He stooped to kiss her hand before releasing it, and
she did not deny him. Then he turned and strode
off towards the stockade a half-mile away, and a vision
of her face went with him, tinted with a rising blush
and a sudden unusual shyness. He forgot in that
little moment that he was a rebel-convict with ten
years of slavery before him; he forgot that he had
planned an escape, which was to be carried into effect
that night; forgot even the peril of discovery which
as a result of the Governor’s gout now overhung
him.
PIRATES
Mr. James Nuttall made all speed, regardless of the
heat, in his journey from Bridgetown to Colonel Bishop’s
plantation, and if ever man was built for speed in
a hot climate that man was Mr. James Nuttall, with
his short, thin body, and his long, fleshless legs.
So withered was he that it was hard to believe there
were any juices left in him, yet juices there must
have been, for he was sweating violently by the time
he reached the stockade.
At the entrance he almost ran into the overseer Kent,
a squat, bow-legged animal with the arms of a Hercules
and the jowl of a bulldog.
“I am seeking Doctor Blood,” he announced
breathlessly.
“You are in a rare haste,” growled Kent.
“What the devil is it? Twins?”
“Eh? Oh! Nay, nay. I’m
not married, sir. It’s a cousin of mine,
sir.”
“What is?”
“He is taken bad, sir,” Nuttall lied promptly
upon the cue that Kent himself had afforded him.
“Is the doctor here?”
“That’s his hut yonder.” Kent
pointed carelessly. “If he’s not
there, he’ll be somewhere else.”
And he took himself off. He was a surly, ungracious
beast at all times, readier with the lash of his whip
than with his tongue.
Nuttall watched him go with satisfaction, and even
noted the direction that he took. Then he plunged
into the enclosure, to verify in mortification that
Dr. Blood was not at home. A man of sense might
have sat down and waited, judging that to be the quickest
and surest way in the end. But Nuttall had no
sense. He flung out of the stockade again, hesitated
a moment as to which direction he should take, and
finally decided to go any way but the way that Kent
had gone. He sped across the parched savannah
towards the sugar plantation which stood solid as a
rampart and gleaming golden in the dazzling June sunshine.
Avenues intersected the great blocks of ripening
amber cane. In the distance down one of these
he espied some slaves at work. Nuttall entered
the avenue and advanced upon them. They eyed
him dully, as he passed them. Pitt was not of
their number, and he dared not ask for him. He
continued his search for best part of an hour, up one
of those lanes and then down another. Once an
overseer challenged him, demanding to know his business.
He was looking, he said, for Dr. Blood. His
cousin was taken ill. The overseer bade him go
to the devil, and get out of the plantation.
Blood was not there. If he was anywhere he
would be in his hut in the stockade.
