Volume 3 Chapter 6 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Horn Signal
Cubina, on getting clear of the penn-keeper’s precincts, lost little time in returning to the glade; and, having once more reached the ceiba, seated himself on a log to await the arrival of the young Englishman.
For some minutes he remained in this attitude—though every moment becoming more fidgetty, as he perceived that time was passing, and no one came. He had not even a pipe to soothe his impatience: for it had been left in the hammock, into which he had cast it from the cocoa.
Before many minutes had passed, however, a pipe would have been to little purpose in restraining his nervous excitement; for the non-appearance of the young Englishman began to cause him serious uneasiness.
What could be detaining him? Had the Jew been awakened? and was he by some means or other, hindering Herbert from coming out? There was no reason, that Cubina could think of, why the young man should be ten minutes later than himself in reaching the ceiba. Five minutes—even the half of it—might have sufficed for him to robe himself in such garments as were needed; and then, what was to prevent him from following immediately? Surely, the appeal that had been made to him—the danger hinted at to those dear to him, the necessity for haste, spoken in unmistakable terms—surely, all this would be sufficient to attract him to the forest, without a moment’s hesitation!
Why, then, was he delaying?
The Maroon could not make it out: unless under the disagreeable supposition that the Jew no longer slept, and was intercepting his egress.
What if Herbert might have lost his way in proceeding towards the rendezvous? The path was by no means plain, but the contrary. It was a mere cattle-track, little used by men. Besides, there were others of the same—scores of them trending in all directions, crossing and converging with this very one. The half-wild steers and colts of the penn-keeper ranged the thickets at will. Their tracks were everywhere; and it would require a person skilled in woodcraft and acquainted with the lay of the country, to follow any particular path. It was likely enough that the young Englishman had strayed.
Just then these reflections occurred to Cubina. He chided himself for not thinking of it sooner. He should have stayed by the penn—waited for Herbert to come out, and then taken the roads along with him.
“Not to think of that! Crambo! how very stupid of me!” muttered the Maroon, pacing nervously to and fro: for his impatience had long since started him up from the log.
“Like enough, he’s lost his way?
“I shall go back along the path. Perhaps I may find him. At all events, if he’s taken the right road, I must meet him.”
And as he said this, he glided rapidly across the glade, taking the back track towards the penn.
The conjecture that Herbert had strayed was perfectly correct. The young Englishman had never revisited the scene of his singular adventure, since the day that introduced him to the acquaintance of so many queer people. Not but that he had felt the inclination, amounting almost to a desire, to do so; and more than once had he been upon the eve of satisfying this inclination, but, otherwise occupied, the opportunity had not offered itself.
Not greatly proficient in forest lore—as Cubina had also rightly conjectured—especially in that of a West-Indian forest, he had strayed from the true path almost upon the instant of entering upon it; and was at that very moment wandering through the woods in search of the glade where grew the gigantic cotton-tree!
No doubt, in the course of time, he might have found it, or perhaps stumbled upon it by chance, for—made aware, by the earnest invitation he had received, that time was of consequence—he was quartering the ground in every direction, with the rapidity of a young pointer in his first season with the gun.
Meanwhile the Maroon glided rapidly back, along the path leading to the penn, without seeing aught either of the Englishman or his track.
He re-entered the ruinate fields of the old sugar estate, and continued on till within sight of the house, still unsuccessful in his search.
Proceeding with caution, he stepped over the dilapidated wall of the old orchard. Caution was now of extreme necessity. It was broad day; and, but for the cover which the undergrowth afforded him, he could not have gone a step further without the risk of being seen from the house.
He reached the ruin from which he had before commanded a view of the verandah; and, once more stealing a glance over its top, he obtained a full view of the long rambling corridor.
Jessuron was in it—not as when last seen, asleep in his armchair, but on foot, and hurrying to and fro, with quick step and excited mien.
His black-bearded overseer was standing by the stair, as if listening to some orders which the Jew was issuing.
The hammock was still hanging in its place, but its collapsed sides showed that it was empty. Cubina could see that, but no signs of its late occupant—neither in the gallery nor about the buildings.
If still there, he must be in some of the rooms? But that one which opened nearest the hammock, and which Cubina conjectured to be his bedroom, appeared to be unoccupied. Its door stood ajar, and no one seemed to be inside.
The Maroon was considering whether he should stay a while longer upon the spot, and watch the movements of the two men, when it occurred to him that if the young man had gone out, and up the right path, he must have crossed a track of muddy ground, just outside the garden wall.
Being so near the house—and in the expectation of seeing something there to explain Herbert’s delay—he had not stayed to examine this on his second approach.
Crouching cautiously among the trees, he now returned to it; and, almost at the first glance, his eye revealed to him the truth.
A fresh footprint was in the mud, with its heel to the house, and its toe pointing to the path! It was not his own: it must be that of the young Englishman!
He traced the tracks as far as they could be distinguished; but that was only to the edge of the damp earth. Beyond, the ground was dry and firm—covered with a close-cropped carpet of grass, upon which the hoof of a horse would scarcely have left an impression.
The tracks, however, on leaving the moist ground, appeared as if trending towards the proper path; and Cubina felt convinced that, for some distance at least, the young Englishman had gone towards the glade.
That he was no longer by the house was sufficiently certain; and equally so that he had kept his promise and followed Cubina into the woods. But where was he now?
“He may have reached the glade in my absence, and be now waiting for me!” was the reflection of the Maroon.
Stimulated by this, as well as by the chagrin which his mischances or mismanagement were causing him, he started back along the path at a run—as if struggling in a match against time.
Far quicker than before he reached the glade, but, as before, he found it untenanted! No Englishman was under the ceiba—no human being in sight.
As soon as he had fairly recovered breath, he bethought him of shouting. His voice might be of avail in guiding the wanderer to the glade; for Cubina now felt convinced that the young Englishman was straying—perhaps wandering through the woods at no great distance from the spot. His shouts might be heard; and although the stranger might not recognise the voice, the circumstances were such that he might understand the object for which it was put forth.
Cubina shouted, first at a moderate pitch, then hallooed with all the strength of his lungs.
No answer, save the wood echoes.
Again and again: still no response.
“Crambo!” exclaimed he, suddenly thinking of a better means of making his presence known. “He may hear my horn! He may remember that, and know it. If he’s anywhere within a mile, I’ll make him hear it.”
The Maroon raised the horn to his lips and blew a long, loud blast—then another, and another.
There was a response to that signal; but not such as the young Englishman might have been expected to make. Three shrill bugle blasts, borne back upon the breeze, seemed the echoes of his own.
But the Maroon knew they were not. On hearing them, he let the horn drop to his side, and stood in an attitude to listen.
Another—this time a single wind—came from the direction of the former.
“Three and one,” muttered the Maroon; “it’s Quaco. He needn’t have sounded the last, for I could tell his tongue from a thousand. He’s on his way back from Savanna-la-Mer—though I didn’t expect him to return so soon. So much the better—I may want him.”
On finishing the muttered soliloquy, the Maroon captain stood as if considering.
“Crambo!” he muttered after a pause, and in a tone of vexation. “What has become of this young fellow? I must sound again—lest Quaco’s horn may have misled him. This time, lieutenant, hold your tongue!”
So saying, and speaking as if the “lieutenant” was by his side, he raised the horn once more to his lips, and blew a single blast—giving it an intonation quite different from the others.
After an interval of silence, he repeated the call in notes exactly similar, and then, after another pause, once again.
To none of these signals did the “tongue” of Quaco make reply; but shortly after, that worthy responded to the original summons by presenting himself in propria persona.