Part 22 (2/2)
The thought of that piece of indelible pencil in my pocket rose in my mind again. ”Well, they might if I was to write them a note telling them to.”
”Oh,” said Mullins, ”if you was to write them a note.” He ruminated.
”Now that would be tellin' them we knew where you was. Well, we'll think about it a day or two.”
A day or two, I thought, wouldn't suit our book.
Steve had soon returned, and Mullins went out. Our guard came to see to our bonds; and he twisted his head in a way that told me he had something on his mind.
”These here n.i.g.g.e.rs,” he began, ”they ain't no cannibals, I reckon?”
”Well, they sure are,” said Ray. ”I reckon we ought to know.”
The man looked to me, as if for my verification.
”Yes, they're cannibals,” I told him. And then went on to relate to him something of the doings that night in the forest, recounting how I'd seen Duran with the knife at the throat of the child, and the kettle for the boiling of the human meat. And I was careful to tell him about the grown man who had been buried alive, and in the night disinterred by the voodoos who had torn out his heart and lungs to be devoured. I a.s.sured him I had looked on the wife of the man, while she told the story, which had been verified by others. My story, being fact, rang true, and I could see the man was nine parts convinced, and not a little frightened.
A number of things had come under my observation. Our guard kept a knife on a little ledge by the entrance to the cave, which knife he used to cut tobacco for his pipe. And it was the practice to tie our hands tight with thongs whenever the guard wished to leave the cave for a minute or two. While the man, Steve--he was the weakest of the five--smoked his pipe near the entrance and ruminated over the story I'd told him, I whispered to Ray, giving him a plan I had for escape. Our present guard was to remain on till the next morning, when he would be relieved by one called Joseph Glasby.
Once, when Steve Conry came to set the thongs on our wrists preparatory to a turn outside, Ray showed a pair of sore wrists--he had contrived the marks--and begged that he would not pull the strings so tight as to crucify him that way. The man was impressed, and the thongs were set a bit looser.
When the guard was gone, Ray tugged for a moment, and--”It's easy,” he said, and he held up his hand. His hands were thin, a little easing of the knot, and he slipped them out of the thongs. But we heard the guard coming, and he slipped his hands back into his bonds again.
”They're a long time away,” grumbled Conry. ”I'm gettin' tired o' this.”
”Where are they gone?” said Ray.
”They've gone to have a look at the s.h.i.+ps--your friends' an' the other one,” he said. ”There's too much o' this puttin' things on--”
His grumbling was cut short. There occurred some kind of concussion, that shook the earth. Particles fell from the roof of the cave to the floor.
”An earthquake!” shouted Ray.
Conry jumped erect. And the next moment he was scrambling out through the hole.
”Now, Ray!” I said.
Ray had his hands out. He rolled to the entrance, got up to the knife.
In a half minute both of us were free of our bonds. I grasped a box of matches, then blew out the lantern light.
Conry came crawling back into the cave.
”Humph! What's come o' the light,” grunted Conry.
When he went groping for the lantern, Ray and I scrambled out. We were astonished to find it was night, when we came into the open. We hurried through the forest, not caring what the direction, till we should be safely away from the region.
We made what speed we could for a considerable time amongst the undergrowth; and when at last we came to an open s.p.a.ce, we heard the surf close by. And we were a good deal taken aback to see a schooner lying at anchor, some way off from the beach, in the small harbor. The bright moonlight showed her outlines plain to us, and she was neither the _Pearl_ nor the _Orion_. We had traveled in a circle apparently; and there came the shouting voice of Stephen Conry, nearby, calling his comrades.
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