The Haunted Enghenio: Extended Version

So, having long wished to visit Brazil, he thought that this would be a favourable opportunity to see something of the country, and at the same time to find out if he could do anything in the way of coffee-planting there.

Accordingly he started for that land of natural beauty and acquired nastiness. His sensations when he first caught sight of the surpassing loveliness of Rio need not be described, because probably to most people its charms are as well known as those of the Thames below Marlow.

Before he had been many days in the city, Jack chanced to hear from a stray Englishman of a coffee and sugar plantation some distance in the interior, whose Portuguese owner was looking for a manager willing to put a little capital into the concern. The district in which it was situated had a bad name for swamp fever; but as there seemed to be nothing else against it and a good deal in its favour, Jack resolved to go and reconnoitre.

When, after a few days on mule-back through the wild scenery of the Sierras, he reached his destination and put up at the village tienda, he found that the owner of the plantation—a Visconde de B.—had received notice of his coming, and was only too willing to arrange any terms by which he could secure a reliable manager — ” Inglese” for preference — and be off himself to the Mecca of every South American—Paris! The Visconde told Jack that—for that part of the world—the estate had been under cultivation a great many years, as it had belonged to his grandfather, but that the district now being worked was formerly virgin forest, while the part cultivated during his grandfather’s lifetime was at the present time almost deserted, being quite ten miles away from the new plantation. He added, however, that there was still a small yearly yield of coffee at the old fazenda, and that it was customary to send over a party of blacks to get as much as they could. The Visconde offered no explanation of the change of locale; nor did Jack feel very curious on the subject, as the new plantation was evidently doing well,— and if anything more were to be got from the old one, well, so much the better! As the owner and he were both equally anxious to come to terms, they quickly succeeded in doing so; and as soon as the necessary deeds could be drawn up by the village notary, Jack entered on his new duties.

He soon found that the unassisted supervision of a couple of hundred blacks did not exactly promise a life of “lilies and roses,” but he got on fairly well with them; though, probably, if his views on the subject of slavery had been proclaimed, they would not have been well received at Exeter Hall. But the people who have lived with negroes, and the excellent persons who are only acquainted with them through missionary sermons, usually do hold entirely conflicting views as to their treatment.

Jack had not been long in the neighbourhood before he heard the reason of the desertion and decay of the old fazenda. It seemed that the late Visconde had been one of the old cruel masters that one reads about as having existed in the dark ages. On his vast estates he was as absolute as a Czar. And he used his power with little mercy. There were grim tales told of the tortured, writhing blacks he had caused to be flogged to death — strong men some, ay, and women among them. He had owned 500 field hands, and had ruled them with a rod of iron. It was said of him that should he see a slave touch with the handle of his hoe one coffee-tree whilst clearing the roots of another, the unfortunate wretch was sure of a hundred lashes. Some he murdered outright; some fled to the woods and lived like wild beasts; while others, more happy, died of misery and ill-usage. But suddenly a strange complaint appeared among them, and by twos and threes they began to die off, week after week, month after month, year after year. And no man could say what this new scourge might be.

The old Visconde was frantic. Bribes, medicines, and floggings were alike powerless to check the new disease—if disease that could be called which none doubted was poison. Yes, poison! No one was certain of the reason of the strange killing that went on for years among the poor people at the fazerida of Boa Vista. Whether it was owing to the awful wretchedness of their lives, or to the thought that only by dying could they be revenged on the tyrant who tortured them, or whether it was a sort of contagious, murderous mania, which spread through the whole mass of slaves, no man ever discovered; but the fact remained that in a few years the muster-roll dwindled from five to three hundred, and do what he would, the Visconde found the work getting beyond the power of the overtaxed slaves. Then two Portuguese factors disappeared. Murdered, no doubt! Also, partly owing to the dykes being neglected, a portion of the river-bank was swept away one rainy season and never replaced, so that soon hundreds of acres of level land (on part of which sugar had been successfully grown) were flooded, quickly degenerating into marsh.

The natural consequence, of course, was that fever soon bred malaria of the most malignant type, and the blacks died off faster than ever. Finally, the old Visconde abandoned the fazenda in despair, sold off such of his slaves as remained, dispersing them in small gangs to different districts, bought 150 new ones, and planted the hill ground where the new fazenda now stands.

Such was the cruel story of the old plantation, of which Jack soon was to see a good deal more than he had bargained for. The yield of coffee at the neglected place became less and less every year, until at this time there were not more than 800 arrobas to be gathered. There would have been more, but that the fever suddenly appeared, in spite of Jack having taken all such precautions as giving the people extra rations, including spirits, and frequently changing the gang that was employed there. It was all in vain, however, for in three days there were a dozen on the sick-list. So they gave up work and retreated to the hills, where one poor fellow sank and died.

Unfortunately, the drying-grounds were so close to the river that there was every chance of the coffee already picked being stolen, as nothing could have been easier than to fetch it away in canoes during the night. Therefore it was necessary for some one to stay at the old Enghenio, in order to watch it. Now there was not a soul on the plantation who could be trusted to do this except an Englishman who had just arrived with his wife and family, and it was like Jack Jebb to reflect that the new-comer would be more liable to fever than an old stager like himself, and that the other man had ties, while he had none. So the matter was arranged by his taking the night-work on his own shoulders.

Accordingly, after a hard day’s work, ploughing, draining, sugar-planting, or clearing forest-land, he used to lie down in his clothes for a couple of hours, be called at 9 P.M., and then ride over to spend the night at the deserted fazenda. The house was close to the drying-grounds, so he got into the habit of establishing himself inside, with a bundle of cigars, a dose of mixed spirits and quinine, and the useful, necessary revolver. If only the mosquitoes had been less painstaking, he might have been fairly comfortable as he sat and watched the white mist, reeking with poisonous miasma, seethe up from the great marshes. The brightest moonlight could but dimly struggle through it on to the desolate ruins of the Enghenio. No sound ever broke the silence of those long and dreary nights, save the hum of the mosquitoes and the chattering of the bats. Even a thief would have been a welcome change! But none ever came; for, little though Jack knew it, not a black in the country would have ventured near the place after nightfall. Great as was its tropical beauty, the old plantation looked as the Garden of Eden might have looked if, after Adam’s expulsion, a joint-stock company had taken it up, gone bankrupt, and fallen into Chancery.

Well, one night Jack rode over as usual, although he was dead tired and sleepy, after a long day’s work in a rice-swamp under a grilling sun. The last half-mile or so of the road ran through an avenue of magnificent bamboos, fifty feet high at least, and which met overhead in an arch. It was a shady ride by daylight, but at night was almost pitch-dark, when of course it was necessary to ride at a footpace. The avenue was quite straight, so that, as in walking through a tunnel, you could see an arch of light in front of you long before you reached it. Beyond the end of the bamboos the road swept sharp round to the right for a hundred yards or so, through scattered clumps of orange-trees and guava scrub. Farther still to the right was the half-ruined Enghenio, and directly fronting it the drying-grounds, now scraped clean of the six months’ accumulation of weeds, and covered with heaps of half-dried coffee.

On this particular night Jack had ridden slowly through the avenue, and was within a few yards of where the white moon streamed across the road at its termination, when his mule started aside, and suddenly stopped short. No doubt, thought her rider, a snake was crossing her path, or she had scented a skulking puma. He was feeling thoroughly fagged out, and was half asleep in the saddle, thinking — nearly dreaming, perhaps — of the ruined fazenda and its past history; vaguely speculating, too, on the chance of a meeting with coffee thieves, when the halt of his mule recalled him in a moment to a state of complete wakefulness. Instinctively he grasped his revolver and prepared for action. For some time, as he advanced, he had heard, without listening to them, the various ordinary night-sounds of a swamp—the dabbling and splashing of waterfowl and the endless chorus of frogs.

But now he became conscious that a fresh sound was added to these—a sound he had been hearing every day of his life lately,—the quick, regular beat of a water-wheel and the steady rush of water through the sluices! In a moment it occurred to him that the long-expected thieves had arrived early, intending to make a night of it, and were coolly clearing the fazenda coffee with the fazendas own machinery, which, though old and rusty, was still in a condition to do its work in a sort of way. A touch of the spur set the mule going again, and in a few seconds she and her rider were round the bend, and looking at the upper storey of the Enghenio, as it towered above the orange-clumps. To Jack’s intense surprise, the whole place seemed to be lit up. He guided his mule off the road in order that her hoofs should not be heard, and, revolver in hand, cantered through the orange grove. His astonishment may be imagined when he got an end view of the Enghenio, and could see that some of the windows were open, and that through them broad streams of light flowed across the drying-grounds, which were literally crowded with blacks!

He could distinctly see the dusky forms of the slaves flitting backwards and forwards between the Enghenio and the drying-ground, as they carried in large baskets of coffee. Several had torches, and there were a couple of overseers directing the work. The blacks were all working silently and “at the run.”

The first thought that occurred to the astounded spectator was, that one of his worthy neighbours, well known to be quite capable of robbery or any other crime, had brought down the whole of the people on his own plantation, intent on making a clean sweep of the fazenda. Insensibly Jack slackened speed as he picked his way through the last clump of orange-trees. As he did so, a thicker wreath of mist seemed to seethe up from the marsh; the ruddy glow of light from the windows apparently faded and disappeared; and the hurrying slaves, whom but a moment before he had seen so distinctly, melted into darkness and vanished. Another stride carried him clear of the trees, to a point within twenty yards of the Enghenio. He pulled up with a quick jerk, utterly bewildered. For there, close before him, was the drying-ground with its regular heaps of coffee, not one displaced—nothing moving, nothing visible—the whole place as silent and solitary as when he had left it the night before!

He sat there for a while, unable even to think, but with a strange feeling of awe creeping over him; for, up to that moment, it had never occurred to him that he could be the victim of an illusion. Even now he could scarcely force himself to believe that what he had positively seen was not real, and he waited half expecting again to behold the troops of blacks come hurrying out of the Enghenio. But no! not a light or sound was there in the desolate place. Then he remembered the great water-wheel. He had heard that going, and could not have been mistaken.

With a feeling not far from dread, he rode past the Enghenio towards the sugar-house, which was the right wing of the building—the machinery being in the centre. As he rode slowly along the front, he saw that the windows, from which shortly before streams of light had issued, were, as usual, tightly closed; the shutters, grey and steaming with damp, shining coldly in the pale moonlight. The centre door, leading into the machine-house, was fast, and the rusty padlock untouched. The sugar-house was open on one side, and into this he rode his mule, dismounted, and explored the building. Nothing seemed changed. There was no trace of any one having visited it. He made his way to the part of the building partitioned off for the water-wheel. He knew that must satisfy him. Several of the planks had rotted and fallen back into the watercourse below: they had left a large gap in the partition, through which he looked at the wheel. A cold chill passed through him as he did so, for the broad floats were as dry as tinder, and the wheel itself was held locked by a fallen rafter which had passed through its arms. It had not moved for a year!

Far below was the water, unconfined by sluice or shutter, running silently along the shoot, and not even touching the lowest float of the wheel. Two or three bats, disturbed by the lantern he carried, fluttered past him, the only signs of life visible. Then he knew that what he had seen could not be real; but in that case, how account for the noise of the wheel? His head ached as he sat in the sugarhouse puzzling over the weird sight till near daylight, when he rode slowly home. He could eat no breakfast, but still he insisted on going out to see some fresh land that was being cleared. However, he soon began to feel very ill, had to be taken home, and by evening was down with swamp fever, and raving.

He had a pretty bad turn, and made a good deal of noise; but the odd thing was, that when he recovered he could remember many of his delusions as if they were facts, while the real facts he had entirely forgotten.

Whether it was the fever that brought him the negro ghosts, or the ghosts that brought the fever, is one of those things which no man can decide. But it does seem possible that in some overstrained, receptive conditions of the mind, strange things may be seen,—things invisible at other times, when the consciousness of the body overpowers that of the soul.1

1 Jebb afterwards wrote the story of “The Haunted Enghenio” for ‘Blackwood’s Magazine.’

A strange career: life and adventure of John Gladwyn Jebb, Mrs. John Beveridge Gladwyn Jebb, 1895