Volume One—Chapter Seven.The Foolah Prince.On the quarter-deck of the slaver, and near the “companion,” stood a man of unique appearance—differing not only from the whites who composed the crew, but also from the blacks and browns who constituted the cargo.His costume, attitude, and some, other trivial circumstances, proclaimed him as belonging neither to one nor the other.He had just stepped up from the cabin, and was lingering upon the quarter-deck.Having theentréeof the first, and the privilege of remaining upon the second, he could not be one of the “bales” of this human merchandise; and yet both costume and complexion forbade the supposition that he was of the slaver’s crew. Both denoted an African origin—though his features were not of a marked African type. Rather were they Asiatic, or, more correctly, Arabian; but, in some respects, differing also from Arab features. In truth, they were almost European; but the complexion again negatived the idea that the individual in question belonged to any of the nationalities of Europe. His hue was that of a light Florentine bronze, with a tinge of chestnut.He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years of age; with a person well proportioned, and possessing the following characteristics:—A fine arched eyebrow, spanning an eye full and rotund; a nose slightly aquiline; thin, well-modelled lips; white teeth—whiter from contrast with the dark shading on the upper lip—and over all an amplechevelureof jet-black hair, slightly curling, but not at all woolly.In nothing did he differ more, from the dark-skinned helots of the hold, than in his costume. While none of these had any clothing upon their bodies, or next to none, he, on the contrary, was splendidly apparelled—his face, throat, arms, and limbs, from the knee to the ankle, being the only parts not covered by a garment.A sort of sleeveless tunic of yellow satin, with a skirt that just reached below his knees, was bound around his waist by a scarf of crimson China crape, the ends of which, hanging still lower, were adorned with a fringe-work of gold. Over the left shoulder rested loosely another scarf of blueburnouscloth, concealing the arm over which it hung; while half hidden beneath its draping could be perceived a scimitar in its richly-chased scabbard, with a hilt of carved ivory. A turban on the head, and sandals of Kordofan leather upon the feet, completed his costume.Notwithstanding the Asiatic character of the dress, and the resemblance of the wearer to those East Indians known as Lascars, he was a true African—though not of that type which we usually associate with the word, and which suggests a certainnegroismof features. He was one of a people entirely distinct from the negro—the great nation of the Foolahs (Fellattas)—that race of shepherd warriors whose country extends from the confines of Darfur to the shores of the Atlantic—the lords of Sockatoo and Timbuctoo—those fanatic followers of the false prophet who conspired the death of Laing, and murdered Mungo Park upon the Quorra. Of such race was the individual who stood on the quarter-deck of the slaver.He was not alone. Three or four others were around him, who also differed from the wretched creatures in the hold. But their dresses of more common material, as well as other circumstances, told that they were his inferiors in rank—in short, his attendants.The humble mien with which they regarded him, and the watchful attention to his every look and gesture, proclaimed the habitual obedience to which they were accustomed; while the turbans which they wore, and their mode of salutation—thesalaam—told of an obeisance Oriental and slavish.To the richness of the young man’s attire was added a certain haughtiness of mien that proclaimed him a person of rank—perhaps the chieftain of some African tribe.And such, in reality, he was—a Foolah prince, from the banks of the Senegal.There, neither his presence nor appearance would have attracted more than passing observation; but here, on the western side of the Atlantic, on board a slave-ship, both required explanation.It was evident that he was not in the same category with his unfortunate countrymen “between decks”—doomed to perpetual captivity. There were no signs that he had been treated as a captive, but the contrary.How, then, was his presence on board the slave-barque to be accounted for? Was he a passenger? In what relationship did he stand to the people who surrounded him?Such, though differently worded, were the interrogatories put by the slave-merchant, as, returning from the fore-deck, after completing his inspection of the cargo, his eyes for the first time fell upon the young Fellatta.“Blesh my shtars, Captain Showler!” cried he, holding up both hands, and looking with astonishment at the turbaned individuals on the quarter-deck. “Blesh my shtars!” he repeated; “what ish all thish? S’help my Gott! theesh fellows are not shlaves, are they?”“No, Mister Jessuron, no. They ain’t slaves, not all on ’em ain’t. That ’ere fine fellow, in silk and satin, air a owner o’ slaves hisself. He air a prince.”“What dosh you say, Captin Showler? a prinshe?”“Ye ain’t ’stonished at that, air ye? ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve had an African prince for a passenger. This yeer’s his Royal Highness the Prince Cingües, son o’ the Grand Sultan of Foota-toro. The other fellows you see thar by him are his attendants—courteers as waits on him. That with the yellow turban’s ‘gold stick;’ him in blue ’s ‘silver stick;’ an’ t’other fellow’s ‘groom o’ the chamber,’ I s’pose.”“Sultan of Foota-toro!” exclaimed the slave-merchant, still holding up the blue umbrella in surprise; “King of the Cannibal Islandsh! Aha, a good shoke, Captain Showler! But, serious, mine friend, what for hash you tricked them out in this way? They won’t fetch a joey more in the market for all theesh fine feathers.”“Seerus, Mister Jessuron, they’re not for the market. I sw’ar to ye the fellur’s a real Afrikin prince.”“African fiddleshtick!” echoed the slave-merchant with an incredulous shrug. “Come, worthy captin, what’sh the mashquerade about?”“Not a bit of that, ole fellur! ’Sure ye the nigger’s a prince, and my passenger—nothing more or less.”“S’help you gott, ish it so?”“So help me that!” emphatically replied the skipper. “It’s just as I’ve told ye, Mister Jessuron.”“Blesh my soul!—a passenger, you shay?”“Yes; and he’s paid his passage, too—like a prince, as he is.”“But what’s hish business here in Shamaica?”“Ah! that’s altogether a kewrious story, Mister Jessuron. You’ll hardly guess his bizness, I reckon?”“Lesh hear it, friend Showler.”“Well, then, the story air this: ’Bout twelve months ago an army o’ Mandingoes attacked the town of Old Foota-toro, and, ’mong other plunder, carried off one o’ his daughters—own sister to the young fellur you see there. They sold her to a West India trader; who, in course, brought the girl over here to some o’ the islands; which one ain’t known. Old Foota-toro, like the rest o’ ’em, thinks the slaves are all fetched to one place; and as he’s half beside himself ’bout the loss of this gurl—she war his favourite, and a sort of a court belle among ’em—he’s sent the brother to search her out, and get her back from whoever hez purchased her on this side. There’s the hul story for you.”The expression that had been gathering on the countenance of the Jew, while this relation was being made to him, indicated something more than a common interest in the tale—something beyond mere curiosity. At the same time, he seemed as if trying to conceal any outward sign of emotion, by preserving, as much as possible, the rigidity of his features.“Blesh my soul!” he exclaimed, as the skipper had concluded. “Ash I live, a wonderful shtory! But how ish he ever to find hish sister? He might ash well look for a needle in a hayshtack.”“Wall, that’s true enough,” replied the slave-skipper. “As for that,” added he, with an air of stoical indifference, “’taint no business o’ mine. My affair hez been to carry the young fellur acrost the Atlantic; an’ I’m willin’ to take him back on the same tarms, and at the same price, if he kin pay it.”“Did he pay you a goodsh price?” inquired the Jew, with evident interest in the answer.“He paid like a prince, as I’ve told you. D’ye see that batch o’ yellow Mandingoes by the windlass yonder?”“Yesh-yesh!”“Forty there air—all told.”“Wen?”“Twenty on ’em I’m to have for fetchin’ him acrost. Cheap enough, ain’t it?”“Dirt sheep, friend Showler. The other twenty?”“They arehisn. He’s brought ’em with him to swop for the sister—when he finds her.”“Ah, yesh! if he finds the girl.”“In coorse, if he finds her.”“Ach!” exclaimed the Jew, with a significant shrug of his shoulders; “that will not be an easy bishness, Captin Showler.”“By Christopher Columbus, old fellow!” said the trader, apparently struck with an idea; “now I think of it, you might gie him some help in the findin’ o’ her. I know no man more likely than yourself to be able to pilot him. You know everybody in the island, I reckon. No doubt he will pay you well for your trouble. I’m rayther anxious he should succeed. King Foota-toro is one of my best sources of supply; and if the gurl could be found and took back, I know the old nigger would do the handsome to me on my next trip to the coast.”“Well, worthy captin, I don’t know that there’s any hope, and won’t hold out any to hish royal highnesh the prince. I’m not as able to get about ash I ushed to was; but I’ll try my besht for you. As you shay, I might do something towardsh putting him in the way. Well, we’ll talk it over; but let ush first settle our other bishness, or all the world will be aboard. Twenty, you shay, are his?”“Twenty of them ’ere Mandingoes.”“Hash he anything besides?”“In cash? no, not a red cent. Men and women are the dollars of his country. He hez the four attendants, you see. They air his slaves like the others.”“Twenty-four, then, in all. Blesh my soul! What a lucky fellow ish this prinsh. Maybe I can do something for him; but we can talk it over in the cabin, and I’m ready for something to drink, worthy Showler.”“Ah!” he exclaimed, as, on turning round, he perceived the group of girls before mentioned. “Blesh my soul! Some likely wenches. Just the sort for chambermaids,” added he, with a villainously significant look. “How many of that kind hash you got, good Showler?”“About a dozen,” jocularly responded the skipper; “some splendid breeders among ’em, if you want any for that bizness.”“I may—I may. Gad! it’s a valuable cargo—one thing with another! Well, let ush go below,” added he, turning towards the companion. “What’s in your locker? I musht have a drink before I can do bishness. Likely wenches! Gad—a valuable cargo!”Smacking his lips, and snapping his fingers as he talked, the old reprobate descended the companion stairway—the captain of the slaver following close behind him.We know not, except by implication, the details of the bargaining that took place below. The negotiation was a secret one—as became the nature of any transaction between two such characters as a slave-dealer and a slave-stealer.It resulted, however, in the purchase of the whole cargo; and in so short a time, that just as the sun sank into the sea, the gig, cutter, and long-boat of the slaver were lowered into the water; and, under the darkness of night, the “bales” were transported to the shore, and landed in the little cove whence the skiff of the slave-merchant had put out.Amongst them were the twenty Mandingoes, the attendants of the prince, and the “wenches,” designed for improving the breed on Jessuron’s plantation: for the slave-merchant was also a land-proprietor and planter.The skiff was seen returning to the shore, a cable’s-length in the wake of the other boats. Now, however, a fourth personage appeared in it, seated in the stern, face to face with the owner. The gaily-coloured costume, even in the darkness, shining over the calm shadowy surface of the sea, rendered it easy to recognise this individual as the Foolah prince. The wolf and the lamb were sailing in the same boat.
On the quarter-deck of the slaver, and near the “companion,” stood a man of unique appearance—differing not only from the whites who composed the crew, but also from the blacks and browns who constituted the cargo.
His costume, attitude, and some, other trivial circumstances, proclaimed him as belonging neither to one nor the other.
He had just stepped up from the cabin, and was lingering upon the quarter-deck.
Having theentréeof the first, and the privilege of remaining upon the second, he could not be one of the “bales” of this human merchandise; and yet both costume and complexion forbade the supposition that he was of the slaver’s crew. Both denoted an African origin—though his features were not of a marked African type. Rather were they Asiatic, or, more correctly, Arabian; but, in some respects, differing also from Arab features. In truth, they were almost European; but the complexion again negatived the idea that the individual in question belonged to any of the nationalities of Europe. His hue was that of a light Florentine bronze, with a tinge of chestnut.
He appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years of age; with a person well proportioned, and possessing the following characteristics:—A fine arched eyebrow, spanning an eye full and rotund; a nose slightly aquiline; thin, well-modelled lips; white teeth—whiter from contrast with the dark shading on the upper lip—and over all an amplechevelureof jet-black hair, slightly curling, but not at all woolly.
In nothing did he differ more, from the dark-skinned helots of the hold, than in his costume. While none of these had any clothing upon their bodies, or next to none, he, on the contrary, was splendidly apparelled—his face, throat, arms, and limbs, from the knee to the ankle, being the only parts not covered by a garment.
A sort of sleeveless tunic of yellow satin, with a skirt that just reached below his knees, was bound around his waist by a scarf of crimson China crape, the ends of which, hanging still lower, were adorned with a fringe-work of gold. Over the left shoulder rested loosely another scarf of blueburnouscloth, concealing the arm over which it hung; while half hidden beneath its draping could be perceived a scimitar in its richly-chased scabbard, with a hilt of carved ivory. A turban on the head, and sandals of Kordofan leather upon the feet, completed his costume.
Notwithstanding the Asiatic character of the dress, and the resemblance of the wearer to those East Indians known as Lascars, he was a true African—though not of that type which we usually associate with the word, and which suggests a certainnegroismof features. He was one of a people entirely distinct from the negro—the great nation of the Foolahs (Fellattas)—that race of shepherd warriors whose country extends from the confines of Darfur to the shores of the Atlantic—the lords of Sockatoo and Timbuctoo—those fanatic followers of the false prophet who conspired the death of Laing, and murdered Mungo Park upon the Quorra. Of such race was the individual who stood on the quarter-deck of the slaver.
He was not alone. Three or four others were around him, who also differed from the wretched creatures in the hold. But their dresses of more common material, as well as other circumstances, told that they were his inferiors in rank—in short, his attendants.
The humble mien with which they regarded him, and the watchful attention to his every look and gesture, proclaimed the habitual obedience to which they were accustomed; while the turbans which they wore, and their mode of salutation—thesalaam—told of an obeisance Oriental and slavish.
To the richness of the young man’s attire was added a certain haughtiness of mien that proclaimed him a person of rank—perhaps the chieftain of some African tribe.
And such, in reality, he was—a Foolah prince, from the banks of the Senegal.
There, neither his presence nor appearance would have attracted more than passing observation; but here, on the western side of the Atlantic, on board a slave-ship, both required explanation.
It was evident that he was not in the same category with his unfortunate countrymen “between decks”—doomed to perpetual captivity. There were no signs that he had been treated as a captive, but the contrary.
How, then, was his presence on board the slave-barque to be accounted for? Was he a passenger? In what relationship did he stand to the people who surrounded him?
Such, though differently worded, were the interrogatories put by the slave-merchant, as, returning from the fore-deck, after completing his inspection of the cargo, his eyes for the first time fell upon the young Fellatta.
“Blesh my shtars, Captain Showler!” cried he, holding up both hands, and looking with astonishment at the turbaned individuals on the quarter-deck. “Blesh my shtars!” he repeated; “what ish all thish? S’help my Gott! theesh fellows are not shlaves, are they?”
“No, Mister Jessuron, no. They ain’t slaves, not all on ’em ain’t. That ’ere fine fellow, in silk and satin, air a owner o’ slaves hisself. He air a prince.”
“What dosh you say, Captin Showler? a prinshe?”
“Ye ain’t ’stonished at that, air ye? ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve had an African prince for a passenger. This yeer’s his Royal Highness the Prince Cingües, son o’ the Grand Sultan of Foota-toro. The other fellows you see thar by him are his attendants—courteers as waits on him. That with the yellow turban’s ‘gold stick;’ him in blue ’s ‘silver stick;’ an’ t’other fellow’s ‘groom o’ the chamber,’ I s’pose.”
“Sultan of Foota-toro!” exclaimed the slave-merchant, still holding up the blue umbrella in surprise; “King of the Cannibal Islandsh! Aha, a good shoke, Captain Showler! But, serious, mine friend, what for hash you tricked them out in this way? They won’t fetch a joey more in the market for all theesh fine feathers.”
“Seerus, Mister Jessuron, they’re not for the market. I sw’ar to ye the fellur’s a real Afrikin prince.”
“African fiddleshtick!” echoed the slave-merchant with an incredulous shrug. “Come, worthy captin, what’sh the mashquerade about?”
“Not a bit of that, ole fellur! ’Sure ye the nigger’s a prince, and my passenger—nothing more or less.”
“S’help you gott, ish it so?”
“So help me that!” emphatically replied the skipper. “It’s just as I’ve told ye, Mister Jessuron.”
“Blesh my soul!—a passenger, you shay?”
“Yes; and he’s paid his passage, too—like a prince, as he is.”
“But what’s hish business here in Shamaica?”
“Ah! that’s altogether a kewrious story, Mister Jessuron. You’ll hardly guess his bizness, I reckon?”
“Lesh hear it, friend Showler.”
“Well, then, the story air this: ’Bout twelve months ago an army o’ Mandingoes attacked the town of Old Foota-toro, and, ’mong other plunder, carried off one o’ his daughters—own sister to the young fellur you see there. They sold her to a West India trader; who, in course, brought the girl over here to some o’ the islands; which one ain’t known. Old Foota-toro, like the rest o’ ’em, thinks the slaves are all fetched to one place; and as he’s half beside himself ’bout the loss of this gurl—she war his favourite, and a sort of a court belle among ’em—he’s sent the brother to search her out, and get her back from whoever hez purchased her on this side. There’s the hul story for you.”
The expression that had been gathering on the countenance of the Jew, while this relation was being made to him, indicated something more than a common interest in the tale—something beyond mere curiosity. At the same time, he seemed as if trying to conceal any outward sign of emotion, by preserving, as much as possible, the rigidity of his features.
“Blesh my soul!” he exclaimed, as the skipper had concluded. “Ash I live, a wonderful shtory! But how ish he ever to find hish sister? He might ash well look for a needle in a hayshtack.”
“Wall, that’s true enough,” replied the slave-skipper. “As for that,” added he, with an air of stoical indifference, “’taint no business o’ mine. My affair hez been to carry the young fellur acrost the Atlantic; an’ I’m willin’ to take him back on the same tarms, and at the same price, if he kin pay it.”
“Did he pay you a goodsh price?” inquired the Jew, with evident interest in the answer.
“He paid like a prince, as I’ve told you. D’ye see that batch o’ yellow Mandingoes by the windlass yonder?”
“Yesh-yesh!”
“Forty there air—all told.”
“Wen?”
“Twenty on ’em I’m to have for fetchin’ him acrost. Cheap enough, ain’t it?”
“Dirt sheep, friend Showler. The other twenty?”
“They arehisn. He’s brought ’em with him to swop for the sister—when he finds her.”
“Ah, yesh! if he finds the girl.”
“In coorse, if he finds her.”
“Ach!” exclaimed the Jew, with a significant shrug of his shoulders; “that will not be an easy bishness, Captin Showler.”
“By Christopher Columbus, old fellow!” said the trader, apparently struck with an idea; “now I think of it, you might gie him some help in the findin’ o’ her. I know no man more likely than yourself to be able to pilot him. You know everybody in the island, I reckon. No doubt he will pay you well for your trouble. I’m rayther anxious he should succeed. King Foota-toro is one of my best sources of supply; and if the gurl could be found and took back, I know the old nigger would do the handsome to me on my next trip to the coast.”
“Well, worthy captin, I don’t know that there’s any hope, and won’t hold out any to hish royal highnesh the prince. I’m not as able to get about ash I ushed to was; but I’ll try my besht for you. As you shay, I might do something towardsh putting him in the way. Well, we’ll talk it over; but let ush first settle our other bishness, or all the world will be aboard. Twenty, you shay, are his?”
“Twenty of them ’ere Mandingoes.”
“Hash he anything besides?”
“In cash? no, not a red cent. Men and women are the dollars of his country. He hez the four attendants, you see. They air his slaves like the others.”
“Twenty-four, then, in all. Blesh my soul! What a lucky fellow ish this prinsh. Maybe I can do something for him; but we can talk it over in the cabin, and I’m ready for something to drink, worthy Showler.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, as, on turning round, he perceived the group of girls before mentioned. “Blesh my soul! Some likely wenches. Just the sort for chambermaids,” added he, with a villainously significant look. “How many of that kind hash you got, good Showler?”
“About a dozen,” jocularly responded the skipper; “some splendid breeders among ’em, if you want any for that bizness.”
“I may—I may. Gad! it’s a valuable cargo—one thing with another! Well, let ush go below,” added he, turning towards the companion. “What’s in your locker? I musht have a drink before I can do bishness. Likely wenches! Gad—a valuable cargo!”
Smacking his lips, and snapping his fingers as he talked, the old reprobate descended the companion stairway—the captain of the slaver following close behind him.
We know not, except by implication, the details of the bargaining that took place below. The negotiation was a secret one—as became the nature of any transaction between two such characters as a slave-dealer and a slave-stealer.
It resulted, however, in the purchase of the whole cargo; and in so short a time, that just as the sun sank into the sea, the gig, cutter, and long-boat of the slaver were lowered into the water; and, under the darkness of night, the “bales” were transported to the shore, and landed in the little cove whence the skiff of the slave-merchant had put out.
Amongst them were the twenty Mandingoes, the attendants of the prince, and the “wenches,” designed for improving the breed on Jessuron’s plantation: for the slave-merchant was also a land-proprietor and planter.
The skiff was seen returning to the shore, a cable’s-length in the wake of the other boats. Now, however, a fourth personage appeared in it, seated in the stern, face to face with the owner. The gaily-coloured costume, even in the darkness, shining over the calm shadowy surface of the sea, rendered it easy to recognise this individual as the Foolah prince. The wolf and the lamb were sailing in the same boat.
Volume One—Chapter Eight.A Handsome Offer.On the day after the slave-ship had landed her cargo, and at an early hour in the morning, Mr Vaughan, looking from the front window of his house, perceived a solitary horseman approaching by the long avenue.As the stranger drew nearer, the animal he bestrode appeared gradually to transform itself into a mule; and the rider was seen to be an old gentleman in a blue coat, with metal buttons, and ample outside pockets—under which were breeches and top-boots, both sullied by long wear. A damaged brown beaver hat upon his head, with the edge of a white cotton skull-cap showing beneath it—green goggles upon the nose—and a large blue umbrella, instead of a whip, grasped in the right hand—enabled Mr Vaughan to identify one of his nearest neighbours: the penn-keeper Jacob Jessuron, who, among other live stock, was also known as an extensive speculator in slaves.“The old Jew!” muttered Mr Vaughan, with an accent that betokened a certain degree of discontent. “What canhewant at this early hour? Some slave stock for sale, I suppose? That looked like a trader I saw yesterday in the offing; and he’s sure to have had a lot or two out of her. Well, he won’t find a market here. Fortunately, I’m stocked. Morning, Mr Jessuron!” continued he, hailing his visitor as the latter dismounted by the bottom of the stairway. “As usual, you are early abroad. Business, eh?”“Ach, yesh, Mishter Vochan! Bishness must be minded. A poor man like me can’t afford to shleep late theesh hard times!”“Ha! ha! Poor man, indeed! That’s a capital joke, Mr Jessuron! Come in. Have you breakfasted?”“Yesh, thanks, Mishter Vochan,” replied the Jew, as he climbed up the steps. “I always breakfasht at six.”“Oh, that is early! A glass of swizzle, then?”“Thanks, Mishter Vochan; you ish very kind. A glash of shwizzell will be better ash anything else. Itsh warm thish morning.” Theswizzle, a mixture of rum, sugar, water, and lime-juice, was found in a large punch-bowl that stood upon the sideboard, with a silver ladle resting across the rim, and glasses set around it. This is a standing drink in the dwelling of a Jamaica planter—a fountain that may be said never to go dry, or, at all events, renewed as soon as exhausted.Stepping up to the sideboard, where he was attended to by a black butler, the penn-keeper briskly quaffed off a tumbler of the swizzle; and then smacking his lips, and adding the observation, “’Tish goot!” he returned towards the window, where a chair had been placed for him beside the one already occupied by his host.The visitor removed his beaver hat, though the white skull-cap—not over clean—was still permitted to keep its place upon his head.Mr Vaughan was a man possessed of considerable courtesy, or at least, an affectation of it. He remained silent, therefore, politely waiting for his guest to initiate the conversation.“Well, Mishter Vochan,” began the Jew, “I hash come over to see you on a shmall bishness—a very shmall bishness it is, shcarcely worth troubling you about.”Here the speaker hesitated, as if to put some proposition into shape.“Some black stock for sale, eh? I think I’ve heard that a cargo came in yesterday. You got part, I suppose?”“Yesh, yesh, I bought a shmall lot, a very shmall lot. I hadn’t the monish to buy more. S’help me gott! the shlaves ish getting so dear ash I can’t afford to buy. This talk about shtoppin’ the trade ish like to ruin ush all. Don’t you think so, Mishter Vochan?”“Oh, as for that,youneedn’t fear. If the British Government should pass the bill, the law will be only a dead letter. They could never guard the whole of the African coast—no, nor that of Jamaica neither. I think, Mr Jessuron, you would still contrive to land a few bales, eh?”“Ach, no, Mishter Vochan! dear, oh dear, no! I shouldn’t venture againsht the laws. If the trade ish to be stop, I musht give up the bishness. Slaves would be too dear for a poor Jewsh man like me to deal in: s’help me, yesh! they’re too dear ash it ish.”“Oh, that’s all nonsense about their getting dearer! It’s very well for you to talk so, Mr Jessuron: you have some to sell, I presume?”“Not now, Mishter Vochan, not now. Posshible, I may have a shmall lot to dishpose of in a day or two; but joosht now, I haven’t a shingle head ready for the market. Thish morning I want to buy, instead of shell.”“To buy! From me, do you mean?”“Yesh, Mishter Vochan, if you’re disposed to shell.”“Come, that’s something new, neighbour Jessuron! I know you’re always ready for a trade; but this is the first time I ever heard of you buying slaves on a plantation.”“Well, the truth ish, Mishter Vochan, I hash a cushtomer, who wants a likely wench for waiting at hish table. Theresh none among my shtock, he thinks good enough for hish purposh. I wash thinking you hash got one, if you could shpare her, that would suit him nishely.”“Which do you mean?”“I mean that young Foolah wench ash I sold you lasht year—joosh after crop time.”“Oh! the girl Yola?”“Yesh, I think that wosh her name. Ash you had her dirt sheep, I don’t mind giving you shomething on your bargain—shay ten pounds currenshy?”“Poh, poh, poh!” replied the planter, with a deprecating shrug. “That would never do—even if I meant to sell the girl. But I have no wish to part with her.”“Shay twenty, then?”“Nor twice twenty, neighbour. I wouldn’t, under any circumstances, take less than two hundred pounds for that girl. She has turned out a most valuable servant—”“Two hunder poundsh!” interrupted the Jew, starting up in his chair. “Och! Mishter Vochan, theresh not a black wench in the island worth half the monish. Two hunder poundsh! Blesh my soul, that ish a prishe! I wish I could shell some of my shtock at that prishe! I’d be glad to give any two I hash for two hunder poundsh.”“Why, Mr Jessuron! I thought you said just now slaves were getting very dear?”“Dear, yesh; but that is doublish dear. S’help me gott! You don’t mean it, Mishter Vochan?”“But I do mean it; and even if you were to offer me two hundred—”“Don’t shay more about it,” said the slave-merchant, hurriedly interrupting the hypothetical speech; “don’t shay more; I agreesh to give it. Two hunder poundsh!—blesh my shtars! it’ll make a bankrup’ of me.”“No, it will not do that: since I cannot agree to take it.”“Not take two hunder poundsh?”“No—nor twice that sum.”“Gott help ush, Mishter Vochan; you ish shurely shokin? Why will you not take two hunder? I hash the monish in my pocket.”“I am sorry to disappoint you, neighbour; but the fact is, I could not sell the girl Yola at any price, without the consent of my daughter—to whom I have given her.”“Mish Vochan?”“Yes—she is her maid; and I know that my daughter is very fond of her. It is not likely she would consent to the girl’s being sold.”“But, Mishter Vochan! you shurely don’t let your daughter shtand between you and a good bargain? Two hunder poundsh is big monish—big monish, Cushtos. The wench ish not worth half ash much, and, for myshelf, I wouldn’t give half; but I don’t want to dishappoint a good cushtomer, who’sh not so particular ash to prishe.”“Your customer fancies the girl, eh?” said Mr Vaughan, glancing significantly at his guest. “She is very good-looking—no wonder. But, if that be the reason for his wanting to buy her, I may as well tell you, I should myself not be inclined to part with her; and, as for my daughter, if she suspected such a purpose, all the money you have got, Mr Jessuron, wouldn’t reach the price of Yola.”“S’help me gott, Mishter Vochan, you’re mishtaken! The cushtomer I speak of never shet hish eyes on the wench. Itsh only a waiting-maid he wants for hish table; and I thought of her, ash she’sh joost what he deshcribes. How do you know that Mish Vochan might not conshent to let her go? I promish to get her another young girl ash goot or better ash Yola.”“Well,” replied the planter, after a moment’s reflection, and apparently tempted by the handsome offer, “since you seem so determined upon buying the wench, I’ll consult my daughter about it. But I can hold out very little hope of success. I know that she likes this young Foolah. I have heard that the girl was some king’s daughter in her own country; and I am as good as certain Kate won’t consent to her being sold.”“Not ifyouwished it, Mishter Vochan?”“Oh, if I insisted upon it, of course; but I gave my daughter a promise not to part with the girl against her wish, and I never break my word, Mr Jessuron—not to my own child.”With this rather affected profession, the planter walked out of the room, leaving the slave-merchant to his reflections.“May the diffel strike me dead if that man ishn’t mad!” soliloquised the Jew, when left to himself; “shtark shtarin mad! refuse two hunder poundsh for a she wench ash brown ash a cocoa-nut! Blesh my shtars!”“As I told you, Mr Jessuron,” said the planter, re-entering the hall, “my daughter is inexorable. Yola cannot be sold.”“Good morning, Mishter Vochan,” said the slave-merchant, taking up his hat and umbrella, and making for the door. “Good morning, shir: I hash no other bishness to-day.”Then, putting on his hat and grasping his umbrella, with an air of spitefulness he was unable to conceal, he hurried down the stone steps, scrambled upon the back of his mule, and rode away in sullen silence.“Unusually free with, his money this morning,” said the planter, looking after him. “Some shabby scheme, I have no doubt. Well, I suppose I have thwarted it; besides, I am glad of an opportunity of disobliging the old curmudgeon: many’s the time he has done as much for me!”
On the day after the slave-ship had landed her cargo, and at an early hour in the morning, Mr Vaughan, looking from the front window of his house, perceived a solitary horseman approaching by the long avenue.
As the stranger drew nearer, the animal he bestrode appeared gradually to transform itself into a mule; and the rider was seen to be an old gentleman in a blue coat, with metal buttons, and ample outside pockets—under which were breeches and top-boots, both sullied by long wear. A damaged brown beaver hat upon his head, with the edge of a white cotton skull-cap showing beneath it—green goggles upon the nose—and a large blue umbrella, instead of a whip, grasped in the right hand—enabled Mr Vaughan to identify one of his nearest neighbours: the penn-keeper Jacob Jessuron, who, among other live stock, was also known as an extensive speculator in slaves.
“The old Jew!” muttered Mr Vaughan, with an accent that betokened a certain degree of discontent. “What canhewant at this early hour? Some slave stock for sale, I suppose? That looked like a trader I saw yesterday in the offing; and he’s sure to have had a lot or two out of her. Well, he won’t find a market here. Fortunately, I’m stocked. Morning, Mr Jessuron!” continued he, hailing his visitor as the latter dismounted by the bottom of the stairway. “As usual, you are early abroad. Business, eh?”
“Ach, yesh, Mishter Vochan! Bishness must be minded. A poor man like me can’t afford to shleep late theesh hard times!”
“Ha! ha! Poor man, indeed! That’s a capital joke, Mr Jessuron! Come in. Have you breakfasted?”
“Yesh, thanks, Mishter Vochan,” replied the Jew, as he climbed up the steps. “I always breakfasht at six.”
“Oh, that is early! A glass of swizzle, then?”
“Thanks, Mishter Vochan; you ish very kind. A glash of shwizzell will be better ash anything else. Itsh warm thish morning.” Theswizzle, a mixture of rum, sugar, water, and lime-juice, was found in a large punch-bowl that stood upon the sideboard, with a silver ladle resting across the rim, and glasses set around it. This is a standing drink in the dwelling of a Jamaica planter—a fountain that may be said never to go dry, or, at all events, renewed as soon as exhausted.
Stepping up to the sideboard, where he was attended to by a black butler, the penn-keeper briskly quaffed off a tumbler of the swizzle; and then smacking his lips, and adding the observation, “’Tish goot!” he returned towards the window, where a chair had been placed for him beside the one already occupied by his host.
The visitor removed his beaver hat, though the white skull-cap—not over clean—was still permitted to keep its place upon his head.
Mr Vaughan was a man possessed of considerable courtesy, or at least, an affectation of it. He remained silent, therefore, politely waiting for his guest to initiate the conversation.
“Well, Mishter Vochan,” began the Jew, “I hash come over to see you on a shmall bishness—a very shmall bishness it is, shcarcely worth troubling you about.”
Here the speaker hesitated, as if to put some proposition into shape.
“Some black stock for sale, eh? I think I’ve heard that a cargo came in yesterday. You got part, I suppose?”
“Yesh, yesh, I bought a shmall lot, a very shmall lot. I hadn’t the monish to buy more. S’help me gott! the shlaves ish getting so dear ash I can’t afford to buy. This talk about shtoppin’ the trade ish like to ruin ush all. Don’t you think so, Mishter Vochan?”
“Oh, as for that,youneedn’t fear. If the British Government should pass the bill, the law will be only a dead letter. They could never guard the whole of the African coast—no, nor that of Jamaica neither. I think, Mr Jessuron, you would still contrive to land a few bales, eh?”
“Ach, no, Mishter Vochan! dear, oh dear, no! I shouldn’t venture againsht the laws. If the trade ish to be stop, I musht give up the bishness. Slaves would be too dear for a poor Jewsh man like me to deal in: s’help me, yesh! they’re too dear ash it ish.”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense about their getting dearer! It’s very well for you to talk so, Mr Jessuron: you have some to sell, I presume?”
“Not now, Mishter Vochan, not now. Posshible, I may have a shmall lot to dishpose of in a day or two; but joosht now, I haven’t a shingle head ready for the market. Thish morning I want to buy, instead of shell.”
“To buy! From me, do you mean?”
“Yesh, Mishter Vochan, if you’re disposed to shell.”
“Come, that’s something new, neighbour Jessuron! I know you’re always ready for a trade; but this is the first time I ever heard of you buying slaves on a plantation.”
“Well, the truth ish, Mishter Vochan, I hash a cushtomer, who wants a likely wench for waiting at hish table. Theresh none among my shtock, he thinks good enough for hish purposh. I wash thinking you hash got one, if you could shpare her, that would suit him nishely.”
“Which do you mean?”
“I mean that young Foolah wench ash I sold you lasht year—joosh after crop time.”
“Oh! the girl Yola?”
“Yesh, I think that wosh her name. Ash you had her dirt sheep, I don’t mind giving you shomething on your bargain—shay ten pounds currenshy?”
“Poh, poh, poh!” replied the planter, with a deprecating shrug. “That would never do—even if I meant to sell the girl. But I have no wish to part with her.”
“Shay twenty, then?”
“Nor twice twenty, neighbour. I wouldn’t, under any circumstances, take less than two hundred pounds for that girl. She has turned out a most valuable servant—”
“Two hunder poundsh!” interrupted the Jew, starting up in his chair. “Och! Mishter Vochan, theresh not a black wench in the island worth half the monish. Two hunder poundsh! Blesh my soul, that ish a prishe! I wish I could shell some of my shtock at that prishe! I’d be glad to give any two I hash for two hunder poundsh.”
“Why, Mr Jessuron! I thought you said just now slaves were getting very dear?”
“Dear, yesh; but that is doublish dear. S’help me gott! You don’t mean it, Mishter Vochan?”
“But I do mean it; and even if you were to offer me two hundred—”
“Don’t shay more about it,” said the slave-merchant, hurriedly interrupting the hypothetical speech; “don’t shay more; I agreesh to give it. Two hunder poundsh!—blesh my shtars! it’ll make a bankrup’ of me.”
“No, it will not do that: since I cannot agree to take it.”
“Not take two hunder poundsh?”
“No—nor twice that sum.”
“Gott help ush, Mishter Vochan; you ish shurely shokin? Why will you not take two hunder? I hash the monish in my pocket.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, neighbour; but the fact is, I could not sell the girl Yola at any price, without the consent of my daughter—to whom I have given her.”
“Mish Vochan?”
“Yes—she is her maid; and I know that my daughter is very fond of her. It is not likely she would consent to the girl’s being sold.”
“But, Mishter Vochan! you shurely don’t let your daughter shtand between you and a good bargain? Two hunder poundsh is big monish—big monish, Cushtos. The wench ish not worth half ash much, and, for myshelf, I wouldn’t give half; but I don’t want to dishappoint a good cushtomer, who’sh not so particular ash to prishe.”
“Your customer fancies the girl, eh?” said Mr Vaughan, glancing significantly at his guest. “She is very good-looking—no wonder. But, if that be the reason for his wanting to buy her, I may as well tell you, I should myself not be inclined to part with her; and, as for my daughter, if she suspected such a purpose, all the money you have got, Mr Jessuron, wouldn’t reach the price of Yola.”
“S’help me gott, Mishter Vochan, you’re mishtaken! The cushtomer I speak of never shet hish eyes on the wench. Itsh only a waiting-maid he wants for hish table; and I thought of her, ash she’sh joost what he deshcribes. How do you know that Mish Vochan might not conshent to let her go? I promish to get her another young girl ash goot or better ash Yola.”
“Well,” replied the planter, after a moment’s reflection, and apparently tempted by the handsome offer, “since you seem so determined upon buying the wench, I’ll consult my daughter about it. But I can hold out very little hope of success. I know that she likes this young Foolah. I have heard that the girl was some king’s daughter in her own country; and I am as good as certain Kate won’t consent to her being sold.”
“Not ifyouwished it, Mishter Vochan?”
“Oh, if I insisted upon it, of course; but I gave my daughter a promise not to part with the girl against her wish, and I never break my word, Mr Jessuron—not to my own child.”
With this rather affected profession, the planter walked out of the room, leaving the slave-merchant to his reflections.
“May the diffel strike me dead if that man ishn’t mad!” soliloquised the Jew, when left to himself; “shtark shtarin mad! refuse two hunder poundsh for a she wench ash brown ash a cocoa-nut! Blesh my shtars!”
“As I told you, Mr Jessuron,” said the planter, re-entering the hall, “my daughter is inexorable. Yola cannot be sold.”
“Good morning, Mishter Vochan,” said the slave-merchant, taking up his hat and umbrella, and making for the door. “Good morning, shir: I hash no other bishness to-day.”
Then, putting on his hat and grasping his umbrella, with an air of spitefulness he was unable to conceal, he hurried down the stone steps, scrambled upon the back of his mule, and rode away in sullen silence.
“Unusually free with, his money this morning,” said the planter, looking after him. “Some shabby scheme, I have no doubt. Well, I suppose I have thwarted it; besides, I am glad of an opportunity of disobliging the old curmudgeon: many’s the time he has done as much for me!”
Volume One—Chapter Nine.Judith Jessuron.In the most unamiable of tempers did the slave-speculator ride back down the avenue. So out of sorts was he at the result of his interview, that he did not think of unfolding his blue umbrella to protect himself from the hot rays of the sun, now striking vertically downward. On the contrary, he used theparapluiefor a very different purpose—every now and then belabouring the ribs of his mule with it: as if to rid himself of his spleen by venting it on the innocent mongrel.Nor did he go in silence, although he was alone. In a kind of involuntary soliloquy he kept muttering, as he rode on, long strings of phrases denunciatory of the host whose roof he had just quitted.The daughter, too, of that host came in for a share of his muttered denunciations, which at times, assumed the form of a menace.Part of what he said was spoken distinctly and with emphasis:—“The dusht off my shoosh, Loftish Vochan—I flingsh it back to you! Gott for damsch! there wash a time when you would be glad for my two hunder poundsh. Not for any monish? Bosh! Grand lady, Mish Kate—Mish Quasheby! Ha! I knowsh a thing—I knowsh a leetle thing. Some day, may be, yourshelf sell for lesh ash two hunder poundsh. Ach! I not grudgsh twice the monish to see that day!“The dusht off my shoosh to both of yoush!” he repeated, as he cleared the gate-entrance. “I’sh off your grounds, now; and, if I hash you here, I shay you something of my mind—something ash make you sell your wench for lesh ash two hunder poundsh! I do so, some time, pleash gott! Ach!”Uttering this last exclamation with a prolonged aspirate, he raised himself erect in his stirrups; and, half turning his mule, shook his umbrella in a threatening manner towards Mount Welcome—his eye accompanying the action with a glance that expressed some secret but vindictive determination.As he faced back into the road, another personage appeared upon the scene—a female equestrian, who, trotting briskly up, turned her horse, and rode along by his side.She was a young girl, or, rather a young woman—a bright, beautiful creature—who appeared an angel by the side of that demonlike old man.She had evidently been waiting for him at the turning of the road; and the air of easy familiarity, with the absence of any salutation as they met, told that they had not long been separated.Who was this charming equestrian?A stranger would have asked this question, while his eye rested upon the object of it with mingled feelings of wonder and admiration: admiration at such rare beauty—wonder at beholding it in such rude companionship!It was a beauty that need not be painted in detail. The forehead of noble arch; the scimitar-shaped eyebrows of ebon blackness; the dark-brown flashing pupils; the piquant prominence of the nose, with its spiral curving nostrils; were all characteristics of Hebraic beauty—a shrine before which both Moslem and Christian have ofttimes bent the knee in humblest adoration.Twenty cycles have rolled past—twenty centuries of outrage, calumny, and wrong—housed in low haunts—pillaged and persecuted—oft driven to desperation—rendered roofless and homeless—still, amid all, and in spite of all, lovely are Judah’s dark-eyed daughters—fair as when they danced to the music of cymbal and timbrel, or, to the accompaniment of the golden-stringed harp, sang the lays of a happier time.Here, in a new world, and canopied under an occidental sky, had sprung up a very type of Jewish beauty: for never was daughter of Judah lovelier than the daughter of Jacob Jessuron—she who was now riding by his side.A singular contrast did they present as they rode together—this fair maid and that harsh-featured, ugly old man—unlike as the rose to its parent thorn.Sad are we to say, that the contrast was only physical morally, it was “like father like daughter.” In external form, Judith Jessuron was an angel; in spirit—and we say it with regret—she was the child of her father—devilish as he.“A failure?” said this fair she, taking the initiative. “Pah! I needn’t have asked you: it’s clear enough from your looks—though, certes, that beautiful countenance of yours is not a very legible index to your thoughts. What says Vanity Vaughan? Will he sell the girl?”“No.”“As I expected.”“S’help me, he won’t!”“How much did you bid for her?”“Och! I’sh ashamed to tell you, Shoodith.”“Come, old rabbi, you needn’t be backward before me. How much?”“Two hunder poundsh.”“Two hundred pounds! Well, that is a high figure! If what you’ve told me be true, his own daughter isn’t worth so much. Ha! ha! ha!”“Hush, Shoodith, dear! Don’t shpeak of that—for your life don’t shpeak of it. You may shpoil some plansh I hash about her.”“Have no fear, good father. I never spoiled any plan of yours yet—have I?”“No, no! You hash been a good shild, my daughter!—a good shild, s’help me gott, you hash.”“But tell me; why would the Custos not sell? He likes money almost as well as yourself. Two hundred pounds is a large price for this copper-coloured wench—quite double what she’s worth.”“Ach, Shoodith dear, it wash not Vochan hishelf that refused it.”“Who then?”“Thish very daughter you speaksh of.”“She!” exclaimed the young Jewess, with a curl of the lip, and a contemptuous twist of her beautiful nostril, that all at once changed her beauty into very ugliness. “She, you say? I wonder what next! The conceitedmustee—herself no better than a slave!”“Shtop—shtop, Shoodith,” interrupted the Jew, with a look of uneasiness. “Keep that to yourshelf, my shild. Shay no more about it—at leasht, not now, not now. The trees may have earsh.”The burst of angry passion hindered the fair “Shoodith” from making rejoinder, and for some moments father and daughter rode on in silence.The latter was the first to re-commence the conversation.“You are foolish, good father,” said she; “absurdly foolish.”“Why, Shoodith?”“Why? In offering to buy this girl at all.”“Ay—what would you shay?” inquired the old Jew, as if the interrogatory had been an echo to his own thoughts. “What would you shay?”“I would say that you are silly, old rabbi Jacob; and that’s what I do say.”“Blesh my shoul! What dosh you mean, Shoodith?”“Why, dear and worthy papa, you’re not always so dull of comprehension. Answer me: what do you want the Foolah for?”“Och! you know what I wants her for, Thish prinshe will give hish twenty Mandingoes for her. There ish no doubt but that she’s his sister. Twenty good shtrong Mandingoes, worth twenty hunder poundsh. Blesh my soul! it’sh a fortune?”“Well; and if it is a fortune, what then?”“If it ish? By our fathers! you talk of twenty hunder poundsh ash if monish was dirt.”“My worthy parent, you misunderstand me.”“Mishunderstand you, Shoodith?”“You do. I have more respect for twenty hundred pounds than you give me credit for. So much, as that I advise you toget it.”“Get it! why, daughter, that ish shoosht what I am trying to do.”“Ay, and you’ve gone about it in such a foolish fashion, that you run a great risk of losing it.”“And how would you have me go about it, mine Shoodith?”“Bytaking it.”The slave-merchant suddenly jerked upon the bridle, and pulled his mule to a stand—as he did so darting towards his daughter a look half-puzzled, half-penetrating.“Good father Jacob,” continued she, halting at the same time, “youare not wont to be so dull-witted. While waiting for you at the gate of this pompous sugar-planter, I could not help reflecting; and my reflections led me to ask the question: what on earth had taken you to his house?”“And what answer did you find, Shoodith?”“Oh, not much; only that you went upon a very idle errand.”“Yesh, it hash been an idle errand: I did not get what I went for.”“And what matters if you didn’t?”“Mattersh it? Twenty Mandingoes mattersh a great deal—twenty hunder poundsh currenshy. That ish what it mattersh, Shoodith mine darling!”“Not the paring of a Mandingo’s toe-nail, my paternal friend.”“Hach! what shay you, mine wise Shoodith?”“What say I? Simply, that these Mandingoes might as well have been yours without all this trouble. They may be yet—ay, and their master too, if you desire to have a prince for your slave.Ido.”“Speak out, Shoodith; I don’t understand you.”“You will presently. Didn’t you say, just now, that Captain Jowler has reasons for not coming ashore?”“Captain Showler! He would rather land in the Cannibal Islands than in Montego Bay. Well, Shoodith?”“Rabbi Jessuron, you weary my patience. For the Foolah prince—as you say he is—you are answerable only to Captain Jowler. Captain Jowler comes not ashore.”“True—it ish true,” assented the Jew, with a gesture that signified his comprehension of these preliminary premises.“Who, then, is to hinder you from doing as you please in the matter of these Mandingoes?”“Wonderful Shoodith!” exclaimed the father, throwing up his arms, and turning upon his daughter a look of enthusiastic admiration. “Wonderful Shoodith! Joosh the very thing!—blesh my soul!—and I never thought of it!”“Well, father; luckily it’s not too late.Ihave been thinking of it. I knew very well that Kate Vaughan would not part with the girl Yola. I told you she wouldn’t; but, by the bye, I hope you’ve said nothing of what you wanted her for? If you have—”“Not a word, Shoodith! not a word!”“Then no one need be a word the wiser. As to Captain Jowler—”“Showler daren’t show hish face in the Bay: that’sh why he landed hish cargo on the coast. Besides, there wash an understanding between him and me. He doeshn’t care what ish done with the prinshe—not he. Anyhow, he’ll be gone away in twenty-four hours.”“Then in twenty-four hours the Mandingoes may be yours—prince, attendants, and all. But time is precious, papa. We had better hasten home at once, and strip his royal highness of those fine feathers before some of our curious neighbours come in and see them. People will talk scandal, you know. As for our worthy overseer—”“Ah, Ravener! he knowsh all about it. I wash obliged to tell him ash we landed.”“Of course you were; and it will cost you a Mandingo or two to keephistongue tied: that it will. For the rest, there need be no difficulty. It won’t matter what these savages may say for themselves. Fortunately, there’s no scandal in a black man’s tongue.”“Wonderful Shoodith!” again exclaimed the admiring parent. “My precious daughter, you are worth your weight in golden guinish! Twenty-four shlaves for nothing, and one of them a born prinshe! Two thousand currenshy! Blesh my soul! It ish a shplendid profit—worth a whole year’s buyin’ and shellin’.” And with this honest reflection, the slave-merchant hammered his mule into a trot, and followed his “precious Shoodith”—who had already given the whip to her horse, and was riding rapidly homeward.
In the most unamiable of tempers did the slave-speculator ride back down the avenue. So out of sorts was he at the result of his interview, that he did not think of unfolding his blue umbrella to protect himself from the hot rays of the sun, now striking vertically downward. On the contrary, he used theparapluiefor a very different purpose—every now and then belabouring the ribs of his mule with it: as if to rid himself of his spleen by venting it on the innocent mongrel.
Nor did he go in silence, although he was alone. In a kind of involuntary soliloquy he kept muttering, as he rode on, long strings of phrases denunciatory of the host whose roof he had just quitted.
The daughter, too, of that host came in for a share of his muttered denunciations, which at times, assumed the form of a menace.
Part of what he said was spoken distinctly and with emphasis:—
“The dusht off my shoosh, Loftish Vochan—I flingsh it back to you! Gott for damsch! there wash a time when you would be glad for my two hunder poundsh. Not for any monish? Bosh! Grand lady, Mish Kate—Mish Quasheby! Ha! I knowsh a thing—I knowsh a leetle thing. Some day, may be, yourshelf sell for lesh ash two hunder poundsh. Ach! I not grudgsh twice the monish to see that day!
“The dusht off my shoosh to both of yoush!” he repeated, as he cleared the gate-entrance. “I’sh off your grounds, now; and, if I hash you here, I shay you something of my mind—something ash make you sell your wench for lesh ash two hunder poundsh! I do so, some time, pleash gott! Ach!”
Uttering this last exclamation with a prolonged aspirate, he raised himself erect in his stirrups; and, half turning his mule, shook his umbrella in a threatening manner towards Mount Welcome—his eye accompanying the action with a glance that expressed some secret but vindictive determination.
As he faced back into the road, another personage appeared upon the scene—a female equestrian, who, trotting briskly up, turned her horse, and rode along by his side.
She was a young girl, or, rather a young woman—a bright, beautiful creature—who appeared an angel by the side of that demonlike old man.
She had evidently been waiting for him at the turning of the road; and the air of easy familiarity, with the absence of any salutation as they met, told that they had not long been separated.
Who was this charming equestrian?
A stranger would have asked this question, while his eye rested upon the object of it with mingled feelings of wonder and admiration: admiration at such rare beauty—wonder at beholding it in such rude companionship!
It was a beauty that need not be painted in detail. The forehead of noble arch; the scimitar-shaped eyebrows of ebon blackness; the dark-brown flashing pupils; the piquant prominence of the nose, with its spiral curving nostrils; were all characteristics of Hebraic beauty—a shrine before which both Moslem and Christian have ofttimes bent the knee in humblest adoration.
Twenty cycles have rolled past—twenty centuries of outrage, calumny, and wrong—housed in low haunts—pillaged and persecuted—oft driven to desperation—rendered roofless and homeless—still, amid all, and in spite of all, lovely are Judah’s dark-eyed daughters—fair as when they danced to the music of cymbal and timbrel, or, to the accompaniment of the golden-stringed harp, sang the lays of a happier time.
Here, in a new world, and canopied under an occidental sky, had sprung up a very type of Jewish beauty: for never was daughter of Judah lovelier than the daughter of Jacob Jessuron—she who was now riding by his side.
A singular contrast did they present as they rode together—this fair maid and that harsh-featured, ugly old man—unlike as the rose to its parent thorn.
Sad are we to say, that the contrast was only physical morally, it was “like father like daughter.” In external form, Judith Jessuron was an angel; in spirit—and we say it with regret—she was the child of her father—devilish as he.
“A failure?” said this fair she, taking the initiative. “Pah! I needn’t have asked you: it’s clear enough from your looks—though, certes, that beautiful countenance of yours is not a very legible index to your thoughts. What says Vanity Vaughan? Will he sell the girl?”
“No.”
“As I expected.”
“S’help me, he won’t!”
“How much did you bid for her?”
“Och! I’sh ashamed to tell you, Shoodith.”
“Come, old rabbi, you needn’t be backward before me. How much?”
“Two hunder poundsh.”
“Two hundred pounds! Well, that is a high figure! If what you’ve told me be true, his own daughter isn’t worth so much. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Hush, Shoodith, dear! Don’t shpeak of that—for your life don’t shpeak of it. You may shpoil some plansh I hash about her.”
“Have no fear, good father. I never spoiled any plan of yours yet—have I?”
“No, no! You hash been a good shild, my daughter!—a good shild, s’help me gott, you hash.”
“But tell me; why would the Custos not sell? He likes money almost as well as yourself. Two hundred pounds is a large price for this copper-coloured wench—quite double what she’s worth.”
“Ach, Shoodith dear, it wash not Vochan hishelf that refused it.”
“Who then?”
“Thish very daughter you speaksh of.”
“She!” exclaimed the young Jewess, with a curl of the lip, and a contemptuous twist of her beautiful nostril, that all at once changed her beauty into very ugliness. “She, you say? I wonder what next! The conceitedmustee—herself no better than a slave!”
“Shtop—shtop, Shoodith,” interrupted the Jew, with a look of uneasiness. “Keep that to yourshelf, my shild. Shay no more about it—at leasht, not now, not now. The trees may have earsh.”
The burst of angry passion hindered the fair “Shoodith” from making rejoinder, and for some moments father and daughter rode on in silence.
The latter was the first to re-commence the conversation.
“You are foolish, good father,” said she; “absurdly foolish.”
“Why, Shoodith?”
“Why? In offering to buy this girl at all.”
“Ay—what would you shay?” inquired the old Jew, as if the interrogatory had been an echo to his own thoughts. “What would you shay?”
“I would say that you are silly, old rabbi Jacob; and that’s what I do say.”
“Blesh my shoul! What dosh you mean, Shoodith?”
“Why, dear and worthy papa, you’re not always so dull of comprehension. Answer me: what do you want the Foolah for?”
“Och! you know what I wants her for, Thish prinshe will give hish twenty Mandingoes for her. There ish no doubt but that she’s his sister. Twenty good shtrong Mandingoes, worth twenty hunder poundsh. Blesh my soul! it’sh a fortune?”
“Well; and if it is a fortune, what then?”
“If it ish? By our fathers! you talk of twenty hunder poundsh ash if monish was dirt.”
“My worthy parent, you misunderstand me.”
“Mishunderstand you, Shoodith?”
“You do. I have more respect for twenty hundred pounds than you give me credit for. So much, as that I advise you toget it.”
“Get it! why, daughter, that ish shoosht what I am trying to do.”
“Ay, and you’ve gone about it in such a foolish fashion, that you run a great risk of losing it.”
“And how would you have me go about it, mine Shoodith?”
“Bytaking it.”
The slave-merchant suddenly jerked upon the bridle, and pulled his mule to a stand—as he did so darting towards his daughter a look half-puzzled, half-penetrating.
“Good father Jacob,” continued she, halting at the same time, “youare not wont to be so dull-witted. While waiting for you at the gate of this pompous sugar-planter, I could not help reflecting; and my reflections led me to ask the question: what on earth had taken you to his house?”
“And what answer did you find, Shoodith?”
“Oh, not much; only that you went upon a very idle errand.”
“Yesh, it hash been an idle errand: I did not get what I went for.”
“And what matters if you didn’t?”
“Mattersh it? Twenty Mandingoes mattersh a great deal—twenty hunder poundsh currenshy. That ish what it mattersh, Shoodith mine darling!”
“Not the paring of a Mandingo’s toe-nail, my paternal friend.”
“Hach! what shay you, mine wise Shoodith?”
“What say I? Simply, that these Mandingoes might as well have been yours without all this trouble. They may be yet—ay, and their master too, if you desire to have a prince for your slave.Ido.”
“Speak out, Shoodith; I don’t understand you.”
“You will presently. Didn’t you say, just now, that Captain Jowler has reasons for not coming ashore?”
“Captain Showler! He would rather land in the Cannibal Islands than in Montego Bay. Well, Shoodith?”
“Rabbi Jessuron, you weary my patience. For the Foolah prince—as you say he is—you are answerable only to Captain Jowler. Captain Jowler comes not ashore.”
“True—it ish true,” assented the Jew, with a gesture that signified his comprehension of these preliminary premises.
“Who, then, is to hinder you from doing as you please in the matter of these Mandingoes?”
“Wonderful Shoodith!” exclaimed the father, throwing up his arms, and turning upon his daughter a look of enthusiastic admiration. “Wonderful Shoodith! Joosh the very thing!—blesh my soul!—and I never thought of it!”
“Well, father; luckily it’s not too late.Ihave been thinking of it. I knew very well that Kate Vaughan would not part with the girl Yola. I told you she wouldn’t; but, by the bye, I hope you’ve said nothing of what you wanted her for? If you have—”
“Not a word, Shoodith! not a word!”
“Then no one need be a word the wiser. As to Captain Jowler—”
“Showler daren’t show hish face in the Bay: that’sh why he landed hish cargo on the coast. Besides, there wash an understanding between him and me. He doeshn’t care what ish done with the prinshe—not he. Anyhow, he’ll be gone away in twenty-four hours.”
“Then in twenty-four hours the Mandingoes may be yours—prince, attendants, and all. But time is precious, papa. We had better hasten home at once, and strip his royal highness of those fine feathers before some of our curious neighbours come in and see them. People will talk scandal, you know. As for our worthy overseer—”
“Ah, Ravener! he knowsh all about it. I wash obliged to tell him ash we landed.”
“Of course you were; and it will cost you a Mandingo or two to keephistongue tied: that it will. For the rest, there need be no difficulty. It won’t matter what these savages may say for themselves. Fortunately, there’s no scandal in a black man’s tongue.”
“Wonderful Shoodith!” again exclaimed the admiring parent. “My precious daughter, you are worth your weight in golden guinish! Twenty-four shlaves for nothing, and one of them a born prinshe! Two thousand currenshy! Blesh my soul! It ish a shplendid profit—worth a whole year’s buyin’ and shellin’.” And with this honest reflection, the slave-merchant hammered his mule into a trot, and followed his “precious Shoodith”—who had already given the whip to her horse, and was riding rapidly homeward.
Volume One—Chapter Ten.The Sea Nymph.On the third day after the slaver had cast anchor in the Bay of Montego, a large square-rigged vessel made her appearance in the offing; and, heading shoreward, with all sail set, stood boldly in for the harbour. The Union Jack of England, spread to the breeze, floated freely above her taffrail; and various boxes, bales, trunks, and portmanteaus, that could be seen on her deck—brought up for debarkation—as well as the frank, manly countenances of the sailors who composed her crew, proclaimed the ship to be an honest trader. The lettering upon her stern told that she was the “Sea Nymph, of Liverpool.”Though freighted with a cargo of merchandise, and in reality a merchantman, the presence on board of several individuals in the costume of landsmen, denoted that theSea Nymphalso accommodated passengers.The majority of these were West India planters, with their families, returning from a visit to the mother country—their sons, perhaps, after graduating at an English university, and their daughters on having received their finalpolishat some fashionable metropolitan seminary.Here and there an “attorney”—a constituent element of West Indian society, though not necessarily, as the title suggests, a real limb of the law. Of the latter there might have been one or two, with a like number of unpractised disciples of Aesculapius; both lawyer and doctor bent on seeking fortune—and with fair prospects of finding it in a land notorious for crime as unwholesome in clime. These, with a sprinkling of nondescripts, made up the list of theSea Nymph’scabin-passengers.Among these nondescripts was one of peculiarities sufficiently distinctive to attract attention. A single glance at this personage satisfied you that you looked upon a London Cockney, at the same time a West-End exquisite of the very purest water. He was a young man who had just passed the twenty-first anniversary of his birth; although the indulgence of youthful dissipation had already brushed the freshness from his features, giving them the stamp of greater age. In complexion he was fair—pre-eminently so—with hair of a light yellowish hue, that presented the appearance of having been artificially curled, and slightly darkened by the application of some perfumed oil. The whiskers and moustache were nearly of the same colour; both evidently cultivated with an elaborate assiduity, that proclaimed excessive conceit in them on the part of their owner.The eyebrows were also of the lightest shade; but the hue of the eyes was not so easily told: since one of them was kept habitually closed; while a glancing lens, in a frame of tortoise-shell, hindered a fair view of the other. Through the glass, however, it appeared of a greenish grey, and decidedly “piggish.”The features of this individual were regular enough, though without any striking character; and of a cast rather effeminate than vulgar. Their prevailing expression was that of a certain superciliousness, at times extending to an affectation of sardonism.The dress of the young man was in correspondence with the foppery exhibited in the perfumed locks and eye-glass. It consisted of a surtout of broadcloth, of a very light drab, with a cape that scarce covered the shoulders; a white beaver hat; vest and pants of spotless huff kerseymere; kid gloves on his hands; and boots, blight as lacquer could make them, on his feet. These items of apparel, made in a style of fashion and worn with an air ofsavoir faire, loudly proclaimed the London fop of the time.The affected drawl in which the gentleman spoke, whenever he condescended to hold communion with his fellow-passengers, confirmed this character.Notwithstanding a certain ill-disguised contempt with which he was regarded by some of his fellow-voyagers, not a few treated him with marked deference; and the obeisance paid him by the steward and cabin boys of theSea Nymphgave evidence of his capability to bestow a liberal largess. And such capability did he possess: for Mr Montagu Smythje, the individual in question, was a youth of good family and fortune—the latter consisting of a magnificent sugar estate in Jamaica, left him by a deceased relative, to visit which was the object of his voyage.The estate he had never seen, as this was his first trip across the Atlantic; but he had no reason to doubt the existence of the property. The handsome income which it had afforded him, during several years of his minority, and which had enabled him to live in magnificent style in the most fashionable circles of London society, was a substantial proof that Montagu Castle—such was the name of the estate—was something more than a castle in the air. During his minority, the estate had been managed by atrusteeresident in the island: one Mr Vaughan, himself a sugar-planter, whose plantation adjoined that of Montagu Castle.Mr Smythje had not come over the water with any intention of settling upon his Jamaica estate. “Such an ideaw,” to use his own phraseology, “nevwaw entawed ma bwain. To exchange London and its pwesyaws for a wesidence among those haw-ed niggaws—deaw, no—I could nevwaw think of such a voluntawy banishment; that would be a baw—a decided baw!” “A meaw twip to see something of the twopics, of which I’ve heard such extwaor’nary stowies—have a look at my sugaw plantation and the dem’d niggaws—besides, I have a stwong desire to take a squint at these Queeole queetyaws, who are said to be so doocèd pwetty. Haw! haw!”After such fashion did Mr Montagu Smythje explain the purpose of his voyage to such of his fellow-passengers as chanced to take an interest in it.There were but few travellers in the steerage of theSea Nymph. They who are compelled to adopt that irksome mode of voyaging across the Atlantic have but little errand to the West Indies, or elsewhere to tropical lands—where labour is monopolised by the thews and sinews of the slave. Only three or four of this class had found accommodation on board theSea Nymph; and yet among these humble voyagers was one destined to play a conspicuous part in our story.The individual in question was a young man, in appearance of the same age as Mr Montagu Smythje, though differing from the latter in almost everything else. In stature he was what is termed “middle height,” with limbs well set and rounded, denoting activity and strength. His complexion, though not what is termedbrunette, was dark for a native of Britain, though such was he.His features were nobly defined; and his whole countenance sufficiently striking to attract the attention of even an indifferent observer. Dark-brown eyes, and hair of like colour, curling jauntily over his cheeks, were characteristic points of gracefulness; and, take him all in all, he was what might justly be pronounced a handsome young fellow.The garments he wore were his best—put on for the first time during the voyage, and for the grand occasion oflanding. A dark blue tunic frock, faced with black braid, skirting down over a pair of close-fitting tights, and Hessian boots, gave him rather adistinguéair, notwithstanding a little threadbarishness apparent along the seams.The occupation in which the young man was engaged betrayed a certain degree of refinement. Standing near the windlass, in the blank leaf of a book, which appeared to be his journal, he was sketching the harbour into which the ship was about to enter; and the drawing exhibited no inconsiderable degree of artistic skill.For all that, the sketcher wasnota professional artist. Professionally, indeed, and to his misfortune, he was nothing. A poor scholar—without trick or trade by which he might earn a livelihood—he had come out to the West Indies, as young men go to other colonies, with that sort of indefinite hope, that Fortune, in some way or other, might prove kinder abroad than she had been at home.Whatever hopes of success the young colonist may have entertained, they were evidently neither sanguine nor continuous. Though naturally of a cheerful spirit, as his countenance indicated, a close observer might have detected a shadow stealing over it at intervals.As the ship drew near to the shore, he closed the book, and stood scanning the gorgeous picture of tropical scenery, now, for the first time, disclosed to his eyes.Despite the pleasant emotions which so fair a scene was calculated to call forth, his countenance betrayed anxiety—perhaps a doubt as to whether a welcome awaited him in that lovely land upon which he was looking.Only a few moments had he been thus occupied, when a strange voice falling upon his ear caused him to turn towards the speaker—in whom he recognised the distinguished cabin-passenger, Mr Montagu Smythje.As this gentleman had voyaged all the way from Liverpool to Jamaica without once venturing to set his foot across the line which separates the sacred precincts of the quarter from the more plebeian for’ard deck, his presence by the windlass might have been matter of surprise.A circumstance, however, explained it. It was the last hour of the voyage. TheSea Nymphwas just heading into the harbour; and the passengers of all degrees had rushed forward, in order to obtain a better view of the glorious landscape unfolding itself before their eyes. Notwithstanding his often-expressed antipathy to the “abom’nable smell of taw” it was but natural that Mr Smythje should yield to the general curiosity, and go forward among the rest.Having gained an elevated stand-point upon the top of the windlass, he had adjusted the glass to his eye, and commencedoglingthe landscape, now near enough for its details to be distinguished.Not for long, however, did Mr Smythje remain silent. He was not one of a saturnine habit. The fair scene was inspiring him with a poetical fervour, which soon found expression in characteristic speech.“Doocèd pwetty, ’pon honaw!” he exclaimed; “would make a spwendid dwop-scene faw a theataw! Dawnt yaw think so, ma good fwend?”The person thus appealed to chanced to be the young steerage passenger; who, during the long voyage, had abstained from goingabaftof the main-mast with as much scrupulousness as Mr Smythje had observed about venturing forward. Hence it was that the voice of the exquisite was as strange to him, as if he had never set eyes on that illustrious, personage.On perceiving that the speech was meant for himself, he was at first a little nettled at its patronising tone; but the feeling of irritation soon passed away, and he fixed his eyes upon the speaker, with a good-humoured, though somewhat contemptuous expression.“Aw—haw—it is yaw, my young fellaw,” continued the exquisite, now for the first time perceiving to whom he had made his appeal. “Aw, indeed! I’ve often observed yaw from the quawter-deck. Ba Jawve! yes—a veway stwange individwal!—incompwehensibly stwange! May I ask—pawdon the liberty—what is bwinging yaw out heaw—to Jamaica, I mean?”“That,” replied the steerage passenger, again somewhat nettled at the rather free style of interrogation, “which is bringing yourself—the good shipSea Nymph.”“Aw, haw! indeed! Good—veway good! But, my deaw sir, that is not what I meant.”“No?”“No, I ashaw yaw. I meant what bisness bwings yaw heaw. P’waps you have some pwofession?”“No, not any,” replied the young man, checking his inclination to retaliate the impertinent style of his interrogator.“A twade, then?”“I am sorry to say I have not even a trade.”“No pwofession! no twade! what the dooce daw yaw intend dawing in Jamaica? P’waps yaw expect the situation of book-keepaw on a pwantation, or niggaw-dwivaw. Neithaw, I believe, requiaws much expewience, as I am told the book-keepaw has pwositively no books to keep—haw! haw! and shawly any fellaw, howevaw ignowant, may dwive a niggaw. Is that yaw expectation, my worthy fwend?”“I have no expectation, one way or another,” replied the young man, in a tone of careless indifference. “As to the business I may follow out here in Jamaica, that, I suppose, will depend on the will of another.”“Anothaw! aw!—who, pway?”“My uncle.”“Aw, indeed! yaw have an uncle in Jamaica, then?”“I have—if he be still alive.”“Aw—haw! yaw are not shaw of that intewesting fact? P’waps yaw’ve not heard from him wately?”“Not for years,” replied the young steerage passenger, his poor prospects now having caused him to relinquish the satirical tone which he had assumed. “Not for years,” repeated he, “though I’ve written to him to say that I should come by this ship.”“Veway stwange! And pway, may I ask what bisness yaw uncle follows?”“He is a planter, I believe.”“A sugaw plantaw?”“Yes—he was so when we last heard from him.”“Aw, then, p’waps he is wich—a pwopwietor? In that case he may find something faw yaw to daw, bettaw than niggaw-dwiving. Make yaw his ovawseeaw. May I know yaw name?”“Quite welcome to it. Vaughan is my name.”“Vawrn!” repeated the exquisite, in a tone that betrayed some newly-awakened interest; “Vawn, did I understand yaw to say?”“Herbert Vaughan,” replied the young man, with firmer emphasis.“And yaw uncle’s name?”“He is also called Vaughan. He is my father’s brother—or ratherwas—my father is dead.”“Not Woftus Vawn, Esquire, of Mount Welcome?”“Yes, Loftus Vaughan; my uncle is so called, and Mount Welcome is, I believe, the name of his estate.”“Veway stwange! incompwehensibly stwange! D’yaw know, my young fellaw, that yaw and I appeaw to be making faw the same pawt. Woftus Vawn, of Mount Welcome, is the twustwee of my own pwoperty—the veway person to whom I am consigned. Deaw me! how doocèd stwange if yaw and I should yet be guests undaw the same woof!”The remark was accompanied by a supercilious glance, that did not escape the observation of the young steerage passenger. It was this glance that gave the true signification to the words, which Herbert Vaughan interpreted as an insult.He was on the point of making an angry rejoinder, when the exquisite turned abruptly away—as he parted drawling out some words of leave-taking, with the presumptive conjecture that they might meet again.Herbert Vaughan stood for a moment looking after him, an expression of high contempt curling upon his lip. Only for a short while, however, did this show itself; and then, his countenance resuming its habitual expression of good-nature, he descended into the steerage, to prepare his somewhat scanty baggage for the debarkation.
On the third day after the slaver had cast anchor in the Bay of Montego, a large square-rigged vessel made her appearance in the offing; and, heading shoreward, with all sail set, stood boldly in for the harbour. The Union Jack of England, spread to the breeze, floated freely above her taffrail; and various boxes, bales, trunks, and portmanteaus, that could be seen on her deck—brought up for debarkation—as well as the frank, manly countenances of the sailors who composed her crew, proclaimed the ship to be an honest trader. The lettering upon her stern told that she was the “Sea Nymph, of Liverpool.”
Though freighted with a cargo of merchandise, and in reality a merchantman, the presence on board of several individuals in the costume of landsmen, denoted that theSea Nymphalso accommodated passengers.
The majority of these were West India planters, with their families, returning from a visit to the mother country—their sons, perhaps, after graduating at an English university, and their daughters on having received their finalpolishat some fashionable metropolitan seminary.
Here and there an “attorney”—a constituent element of West Indian society, though not necessarily, as the title suggests, a real limb of the law. Of the latter there might have been one or two, with a like number of unpractised disciples of Aesculapius; both lawyer and doctor bent on seeking fortune—and with fair prospects of finding it in a land notorious for crime as unwholesome in clime. These, with a sprinkling of nondescripts, made up the list of theSea Nymph’scabin-passengers.
Among these nondescripts was one of peculiarities sufficiently distinctive to attract attention. A single glance at this personage satisfied you that you looked upon a London Cockney, at the same time a West-End exquisite of the very purest water. He was a young man who had just passed the twenty-first anniversary of his birth; although the indulgence of youthful dissipation had already brushed the freshness from his features, giving them the stamp of greater age. In complexion he was fair—pre-eminently so—with hair of a light yellowish hue, that presented the appearance of having been artificially curled, and slightly darkened by the application of some perfumed oil. The whiskers and moustache were nearly of the same colour; both evidently cultivated with an elaborate assiduity, that proclaimed excessive conceit in them on the part of their owner.
The eyebrows were also of the lightest shade; but the hue of the eyes was not so easily told: since one of them was kept habitually closed; while a glancing lens, in a frame of tortoise-shell, hindered a fair view of the other. Through the glass, however, it appeared of a greenish grey, and decidedly “piggish.”
The features of this individual were regular enough, though without any striking character; and of a cast rather effeminate than vulgar. Their prevailing expression was that of a certain superciliousness, at times extending to an affectation of sardonism.
The dress of the young man was in correspondence with the foppery exhibited in the perfumed locks and eye-glass. It consisted of a surtout of broadcloth, of a very light drab, with a cape that scarce covered the shoulders; a white beaver hat; vest and pants of spotless huff kerseymere; kid gloves on his hands; and boots, blight as lacquer could make them, on his feet. These items of apparel, made in a style of fashion and worn with an air ofsavoir faire, loudly proclaimed the London fop of the time.
The affected drawl in which the gentleman spoke, whenever he condescended to hold communion with his fellow-passengers, confirmed this character.
Notwithstanding a certain ill-disguised contempt with which he was regarded by some of his fellow-voyagers, not a few treated him with marked deference; and the obeisance paid him by the steward and cabin boys of theSea Nymphgave evidence of his capability to bestow a liberal largess. And such capability did he possess: for Mr Montagu Smythje, the individual in question, was a youth of good family and fortune—the latter consisting of a magnificent sugar estate in Jamaica, left him by a deceased relative, to visit which was the object of his voyage.
The estate he had never seen, as this was his first trip across the Atlantic; but he had no reason to doubt the existence of the property. The handsome income which it had afforded him, during several years of his minority, and which had enabled him to live in magnificent style in the most fashionable circles of London society, was a substantial proof that Montagu Castle—such was the name of the estate—was something more than a castle in the air. During his minority, the estate had been managed by atrusteeresident in the island: one Mr Vaughan, himself a sugar-planter, whose plantation adjoined that of Montagu Castle.
Mr Smythje had not come over the water with any intention of settling upon his Jamaica estate. “Such an ideaw,” to use his own phraseology, “nevwaw entawed ma bwain. To exchange London and its pwesyaws for a wesidence among those haw-ed niggaws—deaw, no—I could nevwaw think of such a voluntawy banishment; that would be a baw—a decided baw!” “A meaw twip to see something of the twopics, of which I’ve heard such extwaor’nary stowies—have a look at my sugaw plantation and the dem’d niggaws—besides, I have a stwong desire to take a squint at these Queeole queetyaws, who are said to be so doocèd pwetty. Haw! haw!”
After such fashion did Mr Montagu Smythje explain the purpose of his voyage to such of his fellow-passengers as chanced to take an interest in it.
There were but few travellers in the steerage of theSea Nymph. They who are compelled to adopt that irksome mode of voyaging across the Atlantic have but little errand to the West Indies, or elsewhere to tropical lands—where labour is monopolised by the thews and sinews of the slave. Only three or four of this class had found accommodation on board theSea Nymph; and yet among these humble voyagers was one destined to play a conspicuous part in our story.
The individual in question was a young man, in appearance of the same age as Mr Montagu Smythje, though differing from the latter in almost everything else. In stature he was what is termed “middle height,” with limbs well set and rounded, denoting activity and strength. His complexion, though not what is termedbrunette, was dark for a native of Britain, though such was he.
His features were nobly defined; and his whole countenance sufficiently striking to attract the attention of even an indifferent observer. Dark-brown eyes, and hair of like colour, curling jauntily over his cheeks, were characteristic points of gracefulness; and, take him all in all, he was what might justly be pronounced a handsome young fellow.
The garments he wore were his best—put on for the first time during the voyage, and for the grand occasion oflanding. A dark blue tunic frock, faced with black braid, skirting down over a pair of close-fitting tights, and Hessian boots, gave him rather adistinguéair, notwithstanding a little threadbarishness apparent along the seams.
The occupation in which the young man was engaged betrayed a certain degree of refinement. Standing near the windlass, in the blank leaf of a book, which appeared to be his journal, he was sketching the harbour into which the ship was about to enter; and the drawing exhibited no inconsiderable degree of artistic skill.
For all that, the sketcher wasnota professional artist. Professionally, indeed, and to his misfortune, he was nothing. A poor scholar—without trick or trade by which he might earn a livelihood—he had come out to the West Indies, as young men go to other colonies, with that sort of indefinite hope, that Fortune, in some way or other, might prove kinder abroad than she had been at home.
Whatever hopes of success the young colonist may have entertained, they were evidently neither sanguine nor continuous. Though naturally of a cheerful spirit, as his countenance indicated, a close observer might have detected a shadow stealing over it at intervals.
As the ship drew near to the shore, he closed the book, and stood scanning the gorgeous picture of tropical scenery, now, for the first time, disclosed to his eyes.
Despite the pleasant emotions which so fair a scene was calculated to call forth, his countenance betrayed anxiety—perhaps a doubt as to whether a welcome awaited him in that lovely land upon which he was looking.
Only a few moments had he been thus occupied, when a strange voice falling upon his ear caused him to turn towards the speaker—in whom he recognised the distinguished cabin-passenger, Mr Montagu Smythje.
As this gentleman had voyaged all the way from Liverpool to Jamaica without once venturing to set his foot across the line which separates the sacred precincts of the quarter from the more plebeian for’ard deck, his presence by the windlass might have been matter of surprise.
A circumstance, however, explained it. It was the last hour of the voyage. TheSea Nymphwas just heading into the harbour; and the passengers of all degrees had rushed forward, in order to obtain a better view of the glorious landscape unfolding itself before their eyes. Notwithstanding his often-expressed antipathy to the “abom’nable smell of taw” it was but natural that Mr Smythje should yield to the general curiosity, and go forward among the rest.
Having gained an elevated stand-point upon the top of the windlass, he had adjusted the glass to his eye, and commencedoglingthe landscape, now near enough for its details to be distinguished.
Not for long, however, did Mr Smythje remain silent. He was not one of a saturnine habit. The fair scene was inspiring him with a poetical fervour, which soon found expression in characteristic speech.
“Doocèd pwetty, ’pon honaw!” he exclaimed; “would make a spwendid dwop-scene faw a theataw! Dawnt yaw think so, ma good fwend?”
The person thus appealed to chanced to be the young steerage passenger; who, during the long voyage, had abstained from goingabaftof the main-mast with as much scrupulousness as Mr Smythje had observed about venturing forward. Hence it was that the voice of the exquisite was as strange to him, as if he had never set eyes on that illustrious, personage.
On perceiving that the speech was meant for himself, he was at first a little nettled at its patronising tone; but the feeling of irritation soon passed away, and he fixed his eyes upon the speaker, with a good-humoured, though somewhat contemptuous expression.
“Aw—haw—it is yaw, my young fellaw,” continued the exquisite, now for the first time perceiving to whom he had made his appeal. “Aw, indeed! I’ve often observed yaw from the quawter-deck. Ba Jawve! yes—a veway stwange individwal!—incompwehensibly stwange! May I ask—pawdon the liberty—what is bwinging yaw out heaw—to Jamaica, I mean?”
“That,” replied the steerage passenger, again somewhat nettled at the rather free style of interrogation, “which is bringing yourself—the good shipSea Nymph.”
“Aw, haw! indeed! Good—veway good! But, my deaw sir, that is not what I meant.”
“No?”
“No, I ashaw yaw. I meant what bisness bwings yaw heaw. P’waps you have some pwofession?”
“No, not any,” replied the young man, checking his inclination to retaliate the impertinent style of his interrogator.
“A twade, then?”
“I am sorry to say I have not even a trade.”
“No pwofession! no twade! what the dooce daw yaw intend dawing in Jamaica? P’waps yaw expect the situation of book-keepaw on a pwantation, or niggaw-dwivaw. Neithaw, I believe, requiaws much expewience, as I am told the book-keepaw has pwositively no books to keep—haw! haw! and shawly any fellaw, howevaw ignowant, may dwive a niggaw. Is that yaw expectation, my worthy fwend?”
“I have no expectation, one way or another,” replied the young man, in a tone of careless indifference. “As to the business I may follow out here in Jamaica, that, I suppose, will depend on the will of another.”
“Anothaw! aw!—who, pway?”
“My uncle.”
“Aw, indeed! yaw have an uncle in Jamaica, then?”
“I have—if he be still alive.”
“Aw—haw! yaw are not shaw of that intewesting fact? P’waps yaw’ve not heard from him wately?”
“Not for years,” replied the young steerage passenger, his poor prospects now having caused him to relinquish the satirical tone which he had assumed. “Not for years,” repeated he, “though I’ve written to him to say that I should come by this ship.”
“Veway stwange! And pway, may I ask what bisness yaw uncle follows?”
“He is a planter, I believe.”
“A sugaw plantaw?”
“Yes—he was so when we last heard from him.”
“Aw, then, p’waps he is wich—a pwopwietor? In that case he may find something faw yaw to daw, bettaw than niggaw-dwiving. Make yaw his ovawseeaw. May I know yaw name?”
“Quite welcome to it. Vaughan is my name.”
“Vawrn!” repeated the exquisite, in a tone that betrayed some newly-awakened interest; “Vawn, did I understand yaw to say?”
“Herbert Vaughan,” replied the young man, with firmer emphasis.
“And yaw uncle’s name?”
“He is also called Vaughan. He is my father’s brother—or ratherwas—my father is dead.”
“Not Woftus Vawn, Esquire, of Mount Welcome?”
“Yes, Loftus Vaughan; my uncle is so called, and Mount Welcome is, I believe, the name of his estate.”
“Veway stwange! incompwehensibly stwange! D’yaw know, my young fellaw, that yaw and I appeaw to be making faw the same pawt. Woftus Vawn, of Mount Welcome, is the twustwee of my own pwoperty—the veway person to whom I am consigned. Deaw me! how doocèd stwange if yaw and I should yet be guests undaw the same woof!”
The remark was accompanied by a supercilious glance, that did not escape the observation of the young steerage passenger. It was this glance that gave the true signification to the words, which Herbert Vaughan interpreted as an insult.
He was on the point of making an angry rejoinder, when the exquisite turned abruptly away—as he parted drawling out some words of leave-taking, with the presumptive conjecture that they might meet again.
Herbert Vaughan stood for a moment looking after him, an expression of high contempt curling upon his lip. Only for a short while, however, did this show itself; and then, his countenance resuming its habitual expression of good-nature, he descended into the steerage, to prepare his somewhat scanty baggage for the debarkation.