woods, and lived as best I could.”
“Had you been long on the island?”
“If I can judge of time, only a year or two. But it seemed an age. O, I
feel very old!”
“But, Yanakova, what had you done to deserve banishment here?”
“I was an Indian chief. I came from the eastern wilds of Ecuador with
fifty warriors. They said I conspired against the government; and so
they sent me here. I do not now repent it. I have met you.”
“But stay, Yanakova, this is not all your terribly eventful history. Go
farther back into the past--tell me of your childhood, your earlier
days, your parents.”
“No, no, no!” cried Yanakova; “that is all a dream, and some part of it
is a fearful dream. I do not wish to dream that dream again.”
“Then listen, Yanakova, and I will tell you a story--a brief one.”
As Tom spoke he was sitting on a fallen tree at the entrance to the
cave, his wild companion lying at full length at his feet, leaning on
his elbows and gazing intently and intensely at Tom’s face as he
proceeded with his story.
“There was a ship many years ago” he said, “that sailed away from
England to visit strange islands and countries on the Pacific shore; for
the captain was rich, owned his ship, and dearly loved a life on the
ocean wave. He had a wife and a little boy, and both went with him. Nay
more, on the sea a baby was born; and no one was happier than the kindly
captain then.”
Tom paused.
“Go on. Speak quick,” cried Yanakova.
“It came to pass soon after, that thinking to make themselves rich, the
crew, under the command of an evil-minded half-caste, mutinied. They
killed the mate, and those of the men that had taken the captain’s part.
Then they ran the ship on the rocks and left the rest to perish.”
“_All_ the rest?”
“No, not all the rest. They took away the boy, and the boy’s nurse, and
sold them both for slaves--”
Yanakova’s excitement was almost fearful to witness. He had raised
himself to his knees, and thus remained clutching Tom’s hands.
“The boy’s name?” he gasped.
“Bernard Herbert, and you are he!”
“Then the Great Spirit has heard my prayer. I have found one who can
tell me of my parents. Does mother live?”
“Alas, no. But your sister and father lives, I hope.”
“My sister?”
“Yes, the child ’Theena.”
“Then tell me more, tell me all, and tell who you are.”
So Tom had to repeat the story of his own life and adventures from the
very beginning, Bernard never once taking his eyes off his face while
he spoke.
When he had finished, Tom took from a little pocket-book a bunch of
portraits, and handed them to his companion. He looked half afraid of
them at first.
“O,” he cried, “is this right? I have seen such things at Quito. Are
these the souls of these peoples stolen away?”[3]
“No, no,” replied Tom laughing. “Only sun pictures--only shadow
likenesses.”
He handled them rapidly now; but put them all aside except one--his
mother’s.
On this he gazed long and fondly, the tears meanwhile chasing each other
adown his sun-browned face.
Tom was glad to see him weep. It was so human. He was no longer the
savage, no longer the wild man. He was Bernard Herbert, ’Theena’s
brother.
Then Tom told him more about ’Theena, and about the dream he had in his
boyhood.
“Part of this dream has come true,” said Tom; “and you see the Great
Spirit has also heard my prayer. The other part about going back to my
own country wealthy and restoring the old castle was but a child’s idle
folly. O, Bernard, if ever we can leave this island, and return to dear
old Craigielea and my parents, I shall be happy even if in rags.”
“O, but stay, brother, stay. You shall be wealthy. In the orange grove
down yonder, under the grave you dug, are more gold and precious stones
than we could carry or even lift. I found the treasure; but I touch it
not unless you consent to share it.”
“This, then,” said Tom laughing now, “is the secret of the grave we had
thought desecrated. Come, then, we shall bury the skeletons elsewhere;
and, if we are fortunate ever to get away from this lonely island, I
will share your treasure.”
“Thank you, brother, thank you. How good the Great Spirit is to us at
last!”