“I’ll say it’s some bird—if ’tis a bird!” exclaimed Rawlins. “What is it, Sam?”
The quartermaster spat into the water and before the Bahaman could reply he remarked: “’Course 'taint possible, Sir; but if I was a-hearin’ o’ that 'ere soun’ an’ was in the South Seas 'stead o’ here in the West Injies—I’d say as how ’twas a tom-tom, Sir—you knows what I means, Sir—savage drum such as they uses for a-havin’ of a cannibal feast, Sir.”
“Well we’re not in the South Seas,” returned Rawlins, “and there aren’t any cannibals here. Say, what the devil’s the matter with you, Sam?”
It was no wonder Rawlins asked. The Bahaman was staring open-mouthed across the water, his eyes rolling, his face drawn and awful fear depicted upon his black features.
“Here, wake up! Seen a ghost?” cried Rawlins, shaking the negro roughly. Sam’s jaws came together, he licked his dry lips and in terror-striken, shaking tones murmured, “Voodoo!”
Something in his tones, in the way he pronounced the one word, sent shivers down his hearers’ backs.
“Voodoo?” repeated Rawlins, recovering himself. “What in thunder are you talking about?”
“Ah knows it!” replied the negro, in a hoarse whisper. “Tha’s the devil dance! Yaas, Sir, tha’s Voodoo goin’ on!”
“Well, I’ll be sunk!” ejaculated the diver. “A Voodoo dance! By glory! I didn’t think they had ’em over here. I’ve heard of 'em in Martinique and Haiti, but I never took much stock in the yarns. Are you sure, Sam?”
The cowering negro had sunk to his knees in the boat. All the long-dormant superstition of his race, the soul-racking fear of the occult and supernatural which was the heritage of his African ancestors had been stirred into being by the throbbing pulsations borne through the night, and he was an abject, terror-stricken creature.