“‘Hallo!’ cried Juiz, growlin’ angrily in the Portugee tongue; ‘what d’ye want?’
“There was no answer but another bumpin’ at the door. So up he jumps, and, takin’ down a big blunderbuss that hung over his bed, opened the door, an’ seized a Naygur be the hair o’ the head!
“‘Oh, massa! oh, massa! let him go! Got di’mond for to sell!’
“On hearin’ this, Juiz let go, and found that the slave had come to offer for sale a large di’mond, which weighed about two penny-weights and a third.
“‘What d’ye ask for it?’ said Juiz, with sparklin’ eyes.
“‘Six hundred mil-reis,’ answered the Naygur.
“This was about equal to 180 pounds sterling. Without more words about it he paid down the money; and the slave went away. Juiz lost his sleep that night. He went and tould the neighbours he had forgot a piece of important business in Rio and must go back at wance. So back he went and stayed some time in the city, tryin’ to git his di’mond safely sold; for it was sich a big wan that he feared the government fellows might hear o’t; in which case he would have got ten years transportation to Angola on the coast of Africa. At last however, he got rid of it for 20,000 mil-reis, which is about 6000 pounds. It was all paid to him in hard dollars; and he nearly went out o’ his wits for joy. But he was brought down a peg nixt day, when he found that the same di’mond was sold for nearly twice as much as he had got for it. Howiver, he had made a pretty considerable fortin; an’ he’s now the richest di’mond and gould merchant in the district.”
“A lucky fellow certainly,” said Martin. “But I must say I have no taste for such chance work; so I’m quite ready to start for the sea-coast whenever it suits the Baron Fagoni’s convenience.”
While they were speaking they were attracted by voices outside the cottage, which sounded as if in altercation. In another minute the door burst open, and a man entered hurriedly, followed by the interpreter.
“Your overseer is impertinent!” exclaimed the man, who was a tall swarthy Brazilian. “I wish to buy a horse or a good mule, and he won’t let me have one. I am not a beggar; I offer to pay.”
The man spoke in Portuguese, and Barney replied in the same language.
“You can have a horse if you pay for it.”
The Brazilian replied by throwing a heavy bag of dollars on the table.
“All right,” said Barney, turning to his interpreter and conversing with him in an undertone. “Give him what he requires.” So saying he bowed the Brazilian out of the room, and returned to the enjoyment of his black pipe, which had been interrupted by the incident.
“That man seems in a hurry,” said Martin.
“So he is. My interpreter tells me that he is quite like one o’ the blackguards that sometimes go about the mines doin’ mischief, and he’s in hot haste to be away. I should not wonder if the spalpeen has been stealin’ gould or di’monds and wants to escape. But of course I’ve nothin’ to do with that, unless I was sure of it; and I’ve a horse or two to sell, and he has money to pay for it; so he’s welcome. He says he is makin’ straight for the say-coast; and with your lave, Martin, my boy, you and I will be doin’ that same in a week after this, and say good-bye to the di’mond mines.”
Chapter Twenty Five
New Scenes and Pleasant Travelling
A new and agreeable sensation is a pleasant thing. It was on as bright an evening as ever shone upon Brazil, and in as fair a scene as one could wish to behold, that Martin Rattler and his friend Barney experienced a new sensation. On the wide campos, on the flower-bedecked and grassy plains, they each bestrode a fiery charger; and, in the exultation of health, and strength, and liberty, they swept over the green sward of the undulating campos, as light as the soft wind that fanned their bronzed cheeks, as gay in heart as the buzzing insects that hovered above the brilliant flowers.
“Oh, this is best of all!” shouted Martin, turning his sparkling eyes to Barney, as he reined up his steed after a gallop that caused its nostril to expand and its eye to dilate.
“There’s nothing like it! A fiery charger that can’t and won’t tire, and a glorious sweep of plain like that! Huzza! whoop!” And loosening the rein of his willing horse, away he went again in a wild headlong career.
“Och, boy, pull up, or ye’ll kill the baste!” cried Barney, who thundered along at Martin’s side enjoying to the full the spring of his powerful horse; for Barney had spent the last farthing of his salary on the two best steeds the country could produce, being determined, as he said, to make the last overland voyage on clipper-built animals, which, he wisely concluded, would fetch a good price at the end of the journey. “Pull up! d’ye hear? They can’t stand goin’ at that pace. Back yer topsails, ye young rascal, or I’ll board ye in a jiffy.”
“How can I pull up with that before me!” cried Martin, pointing to a wide ditch or gully that lay in front of them. “I must go over that first.”
“Go over that!” cried Barney, endeavouring to rein in his horse, and looking with an anxious expression at the chasm. “It’s all very well for you to talk o’ goin’ over, ye feather; but fifteen stun—Ah, then, won’t ye stop? Bad luck to him, he’s got the bit in his teeth! Oh then, ye ugly baste, go, and my blissin’ go with ye!”
The leap was inevitable. Martin went over like a deer. Barney shut his eyes, seized the pommel of the saddle, and went at it like a thunder-bolt. In the excitement of the moment he shouted, in a stentorian voice, “Clap on all sail! d’ye hear? Stu’n sails and skyscrapers! Kape her steady! Hooray!”
It was well for Barney that he had seized the saddle. Even as it was, he received a tremendous blow from the horse’s head as it took the leap, and was thrown back on its haunches when it cleared the ditch, which it did nobly.
“Hallo! old boy, not hurt, I hope,” said Martin, suppressing his laughter as his comrade scrambled on to the saddle. “You travel about on the back of your horse at full gallop like a circus rider.”
“Whist, darlint, I do belave he has damaged my faygur-head. What a nose I’ve got! Sure I can see it mesilf without squintin’.”
“So you have, Barney. It’s a little swelled, but never mind. We must all learn by experience, you know. So come alone.”
“Hould on, ye spalpeen, till I git my wind!”
But Martin was off again at full speed; and Barney’s horse, scorning to be left behind, took the bit again in its teeth and went—as he himself expressed it,—“screamin’ before the wind.”
A new sensation is not always and necessarily an agreeable thing. Martin and Barney found it so on the evening of that same day, as they reclined (they could not sit) by the side of their fire on the campo under the shelter of one of the small trees which grew here and there at wide intervals on the plain. They had left the diamond mine early that morning, and their first day on horseback proved to them that there are shadows, as well as lights, in equestrian life. Their only baggage was a single change of apparel and a small bag of diamonds,—the latter being the product of the mine during the Baron Fagoni’s reign, and which that worthy was conveying faithfully to his employer. During the first part of the day they had ridden though a hilly and woody country, and towards evening they emerged upon one of the smaller campos, which occur here and there in the district.
“Martin,” said Barney, as he lay smoking his pipe, “’tis a pity that there’s no pleasure in this world without something crossgrained into it. My own feelin’s is as if I had been lately passed through a stamping machine.”
“Wrong, Barney, as usual,” said Martin, who was busily engaged concluding supper with an orange. “If we had pleasures without discomforts, we wouldn’t half enjoy them. We need lights and shadows in life—what are you grinning at Barney?”
“Oh! nothin’, only ye’re a remarkable philosopher, when ye’re in the vein.”
“’Tis always in vain to talk philosophy to you, Barney, so good night t’ye. Oh, dear me, I wish I could sit down! but there’s no alternative,—either bolt upright or quite flat.”
In quarter of an hour they both forgot pleasures and sorrows alike in sleep. Next day the sun rose on the edge of the campo as it does out of the ocean, streaming across its grassy billows, and tipping the ridges as with ruddy gold. At first Martin and Barney did not enjoy the lovely scene, for they felt stiff and sore; but, after half an hour’s ride, they began to recover; and when the sun rose in all its glory on the wide plain, the feelings of joyous bounding freedom that such scenes always engender obtained the mastery, and they coursed along in silent delight.
The campo was hard, composed chiefly of a stiff red clay soil, and covered with short grass in most places; but here and there were rank bushes of long hairy grasses, around and amongst which grew a multitude of the most exquisitely beautiful flowerets and plants of elegant forms. Wherever these flowers flourished very luxuriantly there were single trees of stunted growth and thick bark, which seldom rose above fifteen or twenty feet. Besides these there were rich flowering myrtles, and here and there a grotesque cactus or two.
Under one of these trees they reined up after a ride of two hours, and picketing their horses, prepared breakfast. It was soon despatched, and then remounting, away they went once more over the beautiful plains.
About mid-day, as they were hasting towards the shelter of a grove which appeared opportunely on the horizon, Barney said suddenly—
“Martin, lad, we’re lost! We’re out of our course, for sartin.”
“I’ve been thinking that for some time, Barney,” replied Martin; “but you have your compass, and we can surely make the coast by dead reckoning—eh?”
“True, lad, we can; but it’ll cost us a dale o’ tackin’ to make up for lee-way. Ah, good luck to ye! here’s a friend’ll help us.”
As he spoke a herd of wild cattle dashed out of the grove and scampered over the plain, followed by a herdsman on horseback. Seeing that he was in eager pursuit of an animal which he wished to lasso, they followed him quietly and watched his movements. Whirling the noose round his head, he threw it adroitly in such a manner that the bull put one of its legs within the coil. Then he reined up suddenly, and the animal was thrown on its back. At the same moment the lasso broke, and the bull recovered its feet and continued its wild flight.
“Good day, friend,” said Barney, galloping towards the disappointed herdsman and addressing him in Portuguese, “could you show us the road to Rio? We’ve lost it intirely.”
The man pointed sulkily in the direction in which they were going, and, having mended his lasso, he wheeled about and galloped after the herd of cattle.
“Bad luck to yer manners!” said Barney, as he gazed after him. “But what can ye expect from the poor critter? He niver larned better. Come along, Martin, we’ll rest here a while.”
They were soon under the shelter of the trees, and having fastened their horses to one of them, they proceeded to search for water. While thus employed, Barney shouted to his companion, “Come here, lad; look here.”
There was something in the tone of the Irishman’s voice that startled Martin, and he sprang hastily towards him. Barney was standing with his arms crossed upon his chest and his head bowed forward, as he gazed with a solemn expression on the figure of a man at his feet.
“Is he ill?” inquired Martin, stooping and lifting his hand. Starting back as he dropped it, he exclaimed, “Dead!”
“Ay, boy, he has gone to his last account. Look at him again, Martin. It was he who came to the mine a week ago to buy a horse, and now—.” Barney sighed as he stooped and turned the body over in order to ascertain whether he had been murdered; but there were no marks of violence to be seen. There was bread too in his wallet; so they could come to no other conclusion than that the unhappy man had been seized with fatal illness in the lonesome wood and died there.
As they searched his clothes they found a small leathern bag, which, to their amazement was filled with gold-dust; and in the midst of the gold was another smaller bag containing several small diamonds.
“Ha!” exclaimed Martin, “that explains his hurry. No doubt he had made off with these, and was anxious to avoid pursuit.”
“No doubt of it,” said Barney. “Well, thief or no thief, we must give the poor cratur’ dacent burial. There’s not a scrap o’ paper to tell who he is or where he came from,—a sure sign that he wasn’t what he should ha’ been. Ah! Martin, what will we not do for the sake o’ money! and, after all, we can’t keep it long. May the Almighty niver let you or me set our hearts on it.”
They dug a shallow grave with their hands in a sandy spot where the soil was loose, in which they deposited the body of the unfortunate man; and then remounting their horses, rode away and left him in his lonely resting-place.
For many days did Martin and Barney travel through the land on horseback, now galloping over open campos, anon threading their way through the forest, and sometimes toiling slowly up the mountain sides. The aspect of the country varied continually as they advanced, and the feelings of excessive hilarity with which they commenced the journey began to subside as they became accustomed to it.
One evening they were toiling slowly up a steep range of hills, which had been the prospect in front of them the whole of that day. As they neared the summit of the range Martin halted at a stream to drink, and Barney advanced alone. Suddenly Martin was startled by a loud cry, and looking up he saw Barney on his knees with his hands clasped before him! Rushing up the hill, Martin found his comrade with his face flushed and the tears coursing down his cheeks as he stared before him.
“Look at it Martin, dear!” he cried, starting up and flinging his cap in the air, and shouting like a madman. “The say! my own native illiment! the beautiful ocean! Och, darlint my blessing on ye! Little did I think to see you more,—hooray!”
Barney sang and danced till he sank down on the grass exhausted; and, to say truth, Martin felt much difficulty in restraining himself from doing likewise, for before him was spread out the bright ocean, gleaming in the light of the sinking sun, and calm and placid as a mirror. It was indeed a glorious sight to these two sailors, who had not seen the sea for nearly two years. It was like coming suddenly face to face—after a long absence—with an old and much-loved friend.
Although visible, the sea, however, was still a long way off from the Serra dos Orgos, on which they stood. But their steeds were good, and it was not long ere they were both rolling like dolphins in the beautiful bay of Rio de Janeiro.
Here Barney delivered up the gold and diamonds to his employer, who paid him liberally for his services and entertained them both hospitably while they remained in the city. The bag of gold and diamonds, which had been found on the body of the dead man, they appropriated, as it was absolutely impossible to discover the rightful owner. Barney’s friend bought it of them at full price; and when they embarked, soon after, on board a homeward bound ship, each had four hundred pounds in his pocket!
As they sailed out of the noble harbour Martin sat on the poop gazing at the receding shore while thick-coming memories crowded on his brain.
His imagination flew back to the day when he first landed on the coast, and escaped with his friend Barney from the pirates,—to the hermit’s cottage in the lonely valley, where he first made acquaintance with monkeys, iguanas, jaguars, armadillos, and all the wonderful, beautiful, and curious birds, beasts, and reptiles, plants, trees, and flowers, that live and flourish in that romantic country. Once more, in fancy, he was sailing up the mighty Amazon, shooting alligators on its banks, spearing fish in its waters, paddling through its curious gapo, and swinging in his hammock under its luxuriant forests. Once again he was a prisoner among the wild Indians, and he started convulsively as he thought of the terrible leap over the precipice into the stream that flowed into the heart of the earth. Then he wandered in the lonely forest. Suddenly the diamond mines were before him, and Barney’s jovial voice rang in his ears; and he replied to it with energy, for now he was bounding on a fiery steed over the grassy campos. With a deep sigh he awoke from his reverie to find himself surrounded by the great wide sea.
Chapter Twenty Six
The Return
Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk, sat on the top of a tall three-legged stool in his own snug little office in the sea-port town of Bilton, with his legs swinging to and fro; his socks displayed a considerable way above the tops of his gaiters; his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets; his spectacles high on his bald forehead, and his eyes looking through the open letter that lay before him; through the desk underneath it; through the plank floor, cellars and foundations of the edifice; and through the entire world into the distant future beyond.
“Four thousand pair of socks,” he murmured, pulling down his spectacles and consulting the open letter for the tenth time: “four thousand pair of socks, with the hitch, same as last bale, but a very little coarser in material.”
“Four thousand pair! and who’s to make them, I wonder. If poor Mrs Dorothy Grumbit were here—ah! well, she’s gone, so it can’t be helped. Four thousand!—dear me who will make them. Do you know?”
This question was addressed to his youngest clerk, who sat on the opposite side of the desk staring at Mr Jollyboy with that open impudence of expression peculiar to young puppy-dogs whose masters are unusually indulgent.
“No, sir, I don’t,” said the clerk with a broad grin.
Before the perplexed merchant could come at any conclusion on this knotty subject the door opened and Martin Rattler entered the room, followed by his friend Barney O’Flannagan.
“You’ve come to the wrong room, friends,” said Mr Jollyboy with a benignant smile. “My principal clerk engages men and pays wages. His office is just opposite; first door in the passage.”
“We don’t want to engage,” said Martin; “we wish to speak with you, sir.”
“Oh, beg pardon!” cried Mr Jollyboy, leaping off the stool with surprising agility for a man of his years. “Come in this way. Pray be seated—Eh! ah, surely I’ve seen you before, my good fellow?”
“Yis, sir, that ye have. I’ve sailed aboard your ships many a time. My name’s Barney O’Flannagan, at yer sarvice.”
“Ah! I recollect; and a good man you are, I’ve been told, Barney; but I have lost sight of you for some years. Been on a long voyage, I suppose?”
“Well, not ’xactly; but I’ve been on a long cruise, an’ no mistake, in the woods o’ Brazil I wos wrecked on the coast there, in the Firefly.”
“Ah, to be sure. I remember. And your young messmate here, was he with you?”
“Yes, sir, I was,” said Martin, answering for himself; “and I had once the pleasure of your acquaintance. Perhaps if you look steadily in my face you may—”
“Ah, then! don’t try to bamboozle him. He might as well look at a bit o’ mahogany as at your faygur-head. Tell him at wance, Martin, dear.”
“Martin?” exclaimed the puzzled old gentleman, seizing the young sailor by the shoulders and gazing intently into his face. “Martin! Martin! Surely not—yes! eh! Martin Rattler?”
“Ay that am I, dear Mr Jollyboy, safe and sound, and—”
Martin’s speech was cut short in consequence of his being violently throttled by Mr Jollyboy, who flung his arms round his neck and staggered recklessly about the office with him! This was the great point which Barney had expected; it was the climax to which he had been looking forward all the morning: and it did not come short of his anticipations; for Mr Jollyboy danced round Martin and embraced him for at least ten minutes, asking him at the same time a shower of questions which he gave him no time to answer. In the excess of his delight Barney smote his thigh with his broad hand so forcibly that it burst upon the startled clerk like a pistol-shot, and caused him to spring off his stool!
“Don’t be afeared, young un,” said Barney, winking and poking the small clerk jocosely in the ribs with his thumb. “Isn’t it beautiful to see them? Arrah, now! isn’t it purty?”
“Keep your thumbs to yourself, you sea monster,” said the small clerk, angrily, and laying his hand on the ruler. But Barney minded him not, and continued to smite his thigh and rub his hands, while he performed a sort of gigantic war-dance round Mr Jollyboy and Martin.
In a few minutes the old gentleman subsided sufficiently to understand questions.
“But, my aunt,” said Martin, anxiously; “you have said nothing about Aunt Dorothy. How is she? where is she? is she well?”
To these questions Mr Jollyboy returned no answer, but sitting suddenly down on a chair, he covered his face with his hands.
“She is not ill?” inquired Martin in a husky voice, while his heart beat violently. “Speak, Mr Jollyboy, is she—is she—”
“No, she’s not ill,” returned the old gentleman; “but she’s—”
“She is dead!” said Martin, in a tone so deep and sorrowful that the old gentleman started up.
“No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean that. Forgive my stupidity, Martin. Aunt Dorothy is gone,—left the village a year ago; and I have never seen or heard of her since.”
Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to know that she was not dead;—at least there was reason to hope that she might be still alive.
“But when did she go? and why? and where?”
“She went about twelve months ago,” replied Mr Jollyboy. “You see, Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit; and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in her seat in the window and look out towards the sea. So I got a pleasant young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of the comforts of life. One day the little girl came to me here, having run all the way from the village, to say that Mrs Grumbit had packed up a bundle of clothes and gone off to Liverpool by the coach. She took the opportunity of the girl’s absence on some errand to escape; and we should never have known it, had not some boys of the village seen her get into the coach and tell the guard that she was going to make inquiries after Martin. I instantly set out for Liverpool; but long before I arrived the coach had discharged its passengers, and the coachman, not suspecting that anything was wrong, had taken no notice of her after arriving. From that day to this I have not ceased to advertise and make all possible inquiries, but without success.”
Martin heard the narrative in silence, and when it was finished he sat a few minutes gazing vacantly before him, like one in a dream. Then starting up suddenly, he wrung Mr Jollyboy’s hand, “Good-bye, my dear friend; good-bye. I shall go to Liverpool. We shall meet again.”
“Stay, Martin, stay—”
But Martin had rushed from the room, followed by his faithful friend, and in less than half an hour they were in the village of Ashford. The coach was to pass in twenty minutes, so, bidding Barney engage two outside seats, he hastened round by the road towards the cottage. There it stood, quaint time-worn, and old-fashioned, as when he had last seen it—the little garden in which he had so often played, the bower in which, on fine weather, Aunt Dorothy used to sit, and the door-step on which the white kitten used to gambol. But the shutters were closed, and the door was locked, and there was an air of desolation and a deep silence brooding over the place, that sank more poignantly into Martin’s heart than if he had come and found every vestige of the home of his childhood swept away. It was like the body without the soul. The flowers, and stones, and well-known forms were there; but she who had given animation to the whole was gone. Sitting down on the door-step, Martin buried his face in his hands and wept.
He was quickly aroused by the bugle of the approaching coach. Springing up, he dashed the tears away and hurried towards the highroad. In a few minutes Barney and he were seated on the top of the coach, and dashing, at the rate of ten miles an hour, along the road to Liverpool.