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 the parapluie for 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 conceited mustee– 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 to get 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?”
“By taking 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, “you are 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. I do.”
“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. I have 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 keep his tongue 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 the Sea Nymph also 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 final polish at 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 the Sea Nymph’s cabin-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 of savoir 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 the Sea Nymph gave 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 a trustee resident 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 the Sea 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 the Sea 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 termed brunette, 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 of landing. A dark blue tunic frock, faced with black braid, skirting down over a pair of close-fitting tights, and Hessian boots, gave him rather a distingué air, 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 was not a 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. The Sea Nymph was 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 commenced ogling the 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 going abaft of 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 ship Sea 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 rather was– 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.