The Maroon

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Six

The Death-Spell

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 séance.

“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 Twenty Seven

The Invocation of Accompong

The canoe soon made its trip, and returned with Cynthia seated in the stern. As upon the occasion of her former visit, she carried a basket upon her arm filled with comestibles, and not forgetting the precious bottle of rum.

As before, she followed the myal-man to his hut – this time entering with more confidence, and seating herself unbidden upon the side of the bamboo bedstead.

Still, she was not without some feeling of fear; as testified by a slight trembling that might be observed when her eyes rested upon the freshly-filled bottle, that stood in a conspicuous place. The look which she turned upon it told that she possessed some previous information as to the nature of its contents – or perhaps she had only a suspicion.

“Da’s de bottle fo’ you,” said the myal-man, noticing her glance, “and dis hya,” continued he, drawing the other out of Cynthia’s basket, “dis hya am de one fo’ – ”

He was about to add “me,” but before he could pass the word out of his mouth, he had got the neck of the rum-bottle into it; and the “gluck-gluck” of the descending fluid was substituted for the personal pronoun.

The usual “Whugh!” wound up the operation, clearing the Coromantee’s throat; and then, by a gesture, he gave Cynthia to understand that he was ready to proceed with the more serious business of the interview.

“Dat bottle,” said he, pointing to the one that contained his decoction, “am de obeah-’pell. It make Cubina lub you while dar’s a tuff ob wool on de top o’ ’im head. Dat long ’nuf, I reck’n; fo’ when ’im go bald, you no care fo’ ’im lub.”

“Is that the love-spell you spoke of?” inquired the mulatta, with an ambiguous expression of countenance, in which hope appeared struggling with doubt.

“De lub-spell? No – not ’zackly dat. De lub-spell am different. It am ob de nature ob an ointment. Hya! I’se got ’im in dis coco-shell.”

As Chakra said this he raised his hand, and drew out from a cranny in the thatch about three-quarters of the shell of a cocoa-nut; inside which, instead of its white coagulum, appeared a carrot-coloured paste, resembling the pulp of the sapotamammee– for this, in reality, it was.

“Da’s de lub mixture!” continued the obeah-man, in a triumphant tone; “da’s for Cubina!”

“Ah! Cubina is to take that?”

“Shoo he am. He mus’ take ’im. A gib it him, and den he go mad fo’ you. You he lub, an’ he lub you, like two turtle dove in de ’pring time. Whugh!”

“Good Chakra – you are sure it will do Cubina no harm?”

The query proved that the jealousy of the mulatta had not yet reached the point of revenge.

“No,” responded the negro; “do ’im good – do ’im good, an’ nuffin else. Now, Cynthy, gal,” continued he, turning his eyes upon the bottle; “das for de ole Cussus ob Moun’ Welc’m – take um – put ’im in you basket.”

The woman obeyed, though her fingers trembled as she touched the bottle that contained the mysterious medicine.

“And what am I to do with it, Chakra?” she asked, irresolutely.

“Wha you do? I tole you arready wha you do. You gib to massr – you enemy and myen.”

“But what is it?”

“Why you ask daat? I tole you it am de obeah-’pell.”

“Oh, Chakra! is it poison?”

“No, you fool – ef ’twa pizen, den it kill de buckra right off. It no kill ’im. It only make um sick, an’ den, preehap, it make ’im die long time atterward. Daz no pizen! You ’fuse gib ’im?”

The woman appeared to hesitate, as if some sparks of a better nature were rising within her soul. If there were such sparks, only for a short while were they allowed to shine.

“You ’fuse gib ’im?” repeated the tempter, hastening to extinguish them. “If you ’fuse, I no put de lub-spell on Cubina. Mor’n dat – I set de obeah fo’ you – you youseff!”

“Oh, no – no, Chakra!” cried she, cowering before the Coromantee; “I not refuse – I give it – anything you command me.”

“Dere, now – das sensible ob you, Cynthy. Now I gib you de instrukshin how fo’ ’minister de ’pell. Lissen, an’ ’member ebbery ting I go ’peak you.”

As the hideous sorcerer said this, he sat down in front of his neophyte – fixing his eyes upon hers, as if the better to impress his words upon her memory.

“Fuss an’ formoss, den, de grand buckra ob Moun’ Welcome, ebbery night ’fore he go bed, hab glass ob rum punch. I know he used hab – he so ’till, eh?”

“Yes – he does,” mechanically answered the mulatta.

“Berry likely – dat ere am one ob de habits neider buckra nor brack man am like break off. Ebbery night, shoo?”

“Yes – every night – one glass – sometimes two.”

“Gorry! ef twa me, me hab two – not sometime, but alway – ’cept when a make um tree, ha! ha! Berry well, das all right; and now, gal, who mix de punch fo’ ’im? You use do dat youseff, Cynthy!”

“It is still my business. I make it for him every night.”

“Good – das jess de ting. Whugh! now we know how set de ’pell ob de obeah. You see dis hya? It am de claw of de mountain crab. You see de ’cratch – dar – inside ob de machine? Well – up to dat mark it holds jess de ’zack quantum. Ebbery night you make de punch, you fill up dar out ob dis bottle. You pour in de glass – fuss de sugar an’ lemon – den de water – den de rum, which am ’tronger dan de water; an’ affer dat de ’pell out of dis bottle, which am de ’trongest ob dem all. You ’member all a hab tell you?”

“I shall remember it,” rejoined the woman, with a firmness of voice, partly assumed – for she dreaded to show any sign of irresolution.

“Ef you no do, den de spell turn roun’ an’ he work ’gin youseff. When de Obi once ’gins he no ’top till he hab ’im victim. Now a go fo’ ’voke de god Accompong. He come whenebba Chakra call. He make ’im ’pearance in de foam ob de catrack out yonner. Affer dat no mortal him lay not till one be promise fo’ de sacrafize. You ’tay in hya – De god muss not see no woman– you lissen – you hear um voice.”

Rising with a mysterious air, and taking down from its peg an old palm-leaf wallet, that appeared to contain some heavy article, the myal-man stepped out of the hut, closing the door behind him, lest – as he informed the mulatta, in sotto voce– the god might set his eyes on her, and get into a rage.

Cynthia seemed to consider the precaution scarce sufficient; for the moment the door was closed, in order to make herself still more secure against being seen, she glided up to the light and extinguished it. Then, groping her way back to the bedstead, she staggered down upon it, and sate shivering with apprehension.

As the myal-man had enjoined upon her, she listened; and, as he had promised her, she heard – if not the voice of Accompong – sounds that were worthy of having proceed from the throat of that Ethiopian divinity.

At first a voice reached her which she knew to be human: since it was the voice of Chakra himself. It was uttered, nevertheless, in strange and unnatural tones, that at each moment kept changing. Now it came ringing through the interstices of the bamboos, in a kind of long-drawn solo, as if the myal-man was initiating his ceremonies with the verse of a psalm. Then the chaunt became quicker, by a sort of crescendo movement, and the song appeared transformed to a recitative. Next were heard sounds of a very different intonation, resembling the shrill, harsh call of a cow-horn or conch-shell, and gradually dying off into a prolonged bass, like the groaning of a cracked trombone.

After this had continued for some moments, there ensued a dialogue – in which the listener could recognise only one of the voices as that of Chakra.

Whose could be the other? It could only be that of Accompong. The god was upon the ground!

Cynthia trembled as she thought how very near he was. How lucky she had blown out the light! With the lamp still burning, she must have been seen: for both Chakra and the deity were just outside the door, and so near that she could not only hear their voices with distinctness, but the very words that were spoken.

Some of these were in an unknown tongue, and she could not understand them. Others were in English, or rather its synonym in the form of a negro patois. These last she comprehended; and their signification was not of a character to tranquillise her thoughts, but the contrary.

Chakra, chantant: —

“Muss die!” repeated Accompong, in a voice that sounded as if from the interior of an empty hogshead.

“Him grave!” came the response of Accompong.

“Buckra’s tomb!” echoed the African god, in a sonorous and emphatic voice, that told there was no alternative to the fate thus hypothetically proclaimed.

There was a short interval of silence, and then the shrill, conch-like sound was again heard – as before, followed by the long-drawn bass.

This was the exorcism of the god – as the same sounds, previously heard, had been his invocation.

It was also the finale of the ceremony: since the moment after Chakra pushed open the door, and stood in the entrance of the hut.

“Cynthy, gal,” said he, with a look of mysterious gravity, “why you blow out de light? But no matter for light. It’s all oba. Did you hear the god ’peak?”

“I did,” murmured the mulatta, still trembling at what she had heard.

“You hear wha him say?”

“Yes – yes.”

“Den he ’peak de troof. Nuffin mor’n dat. You take heed – I ’vise you, as you friend. You go troo wif de ’pell now ’im ’gun, else you life not worth so much trash ob de sugar-cane. A say no more. Ebbery night, in um fuss glass, de full ob de crab-claw, up to de mark. Now, gal, come ’lon’.”

The last command was the more readily obeyed since Cynthia was but too glad to get away from a place whose terrors had so severely tested her courage.

Taking up the basket – in which the bottle containing the dangerous decoction had been already placed – she glided out of the hut, and once more followed the Coromantee to his canoe.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Eight

Midnight Wanderers

Once more under the ceiba, that gigantic trysting tree, stood the Maroon and his mistress. Not, as before, in the bright noonday sun, but near the mid-hour of the night. The Foolah had dared the dangers of the forest to meet her beloved Cubina.

And there were dangers in that forest, more to be dreaded than fierce beasts or ravenous reptiles – more to be dreaded than the tusks of the wild boar, or the teeth of the scaly alligator. There were monsters in human form far more fearful to be encountered; and at that moment not very distant from the spot where the lovers had made their rendezvous.

Love recks little of dangers. Cubina knew of none; and, in Yola’s belief, there was no danger while Cubina was near.

The moon was in high heaven, full, calm, and clear. Her beams filled the glade with a silvery effulgence. It was a moonlight that almost rivalled the brightness of day. The flowers over the earth, and the blossoms upon the trees, appeared full blown: as if they had opened their petals to drink in the delightful dew. Borne upon the soft, silent breeze, the nocturnal sounds of the forest fell with a tremulous cadence upon the ear; while the nightingale of the West, as if proud of the superiority of her counterfeit notes, in turns imitated them all.

The lovers stood in shadow – but it was the shadow of the ceiba. There was none in their hearts; and had the moonlight at that moment fallen upon their faces, no trace of a cloud could have been detected there.

It was a happy meeting – one of the happiest they had yet enjoyed. Each had brought good news to the other. Cubina, that the brother of his beloved was still safe under his protection – safe and well; Yola, that her young mistress had promised to bestow upon her her freedom.

Within the few days since they had last met, many things had transpired to interest both. Each had a tale to tell.

Yola related how the story of her brother’s misfortunes, though strictly kept from the servants at Mount Welcome, had been told to her mistress; how Miss Vaughan, on hearing it, had requested her father to grant her (Yola’s) manumission; and how the Custos had consented to the request. Conditionally, however. Her “free papers” were to be dated from a certain day – that on which Kate Vaughan was to become a bride, but that day was supposed not to be far distant.

It was joyous news for the Maroon. He might keep his hundred pounds for the plenishing of his mountain home!

This piece of intelligence might have taken Cubina more by surprise, but for the understanding that now existed between him and the Custos – whom he had of late frequently visited. Certain conditions had become established between the magistrate and the Maroon, which rendered the latter less apprehensive about the future. Mr Vaughan had made some promises to himself in regard to the manumission of Yola. It is true, these had also been conditional; and their performance was to depend, to a great degree, on the success of the prosecution to be instituted against the Jew. But, with the Custos himself as a prosecutor, Cubina felt sanguine that the conditions would be accomplished.

These were circumstances to be kept secret. Even to his sweetheart the lover was not permitted to impart the knowledge of this affair. Only did he make known to her that steps were being taken to cause the restitution of her brother’s property; but how, where, and when, could not be divulged until that day when war should be openly declared against the enemy. So had the Custos commanded.

Cubina, nevertheless, could not help being gratified by the intelligence which Yola had conveyed to him. The promise of Miss Vaughan had but one condition – her bridal day; and that was definite and certain.

“Ah!” said Cubina, turning with a proud look towards his sweetheart, “it will be a happy day for all. No, not for all,” added he, his face suddenly assuming an expression of sadness; “not for all. There is one, I fear, to whom that day will not bring happiness!”

“I know one, too, Cubina,” rejoined the girl, her countenance appearing to reflect the expression that had come over his.

“Oh, you know it, too? Miss Vaughan has told you then, I suppose? I hope she does not boast of it?”

“What she boast of, Cubina?”

“Why, of breaking his heart, as you would do mine, if you were to marry somebody else. Poor young fellow! Crambo! If I’m not mistaken, it will be a sad day for him!”

The girl looked up, in puzzled surprise. “Sad day for him! No, Cubina; he very happy. For her – poor missa – that day be sad.”

“Vayate! What do you mean, Yola?”

“No more dan I say, Cubina. Missa Kate be very unhappy that day she marry Mr Mongew – she very so now.”

“What!” exclaimed Cubina, suddenly placing himself in an attitude of unusual attention; “do I understand you to say that Miss Vaughan don’t wish to marry this Mr Smythje?”

“She no love him, Cubina. Why she wish marry him, then?”

“Ha!” significantly ejaculated the Maroon, while an expression of joy came over his countenance; “what makes you think she don’t love him? Have you a reason, Yola?”

“Missa me say so. She me tell everything, Cubina.”

“You are sure she has said that she don’t love him?”

“She laugh at him – she no care for him. Girl no love one she laugh at – never.”

“Vaya! I hope you will never laugh at me, then! But say, dearest; do you know why she is going to marry Mr Smythje?”

“Massa her make marry. He Mr Mongew very, very rich – he great planter. That why she him go to marry.”

“Ho! – ho!” thoughtfully ejaculated the captain of Maroons. “I suspected there was some compulsion,” continued he, not speaking to his companion, but muttering the words to himself.