A moment’s pause in the storm gave the elder traveller time to exclaim—“Well, Edward, my prognostications have proved true, have they not? Poor Marien must indeed feel anxious;” when, just at this instant, a dark object issued out of a kind of ravine which appeared on one side of the road, and darted across the path close to the horses’ heads. “What was that?” continued the speaker. “Was it man or animal? My glance was so momentary, that indeed I know not.” “A boy,” returned his companion, “an’ my eyes deceived me, or it was Marien’s dumb page.” “What! Julio? Impossible! What could the boy do abroad in such a night? unless”—and the speaker paused; “unless, indeed, Marien sent him forth to gain some tidings of us; for although the poor little fellow was born deaf and dumb, he has the brightest intellect and swiftest foot of any negro I ever knew. I have often promised to tell you his story; and as the tempest seems to have worn away a little, I may as well give it now, which will tend to make the road seem the shorter.
“Julio’s mother was the foster-parent of my own Marien, although at that period she did not belong to me. But she was a great favourite of my wife’s, and for that reason we hired her to nurse our child; and after my wife’s death, I purchased her from her old master, who was a friend of mine. Nuno was a very superior negress; and was it not on account of her husband, ‘Count,’ whom I pointed out to you the other day as the reputed king of the negroes, I do really think she might have been living now. She never would say what he did to her, or indeed make any complaint against him; but I am certain there was something mysterious about it; for when afterwards she was confined with Julio, she made it her dying request to me that Count might never know the child was his, or the boy be told who his father was. This ‘Count,’ as he is called, although I believe he bears another name, made a great deal of talk in the country some few years ago. It appears, his master had him severely flogged for a trifling offence, and Count ran away; but he afterwards came back, and all was forgiven, although his master might have had him hung for it, without any loss to himself. There is a law of the island, which punishes with death any negro who runs away for longer than three months, and the country pays their value to their owners. I heard a flying report of an intended insurrection of the negroes while we were in town to-day; but for my part, I give no credit to it. They have not forgotten the rebellion of Crump’s negroes yet, and the punishment awarded to the offenders, which will keep them quiet, at least for a little time. I have heard, that Count was concerned in that affair; but none of the culprits mentioned his name; and although, from the character of the man, I should not think it unlikely, for the sake of poor Juno, I would not accuse him. But to return to Julio. His mother died immediately after his birth, and no one but ourselves, and his mother’s brother, a slave named Cuffee, know who is his father. Upon finding the poor child was deaf and dumb, our hearts have been drawn the closer to him; and as soon as my affairs are arranged in this island, I shall return to England, and intend carrying Julio with me.”
By this time, the travellers had gained an ascent, and before them was spread a cluster of negro-huts, various out-buildings, and works of a flourishing estate; while on the top of another eminence stood the hospitable mansion of the owner. In a moment, all was bustle. “Massa come home!” was shouted from one to another, as a party of black boys and men started from their slumbers upon the dry trash, and ran to take the horses. After seeing Logo properly attended to, the travellers walked to the house, where, at an open jalousie, a slight figure, whose graceful outline bespoke it Marien’s, was seen watching their progress. The family party having once more met, and a thousand inquiries as to their ride &c. having been made, Marien touched a silver bell, and a domestic entering, orders were given to send in Julio. “By-the-bye,” exclaimed the elder gentleman, “didst thou send forth Julio in search of your absentees to-night, Marien?”—“No, dearest father; Julio has not left the anteroom since dinner, that I am aware of. Anxious as I was to gain tidings of you, the night was too inclement to send the poor child abroad. But why do you ask that question?”—“Oh! nothing; only that our bright-eyed Edward thought he saw him cross the road at the ravine down yonder; but I think it must have been a dog, or something of the kind. However, to be certain, I mentioned it to you.” At this moment the door opened, and Julio entered. He had, perhaps, attained his eighth year; but from his diminutive form, a stranger would have thought him even younger. His dress was a kind of white tunic embroidered with crimson, and a broad belt of gilded leather, with tassels of bullion, gathered it in folds around his slender waist. Smart silk stockings encased his legs, and white leather shoes, ornamented with gold, graced his little feet. When abroad, a small crimson cap, in which was placed a single ostrich feather, reposed upon his head: its snowy plume strangely contrasting with his ebon complexion. It was Marien’s whim to dress her page in this fantastic manner, and her indulgent parent never thwarted her in any of her little pleasures.
The deficiencies of poor Julio’s external faculties did not extend to his intellects. The slightest action of Marien’s was noticed by him, and her every wish gratified, if possible. Did a shade pass over her brow, he flew for her lute, or arranged her books at the spinet; did a smile illuminate her face, Julio jumped for joy. It was his task to gather for her the sweetest fruits, and range the tangled copse and dell to cull the fairest flowers; and when she walked abroad, he attended the steps of his young mistress, and swept from her path every noisome insect. Bright were the eyes of Julio, and joyous was the look expressed in his dark round face; but on this evening, when, at the summons of his mistress, he stood before her, every one was struck with the alteration in his appearance. His cheek was blanched to an unearthly hue—his eyes, bloodshot and dim, sought the floor; while a shudder seemed to run through his frame, as if he saw some dreaded form. To the anxious inquiries of the party, expressed by significant gestures, the boy only shook his head, while a darker shade of sadness passed over his brow. Thinking that a slight degree of illness was the cause, Marien kindly dismissed him to his repose, in hopes the morrow’s dawn would restore him to his usual gaiety, and rising from her seat, placed in her father’s hand a small billet. “A grand ball at Government House, eh! to be given in honour of our good king’s coronation. What say you to that, young people? Wilt thou pay thy devotions at the shrine of the laughter-loving muse? No doubt, all the beauty and fashion of Antigua will be there. But come, the hour is past midnight; and if I keep our Marien up so late, she will lose the last of her roses she brought from Old England.” So saying, the party separated for the night; and the scene changes to another spot, at an earlier hour.
* * * * *
In one of the deepest parts of a ravine grew a variety of tangled bushes, which clothed it to its very bottom with their verdant foliage. Disrupted rocks were thickly scattered about, over which glided the speckled snake, while cricket and frog kept up an incessant chirping. About the commencement of the storm already described, a dark figure was seen slowly, but firmly descending the steep bank of the ravine, whose nearer approach bespoke him a son of Ham, one who wore the chain of bondage. In height he measured about six feet, while his broad chest and muscular arms shewed his Herculean strength. His complexion was of the deepest jet, and his large black eye shone with the fierceness of a firebrand. A mantle of dark blue cloth was wrapt around his form, leaving his arms and legs bare; and his head was bound round with a scarlet handkerchief, the ends of which floated in the breeze with graceful negligence. In one hand he bore a massive club, which assisted his steps in his descent; while the other rested upon a horse-pistol, which, heavily loaded, lay hid in the folds of his garment. Upon gaining the bottom of the ravine, he looked cautiously around; and then, as if satisfied all was right, he raised a conch-shell to his lips, and blew a low but clear blast. This repeated thrice, he seated himself upon one of the rocks; and burying his face in his hands, mused in silence, unmindful of the threatening appearance of the heavens. But a few minutes passed, when he again started to his feet, and blew a louder blast, which at a short interval was answered by a low whistle; and the crackling of dry leaves (as if trodden under foot) proclaimed the approach of other visitants. Drawing the pistol from its confinement, the first occupant of the ravine stepped a few paces forward, and, in a voice rendered thick by contending passions, demanded the word. “Death to our foes!” was the answer; and in another moment, about forty negroes stood around their king. “Welcome, brave friends, to this lone spot; for here at least we can feel we are free, and bid defiance to the hated whites. But where is Morah? Surely she will not desert us, Tomboy?” And he directed his looks to a short stout man, who ranked as his general, and answered to that name, and who had taken up his post at the right shoulder of his sable majesty. “Oh, no; Morah knows too well to desert Klaas at his need. Believe not that,” returned the man. “We should have been here long before, but she was knocked up with her walk, and we were obliged to wait her will. But see!”—and touching the arm of Klaas, he pointed to two lusty youths who were coming down the bank, bearing between them some object, which could scarcely be pronounced human. Placing their burden safely at the feet of Klaas, the young men drew back, while he, giving her his hand, raised and placed her upon a rocky seat near himself. The woman, (for so she proved,) although looking more like the habitant of another world, must have numbered her hundredth year. Her face, which had lost its naturally black hue from age and sickness, was puckered up in a thousand wrinkles; while her toothless gums were seen through her thick open lips. The few hairs which time had left her were bleached to a snowy white; but her black eyes had lost none of their brightness: they gleamed from beneath her overhanging brow with a supernatural ray. Her form was bent almost double, and the skin hung about her hands and arms like black and shrivelled parchment. An old blanket partly covered her attenuated person, which she firmly grasped with her long bony fingers; but it afforded her no defence against the inclemency of the evening; for she shivered and trembled at every blast. Such was Morah, the old Obeah woman,[[46]] who was hated, yet dreaded, by nearly all her tribe.
“Morah,” said the leader of the band, after she had rested for a few minutes, “Morah, dost thou not know me? hast thou forgot the purpose for which we have met? The time is short, remember.”
“Oh, no, no! me no forget,” said the old crone; “me know you very well; you’re ‘Count,’ the negro king, as you call yourself, but your massa call you ‘Count the Runaway,’” and she laughed demoniacally.
“Call me Klaas,” shrieked the negro; “oh! call me not Count—the name of my servitude—the name those detested whites gave me when, torn from all my heart holds dear, and forced into their ships, they brought me to this country, and sold me, for a miserable pittance, to the man I despise—the man who, for a small fault, had me flogged until the blood gushed down my back. Yes! flogged me, who was born heir to a kingdom, and who followed the chase in my own bright land, free as the zephyr which kisses its sunny mountains, until the fortunes of war made me the despised, degraded slave I am. Call me not ‘Count,’ I say; for every misery I have ever borne is recalled by that hated name. Why was it I spurned poor Nuno from me, and embittered her after life? Because, in a moment of repose—when the weary toil of the day was over—seated before our hut in the bright moonbeam, I talked to her of Africa, and of my hopes of soon escaping from my degraded state, she raised the demon within me by calling me ‘Count,’ when I had taught her to use no other name but ‘Klaas;’ and thus bringing all my wrongs before me, I vowed to sacrifice our child to the gods of my country should its eyes ever see the light. Oh, then, call me not ‘Count’ in this wild ravine, where everything breathes an air of freedom, although I am obliged to bear it (but not for long, I hope) before the abhorred Christians. Oh! call me not ‘Count.’ unless—” and he flung his arms on high, while his eyeballs rolled in fire, and every nerve quivered with emotion—“unless you wish to see me, like the hunted lanté turn on all alike. But enough;”—and by strong effort he mastered his turbulent passions, although the perspiration flowed from off his forehead in large drops, and his breast heaved like the stormy billow;—“I came not here to-night to recite my wrongs, or the wrongs of these my comrades; but to plan our redemption from them, and the destruction of our enemies. To business, then. But first let me ask you, Morah, has Obeah given the sign?”
“An’ think you me come here to-night had he not?” returned the old woman, doggedly; “ay, that he has, and a good sign it is; but p’raps you no want white man dead, eh? And again the hag uttered her horrible laugh, which seemed still more so in the midst of a clap of thunder, while her miserable form looked more unearthly in the lightning’s flash.