Volume 3 Chapter 21 - The Maroon by Mayne Reid
The Capture of the Caçadores
The black, though presumably the lowest in rank, was the first to break speech.
“No, ye don’t!” cried he, moving his musket up and down, while still keeping it levelled upon the foremost of the caçadores. “No, Mister Jack Spaniard, not a foot d’you set outside that door till we see what you’ve been a-doin’ ’ithin there. Steady, now, or thar’s an ounce of lead into yer garlicky inside! Steady!”
“Surrender!” commanded Cubina, in a firm, authoritative voice, and with a threatening gesture, which, though less demonstrative than that of his lieutenant, was equally indicative of determination. “Drop your machetés, and yield at once! Resistance will only cost you your lives.”
“Come, my Spanish worthies,” said Herbert, “you know me! I advise you to do as you’re bid. If there’s nothing against you, I promise no harm—Ha! ’ware heels!” he continued, in sharp haste, observing that the Spaniards were looking over their shoulders, as if intending to escape by the back of the hut. “Don’t attempt to run away. You’ll be caught, no matter how fast you go. I’ve got two barrels here; and each is good for a bird on the wing. Show your backs, and they’ll be preciously peppered, I promise you.”
“Carajo!” hissed out the older of the caçadores. “What do you want with us?”
“Ay!” added the other, in a tone of innocent reproach; “what have we been doing to make all this fanfaron about?”
“What have you been doing?” rejoined the Maroon captain: “that’s just what we desire to know, and are determined upon knowing.”
“There is nothing to be known,” answered the man, speaking with an air of assumed simplicity; “at the least, nothing that’s very particular. We were on our way to Savanna—me and my comrade here—”
“Stach yer palaver!” cried Quaco, becoming impatient, and pushing the muzzle of his musket within an inch of the Spaniard’s ribs. “Did ye hear the cappen tell ye to drop yer toastin’ forks and surrender? Down with ’em this minnit, I say, an’ do yer jaw-waggin’ atterwards!”
Thus threatened, either with a poke in the ribs, or, perhaps, a bullet between them, Andres sulkily let fall his macheté upon the floor—an action that was instantly imitated by his senior and superior.
“Now, my braves!” proceeded the black lieutenant, still holding his huge gun to the Spaniard’s breast; “lest ye mout be wantin’ to gie us leg-bail, you muss submit to be trussed a trifle. Down upon yer behinds, both o’ ye; and keep that way till I get the cords and skewers ready.”
The caçadores perfectly understood the order; and, perceiving that there was no chance for disobedience, squatted down upon the floor—each on the spot where he had been standing.
Quaco now picked up the two machetés, placing them beyond the reach of their ci-devant owners. Then, handing his great gun over to the care of Cubina—who with Herbert was left to guard the prisoners—he walked off to a short distance among the trees.
Presently he returned, trailing after him a long creeping plant that resembled a piece of cord, and carrying two short sticks, each about three feet in length.
All this was accomplished with as much celerity, and in as brief a space of time, as if he had simply taken the articles from an adjacent store-room.
Meanwhile, Cubina and Herbert had kept their guns still pointed upon the two caçadores: for it was evident that the villains were most eager to get off; and as it was now nearly night, had the least chance been allowed them, they might have succeeded in escaping through the darkness.
Their captors were determined they should have no chance: for although neither Herbert nor Cubina could see into the obscure interior of the cabin, and were as yet ignorant of the fearful spectacle that there awaited them, they had reason to suspect that the Spaniards had either intended some dark deed, or had already committed it. They had learnt something along the road of the progress of the caçadores, and their mode of journeying, which, to more than one whom they met, had appeared mysterious.
The horse standing tied to the tree—caparisoned as he was for travel—that was the most suspicious circumstance of all. Though none of the three pursuers recognised the animal as belonging to Custos Vaughan, as soon as they set eyes upon it they had felt a presentiment that they had arrived too late.
The wild haste with which the Spaniards were rushing from the cabin when intercepted at the door, almost confirmed their unpleasant foreboding; and before any of the three had entered the hut, they were half prepared to find that it contained a corpse—perhaps more than one, for the disappearance of Pluto was not yet explained.
Quaco, habile in handling cordage of all kinds, more especially the many sorts of supple withes with which the trees of a Jamaica forest are laced together, soon tied the two Spaniards wrist to wrist, and ankle to ankle, as tightly as could have been done by the most accomplished gaoler. A long practice in binding runaway blacks had made Quaco an expert in that department, which, indeed, constitutes part of the professional training of a Maroon.
The captors had already entered within the cabin, now dark as death itself. For some moments they stood upon the floor, their eyes endeavouring to read the gloom around them. Silent they stood—so still, that they could hear their own breathing, with that of the two prisoners upon the floor. At length, in the corner, they could dimly make out something like the form of a man lying stretched upon a low bedstead.
Quaco, though not without some trepidation, approached it. Stooping down, he applied his hand to it with cautious touch.
“A man!” muttered he: “eyther asleep or dead.
“Dead!” he ejaculated the instant after, as, in groping about, his fingers chanced to fall upon the chill forehead—“dead and cold!”
Cubina and Herbert stepping forward, and stooping over the corpse, verified the assertion of Quaco.
Whose body was it? It might not be that of Loftus Vaughan! It might be the black attendant, Pluto!
No! it was not a black man. It needed no light to show that. The touch of the hair was sufficient to tell that a white man lay dead upon the couch.
“Catch me one of those cocuyos!” said the Maroon captain, speaking to his lieutenant.
Quaco stepped outside the hut. Low down along the verge of the forest were flitting little sparks, that appeared to be a galaxy of stars in motion. These were the lampyridae, or small fire-flies. It was not with these Quaco had to do. Here and there, at longer intervals, could be seen much larger sparks, of a golden green colour. It was the great winged beetle—the cocuyo (Pyrophorus Nectilucus.)—that emitted this lovely light.
Doffing his old hat-crown, Quaco used it as an insect-net; and, after a few strokes, succeeded in capturing a cocuyo.
With this he returned into the hut, and, crossing over, held it near the head of the corpse.
He did not content himself with the gold green light which the insect emits from the two eyelike tubercles on its thorax. The forest-craft of Quaco enabled him to produce a brighter and better.
Holding open the elytra with his fingers, and bending back the abdomen with his thumb, he exposed that oval disc of orange light—only seen when the insect is on the wing.
A circle of a yard in diameter was illuminated by the phosphoric glow. In that circle was the face of a dead man; and sufficiently bright was the lamp of the cocuyo, to enable the spectators to identify the ghastly lineaments as those of the Custos Vaughan.