Chapter Thirty Four. A Pretty Plot
To dispute the identity was to doubt the evidence of my senses. The mulatto was before me – just as I remembered him – though with changed apparel, and perhaps grown a little bigger in body. But the features were the same – that tout ensemble the same as that presented by Yellow Jake, the ci-devant woodman of our plantation.
And yet how could it possibly be he? And in the company of Arens Ringgold too, one of the most active of his intended executioners? No, no, no! altogether improbable – utterly impossible! Then must I be deluded – my eyes deceiving me – for as certain as I looked upon man, I was looking upon Jake the mulatto! He was not twenty feet from where I lay hidden; his face was full towards me; the moon was shining upon it with a brilliancy scarcely inferior to the light of day. I could note the old expression of evil in his eyes, and mark the play of his features. It was Yellow Jake.
To confirm the impression, I remembered that, notwithstanding all remonstrance and ridicule, the black pertinaciously adhered to his story. He would listen to no compromise, no hypothesis founded upon resemblance. He had seen Yellow Jake, or his ghost. This was his firm belief, and I had been unable to shake it.
Another circumstance I now remember: the strange behaviour of the Ringgolds during the postprandial conversation – the action of Arens when I mentioned the mulatto’s name. It had attracted my attention at the time, but what was I to think now? Here was a man supposed to be dead, in company of three others who had been active in assisting at his death – one of them the very keenest of his executioners, and all four now apparently as thick as thieves! How was I to explain, in one moment, this wonderful resurrection and reconciliation?
I could not explain it – it was too complicated a mystery to be unravelled by a moment’s reflection; and I should have failed, had not the parties themselves soon after aided me to an elucidation.
I had arrived at the only natural conclusion, and this was, that the mulatto, notwithstanding the perfect resemblance, could not be Yellow Jake. This, of course, would account for everything, after a manner; and had the four men gone away without parley, I should have contented myself with this hypothesis.
But they went not, until after affording me an opportunity of overhearing a conversation, which gave me to know, that, not only was Yellow Jake still in the land of the living, but that Haj-Ewa had spoken the truth, when she told me my life was in danger.
“Damn! he’s not here, and yet where can he have gone?”
The ejaculation and interrogative were in the voice of Arens Ringgold, uttered in a tone of peevish surprise. Some one was sought for by the party who could not be found. Who that was, the next speaker made manifest.
There was a pause, and then reached my ears the voice of Bill Williams – which I easily recognised, from having heard it but the day before.
“You are sartint, Master Arens, he didn’t sneak back to the fort ’long wi’ the ginral?”
“Sure of it,” replied Master Arens; “I was by the gate as they came in. There were only the two – the general and the commissioner. But the question is, did he leave the hommock along with them? There’s where we played devil’s fool with the business – in not getting here in time, and watching them as they left. But who’d have thought he was going to stay behind them; if I had only known that – You say,” he continued, turning to the mulatto – “you say, Jake, you came direct from the Indian camp? He couldn’t have passed you on the path.”
“Carajo! Señor Aren! No?”
The voice, the old Spanish expression of profanity, just as I had heard them in my youth. If there had been doubt of the identity, it was gone. The testimony of my ears confirmed that of my eyes. The speaker was Yellow Jake.
“Straight from Seminole come. Cat no pass me on the road; I see her. Two chiefs me meet. I hide under the palmettoes; they no me see. Carrambo! no.”
“Deuce take it! where can he have gone! There’s no signs of him here. I know he might have a reason for paying a visit to the Indians – that I know; but how has he got round there without Jake seeing him!”
“What’s to hinder him to hev goed round the tother road?”
“By the open plain?”
“Yes – that away.”
“No – he would not be likely. There’s only one way I can explain it: he must have come as far as the gate along with the general, and then kept down the stockade, and past the sutler’s house – that’s likely enough.”
This was said by Ringgold in a sort of half soliloquy.
“Devils?” he exclaimed in an impatient tone, “we’ll not get such a chance soon again.”
“Ne’er a fear, Master Arens,” said Williams – “ne’er a fear. Plenty o’ chances, I kalkerlate – gobs o’ chances sech times as these.”
“We’ll make chances,” pithily added Spence, who now spoke for the first time in my hearing.
“Ay, but here was a chance for Jake – he must do it, boys; neither of you must have a hand in it. It might leak out; and then we’d all be in a pretty pickle. Jake can do it, and not harm himself, for he’s dead, you know, and the law can’t reach him! Isn’t it so, my yellow boy?”
“Carrambo! si, señor. No fear have, Don Aren Ringgol; ’for long, I opportunity find. Jake you get rid of enemy – never hear more of him; soon Yellow Jake good chance have. Yesterday miss. She bad gun, Don Aren – not worth shuck gun.”
“He has not yet returned inside the fort,” remarked Ringgold, again speaking in a half soliloquy. “I think he has not. If no, then he should be at the camp. He must go back to-night. It may be after the moon goes down. He must cross the open ground in the darkness. You hear, Jake, what I am saying?”
“Si, señor; Jake hear all.”
“And you know how to profit by the hint, eh?”
“Carrambo! si, señor. Jake know.”
“Well, then, we must return. Hear me, Jake – if – ”
Here the voice of the speaker fell into a half whisper, and I could not hear what was said. Occasionally there were phrases muttered so loudly that I could catch their sound, and from what had already transpired, was enabled to apprehend something of their signification. I heard frequently pronounced the names of Viola the quadroon, and that of my own sister; the phrases – “only one that stands in our way,” – “mother easily consent,” – “when I am master of the plantation,” – “pay you two hundred dollars.”
These, with others of like import, satisfied me that between the two fiends some contract for the taking of my life had already been formed; and that this muttered dialogue was only a repetition of the terms of the hideous bargain!
No wonder that the cold sweat was oozing from my temples, and standing in bead-like drops upon my brow. No wonder that I sat upon my perch shaking like an aspen – far less with fear than with horror at the contemplated crime – absolute horror. I might have trembled in a greater degree, but that my nerves were to some extent stayed by the terrible indignation that was swelling up within my bosom.
I had sufficient command of my temper to remain silent; it was prudent I did so; had I discovered myself at that moment, I should never have left the ground alive. I felt certain of this, and took care to make no noise that might betray my presence.
And yet it was hard to hear four men coolly conspiring against one’s life – plotting and bargaining it away like a piece of merchandise – each expecting some profit from the speculation!
My wrath was as powerful as my fears – almost too strong for prudence. There were four of them, all armed. I had sword and pistols; but this would not have made me a match for four desperadoes such as they. Had there been only two of them – only Ringgold and the mulatto – so desperate was my indignation, at that moment, I should have leaped from the tree and risked the encounter coûte qui coûte.
But I disobeyed the promptings of passion, and remained silent till they had moved away.
I observed that Ringgold and his brace of bullies went towards the fort, while the mulatto took the direction of the Indian camp.