When Daniel awoke the sun was climbing swiftly to the zenith, and the full blaze of it burnt upon a tropical tangle of palmetto and mango, plantain and palm. He found himself hidden in a brake of luxuriant vegetation almost at the apex of a lofty hill that overlooked the Caribbean Sea. Strange sounds fell upon his ears, and he perceived that his resting-place was beneath a prickly-pear fence, on the other side of which stood a thatched cottage and extended an acre of cleared land. Beneath stretched the dark green and orange-tawny of the forests; strips of thorny cactus hedge ensured privacy for the clearing, and here a tamarind tree reared its delicate foliage, and here the broad leaves of bananas rustled, with foliage all tattered by the breezes. A goat was tethered to a little pomegranate tree in the garden, and over the cleared soil grew vines of the sweet potato.

A second glance at the hut revealed to Daniel its exceptional character and significance. Before he saw the strange and solitary human being who inhabited it, the sailor guessed that he stood upon the threshold of mystery. As a matter of fact he had intruded into the secret stronghold of Jesse Hagan, the Obi Man. The situation was silent and mysterious; the place was adorned, or made horrible, with fragments of things dead. Two bullocks’ skulls stood at the entrance of Mr Hagan’s dwelling, and round his land bobbed a fantastic ribbon whereon hung empty bottles, bright feathers, and fragments of gaudy rag. Within this zone none dared to enter uninvited, for Obeah is still alive—a creed beyond the power of missionary to shatter or destroy. Fools fear Obi, and wise men find him useful; hence the high priests of that Satanic cult still thrive. A negro would no more speak disrespectfully of them than he would of his own grand-parents.

Suddenly, as Daniel stared and felt a growing inclination to be gone, the mystic himself appeared and stood in the morning light. He appeared profoundly ancient, and his ribs made a gridiron of his lean breast. His limbs were skin and bone; his scanty wool was grey; a tangled network of furrows and deep lines scarred and seamed his face in every direction; and, curiously wide apart, on either side of a huge, flat, Ethiopian nose, the man’s eyes gleamed from his withered headpiece, like the eyes of a toad. Jesse was in extreme undress. Only the ruins of a pair of trousers covered his loins and a band of red cloth circled his throat. Despite his advanced age, no little physical strength remained to him, and now, as Daniel watched, the negro displayed it. Taking an iron spade and seeking a corner of the garden near his unseen visitor, Jesse turned aside the long, creeping fingers of a snake gourd that trailed there under the shade of a citron tree, and began to dig in soft earth. As the old creature worked and sank swiftly downward into the soil, he sang to himself in a piping treble with the usual West Indian whine. The voice was feeble; but the words were sinister and told of evil. A blue bird sat on a thorn and put his head on one side to hear the song; a green lizard, with eyes like Jesse’s own, rustled out from the cactus fence and stopped, with palpitating, tremulous motion of its front paws, to listen also. Then the bird flew and the reptile fled, and Daniel Sweetland was sole, secret audience of the song.

The song rose and sank and seemed to hang in the trees and creep about like an evil presence. The refrain rose into a wail, and its last penetrating note was answered by crisp stridulation of great winged grasshoppers. Jesse’s uncanny melody fitted the place, the man, and the task.

“I never did!” thought Daniel, as his eyes grew round. “If the old devil ban’t digging a grave! And singing rhymes to his beastly self over it too! To think that Johnny Beer ban’t the only verse-maker as I’ve met with in my travels! But Johnny never in all his born days let off such a rhyme as that. I’m sure us never would have stood it. A grave, sure enough—an’ more’n one poor wretch has been buried there seemingly.”

The remark was called forth by an incident, for Mr Hagan suddenly exhumed a skull. It was low and flat-browed. Jesse set it very gravely upon the edge of the pit and then addressed it.

“Who was you, sar?” he asked. “You no answer me, sar? Den you berry rude, imperent young fellow!”

Whereupon he smacked the empty brain-pan with a spade, so that some of the teeth fell out. The man and the skull grinned at each other, then Jesse grew serious and spoke again.

“You larf—eh? You larf! Me Gard, I dunno what you got to larf about! You’s Jephson—dat’s you. I ’member Jephson. Massa Ford, he want Jephson ‘rub out,’ and send him wid a message to ole Jesse. Den ole Jesse ‘rub you out.’ To kill a nigger is only to rub out a black mark. Dey soon gone. And some white folk too. Dey all berry quiet when dey eat and drink poor ole Jesse’s rum and cakes. He, he! Obi Man berry good fren to Massa Ford!”

He laboured in silence and dug on until he had sunk a hole five feet deep. Next he concealed all trace of the work very carefully. He buried the pile of damp earth under dead palm leaves and brushwood, while the hole itself he covered with twigs and trailed over them long shoots and sprays of the luxuriant snake-gourd.

Now, having made an end of this business, Jesse sought his outer gate and, posting himself there, screened his face from the glare of the risen sun and looked out with his bright, lizard eyes down the tremendous escarpments of the hill beneath him. An amazing panorama of forest, shore and sea spread below; and winding through the woods, struggling as it were with difficulty through dense undergrowth and narrow places full of cactus and thorns, there ascended a bridle-path flanked by bewildering tangles of foliage, by volcanic boulders and huge trees. Here and there through the forest flamed like fire the flowers of the bois immortelle; at other points, all festooned and linked together with twining and climbing parasites, or grey curtains of lace-like lichens and wind pines, arose notable forest giants, some gleaming with blossoms, some bending under wealth of fruits. And through the mingled leafy draperies of green and brown, olive and gold, under the feathery crown of the bamboo, amongst the green inflorescence of the mango, like liquid gems in the sunlight, did little humming-birds with breasts of emerald and ruby, flash and glitter. Every step or terrace in the steep acclivities of the hills was crowned with cabbage palms or other lofty trees, and from point to point the gaunt, bleached limbs of some forest corpse stared out lightning-stricken, where the dead thing waited for the next hurricane to bring its bones to earth. Far below glimmered a white beech, and, through the woods, all silent in the growing heat, there rose a sigh of surf breaking—surf that even from this elevation could be seen lying like a band of silver between the many-tinted sea and the pale shore.

Away on the western side of the hills extended long and undulating fields of green vegetation, and in their midst arose buildings with tall chimneys and metal roofs that flashed like liquid silver under the sunshine. There extended the Pelican Sugar Estate, and indications of prosperity surrounded them; but elsewhere companion enterprises had clearly been less fortunate. In other parts of the island stagnation marked similar concerns. The plantations were deserted; the land was returning to the wilderness; the works fell into ruins.

But Jabez Ford still held the key of success, if it was possible to judge by visible signs. Tobago felt proud of him and of the Pelican Estates. Wide interest was taken in the visit of the owner’s son, and none doubted but that Ford would benefit by the circumstance and win a reward worthy of his long and honourable stewardship.

Two people understood otherwise, however, and one was Jabez Ford himself. The overseer had failed to satisfy Henry Vivian, and he knew it. The accounts were scrupulously rendered; the staff of coolies from Bombay was happy and contented; the sugar commanded high praise and ready sale; but there was a disparity between the apparent prosperity and the real output. Other puzzling circumstances also much tended to increase young Vivian’s doubt. Ford was an easy and convincing talker. He had an answer for every question, an explanation of every difficulty. But the fact remained: Henry Vivian disliked and distrusted him; and Jabez knew it and did not conceal the truth from himself. An implicit duel rapidly developed between them and the elder man seemed likely to win it, for he was the stronger every way. He stood on his own dunghill and, for the present, had no intention of being removed therefrom. His private plans demanded another year for their fulfilment. Then, the richer by a sustained and skilful system of peculation, he proposed to leave Tobago and take himself and his hoard to some secret place in South America, far beyond the reach of all former acquaintance. The sudden and unexpected advent of Henry Vivian had taxed this rascal’s ingenuity severely, and the visitor’s own reserve made the matter more difficult, for Sir Reginald’s son investigated everything without comment and found fault with nothing. But Ford was a student of human nature and wanted no words to know that he stood in danger.

Now, as Jesse Hagan looked down from his mountain-top and waited, there rode through the deep glen below the overseer. His plans were already made. It needed only a further conference with his ancient ally to mature them. Jabez himself had black blood in his veins. His great-grandfather had been a negro, and he himself had married a Creole. This woman shared the man’s life for twenty years; then death fell upon her, and it was to keep Jumbies from the body that negresses had sung all night as Daniel described to Minnie.

A glimmer of white caught Jesse’s eyes far below. He heard the tramp of a horse and knew that his man was coming. Daniel still lay concealed beside the cactus fence, and through the flat and thorny leaves of opuntia, he saw Jabez Ford ride up. Jesse had disappeared for a moment into his hut, but now he came forward with a bottle and a calabash.

“Marning, massa—rum punch for massa—what Jesse get ready.”

The man drank before answering, then he threw the calabash on the ground.

“I want another sort of brew to-morrow. It’s got to be. I’m sorry for the young devil, for I’ve no quarrel with him; but he’s too cute. It don’t do to be too cute with Jabez Ford.”

“Him rub out, sar?”

“No choice. Let me come in. I’ll tell you what happened last night. He’s booked.”

“Dar’s a nice, cool, quiet hole under de snake-gourd waitin’ for Massa Vivian. He’ll be berry comfable dar wid de udder gem’men.”

“You talk too much,” said Ford. “Come in and don’t make jokes at your time of life. Think of the Devil, your master, and how precious soon you’ll go back to him, Jesse.”

“You my massa, sar; Jesse dun want no udder massa dan Massa Ford. Marse Debbil, he no pay such good wages as you.”

Ford laughed and dismounted from his horse. He was a big, hard man, roasted and shrivelled somewhat by a life in the tropics. He always wore white ducks and a felt hat that sloped well back over the nape of his neck. His hair was black, his eyes were also black, and his face might have been considered handsome. His clean-shorn mouth showed unusual strength of character and spoke of greed and craft as well. Tobago admired Jabez without liking him; the little island was proud of his prosperity, but it did not trust him. His downfall would have brought sorrow to few, for many secretly suspected him of dark things. But he was strong, and not a man among his neighbours would have cared or dared to fall foul of him.

Now Ford followed the priest of Obi into his secret dwelling, where monstrous matters were hidden in the gloom and evil smells stole out of the darkness. Three dried mummies first appeared. One was a crocodile and hung from the roof; the other two had been human beings. They sat propped in corners with a loathsome semblance of living and listening about them. Festoons of bird’s eggs, curious seeds, and dried pumpkins were stretched across the ceiling; skins of animals and birds littered the floor. Unseen things squeaked in cages; there was a piece of red glass in the roof and through it, on to a wooden table, there fell a round, flaming eye of light which luridly illuminated the assembled horrors. Uncanny and malodorous fragments filled the corners; filth, mystery and darkness blended here; and across one corner of the hut hung a curtain which hid Arcanum, the Holy of Obeah Holies.

Jabez Ford sat down on a three-legged stool by the table, and the red light shone like a sulky fire upon his dark locks. He sniffed the infamous air, then took a cigar from his case and lighted it.

Meantime, with more pluck than wisdom, and only thinking of the things that he had heard and seen, Daniel Sweetland followed close upon the heels of the strange pair. Now he stood outside the hut near the open door, and, crouching here, listened clearly to the conversation within. Beside him the tethered goat still browsed, and Ford’s horse sniffed the ground for something to eat. But only the lush foliage of the snake-gourd spread within his reach, and that the beast declined. It dragged its bridle as far as possible, stamped the earth, and with unceasing swish, swish, swish of tail kept the flies from its sweating flanks.

“I’ll tell you what’s happened since we met,” said Ford to his creature. “Last night the youngster wrote his letters home and left them with mine to be taken to the post office to catch the mail. The Solent sailed this morning, but she didn’t take Henry Vivian’s letter to his father. She took one from me instead, signed in his name. I’ve got his in my pocket, and it contained exactly what I expected. He makes no definite charge, because it is impossible to prove anything against me; but he states in detail that more money is being made than appears, and advises Sir Reginald to be rid of me at once. Meantime he is going to look round the island and find a new overseer. But this little plan won’t suit me. I must stop at the Pelican for another year at least. So, having unsealed and read our young friend’s letter after he retired to bed, I wrote another—on my typewriter—and gave myself a better character, you may be sure. His signature was very easy to imitate, and now my letter, not his, has set sail for home. There it goes now.”

He pointed below where a steamer slipped away from Tobago and the station ship, Solent, proceeded on her course to Trinidad and Barbados.

“My letter went in his envelope,” continued Ford. “And when Sir Reginald reads it, he will be favourably impressed because I gave myself a better character than Vivian did. Of course a letter from me will reach him by the next mail.”

“You write, too, massa?”

“Yes—I shall write—all about what is going to happen.”

“I see. You tell de great man at home how his son meet wid dam sad accident and lose him life in Tobago?”

“Exactly. The boy’s as good as dead. I rather wish it had been possible to avoid this; but it is not. He mustn’t go home.”

“He trust you?”

“Absolutely. He has no idea that I have seen through him and know that he is not satisfied. Therefore, from his standpoint, I have no reason to hate him. We are the best of friends. I am showing him all the sights and taking him all over the island. He is anxious to see everything and everybody. Of course he is on the look-out for a new overseer, but I’m not supposed to know that. Now he’s excited, too, about that sailor who knocked him down yesterday. A wretched fellow off a tramp steamer. We were on the wharf watching them load turtles, when he spotted the man. Then there was a row, and my gentleman got knocked into the water. I hoped there might have been a shark cruising round! It would have saved us a deal of trouble.”

“I will do all Marse shark could do, sar. A berry nice hole dug under the snake-gourd. When he come?”

“Soon. I’ve told him that Jesse Hagan, the Obi Man, is the first wonder of the island; so he’ll be here with me to see you. Have all your war-paint on. Afterwards, I’ll take his horse away—and his boots and clothes. The rest is simple enough. They’ll find the horse loose on the beach, and his garments together, and prints of feet going to the bathing-place, but none returning.”

“Dar’s nobody like Massa Ford!”

“We must be short and sharp. He’s resolute and quick. But he’s small—what’s that? There’s somebody moving out there!”

“My goat, sar.”

But Ford had leapt to his feet and left the hut. A moment later and he stood face to face with Daniel Sweetland. The sailor was some distance from the cottage when Jabez accosted him. His back was turned and he stood on a stone and pulled down green bananas from one of the Obi Man’s trees.

“Who are you and what do you do here?” asked the overseer. “You must be mad or a desperate man to run your head into this place.”

The other looked innocently round. Mere temporary fear seemed to leap into his eyes at this threat. He showed by no deed or look that the truth was known to him. But Daniel had heard the course of conversation very clearly, and the necessity for swift action had forced itself upon his mind. His first idea was to leap upon Ford’s horse, hasten to the Pelican Estate, and give an alarm; then he remembered his own position as a hunted fugitive. A plan worthy of the ingenious brain that had freed him from the handcuffs of Mr Corder swiftly dawned in the man’s head. He saw the dangers waiting for Henry Vivian and for himself. In a few moments he decided upon action, and his words indicated that Daniel evidently held self-preservation the first law of nature. He left the heir of Middlecott to his fate, and played for his own hand only.

“Please, sir, listen afore you give me up,” said Daniel. “Afore God I’m innocent of what this man says against me. He’s a hard, cruel young devil, and many’s the poor chap at home he’s driven desperate. Not a spark of pity has he got, an’ now I be desperate—as any hunted man would be—an’ so I’ve climbed up here with my life in my hand to this terrible old chap they tell me about. An’ I was going to ax him to help me; but hearing voices, I just waited here till he was free. I’ll pay him well for his bananas, and I’ll pay him better for something else, which is to help me against that young bloodhound, Henry Vivian. I don’t care what I do against him, for he’ll ruin me if he can; and if I was guilty I’d say nought, but I’m innocent. An’ if I’ve got to swing, I’ll swing for him! That’s why I comed with a present to this here mystery man, to ax him to hide me an’ help me against my enemy. An’ I’ll tell you something too, if you’ll listen, an’ that is that Mister Henry Vivian ban’t no friend to you. I come from the same place he does, and I heard about it afore my own trouble at home. He’m here as a spy, an’ I lay after he’s gone, you’ll find your goose be cooked.”

This speech interested Mr Ford not a little.

“’Twas you that shot his father’s gamekeeper then?” he asked; but Daniel denied it.

“It looked bad against me—so bad that I didn’t stop to talk about it, but got clear off. Time will show ’twas no work of mine, however; an’ this man, as have knowed me from my youth up, ought to be my friend—not my enemy. But since he’m against me, I’m against him, an’ I’d cut his throat to-morrow if I got the chance.”

The overseer nodded and turned to Jesse Hagan. Jesse had brought a gun out of his dwelling, and now deliberately pointed it at Daniel.

“Shall I shoot dis gem’man?” he inquired with his finger on the trigger. “Him berry rude young man walk in my garden widdout saying ‘please,’ an’ eat my bananas.”

“Stop!” answered Ford. “This sailor is a friend. At least I think so. No, don’t shoot him. Let him come in and give him something to eat. He’s hungry.”

“Lucky Massa Ford speak for you, Marse sailor-man—else you food for de ‘John Crows’ dis minute. But he say ‘eat’; so you eat instead ob being eaten, sar.”

Then Daniel entered the Obi Man’s hut with Jabez Ford and old Jesse.