The Maroons Build a Canoe
The events of twenty-four hours had wrought a surprising change in
Dennis's circumstances. The solitude of the island had suddenly become
peopled. No longer would Mirandola be his sole comrade and confidant.
He was inexpressibly glad of the company of a fellow-countryman; the
presence of a group of men of strange races was somewhat embarrassing.
Besides Turnpenny, there were now on the island the Spaniard who had
been left pinioned on the shore, and the wounded Portuguese rescued
from the sinking ship, three survivors of the wood-cutting party, three
sick comrades, and the fat negro cook; in all a community of eleven.
Small as it was, after his loneliness Dennis felt it to be a crowd.
His first care on waking in the morning was to liberate the bound
Spaniard, and to bring salves from his store for dressing the wounds of
the Portuguese, and of his party; his own wounds proved to be slight.
While absent on this errand he left Turnpenny in charge of the rest,
and found when he returned that the sailor had already spread a
delectable breakfast, having set the maroons to gather from the trees
not merely bananas, but several other fruits which Dennis himself, in
his dread of eating something poisonous, had not yet ventured to taste.
When the wounded man and the sick maroons, who were still bewildered by
their good fortune, had been attended to, he held a consultation with
Turnpenny. As a result of this he decided to keep the whereabouts of
his hut and the existence of the stores a secret from the white men.
"They be all villains and traitors," said Turnpenny; "we must e'en keep
them prisoners, and give them into the ward of the maroons. Wherefore
I say, let the maroons build them a hut a mile or more away from your
dwelling. They are idle knaves, and having been so long time slaves,
they will be well content to do nothing but keep watch and ward over
those that once were their masters. And as for their food, there is
enough on the island for a whole city."
"And what of us, my friend?"
"Why, sir, here we be, two Englishmen, a thousand leagues or more away
from home, but a few leagues from the mainland, where Spaniards rule
the roast, and like to be discovered any day if another logwood party
come ashore. 'Tis not in reason we could do with them what, by the
mercy of God and your own ready wit, sir, we did with the knaves
yesternight; and if we be found, there's naught afore us but death or
chains; and for myself, I'd liever die than endure such things as I
have suffered since the fight at St. John d'Ulua."
"Why then, good Amos," said Dennis with a smile, "it does seem we must
cast lots who shall be king of this island, and the other shall be
chancellor, and we will put in practice in our governance the ideas of
the incomparable Sir Thomas More, who, though a Papist, did set forth
in his _Utopia_ most worthy and admirable schemes of ruling a society
of men."
"I know naught of Sir Thomas More or what you call Utopia; and as for
king and chancellor, I am but poor Haymoss Turnpenny, that cannot read
nor write and have never had the ruling of more than a crew of
mariners. Call yourself king an 'ee please, sir; but methinks 'twould
be more fit and commendable if we seized upon this island in the name
of our sovereign lady Queen Bess."
"A right loyal notion, and one that we will put in act. But then we
must give it a name."
"Ay, sure, and what better name than Maiden Isle, after that same
gracious lady?"
"So it shall be, and I here proclaim Elizabeth, by the grace of God
queen of England, France, and Ireland, queen of Maiden Isle on the
Spanish Main. But this is idle mockery, Amos. We are not builders of
empires, but poor castaways, doomed to linger out our lives in what is
after all a desert, or else in painful servitude. There is nothing for
laughter here."
And then they fell to talking of their chances of one day escaping from
the island and seeing the fair shores of England again. It could only
be by being taken off by an English ship, or by setting off themselves
and risking the perilous voyage across the Atlantic. The latter
alternative seemed beyond the bounds of possibility. The _Maid
Marian_, even if they could make her hull seaworthy and repair her
shattered spars and rigging, would need a crew to navigate her, and the
maroons were not sailor men. To build a smaller craft capable of the
long voyage was an enterprise beyond their powers. Turnpenny could
make a shift to navigate a vessel, but he had no practical skill in
ship-building.
The other alternative seemed equally unlikely, Dennis learnt from the
sailor that the island on which they had so strangely met was situated
deep in the Sound of Darien. It was less than a hundred and fifty
miles from Cartagena, the capital of the Spanish Main, to the east, and
about the same distance from Nombre de Dios to the west; but the trend
of the coast caused vessels to stand out some distance to sea in
passing, and thus the island was little likely to be touched at by
chance visitors.
One other course occurred to Dennis, only to be dismissed when he
mentioned it to Turnpenny. It was to build a boat capable of conveying
them to the mainland, and to take refuge among the Indians or the mixed
race of Cimaroons or maroons who had settlements at various parts of
the coast. But Turnpenny pointed out that this would expose them to
the risk of being caught by the Spaniards, who were constantly at war
with the natives, and would at the same time quite ruin the chances of
getting into touch with an English vessel. While they remained on the
island there was always the bare possibility of some English or
Huguenot adventurer coming within reach.
Faced by the prospect of an indefinite sojourn on the island, they had
only to make the best of it. Turnpenny explained to the maroons the
plan arranged for them, and they accepted it without demur. The
prisoners were sullen and resentful, perforce submissive, not a little
distrustful of their guards, from whom they had deserved no kindness.
Baltizar the fat negro was given the task of supplying the party with
food, partly from the natural resources of the island, partly from the
stores of the _Maid Marian_, which Dennis resolved to share,
economically, with the rest.
A spot about a mile from the chine was chosen as the site of the
shelters for the maroons and their prisoners. Having set the men at
work, Dennis returned with Turnpenny to his own hut. Mirandola no
longer showed any jealousy of the presence of a third party; apparently
he had been cured of it by fright at the prospect of being deserted.
Turnpenny, on his part, before the day was out was so much amused at
the animal's antics that he lost his first disgust.
"My heart!" he exclaimed, when, work for the day being over, the monkey
sat on a tub, happily feasting on biscuits and honey: "if 'tis wise
looks do make a chancellor, sure the beast be the properest chancellor
to your king, sir."
"You look pretty wise yourself, Amos," said Dennis, laughing. "We had
resolved that the sovereignty of this island belongs to our lady Queen
Bess; say then that I am her viceroy, and you my chamberlain; and for
Mirandola, why, let us make him our jester."
Day followed day uneventfully. Dennis made a still more thorough
exploration of the island in Turnpenny's company, and had his eyes
opened to many things which had formerly escaped him. Passing the spot
where he had saved Mirandola from the boa constrictor, he mentioned the
incident, and remarked that he had seen no other reptiles in the course
of his wanderings.
"'Tis because you knew not where to look," said Turnpenny. "The snakes
in this new world be cunning; 'wise as serpents,' says the Scripture,
and a true word. They dress their skins so as to look like the trees
they live in; 'twould puzzle Solomon himself in all his wisdom and
glory to say which is tree and which is the coil of a snake."
And as they passed through the thickest woods, which Dennis had
prudently refrained from entering, the sailor drew his attention more
than once to snakes of various kinds whose coils were almost
indistinguishable from the trunks of trees.
Once he plucked some fruit from a kind of palm, and, pressing it,
squeezed out a juice as black as ink.
"That is a good sight," cried Dennis gladly. "I found in the cabin of
the _Maid Marian_ a store of paper and quills, but the ink was all
spilled, and I had nothing wherewithal to write. So I have lost count
of the days, and know not whether I have been on this isle weeks or
months. Now I can make a journal."
"Not so neither! This juice is good to write withal, but the marks
disappear within the ninth day, and the paper is as white as if it had
never been written on. 'Tis no matter, indeed; we should be none the
happier for seeing the tale of our days."
One day Dennis showed Turnpenny the cave in the cliff, which hitherto
he had refrained from revealing. The sailor attentively examined the
trinkets which Dennis had found on the floor beside the skeleton and
carefully collected. He pronounced them to be such ornaments as were
worn by the natives of the mainland, and made no doubt that the
skeleton was that of some Indian or maroon done to death by brutal
persecutors.
Dennis got him to continue the story of his life, never yet resumed
since his first night on the island. He had been sent, he said, among
a gang of prisoners from St. John d'Ulua to Cartagena and thence to a
place on the coast somewhat south of Cartagena, where the governor had
a pearl fishery. It was defended by a fort, garrisoned by some fifty
Spaniards. Expecting reprisals from Hawkins for the treacherous
treatment he had received, the governor had ordered the fort to be
strengthened, and dispatched several of his able-bodied prisoners to
assist in the work.
"And I think of my dear comrades rotting in the dungeons of Porto
Aguila--for so 'tis named. There was Ned Whiddon, and Hugh Curder, and
Tom Copstone, and a dozen more, and for all I know they are there even
now, toiling all day, with many stripes from the villanous whips, and
groaning all night in most foul and noisome dungeons. Ah! the tales I
could tell would make your skin creep and your hair to stand on end.
Why, what think 'ee they do if the tale of work seem to them not
sufficient? They tie the poor wretch to a tree, and take thorns of the
prickle palm, and put them into little pellets of cotton dipped in oil,
and stick them in the side of the miserable captive, as thick as the
bristles of a hedgehog. This alone causes a most fierce torment, but
they are not content therewith. They set the oiled cotton afire, and
call on the poor wretch, with loud despitous laughs, to sing in the
midst of his torment, and if he cries out in the agony of pain they out
upon him for a base miserable coward and villain. With my own eyes I
have seen the foul deed, and many more which it is shame to tell of."
"How came it that you got aloose?" asked Dennis.
"Why, it happened in this wise. The treasure of pearls fished up from
the sea-bottom at that place was wont to be conveyed to Cartagena every
month by ship. One day the vessel sent with this intent came into the
port wonderfully battered by a storm, the which had nigh stripped her
of all rigging and had moreover washed half her crew overboard. The
garrison at the fort being soldiers, and there being no other mariners
at hand, the Spanish captain moreover being fearful of the governor's
wrath if the treasure should be delayed, he sent half a dozen or more
of his slaves, French and English, aboard that vessel to work her back
to the capital city. My heart! I well nigh wept for joy when I heard
what was in store, for I bethought myself that of a surety we mariners,
French and English, might seize upon that vessel on the voyage and sail
her at our pleasure. But it was as if the knave had seen to the very
heart of my intent, for when we mounted on ship-board, there were
Spanish soldiers set over us, two for one, and with the Spanish crew
they were as three to one, and they armed. My device was come to
naught. We did each man his best to lengthen out that voyage, if
perchance we might fall in with an English vessel and acquaint them
with our case; but never a sail did we see till we made the harbour of
Cartagena, and all our hopes were dashed.
"Then it came to pass that, being a handy man and a stout, I was sold
for money to the master and owner of a ship employed in the traffic of
timber--that same vessel that lies a fathom deep yonder. At sea I was
a mariner; ashore, being stout of the arms, I was made to ply an axe on
the trees, as you yourself saw. 'Tis three year or more since I fell
prisoner at St. John d'Ulua, and six months since I last set eyes on my
comrades at Porto Aguila, and I fear me I shall never see them more."
"Why think you they be even now there?"
"Why, sir, because the Spaniards be all knaves, and there is no truth
nor faithfulness in them, not one. The Captain of that place was the
Governor of Cartagena his own son. A son, one med think, would be
loving and obedient unto his father, but 'tis not so among these dogs
of Spain. Why, body o' me! in the stead of doing diligently the thing
his father commanded, this young roisterer must needs build him a
house, and thereto he used the labourers sent him with intent to
strengthen the fort, and when I came from that place the house was got
but a little above the ground, and was not like to be finished for a
full year."
"Might not other labourers be hired from Cartagena?"
"I trow not. The Spaniards are so scared and daunted by the descents
of venturers' ships upon their coasts that they are looking to their
fortresses throughout the Spanish Main. By long and large 'tis more
like the prisoners will be conveyed back to Cartagena for to build new
forts there. But this will not be yet, for the Governor of Cartagena
holds the pearl-fishery in dear affection, and he will not bring the
men thence until he has assurance that all is done as he commanded.
No, truly, I believe they be still at Porto Aguila, my dear
mate-fellows, and though I praise God for His infinite goodness and
mercy in bringing me safe into this haven and out of the hands of those
wicked men, I mourn in my heart for Hugh Curder, and Tom Copstone, and
Ned Whiddon, and other my comrades; God save them!"
Many a time in the succeeding days did Amos relate incidents in the
life of the prisoners at Porto Aguila that made Dennis's blood run
cold. He now began to understand the deep and fierce hatred of the
Spaniards that filled the hearts of adventurers who had returned from
expeditions to the American coast. The same consuming desire for
humbling and punishing the proud Spaniards burnt in his veins, and he
chafed at the idleness to which he was enforced on this remote island.
Meanwhile the other inhabitants of Maiden Isle were living what
appeared to be a contented life. With abundance of food, and nothing
to do, the maroons enjoyed, as Dennis thought, conditions that answered
to their idea of bliss. He was therefore a little surprised one day to
hear the unwonted sound of wood-felling, and to find, when he came to
the spot, four of the men plying their axes lustily upon a huge cedar.
They desisted when he approached, with something of a guilty air that
puzzled him. They had shown themselves very amiable companions,
grateful for their rescue from their taskmasters. He could only
suppose that even they had begun to weary of idleness, and had resorted
to their former occupation of log-cutting from no other motive than the
desire to kill time.
But Turnpenny shook his head when Dennis suggested this explanation.
"It do seem to me there be another meaning in it, sir. 'Tis their
intent, a' b'lieve, to make unto themselves a canow."
"But they have no skill to do it, nor fit implements, Amos."
"Bless your eyes, sir, you do not know them. Wait a while, and if that
be not their purpose, never trust Haymoss Turnpenny."
Letting a few days pass, Dennis went again one morning with the sailor
to the scene of the tree-felling. The huge trunk had already begun to
take shape as a canoe at least twenty-five feet long. The men were
diligently working at it, some with axes, others with fire. Its
interior had been partly hollowed out, the wood and pith burnt away,
and the charred sides scraped with the hatchets. It was clear that
within a few days the tree would become a vessel which, whether
navigable or not, would certainly float.
"'Tis a pretty piece of work," said Dennis to Turnpenny. "Ask them
whereto they design it."
Turnpenny spoke a few words in Spanish. The answer was surprising.
One of the maroons, a man whom the others seemed to have elected as
their leader, threw down his hatchet and fell on his knees. Then, in a
strange jargon which the sailor had much ado to understand, he gave
voice to the sentiments and aspirations of himself and his comrades.
They were sick of solitude. They had homes upon the mainland; and
yearned to see again their relatives and comrades, to return to their
settlement, to share in its life, to seek opportunities of revenging
themselves on their oppressors. And so they were making this canoe, in
which they would sail over the sea. They were not ungrateful for the
kindnesses showered upon them by the white men; indeed, to show their
gratitude, they would take them with them, having first killed the two
prisoners. Their spokesman on his knees besought the white men to
yield to their desire, and come with them. They would supply all their
needs, and follow them with all obedience, if they would lead them
against the Spaniards.
"Tell him to get up," said Dennis. "This is a matter we must think
upon."
Dennis and Turnpenny held by and by a serious consultation. They felt
that they were in a somewhat awkward predicament. The maroons' desire
to regain their friends was natural and reasonable, but their departure
would deprive the white men of valuable allies. And what of the two
prisoners? Turnpenny would not have hesitated to kill them, but Dennis
shrank from that course. They might allow the maroons to carry them
off; but then the Spaniards would either be butchered as soon as the
canoe was out of reach, or they would probably be held as hostages and
exchanged for natives held captive by the Spaniards on the mainland.
In that case they would certainly report the presence of two white men
on the island and the assault upon the lumber boat; a search party
would be the result, and Dennis and his companion would be slaughtered
or carried away into slavery. On the other hand, if the maroons were
allowed to depart, leaving the prisoners on the island, the burden of
keeping watch over them would prove a constant source of anxiety.
"The canoe is all but finished," said Dennis. "We must let them finish
it. To forbid them, poor knaves, would be cruel."
"And vain, to boot," said Turnpenny, "for if we took their axes from
them, they would use bits of sharp rock. The Indians have hollowed out
such canows with instruments of flint from the beginning of the world."
"We must let them go, then. For ourselves, I see not at present our
course; but we can provide against the worst hap by conveying our
stores, secretly and by night, to Skeleton Cave; 'tis a good
hiding-place, not like to be easily discovered, and we know not what
necessity may drive us to make it our habitation."
The transfer of the stores occupied two nights. Mirandola accompanied
the two men as they went to and fro between the sheds and the cave,
clinging so closely to them that it seemed as if he had some intuition
of changes to come.
"By my soul," said Turnpenny with a laugh, "he be as faithful as a dog."
"And whatever may chance, we will not leave you, Mirandola," said
Dennis. "Shall I forget the days when you were the only friend of my
solitude? Would you could speak, for assuredly I would ask your
counsel on this pass to which we are come."
They went daily to the clearing to watch the progress of the canoe. As
yet they had given no answer to the maroons; but these were working
very diligently at the task, having apparently inferred from the
silence of the white men that at least nothing would be done to prevent
their making use of the vessel. Dennis and Turnpenny talked over the
situation again and again; but their thoughts followed the same weary
round. At one moment they were almost resolved to throw in their lot
with the maroons and voyage with them to the mainland; the next they
shrank from this course as throwing away what seemed their only chance
of ultimate rescue--the chance of being found some day by an English
vessel.
The problem weighed more heavily on Dennis than on Turnpenny. Compared
with his former sufferings, it was to the sailor a slight matter.
Dennis, lying sleepless at night, envied his friend the soundness of
his slumbers. The mariner snored as peacefully on his canvas couch in
the corner of the hut as though he were on a feather bed at home. To
Dennis the hours of darkness passed wearisomely. He thought of all
that had happened since he sailed with light heart from Plymouth Sound,
and wondered sometimes whether his comrades had not perchance been
happier in meeting swift death in the storm. Then he upbraided himself
for his ingratitude to the Providence which had preserved his life and
health, and given him the companionship of a fellow countryman. He
contrasted, too, his lot with that of Turnpenny's mates on the
mainland, dragging out a miserable existence of slavish toil. He
recalled the sailor's stories of the tortures they endured--and then
suddenly, one night, there flashed upon his mind a possibility which,
in his preoccupation with his own plight, had never yet occurred to
him. The maroons would shortly leave the island; had Providence
arranged this as an opportunity for helping the hapless Englishmen in
the Spaniards' power? If Turnpenny and he should accompany the black
men, might they not find, at some time or other, a means of rescuing
the prisoners--Ned Whiddon, Hugh Curder, Tom Copstone, and the rest?
The idea set Dennis throbbing with a new hope, a new aim. Slaves
sometimes escaped; the maroons themselves were the offspring of negroes
who had made off from the Spanish settlements and formed alliances with
the native Indians of the woods. Their communities were constantly
being recruited: what if the sailor and he should cast in their lot
temporarily with the men about to embark, and watch for opportunities
of communicating with the distressed Englishmen! Even if they never
found a means of reaching home, it would still be something to the good
if their comrades were got out of the hands of their oppressors. At
the worst they might form a settlement of their own, and live free,
though in exile.
The idea took complete possession of Dennis. He felt no desire to
sleep. For a moment he was tempted to wake Turnpenny and put the
question to him; instead, he got up, and stole quietly from the hut, to
think it over more fully under the open sky. He walked down to the
shore, and, sitting on a rock, looked over the sea and pondered the
matter to the soft accompaniment of the washing tide.
It was clear that the Spaniards of the mainland had no suspicion that
the island was inhabited, or they would long since have visited it.
They might be off their guard. From what Turnpenny had told him he
knew the indolence of their temperament--the unlikelihood of their
taking precautions against problematical dangers. Unless directly
threatened by the vessels of adventurers like Hawkins and Drake, they
might be expected to ply their trade--manage their pearl fisheries,
work their mines--without great vigilance. True, they had recently set
about strengthening their defences; but probably the season of panic
had passed; it was years since Hawkins had troubled them. It had
already been proved what a determined few could do; if he, with
Turnpenny and the six maroons, could safely reach the mainland, might
they not bide their time until, Fortune assisting them, they found some
means of bringing off the prisoners, or at least of striking a blow in
their cause? Surely it was better to make the attempt than to rust in
idleness on the island, waiting on a chance that might perhaps never
come, and always exposed to the risk of discovery by the Spaniards.
The more Dennis thought, the more his imagination was captivated by the
idea, and when he at last returned to the hut he was resolved to broach
the subject to Turnpenny as soon as he should wake.
As he came to the entrance the sailor's voice hailed him.
"Be that you, sir?"
"Yes. I could not sleep, and went for a walk on the shore."
"I had but just waked, all of a sweat, and shaking like a leaf."
"Why, what ailed you?"
"A dream, sir. Do 'ee believe as dreams come true? My old grandam was
wont to say they go by contraries; dream of a weddin', she would say,
sure there would be a funeral. And she was a wise woman; ay, sure."
"I know not, Amos. We read in Scripture of dreams that most wondrously
came true. 'Twas in a dream that Solomon asked of God an understanding
heart, the which was promised to him with riches, and honour, and
length of days; and Solomon lived long in the land, and became the
richest and wisest of kings. Scripture was written for our
instruction, Amos, and I would liever believe in Holy Writ than in the
old wives' tales of a score of grandams. But what then was your dream?"
"Why, sir, if it be not sin to speak it, I was standing alone in a
waste place, and on a sudden the voice of Tom Copstone spoke out of the
air, and said, 'You and me, Haymoss; you and me, my heart!' And while
I was wondering in my simple mind what those words might mean, there
was a thick smoke, and a roar as of thunder, and I stood dazed, and the
fear came upon me. And then the smoke lifted, and I saw old Tom with
's head all bloody, and Hugh Curder behind him, and behind him again I
saw you, sir, and Ned Whiddon, and, God a-mercy! my very own self, as I
ha' seen myself time and again in the glass, but sore battered and
misused. And I thought sure 'twas my ghost, and the fear of it woke me
up, and I rose all panting and trembling, and cried to 'ee, and when
there was no answer I broke into a sweat, remembering my grandam's
words."
"Well, 'tis all safe. I also have had a dream, Amos, and yet I did not
sleep. And 'tis to tell you my dream I am here now. Mayhap it will
fit yours; God in His mercy send that both yours and mine come true!"