Her candelabrum was lighted. It dimly showed a group of blacks some armed with machetes, with wild rolling eyes and menacing demeanour; it showed a slim, white figure clothed in a night-robe, grasped by two powerful men, one of whom had his broad hand placed firmly over her mouth. Her eyes were aglare with terror, for the man whose hand had stifled her screams was Takoo. And in Takoo’s face was the unpitying exultation of a savage.
Before they could reach her Robert and Rider found their path barred by some six men, four of whom seized them, while the two others lifted their machetes as though to cut them down. The men outside had now rushed in, ready to give assistance: they had grasped the fact that these were the only two white men attempting a rescue. Robert, with his immense strength, and in his sudden fury, was equal to any two of his captors, but there were many to grasp and overpower him. Rider was like a child in the hands of one man. A smell of rum pervaded the room. Evidently these people had been supplied with drink before being brought by Takoo on their murderous enterprise.
The old witch doctor shouted to his followers an order that they were not to harm the two white men. But he added immediately, ‘Don’t allow them to make any noise.’ Rider began to speak immediately, in a quiet voice, for he did not wish his words to be smothered. Robert desisted from his efforts to break loose, efforts which were useless and which would only have prevented Rider from being heard.
‘Think of what you are doing, Takoo,’ implored Rider. ‘If you harm Mrs. Palmer, you will get yourself into serious trouble, you and your men. Do you want to be hanged?’
‘Who deserve hanging most?’ Takoo volleyed back to him; ‘me or she? She kill Millicent, an’ you know it. Who will punish her if I don’t? I pass sentence on her tonight over the grave of me dead gran’daughter,’ he continued passionately. ‘I sentence her to death, as chief an’ leader of the people in St. James. You talk about me an’ dese men being hanged, Mr. Rider? It is the white men who have to look for themself now, for we are all free from tonight—every slave in Jamaica is free—and we taking to the mountains to fight until the damn slave-owners here acknowledge our freedom. It come from England an’ they keeping it back. Very well, we will take it ourself, even if some of us have to die for it. I expec’ to die, but dese men with me will live free forever. And before I die dis woman will; she will go before me. No power from hell or heaven can save her!’
‘But man, she is a woman, and you are all strong men. Surely you have some mercy in your hearts?’ panted Robert.
Annie looked at him with eyes in which gratitude and a wild appeal for aid were mingled. From him help must come if from any source that night. She trusted to him only.
That he himself had intended to report her to the authorities of Montego Bay as a murderess was forgotten by both of them. There seemed nothing incongruous in this effort of his to save her, in this mute supplication of hers to him. It revolted him to see her in the rude grasp of these slaves, handled brutally by people who, a few hours ago, would not have dared to look her impudently in the face. She was a white woman, she was Rosehall’s mistress, she was beautiful, she was of his own race and a member of the ruling, dominant class. For these men to terrorise her, to dare to threaten her with death, was soul-sickening, revolting, incredible. It had to be prevented! They should not murder her while he had strength sufficient to fight against them. What she was did not matter now. Outraged pride of race animated him; he was a white man struggling for the life of a white woman. And he felt, vaguely, wildly, that he loved her still. If needs be he was prepared to give his life for hers.
Rider, even at that moment, realised that Robert was acting in defiance of his resolution to bring Annie Palmer to justice if that could be done. And Rider knew that if Annie were saved that night Robert would never utter a word against her to anyone who could track her to her doom.
And what Robert burningly raged against—the indignity, the enormity, of this besetting of a white woman by her slaves, this impending hideous execution or murder of her by them, Rider also felt to the full. The very idea was monstrous, atrocious. It mattered nothing what she had done, it was not for these men rudely to handle her and slay her. It was the duty of every white man on the estate to stand by her in this deadly hour of peril. Alas, the others were out of hearing. And they two were matched against twenty.
‘Mercy?’ repeated Takoo, almost mechanically, in answer to Robert’s cry. ‘She didn’t have no mercy on anybody, Squire.’
Robert stiffened himself for the fight he perceived to be inevitable, but Rider stayed him with a look.
Rider recognised that further pleading would be in vain. Yet something must be done. An idea flashed into his mind.
‘Remember,’ he said impressively to Takoo, ‘this lady has command over powers and spirits that are greater than you. Touch her, injure her, and your life will be miserable for ever: yours, and the life of every man here, both now and hereafter. Do you realise what you are risking, Takoo?’
Even as he spoke he tried to convey his inner meaning to Annie Palmer. His eyes were fixed on hers, trying to telegraph his message to her brain. And she grasped it. He saw a responsive flash of comprehension pass over her face, and her gaze became fixed. If only she could conjure up, at this moment, in this apartment, some nebulous image that these people had pictured and talked about again and again, believing firmly in its malign death-dealing influence, she was safe. They would fly howling from the room. Even Takoo’s nerves might not be proof against such a terrible test; and if he should stand his ground, Robert alone would be more than a match for him.
But Rider had conveyed his idea to another mind also. Takoo saw his men start, observed that on the instant they were apprehensive, half-drunk though he had made them. Sober, they never would have faced Mrs. Palmer, even with him as leader; even now the warning of Rider had struck a chill through them and dread was already beginning to master them. Takoo glanced at the woman whose mouth he still covered with his palm. He saw her gaze grow steady, staring, as if she were concentrating her mind and will upon one overwhelming purpose. She was calling her spirits to her aid. In another minute she might defeat him. Suddenly he shifted his hand from her face to her throat: a half-stifled scream, and the old savage was throttling her with all the strength of his hardened muscles.
A thunderous curse from Robert, a cry of protest from Rider, but the slaves held them fast. Robert went down amongst a heap of them; Rider soon gave over the impotent struggle, exhausted. It was over in a very little while. The woman’s eyes protruded horribly from the sockets, her tongue hung out limply. The contortions of her body subsided into a spasmodic twitching, then the corpse rested heavy and inert. Annie had died as one of her husbands had, in the same way and by the same hand.
For a moment or two there was silence, the silence of a horrible tragedy. Then:
‘We could kill both of you, Squire, if we want,’ Takoo said. ‘But both of you are kind. We may have to fight you tomorrow, but for Millie’s sake you can go tonight.’ He turned to his men. ‘Let us throw this woman’s body through the window, like them throw Jezebel of old, for she was another Jezebel.’
‘Takoo,’ broke in Rider, ‘for God’s sake don’t do that. She is dead. Leave her alone now.’
‘Very well, Squire. Come, we going to the hills.’ He spoke to his men and they went out with him, leaving the white men behind.
The sound of their footsteps died away. The corpse, half flung on the bed, looked so pitiful, and withal so awful, that Rider threw a sheet over it. ‘What an end,’ he muttered to himself.
With his face buried in his hands, Robert was sobbing.
‘We must rouse Ashman and the others, Rutherford,’ said Rider. ‘Let us go down.’
They went down by the way they had come, and now they found the yard in a state of excitement and agitation. The house servants were up and chattering volubly. What had occurred? What was amiss? Why had Takoo forced them to stay in their rooms, with two or three men armed wit
h machetes to compel their obedience? Where was the missis? The white men vouchsafed no reply; but Rider noticed that an elderly black woman, the chief of the servants, said very little, and guessed that she knew all. Even in the Great House Takoo had had his followers. Annie had watched others, or had had them watched, and had sought to terrify them. And all this time she had herself been watched, and her movements had been faithfully reported to the terrible obeahman, and efforts to terrify her had been made. If they had failed it was because of her superior mentality and her contempt for the poor, futile tricks that illiterate slaves had tried to play upon her. Of one thing she had never dreamed—a direct assault upon her. It was that which had taken her unawares, with such sinister and tragic consequences.
‘Both of us cannot leave here at the same time,’ said Robert; ‘will you go to Ashman?’
Rider nodded and set off. Robert remained behind, not permitting any of the slaves to enter the house.
‘This is the work of you and your kind,’ he muttered. ‘There must be no further insults for her.’
One or two of the younger women began to whimper. Fear gripped them, and they cowered in the presence of such an overwhelming occurrence as they would in the midst of a hurricane.
In a short space of time new-comers were on the scene. Ashman and the two Scotsmen had not waited for their horses, but on hearing from Rider of the tragedy at the Great House had rushed thither on foot. All three men carried guns. The crisis was on at last, and they came prepared.
Followed by Robert and the others, Ashman strode up to the room where Annie’s body lay; he drew back the sheet and gazed dumbly at the staring eyes and protruding tongue as though unable to credit the testimony of his sight. Then he stopped and lifted the corpse, and pressed his fingers on the eyelids in an effort to close them: failing, he covered up the face, walked to a window, threw it open, and in a harsh voice, menacing with suppressed feeling, he ordered some of the women below to come up.
He was a man of action; he knew what had to be done. He gave sharp orders to the women; the mistress would be buried in the morning; it would be impossible to delay her burial longer. ‘And, by God,’ he said, ‘if I find one man or woman disobeying what I say, in the slightest degree, I will shoot on the spot and shoot to kill. This is a rebellion, is it? Well, you will all learn how I deal with rebellion.’
They left the room, with the women in it already going about their allotted duty.
‘I will stay here during the night,’ said Ashman, ‘and these gentlemen with me’; he indicated the master mechanic and artisan. ‘Those beasts may return to set fire to the house; if they do——’ he broke off significantly. He was clearly not afraid of that crowd. ‘What will you do?’ he asked Robert, to whom, now, he showed no animosity.
‘I am going,’ said Robert, ‘I have had enough of it. Unless you want my services? I don’t think Takoo will come back, but if you think he will I can stay.’
‘You needn’t, Mr. Rutherford. Your friend Rider, has not come back; he seems to be badly upset. But you had better send Burbridge to me. I can deal with this situation.’
Robert, for the first and last time in his life, held out his hand to Ashman, who took it without hesitation. Ashman was seated in a chair placed in the back entrance hall whence the grand stairway led upwards. As Robert passed through the rear doors, knowing he would never enter them again, he saw Ashman’s head lowered on his chest.
Ashman was mourning for Annie Palmer.
Chapter Twenty-Three—ONE TAKEN, THE OTHER LEFT
ON the veranda of the bookkeepers’ quarters Robert found Burbridge up and ready to go off to the Great House. Psyche was awake and crying, through sheer excitement and fright. Some of the boys of the estate were standing about, realising that a terrible thing had happened and not knowing what to do.
‘Where is Rider?’ asked Robert, and was told that Rider was in his room.
He threw the door open and saw the ex-parson with a bottle half-filled with rum on a table beside him. Rider was sitting down, one arm resting on the table, the other within reach of a glass in which a dark red liquor gleamed. He must have consumed already at least half a pint of rum. And he had not finished drinking yet.
But he was not drunk. It took more than the amount of liquor he had swallowed to make poor Rider drunk. He seemed on his way to drunkenness, however; he had yielded to his old temptation: previous abstinence, unwonted excitement, and then the culminating horrors of that night had been too much for his nerves and resolution.
‘Couldn’t keep away any longer, Rutherford,’ he muttered. ‘I should have gone mad if I hadn’t had a drink.’
Robert nodded his head in comprehension, and reached out for a glass himself. He too felt a sudden craving for a stimulant of some kind.
Burbridge came to the door. ‘I suppose I shall be up there till morning,’ he said, ‘and so I may not see you before you leave, Rutherford. But perhaps you won’t go as you intended?’
‘There is no need for me to stay,’ answered Robert, with a gesture of distaste. ‘I won’t even wait until morning. Ashman says he does not want me, so I am going tonight.’
‘A few hours would make no difference; it may be dangerous on the road tonight. I believe the slaves are out everywhere; a rebellion has begun.’
‘I’ll take the risk, Burbridge. Especially as Ashman says he does not need my assistance here.’
Robert considered a moment. Then: ‘As things are, can’t Rider come with me?’ he added.
‘That’s not for me to say.’ Burbridge replied. ‘Everything is different now that Mrs. Palmer is dead, and I don’t suppose Ashman would mind if Rider went with you—I don’t know. But Rider himself must decide.’
‘You had better come, Rider,’ urged Robert, ‘and leave all this.’ He indicated the rapidly emptying rum bottle.
‘I couldn’t now,’ Rider protested. ‘I must steady myself first. I feel—God alone knows how I feel. Besides, I haven’t a horse like you.’
‘Burbridge could lend you one.’
‘I daren’t,’ said Burbridge.
‘Very well; I’ll go on to the Bay tonight on foot,’ said Robert decisively; ‘it is only ten miles away and the night is cool. Rider can use my horse.’
‘Couldn’t hear of such a thing, old man,’ protested Rider a trifle thickly. ‘I will walk it over myself tomorrow, if I am in a fit condition.’
‘You couldn’t walk,’ said Robert sadly, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll leave my grey for you, and you can ride her over. The walk will do me good. Start early, Rider; get away from here as soon as you can. Do try and meet me in the morning.’
Rider rose, looking very pale and limp in the feeble light that burnt in a tin lamp on the table. ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow, old fellow, alive or dead. You have been a good friend to me; the best I have had. God bless you.’
He grasped Robert warmly by the hand, and Burbridge also clasped the young man’s hand with a sympathetic pressure. Burbridge did not pretend to be upset by Annie’s fate; it left him unmoved. But he knew that Robert could hardly feel about her as he did, in spite of all, he had been her lover. And he had witnessed her awful end.
In this way Robert Rutherford took leave of Rosehall, where, in some three weeks, he had passed through experiences that most men’s lives did not compass in a generation. He was glad of the movement, the activity, which this long trudge to the Bay compelled him to; he gave but little thought to the possible dangers of the road, though he knew that the slaves were out. But as he went on he saw broad sheets of fire grow against the hills to the south, and beyond them the sky was illuminated here and there by a pale glare for which there was but one explanation. On many of the estates the revolting slaves were giving the cane-fields to the flames.
Montego Bay was vastly agitated. The uprising of the slaves had come at last, but most persons were surprised at it, though the portents had been plain for anyone to see. The militia was mustering; the fort at the land
entrance to the town, which commanded the highway that led by the northern shore to the capital, was put in a better state of readiness than it had been, for it was thought that the rebels might march on Montego Bay itself, though sagacious persons knew that this would be utterly unlike the tactics of the slaves. Robert had reached the town while still it was dark and before it had awakened to the gravity of the situation. He had gone to a small lodging-house, where he had slept upon a sofa. It was now nine o’clock, and he was waiting for Rider. He himself had met with no interference on his walk. Indeed, he had passed no one on that long tramp to Montego Bay.
It was about ten o’clock when a rumour took its way to him. Something had happened; a white man had been brought in, dead it was believed, by a party of white people who, with slaves that had remained faithful to them, had fled by the northern shore road that morning into Montego Bay. More out of curiosity than from any other cause, for by this he had concluded that Rider had been too drunk to leave Rosehall estate as he had planned, Robert went over to where the body of this white man was laid out. Before he got into the house he knew the truth.
The party coming along the road, some time after daybreak, had found the corpse lying in the way, a bullet hole through the heart. Farther on they had come upon a grey horse, riderless, evidently connected with the dead man; they had caught the reins and brought in the horse, using it as a means of conveying its erstwhile rider. The man must have been shot dead immediately, said the doctor who had been summoned; he was one of the first victims of the war that had begun. There was nothing to do about it. No one knew who his slayer was. No one would ever know.
They buried Rider that afternoon. The rector officiated, and Robert was the chief, perhaps the only mourner. He felt as though life had grown more sombre with this taking off of a man who had been the enemy of no one except himself, who had been kindly, cultured, understanding, but had become a slave to circumstances and a derelict in a land where human life and happiness were held so cheap. Robert wished bitterly that he had waited until dawn before leaving Rosehall, for then Rider and himself might have made the exodus together, and, he said to himself, Rider would in all probability have escaped. That was true. What he never guessed was that the bullet which struck Rider down had been intended for him and would have been fired.
The White Witch of Rosehall Page 23
