Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

Creeping from his hiding-place, he listened anxiously to the retreating footfall of the blacks, and even waited several minutes after it had died away to assure himself the coast was clear. Discovery would have been fatal; for armed though he was with a cutlass and pistols, thirteen to one, as he sagely reflected, was long odds; and “if I should be scuttled,” thought he, “before I can make signals, why, what’s to become of the whole convoy?” Therefore he was very cautious and reflective. He pondered, he calculated, he reckoned his time, he enumerated his obstacles, he laid out his plans before he proceeded to action. His only chance was to reach the brigantine without delay, and report the whole matter to the skipper forthwith, who he was convinced would at once furnish a boat’s crew to defend the ladies, and probably put himself at their head.

Emerging from the hut, he observed to his consternation that it was already dusk. There is but a short twilight in these low latitudes, where the evening hour—sweetest of the whole twenty-four—is gone almost as soon as it arrives—

“The sun’s rim dips,

The stars rush out,

At one stride comes the dark.”

And that dark, in the jungle of a West Indian island, is black as midnight.

It was well for Slap-Jack that a seaman’s instinct had prompted him to take his bearings before he came up the mountain. These, from time to time, he corrected during his ascent, at the many places where he paused for breath. He knew, therefore, the exact direction of the town and harbour. Steering by the stars, he was under no apprehension of losing his way, and could make for the brigantine where she lay. Tightening his belt, then, he commenced the descent at a run, resolving to keep the path as long as he could see it, and when it was lost in the bush at last, to plunge boldly through till he reached the shore.

The misadventure he foresaw soon came to pass. A path which he could hardly have followed by daylight, without Célandine to pilot him, soon disappeared from beneath his feet in the deepening gloom. He had not left the hut many minutes ere he was struggling, breast-high, amongst the wild vines and other creepers that twined and festooned in a tangle of vegetable network from tree to tree.

The scene was novel and picturesque, yet I am afraid he cursed and swore a good deal, less impressed with its beauty than alive to its inconveniences. Overhead, indeed, he caught a glimpse of the stars, by which he guided his course through the interlacing boughs of the tall forest trees, and underfoot, the steady lamp of the glow-worm, and the sparks of a thousand wheeling fire-flies shed a light about his path; but these advantages only served to point out the dangers and difficulties of his progress. With their dubious help, every creeper thicker than ordinary assumed the appearance of some glistening snake, swinging from the branch in a grim repose that it was death to disturb; every rotten stump leaning forward in its decay, draped with its garment of trailing parasites, took the form of a watchful savage, poising his gigantic form in act to strike; while a wild boar, disturbed from his lair between the roots of an enormous gum-tree, to shamble off at a jog-trot, grumbling, in search of thicker covert, with burning eye, gnashing tusks, and most discordant grunt, swelled to the size of a rhinoceros. Slap-Jack’s instincts prompted him to salute the monster with a shot from one of the pistols that hung at his belt, but reflecting on the necessity of caution, he refrained with difficulty, consoling himself by the anticipation of several days’ leave ashore, and a regular shooting party with his mates, in consideration of his services to-night.

Thus he struggled on, breathless, exhausted, indefatigable—now losing himself altogether, till a more open space in the branches, through which he could see the stars, assured him that he was in a right direction—now obtaining a glimpse of some cane-piece, or other clearing, white in the tender light of the young moon, which had already risen, and thus satisfying himself that he was gradually emerging from the bush, and consequently nearing the shore—now tripping over a fallen tree—now held fast in a knot of creepers—now pierced to the bone by a prickly cactus, torn, bleeding, tired, sore, and drenched with perspiration, but never losing heart for a moment, nor deviating, notwithstanding his enforced windings, one cable’s length from the direct way.