Cerise: A Tale of the Last CenturyWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Historical fiction
The scene was novel and picturesque, yet I am afraid he cursed and
swore a good deal, less impressed with its beauty than alive to its
inconveniences. Overhead, indeed, he caught a glimpse of the stars, by
which he guided his course through the interlacing boughs of the tall
forest trees, and underfoot, the steady lamp of the glow-worm, and the
sparks of a thousand wheeling fire-flies shed a light about his path; but
these advantages only served to point out the dangers and difficulties
of his progress. With their dubious help, every creeper thicker than
ordinary assumed the appearance of some glistening snake, swinging from
the branch in a grim repose that it was death to disturb; every rotten
stump leaning forward in its decay, draped with its garment of trailing
parasites, took the form of a watchful savage, poising his gigantic form
in act to strike; while a wild boar, disturbed from his lair between the
roots of an enormous gum-tree, to shamble off at a jog-trot, grumbling,
in search of thicker covert, with burning eye, gnashing tusks, and most
discordant grunt, swelled to the size of a rhinoceros. Slap-Jack’s
instincts prompted him to salute the monster with a shot from one of
the pistols that hung at his belt, but reflecting on the necessity
of caution, he refrained with difficulty, consoling himself by the
anticipation of several days’ leave ashore, and a regular shooting party
with his mates, in consideration of his services to-night.
Thus he struggled on, breathless, exhausted, indefatigable—now losing
himself altogether, till a more open space in the branches, through which
he could see the stars, assured him that he was in a right direction—now
obtaining a glimpse of some cane-piece, or other clearing, white in
the tender light of the young moon, which had already risen, and thus
satisfying himself that he was gradually emerging from the bush, and
consequently nearing the shore—now tripping over a fallen tree—now held
fast in a knot of creepers—now pierced to the bone by a prickly cactus,
torn, bleeding, tired, sore, and drenched with perspiration, but never
losing heart for a moment, nor deviating, notwithstanding his enforced
windings, one cable’s length from the direct way.
Thus at last he emerged on a clearing already trenched and hoed for
the reception of sugar-canes, and, to his infinite joy, beheld his own
shadow, black and distinct, in the trembling moonlight. The bush was now
behind him, the slope of the hill in his favour, and he could run down,
uninterrupted, towards the pale sea lying spread out like a sheet of
silver at his feet. He crossed a road here that he knew must lead him
into the town, but it would have taken him somewhat out of his course for
the brigantine, and he had resolved to lose no time, even for the chance
of obtaining a boat.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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