OF THE DEATH OF AN OLD FRIEND.
About sunset, Captain Jem came up to me, and inquired whether I had
any final business to settle ashore, in which case he could spare me
a couple of hours, but no more. I replied, that I had no reason for
quitting the vessel, when all at once, the thought of my preserver
on board the French felucca, Wright, flashed upon me. I remembered
how he had told me, that he lived in Jamaica, at Port Royal in all
probability, and I reproached myself for not having before thought
of inquiring after him. So I proceeded on shore at once, and went
straight to Mr. Pratt’s, who I imagined would be likely to give me
the information of which I stood in need. Nor was I disappointed.
Mr. Pratt, indeed, knew no person of the name of Wright, but he
had frequently seen the man to whom my description must apply, and
whose real name was Blagrove. ‘He lives,’ said Mr. Pratt, ‘in great
retirement, dwelling in a small hut on the outskirts of the town, and
cultivating, with two or three negroes, such a small plantation, as
suffices to supply him with the necessaries of life.’
Mr. Pratt then, at my request, called a negro lad, and ordered him
to be my guide to Blagrove’s dwelling; adding, however, that the
old Cromwellian lived in such solitude, and hated the faces of
strangers so cordially, that he doubted whether I should be admitted.
Determined, however, to make the experiment, I set off, the negro
preceding me with a lantern. After clearing the town we had a rough
and rugged walk, through trees and plantations, and deep Guinea
grass, already drenched with dew. Fire-flies sparkled in every bush,
and the hum of innumerable insects, and the harsh croaking of frogs
in the swamps and ditches, made a melancholy music. At length we
descried a distant light gleaming amid trees; at the sight of it, the
negro stopped, and pointing, said, ‘Dat Massa Blagrove’s house!’ at
the same time making as though he would return.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘do you not intend to come on and light me to the
door?’
The negro suddenly fell upon his knees. ‘Oh, Massa, please not
insist; let Juba go back, now. Massa Blagrove terrible man, Obeah
man, no like oder white buccra; live all alone by himself, wid
Fetish. Oh, most great heaps of Fetish.’
Now, at this time I did not understand the negro at all. I knew not
what he meant by Obeah or Fetish, but I afterwards found that the
gloomy life and austere manners of the old Republican, had caused the
negroes to believe that he was a sorcerer, or being of supernatural
powers, and that they dreaded above all things being obliged to enter
his grounds after dark. Seeing Mr. Pratt’s negro, however, in a state
of visible terror, at the idea of proceeding further, but having no
time to stay to investigate the cause, I took the lantern from his
hand, and told him to remain where he was until I came back. This he
promised to do, but I had hardly advanced two paces, when I heard
him scampering away through the rustling grass as fast as his legs
could carry him. I called after the fugitive, but he gave no reply,
so after muttering a curse upon his cowardice, I consoled myself by
the reflection that he would be likely to get a sound flogging from
Mr. Pratt for returning without the lantern, and then slowly advanced
towards the light, which yet glimmered through the trees. I was not
long in ascertaining that it shone from the rude window of a wattled
hut, over which the branches of a great tree waved and rustled in the
land wind. Having found the door, I knocked repeatedly, but received
no reply, and as I stood listening, I thought I heard the sound
of smothered moans. Thereupon I lifted the latch—the door was not
otherwise secured—and entered. The cottage consisted of but one room,
very rudely furnished. Hoes and spades, and such like implements,
lay in the corners. There was a massive oaken table in the centre of
the room, and at one end of it stood the candle, whose light I had
seen from without. Hanging from the roof, close to the table, was
a sort of rude curtain of canvas, which screened off a portion of
the chamber, and from behind this curtain I heard the moaning come
again: after hesitating for a moment I stepped forward and removed
the drapery. Upon a low bed, without any curtains, his head and chest
supported by a bag, such as that in which seamen keep their clothes,
lay Wright, or Blagrove—now, alas, a dying man. He was terribly
wasted, as though by fever or ague; his grey eyes so sunken that they
seemed to gleam from the bottom of dark holes, and his features were
shrunk and distorted, for the fingers of Death were pressing them.
The sick man took no notice of me, so that I could mark a large Bible
in which he seemed to have been reading, and which had fallen from
his pithless hand upon the bed.
‘Mr. Wright,’ I said. He replied not a word.
‘John Blagrove,’ I repeated.
He started, and said feebly, ‘I am he—who calls?’
‘Leonard Lindsay,’ I replied, ‘the Scots mariner, whom you aided to
escape from the ship of Montbars.’
‘Lindsay—Lindsay!’ he muttered, ‘I know not that name.’ He paused,
and then said loudly and clearly, ‘Death—my voice is for death. He
hath most foully betrayed his great trust, and the blood of the
saints crieth against him. By what law, sayest thou, shall we put him
to death? Even by that which gave Jericho and its people to the sword
of Joshua, the son of Nun.’
Listening to this, I saw that the mind of the dying man was running
upon the great action of his life, and forbore to disturb him. But
presently the delirium fit seemed to pass away, and he stirred
restlessly, and muttered that he was athirst. I looked round the
cottage, and finding a pitcher of water and a mug, held the latter
to his lips; when he had drunk he seemed revived, shut his eyes for
a moment, and then, opening them, fixed his gaze upon me, and smiled
faintly.
‘I know you now,’ he said; ‘how came you here?’
Feeling that his time was but short, I hurriedly replied, that having
arrived at Jamaica from Hispaniola, I had heard that he resided here,
and had lost no time in coming to see, and thank him.
‘You will see the last of me, then,’ he murmured; ‘I told you I
should rest in the wilderness, and I am fast going to that long home.’
I asked him if he had not had proper medicines and help in his fever.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘none; I did not wish to live. I left myself in the
hands of God. He has called my soul, and I obey the summons as firmly
as I can.’
‘But surely,’ quoth I, ‘you require help—attendance?’
‘None,’ says he—‘a man can die alone. When I felt the delirium coming
on, yesterday, and knew that my hour was at hand, I called together
my four slaves and gave them their liberty. They went singing and
shouting away, and I remained here waiting for the last moment with
contrition, and prayer, and praise.’
After this he was silent for a long time. Then he said, ‘Once I was
a judge at a great trial, now I go to be judged for my judgment.
Then, I did that which I believed to be right and good. I am of the
same mind still. Before an hour, I shall know whether my voice spoke
justly or no.’
A very dismal silence succeeded. Blagrove was sinking very fast.
When I took his hand it was cold and wet, and his breath began to
come in flutterings and gaspings. While I watched him, the light,
which burned in a rude iron candlestick, suddenly flickered and went
out; and, except for the glimmer of my lantern, we were in darkness.
Indeed, it was very terrible. The great branches of the tree overhead
groaned as they swayed with the night wind, and sometimes hit the
roof with a loud rattle; the dismal croak of the frog sounded
incessantly; and the goat-sucker whooped his loud hollow note from
the forest. As I watched the dying, I suddenly heard the lattice of
the window shake, and, turning round with a start, saw a hideous
black face, crowned with a curly mass of grey hair, laid close
against the coarse thick glass. My heart beat, and my blood curdled
as I gazed. In a moment, however, the face was withdrawn, and I was
vainly attempting to persuade myself that the vision I had seen was
fancy, when, by the uncertain light of the lantern, I observed the
latch of the door move. The cold sweat came out upon me again as the
door opened, and a hideous apparition entered. It was that of a very
aged negro woman. Her face had that peculiar blackness which marks
those negroes actually born on the Guinea coast; and it was, so to
speak, a perfect mass of huge wrinkles and skinny folds, through
which her white teeth appeared with a ghastly conspicuousness. The
principal part of her dress was an old dingy blanket; and round her
neck was hung a cord, upon which shreds of cloth, birds’ feathers,
pellets of clay and stones with holes in them—the shells of eggs, and
fragments of broken bottles were strung. This uncouth being advanced
slowly into the hut, holding up in both hands a sort of graven image,
or idol, made of a block of wood roughly carved, and stuck over with
such scraps of offal and filth as composed her own rude necklace.
I was so absorbed in a sort of compassionate horror, that I had no
power to prevent her approach, but rather shrank from her—the hag
looked so fearful and witch-like. So she proceeded to the very side
of the bed—Blagrove, meanwhile, having his eyes shut and his hands
clasped, as though in secret prayer—and then suddenly dropping on her
knees, she raised her hideous idol before the face of the dying, and
said, in a harsh grating voice:
‘Buccra dying—buccra pray to Obi.’
Coming to myself at these words, I dashed forwards, wrenched the idol
from the hands of the idolatress, and flung the hag back towards the
door. She turned upon me with the fury of a wild cat.
‘What for you here?’ she said; ‘he is Obeah man, me is Obeah woman.
Obeah men and women pray to Obi. It is one great Fetish.’
For reply I walked to the door, and, opening it, flung the idol forth
into the night. When I turned again, the hag was affixing a bunch of
parrot feathers to the bed.
‘I set Obi for him,’ she cried; ‘I set Obi for you. De Fetish hab
kill him—de Fetish will kill you.’
Blagrove at this started up in bed—‘I am getting blind,’ he said,
faintly; ‘what voice is that?’
‘De voice of Mammy Koromantee—of de Obeah woman,’ said the hag; ‘de
moder of Paul, your negro, dat you set free. Paul say you die; I
bring Obi for you to pray to—Obi great.’
‘Lindsay, Leonard Lindsay,’ gasped Blagrove, ‘come close to
me—quick!—I am choking. Keep her away, fling down the strange
god—fling Dagon from the high places.’
I now supported his head, and saw that the great change was at hand.
‘Mary, Mary,’ he said faintly; ‘I come, Mary, my wife.’
There passed a spasm over his face, and then his head hung heavy
and dead across my arm. Immediately, the negress raised her voice,
tremulous with age, and began to chant a sort of song—perhaps it was
a dirge, in her own tongue.
‘Go,’ said I, interrupting her lament—‘go to Mr. Pratt’s, and tell
them that Blagrove is dead; they will return with you, and I will
give you money.’
‘You gib me money,’ said the negress, quickly; ‘oh, den I go to Massa
Pratt’s, and I find Obi when de daylight come.’
With this the hag bustled out as speedily as her old limbs would
bear her, and in less than an hour Mr. Pratt and some of his people
arrived. I paid the old woman her guerdon, and was glad to be
relieved from my melancholy post—Mr. Pratt assuring me that all
needful attention would be bestowed upon the dead. As for the woman,
he said that she was more than half crazed with age and infirmity;
but that in coming to the hut he believed that, after her own
fashion, she had meant kindly. She was reputed by the negroes to
be an Obeah woman, or witch, and the scraps of feathers, rags and
egg-shells wherewith she had adorned herself were the means by which
she wrought her spells and incantations.