CHAPTER XXVI.
THE WOMEN IN THE GRAVEYARD.
I turned it over in my hand. Yes; it was a boat such as childrenmake out of paper, many times folded, and "What on earth," thought I,"put such childishness into the head of Captain Branscome or Mr. JackRogers?"
Then it occurred to me that they might be caught in some peril higherup the stream, and had launched this message on the chance of itsbeing carried down to the waters of the creek. A far-fetchedexplanation, to be sure! But what was I to think? If it were theexplanation, doubtless the paper contained writing, and, carrying itto the bank, I seated myself and began to unfold it very carefully;for it was sodden, and threatened to fall to pieces in my hands.Then I reflected that the two men carried no writing materials, or,at the best, a lead pencil, the marks of which would be obliteratedbefore the paper had been two minutes in the water.
Yet, as I parted the folds, I saw that the paper had indeed beenscribbled on, though the words were a smear; and, moreover, that thewriting was in ink!
In ink! My fingers trembled and involuntarily tore a small rent inthe pulpy mass. I laid it on the grass to dry in the full sunshine,seated myself beside it, and looked around me with a shiver.
A paper boat--the paper written on--and the writing in ink! I couldbe sworn that neither Captain Branscome nor Mr. Rogers carried aninkbottle. The paper, too, was of a kind unfamiliar to me; thin,foreign paper, ruled with faint lines in watermark. Certainly no oneon board the _Espriella_ owned such writing-paper or the like of it.But again, the paper could not have been long in the water, and thewriting seemed to be fresh. As the torn edges crinkled in the heatand curled themselves half-open, I peered between them anddistinguished a capital "R," followed by an "i"; but these lettersran into a long smear, impossible to decipher.
I had flung myself prone on the grass, and so lay, with chin proppedon both palms, staring at the thing as if it had been some strangebeetle--staring till my eyes ached. But now I took it in my fingersagain and prised the edges a little wider. Below the smear came ablank space, and below this were five lines ruled in ink with anumber of dotted marks between them. . . . A smudged stave of music?Yes, certainly it was music. I could distinguish the mark of thetreble clef. Lastly, at the foot of the page, as I unwrapped it atlength, came a blurred illegible signature.
But what mattered the sense of it? The writing was here, and recent.No one on board the _Espriella_ could have penned it. The island,then, was inhabited--now, at this moment inhabited, and theinhabitants, whoever they might be, at this moment not far from me.
I crushed the paper into my pocket, and stood up, slowly lookingabout me. For a second or two panic had me by the hair. I turned torun, but the dense woods through which I had ascended solight-heartedly had suddenly become a jungle of God knows whatterrors. I remembered that from the first cascade upward I hadscarcely once had a view of more than a dozen yards ahead, so thicklythe bushes closed in upon me. I saw myself retracing my stepsthrough those bushes, in every one of which now lurked a pair ofwatching eyes. I glanced up at the cliff across the stream.For aught I knew, eyes were watching me from its summit.
Needless to say, I cursed the hour of my transgression, the fatalimpulse that had prompted me to break ship. I knew myself for afool; but how might I win back to repentance? As repent I certainlywould and acknowledge my fault. Could I keep hold on my nerve tothread my way back and over those five separate and accursedwaterfalls? If only I were given a clear space to run!
At this point in the nexus of my fears it occurred to me, glancingalong the green lawn ahead, that the ridge on its left must runalmost parallel with the creek; that it was sparsely wooded incomparison with the ravine behind me, and that from the summit of itI might even look straight down upon the _Espriella's_ anchorage.Be this as it might, I felt sure, considering the lie of the land,that here must be a short cut back to the creek; and once beside itswaters I could head back along the beach and regain my boat.Down there I might dismiss my fears. The upper portion of the beach,if I mistook not, remained uncovered at the top of any ordinarytides, and it wanted yet a good two hours to high-water, so that Ihad not the smallest doubt of being able to reach the creek-head, nomatter at what point of the foreshore I might descend. From the bankwhere I stood I had the whole ridge in view above the dense foliage,and could select the most promising point to make for; but this wouldsink out of sight as I approached the first belt of trees, and beyondthem I must find my way by guesswork.
I now observed a sharp notch breaking the line of the ridge, about amile to the westward, and walked some few hundred yards forward onthe chance that it might widen as I drew more nearly abreast of it,and open into a passage between the hills. Widen it did, but verygradually--the stream curving away from it all the while; and by andby I halted again, in two minds whether to break straight across forit or continue this slow process of making sure.
I had now reached a point where the tall cliff on the opposite shoreeither ended abruptly or took a sharp turn back from the stream.I could not determine which, and walked forward yet another twohundred yards to satisfy myself. This brought me in view of a groveof palmettos, clustering under the very lee of the rock--or so itappeared at first, but a second look told me that here the streamagain divided, and that the new confluent swept by the base of therock, between it and the palmettos, three or four of which (theirroots, maybe, sapped by bygone floods) leaned sideways and almost hidthe junction.
I was turning away, resolved now to steer straight for the notch inthe hills, when for the second time a gleam of something whitearrested me, and I stood still, my heart in my mouth. The whiteobject, whatever it was, stood within the circle of the palmettostems, yet not very deep within it--a dozen yards at farthest fromthe stream's edge. I stared at it, and the longer I stared the moreI was puzzled, until I plunged into the water and waded across for acloser look.
Gaining the bank, I saw, first, that the white object was but one ofmany, disposed behind it in two rows as regular as the tree-stemsallowed; next, that these objects were wooden boards, pained white.And with that, as I stepped towards the foremost, my foot slipped andI fell, twisting my ankle and narrowly saving myself from an uglysprain. I had stumbled in a hollow, shallow depression between themounds. Picking myself up, I saw that to left and right and allaround me the turf was ridged with similar mounds, the wholeenclosure full of them. In a flash I read the meaning of thewhite-painted boards. Yes--and there was writing on them, too--nowords, but single letters and dates, roughly painted in black--"O. M., 1796"--"R. A. S., 1796"--"P d. V. and A. M. d. V., 1800"--these, and perhaps two score of others. The shape of the moundsinterpreted these inscriptions.
I was in a graveyard.
I sat helpless for a minute, dreadfully scanning the gloom throughwhich the massed palmetto-tops admitted but a shaft of light here andthere. The flies, which had been a nuisance across the stream, hereswarmed in myriads so thick that they seemed to hang in clusters fromthe boughs; and their incessant buzzing added to the horror of theplace a hint of something foul, sinister, almost obscene.
I had a mind to creep away on all-fours, but suddenly forgot my ankleand sprang erect, on the defensive, at the sound of voices. A grassypath led through the enclosure, between the graves, and at the end ofit appeared two figures.
They were two women; the first a negress, short, squat, and ugly,wearing a frock of the gaudiest yellow, and for head-dress a scarlethandkerchief, bound closely about her scalp and tied in front with animmense bow; the other--but how shall I describe the other?
She was white, and she wore a dress of fresh white muslin; a shortdress, tied about the waist with a pale-blue sash, and above theshoulders with narrow ribbons of the same colour. Her figure wasthat of a girl; her ringlets hung loose like a girl's. She walkedwith a girlish step; and until she came close I took her for a girlof sixteen or seventeen.
Then, with a shock, I found myself staring into the face, which mightwell belong t
o a woman between sixty and seventy, so faded it was andreticulated with wrinkles; and into a pair of eyes that waveredbetween ingenuousness and a childish cunning; and from them down toher slim ankles and a pair of dancing-shoes, so fairy-like anddiminutive that they seemed scarcely to press the grass underfoot.
The pair had drawn to a halt, while I stood uncertain whether tobrave them or make a bid for escape. I heard the negress cry aloudin a foreign tongue, at the same time flinging up her hands; but theother pushed past her and walked straight down upon me, albeit with amincing, tripping motion, as if she was pacing a dance.
Twice she spoke, and in two different languages (as I recognized,though able to make nothing of either), and then, halting before me,she tried for the third time in English.
"Boy"--she looked at me inquiringly--"what you do here--will youtell?"
"I come from the ship, ma'am," said I, finding my tongue.
"The sheep? He bring a sheep? But why?--and why he bring you?"
I stared at her, not understanding. "Ma'am," said I, pointing overmy shoulder, "we came here in a ship--a schooner; and she is lying inthe creek yonder. I landed and climbed up through the woods. On myway I found this."
I held out the paper boat. She caught it out of my hand with a sharpcry. But the black woman, at the same instant, turned on her andbegan to scold her volubly. The words were unintelligible to me, buther tone, full of angry remonstrance, could not be mistaken.
"I am not sorry," said the white woman, speaking in English, with aglance at me. "No, I do not care for his orders. It was by thisthat you came to me?" she asked, turning to me again, and pointingmincingly at the paper.
"I found it in the stream," I replied; "almost a mile below this."
"Yes, yes; you found it in the stream. And you opened it, and readthe writing?"
I shook my head. "The writing, ma'am, was blotted--I could readnothing."
"Not even my little song?" She peered into the paper, threw up herhead and piped a note or two, for all the world as a bird chirrups,lifting his bill, after taking a drink. "La-la-la--you did notunderstand, hey? But, nevertheless, you came, and of your own will._He_ did not bring you?"
I shook my head again, having no clue to her meaning.
"So best," she said, changing her tone of a sudden to one of extremegravity. "For if he found you here--here of all places--he wouldkill you. Yes"--she nodded impressively "for sure we would kill you.He kill all these."
She waved a hand, indicating the grave-mounds. Her voice, at thesedreadful words, ran up to an almost more dreadful airiness; and stillshe continued nodding, but now with a sort of simpering pride."All these," she repeated, waving her hand again towards the mounds.
"Did you see him kill them?" I asked, wondering whom "he" might be,and scarcely knowing what I said.
"Some," she answered, with a final nod and a glance of extremechildish cunning. "But why you not talking, Rosa?" she demanded,turning on the negress. "You speak English; it is no use topretend."
The black woman stared at me for a moment from under herloose-hanging lids.
"You go 'way," she said slowly. "You get no good in these parts."
"Very well, ma'am," said I, steadying my voice, "and the sooner thebetter, if you will kindly tell me the shortest cut back to thecreek."
"_And_," the woman went on, not seeming to heed the interruption,"you tell the same to your friends, that they get no good in theseparts. But, of us--and of this"--she pointed to the sodden paperwhich she had snatched from her mistress's hands--"you will saynothing. It might bring mischief."
"Mischief?" I echoed.
"Mischief--upon _her_."
"But this is nonsense you talk, Rosa!" broke in the little lady."At the most, what have I written?--a little song from Gluck, thedivine Gluck! Just a little song of Eurydice calling to Orfeo.Ah! you should have heard me sing it--in the days before my voiceleft me; in the opera, boy, and the King himself splitting his glovesto applaud us! Eh, but you are young, very young. I should notwonder to hear you were born after I left the stage. And you arepretty, but not old enough to be Orfeo yet. I must wait--I mustwait, though I wait till I doubt if I am not changed to Proserpinewith her cracked voice. Boy, if I kissed you--"
She advanced a step, but the negress caught her by the wristviolently, at the same moment waving me off. I felt faint and giddy,as though some exhalation from the graveyard--not wholly repellent,but sickly, overpowering, like the scent of a hothouse lily--had beensuddenly wafted under my nostrils. I fell back a pace as the negressmotioned me away. Her hand pointed across the stream, and across themeadow, to the gap in the ridge.
"Fast as you can run," she panted; "and never come this way again."
The strong scent yet hung around me and seemed to bind me like aspell, pressing on my arms and logs. I plunged knee-deep into thestream. The cool touch of the water brought me to my senses.I splashed across, waded up the bank, and set off running towards thegap.
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